#could i have cut out the mowing to make it a little shorter?

[in-my-loki-feels]

🤓 spontaneous hug / unexpected + dealer's choice for the pairing!

I'm so glad you gave me dealer's choice because as soon as I saw this prompt on the list, I had an idea for a platonic hug and you gave me the chance to write it!

Under 1k this time! Another little scene from Bad Things 'verse. (Candy Corn is the pet snake.)

Don pushed the mower across the lawn, trying to ignore Loki, who lurked in the shade of the open garage. Don recognized the look on his face all too well. The only thing keeping Loki from pouncing was Sean and Kevin’s imminent return. It was pizza night—which Loki detested but had stopped complaining about once Don started offering him a separate dish—so as soon as the boys got home from their friend’s house, Don would order the pizzas. 

He’d hoped to be done and able to clean up before then, but he knew the minute he stepped inside the house, all bets were off. He swiped an arm across his forehead to clear the sweat and turned the mower to begin the next pass. Farther down the street, two small figures were sprinting towards them. He let go of the mower’s handle and the engine cut off. 

“Dad, dad!” 

The excitement in Sean's voice kept Don from panicking, even though the volume of his yell and the speed with which they were approaching had his Dad senses on alert. 

“Daaad!” Kevin also yelled. They were running down the sidewalk, backpacks nearly falling off because they refused to wear both shoulder straps. It wasn’t cool, apparently. They crossed the yard at an angle, rather than take the driveway, and dropped their bags on the grass. Don winced on behalf of the textbooks inside. 

“Did you know?” Sean asked, once he'd caught his breath. “Did you know he was coming to the school today?” 

“Who?” Don asked. He shot a confused look over his shoulder. Loki had gotten up from his chair and was strolling closer with a suspiciously pleased look on his face. 

“Loki!” the boys yelled together. Sean continued, “He came to school today and everybody got pulled out of class to go to an assembly! And he gave a speech and then he asked for a tour and he came to my classroom!”

“Mine too! And the Secret Service was there too! They had these really cool sunglasses and guns.” Kevin’s eyes gleamed. Don wished he would find something less violent to be fascinated with.

“And then we got to go outside and see the armored cars!” Sean said. “But he said there wasn’t time for everyone so he was only picking a couple of classes—”

“—so he picked both of ours!” Kevin screeched. “It was so cool! I got to sit in the driver’s seat!”

Another glance at Loki showed he was basking in their praises. Don tried to picture it: Loki rolling up with the full presidential motorcade—how did they even organize that outside of the capital?—and swanning into the school, issuing orders. It wasn’t hard to imagine the panic it must have sent the school administration into. 

“That sounds pretty cool,” he said, once it was clear his sons were waiting for a reaction. 

“Duh,” Kevin said. “Loki told Mrs. Sanderson that he was only visiting one school per state and ours was the one he picked. And then he made her stay in the classroom because Bobby got sick, which meant he missed the whole tour!” His grin stretched ear to ear. 

Bobby wasn’t enough of a bully for the teachers to do something about, but he wasn’t exactly making friends in Kevin’s class. After making fun of Candy Corn’s name, he and Kevin had almost gotten into a fight, which resulted in another note brought home from Mrs. Sanderson. 

The fact that Bobby mysteriously became ill and couldn’t join in the fun wasn’t escaping Don’s notice. Loki’s grin matched Kevin’s. 

“Thank you, Loki!” Sean suddenly shouted and darted towards Loki before Don could stop him. Kevin was right behind him, echoing, “Thank you!” 

Both boys collided with Loki in the kind of tackling hug that usually knocked Don back a step. He watched Loki freeze in place as their arms went around his hips, his own hands hovering just above their shoulders. It was over before Don had a chance to call them off. Sean and Kevin beamed up at Loki before running for the house. 

“Your backpacks—” 

The front door slammed shut behind them. Don sighed and turned to Loki, who radiated discomfort. 

“Sorry, they get so excited sometimes, they don’t think.” 

“It’s…fine.” Loki lowered his hands, but his eyes were hidden behind sunglasses so Don wasn’t exactly sure what he was thinking. 

“That was pretty nice of you to visit their school. Too bad Bobby missed it.” 

Loki’s lips twitched, a hint of his previous humor returning. “Yes, such a shame.” 

Don knew another hug was out of the question, so he settled for walking over and pressing a kiss to Loki’s cheek. 

“Thanks for making their week special.” Loki’s attention snapped to him in a way that sent a frisson of excitement down Don’s spine. He quickly backed out of grabbing range. 

“Pizza night,” he reminded them both. “But if you wanna skip the recounting of everything at max volume, you don’t have to stay.” Don thought it only fair to offer an out, after the hugs forced onto him. 

“It’s fine,” Loki said again, sounding more like his usual self. He went back to his chair in the garage but only seemed half-focused on Don as he finished up the lawn. 

Later, as Don alternated admonishing the boys for talking with their mouths full and talking too loudly, he kept glancing at Loki, wondering at what point it’d be too much. But Loki didn’t leave, he simply watched Sean and Kevin ramble with a mixture of curiosity and amusement in his expression. Don hid a smile by looking down at his plate and decided the boys could carry on a little longer before he cut them off.

From this game. Other fills here.

[brokenmusicboxwolfe]

Excuse me . I don’t want yet another text draft I never get around to posting, so….

It’s funny how much a little appreciation means.

Yesterday I was working my ass off hacking on the overgrown yard at the Burras House when a man came walking by. I’d seen him earlier walking along the street. He was hunched with the sideways walk Pop always had when his back was out, but he apparently made it all the way to the Dollar General across the highway. Now, and hour or so later, he was trying to find a shorter way back home, and was cutting across the neighboring yard.

“Good job!!” he called out to me as he waved his hands at the area I’d cut. I thanked him so much for saying it must have surprised him.

The thing is that no one EVER says “good job” to me! Complaints, yes, but praise, never. I work so VERY hard all the time, but none of it ever counts.

It’s especially true for something like this, where someone would normally just either use a riding mower or even hire someone to deal with it. People look and tut that it isn’t “mowed” neatly enough, or if they see me swinging the blade they assume I’m either too much of a tight wad to buy a mower or I’m making some sort of environmental statement. ** I get grumbles about not doing enough, if I get anything at all.

We ended up having a nice little chat. It turns out he recently moved from New York, and he laughed that’s why he likes talking to all sorts of people. I chuckled too, because it is atypical for this town. I hadn’t really thought about it until he said it, but then again I hadn’t noticed his accent until then either. (I’m so oblivious to accents, not usually “hearing” them in the moment. it’s weird )

It’s a small, rural town of less than 500 people, where theoretically everyone knows everyone, yet people exist in these bubbles. As you would expect, race is one aspect, but there are many subtle shadings of who socializes with who. I talk to anyone/everyone, like eye contact cues a “Hi!” and will happily chat if they want. But my neighbors aren’t like that, and folks are often taken aback when I speak to them.

Anyway, the guy talked with me a bit. We commiserated about doing things through pain, and the way people don’t acknowledge it, and discussed yard tools. That sort of thing.

On the flattering side, he admired how strong I must be (Second time this week men have done that! LOL). I’m not strong, I’ve just got a lot of endurance and bull headed determination.

On the side that makes me sigh, he worried about me doing so much because I’m a woman. Never in my entire life had my family treated things as “what women do” and “what men do”. Gender has never been an excuse for not doing something, so saying “You shouldn’t have to do all that! You’re a woman!” irritates me.

It was a pleasant chat, especially since with no shopping trip until next month I might not get a chance to talk to anyone for quite a while. But what mattered to me, what really, REALLY mattered to me, was that he saw the work I was doing. My efforts were seen and appreciated!!

I had been resigned to the feeling that no one would ever notice anything I do, that nothing I do mattered, that I didn’t matter…

I thanked him. I thanked him for saying something about my work. I thanked him for just talking to me. He must have thought me nuts, but geez, I was so grateful.

There is still too much to do, and it all still seems so overwhelming and even futile. But you know what? While I still have to do deal with it all alone, but having a stranger see, actually see, my struggles made me feel so much better.

Sometimes you just want someone to appreciate your pain so you don’t feel so alone and forgotten…..

**You could say my father was the local environmentalist. In a tiny, rural, southern town that wasn’t too hard. The fact he was on the board of the North Carolina Coastal Federation and once was the local contact for Greenpeace doing a little action on a nearby plant polluting the river made it a wee bit more notable than just some dude trying to convince his neighbors that climate change was real. (BTW, I dunno when that started being a big thing for him, but he knew about climate change, albeit not by that name, since the late 1950s. Imagine how frustrated he felt)

[queenofimagines]

Chocolates

Request: “can i get something for jj where he's just SUCH a softie & always wants to be held by his girl, been friends since they were lil?? & maybe he finds out that she ran into his dad in public & he recognized her & said some shit abt how she could do better than jj / deserves better & she stood up for him w/out a single hesitation. & when jj finds out he just wants to hold/be held by her & then she calls him "baby boy" or "bubba" & he just breaks & needs needs NEEDS bc he feels so vulnerable & loved”

Warnings: None

JJ didn’t have many things in his life that he cared to hold onto. His lighter? Nothing special. His hats? He could always steal more. His sunglasses? Well, he didn’t really wear them anyway. But you? Now you were something completely different. You had been there for JJ his whole life, having met at a young age in some obscure playground that he was sure was torn down years ago to accommodate the expansion that Figure 8 had undergone. He didn’t care that it was gone, not when he still had you in his life, not when he could still make memories with you at The Wreck or on the HMS Pogue. All that mattered to JJ was you, and as long as he had you, he had the world.

JJ was at the market with Kiara, picking up some supplies for a day out on the marsh. Kiara needed to run to the store for snacks and drinks while JJ had wanted to tag along to make sure that he got the exact chips he wanted. He also tagged along in order to get you those chocolates you loved so much. They were rather hard to come by in The Cut and while he definitely would have asked Pope’s dad since you didn’t want to (something about not wanting to make his job harder and not having enough money, although JJ knew Pope’s dad would have never charged you, you were his favorite Pogue after his son) Pope’s dad didn’t particularly like him very much. Pope’s dad probably would have helped JJ since it was for you but he still would have rather avoided the whole conversation, especially after the day he’d had. First, the stupid Kook family who hired him to mow their lawn had shorted him on his pay, claiming he had knocked over one of their garden gnomes, effectively scratching it and thus ruining it, apparently. He couldn’t see a scratch anywhere and he was sure that they just wanted to short him just because, maybe to flex their power or whatever. Then, his dad had tore into him just before heading to the same grocery store hours earlier. He promised his dad that he’d bring home the same amount that the Kook family had promised him, and bringing home less than what was promised definitely didn’t go over well. Shaking the memory from his head, JJ decided to focus on the task at hand.

“Kie, please! I don’t know what they’re called but they’re small and come in a bag that’s usually resealable and-”

“JJ! I don’t know what kind of chocolates you’re talking about!” Kiara sighed, “JJ I have literally never seen you work this hard for anything, not even for yourself, why would you work this hard for chocolate?”

“They’re for Y/N, she never gets to eat them because they’re so hard to find.” Kiara smiled at that. She knew how in love JJ was with you, he had been for as long as she could remember. Kie liked how you seemed to balance JJ out without restraining his wild personality and how your family had accepted him as if he was their own. She also loved that she wasn’t the only girl in the group anymore, having gained an instant best friend when you arrived.

“Just ask someone JJ, I’m sure the guy at the counter probably knows.” Nodding, JJ headed towards the front of the store while Kiara turned back towards the vegetable section, picking out some baby carrots and trying to find some ranch or hummus near by. JJ rolled his eyes, knowing that the only person who would eat them would be Kiara.

“Excuse me? Do you guys have these little chocolates that look kind of like-”

“JJ, my man! I didn’t think you’d be in today. Are you getting stuff for your dad? He came in earlier looking for some cigarettes and beer, but he didn’t end up buying anything. Instead he just caused a big ruckus that scared off my customers and left! Jerk.”

“Wait, he fought with someone?” JJ asked. JJ knew his dad had a temper but people weren’t always good at seperating JJ from his dad. He’d need more fingers if he were to count the many time he’d been attacked for his dad’s actions and he certainly didn’t need to add anymore to the list.

“Yeah, he fought with Y/N. You didn’t know? Isn’t she your girlfriend?” JJ shook his head.

“What was the fight about?” JJ asked, become agitated at the thought of you having any contact with his dad, let alone actually fighting with him. The clerk behind the counter rubbed his neck nervously, knowing JJ wasn’t going to like the answer.

“Well... Y/N was already here when your dad came in. I guess she found whatever she was looking for because she was making her way towards the counter when she bumped into your dad. Like head on, she even dropped the stuff she was holding. Your dad recognized her I guess cause he started saying something to her, I couldn’t hear what he said but whatever it was obviously didn’t sit well with her cause she looked like she was getting irritated. She said something to him about you, at least I heard her say your name a few times. Then she left, your dad leaving just a little after her.” By now JJ was on edge, knowing that whatever went down between you two couldn’t have been good. All he could think about was making sure you were okay. He quickly left the store, telling Kiara as he passed her that he needed to talk to you.

From the store to your house wasn’t very far, but at the pace JJ kept, the distance seemed even shorter. He quickly knocked on your front door, hoping you’d answer before he vibrated out of his skin. The door swung open, except it wasn’t your face he was looking at, but your father’s.

“Hey JJ, what’re you doing here? I thought you guys weren’t hanging out until later.”

“Hi, Mr. Y/L/N, you’re right but I just need to talk to Y/N really quick, can I come in?” By now JJ was practically bouncing on his toes. He loved your dad, he truly did, but right now he just needed to talk to you.

“Yeah come on in! She’s in her room but she’s taking a nap and, well, you know what she’s like when she wakes up don’t you?” Your dad laughed. JJ muttered a quick thanks before running to your room, gently closing the door when he spotted you sprawled out on top of your blankets fast asleep. He walked to the side of your bed and sat down, softly shaking your shoulder to wake you up.

“JJ?” You asked groggily, stretching before your eyes went wide as you abruptly sat up. “Oh my god did I sleep in? I was so sure I set an alarm.”

“You’re not late sweetheart, I just came early. I just needed to talk to you about something.”

“What is it?”

“The guy at the store told me you ran into my dad today.”

“Oh.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I went to the store to pick up some snacks and when I was ready to pay I ran into your dad.” You didn’t really want to keep going, you knew he’d be upset by what his dad said and he really didn’t need his confidence to be any lower than it already was.

“And? I know there’s more to it Y/N.”

“Um... H-he said that I was a quite a catch, pretty and smart, and that I could have done better than... than you. He told me I should breakup with you.” JJ looked down, gripping you blanket so tight that his knuckles turned white.

“But I told him that wasn’t happening!” You quickly addd, beginning to get angry again as you thought about the whole interaction. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me, there’s no way I’m just letting you go.”

JJ gently took ahold of your hand. He knew that you cared for him, but he never thought you’d be the type to stand up to his dad of all people, and he definitely didn’t think that you felt the same about him as he did you. His heart swelled at the thought that you had defended him, but he also felt guilty at the thought of you having to do so.

Seeing JJ look so defeated hurt your heart, more so at the thought that you might have caused it. 

“I’m sorry, Bubba. Please don’t be mad at me.”

“I’m not mad, sweetheart, just surprised is all.” He quickly pulled you to him, kissing your forehead before laying down next to you and wrapping his arms around you. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For defending me. You didn’t have to.” You moved so that you were looking at him, eyes wide.

“Of course I did! No one talks shit about my boyfriend, especially not his own dad.” You said, laying your head on his chest after having made your point. Just then your alarm went off, signaling that you both would have to leave soon if you were going to be on time to meet up with the Pogues. You tried to get up but JJ held onto you tightly, not allowing you to move much as you tried to wriggle out of his grip.

“JJ we need to go if we don’t want to be late.” You laughed. JJ shoved his head into the crook of your neck, pulling you even closer to him.

“No, forget the Pogues, let’s just stay here and cuddle.” You wanted to protest, really you did but the way JJ was holding you, as if his life depended on it, let you know that he needed you right now to just be there, so without saying a word, you turned over and held him to you, running your hand through his hair until he fell asleep, soon drifting off with him.

[nerdforestgirl]

Hey.  I know it’s been a while since I’ve posted a story or anything useful, really. But @milyrita asked me for a story of Sheldon getting a makeover a few months ago.  It took me far too long, but I finally finished it.  I hope you enjoy.  Stay safe.  <3

Sheldon looked at himself in the mirror. It was his 40th birthday, and he frowned. Not that it was his birthday or that he was another year older. His life was great. He was married to Amy who was pregnant with their first child. He had a Nobel and tenure at CalTech. The reason he frowned that his clothes made him look like a 40 year old toddler. He was going to be a father in the matter of months, and he looked less like an adult than when he was nine. At least back in those days he wore a button up on occasion. He sighed, but went to find Amy and whatever he had planned for his big day.

It turned out that the big surprise was just dinner with his friends, which was more or less perfect for Sheldon. It was their regular Chinese food with cake at the end. Apparently pregnant Amy didn't have much energy to plan anything more. It made Sheldon wish he had knocked up his wife during all of the previous birthdays he had with her.

Still, Sheldon couldn't help but think about his appearance. Then he looked over at Penny who seemed to know things about fashion. Or at least she was always looking at magazines about it. He decided to pull her to the side.

“What's up?” Penny asked.

“Do you think you could take me shopping this weekend? I would like to have a few outfits that make me look like an adult,” Sheldon admitted quietly.

“Really? I've been waiting for this moment for over a decade,” Penny said with a clap of her hands. She happily agreed to take Sheldon shopping. He regretted asking immediately, but he still wanted to appear to be an adult. He would try this. Even if it was just one day.

Penny knocked on Sheldon's door on Saturday morning so they could head out to the mall. Penny asked Sheldon about what kind of clothes he was looking for, but he just shrugged and said something about wanting to look like an adult. He didn't really have any ideas beyond that. It was why he had brought Penny in on this with him.

“Let's try a few things,” Penny suggested as she handed him a black button up shirt. Sheldon saw a plaid one in a similar style so he added it to the things to try on.

“That will make you look like a dad,” Penny said.

“Perfect. That is exactly the look I am attempting to achieve,” Sheldon said with a smile.

Penny didn't mean it as a compliment, but she let him try it on anyway. She hadn't known that was his motivation, but she still wanted him to look like a stylish dad. The man was a Nobel Prize winner, not just some guy mowing the lawn and barbecuing on Sundays. Either way, no cargo shorts would be allowed.

“How's this?” Sheldon asked as he walked out in a pink fitted shirt and jeans. He didn't actually mind these ones. The shirt showed off his figure better than his normal baggy clothes. Penny forgot that Sheldon had been working out with Leonard a few times a week until she saw that he had put on a little bit of muscle.

“I think you should be ready for Amy to jump on you when you get home,” Penny teased.

“You think she will hate it so much that she will attack me?” Sheldon asked. He was disappointed. This was the first outfit that he actually liked so far.

“No. She will find you unbearably sexy and will want to have coitus,” Penny explained.

“Oh,” Sheldon said. Then Penny caught a little grin on his face. She was going to insist that he get his outfit for sure. They spent a couple more hours trying out new looks.

“I told Leonard I would be home in time for dinner with him and the baby. Let's get these, and then I'm taking you to get a proper haircut. If you want to look like an adult, we're getting your haircut too,” Penny said when they had a decent pile of new clothes picked out. He was going to wear the pink shirt and the jeans out of the store.

“I don't need a haircut,” Sheldon insisted.

“Sweetie, you do. Let's go,” Penny told him.

Sheldon pouted and continued to insist that he was fine with his hair the way it was. He liked this hairstyle. He had had this hairstyle since he was old enough to choose it for himself. Then he realized that this whole point of this exercise was to make him look like an adult instead of a nine year old. His hair would grow back if he didn't like it. And perhaps he could get used to a new hairstyle. It took very little time for him to fall in love with Amy's shorter hair after all. Adjusting to change was what becoming a father was all about. He might as well start now while he had a couple months to go.

The new hairstyle wasn't vastly different. Just a little shorter in the back and on top. Plus a bit of product to give it some volume. Not nearly as different as Amy's new cut had been all those months ago, but also not the style of a nine year old boy either.

“You look great, Sheldon. I call this a job well done,” Penny proclaimed when she saw the whole look put together. She thought that maybe Sheldon could use some glasses to complete the nerd chic thing going on, but he didn't need them. Maybe in a few years all the screen time would catch up to him.

“Do you think Amy will like it?” Sheldon asked. She was the only person other than himself whose opinion mattered at all in this matter.

“I wasn't kidding earlier. I think you are going to have a late night tonight,” Penny said.

“A late night? Oh. The coitus because I am attractive. Right,” Sheldon said with a nod. It had only been a week for him, which wasn't very much time, but he knew this was a risk when he went shopping.

“Let's go show her,” Penny suggested.

Sheldon opened the door to his apartment with all of his shopping bags in hand. Penny followed close behind because she wanted to see Amy's reaction to Sheldon's new style. She stepped forward when she saw Amy look up from her book and immediately started crying.

“What's wrong?” Sheldon asked as he rushed to Amy. She cried more now that she was pregnant, but he hadn't become accustomed to it. It still upset him to see her cry.

“Well, have fun, kids,” Penny said and let herself out of the apartment. Something was going wrong, and she wanted as far away from it as possible.

“What did you do?” Amy asked her husband. She barely noticed that Penny was there or had left. Sheldon looked completely different. And Amy hated all of it. She walked closer and he smelled of cologne instead of his normal baby powder. It was like he was a whole different person. She wanted her Sheldon. Not this imposter.

“I wanted to look like an adult,” Sheldon said. He had prepared for a very different reaction than his wife crying. He was startled because normally even if Amy hated something like this, she usually had the tact to say it politely.

“Why on earth did you think I would want that? I want my husband. I want him back,” Amy shouted.

Sheldon nodded and ran into their bedroom. He put back on a baggy pair of khakis and a t-shirt. There wasn't much he could do about his hair, but he brushed it back down to his usual style. He also felt deflated. He hadn't done this for Amy, but he didn't think she would hate it the way she did. He slunk back out to the living room for Amy to inspect.

“Why did you change? You never change anything you don't have to. Are you cheating on me?” Amy asked through tears as she inspected the other clothes Sheldon purchased. All of it was expensive high quality clothes. Not a t-shirt in sight.

“Of course I'm not cheating on you. I barely have coitus with you, and I love you more than anyone else on the planet,” Sheldon said. He was defensive because he never would have dreamed that Amy would even suggest something like that.

“So, you didn't change everything because I'm fat, and you want to be with someone else?” Amy asked.

“You aren't fat, and I'd never want to be with someone else. I bought these things because I don't want to take our son to daycare and have the other parents think I am a very large escaped toddler. I am going to be a father, and I want to look the part,” Sheldon explained.

Amy sniffled and wiped her nose with the sleeve of her sweater. Sheldon made a mental note to have it cleaned immediately. Not everything about him had changed.

“You did look very handsome. It scared me because I don't feel like I match such a handsome man right now,” Amy admitted. It took her some time to actually understand why she was so upset. It took until wild accusations started flying out of her mouth to connect the dots. Now that she had, she felt a little ashamed.

“You are very beautiful, but you are also very pregnant. Your body will not stay this way,” Sheldon reminded her as he walked closer to gently hug her.

“You're right. I overreacted.”

“So, I can keep the clothes and the haircut?” Sheldon asked.

“Of course,” Amy said with a smile.

“But you don't want to jump on me?” Sheldon asked.

Amy looked confused for a moment, but then understood what he meant with the phrase slightly off. “I always want to jump on you. Would you like to show me the rest of the things you bought? We can see which one makes me strip you out of it,” Amy teased. She didn't think they would actually have sex. It had been only a week since the last time. However, if Sheldon was bringing it up, maybe it was on the table.

“I think the suit would really have you going, but it's being tailored. Let me show you the cashmere sweater,” Sheldon said with a renewed smile. He was glad that Amy was coming around. Now they could be the most fashionable couple around.

[katehuntington]

Title: In Bad Waters - part seven Word count: ±5570 words Episode summary: Still in possession of the Winchesters’ belongings, Zoë meets up with the hunters on her next case. When it turns out to be a little more complicated than anticipated, she accepts their help in order to make an important deadline. Part seven summary: Zoë goes undercover to find out more about the murder she saw in her dream. Little does she know, that Sam and Dean do the same. Episode warnings: Dark! NSFW, 18+ only! Descriptions of domestic violence/child abuse. Drug use/addiction. Angst, gore, violence, character death. Description of blood, injury and medical procedures/resuscitation. Swearing, alcoholism. Supernatural creatures/entities, mentions of demon possession. Descriptions of torture and murder, drowning. Illegal/criminal practices. Mentions of nightmares and flashbacks. Author’s note: Beta’d by @winchest09​​​​ and @deanwanddamons​​​​. Thanks, girls!

Supernatural: The Sullivan Series Masterlist

S1E02 “In Bad Waters” Masterlist

     Confident, Zoë bends down in order to fit under the yellow ‘crime scene - do not cross’ ribbon. She takes out her federal agent ID and flips it open before the officer guarding the perimeter can ask her about it. He steps away respectfully and lets her through. 

     It’s about 10 AM and the sun is already out on this relatively warm November day. Marching up the driveway with her heels clicking rhythmically on the concrete, Zoë unbuttons her black suit jacket to let in some air. The Stars and Stripes hasn’t been taken down yet and still flutters from the top of the mast, located in the center of a perfectly landscaped garden. The fallen leaves drape parts of the neatly mowed lawn in different tones of orange and brown. Not only does this particular estate look amazing, the entire street is brochure perfect. It is obvious that the families living in these homes on Reynolds Park Road, are wealthy ones. However, the ambulances and police cars blocking the street and the officers scanning the area, indicate that something is terribly wrong. What would seem like the last place on earth for a murder, is indeed a gruesome crime scene.

     Two officers are having a conversation by the front entry. They pause the discussion once they notice the unfamiliar face approaching them. She captivates them instantly. Determined strides, head held high, clearly a woman who stands her ground in the men’s words that is law enforcement. There’s not a single trace of doubt noticeable when she flashes her ID once more.      “Agent Evans, FBI,” she states.

     “Detective Lee. This is officer Sanchez,” a tall man, with a serious case of a receding hairline, introduces his colleague a little reluctantly, clearly not happy about the presence of a fed. He holds out his hand anyway and Zoë makes eye contact, giving him a powerful handshake.      “I didn’t know the Bureau was involved,” he comments with an Upper South accent, common for the region.

     “Well, if you had paid attention while investigating the crimes in your own county, detective,” the specialist returns without missing a beat, facing the two man with enough arrogance to shut them down immediately, “- you might had noticed that there has been a murder similar to this one, making this a serial killing.”      “Still don’t make this a federal case,” Lee returns, standing his ground.      “What does, is the fact that there’s a whole string of deaths leading from Alabama up to your lovely little town.”

     Of course she just made that up on the spot, just to back up her reason to be here, but no one would be able to tell without doing some solid digging first. She is so convincing that the two men fail to counter her.      “Now if you'll excuse me, I have work to do. If you could be so kind to show me the way, that would be neat,” she requires, throwing them a fake smile while narrowing her eyes.

