#i was using patch but now i get told its post

[notarmedandnotdangerous]

+18 mdni! faceless desire; a fic where bucky finds out about reader's little secret

cw: camboy!m!reader, porn with plot (shocking), use of shitty usernames, stream comments included, bucky finds out about the existence of adult websites, male masturbation, edging, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, use of toys (vibrator, dildo), voyeurism (kinda cuz reader is streaming), mentions of steve, and sam, bucky patches reader up after he gets hurt, bucky gets turned on after hearing reader's voice

word count: >3.5k

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5]

a/n: i really tried to expand on this idea, hopefully i did it justice.. i racked my brain for ideas and yeah .. i came up w this! its filthy but WHO CARES i was waiting for people's opinions before i posted this 💔💔 so sorry it was a slow upload

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you were all heart, though often lonely in ways that you never talk about, and you lived a bit of a double life. by day you were friendly, open, all while being coworkers, and decent friends with the avengers, especially bucky. by night though, you slipped into something more revealing, quite literally. you were making money by being a streamer on an adult site, going by the username ‘le charmeur’, which literally translates to ‘the charmer’ in english. it was a shitty username, but it’ll do, you were planning on staying faceless anyway. your camera was always cropped at your collarbones, and you never used your real name.

bucky, on the other hand, was more quiet, reserved, observant, a complete opposite of your personality. after all, he had been chased by death for practically most of his life, and had never learned how to truly relax. even though he was always quiet, you had fallen for him. you never told him though, never wanted to ruin the friendship you had with him and the others. his screen name, ‘alpine17’ though, was better known in the comment section of your streams.

it all started when bucky came home from a particularly rough day. he dropped his briefcase by the couch, and walked into the office of his apartment. the apartment was dark, except for the faint glow coming from the lamp on his work desk. while he stressed about work as a congressman, alpine, his cat, was sleeping peacefully on her bed next to the couch.

he needed to blow off some steam, so he clicked into an adult site, hoping to ‘relieve’ his stress.

he somehow ended up stumbling into your account, ‘le charmeur’, he curiously clicked into it, his eyes widening as he saw the obscene videos on your account. he let out a breath he hadn’t realised he was holding. your stream popped up in the corner, and he thought it would be a good idea to join, maybe he could get himself off to your videos?

you were sitting on the bed, feet propped up against the bed as you fucked yourself with a dildo. bucky’s breath hitched at the sight of you.

alpine17:

‘found this stream by accident. best accident all week.’

he typed in the comment section. there was a small pause. then you responded to his comment.

“hmm. sometimes.. the algorithm gets it right. hm, alpine17, never seen you here before.” you spoke, your voice all breathy from fucking yourself. “welcome, newbie.” that was it. no ‘thank you’ for being here, no exaggerated welcome, just you, putting on a show for bucky, and the other thousands of people watching, of course.

user1:

‘god this new guy is so lucky! charmeur noticed him immediately..’

user2:

‘watch out newbie, everyone’s coming for you now!’

“c-come on, guys.. don’t be too mean, you’ll scare him away..” you muttered, before cutting yourself off with a moan. “aah, fuck, it’s just.. so deep..” the way you played with yourself drove him absolutely crazy. you pressed the dildo as deep as you could, before pulling it back out, just to slam it back in.

“fuck.” he took his pants off, stroking his own cock, all while imagining the dildo in you was his cock instead. he stroked himself at the same pace of you fucking the dildo into your ass.

“mmh- g-gonna cum, on y-your cock, sir..” you whimpered, you had changed your position, now you were arching your back so that the camera could focus on your ass instead. “s-shit, fuck, mmh c-cumming..” you finally came, entire body shuddering as you fucked yourself to ride out your orgasm. bucky had timed his orgasm with yours, his cock twitching desperately against his abs when he finally did.

alpine17:

‘think you can take one more, babydoll?’

he commented, shamelessly. this time he attached a $50 donation. he sighed, slowly teasing his cock as he waited for your response.

“o-of course sir, you’re so generous, i’d be evil to deny your request.” you pulled out a silicone board, sticking the dildo to it. you lined it up, before slowly sinking down. your legs shook visibly, while your cock twitched. bucky had never seen anything like your cock, it was so pretty, and a good size too. “doing this for you, sir, you know who you are.” you started to bounce on the dildo now, letting out the prettiest, most sinful moans ever, while your cock slapped against your abs with each bounce.

“mmh, f-fuck.” it didn’t take long for him to cum. in fact, he came before you even did. he didn’t even think to stop, just kept going, at the same pace as you in the stream. he ended up overstimulating himself, cumming multiple times to the obscene stream playing on his computer.

“thank you, for accompanying me tonight, and for the generous donations.. fucked myself so good..” you said drunkenly, doing your signature move of gently swiping your hand in front of the camera just before you ended your stream.

when bucky came to, he realised he had stayed longer than he meant to. he had came to the sight of you for at least 3 times. that’s when he knew, he was fucked.

the next morning

you, sam, and bucky had met up for coffee, the 3 of you were planning a surprise party for steve, after all, he was turning 107 soon. he was a living fossil at this point, but you wanted to celebrate him for many years to come. while you, and sam talked, bucky was staring, as always. he seemed different today, like he was distracted, and more flushed than usual.

“hey, buck, you okay?” you waved a hand in front of him, watching him flinch. “this isn’t like you. what’s wrong?”

“yeah, man. you haven’t talked all morning, and you’re usually excited to celebrate steve.” sam joined in, voicing his concern for bucky.

“i’m fine. just tired, work.” bucky spoke, bluntly. his voice in a different tone than usual. he couldn’t get ‘le charmeur’ out of his mind. he had been thinking about you since last night, and it drove him insane.

“sure, and i’m the president.” sam joked. after an hour, the 3 of you have decided on how to plan steve’s birthday.

“i have to go.” bucky checked his wrist watch, knowing he has to leave for work. he stood up, walking away. you and sam looked at each other cluelessly, before you both left as well.

later that evening

bucky had so much to do. so many meetings to attend, so much paperwork to sign. it was a particularly busy work day, and he felt more pent up than usual. at 9pm, he finally finished everything he was supposed to, and left the office. he couldn’t wait to see ‘le charmeur’ on his computer screen again, helping him get rid of all this stress.

bucky was slightly earlier compared to yesterday, entering just as you started streaming. you saw his username pop up, and you called out to him.

“alpine17, newbie! you’re early today.” you chuckled, the sound sending shivers down his spine. you sounded weirdly familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

alpine17:

‘hi, got off work earlier.’

“since you were so generous yesterday, i’ll let you pick what i do today.” you spoke, making his heart skip a beat. you were wearing the shirt you had on that morning when he met up with you. ‘what a coincidence’, he thought.

alpine17:

‘why don’t you edge yourself tonight, babydoll? with a vibrator?’

bucky typed, before shakily pressing the ‘enter’ button to send his comment.

“oh, edging? you’re really not gonna let me cum, sir? not even with how pretty i look when i do?”

alpine17:

‘you’ll do what i say, and that’s it.’

he tried to act bold, and it worked on you. your breath stuttered as you let out a whimper when you read the comment.

“t-that’s too bad then..” you walked out of frame, your microphone picking up the sounds of clattering as you looked for your vibrator. after a while, you finally came back, with the soft pink vibrator in your hand.

at the sight of you, bucky immediately stripped his pants off. he watched you lay against the pillows on your bed, turning the vibrator on and dragging it all around your length.

“s-see that..? i’m so hard, and it’s all because of you, sir.” you stuttered, slowly stroking yourself as you dragged the vibrator against your balls. he followed along, stroking his cock to the sight of you playing with yourself.

after a while, he had cum twice now to the sight of you edging yourself. you started to blabber, your mind going hazy as you edged yourself, it was probably the third time now.

“please- uugh, sir.. c-can i cum now..?” you whined, begging him for mercy, begging him to let you cum. your begging stroked his ego like crazy, knowing how he had control of you through a screen, turned him on more than it should.

alpine17:

‘hm, maybe. why don’t you beg more? convince me that you deserve it.’

he typed, taking longer compared to usual, as one of his hands were occupied, stroking himself.

“aah.. please, please, sir.. i-i’ve been so good, did everything you- mmh, asked me to!”

alpine17:

‘go on, babydoll, cum for me.’

bucky’s cock twitched as he typed, he timed his orgasm with yours, as he always did. he stroked himself in time with each roll of your hips.

“t-thank you, sir.. uugh, c-cumming..” you came, and so did he. you were a shaky, stuttering mess, laying on the bed in bliss. he came for the third time, with a groan, his thighs shook from how the pleasure overridden his nerves. “felt so good, s-sir.” you chuckled. you took a few minutes to rest, laying on the bed until you eventually calmed down enough to speak.

alpine17:

‘you were so pretty, so good today.’

he typed, attaching another donation of $50.

“everyone’s so jealous of you, alpine17. they’re jealous of the attention i’m giving you.” you spoke, he was special, and very lucky, compared to the other people watching your stream. “they’ll hunt you down, considering how i let you toy with me earlier.” his face flushed as his cock twitched once more. ‘le charmeur’ was giving him extra attention, and his stomach filled with butterflies. you bid farewell to your viewers, before turning off your stream.

it became a pattern. evenings bled into midnights with ‘le charmeur’ on bucky’s computer screen. sometimes he just watched quietly, stroking his cock to whatever you were doing to yourself on stream. ‘le charmeur’ never showed his face, never gave a name, never revealed a city or timezone. it was practically impossible to figure out who ‘le charmeur’ actually was.

weeks had passed since he first watched your streams. the more he watched them, the more addicted he got. the first thing he would do when he came home from work was to watch your streams, and cum to them at least twice, before he could do anything else.

2 months later

the sun was hot, the court dusty, and neither of you had played tennis in a while. it didn’t stop you from dragging bucky out for a match though.

“i’m telling you, i used to be insanely good at this.” you waved your hands in the air, trying to prove your point.

“and how long ago was that?”

“..middle school. but let’s not talk about that!”

“right. we’re doomed.”

the both of you weren’t even that bad at it. you could return bucky’s shots, and bucky could return yours too, before it became clear that the both of you were equally as average, and equally as competitive.

you moved fast, despite the heat. you chased a wide shot, with the kind of recklessness that always got you in trouble. your foot got caught on the edge of the court, and you went down, hard. your shirt had ridden up when you fell, your waist scraping against the hard, rubbery court.

“shit.” bucky practically leapt over the net, running towards you. “you good, man?”

“define good, buck.” you winced, crawling back up, only to find the skin on your waist was raw, an ugly abrasion on your soft skin.

“don’t move.” he spoke, walking away and reaching into his bag.

“you carry a first aid kit?”

“technically no. i just carry the stuff i forget to throw out.” he spoke, bluntly, while you laughed.

“jeez, your disaster prep is definitely.. comforting.” you didn’t speak much as bucky cleaned you up, you just sat there, breathing through the sting. the bandage was wrapped perfectly, considering how most of you were active combatants, and needed to learn basic first aid.

“it’s not pretty, but it’ll hold.” he watched as you slowly got up.

“thanks doc.”

“that’ll be $25 dollars, and a slice of pizza.” he joked.

the both of you did end up getting pizza though. obviously, you offered to pay, partly because you owed him for treating your wound, and partly because you had extra cash to spare from your ‘side job’.

later that night

you started your stream slightly later than usual. and as if on cue, bucky joined. he sat on the seat of his office chair, staring into the view of you in front of him. today was different though, you had a shirt on, instead of being naked like usual.

“hi, little late today. took a hit, tripped like a fool earlier. so i can’t do much today..” you spoke, before sighing.

alpine17:

‘poor baby. show me the wound?’

bucky typed, it was embarrassing how straight forward he was being, considering how he was usually reserved and quiet. can you believe he was typing this shit publicly?

“battle scar of the week, alpine17.” you joked, adjusting your camera angle slightly, something you didn’t do often. the frame shifted lower than usual, just enough to show your waist, and hips, as you sat on your chair. then, ever so slowly, you pulled your shirt up, showing the ugly abrasion on your waist. neatly wrapped, white gauze, beige medical tape in a tight, double loop, it was wrapped in the way bucky always did it.

“what..” bucky blinked, leaning forward to take a closer look. “fuck.” that was his bandage. he had put that on. that exact wrap, that exact tuck in the gauze, the weirdly creased edge of the tape.

“i went to do some exercise today, haven’t been really active on the court. went a bit too hard, lost my balance and fell. it hurt so much.” you spoke, feigning an innocent voice, before chuckling, and adjusting your camera angle once more, so that it was back to the original position.

bucky wanted to type, no, say something, but he didn’t. his throat went dry as he connected the dots. he leaned back against his office chair, his brain running with thoughts of you. you were his favourite adult streamer, you were ‘le charmeur’ this whole damn time? you sounded and acted so familiar, he felt stupid that he didn’t connect the dots. he didn’t send another comment, didn’t expose him, didn’t even breathe. he just sat there, letting the quiet realisation settle over him.

“so quiet today, newbie?” you teased, completely oblivious to the fact that you had indirectly exposed your identity. you moved on, playing with yourself as usual, while bucky clicked off the stream, laying in bed as he realised he had been getting himself off to one of his best friends.

the following week

bucky spent the next few days pretending nothing had changed. he tried to, at least. now he knew, that they were the same, and that knowledge, that realisation, sat in his chest like a secret too big to keep. he didn’t wanna ambush you, didn’t want to ruin the trust the both of you had built over time, both online and in real life, but he couldn’t carry it alone anymore.

inside, every time you spoke, at the avenger’s compound, over texts, during their usual coffee run, he kept hearing that voice. not just your voice, but ‘le charmeur’’s voice, and it always made him hard.

“let’s go for tennis again next week, buck.”

“i.. i don’t know if i can make it, work and all.” bucky replied bluntly. “i need to go to the restroom for a while.”

“uh, okay?” you tilted your head in confusion, he had been acting weirdly for the past few days.

bucky rushed to the restroom, entering a random stall that at least had a working lock. he sat down on the seat, and pulled his cock out. it was red, flushed, pre-cum beaded at the tip as he realised how fucked he was. he stroked it quickly, eager to get himself off before you got suspicious of how long he was taking in the restroom. he teased his finger over his tip, just the way you always did with yourself, whines, and whimpers spilled out from his lips as he jerked himself off to the thought of ‘le charmeur’, the thought of you.

5 minutes had passed now, and you started to get worried. you left both of your coffees on the table, and you walked towards the restroom. you walked in quietly, not calling out to bucky just yet. you washed your hands, listening intently.

“mmh, f-fuck.” a stifled whine broke the silence, the voice sounded desperate, filthy.

your face flushed red immediately, as you covered your mouth with your palm, not wanting to make any sound. then, the realisation hit you. there was only one occupied stall, and he was the only one that was currently at the restrooms.

“..buck?” you spoke, your voice shaky. upon hearing your voice, bucky came immediately, accidentally letting out a groan that he didn’t hold in. “you okay, buck? where are you?”

“huh- mm, i-i’m fine.” he replied, voice breathy from his orgasm. he tried to play it off, but it was too late, you had already heard all of his breathy moans, his whimpers, his panting.

“buck, open the door right now.” you spoke, voice tense now, and it sent a shiver running down bucky’s spine. “i’m telling you, if you don’t open this door, i’ll break it down.”

“o-okay, i’m coming out.” he replied, putting his pants back on. thank god it was a sunday, he was wearing sweatpants instead of his usual slacks and loud belt. he looked absolutely ruined, his face flushed red as his eyes were glazed over. he stumbled a little as he walked, it was undeniable now, he had been masturbating inside the stall. “sorry.. got a bit occupied earlier.” he spoke bluntly, as if he was back to his usual self. the both of you stared at each other in silence, before he invited you over to his place. “i need to talk to you about something.. important.”

you gulped, nodding hesitantly. soon after, you were back at his place. you sat on the couch as he poured you a glass of water.

“recently, i’ve been.. pent up.” he confessed, and your eyes widened at the revelation.

“w-what?”

“i haven’t been touched in years. i was frustrated, and i..” he covered his face in embarrassment. “i stumbled onto an adult site.”

“okay, a-and then?” you stuttered, not knowing what to expect now.

“i’ve been watching this one streamer.. he helps me get off, almost every night. and that streamer.. i-is you.” he spoke, his voice cracked in guilt.

the both of you sat in silence momentarily, the room felt much smaller now. bucky broke the silence as he continued.

“i.. i’m sorry. i can stop, i’ll stop, if you want me to. i feel guilty, no one should do this to their own friend. i only found out through the wound on your waist.”

“you.. you weren’t supposed to know.. no one’s supposed to..” your eyes welled up with tears of humiliation, as you breathed heavily.

“i get that-”

“no, you don’t.” you snapped, your voice cracking. “that’s the only place i get to be me without people judging, knowing. i.. i built that space so that i could fucking breathe for once.”

“i.. i do get it, that space helped me breathe too. helped me take the edge off.”

“this.. this is so fucked up, buck.”

“why?” bucky inched closer towards you. “because we’re good friends? or because we’re more than that?”

“buck-” you turned around, eyes wide.

“i’m not trying to take anything from you. not your space, not your privacy, not your dignity. i.. i just couldn’t sit with it anymore. i couldn’t keep pretending i didn’t know you in more ways that one.”

“i need some time. i feel humiliated buck.. i-i’m not ready.” you walked out, leaving bucky hanging.

"..fuck."

[bambiblake]

Hey,

Could I maybe request a Lottie x reader where they just crashed into the wilderness, and reader can't sleep at all and Lottie has to figure out how to comfort her? <3

Lullaby - lottie matthews x reader

Summary: Lottie helps you get to sleep after the crash

Genre: fluff

Warnings: mentions of the crash, reader has anxiety but yk I’m guessing a lot of ppl would in that situation either way lol

A/n: sorry this is kinda short and not the best it’s my first post here and I haven’t written in a while and I hope I gave the asker what they wanted :)

Hours. it had been merely hours since they had crashed in the woods and you were a mess. you had gotten used to stressful situations but this was on a whole new level.

anxiety filled your body more and more the longer it took for the rescue team to arrive...if they were even coming, that had crossed your mind once or twice but lottie, sweet sweet lottie, had tried her best to calm your nerves

"they're coming for us....and until then i'll be here" she had told you even if she didn't believe it herself, but of course she'd never tell you that

night had come way quicker than any of the group had expected and they laid down for the night, everyone finding a somewhat comfortable spot to sleep, you had curled yourself up on a softer patch of grass and moss near a tree with the tallest yellowjacket not too far from you

lottie could hear your tossing and turning, she could practically feel the anxiety radiating off you and she didn't think she could stand to do nothing about it much longer. the minute she heard a soft cry escape your lips she sat up instantly turning to you

"hay" she whispered out softly as she moved closer to you, gently moving some hair away from your eyes as you look up at her "can...can i help?" she asks

she knew she couldn't ask you what was wrong or if you were ok, those were stupid questions...but she could offer her help and she would. she'd do anything for you.

looking down at you she saw your breath start to calm as you thought about her question, your brain getting too distracted to focus on your discomfort "could you...." you let out a sigh "could you...sing to me, maybe? it's just i'm so used to noise while i sleep and that could-" the dark haired girl interrupts your rambling with a soft smile "i can sing to you"

you give her a small smile in return as you move to lay closer to her, gently placing your head on her chest as her hand subconsciously made its way towards your hair. once the two of you were comfortable you could hear her begin to softly hum the melody of 'Fade into you', a song she often put on when you would hang out

Listening to her pretty humming and the beating of her heart your body seemed to loosen up, your eyes getting heavy as sleep finally started to take you over

after very softly singing about the entire song lottie realized you had fallen asleep, looking down at your now peaceful expression she couldn't help but feel a swell in her heart

she felt pride knowing she was the one to help you, you had helped her so many times with her issues and she felt so useful knowing she seemed to handle their situation better

she didn't know when they were going to be rescued, but she knew she'd be right there to protect you until then.

[cripplecharacters]

The Mask Trope, and Disfiguremisia in Media

[large text: The Mask Trope, and Disfiguremisia in Media]

If you followed this blog for more than like a week, you're probably familiar with “the mask trope” or at least with me complaining about it over and over in perpetuity. But why is it bad and why can't this dude shut up about it?

Let's start with who this trope applies to: characters with facial differences. There is some overlap with blind characters as well; think of the blindfold that is forced on a blind character for no reason. Here is a great explanation of it in this context by blindbeta. It's an excellent post in general, even if your character isn't blind or low vision you should read at least the last few paragraphs.

Here's a good ol’ tired link to what a facial difference is, but to put it simply:

If you have a character, who is a burn survivor or has scars, who wears a mask, this is exactly this trope.

The concept applies to other facial differences as well, but scars and burns are 99% of the representation and “representation” we get, so I'll be using these somewhat interchangeably here.

The mask can be exactly what you think, but it refers to any facial covering that doesn't have a medical purpose. So for example, a CPAP mask doesn't count for this trope, but a Magic Porcelain Mask absolutely does. Bandages do as well. If it covers the part of the face that is “different”, it can be a mask in the context used here.

Eye patches are on thin ice because while they do serve a medical purpose in real life, in 99.9% of media they are used for the same purpose as a mask. It's purely aesthetic.

With that out of the way, let's get into why this trope sucks and find its roots. Because every trope is just a symptom of something, really.

Roughly in order of the least to most important reasons...

Why It Sucks 

[large text: Why It Sucks]

It's overdone. As in — boring. You made your character visibly different, and now they're no longer that. What is the point? Just don't give them the damn scar if you're going to hide it. 

Zero connection with reality. No one does this. I don't even know how to elaborate on this. This doesn't represent anyone because no one does this.

Disability erasure. For the majority of characters with facial differences, their scars or burns somehow don't disable them physically, so the only thing left is the visible part… aaand the mask takes care of it too. Again, what's the point? If you want to make your disabled character abled, then just have them be abled. What is the point of "curing" them other than to make it completely pointless?

Making your readers with facial differences feel straight up bad. I'm gonna be honest: this hurts to see when it's all you get, over and over. Imagine there's this thing that everyone bullied you about, everyone still stares at, that is with you 24/7. Imagine you wanted to see something where people like you aren't treated like a freakshow. Somewhat unrealistic, but imagine that. That kind of world would only exist in fiction, right? So let's look into fiction- oh, none of the positive (or at least not "child-murderer evil") characters look like me. I mean they do, but they don't. They're forced to hide the one thing that connects us. I don't want to hide myself. I don't want to be told over and over that this is what people like me should do. That this is what other people expect so much that it's basically the default way a person with a facial difference can exist. I don't want this.

Perpetuating disfiguremisia. 

"Quick" Disfiguremisia Talk

[large text: "Quick" Disfiguremisia Talk]

It's quick when compared to my average facial difference discussion post, bear with me please.

Disfiguremisia; portmanteau of disfigure from “disfigurement” and -misia, Greek for hatred. 

Also known as discrimination of those mythical horrifically deformed people.

It shows up in fiction all the time; in-universe and in-narrative. Mask trope is one of the most common* representations of it, and it's also a trope that is gaining traction more and more, both in visual art and writing. This is a trope I particularly hate, because it's a blatant symptom of disfiguremisia. It's not hidden and it doesn't try to be. It's a painful remainder that I do not want nor need.

