#i believe this is a curtain rod??

[knifegremliin]

sometimes there are gonna be moments in your life where you fuck up and the solution you need to fix it is just a little out of reach.

so instead you tape cardboard to your windows.

[eternalsunrise]

shower talk.

deadpool (wade wilson) x f!reader

wc: 750 (drabble)

tags! established relationship, sexual & murder references (duh)

notes! wade brainrot is so bad idk, logan fic coming soon pls forgive me

wade often barges into the bathroom while you’re in the shower just to sit on the toilet seat and rant about the mission he just went on, or even to ask what takeout you want for dinner. couldn’t it wait until you had clothes on? sure, but he wants to talk to you now.

unexpectedly, you decide to take a page out of his playbook.

you’ve just walked in the door after your 9-5, throwing your keys and bag haphazardly across the room in frustration. you spy the familiar rumpled up red and black suit on the floor, wade was home. you had complained last week about deadpool tracking blood into the apartment after his “work.” it seemed your boyfriend had listened and obliged. if it weren’t for your bad day, the image of him cupping his crotch as he scrambled naked into the bathroom would’ve made you smile.

you hear the water still running, but you finally understand how wade feels, this can’t wait. you open the bathroom door and throw the toilet lid down, unsure if wade even heard you enter over the sound of his own voice belting hall and oates’ greatest hits.

you sit down and let out an overdramatic sigh. your boyfriend’s voice quiets down halfway through “out of touch”

“honey bear? you’re home! these stab wounds will heal in about two minutes then you can join me. i know how you feel about seeing intestines, and i don’t want to make you gag…well scratch that i do sometimes—“

“i fucking hate men.”

you hear the sound of the shower curtain opening slightly, and wade’s head peaks out, looking at you with wide eyes, “woah language, babydoll! you know degradation turns me on.” his head tilts to the side, noticing the distress written on your face “but i have a feeling this isn’t about me…”

you spare him a narrowed glance, then watch as his head disappears. the curtain closes and you hear the water hit skin again as he resumes his shower. he’s giving you time to speak. remarkable.

“you remember that guy i told you about? the one that gave me major creep vibes? and was just an all around dick?”

you get a hum in response, and you can’t see it, but you know wade is physically biting his tongue so he doesn’t say anything. it’s endearing in a way.

you rub your face with your hands, the memory of what you’re about to say lights the fire of anger again, “well. guess who got that promotion i was being eyed for? i’ll give you a hint, it’s not someone with a vagina! and on top of that, i saw him try to look under my skirt as i was leaving! that fuck.”

you almost regretted telling him that last part, knowing where this was going. but your mind was clouded by frustration, and the water was already turned off. the rings screech against the metal shower rod as wade throws the curtain open, reaching over your head for a towel. “okay sweet thing. where does this cock suck and fuck live?”

your eyes catch a glimpse of red turning pink as it swirled into the tub drain. you shake your head, suddenly realizing the severity of what your mercenary boyfriend was implying. “no no babe please it’s not that serious! and you just got home. not to mention if people found out, you’d get in so much trouble all because of something silly that happened to me and—“

a long finger is placed over your lips. you’re eye level with wade’s v line, partially covered by the towel now wrapped around his waist. you trail your eyes upward, locking them with the one who interrupted your rambling.

“shhh. nonsense kitten. now. you’re going to tell me this guy’s address, and i’m going to go out for…” wade uses his free arm to look at a make believe watch, “hmm, about an hour. while i’m gone, you’re going to change out of this sexy pantsuit. then have a glass of wine, and touch yourself while you think of me fondly. i’ll grab dinner on the way home. yes?”

when you nod with wide eyes in agreement, he removes his finger, bending down to meet your face, “atta girl.” he praises as his lips graze your own, kiss light as a feather. he clears his throat then, patting your cheek a few times as he stands up to walk out of the bathroom. whistling as if murder was all in a day’s work (you suppose for him it is)

you sit there stunned, wondering if you just got your coworker murdered….and why you were so turned on.

[mochinek0]

In Sickness and in Health

"Damian, I need you to work with the new student on this project." his history teacher stated.

"What new student?" the young Wayne questioned.

'There's no one new here. Has he finally lost it?'

"Stay after class, please." they replied.

Damian simply nodded.

'At least if the new person is all in his head, I can work by myself.'

"The new student isn't here today as she's sick. They're also a transfer student." The teacher spoke, "Here is her address."

"You want me to go there and become ill?" Damian speculated.

"Not at all, Mr. Wayne. All I am asking is that you, at least, speak to her about the project." the teacher sighed, "She'll know better than anyone how long she'll be absent. Get her to write a note saying, I don't know, she gives you full control on the project or something. I'll deal with it from there."

"I can do that." Damian accepted.

'At least I can still work by myself.'

Damian looked down at the address in his hand an then back at the seamstress shop. Confused, the young Wayne entered the store and looked around for someone his own age.

"Can I help you?" asked an elderly lady.

"I was given this address for a classmate of mine." Damian explained, "I believe they mixed it up. Excuse me."

"Are you looking for Marinette?" they questioned.

'Marinette? Is that her name? Not American; he did mention they were a transfer student.'

"Yes." he answered, still unsure.

"Go through the blue curtain in the far back." the lady smiled, "There's a set of stairs that will take you to the apartment above the store."

Damian nodded and went to the back of the store. There was blue cloth hung up on a shower rod that parted slightly.

'A door would be better suited.'

Damian walked up the stairs to the second story and found single door. He raised his hand and knocked on the door. The door opened and he was shocked. There in the doorway was a girl with blue hair, up to his chest. She was wearing what seemed to be pajamas, had a blanket draped over her shoulders, a face mask, and a cooling cloth attached to her forehead.

'She is obviously seriously ill. How did she open the door? Why didn’t anyone else open it for her?'

"Who are you?" she questioned, hoarsely.

"Damian Wayne." he declared, "I was told to talk to you about a history project for school."

She moved away from the door and went stright to the kitchen.

"Sit anywhere you want. I haven't sat in the living room in three days. I'd offer you a beverage, but I don't want to get you sick and asking you to get it yourself, seems rude." the girl spoke.

'Polite; unexpected.'

"What are you doing?" Damian questioned, as he watched her stir a pot.

"Making soup for the week." Marinette answered.

"So, I should not expect you to return this week." he suggested.

"I usually eat soup when I'm sick and for the following days, to keep my immune system cleansed." she explained, "So, history? Leave me the details and I'll work on it."

"Mr. Hayes suggested you could write a note putting me in charge." Damian spoke.

"I can work, Damian." Mari remarked, "I don't need you coddling me because I'm sick."

'Coddle! I-The last thing I would do is….coddle her!'

Damian snapped, "I am giving you a way out! Get your rest and I will do it completely!"

"I'm on bedrest and as you can see, I'm functional." she growled back.

Marinette began to cough heavidly, enough to make her grip the kitchen counter. Damian watched as her breaths became labored, as if she had trouble inhaling.

'She calls this functional?'

Marinette grabbed a mug and poured hot water from a near by kettle. Damian watched as she spooned a small amount of tea leaves into a container and place it in the mug.

'Peppermint? She should try lemon, ginger, something citrus.'

"When are your parents getting back?" Damian asked, not moving from the doorway.

"I'm emancipated." she smiled.

'She's by herself?'

Damian looked around and noticed a small table with one chair. The living room had enough to seat up to three guests. There was also one door to the left, behind the living room.

"Leave the form and an email or something so I can send you my portion." Marinette called out, "If you don't like it, I can work in my room and you can work from out here."

Damian took out a pen and quickly wrote down his email at the top of the paper.

"I'll be back, tomorrow." he stated, leaving the apartment.

'Why is she so stubborn? She needs to rest. The simplest solution would be for her to rest this week while I work alone. What is she trying to accomplish?'

The moment she opened the door, Damian stared at Marinette annoyed. She had showed recently, but her hair was still wet. At the very least, she was wearing different clothes.

He scowled, "Where is the bathroom?"

"Oh, in my room, on your left." Marinette pointed out.

'Guess he really needed to go.'

Damian came back with a towel and threw it over her head, without notice. He quickly began to rub her head to get the moisture out.

"You're going to get worse with you hair looking like a wet mop." Damian stated, "Dry it completely."

Marinette remained silent and still. Damian stopped his movements.

"Marinette?" he asked, moving to face her.

'Shit!'

Marinette's eyes were wide and she was practially hyperventilating. She was clenching and unclenching her hands.

'She does not handle physical contact well. Is she going to be okay at school?'

Damian kneeled in front of her and showed his hands were raised in front of him.

"My apologies." Damian whispered, "I didn't mean to startle you."

Damian reached out and dragged his bag, next to the couch. He pulled out a small cylinder.

"I brought you some tea leaves. Citrus help you recover from illness." he began, "I don't believe peppermint will work." as he handed her the container.

Marinette took it and looked at it. She opened it and sniffed the tea leaves. There was lemon, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves. There was some other stuff she couldn't make out.

"You......made this?" Marinette questioned.

'Why would he give this to me?'

Damian remained silent, but nodded. He didn't think she would noticed he took his time to make her something.

"I make my own teas." he replied.

Mari smiled, "Thank you."

Damian watched as her expression softened. She got up from her seat, letting the towel fall from her head, and quickly began to get things ready to brew the tea. Once it was finished brewing, she took a sip.

"It’s delicious, Damian!" Mari smiled, happily, "Maybe I should go to you for all of my teas."

Before he could respond, Marinette took her tea and went into her room. Damian picked up his things and saw she had gotten comfortable in her bed with her laptop on a tray.

"Were we not working over there?" he questioned.

"I don't want to get you sick." Marinette replied, "Besides, there's only one chair. I'll just email you-"

Damian left the room and returned with the chair from her kitchen table.

"I don't get sick, easily." Damian declared, setting the chair down a few feet from her bed, "h quicker we finish this, the more you can rest."

Marinette worked silently, sipping on the tea Damian had brought her. After an hour, Damian packed up his thing, declaring he'd return the next day.

This time, when Marinette opened the door, he could tell she was moving much more sluggish.

'She got worse! She's pushing herself for me. Damn her stubbornness!'

Damian quickly picked her up in his arms.

"You're-" she began.

"If I get sick, I will blame you later." Damian claimed.

"Sorry." Mari whispered.

Damian placed her back in her bed. He quickly rushed to the bathroom in search of a first aid kit or at least, a thermometer. Once he found it, he brought it back and held it out. Mairnette looked at it, in dissapointment.

"Use it." he demanded.

Marinette shoved it in her mouth and waited. The quick beeping notified them both something was wrong. Mari took it out of her mouth n tried to hide it. Damian was able to grab it with ease.

'102.5'

"I'm fine." Marinette declared.

"You are far from fine." Damian stated.

Damian took the thermometer to the bathroom and washed it, as well as his hands. When he returned, he found Marinette fast asleep. He found a cooling pad near by and placed it on her head. Damian remember a small cloth by the sink and wet it. He quickly cooled off her arms, her neck, and her legs, before covering her up. Damian took out a sticky note and wrote down his number.

Marinette woke up to the room being dark.

"Damian?" she called out.

She grabbed her phone and saw it was close to two in the morning. She set her phone down and felt a paper.

'Sticky note?'

She turned on the flashlight on her phone and looked at the note: Call me if you worsen-Damian.

'Aw. He's really sweet. I feel so bad for falling asleep on him.'

Marinette stood up and made her way to the bathroom. She grabbed the thermometer from the medicine cabinet and took her temperature. It read 99.2; it was the best it had been all week. She washed the thermometer and took some medicine. After, she made more of Damian's tea.

'Gonna need it.'

Damian arrived back from patrol to find an email from Mari.

'I thought I told her to call me if she got worse, not email me!'

He opened it in a panic and found it was her completed work for the assignment. Damian looked at the time. It was now three in the morning and she had sent it thirty minutes ago. He grabbed his phone and opened his contacts. Then, he froze.

'I don’t have her number! Fuck!'

Damian went over the next day and was surprised to see her more active. Marinette had answered the door happily and was dressed in white tank top, pink shorts, and slippers. She wasn't even using a blanket to keep herself warm.

"Damian!" She smiled, "Hey, did you get my email?"

"I did." he answered.

"Is everything okay?" Mari asked, "I didn't think I'd see you today."

"Why did you send it so late or early, I should say." Damain questioned.

"It was when I woke up." Marinette answered, "I'm sorry for falling asleep on you. I decided it was best to work on it, while I had a clear head. I'm feeling a lot better, so I should be able to see you at school tomorrow. I'm sure it was all thanks to your tea."

Damian nodded and held out his phone for her to grab. Marinette looked at it confused, but took it.

"I planned on yelling at you, for being up so late, but I didn't have you number." the young Wayne stated.

Marinette giggled, "And I should give it to you, why?"

Damian remained silent. He didn't think she would refuse to give her number to him.

"In case we are paired up again." he quickly spoke.

Mari added her contact information and handed it back.

"Sick Girl?" he questioned.

"So you know it's me." Mari answered.

He hated how right she was. It was likely that if she had entered her name, he would have forgotten it in a week and deleted it.

"Do you want to come in or was that all?" she asked.

"That was all." he said and quickly left.

Marinette closed the door an giggled.

'He's like a stray cat that came to say hi.'

Damian sat in class and kept his eyes on the door. Marinette hadn't walked in, yet, and it was almost time for the bell to ring.

'Is she still sick? Did her fever come back? I should have called her this morning to make sure she was feeling fine.'

The bell rang breaking him from his thoughts and then, she rushed in.

'Marinette.'

"Late." their teacher declared, "I will forgive you, this time, since you have been sick, Miss Duapin-Cheng."

Marinette nodded her head. It was finally time for history class and it was so different to see her in uniform. Damian could admit he more use to seeing her in pajamas or shorts, with her blanket curled around her. He was even use to her falling asleep, but some how the uniform felt less personal. He hated it. Damian watched carefully over Marinette. He had to make sure she was completely better. Her damn stubbornness left him worried about her pretending to feel better for his sake. Then, he saw it; the tense smile on her face. She was surrounded by their peers. It reminded him of the smiles his brothers' gave at parties. Damian walked over and grabbed her wrist.

"We need to talk about the project since you have been absent." he declared.

"Oh, okay." Marinette answered, as he pulled her away from everyone else.

"He could have been nicer."

"It's Wayne. When is he ever nice?"

"Lucky bitch."

"I can’t believe she was his partner."

"He probably did it himself, already."

"Yeah. He's just gonna give her a copy and put her name on it."

"I can’t believe he touched her."

"True."

"Better than him yelling at us to move or scram, again."

Marinette frowned as she heard what they said about Damian. That wasn't the Damian she knew.

"Thank you." Marinette whispered, once they were far enough.

Damian looked at her questioningly.

"For rescuing me." she answered.

"You appeared uncomfortable." the young Wayne spoke, " I was uncertain how you would react if one of them touched you. I understand if I made you uncomfortable, as well. My apologies for forcing you. Next time, tell them to leave."

"I'm not good at dealing with people; not anymore." Mari declared, "Besides, they should forget about me soon. I'm still 'new' in their eyes. I'm not trying to gain anything by talking to them. I don’t want to get to know them."

"I thought you weren't coming." Damian spoke, changing the subject.

"Huh?" she asked, confused, "I told you I was coming today."

"You were late." he growled.

"Oh." Marinette winced, "Uh….I have a feeling I will be in detention a lot."

Damian stopped and turned to her, waiting for an explanation.

"I have always been late to school, even when it was across from my house." she stated.

Damian sighed, "I'll pick you up in the mornings."

"No!" she cried out.

"Why?" he demanded, "Is that an issue? I have been to your place before, have I not?"

"I'm not a morning person." Mari replied, looking down.

He sighed again, "My brother isn't either, unless he has had coffee. I can bring you some." making a mental note to steal Tim's coffee in the morning from now on.

"Really?" Mari questioned, perking up.

"You better, at least, be dressed." Damian retorted.

"Pajamas count as being dressed, right?" she squeaked.

Damian glared at her, "Why would you still be in pajamas?"

"I'm not a morning person!" Marinette glared back, "I work late and-"

"The shop keeps you that busy?" he questioned.

"Oh." Marinette spoke, "No. I help in the shop sometimes, but that's not my job. I do commissions. She asks me to help some times, but she's going to let me use the sewing machine for free until I can buy one."

"How….long do your commissions take?" he sighed.

"Depends who it's for. If it's for my uncle, I tend to work three weeks straight. It also depends on the pay and timeline. If he called me right now and asked for something in six months, I wouldn't worry unless things began to pile up. It could also be one of my aunties."

'What the fuck is with her family? No wonder why she is emancipated! I can't believe they would work her that hard.'

"You're moving into the manor." Damian declared, "I'll even get you a new sewing machine."

"I am not!" she cried out, "I barely know you! All I know is you name and you make tea!"

"At this rate, I'll have to get you dressed and drag you to school!" Damian cried back.

"Who the fuck made you my babysitter?" Marinette shouted.

"Someone should be." he huffed, "You obviously need someone to take care of you. I don’t see why it shouldn't be me!"

Marinette squeaked and turned red. Realizing what he said, so did Damian.

The teacher watched as Damian took Marinette aside to talk. He was well aware that their assignment had been turned in three days ago. He couldn't hear what they were saying, but it was the closest he had ever seen Damian be comfortable around anyone. He also was aware of Marinette's past school and being bullied.

'I knew getting them to talk would be a good thing.'

