#manual clutch focusing

[pepperyduck]

“mile high” with aki hayakawa

this is part three of my kinktober event!

word count: 1.4k

warnings: nsfw, high sex, drug use obv, protected p in v, casual boyfriend sex with aki. (18+ mdni!)

notes: i love aki, thank u

kinktober masterlist | masterlist

“aki.”

“hm?”

“my eyes burn.”

a fit of giggling overcomes your body, throwing yourself back into the couch and clutching your arms around your stomach. you fall into your boyfriend’s lap, head rested against his thighs and he looks at you. and there’s the sweet eye contact that never fails to make you melt. aki’s glossy eyes make your smile fade, but not in a bad way, just in the way he made you lose yourself by just looking at him.

even sober, he makes your heart speed up and pound in your chest and your fingertips numb. he gives you a tingling sensation like no other. but now, after smoking just a little too much—those feelings were a million times more intense. that’s no hyperbole, genuinely, every vein in your body coursed love throughout for aki.

you turn your head over on his lap, paying attention to the movie you picked out to watch tonight, trying with all your might to remember how it goes. aki had always had a habit of being just a bit more touchy when he was fried; he always ran his fingers over your shoulder and down your side, or pet your head softly. just as he was doing now.

“hey, aki?”

“yeah?” his voice is lazy and raspy, barely audible in your ears.

“wanna fuck?” you giggle again, eyes still focused on the television.

aki’s motions come to a halt for many minutes. his head was buzzing, each blink of his eyes felt slow and manual…but damn, did he wanna fuck.

lengthy fingers drag down your side again, this time just a little further than your waist, stopping to lightly grip the skin of your love handle. then his hand trails back up, then down again, slowly, over your hip and very slightly over the curve of your ass, then back up to your waist. each trace of aki’s fingertips linger on your skin, heightened senses from the smoke you inhaled earlier allowing for each tingle to be felt minutes afterward. you sigh and roll over to look up at your boyfriend, whose lazily lidded eyes and staring down at you in pure adoration.

you intertwine your fingers with aki’s, and begin to slowly drag his hand to in between your thighs, begging for him to touch the aching that was just too intense while high. he watches, entranced, fingers moving with only the muscle memory he’d built up in your relationship. the man he is, aki goes above and beyond—you wanted just a little pressure on your core, and here he is, snaking his hands under the stretchy band of your – his – pajama pants. you cling your arms around his bicep, holding and anticipating his next move. you can feel each pulse of your heart inside the cavity of your chest, your eyes still burn, and everything seems so…

surreal.

aki’s fingertips dip into your wet folds, greedily coming to circle around your sensitive clit, in the perfect way to immediately overwhelm you. your legs slightly twitch and kick, yet open up more to invite aki’s touch, drinking him in like water. nuzzling your head into aki’s growing bulge, he lets out a deep sigh and hums appreciatively, showing his thanks by speeding up his skilled middle and ring finger.

“fuck me, aki,” you purr, in the most honeyed, seductive voice you can muster up.

tension fills the air between you and aki, it’s raw, passionate, and you can feel your heart pulse faster. he leans down to plant a kiss on your forehead—making you squeeze your eyes shut and let out a pathetic whimper. he’s sweet and slow with you, always. so, he sweetly and slowly pulls his hand out of your bottoms and raises your head from his lap to stand up.

aki leans down to give you another forehead kiss, whispering, “take ‘em off.”

you hastily oblige, pulling your bottoms down along with your panties, watching your boyfriend as he walks over to a drawer in your shared kitchen. you pay attention to every detail, when he sniffles as he fishes out a condom from the drawer, and how he walks over to you to drop to his knees, spreading your thighs apart with his shoulders alone. tenderly, aki presses a few light pecks to your inner thighs, soon connecting his mouth with your awaiting heat. he lazily laps at your cunt for a few seconds, swirling his tongue around your sensitive bud, the pleasure conceived bursting through your body into each nerve. the whole time, aki slides the condom down his shaft, shifting it around before disconnecting his lips from your clit.

aki comes up to card himself between your legs, inching his length towards your pulsing entrance without his hands. he balances his knees on the couch, becoming more comfortable in the position, leaning down to press his lips into yours. his hands rest on either side of your head, trapping you below him. aki thinks you look so pretty like this, the both of you in the clouds, blue led lights casting a hued shadow on your face. the television – now long forgotten – illuminated your face and body even more, too. his hair lazily hangs around his face, and his expression changes when he tries to slip inside—and he only grunts when all he feels is a wet warmth on the underside of his cock. but god, when you reach a hand down to wrap around him and guide his throbbing length inside – poor boy almost loses his mind.

all sensation in both of your bodies is absorbed by where you and aki become connected, as he slots himself inside, like a never-ending pressure growing inside of you. although you were separated by a thin layer of latex, every nerve in your body felt aki – just as every nerve in his felt you. aki keeps lazy, sloppy thrusts, only pounding into you when he was almost all the way in. his hair tickles your face when he leans down to kiss you again, barely swiping his tongue over your teeth before pulling away to rest his forehead against your neck.

“rub your clit for me, baby,” aki coos against you, hot breath fanning against your neck. just by the way he talks, you have it all memorized—he’s already so close, growing more sensitive each time he thrusts his hips into you.

“o-okay—okay, aki,” you mumble, brain beginning to go blank as you rely on your muscle memory, coming down to toy with yourself in the way you liked. aki had learnt it, too, but his arms shook impossibly as he used all strength to continue fucking into you. he sucks air through his teeth when your walls clamp down impossibly tighter, sucking his length in more. “feel—so good, aki, love you…so much,” you try and pant to communicate, and aki only grins against your neck. he finds it downright endearing how much you just love taking him, going dumb in the process.

“shhh, don’t talk,” aki shushes you of your stuttering, “just keep taking it. i’m close, baby.”

“cum—ming, aki,” you babble, his words sending you over the edge immediately. the crashing waves of your orgasm snuck up, making you squeeze aki tighter, cunt prettily fluttering around his cock.

aki continues to dig into you, fucking through your coming undone, going just a little faster when you whimper about how sensitive you are. your hands come up to dig into his biceps, trembling because of the intense overstimulation of your poor pussy. aki takes a few more deep, gut-rearranging thrusts before stilling all the way inside of you. he fills up the latex with his seed, crumbling on top of you as he rides it out.

the room around you is stuffy, you and aki’s bodies warm and sweaty, and aki gives you a quick peck before leaning back and sliding out of you. you moan at the feeling of him slowly slipping out, insides still overly-sensitive from the night’s previous activities. aki leans down to grab your panties and throw them at you, commanding a simple, “put them on,” before standing up to waddle over to the trashcan. he slips his boxers on as he walks back over to you, plopping into the couch next to where you were now sat up and kind-of clothed.

“we can clean up in a minute,” aki huffs, grabbing the throw on the back of the couch and draping it over the both of you. you curl into his side, under his arm, warm and sexually fulfilled for the night.

you love your boyfriend.

[sunshine-and-moonshine]

Lonely Nights

Requested: Yes [Are you willing to write toxic Ghost? Like after sex he just kinda leaves you to play on his xbox?]

Warnings: Lack of aftercare, inattentive partner

A/N: Gahhhhh, I was very hesitant about this one. I do think Simon can be very…..not great to partners, even ones he’s close with. Especially the ones he’s close with. I think he has a hard time registering his partner’s feelings and remembering the courtesies of aftercare. I think he’s more used to one night stands that he kicks out after he’s done with them, not people who put their whole hearts in his hands. You know? So he kinda just…..accidentally treats a partner like that because it’s what he knows.

Ghost has never been the most….in touch with his emotions and those of the people around him. Even yours, as close as you two might be. It’s just not something he really manages to do well. He tries, God knows he tries, but he just fails, time and time again. And you’re left to pick up the pieces of yourself that he broke off with every accidental pain he caused. And you know he doesn’t mean to, that he just doesn’t know how to do this, be in a normal relationship, a loving one, but you’re not sure how much more of this you can take.

This would be one of those times. You were hurting everywhere after he had been too rough with you, practically on the verge of tears when he finally rolled off of your sore body, snatching his pack of cigarettes and his old beaten up lighter from the nightstand before making his way out into the living room like he usually did. You were stunned, for lack of a better word. Shocked that he had actually left you like this. You knew he wasn’t the best at these things, but how could he not notice the state you were in? Your emotions? Your pain? How could-how could he just leave you like this? How could he be so oblivious to something so plain to see?

Your legs shake as you crawl out of Ghost’s bed, almost slipping and falling onto your ass in your attempts to get up, hobbling out to the living room with a thin blanket wrapped around your shoulders. You wanted to call out to your lover, beg him to come back to bed with you, but your throat felt like one big bruise and when you opened your mouth to speak, you could only wheeze.

And then you saw him, lounging half naked on the couch, cigarette in hand as he watched rugby on the tv. You knew he noticed you coming in, he always did. But just like all the other times, he didn’t even bother to acknowledge your existence, just taking a long drag from his fag before puffing the smoke out through his nose, looking all the part of a lazy dragon who’d just fattened himself up on some knight who died screaming in agony.

Whimpering, you stepped closer, silently begging for his attention and affection when you sat beside him on the couch, croaking quietly to him as you touched his arm. A twitch was all you received in response, having to manually wrap his arm around your shoulders for any kind of comfort. He didn’t pull away, but neither did he lean in, stroke you, pull you closer. He was dead weight around you, devoid of the affection you so desperately needed in this instant. With a whimper, deprived and needy, you lean in closer, nuzzling your head against his chest like a lonely kitten, trying to get even an ounce of his attention.

“Not now, Love.” Was all you got, Ghost’s cold hand sliding under your chin and lifting your head up and away from him. “Go back to bed if you’re feeling tired.”

Heartbroken, you try to protest but just end up coughing, hand clutching your pained throat to try and stifle the growing ache. That at least earned you a little rub on your back from Ghost but it ended all too soon for you, not even a word of protest from him as you stood and shuffled back to your shared room, his eyes laser focused on the tv the whole time, while yours kept hopefully glancing back at him, only to end up disappointed once more as the door shut behind you with no interruptions except for the tv turning up just a bit louder right before you started crying, curling up on the bed and seeking what little warmth remained under the covers, face buried in Simon’s pillow and hoping beyond hope that he’d come in and scoop you up into his arms, apologize for leaving you so hurt and sad, promise to never do it again.

But it never came. And you spent the whole night alone in that big bed until Ghost finally came back in, just the slightest bit tipsy as he crawled onto his side of the bed, giving you nothing more than the lightest kiss to your head before he was dozing off for the night.

And that. That was what broke you, your heart shattering in your chest and cracking the fragile dam that you’d built up against your tears. Through shaking shoulders and quiet sobs, you felt resolve sink into your bones.

You couldn’t take this anymore.

[annaphoenix1994]

Cartel Protection

Previous Chapter - Masterlist - Next Chapter

»»-------¤-------««

I clutched my M4 in my left hand as Soap and I exited the plane to our assigned destination – Las Almas, Mexico. Never once have I had a good memory in Mexico. In fact, I hated it. Hated everything about it, and I let one horrible memory ruin the experience for me. 2006 was the worst year of my life, going into 2007 with traumatic post-stress and severe anger problems. Manual Roba. Fuck, that name made my chest ache and phantom pain spread across my lower ribcage.

Failed brainwashing and months of torture is all I'm going to say about it.

Likely that it would never happen again considering I killed the man myself, I forced myself to think of my assignment ahead to keep my anxiety at bay. For once, I focused on Soap's social butterfly behavior, already irritated that he began making friends before we went out on a mission. "Alejandro!" He smiled at him, extending his hand out for the man to shake.

"Sergeant MacTavish." Alejandro replied, shaking his hand firmly, and I was relieved that he didn't try to shake my hand because I was in no mood to make friends, nor was I in the mood to talk. I was an observer, not a talker.

"Call me Soap."

Then, Alejandro's interest turned to me, looking me up and down as if I was a potential threat because of my face covering, and if that's what it took to keep my identity hidden, then so be it. I was here for one task: to find this terrorist, not make friends or take part in small talk. "Lieutenant, Laswell says they call you Ghost."

"Actually, I think he prefers to be called—"

"That'll do!" I barked at Soap, my irritation turning to full on anger when he said that. I didn't know what he was going to say, but he should've known better, but here he was pushing my buttons like he always did.

Why couldn't the old man send Garrick with me?

Alejandro breathed a laugh at the sudden awkwardness, "Welcome to the city of souls."

Well, isn't that fitting?

"I've never been to Mexico." Soap commented as we followed Alejandro towards a fleet of vehicles.

"This isn't México, this is Las Almas."

Same bloody difference.

"Shepherd's contractors are inbound to reinforce. They're bringing hardware. They'll need room." I informed him.

"My base is your base."

"Good. Now, where's Hassan?"

"Cartel safe house ten klicks from here. Get in."

I huffed when I tried to take a deep breath through my mask, setting my M4 between my knees as I continued to eye my surroundings. I couldn't trust anybody, especially in a country that I despised the most due to my past, I couldn't help the morbid thought of being put through the same thing again rising into my consciousness. Except this time, I was far more prepared to protect myself and Soap if I needed to. Even if the bloke did get on my nerves 99.9% of the time, he was still a partner on my team, and he was on my watch. If he couldn't fight back, then I'd fight for him. "This is my second in command, Sergeant Major Rodolfo Parra." Alejandro introduced him, the grip on the steering wheel tightening when he saw my appearance through the rear-view mirror.

"Tengo miedo de los fantasmas. (I'm afraid of ghosts.)" He mumbled.

I know what you said, bastard. I wanted to retort back so bad, but I wasn't going to let my anger and hateful attitude take the better of me this time. I watched Alejandro smirk at Rudolfo before looking back at us, "You know Spanish?"

"...No." Soap replied. Again, Alejandro never once looked at me for an answer, except I felt like he had caught on to my behavior as to only talk to me when he needed to, not when he wanted to.

"You will."

We left the base in a three-car convoy, a short drive taking us into the small and cramped town of Las Almas. It would've been a lovely place if blood didn't literally liter the streets. Gore and vandalism were a primary appearance so far, clearly taking away what I was sure was a peaceful town at some point. It looked like it could've been a place for seniors to retire, but now, it looked like a destination hot spot for drug lords, cartels, gangs, and criminals from all over.

Soap was looking out through his window, watching a truck pass by that was going the opposite direction, a group of armed men sitting in the back going about their day. "White truck – four armed in the back." He mumbled to me, but I didn't move as I didn't sense any hostility from the truck that passed by. For some odd reason, it felt like seeing armed cartel driving around was normal, not taboo.

"Hey, tranquilo, easy. That's normal here," Alejandro advised, and Soap lowered his weapon. "Guns on the street is a jurisdiction of the police."

"Where are the police?" I questioned, my curiosity getting the better of me. As much as I didn't want to talk, I felt like I needed to make Alejandro talk in order to get a sense of his character if I was going to work alongside him.

"Well, Las Almas has a very serious problem. There are a few here to uphold the law and many of those who resist corruption... disappear."

"What about the military?"

"Well, because we are well-trained, soldiers are recruited by the Narcos."

"Why not you?"

Alejandro shrugged, looking over at Rudolfo, "We grew up here. They call us Los Vaqueros – cowboys. We love this place, and we will die fighting for it."

I sighed through my nose as I looked to my left to the open area of the town, seeing a bunch of children and their mother at what looked like a food stand, except what was supposed to a normal picture turned dark when I saw a man with a skull printed balaclava clutching a machine gun in his hands as if he was standing guard.

Soap chuckled, "Kids, guns, and balloons, that's a new one."

I didn't think it was quite funny, and Soap could see that on my face as I stared at him blankly. I was definitely not in the mood for jokes, either.

"Narcos use generosity to win over the people."

"Even the children?" Soap questioned.

"Especially the children." Rudolfo answered.

Well, that's fucked up.

The car stopped, and I immediately grew anxious. Why would we stop on a littered street of people where the majority had weapons? We're sitting ducks at this point, and I realized with a quick glance towards the front of us that there were pedestrians crossing the road. I looked to my right, seeing – and smelling – the two bodies covered by white sheets in the narrow alley. "What's on those sheets?" Soap asked.

"Norcomantas..." Rudolfo mumbled.

Speak English for the lad, would you?

"Cartel cloths. Messages from El Sin Nombre. Warnings, marking territory... Our streets are laced with death."

Yeah, I see that.

"Who's Sin Nombre?" I questioned.

"El Sin Nombre,"

Same fucking difference.

"The nameless. The leader of the Las Almas Cartel."

"Where can we find him?"

"You can't. Nobody knows who he is, but he is everywhere, and this is a challenge, but Los Vaqueros like challenges."

"With your mask, you will fit in well here, Ghost."

Hope your joke was funny to you, just wait until you hear mine.

