#now there is no waste only future quilt!

[gravitasmalfunction]

Zero waste bag quilt

Summary:

Leftover threads, yarn, waste fabric and fabric scraps too small to be usable get cut up to form the quilt filling. (If you are recycling previously used fabric, make sure it’s thoroughly washed and dried before you cut it up.)

Fabric waste and leftovers of a useable size are cut into regular size rectangles or squares (the book recommends 5-6 inches by 3 inches).

The rectangles are sewn on three sides, filled to about a third and no more than half, and then closed up.

The quilt itself is comprised of these small bags joined into a large rectangle.

Because it will be heavier and denser than a contemporary ready-made, store bought polyester quilt, make sure to shake and air the quilt regularly.

Source: Needlework Economies: A Book of Mending and Making with Oddments and Scraps, edited by Flora Klickmann. Available at gutenberg.org

Full excerpt below the cut.

The Economy Quilt.

Bedclothes become an expensive item when there are several beds for young people to be made up, as well as those for their elders. Yet warmth is essential, if their health is to be maintained. In the winter, there usually comes a night of sudden cold, so raw and so intense, that it seems next to impossible to put too much on the beds. Every spare blanket is turned out, and every eider-down, and still there is not enough! Next morning someone is sure to say they never got warm all night! Of course, eider-downs are ideal. They are warm without being heavy. But real eider-downs are expensive. Here is a substitute that was popular in our grandmothers’ day. It is simply a quilt formed of small bags, sewn together like patchwork, each bag containing a certain amount of snippets and clippings. Very simple, isn’t it? And yet these quilts, that cost practically nothing, are invaluable in the cold weather. Put one of these over the outside of the bed, and the sleeper keeps as snug and warm as though under a couple of down quilts. One great advantage of this quilt is the ease with which it can be made. A child can always run up a little bag; a child can also cut up snippets, if it is old enough to be allowed to use a scissors. Mother can run round a few bags with her sewing machine, just before putting it away after doing needlework. In this way the bags accumulate in a surprising manner; and joining them together, a few at a time, either by hand or with the machine, is not laborious or brain-wearing work.

The Method I Always Adopt. For some years now, I have made it a rule always to have one of these quilts on hand. If I do not need it myself, when it is finished, I always know someone who can put it to good use. Any woman who has an elastic family and a non-elastic purse, is glad of one for a gift. I save every scrap of material that would otherwise be wasted. If it is not new, I have it washed and thoroughly dried. All this waste goes into a bag that I keep hanging up in a cupboard in my bedroom. I never allow a large amount to accumulate, lest moth should get at it. I have seldom more than a couple of handfuls at one time waiting to be dealt with. On my chest of drawers I keep a box. In this there is always a pair of sharp scissors. When I have a few moments idle—between the lights when it is too dark to see much else, or when my eyes are too tired to do work requiring close attention—I cut up a few of the scraps from the bag into snippets about an inch square sometimes smaller, never larger. I put these in the box.

Worked in Sections. Then again, whenever I have any bits from dressmaking, or mending, or darning, it has become second nature with me to cut them up there and then into snippets, and put them in the box. In fact, I always have the snippet box on the table beside my work box when I am sewing, and the bits go in as a matter of course as I go along. It keeps me so tidy. Everything comes in useful, even fragments of darning wool, ravellings and basting threads! I save any scraps of material large enough to make the bags; a useful size is five or six inches by three inches. I run up three sides of these when I have a spare moment; put in a small handful of snippets, and close up the end. These I put in a drawer till I have time to join them together. I always machine mine together, as it is the quickest way. Do not fill the bags anything like full, or the quilt will be impossibly heavy. If you fill the bag about a third full, or at most a very loose half-full, that will be quite enough. Each little bag just wants a slight thickness inside, to give the extra warmth, much the same as we sometimes line quilts with a layer of cotton wool between two cotton covers. The reason we put the clippings in little bags, instead of into one bag, is to keep the stuff evenly distributed over the surface of the bed. Otherwise, every time the sleeper turned over, or disarranged the coverings, there would be the chance of all the clippings slipping over, and collecting themselves on the one side or the other of the bed, or possibly all falling to the foot of the bed. A quilt made of the bags, not too full, can be shaken and kept thoroughly aired. Almost any sort of material can be used for the bags, provided it is not too delicate in colour, as one does not want to have a quilt of this sort frequently going to the cleaners. Strong stuffs are best, such as cretonne, serge, stout print, sateen—anything in fact that will stand some wear. Mix cotton clippings with wool clippings in each bag. Obviously the quilt will not need any lining, as the back will be fairly neat. If you like, you can finish the edge with a cord; but I myself always aim to get the outside bags all of one colour scheme; this in itself makes a certain finish—a kind of border—and I just leave it at that. After all, these quilts are not for ornament so much as stern utility; nevertheless, they can be made to look really pretty, if a little care and taste is expended on the placing of the various colours and designs.

[anonofseasons]

Vivian and Graham can be both extravagant and thrifty. Since Graham is a snob about architecture, it shows in their home, but they reused stones and parts of their old cottage they had when Shannon was a baby. But they've got a curved double staircase in their foyer, with multiple wide doorways leading to different halls and rooms, coffered ceilings with the decorative plates in the middle that have intricate designs, lots of fancy woodwork, etc. Graham designs and creates a lot of that by hand, and he had hundreds of years to work on this house. Vivian has always bought fabric and made most of the kids' clothing. (It's mentioned in the chapter I'm writing, but there are some articles of clothing he always buys, including shoes.) They're expected to take good care of certain sets of clothing while they have others for playing outdoors. When it does get worn down to bits, he makes new items out of the scraps, from rags to quilts to toys to patches for other clothing. (I bet he adds a second layer of clothing on the inside of the knee of pants to help pad any falls. See? He can be a thoughtful father!) I've mentioned food doesn't usually go to waste. They also tend to their own gardens in warmer weather, although they sometimes take breaks to ease the soil. They compost. Most of Howie and Beau's furniture pieces were spruced up but came from Shannon and Sophie. Vivian made the blankets on their beds, but he bought them really nice rugs. Vivian does the sewing bits and Graham can upholster chairs and settees. If you look closely at some of those chairs, you'll see darned spots where the fabric wore down. Vivian makes it look decorative or part of the patterns. (One reason to use patterned fabrics.) Things are made to last, which means they don't replace furniture often. They do have some antiques they've bought that they no longer have out, and sometimes they don't love old decorations but can sell them for a significant amount of money. Every now and again, they invest in some popular pieces from artists if only because the resale value in the future will probably be significant. Vivian carefully seals off pickled vegetables and fruit jams, and the jars are reused. Repairs are done before anything ever gets out of hand. A bit of water damage somewhere means Graham is immediately tending to it before it can create bigger issues. A big cost now means smaller costs in the long run. They didn't always have that kind of money. They know well what it's like to be one coin away from homeless or even two coins short of a roof above their heads. They've had to illegally hunt. They have glamoured and tricked their way out of bills and taxes. They have plenty of money now, and they've built their own mansion out of time and hard work. They can be stingy at times while at other times... they get carried away. Vivian buying all the craft goods at the beginning of Seasons was a splurge, but it was one of those "I am clearly a good father by spoiling my children... and it will keep them occupied for a while so Howie won't ask questions" moments that... makes it a bit less heartwarming than it could have been. Right now, I'm writing a chapter that I decided to insert where Vivian takes them shopping, and it's kind of on my mind how they've been careful in some ways, and how that's helped them be well-off. They're not ultra-wealthy, though. Vivian works as insurance that they can weather through all sorts of bullshit that happens to countries, from overpricing to food shortages. Their house is like a portable and heavily glamoured bunker.

[thelovelymisscameron]

All I want in this world, my deepest desire, is to one day have a family that I love and that loves me. For me to be able to feed them home grown salads with dinner, gift them hand dried flowers, brew homemade teas made for every occasion (for them to know it’s because I love them. To not be ridiculed for it). To cook them delicious breads, sweets, and meals, (to teach them to love meals, and not view food like the enemy. (Food is energy you need to power your beautiful body.)) talk about and familiarize them with the cycle of life and death that creates these foods. I want to grow life inside of myself and see it bloom, find life others tried to subdue (suffocate, hurt, hate) and guide that life to be content with the world they have. (To not feel like they must fight for everything to be ok.) I want to have a yard with ducks and chickens, a goat for milk, bees for honey. I want trees to climb and a pond for fish. Bandaids and love for every wound. I want to have a hair fence so we can look in the bird nests and see ourselves in the life cycle and nature around us. ( to mot have them laugh, to be able to teach them so they might join and teach their children and grandchildren) I want my children to be ok with death, but not so desensitized they feel broken (like I feel broken.) I crave being surrounded with life and love freely given, because in this world I am trapped by death and hatred, every hug a battle, and all I want is to break the cycles I am in. We are of the dirt, I will one day return to it. So will they. Fear of that leads to destruction, ( fear is the destructive force of all things.( it makes one impulsive, irrational, and dangerous. Completely unpredictable.)) and understanding leads to acceptance. We are the caregivers of this land, I hope my future self can care for it and them. (No more wasted water, bees and butterflies left starved) This is the future I fight for. Even when I’m just fighting myself. My dearest memories are of woods and mud and plants. The sting of scraped knees and the sweetness of fresh fruit blooming on my tongue. ( my scariest locked away and yet still tugging those memories into the dark, left muddy and unclear.) I want to give my children and grandchildren and even great grandchildren quilts and scarves and hats, because I still sleep with the one my great grandmother made me. I can feel the love and care in it. (I can’t feel that in factory made comforters and throws gifted with minimal thought.) We live in a world where everything has five minutes to be, (five minutes to live and be remembered) and I want my love to last 262980000. (Minutes) I want patches on my blankets and repairs on my mittens. I know we call this a “hell-site”, but there is no need for ridicule or hatred for those who dream of a future beyond what we have today. (It is simply fear telling you to lash out. (Breathe in, hold it, breathe out) If you want to get past all these things you hate, grow beyond them and become the energy you want returning to you. (What you do comes back unto you) Be the world you want, even if you have to live in a tiny ass apartment right now, or somewhere with people you can’t stand. (Your world may feel small right now, but if you stand strong it gets so much bigger.(even if you must crawl first) Know that if you honestly put the work in (and I mean years of working hard with what seems like no reward (it sucks but just remember the best, longest lasting, and most expensive things take time and energy and effort (like pearls and diamonds (yes you are worth this comparison))) to get to where you see the light at the end of the tunnel) then, and only then, you get your reward. Never forget, you are worth your dreams. Forever and always, no matter what. (Unless it’s like,,, killing people or genocide or making a cult so you are worshipped as a god/dess/deity, etc.,,, please don’t hurt others)

In the future, children will think our ways are strange. "Why do old people always grow so much milkweed in their gardens?" they'll say. "Why do old people always write down when the first bees and butterflies show up? Why do old people hate lawn grass so much? Why do old people like to sit outside and watch bees?"

We will try to explain to them that when we were young, most people's yards were almost entirely short grass with barely any flowers at all, and it was so commonplace to spray poisons to kill insects and weeds that it was feared monarch butterflies and American bumblebees would soon go extinct. We will show them pictures of sidewalks, shops, and houses surrounded by empty grass without any flowers or vegetables and they will stare at them like we stared at pictures of grimy children working in coal mines

[quantumviolet1024]

Whensoever, Bright Selene

He found himself again upon a strange dreamscape with his boots half buried in the sands of a vast deserted coastline on the edge of an antiquated land overlooking the omega.

On those battered dunes eternal, he was pursued by the silence compounding, a refugee spiraling into nights undefined in constant twilight. Wrapt in a ragged quilt he slept alone to dream in sweet death-temporary, his only reprieve.

Small creatures moved alongside him and he laid watching their trails lengthen in the powdered shells and then wash away in the tide. He quenched his thirst in a saline pool, delirious, then caved in. With each cycle of sleep the ocean hissed and rose attempting to lay him to waste.

But on one night he awoke to the light from a fire before him like a sign. In the months and years before the driftwood wouldn’t start a spark, let light. Waterlogged and etched with brine, wrapt in the locks of algae culled by the undertow. Like fragments of a shipwreck. But now it lay burning before him, like the only star in the ether.

Though the mist a faint outline of a figure rose from the water. The wind and waves for a short moment seemed to cease and time slowed into some everlasting sanctuary. His heart skipped and he shook and faltered. The flames straightened. The lunar eclipse subsided. Cosmic light lit the glittering sands like dominoes & spread across the beach aglow.

She approached at last defined, adorned in light. She wore rings and a compass glowed on her wrist like a cosmic lightship for his drifting spirit in the darkness. One arrow aimed at him and one back at her. In one hand a lay a pearl. The other held a wooden cup. The pearl was half-blackened and half-aglow. She pushed it gently to his chest and into his heart, like it belonged. She handed him the cup with waters drawn up from some antiquated aquifer. He drank from it until it was emptied. It was as sweet as home.

Sprites lit up her eyes and the moon surely shined if only from her spirit’s light & reflected back to trace the lines of her smile. With each word he watched her eyes. Her lips kissing the air they energized. A magic crept from her fingers through her hair twirling and rolling and unfolding his soul. That magic leapt from her wrists to her darling skin aglow. Her offer of joy flowed by through the night, and he tried to memorize her every summit however slight.

As he watched he knew only that he could never have imagined a being so perfect and pure. That she was genuine, some miracle, some orchid to be so carefully admired. A holder of certain cosmic secrets only waiting to be found. Shaking in awe unending evermore, he could only breathe and fall into her sweet, sparkling embrace of dancing soul, leaping between dark and light.

She pulled back, smiled and broke apart. A love never to depart from the edges of his soul. He fell from her embrace and into his future.

He awoke. He heard songbirds in the distance. He felt her presence in his heart. He felt warm breezes through the grass. He sat up, on the flowered hillside where his spirit had ascended, back to its home, familiar and complete. All it took was a night for her to pull him from that cold sleep.

He whispered, “whensoever, bright Selene, you can take me home again.”

“The air, unlit before, glows with the light of her golden crown, and her rays beam clear, whensoever bright Selene having bathed her lovely body in the waters of Ocean, and donned her far-gleaming raiment, and yoked her strong-necked, shining team, drives on her long-maned horses at full speed, at eventime in the mid-month: then her great orbit is full and then her beams shine brightest as she increases. So she is a sure token and a sign to mortal men.”

The void whispered constant and spanned across all time, rendering to forget the sweet moon’s shine. He called her name and hoped for it to reach her distant shore.

[annamillertiedeman]

The Lost Art of Recycling: How Our Ancestors Navigated Sustainable Living Before It Was Trendy

In the modern world, when eco-consciousness and sustainability are buzzwords frequently linked to hip lifestyle choices, it's easy to forget that many of the behaviours we now take for granted were once typical customs handed down through the years. One such activity is recycling, which refers to the age-old custom of repurposing, reusing, and making the most of every resource available rather than the contemporary practice of sorting plastics and paper into designated receptacles. Come along on a historical adventure with us as we study the forgotten skill of recycling and learn how our predecessors managed sustainable living before it was trendy in this blog.

A Way of Life, Not a Trend

For our predecessors, recycling was more than simply a fleeting trend; it was a way of life based on need and resourcefulness. Every scrap of material had worth in small towns like Beaver, West Virginia, where waste was not an option and access to commodities was restricted. Our ancestors were resourceful and valued all they had, from furniture fashioned from reclaimed wood to patchwork quilts made from discarded clothing.

The Circle of Life

Everything in the days before mass manufacture and throwaway consumer products had a use and a lifespan that extended much beyond its initial usage. Consider the custom of feeding kitchen leftovers to cattle, which converts food waste into beneficial nutrients for the land and the animals that would subsequently provide for the family. Nothing was wasted even after death: hides were tanned to make leather, bones were reduced to soup, and feathers were used as insulation or bedding.

Innovation Born of Necessity

Our forefathers had to use their imaginations to find inventive solutions to daily difficulties because they were not afforded the current comforts. They discovered creative ways to recycle items and prolong their usefulness much beyond their original lifespan, from utilising old newspapers as insulation to making brooms out of straw and twigs. By doing this, they improved their inventiveness and artistry in addition to conserving resources.