DAMINETTE TAGLIST: @meme991001 @umbreon-worshipper @stainedglassm @jasmine-the-fox @psychicdelusionwerewolf @vixen-uchiha @mysteriouschar @missmadwoman @kanamexzeroyaoifangirl @dissarraymania @tundra1029 @abrx2002 @mrsjacuinde @ledalasombra @animegirlweeb

TAGLIST: @animeweebgirl @a-star-with-a-human-name @alysrose-starchild @fandom-trapped-03 @dood-space @moonlightstar64 @saltymiraculer @marveldcedits20 @09shell-sea09 @icerosecrystal @insane-fangirl-of-everything @blueblossombliss @nickristus-dreamer @megawhitleycalderonpaganus @tigresslily @legodetectivemalsblog

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Who doesn't love a perfectly preserved time capsule? This 1968 beauty in Rockford, IL is like stepping back in time. 4bds, 4ba, $450K.

The small entrance has tiled flooring to protect the carpet that runs all through the house.

Why is it always green? This was a dramatic home when it was new- stone fireplace, sunken living room, and wrought iron railings were the height of fashion.

The living area is huge. Note the large stone bench matching the fireplace and the cornice boards that discreetly hide the unsightly curtain rods.

The fireplace stone continues and has a huge mirror. In the corner is shelving and 2 steps up to the dining room.

The dining room has dated curtains that the buyer will inherit. I love the kitty-corner table. That was a common placement in mid-century style.

Next comes the kitchen. Actually, they must've updated it b/c I don't think that 2-tone cabinets were a thing yet. But, the ditzy, small, busy print of the wallpaper with matching shades was definitely the style. Note the original avocado dishwasher and dust shelving above the upper cabinetry, that was later replaced by soffits.

Wait a minute, I'm seeing props here- there's a new dishwasher and new ovens, but they kept the old avocado ones. I wonder if they work or, if it's just nostalgia. There are also 2 cooktops. Wow, they really preserved everything.

Look at the green glass.

Large laundry room off the kitchen.

Oh, look, an avocado washer/dryer set. This is amazing. And, look at the old sink. I hope someone who loves it, buys it, b/c it was so lovingly cared for.

Nice large everyday dining area has a pony wall separating the family room. So much green everywhere. I wonder if this set came that way or if they painted it.

Another stone fireplace flanked by shelving. Knotty pine walls, and folding shutter doors- all fashions of the past. I can't believe that they have the Colonial furniture that was so popular at the time. Even though it was all the rage, you don't see it around anymore. According to the listing, there is going to be an estate sale, so this furniture will be available.

The primary bedroom is pretty big. Geez, there's carpeting everywhere and some of it is looking gnarly.

It has an en-suite, which is unusual. Look at that fancy cabinet. Green laminate counter, too.

This bedroom is also pretty big. Look at the consummate girl's white bedroom furniture of the mid-century.

The den has a big old map probably with countries that don' t even exist anymore.

More bedrooms on the 2nd fl.

Oh, look at that! A hope chest! They were popular for a teenage girl to receive as a gift. Then, she would put in blankets, etc., in the hopes of one day getting married and using them. I can't get over the historic furniture in this place.

And, then they've got a big family room up here. Wow, this house has so much furniture and tchotchkes.

Winter? No problem. Just set the lawn furniture up in the basement.

There's also a finished part of the basement. This is a craft room, and there is also a canning room.

Look at the antique freezer on the right. This place is a museum.

This part of the basement isn't finished even though it has a brick fireplace. No matter, they still used it as a family room, anyway.

According to the listing, this is a 2 car garage, called a "cottage garage," b/c I guess it looks like a residence.

This cool log cabin on the property is used as a playhouse, according to the listing.

Yeah, but look at it, it's really a residence.

There's a lot of land, 3.50 acres.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6151-Newburg-Rd-Rockford-IL-61108/5537324_zpid/

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 51

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

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

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: 50 chapters?!

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You cross your arms, trying to comfort yourself as you wait. The front door opens and the only harbinger of your visitors are their footsteps. The grim pall of the house swallows them up as they shuffle over the doormat.

You don’t look over as their figures appear as shadowy blurs in the edge of your vision. You’re too humiliated to face your guests. Not truly yours, but Loki’s. Like everything else; this house, the very couch you sit on, the clothes you wear. Isn’t that what he’d only just berated you for? Taking it all so ungratefully.

“Darling,” Frigga’s the first to speak as she approaches, almost sheepishly, “my, I’d say it’s lovely to see you both but you look dreadful.”

You wince as she nears and shrink down, bending your legs as you long to curl into a ball. You hug your knees and curl your shoulders. She hovers over you, turning to speak to the others.

“You must open the curtains, it’s awfully gloomy in here,” she demands.

Loki mutters but at a grunt from his father, he acquisces. You stare at the black pants as he tears open the drapes, the rod ringing with his efforts. Another figure looms close. Odin shifts and places his hand on the armrest behind your shoulders.

“I see all is in a state of fine order,” Odin proclaims dryly, “you have this poor thing hanging from the troughs–”

“Father,” Loki sneers as he faces the room again. He steps forward, trying to tidy his wild curls, made even more defiant by his neglect. You notice his attire; his shirt is untucked and clashes with his tan trousers. “I will not be lectured.”

“Oh, dear, look at her face,” Frigga lowers herself to sit on the edge of the sofa and touches your arm kindly, “her dressings need changing.”

You avert your eyes and bite down on your cheek. You’d almost forgotten your nose and the peeling bandages. All that wasn’t as dire as the walls.

“Mm, and that isn’t my fault, mother. It isn’t I who would injure her thus. Rather your golden child,” Loki spits. “If you’ve come to argue the point further, I haven’t the time to hear it.”

“Son,” Odin girds, “do not rile yourself with presumptions. We’ve come to make sure you are well, as any decent parents might.”

“Hm, because you’ve always been so eager to visit, father,” he scoffs.

“Eh, Loki,” Frigga squeezes your arm before she stands again, “we thought to share some news to you. In person as it were. You wouldn’t answer the phone but we do believe you deserve to have it straight from us.”

“Oh, what is it now? Are we celebrating the solstice?” Loki folds his arms and lifts his chin, “you can check us off as not attending, thank you.”

“Now, don’t be an ass,” Odin growls, “if you would hear us, you might not have the urge.”

“Why should I listen to you, eh? Did you listen to me? Did you hear me when I walked in bruised to the gills? Did you hear me over that lout’s lies?” Loki snarls, “you made no move to stop me going but here you are, pouting and begging forgiveness. 

“Well, let me make it clear, you and that cretin you call your eldest son, will not entangle yourselves in another of my marriages. It will not happen. I told you that morning and I meant it. He is no brother of mine and if you continue to pander to his misdeeds, then you will count yourself two children, not three.”

You tweak a brow and tilt your head as his rant swirls over you. Marriage? Surely, he only misspoke.

“Would you listen?” Odin’s voice booms, echoing around the room as he steps around the couch and punches his palm. “We do count only two children; you and Hela.”

“Right,” Loki says unconvinced, “certainly, you will do your best not to let me share a table with him again. We can pretend nothing happened. That he did not accost my wife. Just as before, it is under the carpet as we stomp it into submission.”

“Wife?” Frigga murmurs in confusion and glances at you. You feel her gaze but don’t meet it. You’re just as confused.

“I mean it,” Odin insists and turns to look at you, “I am ashamed that my son would hurt you, dear. Brute as he is, I cast him out. He is banned from the house and wiped from my ledgers. Should you wish it, I would gladly testify to his guilt.”

You don’t reply. Which son does he mean? The one who chased you through the night or the one locking you in the dark?

“Thor is not welcome in this family anymore. If you hadn’t run away…” Odin faces Loki again.

“Oh, forgive me for my skepticism, father,” Loki grimaces, “you’ve not exactly earned a lot of trust from me–”

“Nor you me,” Odin counters.

“You never gave me a chance,” Loki hisses, “very well then, thank you, oh, great father, for practising an ounce of good judgment.”

“Boy,” Odin wags his finger at his son as he steps closer.

“Boy?” Loki exclaims, “get out. Now.”

“Loki,” Frigga screeches, “enough. We’ve come all the way here to apologise to you and… her, and you are being insensible. Would you hear us?”

Loki rolls his eyes. He keeps one arm across his chest and bends the other to flutter his fingers dismissively, “you kept him in my life. You begged me to look past his slights for years and refused to see them until someone got hurt.”

“Yes, we were neglectful. Willfully blind,” Frigga says sadly, peeking back at you, “seeing you that morning, and now, the bruises, and her… we… we are very sorry and we can understand that it might be too late for all this but we only want to be heard.”

Loki is quiet, roiling as he breathes loudly. He swallows and sniffs, “yes, you should look at her and see what he did to her.” His lip twitches, “and if I had not been there, imagine what he would have done–”

You close your eyes as you feel a weight over you, feel the suffocating heat, hear Thor’s sinister tone, ‘little maid’.

“Stop!” You throw your hands up as your eyes snap open, “please stop, I don’t want to think about it.”

“Oh, dear,” Frigga spins and once more rests herself on the couch’s edge, “you don’t have to. Please, you’re safe. He won’t bother you again. I’ll be sure of it.”

You knot your fingers together and twist until your knuckles hurt. You can’t look at her, at any of them. You shake your head and shrug.

“As you can see, she is not ready for company,” Loki asserts.

“What I see is she’s being shrouded away in this crypt,” Frigga rebuffs, “she requires sunshine. She needs healing, not paranoia.”

“You don’t know what we’ve been through,” Loki accuses, “how can you know what she needs?”

“I have eyes,” Frigga snips, “darling,” she speaks to you, “would you like some tea in the garden? Just you, I wouldn’t want to infringe.”

You gulp and rub your neck. You nod, “yes.”

“See?” Frigga pets your knee kindly before she stands again, “I won’t tread upon your toes, son, you get her the tea and see her to the garden.” She sidles aside to stand with her husband, “and then you will explain to me this whole marriage business.”

You glance over at Loki, the same question nipping at your ears. Was he confused? Why did he say all that? Marriage, wife? No, prisoner and warden, that’s what it truly is.

✨

Slowly the doom recedes. The warmth of the sun beams down as you keep your finger hooked in the handle of the tea cup. You let the steaming brew go cold as your eyes devour the scenery. The greens, the violets, the indigos, and pinks. Colours all around.

You suck in deep breaths of the spring air, tasting the last dregs of dew and the floating pollen. You hear the council of sparrows hiding in the bushes and watch the pair of doves bobbing across the grass. Bees buzz between the blooming stems and insects flit back and forth through the air. The seasonal renewal is underway as a whole new world awakens.

Beneath the serenity, there is fear. This won’t last. This is just a brief respite from your desolation. A flicker of light in the dark.

So you bask in it as much as you can, for as long as you can. You can’t help but peek over at the french doors and wonder about what’s happening behind them. What is being said? Are Frigga and Odin still there? Is Loki still angry?

You cup your chin and take a sip. This is all you ever wanted. You only wish he would have listened to you. Why must someone else talk sense into him? Why can’t he just hear you?

Your vision hazes as you drift into the peaceful hue. The spring swallows you up and mutes your worries. You cling to that moment, knowing the end will come sooner than later.

The doors open and pierce the spring soliloquy. You look over as Loki steps out. His shirt is tucked in and he’s tried to comb his hair. Still, he looks out of sorts. His eyes are circled darkly and his cheek tics as his jaw clenches.

He watches you as he nears the table, standing across from you as he extends his long fingers to the iron surface. He takes a breath and looks around. He retracts his hand to rest on the back of the chair.

“May I?” He asks.

His request surprises you. That he would even want permission. After all, this is his home, all of this is allotted to you at his whim.

“Sure,” you sit back and let go of the teacup.

He drags the chair out and lowers himself. He bends his arms over the table and his head swivels again, as if searching for something. He clears his throat and turns straight. He stares at you as you peer down at the table.

“It’s beautiful out,” he comments, “the tulips are coming in.”

You nod, “yeah, they’re pretty.”

He exhales and shifts in the chair. He taps his fingertips then weaves his fingers through each other. He stills his fidgeting.

“How is your tea?”

You look down at the cup, mostly untouched. You raise your eyes to meet him and purse your lips.

“It’s fine,” you answer, “what’s going on?”

He circles his thumbs around each other and pushes his shoulders up before forcing the tension out, “I thought I would… come enjoy the garden with you, pet.”

“Oh,” you utter.

“Oh,” he echoes staunchly. “Unless, I am disturbing you?”

You shake your head, “I thought you wanted me to go inside…”

He frowns and lowers his chin, “I…” he begins then unclasps his hands and sits straight. He rests his elbows on the armrests and his cheek strains, “I want you to be safe.”

You nod and look at your lap as you think, “your parents said Thor is gone.”

“Yes, so he has been cast out. For how long, I can’t be certain,” he sighs, “but he is not my only worry.”

“What else—”

“If I’d not discovered your escape, you would’ve fallen and hurt yourself worse.”

“Loki, I… I’m sorry but I couldn’t–”

“And you do not eat when I bring you food. You hardly sleep.”

“What about you?” You toss back as you raise your head.

His lips thin, “yes, what about me. I am just as guilty in all this, I see that now.”

You’re quiet as you consider his admission. It’s a rare moment. Not exactly victory, but a consolation. As much as you can hope for.

“I appreciate all you have done but I… don’t want to be a burden anymore,” you say, “if that’s how you feel about me, I think we’d both be better off if I left.”

He goes rigid and his throat tightens, “pet…”

“Or maybe I could just be the maid again. We could go back to that. That would be okay.”

He huffs and hangs his head. He brings his fingertips together as he seems to argue with himself. Slowly, he lifts his head, “no, that simply won’t do.”

Your face falls, “please don’t lock me up again.”

Your eyes gloss as you pout, begging him wordlessly. He winces as his mouth slants, one way then the other. He mulls on your plea.

He tilts his head one way then the other, stretching out his neck. He slips his elbows off the armrest and grips the chair, pushing himself to his feet. He rolls his shoulders straight and rounds the table. He stops beside you and lowers himself down to a knee. You watch him, confused.

He takes your hand and draws it over the side of the chair. He holds it in his, stroking it as he peers up at you.

“You cannot be a burden or the maid, and you certainly may not leave,” he says, “you are going to be my wife.”

You blink. You’re not sure you heard him right. He squeezes your hand and you look down at his grip.

“Loki?” You babble.

“I haven’t picked a ring, I’m sorry,” he pulls your hand to him, leaning in to kiss it, petting it, “but perhaps you might help in that.” He puts his other knee down and moves even closer, “we will have a lot of planning to do, won’t we, darling?”

He angles to lean his head against your arm, keeping his hand on yours. You’re paralysed. He’s proposing to you but there isn’t any room for your rejection. Like all other things, it’s a command. You have to keep yourself from answering, ‘yes, Mr. Laufeyson.’

You look down at his dark tresses and let out the breath racked beneath your ribs, “I’ve never been to a wedding.” The statement is hollow and numb. You don’t know what else to say.

He chuckles and lifts his head to grin up at you, “well, how exciting that you’re first will be your own.”

[moody-alcoholic]

The Hunt

AN: sorry...

Summary: 4k words. Ghoap x Reader, throuple. Reader is female (she/her), army nurse, non descript physical features, names used: Ashe

CW: assault, torture, descriptions of violence, physical violence, knifes, guns, people getting shot, blood, people being bound/tied up, people being stabbed, people being killed, death, angst.

Previous parts - masterlist - next part

Enjoy <3

You wake to the sound of a door slamming. Your head is spinning as you look round the room. There’s a throbbing in the back of you head. You look up seeing Jack walking over to you. 

“What didn’t get enough in Syria?” You ask as he stops at your feet. You’re nervous you don’t know what to say, you just hope they’re on their way. Jack isn’t saying anything. You feel sick with the throbbing in your head. 

“Don’t flatter yourself I don’t care about you just your boyfriends.” He says walking over to a table. You can make out a bunch of equipment, weapons, knives, ammo. You look round the rest of the room. The curtains have all been drawn closed, you can’t tell if the sun is up or not. There are no clocks, you can’t hear anything to indicate where you are. Maybe it’s just your head spinning but it’s not helping you place the ambience. 

“What is your obsession with them?” You ask. He stays silent as he picks a knife off the table. You sigh, there is no way he’s going to do anything. You really try hard to believe it, although he seems very much unhinged. You need to make a plan in your head if Simon and Johnny are not coming. Dying is not an option, or alt least you hope not, if he killed you he won’t be able to get intel from you. Maybe he doesn’t want to kill you, this seems like a different play.

“I’m not obsessed, I just want to provide for my family.” He says, he sounds somewhat defeated. Maybe what was supposed to have happened hasn't happened yet. Or maybe he’s trying to buy time and lower your defences. 

“Susan is your wife right, Chloe’s older sister? I know you have a kid with her, I met her she’s cute.” You say, watching him as his fingers run over the blade of the knife. The door to the room opening pulls your attention away. It’s Mark. Fucking Mark. Jack turns his attention away from you looking over at him.

You can see a phone in his hands. Jack nods, he walks towards you bringing the knife up to your face. He looks at you for a second before slashing your cheek. It burns like a hot rod has just been pressed up against your face. Your arms pop uncomfortably as your body tries to force them to your face but they’re tightly bound behind your back. You swear as your face heats up blood dripping down your cheek. It must be a deep cut since Jack also looks slightly concerned for a moment. 

“Get the phone ready.” Jack says. You look over at Mark as he fumbles with the phone in his hands, it’s your phone you recognise the case. Mark moves it in his hands so its horizontal. 

