#and using the stove makes the entire place smell of gas. and there's no window in the kitchen so. not ideal

[deerbrush]

I have made A Mistake

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Northern Exposure | Something in the Air

❄ Part 1 of the mini-series ❄

Warnings: non-consent sex and rape (series); violence, creepiness on part of our boys, predatory behaviour, Bucky’s an asshole, they’re all too lonely and too desperate, mistaken identity.

This is dark! fic and explicit. 18+ only.  Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Pairings: Sam Wilson x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, Bucky Barnes x Reader, A Bad Time x Reader

Series Synopsis: You’re a nature photographer stationed up north but the arctic isolation comes to an unexpected and unpleasant end.

Note: I started this ages ago and finally got the energy to finish, it’s four parts and provided my life doesn’t continue to fuck around I should have em all up in the next days. Also as always, cracking away at all the other fics I’ve hooked you into.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

The days were short and the nights long. So far north, time seemed not to exist as you chased the fleeting sun with your lens. Your existence was only demarcated by the fortnightly delivery of supplies left at your door as you were often out pursuing an elusive snow fox or wakeful owl. The world seemed small up here and you felt like the only person left alive.

Perched up on a branch precariously, you teetered as you focused your camera at its end. It was the perfect composition, snow blurred in the background as you focus on the scratching along the bark, the remnants of some owl or smaller critter. An abstract in your series, certainly, but interesting nonetheless. Besides, your editor would be happy enough with the close up you’d captured of a reindeer, its antlers the focal point of the shot.

Content, you climbed down, barely keeping yourself from slipping entirely down the trunk to a crash landing. Back on the ground, your boots sank into the snow, halfway up your calf, and you capped the lens of your camera. You tucked it under your parka and glanced around at the sparse grey trees.

Your eyes flew up as you heard a snap in branches not far from those you stood beneath. You held your breath and listened. It might be another opportunity. The early flight of an owl. You followed the sound, your steps muffled by the snowy carpet below. But that natural silence of the arctic returned and you ended up searching for air. Not a noise.

You sighed and turned back to look at the horizon. It was growing dark and you were best to return to your little cabin before long. It would be a moonless night and without the silver guardian above, it would make a nocturnal trek even harder. As you took a step, it seemed to echo and you stopped again. Your ears perked up and you shifted your hat to hear a bit better. 

There was nothing. You frowned and turned. Only the snow and the trees against the greying sky. You shrugged off your unusual paranoia and carried on. You took the treacherous path back to your remote habitat. It was just you and your cameras; you and the north. An assignment you’d loathed at first but come to cherish. Isolation had a keen way of introducing one’s self to them.

You stepped up onto the small porch, the aluminum roofing and the tarnished and dented siding made it seem like little more than a lost shed. There was a single room inside, a small bed with a woven blanket, a wooden counter with an old basin and a stove top run on gas. The out house was further back, hard to find in a storm, but as long as you counted your steps, you rarely got lost.

You pushed through and turned the wooden latch that held the door shut. You untied your boots on the salt-stained rubber mat and left them there as you hung your damp, cold parka and shed your thick snow pants. You took off your hat and gloves and left them on the small shelf beneath the hook.

You took out a can of chili and dumped it in the small scratched pan. You lit the burner and sat on the single chair built of logs as you waited for it to warm. The wind swept up outside the shuttered windows and you shivered. You went to the small woodstove and twisted the iron handle of the door. You carefully built a fire as the smell of your dinner filled the cabin.

You left the door of the stove open to heat up the place and turned off the burner. You moved the pot onto the counter and took a bowl from the cupboard. A distant clatter sounded from outside. You frowned and kept yourself from grabbing the pot. You sighed as the noise repeated.

Several times before the wind had torn open the outhouse door and slammed it back and forth throughout the night. One time, it had been a curious bear. You hoped for the former as you shoved your feet into your boots and haphazardly pulled on your jacket. In and out. You’d secure the door and be back for your dinner before it got cold.

Outside, the sky had almost darkened entirely. You clicked on the flashlight you kept by the door and shut it behind you. You stomped down into the snow and squinted at the circle of light as you rounded the edge of the house. You neared the outhouse and sighed as you found it locked up tight. It couldn’t have been your imagination; you’d heard something.

You huffed and turned back. You swept the flashlight back and forth as you searched for a creature sneaking around or whatever item the wind had tried to carry away. There was nothing. You followed your footprints back to the house and climbed up the steps. 

The door was open and you noticed the much larger puddled footprint on the porch too late. The fire had been snuffed and the single lantern was dead. Your wrist was grabbed as you tried to angle the flashlight around the room and you were drawn inside and pinned against the door. 

A cold barrel pressed to your chin and your eyes widened. Your arm was twisted up until the flashlight blinded you and lit the unfamiliar face before you. You blinked and shook your head helplessly.

“Quite the hiding spot,” The deep voice added to the icy nip of the air.

“What--”

“Don’t try to act dumb. It might’ve worked with Wilson but not me.” He snarled and you released the flashlight as you tried to wriggle free. “Stop!”

The light fell to the floor and bounced as he wrenched your arm up and pushed the gun harder under your chin.

“I have orders to take you alive… if I can,” he sneered, “doesn’t mean I will.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you grunted as he had you on tip toes against the wall, the flash light rolled on the floor and sent shadows around the room, “I’m not… I’m not whoever you think I am.”

“Save it, Ursa,” he hissed and pulled you away from the wall, gun still taut to your skin, “0r should I say Astur.”

“No, no, it’s not me,” you pleaded, confused as he turned you away from him and angled you towards the bed, the muzzle now pressed to the back of your head. “I’m just a photographer. You’ll see. Look through my stuff. It’s just cameras and photos. It’s--”

“Shut up,” he pushed on the back of your knees with his, “on your stomach.”

You got down, barely able to see and unwilling to resist with a bullet waiting behind you. He pushed you into the mattress until you were still. He pulled back the gun and planted his knee on your back as he held you down. He holstered his firearm then pulled your arm back behind you and then the other. He used a zip tie to secure your hands there before he did the same to your ankles.

He carefully stepped back and you turned your head to watch his shadow. He didn’t bother with the flashlight as he closed the door. Then he turned and kicked the light so it cracked and the bulb died. He sat in the chair, it groaned dangerously under him.

You could see little of him as all light was gone but for the sudden glow of a screen before him. You only saw the glint of his blue eyes before he put it against his cheek. You turned onto your side and he growled.

“Don’t even think of moving,” he warned. “Hey,” he spoke into the speaker. “I just sent the coordinates. Target secured.” He listened, “by morning?”

He pulled the phone away and dimmed the screen. You could only hear the wind as he sat there and you sensed his unwavering gaze in the dark. With your jacket undone and your boots untied, you felt the draft that blew through the cabin walls. You shivered and he let out a thick breath. A snarl almost.

“I really don’t know what’s going on,” you said.

“Shut up,” he snapped.

“I mean it. You have to look. Look around, you’ll see,” you pleaded.

He snorted and didn’t move. You rolled your eyes helplessly and another chill ran through you.

“Please--”

“I already looked. When you were out climbing trees,” he intoned. “I saw the photos. Very thorough reconnaissance.”

“What? Pictures of birds and snowflakes?” You uttered. 

“You’re good. That whole innocent ploy is convincing,” you heard his boot drag over the wooden floor, “almost.”

You deflated, your wrists chafed and your teeth chattered.

“You gonna wait all night… for whoever that was?”

“I’m tired of telling you to shut up.”

“You leave me like this, I’ll freeze to death. You too.”

“I won’t,” he said, “you might.”

“You said you had orders.”

“Circumstantial,” he countered.

You exhaled deeply and bent your legs as you tried to curl into yourself. He tutted and stood, the floor creaked. The stove door whined and you heard the iron poker against the kindling. He mumbled as he relit the fire and stirred it until the biggest log caught. He rose and set aside the poker and resumed his seat. 

The fire’s amber haze limned his figure in the dark. His broad shoulders were wider than the back of the chair, his long hair poked out from beneath a wool cap, and his hand formed a tight fist on the arm. He leaned his head back and sniffed.

“There,” he said sharply, “nice and cozy.”

You wiggled on the bed, trying to get comfortable. You pulled on your wrists and ankles and only caused your hands and feet to throb. You grunted and relented, resigning yourself to lay listless atop the thin mattress.

“You’re wasting your time--”

“I’m about to shove your sock in your mouth so I suggest you shut the fuck up,” he barked.

You gulped and closed your eyes in surrender. Well, maybe his friends would realise his mistake. Or maybe they’d just add to your predicament.

❄

You didn’t really sleep, you languished. The man didn’t either. You could tell. He just watched. Frighteningly patient as the night critters made a ruckus outside. He barely even moved as you fidgeted, your shoulders sore and your legs cramping. 

Then there was a sudden change that even you felt. A heavy pair of boots climbed up onto the porch and the handle jiggled, the door stopped by the wooden latch. The man rose and crossed to the door. You heard the subtle brush of fabric and metal as he pulled out his gun. He pulled open the door slowly, at the ready, the slightly lesser dark seeping in.

“Sooner than I thought,” the man greeted his comrade. Your heart froze as another set of footfalls followed. A third man entered behind the second.

“Jesus, why are you sitting here in the dark?” The third man asked, “there a light or something?”

“She’s on the bed.” The first man grumbled. “Only a rifle hidden under there. I already disarmed it.”

The sudden electric glow of the lantern bloomed to life. Your eyes slowly adjusted as you stared at the three men. There were all big, all broad-shouldered, all stood like soldiers as they communed around the only chair. The third, the one who’d clicked the lantern on, neared you.

“She’s putting on a front, but--” the first man began and the third one raised his hand to silence him as he knelt by the bed.

He had a kind face, his brown eyes were warm, and the finely trimmed goatee lent him a sense of lightheartedness. His expression however was hard and turned to confusion then disappointment as he held the lantern close and grabbed your chin, turning your head back and forth.

“Not her,” he released you and stood, “fucking Christ, Bucky. It’s not fucking her.”

The second man snorted, “really?”

“It’s gotta be--” the first insisted, “the gun--”

“For hunting,” you said dully, “not that I do much of that. I use it to scare away the wolves.”

“Shut up.” He snarled and crossed his arms as he turned his back to you, “you’re sure?”

“I wouldn’t forget the woman who nearly slit my throat. Twice.” The other said, “and really? A single rifle? You think that’s all she’d have?”

“She has photos too. The bunker, due north. She’s got dozens.” The first insisted.

“Bunker?” You whispered.

“I’m not going to tell you to shut it again,” the man turned as he raised a hand and the blond, the one who hadn’t said much at all, caught his wrist.

“Hey,” the other man warned, “she’s innocent. She probably has no idea what she was taking pictures of.”

“Yeah, but now she knows our faces. No doubt recognizes you, pretty boy,”tThe third offered, “and idiot here assaulted her and tied her up.”

“All the way up here? Who’s she gonna tell?” The blonde returned.

“She has a radio,” The first, Bucky offered. “It’d be enough to give us away.”

“They’d believe her? If she’s been up here long, they might not.” The blonde glanced over the others shoulder, “you apologize and we can--”

“You really wanna leave another loose end?” Bucky challenged as he blocked his gaze. 

“You should’ve confirmed before you jumped,” the third huffed.

“If we’re not gonna leave her, what do we do?” The blonde asked.

They all went silent. They looked at each other and then you. Bucky raised his gun, still in hand, and the blond caught him again. He shook his head and tisked.

“Are you crazy?” He pushed his hand down, “We’re not killing her. She didn’t do anything.”

“I agree, she shouldn't die because you’re stupid,” the other chuckled.

“Well, Einstein,” Bucky snipped, “what do you suggest?”

The third man’s brows raised slowly and he tilted his head. He glanced at you again then back to his comrades. He shrugged and a grin spread across his face.

“The bunker. It’s empty. Safe.” He said quietly, “How much of a fight did she put up?”

“Enough of one,” Bucky muttered.

“She’s… not bad. She’s all alone up here. Even if someone noticed she went radio silent, it’d have to take a while,” he explained.

“What are you saying?” The blonde frowned.

“If she has the photos, if she knows where the bunker is and this moron’s blurted out some intel, I just know it,” he continued, “we can’t let her go. He’s at least right about that. So… we don’t wanna kill her, we keep her.”

“Keep her? For what?” Bucky scoffed.

The man was silent and winked at them. The blonde peeked over at you and Bucky dropped his head as he gripped his hip. 

“Come on, you guys,” he threw up his hand as the blonde shifted on his feet. “It’s fucking cold up here and it’s been awful lonely everywhere else. We’re running around with no finish line in sight and… well, I’m about to stab one of you and I’ve seen the way you,” he pointed at Bucky, “look at me. I don’t trust that.”

“You can’t mean--” the blonde muttered.

“She’s better off dead,” Bucky insisted.

“Just because you’re a monk, doesn’t mean the rest of us need to be.”

“Hmm,” the blonde tapped his toe.

“You’re not really considering this?” Bucky sneered.

“Well… why not?” He rasped, “She’s… alone and… not too bad on the eyes.”

“And I have ears!” You sat up awkwardly, “You want me to keep my mouth shut. Done. I’m up here trying to catch a few birds on a roll. I’m not here to get mixed up in whatever it is you three--” You blinked as the lantern shone in the blond’s face as the three men turned to you, “shit.”

Captain America’s eyes sparked with recognition as your head did the same. He knew you knew who he was; likely he saw that look every other day. There was no hiding it.

“I told you,” the third man chided, “that mug is hard to forget.”

“No, no, I don’t-- I won’t tell a soul. I swear. Please just whatever you’re thinking, don’t. I’m some dumb photographer they sent up here to document the snow. You really think anyone cares that much--”

“Not so much about you but those photos are pretty interesting,” Bucky neared and shoved you down and you barely kept from hitting your head on the wall, “don’t tell me you didn’t know what you were doing.”

“People go missing up here all the time. That’s why no one’s here,” the brown-eyed man said, “she’ll just be another and we’ll have a nice companion to keep us from killing each other.”

“No,” Bucky turned, “it’s my mistake. I’ll take care of it.”

“Put the gun away, Buck,” Steve Rogers ordered, “it’s not right. We can’t kill her. Even if she isn’t entirely innocent, even if you’re right about those photos. She’s better to us alive.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going along with this--”

“I’m the captain,” Steve insisted. “I’ve made up my mind and I’m giving you an order. Sam’s right. She’s more use alive. If she has information, we’ll get it out of her. And if she doesn’t well, we can find something else to do with her.”

Bucky swore and pushed his gun into his holster. He stepped away from you and shouldered past the one called Sam.

“Yes, captain,” he said dryly. 

“Sergeant,” Steve retorted and nodded to Sam, “get her up. We should leave before the sun rises.”

[sidhewrites]

Fixer-Upper

Approx 2800 words. Content warning for suggestions of death. It’s a first draft but it’s done, and it’s written. Inspired by @neighbourlypod (which I will never stop recommending for anyone who likes horror of any kind.)

Julia was dead. 

Or, at least, she felt like it. 

Exhaustion weighed down every inch of her body as she all but dragged herself awake in the early morning light.

She must have slept on something wrong, leaving her sore and slow. The armchair really wasn’t meant to be used as a long-term sleeping location, but it was what she had. An old hand-me-down from her father, good leather that had been stained after so much use. It was worn, but it was comfortable enough -- doubly so after she’d just woken up, and found herself just as poorly-rested as she had been the day before.

Still, Julia made herself stand before her eyes threatened to close again, and dragged herself to her feet, hitting her knee on the side table and knocking its contents to the floor -- a cup, an empty bottle of pills she had never gotten around to throwing out, and whatever book Julia had been reading last. She could clean them up later, when she was awake. First, Julia made her way to the bathroom for a shower. For once, she was grateful the water heater had yet to be repaired, but even the icy rivulets running down her skin did little to drag her tired mind closer to consciousness.

Well, she decided, that was that. No matter how much her body cried out for it, Julia was awake, and she would stay awake, at least until the afternoon. She wouldn’t so much as look at her armchair all day, not even think about sitting down until she was done with her work. Besides, the bedroom still needed to be refloored, so there was no point getting attached to a bed when it would have to be moved for a few nights at a time anyway.

 When she’d bought house 19, the real estate agent had said it was a fixer-upper, perfect for a crafty-minded individual like herself. Julia had been desperate to get out of the city, to get her mind of things, and purchased the house without so much as visiting it beforehand, but she hadn’t expected just how much needed to be done until she went over the builders plans and saw that even the plumbing itself had to be redone. She’d been repairing the house for months now, and even still, there was hardly a dent in all the work that needed to be done.

Julia had been picking up the newspaper left at her door daily, though she hadn’t read them. She knew what it would say. Or at least, she knew what the important stuff would say. Her photo might be in there, if she was really unlucky, but that wasn’t something that she wanted to deal with right now. It wasn’t on the list, after all, and never would be until the house was finished. Still, newspapers would be useful for when she finally got around to painting. After that, Julia could call home, avoid her mother’s reassurances that something could be figured out. Julia would say that she was happy in her new place and that, really, you and dad should come out for dinner some time. 

The very idea of hosting a dinner for her parents was enough to make her shoulders sag. She sighed, and fell into one of the plastic kitchen chairs, keenly aware that there was a better one just one room away. It was like an itch in the back of her mind now, not just to rest, but to go to the armchair itself. To lie back, and let the world fade away as she rested. 

Maybe she’d sat on it wrong. Maybe she’d had a bad dream that escaped her now. Maybe everything was just catching up to her again. It had been years since she’d felt properly rested, but this was worse than normal. It was hard not to give in to the urge.

Still, she’d at least gotten the gas stove working a few days back, and that meant she had a hot cup of coffee to keep her company as she went over her work for the day. Gardening was still at the top of her list -- weeding first, and seeing if any of the old and neglected flower beds could be saved. Not likely. 

She would have to stop by a store and pick up some perennials as well as some extra cleaning products later in the week. There was a smell in the living room, and nothing she had tried so far seemed to make it go away. Maybe she’d try vinegar again. Or maybe lemon juice would help? Julia had read somewhere that lemon juice helped with bad smells.

Well, it didn’t matter just then. Julia wasn’t working on the living room today. She stood up, leaving her forgotten cup to cool on the table -- the third cup in a row, it seemed -- and made a mental note to do the dishes later. Everything not on the list could be done later.

Julia, after all, did like her lists. Things were better when she could sit down and organize. Things made sense, and her skin started to crawl whenever things didn’t make sense.

So she kept to her plan. Grabbed a hat and stopped at the kitchen door to put on her dirt-covered shoes before exiting into the backyard, overgrown and covered in choking weeds. Dandelions, she didn’t mind. But the ivy had run amok in the garden, and she could only hope the trees were bare due to the autumn chill, and not because they had been killed. It would have to be cut away -- no doubt a job that was going to take days. Her garden shears were hardly sharp enough to do the job, but they were what she had. And while she could have spent the money to get a new pair, she was stubborn enough to stick with these ones until they broke.

They, like all her tools, were still in a cardboard box in what would one day be an office space. Or a guest room, depending on what she decided to do with it. Probably not a guest room, now that she thought of it. Julia didn’t exactly expect to have many visitors at her new place, nor did she want them. Not for a few months anyway. This house was perfect for keeping her mind busy, but she could already hear her mother’s usual, quiet cough of disapproval. Are you sure this is what you want to be spending your time doing, baby? Maybe a bit of ignorant encouragement, now that she thought of it. Something like I’m sure they’d understand if you just explained your side of the story.

Never mind the fact that Julia didn’t want to explain her side of the story. It was still a fresh wound, and she couldn’t imagine it would close up any time soon.