Lessons for the Present

We can't help but wonder what lessons the sustainable living methods and the lost art of recycling from previous generations can teach us for our own lives in the present. Even though our predecessors may not have faced the same difficulties, we may still benefit from their resourcefulness, reverence for the environment, and dedication to living in balance with the natural world. There are many things we can do to commemorate their legacy and use less energy on the environment, such as cutting back on our consumption, reusing old objects, or coming up with original solutions to common problems.

Conclusion

Though sustainability has gained popularity as a marketing buzzword, it's crucial to keep in mind that recycling and sustainable living are age-old concepts that predate humans. Restoring the ancient skill of recycling and taking a cue from our predecessors' resourcefulness can help us not only lessen our influence on the environment but also reestablish a connection with their timeless wisdom. Let us not overlook the importance of drawing inspiration and direction from history as we work to create a more sustainable future.

Embark on a nostalgic journey through the pages of "Moonshine Memories & Staggering Cows: Tales from Raleigh County" by Pearl Todd Miller and Anna Miller-Tiedeman. Explore the rich tapestry of life in rural Appalachia, where sustainable living wasn't a trend but a way of life. Delve into the captivating stories of ordinary people who lived off the land, recycled with ingenuity, and cherished the simple joys of nature. Discover how our ancestors navigated sustainability long before it became fashionable. Buy your copy today from here: https://amz.run/8eyG, and reconnect with the timeless wisdom of the past. Let these tales inspire you to embrace a more sustainable future.

[diphylleiadiaries]

Two hundred and fifty days. 

I have not put myself through that pain for eight months and eleven days, but I miss it like my grandmother’s heavy quilt blanket on a winter night. 

Horrifyingly described and scarring to those who would know, I never minded it. I have the urge still, late into the night, while the stars sing to each other, and I am the only one in the audience. When I cannot stand being in my bed, resisting sleep, tired because I can’t. 

I haven’t done it. 

Proud of myself, I am, but a worse part of myself never cared about being proud. 

It never cared for the hurt or the scars. It never considered the time that I spent patching myself up after the tears finished falling as wasted. Rolling its eyes when I flinched in pain, chuckling as I covered myself up in all the ways that I could. It didn’t mind it then and it whispers to me that it would never mind it now. 

I have become quite good at drowning it out; between the music and the phone calls, using my fingers to write my papers and my poems instead, I ignore it. Less than a year later but more than a half, I’ve got other habits now, but I’ve not gone back there. 

Its familiarity calls out to me, it screams my name when it knows I’m alone, it sings me lullabies when acid rain streams down my face, but I’ve made my escape and I have to remind myself why I did. 

I wish the better part of me was stronger, I wish it better remembered the days in which I hurt and that it counted the ones in which I kept myself from it. I wish it could shower me with pride and let me hug my accomplishments to sleep. Instead, it clings onto the promise of the future, imagining the next time I might need the devil on my shoulder. 

After all, the angel is weak, and she is falling asleep, I am jealous, but I am holding back. Lucky me, I am so strong. 

Am I?

[whatwarehouse]

The Monarch

This was an architectural response to the “Fairy Tales” competition by Blank Space. It was an exploration of an alternate future that was hopeful rather than the post-apocalyptic views often portrayed in media.  The full story that pears with the images above is here: “I’m so hungry” “You’re always hungry.” Nero grumbled, trying to ignore Bea. She had that look in her eye, which was never a good thing. “Today I’m going to do it. I really am.” Bea leaned in, whispering loudly. Nero glanced at the holo-screen to see if the teacher had noticed but the image only continued to drone. ‘...living in the wake of the world on the brink. As a society facing mass starvation, resources depleted, the Silverwing Accords brought the dissolution of the northern armies.’ “My Gran-poppo says things were harder when he was a kid.” Nero tried to change the subject hoping Bea would focus on their lesson. History was his favorite. ‘…after the meat wars, the underground movement began as an attempt to rebalance the ecosystem.’ “My Gran-poppo says the same. They all do. That's why I'm going to discover The Monarch’s secret once and for all. Tonight!” Nero trembled at the mention of the enigmatic guardian of Sky-Hex 13. He was the stuff of nightmares. Both kids looked out the small classroom window, towards the peaks of the Comb. It wasn’t visible now, but when the sun slipped below the horizon, the skyline would glow with a sickly pallor, casting an eerie haze over The Monarch’s domain. “You can’t actually be thinking of going there. It’s not worth it just for food. You’ll never make it back in one piece.” Bea’s stomach grumbled again as she looked at the lush rooftops bursting with green, deceptively inviting, calling to her like a beacon. Night would bring a different truth, hauntingly tempting. With summer nearly gone, finding the secret hidden within The Monarch’s mysterious lights became more important than ever. “My mom will kill me if I skip class.” He protested weakly “The substitute holo will never notice. Think about what we could eat if we find the secret source.” Bea leaned in closer. “We'll be legends!” “You think too much with your stomach” Nero groaned as he considered her scheme. It was their first year in Hex 6 Elementary. Nero wanted more than anything to fit in. One peek at The Monarch's domain would make them heroes. “Fine.” He pouted. “But we are just going to look. That’s it!” They slipped out the back of the classroom, traveling through the murky void beneath the waterfall before spilling into the bright market plaza buzzing with activity. Above them, the quilted faces of the Comb cascaded down the hillside in a riot of colors and ordered chaos. Easily navigating along the base of the Comb, they arrived beneath the familiar awning of ‘Mama’s Grub’, a favorite food stall of Nero’s. When Bea ignored the delicious aromas wafting from inside to pull him around the back, his shoulders sagged in disappointment. Bea wasted no time snatching a pole from her hiding spot before steering them toward the hyper-hex station.  At Nero’s questioning gaze Bea merely shrugged.  “I’ll need a weapon. Trema said this was my best bet.” Nero hoped it wouldn’t come to that. He already regretted his decision to tag along. When they finally reached the surface, Bea practically dragged her reluctant friend off the hyper-hex train. Emptied long before their stop, no one questioned their destination as they emerged from the station. The vivid colors of the sunset washed the skies with a cheerfulness Bea found hard to muster. Grass so thick and green you could wrap yourself in it like a blanket spread across endless hills. “I love being grounded.” Visiting the surface was her favorite. However, she’d never been on this side of the Comb. Nero, one step behind, hesitated to leave the safety of the tunnel’s entrance. “Look, I can see the trees. They’re beginning to glow.” A long fence wrapped its way down the hill along a perfectly ordered forest. They followed the path with cautious steps, alert and uneasy. Reaching the fence, Bea climbed the splintered wood to see above the tall grasses. Just then a shadow passed among the trees. “What was that?” Bea jumped, dragging Nero down behind the post. “What if it’s The Monarch?” Nero whispered back. Her heart raced as she clutched her weapon tightly to her chest. “We shouldn’t be here. We really shouldn’t be here.” Nero had already caught a glimpse of the lights, and that was enough for him. “I want to go back.” He whined, tugging on her sleeve.   “We’re so close to the secret. We just have to wait until it gets dark” Bea ignored Nero’s protests and stared intently into the forest, trying to work up her own courage. When she looked back at the road, she was alone. Bea wasn’t ready to give up, even if Nero was. Tentatively, she took her first steps beneath the intimidating canopy dripping with a scattering of faint lights. The forest felt alive, as if the ground were crawling and shifting beneath her feet. The urge to run pressed heavily against her heart, but she persisted. Her weapon tight between sticky palms, Bea approached the glowing orbs with silent vigilance. It was now or never. Taking a deep breath, she pulled back and with as much strength as she could manage, swung her weapon in a wide arc releasing all her fear and apprehension into the offending light. The orb exploded and darkness poured out. Shadows fluttered around her, rising, sinking, and twisting into menacing clouds and monstrous shapes. Overwhelmed with the cacophony that followed, Bea plummeted to the ground, her hand landing on the sharp edge of the shattered orb. She dislodged it from the dense ivy and stumbled back onto the path, carrying her prize as she raced for the fence. Encumbered by its weight, Bea lost her balance and faltered in the grass. When she looked up, she wasn’t alone. A dark silhouette loomed above. Her breath caught in a scream. “You’re… You’re The Monarch!” The silence hung ominously between them as Bea fought to regain her senses. When he finally stepped into the light, he looked more confused than fearsome. His moth-eaten clothes matched a weathered frown as he leaned on his cane to get a better look at her. “I’m certainly not a Monarch” He laughed. “But this is a monarch farm, if that’s what you mean. This particular forest is our moth harvest. What are they teaching you kids these days?” He reached for her fallen backpack and picked off a large moth, extending his hand into the air and releasing it. “A farm?” Bea squealed, as she watched the moth drift into the trees, merging with thousands of wings overhead. “But the Elders told us not to come here.” She exclaimed. The farmer chuckled softly at her words, shaking his head. “No wonder they don’t want you up here, these are delicacies best kept for holidays.” He picked up her weapon, handing it back to her with a wink. “You’ll need this. Go ahead and catch a few for your family. They taste great in a pie.” Bea clutched the pole of her net pulling herself to her feet. “But this is the great secret? The ultimate source?” She almost felt disappointed before realizing that taking a few of these treasures would be more than enough proof to show all the kids at school. This was way better than bringing back a piece of the light. “You’ve heard it called the great source eh? It’s because bugs like these that we harvest and eat keep our land fertile and unspoiled.” The old farmer shuffled towards one of the glowing orbs, running his gnarled fingers along its edge with pride. “Efficient and resourceful” He mused to himself. “This here is the good stuff.” Bea followed him down the path, her eyes wide with wonder at the fluttering spectacle above. When they reached the edge of the farm, he stopped to gesture at the vast horizon, the radiant honeycomb cities lit up like lanterns submerged within the undulating landscape. Bea remembered something her teacher had mentioned, beginning to understand. “I can’t imagine a world where people would eat animals instead. I love bugs.” “That’s right.” He encouraged. “Who knew all the big problems could be solved with something so small?”

[daryl-dixon-daydreams]

Words: 7,362 Pairing: Teenage!Daryl Dixon x Teenage!Reader Reader pronouns: she/her Era: mainly pre-outbreak Warnings: Language, mentions of abuse, violence A/N: Angsty and fluffy and angsty and fluffy! AGH! Summary: Daryl and Y/N are close growing up. Y/N knows about his bad home life and worries when Daryl doesn't show up at school one day.

Your name: submit What is this?

You were kicking a rock down the road, humming some stupid song you’d heard on the radio, when there was a familiar voice from behind you.

“Hey.”

You turned and grinned, knowing immediately who it was before you even saw him. “Daryl,” you said warmly. “Hey.”

He had his hands shrugged into the pockets of his secondhand black jeans. “What’re ya doin’?”

You laughed and shrugged. “I dunno. Wasting time. Kicking rocks.” You tucked your hair behind your ear and took him in. You could tell immediately that something was bothering him. “You okay?”

How did you always know? Even when he was trying his hardest to hide it, you always knew. “Yeah, just—” he chewed his bottom lip in that anxious habit he had. “Water got shut off again. My old man didn’t pay the bill.”

Your expression turned a bit sad and you nodded. It was mid-summer and the Georgia heat and humidity was suffocating. They never had air conditioning at the Dixon house, but no A/C and no water was a big problem. “Come on,” you said, tilting your head in the direction of your house down the street. “You want to come hang at my house for a while?”

Daryl considered your bright and open expression and then nodded. “Thanks.”

You nodded. “Of course. C’mon. My momma is workin’ the night shift so she won’t be home until God-only-knows-when. Ya can stay as long as ya like,” you said. Daryl fell into stride beside you.

“Thanks,” he said again.

“Sure.” You nudged him with your shoulder playfully. “Ya want me to help you with the Algebra homework?”

He rolled his eyes at you. “No.”

“Oh, come on, Daryl. You’re way smarter than you think. If you’d just try—”

“Why? Ain’t like I’m gonna go off to some big fancy college like you,” he said, kicking a rock along. It skipped on the gravel and stopped in front of you.

“Ya could. If ya wanted to,” you said, hitting the rock again with the toe of your boot. It went skipping along the road in front of you again.

“How the hell would I pay for that?”

You gave him a sympathetic look. “There’s financial aid. Scholarships.”

He scoffed. “Ain’t no college givin�� me a scholarship the way my grades are.”

“That’s why I said try,” you replied gently.

“Nah. Ain’t happenin’.”

You always felt so sad when Daryl talked about his future as an inevitable dead end. You knew he wanted to get away from his drunk asshole of a father and you also knew that he had plenty of reasons why he couldn’t focus on his schoolwork. Hard to focus on class when you’re wondering when your next meal or beating is coming… But you saw so much brilliance in him that he refused to see in himself. You decided to drop the subject for now and simply glanced over at him. His blue eyes met yours and you gave him a small smile. “Ya hungry?” you asked, kicking the rock down the road again.

He avoided your eyes again but nodded. “Always. That even a question?” he drawled.

You turned onto the driveway of your house and soon climbed the steps, pulling open the front door and nudging your head toward the cool interior. “We’ve got chicken pot-pie in the fridge,” you said. “Ya can have the rest of it. I swear, it’s the only thing my mom has been buyin’ lately.”

A short time later, you were flopped down watching TV while Daryl sat on the floor, his back leaned up against the front of the couch. His empty dish was sitting on the coffee table and you jumped up and grabbed it as a commercial came on. “Ya want some more?”

He looked up at you and one corner of his mouth twitched upwards. “Nah. I think three helpings was enough,” he said, pushing his dirty hair out of his face. “Thanks…” he said, a little more bashfully.

You nodded. “Sure.” Daryl climbed to his feet and followed you into the kitchen. He watched you set his dishes in the sink and then fill up two glasses with ice water, putting one down in front of him. He felt your eyes on his face and glanced up to meet them. “You wanna clean up while you’re here?” you asked.

He shook his head and glanced back down at the glass in his hands. “Nah. S’alright.”

You prodded him gently. “Ya sure? It’s not a big deal. I can wash your clothes and you can shower. I was gonna do some laundry anyway. Probably have somethin’ you can wear til they’re dry. Promise it ain’t a sundress,” you joked. You glanced at the clock. “We’ve got some time to kill before tonight’s terrible monster movie comes on anyway,” you said brightly. That was your thing; watching old monster movies from the ‘50s and ‘60s. You weren’t even sure how it had started, but it was just what you did together.

Daryl chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. He hazarded a glance back up at you. He was always so grateful for how you saw him, looked at him. Your expression never suggested anything other than open acceptance and genuine care. Finally, he nudged his nose up at you. “Alright. You win,” he said, downing the rest of his ice water quickly. “Let’s go pick out my sundress,” he said, eliciting a laugh from you.

Daryl followed you upstairs and you grabbed a clean towel for him out of the linen closet. “Hang on a sec. I’m sure there’s something in Brody’s room you can wear.” Your older brother was away at college. You returned a moment later with some clean clothes and thrust them at him. “You know where the bathroom is. Since I will puke if I eat any more pot-pie again this week, I’m gonna make popcorn. Just put your dirty clothes outside the bathroom door and I’ll throw ‘em in the wash.” You turned to head back downstairs and Daryl found himself watching you go until you disappeared.

“Hey, don’t watch the movie without me!” he called after you.

“Well then hurry up!” you called back up. Daryl smiled.

_ _ _ _ _ _

A short while later, you and Daryl were side by side on the couch. His clothes were tumbling in the dryer and now that he was clean, he realized just how dirty he had felt before. You were both munching on some popcorn from a huge bowl sitting between the two of you on the couch. Daryl always teased you about how much you made at once.

“Christ, are ya eatin’ this for your next four meals?”

You would pull a face at him. “No. Just for dinner. And knock it off or you don’t get any.”

Your eyes were glued to the screen as you watched the damsel in distress on screen run from some deep woods swamp creature, your knees pulled onto the couch and bent underneath you to the side. “I don’t understand this—if somethin’ is chasin’ you why would you run in a straight line, completely visible!? At least take a turn every now and again! I mean, look at all that thick brush she could disappear into!”

Daryl let out a small laugh. “That’s what your problem is? There’s a 9 foot tall, muck-man chasin’ her and that’s what ya take issue with?” he drawled.

You turned and gave him a manufactured look of annoyance and chucked a handful of popcorn at him, eliciting a gruff laugh. “You know what I mean!” you said. You heard the washer stop spinning and went to change the laundry over into the dryer, chucking one more handful of popcorn at Daryl as you got up.