I was satisfied when I watched Rudolfo's stupid smirk fall from his face before I could even say anything due to Alejandro stopping him. "Tranquilo, Rudolfo. Hey, checkpoint, it's the Army. Turn right, we'll go around."

"Why?"

"Some troops are in the pocket of El Sin Nombre. Like I told you, he is everywhere. The cartel is hiding Hassan in the village across the river according to our eyes on the inside."

"Who is that?"

"Case Officer Dutton. She will be helping us find Hassan and take him down. She's doing reconnaissance at the perimeter of the village. We get there, partner up with her, and get out with our target."

"American? Never heard that last name before." Soap guessed.

"Aye. Sent by Laswell. We've worked with her before. She's Laswell's second in command."

"I think I've talked to her before, then. I remember that last name now. Called me about the missile we found in Al Mazrah." Soap rambled.

"Probably. If she can't find a hit on Hassan, then we're out of luck. When the F.B.I needs help finding someone, Dutton is who Laswell sends."

Soap chuckled before nudging my elbow, and I knew exactly by the look on his face that he was excited about the fact of working alongside a woman. "Badass, eh?"

I shared the same glance of curiosity, but I could care less about working with a woman or not. Although I didn't agree that women needed to work in a man's world, if she could do it, then all the power to her.

»»-------¤-------««

Armed and ready, I was second to exit the car before we regrouped with Alejandro, who was directing his team. "Líderes de equipo, formen un círculo a mi alrededor. Armas calientes, Vaqueros. (Team leaders, circle up around me. Weapons hot, Vaqueros.)" He directed.

"Where are they holding Hassan?" Soap questioned, standing beside me with his M4 ready.

"Stand by," Alejandro held up his finger. 

I watched Alejandro reply with a subtle smirk. "Love that woman. White two-story building, back of town. Our partner is on the roof of the second largest building. Do not fire up top if you see movement."

"What does she even look like?" Soap asked, and again, I knew that he wasn't asking to prevent a fatal shot, but because he was always a horn-dog when it came to working with a woman. Before earning the callsign Soap, I addressed him as Barracks Bunny for the longest time. The lad got around when I first met him, and I wouldn't be surprised if he still did. Regardless, he always tried if he liked what he saw. I couldn't lie and say I wasn't curious myself as I had never worked alongside a woman before on the battlefield, and the soft part of me liked the sound of her voice, but I forced myself to keep my thoughts strictly tactical as I had a job to do.

"You'll know her when you see her. Let's move. Switch to channel seven."

We moved to the gate that she had said she gained entry, confirming it was clear before we pushed in, Soap and Alejandro taking point as we swept the first quarter of the area before making our way to another gate, Soap throwing a frag over the gate after he confirmed with Alejandro that he heard multiple footsteps on the other side. 

I heard her warn us, and the hateful part of me wanted to reply saying that I knew what I was doing, but I again refused to be a hateful prick when it came to addressing a woman. My mum raised me to always talk to a woman with decency and respect, regardless of their line of work. Even if this lass was to curse at me and slap me, I'd never raise my hand. Maybe say a couple of hateful comments, but never raise my hand.

She'd roll in her grave if I were to disrespect a woman.

I took a moment to wonder what this woman looked like. She seemed relentless already, which caught my attention. Perhaps it was because I haven't been touched by a woman in years because of my job, well, not in a serious relationship type of way. I had blown off steam with hookups occasionally when back home, but I made it clear that it was only just that and nothing serious. Her naturally soothing voice didn't help my wondering thoughts, either.

Get your fucking head right, Simon!

"Window! Window!" Soap shouted, he and I aiming our weapons to take out the hiding cartel members in the small shack.

We made our way to a claustrophobic alleyway between two houses, Soap and I taking out more cartel members that had managed to sneak up on the roof. We shot two of them, but we failed to see the third that was hidden behind a chimney. Before I could even get into cover and fire my shot, the man fell from the roof and down onto the ground in front of me, a large hole through his neck.

I looked up, seeing her laying down on the roof, a proud smirk on her face before she nodded at me, quickly getting up to keep on her path.

She saved my life, and I finally had a glimpse of her.

And by what I could see, she was far too gorgeous for this type of occupation, and I'd never have a chance.

Soap was going to lose his bloody mind when he finally got to see her, seeing what he could do to snag her for himself, but a part of me knew that she'd be a hard one to impress, which was something Soap severely lacked. The lad was impatient when it came to impressing a woman, wanting to move too fast into a new relationship. When he realized this, he just turned to hookups.

"Push forward! Let's clear this house, then get to Hassan!"

"Cartel will move him fast since they know we're here." I grumbled.

"Then we move faster," Alejandro replied, using the stock of his rifle to bust open the door. "Going in."

Soap and I followed him in, our M4's ready to fire as we approached a narrow hallway. "Watch the door on the right." I whispered to Soap in front of me, watching him throw in a flashbang before shooting the man hiding inside.

"Good shots, Hermano." Alejandro praised.

We cleared the rest of the house, making our way upstairs to clear the master bedroom, the only sign of Hassan being his flag hanging on the wall in front of the desk. 

"Quds Force, that's his flag." I pointed towards the Iranian flag on the wall, looking through the papers on the desk while we took a few seconds to ensure our weapons were loaded while the smoke was deploying outside.

"So, he was here."

"Colonel's intel was good, but he got away." I sighed.

"Her intel is always good," Alejandro chuckled. "Just bad timing."

She replied, unaware that her compliment made Soap blush due to the lack of compliments from a woman in a while.

It didn't go unnoticed as I grew jealous fairly easily in general, but I assumed it was always a man's nature to grow jealous of a compliment that wasn't given to them, but to someone else other than them.

I took cover before looking out the window, watching her climb down the back of the building she was on to run through an alley that opened towards the woods, a sniper rifle in her hand. 

We watched her get close to the group, a sly smirk on her face as she picked up a large rock before throwing it towards thick brush in the woods in the opposite direction, alerting the group of soldiers into thinking that the sound came from their enemy, giving her enough time to deploy the explosive. Smart woman.

We made haste in falling back as advised, especially when we learned that the closest band of enemy soldiers deployed gas into the house we took cover in. 

Kiera... That's her name. A beautiful name to match a beautiful face. Fuck, Simon! Get your bloody head right! I was eager to get a closer look at her, but I had to push that thought aside to prevent myself from getting distracted. Let's face it, I was already distracted, and all this woman was doing was her job.

We retreated downwards into heavy trees. Soap turned to look behind him when he heard footsteps approaching from behind, his gaze locking onto her when she ran between us and slowed down to match Alejandro's stride, Soap shooting me a curious gaze. Fuck, she's short. She comes up to my sternum. How can someone so small be talked highly as dangerous? Perhaps I'll find out.

"There's a bridge at the river. Extraction will be there," Alejandro informed us before looking at her. "Still in one piece? Glad to see it!"

"Yeah, me too," She scoffed. "Haven't been here for a full three days and I've been in more fights than I've slept."

"Trouble seems to always find you."

"You're tellin' me!"

"Contact! RPG!" I shouted, the familiar whistle of the weapon coming from the top of the hill. The RPG hit in front of us, a huge wall of dirt and smoke rising from its target. As we moved to take cover, an enemy darted out from behind the boulder Kiera was heading for, aiming his weapon at her, and I immediately risked my own safety to return the favor by saving her life.

But she beat me to it.

That's right, this lass grabbed the tip of the enemy's rifle with rapid speed before he could pull the trigger, using her foot to kick him between the legs to give her time to jerk the weapon from his grasp, turning it around to aim at him before she killed him with his own weapon and took his magazines for herself as it was the same weapon she had. Fucking hell, I think I'm aroused.

Goddammit, Simon! Get your head right and get to cover! You're no better than Soap right now! 

"Army on the ridgeline!" Soap shouted, he and I aiming up top to eliminate them to buy us more time. Only a dozen soldiers showed up this time, giving our team time to make quick work of them before retreating towards the river.

"We're going to have to jump here!" Alejandro shouted, stopping at the edge of a six-foot gap separating us from the other side to safety and borrowed time.

"Can we even make that?" Kiera asked.

"Do or die, Ditch."

"I hate when you tell me that." She huffed.

"Wait, did he just call you a bitch?" Soap questioned. 

"No, Ditch is my callsign because it's frowned upon to say "bitch" over the comm, and it's fitting because I am a bitch. Echo 3-1 is just easier to remember." 

"It's an inside joke," Alejandro laughed, "Use those little legs, frog. You can make it."

"Only one way to find out," She shrugged. "I'm not going first, though."

"I'll go first, scaredy-cat." He teased before making the leap, and it looked rather easy. Kiera's jaw dropped briefly before turning back to look at us, "Well, if I fall, it was nice to meet you."

Not a chance you're going to fall, love, I thought. Suddenly, I was appreciative of my concealed identity when the eye contact she made with me made my chest burn.

I could see her nervousness as she slung her rifle to sit across her back, and I was able to realize that it wasn't the distance that scared her, but the fall.

My breath hitched when I watched her jump, laughing as she slid down the slope before Alejandro stopped her, laughing with her before he teased her again, "Look at you, jumping like a frog! Wish you could've seen the look on your face!"

"No, I don't."

Soap and I made our way across, halting at the hum of an incoming helo. "Incoming heli..."

"Get into a firing position. We'll take them by surprise."

"Which way to the bridge?"

"Straight ahead. Past the helo," Alejandro answered, ducking down behind a rock as more fire erupted from the cliffside. "Weapons free!"

"Fuck, they're coming in like roaches!" Kiera shouted, taking cover next to me while Soap was with Alejandro.

"Top of the hill and down the cliff is the bridge! Let's move! Watch your backs – could have shooters positioned." He warned after we neutralized our enemy.

"Ah, fuck," She sighed, looking down at the cliffside. "You always have me facing my fears every time I'm with you, Alejandro."

"Don't even think about it, just do it," He chuckled, jumping down to the rock below. "You're really going to hate me after seeing what we have to cross."

Even I was nervous to cross this narrow ledge that led us to another cliff to take cover on, the drop being a two-hundred-foot first class ticket to the rapids below – a sure fatality.

She huffed, following his lead and ignoring the sharp pain in her knees she made obvious by the groan that followed when she landed. She waited on Soap and I to jump down before beginning her trek across the narrow ledge, pressing her back against the rock wall before being startled by an enemy sniper. The bullet hit closer to me than her, but she crossed with a quick pace before taking cover behind a rock, setting her rifle on top before adjusting her scope quickly, sighing before she squeezed the trigger, taking out the sniper and again preventing either Soap or me from losing our lives. "Sniper down!"

"Bloody good shot, love." I complimented her, waiting for Soap to cross before we moved forward, the short ledge ending to a literal drop into the water below. "You led us to a dead end, mate!"

"We jump from here. Don't lose your weapons!"

Yeah, she was definitely going to hate this.

Everyone was afraid of something, and it didn't take me long to realize that her fear was falling, perhaps even heights. I couldn't blame her, though, because the thought of falling into a body of water without knowing what laid beneath was terrifying. "Your turn, Sergeant." I said to Soap, making him go first to ensure that I was keeping him safe by providing cover fire, and the jealous part of me sending him before me to keep him from coaxing her into jumping. "Your turn, love."

She huffed a deep breath, gasping when she peered her head over the edge. I could feel her anxiousness, but we were running out of time. "I'll be right behind you. Cross your ankles and keep your body straight. Won't hurt as bad."

"That's comforting."

"Beats getting shot and falling," I shrugged. "Don't think about it. Just do it. Could've been over with by now." The wind blew her scent on me, and aside from the sweat, I could smell the sweet scent of her body wash, and it drove me insane. I stood behind her before I turned to follow the sound of upcoming footsteps, seeing the shadow of an enemy soldier approaching. Fuck, I had to make her jump now.

I didn't hesitate as I grabbed her hand, "Don't let go!" I shouted, leaping from the edge and dragging her along with me, hearing the whisp of a bullet fly past my ear as we fell. She gasped in fear before we hit the water, and as much as the impact stung, I refused to let go of her hand until we broke the surface. I could hear her release a breath under the water, a groan of pain following as I pulled her to the surface. "You alright? Think I heard something crack."

"Probably my fucking leg!" She groaned. "That's one way of making someone conquer their fears."

I shook my head, huffing out a laugh before I pulled her in front of me, using my body as a shield before I removed my pistol, taking two shots towards the cliffside before I watched the enemy fall to his death.

"Everyone alive?"

"Breathing." Kiera grumbled, taking cover behind a rock.

"Looks like we have some time before more reinforcements come in. There's a bridge up ahead. Let the river carry us until we need cover. It'll get shallow when we get closer to the bridge." Alejandro explained.

We stayed close to the rocks that lined the shore, keeping our weapons ready. I was sure that Kiera's adrenaline kept her from focusing on the pain of her leg by how she struggled to swim, so I made sure to fall back to keep my pace up with her as she was the most vulnerable out of the four of us. We saw vehicles lining the bridge up ahead, and I was quick to realize that those vehicles weren't with us...

"Fuck! It's the Army! We'll have to hold here and get extraction!" Alejandro shouted, taking cover behind another rock once we reached shallow water.

"I'm aiming for the fuel tanks of the trucks!" Kiera shouted, setting her rifle on the top of the rock, taking two shots before one of the vehicles exploded, killing four soldiers that were surrounding it.

"Commander Graves. Shadow Company. They're with us," I answered, thankful to have him covering us. 

"Let's roll." Soap groaned, wiping his hand through his mohawk, ridding it of water.

[weevil-wallflower]

Scars

Cal Kestis x Reader

Summary: Even a Jedi Knight needs some reassurance from time to time.

Warnings/Tags: Spoilers for Jedi: Survivor, canon-typical violence, SFW, no use of Y/N, minor angst.

A.N.: My fifth entry for Cal Kestis Week 2024! It follows the Day 4 prompt ‘Scars’. I've been meaning to get this one out like four days ago, on the last day of Cal Kestis Week but unfortunately work and studies prevented me from finishing it on time. And yes, another older prompt but I simply had to use this idea! Gif by me!

Also on AO3!

Word Count: ~1,600

The final moments of Cal’s fight with Dagan were a blur of pain and fury. As the duel between Cal and Dagan came to a brutal end, Dagan’s lightsaber struck Cal across his chest, sending a shockwave of agony through his body. The sizzling sound of burning flesh filled the air as Cal staggered, his tunic scorched around the fresh wound while his lightsaber clattered to the floor.

The redhead clutched the wound as he felt the charred fabric of his tunic cling to the cauterised wound. The world around him flipped as he collapsed to the ground, his vision narrowing to the sight of Dagan’s triumphant sneer.

Taking in a deep breath and pushing away the pain for the moment, Cal Force-pulled his lightsaber towards him and used one of Dagan’s own hallucinations against him. He focused intently, allowing the Force to shape his image into that of Santari, Dagan’s late friend. The vision caught Dagan off guard, his defense faltering as he grappled with the apparition of the one person who he trusted most. Seizing the opportunity, Cal's lightsaber blazed with lethal accuracy, piercing right through Dagan's chest. Dagan's pained scream was mixed with a sizzling sound as the blade tore through muscle and bone. Cal twisted the sword, guaranteeing a fatal strike.

Just as victory appeared to be imminent, Dagan used the Force to painfully seize Cal's body, suspending him mid-air. Dagan’s voice, filled with rage and desperation, rang through the chamber as he yelled about Tanalorr, his dream fading away. Cal struggled against the invisible grip, his own strength waning.

BD-1, seeing the peril his friend was in, acted swiftly. With frantic beeps and nudges, the little droid managed to wake Bode, who had previously been rendered unconscious by Dagan. Realising the dire situation, Bode aimed his blaster at Dagan and fired, the shot breaking Dagan’s concentration and releasing Cal from his grasp.

With a final lethal strike to across the chest, Cal sent Dagan crumpling to the ground, his body twitching as the life drained from his eyes. Cal stood over him, his chest heaving with the effort and pain of the fight.

Bode slowly approached the redhead, his expression a mix of relief and concern. “Cal, are you okay?” He asked, his voice tinged with worry.

Cal glanced at Bode, his face a mask of determination despite the agonising pain in his chest. "I'm fine," he lied, his voice strained. All he wanted was to get away from there and be in your comforting arms.

Bode studied him for a moment, seeing through the facade but deciding not to press further. He placed a reassuring hand on Cal's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "You did good, brother," Bode said softly, his tone filled with warmth. "Go on ahead. I'll stay and survey the area. And see if I can find a manual for that compass or something..."

Cal nodded, a wave of gratitude washing over him at Bode's support. "Thanks, Bode," he replied, his voice a bit more genuine.

With a final look at his fallen foe and a nod to Bode, Cal turned and made his way back towards Pyloon’s Saloon. Hand pressed to the wound on his chest, each step sent a wave of pain radiating through his body but he forced himself onwards, driven by the need to be with you. He knew that in your arms, he would find the solace and comfort he desperately needed.

