#but they have the fine motor skills to kill someone

[rosered-schneeweisschens-sis]

never underestimate young adults.

the guy who assassinated Archduke Franz Ferdinand (and his wife the Duchess of Hohenberg) was 1 month shy of 20 years old.

[redflagshipwriter]

Fast Car Masterpost and Prologue

dead on main fic, intro + four chapters.

Summary: The Red Hood starts off his righteous campaign with a lot of nerve but no legal identification that will let him behind the wheel of a car. Public transportation really doesn't have the panache he needs to start off as a fearsome crime lord, so he needs a driver. He finds Danny Fenton, a grungly college student trying not to be noticed by any government agencies or vigilantes.

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Links will be added to chapter list as the story posts. Chapter one will go up on July 14th. Updates are approximately every other day.

LINKS/ chapter count

chapter 1 | chapter 2 | chapter 3 | chapter 4

prologue

“No, Habibi,” Talia said calmly into the phone. “I will not falsify you an American non-commercial driver's license for motor vehicles. If you cannot prove yourself to Gotham without American motor vehicle operating permissions, you will never prove yourself. Rise above this challenge.” Talia covered the phone for a second but he could hear her talking to someone else about tile options.

“It's an unnecessary challenge,” Jason argued, doing his level best not to let his tone go up. It was undignified to whine. He was a man now. “The important parts of the challenge are the tactical planning and the skills.”

Talia sounded like she was filing her nails. “Tactically plan to take the bus. Or walk. Walking is free and healthy.” 

Jason made an indignant sound but she mercilessly hung up. The worst! She made the top three of his worst mother figures, easily.

“She's just doing this so I can't go drinking.” He scowled into the air. “I don't even want to!” His voice broke mid whine, which was an insult to add to all the injuries visited upon him by the cruel whims of women who weren't even his legal guardian. He was an adult in most countries!

The worst part was that Talia didn't care about underage drinking. She just didn't want to hear shit about enabling him from Bruce when he eventually figured out that Jason was alive, 19, and in Gotham. His passport claimed he was 21 because it had to for him to travel alone, but she knew damn well no one used their passport as ID in bars. 

He couldn't just go get a license. Jason sulked viciously and threw himself into fixing his plans to accommodate for this. 

He was legally dead and living under a fake name. If he tried to sign up for the driving exam, it'd be too much scrutiny on his paperwork. But he was not taking the bus around as a crime lord. It lacked panache. More importantly, it didn't go where he wanted it to go.

Fine. He didn't need her help. He didn't need anyone's help. He just needed to download Uber. 

That was how Jason wound up wiping a mob lieutenant’s blood off of his hand onto his pants so that he could use the guy's touch screen phone. Victor Woodward's account put in a request for a ride to the Gotham police headquarters. He killed time kicking ass in all the Words with Friends games that Victor had ongoing, which was really gonna surprise anyone who normally played with that boob. Victor’s last ever play was ‘cat,’ for fuck’s sake.

A few minutes later, a skinny teenager pulled up in his clanker and opened the door. Jason put on a smile and hefted his duffle bag a little higher on his shoulder. 

“Hi! Victor?” The guy, Danny, waved his phone at Jason.

“That's me!” Jason lied breezily. “Can I put this in the trunk?” 

“Go for it.” Danny popped the trunk open from inside the car. He watched Jason with his big blue doe eyes.

For an instant, Jason thought that Danny might have seen something. Paranoia reared up. Was there blood visible? Was it easy to tell that the shapes in the bag were heads?”

The moment passed. Danny cleared his throat and whipped his face forwards again. “Normally I say to sit in the backseat, but I'm not sure that's enough room for your legs. Either is fine.” 

Jason got in the car and let satisfaction wash over his body as the weirdly timid kid pulled them out into traffic at a snail’s pace. Whatever. They wouldn’t get stopped for a traffic violation when the driver was cautious.

He’d done it. His debut as the terrifying Red Hood, hunter of the wicked and bane of the Batman, was launched. And he didn’t need a license to do it.

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

Where Will All The Martyrs Go [Chapter 1: Welcome To A New Kind Of Tension]

Series summary: In the midst of the zombie apocalypse, both you and Aemond (and your respective travel companions) find yourselves headed for the West Coast. It’s the 2024 version of the Oregon Trail, but with less dysentery and more undead antagonists. Watch out for snakes! 😉🐍

Series warnings: Language, sexual content (18+ readers only), violence, bodily injury, med school Aemond, character deaths, nature, drinking, smoking, drugs, Adventures With Aegon, pregnancy and childbirth, the U.S. Navy, road trip vibes, Jace is here unfortunately.

Series title is a lyric from: “Letterbomb” by Green Day.

Chapter title is a lyric from: “American Idiot” by Green Day.

Word count: 5.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🥰

“What do you think, should we kill ourselves now or later?” Rio is spinning his Beretta M9 around on his index finger. This is not advisable. He doesn’t care.

Your hands are gripping the skeletal latticework of the transmission tower, steel hot enough to burn you; no electricity hums in the power lines suspended above your heads. Your eyes are on the horizon, golden June sunlight over fields no one has planted. Weeds are growing up through the earth, feral and defiantly useless, reclaiming their land just like the deer are, and the rabbits and the opossums and the turtles and the squirrels and the doves. The reign of humanity is over. Now you’re prey animals too. “Let’s wait.”

“For what?”

“Maybe someone will save us.”

“Ain’t nobody coming, Chips!” Rio says. “We’re a hundred feet off the ground in the middle of nowhere, motherfucking Catawissa, Pennsylvania, and we haven’t run into anyone since that Amish family back in Lightstreet, and I wouldn’t count on them driving by in their horse and buggy to pick us up.”

“We’re about sixty feet off the ground.”

“Okay, Bob the Builder, why don’t you whip up a helicopter or something to get us out of here?” Rio’s M9 has one bullet left in it, yours has three, nowhere near enough. At the bottom of the tower is a swarm of fifty-four zombies; you’ve counted them twice. There are no cute euphemisms: walkers, biters, the infected. They were once people and now they’re not. They wear the vestiges of their former lives, like how those who believe in reincarnation see meaning in birthmarks: here you were stabbed, there you were kissed by your true love. They lurch and snarl and hiss in their professional attire, college t-shirts, Vans and Jordans, septum piercings, wedding rings. They decompose in a miasma of metallic blood and spoiled meat. Parker had been the last one to the transmission tower, and they grabbed him by the legs. Now they’re chewing the gristle off his bones: disconnected ligaments that swing like strands of cobwebs, scarlet threads of muscle. “Oh shit,” Rio says, looking down. “We’ve got a smart one.”

Most zombies don’t have the fine motor skills to climb, swim, or open doors, but every once in a while—just like out of every 5,000 or 10,000 or however many ordinary humans you’ll pull the lever on the genetic slot machine and get a Picasso or a kid who can score a 1600 on the SATs—you run into an overachiever. This zombie, a teenage boy with red hair and a blue plaid shirt, is slowly scaling the tower. He’s already ten feet off the ground.

Rio aims his M9, semiautomatic, packs a punch but won’t break your arm with the recoil. “Fuck off, Ed Sheeran!” He fires and misses; the bullet grazes the boy’s shoulder. He groans dramatically and asks you in defeat: “Will you take care of that, please?”

You pull your pistol out of your holster and lean away from the tower to get a better angle, holding onto the scaffolding with one hand. You feel Rio’s large fingers close around your wrist, ready to yank you back if you slip. You click off the safety with your thumb, peer through the front sight, aim and wait until you’re sure. It’s a headshot: shards of skull ricochet off steel beams, half-rotten brains spray out in a mist. The carcass plummets to the earth.

“All this horror, all this catastrophe.” Rio’s eyes, dark like a mineshaft, drift mischievously back to you. “We could…distract each other.”

He’s not serious; this is a game you play. “No thanks.”

“You don’t want to die a virgin.”

“I do if you’re the only other person up here.”

“You deny a condemned man his final wish?”

“We’re not dying,” you insist. “What about Sophie?”

“Sophie would understand given the circumstances. She would want me to be happy.”

“What if we have sex and then immediately thereafter get rescued? You’d be a cheater. You’d be consumed by guilt. You’d never be able to take me back to your parents’ doomsday prepper cult commune in bumblefuck Oregon to wait out the apocalypse in peace.”

“You’re going to appreciate those doomsday preppers when you’re eating Chef Boyardee out of a can instead of shuffling around as a reanimated corpse.”

“Yeah, I’m sure I will,” you muse. “So you agree we’re going to get off this tower somehow.”

Rio sighs and whistles a morose tune: what a shame. “You should have gone out with that Marine at Corpus Christi.”

You frown, repentant, wistful. There’s nothing on the horizon except fields and trees and black storm clouds of crows taking flight. “I was afraid of making a mistake.”

“And now look at you. About to die as pure as Pope Francis.”

“How did this happen?! We’re not idiots, we’re goddamn professionals!” You re-holster your M9. You’re still wearing your uniforms from when you went AWOL, stealing away from Saratoga Springs like rats from a sinking ship.

“I’ll tell you exactly how this happened. You let that loser Parker come with us even though I knew it was a bad idea—”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! He started crying!”

“And he had one job, which was to check the oil in the Humvee, and clearly he failed because…” Rio glances at his watch. “Approximately four hours ago, the engine started smoking and the whole thing died on us, so we had to get out and walk, like we’re pioneers or some shit, and then that hoard down there came out of nowhere, and the only place left to go was up. Freaking Parker. I could murder that guy.” An awkward pause. “I mean, the zombies beat me to it. But still.”

“He had two jobs. He was also carrying the extra ammo.”

“Don’t remind me.” Rio isn’t messing around with his M9 anymore. He’s contemplating it as the sun hovers just past noon, hot and shadowless. “How many bullets do you have left?”

“Two.”

“Good. Don’t use them.”

You look at him, this man you’ve known for over four years, this man you’ve traveled the world with. You’ve already gone so much farther than Oregon together. How is it possible that what was once a six hour flight is now a month-long journey that might kill you? “It’s not over yet, Rio.”

“Remember what you promised me.”

His hushed voice in the moonlit indigo of the Humvee the night you left Saratoga Springs: Don’t let me die alone. “We’re going to be okay. We’re going to make it to Oregon.” Then you grin, sweltering summer air breathing over you, humid, heavy, the screeching of insects in the trees. “But if it comes to that, I’d be happy to shoot you first.”

Rio smiles as the zombies below growl and claw at the steel framework of the transmission tower. Flesh peels off their fingers until you can see the gore-stained white of their bones. “Don’t miss.”

“I rarely do.”

“Do you have any more packs of Cheddar Whales in your pockets or—?” He cuts off as he spots something in the distance. His eyes go wide, his jaw drops open. “What…what is that?!”

It’s an SUV, massive, dark blue, rumbling across the field in a dust storm of displaced earth. It’s headed straight towards you. There is someone standing up through the sunroof, short dark hair that whips wildly in the wind, binoculars. You can hear the engine revving and, faintly, Kanye West’s Gold Digger. As the SUV nears the tower, Sunroof Kid ducks inside and closes the hatch.

Rio explodes into hysterical, rapturous laughter. “Oh my God, we’re saved! We’re not going to die up here! Oh, thank you, Jesus, thank you. I’m never going to jack off on Sundays again.”

The SUV, still accelerating, plows through the mob of zombies. Severed limbs go flying; bones crunch and snap. There’s a woman driving, you can see now through the slightly tinted windows. She puts the monstrous vehicle and reverse and does another pass. Zombies paw futilely at the sides of the SUV, a Chevy Tahoe, as it turns out. They smack their open, soggy palms on the windows; they gnaw and lick at the bumpers and the wheel wells. The Tahoe circles to regain speed, the engine growling, a bear, a dragon, and barrels into the remaining ambulatory zombies. The hoard is now largely incapacitated. Rio is cheering and clapping his hands.

