#I HATE FARMING MATS I NEVER WANT TO DO THIS AGAIN

[monards]

at least once a month i get sad over the golden wolf lord

[ma1dita]

to see the chaos through

 a 'partners in crime' installment - luke castellan x dionysus!reader words: 4k summary: (established relationship) The one where he remembers he was never a good guy, just yours. Luke makes the ultimate deal with the devil in order to save you. (Luke Castellan x fem!Dionysus!reader) a/n: mentions of blood, implied death. im baaaack. fucking finally. read the end scene of solipsism after this if you want something extra (edited)

—

Moisture licks at Luke’s heels as he straightens his back, stretching towards the sky in an effort to crack his sore joints. The sprinklers do nothing to ease the sizzling heat on the island and he meets your eyes across the matted rows of greenery. 

“You’re getting sunburned, idiot.”

The words fall from your lips with no malice, sweet like the strawberries you’ve been picking in the afternoon sun. Luke’s cheeks are equally red from the sweltering weather, more so now that you lean up to kiss him as you pass by, tossing strawberries into one of the crates with a gentle smile on your face. 

Tease.

You’ve got this boy wrapped around your finger, pulling him towards your direction like a lovesick cartoon character with only a simple glance. He watches you stroll away, biting his lip as his eyes trace your figure calling out, “Get back here, pretty girl...” The stupid smirk on his face is outlined with sweat and he grabs the towel from over his shoulder to wipe it away. The son of Hermes follows the sound of your laughter to the next row over, feet moving swiftly through the soft earth passing through snickering children of Demeter until he grabs you from behind and swings you into the air, spinning, spinning….

“LUKE!”

It’s the end of strawberry season, which means that all hands are on deck with picking the rest of the ripe fruit to sell for the front they keep for the mortals that wander too far down Farm Road.

It also means that it’s Luke Castellan’s 19th birthday.

A fit of uncontrollable laughter and falling into your boyfriend’s arms means you’re close enough to count the freckles on his cheeks, speckled across his skin like a map that only you know where it leads.

“You look like a strawberry,” you giggle, poking the tender skin on his face. Luke smiles hard enough for your finger to sink in, the color puckering around the apple of his cheeks, and all of him moves jubilantly as he says, “You look like the love of my life. How about that?” He’s wrapped around you like a vine, hands tracing the skin that peeks out from under your cropped tee and you laugh again—scaring a few crows and sending them scattering into the sky. Summer is your favorite time of year for reasons like this—the days are long and you don’t hate passing time when it means there are more moments for Luke to press his lips against your neck and you swear his smile is seared into your being. Days like this make everything else fade into the background.

A berry hits the side of Luke’s head with a proper thunk and you hear someone retch dramatically.

“Hey dude, the rest of us are miserable here, okay? Get a room and stop macking on my sister.” Castor rolls his eyes, grumbling behind a squeaky wheelbarrow that keeps getting stuck in the dirt as he pushes past you. 

Can’t a guy catch a break on his birthday? 

Luke pretends to lunge towards him, tongue in cheek when he mutters, “Piss me off and I’ll make sure it’s your room.” You smack Luke’s big head, sending him into a fit of laughter as he raises his hands in defense, “What? Am I wrong?” He’s stepping around you now, grabbing the crate of strawberries from your feet so you don’t have to carry it yourself.

“Dummy. You think Delphi Strawberry Service will be able to sell all of these?” you say mockingly, changing the subject as your cheeks warm. Sweat sticks to you like a second skin, but it doesn’t stop you from grabbing Luke’s free hand, swinging it in the space between your hips as you walk towards the exit. 

Luke scoffs, “You mean do you think your dad will keep us working until July? Don’t doubt that at all…”

“THIRTY MINUTES LEFT BEFORE SUNDOWN, EVERYONE!” you call out to a chorus of cheers. Everyone was ready to get the day over with, hands blistered and knees sore from crouching into the bushes—everyone, except Luke, who’d do anything but go down for sleep tonight. He wasn’t even supposed to be on berry duty today, but what else is a guy supposed to do on his big day when he can’t even spend it with you? 

This must be the gods’ idea of fun—ordering their spawn around to do the dirty work for them. Delphi Strawberry Service in itself is a scam; so many gods have kids that they don’t want to provide for, and so Camp Half-Blood earns its keep, working hard to make sure there’s enough money for supplies to help stay afloat. New linens, clothes for those that need them, repairs to the infrastructure—all the things children shouldn’t be worrying about in a so-called safe haven. 

The gods aren’t very generous with their gifts as legends make it seem, hiding behind fables and fiction, peace offerings, and material throwaways once a year if they’re lucky to get a happy birthday. Or in Luke’s case—even less than that. His dad hasn’t made himself known since his quest, and therefore today is just another day. 

Your hand squeezes Luke’s three times to get his attention, “You okay, babe?”

He readjusts the wooden crate he’s been balancing on his shoulder, not realizing that you’ve already reached the dirt path that leads back to the heart of camp, “Mm. Just thinking—hey, where did you want this again?”

“S’not what I asked…” you drone with an upturned quirk of the lip, poking his nose playfully as a strawberry grows from your fingertips. Luke pops it in his mouth with an almost cartoon-like SLURP! making you recoil as your face scrunches up, “Angel…”

“You know, the ones you make are better than anything nature can make right?”

Pulling your finger back from his lips, you give him a skeptical sidelong glance, “Demeter willing. You know you don’t have to flatter me anymore— I’m already your girlfriend.” He sets the crate down on a nearby cart, tugging you closer with the hand tangled to yours, “I know. But I like how shy you get when I do,” he smirks.

“Hey,” you chuckle, grabbing his chin, “I kinda really love you, if that wasn’t obvious enough.” Luke’s hands pull you in by the belt loops of your shorts, thumbs rubbing at your hips and the full-blown smile that takes over his face looks like sunlight parting through clouds on a summer day. You’ve noticed he looks surprised every time you say it as if he’s hearing it for the first time each time—like there’s a part of him that still can’t believe you.

“Couldn’t tell,” he jokes, kissing you anyway. It’s maddening—the feeling of his lips catching onto yours like he’s holding onto every part of you and breathing life into it. His tongue swipes against your bottom lip and you smile in response, letting him in and opening up for him to uncover whatever he wants. Your lip tugs on his bottom one as you pull away just to find him pouting ever so slightly at the disconnect, “Hey…”

“Happy birthday, Lu,” you grin, pulling the towel from his shoulder to wipe the sweat off his forehead. His curls are damp against his skin and he swipes the towel from your hands to swat you with it, “I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve told me that today. What I do want though, is more kisses…” he mumbles, hiding the flush of his cheeks. He doesn’t need a big celebration, or any token of appreciation from his dad—he already has what he needs. 

“Or all of you, if you’re feeling generous.”

You stare at him and bite your lip, looking over his shoulder to see the sun slowly dipping past the horizon and maybe there’s enough time… When your eyes lock again, the both of you are wearing wicked grins—he swings your full weight over his shoulder and you shriek in surprise, laughing the whole way back to your cabin.

—-

You’re fast asleep under the floral bedspread with a belly full of cake and exhausted from your own little celebration and Luke can’t find it in him to join you. 

Not yet, he’d rather stay up a while longer—-watching you breathe softly in tune with his heartbeat brings more comfort than anything else he’ll have to do. Luke knows he’s safer here, awake and sitting next to you. He watches over you like this most nights now, until his eyes feel heavy and sour with exhaustion until there’s no choice but to close his eyes. Straightening his back and lowering his legs from the top of the desk, it’s as if he’s a soldier standing guard. Perhaps he is in a way, though he’s coming to learn that he cannot protect you from himself.

Luke inspects you from the mess of hair that drapes across the pillow, to how delicate you look when there are no stress lines on your forehead. Sitting under the faint glow of the lamp, his eyes flicker from your sleeping figure to the blank pages in front of him as he hunches over the small space he’s carved out for himself in your room. The clock’s red glow reaches his fingers as he reaches for a pen on the corner of the desk. He needs a break.

12:14am.

It’s not his birthday anymore and Hermes couldn’t bother to even send a card this time. Luke wonders what about him repels his father—is it the fact he looks exactly like his mother? Or is it the fact that everything else about Luke is all him? His perfect son, the ultimate reminder of what could’ve been with May Castellan.

What does it mean to be made in the gods’ favor?

A classic hero’s tale, a life measured by the list of his accomplishments instead of being seen as what he was at the beginning of this—a child who wanted to be loved.

Luke knows what it’s like to be loved now—everything he knows about love is from learning to love you, which isn’t a lot, but he’s trying. His resolve is as steady as the hand that holds his pen now as he clicks it methodically. Maybe if his parents weren’t dysfunctional, maybe if he knew how to do this better—to exist better and make them proud, maybe his life would’ve had a different outcome. 

Maybe his only option wouldn’t have to be to kneel to a titan.

But would he still have you?

Luke purses his lips and flattens his palm against the paper, a crisp sound in the silence of your room sounding like a thunderclap as he thinks of what to write. This doesn’t even matter, in the grand scheme of things. The collection of scribbles collect dust in a box under his bed and there are no imminent plans to post mail to his hometown of Westport, but there is a type of gratification that comes with being able to put down the thoughts he cannot say aloud. He’s never been too good with words. In another life, maybe his mother would be able to listen—to advise, sympathize, and do as mothers do. 

But for now, this will have to do. 

He even finds himself writing down everything he can’t tell you.

Luke’s lost count of the times he’s cried himself to sleep in reverent prayer, the hunger pains from throwing his meals into the hearth—anything to apologize to his father and ask for it all back. Even now as he tries to find the words, he doesn’t know what this is. 

A confession? 

An apology? 

An explanation, perhaps—if everything gets fucked and goes to hell as most of his plans do, he wants someone, anyone to know the truth. Luke’s odds are slim and he’s used to getting by with the skin of his teeth. But he wants more now—and if Luke Castellan is anything, he’s determined.

You shift in your dream state, turning over in bed to face him and Luke smiles softly as he watches you. These past few months have felt like gasping for air from the moment he wakes to the moment he gives into the nightmares. They come as easy as breathing, whispers in his head pressing for him to make a move—to prepare for an inevitable war that will start and end with him. Being asleep feels like freefalling and he can only anticipate when he’s about to crash. This has to work. 

You have been nothing but kind to him, through the shuddery breaths in the middle of the night and cranky fits in the mornings. You are resilience personified; Luke is so sure of it—but the thing is, it makes him angry. Love is not written in the stars, he thinks, and if he has to weave the cosmos by hand to work in your favor, he’ll find a way. Luke knows that above all, he does not want to lose your love. 

Sleep pricks at the corners of his vision now, threatening to loosen the pen in his grip. He sniffs, adjusting his weight on the chair, and glances your way again, and then back at the paper on the desk, beginning to write.

Mama,

As I’m writing this letter, I fear that I’ve put the final nail in my coffin. It doesn’t feel that way right now—as I watch my girl snore softly against her pillow and the moon kisses her cheek in a way that I know I won’t be able to for much longer. I’m taking these last few quiet moments to admire and be grateful for what I have before I earn it back. 

A temporary loss will be worth forever with my soulmate. 

From the little I know about life and the amount of time I know I’ll spend loving her, I’m learning that soulmates are people who need all that you are and all that you already have in life. This trouble is proof enough. Everyone here at camp rarely sees one of us without the other, and Chris said that he wouldn’t be surprised if we came from the same star. But I think she’s vastly different than me and better for it. She is a different breed—something only an author can even begin to describe and much less be able for any regular person to comprehend. 

She exudes love for her family, friends, and even strangers. I often wonder what I ever did in a past life to deserve the experience, but if that was ever in my control, I must have done something right.

So this will have to be my last letter for now.

I have a lot of work to do to become the man she deserves. The glory is within reach—and with her by my side, I want to have it all.

Who else could help me best the gods better than a titan? 

I’m afraid there’s not much more for me to tell you—whatever comes after this, I hope she can tell you herself. I hope you find each other, and be proud of the things I’ll do to create the change we want to see in this world. I know the both of you love stories—I’ll need my best girls to take care of one another while I’m gone.

I’m scared out of my wits, Mama, but I don’t blame you for any of this. I know now that you’ve always seen this coming. 

Your son is destined for greatness. 

I never got to say this before I left, but I’m proud to be yours. The legacy I leave will show all of them how much I love both of you.

Even if you both end up hating me for it. 

I already do.

Luke

—

He stirs at the sound of you tiptoeing around your room, rubbing his eyes to see you throwing your clothes on. You’re a blur in the early light that peeks through the curtains, almost obscured by the shadows and catch your hip on the bedpost as you tug a boot on, “Fuck!”

“Baby?” he murmurs. His voice is thickly coated with sleep and crackles like fire, “What’s going on?”

“Didn’t mean to wake you, angelface,” you whisper, kissing his forehead lightly when you lean over his crumpled frame to grab your watch from the nightstand, “go back to sleep”. Luke chases after another kiss, leaning up like how sunflowers stretch towards the light—his thumb presses your chin down to let your lips linger against his.

“Still early, T.”

He watches you from his spot on the bed as you make your way to the door, glancing at the mirror, “Something’s wrong, Luke. There was an accident in the forge last night,” you pause, looking at him through the reflection, “someone’s dead.”The curtains push open with a screech, and Luke sits up abruptly.

“Who?”

Sniffing, you turn around to meet his eyes, “Someone from 9—I don’t know. I need to talk to my dad and sort it out.” Luke calmly pulls himself out from under your duvet, tugging his shorts back on in silence. 

“Where do you need me?”

Your eyes travel around the room like ricocheting ping-pong balls, stepping forward to gently ease him back onto the mattress, “I need you,” you muse softly, “to go back to sleep. What time did you get to bed last night?” Squeezing his shoulders, Luke looks at you with a sidelong glance, resting his cheek against your wrist, “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do. I worry about you all the time.”

“Well, that’s my job—the worrying,” he swallows, stamping his lips against your pulse point, “I want to be there.” Luke tugs you closer, letting you melt onto him with a sigh and you whisper, “Don’t think we’re done with this conversation, Castellan.” Tugging at his scalp to meet him eye to eye—he swears you might be able to see right through his facade. 

“Castellan. Must be a serious conversation then,” he murmurs, wiping the sheen of drool off the side of your lip. Scoffing, you stand back up and toss a fresh shirt at him, “You can’t run from me forever. I mean it. Get to the forge and make sure the surrounding area is barred off. No one’s been in there yet, the nymph that walked in got spooked and ran off. I need to wake up Charlie and get him to the Big House before everyone else wakes up.”

The orange fabric glides over his head onto his shoulders and he momentarily loses sight of you. You’re in the doorway now, blowing him a kiss, “See you in an hour, tops. And then we’ll talk about what’s been keeping you up at night.”

“I don’t know why you keep asking me that when the answer is always you!” Luke chuckles, taking the easy way out of the situation at hand.

“Not all the time. Surely, you’ll tell me her name later?” you chide as you make your exit. He laughs to himself. 

If only you knew. 

—

Luke takes his time getting ready for the day, thinking of last night. He had been promised the world and more, but only had one negotiation. 

He asked Kronos for you to not get hurt. 

Luke felt like a fool—to humbly ask a titan to not kill his girlfriend so that he could be the soldier that was needed of him. And he was presented two options: to have you join them, or to have you be cast away.

“She has control over insanity, you say?” Kronos’ voice rumbled through the dark hall. It was their established meeting point in Luke’s mind, somewhere where he could keep the titan separate from his thoughts of you.

“She’s not part of this, sir. I said that already,” Luke grits, steeling his resolve.

“And why not? She’s the bastard spawn of a lunatic. Either we make use of her, or you leave. There are no distractions that will interfere with this plan, Luke. I won’t allow it.”

He clenches his jaw, “She’s…” he swallows, “too weak. She has a family, and people she cares about–it won’t be easy for her to turn. No one’s hurt her yet.” Luke thinks about your tumultuous relationship with Mr. D—and how at the core of it, tough love is still love.

He can’t say the same about himself with his father.

“Yet.”

The silence hangs between him and Kronos, and Luke slowly nods. No one will hurt you like he will, he knows this. He also knows that no one can love you like he does now. Two things can be true at the same time, even if they both hurt.

“The more you have the more you desire, Luke,” the titan rumbles, “it’s best to cut your ties before we’re in the thick of it.”

“I will, when the time comes,” Luke says solemnly, knowing what he has to do.

When he finally treks toward the armory that morning, the air around him is almost revitalizing, crisp, and cool with goosebumps cascading across his arms. The main door creaks open with a tired whine as he moves swiftly towards the scene of the crime. It reeks of blood now, pungent and metallic—Luke is careful to mind his step as he reaches what he came for.

Stepping over the body, he averts his eyes toward the gleaming sword in the child’s grasp.

Backbiter.

It’s heavier than he thought it would be, carrying the means to an end of everything both mortal and immortal. Celestial bronze and tempered steel feel delightful in his hands once he rips it out of the pale hand of its creator. There’s a sense of power that reverberates through the air as his new weapon takes its position, slotted against his hip. 

Time is in Luke’s hands now, to manipulate and play with—for once, he’s in control of his fate. No deadbeat god of luck required. Brown eyes flicker to the stone floor, kicking the skinny arm of the slain Hephaestus kid aside. Mary, he thinks her name was— a tiny little thing who didn’t speak much. It was easy to dote on her with his charming smile and concerned counselor act that he throws on for the younger ones. She was like putty in his hands, pliable and willing to impress THE camp hero. The thought almost makes him laugh. 

So he does.

“Sorry,” Luke mutters, void of feeling anything. It’s too late to feel bad now—though he can technically rewind through time if he wanted to, it wouldn’t be for her. Luke’s meddling with enough as it is—he decides he’ll do something fun instead. 

He deserves this really, choosing something for himself.

But the choice is still you. Luke thinks about where he wants to go first—to seal the deal with Kronos by seeing a future you, happy in the world he created. The veins in his arms flex as he slashes through the air with his new gift, a smile cutting through the jagged scar on his cheek.

As the wind whips through his hair and everything goes dark, he realizes that there’s a part of him that gets it now—why Hermes likes to travel through time so much. Time is elastic when it’s not linear, he feels himself floating between seconds, hurtling towards you, and feeling like he’s in a tube on a lazy river. It’s almost unusual, but to Luke, time sort of feels like a father’s embrace. Or maybe what he imagines it to be like.

When he opens his eyes, he sees you standing in front of a mirror across the room—knowing now that this will be his biggest break yet.

—

“You who suffer because you love, love still more. To die of love, is to live by it.”  -Victor Hugo

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 16

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note. This is the longest chapter yet! Just shy of 10,000 words!

For the first time in forever, we're blessed with a slow day.

The sun crests over the clouds in the early afternoon, glazing the Greene house and its golden paddocks in a soft, buttery glow. Slow once meant boring, but now it means peace. My Dad's awake now, albeit bed-bound, but he's more or less as healthy as a horse. I don't need to keep glancing at his pale form anymore, watching for disaster. Not having that threat of death lurking around the farm makes the air feel so much clearer. I can finally relax a little. I think everyone feels the same relief. There's one less problem ready to strike at us.

Maggie lets me use the guest bathroom to take a hot shower in the afternoon.

After helping me tape a scrap of plastic over my stitches to ensure they stay dry, she lends me some fruit-scented shampoo and body lotion, assuring me she'll be right downstairs if I need anything else. I luxuriate under the warm water for some time, suds-ing up my dirty blonde hair and scrubbing the dirt form underneath my fingernails. I feel my muscles let go of all my tension in real time. It's the best feelin' ever.

I tweak the water off and step out onto the green bath-mat, face to face with my reflection in the mirror.

Last time I got a proper look at myself, I was dying in the back of the RV. I look at myself again; at my healthy, clean complexion.

"Hey," A girly voice calls out gently from behind the door — Beth, I think. "I got you a spare shirt, if you want. Is white your color?"

I look down at myself. "I'm more of a beige color."

She laughs. "No, silly. I meant... never mind. I'll leave it here for you."

After her footsteps recede down the corridor, I fetch the shirt, close the door, and hold it up in front of me. It's a tight, white blouse with frills down the front of it, and two, tiny puff-ball sleeves that each look a little like a lily-of-the-valley flower. I peel the plastic off my side and pull the shirt on — almost a perfect fit, but a little loose — combined with my blue jean-shorts, socks, and yellow rain boots.

I clomp back downstairs and into Dad's room, where he's trying to read a book he found in the bedside drawer, but failing.

It must be a romance. He hates that sort of thing.

I ask him if he wants to do my hair instead, and he agrees to the distraction right away.

With the window wide open to the smells of sweet pollen and farm life, I sit between his legs as he brushes my hair. I'm just so glad he's alright. He gives me two neat braids, ties them off with my hair lackeys, and then I ask Maggie for a pair of scissors so Dad can trim my bangs up a little. She's hesitant at first, but I tell her that my Dad's been cuttin' my hair since, well, I had any hair to cut, and that he's actually not half-bad.

She lends me some kitchen scissors, and I happily thank her.

I make myself comfortable on the bed, on top of a towel to catch the clippings, and I snack on a red apple as Dad cleans up my out-grown, wonky bangs. He tells me he's rusty, but he does a good job. They'd gotten long in our weeks on the road, but they look much better now.

After my hair's done, I kiss his cheek goodbye and head outside.

I find Carl over by the shed. He's playing on the swing that hangs from the burly tree growing beside it in a ray of sunlight.

"Hey, Harley." He greets me, digging his heel in the dirt to slow down. "Want me to push you?"

I smile, "Yeah, okay."

We exchange places, and he gives me a gentle push.

I can see Rick over by the tents, talking to everyone. He's probably sharing the disappointing news that it really was Shane that shot my Dad, so that everyone's on the same page. We're not supposed to tell the Greenes about this discovery. We need to make a good impression, and having a trigger-happy murderer in our group ain't the best way to achieve that. It's better if they continue believing it was Otis that caused all this, otherwise we're gonna get booted to the streets again. I never wanna go back to living that way. We need this place, for Sophia.

I don't wanna talk about Shane, so I won't bring him up.

Nobody's told Carl about any of it, anyway.

"I didn't even know this swing was here." I say as I enjoy the breeze on my freshly washed skin. "This is just like the one I used to have."

"I never had a swing." He muses as he pushes me again. "I miss playgrounds."

"Betcha don't miss school, though."

"Eugh. No." He exclaims. "My Mom still makes me do homework sometimes. It sucks."

I remember doing all those spelling quizzes and math problems back at the quarry. I don't miss it one bit.

I ask him, "What grade was you in, before?"