“Try to look sad for the camera.” Jack says as he moves round behind you. He grips your hair so you’re face is straight looking towards Mark.

“We want to make a trade. Every single piece of intel you have as well as the guarantee you will leave us alone. Then we promise to return this one to you and we won’t hurt another hair on her pretty little head.” Jack says as his confidence seems to grow. That’s what you’re here for, you’re a bargaining chip. You’re pretty much worthless. Maybe you still have chance to appeal to their humanity. If there is anything left. 

“You sound like a shitty terrorist organisation.” You say scoffing. Jack huffs as he presses the knife into your neck, gripping your hair tighter. It sends a shooting pain down your body, you can still feel blood pooling down your cheek and neck. 

“You have one hour to respond to the attached number or we kill her.” Jack says. Your stomach drops. You don’t want to die but you hold it together keeping your expression at least neutral. Jack lets go of your hair walking over to Mike. Mike leans in and you hear them re-watching the video. They really do sound like amateurs.

“Send it with the number.” Jack says. “As soon as it’s sent turn the phone back off.” You look over at Mike and Jack. You hang your head your cheek still burning, a shiver runs through you as the adrenaline wears off. You feel sick again thinking back to the safehouse. Maybe you should have fought.   

  —————————— 

The text comes through on Johnny and Simon’s phone. It’s a video, a video of you with Jack stood behind you pressing a knife into the side of your throat. Ghost looks over at Soap, his eyes are hard as he presses play on the video.

There is no audio from his phone but Ghost can tell it’s upsetting him. Soap looks up at him. It’s okay, keep it together. Is what Ghost wants to tell Soap, but he cant. He looks back down at his phone.

“What is it?” Price asks walking into the room. Ghost sighs handing his phone to Price. He plays the video, Gaz looks over Price’s shoulder as Jack’s voice fills the room. Ghost watches Soap tense when your voice comes through the phone speakers. Johnny has already tried to call you but the phone must be off again since the call doesn’t go through. It was too quick to trace they weren't prepared.

“Hang on a second, that number is one of the burner phones.” Price says walking away from the table over to a case, he pulls it open and sure enough there is a phone missing. 

“We can trace that, it has an additional tracker in it, it doesn’t matter if the phone is off.” Ghost wants to smile, but he keeps his eyes on Soap as Gaz comes over with a laptop. Price stands next to him showing him were to look. No one says anything as Ghost finds himself holding his breath.

“Harrow.” Gaz says as Price stands up straight. 

“Where’s that?” Soap asks.

“West, it’ll take us at least 40 minutes to get out there. That’s assuming she's in the same place as the burner phone.” Gaz says.

“How accurate is the tracker?” Ghost asks.

“Very.” Price replies. “Do they have any houses in that area? Any property they own or even have their names attached to?” 

“I can check it could take a while though.” Gaz says.

“Okay lets move we’ll drive out there, you can search on the way.” Price says. Everyone nods as he goes back over to the kit to grab the rest of the burner phones. Soap does not wait rushing out towards the garage. Ghost catches up to him pulling him in and locking the door behind him. 

“Look at me.” Simon demands, pulling Johnny’s chin. Johnny fights him so Simon has to resort to gripping his hair. He uses his free hand to pull his mask up and over his head while he presses himself up against Johnny pinning him to the wall. 

“Look at me.” Simon demands again following Johnny’s eyeline. Johnny is still fighting under Simon’s grasp. He presses his lips up to Johnny, he’s tense, he won’t kiss Simon back at first, eventually he relents. Johnny lets out a sigh as drops his shoulders and opens his mouth letting Simon in, he loosens his grip on Johnny. Simon breaks away looking in his husbands eyes, he’s never seen him like this before. Scared, angry, like he has nothing to lose. 

“We’re going to get her Johnny, look at me.” Simon says, still gripping his hair.

“We’re going to get her and bring her home safe.” 

“You don’t know that,” Johnny whispers barely audible, as he hangs his head. Simon sighs, he knows Johnny could be right, they don’t have control over the situation. 

“We’ll find her, and we’ll bring her home. But I need you to focus Soap. We need to, we’re no use to her if we can’t focus.” Simon says kissing him again on the forehead.

Johnny looks up at him and nods, the fear washed off his face and replaced with anger, determination. Simon lets out a small sigh, that’s the Johnny he wants to see. There is a knock on the door behind Johnny. Simon pulls his mask back down moving away to open the door.

“Ready?” Price asks with Gaz stood behind him. 

     

——————————  

“It’s been almost an hour and we’ve heard nothing.” You hear Jack say, he sounds angry. You face is stinging, they didn’t treat the wound but the bleeding seems to of slowed. All you can feel is the numbness in your feet and hands from the zipties and the pain in your cheek. You’re trying to listen to their conversation. Most of the time you can’t hear it. It’s only when Jack or Mark raise their voices you get snippets.

You look up at them. Jack looks nervous, Mark more put together, both stood with their arms crossed across the room. Jack’s been tapping his foot, or when he’s sat down you watch his leg bounce. Maybe he is worried about having to kill you.

This is starting to feel too familiar. At least in Syria the sleep deprivation was so bad you were basically in an asleep semi-conscious haze. At least after a few hours you got used to the routine, knew what to expect. At least Simon and Johnny were there. You swallow the lump the pit forming back in your stomach. You had no idea what Jack might do to you, you just have to stay strong. Do not give him the satisfaction of seeing you upset or panic. 

“Maybe you’re wrong.” Mark says. You don’t hear Jacks response but they both stand back up coming towards you. Mark is taking your phone out again. Great time for another video. 

“Shame you don’t have the budget for a makeup department.” You say as Jack grips your head again painfully pulling your head up. The knife is back at your throat only this time instead of the tip being pressed into the side of your neck the blade is resting across the front.

You shiver as the cold metal presses into your neck enough that if you were to move you would get cut. You swallow hard, the jolting of your head has opened your cheek wound again as you feel blood trickling down your face. You watch as Mark nods at Jack holding the phone in-front of you.

“Almost an hour, your clock is ticking.” Jack says. You feel the knife moved from your neck as it making it’s way to the wound on your face. He presses it in and you have to grit your teeth to stop a pained yelp escaping your body. You’re holding your breath as heat rushes to your face, the knife disturbing the wound enough it’s bleeding profusely again. 

“I said I wouldn’t hurt another hair on her head but I’m getting impatient!” Jack snaps, his confidence seems to be growing even if he doesn’t show it when the camera is off. 

“Contact the number to arrange a swap, you have an extra half hour before I start cutting pieces off.” He spits. Mark puts the camera down and Jack releces your head going over to watch it. You hear the playback as they nod at each other.

He’s gone from killing you to cutting pieces off. You start going round your body in your head. Which parts you think you’ll miss the least. Maybe your ears, toes, you want to keep your fingers. You can’t be a nurse without functioning hands.   

    

 ——————————  

Another video another threat. A new time, he’s given them an extra half an hour. 

“Take a left up here.” Gaz says he’s in the front with Price leading the way to the burner phones ping. It almost looks like they’re being driven into an industrial estate. It’s dark bar a few warehouses with 24/7 service. 

“Keep going it’s through that gate 500 meters.” Gaz says pointing at the only open gate on the road leading into what looks like a van rental place. 

“What is this place?” Price asks.

“The Masons own it, it’s a van rental, since 2020.” Soap says looking up from his laptop. There is one car in the whole parking lot Price drives up and parks behind it. There is one of those one story prefab buildings which looks like the main office, assuming there is someone here the likely hood is they’re in that building. Price kills the engine, and everyone gets out. Soap opens the boot as we grab our weapons.

Price doesn’t need to say anything, it’s automatic. He leads with Soap and Gaz following while Ghost takes the rear. There doesn’t seem to be any lights on in the building but the windows also look boarded up. Price makes it to the door Soap takes the other side and Ghost moves into position to kick it down. Price nods at Ghost who takes a breath the kicks the door right by the handle.

It swings open and light floods out. Price, Gaz and Soap all pile into the tiny building, Ghost hears shouting as Price pushes a man to the floor. Ghost closes the door behind him as he enters quickly checking the other end of the building. It’s small just a waiting area, a toilet and a few desks. The rest of the place is clear and Ghost comes back to Price helping the man up to his feet. 

“Let’s have a chat.” Price asks, forcing him to sit down in a chair, his hands ziptied to his back. Gaz goes over to help Price secure his feet while Soap and Ghost keep their weapons trained on him. The man shakes his head.

“Harry.” Soap says. “I recognise him from the funereal one of Chloe’s brothers.”

“Okay, Harry you know what we want and if you give us what we want we won’t kill you how does that sound for a deal?” Price says stepping in-front of him. 

“Go to hell! You might as well kill me, if Jack finds out I’ve snitched I’ll be dead anyway!” Harry shouts. Price sighs looking over at Ghost for a few seconds. This was going to get messy. 

“Let’s try that again. Where is she?” Price asks getting up in his face. Harry doesn’t say anything, Ghost goes to take a step forward as Price moves out the way but Soap beats him too it. Before anyone can say anything Soap thrusts a knife in Harry’s thigh. He screams thrashing in the chair as Soap goes back to stand next to Ghost, Price looks at him approvingly before going back over to Harry. 

“Tell us where they’re hiding!” Price shouts, over Harry’s moans and whimpers. Ghost can see tears running down his cheeks. Soap missed his femoral artery, he would have bled out by now and they would have nothing. Ghost looked over at Soap his expression hard, he has barely said a word since they left the house. Harry has stopped screaming as Price holds his head up barking more questions at him. Ghost knows they can’t wait too long, this interrogation needs to give them something to work with. 

“Harrow.” Harry says through a sob. “There’s a house in Harrow that’s where she is.” Price picks up the burner phone from the floor. 

“Let’s go.” Price says. Heading for the door.

“What about me!” Harry calls. Price doesn’t say anything as Gaz follows him out Soap is still staring at Harry.

“Let’s go Soap.” Ghost says lacing his voice with authority so he’ll listen. He watches him turn away and wait’s until Soap is out the door on Gaz’s heals before Ghost turns off the lights and closes the door behind him.  

 ——————————  

You’re alone in the room now. Jack and Mark both stepped out awhile ago. It feels like it’s been forever when you have no concept of time and your body is in pain. You’ve tried pulling at your restraint’s even played with the idea of breaking your thumb to try and get out.

You have no idea if it would work though of if it was one of those stupid movie tropes. Besides these bindings are tight, the lack of circulation to your hands and feet has you a little concerned. The gash on your cheek which had been reopened with a knife so you're basically guaranteed to get an infection.

You’re still triaging your body when Mark and Jack burst into the room. They’re carrying weapons. Something must have happened or maybe your time is up.

“What about Brian!?” Mark asks. Jack doesn’t say anything. Who the fuck is Brain? 

“Get in the corner.” Jack orders as he comes over to you. You feel the barrel of a gun pressed up against the back of your head. Jack seems to change his mind though pulling out his pistol pressing it to your temple. You hear shots, they sound distant but close at the same time. This house must be massive, you don’t know which house you’re in it’s one you’ve never been to.

Your heart picks up, they’re here. This is going to be the final stand off, this could be the end. At least he’ll shoot you. It will be quick. Mark ducks in the far right corner of the room. The door swings inwards, they won’t see him right away. There are voices now, you think you hear Johnny, you almost want to call out to him, but you bite your tongue.

Jack is using your body to shield him, you’re almost shaking as you hear the voices get closer and closer. Before you have time to think about how you can help the the door swings open. Price walks in first, then Johnny, then Gaz then Simon.

Jack grips your hair pressing the barrel of the gun harder into your temple. You let out a sigh, you don’t know if it’s relief or not but they're here. Before you can warn them Mark is already out the corner, they’re surrounded. But there are only 2 of them. Simon and Gaz spin round to train their weapons on Mark while Price and Johnny have their weapons held up at you. Or more the man behind you pulling your hair so tight you think he might rip it off. 

“Let her go Jack it doesn’t have to end this way.” Price says. “You can still walk out here alive no one has to die.” 

“All I wanted was for you to leave us alone.” Jack says scoffing. “You caused this, you all caused this.” You want Johnny to look at you his expression is twisted into something you’ve never seen before, anger, he looks so angry it makes you feel sick. You watch Simon’s back, his foot moves to touch Johnny so their heel to heel. 

“You got yourself involved in a whole world of bother.” Price says. “Thats not our fault.” 

“It is!” Jack snaps pulling your head back sharply, you hear it click. 

“All I want is to provide for my family. What do you not understand about that! Why can’t you just leave us alone!” His voice cracks at the end of the sentence. He’s becoming unhinged, he could shoot you at any point and be over with it. 

“You can’t provide for you’re family if you’re dead. Let her go and we’ll let you both walk out of here.” Price says. 

“I want all the intel you gathered.” Jack says. It’s a negotiation now. Price nods reaching into his vest and pulling out some keys. He holds them up clearly so Jack can see. 

“There’s a car outside with everything we have.” Price shakes the keys. It’s almost like you can feel Jack thinking weighing up his options.

Then everything happens so fast, the keys are thrown in the air.

There is a shot, then another.

You feel a pain in the side of your head as Jacks grip leaves your hair.

You hear shouting and see Johnny running towards you. There’s a ringing in your ear as you feel blood running down the side of your head. Where you shot?

You watch as Johnny flicks open a knife cutting the zipties on your feet. You can’t hear what he’s saying the buzzing is still loud in your ears. He moves behind you as you see Simon get up from next to Marks body.

As your wrists are freed your hand goes up to the side of your head. You feel warm blood but it’s not your head that’s been hit, it’s your ear. The ringing subsides and you hear Jack moaning he’s not dead. Price comes over to you placing his hand on your shoulder while he looks you over. He reaches into a pouch on his vest pulling out some gauze. 

“You okay?” You think he asks. You nod as he presses the gauze to your ear. You hold it for him feeling the blood quickly soak the bandage. You hear zipties and turn to see Johnny pulling them closed around Jack’s wrists. He’s laid on his back with Johnny’s knee on his legs, he’s been hit in the shoulder, you can see the blood pooling on the floor.

Price walks round to him as he hands you more gauze and you look over at Simon and Gaz. Simon walks over to you his hand resting on your shoulder for a second as he goes over to join Price. You breathe out a massive sigh of relief as Johnny bends down in front of you.

“You okay lass?” Johnny asks taking the gauze out your hand and patting your cheek wound, you wince as he presses but you try not to move. All you can do is nod still trying to process what just happened.

You hear Jack shouting, looking past Johnny you see Gaz standing off to the side of the door. Johnny stands up and smiles down at you his hand rubbing your good cheek. You smile back at him.

You’re about to get up when you hear another shot. You look over at Gaz turning around, another shot rings out. You see someone in the doorway fall to the floor.

You look back at Johnny. His expression has changed, there is fear in his eyes. You don’t have time to think as he falls to the floor. 

“Johnny!” You scream pushing yourself off the chair, your legs give way under you as you fall to your knees next to him. You see the blood, he’s been hit. You’re already pulling his vest off when Gaz comes over. 

“Watch the door!” You hear someone shout, you think it’s Price. Gaz stops in his tracks and heads back to the door. You pull Johnny’s shirt up. There are multiple wounds, you see the shrapnel stuck in the front of his vest.

He was shot from behind, this is a through and through.

The vest fractured the bullet, then stopped it from hitting you.

You feel sick. You look over at Gaz watching the door. Simon bends down on the other side of Johnny. You look up at him tears streaming down your face. You force yourself to focus. You can save him you have to save him. 

“Give me your medical pouch!” You shout at Simon. He nods and hands it to you. You’re not thinking about what’s going on around you. You’re pulling on gloves watching the colour drain from Johnny’s face. You hear Price talking, Simon get’s to his feet, there’s radio noises, a dial tone. You press gauze into Johnny’s wounds. You can still hear Jack shouting. 

“You’re not dying Johnny not today!” You shout letting the adrenaline pulse through your body your own pain forgotten about. You just need to get this bleeding under control.

You’re not dying Johnny not today… 

Next

[haruka-norikoyo]

Monoma x reader who is Mirio’s sibling Part 5

Wow, I can’t believe I already have this much parts.

