#delaney writes

[dadvans]

when I want to run away (I drive off in my car) [bucktommy]

Chimney comes over with an armful of DVDs. Mandated brother-in-law break-up bonding time. Buck is pretty sure that isn’t a thing, at least not the kind that Chimney seems to be suggesting with what are discernibly all romcom titles. Buck is pretty sure Chimney should be taking him out and getting him wasted and encouraging him to get laid, but then again he’s friends with Tommy too so there might be some allegiance at play here.

He groans when Chimney puts on Say Anything.

“What, you actually know a movie made before 2012?”

“Tommy loves this one,” Buck replies. There had been a showing at repertory cinema in July and Tommy had dragged them both to escape the afternoon heat. It had been… sweet. There had maybe been three other people in the place who ignored them in the back row, making out like teenagers.

“Yeah, he’s always been a secret softie,” Chimney says.

“I’d say you should be over at his place with these,” Buck continues, flipping through the titles. Love Actually. The Proposal. Crazy, Stupid, Love. “These are actually his favorites. Wait, was I your second choice?”

“What? No,” Chimney says, but he sounds kind of cagey about it.

“He’s probably too busy cliff diving or BASE jumping.” Buck drops the DVDs. “He was the one who dumped me, remember? I don’t think he’s too hung up to need a chick flick movie marathon.”

“Now that is not true. Secret softie, remember? He’s hurting as much as I’ve ever seen, he just doesn’t wear it on his sleeve like some people.” Chimney gives him a very pointed look. “I bet he stood outside your door a half hour after he left hoping you’d chase after him, feeling like a total idiot.”

That’s new. “Did he tell you that?”

Chimney shrugs. “Maybe not verbatim, but he may have let something slip in a moment of total weakness.”

Buck snorts. “So, what are you doing over here with me and these then?”

“I was maybe hoping I could inspire you into some of your usual Buck heroics,” Chimney admits, then has the gall to look offended when Buck twists to stare at him, confused. “What? I’m a meddler. I notoriously meddle. C’mon, he said some things he wishes he could take back, but maybe he’s not as confident as you give him credit for. He’s a romcom guy. He could use a little woo-ing too, you know. Someone who makes him feel like he’s worth fighting for. A big gesture! Not—not moving in or anything, but just—you see what I’m saying here?”

Buck stares at young John Cusack paused on his TV screen and smiles to himself. “Yeah, I think I might.”

He spends the rest of the day off his couch driving through half the pawn shops in Glendale before he finds himself, sun setting at his back, outside Tommy’s house. He parks between Tommy’s truck in the drive and walks down the sidewalk where Tommy’s kitchen window is lit up and open.

Tommy comes outside thirty seconds later to the sound of Peter Gabriel blasting out of the second hand stereo Buck’d finally found with an aux input at St. Vincent de Paul’s. His mouth twitches as he crosses his arms before he coughs and tucks his head down, briefly.

“Really?” He asks when he blinks back up at Buck, eyes wet like the last time Buck saw him: hope there, fleeting, wanting so badly to swim to the surface and stay. “Wait, did you plug your phone into that thing?”

“Yeah,” Buck says, loud enough over the music the whole neighborhood can probably hear him. “I don’t know how to burn CDs.”

Tommy’s smile finally cracks through, and he nods before taking several careful steps across his dead lawn, feet bare, so he can get two tentative hands on Buck’s hips. “Well, if you want to come inside,” he says, “I can show you.”

[lyralu91]

Writing smut = I NEED this man.

[athousandbyeol]

blush. [thamepo fic]

"can you...stay still for a while?" po doesn't know whose heartbeat he's listening to, but with every skip, he's sure—he's forever in love—it's true.

[rosemaryreaper]

Thanks to @fallout4reacts for the prompt!

So I broke my 1k words or less oneshot rule. Again. Because this became...something. I used this as an opportunity to explore my Sole's relationship with Danse since it plays a role in part two of Rosemary Reaper. But, uh, needless to say, that relationship is complicated.

Anyway, enjoy! As always, I'll eventually post this on AO3 after Tumblr has had it for a bit.

Word count: ~4,300

* * * *

Skin of Theseus (Danse)

“...entire site has been overrun. The door won’t last much longer. Paladin Brandis, sir. It’s been an honor, sir.”

The holotape’s whirring ceased with a soft click, taking the knight’s voice with it. Dust motes, thick and heavy in the light of the window, drifted over remains years past the point of recognition. A tattered orange flight suit hung loosely on filthy bones. Weighted down by a rusted chest plate, the skeleton slumped awkwardly against the wall as if too tired to sit upright. Deep scratches and burns in the wood told the story the tape had failed to finish. 

Knight Delaney’s Pip-Boy clunked as she ejected the holotape. She wrapped the accompanying holotags around it before stashing them in her bag. “Well, that confirms it then.”

Careful with the strength of his suit, Paladin Danse swiped a hand through the dust on the chest plate, revealing the winged sword emblem on its front. Delaney wore the same Brotherhood-issue combat armor over her military fatigues. Hers was in notably better condition. 

“Knight Astlin,” he said. “She was in my company, years ago. Best marksman I ever saw.”

“She was a friend?”

“Friend” was a difficult word to assign to bones, much less to any Brotherhood soldier. That he had been given the chance to hear Astlin’s voice again was astonishing, certainly, but the sight before him was not unexpected. It was an unspoken assumption that most knights would meet their end in battle, and all of Artemis had been assumed to have met that end nearly four years ago. 

Tara Astlin had been his sister. They had fought together, bled together, and placed their lives in each other’s hands. But to call her his friend would have been foolish. It suggested a dangerous level of attachment. Of reckless hope—the kind that sank like a cold stone in his stomach as he stared at the body beneath his hand. 

“She was a good soldier,” he said, which was the truth, though a dishonest one. He withdrew from his crouch to cast his gaze about the office. He did not look too closely at the feral corpses, new and old, that littered the room, nor did he look too closely at the way Delaney studied him. “We shouldn’t linger. Note the coordinates of the remains for our report to Scabbard. Scribes will be dispatched to retrieve them for shipment back to the Citadel.”

Delaney cocked her head. “I didn’t think anyone retrieved bodies anymore.”

The spike of anger was bitter and unexpected. He heard the cold in his voice before he could stop it. “We are not raiders—cutthroats and cowards who leave their men lying in the street. The Brotherhood honors its dead. We always—always make an attempt to bring our siblings home.”

She raised her hands. “I was trying to say it’s refreshing to see—if you’d let me get there. Sheesh.”

“You’re new,” he said, a reminder to himself more than her. “Consider this a lesson in the Codex. The last entry in a soldier’s Scroll may very well be their most important, as the manner in which they die holds as much meaning as the manner in which they live. We report their final deeds so that they may ascend into history.”

“So even though Artemis probably didn’t survive…”

“We can still bring them home. If not their bodies, at least their stories.” His gaze fell on the pile of older corpses by the door. Over a dozen decayed ferals at the entrance alone. “Knight Astlin died with honor. She will be remembered by those that come long after.”

These were the words he said aloud. He did not give voice to the anger, still simmering beneath the surface, at how her squad had left her here, barricaded in the room alone. He did not imagine how it must have felt to die with her back against the wall, no one around to hear her scream as the monsters tore out her throat. He did not give voice to these thoughts, to Paladin Brandis’s imagined failings, because to do so would make him a hypocrite. After all, Danse had gotten two-thirds of his own squad killed. He couldn’t rightfully pretend that he would have done any better. 

“Have you noted the coordinates?” he asked when the silence stretched. 

Delaney held up her Pip-Boy. “Already done. The satellite array isn’t too far. We could check out the next location before—”

A snarl shredded the air between them. One of the corpses twitched to life by her feet. Delaney threw herself out of the way, crashing into a broken display case as the not-so-dead feral lunged for her legs. He shot three lasers into the mutant’s spine. He shot a forth into the back of its head for good measure. It slumped on its stomach with a rattling sigh, unmoving—even after he gave it a solid kick to the ribs to test.

He prodded at the other ferals with the boot of his power armor, silently cursing himself. They had done a thorough sweep of every room in the Recruitment Office except this one. Astlin’s body had derailed him.

It was a poor excuse. 

None of the other corpses came to life, which was almost a disappointment. He had the inexplicable urge to throw one out the window. He turned to his knight. “Area’s clear. Are you—”

Delaney was sprawled on the ground, shattered glass and splintered wood scattered around her. Her hand was pressed to her thigh, her teeth gritted as blood trickled from a gap in her armor. “Shit,” she hissed. “Shit, shit, shit.”