With a sigh, Julia nodded at the garden and turned back into the kitchen, crossing the yellowing linoleum floor, through the ragged carpet and odd smell in the living room, and down the hall to the spare room. Dust covered the floor, and the walls needed to be redone completely. The drywall threatened to fall off entirely, and mold peeked out from a few corners. Nothing she hadn’t seen before, and nothing she couldn’t fix. But there was one thing -- a pale square on the wall where a painting must have once stood, and a metal door set into the plaster. A safe.

She’d never lived in a house with a safe before, much less one that had been hidden behind a painting. During her first night here, she’d scoured the documents and called the realtor in search of a code, but no such thing could be found. Still, she stopped before it just as she always did upon entering the room, considering the old lock. 

Just as always, Julia tried a few codes to no avail, and shrugged without disappointment. Next time, maybe, she told herself as she went for her gardening tools. Shears, thick gloves, a trowel, and a hammer. Doubtful she’d need the last one, but it didn’t hurt to have it. After all, the last thing Julia needed was to track mud all over the place because she couldn’t bring a few extra tools just in case.

Back out to the garden, where she tugged at the weeds farthest from the door first. The morning was still cold, but the temperature could crawl up unpleasantly even at this time of the year. Hours passed easily this way, hacking at leaves with her old shears, trying to decide where to toss them, trying to ignore the call of her chair back inside, where it was cool and quiet and, most importantly, comfortable enough to sleep.

But -- no. No, Julia had work to do. She had weeds to pull. Ivy and ivy, and somehow more ivy had piled onto itself as if this house hadn’t been tended to for decades, and not the six years advertised by the realtor. Regardless, Julia worked as the world woke up outside her tall wooden fence.

The two kids next door shouted as only kids could as they left for school. On the other side of her house, the smell of cookies wafted out of an open window, and she fought the urge to go over and ask for some. What sort of person went up to a neighbor's house all covered in dirt and sweat and asked for cookies? A few cars drove off, a motorist blared their music as they passed, and birds chatted tunelessly to each other.

She worked until the midmorning heat demanded she move. Julia sweated easily, and she couldn’t stand the smell of herself on top of everything else, so she stopped inside to rub herself off with a soaked towel, before going back outside to work in the shade. One of the old trees had been nearly freed of its leafy prison, and she could get to work on the weeds nearest the small deck. 

As Julia worked, she added a power-washer to her ever-growing list of supplies she kept telling herself she’d get, but that meant she would have to stop work for a day and go into the town proper in order to purchase everything. Besides, having a clean deck wasn’t a priority. It could wait. The flowerbeds could wait. And the bedroom floor, surely, could wait.

A faint knock interrupted her thoughts, and she looked up from her work. From the open kitchen door, she could see through to the front door -- an old wooden thing that needed sanding and restaining at least -- and the hint of a shadow on the other side of the small frosted window.

Someone stood on the other side, knocking on her door. Someone was here.

Why? 

She’d been here three weeks now, working slowly but surely through the house, and not a single person had come over to pay her any mind. Not even the kids next door had come over to ask for their ball back when they’d kicked it over the high fence.

And then she remembered the cookies. It was stupid and childish, perhaps, to hope that it was a neighbor coming over to offer some, but, as the knock came again, Julia couldn’t help but admit that’s what she wanted.

But all that kneeling over the last few hours had done a number on her knees, and it had added another layer of exhaustion onto her already tired body. She got up at a snail's pace, glad that she at least didn’t suffer from vertigo, and trudged through the house to the front door.

The shadow was gone by the time she’d gotten there. Julia peered out the window to see a woman walking away, already on her way back home. Her hands were empty, and Julia sighed. She could open the door, call out and apologize for how long it had taken her to get there. But her very bones ached, and, worse, she’d done just the thing she’d told herself not to do.

Dirt footsteps marked her trail from the back door to the front, staining the already stained linoleum and adding on to her already huge to-do list.

She sighed. Maybe she could sit for just a few minutes…

No. 

No, she couldn’t sit. She couldn’t so much as think about that arm chair, with its welcoming comfort and its soft cushions that seemed almost molded to the shape of her by now. Or, barring that, she at least wouldn’t look at it. It sat there, facing away from her in the living room, and she wouldn’t look at it. 

Instead, she went past it, back out to the garden. 

The dirt could wait. It wouldn’t go anywhere, and it wouldn’t spread if she didn’t sweep it up right away. Still, her mother’s voice echoed in her memory -- this is how you leave the place? Why even bother cleaning at all? Never mind the fact that she was doing nothing but clean lately. A bit of a mess was tolerable, so long as she stayed on task and continued down her to do list. Today was the garden. The sweeping could be done later. Maybe tomorrow, if she really couldn’t make herself do it tonight.

So she stayed outside, vision half-blurred as she moved her tired limbs over and over again in the garden, pulling weeds and moving leaves, digging and cutting and digging and cutting. It became an easy monotony, and more than once she nearly dozed off, only to snap back into consciousness with the realization that her hands hadn’t stopped moving at all.

What did they call it again? Micro-sleep?

Maybe she shouldn’t have been working after all.

The hours wore on all the same. She worked. She dug and she cut, and soon the bright yellow sunlight turned to orange, then pink, and finally the purple rays of late sunset.

Julia didn’t want to stop, if only because it meant she would have to stand up from her spot and drag her body back inside. She was covered in dirt, and she desperately needed to wash, and she couldn’t quite remember if she’d stopped to eat at all that day.

Ah, well. No use worrying over that. She was trying to avoid thinking about the past, after all, not stew in it.

Eventually, it became dark enough that Julia had no choice but to set the trowel aside and push her groaning, tired limbs up. Half of her was desperate to just go right back to the chair and fall into it, and worry about everything else later.

It felt like she had gotten so little done today. In the dark, it almost seemed like the ivy hadn’t been cut back at all. Tomorrow, Julia would be able to take a better look at what she’d done and decide where to put the discarded vines. If nothing else, though, she could at least clean up before collapsing into the chair.

So she took her things, the shovel and shears and gloves, and rinsed them off at the leaky spigot before drying them off on her pants. She stopped at the doorway to remove her dirt-covered shoes and hat. They would be waiting for her tomorrow. In the meantime, Julia picked her way carefully around the dirt she’d tracked in earlier that day. If nothing else, Julia reasoned, she could at least put her things away overnight. Back in the cardboard box they went.

The shower was cold and bracing as it had been that morning, but, just like before, it did nothing to wake her up. If nothing else, it almost seemed to tire her out all the more. 

She could change her clothes tomorrow, Julia reasoned. She’d done enough today. The weeds wouldn’t grow back overnight after all, and the dirt wouldn’t multiply when she wasn’t looking.

Finally, limbs heavy as lead, Julia allowed herself to fall into the armchair, and settle down into the place her body had once been. The cushions molded around her, all too familiar with the shape of her by now. Her flesh had turned liquid over the past three weeks, staining the leather and turning it a pale yellow as her muscles lost their structure. 

She returned to the same spot nightly, too tired to see what remained of her body, crumpled and formless, and fell into yet another deep, dreamless sleep. In the morning, she’d wake up again, dead tired, and drag herself to the shower. She’d get the paper, and make herself a cup of coffee to keep her company while she planned her day. Weeding, again, most likely. It would surely take at least few more days to do. 

[halfway-happyyy]

Hold You in My Arms

AN: This is short ‘n sweet and soppy as hell, and inspired by this lovely little ask that I got a little while ago. Hope you lovelies enjoy. TW: pregnant reader, mentions of pregnancy.

It is late into the evening when Alexander arrives home and you do not really tend to sleep well when he is gone, so you are already awake when the sound of him creeping his way up the stairs finds you from your cocoon of blankets. He hesitates outside of the bedroom door, deciding whether he is going to risk rousing you from your already troubled slumber. You hear the creek of the opening door a second later, see the sliver of yellow hallway light spill open through the crack and smile softly to yourself. Alexander pads over to your closet, loosening the tie from the collar of his white, starched shirt as he does so. You can tell from the sound of his gate that he’s indulged in a few cocktails this evening; this being his first public event since the pandemic took hold, you aren't at all surprised. He removes the clothing wordlessly from his body, draping them over the chair in there, and disappears into the on-suite bathroom. A second later, the tap begins running and you hear him spit into the sink a couple times. He emerges a few minutes later, the waft of mint toothpaste hangs heavy in the air behind him. He sidles down in the bed beside you, and relief washes over your very being like a tidal wave. Alexander reaches for your hand beneath the covers and grasps it tightly; he’s surprised when you grasp it right back.

“You’re awake?” He asks, sleepily.

“Yes.”

Alexander turns to nuzzle his face into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent as he does so. “Mm, it’s good to be home kid.” Instinctively, his hands move to the curve of your burgeoning belly, where they caress the bump slowly growing there. “Hi baby,” He whispers.

It's the little things you'll miss the most when he's back on set.

He peppers gentle kisses around the hollow of your throat. "Is there anything I can get you?"

As if on queue, a ripple runs rigidly along the inside of your belly- featherlight, but definitely the product of a miniscule finger. “You know what I could go for right now?” you ask, and you can almost feel Alexander beam into the crook of your shoulder.

“What's that?”

You rub the roundness of your belly lovingly. "We would kill for a grilled cheese sandwich.”

Alexander lifts his head from your shoulder, expression amused. “You and our unborn child, hey?”

You nod sleepily. “With pitchforks and everything.”

Alexander lets a small puff of air escape his mouth in the shape of a low whistle. “I better get on it then, hey?”

You squeeze his hand gently. “I’ll come down and keep you company.”

Following him down the stairs to the darkened kitchen, you are in mild anticipation for the midnight snack you are about to recieve. Alexander is entirely too gifted a cook and can slap just about anything together, and have it be delicious. “How was your night?” You ask, stifling a yawn.

He sets a small frying pan atop the bottom right burner and heads to the fridge for the butter. “It was good to see everyone again,” He muses while the gas burner flickers to life. “I had forgotten how nice it felt to put on actual clothing and to just be in a completely different setting…” He cuts a large portion of butter from the block and drops it into the pan, the satisfying sizzle of it causes your mouth to water hungrily. “Quite a few people asked about you,” He murmurs as he slices two pieces of fresh, homemade sourdough bread. He sets the first piece into the pan of scorching butter and slices a few pieces of aged cheddar cheese, laying them on top of the crisping bread. He places the other piece of bread on top of the cheese and turns to you, a large smile in place on his face. “Not that I’m surprised in the slightest,”

“Surprised about what?”

Alexander shrugs. “That you were asked about multiple times this evening. You’re pretty fucking awesome.” It is never lost on you how loved he makes you feel; that someone could look at you the same way that he is looking at you now- that someone could love you enough to make you a grilled cheese sandwich at an ungodly hour of the evening, is still an insane notion. “Almost there, kid.” He announces a few moments later. You watch him in the golden light of the kitchen lamp, the way his hair is still done up and full of product from hours before. You notice the way the muscles in his back and shoulders ripple and flex as he flips the sandwich in the pan. His sweatpants, the ones he owns multiple pairs of and has only really worn them during quarantine, hang teasingly low on his hips. He reaches for the cupboard to his left and produces a plate, which he dumps the sandwich onto expertly. Next, he grabs the ketchup bottle from the fridge, squirts a large, squiggly heart next to the grilled cheese and places it gently on the placemat in front of you.

You peer down at the crispy, glistening masterpiece in front of you and rub a thumb over the back of Alexander's hand. "This smells amazing, thank you my love." It's quiet in the kitchen as you sink your teeth into your first bite of food. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more in love with you,” You throw a cheeky wink his way.

Alexander leans back in his chair, a small smile tugs at the edges of his lips as he shakes his head in mild disbelief. “Me neither, kid.” He cocks his head to the side, his face brimming now. “Quarantine has offered me so much time with you, and I feel like one of the luckiest men in the world.”

You roll your eyes playfully. “I’m not exactly sure why!”

Alexander gestures to the clock above the stove. “It’s nearly two o’clock in the morning on a Sunday morning and I’ve just made the love of my life, who happens to be growing our baby in her belly, a grilled cheese sandwich.” His eyes are wide and glassy, his expression slightly incredulous. “For the first time in my life, I can say honestly that there is no place I would rather be than right here.”

You swallow the last bite of food in your mouth, and curse for the millionth time during your pregnancy, the hormones that have wreaked havoc on your already fragile emotional state. “Alex, I-

“I mean, I have been with you every step of the way for this new journey. I haven’t missed a single doctor’s appointment, or phone call… this is living, kid. This is it.” And there is really nothing you can say at this point because Alexander has succeeded once again, in rendering you utterly speechless. He takes the empty plate from you and deposits it into the sink with a dull thud and then turns and heads into the living room. You follow him wordlessly, watching with a small smile as he turns on the record player in the corner of the room, next to the bay window. Ray LaMontagne’s beautiful voice suddenly comes to life above the muted scratch of the needle. “Dance with me?” He asks, quietly.

“Of course,”

He holds you close to him, his warm hand rests easily against the small of your back, but your bump presses against his stomach and he can’t help but glance down and laugh a little. “Hi baby,” He murmurs, and it causes goosebumps to rise in patterns across your body.

“You’re going to be such a wonderful papa,” You whisper into the warmth of Alexander’s bare chest.

Alexander kisses the top of your head; lets his lips linger close as he speaks. “I can’t wait to meet them…”

You sway like that for what feels like hours, not at all aware of when the record finished. “Thanks for staying up past our bedtime with us, Alex.”

He beams down at you, and your breath hitches in your throat as you watch the way his blue orbs glitter wildly. He tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear, humming contentedly to himself. “Kid, I’d stay up past your bedtime with you a million times if it meant that I got to slow dance with the two of you,” He splays a warm palm against your belly. “A million times, just to feel even an ounce of this happiness.”

It is the little things that you will miss the most; and right now, you are all too content to live in this moment with him forever.

[askultimateluckytrash]

           Nagito woke in the morning exhausted, face numb and pale after a sleepless night. For hours he’d tossed and turned in his bed, staring at the back of his eyelids, too worried and wired to sum up a scrap of tiredness until it was too late. He didn’t begin to doze off until the pale blue morning light was streaming through the windows. He closed his curtains on it.

           This morning, he was still alone. The cold empty bed told him as much. The silence as he slipped down the stairs to the kitchen confirmed it. The stark cleanliness of the house, without a thing out of place because there was no one around to mess it up, hammered the point home. He was alone. There would be no one he could talk to today either. As if he could’ve talked to anyone before anyway…

           Well. No point in complaining. Nobody liked that. He had sworn off complaining ever again, after everyone in his life had gotten so annoyed and bored with it. And really, he had nothing to complain about. Loneliness was something he was used to.

           Now he found himself sitting at the counter in the kitchen, with the bright morning light shimmering through the windows, reflecting off the yellow and white tiles. His hands were wrapped around a mug, the tips of his fingers tapping the rim idly. His eyes were dull and distant, staring straight ahead and seeing nothing. The passing of time dissolved. He could have been sitting there for hours for all he knew.

           Eventually, though, he got up. He stood and stretched, feeling his stiff bones crack, feeling the cold air of an early spring morning on his skin. Everything felt cold.

           He walked forward, still grasping the mug in his hands, and slowly poured the contents into the kitchen sink. Then he turned around to start his chores for the day.

                       ______________________________________

           Hours later caught Nagito on the front porch steps, sitting with his head propped up on his hands. Clover was sitting at his feet, wagging her tail and attempting to nudge up under his hand to get petted. Orange Peel was held safely in his lap, kneading his leg and purring lightly. He was surprised that they weren’t too unsettled to be near the house at all right now. Behind him, thick black smoke billowed out from the open door.

           The acrid smell of fire and scorched plastic reached outside even here, though he had all the doors and windows thrown open to try and air out the house. The smoke poured right through the front door, rising over his head, staining the buttery light yellow walls of the house. He could still feel the heat from inside, much hotter and much dryer than the early summer air of his garden.

           He had been trying to cook Tantanmen for dinner—a new dish that he hadn’t tried before, and was probably a little too complex for his ‘boiling tofu and rice in soup’ skillset—but he wanted to make something spicy and flavorful for Izuru, who he knew liked spicy foods and probably was getting bored of his mediocre cooking by now. Besides, how could he ever get better at cooking if he never tried anything new? Maybe it would at least be passable.

           Or he could burn down the kitchen.

           Or, more precisely, the stove exploded.

           Since he had been lucky enough to be standing at the back of the kitchen, it had only left him a little bit scorched and very surprised, though the entire left half of the kitchen walls and cupboards were then up in flames. The explosion had blown out the wires connecting to the sprinkler system in the house, and so even while the battery powered smoke alarm shrieked urgently in the living room, the sprinklers sat uselessly in their little notches in the ceiling and did absolutely nothing. And the flames had quickly engulfed the spot where the fire extinguisher sat.

           Nagito’s first priority had been to get Orange Peel and Clover out of the house. He put them safely in the garden and called 911 on his cell phone. It would be horrible if his parents’ lovely house burned down all because of his rotten luck. That was the last piece of them left in the world. He wanted to save it, if nothing else.

           Then he had gone back for his Hope Box, then Hajime’s skateboard, then some expensive jewelry, Izuru’s portrait of him, his letters, some of Hajime’s favorite ties, some watches, some of Clover and Orange Peel’s favorite toys, back into the house again and again and again. But, unfortunately, each time he emerged without so much as a burn on him. No matter how many excuses he made up to have to go back inside. And eventually, when the fire department showed up, he had to give up, with nothing but the tips of his hair scorched.

           The fire department put out the fire and stayed long enough to make sure that no exposed wires or gas tanks would light up the place again. They asked Nagito some questions about how it happened, took a report, and then went on their way about an hour ago, leaving him to do nothing but sit on the front steps, with the ruins of dinner behind him, staring forward and seeing nothing.

[marvels-writings]

Hi! I had an idea for a Carol x R mini series. R has known Carol for 10+ yrs-Carol came back to Earth briefly after leaving to help the skrulls. R has powers, 1 of which slows her aging. A strong connection when they met but both had other obligations. R misses Carol and decides to write letters to her (including pics): everyday life, the Avengers, changes on Earth, adventures/interests, how much she misses Carol etc. The snap-R dusted, Carol finds R's letters to her/determined to get R back.

Letters to Space (1)

Series Masterlist

Carol Danvers Masterlist

A/N: if anyone has a better idea for a title PLEASE drop something in my ask box or sm (and i spent half an hour on the collage, thoughts?)

 -~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

1 month ago

“Promise me you’ll come back to me?” You pleaded softly, touching your forehead to Carol’s outside Maria’s home. You hadn’t known Carol for that long, but something just clicked when the two of you met, it just made you want to be with her all the time. 

Everyone had just got done sorting out the problem with the skrulls, Carol was about to go help them, you were a recruit for SHIELD and somehow managed to tag along with Fury and everyone else. 

The only reason you were with SHIELD was because of HYDRA’s experiments on you, thanks to them, you could create fire from your hands, had super strength, slowed aging, and a lot more agility than most other humans, it also turned you into a fireball. 

“I promise y/n.” Carol answered softly, holding your hands and gently squeezing. You quickly tore your hands away from hers and wrapped them around her neck in a tight hug, Carol’s eyes glistened with unshed tears as she wrapped her hands around your waist in return, squeezing tightly before letting go and flying off. 

You smiled softly and sighed before heading back into the house, seeing Fury fidget with the pager and talking to him about some protector initiative he was planning to set up, he wanted you to help him, you agreed, it might help use up your time away from being tested on. 

 -~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

2 weeks ago: 

“Who’s there?” You asked sleepily, walking to the door of your apartment in your pajamas while using a towel to dry off your hair. The water dripped onto your sweatshirt, you sighed and quickly tied the string on your grey sweatpants before standing in front of the door. 