The Tahoe’s doors open, and your rescuers appear. There are two men wielding baseball bats: one with long dark curly hair, the other tall and blonde, and there’s something wrong with his face, the left side, though you are too far away to see clearly. They move rapidly through the battlefield of felled, moaning bodies, swinging their bats and crushing skulls. There’s another blonde guy, shorter, softer, pink with sunburn, wearing plastic sunglasses and a teal polo with a popped collar. He’s spinning a golf club in his right hand. He is followed out of the Tahoe by one last blonde, spindly and swift, stalking the perimeter with a compound bow, a quiver of arrows secured to his belt. Rio is singing along to Gold Digger, drumming his fists on the steel beams.

“Now, I ain’t sayin’ you a gold digger, you got needs

You don’t want a dude to smoke, but he can’t buy weed

You go out to eat, he can’t pay, y’all can’t leave

There’s dishes in the back, he gotta roll up his sleeves…”

The driver wriggles out of the Tahoe with some difficulty; she is seven or eight months pregnant. “Stay in the car,” Madame Driver tells someone inside as she slams the door shut. She’s holding a hammer and sets about euthanizing the zombies still squirming on the ground and gnashing their cracked teeth at her.

Golf Club says: “Jace, bro, that’s so embarrassing. You’re gonna let her do that?”

Curly—or, rather, Jace—shrugs. “Exercise is good for the baby.”

All three blondes respond at once in a chorus of appalled disapproval. Interestingly, your rescuers have British accents. From within the Tahoe, someone turns off the CD player. This is wise; noise tends to attract more zombies. Madame Driver, unaffected, puts her hammer through the eye socket of a former Arby’s employee.

Jace flings back: “She likes helping! It would be sexist to tell her she’s not allowed to!”

The Scarred Man looks up at you and Rio and salutes, two fingers glanced off his forehead. You begin climbing down the scalding rungs of the transmission tower to meet them.

“Oh fuck, Aemond, you gotta deal with this,” Golf Club says. He is holding a yowling zombie at arm’s length by the straps of its overalls. It’s tiny, maybe a kindergartener. “You know I can’t kill the little kid ones.”

The Scarred Man, Aemond, turns to him. He’s wearing a maroon Harvard University t-shirt. “You have to learn how to do things yourself. I might not always be around.”

Golf Club scoffs. “As if I’d outlive you.”

“Go on. You can do it,” Aemond says. Behind him, more people are emerging from the Chevy Tahoe: Binoculars Buddy, a slight girl with shifting, watchful eyes, a blonde woman in a billowing sundress and with a burlap messenger bag slung over one shoulder.

Golf Club is still struggling. “Aw, Aemond, man, he’s got light-up sneakers!”

Jace strides over irritably. “Aegon, you’re so fucking useless…” He kicks the miniature zombie to the dirt, raises his bloodied baseball bat, and brings it down on a skull that disintegrates like an overripe Halloween pumpkin. “You’re welcome.”

“Get bit, you poodle.”

Rio hits the ground first, his boots thumping against untamed earth. Aemond sets his baseball bat aside and reaches out to offer assistance as you dangle from a white-hot steel beam. “No,” Rio tells him roughly. “Back up.”

Aemond shows his palms and complies, retreating several paces. Rio helps you down. Now you can see Aemond’s face perfectly. There’s a relatively fresh wound running down the left half of his face, the violent red of burgeoning scar tissue, clear stitches; his eye has been sutured shut. But that’s not why you’re staring at him. His other eye is a focused, hypnotic blue, his short blonde hair disheveled. He keeps touching his chin, a nervous tick. Immediately, there’s something you like about him. He gives you the impression of someone who has gotten very good at hiding how afraid he is. Aemond looks away from your gaze, thinking you’re horrified by his injury. Then, reluctantly, he comes back. There’s forbidden temptation the lines of his ravaged face, a curiosity, a hesitation.

“Thank you for saving us,” you say to your rescuers, tearing your attention from Aemond. It’s not easy. “That was really, really cool of you, and we know you didn’t have to do it. So thanks.”

“Yeah,” Rio adds. “Sorry your Tahoe is covered in guts now.”

Aemond turns to confer silently with his companions, then asks you: “Where are you headed?”

“Odessa, Oregon.”

He nods. “We’re going to California.”

“NorCal,” Jace says, holding his baseball bat across his shoulders. “Bay Area.”

“Are you two together?” Aegon asks.

“Yeah,” Rio says, misunderstanding the question.

“Not like that,” you clarify. “He has a wife and baby, that’s what’s in Oregon.”

“So you’re single,” Aegon says, grinning toothily. His fellow travelers—family? friends? classmates? a combination thereof?—grumble and roll their eyes.

“Um, I mean, yeah, technically…?”

“Aemond’s also single,” Madame Driver informs you, relishing the chaos.

“He’s single but deformed and traumatized,” Aegon says. “I am mentally uninjured.”

You chuckle awkwardly. Your eyes, by their own volition, flick back to Aemond. He peers down at the ground then up at you again, smiling, a little sheepish, a little wicked.

Aegon groans, swinging his golf club around. “Man, come on.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Aemond replies.

“No, it’s just right there, all over your fucked up face.”

Madame Driver feigns a sympathetic frown at Aegon. “How sad. Guess you won’t have anyone to give your syphilis to.”

“I don’t have syphilis,” Aegon tells you. Then, to the others: “I can’t be the only single guy! It’s pathetic!”

“I’m single,” Archery Team says brightly.

“You’re like twelve. You don’t count.”

“I’m seventeen!”

“Are you Army?” Aemond asks you and Rio.

“Navy,” Rio replies. “We were stationed at Saratoga Springs in upstate New York.”

Aemond is fascinated. “You’re deserters?”

“What are you gonna do about it, Brit Boy?” Rio says. Aemond blinks at him. Aegon cackles, drawing huge circles in the air with his golf club.

“Everyone’s deserting,” you explain diplomatically.

“They were going to evacuate the base and send everyone left into New York City,” Rio says. “Fuck that, we’d heard things, we weren’t about to go on some suicide mission. We weren’t even in a combat unit for Christ’s sake, we’re Seabees.”

“You’re what?” Aemond asks, puzzled.

“We do construction. That’s why we were still at the base. If they’re putting us on the front lines, the situation is desperate. I’m not going in the meatgrinder. I’m not gonna be like those Hitler Youth kids sent to Russia.”

Aegon is squinting behind his sunglasses, truly lost. “Huh?”

“We should go west together,” Aemond suggests. He’s attempting to sound casual.

“I thought we didn’t want to travel with strangers, Aemond,” Jace says pointedly, mocking him. “I thought they couldn’t be trusted, Aemond. I thought they might slit our throats and steal our Tahoe in the dead of night, Aemond.”

“We’re useful!” Rio bargains. “We can shoot things!”

Aegon is very confused. “I thought you did construction.”

“Everyone has to go through basic training,” Aemond tells him impatiently, watching you.

“She got the Marksmanship Medal,” Rio says, grinning, proud.

“A lot of people get that,” you demur immediately.

“We can give you guys weapons training,” Rio continues. “You seem…like you probably don’t know about guns. Like you read a lot of books.” He gestures to Aegon. “Except that one.”

Aegon snickers, unoffended, still swinging his golf club around. “I don’t read books. I read maps.”

“Okay, lets do it,” Aemond says. “We’ll stick together across the Midwest and split up before we get to the Pacific. That puts us at ten people, and there’s safety in numbers.”

“Why do you get to make all the decisions?!” Jace demands. “Who signed that fucking contract? I didn’t consent to those terms.”

“Because that’s what Criston told us the last time the phones worked,” Aegon replies smugly. “He said Aemond’s in charge. So he is. If you want to find your way to California on your own, you’re welcome to try.”

“Who’s Criston?” you ask.

“Our fake dad,” Aegon says.

“Oh, your stepdad?”

“No, our mom is still married to our dad, he just sucks.”

“He does suck,” Archery Team confirms.

Rio tells you: “Hey, Chips, you’re standing in a torso.”

“Am I?” You look down. Your boots are buried to the ankles in the rotting gore of a bare midsection with only one limp arm still attached. You step out of it and shake off the bits of decomposing organs. “Gnarly. Thanks.” You spot Parker’s backpack containing the extra ammunition, pick it up out of the dirt, and throw it over your shoulders.

“Chips?” Aemond says. “Like…chocolate chips?”

“No, like woodchips. I’m a carpenter. I mean, I was a carpenter, I guess. That’s what I did in the Navy. Some people call the carpenters Chips.”

“I was an electrician,” Rio says. “So clearly, now that all the power is down, that turned out to be a fantastic career path.” Then he formally introduces himself. “Hi everyone, I’m Rio.”

Aegon perks up. “Oh, like the Rio Grande.”

Rio pretends to be scandalized. “Wow, racist.”

“So racist,” you agree.

Aegon’s chubby pink face fills with horror. “No, wait, I didn’t…um…”

Rio laughs and taps the nametag on his chest, black letters stitched over green camouflage: Osorio.

“His first name’s Bryan,” you say. “But no one calls him that.”

“My mom calls me Bryan. Sophie calls me Bryan.”

Aemond points at his companions, one after the other. “That’s my brother Aegon and my sister Helaena. Jace and Luke are our cousins. Then Baela and Rhaena are their girlfriends. Well, Baela…she’s kind of a fiancée. But there’s no official ring yet.”

Jace says: “Unfortunately, all the jewelry stores were looted on account of the apocalypse.”

“And I’m Daeron,” Archery Team says buoyantly, waving. Then he shields his eyes as he notices something at the edge of the field. “Oh, guys…?”

There are zombies approaching with clumsy, staggering strides, only a few now, but more will follow. That’s the thing; they are in seemingly endless supply. It’s easy to get too comfortable with them, to think of them as slow and mindless, even comical, even pitiful. But they can surprise you. And it only takes one bite to become just like them.

“Time to return to the Tahoe,” Baela announces, waddling towards the driver’s seat. Rhaena climbs in the passenger’s side. The rest of you pile into the back. The SUV has nine seats; Aegon crouches on the floor without being asked to. He’s unfolding a map he pulled from the pocket of his salmon-colored shorts and laying it flat across Rio’s knees so everyone can see. Baela turns the key in the ignition and the Tahoe rumbles to life. You spot a few red gas cans under the seats. If you can’t find more when that runs out—siphoning it out of other vehicles, stumbling across a gas station that is miraculously not drained dry—you’ll be walking, biking, or skateboarding to the West Coast. Or embracing the Amish lifestyle with a horse and buggy.

“We were planning to swing by Fort Indiantown Gap,” you tell Aemond. He twists around in his seat to look at you, that absorbed crystalline blue gaze. “That’s where we were headed before our Humvee broke down. It’s a National Guard Training Center. It’s probably cleaned out like everywhere else, but if it’s not…we might be able to find some guns and ammo there.”

“Where is it?”

“An hour south of here, just outside of Harrisburg.”

Baela is watching Aemond in the rearview mirror. He gives her a nod. “How do I get there?” Baela asks you.

“South on Route 42. Did you see the signs on your way in…?”

“Yup. Got it.” Baela steers the Tahoe across the field, kicking up a vortex of parched soil. She intentionally runs down four zombies before swerving left onto a two-lane road. Then she turns up the volume on the CD player: War Pigs by Black Sabbath. “It’s a mixtape,” she informs you.

