#drawn this before. don t care

[floweyseviltwin]

hugggegggeggggg

[auriidae]

i found this really old comic i made and never posted here?? there is a superb dearth of context i am aware but (chucks this in your general direction anyway)

(this was from an au based off a weird dream i had a while ago ??? it was like. they were normal human kids but they somehow got into this strange video game slash simulation or smth which SOUNDS like sburb but it was way different trust me. i wrote a ton abt it for months and then never thought about it again. n e ways.)

[unabashegirl]

Vicious 4 || Harry Styles x Mafia

Summary: Harry Styles, the cold and calculating son of a powerful mafia don, must consolidate power after his father's passing. He faces challenges from his unpredictable younger brother, Silas, and navigates a complex world of alliances, ruthless decisions, and family loyalty. Amidst the intrigue, the elegant and alluring Y/N Castellano, the daughter of an Italian mafia boss, attends the funeral and finds herself drawn to Harry. As power dynamics shift and the future remains uncertain, the story explores the dark and dangerous allure of the mafia, the weight of family legacies, and the potential for unexpected connections in a world defined by secrecy and ruthlessness.

Author's note: asked to get tagged! Here is my Patreon in case you want to get ahead and get early access to more chapters.

word count: 2.0K

masterlist

The scent of blood permeated not only one's nose but also clung to hair, clothes, and anything one wore. The atmosphere in the chambers was perpetually cold and damp, creating an unsettling ambiance. It was a dark, eerie place, one that instilled fear in young Harry when he was just a boy. Back then, he knew it as the forbidden place where his father would take people to "take care" of them.

It remained off-limits until Harry turned fifteen, and Arthur began to introduce him to the macabre secrets within. The first day proved harrowing; overwhelmed by anxiety and the overwhelming scent of blood, Harry couldn't endure it. He vomited and cried to his mother, vowing never to return. However, that resolution crumbled as his father included him in the sadistic practices of torturing their enemies.

Arthur meticulously groomed him, desensitizing him to the gruesome reality until he could slit someone's throat without flinching. The cold, merciless chambers became a training ground for the heir, shaping him into the unyielding figure he would eventually become.

Harry lingered in the shadows of the chamber, where the man accused of desecrating his father's corpse sat. Bound to a wooden chair in the room's center, the accused man met the somber gazes of the onlooking men. Sympathy tinged their expressions, but a collective understanding resonated - what needed to be done had to be done. Even in death, loyalty to the former boss persisted. Silence enveloped the chamber as Harry contemplated the situation, contemplating the best course of action.

"What did you plan to do with the body?" Harry inquired, his voice cutting through the chamber's heavy air as he methodically made his way from the back to the front. He aimed to confront the accused, locking eyes with him before delivering the punishment that awaited.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man named Dimitri retorted smugly, a hint of defiance in his demeanor. He understood the perilous situation he was in, yet he remained prepared to face the consequences. Dimitri had been sent on a specific mission, aware of the risks involved in targeting Arthur. What he hadn't anticipated was Harry's foresight in stationing men to guard his father's grave.

Harry cast a brief glance at Lex, and in that moment, the first blow landed on his face, sending him into a quick daze. Dimitri hadn't seen it coming, unaware of Lex standing beside him.

"I'll ask again. What were you planning?" Harry queried, turning his back to walk up to the tools laid out for the impending ordeal.

"You're just like your father. A fuckin' prick," Dimitri spat out, the second hit landing with brutal force, rupturing his eardrum and filling his senses with a piercing ringing. Despite the pain, a twisted laughter escaped Dimitri's lips, echoing through the chamber.

“You don't know who I am? I was there that day. I can still here your mother’s screams” Dimitri taunted in his mother language, revealing to Harry who had sent him, striking at the rawest nerve.

Harry moved swiftly, catching Dimitri off guard. A knife sliced through his leg, triggering screams and shouts that fueled Harry's anger. Dimitri's calculated reference to Harry's mother only intensified the fury within him, leaving no room for remorse.

Harry moved quickly before Dimitri could realize what he was doing. A knife went through his leg. His screams and shouts fueled Harry’s anger. He had brought up his mother which only proved to Harry that he didn’t feel one bit remorseful.

“I will ruin you "Harry whispered back to Dimitri in Russian, his voice cold and resolute as he took hold of one of his hands. The room bore witness to the painful, torturous task ahead as Harry embarked on the painstaking process of pulling off each of Dimitri's nails. The chamber echoed with Dimitri's agonized cries, a symphony of suffering orchestrated by the relentless pursuit of revenge.

Amidst Dimitri's agonized cries, the chamber transformed into a chilling tableau of retribution. Harry, unmoved by the torment he inflicted, continued his methodical descent into sadism. The room's atmosphere thickened with tension as each nail was ruthlessly torn away, leaving Dimitri writhing in unbearable pain.

Harry's movements were deliberate, fueled by a potent mix of anger, vengeance, and the haunting memories Dimitri had sought to exploit. The language of retribution spoke through every tortured scream, a visceral manifestation of the vendetta playing out in the dimly lit chamber.

As the gruesome task unfolded, the weight of Dimitri's betrayal echoed through the room. He had ventured into the territory of the family, a realm where loyalty was sacrosanct, and his actions had triggered a cascade of brutal consequences.

The air was charged with the scent of blood and the cacophony of anguish. Harry, unrelenting, continued his merciless pursuit, driven by a determination to extract the full toll for the transgressions committed against his family. The echoes of Dimitri's cries reverberated through the chamber, marking the relentless march of retribution in the heart of the shadows.

“This fucker” Federico muttered under his breath as he rose from his seat once again. The wait for Harry's return had stretched beyond an hour. "How can he keep us waiting?"

Y/N remained silent, wary of uttering words that might incite her father's anger. Her mind, however, couldn't help but wander, envisioning what Harry was currently engaged in and whose fate he was sealing. Having grown up within the mafia, Y/N was no stranger to the methods employed to handle business. From a young age, she had clandestinely listened to her father discussing the gruesome details of his operations.

"Why are you so quiet?" he asked her in Italian. "You've barely said anything since we came."

"I am fine," Y/N responded, her gaze fixed on the backyard of the estate. "I've just been analyzing everything."

"You have to report everything back to me," Federico declared, his eyes scanning the estate's surroundings. "I must know everything that happens within this house." The motive behind agreeing to Y/N's marriage to Harry became clear—Federico sought intel and marrying her off to Harry was the strategic move to have someone on the inside.

As Federico spoke, Y/N nodded subtly, concealing her inner reservations about the web of alliances and deceit that surrounded her. The weight of her dual role—Harry's wife and her father's informant—pressed upon her, creating a delicate balance she had to maintain.

Federico's watchful eyes turned back to Y/N, a stern expression etched on his face. "Your role is crucial," he emphasized. "We need to know Harry's every move. The success of our family depends on it.”

Y/N nodded again, her gaze flickering toward the entrance as anticipation built. The door creaked open, and Harry stepped into the room. His demeanor was composed, betraying nothing of the tumultuous affairs that had transpired in his absence

"You're still here," Harry pointed out as he strode into his office, taking a seat behind his desk.

"Is everything alright?" Federico inquired, his curiosity evident. He wanted to understand what had caused the delay.

"He won't be a problem anymore," Harry replied succinctly, weariness evident in his voice. "Is there anything else pending?" His desire for a drink and a moment of respite was palpable. The mention of his late mother had taken an emotional toll, a vulnerability that he seldom allowed to surface. She didn’t deserve what had been done to her. She was an angel among all the devils.

Y/N observed the change in Harry's appearance—different suit, bruised knuckles, slightly damp hair, and flattened curls. Something had transpired, and she couldn't help but wonder about the details.

"Just determining where the wedding will take place. I personally think it should be in Italy, at our home," Federico suggested. However, Harry shook his head, instantly dismissing the idea. He wasn't about to lead his men into a foreign country, into the lion's den, even if they were allies. Harry knew better than to underestimate potential risks.

"Here is best. Safer," Harry asserted, leaving no room for debate. The location of his wedding wasn't up for negotiation with Federico. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some business to take care of." With that, Harry signaled the end of the conversation, his focus already shifting to the matters that awaited his attention.

Federico stormed out of the door, visibly irritated by the dismissal of his suggestions. Y/N discreetly rose from her seat, feeling the weight of Harry's intense gaze on her.

Lex wasted no time entering the office once the Italians had departed. "How was that? When are you getting married?" he inquired, adding with a smirk, "She's not ugly."

"In a month," Harry revealed, a sardonic laugh escaping him at the absurdity of Federico's proposal. "Federico wanted us to have it in Italy."

"Fucker," Lex chuckled. "What are we doing with the Russians?"

"I think we should send them back a gift, don't you think?" Harry suggested, a mischievous smile playing on his lips. He looked up at Lex, who nodded in understanding. "Send back what they sent," Harry instructed. Lex acknowledged the order and said, "Take care of that and let me know when the package is ready." The plan was set in motion, the wheels of retribution silently turning in the shadows.

Lex nodded, acknowledging Harry's directive. "Consider it done." he affirmed, a steely determination in his eyes.

Harry lingered in his office for a few more hours, seeking solace amidst the familiar surroundings. Pouring a glass of whiskey and lighting a cigarette, he settled into his seat, attempting to find a moment of respite. The day had been a whirlwind of chaos, and though the desire for rest weighed heavily on him, the pressing tasks ahead refused to be ignored.

The dim glow of the office cast a reflective ambiance as Harry contemplated the intricate web of responsibilities that now rested on his shoulders. Each sip of whiskey brought a momentary warmth, and the tendrils of smoke from his cigarette curled lazily in the air.

With a few more meetings lingering on the horizon, the dimly lit corridors of the English manor buzzed with the hushed conversations of individuals seeking Harry's favor. The air was thick with the weight of their requests, each plea underlined by an unspoken acknowledgment of the shifting dynamics within the English mafia. These were more than routine meetings; they were symbolic gestures of allegiance, a testament to Harry's emerging reign and the challenges that lay ahead.

As the last petitioner departed, their gratitude hanging in the air, Harry emerged from his office. The room behind him held the scent of aged leather and the echoes of decisions made, a silent witness to the myriad responsibilities he bore as the new don.

Intent on locating Charlie to discuss matters of importance, Harry's purposeful stride led him to the foyer. There, amidst the surroundings, he unexpectedly discovered her presence. YN sat on an intricately patterned rug, her form a stark contrast to the grandeur that surrounded her. Two suitcases, well-worn and marked by the passage of time, stood sentinel by her side.

"What are you still doing here?" Harry's voice echoed through the space, genuine surprise etched on his face as he beheld the unexpected scene. His eyes, sharp and discerning, sought answers. "Where is Federico?" The inquiry hung in the air, anticipation threading through the atmosphere like a subtle current, as the layers of loyalty, alliances, and unspoken tensions played out in the grand foyer of the manor.

chapter 5

[bokettochild]

I'd love your commentary on this bit from Footsteps Across History:

“ Bud, ” the rancher emphasizes, but the smile says he knows just what Legend thought he heard. Wild wants to know, he really wants to know. Is it the reason Twilight’s eyes are gentle now when they turn to their brash team-mate?  

Zelda, not having witnessed them any other way than here and now, is not so distracted, and instead whips around, eyes sparking even fiercer. “Yes! Please, don your items again!” And then she falters and coughs, “ah, for your own sake, of course.”  

The vet smiles at her. Eyes glinting.  

Despite himself, despite knowing this is Legend , not the captain, Wild feels the need to sidle just the slightest bit closer to his princess.  

As requested though, rings are produced from the bag, and though the vet regards them with something doubtful, something furrowing his brows and tightening the lines of his mouth, no such conflicts arise in the rancher’s eyes. Dark hands scoop the bands up and slide them over gnarled fingers without hesitation, and the effect is near immediate. Color seeps back into the vet’s skin like fire licking across paper. Pale scars fade to highlight instead the generous smatter of freckles dusting across drawn cheeks and long ears. A heavy sigh escapes through lips that touch with color rather than grey and pale like they’d been but a moment later. Legend looks suddenly alive, and- and-  

It’s like looking into the cosmos, like an explosion of a star, bright and warm in the room around them. The aura that was curled tight and flickering is suddenly warmth and light and color that spirals out, flowing around them and has sighs escaping from each of the rest of them, even as Zelda’s eyes glitter and her pen works against her notebook near feverishly. It’s a galaxy unfurling into the sky, a bright star shining, returning from the brink of a fiery falling to instead burn bright and strong once more.  

Twilight touches a hand to his head, shaking it slightly.  

Time stumbles back slightly, startled, but apparently not knowing why.  

Wild’s own aura, green and rich and winding, sings in return, reaching out to twine itself close into the starlight that breaks across it. Vines reaching for cosmos and winds singing to endless skies.  

The cosmos sings back, and Legend chuckles at him, eyes burning into his own before the guarded veil falls once more.  

Ooh! This one was a challenge to write, but some fun too. Flora can be a fun character to play with and this was my first time using her again since.....oof, Whumptober 2021? Yeah, I needed to use her again, so I had fun with this, she also made a great character to help with exposition about some headcannons and stuff in this thing!

Anyways! That opening bit is Legend misheard Twilight the first time and thought he called him "bun" or "bunny" and thus outed him in front of everyone. Twilight is VERY aware of this, hence why he corrects himself, but he still finds it funny. Wild however is NOT aware of this and is thus pretty confused, because when did these two start having secret jokes/teasing methods/healthy chemistry? He wants the T, and the boys aren't spilling, which is just so unfair!

Of course, Zelly over here really has no clue that this isn't a normal sort of interaction between the rancher and the vet, so she doesn't really question it at all and is happy to just move on and ask Legend to use his things. she does care, of course, that he gets better, but the scientist in her also wants to see how this all works! She's a bit flustered, but Legend is just seeing a Zelda being passionate ad awkward and he's humored because she's kinda cute, but like in the way his sister is!

Wild does not realize that Legend is reminded of his sister, he just sees an attractive dude smiling at his princess. Granted, that's his brother, and granted he has context, but there's a part of him that is conscious of Legend's ability to seduce, a skill the vet has accidentally employed frequently and does not realize he possesses. So yeah, Wild's gettind a bit defensive of his grila nd making sure Legend is aware to keep his paws off (not that Legend ever would).