     The two officers glance at each other, it being clear as day that the detective is not amused by the way he’s spoken to. Nonetheless, he gestures to the FBI agent to get into the house. She seems like a person not to be messed with.

      They enter the villa with Zoë in tow, who nods approving while taking a look around. She glances up to the high ceilings, which are decorated with beautiful alto-reveilo, carved into the white plaster. Roman pillars support the level above, and in the back two staircases circle up to the second floor. Every square inch of the floor underneath their feet is made from marble. Renaissance paintings, portraying country sides in the 19th century and battles from the Civil War hang from the walls, a gold plated chandelier floats overhead. Flower pieces, amongst them an expensive bouquet placed on the mahogany round table in the center of the main room, gives the house a finishing touch. Zoë knows the lifestyle of the rich and famous, but this place looks more like a palace than a principal’s home in a town called Paragould.

     “As you can see, Mr. Van Dyke lived the good life. His father owned a Dutch shipping company and made millions,” Officer Sanchez explains, having noticed the federal agent’s impressed expression. “We believe the fortune he passed on to his son might have something to do with Van Dyke’s death.”

     As they climb the stairs, Zoë chuckles, but doesn’t say a word. These oblivious bastards... they have absolutely no clue, do they?      “You think something else is going on?” Lee questions, noticing the sarcasm in her little laugh.      “Money is not the motive,”  she returns, curt.

     An awkward silence follows and Zoë can feel the hostility between her and the two police officers. She has experienced it before, especially in smaller communities. Most cops despise the feds, simply because the cases they work quite literally hit close to home. The FBI is no stranger to barging in and taking over entire investigations, without sending a ‘thank you’ card. A lot of hard work for the local coppers, without any credit. Zoë can’t say she blames the police for being reluctant.

     “This way.” Sanchez beckons them after climbing the stairs to the second floor, where he turns left on the vestibule.      The closer they get to the crime scene, the more crowded it gets. The Crime Scene Unit has already arrived and forensics dust for prints, take pictures and search for evidence. When Zoë enters the room and finds Mr. Van Dyke, she frowns. 

      In the corner lies a man, probably in his mid fifties, half into a shattered exhibition case, his eyes open, death evident. It’s not the first time Zoë has seen a dead guy, but she wasn’t expecting such a violent killing committed by a ten year old. Apparently his head got smashed into the showcase; glass is scattered all over his body. He has bruises and cuts on his arms and face, but most peculiar is his probable cause of death. His neck is broken; the head at a 90° angle. 

     Zoë scans the room, which shows several signs of a struggle. One thing is certain; Van Dyke really got his ass kicked before he died. As she takes a look around, a woman wearing white latex gloves updates Lee and his partner. Zoë glances over, notices the CSU logo on her jacket, and walks over to tune in.      “- time of death was between 6:30 and 7 AM. No prints found so far,” the forensic states.      “Look at this place. There must be something,” Detective Lee ponders, his gaze panning over the crime scene.      “Not even a fiber,” she sighs. “I have to admit; I’ve never seen anything like this.”

     “Seems like the suspect has left no trace,” Zoë intervenes, mixing into the conversation.      “Someone just did a good job covering up,” Sanchez scoffs, not finding her remark relevant. “We’ll find something.”      Dude, you have no idea, Zoë thinks to herself, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement. She doesn’t cut in on him, although she has about a dozen smart curve balls ready. Never get too smart around cops, who knows what she might need them for later on.

     “There’s one thing, though, but it adds more confusion than it clears up.”      The forensic walks over to the body of Mr. Van Dyke and points out the way his sweater is pulled down. It uncovers his left shoulder, the sleeve seems too long at the end by the force that was used.      “Looks like someone pulled him down. As if the killer wanted to level his victim with him or her,” she clarifies.      “The murderer was shorter than the victim,” Lee concludes.      “Not just a little shorter, I’m talking about round 4 ft. 5 here, looking at the angle and location of the bruising,” the forensic adds up.      “About the height of a ten year old, right?” Zoë fills in, as the clues sum up.      “Yeah, that would be correct, but that’s impossible. Even if a ten year old could be capable of doing such a thing, they wouldn’t have the strength,” she rules out.

     Impossible isn’t in Zoë’s dictionary, but she has seen enough. The forensics might be on a dead end, Zoë is a hundred percent sure of who Van Dyke’s killer is. She is dealing with one furious ghost child here, but two questions remain unanswered: why isn't Laura at rest and how is she able to relocate?      A cursed object is the first thing that comes to mind. Being on the clock, Zoë decides to leave and have a talk with the family.      “Thanks very much, I’ve got everything I need.” She gives both the forensic and the members of the PPD a nod, before she exits the room.

     While Zoë walks down the corridor towards the staircase, the undercover huntress goes through the things she just learned. It almost seems like Laura is trying to put her victims through the same horror she experienced before she died. She simply shows them who’s boss, just like her father used to teach her. It’s violent, not suited for viewers under the age of eighteen, and yet a girl of only ten years of age, is behind these murders. 

     Back on the first floor, Zoë can hear soft wailing coming from the dining room. For the third time this morning she shows her ID, this time to the officer guarding the shielded off private space. The door is slightly ajar, when she pushes it open further in order to enter, the investigator finds the Van Dyke family, gathered together. A woman in her early fifties with blonde pixie hair has her arms around a teenage girl, who Zoë presumes to be the principal’s daughter. The son, a few years younger than his sister, stares outside, his empty eyes gazing out over the lake, quietly grieving in his own way. Instantly, Zoë feels sorry for the family. She wouldn’t wish this upon anyone.      “Mrs. Van Dyke?”

     The woman looks up with tears in her eyes and lets go of her daughter, but not before sweetly stroking her hair. Zoë shows Mr. Van Dyke’s wife her identification.      “I’m Special Agent Evans, you can call me Sharon. I would like to ask you a few questions if that’s alright.”      The mother of two nods her head as she wipes away her tears. “Of course.”      “Your husband’s passing took place between 6:30 and 7 O'clock this morning. Where were you at this time?” Zoë questions calmly.      “I was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast,” Mrs. Van Dyke replies, having crossed one arm over her chest, her hand covering her mouth as she breathes out with a shudder.      “And you heard nothing?” the huntress wonders, her voice gentle, not wanting to upset the poor woman even more.      “Not a sound,” she shakes her head. “Heather was in her room next to Bill’s office, she didn’t hear a thing until the dog started barking, that’s when she found him.”

     Zoë nods at that, aware that dogs have a better sense of the supernatural than humans have. She glances past the woman before her, noticing the kind Australian shepherd, who has laid his head in Heather’s lap, watching up at her with worried eyes while trying to comfort his owner. The dog seems calm now, a good indication that Laura isn’t anywhere near.      What the huntress does find strange, though, is that their daughter didn’t hear a thing. The article in the newspaper yesterday about Robert Shire’s murder comes to mind. His family was home during the incident as well.

     “That will be it for now, thank you for your time,” Zoë notifies, smiling sympathetically. “I’m very sorry for your loss.”      Mrs. Van Dyke turns back to her family with half a nod, still in complete shock after this morning’s events which turned her world upside down. Zoë would like to take more time to talk to the children, but she simply doesn’t have a minute to spare. Hastened, the huntress exits the house, stepping out into the warm sun as she takes out her shades and puts them on. 

      It all makes sense now. Laura isn’t just getting even with the people who are directly or indirectly connected to her death. She’s recreating how she died. What Zoë remembers from her flashback, the poor girl was a punching bag for her father’s fist on a daily basis, but it’s not just that. No one around heard a thing, not even a single sound, like the victims were isolated from the outside world. The vision of Laura’s mother stoically continuing her dinner while her older brother watched TV. As if they couldn’t bear the abuse and therefore shut out the sounds that came along with it. 

     Pondering, Zoë strides down Reynolds Park Road, back to her bike, which she parked near the water. Unlike the police, the huntress is everything but stuck, she knows exactly where she needs to go. Next stop; The Shire residence.

     “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”

     Dean has been complaining ever since they pulled away from the In-N-Out, when Sam came up with his newest masterplan. Their usual jeans and several layers of plaid have been replaced with black suits, the sharp dressed men now approaching Arkansas Methodist Medical Center, leaving the Impala in the parking lot.

     “We are doing this, so get used to it,” Sam returns, getting tired of his brother’s whining. “You have the ID’s?”      Dean takes out two leather wallets and flips them open, showing him the fake identification. Sam stares at the ID’s, his jaw falling open.      “FBI? Are you nuts, Dean?”      “Dad and I do it all the time. No sweat,” Dean shrugs, not that worried about getting caught.

     “What if they look up our badge numbers? This is suicide!” Sam hisses, keeping his voice down when they pass people at the entrance of the hospital.      “You wanna know what’s suicide? Meddling with Zoë’s case,” Dean counters.      Sam huffs. “Oh, come on. How bad can it be?”      “You should have seen her in Rochester when she found out we rang Cliffer and blew her cover. That wasn’t even intentional, and now you actually choose to get involved?” Dean argues.

     He gives his brother his new identification, which Sam studies carefully as he mumbles his fake name. Dean watches his brother closely, curious if he will detect the little gimmick in their aliases, them being Angus and Young. But Sam doesn’t know enough about rock music to notice that the two names combined is the full name of AC/DC’s lead guitarist. Nonetheless, Dean is proud of the inside joke.

     “She might get a little annoyed, but she won’t get mad. We’re helping her,” Sam assures, hoping his brother will stop being dramatic.      “Exactly! I’m dressed like a fucking penguin while I know she won’t ever thank us, even if we have a major breakthrough.” Dean loosens his tie a bit, smothered by the tightness of his collar.      “Look man, we can sit on our ass and waste this day or--”      “- I prefer that actually,” the oldest intervenes.      “Or--” Sam continues, sternly, “- we can do something useful.”

     With that being said, he walks through the revolving doors of the governmental facility, followed by Dean, who mutters something unintelligible; stubborn fucker. Dean might be the older sibling here, but when Sammy has got his mind set on something, he can’t be reasoned with.      Heading straight for the main desk, the Winchester brothers get into character. Sam especially looks somewhat young to be a federal agent, thankfully his height makes up for that. They both need to sell this in order to gather new information on the case.      Confidently, Dean flashes his FBI identification to the woman behind the counter. “Agent Young, this is my partner Agent Angus. We’re here to see a dead body.”      “You came to the right place,” she comments, apparently not impressed by their badges.      She calls for an older physician in a long white coat who just passed by.      “Dr. Hughes? Could you escort these two agents to the morgue?” she asks him.      “Of course, I’m heading over there anyway,” he agrees, beckoning Dean and Sam to walk with him.

     The hunters follow the doctor through the long hospital hallways. White ceilings, mint green vinyl floors and random photos and Picasso rip offs on the walls every now and then; the typical hospital decor the Winchester brothers are more familiar with than they would want to be. They’ve been inside medical centers plenty. To investigate a case, but also as a visitor whenever someone in their close circle got hurt on the job, but also as a patient. Hunting isn’t just a profession prone to injury, it’s worse than that. It’s a profession prone to death.

     Dr. Hughes eventually breaks the silence when they reach an elevator. “Who are you here for?”      “Ronald Shire,” Sam informs.      Unpleasantly surprised, Hughes looks up at the tall agent. He halts by the elevator, calling it down to the first floor. It takes a second to arrive, the doctor uncomfortably shifts from one foot to the other. Dean and Sam have noticed it, however, exchanging a look.

     “I’m sorry,” the physician apologizes when he realizes how his behavior might come across. “Ronald was a colleague of mine, but he was also a close friend.”      “Our condolences,” Dean says, knowing all about Shire’s death after Sam filled him in earlier.      Hughes pushes the button to call the elevator down, accepting the sympathy offered by the agent. “Unbelievable, isn’t it? We see death every day and yet when it hits close to home, you never see it coming.”

     Wise words, applicable to everyone. He has been there on many occasions when the final hour struck; of hunters, of people they were trying to save. One would expect all this experience to give him thick skin, since he’s used to the violence and killings. But when Jess was murdered, it hit him harder than a wrecking ball.

     The younger Winchesters train of thought is interrupted by the sound of the bell, announcing that the elevator has reached their level. He clears his throat and directs his attention to the doctor again. “Do you have an idea what happened to Mr. Shire?”      “I did the autopsy myself; it left me stunned,” Dr. Hughes tells them as they enter the elevator.

     Again the doctor presses a key and the doors close. As they slowly move down to the basement, Dean tries to find out if Hughes knows more about the case then he’s willing to let go at this point.      “We think his death might have something to do with the murder that took place in the Van Dyke residence,” he fills in.      “I heard about that on the news. CSU is still on that, though”, the physician says.      “We have one of our agents at the scene,” Sam returns, with the short statement explaining their suspicion.

     The doors open and the three enter the morgue of the hospital. It’s cool in this section and an unpleasant scent fills the area, chemicals almost masking the lingering smell of the dead. The doctor walks over to the furthest wall of metal drawers. He pulls out one of the many trays and puts on a pair of latex gloves before he zips open the body bag.      “What’s so stunning about this case?” Sam wonders.      “See for yourself.” Hughes unfolds the bag and both boys raise their eyebrows.      “Ouch,” Dean comments.

     The body of Laura’s father is badly bruised and battered, as if he got beaten up by a street gang in a bad neighborhood. His jaw is demolished, his neck broken; this is some serious abuse. The ‘Y’ shaped incisions on his torso indicated that a full autopsy has been performed on Ronald Shire, but the large stitches barely stand out between the black and broken skin.

     “That’s not all,” the doctor adds as he takes out the file. “I searched every inch of his body on the in and outside, but there is not a print, not one single fiber on him that  could point you fellas towards a suspect.”      Dean gives Sam a look without the physician seeing it. Dr. Hughes might have never seen this before, the hunters certainly have. Ghosts never leave any trace on their victims, unless they want to.

     “This caught my attention, though.” The doctor points out the bruises. “See how they run out upwards? That indicates that these injuries were caused from a lower angle. Or the killer was on its knees - which would be most unlikely - or the injuries were inflicted by someone shorter than 4 ft. 7. Someone with a growth defect, dwarf syndrome. That’s the only way I can clarify this.”      “Have you considered a child?” Sam questions, carefully.      “I have for a brief moment, but it’s theoretically impossible for a child to throw punches like this, even when it would use an object to create some kind of leverage, which I found no indication of,” the doctor explains. “Honestly, I’ve never seen damage done like this, not even by trained fighters. The evidence doesn’t add up in the slightest. This shouldn’t be possible.”

     The boys exchange another glance; the evidence adds up just fine for them. Sam tilts his head and nods to the door, giving Dean the signal that they are leaving.      “Thank you for your time, doctor.” he rounds up their visit. “If there is anything else, let us know.”      “You’re welcome, I hope you’ll get this one,” Hughes mentions while he cleans up.      “We’ll do our best,” Sam ensures.

     The two hunters leave the morgue and step back into the elevator. As soon as the doors close, the oldest of the two turns to the other.      “Laura, definitely,” the youngest brother states, determined.      “Unless this town is haunted by two frustrated mini spirits, yeah, it’s Laura.” Dean agrees, watching Sam take his phone out of his pocket as they arrive at the first floor again. “Who’re you gonna call?”      “The other Ghostbuster,” Sam replies, as he looks up Zoë’s number and presses the green button as soon as they step outside the hospital.      “Shouldn’t we get to the bomb shelter first?” the oldest suggests, snarky.      “This information could be useful”, Sam replies, but before Dean can respond to that, Zoë answers her phone.

     “Sullivan.”      “Hey Zoë, it’s Sam. Listen, I’ve got some info on Ronald Shire for you,” Sam cuts to the chase.      “Why would you have info on Laura’s dad?”      Sam cringes slightly, detecting the suspecting tone in her voice. Oh well, here goes nothing.      “We went to the Medical Center to see Shire’s body.”

      Complete silence, but Sam can almost hear Zoë’s blood boil on the other side of the line. Dean pulls his sleeve and gestures at him, frustrated.      “What are you including me for?” he hisses, making sure Zoë can’t hear him.      Sam waves him away, without making a sound he hushes his brother to be quiet, turning away from him in order not to get distracted. He takes a breath, gathering his courage. 

      “Zoë?”       “I’m sorry, I think I misunderstood you. Did you just tell me that you deliberately messed with my case, even though I told you VERY clearly not to get involved?”      The huntress’s voice trembles with anger, Sam can hear she tries to keep calm.      “We figured we could spare you some time by going ourselves--”      “- You FIGURED?!”

     Sam cowers, her voice so sharp and loud that he doesn’t have to put her on speaker for Dean to pick up on the conversation. He did move closer to his brother, invading his personal space in order to tune in.      “Better take cover,” Dean advises his brother.      Annoyed, Sam pushes his brother away and focuses on Zoë again.

     “We didn’t mess anything up if that’s what you’re worried about”, he states defensively.      “I wouldn't give a flying fuck if you solved the fucking case! You didn’t listen!”      “You’re not my boss!” Sam makes clear, not having her raging attitude, no matter how intimidated he feels by the fiery woman.      “I am the boss when it comes to MY cases, damn it! This is not a fucking candy store I’m running, Sam! You can’t go do my job without telling me, you almost got me killed last time!”      “It was an innocent morgue visit!” Sam exclaims while making a wild gesture, even though Zoë isn’t there to see it. “And honestly, would you have said ‘yes’ if I asked you first?”

     “No of course not, you fucking asshat! That’s the fucking point!” she returns, clearly furious. “I swear to God, Sam, if you and your brother cross my path again…”      “What? You’ll kill us?” Sam huffs. “Listen, Zoë. Ronald Shire was attacked by Laura, without doubt. He was a mess, his jaw was wrecked and his neck was broken, all injuries inflicted from a lower angle. That’s all the info I’ve got for you, you do with it whatever the hell you want.”

     Before Zoë can return an answer, Sam ends the call. It’s only now that he notices Dean opposite of him, his arms crossed in front of him. He nods, appreciating.      “No more Mr. Nice Guy. I like it,” he comments, then continues his way to the Impala.      Without responding to his notification, Sam follows and catches up with him, still angry with the ungrateful attitude of the huntress. He cannot believe he saved her at least an hour and a half and this is what he gets in return; so much for gratitude. 

     Together they walk over to the classic Chevrolet without speaking about it further. Yet Dean can’t help but  smile as he opens his door. Sam notices the grin and rolls his eyes.      “Just say it,” he mutters.      “Say what?”      “You know what.”      Dean looks at him over the top of the black Chevrolet and ponders, still deciding if he should say the words which he longs to say. He can’t help himself, he has to enjoy the moment and rub it in.      His smirk grows even wider. “Hate to say I told you so.”      “No, you don’t,” Sam sighs, sits down and closes the door.

     Dean does the same and turns the key, starting up the Impala’s V8 engine, which lets out an enthusiastic roar. People Are Strange by The Doors is playing on the radio while Sam stares through the windshield, still bummed about the call.      “Why doesn’t she just drop the act?” Sam wonders.      “I’m not sure if it’s an act, Sammy.” Dean checks in both directions before steering his precious car onto the road. “I sincerely think her soul is pitch black.”

     But Sam shakes his head, not buying it. “This can’t be her persona. You said it yourself; she was different when you first met her.”      “So? People change,” Dean simply declares, shrugging his shoulders.      “Maybe, but this is just stupid. We’re in town, bored out of our skull while she is working her ass off to finish up on time. It can’t be that hard to accept our help.”      “Apparently she’s socially disturbed, Sam. Let it go already. If she can’t appreciate a helping hand, she’s not worth the effort,” the older brother suggests, not wanting Sam to be bothered by the matter. “Let’s go to Texas and hunt some wolf, huh?”

     He considers the advice for a moment as they drive by Linwood Cemetery. As soon as he spots the place, he glances across the road at the Hampton Inn, but there is no sign of Zoë; she must be at the crime scene.      As they pass through, he decides he wants to stay. “No. We agreed to stay in town till tonight. Zoë will leave, case closed or not. It’s almost midday, so what difference will it make if we leave now or tonight?”      “Half a day,” Dean answers smartly.      “Denise? Or did you completely forget about the fact that you are meeting up with her later?”

     The driver of the black car raises his eyebrow at that, contemplating, because Sam is right; he did forget about his ‘date’ later today for just a second. Dean doesn’t like to admit it, but Denise is a very big plus to stay in town just a little while longer. A silence follows after Sam’s mention while his brother thinks through his options.

     “Point taken,” he gives in. “But I’ll tell you one thing. Zoë is not gonna come around.”      “She will, believe me. She’s not as bad to the bone as she pretends to be,” Sam states, sure of his words. After all, last night she was friendly for letting him crash in her room and transferring all that lore to his computer.      “I know her better than you do,” Dean weighs up.      “I don’t believe that's true,” Sam counters, shaking his head.      “Wanna bet?” Dean looks aside as the argument is starting to turn into a ‘do not, do too’ fight. “Burgers for a week.”      “I rarely eat burgers. How’s that gonna benefit me?” the younger sibling brings to mind.

     “Okay, well… If I win, you buy me burgers for a week. If you win, I won’t give you shit for ordering a salad in every fast food joint we eat at.” The green eyed hunter wiggles his eyebrows, his arrogant grin confident, spread wide on his lips.      “I’m not settling for that.” Sam huffs and shakes his head. “You can buy me whatever I order for the next seven days if I’m right.”      “Deal.”

     Before Dean can assure him that this is a bet he will win, his brother’s Blackberry rings. Surprised, he checks the screen for the number, his long chestnut hair falling in front of his eyes when he looks down, then he raises his eyebrows and smiles. Victoriously he shows the screen to Dean; it’s Zoë. Sam picks up his phone and puts her on speaker.      “What?” he snaps, still mad at her.      “What are you up to?”      The youngest of the Winchesters isn’t sure if she’s asking him if he’s still intending to mess with her case or that she’s asking if he has some spare time.      “Depends,” he answers, curt.      “You said Shire broke his neck, so did Van Dyke.”      “So?”      “Might be something.”

     Sam keeps his mouth shut, warning Dean to do the same with only a look and a slight shake of the head. An unpleasant silence follows. Obviously, it irritates Zoë.      “C'mon, Sam. Knock it off!”      “No, Zoë! We’re helping you out and this is what we get?” Sam returns.      “You two nosey dickwads went behind my back! How can you expect me to be--”

     They can hear her sigh and swallow down the rest of the sentence as she collects herself, trying to keep her temper in check.      “I don’t like working with others and I certainly don’t want to abandon this case. I’ve never passed up a job, it’s not my style. But if I don't finish up by tonight, I don't have another option.”

     “I get that, but wouldn’t it be better if we just work together now and make sure that you’ll make your deadline?” Sam suggests, calmer than a moment ago, now that the woman on the other end of the line has done the same.      “Look, Zo,” Dean interrupts, adding his two cents. “I know you’re not particularly happy about teaming up - and hey, neither am I - but you’ll be able to cover more ground that way. You can’t expect us to leave town knowing you might have to face a dilemma. The sooner you close this case, the sooner we can go our separate ways.”      “I don’t know...”      Again a sigh while Zoë considers her next move. Sam allows the silence, granting her the time to think it through. The way he sees it, she doesn't have much of a choice. The Winchesters are the best option she’s got.      “Okay, fine,” she eventually gives in. “But this is still my case. I call the shots and might we stumble on trouble, we stick to the plan. I can’t settle for anything less.”      Dean has already opened his mouth to object, but Sam elbows him hard, shooting him a warning glare.      “Agreed,” the youngest quickly answers, ignoring the quiet muttering from his left.      “Dean?”

     The older Winchester brother grinds his teeth. Shit, he does not want to bow down to her, because he knows the second he does, she will without a doubt step up to become Evil Queen Bitch. He’s never going to live it down. One case, he tells himself. One fucking case and he will never have to deal with her again.      “Fine,” he utters, barely audible.      “One other thing. I need to leave town tonight, case finished or not. We have to try or take care of this today, okay?”      “We will,” Sam assures. “And if we run into trouble and can’t manage to wrap up, you don’t have to worry about this case. We’ll make sure to have it covered and that Laura will be put to rest.”      “So, do we meet up or what?”      “Yeah, sure.”      “Where are you at?”

     Before Sam answers he checks the name of the road they are on.      “W. Kings Highway, going west. We’re staying at the Ramada Inn,” Sam tells her.      “Shit motel.”      He scoffs a chuckle, glad the tension has lifted. “Tell me ‘bout it.”      “I'll see you at In-N-Out,” the huntress decides. “I want an Animal Burger.”      “Have you had that 4x4 burger?” Dean says, his mouth watering. “The amount of meat, hmm.”      “Are you kidding me? I grew up in California; In-N-Out is my jam!”      “Their food is fuckin’ amazing, ain’t it?” Dean agrees.      “Oh my God, yes! How they grill their cheese—”

     Stunned, Sam stares from the phone to Dean and back. Did the unthinkable just happen? Did Zoë and Dean actually agree on something? Remarkable, but truly, here is the one subject they can’t fight about; food.      “Zo?” he interrupts.      “Yeah?”      “See you at In-N-Out.” He chuckles and hangs up.

     The Ramada Inn shows up in front of them and Dean pulls up into the parking lot, turning off the ignition once he has found a spot close to the entrance. Before he gets out of the car, he registers Sam, who’s wearing a boyish grin on his face. His eyes sparkle through the curtain of his bangs, his pearl white teeth on display; it’s clear he’s very much amused.      “Hate to say I told you so,” Sam nags victoriously, and pushes the passenger door open.

     With a confused expression upon his face, Dean gets out of his car himself. He then glares at younger Winchester over the top of the Impala, the words sinking in. Fuck, he lost a bet; Zoë came around.      “No, you don’t,” he mutters, following his sibling inside. Looks like he’s going to have to live through the embarrassment of ordering and paying for salads the coming week. Oh well, at least he doesn’t have to eat them.

Thank you for reading. I appreciate every single one of you, but if you do want to give me some extra love, you are free to like or reblog my work, shoot me a message or buy me coffee (Link to Kofi in bio at the top of the page).   

Read part eight here

[sad-sweet-cowboah]

My Little Secret: The Beginning

Summary: When a young vampire comes across a dying outlaw on a mountain, she decides to take his fate in her hands.

Warnings: Brief summary of the end of the game, so spoilers?

The night was cool. Fog held heavy in the air, not a breeze to stir the underbrush. The sounds and scents of nature surrounded the being that swiftly moved through the forest like a panther. Hunger gripped her with iron claws, a thirst that could be quelled by only one substance.

Thunderous sounds of hoofbeats ripped through the quiet night air. Shouts, curses and gunshots were soon to follow. Fresh blood spilled and clouded her senses, pulling her toward the commotion. A burning need sat in her throat, flowing down to her stomach as the fist of hunger gripped her. Fangs, sharp as talons, spiked through and poked her lips. Humans arriving by the droves in pursuit of something, and she had to be cautious.

She kept to the trees, following the explosive sounds as they made their way up into the mountains. She was close enough to hear names: Arthur Morgan, John Marston. They were chasing those two. Through the fog she could make out a plethora of lawmen on horseback. The aroma of gunpowder hung heavy in the air as bullets sprayed mercilessly.

She veered off, knowing she’d be unable to lure one away. They were too focused on prey of their own. Interfering would only turn the attention to her. She made her way to a nearby mountain as the sounds faded.  Lean, powerful muscles leapt up the smooth rock, the steep surfaces just mere small hurdles. She reached the top within seconds, staring out at the landscape beneath her. Perhaps she’d catch wind of a lone passerby somewhere else.