Aegon points to southcentral Pennsylvania on a map of the United States of America, highway arteries and local route veins. “We’re here,” he says, sliding around on the floor of the Tahoe as Baela drives. His index finger traces the path; it’s a precarious balance between avoiding the most heavily populated areas and still having access to the necessary trappings of civilization: supplies to scavenge, roads to follow, buildings to take shelter in. “We’ll stop by Fort Indiantown Gap and then head northwest, thread the needle between Pittsburgh and Cleveland, stay south of Detroit and Chicago, cut across Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, that top part of Utah, then go our separate ways in Nevada. Oh my God, it’s just like the Oregon Trail! Do you guys remember that game?! Fording rivers, getting dysentery, hunting bison to extinction?” He starts humming the theme song.

Jace smirks, chomping on a Twizzler. “Hope you don’t die of a snakebite or something. That’d be awful.”

Aegon ignores him and refolds the map. “Rio! Fuck, marry, kill. The last three first ladies before Biden.”

Rhaena says, exasperated: “Aegon, you have to stop asking people that. It’s inappropriate.”

“Oh, easy,” Rio replies. “I’m fucking Laura Bush.”

“That’s what I’m saying!” Aegon gives him a high five.

“And then I have to marry Michelle.”

“You gotta.”

“Which means Melania gets the grape Flavor Aid.”

“It’s the only logical answer.”

“I’d fuck Melania,” Jace says.

“Of course you would, you sick, sick man,” Aegon mutters, rolling down a window and sticking his head out like a golden retriever, his sunglasses still on, his blonde hair flapping in the wind. There’s a tattoo in black ink on his forearm, you notice for the first time: It’s not over ‘til you’re underground.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fort Indiantown Gap is a ghost town like a gold seam emptied, an oil well run dry, a collapsed coal mine. There’s no central armory but instead a series of arms rooms, one for each unit. Every single scrap of lethal metal is gone: no pistols, no rifles, no grenade launchers or machine guns, no ammo, not even pocketknives, although you do find clean PT uniforms for you and Rio to change into, t-shirts and running shorts and sneakers. Clothes are surprisingly difficult to acquire now. Most stores have either been looted or overrun by zombies, and Amazon is tragically no longer delivering. You can break into houses that seem abandoned, but then you have to hope the people who lived there just so happened to be your size and also aren’t waiting inside to eat you. It’s not usually a wise gamble.

You study Aemond and his companions as you move through the base clearing buildings, you and Rio with loaded M9s in your holsters and clutching borrowed baseball bats; gunshots are best avoided if possible so as not to attract unwanted attention. Aemond and Jace take point, almost always; Aegon hovers on Aemond’s blind left side, wagging his golf club around, occasionally slapping Aemond’s shoulder to remind him he’s there. Daeron prowls at the back and on the periphery. Baela pretends she isn’t struggling to keep up. Luke and Rhaena are the lookouts. Helaena fills her burlap messenger bag with small treasures you don’t even notice her accumulating: bottles of Advil, batteries, lighters, pens, tweezers, Band-Aids, Uno cards. You encounter only three zombies, easily decommissioned. Fort Indiantown Gap must have been evacuated weeks ago. You wonder what pointless battles her soldiers died in. Everyone knows the dead have won.

What the abandoned base lacks in weaponry it makes up for in food. You find a chow hall with an untouched kitchen, a wealth of shelf-stable delicacies: chili, saltine crackers, applesauce, fruit cocktail with bright red gems of cherries, peanut butter, strawberry jelly, green beans, carrots, peas, beets, tuna fish, chicken noodle soup. You feast—a Thanksgiving, a Last Supper—then settle into the barracks next door as the sun begins to set. There are plenty of bunkbeds and a closet full of pillows and sheets. Someone always has to be up to keep watch; Daeron and Jace immediately go to sleep so they can get some rest before they are shaken awake sometime around 2 or 3 a.m. Baela says she’s going to lie down for a minute and almost immediately begins snoring. Helaena makes silent amendments in her notebook; she keeps an inventory of everything the group has, needs, or wants.

Outside, Rio and Aegon are engaged in a spirited game of Uno. Luke is sitting cross-legged on the roof of the Tahoe with his binoculars. Rhaena is beside him softly reading a book out loud: The Hunger Games. Aemond is on a wooden bench on the front porch of the barracks, watching the sun sink into the west. When he notices you, he seems pleased. “Hi.”

“Hi. I’m sorry we wasted your gas to come here.”

“No, it was a good idea. It was worth a shot. And now we have a safe place to sleep tonight.” His eye drops lower, his scarred brow crinkles in concern. “What happened to your hands?”

“My hands?” In the haze of the adrenaline, you didn’t even notice. Your palms are blistered, swollen and stinging. “Oh. It was the transmission tower. The steel beams got really hot while we were up there. I’ll be okay.”

“Let me bandage them. You don’t want to get an infection.”

“Really, I’m fine, I shouldn’t inconvenience—”

“Sit down,” Aemond insists. You take a seat on the bench while he goes to the Tahoe to fetch a black nylon bag about the size of a briefcase. Rio casts you a furtive, crafty grin. It’s nothing, you mouth back, more to convince yourself than him. Your pulse is thudding in your ears; your cheeks are warm. You haven’t felt like this since you almost agreed to go on a date with that Marine you met at Corpus Christi, where your battalion had been dispatched to build a series of new airplane hangars. Aemond returns to the bench and begins wiping down your palms with antiseptic. “Sorry if this stings.”

It does, but you’re grateful for the distraction. “It isn’t too bad.”

“You’re not from Oregon.” He’s noticed your accent.

“Kentucky,” you confess.

“You aren’t making a stop at home before traveling west?”

“Why would I want to go back there?”

Aemond looks at you uncertainly; he can’t tell if you’re joking. You like the way his voice goes quiet when it’s just the two of you. You like the way he barely shows his teeth when he talks, like he’s keeping secrets.

After a moment, as the sky begins to turn to orange and pink and lilac, you continue. “People join the Army for a paycheck and a place to sleep, free college, health insurance. People join the Marines to prove they’re the best. People join the Air Force because they want to be in the military but think they’re too smart for grunt work. And people join the Navy to get away from home. I wanted to get far, far, far away.”

Aemond smiles. “Are you far enough yet?” He doesn’t mean by miles. He means the fact that the world will never be the same. Now he’s coating your hands in a thick white ointment, cool and blissful.

“I was afraid of so many things, and now none of them matter.”

“We all have brand new things to be afraid of.” He gets a roll of gauze and begins to wrap your palms, careful to keep your fingers and thumbs unencumbered.

“Aemond?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened to your face?”

He shrugs. He’s trying not to be resentful about it; he can’t change it anyway. “We were scavenging supplies from a Home Depot. We had to board up the house and wait until things…got quieter and it was safe to travel out of Boston.” And by got quieter, he means that the initial wave passed, the zombies began to wander out of the cities and disperse, the survivors were hunkered down and not participating in gunfights or Vikings-style pillaging in the streets. “A piece of sheet metal fell on me from the top shelf. Aegon and Jace dragged me home, they thought I was dying.”

“I’m glad you weren’t. Who treated it?”

“I did.”

You can’t disguise your shock. “You…you stitched up your own face?”

He smirks, finishing the bandages on your hands. “I was in medical school before all this.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“I was an intern. So definitely not a doctor, but the closest thing to one I had access to. And I had taken some things from the hospital when everything went to hell. So I got a little mirror, and I lidocained myself very generously, and I started suturing.”

You don’t know what to say. His eye?? He stitched his eye shut?? “I mean…you did a great job.”

“I’m aware I look like Frankenstein, but I guess it’s better than not being here at all.”

“No, seriously. You look amazing, Aemond.”

He stares at you, bewildered. You realize how bizarre it must sound. You both start laughing as Aemond packs his supplies back into his medical kit. He touches his fingertips to his chin a few times—restless, meditative—then stands to return inside the barracks. “I’m…going to go check on Helaena.”

“Yeah. Cool. See ya.” You don’t watch him leave. This takes intentional effort.

Seconds pass anonymously: no time you need to be anywhere, nothing late, nothing early, no television premiers, no football games, no State Of The Unions, no time zones to do mental math over. You aren’t even sure what day it is. The earth has erased your invisible prisons. Now all that remain are the real ones: weather, terrain, disease, predators.

There is the creaking of weight on the porch steps. You warn him: “I’m not interested in your commentary.”

Rio winks as he says: “Maybe you won’t die a virgin after all.”

[erinwantstowrite]

opinions on ai?

This is the perfect time to share something I wrote a few months ago when I was upset about it:

AI is the bane of my existence and I hate it so much. Not only because of the environmental impact that it has, but because of how it gives us absolutely nothing of value in creative spaces and is actually a detriment to our future, rather than being "innovative" like companies want us to believe.

If you're using AI to write notes for you, or to answer questions, to write your essays and your discussion posts, you are hurting yourself. But eventually you will hurt others with your willing ignorance. You are not learning, you are not taking the time to push yourself to new bounds. You are not absorbing the information you need, and for why? Because it's hard? Life is hard. Learning is hard. If learning was easy, you wouldn't be learning anything at all. And one day when you need to use these tools you put down and gave to a program in order to do your job, you are going to get someone hurt in some way. If you're going into teaching and you didn't bother to learn about childhood development because you let an AI take your notes because you couldn't be half-assed to sit through an hour long lecture, you will fail every student that comes your way. If you're an engineer and you had AI do the math for you, something that you make will break and it could kill someone. Because the AI can not even count how many times the letter 'r' is in strawberry, but you're trusting it to make bridges or design buildings?

And in a creative sense, you are not an artist if you use AI. I will scream it from the rooftops if I have to.

You are not an artist if you use AI.

Because to be an artist is to put your very soul into what you create. And an AI has no soul. To be an artist is to lay yourself bare for people to witness and interpret, and it's scary but it's freeing. To be an artist is to make a message with your art, to have people a thousand years from now sit in a museum and feel connected to who you were so far in the past. To think that humanity may be different but we are also inherently the same. To be an artist is to despair over the process of creating your art because it's difficult, and time consuming, and damn does it drive you crazy. But then you get that end result and you realize you learned something about yourself, you got better at something that brings you joy, you created and now you see what you are capable of, and what you will be capable of in the future. To be an artist is to connect with someone because of what you made, and that someone includes yourself.

We keep telling young artists that they need to be better now, they need to quit if they aren't good at it on the first try. We keep acting like we didn't start from somewhere ourselves, like we were born with the fine motor skills and the talent needed to create. It's because our attention spans can't handle over 20 seconds and we need multiple videos playing to drown out our own thoughts. We have to look at comment sections to see the court of public opinion before we make a judgement ourselves. If anything is out of the ordinary or doesn't look the way we expect or want, it must be shamed. And this existence is exhausting because at the end of the day, we have done nothing of value. When coming across a video of a young artist who took the time out of their day to create, we need to encourage them to continue going, tell them that their work is worthy. Because it is. It is worthy because they made it. If we shoot them down before they can go anywhere, we've just killed an artist that could have painted the next Starry Night, or created a sculpture that millions of people would try to visit. We've shot down someone who could teach others how to create one day in their future. We shot them down and killed their inspiration and motivation, and they might turn to someone else to do it for them because they will believe they are not worthy enough or talented enough to make it.

When I was still in school, my favorite part of the year was seeing the projects put up on the wall. The silly displays our teachers put up to show a holiday with slightly wonky paper snowflakes, the posters that the art students made with "too many lightning bolts around the guitar", the signs for school dances, the yearbooks that students spent all year making, the English class posters that depicted scenes from what they were reading and they were made with stick figures or they had someone draw out butterflies. I loved seeing the decorations for Homecoming Week, loved looking ta the booths that everyone made for our career and science fairs. I liked when we put on talent shows still, when we did pep rallies and fashion shows and we saw everyone get together to have fun and not care if it was "perfect." No one there was a professional artist, not yet, but that didn't make it any less entertaining or creative.

