#i will be so fuckin good at running and digging holes and stomping around

[luvlyycy]

Aventurine being an ass worshipper would be really cool 💕

# a / n : are u projecting .. .. 😔 (chubby reader ahead)

he can't help himself, truly. it's almost like your body puts him in a trance.

his eyes are stuck on the way your ass jiggles when you walk, or when you stomp off after getting angry with him— it truly drives him insane.

hence why he has your back arched and his face pressed against your cheeks, teeth digging into the plump cheek. you giggle a bit, "aven, that ticklesss." he simply hums in response.

he pulls back with a soft huff, grabbing fistfuls of both of your cheeks— spreading them apart to get a good look at all your beauty.

"fuck, you're so pretty, you know that?"

aventurine lolls his tongue out to run against your asshole, earning a pretty whine from your lips. you whisper out a soft, 'it's dirty' or something.. he doesn't pay much attention and keeps going.

he's drooling on your ass, slurping up his own spit and letting run down your ass to your awaiting hole— god, he's so hard.

"mmhhm.. what would i do without this pretty fuckin' ass?— fuck, baby."

he'll follow you around, just to get a feel of that ass— his fingers digging into the plump flesh as he presses a kiss to your cheek. there's so much for him to grab, so much plush on your body and it's all so soft.

[heli0s-writes]

Ugly Christmas Sweater Party

Summary: Bucky (sort of) agrees to wear an ugly Christmas sweater, but what he ends up wearing is much worse. This is for @holy-captain‘s 1.2k writing challenge! Congratulations, Liv and thank you for hosting! I’m so sorry it’s late!! 

Pairing: Exasperated!Bucky x ChaoticDumbass!Reader

Warnings: Swearing Word Count: 1.8k

It’s supposed to be a fun and light-hearted thing—a season full of shiny-glowing-fantastic-twinkling excitement and ruddy red noses and misty breath in the chilled air. A season of joy and celebration, of spiked eggnog, fuzzy striped socks, and sliding down the compound hillsides on Steve’s shield.

And he’s screwed it all up.

It sinks in like the swollen marshmallows in his now cold cocoa, drooping to the bottom where the rest of the sediments lie. Outside, snowflakes gust and whip, blanketing the pine trees and skeletons of shrubbery in white flurries. Red holly berries peek out where they can and glare at him with their crimson eyes.

His phone lights up with picture messages of Steve and Sam, hurriedly trying on a cluster of sweaters in preparation. Horrid renderings of cats on ornaments. Oversized slouchy sleeves flecked with tinsel. Santa’s dreadful ass-crack peeking out of a chimney.

Bucky grumbles and turns his phone face-down, leaning back in his chair to stare at the Christmas tree in the corner. He wants to scream and put his leg through the damn thing.

Soft footsteps draw his attention to the hallway when you emerge, blinking slowly as you stifle a yawn from behind your hand until you see him. Then, you scoff and disappear back down the hall.

“Wait!” Bucky calls, leaping from his seat and nearly knocking the tepid mug from the table, “Damn it, wait!”

You’re gone. Stomped back to your room and even if he starts running now, he wouldn’t be quick enough—only getting the slamming door on his nose. He’ll try anyway.

Bucky slumps against the panel, pushing his chest against the cold metal of it and his cheek until his words come out smushed into his teeth.

“C’mon!” A pathetic whine of your name before he sticks his fingers underneath the slit of the door like a cat, wiggling the bent tip back and forth. Incredible. The Winter Soldier sprawled out all over a corridor, begging for forgiveness over this.

Only silence replies; you’re probably on the bed, thinking about scratching his eyes out. He can practically see you flicking him off with both hands. You’ve never been this upset before, and it deeply troubles him considering the dynamic of your very friendship spun on the axis of one single truth: Bucky’s the annoyed one. You’re the fuck up.

And now he has no idea what to do.

One week of it and he’s completely lost; the start of it all—December 1st when Tony announced: Ugly. Christmas. Sweater. Party.

Two days before Christmas, the team will be gathering in the common area for a white elephant gift exchange, and sweaters will be judged based on ugliness. What a stupid idea.

The winner will be awarded with “no team meetings for a month” and Tony’s personal stash of bourbon as long as no one touches his whiskey.

Upon the proclamation, you had clapped your hands together and grinned, “We’re gonna win this damn thing.”

And Bucky, being regular Bucky who ignores your half-witted ideas and short-sighted fixations, muttered, “Whatever,” and went back to thinking normal-person thoughts.

For the next several weeks, you dove into your knitting, the needles clicking together faster than he’s ever seen, weaving sparkling black and bright cherry red. The rows were tightly bound, looped and coiled expertly until he could finally make out the shape on the front of it.

He really did love your sick sense of humor—although he’d never admit it—funny, twisted, always brought him a bit of joy.

“Fuck no,” he had laughed at the image of a mutilated deer, antlers dangling silver ornaments showcasing his sigil. “I am not fuckin’ puttin’ that on. It looks like hell.”

“You agreed!” And then the needles and yarn hit him right in the nose.

On your way out, a low chuckle came from the corner of the living room where Steve sat sipping a cup of steaming chai. “You know Christmas is her favorite holiday?”

A snorting laugh bubbled the surface of Steve’s tea, “Good goin’, Buck.”

-

“Last Christmas” is on, blaring synth beats through the halls. George Michael croons sweetly, longingly, grieving an unrequited love before jingle bells ring in the scattered percussion.

Bucky hears your voice as you carol along to possibly the cheesiest song of all time—infuriated and baffled that you won’t speak more than two words to him but will sing your heart out to this crap. George Michael, Wham! and all of England can eat his whole ass.

He trudges from his room and into the den where the lights are dimmed and the table is set with snacks and a crock pot of hot chocolate. A dish of pine cones sits in the middle, flanked by a merry snowy village filled with little ceramic teddy bears and reindeer. On the edge is a deflated Santa Hat filled with paper scraps and pens for the voting process at the end of the night.

It is seven-thirty and you are standing next to Sam with bent elbows, wiggling your hips to the chorus, sliding back and forth on the polished floor in fuzzy socks. The two of you are facing the window, pointing at the flurry and a mountain of sludge that was previously a horrid misshapen lump of Snowman Steve.

Bucky squints a little, alert when he sees two matching sweaters—black on the back. Hell no, he thinks.

Sam turns around and Bucky’s worst holiday fears are confirmed. One innocuous “Oh hey, man,” and all the warmth drains from him.

On Wilson’s chest is that terrible disfigured deer you constructed, its antlers spearing out from its head to reach all the way up to his shoulders.

Bucky flies across the room and before either you or Sam can do anything about it, he’s peeling the hem of it over Sam’s head, kneeing him in the groin, and taking him down onto the floor. “What the hell!” Sam yells, struggling to get out of his grasp. “Shit—get off—Barnes!”

“A red star isn’t even your fucking symbol!” His hair is in his eyes along with Sam’s elbow, their limbs and joints knocking into each other in the wrestling bout. The sleeves and front are being stretched terribly, but neither of them seem to notice.

“Hey,” Your calm voice calls from above them—falling on four deaf ears. “Hey,” You try again, and when it doesn’t seem like two grown men can stop aggressively fondling each other over a damn pullover, you raise your hand and decisively land it across the back of Bucky’s head in a deafening crack.

A swell of multiple shocked gasps rises from behind you and when Sam and Bucky freeze, they see the rest of the compound’s inhabitants staring at the scene like a disfigured Nativity display. They also see your palm, at the end of your motion, resting next to your shoulder.

Bucky gingerly rubs his wound. “Ow,” He grumbles.

“Room… now.” You command, pointing your finger down the hall. Wilted, he shuffles away dutifully, saying nothing to the others as he passes. When he’s gone, you look scornfully at Sam and your beloved jersey, loosely hanging at the edge of his torso, pulled nearly apart.

“Voting starts in twenty, kid,” Tony mentions breezily.

“Yeah,” You reply through gritted teeth, “Don’t worry, we’ll be there.”

-

Steve coughs behind his hand awkwardly when Bucky steps back out, the once snugly-fitting sweater around Sam hanging collapsed and loose on Bucky’s right side. You’re close behind, bouncing on your heels and smiling as if nothing had gone wrong. Steve’s not sure which is worse: your wrath or glee.

“You, uh, you alright?” He calls quietly.

“Oh yeah, absolutely. Right, Buck?”

Bucky swallows, “Uh. Yeah.”

He has no fucking idea; when you shut the door behind him, the sweater in your hand was calmly unfolded and held up to his shoulders, damage assessed by a calculating mind. Bucky still has no clue what possessed you not to scratch his eyes out that very second.

Then, you looked him up and down and said, “Put it on, Barnes. Show’s about to start.”

And if he was a weaker man, he’d be shaking in his goddamn boots at how calm you are.

The team gathers around the tree, various colored pens and torn scraps in hand as they evaluate each other’s attire. Natasha is boldly displaying a patchwork kind of cardigan with what looks like the Michelin man ominously hovering behind a tree. Tony, of course, has custom-ordered a perfectly sized wreath knitted around his arc reactor heart. Steve has completely missed the Christmas memo (or is perhaps the politest Grinch on Earth) wears blue, the tiniest hint of gold tinsel woven through.

And Sam -- stupid, stupid Sam-- who didn’t plan on being robbed of a perfectly knitted sweater five minutes before the voting process, is out of the game.

Bucky is about to write your name down, because a medium part of him feels guilty for hurting your feelings while a much larger part of him feels apprehension about what exactly might happen if you lose, but you suddenly dig your hand into his pocket.

All five fingers shove deep until your fist is gripping tight and your knuckles stab his thigh.

“Hey! No hanky-panky during voting!” Tony is scandalized.

A vicious snap of his pocketknife swings open and before he knows it, your left hand is fisting the yarn on his chest and your right is ripping it straight through. The room falls silent when you do it a second time and Bucky’s at a loss for words until the breeze hits.

Chills.

A tendril of AC sneaks through the two open holes you’ve carved and goosebumps bloom all over his chest. Dread settles in his tummy.

His nipples are pebbled and exposed for everyone to see and with a quiet click of the blade retracting, you tuck it back into his pocket. 

“Let the voting begin.”

No one moves. No one makes a single sound and the whole place is quieter than a crypt until a shrill wheeze squeaks out of Sam’s nostrils. Through the choked snickering and the slowly building crescendo of everyone else’s laughter, Wilson admits, “They’re browner than I thought they’d be.”

There’d be no need for a voting process, Bucky knows. You’ve stolen the show – or rather, his nipples have stolen the show, and the once-worthy prize is now his Sisyphean burden to bear. He closes his eyes and counts to a million.

Screw exemptions from team meetings, Bucky thinks, praying desperately that when the bourbon is bestowed to him, by some miracle of sweet baby Jesus, he’d be able to get shitfaced again.

-

perm tags: @whothehellisbucky @serpentbaby @badassbaker @alagalaska @cake-writes​ @crist1216​ @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan​ @infinity-saga @jamesbarnesthighs​ @pinknerdpanda​ @xoxabs88xox​ @imsoft-barnes​ @momc95​ @typicalangel​ @wretchedgoddess​ @readeity​ @iwannasail​ @ya-lyublu-tebya​ @geeksareunique​ @wildefire​ @satanxklaus​ @jhangelface0523​ @wkemeup​

[stardust-walker]

High Hopes: Chapter 6

Previous Chapters: 1 2 3 4 5

word count: 5078

If anyone wants to be added to my taglist, feel free to reach out!

_________________________________________________________

Glenn couldn’t be gone there was no way. There was no time to really process what happened before Daryl’s attention immediately turned back to the boy. Dove lunged forward and tried to grab Daryl’s arm, but was only able to grasp his shoulder tightly as he swung at the boy. She dug her heels into the ground as she heard Rick and T-Dog approach. “Stop it,” Rick shouted.

Dove nodded quickly and stepped aside as Rick grabbed Daryl. The two of them pushed back further into the alley. T-Dog looked confused as ever but Dove just pointed. “Grab him!” She motioned towards the boy who looked ready to make a break for it.

“I’m gonna kick your nuts up in your throat,” she heard Daryl shout as she marched over and grabbed the boy by the wrist. Her head was pounding.

“Let me go!” The boy shouted.

T-Dog shoved him back against the wall, “Chill out!”