“It’s me.” A voice called out behind the door, the voice was distinct, it was definitely Carol. 

You opened the door with a huge grin on your face, towel still in your hand. Carol looked at you, matching your grin, you pounced at her, hugging her softly then pulling away, a grin still on your face. 

“You’re back quickly.” You said excitedly, pulling away but bringing Carol inside by taking her wrist gently. You used your other hand to continue drying your hair. 

Carol gulped, even though you were in casual clothing, your wet hair just made you look gorgeous. 

“I had orders.” Carol joked, standing slightly uncomfortably on the edge of the counter, you noticed how uncomfortable she was and shrugged, it was a weekend, you didn’t have work. 

“The shower is down the hall on the left, there should be some hot water left, I’ll drop off some clean clothes outside.” You instructed, Carol was a bit taken aback by how quickly you welcomed her into your home. 

“I’ll make something to eat, any preferences?” You asked, switching on the coffee machine and leaning back against the counter next to it. 

“Something sweet, I’m sick of space food.” Carol answered, “Thank you for this by the way.” Carol said, gesturing vaguely to the shower and everything else. 

“Yeah of course.” You answered, smiling and putting the wet towel next to the coffee machine. “Now go shower, you’re stinky.” Carol laughed and headed where you had told her. 

You went to your room, took out a navy blue crew neck sweatshirt, some black leggings and a few other things before setting them outside the door, yelling to Carol that they were there before heading to your kitchen, switching on some music and you started making chocolate chip pancakes. 

Carol stepped outside after taking a shower, wrapped up in one of your spare towels and hair dripping onto it. She tripped over the pile of clothes you’d set out for her before yelling a quick thank you and changing inside, she heard your laugh and then whatever music you were playing. 

She smiled to herself while changing, she loved this, the act of just being human, instead of some great hero. With everyone else she had to be a hero, someone who would always do the right thing no matter what. With you, all of that faded and she was human again, she was able to enjoy the day to day pleasures everyone else takes for granted. 

Carol grinned at the thought and stepped outside, relaxed music and the smell of fresh coffee and pancakes filling her senses. She walked over to the kitchen, spreading her arms and looking at you.

“How do I look?” She asked timidly, you turned your head while pouring the batter onto the pan and gave her a quick glance before turning back to your task. 

“Why does everyone look better in my clothes than I do?” You joked, finishing pouring the batter and turning around, hastily wiping the pancake mix off of your face before looking at Carol, she actually did look much better than you in those sweatpants and sweatshirt. 

“There’s coffee and a table, make yourself at home.” You offered cheerily, turning around only for the gas to go off. “Dammit not this again.”

 The room started smelling of gas, Carol quickly opened a window to let the smell out and turning around just in time to see you use your finger as a lighter for the gas, it flamed up instantly and Carol frowned, she didn’t know you had powers, all she knew was that you were a good fighter. 

“You’re a matchstick?” Carol asked curiously, pouring herself a mug of coffee from your fresh coffee pot. 

“Very funny,” You mocked, the topic was still a bit sensitive even though it was many years in the past. “It’s a long story but I have fire powers and enough strength to beat Captain America in an arm wrestle.” You explained while carefully flipping a pancake. 

“Well we have time, as far as I know.” Carol commented, sitting down on one of your barstools in front of the counter, resting fer faeon her elbow as she observed you make food. 

You sighed, putting 3 pancakes on a plate and pouring maple syrup in a small pourer and giving it to Carol, turning back to make some for yourself. 

“Well, when I was 7, I moved to California from (place of origin),” You started explaining. “Then when I was 14, I moved to Ireland because of my dad’s job, not the best I’ve had but far from the worst. Then one day, for work experience for my school, I took an internship at some new science facility.”

You inhaled sharply as memories rushed into your head, gently flipping the pancakes still. 

“The science facility ended up being HYDRA, they experimented on me, gave me these powers” You lifted your hands, turning around as small red and orange wisps emanated from them, watching Carol’s eyes widen before turning back to the stove.

“Moved me back to California because they had a better HQ, then their facility got taken down by SHIELD. SHIELD found out about my powers and recruited me, now, almost 10 years later, I’m still working for them.” You put the pancakes on a plate, hand shaking as you pour maple syrup onto them. 

“Trying to prevent that from happening to anybody else.” You muttered, walking to sit beside Carol, putting on a fake smile to pretend everything was still okay.

“And your family?” She asked, putting some pancake into her mouth. 

“Oh, I still visit my parents in Ireland, the rest of my family in (place of origin)” You answered, starting to eat with still shaky hands. “I actually just got back from (place of origin) after visiting my family when all of this outer space shit happened.”

“I’m so sorry.” Carol said softly, resting one hand on your free one, wincing when she saw you flinch at the simple action. You scooped food onto your spoon and ate it, looking into the distance. 

“Not your fault,” You answered with your mouth half full, you chewed and swallowed before continuing. “It’s in the past anyway, what about you?” You asked, changing the topic. Carol took her hand from yours before answering. 

“I think you already know,” Carol said quietly, you did know, you just needed to change the topic. “I need to tell you something.” Carol stated, you turned to her after putting another bite into your mouth. 

“I’m gonna be gone for longer this time, we just found a planet and I need to defend it.” Carol stated weakly, looking down at her feet. Anxiety bubbled in her chest the longer you didn’t answer, she heard a large gulp and looked up. 

“Sorry I was chewing.” You said, Carol couldn’t help but chuckle despite the situation. “But hey thanks for flying across galaxies to visit me.” You joked, a bit sad she was going but you knew it was for a good reason. 

“You’re not mad?” Carol asked timidly, still surprised you weren’t. 

“Two, well, three things,” You stated, lifting up three fingers then gesturing to your index finger with your other hand. 

“First, I can’t possible be mad at you for helping an entire alien race find a home,” You gestured to the other finger before continuing. “Second, I’m just happy you came to visit me to eat pancakes and shower.”

“I didn’t just come to eat pancakes and shower.” carol laughed, you were honestly taking this really well. 

“Third, I’m not your girlfriend that I’m gonna get mad at you for not spending enough time with me.” You and Carol both froze slightly at that statement, you ignored it and finished your food, putting your plate in the dishwasher. 

“True.” Carol admitted, not saying anything else as she followed the actions you made. 

“Well, since you’re not gonna be staying long, let’s make the best of what we have, right?” You asked, starting to do the dishes. 

“Definitely.” Carol answered, walking over to help you with the dishes, you grinned and flicked soapy water in her face, she laughed and did the same to you. 

-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-

You were incredibly bored as you sat in the Avengers compound, you decided to add another letter to your shoebox. The small box was already almost overflowing with letters you had written to Carol. Her visits to Earth had grown more sporadic, the two of you talked once in a week, sometimes even once in a month through holograms.

Carol hadn’t seen you physically in almost a year, it was tearing her apart, she didn’t know about the shoebox, and you’d like to keep it that way. You sighed, you missed her a lot, you had developed feelings for her in Carol’s last few visits, you kept them to yourself, scared to lose your friendship. 

You wrote another letter, filled it with some pictures you’d taken with the camera Carol had gifted you on one of her visits. 

There were maybe 50 letters in the box, all of them filled with normal things, a coffee bean, one of your favorite pens, some art, some army patches you’d found in Cap’s things. It was filled with everything you’d done while she was gone. 

You wished she was here more than ever, after the civil war, you hadn’t talked to cap, wanda, vision and even Nat for a few months. They were the only family you had and now they were gone. You often visited Tony and Pepper, but it wasn’t the same. You wrote another letter to her. 

This letter was you wanted her with you, it was simple, exactly like a confession but on a letter. Halfway through, you got a call from your phone, it was from Rhodey, you picked it up to find out everyone was back in the other room of the compound, you shoved the half done letter to finish it later. 

Later wouldn’t be for a while now. 

Tag list: @capcarolsdanver, @versdan, @lesbian-girls-wayhaught, @lovebotlarson, @dhengkt, @5aftermidnight, @hstoria, @natasha-danvers, @veryfunnyal,@xxxtwilightaxelxxx , let me know if you’d like to be in any of my tag lists!

A/N: Sorry to leave on a sad note but it will get better, and angstier but generally better too!

| Part 2 | 

[believerindaydreams]

Part 2 of the Point Outlook rewrite for @mitsybubbles

I can't get River to sound at all right to me so I might stop here but hey here's some hurt and comfort

For a moment, warmth and the sound of old music almost convinces Arcade that he's back in the Mojave.

Then he blinks and there's a howling ocean wind blowing outside, and the music is too smooth to be the result of scratchy radio static- a jukebox of all things, playing Daydream Believer. His savior is whistling along to it, hands busy with some piece of electronica, while he pedals something like a butter churn.

It takes Arcade a moment to recognize the device for what it is: a foot-powered laundry rocker, popular with those who can't afford fission batteries for menial work. They keep a few at the Old Mormon Fort for emergency.

Stop dilly dallying, Arcade. He props himself up on his good elbow, against the queen bed's backboard.

"Thank you. Normally I'd prefer to at least introduce myself before bleeding out over someone's floor- my name's Arcade. Hello."

"You don't really need to stand on formality when cannibals are chasing you. But hello to you too, I'm River, and this," he waves the scrap in the air triumphantly, "is your ticket home, as soon as I can get it working. I salvaged a miniature tv set a while back, so once I wire it for radio you can call your friends for help."

"That...is wonderful, and it isn't your fault that they all happen to be in New Vegas." He's feeling sturdy enough to risk sitting up. "Not many Followers of the Apocalypse out here yet, and although we could certainly use volunteers I worry local enthusiasm might be limited."

"I guessed from the coat," River says, nodding at the laundry churn. "Hope you don't mind, the blood was starting to set."

"Oh, calamity. There were probably bacterial cultures entirely unknown to science festering on that coat- uh. I'm joking, it's just a byword how hard it is to keep them clean."

By now he's taken in the house- familiar prewar pattern, albeit cramped, but there's a number of oddities that don't quite fit the usual shack hacked into livability. The well-used work bench speaks to that, as does the planter with its small, lovingly tended cactus. The sight of it gives him an ache of nostalgia.

"You're probably thirsty, especially if you were drinking that brackish tidal water..." River gently picks a purple prickly pear with a set of tongs, squeezes it out into a soda bottle on the small neat stove. When he's done he hands it to Arcade.

Who holds it, feeling a little dumbfounded. He hasn't drunk clean water since Julie's last care package, and the sensation of a drink that doesn't burn at the back of the throat is something he's practically forgotten. This is soothing, even healing.

It would be very tempting to linger on here, but somewhere out there is a teenager who might need his help, he can't justify lollygagging around here. Arcade pulls himself out of bed, a trifle unsteadily but moving, only to find the impromptu bandage on his arm is soaked through and dripping. He splutters, oddly embarrassed.

River yelps, breath suddenly coming too fast: Arcade might not be much of a doctor but hyperventilating isn't hard to diagnose. "Uh. Are you okay?"

"I just don't handle blood very well..."

Arcade wastes a speechless moment being impressed that he's still here at all, if his rescuer had to overcome a fear this violent to patch him together. "Then, uh, you don't have to do it again. I'm a qualified doctor, if you want to turn around and not watch that's fine..." He trails off, suddenly aware of how unlikely it is that any one in the Wasteland would turn their back on a stranger in their own home.

Only River does shift the chair and churn around, along with something like a sigh of relief. "I'm not trying to be rude...it's just. A lot."

Arcade retrieves his doctor's bag from where it's been thoughtfully placed on a nearby desk, raises an eyebrow to see that his small stock of caps and cleansing vodka haven't even been touched. "Don't worry about it! I have a lot to thank you for, I can take it from here." DC is an odd place, where stimpaks are cheap but broc flowers are luxuries. A day or two there won't even be a scar. "In fact, I really ought to reimburse you if anything. Followers do accept donations, but we try not to be impositions."

"Oh, well, don't worry about that," River says. His voice is stronger now and the gentle thump- thump of the laundry churn is a steady sound. "I'm only here because the Crimson Caravan thought they should establish an outpost here. When my family farm went under, I started Brahmin herding for them...only there aren't any Brahmin in all of Point Lookout."

"Classic NCR efficiency."

"Yeah. It should be my sister here instead...I miss here more than I thought I would," he confesses.

Given this small cosy space compared to the horrors outside, that's not surprising.

"Actually, none of the local wildlife is very friendly," River says. "I did find a nice molerat but then a ghoul reaver came along and irradiated it..."

Arcade nods, then realises the gesture is less than helpful. "Uh. You survived an encounter with a reaver?"

"It chased me down to the water and I swam away from it," River explains. "Things that are on fire don't like liquid?"

Well. That does follow.

His arm's better now, ready to go..."Would my lab coat be ready now, you think? I'm cleaned up, it's fine to look," he adds belatedly.

River turns around, gives him a bit of a grin- it has definitely been too long since anyone grinned at him like that. "Let's look."

His lab coat, smelling of abraxo, is cleaner than it's been since he left the Boneyard; and the white stitching where it was torn is hardly noticeable. Nice repair work, that.

It's also dripping wet. Naturally.

"If you need to leave so urgently that you don't mind wearing it like that, I guess you could be going right now," River says. Not exactly wistful, but undeniably lonely.

Arcade frowns and looks out at the dark sky, punctured by marsh gas flickering in the night. "I wouldn't want to impose..."

"You wouldn't be," River says gently. "And if I'm frying chicken schnitzel, it isn't any trouble to make a few more."

The mention of food makes him uncomfortably aware of a sharp appetite. "Do you normally cook fry-ups at unholy hours of the morning?"

"If I have a hungry guest, why not?" River sounds remarkably sincere.

"You know what. Anyone listening to this would think you're the one who's the Follower, not me."

"Oh. Definitely not- I'm honoured, but again, the blood thing? No, thank you."

Arcade casts one more look out the window, almost shivering at the thought of being cold and alone and hunted out there, when instead he's here and safe. "Well...hospitalis sancti. Hospitality is sacred. And in this case, comes highly appreciated."

River stops with his hand on the fridge door. "You aren't Legion, are you?"

"No! Sweet rads, no, I just...like watching old gladiator holotapes..." Arcade trails off, feeling utterly ridiculous.

River looks relieved, though. "That's all right then."

Turns out his rescuer has a very attractive laugh.

[nachtgraves]

Fic: Chicken Soup for the Chibi

I started this when I had some version of the flu at the end of last year/start of this year and finally finished! Hoped to get it done for skk fluff week on twitter but I was sick again during then and, obviously, didn’t manage. But it’s done now! And into the internet void!

Read on AO3

Pairing: Osamu Dazai x Nakahara Chuuya Word Count: 2,800 Warnings/Tags: G. Teen!skk, 16/17!skk, sick chuuya, dazai takes care of him, pre-slash. Summary: Chuuya's sick and miserable and prepared to weather his cold alone. And then Dazai turns up on his doorstep and invites himself in.

Chuuya hates being sick. He hates feeling weak, hates all the gross snot and sweat. He hates being dizzy and too hot one second then too cold the next. He hates feeling like he’s eating sandpaper every time he swallows, hates the discomfort of one nose being runny and the other stuffed. He can barely breathe but when he does each breath hurts and it’s not even worth it.

He’s not a good sick person, he’s well aware. He’s whiny and pathetic, about as functional as a toddler, arguably even less agreeable. The few times he’s been ill, he’s holed himself up in bed with water, tea, and food and cold meds courtesy of Ane-san until he recovers. No visitors, misery and discomfort his only company.

The low hiss of the stove seeps through his bedroom window. Chuuya huddles under his blanket. He should have specified his own misery and not any added headaches from another person.

Dazai had shown up at his front door in the afternoon, a bag of groceries in each hand and a wide grin on his face.

“You look terrible,” he had said cheerfully and shoved his way into Chuuya’s apartment.

Chuuya blames his flu for his slow reaction time and letting himself be pushed around. He just doesn’t have the energy or strength to deal with Dazai, much less forcibly kick him out. It’s at times like this that Chuuya particularly hates Dazai’s ability.

And now Dazai’s in Chuuya’s kitchen cooking something after having sent Chuuya back to bed. If Dazai sets his apartment on fire, Chuuya will roast him in the flames.

Chuuya stays alert, focusing on the sounds coming from Dazai puttering around in his kitchen; pans moving, water running, the gas stove clicking on, plastic crinkling. Even knowing that the bandaged freak is in his apartment, the sound of someone else moving around is, oddly, a comfort. It’s been The sounds are calming and relaxing enough his lids grow heavy and despite his best intentions, he ends up dozing.

He wakes up to a beeping noise, an alarm, his foggy head discerns. For a dazed moment, he isn’t sure where he is until he recalls that he’s sick at home and Dazai was in his kitchen. Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he strains his ear for sounds of Dazai but it’s silent.

“Did he leave?” Chuuya wonders. Was he even here or was that just a deranged fever dream? He isn’t going to entertain any reason as to why he would be dreaming about Dazai coming over to take care of him.

Wrapping his blanket around his shoulders, he trudges the few meters to the open door and peeks outside. He hadn’t dreamt up Dazai. The other boy is very much in Chuuya’s apartment. He’s wearing an apron Chuuya can’t quite see at this angle, shredding what looks like chicken with a fork. On the stove beside him are two pots, a large one partially covered with the fire set medium-low and a smaller one on high, steadily boiling. Chuuya sniffs, tries to get a whiff of what Dazai’s making, but it turns into a hacking cough that scrapes up his throat and ends in a groan.

Dazai looks over for a second but quickly puts down the fork and hurries over. “Chuuya should be a good boy and stay in bed.”

Glaring, Chuuya shoves past Dazai even though his head’s spinning and he might throw up. He makes it maybe three steps before the world swings and his knees buckle. He tries to use his ability but he doesn’t have the strength and his head is too fuzzy to draw on his power so braces himself for the fall. But, instead of falling forwards, he’s tugged backwards, lands against something firm but giving, his body cradled from behind. Even through his blanket, there’s a length of warmth at his back. Chuuya only sinks into it because there’s an arm around his waist and he hasn’t had the chance to regain his footing.

Dazai chuckles above him. “If you wanted a hug you just had to ask, Chuuya.”

That snaps Chuuya out if it. “You’re the one who pulled me, bandages.” He wriggles himself out of Dazai’s hold and stumbles towards the kitchen, bracing himself against the counter to hold himself up. He’s not going to show any more weakness in front of the bandaged freak.

He goes over to the stove to see what Dazai’s been up to. In the small saucepan are noodles that looked just about cooked, and in the larger pot appears to be some sort of mostly clear broth with chopped carrots and leeks. Chuuya sniffs, more carefully this time, and even through his snot-stuffed nose he picks up ginger and garlic. Chuuya moves on to inspect the items on the counter: a bowl of cooked chicken thighs, one thigh partially shredded on the cutting board, as well as some sliced ginger and green onions.

Dazai comes up behind him. “If you won’t go back to bed, get out of the way so I can finish. Shoo.” Hands fall onto his shoulders and Chuuya finds himself being manhandled to the side. He huffs, squirms out of Dazai’s hold, but moves away from the preparations so Dazai can continue shredding the chicken.

Not entirely trusting himself to make it to the couch in his living room, Chuuya hoists himself up onto the kitchen counter.

“Don’t say a thing,” he warms when Dazai’s mouth quirks at watching him. So what if he has to both jump to lift himself up onto the marble countertop?

He shimmies in place to get comfortable, tugging and readjusting his blanket around himself, being careful not to fling the ends into Dazai’s cooking. He settles in a relatively comfortable position and can easily watch Dazai work.

He finishes shredding the chicken putting the bones off to the side and the chicken into the pot with the stock and vegetables, stirring and using a spoon to taste. He adds some salt, stirs, and tastes it again before nodding. He spoons more of the broth, blowing on it, and, cupping his other hand under it, holds the spoonful up to Chuuya. “Taste.”