*most common is easily “evil disfigured villain”, just look at any horror media. But that's for another post, if ever.

When you put your character in a mask, it sends a clear message: in your story, facial differences aren't welcome. The world is hostile. Other characters are hostile. The author is, quite possibly, hostile. Maybe consciously, but almost always not, they just don't think that disfiguremisia means anything because it's the default setting. No one wants to see you because your face makes you gross and unsightly. If you have a burn; good luck, but we think you're too ugly to have a face. Have a scar? Too bad, now you don't. Get hidden.

Everything here is a decision that was made by the author. You are the one who makes the world. You are the person who decides if being disabled is acceptable or not there. The story doesn't have a mind of its own, you chose to make it disfiguremisic. It doesn't have to be.

Questions to Ask Yourself

[large text: Questions to Ask Yourself]

Since I started talking about facial differences on this blog, I have noticed a very specific trend in how facial differences are treated when compared to other disabilities. A lot of writers and artists are interested in worldbuilding where accessibility is considered, where disabled people are accepted, where neurodivergence is seen as an important part of the human experience, not something “other”. This is amazing, genuinely.

Yet, absolutely no one seems to be interested in a world that is anything but cruel to facial differences. There's no escapist fantasies for us. You see this over and over, at some point it feels like the same story with different names attached.

The only way a character with a facial difference can exist is to hide it. Otherwise, they are shamed by society. Seen as something gross. I noticed that it really doesn't matter who the character is, facial difference is this great equalizer. Both ancient deities and talking forest cats get treated as the same brand of disgusting thing as long as they're scarred, as long as they had something explode in their face, as long as they've been cursed. They can be accomplished, they can be a badass, they can be the leader of the world, they can kill a dragon, but they cannot, under any circumstances, be allowed to peacefully exist with a facial difference. They have to hide it in the literal sense, or be made to feel that they should. Constantly ashamed, embarrassed that they dare to have a face.

Question one to ask yourself: why is disfiguremisia a part of your story?

I'm part of a few minority groups. I'm an immigrant, I'm disabled, I'm queer. I get enough shit in real life for this so I like to take a break once in a while. I love stories where transphobia isn't a thing. Where xenophobia doesn't come up. But my whole life, I can't seem to find stories that don't spew out disfiguremisia in one way or the other at the first possible opportunity.

Why is disfiguremisia a default part of your worldbuilding? Why can't it be left out? Why in societies with scarred saviors and warriors is there such intense disgust for them? Why can't anyone even just question why this is the state of the world?

Why is disfiguremisia normal in your story?

Question two: do you know enough about disfiguremisia to write about it?

Ask yourself, really. Do you? Writers sometimes ask if or how to portray ableism when they themselves aren't disabled, but no one bothers to wonder if maybe they aren't knowledgeable enough to make half their story about their POV character experiencing disfiguremisia. How much do you know, and from where? Have you read Mikaela Moody or any other advocates’ work around disfiguremisia? Do you understand the way it intersects; with being a trans woman, with being Black? What is your education on this topic?

And for USAmericans... do you know what "Ugly Laws" are, and when they ended?

Question three: what does your story associate with facial difference — and why?

If I had to guess; “shame”, “embarrassment”, “violence”, "disgust", “intimidation”, “trauma”, “guilt”, “evil”, “curse”, “discomfort”, “fear”, or similar would show up, because it's always the same shit.

Why doesn't it associate it with positive concepts? Why not “hope” or “love” or “pride” or “community”? Why not “soft” or “delicate”? Dare I say, “beauty” or “innocence”? Why not “blessing”? “Acceptance”?

Why not “normal”?

Question four: why did you make the character the way they are? 

Have you considered that there are other things than “horrifically burned for some moral failing” or “most traumatic scenario put to paper”? Why is it always “a tough character with a history of violence” and never “a Disfigured princess”? Why not “a loving parent” or “a fashionable girl”, instead of “the most unkind person you ever met” and “total badass who doesn’t care about anything - other than how scary their facial difference is to these poor ableds”? Don’t endlessly associate us with brutality and suffering. We aren’t violent or manipulative or physically strong or brash or bloodthirsty by default. We can be soft, and frail and gentle and kind - and we can still be proud and unashamed.

Question five: why is your character just… fine with all this?

Can’t they make a community with other people with facial differences and do something about this? Demand the right to exist as disabled and not have to hide their literal face? Why are they cool with being dehumanized and treated with such hatred? Especially if they fall into the "not so soft and kind" category that I just talked about, it seems obvious to me that they would be incredibly and loudly pissed off about being discriminated against over and over... Why can't your character, who is a subject of disfiguremisia, realize that maybe it's disfiguremisia that's the problem, and try to fix it?

Question six: why is your character wearing a mask? 

Usually, there's no reason. Most of the time the author hasn't considered that there even should be one, the character just wears a mask because that's what people with facial differences do in their mind. Most writers aren't interested in this kind of research or even considering it as a thing they should do. The community is unimportant to them, it's not like we are real people who read books. They think they understand, because to them it's not complex, it's not nuanced. It's ugly = bad. Why would you need a reason?

For cases where the reason is stated, I promise, I have heard of every single one. To quote, "to spare others from looking at them". I have read, "content warning: he has burn scars under the mask, he absolutely hates taking it off!", emphasis not mine. Because "he hates the way his skin looks", because "they care for their appearance a lot" (facial differences make you ugly, remember?). My favorite: "only has scars and the mask when he's a villain, not as a hero", just to subtly drive the point home. This isn't the extreme end of the spectrum. Now, imagine being a reader with a facial difference. This is your representation, sitting next to Freddy Krueger and Voldemort.

How do you feel?

F.A.Q. [frequently asked questions]

[large text: F.A.Q. [frequently asked questions]]

As in, answers and “answers” to common arguments or concerns. 

“Actually they want to hide their facial difference” - your character doesn’t have free will. You want them to hide it. Again; why.

“They are hiding it to be more inconspicuous!” - I get that there are elves in their world, but there’s no universe where wearing a mask with eye cutouts on the street is less noticeable than having a scar. Facial differences aren’t open wounds sprinkling with blood, in case that's not clear. Also, despite what you clearly think, unless your setting has like twelve people total, there will be multiple people with facial differences in it.

“It’s for other people's comfort” - why are other characters disfiguremisic to this extent? Are they forcing all minorities to stay hidden and out of sight too? That’s a horrible society to exist in.

“They are wearing it for Actual Practical Reason” - cool! I hope that this means you have other characters with facial differences that don’t wear it for any reason.

"It's the character's artistic expression" - I sure hope that there are abled characters with the same kind of expression then.

“They’re ashamed of their face” - and they never have any character development that would make that go away? That's just bad writing. Why are they ashamed in the first place? Why is shame the default stance to have about your own face in your story? I get that you think we should be ashamed and do these ridiculous things, but in real life we just live with it. 

"Now that you say that it is kinda messed up but I'm too far into the story please help" - here you go.

“[some variation of My Character is evil so it's fine/a killer so it fits/just too disgusting to show their disability” - this is the one of these cases where I’m fine with disability erasure, actually. Please don’t make them have a facial difference. This is the type of harm that real life activists spend years and decades undoing. Disfiguremisia from horror movies released in the 70s is still relevant. It still affects people today.

"But [in-universe explanation why disfiguremisia is cool and fine actually]" - this changes nothing.

Closing Remarks

[large text: Closing Remarks]

I hope that this post explains my thoughts on facial difference representation better. It's a complicated topic, I get it. I'm also aware that this post might come off as harsh but disfiguremisia shouldn't be treated lightly, it shouldn't be a prop for your whump whatever to play around with. It's real world discrimination with a big chunk of its origins coming out of popular media.

With the asks that have been sent regarding facial differences, I realized that I probably haven't explained what the actual problems are well enough. It's not about some technical definition, or about weird in-universe explanations. It's about categorizing us as some apparently fundamentally different entity that can't possibly be kind and happy, about disfiguremisia so ingrained into our culture that it's apparently impossible to make a world without it; discrimination so deep that it can't be excised, only worked around. But you can get rid of it. You can just not have it there in the first place. Disfiguremisia isn't a fundamental part of how the world works; getting rid of it won't cause it to collapse. Don't portray discrimination as an integral, unquestionable part of the world that has to stay no matter what; whether it's ableism, transphobia, or Islamophobia or anything else. A world without discrimination can exist. If you can't imagine a world without disfiguremisia in fiction... that's bad.

Remember, that your readers aren't going to look at Character with a Scar #14673 and think "now I'm going to research how real life people with facial differences live." They won't, there's no inclination for them to do so. If you don't give them a reason, they won't magically start thinking critically about facial differences and disfiguremisia. People like their biases and they like to think that they understand.

And, even if you're explaining it over and over ;-) (winky face) there will still be people who are going to be actively resistant to giving a shit. To try and get the ones who are capable of caring about us, you, as the author, need to first understand disfiguremisia, study Face Equality, think of me as a human being with human emotions who doesn't want to see people like me treated like garbage in every piece of media I look at. There's a place and time for that media, and if you don't actually understand disfiguremisia, you will only perpetuate it; not "subvert" it, not "comment" on it.

I hope this helps,

Mod Sasza

[niccolites]

green cliffs: - lessons in mortality. chapter one

highlander!soap x fem!reader. cw attempted sexual assault. read on ao3 here

On the same patch of land that you once took your first step, you are dragged out of your home by your hair.

There are things of little consequence: the blinding beam of the sun, how its heat doesn't reach you, snatched up by the snapping wind. The peeling paint of your broken fence, the pitchfork that has been abandoned in a bale of hay instead of with the rest of the tools in the barn.

You focus on this, the bite of the cold on your cheeks instead of the nails that are digging into your scalp. Easier to try and distance yourself from the fear that is gaping in your stomach, instead wondering if it was you or your brother who left that pitchfork out like that. You decide that it must have been your brother, he had been the one in the rush to get to the river to catch the ‘better’ fish this morning.

There are three strange men around you. You don’t know any of their names. You had seen them in the distance, the stark red of their coats along a distant hill, barely even a day prior. Your village had seemed to suck in a breath, air stilling with their approach. Now, the wind howls, the noisy exhale after that tense beat.

Trouble, your brother had warned you. Told you to stay in the house as much as you could. Tend the crops, feed the animals and keep your eyes down. He would go out, speak with your neighbours to get information on who these men were and what they wanted.

And you had done what you were told, had darted across to the barn, to the coop. Like a horse jumping at the sight of a snake before it even coils to snap.

It didn’t matter anyway. A spooked horse gathers more attention than a calm one. Your brother is sitting by still waters somewhere else, and you are here, gritting your teeth at the sting of your hair being ripped out by clumsy fingers.

Seemingly bored of dragging you, you are shoved to the ground, collapsing in a pile of skirts in the dirt. The men guffaw at you. They’ve clearly been drinking, the stench of whiskey is foul, and one of them still holds a bottle of it. Swings it around and you feel some of it catch the end of your dress. The laughs have a bitter edge to it. They’re angry, you realise, a new spike of fear shooting up your spine. You have just met these men, but they are treating you like you have wronged them in the past. Here to exact their revenge.

Soldiers, likely. One of them is still holding their bayonet, the other with a pistol slung around their waist. You don’t know how high-ranking these soldiers are, you don’t know if that would make a difference in how they are going to treat you. Worse, likely. Not even a month past and one of your neighbours had been strung up to the post, back bloodied with a whip until he collapsed. The punishment for not welcoming God’s own into your home, apparently.

Usually the English presence in your village is more official. A battalion, passing through and making sure that everyone is minding their own. There had been another Jacobite uprising, somewhere to the west of your village. Scottish men gathering to try and overthrow King George, reinstate the Catholic Stuarts. It had failed, but English law recently had become a lot more permanent, tangible in light of this rebellion.

These may be soldiers on your land, but they were operating as men. English law placed to the side, it’s overseeing eye shut for just long enough for what they were planning for you.

You are pulled up, arms yanked behind your back. Held in place by the first soldier while the other two prowl around your home.

“You know, I'm sick of you stuck-up cunts,” the first soldier hisses in your ear. There’s a twist in the muscle of your shoulder which makes you whimper. “You'd bend over for your sheep before you would us. I bet you have as well.” You can see his dark hair in the corner of your eye, smell the whiskey on his breath.

“Oh, come on, Grahams,” the second interjects, reaching over to catch your chin in his clammy hand. “She looks like a good girl. I bet you haven’t even been touched. Am I right?” His thumb pushes on your lower lip, his own mouth parting beneath the heavy curl of his pale moustache. Salivating, the way a rabid dog does before you put it down.

You stay silent. Feel his skin on yours, how he pulls your lip down. The parting of where you were and where he drags you down. Feel that ugly gap of space, an inch but it feels like a mile.

“Alone in that house?” the third asks, not even sparing you a glance. He’s pouring his drink over the edge of your field, just outside the second fence. The border between your yard and the crop you and your brother had laid down, scarcely a few weeks before. The third soldier has small eyes, and a pig nose, turns to give you a horrible, hating look. “Bet she’s had the entire village between her legs,” he sneers.

The first soldier distracts you, breath polluting you as he huffs a laugh. Tightens his arms around the lock of yours and ignores you as you grunt in pain. "Well, I’m sure that she wouldn’t mind the King’s own men from taking what they are owed, yes?”

The third man, apparently done with talking, throws the rest of his bottle over your fence and strikes a match. The catch of fire always surprises you. The match is suspended in the air for a flicker of a moment before it connects to the pool of liquor. A blink, and the fire roars, summoned into life and it eats all of the crop that you and your brother had laid on that once tilled field.

The memory of you and your brother, on your hands and knees as you planted that crop. The acceptance of exhaustion that comes with physical activity when you know it must be done and so you do it. Body connected to mind, an idea and then the yield.

Impossible to reconcile what had taken hours to do, lit up within a second. The fire branches across everything, almost licking the third soldier himself. Everything swallowed up, a horrible demon, brought by these men, a senseless cruelty that you can barely comprehend.

You howl, a wounded animal sound, lunging forward and then yanked back immediately. Everything is separate, suffocated by sensation. There is only the connection between the fire and your eyes, the conclusion that your brother is going to have to bow in that dirt again.

You shriek again, when you are stopped from preventing this, arms protesting in the twist that the first soldier forces them into. Told to stop your squealing. The second soldier steps back into your eye-line and grins down at you. Yellow teeth, dark eyes. Another demon on your land, seeking retribution in something that you have not even committed.

His mouth moves, but you barely hear it, blood rushing in your ears. Your face is hot, molten with tears. Brain and body disconnected. The socket of your shoulder is boiling, every yank pulling a tense groan from between your clenched teeth. You know that you are going to hurt yourself if you keep struggling, or maybe one of these men are going to hurt you. But you keep pulling, huffing with fruitless effort.

The second soldier reaches down, fingers digging into the collar of your dress. His fingers cold against the hot flush that has spread across your chest. A tear in the cotton cloth that covers most of your clavicle. Another shriek, ripping up your throat and into his face. He barely flinches. You are a cat with its tail caught, it doesn’t matter how sharp your teeth are anymore.

The first soldier with your hair in his teeth. The second with his hands groping down your chest. The third man, kicking your fence to get it to buckle and catch in the flames as well. Paralysis like a fist around the base of your spine. A yell that starts in the bottom of your lungs, builds until you are almost sick with the force of it.

Another yell, one that does not fully register until the soldiers take notice of it.

"What on -" the first soldier starts to say, before the rest is lost in a strangled noise. The second soldier steps out of your vision and you see what is stopping him.

Your father was no soldier, although he had been when he had to be, god rest his soul. He used to tell you about the true highlanders, the real soldiers and the swords that were as broad as they were, and how they would swing them as if they were an extension of their own arm.

It sounded like folklore. Mythology, until you see the swing of that broadsword, splitting the third soldier at the waist like the crack of an egg.

You barely have time to catch sight of the fourth man before you are thrown to the ground again, dirt catching on your palms and digging in.

It feels generous to call it a fight. There is a brief tussle between the new man and the two soldiers that had been holding you prone, before they are brought to heel. Blood seeping into the dirt. Half of the second soldier’s face thuds to the ground, his moustache halved. He stares sightlessly up at the sky, half an expression stuck and immortalised.

You lie in the dirt, watch as your tormentors are silenced, lives ended and left to pool in the soil that you used to dance across when you were younger. It is entirely unfair, the three men that were able to drag you around like a ragdoll, cut into like slabs of cheese.

It’s breathtaking, watching this man save you like it is the easiest thing in the world. He finally stills, the first soldier lying limp on his knees before he is kicked aside. You hysterically wonder if that is what would have been done to you, if these three Englishmen had gotten their way. A passage of time interrupted, snipped like the threads of fate. Time redirected.

You stare up at him, barely able to connect that your arms are your own now, even though you had been wrestling for them to be this entire time.

Your saviour, a bloody mess on his kilt and three dead men around him.

"Thank you," you manage. Voice crackling as you form full words now. The stench of gore is another presence in the yard with you. Thick, you resist the urge to gag as it seems to catch in your teeth as you inhale noisily through your mouth.

The man who saves you is silent, breath heaving out of him. He is massive, with dark hair that is pushed back out of his face. A light beard and red in his kilt. Red everywhere, actually. Staining the white of his cotton shirt beneath the crossover of his kilt, staining his skin. His broadsword is almost the same height as him, almost as wide. Metal catching the sun, glowing red as it drips blood.

It takes the man to stumble back to force you into action. You force yourself up, staggering towards him. You reach the centre of his chest, his breadth suffocating you, encompassing. You catch his bicep to right him, the equivalent of smacking your hand against stone. Now that you are standing chest to chest with him, you realise if he were to fall, you would not be able to catch him.

"Are you alright?" You ask, staring up at him. The blood on his face doesn't seem to be his, for the most part. There is a cut across his brow, leaking a lazy trail of blood down his temple and you almost reach up to touch it without thinking, before you catch yourself.

His eyes are blue. The sky brought down to you.

You almost laugh, delirious. Self-conscious under his rapt gaze. You tilt your head and catch sight of the fire again. As if other sensations had been halted under this man’s gaze, you are brought back to the present with the crackle of fire. You curse under your breath, stepping out of the pull surrounding this man, darting away to get a bucket to extinguish the flames.

You feel the ghost of a hand across your back before you are gone, furiously pumping the handle of the well and tossing the water across to the fire. It takes a few journeys, something that has your hands fumbling as you try to work faster.

The man is there, pulling the bucket away from you even as you try to stop him. He is able to swing the water further, catching more of the flames. His gait is longer than yours, but you notice that he seems to be stumbling as he is putting weight on his right leg.

After you pass him two more full buckets of water, the fire is finally put out. You take stock of the blackened field. All of it razed, deader than the men who are still sinking into the dirt a few feet away from you. You swallow harshly, angry tears pricking at your eyes. It will take a month, longer even, to fix this. You can imagine the devastation on your brother’s face when he sees this. Resist the urge to turn to the corpses and give them a few good kicks.

You want to give into the lump in your throat and cry over this, but the man fills you with purpose. You roughly swipe at your face before you face him, catching him already watching you. “Your leg - is it alright?” You ask, trying to keep the burned field out of sight. Better to focus on what can immediately be fixed.

The man stares at you for a beat too long. Almost as if waiting for you to speak again before he does. "One of the bastards caught me in the leg," he says. His accent is thick, deep in a way that has you flushing. He tilts his leg, lifting his kilt enough for you to see the gash on the back of his calf. The flesh looks torn open, which makes you wince.

"I can patch that up," you offer, grateful at the opportunity to take your mind off of the events of the past hour. You step closer, hands hovering, unsure if he should be walking. "My brother cut his arm on a scythe once, wrist to elbow, and I managed to stitch that up,” you add, even though the man doesn’t seem to care about your past experience with wound tending.

"You the village nurse then?" the man asks, reaching over to drape his arm over your shoulder. There is a moment of his weight pressed into you that almost makes your knees buckle before it is lifted. His hand stays though, warm on your opposite shoulder. He seems to be guiding you into your home more than you are. He is a hot line along your side, hip to hip. The sway as you acclimate to his walk, sturdier on your right leg as if to compensate for his.

“Hardly,” you manage to respond, kicking the door open for him to get inside. “My brother is just clumsy.”

You set him on the chair in your kitchen, bustling around for some cloth and a needle and thread. Your kitchen is like a picture in a book, just how it was when you woke up this morning. Time has not moved here, your mug is still by the sink. Your brother’s boots by the door where he had forgotten them this morning. Life before the fallout, perfectly preserved.

“It’ll look ugly, but it’ll do the job,” you warn, tossing a cushion on the floor to kneel on, gesturing for him to elevate his foot on the other chair.

“I trust you to make my leg as handsome as it was before,” he says, a smile that slips from his mouth when you come back to his side. You kneel down, a wet flannel in your hand that you cover the wound with, wanting to the extent of the damage beneath the aftermath that covers it.

You glance up at him, finding him watching you. Eyes dark now, water before a storm. You give him your name, suddenly realising that you haven't yet. Admonish yourself for being rude.

He breathes it back, like he wants to hold it in his mouth for a moment. “John,” he replies after another pause. “I get called Johnny.”

“Am I allowed to call you Johnny?” You ask, turning back to his leg. You catch sight of his chest stuttering over a breath. You tuck your hair behind your ear, frowning to yourself. You know if your brother were here, then you would not be speaking to this man so casually. That knowledge makes you feel like you are doing something inappropriate. Something to be ‘caught’ doing. Extra dash of sugar before the whip of the belt across your backside.

“Absolutely, angel. Well, dependent on the work you make of my leg,” he adds, tone musing. He seems amused by you, mouth smiling even as his eyes stay that dark colour. Trouble, your brother had described the soldiers. You aren’t so certain he wouldn’t describe Johnny in the same way.

You resolve yourself to your work. It’s not a bad gash, when most of the blood is wiped away. One of the soldiers must’ve stabbed it in, and then pulled it to the side, splitting the flesh. You wonder how he was able to stand on it, nevermind help you with the fire. You murmur a warning before you stab the needle in, threading the wound closed. A thin layer of poultice along the loose white cloth you have, an attempt to prevent any swelling before you wrap this around the wound. Tie the ends. The beginning of a thank you for what Johnny has done for you. His blood stains your hands, sticky into the crevices of your palms.

You squeeze the red out of the flannel and stand, roles reversed. He looks up at you, gaze reverent in a way that makes you faintly embarrassed. “The cut on your brow doesn't seem as bad,” you murmur, half-excusing yourself. You’re not doing anything untoward, but you feel the need to pre-emptively explain yourself. 

You wipe the blood on his face away, other hand hovering uncertainly, before you cup his chin. Hold him in place as you clean him up. It's something that you think would be normal, but feels outrageously intimate with how hot his gaze is on your face. Swallow and watch as his eyes drop to observe your throat move.

You avoid his eye, difficult when you can see that flash of blue darting around. You feel swallowed up by it. His attention feels like the sun has finally reached you, reaching through the wind to land on your skin. Scalding where his eyes land. You’re suddenly aware of the rip in your bodice, how it looks like you are bending over to show him the view down your chest. You snap up straight when you realise that he is looking.