When he finally entered your shared quarters below Pyloon’s Saloon, stumbling in through the back door—most likely to avoid everyone in the cantina—You were already there waiting for him, your expression one of great concern. As soon as Cal stumbled in, BD-1 hopped down from his back, rushing over to You with worried beeps about the Jedi.

“Cal,” You said softly, rushing over to his side. “Let me take a look at that.”

He nodded, his emerald eyes meeting yours with a mixture of gratitude and resignation. His tunic sported a burnt slash across his chest where the lightsaber had struck him, the fabric singed and charred around the wound. Carefully, You guided him to sit on the bed, your touch gentle but firm. You gently pried his tunic off, being careful not to aggravate the wound further before You began to examine the injury. BD-1 perched on your shoulder, his beeps and chirps a constant stream of worry as he watched You work.

When the wound came into view, You couldn’t help but gasp at the horrible sight, your heart aching for the pain Cal had endured. The wound was a searing, angry red slash across his chest, blackened at the edges and blistered from the intense heat of the lightsaber.

The silence in your quarters was thick with unspoken words. As You worked, Cal couldn’t help but shakily trail his fingers over the fresh slash on his chest, wincing at the pain but also more at the thought of yet another mark added to his already scarred body. Each one told a story of pain and survival, a testament to the battles he had fought. His body was already littered with scars—what was another?

The redhead’s mind swirled with anguished thoughts. How could You, someone so beautiful and kind, love someone like him? How could You look at his scarred body and see anything other than ugliness—to see someone who was capable of more than just war and violence? The doubts gnawed at him, twisting in his gut like a knife.

After cleaning the wound and sealing it with a bacta patch, You looked up at him, your eyes solemn. “This will scar,” You said quietly, your voice tinged with sadness.

Cal forced a smile, trying to lighten the mood. “Well, it’s just another one for the collection, right? Sure to impress you...”

Despite his playful words, the tone of his voice was heavy with sorrow. You could see the weight of his past experiences and hardships pressing down on him, the scars not just on his skin but deep within his soul.

You paused, your hands still on his chest and met his gaze with a gentle, unwavering look. “Cal,” You said softly, “you could be doing anything at all—something as simple as planting a seed in the cantina’s garden—and you would still impress me.”

The sincerity in your voice penetrated his defenses, and for a moment, the pain and fear melted away. He looked at You, really looked, and saw the depth of your care and admiration for him. It wasn’t the scars that defined him in your eyes, but the strength, courage and kindness that lay beneath them.

A lump formed in Cal’s throat as he struggled to find the right words. “You have no idea how much that means to me…” he finally managed, his voice barely above a whisper. In that moment, the weight of his battles felt lighter, the burden of his scars less daunting.

You smiled softly, brushing a stray lock of fiery hair from his forehead. “I do, Cal. And I’m here with you, scars and all.”

BD-1 let out a soft, comforting beep, hopping down from your shoulder to nestle closer to Cal to affirm your words.

Under the soft light of your shared quarters, as the tender moment between You and Cal lingered, You were overcome with a sudden urge to reassure him of your love and acceptance, scars and all. Gently, You leaned in and pressed a tender kiss around the fresh slash on his chest, feeling the tension in his body begin to melt away. Cal’s breath hitched, his eyes fluttering shut as he absorbed the warmth of your touch.

Moving upwards, You kissed the long scar on his upper right jaw, your lips lingering on the raised line, and tingling from the roughness of his short beard. You then moved to the small scar across his right eyebrow, kissing it softly. Eyes still closed, Cal’s mind was rampant with emotions he could barely contain. His heart pounded in his chest as the contact sent a shiver down his spine. Each kiss was like a balm, soothing the lingering pain and doubts that haunted him.

Next, You placed a delicate kiss on the scar across his nose, before your fingers gently traced the path of the old wound. Cal’s hands, which has been tightly gripping the edge of the bed, slowly relaxed, moving up to rest on your waist as if seeking the comfort and stability that only You could provide.

Finally, You reached the small scar that ran across his lower lip. You pressed your lips against it tenderly, feeling the slight roughness beneath the softness of his skin. Cal’s eyes opened, and for a moment, the world seemed to stand still. The anguish in his heart was replaced by an overwhelming sense of love and gratitude.

When You finally pulled away, You gazed into Cal’s emerald eyes and saw tears silently streaming down his cheeks. Your heart clenched at the sight, but before You could voice your concerns, he softly assured You, “They’re tears of happiness.”

A giggle escaped your lips, the sound joyful and filled with relief. “I’m glad,” You whispered, wiping away his tears with your thumb. “Because you mean everything to me, Cal.”

Cal pulled You into a tight embrace, his strong arms holding You close as if You were his anchor in a storm. The weight of his scars felt lighter now, due to a reminder of your love and acceptance. And as You nestled against him, You knew that together, you both could face anything, bound by a love that was stronger than any scar could be.

[theynchapter]

❝ I’VE NEVER KNOWN SOMEONE LIKE YOU ❞ valentine!sim jaeyun.

A/N … i saw this tiktok of a couple going out on a lego date and i wanted to die. so i made this. happy vday xo

you think the sight’s a little funny.

how your boyfriend of three years sprawled across the picnic blanket you share, stomach flat against the ground, nearly taking up half the space meant for two— for he was a little too immersed in connecting the stems of the lavender that was yet to complete your lego bouquet. (the one that he bought. for you.)

“if i hadn’t known any better, i’d think you bought this set to treat yourself for valentine’s day.” you tilt your head at the boy with a lop-sided grin, as you watch him intensively squint his eyes at the tiny manual laid right beneath his elbows. as much as you wanted to kiss the worry-crease away from his eyebrows, his focused state was far too adorable to miss.

but when he didn’t (or hadn’t, really) utter a single word, you sigh tremendously as you drop onto the toned surface of his back.

jake groaned when your sudden weight caused him to lose a small piece. “y/n! i was almost done!”

“jake!” you mimic your boyfriend, dragging out the one syllable in his name as obnoxiously long as you could. “i was getting bored!”

“wait, what? why?” the blond’s eyes softened at your distress, now rolling over to lay on his side for a better glimpse of your face. “you think legos are boring?”

“no, i think you’re boring.”

jake gasped in a hurt manner, hands jokingly clutched onto his heart that deemed ‘broken’. his lips then tugged into a playful smirk. “oh, i’ll show you boring.”

you didn’t really have much time to react the moment jake threw his body onto yours. his fingers naturally found their way to your sides, giving them the most delicate yet ticklish nips. you choked out a cry of laughter as he consistently peppered loving kisses from the apples of your cheeks to the base of your neck.

“jake— jake— jaeyun— quit it!” you finally managed to yell out a few coherent words, squeaking as soon as his nose bumped into the nape of your neck. you felt him smile against it before dropping his full weight onto you, face nuzzled closer, arms firmly locked, taking in your fresh scent of lavender and the dwelling of your arms. it was as if he wanted to be there forever.

you let out a low chuckle at his sudden obedience as you ran your fingers through his golden array of locks. after a few beats of silence, you decide that it was about time you both get back to work. when you tried to sit back up, however, the boy wouldn’t budge. in fact, he refused to.

you sigh in disbelief, ruffling jake’s feather-like hair. “jake— it’s okay, love. we can get back to those legos now.”

“no.”

[cheezbites]

Dating Gaz

✎: expect more gaz content from me bbs!!💕😘

♡Summary: Headcanons of dating Kyle “Gaz” Garrick.

✧༺<3༻∞

Bf!Gaz kills the spiders around the house for you... evilly. He’d catch them, squash it in a tissue, and just as he’s about to toss it in the bin, he’d playfully chase you around with it before actually throwing it away, leaving you locked away in your bathroom, over exaggeratively heaving with your knees to your chest.

Bf!Gaz loves teasing you, it’s just another one of those things you need to get used to. You accidentally made a big spill in the kitchen, resulting in Gaz teasing you before helping you clean it up. In the midst of his laughter, you retorted with a playful “Shut up,” as your face flushed.

“Make me,” he replied, still as smug and cocky as ever.

And in that moment you remembered something very important - he’s ticklish.

“Okay,” you casually responded, steadily approaching him with an uncontainable grin. You made your move, tickled the life out of him and giggled at the sight of him suffering and practically dying - all from being tickled. He was clutching his stomach - the most tickle-sensitive area - whilst irrepressibly wheezing. You loved and grasped onto any opportunity to make or hear him laugh, it was all so pure and natural; melodic and fulfilling. You found yourself beaming at his chuckling.

Bf!Gaz doesn’t want his princess to lift a single muscle, he wants you to leave the harder jobs to him.

Today, you decided to be independent in building your desk from IKEA. You denied his volunteering each and every time to prove your ‘mechanical skills’:

“Y’sure you don’t need help?” Gaz asked, leaning on the doorway.

You didn’t answer for a moment as you were hyper-focusing on the manual with writing a few fonts too small, and you’re also sure the instructions are written in a foreign language.

“Yeah, I got it,” you replied, slightly unsure. Your confidence in the task at hand would deteriorate each time you denied his help. You were so used to him doing everything for you, you couldn’t help but feel bad and at least try give it a shot. He did make it seem effortless, after all.

“More power to you, princess.” He said, disappearing into the living room and leaving you to it.

He knew he would return a few seconds later just to watch this fabricated construction site like this was the most amusing thing. Random screw drivers were scattered across the floor, the manual was torn to pieces out of frustration, and you were defeatedly tugged at your hair before groaning. He passive aggressively cleared his throat, announcing his availability.

“I think can do it… I think,” you said, thinking you were getting somewhere by screwing some random, small metal thingy into a hole that it didn’t even fit before huffing exasperatedly.

“And how’s that going for ya?”

Bf!Gaz shows you off, if you love it or hate it - you’re his girl and the entire world’s going to know if he’s by your side. Either telling his boys about you, boldly wrapping his hand around your waist or taking an uncountable amount of pictures of you. He loved you, he was going to make sure everyone knew that. You were admittedly a bit nervous at being showered in his constant attention and affection, but you eventually grew used to it.

Bf!Gaz is the ‘human dumpster’ of the relationship. Either if you’re dining out or having dinner, the moment you utter a “Babe, ‘m too full to finish my food,” he grabs your plate and laps it up for you.

“Are you sure you’re going to finish all that?” Gaz asked, watching you walk into the living room with a platter full of nachos and guacamole for movie night.

“Duhh,” you replied, earning an unsure look from Gaz in return. And as predicted, you were full after popping only a few of them in your mouth. You already had dinner before this uncontrollable nacho craving. You don’t know what made you act on it but it surely was a dumb decision and Gaz saw this coming from a mile away.

He laughed before finishing them for you as you engulfed yourselves into some Netflix show you guys decided to put on.

There was also this one time where you unknowingly got some BBQ sauce on your inner thigh as you were eating. You were confused when you saw him crouching down before you and licking it off, making you laugh when you finally realised what he was doing and playfully nudging him off.

“What?” he chuckled, wiping the side of his face as some of the sauce somehow landed there, “can’t waste it, can I?”

(Bonus canon: We all know that ‘bad slice’ of bread that’s constantly avoided like the plague - the weirdly shaped final slice. He’d eat that one for you as he watched them linger whenever new packs of bread where bought. It always confuses him as to why you did this as they all tasted the same, anyways).

Bf!Gaz is used to you being all flirty with him, but he still falls for it merely every time. You catch him by surprise with how creative you can get with it at times:

“Is that seat taken?” you asked, walking up to him. He was in the living room, watching some rowdy football match. He only looked up at you confused and shrugged his shoulders, “…what seat?” Little did he know his confused expression was soon going to chance to a shocked and amused one.

You sat on his lap and wrapped an arm around his neck, studying his facial expression to see if he caught onto your little joke. It took him a little while - but he got it soon enough.

Bf!Gaz playfully humps you or slaps your ass whenever you bend over to pick anything up. And so one day, you returned the favour; doing the exact same thing to him when he bent over to pick something up. Don’t get me wrong - he was caught a little off guard by you full on humping him at first. But dry humping each other anytime either of you guys bent over was now your inside joke!! (How wholesome <3)

Bf!Gaz is used to being told what to do, mostly because decision making is a bit irrational. Like tell this man what to do and he’d listen for you, either with a “yes ma’am” or a jokey salute. And he better be expecting a “I’m not mad, just disappointed” from you whenever he does something really dumb.

Bf!Gaz uses your boobs like they’re plush pillows. Not always in a completely sexual way, it’s just his go to when you guys cuddle. Either gently laying on them or kneading them whilst you stroke his hair - he always simply put it as, “you can’t get this quality with regular pillows.” You could be laying on the couch and he’s suddenly on top of you and using them as pillows.

Bf!Gaz loves going out with you. The days where you spent all day exploring your city always start off with you guys doing something simple, like dining out. It expectedly transitions into visiting some place you’ve both been meaning to go, to having a picnic, to watching the sunset then stargazing.

Bf!Gaz makes you breakfast in bed. It’s always so delicious (and nutritious - can’t forget the nutrients). It’s an amazing way to start your morning, the bread’s toasted and buttered to perfection and he knows how to whip up a yummy smoothie. He’s a total health enthusiast so expect him to sneak some fruits in there, too. He makes those açai bowls alongside his breakfast if he has the time to. Give this man a random mix of fruits and he’d have a delicious smoothie ready for you both in no time. You’re so happy you have your own personal five star nutritionist and chef to bring you a healthy, amazing breakfast.

Bf!Gaz was your professional and personal coach when it came to the gym. He’d either get your water bottles, recommend techniques, help with your form and do anything to help you. Especially with him being in the military, he’s a great help.

Bf!Gaz does the most only to get a minute of your attention. You’d act as if you couldn’t hear him just to have his absolute lover boy of a man practically begging for you. He’d lift you upon your kitchen’s countertop and make you look at him before you both erupt into giggles and share yet another wholesome moment together.

Bf!Gaz’s body is littered in bite marks because of your unique love language; biting. Your drawn to the feeling of sinking your teeth onto his forearm out of pure boredom and just saying there like a clingy vampire.

“You having fun there?” he asked, surprisingly not moving his arm to interrupt your little ‘Dracula’ session. You only bit him harder in response to his rhetorical question.

“Ow.”

Bf!Gaz is a massive dog person, probably the biggest dog person you’ll ever meet. He knows every dog breed off by heart, blindfolded (and probably by only feeling their fur). His outgoing, extroverted personality doesn’t falter when he approaches people in dog parks to ask to pet their dogs. You guys are even considering adopting one and adding a cute, furry addition to the family.

Bf!Gaz left some of his shirts around while he was on leave, so you used them as your pillowcase whenever you missed him - which was practically all the time. He always smelt so good, and you get flashbacks to the fun, intimate and joyous memories you shared all from smelling a peace of fabric; it’s a win-win. You don’t know whatever body wash or cologne he was using but there’s something that’s so uniquely him that’s engulfed in his shirts. You having a better time sleeping when he’s the last thing on your mind before you sleep, and the first thing on your mind when you wake up.

*-.Masterlist.-*

Soap Version

König Version

Ghost Version

Price Version

[carrotcakewriting]

The Sea Salt Air

a/n: my current obsession is hotd and this boy, so I wrote this self-indulgent fic, just for fun. Might make a part 2 idk.

Summary: Elen meets a boy on the beach. She doesn't realise said boy is the heir to the Iron Throne.

Warnings: None, just fluff really. OC is named. Fem Reader

Word Count: 1210

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

The dragon was soaring through the air again, olive green against the pale blue sky above. Elen watched with silent delight, eyes narrowing against the sea-salted breeze. 

It had been over ten years since she had been to Dragonstone, the last decade spent in Gulltown serving as handmaid to House Grafton. Now war was brewing and her parents called her back to Dragonstone, hoping the flying beasts would protect their small fisherman family. 

Elen was nervous. She was to take up a post in the Dragonstone keep as handmaiden to Queen Rhaenyra Targaryen and her family, and with the recent murder of Prince Lucerys, Elen was worried anger and bloodlust would be rife within the walls of the keep. 

Still, she would remind herself, she would much rather be here at Dragonstone than in King's Landing.  That place seemed suffocating.

Her stained, patched dress rustled against her ankles as she settled back against the rock of the small beach alcove she had found not far from the port. The dragon continued to soar above the sea. It was peaceful to watch, the movement of its wings captivating. 

Elen jumped in surprise as someone came into view. It was a boy who didn’t look much older than herself, clad in a simple red tunic, his brown curls framing his face in an annoyingly perfect way. He looked as though he had come from some sort of training, or manual labour, his clothes creased and worn from movement. 

His hand clutched the sword by his hip and he too watched the dragon, a sullen expression on his face. 

He had not yet seen her and Elen was almost afraid to move. Her brows furrowed as she studied him. Who was he? 

The boy let out a loud sign, running a hand through his hair. He seemed to be very deep in thought, tired almost. 

Elen shifted, watching him carefully. A blush rose on her cheeks. He really was very handsome. 