He crouched beside her. The string of curses ran through his head with renewed vigor. She was his charge. He should have double checked the room. Now look what had happened. “Did it bite you?” he asked, serious. The chance of infection from a mutant bite was dangerously high. 

She shook her head, to his unexpectedly strong relief. “No,” she said through her teeth. “It was the damn display case.”

“Let me see, soldier.”

Blood soaked her fatigues when she removed her hand’s pressure. The wound was deep and jagged, with bits of glass embedded inside. Whatever broken edge she had caught, it had ripped her thigh right open. Not a simple fix. 

“We’re not going to the satellite array,” he decided. 

Delaney fully bared her teeth in a snarl, not unlike Dogmeat when he snapped at a raider’s heels. It wasn’t a look of pain. She was pissed.

They cleaned and dressed the wound as best they could in the wreckage of the office, but despite the aid of pressure and a Stimpak, blood continued to soak through the bandages over fifteen minutes later. She needed stitches, but this wasn’t the place for it.

Which is how they soon found themselves on the road not east to the satellite array but south to the nearest settlement. It was, uh…a painstaking process.

“This pace is inefficient,” he said for far from the first time. 

She glared up at him, also for far from the first time. “I don’t know what you expect me to do about it.”

He liked to think he was mindful of his stride in his power armor when there were members in his squad without. He was not one of those paladins who exhausted their men by forcing them to sprint to keep up. At this pace, however, he practically had to shuffle his feet as Delaney limped alongside him. It would take an hour to walk a single mile, and by then it would be dark. There were too many nocturnal creatures that would love to happen upon slow, injured prey. 

“We would move faster if I carried you.”

“You’d have to put your rifle away,” she said, breathless from exertion. “We’d be vulnerable.”

“You still have two hands.”

“Two guns are better than one.”

“You’re dripping blood down your leg.”

“I can walk.”

His patience was slipping. “We have very different definitions of walking.”

“We’re not far from County Crossing,” she snapped. “Just leave me alone.”

“This pace is inefficient,” he repeated. She ignored him. 

If she were any other knight, he would have ordered her to listen. Hell, if she were any other knight, he would have written her up hours ago—after a harsh reprimanding. Instead, he bit his tongue, because Nora Delaney was not any other knight. She was not truly a soldier, though she had the honor of one. Most of the time. 

And it was because she was not a soldier that he stowed his rifle in his scabbard, thrust his arms under her knees and back, and hefted her into the air without a word of warning. To no surprise, this act did not diffuse the situation, but he would not deny the satisfaction that accompanied it. 

She thrashed, spitting like a feral cat. “I hate you. I hate you so fucking much.”

Coolly, he said, “You can direct your ire towards any hostiles that cross our path.”

“This is so undignified.”

“On that we agree.”

She would not have spoken like this to him months ago, when they had first met. She had been polite and obedient in the beginning. Since then, she had morphed into the most infuriating woman he had ever met.

He had known her true goal for joining the Brotherhood from the moment he had sponsored her. Everyone did, but it was easier to pretend the combatant who had recovered an entire super mutant stronghold’s worth of nukes was on their side. When she went off on her own for days or weeks without reporting in, Elder Maxon pretended she did so with his permission. When she talked back or disobeyed his orders on a mission, Danse pretended their inevitable success made up for it. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney, the knight who wasn’t a knight. It simultaneously vexed and baffled him. 

His vexation and her disobedience had only become stronger with each passing month. She snapped and snarled like a wounded animal, hackles raised in battle and out. The Brotherhood had yet to find what she searched for, and somehow it had become his problem. Somehow, he had to pretend she wouldn’t leave him behind as soon as she did find it.

They made it to County Crossing before dark. The settlement was barely more than a mutfruit patch and a shack, but it had clean running water, a rarity in the Commonwealth. The farmers allowed them to set up their tent in the roofless ruins of an old house, with access to any supplies they needed. 

Anything we can do for General Delaney, they had said. Not for the Brotherhood—they pointedly ignored Danse. For Delaney. 

Like he had thought: exceptions.

If he had to count his blessings—and not strangle the source of his perpetual headache—Delaney was calmer with her feet up. She had stayed quiet as they had flushed the last of the dirt and glass out of the wound. Now, as she lay on a camp mattress within the tent, she flashed him a small smile. He wondered if she’d hit her head on the display case too. 

“This might be the longest I’ve seen you without your power armor,” she said. “I almost forgot there was a man in there.”

He could say the same of her—and then some. She had stripped out of more than just her combat armor for the occasion—her Pip-Boy, fatigues, and most of her clothes had been cast aside, leaving her in a tank top and underwear. He was accustomed to seeing his team in various states of undress. They normally didn’t smile at him while half-naked in bed, though. 

Her legs were quite long.

“We do not have any local anesthetics,” he said, before he could process the thought. The farmers’ medical supplies were sparse. Apparently, the caravan doctor they stocked up from was due to pass by in two days, which didn’t help them now. 

Her lips quirked. “Whiskey and a broomstick in the mouth?” 

“We do not have those either.”

“More fun for me.” The smile dropped. Almost off-handedly, she asked, “I take it you’ve done this before?”

“Many times. You can trust I know what I’m doing.”

It had taken watching Haylen operate on herself only once for him to realize that having a single medic on the squad was a disadvantage they needed to mitigate in any way possible. Severe trauma was still beyond his abilities to treat, but a minor laceration on the leg was easy enough to suture without assistance. 

“I do trust you.”

Trust was a given among his men, so he did not know why it surprised him to hear her say it aloud. She lacked discipline; she did not desire to shoot him in the back—or vice versa. That they would keep each other alive when they were together was one of the few constants in their relationship. Still, it had been an unspoken constant, up until this point. 

She looked up at him, eyes too wide, jaw set too tight. It was a vulnerable position—laid out beneath his looming form. She was not a small woman, relatively. Tall, with long limbs toned by muscle, she’d once knocked Rhys flat on his back in a sparring match. But Danse was well-aware that, compared to him, most things were small. A towering height and broad frame were an advantage in combat with enemies that could swing a chunk of concrete at his head. Here in this tent, for perhaps the first time, he would have shrunk himself if he could, just so she wouldn’t look at him like that. 

“This should only take a few minutes,” he said, which was the best he could do instead. 

“Let’s just get it over with.”

She closed her eyes as he brought the needle to her skin. He kept his gaze on his task. Not on her face. If he looked at her face, no matter what expression she bore, it would distract him.

An illogical thought. He’d sewn knights back together before without issue. There was no reason she should have been any different. 

He didn’t look at her face regardless. Exceptions were made for Nora Delaney.

In and out the needle wove, tugging at her skin with each stitch. She didn’t make a noise, aside from her uneven breaths. Over half a year together and he had never heard her cry while awake. She cried out in her sleep often, but they did not speak of such instances. 

The minutes ticked by. He did not have Haylen’s deft fingers; she would have finished the procedure in half the time. His less practiced hands were clumsy by comparison, forcing him to take it slow. The cold lump of guilt gained weight behind his navel. 

“Danse,” Delaney said, alarmingly unsteady. “Talk to me.”

He did not have Haylen’s bedside manner either. If there was a protocol for calming a person who would sooner bite his hand off than accept it, she had yet to teach him. “What would you like me to say?”

“Anything. Tell me a story.”

“Uh, I need you to narrow down the topic.”

A rumble rose in her throat. A growl or a groan, he couldn’t tell. “Scars,” she said, eventually. “Where did you get your scars?”

“I need you to narrow that down too.”

“How about the one across your jaw?”

It took an effort to keep his hands moving. Of all the ones she could have chosen…

He felt the bizarre urge to lie. To say he didn’t remember. Or that it had been from some great battle. She would surely laugh at him otherwise, and the last thing she needed was yet another reason to disrespect him. 

All the foolish thoughts of a battle-green initiate with something to prove. He chanced a glance at her face. She had laid the back of her hand over her eyes, shielding herself from the world.

“Knight Astlin,” his mouth said, before his brain could give full approval. “Rhys bet her fifty caps she couldn’t hit a Nuka-Cola bottle from a hundred yards away, blindfolded.”

“She shot you?”

“No, she shot the bottle. Which exploded as I was walking by.”

She exhaled sharply through her nose. He double checked that he hadn’t poked the needle too deep. “I bet that earned her quite the earful, huh?”