During that though, Twilight is just...not involved. Twilight is perfectly content to move on with the whole "making Legend get better" thing, as is Flora. The vet has some wariness because yes, he understands the fact that using his aids isn't bad (or at least he's starting to understand) but he also has a part of his brain going "we were assigned a task and doing this will complete us from completing the task". His inner programming of "take task, accomplish task, cross task off" is telling him that if he gives up his goal of lasting without his aids, he's thus leaving that task box unchecked forever! And he's not sure if he can handle that. Twilight takes the decision out of his hands though by acting for him, thus ending the internal debate.

Now, i wanna pause in my dissection of the characters' thoughts and actions to focus on one little thing that was in my head the whole bit I wrote this scene. if you've read The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe you might remember the bit where Lucy, Susan and Aslan return to the witch's castle and Aslan restores the enchanted prisoners to living forms rather than stone The bit were C.S. Lewis describes the life returning to them always stuck with me; his comparison of fire catching and licking across a bit of newspaper, that's what was in my head here when Legend starts wearing the ring again.

I took the restoration bit as a chance to throw in some of my favorite appearance headcannons for Legend, especially the freckles, because those always make me happy! But I also wanted to focus on the fact that Legend's magical self is also being restored, and since Wild is a magical sensitive being I felt I could talk about the magic auras of the boys here. Was it because I was reading eldritch!Wild right before writing this? Yes.

Legend's magic is like the stars or a galaxy in my mind, meanwhile Wild's is like vines or a forest, all green and twisting and twining (maybe sort of like the Zonai magic appears in the TotK trailers?) I wanted to explore, briefly, the interplay of the two, the fact that they don't mesh, but they co-exist well, much like Legend and Wild, and they sort of complement each other through the fact taht theyre both nature based, but in vastly different, but equally awe inspiring realms of nature.

Legend and Wild are both aware of each others' magics, the fact that theirs are both reaching out, and the fact that the other is responding Flora is as well, but she's already too busy taking notes to express outward excitement. Twilight and Time however are caught off guard and don't fully comprehend the magical explosion happening around them they're magic agacent, but not nearly as magical as our boys, so they can sense it, but they don't know what they're feeling so much.

And that's it! Thanks for sending this one! I really enjoyed picking it apart and explaining things!

[jump-in-the-whump]

HI!!! I hope your day's going well!!!

I have a shorty whumpee (Yugi Muto to be precise). Could I get some whump and/or fluff prompts for him and his "stepfather" Kaiba? The stepfather is slightly stoic, but has softened a little over the course of the story.

You don' t have to know or have watched the show, would just like some shorty whumpee x slightly stoic caretaker prompts!

Just trying to get ideas for part 2, ty!

Hello!! Thank you so much for the ask! I'm doing well and I hope you too <3

Not knowing the show, I’m really generic on this, but here’s something for you, I hope you like these!

______________________________________________________

Whumpee laid in bed, their features drawn and pallid, their teeth chattering because of the fever. "I understand," They replied softly, their voice tinged with resignation. "You don't have to stay. I'll manage somehow."

Caretaker sighed, running a hand through their own hair as they paced the room. "Ah… it’s just that… I mean… I told you to take care of yourself…” Caretaker hesitated as they looked at Whumpee, who looked even smaller wrapped in the thick blankets, and then sighed again.

"I'll stay," Caretaker murmured, their voice barely above a whisper. "But only for a little while."

They ended up staying there the whole day.

______________________________________________________

Whumpee, blood pouring from their wounded leg, staggered beside Caretaker, their breaths labored and their steps unsteady.

Caretaker, towering over them, grumbled, their voice tinged with frustration as they glanced back at their injured friend. "Whumpee, come on…"

Whumpee winced, their face contorting with pain as they struggled to keep pace. "I'm trying, Caretaker. But it hurts like hell," they replied through gritted teeth.

Caretaker sighed heavily, avoiding making direct eye contact with Whumpee, but then they caught a glimpse of their leg. Whumpee was losing a lot of blood. Caretaker stared at Whumpee for a while and then closed the distance between them. Without warning, Caretaker picked up Whumpee effortlessly, since they were so small and weak.

"W-what are you…?" Whumpee tried to ask, but Caretaker interrupted them. "I can't wait for you all day, can I?" They answered, trying to mask their concern, but failing.

______________________________________________________

"Can I hold your hand?" Whumpee's voice broke as they asked, their figure appearing fragile and delicate in the soft light. Caretaker hesitated, ready to decline, but when their gaze lifted, they saw Whumpee's hand trembling, reaching out tentatively towards them.

“Alright…” With a sigh, the Caretaker relented, their own hand enveloping Whumpee's smaller, sweaty palm. The size difference was stark, and despite the initial hesitation, a pang of concern washed over Caretaker as they felt the tremors in Whumpee's touch.

Caretaker squeezed Whumpee's hand. "Hey, it'll be fine, you'll see..." the Caretaker replied softly, their voice carrying a tenderness that wasn't there before.

______________________________________________________

"You should've learned basic first aid, Whumpee," Caretaker muttered through clenched teeth, the frustration evident in their voice as they glanced at the makeshift bandages already stained with blood. With a begrudging sigh, Caretaker continued, "I’m no expert too, you know?” their words laced with irritation, yet their hands moved with unexpected delicacy as they attempted to stop the flow of blood, the crimson staining their fingertips.

A heavy silence settled in the room, broken only by the rhythmic sound of Whumpee's strained breathing, their form appearing almost childlike as they lied on the messy bed.

"I never thought I'd see the day when you played nurse…" Whumpee chuckled weakly, a feeble attempt at lightening the mood. Almost unwillingly, Caretaker cracked a smile.

"Don't get used to it!" Caretaker retorted, their tone softened. “I'm only doing this because I don't want to see you pass out. That must really be a sorry sight!” they added with a hint of wry humor.

[the-east-art]

Fantail Pigeons and Mourning Doves - Part 3

The Very Long Stitching Up An Injury Scene

Mel watched the RV pull up to the pump. A woman stepped out, shoulders drawn and hands restless at her side. She talked to the driver of the car before closing the door and circling to the other side. He considered her physical countenance - it matched with the body language he had seen time and again at the gas station. Some kind of a mixture of exhaustion from a long haul in car and frustration with the companions they had willingly trapped themselves with. That kind of body language usually meant Mel smiling tightly as people yelled and argued at one another inside the store as he pretended he was no there, or a piece of decor. That kind of yelling and arguing always made his hands shake and his teeth clench, prepared for… something. 

Outside, the woman at the RV yelled something and the RV left to circle the lot for the fourth time. For five solid minutes, Mel had watched this RV attempt to get in the right position to fill its’ tank. A boxy van parked itself next to a pump, first try and everything. The woman - now directing the driver of the RV by waving her arms in wide semi-circles - shot a look at the van. Mel couldn’t make out the expression from his vantage point, but he assumed it was either envious or angry.

Mel cast himself out there alongside the woman, pictured himself waving his arms to help direct the van. He thinks it would look funny - his oversized sleeves would flop all over the place and emphasize the movement. In his projection of the event, he was able to make small-talk with the women and his efforts made it so that the RV did not have to circle the lot another time. In this version of events, he headed the issue off at the pass. With his help, both the woman and the driver were no longer frustrated, and by the time they entered the store, they were smiling and laughing together, along with however many occupants there were in the vehicle. They did not come in and yell at each other, or their kids, or at Mel. 

“Someone busy daydreaming?”

Mel is pulled out of his thought process the way that one plunges into an icy lake in mid-winter. He hadn’t even noticed the man enter the store. Mel forces his attention from the window, and as per usual has to work not to have his head at its’ usual permanent upward tilt. Wrens’ face beams back at him from the counter. 

“Sorry to interrupt - looked like it was a good one.” Wren comments, adjusting his items on the counter. He has a soda - one of the weird ones they carry in a glass bottle - and a bag of extra-sour gummy worms. 

“It wasn’t dreaming.” Mel replies. He contemplates for a moment explaining the projection to Wren. Zephs’ face instead swims forward in his memory, and he reaches for the soda. Wren isn’t wearing his usual get-up - the jacket and t-shirt combo. He’s instead donning a simple grey button-up tucked into his jeans. An iron-on decal over his breast pocket declares that his name is Wren. If he had been wearing this the other night, Mel wouldn’t have had to admit he had forgotten the name. He takes too long looking at Wrens’ appearance, and Wren breaks the silence as Mel hasn’t even rung up one of the two items yet. 

“Yeah I know, not exactly the most fashion-forward look. I have to be presentable though - play the part.” Mel tilts his head to the side without thinking, replaying the sentence over in his head. 

“What part do you have to play?” 

“I work as a handyman.” Wren waves a hand through the air. Mel thinks it makes it look like he’s trying to shoo away the topic of conversation. “Electrical, plumbing, the works. It’s something people need, ya know? But no one likes having a stranger in their house. A uniform, a nametag… helps put people more at ease.” Mel took a beat to imagine that. At the Seminary, there was always a sibling or aunt or uncle that could take care of anything, but at his current place, it was just him. He had never considered what he would do if the lights just suddenly stopped working, and pictured himself trying to sit and read on the mothball couch while someone he didn’t know prowled around the three small rooms. Even the idea made the hair on his arms rise from imaginary tension.

“I see.” Mel nodded to emphasize his understanding. The machine beeped as he rung up the items, and then snatched his hand before it could automatically push purchase to the card reader. Wrens’ face shifted into an easy-to-read smile as he passed over a few bills. 

“You remembered!” Wren said the words enthusiastically. His smile became smaller as he listened to the crisp ba-ling sounds of the register. The hedgehog sounds. Mel wondered what the smaller smile meant, and not for the first time he wished that he could understand those focal movements and body language as intrinsically as everyone else seemed capable of. Most days Mel felt like a foreigner struggling to understand the words of those who were native to the land, catching every fifth word and only halves of sentences. 

“This is long way from town.” Mel made the observation out loud. “Why is a handyman all the way out here?” Wrens’ hands - reaching for the gummy worms - freeze for half a second. He let out a laugh, a sharp staccato sound. Mel attempts to decipher the meaning. 

“I take care of work all over the place.” He waved one of his hands around as if to encompass the entire desert. “Down south, up north, out where the sun rises, out where it sets.”  Wren rocks his head side to side on his shoulders as he talks. “Everyone everywhere needs something taken care of, and shit, I need money.” He shrugs in a way similar to the first time that Mel and Wren had talked, but Mel thinks this one means something different. The conversation continues before he can fully analyze it. “I mean I’m talking someone to who works in a place where ‘middle of nowhere’ is the permanent address. You go where you gotta to make money.” 

“I like working here.” Mel casts a glance at the lot. The RV rolls into place, and there is much rejoicing from the woman at the pump and the three children that spill out from the doors. They’ll be in the store soon. For some reason that bothers Mel. He doesn’t usually care whether there are or aren’t customers - staring out the window is just as well as observing people in the store. But right now Mel doesn’t want this moment disturbed. In his lapse of attention Wren has changed his expression and posture. Mel is at a loss at what that means.

“No offense, Mel, but I worked retail for two years back when I was in High School and wanted to kill myself every day.” Wren has his items gathered up and should be ready to leave, but he makes no indication that he intends to wind down the conversation. The children have made their mad dash across the black asphalt. 

“I like the quiet.” Mels’ statement is immediately undercut by the yelling of the children, racing each other for the bathroom. Wren glances back in surprise and then turns back to Mel with a smirk on his face, clearly finding the serendipity of the moment funny. Mel takes a crack at a smile too. “I like how it’s quiet most of the time. I like…” Mel casts his thoughts back to the start of the conversation, and unintentionally his chin lifts up slightly. “...I like daydreaming.” 

“Cristopher Andrew put that down. We are not getting powdered doughnuts you’ll get the sugar everywhere.” The woman that had guided the RV has entered the store, her mood soured. She brings a chill air with her, superceding the August warmth that radiates off the nearby window. Wren catches the cold too, shifting uncomfortably, and checks his phone.

“Dangerous to come here - losing track of time chatting it up.” Wren adjusts the ballcap on his head, and when he smiles it makes his eyes thin. “But I guess if I want to see you I know where you are.” 

oOo

Mel doesn’t see Wren again for two weeks. It feels odd, to miss a customer. Mel is used to absence - impossible to grow up with dozens of siblings, share a room with nine other people, and not feel it once that was gone. Mel hates himself, a little, for getting attached to someone. If he needs to leave this place he will now leave a hole himself. He doesn’t like that thought. It leaves the impression that life is walking across paper with glue on his shoes. Wherever he walks he leaves that unseeable gap in reality. 

Wren certainly left an absence. Mel finds himself looking for either of his vehicles -the little green one or the large repair van. 

Like a dark tide, night comes in. That’s what Mel imagines, anyway, he’s never actually seen the ocean. His siblings used to on outings, leaving the Seminary in groups no bigger than a handful, sometimes for weeks at a time. They never told Mel what they did when they left, but they would tell him about where they went. He can still remember the way that Zeph was practically vibrating as he tried to describe what it was like to see the ocean, to stay and what the water creep up the coast, swallowing the sand like the slow prowl of a mountain lion. So really, the analogy went the other way - night is what Mel imagines the dark tide to be like. 

It leaves a strange effect on the gas station. During the day it’s easy to see that the gas station is in the middle of nowhere, but at night… at night lit up by the buzzing yellowed lights surrounded by the dark, the gas station feels like it’s in the middle of nothingness. Like it might be the only thing in the world that exists. Past the lots and pumps is nothingness. Cars and people are formed somewhere in there, crafted by God, and sent to Earth. The only Earth left in the black of space - to the gas station. 

The green car rips through the ocean of darkness. As if physically thrown out from the night it emerges at speed, barreling forward and across the lot. It brings with it a livliness - no - a it brings awareness. A jolt of adrenaline, of wrong. Like when a daring fox breaks the treeline and makes for the sheep. Like sitting in an empty chapel and Raguel busting throught the doors. 

Wren exits the car, slamming the door with force, movements rigid and jerky. His right arm is tightly wrapped around his midsection. He slams through the front door at such a force that Mel flinches. He doesn’t glance at Mel, or wave, or even acknowledge that Mel is in the room. Wren staggers straight through the shelves to the backthroom, and the door bangs closed behind him. 

The air remains charged as Mel stands behind the counter, eyes trained on the tiny hallway that contains the doors to the two bathrooms. Through the window the only two cars in existence are Mels’ and Wrens’, no one is at the pumps. 