You’re being ridiculous, you decide. This is the man who saved you from those horrible soldiers. A fate worse than death, most likely. Raped, murdered and burned most likely.

The cut on Johnny’s brow as stopped bleeding. “I think you’ll live,” you pronounce, voice falling flat at the end.

Another gap of quiet. Standing over a man who saved you, his blood on your hands. Three dead men in your yard. The burned crops, that smell wafting in, ruin and death.

“You live here alone?” He asks, accent catching on the ‘o’ sounds.

“No, my brother…he's away, fishing,” you explain.

Johnny barely seems to hear you, hand on your wrist. Thumb on your pulse, like he's listening to more than your words. “There may be more soldiers,” he says, gaze dragging away from you to the window. Darting back again as if he can barely stand to not be looking at you. “We have to go.”

You stammer, something in your spine locking at the idea of leaving your home. “I can't, no, this is my home - my brother - Ian - he’ll be -”

Johnny stands, a wall of muscle in front of you. The size of him silencing you. “There are English men dead on your land,” Johnny tells you, fierce suddenly. The snap of teeth. “Now, they may not believe that a sweet thing like you could do this, but they’ll make an example of you anyway.” His words blow the air out of your lungs, a shudder in the shape of a breath. You think about what he’s saying. You, on that post with your back whipped until everyone can see beneath your skin. Saved from the lawless and delivered to the law, the punishment eerily similar.

You shiver, fear worming through you. The scowl on his face smooths out, and he reaches up and cups your face. Sticky with gore, you can feel the print of hands left on your cheeks. “We have to go,” he repeats, firm. The full force of his will is something to bow to.

Your shoulder twinges, familiar with that sensation of being caught and forced into position. You twist your mouth, that ignored lump in your throat making itself known again. You blink up at Johnny, blood in the light beard across his face. The blood of the men who hurt you. Offering to save you. Again.

Your saviour is a stranger in your kitchen, and when you murmur your assent, he smiles like a wolf.

[screechingdefendorpuppy-blog]

Trials and Tribulations

A black furred German Sheppard runs closer to you. A grey hare dangling for its teeth. You smile as you kneel down to greet her, arms wide. "Good job sweetie!" you praise her. She drops the game and accepts the pats you offer her, tongue lulling to her left.

Once satisfied she walks over to a patch of grass sniffing around. Picking up your dinner for tonight, You tie it securely to the side of your pack. Sighing you heave it to your shoulders and call to your dog once more.

"Blue, come girl time to head home." waiting a moment you don't see or hear her.

"Blue? Come one girl." you call once more. Heading over to where see had gone towards. You finally find her after walking past the corner of the abandoned building. "Blu-" you start but stop once you hear it. The unmistakable sound of a loud high pitched whistle, Scars. Getting low to the ground you wait along with Blue a low growl coming from her.

Heartbeat strong in your ears, you survey your surroundings. No matter how many times you have encountered them, fought them, you will never get used to the adrenaline that surges through your body when you hear that sound. After two minutes you decide it is time to head back to you library.

"Lets go Blue." You whisper as you turn to leave companion in tow.

It had been two months since Abby and the salt lake city crew left on their special mission. Almost a full month since their return. First person to come talk to you about it had been Manny. Told you they had found him out of pure luck and how Abby had..

Well that doesn't matter now the deed is done and there was no coming back. There was a fracture there between them and you. Especially with Abby, you were courteous and greeted her when you crossed paths. But you didn't go out of your way to look for her and neither did she.

It had been hard to come to terms with Abby's choice and yours for that matter. At first you had focused on your duties within the WLF. Helping those that got hurt in the field during a patrol. Fighting Scars and scoping for supplies of use.

Then your mindset changed, after loosing another friend to the senseless turf war between Scars and Wolves. You hated this way of life, you wanted better, no, deserved better. With that thought you had made a plan, a plan to leave.

Both you and Owen had a hope to finding other fireflies. To be with those that had similar goals to yours. To leave this military regime that you had found yourself in. He had mentioned of rumors of a base in Santa Barbara. A rumor he had heard from passersby. So with a rumor and hope you left. No word or goodbye's said you walked out of the main gate of the stadium and didn't look back.

That had been two day ago.

Now turning on to the main street, the small library you had taken over as your sanctuary outside of the WLF in site. Finding it had been a blessing. During one of the many adventures you and Abby had taken. Lucky enough that no one besides Abby and your friends know about. It's currently the only place you are safe. Specially after leaving the WLF behind.

It would be a long shot to get to Santa Barbara by yourself, but in this moment it was way better than here. So you had made preparations needed to at least give you a fighting chance. You had gotten then most you could to be able to do the trek. Only one maybe two necessities left.

You pull out the keys to the front door and unluck it. Letting Blue through you wait, a moment passes and she barks the all clear. You could never be too careful, you do live in a post apocalyptic world.

-----

Blue whines as you scrub the soap over her fur.

"Stop whining you stinky butt." You scold her as you continue to scrub dirt off of her. She answers with another whine.

"I told you this would happen if you rolled on that mud patch. Did you listen ? nooo, so now I have to bathe you." you continue to bicker with your fur baby. Smiling softly you grab the cup you had placed on the floor earlier and scope water out of the tub to rinse Blue's fur.

You hum a random tune as you finish up and give her the signal to get out. She does as soon as you give her the ok, but unfortunately you are not fast enough to grab her towel so she shakes the extra moisture off her, making you scream.

"Damn it Blue! You couldn't wait for me to get your towel?"

She huffs as she sits, waiting for you to dry her up. You chuckle and glance out the window as you prepare to do just that. A figure catches your attention in the horizon. You squint your eyes a little to see the figure better with the sunset that illuminates behind them.

"Abby?"

______

You open the door before she gets to knock. Her eyes widen when they land on you her mouth opened a few times but nothing comes out. You stand there in front of each other without knowing what to do. Then the tension is broken by a blur of fur that jumps on to Abby.

She grunts as she lands on her back but ends up in chuckles as Blue attacks her with slobbery kisses all over her face.

"Hi Mamas, oh I have missed you so much." she coos as she greets and gives love to Blue. Blue for her part is full body wagging, happy yaps leaving her as she gives her other mom love and shows how much she had missed her.

A ghost of a smile hits your lips but you stop it before it over powers you. Clearing your throat you step to the side as Abby gets back on her feet. Giving her space to do so Abby enters the library quietly and you close the door shut.

[oacest]

Liam interview in Time Out, July 2000

Below the cut is the Liam-half of an incredibly candid interview the brothers gave in July 2000, in the midst of their mid-tour split. This was originally transcribed by a fellow named Harry Hotspur, one of the hard-working denizens of the Oasis usenet forum (such were the lengths fans went to before they could screenshot and share images easily).

I am posting the text here, as I have not found the same article readily available elsewhere online, and it's an incredible read. The interviewer essentially acts as a therapist, gently countering the more immediate, caustic replies to get at the emotional heart of matters.

Noel's half here.

The Brothers Grim

What with Noel walking off their tour, Liam's marriage crumbling and the new album under-performing, things haven't been going so well for Oasis recently.

In these exclusive, excoriating interviews, the Gallagher brothers talk more frankly than ever before, and admit that if they're not able to sort out their current batch of problems, the end may well be nigh...

LIAM

June 29 Liam Gallagher (27) has been a very busy Manc lately. First, his brother walked out on Oasis's current world tour, after another Bust Up(TM). Then it became clear that Liam's Stormy Marriage(TM) to Patsy 'who's next?' Kensit was reaching its sad but inevitable end. To make matters worse, Liam was followed to this afternoon's north London photo shoot by paparazzi, and he's got hay fever. Unsurprisingly, although likeable, he's tired, serious and a little stressed. After Liam has posed for photos (his Elvis 'Taking Care Of Business' patch prominent), we sit for a chat.

How's the tour going?

Going good, y'know. Considering Noel's not there.

Does it feel different?

Totally. It's just more punky. Not as professional. Just up and running, banging it out, instead of being a bit... dunno. I think we got a bit too slick.

Would you mind Noel not being there if you were a fan?

[Witheringly] Yeah. He writes the songs, you wanna see him there, don't you? We've just gotta sort it out. He's gotta realise that... we've argued before, and we'll argue again. I just wanna be in a band. I don't wanna hear anything about solo albums.

You were getting on pretty well, weren't you?

Yeah, we had been. It's just solo stuff keeps popping up, and I don't like it. It's no good for the band and it's no good for me.

Have you been in touch?

I rang him and he told me to fuck off, so I left it at that. I'll meet him in Dublin the day before the gig and we'll have to have it out there. But we're not splitting up. Even though everyone's saying we should. This is what we do. We've got loads of new songs. There's an album ready to go.

Do you understand why Noel left?

Yeah, 'cause we were arguing. Y'know, he said things to me, I said things to him. Like you do. And that was it. I just said, 'I don't wanna hear about solo albums, you're not putting me on a fucking shelf for a year.'

Why do you think he wants to do solo stuff?

I haven't got a clue. People are saying it's 'cause he's got these songs that aren't Oasis. But you make them Oasis, don't ya?

Do you feel there are more eyes on you on stage now?

Nah, 'cause it's a band. Obviously people are into the two brothers thing, but it's not Noel's band, it's not my band. It'd be good if we all worked together instead of Noel just writing things. I think it's time for *us* now, if we're gonna fuckin', y'know, survive.

It must be hard for him, though, having never written with any of you before. Maybe he's threatened by the idea.

I'm sure he is, but there shouldn't be no threat, it's only for the good of the band. He carries the weight of Oasis on his fuckin' shoulders too much. And you can tell he does, in his writing and in everything. It's like 'share it out'. I'm willing to fuckin' take a chance.

So it's not gonna be a problem getting back with him now?

[Derisively] Nah. We've had arguments before. We're all big boys, we know what we've gotta do. And we were never fucking that close anyway.

How was it through Japan and America?

Japan and America was great. It was just, we were in Barcelona and Alan had pulled a gig 'cause of his hand and we were sat about in the dressing room drinking. It was just a pissed-up fucking argument. And then we had a fight. And he won, I'll give him that. And he got off and I stayed the night in Barcelona and he went to Paris and I met him again - I was still pissed up - in the hotel in Paris and we had another little ding-dong and that's it.

Do you think...

[Interrupts] But I'm sure he thought we'd come home after him. But I thought: Well, fuck that, there's no point. I'm not gonna be able to get in my house, with the press. And once I'm in, I'm not gonna be able to get out. And I'm not living like that any more. Fuck it. So I thought: We'll have a crack. It was the first time we'd ever worked together as a fuckin' band. And it felt nice. And it's a shame he wasn't there.

Who should be apologising?

Well, I've apologised, I'm man enough to apologise and I'm man enough to say I was wrong.

So you were out of order?

[Passionately] I was out of order and he was out of order. We were both totally out of order. We've just gotta fuckin'... [Quietly] I dunno. Y'know, we're always gonna argue.

Are you enjoying life?

[Hesitates] Yeah, it's good, I can't complain. No one's dead, are they? I've got a beautiful baby and I'm buzzing off him. Shit's not right at home with me missus, but that'll get sorted. Y'know, there's no point dwelling on it.

How's London life?

I'm moving, man. Gonna go to the country for a bit.

You're selling the house, aren't you?

Yeah. D'ya wanna buy it?

I wish I could afford it. £1.5 million...

More than that, mate. Two point fucking eight. [It's later reported that the house has been sold for £2.5m.]

What about the whole drink and drugs thing?

No drugs, man. I've had enough. For the time being. I've not given up, but [yawns] I just can't be bothered. Got too much shit going on in my life to be snorting gear. I've got a kid to look after, I've gotta be strong. But I like a pint.

What do you drink?

Anything.

You're not giving that up then?

You can't give up fuckin' booze, man. A couple of pints is okay. And I have a lot of pints, I can drink for England, but you can only drink so much before you're asleep.

You don't think you've ever had a problem with drinking?

I don't think so. No. I just like to drink. I could give it up like that, but who am I giving it up for? For some other cunt? If you don't wanna drink, then don't drink. If you wanna do summat, do it.

Yeah, but if you're getting reliant...

No. I drink 'cause I want to. Not because I need to. It's like, if some shit goes on I don't go 'Oh fuck, I need a drink'. There's no booze in my house. If I was a big heavy fucking drinker, which all these idiots think I am, there'd be beer in my house. It's full of water, my house, and the only time I have a drink is when I go to the pub.

Are people saying you shouldn't?

I dunno. Our kid reckons I shouldn't drink. Y'know, I reckon... There's a lot of things he shouldn't do.

Isn't he looking out for you? I mean, do you love each other?

I adore him. And if anyone bad-mouthed him I'd rip their fuckin' head off. And he'd do the same for me. It's a love - hate relationship. I wanna be him. He wants to be me. Y'know, he wants to be a singer and I want to be a songwriter.

What about your kid? How's he?

He's rocking. He's starting to crawl. He growls. He just goes 'grrrr'. He don't go 'ga ga goo goo'.

You like the current album?

I think it's great.

And it's sold 500,000 copies here.

That's a lot of records. But I don't give a fuck. You can't go 'Right, we're gonna write a record and it's gonna sell *that* amount.' It goes where it goes.

The first Stone Roses album sold less than 500,000.

And that's great.

Yeah, and Johnny Hates Jazz sold more. And who remembers Johnny Hates Jazz?

You. You've just mentioned them. You had them on before you came out! And I tell you fuckin' what, fair play to him 'cause I hate jazz an' all.

[casstheasswrites]

NO SAINTS, NO SAVIOURS (18)

pairing: frank castle x reader (female)

summary: wrong place, wrong time. he saved her life, she patched him up. that should’ve been the end of it. some nights, you survive. others, you change.

trigger warnings: canon typical violence including blood and death. ptsd, trauma, eventual smut. at times, you get soft!frank. at others, he takes no prisoners. we love the duality of man <3

chapter length: 11.4k (dang)

authors note: i'm now writing in real time and will post at the same time when chapters are ready, here and on AO3. i hope you enjoy and pls pls send me a message with your feedback or thoughts, if you have any! thanks a million.

tag list: @thelastemzy @its-in-the-woods @wkhannah @h0neylemon

archive of our own / feedback appreciated!

You moved like shadow.

All black— thick sweatshirt layered beneath your jacket, sleeves pulled tight at the wrists, black jeans tucked into your boots. Your beanie was pulled low over your forehead, dark strands of hair tucked beneath it in loose, chaotic layers. A few pieces slipped free around your jaw, damp with sweat and the salt of your breath, but you didn’t stop to fix them. The chill in the air was sharp and wet, coiled tight with the brine of the Hudson.

You were early. Intentionally.

An hour before the timestamp in the message. You wanted time. Space. Distance. If Frank showed up— and you were sure that he would— you needed to see him first. Not the other way around.

You stuck to the shadows, creeping along the outer edge of the waterfront lot. The warehouse loomed in the distance like a crouched animal, half-devoured by ivy and rust. Corrugated steel walls curved inward at odd angles, like time had chewed them soft and never spit them back out. The only signs of life were the hum of idling engines and a dim yellow glow leaking through the grime-slicked windows high above.

You crouched behind a stack of battered shipping pallets, trying to listen to your surroundings, trying to get your bearings. The wood was wet, soaked from the snow of the night before, the stench of it overwhelming your senses for a beat before you managed to shut it out.

You could hear voices in the distance— muted, quiet. Maybe seven or eight. You couldn’t make out the words, but the cadence was too calm for workers. There was no urgency; just a practiced, unhealthy sense of safety.

One of the vans parked outside rumbled gently, a half-hearted idle that vibrated beneath your boots. You stayed clear of the beams of the overhead security light— watched it flick slowly from left to right, like a bored sentry. Every ten seconds, it swept back across the lot. A predictable rhythm. You clocked it.

Breathe in. One… two…

Breathe out. Three… four…

Move.

Your heart slammed against your ribs, loud and insistent— but your hands didn’t shake. Your stomach clenched tight, instead, a fist twisting low in your gut. A thin sheen of sweat gathered at the base of your spine despite the cold. You told yourself it was adrenaline— just adrenaline— and not doubt. But the fear had hollowed itself out inside of you, leaving only grit in its place. Not calm. Not courage. Just the refusal to fall apart.

You pulled your gloves tighter, flexing your fingers against the grip of your pistol. Your knife was tucked into the back pocket of your jeans, poking into your skin with each subtle shift, each step forward. You’d pulled it from Frank’s bag without thinking. It felt heavier than it should have. Deadlier, too.

You didn’t want to use it.

But you would.

You’d spent years trying to be good. Tried to stitch your worth back together one patient at a time, one clean bandage, one life steadied by your hands. But this— this wasn’t that.

If Frank knew what you were doing, he’d drag you back by the collar. Tell you this wasn’t your fight, that you were going to get yourself killed. That you were trying too hard to die a martyr when no one asked you to.

But maybe it wasn’t martyrdom. Maybe it was penance.

One unforgivable thing. One push. One scream. One ruined life… regardless of if he deserved it or not.

You could still see his face. Still hear the crack of bone against stone. You told yourself it was self-defence. You told yourself it was justified. But you’d never stopped paying for it. Never stopped being haunted by it in your dreams, or in the undercurrent of unspoken emotion in your mother’s voice when you talked to her on the phone.

The wind sliced sideways through the lot, picking up flecks of grime from the gravel, lashing against your cheeks like sandpaper. It smelled like exhaust and decay— like the kind of place where people disappeared.

You stayed crouched, studying angles, entrances, blind spots.

Your eyes landed on the rear of the warehouse, the side that faced the waterfront— where a wide loading bay jutted out from the main structure, surrounded by long box trucks and stacks of forgotten crates. No cameras you could see. No guards posted directly nearby. Just a single floodlight, flickering faintly over the lot like it was half-asleep.

That was your shot.

You moved low and fast, body tight to the ground, crossing the front of the building in small bursts timed to the lazy swing of the light. Every step felt like a decision. Every decision felt like a dare.

You weren’t sure what you’d find. Weren’t sure what Frank already knew— or what he was walking into.

But you knew one thing for certain.

You’d be the one to see it first.

You reached the cover of a shipping container, pressed your back against the cold metal, and waited. The gentle murmur of voices carried from somewhere inside the building— farther away now but still steady and casual. No alarms. No motion. Just the business of men who didn’t expect to be interrupted.

You crept around the far edge of the container, staying in the shadow of the trucks. There were three of them, lined up in a staggered row, each one dark and still except for the faint heat shimmer rising off the closest front hood. That one had been running recently.

You paused near the front corner of the truck, breath catching. You lifted a hand to the front hood, pressed your gloved hand to the white metal— it was warm beneath your palm. Your leg shook once, just above the knee, and you forced it still.

The truck was parked with its back to the building, hidden from direct view. You tiptoed your way down the long side of it, moving slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible. As you reached the back, your eyes examined every inch. There were no locks on the latch— just the heavy metal bars twisted shut. Your gloved hand hovered over the handle.

Your breath stuttered in your chest. Every part of you buzzed with the tension of a wrong answer. Your hand hovered like it might disappear through the metal if you waited long enough.

You thought of Frank’s voice again— low and rough in your ear.

“Stop doubting yourself— I don’t, not for a second.”

Your gut was telling you so many things, it was hard to sort through them all.

It was whispering hurry. But it was also screaming this is fucking insane.

You hovered at the back latch for a full ten seconds, ears straining for footsteps that never came. Every instinct screamed not to move. But every second wasted tightened the noose.

Nothing but the faint clink of chains in the distance and the low thrum of machinery behind warehouse walls.

Finally, you decided.

You lifted the latch.

Slow. Quiet.

The metal shifted with a soft creak, hinges stiff from cold. You opened it just enough to slip inside the space— then you froze.

The air hit you first.

Not cold, but damp. Human. Like breath and sweat and fear, all stewing in stale, recycled air. You blinked into the dark and saw the whites of eyes before anything else. Dozens of them. Wide and silent. A child whimpered somewhere near the back, the sound muffled by a hand that moved quickly to hush them.

People.

Men. Women. Children. Cramped into the metal box like livestock.

A girl near the door looked up at you. She was a teenager with hollowed-out cheeks. Her mouth moved like she wanted to say something, but no sound came. Just a soft, rasping exhale. The others stayed silent. Still.

Your stomach lurched. You stepped back a half inch to keep from retching into your glove.

And then— nothing.

Everything went quiet. Like you’d jumped into the deep end of the pool and the water had muffled the sounds of the outside world.

Your vision narrowed, black at the edges. Like looking down the wrong end of a tunnel. You couldn’t feel your feet anymore. Couldn’t feel the cold. Just the throb in your ears and the way your hand clutched the grip of your pistol like it was the only thing anchoring you to the moment.

You counted things, like you always did.

Three shaky breaths, pressed in and out of your chest with a strained effort.

One strip of fluorescent tape peeling from the roof.

The outline of four ribs visible on the girl in front of you, pressed flat against the material of her sweater.

The human mind could do that, you realized. Flatten something unbearable into numbers and observations.

A coping mechanism. A defense.

You knew it clinically, you’d seen it in trauma patients. But now it was happening to you.

This wasn’t a weapons drop. This wasn’t contraband or guns or drugs. This was a holding unit.

Your throat closed up, nausea clawing at the empty pit of your stomach.

They’re trafficking them.

The thought slammed into you like a punch to the chest. Not metaphorical. Not abstract. Flesh and blood. Living, breathing proof. You’d been right. You hadn’t wanted to be… but you were.

You forced yourself to move. To lift your hands slowly, just enough to show the pistol. Gripped, but lowered. Not raised. Not aimed. The barrel pointed down at the ground, your trigger finger held flat along the frame like Frank had taught you. A signal. Not a threat.

“I’m not here to hurt you,” you whispered. “I swear. I’m here to help.”

Dozens of eyes blinked back at you through the dark. Wide. Hollow. Silent. No one moved. No one spoke.

No one trusted you.

And why would they? You wouldn’t have, if you’d been in their position.

You looked from face to face, scanning for some flicker of recognition, some sign of belief. But all you saw was fear and resignation. The kind that didn’t go away when the doors opened. The kind that had burrowed itself so deep it might never come free again.

You swallowed hard, the weight of the moment scraping your throat raw. You turned, peered out the back of the truck again, mind racing. The keys. There had to be keys. There was no way they’d leave something like this unguarded— but maybe whoever was supposed to be watching had stepped away. Or maybe they just didn’t think anyone would be stupid enough to try.

But you were.

You turned back toward the group and took a slow step closer, crouching slightly to meet the eyes of the girl nearest to you. She looked no older than seventeen. Dirt streaked one side of her face, and her lip was split. But she held your gaze, steady and sharp.

“There are more trucks out there. More people,” you said, though it wasn’t a question. Your voice was barely louder than a breath. “We need to get you guys out of here.”

A pause. Then, finally, the girl nodded. A glimmer of something— hope, maybe— flickered across her eyes.

You scanned the interior again. People were packed in tight— men, women, kids, one older woman clutching a child against her chest. Your heart cracked at the sight; you wanted to scream, to yell, to cry. The things these people had been through; the things they had seen.