“In a sense. I let her off with a warning. It was an impressive shot.”

She exhaled sharply again. The vague impression of a laugh. “Look at you, rulebreaker,” she said as he had feared she would. But then she added, “I would’ve liked to have met her,” and that statement was worse—because he agreed with it. 

“Almost done,” he said, for lack of an alternative. “Can you withstand the pain for another minute?”

“If you keep talking.”

He did not want to keep talking. He cast about for an escape, and he found it by his hand. “Where did you get this scar? On your shin.”

Her lips curled. With her eyes covered, it was nearly unrecognizable as a grin. “My husband tried to give me a piggyback ride. He tripped, sent us both flying. I scraped my shins on the pavement.”

Ah. Husband. Right. He had forgotten about the husband. She never talked about her old life. Nor did he ever ask. 

“You were fortunate.”

“I was fortunate,” she murmured. The same word, yet inexplicably different from what he had meant.  

He finished the last stitch. She uncovered her face, her brown eyes amber in the lamp light. Despite the ashen tinge to her cheeks, she maintained her grin as he cleaned up their makeshift medbay. 

“It’s funny,” she said. “It’s the stupid scars I remember the most. The ones that tell stories. They’re starting to get covered up now. This one on my elbow,”—she traced her fingers along a discolored patch of skin, darker than the rest of her olive complexion—“there used to be a scar here from when I fell playing tug-of-war at a potluck. There’s a different one on top of it now. I don’t even know where it came from.” 

She let the arm fall onto the mattress. Then she drew her fingers down her body. “When I left the vault, I kept track of them at first. The first time I got shot.” Her fingers circled an indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The first time I caught shrapnel from a grenade.” Those fingers glided up her hip, trailing over stretch marks as she lifted her shirt above the dark crescents between her ribs. “After a while they lost meaning. They just show up. Enough time and all the old ones will be gone. I’ll be a completely different person with completely different skin.” 

She let her hand fall to the mattress on her other side. He didn’t know at what point her grin had faded. Her shirt was still rolled up. 

“Maybe it’s already too late,” she whispered. “The person who I was before all this, I don’t see her anymore when I look in the mirror. I think she might have died with the bombs, and I don’t know how to mourn her.”

It took him a moment to recognize this statement as metaphorical and not an admission to being a synth. It would have been easier if she had actually admitted to being a synth. Then he could have followed protocol. There was no protocol here. 

She must have been in an extreme amount of pain to say these things to him. No bared teeth. No snaps or snarls. Just an ashen-faced woman too exhausted to pretend to be his vexation. They did not speak like this, paladin and knight. They had deviated from the roles they had carved for themselves. But they had both taken their armor off hours ago. 

“I don’t remember my parents’ faces,” he said, and she went still. “Or most of my childhood. The boy who might have remembered died to become an orphan who cut his fingers on scrap metal. And that orphan died to become a soldier with scars, gained with every battle, every loss. I am not the same person I was when I joined the Brotherhood, nor am I the same person I was when my squad left for the Commonwealth. None of my men are.”

Haylen’s smiles were rarer. Rhys was quicker to throw a punch. And Danse? Four graves greeted him on every patrol of the police station’s perimeter, a constant reminder of the cost of a leader’s failure—and a permanent lesson learned. 

“I cannot speak to your experiences. Only my own. I could count my scars,”—sometimes he did—“but it wouldn’t do much good. It certainly wouldn’t change them. I stand by the choices I have made, the orders I have given. It has not occurred to me to mourn the orphan with cuts on his fingers because that orphan would not have survived to today.”

She shielded her eyes beneath her hand again, though he had long since stowed the needle away. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered, voice so strained the cracks were tangible. 

His wrists tightened, the painful ache of an unfamiliar kind of panic. That he had never heard her cry was another constant in their relationship. By definition, it was never supposed to change. 

Without thinking, he brushed his thumb against the indentation on her thigh, above the fresh sutures. “The goal you seek. Could the person you were before have achieved it?”

She took a shuddering breath. “No.”

“Then bury her. Honor her, but stand by who you have become.”

Her lips pressed into a wobbly line. He redirected his gaze to the medkit, shutting each latch with a sharp snap, too loud in the growing space between them. 

She swallowed audibly. “You said the Brotherhood honors its dead.”

“We do.”

“When I die—really die, will you bury my body in Sanctuary, if you can? If not my body, at least my heart.” Without uncovering her eyes, she tugged the chain around her neck out from under her shirt. Two gold rings swung from her hand, a pendulum over her chest, glittering in the lamp light. “It’s the closest I’ll be able to get…to him.”

An absurd request to come from her. He doubted Delaney knew how to die. She would likely claw her way out of any grave before the dirt had settled. 

Then he saw Astlin. Her back to the wall as enemies poured in. The ferocity with which she fought, taking down attacker after attacker, the bodies piling up in the dozens. Sheer stubborn willpower kept her on her feet—until sheer stubborn willpower failed to replace allies and ammo. In the end, she fell alone, with no one but monsters to hear her scream. 

Except it wasn’t Astlin in the vision. It was the knight breathing tremulously before him, lost in time. 

“You have my word,” he said. But you will never need it. Not while she was with him. He stood by his choices, including those made in a heartbeat. She would not be his fifth mistake; he would make sure of it. 

She exhaled a gentle sigh. When her hand finally fell away from her face, her eyes were closed. If the pain had dulled enough to allow her to slip towards sleep, that was a good sign. 

He moved to stand up. “You should get some rest. I will take the first watch.”

“Wait.”

Fingers closed around his wrist. He froze. She gaped at him, seemingly as startled by the act as he was. Her mouth opened, then closed. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears as clearly as he did in combat. One beat…two…three…four… She was still holding his hand. 

“I’m sorry,” she said awkwardly. “For snapping at you earlier. It was unfair.”

Whatever she had originally intended to say, that hadn’t been it. He couldn’t begin to fathom what thought had hooked on her tongue, but the warmer his skin grew beneath her hand, the less he wanted to wait to hear it. 

“I think you may have injured more than just your leg,” he said on impulse. 

She blinked at him. Then her touch vanished as sank onto the mattress, clutching her chest in laughter. It was an explosive sound, deep and melodic and bursting with warmth. He couldn’t recall if he had ever heard her genuinely laugh before. Surely he would have remembered the odd sensation it left in his stomach. 

“Get some rest,” he repeated, once she had calmed down enough to wipe the tears from her eyes. 

“Danse?” she said softly, halting his second attempt to flee. He stared pointedly at the front flap of the tent. The air inside had become stifling. “Thank you.”

He gave a noncommittal grunt. As best as he could to not give the impression of retreat, he left the tent, cutting directly through the cool night breeze to his waiting power armor. He slammed the fusion core into its slot and climbed inside with the practiced movements of someone who wore the heavy metal like a second skin. As the suit clunked into place around him, a confused warning about his elevated heart rate popped up on his HUD. He dismissed it. 

Thoughts of their mission slowly recentered him. Despite their detour, today had resulted in the successful completion of multiple objectives. They had located remnants of the lost patrol, cleared a building of a feral infestation, and gained intel on a new location to investigate. Once Delaney was well enough to walk, they could get back on track to their inevitable victory, same as always. 

Except tonight wasn’t the same as always. It wasn’t even the same as that morning, when they had set out together. Because, for once, Nora Delaney was neither his vexation nor his bafflement. 

No, she had become something much, much worse. 

[villainsview]

Part 11

FULL ART by @scarletfish8eta

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Back at Delaney’s obnoxious house, just after Lavender hung up on him, he finally released Erick from the cross, even catching him as he failed to keep standing.

“Giving up already~?” he said, “I’m not even done with you yet~”

“D-don’t…”

“Hush~”

He pulled his arm over his shoulder to support him, walking him over to the large bed on the other side of the room and sitting him down on the edge. Erick pulled away from him as soon as he let go, but Delaney caught his collar and pulled him back.

“I said I wasn’t done,” he said.

“Then…n-neither am I,” Erick said, finding his voice back somewhat.

He felt sore all over, especially his legs and shoulders, but he couldn’t give up. Delaney just smirked, pushing him to lie down before changing his grip from his collar to his throat and squeezing.

“You know, I was going to suggest taking a nap, but if you’re going to be such a fucking tease…”

Erick tried to pull his hand off, gasping for air. When that didn’t work he tried kicking, but he didn’t have the strength in his legs. Just when he thought he was beginning to feel dizzy, Delaney finally let go. But while he was distracted with catching his breath, Delaney went and cuffed his wrists together, a length of chain attached to a ring on the headboard keeping his hands trapped above his head.