What grade 'were' you in, Lori would correct me, not 'was'. It always annoyed me when she did that.

"Sixth." He answers. "What grade were you in?"

"I was in second grade."

"Second grade?!"

"Yeah. What grade did you think I was in?"

"I dunno. Five, maybe?"

"I'm eight." I giggle. "You're twelve. We can't be in the same grade."

"But we're friends." He counters. "I've never been friends with someone outside of my grade before."

"Well," I sing-song, "Now you have."

"Even my cousins were the same age as me."

"Mine were all older."

I haven't thought about my cousins in forever. They're all on my Momma's side, from her two brothers. There was Vicky and Tobias, the twins. They were super old. Like, fifteen. Then there was Hunter, and Lillian, and Georgia. I miss them the most. They always treated me nice.

I've never had friends or family younger than me before. I've always been the baby. Even here, that still hasn't changed.

As I'm gazing out onto the distant cornfields, swinging back and forth relaxingly, Maggie approaches us with a friendly wave.

"Hey, y'all." She smiles. "Havin' fun out here?"

We both notice her, and answer, yeah, at the same time.

"Who built this swing?" Carl asks her. "It's awesome."

"My Daddy built it, a long time ago," Maggie fondly says. "When I was just a little girl. Nice to see it gettin' some use, again."

"I reckon I could touch the sun." I hum to myself, looking at the sky.

She chuckles. "Don't go testing that theory. Your Dad would kill us all."

"You wanna play with us?"

"I actually wanted to ask you guys somethin'. I heard from Daryl just now that you found a walker in one'a our wells today?"

Oh, yeah. That ugly thing.

Carl corrects, "Technically, I found it."

I roll my eyes. "Don't be a smart-ass."

"Hey. That's a swear word."

"It's fine. My Daddy don't care 'bout swears."

"I was just wondering which well it was." Maggie interjects. "We've got quite a few around here, and I don't wanna search them all."

"Oh, it was the one near the barn." Carl says, pointing in that direction.

I ask her, "What are you gonna do with it?"

"I talked to Rick about it, and we reckon we're gonna try using a winch to pull it out. Can't have it dirtying up the water."

"What's a winch?"

"It's like a really long, metal rope you can attach to a car." She explains. "We've had ours for years, and luckily for us, it hasn't rusted."

I bring myself to a stop, widening my eyes. "Can we come watch?"

"Yeah!" Carl enthuses. "Can we?"

"Sure ya can. I don't see why not."

With a small cheer, we abandon the swing and follow Maggie across the field, rambling about all the gross stuff we think is gonna happen.

Everyone pitches in to help clear the well, except for Shane. He's off somewhere, brooding.

At first, we try dangling a chunk of canned ham over its head to see if that'll get its attention, but since canned ham don't bleed, kick, or scream when you bite into it, the walker doesn't want anything to do with it. We realize we'll need live bait, and for some reason, everyone's eyes fall onto Glenn. He thinks that's super unfair, but he is all better now, and he does have the fastest reflexes out of all of us.

"Have I mentioned that I really like your new haircut?" He smiles lopsidedly at me, thinking I'll save him. "Really suits your face."

"Don't worry about it." Rick reassures him. "You'll have four of us on the rope. We're gonna get you outta there in one piece."

"One living piece." He emphasizes. "The living part's important."

Dale drives over the car they're gonna use for the process, while Andrea retrieves a thick coil of rope, making Glenn go pale at the sight of it.

Rick and Jacqui start wrapping it around his body.

"We'll give you the winch." Rick says. "Just try wrappin' it around its neck."

He sighs in defeat, "Let's get this over with."

As soon as he's in the well, he's screaming bloody murder.

If not for the suspenseful atmosphere, it would be super funny. Me and Carl watch from the sidelines as Rick, Maggie, Andrea, and T-Dog work together to lower Glenn into the well with nothing more than a rope looped around his midriff to keep him from falling to his death. Dale sits in the driver's seat of Maggie's Subaru, waiting for the signal to start reversing. There's a mechanical lookin' thing attached to the bumper. It looks like a garden hose, but it's made of metal. It must be the winch. The end of it leads into the well.

"You people are crazy!" His disembodied, terrified voice shouts from below. "This is crazy!"

"We got you!" Andrea calls out.

Rick grunts, "Give us an eye, Maggie."

At the front of the line, Maggie peers in. "Doin' okay?"

"Can't believe I'm saying this," His wimpy voice echoes, "But I need to be lower."

"Lower." Maggie parrots.

They all shuffle forward a couple steps — a couple too many steps, apparently.

"Higher!" He shrieks. "Higher!"

The rope strains against the cobble as it's tugged again, backwards this time.

I chew my fingernail nervously.

"Can you get it around that thing?" T-Dog asks, sweating. "Sometime today, please?"

"Fuck you!"

Me and Carl exchange glances, biting down shocked giggles. This is the first time I've ever heard Glenn say, Fuck.

"How's that now, Glenn?"

He takes some time to answer, grunting, "Living the dream, thanks."

"Just get the winch around its neck." Rick coaches calmly, "Easy as pie. Then clip it onto itself, and it should secure."

We wait with bated breath as he wrangles the walker.

After about a minute, he calls out again.

"That's it! It's on! Pull me up! Pull me up!"

"Get him up!"

"Pull! Pull!"

"Come on!"

They wrestle with gravity to lift him back out the well, struggling in unison as Dale reverses. The winch immediately pulls taut. It creaks loudly, mixing with the sound of the engine and Glenn's panicked screaming to create the worst, most cacophonic song I ever head, and I've had to listen to my Dad's favorite music all my life. We cheer them on anxiously, watching closely in anticipation. The grass begins to split under their boots from the force. Just as the rope is about to give way, T-Dog gives one last powerful tug.

"That's it!" He says, "Come on, grab him!"

Glenn scrambles over the lip of the well, panicked, as me and Carl rush forward to help everyone pull him out.

"You okay?!" I ask him.

"God, get me out." He cringes. "Get me out."

As he lands on his ass, soaking wet from being splashed, the walker is next in line to be pulled from the depths.

It gets caught on the edge of the wall like a thousand-pound pinata.

"More force!" Rick orders.

Dale stomps on the gas, making the tyres squeal.

"Come on, you ugly thing." He goads. "Come on."

As the winch begins to cut into the walker's neck, the growling is hitched suddenly, replaced by choking.

Its eyeballs bulge under the pressure.

The engine revs once more, and Rick ushers us out the way. "Get back! Get back!"

All of a sudden, the well cracks and breaks apart around the walker's fat body as it's dragged out onto the grass. Rick's on it before I can even blink. He unsheathes his knife and sinks it into the mushy, water-logged skull with a satisfying squish. At last, the darn thing goes limp.

We all catch our breaths as he stands.

Dale turns off the engine.

"It's uglier in the sunlight." Carl muses, revolted.

No doubt about that. It's disgusting.

Eventually, Glenn deadpans a celebratory, "Anybody thirsty?"

There's a weak chorus of laughter amongst us.

I stand next to Dale and Glenn, watching as Rick and T-Dog drag the walker off the property.

"You know," Dale ponders aloud, "Did they ever mention how that thing fell down there in the first place?"

Mmm... Nope.

No, they didn't.

"This whole farm is fenced off." He continues, thoughtful. "How could a big thing like that just wonder in?"

"Maybe it's been there since before the fences." Glenn guesses. "They might've put them up after everything."

"No," Dale hums. "I was talking to Herschel about it yesterday... He said it was all built in the seventies and they do maintenance every month."

The walker is silently dumped on the ground.

All Dale muses is, "...Strange."

"And then it exploded!!"

My Dad's eyes widen.

"Just kiddin'," I giggle. "Rick stabbed it in the brain."

"I was gonna say." He scoffs. "Explodin' walkers? That'll be the day."

Dad missed out on the action of the well today, so I decided to recount the whole thing to him after. I left out the part about Glenn screaming like a baby goat, though, 'cause I think he'd appreciate that. He's already got enough humiliation for a lifetime with the whole jerky fiasco.

"You really believed me?" I grin, shaking my head. "Actually, I ain't surprised. If you believe in chupacabras, you'll believe anythin'."

He smirks, "Watch yer mouth, girl."

"Whatever." I keep giggling. "I gotta go now, Dad."

"See ya later, baby. Stay where people can see ya."

Carl uses the situation to convince Rick to let him carry a gun. I don't know why he wants one so bad, but he sure is stubborn.

"What if another walker gets in?" He needles. "I need to be able to protect myself."

"Under different circumstances, I'd consider it." Rick explains. "But for starters, I promised Herschel no firearms on his property."

"But—"

"I've also been reassured that this was a one-time thing, Carl. Nothing else is getting onto this farm anytime soon. You don't need to worry."

"I'm not worrying." He argues. "I'm just tryna be smart, like you guys."

"You are smart. I know you are. That's why you're gonna let this go."

With a great big groan, Carl rolls his eyes.

From over by the campfire where he's polishing his pistol, Shane throws in his two cents. "Might not be a bad idea, Rick."

He looks over at him. "What?"

"You know we're both certified instructors. Plenty of land 'round here that ain't Herschel's. We could set up a shooting range, see how it goes."

I scoff hearing that, anger rising up inside me.

"Yeah, you'd know all about shooting things, wouldn't you, Shane?" I snarl sassily.

There's a very stiff, very awkward pause between us all. It's lucky it's just us around, and not any of the Greenes. I guess I wasn't thinking, but when my temper flares up, I never think before I speak. That's how you know I'm my Dad's daughter, I suppose. Shane stares at me like I've just slapped him sideways across the face. I glower at him; a seething, hurt look I've never directed at him before, one I know will pain him. He knows he's broken whatever it was he'd built between us with this stunt. He's damn right I don't wanna be his friend anymore.

It's so frustrating that we all know what he did, but none of us can do anything about it. He gets away with everything.

At least I can hurt him with words.

Rick sees that I'm getting angrier by the second and puts a comforting hand on my back.

"Huh?" Carl asks, confused. "What do you mean?"

"Carl." Rick warns.

"No, I wanna know. What did you mean?"

"He shot my Dad, is what I mean." I exclaim, heated. "He was gonna leave him out in the woods to bleed to death. Ain't nothin' more than a murderer."

Carl's gaze snaps onto Shane, a look of betrayal skirting over his features.

"It was you?"

"Carl, it's already been discussed." Rick tries calming him down. "What's done is done. It's over."

"Why'd you do it?"

"Listen, buddy," Shane placates, for some reason looking at me when he does. "Sometimes things just happen. Heat of the moment."

"Weren't no 'heat of the moment'." I shout. "You followed him through the woods for hours!"

"I didn't—"

Carl taunts, "You gonna shoot my Dad next?"

"This is gettin' outta hand." Rick intervenes, standing up from the picnic table. "Come on. Let's go cool off. Both of you."

"I hate you." I call out to Shane as I'm pulled off the bench. "I fucking hate you!"

He doesn't even have anything to say. There's nothing he can say. He ducks his head, unable to look my way, and once Rick gets himself in my line of sight, I can't see his guilty expression anymore and I don't care to. I shove Rick off. He respects that I don't want him crowding me so much and opts for just holding my hand, instead, telling me everything's alright. My eyes well up, lip wobbling. I hate people seeing me cry, but Rick's probably seen Carl cry a whole bunch of times. I don't need to be too embarrassed. He would never judge.

He guides us both toward the side of the house.

"Here." He gently says as we approach a trough of clean water. "Wash your face off a bit. It'll feel good."

"I can't believe you didn't tell me." Carl frowns. "Were you ever gonna?"

I splash some water onto my already wet cheeks, catching my breath.

"Shane's been with us for a very long time." Rick confesses, "I didn't know how to break somethin' like that to you, but yes, we were going to."

"What does Mom think?" He pouts.

Rick nods. "She's disappointed."

I dry my face off with my shirt, mumbling pettily, "Murderers go to prison, y'know. They don't just sit around, cleanin' guns."

"What are you gonna do, Dad? Is he just gonna stay here?"

"Do you want him to?"

Carl seems torn on how to answer. "W—Well, yeah, but you don't usually get to choose, right?"

"We do now." Rick tells us both. "Lots of people make mistakes. Shane's definitely made a mistake by doin' this. I recognise that. But things are different. We need each other to survive out here. We need this place to survive. Putting that at risk will be hurting us, too."

"He's sorry, right?"

Rick doesn't know how to answer that one.

"I hate him." I sniff, miserable. "I can't look at him no more."

He gives me sympathetic look, rubbing my back.

"We can't kick him out." Carl worries. "He's our family."

Everybody is someone's family. My Dad's a murderer, and he's my family. That's why I forgive him. I guess that's why Rick, Lori, and Carl forgive Shane, too, even though they're angry like I am. I wish I could have that gene for moving on, but I just don't. Shane ain't my blood.

"Things are weird right now." Rick admits. "I know. But we just have to stick through it for a while."

"Until when?" I demand. "When's it gonna be okay that he tried to kill my Dad?"

"Never." He appeases. "You have every right to be upset with him. I just want to secure our place here, first."

"How you gonna do that?"

"I'm going to talk to Herschel tonight."

"And then what?" I spit sarcasm. "My Dad can have at him?"

"It's tricky, Harley. I can't kick Shane out. I can't kick you an' your Dad out. I can't have you around each other. There's no good option, here."

"When my Dad's all better, he's gonna kill him." I grind out. "That's a good option."

"No, Harley, it's not." He sighs patiently. "Two wrongs don't make a right."

"Why the Hell not?"

"Because I will not allow murder within the camp. That's a line we do not cross. Ever."

"Then kick Shane out!" I scream in his face, as if that'll make him listen better, turning on my heel and storming away.

With anger coursing through my veins, I search the farm for Shane.

He made himself scarce after Rick forced us to give him some space, but I'll find him. I don't know what I'm gonna do once that happens, but the first step is to find him. Maybe I'll shout at him. Maybe I'll punch him in the face. Yeah, that's good. I'll do that. I'll break his nose, just like my Daddy did. I ask Jacqui if she's seen Shane anywhere, and then I ask Andrea, and Beth, and even Jimmy. They all give vague, unsure answers, but they all mention the direction of the back gate, so that's where I go. I'm an arrow, soaring toward its target.

Sure as shit, I find him on the outskirts of the farm. He's sitting in the neglected, tall grass, staring out onto the distant sunset.

When I see him rub the heel of his palm over his eye, I realize he's crying.

I approach him from behind, not caring how loud my raging footsteps are.

When I'm within ten feet of him, he starts to turn around, sighing, "Rick, listen—"

"It's me!" I shove him harshly, surprising him. "And yer lucky it is, 'cause if I was him, I'd kick you out right now!"

Shocked, he faces me with wide, wet eyes.

"Scratch that, I'd kill ya!" I seethe. "Just 'cause my Dad survived, don't make you any less of a murderer! That's what you are!"

"Harley—"

"I don't wanna hear nothin' you have to say, no more." We're nowhere near the main part of the farm. From here, the house looks like a miniature. The sky is open wide. I can scream all I want, and nobody will be the wiser. "I don't care. You can't say sorry for somethin' like this! Everybody knows what you did, Shane! Rick knows, Carl knows, Lori knows, I know!" My voice cracks. "I gotta live with it! With you!"

I don't care that he's been crying. He could cry an ocean of tears, and I still wouldn't care.

"When my Daddy comes for you," I shout, "I won't stop him. Ya hear me? I won't!"

As soon as my Dad's better, this place will become a hunting ground. As long as one of 'em is alive, the other won't stop 'till they're dead.

A flash of violence glints over his eyes when I say this. This was never his plan. If he had things his way, not only would that bullet have gone straight into my Dad's head, but I'd also probably be mourning in his arms right now, letting him replace what he'd made sure I'd lost.

"I did what I did for you." He snarls, offended. "I did it to protect you. You think this is what I want, Harley?"

"I know it's what you want. You're a fucking murderer."

"Yeah? I want my best friend lookin' at me like he doesn't even know who I am, anymore? I want you tellin' me that you hate me?" His lip curls around his biting words. "That's what I want? I'll let'chu in on a little secret, here, Harley. I don't. This is Hell for me, too!"

I shove him again, but he doesn't retaliate. He takes it; deserves it, even.

"You can't protect nobody!"

I smack him again.

"Nobody!"

"Harley—"

"I was your friend!"

"Fuck!"

I punch him square in his stupid face.

He grunts under the sheer impact, his hand going to his nose. He pants, dumbfounded. His fingers come away wet, red; bloody. I stand there, huffing and puffing, my knuckles sore, as he looks up at me like he doesn't recognise me. His eyes are wide pools of incomprehension. I-I just punched him. I have never in my life punched an adult, before. It feels good. It feels really, really good. It feels better than just washing my face off, that's for sure. Sometimes, two wrongs do make a right. I know, 'cause I'm starting to grin, now. Rage, to me, feels like a medicine.

He gulps, blood trickling down into his gaping mouth. He frowns lightly at me.

"That make you feel better?" He asks without venom, as if he's genuinely curious; as if he's got an idea.

"It did." I breathe. "Made me feel a whole lot better."

He pauses.

Then, he mutters, "Do it again."

"What?"

"Hit me again." He shuffles onto his haunches, presenting his bloody face to me like a prize. "Hit me again, Harley. Do it."

I hesitate at first, not believing this is really happening, but then I see that he's serious. He cups his hands around both his knees, ready to be my punching bag. He raises his chin; takes a deep breath. For once, this isn't a trick. This is plain, raw indulgence. The slithering delight of violence is all mine to take. I feel it building up inside of me again, fighting to be let out. I slowly curl my fist again, rearing it back into the air.

I bring it down onto his face again with a dull, painful thud.

He straightens again.

I lay into him for a third time, and a fourth, and a fifth. I think of Dad's unconscious body, the sound of the gunshot, and the way he was tip-toeing alongside death for three whole days. I think about how Shane almost took my Dad away from me forever, and I make him hurt.

By the time I'm done with him, his cheek is already turning an ugly green-brown color, bright blood smeared across his chin.

That's the best thing I've done all week.

He sits back down in the grass, adjusting his jaw, groaning, "Where'd you learn to hit like that?"

"My Dad." I pointedly spit. "Taught me to punch people who are mean to me."

He chuckles weakly, accepting my punishing words instead of arguing. "Well, you got me."

"This don't change nothin'."

"I know it doesn't." He pants. "No matter how many times you hit me, you're Dad's still a fuckin—"

"I told you I don't wanna hear it."

"A fucking asshole." He finishes. "Hell, he's no better'un Ed was. You— You wanna know the difference between him an' me?"

I refuse to answer, glaring at him.

"I have never hit you." He says, knowing I can't argue with a fact. He's infuriating, that way. "Hate me all ya want, but... I've never hit you."

We stay like that for a strangely painful and gaping moment, face to face with each other's honest presence.

In the distance, we hear people calling for me.

He sniffs wetly, bringing his shirt up to clean his face. "Best you get back, now."

"Harley, where'd you go?"

"Harley!"

"Harley!"

As a parting goodbye, right before I walk away, I mumble, "You can't protect nobody."

He doesn't come back to the farm until after dinner.

Rick's a little angry when I return to the farm, but he hears me out.

"I just went on a walk," I fib, hiding my bloody knuckles. "To calm down."

"Are you alright?" Lori fusses.

I smile. "Yeah, I'm... I'm really good."

They glance at each other, but it looks like the matter is already settled.

"Come on, then." He sighs. "Dinner's almost ready."

Lori grabs my clean hand and leads me toward the house.

"You need to reconsider." Rick comes out and says that night, helping the Greenes clear the dining table.

Herschel frowns, "I beg your pardon?"

"Asking us to leave." He sets the dirty dishes down in the sink, and then turns to face him, his arms crossed. "You need to reconsider."

At least he wasn't lying, I think to myself as I finish off the last of my peas. This is him following through on what he promised me he'd do.

"If you saw what it's like out there," Rick continues, "You wouldn't ask. You're a man of belief. If you believe anything, believe that."

"You're putting me on the spot, here, Rick."

He doesn't back down.

"Well, I mean to. Those people out there look to me for answers. I wish they didn't, but they do. That includes Harley."

Herschel glances at me, a soft look in his eyes.

"After everything that's happened," Rick doubles down, "The least you can do is reconsider."

"You're a plain-spoken man."

"I'm just doing what's best for my people." He humbly says. "We've been to Hell and back these past few months. This whole journey started for us when Harley got scratched by one of the dead, right in the beginning. We honestly believed that we were going to have a child's blood on our hands. You don't forget somethin' like that. I know I won't. I know her father won't, either. Now I fear the same thing might happen with Sophia. I know you're a man of good morals, a man of faith. You got two girls of your own. If you kick us out when Daryl's better — before we can have a good chance at finding Sophia — Then this time, I'd say the blood will be on your hands. Not ours."

Herschel is confronted by his words, glancing over at Beth and Maggie, the apples of his eye, as they clean dishes together.

"Will you consider my request?"

"There are... aspects to this." Herschel says. "Things I can't and will not discuss. But if you and your people respect my rules... I will reconsider."

I try not to let my excitement show on my face.

Rick smiles. "We will. You have my word."

Herschel nods. "And you have mine."

Dad's still reading the book when I go into his room that night and change into my pyjamas.

"Dad, guess what?"

He hums.

"Rick got Herschel to think about lettin' us stay longer." I smile, stepping into my sleep shorts. "We might not have to leave."

He lowers the book at that, a sceptical look on his face. "He did?"

"Yeah." I pull on my shirt and hop on the bed, taking out my braids. "You know what that means?"

"What?"

"Shane can get punished, and the Greenes won't care."

As I move onto the second braid, content with this development, I don't notice my Dad looking over me, a dark look in his eyes.

"Baby?"

"Yeah?"

"What's that?"

He grunts as he sits up slightly, reaching out to grab my wrist. I look down at it, only now noticing a tiny speckle of Shane's blood on one of my knuckles. Damn it. I thought I got it all off when I washed my hands this evening, but I must've missed a spot. I lick my thumb and wipe it away.

My gaze averted, I confess, "I punched Shane today."

"You what?" He scolds harshly.

"I punched him a whole heap of times, actually." I say somewhat proudly. "He let me. He said it would make me feel better."

He looks like he wants to strangle something.

He demands, "Who else was there?"

I realize I might actually be in trouble for this, and I mumble, "Uh... No-one."

"Fuckin' Hell, Harley." He groans, rubbing a hand down his face. He drops it, revealing a deep frown. "You stay away from him, okay?"

"But, you said—"

"Don't back-talk me, girl. You know what he's capable of, and ya still went and talked to him."