We dance because we want to feel how our bodies move and express ourselves in ways words cannot. We paint and we draw and make pottery and quilts and pictures because at one point, all we had were cave paintings of our hands, and we still look at them with reverence for where we started. We sing and we drum and we laugh because music is a universal language that anyone can understand, and isn't that breathtaking? We write so that people in the future can pour themselves over our words and learn from us, so that kids can hide their books underneath their covers with a little flashlight when their parents put them to bed hours ago but they just can't put our story down they have to know what comes next! We cook for our loved ones and have family recipes that mean we've been tasting the same food that our family we never got to meet were eating too.

We create because humans are meant to create. We put our love into the process, we put our dreams and our hopes and our hard earned lessons into these creations.

AI will never have that. AI has none of the process, and therefore, it is not art. We can gripe about how art has different meanings all we want, we can shout that art is only art if it invokes an opinion or a thought, but that is not what makes art. Because there is still effort put into placing a shoe on a pedestal, or painting a yellow square, or painting a mural on a wall, or writing poetry in a tiny notebook at school, or melting crayons together, or anything that requires you putting it together. If AI is doing all the work for you, then you've accomplished nothing. And you stole from the people that actually did accomplish something. You stole not only their effort, but you stole their process, their feelings, their hope and their dreams and their ideas of the future.

AI is nothing and will ultimately become obsolete. Because humans will not stop creating just because companies are pushing for us to stop and hand it over to them. They want us to stop creating, they want us to pay them for it, they want us to put blind trust into what they're doing, they want us to forget that they are stealing from us. I will not forget. I will never forget. Because I was born to sing and dance and write and draw and cook, and when I die, my body will go right back to the Earth and perhaps flowers will grow around my grave. I will still be creating even then. And even if AI is still around and still trying to steal from us, I will die knowing that it could never do the same.

[scrivenger-grimgar]

Every time I read Yiling Wei sect AUs and they start describing what the sect members and leader wears its like, (direct quote from The Yiling Wei Sect and the Black Robed Lan by IvoryDragon48)

"[Wei Wuxian's hair] was pulled up into a high ponytail by a red ribbon with a gold and silver headpiece ornamenting and helping to direct the flow of his hair. The robes he wore were expensive looking with black being the dominant color and reds as the accents. The inner robe was a red so dark it looked like blood and the outer robe had simple yet elegant designs."

--And like, I get the urge to make them really cool looking and with themes or designs matching the other sects but like??? there's massive wasted potential here!!!

First, the hair. that's all well and good, but there is no way in hell that the Yiling Wei folks (Wen Remnants and others reviled/ostracized by society at large) are going to buy a gold guan OR a silver guan. why the hell would they bother spending precious resources on trying to impress people who already don't like them for something they literally have no control over.

But Wei Wuxian would know that he has to play the game now that he has people to protect, and going to a Con as a Sect Leader and not doing what all the other sect leaders are doing (wearing guan to say "I'M BETTER THAN YOU!!") is essentially outright stating that he holds no respect for any of them except in a way that could get him and his people killed. so instead, he goes "fuck it" and makes a guan out of something incredibly ordinary, like iron or wood, so now if anyone brings it up he can say "Oh, well, I like feeding my kids." or "Actually, I made this myself, all the better for carving protective arrays into!"

--And that's it. Wei Wuxian is a street kid he absolutely knows that rich people don't like to think about poor people and that they prefer to ignore them or hurt them. except you cant just attack someone who's being perfectly reasonably polite in public, especially when you just pointed out that he's 'poor'. Wei Wuxian's strategy is make them so fucking uncomfortable that they leave us alone.

(This would of course be after several years of no contact and no fighting so things have cooled off a bit)

Next, robes. No expensive robes. Let them be very well modified normal robes that have subtle stains and colour bleaching from sunlight and washing. The (shown, non-array-work) embroidery is at best amateur level, and Wei Wuxian will proudly show it off, loudly saying "a-Ning started a while back to help with his fine motor skills, and he's really come such a long way!!" and that "Oh, Xuanyu started practicing only recently but he's already so good at it!"

The Yiling Wei are the exact opposite of Lanling Jin. Wealth is to be used to benefit everyone and everyone is to be loved and appreciated for their work. The refusal to spend money of frivolous things is strong, especially when its something you could make yourself.

Self Ornamentation would not be jade or gold or silver or silks. It would be some nice wood, these feathers from the bird that likes me, hey look at this cool rock I found I'm gonna polish it like a gemstone, I dug these awesome bones out of my grandmama's garden you think I can do anything with 'em?

Yiling Wei folks are death druids.

[onceonafullmoon]

Convos With Rin

Rin x Gn! Reader

No warnings! Just pure fluff, also you can ignore the last 2 lines if you want to read this as platonic!

Aka: maladaptive daydreams by yours truly that I cleaned up and formatted. Part 2 here

“Sometimes I wonder if the idealized, romanticized version of relationships I’ve built up in my head are subconsciously affecting my navigation in reality.”

“What?” Rin asks, rolling over from where he lies on his bed to look at you, his teal eyes switching from his phone to glance over at you.

“Sorry, that was word vomit.” You say waving a hand dismissively before speaking again. “It’s just… I mean that I wonder if my expectations of romantic relationships have been distorted because of all the media I consume. And I wonder if that would ruin any chance I have of a healthy relationship.”

You absentmindedly start fiddling with your fingers as you speak.

“Like, for example dating sims, every love interest is over possessive and jealous, and that’s fine, cause it’s a fantasy. And obviously it’s not endorsed in real life, because if you date someone who foams at the mouth every time you look at another man, you’ll have issues. But… sometimes I wonder if I’ll think back to those dumb games when I’m in a relationship and choose something unhealthy for myself.”

A comfortable silence lapses after your ramblings and you wait patiently for your best friend's response.

“…you sure do think a lot more than I expected.” He says after a while and you can’t help but roll your eyes.

“Wow thanks.” You drone out. “You know what? I’d rather you have just flipped me off and called me a dumbass than whatever attempt of a compliment that was.”

“Didn’t mean it like that, I meant that I’d never once thought about that.” He says cooly, in a way that makes you unfairly jealous of his demeanor.

“Yeah? Well, I’m not surprised. Your brain is composed of 50% football and the other half is basic motor skills. I doubt you’ve even thought of anything outside of that.”

“…not true.”

“Oh yeah, you’re right. Somewhere, squeezed between the cracks of those key areas, is your vast knowledge of horror trivia.” You joke, your eyes darting over his sprawled form.

“…” He hesitates to respond before muttering out. “That’s not what I meant.”

“What’d you mean then?”

“…nothing, never mind.”

“Oh boo, you whore.” You scoff, sitting up in his desk chair to devote your attention to him. “Come on tell meeee! I tell you everything… well, almost everything but— nonetheless…”

He glares but you simply smile at him before waiting eagerly for him to finally loosen his tongue and spill whatever he has locked away from you.

And maybe deep down he knows that there’s no winning against you because he ends up opening his mouth to speak.

“I…I think about romance sometimes.” He eventually admits, his eyes darting back to his phone in embarrassment.

“Oho?” You straighten up further, a goading grin on your face much to his annoyance. “Our little Rinrin is growing up!”

“Fuck you, this is why I don’t tell you shit.”

“Aww come on, I won’t tease you anymore I promise! Please tell me more!” You practically beg, looking at him with prying eyes.

“This is lame.” Rin scoffs.

“You’re lame! Romance is perfectly natural. Anyways, is this a crush? A passing fantasy?”

“Why do you care so much?”

“I live vicariously through my friends’ love lives, now spillll!” You say, dragging out the last syllable deliberately to piss him off.

“I’m not having this conversation with you.”

“Why not?” You say a pout on your lips.

“Because you’re annoying and you’re only asking to make fun of me.”

“What? Me?” You gasp out in faux surprise. “Never, could I ever make fun of you, after all you’re my dearest most important–”

“Save it.” He cuts you off, content to ignore you now, engrossed in his phone.

“Kill joy… I’ll get it out of you one of these days.” You say darkly before leaning back to sulk in his chair.

“Over my dead body.” He mutters, but if you looked over to him again, you’d see the tell tale way his gaze fell back to you.

Unfortunately for you, Rin’s crush would stay a secret for just a little while longer.

[schemmentis]

La Cosa Nostra - Pt. 14

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 / Part 9 / Part 10 / Part 11 / Part 12 / Part 13

Cowritten w/ @janeyseymour

@janeyseymour's evil is keeping y'all guessing. Mine is making y'all wait for parts to be posted. Sorry not sorry. Love you ;)

Summary: Tensions and the disagreement between you and Melissa rise...

WC: 2k

You do your best to hide the absolute rage that you’re feeling from your girls, sat together at your regular table in the corner, but you're pissed. The longer you sit in the restaurant trying to watch after the twins as your wife is in the back, it brews- not just over the fact that she would make this decision essentially over your own head, but that she would draw your girls into the life- even just this little amount that they have no idea about. It was rule number one from the start: business never comes home. Not after Mickey. Yet here home was, sitting right in the middle of business.

“Yes, sweetheart, that's a zebra you're coloring…purple. Great job, á storin.” You murmur as you glance at a haphazardly colored page.

Rosie beams up at you, and Cat is immediately tugging at your arm to show off what she’s been working on- a lion that she’s colored different shades of pink. Out of the two of them, your eldest twin definitely has better fine motor skills. 

You look back up at the motion of someone sitting across the table from you. You expect it to be Melissa, taking her dinner break. Your eyebrow raises when you see someone else.

“Luca.” You greet as neutrally as you can manage. “What are you doin’ up here?”

“Ah, y’know, pickin’ up take out for Ma.” He answers with a slight shrug of his shoulders.

“Your ma gets take out from here?” You ask, incredulously. “Aren't her and Mel sworn off from eating the other's cooking?”

“What she don't know won't kill her,” Luca chuckles softly. He runs a hand through his hair before scratching the back of his neck. “Just don't go tellin’ her, huh? It's my turn to make dinner ‘fore she's home, and I'm runnin’ late.”

“You couldn't bribe AJ to do it for you tonight, huh?” You tease with a small smile. You may be pissed at your wife, and not thrilled at everything else going on. But Luca was still your family.

“Not tonight.” Luca agrees.

“Y’know,” your wife’s voice sounds as she comes to stand at the side of the table, a bag of Styrofoam containers set close to Luca. “You're lucky I don't tell Kristen Marie about this arrangement myself, Luca. What a hell of a brag I could get.”

Luca smiles, getting to his feet as he takes the take out bag in hand. “Yea, ya could but ya love your nephew more than braggin’ on your sister, Aunt Mel.” He says before kissing both her cheeks with a muttered thank you. 

“I’ll see youse at Sunday dinner.” He adds when he pulls away. A hand reaches out to lightly tickle each of your twins to get a laugh. “Be good, tikes.” He says before making his way out of the restaurant.

Melissa drops into the seat Luca left, sighing. “It's a busy night. I think we got more in here than usual.”

Your smile fades as Luca leaves, your gaze falling to your wife. Your anger slowly returns as you remember where you are and why.

“Maybe.” You murmur noncommittally as you look back to Cat and Rosie and their drawings, despite them not calling for your attention. It's rare that you wouldn't want to be looking at your wife when you can. Tonight, though, you know it's just going to simmer your anger. Especially with her acting as if nothing is wrong.

“Y/N?”

“Yeah?” You answer her call for you without looking, helping Rosie's little fingers pull a crayon from the box.

“C’mon, ya can't even look at me?”