That spoon had just been in Dazai’s mouth. Chuuya just watched him taste the soup with that spoon and double-dip it back into the pot.

Dazai, oblivious or ignorant or just being Dazai, holds it closer to Chuuya’s face. “Chuuya~.”

Chuuya opens his mouth. It was either that or getting hot soup spilled on him the blanket around him is his favorite. But he grabs the handle from Dazai, refusing to be fed like a child.

He blinks in surprise at the taste. Barely holds himself back from humming and going back for seconds straight out of the pot. It soothes his throat and warms him from his center as it goes down. There’s a little heat in it, enough to help clear his sinuses but not overwhelm his taste buds.

Dazai stares at him expectantly, awaiting an answer.

“It’s not terrible,” Chuuya finally replies, affecting disinterest, but he licks his lips and his gaze fixes on the pot.

Dazai just grins. “Good. Now, get off the counter unless you want to eat there.” He pats Chuuya’s knee like he’s a small animal that he’s trying to shoo away.

Chuuya glares at him but hops back down and shuffles to the couch, plopping down in the middle, legs drawn up and crossed, adjusting his blanket around him for optimal coverage without inhibiting movement. His back was starting to hurt from the lack of support on the kitchen counter anyway.

Digging between the couch cushions, he finds the remote for the TV and flips through the channels until he lands on a drama that Ane-san had mentioned recently. But his attention is elsewhere. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches Dazai’s back as he finishes with the soup, but with his back to Chuuya, there’s not much to see beside the loose knot of the apron that Chuuya definitely doesn’t own hanging just below the small of his back, the ends hanging over his ass and swinging with his movements.

Chuuya diverts his gaze to the TV when Dazai turns around, only looks up when the other boy steps in front of him, a bowl cupped in his hands.

“Voila,” he says, holding the bowl out, the contents splashing and nearly spilling. “Chicken noodle and ginger soup. With some other stuff.”

Chuuya takes it from him, carefully placing the bowl in his lap, his blanket serving as a buffer between the hot bowl and his legs. “Chopsticks?”

Dazai’s already pulling out a set along with a spoon from a pocket in the apron, handing them over. Chuuya mixes up the noodles and veggies and chicken with his chopsticks, hyper-aware of Dazai staring down at him. He spoons some soup, chicken, and a chunk of carrot, blowing on the serving to cool it enough to eat. The steam is already clearing up his sinuses and he can breathe and smell the aromatic soup. He’d already tasted the broth but Dazai must have added more to it because it tastes different, even better.

He can’t help humming in pleasure this time, eyes fluttering shut as he savors the homemade soup. He’s been living on delivery and quick sandwiches since he fell ill, too tired and miserable to cook anything decent, and that only if he even had an appetite.

He certainly has an appetite now. Forgetting about Dazai, Chuuya digs into the late lunch in earnest. He only remembers he’s not alone when Dazai leans over and hovers right in Chuuya’s face. The asshole’s lucky Chuuya doesn’t startle and spill hot soup everywhere.

“What?”

“How is it?” Dazai asks, with that infuriating grin. The one where he thinks he already knows the answer, so sure and smug and condescending.

“The noodles are overdone,” Chuuya snips. Dazai’s brow furrows, almost imperceptibly. Chuuya looks back down and gathers a heaping of noodles and chicken between his chopsticks. “But it’s not the worst thing ever.” He quickly stuffs his mouth after the words come out in a mumble.

For once, Dazai doesn’t parry. He settles on the floor, resting his back against the couch, legs sprawling out in front of him. He’s close enough that if he rolls his head, he’ll be resting his head against Chuuya’s knee.

“What show is this?” Dazai asks, instead.

Chuuya shrugs even though Dazai isn’t looking at him. “Dunno, but Ane-san’s mentioned it. Elise watches it too.”

Dazai hums and falls silent, staring ahead at the TV. It seems like he intends to stick around. Chuuya could tell him to get out, but Dazai did make him soup. Really good soup, not that Chuuya will ever tell him, but he settles back in the couch and quietly eats and watches the drama.

They’ve tuned in halfway through the episode so there’s a lot they’ve definitely missed but Chuuya’s nonetheless intrigued. He almost forgets that he’s not home alone. When he sneezes, Dazai says bless you, when Chuuya forgets himself and makes a comment about something happening in the show, Dazai replies to his conjectures and questions and predictions, makes some of his own, argues back. They end up discussing the questionable motives of who appears to be the antagonist until a commercial break and Chuuya realizes he’s finished his bowl.

He looks down at Dazai’s head and debates between his pride and his hunger. Hunger wins out. “Is there any more soup?”

“Yeah. You want more?” Dazai turns his head to look at him and Chuuya’s eyes slide away to the side in embarrassment.

“Why else would I ask, idiot?” Chuuya starts to unfold his legs and come out of his blanket cocoon, but Dazai beats him to his feet and pushes Chuuya back into the couch with his palm against Chuuya’s forehead. “What the fuck!?”

Dazai ignores him, taking the bowl from Chuuya’s lap. “I’ll need to cook more noodles and warm up the broth,” he says and goes back to the kitchen. He grabs the small saucepan and starts filling it up with water.

“Noodles will take too long, just heat up the broth,” Chuuya calls out. If Dazai’s lost his mind, there’s no harm in Chuuya taking advantage of whatever is wrong with him and get more free food.

He’s still surprised when Dazai puts aside the saucepan of water and zaps a bowl of the broth in the microwave. Chuuya has a full bowl of chicken ginger soup sans noodles in his lap and Dazai’s back on his spot on the floor, head precariously close to resting on Chuuya’s knee, by the time the commercials end.

The last fifteen minutes of the show are a roller coaster and Chuuya reminds himself to see about catching up from the beginning because he’s already invested and has theories he can’t wait to run by Ane-san. As the next episode’s previews play, Chuuya sets aside his empty bowl and stretches. He’s full and warm and sleepy and as much as he wants to stay on the couch just so he doesn’t have to move, he should go back to bed while his body doesn’t feel as terrible as it has been and might let him get some actual sleep.

But he’s warm and cozy and really, what harm could a nap on the couch do? He’s already dozing of before he can convince himself either way.

“Up!”

Chuuya jerks awake and slaps away the hand that’s patting his cheek.

“What are you doing?”

“Up,” Dazai repeats. “Beds are for sleeping, slug, not couches.”

“Fuck off,” Chuuya grumbles and curls up further, wrapping his blanket around him, and closes his eyes. The couch isn’t uncomfortable.

Dazai heaves a sigh above him and for a second, Chuuya thinks Dazai’s going to leave. And then he’s off the couch, the only thing keeping him from falling to the ground behind Dazai’s arms under his knees and around his back.

“Put me down!” Chuuya squirms, but he’s cocooned himself so well in his blanket it’s to his disadvantage.

Dazai shushes him. “Really think you can save yourself if I drop you?”

Instead of replying, Chuuya huffs and turns his face away as Dazai carries him all the way to his bed. And then the bandaged menace drops him. Chuuya bites back a yelp at the sudden fall, bounces on the mattress. Dazai laughs at him.

“Shut the fuck up and get out,” Chuuya snarls, throwing a pillow at Dazai’s face. Dazai leans to the side and easily dodges it as it lands near the bedroom door.

“Chuuya’s grumpy,” Dazai tsks. “Someone’s ready for nap time.”

Chuuya grabs another pillow, readying to throw it at Dazai. His bed is more pillow than anything else, so he has plenty of ammo. At least one will land a hit on Dazai’s dumb face. But Dazai turns around and walks out of the room, and Chuuya keeps his ears open for the sound of the front door. Instead, he hears Dazai open and close cupboard doors, the tap run, dishes clatter. Chuuya almost gets up to investigate what on earth the other boy is doing now.

But Dazai soon returns, in his hands a glass of water and a packet of cold medicine. “You get two now and can take two more in four hours.” He pours two pills into Chuuya’s palm and hands over the glass of cool water. “Leftover broth is in the fridge. There’s two more servings good for another day or two.”

Chuuya eyes Dazai suspiciously. “What’s all this been about?”

“Whatever do you mean, Chuuya?” Dazai blinks innocently, but there’s nothing innocent about the weirdo.

Chuuya continues to stare up at him, unimpressed.

Dazai finally relents, rolling his eyes. “Mori-san has me doing paperwork,” he complains. “So hurry up and stop being sick.”

Chuuya should have known. “Right, I’ll get better just so you don’t have to do paperwork you were already supposed to be doing.”

Dazai beams. “I knew Chuuya would understand.”

Fatigue comes over him and Chuuya yawns. “I’m going to sleep so if that’s all, you’ve got paperwork to get to.” He knocks back the pills with a gulp of water and gets comfortable in bed. “Close the door behind you when you leave,” he says, turning his back to Dazai and closing his eyes. He tries to stay awake to hear Dazai leave, but the pull of sleep is too strong and Dazai’s always been annoyingly quiet on his feet. But just before Chuuya sinks fully into sleep, he feels a warm hand brush against his cheek and his blankets tugged up over his shoulders.

[jckelly]

dear mum

[ jack kelly’s eulogy for his mother ] 

“I was supposed to say this shit at your funeral. I wrote it all out on a torn out page of my exercise book, on the flight over, when George was asleep and Claire was busy pretending to fuss. I think she gets a kick out of coddling me, stroking my hair, pretending I’m a baby again as if she can turn back the clock if she pretends enough, send me right back to toddler years so she can be the proud mum at the school gates acting like she gave birth to me. You’d fucking cackle if you saw it. You never liked babying me.

I was supposed to say this in the church, in front of the people who showed up - bit of a pathetic turn out, if I’m being honest, it was me, the vicar guy, Claire and George, and the latest social worker. Carole or summat. She stank of dog hair when she hugged me, I could feel Claire wanting to put my clothes in the wash straight away. She’s such a fucking clean freak, is Claire, all we have to be careful, it makes me want to jump in a swamp just to see what she’d say. She didn’t really talk to anyone, just George, so the crowd was pathetic and antisocial. You would’ve taken the piss out of it. But when I got into the church, I just couldn’t do it. I felt like my chest was tightening, I swear I couldn’t breathe for a moment and I thought I was gonna fucking pass out right there in front of the stupid alter. Claire squeezed my hand - Jesus Christ she’s one for hand holding - and was all you don’t have to do this and I bottled it. Gave up and let the vicar mumble some shite about ashes to ashes. He probably says the same thing for everyone. We played The Masterplan by Oasis - you would’ve liked that, I insisted on it and it was fucking epic in the church, Liam Gallagher fucking ringing out across the stupid place. Claire hated it, she was all wouldn’t a classical piece be better, I was like it is a classic, fuck off. And then it was over and we all went back to the hotel and I hadn’t even eaten yet and it was only eleven and it felt so fucking wrong that my day was barely starting and I’d already said goodbye to my mum and I didn’t even say a single stupid thing.

So I’m saying it now, in my bedroom with the door locked, smoking out the window - this joint’s for you, okay. Claire’s downstairs probably doing some late night googling - is my son depressed? How do you comfort your adopted son after his junkie mum dies? - and George is probably resisting the urge to come confiscate the weed because he can definitely smell it from there and I know Claire’s probably the only thing stopping him. So it’s just us, because to be honest, I don’t think you’re any more likely to be in a church than right here. We never went to church anyway, I don’t think I was baptised. I don’t really know anymore.

Mummy. You liked when I called you that, something about me sounding like a toddler made you feel younger. Not that you needed to sound any younger, you were well fucking young as it was. Fifteen when you had me, I remember being eight, nine, and the parents  at the school gate thought you were my sister. Sometimes you played along, I thought it was a funny game and I’m only just starting to realise it was out of shame, you never liked to admit what was really going on, but then again I never realised what was going on then. I thought all the kids got left for days on end while their mums went off to find ways to make ends meet, pasta in the cupboard and a step by the stove so I could stand on it to reach to turn the gas on and boil the water. I went back to that flat the other day, we had to pick up the last pieces of shit you’d left. It stank of mouldy vomit and piss, I swear the blanket you were sleeping on had fucking fleas and there was next to nowt in the entire place - they said you’d sold it all in the end, paying for your drugs with your bed and your clothes - but the step was still by the stove, as if you thought I was gonna come back and I might need to reach the cupboard.

I had a massive fucking panic attack right there by the step. You would have been ashamed. I couldn’t breathe and I think Claire was torn between calling a doctor and trying to comfort me, she didn’t know what was happening because it was just a step but it was never just a step or a flat or a room. It was your room, your step, your flat. It was what you did for me because you knew I was gonna come back and I’m so sorry I was too late, I’m so sorry I didn’t make it in time to save you. It’s my fault. It usually is.

You would’ve known what to say. You usually did. Noel, stop being a fucking dumbass, and somehow that would have sorted me right out as if nothing ever happened. (It was always Noel, never Jack, you always said you meant it that way - Noel Jackson Kelly, not Jackson Noel Kelly, you messed up when you went to register me because you didn’t have anyone to help.) Those were your words on my first day of school, slightly abridged, Noel, stop being stupid. And then you put that ring of your mum’s in my pocket, the one you never took off, just to make me feel like you were there with me.

I lied about that ring to some kid at school. I said I buried it with you. I didn’t want to admit you sold it years ago, just to pay for your heroin habit. There used to be a little mark on your finger whenever you took it off because you wore it so much, I guess that translated well into the marks on your arms. When the ring money wore out, you came to my high school - do you remember? I was fourteen and you were rattling the school gates, Jack honey do you have a fiver? A tenner? I’ll pay you back, I swear. And the fucking kids were muttering, going is that Jack Kelly’s mum? Nobody mistook you for my sister anymore then, the needles and the alcohol and the lifestyle had folded your skin, pushed premature wrinkles in. I couldn’t deny it when they asked, we looked too much alike, thanks for the freckles by the way, really fucking attractive. I didn’t really want to deny it. I didn’t care much if they said shit, I could beat most of them up even if I was shorter. They didn’t know fuck all about you. Nobody does. Claire wanted a restraining order after that, fuck her. You’re my mum. Not her.

Everyone always wants to see the fucking bad side. It’s morbid. I learned a word the other day in class: schadenfreude, means taking pleasure in other’s pain. That’s what everyone’s like, deep down. They like imagining you as some sort of monster because it makes them feel better, when they tuck their kids into bed in their nice houses in the nice areas of town, no sirens going off, to think that you’re completely different to them. That no matter what they do they’ll never end up like you. That’s not how it works. You could’ve been one of them, you could’ve had the nice place and the husband, if maybe you’d been born in a different place to different people and you hadn’t met whoever gave you your first high. Sometimes I imagine that. You in a nice dress in a nice house, there’s a man making dinner when I come back from school, maybe you have a degree or even you just finished secondary school. You have a nice job as a receptionist or a secretary or something normal. You’re smiling. I haven’t seen you smile properly in years.

Point is, I’m tired of them trying to make you sound like you don’t deserve to be loved just because you were sick. You had an illness, it’s the same like some people’s mums get fucking cancer. You didn’t want to be sick, fuck knows you tried to beat it, spent half your fucking life on methadone. They make it sound like you were never a mum. You’re my mum. You know more about me than anyone. Claire doesn’t even know what my favourite band is, as if I’m not named after fucking Noel Gallagher. Claire thinks she can buy motherhood with fake worry and acting like she cares. She doesn’t realise it’s not for sale because I had a fucking mother already and I don’t care if she’s in the ground. You’re always gonna be my mum. Doesn’t change.

I see you when I look in the mirror. Your nose, your eyes, your hair, your crooked smile and crooked teeth, neither of us ever bothered to get them sorted out and I’m glad. I’m half him, I know that, the elephant in the room, the man who stuck his dick in you to give you me, another inconvenience in a life full of mistakes. I’ve spent eighteen years without knowing him though, and I can spend seventy more because he gave you fuck all. I guess that makes me like him, in a way - all I got you was trouble, problems with the law because they thought you shouldn’t be leaving me then, visits from social workers who found your stash. All I did was mess your life up even more and then I let myself leave and I lie awake at night replaying all of the conversations me and Claire and you ever had about that and wondering why, why did I let it happen because I just know you would never have been so careless if you knew I was coming over next week or next month. You wouldn’t have done that to me. I know that. They don’t, but I do, and since when did it matter what George or Claire or any of the fucking social workers thought?

I miss you when I play Oasis. I miss you when I hear some stupid kid messing around on a guitar because I remember that one you had once upon a time before it got added to the list of shit you sold off. I miss you when I catch a reflection of myself smiling in a window or a shiny car, your smile again. One day I’ll stop remembering the way that smile looked, it’s been such a long time, and then your eyes will start to leave my mind, your thin lips, your hair. I need you still. I’m not ready to be by myself yet. The law says I’m an adult but I feel like a kid still, sometimes, when I wake up in the middle of the night thinking I’m being hurt and all I want is you to tell me I’m being stupid again, but you can’t do that. Not ever again. I’m not ready to accept that. Sometimes I catch myself imagining what I’m going to do when I come back home over the summer, I’m gonna clean up your flat again like I always do, make you dinner, clean up your arms. When I realise I can’t do those things again it’s like someone tipped ice water down my back.

I’m going to graduate in June. I know your mum and dad never did, even though what you said about them was next to nothing. I know you didn’t, because I arrived to fuck your life up. But I think you’ll be proud, somewhere, that a Kelly made it to finish secondary school. Maybe we’re not so cursed after all. Or maybe I’m the curse, and it’s just everyone around me who’ll get fucked up because of me, I’ll be the only one unscathed. I’m sorry I did that to you. I’m sorry I let this happen. I wish I could swap places. All I can say is I loved you, I love you, and I’m sorry.

Noel”

[superprincesspea]

Knock, Chapter 19

Everyone gets one mistake

Simon/You

Chapter 1    Chapter 2    Chapter 3    Chapter 4    Chapter 5  

Chapter 6    Chapter 7    Chapter 8    Chapter 9    Chapter 10

Chapter 11   Chapter 12   Chapter 13   Chapter 14   Chapter 15  

Chapter 16   Chapter 17   Chapter 18

When Simon yanks the door of the RV open you expect to see Negan’s devilish grin peeling across his lips but you don’t. Your savior isn’t Negan, Dwight or any of the others. Sitting in the driver's seat is an old man, untamed grey hair tucked into a beaten up Phillies hat and a beard that’s reaching for the curve of his belly. You think of Santa Claus but more importantly you think, if it came to it, you could take him.

“Get in!” he urges and your pistol slips, quietly, back into its holster while you share a look of agreement with Simon. This isn’t just your best chance, it's your only one. 

There are no other passengers inside the RV and as you stumble towards your seat you catch sight of a tiny plastic trophy which reads, “Worlds best Grandpa.” It’s not enough to fill you entirely with trust in this stranger but it's something. 

“So where you folks headed?” he says, glancing at you in the rearview mirror. 

“Just…” you pause, “out of Virginia.” 

“Well, I’m on my way to Pennsylvania so I guess you can join me until then,” he offers and Pennsylvania is as good anywhere, taking you further north and more importantly further away from Negan. 

“We’d appreciate that, Sir,” Simon replies, taking your hand and wrapping it in a cloth he’s ‘borrowed’ from the kitchenette.

In between thinking you were going to die and suddenly being rescued you’ve completely forgotten about the cut. Your heart clenches and you allow a tear to roll down your cheek as you stare out of the window. It had only been a day and you had already almost gotten Sylvie killed.

What kind of mother were you? Maybe this was the wrong choice? Maybe it had been the hormones that talked you into leaving. Maybe if you just went back then Negan would forgive you… Your mind is racing, your heart sinking. What if you and Simon couldn’t do this?