Before he can let indicision freeze him in place any longer, Mel moves to the front door and locks it. He turns his back to the glass door. The small walkway to the bathroom suddenly seems infinitely long, stretching out before him. Off-grey tiles, dappled with black and white spots. Mel looks down, and spots of bright crimson look back up at him. One of them is smeared, presumably by Wrens’ stumbling steps. 

Mel is wrenching open the bathroom door before he even consciously thinks about it. Wren, sitting on the bathroom door, looks at Mel like he has been caught stealing something - Mel knows this expression he’s studied it enough times. It’s a mixture of fear, surprise, and shame. He used to see it all the time when he caught his younger siblings taking food from the storage outside of meals. That always carried with it an air of levity, absent in the present moment. Instead the air is weighed down as Mel surveys Wren and the situation he had just thoughtlessly thrust himself in to. 

Wrens’ jacket has been thrown off, tossed halfway across the small room. Wren is frozen in place, staring at Mel, and it leaves one of his hands in the middle of raising the hem of his shirt. There is a dark blotch on his shirt, stained and wet and torn, and it is raised enough that Mel can see the skin dyed red with blood under it and the corner of one of the lacerations. Wrens’ fingertips are already painted.

“Fuck, Mel, sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.” Wren breaks the reverence of the moment with the swear and finished riding up his shirt, fully exposing his abdomen as his other arm sifts through a duffle bag he had brought in with him. “I got this.” 

Mel can’t stop staring at the bleeding wound, Wrens’ stomach smeared with a crimson that shines under the flourescents. It’s a single slice through the skin, deep, a view into a world that is the dark color of clotted blood. Mel recalls, dimly, one time at the Seminary when he cut his food badly, and how Uncle Boaz had described it as ‘sliced into the meat of it’. 

The sight makes Mel want to burn his jacket. 

“What do you have?” 

“Just a knick.” Wren attempts to do his usual hand-waving gestures and inhales sharply through his teeth in pain, aborting the movement. “Nothing you need to worry about.” Mel shakes his head and comes to the ground, forcibly grabbing the duffle with an intensity he doesn’t mean. He feels only half connected to his body right now, like the other half of him is in the stratosphere instead of honing in on the matter at hand. 

Mel pauses in looking at the duffle bag and, this his right hand, harshly slaps himself across the face. 

“Focus focus focus.” He mutters under his breath, a mantra. Wren is staring at him, mouth open. 

“Are you okay?” Wren asks through tense vocal cords and twitching hands. Triumphantly Mel withdraws a smaller bag from the duffel - like a toiletry or make up bag - and opens it to reveal a wide variety of medical supplies. He begins to locate what he knows he’ll need - a spool of synthetic thread kept in it’s own baggie, a needle, small pliers, a pair of tiny sewing scissors. The black lighter from the first time Wren had come into Mel’s life. Mel looks back at the wound. It’s still bleeding - the limping to the bathroom can’t have helped - but not as profusely as it could be. 

“This needs to be cleaned.” Mel says the words out loud, but he hears them through the voice of Aunt Apollonia. Internally Mel flicks through the contents of the store - rags rags rags where are the rags right now. He rises to his feet and tosses the jacket back at Wren. “Put the pressure back on.” And he’s out the door. 

It’s strange to leave the bathroom. The rest of the store doesn’t seem to know what’s going on, ringing as hollow and quiet as it usually does. Through the glass doors Mel can see a car at pump 7. The world is turning on its’ axis everywhere but in that room. Mel snags one of the rags where they sit folded up behind the counter and sheds the maroon jacket, leaving it like a stand-in on his usual stool. 

Wren doesn’t look up when Mel re-enters, braced up against the wall with his eyes squeeze tight, his jacket balled up and tightly pressed against the wound in a grip tight enough to see his tendons and all the muscles in his forearm. Mel returns to kneeling on the ground infront of Mel after wetting the towl at the sink, reaching place one of his hands ontop of Wrens’. Wren inhales sharply at the touch and allows Mel’s light touch to lead his hand away from the clump of bloody cloth. 

“This is going to hurt.” Mel looks at Wren at the admission, as if it’ll be news. Wren sucks in another breath and just nods. As carefully as possible Mel detaches the blood jacket, placing it off to the side to stain the floor, carefully not to disturb the wound too much risk tearing out the clotting blood. With a tender and deft hand Mel begins to dab at the area around the wound, cleaning up the blood enough to get a better view of what he was working with. It would be impossible to fully clean Wren’s stomach with the small piece of cloth, but just getting a feel of the area would help. The places that manage to get cleaned up adequately enough reveal the forms of other scars, long healed. Not Wrens’ first rodeo, then. 

Wren stared at the long cut and bit his lip. The thickly clotted blood was good for keeping Wren from losing more of it, but the wound should also be cleaned of current bacteria. Did the store have anything to disinfect a wound? Did Wren? They never did at the Seminary, but they had also had the watchful eyes of his experienced Aunts and Uncles. Here there was just Mel and Wren.

“You need a hospital.” Mel muttered and looked back at the duffel bag. 

“Kinda far away from one of those right now.” Wren said wryly. Mel withdrew a bottle from the bag, shaking it to get a feel of how full it was. 

“Water?” 

“Lemonade.” Wren replied. Mels’ lip was starting to bleed from fussing at it too much. 

At the sink he rinsed the bottle out, then pumped from hand soap in and rinsed that through a couple times too. Hopefully clean enough, Mel filled it with water from the tap and screwed the lid back on. He squeezed the water over the wound, dislodging coagulated blood and hopefully anything left in the wound from whatever the weapon had been. It ran down Wrens’ abdomen in rivulets, and Mel patted the surrounding area with the towel for want of something else to do. He refilled the bottle two more times and repeated the process. Wren was silent through the ministrations, taking deep breaths through his rose and out his mouth. 

Clenching the needly between his fingers and holding the lighter tightly in his other hand he attempted to disinfect it. At least Wrens’ eyes were closed so he couldn’t see the number of attempts it took for Mel to make the lighter work. He hated these things, they made him feel like a child with fingers too clumsy to get back safety measures. Once he got a steady flame, he held the needle up to it.

“Fuck.” His fingers spasmed apart and dropped the needle onto the definitely not sterile floor. Stupid stupid stupid. Mel echoed the word in his head. Shouldn’t heave been holding it like that anyways. He picked the needle back up and held it with the pliers this time. “Fuck.” He repeated as he fumbled with the lighter. 

Wren let out a small laugh and made a grunt of pain. 

“You don’t look like you swear.” He muttered, voice constrained as he attempted not to use the muscles in his stomach as he spoke. Mel didn’t reply. Zeph and Astrophel had always found it funny when he swore, used to encourage it when he was younger. Uncle Haniel had grabbed the switch when he’d heard him swear like that. 

He put away the lighter, hoping it had done anything to made this more sterile. Slapped his face again, trying to push away the thoughts of the past. He allowed them to come in and out at work, do their damage with their mix of nostalgia and pain and loss, but not here and not now.

“I’m going to start the stitches now.” Mel said and Wren nodded along. 

He instantly wished that the had a curved needle to work on this with. One steadying breath, and Mel pierced the skin. It always put up more resistance than he was expecting. Despite Mel’s attempts to remain int he present, the tactile memory invaded his senses. Sitting a table, hunched over a freshly dead pig from the field, Aunt Apollonia guiding him through the process. 

‘One day’ She would say. ‘Someone will need you to fix them up when they get home.’ Mel would do his best not to look into the pig’s unseeing eyes. 

‘What do they do when they leave?’ She’s smack him across the knuckles for that. 

‘You’re better off not knowing. Do not ask again, Melchior.’

When Mel comes back to the moment, he is already knotting the other side of the first stitch. He snips the thread and starts the second one. It is different than working on a dead pig, the flesh beneath his hands rises and falls gently, occasionally hitching under him when Wren loses his control over his self-imposed calm. Second stitch finished, pinching the skin together. Is this too tight? Is that possible with stitches? Mel can’t recall right now. Somewhere in the back of his mind he wants to know how many cars are currently in the lot. 

“You done this before?” Wren asks. 

“When I’m finished I’m going to need to drive you to a hospital.” Wren talking provides the room for Mel to voice his own thoughts. Wren lets out a grimace sound. The third stitch is tied and snipped. He’s doing the distance between each suture by what he can recall being right, just feeling it out. 

“Aren’t you on shift?” 

“I don’t think you can drive yourself.” Mel responds, and Wren grumbles to himself in an inaudible voice as the fourth, fifth, and sixth place line up like soldiers. 

“You’re going to get yourself in trouble, leaving in the middle of a shift.” Wren finally says. Seven. Eight. Wren is patient. 

“You’re going to get an infection or worse if a professional doesn’t look at this. You’ve clearly been hurt before, you should know that.” Mel glances back at the scars for a moment and flexes his hands. He forgot how sticky blood was. It’s unpleasant. Has never liked his hands having anything on them. Nine. Ten. 

“Comes with the job?” Wren doesn’t even attempt to make the statement pass inspection, turning it to a question at the end like he’s asking if Mel would buy that excuse. Eleven. Mel doesn’t want to keep counting these, he’s only about halfway. Twelve. 

“You aren’t in uniform.” Mel replies. “And you drove your regular car, not your van.” Thirteen.

“You’re observant.” Wren seems to pick his words for stitches fourteen and fifteen. “I was taking care of different business. My, uh, my hobby I guess. Or passion project.” Sixteen. “Uh, don’t ask more details. I’m not good at lying about this shit, and I don’t think the blood loss is doing me any favors here.” Seventeen. His words, despite being distinct, still ring of Aunt Apollonia’s statement. 

“No one tell me shit.” Mel grits out around stitch eighteen. “I needed to be observant to glean anything worthwhile.” Suffocating silence follows his statement. Nineteen. Twenty. 

Mel sighs and rocks back on his heels, flexing his hands, blinks his eyes several times. His fingers are tired and sticky. He needs to wash them, but Mel doesn’t really feel like standing up. When he glances up it’s to see Wren checking over the work. His facial muscles are pinched, and whether it is in an emotion or in pain Mel can’t tell. Frankly he’s too exhausted to try and guess. 

“Twenty exactly.” Wren says, and tugs his blood stained shirt back down, making some kind of an expression as he reaches for his jacket. Mel stays crouched, looking at his hands. They’re red and orange and sticky. Different than the blood of an animal, somehow. Memories flash through his mind - snippets of words and images. Behind him, the sink runs for a moment - Wren stood up at some point on his own. Mels’ never been hurt like that, but considering how he’d been acting, Mel knows he shoudl be surprised that Wren managed it. The bloods under his fingernails. He rubs his hand against the palm of his hand until the dirrt and crime and viscera stands to roll together in clumps. 

Mels’ view of his hands is abruptly cut off as a wet rag lands ontop of his hands, still dripping water. 

“Thank you.” Wren says from above him. He has his duffle swung over his shoulder - must have gathered up the materials while Mel was distracted. Without thinking, Mel starts to use the rag to wipe down his hands. The rag itself is still dirty despite Wrens’ attempts to rinse it. Mel doesn’t look at his hands and rises to his feet. “Now you were gonna put your job in danger and get me to a hospital, right?” Wren starts to head out the bathroom without waiting.

Mel washes his hands. 

[yusei-tales]

The Magician of Crossroads (Chapter 1)

I already know what kind of ending will come if I continue like this. Even knowing that, I’ve let it drag on until now—that is wholly my fault. So here, I mustn’t be reckless, mustn’t hurt anyone.

Alone, I resolve and resolve again. Even if that resolve might scatter like a fleeting daydream when we meet face to face; even if, for me, all of this is but a momentary fragment of time—still, surely, I will end up regretting it.

Whichever crossroads I choose, all that remains for me will be nothing but self-reproach, resentment, and despair. Knowing this so well, I find that there is no one to resent but myself.

The Magician of Crossroads

It was a day just like any other, with good weather. In a small hut nestled deep in the forest, she and I were seated. I wore the same worn cloak as always, but she, as though she were meeting someone important, had dressed to impress. She’d tied a red ribbon in her hair and donned a new white dress that suited her well.

As a gentle breeze stirred the thin linen curtain, I cast a sidelong glance at its soft swaying and found myself lost in thought about how I might send her away. Of course, I kept a smile on my face, careful not to show any signs of trouble.

Just as I was about to speak, she beat me to it with a bright voice. "You're smiling, but your mind’s somewhere else, isn't it? I can tell. It’s obvious."

My throat went dry.

"No, not at all. Would you like some more tea?"

Though I knew she couldn’t read minds, it always felt like she could see through me completely. When had that begun? It wasn’t like this at first.

"Don’t dodge the question. But I’ll take the tea. Thank you, Laden."

The pout from earlier disappeared, and she smiled brightly. Seeing her face, words escaped me for a moment.

It was always like this. Every time I met her, I felt drawn in. Today, I was certain it would be the same.

In the beginning, the gods of Time and Light were born from darkness. Hand in hand, they emerged from the rifts in the void and surveyed their surroundings.

The god of Light spoke: "In this empty darkness, all feels hollow. Here, there is neither chaos nor order. Nothing holds meaning."

Facing them, the god of Time replied: "Yesterday is the same as today. Nothing changes or grows. Only we know of this emptiness—such a shame."

Together, they stood and declared: "I will bring light to this place." "Then I will bring order to this place." "So that all may know what is up and what is down." "So that all may know when is yesterday and when is tomorrow."

Thus, they scattered pieces of themselves into the darkness, and from these fragments, the world was born. Now, the world turns under the light and flows within the bounds of time, bound by set laws.

The magician is the only being who diverges from the world’s rules. All the more so, they are warned to refrain from meddling. For they are mere byproducts of fragments that should have faded away after creating the world. Their existence does not align with perfection.

Many magicians have already disappeared. I will, too, in time.

***

“Are you a magician, mister?”

Those were the words of a young child, eyes wide with innocence, that sparked everything. Without thinking, I answered, "Yes, I am."

There was no need to hide it. Still, magicians rarely revealed themselves. It was an unspoken rule that kept them from unnecessary entanglements with the world.

"I’ve lived for a thousand years, or maybe ten thousand… perhaps even longer. I’ve been here since the world began."

But something about this child—the innocent curiosity and the refreshing boldness—compelled me to answer, and I responded with a hint of humor, speaking in a slightly exaggerated tone.