Other parts:

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 6 | Part 7

Part 5/?

~~~~~~~~~~

You had the movie set up by the time Neito returns to the room. He was only supposed to get ice cream and soda so…

“Why do you have all that with you?!” you laugh. With him is a whole cart of food that the two of you would not be able to finish. He didn’t forget the ice cream. It was in one giant bowl topped with a myriad of sprinkles and syrup, as well as some slices of fruit as if that would make it healthy. On the second level of the cart are a bunch of cream puffs and small cake slices, and on the bottom level are chips and popcorn. Behind him, he is dragging along a wagon stacked high with blankets and clothes pins.

Neito shrugs, smiling at your amused expression. “They all got nosy and decided to chip in.” He sets down the blankets beside you on the bed, taking out a mini projector. “Aw, they’re so sweet.”

He nudges you while he connects the projector with his computer. “Hey, pay attention to me, not my classmates.”

You nudge back teasingly, “I dunno, you seem pretty out done.”

Neito rolls his eyes. “Are you gonna set up the base or what?” he asks, gesturing to the blankets and pillows.

You gasp, unfolding the blankets with glee. “A pillow fort..! That’s what it’s for..!”

He chuckles at your childish excitement. Though, he had to admit that the pillow fort was a good idea from Honenuki… he’ll have to thank him later.

Once he was done setting the projector up, he helps you with the fort. You pin the blankets onto his unused ceiling fan and his curtain rod, and some at the edges of his bed. Next you stack the pillows around you as a wall, using one of them to prop the projector up to properly face the wall. Now that the fort is done, you sit inside, waiting for Neito to join you after shutting the lights off. You hear them click. The blankets part as Neito crawls in with faintly lit electric candles. The extravagance of this one final touch has you rolling with laughter. He raises a brow at you with a smirk, setting the candles down around the fort. “What? Don’t like it?”

“No, I love it,” you giggle.

Neito smiles, finally sitting with his arm around your shoulder. He’s silent for a while, so you look back at him. You tilt your head, “What’re you staring for, hm?”

“Wow, so I can’t even look at you?”

You shake your head, leaning against him. “Just don’t ask me about what you missed in the movie.”

“Yeah yeah, I’ll pay attention to it,” and so he presses his keyboard, and the movie begins.

***

There is a knock in the 1-B dorm.

Kendo is quick to open it, finding her homeroom teacher standing there. He doesn’t usually have to check on them, so she figures why he’s there. “Oh, Vlad-sensei. Togata-san’s over at Monoma’s room.”

“Ah,” he says. He had gotten a call from Aizawa saying that some students from class 1-A were worried about (y/n) Togata not coming back to the dorm when they said they’d be back before curfew. Both teachers knew where you’d probably be without saying anything, which leads him here. “Tell them it’s past curfew and time to call it a day.”

“Well… we tried, but we figured it would be fine for Togata-san to stay?”

“What do you mean you tried?”

Kaibara peeks his head out of the door. “Just look at them.” He holds out his phone, which is on video chat with Tsubaraba over at Neito’s room along with Fukudashi, Shishida, Rin, Awase, and Kodai. The camera settles on Fukudashi as he draws on Neito’s face with a marker, which already has a few doodles. The unsuspecting boy is fast asleep, curled up against you, whose face is untouched… for now. Fukudashi’s face is in a mischievous “fufufu” speech bubble.

The other four are aiding him by holding up the blankets while he draws. In the background, the credits of a movie is projected on the wall. Several trays of the remnants of snacks sprawl across the floor.

Technically, the curfew only specifies that students must be in the dorms, but not which dorm so… Vlad sighs. “Alright. Just remind them not to be late for class.”

Besides, Aizawa probably won’t give a damn either. It’s hero school. Let the kids be kids every now and then.

***

You are gently shaken awake as a soft voice calls out your name. “(Y/n)… (y/n), I’m leaving soon.”

“Hm?” you rub your eyes, opening them to see Neito now dressed in his P.E. uniform. Curiously, he has a few dark smudges on his face. Ah, you must’ve fallen asleep. “Morning Neito… where are you going?”

“I’m going to Gym Gamma. You should head back to your dorm before your classmates get worried. Maybe get a little more sleep in your room.”

Sitting up, you notice that the fort is still up, just parted to make room for you to move. Most of the mess from last night have been stacked neatly to the side, ready to be cleaned up later. As he’s setting his gym bag up, he adds, “By the way, they drew on our faces on our sleep.”

Now that wakes you up. Quickly, you take your phone out and look at the camera and see that there, in fact, are doodles on your face from permanent marker. Well that explains the ink remnants on Neito’s face…

He hands you a wipe, saying that you can use the one of the 1-B sinks as well as their soap before you leave for your dorm. “Thanks. Why so early though? You training?”

Neito rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well, your brother visited yesterday while I was getting snacks.” Seeing the scowl on your face, he quickly adds. “He didn’t try scaring me this time. In fact, he offered to help train me.”

You did, staring incredulously at him, “He did?” “Yeah,” Neito sits down on the edge of his bed. “And considering he’s one of the big three of UA, how could I refuse? Besides, it’s a good chance to see his quirk in action.”

Fearing that he’d accidentally go too hard on Neito, Mirio had Hado take over in the demonstration with 1-B. She kicked their asses. No remorse, I fear.

———

“I’m here because I’d like to make an offer to you. Think of it as an olive branch being extended,” Mirio, whose head is peaking out from the 1-B dorm’s floor says.

Neito raises a brow. A peace offering? “I’m listening…”

“I’ve heard of your quirk Copy. You’re able to copy other’s quirks if you’ve made physical contact with them for a certain amount of time, correct?”

“I’m a little concerned about how you know that, but you’re right. I’ve been training to extend that time limit.”

“Ah, sounds great! Ah—” Mirio sinks into the floor. Neito furrows his brows in confusion. After a few seconds, his voice returns. “Anyway, since we’ve started out on the wrong foot…”

Neito looks up as Mirio’s head now pokes out of the ceiling.

“…I would like to get to know you better. As both a person and as the hero you’re aspiring to be. So I came here to offer to train you on using my quirk. It’ll help you improve your duration too right?”

Neito puts his finger on his chin, looking straight ahead, “That’s… an interesting offer…” His mind weighs his options. He doesn’t exactly fully trust this guy even when he’s your brother so…

Mirio sticks his hand out from the ceiling to make a thumbs up. “It is, isn’t it? You see, my quirk isn’t what you’d think is hero like, is it?”

At this, Neito looks up again, eyes bigger with interest. “Not hero like? Even though you’re top of the school?” “My quirk makes me untouchable to everything. That includes any surface and even air. A simple movement such as taking a step through a wall would require me to turn it on for all except one leg, stepping through, turning it off in that leg that stepped through, and then turning it on in that previous leg.” “It took me a lot of time and dedication to make it a hero like quirk. I want to see if you’re the type who can persevere. I think that’s fair considering you claim you’ll spend the rest of your life with (y/n).”

Neito smiles wryly as Mirio quotes him. But that smiles soon fades, his expression going serious. “I do intend to make good on my words. They’re not simply hopes and wishes, they’re promises. I accept your offer.”

Mirio smiles a little wider. It’s subtle, but Neito picks up on it. “Alright! Lets meet tomorrow at Gym Gamma. Two hours before class.”

Neito nods. “Understood, onii-san!”

Mirio narrows his eyes at the boy, “…Fine, I’ll let you call me that.”

[0intp0]

Please don't scroll and give attention to this post!

Recently in my country Bangladesh, students around all over the country are protesting against a government policy named "Quota"

Basically it's a quota reserved for the children of our freedom fighters who fought in our 1971 liberation war for government jobs in our country.

Now the problem is, even the unqualified children and grandchildren of our freedom fighters are getting this privilege. Logically speaking why should they get a government job over a person who actually deserved it more than them?

This is actually a more serious issue but because of lack of good words I can't explain it properly and that's my failure

But this is not why I grabbed your attention today

According to law, every human has the right to protest for injustice if they are not harming other people in the process.

But seems like some political parties do not agree with it

Mark this date, yesterday, 15 July 2024,

Students were attacked by the students political party called "ছাত্রলীগ" or "student's league" because of their protest in Dhaka university,Eden mohila college, Jahangirnagar University, Dhaka medical college, jagannath university and many more government universities all over the country

Students were brutally beaten by rods,there were bricks thrown towards them.

I live near "Dhaka college" and approximately 2 hours ago I heard minor blast noises and saw people literally throwing bricks at each other. You can look for yourself on news channels since many international media are covering it.

Here's a voicemail of a female student-

Vague translation-

"Today if you people saw the situation in our campus believe me you all would literally hate the student's league or fear it for your whole life.

In front of us, they had beaten the boys with rods to half death. The boys had come to us and begged us saying big sister please let us hide here or they will kill us. We tried to hide them with our Scarf,Burkas,behind the curtains but those people pushed us aside and took our classmates out and beat them with rods on their heads and they were our familiar faces who did this inhumane act. They literally laid them on the roads.

They threw big bricks towards the female student's chests, our clothes were torn but those who are our bachmates whom we attended class all year didn't say anything about it and in social media they are supporting this behavior."

This is clearly, a violation of human rights and morality.

Here are some pictures for proof-

Here is a link for some posts:

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by 🥐 (@bengalicroissantt)

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by 🥐 (@bengalicroissantt)

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by The Front Page (@thefrontpagebd)

Here's another picture-

Please do not ignore us Bangladeshi students and spread this news of injustice.

We might be from a country very far from you but injustice anywhere around the world is a threat to justice in every corner of the world.

[pricegouge]

Access Road 46

part two of my horrtober collection | on ao3 | taglist

Synopsis: Reader gets lost on a snowshoeing trip. Eldritch!Gaz tries to help

Cw: dubcon masturbation. monsterfucking but make it no contact. (reader kinda gets like electroshocked rhythmically until it does something for them). reader has a pussy but no genered language is used. READER DEATH. drowning. depression and suicidal ideation. please let me know if i've missed anything. MDNI

A/N at nearly 11k, this one is a monster to be posting all at once. if it's easier for you, i have broken it down into five parts over on AO3

Divider by @/cafekitsune

The cabin is a dingy, desolate place but for how cold and lost and helpless you'd been, it may as well be the Waldorf.

When you'd first spotted the low slump of its roof rising above the snowdrifts around it, you'd thought you were hallucinating, some perverse inverse of a mirage brought on here by exhaustion and borderline hypothermia. You didn't believe it until your gangly snowshoes were tripping up the stoop steps, the cheap, peeling door solid under your fist. You could tell even at a glance that no one was home, likely hadn't been for some time, but the instinct to be polite and civil even in the face of what would certainly be your death wouldn't be ignored. The last thing you needed right now was some pissed off hillbilly hunting you down for trespassing, after all. It's locked up for the season - for its slow death, maybe - but your ski pole crashes through a bedroom window easily enough. You take your jacket off and lay it over the broken glass in the sill, shivering and shuddering as your cramped muscles pull you up and through. Your snowshoes catch in the frame (stupid, should've taken them off) and your hand catches your weight before you can roll onto the glass, a small shard sticking into your palm. You hiss as you reach back and unclasp your boot, let it take your weight so you can relieve your hand and get your other foot sorted. When the snowshoe thunks into the drift outside, you collect your coat and give it a good shake, clearing it of glass before putting it back on, grimacing when the exposed windbreaker material brushes against you. 

You're the coldest you've ever been in your life but it won't do you any good to huddle up if the window's left open so you force yourself into motion again, tearing the sheets of the bed and hanging them in the curtain rod. You tie them off there and then push the bed to trap the bottom against the wall, hopefully preventing it from billowing in the wind that is slowly picking up outside. You stumble through the cabin in search of duct tape, or nails and shut the door behind you. Without power, you stumble through dark corners and cabinets aimlessly, unwilling to give yourself enough time to assess the small kernel of fear building in your stomach each time you open a door and find shadows lurking in every corner. Thankfully the kitchen junk drawer yields a flashlight, dull and cheap but serviceable, and after that supplies come quickly to hand.

It takes about an hour to get the window good and insulated, a pile of trash bags taped to the frame to keep the worst of the winds out followed by two layers of heavy blankets for insulation. It's not good enough to keep the room warm but you're unwilling to sacrifice more blankets and with the door to the room kept closed, you're hoping you won't need to anyway.

The living room houses a wood stove which you determine is safe enough to use after shining your flashlight up the flue. A dining room chair and a cheap paperback is sacrificed for fuel and tinder, the long ignition matches thankfully kept right next to the stove. The chair lights quickly but burns cold and despite the exhaustion that weighs heavily upon you, you know better than to sit and warm yourself just yet, peeking through every window until you find a dilapidated woodshed not too far from the back door. You miss your snowshoes, but with the sun rapidly setting you're not about to waste time going to find them, instead beelining it to the she and wading through drifts which climb to your hips. It's cold enough to radiate through your layers but you don't stop until you're at the door, groaning in frustration when you find it padlocked. You'd cry, but know your tears would only freeze to your face. Instead you channel your frustrations out by kicking through the cheap, boarded door, ripping panels out until you can squeeze through. 

Inside, frost clings to cloudy windows like the dust that settles within. Your eyes move quickly over tools and supplies, settling first on a tarp which you lay outside and weigh down with the planks you'd ripped from the door. As suspected, the tarp was keeping a wood pile dry and you collect as many split logs as you can manage, cringing when you find them cold even through your glove. They'll have to work, though you're not sure how.

You drag your makeshift sleigh back to the cabin weighed down with wood and a shovel, a small maul you're not sure you'll even be able to wield but feel stupid leaving. It's too heavy in the snow, sinks to the ground and plows a wake behind you, gets you grunting and sweating by the time you reach the porch. Panting, you turn to inspect your handiwork and ready it for the haul up the steps and stop, breathless, when you catch sight of the broad, black sheet of glass beyond the treeline.

Past the far side of the lawn, down a small ravine, a lake glints under the moonlight. It is black as coal and striped with snow drifts that slither and slide, pick up their skirts and tip toe across the frozen surface in delicate little leaps as if it is too cold even for their frigid toes. The south shore creeps in across the way, its boundaries blurred by the dark. You scan the long line of it for any trace of human activity but if there are more cabins over there, you sigh in defeat when you realize they must be vacant for the winter.

A sharp wind cuts through the snow drifts on the lake. You watch as they morph into something solid, a wall of cold, before it cuts up harshly and heads north. The snow stings sharply when the current reaches you and you get the message, bundling up your loot and heaving it up the steps.

***

"Your destination is on the left."

You startled out of your reverie and stopped the truck, assessing. On your left, a swamp sprawled out about 300 feet; same as it did 100 feet back, same as it did 100 feet forward. It made for a pretty sight, dotted as it was with little islands, peat moss hanging down onto the frozen water from under the blankets of snow that covered them. A pretty sight, yes, but a serviceable nature trail it was not. You'd been driving four hours into increasingly desolate back woods and at least twice now you'd wondered why you were even bothering when you didn't particularly even want to be doing this. But your mom had made you promise you'd try to get out more, kick the winter blues, and she'd even gone to all the trouble of finding local trails you could explore, gushing the whole time about how you used to love to snowshoe.

There were a lot of things you used to love to do.

Sighing, you fumbled with your phone as you tried to find the pinned location in relation to your current one. It chirped about having arrived at your destination and you scrubbed a hand down your face, frustration mounting. On screen, your notifications revealed a missed text from your sister and two calls from your mother. You swiped them both away and huff when the GPS had the audacity to ask how you would rate your trip. You had no service. You considered driving into the icy marsh and calling it a day.

There was a gas station a ways back, you recalled, retracing your route back through the convoluted network of rambling back roads you'd taken to get this far. You thought it was only three - maybe four - turn offs since the last time you'd seen another car, but you couldn't quite remember if the station was before or after the main drag. It would probably take you a half hour or so to make it back, just to be told you'd been in the right area the whole time. Or more likely, to have the minimum wage employee behind the counter not know how to help you find Access Road #47.

Your eyes hurt, weary from the long drive and the snow blindness which had been plaguing you in flashes between pine groves ever since the sun had started its lazy ascent an hour ago.You opened the GPS and pulled the trip you'd just 'successfully' completed back up, trying to remember if the road it says your on is even the road you'd actually pulled onto. But street names became less important on back roads like this where 'take the next left' meant 'take the only left' and you definitely weren't paying close enough attention.

Still, the odds of you having made a wrong turn were pretty much nil when the grid was so wide and rambling and you decided to press on for now, hoping for the best. Flicking on your blinker, you checked your mirrors out of habit before crawling back onto the road. Of course, no headlights followed this far out.

It had worked out in the end, the sign for Access Road #4 - hanging limp and broken off a tree at the next turn off. You'd driven until you'd found the snowmobile crossing, just as the reviews had said you would, and then parked as close to the ditch as you dared, complaining the whole while about the road having not been plowed recently. In retrospect, this really should've been the first sign that something was amiss, but you'd plowed up the trail stubbornly, desperate to get your trip over with so you could call your mother and tell her you'd done as she'd asked and gotten out of the house.But what had started off as a necessary outing quickly turned pleasant, the mid winter sun shining pale and tepid on the unblemished path which unfolded before you. It was a clear day, a rare occurrence for January, and by noon the sun was warm enough to have you sweating lightly under your layers. You'd taken off your coat and wrapped it around your waist, luxuriating in the freedom of being able to walk outside in nothing but your base layer for the first time in months. Winters were long this far north and by January, you're usually convinced the sun was just some mass psychogenic hallucination humanity had cooked up once to give themselves hope, so you have to begrudgingly admit that indeed you had needed this. 