“We’re ok,” he whispers, his hand stroking soothingly along your hair.

You blink your tears away before turning to look at him but your face is puffy and he knows you well enough by now to know you’re upset.

“We’re allowed one mistake,” he says, smiling as his thumb brushes across your cheek to sweep away the tears.

“If anything would have happened to her I-”

“Nothing happened. Getting away today was always gonna be the hardest part. When we’re settled it’ll be smooth sailing, I promise.”

You know it's a white lie and maybe Simon is telling the lie to himself as well as you but he looks so damn sincere that you can believe him. After all that's why you’re out here in the first place. Together you can get through anything. 

Eventually the RV pulls up in a layby surrounded by trees on one side and an empty gas station on the other. 

“This looks like a good place to hole up for the night,” the driver says, hefting himself from his seat before pulling out a shotgun. 

Your hand quickly settles on your pistol, ready to use it if he makes any move to hurt you. He doesn’t. He opens the door of the RV and from the windows you watch him checking the perimeter. 

“You think we can trust him?” you ask Simon who’s now standing, watching his every move with more scrutiny than you are. 

“If he wanted to do something he’s had plenty of opportunity to try and why stop in the first place?” he says and you agree. 

Being a Savior has definitely made you paranoid. It's been a long time since you’ve accepted help that didn’t come with strings but maybe not everyone was like that. You weren’t like that, not anymore. Sylvie needed to be raised in a world where people could be good and kind and generous. That was one of the reasons you’d left the Sanctuary in the first place.  

“They call me Rusty,” he says as he returns to the RV and you wonder if all that white hair was a bright shade of red once upon a time.

Simon introduces you and Sylvie and Rusty nods, edging closer, looking about as nervous as you and Simon must look to him.

“Why, she looks brand new,” he says, peering at Sylvie with the awe of a man who hasn’t seen a baby in a long time and probably didn’t expect to see one again. 

“6 days today,” you say, brushing your finger against her perfect chubby cheek. 

“Well ain’t that something,” he beams. “Now I can’t offer much but what I have is yours to share.”

“You’ve already done enough,” Simon insists but Rusty won’t hear it. He begins pulling canned food from his kitchenette and sets up a camping stove and some fold out chairs outside for a cookout.  

It’s a real treat sitting by the stove with a blanket over your legs and the smell of baked beans filling the air. It's ordinary and feeling ordinary is one of the best feelings in the world when you’re so used to feeling afraid. 

You and Simon don’t say much, you’re tired and you don’t want to accidentally slip up and mention Negan or the Saviors. You might not know Rusty but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know the Saviors. Saying the wrong thing to the wrong person could be very costly this close to the Sanctuary. 

Fortunately Rusty doesn’t seem to pay any attention to your quiet. He fills  the silence as he fusses over the food and while you eat he doesn’t pry. Instead, he talks and talks and talks. Talks like he hasn’t had anyone to talk to in a while and you think that maybe he’s glad you don’t have much to say. 

He tells you he’s been on the road for a long time. He started out in New Mexico where he’d been visiting his little brother, Hughie. They’d held out together at first but things had, as Rusty put it, “got messy.” 

You don’t press him for more. The Sanctuary wasn’t the first, second or even third group you’d been a part of. As far as you could tell things got messy everywhere eventually. The picture of a wife and two grown up sons that sits on his dashboard tells you all you need to know about what he’s trying to get back to and before you settle down for the night he admits, “I wouldn’t have picked you up if it wasn’t for the little one.” 

You don’t blame him for that. You wouldn’t have gotten into his RV if it wasn’t for Sylvie but accepting Rusty’s help was a good call and it was clear he was a good man.  

You travel with Rusty for two weeks, helping find fuel for the RV and food whenever you can get it. At one point you reach a crossroad and make the decision to stay with Rusty until he makes it home. After all, you have nowhere better to go. 

His house is on the outskirts of a small town and he points out the stores as you drive though. Like most places it's deserted except for the dead and you watch Rusty examining their faces as you pass them by. You know what he’s looking for and you hope to hell he doesn’t see it. Not like this. 

His house is at the bottom of a long drive and the gate is closed, which is a good sign. But you don’t let yourself have hope, if you do then you know you’d only be setting yourself up for disappointment. When the house comes into view it looks untouched except for the weeds which have started to grow across the porch. 

In your heart you know it's empty and you hold Sylvie a little tighter as you watch Simon and Rusty break open the door to get inside. After ten minutes only Simon comes back, his face grave. 

“What is it?” you ask him and he cups your cheeks, his hands feeling so warm on your skin as he tilts your head to look at him. 

“I love you,” he says, pulling you against him, careful not to crush Sylvie who is in her usual spot on your chest. “I love you both so damn much.”

======

Its taken me way longer than expected to come back to this story (and writing fanfiction) but I didn't want to leave it with a loose end so not only have I finished this chapter but the last one too :)

[evalinkatrineberg]

Practice Prompt 1 - Part 2!

I could hardly focus the day that the Selected girls were to be announced on The Report. From the moment I had woken up that morning, the first rays of sunlight peeking through the periwinkle curtains that covered my bedroom window, the only thing on my mind had been the question of whether or not I would be Selected. I went through my normal morning routine in an almost zombie-like state, trading my bedclothes for a t-shirt and shorts, and brushing my hair back into a ponytail without even thinking. It was always kind of like a game, creeping out of my bedroom as quietly as I could. I cast a quick glance over my shoulder at Lydia, who was still sound asleep. In a few short seconds, the bedroom door was closed behind me, and I was down the stairs, grabbing my keys and tugging on my sneakers before sneaking out the front door.

Lukas and June were already waiting for me at the end of my driveway. “Sleeping in today, I see,” Lukas commented, the corners of his lips tugging upwards in a small smile.

“Sorry,” was my only reply as the three of us set off on our morning run. It had been our routine for a few years now. At first, it had only been me and June. Being next door neighbors and classmates, it had been easy for us to coordinate a time to get out and run together, seeing as we had been on almost identical schedules our entire lives. Running had been something that we had decided to take up the spring of our sophomore year of high school, and we’d continued that tradition into college, having both committed to the same university.

When I had met Lukas in my freshman physics lab my first semester of college and mentioned that I enjoyed running during an icebreaker, he had instantly asked if he might be able to join us on our morning runs. Apparently, he had run on his high school’s track team, although he never pushed me and June’s pace, despite having more experience than us. Once we found out that he was leasing a basement apartment in a house two blocks over from the street June and I lived on, it had been a no-brainer to us that he should join our group. We had expected it to be back to just June and I for the summer, but apparently Lukas was hanging around to take some extra classes.

The three of us didn’t speak as we made for the park on the edge of our neighborhood, a beautiful, scenic forest with a babbling creek and a network of well-maintained dirt paths. The only sounds were our feet pounding the ground and our heavy breathing, mixed with the early-morning chirps of the birds hidden in the trees. Already, the air was starting to get a little steamy as the humidity of the daytime began to settle in, a slight fog lifting off the creek that meandered on the left side of the trail we always began our run on.

A new sound broke through the air. The buzzing of Lukas’s watch, signalling that we had completed a mile, was accompanied with a heavy exhale from him. Shortly after, he asked, “So, is there any particular reason you’re pushing the pace today, Evalin?”

I frowned, not slowing as I cast a quick look at him over my shoulder. “What was our first mile split?”

“Six minutes, fifty-five seconds.” His words were steady, but his voice was slightly more airy than usual.

“Damn,” June panted. It sounded like just saying that one word took a monumental effort on her part.  

“Sorry,” I responded. Two apologies today already, and it wasn’t even seven in the morning yet. That had to be a new record for me. “I’m just a little lost in thought. I didn’t realize how fast we were going.”

“Are you thinking about the Report tonight?” I could practically hear June’s teasing smile in her voice. “You know, I entered the Selection, too, and you don’t see me literally running myself ragged over it.”

“You are keeping pace with us,” Lukas pointed out, “so aren’t you technically doing the same exact thing as Evalin?”

“Och,” was June’s only reply as she audibly hit Lukas with the back of her hand.

“I truly don’t understand why you two even entered anyway.” Lukas sighed as we made a turn to the left, taking us over a small wooden bridge that crossed the creek. “It’s just a glorified beauty pageant, and, no offense, neither of you are really pageant girls.”

“Are you insinuating that we’re not drop-dead gorgeous?” The offense in June’s voice may have been faked, but the edge on her words was anything but. She had never been afraid to start a fight, even when we were children. Back then, if she saw someone being pushed around on the playground, she was the first person to fight for them, often resulting in her coming home dirty and bruised. Her parents always bemoaned how unbecoming her behavior was for a Three, but I had always admired the way that June was totally unafraid to stand up for what she believed in. It was for that reason that I wasn’t entirely surprised when she told me that she was planning on pursuing nursing in college. Her love of other people, and her genuine desire to help those in need would make her a great nurse, in my opinion.

Lukas sighed again as we made another left turn, bringing us to a winding trail that would eventually lead us back to the same entry point we had used to get into the park. “It’s just that you’re both booksmart, not very people smart.”

I raised an eyebrow, despite the fact that I knew he couldn’t see it.

As if he sensed it, he continued. “June would probably get into a fight with someone within the first five minutes of being at the palace, and Evalin is too damn nice for her own good. She’d get eaten up alive by all the politicians and schemers in Angeles.”

“What’s wrong with being nice?” I frowned, the sound of my heartbeat racing in my ears. Maybe he was right. Had I been foolish to enter in the Selection? I had never been particularly politically savvy. I could certainly research more about political science and Illean history, sure. In fact, I had begun to do some research in the days after submitting my Selection application, although I hadn’t brought it up in conversation. I found political theory interesting, but applying it to what I observed on the news was more challenging than I had anticipated. There was nothing wrong with a good challenge, though. I kind of enjoyed having something new to push me out of my comfort zone.

“Nothing, normally,” Lukas answered, “but politicians don’t play nice.”

June snorted. “Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“June would be perfect if she was Selected, then.” I shot her a look over my right shoulder, only to find her matching my own grin. Her dark eyes sparkled as the light hit them, complimenting her downright radiant features perfectly. June would be an ideal candidate to be Selected, truth be told. She was passionate, strong, and simply stunning in appearance. Despite her habit of getting into fights as a child, her dark skin didn’t display a single flaw now, and her curly hair seemed to just bounce with joy and enthusiasm.

“Hey, listen, I follow the golden rule!” Her footsteps were a steady beat just behind me as we hit the pavement again. “I treat others the way they treat others!”

Lukas barked out a laugh as I replied, “Mmm, I don’t quite think that’s it.”

“I know,” she answered. “I improved it!”

On the horizon, my house was beginning to come into view. Even from a distance, I could see that me father’s car was no longer in our driveway. He must have left for work early this morning, then. Usually, I was able to run, shower, and drink at least one cup of coffee before he was telling me to grab my bag and get out the door so he wasn’t late. My mom’s beige car was still in the driveway, though. It wasn’t an old car, but it was modelled after a style of classic car that my grandfather had often gushed about, according to my mother. It was originally one of the gifts my father had given my mother’s parents after he had asked them for their blessing to marry my mother. My grandfather had always insisted that the gift was excessive, and that my father shouldn’t try to buy my mother’s hand in marriage, but my grandfather had kept the car anyway. When he passed away five years ago, he left the car to my mother in his will.

“Oh, by the way,” I began, slowing as we reached the edge of June��s driveway, “my mother took the day off from work today, and is planning a big brunch. You two should definitely come over, if you can.”

“Thanks for the invite, but I desperately need to shower, thanks to someone -” she glared pointedly at me, smiling nonetheless “-setting a killer pace this morning.”

I looked down at my own shirt, which was soaked through. “I should probably do the same.” June just laughed as I added, “I’ll see you later, then.”

“Until tomorrow,” Lukas agreed with a wave, jogging off down the street before disappearing around the corner.

I was tempted to yell after him, to ask him if he really thought that I wouldn’t last if I was one of the Selected. I didn’t know why his opinion mattered so much to me. It wasn’t as if he had any experience in the palace, or was studying anything related to politics. His opinion shouldn’t mean too much, shouldn’t mean anything, and yet, I was one second away from calling out his name.

It was too late, though. Short of chasing after him, I wouldn’t be able to get his attention now. With a sigh, I began making my way up my own driveway and then on to the porch. I untied my shoes before unlocking the front door, placing my shoes on the shoe rack and following the smell of cinnamon and coffee to the kitchen. It appeared that my mother was planning a full on feast for brunch, complete with french toast, eggs, and even bacon. The hiss of the gas stove and the purr of the coffee machine was practically a symphony to my ears as I placed my keys on the counter, reaching up to pull a glass out of the cabinet above the sink.

“It’s a hot one today, isn’t it?” It was more of a statement than a question. My mother leaned against the counter opposite of the stove, arms crossed as she eyed my sweaty clothing up and down.

“Don’t worry, I’m going to shower,” I assured her, “as soon as I have a few sips of water.”

“No rush,” she replied, laughing slightly. “Are you excited for tonight?”

I bit my lip, taking a few seconds to stop and sip some water before responding. “I’m kind of excitedly nervous.” I frowned, placing my now empty glass in the sink. “Does that make sense? I feel like I shouldn’t be nervous, because there’s tons of women in Carolina who have a better shot than I do, but I also don’t want to completely count myself out.”

“That makes sense.” My mother moved over to the stove now, glancing over at me as she flipped the french toast. “I think you have a good shot, but we’ll just have to wait and see. Just like everybody else.” As she spoke the last few words, she poked the tip of my nose, smiling warmly before turning back to the food on the stove. “Now, please go shower!”

I laughed and rolled my eyes in mock exasperation. “Aye-aye, captain!”

When I had finally made my way up the stairs and into my bedroom, I found that Lydia was somehow still asleep. I didn’t understand how she could stay in bed so long. If I wasn’t up by eight in the morning, at the absolute latest, I felt like I didn’t have enough time in the day to get everything I needed to do that day done.

Even as I grabbed my outfit for the day out of my dresser - a pair of loose-fitting, light wash jeans, along with a beige button-up shirt - and made my way into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, I couldn’t help but run through all the possible outcomes of the night. More likely than not, my name would not be called, and life would continue on as normal. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, this would be a pretty upsetting outcome. I had definitely been letting myself get my hopes up. It would suck if all my daydreaming was squashed in one fell swoop tonight, but I would get over it. I’d have to. In that scenario, I’d have to be able to get myself back into my normal routine. I could not afford to put my entire life on hold for one ruined fantasy.

A slight deviation on that scenario was if they didn’t call my name, but if they did call June’s, or anybody who I knew, for that matter. I pondered that outcome further as the hot water of the shower rolled down my back and caused the bathroom to fog up around me. If that was the case, if June got called, I would likely be happier for her than I would be sad for myself. June deserved it, as did many other girls I had met throughout my life. Even being able to say that I was friends with one of the Selected girls would be pretty cool. Plus, knowing June, I was sure she would fill me in on all the inside drama without me having to be involved in it myself.

The last outcome I could conceive of, and the one I least wanted to think about, was one where my name was called. The possibility of that even happening seemed so far removed from reality that it was hard to determine how I would even feel in the event that it happened. I’d definitely be excited, that was certain, but the implications of being Selected loomed on the horizon like a dark cloud. It would be amazing to finally leave my hometown and see more of Illea, but I’d miss my family and friends dearly. Being Selected would also mean putting my education on hold, which would likely prove a challenge for me, since being into biology had been basically a quarter of my personality since I was six years old.

I wasn’t even sure what I would say or do if I ever got the opportunity to meet and speak to the prince. I mean, we practically lived in different worlds - what could we possibly talk about? I knew that he had studied political science at Angeles University, but my own knowledge of political science was still, rather embarrassingly, limited. Other than that, most of what I knew about him came from the media. I had heard about his engagement to Evie Waldia, and the subsequent breaking off of the engagement. Beyond that, the only thing I knew was that he was a pretty handsome guy. Honestly, I’d probably be able to make better conversation with Princess Safiya, since she was studying to go to medical school. At least we’d probably be able to commiserate over some science and math courses.

I need a personality outside of schoolwork. I shook my head, shutting off the water and wringing out my head before grabbing my towel off the rack that was nailed to the wall just to the right of the shower. What was I even in to, besides science? I liked looking at the stars, which was still kind of science related, but it was a start. I wondered if you could see the stars from the palace, or if the light pollution there blotted them out?

I liked to read, and to run, both of which were pretty generic hobbies, but that fact would hopefully only make it more likely that we could find some common ground around them. I had also often dreamed about being a ballerina when I was about five years old, and even now I still found watching ballets performed on stage an incredibly emotional experience, in a positive manner. If nothing else, maybe we would be able to talk about music.

It appeared I would really have to undergo a journey of self-discovery if my name was in fact called tonight. Perhaps that was for the better, though. Maybe it was time for me to branch out a little.

By the time I made it downstairs, my brothers were already seated around the table, silent save for Gabriel, who was talking about one thing or another he had heard on the news last night. Lydia had also made her way downstairs, though she was still in her pajamas.

“I’m just saying,” Gabriel proclaimed, raising his hands in the air in mock surrender. “The timing of this Selection just seems a little too quick to me! I’m having a hard time believing that this wasn’t a purely political decision.” He looked around the table at my siblings’ faces, but nobody met his gaze. Randall and Sam both looked down at the table, and Lydia just yawned and looked out the window.

“Come on,” he tried again, “I can’t be the only one that thinks this.”

“He has to know what he’s doing, in having a Selection,” I argued, taking up my usual seat next to Lydia. “I’m sure this wasn’t a decision anyone made lightly.” Though, Gabriel did have a point. The turnaround between the prince breaking off his engagement and the announcement of the Selection was rather fast. I wasn’t entirely convinced he was over Evie yet, if I was being honest. Breakups weren’t an easy thing to get over, especially when the people involved had been together for a long time. Ultimately, though, it was the prince’s decision to make.

“I just don’t get it, though,” Gabriel continued. “If I had just broken up with my girlfriend, the last thing I would want was thirty-five girls that were ready to fight over my heart coming into my home.”

“Well, it’s good that you’re not the prince, then,” I retorted. He rolled his eyes at me, and I stuck my tongue out at him in return. Typical mornings in our household always consisted of this kind of bickering. It was hard to avoid in a house with five kids.

“You’re only saying that because you want the prince to fall in love with you.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair, turning his head to look at her mother, who carried an assortment of jams and butter in her arms.

As I leapt up to help her get the rest of the food from the kitchen, I snapped back at him, “So what if I do? Is it so horrible of me to want to fall in love?”

“No,” he answered, rolling his head back to look at the ceiling, “but there are so many other times and places for you to fall in love! I don’t get why you’re willing to put your whole life on hold for a man who’s probably only looking for a rebound!”

“I don’t even get why it matters to you!” I placed the serving plate of bacon I had been holding down on the table harder than I had intended, wincing at the loud sound made by the collision of the two objects. “It’s not like you’re the one who entered the Selection! Besides, the chances of my name even being called are few and far between, so there’s no need for you to go and get your knickers in a knot over the possibility of me being played!”

“If this is how you’re all behaving in the morning, I am not looking forward to seeing what you’re going to be like during the Report tonight.” Satisfied that all the food was on the table, my mother had taken her usual seat to the right of the head of the table, and was looking at all of us expectantly.

“All of you better be quiet tonight,” Lydia stated, serving herself some french toast. “I want to hear everything that’s said on the Report.”