“Hey!” He brushed the popped kernels off his shirt. “Ya know I’m gonna retaliate eventually and it’s gonna be much worse!” he yelled after you.

You laughed as you started the dryer. “Oh, I’m real scared! What’re you gonna do, Dixon?” You appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed over your chest and not looking the least bit intimidated.

“I’ll think of somethin’,” he said. “C’mon. Movie’s back on.”

You rushed back to the couch and moved the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table, sinking down in the empty space now beside Daryl.

He couldn’t stop glancing over at you and he felt suddenly fidgety, chewing on his bottom lip and practically having to sit on his hands to keep them still. Luckily, you didn’t seem to noticed, and it wasn’t too much longer before you laid down on the throw pillow at the other end of the couch, curled up with your eyes still on the screen. And not much longer after that before Daryl noticed you were asleep. The first movie was over, and some old rerun of The Blob was no playing.

Daryl noticed goosebumps on your arms and wondered if you were cold from the A/C vent blowing overhead, just in your t-shirt and shorts. He grabbed a quilt from the chair nearby and tried to cover you up without waking you.

But you stirred as soon as you felt the fabric on your arm and sat partially up, blinking awake and meeting his blue eyes, which seemed care-free for once and brighter than expected in the dim light from the television screen. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Was tryin’ not to wake ya up.”

You sat up all the way, clutching the quilt over your lap and looked up at him. “Thanks. What time is it?” Daryl glanced over at the time on the VCR.

“S’late. I should go… Let ya get some sleep,” he said.

“Oh, your clothes,” you said, climbing to your feet. You went to the laundry room and grabbed his freshly cleaned clothes from the dryer. “Go ahead and get changed and just leave those in the bathroom.”

While Daryl was changing, you went to the kitchen and filled up a water bottle with ice and cold water from the tap. He came out, looking much more like himself now that he was out of your brother’s old shorts and t-shirt. “Here,” you said, pushing the water bottle toward him. “In case you get thirsty on the walk home,” you said giving him a small smile.

He gave you a long look and seemed like he was on the edge of saying something, but he couldn’t get the words out and simply nudged his nose up in a nod at you. You always thought of the littlest things to make his life less shitty and did them for him without hesitation. “Thanks,” he said, grabbing the bottle. “I’ll give it back to ya tomorrow.”

He started toward the front door and you followed to walk him out.

He turned on the entryway rug, his hand on the handle. “Hey, tell your mom ‘thanks for the food’ when you see her in the mornin’, okay?”

You nodded. “Sure thing. You walkin’ tomorrow?” You already knew the answer. He always made the half hour walk to school, and you did it together most days.

“Duh,” he said, one corner of his mouth flicking up. “Ya comin’?”

“Duh,” you returned with a wide smile. Daryl felt his heart jump.

“Alright. See ya then. Thanks. Night.” He pushed out onto the porch and you caught the screen door as he ran down the steps.

“G’night,” you called after him. He turned and waved one last time over his shoulder and then he was gone into the still darkness outside. The cicadas seemed to grow louder as you stood there, and it was a fitting soundtrack to the immediate rise in your anxiety after Daryl disappeared. They seemed to grow so loud they were almost defeaning. You always worried about him when he went home. There was no way to know whether his dad would be passed out drunk or waiting up angry. You knew sometimes Daryl would just wait outside in the dark until he could either sneak in through a window or until he was sure his father was asleep or too drunk to move. Your heart ached. You wished more than anything that you could just fix it. He deserved so much better… You were always amazed that his heart still was so good considering all the bullshit he had been through, losing his mother and their home, his brother running off, and all the shit he was still going through. Sure, he could be angry and moody at times, but who wasn’t at your age?

Finally you sighed and closed up the house, heading upstairs to try and catch some sleep before school the next day.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were finishing packing lunch when your mom came down, still in her scrubs from the hospital. “Morning, mom,” you said. She came over and gave you a hug and left a kiss in your hair. “How was the shift?” you asked, grabbing a banana off the counter.

“Oh, just the usual. Nothing exciting. Lots of old people.” She was a nurse and always worked the night shift. She yawned and grabbed a mug and put on the tea kettle. “I’m exhausted. Mr. Jones came in again needing to be back on oxygen. Pneumonia again.”

“Oh, no…” you said, glancing at her. “Did he throw things again this time?”

She let out a wry laugh. “Of course he did! Nearly took my head off with a damn bed pan.”

“Seriously?! I hope it was empty!” you exclaimed, and you both dissolved into laughter.

“Luckily, it was. Or I would not be in such a good mood this morning… What’d you get up to yesterday? How was school?”

“School was fine. Daryl came over for a while. We watched some terrible Swamp Thing movie of course,” you said.

Your mom laughed and opened the box of tea and grabbed a tea bag. “You two. I do not understand your obsession with those monster movies from my generation,” she said.

“I dunno. They’re funny. Anyway… I gotta go. Gonna meet Daryl to walk to school.” You kissed her cheek and grabbed your things. “Love you! Get some sleep!”

You rushed to the spot where you and Daryl usually met up to walk to school, but were surprised to see that he wasn’t there. He was always there waiting before you. You dropped your bookbag, checking inside to make sure you had grabbed your lunch and the second one you always packed for him… And then you waited. And you waited. And waited… But there was no sign of him. And now you were worried. Maybe he’d gone ahead for some reason? He had never done that before. But soon you knew that if you didn’t leave, you’d be late for class, so you hastily scribbled a quick note on a sheet of notebook paper and left it under a rock at your meeting spot before heading to school.

You looked for him as you made your way through the halls to your locker, but you didn’t see his familiar silhouette anywhere. And he wasn’t in any of the classes you usually had together. At lunch you couldn’t focus on any of your friends’ conversations because you were so busy worrying about where the hell he was…

Over the course of the day, you felt sicker and sicker. You made sure to grab materials for him in all the classes you had together so he could get caught up on what he missed, and by the time the final bell rang you were determined to see him and make sure he was okay. You hastily waved goodbye to your friends and started the walk home, but instead of going straight there, you paused at the meeting spot where you usually met Daryl and saw that the note you had left that morning was still sitting underneath the rock. You collected it and shoved it hastily into your pocket. You stared up the dirt road that led into the woods and to the Dixon house. You took a deep breath in and tried to hold onto your courage as you turned up the path.

It was strange how the trees seemed to insulate from sounds of the outside, but amplify everything taking place inside the woods. You startled when a crow let out a raspy caw and took off nearby, the beating of its wings so loud in your ears that you could hear the hurried rush of the air through its feathers. Your heart was hammering in your chest as you came at last to the muddy driveway that led up to the dilapidated little trailer house. The ‘No Trespassing’ sign burned red in your peripheral vision as you carefully picked your way between the puddles and deep mud, trying not to sink your shoes into it up to your ankles.

You gulped and hesitated at the front step, but you forced in a breath and knocked.

Your heart was racing and you could feel your pulse in your fingers and toes as heavy bootsteps and cursing sounded from inside the house. The inside door was yanked open and an imposing man stood there, separated from you only by the thin screen door.

He glared at you, his lips almost curling into a sneer immediately. “Didn’t you see the goddamn sign?! Get the hell outta here! I don’t want whatever the fuck you’re selling!” he growled. He was tall and lean, but looked powerful and you gulped, suddenly thinking that maybe this wasn’t a great plan…

“I’m—” you had to clear your throat. Your voice came out quiet and somewhat strangled the first time. “I’m not selling anything, sir. I’m—I’m a friend of your son. Is he here?”

Mr. Dixon let out a scoff and never quit staring at you like he could snap at any second and come rushing through that screen door. “My boy ain’t got no friends. He’s too damn worthless. You got the wrong house,” he said, turning to slam the door already.

You weren’t sure where you got the courage from but you quickly shouted to stop him. “I don’t have the wrong house, Mr. Dixon! I’m—I’m a friend of Daryl’s. Please. Is he here? I just have some, um, school work for him…”

He stared at you again for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. They were sharp. “He ain’t here.” You were sweating with nerves under his gaze. “You goddamn women are only good for one thing, and I know he ain’t man enough to be getting any tail, so I don’t care why you say you’re here, but it ain’t no good reason. Now get the fuck off my property!”

You felt your face burn, some combination of anger, humiliation, and shock at being talked to that way by a grown man. You decided to try one last time. “Are you sure he’s not—”

Daryl’s father kicked the screen door hard and it flew open violently. You jumped back and let out a small scream of surprise and fear. He stepped out onto the stairs, his hands clenched into fists, and you could see that he was wavering a little on his feet, drunk, but also shaking with rage. “I got a goddamn shotgun sitting right inside here and I won’t be waitin’ much longer to use it unless you get the hell outta here right now!”

You quickly turned tail and ran, not caring at all that you were sloshing through muddy puddles up to your shins on your way back onto the dirt road and away from the house. You ran all the way back to the spot where you and Daryl usually met up before collapsing onto the grass. You shut your eyes and pressed your hands over your face for a moment. “Shit… shit.” It suddenly occurred to you that maybe going there had been entirely the wrong move. What if going to his house and asking about him got him in trouble? What if you had just endangered him more than he already had been? You felt tears burning in your eyes and blinked them away, popping back up onto your feet, which were squishing in your mud-soaked socks and shoes, and you trudged the rest of the way home.

It had felt like the longest evening of your life. You’d drifted around your house, hoping Daryl would come bounding up the porch steps at any moment, ready with some sarcastic comment or that quick twitch of a smile. But he didn’t. You knew your mom usually took a break around 8 pm, and you called the hospital, needing to hear her voice.

“Hi, honey. Is everything okay?”

You anxiously bounced your knee, feeling like you were about to cry again.

“…honey? Are you okay?” Now there was worry in your mom’s voice too.

“I’m—I’m okay. It’s just—Daryl wasn’t at school today… We had planned to walk together and he never showed up, and then—he wasn’t in any of our classes…” you trailed off. Your mom knew Daryl’s home life was bad, but you’d never told her how bad. Daryl had made it clear plenty of times that he didn’t want you telling anyone—not your mom, not the school counselors, not his teachers, not the cops, no one.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. You twirled the phone cord anxiously around your finger, winding and unwinding. “Well, maybe he was just sick today,” your mom offered.

“Mom, Daryl doesn’t get sick.” You chewed your bottom lip. “When Daryl gets ‘sick’ it’s because—because stuff at home has gone really wrong.”

Her silence on the other end of the line was heavy until she finally sighed. “I wondered. I mean, I’m a nurse for Pete’s sake. It’s not like I didn’t see the signs. Oh, honey… and how could anyone ever lay a hand on that boy? He’s got a heart of gold.” Her voice was low and sad.

“I know… What—what do we do?”

“I suppose, unfortunately, we just have to wait and see if he’s back tomorrow. It’s only one day… If he’s not at school tomorrow, you tell me and I will deal with it,” she said. “Try not to worry yourself too much, hun. I’m sure he’s fine.” But her tone was half-hearted and you were unconvinced. Your stomach twisted as you thought about more endless hours of waiting ahead. “I gotta get back to work, sugar. Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, Mom. I’m fine. I’ll see you in the morning. Have a good night at work.”

“Love you,” she cooed.

“Love you too,” you said. You hung up and your house had never felt emptier.

_ _ _ _ _ _

You were lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, knowing sleep wasn’t going to come, when you thought you heard something on your window. Your first thought was that a cicada or other insect had flown into the window. It was a small plink sound against the glass. But when it happened again, you shot upright in bed. And then it came again. You rushed over to the light switch and flipped it on and then went to the window and pulled back the curtains.

You could barely see a familiar silhouette by the dim glow of the porch light. You hastily pushed the window open. “Daryl?”

“Hey.”

“Just—just hang on! I’ll come let you in!” You raced downstairs and clicked on the hall light, unlocking and throwing the front door wide open. He was standing on the steps and you could see that one of his eyes was almost swollen shut and was surrounded by angry bruising. “Oh my God.” You felt all the air leave your lungs in a rush. “Daryl…” you stepped back to let him in.

He strode in past you, ducking his head a bit. “Yeah. He’s usually pretty careful about hiding ‘em. Guess his hand slipped on that one…”

You closed the front door and locked it again, turning to take him in. Daryl watched your eyebrows knit together and form a deep worry line in your forehead. The next second you had thrown your arms around him in a hug, squeezing your eyes shut tightly. “I was so worried about you!”

You heard him let out a strained exhale, a wince really, even as his hands landed on your back and he hugged you back. You pulled back suddenly and Daryl’s hands slipped onto the bare skin of your upper arms. “You’re hurt worse?” you asked him, looking up into his bruised face.

His hands dropped from you and you both lamented the break in contact. Daryl ducked his head again. “M’fine. What the hell were you thinkin’ comin’ to my damn house? Are ya crazy?” But you could see that he was almost smiling as he said it.

“I was thinking that I needed to know you were okay,” you said, turning and leading the way into the kitchen, flicking the light on as you went. “You heard that?”

“Mhm,” he hummed, nodding. “I was—I couldn’t get to ya.”

You nodded, your expression sad and overwhelmed with worry. “Your dad is…”

“A bastard,” he said, sinking down onto one of the chairs at the table. “Ya. I know. M’sorry ya had to go through that.”

You looked at him with consternation. “Are you kidding? You’re apologizing to me? Daryl…” You went to the freezer and grabbed out a bag of frozen vegetables and wrapped it in a clean dish towel. “Here. Put this on your face,” you said.

Daryl mumbled a thank you and pressed the makeshift cold pack over his eye. He was wearing a black t-shirt and as you stood beside him you noticed some dark spots on the material. You gulped. “Daryl…”

“Hmm?” he glanced over at you and saw that your eyes were fixed on his back. His stomach twisted. “S’nothin’,” he said.

You gave him a skeptical and deeply concerned glance. “Let me see,” you said gently.

He dropped the ice pack from his eye again and hesitated for a moment, nervously licking his lips and bouncing his knee. He trusted you, more than anyone, but this was still hard… Finally, he set down the ice pack and grabbed the hem of his t-shirt, tugging it off over his head, wincing as he moved.

When the light cotton was pulled clear, you saw that his entire torso, his ribs, his sides, his back, all a cruel dark purple with shades of black and blue. Across his back were raised lashes, some open and bleeding, the reason for the dark spots you had seen on his t-shirt. He sat there with his eyes turned down and his shoulders slumped forward.

You couldn’t help it. The tears just started streaming out as you looked at what had been done to him.

“Hey,” he said, turning toward you a little, hearing your hitched breathing. His blue eyes landed on your face, took in your desperate expression. “S’alright,” he drawled softly.

Those words only made the tears pour out faster. “I should be saying that to you—” you managed. “But I don’t even know if that’s true. Daryl, you can’t keep livin’ there with him. He could kill you one of these times.”

He gulped. He knew you were right. Of course he did… “Where the hell am I supposed to go? Run off and find Merle? Go into the system? Because you and I both know neither of those are gonna work.”

You hastily wiped the tears from your cheeks. “Here. You can come here. I can talk to my mom—”

“Nah. Nah, ya’ve already done enough for me. Ya do enough. Christ, Y/N, ya pack me a damn lunch every day. I eat dinner here more nights than not.”

“It’d be fine! My mom loves you! And—and so do I,” you said quietly. You felt nervous flutters in your stomach. You’d never told him that before, but it was true.

Daryl’s eyes snapped up to your face again and he gulped.

“You’d be safe here. And taken care of the way ya deserve to be,” you said.

Part of him wanted that more than anything. He wanted to agree and escape from the shit life he was living in that shit house with his shit father. But the idea of being a burden, and he truly believed that’s all he would be, the sense that he wasn’t worth it was so engrained in him that he rebelled against that other part of him that wanted to reach out for help, for escape. He avoided your glassy eyes again and shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, with no small amount of effort.

You felt like your heart was breaking. “Why not?”

He wouldn’t look at you. You just wanted him to look up at you. You wanted to see his blue eyes and convince him. But he wouldn’t. “I just can’t…”

“Daryl—”

“No! It—it ain’t your job to save me, alright? And I ain’t—I ain’t your burden! Just leave it alone.”

“You’re not a burden.” You tried to swallow the tightness in your throat but it didn’t work. You sniffled and wiped the tears from your cheeks again. You’d pushed him enough. You let it drop. “Is he gonna know you’re gone?”