The crowd of policemen were relentless in their pursuit it seems. A few short minutes passed by when the gunshots once again crew closer, catching her attention. She turned to see the two outlaws were now on foot, scrambling their way up the very same mountain.

Their voices, although distant, were not hindered to her enhanced ears. The breathless rasp of one urging the other to run, to leave him behind.

She crouched behind a boulder to peer on in curiosity. They were just yards below her. Their words carried like a breeze, final moments of a heartfelt goodbye rushed by the urgency of the situation. Names murmured to one another in sadness. Brothers. Emotions ran high, and she was curious as to why this chase even begun.

The one, John, left the other, Arthur, to fight the onslaught of lawmen alone. The odds were against him. She expected him to be mowed down, buying his friend only mere moments before they were on his tail again.

But he surprised her. He fought back with a barrage of bullets, effortlessly nailing many of them. He climbed up further, the gunshots becoming quiet as he killed off the rest of them. A seasoned gunslinger somehow escaping an inevitable fate. Her curiosity of him grew, wondering if he’d make it back to the other after a while.

That thought was cut short when another man appeared, creating a struggle between the two. This new opponent was dressed unlike the lawmen from earlier, spouting out anger and insults toward Arthur. The fight grew more intense by the second. The way the opponent spoke to Arthur as they battled out on the ledge below, sharp and venomous.

More blood was spilled. Her fangs dropped down immediately from the scent. She knew she should carry on and feed, yet the scene unfolding kept her interest. The sun would be rising soon, and while she could go another day without feeding, it wasn’t ideal.

More emotions bled out as the fight continued. Arthur, from what she could see, was beginning to falter. It didn’t take much longer for them both to fall onto the stone beneath them. Arthur began to crawl for a gun on the ground, while the opponent got to his feet and taunted him.

And then, a third stepped out of the shadows. She was unaware of his presence, appearing like a ghost in the night. Arthur seemed to be drawn to him. Dutch.

There was a raw plea in his voice. She knew that tone: the tone of someone who knew they were about to meet their end. He spoke about trying to become a better man, how he pushed for those around him to break free. The little heartstrings she had left were tugged for this man. He struggled to speak through his ragged breaths as he lay there. He was dying.

The other two still standing began to part their ways after a tumultuous conversation, leaving Arthur on his spot. In her sharp eyes she could see the defeat written on his bloodstained face.

A swell of emotion hit her, stirring her stilled heart. Try as she did to lock away her human emotions, she often would find herself sympathizing with them.

The near-black expanse overhead began to grow gray with dawn’s incoming. She would have to find shelter immediately. She began to scale back down the mountain, though his weak, raspy breaths continued to echo in her ears. She should leave him. Humans die every day.

Yet his last words kept ringing in her head. He just committed such selfless acts despite being so close to death. Most men she observed weren’t honest; falling to their selfish, dark wills and desires behind closed doors and returning to their normal livelihoods as if they hadn’t a sin on their shoulders. A man like him were as rare as they came. Losing such a good soul to the world would be a pity.

She drew closer to him, listening as both his pained breaths and weak heart had slowed drastically. She paused in place, her stomach churning. The dead would not heal. She knelt beside him, watching as his clouded, bloodshot blue eyes stared out into nothingness. Another pure soul lost to the true darkness of the world. As silly as it was to mourn the man known as Arthur Morgan, it only felt proper as he was truly alone.

The blood leaking from his fresh wounds was rancid, tinged with the poison of disease. It was nothing short of a miracle of how he managed to put up such a fight in those last moments, setting his affliction aside to assure one would make it.

Why must the world be so cruel?

The first weak rays of dawn appeared over the horizon, stinging her flesh with its arrival. Just then his head turned, his chest crackling with one final breath.

Her eyes widened. Perhaps he was meant to survive another way.

Before the sun could burn her any further, she picked his body up and cradled him with ease in her arms. She scurried over to the west side of the mountain, keeping herself to the shadows while she ran at a near breakneck speed. Her shelter was not too far away.

---

Darkness. Complete darkness surrounded him when he opened his eyes. A heavy weight as crushing his chest and he tried to breathe – only to inhale what felt and tasted like dirt. He tried to spit it out, though more and more fell in. He attempted to raise his hands to clear the earth away, though his limbs felt bogged down. Cold, loose soil shifted across his skin in his efforts to be free.

Has he been buried?

Panic began to settle in. Buried alive?

His first instinct was to dig, and dig up. He forced his arms through the moist dirt, clawing forward and forcing himself upright. He pursed his lips and muscled his way through. He had to get out. The further he reached, the lighter the dirt became. His fingertips reached open air and he hastened, hands breaking the surface. The darkness above spilled out to glowing silver. He found purchase on even ground and heaved himself upward, loose dirt falling in front of his eyes as he gulped in cool, fresh air.

The remaining sediment fell from his hair into his face, he spluttered and shook it away, blinking as the scene around him came to focus. He seemed to be in a barn, the smell of old hay filling his nose. The bright moon filtered through a window from the hayloft.

He stood to his feet slowly, confusion beginning to settle in. Where was he, and why was he buried in a barn of all places?

“You’re awake.” A feminine voice spoke from behind him.

He whipped around just as a lantern illuminated, bathing the barn walls in a golden glow. A young woman sat on a crate, a curtain of raven hair shrouded half of her face. Her skin was dark and bright brown eyes reflected the flame. She tucked her hair behind her ear, revealing her face in full. Her round cheeks and curious gaze reminded him of a child. She herself was petite, dressed in a simple skirt and chemise.

“I thought I was too late.” She continued, standing to her feet.

“Too late for what?” Arthur asked. “Who are you, and where am I?”

“You’re in an abandoned homestead in Ambarino,” she explained, stepping closer to him. “My name is Lucia Rosales. And you’re Arthur Morgan I presume.”

Arthur nodded, his confusion only growing. “Why am I here?”

Lucia walked around him slowly, eyeing him up and down as she went. Arthur froze in place, anxiety beginning to pool in the pit of his stomach. His finger twitched toward his gun belt, only to find it was no longer there.

She came to a stop in front of him. She was at least a head shorter than him, her eyes meeting his. “I brought you here, Arthur. I saw you dying on that mountain last night.”

Dying. The memories suddenly flooded back to the forefront of his mind. Gunshots, running, panic and sadness. Bloodshed. Hatred. The struggle to bring that rat bastard down. The betrayal of the one that helped raise him. The ache in his chest finally spreading through the rest of his body, coaxing him to sleep…

Everything at once. So intense it gripped his insides and twisted them. He grabbed hold of a nearby support beam, squeezing his eyes shut, the images flashing vividly behind his eyelids.

He took a deep breath – wait. A deep, clear breath. He wasn’t struggling to breathe. His body didn’t force him to try to cough. No longer did his chest feel heavy with disease. No longer did his body feel fatigued with the tendrils weighing down his muscles.

He turned his attention to Lucia. “Did…did you heal me?” he murmured.

“I did more than that,” she answered with a small smile. “I gave you a second chance.”

“Huh?”

“You know there aren’t many men like you in the world,” Lucia began. “Most I’ve seen are wretched scoundrels. They think they can get away with playing dirty and pretending to be innocent in the eyes of God…” she shook her head, disgust plain on her face. “But you… you’re different. You sacrificed yourself to save another. You fought even when your life was at an end. You spoke about doing good deeds. You tried to become a better person.”

Arthur listened quietly, the bewilderment beginning to surface again. “How could you possibly know any o’ that?”

“Like I said, I saw you dying on that mountain. I heard every word spoken…” Lucia stepped closer, placing her small hand on his chest. He flinched slightly from her touch but hadn’t moved. “The sadness I felt for you was like no other. I thought you deserved more than what cards you were dealt.”

He shook his head in disbelief. “How were you even there? That whole place was full o’ Pinkertons n’ –” he huffed and stepped back, beginning to pace. “This jus’ sounds too bizarre.”

Lucia dipped her head for a moment. “I know it does. But I saved you from death, Arthur.”

“And how exactly did you manage that?” Arthur stopped in his tracks to stare at her. “I had Tuberculosis! That ain’t somethin’ that can heal overnight, Lucia. It’s a goddamn death sentence unless you’re some miracle worker or –”

“Vampire.” She softly interrupted.

“What?”

“I’m a vampire,” she continued. “And now so are you, Arthur Morgan. I gave you my blood and buried us here to begin your transformation, out of the sun. Niños de la noche. We are Children of the Night.”

Vampire. Arthur stared at Lucia, words stolen from his mind. She had to be speaking utter nonsense. Vampires did not exist outside of scary bedtime stories. “I don’t believe you.” He grumbled, scowling at her.

She hissed and her mouth opened immediately, showing a top row of perfectly white teeth. In the blink of an eye two fangs flicked out, as long as wolf teeth and as sharp as eagle’s talons. Arthur jumped and took a step back, his hand raising in defense.

“Now do you believe me?” Lucia said quietly, prompting Arthur to peer at her over his hand. Her fangs somehow disappeared. “We’re much more than urban legends.”

Arthur just stared at her, unable to comprehend what he just witnessed. It’d been so quick that he could have imagined it. He shook his head and turned away. “No…I don’t believe it.”

“Believe what you want, Arthur…” Lucia said, approaching him slowly and raising her hand up to him. “It’s true…feel for a pulse.” She held her wrist out.

Arthur didn’t dare to meet her gaze again, instead looking down at her hand. In the pale moonlight, her dark skin seemed almost devoid of all color. Her veins were prominent, shining blue underneath. Hesitantly he reached out, placing his fingers on her wrist. He waited and…felt nothing.

His eyes widened, slowly lifting his gaze to her face again. She had a solemn expression, staring at him unblinkingly. She stepped forward again, gingerly grazing her hand along the open fabric of his shirt. She rested her palm against his heart.

“You don’t have one either.”

Arthur swallowed hard, his own hand hovering over hers. She moved out of the way as he lay it against his skin. He held his breath and waited…waited…no rhythmic beat to be found. His stomach flipped.

“See?”

He stepped back again, horror ripping through his entire being. “I’m dead!” he exclaimed.

“Undead,” Lucia corrected. “While your human organs ceased to work, another force drives you now.”

He released shaky breaths. How was this happening, and why? Why was he subjected to this? Why couldn’t he have just died on that mountain and be done with it?! “I didn’t ask for this, damnit!” he roared. “Why didn’t ya just leave me?!”

Lucia didn’t react at all to his outburst. She kept her cool expression. “Because you deserve a second chance.” She said. “I wanted to heal you at first…but you were too far gone. Believe me, it wasn’t a decision to be made lightly. Being a Maker is – ”

“A maker?” Arthur interjected. “The hell is that?”

“When a vampire turns someone into another vampire, the original vampire is known as their Maker. It’s a bond like no other. Parent to child, sibling to sibling, even lovers.” She replied, dipping her voice as if speaking intimately. “It is a bond that no human could even understand.”

Arthur stared at her in disgust. “I don’t wanna bond with you, ‘specially since I don’t even know you.”

Lucia nodded once, staring down at her feet. “I…don’t blame you, Arthur. I’m sorry. I just thought someone like you should stay in the world to counter the bad in it.”

Arthur scowled. “My ‘good deeds’ came at a price,” he growled, kicking at a rock on the ground. “I was an outlaw, Lucia. Hell, I still am. I’ve murdered n’ robbed folk for years. The gang I was in, they were my family, they fell to pieces before my eyes…” he sat down on a crate and held his face in his hands for a moment. “I don’t deserve to go on after all the shit I’ve done. Sure, I’ve helped people now n’ then but…it don’t atone to everything else…” he mumbled.

“Your past isn’t what defines you,” Lucia quietly responded. She moved closer to him, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Now you have an eternity to do better.”

“An eternity.” Arthur repeated with a grumble. “Livin’ for that long… I don’t think I can take it.”

“The years will pass without thought. You don’t age nor get sick.” Lucia murmured, pausing when he sighed. “You don’t need to breathe either. That habit will fade over time.”

Arthur shook his head silently. “I didn’t ask for this, Lucia. I was ready to meet my fate. I’d done all I could do…” he voice cracked with emotion. “I weren’t meant to survive.”

“No one knows what their true fate is, Arthur,” Lucia gently chided him. “Not even you. Perhaps I was meant to come across you.”

He scoffed in disbelief. “To turn me into a…a monster…” he grumbled.

“It will take some time for you to come to terms with your new life. It took me a long while…” Lucia sighed and gazed upward toward the ceiling, but her eyes told a much deeper story. “I hated knowing what I was, knowing that I could no longer feel the sun on my skin, enjoy my favorite meals, have a family of my own to grow old with…”

Arthur blinked at her words. He noted the look of longing on her face. Her eyes glazed in the lamplight as if she were about to cry. She sniffed and looked right at him again.

“Until I realized what gifts I have, now I pass onto you. I chose to bring you back because I believe you have so much more to give to the world. It’s up to you whether or not you go through with it.” She finished.

Arthur pursed his lips, unsure how to even consider a response to her. He thought back to those last few moments. The rush to get John to safety while the Pinkertons breathed down their necks. The fight against Micah and those moments of betrayal with Dutch. He didn’t know if God existed, but he truly believed it was his fate to die. Everything had fallen apart, and the list of people he trusted had shrunken by the day. Too many innocent lives lost whether it was by his hand or in front of him. His way of life dissolved. The time of outlaws finally ceased to exist.

He went to take a deep breath, and paused. Breathing was no longer a necessity, but a mere habit. He truly was no longer human.

What was his purpose now?

His stomach churned with hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. He grimaced from the discomfort, his hand immediately going to his abdomen.

“You’re hungry,” Lucia stated. She straightened up and padded over to the barn doors. She pushed them open, gazing outside. “Come, you’ll need to feed.”

Feed. The word echoed so strangely in his mind. He knew what she meant, and the idea revolted him. At an instant, he felt the pricks of two teeth on his bottom lip. It surprised him, and he ran his tongue along their surfaces. Razor sharp and long, the fangs of a predator.

[zombieplaguedoc]

Intervention Of The Undead Kind

(An alternative ending to a post I saw. Contains self-ship. Enjoy)

Kaede sat in her small apartment, watching the news. The remnants of despair, her former friends, had launched another attack, this one on a concert hall; 100 people had perished. It sent a chill down her spine. She knew it was a warning to her.

Ever since her former friends had been brainwashed by Junko Enoshima, they had been after her for managing to break free. 

Well, not all of them were brainwashed.

Ryoma Hoshi, the Ultimate Tennis Pro, had disappeared not too long after the brainwashing, never to be seen again. Most speculated that he had been killed. If that was true, Kaede knew who may have been responsible.

In the months leading up to the brainwashing, a mysterious group, known only as Team Z, had been rising up out of the shadows and killing some of the remnants-Chisa Yukizome, the former Ultimate Housekeeper, was the first to go. She had been discovered in City Hall in Tokyo, hanging from the chandelier by her arms, bullet holes littering her body, her head cut open and her brain stolen, her top ripped open to reveal a ‘Z’ carved into her chest. That was the first known “sighting” of them, and ever since then, remnants have been disappearing left and right. Some of them were killed in the same gory fashion as Chisa, others were speculated to had been either coerced or brainwashed into joining them; they had even convinced the survivors of the first killing game to join them. 

Although they never fully showed themselves, Kaede knew that they were bigger, and more powerful, than Junko and the remaining remnants had previously imagined; they had underestimated the group, and now they were paying the price. Just before Ryoma’s disappearance, K1-b0, the former Ultimate Robot, had blown up one of the Remnant’s headquarters with himself still inside. Although his remains were never found, Kaede knew that he did it because he was afraid. Team Z, whoever they were, had cornered him, and death was his only way out. And now they had their sights set on the remaining remnants.

Maybe that’s why their attacks were so violent. Kaede had yet to meet the Seattle Washington-based group, let alone join them, and the pressure on her former friends to get to her before Team Z did was mounting; with so many of their members gone, it was up to them to find her and destroy all hope before it was too late. The remnants were tearing apart Japan to find her before these rebels did, and they wanted her to know it.

One of the many mysteries about Team Z, besides how long they had been around, was their attacks. Each one left a remnant missing their brain and with teeth marks on their heads. Some speculated it was a strange way of taunting Junko and her organization. Others speculated they were actually modernized supernatural creatures who feasted on the brains of their victims while still knowing how to use a gun.

If the latter was true, then Junko and her remnants were in for a world of shit. 

Regardless, Kaede knew that if the Remnants found her before Team Z did, they would most likely torture her and kill her.

Well, except for one.....Shuichi Saihara. The former Ultimate Detective. He always had a crush on Kaede, but she never reciprocated those feelings; she had her eye set on someone who disappeared just before her friends were brainwashed. He felt bad about it, maybe even a little jealous, and him becoming infected with despair made it worse;his desires for her became twisted. When she first escaped, he had cornered her, but said he wasn’t going to kill her, and for a brief moment she was hopeful that he wasn't hypnotized like the others. Until he pulled a knife on her and said he was going to keep her all to himself-his own personal little songbird. He even tried to convince her that it would be a better fate, saying how he would protect her from Junko and Team Z, and how if Team Z found her, they would just used her as a sex toy for the soldiers. 

She had managed to escape and remained vigilant that day. She wasn't sure if what he said about Team Z was true, but seeing how much of a thorn in the side they were for Junko, it.’s likely that he lied in an attempt to get her to join him. Either way, she never let her guard down. Eventually, she never heard from either sides, and she wondered if the Remnants had given up on her (she knew perfectly well that the same could not be said for Team Z and they were just waiting, planning their next attack. They did this often). This attack in the music hall, said otherwise.

She sat, her palms sweating and her heart pounding, wondering what would happen if she was ever caught by the Remnants, or if what Shuichi said about Team Z ended up being true and she was caught by them.

What would be the worse fate? Being tortured until her death by the Remnants? Being trapped for the rest of her life by Shuichi? Being viewed and used as nothing more than a stress-relief object by a group of rebels?  If she was lucky, she would never have to find out.

But fate had different plans that day.

A new article was on the news.

Junko Enoshima had been assasinated.

With her brain taken from its skull and the letter ‘Z’ carved into her chest. 

Team Z had taken the ringmaster out.

She couldn’t believe it. Junko was actually dead.

What would happen now? Would the remnants give up? Would they keep going? Her thoughts were interrupted by someone saying her name.

“Kaeeeeeede...........Kaeeeeede.” The pianist’s skin went pale as she rushed to the window, only to see the Remnants marching down the street, chanting her name- and they were getting closer.

Quickly, she had gathered up what little she had before rushing out of her apartment. She didn't get far, though, as a pair of arms wrapped around her; one covering her mouth and the other with a firm grip on her waist. She struggled to break free, until a voice whispered in her ear.

“Don't worry, I won’t let them hurt you. Unless you want me to hand you over. I’ve heard they want to do all sorts of horrible things to you-cut off your fingers, rip out your vocal chords-you don't want that, do you? Stop fighting and I’ll make sure you stay safe, with me.”

Her body went limp as she made her decision.

But the silence was interrupted by gunfire outside the building that got both her and Shuichi’s attention.

“What the hell?” Then, the sound of screeching on pavement, followed by what sounded like branches breaking and screaming-Kaede could recognize Gonta Gokuhara’s pained screams above the screeching before he was cut off by more branches breaking. Shuichi let go of her and rushed to the nearest window and she followed suit, wanting to know what was happening.

Out on the street, the bodies of the Remnants lay in a large puddle of blood, their limbs twisted in grotesque ways, some with their heads crushed and their spines sticking out of their backs, and tread marks all over their clothes, as if they had been run over or crushed, while some lay with bullet holes in their back like they were shot at from behind. On the left, four feet in front of them, a large navy blue tank turned and screeched to a stop, bloody tread marks leading from the body pile to where the tank had stopped, and it didn't take the two long to figure out what had happened.

Kaede was shocked, the tank had actually managed to mow down half of the remnants. The other half, which mostly consisted of the ones standing near the front, however, jumped out of the way just in time and landed face down on the pavement. They got to their feet, and when they did, the tank’s main gun aimed at them and fired. A loud boom sounded off as the shell left the barrel, and the tank jerked back a bit, and three of the standing remnants fell to the ground as their chests seemed to explode from the hit. The main barrel fired one....two....three.......four more shots while an MG at the top fired as the tank reloaded. After seventeen of the remaining half of the remnants had dropped  dead, the leader, whom Kaede recognized as Rantaro Amami, raised his hand and yelled “Retreat!” Not wasting any time, the Remnants turned on their heels and took off in the other direction, leaving their fallen comrades behind while the tank still fired at them, breaking several windows in the process.

Once they were out of shot, the commander at the top stood up and slowly climbed off the vehicle while another person, this one shorter, climbed out through the hatch and stood at the top where the commander had stood. Neither Kaede nor Shuichi recognized the navy blue uniforms they bore, as more soldiers came out of the sides, wearing the same navy blue uniforms and carrying military-grade machine guns, but the biggest surprise when the soldiers manning the tank took off their helmets to reveal K1-b0 and Ryoma Hoshi.

Both Shuichi and Kaede’s jaws dropped at the sight. How can it be?! They were supposed to be dead! Kibo had blown himself up and Ryoma was still considered missing! Kaede noticed Kibo and Ryoma’s eyes were no longer red, instead reverting back to their normal blue and gray before the brainwashing.

Ryoma looked at the soldiers below him, raised his fist, and yelled “Team Z!” And the soldiers did the same, even Kibo.

It was Team Z! Well, some of them. But how were Kibo and Ryoma working for them, and why?

Shuichi frowned and gritted his teeth as the soldiers continued to cheer. “What. No!” He looked at Kaede, who was still staring in awe at the scene before her, before grabbing her hair, causing her to cry out, and pulling her away from the window. 

“You’re still mine!” He growled. “I don't think so!” Came another voice, then a gunshot, and Shuichi was jerked backwards as blood spattered out of his shoulder; the former detective fell to the ground, taking Kaede with him. Kaede looked up to see who had shot him and saw a man and a woman, both in the same uniforms as the soldiers outside (though the female was wearing shorts instead of pants, and both carrying machine guns. 

The man was dark-skinned with brown eyes, black hair and a beard, and she didn't recognize him, but she recognized the woman.

It was Ali Jones, former Ultimate Metalhead and the person she had a crush on before she and her brother, Allen, went missing. Seeing the person she once loved still alive, Kaede couldn't help but smile, which Shuichi noticed as he was “recovering”. He looked up at the former musician and the shock in his red eyes soon turned to anger as he glared at her. “Wha-! You?! What’d you doing here?! You’re supposed to be-” He was cut off when Ali shot him again, this time in the head. It was then that Kaede noticed something about the duo. Their skin was paler, blood vessels could clearly be seen on their faces, and their eyes were red. Not the irises, but the white areas were red, almost bloodshot. They weren’t human and Kaede couldn't help but feel scared.

“-Dead? Yeah, well, life’s just full of surprises.” Ali finished and walked over to the detective’s body. As Kaede watched, her former friend unloaded her gun, raised the butt end up, the, brought it down hard on Shuichi’s head, cracking his skull open. She struck again and Kaede turned her head, not wanting to watch. The man picked her up off the ground and put her back on her feet and she noticed that his eyes and face were back to normal. “Kaede Akamatsu, I’m assuming?” He asked. Despite his South Asian appearance, he had an English accent. She just nodded, and was about to ask his name when he answered for her, seeming to have read her mind.

“Dr. Ravi Chakrabarti. Former Medical Examiner and Medic for Team Z. I imagine you must've been through a lot before we came here.” Again, Kaede just nodded, still too shocked from the recent events. Finally, Ali stood up and walked over, holding a small plastic container that held Shuichi’s brain. “I imagine you have a lot of questions about what just happened and about Team Z.” She said calmly, her face covered in blood spatters. “Sorry we took so long to reach you Kaede, we had some important business to attend to, as you may have seen on the news.” Kaede nodded and mumbled ‘Yes.’ She slowly looked behind her at Shuichi, his head busted open and a ‘Z’ carved until his chest, before turning back to her rescuers.

“H-How are you still alive? Wh-What are you?” She stammered. Ali put her hand on her shoulder, squeezing it. Kaede could see slight concern in her usually-stoic eyes. “It’s a long story Kaede, we’ll explain everything on the way. In the meantime, you should come with us. Chase has been watching you for a long time now, and he believes you’ll make a valuable asset to the team.” Kaede felt nervous, remembering what Shuichi said, and Ravi sensed that. “It’s alright Kaede, no one’s going to hurt you. Ali won’t let anyone hurt you.” He said. The look in Ali’s eyes reassured her too. She nodded and followed the two out of the building.

[moonbeambucky]

Helpless

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader Word Count: 5298 Warnings: fluff

Summary: Bucky doesn’t realize that the more he tries to be helpful the more he makes his girl feel helpless.

A/N: This is my submission for @kentuckybarnes Hannah’s 3k Writing Challenge. My prompt was Character A is told to stay in the car while Character B confronts a villain. Things go downhill. Character A drives the car into the villain. But didn’t leave the car. Thank you as always to my Sam 💕@buckyofthemyscira for beta reading! gif not mine

The story of Bucky Barnes is filled with immense sadness weaving its ways throughout the pages of his life. From Howling Commando to Hydra assassin, his mind was scrubbed clean of what made him; his memories, his morals. Bucky was forced to commit unspeakable acts, ones that keep him up at night trembling with guilt. He was given a new life while being robbed of his old one but now that he’s finally free of the tentacled grasp Hydra held him in, Bucky is working on becoming himself again, and for all the harm he’s done to the world he wants to give back and help.

The desire to help others took root within him at a young age. He learned from his father George, who was always quick to assist the neighbors on their friendly Brooklyn block, and Bucky experienced firsthand how good it felt to help others.

When Mrs. Davis from down the block couldn’t leave the house much anymore Bucky took it upon himself to fetch her groceries or mow the lawn. He never asked for anything in return for his service but she insisted, paying him a little something so he could treat himself to an ice cream. Instead, Bucky used the money to make sure the alley cats had a fresh dish of milk and cans of tuna each day. If helping was the lottery then Bucky hit the jackpot when he befriended Steve Rogers.

Steve became more like a brother and Bucky had his hands full looking after him. You see, Steve was just like Bucky when it came to helping others except the little punk didn’t know his limits. He picked his battles, every single one, no matter who was on the other end. Bucky would have to step in every time and throw a punch or take one; better him than Steve who would crumble at the slightest breeze.

Bucky couldn’t fight all of Steve’s battles though, but he was always there to help Steve get well from his latest bout with any and every germ that came his way. His poor friend was a scrawny thing, with an immune system more fragile than a butterfly’s wings. Bucky ran all over Brooklyn to pick up Steve’s prescriptions and even learned to make his mother’s homemade chicken soup recipe, anticipating he might be spending the rest of his life making it for Steve.

Helping was always in Bucky’s nature but when the war broke out he questioned his morals. Part of him wanted to sign up, his country needed help and he was ready to fight, but with his father no longer around it didn’t feel right to leave his ma and sisters. In the end Bucky decided to stick around, continue to help his family and Steve until he was drafted.

The fate of the world was safe, for today at least, and while Bucky had helped secure it from the threat of other worldly invaders once more he wanted to use his free time to help on a smaller level.