“Cough! They’ll fucking kill you…” the teen groaned.

“That’s just a risk I’ll have to take,” Delaney said, pulling some kind of suitcase from underneath the bed and opening it.

Erick only just couldn’t see its contents, but spotted Delaney pulling out a cable and plugging it into an outlet on the wall.

“What is that?” he asked.

“A TENS unit.” Delaney said, smirking as the teen seemed confused, “Transcutaneous electrical nerve stimulation,” he elaborated, “I put it together myself, since the store-bought kind just doesn’t have the right oomph.”

“What does it do?” Erick asked warily.

“Depending on the setting it can help relax sore muscles, stimulate blood flow, provide pleasure if you’re into it, or intense pain when you get into the higher range.”

He pulled out a set of sticky patches, attached to the machine with thin wires, which he had to detangle a bit. Erick pulled on his wrist cuffs a bit, not liking where this was going at all. Delaney chuckled.

“Calm down, you had your punishment,” he said, pulling one of the patches free from the rest and approaching him again.

“Don’t fucking touch— No!”

His struggles were pointless and limited, and Delaney easily pasted some patches on the inside and outsides of his thighs, thankfully avoiding the sore welts. Then he ignored his protests and unbuttoned his shirt to paste two on his stomach, and lastly he invaded his sleeves to paste some on his shoulders and upper arms.

“Now, I’ll start with a continuous flow on a low setting. It might tickle a bit first, but then we’ll play around to find a setting you like, okay?”

“I don’t want—”

Click

The machine hummed to life and Erick gasped, more in shock than from the actual result, as he didn’t really feel much at all. A slight tickle radiating from the patches through his body. Delaney chuckled at his expression.

“See? It’s not so bad,” he said, before turning a dial.

Erick hissed a bit, actually feeling his muscles begin to relax. As if he’d stepped into a warm bath.

“Electricity is amazing, isn’t it?” Delaney said, “we rely on it, we run on it. You decide you want to move your arms, so your brain sends an electric signal through your nervous system, causing your muscles to contract in just the right spot. It’s an amazing system, but it’s so easy to hijack.”

He turned the dial again, sending a sudden, stronger pulse through the pads, causing the teen’s muscles to contract all of a sudden, before relaxing again.

“Ah— F-fuck…”

“Hmm such a lovely sound~” Delaney said, flipping a switch so the unit would periodically send another pulse at regular intervals.

Erick blushed, he wasn’t even quite sure what sound he made, but if Delaney liked it so much he didn’t want to do it again—

“Hgnn!”

“No need to hold back for my sake, let it all out,” Delaney said, sitting down on the bed next to him.

“No!” Erick snapped.

But Delaney just shushed him, getting closer as he stroked his cheek. Erick tried to turn his head away, he couldn’t even tense up properly. Delaney knew another pulse was coming, so he pulled on his collar with one hand, while yanking his head back by his hair with the other just as it hit. Erick moaned in surprise, eliciting another amused chuckle.

“Addicting, isn’t it?” Delaney said, “I could do this for hours, but I really need my beauty sleep.”

“T-turn it off…” Erick pleaded, his cheeks blushing red, embarrassed by his own responses.

“If you’ll let me have a little taste,” Delaney said.

He couldn’t resist it anymore. He’d worked hard for this, took many risks and a lot of attitude, and even with the reward literally in his reach, he still had to refrain. First of all, he was exhausted from staying up all night and felt like he would pass out if he pushed himself too much now. But a little taste would be okay. It was not like the teen could do much to stop him anyway.

He pulled on the collar again, waiting a second for the next pulse to distract the boy before kissing him. Erick tried to turn his head away, but when that didn’t stop him he instead found the first thing that caught his teeth and bit down. Hard.

“Argh!”

Delaney growled in pain, tearing his lip just to be able to pull away. He tasted blood, reaching up to feel a decent cut on his bottom lip. He glared down at the teen, who just stared back with a defiant look before spitting out some blood, smudging his cheek.

“Should’ve specified what kind of taste you wanted,” he said.

“Maybe I should’ve used a cane instead of a crop,” Delaney replied, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to dab at his lip while getting up.

“Hgnn…you hit like a wimp anyway.”

Delaney didn’t grant him a response. Instead, he just turned a dial on his unit, before flipping another switch.

“AAAH!”

Erick jolted, crying out in pain as a much stronger current suddenly ran through the pads. Delaney waited for him to stop screaming as he began running out of breath, before switching the whole unit off. It took a good couple of seconds before Erick was able to breathe in again. It didn’t help to cough after breathing in some saliva, either.

“Keep breathing,” Delaney advised, beginning to pull the patches off of his skin, “I’ll give you a choice. Either you apologise and you can rest in my guest room, or you keep acting up and you’re never seeing the outside of this room again.”

He put the pads aside and pulled on the collar again to make sure he had the teen’s attention.

“What’s it gonna be?”

Erick unsuccessfully tried to cover a sob with a cough, struggling to form a coherent sentence, or any word for that matter.

“S-s-sor…s-sor—”

“Hm, shame,” Delaney said, “you would’ve looked great in the stockade, but a promise is a promise.”

He let go of the collar, reaching up to uncuff his wrists before trying to get the dazed teen to his feet. Again with an arm around his shoulders, and his arm around the teen’s waist, he escorted him back to the guest room, letting him lie down on the bed while reminding him about the lock.

Erick wisely kept quiet, or he was still too stunned to think. Either way Delaney left him alone, locking the door behind him. He got some ice for his lip, and a drink to calm down, before heading to his own bedroom, applying some extra moisturising cream under his eyes before passing out for a good, long nap.

Meanwhile Lavender had just gotten out of the shower, rubbing her hair dry with a towel while going through the bedrooms until she found Fetch’s things, borrowing another shirt from him. She never brought any luggage when they started this whole thing after all.

She dropped the towel on the floor and headed downstairs, finding Fetch sipping a fresh cup of coffee. He’d managed to clean up almost all of the blood in the kitchen, leaving only a stain on the table as it seemed to have soaked into the wood a bit. Nothing a fresh layer of paint wouldn’t fix, but it shouldn’t be their problem.

“How’s the kid?” she asked.

“Tired, but he’ll live,” Fetch said, “you wanna see the picture now?”

“Yeah, show me.”

He handed her his phone, the picture already loaded on the screen. It was a bit shocking how real it looked. From the wound to the patterns in the blood and the little details like leaving the knife in the frame, the blood on her own arm as if she’d tried to save herself. She shuddered again, but she wasn’t even sure why.

“You okay?” Fetch asked.

Fuck. He noticed this time.

“I’m good,” Lavender said, handing his phone back, “so now I call Delaney?”

“Actually I need your help with something first,” Fetch said.

“Wow you can’t do anything without me, can you?” Lavender said with a smirk.

“I can do it without you, but with you it’s just easier,” Fetch said, “the contact I mentioned…we didn’t exactly part our ways in a friendly manner, but hearing your side of the story might persuade them.”

“My side?” Lavender asked.

“You’re the one who wants Keller dead,” Fetch said.

“You’re no fan of him either!”

“Listen,” Fetch said, “she takes things personally. And your beef with Keller is more personal than mine.”

“She?” Lavender asked, raising a brow, “What’d you do? Write her some poetry? Didn’t call her back after spending the night?”

“It’s a long story,” Fetch said, “now stop wasting time. The sooner we find Erick, the better.”

“Right,” Lavender said, deciding to focus, “go on, call her. Put her on speaker. I’ll talk some sense into her.”

Fetch nodded, opening his phone for the right number and hitting dial, putting the phone on speaker and laying it on the table. Lavender sat on the edge of the table next to him, watching the loading wheel spin as the call was connecting. Finally, the line stopped beeping as someone picked up.

“I thought I told you to delete my number?” a deep, female voice answered, not sounding too pleased.

Lavender threw Fetch a look, wondering what he’d done wrong, but he ignored her.

“I wouldn’t bother you if I didn’t really need your help for something,” Fetch said.

“If you’re going to ask me to put a hit on Peter or any of his associates, I’ll assassinate you instead,” the woman replied.

“Jesus, Fetch, what did you do to her?” Lavender asked.

“Who else is there?” the woman asked.

“The woman I need you to help,” Fetch said, “her name is Lavender Rhodes. Rhodes, you’re talking to Keira Thorne.”