Daryl replaced the ice pack on his swollen and bruised eye. “Nah. He’s on his next bender now. He’ll be so drunk he can’t see straight for at least the next few days.”

You nodded. “Okay. Let’s get you patched up and somethin’ to eat,” you said quietly. You filled a glass with ice water and grabbed the lunch you had packed for him that day from the fridge, setting them down in front of him at the table. You grabbed his bloodstained t-shirt and murmured a soft “I’ll be right back.”

After throwing in some more laundry, his shirt with it, you climbed the stairs and retrieved the First Aid kit from under the sink in your bathroom. You paused for a moment, leaning heavily on your hands, gripping the edge of the basin so hard your knuckles were white. You glanced up at your pale and somewhat wide-eyed expression and wiped a few more stray tears away, steeling yourself. You needed to just be strong for him. You knew he was trying his hardest to hold himself together and you going to pieces wouldn’t help anything. You’d spoken your piece and there was nothing else to do at that moment besides care for him.

You came down with a pile of supplies and dumped them on the kitchen table next to him.

Daryl seemed frozen, still as stone, holding the ice pack to his eye and occasionally drinking for the glass of water you’d given him. You grabbed a washcloth and wet it with some alcohol. Daryl twitched a little as your fingers landed lightly on his bare shoulder.

You withdrew for a moment after he startled. “Sorry,” you said, replacing your hand gently. “This is gonna sting,” you said.

“Can’t be worse than it is now,” he said quietly.

You could tell his wounds hadn’t been tended to at all and it took you some time to carefully clean the dried blood from them, dabbing gently at the raw skin and cuts. You worked in silence and Daryl nervously bounced his leg and spun the water glass on the ring of condensation it had shed onto the table.

After you were satisfied that they were clean, you grabbed some ointment and spread it over the entire length of each as gently as you could. Your stomach twisted as you stepped back and took in the whole view of his wounds and bruises. “Alright. Done.”

“Thanks,” he murmured.

“Here. Take some of these,” you said, putting a bottle of Advil in front of him. “I’m sure you’re in a lot of pain.”

You moved around in front of him and sank down on a chair, sighing. Your brow was still knit and Daryl read the worry still on your face. “M’alright,” he said.

You shook your head. “No. You’re not.” You paused and grabbed the makeshift ice pack, replacing it in the freezer before nudging your head toward the staircase in the hall. “C’mon. You’re stayin’ here with me tonight.”

Daryl’s brow quirked down and he briefly chewed his bottom lip. “…Why?”

“Because it’s safe. And I just can’t let you go back there. And you need real sleep and we both know that you won’t get that if you’re under the same roof as him.”

Daryl considered your determined expression and finally nodded. “Alright.” He stood up, wrapping an arm around his ribs as they ached when he moved, and followed you up the stairs. You flicked the lights off as you went.

The door to your bedroom was standing open and Daryl hesitated at the threshold as you pulled the blankets back on your bed. You tossed an extra pillow down next the one already at the head of the bed.

Daryl gulped, nerves at the thought of staying with you so close all night suddenly overwhelming the aches and pains running through him. “I’ll take the floor,” he drawled.

You shot him a quizzical look. “You’re not taking the floor,” you said. “You’re covered in bruises. Come on. You take the other side. Just shut the door behind you.”

After shifting his weight a bit nervously for a moment, he finally crossed the threshold and shut the door softly behind him. You settled down in bed, heaving a sigh as your head hit the pillow. Daryl gingerly laid down on the other side, facing in toward you. His eyes met yours as he settled in, wincing a little as he moved his arm up under the pillow. You were close together, your faces merely six inches apart and Daryl could see your eyes flitting over his face.

“Ya sure this is alright?” he drawled quietly. “Yer mom…”

You shrugged. “She won’t even know. It’s okay.”

Daryl licked his lips absently and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered.

Daryl looked puzzled.

“It’s not fair,” you went on. “That someone as good as you has this happening to them.”

Daryl gulped nervously again, your words kindling a rush of heat in his chest which seemed to spill into his face. “Ain’t yer fault.”

You nodded, looking a bit sad, but beautiful in the warm glow of the single lamp on your nightstand. You turned and clicked it off, and maybe it was the darkness that gave you the courage to, but you reached over and found Daryl’s hand with yours in the dark and slipped yours beneath it, pressing your palm to his.

Daryl felt his stomach flip with surprise but he thrilled at the grounding touch from you. For once stopping himself from overthinking it, he laced his fingers with yours, and soon both of you were asleep.

_ _ _ _ _ _

Some years later

“Don’t fucking move.”

Daryl froze, squeezing his eyes shut and clenching his teeth.

“Put your hands up where I can see them. Away from the bow.” The voice belonged to a woman and despite the tense and potentially dangerous situation he now found himself in, Daryl felt his stomach flip, seemingly responding to the voice peculiarly.

“Stand up.” Daryl obeyed and stood up slowly, in disbelief that he hadn’t heard whoever the hell this was approaching in the almost silent woods. That left him feeling particularly curious and a little uneasy. He didn’t like that anyone was able to sneak up on him… “Now turn around. Slowly.”

Again, Daryl complied, his hands still up, turning slowly to face toward the woman holding him at gunpoint.

But neither him nor you expected the person in front of you and you felt a tug somewhere behind your navel and the muzzle of your gun dropped involuntarily just as your mouth fell partially open. You felt like the air was ripped out of your lungs as you took in the familiar face in front of you. “What the hell?” The words fell from your lips without you even knowing it. But you would recognize those blue eyes anywhere. You lowered your gun the rest of the way. “D—Daryl?”

He finally dropped his hands his eyes narrowed and intense. “Are ya gonna shoot me?” he drawled. His voice was deep and gruff and you felt goosebumps rising on your skin. One corner of his mouth flicked up in the same way it always had back when you were kids.

You gulped, your hands still on your pistol. “Do I need to?”

He let out a gruff laugh. “Nah. I dun think so.”

You holstered your gun, still paralyzed, your boots seemingly rooted into the soil.

Daryl was the first one to move. He rushed over to you and hugged you almost desperately, but you were still in such a state of shock that by the time you moved to return it he was already breaking away. Your eyes were searching as you looked at him and he just peered back at you with that classic Daryl Dixon stare.

“S’real fuckin’ good to see you, Y/N,” he said. He bent and picked up his crossbow, swinging it over himself and onto his back in a fluid and well-practiced movement. He tilted his head at you. “Why the hell did ya stick me up, hmm?” he asked.

You snapped yourself out of your reverie, actually shaking your head slightly. “Uhh—My camp is near here. I don’t like strangers,” you said absently, still unable to trust your eyes that this man standing in front of you was the boy from your past. “Daryl—” You weren’t even sure where to start but you suddenly felt a swell of anger. “Daryl, what the fuck?” you demanded.

He cleared his throat and shifted uncomfortably.

“I—I thought—you just—you left! You were just gone!” Before you knew it there were tears spilling out onto your cheeks and your anger was rising. “What the fuck!?” you yelled at him. You rushed toward him and pushed him hard in the chest. He simply took it and staggered backwards. “Why did you do that?! You didn’t even say goodbye to me! You didn’t tell me you were leaving, you didn’t tell me anything! You just—you were just gone! Do you know what I thought? Do you have any idea?!” You shoved him again and still he just took it and stepped back to regain his balance. “I thought maybe you were dead!” The tears were pouring out more quickly onto your cheeks and you reached out to shove him back again, but this time he gently caught your arm and held it. His eyes were soft and you crumbled underneath them. “I thought maybe you were dead. I thought your dad—” you gasped in a heaving breath.

“M’sorry,” he said. You stared at him, fighting emotion. “M’sorry,” he said again. He gently tugged you closer to him and you allowed it. “M’so sorry.”

You fell into him and felt his arms wrap around you as you squeezed your eyes shut. “M’sorry, Y/N,” he whispered to you. His hands flattened out on your back and smoothed over it and he held you until were able to stop yourself from crying. You straightened up, hastily wiping the tear streaks off your cheeks.

You laughed a little wryly at yourself. “This is so stupid. I’m—I’m crying over something that happened over a decade ago,” you murmured.

“S’cuz it still feels like it just happened yesterday. Ain’t stupid,” he said.

You took him in for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah. It does.”

_ _ _ _ _ _

You brought Daryl back to your camp and you both did you best to catch the other up one what life had been like since those hazy summer high school days. Most of it didn’t seem to matter anymore now that the world was what it was—all nightmarish and broken. But there was one question you had to ask him as you sat by the campfire that night.

“If you could do it over,” you hesitated, “would you do the same thing?”

“Hmm?” he hummed, a questioning noise.

“Would you just leave, like you did? Or would you do it differently?”

Daryl considered you quietly for a long moment. He had always thought you were beautiful and that hadn’t changed. He had always known you were kind and smart and caring and funny… and that hadn’t changed either, despite the hell around you now. And he still felt like there was a string, a golden thread that led from his heart to yours, tying the two of you together, and that still felt connected. It had never been cut. Not after all the time and all the distance. “I ask myself that just about every day. Think about ya every day,” he said, feeling a bit bashful under the gaze of your brilliant eyes. He turned back to stare at the crackling fire in front of you both. “I dunno if it woulda turned out any better or worse, or even any different but—I do regret not havin’ ya around all this time. Maybe my biggest regret in life.” He glanced up at you again and marveled at your thoughtful, open, and slightly sad expression.

You nodded subtly. “Mine too.”

“The reason I didn’t come tell ya I was leavin’—” he hesitated, biting his bottom lip anxiously. “Is because I knew ya’d try to stop me. I knew ya’d ask me to stay… and if—if ya asked me that, there would be no way I could go.”

You gave him a sad smile and had to blink away the glistening moisture in your eyes again. You cleared your throat and nodded. “I’m still mad at you,” you joked softly.

He let out a small laugh. “Thas fair…” Daryl rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “So, yer really alone out here?” he asked.

You nodded.

“Well, I’ve got a group. Good people. Family. If ya wanted to, ya can come back with me. Yer—yer family too. I promise they’re all good people,” he drawled. He watched you carefully, anxiously trying to read your reaction.

You nodded slowly. “I trust you,” you said.

He cleared his throat, feeling a swell of happiness at your response. “I won’t leave ya again,” he said.

You quirked an eyebrow up at him. “Ya better not.”

[dodo-begone]

Fear for my Lover

Pairing: DSMP!Quackity x Reader

Word count: 2.9k

Warning: Blood, stitches, bruises, injuries, cursing, frontier first aid (sorry if i missed something)

Summary: Life had been busy lately. Very busy. The night was peaceful and you were more than happy to take advantage of the quiet. Even with Quackity there with you. Fate had other plans though and absolutely ruined what would've been an amazing night.

A/n: i,,, this was meant to be SHORT but also- haha i got 2-3 more parts planned brrrrrr. Also used a dialogue prompt thingy for this- you'll see them in there. They're highlighted.

You thought nothing of it when Quackity said that he was going out. Beforehand he told you that he might have to stay late to do some work. You weren’t sure if he had finished or not, but his departure only confirmed the thought that no, he had not finished business.

With a sigh, you walk over to the couch and flop onto it. The exhaustion from the many months of constant work was catching up. You missed how life was before. Even when you were stuck under Schlatt’s rule on Manberg. Yes, it was quite tedious and annoying, but you weren’t completely rebuilding a nation from the ground up along with its citizens.

The physical work of building was tiresome, but something relaxation and a few nights of rest could easily reverse the effects. Though the mental strain was a completely different story. All of the paperwork was tedious and could keep you up at night just because you need to get one more paper done before dawn. Or just knowing that you aren’t able to help everyone in the new L’manberg. So many had given up hope, were tired of the vicious cycle that they had been caught in. It may not have been going on long, but it still had its effect on everyone all the same.

So much work and so little recreational time. There was little time to care for oneself with so much work on their plate. Let alone spend time with your loved ones. Even if they lived in the same house as you. It felt alienating when you weren’t able to even have a small conversation with your significant other.

Your thoughts were deafeningly loud. Sometimes even covering each other when they brought up memories of anxieties of the past and future. That’s why it was rather surprising when the entire L’manberg cabinet ran through your front door in a frenzy. Jumping off of the couch, you try to survey the situation. What in Pime’s name could be going on?

Their hysterical cacophony of voices were all that reached your ears. You didn’t even need to hear their words when you saw Quackity’s limp body in Fundy’s arms.

Without a second thought, you push your way over to Fundy and Quackity, quickly searching him for injuries. Well, the injuries part was pretty obvious with all of the blood. But the extent of the injuries were another story. What could be going on? How bad was it? Oh Prime, why was there so much blood?

In the frenzy you must’ve said something because something happened. One moment you are near the entrance with your beloved in the arms of his co-worker and the next you’re tending to his wounds in your shared bed. Nobody else was in the room. It was just you and Quackity. Your Quackity. And a bowl of water and a small stack of wash clothes and towels.

Your hands quacked from both worry and the sobs you were desperately holding back. Something was stabbing the interior of your throat as it closed from the overwhelming emotions that filled your body.

What terrified you was that Quackity wasn’t completely unconscious. He definitely wasn’t completely there but he was still awake and babbling. More muttering because of how frail and faint his voice was, but it was still a bunch of nonsense. How you wished to know what he was saying, what he was thinking. Now wasn’t the time, but you feared that if you didn’t know now that he’d never tell you. Shit hit the fan and he came back like this. Either his pride or his desire to “protect” you would keep him from spilling the tea. This was your only chance.

All you were able to do was open your mouth before Quackity was making this harder. He was extremely weak from the blood loss and you were in a race against time to stop the river of blood that just seemed to flow freely from his wounds. You had been holding his bigger wounds tightly, trying to put as much pressure as you could to slow the blood loss or stop it completely. Each attempt to settle Quackity only leads to him resisting more, weakly fighting you to get up. Soon his behavior had gone on for too long, in your humble opinion, and he was still as stubborn as he was in the beginning.

With what little common sense you had left in your nearly hysterical state, you tried to reason with him. “Quackity,” you pleaded, still trying to gently push him back onto the bed so he was laying. “Please lay down, Duckie. It’s for your own good. Just let me bandage you up and I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

From an outsider’s perspective, the attempt was silly. It really wouldn’t have gotten much of a reaction from your confused lover. And yet you still tried anyway, hoping that anything would help at this point. You were desperate.

His silence spoke volumes. In some stroke of luck, Quackity heard your words. That or he became too tired to fight and “speak”. Either way, you were taking what you could get. It was a victory and your goal was reached. Without much, if any fight at all, you managed to get Quackity back into bed and went back to patching up his wounds.

They were much worse than you hoped. Your wish that it was a smaller wound with a ton of blood oozing out was swiftly dashed when you started to clean up the blood from its source. Well, more accurately from anywhere and cleaning until you found the source. Although a bad idea, you had patched up his smaller, easy to access wounds. Though you couldn’t dodge the challenge that stood before you, glaring at you from Quackity’s face.

Petechiae, scratches, and bruises also decorated his face in a hideous manner. The centerpiece of it all was a large scar that traveled from his lip to his eye, all on the left side, was the most obvious wound. The others could heal on their own, but that cut, could you even call it a cut, was in dire need of assistance. It was probably already infected and trying to heal itself. But it was too big, too wide to heal naturally. Intervention was needed and it was needed stat!

Blankly you stare at his face, mind running a mile a minute trying to think of remedies and solutions. Sadly there weren’t many options available. Ponk was too far away to call for his medical expertise, not even considering how late it was. Would he even still be awake? Let alone awake enough to do stitches? You could wait till morning but who knows what condition Quackity would be in at dawn. Something had to be done and it had to be done now. Only one plausible solution remained and it definitely wasn’t pleasant.

Swiftly you leave Quackity, moving out of the room as quickly as you could. Quackity tried to reach out to you but just missed your sleeve. Though you didn’t notice or know. You had things to get done and to get them done you needed equipment. Desperately you search around the house, pulling out anything you’d need. More clean towels, a bowl of clean water since the one you had been using was more than dirtied and the towels absolutely soiled. Placing them half-hazardly on a flat surface, you scurried around to find the other necessary equipment. After having to catch your sewing tin and lighter from falling a few times, you grab everything you previously gathered and make your treacherous journey back to Quackity.

When you return, he’s once again sitting up in bed. Weakly, mind you, as he fell back onto the mattress at the sight of you. You wished to scold him for going against what you asked of him, but it didn’t matter now. With no time to waste, you dump your supplies onto the nightstand and fumble around, trying to get everything prepared.