This is how he found himself at a local Habitat for Humanity worksite near the compound. There were a few dozen people crowding around the open space, with bright smiles and excited chatter filling the air until a skeletal man with a bullhorn calls everyone’s attention. Bucky keeps his distance in the back. Just because he wanted to help doesn’t mean he’s fully ready to integrate himself into society again.

Bucky prefers anonymity and after years of covert operations and life on the run he wears his best disguise to hide in plain sight, a baseball cap that casts a shadow over his features. His long dark hair is tied in a low bun at the base of neck and recognizable metal hand is covered by a construction glove.

He isn’t fully anonymous though, a sticker on his chest states his name but going by James provides him enough distance from his true identity. Bucky doesn’t want any publicity, even if it would counteract the daily editorials that criticize his morals. It’s another struggle he carries, learning to ignore the faceless voices that speak out against him. He’ll never please everyone but by helping, no matter what the cause, he knows he’s doing something good.

Bucky’s squinting from the sunlight, already strong despite the early morning. He pulls his cap lower to block the shine from his eyes while listening to the man with the bullhorn enthusiastically pump up the crowd. He introduces himself as Scully, a nickname Bucky supposes as his sticker says Ed. Could be a last name too though. Sometimes Bucky doesn’t mind being called Barnes. It reminds him of his time in the army, where he was fighting with one goal in mind, to help.

He shrugs off his memories, not wanting to think about what happened after the army. He regrets wearing a sweatshirt today as he’s already growing warm but unfortunately it’s the best way to hide that arm of his.

The group breaks with a round of applause and cheers as it’s time to commence work. The foundation for the house was already laid for them so everyone begins working on the assembling the framing. Bucky quickly swaps his baseball cap for a hard hat and walks to the truck with a few others ready to unload the lumber.

A burly man walks up the steel ramp on the back of the truck. His boots clank on the metal that shakes to support his large frame as he unlatches the door, allowing the foresty scent of fresh cut spruce to penetrate the crisp morning air.

Groups of two travel in and out of the truck carrying long beams and planks. Bucky grabs more than double, giving a simple nod to the burly man Frank, a silent nod that he’s more than capable of handling that amount on his own. Bucky could actually carry more, a lot more, but his one man show is already drawing enough attention, he decides he doesn’t need any more.

He follows the direction of another man who’s shorter than Frank but just as round, with a thick salt and pepper beard. Bucky drops off the planks at different workstations where others are reviewing the specs for measurements.

The air filled with a mix of sound as people begin to work; the dull thudding of nails being hammered down, power tools buzzing away. It brings him back to childhood when he and Steve took the train into Manhattan to watch as construction crews began erecting the Chrysler Building. The idea of having the tallest building in the world in their backyard fascinated the young boys who never imagined the sites they would grow to see.

He’s pulled from his memory by the shrill buzzing of an electric saw. It pierces his ear oddly as Bucky can hear the faintest wobble coming from a blade. He shuts his eyes to concentrate, waiting for the sound again until he’s certain of where it’s coming from.

A woman is focused on her work, gripping the handle of the miter saw and guiding it down to slice through the wood on the table. Bucky’s lips twitch to a smile as he watches her using the machine without hesitation.

The wobbly sound has increased in the span of the few seconds he spent ogling her and before the woman begins again Bucky calls out to stop her.

“There’s somethin’ wrong with the blade,” he declared after he caught her attention, walking closer towards her.

Between the glare of the sun and the protective goggles covering her eyes Bucky can’t read her expression. He worries she might be insulted, if in some way she interprets his concern as a question on her capability.

Bucky panicked, “I-It’s not you, I promise.” He flashed a nervous smile. “I… it’s just that I heard it in the blade, it sounded…”

“...Off,” she finished his sentence. “You’re right, I even felt it in that last cut.”

She removed her safety goggles and used her forearm to dab at the beads of sweat that collected on her forehead. Chewing on her bottom lip she stared bewilderedly at the faulty machine.

Bucky was staring as well, entranced by the woman before him. Now that he had a clearer look at her features his heart began doing flips in his chest. Her eyes were beautiful, sparkling and full of life.

The hard hat and baggy t-shirt added to her true beauty, the goodness of her soul that was eager to get back to work, to helping just as he wanted to. She scanned the machine for an obvious cause of the problem, wondering out loud what it could be.

Bucky found the nerve to speak up. “The bolt on the blade probably came loose. I can help if you want...” He smiled timidly as his eyes traveled to the name tag on her shirt, “…Y/N.”

The moment her name fell from his lips Bucky felt as if he was always meant to say it. Like pollen floating in the air her name was carried to his heart making it bloom with attraction.

She accepted his help with an enthusiastic smile spread widely across her face and Bucky was blinded once more but not by the sun. The light that radiated from Y/N’s gorgeous face was stronger and more beautiful than any star in the galaxy.

With a spring in his step he went to find some tools to help, anxious to get back to Y/N. By the time he returned she unplugged the machine and put her palm out, waiting for him to hand over the tools. Bucky was surprised, not expecting she only needed his help to fetch the tools.

“I’m not helpless you know,” Y/N playfully teased, smirking as she pulled back the blade guard and began to lock the saw into place.

Bucky smiled watching her work, unable to contain his smile and the bubbling feelings within of the woman who was as capable as she was beautiful.

Y/N let out a frustrated groan as she tried to remove the bolt that secured the blade. She twisted the wrench but it wouldn’t budge. Bucky was certainly strong enough to force the movement but he didn’t want to intrude, not unless she asked.

He didn’t have time to wait for Y/N’s permission as she used all her might to twist the wrench, forcing the bolt to fly off. The shaky movement caused the askew blade to come off its mount and nearly onto Y/N’s hands if Bucky hadn’t lurched forward and stopped it. The blade sat in the palm of his gloved hand, the metal underneath unharmed by the sharp object.

“Are you alright?” he asked as a visibly shaken Y/N took deep breaths.

“Yeah, ‘m good. I shouldn’t have forced it,” she huffed in disbelief, thinking about what could have happened.

Bucky placed the blade back and tightened the bolt properly, ensuring it wouldn’t wobble anymore. “It should be good now.” Bucky offered a proud smile, knowing he was able to help her.

Y/N returned the smile as she replaced the other screws so she could begin working again. “Thanks Bucky.”

The curve of his lips dropped down with confusion His name tag said James. He is supposed to be James. Incognito. He had a foolproof baseball cap. His eyes stirred with panic but the sound of her voice stilled his mind.

“Were you hiding or something?” Her tone was playful and the smile she gave him helped settle his nerves even more. Bucky was wrong to think he could go unnoticed, then again she was the only one to speak up.

“In a way,” he responded, “I wanna help, don’t want no fanfare about it.”

Y/N knew what the press reported on James “Bucky” Barnes but in all the articles she’s read none of them ever detailed the softness in his eyes. Seventy years of torture were held back behind a delicate wall of swirling blue emotion and yet he’s standing in front of her, stronger than she could ever imagine had she faced what he had gone through.

“Your secret is safe with me,” she winked.

A giggle fell past her lips and Bucky felt his knees buckle at the sound. From the moment it left her lips and floated to his ears the decision cemented itself within his heart, he would do anything to hear her laughter again.

Bucky continued the heavy lifting all day but the greatest strength he displayed was when he asked Y/N out for coffee and surprisingly she said yes.

They met up on Saturday afternoon after spending a few days together at the worksite. Y/N groaned as her stiff muscles carried her to the front of the coffee shop. Bucky stood outside looking incredibly handsome in a light denim jacket with a blue shirt that was sure to bring out the color of his eyes. His hair was loose with rich brown strands falling into his face as he pulled his phone out from his pocket and checked it.  

She stopped to watch him, with a smile growing on her face at how nervous Bucky looked. She felt the same way, with the butterflies in her stomach adding to the aches and pains of her sore body.

Y/N was just as surprised when Bucky asked her to meet. She never imagined the day she would run into an actual Avenger let alone exchange numbers with them. With a deep breath she began walking towards him, trying to contain her nerves.

Bucky’s eyes lit up when he saw her. She strolled towards him in an oversized sweater and leggings that clung to her frame. Her hair was freed from the hard hat he was accustomed to seeing her in. He already thought she was beautiful in the sawdust covered clothes she wore and now his heart began to race at the sight of her.

Neither knew what greeting was appropriate as they said hello which led to an awkward should they, should they not kiss on the cheek or hug. She giggled again and Bucky sighed with content.

As Bucky held the door open for Y/N he heard a faint groan as she stepped up into the shop and proceeded to ask if she was alright.

She smiled at his question, “Yes, thank you. Just a little achy.”

Bucky smiled remembering the work she put in at the site, never shying away from any project. Y/N even tried to help lift the support beam that outweighed her many times over. Her disappointed pout was adorable, even if realistically it was a job meant for a crew made up of the strongest people. Bucky winked at her bringing the smile back to her face as they shared an unspoken truth, Bucky could have easily lifted the beam alone.

Hard labor was nothing for Bucky, in fact, he much preferred it over Steve’s intense training drills. He didn’t technically have a problem with those either but he’d rather go back into cyro than hear Sam’s whining every day.

Y/N would have more of a reason to whine over Sam who should be used to physical demands that come with being an Avenger by now, but even she isn’t. He can read the pain on her face, the tight smile and stiff inhales as she reads over the menu. After all the hard work she did she deserves to rest.

Bucky pulled out a chair for her from the nearest table. “Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll grab our orders,” he offered, feeling happy to help her.

They sat for hours getting to know each other, sharing a variety of sweet pastries. Bucky walked Y/N home and when it was time to say goodbye, something neither were keen on, they once again found themselves unsure of what they should do.

The caffeine searing through their veins combined with the growing affection they felt made both Bucky and Y/N extremely nervous. He was a blushing mess and she chewed on her lip, admiring his features by the golden glow of the setting sun.

Y/N took initiative, leaning forward with the intention of kissing him on the cheek. Bucky acted as well, excitedly lifting his arms up so he could wrap them around her for a hug. Unfortunately they did this at the same time and Bucky’s metal hand accidentally smacked Y/N’s cheek.

His heart stopped in that moment as Y/N held her hand firmly to her cheek. Bucky wanted to run away, to mutter an apology before he goes back into hiding, never to leave again. Negative thoughts swirl around his mind like a tornado making him question why he thought he would ever be good enough for her, telling him the world doesn’t want his help, that he only brings destruction and pain with every step he takes.

Suddenly the thoughts stop, swept away by the most beautiful sound in the world, Y/N’s giggles.

“Ouch,” she chuckled, rubbing the sting from her cheek while smiling at him.

The tension in Bucky’s shoulders released, allowing him to exhale. Still he apologized profusely but Y/N’s finger on his lips told him to stop.

“I know how you can make it up to me,” she purred, flashing a coy smile as her eyes traveled to his lips and back up again.

The lust in her eyes was evident and for once Bucky’s head and his heart were on the same page. He leaned in slowly as his tongue swept across his lips to wet them. The gap between them closed and Y/N felt his breath fanning against her skin.

Her nerves tingled with anticipation and the moment their lips met it felt like each one had turned into a firework, exploding with happiness. Y/N pulled apart first when she needed air though Bucky would have gladly given her every breath his lungs have yet to take.

“That’s better,” she sighed a heaving breath as she rested her forehead against his.

Bucky licked his lips again, tasting the sweetness of dessert lingering on her tongue though he was certain she tasted sweeter. His eyes crinkled as a smile stretched across his face and he whispered to her, “Happy to help.”

That day was the beginning of their relationship and Bucky couldn’t believe how lucky he was. He never imagined he would be romancing someone again and now that Y/N was with him he went above and beyond to make sure she knew just how much he loved and appreciated her.

Bucky would always be sure to hold doors open for Y/N, or pull out the chair for her to sit. Sometimes he would even help her assist her with putting on or taking off her coat; he couldn’t help it, hearing the voice of his father in his head, lessons he was taught from a young age about proper etiquette with women.

Y/N never had anyone treat her as kindly as Bucky did, always going out of his way to ensure she was properly taken care of. Sure, some of his sweet gestures may have been a little old fashioned but she understood Bucky was brought up in a different time. Besides, it was better than being treated poorly so for a while she let him woo her the way he thought was best.

After a few months of dating Bucky’s kindness started to become a little cumbersome. He would go out of his way to “help” Y/N even though she didn’t need it, like all the times he stopped her from putting on a necklace, insisting that he had to be the one to fasten the clasp even though she was more than capable of doing it herself. Or the many times when she would be washing the dishes and Bucky nearly pushed her out of the way so he could be the one to do them claiming he didn’t want her hands to prune.

Each time Bucky took over doing something for Y/N her frustration grew but she bit her tongue. She knew how fragile Bucky’s self-esteem was and she really didn’t want to hurt him. Bucky felt so good about himself when he did things for her, it was written all over his face so she stayed quiet and let it fester, ignoring the problem like a rumbling volcano.

It was a rough day. The moment Y/N got to work there were problems starting with the first phone all. A client spent twenty minutes screaming at her and while she tried several times to get a word in he wouldn’t let her. Instead she had to wait for his rant to finish before she could give him a simple solution that would have lowered both their blood pressure within a few minutes.

She was on edge from the call and because of that she knocked over her mug of coffee, spilling all of important documents, some of which now required new signatures from other clients who weren’t happy about having to come in again. By the end of the day Y/N was near tears when her boss called her in to talk, reprimanding her for indiscretions during the day.

Bucky was in her apartment waiting for Y/N to come home from work. He couldn’t wait to spend the night with her cuddling together and watching movies knowing in the morning he would be leaving for a mission, the first one he’s been on since they started dating.

The door burst open and Y/N stomped harshly on the wood floors, kicking one heel off wildly and groaning in frustration as she had to bend down and pull the other one off, throwing it hastily against the wall.

Bucky heard the commotion from the other room and when he walked to the living room he saw Y/N kneeling on the floor crying. The shoe had dented the wall, breaking the plaster. Bucky knelt down beside her and Y/N threw herself into his chest, crying even harder when she felt his arms wrap around her frame.

“It’s okay…” he whispered in her ear, placing a kiss to her crown. “Don’t worry about the wall. I’ll fix it.”

His words dried her tears but not because of his offer to help. The broken wall symbolized more than what it actually was. This minor inconvenience was the breaking of the own wall she had built up behind months of anger and resentment towards Bucky.

With a shaky breath Y/N pushed herself away from Bucky and stood up. She gripped the edge of the table to hold onto something as she unleashed everything that was buried inside of her.

“I don’t want your help! I’m so tired of it, Bucky! It’s not about the wall, I can fix it my damn self!” she screamed.

Bucky stood up slowly, with confusion twisting at his features.

“You make me feel helpless! You never allow me to do anything. I can do dishes, I can carry bags. I can put my own damn coat on!”

Bucky opened his mouth but he couldn’t form any words. He was hurt. Everything he did for Y/N was from the heart, he didn’t realize how she felt about it. Maybe he was wrong about everything, that he was never ready for a relationship, that Y/N never loved him.

As Bucky stood silent Y/N saw the pain swirling in his eyes and realizing everything she said in her outburst made her feel worse.

She broke down again, “I’m so sorry Bucky. I love you, I mean it, I love you from the bottom of my heart. This is all my fault. I should have said something earlier. I never m-meant…” she whimpered, wiping the tears from her cheeks and sniffling.

“No,” he said softly, “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since…” Bucky trails off but they both know what he meant. “You mean the world to me doll, I thought if I could make anything easier on ya I would do it.”

“I don’t mind the help I just wish you would ask me sometimes,” she smiled sadly.

Y/N outstretched her hand towards Bucky and let out a breath of relief when he took it. She brought him closer and pressed herself against him again, relaxing as he embraced her fully.

They spent that evening together just as Bucky originally planned but now with a better understanding of each other’s emotions.

Every day for the month Bucky was gone Y/N was worried sick so the moment her phone lit up with a message announcing his arrival she screamed with joy. He arrived at her door a few hours later, holding a bouquet of beautiful flowers she did not care one bit about. Y/N jumped into his arms kissing him senseless. She could take care of herself in many ways but when it came to Bucky Barnes in her heart she knew she was certainly helpless.

They spent the weekend together hardly ever leaving her bed. Bucky opened up as much as he could to her about the mission which was a bust. They either had bad intel or their target knew they were coming and he disappeared. It was frustrating but Y/N’s soft lips against his skin made him quickly forget his worries.

For their one year anniversary Bucky planned a special night out to celebrate with Y/N. They both dressed nicely for the not too fancy but still classy enough restaurant they had reservations for. Bucky picked her up in a vintage car thanks to Tony and they enjoyed an intimate dinner.

Bucky pulled out a small gift from his suit pocket and handed it to Y/N across the table. The candlelight illuminated her beautiful smile as she carefully unwrapped the gift to reveal a jewelry box. Inside was a necklace with a small silver pendant in the shape of a house with a heart cut out in the center.

“Because we met that day building a house together and ever since you’ve held my heart and become my home.”

“It’s beautiful Bucky,” she beamed. “Will you put it on me?”

Her head tilts to the side as she smiles softly towards him and Bucky happily obliged. When the necklace was secured he couldn’t help but press his lips at the junction of her neck and shoulder making Y/N squirm and giggle. It was definitely time to leave the restaurant and neither could wait to get home.

On the drive home Bucky turned to face Y/N but instead his attention was on the car beside him and the driver that looked suspiciously like the target from their failed mission a few months back. He tried not to be seen by the man he believed to be Andrei Rudaski telling Y/N to stay low as he carefully followed the car.

While stopped at a light Bucky confirmed the target thanks to a signifying tattoo on his neck. He followed him for a few more blocks as he debated on calling the team. Bucky could probably take this guy down without making a scene but he didn’t want to endanger Y/N.

Andrei pulled over beside a warehouse on a quiet street that was mostly dark except for a few scattered street lamps. Bucky parked across the street, wishing he didn’t have a car that could blend better with the other empty cars along the road.

As Andrei opened the door to get out Bucky handed Y/N his phone. “Call Steve, tell him where we are and tell ‘im Andrei Rudaski is here.”

“What about you?” she worried.

“I’ll be alright doll. Just call Steve and stay in the car.”

With a quick kiss to her forehead Bucky took off. She chewed her bottom lip nervously as she watched his frame disappear in the alleyway by the warehouse though his shadow was visible on the wall for a bit longer thanks to security lighting mounted on the building.

For a while there was nothing but the sound of the occasional car pass by until an unmistakable gunshot rang out. Shadows on the wall began to dance in tussle and Y/N heard voices growing louder. She clutched her necklace when she thought she heard Bucky, more specifically the sound of him groaning in pain. Bucky was her home too and she couldn’t sit by and let him be injured or worse.

Sliding into the driver’s seat Y/N turned the key and hoped Bucky’s attacker was too preoccupied to hear the sound of the purring engine come to life. With her seatbelt fastened she grabbed the wheel and beelined right towards the alley.

Y/N spotted Bucky on the ground with a man standing above him, aiming a gun. With her foot slammed against the pedal she sped straight down with Andrei in her path.

It was surreal to feel everything happen at once and yet in Y/N’s mind each event seemed to play out in slow motion. She remembered the surprised look on Andrei’s face, the bright headlines that turned the darkness of his blue eyes into pinpoints that stared her down. He tried to aim his gun at her but she hit him first, the sound of the metal frame crashing against flesh and bone will be seared into his memory forever.

Glass shattered from the windshield in front of her to the high pitched breakage of the warehouse window. He had shot his gun after all. An airbag deployed unexpectedly and if she had been given a chance to think about it she would have known Tony Stark upgrades all of his toys.

The advanced airbag leaves little injury, the only thing sore is her chest, tender where the seatbelt held her upon the impact. She’s shaking, and doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry, but when the door opens beside her and she sees Bucky she does both.

“What the hell was that?” He reprimands her and rightfully so. Getting hurt is the last thing Bucky wanted to happen to Y/N. “I told you to stay in the car!”

“That was me saving your ass,” she groaned slightly, “And as you can see I am in the car!”

Her statement was followed by a chuckle, as if the car wasn’t crunched up against a wall, with a bloodied person in between it.

Bucky pinched the bridge of his nose, sucking in a painful breath thanks to the throbbing gunshot that pierced his side. “I thought I told you to call Steve.”

“I did call him,” she insisted, struggling to unlatch her seatbelt. “But I couldn’t sit by and let something happen to you.”

Bucky heard the worry in her tone, and truthfully Andrei had somehow gotten the upper hand. He doesn’t want to think about what would have happened if it wasn’t for Y/N.

With Bucky’s assistance she got out of the car and carefully they hugged.

“I’m sorry our anniversary was ruined. I wanted– ” Bucky began to say before a voice interrupted him.

“Can you tell me what else is ruined?” Tony sarcastically asked, as red and gold arms crossed over the lighted triangle on his chest.

Bucky smiled at Y/N before answering. “This shirt for one,” he joked clutching his bleeding side.

Y/N frowned as Bucky hissed in pain. Apologizing for the car as she passed Tony, Y/N helped Bucky towards the quinjet that was blocking the street and Bucky grabbed a medical kit which he held out towards Y/N. “Wouldja mind?”

He took off his shirt and laid on his side so she could clean and bandage his wound, but not before he had the small chance to send her a wink.

“Looks like I’m the helpless one now, doll.” he joked.

A/N: Thank you for reading! Reblogs, comments and likes are always appreciated :)

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[the--sad--hatter]

Game Of Survival - 9 (Bucky x Reader)

@jsmith509

FANDOM - MARVEL

PAIRING - BUCKY X FEM!READER

WARNINGS - SMUT, VIOLENCE, ANGST, VERY GRAPHIC BLOOD AND GORE, SWEARING, DRUGS AND ALCOHOL

DESCRIPTION -

The Executioner - Killer of Killers, the monster that hunts monsters, the bad-guys bogeyman.

It’s a title you earned and one that you cherish. Your goals are justified, your methods are not. But when a simple murder turns into a suicide and you are left clutching a flash drive with a terrible secret on it, you find yourself caught up in a mystery that you can’t solve alone. You turn to the professionals, the experts, the heroes. The Avengers.

With the lives of everyone in the world suddenly at stake, Earth’s Mightiest Heroes have no choice but accept your help and Bucky Barnes quickly finds himself drawn in by you. He never much believed in love, let alone love at first sight so it figures he’d be proven wrong in such a spectacular way.

Masterlist

Chapter Nine

Once you were in the suite you gave it a thorough checking over, looking for anything out of the ordinary. The bedroom/lounge were clean, as was the bathroom and you went about stowing weapons around the room before you set up the laptop that had been in your small go bag.

You quickly identified the local WiFi’s available and decided on one for a bookshop a couple of doors down, clicking on it with the encryption program you were running so the IP would be run through several countries in a longs, convoluted loop. You logged into the cuisine blog you’d set up and clicked on the inbox, scrolling through the messages. No leads yet, but it had only been an hour or so since you’d left your bloody request. With a few strokes of the keyboard you quickly looked through all your assets and made sure everything was in order before you turned the screen to black and grabbed a change of clothes and headed for the shower.

 You were in the process of rinsing conditioner out of your hair when you heard Bucky come in the room, calling out to let you know it was him.

 “We need to talk.” He said as soon as you walked into the room, dressed in sweatpants and a tanktop and towel drying your hair.

 “They wouldn’t have let me in if I had you with me. Best case scenario they would have thought you were a stranger, worst case scenario they would have recognized you.” You told him coolly.

 He wasn’t thrown by the fact that you automatically knew exactly what he wanted to talk about, both of you knew the conversation was inevitable.

 “Did you know you were going to kill someone before you went in?” He asked, staring you down with unrestrained ire.  

 “Yes.” You said simply.

 “Are you sure that’s not the reason you left me behind?” He challenged.

 “Would you have just stood by and let me do it?” You challenged back teasingly.

 “You think you’re the only killer here? Everyone on The Avengers has blood on our hands, some of us more than others.” He snapped.

 “If you have to kill someone you’ll do it, I know. But you don’t take pleasure in it, I do. You might have let me kill her but you would have drawn the line at me pinning her down and cutting her tongue out and forcing her to choke to death on her own blood. Or am I wrong about you?” You flung the towel down and met his eye, waiting for him to back down.

 “You might take pleasure in what you do but that’s not why you do it. You killed ‘her’ that way for a reason, for a purpose. I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

 “Easy to say that after the fact but you and your merry men are far too uncomfortable with what I do to sanction it.” You told him.

 “It’s not the things you do or even how you do them that makes them feel uncomfortable. It’s the lack of remorse. People love their guilt, they get attached to their demons and then you waltz in, stained with blood and not a trace of regret in your eyes. It’s disconcerting.” He tried to explain, almost desperate to make you understand.

 “Are you attached to your demons Bucky?” You asked him.

 “I’m learning to live with them. The question is doll, where the hell are your demons?” He rebutted.

 “I am my demons.”

  ~~~~~~~~~~Fifteen Years Ago~~~~~~~~~~

 There was an axe hanging over your head and you were waiting for it to drop.

 It wasn’t a metaphor.

 It had been six hours that you’d been stood there, waiting for the rope to be cut and the axe to fall.

 “If you fail this test, you will die. Do not fail.” Your father told you before he left the room.

 As you waited you listened. Voices carried in old houses like these and you could hear most of what was being discussed in your father office next door.

 “You’re too harsh with the girl, you’re going to break her before she even comes of age and then where will we be? It’s not as if you can produce another heir, not one that can unite the clans anyway.” Your uncle warned.

 “She is my only hope for a legacy, I would rather see her die than let my legacy pass to someone unworthy. If you commit to something you must remain unwavering in your resolve. Once you turn down a path there is no turning back. It is dangerous to allow yourself the luxury of changing your mind, it leads to self-doubt and self-doubt leads to mistakes.” Your father replied calmly.

 When he spoke there was an eerie silence that followed and the hairs on the back of your neck stood on end.

 The axe dropped.

 Your father and uncle opened the door between the rooms to see you stood there, holding the axe in your hands.

 “She didn’t move until it fell and she caught it.” One of your fathers goons, the one who had been charged with watching you reported.

 “Well done. You have completed your education, now you are ready to learn from me. From now on, I will teach you. You will learn everything I know.” You father decreed.

  ~~~~~~~~~~Today~~~~~~~~~

 “Where the hell did you come from Ex? What’s your story?” He asked you, advancing on you until you were forced to crane your neck to look up at him.

 “It doesn’t really matter. What I am isn’t a result of how I was raised Bucky. The fact I do what I do so well is because of my upbringing, but what I am was a choice.” You sighed.

 “If it’s a choice, you can change your mind.” He implored.

 “I didn’t say it was my choice.” You laughed humourlessly.

 “Your fathers?” He guessed.

 “No. I wanted to be what you’re trying to make me into, once upon a time. But a very smart man told me I wasn’t a hero and he was right.” You said heavily, something almost close to remorse flitting across your face as you spoke.

 “Who?” He frowned.

 “It doesn’t matter, he’s dead.” You said, clenching your jaw.

 “It matters if he’s still in your head.” Bucky told you softly.

 Your expression went cold and you huffed out disappointedly at him, shaking your head wryly.

 “You claim to be ok with what I do but the second you sensed a weakness, you pounced.” You chastised.