“So you’re not calling for yourself?” Thorne asked.

“Yes and no,” Fetch said, “it’s a long story.”

“I got time,” Thorne said.

“The short version is I made him back out of a job and now the guy is pissed and bothering us both,” Lavender said, “kidnapped his kid.”

“You have children?” Thorne asked curiously.

“She means Erick James,” Fetch elaborated, “the kid Allard tried to sell?”

“I thought you killed him,” Thorne said.

“No, I just burned a corpse and left enough of his blood around the scene for the police to get tunnel vision.” Fetch explained, “He’s very much alive.”

“For now.” Lavender chimed in, “Listen, Thorne, I dunno what your beef is with Fetcher, but this isn’t about him. This is about a pervert who’s been kidnapping, abusing and killing kids for years. We’ve got a chance to off him, but we need an extra person to make sure the odds are in our favour. Fetcher recommended you.”

“What’s his name?” Thorne asked.

“Mateo Keller,” Fetch and Lavender replied in unison.

“I heard that name before,” Thorne said, “he spreads…questionable pictures, no?”

“Yup, that’s him,” Lavender said, “we’ll meet up with him and a partner of his soon. We want to kill Mateo and use the partner to find out where the kid is.”

Thorne was quiet for a moment. Fetch even checked to make sure the call hadn’t disconnected when she spoke up again, having made her decision.

“Text me the time and place. I’ll bring my long-range,” she said, “oh, and bring cash.”

Beeeeep…

Fetch ended the call, seeming relieved as he pocketed his phone.

“She’s on board,” he said.

“She said bring cash,” Lavender pointed out, “do we have much cash?”

“I can give her some, then we offer her a third of Virgil’s ransom,” Fetch said.

“You mean half of your share,” Lavender said, “I’m not the one who got beef with her.”

“You started this whole thing!” Fetch said, “You know what? We’ll argue about this later. You can call Delaney now.”

“Fiiine, what do I tell him?”

“That you want to meet up, you’ll text him the time and address, yada yada yada— We’ll figure out the actual schedule later.”

“Got it. Now you shut up, it’s probably better if he thinks I’m acting alone.”

“You could ask nicely—”

“Shut.”

<Prev | Masterlist | Next>

[thewritersofdeceased]

“you should get some rest, kid.” [ lean ] sender rests their head on receiver's shoulder

Oscar Delancey + Morris Delancey ;; Set after the fight at Newsie Square ;; Morris is older than Osc by about a year ;; @delancey-asks

Bloody knuckles. Jesus fuck did they hurt. Oscar sat with his back against the bed he'd been in ever since he was a young kid that was dropped off at his uncle's terrible place. He was looking at it with one eye, the other being a black eye and difficult to open without hissing out in some sort of pain. He remained silent, staring straight at the ground between his two feet, his boots being off and his mind remaining at it's quickened pace. The next time he'd get his hands on Jack, it wouldn't be a pretty sight, yet a much more bloodied one. He'd murder Jack if he could.

He had to get away from that stupid fight no matter what. He just had to. He didn’t leave Morris behind, but he did run when the bulls had bega to officially show up. Himself and his older brother didn’t have any good connections with the law, especially when the two were younger, right before their teenage years leading up to where they were now. A low sigh and huff would escape the younger boy, his eyes closing eventually. He was processing it all. How himself and his brother had managed to not kick the ass of any of the newsies. Well, they sure as hell had gotten some of them. The blonde, Race, they got him. At least he knew his brother did. 

Speaking of his brother, the sound of someone pushing open the door was something that didn’t even make Oscar lift his head. Just the pure born silence was it. There was the remaining silence before the younger had noticed Morris sit beside him. “...your knuckles are bleeding, stupid.” Morris’s voice would ring through the cold air, the feeling of the older boys calloused fingers taking a hold of his hands. “I’m fine, Morris. I always am.” The younger's voice was partially cold, shaking his head right after. He knew he wasn’t fine. But Oscar despised help sometimes. Let alone from the man he idolized. He idolized Morris. The boy who would protect him from all harm and everything of the sort. 

“No, you ain’t, Oscar.” The older would speak against the younger's protests, letting go of the shorter boy's hands. He had pulled the shorter up, not as forceful as he would to a newsie. Morris would be much more forceful and harsh with those stupid kids. Sure, he was a year or so younger, but the violence he held in the back of his mind always remained when it came to the newsies. If he had the chance, they’d all be stuck in that stupid refuge. At least one of them was though. The one with the limp. Though as he pulled his brother along, of course, Oscar would protest. “Morris, I can take care of myself-!” He’d complain, trying to get out of his older brother's hold.

Yet the attempt didn’t work in Oscar’s favor, as he was eventually tugged to the bathroom. “Sit.” Morris would grumble under his breath, yet it was still audible to the younger boy. Oscar didn’t exactly have a choice as he sat on the edge of the bath, looking down at his knuckles. They were aching like a bitch, that was something he wouldn’t hesitate to admit at all. “You gotta’ be more careful, Osc.” Morris would start to speak, searching for bandages in the mirror’s cabinets. “You shoulda’ let me handle the tougher and older ones.” He’d continue, taking out bandages from the cabinet. “Didn’t want you getting hurt.. Took them for you.” The younger one commented from the bathtub’s edge. 

“Oscar. We’ve been brothers our whole life. I’ve been taking the hits for you since dad started to drink. You realize I’d risk my life for you to be safe, yeah?” Morris questioned as he gently took the younger boys hands again, gently tugging him once more. “Ow-.. Careful, stupid.” Oscar grumbled, hissing out in pain slightly at sudden movements close to where his knuckles had been. He’d hear his brother muter a quick sorry, before the sound of water had been all he could hear. “Wash your hands.” Morris would speak up, moving out of Oscar’s way, who only held a confused look. “It’ll hurt.” The younger grumbled, earning an eye roll. “Yeah, I know it will. But it’ll help clean the debris out of the wound.” 

Even if Oscar didn’t want to hiss out in pain constantly, he listened to his older brother's suggestion, cleaning his hands thoroughly with soap and water, hissing out in pain every couple seconds or so. “Fucking-” Oscar would hiss out, going to move his hands away from the sink. The soap didn’t help at all, it was KILLING him to do this. “Couple more seconds, Osc. Then after the bleeding stops, rinse em.” His older brother would explain calmly, leaning against the wall just besides the door. He was making sure his brother was okay, something his father and uncle couldn’t even do. Now that Morris thought about it, the two had nobody that cared about each other. Nobody but theirselves.

“We got tweezers or anythin, Mor?” Oscar would ask as the taller boy had gotten a soft feeling cloth, knowing how the scratchy and uncomfortable feeling ones would annoy the younger boy. “Yeah, yeah. Just- let me do this real quick, okay? Then I’ll get everything else out and wrap it up. Got some stuff to put onto it too.” Morris would explain, focusing his attention on what he’d been doing, gently cleaning the skin around his brothers now sliiightly less bloodied knuckles. Of course, Oscar would hiss out in pain and let out curses of who knows what, but Morris didn’t stop him. “There ya go, let ‘em all out, Osc. I ain’t gonna stop ya.” Morris would mutter aloud to his brother, who continued on with the cursing before being gently pushed down back onto the edge of the bathtub. 

Morris would grow quiet as he eventually would search for the tweezers, searching the same place the bandages were in. “Alright, you trust me enough to do the whole tweezer thing?” He questioned the younger, earning the slow nod from Oscar before he’d take Oscar’s hand into his, beginning to get to work taking out dirt and everything of the sort out of his brothers knuckles. “Ow, ow, ow-! Jesus, fuck!” Oscar complained, hissing out in pain every once and a while. Morris wouldn’t reply, allowing the other to squeeze his wrist or arm. It was a little bit before the older brother would talk once more, standing to his feet. “There we go. Dump it in the trash. I got to put the ointment and the bandages on, okay?” He didn’t want to hurt his younger brother any more than he already had been. 

“. . . Yeah. Got it. Just be careful. Shit hurts enough.” Oscar’s tone had grown slightly harsh, but he didn’t mean to. He was tired, getting frustrated and in pain. “Ain’t gotta tell me twice.” Morris would respond to his brother's harsh tone, his eyes rolling slightly. He’d been used to harsh tones almost all his life, just letting it happen. It’s not like they were going to fight, both boys were too tired for it. “Here, hold the bandages.” Morris would hum, beginning to put the ointment onto his brother's hands whilst humming a tune their mother would sing to either of them before they’d fall asleep. Morris remembered it more than Oscar had most of the time. Though a comment from the younger made a small smile form on Morris’s face. “You’re singing mom’s song..”