“They took Glenn! That little bastard and his little bastard homie friends,” Daryl yelled as he paced like an animal. Rick looked back quickly before he turned his attention back to Daryl.

“He’s not making it up,” Dove called over to Rick, “His friends took Glenn…and tried to get the guns.”

Daryl pointed over Rick’s shoulder. “I’m gonna stomp your ass, kid.”

Dove felt her anxiety rising as the chaos ensued around her. Then she heard Rick yell for them to move and the boy was pulled from her grip by T-Dog. “C’mon! Let’s go!” She followed as fast as she could. Part of her still wanted to raise absolute hell and just run down the street to try to get Glenn back, but that just sounded like more of a death wish than anything had in the past few weeks.

She realized once they were inside that her hands were empty. “Shit!” She stopped in the middle of the hallway. T-Dog shoved the boy against the wall again as he turned to scrutinize her.

“Why’d you stop,” he hissed back down the hall.

Dove threw her hands up in the air before she rested them on the back of her head, “The crowbar! I promised Jim I was gonna…” She trailed off as Rick and Daryl rounded the corner. The weapon was shoved roughly back into her hands as the two of them walked past her. More stomped in Daryl’s case.

“C’mon. I meant what I said. No one’s savin your ass. Better not drop that shit again, girl,” Daryl called over his shoulder after her. Dove sucked in a deep breath as she wrapped her fingers tightly around her weapon again.

It was hard to keep up with a fast moving group when your head was pounding. Dove entered the room and her gaze fell on the boy seated in a chair. “I ain’t telling you nothing,” was the response he gave to whatever they had asked him. This was going great.

T-Dog looked away from the boy, back at Daryl. “What the hell happened back there, man?” He had a right to ask. There hadn’t been much time to explain.

“I told you! This little turd and his douchebag friends came out of nowhere and jumped me! Damn near knocked bird out tryin to beat the shit out of me too,” Daryl glared at the boy as he paced.

Dove narrowed her eyes as the boy replied, “You’re the one who jumped me, puto. Screamin bout trying to find his brother like it’s my damn fault.”

“Yeah? And your guys ganged up on him with weapons. On top of that, it was two on one. He tried to ask you a question, you didn’t answer. So I think it’s best you start answerin,” Dove pointed to crowbar in the boy’s direction. A warning look from Rick only caused her to shake her head and set the weapon down. Eyes not leaving the boy, she leaned up against the side of the desk as she chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“They took Glenn. Could’ve taken Merle too,” Daryl attempted to reason with the others. On one hand, she could see how it made sense. On the other, it definitely seemed like he was reaching for any possibility that his brother could be alive and not bleeding out in the street somewhere.

“Merle? What kind of hick name is that,” the boy snickered, “I wouldn’t name my dog Merle.” Dove pursed her lips and shared a worried yet amused look with T-Dog for a moment before Daryl lashed out. This time, he aimed a kick right for the boy’s head. The brunette really had to admire the sheriff’s reflexes, especially when it came to keeping the angry redneck from beating someone.

Instead of staying back, Daryl marched right past Rick and began digging in Glenn’s backpack. Dove straightened up and tilted her head to the side as she observed what was happening. “Want to see what happened to the last guy that pissed me off,” Daryl said. His tone was eerily calm as he turned to the side so they could see what he was holding. It was the do-rag he had borrowed from T-Dog.

“Oh Jesus Christ,” Dove whispered as she brought a hand up to cover her mouth. She fought back a laugh as Daryl threw the severed hand right into the boy’s lap. She couldn’t understand why she found it funny, but if she had to venture a guess it would probably be the stress.

The boy screamed as he threw himself out of the chair and onto the floor. “Start with the feet this time,” Daryl still sounded amazingly calm as he gripped the boy up by the collar. Rick took advantage of the situation, he was really good at playing good cop.

“We just want to talk to your friends,” he said calmly as he got down to the boy’s level,” See if we can work something out.”

Daryl leaned over to pick up the hand off the ground as Dove spoke up again from behind the desk. “We don’t wanna have to let him cut your feet off, but if you don’t talk to us or tell us anything,” she shrugged her shoulders, “We just might not be able to stop him.” She smiled at the boy. The boy’s eyes flickered nervously between all of the others in the room.

He gulped and nodded his head slowly. “Alright. Just keep that crazy puto away from me!” It was almost sad to see the way the boy almost plead with Rick, but it was worth it. They were going to get their answers.

~

A little while later, Dove was seated alongside a brick wall; dark eyes locked on the boy as he sat away from the rest of them. She found herself feeling bad for the boy. Odds were he had no idea what was going on when Daryl started yelling about Merle and yet he found himself in this insanity with them. Dove’s attention shifted to Rick as he spoke up. “You ready?” He stared at her for a moment before she nodded.

The brunette nodded her head as she looked down at the gun that had been placed in her hand. It made her nervous as hell just holding the thing.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at the boy again as he threatened to put an arrow in his ass. T-Dog shook his head as the kid retaliated with, “G’s gonna take that arrow out of my ass and shove it up yours. Just so you know.”

“G?” Rick questioned as he finally turned his attention back to their hostage.

“Guillermo. He’s the man here.”

Dove rolled her eyes as she rested her back against the wall. “Some man he is. Sendin a kid out to do his dirty work and shit.”

Rick hummed in agreement before loading his gun. “Let’s go see Guillermo.”

Dove stood as she watched Daryl disappear through the window.

There was a moment of silence before either one of the lookouts spoke. “We don’t tell Carol about what a shit show this was or I’ll be the next one handcuffed except this time to a fucking car. Deal?” She turned her head, a serious expression on her face.

T-Dog pinched the bridge of his nose as he shook his head. “Christ. Deal. Only because Dale doesn’t need to be putting us all on lockdown either.”

Dove smirked as she followed quietly after T-Dog. “Knew you’d see it my way.”

Once they were in their positions, Dove peeked over the edge of the building. “Holy shit that’s a lot of people,” she mumbled as she looked through the scope of her gun.

“If this goes south, I say we book it,” T-Dog whispered. The only response he got was a gentle slap on the back of the head.

Finally, the other man looked in their direction as he followed Rick’s gaze.

“Make the trade. Please,” T-Dog practically prayed.

There was a shout from down below and she saw Rick’s gaze go up toward the roof of the building. Dove’s attention snapped in the same direction and her stomach dropped. She gripped the handle of the gun tighter as she bit down on her tongue hard to keep from shouting. Glenn was alive at least for now.

“Fuckin bastards,” Dove’s hands began to shake and her ears rang. She couldn’t even pay attention to what was happening with Rick right now. In fact, a shoot out could be happening right under her nose and her only thought might still be about getting Glenn down off that roof safe and alive. T-Dog nudged her arm, finally bringing her attention back to reality.

“Let’s go, cmon.” He didn’t seem happy at all and they were walking away without Glenn.

~

Dove paced the room as Rick slammed the bag of guns onto the table. She chewed on her already bitten thumbnail as she tried to keep herself calm.

“Those guns are worth more than gold. Gold won’t protect your family or put food on the table,” Daryl said. Was he actually trying to reason with someone? “You willing to give that up for that kid?”

That triggered something in Dove’s brain and she stomped over, a finger pointed right in Daryl’s face. “You best take that back, Dixon!”

“What? It’s the truth! You willing to give away something that could keep you or your sister from dyin to save some kid who wanted to put himself on death’s door,” Daryl didn’t back down. She had counted on that.

“You’re damn right I am! I would die for Glenn if I had to! You were about to put both of our asses in the grave when you decided to fight Miguel in that alleyway when you thought he might have Merle. So don’t you dare try to preach to anyone about what we gotta give up for anyone else in the group. You got me,” Dove’s hazel eyes could have burned holes right through Daryl if T-Dog hadn’t stepped in between them. A hand pressed against each of their shoulders as he pushed them away from each other.

“Listen. If I knew he would hold up his end of the deal and give Glenn back, I might agree to it. But you think that Vato across the way is just gonna hand him over?” T-Dog looked right into Rick’s eyes as he said this.

“You calling G a liar,” Miguel piped up from the floor.

“Are you a part of this,” Daryl snapped at him just before he slapped him on the side of the head. Dove gripped the edge of the desk tightly as she struggled to regain her composure. “You want to hold onto your teeth, kid?”

“Question is, do you trust that man’s word,” T-Dog spoke up again.

“No. The real question is, what are you willing to bet on it,” Daryl cut him off before he could say anything else. “Could be more than guns. Could be your life.” Dove glanced over her shoulder and caught Daryl’s eye for a second before he looked away.

“What life I have I owe to him,” Rick stated. “I was nobody to Glenn. Just some idiot stuck in a tank.” Dove stood up straighter, arms crossed in front of her chest. “He could’ve walked away but he didn’t. Neither will I.”

“So you’re gonna hand the guns over,” Daryl was surprisingly calm. Dove felt even more embarrassed about losing her cool as she listened to him actually talk reasonably to others in the group.

“I didn’t say that. There’s nothing keeping you three here. You should get out, head back to camp while it’s still light out,” Rick tried to explain to the others in the room.

“And what do we tell your family,” T-Dog sighed as he closed his eyes.

“We leave you here alone and we go back without you, without guns, without Glenn. Hell, without Merle? What was the point,” Dove shrugged her shoulders as she shifted her gaze to Rick.

The four of them looked around at each other for a moments before Daryl nodded his head. Dove reached over onto the table and grabbed the gun closest to her. She paused a moment before she shoved the crowbar back into the bag in its place. “You know how to shoot that?” Rick questioned as the other men examined their guns.

Dove pursed her lips and looked the gun over for a moment. With a shake of her head, Dove flashed Rick a surprisingly confident smile. “Nope, but I’m countin on your diplomatic talkin to make sure that I don’t have to.”

Rick frowned before he nodded at her. He held his hand out for the gun and she handed it over to him slowly. Dove’s eyes studied his hands as he loaded the gun for her. “Now listen. If it comes down to it, the safety is right here, alright?” Rick showed her and Dove nodded her head. “You remove the safety, place the butt of the rifle against your shoulder, right here. Then you look through the crosshairs to get your target. Then you pull the trigger and pray the kickback doesn’t get you.”

Dove nodded her head as she took the gun from Rick. “Thanks, Sheriff.”

~

Dove followed closely behind Rick as they moved through the courtyard of the building where the Vatos were holed up. She was still praying that they wouldn’t have to actually use their guns, but the way that Daryl shoved the boy through the door didn’t look promising for any of them.

Dove raised her rifle slightly as she followed Rick into the building. She could feel eyes on her as she walked through the doorway and she tried her best not to shiver.

“I see my guns, but they’re not all in the bag,” the leader that Dove recognized from before smirked slightly as he addressed them

“That’s because they’re not yours. I thought I mentioned that,” Rick retorted as he raised his rifle slightly.

“Let’s just shoot these fools right now, ese,” a bald headed man spoke up from next to Guillermo. Dove clenched her jaw as she felt her hands begin to shake. “Unload on their asses, ese.”

“I don’t think you fully appreciate the gravity of the situation,” Guillermo eyed Rick suspiciously. Dove felt some ounce of gratitude for the man. It seemed like he had some sense still, unlike the man that had just threatened to unload on them all.

Rick shook his head at the shorter man, “No, I’m pretty clear.” Rick nodded at Dove. The brunette lowered her gun and took the pocket knife from Rick with a shaking hand. She cut through the tape around Miguel’s arm as quickly as she could before Daryl shoved the boy forward. “You have your man. I want mine.”

For a second, she thought it was over. “I’m gonna chop up your boy. Gonna feed him to my dogs.” Dove felt a hand on her shoulder and a slight shove backwards. She caught Daryl’s gaze out of the corner of her eye as he raised his gun again. She followed suit as she took in a deep breath through her nose. Nothing could ever be easy anymore. “They’re the evilest, nasiest, man-easting bitches you ever saw. I picked em up from Satan at a yard sale.” Dove quirked an eyebrow at the man. He was really trying to put on a show for a guy who seemed so ready to kill them. “I told you how it has to be, are you woefully deaf?” Yes.

“My hearing’s fine. You said come locked and loaded.” Rick raised his rifle again. Daryl and T-Dog were right behind him, gun’s locked and loaded. Dove’s hands froze in place. Her brain knew what to do but her body wouldn’t listen. She didn’t want to have to shoot someone but she sure as hell wasn’t expecting what happened next.