His face whipped around to face her so suddenly she let out a squeak. They stared at each other wide-eyed for a moment, the only sound Elen could hear was her heart beating fast and hard. 

His eyes roamed the area quickly, as though waiting for someone else to appear.

“Uh- Hello?” Elen said it almost like it was a question and cringed internally.

The boy stared at her for a beat before, almost suspiciously before nodding slowly, “Hello.” 

An awkward pause. 

Elen clutched her skirts and the dragon let out a bellow. 

“Uh-” She stumbled over her words, focusing her attention away from the boy and to the sky, “They’re amazing creatures aren’t they?” 

He turned to follow her eye-line and hummed in agreement. Somehow she felt as though she had interrupted a peaceful moment for him.

“Do you… do you know what this one is called? I wasn’t sure.” she asked.

Elen wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole. She had never been good at talking to boys, never mind one who looked this handsome. She suddenly felt underdressed, more aware of the dirt under her nails and the salt in her hair making it tangled and unruly. 

Elen chanced a glance at him, only to see him watching her with an almost confused stare. 

“I have not long returned home to the port after many years so I am not sure…” She tried to clarify, smiling in hopes the boy might not stare at her with such piercing eyes. 

He nodded once more, less suspicious, his shoulders relaxing. “This one is Vermax.”

He said, turning to watch the dragon.

“Oh!” Elen sat up slightly gesturing, “He belongs to Prince Jacaerys doesn’t he?” 

She blushed once more as the boy smiled amused by what she had said though she wasn’t sure why. 

“Am I wrong?” She asked sheepishly.

“No, no, you’re correct… You truly do not know who I am, do you?”

Her brows furrowed, slightly concerned that she had been talking to someone of importance without realising. But the look on his face wasn't one of anger or offence. It was almost… pleased.

“Should I?” she asked. 

He shook his head, “I suppose I am not used to someone being so… unfamiliar here at Dragonstone. It is a small island after all.”

“My mother and father would know a lot more than me, I must admit.”

“They live in the port?” He asked, turning toward her. 

“Yes, all their lives. We’re farmers and fishermen by trade.”

“But you have only just returned?” He was walking closer and Elen clutched her skirts, heart thumping.

“Yes. I had been working as a handmaiden in Gulltown, but with talk of war coming…” she shrugged. 

“Are you glad to be back?”

“I suppose so… Gulltown was fine but I missed my mother and father often. Although, with all the time that’s passed, I don't really know anyone here. At least the view is good.” 

She had meant the dragons of course, but she said it whilst looking at him. He raised an eyebrow, a smug smirk growing on his face. 

“I didn't mean– I meant…” she stumbled over her words, heat in her cheeks as his smile grew. Scrambling for something to say she asked, “So, are you some sort of guard or a knight…?” 

“Hm?” The boy looked at her and then followed her eye to the sword at his waist. He tapped it with his palm, tilting his head, “Something like that.”

“What does that mean?” She laughed. “Should I be bowing and scraping to you?”

He smiled, before shaking his head with a faux tone of importance, “Oh most definitely. You shouldn't be questioning my authority.” he said it teasingly, but Elen couldn't help but think he had a certain air about him, a significance she couldn't place. 

“Well I can’t help but question you ser, lurking around the place like a bad smell.” she shot back, sounding braver than she felt in her attempt to… she wasn't sure. 

He gaped, a breathy laugh leaving him, “Says the one hiding away in a crevice. What's wrong? Scared of the fish?”

Elen placed a hand on her chest in fake offence, “Well that isn’t very knightly.” His smile warmed her heart and she continued, “But if you must know, yes. My mother wanted me to gut the fish from this morning's catch so I had to make a quick escape. I can’t stand the smell. I was enjoying some peace, Ser before you so rudely interrupted.”

He grinned, mirth clear in his eyes. “What is your name?” 

She smiled, folding her fingers together, “Elen,” she said shyly. 

“Elen,” he repeated the name, and it sounded like heaven from his lips. He looked away from her, clearly spotting something out of her view. Without looking back he asked, “Elen, if I was to come back here on the morn, would I find you in that spot?”

She blinked in surprise, admiring the soft look on his face, “I suppose you would.”

“On the morrow then.” 

It was only after he had walked away, and the butterflies in her stomach calmed from the thought of a boy wishing to see her again, that she realised she never asked his name. 

[spotsupstuff]

Iterators, of course, aren't made capable of resting. They are here to work.

Even if biological to a degree, the components of the Hiveminds either take careful turns for a shut eye or they work themselves to death from exhaustion. Terrifying-, is Three Sparrows' opinion on that, -but they can't live any differently. Just like moths without mouths or crazed fish fighting against the streams of oceans, that's just how their Cycles are predetermined.

But there's these few rare days... Especially with the newer Iterators- those that are still chugging through life like newborn rain deer fawns, unsure in their existence, a little too vulnerable- when they slow down for a thorough, long debug session.

For the citizens this means a little dimmer day. A little bit of detoxification from screens as nonessential devices shut down or receive far too little power from the hearts of the Iterator. As those beats slow down and the energy that does get generated from them is more focused internally.

For her, as his Mechanic, this means an especially busy couple of days. Anxiety inducing ones, too.

First thing in the morning of the first day, Sparrows sends her charge a question- "how did the debug start up go?"- then remembers that the drama queen that is Caper of Euros does not wish to be bothered to formulate as horrendous things as whole words at this stage, because, in his words: "You don't understand just how *draining* it is to put together syllables in such a state!". So she adds a little unprofessional "doin good?" supplement message right after.

It takes unnaturally long for him to respond (twenty whole seconds!!!) with a singular checkmark. She breathes a sigh of relief and allows herself to go about her day now.

The city of Ales keeps relatively quiet. The typical churn of energy, cogs and thoughts of a behemoth beneath her feet is near silent even in the depths of the inner subway system. The traffic lights blink a little slower, the fake birds overhead sing just that tad bit louder. The children freed from school thanks to the low current bump into her by accident as they chase each other through the city square. Three Sparrows clutches her breakfast, gives the little rascals some mock chase with her fist waving in the air and then she sits down to finally scorf that food down.

First day is the hardest. This one is dedicated to check ups of the hearts, gravity generators and the memory arrays. All of that is functioning at its bare minimum right now and she better make use of that! Less thunderous beats for her body to weather even through the suit specialized for this, less frustrating fights against complete antigravity and less train of thoughts for her to derail by accidentally bumping into the softer bits of his mind.

She won't get to really interact with Euros today- or well... at least he won't be able to respond much to her day's worth of effort like he'd usually do. It's still strange to think of that. Running all around someone's body yet not actually properly interacting. This job forces a person through so many paradigm shifts... It gets exhausting to change one's understanding of simply *being* so many times.

So today she ensures his hearts are without a single scratch. That the Void Fluid trapped inside of the water is still spinning right (that part is always needlessly scary. the Void stuff can't be trusted, no matter how holy the preachers say it is, Three Sparrows on a Wire doesn't give a damn). She checks all the cables and tubes surrounding them, the antigravity generators solely dedicated to only this giant chamber all the while trying to keep her own little heart from panicking at the loud noise.

Manually she visits all the major generators sprinkled through the facility and runs diagnostics on the lesser ones through her watch. She amputates and treats the biological parts of the arrays that need it, tells hi to a sleepy yet determined Inspector that came to check it out, pries neuron flies out of weird places they somehow managed to wedge themselves into and takes a peek into Euros' mental state as per regulations.

She already knows his priority list won't make the demanded norms. Her own name shines at her from the first spot, forcing all too familiar self-blame to bloom in her chest. With a swipe of a finger, the screen disappears. Her final report will have lies in it again, then. Nobody can know.

At 23:11, fifteen hours since the beginning of the work day, Three Sparrows stumbles out of the stuffy biomechanical guts of her boyfriend without popping into the puppet chamber once absolutely destroyed.

"Oh, I always forget how sweet the evening air is. Void below, wow," she says, taking a deep breath before dragging herself home.

Aching limbs force her to skip normal dinner for easier-to-prepare and consume nutritional supplements, but they don't manage to stop her from making it to the daily family call. Or from quietly hacking into Euros' systems afterwards.

There's a spike of panic in the entire Hivemind, according to the live diagnostic program running on her watch and she looks on as his systems reach for the firewalls he unconsciously dropped alongside his damn heart rate (most likely, she has yet to catch the moment when he actually drops them). Three Sparrows can't help but grin to herself a little as she turns off her computer's cloaking *just* before the firewalls reactivate. The recognition of her IP address is instantaneous- telling by the sudden stop of Euros' frantic efforts at self-defense.

At least for a few seconds. Then he's rapidly purging her out and slamming the firewalls back into their place behind her. She barely manages to burst into laughter and her watch already pings with a new message. Message in question? Only reads a singular period.

But oh, those few pixels somehow manage to obtain all the dramatic affront, anger and disbelief a typical Euros rant would have. It only makes her laugh harder.

When she finally wills herself to stop, lest she gets a headache, she replies: "when will you finally remember to *not* become a sitting mouse for hackers during your debugging. you dumbass you!"

Euros replies with another period.

"watch out for yourself, ok? just bc im tots willing to break a guys face in the name of keeping your giant eight legged box butt safe doesnt mean im exactly itching for that kinda situation" "now good luck during the night. i gotta go take a five everything hurts"

Two periods and a second later, a heart.

Sparrows smiles at the screen a little, turns off her computer and climbs into the soft bed sheets.

The next day flies by a little easier. This one is dedicated to check ups of technologies related to production of the biological Hivemind members. There's quite a lot of those scattered through the whole body of Caper of Euros, but at least the hearts are beating a little faster today which means the gravity generators everywhere are stronger and that again means Sparrows gets to call upon an Inspector to hitch a ride with it for the whole day. No solo swimming in 0g this time!

All the production centres end up being more or less perfectly fine. Any damage caused by use is miniscule enough to not matter and be fixed naturally in a matter of days. As it should be with all Iterators out of their test run phases.

A small feeling of pride settles warmly behind her ribs. Another thing she can be almost certain to check off the long long list of her duties as a Mechanic, another Euros' step towards being completely self-dependent and, for the lack of biomechanical term on an Iterator scale, fully mature.

He's progressing despite small hiccups here and there and she couldn't be happier.

Though, one thing she will admit.

As she gives her goodbye to today's guide, Sparrows just can't wait for this day to be over. It won't be admitted aloud, especially where Euros could hear her, but she's starting to painfully miss their usual interactions.

Sure, today her interactions with him were... "closer" than yesterday, but it still wasn't it.

Another dissonance. Even being near something more closer to her level than the entirety of his physical body is not exactly a direct mutual interaction. The Inspector nuzzled to her, held her, clicked at her in some attempts at communication. And it was Euros, but... also just such a small piece of him.

So small, that it almost borders on meaningless. But it hurts to think of anything with such personality and role in the grand scheme of him as meaningless so she quickly shakes that thought out of her head.

It is strange. But she doesn't mind calling the *puppet* meaningless. That thing is what her heart yearns for now, whose embrace she's currently missing- its carmine coloration and big dark lenses are what her eyes are searching for. And still, the cynical and rational part of her dubs that piece useless without an issue.

Because the puppets are useful with their emptiness. The uselessness makes them precious, paradoxically enough.

She's even writing a paper on this subject, questioning if the existence of these masks or decoys- essentially inherent lies- are really so important. So naturally, her thoughts spiral further as she's walking back into his facilities during the third day.

Today is deep puppet chamber maintenance day. A whole day dedicated to the bullshit.

In her paper, Three Sparrows argues that puppets are installed more for the sake of the Anemon population more than the Iterators themselves. In the grand scheme of things, can it be said that these priorities will pay out?

Yes, certainly, there are aspects to puppets that are helpful for the Iterators themselves too. Mainly that the relatively little things are the central focus point of the Hivemind- a means for the entirety of the scattered person to come together and form an Individuality seamlessly.

'But,' she asks, 'isn't That a condition Created by The Puppet's Existence? If We direct Our Attention to the Iterator Inconvenient Sporadic Change, she was known to exist Outside of her Individuality Without Complications! Research shows that she performed just as well if not better in Her Duties than the other Iterators of Her Time Period- which, if I May remind The Reader Kindly, are some Monumental Names. Better output than that of Boreas' Blessing, Orion's Pathway and even The Dedicated Aftertaste of Disdain.

Her Processes proved to be Seamless, Direct, Quicker. Reports are Also Kind Enough to mention the Need for Maintenance- Be it Physical, Psychological or Emotional- was at a sweet Minimum.

If a Puppet of an Iterator Should not be Given, is it Possible that the Hivemind would find a Different, Healthier Way of Coming Together? Of My educated Opinion, I'd dare to Say Yes.

The Consciousness would have the Free Choice of expanding Outwards, to the Limits of the Superstructure, rather than Claustrophobically Inwards. This Change of Procedure would Potentially Result in Absence of These known Disorders that Plague Your Great Gifts to the World:'

Then there is also of course the benefit of pearl reading and printing, but really? Her computer doesn't need a whole person just to burn her a picture, song or some text into the surface of a pearl and then also read it back. This function of the puppets is a weakness if anything. Why not exchange the entire chamber setup for something like a series of pearl readers so they might as well multitask in this, too?

Euros certainly could be reading twenty pearls at once and burning information onto thirty other, for sure. Maybe that would sate his programmed hyperactivity at least a little before he gains access to his predetermined role as a Phone Operator Chief of the Eo group.

The puppets are just a ginormous fumble at optimization of the Iterator blueprint and that's that.

And still...

Three Sparrows climbs through the pipe into Caper of Euros' puppet chamber. This place is like another heart, despite its function being nothing like a real one. A hub of his mind, maybe. An important, precious piece of him, even if those epithets are forced onto it by circumstance.

Her feet hit the floor and the chamber brightens up just that bit to signal at least a piece of his attention is now dedicated to the happenings within the room, but stays deep carmine instead of turning light pink. That signals he's still working, just as she instructed him.

Overseers come and go to take a look at her, some stay to watch her. Understandable, since the puppet is slumped over in the middle of the floor, sitting with its eyes half closed- for once, he is the one frustratingly limited in his ability to interact with her properly even though she's right here.

"Good morning, Caps!" Sparrows cheerfully calls into the more or less empty room, giving the Overseers a quick salute in greeting. They reply with quick spins of their tendrils, the room itself greets her back with a pleased purr. One that she can feel shaking her legs even through the metal soles of her boots as she walks over to today's main point of interest.

Kneeling next to it, she rests a hand over its chest in support. "Alright. As always, we'll get through the detachment sequence and you can go fully back to finishing off the debugging. How close are you to being done?"

Something whirrs and then a projection appears on the wall in front of her of a progress bar. 87%.

"Nice! You are getting faster. Come on now, then."

During a deep maintenance of the puppet, it is advised to nearly fully disconnect it from the rest of the structure. The purpose of that is to give the systems some rest, but also to avoid stressing out or making the Hivemind uncomfortable by sticking a hand into what it perceives as its very personal very own chest.

The first step is for the Hivemind to pull back from the body, to avoid the shock of forceful extraction. Once that is done, the Iterator disconnects the umbilical arm from the back and allows the Mechanic to slowly push it away. Carefulness is needed during this- the arm contains cables and tubes, acting like an umbilical cord for an unborn offspring in some animals.

The baby analogy never fails to make her skin crawl. While Anemons conceive children without such things, it's still so... personal. It stirs unwanted feelings inherent to intelligent organic beings, the need to look after a child. These puppets are like stillborns. Stuck within the womb for the "mother" to use as an extension of its being.

That is not a matter easily pondered.

The next step, after the bundle of crucial cords safely rests on the ground, is to disconnect the umbilical cables from the back of the puppet's head.

One by one, Sparrows disconnects them. And with the last, Euros' puppet goes slack against her hand. Quite unnerving, that. It always makes her heart jump even though she knows better than to worry.

She secures the umbilical cables to the arm and pulls back to take a look at him, both arms supporting his shoulders. The head lolls, eyes still open a little yet unseeing. Something whispers that's not right, so she guides his eyelids closed for him.

...Iterators can't sleep. But the useless piece of Euros looks like he does and suddenly she can't help but feel like this is the most important thing in existence.

The something in her shifts, the something that is yearning, loving, that wants to take care of another and keep him safe from the sharp world outside.

Sparrows caves. Gathers the puppet into her arms, rests his head against her shoulder. The chamber lowly, but sharply whirrs. He's probably annoyed that she has decided to be all cuddly and sweet now when he can't be fully present for it. What little consciousness he can still muster in the puppet presents itself in the tiniest nuzzle of his face into her neck.

Such a small gesture, yet it steals her breath away. She hugs him... it.. closer, cheek presses against his forehead, a hand moves to caress the side of his face.

She marvels at the feeling of holding him. Questions why she is left stumped by an almost empty thing.

He's sleeping, face buried against her neck, says the something- he is awake, just a little drowsy, staring at her with seven eyes across the room, replies reason.