"I wasn't nice to him, Daddy. I promise. I was real mad."

"A guy like that, it don't matter." He insists. "He gets in ya fuckin' head, Harley. He already has. Do not do that shit again. Ya hearin' me?"

"Yes, Dad."

"Creepy piece'a shit." He grumbles to himself as he sits back, taking a deep breath. "You remember what I did to Ronnie?"

Chewing my lip, I murmur, "Yeah."

"And how you weren't scared of me, after?"

"Uh-huh."

He nods. "Well, keep that in mind."

"Why?"

"'Cause I told you to. Now, c'mon. Time for bed." He lifts up the covers for me, and after blowing out the candle, I wiggle myself in beside him. This will be our last sleep in the house. Herschel reckons Dad will be able to walk tomorrow, and after that, we're gonna get kicked outside with everyone else. I don't mind. I can't wait to sleep under the stars again. Once I'm comfortable, he offers, "You want me to sing you to sleep?"

I nod, closing my eyes.

His soft words begin to fill the quiet room, a pretty echo of an old life.

"Hush little baby, don't say a word... Daddy's gonna buy you a mockingbird."

"He-lloooo, farmer's daughter."

The next morning, I send Glenn an unimpressed look from my seat on the porch.

"Gross, Glenn."

He continues peering through his binoculars at Maggie as she rides up the road.

I roll my eyes and go back to eating my small breakfast of peach jam on toast.

They're going on a run today. Between me, T-Dog, and my Dad's injuries, the painkillers and antibiotics have run out pretty quickly. He's gonna try walking today, so he'll definitely need them more than usual. They're going to check out a nearby pharmacy for more. I asked if I could go with them, but Rick, Dad, and Lori all answered me with a synchronized scolding of, No, so that idea's out the window.

As Lori comes up the porch steps, Glenn startles, trying to hide his obvious spying.

"Oh, h-hey, Lori. Nice morning, huh?"

She raises a brow. "I'm not even gonna ask."

"You got the list?"

"Yeah. Here it is." She hands him a crumpled slip of paper, glancing around, lowering her voice. "And there's one other item on there."

He unfolds it, reading down the scrawled words.

"I wrote it down separately. It's personal. If we could be real discreet about that, okay?"

When he makes it to the bottom, his eyes go wide.

"Uh, s-sure." He promises. "I just need to know where to find it."

"Try the feminine hygiene section."

His cheeks go a little pink, but he nods, "Consider it done."

"What is it?" I nosey.

"Just some lady products." She brushes it off, taking a seat beside me. "Don't worry about it."

Glenn mutters, "Can I ask... Whose—?

"No." She chides.

He nervously gives up on his question. "O-Okay."

Maggie makes it to the front of the house, leading another horse alongside hers for Glenn. He quickly snatches up his backpack and rifle, heading down the steps. We watch as he clumsily mounts the saddle with some coaching from Maggie, which makes us both giggle.

He gets it, eventually.

As they trot down the path together, Lori gives me an amused look. "He's totally sweet on her."

I scrunch up my nose. "Don't put me off my food."

"Sorry," She laughs.

Later in the morning, I join Andrea on the roof of the RV as she stands watch.

Looking through her binoculars, she mutters to herself, "What is he doing?"

I frown. "What is it?"

She hands them to me, and I peer through the lenses in the direction she was facing, met with the peculiar sight of Dale on the border of the farm, kicking a fence post. He continues along the line, giving the next one a firm shake. I lower the binoculars, mildly entertained.

"I think he's investigating." I snicker to myself.

"Investigating?" Andrea looks at me, confused. "Investigating what?"

"He thinks something's up with the fences." I tell her, watching his distant figure move onto the next one. "I guess he means to find out what."

She laughs. "He's gonna break a toe if he's not careful."

I've never known anyone nosier than Dale Horvath.

In the afternoon, Glenn and Maggie return with everything on the list.

Dad insists that he don't even need the painkillers, but he gets forced by Maggie to take 'em, anyway. We wait half an hour for the pills to kick in, and then after some more arguing from Dad's end about how he can do it on his own, he yanks the IV needle out his arm and scoots onto the edge of the bed. With some effort and a few heavy grunts, he manages to get onto his feet, wobbling only slightly.

I cheer him on, making him smile a little.

We trail him out onto the back porch, hovering nearby in case he falters, but he stands strong the whole way.

He breathes in the fresh air. "Almost forgot what real life smelt like."

I pace around the house with him as Maggie and Glenn clear out all evidence of him ever existing in the guest room.

Herschel checks him over one last time and gives him the official green-light to return to life as usual.

We all spend about half an hour pitching a tent and driving over all our chairs, rucksacks, and other belongings to a nice spot on the far reaches of the property, under a patch of healthy, green trees, per Dad's request. It'll make the walk to camp that much longer, but he's willing to deal with it. He makes it very clear that he doesn't wanna be within a hundred fuckin' feet of Shane. Maggie and Glenn express vehement understanding.

"He's like a bomb waitin' to go off, that man." She scoffs, setting the last item, a crate, down in the dirt. "Don't know why you keep him around."

Dad mutters sardonically, "He's popular in the Grimes department."

"Well, if he was in my group," She drawls, "He would've been gone days ago."

"Trust me, I share the fuckin' sentiment." He takes the last bag from Glenn. "I got it."

"You sure, man?"

He grunts uncomfortably as he tosses it into the tent. "Yeah, I'm sure. Don't need no babysitters. I'm fine."

"Well, that's everything." Maggie sighs. "Come back to the house for dinner tonight. We're havin' veggie soup and grilled cheese."

"I think I've had more than enough of that house for a lifetime."

"Half an hour won't kill ya." She rolls her eyes. "Do it for Carol. She made it happen, after all. We'll see ya then, okay? Bye, Harley."

"See ya later." I smile, giggling as Glenn flicks my ear as they both walk off.

Dad settles down in his camping chair, hissing.

I ask him, "Ya feelin' alright?"

"Yeah, baby. Just sore. Start a fire, will ya?"

We stay in our new little camp until the sun goes down. When I start to notice our people heading inside the house, I put my book down and convince him to come have dinner with everyone. It's only polite. He stomps out the fire, grabs my hand, and we make the short hike back.

"Sure thing," I say, turning away into the treeline to search for twigs.

When we step inside, the delicious smells of melted cheese, spices, and fresh bread fill my lungs.

"You made it." Maggie's delighted. "Nice walk over?"

"Sure." Dad replies gruffly, way out of his element, here. "This food better be good."

"Harley told me ya like scrambled eggs, so I made ya a portion to go with the rest of your plate. A little present to celebrate you walkin' again."

He seems caught off guard by such thoughtfulness, but he's grateful, anyway. "Thanks."

We make our way into the dining room, where everyone is finishing setting the two tables that they've managed to manoeuvre in here. They've even brought in a vase of wildflowers to serve as a nice centre piece. We take a seat at the table that naturally seems to have been designated the non-Greene table, next to Carl and Lori, who smile when they see us. Conversation is easy amongst our group, but there's not really any cross-contamination between us and the Greenes. This is the first time we've all been in the same room together. It's pretty awkward.

A bowl of colorful, steaming vegetable soup and a side of hot grilled cheese is served in front of everyone.

"We better thank Carol." Jacqui smiles as she hands us some cutlery. "This was all her idea."

"Oh, it was nothing." Carol meekly chuckles. "I just thought it would be a nice way to thank you all for everything you've done for us."

"Well, it looks delicious." Beth says kindly. "I can't wait to eat it."

After Jacqui sits down, Herschel's table join hands and say Grace together. Then it seems like we're in the clear to start eating.

Everybody makes little hums and pleased noises to let Carol and the other women know that the food is good, but nobody is brave enough to try and start a conversation. What do we talk about? The funeral? Shane going crazy? The possibility of getting banished to our deaths?

Eventually, Rick comes up with an idea, 'cause he's good like that. "How about that walker today, huh?"

Our table is clearly up for the distraction, but we're cut off almost immediately.

Herschel frowns. "What walker?"

Oh. He doesn't know.

There's a series of glances thrown around the room.

"There was a walker stuck in one of your wells." He awkwardly explains. "We, uh, pulled it out."

"I'm not sure I appreciate you poking around my property." Herschel says. "You should've come to me."

He nods, looking like he regrets even opening his mouth in the first place. "You're right. I'm sorry."

Another bout of silence falls over us.

Glenn tries next. "Anybody... know how to play guitar?"

"My Dad can play." I offer, poking at my soup.

T-Dog asks, "You any good?"

Dad shrugs. "I'm decent."

"Otis knew how to play."

We all try not to look at Patricia when she says this. She's just made things ten times more awkward for everyone.

It's almost as if Otis' ghost is in the room with us, and we just have to do our best to ignore it.

"Yes, and he played very well." Herschel quietly reminisces, before the silence takes over again.

I take four bites of my grilled cheese before Beth speaks up.

"What happened to your face?"

Shane chokes a little on his spoonful of broth, reluctantly answering, "Oh, uh, it's— I just tripped a little, that's all."

"Looks like you got into a fight." Patricia comments.

"No, that's— That's not what happened at all, ma'am."

Beside me, my Dad glowers across the table at Shane. Rick notices and adopts slightly nervous look, as if he thinks they're gonna jump on top of the food right this very second and stab each other with their butter knives. Honestly, they might.

"You sure?" Dad mocks Shane, a strange lilt to his voice.

"S'what I said, ain't it?"

"What?" He chuckles. "Did ya step on a fuckin' banana peel?"

"Don't start with me, Daryl."

"Daddy, leave it." I grumble harshly under my breath. "Just keep eatin'."

Jacqui suggests a change in subject. "How about you tell us how you learned to play, Daryl?"

"I think I'm good." He scoffs.

The tension grows to be so unbearable that I eventually excuse myself to go to the bathroom.

As I meander down the corridor and pass the empty kitchen, something on the other side of the window catches my eye. I pad over to the sink and go on my tip-toes, peering out into the dark. Over by the barn, there's a short, skinny figure standing in the grass, hunched like it's in pain. My eyes widen. Sophia? Is that her? With a glance back at the dining room, I decide it's best I don't bother anyone, and I head outside alone.

The warm night air surrounds me as I softly call out her name.

The figure groans lightly in response.

I can't see all too well, but I can make out a pair of thin legs, a stringy, knotted mass of hair, and two bony hands that twitch rabidly at its sides. I creep closer, slowly taking in the figure's too-tall height; the way it convulses lightly, unable to keep its balance. The moonlight peels over the clouds, then, splaying out across the silent field. The breath leaves my lungs. The figure is illuminated, revealing itself only now to be someone I don't recognise at all. It wheezes painfully, twisting to look at me with a face riddled in decay. My skin goes cold at the deadly sight.

It's a walker. Of course it's a walker, you stupid girl.

Dale was right. They're getting in, somehow.

I don't get a chance to turn around. All at once, a second body latches itself onto me, knocking me over into the grass. I cry out. Oh, God, there's more than one out here. I try scrambling away, but its cold hands grip my knee and anchor me to the spot. It climbs up my stomach, looking like something out a Goosebumps special. A pair of staggering footsteps approach, and when the second walker appears over the first one's wrinkly shoulder, I let out a blood curdling scream that rings in shockwaves through my skull. I can't take on two walkers. That's impossible.

In the distance, the back door swings open.

"Harley!?" My Dad hollers, echoed by the other men as they bound down the steps.

The walker's large crucifix necklace dangles tauntingly over my nose, shining with the yellowed spit that leaks from the gaping mouth above it.

I grab it, trying at the same time to kick the walker off. Its chiselled edges bite into my skin. Anything can be a weapon.

The walker flails angrily, possessed with hunger.

I drive the cross into its skull. It gives out a gurgling, beaten cry, and I stab it again, and again, and again, only stopping once the bone cracks around the dreadfully blunt end, and it slumps on top of me, dead for a second time. I push the top half of its heavy body offa me, ripping the beaded necklace from its neck with a dry snap. The grabbing hands and loud growling of the second walker quickly replace it.

I ready the crucifix again, but it's hard to aim when I'm seeing two of everything!

Its jaw hinges open above the soft skin of my leg.

Right as it's about to bite down on me, Shane suddenly comes into view.

His knife glints in the moonlight. He rears it back above his head, burying it deep into the walker's face in a swift, brutal motion. Black blood splatters his front as he pulls it out, grabs its shoulders, and throws it angrily into the grass, where it lands heavily, giving out one last croak.

I'm finally able to crawl away, throwing the necklace onto the ground.

Before I know it, my Dad is crouching at my side.

"Are ya bit?" He frantically demands to know. 

"N— No." I shudder. "No, I ain't— I ain't bit."

"What happened?"

"I thought I saw someone, but..."

"You weren't there, Daryl!" Shane laughs loudly, now, still clutching the knife, sounding as if he's just won something. "You weren't there, man!"

"Bullshit, I wasn't!" Dad sneers, standing up. "I was two fuckin' feet behind ya!"

"And that walker's teeth were two hairs away from Harley's leg!" He retorts. "One more second — One second — And she'd be bit right now!"

"You don't know what the Hell you're talkin' about."

"All crippled and beaten, bumblin' over here like an old man. This is what happens, Daryl. You can't afford to be slow, no more!"

"I can protect my own!"

A grin splits his face. "Don't look that way from where I'm standin'."

"My own!" Dad growls. "You get that through your thick head, Shane! Mine! My fucking daughter!"

"And what a sad shame that is!"

You can't protect nobody.

Oh, why'd I have to go and tell him that?

The others finally make it over just in time for Dad's temper to snap.

I think my heart stops in this next moment. In a fit of rage and fire that nobody can stop, he pulls his knife from his sheath, jumps forward, and tackles Shane to the ground. I shriek as Rick and T-Dog hurry over to them, shouting at them to stop it, god damn it, stop it. Blades go flying left and right. Shirts are slashed. Curses are bellowed. Dad mounts his squirming body and lifts his knife into the air, making me squeal in horror. Rick takes a big handful of the back of his shirt, and right before he manages to drag him off, the knife comes down into Shane's shoulder. He cries out in agony, clutching the gash. He's lucky Dad missed in the chaos. Otherwise, it'd be in his throat.

Andrea and Lori throw themselves at the ground near Shane, feverishly putting their hands over his gushing stab wound.

"Oh, you're attackin' people, now, are ya, Daryl?" He goads, groaning through the pain. "You've always been a damn feral animal."

"At least I ain't a fuckin' creep! Goin' around, askin' little girls to hit me!"

"Maybe you should keep a closer eye on her, then, huh?"

Dad rushes forward again, but Rick catches him. He wrestles the knife out his hand and tosses it away.

"Holy shit!" Glenn exclaims, pulling on the roots of his hair.

Dale and Maggie rush over to me, their faces pale and panicked at the scene around them.

"That's enough!" Rick grinds out, forcing Dad backward with the help of T-Dog. "That's enough!"

"You say that shit again!" Dad roars over their heads. "Next time, I'm breakin' your fuckin' neck!"

Jimmy stares depressingly at the bodies. I think he must know who they were.

Carl sobs from nearby, "Dad, what's going on?"

Rick gives my Dad a shove, leaving him to stumble, clutching his hurt side. He reprimands, "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinkin' he deserves worse." He groans.

"So, you kill him? That's your solution?"

"Why don'tchu ask him? He knows all about killin' folk, don'tchu, you fuckin' schizo? Betcher sorry I lived, huh?"

Shane tries to make a retort, but the people around him encourage him to stay calm.

Maggie helps me to stand, asking me if I'm hurt anywhere, to which I dazedly shake my head. We watch as Shane gets escorted back into the house, where they'll probably get started stitching him up right away. He pushes them all off of him, enraged. I can't believe that just happened. I don't think anybody else can, either. They're all frozen in place, eyes wide and darting around for answers to questions they didn't even know to ask.

My Dad slumps down in the dirt, his chest heaving from exertion, head hanging low. He cradles his aching stomach.

It finally happened.

"You okay, man?" T-Dog uncomfortably asks.

Dad spits blood into the grass. "I been wantin' to do that for about a month."

"Well, I hope it was worth it." Rick jibes. "We might lose our place here, now, thanks to you. You want your daughter back on the streets?"

"Long as she's nowhere near that crazy son of a bitch, I'on give a rat's ass where she is."

Rick scoffs, completely done with tonight. "You're unbelievable. Both of you, unbelievable, and outta your minds."

Jimmy pipes up, "What did he mean about killing folk?"

"Nothing. Get back inside." Rick scolds, turning away alongside Maggie to go follow after everyone else.

Then, it's just me, Dad, and Dale left out in the field to process everything that just went down. I head over to him, and he wraps me up in a tight hug that I never wanna leave. Shane's blood stains both our clothes, and I'm horrified to learn that it's all still hot and sticky. This was a total disaster. I knew this would happen sometime or other, but I thought I would be prepared to face it. I don't know what happens next.

This might be the push Rick needs to kick Shane from the group. He must see now that they cannot co-exist peacefully.

After a while, Dale inspects the dead walkers and murmurs to himself, "I knew something was fishy."

He paces along the footprints they left behind, following them this way and that, further and further away.

When he comes up just short of the barn, I frown in confusion.

He tugs at a few loose boards, poking around. He makes it to a crate that he pushes out the way, revealing a gaping hole in the wall.

"What the—?" I hear him exclaim, right before a dead hand shoots out from between the planks.

He steps back, astonished.

Dad's hand curls tighter around my shoulder.

When he calls out to us, his voice frail, I feel like I might faint.

"They're keeping walkers in the barn."

Author's Note.

There's a reason Shane rhymes with insane. That's all I'm gonna say about that 😵💫

Also, I rearranged the order of events a little bit for this one. The way I write this story is I bring up a script for the episode I'm following as well as the wiki page for the season, bc I don't have anywhere I can stream TWD. It was a little confusing having to combine stuff from different episodes, but I hope it flows well. I try very hard to mix canon with non-canon things in a way that feels seamless.

Basically, it goes - Walker in the well, shooting lessons are considered, Maggie and Glenn pharmacy run, awkward dinner, someone discovers the barn walkers. Same outcome, just different.

As always, I really hope you enjoyed this chapter. Thanks for reading. Sending love! <3

[neuvifuri]

4.0 archon quest thoughts

first i have to say that i’ve been waiting for this for as long as i’ve been playing genshin and so i felt very normal about it (lying)

i liked lyney and lynette way more than expected! i had been neutral on them this entire time but i ended up really enjoying them

their backstory was darker in a more real world way than i was expecting from genshin. not that genshin never has dark/heavy story elements, but usually they’re curved by a more fantasy aspect (e.g. the genocide in khaenri’ah is they were all cursed to be monsters rather than straight up slaughter, scaramouche trying to kill himself is him erasing himself from existence magically rather than actual suicide, etc) but lyney’s account of their childhood involving lynette being a victim of child sex trafficking is like. jesus christ.

on that note, very cool of arlecchino to kill child abusers. but if she was really cool, she would kill the child abuser in her own organization.

i obviously invested stocks early in neuvillette and furina, and i was slightly disappointed with their characters. i guess it’s not too unexpected since i had such high expectations. my opinion dipped significantly in the middle but then mostly recovered by the end. i’ll have to think about it a while longer to fully process.

neither of them was like cunty enough. i wanted them to be bitchier. but my neuvillette opinion recovered when started bawling in his office after navia yelled at him, and my furina opinion recovered seeing her take a trial seriously and hearing that she takes the prophecy seriously and is working on it herself. neuvillette is primarily competent with side of cringe, and furina is primarily cringe with a side of competent. i can live with this.

navia and clorinde gay, but also it doesn’t matter to me if someone had a good reason, i’m not sure i could be friends with/date the person who killed my father. idk that i could get past it. i wish they’d twisted the knife a little more there.

would have loved to hear what evidence they even had against childe in the serial disappearances case. would have loved to know who even accused him. the disappearance started over 20 years ago, you know, when he was a toddler in another country.

the whole time the merged victims consciousness oceanid avatar was talking to vacher i was saying “let’s go ladies, kill kill kill, ladies, let’s kill, c’mon girlies, let’s kill” and then they did so yippee!! hooray!!

swimming mechanics so fun but i hate the underwater combat. i know that farming mats is gonna be hell for me.

are we gonna jailbreak childe? free my man, he isn’t innocent but he didn’t do that one.

prevailing theory is that arlecchino tampered with the oratrice to sow distrust in the fontaine justice system. used childe as the case just for funsies. to tease and bully him. workplace harassment.

childe talking about the abyss he fell into having a giant whale being and him being unable to find it again, i have to think he fell into the primordial sea. i hope the whale beast is a trounce domain. furina story quest 2.

[retphienix]

As it comes to an end,

The Gargoyle's Cry was a rather exciting time for me.

It's been 3 whole years since the last event, Orphix Venom, and I was on hiatus at the time!

As a matter of fact the last one I did was Hostile Merger in 2019 and I have all the mats and oplink stuff from Scarlet but I never did it.

So my memory of operations, as I've done so incredible few (THEY KEEP WAITING ON ME TO GO ON HIATUS), is extremely unrewarding but very fun.

Things like the Pyrus Project where we coordinated to fix up a relay which gave us the weapon I probably hate the most in the entire game, the Zylok.

Or the aforementioned Hostile Merger which gave the Glaxion and Spectra vandal, MR fodder if anything though at the time I was extremely excited for the Glaxion.

I'm being harsh in retrospect but in all honestly I LIKE the small scale operation structure- just doing a quick community thing and being given a new toy to play with- I enjoyed that and hope we get a lot more of it- but I talk in this tone because this is THE FIRST "meta rewarding" operation I've ever done- wherein the entire gimmick is "Here's a list of those arcanes you need, grind em out" instead of a new toy.

Apparently, Orphix was the same, so this literally isn't "new" but this is the first time it's happened in over 3 years and the first time I've ever experienced an operation just giving me friggin' Arcane Energize, so I was stoked.

Now. Gameplay wise.

Fuck this operation man lol

I LIKE the boss fight, but doing it something like 160 times made warframe a drag over these last 4 weeks lmao

Now, that's my fault, but when I log into warframe and it goes "Yeah, you could go crack some relics, or farm some rep for arcanes to dissolve, OR- YOU COULD GO KILL THAT BOSS AGAIN FOR ENERGIZE (and others)" you shake you head and give in to the temptation -.-

I guess I'll never actually know since I never experienced it, but researching it back when I was bitching about the modern Orphix missions being extremely unrewarding it read as if the EVENT Orphix was a much much much easier fight and it was a pseudo endless mission that ended at 24 for normal and advances and 36 for the expert version that was most rewarding.