Morris would merely hum in response to his brother's comment, continuing to hum the tune as he carefully put the ointment onto his brother's knuckles, which merely led to more hisses of pain. “You’re okay, Osc. Just gotta bandage them now.” His voice remained soft, Morris not daring to get all snappy at his brother. He took the bandages from the shorter and younger, beginning to wrap the gauze bandages around the now cleaner wounds. “Here we go… just…” Morris spoke to himself whilst fixing the bandages, eventually moving the bandages away and going back to the cabinet. “Go get changed, Osc. I know we both need sleep.” He mumbled out to the younger now, who merely nodded his head and headed towards the two’s shared room.

It took Morris a while to come out of the bathroom and to relax on the bed his brother had sat back on. He held a calm expression, tired. He knew he’d have to take care of his younger brother, but he’d do anything for the kid. Morris closed his eyes, just for a quick second, but he felt something hit his shoulder. Opening his right eye, he noticed his younger brother leaning his head against the oldest shoulder. “...you should get some rest, kid.” He’d comment softly, wrapping his arm around his baby brother's shoulder, who only hummed a noise of protest in response. “...that’s what I’m trying to do, dumbass..” Oscar would grumble out in response, keeping his eyes closed. Morris would hum out, nodding his head slightly, remaining still so his brother could sleep. “Alright, alright… love ya, Osc..” He didn’t often say that, but he did notice that a smile seemed to form onto his brother’s face. “Love you too, Mor. “ 

[coolcattime]

A couple of mini snippets of first impressions from my Mianite OC verse crossover.

It was in this position, a good thirty feet away from his friends and the rest of those that had come to live around him, staring intently at the not-Capsize attempting to logic his way out of the situation, that one of the strangers woke up and saw Tucker.

Orla, having precisely zero reason to even suspect the truth of her very accidental arrival to this new place, was always going to be ready to fight upon waking. Seeing a man in full plate armour looming over one of her friends merely cemented that fact in her mind.

Tucker only processed the blur lunging at him. He began his swing on instinct. By the time he actually saw the kid coming, he was far too committed to stop. He could only hope the damage from the impact wouldn’t be too severe.

What happened next was either a miracle or a sick joke. The moment his sword should’ve cut into the kid’s face, the blade disintegrated into nothing more than very expensive glitter.

Before he could even start to comprehend how the hell that had happened, Orla began attacking him. 

✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨ ✨

If Jordan had to describe Katherine, he’d say she was Capsize if she had been raised by Spark.

Because undoubtedly, this was some version of the pirate captain. The two had nearly the same face, even if the woman in front of him wasn’t half undead. But she was far softer than Capsize.

She was shorter than him - standing at least half a foot shorter than Capsize - which he could admit felt a little good. She lacked the muscles and the scars and the undead skin that the pirate had. All in all, she stood to him as a far less intimidating figure.

From her height, to her dress, to her way of speaking; she reminded him more of Martha than she did of Capsize. But still, it was hard to shift the idea that he was looking at the pirate out of his head. 

[divinekangaroo]

my stray headcanon:

tommy *constantly* misgenders (mis-sexes?) horses because him and his whole family including Uncle Charlie have this weird complicated mental matrix for how and when a horse is a 'he' or 'she' or 'it' based around the equally complex gendering conventions for narrowboats

which convention, from what I can tell by reading multiple narrowboat forums and at least one 16th century four page long complaint letter about indecency on narrowboats some landowner wrote to a canal company, runs something like this:

do you like the guy who owns the boat? y = the boat is she, n = the boat is it

do you think the boat is poor quality = it, but be aware this may be offensive to the owner and start a fight

is the boat in the process of being built and hasn't got hisself wet yet? = he, then he's a she after it's first run

is the boat built by this one particular Welsh dude who lives in [insert Welsh river hamlet name}? y = always a she no matter how you feel about the boat or its wet status

is the boat built by the other particular Scottish dude who lives in [random hated English hamlet name)? y = always a he unless you've actually been on the boat, then it's an it, unless it was a really good road (every lock in your favour) in which case the boat is an honorary she

was a baby born on the boat = she

is it your boat = she

is it your friend's boat = he because it might offend your friend

did the boat once go through some random tunnel = he until he goes through the tunnel again and becomes a she

[whumpbug]

i call this one gene had a little lamb

this is just a little drabble i wrote based on the little sheep comment i made here. i wanted to characterize gene's mother and father a bit more, as well explore gene's character (ʃᵕ̩̩ ᵕ̩̩) he's meant to be about 7 in the first part of the fic (horrible, i know).

some scenes were genuinely so sad for me to write so please look at the content warnings before reading! IT HAS A HAPPY ENDING THO. no animals were harmed in the writing of this fic. it was just sheep actor guys i swear its literally eating grass and chilling in a field as we speak

cw: animal violence, descriptions of animal death, verbal abuse, mentions of physical abuse, toxic masculinity, blood (let me know if i missed anything)

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

“Sylvia! Tell that boy to get his be-hind out here!”

Gene’s father’s booming voice made him freeze. He blinked.

He slowly turned to look at his mother from his place on the ground, surrounded by toy trains and wooden blocks.

Sylvia gave Gene a sad smile. “I think you’d better go see what he wants, baby.”

Gene gulped. His father was angry about something. That was bad news. Nothing good ever came of angry men.

“Syliva, I ain’t gonna ask again! You send him right on out here!”

Sylvia pursed her lips and swung her legs over the chaise lounge she had been sprawled out in. She closed the distance between her and her son, bending at the waist to kiss his cheek and guide him to standing. 

“It’ll be alright. Why, he probably just needs you to climb into the attic again and get down another bag of feed. Go on, Gene. Come on back when you're finished.”

“Yes ma’am.” He whispered. He shuffled his way out the door and to the front of the barn, where his father was standing, ominously red-faced.

Gene’s heart dropped when he saw what was laying at his father’s feet.

“Would you do me the great goddamn honor--” He reached over and steered Gene by the back of the neck to face the small bundle of curly white on the floor-- “of explaining the hell I’m lookin’ at?”

His voice was venomous. 

“A l-lamb, sir,” Gene stammered.

“A lamb," He scoffed. "And ain’t this the same goddamn lamb I told you to shoot yesterday?”

“Yessir.”

His words hardly came out as more than a whisper.

It was true, though. The poor thing had been born one day ago, and it was obvious right away something was wrong. Its back legs were crooked and mangled, like the bones hadn’t set properly. The sad truth was that it had no use on the farm, not even for meat. His father took one look at it and ordered Gene to put it out of its misery.

Still, Gene couldn’t bring himself to do it. It was just so small. It had such big, inky black eyes, eyes that stared right into Gene’s soul. The poor thing barely had a chance. It had never visited the soft, green pasture. It never tasted milk. It never got to play with its siblings. And he was supposed to slaughter it?

He couldn’t do it.

He had trembled there, holding the revolver, for about an hour straight until he gave up and carried the tiny creature to the barn, wrapped it up in his coat, and hid it behind some crates with the promise of checking up on it the next day.

It was stupid, yes, but he didn’t know what else to do.

"You think you get to pick and choose when to listen to me, dont'cha?" Clint spat.

Gene peered up at him with big, blue eyes and shook his head.

"N-No sir."

"Sure as shit seems like it."

"I j-just wanted to help it--"

"I don't want to hear it." Clint manhandled his single-action revolver from his belt and pointed it at the lamb.

“You’re gonna shoot it. Right here. Right now. In front of me. I don’t want to hear no whinin’, and I certainly don’t want to hear none of your sissy crap. Be a man, for Christ's sake, and shoot the goddamn animal.”

Then, the gun was cocked and shoved into his small hands. The lamb bleated softly, and Gene thought he might throw up.

“But Pa--”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.”

Gene shook. He bit his bottom lip hard enough to draw blood when he felt traitorous tears well in his eyes. 

He knew better than to talk back. If he refused, his father would only get more angry. Still, how was he supposed to do this? How could do this when the small creature was looking at him like that?

All Gene could think about was how white the little lamb was. It’d only been alive for a day and a half. It wasn’t brown and grimy like the older sheep, it was snow-white and soft and curly and warm and tender.

The tears won. He felt a smack to the back of his head.