“Felipe,” an older woman called as she entered the room. Dove’s eyes widened in shock as T turned and pointed his gun in the direction of the new voice.

“Abuela, go back with the others,” the bald man called back at her.

“Dude what the hell is your grandmother doing,” Dove couldn’t help but hiss through gritted teeth at the man. What the fuck was going on. 

“Get that old lady outta the line of fire,” Daryl snapped, though he didn’t lower his gun.

Guillermo just sighed and seemed to roll his eyes before he turned his attention away from them. “Abuela! Listen to your mijo, okay? This is not the place for you right now.” Dove’s head was spinning. He genuinely seemed concerned about the older woman as she continued to walk closer to them despite the many protests.

“Mr. Gilbert is having trouble breathing,” the old lady pleaded with Felipe. “He needs his asthma stuff! Carlito didn’t find it.”

Despite what everyone else seemed to be doing, Dove lowered her gun. Her right hand held rightly to the butt of the rifle as she raised her left hand to cover her mouth. Then it all clicked in her head. There was a reason they didn’t just kill them all in the alleyway. They could have easily killed her, Daryl, and Glenn and made it out with the guns with no issue. But they didn’t want to. They were more like them than Rick or any of them had realized.

“Felipe!” Guillermo shouted and it broke Dove from her train of thought. “Go take care of it! And take your grandmother with you!”

She noticed the change in the bald man’s demeanor almost instantly too as he turned to his abuela. He tried to pull her away, but the old lady wasn’t leaving that easy. “Who are those men? And that girl?” The woman squinted at them and began to walk closer. Felipe tried to plead with her in Spanish again but she didn’t listen. “Don’t you take him. Felipe’s a good boy. He have his trouble but he pull himself together. We need him here.” Dove felt herself choke up a little bit at the old woman’s pleas. She turned her head and locked eyes with T, who looked just as torn as she felt.

“Ma’am. I’m not here to arrest your grandson.” Rick tried to reason with the older woman.

“Then what do you want him for,” she questioned Rick. The sheriff struggled for a moment before Dove spoke up.

“He’s…”

“Well, you see, ma’am,” she stopped for a moment. The brunette woman turned to Rick, who just nodded his head. “Our friend went missing. We think your grandson might be able to help us find him. His name is Glenn…”

“The Asian boy,” the old woman perked up slightly. “He’s with Mr. Gilbert! Come. I show you.” She reached out her hand to Rick and he paused for a moment before taking the old woman’s wrinkled hand in his. Dove could only look on in shock as the two of them started to walk away.

Guillermo closed his eyes, clearly a little frustrated before he waved his hand. “Let em pass.” Dove didn’t wait for the others as she immediately pushed past Felipe and followed as close behind Rick as she could.

She fell back a few steps as they rounded the corner into another courtyard. “Whoa…” Dove caught the eye of Felipe as he walked past her except this time, he smiled a little and nodded his head at her. “This place is amazing.” She whispered to Daryl as she fell into step next to him.

“Better than a quarry for sure,” was the only response she got. They walked up the steps and into another building in silence. Dove peered into the first room they passed as they walked inside just as Rick was taking his hat off. Another old woman was sat on a chair in the room and she turned just as Dove peeked into the doorway. A small smile appeared on the old woman’s face as she waved a hand feebly. Dove waved back slowly as she felt a hand on her shoulder. It was T; with a slight nod, he motioned for her to keep walking.

She couldn’t help but look in every room as they passed. Her heart jumped in her chest as they finally arrived in what had to have been a cafeteria of sorts. There was a little stage in front with a group of people crowded around the front of it and in that group was “Glenn!” Dove shouted. She couldn’t hold in the excitement at seeing him alive for a second longer as she ran forward.

Glenn turned his head just in time for Dove to wrap her arms around his shoulders. “Oh my god, you’re alright!” She whispered as she tried to fight back tears. Glenn chuckled a little bit as he wrapped his arms around her.

“Yeah, I’m more worried about Mr. Gilbert right now. I’m fine,” he assured her.

Dove released Glenn from her grasp, only to place a hand on his shoulders before emotion took over her once again. She leaned forward and placed a kiss on both of his cheeks as Rick and the others approached. “I’m chaining your ass to that god damn RV when we get back, Rhee! I swear it.”

“What the hell is this,” Rick hissed.

“An asthma attack,” Glenn explained. Dove finally turned her attention to the scene in front of her. Her hands slipped into her back pockets as she observed Felipe administering the inhaler. These weren’t bad people at all.

“I though you were being eaten by dogs, man!” T-Dog snapped.

Glenn turned suddenly and all of their gazes followed his until they landed on three little dogs in a bed on the floor.

“Are those…” Daryl raised an eyebrow.

“Chihuahuas?”  Dove cut him off. She was quiet for another moment before a hysterical laugh escaped her lips. “Oh Jesus Christ,” she shook her head as she covered her mouth to try to stifle another laugh.

Rick was clearly not as amused as Dove heard him speak to Guillermo, “Can I have a word with you? You’re the dumbest son of a bitch I ever met.”

Dove turned her attention back to Glenn as she pointed a finger at him. “You’re lucky we like you or I would be totally kicking your ass right now.”

Daryl shook his head in amazement as T-Dog let out a deep sigh. Rick interrupted anything either of them had to say as he called out to them from the doorway before he motioned for them to follow him.

“C’mon, Karate Kid. Say goodbye to your little friends, you’re grounded,” Dove said as she grabbed Glenn by the arm and pulled him after her. She thought she heard Daryl let out a snort of laughter.

When the six of them finally reached a more isolated room, Rick questioned Guillermo. “What about the rest of your crew?”

 “The rest of the Vatos trickled in. They came in to check on their parents or grandparents, they saw how things are here. Most decided to stay,” Guillermo explained. “It’s a good thing too. We need the muscle. The people we’ve encountered since this all started? The worst kind. Plunderers. They like to take things by force.” Dove leaned back against a wall as she listened to him

“That’s not who we are.”

“How was I to know? My people got attacked and you show up with Miguel hostage. Appearances,” Guillermo shrugged.

“I guess the world changed,” T-Dog piped up from his spot on the floor.

“No, it’s the same as it ever was. The weak get taken so we do what we can here.” Guillermo shook his head.

Dove bit her lip as she shook her head. They really were more alike than Dove thought they could ever be when she first met them in the alley way.

“These people here? They all look at me now. I don’t even know why,” Guillermo said.

Dove thought for a moment before speaking. “They probably see that you’re smart. Capable. Plus, there’s no one telling them that they can’t,” she shrugged her shoulders as she ran a hand through her long hair.

Once Rick finished splitting up the guns, they were led to the door. An immense sent of relief rushed through Dove as she realized they were going back to the group. With a final goodbye, the five of them set off in silence towards the box car. It had been a long day and, surprising no one, it was Glenn who broke the silence.

“Admit it. You only came back to Atlanta for the hat,” Glenn teased Rick as Dove let out a snort of laughter.

“And you probably only wanted to come back to steal another car,” she elbowed Glenn in the side gently as she walked alongside him.

“You gave away half our guns and ammo,” Daryl growled from alongside Rick.

“Not nearly half,” Rick corrected him calmly.

“For what,” Daryl snapped back, “A bunch of old farts? How long you think they got left anyway?” Sometimes Dove just really just wanted to grab him by the hair and slam him against a car for being so ignorant.

“How long do any of us have,” Rick retorted.

“Son of a bitch.” Dove shouted as her gaze locked on where the box car should have been.

“Where the hell’s our van,” Daryl sounded dumbfounded.

 “Who the hell would take it,” Glenn stared at the empty spot.

“Merle,” Rick snarled.

Dove clenched her jaw and shook her head. “If I ever see that bastard,” but she trailed off as a horrible thought entered her head at the same time Daryl spoke.

“He’s gonna be taking some vengeance back to camp,” Daryl actually sounded worried.

“Then we best get fucking walking because he’s not going to take some revenge on my sister,” Dove frowned as she began to move forward.

Rick nodded his head. “Right. Glenn?”

Glenn rubbed his face before releasing an annoyed grunt. “We can probably make it back by nightfall.”

“Let’s go!” Dove shouted as she slipped through the hole they’d cut in the gate. The only thing on her mind now was getting back to her sister before things got bad.

~

Dove ran behind Glenn as the thought of getting back to Carol was the only thing that kept her moving. Her legs were tired and her lungs were burning, but for the first time all day since Glenn had went missing she thought of her family. A million emotions and thoughts ran through her head as she ran. Guilt, fear, and regret were among the many. While she was happy that they were all able to return safely, she was worried about what had happened while they were gone. What if Ed had done something while she was gone? She was really going to kill him when they got back.

“We’re getting close,” Glenn spoke up as they slowed down.

Dove drew in a deep breath but any reply was lost as gun shots rang through the air. Panic shook her to the core and before anyone could stop her she screamed, “Carol!” Dove was off like a shot in the dark. Her feet carried her faster than she could ever remember running as the screams and gun shots got closer with every second. The metal from the crowbar in her hand dug into her palm as she gripped it tight.

A scream left her throat as she broke through the tree line and brought the claw end of the crowbar right down into a walker’s face. She had never killed one before but there was no time to think. The screaming kept continuing and the gun shots from Rick, Glenn, T-Dog, and Daryl rang out around her. Dove’s brain only seemed to focus on Sophia. She was screaming from somewhere up by the RV. As she looked around, she caught sight of Daryl as he slammed the butt of his gun into a walker’s head over and over.

“Carol,” Dove shouted over the chaos. “Sophia?” She shouted even louder as she saw Carl run forward and hug Rick. Finally she saw them. Carol was crouched next to her, arms protectively around Sophia. A sob escaped her as she stumbled forward towards them. It seemed like it took forever, but she collapsed next to them on her knees and wrapped her arms around both of them. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.” The words spilled out through choked sobs as Sophia cried and wrapped both of her arms around her aunt’s waist.

Carol smoothed Dove’s hair out of her face as she stifled a sob. “We’re okay…we’re okay.” Then anything she said was cut off by Andrea’s screaming. It chilled her to the bone as Carol grabbed Dove by the arm and helped her to her feet, Sophia still clung to her waist as the three of them continued to choke back sobs.

“I remember my dream now,” Jim spoke suddenly. Dove turned her gaze from her sister to the older man. “Why I dug the holes.” Then he said nothing else. He didn’t have to because as she finally took in her surroundings, Dove could only see bodies littering the ground around them.

_____

@crossbowking​

[artificialqueens]

The Kids are Alright (Katya [Trish] & Cracker) - Dandee

Her name’s Trish and she just got out of her mom’s garage. She’s fourteen days clean and sober by the grace of god (still smokin’ a little bit of pot, but it’s whatevah). It’s all about her, God, and Thanksgivin’. Why? Cause everyday’s Thanksgivin’. And in the words of the great Jimmy Buffet, we all know that Santa stole Thanksgivin’, so now it’s Christmastime– or at least it was a couple months ago. She couldn’t feel her feet last year, but those days are over now– she’s a new woman today.

Trish meets an unlikely character. Friendship/Crackfic

**********************************************

“Thank ya, sir. God bless ya.”

Trish takes the five and tucks it into her tit, watching the guy that gave it to her rejoin his happy-lookin’ lady-friend.

Thank God for tourists.

Her strappy heels drag along the sidewalk as she fumbles with the soft-pack of Pall Malls. Good ole’ tourists, even in February. Guy can’t be that well off if he’s sightseeing in goddamn shitting February but hey, maybe he’s Catholic. Maybe he’s got guilt issues. Or maybe he just wants to get laid. Who cares, it’s Christmas. Or it was. Close enough, whatevah.

She pats her chinchila pockets and groans.

“Eh, crapsticks,” she mumbles, cigarette dangling from her lips. She pats her other tit, then spins around and pats her tush. There ain’t nothin’ there but it’s just crazy– that’s the third lighter today gone missin’. The good lord above’s got her in some kinda purgatory, got her suckin’ on cigarettes but won’t let her smoke ‘em.

Some sense of humor that lady’s got.

“Hey!” She calls, rushes over to a dude headed toward the crosswalk with a stogie. He immediately picks up his pace, and so does she.