"I am Laden, the Magician of Crossroads."

Surely, she would soon forget. And even if she didn’t, a human child is born only to return to the earth swiftly. If it became bothersome, I could simply disappear for a while as I had before.

Or so I thought back then.

To be saying this now means, in the end, things didn’t go as planned.

***

Despite their abilities, magicians do not live among people or flaunt their powers. It’s simple—they were not made for that. Because magicians are fragments of the gods who should have built and then vanished from the world, the more they use their powers, the more they lose their will, gradually becoming part of the world itself.

When the world still remembered the gods, magicians were revered. Called “fragments of the divine,” they would step forth, nurturing the creations beloved by their gods and fading only after fulfilling their roles. Those who wished to interfere excessively with the world were either stopped by other fragments or disappeared naturally, following the flow of cause and effect.

And those who vanished—only other fragments retained any memory of them. By now, few remember, and only the fragments who value quiet, solitary lives remain.

In a world where the divine is no longer remembered, they became known as "magicians," existing only as ghostly tales or ancient legends.

If no one remembers you, are you truly there? If no one acknowledges your existence, are you truly alive?

We exist. We were here. But if all of us disappear, if that day comes… then, our existence would be as if it had never been.

Was it too greedy to hope that someone would remember us? Some grew attached to humans, hoping they’d be remembered, though in the end, it was all in vain. Still, I think, in their final moments, they were happy.

How do I know? Well, wouldn’t you know better?

Oh, don’t play innocent. If you don’t know, then who would? You, of all people, should know how to make a choice without regret. You, the Magician of Crossroads. Yes, you.

***

The meaning behind the title "Magician of Crossroads" might make you curious. To put it simply, it means this: “Foreknowledge.”

As a fragment of the god of Time, I can see the future—more precisely, I know the outcome of my actions. Thus, in moments of choice, I can decide in advance what action will benefit me.

Though faint, this power is indeed akin to divine authority, a gift bestowed solely upon me. It’s why I’ve survived for so long and why some even call me the greatest magician. But this ability is also a curse. There are inevitabilities one cannot avoid. What good are crossroads if you cannot choose either path? This power merely offers a chance to select the lesser evil, forcing me to walk a road of despair, fully aware of the outcome.

And there’s another flaw: though I see the outcome, I cannot see the path that leads there.

So, when I unwittingly glimpsed the child’s future, I was struck with alarm.

Because from the moment she became entangled with me, this child’s fate—regardless of the form—was sealed to end in death because of me.

That was something I realized after our third meeting. Despite my warnings, she somehow managed to find me, even as I secluded myself deep in the forest. Exasperated and unsure how to shake her off, I resorted to my power.

Yet an entirely unexpected result came forth. Normally, I’d see only the near future consequences of my actions. But this time, I saw nothing at all—just a clear end of death at the end of all possible paths, with no way to avoid it. It was a prophecy, absolute and inescapable.

But why? How could it be? There was no way for me to understand what could lead to such an outcome. It was something beyond my control.

In disbelief, I tried using my ability again, only to find the same result.

It had been a long time since something shocked me like that. The child, oblivious, had approached and tugged on my sleeve.

"I found you."

So carefree. Out of sheer curiosity, I tried using my power once more, imagining I might run far and hide.

The outcome?

She stumbles in the forest, meets her end in an accident.

Unbelievable.

"Do you like hide-and-seek that much, mister? You made it hard to find you this time!"

If I erased her memory of me, what would happen? Is there still one who could do that? No—she might die before I even find such a person.

"And you know, mister, your head sparkles so bright! I can see it from far away!"

Technically, this isn’t my fault, but this really, really leaves a bad taste, doesn’t it?

[tickles-ivory]

"A Hobbit in the Woods:  A Retelling of the Brothers Grimm 'Little Red Riding Hood'

by Ticklesivory (dedicated to @shantismurf)

Rated: T for violence

For Bagginshield Week 2023

A short little Bagginshield fairytale inspired by this Tumblr post:  (2) Ticklesivory on Tumblr  

Happy Bagginshield Week everyone! 

____________________________________________________________

Once upon a time in a small village that lay just outside of a dark forest lived a hobbit named Bilbo Baggins.  He was a kind hobbit who lived alone and kept to himself.  He enjoyed cooking and would often take food to his friends and neighbors whenever one of them had taken ill.

One of his oldest friends, who had been a close friend of his grandfather’s, was known throughout the village as Gandalf the Gray because he wore a gray cloak and hat.  After his grandfather’s and parents’ deaths, Bilbo took it upon himself to visit the old man regularly.  He would often take him food and drink, and ease his own conscience by checking on the old man’s health.    

At least once a month, Gandalf would ride in his small carriage which was drawn by a sorrel pony with a blonde mane to the village to visit Bilbo as well.  When the old man’s visit was delayed, Bilbo sent a messenger to Gandalf’s cottage that had been built in the middle of the forest. 

The messenger brought back word that Gandalf was suffering from a bad cold and was confined to his bed.  Immediately, Bilbo began gathering items to take to his oldest friend.  Before he left, the messenger tried to warn him.

“Do be careful, Mister Baggins,” his neighbor, Mister Gamgee said.  “I met a woodsman along the way, and he told me there were wolves in the area.  One is particularly large.  It is the white wolf that was attacking Farmer Maggot’s sheep last winter.”

Bilbo continued to gather supplies and poured a pot of chicken broth into a small crock to take with him as well as several biscuits and a jar of blueberry jam he had put up last summer. 

Gandalf may be known for his gray cloak, but in the village of hobbits, Bilbo was known for his dark red jacket.  He wore it often and there were those who called him The Hobbit in Red, though not to his face. 

On his way out his door, he donned his red jacket and grabbed his favorite walking stick.  He promised Mister Gamgee he would stay on the path through the forest which was traveled often by hunters and woodcutters and was considered the safest route to Gandalf’s.  He thanked the messenger for his service and paid him the agreed wage, waved goodbye, and set off down the road. 

The woodland realm beyond his village was dense with foliage that blocked out the sun.  The ground was covered in shadow and occasionally, Bilbo would hear the trill of a bird or the cry of a rabbit.  What he was listening for was a deep growl, heavy paws breaking sticks, or even a glimpse of white fur.

An hour into his journey, not having seen anything to be alarmed about, Bilbo relaxed and began to enjoy his surroundings, only to be suddenly so badly frightened that he nearly spilled his basket. 

“Forgive me.  I didn’t mean to startle you.”  A deep voice told him that was coming from a very handsome stranger who stepped out from the heavy brush.  “I am Thorin Durin, a woodcutter by trade.  I don’t believe it is safe for someone of your station to be walking through this forest alone.”

Bilbo took offense.  He was a full-grown hobbit and could take care of himself, thank you very much!

“I will be all right, but thank you for your concern.”

The dark-bearded axe-wielder stepped onto the path right in front of Bilbo and gazed down his sharp nose at the traveler.  He was slightly taller than the hobbit, a dwarf, Bilbo believed based on the size of his hands and feet, but he wasn’t about to be bullied by him!

“You’re not even carrying a weapon,” the woodcutter told him with a smirk that Bilbo found to be surprisingly attractive, as was the clothing he wore – which consisted of coarse dark tweed and leather.  Not at all to Bilbo’s taste, but they looked remarkably well on the muscular dwarf. 

In Thorin’s hand was a long-handled axe he no doubt used to chop down the trees required to sustain his livelihood.  Bilbo gripped his tall, thin stick a bit more tightly.

“I’m quite capable of taking care of myself,” he informed the dwarf proudly.  “And I have no intention of straying from the path.  I won’t be fooled by the wit of any wolf, white or not.”

The dwarf gazed at him with the most beautiful pair of blue eyes Bilbo had ever seen.  “The pale wolf travels on and off the path where he wills, and he disguises his appearance.  Sometimes he’s a wolf, sometimes an elf or an owl.  Be careful who you talk with in these woods and the things you say.”

Bilbo nervously shuffled his feet.  He usually wasn’t shy around people, but he found the dwarf incredibly attractive and was considering asking if he would escort him to Gandalf’s cottage.

As if reading Bilbo’s thoughts, the woodcutter smiled and stepped forward, eyeing Bilbo up and down before gazing into his basket of goods. 

“What’s in your basket?”

“Just a few things I’m taking to a friend,” the friendly hobbit replied.  “To Gandalf the Gray.  Perhaps you know him?  He lives beyond the north meadow in a brown cottage overlooking the Long River.  He’s taken ill I’m afraid and needs some looking after.”

Thorin’s dark brows furrowed.  “How do you know I’m not the white wolf in disguise?  You’ve just told me everything I need to know to set a trap not only for you but your friend as well.”

Bilbo lost his smile and shut his mouth.  He had no doubt that Thorin was just a woodcutter, but he needed to be more careful.

“I just know, but I will be more careful from now on.  I promise.”

“Good,” the dwarf said.  “I would hate to discover you were dead.  Not before I get to know you a little better.”  The smirk had returned which made Bilbo blush hot beneath the collar of his red jacket.

“Thank you for your concern.  Perhaps we shall meet again.”

“Perhaps so, Master Baggins.  Be careful and do not speak with any more strangers.”

Bilbo nodded and watched as the woodsman disappeared into the shadows created by the dense canopy of the forest. 

He continued on his way with a bit of a skip to his step as he recalled how the dwarf’s eyes shimmered and how big his muscles were, and the thoughts reddened Bilbo’s cheeks. 

Some time later he came to a game trail crossing the path and watched with delight as a few small brown rabbits scurried across it.  They were saying in their tiny, nervous voices, “Do not step on us!” as they hopped away and soon disappeared.

Bilbo didn’t always encounter animals within the forest, but it always surprised him just a little when he heard them speak.  For you see, the forest outside of his village was not only dangerous but enchanted.  Almost all of the creatures that lived inside of it had the ability to communicate with others.  Some Bilbo found quite entertaining and witty, while others were slow-witted and not very intelligent.  Much like the hobbits in his own community, he thought to himself with a chuckle. 

Along the way, he watched a turtle move slowly beside the path who greeted him with a ‘good morning,’ in its slow tortoise drawl.  At a turn, he spotted an owl in a tree.  Bilbo said good day to the bird, though it did not look very pleased to have its rest disturbed.  As a whole, Bilbo found owls believed themselves to be a bit superior and above the concerns of, well – everyone else. 

Bilbo continued on, his feet never straying, his eyes carefully taking in everything he could see.  At this point, he was halfway through his journey, and he stopped to drink from a stream running nearby and to take a nibble or two from one of the seed cakes he was taking to his friend.

As he lifted his head and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, he saw movement in the trees on the other side of the water.  Much to his surprise, a beautiful white stag stepped into view.  Its striking, icy-blue eyes viewed Bilbo cautiously before it stepped into the water and crossed the stream.  Bilbo stepped back to allow the animal room to move onto the bank and to stay clear of its broad set of antlers. 

“Good day,” he announced to the animal who lifted its head to gaze down at the hobbit.  “You are the prince of the forest, are you not?”

“That I am,” the large animal told him with smooth and deep vocalizations.  “Are you alone in these woods?  It is not advised for someone so small in stature.”

Bilbo tried not to take offense to that statement.  He knew how tall he was and that this creature towered over him!

“I’m not long on this journey,” he exclaimed.  “In fact, I’m headed straight to my friend’s home in the woods.  I’m nearly halfway there and should be able to make it back home by nightfall.  If not, then I shall spend the night there.”

The stag’s eyes widened as he tilted his head.  “Perhaps you should keep your business to yourself, Master Hobbit.  There are those that walk within these woods that would take advantage of such a helpless creature as yourself.”

Helpless!  That was the second time today someone had questioned his abilities! 

“I’m not afraid to walk through these woods,” he stated firmly while standing up tall and straight. “I’ve done it many times in the past and have never required bow, axe, or sword.”

The creature didn’t look that impressed.  “I am sorry to hear about your friend.  There a great many things that may happen to those who choose to live here and who do not belong.” 

What was that supposed to mean?  “Well, Gandalf has lived here for many years, and he does just fine.  It’s just a trifling cold he’s picked up.  You know, with that last late snowy spell we had, I know many a hobbit who are suffering from the same thing.  I do what I can to help since I never seem to catch anything.”

“That is good to hear,” the mighty stag told him.  “I will leave it to you then Master Hobbit.  Be safe on your journey.”

Bilbo watched with some fascination as the powerful muscles of the beast carried him upriver and out of the hobbit’s sight.  He just then noticed that to get a drink from the stream, he had strayed from the path.  It wasn’t the first time, however.  He had often stopped to get a drink here.  He found the water to be cool and refreshing.  No harm had ever come from it.

The path wasn’t very far away, and soon, Bilbo’s feet were back upon it.  A narrow gap in the canopy above him allowed a stream of sunlight to peer through and Bilbo glanced up to allow the warmth to shine down upon his face.  That was when he heard the snap of a twig on his left and he spun around, holding his walking stick out to protect himself if it was required.  He was relieved to find it was only the woodcutter again, the sight of which brought a smile to the hobbit’s face.

“Are you following me?” Bilbo said, half-jokingly.

“No.  Why would I do that?”

The words Thorin had said didn’t quite match the dwarf’s expression.  Embarrassment was evident on his handsome face and Bilbo found it to be quite charming. 

“I’m on my way to work in the clearing which I believe is just west of your destination.  If you wouldn’t mind, I could walk with you for a while.”

The invitation was well received and increased Bilbo’s smile.  “Of course, I wouldn’t mind.”

“You’re making good time,” Thorin noted after a moment.  “You should reach your friend before noon I should think.” 

“Yes, I’ve been lucky on this journey,” Bilbo told him.  “There have been times when I’ve twisted an ankle or the weather changed so quickly I had to turn back.  Today is a beautiful day, don’t you think?”

The woodcutter only grunted in reply and kept his eyes on the road.  “You’re from the village of hobbits, are you not?” 

“I am,” Bilbo answered, his brow lifting curiously. 

“And is that where…I mean…do you live alone?”

Bilbo smiled shyly at Thorin’s question, though not nearly as hesitantly as his new friend.  For someone so obviously strong and fierce, finding Thorin was a bit bashful wasn’t only surprising but endearing, and it caused his heart to flutter. 

“I do live alone, although just recently.  My parents passed a couple of years ago and left the property to me.  Do you live close by?”