“Quit yer cryin’. Get on with it. Now.”

Gene couldn’t help the soft sob that tore from his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut at the sight of the lamb curling in on itself into a tiny little wool ball. He couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this, he couldn’t do this--

“Eugene Alexander Delaney. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

A hand clamped down on his shoulder as another guided the revolver to aim at the lambs small head. 

“Pull the goddamn trigger or trust me, you won’t like what happens next.”

He did trust him. He knew his punishment would be awful. So why couldn’t he move?

Finally, his father’s patience wore out. His large finger slipped over Gene’s tiny one, and yanked back the trigger with a loud pop.

It was over in a second. Gene wanted so badly to take his eyes off the visceral, gory sight, but he was still frozen in place. There was blood everywhere.

Clint pulled Gene away from the sight, grumbling curses under his breath, and walked him from the barn and to the house, where Syliva was standing on the porch, trying to get a glimpse of them.

“What on God’s green earth is goin' on?” She asked, finally getting a look at the state Gene was in.

“Your boy is a wuss is what's goin' on. Can’t even shoot a goddamn lamb that was on it way out in a few days anyways.”

"You made him shoot it?" Her voice took a dangerous tone.

"He's too soft, Syl. It needed to be done."

"He is seven years old--"

"When I was seven, I was already helpin' my daddy skin and butcher the meat from huntin' trips. This boy is too soft."

Gene stared blankly at a spot on the ground, doing his best to tune out the conversation. He hated being the cause of a fight. He wished he could be different, he wanted to be different. He didn't know why doing things his father wanted him to do put such an ugly feeling in the pit of his stomach.

Suddenly, the tension reached its peak with a shout from Syliva, demanding her husband go take a walk and cool off.

Clint stormed off, reholstering his gun and scoffing the whole way back to the barn. Gene kept his head down, lip quivering and tears falling. A small, hitched breath escaped him.

“Oh baby,” Sylvia whispered, pulling Gene close to her chest. She threaded a gentle hand through his blonde locks.

And that’s all it took. Gene erupted into sobs, and sobbed and sobbed and clung to his mother like the little boy he was. His entire body was shaking now.

“Shh.. shhh, it’s alright baby. That poor thing was probably hurtin' real bad. Your daddy was right that it wasn’t gonna make it through the night.”

Gene continued to bawl. He gathered a fistful of his mother's dress in his hand and shook his head, whimpering lowly.

Sylvia gathered her boy up in her arms and sat with him in her rocking chair, rhythmically rocking him back and forth. She cradled him close, just like when he was smaller. She hummed softly, smoothing his hair back with a gentle hand.

Gene buried his face into his mother’s chest and breathed in her scent. She smelled like peach jam. He sobbed harder.

“Let it out, baby. It’s okay. I know. It’s okay.”

The two stayed like that until Gene’s sobs turned into soft hiccups and then evened out. Sylvia kept rocking him.

••••

Gene stared down at the small, injured lamb at his feet.

It was bloody. There was a deep wound in its flank. A coyote must have gotten to it after it escaped the pasture. It was sprawled on the side of the road, panting, and left to the elements. The poor thing was shaking.

Gene’s hand went to his hip holster instinctively, and he whipped out his revolver. He cocked it with a soft click before he stopped. Lowered it. Took a closer look.

Other than the wound in its side, the lamb seemed to be relatively okay. Gene was almost certain the animal would be fine if treated properly.

He pursed his lips into a straight line and replaced his gun in its holster.

He crouched and carefully, gently gathered the thing into his arms and held it close.

Calliope whinnied softly as Gene mounted her, still cradling the small bundle of white to his chest. It was soft, warm, and little. It bleated quietly.

He clicked his teeth and urged Calliope onwards, shrugging off his coat to wrap around the tiny thing.

He tilted his head down to whisper to it, the sound hardly audible. “It’s gonna be alright. I’ll take care of you.”

༶•┈┈୨♡୧┈┈•༶

[elizaellwrites]

Tag your sun/moon OC dynamic pair

[dadvans]

i feel the weight [7x09 coda, bucktommy]

Buck hadn't actually been planning on seeing Tommy tonight but the late night pit-stop at Eddie’s has him freaking out, so he shoots Tommy a text from the dark driver's seat of his jeep: kinda need to get out of my head. Could you come over?

The response is almost immediate: already in bed. If you’re safe to drive there’s a spot next to me waiting, followed by a selfie, Tommy shirtless sitting up in bed with his readers on.

Buck’s keys are turning in the ignition before his phone screen goes dark, and he’s pulling out of Eddie’s driveway to hurry over. Tommy gave him a key last week, and despite an odd track record staying over at exes’ places instead of them at his, he’s excited he finally gets to use it.

He lets himself in, kicking his shoes off and is still half tangled in his jacket when he nudges Tommy’s bedroom door open. The overhead light is still on and Tommy’s got what is clearly a World War Two biography thicker than a Tolstoy novel in his lap, fingers keeping his spot in place. He puts it on the nightstand and smiles so softly for a big guy, gives a little chin tilt greeting.

“Hey you,” he says. “Everything okay?”

“I don’t know,” Buck replies, taking broad strides over to his bedside and then climbing in Tommy's lap, straddling Tommy's hips, getting hands on his face to trace the rim of Tommy’s glasses with his thumb. “These are staying on, by the way.”

“Fine by me,” Tommy says and sighs, searching Buck’s face for a second. “Okay, sweetheart, let me take care of you.”

And then Buck loses himself for a little bit.

He comes back to himself sweaty, minus his pants, and come drunk, panting at Tommy’s side some time later. Tommy’s leaning on an elbow, looking at him. His glasses are crooked, and Buck reaches out to straighten them.

“Thanks.” Tommy snorts. “So, you wanna talk about it? Something happen during your shift today?”

“Not really. Sort of.” Evan sighs, and Tommy pets his hair, pushing the curls stuck to his forehead up. “Something going on with Eddie, and I feel like I shouldn’t even be talking about it, but I’m scared he’s going to hurt himself. I’m scared he’s going to do something that’ll hurt Chris in the long run too.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“Yeah, I mean, you guys are close too, so if you see him this week or sometime soon, just— could you check in with him? I don’t think I’m overreacting, but the situation seems crazy, and it just makes my head hurt." He sighs. "I'd honestly rather talk about anything else.”

“Okay, I can do that.” Tommy doesn’t sound placating. He never does when Buck talks about Eddie, which is a novel experience compared to Buck’s other relationships. And maybe that’s because Tommy is friends with Eddie, but also maybe it’s because Tommy’s just different like that.

Good for you, Bobby had said.

Buck smiles. “There is something good that happened earlier today, actually. I can tell you about that. Bobby told me he uh, approves. Of us.”

“Oh? Do all your relationships need Bobby’s stamp of approval?” Tommy asks wryly.

“No, no, it’s not like that. It’s just. Bobby’s seen me go through a lot of relationships, and I think he worries, you know? I have a tendency to not do the right thing sometimes, compromise too much, maybe, try too hard. And I think he’s seen how settled I’ve felt. At ease, you know?” Buck sighs. “It felt really good to hear.”

“That is good to hear.” Tommy’s hand combs through Buck’s hair down to cradle the back of his head, and he pulls them together for a soft kiss, just one. “I’m glad your dad approves of us, Evan.”

“Stop,” Buck says, but he’s smiling.

“Not in a million years,” Tommy replies, and he’s smiling too

[lyralu91]

🖤 Inbox open for fanfic requests - James Delaney 🖤

After finishing my "Taboo" fanfiction ("The river that connects us" - link here!) I've decided to open my inbox for James Delaney requests! ✍🏻🤓

I'm only doing this as a side thing/fun thing/no pressure thing, partially to keep my writing going but mainly because I want to see more James fics out there and encourage others to give it a go! 🤗

To start with I'm up for writing

Drabbles

Imagines/short scenes

Oneshots (max 4 000 words).

If you want smut or porn I won't write anything I personally find degrading (this is best discussed in pm's where we focus on an actual scene/story you have in mind 😉).