 Bucky stormed away when he realized you’d played him again. Your little moment of sadness for what could have been was a test and he’d failed. Every conversation he had with you solved a little bit more of the puzzle but somehow he always ended up with even more pieces to try and find a place for, more to solve. But the more complicated it got, the more he wanted, the more he needed to figure it out.

 You ignored his inner struggle and typed in the password to unlock your laptop, checking the inbox.

 There was one message there. One important message.

 “Just give me something, anything.” He pleaded.

 “What?” You frowned.

 “Tell me something true, something real about you.”

 “I can tell you The Executioner will kill again, tonight. We have a lead. Are you in or are you ready to admit defeat and go home?”

 “Tell me one thing about you, just one. Prove to me that this isn’t just some game to you and I’ll come with you tonight and I’ll do things your way.” He offered.

 You knew he was changing tactics but you couldn’t quite figure out what his new angle was and that excited you.  

 You smirked as you mulled it over, deciding whether or not to grant his request. You crossed the room to him, noting how he froze the closer you were to him until he was perfectly still as you stretched up, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered a single word to him. His sharp intake of breath was loud in the otherwise silent room as he realized what you had said, what you had told him and he looked down at you with wonder.

 You had just told him your name.

_______________________________________________________

This chapter ended up shorter because the name reveal lost it's impact if I tried to make it longer. The next chapter will be longer and more actioney.

Bucky and Ex are apparently both playing their own games, I wonder how that's going to play out?

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[surveys-at-your-service]

Survey #262

WoW will probably start to take over my life again tomorrow oof so expect surveys to slow down some.

What do you wish people wouldn't call you? The only one I don't really like is Girt calling me "kid." He doesn't mean it in a derogatory way or anything like that; he's just always called me that since I was a high school freshman and he was a senior. Now as an adult that's been through things I don't believe anyone deserves, it's kinda weird but more so frustrating as, regardless of his intentions, I somewhat feel belittled. I've never said anything directly about my discomfort, though, so it's my own fault. I just don't want to make him feel bad for doing it for years lmao. What do people say about your name upon learning it for the first time? They don't say anything; my name is very ordinary. Why did you choose the hair length you have? I have a few reasons. The biggest is because I was just bored of average, long hair, and the fact I was at the time having a very hard time with self-care. My hair would get incredibly knotted to where it was hard to even brush it sometimes. Makes me shiver thinking back on it. For my own sanity and ease, it needed to be gone. Also, with how STUPID hot I get, cutting it all off helped with the weight of my hair (it's v thick) but more importantly how hot it made me it the warm months. Zero regrets chopping it all off, omg. If your hair could be ANY color, what would you pick? At this very moment, I really want silver hair. Do you wish your hair was longer or shorter than it is now? It needs a trim. Do you think you're attractive? (It's okay to say yes =P) No; I think I wouldn't look ALL to bad if I lost some more weight (I've literally been on a weight loss plateau for two fuckin years). When I was perfectly healthy, I didn't think I was very pretty even back then, but now that I look back, I feel I was decently pretty. Not gorgeous, but. What is your favorite band? Ozzy Osbourne. :') What is your favorite movie? The Lion King. The second one is like directly behind it. Finding Nemo is also very precious to me. What is your favorite book or magazine? The Outsiders by S.E. Hinton and Johnny Got His Gun by Dalton Trumbo. What is your favorite song? Ugh, this is impossible. I love way way too many. I suppose maybe... "Death Inc." by Motionless In White? Idk. What is your favorite color to wear? Black, duh. If you could visit anywhere in the world, where would you go and why? South Africa because I want to spend time with and take pictures at the Kalahari Meerkat Project and especially pet a Whiskers meerkat. I WILL cry. Meerkats literally changed my life. So many people I wouldn't know... If you got the chance and wouldn't get caught, would you cheat on a lover? NOOOOO the guilt though. Someone drops a fifty dollar bill and doesn't notice. Will you tell them? Definitely. I'd feel awful otherwise. Would you ever pierce something on your face? I already have my lip and tongue pierced, and I did have my nostril pierced, too. I want more, particularly an undereye microdermal if I can switch to contacts... which I don't like. I think it'd look pretty dumb with glasses. Are you selfish? EVERYONE should be to a degree depending on the occasion. Doing what is best for you is not a bad thing. Are you mean to people who are different from you? Wow no. I find people "different" from me interesting. Do you make fun of obese people? By the BMI definition, I am one of those people. So take a guess? Do you eat when you're upset? I have to fight that extremely hard, because I usually do experience the impulse to comfort eat when I'm very depressed. I've gotten way better at it, though. What if you had to choose between feeding yourself or feeding your pets? I honestly don't know for sure what I'd do... but I think I would prioritize my pets, honestly. It would break me to watch them suffer and lose weight. What if you saw someone being beaten on the street? YOOOO I READ THIS AS "EATEN" FIRST. But anyway I'd call the cops ASAP. There's a possibility I'd intervene if I felt myself capable of taking on the assailant. What if it was you being beaten? According to the night terrors I've had beyond count, curse like a motherfucker and fight back while calling for help. Who's the most important person to you (related)? Mom. Who's the most important person to you (non-related)? Sara. What's more important to you, happiness or success? Happiness. What's more important to you, your happiness or someone else's? Depends on the person. List the ten most important things to you: Oh, yikes. No order: 1.) My peace of mind, health, and happiness; 2.) my family; 3.) my pets; 4.) my career future; 5.) my friends; 6.) a YouTuber I've never met lmao; 7.) my pebble from my partial hospitalization program; 8.) Teddy's ashes; 9.) the Mark mug Sara gave me sobs; 10.) and the RP site I'm on. Like if it disappeared tomorrow with all the profiles and history and stuff I would break the earth in half oof. Have you ever lived in a mobile home? No. Have you ever had your bedroom in a basement? No. How many times in the past week have you eaten fast food? Hm. I don't think once. In the house - shoes, socks, slippers or bare feet? Bare feet.\ Do you consider dogs inside or outside pets? Usually indoor, depending on the breed and the time of year. What’s your favourite piece of furniture in your house? ig my bed? Have you ever had a crush on a friend’s parent? Yikes no. Do you prefer carbonated or uncarbonated drinks? Sucker for carbonated over here. Favorite thing that you can see up in the sky? A full moon. Would you rather eat at the table or in your room? I'm so used to eating in my room. Do you like the sound of birds singing when you wake up, or is it annoying? I love it. If someone gave you a kitten, would you keep it? I'd love to, but it'd really be my mom's choice. What’s your ideal activity for a rainy day? Nap oh lawd. Favorite type of cracker? Cheez-Its. Banana sandwich... yum or yuck? Only yum with peanut butter. Animal you like to watch but sort of creeps you out: Spiders. Bagels or English Muffins? Bagels. Do you like to daydream about sex? I do it sometimes. Which of your parents do you laugh more with? My dad is really funny. Have you ever been to an open casket wake or funeral? Wake, yes. Who mows the lawn at your house? A family friend. Have you ever written a story from beginning to end? When I was little and was writing that meerkat story, yes. I started on the sequel but didn't get far. What’s a big turn on for you? Being genuinely interested in what makes me me. Actually wanting to know the littlest things about me. Just show sincere interest. Are you doing anything tomorrow? I do know I'm fuckin finally getting my laptop home. Does your car have a name? N/A Do you own clothes from any celebrity clothing lines? No, but a bitch is getting a Cloak shirt or hoodie at some point. Who was the last person you ranted about? My bitch of a cousin for being a disrespectful fuck when all my dying grandmother wants is to talk as a group with the whole family. I ranted to Mom though, not in the group chat because I'm actually mature enough to not talk shit when, again, all our grandma wants is peace and love between us at the end of her life. I was SEETHING. Know any magic tricks? I don't remember any. I LOOOOOVED those magic kits as a kid, though. Is there music in your head right now? Right now "Dirty Pretty" by In This Moment is on, so does that count as "in my head?" Would you like to become a dancer? It'd be very cool, most certainly, and due to taking dance classes so long, I tend to think of potential dances in my head when I hear like... any song, lol. I'd love to be one if I had the grace and endurance + no hyperhydrosis. Name one person of the same sex as you you wouldn't mind doing: Hunny I'm bisexual, there's a lot, lmao. Dream woman? Uhhhh. Maybe my friend Alon. She was like one of my first hints I wasn't straight, lmao. But idk, I find soooo many women to be attractive. What is the most gory film you've seen? One of the Saw movies. What a surprise, ik. Ever fallen down a hole? ZOINKS no. Do you work better in a clean or messy environment? Clean, durr. Do you know any vegans? Only online. Do you like bananas? I am VERY picky with bananas. They have to be perfect. My preferred ripeness lasts only like, two days. .-. What's a film you've seen that confused you? Oh boy, idk. I don't watch many films... especially if I'm confused and the plot isn't great, I'll stop watching. WAIT!!!!!! NO!!!!!!!! I went to see Warcraft when it came out and I was so fuckin lost just because the orcs' voices are so goddamn deep that I just sat there like "uhhhh sir come again????" I didn't play Classic, and I'm not great at remembering every aspect of the plot, so. I'm to this day p confused lmao. Do you ever wear black lipstick? I really only ever wear black. What is next to your bed? I have a white shelf to my left where I put my meds, a drink, the fan... that kind of stuff. My cat's food bowl is to the right of it on the floor. Are your fingernails dirty? Nope. Have you ever fell for someone believing you could "fix" them? Not for that reason, no. Describe a picture of yourself that you hate: LASKJDLKFJAOWJE my friend took a picture of me eating a hot dog once and joked she was putting that shit on Facebook and it was funny as shit but thank Christ she was in fact joking. Would you rather play a good or an evil character in a play? While I'd love to be the evil one, I'd probably make it too cheesy because I am a BAD actress. Has anybody ever lied to you just to impress you? Story of one of my "best" friendships. What's your favourite shade of blue? Baby blue, probs. Can you remember a world before iPods? I do indeed. On rides to school when I sat in the back, I would bring one of those portable CD players with me to play discs. Where did you go on your last date? I can't remember the place's name... Lume's? Something like that? Breakfast place in Illinois. Do people find you "cute"? It happens sometimes. Who does the best remixes? Oh idk, I don't pay much attention to this. Where do you get your news? Facebook, lmao. What social stigma does society need to get over? What DOESN'T it need to get over???? What was the last photo you took? Probably something funny on Facebook to send to Sara lmao. I will get memes to her some way. What mythical creature do you wish actually existed? As badly as I want to say dragons, I don't think it'd be a great idea, heh... Maybe dryads. What are you interested in that most people aren't? As of recently, TARANTULAS. I've fallen in LOVE with them. What's the most ridiculous thing you have bought? No clue. What sounds hit you with major nostalgia every time you hear them? The gem collecting sound from Spyro. It was my text ringtone on my last phone! I need to move it over to my current one. What was the biggest realization you have had about yourself? I was possibly the bigger villain than Jason in the breakup. But idk. What topic could you spend forever talking about? Gay rights. Which way should toilet paper hang, over or under? In the original patent, it was designed as going over. GMM knowledge. Therefore I find over as correct, BUT I ultimately don't care like... at all. I don't even really notice when I go in the bathroom. Are you usually early or late? Usually slightly early. What do you wish you knew more about? Politics so I could be a more helpful member of society alksdjfka;lw What is the most annoying question you've been asked? It's not really like, annoying I guess, but the closest would be just how frequently people see my lip ring and ask if it hurt. It's incredibly sensitive skin, and even if it wasn't, a needle went all the way through it. Like... guess. News flash: being stabbed hurts, lmao. Like I always explain that it's not awful, but duh, there is pain. What is your favorite milkshake flavor? Yummm chocolate. What was the worst phase in your life? 2020 thinks it's a bad guy, but lemme tell ya, shit's got nothing on 2016. Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream? I hate sprinkles on anything. Just an annoying texture with negligible flavor. The last time you went out to eat - what did you order? It was just a milkshake. Do you have all 32 teeth? I'm missing two wisdom teeth that just never grew in. Do you know how to do the moon walk? Never tried. What is one of your favorite comedy movies? White Chicks. Has anybody ever told you that you have a good singing voice? Yeah. I don't think I do. Onion rings or french fries? Fries. Not an onion ring fan. Who is the best cook that you know? Sara's mom is great, omgggg. She's cooked things I generally don't like yet I wound up enjoying. Can you name 3 different dinosaurs? Let's see: Spinosaurus, stegosaurus, velociraptor. I was a dino kid, man, just gettin' started. *finger guns* What's the largest amount that you can juggle at one time? I can’t juggle. What was your favorite thing to go on at the playground as a kid? I'd daaaash for the swingset. Do you know how much you weighed at birth? How much? Ummm I think 6-something pounds? 7? Where do you spend most of your time at? At home. In my bed. Exciting stuff, y'know. What noise does your favorite animal make? If my memory serves me right, they have over 40 vocalizations, but I'd say barking and chirping are the most ordinary/basic. Have you ever fallen in the toilet when you were little? lol I don't think so. What is the best kind of mac & cheese? I'm a basic-ass Velveeta bitch lmao. Who is your favorite oldies band? Boy oh BOY, you're asking a classic rock/metal addict. Of course it's Ozzy tho. But I love soooo many!! What is your favorite farm animal? Pigs! Do you like to play Monopoly? I'm not a big fan, no. What is the most fun restaurant you have ever been to? I like the vibe of Buffalo Wild Wings. Or I just have good memories there. What size bra do you wear? I'm actually not sure. I haven't bought new ones in a while and I don't think the ones I currently have are the right size anyway. Do you have a ceiling fan in your room? No. Who was your favorite Sesame Street character? I don't remember too well, but I think Cookie Monster? What about Muppet? Idr. What was going through your mind during the presidential campaign? I am sadly paying no attention. What do you think of the Duggar family ( 17+ kids )? Could you handle taking care of that many children? Ew, hell no. I don't believe the number of children warranted in a family should be legally monitored, it's much more difficult than that, BUT RATHER I'm very firm about knowing when it's more than enough. Population control is a thing. NOBODY needs that many kids imo, not even close to that. So far, what is the number one, best decision you have ever made? How has it affected your life? Letting go of Jason/accepting life without him. It has made my life much, much brighter and healthier. Have you reunited with any old friends recently? Was it awkward, or just like old times? No. When was the last time you talked to your first ex? February of 2017. Wow... been a long time. How different is your online personality from your offline personality? I am MUCH more outgoing and talkative online. What are your favorite holiday-themed movies? Jim Carrey's How The Grinch Stole Christmas, Hocus Pocus, The Nightmare Before Christmas, etc... Do you listen to Christmas/winter-themed music when the season comes around? No. Is there anything that you do that’s potentially controversial? Yes. What is your most recent obsession? Most recent, whew, tarantulas. I'm really gonna try talking Mom into letting me get one when/if we move. Do you say “merry Christmas” or “happy holidays”? To you, does it really matter which one is said/you say? Do you do your best to remain politically correct? Instinctually, I say "merry Christmas;" that's what has always been said around me. I personally see zero problem in calling it whatever... Like just appreciate someone wishing you well. You get the concept, and that's all you really need imo. As for political correctness, I'm kinda... down the middle? Like I feel it's been taken way, way too far, but I see some caution in wording as wise. If you could relive one week of your life, which would it be, and why? Would you do anything differently, or keep it all the same? Ugh, my first visit at Sara's. I just loved it so, so much. I think I wouldn't change a thing. It felt perfect. Is there a part of your life you wish you could remember, but can’t? Sometimes when I take these surveys and they ask "how old were you when...", ha ha. Frustrates me. What was the last thing/event to trigger a painful memory? It was last night, actually. The Final Fantasy VII remake is out, and I started watching a YouTuber I like play it. Jason got me to play the original, playing it a lot when we spent time together, but I only got a bit beyond half-way through before my PS3 broke. Cherished memories, so it was decently triggering indeed. I loved the game though and ABSOLUTELY want to see it played out in its entirety, so I shoved past the pain and am glad I did. Now I'm anxiously awaiting the next video aljkdsjfawe Y'ALL I wanna play more FF. What do you think of people that choose not to vote? I can't say anything, seeing as I never have voted before... Are you keeping anything from the people you love? Nothing important, no. Have you ever written a suicide note, whether joking or not? Yes, and that stupid novel is one of my biggest regrets. Who the FUCK would joke about that, though. When was the last time you let something ‘go to your head’? Not even like an hour ago. This happens allllll the time. When are you most likely to show off? Maaan Guitar Hero used to be good for that shit, ha ha. I was an expert at that back in its day. I haven't played it in forever, and on the rare occasion I do, I am suuuper rusty. Which would you prefer: spectacular view of the ocean, or of the mountains? MOUNTAINS!!!!!! Do you follow any dating rules/play any dating games? No. When was the last time you felt extremely confident about something? ME????????? CONFIDENT???????????? WHAT A CONCEPT!!!!!!!!!! When was the last time you blew the seeds off of a dandelion? Wow, not a clue. Probably not since we lived at my old house and I would go on walks down the path. What was the last thing that happened that you couldn’t explain? Oh I dunno. What do you do with all of your spare change? I just keep it in my wallet. Where did you hear about your all-time favorite band? He was and still is one of my mom's favorites! How many cans of soda do you drink in a day? AHHHHHH soda is my biggest nutritional weakness. I refuse to let myself drink more than one a day now though. It's funny and disgusting, when I was HEALTHY AND SKINNY I could on a rare occasion start a fourth can in a single day. Nowadays the thought almost makes me shiver. What is the oldest thing that you own? and the newest? The oldest thing, ummm. Not sure. Probably a stuffed animal in the attic. I just got two new books today! Is there anything you wish you had never found out about? Yep. A number of things. What is something that you refuse to believe in? Astrology. What is something you wish more people believed in? Gay rights. What food is your ultimate comfort food? Ice cream. Have you ever put anything inside a time capsule? What? OMGGGG I remember doing this in elementary school as a class! I don't recall what was in it, though. Is there too much violence on tv, or are people to sensitive? Too sensitive, but also negligent. It's got a lot to do with raising, imo. Don't show kids wild shit at too young of an age, and when they are shown this kind of stuff, you make it obvious that the behavior/content is unacceptable irl. Entertainment is not responsible for someone's shitty actions made with their own volition. What is something you used to fear, but no longer do? My first huge fear was thunderstorms. Now I enjoy them lol. Do you think it’s important to know a 2nd language? Not mandatory, no. Especially depends on if you're going anywhere. Do you know anyone that’s just naturally good at almost everything? My old friend Hannia IMMEDIATELY came to mind. She was the best in class GPA-wise, first chair for flute in band, and just in general STUPID talented. Do you know anyone that’s just bad at everything? BITCH ME What is one emoticon you use often? A sarcastic :^) or <3 What is one emoticon you almost never use? A lot, particularly ones with equal signs for eyes.

[nouru-vi]

Second chapter of my Allods fic, which actually includes the Good Stuff. That being cosmic horror and lesbian thirsting, because what else do you even need?

The contingent, led by Inspector Istharnax, marched down the corridor at a brisk pace.

"How many people has this thing taken?" asked the Arisen abruptly. "We have about 30 missing, Inspector," the Orcish guard sergeant responded dutifully, catching up with the woman so as not to speak to her back, "plus the military squad that had responded to our distress call." "But I've been told there have been a lot more... creatures than that." "Yeah. I mean, yes, Comrade Inspector. The damn thing must be getting them from somewhere else, or multiplying them, or somethin'."

No further response came from Istharnax, and the man eventually spoke up again. "With r'spect, Comrade Inspector, are you sure we can beat 'em back?" "I do not wish to surrender the installation without at least making an attempt. I am powerful, Sergeant. We have a chance."

Her words rang so confidently that the sergeant felt almost reassured, as they reached the blast door sealing off the lost part of the corridor from the rest. Without a word, the inspector entered a code into the keypad, and slammed the activator.

The corridor ahead was empty, and looked just like the previous sections, with slightly rusting, riveted metal floors and walls. The mana lamps were still working, and a few doors could be seen in the distance, opening to the sides, though all closed. But the far end was lost in darkness.

The group moved onwards, weapons at the ready. Although nothing could be seen or heard in the corridor, living or otherwise, Istharnax could feel the apprehension and dread of the soldiers like tiny trickles of icy water down her back. A few minutes went by, as they passed the shut doors, arriving closer to the darkened end. Yet, the darkness there appeared just as pitch black as earlier.

It now filled their entire field of view, blacker than anything they had seen before. Looking at it this close was giving Istharnax a headache. She slowed down and stood at about a hundred feet from the edge of the darkness, where the light of the last lamp seemed to simply cut off. Even as she looked, the void appeared to be creeping slowly closer along the walls.

"Give me the light," she ordered, and one of the soldiers handed her the portable high-power mana beam they'd brought along. She switched it on, directing it right into the blackness in front. Even the powerful instrument seemed unable to penetrate it much. The inspector moved the beam to the side, where the wall of the corridor should have continued into the darkness, but there was just... nothing beyond the threshold.

Tilting her head slightly and uttering a small "Hmm" to herself, she directed the light back towards the middle. Where it fell upon a misshapen mass, floating midair.

It looked like a large cluster of oversized eyeballs, that turned in place towards the contingent in response to the bright light, pupils narrowing. Then it lurched forward, making a noise like a fog horn. As it flew out into the normal part of the corridor, it could be seen trailing a stem of thick veins, which now whirled forward to form something like a clawed appendage. And many other things poured out into the light along with it.

There was a massive hulk that seemed to consist of human teeth and gums, emitting a muffled noise of pain non-stop. There was a black, spiny, crawling thing that reminded Istharnax of the outer shell of a horse-chestnut crossed with a slug. There was a worm-shaped thing that seemed to be made of flesh-coloured bismuth, flowing along as if invisible hands were constantly drawing one end of it and erasing the other. There was a disembodied, floating mouth surrounded by clawed palms, cartwheeling through the air as it uttered random but entirely coherent sentences in Xadaganian. There was something that looked just like a liquefied human, rushing like a stream along the metal wall. And these were only the ones that were relatively easy to describe.

As this parade of horrors emerged from the blackness, one of the soldiers wordlessly turned around and ran. Istharnax momentarily considered liquefying his brain with a motion of her hand, but she couldn't actually blame him that much – and there were better targets to focus her power on. She thrust out an arm, purple energy crackling around her palm, and the toothy thing exploded, scattering teeth like shrapnel. Its screaming went on a little longer after its demise than Istharnax would have liked. On cue, the soldiers took up position in front of and next to the inspector, and opened fire, cutting swathes through the abominations.

Reinforcements were in no short supply, though, and the distance between them and the contingent was getting shorter. Still, the attack seemed to be going well – right until the first casualty.

A bouncing, milky blob ricocheted between the walls and floor towards them, evading the bolts and spells hurled at it, and lurched at one of the soldiers up front, engulfing him immediately. His screaming only stopped a few moments later, when a bright red orb of flesh burst out of the goop, and began jetting flames at its former comrades from the orifices on its surface.

Seeing this, two more soldiers turned tail immediately. The others held, although they appeared more than a bit shaky now. The only person able to muster a comment was Istharnax, in the form of an exasperated "Oh, fuck me."

Despite the contingent's considerable firepower, it was starting to look more and more like a battle they might be able to sustain for a while, but not win. Istharnax grit her teeth behind her mask. There was no point in sacrificing people for this.

"Sergeant. Retreat with your men. I will cover you," she spoke up. "Are ya bloody cra- I mean. Comrade Inspector, is that wise?" responded the Orc, while not letting go of his crossbow trigger for a second. "I said, go! I will repel them. Do not worry." "But, Inspe-" "Go!" The sergeant did not dare argue any further, and signaled retreat to his soldiers.

As they fled towards the other end of the corridor, not needing to be told twice, Istharnax doubled down on her attacks, although her head was already throbbing with the effort. Her core whined in protest, working at maximum capacity to provide cooling and endorphine to her overstressed brain. Yet, again and again she thrust her arms out, one after the other, sending crushing waves of telekinetic force to mow down the abominations pouring towards her. Their incomprehensible forms disintegrated without fail, splattering the floor with repulsive slurry that would, thankfully, rapidly dissolve into nothingness, with no unnatural cohesion left to hold it in this world.

But there just seemed no end to them. Istharnax was expecting her ungainly, not at all combat-appropriate inspectorial garments to straight up catch fire at this point from the heat of her strained systems underneath, artificial sweat trickling down in little streams over her unliving flesh. The edges of her vision were starting to blur ever so slightly, and she let out a hoarse groan of frustration, as she slowly began backing away down the corridor herself. It wasn't the pain that bothered her – her brain felt like a glob of lava in her skull by now – it was the possibility that she would not be able to hold out for much longer. She could not stop attacking, as they would overrun her quickly. If she falls here, the rest of the base may be promptly lost. That could not be allowed.

And what had the supervisor said? They don't die. The people that these things had once been... had not died, according to him. Of course, you don't need to be alive in the normal sense to be an unspeakable abomination that ignores most laws of nature... but no one seemed to have resurrected, have they. They were either stuck in Purgatory, or...

Istharnax had had a pretty long life, or rather, existence. Certain things, such as the emotion of actual fear, had not factored in it for so long that she was certain they only ever happened to other people anymore. But now she had to slap herself mentally so as to not continue down that road of thought, because it would have led towards a bottomless ocean of terror – an extremely inconvenient mental place to be in such a delicate situation. Her hands only trembled slightly as she began to take longer steps towards the reinforced steel door, still about three hundred feet behind her. She could not allow the installation to fall... but the lives of its personnel took priority. Though, at this rate...

She found that her groans had turned into screeches of anger and increasing desperation, accompanying every attack, making her vocabulator crackle with distortion, as the unceasing torrent of faceless, headless, formless, senseless creatures grew steadily more fuzzy before her. It wasn't them changing, because the floor and walls seemed to slightly wobble now, too. Still they poured from the pitch darkness at the far end of the corridor.

Istharnax briefly glanced to her left, where a steel sliding door similar to the one behind her connected another corridor into this one. It was firmly shut, but as she retreated past it she thought she heard, over the din of the assaulting monsters and the storm in her mind, faint, rapid beeps from the other side.

Several things happened all in the next few seconds. The noises she thought she heard drew the Arisen's glance towards the door again, and as a result she tripped. She managed not to fall over, but her concentration was broken, forcing her to stop the attack. That couple of seconds of a gap was enough to allow the tide of searing pain which she had been holding off to crash into her brain, and it took all of her power to stop herself from blacking out. At the same time, pneumatics hissed to her left, and the sliding door shot open. A squad of soldiers immediately rushed out, with a tall Xadaganian commissar up front, followed closely by a bulky Orcish woman, and at a little distance, a couple of soldiers escorting three more, who were clearly wounded.

The commissar quickly assessed the situation, and yelled, "Bring 'em, towards your three! Corporal–" What he tried to say next was drowned in the deafening battle cry promptly issuing from the Orc's throat as she charged towards the tide of monsters, which was rapidly closing in with no attacks from the inspector to hold it off. Istharnax found herself falling to her knees, and she fought against the urge to surrender to unconsciousness, watching the Orc. She barely registered the commissar descending on one knee next to her to help her.

The corporal was brandishing a hammer in each hand, and both seemed to glow with a fiery aura as she ran, eventually cannoning into the army of abominations. She then began a dance of death, pulverising a creature with each blow, the strikes of the likely enchanted weapons making them promptly explode as the hits connected. The Orc seemed to move with impossible speed, and Istharnax wondered how she was not tripping over her own feet.