You finally turn your gaze back to Melissa, raising an eyebrow. 

“Look, I'm sorry, amore—”

“Don't.” You quickly cut her off. “Not here and not when I know you're saying that just ‘cause you hate me bein’ mad at you-not ‘cause you really mean it. We’ll talk about it later.”

“Yeah, later.” Melissa grumbles as she gets up, stalking back to the kitchen.

Melissa doesn't take her dinner break. You roll your eyes when Val brings out three plates with an apology. You assure her it isn't her fault.

It's when she brings the girls dessert that Val apologizes again, stopping you when you try to tell her not to. “Mel said she's gotta stay late tonight.”

You take a deep breath. Finally, you nod and mutter a thank you to Val. “Tell her to come say goodbye to the girls then.” You add, any pretense of hiding how you feel lost with how your voice sounds. 

It's a few minutes longer than it should be before Mel makes it out. She lingers in her goodbyes to the twins. Kissing each of their little cheeks multiple times and saying to be good for Mam. You cross your arms when she glances to you, not bothering to say goodbye yourself. 

“Mam you didn't kiss Mommy!” Cat is saying as you buckle her into the backseat. 

“Well you don't want cooties, do you?” You do your best to lighten and tease so the girls don't think much of the difference in your goodbye to Melissa, or lack thereof. 

By the time Melissa gets home, you’ve cooled off enough to get the girls into their own beds, after plenty of stories.

You stay up, sipping on wine, until she comes strolling in through the door. 

“You didn’t have to wait up for me,” she tells you as she drops her bag and kicks off her heels.

You roll your eyes, and the anger and hurt that you were feeling earlier comes back when you look at her again. “We’re talking about this.”

“Do we have to tonight?” she groans. “I’m exhausted.”

“And I don’t give a shit,” you say bluntly. “What made you think that you could just go over my head and make the executive decision to bring the girls to the restaurant? What the hell, Melissa. You preach all the time that we’re a team, and that sure as hell didn’t feel like a team effort there.”

“It is,” your wife folds her arms over her chest and raises a brow. Usually, you would find that pose of hers sexy, but not tonight. “I told you my thoughts behind it, and I think we’re doing the right thing.”

“You were the one who created the rule that home and business never meet,” you argue. “And then you go back on it without any regard to my thoughts or feelings on it.”

“And I tried to apologize,” she huffs. “But you didn’t want to hear it.”

“Because I know you aren’t sorry!” you half shout. Then you take a deep breath and sigh. “You know what? Whatever. If you want to mix it, be my guest. But if something happens to either of our girls because of it, know that all of that guilt will be on your shoulders because I tried to stop it. Goodnight.”

You pull the blanket draped over the back of the couch down and over your body before laying down.

“Y/N,” your wife rolls those green eyes of hers. “Come on. Come to bed.”

You just turn over and close your eyes, ignoring her pleas for you to join her in your bedroom. 

Melissa huffs. You expect to hear her trudge off for your bedroom. Instead, you feel her at your back, nudging her way to share the couch with you.

“Melissa Ann, what are you doin’?”

“You won’t come to bed so I guess we’re sleeping on the couch tonight.”

“The point of me staying on the couch was to be by myself. Alone.”

“Yeah, but we said we’d never go to bed mad at each other, so.”

You roll your eyes. “Right, just like we said we’d never mix business and home.” You retort, shrugging the blanket off your shoulder and attempting to do the same to your wife.

Melissa doesn’t relinquish her arms wrapped around you though. “Y/N. Would you stop and just…talk to me if we’re really gonna go through this tonight?”

“Now you want to?” You say, twisting enough on the couch to get her face within your sight. “Melissa, you deliberately made a choice, completely without me, which you have doubled down on because you think it’s the right one. Isn’t it bad enough that we’re already putting them in danger just by being who we are? Now we’re gonna take ‘em somewhere and make the risk bigger? What, just ‘cause it isn’t too much so it’ll be okay? I’m not willing to gamble their lives like that! You or me, we know what the hell we’re doin’. Nobody can say we don’t. But them?” You point towards the girls’ bedroom, imploring your wife to get it. “They don’t understand why they can’t have cookies for breakfast. They don’t understand what they’d be putting on the line, not even a little bit.”

Melissa takes a shaky breath. “Why are you so up in arms about this? It’s the safest thing right now. You and I both know that the Feds will get off our backs with the girls always being around, and none of the goons are going to touch a hair on either Cat or Rosie’s heads because they know if they did, there would be hell to pay on all sides.”

“You don’t know that!” you hiss at her. “They ordered a hit on Bobby for somethin’ he did years before they killed him off- an’ he didn’t even deserve it. Who’s to say that they aren’t going to sink that low to get back at one of us?! Or to get us out of the way and to keep La Cosa Nostra up and running?! Melissa, if something happened to you or either of the girls, I would not be able to make it through. La Cosa Nostra would fall to the ground, and so would I. Do you not understand that?”

“We knew the risks we would have to take when we got into this business, and we knew exactly what risks we were bringing to the girls when you decided that you wanted children!” your wife points an accusatory finger at you.

“You and I both know that you were just as excited to have those two as I was, so do not pin this on me!” you seethe. “And I know you chose this life, but I did not. I got mixed up in it young, and I never wanted it to begin with! I certainly do not want our girls to get involved in it either!”

“You didn’t have to stay in this life!” she argues. “You chose to.”

“You know what?” you huff as you stand up abruptly, nearly knocking your wife to the ground in the process. “I’m done talking about this for now. I’m over it.”

“Listen,” Melissa grabs your wrist. “I’m sorry they took the salon out from under you, I’m sorry they handed the business over to me because they trust me more, and I’m sorry that you’re feeling like you aren’t contributing to the family anymore, but you do not get to just be a bitch like this!”

You rip your arm out of her grasp. “I’m the bitch?! I’m the bitch! I’m not the one who went over your head and gave the ledger to Barbara Howard- a rookie move! I’m not the one who disregarded everything and mixed our girls up with the business- despite the fact that we vowed to never do that! But yeah, okay… I’m the fuckin’ bitch. Don’t even try crawling into bed with me tonight.” You storm your way to your bedroom, locking the door as you slam it shut hard enough to shake the entirety of your little townhome. 

And then you absolutely lose it. You begin to curse the day that you ever stepped into that blasted salon. You wish you never got caught up in all of this, and you would’ve taken the out that you had been offered years ago. Maybe in another life you would’ve found your way to Melissa and fallen in love, having the blissful, domestic life that you had dreamed up when you were a kid. But now, you’re in deep, and you know it.

[count-lucio]

a series of ramblings on what Lucio's life looked like after losing his arm

all headcanon, of course. i wanted to touch on what Lucio's life looked like between losing his arm and commissioning his current prosthetic, as it's never directly touched on what he did with himself during that period. enjoy!

- i'd like to preface this by saying that it infuriates me how this is never touched on in the game because god! i cannot even articulate what a devastating blow that was to him

- i mean, quite literally, obviously, because he was injured to the point of needing amputation, but in a much deeper sense- Lucio turned to mercenary work after being chased away from his clan and homelands by his mother with nothing but the clothes on his back and a sword still stained with his father's blood the only skill he could really implore to, you know, survive, was what he had been trained to do his entire life, fight - and kill.

- so facing a substantial amount of healing time in which he would be heavily incapacitated, and knowing that even after that he would be incapable of returning to the only life he knew, he was nothing short of devastated. this was the second time in an incredibly short period where he was losing everything all over again and would have to claw his way back to a semi-comfortable life

- however, this time Lucio wasn't quite as alone. for the past few months Lucio had been employed under the previous count of Vesuvia- count Spada. Spada had taken a liking to Lucio, impressed by his skills in battle and charismatic personality- even moreso impressed at Lucio's dedication to his work, especially after seeing him lose an arm because he was too headstrong (or perhaps too arrogant) to desert the battlefield even when most of the men fighting alongside him had already been defeated.

- Lucio's first few weeks after his amputation were spent at camp, healing under the care of Nazali and Julian. however, no mercenary band stays stationary for more than a few weeks at a time, and Lucio was forced to admit he wasn't fit to fight - or travel anymore. as he was packing his things, Spada came to speak with Lucio, and asked Lucio to accompany him back to Vesuvia, offering him a place to stay at the palace for the foreseeable future. Lucio, equally fond of Spada, accepted immediately.

- Lucio healed quickly once in Vesuvia, becoming more and more invested in Spada's work and the comings and goings of the city as he did. Spada took quick notice of this and wasted no time in taking Lucio under his wing- he was an older man, with no heir or close family in Vesuvia, and admired Lucio's capability to be both ruthless and charismatic- traits he himself shared that made him an effective and respected leader.

- however, despite his fascination with Vesuvia, Lucio was still heavily impacted by the loss of his arm and was clearly not the same confident, boisterous man Spada had once hired. his newfound disability had taken a noticeable hit on his confidence and autonomy, and both out of concern for his friend and out of a desire to shape Lucio into someone fit to rule Vesuvia after his death, he took it upon himself to commission a prosthetic for Lucio.

- this arm was incredibly different than Lucio's current golden prosthetic- it was fashioned in a way that closer resembled his appearance during his mercenary days, made of a darker, more bronze-tinted gold and leather, with a much more practical design. additionally, Spada knew no magicians as powerful as Asra's parents, so Lucio didn't have nearly as much control over this prosthetic as his current- although it was still crafted with a few small enchantments that allowed for basic movements and crude fine motor skills.

- with this new prosthetic Lucio regained much of his confidence; and although he still struggled with many delicate tasks, he was no longer quite as defenseless. he was, of course, endlessly grateful to Spada- the two of them growing incredibly close, very nearly like father and son. it took little time for Spada to propose that Lucio inherit rule of Vesuvia after his death and Lucio, ever in search of power, gladly accepted. Spada took it upon himself to spend the next few years training Lucio, teaching him everything he knew in the hope that Lucio would one day become as powerful of a ruler as Spada was.

- eventually, Spada did pass, as his age and declining health caught up to him. in his death, he left full control of Vesuvia to Lucio, naming him his sole heir and entrusting him to rule the city. shortly after becoming count, Lucio commissioned himself a new arm- his current ornate golden one. Lucio felt both as if he needed a more powerful prosthetic to be an effective leader, and that he deserved such now that he was the count. however, his old prosthetic has remained safely in his room ever since, a small reminder of his friendship with the previous count. (Lucio could still wear it if he chose to, and perhaps even would if he needed to disguise himself! it certainly stands out much less than his golden one does)

[slocumjoe]

Can you do a companions react to a sole with poor fine motor skills that is really skilled in battle but can't do stuff like open can tabs or walk in a straight line or has trouble lile tying their shoes?

- Leaf anon 🌱

Cait; Wouldn't think much of it. She was an addict, she's known lots of other addicts, she's known raiders. People who's heads get messed with, either with substance or by getting hit too much. Fighting and shit like grabbing a door handle are different. Her worry is that they'd need their motor skills in a fight, or in a retreat...Cait would gripe about helping them with anything if they ask, but she can respect someone who's useful when it matters.

Codsworth; Would offer a hand whenever they looked like they needed it, but otherwise wouldn't comment or acknowledge it. It would feel very improper. They've got things handled most of the time, and if they aren't in pain, he doesn't need to worry. Would consult wasteland doctors if he felt they were legit, get their opinion, but Codsworth isn't the type to micromanage.

Curie; Worried mama hen. Curie would hover and possibly overstep. She means well, but if you don't want help with something, and don't need it, someone insisting they help is very 🙃🙃🙃. This is the first time I've used emojis in a react, only because I cannot describe the emotion those ones convey. Anyway. Curie would look into motor skills disabilities/in general in hopes of finding a way to remedy their struggles, make things easier. Some people might appreciate it, others would feel really patronized.