“I need to find the keys,” you said, firmer now, eyes scanning the group. If this was going to work— if you were going to get them out— they needed to help. You needed their help just as much as they needed yours. “Do any of you know where they keep them?”

Silence.

Then, from the back corner, a voice— raspy, male. “Ignitions. Usually.”

Your eyes snapped toward it.

He stepped forward slowly, just far enough for you to make out the shape of him. Thin. Beard patchy. Blood on his shirt— old or new, you couldn’t tell. But his tone was clear. Tired, but sure.

“They warm the engines sometimes. Turn ‘em on for five minutes, then cut ‘em again. Keep it, and us, from freezing up, I guess. They leave the keys in the ignition.”

Your chest tightened. It was a risk. But it was the only chance you had— and you were already too far in to walk it back.

“Okay,” you said, more to yourself than anyone else. “Okay. That helps.”

You stepped back toward the door, glanced once more around the lot outside. Nothing looked amiss, there was no movement or sound that hadn’t been there before.

You didn’t have time to hesitate. The longer you waited, the more likely someone would notice the truck was open. The more likely Frank would show up and find the whole thing already burning.

You looked back inside, met the girl’s eyes again.

“I need someone to come with me,” you said, voice low but steady. “I need someone to drive.”

A beat of silence. Heavy. Suspended.

Then: movement.

The same man who had spoken earlier stepped forward, pushing past a few others with a quiet nod. He looked older now that you could see him clearly— mid-forties, maybe, though there was a hardness about him that poked at something dark and hidden inside of you. His clothes hung off him and one eye was swollen nearly shut. But his hands didn’t shake when he reached the edge.

“I can drive,” he said simply. “I was a long-haul trucker before— before all this.”

You nodded once, sharp. You didn’t have time to hesitate— didn’t have time to pause.

“Good. Come on.”

He dropped from the back of the truck after you and followed as you moved quickly toward the cab. You kept your head down, eyes scanning the lot. Still no movement. Still no alarm. But you could feel the minutes peeling away, too fast. If whoever had been guarding the trucks had simply stepped away for a bathroom break or to reconnect with the group… you were running out of time. Quickly.

The cab door creaked as you opened it, hinges stiff with cold. The keys were there— just like he said— dangling from the ignition like an afterthought. You climbed up first, checked the footwell, the seats, the visors. No surprises.

You pulled back and pushed the door open wide, gesturing for him to hop in. He did, settling into the seat, clicking the seatbelt over his chest with a practiced, automatic grasp. Though his movements were slow and sure, his breathing came quick— already beginning to fill the cab, cling to the glass of the windshield like fog.

“Don’t start it until I say,” you told him. “I need to get the other trucks open, find someone to drive them, too. When I give you the signal, get this one out. Quiet at first— then fast. Don’t slow down. Don’t stop. Just get the hell out.”

He looked at you for a second longer than necessary. Not questioning— just taking you in. You could see the questions in his eyes; but you both knew that now was not the time.

“You sure about this?” he asked.

“No. Not even a little.”

A beat. Then he nodded. And that was enough.

You climbed back down and shut the door behind you with a soft click.

The wind cut sharper now. It sliced across your cheeks and into the gaps between your knuckles, but you didn’t stop moving. You ducked behind the front bumper, took a breath, and scanned the next row of trucks. Every instinct told you to run. To disappear.

But running was what they expected.

You were going to open every last truck. You weren’t going to stop until it was done.

The next truck sat about ten feet down the row. Far enough that you’d be exposed if anyone stepped out the back door. You moved anyway.

Each step felt slower than the last, like your legs were caught in syrup. Your body was starting to catch up to the panic— heart pounding high in your throat now, breath turning short and thin. Not from exertion. From dread. There wasn’t time to feel it, but it leaked through anyway. Crawled into your bloodstream.

You crouched beside the next truck, breath coming in shallow bursts, hands braced against your knees. They cracked like old wood. You weren’t sure if it was exhaustion or age or the creeping edge of panic, curling around your joints like frostbite. Your muscles burned from tension held too long. The sharpness in your fingers had dulled into a tingling ache. And your thoughts… they didn’t race. Not anymore. They moved slow and heavy, like wading through knee-deep water.

You weren’t built for this.

Not in the way Frank was.

He would’ve had the whole perimeter mapped by now. He would’ve cleared the building, taken out the guards, freed the people without making a sound. But you didn’t have his speed. His brutality.

But you had something else.

You had purpose. Grit. A body still moving long after fear should’ve stopped it.

Your hand reached for the latch.

It stuck— cold metal resisting the heat of your fingers through the glove. You adjusted your grip, tried again, slower. Less noise. You counted under your breath, not because it helped, but because you needed something to hold onto.

Three. Two. One.

The bar gave with a dull thunk, and the door opened just wide enough for you to slip inside.

The air was worse this time— thicker, heavier. It smelled like piss and breath and despair, the kind of scent that settled into the back of your throat and stayed there. You didn’t flinch, but your stomach rolled once before steadying.

Inside, the people stared back at you with guarded silence. No children in this one. Mostly men, a few women near the back. Their eyes didn’t hold fear. Not like the others. These ones held calculation, suspicion. A readiness you hadn’t expected.

A man near the front moved. Slowly at first. Then fast.

You didn’t have time to think— only to react.

He lunged for you, arms out, not in desperation, but with intent. He wasn’t trying to run. He was going for your weapon.

Your instincts took over. You stepped sideways, just like Frank had shown you, twisted your hips and used the momentum of his own weight to shove his arm down and away. Your knee drove up into his thigh, not hard enough to cripple, but enough to stagger him. Your hands moved fast— clumsy, but direct— gripping his wrist and using the angle of the truck wall to force him back.

He hit it with a dull grunt, one that echoed so painfully you flinched, and you planted yourself between him and the rest of the group.

Your pistol was in your hands now, low and tight, the barrel angled toward the floor. Not raised. Not aimed. But ready.

“Don’t,” you snapped. “I’m not one of them.”

He was breathing hard, eyes narrowed, muscles still taut like he hadn’t decided whether to try again. You didn’t blink, didn’t waver.

“Look at me,” you hissed. “Do I look like I belong here? Do I look like one of them? I came to get you out.”

His jaw worked, but he didn’t move again.

You took a breath. Then another. You were aware of how loud they sounded in the silence. How heavy your boots felt against the metal floor. How your hands trembled slightly, even as they held firm.

“I’ve got another truck ready, there’s a driver already in place. But I need someone here who can move this one… someone who can keep it together.”

Stillness.

Then a figure stepped forward from the far-right side. You turned at the movement, though you kept the man who’d lunged at you in the corner of your vision, readjusting yourself for the sake of your safety. One of the few women had stepped forward— maybe mid-thirties, maybe older, it was hard to tell in the dark. Her hair was pulled back in a loose, fraying twist, and her jaw was set with something that looked a lot like resolve.

“I can drive,” she said, steady. Her eyes were a little wild, gave you a brief moment of pause. But you had to remember that these people had been trapped— for how long, you couldn’t be sure. Days or weeks, maybe, but the state they were in. That would give anyone a little bit of bite in their eyes. “I work for the post office… this truck’s just a bit bigger than I’m used to. I can handle it.”

You didn’t even question it. Just nodded, motioned her toward the edge.

“Come on then. Keep your head down and wait for my signal. When that first truck moves, you’re right behind it.”

You dropped down first, scanned the lot again— still quiet, though something in the air felt different now. Like the stillness was getting ready to snap. She followed, quick and quiet, moving like someone used to doing things that mattered under pressure.

You opened the cab door for her. The keys were there again, just like before. Just like the man had said. You scanned the floor, the dash, the passenger seat— nothing waiting for either of you. Nothing dangerous. Not yet.

She climbed inside, hands settling on the wheel with a certainty that steadied something in your chest.

“When you hear the first engine, that’s your cue,” you told her. “Go quiet at first. Then fast. Don’t stop. Don’t wait. Just drive until you get far enough away.”

She nodded once, and that was enough.

You shut the door with a soft click and stepped back into the dark.

Your fingers were stiff and your shoulders ached from the tension you hadn’t been able to shake since you left the church bunkhouse. Your ribs hurt. A dull, aching pain that you weren’t quite able to place.

There was one more truck.

Just one more.

You could do this. You had to do this.

If you stopped now— if you faltered— it would all fall apart. You’d be the reason they were recaptured. Retraumatized. Or worse.

So you moved. Because motion was the only thing keeping the fear from catching up.

Your boots crunched against the gravel. The wind howled louder now, and somewhere in the distance, a voice shouted something you couldn’t make out.

You didn’t turn toward it. Instead, you started running. Straight for the last truck.

The wind tore across your cheeks, turned your breath ragged. Your boots hit the ground hard enough to send sharp jolts through your legs, but you didn’t slow. Couldn’t. The lot was starting to shift— shouting growing louder in the distance now, lights swinging out across the open. The time for quiet was over.

You reached the final truck in a sprint, skidding around the back as your hands went for the latch. It stuck. You growled under your breath, gloved fingers slipping once against the metal before catching. You yanked hard— no more time for caution— and the door flew open with a groan that echoed too loud in the air.

The air that rushed out hit you like a wall— stale and sour, thick with body heat and the faintest trace of gasoline. Inside, people shifted, startled by the light and movement. A dozen or so. Maybe more. All blinking into the darkness like they weren’t sure you were real.

You scanned the space and grabbed the first person near the edge.

A girl.

Teenage, maybe sixteen. Maybe younger.

She flinched the moment your hand touched her arm, and you let go immediately, raising your hands to show you weren’t a threat. But the damage was done. She’d already shrunk back like she expected to be hit.

She was pretty, in a way that made your stomach twist— because you could already see how the world had tried to ruin her for it. Her blonde hair was tangled and matted, streaked with sweat and soot. Her eyes— startling blue, glassy with panic—locked onto yours. There were tear tracks carved through the grime on her cheeks, freckles dotted across her nose like remnants of a life that used to be normal.

Freckles.

That caught you.

Not because they were unusual. But because they looked like yours. The same scatter, the same faded sun-kiss from summers spent outside before everything had gone dark. You wondered if anyone had ever told her they were pretty. Or if— like you— she’d learned to cover them up the moment people started looking at her too long.

Her shirt hung torn down one side, crooked off her shoulder. She was shaking so hard it made her knees knock together.

But she didn’t look away.

She looked at you— like you were something impossible. Her gaze zeroed in on the pistol gripped in your hand.

You bent your knees, easing into a crouch to get eye level with her.

“Hey,” you said softly. “Can you drive?”

Your voice cracked from cold and fear, but you kept it steady enough.

“Have you ever driven a truck?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened once, then closed. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked.

“I—I mean… a little,” she stammered. “Once or twice. My dad let me try his pickup. Just on back roads, I wasn’t— I don’t know how to—”

“Okay,” you said, gently. “That’s okay. You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to move it.”

Her breath hitched. She looked like she was about to cry again. You didn’t blame her.

“I can’t— I don’t know if I can—what if I mess it up—what if they come after me—what if—”

Her voice pitched up in panic, tripping over itself. You reached out— slower this time— and placed your hand lightly on her shoulder.

Her skin was cold beneath the sweat. Fragile. Familiar.

“Hey.” You softened your voice to a whisper. “Look at me.”

She did.

“I know that feeling. Like you’re frozen. Like something inside you is going to crack if you move too fast.”

You paused. “I’ve been there. I’ve felt that.”

Her eyes flickered, surprised.

“But you’re still here,” you said. “And so am I.”

You didn’t tell her she had to be brave. You didn’t lie and say she’d be okay.

“You don’t have to be brave. You just have to breathe.”

You tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. It trembled against your knuckles.

“Do you want to get out of here?” you asked.

She nodded. Quick. Jerky.

“Then this is how you do it. You climb into that cab, and when you see the other trucks go, you follow. You turn the key, you hold the wheel, and you drive. Don’t look back. Don’t stop. Just keep going until you’re safe.”

Her lip quivered. “But what if I mess up— what if I freeze— what if they—”

“They’re already coming,” you said, a little firmer now. “So don’t wait for them to find you standing still.”

She didn’t answer. But her fists clenched at her sides, knuckles whitening. You saw it then. The flicker. The shift.

The moment fear made room for something else. Not absence of fear— but purpose in spite of it.

You knew that moment. You’d lived it.

She reminded you of yourself in ways you hadn’t expected. Not just the freckles or the wide, wounded eyes. But the way she held herself— like someone used to being small and unnoticed. Until the day she wasn’t. Until the day she had to choose.

You held out your hand. “Can you do this?”

A pause.

Then she reached for you. Her hand slid into yours, rough and cold and trembling— but she held on. Tighter than you expected. Tighter than she had to. She nodded once, steadier than before.

You didn’t let go of her. Instead, you held on tighter, squeezed her hand within your own.

“Okay,” you whispered. “Come with me.”

You helped her down from the truck, steadied her when her knees gave out. She clung to your wrist now, not in fear, but like she was anchoring herself to something solid. You let her. Led her to the cab, opened the door, checked the seat, the floor, the dash. Keys in place.

She climbed up. Gripped the wheel with both hands. Still shaking. Still breathing.

“When you see the others move, that’s your cue,” you told her, lifting a hand to point in the direction of the other two trucks. Her gaze followed the movement, eyes still wide. “Go quiet. Then fast. Don’t stop.”

She looked down at you, eyes shining. Uncertainty flickered there again.

“You’re already doing it,” you said. “Just finish.”

This time, she nodded without hesitation.

And she didn’t look like she was waiting to be saved anymore.

You shut the door behind her with a soft click, but the sound felt final. Like a door closing on something you weren’t sure you’d ever get back.

You took a step back and stared through the windshield. She was still gripping the wheel, knuckles white, eyes locked forward. Her chest moved fast, but it was movement. She was still here. Still listening.

Good.

You knew this moment wouldn’t leave you.

Not the smell. Not the silence. Not the look in her eyes. The strength she’d ripped from somewhere deep inside of herself and clung to now, to keep herself upright. To keep herself moving forward, surviving.

You could dig your way out of anything— grit your teeth, stitch your wounds, scrub the blood off your hands.

But you didn’t know if you could scrub this out.

Your feet hit the gravel, one step, then another, but your body didn’t feel like it belonged to you anymore. It felt distant— heavy and fast at the same time, like you were stuck inside it, watching it move through molasses. Every breath scraped against your ribs. Your lungs felt too small for the air around them.

It was almost time.

You turned, eyes sweeping the lot.

Chaos had bloomed.

Shouts echoed from the far side of the building, louder now, sharper. The crackle of radios, the thud of boots on packed dirt, the beam of a flashlight swinging too close to where you stood. The stillness had broken. They knew something was wrong.

You had to move. You had to give them a chance.

Your hand tightened around the grip of the pistol at your side. It felt heavier than it had a minute ago. Not because it had changed— because you had. Because you knew, deep in your gut, that this was the moment you couldn’t take back.

You would not walk out of this untouched.

You moved. You didn’t think— you just moved.

You sprinted forward, cutting across the open space between the trucks, arms pumping, heart battering the inside of your ribs like it was trying to escape.

Flashlights swung toward you— first one, then two, then more. Voices shouted. Someone screamed for backup. You kept going. The ground blurred beneath your feet, gravel crunching loud in your ears.

You passed the first cab— saw the long-haul driver’s chin twist towards you, your eyes locking through the glass of the window. You gave a quick, sudden nod, the movement more a jolt than anything else.

Now.

Now.

You didn’t stop running— but your arm lifted, and you fired.

The first shot cracked the night wide open. It echoed across the lot like thunder.

It hit the man nearest to the loading bay. He was tall, stocky, his outline framed by the glare of the floodlight behind him. You aimed center mass, and the bullet punched into his chest just left of the sternum. He stumbled, dropped whatever weapon he was holding, and collapsed to his knees like the ground had betrayed him. Then he crumpled.

The second man was already yelling, raising his rifle. He had dark hair pulled back in a loose tie, a thick jacket that flared out as he turned. You aimed higher. Fired. The round caught him in the shoulder— his dominant side, if you had to guess, because his grip faltered instantly. The gun dropped. He screamed and spun sideways, slamming into the edge of a crate.

You pivoted, breath sharp, steps uneven now on the gravel. Your balance clipped, you tipped a bit too far to one side, but you kept going. Overcompensated for the uneasiness, strained the muscles of your thighs to keep yourself upright.

A third figure emerged from between two vans at the front of the warehouse— leaner, faster, holding a pistol low at his hip. You didn’t wait for him to raise it. You’d made it to a stack of pallets and twisted around the edge of them, peeking just far enough around the corner to aim. The man was moving, faster than the others, and you fired the shot too soon. The bullet clipped his thigh instead of his chest and he went down hard, face contorting with pain, though he still kept a hold of his weapon. Just as he lifted it, intended to fire back at you, you ducked behind the pallet.

You exhaled, fast and loud, lungs dragging air like it cost you something.

Then the return fire came.

Violent. Immediate.

Bullets screamed past your head, punched into the crates behind you. Wood exploded above your shoulder, splinters ripping through the air and peppering your neck. One whizzed so close to your ear it left a trail of heat. You flinched, breath catching in your throat. One bullet struck a metal drum two feet to your right with a sound like thunder. Another hit the gravel at your heels, spraying dirt up into your shoes, clouding the air around you with dust.

You stumbled low and moved, unsteady, ducking behind a stack of barrels, shoulder slamming hard against cold metal. The impact rattled your bones, knocked your breath sideways. You coughed once, tasted copper.

And just like that— you were back.

The subway. A hand twisting your arm behind your back, the cool metal of the gun barrel against your temple. Blood splattered across concrete, leading a trail right towards you.

The hospital. Dark, lifeless eyes peering across you in trauma room six, the long, serrated edge of the knife as it glimmered in the florescent lights above. Max’s hands, clutched in his lap, covered in his own blood.

For half a second, the panic surged. Your arms swung wildly as you turned, aiming your gun at things that were not there.

The terror was raw. Crushing. Like someone had settled a heavy weight directly on your chest, pining you to the floor.

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe.

But then—

A truck engine roared. The smell of diesel.

And it snapped you back.

You weren’t in the hospital.

You were here. You had a weapon. You had choices.

You fought.

You threw yourself behind the barrels again, skidding against the travel, ripping open your jacket and scraping your elbow, but you didn’t care. You rose, fired off another shot toward the man who you’d grazed in the leg. He was half bent, one hand pressed to the outpouring of blood from his first wound, the second wrapped half-heartedly around his weapon.

This time, your shot hit him in the gut.

He folded. Hard. His gun clattered to the ground, disappearing under the van next to him. He didn’t get back up.

One of the men tried to flank you, shouting orders in Spanish you couldn’t understand— but you saw the glint of his weapon first. You turned fast, dropped low, and fired twice.

The first bullet missed. The second hit him square in the collarbone, spinning him sideways with a cry.

You were running out of time.

Almost out of bullets.

But the trucks were moving.

You heard them now— heard the screech of tires, the roar of acceleration, the scream of momentum finally unleashed. Headlights flared in your periphery as one barreled down the narrow exit path. Then another.

You couldn’t see the girl, but you hoped— God, you hoped— she’d found her courage. That her hands were still on the wheel. That her foot was pressed to the gas.

You gritted your teeth and turned back toward the warehouse.

Still more coming.

Still more guns.

But your legs hadn’t stopped working.

And neither had your hands.

The next man came out of nowhere.

One second you were scanning for new targets, trying to catch your breath, trying to think past the ringing in your ears. The next, he was on you. A dark blur surging from your left— no warning, no shout, no hesitation. His shoulder slammed into your ribs, knocking the breath from your lungs so fast it felt like a scream caught in reverse. The world flipped. Gravel tore at your back. The sky blinked out behind his weight.

You hit the ground hard enough to jolt your bones.

Your pistol skidded from your grip, spinning across the gravel and disappearing under the edge of a crate. Useless. Gone.

He landed on top of you with full force, forearm driving toward your throat. You twisted just enough to avoid the crush of it, but his arm still caught your jaw— hard— cutting your cheek open along the edge of his jacket buckle. Blood flooded your mouth. You tasted rust and sweat and dirt.

His other hand clawed down your side. Clumsy. Desperate.

Your knife.

He’d felt it. Or seen it.

You reacted on instinct.

You shoved your knee into his ribs— not a clean strike, but enough to jolt him— and your hand shot down to your belt. Your fingers closed around the hilt and you pulled, hard. The motion tore something in your shoulder, but you didn’t care.

You brought the knife up fast, driving it into the soft space between his lower ribs.

He screamed.

A horrible, gurgling sound, full of shock and pain. But he didn’t stop. Didn’t fall.

So you did it again.

Higher this time, just beneath the breastbone. The blade caught on something— cartilage, maybe. You had to shove harder to push it through. His eyes went wide. His grip faltered.

You twisted, rolled with his weight, and forced him onto his side. He sagged against the ground, mouth open, gasping. Blood bubbled at the corner of his lips.

You shoved him off you, hard, and dragged yourself upright.

Your hands were covered in it.

Sticky, hot, slippery across your palms. It coated your gloves, soaked into the seams. Your heartbeat thundered. You could barely hear over it. You ripped the ruined, damp material from your fingers, throwing them to the ground next to the man’s body. You were shaking so bad your teeth had begun to chatter.

The man wasn’t moving.

You stared at him for a beat too long, chest heaving. The world spun. Your mouth was full of metal and your hands were covered in his thick, crimson blood. Your stomach turned, but you didn’t throw up. You just moved— legs shaking, knees screaming, mind detached from your body like it was watching from a distance.

Then the gunshot came. Different than you’d heard before— not a pistol or a rifle.

Clean. Sharp. Distant.

You flinched and turned— expecting another enemy. Another person to fight off.

But instead, twenty feet away, a man dropped mid-sprint. No cry. No stumble. Just stopped. Dropped like something unseen had snatched the soul from his body. A neat hole just above the bridge of his nose.

You blinked. Whirled around, eyes searching.

But there was no one nearby. No shooter.

Then, just beyond the fence line, a shimmer— barely visible. The glint of light on glass. A scope, high atop a rooftop, yards and yards away. Still. Focused.

Someone was up there.

Someone was watching.

Someone had saved your life.

Your stomach twisted again. Gratitude warred with dread. You didn’t know who it was. Didn’t have time to find out.

You bent down, scooped up your pistol, and turned— just in time to see another man closing in.

You fired once— missed. Tried again, but your gun clicked in protest. You were empty, out of bullets.

He tackled you before you could do so much as scream. You crashed to the ground a second time, ribs screaming in protest. The breath was gone again, stolen like it didn’t belong to you.

He punched you. Hard. Once. Twice. His knuckles split the inside of your lip, and your vision went white at the edges.

You screamed through your teeth and slammed the heel of your hand into his chin.

He jerked back, just enough. You surged forward with what little strength you had left and stabbed.

Once.

Twice.

You weren’t aiming. You weren’t thinking. Just moving, just surviving. Your knife slit across the line of his throat, pulling the blood from him in sudden, thick bursts.

His weight collapsed forward— slack and hot and leaking all over you. His hands darted to this throat, trying to slow the bleeding, but it was no use. You’d hit an artery; he’d be dead in less than three minutes. As his body fell towards you, you shoved him off, a sob you hadn’t meant to let out escaping.