Dude.

Doing an 'endless' mission for arcanes sounds so much more chill than doing this boss fight 100+ times. My god. I want that instead.

But even with that though- this is technically more rewarding than even Orphix was.

For main drops in Orphix you got the necramech mods- which were a pain to get after the fact until this exact update where now you can just buy them from the cavia.

For main drops in this operation you get up to 2 arcanes (boss and angel) and a pinion and there are voca. So you can rep up 2 factions, collect 2 pools of arcanes, all the while building up splinters for a THIRD much more tedious to grind normally pool of arcanes.

Like I've been saying, this operation is extremely rewarding- like ludicrously so, and fucking TEDIOUS lol

I guess I'll round out with my haul, and closing thoughts.

I did something like 160 runs, which should have been enough to max 2 legendary arcanes (nearly 3 I think, it's like 60 runs or something for them) but I shuffled my purchases around.

I maxed Arcane Energize, Arcane Guardian, and Arcane Strike.

FINALLY I have the arcane most impactful to the meta, even if it's not one size fits all. FUCKING FINALLY lol.

I got Arcane Grace to rank 3 (with some extra), Arcane Barrier to rank 2 (with some extra) and bought all the cosmetic nonsense.

That's pretty fucking nice in my book.

My buds also came out like bandits, with one maxing their energize and the other coming VERY close (unless they maxed it and didn't update our chat). Nice :)

~

I sincerely hope this is a sign of things to come, with operations being rewarding (hopefully allowing those of us who hate eidolons to get our collections complete lol) and NOT TAKING 3 YEARS TO HAPPEN AGAIN lol

I hope we get more small and large operations and return to what appears to have been the old standard of 2 per year, only time will tell.

Now if you don't mind, I am going to take a break for like a week from warframe because this burnt my entire brain doing so many times lol

[theorist-influencer-untitled]

10.27.23 Friday

3am

The Leopard is still here, done showering at 3am... Still,having windblow...

What will happen to me? Whew! Thinking of money and my rewave in Iqor... I need to get the certification of calling in Iqor, I will not stop until I can beat that fucking call!!!

I feel bitterish and I feel bitter....Still, wanna have SEX but can't find anyone now... I hate being stuck in the house....Can't even go to Starbucks...

I'm planning to get an eyebrows tattoo.... hmm... hmm... No fundings yet... hmm...

Again,this is not my ideal life with Uncle Jun, so flat and plain and boring for 16 years....

3:21 am

I have maturity... It is just that the timing and my situation won't let me grow but I'm mature and I have maturity.

I need to find you, fucking soul-mate.... Everyday I never forget a single thing about my maturity... But like what I posted I always have my child-like heart and it is normal for people to have their child-like character from time to time...

3:43 am

I don't have a problem angels... I'm genuine! I know how to love but there are some people who don't know how to love... Those people are selfish! They only want me for their movement... Yeah! Yeah! I love to do movement... I'm into positive movement....I know how to love,I'm not guilty at all angels...

I didn't hurt anybody... I'm easy to read coz I want to be transparent coz I'm genuine!

16 years fucking flat plain stage.... Fuck you for the guilty you! 16 years you gave me a "Plateau"! Years of nothingess... I feel bitter!!!

There are some " spanish words" ouchie! I got murdered by some spanish on t-mobile, remember???

It was a weird day but I have cousins and some aunts in the province who look like spanish coz of some percentage of blood line, on ancestor...

4:18 am

I feel bitter angels... I feel HURT and USED by them for 16 years.... I'm HUMAN! I feel JEALOUS!

10:47 am

Still having windblow.....Still, thinking of money and my rewave... I'm panicky coz of money... I still feeel fat,old and ugly but I'm a good person... I know how to love, I know how to chill but this windblow trap me on a weird dimension...

Still, thinking of SEX and still feeling frustrated!I can't find a mature,clean penism to show care and love and to walk on the play ground to learn and make a pattern for something... It is like a heaven on earth, like what I said walking is sometimes healthy than running....When you walk with someone and with some genuine people who truly like me as me and genuinely want me to be their friend, you can make precious moments together. I feel bitter coz I lost that "precious moments" I mean time to capature memories with someone and with real FRIENDS!

11:16 am

I hate being a 2nd choice angels... I feel bitter,I have windblow!

Grrr....16 years, I'm super suppress!!!

I need to get mature friends most specially male friends!!!

11:29 am

Then, I realized coz I'm shawty girl... I don't wanna dwell ( to keep thinking ) on my height but now coz of that fucking 16 years on the "plateau" ( reach a state of little or no change after a time of activity or progress ). I feel this strange personal insecurity...

I feel that coz of me being shorty I don't have the right to be on the first position...

I wanna buy starbucks! I wanna buy cheesecake...I need to buy new yoga mat, I miss AF! ( still have my key fob )... A lot of things I miss to do... I'm thinking of money!!! ARGH!!

I need SEX! My system needs SEX! I need a relief!!! I need love and care!!!

4:37 pm

It is depressing inside me angels... It is a weird feeling... I feel bitterish...

6:08 pm

It is so good to stay on a high-end farm house castle where you can have these cute animals...

But it is not bad to walk for awhile, to learn something and for the ground pattern... Still, on uphill movement...

But I know, my theme these days is to hell with love...

6:12 pm

My pelvic/ S-bones are aching, I need a push on it and a touch or pressing with love and care...

6:19 pm

Can I be 16 again angels???

6:28 pm

My pelvic is really aching....Argh!

7:41 pm

I still have windblow and I still feel bitterish...

I wanna meet a soulmate and someone mature and mutual on me on wanting to have SEX and I really wanna walk and make a pattern for something... I want someone who knows how to love and care...

I'm not kidding ,I feel irritated if I can't have SEX soon....It is a complex for me... Aging for nothing and on the serious side my money, my botux and my future...

I still feel jealous on people having SEX... Coz I don't have it for 16 years... I feel bitterish... I feel ugly if I can't have SEX!

I feel irritated, I have windblow... I wanna buy Starbucks everyday... After 2 years will definitely leave Cavite, wanna see sand-dunes and some plastics....There are so many plastics everywhere...

I really want black penis or paint it black....

8:07 pm

I love this song,that wild damn thing! Bounce back yo!!!

Now, you can understand??? Bounce Back... Bounce Back Yo!

9:09 pm

Grrr.... I feeel bitter and panicky.... Waiting for rewave!!! I need money!!! I feel ugly and fat and old! I wanna have SEX! Can't find someone I want and will be mutual on everything.

I can't find a new friends for me who will truly like me and treat me as an adult but I'm always used to be a baby of the group, most specially men...I feel bitter nobody wants me angels...

I'm really having a hard time to find someone and to find friends.... I feeel bullshit! I have windblow!!!

9:32 pm

Fullmoon angels!!! AWOOH!!!!

9:53 pm

10:05 pm

Sssh.... Love me.... Love me...

[honorhearted]

The bloody women...

Benjamin laughed at that, hating how his initial instinct was to grin and nod along. Bloody hell, why was anything about Cauthon proving to be remotely tolerable? Granted, he knew he technically didn't have a right to be angry about the man's (justified) grudge, but the fact remained that he still wouldn't exactly call himself fond of the general's methods.

"And let me guess: those 'bloody women' really have it out for you?" Giving Mat a sidelong glance, Benjamin wryly quipped, "I can't imagine why. At least I can return home without the fear of reprisal."

When the other man smiled, and without malice this time, Benjamin offered a lopsided smile of his own. "I suppose we do," he agreed. "I imagine we would've fared better if you hadn't come skulking into camp...I used to be more cautious growing up, but war makes the need to shoot first before asking questions a bit more imperative...though you're lucky I didn't shoot you." Again, he glanced at Mat. "I never miss."

The whole revolution?

The idea was...not strange, per se, but Benjamin never thought he'd amount to much beyond his teaching. It's all he wanted for himself, truly, despite his interest in law, politics, and philosophy. "There are plenty of farm boys here," he said. "The officers, not so much...most of us do come from money, so you were right to be suspicious. But I promise that they're neither spoiled nor unkind, so you won't have any snobbish arseholes to deal with." Rolling his eyes, he muttered, "Or at least, not with this regiment. The more uppity ones have been taxed with our no-nonsense commanders."

He hummed. "So, if you're also a farm boy, I presume you learned to shoot from your father? To protect the farm? That's more or less my story, too...except my father's also a reverend. Almost seems a little counterintuitive because of the whole 'turn the other cheek' thing."

mat can't help but laugh. he hadn't expected to have anything in common with tallmadge. in fact he had wanted to keep the bloody idiot who had stabbed him as a polar opposite of himself. and blood and ashes, how he hated most of those posh bastard, who walked around like they were better than everyone else. but as it turned out ben was nothing more than a farm boy like he was, a small town where everyone knew everyone. sounded a lot like emond's field to him, too. which surprised him.

"well, i know all about that. back home everyone knows everything. especially the bloody women." he gives a roll of his eyes.

the women were always all caught up in what he was doing. angry that he was always in some kinda trouble or what not. that was just how it was back home. with eyes always on him. he had to be creative to get out of trouble, didn't he?

"looks like we found something in common." he says almost begrudgingly even though he actually smiles in his direction.

he was glad to not have to be back home just now. crazy as it sounded he preferred the chaos to the calm of home. it was easier when you really didn't have to think too much. when you could just go from one thing to the next without any kind of worry. thinking too much happened in quiet places. he found himself victim to that from time to time. especially since all the fighting had started.

"who would've guessed it? two farm boys about to save the whole bloody revolution."

[valhallaas]

Play to Win

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x reader

Warnings: none

Word Count: 2.3k

Summary: Ghost is good at the silent game. Even better when you don’t know that you’re playing. 

A/N: This is is something new. I just wanted to dabble in it. It leaves you wanting more which is the whole point. As always, feedback is appreciated, and enjoy! Also! Shoutout to @charnelhouse the ghost queen.

He’s been here two weeks and the only reason you know that is by the empty coffee pot that greets you every morning. He truly lives up to his name. Ghost. A name you’ve heard, a reputation that lives beyond him. He may be a ghost, it’s still pretty shitty of him to leave no coffee for you at all. You run a tight ship, have a set schedule. Your routine only differs when someone drops by. Which is rare. Normally it’s just you and the silence. You don’t mind. It is a simple, boring life. But you’d rather be bored than dead.

You’re not lonely. Twice a month you go to town. You get the occasional phone call from Sargent Mactavish (I call you when I can, Val. Y’know how it is) There’s also the farm. Two horses, two cows, one goat and three cats. You’ve got your hands busy.

Feet banging on the mat outside, you can’t help the sigh of irritation that slips. You glare at the snow as it falls. The air was chilly, freezing you down to your bones. It’s a beautiful wonderland until you have to go muck around in it. Finally peeling the boots from your feet you pad your way to the kitchen as the door slammed behind you.

Your fingers twitch. It’s empty. Again. He has to be doing it on purpose. You’d adjusted the settings so there’d be enough for the both of you. You need your coffee. The familiar cup sits beside the coffee maker waiting to be filled. It was 6:20 am and murder was on your mind. You could get away with it. You knew these mountains. Your rifle was a limb forged by war. You’ve never missed a shot. Maybe another day. You’re running on fumes. You blow on your hands, flexing your fingers, you move to the cabinet and grab the coffee container. It’s another twenty minutes and a steaming cup of coffee rests next to you. You’re curled up in the reading nook, fingers gripping the book like your life depends on it. They haven’t quite got any feeling back in them yet. Sometimes you wonder how you ended up here. You hate the fucking cold. Snorting softly, you open your book and get lost in the pages.

There’s a loud bang. Like a distant gunshot. Like a door slamming. Boots pounding against hardwood. The book you had been reading earlier clattered to the floor as you shot up. It’s bright, sunlight glaring off fresh snow; squinting you throw your feet to the floor, hands searching for your gun. What you find is a blanket. The one that normally stays draped over the couch. Frowning, you stare down at the soft material. As your breathing calms and your thoughts become clearer, you relax and slump against the seat. You had fallen asleep. Your dream had shocked you, taken a turn from a memory and made it seem real. It had been at one point, but that was a long time ago. You’re safe now.

The sudden sound of vibrations startle you, causing you to jump. Now more than ever were you glad to be alone. You know how to take care of yourself. You’ve been doing it for a long time. Nobody needed to be questioning that. Standing, you go to the counter where your cell phone sits. An eyebrow ticks at the caller I.D.

“What do you want?”

“Is that how you answer all your calls?”

“I don’t get very many of them. Sorry if my etiquette is lacking. Why are you calling me?”

“I wanted to see how you’re doing.”

Your eyes narrow. “Either you know I have a guest, or you think I’ve been compromised. Which, if it’s the latter, I’m deeply offended.”

“Come on, Val. Y’know I have the utmost faith in you. Is he there?”

“Been here two weeks.”

Soap hums. “We haven’t had any contact. But I figured he’d go far to get a break. The farthest safe house is you.”

He wants peace. They normally do when they come out this far. You offer solace.

“Has he spoken to you?”

You snort. “That’s a negative.”

“Are you at least getting along?”

You look behind you at the blanket spilled on the floor. You think about your empty coffee cup. The first day he came to the house comes to mind.

You hadn’t even seen him. Hadn’t noticed one of the coffee cups was missing from the counter. Hadn’t noticed the sugar not right where you had left it. It had been the coffee pot. It was empty. Brows furrowed, your hand hovered over the handle of the pot. There’s a little at the bottom. You knew that you made some. You hadn’t drank it. Right?

Turning to grab your cup, you froze. A squeak lodged into your throat, hand flying to your back where your gun rested. A large man sat at the counter, an almost empty cup rested in front of him. His gaze was lazy as he stared at you. Unaffected. Black smudge was marked around his eyes making the whites stand out. The mask, you knew the mask. Had heard of it hundreds of times. You didn’t have to ask his name. Huffing out a sigh, you relaxed. Hand dropping back to your side. He watched you a moment more before leaning down to pick up his duffle bag and headed down the hall. You didn’t move again until you heard the sound of the shower turning on.

The silence that lingers between the both of you, though, might just kill you. He hasn’t said a word. You haven’t attempted to either. More so out of pettiness.

“Could be better. Could be worse.”

“Valkyrie,”

“He keeps drinking my coffee, Johnny. I don’t know how to function.”

He hummed again. “Expect a care package soon.”

It’s two days later when the helicopter lands in the middle of the open field. You lean in the doorway watching as packages are being tossed out. Who knew you were this special? You perk up when a familiar face starts heading your way. Heart pounding you push from the house and run. Seconds passed and you were pressed into him. Strong arms wrap tightly around you. Your teeth dig into your bottom lip when it begins to wobble. You didn’t cry. You wouldn’t cry. He’d just laugh at you. Though, maybe not. It’s been over a year since you’d last seen him. He’d never know, but you locked yourself in your bathroom after he called you and bawled for twenty minutes. Being alone was hard. Being away from those you cared about, those you loved, that was even harder.

“What are you doing here?!”

“Came to see my favorite girl,”

“Gross.” Your nose crinkles.

The small moment is cut short by the flurry coming through the trees. Your breath caught, hand grabbing for your gun. Soap steps in front of you, already armed, gun pointing towards the unknown danger. You sigh when the figure comes barreling out of the brush. The familiar white of his mask is drastic compared to the lush, green backdrop. Shaking your head you turn back to Soap.

“This should be fun.” Leaving the men outside you amble inside, setting up the coffee maker for the company you’d have for the day.

Soap didn’t stay long. He and Ghost brought the packages up to the house, shared a few words, kissed you on the cheek, and he was off. You don’t like the feeling he left behind. Don’t like how your chest tightens, your heart aches. It would never get easier.

You’re surprised to see Ghost sitting at the counter. Arms crossed across his chest, eyes raking over the packages. It’s rare for him to be at the house. He leaves early in the morning and comes back late at night. Circumstances were different today. He probably spotted the chopper and instantly ran. That thought makes you slightly lightheaded. He doesn’t know you—knew absolutely nothing, but he still came for you anyway.

“I’ve never known Soap to make house calls.” He doesn’t sound like you thought he would. His accent lilts his words, his voice rough like it’s been dragged through gravel. It gives you goosebumps.

“Guess I’m just special.”

“You’ve got history.”

Your lips twitch. “I’ve known Johnny a very long time.”

He hums, dark eyes on you. You meet his gaze head on. For as long as he stared, you met the dark abyss of his eyes right back. No twitching, no flinching. You took in what he gave you. Which wasn’t a lot. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing a tattoo sleeve on his left forearm. His hands are bare of the gloves he often wore. They’re large, scarred, veins running through them and up his arms. It’s the most exposed you'd ever seen him.

“Who are you?”

You raise a brow, leaning forward to rest your arms on the counter across from him. “You haven’t found that out already?”

“It’s like you don’t bloody exist.”

“You should know all about that, Ghost.”

His gaze lights up at his name. His call sign. His being. He’s like a black hole. But you know there’s stars, hidden galaxies. Every soldier has their well kept secrets. If he’s going to call you out on yours, might as well call the kettle black.

“Have you fucked him?”

You only snort. “He wishes.”

***

Pop. You sit in the living room, your rifle torn apart. After setting your alarm even earlier last night, you were able to get the chores done, drink your coffee while leaving some for your guest. Pop. There’s no biting back your smirk when you see his muscles twitch. You want to twirl the bubblegum around your finger like some lovesick school girl. It’s the oldest trick in the book, and you couldn’t be more thankful for Soap Mactavish. Looking away because you know he can feel you staring, you go back to cleaning your gun. You were a trained professional at one time. You’d like to keep it that way. It’s one of the reasons you ran the safe house. You didn’t like having to rely on people.

Pop. There were always exceptions, though.

An hour later you’re trekking through the woods. Snow crunches underneath your feet, your breath hot puffs of air clouding in front of your face. The cold air prickled in your lungs with every inhale. You were not made for a place like this. Perhaps California. Mexico maybe. Somewhere you can get a tan. You like solitude, though. You like the silence. Maybe it came from years of doing just this.

The wind was not in your favor. You’ve had to adjust three times. This is the clearest your head has been in weeks. Since that man has come into your house. There's something about him that puts you on edge. It’s more than the mask. You haven’t spent a lot of time with him. You can’t pass judgment. But maybe that’s just it. There was a real live ghost in your presence.

Focus. Breathing in only to cough against the burning cold. You lean forward, eye peering through the scope. You can see your targets. Five of them. Each one ten yards farther away from the last. Deep breath in, deep breath out. Finger on the trigger.

You’ve never missed a shot.

A clean hole through the fifth target and you see movement. Heart rate skyrocketing, you’re not nervous. Whoever it is, they couldn’t know where the shot came from. Instinct is telling you to get up and head home, but you're curious. Who the hell else is out here? Who the hell is insane enough to be out this far in this weather?

He appeared out of thin air. His mask blended in with the snow while his gear isa stark contrast. He favors black, much like you do. With your eye still watching through the scope, you see him check each target. Each hit through the center. Not a hair off. You swallow down the anxiety building in you. Slowly he moved away from the target, his gaze taking in the mountain range.

Your heart falls into your ass when his gaze lands on you. Only for a few seconds, but long enough that you know. You can feel it. He knew exactly where you were. The moment passes, and he’s disappearing back into the woods again.

***

“Valkyrie. You were a sniper in the army.”

Oil popped in the pan as you stood over the stove. You had been so sure he’d meet you back at the house. Seems like he had gone and done a little research. Turning the chicken, you peeked at him. He was in the kitchen with you, his back against the counter. He has the plastic skull piece off. Your breath catches when you meet his gaze. His lashes were so long. His eyes were piercing, yet sad. You don’t think he’s perpetually sad, that it’s only the way he looks. It almost feels like you’re seeing him naked. Tearing your eyes from him you go back to cooking.

“How many?”

You sigh. “I don’t know. I didn’t count.” “No?”

“No. It didn’t matter how many, it mattered that I took the shot and it hit.���

“And you never miss.”

He was closer now, breath hitting the back of your neck. Goosebumps break out across your skin.

“No, I never miss.”

He hums before stepping away. Your legs feel like jelly. You never knew a man could do that to you. Flipping the burner off, you ran a hand over your face. It’s been a long day and you were ready for bed.

Later, when you’re getting ready for bed you do the usual lockdown. Blow out any candles, Check that all the doors were locked for the third time. Your eyesight is bleary, eyes begging to close. Socked feet pad as you make your way back to your room. A graveled voice stops you in your tracks.

“When I want something, I never miss either.” Ghost appears in his doorway. “I’d never forget to make more coffee.”

Your lips twitch. It’s been a game, and he was winning.

[disturbedbydesign]

The Widow and the Wolf - Chapter 1

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x dark!exWidow!reader

Summary: After Natasha Romanoff took down the Red Room, the former Widows scattered to the wind. Raised to be a killing machine and released into the world with nothing and no one, you decided to use your newfound autonomy to take down the bad guys of your choosing. But now Natasha is riddled with guilt for leaving you on your own. She wants to recruit you, rehabilitate you, make you part of a team again. But the rest of the squad has reservations, and no one is more against you than Bucky Barnes.

Warnings: Graphic violence; Mentions of domestic violence, rape, pedophilia, human trafficking, child sex trafficking; eventual Dubcon (not Bucky); eventual smut; slow(ish) burn enemies-to-lovers. [More warnings will be added as necessary but these are the Big Bads.] 18+ only, no minors.

A/N: This is canon-adjacent in that I just decided to pick and choose who I wanted to write for and what parts of canon I wanted to use. Best not to think too hard about where it falls on the timeline because the canon is a mess and we all kind of hate it anyway.

If you prefer to read on AO3, you can do so here.

Chapter One

You’ve been tracking him for days, not that it was hard. His patrol schedule is always the same, as is his after-hours routine: drinks at the Irish pub on Reade Street with the other boys in blue. It’s a cop bar but you waltz right in, looking lost even though you know the name, rank, and various misdeeds of every guy in the place. He looks at you, because of course he does—his wife assured you that he has a wandering eye, among his other sins.

You take a seat at the bar. “Double vodka rocks, please.”

The bartender pours you your drink and you take a deep pull, savoring the burn of it. Then you wait, but it doesn’t take long—it never does. Sergeant Thompson sidles up to the barstool next to you.

“Hey darlin,” he says, his breath reeking of cheap beer. “You lost?”

You turn to him with an innocent smile. “Evening, officer.”

“It’s Sergeant,” he says, tapping his badge, “but I won’t hold that against you. So, what’s a pretty young thing doing in a dive bar with a bunch of old men?”