“Not exactly,” Thorin explained.  “I’m from the dwarven realm of Erebor at the foot of the Lonely Mountain some ways from here.  I come here during the spring and summer to find work.”

“Ah, I see,” Bilbo exclaimed, trying to recall the distance from his village to the mountain.  If he was assuming correctly, it was just a few hours’ journey by carriage.  An easy trip he just might have to take in the near future. 

“If I were to say…wish to come visit you at your home…Maybe I could provide you with some firewood or perhaps we could…”

“Share a meal or enjoy a cup of tea over delightful conversation?”  Bilbo suggested trying to be as helpful as he could be and ease some of the dwarf’s discomfort.

“Aye,” Thorin responded with yet another pink blush on his face. 

“I’d like that.  Really, I would,” Bilbo answered back, while secretly observing the small smile that spread the woodsman’s mouth. 

“Good,” Thorin replied.  “For now, I will leave you to your walk.  I should return to work.”

“It was a pleasure talking to you, Thorin,” Bilbo told him as he began to walk away. 

“We shall speak again soon, Bilbo,” the woodcutter said in a way that caused a wave of delight to sweep across the hobbit’s skin.

“That we will,” he whispered as a promise to himself just before continuing along the path. 

Following another two hours, the road curved and opened into a small field, wherein sat a small stone cottage with smoke coming from its chimney.  He had made it to Gandalf’s house and Bilbo hurried down the path to come to the wooden fence and the sturdy gate before it.

It was unusual to find the gate ajar, he thought before brushing any worry aside.  Gandalf was ill and he probably didn’t have the energy to secure his property, Bilbo decided, only to become even more concerned when he found the carved wooden door on the front of the cottage wasn’t latched either.

He stepped slowly inside, pushing the door back on its hinges, and called out.

“Gandalf?  Are you here?  It’s me, Bilbo Baggins!  I’ve brought you some goodies from home that will hopefully make you feel better!”  He waited for a moment and listened carefully, unable to hear a reply.  “Gandalf?”  Bilbo called out once more before stepping further in and shutting the door behind him. 

The cottage had four rooms, and the one directly opposite him was the main bedroom.  Bilbo had been inside the home plenty of times and he didn’t think Gandalf would consider this an intrusion, so he continued on and pushed back the curtain divider. 

There, on the four-poster bed beneath piles of handsewn quilts, he saw a form, and Bilbo sighed in relief.  But then he noticed it wasn’t moving and hurried over to make sure his friend was actually all right.

Gandalf looked a little more pale than usual upon first notice, but he was breathing, which settled Bilbo’s nerves.

“Gandalf?”  Bilbo repeated the name softly, trying to rouse his friend to make him aware of his presence without frightening him.

The old man’s blue eyes shuttered open and his smile became broad.  “My dear fellow,” he said with a rasp that sent him into a coughing fit.  Bilbo immediately grabbed a pitcher and filled a glass on the bedside table to offer the man a drink.

Gandalf took a few sips and then waved the offer away.  “Thank you,” he said.  “What have you brought me?  Is that broth I smell? And perhaps some of your delicious biscuits?” 

Bilbo had never been an overly cautious hobbit.  He was trusting to a fault.  In the past, that had led him into a variety of dangerous circumstances.  He was trying to learn, and the woodcutter’s warnings replayed in his mind. 

How could Gandalf smell the broth he had brought if he was suffering from a cold, which should make that feat entirely impossible! 

“Ah yes,” Bilbo replied, trying not to gather suspicion.  “I brought some broth, a little wine, as well as some biscuits and jam.  I sent Mrs. Hardfoot earlier this morning to check on you after you hadn’t shown up for a few days.  I was worried about you.   Did you find her company soothing?”

The ill man eyed him and the smile that followed was unusually forced.  “Oh, yes.  Mrs. Hardfoot is a delightful woman.  So full of cheer and such good company.”

“Well, that would be quite miraculous,” Bilbo replied, just before he took a step backward.  “Seeing that she died two winters ago.”

Gandalf’s blue gaze narrowed, and his typical pleasing smile turned malicious. 

“You should’ve listened to the woodcutter,” he said in a voice that didn’t belong to him.  “Even I, myself, tried to warn you of the dangers of the forest, but you hobbits think you’re so smart and cunning.  We see who the most cunning is now, don’t we?”

Bilbo recognized that deep voice and watched with some stunned fascination as the man upon the bed transformed into a large, white wolf. 

“Azog,” Bilbo uttered, fear causing his voice to tremble.  It was the one he had been warned about time and time again – the shape-shifter, the enchanted creature who could change from any creature he desired.  “You were the white stag!  Where is my friend Gandalf?”

“I have placed him in safekeeping for now until I am ready for him.  He is old and will be tough to chew, while you, on the other hand, are far more delectable.  Young and plump.  I shall enjoy this very much.”

With those words, the wolf leaped up from the bed to attack Bilbo, but the hobbit moved out of the way quickly, causing the wolf to stumble and crash into the armoire.  The door burst open and Gandalf, bound from head to toe, bruised and battered, tumbled out onto the floor. 

The white beast slashed its giant claws in Bilbo’s direction and he had been too concerned about Gandalf to move out of the way fast enough.  The claws stripped through his dark red jacket and pierced his skin, creating bloody marks across his back.  He cried out in pain as well as terror and hurriedly glanced around the room for some type of weapon.  Nearby, he had laid his walking stick and he grabbed it, swung it as fiercely as he could toward Azog. It came in contact with the beast’s nose. 

The impact didn’t even cause the wolf to blink, and he dropped down on all four paws to stare at Bilbo with a deadly and hungry gaze, saliva dripping from his razor-sharp teeth.  Bilbo backed away until he bumped into a table, on which was a kerosene lamp. 

Just as the wolf pounced, Bilbo  broke the lamp, grabbed the largest shard, and plunged it into the beast’s throat.  The wolf howled in pain but wasn’t the least deterred, knocking Bilbo down onto the floor, to hover over him.  Now, not only was the wolf’s spittle dripping down onto Bilbo, but its blood as well. 

“I’m going to enjoy every last bite of you,” the creature hissed before opening its mighty jaws. 

Bilbo slammed his eyes closed.  If this is the way he was going to die, he really didn’t want to watch it happen.  He waited for the excruciating pain, but it didn’t come.  After a silent moment, he glanced up to find the wolf’s mouth was indeed open, but out of it came only a small squeak. 

Before Bilbo realized what was happening, the wolf was knocked off him and it slid across the floor. 

Bilbo sat up, his heart pounding, his eyes wide with fear, and yet there was hope.  It had come in the form of a handsome woodcutter who was wielding his axe.  The blade of the weapon was now covered in the animal’s blood, which was streaming from the wolf’s side.  The beast cowered in the corner, hissing and growling at Thorin, who seemed entirely focused on nothing but him.

The hobbit watched in growing alarm as the woodcutter approached Azog, embedded his axe into him not once or twice, but three times.  When he was finished, the wolf lay very still and Bilbo closed his eyes to block out the sight.  Regardless of its attack on him and his friend, he didn’t enjoy witnessing violence against any creature for any reason.   

Suddenly, there were gentle hands cradling his scalp. 

“Master Hobbit.  Bilbo.  Are you all right?”

That was Thorin’s voice and Bilbo forced his eyes open, doing his best to avoid looking at anything but the tender and concerned gaze searching his own.

“I’ve got some scratches on my back, but I’ll live.” 

“Come,” Thorin said, gingerly assisting Bilbo to his feet.  “Let’s leave the creature behind for a moment and help your friend.”

The two of them freed Gandalf and entered the common area where Thorin immediately insisted that Bilbo remove his jacket and shirt. 

With a solid red blush, the hobbit complied, hissing in pain to discover the blood-soaked material was sticking to his skin.

“There is some salve in the corner cupboard,” Gandalf told Thorin from a chair he had sat down heavily on, his breathing raspy, his voice hoarse.

Thorin retrieved the ointment and applied a generous amount to Bilbo’s injuries.  For such a strong dwarf with incredibly thick fingers, his touch was surprisingly gentle, the hobbit thought.

“I’m afraid your lovely red coat is ruined, as is this shirt,” Thorin informed him as he began ripping cloth he apparently found as well and started wrapping it around Bilbo’s chest. 

Once he stood in front of him, Bilbo realized how very close the woodcutter was  to him, and it caused his skin to turn ruddy and his breath to come out in pants. 

“Are you sure you’re quite well?” Thorin teased, a smirk lifting up the corner of his mouth.

“Just scratched up is all, I assure you,” Bilbo answered back as Thorin tied the ends of the bandage over his ribs. 

“I’ll be at your house in three days to check on you and make sure your wounds haven’t become infected,” the dwarf informed him. 

Bilbo would like to say there was no need for that, but he couldn’t think of anything more pleasant than spending additional time with such a lovely dwarf. 

“I’d like that.”  His words had come out much quieter than he had intended, and it caused Thorin to lean in.  Oh, if only they were alone, Bilbo would close the distance to thank the dwarf properly. 

But Gandalf was sitting close by, huffing and puffing, and staring at them quite incredulously. 

“What about the wolf?”  the old man asked once the tender moment had passed. 

“I’ll drag it into the woods as a warning to others who may have the same idea.”

Bilbo swallowed hard.  “You mean…there are others?”  he squeaked. 

“Oh aye,” Thorin replied.  “As I told you, these woods are full of dangerous folk and you would do well to…”

“Not speak to strangers,” Bilbo chuckled.  “I get it.  But if I hadn’t, then I would have never met you.”

A dark brow lifted on Thorin’s face.  “In that case, consider yourself lucky, as do I.” 

“Pardon me,” Gandalf cut in.  “But is there anything in that basket you brought Bilbo, or do I have to look for myself?”

“Oh!  Of course, of course there is.”  Bilbo replied, his thoughts quite distracted by the magnetic blue eyes that were following his every move. 

“I’ll take my leave now,” Thorin announced.  “And I’ll take the carcass with me.” 

Bilbo stepped aside, grimacing at the trail of blood that was being spread across the floor.  Before the woodsman left, however, all Bilbo had for him was a smile, and he did his best to make it one worthy of remembrance. 

Once they were alone, Bilbo returned his attention to Gandalf and proceeded to warm up some broth and pour him some of the watermelon wine he had brought.  Then, he went about the task of scrubbing away the blood from the worn, wooden floors.

It occurred to him as he rinsed out the bucket and brush and listened to the old man slurp that there were better ways to go about doing things.  He had never wanted a housemate, but having Gandalf closer would certainly be more convenient and free up a lot of his time.  And if he paid his neighbor, Master Gamgee, to look in on the old man from time to time, Bilbo could even manage to take a trip.  Maybe as far away as Erebor. 

He dropped the scrub brush back into the bucket of clean, sudsy water and smiled innocently at his old friend.  “Gandalf, my old friend.  Perhaps it’s time we consider relocating you to the village.” 

THE END

[shesinchargeareyoukidding]

Eddie Munson Sickfic: When you hurt Chapter 6: A rough night

Chapter one here

1987

It was a rough night.

The first time Eddie woke up, he panicked again. He wasn’t able to recall his conversation with his uncle earlier that night and just like he had before, he tried to get up in a blind panic. Wayne, who already had his arms around Eddie, just tightened his hold on his nephew and softly spoke into his ear while Eddie thrashed in his grip. It didn’t take long before his frantic struggling and shallow breaths caused his eyes to roll back into his head. His body went limp and he passed out again. Wayne didn’t let up on his grip, not once. Not when Eddie jolted awake again. And then again. And again.

The fifth time Eddie woke up, his fever was so high he thought Wayne was his dad. He apologized again and again, begged Wayne not to leave and more disturbingly, not to hurt him. Wayne didn´t know where or when Eddie thought he was, but he did his best to settle him down. It was hell. Every time Wayne´s hand reached out, Eddie would flinch violently and sob louder. His voice had a similar effect when he tried to speak. In the end, Wayne settled on holding Eddie firmly, and swaying them gently. He hummed a soft song while he did this and let Eddie cry as much as he needed. When Eddie passed out once more, Wayne took his time to wipe the tears off his exhausted nephew´s face while forcefully holding back his own.

A nurse came by to check on Eddie. She redid his IV without question and explained to Wayne that Eddie was coming down from his sedation and this combined with his high fever would explain his delirium. It would wear out eventually, but it would be a long night.

The sixth time Eddie woke up he tried to rip out his IV again. Wayne anticipated it and was able to grab Eddie’s arm before he could. It was this instinct Eddie seemed to have to copy his father’s actions that disturbed Wayne deeply. He had tried to teach Eddie to care about himself as he cared for others, but it seemed that if stripped down to his impulses and nothing else, Eddie’s first reaction was still what his father programmed into him. Wayne would never forgive his brother for that.

The seventh time Eddie woke up, Wayne was just in time to pull off the oxygen mask and shove a bowl underneath his nephew’s chin before he was violently throwing up. Almost nothing came out, but the painful gags were not letting up. Eddie was desperately trying to breath, his shaking hands grasping for anything to ground him. In the end, the kid was too exhausted to keep going and that was the only reason the gagging stopped. He slumped back against Wayne and his eyes rolled back.

The eighth time Eddie woke up Wayne had to shake him awake because of a horrible nightmare. Eddie was thrashing and screaming in his sleep and Wayne just knew what he was experiencing. After that awful spring break Eddie had eventually told him what had happened to him. How he got those awful scars. By the way Eddie’s back was arching and his face was drawn in helpless panic, Wayne knew that he was feeling those awful creatures tearing at his flesh, unable to move away. He felt sick as he frantically shook his nephew, trying to keep him from reliving that moment. He hadn’t been there to protect him then, but he could do it now. Eddie gasped awake and immediately dissolved into hacking coughs. Trembling fingers clutched at Wayne’s flannel shirt until they went slack as Eddie once again lost consciousness.

The ninth time Eddie woke up all his muscles seized up and he pressed his head against Wayne’s chest with a groan. His arm curled around his chest protectively as he tried to level his breathing. Wayne frowned in concern and brushed his hand along Eddie’s ribs, but Eddie immediately flinched away from the touch and groaned in agony. “d-don’… i- h-hurts…” He muttered against the oxygen mask. The inevitable coughing fit that followed had him curling in on himself and crying from the pain. “w-wayne… please…” he whimpered. “jus’ wan’ i-it to s-sto… stop…” Wayne pressed the alarm button next to the bed in panic and desperately tried to soothe his nephew. “I know, Eddie. I know. Just hold on, help is coming.” He ran his fingers through his nephew’s curls and tenderly brushed away his tears as Eddie shook.