“Hey! Hey.” She grabs his elbow and he whirls around, face pink and chapped from the cold. She grabs the cigarette from her lips and waves it to him, “Light me up?”

“Jesus, lady,” he stammers, shrugging her off. He scowls real mean-like at her before he pulls his coat tighter, muttering a “psycho bitch” and turning on his heel.

Trish’s brows furrow as she watches him go. “No–you!” she calls after him, but he just keeps walking. Yeah, keep walkin’. Mean-ass.

People, man.

That’s the thing about the city– for every kind-hearted tourist you get an asshole local who thinks they own the place. An asshole local who still needs a smartphone to get back to their high-rise condo or they get their asses lost. Trish doesn’t have a phone. Doesn’t want one, doesn’t need one. She knows these streets like the back of her hand, could get herself anywhere in this goddamn city quicker than you could say the serenity prayer in a five-thirty rush. She could take the train six times over and not pay a single penny outta her pocket. She could swipe a hotdog stand faster than a knifefight in a phone booth. These ain’t their streets. They’re hers.

A chilly breeze whips from around a building and slaps her in her face. She pops her smoke back in her mouth, shoves her hands deep in her pockets.

She braces herself against it, tense as she steps away from the street. It might be one of those nights tonight, one of those station stairs nights. It smells like piss but at least it’s warm. The dumpster’s always an option, but last time she fell asleep in the can shit got real sticky in the morning. Wakin’ up in a garbage truck isn’t so fun— all that. Ya know.

She watches her feet as she walks slow, putting one foot sexily in front of the other. She smiles at the shimmery silver heels, the way the ankle straps hug her wooly socks. Bobby’s such a sweetheart, thinkin’ of her around Christmastime and gettin’ these. She’s gonna call him again tomorrow. Just gotta find a pay phone that works. But she’ll call him.

A sniffly sound grabs her attention. Trish glances up.

A little girl, standing right outside the train stairs. Blonde hair pulled into a ball on top of her head, sweet little navy blue peacoat. Huggin’ her own waist and lookin’ around scared.

Trish looks behind her, then back again. What, somebody just left her here? People dumpin’ kids now? Christ.

She sticks her cigarette behind her ear and mozies on over to the girl, whistling a low Jimmy Buffet Christmas tune. She strolls past her casually and parks it against the railing of the stairs. She clears her throat.

The girl doesn’t look at her.

Trish coughs, sniffs loud. She catches a little side eye from the kid but that’s about it. The kid just hugs herself tighter, lookin’ straight ahead.

Giving an inaudible sigh, Trish looks around for a sec. She scuffs her heel against the pavement, flaps her coat. Then, after a moment, out of the corner of her mouth,

“You, uh– you got a light?”

The girl blinks once, twice. Then her face scrunches up and she looks at Trish, all brown eyed and buck toothed.

“Wh– what?”

Trish rolls her eyes. “A lighter. Matches? Fuego?”

A moment passes between them– the girl, brow creased and nose wrinkled, blinking— and Trish staring back at her, foot tapping against the pavement.

The girl never gives an answer, and Trish eventually shrugs her off. She grumbles and slumps back against the railing. Kids these days, no respect for their elders.

“That depends, you got a cigarette for me?”

Well that catches Trish off-guard, she’ll admit it. She’s no stranger to the game. But a bit young to be playin’ in the streets, this one.

She measures the wager— kid can’t be older than thirteen, maybe twelve and a half. But she’s old enough to know better, and who’s Trish to judge? She’s been smokin’ since she was ten, holed up in the back of a dressing room pinning her ma’s garter to her thigh-high and cutting cash after showtime.

She peers at the kid from the corner of her eye. Little shit’s still lookin’ straight ahead, but now she’s wearin’ a smirk like a kitty-cat who’s locked it’s people outside.

“Ahrite, ahrite,” Trish sighs, reaches into her pocket and digs into her pack. She pulls two smokes, and the girl reaches out her hand.

“Uh-uh, huh.” Trish waggles her finger, “Light first.”

The kid rolls her eyes. She bends to fish a box of matches out of her sock, and smacks it into Trish’s open palm.

“Aaaank-you.”

Lipping the cig, Trish swipes the matchstick on the red and heyfirst try (she’s still got it), the thhrraaackk of the success is like an angel singin’ out in the heavens. She covers the flame with her palm and gets a good cherry going. She tosses the box back to the kid and waves the stick out.

Kid catches the box and Trish flips her the other stogie. Kid catches that too, and she doesn’t say shit when she peels right past Trish and makes for the alley.

Smart kid.

Trish takes a long drag and boy God is good, it hits the spot. She stares out into the street for a second, watches a couple taxis swish by. An icy spray kicks up from under one of the wheels, and her knees buckle when it hits her straight in the caps.

“Agh, shit.” She steadies herself. Can’t afford another slip today.

She shoves her free hand back into her pocket, pulling her coat back to her and turns against the street. She shuffles around a little, that ole christmastime song creepin’ it’s way back into her brain.

“Merry Christmaass, Alabammaa— “ she bounces on her steps, wandering toward the alley. “Merry Chrissstmaaas… Tenness.. seee…”

She spots the kid, leaning up against the backdoor of Shangie’s Pack-n-Ship. She’s scratchin’ away at the matchbox, a couple goddamnit’s and fuck’s slippin’ out from around the cig between her buckteeth. She finally does get a light but she jumps, throws it out with a hiss and stomps her little heels.

“Hang on-“ Trish makes toward her, bringing her smoke back to her lips. Kid jumps, then serves a real suspicious scowl. She stays put though, and gets another match.

“Come on, here.” Trish nods, cupping her hands forward.

Kid huffs, but swipes again. She swipes a few more times, eventually turning into Trish’s little shield.

“Come on kid—do it like ya mean it, come on—”

Kid glares up from under her brows but keeps on, gettin’ kinda pissed. On a particularly desperate swipe, voila, she gets lucky.

“Easy, ahrite, there ya go-“ Trish keeps her hands hovered over the girl’s cig, and kid goes crossed-eyed while she watches the cherry light. Then she pinches the cig and pulls back, tosses the match stick and takes a drag.

Trish pulls back too, and makes her way to the other wall. Trish puffs and the girl sucks in through her teeth. Two streams of smoke blow from opposite sides of the alley.

“Thanks,” Kid says after a minute, leaning against the door and still lookin’ sus. She’s got her arms half-crossed with one knee up, oh-so-poised, like a fuckin’ ballerina on a lunchbreak.

Trish shrugs. “Yeah.”

And now the girl’s doin the thing they all do— just judgin’ Trish up and down. Reading her outfit, makin’ up stories about who she is and what she’s really smokin’. Trish is used to it by now, but she still pulls her coat in tighter. She clears her throat and shakes the loose hair outta her face.

“You should probably stick to daylight, kid. These streets are mean.”

Kid scoffs and rolls her eyes. “Who asked you?”

Trish shrugs again, “I’m just sayin’ honey. Ya got a lot of nerve, pullin’ stunts on a Friday night.”

Kid leans her head back on the brick. “Yeah well,” she takes quick drag, “I can take care of myself.”

Maybe it’s her god-given maternal instinct, but Trish’s heart goes all soft for a minute. Who’s lettin’ this little baby run the streets at night? Who’s dressin’ her up in fancy clothes like that, then not givin’ a shit about where she is? It’s 7pm, do you know where your child is? Ain’t anyone ever seen the commercial? What kinda mother-

“And actually, I’d really appreciate it if you’d fuck off.”

Trish feels her forehead wrinkle when her brows shoot up. “‘Scuse you?”

“Yeah.” The girl cocks her head, eyes narrowed, “This is my spot. Find your own.”

“Your spot? Sorry, but —what are you, nine?”

“Twelve, actually,” kid says. She blows smoke and looks at her nails like a goddamn debutante.

“Oh, right,” Trish chuckles, “Twelve. So sorry. ‘Scuse me Queenie Bee.”

The girl’s eyes snap up from her nails. “And what are you, seventy-five?”

Ouch, that’s ripe.

“Well that’s not very-“

“Shouldn’t you have been home by three? So you could catch the news at five and make it to bed by seven? Or does Wheel of Fortune push bedtime to eight?”

“Hey, I will have you know-“

“Or did you forget to drink your prune juice—“

“-that I have lived here longer—“

“-and you’re just taking a stroll to move things around—“

“-longer than you’ve been a twinkle in ya daddy’s eye-”

Kid stops, shuts up real fast. She looks down at her cigarette and takes her leg off the wall.

Trish can’t help her victorious grin.

“Oh no, did I hit a nerve? You don’t got nothin’ else to say?”

The girl shuffles some rocks around with her feet. “M-my dad,” she says, her voice giving a shake, “My dad’s not here anymore.”

Trish’s face falls, and Jesus Fucking Christ she’ll be damned if the kid doesn’t look up at her with tearful eyes and a quivering lip.

“Oh- oh honey,” Trish waves her hands, “nuh-nuh-no, please don’t cry.”

The girl wipes at her eyes, and then chokes out a little sob.

“Oh God honey, I- I’m so sorry,” Trish stammers. She rushes to her with her arms out, “Come here, stop that cryin’.”

The girl seems to give in and falls onto her, her shoulders goin’ and her little cries muffled by Trish’s chinchilla coat. This poor little thing, so tough on the outside. All she probably wants is some parents who care, but hell, don’t we all? Isn’t that really the root of all our problems? That’s what the psychic said back in June, anyway. And then she stole forty bucks, the bitch.

“Hey, shoosh those tears,” Trish says, gentle as she can. She rubs Kid’s back, real motherly-like.

“He- he’s in h-heaven now-“

“Oh, shh- of course he is, honey.” Trish looks up at the sky and makes a face. Eh? Is he though? That lady’s got a real issue up there.

But she rubs the kids back, all the same.

“Is that why ya out here all by yourself?”

The girl nods into her shoulder. Trish sighs. Of course.

This kid could probably use some real solid advice right now, some real words of wisdom. And the lady in the sky brought them together tonight, in this very moment, for Trish to teach her a little bit of what she’s learned about this cruel, nasty world. So it’s time to be a child of God and give it a go. She clears her throat and collect her thoughts as best she can.

“Listen honey,” she starts, “Now your daddy’s in heaven right now, smilin’ down ‘atcha. But ya know, you really gotta- hey- hang on, OW—“

And there she is, before she knows it, in a headlock.

Her eyes bulge and she groans, choking out any words she can.

“Gotcha, bitch,” Kid sing-songs, smiling down at her. Trish throws her shoulders around but the kid’s got her good, she ain’t goin’ nowhere.

“Like I said, I can take care of myself,” Kid says, tightening her hold, her stingin’ cigarette smoke makin’ Trish eyes water.

“And though I appreciate your sympathy, I’d really appreciate it if you’d just move it along. This is my spot. Not yours. You go find your own. You hear me?”

Trish can only manage a slew of post-verbal, pitiful nonsense.

“We good?”

Trish nods weaky.

With a chuckle, Kid lets her go. Trish rolls onto the pavement, hacking.

“Jesus…Christ, kid.“

Kid’s grinning smugly. “Here,” she says, reaching out a hand, “come on. Get up.”

Trish looks at her hand, horrified. “Get the hell away from me ya little-“

“Oh come on, Grandma.”

Kid grabs Trish’s hands against her will, and pulls her up to her feet. Trish stumbles for a sec, and she points her finger.

“You— you’re a fuckinnn’—“

“Black belt? Why yes I am, thank you.”

Trish just stares back at her, catching her breath. Unbelievable, kids these days. No respect, no respect at all-

“Hey!” Trish sees her stogie on the ground, clean in half. “You broke my cigarette!”

Kid rolls her eyes. She fishes into her peacoat and pulls out the matches. “Here.”

Trish eyes her hand again, not willing to risk it.

“Just take them,” she says, shoving the matches forward, “You can just have them.”

Trish looks from the matches, to the kid, then back to the matches. She reaches out her hand real slow, then jumps back when she snatches them. Kid laughs.

“Oh, actually,” Kid turns and pats her other pocket, “here, this too.”

She pulls out Trish’s Pall Malls and tosses them to her. Trish catches them, frowning.

“Oh, and this too.”

She pulls a bill out of the same pocket, the five that Trish had tucked into her tit.  Trish, beside herself, marches over to snatch the bill. “How did you—“

“It’s what I do.”