Your hands were soaked in blood. Again.

Your arms were slick to the elbows, and your legs barely held you upright when you stood, half-crouched. Your ears rang. Your head pounded. Everything smelled like copper and gunpowder and oil. You gaze wandered to the second man, something like a light bulb flickering on inside your mind.

You dropped to your knees beside him before his body had fully stilled, breath tearing through your chest in ragged bursts. You felt his eyes, heavy-lidded and barely seeing, track your movements. Your own pistol was light— too light. Empty. No more rounds. You tossed it aside and instead clawed at the man’s jacket, searching. Blood soaked everything— your hands, his clothes, the gravel beneath you— and it made every movement slippery, slow. You rolled him partially onto his side, checked his waistband, his holster, under his arm. Nothing. Just a knife— smaller than yours— and a crumpled radio still buzzing static. Your fingers trembled as you grabbed the radio, tossed it aside, and kept searching. You needed a weapon. You needed something. But you were too slow.

Just as your head lifted and you began to rise to your full height, you heard a shot ring out.

And then pain.

White-hot and blinding.

A bullet slammed into your side, just above the hip, and your legs gave out underneath you. You hit the ground hard, body twisting, gasping. It felt like someone had lit your nerves on fire. You tried to roll, to move, to press a hand to the wound and stop the bleeding—

You couldn’t.

The pain took everything.

You lay there, curled in on yourself, blood pooling beneath your jacket. The knife slipped from your grip. Your breath came in short, wet hitches. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming aloud or just within the confines of your mind.

Then— footsteps. Fast. Closing in.

You heard someone shout.

“Don’t shoot! Don’t finish it— she’s with him!”

More footsteps. Another voice. A hand at your collar, another at your side. Pressing down. Hard.

Your vision stuttered, faded at the edges.

You felt the ground tilt beneath you.

Someone said something else. You couldn’t understand it. Couldn’t hold onto it.

Then nothing.

Just the sound of your heartbeat slowing…

…and a final breath that didn’t quite come.

* * * * *

Consciousness clawed its way back in like a rusted hook dragging through flesh.

It wasn’t clean.

It wasn’t kind.

It came with pain— sharp and searing, the kind that didn’t fade but bloomed, spreading outward from the wreckage at your side like ink in water. The ache there wasn’t just pain anymore. It was pressure. Heat. Screaming muscle and shredded tissue locked in a slow-burning war. Something wet had soaked through your shirt and jeans. You didn’t need to look to know it was blood. Still leaking. Still warm.

You tried to move but your wrists didn’t budge.

They were tied tight enough that your shoulders ached. Something sharp and plastic bit into the skin behind your back, cinched so tight it had started to burn. Zip ties, probably. Ankles too. Lashed to the legs of a chair with something that didn’t give when you pulled. The whole frame rocked slightly when you shifted— just enough to remind you that you were trapped. That the floor beneath you was cold concrete. Damp. Stinking of mildew, oil, and sweat. The air in the room was stale— wet and heavy like it had been exhaled too many times and never replaced.

Every breath scraped the inside of your throat raw.

You didn’t remember falling. Only the sound of your own ragged inhale as your legs gave out, the weightless drop as the world blurred sideways. The pain had come later. And before that— relief.

You’d gotten them out.

That mattered. That had to matter.

A voice cut through the fog— sharp, gravelly, too loud for how close it was. Someone was pacing. Their boots ground into the floor with each step, the rhythm irregular, impatient. Someone else was still. Close. Too close. You could feel their body heat through the haze. The sour stink of cigarette smoke drifted in from behind your head. A chair scraped. A weapon clicked.

You weren’t alone.

You lifted your head. Or tried to.

It felt like dragging a brick up from the bottom of a lake. Your neck gave halfway through the motion, spine screaming. Your chin barely lifted before something cracked across your cheek— open-palmed and brutal. It snapped your head sideways so fast the rest of your body jolted in place. You tasted blood again. Not new, not fresh. Just more of it.

It filled your mouth like a reminder. It pooled thick under your tongue and slid down your throat. Warm, metallic, familiar.

“Wake the fuck up,” a voice hissed, so close you could feel the spit hit your skin. The words stuck to your cheek like sweat. Hot, stale and tainted with nicotine and something sourer— fear, maybe. Or nerves gone to rot.

You didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

Your body had already answered for you— twitching, reacting. Your eyes peeled open.  Your pulse was thready but still there. Your lungs still moved, even if each breath was a war.

Someone else spoke behind him. Quieter. More focused.

“Don’t kill her, not yet. If she’s still breathing, she can talk.”

It took all the strength you had just to lift your eyes, and when you did, the world swam behind a sheet of gray. Your vision was cut into sharp-edged slices. Four men in the room. One near the door, hunched over a battered radio that looked like it belonged in a war museum. Like Frank’s. The way he cradled it said he didn’t trust the feed, didn’t trust anything anymore. He was listening hard. Too hard.

Two more flanked the walls. Armed. Rifles slung across their backs or rested carelessly in the crook of their arms. Angry eyes. Mean eyes. The kind that always looked hungry, even when they had something in their teeth. They watched you like you were a problem. A loose end.

And then there was the last one. The man who’d hit you, still standing closest. Still too close. He loomed over you with the eager energy of someone who thought pain was a form of art. You didn’t have to look up to feel his chest puff, his boots shift with anticipation. He wanted to break you.

You met his eyes.

Or tried to.

Your vision blurred at the edges again, but the center held long enough. Just enough.

And then, slow and deliberate, you pursed your lips… and spit.

The blood landed high on his cheek, trailing crimson down the curve of his nose. It wasn’t much— your mouth was too dry, your tongue too thick— but it was enough. Enough to make him flinch. Enough to make him snarl and wipe it with the back of his hand like you’d poisoned him. He jolted before you, raising his fist, prepared to strike.

“You fucking—”

“She’s not worth it,” one of the others muttered, catching his attention. He cursed and shook his head, turning away from you. “Save it for after.”

You laughed.

Or tried to.

It came out broken— wet and low, a sound scraped raw from the inside of your chest. But it echoed anyway, bouncing off the concrete walls like it had somewhere to go. A bitter little song of defiance.

Your body was shaking now.

Not from cold. Not from fear.

From blood loss.

You’d bled too much. Way too much.

You could feel the hollow behind your skin— where blood should be but wasn’t. Every breath was shallower than the last, caught between bruised ribs and broken focus. Your limbs were distant, sluggish, unresponsive. Your fingers twitched without command. Your vision pulsed.

Time felt elastic— stretching out too long in some places, snapping tight in others.

You glanced down at yourself. Your jacket was gone. Your beanie too. Hair clung to your face and neck in damp, tangled ribbons. Sweat slid in cold lines down your spine. The gauze jammed into your wound was laughable— just a stained rag, shoved in to stop the worst of the leak. No real care. No real intent.

They didn’t want you better.

They wanted you just alive enough to scream.

Your throat closed up again. Not from tears. Just from dryness. Your tongue felt like paper. Your lips were cracked. Breathing tasted like copper and diesel.

Then the radio across the room came to life— sharp and loud in the silence.

“…what do you mean the shipment’s gone?”

The voice that spoke was laced with static and fury. The man at the table leaned closer, gripping the receiver with white-knuckled desperation. You watched his fingers tremble. Not from fear— not yet. But from pressure. From something even worse than what was happening here.

He hissed into the mouthpiece. “We lost at least two of the trucks— maybe all three. Couldn’t track them. No contact from the teams that were supposed to follow.”

There was a pause.

“Fucking useless. You know what this means? You know what they’re gonna do to us?”

It wasn’t just anger. It was fear now. The kind that lives low in the gut. You saw it begin to move through the room— like heat. The pacing man had stopped. The one who’d hit you wasn’t sneering anymore.

You turned your head slowly, vision tilting sideways for a moment before settling. One of the others— he’d been quiet until now—shook his head.

“We’ll tell them we got jumped,” he said, voice tight. “We’re holding the one who did it. They’ll want her.”

You smiled.

It didn’t feel triumphant. It didn’t feel like much of anything.

But it was a smile. Weak. Tired. Bleeding. But real.

Because you’d done it.

You’d pulled it off.

The trucks were gone. The people were gone. Out of this hellhole, out of those cages, out of reach. Whatever happened to you— whatever came next— none of it mattered half as much.

You’d gotten them out.

And just as that thought took hold— just as your head tilted back again, your lungs trying to hold onto breath long enough to savor it—

The lights died.

Instant.

Total.

The fluorescents above went out with a faint pop, and the room plunged into blackness. Someone cursed. Another boot scuffed. A gun was raised— uselessly, blindly. You heard the click of it.

“What the fuck?”

“Somebody check the fucking breaker!”

“No, something’s wrong— something’s wrong.”

Panic bloomed like fire.

And you—

You started to laugh.

It came out slow, shaky, but full. A low, breathless rasp that clawed up from somewhere deep inside you. Your whole chest shook with it. Pain rippled through your side, but you didn’t stop.

“What the fuck is she laughing at?”

They were shouting now.

Swinging flashlights, fumbling for switches, slamming back into the walls like rats in a trap. And you—

You were laughing.

Not from joy.

From the inevitability of it.

Because you knew exactly what this was.

You’d heard it before. Smelled it before. The shift in air pressure. The sound of something small hitting the ground and bouncing once. Then again.

Click.

Fsssssshhh—

Smoke.

Thick and white, curling into the room like it had teeth. Someone gagged. Someone stumbled. Someone raised a rifle and screamed something incoherent.

And you— weak, trembling, bleeding— let your head fall forward again, a smile splitting your busted mouth.

“You’re fucked,” you whispered.

The first shot rang out a half second later.

It was clean. Quiet. A silenced round, fast and final.

A body hit the floor, a few feet away.

Then another shot— louder this time. More violent. Something slammed into the wall behind you, and the man who’d hit you howled, falling sideways onto the floor. You recognized his voice. His gun clattered and blood sprayed. You couldn’t see it, but you felt it hit your leg, soak into the material of your jeans. Warm. Wet.

Then the chaos really began.

Gunfire tore through the dark like lightning. Muzzles flared. The smell of cordite filled the air, mixing with smoke and fear and blood. Boots pounded. A man screamed— then stopped.

Someone tried to run.

Didn’t make it.

And then a hand was on your shoulder— broad, rough, callused fingers cutting through the haze.

Not Frank. He was too busy.

Curtis.

You didn’t even know how you knew— just that you did. His presence was warm, and welcome, and calming. You couldn’t see him— didn’t have a clue what he looked like. But his presence soothed you, all the same.

A light flickered before you, causing you to blink, turning your chin away from the sudden intrusion. Once the burn had settled, you turned back to it— a dim bulb, affixed to the top of a bulletproof vest. It cast just enough brightness to make out some of his features as he settled in front of you. Clear, dark skin. Dark eyes, wide and focused. Steady. The glimmer of light against a blade, as his knife slid into his hand with military precision.

“I’ve got you,” he said, voice low and fast.

You let out a harsh exhale and tried to study his face. Commit it to memory. Tears stung at the edges of your blurred vision, begging to fall free. The relief was so strong your entire body jolted with it, your hearts pressing rapidly against your ribcage. They were here. You were safe.

“I’m not—” you started, but the words collapsed in your throat. The effort was too much.

“Don’t talk. Just hold on.”

He cut through the ties, caught you as you started to slump forward.

Your whole body folded into his, too weak to resist. He grabbed you beneath the knees, one arm behind your back. You hissed when he brushed the wound— white-hot pain shooting down your leg like electricity. But he held firm, pulled you close.

Smoke still flooded the room. Shadows moved at the edges. More shots. You caught a glimpse of Frank’s silhouette— black and unrelenting, moving through bodies like they were paper. Every motion efficient. Every target dropped. You didn’t call out. Didn’t need to. He was doing exactly what you needed him to do.

Curtis ducked low and moved, fast and steady.

“Stay with me,” he muttered against your temple as the door slammed open ahead of you. “We’re almost out.”

You wanted to tell him you were with him, of course you were. You’d run in here, all on your own, survived this far— you’d fought for this, to make it here. Killed for it.

But your mouth wouldn’t work.

You could feel it— your body slipping. He was talking again, whispering something to you with a sharp urgency, but you couldn’t make out the words— just the rhythm of them, like waves crashing somewhere far away. Fog clouded the corners of your vision and you blinked, trying to clear it.

The air outside hit you like a slap as Curtis crossed the threshold. It was cold and metallic, thick with smoke and the scent of blood. You hadn’t realized how suffocating the room had been until you were yanked from it, the darkness inside giving way to something marginally brighter, marginally wider, but no less terrifying. The cold air soothed some of the fog trying desperately to pull you under, and for a few beats, your vision cleared.

The lights overhead were dim, barely flickering through the rising smoke. Sirens in the distance, maybe. Or just the phantom echo of adrenaline in your skull. Your limbs hung useless in Curtis’s grip.  

Your chin dropped against your chest, breath hitching in shallow gasps that didn’t seem to reach your lungs. Every jolt of movement sent another pulse of agony through your side, but even that pain felt far away now— muted, like it belonged to someone else. Your fingers twitched against his shoulder, trying and failing to curl into a fist.

Somewhere nearby, behind you, boots scraped pavement. You knew that gait. You didn’t even have to lift your head to recognize it. Frank. Close. Breathing hard. Cleaning up, finishing up.

Alive.

Curtis ducked behind a rusted-out shipping container, easing your weight to the ground with a grunt. He propped you against the metal wall like a broken thing, then crouched in front of you, that same flashlight clipped to his vest. The beam cut across your face, too bright, forcing your eyes shut again. A moment later, it flicked down, illuminating your torso, the mess of material and blood that clung to your side like a shredded flag.

“Fuck,” he muttered, voice low and clipped. His hands were already moving— snapping open a small med pouch, pulling out clean gauze, scissors, tape, a roll of bandage already streaked with something that looked like dried antiseptic. You hadn’t even seen where he’d pulled it from— had to assume he was wearing a pack, or that he’d tucked it into his vest. “You’re lucky we got here when we did. Lucky you’re not already dead.” 

Your body jolted when he pressed against the wound. It was instinct, nothing more. The pain was too raw to name— too deep to register fully. You made a sound, low and hoarse, swallowed by the back of your throat. Your head smacked back against the shipping container, a hollow thud filling the air.

The flashlight’s glow slid across the exposed wound as he pushed your shirt up higher, fingers swift but careful. You winced as the cold air touched raw, exposed skin.

“You’ve still got active bleeding,” he said, more to himself than to you. One of his hands braced against your hip, the other started tending to the wound— replacing the tattered cloth with gauze, taping a clean, thick bandage in place. “No through-and-through. Could’ve been worse. Still bad. Just— stay with me. Take it easy.”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t find the words. Your head lolled to the side, vision flickering again. It was like looking through water— distorted, shifting, smeared with shadow. You blinked, and something wet rolled down your temple. Sweat, maybe. Or blood. You couldn’t tell anymore.

The weight of everything crashed over you all at once. You eyes fluttered shut, heavy.

The trucks. The girl with the freckles. The scream of tires. The heat of blood on your hands. The knife. The gun. The man you stabbed until he stopped moving. The other one who didn’t get back up.

You had killed people. You had saved people. You had bled enough to feel both things at once and still not know what they meant.

You felt Frank before you saw him.

His shadow broke across your legs— wide, heavy, unmistakable. Boots crunched against the gravel with the weight of a man who didn’t run unless it mattered. When he dropped to his knees beside you, the light caught him full— jaw tight, smeared with blood that didn’t belong to you, eyes black with fury and fear and something that looked far too close to grief.

His chest rose in one hard pull, then another. Not steady. Not controlled. He was breathing like he’d sprinted through hell to get here. His hand reached for you— bare, bloodstained, fingers curled like he’d already imagined what it would be like to find you cold.

The symbol was there on his chest. Stark white. Final. That skull. The same one you’d seen back in the subway— sharp and brutal, carved like a warning. His name. His promise. His war.

Just as his hand hovered near your shoulder, Curtis shifted.

His palm, warm and firm where it had been braced against your hip, moved fast— slamming into Frank’s chest with the force of someone who didn’t give a damn who he was talking to.

“Don’t,” he bit out. “Not yet.”

Frank froze mid-motion, his knuckles curling into fists at his sides. His eyes flashed between your wound and his oldest friend— dangerous, desperate. “She’s bleeding out.”

“I know that,” Curtis snapped, already pressing harder into the gauze at your side, hands moving fast and precise as he unwrapped a clean roll from his pack. You couldn’t feel the pain anymore— knew that wasn’t a good sign. Your lips parted, intending to warn them, but no sound escaped. “But if you touch her now— if her system crashes from the shock— maybe she doesn’t make it. You want her alive, Frank? Then you wait. Just thirty seconds. Let me work.”

Frank didn’t move. Not at first. His body was coiled so tight he looked carved from stone. His jaw clenched so hard it trembled. You saw it— all of it. The restraint. The rage. The agony of not being able to touch you.

But he didn’t speak again. Didn’t breathe.

He just held. Still. Barely. Like he was holding the entire world back with his spine.

You blinked up at him, trying to focus past the haze. Curtis’s voice had become background noise— just one more vibration in the sea of pain. But Frank was a fixed point. A shape. A silhouette you knew better than your own.

Curtis swore under his breath, finishing the wrap and grabbing a small syringe from his pack. “Painkiller,” he muttered, though he wasn’t talking to you. “It’ll slow her pulse. Stop her from bottoming out. She’ll still need a hospital, but this might buy us the time.”

You felt the pinch first— sharp, clean, clinical. Then came the warmth. Slow and creeping, blooming through the muscle of your shoulder like heat finally sinking into frozen skin. It spread like fire. The pain didn’t leave, it just shifted. Curled in on itself like it was waiting for its next chance.

“Alright,” Curtis said, leaning back on his heels as he peered down at your side, at the wound he’d just wrapped tight with steady hands and field instincts. You followed his gaze, though the edges of your vision were still blurred, a soft vignette blooming at the corners. The bandage was already blooming red— proof that it wasn’t enough, not really, but it was the best he could do on cold concrete with enemy blood still drying on his sleeves.

Then he nodded once. Grim.

He shifted to his feet and looked to Frank. “Go ahead.”

Frank didn’t move— yet. Just watched him like he was waiting for something else. A sign. A countdown.

Curtis didn’t give one.

He stepped back without another word, rolled his shoulders like they ached, then checked the watch strapped tight around his wrist. The cracked face caught a glimmer of distant light as he muttered something under his breath— probably a prayer or a curse— before striding toward the far edge of the lot. His boots crunched through glass and gravel as he made his way toward a dark vehicle you hadn’t even seen parked under the shadows. The engine was already running, low and rough, like a growl waiting in the dark. Frank’s truck.

Curtis waved a hand without turning back. “Make it quick, man. We’ve got ten minutes. Maybe. Then she’s either in a hospital or a morgue.”

And then he was gone.

Frank finally moved.

His shadow crossed over you again, blocking out the flickering orange of a nearby burning barrel. He dropped into a crouch, close enough that you could see every cut on his face, every fleck of dirt and blood ground into the fabric of his shirt.

His first word to you— the first sound he graced you with— was a sharp whisper of your name, barely loud enough for you to hear. But you heard it. Your eyes flickered shut at the sound, cold seeping down the length of your spine. Emotion clawed at your throat, sudden and intrusive, and you felt tears stinging at the backs of your eyes all over again. You blinked a few times, trying to push them aside. Trying to remain strong. Trying to pretend the terror inside of you was still locked back behind an immovable gate.

It wasn’t, though. Not even close.

You opened your eyes and met Frank’s gaze— he’d waited to speak until you’d looked at him again.

“If you don’t die out here,” he said, voice low and raw with something unspoken as his dark eyes poured into yours. “I’m going to kill you myself.”

It wasn’t a threat. Not really. More of a plea, twisted through with fury and something too fragile to name. A demand born from panic. From guilt. From the kind of helpless rage that didn’t have a target except the person who’d nearly been lost.

You didn’t flinch.

You wanted to laugh— maybe say something smart, something to cut through the storm gathering in his eyes— but the pain surged again. It stole the sound from your throat before it could rise. All that came out was a choked breath, dragged from deep inside you, broken by everything that had come before it. So you nodded, because it was all you could manage.

He moved in close.

One arm slid beneath your shoulders, the other curled behind your knees— until his palm met the bandage. Your whole body seized. You gasped— sharp, involuntary— as the pain ripped through you like shrapnel. A cry tore loose from your mouth, half-swallowed by the tension in your chest.

“I know,” he murmured, like the words cost him something. “I know. I’ve got you.”

Your hands moved before you could think— blood-slick fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt, clutching tight. He didn’t react. Just adjusted his grip, holding you closer. His heartbeat thundered against your ribs. Solid. Steady. Brutal. He didn’t rise or move to his feet, not yet. Instead, he pressed his face into your temple, breathing heavy against your hair.

“Jesus Christ,” he murmured, more to himself than you. “What the fuck were you thinking?”

You couldn’t answer, didn’t even try. The weight of your body had gone slack in his arms. You were lightheaded, numb in places you hadn’t noticed before. But you still heard him. Tried to shake your head, communicate in whatever way you had the strength for.

“Running in blind,” he muttered, furious now— but the kind of fury that comes from fear. From something stronger than care. “Going in without backup. Without a fucking plan. You could’ve died. I can’t fucking believe you didn’t.”

He paused, pulled back a bit to look down at you again. His jaw flexed, throat working. Then his voice dropped even lower, nearly a whisper.

“You ever pull something like this again… we’re gonna have a fucking problem.”

The night had gone still around you.

No more gunfire. No more screams. Just the low roar of the engine and the sound of your breath catching in your chest. He lifted you carefully, rising to his feet with effort— like every part of him wanted to shake, but wouldn’t.

[jerzwriter]

A/N: Day 24's prompt in @creativepromptsforwriting 30-Day Writing Challenge is to write a story using the words: crown, dance, and smile. I decided to write something for my Eli x Zoe x Troy headcanon from Wake the Dead—a triad I've been wanting to explore more for a while now. I hope you enjoy this short story!

Book: Wake the Dead, Pixelberry Choices Pairing: Eli Sipes x Zoe Rivera (MC) x Troy Hassan Rating: Teen Words: ~1,500 Summary: A day of scavenging doesn't go as planned, but a treasure is found all the same.

Tagging @choicesficwriterscreations (Fics of the Week), @choicesmonthlychallenge (saphires, rubies), @choicesprompts (pride month) and @polyamships

30-Day Challenge Masterlist | Wake the Dead Masterlist | Full Masterlist

Troy leaped out of the van with childlike glee barely a second after Eli shifted it into park. He was already rushing up the wooded hill when Zoe grabbed the back of his leather jacket.

“Easy there, Hassan,” she said softly, not eager to attract the attention of any undead that might be lurking nearby. “Safety first, remember?”

Eli approached from behind, his eyes already rolling. “You act like you’re new to living in a post-apocalyptic hellscape,” he muttered, then turned to Zoe. “I told you we should’ve brought Angel and left him back at Olympus.”

“But then I would have missed the castle!” Troy whined.