The doctor won’t let Eddie have any pain relief. That’s what the nurse is very apologetically telling him while his nephew is writhing in pain. They have too much debt with the hospital already and the doctor can’t justify the use of expensive painkillers to hospital management without it being a case of unbearable suffering. “What the fuck do you call this?” Wayne exclaimed, gesturing to his shuddering nephew, who was rapidly losing his grip on consciousness again. The nurse shrugged helplessly and told Wayne the doctor would be available to talk the next day. After that she left. As Eddie’s exhausted body lost its hold on consciousness once again and slowly unwound against his uncle’s frame, Wayne finally allowed himself to cry, letting the helplessness wash over him. He buried his face in Eddie’s hair and tried to sob as quietly as he could.

The tenth time Eddie woke up the sun was rising. He blearily looked up at Wayne. The moment their gazes met, Eddie’s eyes filled with tears and he broke down in sobs. “no, no, no… ‘m sorry… ‘m s-sorry…” he pleaded, looking intently at his uncle. For a moment Wayne was scared that Eddie was panicking again, but Eddie’s eyes seemed less glazed over as they had been. A trembling hand reached out to the bags under Wayne’s eyes and clumsily brushed over them. “e-everything’s f-fucked!” Eddie gritted out. His exclamation send a sharp pain through his rib cage and he crumbled and curled up, burying his face into Wayne’s chest.

“Ssh, Ed. You need to calm yer breathin’, son.” Wayne whispered to his nephew. He observed Eddie intently. “Do you remember how ya got here?” he asked. Eddie nodded tearfully. “I r-member everythin’, Wayne. ‘m so sorry… d- ow.” He flinched and deflated after trying to twist around to properly face his uncle. “did I keep you awake a-all night?” He asked in a small voice, big tearful eyes staring up at Wayne.

“Oh, Ed.” Wayne sighed. “Dontcha worry about that. ‘Course I didn’t sleep very well, but I’ll be fine. All ya gotta do is focus on yerself, yeah?” He started to comb his fingers through Eddies hair, smoothing out all the knots that formed overnight. Eddie tried his best to relax into the touch, though every breath he took was setting his ribcage on fire and gave him an overwhelming urge to cough. His head was pounding and all his muscles ached. He was so tired, even though he had managed to get some sleep. It was really scary to note how much effort just breathing was for his weak body. Distantly, he heard his uncle ask something. 

“hmmm?” Eddie hummed tiredly. He felt more than heard his uncle chuckle. “Sorry, Ed. Didn’t mean to wake you up.” His uncle apologized. 

“wasn’t asleep.” Eddie slurred tiredly. Wayne hummed. “wha’ didya wanna ask?” Eddie prodded.

“I was askin’ ‘bout yer ribs, son. What happened to ‘em?” Wayne asked softly.

“Oh.” Eddie thought for a second. Did he want to tell his uncle about this and worry him even more? He would probably find out anyway and Eddie tried to always be honest with Wayne. He found out really quickly that this was the best way to talk to him. Whereas his dad would right out ask Eddie to lie to him when the truth didn’t suit him, all Wayne did was ask for truth, even if it was something that he didn’t want to hear. It had been so freeing for Eddie to learn this. He owed Wayne the truth. Eddie scrambled to gather enough energy to form an explanation. Even with his chest tightening painfully with every breath.

“H-Hopper kind of had to… h-he had t-to-“ He was quickly interrupted by a strangled coughing fit that ripped through his entire chest. Wayne held him through it, even when the pain turned the coughing into gagging so excruciating, it made him almost black out. It left him helplessly sobbing into his uncle’s shirt. “th-there isn’t eve… even a-anythin’ in my… f-fucking s-stomach! w-why…” Eddie hiccupped helplessly against Wayne. “w-why won’t it st-stop?” He pleaded. Wayne could only hold him until all of Eddie’s energy had drained from him. “Ssssh, ssssh, I gotcha… I gotcha, kid. Just let it out… “ He could feel his nephew’s body go lax with a final exhausted sob.

Tired half-lidded eyes peered up at Wayne, silent tears still dripping down pale cheeks. Wayne took his time to brush Eddie’s sweaty bangs off his forehead and wipe every single tear. Then he kissed his nephew’s curls and rested their foreheads together. Eddie whimpered at the tender gesture and more tears escaped his exhausted eyes. Wayne was quick to wipe them away as well. “Try to go back to sleep, Ed. I gotcha.” He muttered. Eddie gave a shaky nod. “y-you too…” He rasped out. Wayne smiled sadly at Eddie. “I’ll try, kid. I’ll try.” He promised as Eddie’s eyes fluttered closed.

[savedestroy]

@cxrnxticn​ says... (For Pluto, sorry it came out a tad wordy lol) A sweet enticing aroma awoke Mariko from one of her many stupors of the day. She was drawn to a colorful display in the windows of a quaint little flower shop, nose inches from the glass causing a circle of fog from her breath. The sight made her long for Spring which was too far off for her liking. To remedy her aching heart, she went for the door handle, and allowed herself into the blissfully warm shop, taking in the variety of beautifully arranged bouquets with a barely stifled glow of happiness.

The familiar ‘ding’ of the bell which hangs above the entrance’s heavy wooden door welcomes yet another guest into the modest flower shop, its owner quick to greet the girl that enters. He’s unwavering in his politeness and readiness to serve, despite the large bouquets tucked in his arms. The extravagant pick of blooming flowers nearly blocks his initial view from her, but, he offers her a smile nonetheless as he continues his long haul over to the front counter. 

“Why, hello there ~ It`s lovely to meet you.”

After he carefully unloads his pick of flowers, Pluto proceeds with his work as usual. Soon, a pair of vases join the countertop, along with a few other tools. He spares another glance at the stranger that seems to have barely moved an inch since stepping foot inside, and as he begins his next tasks of pruning and perfecting, he hopes a few more words will encourage the little lady to make herself at home.

“You`ll have to excuse me for a moment. I`m afraid I must finish these before I can help you. You`re more than welcome to look around in the meantime! Oh, but, please be careful ~ My little friend is roaming the shop as we speak. She`ll bite if you don`t watch your fingers. I hear that`s quite painful, what with the venom and all. Heh heh!”

[crqstalite]

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#5

and the finished product. a redraw of this piece from three years ago.

-

"It seems introductions are in order." Lana states, stepping out of the metaphorical and literal shadows with their red-jacketed savior a few steps behind. Zanya shifts her weight back to her uninjured foot, taking stock of her surroundings. Beniko had lead her into a trap, whether knowingly or unknowingly and now there's a Republic spy with her. Considering the rest of her company, she wonders how long she had her working in tandem with the opposite faction. She catches the gaze of the cerulean eyed Jedi to her right, long enough to get a sense of her Force Signature.

Closed off, yet hiding something that simmers just below the surface. Pulsating, as if daring for her to seek it out. Reaching out does little, but Zanya can't help but feel like she's felt her somewhere before. Somewhere deep in the recesses of her mind she recognizes the feeling, just barely.

Fascinating.

The Jedi knows she's staring. Feels her, maybe. She averts her eyes, just as she turns her head to look at her.

"Master Qelu, glad you're back in one piece."

13 notes - Posted December 3, 2022

#4

Shards of Glass

Intended to post this when I eventually finished and published the Citadel arc of Redamancy, but wrote it instead of actually working on aforementioned arc.

The Citadel Coup's aftermath from the perspective of one Priana T'Lara, and how she spends the night with a certain Mason Shepard.

General warnings for mentions of injury, blood, and a minor panic attack at the end from the protagonist.

-

"Thirsty?"

Priana glances up over her shoulder from where she sits on the balcony, surprised to see her partner with two cups in hand emerging from the dim light of his apartment, along with a medical kit in the other. Unlike her, he'd dressed out of his uniform, hair tied back from his face and donning a t-shirt and sweats. He's barefoot, unafraid of the possible glass spray on his floor -- or maybe too tired to care. She nods wordlessly, taking one of them from him while rolling her sleeves up.

There's still smoke billowing out from levels beneath them, hours after the invasion had ended. Fires probably, still burning. The Presidium's a wreck. The Wards are a wreck. People are dead. Co-workers are dead. Her friends are dead. Her apartment is shot to hell, and nothing is working right. Nothing quite feels real, and she sips down the glass of water faster than she should. She has sixty billion questions fumbling around in her mind, but she can't muster up the strength to rationalize it all. Likely they'll get the botched report within the next few days, with as many redactions as she has years on her.

She wonders who the hell got paid off to make all this happen.

Her eyes are drawn to her partner as he sits down next to her, Mason's got a nasty gash down the length of his exposed arm, and she winces when she sees the bloodied bandage around his forearm. It's carefully wrapped up in gauze by now, but it'd still been ugly when one of the C-Sec meds had to do it for him before rushing off to the next officer who'd been hurt during the invasion.

One of the many mistakes she'd made today, and the one she regrets the most.

"How're you holding up?" He asks, unlatching the clips on the kit. She shrugs. As well as she could be doing. She feels like an elcor is sitting on her chest and she may as well be drowning in the Presidium pools with how heavy her head feels.

The painkillers the apologetic asari had given to her earlier hadn't worked nearly as well as she thought they would.

Still, she gives a half sarcastic smile to the human beside her. He has bigger problems right now, and one of them shouldn't be her passive aggressive nature. Shouldn't be her guilt weighing on his conscience.

Asari were presumably naturally unemotional once they got older. So many years meant they saw people die. Meant they understood that life was fleeting for other races. Meant they grew desensitized over the years that events like this rarely affected them unless it directly hurt their own.

Her's hadn't gotten the memo, because no matter how much she tries to distance herself from the incident, she can't help but get angry all over again. With herself, with citadel security, with Cerberus...it feels like she's about to burst. It didn't matter that there were humans who weren't going home tonight, it didn't matter more that there were turians who were unlikely to check in alongside her tomorrow. All of it felt like death, tearing away at her and leaving her raw.

She'd never been through something like this. Never seen all this destruction and death up close.

It hurts.

It's not supposed to hurt.

"We don't have to be back on duty until later afternoon tomorrow. Injuries and all." He pulls out the rubbing alcohol, tentatively reaching over to her own knuckles. At first she wants to pull away, she's not a child, she can clean her own wounds, but she figures it's equally childish not to let the man do his own job. She gestures for him to take it, and he does, "Bailey's scrambling to get enough officers on duty to flush any remaining Cerberus agents out, but he's brought in outside help where he can. The worst of it's over for now."

She bites her lip, the alcohol burning at her half healed skin. It fuzzes up, turning white as Mason gently dabs at each tear. From stray gunshots, torn right through her gloves before she could toss the offending enemies away. They weren't deep enough to scar for too many years, likely they wouldn't even be there by her tricentennial.

At least her blood had stopped oozing out of it. It'd stained her uniform in multiple places, and made her dizzy with how much she's pretty sure she lost in the fights down in the Wards. Her worse injuries were wrapped at the remains of Huerta, and she'd been sent off with antibiotics and enough painkillers to probably kill a Quarian.

Mason looks worse for wear. Humans always did, so injury prone, so delicate and fleshy. Most were a map of scars in her line of work, and he was no exception. A cut above his eye, one underneath the other. Likely her shields had protected him from anything potentially fatal, but her heart still seizes up at the gauze.

His gaze follows her's, and he sighs, pulling out his own roll to wrap around her hand, "You know T'Lara, humans are sturdier than you think."

"I know." She answers quietly. Scarily so. Almost every organ in their body could be replaced, and they bounced back extremely fast. Broken bones were no problem for them, skin could grow back faster than she thought possible and they did it all within a handful of years.

Usually she wouldn't fret. She'd had human companions before, but Mason is the anomaly.

She feels like she failed him, and it's eating at her.

She hates feeling weak. Exposed. Vulnerable. Hates feeling like this.

"That wasn't your fault." He says, uncapping the ointment and carefully applying it before rolling the fabric out, almost as if he's read her mind, "It'll heal."

Two minutes too long. She'd been stripped of her shields, her own blood dribbling down her chin from her nose and a rolled ankle making it difficult to gain any ground.

See the full post

14 notes - Posted January 23, 2022

#3

Starting off the year right with Citlali again! This time likely catching her breath after a night in the Wards with a friend, or two.

15 notes - Posted January 1, 2022

#2

Happy Year In Review 2021!!

I've certainly lived in interesting times and here's my eventual result of that. (Can't believe it's already been a year -- 2020)

WORD COUNT:

This year I wrote a total of 127,820 words (92,789 published, 35,031 unpublished). Honestly I'm a little disappointed, I thought I did more than that. Given, it's 2021, the year of crises left and right, but...yeesh. That's less than I did back in 2019. In like, two or three months.

Most of the year was out of my control though, and I'm still standing. I count it as a win.

The Breakdown:

My Mass Effect works took up about 3/4s of the actual word count, at 112,020 words written (and 22,934 unpublished, along with most of what I haven't released for Redamancy yet). My goal this year was to finish Redamancy but it had other ideas, so I'm maybe halfway through actually finishing it? That could be another year.

My Arcane works (what a surprise), are all still unpublished with posting dates being sometime in early 2021. However, they're 12,097 words by themselves so far, so it's okay. I didn't expect to end up writing for League anytime soon, but here we are.

My singular Dragon Age work this year was Bones, which was 1,879 words. Not surprised I didn't have more, it's Dragon Age. That and I lost all of the games when my account was hacked earlier in the year. Not a lot of motivation to write for this fandom.

My singular Mind Blind work this year was "Do It For Them", which was 1,824 words. It's been a while since I've really interacted with the IF fandom, so that's pretty unsurprising.

New Things I Tried:

Not much I don't think? Redamancy has actually been beta'd, every single chapter currently published has had a second pair of eyes over it (which is such a big help, you'd never notice how many misspellings you miss yourself), but beyond that I didn't really have the time or mental energy to do much else. EXCEPT for starting to write for Arcane. Never thought I'd do anything relating to League.

(God I hate the culture around League so much.)

Favorite Thing I Wrote This Year:

Probably Letters Home? Not super sure why but it is one of the few times I've genuinely liked something I wrote mainly in a non-OC's perspective. It's a working point for Joker and Citlali, which are two characters I hesitate to write together for whatever reason.