Much of the rest of the day from that point forward was a blur. We all ate brunch, and then attempted to go about our day as usual, but, for the most part, we all failed miserably. My mother, who would have normally been at work at one of the city high schools, where she taught music theory, had taken the day off from work, and instead spent most of the day looking out the front window at the driveway and twisting her wedding ring around her finger. Lydia had started out the day by filling out job applications, but had abandoned that at some point to go bake chocolate chip cookies instead. Gabriel kept finding excuses to leave the house, citing the need to purchase random items, like soap or paperclips, claiming that he hadn’t realized he had run out of until that very moment. I was half tempted to join him, but also didn’t want to get into another argument.

Randall and Sam had warned me not to go upstairs, stating that they were getting retribution for the gnome prank Lydia had played on them a few weeks earlier. Lydia’s prank had been harmless, really. I didn’t even think she realized how easily the glitter that coated the miniature gnome statues she had purchased would rub off on the boys’ bedspreads, or that it wouldn’t come out in the wash either. Regardless, I didn’t bother arguing with the boys, and instead opted just to grab a book and head somewhere else.

I found myself sitting on the back deck, attempting to read, but really just staring at the same few pages, completely unable to focus. I was on the verge of giving up and going for another run when I heard the back door slide open behind me, and turned to find Randall sticking his head out, an impish grin plastered on his face. “Dad’s home,” he announced. Then, in a quieter voice, he added, “and my work is complete. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch your bed!” With a wink, he was gone, vanishing back inside the house.

I followed him inside, frowning at my watch. It was already seven thirty in the evening. How could time have gone by so quickly, when it felt like it was dragging? More importantly, why had my father spent nearly twelve hours at work?

My second question, at least, was answered rather quickly, by the array of desserts that now lined our kitchen table. Alongside a plate of the cookies Lydia had baked earlier were various flavors of ice cream, along with a box of lemon tarts from my favorite bakery in town. He must have left work early to pick all of this up. I blinked at the display, as if it was a mirage that would simply vanish before my eyes, as I placed my book on the very edge of the table.

“I thought it might be nice to have a special treat while we watched the Report tonight,” my father said in way of explanation, offering me a small smile.

“Thank you,” was all I managed in reply, still a little disoriented by the fact that it was somehow seven thirty, and the Report was going to begin in half an hour.

Only half an hour until I could stop obsessing over all these what-ifs. I could do this.

I grabbed a plate off the table and placed two lemon tarts on it, before wandering off into the living room, and curling up on the corner of the couch. Slowly, the rest of my family trickled in as well, my father stopping to turn on the TV before taking a seat next to my mother on the end of the u-shaped couch closest to the TV.

My mother frowned as she looked over at me. “You look a little red, Ev.”

“Sorry, I lost track of time when I was outside earlier.” With any luck, even if I was burnt, it would fade in a few days, leaving me with even more freckles than before, but otherwise unaffected.

“Make sure you rub some aloe on it before you go to bed,” she advised absently, turning back to whatever was playing on the TV.

I could hardly hear whatever was being said on the television over the beating of my own heart in my ears. This was it. These could be the final moments before my life was changed forever. Or, more likely than not, I was getting myself all worked up over absolutely nothing, and would kick myself for it later. I needed to relax. I needed this to be a normal night, where Lydia would throw popcorn at Sam when our parents weren’t looking, or where Gavin would jokingly argue with our father about how chemistry was superior to biology. Relaxing was easier said than done, though, when nobody around me was relaxed.

So I resigned myself to creating my own sense of normalcy. “Should I be afraid to try one of your cookies, Lydia? Am I going to bite into one and find out it’s filled with toothpaste?”

“Shhh,” she hissed, a smile spreading over her face, “that’s the secret ingredient!”

“Is that why Gabriel went to the store so many times today?” Sam must have caught on to what I was trying to do. “You traitor!”

“I didn’t buy for one second that you desperately needed paperclips at eleven o’clock in the morning!” I pointed my finger at my oldest brother, who was already rolling his eyes.

“He bought you paperclips to help you hold your life together, Evalin,” Lydia supplied, punctuating her sentence with a spoonful of rocky road ice cream.

“Harsh,” I yelled, slapping my sister gently on her arm with the back of my hand. She nudged me with her foot in return. “But for your information, my life needs binder clips to hold it together, in the very least. There’s too much going on for paperclips.”

That was an outright lie, and I was pretty sure we all knew it, too. My life was about as average and boring as they come, and would continue to be that way, when my name wasn’t announced for the Selection. What surprised me was the fact that I was kind of bothered by that. I had always thought that I was very content, happy even, with my life, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a little sad at the thought of this little bit of excitement, the disruption of my routine, ending so soon.

“Maybe he should’ve gotten a stapler instead,” Randall interjected. “That way he could pin you down here instead.”

“Well, if he wanted to pin me down, he should’ve gone with thumbtacks,” I retorted, narrowing my eyes at my youngest brother. “Come on, this is basic office supply knowledge!”

With a shake of his head, Gavin stood up, walking back to the dining room for another scoop of ice cream. “Sorry, I failed Intro to Office Supplies my freshman year.”

“That explains how sloppy your notes are,” I called after him, twisting slightly to see if he would react in any way. Much to my disappointment, he did not.

“At least he knows a bobby-pin isn’t something you can use on a corkboard,” Lydia offered, flashing a half smile in my direction before turning her attention back to the TV. Any second now, the announcements would begin. Any moment, names and pictures would start flashing across the screen. Lydia practically pushed Gavin out of the way of the TV as he returned to the living room, not wanting to miss even one second of the broadcast.

I couldn’t blame her. For once, I felt the same way. At least we didn’t live in a province close to the end of the alphabet, like Waverly. Carolina would come to pass pretty quickly. It would all be over in a matter of seconds.

A part of me really hoped that it would be June’s name and picture that flashed across the screen. Her being Selected seemed like the perfect compromise between the nerves of actually being Selected myself, and the disappointment of not being Selected at all. The second hand accounts of palace life I would undoubtedly receive from her would be wonderful. I’d miss having her as my running buddy, sure, but she’d make a great Lady, and I’d still have Lukas. He could help me analyze her letters while we ran.

“They’re starting,” Lydia screamed, hitting my arm repeatedly.

Indeed, the first provinces were being announced. First was a girl from Allens, named Idalia. She was absolutely stunning, with dark hair and a friendly face. I swallowed. Winning the prince’s heart was definitely not going to be an easy endeavor for any of the Selected with competition like this.

The announcer continued. “From Angeles, Emily Rose White!”

“Wasn’t she in that movie,” my mother began, only to be cut off by shushing noises from Lydia.

“From Atlin, Alaina Achilles!” The name sounded familiar enough to me, but I couldn’t quite place it. I didn’t let it bother me. I was sure that Lydia would start researching information about all of the contestants as soon as they were announced, anyway.

“From Baffin, Celine Montclair! From Bankston, Sage Copeland! From Belcourt, Violet Kensington III! From Bonita, Itzel Bree Morales! From Calgary, Clemence Westley!”

More and more pictures flashed across the screen, but I barely registered them. My heart couldn’t seem to decide whether it wanted to beat as fast as it could, or simply stop beating all together. Time stopped and started over and over, my stomach rolling like waves in the ocean as the names continued. The next one was Carolina. The next one.

“From Carolina -”

Please say June Iscariot. Please say June Iscariot. Please say June Iscariot.

“Evalin Berg!”

I dropped the plate with my untouched lemon tarts on it. The sound of it shattering was the only sound in the room, save for the continuing voice of the announcer on the television, as a picture of me flashed on the screen. It looked like the picture was taken when I was still in my mother’s car, the day we had dropped my application off. They had taken our pictures when we were inside, but I guessed they must have had more photographers snapping shots of the potential girls outside as well.

It wasn’t a bad picture of me, but certainly not my favorite. My hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, and frizzy as all hell, thanks to the humidity. I had on makeup, at least, but I hadn’t yet taken off my glasses, as I normally would for pictures. The clunky frames took up a good portion of my face, and usually didn’t photograph well. In the photo, I was looking off to something on my right, maybe analyzing the length of the line outside of the Services Office, my eyes wide and my lips slightly parted. If anything, I looked nervous. Why would they choose me with a picture like this?

Lydia was the first to react, leaping to her feet on the couch, literally jumping as she screamed and looked down at me.

“I,” I began, not quite sure what to say. The chances of this happening had been slim to none. “I’m sorry about the plate! I’ll go get the broom, and clean it up!”

“I’ve got it.” My father stopped me in my tracks with a wave of his hand, slowly pushing himself off the couch and towards the coat closet by the front door, where we kept the cleaning supplies.

There was a frantic banging on the front door, and my dad repeated, “I’ll get it!”

I jumped up the moment I heard June’s voice echo through my house. I walked slowly at first, avoiding the mess of plate shards and lemon tart I had created on the floor, and after clearing that, practically bounded to the door. The moment she saw me, June raced through the doorway and crushed me with a hug, beaming at me once we had broken apart. Her parents lingered in the doorway, smiling politely at the two of us.

“Would you like to come in?” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the living room. “We have ice cream and lemon tarts, and cookies that might be filled with toothpaste.” My heart was still racing, and I knew that my eyes were wide and my hair absolutely wild, curls falling into my face every time I moved, but June’s parents didn’t mention it as they thanked me and made their way inside.

“So, how does it feel, Lady Evalin?” June’s eyes were alight with excitement, and her tone rife with teasing.

“Fake.” No, wrong synonym. “Unreal,” I corrected, shaking my head. “Like, I’m a bio major from Knoxville, Carolina! I’m nobody! How the hell did I get Selected alongside the likes of Emily Rose White?”

“And Ava Jones,” Lydia added, shouting from the living room.

“The pop star?” I asked as June and I made our way towards the living room.

“The very same,” Lydia confirmed. “Along with that actress, Saxon Monroe - the one who played Lydia in Pride and Prejudice.”

“How am I supposed to compete with people like that?” My mind was completely blank, even as everyone around me was a buzz of conversation. It was like I was on autopilot, like my mind had overloaded and shut down, leaving me to flounder my way through these next few hours. Or maybe days. Or weeks. Months, even.

“Don’t compete,” June stated, placing one of her hands on each of my shoulders. “Just do what you do best - be yourself.”

I wanted to ask how I could possibly be myself at a time like this, but my mouth couldn’t form the words.

“Listen, I think my parents are calling me to go back home with them, but I’ll see you tomorrow morning, okay?” I nodded, and June smiled before walking back towards the front door.

I turned to look back at Lydia. “I think I need to shower again. And sleep. Definitely sleep.”

“You’re a mess,” she replied with a laugh, standing up and setting her now empty bowl on the coffee table.

“Yes.” My mind was finally returning to the present, the cogs and gears slowly starting to spin again. “I just need time to process this.”

“That’s understandable.” I felt her arm around my shoulders, guiding me towards the staircase. “It’s not just every day that your childhood dream becomes a reality.”

I just nodded, trudging up the stairs, feeling like blocks of lead were tied to my feet. This was exciting news, and I was excited, but I also had no clue what to do. I had spent my entire life preparing for college, and a career - not for actually getting the chance to meet the prince of Illea, and possibly even fall in love with him. What would he think of me? Probably not much, if I was to be honest.

“Thank you,” I whispered as Lydia pulled open the door. What I saw next was almost as unexpected as hearing my name announced on the TV about an hour earlier.

Slices of bread covered our the floor of our room, our dressers, the desk, and Lydia’s bed, interlocked and connected like pieces of a puzzle. It would take forever to clean up all the crumbs left by the bread, even after we picked up the slices themselves. True to his word, however, Randall had left my bed untouched. Sleep would be unhindered by breadcrumbs, if nothing else.

This was not what I needed tonight.

“I’m going to kill them,” Lydia decided, kicking aside some of the bread with her foot.

“Just collect the ants attracted to our room by the breadcrumbs and release them in the boys’ room,” I suggested, yawning as I pushed aside more bread so I could get my bedclothes out from my dresser.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I amended, waving her off. “I’m going to shower, and then to bed.” I tossed one last look over my shoulder in her direction. “I guess you could say that this is a pretty crummy prank.”

Lydia rolled her eyes. “You should’ve added bad puns to the special skills section of you application.”

“It appears that my application was just fine without that detail.”

With that, I was off, beyond ready to just clear my thoughts and collapse into bed. I could figure this all out tomorrow. Until then, I was content on living moment-to-moment, and all the current moment required was hot water and sleep.

[geminimoonbeamx]

Home, Again: Chapter One

A/N: Soooo, if you know me at all you know that thick Bucky is my religion and I love him with all of my heart. These new pictures of Sebastian on the set of ‘Devil All The Time’ have got me twisted. Literally I’ve been fawning over them for days. That man is too much for me and my libido and this is the product of that.

Word Count: 2k+

Rating: This particular chapter is pretty mild, lots of cursing mostly- the next chapter, and the ones to come after that will be extremely explicit though so get your bodies ready.

Summary: Moving back home was never in her itinerary, but after the loss of a family member and being fired from her job, she finds herself back in the town she grew up in and face to face with the man who’d haunted her teenage wet dreams. Now in her early twenties, maybe she can do something to make those dreams a reality.

A Plus Size Reader x Dad!Cop!Thick!Bucky Barnes story

It’s a surreal moment for you- waking up in your old room. The one that you’d grown up in, that you hadn't spent more than a couple nights at a time in- in the last six years.

Like some weird, out of body experience. Looking at the ceiling through blurry, sleep bogged eyes, with the sun shining clear and bright through the curtains fills your stomach with nostalgia that makes you feel like you might barf. 

You sit up, trudge to the bathroom, half feeling like you’re about to get ready for school or something- about to but on your Volleyball uniform or something.

While you're brushing your teeth you can't manage to drag your eyes away from your reflection. The bags under your eyes, that are ever present, seem to be deeper. Probably from all the moving you’d done in the past couple of days.

Picking up your entire life, and moving it from Brooklyn all the way back to Springs Port had not been easy.

Luckily your friends had been game for the three hour drive, and the little bit of heavy lifting(Pietro and Quill we’re life savers) when it came to your bed and room furniture. You’d sold your couches and tables. You didn't have your own place anymore, didn't know when you would again and since you we’re currently unemployed, you could use all of the extra cash that you could get.

That was you:

Living back at home. Job less. And broke- because you used that almost all of that furniture money to rent the U-Haul.

In that moment, with those harsh truths, you can't manage to look at your reflection anymore.

After taking a shower and getting ready- contouring and highlighting and concealing all of your self hate away, you do feel a bit better. It was a coping mechanism, yes. But You needed to be presentable anyways, you think.

You’re fine. You are fine, Y/N. Everything’s fine.

If you keep repeating it, and accept it as your reality, you’ll feel better, right?

You linger on that thought as you eat breakfast, which is a definite perk of being back home. Your grandmother stands near the stove- a pan hot and the kitchen full of the delectable smells of not only the omelets she was stirring up, but the crock pot that had who knows what already brewing.

Also, the ever present, and pungent herby smell of marijuana that followed her ever since her accident undercurrents that.

It sure beat the instant oatmeal you used to eat mornings back in the city.

“That smells so ridiculously good” You start as you slide onto one of the chairs at the kitchen bar “Also, good morning, Grams”

“Good morning, baby bird. You’re up early” She comments, as she gives you a knowing side eye “Or did you not sleep at all last night?”

There's honestly no use lying to her. She’d always had this sixth sense when it came to that- it had made your childhood a bitch.

“I slept. A little bit” you defend yourself, pouring yourself the cucumber orange juice she’d made. Sounds weird- is actually extremely refreshing. She likes to make weird concoctions with the fruits and vegetables she grows in her garden.

You get another one of those all knowing looks.

“Okay I didn't sleep as much as I could have, but I was just getting everything else unpacked. I’m finally done” you punctuate with an innocent shrug.

“You unpacked all those boxes? Y/N Y/M/N, there was about twenty of them. You’re not supposed to get unpacked in 24 hours, you need to give yourself time to process this change in your life. I really thought that indica was going to help. You should’a been knocked on your ass” She tells you as she plates up your food and sets it in front of you.

You thank her, and bite your tongue about the whole “processing” thing. She’d been all about that lately- since Grandma Vee died a few months ago and she’d started her group therapies; she’d become some kind of self made, self help guru.

You figure it’s better that then her falling apart.

You’re all kind of waiting for her to fall apart.

“I was thinking i’d go into town and job hunt today” You bring up the topic softly, both of you most of the way through your spinach, bacon, mushroom and goat cheese omelet.

She tutts at you, of course she does.

“I invited you to come back and live with me, I’m not expecting you to pay for anything, you know that” You love the way she words it. You wonder if she really thinks of it that way, that you’re here for her benefit and not the other way around.

“Grams, I get that I really do. But I have like fifteen bucks to my name right now. Even if it’s just something part time, I need to work” You tell her, in complete seriousness.

You’d had a job, steadily, since you were fourteen years old and the broke bitch life wasn’t for you.

She fussed, tells you that you that she is very capable of helping you with whatever you need. Promptly informs you that Grandma Vee’s life insurance will hold both of you down for a long while.

You don’t get how she can talk about her death so easily. Calm and level headed. It’s still that iron hot pain that comes from losing a loved one that burns for you. You’d felt it before and yet it didn’t dull one bit this time around.

“Yeah, that’s gonna be a fuck no from me. You have to use that money for you, grams. You know she’d want you to” is your blunt reply and she chuckles and throws her napkin at you as you stand.

“You watch your language in my fucking house, girl. You’ve always had such a bad potty mouth”

It’s inherited, you don’t tell her.

With a few more words of dissuasion from her and a kiss on the head and the reassurance that you’d still help her with her garden, even if you were working from you, you grab your keys and walk out into the already hot, New Jersey air.

--

It’s summer, mid June and Spring Port is and has always been a resort town. Sea side and picturesque- people flood in during the summer season.

It doesn’t surprise you that the towns square is currently a tourist trap and that parking is hard as shit to find. No matter, you find a space eventually.

Your turquoise Jeep Wrangler is the same one you’d driven before college, that you hadn't taken to the city with you. It has some  issues sometimes- the starters a little finicky and has to be worked on every six months or so, but it honestly still runs like a charm. Can get you from A to B just fine now, and you guess it is way better than subways and busses.

You end up walking around the entire towns square, and you’re glad you’d gone with slides instead of wedges. Everyone seems to be hiring, tourist season and all. And in the end you fill out four applications- handwritten at that which you think is a little funny.

It’s not that Springs Port is tiny really- with a population of 12, 000, there are definitely smaller places. Towns square is actually pretty decently sized- about twenty five or so tiny stores and restaurants scattered along main street. There’s a theater. Three gas stations. You guys don't have a Walmart in the towns perimeters technically- but there's one just a few miles away. And everything's waterfront, the docs a skip away. The Atlantic a continual backdrop.

Compared to New York though, it’s a blip on the map,. It feels smaller to you now that you’ve lived in the big wide world.

You’re walking down the cross of Harbor and Main- on your way to Goodies- which you hear Angie now owns, to meet Wanda and B for lunch when your feet get stuck where you are.

Frozen on the spot.

As you look at the flower shop, that’s overflowing with greenery across the street.

Infinity Flowers-

You can't help the draw to the store. Your feet seem to have a mind of their own- and you end up inside before you can really think of it.

Hell, it smells just like it used to. You haven't stepped foot in here since…

It’s pretty busy in the shop- it always was though. Best flower arrangements in the whole Garden state was it’s slogan, and it only exaggerated a little.

“I’ll be with you in one sec- Oh! Y/N” The bleach blond head that belongs to none other then Mantis bobs as she comes over and envelops you in a tight hug “I heard you we’re back in town! I was wondering when you we’re going to come in. I haven't seen you in so, so long”

She says all of this without letting you go and you chuckle and endure it because this was Mantis. Always such a hugger.