When the clouds began rolling in, you hadn't thought much about it beyond a general disappointment that they'd taken away your paltry warmth. But it was still a relatively nice day and you were having fun so instead of turning around, you carried on, trudging along in search of the switchback you'd been led to believe would eventually fold you back onto the start of the path and grinned in satisfaction when you found the fork in the road, the one path veering wildly backward on your left. 

You're not sure how long you'd walked it, but by the time you'd realized the path had leveled out and you were indeed walking perpendicular to your original course, the sun had already passed its zenith. Panic wormed its way into your belly, a slow simmer at first which you refused to assess too closely as you turned to follow your scraping prints back up the path. You sought your phone out, upset but not entirely surprised to find you had no service. It wasn't the end of the world, though - you knew exactly which access road you were on and your tracks were easy to follow, so if needed, you could call emergency services and be picked up within an hour. But it was early yet and you didn't want to upset your mom by needing to be extracted from an excursion she'd encouraged you to go on, so you ignored the slowly building pit in your stomach and carried on, only beginning to panic in truth when the wind and the clouds picked up so bad you knew you were about to get dumped on. Swallowing your pride, you took your phone out of your pocket again and cursed a blue streak when you found the cold had drained your battery.

Fear made you stupid, made you branch off from the path you're on in an attempt to cut the corner and stumble back onto your original path sooner. You could feel that you weren't maintaining a straight enough line, but you consoled yourself to know that, so long as you didn't manage to turn completely around and follow parallel to the path you'd just abandoned, you would have to intersect with either the access road or the snowmobile trail eventually, hemmed in on either side as you were.

But you must have turned completely around, and as the sun began to disappear behind the western ridge, it began to get cold.

***

You end up sacrificing more chairs before you can get the logs thawed out enough they'll catch, drying out at a glacial pace from their perch on the stove top. Sleep calls for you in yawning rolls every time your adrenaline cycles low, but each time you stand and ready yourself or the house in another way because you can't fall asleep with only kindling burning you will die.

Instead, you busy yourself by blocking off the large archway into the kitchen and shoving the bookcase in front of the hallway. It lessens the space needing to be warmed, stems the sap of heat - but it also makes you more claustrophobic, sitting as you are in a stranger's home. You've no doubt they won't return until spring, but that doesn't stop the irrational fear in you, jumping every time the wind knocks a branch against the siding. You've no idea what you'll do if anyone comes knocking now, no way to guarantee they won't shoot first and ask questions later. Briefly, you consider finding the gun cabinet you're sure is here somewhere, but even if it was unlocked, being an armed intruder would only make you more threatening. So you wander meekly, mapping the house and jumping at shadows. It's filled with the chintzy old furniture typical of hunting camps, a pea green recliner and a mismatched blue couch in the living room.They sit across from the woodstove and a CRT TV respectively, a cute little circle you struggled to picture a group of grown men sitting around, decked out in camo and gear. Behind the couch was the bookshelf, before you'd moved it, full of second hand hunting books and Tom Clancy novels for spice. There are trinkets and found treasures dotting the shelves: robin's eggshells, scraps of velvet sheddings. You silently promise the owners you won't use them for kindling. Overhead, a loft saps your heat but there's not much you can do to stem it. The living room opens to the kitchen, a small thing with a cramped island and an attached nook, a stacked washing machine/dryer combo, a rickety table and a single remaining chair under a window that looks out toward the lake. 

Before blocking the hallway, you followed it back to find the bathroom and the bedroom you'd broken in through, raiding all the blankets and pillows and towels you could find. It's a decent haul - an old woven hospital thermal, a wool blanket, and one of those funky-colored afghan throws everyone’s grannies were crocheting back in the 80’s - but you were still happy to find the linen closet after and nab some flannel sheets, too.

In the kitchen, you take inventory of the cupboards, relieved to find about a year's worth of canned veggies and soups, and you shovel a cold can of beef ravioli into your mouth like an animal at the sink, the pangs in your stomach having gone unnoticed before that moment. Even when you're done you keep scraping the cheap sauce from the can in a subconscious effort to get more while you think about your predicament, spoon pulling across the grooved tin with a sound like a güiro. It's obnoxious, but it keeps you awake and alert while you weigh options and mull over just exactly how fucked you are, fluctuating wildly between hopelessness and determination as you consider the snow collecting on the windowpane and the fact that your mom will definitely be worried by now. It's strange to know you're probably fairly well set until spring here, stranger still to think about whether it's safer to stay than to try navigating the trails where your tracks have most assuredly been covered. You're resolute when you tell yourself it won't come to either, your mom likely having already called in your missing status because sometimes it pays to be paranoid. In the morning, mounties will come trekking out to the trails and they'll find your truck exactly where it was supposed to be and they'll canvas for you, even if your tracks have been covered. You're not too far from the trail, all told, and you can't be too far from civilization if there's a lake within a stone's throw - humans have always huddled around waterways and now you're no different, clinging to it like a lifeline while you wait out the storm and search and rescue alike. Maybe, if they don't find you tomorrow, you can go down to the lake and write an S.O.S. on the ice, provided it's thick enough. Any helicopters out searching for signs would see that easily enough. Sighing, you toss your empty can and dirty fork in the sink though you know the main is either shut off or frozen. You'll melt snow in the morning, be a proper little houseguest and clean up after yourself.

Feeling better about your predicament, you return to the living room and refashion the tarp over the archway. Finding the logs dry enough to burn, you throw one in and replace it with the next soggy block on the stove. In the dim light from the port, you begin assembling your nest, happy now that your belly is full and you're slowly warming enough you can risk taking your coat and bibs off. You'd removed your boots a while back, replaced by a thick pair of wool socks you'd found in the dresser of the bedroom. They're thawing out next to the couch now, on a mud mat you'd found by the door. There's nowhere to hang your outerwear by the stove though, so you drape them from the curtain rods, telling yourself it's just one more layer of insulation between you and the thin window pane. If it also serves the purpose of hiding the mounting drifts from you, you don't mind.

***

You wear silt like gossamer, fine and thin and dancing over your skin in a gentle sway. It's not enough to be a proper current, no source for one either. The ground simply shifts beneath you - heavy, steady, even - and takes everything with it, a low roll of debris pulling over you before returning on the exhale. Detritus catches in your hair, twigs and leaves scraping your skin gently. You feel soft and water-logged and when you open your eyes, your skin is pallid and bloated. 

It is cold here, too cold. Something at the back of your mind tugs at that, worried, but you can't bother to be troubled when you feel so at peace, studying the way pale moonlight refracts through the thin sheet of ice which covers you. You feel like a faerie tale - ophelia, or the slumbering princess awaiting her kiss. You are quieted, there is no pain, so you're understandably upset when your hand raises from its watery bed of its own accord and reaches up, eclipsing the moon, and delicately taps on the sheet above you, the thin coat breaking apart easily as spun sugar. Water floods the branching cracks, overwhelming the delicate shelf. Your hand spreads beneath the surface, trying to catch a piece of it in your palm, but suddenly the moon is changing, pale light turning thin and gold. Life teems in your basin, the slow breaths of the depths bubbling to the surface where algae blooms, feasting on the rot of winter. Minnows hatch and grow, their smooth scales glinting faintly under a sun which grows warmer with each second. They nip at your pruney skin irritatingly, get you swatting and rolling, kicking up debris from the bed. It clouds the surface, vague dark shapes which close around you from either side.

Your breath heaves when you sit up, hair plastered to your skin as murky water slips down the valleys of your body in lines which leave dirt caked to your skin. It stinks, gaseous byproduct and stagnant water. You sit in the filth a moment longer, trying to make sense of your situation and your nakedness though everything beyond the sun above escapes you. Foliage filters the light now, fresh green buds and growing stalks of ferns. Somewhere high in a sentinel, a whippoorwill trills but nearer still, a bullfrog's call silences the static of crickets. You blink, turn toward it -

And find yourself in the warm glow of the wood stove, eyes trained on the tarp which blocks off the kitchen. 

Thoughts sleep addled and thick, it takes you a moment to realize you're sitting up, skin painted in the golden hues of the stove. It's warm, enough so that you've kicked off most of your nest in sleep, though you blessedly haven't broken a sweat yet. You rub your eyes in confusion, trying to ascertain how long you've been out, though you know it can't be too long if the fire hadn't died down much. Restless from your dream, you climb out of your nest and creep to the window, huffing in fear and frustration when you move your coat and find the drifts have climbed halfway up the woodshed's siding. It's still cloudy, wind still whipping. It shows no sign of stopping but you're grateful it's no longer a white out at least. You stand there a while longer, trying to decipher the skyline enough to figure out the hour but it's hopeless in this overcast and you return to the couch, defeated, staring into the screened coals as you try to walk yourself back from the general anxiety of your dream and your position. 

Hopelessness has always clung to you, a shawl you've worn around your shoulders since you were a kid. Dour, reserved. It leaves you ill-equipped now, spiraling in the dead of night into a depression you know will kill you if you let yourself succumb to it. Out here, hopelessness is just as deadly as the elements and you can't give into it, no matter how much you want to tighten the valve, bank the coals, slip back under that frozen mire. So you sigh, try to steer your thoughts to something more proactive. You need sleep, but your head's clearer now than it was earlier so you peer around looking for anything that might need tending. There's still nothing to be done for the loft, but the logs which had been drying on the stove shouldn't stay there all night, and now that they're dry you can swap them for a new set. Your knees creak when you pull yourself up, blanket swishing around you. You pull the coffee table closer, place the first block off to the side, and then jump a foot when you reach for the other one and nearly burn your hand on the empty stove pan. 

It's funny how quickly the sense of not right can cut through the miasma of depression and tiredness. You know you replaced the last log you used. You remember it intimately, the cold, wet lumber nearly squishing under your thumb. You inspect your hands for evidence, brows drawing tight when you find them clammy and dirty. Exasperated, you open the vent and inspect the coals, shaking your head and sitting back on your heels when you find evidence of an old log smothering under a fresh, popping belt of cedar. Closing the door, you try to collect yourself rationally, reasoning that you'd been sitting up when you came to and therefore it wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibilities that you'd grown cold in the night and decided to feed the fire, too exhausted to wake up properly as you did so. It made a sort of sense, explaining parts of your dream at least. No doubt the sensations of opening the hatch and feeding the fire, basking in the warmth of it had informed your vision, your hand on the sheet of ice and the way the season had changed around you. It's small comfort, knowing you'd played with fire in your sleep, but at least it makes sense. Means you're not going crazy.

In the kitchen, a bullfrog sings its agreement.

Despite the crackling of the fire, ice creeps through your veins worse than when you'd been stuck out before the storm. You'd like to say you whip around, seek out the source of the sound confidently and casually. You'd like to say the call of a bullfrog - or something - didn't scare you. But when you turn toward the kitchen, your head swivels about slowly, eyes taking in every inch of the room on their way. You sit frozen in place, shaking like a leaf when the tarp rustles in a draft, breaths coming quick and shallow. You're unsure how long you sit like that, locked in place by fear, entire body wound so tight the next pop of cellulose has you flinching, but it's long enough for the draft to dissipate, the tarp folding back in on itself as it settles to the floor. Long enough for you to understand that whatever's made that noise also informed your dream, that you were already looking for it when you woke up.

Your feet are silent on the threadbare carpet when you slink to the wall and grab the maul, eyes and ears peeled as you advance to the shroud that separates you from the kitchen. There's no silent way to get past the tarp, but if you sit next to the doorway long enough, you just might be able to peek inside the next time a draft kicks it up. So you try, tears burning your lash line because you don't trust yourself to even blink when you catch a series of little croaks emanating from the other room. It's not a frog. It can't be a frog, it's below freezing out there.

So what the fuck is croaking in the kitchen?

Cold air bites through your borrowed socks. The tarp rustles and raises, the edge of it pulling away from the wall enough you can peer through the crack in bits and pieces, brain stitching the image together until it makes a whole: empty, glowing pale in the moon glow. You rip the tarp away and storm through, maul raised against a threat you can't see. You tear through cabinets in your terror, even checking the washing machine before accepting you're alone. Your breath heaves as you glance around, desperate to make sense of the croaking noise that had awoken you from a sleep so deep you'd managed to work a wood stove without waking. But it doesn't make sense, the kitchen just as abandoned as the rest of the house, counters picked clean but for your empty tin of ravioli and the -.

The maul falls to the ground with a heavy thunk as you step closer, retracing your steps from earlier in the night much as you had when you couldn't make sense of the fire having been fed. You'd put the mess in the sink, told yourself you'd clean it when you melted snow in the morning. Why would you put dirty utensils on the counter when you'd just have to clean that up, too? Confused and doubting your very sanity, you reach out to touch the fork as if in confirmation and gasp when you find it hot to the touch, condensation clinging to it as it rapidly cools in the frigid air.

You think you mumble something about 'no fucking way,' but you're unsure, fingers scrambling for the tap quicker than you can register. It groans at first, protests. You go to slam the tap shut before the pipes can burst but just as your hand connects with the knob, the flow spurts to life like an artery, long pulses which grow in steadiness until it fills the sink, steam billowing like smoke. It's not possible. You'd checked - hadn't you? Perhaps not, maybe you'd just assumed the main would be off in a winterized home… you rack your brain, trying to remember but come up short. Unlike everything else tonight, you can't pinpoint the exact moment you'd checked the taps and it makes you groan in frustration with yourself, momentarily distracted enough you forget about the strange croaking noise, or the way the dishes had been washed. You even try the switch above the sink just to be sure, but you're unsurprised to find it does nothing, the display on the oven behind you still blank. 

So you sag in relief anyway, distracted and happy to have running water. Until you lean forward to shut the water off and your chest brushes the tin before you, knocks it just enough it totters a moment before tipping into the sink as well. As it falls, the corrugated side scrapes the edge and you freeze, a bullfrog call echoing throughout the kitchen. 

***

You don't sleep much after that, rest eluding you as you toss and turn on the couch, waiting for the storm to blow over. Time slips by inconsistently when you've no phone to check but you keep yourself grounded in the long pre-dawn hours by cataloging the texture of the couch underneath you and the quiet drip of the faucet in the other room.

It had seemed a waste to let the taps freeze just because you were scared.

After last night you'd searched the house high and low again, even wandering up to the loft to check closets and beds. You were alone, as expected, but you can't shake the feeling that something is with you. 

You've never been very superstitious but you can feel it in your bones, in the framework of the house. You imagine if you were to step outside you'd feel it peering at you from the treeline with owl eyes. Barely a thought spared for how quickly you'd accepted it as true, how you'd never once questioned your own sanity. You should, all things considered - no one could fault you for turning a little batty under these circumstances.

But you know it's real, whatever it is.

You suppose most delusions feel like that.

The storm overstays its welcome, rolls out just as languidly as it had passed over. All told you'd bet the snow had fallen for a solid ten hours and the accumulation certainly seems to reflect that. You're not overly familiar with the yards surrounding the cabin, but there are post caps patterned evenly in the fresh blanket outside the front windows, beyond them vaguely spherical mounds and a sudden drop into a more shallow plain. If you'd had to guess, that would be a front porch and the bannister was completely swallowed. 

Snowed in, if you happened to care about such things as property damage.

You try to wait out the overcast, hoping for better daylight and some reassurance the skies won't open up on you again, but a full hour passes unchanged, and the only thing obscuring your view of the lake from the kitchen is your own breath clouding the window pane. You're burning daylight, and there's not very much of it to begin with.

The room you'd broken in through houses two windows. You choose it as your exit point because the drifts outside look shallowest here and because you know you'll be leaving your entrance open all day. It's no use freezing the den you'd worked so hard to warm, so you pull the bookcase back into place behind you and head down the hall, fully dressed. You throw the undamaged window open after inspecting your patch job for weak spots or damages, oddly proud to find it up to par. The broom you'd pulled from the kitchen stands chin height when you lean on it, but the drift outside the window still swallows over half of it when you test the depth by pushing the handle through it. If the snows too powdery you'll fall through it and your snowshoes will be more hindrance than help, but you don't relish plowing through hip deep snow all the way to the lake so you risk it, clipping into your shoes as you sit on the sill and branching out into the world like a little fledgling after shutting the window as much as you dared, awkward and gangly on feet that sink a good four inches into the fresh powder before catching properly. It's not perfect, but it will have to do.

Shovel in one hand and ski pole in the other, you make your way to the lake slowly and carefully. It's impossible to pick out the features of the unfamiliar terrain under so much snow and you worry with every step that you're about to put too much weight on a thicket of brambles, or have your foot go crashing through felled trees. You imagine breaking your ankle here and half your speed yet again, putting all your weight on your ski pole as you test each next step. The shoreline is the most harrowing as you've no clue if a dock lies dormant under foot, if your next step will have you plummeting off a shelf of dense snow and crashing through the ice.

But you make it, and the ice withstands all the beatings you lay on it with broom and shovel and unearthed rocks, and much as it scares you to take the first step onto the thin ice of the shoreline, it holds fast and you set off toward deeper water with a grim determination, steadfastly refusing to think of how stupid you're being. 