She cradles him in her lap… he's so thin and light, the feeling begs her to keep him safe until he wakes up again, he wouldn't be able to defend himself against a predator-! He holds her in his center, so small and insignificant compared to his mind breaking vastness.. her life span so minute compared to what he is yet to live through. Someone of his caliber wouldn't find a challenge in simply deleting her like a line of code.

'The only thing keeping me truly safe are the taboos woven in their genes,' says the cynical piece of mind, jaded by decades of unkind life and all tired, entertaining the absolute worst of scenarios for the sake of a warning. 'I couldn't be in a safer place than here, at his mercy, in this artificial world where he might as well be a true god,' says the lovesick heart backed up by years of experience, making her arms tighten in a hug.

She caresses his arm, taking a note of the bit too dry skin, created similarly enough to her own to bring comfort of familiarity, only to be snatched away again when there's no softness of flesh beneath.

'That's just a Generation 2 thing,' the knowledgeable mind shrugs it off.

And the more primal worrywart of a heart panics about it as it applies organic understanding of things to it. Remembering the few times Sparrows was allowed to touch Boreas' puppet, the many times Zephyr pulled her against her side for the night. Those are his family members! They are padded with something pliable-

Cushioning of Generation 1 to combat possible gravity generator outages. There's more certainty in the Iterator engineering now, Euros has no need for those. He's better off than either of them. He's safer and, terrifyingly, many times more loved than them.

She sighs, concerned and-

"Sparrows?"

Ah, that seems to be the limit for how long Euros is willing to take the actionless silence. The voice is relatively quiet considering it always echoes through the little room from the speakers seated in the corners of the ceiling. It's kind of sluggish. Not entirely out of the concentration of debugging. The Overseers have come closer.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"Sure you were. Your face went on quite the journey there. Why were you frowning so much?"

She considers. "...dissension of... wants and reality, I guess."

"Well then don't go doing that when I can't feasibly help out. Same with the cuddles I want in on that."

Three Sparrows only rolls her eyes in amusement at that and goes back to work, this time with the Overseers watching her a bit more intently. It's a little uncomfortable, but she can't blame him for worrying when she does so constantly.

Later that day, when the sun hides away, her gaze lingers in random places.

In the kitchen at the table with one chair, one plate and one cup of tea. She stares at the too much space on the couch in the little living room, one toothbrush waiting at the sink, the empty place beside her in the bed.

Perhaps an Iterator puppet isn't the only empty thing in her life.

[diabolus1exmachina]

Lamborghini Urraco P300

Despite having been conceptualised as the model to dramatically increase sales and bring Lamborghini greater financial stability, the Urraco P250 proved a commercial flop. Production started in late 1972 following major equipment and floorspace investment. However, by late 1974, less than 500 had been delivered. The Urraco should have gone into production two years earlier than it eventually did. Lamborghini had originally conceived the model with a view to selling over 1000 examples every year.

The disappointing reality left Lamborghini deep in the red, but the Urraco was only partly responsible for a difficult few years.

Compounding the firm’s troubles had been delays for the Countach, a worldwide recession, problems at Lamborghini Trattori and unionised labour, all of which contrived to take their toll on the company founder. In 1972, Ferruccio Lamborghini had sold his tractor company along with 51% of his motor car business. He cashed out of the final 49% in 1974 when the world was in the midst of an energy crisis that slashed demand for gas guzzling machinery.

Throughout this tumultuous period, development work continued on the Urraco. It mainly focused on the Paolo Stanzani-designed V8 engine that had been created especially for the new model at considerable expense. In November 1974, an uprated Urraco P300 was launched at the Turin Motor Show. It immediately went into production alongside the Countach LP400, Espada Series 3 and Jarama S.

Most significantly, the Urraco P300 came with an enlarged three-litre engine. Equally importantly, the power unit now incorporated dual instead of single overhead camshafts.

To take capacity up to three-litres, Paolo Stanzani’s all-alloy 90° V8 was stroked from 53mm to 64.5mm. Bore went unchanged at 86mm for an overall displacement of 2997cc (an increase of 534cc). Compression was dropped from 10.5:1 to 10.0:1. Four new Weber 40 DCNF twin-choke downdraught carburettors were installed to replace the old 40 IDF 1s used previously.

The consequence of these improvements was a dramatic jump in output. Peak power was up 40bhp to 260bhp at an otherwise unchanged 7500rpm. The torque rating also rose considerably; 195lb-ft was now on tap at 3500rpm compared to 166lb-ft at 5750rpm for the P250.

As before, ignition was via two Marelli coils and a single Marelli distributor.

Lamborghini’s five-speed manual gearbox was beefed up to cope with the increased power and torque. Transmission was via a single dry-plate clutch and Lamborghini differential. New damper settings improved the ride, but otherwise little was changed to the existing platform The P300 was based on the same steel monocoque body shell as its predecessor. The engine was housed transversely like the Miura.

Suspension was independent all-round with MacPherson struts, coil springs and telescopic shocks. Anti-roll bars were fitted at either end The twin circuit brake system incorporated unchanged 278mm ventilated Girling discs. Campagnolo’s handsome five-bolt cast magnesium wheels were retained. They measured 7.5 x 14-inches and originally came shod with Michelin XWX tyres.

An 80-litre fuel tank was fitted in the engine bay.

Visually, the only change made to the P300 Urraco was a switch from a two-bank to six-bank radiator cooling vent on the front lid. The rest of Marcello Gandini’s soft wedge creation was unaltered.In a decade not exactly renowned for design longevity, the Urraco proved somewhat timeless. Compared to Bertone’s other mid-engined 2+2, the Ferrari Dino 308 GT4, the baby Lamborghini aged very well, even though it was ultimately outsold by the Maranello product by five to one.Build quality was considerably improved over earlier examples and nowhere was this more apparent than in the cockpit.Bertone had originally been responsible for furnishing the bodyshells, but by the time the P300 was on stream, this work had been taken in-house.

Lamborghini used better quality materials and ensured a higher standard of fit and finish.To this end, P300s were generally equipped with full leather interiors instead of the often garish two-tone leather and fabric combinations seen earlier.

The full width dash layout was still just as haphazard though. The rev counter and speedometer were located at either end of the instrument binnacle and angled in towards the driver. Supplementary gauges and various rocker switches were housed in between.

Lamborghini’s unusual deep dish steering wheel with its four arced horizontal spokes and leather rim was also retained. Like the P250 (which remained in production for a few months longer to use up an overstock of parts), the only update was the gradual shift to anodised black bumpers, wipers and window frames. A more conventional three-spoke steering wheel was also introduced towards the end of production.

[90s-shitbox]

AE101 TRD 2000

In October 1994, Toyota Racing Development (TRD) introduced the AE101 TRD 2000, a highly exclusive version of the Corolla GT sedan designed specifically for the Japanese market. This model was meticulously engineered to emulate the performance specifications of the 1994 Corolla JTCC race car. Under the hood, the TRD 2000 featured a naturally-aspirated 2.0-liter 3S-GE engine, delivering 180 PS (132 kW), coupled with a new 5-speed S54 manual gearbox. To enhance its performance, TRD equipped the car with a heavy-duty clutch, a mechanical limited-slip differential (LSD), and a quick shifter, ensuring precise and responsive gear changes.

The TRD 2000's handling was significantly improved with a new suspension system that lowered the ride height by 20 mm, alongside 15-inch TRD Type-FT wheels shod with Yokohama Grand Prix M5 tires. The braking system was upgraded with TRD brakes, providing superior stopping power. A stainless steel dual exhaust system not only improved performance but also added a distinctive sound. The car's exterior featured a subtle trunk spoiler and was available exclusively in white, giving it a clean and sporty appearance.

Inside, the TRD 2000 was fitted with König Prinz P200 bucket seats and a TRD steering wheel, creating a driver-focused cockpit. Despite its impressive features and race-inspired design, the TRD 2000 was a rare sight on the roads. Originally, 99 units were planned for production, but only 10 were sold due to the high price tag, which was even higher than the cost of the Celica GT-Four ST205. This limited availability and unique blend of performance and refinement make the TRD 2000 a coveted piece of Toyota's automotive history.

[strawberryona]

so last night my beautiful puppywife helped me find guns for perv quartet <3

notes about how each character uses guns:

roan's pistol is extremely efficient, as silent as possible, and easily concealed. no-nonsense and tactical. his gun is my favorite one of the group's. according to my puppy, it's so quiet that the loudest part of it is the slide moving, and there's a switch to make it not move during firing (with the downside of needing to do it manually to shoot again)

vesper's gun is pretty and physically appealing. she would carry it on a garter. as usual, she's much more focused on looks and style than roan is, but still subtle and deadly.

bryn's gun is the biggest handgun possible. loud and flashy. waves it around bragging and posturing.

seren's rifle gets the job done with no frills. they barely use guns, except maybe to put down an animal that's not fun anymore. every time they shoot, they clutch their weapon way too tight and have a scary thousand-yard stare.

[incompleteth0ts]

When it's time to step up

Free day for Hadercy week

@hadesxpercy-events

Hades/Pluto are only mentioned a bunch. This is mostly focused on Percy's relationship with Nico and Hazel now that he's their "step dad"

Percy has never envisioned himself as a parent.

That's what he told Hazel a year after meeting him.

Percy grew up in a hell pit of a household. Trapped with an alcoholic for a stepfather and only being loved by a mother who worked early mornings and late nights to keep the lights on and food in the fridge.

‘I could never see myself having a child. I don’t think I’d know how to love it.’

Hazel wonders if Percy still feels the same way.

Percy has been dating her father for over six months. Six glorious months of Percy being weak in the knees, sweaty-palmed, anxiously in love with Pluto, God of the dead and wealth.

It was… strange at first. Hazel would be the first to admit it. She was angry, not at Percy- never at him, Percy who was kinder than any spirit, brighter than any bolt of lightning, and smarter than a crack of a whip, she was furious with her no good, manipulative father.

Percy was a good boy.

Hazel feared there was no other way to phrase it.

Percy was a good man.

Percy was a loving man.

Percy was folded over a tiny aerial font manual and elbows deep in hair dye.

“Percy you’re supposed to wash the bleach then add the color.”

“But it’s telling me to add the hair dye to the bowl. Do I mix it with the bleach or do I clean it out first?”

Nico rubbed his hands down his face like a defeated fly. They’ve been trying to dye her hair for the past three hours and have only reached the bleaching stage.

“We should have brought Frank, between the three of us he’d be the only one equipped to read the manual.”

“Not through his tears.” Hazel corrected. With all the yelling Nico was doing Frank wouldn't last an hour.

Nico snatched the instructions from Percy's hands flipping to the next page.

“If we add the dye to the bleach then we would just have to wash all the bleach out a second time.”

“But we need to wash the color out anyways, so what’s the point of getting a new bowl?”

Hazel watched as Percy and Nico passed the manual back and forth. They were over the correct way to handle Hazel’s hair.

Hazel felt a warmth blossom in her chest. These were her boys. Hazel could count on one hand how many people would be willing to put up with her lack of present-day knowledge. Picking up the handheld mirror she’d been using to watch Percy straighten and bleach her hair, she smiled at her reflection. She looked like a showgirl in the rain.

“Guys my head is starting to tingle.”

The arguing had quickly turned silent. Hazel watched through the mirror as Percy rushed to Hazel's side clutching the gallon bottle of water and Pantene shampoo they’d been using to wash her hair.

“Hazel why didn’t you say anything!”

“Look what you did, dingbat, all her hair will fall out!”

“Wait? What!”

Hazel dropped the mirror and grabbed onto Percy’s shoulders. “You told me my hair wasn’t going to fall out!”

Percy threw the empty jug at Nico’s head, glaring at him over Hazel’s shoulders.

“Shut up Nico! Hazel, your hair is not going to fall out. Nico is just worried.”

“We need to get her to a shower, Percy, your dollar store water bottle isn’t going to do it.”

Nico put his hands under Hazel’s armpits and lifted her to her feet. Over the years Nico has gotten taller and stronger. He looked even more like their father now- long hair caught in a braid and silver jewelry that complimented his features.

His skin was a healthy olive sheen, no longer making him a pathetic white boy.

She supposes Nico wasn’t the only one to change over the years.

Percy began to gather their late-night mess as Nico began to carry Hazel to the shower.

The on-suite bathroom was cliche beached themed. Ocean wave shower curtains, ceramic turtles, sea-scented incense, the whole nine yards. And all of it screamed Percy.

Nico sat Hazel down on the toilet bowl seat while he twisted and poked at the shower nozzle.

“I told Percy that it would just be easier to use the shower, but no, ‘Mother knows best’, and who am I to argue.”

Hazel tugged her shirt off and tossed it at the door to close it more followed by her jean shorts.

“Percy is so challenging-”

“Are you upset that he’s dating dad?”

Hazel tapped her toes on the linoleum floors of the bathroom.

In front of her, Nico sighed and ran a hand through his hair. She knew it was a question that’s been plaguing him too.

Percy was good. Like she said, he was also…forgiving at the worst times.

Pluto and Hades weren’t the same people but were equally rough around the edges.

Hazel couldn’t stomach the thought of her father being the one to break Percy’s fragile heart to dust.

“I’m upset that Dad is openly cheating on his wife. And I’m upset because I know Percy feels he doesn’t have a choice.”

Nico anxiously tapped his foot and looked at the closed door as if he could see Percy through it.

“Get in the shower, Hazel. Now isn’t the time to talk about this.”

Hazel watched as her shower water turned cloudy from the leftover bleach and hummed an ‘old’ song under her breath. It was awful to think that all her favorite songs were now considered oldies and classics.

Once her scalp no longer felt hot Hazel turned the shower off and stretched. Her arms had gotten tired from keeping them elevated.

Folded on the sink counter was one of Percy's old ‘AHS’ swim shirts and a pair of Dory pajama pants. Hazel ignored the water rolling down her back, knowing that Percy would handle it for her.

Back in the bedroom Percy and Nico had changed into their pajamas, shifting through the bottles of hair dye Nico had brought from the beauty salon.

“I was thinking we could do pink or blue, those colors would compliment her well don’t you think?”

“Yeah, like a pastel pink or a dark blue. What do you think, sis?”

Hazel yawned and fell by Percy’s feet like an old dog.

“I think it’s time for a nap. I’m pooped.”

Percy scratched the back of Hazel’s nape. Drying her off better than any towel could.

“I agree. I’m getting tired too, all this tiny print has killed my neurons.”

Nico looked disappointed to not be given to dye Hazel's hair and assortment of colors but didn’t argue.

“Fine. We can pick this up again tomorrow. Where’d you put your bonnet Haz?”

“I left it in my bag! Come on Percy, let's hog the bed before Nico gets back.”

Hazel jumped on the bed, bouncing the pillows off the sides. Percy hopped on with equal enthusiasm sending the remaining pillows and Hazel to the floor.

“What are you two doing?”

“Getting ready for bed, help pick those up.”

Hazel scooped an armful of pillows off the ground trading them for her leopard print bonnet. Pulling the blankets back Hazel curled into Percy’s arms sinking into his scent of ocean air and chocolate chips. On the other side of the bed, Nico curled up in a matching position, reaching over Percy’s torso to hold Hazel’s hands.

“Thank you for doing this with me you guys. I’m having so much fun.”

“Of course Hazel, you deserve a break after breaking your back all month.”

Percy squeezed Hazel's side and sank further into the sheets.

“Yeah, Hazel. You needed a break, I’m happy we were a part of it.”

Nico leaned over Percy to kiss Hazel’s silk-covered forehead.

“Goodnight, Haz. Night Percy.”

When Hazel looked up she was unsurprised to see that the Son of Poseidon had already been lost to Hypnos’ spell.

“Goodnight, Frère. Goodnight, Maman.”

[satohqbanana]

Hii!! Home Alone + Magnolia + Titanic + Fight Club!!!

Thanks for the asks! FYI these are from the Writeblr Summerfest event.

Home Alone: What is the funniest thing that happens in your story?

This is the funniest part of Part 1, which is arguably my favorite part of Part 1. I've shared it before, but I'll share it again, because I like it.

The last location was a room on coordinates (2,1). While Gracie focused more on the colors (orange on the left, red on the right), Desmond had the spheres as numbers in his head. Ireus protested both conventions due to having read the spheres' name off the manual beforehand and using "positions" to term the slots on the warper (disphere on position one, monosphere on position two). "That's not efficient," declared Desmond, "So I don't care." "But it's correct," Ireus argued, "So it's the superior naming system." "Being superior doesn't mean it must be followed." "Ever the rebellious one, I see."

Titanic: Share a fact about the romance in your story.

It's not a focus or a big part of the Magia storyline, but I like to hint it quite a lot as something you could anticipate as canon in the future of the characters (and subsequently a part of Magia's sequel story). I'm very well aware of one side's apparent crush on the other - it is within intention, after all, and it manifests in the difference in their actions around other characters VS around the other person - but the other party's actions are also starting to tell me that they probably started developing feelings early on as well.