Trish just stares, and Kid just grins. She takes one last drag of her cigarette and stomps it out.

“You’re unbelievable, kid,” Trish says, truly astonished. She tucks the five back into her tit, and pulls out a fresh cigarette. She pops it in her mouth and mumbles, “You’re a little firecracker, ya know that?”

Kid laughs, lookin’ utterly pleased with herself, like she’d won a prize in her fuckin’ Frosted Flakes.

“Well thanks.”

As Trish lights a match, Kid holds her hand out again. Trish flinches, but Kid just steady smiles.

“Brie.”

Trish takes a drag and narrows her eyes. She carefully takes her hand, and squeezes.

“Trish.”

Brie nods. “Well, Trish,” she says, eyes lookin’ like something between lasers and deadbolts, “I hope I never see you again.”

Trish shrugs and pulls back. “Yeah. Likewise, Cracker.”

Brie tilts her head, like she’s weighing something. Like someone just told her she’d be winning the spelling bee, like someone’s just pulled a pageant. She smirks, gives a little ‘hymph’, and makes back toward the street.

“Oh, and thanks for the cigarette,” she calls over her shoulder, her little heels clickety-clackin’ against the pavement.

Trish grimaces, and can’t help but watch the little demon as she goes. Where is her mother? Is she really twelve? Is she even American? That little shit’s gonna learn one of these days, we all gotta learn. But she’ll be alright for a while, Trish can guess that. Crazy little fuck.

Brie stops for a sec, then turns back. Trish tenses and plants her feet, bracing herself. She holds her lit cigarette out in front of her, ready to burn this bitch.

“Hey,” Brie calls. She reaches into her peacoat and pulls out somethin’ shiny. She lowers her arm for an underhand toss and yells, “catch!”

“Uh,” Trish looks behind her, then holds up a hand. Brie chucks it and Trish catches it in her left.

A gold Rolly, with diamonds. Still warm.

Trish looks back up, and Kid’s smilin’.

“Don’t keep it long, I swiped it an hour ago. Go down the road and make a right. They’ll take it.”

Trish looks down at the Rolly, then back up to Kid.

“Uh.. okay?”

Brie shrugs and holds her hands above her head. “It’s Christmas!”

Trish blinks, then scowls. “It- it’s February, ya twit!”

Brie laughs. “Close enough!”

With that she rounds the corner, and poof, she’s gone.

Trish is absolutely walking in the opposite direction of that bitch, and she turns on her heel with a groan. She gazes down at the watch in her palm. It’s gorgeous, it’s luxurious- it’s the most precious thing she’s held in years. Well, besides Bobby.

Bobby. He’d love this one. She could give it to him for Christmas-In-July or somethin’, or a Happy-Birthday present. He could put it on and she could get all dolled up and they could go have a real nice dinner, real fancy-like at the Black Eyed Pea.

She comes to the end of the street and rounds the corner. A neon green Yvie’s Odds hangs over a doorway, calling Trish’s name.

Eh, Bobby’ll be fine. Cash is king, after all.

And the bell on the door dings as she skips back out onto the street, tucking a wad of cash in her tit. She’s gonna need a bigger bra, that’s for sure. And maybe a soda, a Big Blue. And maybe she’ll get a nice Danielle Steel from the book store, and have a quiet night in the halfway house. She’s just gotta make it to midnight and she’ll have fifteen days sober, by the grace of God. And maybe she’ll find a payphone, and she’ll call Bobby.

Before she calls Bobby though, she’s gotta call her sponsor. She’s gotta call her and tell her all about her day, about what she did wrong and what she did right. And of course, she’s gotta tell her about Kid. She’s gotta tell her all about the mean little shit, about the nicest stranger she’s met in a long, long time.

[thoughtsonhurtandcomfort]

YOU'VE GOT A BINGO CARD OMG And so many good choices too 😭 how's a whumper to choose??? Okay, could I request, if it's not taken already, rope burns for your lovely mer character?

(Thanks for my first BTHB prompt!!)

For my @badthingshappenbingo,  Rope Burns

Feat. my merman character, “Blue”. (Side note: he can understand humans, but can’t speak their language, which makes him extra helpless.)

*

Seeing nets never prepared him for being in one. Not even close.

He doesn’t even see it happen. One moment he’s swimming, the next minute something is closing around him from all sides and then pulling him through the water. It happens so fast.

He begins to struggle.

Struggling only makes it worse as he gets twisted and tangled in the coarse material. He tries biting at it but that only hurts his teeth. He can’t fit his hand through the holes in it, let alone his whole arm, and even if he could, he’s out in the middle of the water with nothing to hold onto.

The net begins to lift, and in desperation he makes a call of distress, sending the deep sound rippling through the water in hopes that someone, anyone, is passing by and might help him.

No one comes.

The net continues to rise.

He tries to curl up but the net keeps him stretched out, he can’t move his tail except to thrash it uselessly.

When he breaches the air he begins to gasp, lungs taking over for his gills. The air is cold; his whole body tenses from it and from being confined. He squirms a little, tries to call out again but out of water it doesn’t have the same effect.

“We got one!” he hears human voices say.

The net jerks and then it drops, sudden and hard onto the deck of a boat. He lands heavily on his shoulder with a soft grunt.

The moment he’s down the humans approach him with sharp objects in their hands and he starts to thrash again. Now that he’s out of the water he can feel the rope more keenly against his skin, but he ignores it and continues struggling.

“Whoa, fuck!” the humans back away quickly when one is almost tripped

“Leave it in there ‘til we get to shore, idiots,” another says.

They leave him alone, lying on the hard ground, out of the water, tangled in the net.

He closes his eyes, tries to calm his frantic breathing. He might glare at the humans, bare his teeth, swing his tail, but he’s scared.

The trip to shore feels so long. It isn’t hot, but he still hates the feeling of direct sun. He keeps shifting, turning over, trying to keep any one part of him from getting too dry. It doesn’t help much; he can feel precious moisture leaving him bit by bit. His gills flutter weakly.

He’s almost managed to relax when heavy boots stomp across the deck towards him. He looks up, startled, as someone grabs the net, bunching it up in their fist and pulling him with them.

The net tightens around his body as he’s dragged across the deck. He tries again to squirm and struggle, then immediately gasps and stops. Now that his skin is beginning to dry it’s sensitive, and the coarse material rubs harshly at it. He feels it with every movement.

The humans are far from gentle as they drag him, and it doesn’t stop once they’re off the boat. He’s dragged up the dock, and that’s even worse. The ground is rough and the rope is rough and he can’t move out of the position he’s trapped in, curled up like this, and he can feel the skin of his arm and side scraped at uncomfortably.

They bring him into a building and let go of the net for a moment. He settles against the ground, breathing heavily. His whole side burns.

Something moves, and when he looks up they’re cutting the rope loose from around him. He feels something close to relief being free of the confinement, even though he knows whatever is next can only be bad.

“What are we gonna do with it?” One human asks another. “We don’t have a tank.”

“We don’t need a tank, dumbass. The thing won’t be alive much longer anyway. Just tie it up good so it can’t flop away or somethin'”

His stomach drops. Won’t be alive much longer -

One of the men grabs his arms and another grabs his tail. He struggles, yanks his arms away, flicks his tail up in the man’s face.

They both yelp and drop him. He cries out as his back slams onto the hard ground. He tries to turn over and drag himself away, wincing at the scraping of the concrete floor on the soft skin of his chest and stomach.

He doesn’t get far.

“Fuckin’ nuisance…”

One man is standing over him, gathers up his arms, while the other comes up from behind with rope and wraps it tightly around his wrists, binding them together. He squirms against them but they’re so tight; his squirming only makes the rope dig into his skin.

They lift him again and this time he doesn’t fight. He’s running out of air, out of strength, out of hope. He’s out of his element. He won’t get free without help, and there’s none around.

The men slam him down onto a wooden surface, uncaring that it hurts him. His body is sore all over from being dropped and dragged and handled roughly.

They fasten the ropes to the top of whatever he’s lying on, so his arms are raised up above his head, and he shudders at how vulnerable he feels this way. They wrap more rope - twice around his chest, once at his waist, twice at the thick part of his tail and finally once more at the narrowest part just above the tailfin, so that he’s tied down completely.

He doesn’t have time to adjust to his new reality before it’s changed again. Together all three men hoist up the tall wooden board and prop it against the wall. Now not only is he bound all over tightly but he’s off the ground; even if he could get free, he’d only fall.

The ropes chafe his dry, oversensitive skin. When he squirms from discomfort the burn only gets worse. The ropes around his chest are tightest and they make it harder to breathe. He takes big, rasping breaths, flinching at every movement.

Then - then something touches his tail.

No, no, don’t touch -

He doesn’t want these horrible people anywhere near his tail…

The hand is examining his vibrant blue scales. He tries to shift, to move them from his grip, and then gives a pained gasp when the coarse rope digs into his tail and stomach. He gives one last, desperate thrash in the bindings, but when they only continue to hurt him he gives up.

His skin feels too hot where the ropes press into him and too cold where cool air touches his skin. His head pounds from dehydration and he’s shaking. He tries to focus on breathing.

Some time passes. He doesn’t know how much. His head is dropped forward, eyes closed, when suddenly there’s a commotion from outside. He glances up weakly.

People storm inside, confronting the humans who captured him. There’s a lot of shouting that he doesn’t fully understand and then the men are being led out with their hands behind their backs, leaving only a few of the new humans left in the room.

One he recognizes. She’s saved him before.

“Get him down,” she says to the others, “carefully.”

Two humans lower the board to the ground and she kneels beside it.

“I’ll take care of him, you check for others,” she tells them.

They hurry off, and she turns to him.

“Hey, Blue,” she says gently.

She begins removing the bindings. He sighs in relief as the pressure loosens and falls away and he can breathe and move without pain.

Well. Without as much pain.

His side is scraped and scratched from the drag over here. His shoulder throbs, his back is bruised from slamming onto hard surfaces. All over his body are angry red marks from the ropes. Some are lesser, from the net, criss-crossing over him. Others - on his chest and wrists especially - are deep and starting to crack and bleed. Even his tail has suffered - some scales have cracked from the pressure and rub of the rope.

He lies his head back on the wood with a soft, weak sound.

A warm hand settles on his arm and he looks up to meet his rescuer’s eyes.

“Hang in there,” she says. “We’re going to get you home.”

[thesarcasticside]

Anything-$00000DE0—STEVE_THE_STOVE

NAME ETHAN ID 39 38 39 22 ALIENRACE human OCCUPATION Digital Entertainer

Chapter Warnings guns, swearing, 'blacking out', cybernetics, (minor spoilers ahead) injury to ear (mainly external, mentioned once), blood, short flashback of car crash, exhaustion, over-exertion (And feeling like wanting to die/for it to end because of it) Chapter Characters Steve the Stove, Joan

AO3 Chapter 1 Previous Chapter Next Chapter

Steve woke up to freezing metal pressing into his eye socket like a cold-pack trying to give him a black eye. It took a second to figure out it was a gun.

Click click click. Cranking up the temperature like it was a dial, his arms pushed the sharpshooter away from him, flames trailing the smoke and the bullet flying past his ear.

He stumbled back, his head exploding and his ears ringing.

Steve was in the middle of something, looking around, but he had no idea what that something was.

Heart pounding, Steve twisted his body around, running away from his attacker. Shadows filled the space as flames drifted up his arms like the crimson curtains hanging from a nearby window. He saw a glance of moonlight, stars flickering beyond the glass. Steve swerved his body, and with all the force his legs could push, he broke through the glass headfirst.

The pain of the shards digging into the nonmetallic parts of his body distracted him from the pounding in his head. He rolled through pebbles, dirt, and glass on the ground before bouncing on his heels and booking it.

Steve had blacked out again. What the fuck.

That mantra was all he could think of as he was chased into the night.

The footsteps behind him were accompanied by the shots of guns and lasers. Guns and lasers. His legs and chest were burning, inside and out. Steve could feel the supports in his calves and thighs burn and strain. His muscles hissed at him as even his enhanced lungs were screaming and choking him.