You take note of the surrounding cabins as you walk, checking diligently for signs of life. But the windows stare blankly back, indifferent to your plight. The wind whistles through the basin the further out you go, drifts shifting like waves across the top layer of snowfall. It gives you pause, anxiety building as you wonder if your bravery will go unrecognized when the dunes shift and bury your message, but the deeper layers of snow remain hard packed and you won't gain anything by doing nothing so you try anyway, shovel digging a trench deep and wide enough for you to fall in to, abandoning your snowshoes before you do lest the grip claws scratch the ice. 

It wouldn't do anything to harm its integrity, but it makes you feel better anyway, especially when the ice creaks underfoot some hours later, shelves settling more firmly against each other. It's a natural process but it leaves you weak in the knees momentarily, breath panting with more than just your strenuous labor.

Scale is a hard thing to grasp when you feel no bigger than a speck in a giant's eye. You work so hard you break into a sweat, your bibs folded down at the waist to keep you regulated. It's a dangerous game you're playing but you don't want to soak your layers lest you get stuck in them on the return trip when your sweat cools and your temperature plummets and you're not willing to bet money the hot water at the cabin will still work when you return. But despite your effort, when you crawl out of the ditch to inspect your handiwork you're underwhelmed, your message seeming small enough to barely be visible from the cabin let alone the sky. 

Which stares apathetically back at you, unblemished by chopper or cloud break. You inspect it back, check for signs of the hours passing. The only indication you receive is a general darkening on the eastern horizon.

You sigh, tugging your snowshoes back on. You're not sure which is worse, the prospect of a longer day and therefore more time to work yourself to the bone on a message which may never pan out, or the idea of lugging yourself all the way back up the shore. You scan the coastline apprehensively, plotting out your return trip now that you can get a better lay of the land -.

Hang on.

Fear claws its way up your throat, sudden and damning. None of it looks familiar because of course it doesn't, and the harsh winds have covered your tracks just like they'd done when you'd strayed off course and found yourself in an abandoned cabin. God, you'd been so stupid - how could you not have learned from your mistake the first time?

Unbidden, tears burn the chapped skin of your cheeks as you scan the horizon, noting the smattering of empty structures with a growing sense of dread. You know your cabin sat further back, barely visible from the shore, but beyond that you've no clue where to go, no visual bearing to follow. You should have propped that broom up somehow, or piled a wall of snow on the shore which might have been visible from some distance.

Your eyes trail overhead instead, hoping to remember which side the sun had been on when you'd trekked out, but with the dense cloud coverage it had been impossible to know, even the vague time of day having eluded you. Breath steams from your lips, clouds your vision when you inspect the treeline, trying to discern how much daylight you have left. Already the sky darkens, night creeping in from the east with greedy fingers, reaching over the horizon to greet a snow squall on the southern shore. You bite your lip, a flake of dead skin catching and ripping between your teeth. The small storm hangs ominously close, a dark smudge of gray underlit by -.

You blink. Blink again. 

"Fuck!" you hiss, running as best you can in your unwieldy shoes.

The flue - were you sure it was opened? Had you properly banked the coals to a low simmer? Had the logs you'd been drying been removed from the stove top before you'd left?

You felt just as crazy as you had the night before, confusion clouding your every memory from that morning. Had you really been that exhausted? Could you have set your one safe haven on fire?

Smoke hangs in the clouds like a bad omen, billowing wider across the clearing as if laying stagnant, unaffected by the thin winter winds which bobbed the pines. It acts as a beacon, calls you to it with unquestioning feet. In retrospect, you won't be sure why you even follow, why you don't break into a neighboring cabin and start all over again. Perhaps you thought it was a hell of a way to call any potential search and rescue to you. More likely, you'd been unable to look away from it, like a bad train wreck, the morbid curiosity overriding all your better instincts.

But the cabin still stands when you round the corner of the treeline, windows just as shrouded as all the others that lined the lake. The smokestack glows like a cherry, but the house still stands and you've no control over yourself when you're rounding to the back room window again, ducking your head through the opening to take a good whiff, surprised when it doesn't spark a coughing fit. So you heave yourself through the window again, muscles protesting loudly.

You ignore them in favor of tearing down the hall in clattering snowshoes, pushing the bookcase right over in your haste to assess the damage.

But there is none. The wood stove barely even glows, its belly cold when you hover a hand over it.

Tears spring unbidden again, exhaustion and confusion weighing heavily on you as you try to make sense of what's happened, figure out what freak combination of events could have led to this. Exhaustion, mostly. Delusions brought on by stress. Deep down you know there will be no good explanation. 

***

You were wrong about the hot water situation. You were wrong about a lot of things.

The shower matches the rest of the cabin, old and dingy but blessedly providing. Steam builds thick enough to carve in the frigid air but you don't let it bother you, luxuriating under the stream for far too long in an attempt to wash off even the most stubborn of anxieties knotting your back. You stand on washcloths to avoid fungal infections and make due with a bar of Unilever and a mostly-empty bottle of Dove three-in-one which leaves your hair dry as hell. You're no longer sure if it will even matter soon.

You're so exhausted it's difficult to even stand, feet dragging as you pat yourself off and wrap your wet head in a towel. The hallway is freezing when you exit the bathroom, wind rattling the panes of the bedroom whose door will no longer stay shut. The window you'd left cracked earlier had been wide open when you'd returned, something you'd only noticed when you'd gone back to close up shop after ascertaining there was no real threat. 

It doesn't do you much good to dwell on it so you don't, just make sure the windows are closed and locked still before closing the door again. You hear it creak back open as you lift the bookcase back into place but you don't dwell on that either. 

The eggshells and velvet sheddings you'd promised not to break are ruined, irreplaceable curios shattered on the floor. It's strange how apathetic you feel about it now, picking up the pieces you can. Mostly, you're too tired to care anymore, and relief floods you when you lay out on the couch after feeding the stove. You've only three logs left inside. You tell yourself you won't need to grab any more.

***

You were wrong about the electricity too, it seems, the soft popping of the CRT turning on blending seamlessly with the quiet sounds of the fire. You don't wake until the screen warms, electric fuzz reflected in the static on screen. You blink awake in the blinding white light, lay deadly still as you scan the deep shadows of the room for any signs of an intruder, your first instincts centering around your dishwashing friend from the night before. Another miracle - just what you need.

"Luvie."

Something with too many legs and too many teeth makes a home in your left ventricle, tickling and tearing as it spins a web in your aorta tight enough to seal it shut. Your eyes slide up - up, up - following a wood panel to the peak of the ceiling, crawl across the banister of the loft and land directly above. There's someone up there, shape barely discernible in the erratic light of the TV. They're tall, built like a man. They do not speak with a human's voice.

"You're all alone out here?" Water drips onto the chapped skin of your face, frigid and shocking.

The lighting morphs, a soft click heralding the changing of the channel. On screen, the snow cuts short, replaced by the overprocessed blue glow of channel two. You do not look away from your visitor even when the VCR chunks, the FBI warning wavering to life on screen.

"You need help, luv," the voice warns, cold and distant and possibly completely in your head. "You're cold."

"'M'not," you gripe - or at least you try to, your voice so weak and garbled you're unsure he's heard you. You try again, realization dawning on you when your voice remains thin and reedy. You're sleeping. This is all a dream. Relief floods over you like a physical thing, muscles relaxing with a sigh. Above you, your visitor hums, a bass noise which seems to rattle the panes. It's the wind, you tell yourself, more external stimuli altering your dreams. You're unsure how you can reason so clearly. 

"I can help," the voice suggests anyway, and the tension returns tenfold, entire body locking up so tight you briefly worry you're having a seizure. You shiver like that a moment, fist wrapped around an electric fence, and then your body relaxes, breath ragged and panting as you try to make sense of what just happened.

It happens again, and again. Sweat drips from your temples, pleas and pants fall from your lips. A steady drip of water rains on you, cooling your overheated skin as your body continues to seize up on you. From above (from within), the voice alternates between apologizing for the unconventional tactics, and telling you you should be thankful it's deigned to help you at all. You can't catch your breath enough to tell it off.

The episode ends in rolling waves, each cycle dimming in intensity, but lasting longer. You focus on breathing, try to move your hands. It's no good - somehow you're still asleep.

And somehow, your clit is very much on board with the rhythmic clenching and the pseudo-breathplay.

It's almost enough to make you laugh, an exasperated huff curling your lips into a grin which tenses and grits with the next wave, a bitten off groan hissing through your teeth when your cunt tightens around nothing, your hips rocking against the plush tops of your own thighs. You flinch when another water droplet falls on you, splashing against the back of your exposed fist, but it's like the paralysis that's bound you washes away with it, your fingers immediately finding the hem of your waistband. It's solace you seek, eyes squinted shut. Even out here amidst this frozen hell you need reprieve and you're not going to deny yourself relief when it comes so easily, skin slick and pulsing with the after-shocks of whatever episode had woken you up. You cum when the voice says so, when the droning of the CRT builds to a crescendo, the image on screen distorting technicolored static before the whole thing gives a violent pop, sizzling out with enough static make your hand stand up even from your position on the couch. With it, your body locks up so tight you can't move again, clit pulsing against your fingers hard enough to finish you off. 

After, gasping for breath, too tired to even clean yourself properly, you scan the loft for any trace of your apparition and sigh to yourself when you find none, already trying to convince yourself the whole thing - the TV, the dripping water, the man - was a very vivid dream. It's something you might have convinced yourself of, if given enough time, but you fall asleep summarily after, whole body wrung dry.

***

There's dirt dried on your face, some on your hand. A series of perfectly circular stains, one or two carving harsh lines down the slopes of your cheeks. As if someone had dripped dirty water on you and let the water evaporate. The only thing that keeps you from panicking about it is the steady leak you'd found dripping from the roof to the loft, overflowing onto the couch. The kind of leak that only comes with heavy melt off.

Outside, the snow is slushy, caves under your shoes. Melt off flows steadily as rainwater from every surface, the weighted boughs of the pines springing to life when their heavy burdens give up the ghost and drop unceremoniously to the earth, glistening under the pale yellow light of a spring sun.

It is January.

'You're cold. I can help.'

This isn't real. None of it. Tears stream down your face as insistently as the melt off; you feel just as out of place as the sun overhead. You're exhausted, sick of fighting so hard to maintain - to pretend it's all going to be okay. You want to sleep. You want to die.

Down on the lake, the ice emits a series of knocks, adjusting to this new development just as poorly as you are. Your eyes scan the surface almost absently, noting the crystalline shelf with some level of wonder until it registers.

"Shit," you hiss, bolting for the shoreline as fast as you can through the slush and snow.

An entire day wasted, all your work melted away with the mother of all unseasonable warm fronts. A good two inches of water now lays over the ice, all the snow you'd plowed through to leave your SOS having melted under the bright morning sun and the balmy southerly wind. You could have tried to trek back, left bootprints carved all over the trail. Maybe they could've found you then.

Frustration weighs heavily, nearly compresses you when it tests your fatigued muscles. You don't want to plow through miles of slushy snow. You want them to see you - from your message or your smokestack or your wildly waving arms, you don't care - and come save you, bundle you up in a shock blanket and take you home. You want to sleep on the dock, absorb the pale sun rays and let it warm your bones, too. You're sick of fighting.

Indecision makes you lax. The sun slips in and out of thin clouds as it carves its way across the sky. It passes its zenith - low on the horizon, just another reminder that this weather should not be - before you move again, the low echo of brush breaking shaking you from your reverie. 

To your right, far along the shoreline, something big is moving.

Sound moves strangely across the bay, echoes first into the basin before making its way to you. It's hard to pinpoint its exact origin, harder still to discern its nature. You frown at its vague direction, ears perked for every little noise. A branch breaks; something sharp which might be a shout; laughter peals through the valley like church bells.

"HELP!" you shout, jumping to your feet. "OVER HERE! HELP!" Your voice thins as it echoes, each return quieter than the last. The other party falls silent, you imagine them trying to pinpoint your location much the same as you had theirs. When you call out again, they return with your name.

Search and rescue. Finally. But, what are they doing so far out? They call for you again, voices stretching the long miles. You'd say five by shoreline, three as the crow flies. It's not right, why are they so far off? You cast back through your memories of the day you'd arrived here, retracing steps. You'd been so diligent about remaining on the path right up until that last branch; you can't have gone that far off, so why -?

Unless it was before then, when your GPS had failed. You'd rerouted, adapted, but -. The sign, Access Road #4-, with the last digit cut off. You'd been wrong about so many things.

"HELP! I'M HERE!"

Three miles as the crow flies. You can manage that.

The ice doesn't protest much like you'd feared it would when you lower yourself down from your perch on the dock. It seems despite the sun's best efforts, the thin layer of water that covers it isn't enough to melt it just yet. Your shoes plap plap as you take off but you're too distracted to remove them just yet, caught up in the strange mix of fear, panic, and anger which knots your belly. Your shouts thin out, breath shuddering as you work to keep moving, each step a massive effort.

The search party calls back, but their voices are moving further away, perhaps confused by the way your voice carries up the lake. 

"Wait!" you wheeze, stumbling to a halt as you try to catch your breath. "I'm here!"

They don't even bother to answer this time, likely not having heard. You groan and fall to your knees, gloved fingers fumbling with the clasps of your snowshoes. In your panic, you botch it twice before taking a deep breath to collect yourself, eyes slipping shut as you try to remember you'll save time long term if you can just take a few extra moments now. You wait until your pulse calms a fraction of a beat per second, until your breath evens out. When you open your eyes, your gaze falls first to the ice beneath your feet and you nearly lose your Spaghettio breakfast.

You've never seen anything so clear. Under direct sunlight, the ice comes alive, rendered so transparent it may as well not exist at all. Vertigo sets in, your brain convinced there can't be anymore than an inch of ice beneath you and you have to focus on the thin cracks which run through the shelf to orient yourself. They web their way through the glass pane - thin and cloudy as gossamer - about twelve feet deep, the only indicators that there is anything solid underfoot at all. 

On your right, deep below, small dark shapes flit in and out of vision, return to a larger dark mass further out. You assume they are the brave excursionists of a school of perch, darting close to check out what is moving on the surface. 

It's not that which tests your nerves.

Further below them, at the very bottom of the viewable basin, vague tendrils slink down into the black depths. They twist gently towards the shore, lapped at by some underwater current you imagine you can hear in the beats between their swells and lulls. Seaweed, must be. The lake can't be too deep here. Shallow enough you can see the body, at least.

"Oh, my god," you breathe, situation momentarily forgotten as you watch him bob along in a strong undercurrent, dark skin striped by the fronds which caress him. He's achingly beautiful, bathed in the pale light which filters down to him and veined through with the shadows of the ice cracks. As you watch, the seaweed parts, reveals an expanse of naked flesh. He seems perfectly preserved in the cold water, so much so that you're not immediately certain he's dead. His skin lacks the waterlogged quality you'd expect, still tight and vibrant where it stretches across his envious musculature. He's beautiful, full lips parting gently as another rolling swell of current drags him along. You crawl along after him, helpless against his pull. 

He has to be dead - right?

So why do his eyelids seem to flutter when your fist thuds against the ice? Why does the current seem to pull him up even as it pushes the lakebed down?

Why do you keep following him along blindly, ignoring the calls of your rescue team? Even as the ice begins to creak beneath you, thinning out the closer he pulls you toward a brackish section of shore. He looks so peaceful, undisturbed. Your voice warbles as you emit your last call for help, barely more than a whisper. When your fist falls to the ice to try and wake him, thin veins of white web deep into the shelf in warning. 

He's much closer now - far too close, in fact. Barely more than arm's length. Finally, it registers how much danger you've gotten yourself in, but all you do is belly down, shimmying along the ice like a snake. You feel connected to the man beneath you like this, flush toe to tip if not for the glass that separates you. Water floods through the zipper of your coat, that fresh melt cold as sin where it soaks through your base layers and pebbles your nipples. It's cold, cold enough that it finally dawns on you exactly how dead this man is. You can't help stroking your hand over the ice sympathetically, grieving a man you never knew in his lonely grave. A chain around his neck catches your eye as you study him one last time, try to commit his image to memory. You follow it to where it floats somewhere above his head, a familiar metal plaque on a ball chain. Dog tags. 

You follow him along a little further, willing the necklace to spin just right that you may learn his name. If you can just reach the search party in time, make it home, you could bring his identity to the authorities, perhaps resolve another missing person's case alongside your own. Overhead, your name rings out, further than ever. You call back weakly, all you can manage from your belly. There is a part of you that notes the urgency of the situation - how desperately you need to get a move on to catch up with the party. You listen to it as if from underwater. Muffled, confused. Surely you don't want to leave this peaceful place?

The dog tag glints when it spins, a lure catching refracted light. Sgt. K. Garrick is pushed further in, heavy body thudding against the ice from below. More ice splinters, one fine crack running all the way up to the surface where it bleeds like a fresh wound, warm water flowing up through the shelf to web yet more threads.

Garrick doesn't flinch because he is dead, and you will be too if you do not help yourself.

This time when you scream, your voice shakes snow from the shoreline pines. It thumps through the ice there ominously. The search party quiets again, a series of ice knocks reverberating in the silence that follows your call. One shouts back, the first echo coming from behind you now instead in front. They've turned around. 