Fight Club: Is there a twist from your story you can share with us? If not, talk about what you hope your twist will accomplish for the readers.

Quite a few twists in fact, but here's all the stuff summed up.

The first one involves communication. They could communicate things well all along. It could've made things more efficient, had certain feelings had not been in the way.

The second one involves me wanting to tell the readers that, yeah, this is a fantasy world, but it doesn't mean it can't have advanced technology in it.

The third one is something that's more important to the second story in the series, Liberatio, as it won't make sense right now even if I reveal it. After all, an idea that is shocking, when placed out of proper context, would lose its essence.

Magnolia: Talk about one of your favorite side-characters.

I don't really consider anyone a "side character" in Magia, as I love all of the characters who don't get as much focus as the three mages:

Jewel plays a small role in the story, but I like that it's evident from her worries that she has other tasks to think of, as a Head Spellcaster. It isn't that she can't help because it's a story for teens; it's that she can't help because she's preoccupied by other adult stuff, and that's very realistic. Even so, she comes in clutch towards the end.

I admit I write Charles as a pet companion first and foremost, but her presence comes in handy for the teens, who, in their teenhood, just wants someone to listen to them. I like to think she too is looking for a role of her own to accomplish as a young cinder rat who has just become able to work for the Academy.

The Help Ewe is dear to me mostly as a concept and an integral part of the Arcanium universe. She looks innocent and I believe she truly cares about those around her, but there's just something sinister to her words.

[emmg]

Serious Writing Can Go Eat Ass: A Memoir

As someone who professionally churns out words for the academic circle jerk—a place where people basically worship the Chicago Manual of Style—it feels like there's this massive disdain, or maybe more like unfiltered contempt, for anything resembling fun in writing. Want to spice up an article with some personality? Throw in a funny quote? Craft a clever phrase that might break the mind-numbing monotony? Well, too bad. It will be swiftly dismissed and frowned upon by "peers" who clutch their red pens like they’re about to perform a literary exorcism.

This disdain doesn’t just stop at academic writing either. Oh no, it follows you into your creative life, like a clingy ex, making you feel guilty for producing anything outside the suffocating realm of “serious” content. You want to write something a little frivolous? Maybe funny? Maybe smutty? Maybe just angsty trash? Well, you better remember that it's not "serious" writing, and thus, has no worth. Or maybe you’ll hear that professor's voice in your head, the one who scrawled passive-aggressive margin notes admonishing you for taking a single, harmless stylistic risk. And just like that, it becomes second nature to hate or feel embarrassed by whatever you produce for fun.

Don’t get me wrong, I love academia. I’ve worked as a model since my early teens, which means I’ve spent most of my life living in a constant state of disconnection—always moving, always on the outside looking in. So, I turned inward, and I read. And read. And read some more. I learned and absorbed everything I could. When I finally made it to university and discovered this obsessive, laser-focused intellectual pursuit—complete with professors who actually encouraged my hyperfixation—it was like stepping into nerd heaven. The research, the archives, the thrill of translating that one obscure quote, the victory of pestering some librarian across the country for months and finally getting access to those oral histories—it’s exhilarating. I’m addicted.

But man, does this “serious” environment suck the joy out of anything that isn’t deemed important or intellectual. It’s fantastic at making you feel ashamed for enjoying "lesser" forms of creativity.

In this essay I will—no, but seriously, let me just give you my Ted Talk on how traditional writing conventions can absolutely, 100% eat ass. Maybe quite literally. They drain all the enjoyment out of writing. I love writing, but I hate looking at what I produce because of it.

On the flip side, I absolutely love the time we’re living in. Thank God for AO3. I adore fanfiction. I love that there’s no joy-sucking overlord policing my words when I get lost in a fandom and write purely for the fun of it. That’s true freedom.

This is exactly why I'm so hardcore about the whole comments/kudos culture. I will absolutely drown anyone who graciously shares their work with the world in praise. Why? Because I freaking love what they create, and I refuse to let anyone feel the way I do—like their creativity doesn’t matter. So yes, thank you, bless you, saint you, for sharing your fanfiction. I will devour every word, and then I’ll devour you, dear author, in an avalanche of gratitude. Keep writing, or I swear, I'll find you and flood your inbox with even more love.

I really wish my professional life hadn’t done such an impressive job of absolutely wrecking my self-esteem when it comes to personal writing. I don’t even give a second glance at what I toss out into the world anymore. Just yeet it into the depths of AO3 and forget it ever existed. Notifications? Turned off. Comments? Oh, I’m far too mortified to respond—though I make a half-hearted attempt sometimes. It’s that weird feeling of being undeserving, or embarrassed, or something equally stupid.

I don’t even know if I’m alone in this feeling. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. It’s just a random slice of my thoughts. I’m 28, I shouldn’t feel like I have to hate my creative side for not being “serious.” I’m too young to be this bitter about what I create. Not that there’s an age limit on this kind of existential dread. Anyway, thanks for coming to my impromptu mental breakdown. Peace.

[just-a-bored-writer]

Between The Pages, I Found Your Heart | Crowley X Human Reader, Part 3

Gift for @orangegaytorade

You had devoted your studies, and honestly to this extent, your life, to the study of Judeo-Christian lore. You were one of the best in your field, a dedication of hours of work, blood and tears. And if your thesis advisor hadn't noticed, others had. Beings far older, far more powerful, whose existence you had studied but never believed were real. Oh but they were very real, and the King of Hell, in his war against Heaven and the Winchesters, would have great use for your knowledge. Knowledge was power after all and among mortals, you were the most powerful.

Fandom: Supernatural

Relationships: Crowley/Reader

Characters: Human Reader, Crowley, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester

Additional Tags: Reader-insert, Crowley-centric, Beauty and the Beast Retelling, Meet-Cute, (kidding Crowley kidnap the reader. there is nothing cute about it. don't try this in real life), Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Bickering as Flirting, Domestic Fluff, Late Night Conversations, Slow Burn, No Smut

Warnings: Canon-Typical Violence, Kidnapping, Mentions of Torture, Blood and Injuries, Blood Sharing

Set during Season 8 and 9.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2, Chapter 4

Chapter 3: Red Wine Spilling On The Floor

Crowley had taken you back to your room after your negotiation, showing you around the house on the way. When he wasn't threatening you, Crowley could be a gracious host. You were surprised to see works of art as you passed, it was as if the corridors came to life at Crowley's touch. However, you were still a little skeptical about "the real Monalisa where she’s topless".

After that, Crowley had left you alone, not only for the rest of the day but for almost a week. His absence was almost as threatening as his presence, but after a few days, you finally let yourself breathe. There were demons in the house but none of them spoke to you. They watched you silently, hidden in the shadows. You had no doubt that they were reporting your every move to Crowley so you made sure to appear as innocent and docile as possible.

You spent your days in the library, researching diligently as Crowley had instructed, only taking breaks to eat and sleep. You cooked for yourself, not trusting demons to come near your food. Plus, you enjoyed regular manual labor, it kept you thinking while keeping your hands busy. Most of the time, the music you were listening to at full volume, like a small rebellion against your jailers, was just background noise as you were so focused on your thoughts.

Despite what you tried to make Crowley and his minions believe, you didn't spend your days trying to locate the Word of God. Instead, you learned about demons, their abilities, and more importantly, their weaknesses. You had spent your life studying them and yet you knew nothing about them, it was as if a new world had opened up to you. Still, your studies and knowledge were useful to you in quickly classifying what was useful and true. You had no time to waste on false theories.

One of your finds had caught your eye in particular, holy water. It wouldn't be hard for you to make some and keeping a bottle of water on you for defense wouldn't draw attention. Humans needed to drink water to survive and Crowley had told you to make yourself comfortable here. So you tore a bar from your stupidly large and opulent four-poster bed and, with a knife you had stolen from the kitchen, you carved it into a cross.

After that, you didn't go anywhere without your plastic water bottle, clutching it like your life depended on it – because it very well might. You also kept the cross on you just in case, hidden under the clothes Crowley had gotten you. It wasn't really your usual style, classier than what you were used to wearing but you doubted that Crowley would go and ask your family for a suitcase of clothes. And it was better like that, you preferred that Crowley stay as far away from them as possible.

Your family was very important to you, your little sister in particular was the light of your life. You missed her terribly, but knowing she was safe would have to suffice for the time being. You didn't know if they had already noticed your disappearance, it was common for you not to answer for long weeks when you were too captivated by your research. At the very least, your little sister must have been intrigued by the lack of stupid videos that you sent her daily.

But that day, something changed in your routine. You didn't encounter any demons when you came back from the library, and when you went back to your room to take a shower before dinner, you found a midnight blue suit on your bed. A post-it note was placed on it, "Meet me for dinner at 8 p.m. C."

You briefly considered burning the note and the suit, fantasizing about the fire spreading throughout the house, burning it to the ground with all its inhabitants. But you could never in good conscience burn down the jewel that was the library, you would have other opportunities to burn buildings, preferably when you weren't inside with no idea how to escape.

Because despite all your research, the house still remained a mystery to you. The hallways shifted, doors appeared and disappeared and the water in the shower was always the perfect temperature. Sometimes you wondered if the house was sentient. After learning that demons were real, it wouldn't surprise you.

Looking at your watch, you notice that you still had half an hour before you had to meet Crowley, just enough time to take a shower. One thing Crowley had gotten right was the water pressure. And since you weren't paying the water bill, your showers had doubled in time since you arrived. That's why when you went to the dining room, your hair was still damp, droplets of water running down the back of your neck to the exposed skin of your chest.

Crowley was already waiting for you when you arrived, looking as much like the handsome devil he always was. The candle lightning due to the lack of natural light was proving to be a bigger problem than you had previously thought. Crowley glowed amidst the play of light and shadow on his face, the glint of fire in his eyes an open temptation.

But you seemed to have as much of an effect on Crowley as he had on you. He caught a breath at your arrival, his eyes roaming over your body hungrily, focusing on the lack of a shirt beneath your suit jacket.

“My eyes are up here,” you said imperially, commanding Crowley’s eyes on you. It was a mistake, the intensity of Crowley's eyes in yours was almost frightening.

“Please take a seat,” Crowley invited you, not taking his eyes off you. Not until you complied, he continued. “I heard you're acclimating well. I'm glad to hear that. Have you made any progress in your research?”

“Not yet,” you answered, willing your racing heart to calm down. Lying to a dangerous demon, the King of Hell who lied as he breathed, wasn't on your yearly bingo card, but here you were. “The amount of knowledge here is immense to take in. I'm afraid it will take me a while”

As you were talking, a nameless demon entered the room, placing a plate covered with a silver bell in front of both of you. You raised a skeptic eyebrow at Crowley, your eyes a silent interrogation.

“I’m not going to poison you, darling. Not when you’re still of use to me,”Crowley said playfully, not waiting for you to start eating.

“I am delighted to hear it,” you answered dryly, bringing a forkful of vegetables to your mouth nonetheless.. “What an hon–”

The rest of your retort died on your tongue next to the deliciousness that was the dish before you. The flavors melted on your taste buds heavenly, how ironic it was to find a piece of Paradise in the company of the King of Hell.

“Is it to your taste?” Crowley mocked, amused by your reaction.

“Did you kidnap a star chef or something?” you asked.

“I didn't even need to, all the most talented souls belong to me. How do you think they got their popularity?” Crowley answered, with an index finger pointing towards himself. “Even you, my dear. Say the world and I could make your memory immortal, your name would be known and respected by all.”

“Nice try,” you retorted. “But you know it’ll never work. My soul is worth more than anything you could potentially offer me.”

“I have all the time in the world to convince you, I won't admit defeat so easily,” Crowley said, shrugging.

Those few words made your blood run cold in your veins. No matter how charming Crowley could be, he was still a demon. A beast in a three-piece suit. He could keep you imprisoned for the rest of your life if he so desired. To get out of here alive, you could only count on yourself.

The cross in your pants pocket suddenly felt heavy, burning against your thigh. You didn't know how to get out of the house yet, but you remembered the secret passage you had found the first day before Crowley had created a permanent door in your room. Maybe there were others hidden in the house. It was definitely worth a try.

“You can always try,” you replied, matching his playful tone. “But in the meantime, I will ask you to excuse me, I need to go to the bathroom.”

Without waiting for Crowley's answer, you left the room. But instead of heading to the bathroom, you turned right to enter the kitchen. There, you grabbed one of the bottles of red wine that was waiting to be served. You had no idea if blessed wine would have the same effect but it would be easier for you to make Crowley drink it. The words of the blessing were etched into your mind, one of the only ways you could defend yourself here, and you wasted no time in reciting them. Good thing you did because just as you finished, a demon came into the room.

“What are you doing here?” they asked suspiciously.

“Crowley asked me to grab another bottle of wine,” you replied, lifting the bottle to show it to the demon. “If there was nothing else, I’ll be on my way.”

You rushed back to the dining room as quickly as possible, not wanting to give Crowley a reason to be suspicious of your long absence.

“I grabbed this on the way back, I hope you don't mind,” you said as you entered, showing the bottle to Crowley.

“Romanée-Conti, you have expensive tastes,” Crowley noticed, seeming nonetheless appreciative.

“You told me to make myself comfortable,” you shrugged, handing the bottle to Crowley.

“I'm nothing if not a thoughtful host,” Crowley conceded graciously.

Crowley uncorked the bottle and poured the wine into two crystal glasses, the crimson red liquid swirling in the candlelight. Crowley handed you a glass, your fingers brushed, the coldness emanating from Crowley making you shiver.

“Let's make a toast to our collaboration,” Crowley suggested.

“To us,” you replied charmingly, clicking your glass against Crowley’s.

You raised the glass to your lips, waiting eagerly to see if Crowley reacted to the blessed wine. The reaction was immediate, Crowley dropped his glass which fell to the ground with a crash, wine spilling onto the hardwood floor. He held his throat in pain, the wine burning him alive from the inside. You didn't waste any time, throwing your own glass in his face and running away.

The place that immediately came to mind was the library, Crowley had banned access to the demons who were watching you, not trusting them to know the subject of your research and you had taken advantage of it to engrave a demon trap in front of the only access. This should save you some time, and given the importance Crowley placed on this room, it wouldn't be out of place if there was a passage to the outside. Better concealed than the one in your room of course, but there was no better motivation than desperation.

The heavy library door slammed behind you, shaking the foundations as you rushed towards the heart of the library. The irony of running away from Crowley in a library once again wasn't lost on you and you laughed bitterly. But at your destination, where there was a sacrificial altar you thought you could use to escape, Crowley was already waiting for you. His suit was soaked in wine, but in the darkness all you could see was blood. You tried to turn around but an invisible force stopped you, pulling you inexorably back towards Crowley.

“And here I thought we were making progress. It seems I wasn't clear enough,” Crowley said coldly, forcing you onto your knees at his feet. His voice thundered along the wall of the library, his wrath sinking into your skin. “No one escapes me. I am the King of Hell, the ruler of damned souls! I own you and it’s time you understood it.”

His eyes flashed red and he grabbed your jaw forcing your gaze to the altar as you whimpered in fear. “I could torture you, make you regret even breathing in my presence, until all you know is the pain I inflict on you. Or,”

Crowley snapped his fingers and an illusion of your little sister appeared on the altar, her golden blonde hair bathed in blood. Tears began to flow down your cheeks at the sight.

“I could go visit your family, slit their throats in their sleep and watch them choke on their own blood. I could even make a souvenir video just for you.”

“No, please, no. I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you begged. “I will never do it again, I will do whatever you want.”

“As if you had any other choice,” Crowley said harshly, pulling you by the hair to make you stand up.

Crowley dragged you over to a table and roughly forced you to sit down, iron chains closing around your ankles and a pile of books appearing in front of you.

“I expect results within the week. The consequences if you fail would not benefit you,” Crowley warned. And then he left you alone, the illusion of your dead sister a few meters away from you, her blood slowly flooding the room.

This chapter is probably one of the most violent I've written but I think it was necessary. (Mainly because violence only goes one way, I'm not used to writing that.) Crowley in season 8 was in his full evil mode and I couldn't see him letting an assassination/escape attempt go unpunished. So yeah, sorry about that.

But at the same time, Crowley is badass and a villain. And that's why we like his character. We'll see his softer side in the later chapters.

[dickfics69]

Emotional Motion Sickness | Part 9

PART 1 | PART 2 | PART 3 | PART 4 | PART 5 | PART 6 | PART 7 | PART 8

AO3

Summary: Daryl gets sick before a supply run, and denies it vehemently. He is a big tantrum baby. Rick is constantly worried and drama ensures.