I'm TOTALLY up for writing more James and Lorna as well! Set during/after "Taboo", or during/after my fanfiction! 😍

[diskaywrites]

12 Days of Christmas Day 8: Telling secrets around a fire

𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐥𝐞: 𝐖𝐡𝐨 𝐖𝐞'𝐝 𝐁𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝟖: 𝐓𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐚𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐖𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠--------𝐍𝐉𝐏𝐖 𝐀𝐔------𝐂𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐥𝐚𝐲 (𝐨𝐜) 𝐱 𝐃𝐞𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐞𝐲 𝐂𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐧 (𝐨𝐜) 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐌𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐚𝐠 𝐭𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐚𝐥, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭: 𝟓𝟓𝟓

🎕┈┈┈┈🎕❂⋯❋⋯❂🎕┈┈┈┈🎕🎕┈┈┈┈🎕❂⋯❋⋯❂🎕┈┈┈┈🎕🎕┈┈┈┈🎕❂⋯❋⋯❂🎕┈┈┈┈🎕

He was thinking of Akira again.

Since the mess that had started going on between Will Ospreay and the rest of the boys in the United Empire had started, Cal Finlay's thoughts had drifted to the betrayal he himself had put Francesco Akira through. At the time, it had seemed so natural. David had 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 given him the invitation to join his Bullet Club and Cal had jumped at the opportunity. After all, it was David! His entire life he had wanted nothing more than to work in a team with David. His friendship with Akira had come second to the joy of inally knowing his brother was proud of him.

Cal wondered now, as he sat bundled up at the side of the man he loved, that it hadn't been out of pride that David had asked for Cal to turn on the friends he had made. It was jealousy.

"Somethin' on yer mind, Cally boy?" the thick brogue of the man who Cal wanted to spend the rest of his life with broke the silence of the otherwise quiet night the two were sharing. One of the few good things to come out of his time with the War Dogs, Delaney had cared for him in a way that Cal was unsure of. What had started with Delaney making sure he would take his medication or that the nightmares that often woke him in the middle of the night in hotel rooms had turned into so much more.

Cal's eyes trained from the bonfire in front of them to the flawless sky of the Irish wilds, dotted by pines. He could see his breath on the cold night air, trying to calm himself. "I wasn't good to Akira. I think about that a lot. i think about how much better off everything would have been if I just never joined up with David. I think everyone would be happier."

Delaney tugged at the sleeve of his jacket, eyes following Cal's actions. He knew better than to get upset, than to be hurt by the things that Cal said in these moments. He meant nothing cruel, nothing rude. Cal just wanted to get his thoughts from the brain that he fought with so frequently. "Ya know…now everyone would be happier. I wouldn't be happier."

Cal brought his attention back to Delaney, his knee bumping against Delaney's, "No?"

Delaney shook his head, a meaty arm wrapping around Cal's shoulders, "Think 'bout it, Cal. We only met when ya joined the Club. I wouldn't be happier. Cal Finlay, I dunno where I'd be without having you in my life."

Cal gave a soft smile, ducking his head out of shyness, "You don't mean that."

"I do, I absolutely do," Delaney smiled, resting his head on Cal's shoulder and closing his eyes, "if you never joined the Club, we wouldn't have each other."

"But…Akira…"

"Wouldn't be where he is without that betrayal either," Delaney spoke softly, opening one eye to look up at Cal, "life is funny like this, ya know. You could try to fix it, but we'll never know how it could have been."

"You think he'd forgive me?" Cal whispered, barely audible from the crackle of the fire before them.

"I think he would at least listen," Delaney whispered gently, "I think he'd listen."

[rosemaryreaper]

Deacon!

Plus a bonus Desdemona snip. Nora enjoys Deacon’s company. She just can’t give him the satisfaction of admitting that to his face. After all, they’re one big dysfunctional family. With guns!

* * * *

There was a man sitting in her chair. Wearing her sunglasses. Over top of another pair of sunglasses.

“Jesus, Deacon. The door was locked.”

“The window wasn’t. You should really get that fixed. Who knows what lunatics might climb in here?”

“Give me those.” She snatched her shades off his face, knocking his own pair askew. He gave her a similarly crooked grin. “Is this a you visit or a Desdemona visit?”

“Both. You’re a popular woman.”

“Hit me.”

“So, long story short, Dez thinks it’s a ridiculously stupid plan and wants you to call the whole thing off before it all goes south and puts the entire Railroad in jeopardy.” He kicked his feet up on the desk. She shoved them back off.

“She’s already told me this to my face. Repeatedly.”

“She just wants to make sure it’s sinking in. Can’t imagine why she’d ever get the impression you don’t listen to her. You two are besties.”

She never wanted to hear the word “besties” leave his mouth again. “I’m not forcing her to attend.”

“Bizarrely, that’s where you’re wrong. Somehow she’s convinced she owes you a debt, saving all the Institute synths and all that. She won’t owe you a chip off a cap after this, but she’ll do it.”

“And what do you think?”

“I also think it’s a ridiculously stupid plan and you should call the whole thing off. It’ll never work. What do you think will happen? Dez and Maxon will shake hands and the Brotherhood will magically stop hunting us down like mongrels?”

“I’m not asking you to be friends. I’m asking you to stop killing each other for five minutes so we can talk about the future of the Commonwealth. Is that really so impossible?”

“Of course not. Maybe we can braid each other’s hair while we’re at it too.”

“Tell Dez her concerns are noted—and that I’ll see her at the meeting.”

“Oh, goodie! I’d love to do that. They never shoot messengers around here.”

“Your sarcasm is also noted. And disregarded.”

* * * *

Bonus:

“You have some nerve,” Desdemona said by way of greeting.

“You’re here,” Nora replied. “There’s no point in arguing now.”

“I’m not here to play nice. I’m here to ensure you don’t do something utterly idiotic.”

“If you were actually interested in stopping my idiotic plans, you would have put a bullet in my skull the day we met.”

“I was sorely tempted, believe me.”

“So tempted that you gave me a gun and code name right off the bat.”

“We all make mistakes.”

[villainsview]

Intro

FULL ART by @scarletfish8eta

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The distinctive crack of a can of beer being opened echoes through a messy room. Clothes, cans, cuffs and crumpled up tape is strewn across the floor and bed. A man sits on the edge of the bed, placing his beer on the bedside table after taking a large sip. He’s reading a newspaper. Picked it up this morning on his beer run when he spotted the front page article.

THOMAS WONG RETURNS HOME SAFE AFTER COMMUNITY CROWD-FUNDS RANSOM DEMAND, KIDNAPPER STILL AT LARGE

There was a picture of the named teen in question, smiling awkwardly at the camera while being hugged from both sides. An older woman closely resembling him on his left, and a tan young man with glasses on his right. The man brushes his thumb over the boys in the picture. The ones that got away…

His eyes skim the article, spotting the kidnapper’s name a couple times, but no mention of their little altercation with the man he hired in a last attempt to get back at her.

No matter.

He’d done his own research.

He puts the newspaper aside, reaching into the drawer of the bedside table and pulling out a pile of some older newspaper cutouts. One of the articles he’d saved had a school picture of a blond teenage boy, writing about how he had been missing for multiple weeks, before tragically turning up dead. The other articles were smaller updates from the period in which he was missing.

The man was still waiting for confirmation, but he was certain there was a connection. He’d heard whispers in the underworld, rumours, that the teen wasn’t dead at all. His kidnapper had just faked his death so he could keep him all to himself.

The man almost considers taking some pointers, but then his phone starts ringing. He reaches into his pocket, checking the caller ID before picking up.

“Delaney, about time.”

“Getting information about these kind of things isn’t as easy as you think,” the caller replies, “besides, you still haven’t said anything about compensation. I’m risking my ass here for you.”

“Relax,” the man rolls his eyes, “if I like what you found, I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Delaney scoffs, “but fine. I talked to the guy I mentioned that’s working on the same project I’m on. He hangs out with a guy he knew from college who travels around to check on some rich guy’s property, and he claims to know the guy you mentioned — or know of him at least.”

“Right,” the man says, getting impatient just a little bit, “so…did he know anything about the rumours?”

“That he did, my friend,” Delaney replies, “said he was pretty sure the guy decided to keep the kid for himself.”

“Perfect…” the man grins, looking over the newspaper cutouts again, “now here’s my offer…I’ll help you track them down, and when we do I’ll need you to hang on to the boy for a couple days. See it as an…extended private session.”

A whistle sounds through the phone whilst Delaney considers the offer. His friend was right. It’s hard to refuse.

“Damn…sounds like I’ll have to take a couple vacation days.”

“Trust me, buddy. It’ll be worth it…”

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[athousandbyeol]

lavender. [thamepo fanfic]

"let's take a picture together. you'll see how—" beautiful you are. but thame can't say that aloud. it feels too much. it weighs so much on him now. 

or thame realises that he likes po. really, really, likes po.