Steve focused on the pavement. At least he had shoes on this time. He stomped on more broken glass. He heard a shrill or a whirl, and he glanced backwards. He saw other figures colliding with the ones that were chasing him. His shoulders slumped, a rush of cool water bathing his mind. A second longer he stared, his feet swinging back and forth, propelling him in space. The cool water fell into his stomach, trailing over his spine, and curdled.

Steve turned away, again; all he could do was run.

It’s just a nice jog. A nice, nighttime jog. Great. I’m getting exercise. My doctors would be SO proud.

What a load of bull, but at least he still had his optimism.

Steve’s mind wandered, running away from his body; he thought back to his moms, them all sitting together on the couch, “Almost There” playing on the low-resolution holographic screen hunched in the corner of their living room, sweat sticking him to the leather couch as he huddled between his parents. Not quite getting but understanding; that moment he decided who his favorite Disney princess was; and now not only was his lungs stabbing the shit out of him, but his heart was hurting as well. Grief filled his throat.

Steve heard a voice telling him to stop. Reaching up to his ear, he felt for the bug that was whispering him deals from the devil and tore it off. He had pierced his ears once when he was a kid and promptly got them stuck on something, the piercing tugging and jabbing his skin. This was like that, but worse, obviously, like cranked up to a 10.

Steve briefly looked at the bug in his bloodied hands as he ran. Eventually, the sun started to rise and the voices shouting at him to stop faded. He watched the old decrepit buildings converge into roads and wild grasses.

Steve coughed for air. His entire body begged him to slow, to settle down, to lay on the road and wait for something to run him over. And he almost did, slowing to a walk, when the sudden dread of “why haven’t they caught me yet?” settled in and he picked up the pace once more.

He got the feeling that if he stopped moving, after a while, they would be able to track him down easy, and then take him back to the Restaurant. And as if Steve blacked out once more, a car whizzed past him; he felt as if his entire torso was crumpled into a ball because that was close and why didn’t I see that fucking car?

As he ran, he could feel the acceleration press into his chest, and he felt again that feeling of ‘your stomach tickling your throat;’ the unstoppable helplessness that held him tightly like the leather of the front seat of a car, sending him through the air and slamming him into the steering wheel. He had had to clench his hands into fists and stab his fingernails into his palms to remind himself that he was not in a fucking car.

Coughing, his mind started to fizzle, like ants on tv, and his legs began to dance, stumbling a clumsy tango. His mind blanked like he was fast asleep. He kept moving, no longer running, until in the distance he saw a figure just waiting for him to catch up.

He was like a swarm of bees in a coat, his body uncoordinated, hovering in the air, swerving forward as he traced a sinusoid on his path. Each time his foot pounded into the ground, his body was heavier and lighter, wind catching on his cheeks. He lifted his fist, and like a ship entering the atmosphere, he launched his arm directly at the figure, who was just standing there, waiting for him.

They caught it.

They held his fist in their palm. They grit their teeth, the heat of the burn forming on their hand alarming. A couple sparks escaped from their arm, but otherwise, their arm was completely intact, holding Steve’s hand almost effortlessly.

“fuckin shit man, is this how you greet your friends?”

Steve pushed on, willing his fist to push through the force holding it back. He took in a deep breath, staring into the human’s—human’s? were they human?—dark eyes casually looking back at him. Steve blinked, his mind floating around, attempting to connect dots. He glanced at the orange beanie covering their head and the hoodie—now partially burnt—covering their form. Steve stepped back, expecting to have to yank his hand free, but stumbled backwards as the human let him go.

Steve’s chest caved in, and his throat filled with pebbles. This human just… took that punch like it was nothing. His ribs squeezed his sides and the muscles in his limbs began to shake. He could barely breathe, let alone fight them.

He waited. He watched the human’s face, waiting for their blank expression to change, their mouth to form words, for them to reach into their belt and tranquilize him or cuff him. He waited. Instead, they tilted their head and smiled softly.

Steve could barely breathe, but he yelled at them anyway.

“Well, aren’t you here to take me back to the Restaurant? Come on, get on with it!” As he said that, he felt hate burn up his lungs and turn the pebbles in his throat into coals. His eyelids twitched. He briefly wondered how long he had been running, how far, how many days, and hated that after all that he would just give up right here, but he was so tired.

“I’m not with the Restaurant, and I am not here to take you away if you don’t want to. I work for someone else. I am here to help you out of this mess.”

“A little late, I would say,” Steve twirled a flame around his fist. His slumped posture almost looked relaxed, when really, he just could not be bothered. Steve looked at this human again, looking for anything unusual, or out of the ordinary, but all they looked like was just… that. Were they even human?

“Hey, uh, are you… human?” he asked, which was normally a rude question to ask someone.

“Yeah, I am,” they flexed their palm, and Steve could slightly hear in the middle-of-nowhere silence a slight whirling, or buzzing, or creaking, that made Steve immediately think they’re either lying or a disillusioned cyborg. “Are you?”

“No, not anymore.” Steve took a step back once again. “Who are—”

“I’m Joan. I am one of the directors of ACCRAM. Our mission is to improve the lives of artificial beings and fight on their behalf when they are taken advantage of. I came down here personally because I figured… your case was going to be a bit hot to handle. It seems you got the ‘get out of that hell hole’ part covered. Now we just need to get you out of… the middle of nowhere”

Steve hadn’t heard of ACCRAM before. He could not help but squint, cross his arms, and open his mouth to decline whatever offer this “Joan” person was going to give.

And then he felt rumbling from behind him and a voice squeaking out of his new “friend’s” head—was there an earpiece under their beanie or was their beanie the earpiece? Steve heard something about “They’re coming, get out now!”

And really anything else would be better than a ‘minimum wage job in food service.’ (What a lie that was).

Joan only smiled wider, tilting their head and lifting an eyebrow, saying, “Well? Would you like a ride off this planet?”

There was something bright and burning under Steve’s sternum, but it was good.

He nodded his head, he watched a ship hover down and its doors open up, and soon he would be home—or, at least, somewhere else.

[realitykeeper]

the path to tomorrow

01 ｜ Dracula

an mha / bnha fanfiction

Quirkless: a very uncommon term in today’s world. 80% of the population lived with these abilities deemed quirks, a word riddled with disgusting impurity. They had taught Asuka this, trained her to one day destroy quirks and lead them on the path to tomorrow.

Asuka was quirkless, and to exist without a quirk was to be a freak. Asuka was a freak.

And they couldn’t have been more proud.

　　Asuka numbly steps through the Yūei entryway, the larger-than-life school casting a shadow over her already dark mood. She glares at the shiny windows, glares at the chattering students, glares at the perfect trees and perfect sky and perfect concrete.

　　It'd been easy to pass the exam — disgustingly so in Asuka's judgement. She'd expected better from the illustrious Yūei High. And now she was here, something she wasn't pleased about. Just being in the presence of these wannabe heroes sets a crawling itch under her skin, one she needs to claw out and string up to dry as the blood stains—

　　Asuka pins her gaze on cracks in the wall, swears they crack even more under her angry stare.

　　She focuses on her plan, on her purpose. Asuka has to learn anything and everything about her future enemies. She has to examine this generation and their quirks; the powerhouses and the dark horses. Any quirk used well was dangerous, a threat she had to get rid of, plucking the bud before it bloomed.

　　Asuka focuses on keeping her thrashing blood at a normal rate. The girl can hear her over-stimulated veins working in her ears, the sound jostling her composure and releasing images of the surrounding students covered in blood.

　　Someone mimics the pounding, echoing off the walls with equal anger and causing the students to part like the red sea.

　　She no longer holds back her thoughts as Asuka's crimson eyes stare at a marching Bakugo Katsuki. Images of digging out his sweat glands with her scalpel filling her mind, delighted at the thought of destroying the disgusting quirk he was so enamoured by.

　　She giggles. And her red eyes meet equally red, equally angry, eyes.

　　"What the fuck are you giggling at!?"

　　Asuka tilts her head, her black hair spilling over her pale face, a tantamount image to her quaking anger against her calm facade. They hold each other's eyes; red against red, Asuka's still with curiosity and Katsuki's twitching with irritation.

　　Katsuki's lack of patience becomes clear to the girl immediately. "Well!? What the fuck, you damn Dracula!?"

　　The ravenette closes her eyes, sifting through the images in her mind that call to her– plead for her to make them a reality. She hums softly and deflates, then continues walking, ignoring the boy's outbursts and taunts. Asuka assumes Katsuki will run after her and try to start a fight — a fight that she will gladly accept — but when she finds nothing thrown her way, she considers that she may have judged him incorrectly—

　　An explosion to her left proves Asuka's first theory correct.

　　"Who the fuck do you think you are!? I won't let you run away!"

　　The ravenette stares blankly in front of her, grip tightening around her bag strap as Katsuki stomps towards her. She feels his breath on the back of her shirt, hotter and a lot closer than it should be.

　　The images rush to her. A blinding slideshow of bone white and blood red and she has to stop herself from slicing Katsuki's throat and revelling in the way his life essence will cascade down his broad and, sadly, unmarked throat.

　　"Heh, not so damn smart now hey, Dracula," Katsuki jeers, all gritted teeth and hot breath.

　　She can feel his smirk burning a hole into the back of her skull, she can practically see and smell the burning charcoal camouflaged in her black hair. Her nails dig into her palm and it tethers her to the disgustingly stark and blood free corridors. She feels eyes everywhere but knows none of the surrounding students are paying any mind to her losing her goddamn mind.

　　She pivots on her heels and meets his eyes again. A deep breath through her nose sends her head spinning, and she realises she hadn't been breathing and the smell of disinfectant and perfume — and is that sweat? — was making her nauseous. Asuka takes another breath before speaking. "If I'm Dracula, then you're Explodo-Boy." The girl hears the blond choke at the name but she's already continuing. "Also, did you forget to wash this morning? You reek of sweat."

　　The silence that appears seems like a pause in time and Asuka doesn't know whether or not she should feel relieved that she can hear the chattering of students instead of her own thoughts. Then the growl that escapes vice-like teeth snaps them back in time, makes Asuka focus on the veins trying to escape Katsuki's red neck, makes her think of the delicious things she can do to that neck. And Asuka is back at square one, trying to black out the red, but it was so hard when Katsuki's fury filled crimson met hers.

　　"You bitch... It's a part of my quirk... Just 'cause you're fuckin' older doesn't mean you get to treat me like shit!"

　　Asuka blinks, genuine confusion escaping from her dark mind and replacing the slight amount of intelligence she held. "Older? But I'm– I'm the same age as you..."

　　Katsuki stills, his gaze shifting from Asuka's eyes to the top of her forehead and she realises with a start she's been looking down at the boy this entire time, her height standing over his. It makes a genuine giggle rise from her, a mixture of amusement and cocky glee somehow squirming around her anger.

　　But then Katsuki's entire face fills with that exquisite red and that excited anger is back with a vengeance. The buried childlike side of her likens him to a tomato with blond vines — an amusing sight, truly — smoke wafting from his obnoxiously large hands as splutters of broken speech spill from his forever gritted teeth. "Y-you... You fuckin'–!"

　　Asuka breathes, holds onto that amusement and drowns her anger in it and sighs as the images sink into a murky depth. "You effing Dracula, right?"

　　"What? Too good to curse?" Katsuki sneers, tilting his head back as if to glare down at her, his blazing crimson trying to stoke her dwindling red.

　　The girl smirks with dead eyes, her voice silk on the tense air. "Hardly."

　　Katsuki narrows his eyes at Asuka's retreating form. He notices the lack of swaying in her stride, her entire figure keeping its straight posture. The ravenette looks unnatural amongst the carefree composure's of the surrounding teens, deftly swerving around the babbling groups without them batting an eye as if they don't notice her.

　　The blond squeezes his lips together into a grimace. He doesn't like her. She's all glowing skin and sparkling teeth and malicious intent. It oozes out her entire being like invisible tar, all-encompassing and suffocating. He can't help but to compare her to a snake with its shiny scales camouflaging its danger.

　　He considers that maybe Dracula wasn't the right name to give her. But it's stuck now, and Katsuki wouldn't allow himself to look like a fucking idiot because of a damn nickname.

　　The blond lets her walk off with that lifeless smirk still plastered on her pale face. He didn't like the way she makes his fight-or-flight response jump at her every word, it made him want to blast at her face and run.

　　And Katsuki doesn't like running.

　　Katsuki doesn't like Asuka.