Chapter summary: A lot of shit goes down. A lot of hurt comfort. I made myself cry writing this so you've been warned

Content warning: adult language, sickfic, mess, snot, bodily functions, hurt/comfort, vivid nightmares, adult content, 18+ for eventual smut (still deciding hehe), original character\

Words: 6.7k

My personal Daryl playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2PrdzgwtCiUgwDLLBy5C4g?si=c83773b44c964bb1

TY to @dumbslxtclub for being my editor and hype girl (if you're a fan of eddie munson and stranger things, this girl is writing the most wonderful fic and you should check it out :)

Chapter 9: Chimney falls and lovers blaze

The group fell into an exhaustive silence, happy, in theory, to be leaving behind the hell that they had just endured. But all were reeling with a trauma only viable from living in an apocalypse. Horizontal rain battered the windscreen, and the ancient wipers were struggling to keep up with demand. The storm had made her sodden residence for good. Thankfully their destination for the night, a small and secure cabin, was only about half an hour away. However, Daryl had severely underestimated Peri’s inability to drive a manual vehicle. Her unconvincing “mmm…not really’ was actually code for ‘I have never ever once in my life done this, ever.’ His mind shot to images of richy-rich parents buying their daughter a brand automatic new car and paying for precious med school. But that was a little unfair, he hardly knew the woman. Still, in an apocalypse it was pretty damn important to be able operate any kind of transportation. Daryl never had the luxury of being taught to drive, no one was ever sober enough, and pretty well no one cared. It was something he’d had to figure out shakily for himself. Like most aspects of his life. He was nowhere near a great driver (much preferring the solo rumble of his motorcycle) but he made do. Rick was really the master of the clutch. All the years on the force in the Old Crown VIctoria really solidified his ability. Not that his insight was any help to Peri right now. An icy cold silence swelled from somewhere behind Daryl. He might have thought the Deputy asleep if it weren't for the rage filled daggers being bored into the side of his skull. The Jeep bunny-hopped yet again, and Daryl was reluctantly forced to intervene. 

“Ya gotta rev mbore when ya change gears!”

“What do you think I’m trying to do, Daryl?”

“I’dunndo, but y’ain’t findin’ the friction point fast enough! S’mbakin’ the whole damnd car bounce.”

“Well if you hate it so much, why don’t you fucking drive?”

Daryl shot her a weary glance. ‘You know I can’t.’  He didn’t want to vocalise his complete ineptitude for any focused activity, and prayed she’d get his telepathic message. He hoped that his glassy eyed stare and unspoken thoughts were reason enough to absolve him of driving. Strangely, he was thankful for the unsteady bumping of the vehicle. He knew, without the loud grumblings of the engine, he would’ve fallen into a desperately feverish slumber. 

Daryl felt a surge of relief when Peri returned his gaze with one of understanding. They held eye contact for a split second before her hand drifted from the gearbox to the pocket of her jeans. She struggled against the drizzle-clad dampness of the denim, but eventually pulled out a small blue pot of something. 

“Please don’t bite my head off, but I grabbed this for you.” She held out the small vessel towards him, semi-shaking it so that he would accept the gift from her hands. “Just thought you could use it…”

Daryl grabbed the small pot from her hands, probably a little too aggressively. It was his natural instinct to refuse help from everyone, always. Well, if it was life or death, maybe not. Daryl just had a cold. A small glance down at his hands revealed the object in question to be an almost empty vial of vapour rub. He thought briefly about rejecting the offer, saying he was fine and trying to keep up his miserable facade. However, at this point, denial was a pretty laughable state of mind. Daryl hadn’t caught a glimpse of his own reflection since this morning in the prison bathroom. He looked frightful then and felt a millions times worse now. Safe to say no one was buying the “I ain’t sick” schtick anymore. Not even Daryl. The almost constant urge to sneeze had subsided somewhat since the morning, which he was vaguely thankful for. Although he’d prefer the ticklish outbursts over the wheezing crackle in his chest, the bunged up sinuses and the febrile trembling. Those symptoms were actually starting to worry him. He’d been sick often enough as a child to remember the drowning sensation of infection well. It was only a matter of time before someone forced antibiotics into him, probably Peri, maybe Herschel. Not that he deserved any. He didn’t really deserve anything right now, except maybe Rick Grimes’ wrath. Which was still brewing in its potency. 

Still, Daryl was grateful for the small comfort Peri had given him, and huffed his appreciation back to her with a forced smile. The action felt completely foreign to him and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt genuine contentment. Rick’s disappointment and anger, that house, the murder of that little girl, - all rattled around inside the sick man’s head. Panic was inching its way back in again and Daryl was goddamn tired of it. Tired of feeling brittle and pathetic. Tired of the ceaseless pity. Fuck! He needed a cigarette. He so longed for the slow rumble of nicotine through his system, no matter how angry it made his congested lungs. But he was pretty sure Rick still had his lighter from early, and there was no way in hell he was asking for it right now. Deputy Grimes might actually kill him. Letting out a shuddered sigh, Daryl unscrewed the lid of the menthol flavoured gold and held it up to his chapped nose. He couldn’t smell a goddamn thing, but if the burning in his eyes was any indication, the product definitely had some potency left. 

A sudden jolt of the car sent his already sensitive nose thrusting into the jar of translucent cream. The broken skin of his nostrils made brief contact with the powerful substance and set them alight with an intoxicating burn. Daryl rubbed his face aggressively, trying to rid himself from the sudden pain.

“Yo, Peri, what the fucgk-”

“-Shitting-dick-fucking-fuck-piece-of-shit-fucking-machine!” Peri cast out a rapid line of expletives, and a small pang of panic arose in her eyes.

“Already told’ya, engage the-”

“Yeah, engage the goddamn clutch! That’s what I’ve been fucking doing Daryl!” She shot him a glance that very much said “stop telling me what to do asshole” and then redirected her manic attention towards the dark, wet road. “Something’s wrong with the car, it’s not me this time…Listen…”

Daryl forced himself to silence the sounds of his own misplaced frustration and he listened. And sure as shit there was something wrong with the car. The erratic jumping and sputtering of the engine weren’t the result of crappy driving anymore. Shit. 

“What’s goin’ on?” Rick’s drawl emerged from the back seat. ‘Oh, so now he talks?’

“Endgine’s havin’ a goddamnd meltdown.” Daryl responded, still absentmindedly rubbing at his stinging nostrils. “Pull over.”

Peri did what she was told, a slur of expletives muttered under her breath all the while. She pulled over and further into the undergrowth, aware that camouflage was key to survival no matter where they pulled up and for how long. Daryl let out a weary sigh, knowing full well he had to brace the hideous weather again in order to check the engine. The day turned to night continued to be a bane to the sick man’s existence. He watched as Peri popped the hood internally, doing a small double take when she went to exit the vehicle. 

“Th’hell ya doin’?”

“Looking at the engine? My uncle had a Jeep, I think I might know the issue.”

“Bullshit y’aint, stay ind the car!”

“What? You gonna stop me, Daryl?” She shot him a daring look that might’ve made him laugh if he wasn’t feeling like fresh death. “You’re welcome to keep my company, of course.”

And with that she shut the door and became visible only from the shadows of her hands backlit by the torch in her mouth. Daryl gnawed on the side of his thumb once again, flinching as his teeth made contact with evergrowing raw flesh. What would little miss med-school know about cars? Daryl was the mechanic of the group, not her. The hunter was on the verge of a mental spiral about his efficacy in the found family when he heard a snigger from behind him. He turned and witnessed Rick huffing out an emotionless, snide sort of laughter. 

“Th’fucgk you laughing at?” He spat back. But before he could entertain a response from the other man, Daryl was out in the cold again. Shivering. With his crossbow held weakly at his side. He couldn’t remember the last time he was warm or comfortable, and that just made him feel even more miserable. Pulling leather tight around his torso he joined Peri at the hood of the car, trying to make heads or tails of what she was looking at in the dark. With an obnoxious ‘popping’ sound, she withdrew the torch from her lips and handed it to Daryl. She looked smug and a little too pleased with herself. Daryl hated that.

“Clogged fuel injector.”

“Okgay, so?”

“So?”

“How ya gonnda fix it, smartass?”

“Uh try and clean it out, but it probably needs a whole-”

“-Whole new onde, yeah.” Daryl finished Peri's sentence, somewhat impressed with her knowledge of mechanical issues. “I’ll tinker with it. Jus’ stand watch ‘kay? Dond’t really feel like bein’ blind walker bait righ’ now.” 

Daryl put the flashlight in his mouth and leant further into the open engine. It took a few minutes to adjust his watering eyes to the pipes and metal in front of him. Apart from the rapid beat of rain on the hood above him, it was all but silence between the pair. Just the way he liked it. Daryl found the source of the problem, but the meek torchlight was flickering, and his hands couldn’t quite turn the injector cap. It was too slippery, and his eyes kept blurring in and out of focus.The dizziness reminded him of the last time he had gotten shit-faced with Merle before the world turned to shit. They were sitting outside his brother’s trailer, smoking and drinking cheap gin in a hot Georgian summer. They were having a competition to see who could sink the most pistachio shells into an old can. At least that's what he vaguely remembered doing. But the night was a blur after the first ten or twenty minutes, and clearly Daryl had lost that little game. Daryl shook his head, desperately trying to avoid painful memories of the only family member who had ever shown him an ounce of care. Damn, he missed his brother. He was a jerk, but he missed him. His trail of melancholy was interrupted by a hurried nudge at his side. 

“Daryl, man, we got company…” The hunter turned to match his gaze with Peri’s. Two shadowy figures were hobbling their way towards them, their snarls getting louder with every second. Daryl cursed and reached for his crossbow that lay perched against the wheel of the car. Before he could aim the weapon, the young doctor waved him off.

“I got this.” She supplied, lunging forward in the darkness. Daryl could’ve been anxious about her disappearing into the night but down deep in his soul, he knew the woman could defend herself. She’d proved herself as a worthy fighter in his mind. Some grunts and thuds of bodies followed a while later, and Peri emerged from the immediate forest, a spatter of congealed blood adorning her blades and the corners of her wet coat. Daryl let out a trembling breath he didn’t realise he was holding at the time.

“Y’kay?”

“Yeah, those cunts had it coming…” she responded brashly, wiping her knives on the inside of her damp jacket and ignoring the stymied way Daryl was judging her use of language. “How’s the car looking?”

“Ndeeds a new injector, but I’ll get it goin’ in the mbornin’” He shrugged a shoulder, and then proceeded to close the bonnet with a metallic squeak. “Cabins’not too far from here, s’too dark to try and fix it now…”

Peri nodded and Daryl sniffled back some snot that was threatening to leak out of nose. He was drenched yet again, but that just seemed to be the new normal. He hung his crossbow along the length of his back and rapped on the back door of the car, not bothering to open it.

“Grab yer stuff, we’re goind’ on foot from here.” He yelled through the closed doors, and watched Rick and Carl share a look before they joined him in the rain. The four group members gathered about the trunk of the jeep, picking up what was needed for the night. Pre-packed backpacks and a couple of duffle bags from the house raid hung off their dripping bodies. It was better to take more than necessary, so as to not be caught out. Of course, weapons were pocketed too, with extra ammo. After the events at the cursed red-brick mansion, they all felt like extra caution was paramount. 

Daryl led them through the wet, overgrown forest. He instructed them to keep close as there was scant visibility through the excessive downpour and dense foliage. The hunter actually felt useful for once, being the only one who could successfully navigate their way to respite. Thunder cracked above them like gunshots, making them tense every time the sky echoed its fury. Fortunately, the dissipating booms were keeping the walkers confused and scattered, and away from the four beating hearts traipsing through the woods. Daryl really goddamn hoped it would stay that way. 

After about ten minutes of travel, and silent navigation, Daryl led them all into a small clearing. There was a small but sturdy cabin in the near distance. He raised a hand and they all stopped in an instant. Rick left the tail end of formation and stood flush with his partner at the front. Daryl listened intently for danger, and scanned the area for threats. When he was satisfied he turned to Carl and Peri and began instructing their next moves. 

“We’re gonna stay t’the left side of the tree line. There are bear traps along th’ perimeter, s’watch ya feet.” Daryl was about to move again but Rick caught his bicep in a firm grip.

“Bear traps? That really a necessary addition to the place?”

“You tell mbe.” He quipped. Yanking himself out of Rick’s calloused vice, he sauntered over to one of the traps in the distance, where the shadow of a walker was thrashing in place. Daryl dealt with the rotting being before the others could even blink. His eyebrows hit the roof of his head when he made it back to the group, smirking slightly when Rick hung his head in a sigh. Daryl whistled to garner the group’s attention, then slowly but surely led them toward the safety of the cabin.

Once securely inside, there was a group exhale of alleviation. A reverie of calm swept over the small room, each individual person allowing the idea of safety to enter their bodies for the first time in hours. Daryl ravaged the space, pulling out some oil lamps and lighting them, bringing some visibility in the gelid darkness. He was about to grab some firewood when a small voice stopped him.

“Daryl, this place is great! You really fixed it up all by yourself?” Carl’s puberty ridden voice slipped into the space, a keen child-like admiration adorning his eyes. 

“Hmph, yeh I guess kid…”

Daryl had fixed up the cabin. And a few more to boot. Originally it started out as a selfish project, having a place to stay when he needed alone time to hunt. But as the months rolled on he had started growing nervous when his family started going on longer and longer runs without sufficient safety. As a result he found a few abandoned spaces and did them up, so to speak. Daryl Dixon was not an interior designer by any stretch of the imagination, but he made sure that they were safe, had food to eat and a place to lay down. In the early days of being together with Rick, he’d often freak out and need to get away for a while. Going out on ‘extended hunting trips’ he said. But he really just came to one of his cabins to clear his thought-logged mind. It helped then. And it was a useful resting place for now. Daryl wanted to feel accomplished, he really did, but the guilt and shame rattling around his body were making his throat tight. He needed that cigarette. Now.

“M’goin’ out for a smoke.” He uttered to no one and walked his way over to Rick with a very pretend sense of everything is fine. Daryl nudged the man with his foot, eyeing him as he started to unpack a dry set of clothing. Daryl kept his resolve whilst Rick pinched the bridge of his nose with continued exasperation. The hunter was going to get his lighter back goddamnit! Begrudgingly, Rick stopped what he was doing, reached into his pocket and held out the desired item, glaring up at the sickly man in the process. 

“Really?” He twanged with spite.

“Yeh.” Daryl snatched the lighter from Rick’s hand, and stomped his way over to the door. He knew Rick wasn’t done with him. There was going to be a shit show of contempt and blame and sure as shit Daryl would be at the receiving end of it. But he needed to be alone. Just for five minutes. To wallow in his own specific brand of misery. With nicotine and his own flagrant mind.

“Hey Daryl, where’ya goi-”

Daryl closed the door behind him refusing to entertain another question. Couldn’t everyone just leave him the fuck alone? Christ. They were safe, with dry clothes and food, what more could anyone possibly want from the living picture of torment? It was freezing and wet. And yet Daryl leaned up against the porch railing, inviting the wet sprays of storm onto his already sodden clothing. He fiddled with one of a few cigarettes he had left. He brought it up tremblingly to his mouth, flicking the lighter a careless amount of times. Flame met dart and he held it there, just watching the orange glow spread. His throat was tight, painful, lumpy. Everything was shaking and breathing was arduous. Daryl wasn’t stupid. He knew what a panic attack was. He used to do odd jobs for a Vietnam War vet, what seemed like a million years ago. Adam? Abraham? Aaron? It didn’t really matter anymore what the guy's name was. That was the old world. Adam-Abraham-Aaron would often mistake a young Daryl Dixon for some sort of enemy, try to lash out, realise his mistake and cower in a corner. He’d be gasping for air and crying and shaking uncontrollably. Daryl didn’t get paid enough to deal with that. But he did, becoming all too aware of anxiety symptoms in the process. So yeah, Daryl wasn't an idiot, trying to convince himself he wasn’t about to succumb to a tidal wave of feverish emotions. He was just trying to postpone it with all his might. As he had been striving to all damn day. 

Just as the flame was about to die, Daryl brought the cigarette up to his lips and inhaled as though he wasn’t knocking on death’s doorstep. The nicotine hit his system, a warm glow spreading like a sunrise through his extremities. 

It was so good.

. 

Until it wasn't. 

The coughing fit startled him out of any sort of tobacco related respite. With a hand clamped to the pillar beside him, Daryl was forced into convulsions from his ailing lungs. Vomit, spit, snot, - they all threatened their existence as the sickly man gasped for air. So much for relief. 

—

Rick was tired. Oh so very tired. The sheer number of mishaps and wrongs that plagued the man’s day made the last eight or so hours span into what seemed like weeks. The Deputy stood by the rickety cupboards in the old cabin, firewood clutched to his chest like it had a heartbeat he needed to protect. He was going to start a fire. He was sure he was going to start a fire. But time seemed to move around him without a thought for how he felt on the matter. Carl and Peri had changed clothes and were drying their hair with a singular hand towel. They were laughing about some comic book character, musing about “how wrong Michonne had it. The Punisher was going to destroy Jigsaw.” Or something like that.