Danse; Would send them to Cade every time they returned to the Prydwen, just to check up on things. Obviously can't so that post BB. Danse has probably seen this before as well, but since he'd be traveling with them, he'd see it more and in different ways. Small corridor and they can't walk straight? His power armor is huge and lacks agility. They're bumping into each other. This would be an exercise in spacial awareness for him.

Deacon; one of the more worried ones. They're both spies. They need to be sneaking. You need to be able to move straight, pick locks, quickly type on keyboards. He's pleasantly surprised to see that Sole is still good at what they do, but there's always a little part of him waiting for that Chekov's Gun to go off. Also tends to hover around them, especially in hostile areas.

Gage; Don't let anyone know they have this issue and Gage is fine. Raiders will sniff that kind of thing out and get dollar signs for eyes. Walk straight the best you can, or play it off as a personality eccentricity. Don't say shit, don't go for soda in public. Very confused how they beat the Gaunlet. Very confused how they have such a high kill count. Will only help them out if its time-sensitive.

Hancock; Takes him...so long to notice. Not because he's high, he just fully doesn't realize it. He spends time around alcoholics and chemheads. Like Cait, that's just...normal for him? Hancock will offer help with some things, and still not notice what kind of help he's actually providing. He'll realize out of the blue one day and barge into the room asking if they have problems, just to make sure he's right.

MacCready; As long as he's the sniper, there's no reason to worry. If they start eyeing scopes to add to their guns, he might sweat a little. If they're a pickpocket type, he's just sweating. Pickpocket, sweating bullets. This would turn MacCready off crime, watching them try to sneak whatever from someone's pocket, when just three minutes ago, they had to bite their bag's zipper. Leave the precision stuff to him. Please. Please for the love of god.

Nick; Look at either of his hands. He probably doesn't have such great motor skills there, either, purely because he's just so old and banged up. This is a major source of bonding. Nick is the least likely to have any worry or concern for them; he gets around fine, so can they.

Preston; Second longest to notice. Faster than Hancock, but it still long enough for him to wonder if they were always like that, or if they're injured in some way. His concern comes before combat—they fight just fine, its the getting ready. Flicking their safety off, getting the gun out, reloading. Preston tends to go in front, so they have some time to prepare before they get into the action.

Piper; Like Preston, worries about transitional periods. Downtime, they're fine, firefight, they're fine. But those little moments in between, oooh, does Piper worry. Piper will keep count of how many bullets they use and let them know to reload, switch to something else, etc. Basically tracks all the info around, gets it to them so they have a few extra seconds to think and fiddle with whatever they have to.

X6-88; They are forbidden from heights. They are to remain at least ten feet away from more than a three-foot drop. Area too small? Understood, we're not going there, we're leaving. No, I don't care who asked for what. X6-88 hates heights as is. Someone pirouetteing their way off an edge is not happening. He truly does not care about anything else. Can't open things? Whatever. Bad with precision? Whatever. You can't walk straight, you are not going near ladders, bridges, scaffolding, cliffs, maybe even stairs if he thinks they're too tall.

[mimilind]

Stranger of the Falls - Part 4

Pairing: Boromir x Reader

Rating: T

Chapter Word Count: 2400

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

※※※

4. Convalescence

From then on, Lord Främling steadily improved. It was as if when he agreed not to starve himself, he also decided to get well as soon as possible. Already the next day he was sitting up, propped against a pillow, and spent every waking moment exercising his legs, arms, hands and fingers, stretching and lifting them without respite, forcing the unwilling limbs to cooperate. Especially his weaker side. 

One of the first things he wanted to do, apart from eating without being spoon fed, was to get rid of the bedpan and use a cane to limp to the outhouse. The first time he nearly fainted, and when you had to help him back he looked so mortified you thought he was going to hide under the blanket in shame.

But he did not, insead he resumed his exercises with renewed frenzy.

The arrow wounds began to heal, and so did the gash in his forehead. It would leave a scar, but his long hair covered most of it. 

His left side was soon almost back to normal mobility and strength, but his right side was far behind. He explained it felt like he was a baby learning to walk for the first time, as if his right limbs had forgotten how to do things.

His speech became clear and he no longer slurred on the words, but he still did not say much. You thought that he probably had been a quiet person even before the accident.

Instead of talking he worked out, limped around the room, did pushups, practiced fine motor skills. He mended his shirt and tunic, painstakingly sewing neat hems and pulling up the thread to start over whenever he wasn’t satisfied.

When he was done you could hardly see where the rift had been.

The pure doggedness he demonstrated was both impressive and a bit frightening. Was he in such a hurry to heal because he wanted to be released from your care so he could end his life? You wanted to ask him, but did not know how to bring it up.

Your house was too small for an extra bed, so he still shared yours. At least it was wide and comfortable, and it was easy to get used to the added warmth of an extra person. Though spring was on its way, nights were still cold.

One night you decided to be blunt and just ask what was on your mind, using humor to make it seem less serious. “So… It is true we agreed that as soon as you are healed, you are free to choose death, but how will you go about it?”

Unsurprisingly he appeared a bit baffled over your choice of topic. “Pardon?” 

“Will you fall on a sword, perhaps? It could be just like Túrin in the legend…”

“Too untidy. Very rude to whomever found my corpse.”

You smiled, relieved that he had replied, and in the same flippant tone. “I forget what a gentleman you are.” 

“Also, I have no sword.” You could almost hear the silent ‘…anymore’ he left out.

“Can you swim?”

“Yes.”

“That is unfortunate. You could have leapt into the river. Hm… Maybe charge headfirst into a band of orcs?”

“I already tried that.” He no longer sounded amused.

You drew a sharp breath. Was that how it all happened? “You tried to kill yourself that time? You paddled your boat to a group of orcs and then ran it down the falls because you wanted to die?”

“No,” he snapped. “Absolutely not! I tried to save… someone.” The anger ran off him and he sounded very tired. “I failed.”

“I am sorry. I should not have brought it up.” You put a soothing hand on his shoulder. 

He stiffened at first, but then relaxed, allowing you to softly stroke him over his shirt. 

“Do you wish to talk about it?” you asked.

“No.”

“Oh. Well then, let us return to the previous topic. You could… go to Mordor and challenge the Dark Lord? I am certain it would get you slayed swiftly and efficiently.”

“One does not simply walk into Mordor,” he mumbled, but you could hear he was smiling.

“I am aware. That is the idea: you try and fail and hence you die.”

He put his hand over yours and gave it a light squeeze. “Truly, I understand and appreciate what you are trying to do,” he said softly. “But it is pointless.”

You felt a strange fluttering in the pit of your stomach. His hand was much bigger than yours and felt strong.

“I am not doing anything,” you replied a bit breathlessly.

“You endeavor to talk me out of it.”

The flutter vanished, replaced with a sinking feeling. “Well, I suppose I am,” you admitted. Your voice became pleading. “Please stay.”

“Why?”

Because I like you, you thought, but of course you could not say that. “I just feel this world is already so full of monsters and evildoers. We need good men like you for balance.”

“I am not good.” He removed his hand. You felt cold where it had been.

“I think you are.”

“You do not know me.”

“I feel like I do.”

He did not reply, just turned his back on you and was silent.

※

As if your talk of Mordor had brought the war closer, the next day dire news reached you – old news, which was often the case this far east. Théoden King’s only son and heir had been killed, caught in a trap by the river Isen in the west. Saruman of Isengard was said to have been behind it, but the king had avenged his son and defeated the wizard’s army at Helm’s Deep, and later turned Isengard into ruins.

Now there was to be a great muster of riders. All able men were to gather at Dunharrow for further instructions.

The news affected your patient in a strange way. When the young men left the village he became increasingly more restless. He would take walks around it, limping surprisingly fast, and often stopped to look at the sullen crimson tint on the clouded sky that marked the border to Mordor, his fists helplessly opening and clenching.

As if he wanted to join the riders and lamented that he was still not able to do so.

He slept fitfully, and one night he woke you up with a strangled cry.

“Dark dream?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Will you share it?”

“No.”

“Please, I am curious.” 

He was silent briefly, then turned toward you. You felt his thigh press lightly against yours and stopped breathing. You hoped he wouldn’t pull it back.

He did not.

“I dreamt I had a mighty weapon. A magical weapon that was the most powerful in the world. I became invincible. I used it to defeat Mordor. Sauron. All his underlings. Everybody fell before me… I slayed them effortlessly.”

“That does not sound like a nightmare.”

“It was.” He took your hand and put it over his chest. You felt how hard his heart was beating. “For, after I won… I sat myself on his throne and everyone bowed to me, did my bidding. On my orders people were either killed or enslaved. I took his place. I became him.” He drew a shaky breath. “It was appalling.”

For once, you lacked words. He had never shared anything even remotely personal with you before. And he was so close, the moment so intimate. His hand over yours felt burning hot.

Your heart was beating faster too now, but for a very different reason.

“I am not like that,” he continued. ”I never sought such power – or any power. All I ever wanted was for my people to be safe. My friends. My family. My home where I grew up.” His voice cracked and he drew a few breaths. “But I failed. How can I continue living when I am so weak? A failure, easily led astray by… my lack of restraint.”

“You are not weak! How can you even think that? I have never seen anyone with your strength. You were almost completely paralyzed only weeks ago and now you are up and walking, regaining more function every day. And as for restraint, you nearly starved yourself out of pure obstinacy. It was impressive. Foolish, but impressive.” You forced yourself to sound calm. Most of all you wanted to hug him but you did not know if he would appreciate that.

Besides, it would be highly inappropriate.

“That had nothing to do with strength. I merely realized everything was lost and I might as well–” He sighed. “What will happen if Mordor prevails? To my home… to a peaceful village like this? To you? What would you do?” 

His skin was warm and soft under your hand. His heart had slowed down into a steady beat.

The feeling made it hard to think. “I… I do not think Mordor will gain victory, but if so, I reckon I would… continue healing people, carry on with my life? Perhaps join a rebel force.”

“You sound very calm about it.”

“Well, why burden yourself with speculations about the future? Neither of us knows what it will be like.”

He did not reply to that. 

“Thank you,” he said at last. He was still pressing your palm against his heart, now he slid his thumb over your hand, back and forth in a gentle caress.

“You are welcome. But… but for what?” 

“For being there. Listening to my midnight ramblings.”

His touch filled you with butterflies. You wished you knew what he meant with it, if it was just his way to say thank you – or something more. 

“Do not kill yourself,” you blurted. ”Even though you can, please… do not.”

His thumb stilled. “I will not.” 

Relief filled you like a tidal wave. You were certain Främling was a man of his word; had he said he would continue living then he would do so.

He released your hand and turned away. Only partly. His thigh still touched yours. “Good night.”

But you could not sleep, not after that. Your palm tingled where it had been resting on his chest, and you still felt the ghost of his thumb on top of it. He would live. Your work had not been in vain.

※

You were a bit awkward around Främling the morning after his nightmare, but he did not mention it and acted normal, as if nothing special had happened. You didn't know whether to be relieved or disappointed over that.

In the afternoon, more news reached you. A band of unusually big and strong orcs that had been sighted running across the plains a while back. You guessed it must have been them the shepherdesses saw the night before you found Främling, and you wondered if it was they who nearly killed him.

All talk of war made everyone nervous and careful. The village was badly protected with only Vidar left to guard the palisade gate, and a few other old men to protect the rest of it. All younger men had rode to join the king. The shepherdesses kept their herds within sight of home, ready to run back to safety at short notice, and the farmers hesitated to begin plowing the fields.