“I was supposed to meet a friend for dinner but she bailed on me. Figured I’d grab a drink before I head home.”

“And where is home?” he asks, not that it’s any of his business, but cops think they deserve answers to any questions they feel like asking.

“Williamsburg,” you lie.

“You’re pretty far from home, then,” he replies, even though you both know that you aren’t. He takes a sip of his beer and the foam leaves a trace like a mustache before he licks it clean. “It’s late. Why don’t you let me drive you? Wouldn’t want you on the subway this time of night.”

“It’s only 8:30,” you say. “I think I’ll be just fine.”

He leans in conspiratorially. “Well, I really shouldn’t be telling you this—open investigation and all that—but we’ve been on the lookout for a guy in the area, serial rapist, real nasty piece of work.”

That’s one thing the two of you have in common at least.

“I’d feel a lot better if you’d let me take you home, darlin.”

“I suppose it couldn’t hurt,” you admit. “Can’t get much safer than the NYPD, right?”

He laughs and so do you, knowing that nothing is farther from the truth—especially when it comes to this guy.

Sergeant Thompson speeds across the Williamsburg Bridge with his flashers on, headed toward the address you gave him. Of course, that’s not actually your address—you don’t have a home anymore—it’s just one of many rundown warehouses in the neighborhood, variously used for impromptu raves and as drug dens and, in your case, a private place in which you can take care of business without fear of being interrupted.

“This is me,” you say, waiting for him to let you out of the back of the cruiser where he insisted you ride—caged in like a helpless animal, or so he thinks.

“This place?” he asks. “Looks like it’s about to collapse.”

“You’d be surprised what they can do to these places on the inside—gentrification and what have you. My rent is astronomical.”

“Still,” he says, “I’d like to walk you up. Looks a bit unsavory.”

“If you insist, Sergeant.”

The second you get up the stairs to the top floor, you inject him with the etorphine, straight into the jugular, and down he goes. It never gets old—how easy it is, when they think that they are the predator and you are the prey. You drag him into the loft where you’re already set up for a long night’s work.

When he comes to, he’s fixed to the chair with (among other things) his own handcuffs, mouth taped shut and a rag shoved in for good measure. You don’t want to hear him talk; it’s time for him to listen. His day of reckoning has come. He starts to squirm but between the cuffs and the duct tape and the sedative still coursing through his veins, he’s not going anywhere. Even if he did get free, you could take him down easy. It’s what you were trained for. It’s what you were born for.

“Welcome back, Sergeant,” you say, and he screams something unintelligible through the rag which, if you had to guess, would be some combination of “cunt” or “bitch” or any of the other choice words he likes to use on his women.

The tarps are laid meticulously around the room, placed strategically to catch any and all evidence of what you’re about to do. When he notices them, he goes still, because he knows. Part of him knows.

“So,” you say, pulling out the Thompson file, “this is quite the impressive resume you’ve got here, Sarge. Lots of civilian brutality complaints, including a few choice allegations from female prisoners. Oh, and then there’s the domestic violence and marital rape. You’re a real charmer, huh?”

There’s more muffled screaming but you ignore it—the last gasps of a dying man.

“Here’s the thing, Sarge. I know you think that you’re above the law, because you are the law, but you aren’t. Your wife is real tired of your shit, and me? Well, let’s just say that my motto is protect and serve.” You lean in close enough to smell the salty sweat on his brow. “And unlike you, I actually mean it.”

You pull your favorite knife from your thigh holster and slit him from ear to ear. “See you in hell, Sergeant.”

You sit on the edge of the table, swinging your legs and watching him bleed out. It doesn’t take long. The actual disposal is the real work. You set about chopping him into manageable pieces and you find yourself missing the days when you didn’t have to cover your tracks alone, when there was a clean-up team to take care of it for you.

But you’re freelance now. You’re not a Widow anymore. She made sure of that.

Sometimes—like right now, when you’re dripping sweat and every muscle in your body is screaming its exertion as you saw through bone after bone—you hate Natasha Romanoff. You know why she did what she did; you understand that, objectively, it was the right thing to do. But did she ever stop to consider the repercussions of her actions? She got out early and found a new family and became one of the Good Guys. But you? You entered the Red Room with nothing and you left with nothing.

They always said you were born to be a killer. It’s all you’ve ever known. So what exactly did she expect you to do? You may be free of the mind control, but you never had the chance to develop a mind of your own. Killing is all you know. At least now you get to pick your own targets.

Once you’ve got Sergeant Thompson all squared away, you pack him up in the trunk of his cruiser and drive upstate, listening to the 80s station you like. It occurs to you that most people have heard these songs a thousand times—so many times that they know the lyrics instinctively, can sing them without even having to think about it. It’s all new to you, though. You can’t decide whether it makes you sad to think about all you’ve missed or whether you’re lucky that you get to experience for the first time what everyone else is already tired of.

When you get to the farm, you dump Thompson in the holes you’ve already backhoed, then you hop on the Cat and fill them all in. You shoot a text to Mrs. Thompson from your burner—just a thumbs-up emoji—and she replies with a smiley face. It was only so long before he would have killed her; she knows it as well as you do. The only people that will grieve the dearly departed Sergeant Thompson are a bunch of assholes who are one false move from ending up in your web.

You didn’t charge Mrs. Thompson your usual rate—just what she could afford without drawing the attention and ire of the Mister. Sometimes, depending on the circumstances, you even work pro bono. After all, you only kill people for money who you would happily kill for free. You consider it a service, something for the greater good of society. You’ll take money, sure—you need it to live and to continue your work—but not from people who can’t easily spare it.

You have standards. You have a code. That’s the difference between the you that served as a mindless weapon wielded by others and the you that decides for yourself how to use the gifts you’ve been given. No women. No children. No collateral damage. Only Very Bad Men who’ve done Very Bad Things. You don’t see the harm in it, not really, and as you settle into bed you come back to the thought you often have before a fitful night of sleep: who’s the real avenger, Natasha?

*****

Natasha wipes her brow and throws the rag down on the mat, grabbing a bottle of water and chugging half of it before she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. Bucky has barely broken a sweat from their morning sparring session, and he doesn’t even try to fake it. He’s in an especially grumpy mood.

“This is a bad idea, Natasha.”

“To some people, maybe,” she says, “but I want to bring her in anyway. I don’t understand how you of all people are against me on this, Bucky.”

“Uh, for starters, she’s a serial killer.”

“That’s a bit of a harsh assessment, considering the circumstances. And do I really need to remind you that the same could be said about the two of us? That a lot of people still say that about us?”

Bucky sighs, because he knows she’s right, but this is different—you are different. “It’s not the same,” he grumbles, but he’s not entirely sure it isn’t, and that’s what’s really bothering him.

“Look,” Nat says, taking a step toward Bucky, “I need to try, ok? I know what she’s going through because I went through it, except she’s completely alone out there with nothing and no one. You and I… we had people behind us, helping us.”

“And what if she says no?” Bucky asks. “Are you just gonna let her go on doing what she’s doing? She’s killed… how many is it now?”

Natasha mutters something under her breath and Bucky looks at her expectantly. “What was that, Tasha?”

“25 people in the last 6 months,” she states, her mouth set in a hard line.

“Exactly,” he says.

“I would like to point out that they were all very bad people. So...”

“Tasha,” he says, and he puts his hand up to silence her. “I can’t help you on this. I’m sorry. I want to, but I can’t.”

Natasha huffs out a laugh. “You know what, Barnes? You’re real high and mighty for a guy who–”

Natasha stops herself when she sees the ice-cold look in Bucky’s eyes. “Go on. For a guy who what?”

“Nothing,” she says. “I’m sorry. I’ll go on my own.”

“Well, good luck to you. Hope you don’t get your throat slit.”

Bucky stomps off and Natasha is left wondering if she’s about to make a huge mistake. She knows you’re volatile, that a part of you must resent her, but she needs to make it right. At the very least, she needs to try.

Natasha grabs her tablet and scrolls through the latest intel on your whereabouts. She’s just missed you in New York, but she thinks she’s got a jump on your next target: some coke dealer down in Miami with a predilection for underage girls. Just a brief glance at this guy’s file is enough to make Natasha’s blood run cold. She knows why you do what you do. If she’s honest, it doesn’t bother her one bit that you’re doing it. It’s the thought of you out there on your own, filled with hate and anger and thirsty for bloody vengeance, that frightens her. Because maybe one day—left to your own devices, lost in the chaos of your troubled mind—getting the Bad Guys won’t be enough for you. Maybe you’ll decide that some of the Good Guys aren’t so good after all. Maybe you’ll even be right.

She contemplates being honest with Steve and telling him where she’s headed but decides against it. Steve isn’t on board with her plan. Natasha doesn’t fault him for it—he doesn’t understand, he couldn’t. Bucky, though... that’s a disappointment, and it surprises her. If anyone knows what it feels like to spend your life as someone else’s weapon, it’s Bucky Barnes.

Natasha waits until nightfall to “borrow” the Quinjet, and she finds Bucky waiting for her when she gets to the hangar.

“I’m coming with you,” he says, “but only as back-up. She’s dangerous, Natasha.”

“Maybe so,” Natasha replies, “but only because she’s afraid.”

*****

You knew that she’d be coming for you sooner or later. Might as well get it over with. Your little stilt cabin on the outskirts of the Everglades isn’t quite set up for company but at least it’s tucked away and difficult to access. You’re surprised she brought him, though—that was a mistake. You and she could have a nice long conversation, but you have nothing to say to the Soldat.

You climb up the tree to your lookout platform and hoist your sniper rifle onto your shoulder, following their slow but steady progress through the knee-deep swamp water, trying to line up a decent shot as they weave in between the bald cypress trees. When you see your chance, you take it, and you put one about an inch from where the Soldat’s metal arm meets the flesh of his shoulder. It ricochets off, as intended, and he jumps forward to shield Natasha. You hear her laugh through your earpiece.

“Relax, Barnes. It was a warning shot. If she wanted to hit you, she would have.”

“She did hit me,” he snaps.

You smile as you descend from the tree to meet them.

“Well well well,” you say. “If it isn’t the Murder Twins. To what do I owe this unwanted visit?”

“You know why I’m here,” Natasha says.

“Yes,” you reply, “but why is he here?”

The man she calls Barnes looks at you with disdain and you give it right back to him. You can tell that shot in the arm really pissed him off and it pleases you to no end.

“He’s just watching my back,” she says. “That’s what happens when you’re on a team.”

“Right, The Avengers. How adorable.”

“Listen,” Natasha begins, but you stop her.

“Let me save you the trouble of whatever little speech you have prepared. I’m not coming with you. I’m not going to Widow rehab and joining your ragtag group of misfits. And I’m not going to stop doing my work just because you come here and bat your eyes and smile pretty at me.”

“Your work?” spits the Soldat. “Is that what you’re calling it?”

“Bucky, don’t-”

“Let him talk, Romanoff,” you say. “He obviously has some… opinions. Now that he’s got the mask off, he can finally speak for himself.” You take a step towards him, your rifle in hand but not pointed at him. “So speak, Soldat.”

He looks flustered and not a little bit angry. You can tell he doesn’t like to be called by that name. “Killing people isn’t work,” he says.

You huff out a laugh. “And what is it that the two of you do, exactly? Run a coffee shop?”

“We are not the same,” he says, and you smile because you know that he doesn’t actually believe that—how could he after everything he’s done?

“I think we are exactly the same, Soldat, with one huge exception: you’re still letting other people tell you what to do, and I’m done with all that.”

“This is pointless,” he says.

“Now that is something you and I actually agree on.” You turn to Natasha. “You should go while you still can. I have work to do.”

But Natasha just won’t let it go. “I should never have left you alone,” she says. “This is my fault. Let me fix it.”

“I don’t need to be fixed,” you snap, and you raise your rifle and point it directly at her head. “Leave, Natasha. And take your little pet with you.”

The Soldat grabs her arm gently. “Let’s go, Tasha. She’s hopeless.”

You feel a pang of something then—some indescribable form of melancholy. You try to keep it off your face but you can tell from the look in his eyes that he sees it. A minute tremble of your lip, the quick double blink—it gives you away, and now you’re really pissed off.

“Leave. Now,” you yell, and it pierces through the sweltering darkness. “I’ll make you sorry if you don’t.”

You watch Natasha and the bionic man make their way out of the swamp. You don’t turn your back on them, not that you think they’ll try to take you by force. That would be unwise and Natasha knows it. Once you’re satisfied that they’re gone, you return to the cabin. The bloodied man in the linen suit lays strapped to the bed where you left him, squirming and shouting around the gag in his mouth.

You have to stop yourself from making this a messy affair, but the anger you feel—at her, at him, at everything—is making it difficult to temper your darker urges. You’re not one for torture, even though this man absolutely deserves it for the horrible things he’s done. You almost give in, but you remind yourself that this is a job—it is work, despite what the Soldat may think—and you have to remain professional.

You grab the man’s file off the desk and pull a chair up next to the bed. “So, Mr. Garcia, where were we?”

CHAPTER TWO >>>

[inkykeiji]

you’re all that i need, underneath the tree

characters: dabi, shigaraki tomura

genre: tooth-rotting fluff with a sprinkle of angst

notes: aaah okay! set in the break my bones but act as my spine universe, between part one and part two but after dabi’s apology!! poor dabi gets dragged out with the happy couple to go hunting for the perfect christmas tree :) | title credit: underneath the tree by kelly clarkson

warnings: pining, daddy kink (without the kinkiness), generally toxic relationships

words: 3.3k

synopsis:

And so what if you’re more excited than Tomura is about his agreeing to come, even though it was Tomura who asked for his assistance; so what if it makes his chest swell with that irritatingly tingling sensation, the one that seeps into his veins and shoots through the rest of his body, the one that makes him feel like he’s buzzing. What’s it matter, anyway?

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

    ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅           ❅     

Snow crunches under his heavy boots as he trudges along behind you, staring at the back of your head with a glare so vicious, so ferocious it could melt platinum.

Dabi hates Christmas.

Smoke from a large bonfire, lined by families—good looking couples with tiny carbon copies of themselves, gloved hands tenderly cupping hot chocolate as the children chatter animatedly, little squeals of laughter overlapping the indistinct noise—blows into his face and he chokes on it a bit, the tiny glowing embers it carries with it through the air burning his eyes.

Dabi hates Christmas.

He’s only coming because Tomura’s his fucking boss, he had told you curtly when you swiveled around in the front seat of the Maybach to express your excitement to him, forcing his eyes to stay on the white leather beneath him, unable to bear the way he’s sure your face is falling at his sharp words. He hates Christmas.

But Tomura had snorted a little to himself the moment the words left Dabi’s lips, because God, what a fucking lie. He doesn’t voice the thought, but he doesn’t need to—it’s clear in his ruby eyes as they meet sapphire through the rearview mirror, an amused little smirk present on his scarred lips as he raises an eyebrow in mocking question.

Yeah. Alright, fine. He’s a fucking liar, so what? Yeah, alright, so maybe he’s only here because of you, because he knows that if he had refused, the entire trip would’ve been ruined, and he couldn’t have that on his conscious, couldn’t handle that on his conscious.

It’s his turn to snort at himself, rolling his eyes. What a pathetic excuse for a man. It’s a real funny joke, though; a man who can kill indiscriminately, who can kill delightfully, without batting a fucking eye as bits of skull and brain splatter on the toe of his boot, can’t handle the thought of even one more of your salty tears staining his soul.  

And so what if you’re more excited than Tomura is about his agreeing to come, even though it was Tomura who asked for his assistance; so what if it makes his chest swell with that irritatingly tingling sensation, the one that seeps into his veins and shoots through the rest of his body, the one that makes him feel like he’s buzzing. What’s it matter, anyway?

The answer, as far as he’s concerned, is simple.

It doesn’t. It shouldn’t. It never will.

      ❅           ❅           ❅

This place is way too extravagant for a Christmas Tree farm, Dabi mutters to himself as he trails behind you, seething azure darting around the venue with a deep scowl, taking note of the large stone building that doubles as a gift shop and a café—all baked goods made on the premises and handcrafted with love, of course—with crystal windows that gleam in the weak afternoon sunlight and gentle curls of smoke escaping its chimney. Scattered bonfires blaze among the grounds, each with a group of Christmas tree hunters arranged in a loose circle around it, keeping warm and roasting marshmallows. The sticky sweet scent drifts through the air, Dabi wrinkling his nose as it hits him. That soft clop-clop of horseshoes against matted snow mingles with the sound of classic Christmas music as white and brown horses pull intricate wooden sleighs around the area.

It all makes him fucking sick. God, Dabi hates Christmas.  

“Oh my gosh!” you’re gushing as you cling to Tomura. “Daddy, it’s so pretty,”

The two of you are attracting the gazes of everyone in the immediate vicinity, Dabi hunching in further on himself, trying to bury his face in the neck of his jacket. Really, he should be used to this by now. The pair of you are always a sight to be seen, with you in your little dresses—crushed black velvet this time, with a high neckline and a dainty satin ribbon tied around your ribs in a tiny, neat bow—and black trench coat, hem ending just above your knees; and Tomura in his vibrant red coat, teasingly obscuring his fitted black trousers—tailored specifically for him, of course—and black cashmere turtleneck.

It makes the two of you look like you just stepped out of the Christmas edition of a fucking high fashion catalogue. It makes Dabi feel ratty and underdressed—makes everyone around you feel ratty and underdressed, honestly—in his faded black jeans and big combat boots.

You’ve wandered off a little further ahead now, eyes glittering and bright as they soak everything in, hands clasped adoringly against your chest.

“Daddy!” you gasp suddenly, turning back to look at Tomura, eyes wide and sparkling, catching in the soft yellow glow of nearby Christmas lights. “They’re giving out hot chocolate!”

“Yes, they are, princess,” Tomura smiles, eyes softening as he gazes at you, now halted a few feet ahead of him, his hands outfitted in leather gloves clasped loosely behind his back as he strolls.

“Can I go get some?” you bounce a little on the balls of your feet as he meets you.

“Of course you can, baby,”

“Thanks! I—Do you want some, too?”

“Sure,” Tomura shrugs amicably. “Go wait in line, Daddy will be there in a moment,”

Your smile falls a little—just a hint, really, the corners of your lips twitching, a miniscule action Dabi hates that he notices—as your eyes flit between your Daddy and him, blinking twice, brow wrinkling in the cutest way. Dabi grits his teeth, hands balling into fists as he fights the itch, the urge, to reach out and smooth your skin out again. Pathetic. He’s fucking pathetic.

“Um, o-okay,”

Tomura nods encouragingly, then quirks his head towards the ever-growing lineup, as if to say get going! You obey immediately, scampering off with a cute little affirmative yelp. Dabi instantly moves to follow you, is so accustomed to having you glued to his side that watching skip off on your own like that evokes a thick panic in his chest, rising way too quickly in his throat, his mouth opening to call your name, to scold you for running off as he’s done so many times before.

“Wait,” Tomura mutters, a hand curling tightly around Dabi’s bicep, his voice low, dangerous. Brow furrowing, Dabi looks from the hand wrapped around him, to the face of its owner, and back to you again.

“Look at me,” Tomura snaps, Dabi’s tongue running along the front of his teeth as he sucks on them, keeping the insults brewing in his mouth from escaping. Scarlet eyes search his face, slowly, calmly, but every second you’re away from him has Dabi’s heart pounding harder and harder, powerless to stop his eyes from worriedly glancing your way again, only brought back to his boss’ face by a harsh squeeze around his bicep.

Tomura speaks at an unhurried pace, voice even and controlled, annunciating each word with purpose in an effort to beat them into Dabi’s scattered brain.

“Do not upset her today, or I swear to God, I’ll break your fucking nose. She’s been looking forward to this for weeks—I had to pull teeth to get this day off,”

And Dabi hates that, even in the middle of a humiliating, demeaning scolding from his boss, he can’t keep his eyes from darting towards you again, scanning the line you’re currently squished in for any potential threats, instinctual and automatic at this point, a habit. Tomura pulls on his arm a little, directing Dabi’s stare back to him again.

And he knows, goddamn it, he knows how excited you’ve been for this, how important this stupid little Christmas tree hunt is to you, because it’s all you’ve been able to babble about for fucking days now.

“Take whatever the hell you need to, to be fucking nice, you hear me?”

But he nods anyway, carves false derision into his face as his eyebrows furrow and his lips tug down, ripping his arm from Tomura’s grasp. “Yeah. Got it.”

His tone is clipped, and he doesn’t miss the way Tomura’s jaw clenches once with the grinding of his molars, smirking a little as his head tilts, crimson eyes regarding Dabi in a way that makes him feel like shivering, in a way that makes him feel exposed, naked, unprotected.

“You better.”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

“Here, Dabi!”

A jolt runs down his spine at the sound of your voice saying his name, and he turns towards you, brow knitting slightly as he’s met with a paper cup, held out to him between your two mitten-clad hands, your own drink secured precariously between your ribs and the crook of your elbow.

“What’s this?”

And he fucking hates the way his voice trembles, the way that stupid warmth starts blooming in his chest again, the way it does any time you do something small for him, any time you physically prove that you were thinking of him, too. Clearing his throat, he stares at the beverage, pointedly avoiding your eyes.

“I got you one, too,” you explain simply, pushing the streaming drink at him a little more, rich notes of chocolate and cream wafting over him, urging him to retrieve it from your tiny hands. “Take it,”

He has half a mind to lie, to tell you that he hates chocolate even though his mouth is watering, even though he knows you know he loves it, to knock the cup from your hands and watch as the hot liquid eats through the snow like a disease, melting it into nothing.

“Thanks,” he grumbles instead, looking away as he grabs it from your outstretched hands.

Tomura returns a moment later, a large red saw in his clutch. “All ready to go Christmas tree hunting, princess?”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Dabi will always be amazed by your ability to make everyone around you fall absolutely, irrevocably, head over heels in love with you in mere moments, cobalt eyes trained on the old man holding the horses’ reins—a wide, sincere smile stretched across his face, hazel eyes positively gleaming as they gaze down at you from his spot atop the sleigh—asking you if you’d like to feed the animals, your knuckles gently caressing their velvety noses.

Maybe later, Tomura promises you when you glance back at him, whispering “Can I, Daddy?”, reminding you that there’s only a few hours of sunlight left, and if you’re on a mission to find the perfect Christmas tree, you best start soon.  

Sat in between Dabi and yourself in the tiny oak sleigh, Tomura pulls a tattered, folded piece of paper from his pocket, reciting your criteria for The Perfect Christmas Tree.

The Perfect Christmas Tree, the paper states, must encompass the four elements listed below:

It has to be the perfect mixture of forest green with those pretty blue undertones—nothing too blue or powdery!