As nimbly as your shaky hands could spare, you set up your thread and needle as if you were going to start sewing a gorgeous design into a quilt. You stared at the bowl of water you had, debating whether or not to use your sad little lighter to heat up that big ole bowl… it’s better if you didn’t. Other than being faster, how much better would it be for sanitizing the needle? It’d take ages to get the water boiling and even then it might not be enough. A flame straight out of a lighter? Seemed better. It got the job done quicker and would be warmer than the boiling water so it was going to kill more bacteria and germ than the boiling water. That’s what you hoped, at least. This is why you aren’t a medic.

Shakily, you ignite the lighter and hold the needle to the flame, slowly rotating it to equally distribute the heat. As tedious and anxiety inducing as it was, it would be worth it in the end. The stitch is only temporary until you can get Ponk to come over, hopefully by early tomorrow. Or later today? What time even was it- Snap out of it! This isn’t the time to be doing this!

You didn’t know how hot the needle had to be to be considered “sanitized” but you had waited long enough. At least that’s what it felt like. Plus the part of the needle you’re holding is getting pretty hot.

When you go in for the first suture, the hiss of pain before you even punctured the skin was a good indicator to you. Not that he was awake enough to still be actively feeling things, but to be able to vocally express his pain and that the needle was hot enough to probably kill most bacteria and germs if it hurt to touch. Hesitation is making you its bitch, holding you still and making you contemplate if what you’re doing is right. Of course what you’re doing is right. It has to be. It’s one of the best and only options you have.

Before you did anything else, you grabbed one of the towels and rolled it up. Gently you pried his mouth open and placed it in like a gag. He wasn’t going to be able to grip much and he’d be grinding his teeth together from pain. Previous experience with stitches and similar frontier medical procedures has taught you one thing; having a gag to bite on helps every part. The patient gets a way to release their pain and the “doctor” is less likely to be hurt by the patient since the patient will have something else to focus on hurting. It doesn’t work entirely but it’s better than hearing the unmuffled screams of agony and feels better to have something to grip onto as hard as you can.

After getting him situated, you position yourself again. With a deep breath, you start off the first suture. Quackity’s muffled scream was heartbreaking yet shocking. Even with you expecting it, it still spooked you a bit. But everything was okay. This was for the best. And then you continued on. Slowly you added stitch after stitch after stitch until you thought you did enough. Really it was a combination of “this is adequate” and “i’m too anxious to keep going because what if i mess up”. Without anesthetics, it was just horrific for both parties to go through with this endeavor. He was moving around so much, trying to twist and turn away from the pain being done to him. His movements were so often and large enough to make you nervous about going near his eyes. What if you poked it out? Or made him blind?

Looking back at the stitches and what they held together, it was obvious that his eyesight was going to be impaired from now on. His eyes were looking completely different from each other now. The regular on the right and the horrific product of whatever he did on his left. A white film covered his eyes like a snow blanket. He was now blind in that eye or going blind.

Realistically, he was going blind but you still held out for the unrealistic hope that he’d be almost entirely okay afterwards. You knew it was unrealistic, but you still hoped.

You Quackity didn’t deserve this.

Once you have cleaned up the mess you made, you start to pack everything up. Needle in the bowl to be cleaned, remaining threat back into the tin, bowls moved away from where they’d get bumped and dumped. Slowly and methodically you finish your tasks. The adrenaline of the night is slowly leaving your body and exhaustion is once again taking hold of you. Oh how you hated that. Absolutely despised the feeling.

After everything was to your liking, you go to check on Quackity again before you leave to give and get some silent rest for the two of you. It’s the least you could do for him after all of this.

He seemed comfortable after everything, peaceful in fact. It was such a calming sight and it eased your guilt of hurting him. Everything you did was for the greater good, you mentally remind yourself. It was to help prevent further infection and it was only temporary. Until you could get proper help for him.

Without much thought, you sit by the bed and lay your head upon it. So much blood got onto the blankets and the sheets. You’d need to clean that quickly. After Quackity gets help and is moved or can be moved, that is. Which would hopefully be tomorrow. Slowly you start to doze off. Or was it zoning out? Either or you were slowly calming down further. To the point where you almost fell asleep.

Jolting awake, you begrudgingly haul yourself off the floor and start your long and tiring journey to the living room. The couch was comfier than the floor, after all. No matter how much you wanted to sleep by Quackity.

Your dawdling is stopped by something on your sleeve. At first you think your sleeve got caught on something so you tug in hopes of being untangled from said object. Nothing happens so you just tug harder. But still nothing happens. Eventually your little tug of war becomes too annoying and has been prolonged enough. You whirl around to see what in Prime’s name you could be caught on.

Low and behold it was the man of the hour, surprisingly. Quackity had grabbed onto your sleeve and just held you there. Confused, you walk back to the bed and sit, holding his face and inspecting for any new signs of pain. Anything that would show that he was feeling something different, something worse. You hoped that he wasn’t feeling like that, but it was a naive hope. Wounds were not an unfamiliar concept to you and yet you’d always hope for such fantastical things to the point where it was odd.

In return for you holding his face, he went to gently hold yours. A soft smile makes an appearance upon your face after the action.

“How’re you feeling, Ducking,” you whisper. Silence once again makes its presence known and it’s very loud and obnoxious about it. “Sorry. I know you’re in a lot of pain. That was stupid of me to ask.”

Quackity chuckles at your slip up and you’re more than happy to join him. Slowly your chuckling drowned out by the silence that had obnoxiously told you how wrong you were to ask your beloved if he was in pain when it was more than obvious that he was, indeed, in pain. You take a deep breath and release a sigh.

“You need to sleep. It’ll help with the healing and hopefully with the pain until tomorrow. I plan on calling Ponk to do some actual doctor shit on you because Prime knows how amazing my skills are.” Once again you attempt to leave Quackity to sleep, but stopped by his grip on your sleeve.

“Please,” he rasped. God his voice was so hoarse after everything. You felt terrible as you were part of the cause and yet you couldn’t do anything nor bring yourself to feel too bad. It was all for the greater good, after all. For his health.

“Please what?”

“Please stay with me,” he begged, looking straight into your eyes with his only working one. The sight was pitiful. Such a prideful man who could do so much left in such a weakened state. You hated seeing him like this. Nobody liked seeing their loved ones in a position like that. And how could you deny him that request, especially with what he went through tonight. You still didn’t know what it was but the aftermath was horrific enough to give a small clue as to what happened.

“Of course,” you reply, smiling warmly and climbing into bed with him. The moment you’re under the blankets and sheets, he gently pulls you into a hug. For his or your sake, you’re unsure. You hope that it’s his though. “Anything for my Duckie.”

[loveinterestcastiel]

erosion

I wrote some endverse fic based on a @lateral-org post asking a FANTASTIC question:

When/why/how did endverse! cas get rid of the trenchcoat and what was dean's reaction?

Rated M. Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence. Word Count: 4.1k

tagged some mutuals and people I thought might be interested in this under the cut, if you want tagged in this/future fic or want me to remove your tag dm me!

erosion

Of course, Sam said yes in Detroit. So why dream about that? He lived it every day. The redundancy was irritating at best.

Where the fuck did I leave my boots last night? Cas cursed under his breath and embarked on a thorough search of their cabin, the coarse words warm and familiar on his tongue as he yanked on his socks. I really am starting to sound like Dean.

Dean’s boots were already gone, his gun and thigh holster absent too. He’d left his green jacket behind, tossed carelessly aside last night and hidden under the trenchcoat on the floor at the foot of their bed. He slipped his coat on over his clothes and shoved Dean’s jacket into their pack- he knew he’d want it later, even if it was just for the drive back. He slipped on the worn coat, habit- he’d stopped wasting Grace on its upkeep a while ago, but it was still important. It felt like comfort, in some strange way, so he kept on wearing it despite the worn-through elbows or the stubborn little bloodstained spot on the hem.

He’d dreamed of Detroit, last night, again. He didn’t know if he’d ever get used to dreaming, as unsettling and involuntary as it was. It felt like the unfair hijacking of an otherwise enjoyable human bodily function, and he resented it altogether. He snagged a bit of weed from his stash and tucked it in next to his flask, sweeping out the cabin door and into the frigid morning sunshine, giving Chuck a lazy wave as he ambled past his cabin to the truck lot, kicking little pebbles across the packed dirt at imaginary targets with a super-human precision that grated strangely on him today.

“Big run today,” Chuck said with a tentative smile, his hands clasping a chipped mug filled to the brim with his ridiculously indulgent tea, wafting a cascade of steam out over the railing of his cabin porch before dissipating into the air. “Don’t forget the perishables if you can get at them, ok? We’re seriously low on-”

“Toilet paper, milk, cheese, butter,” he interrupted, “plus sugar, flour, canned fruit, hygiene products, toothpaste, toilet paper, coffee, meat if we can get it, .35 and 9mm ammunition, mechanical oil, gasoline, propane, rubbing alcohol, gauze, surgical tape, toilet paper, paracetamol, and oh, toilet paper again!” Cas recited dryly, rolling his eyes. “You gave us a written list yesterday. Twice. Couldn’t fuck up blackout drunk.”

Chuck snorted, shaking his head in self-deprecation. “Just doing my job, Cas.”

“We’ll do ours,” he called over his shoulder, continuing down the central path briskly. “We’ve all got our part to play.”

What was it Lucifer had said to Dean, that night Zachariah stole him out from under Cas’s nose and threw him into the future? No matter what choices you make, whatever details you alter… we will always end up here.

It certainly seemed like he was right. Most days, it seemed like they were all hurtling towards the exact same place Dean had caught a wretched glimpse of, once, with the brakes slashed and emergency failsafes offline, and no indicator that the impossible choices they were making every day were anything but inevitable. He knew that Dean still had nightmares about his ending, but he didn’t know much else about Dean’s nightmares anymore but what little snippets he could garner from what Dean mumbled and cried out in his sleep. He’d lost the ability to dreamwalk a while back. Three nights after the Croatoan virus wiped out Fort Worth and they were forced to fall back, he tried to enter Dean’s sleep to watch his dreams in the dubious refuge of a closed down Motel 6 off of interstate 70 as they ran west, to see if there was some piece of information they’d missed, some new choice they could make one day that could change the path they were on.

It simply hadn’t worked. He mourned the loss of one more skill in the darkness of their room that night as Dean slept uneasily in the bed beside him, one more thing which, in its absence, made him ever more useless to Dean, much like the loss of his ability to time travel, or to smite their enemies with ease. Flight was becoming difficult by the day, and he knew in some part of his mind that his wings would be the next to go, and he would be grounded, permanently, on Earth and not in Heaven.

And so it goes.

Anyway, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice about anything these days. Once Michael had taken Adam, they lost their only trump card. Heaven didn’t need Dean anymore, but Hell desperately needed Sam. It was a shame, it really was, that Sam’s gamble hadn’t paid off.

It was a miracle Lucifer let Dean go. He had brushed him off as a non-threat. Unimportant on a cosmic scale, however important Dean was to the vessel. To Sam. So Dean walked out of that run down building alive, and he was the most beautiful, terrible thing Cas had ever seen. His soul shone brighter than even an archangel’s grace in his rage and trembled with the fierce sharpness of grief, and it was glorious, righteous.

Godly.

Even as Cas’s memories softened and blurred, becoming tinged with a mortal haze, that memory of Dean remained in a sparkling clarity. He could imagine no life, no moldable version of the past, in which he did not choose Dean. From the very first moment his soul had reached back to cling to Cas’s Grace in Hell, Cas had fallen, was falling, would fall, for Dean. It was inevitable, his love. They were inevitable. They fell together in the time after Detroit, into battle, into bed, and into cosmic obscurity. Soon, too soon, their losses began to outnumber their wins, and they had to make more and more certain regrettable sacrifices just to stay alive. Cas was used to collateral damage, far more than Dean was, but whatever the other humans in their ragged camp believed of him, he wasn’t unaffected. Just the opposite, in fact. He had never felt anything before, not for billions of years, an incomprehensible existence of light and intent and obedience and war, and now he felt everything. That- not Dean’s disappointment, or the slow loss of his Grace, or his Father’s unyielding silence- was undoubtedly the worst part of becoming something like human.

Some days were better than others, of course. Some days he took precious little blue or white or green pills, all different shapes and sizes and he felt good. Numb, pleased, far away. Quiet. Others, fewer than the days he had his pills, he took shrooms, LSD. Molly, twice. Often he took nothing at all, craving the wicked pain and emptiness it created in him as his sobriety enhanced the ache his dwindling Grace left behind, needing the punishment to feel real before forcing himself into a tumultuous sleep after days spent horribly awake with half a bottle of rotgut sloshing in his stomach. He still liked joints, rolled meticulously, their verdant smoke curling up deliciously in his lungs and setting him up on a lovely little metaphorical cloud the best, and then, they were even more so lovely when he shared them with Dean. There was nothing, nothing like passing it between them, before transitioning into trading hit after hit between their mouths, brushing against his soft lips, breathing his air, watching Dean’s cheeks flush a stunning pink and holding tight to his deep golden hair, dragging him down into slow, languid kisses that desire deepened and turned into a precious sort of holy consumption as the high hit its stride in them both.

He was sober today, mostly, just riding out the last of some gorgeous pink pill from a nearly full bottle he’d just scavenged out a few days before. It made him feel floaty, focused, fearless. He felt almost like he did two years ago, before his reeducation stint in Heaven. Angelic. It was nice. He’d take another, later. Maybe Dean would want to take one, too, and they could fuck high out under the stars on their quilt again like they did last October and feel like the real Gods of this stupid little planet, on top of the world, on top of Dean, cradled in the soft embrace of his thighs, and worship each other.

Take that, brothers. Castiel smiled viciously at the sky. You’ll never fuck God like I have.

Standing impatiently among their motley caravan of vehicles in the sickly yellow light of a midwestern April morning sun, his back to Cas, Dean’s silhouette and the flashing imprint of his soul- the only one Cas could still see clearly- caramelized into a sweet union of tangible and not that pulled at his stomach and swept him into the siren song of Dean’s being and woke up the hungry creature that lived in his heart and craved DeanDeanDeanDean.

No one else was there yet, probably all still dicking around at the camp mess and drinking shitty chicory. His feet fell silently on the earth, leaving behind the sound of the universe and the vibrant humming of Dean’s soul- and oh, he hoped he could always hear that symphony, even when all the rest of his powers had run dry.

Just as he reached out to take Dean by the shoulder and turn him around, Dean moved with a sudden burst of energy, like a coiled snake striking out. He whirled around and met Cas’s eyes, took him by the neck and the waist, and kissed him. His lips moved with a gentleness that contradicted the intensity of the grip of his cold-fingered hands as they worked their way into his hair, wormed their way under his trenchcoat, and touched the bare skin they found where the hem of his t-shirt met his jeans. He met the kiss eagerly, licking teasingly at the seam of his lips, biting down gently and coaxing Dean into opening his mouth. He pushed Dean back until his back hit the nearest rusted army-green truck with a small thudding noise, pressing himself up against Dean and tugging on his hips so they were pressed flush against each other, the contact sending and electric thrill racing up his spine.

“Cas,” Dean gasped out at the sensation of their bodies meeting, the air punched out of his lungs.

“Mmm, morning,” Cas murmured between kisses. “You’re out here early.” Dean’s neck was uncharacteristically bare above the neck of his rough brown sweater, creamy and invitingly unmarked. Cas indulged in the impulse to change that, working his way over the tender skin, sucking and biting until a bruise began to bloom below the junction of Dean’s jaw and neck, worrying it with his teeth until it was a deep reddish-purple.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dean whispered, letting his head fall back against the truck window, baring his throat further, and closed his eyes. He seemed almost happy, today. He seemed to light up in the lead-up to their more dangerous missions, and Cas didn’t want to think about that right now. Didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Didn’t want to wake you up,” Dean elaborated.

“I appreciate that.” Satisfied with the rather outrageous hickey he’d created on Dean’s neck, Cas pressed it with one last kiss. “How’d you know I was behind you?” he asked, pressing their foreheads together and slowly grinding their hips together lazily, just breathing Dean in.

“Felt you,” Dean said, bringing their lips together again briefly. “Always can.” One more little kiss.