When Främling heard the news, he expanded his exercise and began doing weapon routines, using a long stick for a sword. He held it in his left hand and supported himself on a cane, yet managed to appear strong and fearful. You wouldn’t want to meet him in battle.

The next day he went out after breakfast, and when he returned a couple of hours later he told you he had bought Svarten, Vidar’s malicious black, and a rusty sword that looked to be about the same age as Rohan itself.

“You did what?” you asked incredulously. “Why?”

“I needed a weapon and a horse.”

“What for?” 

In the brief, frightening moment before he replied you thought it was so he could ride away. Leave you.

“To fight. I am too slow on foot. When the war is upon us, you require more men to protect the village. After your kindness to me, it is the least I can do.”

His words frightened you almost as much as the thought of him leaving. He had said ’when’ as if it was a certainty the war would come. 

“You are not yet strong enough.”

He frowned. “You need not remind me of that. But even in this state I can best a few orcs, particularly on horseback. I am fairly decent with my left hand too now.” He speculatively flexed his fingers.

“They will not come this far. There are no hiding places out in the plains and they are afraid of sunlight,” you reminded him.

“Not all orcs,” he said bitterly.

The rest of the morning he spent sharpening and polishing the old sword until it shone. Then he commenced to train Svarten with the same stubborn grit that had driven him for as long as you had known him. Aided by young Kalle, he mounted the vicious animal and rode him around a small paddock, round and round and round until the stallion was so exhausted he did not even have the energy to bite his rider when he dismounted at last.

“How did you pay for it?” you asked when he returned to you, weary and sweaty and ravenously hungry.

“I gave him my belt.”

“You what? But it must be worth a fortune! Yet you only obtained a mangy, evil horse and a rusty sword! That damn, greedy old–”

A very unusual sound interrupted your indignant speech. Främling was laughing heartily. 

“War draws near and all you can think of is whether I paid too much for my horse?” He was still chuckling.

His rumbling laughter and warm smile melted your heart into a puddle. His smile was slightly lopsided from the accident, and you adored it. You wanted to tell him he should laugh more often, for he had the most wonderful laugh, but he was right, these were bleak times. When the war came, all smiles would wane and all laughter silence.

His face grew serious. “I will protect you as best I can,” he promised.

That night you were afraid of the future for the first time and you crept closer to him, letting his strong, large form comfort you. 

As if he understood how you felt he put an arm around you, just holding you. 

When you woke up he had not removed his arm.

※※※

A/N:

The golden belt mentioned in this chapter was a gift the stranger had previously received from a certain elf Lady in Lothlórien (book canon).

※※※

Parts: [ < Previous Part ] [ Next Part > ] [ Masterlist ]

Full story: [ AO3 ]

[ricky-tiki-tah]

Ego Headcanons: The Septics

Septic House is the home to Seán McLoughlin’s egos, the Septics.

Anti(he/it): agender glitchy boi. After discovering that he can’t actually kill anyone as they’ll just regenerate, he became more of an annoyance. Enjoys scaring the shit out of people(the Septics are fairly immune to the scares though now). It doesn’t have an actual bedroom and ended up living in a computer in Chase’s room instead. Can switch between appearances (green or red), preferring to stay green most of the time. - Power: can teleport through any electronic device(even power cords).

Jackieboyman-Jackie(he/him): trans bi hero boy. Surprisingly the closest friend to Anti, treating it like an irritable cat. Goes on patrols nearly every night. Ends up visiting Henrik’s clinic a lot. Appears to be 19-20. - Powers: durable to the point he thinks he’s invincible(Henrik is very annoyed by this), just above average physical abilities.

Henrik von Schneeplestein(he/him): ally and designated dad/head of Septic House. Works at the local clinic. Can and will ground the other Septics. While close to all of his family, he treats Jackie like his son. Is physically the oldest of the bunch. - Powers: can speed up the recovery time of someone who is fatally wounded to keep them alive.

Chase Brody(he/him): ally. Depressed, loyal puppy dog of a man. Often acts as Jackie’s ‘man in the chair’. Sibling type rivalry with Anti in that he actively downloads virus’s on the glitch’s computer to fuck with him. Often pranks the others (ie. Switching up the spoons and forks, putting all the mugs on the lawn, ect.) - Powers: can manipulate the odds of something happening.

Jameson Jackson-JJ(he/him): cis aroace and selectively mute. Uses BSL but also has a small chalkboard to communicate with others. When he does speak it’s usually just to Robbie. Very good at arts and crafts. Is usually the one to make meals because he enjoys the methodical nature of preparing food. Is not greyscale, but appears to be on any type of recording/photo. - Powers: has marionette strings which he uses as a type of telekinesis.

Marvin(he/they): gay ace demiboy who can turn into a cat. Has actual magic and often uses it to help Chase with the larger pranks. Older brother type. Fairly responsible and usually in charge when Henrik is at work. Tends to turn into a cat when tired. He has a cat tree in his room. Loves chasing after laser lights to entertain Robbie. Will sometimes go on patrol with Jackie. Probably a criminal but they’re not telling anyone where the valuable crystals came from. - Powers: actual magic (akin to Merlin)

Robbie(he/him): zombie boy and designated youngest brother. Mostly hangs around JJ. He communicates almost solely through BSL. Is literally just a reanimated corpse and has no desire to eat brains. He does really like spaghetti though. Has many bandages due to his extremely slow healing combined with his lack of fine motor skills. -Powers: uncertain(Marvin suspects he’s a low level empath).

All the septics know BSL.

The Septic House is always happy to answer questions ;)

[paranormalpainter]

{Slenderverse OC} Cherylanne "Cheryl" Ember

Name: Cherylanne Ember

Nickname: Cheryl{For Short}, Cheri, Cherry, Che, or CherryxBomber{Code/Hacker name}

Age: 21 y/o

Height: 5’3”{5’5”-5’6” in heels, she hides gun magazines in those heels}

Date of Birth: 02/06

Occupation: Slender’s Proxy

Species: Human

Personality:

Cheryl is your typical extrovert type with a bit of a weeb personality mixed in which when you first meet her it makes you think that she isn’t suitable for being slender’s proxy, but once assigned to a mission her personality goes from extroverted to serious in a matter of seconds. Despite being on the technical support side most of the time, she’s actually pretty skilled in combat due to taking self defense and martial art classes as well as her knowledge on how to disarm someone with a firearm. Outside of missions, she is willing to help other proxies whether it be weapon repair, tech repair, or motor vehicle repair, as long as you pay her back via money or favors. Despite Cheryl being an extrovert, she’s actually using this part of her personality to hide the pain she’s feeling of losing 4 of her loved ones and almost losing her brother even though he survived an attempted grave robbery/murder from a masochistic classmate which would sometimes lead her ask her brother or roommate Willow to cover missions for her if the grief she’s feeling is too much for her to bare. She’s also known to be very competitive especially when it comes to gaming or street racing and hates losing. She also ain't afraid to do a little trash talking or rip someone a new one if needed

Backstory: Still in progress

Likes:

~Gaming{Console, Mobile, and PC}

~Street racing{On Occasion}

~Trash talking{On Occasion}

~Drawing

~Street Dancing

~Working on her tech

~Spending time with other proxies or her brother

~Teasing her brother{On Occasion}

~Pop, K-pop, J-pop, Hip-hop, Rap, or Rock music

~Extra spicy food{You’d be surprised by how big of an iron stomach and tongue she has, especially when the scoville is beyond what the average person can survive}

~Gaming/hanging out with friends

~Doing graffiti art on the garage doors or walls of her shop

~Her mom’s chocolate cherry bomb cake recipe{She has it every year on her birthday}

~Rocker, Punk, or Street Fashion

And

~Exposing cheaters in video games

Dislikes:

~Synthetic fragrances{Severely allergic}

~Losing{Fierce competitor}

~Someone asking if she has plans on fixing the big gap between her top front teeth{It gets ugly when people ask her that…}

~Her brother being a buzzkill

~Cheaters in video games{“You give hackers like me a bad rep, dude!”}

~Food places that limit spicy ingredients{“C’mon! Why won’t you let me have something nuclear =3=”}

~Her figurines being destroyed

~Her brother showing his recordings of her dancing

And

~Being Bored/Boring topics

Skills/Abilities:

~Skilled in combat{She took all sorts of martial art classes when she was younger}

~Knows how to disarm someone

~Skilled at hacking, designing, and modifying her own tech

~Has vast knowledge on firearms

~Very agile

and

~A bit acrobatic

Weakness:

~Synthetic Fragrances{I.e. The ones sold at clothing stores at the mall or perfumeries}- She has a severe allergy to synthetic fragrances. She’ll end up having trouble breathing to the point she loses consciousness. If the fragrance is natural, then she’s fine, but if it’s the type made in factories then she’ll potentially have a severe allergic reaction

~Nightmares- She has nightmares of encountering her old english teacher again as well as reliving the past of losing her parents and discovering the dead bodies of her aunt and uncle along with almost losing her brother

~Stress- This is easily noticeable because she breaks out in hives when under a lot of stress. She can't focus on the mission if her body is covered in itchy hives due to stress

~Alcohol- She gets drunk after 1 sip

Weapons of Choice:

~A taser and stun gun she modified that’s now capable of killing someone

~Modified guns

~An electrified butterfly knife and chains

~Electric Bombs{Their capable of malfunctioning security equipment and stunning someone}

And

~An Umbrella gun with a bulletproof shield she designed herself

Hobbies:

~Dancing to any pop song that has choreography

~Inventing/Modifying her tech

~Parkour

~Gaming

~Spicy food eating contests{Mainly with those who can withstand the spice: "Some of you guys will regret competing with me ÙwÚ9"}

~Helping other proxies{Whether it be missions or fixing weapons, vehicles, tech, etc.}

~Repairing weapons, tech, motor vehicles, etc.

~Teasing her brother

~Hanging out with friends

And

~Doing graffiti or street art on her shop’s garage doors

Family:

Zachary Ember-Father: Deceased

Victoria Ember-Mother: Deceased

Lina Wilcox-Aunt: Deceased

Phoenix Wilcox-Uncle: Deceased

Elijah ”Eli” Ember-Younger Brother{Same age, but he's younger by a couple months}: Alive

Willow Thornbloom- Roommate, Teammate, and Eli’s secret girlfriend: Alive

Inez Lockstep-Roommate

Voice Reference: Velvette from Hazbin Hotel: https://youtu.be/bOarXIWBtWk?si=dClKg29hmODlIuyK

Phrases:

“Let’s see how much heat you can handle…”{Whenever she has a spicy food eating contest with a new client}

“Hope your ready for a “shocking” end”

“Why do you gotta be a buzzkill, lil’ bro =3=”{Whenever Eli prevents her from doing something dangerous or dumb}

“There’s actually a running joke in my family that my mom’s ancestor is the guy who invented the scoville scale/units”

Facts/Trivia:

~Her dad's side of the family is British-American, so according to her brother, she “inherited the family cockney accent” that skipped their fathers generation

~On some occasions, other proxies or “clients” will find her dancing on the desk in her shop when they walk in

~Whenever she has a new client, she always challenges them to a spicy food eating contest to see how many scoville units they can survive before the heat gets to them and then records it in a “notebook of clients” she has. If she’s repairing a bike however, she’ll challenge the person to a street race instead of the regular spicy food eating contest as a sort of “symbol of respect” to a fellow motorbike enthusiast

~When it comes to the rare occasion that Cheryl meets her match during her “spicy food eating contest”, she stops at the Carolina Reaper level. Even though she can handle what the average human can’t survive, she has her limits when it comes to her new clients

~Her shop is actually an abandoned mechanic garage that she renovated into a business for herself

~The paint on her mask glows in the dark or under blacklight to add a little bit of a creepiness factor

~When she’s “off duty” she’s seen wearing a pair of pilot goggles on her beanie and sometimes a gas mask on her neck{The gas mask is not a full face mask btw}

Hope you enjoy! 😊

Cherylanne "Cheryl" Ember/CherryxBomber(C) Me

DON'T STEAL OR COPY MY ART! 👿

But your free to draw any of my OC's just please credit me 😊

[vote-gaara]

It's late so I hope I articulate this well... I've had a headcanon for a while (and im sure im missing some things thatll poke enough holes in it to look like swiss cheese!) that rasa's assassination attempts werent attempts so much as a form of training

Maybe the fact that noone could apparently lay a hand on him in suna but three kids independently handed his ass to him in konoha is just inconsistent storytelling (i refuse to believe suna nin are that incompetent) but it's always bothered me that from what we see gaara *does* have control over his sand even from a young age

Taking a ball from a high place and transporting it without puncturing means he had fine motor skills with his sand, it's only when it became associated with a negative emotion (rejection from peers) he lost control and injured someone

So it's kind of a pet headcanon of mine that the assassins weren't under instruction to kill him (knowing it wouldnt work) but were part of a grander plot to stop him from reacting negatively to negative stimuli so he could become the cold hearted weapon the village wanted

I think you're 100% right, though I would say that the attempts Rasa made at Gaara's life were more of a cruel win-win scenario.