It wasn’t exactly a castle, and the estate perched at the top of the hill had clearly seen better days. Ivy clawed through its shattered stained-glass windows, and grimy marble tiles buckled beneath years of abandonment. But the old structure still held an air of majesty. If you closed your eyes, it would be easy to imagine a prince and princess, or perhaps a smug venture capitalist or two, descending the grand staircase in front of the towering oak doors.

“We can’t blame him for being excited,” Zoe offered, trying to keep the peace.

But Eli wasn't moved. “Yes, I can,” he shot back before she even finished.

Zoe gave them both a pointedly amused look. “Well, I can’t blame him... but we still have to stick together and stay quiet. Rules still apply.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Troy replied with a salacious grin, waggling his brows. “I love when you get bossy.”

Eli dragged a hand down his face. “Correction: I should’ve stayed back at Olympus.”

"Stop," Zoe laughed. "You would have missed us terribly!" Linking arms with both of them, she led them up the hill. “Come on, boys. “Let’s see if this place is as impressive on the inside as it is on the out.”

They were greeted with the thick scent of moss and damp wood - and it was quiet, too quiet, as if even the slightest creak might wake whatever ghosts still lingered within. There didn’t seem to be much left to find; the place had clearly been picked over. But that wasn’t going to stop them. They’d long since learned that sometimes a can of peaches or a sealed bottle of iodine could be hiding where you least expected it.

Zoe moved cautiously through the old ballroom, a blade strapped to her thigh, ready for whatever might come. But even as she kicked aside a chunk of fallen plaster, she was enchanted. “This place must’ve been something back in its day,” she whispered.

That’s when Troy popped his head out from behind an ornate cabinet, grinning like a child who’d just found where his parents hid the stash of Christmas gifts. “I found our new currency,” he beamed.

Eli didn’t even look up. “If it’s another scary porcelain doll, I swear to God...”

Troy ignored him and walked dramatically toward Zoe. “My lady,” he said with an exaggerated bow. Then he revealed it - an old, slightly tarnished crown. It still glittered softly despite its obvious age and several missing jewels.

“Wow,” Zoe blinked, taking it in.

“It might be real gold... the sapphires and rubies are probably fake, but it’s still a beauty.” Troy looked pleased with himself. “I found it in a busted display case. We can’t eat it, it can’t patch a roof or clean a wound, but you have to admit - it’s got style.”

Zoe took it from his hands; it was much heavier than expected.

“Who do you think it belonged to?” she asked.

“A fallen aristocrat,” Troy guessed. “The last of her line. She probably escaped to America after World War II. She was expected to marry well and keep the bloodline going, but ended up living out her days in quiet exile after the discovery of her scandalous affair with her stable boy.”

“You’re wrong on all counts,” Zoe declared. “It belonged to the fiercest queen in the land. She fearlessly defended her people before running off with not one but two lovers, then she built a new world from the burnt ashes.”

Troy raised a brow. “Huh. That story sounds oddly familiar.”

Zoe nudged him with her elbow. Then, without a hint of ceremony, Troy retrieved the crown and plopped it onto her head.

“It’s crooked,” she wailed.

“It’s perfect,” Troy smiled. “Just like you.”

Eli finally glanced over. Surprisingly, he didn’t have a sarcastic retort - just a soft glance with a hint of something warm in his eyes.

Zoe stood up straighter and assumed a commanding air, smoothing her grease-covered jeans as if they were a flowing silk ball gown. “I believe,” she said, spinning slowly, “that it is proper to bow before your queen before requesting a dance.”

Troy immediately dropped into a deep, absurd bow.

Eli was unamused. “We’re supposed to be scavenging.”

Zoe glared in his direction in mock horror. “Do you dare to deny your queen?” She circled him, her low tsk-tsk-tsks echoing off the cavernous walls. “Do you not remember the first time you danced with me, Lord Eli?”

“Barely,” he grumbled - but the small, involuntary smile that tugged at his lips was betraying his stony facade.

“It was right after we settled into the lodge,” she went on. “You barely knew me at the time. But you still danced with me.”

“Yep,” he muttered. “And I told you then what I’m telling you now – I knew better than to say no to you. You would have just kept pushing until I gave in.”

“Correct!” She beamed. “You were a smart man back then, but you’re denying me now?”

Troy stepped behind her, voice dripping with mischief. “Get him, Your Majesty! I’m sure we could find a dungeon and leave him here.”

Zoe stifled a laugh. “Duke Troy, I'm afraid you’d miss him terribly if we did."

Troy leaned his head on her shoulder, studying Eli in mock consideration. “I don't know," he said, rubbing his chin. "It depends on what kind of dungeon we’re talking about.”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Eli grumbled. Knowing he was outnumbered and secretly wanting to play along, he stepped forward, giving the world’s most reluctant bow. “May I have this dance?”

“Your Majesty,” Zoe corrected, as Eli smirked.

“May I have this dance... Your Majesty,” he repeated.

“You may,” Zoe replied regally and took his hand.

They moved slowly through the dusty ballroom, workboots scuffing across the cracked tile. Troy started to hum some ridiculous waltz, and Eli shot him a look.

“If you keep that up, I’m stopping.”

Troy sauntered over, his hand resting on Eli’s before he pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Zoe chuckled while twirling into Eli's embrace. "Duk Troy? Do you care to cut in?”

“With pleasure,” he grinned, nudging Eli aside with theatrical flair. “I get a slow dance!”

"Yeah," Eli rubbed the back of his neck. “But I’m not humming for you.”

“Rude!”

Zoe winked at Troy, stopping the moment they waltzed in front of Eli. With a grin, she removed the crown and placed it on top of Eli’s head.

“What are you doing?” he asked, a touch of worry in his eyes.

“I – Queen Zoe – am crowning you King.”

“Oh yeah,” he chuckled. “King of what?”

“King of our hearts, of course,” she declared sweetly, her voice full of sincerity.

Troy barked out a laugh. “Now I have to dance with you, King Eli. I mean, you look hot as hell in that crown.”

“God help me,” Eli muttered, but he allowed it. “Again - just to shut you up.”

“Remember this, Queen Zoe!” Troy hollered as he twirled Eli around the room. “As long as we keep yapping, we can get this man to do anything we want!”

"Duly noted!" She grinned, placing a hand over her overflowing heart. She could have watched them all day - Eli stiff and grumbling, Troy obnoxious yet graceful. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt this much joy.

After allowing them to have their moment, she stepped in, falling into their eagerly awaiting arms. The three swayed together in the silence, and despite Eli’s usual reluctance, even he didn’t want to stop.

“You know,” she teased, “the ‘music’ stopped a while ago. But here we are - still holding on to each other.”

Eli placed a kiss on the top of her head, a warm smile on his lips. “We don’t need music for that.”

Troy kissed Zoe’s cheek, then leaned over and kissed Eli’s temple. She turned and kissed them both in turn, then closed her eyes and simply breathed, wishing to commit this precious moment to memory.

Eventually, Eli gently removed the crown and tucked it into his bag. “Come on,” he said. “As nice as this is, it’s going to get dark soon, and I want to get us home safely.”

He gave one last look inside a nearby cabinet and shook his head. “Not much of a haul today.”

Zoe stepped up beside him and laced her fingers through his. “I don’t know about that. I think this was one of our best finds yet.”

Troy slung an arm around both of them. “Yeah. Being here with the two of you today – it was worth more than a thousand cans of peaches.”

“And pineapples,” Zoe added with a smile.

“Hey – let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Eli chuckled.

They walked through the long, faded corridor together as the sunlight quickly faded, making it back to the van just before dusk. Zoe gave the estate one last look over her shoulder.

“Let’s go, boys,” she smiled. “Olympus awaits.”

And with the crown packed safely among bandages and a few loose batteries, they drove back toward the only kingdom that mattered – the one where they had each other.

[fatesmono]

carmen berzatto hcs

✮⋆˙ warnings : language

✮⋆˙ readers gender is female :3

✮⋆˙ a.n : this is my first post so pls go easy on me, just some headcannons + little lines i think he would say if you two were dating

✮⋆˙ enjoy loves !! <33333

✩ only drinks black coffee , saw what your order was one time and almost had a heart attack

✩“you’re just drinking caramel…why?”

✩ loves going thrifting with you, you helped him find vintage jeans one time and he almost fell in love with you then and there

✩ the eye contact ??? mans will hold eye contact with you for minutes and not understand why you’re getting flustered over it

✩bonus : he was taught to always keep eye contact with those he respected and doesn’t want you to think he doesn’t respect you

✩ loves when you try his food, you genuinely just love to eat and won’t pick out random bullshit to criticize abt his food

✩ “can you try this for me ?”

✩ hates when you call him chef after dating, will let you be the only one to call him “carmy” in the kitchen (besides richie), loves when you call him "carm" 

✩ using any pet names will land you in his office for a make out session, you called him “baby” one time by habit and spent the next hour on his desk making out until tina had to collect you two

✩ “can you make a shopping list for me ?”

✩ will gladly teach you and specifically asks you before he cooks if you want to watch him and will explain every little step and smiles at your blatant confusion on what “blanching” is

✩ he stopped smoking specifically for you, you two kissed one time and you slightly cringed at the taste and he immediately went out and bought nicotine patches along with gum and rolled his eyes at richie comments 

✩ will not let ANYONE comment on you, will not hesitate to beat the living shit out of someone for a slick comment on your presence 

✩ “i don’t give a fuck what they think of you, my love. you’re my girlfriend and that's all that matters”

✩ “i could make that for you”

✩ never thought about starting a family until he met you, you helped him with a kid’s party gig and he saw how easily you handled the kids (“little shits” as richie called them) and he knew then and there you would be the perfect mother

✩ you cut yourself one time during prep and he immediately ran over to check on you once he heard your little wince.

✩ “idc if its little, i need to make sure you're okay”

✩ loves the smell of your perfume and keeps going out to buy that specific one whenever he wants to get you a gift.

✩ secretly loves physical contact; you wrapped your arms around him while he cooked one time and now he can’t cook without you touching him in some way

✩ only cries around you, hearing you tell him that it’s going to be alright makes him melt every time

✩ you told him once that you could bartend/worked as a foh a year ago and immediately put you on the staff (couldn’t care what anyone had to say about it)

✩ loves hugging you, there's something about how soft your skin is that he can’t help but just embrace you the second he sees you

✩ rarely uses your real name, stopped using it the day after you two began dating

✩ “baby i can do the dishes tonight”

[lightning-and-dragons]

Never Alone (never again) Snippet

Here's a snippet of a new Ninjago fanfic I'm working on! It's an extension of my AU where Jay gets found by Ed and Edna and begins to live with them (post Dragons Rising season 2).

Warning for descriptions of blood and some death.

I hope that you enjoy! If anyone has any questions about this AU please feel free to send an ask! I absolutely love this AU and am definitely aiming to continue writing it!

-----------------------------------

“And, you better believe that we’re going to that festival later in the week!” Ed was saying, and Jay listened, eager to forget the thoughts that tumbled through his head. “There’s gonna be dancing, singing, you name it! Gee, it’ll be a great time!”

“I probably won’t go.” Jay said weakly. “Not if there will be a lot of people there.”

The more people around meant more threats, more people who could attack him at any moment. He couldn’t let his guard down for a second.

“I’m sure you can stay by us if you want!” Ed said. “There'll be food there too, and a lot of it! And if you ever need a break….”

Ed’s voice trailed off, and Jay looked to him, noticed Ed’s shocked gaze, and looked out the front window himself. Jay straighter, his lips parting in shock. 

“What…?” Jay whispered, panic racing though his heart, and his hand found his knife. 

Ed slowed the truck to a stop, silent, and Jay scrambled out onto the ground below them. Breathe was stolen from his lungs as he took in the destruction around him. 

The southern forest was gone. What once was a luscious, green, fully covered wood was in ruins.  In its place sat splintered wood, trees and leaves scattered on the ground, shards of wood all over the grass. The grass itself was trampled, charred, and some spots were coated in dark red. With one quick inhale he smelled the scent of iron. He scrunched his nose at it and, despite his stomach doing flips, Jay stepped closer. 

Every tree had fallen. Every trunk still standing was charred, and Jay could see the horizon behind where the forest should’ve covered it. The few trees still standing were leaning precariously, and Jay couldn’t believe that there had been a thriving forest there just yesterday. 

It was dead. The entire area was destroyed, as if it had laid in ruin for years. 

“What…what happened?” Ed said weakly, standing behind Jay. “Golly gee, how is this even possible?”

Jay knelt onto the ground, taking off his glove and running his finger through a dark patch in the grass. A trail of red smeared across his fingertip, and Jay knew that it was blood. 

“This wasn’t a storm.” Jay muttered. 

“No storm is this powerful, that I can agree with. A tornado, ya think?”

“No. No, there shouldn’t be this much blood. You told me that there wasn’t much wildlife in these woods.”

Ed sighed. “It’s true, nothing but a few bears.”

Jay looked back to Ed, whose face was pale. His eyes were distant, as if he was thinking of something else, before they focused back on Jay. 

“Did ya want to take a look around?” He asked Jay, and he was about to refuse, until Jay realised that he did. He wanted to figure this out. He wanted to know what caused this. Despite the lack of curiosity he experienced since wearing the mask, it burned brightly in him now, begging to be heard. He wondered if it was part of who he was, but Jay pushed that thought away. 

“Yeah.”

Ed nodded, and proceeded to head to a few large fallen trees while Jay got to his feet. After quickly grabbing his bag, he moved forward. He stepped carefully, trusting his feet to guide him around the rubble. His mind wandered, and Jay couldn’t help but notice how close this was to the village, and how close disaster was to striking it. How many people could’ve died? How many homes would’ve been destroyed? How many lives would be changed yet again?

Jay didn’t know many people here, he was close to even less. But he still wanted them to live. They’ve done nothing but live a peaceful life since the Merge, they didn’t deserve anything like this. 

And when Jay imagined the village in ruins, spots of grass coated in blood, he felt like puking. 

Jay startled when he heard a small whimpering to his left, strangled and weak. He quickly grabbed his knife, pulling it out of its sheath, holding it at the ready as he studied the area around him, looking for any threat.  Instead, he found a log shifting where it lay. He moved closer to it slowly, cautiously, knowing that whatever it was could be an enemy. 

Yet all he saw was a small creature, defenseless, and pinned beneath the log.

It was small, bright orange, and quivering. Jay could see a small scaled head peeking out from below the log, black eyes staring at him with fear. Some of the scales were coated in blood, others only streaked with the substance, and the creature didn’t move other than the quakes that shook its body. Jay's breath caught in his throat as he watched it.

Every instinct of fear his body developed was gone the second he met the creature's eye. Jay knew, despite the distrust he had learned over the years, that he could trust it. He wasn’t afraid of it. For the first time in too long, his mind became clear, only for a second, before the uncertainty returned. But not the fear. The fear was gone.

He knelt into the soil, keeping his eyes on the creature, noticing its harsh breaths, its focused gaze, and weak form. It looked like a dragon, a baby one, one who couldn’t even stand on its own. 

Was it so young it couldn’t do anything without its mother, or was the blood that covered it coming from its own body?

The dragon whimpered as Jay leaned closer, and Jay shushed it gently. Something stirred in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in forever, something too close to concern, and he put his knife away.

“You’re going to be fine.” Jay muttered. “Just keep calm, okay? I’ll get you out of here.”

[feedme2thedogs]

Just a very emotional post, rant, vent, and slight speculation about what might be behind the game's sudden end.

I used to listen to the soundtrack to cheer myself up and stuff when I couldn't play the game, and the game has been the only thing helping out with my mental health since release lol the hyperfixation is not going away any time soon either so it's even harder to cope with this...

Being vulnerable on main it's just like anytime I do anything with this fran at all now it just brings me sadness and at the same time it's my cope it's a massively double edged blade right now and I really don't know how to cheer myself up other than trying to gaslight myself about the game lol

Old screenies... Edits, fanart... The game itself. The movies. It all makes me ache with empty sadness now.

I know some people in the fandom could say it's not that deep and call me pathetic rn but I feel like I've lost something so important to me (I have) and that everything that came out of it has gone too. The friends I made who used to play with me all the time who moved on before this happened, our memories no lifing out together and laughing at it. It feels like everything has instantly just become a bittersweet hazy nostalgia trip and nothing feels real.

This game held my hand through the darkest things in life I've had to face yet since it was released, and my life has always been full of terrifying events, so that's me saying a lot right there. I'm not ready to let go, but it's leaving me and I still need it to be my crutch for so much longer. It's killing me. I've seriously fallen into a massive depression since the announcement. My appetite has completely left me and all I can do is cry and try to relate to the very few people who feel as deeply about things as I do, and got as attached to the characters and story they were creative as I have.

I feel pathetic asf I've literally lost sleep over this because I just stay up so late staring at the game because once I play long enough it's like it's not even going anywhere, like this isn't happening. And once I stop the games and realise it's so late and I'm not coping, that I force myself to try and sleep, I just lose. I've always had this sentimentality with things my whole life, because you never know when something is just going to be taken from you like this. I told myself it wasn't going to happen, people were just praying on its downfall... Tried to tell myself because while so many were upfront cold and nasty and resentful through the entire games life, there were still the folks who didn't say anything foul, still held hope, still said thanks team for giving us this. And we've all been slapped across the face without guilt shame or remorse.

I went to bed around 6am not even realising it was that late, but I was dead tired. Then I woke up at 9, my brain waking me up to cry with the reminder I'm losing something that is such a heavy part of me.

People and friends keep trying to say out there and tell me "oh it's not going away it's still going to be playable its just not getting updates or content" which means... Near imminent death, even if it'll still be up ... Still "playable" still for purchase... They now act like content isn't that important, because it'll still be around. Yes. Until the players dwindle out. Until everyone leaves and it'll just be me trying to enjoy what I have left of it when it actually comes to that.

Like I said before, on my other post that wasn't so personal and vulnerable, it's left me with existential dread. Because I constantly live with that, and it's obvious how it's left me feeling that way with what I've already expressed.

The last dlc pack wasn't even a month ago. They only made the announcement 2 days before this final patch... Like it's really no time at all they gave us to process it, or cope, or grieve the game and what it could have been. What it should have been, lmao.

I originally said it was bittersweet... But it's not sweet at all. What I'm now left with is bittersweet. I loved the design, the feeling they put into this game, the environment, the characters, everything. And what a unique experience they gave, just to take it away in such a sudden, unforgivable way.

All I can speculate is what someone else has assumed, that gun and the devs had a spat. Which may be evident by this screenie I took earlier this morning while coping out on every outlet source possible for fan content or others posting their sadness for the game.

I didn't get the part where Gun basically chided with the players and dissed their dev team so blatantly. Obviously the devs suck, if they knew that for so long though...

But even besides this, we've always known how petty the devs with been with leaks... And recently the black out mode for rush week had been leaked. Along with voice lines regarding the was-to-be characters... At least from Bones, from what I know. Presumably from Damian's post, he voiced some incredible new lines that was supposed to show us some other side of Johnny. Whatever that is, guess we will never know now.

I have nothing but endless words and my heartbreak and sadness is just as much. I joined everyone in the comments on Instagram because Twitter is so not my thing, only to see at least people for a while we're getting some kind of responses, not much for answers. Obviously, we may never get answers. I could only hope for a dev stream... Or something of the sort.

Anyways, I forever fear for the last day I'll be able to admire these characters in game and not just through memory or old clips and screenshots. This thing takes up my whole heart right now, and no matter how hard I could look for something else to make up for it, nothing will really take its place. I've always wanted a game like this. The 70s is my favourite era, since I was a young teen. The Texas chain saw massacre has been my favourite film since I was finally able to watch horror movies again without having a panic attack lol nothing can beat it's originality from movie to what we were originally presented with for this game. I was so happy to see how accurate it was for the era, and remember getting frustrated at the lack of fun, vividly coloured and tacky outfit packs we were getting. It is bittersweet that I got the 70s tacky core pack lol of my dreams before they decide to bite me in the ass. What a hell of a goodbye.

When I saw the family pack coming out... I thought we were heading for clear horizons and things were just looking up finally.

God, how hard I've fallen with this immense disappointment. Crashed and burned. I really don't know how to make myself feel better other than just to go with my ups and downs and distracting myself so hard that I forget about all this happening for a small window of time until I'm fucked up over it all over again.

Raaaaaah...

[e-vay]

The Sonnet of Domino & Phlox - Ch2

[A/N: Click here to read the previous chapter. This story is also available to read on AO3]

“Aren’t they something?” an older gentleman asked with a sigh, adjusting the glasses on the edge of his long snout.

Domino continued affixing a spray nozzle to a hose but shifted her eyes in the direction of the shrew’s gaze. “Uhh…” she hesitated, unsure what to make of the orange, mechanical bipeds that stomped down the street. With each weighty step, the ground trembled and rattled the ladder the hedgehog was standing on. “What exactly are they, Mr. Mayor?”

“Our ticket to the future, that’s what!” The politician boasted. “Two months ago this eccentric human rides into town on a floating caravan! He requests a meeting with me, claiming he’s some kind of genius inventor who wants to help this great city reach its full potential,” He adjusted his vest with pride. “That’s when he showed me the blueprints for these beauties.”

Hedgehog and shrew watched as the two large robots paused in the middle of a large patch of untouched earth. With a metallic groan, the crude “hand” of one of the machines retracted into its arm and was replaced with a long drill head. It stiffly bent forwards and began boring into the ground. The bots were impressive but noticeably rough in their assembly, including large clunky bolts and bright orange paint hastily splashed onto the metal framework. The designs didn’t have the polish and finesse that one would normally find on something like a car, but perhaps that was to be expected from a budding inventor. Domino certainly didn’t know any better. Still, something about the eerie “smiley-face” logo that was stamped on each mech didn’t sit right with her…

“He told us these were cutting edge technology, that they would put us centuries ahead of neighboring towns, and golly was he right. They were only delivered a few days ago but they’ve already streamlined our building processes and made huge improvements to the city.” The mayor’s speech was interrupted by the sound of townspeople cheering as the two robots completed their construction – a well with a hand pump – in record time. Young children ran towards the well, heedless of the metal giants, and used the pump to draw up fresh water that they then splashed at one another. 

“Huh…” Domino mused. She returned her attention to the hose in her hand and sprayed a steady stream of water in the freshly cleared gutter that hung along the roof she was leaning against. She tilted her head either way, making sure no drips escaped from the seams of the gutter, before looking down at the rain spout and assuring that the water ran clear without any blockage. Satisfied with her work, she turned off the hose and descended down the ladder. “Gutter’s clean. You should be set for the winter.”

“They might be a little crude now, but with our investment, he promised the models will only get better,” The shrew said more to himself than the girl next to him. “Soon enough there’ll be smaller models, capable of doing just about anything!” He suddenly turned to the girl with a wide smile. “Just think! You’ll never have to be bothered with odd jobs ever again. It’s like he told me: ‘The Botniks are here for you!’”

Domino did her best to force a smile but couldn’t help but rock on her feet from discomfort. Odd jobs were how she got by. What was she meant to do if these “Botniks” started popping up everywhere? Well, best not to fret about it now.

“Um… Mr. Mayor?” the teal hedgehog hinted awkwardly. “I finished clearing the gutters.”