It has to smell good but not too strong—if it’s too strong, it makes you nauseous

It has to be full—you know, not one of those Charlie Brown trees that are all branches and no body, or one of those thin tall trees—but not too bushy! Not so fat that the needles obscure the lights and ornaments

It has to be perfectly symmetrical and triangular, not lopsided or wonky

Dabi plays stupid, acts as if he doesn’t have that whole list memorized back to front, acts as if he couldn’t regurgitate it in his sleep, like he didn’t sit down with you at the breakfast bar and help you make it, even though it’s in his handwriting.

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Every tree is beginning to look the same to him. The three of you have been wandering through these fields for just over an hour and a half now, and Dabi’s positive he’s about to lose all ten of his toes to frostbite.

“We are not leaving until we find the perfect tree, damn it!” Tomura spits, ruby eyes practically glowing as they fly to Dabi’s face.

“Right, right,” Dabi grumbles to himself, nodding his head a little and tucking his gloved hands under his armpits in an attempt to at least save his fingers.

But you do eventually find it, after Dabi complains about dying from hypothermia for the third time; a massive blue spruce that isn’t too blue, that smells good but not too strong, that is full but not bushy, and that tapers off into a perfect triangle—wide at the bottom and coming to a point at the top, perfectly symmetrical.

Tomura glances over his shoulder at you after he’s finished brushing off all of the snow from the tree’s branches, so you can examine it fully. “Well? Is this the one, baby?”

And the way your eyes absolutely dazzle as you gaze at it, a large, brilliant smile splitting your face as the most precious giggles hitch in your throat, head nodding in cute little motions—well, God, that makes it all worth it. In that moment, Dabi’s sure he’d endure this cold a thousand times over, would lose all of his fingers and all of his toes, just to experience that look of pure, innocent happiness on your face once again.

“Yes, Daddy! It’s perfect,”

      ❅           ❅           ❅

Even baled, this tree is a giant pain in the ass to get up to the penthouse. It takes the men a solid half hour to figure out a way to fit the tree into the elevator, gleaming droplets of sweat dripping down their faces, tufts of hair clinging to their cheeks.

“Is it still—oh, for fuck’s sake—the perfect tree?” Dabi hisses out as the three of you press yourselves against the monstrous tree, just barely stuffing yourselves into the elevator, an escaped branch digging into his cheek.

“Yes,” you snicker.

“Yes,” Tomura echoes. “Stop being a brat, Dabi,”

“I—Me? Me!” Dabi sputters, at a loss for words. Him, a brat? After everything he just did for you, Tomura’s perfect little princess?

“Yes, you,” you giggle, knocking your shoulder playfully against his bicep. Any rebuttal gets lodged in his throat as he gazes down at you, sapphire eyes softening as they meet yours, shining with mirth, unable to tame the smile tugging at your lips.

He hasn’t seen you this happy in a long time. An ache takes root at the very core of his body, agony radiating throughout his limbs as he’s hit with the dim realization that Tomura’s increasing absence affects you a lot more than he originally thought—that you miss him more than you let on—and the ache in his chest pulses, though he is unable to discern whether it pulses for you, or for him.

It takes nearly another thirty minutes to get the tree safely secured in its stand before slowly cutting through the netted baling and removing it, allowing the tree’s branches to fan out.

Isaac is immediately curious, sitting back on his hind legs and gnawing on one of the branches for a moment before leaping into the tree, lithe body curving through the boughs as he burrows his way to the trunk in the center, digging his little claws into it as you cry out his name in alarm.

“Here, I’ll get him,” Dabi offers, still kneeling on the floor from fastening the screws on the stand.

A little chuckle falls from his lips as he reaches between the branches, gathering the kitten in one hand.

“What do you think you’re doin’ in there, little guy,” he asks as he pulls Isaac from the tree, little paws swiping at the needles, trying to catch them as Dabi drags him out.

“Silly kitty,” you scold as Dabi places him gently on the hardwood. “You aren’t an ornament!”

And Dabi can’t help the genuine laugh that gets caught in his chest, gazing up at you with a fond shake of his head. “He’s gonna be real trouble around this thing, that’s for sure,”

Tomura returns then with three large boxes full of expensive, glittering ornaments in his arms, grumbling about how he had to dig through one of the spare closets to find them and dropping them unceremoniously by the tree, the items delicately clinking together.

Exhaustion weighs heavy on his chest, beginning to restrict his breathing, and Dabi takes this as his cue to depart, because truthfully, the last thing he wants right now is to have to witness you being all mushy and domestic with Tomura. Wordlessly, he heads towards the front door, already craving the soft embrace of his lush bed, eager for the bliss unconsciousness undoubtedly brings with it.

“Dabi?”

Your voice is so small, so fragile, sounds almost hurt, his hand freezing on the handle, shoulders tensing.

“You’re not staying?”

He stares directly ahead, gaze searing into the door as his body goes rigid. Please, he wants to beg, don’t start, not now, not when he knows he won’t be able to resist you.

But his name falls from your lips again, the sound so beautiful, so heartbreaking, and it pulls a deep sigh from his chest. He has no control, not an ounce of authority as his body instinctually turns towards you, the voracious need to comfort you outweighing the full, throbbing pang it inspires.

And, Christ, you look so fucking cute in your little opaque tights with fluffy, woolen socks pulled over them, clinging to your calves with cute little reindeer sown into them, toes pointed inward and overlapping just a little as you stare at him with the sweetest pout.

“Wait,” Tomura smirks, chucking a little. “You were going to leave me alone with this one, when she’s all hopped up on Christmas joy like this?”

Dabi stares at his boss, blinking rapidly, lips parting in anticipation of the words that never come.

“There’s no way I could handle her by myself today,” Tomura continues after a beat, crimson eyes shining in the warm light. “She’s got enough Christmas spirit for all three of us, and then some,”

“Daddy!” the word escapes your lips in a playful little squeal, giggles bubbling up in your throat as Tomura wraps an arm around you, pulling you against his side and nuzzling his nose against your neck. “We could really use your help,” you tell him softly, almost gently, still leaving that option for him to escape, should he choose to do so.

His heart’s thudding against his ribs as he clears his throat, tongue darting out to lick his lips, words leaving his mouth sluggishly, yet at an uneven pace, voice quivering ever so slightly.

“I-I guess I could…Stay, to help you guys decorate the tree—for a little. I mean, it is a fucking monster,”

“Ah, yay!” you beam at him, clapping your hands excitedly. “Daddy, now that Dabi’s staying, can we make cookies?”

“Sweets before dinner, princess?”

“Pretty please?” you whimper, gazing up at him with the very definition of puppy-dog eyes. “I promise I’ll eat all my veggies, even the funky looking ones—” Tomura snorts, interrupting you, but you barrel on. “—I will, I swear!”

And, really, Tomura’s powerless to resist you, to deny you, left absolutely defenceless when you’re batting your eyelashes up at him like that, voice syrupy and sweet as little fingers cling to his shirtsleeve. Dabi doesn’t blame him—your pout should be registered as a lethal weapon.

Tomura goes to call for his personal chef, but you cut him off, wrinkling your nose and shaking your head.

“No, not the fancy ones,” you say as if it’s obvious. “I wanna make the store-bought ones! Y’know, the ones in the tube—”

“The ones that you begged our personal grocery shopper to smuggle in for you?” Tomura raises an eyebrow, and you finally have the decency to look sheepish, nodding your head. “Those ones?”

“Yes! Yes, please, those ones,” you respond eagerly, waiting for that final nod from Tomura before scampering off towards the kitchen, Tomura’s voice calling after you as he warns you to be careful with the scissors!

Yeah, alright, Dabi thinks as the smell of cheap sugar cookies washes over him, nimble fingers hanging another crystal bulb on the tree while you scold Tomura for placing too many ornaments of the same colour in one spot, an involuntary grin spreading across his cheeks as that inexplicable warmth blossoms in his chest again. So maybe Christmas isn’t that bad after all.

[hazelcephalopod]

The Eye of the World Ch 8-11

Disclaimer: this is my first read thru but I’ve watched the first 4 episodes of the show and been spoiled on some things. So… I’m going to lean into that. Enjoy figuring out what I know and what I think in know and what I don’t. Also s/x I add commentary when I edit.

Spoilers for the first book under the cut.

Previews:

Ch 9, “the real beginning”.

ch 10, Have I been spelling Moiraine wrong? Don’t worry about it. It’s fine now.

Immediate impression: This was a tense section! Really gets across that yes they need to go and go quickly and they take it very seriously. Aka “yes we have to run. No, we are not stopping.”

Ch 8

Dude I know you’re going thru it. But he raised you for your entire however many years of life. He’s your dad.

Damn Rand does not like magic. Honestly… I’m interpreting it it as an even greater foreboding than the average person in his case

Jordan: did you notice this thing? Are you sure? Just to be clear you got that right?

… and I’m not even mad honestly I’m still having fun with it. Like, it’s kinda endearing

Oh so Ravens are literally kinda on the side of evil here. Ok. (Or at least even Moiraine thinks so)

Also. Moraine just being the best. She does want to help!

Yup. Doesn’t matter if you walk in the Light. Or not. That tracks. (Certainly helps to not walk directly into the darkness, I imagine.)

Cool. Magic items!

Oh shit. Eyeless! I mean I knew but now I know. And even Lan is afraid of them.

Oof. ‘Well I healed you dad now… uh you’re going to have to leave the only home you’ve ever known and never planned on leaving forever’

Ah yes that Two River stubbornness. Argue and deny until there’s no room left to do so at all

Lol. ‘Yea uh come to the city of the magic women you and everyone else don’t really trust’

Also Moraine is for sure being a bit sly here.

Really? Well you are young

“He had to trust the Aes Sedai” -eotw (Rand). Mmm bad vibes

Yes I’m sure she doesn’t notice any of those looks Mayor

Yes! Get more confirmation.

I trust Moraine. That does not meant Rand should

Yup. Sleep. Glad we finally got there

Yes! What did I say? Hmm? We got there too! He’s your dad!

Ch 9

What? Fast forward? Dream? My moneys on dream

Oh no, this is a nightmare

I’d make a pithy comment about Shai’tan but I know enough of the lore of this world. Like… yup like the real world. Hint hint.

Oh… uh a better dream?

Nope. Not that much better after all!

Ok so… “He could not remember the face, except as terror.” Rand’s dream, I have thoughts. I’ll place them here and elsewhere. I’m the show… I don’t hate the design of scary dream guy but… like I don’t think I’d have shown his face at all? Instead focus on the dreamers face in horror and fear whenever anyone looks at it, lean into the inability of the human mind to look upon it. That’s it. Could be worse but there’s my 2 cents.

And the dream shifts again.

Trap. It’s trying to keep him. So, trap

Ok maybe not the trap I thought but still a trap. Destiny is a cage

Oh no I was right the first time. Trap trap. Always trust your instincts!

Destiny is still a cage tho

And he’s actually awake. No not inception jokes. Eff that

Night falls. Time to go!

“Apparently he had slept with the sword hilt jabbing him in the ribs.” Oww. I know it’s the blunt end but still (&…)

Food!

He actually gets to talk to his dad!? Yes! I’m so happy for them!

“We’re luckier than some…” -Rand to Tam about the farm. And it’s genuinely optimistic too. Which is nice

Right? Remember exact words? No. Absolutely not

Tam always with the good advice honestly. Dude be careful around everyone tho

Yes! Tam also nails that one. Be careful.

Maybe just a friend. Ya know. That’s all some people want. A friend, with a sword.

Oh no. Mat…

But yay May?! At least he’s here. Where’s Perrin?

Ah. Scared people trouble.

Mayor Bran continues to be the best

‘Al’ does mean either ‘son of’ then!

If you wanted the deep lore look no further. (I do want the deep lore!)

“This was the real beginning…” it’s chapter nine I remind you

Ch 10

Have I been spelling Moiraine wrong? Don’t worry about it. It’s fine now.

I’m told it’s the real beginning. Once again.

Btw. Im really curious to see how Egwene and Nynaeve get in on this trip. I’m guessing to go after them and bring them back

Perrin!

Ohhh! I’m wrong -on one account. Of course Egwene knows. She listens in! I’m proud of her

Thoms coming too! Oh yesss. I did like him, despite his flaws

And I’m continuing to like him by the minute

Oh right Bela!

“We will look after each other.” -Egwene. It’s what people need to do

Just a militia

Oh scary bird thing.

No immediate explanation on whatever a Draghkar is? That’s honestly one of the scarier things that has happened! Like… it’s that bad and things are that dangerous? No three page explaination of it’s entire history (for the record I am a bit disappointed. I like the lore)

Ch 11

Egwene not important?!

Also he seems nearly as worried about Bela (a horse) as Egwene lol

Food! Also a village. No not to stop at!

Idk seems like Tar Valon is a long way. Probably gonna have to rest somewhere at some point

Creepy fog becomes friendly mist!

Oh Taren Ferry is like a whole town here! Cool

Oh that ferry is going tonight

Fear and money go a long way

Oh lol. He has to get everyone up. Idk if everyone is people or horses but all the same.

Also all the horrifying screams throughout the chapter and barking dogs.

[tyramir]

Wheel of Time

Starting a new post for @greenjudy since the previous was getting a little long. This is gonna have Wheel of Time shit in it, with spoilers for both the book and the TV series.

Okay, so, Mat in the books is a different beast from Mat in the show. I love them both, and they are both my favourite in either piece of the media presenting, but for different reasons.

Mat in the books is the classic trickster. He messes with people just to have a laugh. People always know he’s up to mischief from the look on his face, a fact which is brought up *all the time.* That isn’t to say he’s a prankster all the time. He isn’t. But he’s been known to indulge in the odd bit of trickery or light thievery (usually restricted to food or drink -- pies left on windowsills are never safe with Mat around).

Mat’s lazy, and irresponsible, and would rather nap, or gamble, or carouse all night long than do anything resembling work, and he’d be the first one to tell you that. But if there’s a building on fire, he’s also the first guy in the door to see if anyone needs help. Mat hates duty, but he’s frequently tied to it. He also hates being a countryman. Out of all the Two Rivers kids, he’s the one who least wants to go back in the books. He makes the odd reference to wanting to see his sisters again, or wants to know if his dad’s okay, but that’s about as far as it goes.

His family life is not broken in the books. His father, Abel Cauthon, is an honest horse trader, and not a cheat (similarly, his mother is not a drunk). The Two Rivers is kind of envisioned as this idealized farming community separate from the rest of the world. They’re renowned for producing the best tabac (tabacco) in the continent, and it’s highly coveted, but beyond that and their farming and their wool gathering, they’re not really known for anything aside from being the most stubborn folk in the world. No one pays attention to the Two Rivers, not even the throne of Andor (the Two Rivers hasn’t seen a tax collector in years, as it’s too far from the crown to make the effort worthwhile, a sign of the weakening strength of the various aristocracies in the world, but that’s another discussion). 

In the show, Mat is given a REASON to try to shirk his destiny. He needs to get home to look after his sisters, given his shitty family life. It makes him a lot more sympathetic, but Book Mat just wants to be in control of his own life, and doesn’t want to answer the call (even if he always will). 

Now, as for ta’veren. Ta’veren are individuals who shape the Pattern around them. The Pattern is, well... okay. So, there’s this big metaphorical Wheel (of Time, presumably) that is spinning out threads that form the Pattern (which is reality itself). Ta’veren subconsciously pull threads of the Pattern around them, subtly shifting reality in their favour, to steer reality into a new direction. Someone once put it (loosely) this way: Everyone has limited free will. A man has a chose between having two different dishes for supper, he can choose one or the other. He wants to give up his job as a butcher, and pursue a job as a blacksmith, sure. But if a man is a peasant, he can’t one day decide to be a king and expect it to happen, no matter the hard work.

But a ta’veren can make that kind of decision. Events ripple and shape themselves to allow a level of chance that others do not have. People tend to be more accommodating to ta’veren, even if they KNOW they are ta’veren and try to resist it. Reality begins to behave in bizarre ways around ta’veren, as well. A man might trip and fall on a soft patch of grass and break their neck, two flocks of birds will crash into one another, leaving every single one dead. But there’s always balance. For every stillbirth that a ta’veren might cause, a woman previously thought barren will become pregnant. For every freak accident, someone might find a hidden trove of gold coins buried in their yard, or a sudden spree of weddings may occur out of the blue. There’s always good to balance out the bad, because that’s what the Wheel is about. Balance. It’s the force that is caught between the Creator (the Light), and the Dark One. 

In the books, only Rand, Mat, and Perrin are ta’veren. But Nynaeve and Egwene both pull off.... well, some serious fucking exploits during the course of the series. And the fact that they’re just kind of “not” ta’veren while the boys are always felt.... kind of weird. And while WoT is very progressive (for its time, maybe even still), the exlusion of Nynaeve and Egwene from that status always felt a little sexist. 

[smarchit]

Look Around, Look around pt 2

Summary: You escaped an abusive marriage, pregnant with your husband’s child. He sends a bounty hunter after you to bring you back. Everything changes. Din Djarin/pregnant!reader, no use of y/n

Word count: 2.7k

Warnings: Pregnancy/related topics, implied/referenced rape, mentions of abuse

Notes: I’m so happy you all enjoyed this so far! I still have a taglist for this, please let me know if you want added!

It had been three and a half weeks since the Mandalorian dropped you off on the little planet called Sorgan.

You had been immediately taken into the fold by the villagers and by the children that ran and played through the ankle deep waters of the farms.

Omera, a friend of both Cara and the Mandalorian, took you into her home. She had provided some old dresses that she wore when she was pregnant with her daughter, Winta.

"They're a bit too big on you now," she said almost apologetically, "Give it time. You'll be safe here."

On the twenty-third day in the village, you woke with the sun and with the squawking of birds in the surrounding trees. The air was humid already and a light mist hung low on the ground in your small room.

You scrubbed yourself clean in the small basin and inspected yourself in the grimy mirror. In the past few weeks, you had gained enough weight that now you could tell you were carrying a child. Your stomach had grown with life, and while you hated the way your skin stretched, Omera was there to offer kind words of encouragement.

Right where you should be for this time, Omera had said with a fond smile a few nights ago as she watched you help with dinner. You're even getting a glow. I bet you're having a girl.

You ran a gentle hand over your rounded belly and smiled a bit in spite of the slight tingle of fear that ran in currents under your skin. It had been a challenge, getting yourself comfortable enough to let these kind people into your heart. They had opened theirs to you with no second thoughts and you often teared up at their simple gestures of kindness.

You pulled the simple shift dress over your head and tied the rope belt so it rested above the soft curve of your belly. Your morning sickness had subsided quite a bit as well, something that Omera took great pride in, as she had made you drink a simple grass tea that she said helped her.

There was a gentle knock at your bedroom door and it opened a bit to allow large brown eyes to peak through the crack.

Winta smiled at you when you greeted her and nudged the door open with her shoulder. She carried a small woven reed tray, laden with soup, bread, and a small cup of tea.

"Mommy made breakfast before she went out," she said softly.

"Thank you," you said softly, putting a hand on the top of her head. 

The child beamed up at you and then bounded off to play. You heard the front door shut gently as she started her day.

Once you finished your breakfast, you swept your room and tidied the dishes in the basin. You didn't mind helping Omera, though she always insisted you didn't have to. It kept you occupied.

After you finished your self-imposed chores, you tied your hair back in a simple braid and took a large brown basket in one hand and a shearing knife in the other. You headed out to the flat marsh farm and sat down at one closest to Omera's house.

You spotted Cara and waved as you set up your small work area. She stood against a fence post, legs crossed over one another, her blaster held loosely in her arms. She nodded in your direction and gave a gentle wave.

Omera was currently knee-deep in murky water, her skirt tied off around her thighs as she tended to the krill.

You liked it here. The warm weather agreed with you. It reminded you of the planet you grew up on. 

The children were working alongside their parents, or working as well as children could anyways. They took turns flinging mud and rocks at one another between their parents' scoldings.

You smiled and rubbed a hand across your belly. "How 'bout it, little one?" you asked, turning your head down to talk to your growing stomach, "Think we could live here?"

A few hours passed like this, the humidity finally dying off mid morning. A gentle breeze now lifted the short hairs that framed your face and cooled the sweat under your arms as you worked the reeds in your lap into mats and the humble beginnings of baskets. 

It hadn't taken you long to learn how to weave, a few days of practice and you were getting there. The older ladies in the village were grateful for the help and you enjoyed the busy work. It blistered your fingers though. They would crack and bleed at night and often keep you up until early morning. But you never felt so rested.

Shortly after the noon break, a glint above the trees on the horizon caught everyone's attention. Excited chatter soon displaced the otherwise relatively quiet workday as the vessel grew nearer.

Your heart pounded in your throat as the ship came into view. The Mandalorian had returned, and with it, so did your anxiety. Did he come to finally take you back home? Give you a few days of freedom and then take it away from you? You didn't think that Mandalorians were so cruel as to string their victims along and torture them like this.

Your stomach did flip flops as you shakily got to your feet. Resigning yourself to what was yet to come, you cleaned your hands off on your dress and stood with your head down and hands clasped, as if ashamed.

"Come on!" Winta called to you, a huge grin spread across her face, lit up with joy and wide enough to expose missing baby teeth. "He's here! Mando's back!"

Everyone seemed so excited, so why were you filled with dread? 

Your thoughts turned to the way he shifted when you told him that you were pregnant. How his shoulders squared and his back stiffened. Were his people that disgusted by the mere act of childbearing? Was it vulgar to them? He wasn't disgusted by the thought of children, you figured, as he seemed to care for his own adopted little one. But then what caused him to bring you here?

"Hey," Cara murmured, startling you from your thoughts. "Everything alright in there?" 

You nodded and smiled, clearing away the last of your obtrusive thoughts. If these people trusted him, could he be that bad? You trusted the farmers, so you supposed by association, you trusted him, however hesitantly.

"I can't read you," she said with a small laugh, "You're harder to read than he is even with the bucket on his head."

You gave a mirthless laugh and shook your head as you drew your arms around yourself. A soft breeze drifted through the clearing and you shivered in spite of yourself.

"You don't have to worry about him," she continued, adjusting her weight to the other foot. "He's not going to take you back. Not now, not when you have that little one. That's not who he is."

You looked up at her, teary eyed. After all this time, could it really be so simple as getting the right bounty hunter on your trail? One full of sympathy and compassion for children? 

"I mean it. He may seem like he's uncaring, but he's a softy under that armor," Cara soothed. "Trust me. I've seen him shed tears over that kid of his."