(That and it's criminal how Tiptree and Joker's feelings related to it are just swept under the rug -- it's criminal!)

Favorite Fic I Read This Year:

@ljandersen's Sideways. Easily one of my favorites (even if I'm still behind a handful of chapters -- and mentioned it last year), just for the characterization alone. I absolutely love how their Kaidan(s) and Shepard(s) interact with each other, and the little details that turn out to be bigger than anyone would've guessed. I absolutely adore the ever-growing future that they've weaved into the story, as well as how they expanded the Mass Effect universe into something all their own. I'm really looking forward to seeing where the rest of the story goes.

@shockdowndefiance's A Momentary Lapse In Judgement. Though I really loved just about every work in their library (Allison Shepard my beloved) this one really stuck with me because it really examined the coup for what it was logically and what Bioware couldn't quite do, especially for a Kaidanmancing Shepard. Allison's universe extends Mass Effect something emotionally compelling, and this fic is probably one of the best examples of that. I still absolutely love how they resolved it, as well as how Allison's character really shines through here, both as Commander Shepard as well as -- well, a regular human being. It's painful at times, but also terribly comforting.

@swaps55's Sonata. I'm such a sucker for in-between moment Mass Effect stories, especially Shenko centered ones. Sam Shepard is such a compelling character, and his relationship with Kaidan is certainly one that makes you so very mushy on the inside. Swaps' writing style is something that'll suck you in and never quite let you go, and their attention to detail is something to be admired. (Which is why I was up until the middle of the night finishing it -- definitely worth the read!)

& (last but definitely not least)

@lyrishadow's Between Times. I still read it time to time just because it makes me happy and amuses me greatly. It was a birthday gift from them to me and it still makes me really happy. I really love how they weaved both of our Shepards together to write something so nice, and how they took the time out of their life to do it.

Writing Goals For 2022

Be less on myself about writing. I was genuinely feeling so guilty and completely paralyzed out of having any fun the entire months of October, November and December just because I hadn't gotten any substantial writing done. Which shouldn't be how I feel, writing is a hobby of mine. Just because I was more likely to reach for my stylus or even one of my games than I was my bookmark for my longfic doesn't mean I'm a failure, even if I would've liked to see more progress. I mean, hell I'm a high school student who's about to graduate in a couple months -- you'd think I'd be able to afford myself the same grace I give my peers.

(It's the validation. I live off of it. I shouldn't, but I do.)

Word Of Thanks

Thanking the lovely Lock + Key writers because you guys are lovely people, (@delinquest , @glyndwrwrites , @lnewmanwrites , @tayareum , @thesupremepuff + @colonelpknight [can't tag you]) thank you for going on such a wild ride with me this year, its been so freaking fun working with you all!

The lovely @mallaidhsomo for their contributions to Redamancy and all of the useful advice they've provided me with. Along with the rest of the Bioware Fanfiction server, I might not interact much but its a very comforting place to be. <3

@that-wasnt-so-bad + @kaidans-alenkos + @mariaalenkoshepard + @actualanxiousswampwitch + @oakstar519 for being the people I always love seeing in my notifs and inbox, and the people who always have the best headcanons for the canon characters and their own.

@sheyshen + @greencrusader13 + @anchanted-one + @naaklasolus for always being there to listen to my rambly nonsense in our development channel. And responding with your own OCs because I love them very much.

See the full post

27 notes - Posted December 31, 2021

My #1 post of 2022

"There is nothing stronger than a woman who rebuilt herself." - Hannah Gadsby.

-

Surprise! I'm your secret santa!! 🥳

My gift to @findingblissinignorance of their Ardelia Shepard!! I loved working on her because of her unique character and look, as well as the many tattoos you included on her pinterest board. Thank you for allowing me to draw her this year!

Happy Holidays! <3

45 notes - Posted January 15, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

[thegracefallen]

(@deanthejerkhunter)

"Guess you don' remember me. But you're one of the angels that went to Hell just to get me back. In fact," he pauses and pulls his t-shit sleeves up. "Those are your hand prints, I think at least." This is all sorts of uncomfortable for Dean. "You uh, kinda scared the crap outta me when we first met here on Earth. I think I gave you your nickname." He offers a small, sad smile. "We've been through the wringer together. It took a while, but you're family. I need you."

| @deanthejerkhunter

Something was wrong. The man before him wasn't lying, or at least he didn't think he was, but Castiel could not remember him. It was disconserting. Angels should not be able to forget. His eyes fell on the exposed handprint on the man's arm, brows furrowed. He didn't know why, but he felt drawn to it. Reaching out, he tentatively placed his hand against the scar. The moment he touched it his body tensed as though he was being electrocuted, eyes squeezed shut in pain as memories flashed through his mind.

The stench of sulfur. The cries of the damned. The smoking, thundering forms of demons. A soul standing over a rack, blade in hand, dimmed and frayed but still so beautiful. The Righteous Man. Ascending from the pit, the soul tucked close.

An old barn, walls covered in sigils, looking into the eyes of the Righteous Man. A beautiful room, being asked to turn his back on all he'd ever known. The Apocalypse. The civil war in Heaven. The Leviathan. Purgatory. Standing in a crypt, a blade in his hand, the Righteous Man bloodied beneath him, speaking to him. "I need you."

Staggering back, Castiel stared at the man before him, the human for whom he'd rebelled, for whom he'd given everything, his closest friend, the man he— the man he cared for more than anything.

"Dean."

The hint of a smile formed on his lips before darkness claimed him, his eyes rolling back as the angel collapsed.

[garlic-the-gnome]

Somebody Told Me- Chapter 2

Atlanta Camp

He’d been three weeks away from top surgery when the world went to shit. 

“Aw fuck,” Daryl muttered under his breath as he rifled through his bag. He only had one roll of tape left and it was still a couple of days till the next run. It had been a good couple of years since he’d started binding and he’d tried a few different methods till he found the one that worked for him.

—------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

First was the garter solution recommended by the booklet he’d gotten that fateful night. At first he was pretty happy with the results, but he grew to hate it. He hated the tightness around his chest, making him even more aware of his chest. Cleaning it was an absolute pain, even though it was just Merle and him in the house now, since his father was currently in prison for something he couldn’t even care less about. It felt like an eternity waiting for it to dry and he still had to see his chest when he showered and slept. Not to mention it was awkward as fuck trying to explain what he was wearing to anyone feeling him up.

He continued using the garter for a while before going back to layered sports bras he’d tried before he’d gotten the garter.

Eventually he joined a FtM support group after some other bar patrons had finally convinced him. A few of the members had recommended a thing called a binder. It sounded kinda similar to his garter but he was willing to give it a shot. When he put it on for the first time he was disappointed, it felt basically just like the garter.

“Here, one of you guys can ave this instead, don’ like it,” he said as he chucked it to one of the other members of the support group, one Tuesday evening.

“Why don’t you like it?” A young man called Hank asked.

“T’s just a fucking pain in the arse that’s all,”

“So you’re going to go back to those sports bras then?”

“Don’ no, honestly,” his heart sank at the realisation, slumping back in his chair.

“Have you tried tape?” A voice piped up.

Daryl looked up and saw the man known as Stan had arrived and was leaning against the door frame, apparently having caught the last part of the conversation.

“Thought I wasn’t spose to use tape, aint it bad for yer ribs an all that?”

“Only if ya use tha wrong kind,” Stan said as he rifled around in his bag. “Ah ha!”

A roll of tan coloured tape was tossed Daryl’s way, catching him momentarily off guard. Stan walked over and began scribbling something down on a piece of paper he’d fished out of his pocket.

“Here,” he stated, handing the scrap of paper over to Daryl. One the page was soe hastily drawn diagrams of a torso with various rectangles on its chest.

“Thanks,” Daryl mumbled in reply, still confused by Stan’s actions.

“See what you want to use is kinesio tape, it’s meant for skin an ya can even shower with it. Stan pulled a chair up next to Daryl and sat down.

“First yer gotta keep yer nipples safe, trust me it ain’t not worth doing,” he said pointing to the first diagram he’d scribbled on the page.

“Then ya want ta cut about 6 piece of tape about yea long and round tha edges, next ya got ta anchor it to yerself before pulling it back round. Do tha with about 3 pieces per side an ya should be good. Now this stuff aint necessarily the easiest thing to come by but I know a doctor who I can put ya in contact with once you’ve used up this roll,” Stan handed Daryl another scrap of paper, this one containing the address of what he assumed was the doctors.

“Thanks a lot man,”

“No problemo, guys like us gotta look out for eachother ya know.”

2010 (Pre season 1)

Even before the world ended Daryl had always been more on the athletic side of things, growing up in the Dixon house didn’t really allow him not to be. And as it had turned out Stan's recommendation of tape had been the perfect fit for him. It had been quite awhile since Stan had told him about the tape that changed his life and kinesio tape was a lot easier to find and a hell of a lot cheaper nowadays, to Daryl’s relief.

A feeling of dread washed over him like the tide coming in in the evening, flooding his body with anxiety.

Composing himself he shoved the roll deep into him bag and exited his tent, hoping to run into Glenn.

Noone at the Atlanta camp knew he was trans, and he intended on keeping it that way as folks around the parts aren’t necessarily the most open minded people and with the whole collapse of society he knew that the wrong person finding out could lead him to becoming one of those geeks, forced to walk their rotting corpses along the earth till someone ended their misery.

“Glenn!” He tried to get the young man’s attention. Cause of his brother most of the camp had the tendency to avoid the brothers so he often had a hard time getting them to talk to him.

“Hey man,” Glenn replied, playing it cool trying to not let his nerves show around the older man, he removed his hat and swept a loose strand of hair back into his cap.

“You guys planning tha next run yet?” If anyone knew anything about upcoming runs it’d have to be Glenn.

“Yeah, what about it?”

“Need to come with ta pick up ‘couple of things,”

“I can just get them for you dude, you should probably stay with the group incase any geeks come by and do some hunting,”

“Nah, they’ll be fine without me for a couple days an I just got that deer two days ago plus those squirrels yesterday, that should do em for awhile,”

“Alright man, you win, I’ll let Shane know you’re coming with,” Glenn nodded and headed off to find Shane.

Daryl went back to the tent he shared with his brother, Merle and laid down on the pathetic thing he called a bed. Merle had been away a couple days, doing god knows what. Even though the two had joined the group Merle still had the tendency to come and go as he pleased, the threat of the undead the least of his worries apparently. This left Daryl alone and isolated like before the world had ended, the only difference being that corpses walked the earth now. 

Once Merle returned they planned to rob the camp and leave, as per Merle plan. Despite being in his late 30’s he was still following his brother, perhaps there was a small part deep inside of him wanting to hold onto what was left of the previous world, family was a tough thing to come by nowadays. 

Sitting up he reached into his front pocket and pulled out his old piece of cloth, thumbing the soft worn material to soothe himself as he laid back down. When the world had gone to shit it was one of the first things he grabbed before heading on the road, the farther away from civilisation the better. It was only 2 or so days before the run, he could manage that, couldn’t he?

By the way the sun was beginning to set against the tent material, he guessed it was late afternoon. Having not slept the past night from putting his anxiety to use keeping an eye out, sleep couldn’t have come fast enough.

ZIIIIIUUUUPP

Daryl’s eyes shot open to see that Lori was opening up his tent door.

“Go away,” he grumbled, running a hand back through his dirty blonde hair.

“Thought you’d want some of that deer you caught us,” Lori replied, a hint of sass in her voice.

“Not hungry,” rolling back onto his side, hoping Lori would give up and leave him alone.

“Well I’m just going to leave it here then,” she popped the bowl down inside the tent and promptly left, leaving the tent down open, blowing in the wind.

Daryl sat up and poked what appeared to be a stew with the spoon that sat within the murky liquid. Normally he’d eat anything which included but wasn’t limited to worms, beetles, any kind of meat and much to most people’s disgust, dirt and sand. But today he just wasn’t feeling it. Not wanting to waste food he exited the tent and approached the group, who were huddled round the glowing embers they called a fire. 

As he drew near the rest of the survivors their quiet chatter halted. Walking over to the pot, which had been scraped bare, he poured the contents of the bowl back into it and promptly left, leaving the bowl and spoon on the group, amongst the leaf litter.

Stopping by his tent to grab his crossbow, Daryl began to stalk the surrounding forest in hope of finding some game to tide the group over. At the moment he was the only one in the group finding fresh food. There was talk of seeing if the quarry had any fish but that’d require supplies the group didn’t know where to find. As he silently moved through the forest he heard the distinctive sound of a reanimated corpse he’d learnt to dread. He snapped his head around and saw it.

Its flesh mottled and sagging off its skull, weathered from the heat and rotted from the dampness of the forest. Its eyes were glazed over, no thought, only the need to feed compelling it. As it lumbered through the trees it spotted Daryl and began to make its way towards him, the promise of fresh meat enticing. The sickly sweet smell of rotting flesh hit his nose as the corpse drew near, its mouth gaping wide revealing its swollen grey tongue that was peppered with gaping wounds.

Swinging his crossbow onto his back Daryl unsheathed a knife from his belt and walked towards the hungry body. The curdling smell of the creature was eye watering at this proximity, no matter how many of these he put down Daryl still wasn’t used to their putrid odour. He grabbed the corpse by the shoulder and with a prompt movement of his arm he brought the blade down into its skull, puncturing what was left of its brain. The body crumpled to the ground as he realised his grip on it and pulled the knife back out.

Reaching into his back pocket Daryl pulled out a different piece of cloth and wiped down the blood covered blade before resheathing it and continuing his hunt.

When he made it back to camp he presented his measly gathering of squirrel bodies before slinking back to his tent. It was most definitely early morning by now but a couple hours of shut eye was better than nothing, especially when you didn’t know when you’d even get to sleep again. 

The sound of movement outside his tent awoke Daryl a few hours later. He peeked outside the tent to see preparations for the run being made.

“Thought it wasn’t gonna happen till tomorrow?” Daryl asked as he approached Shane and Glenn who were loading up the back of a car with supplies for the journey.

“Plans changed,” Shane stated unenthused, stopping briefly to face Daryl before turning back to the task at hand.

“Yer know I’m coming with, right?” he swallowed thickly, hoping that Shane wouldn’t dermand he stay back.