　　The muted clacking of Asuka's shoes becomes her clock against the internal concert of screaming thoughts. She holds onto it with a vice-like grip, allows it to shackle her to reality as she tries to busy herself in the free time she begins to dread.

　　35... 36...

　　The girl had occupied her mind by memorising all the many, many, hallways in Yūei's vast building and the routes to all her classrooms. Next she planned the best escape routes for each moment in her daily schedule in-case she was ever caught — not that she believes that will happen.

　　49... 50...

　　Despite her barely there sanity, Asuka feels confident she knows the school's layout as she meanders to her homeroom, her hold on the clack-clacking becoming desperate without a distraction.

　　60... And 1—

　　A single step into her classroom and she walks into someone, her height not saving her nose from the paralysing sting of knocking into someone's head straight on.

　　Asuka curses and holds her nose as her eyes close instinctively, her clock and thoughts hiding behind the haze of pain that spreads through her whole face, as nose injuries disgustingly do. She silently damns the culprit — why the hell did they stand in the door!?

　　"I knew you fucking cursed, Dracula."

　　Asuka stills, narrowing her eyes against the pain. The tops of her hands becoming the new subject of her glare. The thoughts steamroll back and if Asuka thought the god's hated her before, oh she was damn sure of it now. That didn't stop the girl from hoping and praying. There was no way she was in Katsuki's class, no way—

　　And there he is, sitting at a desk she assumes is now his, his feet crossed on said desk in a way that can only spell arrogance with that violent grin on his face.

　　"And I'm sure my response was 'hardly', or are your ears numb from all those explosions," Asuka drawls, finally pulling her hand away from her face. She straightens herself to her full height and pulls a blank stare onto her face as she steps towards his desk.

　　Her indifference pushes one of Katsuki's many, always pressed, buttons. "You—!" He plants his feet on the floor, ready to stand and start round two—

　　"Ah! That curly hair!"

　　Katsuki and Asuka blink a brief show of flashing red, then they both turn their gazes to the voice. A short girl stands where Asuka was just before, peppy and bright as she looks at the nose-knocker in happiness.

　　Uraraka Ochako, Asuka is sure that's the girl's name, she had an interesting gravity nullifying quirk. Asuka has to admit she felt disgustingly impressed.

　　"The plain-looking boy!" Ochako gushes, babbling on about how he got in and other things Asuka tunes out. She focuses more on the 'plain-looking boy' instead, or as she has dubbed him, Nose-Knocker.

　　Midoriya Izuku, a real pain in the ass already. He'd gotten quite a few glares during the exam briefing for being a muttering mess, but those glares quickly grew to praises after the exam. When Asuka arrived at the Academy's entrance on her way out, all she heard was his name and about his amazing quirk! It disgusted her, especially so when she couldn't find any information on his quirk whatsoever! It's like he never recorded it, which is illegal!

　　Not that the girl ever cared about things being illegal, but that wasn't the point.

　　"If you're here to socialise, then get out."

　　Asuka feels her already shot nerves run from each other and she almost jumps out of her own skin at the sudden voice. The girl turns to stare at the perpetrator, presenting a blank face, pushing down the glare that was begging to come up, and the images that go with it.

　　And oh she was glad she didn't glare. Asuka may not care about much, but even she understood glaring at your homeroom teacher on the first day wasn't a good idea, especially when he's the pro-hero Eraserhead.

　　Though, the sleeping bag he cocooned himself in on the floor wasn't doing him any favours, intimidation wise.

　　Asuka's judgemental thoughts immediately shut up when Aizawa stands up and looms over her as the girl realises that her teacher is taller. She growls a subdued, "Disgusting."

　　"It took eight seconds for you to quiet down," He drawls, sliding out of his cocoon. "Time is a precious resource. You lot aren't very rational, are you?"

　　Asuka slouches, pinning her eyes to her shoes. If she wasn't on the receiving end of Aizawa's comments, she was sure she'd get along with him.

　　"I am your homeroom teacher, Aizawa Shota. Pleased to meet you." He gives no time for introductions as he shoves a gym uniform in Izuku's direction. "Quickly now. Change into your gym clothes and head out onto the grounds."

　　Everyone quickly works up a fuss as Aizawa explains what they were doing: A test of everyone's quirks. Asuka would admit it was a smart move on their teacher's part if it didn't disgust her as much as it did — of course it was all about quirks!

　　Ochako quickly speaks up, "What about the entrance ceremony?! Or guidance sessions?!" She bunches her hands to her chest and her eyes stare wide and glittering.

　　Asuka scoffs, real cute.

　　Aizawa cuts off her cute act just as quickly. "No time to waste on that stuff if you want to become heroes. Yūei is known for its 'freestyle' educational system." — He gives the class a sideways glance — "That applies to us teachers as well."

　　He lists off the standard gym tests they all would have done in middle school and the supposed "ridiculous" banning of their quirks in said tests, and as he keeps talking Asuka feels herself sink into a pit. She can practically see her classmates standing at the edge, staring down and jeering as she drowns in the dark earth. Too much dirt, too much dust!

　　Asuka grits her teeth and focuses on the shuttering sound the action makes. She was so different from them all. The girl hadn't done the tests since she was 'home-schooled' and she didn't have a disgusting quirk. She expected to feel ostracised from the other students, she knew Yūei hasn't prepared themselves for their first quirkless student, but she didn't realise how disgusting that would make her feel — she wasn't the disgusting one, they were!

　　She didn't know whether to ask if she would receive different treatment. She desperately hoped the answer was no. Just because she felt different didn't mean she wanted to be treated different, she didn't want to feel weak.

　　Asuka would prove quirks weren't the be-all and end-all.

　　"Bakugo. How far could you throw in middle school?" — right, the test, focus on the test.

　　Asuka snickers for show as Katsuki instantly rattles off 'sixty-seven metres' not surprised he has that information stored at the forefront of his mind.

　　Aizawa throws a ball to Katsuki. "Great," he drawls, "Now try it with your quirk. Do whatever you need to, just don't leave the circle."

　　Katsuki keeps Aizawa's gaze for a moment, then stretches his arms with a shrug, looking pleased to show off in pure Explodo-Boy flashy style. He gives a savage grin at Aizawa's prompt and stands ready to throw.

　　His throw is as violent as him. Vicious as a yelled "Die!" rips from him. Asuka has to admit the throw was impressive as it breaks the sound barrier and causes the surrounding air to whip around them. She ignores the chatters of awe around her with rolled eyes.

　　A device in Aizawa's hand beeps and the class turn to him expectantly. "It's important for us to know our limits. That's the first rational step to figuring out what kind of heroes you'll be."

　　He turns the device to them, a daunting '705.2m' glaring at them.

　　Asuka huffs as everyone squeaks about how awesome this will be. Muttering a quiet "Disgusting," to herself.

　　"Awesome... You say?"

　　Everyone freezes at their teacher's voice, holding their breaths at his tone. Asuka stands still. She knew that tone, had heard it plenty of times when she treated her training as a game. They were about to be in a world of trouble.

　　And Asuka knows she's right when suddenly Aizawa's presence alone looms over them more than his height. "You're hoping to become heroes after three years here... And you think it'll be all fun and games?"

　　There's silence as everyone is unsure how to respond. But he never gave them the chance.

　　"Right." Aizawa starts, a terrifying tone of finality in his voice. "The one with the lowest score across all eight events will be judged hopeless... And be expelled."

　　Asuka hears the yelling of her classmates, but she can't make out what they're saying. It all strings together a messy consonance she can't make sense of. Asuka can only hear the voice of reason in the back of her head that told her she was quirkless, and there was no way she'd be able to beat their scores. She clenches her fists, stuck between asking for special consideration and flipping off the voice.

　　There was too many noises, too many thoughts, too many reasons to plead weak or stay strong. It was too much! — please make it stop!

　　Aizawa's depraved smile cuts through their yelling and sends them reeling. "Your fates are in our hands."

　　Asuka can hear her instructors demanding she takes the weak route, whispering in her ear to do the utmost basics to get through all this, ask for as much help as possible, lower their guards until she gets what she wants. She can feel their disapproving glares at her want to prove herself, shivers as it simmers into her being like a branding iron. It causes a wire to tie around her gut and squeeze until all she wants to do is plead and yell and submit —make it stop!

　　"Welcome. This is the hero course at Yūei High!"

　　Asuka steels herself. Blocks out the surrounding noise, the eyes and the hands on her skin. Stares at the sun until her eyes water to blind out the images in her mind — MAKE IT STOP!

　　Asuka has to choose quickly.

　　Her pride or her purpose.

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[felidarachnid]

Secret santa

Happy Christmas to @angrymonster​ !! Sorry it’s a day late but here’s a little Secret Santa-themed fanfic for you. 

­­Junkrat reached a greedy hand back towards the plastic bowl of paper, flexing his fingers restively. Mercy covered it protectively and stared at him in consternation. “What are you doing, Junkrat?”

“Gotta pick again,” he said cheerfully, waggling the little scrap of paper in his other hand.

She smiled a little ruefully. “I’m sorry, that’s not how it works!”

Junkrat furrowed his brow. “But – I didn’t get Roadie.”

“That’s the point, you muppet,” sighed Tracer, already tucking her own paper slip neatly into her pocket. “Means you get to pick a present for someone you might not normally gift something to!” She tapped her pocket smartly with two fingers. “It’s fun, see?”

“Oh.” Junkrat looked at his paper and then back up at Roadhog. “Who’d you get?”

“No!” interrupted Mercy, slicing her outstretched arm between the pair. “You mustn’t share your Secret Santa with anyone. Not even close friends,” she added meaningfully, eyes sparkling.

“It is a Secret Santa,” pointed out Lucio, somewhat exasperated. “C’mon, Trace. I wanna catch the end of Hana’s stream before she goes offline.”

“Coming!”

Mercy ducked awkwardly out the way as the pair dashed out the room, narrowly missing knocking the Secret Santa bowl from her arms. She sighed. “Well, I’ll go and distribute the last names to Torbjorn and the others. Typical of them not to show up…” And she left in a flurry of motherly disapproval.

Now that he fully understood the concept, Junkrat found himself warming to the idea of this…Secret Santa thingy. It sounded fun, and he usually liked giving presents to Roadhog, so he couldn’t see why he wouldn’t enjoy this.

“What d’you reckon, ‘Hog?” he grinned, jogging to catch up with his bodyguard as he stomped down the hallway to their shared room. “I’m thinkin’ like…mebbe a toolset? I think I got some spare screwdrivers lyin’ around…”

“You’ve already forgotten who you have, haven’tcha,” rumbled Roadhog, and Junkrat knew he was rolling his piggy little eyes under the mask.

“No! Yes – shu’up!” Junkrat snapped defensively, surreptitiously sneaking a peek at the crumpled scrap of paper. “I know who I got – ol’ – ol’…Sym…Sym – metric…”

As he spoke, an image of a poised, beautiful young woman swam into his mind and he faltered a little. They had barely spoken but Junkrat had developed something of a crush on Symmetra these past few weeks and he blushed at the thought of giving her something so personal as a Christmas gift. Roadhog chucked to himself as he read the name over Junkrat’s hunched shoulders. “Gon’ be interesting to watch this play out,” he said teasingly, clapping Junkrat on the back and stomping off to their en-suite shower.

Once Roadhog was safely out the room, Junkrat shuffled over to his desk and began quietly digging through his pockets. He wrinkled his nose as he examined the handful of lint, sand, metal screws, cough sweets – and a single solitary coin. Morosely he picked it up and turned it in his long fingers. “Hey – Roadhog?”

There was an assenting grunt from the next room, steam emanating from the open door.

“What d’you think – I mean, like…just say,” Junkrat coughed, trying to keep the question casual. “ – like…d’you feel like another – y’know, another heist?”

After an awkwardly long pause, he heard the shower tap squeak and a damp Roadhog leaned through the doorway, still absurdly wearing his mask but with limp grey locks hanging loose around his head. “No.”

“Oh, c’mon!” Junkrat’s voice took on a wheedling, whining tone. “S’been ages, and you’ve been feelin’ restless too, I can tell it!”

“No,” repeated Roadhog, pointing at Junkrat with a loofah. “We’ve gon’ straight since joinin’ Overwatch. You know that.”