“Ah! Right, your payment!” The shrew took out his wallet and began counting the contents before hesitating with a pained smile. “Uh… You’ll have to forgive me… The salary posted on the job board is… outdated. We used most of the city’s annual budget investing in our ‘little’ robot helpers here so I can only give you half of what was originally offered.”

Domino’s quills bristled. HALF?! She nearly screamed out loud. Gee, would’ve been nice to know that BEFORE I scaled this blasted roof! She bit her tongue and took a deep breath in. This meant she’d need to take on more gigs than planned, and letting loose some snarky remarks to the mayor of all people would definitely get her kicked out of town before she’d made enough money. She forced a tight smile and politely pocketed the payment handed to her. 

“Nooooooo sweat…  If there’s anything else ya need that your big bots are too bulky for, just holler!” 

She turned on her heel before she said something stupid. 

Glancing up at the town clock, Domino’s grimace was quickly replaced with an excited grin. She sprinted towards the city gate with glee. After all, it was difficult to stay glum when she was promised an adventure with a charming purple hedgehog.

—

“Did those ‘very important duties’ of yours involve drinking 8 cups of coffee?” Phlox teased. He briefly took his attention away from the instructions in his notepad to look up, noticing the teal hedgehog jumping from tree to tree above him. 

Domino seated herself onto a branch and swung backwards into a knee hang so she could lock eyes with Phlox. 

“What makes you say that?” she winked. 

Phlox trepidatiously hopped over several large rocks to meet up with the girl who had gotten far ahead of him. “Oh, I don’t know-” he shrugged as he squeezed his way through some dense bushes. “-all the running and leaping about like a grasshopper could have something to do with it!”

Domino giggled. Phlox may have called himself a nature photographer, but it seemed he had the enthusiasm (or lack thereof) of a city dweller. Escaping the city walls and going on an escapade–however small–always filled Domino with energy. She simply couldn’t keep it in! The lady hedgehog laced her fingers behind her head and closed her eyes, swinging casually from the branch as she waited for her hiking partner to catch up. “I’m just in my element. Besides, I’m itchin’ to see this hidden treasure of yours. You need to keep up!”

If her eyes were open, she’d see a devilish spark light up in Phlox’s eyes. He might have been the quiet type, but he was extremely competitive and loved a challenge. He secured his camera tightly to his side and took off in a sprint. Keep up? Oh, he’d show her. 

“Like this?”

Domino’s eyes jolted open as she felt Phlox’s breath tickle her nose. She let out a high pitched squeak upon realizing the guy she thought was several yards away was nose-to-nose with her. The shock made her loosen her grip on the branch and she was in for a quick plummet to the ground. 

“Whoa!” The indigo male threw his arms out and caught her, holding her securely to his chest. He was strong! Of course, her transient lifestyle and meager diet left her on the smaller side, but Phlox held her as if she were weightless. The muscles in his arms were dense and firm against her slight body.

“I didn’t think you’d startle so easily,” he teased.

“Yyyeah, well-” Domino began to excuse herself, but couldn’t find the words. Geez, what was it about this guy that made her so tongue-tied? Sure he was plenty sweet, certainly nicer than most people she’d ever met. And yeah he was good-looking—she couldn’t deny that. Now she noticed how nice he smelled, too; something woody, earthy, almost sweet, like sandalwood. And his fur, so warm and soft…

Her fingers combed through the shaggy, wheat-colored fur of Phlox’s chest, sending a shiver up his entire being. His heartbeat quickened against her fingertips and she swiftly withdrew her hand realizing what she’d done. Domino looked up to find his muzzle as scarlet as hers surely was. “Uh…”

Phlox felt the urge to say something, but his shyness got the better of him. He instead cleared his throat and set the young woman back on her feet. “Sorry for scaring you…”

“Nah,” Domino replied. She twirled the tuft of fur near her cheek bashfully as she ruminated over what just happened. She shouldn’t be getting close to someone like this. Letting someone in only led to betrayal or disappointment. Besides, what did she have to offer him? She had no home, no money. Relax. She reminded herself. It’s okay to have a little fun…

“Besides, you just gave me an opening.”

Phlox’s eyes went wide. With his voice barely above a whisper, he asked, “To do what?” 

“To do… this!” Domino snatched the notepad from Phlox’s hands and bolted away.

“H-HEY!” The boy shouted before swiftly chasing after her. He was not nearly as graceful navigating the woods as she was, especially with a camera slung over his shoulder, but he managed to stay close on her tail. 

Domino cackled over her shoulder. “I thought you said we needed to see this grotto at a certain time of day! So hurry it up! Or are those cool jeans of yours slowin’ ya down?!”

“These pants provide full mobility!” he shouted. The two laughed as they weaved their way through the forest, Domino skimming the instructions in the notepad and leading them the rest of the way to their destination. 

She abruptly stopped in front of a wall of weeping katsura trees and Phlox had to clumsily skid to a halt to keep from crashing into her. Domino looked back and forth between the green palisades and handwritten notes. “I’m pretty sure this is it,” she confirmed. She returned the booklet to Phlox before presenting an arm to the curtain of emerald leaves. “This was your goal. After you.”

Phlox shook his head with a smile. “Together.”

A little taken aback, Domino simply nodded in agreement and squared herself up beside Phlox. Both hedgehogs drew back the partition of leaves and stepped forth.

The grotto was truly a sight to behold. Dozens of large trees stretched and twisted amongst each other as if embracing in a circular huddle, leaving a medium-sized clearing in the center. Fountains of leaves and vines draped about the branches, painting the enclosure every shade of green. Tiny sprigs of yellow and white wildflowers dotted the forest floor, their blooms diminutive and modest but still serving as a beautiful compliment to the rich viridescence of the grass they sprouted from. Silky, golden rays of sunshine poured through the canopy in beams so crisp, they looked as though one could reach out and touch them. The early autumn breeze glided along the treetops and the soft pitter-patter of the leaves tickling each other echoed down into the grove. The willowing trees all made for a perfect shelter, completely cloaking this little slice of heaven from the rest of the world. It was only the two hedgehogs and a sparse flight of fluttering insects that were privy to this space.

Domino’s breath wavered in awe. She silently stepped deeper into the natural arbor and sat down with her knees pulled to her chest. Even though she spent the entirety of her life out on the road, the planet never ceased to amaze her in new and spectacular ways. She folded her arms over her knees and rested her head on them, sighing with a soft smile.

Phlox took a deep breath, letting his lungs expand entirely with the crisp fresh air before releasing it and setting to work on adjusting his camera. As he delicately fiddled with the device, he couldn’t help but notice Domino’s silent reverie in the corner of his eye. His heart filled with pride knowing the young lady seemed just as touched by the setting as he was. He walked over to her, whispering as not to break her daydream.

“This is why the timing was so crucial,” Phlox said softly. “I’m sure this spot is beautiful all the time, but at this exact moment, at this exact time of day? It’s-”

“Heavenly,” Domino concluded. It was true. The sunbeams filtering through the trees managed to diffuse the light to give the space an ethereal glow. Anything that was lucky enough to catch the direct sunlight appeared to have a soft, colorful halo as the light bounced off its surface. Phlox nodded and headed off to document the scene.

Meanwhile, Domino reached forward and let her arm glow in a sunbeam as she let all the worries that normally plagued her mind dissipate. Here in this cove, she didn’t have to concern herself with the upcoming winter. She didn’t have to think about how–or when–she’d find her next meal. Even the looming threat of “Botnik workers” that would soon replace her managed to escape her mind. Right now, she could just be. Her eyes studied every leaf, every blade of grass, every sway of the branches that hung above her head so that even on the bad days, she could look back at this moment and feel peace.

Eventually, her attention shifted to the indigo photographer at work. He walked so carefully and quietly it was as if his boots weren’t even making contact with the ground. At one point, the boy managed to approach a flutter of blue butterflies that didn’t seem phased by his company, shining and dancing in the late-afternoon sun like fairies. She wondered if it was possible to capture the serenity of this moment in a photo. It would be nice to see if he succeeded, but he likely wouldn’t develop his roll of film any time soon. She’d be long gone before those photos would come to light. The thought caused a strange weight in her chest, a sinking feeling she shouldn’t allow herself to feel. She diverted her attention to some of the wildflowers beside her.

Neither were sure how much time passed as they each quietly enjoyed the space, together but individually in their own ways. Once satisfied, Phlox walked over and took a seat next to Domino. “I didn’t get to ask you earlier...” he broke the silence, but his soft, honey-smooth voice was so reposeful it might as well have been part of the ambient melody of the forest.

“Hm?” Domino hummed, looking over to the boy beside her.

“What’s your dream?”

The girl leaned back with her palms behind her and surveyed the shelter of leaves above them as she pondered. Her dream. Such a big question. What should she make up this time? What would impress this guy the most? ‘To conquer a mighty dragon’? ‘To soar among the stars’?

“I want to make a difference,” she found the truth slipping from her lips. She shook her head and shrugged with defeat as if that goal was too ambitious for someone like herself. “Even if I can do just one good thing.”

Her words were so simple but there was such a bitter heaviness to them. Did she really think she was of such little significance? Phlox hardly knew her, yet he sensed something positively great about her. The brief hours spent in her company were already changing him, encouraging him to become more of the person he was striving to be. What or who made her think so little of herself? He wanted to ask, but wisdom told him if he did, she’d likely withdraw even further.

Instead, he placed his hand on hers and gave it a firm squeeze. 

“You will.”

Domino turned to Phlox with a soft gasp. His words sounded so genuine. Oh, how he looked at her, too. The way those green eyes surveyed her made her feel like she was the only thing in the world. It was intimidating. It was exciting.

Though her heartbeat grew louder in her ears, she still managed to pick up a faint assortment of sounds off in the distance. Chattering? Shrieking? She wasn’t sure but it was quickly growing louder. At the same time, she and Phlox looked towards the barrier of trees and noticed the branches and leaves beginning to tremble. Something was rushing through the forest and rapidly making its way towards the grotto. The tops of the trees shook and the roar of what sounded like a crowd was quickly upon them. Domino only briefly saw a flash of color burst through the curtain of leaves before closing her eyes and throwing herself on top of Phlox to shield him from whatever threat found their hiding spot.

The roaring now completely surrounded them, making its way over their heads and echoing all around them in the grotto. Domino tried to flatten herself and Phlox as close to the ground so they wouldn’t be hit. But despite the overwhelming noise, nothing struck them. She heard Phlox gasp. “Minnie, look!”

Domino opened one eye to see Phlox looking skyward, a wondrous smile on his face. She hesitantly turned just enough to peek over her shoulder and gasped as well. Hundreds–no, thousands of colorful birds were flying in mass above the canopy. Despite their numbers, they all moved together in perfect harmony, creating a magnificent, undulating patchwork of color in the sky. Domino rolled onto her back and the two hedgehogs watched in awe. She knew that birds were likely to migrate before the winter months hit, but she never witnessed something quite like this. The setting sunlight shone through their wings as they fluttered above, painting the entirety of the sky with a brilliant rainbow. Just as quickly as they had approached, the last of the birds flew past and the grotto returned to the peaceful silence once again.

Phlox and Domino both blinked. The moment had come and gone so quickly, it was almost as if it didn’t happen at all. They turned to each other, Domino’s head still resting on Phlox’s arm, and at once they both giggled in breathless bewilderment. 

“What are the odds of that?” Domino grinned, placing a hand on her forehead in disbelief.

Phlox smirked confidently. “Right place, right time.”

“Ah yes, your ‘super power’,” the girl rolled her eyes and began to shove herself away. However, Phlox quickly wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight to him. She squealed with laughter and fought against him in protest.

“Don’t mock my talent,” he chuckled while Domino squirmed in his grasp.

“Lemme go, you brute!” The teal hedgehog shoved her palm into Phlox’s face, making him laugh even harder. Still, he held her close.

“Naht ‘til you apahlagizsh,” he muttered under the pressure of her hand. 

Domino removed her palm and leaned in with a playful scowl. “Never.”

Phlox met her smug glare. “Then I’ll never let you go.”

Domino stopped struggling and her smile faltered a bit. She knew he was joking; after all, she started this game, but something about those words… Something inside her wanted them to be true. She enjoyed the feel of his embrace. She wanted him to hold onto her endlessly, and the thought made her curse to herself. ‘Wants’ were stupid, frivolous. Her lifestyle only allowed for ‘needs’: shelter and sustenance.

Domino was beginning to realize that Phlox’s presence caused an entirely different kind of hunger within her.

The male’s chuckles diminished as Domino stared at him quietly. His cheeks and chest grew warm as he suddenly registered just how tightly she was pressed against him. Phlox searched her cyan eyes, wondering what she was thinking. Was she upset? He was inexperienced with flirting; had he gone too far? She wasn’t pulling away, though. Her gaze briefly flickered to his lips and his heart raced faster and his purple fur prickled up. 

“...Do… you realize what that was?” Domino whispered.

Phlox’s eyes widened. Was she asking about his sudden shiver or the display of birds they just witnessed? He hoped it was the latter.

“Uhh… a… murmuration…?” 

“A-K-A…?” she nodded expectantly and a smile began to curl on her lips.

Phlox’s eyelids dropped with realization and he sneered, “Don’t. You. Dare.”

Domino sat up and poked at Phlox’s chest to punctuate her words. “Those were FLOCKS of BIRDS!”

“That’s it!” He went to snatch her again, but Domino was too quick for him this time. She sprinted to the edge of the grotto and giggled while she waited for him. Phlox hurriedly packed up his gear and threw his camera strap over his shoulder. “You’re in for it now!”

The girl squealed and darted away as Phlox chased her all the way back to the village.

—

Domino let out a long yawn after collecting payment from her most recent task. Despite completing her fourth odd-job of the morning, she still found herself struggling to stay awake. Then again, she did have a hard time falling asleep last night…

It wasn’t the cold that kept her awake. No, she was plenty used to sleeping outside in all manner of harsh weather conditions. What kept her up were thoughts about that damn boy. That quiet, dazzling boy. 

She didn’t recognize herself when she was around Phlox. Talking to him either led to embarrassing, truthful slip-ups (she still couldn’t believe she’d told him her “dream.” How stupid!) or left her unable to speak at all! And that stunt she pulled in the grotto to try and save him… What was that?! She’d lived her whole life looking out for herself. Her entire existence was all about self preservation. So why did she throw herself on top of him when she thought they were in danger? Domino was annoyed with how quickly her priorities were shifting. And even more annoyed by how good it felt to care about somebody other than herself for once. 

Tossing and turning over all these thoughts left her with little shut-eye last night. 

An idea came to her suddenly. Perhaps a cold dip would wake her up! Besides, after doing all the dirty jobs that the townspeople didn’t enjoy and the “Botniks” were too clunky to complete, she could use a bath. 

She exited the city and headed downhill. Her years traversing the wilderness trained her to easily find rivers, and after carefully listening for running water and taking note of the ways the trees leaned, she found what she was looking for.

It was a serene creek with blue-green water that was clear enough to see the bottom of the river bed. It would be plenty deep enough for a proper swim. A medium-sized stack of boulders allowed for a steady flow of water to gently trickle down into the larger body of the creek. On days where the weather was more severe, she imagined the waterfall would crash into the river with a thunderous roar. But on this mellow autumn morning, the water was calm and tranquil. 

It made her think of Phlox. 

“Chaos,” she cursed to herself. The Domino she knew would have just shrugged it off and gone about her business. But this new, thoughtful Domino realized this was the exact kind of scene Phlox would love to photograph. The idea of gifting him with this little treasure and seeing the look of excitement on his face was too much to resist. “So much for ‘priorities’ huh?”

She convinced herself that this would be her way of repaying him for the grotto trip yesterday, nothing more. Satisfied with that reasoning, she hurried back to town in hopes to find that photographer that seemed to be making a home in her mind’s eye. It didn’t take long for her to spot him. The young man was sitting under a shade tree, writing in his notepad. Butterflies filled her stomach at the width of his smile upon hearing her call his name. The feeling intensified with how quickly he agreed to go with her. 

“I’m telling ya, you’re gonna make this place THE travel destination once the world sees all your photos. Especially of this spot I found!”

“Had I known you were a location scout, I’d have hired you sooner.”

“You can’t afford me. Heiress, remember?” Domino teased with a wink. “I’m offering you this location on the house.” Phlox laughed his mischievous laugh as he followed the young woman. Once they reached the creek, Domino raised her arms into the air and spun around with a triumphant, “Ta-daaaa~!”

The purple hedgehog placed his hands on his hips and his grin was brighter than the sun. His reaction was even better than she had pictured.

“So, whaddya think?”

“I think,” Phlox chuckled, lowering the camera from his shoulder and placing it on the ground. Domino blinked as he kicked off his boots. “This is going to be so cold!”

“What?” Domino scoffed while Phlox removed his beloved pair of jeans and pried off his gloves. “You’re really gonna jump in there?”

“Like you aren’t?” Phlox raised an eyebrow, a knowing smile plastered on his sandy muzzle. “That’s why you came out here in the first place, right?”

“I-” she scratched her quills and shrugged, “I guess I just took you for the prissy, hot-shower type.”

The boy turned to face the girl while walking backwards and used his fist to make a stabbing motion into his heart. “Minnie, you wound me!” He spun on his heel with a laugh and ran towards the creek before leaping into the air, curling into a spinning ball, and crashing into the water with a mighty splash. 

Just as quickly as he had jumped in, he resurfaced and his voice cracked as he shrieked. “I WAS ᴿᴵGᴴᵀ! SO CₒᴸD!”

“PFFTT!” Domino burst into a fit of laughter, doubling over and holding her stomach. “Gaia! I had no idea your voice could reach that high!”

“Shu-shu-shushhhh up and guh-get in here!” Phlox demanded through chattering teeth. He swam to face the other way so Domino could strip down to her undergarments without him watching. 

Domino shook out her hands to mentally prepare herself for the cold plunge before jumping into the water, wailing. She resurfaced with a gasp. Well, she certainly wasn’t tired anymore. 

“Whu-whu-whyyy duh-duh-did we d-do thissss?!” 

Phlox’s ears were pinned flat to his head. “‘Cuz wuh-we’re young and sssss-stupid!” 

“C-c’mon Young, ssswim with Stupid,” Domino laughed despite her shivering and waved him over to follow her as she began to swim. “The mmmore ya move the w-warmer you’ll be.”

The two hedgehogs made a game of who could swim the fastest from one edge of the creek to the other, and before long they had quickly adjusted to the temperature of the water. It turned out that Phlox was an excellent swimmer, capable of doing laps around Domino. The girl rolled her eyes as he gloated over his many wins.

“Ya know, I think I liked you more when you talked LESS!” She startled him with a tackle and dunked him under water.

He sprang back up and shook off his quills. “You opened this Pandora’s Box, there’s no putting it back now.”

“Oh yeah?” She went for another tackle, but now that he was onto her, he dodged and left her rolling face-first into the water. Domino made several more attempts, but Phlox would either stay so still it was like slamming into a brick wall, or he would use her momentum against her to make her plunge face first into the water. 

Her most recent effort left her clinging to Phlox’s side, trying to push his face into the water with no success. “Grrrrr why won’t you go down?!”

Phlox laughed and pried the girl off him with ease. “I love your enthusiasm. But you won’t beat me in a battle of brawn.” He tapped his temple. “You’ve got to assess the situation and play to your strengths.”

The teal hedgehog let her head fall back and groaned with frustration. “You said it yourself: I’ve got no strength.”

“I meant ‘do what you’re best at,’” Phlox scratched the fluff of his muzzle as he pondered for a moment. His green eyes suddenly lit up and he snapped his fingers. “I know a game we could play!” He swam a distance away to make room between the two hedgehogs. “I’m going to guard this end of the creek. If you get passed me and make it to the bank, you earn a point.”

Domino’s shoulders sank. “You’re the better swimmer and you’re bigger than me. I’m never getting through you.”

Phlox smiled with encouragement. “Assess the situation, Minnie. You’re smaller, but that makes you faster and more slippery. Use that to your advantage to get around me.”

“Hmm,” Domino considered, her pout turning into a genuine smile. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot!”

“But!” Phlox held up a finger. “To prove that I’m not going to just let you win, let’s raise the stakes. If I catch you, you have to answer a question. Truthfully.”

“Pfft,” Domino sputtered. “That’s not much of a reward.”

“It is to me,” Phlox grinned. He stretched his arms out to either side. “Now show me what you’ve got!”

Domino’s eyes twinkled with determination and she rushed forward. She originally tried swimming to the side of Phlox’s reach, but he was able to quickly catch up to her. She panicked at the last minute and tried to charge him, but he caught her and she went limp in his arms in frustration. 

“Next time, don’t give up so fast. There’s still a chance to break free.” Phlox shifted the girl in his arms so he carried her bridal style and swam them back over to Domino’s side of the river. “So, how many siblings do you have?”

“70.” She moped. 

“Hey, I won my prize. The truth. How many do you really have?”

Domino rolled her eyes and shoved herself off him. She muttered quietly, “It’s just me.” Her answer was guarded, but Phlox couldn’t help but pick up the loneliness in her tone. He tried to lighten the mood with his own response as he made his way back to start-position. 

“Wow, the center of attention, huh? We’ve got two litters in my family. 3 brothers and 1 sister. I’m right in the middle.”

“5 guys in one house? I bet the place stinks!” Domino teased, finding her sense of humor again. “Ugh, you have no idea!” Phlox joked and rubbed his nose. “When I first started out on the road, I felt like I could breathe for the first time in my life!” The girl attempted to swim by him again. Phlox grappled for her and though he did briefly get his arms around her, she was able to wiggle through his forearms and kick off his back to propel herself to the creek bank. Domino couldn’t help but dance along the shore at her win. 

“See that’s it!” Phlox threw a fist into the air. “Show me what else you can do. Besides those sick dance moves.”

Domino hurried over to her side again and strategized. She knew he would just keep catching her if she tried to swim around him, and though she could wiggle free, she’d get exhausted in no time. She looked down and noticed how similar the blue-green shade of the water was in comparison to her own fur. 

She squeaked as she was suddenly rushed and held tightly in Phlox’s grip. 

“What the HELL?!” she squirmed. This time he locked her forearms across her chest and she couldn’t wiggle loose. 

“Who said I couldn’t leave my post? You were taking too long and I have questions!” 

Domino slumped against Phlox’s furry chest, defeated. Her voice was monotone, “What is your question, O devilish Phlox?”

“If you could only eat one food for the rest of your life, what would it be?”

Domino giggled before her eyes went wide. “Ohhh, those hash browns from yesterday!”

“That’s it? Hash browns?” Phlox cocked an eyebrow. Domino shoved off him so he could return to his position. 

“I’m not a picky eater and those were good! Why, what would yours be?”

“Chili. The spicier, the better!” Phlox answered before whispering under his breath, “Hmm. I could learn to make hash browns,” Meanwhile, Domino returned to her plan that she was formulating before she was last captured. She took a deep breath and submerged herself completely underwater. 

“Uh-oh,” Phlox panicked. The only patches of Domino’s fur that weren’t teal blue were her cheeks, stomach, and the inside of her ears, and while she was underwater, she was just about invisible. His eyes searched frantically, trying to figure out which side she would attempt to get around him. He yelped when he felt something brush the undersides of his paws. Once he realized it was Domino swimming below him, it was already too late and she was on his side of the river. 