“Yeah, I was just job hunting in town and I thought I’d stop by”

“So you’re back for good then, yes?” She asks, after letting you go. Going to greet another customer warmly, while still managing to small talk to you. She’d always been good at making people feel at ease.

You tell her not really, just for the moment, as you fix the hydrangeas in the window display. They have them all wrong-

“Those we’re always her favorite” Mantis tells you what you already know and you nod and swallow the bit of sadness that bubbles up.

This. Is why you tend to stay away from this store. Thoughts of your late mother assault your psyche here, always- but also...you can't help but feel like you’re supposed to be here. Some of your happiest childhood memories we’re in this shop, surrounded by flowers. You can recall the sound of your mother’s laughter best here…

You leave the shop, after you’ve filled out an application.

You don't know why you did it but-

“I’m pretty sure I just got a job at Infinity Flowers” You inform Wanda and B, who are already sat at a booth in the little pub waiting for you when you get there. Sharon couldn't get a break from the station to come, but you couldn't hate her for it. She was just living her dream.

“Really?” Wanda asks, attempting to choose her words wisely “That's- I would never expect for that to be where you’d decide to work”

“What she means; is do you think that’s a good idea? There’s ghosts for you in there girly” B, Brunhilde(she’d kill anyone who used her full name though) has always been the bolder one in your group of friends. And that would never change.

“Mmm, I don't know what I think. Wanna day drink about it?” You suggest with a shrug as you go to wave down a waitress. One of their house made hard lemonades we’re sounding real good right now…

“Bitch, some of us have to go back to work” Wanda argues while B excitedly agrees, telling you that she’s already started.

Two and a half house lemonades later you are sufficiently buzzed and feeling better. Wanda has to get back to work at the antiques gift shop though, you you leave Angie a hefty tip(or rather your employed friends do) and head out.

It’s hot as hell, honestly and you think you might go sit on the beach for a while until you sober up enough to drive- you’re telling your friends that when you see a patrol car roll up to the bakery on the corner.

Out of the driver's seat exits one Bucky Barnes. AKA your teenage wet dream.

And holy god, does he look good. He’s flanked by a tall dark skinned man who you don't recognize, but who is also pretty damn fine.

You know you’re ogling, and your friends are laughing at you and taunting you, but in that moment you really don't care.

“Hot damn, he is still so fine, oh my god” You groan and Wanda chuckles as she lights up a cigarette.

“Yeah? The dad bod doing it for you?” She questions on an exhale of smoke.

“Totally. Is it possible that he got even more attractive? Like? How? And why did Sharon not tell me about this” You try to pull your eyes away from him, you really do.

But you’re a little drunk and the feelings you’d harbored for the older man come trickling back. Yeah, he’s gained some weight. Is broader- his shoulders big. His whole frame hulking. But he still has that swoon worthy dark hair, and that jawline you could see even from here. You wonder if his eyes we’re still that stormy blue color that you’d spent literal years dreaming about...You desperately wish you could go up and take a closer look.

“He’s really been hitting those doughnuts since the divorce, huh?” B snarks and you turn a cold glare at her.

“Don't body shame him. That’s disgusting” You snap and she holds up a hand.

“Jesus, you know I’m just kidding. I forgot how fucking touchy you are about him” She defends herself and you try not to go on a rant about how talking about anyone's body, male female or anyone in between.

You end up doing it anyway and the whole time Wanda grins and tells you how much she’s missed you, and B tells you how much of a sensitive cunt you are.

All in all, it’s good to be home. Even if you are a total failure of a human being at the moment, your brain can't help but tac on to the end. As you watch the police cruiser pull out of the parking lot, and think about the man that sits inside- you think about the fact that you aren't sixteen anymore. And he’s not married...

And in that moment- you realize just how good it is to be home. 

And there it is. If you'd like to be tagged in future chapters, please let me know! I’m thinking, and have this planned out to be about five chapters. Just a sexy, juicy, emotional quick read. Some Angst ridden smut coming your way!

Also- I appreciate reviews and reblogs more than you could imagine. They are literally fuel for me- so if you can spare some time to give me your opinion, I’d love you forever!

@gifsbysimplysonia @peacefulwriter88 @prettybubblesintheair @lostinthoughtsandfeelings @lostinspace33 @4theluvofall @plumfondler @tatathekissypotato @jaamesbbarnes @jalapenobarnes @siren-kitten-his @brieannakeogh @skishenanigans @paulxrudd

[sickandtideeeee]

By Bast - Chapter 15 (Erik x Reader)

A/N: Fluffier than expected... I hope it’s not a waste of time lol. Comments, likes and reblogs are appreciated! 

The next day, you woke up to the sounds of birds chirping and the soft running water of a nearby stream. Then the widespread itch came. The bugs had gotten you through your robes somehow, and your skin was etched with raised bumps on all four limbs. You sat up under the makeshift lean-to Erik had built in the dead of night and scratched your legs exasperatedly.

Erik was nowhere to be found. You wondered where he had slept, if he did sleep. A small part of you wanted to panic at the thought of abandonment, but instead you pulled your knees to your chest, took a deep breath and focused on observing the terrain around you. He would return, you were sure of it… 90% sure.

By the height of the sun in the sky, you guessed it was about midday. Your stomach finally began to protest yesterday’s antics with a loud grumble and you tried to ignore the gnawing sensation in the pit of your belly. While gorging during T’Challa’s feast had lasted you quite a while, it was finally time to refuel. You shuddered at the idea of having to resort to eating bugs, and silently cursed yourself for not preparing better to camp out in the jungle. Maybe next time you’d pack a survival kit before starting your daring rescue.

“Finally awake, huh?”

Erik was walking towards you carrying a large bunch of greenish-yellow bananas, likely fresh from a felled tree. It was as though he had known you were starving. He tossed them in your direction and while you did catch them, the bunch fell on your lap harder than you expected. Erik ignored your wince of pain and took a seat next to you.

“Better eat fast so we can get going.”

With that, he pulled off two bananas and peeled both, eating them at once. Once he was done, he ripped off the bottoms of his soiled pants, revealing his well-developed calves. Unsatisfied with this, he did the same with the long sleeves of his shirt, tearing them effortlessly to free his arms from the heat.

“Aren’t you worried about mosquitoes?” You asked, peeling your own banana with just the tips of your likely dirty fingers. It was barely ripe, but edible.

“We won’t be out long.” You raised an eyebrow. “You’ll see,” he insisted.

You decided not to question it. The two of you finished the rest of your meal in silence. Eventually, Erik got to his feet and started walking to the north with a purpose.

“Let’s move.”

You hurriedly obliged, ever afraid to be left behind.

---

It was when you finally reached a quaint cabin in the jungle that you had to say something. Your mouth hung open as Erik turned over a large fallen leaf by the side of the structure and pulled out the key that was laying underneath.

“N’Ja-.. I mean, Erik… did you-... are you clairvoyant? What the hell?” You were at a complete loss for words. How had this man legitimately prepared for everything?

He raised an eyebrow at you and then proceeded to unlock the door.

“No-no-no-no-no!” You protested the very sight before your eyes, following him into the small home. While this cabin obviously did not have the luxury of running water, electricity or gas, the fact that Erik had led you to a fully built shelter in the middle of literally nowhere equipped with a bed (!), a wood stove (!!), cabinets (!!!), and a fireplace (!!!!), was just too absurd for you to comprehend.

“This is unbelievable.” You said, swinging one of the cabinets open to reveal stacks of canned soup and beans, beef jerky in sealed plastic and bottles upon bottles of filtered water. “Unbelievable!”

You whipped around in shock, a box of powdered milk in one hand and a jar of peanut butter in the other. “Are you serious?! Is this really yours?”

That last question you probably did not want the complete answer to. “How did you know we’d need this?!”

Erik, for the first time since you met him, started to laugh.

Not the cocky or mocking laugh you were used to, but a true, unbridled, amused laugh. You were so surprised, the box you were holding almost slipped out of your fingers, making him laugh harder. Erik trying to get ahold of himself was humanizing but almost as bewildering as there being a fully stocked cabin in the woods just waiting for the two of you. Almost.

Erik wiped a tear from his eye, and sat down at the small round wooden table next to the stove. He waved you over to sit across from him.

“Put the peanut butter down ma, damn!” He said, his voice still light and entertained. Once you sat, he continued. “I was here for a little while before I showed up… Just planning. You know, in case shit went wrong.”

So he wasn’t 100% certain he’d take over the entire country single-handedly. I could have been fooled, you thought.

“How do you even know this place is safe?” You asked, looking around.

“Trust me, it’s safe.”

“I’ve been trusting you an awful lot in the past 24 hours.” You joked, but his expression darkened, and you let out a nervous laugh.

Erik suddenly got up and headed over to the bed. He grabbed the pillow and wordlessly beat the dust out of the mattress a couple of times before stripping down to his underwear without so much as a warning. Embarrassed, you averted your eyes.

“Shut up for a minute so I can take a quick nap.” He said, curtly. In less than a minute, he was fast asleep. You now were almost certain he’d been up all night.

That was abrupt. You were starting to get the sense that Erik was sensitive. Now what would you do while Erik was asleep?

You got up and continued to look around the cabin. In a closet you opened carefully to prevent creaking, you could find a machete, a fishing pole and a bucket. In a dresser, pushed to the wall opposite the bed, you could find three spare sets of clothing, including a pair of comfortable looking flannel pajama pants and a matching button-down shirt. Five pairs of boxers were neatly folded into one of the drawers. A towel, assorted combs in the other.. a boar bristle hairbrush? You rolled your eyes at the excess of it all. Who was this man trying to look nice for in the entire jungle?

From one of the cabin windows, you could see a cool-running stream in a short walk down a dirt path. It seemed like a good place to bathe, and you should probably take the opportunity while Erik was sleeping. You probably smelled rank anyway.

Walking down the path was mind-clearing, even more so when you could finally shed your dirty robes and slowly submerge yourself into the body of water. Under a small waterfall, you closed your eyes, letting the water crash onto your shoulders.

Water is cleansing. Water is good. Water would wash away your sins, water would replace your good food, your life in the castle. Could it? How long would it be until you were found? How long until N’Jadaka got tired of dragging you around and went off to do whatever men of his ilk did?

You exhaled heavily and sunk deeper into the water, so that you were up to your neck. You could see a couple of the gentler fauna peering from afar to get a drink. Antelope were graceful and kept their distance before drinking but you backed deeper into the base of the small waterfall cliff so that you were obscured from view. You weren’t exactly looking for another jungle cat encounter, especially naked and alone.  

Next steps were unclear, and Bast had not said anything in the past day. Now Erik only guided you and while you knew you had some sort of protection from harm from Bast, you were not sure how safe it could keep you from him if he changed his mind. You called out to her again, but no response came. Instead, you continued to sit for the next half-hour.

The next time you peered out, most of the animals were gone so you waded back out to the bank to grab your robes and rinse sweat and grime out of them as well. When you looked up, Erik was coming up the path towards you, but hadn’t spotted yet. Remembering you were naked, you swam back to your hiding spot hoping he wouldn’t spot you. Your heart pounded but he seemed to thankfully pass by you.

You decided to give it a few minutes before making your escape, but then you heard the sound of someone else plunging into the water.

Abandoning the need for discretion, you all but scrambled out of the water to cover up the indecent portions of your body with your sopping wet clothing.

“Ain’t like I’ve never seen titties before!” Erik’s voice rang out from behind as you ran down the path at full speed. You could feel your body grow so hot in embarrassment that you were pretty sure you’d probably instantly air-dried on your way back to the cabin.

--

You couldn’t face Erik once he swaggered back into the cabin. In fact, the moment you heard the front door swing open, you could feel your stomach do backflips. At least this time you were fully clothed, wearing the flannel pajamas you had located earlier while your robes hung to dry.

Erik did not say a word but you could almost feel him smirking as you gestured towards a meal placed on the table, eyes focused on the still burning stove. While he had been bathing, you had tried to figure out the best way to make something edible out of canned beans, instant rice and whatever vienna sausages were. Still, without any spices aside from salt and pepper, the food tasted like it had been doused in sugar and flour and had the texture of something that had been thawed and reheated daily for three weeks.

You put out the fire and turned to finally eat. Erik was already seated and making his way through his plate. Shirt off, he was brilliant to look at and you couldn’t help admiring his built chest. But those scars… You focused on filling your stomach, not your eyes. Shame on you.

Keeping your eyes on your plate, you chewed carefully, suddenly startled by a fork clattering on the table. You looked up at Erik.

“Did I… desecrate you or something?”

Your eyes grew wide.

“What?”

He ran his hands through his dreadlocks, letting out a sigh. “I mean, like, seeing you earlier, titties out and shit. Since you a priestess virgin and all.”

Now you lowered your fork hard on the table.

“Can we just not talk about it?” You asked, sternly, now more annoyed than embarrassed. Erik opened and closed his mouth, deciding against saying whatever he had in mind. Realizing he probably actually wasn’t meaning to be crass, you started to feel bad.

“Okay, well it’s not gonna rain fire and lightning so don’t worry about that.” you offered. “I can tell you’re really from the West with all that puritanical thinking though.”

Erik took your teasing surprisingly well. He smiled warmly.

“Your food tastes like ass, by the way.” He said, clearing his dish off the table.

You frowned. “I tried my best.”

Cheekily, he replied, “I know.”

Tagging:  @syndrlla97 @iwantsomethingeternal@1killmonger @chasingsunlight22@hoopshoney @destinio1 @wakanda-inspired @thadelightfulone @lalasparkles @pessimisfit @youreadthatright @stark-red19@ruruly20@bossyboyd03 @autumn242 @heybriheyyy @thelovelyliterary@muse-of-mbaku @bidibidibombaclaat @supersizemeplz@romanceoftheeveryday@chaneajoyyy @lildashofmelanin @blackpinup22 @imayhavemisunderstood @raysunshine78 @killmongersbaby @fonville-designs

[thetravelerwrites]

My Real Life Story, with Pictures! (Graphic, Long Post)

So, I’m not sure exactly why I decided to do this, or what I expect the outcome to be, other than the fact that I’ve never actually committed the information to print or written any part of it down. I’ve never made a record of it. Maybe it’s because it’s 2 A.M. and I can’t sleep or maybe I just need to get it all out, but here we go. If long posts and personal stuff isn’t your thing, feel free to scroll on.

Most of you know that I am not well. You may not know why, and if you know why, you may not know how. You might even have curiosity about it but feel nervous about asking me questions, worried that you might offend me. Let me reassure you: you can’t. I have been asked every possible question people can thing of. More to the point, I want you to ask. I want you to be curious and brave enough to come to me and ask me to my face questions about my condition because you want to learn. If you ask, I can explain, and then you can understand. I want you to understand.

Graphic retelling of childhood accidents and trauma under the cut:

In October of 1986, my mother, father, older brother, and I were living in a very small mobile home on my great-uncle’s property out in a rural area of Mississippi. We were poor and struggling, so my uncle offered to let us stay in in his spare rental until we got on our feet. My dad had just gotten a job, Mom was in the middle of her ninth month of pregnancy with my younger brother, and my older brother, who has autism and got chronic pneumonia, was doing better both medically and behaviorally, so things seemed to be looking up for us.

Before I go further, I should explain that out that deep in the country, the mobile home was not connected to any main gas line, but the stove and heater were gas-reliant, so we were using large propane tanks to fuel them. There were gas connections in every room, so that other gas fed things, like additional heaters, could be placed in those rooms. All of those outlets were connected to the propane tanks, but they were capped to prevent the propane from leaking into the home while the tanks’ valves were open.

The propane tank that was fed to the heater was usually shut off in the spring and opened back up in the fall. Sometime during the summer of that year, however, the cap to one of the outlets had broken. It wasn’t a big deal at the time, since that tank's valve was shut, so my grandfather, who stayed with us periodically, decided he would go and get a new one when he had the time.

Except he forgot.

October 14th came, and the first cold front of the season rolled in. Forgetting that the cap hadn’t been replaced in one of the bedrooms, my grandfather turned on the tank for the heater in the living room, planning to use it later that night when it got cold. For several hours, propane leaked unchecked into the home. Like natural gas, propane on its own does not have a smell. Most companies add a smell for detection purposes, but it seemed we were not using tanks from those companies, as there was no smell. The only clue we had that something was amiss was that our eyes were burning. My mother did in fact call the gas company to ask if there was a problem, but the gas company, not realizing we weren’t using natural gas, told her that if she couldn’t smell anything, that it probably wasn’t a big leak, and that she should just open up the windows to let it dissipate and they’d send someone out the next day.

About 3:30 P.M., my mom was getting ready to go an get my dad from work. I was in the kitchen with my grandfather, helping him prep dinner, and my older brother was outside in the yard playing. My grandfather was going to make a roast with potatoes and carrots, and I was bring him to the fridge. I had turned two years old that August. Some gas stoves have pilot lights, but some you have to manually light with a match after turn the gas on. We had one of those. As soon as my grandfather struck the match, the entire house went up like a bomb.

My grandfather threw up his arms and was blown out of the window behind him. My mother was thrown 15 feet away and landed on her stomach, instantly forcing her into labor. My older brother was far enough away that he was minimally injured, just scrapes and bruises. I was blown against the wall and knocked unconscious while still inside the house. During which, I began to burn.

There was a fire station not far from our house who saw the fire, so they were there before the neighbors even called 911. My mom was hysterical, trying to find her children. Ross managed to get back to the front of the house, but I was nowhere to be seen. The firemen were not going to go into the burning mobile home, assuming anyone who had still been inside must have been killed in the initial blast.

Imagine their surprise when I walked out under my own power. While I was unconscious, my nervous system went into shock, so when I woke up, I couldn’t feel the fact that I was not only grievously injured, but also still on fire. Having woken inside a burning house, my first instinct was to get out of it. So I did.

If you’re squeamish, please skip this paragraph. Burns do strange things to the human body. One of the most gruesome and painful is what happens to your skin. The outside layers shrivel and dry out because of the heat, but the inside layers swell and collect fluid because of the injury as a way of protecting your insides. What ends up happening is the outer skin splits open in various places, most commonly in places that crease, like your elbows, knees, hips, neck, and ankles. The intense heat may also temporarily blind you, whiting both the irises and pupils of your eyes completely. So, I walked out, my hair and clothes burned away, wearing only my diaper, which are surprisingly fire-retardant, my skin split open and bleeding, and my eyes whited over, still aflame.

One of the firefighters/paramedics came up with a thermal blanket to put me out, and as soon as it touched my skin, I went into full systemic shock, had a heart attack, and my heart stopped. They managed to resuscitate me, though my skin kept sloughing off. I was taken to the local hospital, where I was emergency airlifted to the Delta Medical Center in Louisiana. My heart stopped again in the helicopter, and I was again resuscitated.

What they weren’t telling the newspapers is that my condition was worse than that of my mother and grandfather. My mother was told that there wasn’t much they could do for me. I was on so much pain medication that giving me more would have killed me, so all they could do was put me in a chemical coma for three weeks. They predicted that my right hand would be useless, that there would be significant brain damage, that I would be on a ventilator for the rest of my life and would never speak again, and that’s if I survived. My mother decided that wasn’t good enough for her, and looked until she found Dr. Frederick Stucker, a pediatric otolaryngologist and facial reconstructionist.

He was willing to experiment and try things that, at the time, were experimental. He told my mother that I would likely die, so at the very least, they could say they had tried everything. My mom agreed.

I had 14 surgeries in the first six months, and 21 by the first year. I spend the next two years at the LSU Medical Center burn ward, where I had a lot of painful procedures to keep me alive and mobile. My airway was completely destroyed and required a complete reconstruction using tissue and cartilage from my leg, which is commonplace nowadays, but was cutting edge in 1986. I was the first person to have their airway reconstructed from harvested tissue. I had many skin grafts and a tracheotomy put in just in case the reconstruction failed.