"I never cried," came a familiar voice from behind you. 

Cara turned and laughed as he walked over to us. "You're late."

"By a week. I got held up," he said softly. He then turned his attention to you. You couldn't see, but you knew he was giving you a once over, assessing how you looked. It made you feel small and vulnerable, but there was no negativity attached to it like there had been when your husband used to do it when he scrutinized your appearance.

"You look good," he said softly, patting your arm slightly. He hesitated for a moment and then let his arm drop to his hip. "Sorgan looks good on you."

You smiled a bit and cast your eyes down to the ground. You picked at a blister on your thumb and watched a drop of blood well up to the surface. You squeezed it, letting the dull ache distract you from the anxiety clawing away at your insides. Your stomach lurched as he reached out to touch you again and you took a step back instinctively.

He slowed his movement and instead of going for your face like you assumed he was going to, he placed a heavy, solid hand on your shoulder.

"You look healthier too," he said quietly. He kept his hand there until you shifted uncomfortably.

"Is that what he wanted?" you asked, unable to stop yourself from asking what you so desperately wanted to know. "To have me healthy for his child?"

"He doesn't know where you are," the Mandalorian said firmly. "Okay? So stop that right now. No idea."

You swallowed thickly and crossed an arm over your belly in a small act of protection.

"Can I talk to you?" he asked, "Alone?" The Mandalorian glanced at Cara who took a few steps back in compliance, but kept a steady eye on you both. She didn't seem alert or on edge. She almost seemed relaxed. Her hip was cocked to one side and she lazily watched the birds fly overhead.

"I have something for you," he said quietly. He slowly reached into his bag with one hand, keeping the other where you could see it.

When he took his hand from the bag, there was a scroll tied with a purple ribbon in his fist.

You felt like throwing up. Bile rose in your throat and you took a step back from him both out of fear of what he had done and at the fear of throwing up on him.

"Hey, hey," he soothed, his voice low and even as he held up a hand, "It's okay. I want you to read it."

Hesitantly, you reached out your hand as he presented the scroll to you. With your fingers shaking so badly you could barely undo the wax seal on the scroll, you watched him warily for any sign of movement. He was watching you.

Finally, you managed to get the ribbon untied and the wax popped off in your hand. You unfurled it and skimmed the letter quickly - and then went back and read it a second, a third time.

"I... What?" you whispered, nervously looking up at him. "What is this? Is this for real?"

"It is," he said quietly. "Didn't take much for him to sign them either." He shook his head at the thought.

You read the letter again quickly to make sure it was real. Divorce papers. Signed by your now ex-husband. Maker, what did the Mandalorian do?

"Do you trust me now?" he asked, his voice a little softer.

You nodded slowly and took a step towards him. He looked a little startled if his body language was anything to go off of when you wrapped your arms around his torso.

"Thank you," you whispered, your voice catching in your throat. "Thank you so much."

He sighed softly, the sound crackling through the monitor, but he put a gentle hand on your back. 

"Uh, you're welcome," he stammered. He put his hands on your shoulders and separated you before he walked away to where the others were watching from afar. 

Cara shook her head. "Told you. Softie."

You smiled and watched him as he was greeted by the villagers. His armor glinted in the midday sun and to them, he must seem like a hero. You knew that to be true though. 

***

That night as the bonfire ran hot through the village, you sat on an old piece of machinery, warming your toes in the low light. The Mandalorian's child, the foundling, as he had called it, rested comfortably in your lap. He seemed to like to cuddle up to your belly, as his three little fingers were bunched in the fabric of your dress over your stomach. He cooed and babbled up at you and you talked back to him as if he could understand you.

The Mandalorian eventually found his way over to where you sat, and he sat down on the ground at your feet. He leaned back against the machinery and folded his hands in his lap.

"Kid likes you," he said, angling his helmet up so he could talk to you. "I mean, he likes everyone, sometimes a little too much, but he really seems to like you."

You smiled and looked down at the now sleeping infant. You could almost picture holding your own baby like this in a few months.

"Babies are easy to care for. Love them and they love you right back," you said, stroking his ear, "No questions asked. You don't have to be perfect at it."

"You're going to make a great mother," he said softly. "I mean -- If you're... You know, planning on keeping it."

You looked down at the Mandalorian, slightly surprised. "I am going to keep it."

"I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I didn't mean to offend you."

You bit your lip and then gently lowered yourself to the ground beside him, being careful not to jostle the sleeping baby or your own stomach around too much. 

He looked a little surprised as you got comfortable. He watched your bare toes dig into the grass and watched the way your hands smoothed down the baby's swaddle. 

"I know," you said after a minute. 

"Kids need a someone to love them," he said so softly you wondered if you had even heard him. "They depend on the people who love them."

You didn't reply to that. You didnt even know how. The silence hung heavy around you.

"Are you going to stay here?" he asked after a minute, looking back at the fire. 

You shrugged. "It's nice here. But I've always wanted to go exploring. See the galaxy. Besides," you said, making a small face. "I worry I'm going to wake up one day and this kid decides that we're going to have a severe aversion to the smell of krill and mud. And then were will I be?"

The Mandalorian laughed softly and shook his head. The sound made your heart swell.

"Could always come with me," he offered, raising his one shoulder in a half shrug. "Find you a nice place to live. Set you up in a house."

"What would I do for money?" you hummed.

The Mandalorian went quiet. He reached beside him and picked up a little circle mat you had been working on. 

"Heard you aren't bad at weaving," he teased, shaking the mat in your direction.

You smiled and rolled your eyes.

"Inara thinks my rows are uneven," you said. "I couldn't sell them for anything according to her."

The Mandalorian huffed. "Then you come with me anyway. Maybe we find you a master mat weaver or something."

You both laughed, though there was a part of you that wondered if he meant it. Could he really be offering to take you on a tour of the galaxy? A short tour, anyway. What star systems could you see in the short period of time before you had your own little moon revolving around you?

"Well let's go find me a master weaver," you said.

"It'll be dangerous," he said. "Do you even know how to hold a blaster?"

"By holding it, you mean to ask if I know not to look into the business end? Yes, Omera and Cara have been teaching me in the evenings."

"Any good?" he asked, leaning towards you.

"Not bad," you hummed with a noncommittal shrug. "Slightly better than my weaving."

"Then we can leave in the morning. Should get some sleep."

You nodded and handed him the baby as you struggled to get to your feet.

"You too," you said quietly as you made your way to Omera's hut. Your heart was racing as you got ready for bed. That night, you slept better than you had in months.

TAGLIST - ask to be tagged!: @miscellaneous-mando @lestrange2703 @someplace-darker @the-last-twin-of-krypton @divineangelix @c1996 

[vanderlindemangofarm]

The Van der Linde Gang - Jobs in a Modern AU

I’ve been really inspired to write about this lately and I’d love to hear your takes! These are the occupations that I think each gang member would have in a modern AU. Some were more challenging than others, but hopefully you guys can see where I’m coming from with each! 

Arthur: Film location scout. His natural eye for photography and framing makes Arthur the perfect member of a pre-production team. His no-bullshit approach to everything means he keeps to deadlines, although he’s known to go wandering off into the wilderness for unknown amounts of time. He enjoys the lone working side of his job and finding exactly the right spots that would make the film come to life. He doesn’t always like the films once they’re finished (in fact he’s often bought cinema tickets and walked out half way through, grumbling that it wasn’t worth the popcorn) but he can’t deny the excited buzz he gets every time he gets hired. In his early years as an assistant he met Bertie Mason, a nervous but talented photography intern. Despite an ill-advised hookup after a week joined at the hip they have remained close friends and still go out on shoots together. 

John: landscape gardener. John? Flowers? Yes, alright, I found it hard to believe too. But look, it’s not about the flowers, even if he does get misty-eyed at the sight of a sunflower in the early morning light. It’s about the challenge, the outdoors, and solving problems. After all the renovations he did to his house and garden (some more successful than others) John found how much satisfaction he got from digging and reshaping and planting. Don’t get me wrong, he’s often without a shirt, even in the colder months, much to the delight of some and the horror of others. He always makes friends with the household pets and is wonderful with the kids, always dropping his task to throw a frisbee around for a bit or cheekily accept an ice cold glass of lemonade from their mothers. Whenever he drives past one of his projects he feels himself glowing with pride - “I did that!”. 

Dutch: philosophy lecturer. As always, late with Starbucks. Will he actually grade your essay? Will it mysteriously disappear? Keeps you on your toes, doesn’t it? Sitting precariously on the very edge of his desk, leather jacket hanging off his shoulders and losing his balance every 15 minutes, Dr Van der Linde is nothing short of a wonder. For the love of all that is holy, do not get him started on Kant. Kant has no place here. You want to talk about your precious Kant? Get your butt down to Dr O’Driscoll’s class, he has plenty to say about Kant. Perhaps a little too fond of Socrates. Plato who? Completely illegible handwriting and definitely sleeping with several members of the faculty. But somehow his students always walk away with excellent grades. At the end of each term Dutch takes everyone out to a local bar for drinks, insists on buying tequila which no one really fancies at 11am. Claims to ride a motorcycle called The Count which no one has actually seen. Impossible to hate, and he writes everyone great references for their summer internships. 

Hosea: social worker. In a crisis, there’s no one better to knock on your door. Hosea has seen it all and he’ll see it all again, but that doesn’t stop him from treating every single case he gets with the upmost respect and care. His no-nonsense approach to his work means he gets things done, but he never sacrifices his compassion. He mostly works with teenagers and has a way of being able to connect to each individual without coming across as patronising. He’s been in the field for over two decades and is an invaluable mentor for any newcomers, always willing to share a word or two of advice or be a shoulder to cry on. 

Javier: guitar teacher and music therapist. During his worst years, Javier’s guitar was his lifeline. And he wants to help others find their lifeline, too. He works on a freelance basis, mainly going into mental health hospitals, schools and prisons. He runs workshops focusing on guitar playing, but brings other instruments (mainly percussion) to try too. He’s a gentle teacher, always with a joke in his back pocket for when you need it most. He has nicknames for everyone and remembers everything they’ve ever told him. He’s patient and never lets anyone feel bad for making a mistake. Javier also runs an after-school guitar club at the local middle school alongside playing his own music at gigs whenever he can. No, he doesn’t reply to DMs no matter how thirsty they are. 

Sadie: self-defense instructor. After surviving an attack several years ago, Sadie used her ferocity to get her qualification in self-defense to teach other women how to fight back should they need to. Her husband Jake helps out in her classes, happily allowing himself to be thrown around and slammed onto the mat as many times as required. Her students are terrified of her in the best and nicest way. Sadie also volunteers at a women’s refuge, providing emergency care and taking phone calls. 

Charles: environmental campaign manager. Charles has always been drawn to charities and started doing voluntary work for Greenpeace when he was at university, securing an internship with them in Canada which led to a full time job. Whilst Charles mainly hosts meetings and organises events, he also works closely with elementary schools and runs workshops with outdoor activities, crafts and music. Last week they made bird feeders! It was awesome. He’s also a keen activist and regularly meets up with Javier to go to protests and community events, most recently for BLM. 

Micah: motorcycle mechanic. Micah is massively invested in motorcycle culture and treats his beloved bike better than his own mother, if he still spoke to her. Although he pretends not to care, fixing bikes is his greatest passion and almost looks...happy when he’s doing it? Maybe? He likes knowing more than the people who stop by his shop and makes sure they know it. Occasionally he leaves his number on a scrap of paper inside women’s handbags when they’re not looking but for some reason none of them call. Like it or not, he’s incredibly skilled and will have your motorcycle singing a tune if that’s what you want. Euphemism? Of course not. 

Abigail: nurse. She was so shy when she realised she wanted to pursue nursing - would people laugh at her? Was she too impatient, too nagging, too shrill? Her dyslexia always put her off going into further education and she was always discouraged by her parents. But with lots of encouragement from Hosea (who helped her to fill out her applications and other forms) and her friends, Abigail went to university in her 30′s to get her degree. She graduated top of her class and now works full time in her local hospital, based mostly in the emergency room. From drunken brawlers to tearful children and grumpy old men with lumbago, Abigail has learnt to keep her cool and to have faith in her own ability. 

Molly: holistic therapist and masseuse. It took years to get that bastard of a philosopher out of her head (and out of her bed - damn those happy hour drinks “for old times’ sake”), but she’s finally free. Molly radiates a kindness that few took to the time to see, and she wanted to take strength from her past struggles to help others who may need someone to listen, just as she did. Molly took a bunch of online courses in various holistic therapies, including aromatherapy and massage, as this was something she had always been interested in. She runs a tiny clinic on a quiet street, the rooms filled with sunshine and the scent of geraniums. She also has a quite popular ASMR YouTube channel, Emerald Eyes ASMR, which she shyly admits just reached 500k subscribers. Her most popular video, ‘Irish Girl Helps You Fall Asleep (soft spoken, tapping, mouth sounds)’ just reached over a million hits. 

Kieran: veterinarian specialising in equine care. Much like Abigail, Kieran didn’t like the idea of going back into education. He’d had a rough time of it as a teenager, dropping out of high school early and working a string of menial jobs for the next decade. They paid his rent, but he still felt poor. His favourite job, however, was working at a stable. The horses made him feel calm and he found that he could read them better than most people. He went to the library and read as much as he could about them. From there, he got himself an apprenticeship which paved the way for him to earn his degree in veterinary science. He smiled so hard in his graduation photo his eyes disappeared into his cheeks. He travels all over the local countryside, visiting farms and ranches to care for the horses. His confidence picked up after the first few blunders, and little by little he’s saving up to buy his own ranch one day. 

Lenny: political science student. You know that kid who always looks amazing, even in 9am lectures? Yeah, that’s not Lenny, but he’s sat just behind. See him? Yep, the one rubbing sleep from his eyes as he pushes through the effects of another all-nighter. It’s not due to procrastination, but from perfectionism. He spends hour agonising over references, appendixes and even titles. One time he was so tired he signed his work “Ynnel”. He’s completely in love with his course and relishes every class he takes. Oh, he’s taking Dutch’s ‘History of Western Philosophy’ module by the way. Sitting in the front row, middle seat, directly in front of Dutch, his eyes glinting wickedly. Poor Dutch. Lenny has a counterpoint for absolutely everything and can barely stifle his laughter as Dutch gets more and more flustered. He’s been dating Jenny Kirk, an English Lit student, for the past few months and it’s going well. So well in fact, that he might stop hiding his Doctor Who merchandise every time she comes to his dorm room. 

Tilly: business student. Tilly started university at the same time as Lenny and they still always go to the library together, rolling their eyes at each other over their morning peppermint lattes. Tilly is at the forefront of any and all on-campus activism. Think of Sam from Dear White People - that’s our Tilly. She wears her Ravenclaw scarf all autumn and winter long and posts scathing Instagram stories about the cafeteria food. But she’s powerfully kind and very ambitious, taking on a part time job tutoring kids with dyslexia in their reading and writing. 

Susan: midwife. Think having a baby is scary? Try crossing Nurse Grimshaw. She’s here now, and that baby is coming out of you one way or another. She’ll hold your hand through thick and thin but if you dare say “I can’t do it” one more time she’ll unleash hell. Susan will make sure everyone has a job to do. Partner just standing there like a lemon? Not on her watch. She’s harsh but kind to her trainees and will always offer a cup of coffee and a shoulder to cry on, but there’s a time and place for slacking and it’s not on her labour ward. 

Trelawny: talent agent. Our Josiah is cunning, infuriatingly charismatic and with an eye for the best of the best - what else could he do so effortlessly? He’ll wrangle you a 10 second role as a latrine cleaner in a non-profit film and he’ll still make you feel like the next DiCaprio. You’re a diamond, don’t you know? Of course you could nab Elphaba, we’ll worry about the singing later. How do you feel about cat food commercials? No no, it’s not pornography, it really is cat food this time - he double checked. On top of this, he knows everyone in the business. No, really. He can’t move 3 feet down Broadway without someone booming his name. The tone of said boom depends, of course, but who hasn’t been caught with his bottom out in that director’s wife’s en-suite? 

Sean: outdoor activity centre instructor. You mean you can actually get paid to swim in lakes, ride ziplines through the forest and eat roasted marshmallows?! Sean couldn’t believe his ears. But it was true, and he’s living his best life. He may be on his penultimate warning for unruly behaviour, but he knows he could never really get fired. How could they? Everyone loves him. And to his credit, he’s a fantastic instructor, especially with kids. Everything from canoeing to caving, wild swimming to climbing, Sean has mastered it all and he always makes it fun. No one is allowed to feel left out or silly for not being able to do something. Sean has a way of making everyone feel included, even if you can only make it up the first few rungs of the ladder. Hey, that’s still off the ground! He once knew this feller Bill who cried because a moth flew into his face. You’re doing fine. 

Mary-Beth: librarian and YA author. Sweet Mary-Beth, how could she be anywhere else but surrounded by books? She adores her job at her small, local library and is always looking for ways to make it even better. She often gets tangled up in the stories she reads whilst organising shelves, but it’s quiet enough most days that she’s rarely caught. She loves helping people find their books or recommending her favourites. She also runs the toddler storytime groups and a writing club for older kids. Of course, she’s also writing her own books. The first of her ‘Valentine Mysteries’ books made a modest profit and she’s excited to write more about the adventures of Leslie Dupont. 

Karen: actress. Realising that she had a knack for accents and even after an especially successful high school lead role as Roxy Hart, Karen didn’t really acknowledge her would-be passion for acting for a long time. But she used her talents to get herself and her friends into X-rated films, dive bars and successfully pull off dozens of prank calls. It wasn’t until one of her friends was going to an open-call audition for a short film and wanted someone to go with her that Karen had her epithany. She was cast on the spot, much to the dismay of her friend. Since then, she’s been in a handful of arthouse films, a commercial here and there, and recently enjoyed a short run as Hermia in A Midsummer Night’s Dream at a small theatre downtown. Does she want fame and fortune? Honestly, she hasn’t really thought about it. Right now, she’s just enjoying the ride. And the phone numbers left for her at front of house from many admirers. 

Strauss: financial loan adviser. Oh boy, perhaps you saw this one coming. Then again, maybe not. Old Leopold isn’t quite the two-pronged-tongued eldritch horror people often mistake him for. In fact, he actually advises people against loan sharks. He had his fair share of debts y’see and he genuinely doesn’t want anyone else to go through the same thing. He’s not exactly sweet and cuddly, but he might let you have a free pen if you call by his office. I mean, technically they’re not free but...never mind, just take it. 

Bill: plumber. It was purely accidental that Bill bashed his way into his career. No, really. His sink was blocked and after an hour of poking and prodding the pipes he started hitting the poor thing with a spanner out of pure frustration, cursing all the way. To his shock, it worked, and he suddenly had running water again. What shocked him more is that he realised he wanted to know how. So, he bought a book. And he read the book. And one thing led to another, and now he’s the proud owner of Williamson Plumbing Inc. The money is very good, but for Bill that’s not it. You have to understand that for him, it’s the act itself of fixing something that brings Bill immense satisfaction. And Bill isn’t used to knowing more about something - anything - than those around him. For the first time perhaps in his life, he can sit down, solve a problem, and know that he’s done a good job. 

Swanson: AA group leader. After getting completely sober almost a decade ago and staying that way, Orville wanted to give something back to the people who had helped him out so greatly. Becoming a volunteer to help those who were trapped where he was seemed like the only path, and it felt so right. Orville is there in meetings, making coffee, handing out donuts and training new volunteers. If anyone wants to talk about their faith he’s all ears, but he never pushes it as a cure-all in any situation. Orville’s sobriety has also meant that he’s learnt to make the most phenomenal mocktails. 

Pearson: grocery shop manager and cooking teacher. Simon has his small grocery shop on the edge of town which has a wide range of regular customers. But he wanted to do more, so he set up a small class to teach fellow veterans how to cook. His wife helps out, and they grow the ingredients together in their garden and down at the allotment. It’s just an therapeutic for him as it is for his students, as he’s only just realising how much he wants to talk about his time in the navy. 

Uncle: unknown. For the longest time, everyone thought Uncle worked at one of the worst dive bars in town, as whenever they stumbled in for a nightcap he was there, behind the bar, happy as a pig in shit. Turns out that he just started going there one night and no one could get him to leave. And so every evening he’ll appear like a phantom, sit himself in the half-broken chair behind the bar (clearly labelled “not for customer use”), order the cheapest beer on the menu and sit there until midnight. No one can understand how he gets the means to live as he ragingly denies receiving any government handouts despite his lumbago. Claims to be a veteran but hasn’t fought in any wars anyone has heard of. 

[catxsnow]

PRETTY EYES D.W.

Summary: Being the daughter of Superman had it’s perks, being human, did not. Being best friends with Damian Wayne, that had its ups and downs too. 

Warning: mentions of blood, 

A/N: I just recently starting loving Jon Kent, I couldn’t resist 

GIF not mine

Word count: 2.7k

Being Superman's daughter had it's ups and downs.

For example, you could fly around the world in a matter of minutes and return as if nothing had happened or uproot the largest trees. It was incredible how powerful you were. You loved having these powers and you loved being able to save people along side your dad... and your brother.

Jon was the baby of the family, even if it only was by a few minutes. The two of you got along as much as any other sibling. You had your arguments, your fights, screaming matches, but you also knew you could always rely on him. Whether it was out fighting crime as a family or you were feeling unwell and wanted someone to confide in.

Jon, as much as a pain in the ass that he was, could be an amazing brother and you truly appreciated everything that he did for you. That included, introducing you to Damian Wayne - Robin. The two of them had been friends for a while and each time that they had a team up, you always felt a little bit left out.

It was easy to notice your disappointment each time he said that he was going to see Damian until he finally asked if you wanted to join him the one day. He would never forget the smile that was on your face.

The three of you slowly became inseparable. Damian was weary of you at first just as he was of Jon. He would never admit it, but the two of you were his best friends. Yours and Jon's bond grew even more. The three amigos - at least that was what your dad called you guys.

You would wander the streets of Gotham at night with Damian and sometimes he would come to visit the farm. There were very seldom times that you would get to see Damian without Jon. Damian could be very uptight at times, and Jon always seemed to be able to ease him back to normal - you were still struggling to find out how to do that yourself.

While Damian liked to train as a hang out, you and Jon often opted for something more fun - like getting ice cream at the park or flying so high up that neither of you could see the people anymore. Of course, Damian hated when you did that, especially when you dragged him up with you as well.

That afternoon, you guys had decided to train. At least - you and Damian did. Jon watched the two of you with very little interest. It was the same thing every time - Damian doing all these extensive moves, slashing you with his sword - that never did any damage anyways - and you would use your brute strength to try and take him down.