“Dean, last night, when you couldn’t sleep, I dreamed again about Detroit-” Cas started to confess feverishly, almost against his will, Dean stiffening up at his words in his arms, and was interrupted by the sound of people approaching, footsteps, voices, and an earsplitting wolf-whistle directed at their compromising position.

Dean’s face shuttered immediately, and Cas felt every scrap of easy bliss flee his body.

He pulled back with more than a little reluctance, his stomach twisting as a fakely jovial grin tugged at the corners of his lips, and clapped Dean on the shoulder. “Let’s go, fearless leader. We’ve got a mission to run, don’t you know?”

“Don’t start with that fearless leader shit,” Dean said tightly, rolling his eyes away from Castiel’s face and fixing on a point somewhere over Cas’s shoulder. “Who’s driving?”

“Looks like Cas is driving,” Joe called out mischievously.

Risa smacked him in the chest. “Get in the truck, idiot.” She turned her gaze to Dean, an odd glint in her eye. It felt sticky and wrong in his core but Cas stamped the feeling down. “Group brief over the radio on the way?” she asked.

“Yeah, at 8,” Dean said, sliding into his unshakeable militaristic persona with a firm nod. “Should be fairly straightforward in and out supply grab. Intel says the Croats cleared out of Roanoke a couple days ago, left major infrastructure and commerce sites relatively untouched. It’s a good thing too,” he added, “we were getting spread a little thin with most goods.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

———————————————————————

It was not, in fact, easy.

Their intel was wrong, so wrong, and Cas didn’t know how the fuck it happened, but they were fine, they were almost finished, closing up the trucks in the alley behind the supermarket and waiting for Dean and Trish to return from sweeping the perimeter, when out of what seemed like thin air and with no more than a broken shout for warning there were more Croats swarming them than he’d ever seen in one place before, and Joe and Maya and Kris were dead, and Dean was nowhere to be found.

The Croats had the remaining seven pinned down against the main truck, snarling and screeching and reeking of blood and gore, strips of flesh and clothing that once adorned their companions now dangling from their teeth. Their single-minded need for the endless consumption of human flesh and that it was currently being denied drove them to a terrifying frenzy, but the hunters were starting to push back, and the Croat numbers were thinning slowly but surely. Cas thought he saw Allen get bitten, but next he glanced at him he looked fine. He’d need to check on that if they made it out alive. He resigned himself quickly to the idea of killing the man before they got back to Chitaqua- Allen was a nice enough man, quick-witted and skilled with a blade and a loom, but nothing was worth bringing a Croat back to camp. He owed it to the man as a human being to grant him a swift death if he’d been infected before Allen himself could realize it. A shot to the back of the head, unawares, had to be better than a clumsy battle and inevitable stab to the chest (Cas knew he would always have the upper hand against a human, even when he had fallen in full) with fear in his heart.

He buried his angel blade to hilt in yet another Croat’s throat, yanking it out and ducking out of the way of the spray of blood that followed in a well-practiced motion uncanny in its speed. They would win this one.

But still no Dean.

Cas felt a bubbly panic rise up in his chest through the haze of battle as it became clear to him that Dean wasn’t coming back. Even from the other side of the building or from inside, there was no way that Dean had not heard the commotion of such a large fight.

Something was stopping Dean from coming back to him.

“Risa,” he shouted over the din to the woman on his left. “Dean and Trish-”

“I know,” she interjected tersely, hacking the head off of a skeletally thin Croat in a tattered suit. “Retrieval? We’ve got this handled here as long as this all the fucking bastards around.”

“I’m going in,” Cas said quickly, slicing at a particularly bold (stupid) Croat trying to charge him. It crumpled to the ground and twitched once, and was still. Some of its companions fell on the body ravenously, and were subsequently cut down in turn as they began to tear at the corpse. “Leave as soon as you’re able; I’ve got the keys to the main truck. Cover your right,” he warned Risa, and, sensing an opportunity in the parting sea of Croats before him, ran.

He was through the service doors of the building before the Croat hoard could even begin to respond to his escape, and their noises were quickly muffled by the service door as it locked automatically behind him, leaving him in relative quiet.

There were a surprising number of crates and boxes remaining in the storage and unloading zones, either empty or nearly so, and he quickly ascertained the area was, apart from himself, devoid of life or anything of interest to the camp.

Cas.

Dean's sudden prayer hit him like a sledgehammer to the gut.

Aisle... his mental voice trailed off for a second into indistinct sounds, colors, and waves of pain. Aisle seven. It's bad.

Cas shoved through the access door into the freezers, and out into the store with a recklessness he would have been ashamed of had he been so terrified.

He turned down aisle seven and skidded to a halt, frozen at the sight that greeted him, and tried to make sense of the hideously macabre tableau.

Trish's decapitated body lay the furthest from him, her ribcage torn open, her organs spilling over her arms and scattered in pieces over the floor. Three dead Croats, all headshots, around her remains. Then a bloody lake on the cheap linoleum tile, thick and viscous and so, so red, two more dead Croats, clearly more hard-won victories, their arms hacked at, heads partially removed, and nearly blocking the last body from view, wedged up against the shelves and bloody as it was.

"Cas," Dean wheezed, lifting his head laboriously to meet his eyes, blood bubbling up between his lips and staining them. "Cas, I'm so sorry-"

"No, no, don't talk like that," Cas said desperately, kneeling beside Dean. He took their pack of his back with shaking hands and shoved his angel blade somewhere inside. "We can fix this. You'll be okay."

"Cas-"

"You will!" he said, too loudly and startling himself.

"My ribs," Dean panted out in pained little gasps. "Broken. There's something in my back." He twitched minutely as if to show Cas the problem and immediately convulsed involuntarily at the pain the movement caused him, a horrible rattling moan in his throat. "My leg. Right one. Broken too." His jaw was clenched so tightly it was a miracle he could speak at all through the teeth-grinding pain he was in.

"Okay," Cas said faintly.

Cas...

Oh, he hated feeling. Sometimes he thought it made him useless. He missed being cold. Brutal, uncaring about pain or death. But this was Dean, and he'd never actually been particularly good at being a machine, anyway. "Okay. Dean, I need to see your back," he warned him, before moving him as gently as he could and angling his body so that he could get an unobstructed view of his back.

There was a crude metal stake wedged just an inch to the left of his second and third thoracic vertebrae, rusted, twisted and cruel-looking.

"Dean, I- I have to try to heal you," he said slowly, knowing that Dean wouldn't want him to be wasteful with his Grace. But this was beyond what human field medicine could help.

Dean didn't respond. He'd fallen unconscious.

"Oh no, no, no, baby," he babbled under his breath, trying to figure out the best way to extract the bar of metal. "Hold on," he muttered, grasping the stake firmly and bracing Dean's body against his own, trying to avoid fucking his broken ribs up more.

"Father, please, if you're still here, if you're listening, if you care at all," he begged, "help me."

Of course, his Father didn't answer. Gritting his teeth, Cas yanked out the stake and tossed it aside, immediately covering the wound with his hand. He summoned his Grace together and it responded sluggishly, but his hand was glowing and Dean's back was knitting back together.

As the skin merged into a puckered, raw-looking pink scar, Cas dropped his hand away from the wound and found himself utterly breathless, gasping for air and drained.

Dean was still unconscious.

He leaned Dean back up against the shelving and took a moment to figure out what to do next. Dean was still dying. He was still in danger. He couldn't be moved, nor could they stay put. He quickly opened up their pack and realized in horror that all the medical supplies were with Risa and AJ on the trucks and so, so far away by now.

He yanked his coat off with a twinge of regret. It was bloodied and worn and what he was about to do with it felt like a milestone he was loathe to reach.

He shredded it into long, wide strips, not letting himself think of how it was the last piece of Jimmy Novak, or how he had repaid the man's sacrifice by being party to the end of the world they both wanted to protect, or how Claire Novak had stopped praying to him weeks ago, now. He got on with the job, this is just a job, I can fix this-

He managed to wrap Dean's leg up decently tight, straight and stiff, but he had quickly discovered it was broken in several places. He didn't know what he could do for Dean's ribs, and he felt, as if from a distance, how Dean's breath was coming shallower and shallower, and he made his choice.

He laid his left hand on Dean's broken leg, as gently as he could. Leaning forward, he smoothed the wispy little baby hairs he loved to tease Dean about back, off his sweaty, pained, precious face, and, placing his right hand on Dean's crushed ribs, near his heart, touched their foreheads together. He looked at Dean's soul, his shining, beautiful (fading) soul and knew.

"I love you," Cas whispered, his voice wrecked. With that finally said, he grabbed his exhausted, weary Grace, and though it fought him and slipped through his grasp, he got hold of it and he pushed everything he could, everything he was into his hands, into Dean.

When he had done it, when he had drained himself down to mists and vapors, and had saved Dean, he gathered him in his arms, and carried him back to the truck on numb feet, leaving the scraps of Jimmy's coat behind in aisle seven.

When the truck broke down thirty miles from Chitaqua, and their radio too, he turned to Dean, pulling on a blue-ish jacket they'd picked up earlier during the run. It fit well.

"It's a good look for you," Dean said gruffly, staring at Cas with an expression he could not recognize. There was blood still smeared on his cheekbone, he noted absently.

"Oh. Yes. Well, thank you," Cas answered, adjusting the sleeves.

Dean tugged at the tan fabric strips on his leg, wincing at the pressure.

"You did a good job, Cas. With this fabric splint from your coat-"

"I know you won't be able to walk it," Cas said quietly, unable to meet his eyes even as he interrupted him. "I did what I could, but you'll be weak for days. You need time."

"You can leave me, Cas," Dean said, a strange, pinched guilt-pain-tenderness on his face. "You can come back for me."

"No," Cas said, smiling, and choking, and took Dean's cheek in the palm of his hand with a terrible ache rising in his throat. "I can't."

April 19th, 2012, under the peak of the Lyrids meteor showers, Cas flew for the last time, right up to the gates of the camp.

When they landed, a millisecond and millennia later, his wings burned away into nothingness in a wave of electric, minty-white pain that forced him to the ground. In the aftermath, panting and sweating and shaking in Dean's arms and clutching at his handprint on Dean's shoulder, he realized his Grace, or what was left of it, anyway, had consolidated into a bright little ball in his chest. Like a soul.

The realization was followed by another. Despite his earlier conviction that it would one day be lost to him, he could still see Dean's soul- behind his teeth, in his chest, radiant like a halo around his head, and worth, a million times over, and a million again, falling for.

Tagged:

@heller-jensen @sunforgrace @rambleoncas @adhdeancas @evermorecastiel @holmesemrys @plantdadcas @good-things-do-happen-dean @jeanne-de-valois @autisticandroids @sonder-stars @yana125 @faithcastiel @cascreamtiel @seffersonjtarship @i-sing-for-me @purgatorybi @bibelphegor @cowboyslikedean @gracefuldean @dimples-of-discontent @judaskissdean @wafflehousegothic @icaruscastiel @67chevyimpala67 @lesbianjenderenvy

[world-of-horrors-au]

Horrors AU - Bittersweet

Ben opens up a bit about his past. Briar doesn’t really understand, but she’ll support him no matter what.

1.2k words Teen and up rating Set within the Horrors AU, the dystopian/post-apocalyptic AU this blog is dedicated to. For more information, see the pinned post on this blog! Trans!Ben x female OC Briar the Batter [though it’s not heavy on the romance], mentioned EJ/Jeff. All mentioned characters are in their 20s Content Warnings: Discussions of 80s/90s homophobia/transphobia/LGBTphobia, and domestic violence. Implied religious abuse and dysphoria [though the latter is mostly read between the lines].

---

Her apartment was just as she left it that morning. With relief, Briar slid the heavy bag from her shoulders, and dropped it onto the wooden floor. The warm scent of the bread she’d made the day before still lingered, along with the wildflowers that graced her kitchen table. Briar kicked off her shoes and walked to the kitchen window. Wood scraped together as she opened it, letting in sunlight and the breeze of a future storm. With a groan, Briar pulled her hair free from its ponytail and massaged the back of her head. God, it was good to be home.

“Ben?” She called out.

The radio on the counter beeped.

“I’m in your bedroom,” his voice came.

Briar rolled her eyes. Oh, boy, that was fast.

“Playing a game,” he said, guessing what she was thinking. “The tv in the living room can’t connect to my Gamecube anymore.”

“Gotcha,” she said, a bit relieved. “I’m heading your way, I need to get out of my work clothes.”

“Copy that.”

Even before she opened the door, Briar heard his game, the cries of monsters and clicks of a menu pushing through the wood. Stepping into the empty room, she looked at the television perched on top of her old dresser.

“Pokemon again?”

“Yeah.” His voice came from her bed. Briar looked, and there he was where he wasn’t before, lying back with legs crossed on top of her comforter. One arm supported his blond head, the other rested in his lap. He didn’t need controllers to play games, being dead and all. “Got fifteen more of these bastards to purify.”

She shrugged. “Have fun with that.”

As she passed by him, Briar tapped his booted feet.

“No boots on the bed,” she said.

Ben made a face at her. “They’re not even real,” he said.

“Yeah, but you’ll teach Jeff bad habits.” Opening her closet door, Briar grabbed one of her thin shirts. “I already caught him trying to go to sleep with his jeans on.”

“How is that my fault?” Ben said. “I don’t even sleep.”

“You know damn well why,” Briar teased, and pulled off the top of her nurse’s uniform. She groaned in relief. “Feels great to get out of these scrubs,” She said as she pulled the pants off.

“Wouldn’t know, I don’t really take my clothes off.” Ben swore. “Damn it! You can’t kill my Espeon! He’s my baby!”

“You really get into those games.” She adjusted her bra before putting her new top on.

“Yeah, they relax me. Let me forget what reality is like for a few hours.” Ben flipped the NPC the bird as she heard him send out a new pokemon. “I always liked them, even when I had to hide them from…”

Briar looked over at him as she pulled the shorts over her legs. Ben’s face had clouded over with memories. She didn’t say anything, just let him be.

He swallowed. “From my husband.”

She adjusted the waistband of her shorts, looking at him. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“Right out of high school. Me and my high school sweetheart. Our entire graduating class came to our wedding - but that was like, 15 people, and most didn’t stay long. My friends told me I was making a mistake, but I didn’t care. I was in love. I wanted it all.”

Ben shook his head. Briar walked over and sat down next to him on the bed. In silence, she watched him go through the motions of his battle.

“Thought I did, at least. But being married to him didn’t make me happy. Having sex with him sucked. He went to college and made me stay home, then we fought about me playing video games. He smashed my GameBoy with a hammer, and told me he’d do that to my fingers if he caught me wasting his money on ‘nerd shit’ again. That was about three years in, when he started getting violent. Two years after that, he drowned me in the sink.”

“Jesus,” Briar said.

“I listened to my mother instead of my friends,” Ben said. “My friends told me to run, but she told me it was my responsibility to work things out with him, and if I divorced him, I’d go to hell with the - well, the AIDS victims. She was real big on conservative bullshit - that’s a different kind of conservative than you know, it’s kind of hard to explain -” He sighed. “She went hard on it because I knew I was trans as a kid and told her. Scared her shitless. She tried to snuff it out for my own good.”

“It didn’t work though,” Briar said.

“It did work, though.” Ben didn’t look away from the screen. “And it didn’t make me happy at all. But what does it matter, if you’re happy, so long as you’re not gay?”

Briar stared at the screen, twisted the fabric of her shirt between her fingers. She couldn’t really wrap her head around any of this.

“It was really like that?”

“It was worse than that - so much worse. But even gay people could go buy chocolate at the grocery store, you know?” The game paused. “It was getting better. That’s what pisses me off. Before the First Wave, things were getting better for us - for LGBT people - we were on a path to being accepted. And then, for fucking who knows why, we all completely lost it.” Ben shook his head and gestured with his free hand. “And now who knows what’ll happen? I don’t like humans, but thinking about them suffering because of who they are pisses me off - and you know those government bastards will try and ban ‘em all if they find out that Jeff and Eyeless were in a relationship during the War. Nothing’s off limits to those fucks.”

She looked down at the quilt below her, and frowned.

“Well,” Briar said. “I guess that means we can’t lose, then. They can’t find out if we take them down.”