Rick wasn’t really listening, he was too busy overthinking. Trying to decide what he was going to do about Daryl. Fuck, Daryl. How did everything become so goddamn strained and complicated? Rick’s heart was breaking for the other man. Sick, embarrassed, angry. Two of the ailments probably directly related to Rick’s unhelpful actions. Images of Daryl's sick face flickered through his memory like an old time-y film. The feverish flush, the sadness, the fragility. Quite frankly, Rick had never seen Daryl like this before. Sure, he had acted like a grouchy wounded animal in the past but there was something far beyond defeat that Rick couldn’t quite put a finger on. Why couldn't that stupid stubborn man just accept some goddamn comfort? And then there was what he did at the house. Fuck Daryl was acting like a completely different person. Anger and frustration swelled from Rick’s gut, a terse grip forming over the kindling in his arms. The Deputy was caught between a rock and hard place. The rock being his heartache, and the hard place being his white hot rage. Leaning into the hotter of the two plights, Rick settled for his valid fury. He could worry about Daryl’s affliction later. He needed to sort out the bullshit.

Hell hath no fury like Rick Grimes.

“Carl. Start a fire.” Rick hissed, tossing the firewood to the ground. Peri was placing a bandage on his son’s forehead. They both looked up at Rick with bewildered expressions. Expressions that Rick felt mildly culpable for. “I’ll uh…i’ll be back.”

He nodded to no one and headed towards the door of the cabin. A muffled, wet coughing fit met Rick’s ears stopping him in his tracks. Rick didn’t love the fact that Daryl smoked at all, but let it slide here and there. The harsh new-world realty was that cigarettes weren’t going to kill him. But the fact that he was smoking now, with a raging chest infection, well. That just pissed Rick off more than we wanted to admit. He waited until Daryl had stopped before joining him on the small porch.

“You shouldn’t be smoking those.” Rick gestured towards the lit cigarette that hung limply between Daryl’s fingers.

“Why don’t-cha take it off-a mbe?”

“Look I know that wasn’t my best move, but you know it’s just makin’ you worse.”

“Mb’fine-”

“Don’t you fucking say it, Daryl!” Rick snapped. He took a step forward and made contact with the weary blue eyes of the hunter. Melancholy and wild indignation stared back. Rick wondered if Daryl would snap back, and engage in the argument. Maybe he’d punch Rick - it’d happened before over much smaller things. 

“Wha’, ya gonna slap mbe again?” 

“Look, I’m sorry if I hurt you, but I did what I had to do.” 

“Hmph.” Daryl tossed the extinguished cigarette to the ground and tucked his hands into his armpits, strongly resisting the urge to shiver.

“What? That’s all you gotta say?”

“Rick, can we just talk about it later?”

“Nah, we’re doin’ this right now.” Rick stopped his senseless pacing and pierced the area around Daryl with his index finger. “What the fuck happened back there?”

“S’nothin’”

“Cut the bullshit, Daryl! You were half passed out on that wall! A few more seconds and you’da been gone to the damn walkers.”

“Didn’t need no help, I had it.” Daryl returned his gaze to the ground in front of him and Rick rolled his eyes with an icy scoff.

“Bullshit! You could barely stand, and you think you had it? What about when I told you t’go, and you completely ignored me? Y’almost got yourself and me killed! Because of what? A cold you were too goddamn pigheaded to admit to? Was it really worth risking everyone’s lives for the sake of your pathetic pride?”

“It ain’t…It ain’t like that Rick.”

“Tell me then. What’s it like?” Rick waited, hearing only the sounds of wind and rain whipping around them. He watched Daryl biting at the inside of his thumb, and hoped somehow he could read the soft-hearted redneck’s mind. The hunter was normally fluent in silent communication but Rick couldn’t understand a word. “Well?”

“Didn’t want-cha to worry ‘bout it.”

“Didn’t want me to worry?” Rick emitted a sort of high pitched manic laughter that seemed to surprised them both. “Hell, Daryl! That’s the only thing I’ve been doing all goddamn day! I tried to convince myself you’d be fine because you’re my right-hand man and I needed you. But I should-da put my foot down this mornin’, let Glenn come instead. You clearly weren’t up for it, but hey, maybe that's my fault ”

Rick watched his words topple around in Daryl’s head. He was so drawn in on himself now that Rick could barely see his face behind the damp shaggy bangs. He was shaking, and the Deputy could hear the distinct sound of teeth chattering together. He didn’t know what kind of response would follow. If there was a response at all. Daryl sniffled and opened his mouth to speak. 

“Ya don’t trust me anymore.” It wasn't a question or a statement. Just words brokenly whispered out as nothingness, being carried away by torrid winds.

“I do…I will, I just…” Rick didn’t really know how to respond. Did he still trust Daryl? Rick needed the man like he needed air, and the hunter had saved him more times in the last two years than he wanted to admit. But things just weren’t right. A chainsaw couldn’t cut the tension that hung between the pair.

Rick leaned against the sliding of the cabin so he was opposite Daryl. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ward off a tension headache that was brewing. “I took a chance today, letting Carl come on the run. I spent so long tryin’ to get him to do normal stuff and just be a kid again. But he’s a man now, and I wanted to give him the opportunity to be one. I was meant to be worried about him, Daryl, not you. Christ! He saved your damn life out in those woods! He’s my son, I can’t…That can’t happen again, okay?”

Daryl flicked some hair from his eyes and nodded his head weakly, seemingly cognizant of the mistakes that he had made. A neutral quiet befell them, while the horrid weather continued her blistering monologue into the night. Rick felt somewhat relieved to get some bubbling frustrations off his chest, but there was still something sour lingering. Like there was a war raging in his partner's head that no amount of allyship could end. Rick was sick of being shut out, so he had to try. 

“I don’t know what’s going on in your head, but this ain’t you Daryl. Just tell me what’s going on, please.”

“Ya wouldn’t get it.”

“Then make me.” Rick almost pleaded. He leant forward slightly, hoping to make contact with Daryl’s icy blue eyes. Yet they remained distant, the very indication that there was to be no follow up to Rick’s desperation. The Deputy intimately knew the mistake he was making, cornering Daryl, basically begging him to talk. But it had been like this for weeks, and Rick didn’t know what to do anymore. He needed Daryl to open up. And if he couldn’t do it with the man who loved him, the man who pounded his prostate every other night, who would he talk to? Probably Carol. Man, Rick wished he could garner advice from that woman right now. Was this how Lori felt everytime she pressed him to open up? Woof, Rick, don’t open that door. 

Instead, Rick sighed ruefully and pressed forward with fruitless interrogation.

“Were you going to tell me you were seein’ Merle again?”

“Ain’t a big deal.” Daryl said with a congested sniffle. The hunter clearly had no qualms with quipping back, as long as it suited him.

“Of course it is, Daryl!” The Deputy exasperatedly ran a hand through his damp curls. “You should’a told me.”

“You didn’t tell nobody about Lori.”

“That’s different.”

“It fucking ain’t.” Daryl looked up now, piercing blue eyes illuminating from behind sickly shadows and hickory hair. Rick sighed silently, fervently trying to keep his temper at a low simmer. The way Daryl had spat out his late wife’s name had sent a chill deep into The Deputy’s core. Not because his lover was jealous. Not because he felt guilty for falling in love again. But because Daryl was right. Rick had waited far too long to divulge the magnitude of the ghosts that plagued him after Lori’s death. And when he finally admitted to his waning mental state, he never explicitly told the most important companion in his life. His best friend, his comrade, his second in command. He never told Daryl. The hunter had, however, instinctively put two and two together and waited with open arms to comfort Rick when reality and grief had boiled to a head. The realisation of his sudden hypocrisy hit him like a baseball bat. He felt ashamed and angry. Emotions probably on par with the shivering man in front of him. 

Rick knew he should concede to the stalemate and end the porch side argument before either man did something regrettable. But there was a stubborn pit of lava sloshing around his insides that refused to satiate until Rick had fully unloaded the expanse of his concerns. 

“Th’last time this happened, your brother was missin’, without a hand, and you’d impaled yourself on your own bolt. Now Merle’s dead, and you’re sick as dog and it’s happenin’ again.” Rick watched Daryl flinch at the blunt mention of his brother’s passing. A reality of unresolved mourning embedding itself deep into sinewy skeletal muscle. Muscle memory doesn’t forget pain. Rick could see the thin ice laying before him, but overarching concern pushed him forwards.

“Daryl, I’m worried ‘bout you and not just ‘cause of today. You’ve barely mentioned Merle since he died and that just ain’t healthy. I know, okay? I’ve been there, and we both know what that does to a person. I just wish you’d talk to me, hell, anyone about it!”

“And what?” Daryl spat, squaring his shoulders from where he sat propped against the old railing. “Ya think singing fugckin’ Kumbaya and talkin’ out our feelings like stupid housewives is gonna mbake everything better?! It ain’t, Rick! They’re all dead. Merle. Lori. Talkin’ about it ain’t gonna bring ‘em back.”

The sick man’s voice trembled on the last of his words, his emotions fighting against steadfast resolve. Daryl was undoubtedly angry and hurting. His pain amplified by cruel viral tendrils lodged within his once stoic body. Rick’s heart was breaking beneath a sheath of misplaced contempt. 

“No it won't. I wish it could, god, do I wish that.” Rick paused, trying to assemble some version of articulation in his brain. “I just know that bottling up trauma can ruin a person. Especially in this world.”

“Pfft.” 

The weak and dismissive exhalation of air was so juxtaposing to Daryl’s previous fervour. The hunter was once again retreating from partaking in serious discourse. Rick had had enough. 

“Jesus, Daryl!” Rick launched himself from the wall of the cabin and took some long strides in the hope of calming himself down.

But Rick was Rick, and pacing on a small semi-dry veranda was not enough to pacify months of suppressed frustrations.

“I know this-” Rick gestured rapidly between the pair. “-Has been a huge adjustment. To me, to Carl, to everyone, to you. I get that, I know that. But fuck Daryl, I’m so tired. So goddamn tired of you running away every time things get hard. Every single day feels like one step forward and five steps back. Falling asleep in the same bed is a wildcard with you if you’re just gonna take off in the middle of the night. And yes, I know when you do and it makes me sad. I wish you’d tell me about your dreams so I could help you, like you did for me when Lori died. I love having sex with you but I just wanna be naked together without being terrified that you’re going to flinch away at the slightest touch. I want to shower with you, I want to rip your shirt off. I want you to trust me.” 

Rick forced himself to take a much needed breath. He watched Daryl for a sign of rebuttal, but the hunter remained glued to the spot, his eyes taking intent interest with the ground. 

The Deputy couldn’t stop himself. 

“Daryl…I’ve seen them. The scars... I know that makes you uncomfortable, but it’s the truth. I’ve seen them and I don’t care. I mean, I do care, I care how you got ‘em, I care about you. But they don’t make a difference to how I feel about you.”

Rick shut his eyes forcefully, taking a momentary reprieve. The word vomit escaping his lips was not eloquent in the slightest, nor could it be controlled. 

“I need you, Daryl. I need to know you. Please, please, let me in.”

Rick’s frantic pacing found himself once again facing the sick body of the hunter. He searched desperately for a response in the misery that sat opposite him. Rick watched as Daryl’s mouth opened and closed a few times, trying to formulate something audible. Moments felt like hours before chapped lips formed to create dialogue.

“Rick, I…” Daryl’s voice was weak, thick with congestion and evident emotional tumult. He stopped abruptly, inviting a wave of quiet between the feuding lovers. A few wet coughs and wheezy inhales escaped the broken man sitting before The Deputy. Eventually, Daryl seemed to  steel himself enough to return his gaze upwards to the pleading face of a man who wanted too much, who wanted everything. Rick could see the tears pooling in the basements of his lover’s eyes. Eyes that were red-rimmed and exhausted beyond recognition. Eyes that told Rick to stop, to retreat, to leave. 

But he couldn’t. 

“Daryl, please.” 

Before he could stop himself, Rick was inching forward without sense, dropping low to his knees so he could look up at the sick man. So he could plead for trust, for love, for hope. He knew he was inviting a world of mistakes, lunging himself into Daryl’s emotional and personal space. He was quite literally cornering a wounded animal. But he couldn’t stop. Rick was compelled by a force called sheer desperation.

“Rick, don’t.”

“Daryl…”

“Rick.” A warning. 

Rick was now crouched in front of Daryl, blue eyes meeting blue in a haze of warnings and pleadings and needs unmet. Now that Rick was finally up close with the other man he could see the feral energy behind the hunter’s glare. His cheeks were ruddy and feverish. One was visibly pinker than the other. The warm hue trickled down his angular face to an open slit in the corner of his mouth. Blood had coagulated heavily where Rick’s hand had met Daryl’s face earlier in their frightful day. Shameful bile sloshed needlessly in the pit of his stomach. 

He did this.

Rick's hands reached out before sensory neurons told him to. Fervent filled fingers made brief contact with frighteningly freezing ones. Rick gasped at the desperate contact.

Before he could shudder another breath, Rick was shoved forcefully backwards by arms that had had enough. He landed awkwardly on his backside, frustration filling his shallow cup once again.

“Don’t fugckin’ touch mbe!” Daryl had said as he pushed Rick to the floor of the decking. 

Rick sat there for a moment. Embarrassed, angry and hurt. The emotional toll of the last half an hour had taken his rationality and replaced it with blinding dismay. This wasn’t right. Nothing about this made any goddamn sense. Two broken men in the midst of a tornado. Daryl stormed away and Rick couldn’t control himself.

“Fuck I hate you sometimes.”

The words sliced the air with their anger. Words that should never have been said. Words that tumbled out of impulse and reactivity. Words that landed in complete betrayal. 

An utterance from Rick’s soul he didn’t know he had access to.

The Deputy sat there completely flummoxed. He couldn’t fathom why or how he had said what he had. Maybe he didn’t say it. Maybe he just thought it, as a hair trigger reaction to Daryl’s violence and months of stubborness. 

One gratingly slow twist of his head proved him disgustingly wrong.

Daryl stood eerily still, his back facing Rick, stopped in his tracks by the disarranged outpouring of exasperation. The strong, wide shoulders that held the weight of the world, crumbled in an instant.  A strangled sob escaped the man, shattering Rick’s heart into a million pieces. Daryl was visibly shrinking in on himself. His fever wracked body was heaving hard with turmoil. Rick had witnessed Daryl cry a handful of times before, but never because of him. Him, the leader who had sworn devotion and alliance and care to the volatile red-neck. This was a brand new chapter of agony.

The hunter had heard Rick’s words loud and clear. It wasn’t a dream, it was real. It was a waking nightmare. 

Rick scrambled to his feet ungracefully, knees popping unceremoniously as he raced to right his wrongs. Shame was too lenient of an emotion right now. He was disgusted with himself. A fleeting moment of unbridled possession threatened to unravel everything Rick held so dear. 

“Daryl, Daryl, please, I’m so sorry-”

“-Fuck you, man.” Daryl croaked. The voice was small, broken, irrevocably sick. Distorted by hiccuping sobs and window shattering winds. Rick stepped closer, desperately trying to close the distance between the pair that seemed to grow wider with every passing second. 

“I…I didn’t…It ain’t true…You gotta believe me…I don’t…”

Rick’s brain was short circuiting. There was nothing he could say to undo the mess his bleeding subconscious had created. Blinding fear and cascades of regret twisted their way up from The Deputy’s stomach and formed an unmerciful lump in his throat. His eyes felt the telltale burn of a tearful tsunami. But he grit his teeth and clenched his jaw against bodily instinct. Rick would not feel sorry for himself. He would not cry selfishly in the presence of the heartbreak he single-handedly shattered. 

He was about to advance again when a sudden bolt of pain burst from his jaw. In a split second, Daryl had whipped around and clocked Rick with an excruciating blow to the face. The Deputy stumbled, pressing a hand firm against the impact zone. He felt his blood boil and quickly evaporate as he realised it was the least he deserved. 

When Rick eventually straightened he was face to face with Daryl. The younger man was staring back at him with a tapestry of complicated emotions. Tear tracks stained his flushed cheeks and his lower lip trembled faintly until it was stopped by anxiously chewing teeth. Glassy crystalline eyes peered deep into Rick’s soul, screaming with explosive pain. 

“Mb’done, Rick.” 

The hunter tensed and dropped his gaze as he pushed past Rick. He sluggishly picked up his crossbow from where it lay against the railing. A slew of muddy coughs escaped the man who was palpably too fractured to care anymore.

“Goin’ on watch. Don’t follow mbe.”

And then he left. Heavy boots and a sluggish frame disappearing into the night without looking back.

Time slowed to an excruciating crawl. Rick couldn’t do anything. He just stood there, blinding pain in his face and anguish crawling out of his chest. He stared out into the black expanse in front of him where Daryl had been engulfed by darkness. 

Rick had fucked up. Real Bad.

Daryl was done. Done with what? Done fighting? Done talking?

Oh.

He was done.

It was over.