The Arisen slowed down her perception of time, observing her saviour. The corporal's most prominent feature was a gorgeous mane of copper-red hair, restrained in a thick ponytail and flying behind her as she fought. She was wearing standard, military green Vanquisher armour, but with a few alterations – she had no helmet, but there was a traditional, checkered Orcish scarf loosely draped around her neck, and the chainmail and plates that normally should have been covering her upper arms and thighs had been removed. Istharnax found her photoreceptors zooming in on her exposed, amazing muscles, and her green skin, glistening with sweat. What a lovely shade of green, too, she thought, even as someone rudely interrupted her reverie of observing this armoured assault vehicle of a woman in action.

The commissar was yelling into where he assumed her audioreceptors should be, to try and get her back on her feet. Throwing him a brief, indignant look, she rose ponderously, flexing her hands with newfound combat readiness.

"Splendid timing. Retreat through the door behind me. The Corporal and I will cover you, and join you soon. Go," she commanded. The man nodded, and shouted "Carry on, Corporal!", before jogging after the rest of his squad.

Istharnax walked forward, raising her right arm slowly to resume her attack. Her telepathic voice entered the Orc's mind, telling her, "Take the left flank, I'll take the right. Steady retreat," with a little more purr to it than she had originally intended. The other woman made no response, but began to draw back towards the exit, and Istharnax fell in line behind and to the right of her, unleashing her mind's destructive power once again. This doubled their efficiency, and the distance between them and the attackers' reinforcements grew, so eventually less and less of them reached melee range. In response, the Orc stowed her hammers and unhooked her repeating crossbow from her back.

Istharnax saw light from the corner of her eye, and turned her glance to see the Orc running her hand over the length of the weapon, her fingers trailing fiery glowing streaks. Then she raised it, aimed, and began pumping bolts into their enemies, each hit resulting in an explosion. The inspector shifted her gaze back to their targets, muttering "Well, well" to herself.

They progressed like this for a few minutes, until they eventually approached the door at the end of the corridor. Whatever unnatural womb had been birthing these horrors seemed to have finally been tired out for the moment, as only singular creatures ran, flew or crawled towards them from the darkness at the other end every now and then, as opposed to a neverending army. The corporal turned and went to bang her fist thunderously on the door behind them as they reached it.

It opened immediately, and the two women hurried through. The door slammed to as soon as they were in, and the two squads greeted them with anxious looks. The corporal stowed her crossbow, spat on the floor, and declared, "Son of a fucking bitch." Istharnax leaned on the door with her back to it, her photoreceptors going dark for a moment, before eventually commenting with "Agreed," in a quiet, cracking voice.

She gathered her composure, stood up straight, and addressed the soldiers, speaking up. "Well done, Comrades, considering the circumstances. We repelled them for the moment. And now, we must evacuate the installation." Murmuring went up at this, and without further explanation, she turned to the Orc and added, "Thanks for the save, Corporal...?"

Then she found herself toppling over like a felled tree, right towards the Orc, who caught her. The collision of her cybernetic limbs on the armour resulted in a noise not completely unlike a metal coat rack falling over. With effort, the inspector looked up into the corporal's face, which showed an expression of mild concern as she responded, "Talsa".

Istharnax gathered the last particles of her strength to reply with a telepathic message. "Talsa... my hero." She still saw the slightly puzzled look on Talsa's face before her forehead slowly met the Orc's chestplate, and the world went black.

[elastigirl72]

Potentially a Greek Odyssey...Crossing a continent...there are no rules

(Disclaimer: this whole blog is written on an iPhone)

I wonder if...

Any ancient explorer spent as much time as I have procrastinating about which way they’d travel to cross a continent, where they’d start, where they’d cross waters, which mountain range they should scale and where should be their final destination, how little they could get away with carrying and when was the best time to go and if they should drive to Heathrow and park or figure out the logistics to be able to cycle the whole way.

I could write a book about the dreaming and planning alone, and Ben Fogle wouldn’t have a patch on my stories, never mind the oceans and deserts he’s crossed.  If I’m honest, he does have the job I’d now wish I’d had.  Why has it taken me until I’m approaching the half-century (there are still a few years to go, just in case you thought I was looking REALLY good for my age, yes, I can hear that’s what you were thinking) to finally realise that is what I was destined to do.  But now, where media favours youth and beauty, I wasn’t blessed with much of the latter and youth is a long way behind me.  Accepting my fate, I will continue doing my job, dream about being (with) Ben Fogle, and aspire to challenge Judith Chalmers in my 70s.

If I consider my expedition, I have dreamed about it since I can remember looking at the illuminated globe and dark green, leather bound giant world atlas that adorned a dust-ridden, tar-stained shelf in our family home in Windsor.  I have planned it in detail over 5 years and in countless iterations, and aborted 2 years running.  And now, today, 10 days before I’m due to set off in some direction, it truly appears it might happen. The odds are even, but 10 days is 10 days.  Nothing is certain.

Anyone who truly knows me will question my fitness, I’m sure.  Can I really do this?  Until this weekend, like last year’s abandoned plans to ride from East to West cost USA, I considered that I would again be “winging it”, hoping that the good genes I’ve inherited, and my clear stubbornness will see me through.  My knee remains attached to me by a few stringy threads.  I have worked out that any stray pieces of cartlidge that pop up from the one-time smooth head of my femur aren’t an enemy to stop me anymore.  Like a splinter on a block of wood, provided the kneecap can plane the surface continuously, the pain and swelling will come and go as the surface is smoothed down again.  Grit my teeth and keep moving until I can’t move anymore.  It is a bit bonkers. But as there’s plenty of things that can stop you doing anything, multiplying as I get older. So, whilst I still can, I still will. It’s not a race, and I will make it to Athens. Which is the second flight I’ve booked for the same trip! The goal is to get to the finish line. Other than that, the rules are there are no rules.

April 13: 5 days to go: preamble to the ramble

The name to my expedition came to me this morning. It is the Transcontinental Odyssey and camera course. I am surrounded by photographers in my family. Dad a.k.a. Norm, was a photographer in his day and very talented. My brother-in-law was a professional photographer and till smart phones were invented. By association, my sister Jane is also a photographer. It is quite surprising that I know absolutely nothing about technicalities of photography! Aperture ISO and shutter speed could be part of an engine for all I know. Luckily, I have amazing neighbours who are also photographers. Almost correct: Jane, my neighbour is the long-suffering wife of a photographer and by association to Andrew who is a photographer. Given that all the Janes and Andrews that I know who are married contain at least one photographer, I stand a good chance also by association of being able to take good photographs. This is what I’m telling myself and the reason I’m prepared prepared to consider my new camera as my luxury item. At 300 g, it is my heaviest piece of kit that I will be carrying for over 2000 miles. There is a good incentive for me to make it count! Probably the reason that most people remain amateur photographers and now rely on smartphones is because the lessons on Aperture and shutter speed are very dry to say the least. My first lesson with Andrew on Friday night after work was helped along by two gin and tonic‘s made by Jane she doesn’t drink to make measures were approximately two thirds gin and one third tonic. This is known in photography circles as the rule of thirds. As I’m writing this post, I can tell you that my bod no longer responds to gin particularly well. That said,I had a very enjoyable evening learning about photography.

Marlborough, UK

How many times did I pack and weigh my kit? I sat looking at it for weeks on the kitchen table, packed it, took it out, weighed it again, removed some grams and packed it again. With the experience of a similar trip (albeit 1,300 miles shorter and with a week of planning), this time, I couldn’t have been more prepared. With greatest regret, the following were culled:

Trainers (sacrificed for flip flops)

Belt (improvising with heart rate monitor as my belt. Genius 😆)

Wood lock (a magical Chinese ointment which has legally restored my overused muscles for 17 years)

Playing cards (oh well, I’m sure there’s some app that can replace those)

Class (I have resorted to convertible walking trousers, a t-shirt, a merino base layer and my cycling jacket for my casual evening attire)

My bikini 😢

Butt butter (as I like to call it - one last dose of chamois cream before I left and then utter sadness and regret)

But making the cut:

Puncture repair kit

Glasses and lenses

A handful of toiletries

My luxury item: a camera (the only thing heavier is my backpack)

6 supplements (magnesium, iron, maca, beta-alennine, zinc, L-carnitine)

Small first aid kit

A million usb cables

A million plug converters (don’t you love that each country has designed non-compatible plugs to their neighbours?)

Di2 charger (outrageous that I should need this but apparently the battery lasts only 1500 miles)

A lock

Overshoes, leg warmers, rain jacket, wet weather gloves, mitts (I have an optimistic plan to post these home in Italy and buy a bikini 🙏)

Passport, cards and cash (although I ditched the coins weighing in at a whopping 178g!)

2pairs of knickers

A bra (underwear is a luxury)

An erroneous crop top.

In all, my extra weight amounts to 4kg against my weight of 58kg. I thought I was heavier, and so I set off delighted that mentally, my net gained weight was 2kg (on the basis I thought I was 60kg).

These weight insights are invaluable. So, how is it that on my first day, not flat but hardly mountainous, and into a headwind, I have already started to create a package to send home. I practised carrying my life on my back on a ride to st David’s only 10 days ago and yet somehow, the backpack, aka Monkey has gained weight whilst I’ve lost. The Welsh guy deep in the Black Mountains where I recharged my phone were mightily impressed at my trans Wales trip that day. They’re a friendly bunch. Super chatty when they know you’re leaving, sending me off with a parting statement : “Look out for the green pick up truck about 10 miles up the road, that will be me as I mow you off the road into the bushes! [to which he then laughed to himself a lot]. “That’s where you’ll be staying for the night!” The interesting observation I picked up from this rowdy, bald, heavily tattooed Welshman is his sense of humour. So unique to Wales...

And so to bed. I have made my presence known in Marlborough. If you’re old enough to remember, picture this: Wayne Slob getting chicken and chips from the fish and chip shop. Yep. That’s me. That’s who I’ve become . I’m staying in the Bear Hotel which whilst a lovely room, is more expensive than my flight home from Kalamata that I won’t be taking. And whilst I wasn’t remotely hungry tonight, I have had to remind myself “eat for the ride you’re going to have, not for the one you’ve just had”

[devilsurvivor-2-recordbreaker]

So... Devil May Cry 2 isn’t as bad as people say it is

A shocker I know. I’d argue its quick fun actually. Even despite the development hell it went through I think it came out alright even if it was a little under cooked, but that’s the beauty of a rare steak I suppose-to gush upon a fine texture some may not be acquainted with but other will have a appreciation for none the less.

Really I think the all out theif of the spot light is the DMC 2 exclusive and playable character, Lucia. I really had a much better time playing her route after having played Dante’s. Her story gave alot more context to the story as well that I think went unintentionally untouched because both Dante’s and Lucia’s routes are played on separate discs so then become entirely separate games. But the way that the story is told and ebb and flows works really only if you play them in their intended order of Dante then Lucia.

I did infact have a blast playing as Dante, I think the fact that you can mow down enemies using your gun attack with your Devil Trigger is as hilarious as it is overpowered. The faults and jank of the game weaponized to make a an even more fun experience. Lucia was surpisingly alot more competent in combat than Dante using her blades. I think that if the game was played using her melee attacks and using dante’s arsnel of guns it would pretty epic.

Interestingly the games were alot shorter than I anticipated. Dante’s only 18 missions long compared to his debut DMC 1′s 22 missions. Lucia’s even shorter at barely a dozen. These can be cut down even more since at least a few of these go by really fast and some feel as if cut scenes which reward you for watching.

I think the reason people hammer out DMC 2 is because it could not live up to the hype which DMC 1 set up for itself. And part of that falling due to on record issues on the development team as they worked on not only a shorter time but also had to meet deadlines, etc. and with all this they came out with the best they could. A struggle of love despite the devils weighing them down. That despite the cluncky combat and the many bosses that sit in one place with you shooting them down with your little guns, or the fact that two bosses from DMC 1 were copy and pasted into DMC 2 I still see a love. No spoilers as to what but I feel like Dante’s final boss fight really shows that if given a pinch more time and a little more wiggle room what DMC 2 could have been.

I recommend it as a piece of art trying its best. I know alot of people don’t see that but I do feel that DMC is a story about trying no matter what. Fitting then even for what people call the blacksheep of the series right next to Dmc Devil May Cry but that’s another story I want to get around to some other time.

[80srichie]

the boys next door

hey! this fic was created by the wonderful @80slieberher and i ! it’s based off of the original 2014 script where richie and billiam were neighbours. enjoy!

also, since lana’s a degenerate, she switched tenses halfway through so if you catch any weird phrasing, please know it was all her fault.

summary:  Richie Tozier and Bill Denbrough have been neighbors and best friend since before they can remember. However best friends at home, they don’t interact much outside of their separate friend groups at school - but this all changes when Bill and Richie each get a glimpse of a cute boy in their neighbor's window.

words: 2451

ships: major reddie and stenbrough

CHAPTER ONE: STREET FIGHTER

It wasn’t often Stan Uris went to his best friend Richie Tozier’s house. He much preferred to spend time in his own humble abode - away from the filth that was Richie’s room. But today was an exception - as Richie had just gotten the new Atari game that he’d been saving up for for the last year or so, with however much help his parents lent him.

Richie could barely keep his hands off of his shiny new game - he had mowed so many lawns to lead up to this, and now that it was here, it was hard to take him away from it even for a moment - hence why he’d invited Stan here instead of their usual Saturdays at Stan’s. He swore Stan was just as excited about the game as he was - even if he was much more reserved about it.

“Oh it’s so cool, Stan, you’re gonna dig it!” Richie babbled as Stan dropped his backpack on Richie’s bedroom floor, setting it against the bed and away from the mess.

“I mean, duh, we’ve only been waiting to play this for the last year,” Stan rolled his eyes humorously, “I dig it already and I haven’t even seen it.”

Richie grinned childishly and seized his best friend by the wrist, pulling him out of his room and down the stairs just in time for neither of them to hear the buzzing of the walkie talkie sitting on Richie’s desk.

The Tozier household smelled of pancakes and eggs, Richie’s mother - Maggie, she’d requested Stan call her since they were young - was careful to keep the menu kosher when Stan was over. Richie’s stomach growled when the scent filled his nose, but he was too focused on showing Stan his new game to pay any attention to it.

Soon enough, the two boys were sat in Richie’s living room, each with a controller in their hands, staring intently at the box of a television screen, the colors of the game reflecting in their irises. Richie heard his mother chuckle at them from the kitchen doorway, and saw her walk back in from the corner of his eye.

Their third game was interrupted by a knock on the door, but not just any knock - a code knock Richie had memorized for as long as he could remember. Three taps with the knuckles, one with the side of the fist - it was Bill.

The Denbroughs and The Toziers had been neighbors since years before either boys were born - their parents both very friendly with each other for a very long time. Bill and Richie had been inseparable for the first five years - only drifting a bit when making different friend groups at their school, but still the same best friends in the comfort of their own homes.

“I got it!” Richie called to notify his parents, still eating in the kitchen, and scrambled up toward the door - not even bothering to pause the game.

As soon as he opened the door, his friend sputtered out, “I’ve been trying to call you all muh-morning, don’t you have your wuh-walkie on you? I wuh-wanted to see if you wuh-wanted to go to the arcade.”

Again before Richie could reply, though he opened his mouth to, he was interrupted by Stan - who was trudging irritatedly up behind him, watching his keds slide across the wood floor, hissing, “Richie! We lost the game thanks to-!” Stan was cut off by his own volition when he looked up toward Richie, seeing the boy with the mop of curly black hair staring at him, before looking past him and to the tall boy with brown-red hair who gave him the same, open-mouthed stare. “Who’s this?” He changed his statement, now standing behind his friend.

“This is Billiam - my neighbor,” Richie glanced over his shoulder at Stan before looking back to Bill, who still stood on the porch but was now staring at something behind him, “Anyway, I can’t go to the arcade today, Stan the man and I have other pla-”

Stan barely listened to Richie’s statement, hearing it but not processing and he observed the boy in front of them. With bright blue eyes, freckles, and his mouth upturned in a somewhat lopsided smile, Stan thought this might be the cutest boy he’d ever seen. “We can go to the arcade,” He interrupted and kicked Richie’s heel, effectively quieting him and causing him to turn around and glare at Stan.

“Fine, let me go get my bag of quarters, then.” He huffed before bounding up the stairs to his room, retrieving his gallon bag filled hallway with coins and leaving Bill and Stan alone in his doorway.

“Muh-my names not really Buh-Billiam, buh-by the wuh-way. J-Just Buh-Bill,” The boy - Bill - smiled at Stan, accompanying it with a breathy chuckle, “He’s called muh-me that since wuh-we were kids.”

“Yeah, I figured,” Stan returned the smile at the thought of his friend, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, “I’ve been dubbed Stan the man since kindergarten - along with probably a million others.”

Bill chuckled again, looking up from under his eyelashes at Stan, making Stan bite the inside of his cheek.

“Stan the man, huh?”

Richie’s return prevented Stan from answering and effectively broke his and Bill’s moment, but he wasn’t even paying attention as he slid a pair of converse on, yelling, “Mom! Stan and I are going to the arcade!” As he exited, Stan following.

“I have a friend whuh-who can come, so it’s not tuh-two on one,” Bill explained as he jogged down the stairs - Richie noticing that he seemed more joyful than usual. Maybe he got up on the right side of the bed.

Stan and Richie watched Bill jog up his own front porch steps, following after him to wait at the door while he went inside.

Bill returned with a boy much shorter than him, but Bill was always tall. Richie’s eyes were immediately glued to this small boy with neatly combed hair - something Stan didn’t fail to notice.

“Thuh-this is Eddie,” Bill explained, and Richie’s mouth was quick to open.

“Hiya, Eds, long time no see since Spanish class!” He grinned a goofy smile and slung an arm around the boy - who quickly ducked out of his grip.

“So you two know each other?” Stan rose an eyebrow - not believing this. Richie just had the gayest glint in his eye that Stan, as his best friend, couldn’t miss - like he was seeing this boy for the first time.

In actuality, Richie had never seen Eddie outside of school. School, where Eddie sat with his pencils neatly arranged on his desk and only spoke when spoken to. Outside of school, now with the sun glinting on his soft freckles and illuminating golden flecks in his eyes in a way that made Richie’s stomach do flips like it never had before. Richie’s awe was obviously covered by a hasty quip.

“C’mon, don’t be like that, Eddie Spaghetti!” Richie claimed, ignoring Stan’s question, “He’s probably just mad because me and his mom kept him up all night.”

“Ugh, shut up,” The boy rolled his eyes and scoffed, “That’s so disgusting.”

Before they could continue to stand there with the door open, shout from a young voice followed behind Bill. “Billy, Billy! Where are you guys going?”

The three boys watched Bill turn around to face a smaller boy, who looked almost like Bill but not quite. This young boy was shorter than Eddie, with lighter hair and darker eyes - but adorable nonetheless.

Richie was quick to move away from Eddie, attention quickly drawn to this new person who apparently was only actually new to Stan.

“Ay, Jee-man! How’s it hangin’, homeslice?” Richie leaned down and he and Georgie sack hands, once, twice, three times, wiggle their fingers and end with a fistbump - their ‘secret’ handshake, “Stan, this is Georgie, Bill’s little brother.”

“Yuh-yeah,” Bll said, drawing Stan’s attention to him once more as he seemed to shake his head, looking to be shaking a thought away, he turned to the boy, “Sorry, buh-bud, not today. We have fuh-four of us for even teams.”

Did he just look at Stan? Stan was sure he just looked at him from the corner of his eye.

“Aww, okay,” Georgie pouted.

“Cheer up, homie!” Richie beamed again, “We can go another day! Just you, me, and Bill!”

Georgie smiled and nodded, re-entering the house and closing the door behind him, leaving the for of them standing on the porch.

Ten minutes brings them pedaling in a diamond shape down Almond Road and past the library, Bill yelling “Hi-yo, Silver, away!” as his bike whooshed past all of theirs.

“Slow down, Bill! Your old lady bike is too fast for us!” Richie yelled behind his friend, pedaling faster in attempt to catch up.

They reach the arcade in minutes, the four of them bustling inside and Bill turning around to face the other three boys, “Suh-so, what first? Stan?”

Stan quirked his eyebrows, very not used to being singled out - Richie usually made the decisions for him with his big mouth - but parted his lips to answer before Richie butted in as usual.

“Street Fighter!” He exclaimed, bounding over to the machine - the rest following.

“Okuh-kay, Stan, do you wuh-wanna take first turn wuh-with me?” Bill turned to Stan again.

Richie laughed awkwardly, creasing his eyebrows, “This is kind of mine and Stan’s favorite game - we always play together. Mind taking next turn with Eds?”

“Don’t call me that, asshole,” Eddie chimed from a dejected-looking Bill’s right side.

“Uh, yuh-yeah, sure.”

Stan licked his lips, not sure how Richie was going to take his next statement, but spoke regardless, “Hey, Rich, I thought you wanted to beat your high score on Dig Dug? You and Eddie should try that first.” He ended, trying his best to sound helpfully suggestive enough to distract Richie.

Per his friend’s suggestion, Richie’s ears perked up. “Oh yeah! Good idea, Staniel! Eds?” He turned to Eddie with raised eyebrows.

“I just told you not to call me that, but fine, let’s go.”

Richie practically skipped to the game, listening to Eddie’s feet shuffle on the carpet behind him, “You want first turn, Eddie Spaghetti?” He asked, turning to the freckled boy behind him who now looked the way he did in school - face illuminated by the pale lighting of the arcade - but was somehow still different. Richie couldn’t quite put his finger on it, and pondered it distractedly while Eddie rolled his eyes and stepped forward, sliding a quarter through the slot and putting his hands over the controls. Richie briefly wondered what it feels like to hold those hands - but shook the thought away as quickly as it had occurred. He waited unusually patiently for his turn - cheering Eddie on and earning various, “Shut up”s in doing so.

“You know,” Richie says, in the middle of his game, eyes glued to the screen, “I heard of this one girl, like, ten years ago that got, like, two million on this. Aw shit!” He frowned as his character was caught by a pixelated monster, slamming his hand down on the machine.

“Let’s see,” Eddie shrugged, placing his hand absentmindedly over Richie’s and pressing on the up button. Richie hopes Eddie doesn’t look up as he feels the heat rise in his cheeks.  

Richie’s focus moved from Eddie’s hand on top of his to the screen once more to see, at the top and just right of the number one, the word ‘MADMAX’ next to a score of 1,996,746, causing both of their mouths to fall open.

Richie glanced behind him and spotted Stan and Bill, Stan with a smile on his face wider than he was used to seeing.

“How are you suh-so good at this?” Bill sighed but smiled anyway, and it sort of made Stan’s heart flutter.

“I’m not, Richie beats me every time, I think you’re just bad at it,” Stan laughed, turning to Bill after their fifth game. Eddie and Richie had never returned, and Stan figured Richie was probably dragging Eddie around the arcade and had forgotten about Street Fighter now. Stan wondered if it was wrong to be relieved, but he was just having so much fun with this cute boy from next door.

Stan and Bill walked together to several other games, and by the time Stan ran out of quarters, Bill’s cheeks were already so pink that they couldn’t get darker, so when he started paying for Stan’s games and Stan was pretty sure the heat in his face meant that his cheeks matched.

Eventually, Bill ran out of coins, too, and they were forced to scour the lot for their friends.

Richie and Eddie were found both holding onto one joystick, Richie’s hand on top of Eddie’s and the contact feeling like it was warming him even though Eddie’s fingers were rather cold.

Stan smirked at this, noting the way Richie was watching Eddie intently, following behind Bill as he approached them.

“Stuh-Stan and I ran out of quarters,” He announced, breaking Richie and Eddie’s eyes away from the game.

Richie looked at his watch, thinking about how neither he or Stan had eaten and now it’s three o’clock in the afternoon and he’s really hungry now.

“Yeah, we gotta bounce, I’m starving!” He gripped his stomach, feigning starvation and evoking an eye roll from both Eddie and Stan - both of them catching this and smiling at each other. Richie doesn’t fail to notice, “Back to the crib!” Richie emphasized, looking smugly at both of them.

Richie and Stan reached home first, each waving goodbye to Bill and Eddie as they dropped their bikes in Richie’s yard (Well, Richie drops his, Stan kicks down the kickstand and sets it upright) and climbed the steps to his house - Richie already talking.

“So,” He smirked, “Ya think Bill is pretty bangin’, huh, Stanley?” He wiggled his eyebrows before Stan elbowed him in the gut, walking past Richie and across the threshold into the house, murmuring, “Yeah, he was cool.”

“Well, not gonna lie, Eds is pretty slammin’, too,” He chuckled.

He didn’t anticipate the response he received from Stan - whose eyes widen as he proclaims, “Oh, I know!”

He squinted, closing his front door behind him and watching his friend walk into the kitchen from the foyer. ‘He knows?’ Richie’s eyebrows furrowed as he wondered silently, tossing the thought of the possibility of Stan taking the same liking to Eddie as he did around in his mind before his mother called him in the kitchen - informing him lunch was ready.

let us know what you think! part two? taglist? 

ask

masterlist

lana

emerson’s taglist:  @trashrichie @eddiekazpbraks @qxantxm @bloggerboy101 @losersclub101 @pancoon237 @strangerthoughts @peachycin @loverboykaspbrak @thelosersof1988 @spookyskarsgard @freecssu @mbates12 @trashmouthreddie @richie-tczier @summerxle   @joomtrash @acourtofbooks @trashmoutheds @hawkiye @aurordafni @strangerbeeps @reddieburnstheretoo @colorful-dodie @howellhxlic @somenates27   @eddierichietozier @emo-trash-overlord @rhubarberous @eddie-kaspjack @thesingingreader @thalialightwood @trashmouthreddie @cryttalized @karynrose @detectivejas @richiesloser @woahtherebuddyfriend @aurordafni @bcckybeaver @killerxqueer @sutterkeely @achievehuntress @rheddie @vapememikey @tozier-club @derrylossers   @myreddieheart @reddieornotasshole @eddies-inhaler @exceededexpectations   @toxzier   @spooky-risley @eds2fannypacks @myreddieheart @solbrenthimmel @80sbenverly  @linnssweatpants @standies @panicatbakerst @smol-and-annoying @justberrythings @losersclubreddie @daughterofslenderman @s-s-georgie @what-the-hell-is-graywater   @pastelreddie @that70skiwi @plebcake @petitephan @nie1polecam @vitomire @notagoodplace4gods @that70skiwi @vintagetozier

lana’s taglist:  @oureddiekaspbrak @r-richie  @the-awkward-lettuce-turtle

[edgewaterfarmcsa]

CSA WEEK 14

P I C K L I S T

RASPBERRIES!!! - WATERMELON - GREEN KALE - LEMONGRASS - ASIAN EGGPLANT - THAI BASIL - SWEET CARMEN PEPPERS - SHISHITO PEPPERS - DANGJO CHEONG YANG HOT PEP - CARROTS - ONION - GARLIC

 Pooh Sprague (original farmer at Edgewater with wife and fastest bean picker Anne) infrequently updates a blog on our website -Pooh’s Corner- that offers his seasonal farming perspective etc… he posted this on Tuesday (September 14th), just in time for the CSA newsletter, thought yall might like checking in on Pooh’s thoughts…

 PRO-TIPS:

Shishitooooosssss!!  You know what to do, but if you have forgotten: bring these peps right to your pan or grill, shmear in olive oil and fry or grill until popped and blistered.  Salt and Devour immediately

FOR NOTES ON LEMONGRASS AND HOW TO USE: 

Scroll back to week 10 and read up on all things lemongrass. 