You weren't sure why Damian always liked to spar with you, you felt as if you could never be enough to help him learn anything. He needed someone who was a fighter, not a Kryptonian.

However, the nice thing about being able to spar with Damian, was that you had an excuse to watch how graceful he was. No matter how violent he was with his actions, you always found that there was a delicacy to his movements. It was entrancing to watch him work, it always was.

You never told Jon that you gained a little crush on Damian. He would only tease you about it or with your luck, blab about it with his big mouth. So, you kept your feelings silent to everyone. It was just a harmless crush and you were sure it was just because Damian was the only boy your age that even looked at you. 

"Jon, when did dad say we had to be home by?" You asked, mid-fight. Damian just got frustrated that you were so nonchalant about the battle. You floated just barely about the ground, making it easier to dodge all of his attempts to hit you.

Jon perked up at the sound of his name. The worst part about the three of you hanging out together, it meant that one person always felt left out - this time it was him. "Dinner time, I think," he answered. He paid more attention to the fight going on before him.

"Awe, I was hoping we could stay here for supper, I miss Alfred's cooking," You whined. Jon silently agreed with you. "I bet Bruce could ask if we can stay. What do you think Dames?"

"I think that you should focus on the task at hand," Damian snapped. You rolled your eyes but did as he wished. The two of you became even more engrossed in the spar and this time, you were going on offense. Damian was quick on his toes and managed to dodge a few of your punches, but was caught off guard with your left cross.

Your fist collided with his cheek and if you had been using your full strength, you would have been worried for him. Damian's head flipped to the side with the force of the punch and he turned back to you with narrowed eyes. You knew this look - he was angry.

Damian came at you with full force, his sword clashing with the ground as he missed your body. With each dodge, he seemed to be getting more and more angered with you until final he managed to jab the sword right at your abdomen. You didn't have time to dodge it, but normally you wouldn't have needed to worried.

This time, you felt a pain in your stomach that you had never felt before and a sudden lack of air in your lungs. Damian hadn't picked up on what he had done until the sight of blood dripped down your shirt.

Being the child of Superman was awesome - you were impenetrable, bullet proof. However, being the child of Lois Lane? Your powers were not always reliable - just the same as Jon. They were so unpredictable that sometimes you could bounce a bullet of your chest while other days you could bruise from bumping into something.

Within the last year, you thought that you had grown out of this. You never had problems with your powers being out of whack. You thought that your genes had finally settled on the Kryptonian side of things rather than the human side. You were wrong.

"Dames?" You trembled. Your hands went to the fresh wound that he had just created. The sword that was covered in your blood dropped to the ground, the echo of it ricocheting off the walls. Damian caught you as your knees buckled from under you and fear like never before grew on his face.

What had he done?

"Jon!" Damian yelled. Your brother stood there in shock about what was going on before him. Tears rolled down his face as he saw your lifeless body dangle in Damian's arms. Pain ached through your entire body and you felt like you couldn't breath. Was this was being human felt like? "Kent, get Bruce, your father! Jon!"

Jon finally snapped out of his daze. He wiped his face and ran out of the room to go find anyone that was near. Damian cautiously lowered you to the ground. His hands were tightly pressed against your wound. "(Y/N), stay with me. You're going to be fine," Damian tried to keep you awake.

"Dames..." You weakly called out. He always hated when you called him that. Nicknames were stupid to him, yet you continued to call him it. You placed your bloody hand over top of his.

"Stay awake," Damian told you. He was still in shock over what he had just done. The two of you had fought like that dozens of times and each time he had ever pulled that move, your body protected itself and you were imperishable. He forgot sometimes that you weren't like your father - you weren't fully Kryptonian.

He should have known better. Damian had seen Jon scrap his knees while falling and you get a concussion when you were tossed to the ground during gym at school. He knew that neither of you were as strong as your father and yet he assumed just as you had, that you were going to be just fine.

Blackness slowly started to take over your vision. You tried your best to stay awake but it was too hard. Damian's beautiful green eyes bore down at you. They were filled with concern. You could see his lips move and that he was talking but no sound reached your ears. Was this it? Your final moments?

Damian looked away from you, the sound of footsteps catching his attention. Bruce, Jon, and Clark were all coming towards you. Damian looked back down at you just before blackness finally won.

"Pretty eyes..."

><

You woke up to bright lights staring down at you. Pain raked over your abs and you felt paralyzed in your place. With a groan, you managed to be able to shuffle around enough to know that you hadn't truly lost feeling in your body.

After a few moments of being able to grasp your surroundings, you remembered what had happened to you. Damian stabbed you. His sword drove itself right into your torso as if you were fully human. The pain that erupted through your whole body put a chill down your spine at the thought of it.

"(Y/N)!"

You were in Bruce's home in an unfamiliar room. A heart monitor beeped beside you. After all, Bruce Wayne was just human, he needed medical supplies within his home when things went wrong.

The bright lights were replaced with your brother's face peering over you. Without thinking, he nearly pounced on you to give you a hug. His body weight caused you to wince in pain. "Kent," Damian scolded. Jon got off of you with a sheepish look on his face and a string of apologies coming out. "How are you feeling?" Damian questioned you.

"Sore," You muttered. The hoarseness of your voice started you and you attempted to clear your throat. It wasn't until a glass of water was handed over to you did you finally feel normally again. As you thanked Damian, you could see how upset he was about the situation. There were very few times that he ever felt bad about something he did.

So, just like you had before when you were bleeding out in the training mat, you placed your hand over top of his. He nearly jumped at the touched but relaxed as you dragged the pad of your thumb across his skin. "It's not your fault, Damian. We've trained like that dozens of times and we've never had an issue. Besides, speed healing, right? I'm going to be fine."

"You didn't look fine, earlier. I thought I killed you," Damian harshly spoke. He ripped his hand away from you and furrowed his eyebrows. With a sigh you turned your attention to Jon, there was no point in trying to argue with Damian when he was in a mood. It was like talking to a brick wall.

"Where's dad?" You asked.

"I'm pretty sure he's currently trying not to rip Bruce's head from his body," Jon told you. He sat on the opposite side of Damian. There was a tension between the two and you were sure your brother was piping mad at the boy wonder. "I'm glad you're okay. I'll go get dad." Jon patted your shoulder before leaving you and Damian alone.

"I should leave you to rest, too," Damian tried to stand up and follow Jon out the door. He had trouble looking you in the eye with the guilt he was feeling. You were his friend, you trusted him, and he had nearly killed you because he was frustrated that you were effortlessly winning a fight against him. That wasn't something that friends did.

"Sit down," you nearly snapped at him. The tone in your voice took him by surprise and he immediately did as he was told. You peeled the bandage back from your stomach to see only a deep scratch rather than the gaping wound it once was. You were healing and everything was going to be okay. 

"Damian this wasn't your fault, okay? I'm serious. I'm not letting you blame yourself for this. It's no one's fault - not mine, not yours, not Jon's and certainly not Bruce's. I'm half-Kryptonian, things like this happen. Just be glad it was within the safety of your home and not out in the field."

"I'm sorry," Damian still apologized. You were pretty sure that this was the first time he had ever spoken those two words to you. The feeling was foreign. "You are a respectable opponent, I never intended to do this."

"I know," you assured. You weren't mad at him, not at all. "We all make mistakes in life, gods knows I've made a lot. As long as you accept that you've done something wrong and learn from it, that's all that matters. We all do things that we regret, it's just a matter of what kind of person you become afterwards."

"You're much wiser than your brother," Damian spoke - you swore you could see him try to hide a smile.

"I get it from my mother," You weakly chuckled. "I know you're not a hugger, but I am going to pull the guilt trip card on you and say that I deserve one, so come here." You sat up straight and opened your arms for him to hug you. Damian reluctantly followed your order once more and awkwardly embraced you in a hug.

"I meant what I said," you whispered to him while enjoyed the short lasting hug. He was warm, and smelled nice. Damian pulled away from you with confusion written on his face. He stayed close to you, now leaning against the bed you were on rather than all the way in his chair. "When I said that you have pretty eyes. I could look at them all day."

Damian wasn't used to getting compliments. He was told by his mother where his mistakes were made and that he needed improvement. Bruce had told him that he was doing well in training, but never had he received a compliment like that before. So, when the truthful words left your mouth, his cheeks became red.

He heard them when you had passed out, though hadn't thought of what you had said. Damian was more worried about your safety than some compliment that you surely couldn't have meant. While waiting for you to wake up, he hadn't thought about them again. To be honest, he hadn't thought that he heard you properly.

You liked seeing him flustered, it was a rare occasion. You were always so jealous that Damian was always able to maintain his cool when in tough situations. Seeing him like this just reminded you that he was human too.

"I liked training with you more than Jon because I never knew how to approach you otherwise. Grayson - Dick, he's helped me become less like a League member and more like you guys, it's hard though. Feelings, these feelings that I'm having right now, I never was allowed to act upon them growing up, I don't know how to act upon them now."

You smiled at his words. Jon and yourself grew up in such a loving household that you never really thought about how hard it must have been for Damian. Even know, with Bruce as his father, it must have still been difficult for him to express his feelings. You were always open about how you felt, your parents instilled that upon you.

Damian was close enough to you that you could easily reach over to him. Your hands ever so delicately cupped the side of his face. He felt the need to flinch at your touch, but restrained himself. This wasn't the League that he was in company with, it was you - the person that he knew he could rely on.

The soft touch of your hand was a foreign feeling to him. His mother was never affectionate and any kind of hand that was placed on him, was often meant as a punishment for doing wrong. Bruce was better than his mother, but Damian didn't get the same feeling in his chest with his father as he did with you.

Damian wanted to lean into you hand. He wanted to embrace the feelings that you gave him, no matter the fear that he had to do it. However, your hand dropped down to rest over his and he felt an instant chill without your warmth. This time, he didn't flinch away as you placed his hand between both of yours.

"Well, Damian Wayne, if you'd let me, I'd like to help you with that too."

[bakubitch-minusultra]

Not Alone: Chapter Eight

-> an apocalyptic series with bnha characters but without quirks because im the writer and i can do whatever the fuck i want -3- this one is a lil ;-; at the end and i apologize in advance i just like fucking with people c:<

-> Word Count: 2.8k

-> Warnings: pervy doods, blood(?), descriptions of sexual assault

-> Taglist:@5sosfckss @laudthingcat [if you wanna be added lmk <3]

A hand slipped over her mouth and Y/n instantly thought of the germs and squeezed her lips together.

“Don’t move, princess. They’ve come for you. Those fuckers sold you out to the breeders. Or it was that old bitch. You should know better than to trade with the first person who talks to you. You bush people are stupid.” Her bright white smile flashed in the darkness. “Don’t look so scared, I have a way out.”

Y/n nodded as the lady pulled her hand away from her face. The lady held her hand out and Y/n fished a ruby ring out of her sports bra and put it in the lady’s hand. She turned her back on Y/n and walked to a closet.

She opened the door and Y/n followed, holding her sack close to her chest. The lady pulled on the rod for hanging clothes in the closet, which made the wall pop out. She pushed it inside and walked into the wall. She entered the darkness and Y/n put her hands out. She heard voices coming to the room and she quickly closed the wall behind them.

She felt the lady’s hand grip hers suddenly. Y/n wanted to scream but she didn't. Her pulse was vibrating throughout her body.

Words were whispered into the darkness.

“Stairs.” Y/n put her feet down to the next level slowly. They could hear men’s voices above her.

“What the fuck is this?” The men sounded like they were right on top of her.

“She was here.”

Y/n heard the old woman’s voice. She felt cheated and betrayed. For trade she would sell Y/n out. Sell her out to the farms. Y/n knew humanity was a disgusting disappointment, but she still had a hard time imagining a woman turning in another woman to the farms.

“She was here, please. Let him just come home for a few days.”

Y/n continued down the stairs, feeling each step with the tips of her boots. It felt like an eternity had passed by the time they reached the bottom. The voices were gone and what replaced them was a dripping sound and damp cold air. The kind that could only be found underground.

“This was your house wasn’t it?” Y/n whispered.

“Yup. My husband had this installed when we built the house. He worked for the CIA.” Y/n felt her grip her hand again and pull her. “The ground is flat. We have to hurry.”

Y/n was stunned at the fact that no one knew about her underground bunker. But not as stunned as she was about her willingly helping Y/n escape.

“You could’ve sold me to them.” Y/n felt the lady’s fingers grip hers. Her voiced had changed.

“They have no right. No right to do what they’re doing.” The lady’s finger bit into Y/n’s shoulders as she shook her. “You gotta hurry. Don’t come back here. The girls get taken. The hunters are dressed up as traders but they’re not. Run. Feel your fingers along the wall until you see the light in the ceiling. Climb up there. It’s a latch. I have to get back now.”

Before Y/n could thank her the lady was gone. She was alone in the dark.

The fear was crippling her. She reached a trembling hand out into the darkness. Cold hard stone met her somewhere in the dark. She ran her fingers along it, running as best as she could. She was scared. She hated being scared. She decided that she needed a rule about being scared and doing things that made her scared.

She saw the ring of light up ahead. It had cast a dull beam in the shape of a circle on the floor. The morning sun was rising. She had slept later than she thought she would have. She should’ve been halfway home by the time the sun came up.

She felt like she was stepping into a magical light, like in the movies she had watched with her grandmother. The dark of the bunker was held at bay by the tiny ring of light. Dust particles sparkled inside of the ring. She reached her hands through it, watching as she made the dust dance in the light.

She looked up at the ring of light and then put her hand out at the small ladder she could see. She climbed until her head was at the wooden hatch. She listened to the silence. Nothing made a sound. She didn’t want to open the hatch. She wanted to hide in the dark of the bunker and never come out.

She heard a whisper in the wind. It was a sound she would know anywhere. It wasn’t close to her location, but it hurt her just the same. It could’ve been her.

She took a breath and put her hand on the bottom of the hatch. She tried to calm the shaking but she couldn’t. She pushed on the hatch and light flooded the small space even though the crack was tiny. The sun hadn’t completely risen, just as the moon hadn’t fully set. It was dawn.

She saw greenery everywhere around the hatch. Moss and brush surrounded her. She didn’t see anything but the sounds of the screams had filled the air. The animals made no noise, as the people had taken over the space with their screams again.

“Please! Please! Stop, please! I have money!” Her voice scared Y/n. The desperation frightened her. She had never been that desperate but she knew she had it in her. “Please sir, please! Don’t you have a sister or a wife you would want to keep safe?! Please! I’ll let you do whatever you want just don’t take me! Don’t take me back there! I’ll die in there!”

Y/n wanted to rock back and forth on the ground. She wished they would just kill her already so she would shut up. She was frozen. She didn’t leave the bunker but she didn’t close the lid either.

She knew she was in danger. She took a deep breath. She thought of Hades and Kirishima. She thought of poor Mina alone and taking care of Kirishima. She felt bravery, or stupidity, for the smallest of seconds and pulled herself out of the bunker and slid along the moss and brush. She made very little noise but every movement or rustle felt as loud as a gunshot. She crept along the ground on her hands and feet like Hades did. She moved away from the town. She didn’t know where she was but she was scared.

She got to a crowded bunch of trees and bushes and decided she needed to risk it and stand. She needed her bearings. She took another deep breath and slid her body up along the side of a tree. She tried to blend in. Hoards of people had gathered in the street in front of the town. Y/n could see the field and the cement road. She knew she was on the right side.

Women and children were being loaded into trucks. They sobbed and reached for their loved ones. One girl looked about thirteen. Y/n felt anger welling inside of her. There were four guards from the gates and five other men milling around the trucks. The tenth man was inside the cab of the truck.

Her brain was screaming at her to help the girl. She was a kid but that wouldn’t stop them. The sweaty men who took turns. She closed her eyes and shook her head to rearrange her thoughts.

She turned her back on them. She ran away like the coward she was. She ran until she found the broken branches. She used them to lead herself back to her weapon stash. She breathed easier when her bow was back in her hand and she could just kiss her knife. She tucked it into her boot and started the run back to her house. She ran faster than she did the day before. She ran with a new fear.

Xxxx

She reached the house in the middle of the night and saw Hades' eyes. He stalked toward her and sniffed her everywhere. He was checking to make sure she was okay. When she bent her knee to kiss him, she started to sob. He had seen that before. He knew sometimes she just needed to get it out.

“Y/n?” She looked up to see Mina pointing a gun at her. Y/n smiled and held up her sack and Mina lowered the gun. “You okay?”

“No, but it’s not anything new. How is he?” Y/n could see the grim look on Mina’s face in the moonlight and her stomach sank. She wanted to panic and cry out.

“He’s fading fast. I was about to cut his leg off when I heard you.”

Y/n sighed and broke into a run and bursted through the farm door, something she’d never done before. She pulled the needle out of the sack with one of the vials as she kneeled before Kirishima. His red hair was matted against his face and Y/n could see where his black roots were growing in from the lack of dye. She could see the moisture in the moonlight.

Mina poured the vodka she found in one of the cupboards all over Y/n’s hands and the needles and vial. The liquor was splashing all over her. She held the bottle up to Y/n’s lips and it burned its way down her empty stomach. The bits of food she had eaten were long gone. Thank god. Mina wiped his arm and Y/n finished putting the vial together and stabbed him in the arm. She pushed it in slowly like her dad had showed her. Kirishima didn’t stir. He didn’t register that Y/n was pumping his arm full of antibiotics.

She pulled the bandages off his wounds. The red lines were everywhere and she swallowed hard. Mina put the vodka back to Y/n’s lips and she drank again. She poured the tea tree all over the wound and blade of her knife. She sliced into the swollen part of the injury and milked the puss from it. She poured more tea tree after, being careful as to not rupture the blood vessels and cause more infection. When it was clean again and there was no more puss she smothered it in the old tube of medical salve. She covered it again with a gauze bandage and tape.

His fever was still high and he licked his lips and looked down at Y/n with blood shot eyes.

“You made it back.” Y/n nodded, his expression was breaking her heart. He looked so weak. He reached a hand to hers and squeezed. “I was worried.”

“I can take care of myself.” Y/n didn’t even let the bizarre day she had cross her mind. It was not the time to stress him out.

“I don’t doubt that, you scare me.”

Y/n laughed. She couldn’t help herself. He was huge and no doubt strong, stronger than he knew. Stronger than Y/n. She tried not to think about the young girls in the truck. She was a coward.

“I’m goin’ back to watching.” Mina was gone and suddenly Kirishima and Y/n were alone. She felt funny about it.

Kirishima pulled her up onto the couch, “Come lay with me.” It was the first human contact Y/n had had in a while. Watching t.v with friends was the closest thing to cuddling she had ever experienced. She didn’t know what to do and went limp. Kirishima laughed and pulled her alongside him on the couch. His arm was burning hot, it felt amazing. He wrapped his arm around her and she shivered from the heat.”

“Tell me a story Y/n.”

Y/n paused, she didn’t have any. She wanted to tell him something fun about her childhood but it basically looked just like her life now, but with more showering.

“I went to the town once a long time ago. The infection was newer then. I ran through the woods and broke the branches to make a path for myself to find the farmhouse again. Just like my dad taught me. I was excited when I saw the gates. I was so stupid. I thought being with other survivors would be better for me. I went in and begged for food from a lady. She laughed at me.” Y/n felt her air getting trapped in her throat. The shame filling her was her punishment. She deserved it. “I went out her door and sat in the narrow alley near the back of the house. I was hidden by a bunch of old buckets and garbage. The lady and her daughter were walking around the back with bags of stuff. Some men came. They started tearing at them. They stripped them and hurt them.” Y/n choked slightly on her next sentence, “I ran into the store and stole as much food as I could carry. I ran and gorged myself in the back of her store. I could still hear her screaming and I did nothing. I just ate.”

Kirishima squeezed her and kissed the top of her forehead. She stared into his black t-shirt that was soaked with sweat.

“You’re kinda bad at storytelling. I sorta wanted to go to sleep. Now I think I’ll never sleep again.” Y/n laughed with him. It killed the moment of suffering she deserved. He kissed her forehead again, “Do you have anything lighter? I don’t want that to be the last thing I think about when I die.” Y/n laughed again, but this time she wanted to cry. He was dying and Y/n knew this. Instead of her leaving him, he was leaving her and it hurt.

“I have one memory of my mother. She was in the hospital bed. I was two years old. She looked like me, but she was really pretty. Her lip looked like she was pushing them out.”

“Duck lips.”

“What?”

He laughed, “They were called duck lips back then.”

“Oh. Well she had those. She was in the bed and she let me climb up with her. I sat on her lap and we watched t.v. It was a cartoon about a bald kid and his family.”

“Caillou. I loved that show. LOVE IT.” He spoke in a high pitched voice. It made Y/n smile, he remembered things so clearly. He nudged her, “What happened then?”

Y/n shook her head, “Nothing. We just sat in the sun on her bed. I remember how soft her nightgown was and she let me eat her pudding.”

“Yeah okay that’s another bad example of storytelling.” Y/n wanted to defend herself, but she knew it would only make him feel sorry for her.

He smiled, “Once when I was six, me and Bakugo went and played down by the river behind my house. His mom was really strict about it and never let us go down there. We figured because Bakugo was old enough to babysit we were good. We brought boats we made out of paper and put them on the water.. They floated perfectly until mine flipped over. I reached for it before it got too far away and of course fell in. Bakugo grabbed me before I got pulled away. I would have drowned for sure. We ran back to my house but we were too long getting back and his mom was there already. We snuck in the backyard. I thought we were dead but Bakugo grabbed the hose from the side of the house and sprayed me. His mom came out the back door at that moment. So she walks to the backyard to see Bakugo hosing and me screaming. He got grounded for a week for being a bully. He was the best friend ever.”

A weird feeling overtook the other feelings Y/n had. She was jealous that she didn’t have a single story like that one. She looked into his eyes and felt lost. She felt like she was part of them.

“Now that’s a story, jackass.” Y/n frowned at him. He lifted her chin and pressed his warm lips to hers. She loved it. She loved him. His warmth rushed through her. His lips parted hers and his tongue caressed her lips softly. He pulled back but she wanted more and watched his laps as he pulled away. “You’re supposed to close your eyes Y/n.”

She blushed, “I liked that.”

He laughed softly, “It was on my list of things to do before I die.” His words stung.

“You haven’t kissed a girl before?”

He shook his head, “Not a girl I really like.”

“Your fever is making you crazy.”

“Good.” He pulled her close and kissed her until she was dizzy.

--

haha cliffhanger go brrrr