“HaHA!!” She cheered and shimmied her shoulders in a victory dance. 

“Very clever,” Phlox grinned. “I’m onto you now.”

Their game went on for several more rounds, with Domino taking the lead by a substantial amount. Still, Phlox was determined and managed to get a few more answers out of her before their game was through:

“What’s your biggest pet-peeve?”

“When people are snooty. Get outta here with that crap!”

“Morning-bird or night-owl?”

“Of course you’d ask a ‘bird’ question, ‘Flocks.’ I always start the day bright and early.”

“What’s your favorite thing about yourself?”

“Oiiiii… Hmmm. My resourcefulness.”

“Excellent choice. I’ve never seen anyone wield a roll of tape better than you.”

“And you never will~” 

“Would you ever want to have kids one day?”

She had to think about that one for a moment. Logistically, her lifestyle wouldn’t allow for that kind of thing. It wasn’t responsible. But Phlox did ask her to answer honestly. A soft smile formed on her lips. 

“Yeah. I would.”

Phlox bit the inside of his cheek in hopes to suppress his smile and the blush creeping up his neck.

Domino attempted one more round, but at this point she was drained and Phlox caught her without much struggle. 

“Okay, okay,” she panted and the young man released her. “You win. I’ve had enough.” The girl huffed and puffed, struggling to tread water with the amount of energy she’d exerted. 

The boy chuckled and took her hands into his. “Here, catch your breath.” He was surprised that instead of merely holding onto his hands, Domino pulled herself close to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. She rested her chin on his shoulder and closed her eyes as she attempted to regulate her breathing.

Phlox was certain she could feel the pounding of his heartbeat, but surprisingly he wasn’t all that ashamed this time. Domino had a way of making him feel excited and calm all at once. It encouraged him to be bolder, braver, more accepting of his quirks. 

“I can tell you wanna ask me another question,” the girl teased. 

“I do,” Phlox admitted, his voice much softer and reserved, like the first time they met. “But it’s not part of the game.”

“C’mon, you caught me so you earned it,” Domino leaned back enough so she could look Phlox eye-to-eye. Her mouth curved up into a smile at how red his face was. “What?”

Be bold. He told himself. Be like her.

“Can I kiss you?”

Domino’s jaw dropped with a soft gasp. Of all the things he could’ve asked, this was the last thing she expected. Before these last two days, nobody even bothered looking her way. Now not only did she have the undivided attention of this dashing young man, but he wanted to kiss her? Phlox could easily have any girl he wanted, so why would he waste his time with somebody like her?

Well, she thought, probably because he doesn’t actually know me. If he did, he’d leave. 

It would be smart to say no. But when would she ever have this opportunity again? She’d be gone by tomorrow, having never kissed a boy. A beautiful, kind, lovely boy.

“…Yes.”

As soon as the word left her lips, Phlox took her face into his hands and kissed her. She was alarmed at how quickly his mouth was on hers considering how shy he’d been just a moment ago, but it was a welcome surprise. Her arms remained wrapped around his neck and she closed her eyes as she returned his kiss. 

Phlox sighed happily into her lips, his thumbs stroking her cheeks as he cupped her face. He’d never kissed anyone before, but from the moment he first laid eyes on this young lady it was all he could think about. She was so unique and adventurous and funny! Oh, how she made him laugh like he was a little kid again. He was generally in good-spirits most of the time, but he hadn’t felt happiness like this for a long while. Being in her company was like floating in the clouds. The kiss broke just briefly as his mouth subconsciously curved into a smile, but he did his best to force it down and match his lips to hers once more. 

One of Phlox’s hands gently combed down Domino’s long cyan quills and that burning hunger flared up in her lower belly once again. His lips were too lovely, his touch too wonderful. This was dangerous. 

Regrettably, Domino broke away and rested her forehead against his as they both attempted to catch their breath. “I’m not so good at multitasking… We should probably get outta the water now,” the lady hedgehog suggested. 

“Yeah, okay,” Phlox chuckled breathlessly. The two swam to the edge of the creek and Domino pulled a towel out from her backpack. She dried herself off as much as possible before tossing it to Phlox while she got dressed. He pulled on his pants and boots then laid in the grass next to the girl and quietly admired the clouds with a smile on his face. 

Domino was grateful for the silence, trying to make sense of all the weird thoughts and feelings swimming around her mind. She knew it was a bad idea to let somebody in like this. The closer Phlox got, the sooner he’d realize what a joke she was. She knew she would need to leave before that happened. So why, why did she feel this constant urge to let him in? She chewed on her lip but silently cursed to herself as she could still taste him. 

“Hey, so…” she started, despite her better judgment. Phlox turned his full attention to her. “I’m no chef, but… I make a pretty good stew. And you said you like chili, so, uh… I was wondering if you’d…” she clapped a hand over her face and sighed. “-If you’d let me make you something. You know, to pay you back for… everything.”

“Pay me back?” Phlox asked, his brows furrowed.

“For breakfast, and the grotto,” she threw her hands into the air, “and all the tactical combat lessons you just gave me!”

“Hey, I did those things because I wanted to. You don’t owe me anything,” he did his best to reassure the girl. He propped his head up with his hand and gave a mischievous smirk. “But if it’s a date you’re suggesting…”

“Chaos,” Domino muttered. Still, she couldn’t help but smile. 

“You have to ask me proper. I’m old-fashioned like that.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes before turning to face the boy who was all but wiggling with anticipation. “Phlox. May I make you dinner? As a date.”

“Yes.” He gave her a quick peck on the cheek before rolling over to grab his camera. His face was bright red, but his smile was confident as he removed the lens and adjusted the settings. “Now, to capture this little gem you found me!”

Domino packed up her bag before swinging it over her shoulder. “I’ll meet you at the inn you’re staying at, yeah?”

“Okay!” He snapped a few photos. “What’re you up to today?”

Oh, just buying a cheap jacket and a bunch of nonperishables so I don’t starve this winter. Impressive, right?

“More business meetings. I heard the mayor’s a big-time investor. I’m gonna see if he will fund the latest board game I’m developing.”

Phlox slowly lowered the viewfinder from his eyes. Why was she telling stories again? He thought after what just happened… Why couldn’t she just tell him the truth? He closed his eyes and sighed. Who was he to tell her what to do? Besides, it was like he told her: she didn’t owe him anything. All he could do was hope that she’d learn to trust him eventually. 

“Knock ‘em dead, Minnie. I believe in you.”

The girl gave him a playful salute before heading back into town, leaving the boy alone to his thoughts. 

Domino hadn’t even made it to the market before hearing a thunderous crash and the screams of several townspeople. People sprinted away from the townsquare in a panic. The old Domino might have followed their lead and scampered away as well. But over these last couple of days, she found herself evolving. Even more important than self-preservation, she felt a stronger urge growing in her heart: the need to protect. Without hesitation, she raced towards the sound of the commotion.

[Next: CHAPTER 3]

[A/N: I used the art of Nathan Fowkes as visual inspiration for many of the scenes in this chapter. If you aren't familiar with his work, I highly recommend checking it out!]

[girlactionfigure]

Here’s what it’s like to be a Jewish student at UPenn 🧵👇

 Penn was my dream school. Now it feels unrecognizable. Rising antisemitism, vandalism, and threats have gone unchecked. I shared my story with congress and the state senate months ago — nothing has changed.

In September 2023, UPenn hosted the Palestine Writes Festival. It featured speakers with long antisemitic histories who glorified terrorism. Thousands of students, alumni, and politicians pleaded with the administration to act.

They ignored us.  2/ 

I raised my safety concerns with UPenn leadership. Their response? "Hillel is one of the safest buildings on campus. You have nothing to worry about."

2 days later, Hillel was vandalized. The perpetrator screamed: “F** the Jews!”*  3/ 

Hillel is supposed to be a safe space—a place to eat kosher, pray, rehearse with my a cappella group, or just study.

The morning of the break-in, my op-ed was finally published: “What Are We Waiting For?”

Hours later, my fears were proven right. Weeks later a bomb threat was made on the building 4/

Noah Rubin | An open letter to Jewish students at PennNoah Rubin urges fellow students at Penn to utilize their....Link

December 3rd, 2023: A mob of students, faculty, and extremists marched through campus.

They screamed:

“Intifada revolution!” “From water [river] to water [sea], Arab Palestine!” “Only the martyr in spirit and blood can open the gates of Al Aqsa!” 5/ 

We locked ourselves in our rooms, terrified.

Buildings were vandalized with graffiti:

“Blood Money” “Intifada” “Avenge Gaza” 6/ 

I missed my finals work that night. I and hundreds of Jewish students couldn’t leave our rooms.

I shared this months ago. Now another semester is over, and nothing has changed to prevent this from happening again.

The silence from UPenn’s administration is deafening.  7/ 

Since then, a pro-Hamas encampment took over campus for 2 weeks in the spring. Jewish students were harassed daily:

Called slurs. Physically blocked from campus spaces. Told: “Hamas should do it again. You’re next.”

We were told to “avoid the center of campus.”  8/ 

Meanwhile, we were called: “Nazis,” “Hitler’s children,” and worse.

Some Jewish students were physically assaulted. 

Professors aren’t just silent—they’re leading this:

Some skip class to chant “Intifada!” Others justify Hamas terror or post extremist rhetoric online.

One even posted a Hamas military patch as a “cool” Facebook photo.

How is this acceptable?  9/ 

I’ve had over 20 meetings with administrators. I’ve been told to “take care of myself and get some rest.”

That was months ago. Now the semester is over, and I’m asking again:

How long will Jewish students be ignored?  10/ 

Why do these professors have full classrooms? Why are they given the official platform to spew hate? 

Many of them are not even tenured!  11/ 

Penn is failing its Jewish students. We’re looking over our shoulders just to get to class.

We deserve better. This fight isn’t just about us—it’s about stopping hatred from being normalized on campus.

Enough is enough.  12/ 

If you’re a Jewish student, an ally, or someone who cares about truth—stand up, speak out, and hold universities accountable.

We shouldn’t have to feel unsafe at our own schools.

I ask again: What are we waiting for?

🛑 #StopAntisemitism

@NoahGRubin

[impatient-traveler]

I realize a lot of the current fandom came to the game after several patches or several *years* since release. So a lot of you might not know the history and how things used to be different.

Now, I personally have very strong feelings about the direction in which FFXV was taken post-launch, but this isn't the point of this post.

The point is to maybe make some newer people in the fandom realize that things used to be very different and hopefully make some of you guys learn something cool about a game you love.

FFXV had several core philosophies that were new, and brave, and really cool, and some of them ended up backfiring really badly. It endeavored to be a multimedia project (the multitude of associated media wasn't just "they weren't able to fit it in the game"!). It was intended to be a live service game (which feels very disconnected from the meaning of that term now, but it was already pretty weird at the time. Tabata, the game's director, seemed to have a very different idea of what it meant from the rest of the world, and to him it meant free monthly updates for multiple years alongside paid DLC). It also was intended to take the players' feedback into account in order to become the best game it could be. That's why we got a huge poll asking for what to add to the game, and that's why a ton of changes were made to the game's main story and content after release. That's also why the original experience is nearly lost to time now.

The initial few patches were mostly a continuation of the game's development. Stuff the devs hadn't managed to do in time or that they thought needed to be better. As time went on, though, more and more updates were made that changed the game's identity in significant ways.

One of the major ideas behind FFXV's storytelling was that it was always intended to be subjective. The main game was Noct's story. You had main characters leaving, you had a lot of things not being explained, a lot of stuff you had to piece together from scraps of info. You were intended to experience the story the way Noctis did. The DLC and other media were supposed to fill those gaps for you. What happened in Insomnia while we were gone? What did the other party members get up to while they weren't with us? You were supposed to get this information from different narrators, different viewpoints.

Think about it. Noctis is only twenty, he was never explicitly told what his destiny would involve, he was never taught how to do this. He's confused, he's terrified, he's just trying to keep going one step at a time through most of the game. It was immersive and impactful when you shared some of those feelings as a player.

The information was there. In other media (Kingsglaive, Brotherhood, A Kings's Tale, Parting Ways, Platinum Demo, eventually all the DLC), but also in little scraps around the game's world. Radio transmissions, Cosmogony books, scraps of newspapers and documents, the environmental storytelling of the nights creeping into your days, the ruined walls of Zegnautus Keep. It was in the context. The subtext. The cross-referencing and theory crafting we, the fandom, did.

You would be surprised just how much of the lore added in DLC and updates elicited no reaction from us back then. It was "duh". It was things we already knew. Things we'd pieced together, discussed, and written fics for months in advance.

Then the Internet did its thing and the loudest voices the devs could hear were the people who didn't love the game, who didn't want to put in the effort, who didn't want to think about it too hard. And instead of only affecting the subsequent content, it also changed the game we used to know.

The random interactable lore dumps they added to many locations with no explanation or reason to be there. The bestiary and character infos (which is a great feature but contributes to making players wait for lore to be fed to them rather than think for themselves). The horrible, disgusting powerpoint presentation they inserted into the middle of the Shiva conversation on the train that just pauses mid-dialogue to offer you an extensive infodump and then continues as if that never happened. There's a lot of things like this.

Did you know the original Ch13 was a horror game? The Ring's spells were tuned in such a way that they incentivised sneaking. It wasn't even mandatory then, you could still bruteforce your way through just by learning the simple counter timing for the Ring. But until you did, you got a precious few minutes of feeling terrified of the MTs patrolling the corridors. People complained that it "took you out of the action" and "interrupted the pace". Oh, do you mean how Noctis was INTERRUPTED by suddenly being all alone, in an unknown, hostile place, trying to rush to save his friend but not get himself killed? It was impactful. It was memorable. Now ch13 feels like a bad joke, Ardyn's attempts at taunts triggering a minute late when you've already moved on from the corpses of the MTs he's warning you about.

Do you know how it felt when Insomnia was a quarter of its current game size and had barely any content? It was rushed, yes. But that was the tragedy of it. The reason why it was so successful at conveying how this felt to Noctis, to the others who'd been waiting for him for a decade. To be reunited only to die. To be robbed of all your freedom in favor of playing the role you were meant for.

Did you realize the entire boss rush at the end is a Royal Edition addition? It's too long. It feels disjointed and at odds with the mood of the story. You're supposed to feel helpless. You're supposed to despair. Instead you get each party member delivering an over-the-top finisher move while yelling extremely cheesy and out of character lines about how much they love their friend. We always knew how much they loved him. It was in their presence. In their willingness to die for him. In the way they didn't look away when they knew they were about to lose him. In the stilted dialogue and awkward attempts at humor, trying to recapture their lost innocence.

This game used to punch you in the gut as it ended. It used to make you feel like you were watching a dear friend walk to his death and had to live with that, with the knowledge that for all its injustice and cruelty, this was "for the best".

Go out. Get the 1.0 mod (which I was consulted for as the person who actually played the old versions and resident modding community grandma but did not touch any of the actual mod making). Get an old disk copy for your console. See this game at its strongest. Experience the version of the story that forces you to grapple with the tragedy and doesn't sugarcoat or distract you from the ugly parts.

[404deus]

Used to be a big fan of your old art style. Initially I was excited to see you return back to drawing, but the art deprovement is real… You lost the appeal in your old art style, it used to be charming with the messy sketch lines and special effects. Now it’s just janky and strangely neat in a revolting way. It’s Always sad to see artists that are not young anymore just getting worse at their craft as they grow older. Shame. You fell off big time. Your old art used to get so much more attention, and now with your “new art style” it’s just crumbs of what you used to have.

hmm… i think it’s ok to prefer my older art style, my style is always changing n growing in different directions ! sometimes it might not be the way that clicks w u anymore, and that’s ok. i wanna take some time to share my art journey with u anon, not looking to change ur mind but i thought it’d be interesting to go down memory lane and my thought processes — gonna be under a read more since this will b a long post

my art journey has been a long one for me… i have been drawing since i was a dumb teenager and man did i struggle with finding a style back then. this was my art when i was 17-19, it wasn’t anything consistent bc it was just me practicing the styles of the artists i looked up to at that time. i rmb feeling insecure bc i felt that my art skill was so ass compared to much younger artists in the fandom at that point of time, but i told myself to just continue trying my best n eventually i’ll figure out an art style i could call my own

when i was 20-22, i got into the OMORI fandom and i loved the art style so much. most of my art style transitioning then was very heavily referenced off the official game art. it’s the art that most people loved the most, as you mentioned! i’m still very fond of it looking back at it, and it’ll always hold a dear place in my heart :]

i stopped drawing for a year or so when i was 22-24, i did try to come back once but it didn’t last long. i was going through a very rough patch in my life (bad breakup, transitioning to adulthood, health issues) and i genuinely thought abt quitting art. i was getting alot of my art stolen and resold on platforms like temu, aliexpress n there was nothing i could do about it, i felt extremely frustrated and helpless u__u i also went thru a huge identity crisis and felt a lot of imposter syndrome for getting attention for my art when it felt like i was just ripping off the game’s art style. i was constantly consumed and overwhelmed by numbers and engagement as my account grew, i felt bad for drawing anything that wasn’t OMORI because its the fandom that helped me grow a following in the first place. everything combined, i felt very burnt out and my mental health was dropping steadily; i slowly stopped finding joy in art and gradually stopped drawing entirely.

i recently turned 25 and i did miss creating art after being on such a long art hiatus, so i decided to return and come back with a new sense of direction and determination to follow thru w it. i wanted to just stop caring abt numbers and not let it consume me entirely like it did in the past. i wanted to draw and create art for fandoms that inspired me and that i enjoyed, not limiting myself to just one fandom. OMORI will always be one of my art muses and i will continue to create pieces every so often relating to it — but i also want to be able to draw for other interests too!

i may not receive the same enthusiasm and following that i used to have, and my current art style may not appeal to my old audience and that’s ok!! i know my art improvement isn’t the fastest, i’m a very slow learner. i’m taking my own time and pace to enjoy my creative processes and i’m learning to love art and creating again, that’s what matters more to me than some arbitrary numbers.

i hope that provides some insight about my art journey! also, 25 isn’t that old. i’ll let u know when i start turning to dust or something so u can contribute to an urn for me 😌✊

[thefirstradiant]

Suptober Day 9: Moon

The Prayer

🌙 Destiel🌙 Rating: Gen. Words: 1k. Angst, I’m so sorry, this was painful. Set post-series, but I ignore the finale like I should. Trigger for major character death though because this isn’t a fix-it for 15x18. Also, here’s one of the songs that inspired this and makes me cry for destiel every time I hear it.

It’s been three days. Only three days? It still seems impossible. Three days since they overthrew god and saved the world. Three days since they- since they won.

Dean grimaced and spit on the wooden floor. That word tasted bitter and foul even in his mind. They didn’t win. They never could. This couldn’t feel any less like winning if it tried. He swallowed around the lump in his throat and looked around.

Just, walls. Blank grey and brick walls. He used to think this bunker could feel like home of sorts. Cozy, sometimes. Now it was just empty.

I can’t do this, Sammy. Not without him. I never- I never even said anything.

“Cas, I-“

Dean’s voice broke. What little he’d managed to get out sounded hoarse and grating even to his own ears. He just didn’t feel much like talking these days.

I need to say something. Anything.

Dean’s eyes found the notebook sitting on Sam’s desk and he quickly made his way over to tear a page out.

I could, maybe. It was always easier this way.

He stooped to pick up a pen from where it had rolled in between the floorboards. He was holding it too tightly, he knew.

Dean sat at the desk, resting his arms against its smooth surface and wrote one word.

Castiel.

Dean’s hands started shaking immediately and he dropped the pen. He felt his chest stop moving. It was hard to breathe. He couldn’t do this. Not in here. Not like this. The bunker seemed to be pressing in on him, it was no longer empty, but full of space. Space that was closing in.

Dean clutched his paper and pen and turned away as fast as he could. He ran towards the stairs at the back of the room and took them two at a time. He wrenched the door open and almost fell out into the night. He waited.

It was easier out here. Dean began to remember how to breathe. He felt the rush of air come back into his lungs and he slid down to sit in the dirt. There was some grass, but it was mostly patchy, offset from the glowing patches of moonlight.

He looked up. A full moon, beautiful, bright. Too beautiful, too bright. He had to look away.

There, in the dirt on the front porch of an underground bunker in Lebanon, Kansas, with his paper pressed up against his leg, Dean Winchester began to write.

Cas,

I hope you remember the moon.

I do. I remember the moon outside that barn when I first saw you. I remember thinking it was so bright when I walked in that it almost blinded me. But it didn’t. Those sparks that covered you as you walked in, that’s what blinded me. It was hard to see you through them.

I didn’t know what to make of you at first. You pulled me out of hell and rebuilt my body. What’s a man supposed to do with that? I’m still not sure.

But you stayed. And came back. Over and over again. Cas, I’d never had that before. No one had ever stayed.

I remember motel rooms. Waking up to see you sitting near the window, staring out, with the moonlight or the streetlights lighting up your face. I used to wonder what you were looking at out there for all those hours. Was it the sky? The people? Cars? Animals? What were you seeing out there?

Then, you started to tell me. You showed me what you saw in the world. The life, the warmth, the small things and the large. You found us interesting, endearing even. You told me about honeybees and snails. Lipstick and bridges, old books.

You scared people back then. You were always powerful, but then you were scary powerful, because I didn’t understand yet. It would many years before I really understood. But I don’t think I was ever scared for myself. Because I saw you in those motel rooms. When you weren’t looking out, you were looking at me, with that confused smile on your face. Like you didn’t know what to do with me either.

Cas, I’m sorry. I’m sorry that you waited on me. I’m sorry that you waited for me. I remember the moment you told me you had waited under that streetlamp for hours. Hours until I called you back. You stood there for me. Sometimes I still don’t get it. But I think I’m beginning to.

I wanted you with me. All the time. And I didn’t know how to handle it when you left. That scared me more than you ever did. How was I supposed to keep you close when everyone around me dies? Guess I was right, wasn’t I?

I can still feel it. I can feel your touch as you healed me, many times. I can feel the glow of your grace. It almost feels, well, it almost feels like this. I’m sitting here in this little patch of light. It’s not your light, and it’s not warm, but it’s light.

That’s what you were to me, Cas. The light at the end of the tunnel that I never thought I’d get through. And I couldn’t see how close I was. For that, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I never told you. That I couldn’t tell you.

I’ve done some shitty stuff, that’s for sure. You know more than anyone. But that’s not who I am. I know that.

Thank you. I wish to Heaven and hell and purgatory and back again that you hadn’t done it, but thank you. For saving me. One more time. I’m sorry you didn’t get to see the moonlight again. That it had to be in that dark, terrifying room. I would have wanted you to have light, and fields, and flowers.

I hope it’s not just darkness where you are. It might be but, god, I hope it’s not just.. darkness.

And Cas, I am so sorry that you didn’t get to hear me say I love you. Because I do, Cas. I love you, I love you.

I love you. Wherever you are.

Dean blinked and watched a tear dry at the bottom of the page. It was stupid, but he added one more word, before pulling out his lighter and burning the page.

Amen.