 BUT FOR MY FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH LEMONGRASS, SEE:

 TOM KHA SOUP (Thai coconut chicken soup with chicken, mushroom and coconut milk)

8 oz. (226 g) boneless and skinless chicken, breast or thighs, cut into strips or thin pieces

20 canned straw mushrooms

1 1/2 cups coconut milk

1 cup water

1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 3-inch lengths and pounded

6 kaffir lime leaves , lightly bruised to release the flavor

6 slices galangal

8 bird's eye chilies, lightly pounded

3 tablespoons fish sauce

2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

Add water, lemongrass, galangal, chilies, kaffir lime leaves into a pot and bring it to boil. Add straw mushrooms and chicken and boil it on medium heat for a few minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add coconut milk and boil for a couple more minutes. Turn off the heat and add lime juice and fish sauce to taste. Add chopped cilantro before serving.

If you can't find galangal, do not use ginger. Ginger is not the substitute for galangal. "Tom Kha" means galangal in Thai. However, if you absolutely can't find galangal and still wish to make this because you love this soup so much, just make it without galangal.

 https://rasamalaysia.com/tom-kha-gai-recipe-thai-coconut-chicken-soup/

 Spicy eggplant from the burma superstar cook book

Curry style eggplant awesome over rice.

 3 Japanese Eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ tablespoons canola oil

2 cups finely diced yellow onion

3 tablespoons minced garlic

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1-2 Thai chiles, thinly sliced or 2 tablespoons minced jalapeno

1 small dried chile, broken in half, seeds retained

2 teaspoons shrimp paste

½ teaspoon turmeric

½ teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon fish sauce

Handful of fried garlic chips (for how to on garlic chips: again head to our CSA BLOG and scroll back to CSA week 6)

Cilantro or thai basil sprigs for garnish

1 lime or lemon cut into wedges for garnish

 Season the eggplant with salt and scatter onto a clean dish towel.  Let it sit while you prepare the remaining ingredients, at least 10 minutes.  Once the eggplant begins to bead with water, wrap the towel lightly and squeeze to remove excess liquid from the eggplant.  

 In a wok or pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the eggplant, lower the heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, until the eggplant begins to soften, about 4 minutes.  Using a slotted spoon, scoop out the eggplant and transfer to a plate.  

 Heat the remaining 1 ½ tablespoons of oil in the wok.  Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring often to prevent scorching, until softened, about 4 minutes.  Stir in the garlic, ginger, fresh and fried chiles, and shrimp paste and cook until the onions are completely soft and starting to turn golden, 3 more minutes.  

 Add the turmeric and paprika and then stir in the eggplant and about ½ cup of water.  Lower to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is very soft and most of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.  Season with fish sauce, adding more for a saltier flavor, and squeeze a wedge or two of lime over the top.  Serve in a bowl and top with cilantro (and or thai basil!).  Offer extra lime wedges along side.   

 The 7th Inning Stretch September 14, 2021:   We are approaching mid September here. School is back in session and as if that weren’t a wake-up call, we are staring down the ultimate harbinger of fall with the arrival of the World’s Fair in Tunbridge, VT. Surely the days will start getting much shorter now, and we often remark about it. We will see the breaking out of sweatshirts, neoprene picking gloves, rain gear and wool toques. In their orange rain pants the crew looks like they just came off the boat from the TV series “Deadliest Catch.” As the season winds down, many farmers are licking their seasonal wounds. We are -in farmer terms- “just past the 7th inning stretch” in our seasons, and there is still much to accomplish. This includes a lot of planting and seeding within the greenhouses to serve the late fall CSA. Our onions are gathered up, the first of three plantings of carrots up and in the cooler, and if Mike can find enough parts between our two old potato harvesters to make one functional harvester, we will soon be digging our 6 acres of potatoes. Once that crop is all graded, sized and stored in our barn, we can start washing and shipping them. We can then turn our attention to: cleaning up the place; planting next year’s garlic; readying the strawberries with sprays and mulching for next spring; fixing broken doors and sills in our funky collection of old greenhouses. Then the contracts will expire on the Jamaican crew, and they will head home to tend their own farms by early November. Plenty to do, and seemingly insufficient time and bodies to make it through the list. I have heard the muttering of “I wouldn’t mind a good frost now….” and this time it didn’t come from my lips first. On many farms, the wet July here in the Twin States brought forth an epic surge of weed germination and growth…and Edgewater was no exception. We daily watched the galinsoga engulf the strawberries, with no spare hours available to get in there and clean it out. We are looking for a good frost to freeze it down, leaving the strawberries to bask in the filtering fall sunlight without competition. Fortunately, the strawberry plants are in very good shape, and we are (perhaps foolishly) getting optimistic about our spring prospects. But everyone is busy harvesting and packing out 10 hours a day, and soon the light levels will dictate just how long we will be able to work in the fields. Despite a crop failure with pumpkins and winter squash, we have an almost epic fall raspberries crop. Trying to harvest and move that crop is mopping up a lot of extra hours. In the farmstand we have had to close down on Mondays for the rest of the season, because of a labor shortage, and we have had to reschedule the help we have. Labor shortage or not, our melons,tomatoes, pepper, cut flowers, leeks will be out there for another 4 weeks unless a frost stops them in their steps. Weather continues to be the biggest challenge and unknown for farmers, along with a dearth of local labor. Our season started hot and droughty from the end of March until the end of June. It was abnormally hot for so early in the growing season, and that created some minor problems in the greenhouses, but there was a non-stop 10-15 mph breeze or wind that just never abated. I felt like we were trying to farm in Pueblo, Colorado. The lack of rain was tough enough, but the constant wind withered and devastated transplanted crops. Then, the weather changed, and in 20 minutes we got an inch of rain, and it then continued to rain off and on for a month. A lot of disease showed up, so we were confronted with trading one extreme problem for another. However, August turned up benignly normal, and with adequate moisture the potatoes sized up and the field tomatoes and melons kicked into gear. We have been challenged, but thus far undamaged, by hurricanes. Many of my seacoast friends prepared for the worst wind event they hoped never to see. Weather models were in constant flux for us here in the Upper Valley. On the Saturday that Hurricane Ida was making landfall on Long Island, the forecast for us from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was calling for a range of 2-12” of rain. I understand that weather forecasting is not an exact science, but for me there is a big difference in the amount that 2” dumps and what 12 “ would look like. At two inches I would get the tractor bucket out after the storm passes, and do a little touch-up work on our gravel roads and driveways. After twelve inches in so few hours I would be knee-deep in insurance claims, as well as sleeping and cooking meals in our farmstand….for a long time, too. What did we really get in the end? In what was forecast to be the middle of the storm, I went out and mowed my lawn. And I could not have been happier to be doing so. Fall will always be a great season to me. There is plenty of natural color in the pumpkins, ornamental corn, and chrysanthemums as well as on the trees in the woods. The warmth in this season is welcome, as opposed to the intense sun and heat of summer. Fall crops roll into the pack house: beets, potatoes, turnip, carrots. Onions, garlic, leeks and cabbage. When it's cold, we can add a couple of thin layers of clothes to keep warm until the sun burns through the fall fogs and warms us. Migratory birds come and go, and soon we will start to lure the songbirds to the birdfeeders. In deep fall, the woodstove starts to operate with greater frequency. Then one day in November, it (the woodstove) will start its full time nonstop operation until late April, when the sun once more strengthens its grip on us all.

 PRO-TIPS:

Shishitooooosssss!!  You know what to do, but if you have forgotten: bring these peps right to your pan or grill, shmear in olive oil and fry or grill until popped and blistered.  Salt and Devour immediately

 FOR NOTES ON LEMONGRASS AND HOW TO USE:  head to the CSA blog - yes! Did you know that these newsletters get posted weekly on our web page? https://www.edgewaterfarm.com/csa-blog… 

Scroll back to week 10 and read up on all things lemongrass. 

 BUT FOR MY FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH LEMONGRASS, SEE:

 TOM KHA SOUP (Thai coconut chicken soup with chicken, mushroom and coconut milk)

8 oz. (226 g) boneless and skinless chicken, breast or thighs, cut into strips or thin pieces

20 canned straw mushrooms

1 1/2 cups coconut milk

1 cup water

1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 3-inch lengths and pounded

6 kaffir lime leaves , lightly bruised to release the flavor

6 slices galangal

8 bird's eye chilies, lightly pounded

3 tablespoons fish sauce

2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

Add water, lemongrass, galangal, chilies, kaffir lime leaves into a pot and bring it to boil. Add straw mushrooms and chicken and boil it on medium heat for a few minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add coconut milk and boil for a couple more minutes. Turn off the heat and add lime juice and fish sauce to taste. Add chopped cilantro before serving.

If you can't find galangal, do not use ginger. Ginger is not the substitute for galangal. "Tom Kha" means galangal in Thai. However, if you absolutely can't find galangal and still wish to make this because you love this soup so much, just make it without galangal.

 https://rasamalaysia.com/tom-kha-gai-recipe-thai-coconut-chicken-soup/

 Spicy eggplant from the burma superstar cook book

Curry style eggplant awesome over rice.

 3 Japanese Eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ tablespoons canola oil

2 cups finely diced yellow onion

3 tablespoons minced garlic

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1-2 Thai chiles, thinly sliced or 2 tablespoons minced jalapeno

1 small dried chile, broken in half, seeds retained

2 teaspoons shrimp paste

½ teaspoon turmeric

½ teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon fish sauce

Handful of fried garlic chips (for how to on garlic chips: again head to our CSA BLOG and scroll back to CSA week 6)

Cilantro or thai basil sprigs for garnish

1 lime or lemon cut into wedges for garnish

 Season the eggplant with salt and scatter onto a clean dish towel.  Let it sit while you prepare the remaining ingredients, at least 10 minutes.  Once the eggplant begins to bead with water, wrap the towel lightly and squeeze to remove excess liquid from the eggplant.  

 In a wok or pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the eggplant, lower the heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, until the eggplant begins to soften, about 4 minutes.  Using a slotted spoon, scoop out the eggplant and transfer to a plate.  

 Heat the remaining 1 ½ tablespoons of oil in the wok.  Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring often to prevent scorching, until softened, about 4 minutes.  Stir in the garlic, ginger, fresh and fried chiles, and shrimp paste and cook until the onions are completely soft and starting to turn golden, 3 more minutes.  

 Add the turmeric and paprika and then stir in the eggplant and about ½ cup of water.  Lower to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is very soft and most of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.  Season with fish sauce, adding more for a saltier flavor, and squeeze a wedge or two of lime over the top.  Serve in a bowl and top with cilantro (and or thai basil!).  Offer extra lime wedges along side.   

 The 7th Inning Stretch September 14, 2021:   We are approaching mid September here. School is back in session and as if that weren’t a wake-up call, we are staring down the ultimate harbinger of fall with the arrival of the World’s Fair in Tunbridge, VT. Surely the days will start getting much shorter now, and we often remark about it. We will see the breaking out of sweatshirts, neoprene picking gloves, rain gear and wool toques. In their orange rain pants the crew looks like they just came off the boat from the TV series “Deadliest Catch.” As the season winds down, many farmers are licking their seasonal wounds. We are -in farmer terms- “just past the 7th inning stretch” in our seasons, and there is still much to accomplish. This includes a lot of planting and seeding within the greenhouses to serve the late fall CSA. Our onions are gathered up, the first of three plantings of carrots up and in the cooler, and if Mike can find enough parts between our two old potato harvesters to make one functional harvester, we will soon be digging our 6 acres of potatoes. Once that crop is all graded, sized and stored in our barn, we can start washing and shipping them. We can then turn our attention to: cleaning up the place; planting next year’s garlic; readying the strawberries with sprays and mulching for next spring; fixing broken doors and sills in our funky collection of old greenhouses. Then the contracts will expire on the Jamaican crew, and they will head home to tend their own farms by early November. Plenty to do, and seemingly insufficient time and bodies to make it through the list. I have heard the muttering of “I wouldn’t mind a good frost now….” and this time it didn’t come from my lips first. On many farms, the wet July here in the Twin States brought forth an epic surge of weed germination and growth…and Edgewater was no exception. We daily watched the galinsoga engulf the strawberries, with no spare hours available to get in there and clean it out. We are looking for a good frost to freeze it down, leaving the strawberries to bask in the filtering fall sunlight without competition. Fortunately, the strawberry plants are in very good shape, and we are (perhaps foolishly) getting optimistic about our spring prospects. But everyone is busy harvesting and packing out 10 hours a day, and soon the light levels will dictate just how long we will be able to work in the fields. Despite a crop failure with pumpkins and winter squash, we have an almost epic fall raspberries crop. Trying to harvest and move that crop is mopping up a lot of extra hours. In the farmstand we have had to close down on Mondays for the rest of the season, because of a labor shortage, and we have had to reschedule the help we have. Labor shortage or not, our melons,tomatoes, pepper, cut flowers, leeks will be out there for another 4 weeks unless a frost stops them in their steps. Weather continues to be the biggest challenge and unknown for farmers, along with a dearth of local labor. Our season started hot and droughty from the end of March until the end of June. It was abnormally hot for so early in the growing season, and that created some minor problems in the greenhouses, but there was a non-stop 10-15 mph breeze or wind that just never abated. I felt like we were trying to farm in Pueblo, Colorado. The lack of rain was tough enough, but the constant wind withered and devastated transplanted crops. Then, the weather changed, and in 20 minutes we got an inch of rain, and it then continued to rain off and on for a month. A lot of disease showed up, so we were confronted with trading one extreme problem for another. However, August turned up benignly normal, and with adequate moisture the potatoes sized up and the field tomatoes and melons kicked into gear. We have been challenged, but thus far undamaged, by hurricanes. Many of my seacoast friends prepared for the worst wind event they hoped never to see. Weather models were in constant flux for us here in the Upper Valley. On the Saturday that Hurricane Ida was making landfall on Long Island, the forecast for us from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was calling for a range of 2-12” of rain. I understand that weather forecasting is not an exact science, but for me there is a big difference in the amount that 2” dumps and what 12 “ would look like. At two inches I would get the tractor bucket out after the storm passes, and do a little touch-up work on our gravel roads and driveways. After twelve inches in so few hours I would be knee-deep in insurance claims, as well as sleeping and cooking meals in our farmstand….for a long time, too. What did we really get in the end? In what was forecast to be the middle of the storm, I went out and mowed my lawn. And I could not have been happier to be doing so. Fall will always be a great season to me. There is plenty of natural color in the pumpkins, ornamental corn, and chrysanthemums as well as on the trees in the woods. The warmth in this season is welcome, as opposed to the intense sun and heat of summer. Fall crops roll into the pack house: beets, potatoes, turnip, carrots. Onions, garlic, leeks and cabbage. When it's cold, we can add a couple of thin layers of clothes to keep warm until the sun burns through the fall fogs and warms us. Migratory birds come and go, and soon we will start to lure the songbirds to the birdfeeders. In deep fall, the woodstove starts to operate with greater frequency. Then one day in November, it (the woodstove) will start its full time nonstop operation until late April, when the sun once more strengthens its grip on us all.

 PRO-TIPS:

Shishitooooosssss!!  You know what to do, but if you have forgotten: bring these peps right to your pan or grill, shmear in olive oil and fry or grill until popped and blistered.  Salt and Devour immediately

 FOR NOTES ON LEMONGRASS AND HOW TO USE:  head to the CSA blog - yes! Did you know that these newsletters get posted weekly on our web page? https://www.edgewaterfarm.com/csa-blog… 

Scroll back to week 10 and read up on all things lemongrass. 

 BUT FOR MY FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH LEMONGRASS, SEE:

 TOM KHA SOUP (Thai coconut chicken soup with chicken, mushroom and coconut milk)

8 oz. (226 g) boneless and skinless chicken, breast or thighs, cut into strips or thin pieces

20 canned straw mushrooms

1 1/2 cups coconut milk

1 cup water

1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 3-inch lengths and pounded

6 kaffir lime leaves , lightly bruised to release the flavor

6 slices galangal

8 bird's eye chilies, lightly pounded

3 tablespoons fish sauce

2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

Add water, lemongrass, galangal, chilies, kaffir lime leaves into a pot and bring it to boil. Add straw mushrooms and chicken and boil it on medium heat for a few minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add coconut milk and boil for a couple more minutes. Turn off the heat and add lime juice and fish sauce to taste. Add chopped cilantro before serving.

If you can't find galangal, do not use ginger. Ginger is not the substitute for galangal. "Tom Kha" means galangal in Thai. However, if you absolutely can't find galangal and still wish to make this because you love this soup so much, just make it without galangal.

 https://rasamalaysia.com/tom-kha-gai-recipe-thai-coconut-chicken-soup/

 Spicy eggplant from the burma superstar cook book

Curry style eggplant awesome over rice.

 3 Japanese Eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ tablespoons canola oil

2 cups finely diced yellow onion

3 tablespoons minced garlic

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1-2 Thai chiles, thinly sliced or 2 tablespoons minced jalapeno

1 small dried chile, broken in half, seeds retained

2 teaspoons shrimp paste

½ teaspoon turmeric

½ teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon fish sauce

Handful of fried garlic chips (for how to on garlic chips: again head to our CSA BLOG and scroll back to CSA week 6)

Cilantro or thai basil sprigs for garnish

1 lime or lemon cut into wedges for garnish

 Season the eggplant with salt and scatter onto a clean dish towel.  Let it sit while you prepare the remaining ingredients, at least 10 minutes.  Once the eggplant begins to bead with water, wrap the towel lightly and squeeze to remove excess liquid from the eggplant.  

 In a wok or pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the eggplant, lower the heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, until the eggplant begins to soften, about 4 minutes.  Using a slotted spoon, scoop out the eggplant and transfer to a plate.  

 Heat the remaining 1 ½ tablespoons of oil in the wok.  Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring often to prevent scorching, until softened, about 4 minutes.  Stir in the garlic, ginger, fresh and fried chiles, and shrimp paste and cook until the onions are completely soft and starting to turn golden, 3 more minutes.  

 Add the turmeric and paprika and then stir in the eggplant and about ½ cup of water.  Lower to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is very soft and most of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.  Season with fish sauce, adding more for a saltier flavor, and squeeze a wedge or two of lime over the top.  Serve in a bowl and top with cilantro (and or thai basil!).  Offer extra lime wedges along side.   

The 7th Inning Stretch September 14, 2021:   We are approaching mid September here. School is back in session and as if that weren’t a wake-up call, we are staring down the ultimate harbinger of fall with the arrival of the World’s Fair in Tunbridge, VT. Surely the days will start getting much shorter now, and we often remark about it. We will see the breaking out of sweatshirts, neoprene picking gloves, rain gear and wool toques. In their orange rain pants the crew looks like they just came off the boat from the TV series “Deadliest Catch.” As the season winds down, many farmers are licking their seasonal wounds. We are -in farmer terms- “just past the 7th inning stretch” in our seasons, and there is still much to accomplish. This includes a lot of planting and seeding within the greenhouses to serve the late fall CSA. Our onions are gathered up, the first of three plantings of carrots up and in the cooler, and if Mike can find enough parts between our two old potato harvesters to make one functional harvester, we will soon be digging our 6 acres of potatoes. Once that crop is all graded, sized and stored in our barn, we can start washing and shipping them. We can then turn our attention to: cleaning up the place; planting next year’s garlic; readying the strawberries with sprays and mulching for next spring; fixing broken doors and sills in our funky collection of old greenhouses. Then the contracts will expire on the Jamaican crew, and they will head home to tend their own farms by early November. Plenty to do, and seemingly insufficient time and bodies to make it through the list. I have heard the muttering of “I wouldn’t mind a good frost now….” and this time it didn’t come from my lips first. On many farms, the wet July here in the Twin States brought forth an epic surge of weed germination and growth…and Edgewater was no exception. We daily watched the galinsoga engulf the strawberries, with no spare hours available to get in there and clean it out. We are looking for a good frost to freeze it down, leaving the strawberries to bask in the filtering fall sunlight without competition. Fortunately, the strawberry plants are in very good shape, and we are (perhaps foolishly) getting optimistic about our spring prospects. But everyone is busy harvesting and packing out 10 hours a day, and soon the light levels will dictate just how long we will be able to work in the fields. Despite a crop failure with pumpkins and winter squash, we have an almost epic fall raspberries crop. Trying to harvest and move that crop is mopping up a lot of extra hours. In the farmstand we have had to close down on Mondays for the rest of the season, because of a labor shortage, and we have had to reschedule the help we have. Labor shortage or not, our melons,tomatoes, pepper, cut flowers, leeks will be out there for another 4 weeks unless a frost stops them in their steps. Weather continues to be the biggest challenge and unknown for farmers, along with a dearth of local labor. Our season started hot and droughty from the end of March until the end of June. It was abnormally hot for so early in the growing season, and that created some minor problems in the greenhouses, but there was a non-stop 10-15 mph breeze or wind that just never abated. I felt like we were trying to farm in Pueblo, Colorado. The lack of rain was tough enough, but the constant wind withered and devastated transplanted crops. Then, the weather changed, and in 20 minutes we got an inch of rain, and it then continued to rain off and on for a month. A lot of disease showed up, so we were confronted with trading one extreme problem for another. However, August turned up benignly normal, and with adequate moisture the potatoes sized up and the field tomatoes and melons kicked into gear. We have been challenged, but thus far undamaged, by hurricanes. Many of my seacoast friends prepared for the worst wind event they hoped never to see. Weather models were in constant flux for us here in the Upper Valley. On the Saturday that Hurricane Ida was making landfall on Long Island, the forecast for us from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was calling for a range of 2-12” of rain. I understand that weather forecasting is not an exact science, but for me there is a big difference in the amount that 2” dumps and what 12 “ would look like. At two inches I would get the tractor bucket out after the storm passes, and do a little touch-up work on our gravel roads and driveways. After twelve inches in so few hours I would be knee-deep in insurance claims, as well as sleeping and cooking meals in our farmstand….for a long time, too. What did we really get in the end? In what was forecast to be the middle of the storm, I went out and mowed my lawn. And I could not have been happier to be doing so. Fall will always be a great season to me. There is plenty of natural color in the pumpkins, ornamental corn, and chrysanthemums as well as on the trees in the woods. The warmth in this season is welcome, as opposed to the intense sun and heat of summer. Fall crops roll into the pack house: beets, potatoes, turnip, carrots. Onions, garlic, leeks and cabbage. When it's cold, we can add a couple of thin layers of clothes to keep warm until the sun burns through the fall fogs and warms us. Migratory birds come and go, and soon we will start to lure the songbirds to the birdfeeders. In deep fall, the woodstove starts to operate with greater frequency. Then one day in November, it (the woodstove) will start its full time nonstop operation until late April, when the sun once more strengthens its grip on us all.

 PRO-TIPS:

Shishitooooosssss!!  You know what to do, but if you have forgotten: bring these peps right to your pan or grill, shmear in olive oil and fry or grill until popped and blistered.  Salt and Devour immediately

 FOR NOTES ON LEMONGRASS AND HOW TO USE:  head to the CSA blog - yes! Did you know that these newsletters get posted weekly on our web page? https://www.edgewaterfarm.com/csa-blog… 

Scroll back to week 10 and read up on all things lemongrass. 

 BUT FOR MY FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH LEMONGRASS, SEE:

 TOM KHA SOUP (Thai coconut chicken soup with chicken, mushroom and coconut milk)

8 oz. (226 g) boneless and skinless chicken, breast or thighs, cut into strips or thin pieces

20 canned straw mushrooms

1 1/2 cups coconut milk

1 cup water

1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 3-inch lengths and pounded

6 kaffir lime leaves , lightly bruised to release the flavor

6 slices galangal

8 bird's eye chilies, lightly pounded

3 tablespoons fish sauce

2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

Add water, lemongrass, galangal, chilies, kaffir lime leaves into a pot and bring it to boil. Add straw mushrooms and chicken and boil it on medium heat for a few minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add coconut milk and boil for a couple more minutes. Turn off the heat and add lime juice and fish sauce to taste. Add chopped cilantro before serving.

If you can't find galangal, do not use ginger. Ginger is not the substitute for galangal. "Tom Kha" means galangal in Thai. However, if you absolutely can't find galangal and still wish to make this because you love this soup so much, just make it without galangal.

 https://rasamalaysia.com/tom-kha-gai-recipe-thai-coconut-chicken-soup/

 Spicy eggplant from the burma superstar cook book

Curry style eggplant awesome over rice.

 3 Japanese Eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ tablespoons canola oil

2 cups finely diced yellow onion

3 tablespoons minced garlic

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1-2 Thai chiles, thinly sliced or 2 tablespoons minced jalapeno

1 small dried chile, broken in half, seeds retained

2 teaspoons shrimp paste

½ teaspoon turmeric

½ teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon fish sauce

Handful of fried garlic chips (for how to on garlic chips: again head to our CSA BLOG and scroll back to CSA week 6)

Cilantro or thai basil sprigs for garnish

1 lime or lemon cut into wedges for garnish

 Season the eggplant with salt and scatter onto a clean dish towel.  Let it sit while you prepare the remaining ingredients, at least 10 minutes.  Once the eggplant begins to bead with water, wrap the towel lightly and squeeze to remove excess liquid from the eggplant.  

 In a wok or pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the eggplant, lower the heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, until the eggplant begins to soften, about 4 minutes.  Using a slotted spoon, scoop out the eggplant and transfer to a plate.  

 Heat the remaining 1 ½ tablespoons of oil in the wok.  Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring often to prevent scorching, until softened, about 4 minutes.  Stir in the garlic, ginger, fresh and fried chiles, and shrimp paste and cook until the onions are completely soft and starting to turn golden, 3 more minutes.  

 Add the turmeric and paprika and then stir in the eggplant and about ½ cup of water.  Lower to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is very soft and most of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.  Season with fish sauce, adding more for a saltier flavor, and squeeze a wedge or two of lime over the top.  Serve in a bowl and top with cilantro (and or thai basil!).  Offer extra lime wedges along side.   