After the first year, I was allowed to go home one weekend a month, but for the most part, I stayed in the hospital in a sterile environment. Infection could have killed me, and precautions had to be taken to prevent me getting sick. I couldn’t get my normal immunizations until I was completely healed, which wasn’t until I was 6 years old.

I’ve done much better than the doctors ever expected. I can speak, I have no brain damage, my right hand is my dominant hand, and I’m doing very well, considering. My airway is collapsing, as the tissue from the reconstruction is deteriorating, which is why I had the trach reinstalled, as it had come out when I was seven.

Now, if anyone has further questions about any of this, I welcome them. But, this is my story. I just thought it would be cathartic to actually write the story down. And now I’m not sure how to end it. Probably because it’s not over yet.

Me and my brothers:

[cedarmoons]

pt. 3

@4biddenleeches is the best y’all js :3

--

She has been in Vesuvia for little over half a month, and it has been storming for the past three days. She lies in the nest of blankets and pillows on the ground, which passes as a bed in her work-in-progress home, and stares at the ceiling. Her left hand does not hurt, thanks to Asra’s ointment, though with the thunder comes difficulty sleeping. Despite the rain, it is humid and hot, and she tosses and turns, trying unsuccessfully to rest.

When she does finally sleep, she dreams of the Devil’s prison, and sees only empty chains. Broken manacles litter the walls and the floor; posts holding irons have been ripped from the bedrock they are embedded in. Blood gleams slickly on the cobbles, and the room smells of smoke and ash.

The Devil is gone.

“No,” Ziah whispers. “No.”

She looks up and sees her name written across the wall in blood. Hot air that smells of the desert brushes the back of her neck, and she turns around.

She gasps, jerking awake, sitting up in her nest of pillows. She rests her head in her hands and breathes, focusing on the beat of her heart, the drag of breath through her teeth. It had not meant anything. It had just been a dream.

The room flares white as lightning strikes outside. Thunder booms the moment after, so loud it rattles the windows in their panes. Ziah stands, gooseflesh rippling over her bare arms and legs, and walks on unsteady legs to the window. She stares at the rain running down the glass in sheets, absently massaging her left hand.

After a few moments she turns around and goes into her near-empty kitchen, which, other than the necessary amenities of gas stove, ice box, and countertops, has nothing but a vase of tithonias and Asra’s arthritis ointment.

Downstairs, her protections break with a screeching alarm. Ziah winces, instinctively moving to cover her ears before catching herself, lowering her hands. She senses the shadows shift behind her and turns on her heel, focusing on the darkness behind her phonograph. Something is watching her there, hidden as before, yet somehow more menacing in its silence.

“I said before that you are not welcome here,” Ziah warns. There is not much she can do against a creature from the other plane, other than shore up protections, which is apparently useless.

The Master is very angry with you, the creature says in reply. A chill runs down her back. He misses his traitorous beloved. It inhales, deeply, as one sitting at a feast inhales the aroma of the proferred food. Your power... ohh, I’m so hungry.

Her whole body tingles. Ziah ducks and the window behind her shatters, thunder booming and rain blowing inside. Glass sprays across the room, glinting from the water droplets on their surfaces.

She puts her hands together and rests them over her chest, fingertips and thumbs forming a triangle over her sternum. The flash of summoned light catches the creature by surprise — it shrieks and turns away, the light briefly revealing only an opaque, strange outline of a white shape with curling horns. She sprints downstairs, cursing viciously when she accidentally steps on broken glass, cutting her feet.

Ignoring the sting, she yanks on her traveling cloak and steps into her sandals by the door, and despite how quickly she moves she feels sluggish, slow, as if it had actually managed to siphon energy from her.

That thought is alarming. The moment her sandals are half-on she yanks open the front door.

No, the thing shrieks, both petulant and furious. Something splinters upstairs. No, the Master wants you! So hungry...

Ziah steps out into the rain and slams the door shut behind her. She reaches out, finding her protections not broken as she had thought but drained of energy and rendered inert—which should not be possible. She had charged them with a full year’s worth of power.

She thinks of the creature, and its whine: I’m so hungry.

Something collides with the other side of the door. Ziah stumbles back from the threshold and brings her palms together, recharging the lines of dragon lily ink and weaving a steely net that will prevent anything—anything—from leaving the house. It is not permanent, especially if this thing can consume magical energy as she suspects, but it will give her some time to get away.

The creature screams in rage and despair as she turns and moves as quickly as she can, limping on her right foot as pain stabs up from the arch to her ankle. Rain beats down upon her, but she is more exhausted than she had first thought, and her magical reserves feel dangerously low. More than once she steps into ankle deep puddles that splash her to her naked knees. She allows a brief moment to regret not having time to change out of her pajamas before pulling on her cloak.

The constant storms mean the streets are flooded, the canals too swollen with water to prevent the stone levees from overflowing. At the next bolt of lightning, followed by a clap of thunder, she sees a dark shape moving in the floodwater—a vampire eel—and grits her teeth.

She is still strong enough to walk upon its surface, wincing at the pain in her right foot, and pretends not to notice the vampire eels that follow her under the water, drinking every drop of her blood that runs into the floodwaters.

The bigger problem is finding the Mooney house. She had not bothered to learn the way to Asra’s. Vesuvia is transformed at night, she finds, especially at so late an hour when not even the gas street lamps are burning. The fresh unfamiliarity makes her task all the more difficult.

She finds the floating markets and the baker’s stall, and, soaked and shivering from cold, finds a canal she remembers crossing with Asra. Ziah gathers her cloak closer to her and looks over her shoulder.

When she finally finds the Mooney house, she is certain she looks like a drenched rat. She is exhausted, soaked to the bone, too concerned with her limited power to shield herself from the rain, and she has by now put all of her weight on her left foot. Her stomach cramps on emptiness and twists, because her body thinks she has used too much magic, too soon.

She sniffs and approaches the door, reaching out to the knob before she senses the energies of various protections and curses. Asra had been thorough — it is multilayered, complex, the work of a magician who had had months or years to perfect his craft. She senses spells to shove an intruder away, curses that wither entire arms, hexes of burning pain and more. If she was not in such a hurry she would find it all incredibly impressive, considering Asra’s youth. Or perhaps this work is not Asra’s alone — perhaps others had contributed to this web of magic as well.

The house, too, is bristling. It considers her an intruder at this hour, and she is unwelcome. This it makes clear to her.

Ziah suppresses a shiver and sniffs again. If she gets a cold because of this... “I have no time for this,” she says. “Let me in.”

The house remains adamant and hostile. Ziah scowls, then closes her eyes. She reaches out, fingertips inches away from the door, and feels for the network of energies that wrap around the house, like a cluster of thick ivy and other vines that protect and conceal everything beneath. But there, on the second story window, a weak link, a place where the tangled layers of hexes and protections and spells is thinner than the rest. That would take less effort.

One cannot rip out a single section of ivy without taking at least some other section of it as well. One cannot snag a web string without destroying the rest in turn. “Stubborn fool,” she mutters to the house, and reaches in, focusing her will and her remaining on that weakest link.

The house resists, fighting her tooth and nail, screaming in her ear as it tries to prevent her from ripping out the protective magics that it has had for ages. She manages to uproot the weakest section, unraveling the surrounding areas in turn, before the door swings open. She pulls back at once and steps inside, shutting the door and breathing heavily.

That had taken more effort than she had anticipated. No matter whether Asra had contributed to the spells protecting the Mooney house or not, she should not underestimate him.

The first floor is pitch black, and the rain is loud outside. Ziah rests her forehead against the wood, catching her breath, and hears a soft glide behind her. She turns around just as lightning flashes, bleaching Faust of all color for a single heartbeat.

As her eyes adjust to the darkness, because she does not have the spare magic to even summon a witchlight, she sees Faust tilt her head at her, tongue flicking in curiosity. She cannot imagine what she must look like—soaked, shivering, putting all her weight on her good foot.

She listens. Asra’s heartbeat is upstairs, steady. He is asleep, then. At this hour of the night she is not surprised. That he can somehow sleep through this storm... that is more surprising.

“Faust,” she says, finally, her words punctuated by thunder. She shivers, cold rainwater running down her legs under the cloak, teeth chattering. “Please wake Asra. He and I must speak.”

[kiss-my-freckle]

There isn’t a single bit of evidence to support our Red having lost his family. Not to an actual death. All dialogues and scenes suggest that he has a grown daughter, still living. THAT is exactly what the imposter reveal did - it removed every bit of evidence that our Red lost his family to an actual death.

1x4: The farmer parable wasn't specific to our Red. Nowhere did he state this coming from his own personal experience

Red: A farmer comes home one day to find that everything that gives meaning to his life is gone. Crops are burned, animals slaughtered, bodies and broken pieces of his life strewn about. Everything that he loved, taken from him. His children. One can only imagine the pit of despair, the hours of Job-like lamentations, the burden of existence. He makes a promise to himself in those dark hours. A life’s work erupts from his knotted mind. Years go by. His suffering becomes complicated. One day he stops. The farmer who is no longer a farmer sees the wreckage he’s left in his wake. It is now he who burns. It is he who slaughters. And he knows, in his heart, he must pay. Doesn’t he, Stanley?

1x7: In Frederick Barnes, we were taken to the house that belonged to Raymond and Carla Reddington. There's nothing to support this house belonging to our Red.

Red: Strange. I remember it being bigger. Luli: I don’t understand. Of all the places Marigot, Doha, Florence, Seychelles why this place? Red: I raised my family in this house. Luli: It’s lovely. Red: No, it’s not, but it used to be. Dembe: Time to go. Red: Did you prepare everything the way I asked? Luli: This place must hold a lot of memories for you. Red: I spend every day trying to “forget what happened” here. This should help.

In fact, a few moments earlier, he compared himself to Frederick Barnes. A man who has a child, still living.

Red: Every cause has more than one effect. Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who’s willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about – That’s a man I understand.

Considering our Red is an imposter Reddington, and there isn't a single bit of evidence showing us whether or not Luli believed him to be the real Raymond Reddington, our Red could've been speaking to her as the real Raymond Reddington when he said, "I raised my family in this house."

1x13: In The Cyprus Agency, Diane Fowler spoke to our Red, not knowing that he's an imposter. Given this, the family Fowler was referring to, was the family of the real Raymond Reddington.

Diane: I know the truth, Red. About that night - about what happened to your family. Do you want to know the truth? Red: More than anything in the world. But if you know the truth, Diane, then somebody else does too.

And our Red's response to Fowler contradicted his response to Luli in Frederick Barnes. You can have one, but you can’t have both. Either he wants to forget what happened there or he wants to know what happened there. Considering his answer would need to align with the real Raymond Reddington because Fowler believed she was speaking to the real Raymond Reddington, our Red was at the Tacoma Park house, which means our Red would be that "somebody."

1x14: In Madeline Pratt, Red's story didn't specify who the blood belonged to - whether it his own family, his extended family, or someone else's family. It also doesn't specify whether or not they actually died.

Red: I ran out of gas. I was so excited to get home, I didn’t even bother to look. My head was just - I ran out of gas. It was Christmas Eve. I pulled off to the side of the road. Seemed like it’d been snowing for days. No traffic. No cars to come help. Just me and a car full of gifts. It was more than 20 years ago. I must have walked four miles. Five, maybe. It was so still. Just cold and white. The whole time, all I could think about, was them in our house. The warm light in the windows, the smoke from the chimney. The sound of my daughter at the piano. The smell of the tree and the fire, oyster stew on the stove. I was so upset to think that I’d ruined Christmas for them, being late, leaving the gifts in the car. But the closer I got, the more I realized how funny the whole thing was, how much they’d love the story - daddy running out of gas. How every Christmas - they’d get such joy from telling that story at my expense. And then finally - I got there. I walked - I walked through the door. And there was just blood. All I saw was blood. All there was - was blood. I can - I can still smell the nape of her neck, feel her little fingers on my cheek, her whisper in my ear. That’s why I didn’t show up in Florence. It’s why I haven’t shown up in a lot of places over the years.

1x16: In Mako Tanida, there's no proof that Red knew of Audrey's pregnancy, so he was comparing his loss to that of Ressler losing his girlfriend.

Red: Donald, I understand how you feel. Beneath the iron-and-rust exterior beats the heart of a man swimming in immeasurable grief. I am truly sorry about Audrey. There are few that understand love and loss more than I.

Red: Let me tell you something that someone much wiser than I told me at a similar point in my life. Go home. Turn back from this and go home. It may seem like the hardest thing in the world, but it is profoundly easier than what you’re contemplating.

Red: Donald, I want you to know that I do understand how you feel. There is nothing that can take the pain away. But eventually, you will find a way to live with it. There will be nightmares. And every day, when you wake up, it will be the first thing you think about. Until one day - it will be the second thing.

2x7: In The Scimitar, our Red told Zoe that he has a daughter. Form shows only one daughter, and she's still living. Red had no reason to lie to Zoë. Telling her that his family or even his daughter is deceased wouldn't reveal his or his daughter's born identity.

Zoë: Do you have kids, Kenneth? Red: I do, a daughter. Zoë: The two of you close? Red: It’s complicated. Zoë: She doesn’t like anchovies? Red: You know, I don’t know about that. I wish it were that simple.

2x9: In Luther Braxton, our Red admitted to having lost a family, but "lost" doesn't specify that he lost them to an actual death.

Red: It may be hard for you to imagine, but I once had a relatively normal life. Bills to pay, playdates, family, some friends, people to care about. Lost all that. Liz: Lost how? Red: In Mexico, there are these fish that have colonized the freshwater caves along Sierra del Abra.They were lost. They found themselves living in complete darkness. But they didn’t die. Instead, they thrived. They adapted. They lost their pigmentation, their sight, eventually even their eyes. With survival, they became hideous. I’ve rarely thought about what I once was. But I wonder - if a ray of light were to make it into the cave, would I be able to see it? Or feel it? Would I gravitate to its warmth? And if I did, would I become less hideous?

In fact, his response to Liz basically states that they lost him because he himself became lost in the darkness.  

3x9: In The Director, our Red only spoke to the loss of his mother and "the others." No specification here with regard to losing his own family (wife and children) to an actual death.

Red: There are foundational elements in our lives. People that form the brick and mortar of who we are. People that are so deeply imbedded that we take their existence for granted until suddenly, they’re not there. And we collapse into rubble. I’ve stood over the open grave of someone I’ve loved too often. Once for my mother. And then the others. I needed to recall this feeling because I’d be staring at another body right now if not for you, Aram. It wasn’t weakness that prevented you from watching your friend die today. It was hope, and thank heavens you were in a hopeful mood. You saved Elizabeth. I’m forever in your debt.

3x14: In Lady Ambrosia, our Red told Vasilia Patinka that he doubts he'd have recovered from the kind of loss - or perceived loss that she has.

Red: What you endured, most people never recover from. I doubt I would have. But you’ve turned it into a calling. Nikolai would be proud.

3x20: The Artax Network gave us something interesting. Dom compared his loss of Katarina to Red's loss of Elizabeth. The only exception being the blame Dom feels our Red holds for their deaths. Even more interesting, considering Dom felt tortured by Red playing in young Katarina's glitter. If Dom felt Red responsible for his daughter's death, that man would not allow him to play around in her childhood. And don't get me started on Dom not being able to defend himself against Red. If Red truly felt he was invading something he wasn't supposed to be, he'd have respected Dom enough to apologize and put it away. But he continued ... again, while wearing the man's coat.

Dom: Stop - torturing me. Red: That was never my intention. Dom: Then what are you doing out here? These boxes are all I have - all I have left of my daughter. Red: I’m sorry, Dom. I understand. Dom: No, you don’t. You don’t understand. You think because Masha’s dead, now you - you can understand me? You can - you can share my misery? Red: I feel bereft, just like you. Dom: No, not just like me. She’s gone because of choices you made for both of them. First Katarina and then Masha. As far as I’m concerned, you killed my entire family! No, you’re not like me.

I don’t care what anyone believes, there’s no way in hell a co-worker or handler of Katarina’s or Dom’s would be disrespectful enough to go through a deceased Katarina’s things as if he has the right. And not just Katarina’s things, but Dom’s entire house. Our Red went into Dom’s garage and messed around with his tools just to fix the piano. Was shown coming down the stairs from Dom’s second story when Aram knocked on the door. What’s upstairs in most homes, but bedrooms. 

4x1: In Esteban, Alexander Kirk believed he was speaking to the real Raymond Reddington.

Red: Elizabeth, are you okay? Kirk: Of course she is. Unlike you, I would never hurt my own daughter.

4x2: In Mato, Mr. Kaplan spoke of our Red putting a baby Liz in her arms and asked to keep her safe. There's absolutely no reason why a co-worker or handler of Katarna's or Dom's would need to do this. And don't get me started on a four-year-old being considered "a baby." Mr. Kaplan was specific enough in this statement to compare "baby" Liz to "baby" Agnes.

Kate: I’m not sorry for what I did. I betrayed you for the same reason I just betrayed Nikos - to keep Elizabeth safe, just like you asked me to all those years ago when you first put her in my arms as a baby girl. Only now, she has a baby girl of her own, and your existence in their lives puts them in constant danger.

That's in addition to the fact that there's absolutely no reason his existence in Liz's life would put her or Agnes in danger if he were simply a co-worker or handler of Katarina's or Dom's. Liz's father is dead. If her mother were truly dead, then there's absolutely no danger whatsoever. He's simply a man who knew her parents.

1x7: Bubble Girl

There's no given proof telling us that the young child playing with bubbles is our Red's daughter, nor is there proof to show that she's deceased.

1x16: Ballerina Girl

We can't be sure what the dancer knows of our Red being an imposter. Because of this, there's no proof revealing Ballerina girl to be our Red's daughter.

Dancer: He’s one of our biggest donors. Never comes to any other performance. Same show on the same day every year. They say his daughter was in the show years ago.

2x5: The Front 8mm film

There's no given proof telling us that this film is of our Red's family, nor is there proof to show that the two in the film are deceased.

2x14 -

Red's "last word."

Red: Lizzy.

2x19 -

Once awake after nearly dying, Elizabeth's name was the first word out of his mouth.

Dembe: The doctor says you did well. Red: Elizabeth? Dembe: She’s fine.

4x15 -

Again, while Red was dying, it's Elizabeth's name.

Lou Lou: Who’s Elizabeth? After I got some of those pills in you, you came to. Well, sort of. Kept saying her name. Elizabeth. Someone who’d miss you if you died? Red: I don’t know. Maybe.

5x4 -

This line of dialogue wouldn't come from a man who hasn't a single living child.

Red: Given the same circumstances, I’d like to think I’d be as brave as her. I know I’d want to be.

2x4-

And finally, this bit of dialogue from Naomi. She spoke as if our Red working with Liz would be something rather difficult to do with her use of "pulled that off."

Naomi: Are the - Are the two of you - what, working together? I don’t even want to know how you pulled that off.

If our Red were simply a co-worker or handler of Katarina's or Dom's, there'd be absolutely no way to prove the two have any connection at all. Adding in the basic fact that a co-worker or handler of Katarina's or Dom's wouldn't be connected to our Lizzy, he'd be connected to her mother and grandfather. That is NOT an actual connection to our Liz.  

And our Red is most certainly NOT seeking answers of his own. His most recent to Liz in 5x9 shows that.

Liz: I need you to promise me something. Red: Of course. Liz: The Blacklist. I need you to promise me you’ll keep working on it with the Task Force. Red: Doesn’t work without you. Liz: It has to. Red: I think we’ve done enough.

"I think we've done enough."

Because he's not seeking answers for himself, he's seeking answers for Liz. He turned himself in for Liz. That's why it "Doesn’t work without you."