Ben arched an eyebrow at her, then smiled wryly. “Look at you, our ray of hope.” His arms wrapped around her, and Briar stiffened in surprise as he placed his head on her shoulder. When did Ben ever show physical affection? Briar hugged him back.

“You know, I don’t know why you’re here, when it’s been so long since anybody was born,” he said. “But you’re good to have around. You know, for being a weak human-type.”

“Human-type?” She snorted. “What am I, a Pokemon?”

He pulled away. “You know what I mean.” Dropping back onto the bed, Ben resumed his game.

Briar shook her head, and started to stand, only for a hand to wrap around her wrist. She looked down at him. Without looking at her, he patted the spot next to him.

“You’re tired. Hang out with me a while.”

“Uh…” Briar thought about it, thinking about the dishes she needed to do, the laundry to take in from the line before the storm rolled in from the ocean… but he patted the bed again and she let herself give in. Briar laid down against him on her side, and closed her eyes. Ben wrapped an arm around her, and she allowed herself the pleasure of a nap.

[cheri-translates]

[CN] Victor’s Colours of Rain Date (Eng Translation)

🍒 Warning: This post contains detailed spoilers for a date which has not been released in English servers! 🍒

This date is dedicated to anyone who’s had a tough and tiring week in school or at work 🥰

The date begins with MC heading to the office at the ungodly hour of 6am, right after landing at the airport.

She’s tired but has to sit through a sudden and lengthy meeting with Yuelai Entertainment (“Yuelai”).

Yuelai is a reputable company which suddenly changed its mind regarding establishing a long-term partnership with MC’s company.

The representative from Yuelai bears bad news, saying that a partnership is unlikely due to budget constraints. MC asks for another chance to redo the proposal, but Yuelai gives her a vague response and leaves.

MC feels downcast because her staff members have been working very hard on the proposal, and all their efforts seem to have gone to waste. Anna tells her to rest, but MC wants to create a new proposal to change Yuelai’s mind.

She heads to Victor’s office later in the morning to present her weekly report. She starts dozing off.

A fountain pen taps my forehead. My eyes snap open in shock, and I am faced with an expressionless Victor.

Victor: Don’t get distracted during the meeting.

MC: Only the two of us are here…

I mutter under my breath, letting out a yawn.

Victor: Stayed up late again?

MC: I had a late flight, so I spent most of the night in the airport. And there was a sudden meeting at the office this morning…

I rub my tired eyes, feeling dejected as I recall the bad news from this morning.

Victor stops flipping through the material in his hands, raising his head to look at me.

Victor: Have you been feeling tired recently?

MC: Not really.

I deny instantly. Victor pauses, frowning slightly.

Victor: Just look at your eyebags. Even the pandas in the zoo recognize you as their relative.

MC: It’s just that everything is packed together so I’m busier than usual. I’ll be fine after getting through this period!

Victor: You’re really doing fine?

I nod without hesitation.

MC: Mm, I can handle it!

Goldman showed me Victor’s schedule for these two weeks, and the extent that it is filled to the brim is shocking. Compared to him, my workload is not worth mentioning.

Victor: Do you have any work this afternoon?

MC: Why do you ask?

Victor: I’ve read through your proposal and there aren’t any big issues. Go back and get a good rest. You’re not allowed to stay up late over the next few days.

I pause for a moment, look at the pile of work on Victor’s desk, and take out my laptop.

MC: I’ll stay here with you. Being able to stay with you is my best form of relaxation.

Victor: …up to you.

Victor lets out a sigh, a smile slipping onto his face.

Victor: How’s the deal with Yuelai Entertainment?

MC: This… I’m still not sure about their final decision.

I avert my eyes, even more determined to create a perfect proposal for Yuelai Entertainment.

MC is just about to ask Victor for advice when she receives a call. She has to return to the office to deal with a difficult guest on their talk show.

After that, MC finds one of her staff crying from stress

Thinking of how to comfort her, MC recalls the many trials she faced since Ch 1 of the main storyline, and how she plowed through them all

After that:

I finally have a short break and I rub my sore temples, the fatigue built up over the past few days overwhelming me.

The weather is fine and the leaves are swaying in the breeze. I stare at the clouds and find myself suddenly missing Victor. The time spent with him this morning was probably the only time I felt relaxed in days.

Someone from Yuelai calls MC. While MC’s company crafted a very unique proposal, Yuelai sees no future in having a long-term partnership with a small company like MC’s. Yuelai hangs up on her before she can even negotiate.

Depressed, she decides to walk home because the next bus would only arrive in an hour. To make things worse, it suddenly starts pouring.

The rain is so heavy that the bag she uses to cover her head slips out of her hands, her items falling all over the ground. Her neatly arranged documents get drenched too.

I want to escape from the spotlight. I don’t want to face tomorrow. I want to find an empty corner and just burst into tears. 

The phone lying in the water vibrates, signaling an incoming call. I rub my swollen eyes and reach for my drenched phone.

MC: Hello?

Victor: Where are you?

My voice is lodged in my throat. It never crossed my mind that Victor would call me at this very moment. I take a deep breath and pretend to answer in a relaxed manner. I didn’t want him to hear that I was about to cry.

MC: Why are you calling me at this time? I’ll be home soon, what about you?

Victor: …I see you.

MC: What did you say?

Victor: Turn around.

I follow what he says and am met with blinding headlights.

The car stops. Someone steps out of the car, opens an umbrella, and walks towards me.

Under the amber streetlights, his silhouette becomes clearer in the rain.

I stare dazedly at Victor, thinking that I’m hallucinating. The tears I had been suppressing threaten to overflow.

Victor frowns and looks at me, letting out a sigh.

Victor: How long do you want to stay in the rain? Come here.

I rub my eyes. Not caring how embarrassing I look, I rush into his arms.

The feeling of acid that has been accumulating in my heart finally escape. I bury my head in his chest and burst into tears.

The umbrella is tossed aside. He places his outercoat over me, and the residual warmth disperses the cold.

Victor: You’re crying so badly. Seems like you’ve suffered a lot.

MC: I’ve already worked so hard… I’ve tried everything… I don’t know what to do… so that I can be even better…

I speak and pause through my tears. Victor pats my back gently, his actions slow and tender.

Victor: I know. You’ve already done very well. I can see that.

His voice is impossibly gentle in the gradually lightening rain.

After some time, the rain finally stops.

I look up at him with my reddened eyes. The Victor standing in front of me still doesn’t seem real.

Water droplets from the trees above pelt onto his shoulder. Even the front of his shirt has a large patch from absorbing my tears.

MC: This isn’t a dream right… you… why are you here?

Victor doesn’t answer. He gently wipes a tearstain off my face.

Victor: To fetch a dummy home.

In the car, MC realizes that she has lost her house keys in the rain so she’s unable to return home.

Victor: We’re heading to my home anyway.

MC: Y-your home?

I suddenly think about the sight of me sobbing my heart out earlier.

MC: Victor…

Victor: What is it?

MC: Can you forget about my whole bawling incident just now?

Victor: Don’t worry, I’ll get my outercoat sent to the dry cleaners tomorrow.

MC: …

Victor: What happened today?

Faced with this sudden question, I don’t know where to begin. Maybe it was the sudden meeting with Yuelai Entertainment this morning, maybe it was dealing with the difficult guest, maybe it was the heavy rain…

Maybe the culmination of all these things left me helpless and made it clear that I am not as strong as I thought.

MC: I realized that I’m not as capable as I thought… the more ambitious I am, the more helpless and small I feel when met with failure… I feel like a good-for-nothing…

Victor: You really are stupid.

MC: Why are we on the topic of my stupidity again.

I mutter softly, but turn to look at him curiously.

MC: You look like you’ve never lost control of your emotions before.

Victor: I have.

In the tranquil evening, his voice becomes quieter.

Victor: I’m no different from you. There are many things I cannot do or force to make happen. It’s okay to not be strong, it’s okay to not do well. You don’t have to bottle up your emotions.

I stare at his side profile, recalling what he had once said to me—

Victor is also an ordinary person.

[Note] She’s making reference to Victor’s Understanding the Human World date

Victor: I won’t tell you to keep holding on no matter what difficulties you face. That isn’t realistic. There will come a time when you will become an even better version of yourself who will have enough courage and experience to deal with all of this.

I suddenly have a realisation.

MC: You are an ordinary Victor, I am a mediocre MC. Everyone will definitely experience joys and sorrows in life. It’s just that people have different thresholds of endurance.

He laughs lightly, not denying my words.

Under the gentle streetlights, he pauses. It is as though an inordinate amount of time passes before his voice reaches my ears, but every word is crystal clear.

Victor: But before that, I hope you can learn to rely on me. At least with me, you always have the right to be vulnerable.

After they reach Victor’s house, he towels her hair dry and covers her with a quilt. Victor prepares to take a shower and asks MC to get him a change of clothes. 

When MC enters the bathroom, Victor is in a state of undress – his shirt is half-open and his tie hangs loosely off his neck.

MC places the clean clothes down, but slips on her way out because - I kid you not - she keeps thinking about how she can see Victor’s abs through his shirt lol

Victor: Be careful!

Victor’s warning comes too late. I lose control of my body, falling against Victor. I hear a pain-filled groan from behind me.

Feeling something warm, I have a bad feeling as I lift up my head.

Under the bright lights, Victor pushes himself off the ground with his palm, leaning his back against the white tiles. His fringe is messy, beads of water on the tips of his hair.

His wet, half-translucent shirt sticks to his skin, revealing a sculpted abdomen that is usually covered and hidden.

The shower hose is at the side, and the sound of water continues to resound.

My line of sight trails from his leg upwards and finally settle on his handsome face. I feel slightly dazed.

Victor: Seen enough?

MC: No…

I bite my tongue before the words leave my mouth, trembling as I remove the hand that is still on his chest.

MC: One misfortune after another, haha…

Victor: Stand up. How long do you intend to sit on the floor?

Victor stands first before pulling me up. He then retrieves a towel to wipe off the water droplets on me.

Victor: There really isn’t a single moment when I don’t have to worry.

After this, MC chills on the sofa in the living room and looks around.

She sees her proposal on the table. Wondering what criticisms Victor has in store for her, she decides to flip through it:

Unexpectedly, every page is filled with more comments than usual.

“Not bad”

“There’s some improvement”

“Worthy of commendation”

Not only are there praises that I don’t normally see, but there are also extremely detailed examples and analysis.

A CEO who has a thousand things to do each day is so detailed and meticulous?

I can’t help but let out silly laughter, my fingers trembling lightly. I gently touch the handwriting that belongs to him.

In my most fatigued and embarrassing moment, Victor was the one who came to me with a hug.

He is the only island that I, a little boat which has drifted off course, can rely on.

Victor: Why haven’t you gone to sleep?

MC: …I can’t sleep. I was waiting for you.

Victor has stepped out of the bathroom and is now standing behind me.

He wipes his damp hair with a towel, water vapour faintly surrounding him. He looks at me, his line of sight following my actions to the proposal on the table. He looks surprised.

MC: I promise I’m not working. I was just looking around… and saw this.

I nod towards the red-coloured comments and cast him a smile that says: “I understand everything”.

Victor: I was just curious to see whether a silly technique of encouragement would be beneficial to you.

I’m not surprised that he isn’t speaking from the heart…

MC: It’s not silly at all, and it’s extremely effective! I recommend that you use it very often!

He ignores my teasing, walks around the sofa, and sits beside me.

I look at Victor, whose profile has been caged in a halo. Only the sounds of our breathing echo in the quiet air.

Victor: Your eyes are still swollen.

I subconsciously touch my eyelids.

MC: D-does it look ugly?

Victor: Mm, very ugly.

There is a smile in his voice.

MC: …then stop looking!

I lower my head dispiritedly, pulling the quilt over my head.

Victor: You dummy.

He looks even more deeply into my eyes. The breathing that falls on my ear is very gentle, very steady, and very long.

Victor: From now onwards, I’m the only one who can see your crying face.

💧

Phone Calls: First // Second

[mixedfandomer]

So I translated a phineas and ferb episode way to many times try to guess which one it is p.S I would love to see someone make this

(I don’t know how to add those continue reading things so you don’t have to scroll for a long time sorry)

Phineas: And how do you like red and blue toothpaste?

(A mysterious capsule falling from the sky)

Phineas: Wow. Hmm, it looks like it just fell out of the sky.

(shows the color of an umbrella)

Phineas: I think so. Open it and check the contents.

(Farb jumps out of an umbrella and goes to the box. He tries to open it).

Phineas: Wow. It's a day full of questions. First the toothpaste, then this.

Color: And of course, "Where's Perry?"

Phineas: Yes! do you know what i said? We are in the secret wing!

(from Perry's shop)

Major Monogram: Oh, Officer P. Glad I came here. Duvenschmilz was unavailable for a long time. Do something right or cheat. Man, it was a little sudden. Sometimes I feel like taking on assignments here.

(Phineas and Ferb cross the garden. A scream is heard.)

Phineas: Oh, the dress. He will break this third rule with an ax. Sorry Dumpio.

Dampamir: The name is Dampamir!

Baljeet: Wow! You can't log in because the content makes you more attractive!

Phineas: Don't you know? Fortunately, Farb is working on a special Z-ray machine that can see every substance on the periodic table. It's a great test, so it's best to wear this bulletproof lead jacket.

(fire car)

Color: Well, we can't see the haircut, but it has holes in the second molar. Looks like Ms. Shapiro is making Garcia Creplach's tortillas.

(Court:)

Doofenshmirtz Evil is involved! ??

(Perry enters. Dr. Duvenschmilz is missing.)

(The flashbacks begin in black and white. Duwenschildz is on his bad blog.)

Duvenschmilz: (A blind man grabs it and screams)

(Perry saw a new prisoner. Duwenschildz was covered up. Perry saw Duwenschildz's footprint).

Duwenschmilz: Hey! This is my lunch!

(Pine and Ferb in the courtyard. There is a piano in the box).

Phineas: I think I'm really running out of ideas here.

Isabella: You play the piano.

Baljeet: Can I buy a flute pipe?

Buford: the secret to making room for a new printer!

Phineas: Is that so?

Buford: Ok! As you know, the Van Stom family has been the holder of the secret knowledge and the holder of the Secret Box for generations. The 13th century turned the Templars' wrath into a massacre. Our family kept it hidden from uneducated people all their lives. When we did, all we found was a key that could reveal the secrets of the box.

Baljeet: Is that true?

Buford: No, just kidding. On the other side I found a wall. When the coffin fell from the sky, I saw the lock drop.

Phineas - Worth a try.

(pear cut)

Main Monogram: Great job. Agent P. Karl scans a fingerprint from Doof's apartment.

Carl: If you have a variability analysis, there seems to be a lot of caffeine molecules. with rainwater.

Large Monogram: Our only meaning is coffee and rainy sky. It can happen anywhere!

(The stop is in a darkroom with Seattle, WA. Duvenschmilz Barrel Accessories)

Duvenschmilz: Uh, hi! Who is here? Mark! You must be in heaven! This should be a satisfying explanation when I'm done, or when I'm blogging!

(Cut down the pine and Ferb's garden. Ferb puts the key in the chest.)

Phineas: Yes, honey!

Baljeet: What is your secret? Maybe a dozen missing Schrödinger cats?

BUFORD: But I didn't have privacy.

(opens the capsule)

(all pants)

Baljeet: Why do you smoke like that?

BUFORD: And why are we all suffering?

Cornelius: Oops, sorry!

Crazy Old Man: What do you think you did?

Phineas: Who are you?

Crazy old man: It's me! from the future!

(all pants)

(Cut the spleen into a quilt. Remove the mask from the shadow mask)

Duvenschmilz: (panting) Peter Panda? Oh, that was my good chance. That's all. While. And it was terrible, everyone was staring with crooked noses and had to talk about it.

Suspect: Hello, Duvenschmilz!

Duvenschmilz: Hello, what do you get, the black figure walking in the dark?

Suspicious Character: Mystery Professor, it's me.

Duvenschmilz: I understand.

Professor's Secret: Did Panda Stone Take My Name?

Doofenshmirtz: No, but I don't really speak. Can you tell me why you kidnapped me? Hmm bye! I know you are still here. I can't see the apple of your eye. What is silence? It is very unconventional.

Professor Secret: secret.

Duvenschmilz: Oh. This is going to be a fun interview.

(The courtyard of Phineas and Ferb)

Phineas: Please stay a while. Do you want to know what's happening to my nose?