 The 7th Inning Stretch September 14, 2021:   We are approaching mid September here. School is back in session and as if that weren’t a wake-up call, we are staring down the ultimate harbinger of fall with the arrival of the World’s Fair in Tunbridge, VT. Surely the days will start getting much shorter now, and we often remark about it. We will see the breaking out of sweatshirts, neoprene picking gloves, rain gear and wool toques. In their orange rain pants the crew looks like they just came off the boat from the TV series “Deadliest Catch.” As the season winds down, many farmers are licking their seasonal wounds. We are -in farmer terms- “just past the 7th inning stretch” in our seasons, and there is still much to accomplish. This includes a lot of planting and seeding within the greenhouses to serve the late fall CSA. Our onions are gathered up, the first of three plantings of carrots up and in the cooler, and if Mike can find enough parts between our two old potato harvesters to make one functional harvester, we will soon be digging our 6 acres of potatoes. Once that crop is all graded, sized and stored in our barn, we can start washing and shipping them. We can then turn our attention to: cleaning up the place; planting next year’s garlic; readying the strawberries with sprays and mulching for next spring; fixing broken doors and sills in our funky collection of old greenhouses. Then the contracts will expire on the Jamaican crew, and they will head home to tend their own farms by early November. Plenty to do, and seemingly insufficient time and bodies to make it through the list. I have heard the muttering of “I wouldn’t mind a good frost now….” and this time it didn’t come from my lips first. On many farms, the wet July here in the Twin States brought forth an epic surge of weed germination and growth…and Edgewater was no exception. We daily watched the galinsoga engulf the strawberries, with no spare hours available to get in there and clean it out. We are looking for a good frost to freeze it down, leaving the strawberries to bask in the filtering fall sunlight without competition. Fortunately, the strawberry plants are in very good shape, and we are (perhaps foolishly) getting optimistic about our spring prospects. But everyone is busy harvesting and packing out 10 hours a day, and soon the light levels will dictate just how long we will be able to work in the fields. Despite a crop failure with pumpkins and winter squash, we have an almost epic fall raspberries crop. Trying to harvest and move that crop is mopping up a lot of extra hours. In the farmstand we have had to close down on Mondays for the rest of the season, because of a labor shortage, and we have had to reschedule the help we have. Labor shortage or not, our melons,tomatoes, pepper, cut flowers, leeks will be out there for another 4 weeks unless a frost stops them in their steps. Weather continues to be the biggest challenge and unknown for farmers, along with a dearth of local labor. Our season started hot and droughty from the end of March until the end of June. It was abnormally hot for so early in the growing season, and that created some minor problems in the greenhouses, but there was a non-stop 10-15 mph breeze or wind that just never abated. I felt like we were trying to farm in Pueblo, Colorado. The lack of rain was tough enough, but the constant wind withered and devastated transplanted crops. Then, the weather changed, and in 20 minutes we got an inch of rain, and it then continued to rain off and on for a month. A lot of disease showed up, so we were confronted with trading one extreme problem for another. However, August turned up benignly normal, and with adequate moisture the potatoes sized up and the field tomatoes and melons kicked into gear. We have been challenged, but thus far undamaged, by hurricanes. Many of my seacoast friends prepared for the worst wind event they hoped never to see. Weather models were in constant flux for us here in the Upper Valley. On the Saturday that Hurricane Ida was making landfall on Long Island, the forecast for us from the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration was calling for a range of 2-12” of rain. I understand that weather forecasting is not an exact science, but for me there is a big difference in the amount that 2” dumps and what 12 “ would look like. At two inches I would get the tractor bucket out after the storm passes, and do a little touch-up work on our gravel roads and driveways. After twelve inches in so few hours I would be knee-deep in insurance claims, as well as sleeping and cooking meals in our farmstand….for a long time, too. What did we really get in the end? In what was forecast to be the middle of the storm, I went out and mowed my lawn. And I could not have been happier to be doing so. Fall will always be a great season to me. There is plenty of natural color in the pumpkins, ornamental corn, and chrysanthemums as well as on the trees in the woods. The warmth in this season is welcome, as opposed to the intense sun and heat of summer. Fall crops roll into the pack house: beets, potatoes, turnip, carrots. Onions, garlic, leeks and cabbage. When it's cold, we can add a couple of thin layers of clothes to keep warm until the sun burns through the fall fogs and warms us. Migratory birds come and go, and soon we will start to lure the songbirds to the birdfeeders. In deep fall, the woodstove starts to operate with greater frequency. Then one day in November, it (the woodstove) will start its full time nonstop operation until late April, when the sun once more strengthens its grip on us all.

 PRO-TIPS:

Shishitooooosssss!!  You know what to do, but if you have forgotten: bring these peps right to your pan or grill, shmear in olive oil and fry or grill until popped and blistered.  Salt and Devour immediately

 FOR NOTES ON LEMONGRASS AND HOW TO USE:  head to the CSA blog - yes! Did you know that these newsletters get posted weekly on our web page? https://www.edgewaterfarm.com/csa-blog… 

Scroll back to week 10 and read up on all things lemongrass. 

 BUT FOR MY FAVORITE THING TO DO WITH LEMONGRASS, SEE:

TOM KHA SOUP (Thai coconut chicken soup with chicken, mushroom and coconut milk)

8 oz. (226 g) boneless and skinless chicken, breast or thighs, cut into strips or thin pieces

20 canned straw mushrooms

1 1/2 cups coconut milk

1 cup water

1 stalk lemongrass, cut into 3-inch lengths and pounded

6 kaffir lime leaves , lightly bruised to release the flavor

6 slices galangal

8 bird's eye chilies, lightly pounded

3 tablespoons fish sauce

2 1/2 tablespoons lime juice or to taste

1 tablespoon chopped cilantro

Add water, lemongrass, galangal, chilies, kaffir lime leaves into a pot and bring it to boil. Add straw mushrooms and chicken and boil it on medium heat for a few minutes or until the chicken is cooked through. Add coconut milk and boil for a couple more minutes. Turn off the heat and add lime juice and fish sauce to taste. Add chopped cilantro before serving.

If you can't find galangal, do not use ginger. Ginger is not the substitute for galangal. "Tom Kha" means galangal in Thai. However, if you absolutely can't find galangal and still wish to make this because you love this soup so much, just make it without galangal.

Spicy eggplant from the burma superstar cook book

Curry style eggplant awesome over rice. 

3 Japanese Eggplants, cut into 1-inch cubes (about 6 cups)

1 teaspoon salt

2 ½ tablespoons canola oil

2 cups finely diced yellow onion

3 tablespoons minced garlic

1 tablespoon minced ginger

1-2 Thai chiles, thinly sliced or 2 tablespoons minced jalapeno

1 small dried chile, broken in half, seeds retained

2 teaspoons shrimp paste

½ teaspoon turmeric

½ teaspoon paprika

1 teaspoon fish sauce

Handful of fried garlic chips (for how to on garlic chips: again head to our CSA BLOG and scroll back to CSA week 6)

Cilantro or thai basil sprigs for garnish

1 lime or lemon cut into wedges for garnish

 Season the eggplant with salt and scatter onto a clean dish towel.  Let it sit while you prepare the remaining ingredients, at least 10 minutes.  Once the eggplant begins to bead with water, wrap the towel lightly and squeeze to remove excess liquid from the eggplant.  

 In a wok or pot, heat 1 tablespoon of the oil over medium-high heat.  Add the eggplant, lower the heat to medium, and cook, stirring often, until the eggplant begins to soften, about 4 minutes.  Using a slotted spoon, scoop out the eggplant and transfer to a plate.  

 Heat the remaining 1 ½ tablespoons of oil in the wok.  Add the onions and cook over medium-low heat, stirring often to prevent scorching, until softened, about 4 minutes.  Stir in the garlic, ginger, fresh and fried chiles, and shrimp paste and cook until the onions are completely soft and starting to turn golden, 3 more minutes.  

 Add the turmeric and paprika and then stir in the eggplant and about ½ cup of water.  Lower to a gentle simmer and cook, stirring occasionally, until the eggplant is very soft and most of the water has evaporated, about 5 minutes.  Season with fish sauce, adding more for a saltier flavor, and squeeze a wedge or two of lime over the top.  Serve in a bowl and top with cilantro (and or thai basil!).  Offer extra lime wedges along side.   

[virmillion]

What Was Missing

me? writing something unrelated to what i’m supposed to be working on again? it’s more likely than you think // aka i had another idea and wrote it down and hopefully it doesn’t suck // TLDR i try to write with some different tools and it maybe isnt terrible but i guess we’ll find out (@ the limericks, im lookin at you)

a n g s t      (or at least my attempt at it)

Pairings: none, maybe prinxiety if you squint

Warnings: blood mention, lots of yelling, character death (sort of), let me know if you see any more

Word count: 4k ish

It started as most problems do in the mindscape—a sudden absence, a feeling that something was missing. Something, someone, who really knew anymore? With Roman gallivanting off to his room every odd day to fight another dragon witch, his booming voice was rarely missed so much as endured when it was present. Logan, research in hand, was oft to chain himself to a desk and not back away until his eyes were burning, eyelids heavier than his textbooks. Patton, so concerned with keeping everything together among the other three, rarely had a chance to shut himself away for some peace and quiet, no no no, his responsibilities were too great. But one day, one certain day that had no peculiar charm nor supernatural air about it, his duties felt… shorter, somehow. There was less to be taken care of, but Patton could not for the life of him tell you why. At least, not until the gaping hole demanded it be noticed, not until it was screaming so hard and so loud, Patton might well have gone deaf in its efforts. The only problem with it being so loud and so insistent lies within its very nature—this absence is not the sort to announce itself, so much as it is the type to slink away quietly, to duck out when nobody’s looking. Maybe this is why Patton initially seeks out Roman to inquire about his relaxed day. Maybe this is why Logan didn’t set down his research quickly enough. Maybe this is why they were too late.

“Hey there, kiddo,” Patton says one unremarkable morning, knocking gently on Roman’s door. The emptiness down the hall screams bloody murder, all consuming to each of Patton’s senses. Maybe this is why Patton is too disoriented to realize that, for once, Roman isn’t the source of the noise. Maybe this is why Roman cautiously eases the door open, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, only to be met with the concerned face of the moral side.

“What’s up, Patton?” Roman replies, widening the door like screaming jaws as he lets his hand relax a bit from the sword. Not all the way, though.

“Something just feels off, y’know?” Patton struggles to put into words his feelings, his subconscious distracted by the cries and yells and shouts. “It’s as if the last few days have been really, I don’t know, simple? I haven’t had to do as much, and it just doesn’t feel right.”

“Can’t say I understand,” Roman apologizes. “Now if you’ll excuse me, there is a dragon witch I really must be off to see. If you could be so kind?”

“Yeah, yeah, of course,” Patton nods, backing out of the room as Roman draws his sword. Maybe the door closes too quickly for Roman to notice the strained look in Patton’s eyes, or the way he can’t quite seem to stop tugging his ear, like too much sound is being absorbed at once. Maybe the finality of Roman’s door slamming shut is what steers Patton away from what could have saved the absence.

    At Logan’s room across the hall, Patton doesn’t bother with knocking on the door that’s already ajar, instead walking straight through the impossibly clean room to the hunched figure in the chair. It jerks awake as Patton taps it lightly on the shoulder, revealing Logan huddled under a mass of blankets, his eyes swollen pits of red and grey from inadequate sleep. The same blanket is bunched around the base of his chair as when Patton put it there two nights ago.

    “What is it, Patton?” Logan demands, his eye twitching gently. Maybe it’s from overworking himself. Maybe he hears the cries, too. “I have very important work to be doing here, as you should very well know.”

    “Well, yes,” Patton admits, “but you look as if the only work you’ve been doing is catching up on the sleep you never get. I had something else to bring up with you, but, um,” he glances over at Logan’s pristine bed, looking as impeccable as if it had never been slept in before. Patton has a sneaking suspicion this might be the case, but maybe he’s just a little tired, too.

    “I have absolutely no requirement for such frivolous endeavours as sleep,” Logan scowls, disgust lacing every word. “You most of all should know that we hardly require any of that human nonsense, from sleep to hydration to food. With all of your silly baking festivities, I would expect you to have figured that out already.” Patton bites his lip before he can make some sort of joke out of the situation, knowing quite well that this isn’t the time. Maybe there’s never really a time to make a joke with any of them. Maybe the yells are in his head, and he just needs to let them pass over, like an angry storm cloud.

    In his own room, Patton takes a few deep breaths, desperate to let the warm lights in his room soak through his skin, make the noises go away. Why should he be desperate, anyway? He’s had so much extra time, he got to see everyone in the mindscape today! Roman, and Logan, and—and—and—and—

    The lights suddenly get brighter, too bright, as the yells crescendo, turning into shouts into screams then back into cries into sobs into whimpers into silence. Patton rubs his temples gently. Maybe he’s just overworked. Maybe he’s just exaggerating the problem. Lots of people hear things that aren’t there. You’re not a person, Patton. Patton knows this. He knows that he’s not human, that there’s no reason for baking or sleeping or drinking, but it’s all in good fun. All for enjoyment. The yelling is not enjoyment. He did not ask for the yelling. In fact, he would much prefer to have the yelling silence itself. Maybe he’ll go take care of it himself.

It’s impossibly cold out here

Way up on the highest tier

Why haven’t they come?

It’s all so numb

Why can you not recall the year?

    “Now where is that blasted dragon witch?” Roman mutters to himself, stalking silently through the cattail reeds, sword drawn. Itching for something, anything, to fight, Roman lashes out at a blade of grass in front of him. Before he can mow it down, the noise returns. Quite obnoxious, to be frank, but indelible nonetheless. It skewers through his skull, screaming as his sword swings, stopping it short to smack the grass blade and allowing the green spike to swipe back at him, scratching the side of his face. Louder, louder, the noise mumbles and moans and mourns and Roman must move on, make more progress meeting his maker in the scaled madam making her monstrosities as Roman remains in the reeds. The noise gets louder. Roman chops through the sea of grass. The screams cut across his clothes, criss-crossing so crassly the prince can almost catch the cutlass in his hand.

    Somewhere ahead, a dragon roars, undercut by a woman’s scream. Not a damsel in distress. This damsel is the distress. Damn. Roman throws his arms over his head, squeezes his biceps, anything to make that screaming shut up. Not enough. He backs carefully out of his room, head pounding, sword thrown haphazardly in its scabbard, and the whole package is tossed into the reeds. That’s a problem for later. Roman’s head pounds harder, hurting, hurts oh God help him he heaves with his hands on his knees hearing every helpless howl hammering through his head help him please help.

    In the lounge, the furthest room possible from the yelling screaming cursing crying, Roman collapses upon a couch. Something under his back, sharp and prodding, makes him sit up. A pair of bulky headphones. Now where on earth could these have come from? Regardless of the reason, Roman slips them over his ears, expecting some sort of punk song to carry him away, tuning out the cries for help.

    Why though? Why does he expect a punk song to come on? He doesn’t even know where these headphones came from, any more than he can explain away the screaming that grows ever louder. Why is it so. Loud?

    “Oh thank gosh Roman you’re out here,” Patton sighs in relief, stumbling into the lounge area with one fist curled against his head. Worry lines etch themselves into his face, deeper than if they’d been there for years. Replacing something else that was there for years. Or never there. “Why are you just sitting down? I’d expect you to at least be doing something exciting.”

    “I am, I’m listening to the—the head—the headphones—the headphones.” Roman’s voice trips over itself, warping and warbling, where were the headphones why wasn’t he holding the headphones was he ever holding the headphones why weren’t they there when were they there?

    “Okay buddy, whatever you say,” Patton smiles, not seeming to notice the little… we’ll call it a glitch… in Roman’s system. “Want some cookies?”

    “Don’t you do anything else besides bake?” Roman sneers. Something pushes at his mind, the yelling, thoughts, something, but it screams and cries to stop, not to get going on an argument he wants no part in. The yelling is louder. “Last I checked, we all had real duties to perform to help Thomas, and making cookies at the drop of a hat isn’t exactly a useful skill to a living person with real thoughts and feelings.” Roman gives Patton a once-over, suddenly standing—when did he stand up he was supposed to be sitting down—and continues, ignoring the hurt welling up in his companion’s eyes. “Oops, I guess that would imply that you, feelings, are real. My bad.” Stop it Roman stop hurting him stop it!

    “Right. I’ll just, um, I’m just gonna be over, y’know, somewhere that isn’t, uh, isn’t in here.” Patton rushes out, both hands pressed against his face now. Roman sags a bit, sitting standing sitting standing kneeling sitting standing sitting standing sitting sitting sitting sit still. Bounce bounce bounce back and forth between being everywhere and being nowhere and being everything in between. The screaming increases. Help.

It’s probably been but a day

You were always just in the way

They don’t know it’s you

Your screams coming through

Forgotten, you may as well stay

    “Honestly, how am I expected to get important work done for Thomas when I’m plagued by that infernal sound?” Logan mutters, whipping the blanket off of his back. Who does Patton think he is, intruding on Logan’s privacy like that without asking? The blanket is still in the way, rumpled in a heap over his feet, so Logan does the most logical thing he can think of—kicking it across the room, getting progressively more pissed each time it doesn’t cooperate by breaking the laws of physics. Is that really so much to ask?

    The blanket finally beaten into submission, Logan makes for the commons, a permanent grimace set upon his face as the yelling recedes behind him. Expecting a calm scene in which he can bask in silence, Logan is sorely disappointed by what greets him in the lounge; Patton staring at a wall, motionless, and Roman sitting standing sitting standing not holding still. How displeasing.

    “Have you two seriously lost your grip so easily?” Logan demands, freezing Roman in place and getting Patton to snap his head over. “Regardless of why this sound is occurring, we all need to work together to resolve it.”

    “All?” Roman asks. Patton echoes him, softer and more unsure.

    “Yes. All.”

    “But we aren’t all here.”

    “I can’t say I understand what you mean. You, me, and Patton. All.”

    “But that’s not, I mean, it isn’t like we just—”

    “Roman, I have never known you to fumble for words so largely as this,” Logan scolds. “All. Three of us. That is all. Now, if you’re done with whatever your situation is, we really need to get back to the task at hand—getting rid of that sound.” Roman casts his eyes down, face burning, but he’s finally sitting down, and staying that way. The cries get louder.

    “Patton, care to share your input?” Patton mutters something about the days being easier, the same spiel he fed Logan not long before. “Not that. Something useful would be nice.” Patton quiets, biting his lip. A tinge of something, regret perhaps, floods through Logan for a split second, but just as quickly, it vanishes.

    “Okay. Alright. What’s missing?” Logan tries. His glasses slip down his nose. He does not adjust them.

    “It’s really loud,” Roman offers, “so it must have been important.”

    “Then why can’t I remember it?” Patton hisses, gripping his forehead tightly. His fingers go white. Louder.

    “Maybe it was just annoying, and this is its lingering irritation,” Logan says.

    “It’s down at the end of the hall with our rooms,” Patton begins, flinching at nearly every word. Too loud. Make it stop. “Maybe we could investigate down there?”

    “I second it,” Roman replies. “It’s as good a place to start as any.” As one, not dissimilar to a hive mind, the trio rises—when did Logan sit down?—and move toward the screeching. Ice cold laces through their blood, frozen fingers creeping down their backs as their ears seem to split. If you asked them later, none of the three could tell you whether their feet walked them down the hall, or the room pulled itself closer, using their agony as a grappling point. Louder. Deafening. One way or another, they arrive at the screaming door, vibrating from the noises coursing through it, all amplified by the door itself. The bravest of the bunch, Roman, cowers in fear. He’s not about to touch that monstrosity. The brain of the bunch, Logan, knows in his mind that the door can’t really hurt him. He does not reach for the handle. Patton. Patton stretches a hand, fingers trembling as the sound leaps across the axons and the dendrites to his nails and skitters through his bones, weaving between muscles and fat to fill him up until he’s gasping, choking, overflowing. Patton opens his mouth to let it escape, and the screeching heightens. Louder. Louder. LOUDER.

    Screaming and crying and shouting and moaning all at once, Patton wrestles the door handle down and presses forward, first with the handle, then his other hand, and his shoulder and his foot and Logan and Roman join in, pounding the door that refuses to give way to their attacks on it.

    The handle shatters in Patton’s hand.

    The screaming stops.

    A soft sigh takes its place.

    Then silence.

They’re actually trying to look

All because your voice is a hook

Here you remain

Your ears unstained

Maybe now you should close the book

    Patton glances at the shards of metal in his hand, then back to Logan and Roman. He’s so stunned, he almost can’t feel the edges digging into his skin, feel the tiny red pearls beading at the surface. He holds them tighter, trying desperately to hold onto what the three all realized before it can vanish again.

    Virgil.

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Patton, your hand,” Roman murmurs, looking at the offending body part that refuses to let go of the handle, refuses to let go of what he can’t believe he forgot. Maybe he doesn’t deserve to remember.

    “We need to get that wrapped up,” Logan adds. He takes Patton gently by his free hand, pulling him down the hall toward the commons, where they keep a few first aid kits, just in case.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Suddenly, Patton is in the commons, barely wincing as Logan carefully wraps bandages around his hand, Roman extracting the shards of metal as he goes. Maybe each stab is a fraction of what Virgil felt.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Maybe Virgil forgot them.

    Patton looks on blankly as Logan finishes, gently tightening the wrapping and tying it off. “We need to help him,” he mumbles. Logan waves it off, checking the floor for any lost metal pieces. “We need to help him.”

    “We need to figure out why he’s gone first,” Logan retorts. “We don’t know why he left, and we don’t want to make it worse. At least it’s finally quiet.”

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Yeah, remember how we left it last?” Roman cuts in. Patton shakes his head.

    “It all kind of went foggy right up until that screaming.” Virgil’s screaming.

    “There was an argument,” Logan begins.

    “Thomas was having a social problem,” Patton continues.

    “He was worrying,” Roman fills in.

    “We told him off.”

    “He went silent.”

    “Didn’t even fight back.”

    “Sank out.”

    “No sarcasm.”

    We forgot Virgil.

    “We need to help him.”

    “We still only have the vaguest of reasons for his disappearance,” Logan says. “We cannot afford to make it any worse, if this is the least we’ve seen of what is involved with a missing Virgil.” A missing Virgil. A thing to be fixed. Not a friend to be found.

    “Maybe the room will tell us,” Patton whispers. Grasping at straws. Anything.

    We forgot Virgil.

    “Right, the room that shattered the thing you need to get inside of it. Brilliant, Patton, truly a work of genius,” Roman sneers, bouncing between sitting and standing again.

    “Not the time for attitude,” Logan reprimands. “It’s the only idea we have to go off of, so we may as well, given the lack of success shown by ignoring the noise.”

    “Not noise. Virgil.” Patton sniffles.

    We forgot Virgil.

    Patton is the first to rise and head for the door with no handle, now a deafening silence in contrast to the aching screams of earlier. Logan follows, all efficiency and strategy, despite the fact that no one is really sure what to do next.

    “Even if we find out why he’s missing, that won’t bring him back,” Roman complains. “Besides, do we really need the Edgelord back?” Patton clenches his undamaged fist in an effort not to do something he’ll regret later.

    Through gritted teeth, he spits, “of course we need him back. He’s one of us.”

    With no small amount of discomfort in the air, the trio makes their way to the silent door, each peering down and squishing in to try to see through the hole left by the door handle.

    Only gaping space beyond.

You know, it’s really not so bad like this

They claim to regret, yet remain remiss

You like being alone

This could be a home

This is how you leave, vanished like a wisp

    “Move aside,” Roman orders, stepping back with his sword drawn. Patton and Logan leap out of the way of the door as Roman charges. He raises his sword, giving a battle cry, and barrels forward.

    The door opens.

    Roman’s momentum carries him through, swinging his sword regardless as the door slams shut behind him. Patton and Logan remain outside.

    His sword goes flying into an endless abyss of stars and blackness. The red sash across his white attire tightens, constricting and squeezing like a viper before completely tearing off at the shoulder. Now a limp ribbon, it follows the sword into nothingness.

    “What’s going on?” Roman attempts, but his voice is too hoarse, too small, lost in everything and nothing. The world around him seems to expand by the second, nothingness multiplying by nothingness exponentially. Silent.

    Where is Virgil?

    Sound.

    Behind him.

    Roman turns to where the door is—was. Gone. Above it, a strip of nothingness with no stars in it. A silhouette against the shining lights. Roman blinks, shakes his head, blinks again, and he’s suddenly beside the silhouette, looking out at an endless expanse of space. He turns his head.

    Virgil.

    Before Roman can open his mouth, offer an explanation, ask for a reason, Virgil punches him in the face.

    Hard.

    Roman goes down.

    Hard.

    Virgil disappears, and the world splinters.

    And shatters.

    “Just shut up! Thomas doesn’t need you dragging him down like this!”

    “I hate to say it, kiddo, but Roman’s right. You really don’t need to be so… much.”

    “Indeed, your excessive overtime is dragging all of us down with you. Don’t you suppose you might feel better if you were to, perhaps, lay low? Stay quiet?”

    They’re always demanding your silence

    They never consider emotions violence

    Their words will bite

    Don’t put up a fight

    Just seclude yourself on your islands

    “Too good to talk back? Come on Virgil, where’s that dry wit? Hit me with it! Hit me!”

    “Roman, don’t taunt him. We don’t want him to get worse.”

    “It may not be in our best interest to discuss this in front of him.”

    You think your words aren’t ringing

    Hatred in their bite stinging

    But please have no fear

    I’ll soon not be here

    Not even a bell left dinging

    “I wish he’d just leave, we’d all be better off and he knows it.”

    “Now Roman—”

    “I don’t think you should—”

    “I hate him.”

    Roman blinks again, finally remembering.

    Why did he say that? It was a moment of weakness and stupidity, and he wants nothing more than to take it back. A little hard to do, given that Virgil is nowhere to be seen. Just space. The vast sky. And Roman. Alone. No sword. No sash. No purpose. What did you do?

    “I just want to know one thing,” a voice whispers, coming from every direction at once. Impossibly quiet, to the point that Roman has to strain to hear it. “Why did you say it?” The drawling, apathetic tone, in a voice otherwise identical to his own, it has to be Virgil.

    “I didn’t mean it, it was just the heat of the moment, I swear—” Roman babbles.

    “I didn’t ask for excuses. I asked for a reason.”

    “I don’t have one! Because I’m stupid, okay? That’s why.”

    “Unfortunate.”

    Roman waits with bated breath for the voice to come back, even just to yell at him some more, anything but being alone in this room.

    Silence.

    Alone.

    Please come back.

    Waiting.

    Waiting.

    “I just wanted to see the stars.” Roman glances to the right—the voice actually had a concentrated source this time. “You all forgot me, but no one forgets the stars.” A constellation takes shape in the distance, a vague silhouette of Virgil, unless Roman is just kidding himself. “No one forgets you.”

    Before he can respond, Roman watches the world fall apart again, depositing him on the ground in an endless white space. He can’t tell where the walls end and the ceiling begins. The only thing standing out in this room, besides himself, is the black lacquer door. Stabbed through its center is his sword, his red sash twined around it.

    The voice doesn’t come back.

    Roman yanks the sword from the door with little resistance, fixing the sash over his shoulder. The door swings open. Patton and Logan are gone. He heads for the common area. Logan’s nose is buried in a book, while Patton stands at the counter icing cookies.

    “Patton? Where’s, uh, where are your bandages?” Roman asks, looking at the hand that appears perfectly healed.

    “Weird joke, Roman. Is that the kind of humor that’s hip with the kids these days?” Patton twirls an icing bag in the air. “I can be hip.”

    “Logan, have you seen Virgil?” Roman asks as he moves out of the kitchen, leaving Patton to his cookies.

    “Seen whom?” Logan doesn’t look up from his reading.

    “Virgil! Anxiety? Hot Topic? Edgelord? J-Delightful?” Logan lifts an eyebrow and peers at Roman over his book.

    “I will admit to not often utilizing humor, but even I know that this is not it.”

    Roman leans against the back of the couch, suddenly unsteady as his mind is hit with too many thoughts at once. The most important one, the only one that truly matters, pierces his skull like so many unheard screams and cries.

    They forgot Virgil.

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