You call out again, bellying backwards toward the thicker ice. Your shoes scrape ominously and you curse, pulling your soaked gloves off with your teeth so you can shimmy your legs up and take your snowshoes off. Your fingers are much more confident now, making little little work of it. You leave them with Garrick and try to turn from him, but the tide shifts with you and brings him back out, rolls him along until he follows you, his weathered knuckles tapping along the underside of the shelf. Your calls for help turn frightened, frantic. You think you babble about the man in the water, though you can't concentrate enough to be sure. 

Below you, the ice continues creaking and cracking, growing more and more damaged every time you shift your weight or Garrick's knuckles come rapping. They widen and flood, water rushing up to fill them. The surface layer bubbles with it, as if the lake is beginning to boil. The next rush of current which comes to pull Garrick along drags along the underside of the ice like a knife in your belly, a physical thing you can feel through the thin shelf as its relative warmth eats away at the last few layers. You feel it beneath your palm like placing your hand on an old, drafty window pane during a windstorm. 

When you call for help, you sound like you are being killed.

Your feet break through first, heavy boots trying to pull you under. The reaction is delayed, your whole body seeming to forget to register the sting of pain brought on by such extreme cold. Instead, you focus on pulling yourself out, palms heavy where they slip and slide across the slick surface. You heave yourself out by some miracle, breaths coming too harshly to respond when you hear the rescue party calling to you.

Above their calls - below their calls -, the voice from last night tells you you're cold again. You want to laugh; more moments of clarity coming to you in your last moments. There was nothing here with you besides your externalized desire to give up and give in.

"You need help," it says, everywhere and nowhere. Garrick's knuckles rap against the ice.

You don't want to die here, laying forever in a bed of silt. "Not from you," you hiss, and plant your fist to drag yourself on. 

But the ice breaks open under your hand, your palm crashing through to collide with Garrick's shoulder. It pushes him down, gives you distance. His own hand floats up in his wake, fingers brushing against the sleeve of your coat. Your fingers wrap around his bicep on instinct, the hard-earned drive of every human to keep eachother safe irrepressible. His eyelids flutter in the current. You slip forward after him, sparing a passing thought for how odd that is, odder still how warm his skin is against yours.

The scream you emit when his fingers wrap around your elbow and pull bubbles on the surface, frozen lake water seizing your lungs when it rushes into your mouth and chokes you, pouring down your throat into your belly. 

Garrick's eyes are black as the depths when he opens them fully.

[writingwenches]

Freedom From – Part 3

previous chapters: FOUND HERE synopsis: Aemond x Peasant OC; Lyn gets her first taste of the Lannister lifestyle and its sickening. ~2k wc music inspiration: that scene in Spirted Away where her parents feast themselves into pigs warnings: none? interim chapter, nothing much happens. next steps: Now that the "plot" is happening in this story, I'm going to go back and edit the previous chapters to make them more coherent and flow together, rather than being in a race against my own motivation to get the story on paper. Would love to hear what people think, and want more of! I love this story so much, I'm excited to share it with everyone~

There was no time to think, and Lyn was glad of that. It had been promised to her that she would never be forced to think again, and perhaps they had fulfilled that promise. She hadn’t had time to think about it.

Lyn was hungry, or Lynora, she did not know who she was anymore. The tent was as much a puzzle as a field of wheat swaying in the breeze. The bitter wind from the swamps fluttered the walls and made Lyn dizzy, as hands grabbed her from every direction and pulled her into new room after room. 

Her hands and face was scrubbed, by bristles as soft as lace, not that Lyn had ever had the pleasure, Aeditya would never allow her to touch a fabric so fine, her lowborn hands might stain the fabric. 

Lyn regarded her hands, turning them over as the rose petals washed away the dirt and a sponge of a yellow cloud wiped away her impurities. Were her hands still those of a lowborn? If someone like Aeditya could not tell them apart. Lyn had always thought of Aeditya a lady so fine, with her soft fabrics and cups of polished silver.

But, compared to the ladies Lyn had before her, she wasn’t so sure any longer. The women washing her hands, more diligently than Lyn had done anything before in her life, “Are you a maid?” Lyn asked, the woman’s clothes had thread of gold weaved around her neckline. 

The woman scoffed and did not answer, simply continued to scrub her hands. 

“Ow!” Lyn jumped as another woman passed a small wooden rod beneath her fingernails to remove years of dirt, clearly the sponge scrubbing had not satisfied the noble looking ladies. 

The two ladies before her, looking concerned at one another when regarding Lyn’s plain clothes, Lyn looked down and startled as one of the maids screamed at her to not wipe her nearly clean hands on such filthy skirts.

Another woman was called in and Lyn’s overdress was untied so quickly, Lyn was sure the woman had cut the laces with a knife. There was no time to protest, as there was no time to think. She was ushered into sleeves and an apron, of silken brocade crimson, followed by an overdress, faceted in the front with golden buckles. 

Lyn watched herself in the polished stone, and could not believe what she saw.

“You look like a servant,” one said, massaging her temples that arched with annoyance. 

“This is more fine than anything Ive ever owned,” Lyn replied, still not daring to touch any of the fabrics with her clean hands.

“It’ll have to do,” the ladies threw up their hands in surrender, finally ushering Lyn behind another curtain tapestry. 

Her mouth was open, her eyes could not see all that there was before her, her nose could not understand. There were others at the table, the beautiful woman with the smile too large for her face, who claimed to be her aunt, a younger version of that woman, and the lying prince, whoever he was. 

Lyn or Lynora had never seen so much food in a single place after the countless number of markets she had sold her baskets at. Out of all the markets, out of all the food, nothing even began to compare to this feast. She was surely Lynora now, as Lyn had surely died and went to the seventh most heaven. 

She did not even wait for the servers to place the dishes before she started putting new and fascinating things into her mouth. Some were sweet, some were bitter, some she was sure was not meant to be eaten, but Lyn did not care. 

First came greens of all shades and colors, so fresh Lyn was sure the lion nobles had dragged around pots of dirt to carry their royal leafy greens. She had never seen green in such colors and textures. Some had curly tops, greens curled together it resembled hair on a bird. Some were long and stringy, with little stalks and bursts like the tiniest of felled tree. Some was even purple, on a leaf, and she ate it. She ate it all. 

There were breads with creams and sprinklings of greens that tasted like the finest dessert and heartiest meal she had ever tried. The bread snapped in her mouth, toasted and crunchy and the cheese mushed and spread. 

There was soup as bright red as the fine silks that wrapped around every surface in her view, it was a good thing, as the red stains did not show up as she dribbled droplets from her spoon on the way to her mouth. Lyn solved the problem by drinking the soup straight from the bowl. 

Lyn heard a giggle, and was snapped out of the trance the meal had found her in. She had never had so many flavors in her mouth at once, and it was strangely overwhelming.

“What?” she asked to the small girl seated beside her. She had a round face, and a round body to match. Her decorated clothes and painted face gave her the appearance of someone much older than Lyn suspected she really was.

The girl offered Lyn handkerchief, a beautiful white amongst the reds.

Lyn smiled and tried to remember all the things she had learned about being polite and how to speak to ladies as she accepted the handkerchief, but her mind was sucked back into her dream as the largest crisped first was placed before her. She forked the eyeball and moaned into the taste 

She had spent the past dozen winters feeling hollow and hungry, she knew the ache of giving away her bread to those more unfortunate and the anger when someone does not pay back in kind. She knew what it felt to be cheated, to be wronged, to have the last dregs of food stolen from her. 

Lyn still not had time to decide if she believed the golden haired woman with a smile too large, but she was not going to waste a good time worrying about it. The lion nobles could not steal her food if it were already in her belly, and she had no coin to give as payment. Lyn was not going to waste the opportunity before her, she was here to eat, just in case they kicked her out the way she came after realizing her mistake. She would be out with a fully belly. 

There was a goose next, or a duck, Lyn could not be sure, as it was massive either way. Fresh fruits stuffed down its throat and into its belly, turning the meat so succulent and moist, she had forgone the utensils and tore into the meat with her hands. 

A savory sauce in a short pitcher, Lyn had only ever seen these during the feasts at Erenford Keep, otherwise they were locked away in their most prized cupboard. Lyn tried to remember what she had seen the nobles doing with the brothy liquid, but she settled for dunking the meats into it. It was a delicious idea. 

The youngest lioness girl was excited as she watched the strange woman Cinda had found, Cordelia imagined this was what it was like eating with a wildling she had heard so many stories about. 

She removed her rings, joined in tarring into the bird, though much more delicately than the wildling, daintily dipping the tendons in the brown sauce. “Did the Motherhouse not have utensils?” she asked, eager to hear the answer. She had never heard the Septas preach about such things. 

“We more did not have the food,” Lyn spoke with a mouth filled with meats trickling out. There was something white mash coming from behind the curtains, Lyn craned her neck to see. “When young, we could gather all the bowls and plates from the Motherhouse and we we would pretend to have feasts just like this with all the empty–“ 

“This isn't a feast, this is luncheon!” Cordelia laughed.

Both girls dipped their fingers into the newest dish offered at the table.

It was time for the woman at the head of the table to laugh, with her mouth too wide and her gums more bright than her painted lips. Her laugh was short and controlled, like bells from the steeples of the temple. Lyn had not noticed for sticking she was as a figure. Her deep red gown, the color of dried blood, hung nearly off her shoulders, revealing a lower neckline than even Lady Aditya ever dared wear. Blue jewels on golden chains hung around her neck, just above the cleft of her breasts. Lyn could almost blush at the thought of wearing something so revealing of her womanly features, those were to be hidden under layers of thick fabrics, not to give anyone the wrong idea. 

Lyn supposed the woman at the head of the table could give anyone any idea she wished. Her nose stopped at a sharp point, amongst thin cheeks. The lashes her of eyes were so dark and luscious, Lyn could see them framing her eyes from across the table. Her upper lip disappeared into her smile, exposing layers of pink healthy gums, holding onto her overly large teeth. Lyn had never seen teeth so perfect. She, herself, had lost a tooth on the side of her face as a child, and another one deep inside her mouth from searing pain and rot. The first tooth was knocked out in a hard tumble, and the other was pried out by a Maester with thick irons. Lyn supposed this woman had never lost anything in her life, let alone teeth.

Well, she supposed, except for…her? Lynora.

She licked the fluffy sugared white froth from her fingers, Lyn had always had a knack for making the younger kids laugh, and Cordelia was no exception. The young lion noble dragged her fingers from the whipped creams and nearly lost herself to laugher when Lyn dotted the cream onto her own nose.

“Don’t you start in,” Cinda chuckled at the movement of the white haired boy. 

“I’m not a child!” he snapped back, shooting straight into his chair back.

Lyn stopped, mid sip from her ruby wine. She looked at Cordelia who looked away. The silver haired boy looked unhappy, his arms crossed around her chest, Cinda looked jovial. 

“And…” Lyn started, wiping the cream from her nose and turning towards the white haired boy with only one eye, who had been quiet at the table until now, “who are you?” 

Both Cinda and Cordelia enjoyed that. 

“Oh, you have never met?” Cinda asked, raising her glass. “I’m so surprised!” 

Aemond and Lyn locked eyes, Lyn’s mouth stopped chewing her food, she was going to be sick. 

“Your paths have never crossed before? You mean to tell me you’ve never been to the Red Keep or King’s Landing? Or even Dragonstone?” 

“Have you?” Cordelia asked, Lyn shook her head, Cinda was only jesting, and Lyn let out a breath. 

“Never?” Cordelia wondered. “It’s not very far, I think only a few weeks ride.”

“I’ve been to The Twins a few times,” Lyn admitted. 

“Do you really not know who he is?” Cordelia asked, looking between Lyn and the white haired man. 

Lyn mimicked Aemond, as he shook his own head. She eyes had not left hers. 

“No – are we related as well?” she asked, reluctantly. Everything she had learned today had been so strange already, she would not be surprised if another pale haired person was in her newly sprouted family tree. 

“My dear, this is the Aemond Targaryen,” Cinda put her glass down, as if that meant something to Lyn, “a prince of the seven kingdoms, second son to King Viseryrs and Queen Alicent.”

Lyn was going to be sick. 

Cinda sighed and motioned towards something.

A person appeared at Lyn’s side with a large golden bowl, startling Lyn, her stomach lurched, she had not realized how many other people had been in the room with them while feasting. The walls were lined with people. Servants she supposed.

Lyn had to admit, she did look more similar to the servants than the beautiful nobles at the other end of the table. 

“A prince?” Lyn asked, she burped air into her throat. Perhaps the liar prince had not been a liar after all. She watched him with new eyes, his dark leather clothes were fine, and free from debris or distress. It looked as soft as silk, and under all the black, dark stitchings of dragons weaved around his chest. He really was a prince. A dragon prince. Perhaps she should not have joked about him having her killed so many times.

“You two are not related, though you do share relations with Prince Aemond’s elder half-sister,” Cinda continued, as she waited for a servant to finish filling her cup.

Lyn could taste all the flavors coming back up into her throat. 

“Our shared foremother – yours, mine and Cordelia’s that is, hails from The Vale, and is half-sisters to Princess Rhaenyra’s own mother, the late Queen Aemma…”

Lyn hugged the large golden bowl against her chest. Perhaps there was one way the lion nobles could have all their food back. 

“Elys Arryn joined House Lannister through marriage not long after the birth of the future Queen Aemma Arryn, and had a son all her own, mine own father, your grandsire the Lord–“

Lyn was sick into the golden bowl. 

authors notes: thanks for reading! There’s going to be a few interim scenes, I’m excited for them, but I know they can be boring to write, so I’m trying to chug along! I’m going to go back and start editing the earlier chapters so they are easier to read going forward~ I’ll repost the bits as I edit them~

Sneak Peak for themed from next few chapters:

Cinda: “I’m offering you family!”

Lyn: “You offer me family with conditions.”

Cinda: “Every family comes with conditions. Only a child would think otherwise.”

[novashelby]

Guilty Love-A Sneak Peak

Pairing: Evelyn Shelby(Daughter!OC) x un-named girl

Warnings: none...only a sneak peak

Summary: Evelyn experiences love for the first time and it's not who the Shelby family expect.

"I dried the flowers for you," Aunt Polly had said, pointing to the window behind Evelyn. She'd just come home from a morning walk. Taken aback, feeling her heart drop as if her secret was hanging by a thinning thread. She turned, seeing the bundle of red roses drying upside down tied to the curtain rod. "Ah, red roses-"

"Your favorite," Evelyn said, finishing the older woman's sentence. Forcing a smile, she continued, "but no, sadly. I picked them myself from the shop."

It was a believable enough lie until Finn stumbled into the parlor snorting about some boy. "Yeah, right, she and Novak have been eyeing one another-"

"Finn!" Evelyn took her cardigan folded neatly in her hands and whipped it at him. "Cut it out. Novak and I are simply acquaintances-"

"Oh yeah?" Finn laughed, catching the gray knitted cardigan in his hands, gently pulling it. "I never met two acquaintances so close-"

"What's this about Evie and Peter Novak?" her father asked, just hearing the tail end of the playful banter. Tommy hung his hat on the coat hanger followed by his jacket. A smoke hung on his bottom lip. "Thought I was clear, love, no boys until you're-"

"Thirty," Evelyn groaned. "I know, daddy, but it's not-"

"Oh, come off it, Thomas!" Polly groaned, pinching the younger man's side. "She's getting older and you need to loosen up." Tommy didn't like that very much, but Polly followed up with a, "invite him to dinner. I quite like Peter Novak. Compared to the rest of those boys, he's quite decent."

Tommy sighed, dragging his smoke from his lips. "I'll invite him-"

"And fuckin' scare him?" Polly asked. "No, I have a pair of shoes to drop off for his father....I'll ask him myself." Evelyn stood there, mortified. This gut wrenching guilt clenching her conscience. If only they knew it wasn't Peter Novak, the shoe maker's boy, that gave her the flowers.

[lara635kookie]

My Ship Ranking:

Okay so a few warnings about this:

1-I added all the ships I could find. If there is any missing, let me know and I'll add later.

2-This is my opinion and it isn't meant to be offensive to anyone. You can agree or disagree and it's totally fine. If you wanna do your own rankings, I would love to read it.

3-It's a long post that I've been writing for weeks. I made revisions but if something passed through me and you guys notice, you can tell me.

1-Red Crackle:

Is that even a surprise to anyone? Red Crackle is my whole life and owns my entire soul lol. But jokes aside, these two are just so linked and have a foundation not even time and space can separate. Even when they're apart by circunstances, they meet again. They always comeback to one another. Duane Capizzi said in this interview Carmen and Gray "will definitely meet again":

https://youtu.be/PIjX9rGvUmk?si=4paV3k7alKrt-B4f

And I haven't seen other interviews yet but in this specific interview the person just says Duane said Carmen doesn't see Gray in a flirty light and brushes it off asking about Carulia. Then Duane just talks more about Julia's character and then says, "if it's there, it's intentional" which indicates, from what I got, that the double meaning is there, you can choose how you see and interpret it. They could have made the carulia interactions more clear and chose not to do so on purpose. So I imagine the same thing applies to Red Crackle, Carmivy, Jeantonio, etc. The show ended so now is up to us to interpretate with what we have. Even if Duane, and the whole crew of the show overall, ship something, we can ship something different. As the show is not romance focused, we can choose from what we have. And no way there's no people who ship Red Crackle among the show staff. Michael Goldsmith(Gray's voice actor) seemed to ship. This guy seems to as well(not sure tho) considering the way he directed the holy trinity of Red Crackle episodes:

Gray's character is fundamental for Carmen to be the person she is. Can you picture Carmen jumping from the plane with El Topo, Le Chevre or Tigress? She trusted only Gray enough to do that. Without him she wouldn't have jumped, and would not realize what V.I.L.E. truly is about. And if so, a lot later, maybe too late. And at the end, they could have chosen Devineaux, Zari, Julia, or even Ivy to save Carmen with the A.C.M.E. machine. I think it would be kinda nice if it were Ivy so she would have an interaction with evil Carmen, like Zack had at the ferris wheel, and would impress A.C.M.E. instead of just randomly joining it with Zack out of nowhere at the end. But I'm glad it was Gray and then Shadowsan finished the job. The thing that gets to me is that she looks to the crackle rod on the floor and screams:"Gray!". The person she always prioritized the safety of the most was "dead", by her. Then she asks what has she done and I think here she could have also shown some concern for Devineaux and Julia. Specially Julia. Because Devineaux was there, standing, and depending on the impact of the thing that fell on her head, she could have died. And she seemed to faint under a curtain that also could kill her by asphyxiation if she didn't wake up on time. But the only thing she cared about was Gray. She could have remembered on screen she hurt other people too by seeing the crackle rod, but she only remembered Gray and I was like:"But what about Julia? Aren't you worried about her? Carmen is not gonna care about her at all? Really?" "That's it? That's the ending?" I believe that if there was no red crackle shipper there, the show would be a lot different. Gray's character wouldn't be so important as it was if that was the case. Speaking of which, I want a red crackle week because I never participated in one and I want to write an AU about what would have happened if Gray decided do join Team Red on the train to Paris and on the Himalayans and red crackle week is the perfect excuse for that. Also one if Carmen decided to go back to V.I.L.E. on the train to Paris to destroy them from the inside. If we have a Red Crackle Week it could be in December with a Christmas-themed vibe, @redcrackle-week ? Christmas is my favorite holiday and Red Crackle is one of my favorite ships, perfect combination.