“But I’m bored as,” insisted Junkrat in the high-pitched, demanding voice that usually made Roadhog give in.

“Y’ain’t,” sniffed Roadhog, now wrapping his head in a fluffy white towel. “You just realised y’dirt poor and now you want some cash to buy a present.”

It didn’t matter how many times it happened, Junkrat always responded to Roadhog’s moments of surprising perception with shock and indignation.

“How dare you! A – fuckin’…present? Me?!” Tomato-red in the face, Junkrat was hurriedly pretending to be angry to cover his embarrassment. “You think I’m goin’ soft?”

“Nah, not soft,” admitted Roadhog genially. “Just tryin’ to crack onto a bird.”

“Fuck off!”

“I’m not helping you with this one,” insisted Roadhog. He hoisted Junkrat up by the back of his trousers and gave him a gruff pat on the head before chucking him into the corridor. “Go learn how to woo a lady the honest way.”

---

“ – I will, of course, pay you,” the woman said quietly, folding her arms tightly about herself. “For both your assistance and your discretion, you understand.”

“I want the money before tomorrow.”

“I can give you half in the morning, and half afterwards?” she replied somewhat doubtfully.

“Yeah…yeah, sure thing,” he hissed back in a terrible stage whisper.

She frowned at him. “Why are you whispering?”

“…I dunno, just seemed right.”

She cast the man a funny look and then sighed heavily. “I feel so…ashamed ….no offence to you, of course, it’s just…I shouldn’t have to resort to this.”

“Hey,” he shrugged. “Ain’t nothing wrong with getting someone else to do your dirty work.”

The woman shuddered and forced a smile. “Yes, well. Thank you for understanding. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Which was how Tracer and Ana found Mercy sitting at the kitchen table, head in her hands and steaming herself over an enormous cup of tea, and Junkrat whistling through his teeth as he –

“Are you washing up?” said Tracer incredulously.

Junkrat spun around, suds flying, and held up his rubber-gloved hands in feigned innocence. “What? No!”

Mercy gave a little shriek and sent her teacup flying across the table. “Ana! Lena!”

“Do I got to clean that up too?” said Junkrat slightly grumpily, indicating the tea-stained table with a sponge.

“No…no…” Mercy mumbled, flustered, and she began distractedly wiping the mess clear with a dishcloth.

“What on earth is going on?” asked Ana, who’d watched all this with a wry smile and a twinkle in her eye. “Angela, I thought it was your turn to do the dishes?”

“I know!” wailed Mercy with a suddenness that made Junkrat drop a plate in shock. “It’s just…I’ve been run off my feet! I’m so tired…I have so many chores to catch up on…I haven’t done laundry in a week…”She gazed up at Ana with brimming eyes. “I’m sorry…and it’s just…Junkrat was so willing to help…”

“Oi!” interrupted Junkrat, with all his usual lack of sensitivity. “For a fee, mind!”

Even more embarrassed by this, Mercy buried her face in her hands and groaned.

“Angela,” said Ana gently, sitting down at the table and putting an arm around the doctor’s shoulders. “You should have told us. We all know how hard you work…”

As Ana gently coaxed Mercy into unburdening herself, Tracer sidled over to Junkrat with a cheeky grin. “So…getting paid to do chores now, are ya?”

“Piss off,” he muttered back grumpily, rinsing the soap from a handful of forks.

“Bit different from your usual line of work, isn’t it?” pressed Tracer cheerily. “What’s going on?”

“I said, leave it!”

“You must be saving up for something reeeealllly special!”

“I said leave it!” snapped Junkrat, pointing at Tracer with a dripping yellow-gloved finger. “Nun’ya business. Now push off, I got stuff to do today.”

Tracer left him with a glimmer in her eye and a smirk that may have been slightly too knowing for his liking.

---  

After a long frustrating day,  McCree had been looking forward to ending it in front of the television with a cold drink in one hand. Which was what he’d been doing, at least until he couldn’t ignore the whispers at his open door any more.

“If yer gonna come in, come in,” he called testily. “Can I help you?”

Tracer and Lucio tumbled guiltily through the doorway, pushing and shoving each other in their attempt to not be the first.

“Sorry Jesse!” grinned Tracer, shooting upright. “Actually, we were looking for - ”

“Junkrat!” exclaimed Lucio, grinning from ear to ear. “What you doing in here, dude?”

Sitting next to McCree on the sofa, pathetically hunching his shoulders in a futile attempt to look inconspicuous, Junkrat was clutching a pair of jeans in one hand and a large needle in the other.

“Hm? Oh, I’m just gettin’ him to fix some of my stuff,” grunted McCree. “All my best jeans are plumb fulla holes.”

“Shut up,” growled Junkrat, studiously staring down and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“I didn’t know you could sew!” said Tracer gleefully, planting herself firmly on the sofa between Junkrat and McCree. “Man of many talents, aren’t ya?”

“So what’s all this about?” asked Lucio, sitting himself on Junkrat’s other side. “Word is, you’ve been doing odd jobs for just about everyone in the Overwatch base.”

“It’s nothing,” snarled Junkrat, pulling a thread taut and snapping it with his teeth. “Mind yer own business.”

“I was right though, weren’t I?” grinned Tracer. “You’re so saving up for something.”

Blushing bright red, Junkrat shot to his feet and thrust the newly-repaired trousers back at McCree. “There. I’m goin’ to bed.” And he stormed out the room, stumbling slightly on his one good leg as he did so.

“I need someone to help me stamp mail for fans!” yelled Lucio at his retreating back. “I’ll come find you, yeah?”

McCree sighed and cast a mildly disapproving look at Tracer and Lucio, giggling for all they were worth. “You two are a nightmare, yer know that? Leave the poor kid alone.”

“But I know I’m right,” said Tracer insistently, leaning forward to help herself to a handful of Jesse’s crisps. “I was sayin’ to Lucio, I bet Junkrat is saving for his Secret Santa present. It’s the only explanation!”

“And what if he is?” said McCree with feigned nonchalance.

Lucio shrugged with insincere innocence. “Just means we’re curious about who he’s got, that’s all.”

“I bet it’s Dr. Ziegler,” said Tracer with a smug grin. “He definitely has a crush on her.”

“Just because you do, doesn’t mean everyone does,” snorted Lucio, giving Tracer a playful shove. “Nah, I reckon it’s Genji. I think Junkrat secretly likes him more than he lets on…”

“Yer both wrong,” said McCree, with an air of supreme superiority, allowing an irritatingly knowing smile to creep onto his face. Both Tracer and Lucio stared at him incredulously.

“Who is it?” they asked in unison.

“Well now, that’d be telling,” grinned McCree, tapping his nose. “Ain’t Secret Santa if I tell, now is it?”

“Then how do you know?” demanded Tracer.

“I’m jes more observant than you two,” chuckled McCree. “Blindingly obvious who he’s runnin’ around for, when ya see it.”

The other two could only shrug helplessly, and resign themselves to wait.

---

Roadhog awoke on Christmas Eve with a warm glow in his belly that he had not felt for quite some time. While the thick snow flurries outside and the mug of hot cocoa he was handed at breakfast were not his idea of a proper Australian Christmas, he still nodded his appreciation and took his seat at the crowded table, secretly delighting in the glitteringly festive decorations. Not that he wanted to admit it – he still had a reputation to uphold, after all – but he did really enjoy Christmastime. He’d even made a little extra effort with his Secret Santa – unconsciously he patted the little clumsily wrapped package in his pocket as he helped himself to hot food.

Junkrat shuffled sheepishly into the packed room a good half hour late, and surreptitiously took a seat at his bodyguard’s side.

“Here.” Roadhog shoved a plate of mince pies at him, and reached over to pour him a drink. “You alright?”

“Yeah…yeah, I just – got stuck in the Sellotape,” muttered Junkrat, moodily picking tape and wrapping paper from his fingertips. “Bloody stuff.”

“I’m proud of ya,” said Roadhog suddenly, thumping Junkrat on the back. “Just…never seen you work so hard for somethin’. You did good.”

Uncomfortably Junkrat squirmed and coughed. “Ahh…shut up, you donkey. Who’s goin’ soft now, eh?” But Roadhog could tell he was secretly rather pleased.

“So when you goin’ to give it to her?”

“Shut up!” hissed Junkrat, eyes darting furtively around the room as he hunched over his plate of mince pies. “Later.”

‘Later’, it transpired, really did mean much, much later. Mercy and Reinhardt had planned for the party to last all day, and presents were exchanged back and forth throughout the many meals and rounds of karaoke and dancing. Throughout it all, Junkrat remained stubbornly in his chair and Roadhog wondered what on earth he could be waiting for.

It was only much, much later that Junkrat finally found his opportunity. By this time, Reinhardt and Torbjorn were very drunk, and regaling the room with a spectacularly awful rendition of ‘Come On Eileen’. Symmetra had politely but quietly excused herself to a sofa in the adjacent room and was comfortably curled up when Junkrat found her.

She glanced up as he shuffled over, slightly pink in the face. “Hello. Are you enjoying the festivities?”

“Oh…um, yeah…yeah, it’s great. You not?” Awkwardly Junkrat hovered beside, evidently debating whether or not he should sit down.

Symmetra smiled slightly, evidently unaware. “Oh no, I am. Just that sometimes I prefer to enjoy them…from a distance, as it were.”

He nodded a little too vigorously. “I get that.” After a few seconds, Junkrat decided that it was better to sit down than continue towering over her like this, and he collapsed onto the cushions.

“Listen…I, er…” Nervously he scratched his neck. “This is kinda…silly…but…I mean – y’know…” He swallowed, and furiously wished that the words would just leave his mouth with the beautiful ease that she seemed to adopt.

“Everything at Christmas is about being a little silly,” commented Symmetra, with an amused smile that sent a warm glow through his chest.

“Yeah…yeah I guess so,” he grinned back. With some trepidation he withdrew a tidily wrapped package from behind his back and presented it to her, determinedly not looking at her face. “Um…Happy Christmas?”

He had already decided he didn’t want to watch her reaction, so when she took the gift in silence he could only guess what she was thinking. There was a gentle rustling and crinkling of paper and she complimented his tidy wrapping.

“Yeah…first try!” he coughed awkwardly, privately remembering the carnage of torn paper and tape that he’d left in his room after a full hour of failed wrapping attempts. At least he’d gotten it looking perfect in the end.

There was an agonisingly long pause and he was just working up the courage to turn to face her when he felt a sudden warmth accompanied by a breeze of fresh perfume, and Symmetra kissed him shyly on the cheek. “Thank you, Junkrat!”

In a daze he raised a hand to his face, probing the skin as lightly as though she had burned him. He was so shocked he barely saw Symmetra gently lifting the silver and blue chain from the box and looping it over her head.

She held her arms out, smiling a little bashfully. “What do you think?” The necklace glittered against her dark collarbone, a delicate chain of silver threaded through rough-cut blue crystrals the size of her thumbnail.

He caught his breath, unprepared for how well he’d chosen the colours. “…looks amazin’. Really.”

Delighted, Symmetra ran a finger over the jewelry. “It’s so beautiful, thank you! Where did you get it?”

Flushing even deeper, Junkrat gave her an embarrassed grin. “I – er – made it, actually.” Privately he reminisced on the stress of saving up as much as he could, only to find out how expensive nice jewellery really was. He’d clicked through pages of the perfect pieces, staring dejectedly at the price tags totalling several hundred dollars and more. It had been Roadhog who’d suggested that maybe he spend the money on some pretty stones instead – and how hard could it be to make them into jewellery himself, really?

Symmetra drew a breath. “Really? I’m – I’m impressed. It’s lovely, really.”

“Well, you make such amazin’ hand-made stuff, I just thought it might be a nice idea,” he said before he could stop himself.

“Oh…” Symmetra gracefully lowered her eyes, unable to keep a pleased smile off her face. “That’s…very kind of you to say.” She leaned forward and pulled Junkrat into an embrace, and he could feel her smiling into his neck. “Merry Christmas, Junkrat.”

He closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. “Merry Christmas, Symmetra.”

---

From the other room, Tracer and Lucio watched this tender exchange with some surprise, both elbowing one another and gleefully chattering. “I never would have guessed!”

“See?” said McCree, appearing suddenly behind them, unable to keep his face clear of a smug grin. “Told ya. Blindingly obvious.”