“Yeah yeah, Glenn told me, don’t know why you’re coming but an extra pair of hands could be useful, specially with what we’ve got planned,” Shanes eyes darted somewhere behind Daryl before attempting to make eye contact with him.

“We’re hoping to hit up some sort of secret gun place that Ed used to go to before this all happened,” Glenn added, closing the boot of the car.

After the cars were loaded up Shane, Glenn, Andrea, Jackie and Daryl set off. Andrea and Daryl drove in silence behind the others. Andrea had insisted that she drive as Daryl had been out hunting and deserved some rest to which he begrudgingly accepted after much deliberation. 

The low rumble of the car driving over the gravel road was surprisingly relaxing and soon Daryl felt himself begin to succumb to the siren call of sleep. When he awoke he saw that Andreas face was blotchy and her eyelashes were stuck together. Daryl wasn’t necessarily the best with emotions, certainly not negative ones like sadness, but seeing her let out a sob, unaware that Daryl was awake, made him anxious.

Clearing his throat to let her know he was awake Andrea attempted to compose herself.

“Why ya crying,” he asked, not even trying to be subtle.

“It’s nothing,”

“T’s clearly something,”

“It’s nothing that you’d understand,”

“Try me,”

“Okay… and if you even do so much as raise an eyebrow I’m dumping you out here ok,” she snapped, clearly on edge.

“Probably nothing I ain’t heard before,”

Now this was the most she’d ever heard Daryl speak so she was willing to hear him out. Taking a deep breath she gathered up all her courage and let her heart tumble out her mouth.

Daryl’s eyes grew wide as Andrea told him about what’d been happening with her, Lori and Shane.

It turned out that while leaving the city Lori had hooked up with Shane, now Daryl suspected something had happened between the two of them with the way Shane was always staring at Lori but didn’t think it was any of his business to bring it up. But after that affair Lori said it was over and Shane wasn’t having that. 

While  Andrea continued telling Daryl what she thought she’d take to her grave, or whatever would happen to her body in this day and age. Daryl’s attention began to drift as she told him about Lori and Shane’s drama, wondering how on earth she even fit into the picture. Then it hit him. Shane wasn’t the only one longingly staring at Andrea. At first he thought it was a straight woman thing, ya know comparing yer body to other and all that but now stuff seemed to be falling into place.

As a hunter Daryl had trained himself to be observant, more so than the regular person, and as annoying as his heightened senses were they sure as hell were useful when it came to watching.

Andrea’s grip on the steering wheel has relaxed and her knuckles were returning to their normal shade since she’d started describing Lori. Her normally stern tone had shifted into a softer octave. And now it was as clear as day.

“Yer like her don’tcha?” he interrupted, not sure of how much more of this mushy version of Andrea he could take.

“More like adore,” she scoffed, shaking her head. Surprised that a man like Daryl didn’t judge her for her feelings.

“Yer gonna do anything bout it?”

“Already have,” 

Now this piqued Daryl’s interest. “What’d ya mean yer already ave?”

“I may or may not have kissed her once or twice in the forest,” a steady blush began spreading across her face. “That’s all I’m telling you anyway,” she added. 

“An that’s all I want to know,” not wanting to discuss what he guessed Andrea was alluding to.

“You took that a hell of a lot better than I expected,” Andrea remarked, Daryl’s reaction still shocking her.

“T’s nothing,” he said, shuffling his body to face the window, trying to stop where he thought this conversation was going.

[deadnytalks]

Sonic is a kids franchise and that´s "bad"... (for us lol)

before you cancel me because the tittle looks so anoying and victimistic let me set somenthing clear:

whith "kid": I´m refering to all the users younger than 15 years old, witch is the actual target of the saga (and that because of the existence of Shadow. Because if not, it would be 7 years old kids)

And no, I don´t belive that all the toxicity of the fandom only fault of the minors, if you ever thinked about it.

Whith this said, let´s start:

Why is it "bad" for us, the older fans that the saga is for kids??

A simple reason: toxicity and youtube being an ashole. I´ll explain more under the "read more" thing

1.Kids are inevitably toxic and anoying

You are a Sonic artist that likes to drawn comics or art but is not for kids? Too bad, because the Saga is for kids. And so your target include kids in a INEVITABLE way!! I remember being a kid writing coments to my favourite content creator thinking that I was helping him. Only for grown up, reading that old coments, and realicing that I was being the most anoying thing on the world.

2. Art thieving and tracing

I´ts practically a rule in any kind of big fandom to steal art. In kids fandom is worse, because they didn´t even know that is bad/they usually don´t care (perphaps, is practically part of the internet culture to steal all the images that you like. It´s anoying but is true. If you don´t want that to happend you have to do like stock: Upload the art whith low cuality and whith wattermarks)

3. Copa law in youtube

This is THE WORST of the franchise being for kids. Because the algorithm is programed to mark for kids all of the animations that includes characters from kids franchises. It´s even worst if your animation looks professional or can be mistaken by an oficial thing. Look at Ballena productions or "Proyect Shadow", they were a victim of this

that´s all I have to say for now. If you feel anoyed by this explanations, then you are not the target of it/the mesagges aren´t for you ♥

[snsech]

｡˚₍ ✉️ ₎ ; MICAH !! ━━━━━ ━━

• micah used to be into urbex as much as prairie was, but it' s not really their thing anymore. they continue giving her tips when they come across any, though, and prairie' s very happy that they still support her endeavors.

• they have a matching tattoos with their twin ; each have a fox on their arm, along with a sun (for prairie) and a moon (for micah). surprisingly, the idea came from them.

• they were very, very bad at confrontations growing up, which is why they never said anything when prairie’ s behavior was bothering them. it hit its boiling point when they were both in high school, as micah had grown furious to prairie’ s constant attempts at putting herself in danger for the sake of the thrills. the two stopped talking for a while before reconciling, and they now made a vow to be honest with each other.

• … it’ s rather unfortunate, then, that micah has hidden many parts of their life to prairie.

• she has no idea they dropped off of college when vivian got sick, nor does she know that they’ ve been struggling financially. micah says to themself that it’ s because she’ s enjoying herself and doesn’ t want to bother her, but the truth is that they’ re feeling… ashamed of not succeeding as well as prairie is. they don’ t want to risk disappointing her.

• of course, their worries are unfounded - prairie doesn’ t care about that in the slightest so long as micah is having fun. who cares if they haven’ t figured out what they wanted to do yet ? none of that matters. micah just has… to see it for themself.

• micah had never been interested by anyone before, so when prairie saw how they were looking at reese, she immediately made it her mission to help them flirt with him - much to micah' s dismay. they' d be lying if they said that didn' t encourage them to pursue him actively, though…

• they' re a very fast reader ! it' s amazing. to think i can' t even finish one page because i get stuck on the same sentence for… hours…

• i like to think that - when things settle down - micah teaches reese about all the famous and less-famous artists and movements they' ve learned about… ! they' re good at teaching. being with him might even encourage them to share what they' ve drawn and painted themself~

• micah has gotten a little… anxious about getting sick or ill, since they were there for most of vivian' s illness.

[silentcrowsilentravens]

Could I get Cass killing a monster, only to realize it's her S/O turned?

Ohh, painful. Of course!

Cassandra Dimitrescu killing a monster, only to realize it used to be her s/o.

(Gender neutral).

Warnings: blood, violence, death.

Masterlists here!

"Go away, Dani. I don't want to be bothered right now."

"You haven't let me bother you for forever now!" Daniela whines. She has to raise her voice quite a bit because the maiden Cassandra is torturing won't stop screaming. "Why have you been especially grouchy lately?"

"I haven't been."

Daniela spares a glance at the growing collection of dead maidens and crystalized Moroaice around the cellar. Almost all courtesy of her sister.

"...Right. You know—"

"If you don't leave, I'm going to tell Mother what actually happened to her favorite wine glass."

Daniela gasps, "You wouldn't."

"Care to test me?"

After a moment of consideration, Daniela lets out an overdramatic sigh. "Fine..." She throws her arms up and meanders her way back upstairs.

The screams of the maiden peter out. Her movements still.

"Dead already?" Cassandra mutters, her sulkiness still far from lifted. "I had a feeling you'd be a bore..."

She refuses to admit what has her In such a poor mood.

(It's you).

You stopped writing.

You stopped visiting.

She doesn't understand.

Did you fall out of love with her and decide to cut things off without another word? Like a coward?

What if you never truly cared for her at all? What if you were using her all along? That better not be the case. Cassandra will drain you of your blood if it is.

Could you have gotten yourself injured? Sick?

She's sorely tempted to go down to your house and the village and find out.

Unfortunately, she can't. Her mother will kill her if she finds out she went outside while there's still snow on the ground.

...

Fuck it. Cassandra can't stand another second of this.

In the dead of night, she dons the thickest clothes she owns, puts on a heavy cloak (which you're always so insistent that she wears when you think it's too chilly outside), clips her quiver around her waist, grabs her bow, and sneaks out.

The cold immediately hits her like loads of needles sticking her over and over again. She soldiers through it. Thankfully, the journey isn't a long one.

Your home is dark. The curtains are drawn. At such as late hour, that's to be expected, though.

Your horse is gone, the door to its stable left ajar.

Spots of blood mark your small porch. Your blood. Cassandra would recognize it anywhere. Not a good sign.

After the time that's passed, no other clues remain. A dead end. Hm.

Cassandra marches over to the house across from yours and pounds on the door.

It takes a few minutes, but someone eventually comes and opens it a crack. "Who's there...?" As soon as the villager sees the tall, dark figure on their doorstep, they immediately begin to close it.

Cassandra slams her open palm against the wood, stopping them short and promptly forcing her way inside.

The villager stumbles back. She grabs a fistful of their sweater before they hit the floor. "Tell me about the home across from you. What happened to the human who lives there?"

"A-a monster attacked weeks ago!"

"A Lycan?"

The villager only stares up at Cassandra, eyes wide with fear. She then remembers that villagers don't call them that.

"Was it man-like?" She joggles them. "Describe it!"

"N-no, it had the body of a large wolf and-and the face of a human. I've never seen anything like it before!"

A Vârcolac? Cassandra has yet to encounter one of those. They're a recent (accidental) creation of Moreau's.

Hopefully, it didn't kill you. You can defend yourself. Since you tend to go out in the very late hours of the night (which is how Cassandra met you), she went out of her way to make sure of that.

Perhaps after being injured, you took shelter elsewhere. Perhaps you're still recovering.

"And where did both of them go?"

"Ran off into woods!" The villager points to the area in question.

Cassandra releases them and walks off.

She heads straight for the trees. 

She isn't going home until she finds you.

She's still formulating more theories when she hears rapid, heavy footfalls approaching. 

Cassandra whips around and draws her bow.

The beast coming towards her matches the description that the villager gave her.

She probably shouldn't stick around for this. Not in her current state. The cold has rendered her movements stiff and near clumsy. She can't turn into her swarm. She's setting herself up for a potentially nasty injury.

But she's also setting herself up for her first Vârcolac kill, and this could potentially be the same one that attacked you.

The arrow strikes the Vârcolac.

Its fast. 

Its agile. 

Cassandra tries to keep her distance from its claws and teeth, firing off more arrows whenever there’s a window of opportunity. 

She manages to get a few nasty gashes on her arm and thigh, but she's fine otherwise.

Now reminiscent of a pincushion, the Vârcolac collapses on its side and crystalizes. Dead. Just like that.

Cassandra lowers her bow and approaches the remains. 

In the chunks of crystalized Vârcolac flesh, bones, arrows, and shredded fabric that used to be clothes lies a silver chain. Close to the base of the skull.

Cassandra freezes in her tracks.

She recognizes the pendant attached to it. She made it for you.

Hoping that her eyes are playing tricks on her in the low light, Cassandra drops to her knees and hurriedly picks the item up.

"No."

This is your necklace!

"No, this can't be..."

The chain could have just gotten caught in the beast’s fur. Maybe this isn't you. It can’t be you. 

But, upon closer inspection, although beyond dirty and nearly amorphous, the scraps of fabric are vaguely reminiscent of things Cassandra has seen you wear before.

...This Vârcolac is you. Was you.

And now, Cassandra has...

She...

She tries to control her breathing, which is growing increasingly unsteady.

Keep it together.

Deeps breaths.

With the necklace still in her grasp, Cassandra rises to her feet.

A harsh cry tears its way from her throat, more reminiscent of a wounded animal than anything else.

She hardly remembers half of her trip back to the castle. It’s nothing but a blur. 

She doesn't even feel as though she's piloting her own body anymore.

It's nearly dawn when she finally makes it back inside.

"Where have you been?" Great. Bela noticed her absence. Just what she needs. "It's still winter, Cassandra. You could have died out there!"

"Save it for someone who cares," Cassandra hisses.

"What's your problem?" Ignore her. Ignore her. Keep walking. Keep it together. "What was so important that you had to go out? Will you stop—"

"Don't touch me!" she snaps, throwing her sister's hand off her shoulder. "It doesn't matter where I went, what I did, or what I saw! And even if it did, it's none of your concern!"

There's a tense pause.

This time, when Cassandra continues on, Bela does not follow.

The maid staff is lucky that none of them encounter the middle daughter as she heads for her room, for she would slaughter all of them on the spot.

Upon reaching her destination, she slams the door shut.

She rips her cloak off.

She throws her weapons to the floor.

And then, she gently sets down the makeshift bag she fashioned from the scraps of your clothes. Your bones rattle.

...Cassandra doesn't know why she brought your bones back.

Sure, it's not unusual for her to take them. She has plenty around her room. But those... Those are like trophies and souvenirs.

And this... This is you.

Cassandra supposes she just couldn't find it in herself to leave you. Parts of you, since the crystals and bones are all that remain.

This isn't reversible.

You are gone.

She will never get to see your smile again.

Never get to hear your laugh.

Never get to listen to your stories or dreadful jokes.

Never get to write you another letter or read yours.

Never get to hold you close.

Never get to take in your scent.

Never get to listen to your heartbeat.

Never get to truly spend time in your presence again.

With your necklace still in her grasp, Cassandra slumps back against the door and slides down it until she's on the floor. She draws her knees up to her chest.

It's fine. This is all fine.

You were nothing but a pet. A pet. She has had more than a few of those before.

You were nothing special.

You weren't.

Or at least, that's what Cassandra's going to keep telling herself.

She’s not going to completely breakdown.

She’s not going to cry. 

That’s what she’s going to keep telling herself.