2-Carmivy:

Again, no surprises. I've got nothing to say about this two that I haven't said before. They are so in love and they have my heart. I'll never understand why they are so underrated, they deserve more appreciation.

3-Jeantonio:

It's almost a crime that they aren't first place, but they were so close. They are like, the only ship the whole entire fandom agrees it's canon and I got mad respect for them for being able to unite the shipers because everyone likes them and wants to protect them(specially El Topo). They were clearly dating and were romantic boyfriends and I would do pretty much almost anything for them.

4-Cleobellum:

The same thing with Jeantonio, they are just a little bit lower because they don't have the general consent and less moments but to me they are a married couple.

5-Chasari/Zarineaux:

I think they would be the greatest girlboss and malewife ever. Devineaux is a dumbass but he would be Zari's dumbass. The little they interacted I could tell they would be an amazing couple. I just can see it. I can picture all their interactions perfectly in my head. When Zari fell into his arms, and the way Devineaux held her. Zari telling Devineaux not to be in her way and slowly getting softer to him with time, like, they would be such a good storyline. I wanted them together so badly so they deserve this place at my top 5.

6-Chasulia:

These two are a little bit lower because I'm not sure about them. At the start, they are a definite no. But after the fourth season Devineaux was prasing Julia the way she deserves to be praised and treating her better, redeeming for his past actions towards her and actually listening to her. He admited that he was wrong with Julia and did better. They are such adorable dorks together and while I love them as a platonic ship, I feel like they could also work romantically. It would be an interesting plot. I feel like most people think romance and friendship can't coexist but it can and it should. These two combined are one of the factors that make a good and healthy relationship and I feel like Devineaux and Julia have potential to be that way. I would like to know more about their Interpol days like why they were partnered together and how did they got to Carmen Sandiego, etc. So because of their wholesome platonic relationship that may or may not be affected my romance, they are a little bit lower but they are amazing and I love them.

7-CarChase:

This one, I did not expect to be this high up. First, the ship name is just as funny as "Red Crackle". Carmen and Devineaux did have quite a few number of car chases. Second, I'm aware that they have a 12 years age gap but I have a pretty high tolerance for age gaps. While I would rather not have an age gap too big for romantic relationships, 17 years age gap or less I don't mind. It bothers me a little, but it's not that big of a deal. If it's 18 years or more, it bothers me because I go like:"They could be their dad/mom." I just think they would be so funny together. The idea of them is surprisingly good. It makes me laugh when I think of Coach Brunt calling him handsome and Carmen being so done and after maybe going like:"He ain't ugly"(Carmen Sandiego is that kind of show that the animation is so pretty nothing and no one is ugly). And Carmen not wanting to see Devineaux because it's "really not a good time" and then seeying him even more to the point she doesn't mind it and even starts appreciating it. They would be a hell of enemies to friends to lovers story. They interact more than Carulia, but not as much as Chasulia so seventh place sounds about right for them. Not my favorite but I approve.

8-SpinTrap/FlyKick:

I don't know what their official ship name is but they are assigned partners and that, by V.I.L.E. standards, for me, usually means they make out. I wanted more development for both of their characters, which we don't know much about, so eighth place sounds nice. They clearly work well together and have a great harmony so I would say they are a cheaper version of Red Crackle. Like: "Kid:Mom, I want Red Crackle. Mom:We have Red Crackle at home." And they are the Red Crackle at home in question. Still, it works. Of course they are nothing compared to Red Crackle, but they still work. In the, idk three times we saw Spin Kick and Flytrap, you can tell they have the chemestry to convince people they are a romantic couple so this place is well deserved for them.

9-Dokusan:

No, you haven't read wrong, it means Shadowsan and Lady Dokuso. Just hear me out:I can picture it perfectly:They meet at V.I.L.E. academy, they fall in love, they start dating. But then, Shadowsan is promoted to a member of the faculty, a position Lady Dokuso also wanted, but she was happy for her boyfriend anyway. Then, it ends up not working out a faculty member dating a mere operative and then they break up but still love each other, but their relationship was full of ups and downs and they are both bitter and salty about it. Then, Shadowsan backfires V.I.L.E. and joins Team Red and Lady Dokuso can finally have a chance as a faculty member but at the cost of destroying Shadowsan. The drama, the angst, the complexity of loving each other but being different and being in two sides that can't collide or meet in the middle. If you stop to think about it, they are basically a toxic version of Red Crackle that went wrong(Yes, I use Red Crackle as a parameter to measure other couples because they are the standard). So why are they so high up? Because a sad ending love story can also work. Representativity matters and tragic love stories deserve to have some spotlight sometimes.

10-PaperTiger:

It wouldn't be me if these two didn't make it to the top 10. I know Paper Star is a psycho so she can't actually feel love or empathy for anyone other then herself, but hooking up without commitment works for these two. It would also hold some drama like:Paper Star and Tigress start being passive aggressive to each other, then they start being assigned to even more and more missions together and get to know each other better, Tigress falls in love for Paper Star and Paper Star starts caring for her a little bit more than the others and they start confiding in each other and telling things about themselves they wouldn't tell anyone else, and they try a secret relationship because Tigress accepted Paper Star's condition, but they end up not working out because of the V.I.L.E. work and the missions that they put in first place other than the relationship because they aren't El Topo and Le Chevre, unlike them, Tigress and Paper Star have other priorities and other things to worry about than each other. As you can see, I really love some angst, and they had the chemestry for that. Their versatility could also hold some fluff and funny moments like:Tigress judging Jeantonio for cuddling then doing the exact same thing with Paper Star, Tigress saying Paper Star isn't that bad to them(she is bad to everyone else tho, she would only be "soft", in her strange way, for Tigress), them trying each other's clothes and weapons, them teaching each other stuff, going out on dates, they would be V.I.L.E.'s IT couple like evil Carmen and Crackle were people, there's no way around it.

[youcalledmebabe]

69 for winnix 👉👈?

send me a pairing and a number and I’ll write a drabble for you

a little prequel babe’s anatomy winnix for you!

69. “Why the hell are you bleeding!?”

Dick stares at the white curtain, trying not to get irritated about the plastics intern taking his sweet time coming downstairs. It’s five thirty a.m. What could possibly be more pressing than an ER page? Didn’t Lew give them the answer pages at a run lecture? Eugene had it down but then, Dick was lucky. He’d gotten the best intern.

He keeps looking at the curtain. It’s actually not white, it’s very pale blue, with little flowers and—seriously where is Peacock. He allows himself a sigh. A little blood drips onto his UMich t-shirt.

Someone yanks the curtain aside, almost pulling the rod down with it. Lew stands, in rumpled blue scrubs, chest heaving. See? He takes pages at a run.

“What happened to you? Why did I have to hear from Malarkey that you were in the ER after being slashed?” Lew demands.

Dick smiles, a little wry. “It’s nothing. A small laceration. Your intern was supposed to take care of it.”

“How did you get slashed? Why are you saying that like it’s normal? You’re from Pennsylvania,” Lew says, snapping on a pair of gloves.

“A man approached me on my run this morning and wanted some money. I didn’t have any. He got angry.”

The frown on Lew’s face deepens. He starts to clean the cut, one hand on Dick’s jaw, the other carefully dabbing under his eye. Zygomatic bone, Dick thinks, flashing back to anatomy. He’s just grateful it wasn’t his eye.

“The one time I don’t go with you,” Lew says.

Dick snorts. “The one time?”

Lew shakes his head and takes out a suture kit before replacing his gloves.

“You’re going to do my stitches?” Dick says, incredulous. “Shouldn’t you be reconstructing an ear or repairing a cleft palate?”

“It was stitch you up or prep Strayer’s wife for her yearly facelift.”

Lew dabs numbing cream on Dick’s face. His touch is soft, delicate, somehow gentler than any of the other surgeons. Their eyes meet and Dick wonders, for the millionth time, if he remembers their kiss. If he ever thinks about it. It’s on the tip of Dick’s tongue; it always is, but he thinks of his father’s advice. Some things should stay buried.

Lew pierces him with the needle and Dick winces. “Sorry,” Lew murmurs, running his thumb over his forehead. Almost a caress. Almost is all they get these days, with Lew and Cathy ‘working on their marriage’ and ‘prioritizing couple time.’

“I just can’t believe you were going to let Peacock at you with a needle,” Lew says.

Dick watches him, enjoys his full attention. He can’t believe it either now; he should’ve called Nix right away. What a nice twist of fate that he should get injured while Lew is working. “He’s an intern,” he says. “How else will he learn? He needs practice. Nobody is hopeless after practice.”

Lew bites his lip in concentration. “Some faces are too pretty to be practice.”

Dick hopes there isn’t a pleased scarlet flush on his face. Pretty. He knows, but he only really hears it from Deetta these days. “Is that the official position of the plastics department?”

“Now that Peacock is the future? Yes,” Lew says. He finishes the stitch and pulls back, taking a second to admire his work. “There. Shouldn’t even scar.”

“Thanks, Nix.”

“Anytime,” he says, slipping off his gloves. “But you’re not allowed to run without me again.”

“Sure,” Dick humors him. Lew’s been working nights to avoid Cathy and when he’s not working nights, he’s drinking himself to sleep. He’ll believe it when he sees it.

⚕️⚕️⚕️

The next morning, Lew sits on the edge of the park fountain in his blue Yale shirt. He’s blinking, bleary, but here. Maybe Dick gets more than almost after all.

[spicybylerpolls]

Well, unknown hero agent man / pen symbolism anon, i hope you're reading this, cos you hit the nail on the head! this kind of symbolic storytelling is not only a fine art of cinema (being lost these days a little sadly, what with the whole netflix speedy turnover etc), but exactly what (good) films of the horror genre aim to do.

horror has long been a way to creatively tell 'normal' dramatic stories through subtext and symbolism. not sure if this is still a way around traditional censorship but im sure it began that way. films like the exorcist, the shining, rosemary's baby... all classics that are filled with subtext. its also an exciting way to talk about things that might seem trite or too bleak when portrayed as a 'straight' drama (this is the term meaning 'non-genre based' or 'non-musical' lmao). So you could say that ST is NOT straight, in more ways than one 😉

but much of this will go over casual viewers heads, so its finding the balance between making a story believable on the surface (another dimension exists! scary government men trying to kill us!) and subtextually (the UD as a metaphor for trauma/AIDS/closeted homosexuality/abuse etc) if viewers are clever enough to see/feel it. i say feel because much of storyviewing is instinctive instead of analytical.

so ST incorporates both - not just metaphorical, vague storytelling, but also real issues too. but it goes one step further, and actually has characters talk explicitly about reading deeper into stuff (murray's behind the curtain speech). it's a very meta show, even for a genre piece, which is why it astounds me that some people think it's not that deep lol. and some people think that only literature can be deep, but never tv or movies - which is an insult to anyone who has ever been passionate about cinema tbh. It's a statement that would probably rip the heart out of the duffers' chests and stomp on it. these guys are super nerds who have dedicated their adult lives to this passion project. as finn said, 'most people make it then just cash in - im so glad they still care'.

I'm sorry you don't feel comfortable talking about the beauty of this storytelling on your main. it really does surprise me that the fandom is so censorship obsessed because sexual metaphors have long existed in visual media, and especially in horror films. there used to be a long post about byler and a potential sex scene at lover's lake on here, but the user disappeared and the post went missing. it was about all the sexual imagery in ST, with a focus on byler in s4. i especially loved how they mentioned mike's introduction, where he was just in underwear: it is both appropriate for the setting, but also gets the audience used to him as a growing lad with a body and draws attention to those uncomfortable, potentially sexual aspects of being a teen. i mean, he was in tiny pants for god's sake. did we need to see that? why did we see it? etc etc

hilariously, they also referenced the always sunny in philadelphia scene where a character is in a therapist office talking about a pen being a dick. he then puts it in his mouth and chews the pen lmoao

i think you'd enjoy @therainscene's rod symbolism post too. I'm personally hoping for some explicit sex scenes with byler, because the show so far has arguably been telling that story metaphorically already for 4 seasons, and bringing it out of the subtext could be a storytelling device in itself. bringing byler's secrets into the light. after all, this is a period piece that aims to shed light on a bygone era. its not a propaganda piece that needs to remain coded; the reasons for staying secretive still exist for mike and will in the 80s, but times have changed since then for us as a global audience, and more importantly, the aspirational message has changed. what message would the duffs want to send to viewers that are still bigoted? clearly one of the beauty of homosexuality, seeing as will, our fav gay boy, has been the darling sympathetic victim of the show since s1e1. the show needs to remain true to both the 80s while also having a strong message for this decade in order for modern audiences to be able to gain something from watching this story; in order for there to be a reason the show exists at all.

so to answer your question, i had never picked up on the pen symbolism until now, but i immediately agree, not least because 1) it must have a meaning that connects to byler's conversation otherwise why does it just interrupt them with no reason? (from a storytelling pov), and 2) because of the always sunny scene lolllll

thanks for the discourse! if you stick around into s5, im sure we will be able to start discussing this on our mains. it'll be a new era and there might even be gifs/pics of byler to accompany our 'spicy' discourse haha!

Amazing/fascinating points! Thanks for adding to the discussion!

[sunnysgraves]

[SUNNY GRAVES. 30. CIS FEMALE. SHE/HER] is here! They’ve lived in Asbury Park for [20 YEARS] and are originally from [POINT PLEASANT, WEST VIRGINIA]. They are a [TOUR GUIDE/EMPLOYEE AT PARANORMAL BOOKS & CURIOSITIES/THE PARANORMAL MUSEUM] and in their downtime love [HORROR MOVIES] and [WITCHCRAFT]. They look a lot like [OLIVIA COOKE] and live in [MEADOWLARK APARTMENTS]. The song that makes people think of them the most is [ANDROMEDA BY WEYES BLOOD].

☾ playlist. ☾ pinterest. ☾ muse. ☾ connections.

━━ ⟢ i. the basics  full name → sunny louise graves birthday → 06/02/1994 big three → gemini sun, pisces moon, scorpio rising height → 5'5" sexual orientation → bisexual  mbti → infj hometown → point pleasant, west virginia

━━ ⟢ i. personality tidbits  - has that complex anxious avoidant attachment style - when she senses someones pulling back she's like swerve  - dropping hints like she's the queen of ghosting - she can be very all or nothing in regards to that so like you may get a text from her once every other week or she'll bomb you with them all at once in a span of five minutes - is a great friend but she's intense so she's not for everyone - always assumes everyone's mad at her  - her hometown is where mothman was famously cited, and yeah she makes that a personality trait - she practices witchcraft and has an altar to the deities she worships - though i feel as if she's still pretty skeptic if she believes in ghosts she kinda cancels out proof even if it's right in front of her face. her logical side of her brain kind of kicks in and clears it out. she can be pretty self motivated, even if its unbeknownst to herself. - playlists are her love language - finds comfort in meditation instead of going fucking insane, sometimes both - always falls for emotionally unavailable people, a lot of times her bosses 😭 - very into metaphysics like tarot, astrology, etc  - loves horror movies and probably watches at least one a day (probably while she's eating dinner ngl)  

━━ ⟢ i. go deeper tw: alcohol, drug use, abuse, suicide - m o m m y i s s u e s 🥳 - sunny grew up in a tumultuous household with her parents always fighting and money was always tight - it wasn't until she was 10 that she moved to asbury park where she was hopeful things would improve since her father landed a better job, but things quickly deteriorated - as she got older her mom developed bad habits with drugs, and her father coped with alcohol  - as a byproduct she was kind of abandoned emotionally, and didn't really have anyone to turn to - her mom was self medicating a larger problem under the surface, and sunny had the misfortune of walking in on her mom trying on several occasions to take her own life - as a result she couldn't focus in school or, would hyper focus on the wrong things and daydream instead of listening in her classes - got the rep of not only the new kid, but the weird new kid - and as things usually happen, one day when her guard was down because her mom appeared to be doing better, so she decided to go hang out at a friend's house after school one day.  - when she returned home later than normal, she walked around her house looking for her mom. to her disbelief, she found her mom hanging from the shower curtain rod, and was in denial that her mom was really gone since she'd always caught it in time before.  - hours later her father found sunny holding her mom up talking to her limp body about how she made a friend at school finally.  - when the emts arrived on scene trying to load her mom onto the stretcher, sunny wouldn't allow them to take her mom away from her until her dad had to physically pick her up and carry her away  - she blamed herself for not being there for her mom sooner - she hasn't ever really dealt with her mother's death, i think in a way she tried to acquaint herself closely with death instead. she would buy ouija boards trying to contact her mother from the other side. hire psychic mediums, go to palm readers, anything for a sign from her mom  - whew that was fun! thank you for sticking around if you made it this far into this dumpster fire 

━━ ⟢ i. connections  - literally anything and everything  - people she's once passed on the street and projected romantic fantasies on, friends, friends of a friend, cousins, exes, ex hookups, ex situationships, enemies, neighbors, old co-workers, old classmates, old classmates that used to bully her etc etc gimme gimme gimme 

[ckret2]

currently rereading from the beginning! a couple of running bits I’ve noticed:

Stan almost saying “bullshit.” I believe in him! someday he’ll get to finish it!

Bill trying to get his hands on a cane

Not in this good squeaky clean Disney production Stan doesn't! There's nothing inappropriate, dirty, or raunchy going on in this fic at all! ... Pay no mind to chapter 24.

At this point Bill's tried, what, 8-ball cane, umbrella, golf club, broom, curtain rod, second broken umbrella...? No weapons, Bill!!! There's a reason he's always stumbling.