Rasa probably did order his subordinates to kill Gaara, as if they succeeded, then Gaara's threat to the village would disappear.

However, as you said, all the failed assasinations at Gaara's life probably hardened him a bit, and made him a better nina. If you notice in the manga and anime, Gaara seems to have a really uncanny ability at picking out fine detail which probably has to do with him scanning for threats his whole life - and is an ability that's crucial to being a ninja. Also, his characteristic stoic demeanor was the result of dangerous situations simply just not phasing him anymore because, well, he's used to them - which is another important ninja trait.

Oh and as a side note: I also headcanon that Suna's military just honestly sucks which is why Gaara was undefeated until his trip to Konoha. I mean...the army is so bad that I think Suna's greatest defense isn't the fact that they have a military, but that their land is just so hostile and worthless in the eyes of other countries that others just don't bother invading for the sake of overtaking because it's fruitless (unless the nation was trying to move in to The Land of Wind as a strategy to get to another, more prosperous country).

[devourensarc]

ADHD — Misc.

He did not have many friends as a child, and the other children viewed him as a little odd. He had trouble sharing, and he tended to interrupt others and ramble a lot, especially about things he found interesting ( mostly, famous adventurers and legends about them ). He would impulsively blurt out what came to mind, and other children preferred to avoid him, rather than let him hang around. Mostly, he was tolerated.

He has trouble with his fine motor skills — the movements that typically involve using small muscles in the body ( his difficulty with chopsticks stems in part from this, and in part from past injuries ). His handwriting is bad, although not entirely illegible, because of this as well.

He struggles with emotional regulation. He is very quick to react negatively to perceived rejection or betrayal from someone he likes — ie, Zhongli. However, unlike when he was a child, he no longer cares what most people think of him. He only gets emotional when it comes to people he seeks the approval or friendship of.

Trying to get him to do paperwork is like herding a cat. He generally will not do any of it until the day before its deadline, or sometimes the morning of. He cannot bring himself to do something that isn't exciting, until he quite literally has to.

He is impulsive and a thrill seeker. As a child, he loved sledding. After the Abyss, this manifested as seeking more and more dangerous fights. Now, he seeks experiences that could very well kill him. When he goes too long without any sort of thrill, he gets irritable and restless, and more prone to picking fights or lashing out.

[here-lies-golden-kamuy]

any thoughts or headcanons on sofia, wilk and kiro, and what it was like for them to be on the run after killing the czar? i have sooo many ideas i would love to share abt this, and even a backstory i wrote for sofia. so many fics to write, so little time,,

Hey there, @interstellarshipwreck! Thank you for your ask, love! I apologize for the delay in my response, I had to research a bit on the three and really think of their dynamic together. I especially love this one because they’re characters that aren’t so popular (at least, on my side of the fandom), I’m thankful and glad to be given the chance to write about them! ALSO “so many fics to write, so little time…” IS SUCH A MOOD. HANDSHAKE EMOJI WITH YOU RIGHT NOW, MY GOOD FELLOW

I would absolutely love to hear about your own thoughts and backstory (OMG A BACKSTORY PLEASE FEED IT TO ME) about this!!!! I would love to hear more 🤲🥺

Sofia, Kiroranke, and Wilk Ten Year Runaways

Okay, I’m gonna lay my main card down already: I hc that Kiroranke loved both Wilk and Sofia. His love for Sofia is canon. But honestly, Kiroranke’s devotion and love for Wilk during their revolutionary days were so deep and intimate, I can’t see it as just plain old war buddies type of love. He loved that man, hence it hurt so much to see the Wilk he loved since his teenage years grow into someone he didn’t know and couldn’t relate to anymore in the end. It was like betrayal. Maybe one day I should write more about that. But yes, sometimes I think the manga was framing the trio as some sort of love triangle, and it was, but it was Kiroranke loving the both of them. I argue that in that aspect, he was their emotional core. 

I think Kiroranke and Wilk had moments together — Kiroranke, a teenage boy in love with someone older than him, desperately kissing an injured Wilk after the assassination. He would be embarrassed about it, ashamed of his actions, but Wilk said nothing but thanks for his concern. Kiro looking deep into shining blue eyes crinkled in mirth underneath a layer of blood, you fucking bet he realized right then and there he would follow this man wherever he goes. I feel like in those ten years, they had some kind of tension between them that wasn’t platonic in nature. Kiro would be passionate and show his adoration for the older man in actions rather than words — being loyal to his leader, following orders without any complaints. Wilk was calculated and cautious, hence he wasn’t verbally affectionate, but he’d always had his hand on Kiro’s shoulder in greeting or leaning into his bigger bulk when resting… there was definitely some quiet affection shared between the two of them. 

Asirpa in the early parts of the manga tells Sugimoto that a lot of women fell in love with Wilk because of his fine motor skills, especially when crafting something from his own hands. I hc that Sofia wasn’t any different. In my mind, there was a point during their runaway days where Sofia asked Wilk to teach her how to hunt, and Wilk crafted her a simple knife Ainu-style while telling her stories about his childhood to pass the time (maybe she heard about the story of child Wilk and the wolf during this time). She started to fall for the man who was passionate about his heritage and was willing to do anything for the people he loved. When it was finished, Wilk brought her along to a two-man hunt. She wasn’t successful at hunting, despite Wilk’s instructions, but Wilk — who had caught their dinner for that night — encouraged her by telling her that she can practice hunting with him and Kiroranke if she wanted to. 

Sofia can’t cook for shit, Kiro can manage, but Wilk was the master at their, er, makeshift kitchen. I can see Sofia being the Sugimoto to Kiroranke and Wilk’s Asirpa, wherein the boys would cook something that is “exotic” to Sofia’s tastes. Initially, she subconsciously balks at the ingredients and cooking processes, but then later reminds herself that her culture and their culture were equal — they both deserve the same respect and reverance. She ends up liking the mixed cuisines a lot. Also, Wilk who came from both Polish minorities and Ainu people probably did a lot of fusion dishes for fun. 

I can see Sofia to be their spymaster. Sofia is a pretty woman, knows French and Russian, and isn’t wanted by the police. Hence, she’s the least suspicious out of the three. I bet that she was really good at her job because she’s a great actress. I’m willing to bet she used her aristocratic knowledge to steal from a fellow nobleman during their runaway years. The reason why she started slipping when it came to Hasegawa was because for the first time in ten years, she felt at peace (this was primarily because of the close presence of Olga, Hasegawa’s child). I can even extrapolate that she enjoyed holding Olga close to her because she would daydream of her own child with Wilk. 

Wilk knew that both Kiroranke and Sofia loved him, but didn’t do anything about it. He also knew that Kiroranke was in love with Sofia, and made hints to Kiro that he knew, but he was passive when it came to emotions like that. Maybe he saw that maintaining the emotions and reciprocating even a tiny bit was beneficial for him as a leader. Although, I can see him being more partial to Kiroranke because of their shared goal.

Wilk has a great singing voice, I can see him as a baritone. Which means that his voice is well-suited for lullabies and humming. Sometimes when Wilk was on the watch for their group, he would hum songs from his childhood. Both Kiroranke and Sofia would pretend that they were already asleep to hear him quietly and gently string notes that would form soft lullabies about Ainu proverbs and stories. More often than not, they both fall asleep into deep slumber whenever they hear Wilk. It’s a soothing rumble, a very nice sound to let go of consciousness and clutch dreams.

[lailuhhh]

my experience is that you enlist for 4 years at a time (usually with a 4 year commitment to the reserves after that.) Occasionally, and this is happening more in recent years, I've seen and heard of 2 or 3 year enlistments. Between BCT, AIT and EOD it's about 50+ weeks of training. A deployment is anywhere from 6-15 months with time at home in between. Where does it say that Mac was on his third deployment when he met Jack?

In 1x06 Wrench no exact years are used, but Mac is at the EOD training grounds with Pena "6 years ago" which makes it 2010. (since the episode aired in 2016) Pena is killed "5 Years Ago" making it 2011. In 3x06 the date is given 6/27/2011. The day of 1000 IEDs was (according to 3x06) two weeks before Pena's death. In that episode Mac says he'd only been in country for 3 months prior to Pena's death. He meets Jack in 2011. Jack says Mac "got his training officer killed." Training officers aren't often deploying to Afghanistan since their roles are to teach and train. The implication that Mac was working in country with his training officer means he hasn't had multiple deployments at this point. (and he flat out wouldn't have had time if he was in EOD training in 2010)

In the pilot Mac says he spent "three years defusing bombs for the military" and while technically his time shouldn't "count" until he graduates BCT, AIT, and EOD I'm thinking for ease of explanation he is counting those years since his first mission with DXS in Jakarta (3x12 Mac + Fallout + Jack) takes place in 2012. Either way, the minimum enlisted age is 17 with parental consent, which gets fuzzy because who had custody over Mac? Someone needs to have guardianship. It's possible he's emancipated but that too gets complicated. But we avoid that issue by having Mac enlist around 2009-2010ish according to the years given to us in the show.

Who is paying for MIT? a 17 year old can't sign for a loan. There are very very few "full rides" unless James made some kind of fake endowment or scholarship program and awarded it to Mac. Perhaps he tasked an underling with that, but it seems unlikely he went through that much effort. I'm sorry, no school anywhere is letting a 6 year old into fifth grade. Schools are reluctant to let kids skip a single grade, and even though I can see James being an ass about it, I don't think he'd intervene. He'd want Mac to skip based on "merit" not because he went down to the school and threw a temper tantrum. Again, it would be too much effort on James part. the fifth grade teacher is not prepared for the lack of fine motor skills or emotional maturity of a six year old suddenly in their class. Even if Mac is smart enough to skip, there are a lot of social skills and motor skills that are developed in early grades. Even a "young" first grader need more help with things like holding a pencil or using scissors than a "older" first grader. (ie think a first grader who turned six in July prior to school starting versus a first grader who is going to turn 7 just a few weeks after school starts. Those nine months have an enormous difference)

So many he skips one grade. Maybe he graduates early after taking extra classes. Maybe he even starts taking college credits in high school. He's probably not much more than a year or depending on birthdays twoish younger than bozer. But still young enough to be a younger brother. still potentially the same age as Josh would have been.

The MacGyver canon timeline is pretty shit though. They can't keep anything straight. Mac says the KGB was disbanded before he was born so he should actually have a birthday in 1992!