Crazy old man: Don't worry about our nose ... This. Hear it when a hamster runs, a black hole breaks control and something breaks. You have now opened my hamster area! It's just a moment before it slows down!

Baljit: Wait, is a hamster allergic to air?

Crazy old man: Trust me!

Baljeet: What?

Crazy Old Man: Because I'll be here in the future!

Baljit: Wait, won't I be Indian in the future?

Crazy old man: "Okay! See you in the future.

Isabella: Yes, it doesn't make sense.

Grandma: Stop telling people about you from the future!

Phineas: Who is it?

Crazy Old Man: I'm just Dennis. ignore. There is no future person.

Dennis: I heard it! Hi guys, sorry if I disturb you.

Crazy old man: there is no time to waste!

Dennis: Calm down, Bernie! Don't forget your blood!

Bernie: What did I do to you? So what slows down?

Dennis: Oh, go! I am a sick hamster who rules our lives!

(The box beeps.)

Phineas: What is there without batting an eye?

Baljeet: Not good.

Buford: Well, you've played a lot of pianos.

(Put the professor's husband in a moving box and bite into the scented sponge).

Duvenschmilz: Seriously, what was the kidnapping? And what good is a temple hanging over the petro panda?

The Professor's Mystery: Why I'm Peter Panda's Enemy.

Duvenschmilz: (pants)

The Secret Professor: Are you surprised?

Duvenschmilz: Sure. But if you know anything about the enemy company, please do so. I don't want to be another bad scientist. (See Professor Inator of Mysteries) Oh! Enjoying! Why does he do it?

The professor's secret is a secret I cannot reveal.

Duvenschmilz: ... your beauty. Yes, I know. Will you give me your advice before or after trying to catch Peter the panda? It's just ... Even in the research phase.

The mystery of the teacher: I don't say anything. The secret gun ... it's mine

Duvenschmilz: But he's your enemy! He knows what bothers you! So this is a generic title! What do you expect from her with your story? (The secret has been cleared.) Don't stay, oh no. Don't tell me, you've never told your inner story! ok i have a problem! This is your problem!

The Professor's Mystery: What?

Doofenshmirtz: Lack of communication. Give me a shot (a rhythm is established and a chorister appears out of nowhere).

(song: talk to him)

Duvenschmilz - you can do it in secret

You don't have to be so selective. ??

Chorus Girls: Too erratic! ??

Duvenschmilz: Make history your secret enemy;

For all the reasons why ...

Duvenschmilz and the girls' choir: rotten eggs. ??

Doofenshmirtz: (ooh while the choir girl is in the background) not enough to show her skill;

You have to tell him how you feel. ??

I guess you will be surprised that their attention is being held

I can only understand

Tell him about all the bad plans you have for ...

Duvenschmilz and the showgirl: you have to ...

Duvenschmilz: Talk to him

Choir Girl: Oh! ??

Duvenschmilz: Tell him ...

Duvenschmilz and Chorus Girl - all my plans came to mind

Duvenschmilz: Talk to him

Choir Girl: Oh! ??

Duvenschmilz: Announcement ...

Duvenschmilz and Chorus Girl: Give her everything you fear. ??

Duvenschmilz: Talk to him. ??

Now...

Duvenschmilz and the Chorus Girls: Stay there like a rock. ??

Doofenshmirtz - he has two furry ears to wear

Dancing girls: wear it! ??

Duvenschmilz: I know you really want to hurt him

Choir girls: Dig! ??

Duvenschmilz: But I think I'll lose you if I don't speak

Dancing girls: I want to talk

Duvenschmilz: communication is essential

When you open you can understand

And maybe it bothers me.

Duvenschmilz and Chorus Girl: you're right! ??

(The number ends and the girl has disappeared).

Mystery Professor: How did you get this girl to dance?

Doofenshmirtz: These are the unions, they are leaving.

(Go back to the courtyard where the hamster slows down.)

Bernie: (while Finna holds on) there's only one way to beat him! and listen with your ears! (A red bird in the wind comes out of your beard.) Hey Velleius, I found your bird!

Velleio: Really? where he was

Bernie: How boring! However, there is only one way to improve it! (crying and screaming)

Isabella, Buford, Baljit: No!

Finius: Hurray, everyone! Get the tree!

(They do.)

Isabelle: What are you doing now? !!

Baljeet: This is definitely the only time the camera has disappeared again!

Buford: Yeah, bad model break!

Isabella: Well, she is not a model! Subsequently, the model will disappear.

(remote effect)

I mean, Candice!

(Candice enters the room where she is still listening to the music. Then Chaos looks through the window and walks straight into the box.

Candice: (pants) mama mama mama mama mama !!!

(she goes back to the mysterious cave).

Mysterious Professor: The last person I recommend, you are a hostile thief!

Duvenschmilz: You can't undo it with a musical instrument. Hmm! I'll say it's not my fault that you and Peter are in trouble. It's yours!

The Professor's Secret: (Active Inator) The Secret Inator is an active lens wrapped in a real lens, I know who it is! Under favorable circumstances you will be nervous and full of revenge!

Duwenschmilz: (sigh) Yawn! So I was more concerned if I knew what was going on. YY-Become a man (sighs again)!

Secret Professor: Hmm?

(Burned by a plague on the wall. Peter Panda has come to the other side).

Duvenschmilz: Peter Panda! Wow, I'm not very happy to see my rainbow enemy.

Mysterious Professor: Peter Panda is not your enemy!

Duvenschmilz: Yes. He is not the enemy. H-h-this is a slow project.

Mysterious Professor: Do you want it to fall like this? (Peter accuses him) Do you understand? I am touched! Here it is, Duvenschmilz! (sighing) Yes, it is! (another shot) Do you understand? feel good. What did you give that I couldn't give you?

Duvenschmilz: A bad part of the internal dialogue!

Mystery Professor: What?

Duvenschmilz: Communicate! Oh cry! In any case, tell me what makes you turn off!

Mystery Professor: What? Oh yeah! There is no author!

Duvenschmilz: What? !! ??? ?? !! Hey, I'm worried! Clock! Communication I can do it.

(Perry finally enters, flips the switch, shoots from the ceiling, bounces a space pin.)

(He goes back to the terrace.)

Buford: I can't take it anymore! one day my friend

("Tough Gum" Song (Instrumental))

Advertiser: Durable Shoelaces!

Buford: - Wash! He lifts the branch and flies away.

(Once in line, Inator throws a bolt of lightning at the box, and once in line, Candice's mother follows him into the yard.)

Candice: Hurry up, Mom! To move on! What? !!

Baljeet: I didn't get hurt like I expected.

BUFORD: Yes, thankfully.

(Modest case where Mysterio and Peter talk so that Douffensmritz and Perry can see each other from the window.)

Mystery Master: So my parents accidentally created a black hole, got hooked on it, and went into orbit so that there was no danger to the planet, but in the process. At first I'm furious about it, and in the end you make me a nonexistent emperor, whom you killed tonight! Wow, what fun to tell someone!

(A crazy old man comes out of the yard to see him.)

Bernie and Denise: Son!

Mystery Master: Mother? Father? !! They will be called back! (hugs her).

Velleio: Oh ...

Mysterious Professor: Meet my enemy Peter Panda.

Bernie: Do you have any archenemies?

Denise: All of our kids are adults!

Bernie: Why is it a panda?

Dennis: Bernie!

Bernie: What? I was just thinking.

(Doofenshritz and Perry drop them).

Doofenshmirtz: Come on, Platypus Perry. Let's go home, I talk to you a lot, right? Yes, maybe you are right.

(He goes back to the terrace.)

Linda: Kids, why don't you come for lunch? And if he meets your father, ask him to come with us.

Candice: But, but, but ... Okay.

Finius: Intense, color. Planets can also explode and break the space continuum. I hope you have not suffered any real damage. (The bears appear next to them.) Oh, father! If you want to join, mom is having a lot of fun!

Polar Bear (voice of Lawrence): Oh boy, very good. I'm a bit bored.

Finius: Maybe the cake is still there.

(Another sees Phineas' back hole as the boy goes through the hole, proving it is true that Phineas and Ferb are working on a machine that turns humans into flies.)

Vera Finnius: W Noteworthy! What was the fate! We did

True color: can't. Here Phineas has four white shirts and you only have three.

Phineas: Okay. It must be said: Our father is not a bear.

[makaylajadewrites]

A Moment’s Rest

Drabble written for this prompt. I actually kind of like this one, so I hope you enjoy it!

Pairing: Derek Morgan/Spencer Reid

Tags: Nightmares, bedwetting, implied/referenced child abuse and csa, angst

Word count: 1354

Summary: Spencer was quirky in his own way. He was perfect, in Derek’s opinion, with his hand flapping and wide brown eyes, wise beyond his years, and never before had Derek felt so... complete with another human being. As different as they were, Spencer understood him and took the time to peel back every single layer of Derek Morgan. Derek had tried to do the same to Spencer, but... Spencer had a lot of dark baggage, surprisingly, and very quickly Derek began to understand that Spencer’s childhood was not a good one. 

Read on AO3 here

The last time Morgan had ever wet the bed was when he was twelve years old. He could remember it so vividly, waking up to the wet sensation of soggy sheets sticking to his bare legs, the brief cloud of confusion that was quickly overtaken by shame as his consciousness returned fully. He had met Buford when he was only ten, just months after his father had died, and shortly after meeting Buford, the bedwetting had started. It was sporadic at best, and each time he was left feeling embarrassed and disgusting. Not even in his dreams was he safe from Carl Buford. 

It had been over two decades since the last time. He still had the dreams, but with age, the bedwetting stopped. Buford would forever be an ugly stain in the quilt of his life, but to overcome the lingering shame he felt he helped people, and saved them from all of the horrors that humanity had to offer. It was when he couldn’t save people that he was reminded of his past though, and how he had failed to save himself from the hands of Carl Buford. 

But even so, that feeling of wet sheets clinging to his skin was not a feeling that he would forget. He pushed himself up in the bed almost immediately, only to realize soon enough that it wasn’t his own incontinence, but instead, his partner’s.

He and Spencer Reid had met nearly four years ago. From the start, their differences were quite clear, and they were both okay with that. They were aware of each other’s limitations and strengths, and they depended on one another as coworkers - in and out of the field. Only after Derek’s past was disclosed did the relationship between them begin to shift from friends to lovers, and in that brief period, Derek was reminded how amazing love could really be. He had given up on ever finding a true partner, believing himself to be ruined after Buford, deserving of nobody. He didn’t think he would ever be able to find a partner that would love him despite his issues, and one that he would wholeheartedly love in return, but Spencer shuffled out of the elevator on his first day in his scuffed up Converse and an ugly brown sweater, and Morgan was enamored. 

Spencer was quirky in his own way. He was perfect, in Derek’s opinion, with his hand flapping and wide brown eyes, wise beyond his years, and never before had Derek felt so... complete with another human being. As different as they were, Spencer understood him and took the time to peel back every single layer of Derek Morgan. Derek had tried to do the same to Spencer, but... Spencer had a lot of dark baggage, surprisingly, and very quickly Derek began to understand that Spencer’s childhood was not a good one. 

Spencer had once told him that he could remember walking into a casino one age at the ripe age of fifteen with a fake ID and ten dollars, and leaving with close to two grand which he used on bills, food, and medication for his mother. Reid had talked about it like it was a good, happy memory, and Derek couldn't help the pang of pity that ached in his chest for his lover. Neither of them came from good beginnings, but they began to build a happy future together on top of their past ruins. 

It had only been a week ago though, when Spencer had confronted his dad for the first time in nearly twenty years, and in all of the years that Derek had known his lover, he had never seen him so distraught; so physically uncomfortable to be in the presence of someone that he should have felt safe around. Spencer had accused his own father of being a pedophile and murdering the young Riley Jenkins. That turned out to be false, but even still, Derek saw a bit of a change in Spencer. It wasn’t something he could necessarily describe in words, but Spencer just... changed ever so subtly. Derek couldn’t quite put his finger on it. 

But those sheets. Wet, clingy, warm. Derek felt a shiver of horror run up his spine as he watched Spencer whimper in his sleep before gradually waking up, sitting up slowly and looking down at himself before pushing the blankets away to confirm his suspicions. The expression on his face was at first blank, but the way it quickly twisted into one of disgust, horror, and shame broke Derek’s heart. Spencer glanced over to him, his eyes widening even further as he realized Derek was awake too, and without wasting another second, he got up and bolted to the bathroom. 

“Spencer, wait...!” Derek calls after him, quickly following after him without a care in the world of his nudity, a remnant of their lovemaking the night before. Spencer was too embarrassed to even worry about closing the door, so Derek followed him inside, albeit hesitantly. Spencer was white-knuckling the sink countertop, doubled over and breathing heavily, but the shake of his shoulders was evidence enough of his misery.

“I’m sorry... I’m sorry...” Spencer repeated over and over again through the sobs, shaking his head raising a hand up to drag his messy hair away from his face. Derek felt helpless, standing in the doorway and watching his lover fall apart.

“Baby... It’s alright, you don’t have to apologize. Let’s get you into the bathtub, okay?” Derek suggested warmly, and soon, Spencer was nodding his head and standing up a bit taller, stumbling towards Derek who sat him down on the toilet. Derek let the water run and when he deemed it warm enough, he helped Spencer in, holding one of his hands and pressing his lips over his bony knuckles. 

Spencer didn’t say anything through the duration of his bath, but about halfway through, his sobs had tapered off and he had transitioned to an eerie calm. Derek practically carried him to the guest room wrapped in a towel, sitting him on the edge of the bed and promising to be right back. After washing himself off and stripping the sheets off of their bed to wash, he returned to Spencer and frowned at the sight of him in exactly the same position he had left him in, those dark eyes staring down at his toes which flexed occasionally in the carpet.

“Spencer?” Derek hummed softly, sitting down beside him and gingerly placing a hand on his knee, squeezing slightly and rubbing his pale skin. “How are you feeling?”

Spencer sighed and shrugged, not even bothering to brush his hair out of his face. “I don’t know.”

“Do you... want to talk about it?” Derek asked softly, “You know it won’t help to keep it all bottled up inside. You close yourself off from me sometimes and you can’t do that right now.”

“Derek, please, I just...” Spencer sighed again, this time in frustration, bringing both hands up to drag down his face. “I didn’t want to believe it at first.”

“Believe what, pretty boy?” Derek murmured, squeezing his leg again as encouragement, scanning his lover’s face carefully. 

“That he... William, he...” His lips began to tremble again, and Derek didn’t need to hear anymore to know what was going on. He wrapped an arm around Spencer’s shaking shoulders, pulling him close with gentle hands and encasing him in the protection his embrace. Spencer was a sobbing mess all over again, his tears tracking down Derek’s bare skin like dew dripping down a blade of grass.

“I’ve got you,” Derek whispered, cradling his lover’s petite form against his chest and squeezing him, tears burning in his own eyes. “I've got you, baby... I’m here.”

“He... He...” Spencer could never actually say it as his sobs shook his entire body, and as he wailed, Derek felt his heart ache a little more, Spencer’s childhood now tainted with an irreversible truth. 

And as Spencer cried himself to sleep in his arms, Derek only hoped he could offer him a moment’s rest from those wretched childhood memories. 

[honeytea8]

Teenage Fever • Guido Mista/Reader

A/N: Shout out to this fic, man! I will probably never finish you for reasons unknown. But at least I’m posting you here instead of letting you collect dust in my Google Drive (it was supposed to be a 90′s theme, and yes, the title’s a Drake song, but this ain’t about that lmao)

Word Count: 850

Summary:  “You are beautiful in a way he thinks is too complex for his simple vocabulary; he struggles to qualify it.”

Warnings: Reader’s bra is mentioned...but that’s it, I promise.

The sky is dark and cloudless like a blanket of pitch black. The weather feels warm, so much so, that he forgoes his favorite striped hoodie in favor of a loose cropped tee and a pair of corduroy dungarees. The night is quiet for the most part, only the sounds of crickets, cicada and scurrying wildlife. With the car parked on a hill overlooking the city, even the sounds of passing vehicles are muted background noise. 

Mista watches you from the corner of his eye, as you’re both laid out in the back of his dad’s pickup truck, tucked safely underneath a quilted blanket that may or may not be giving him a rash. 

He isn’t speaking and you aren’t either, more focused on the tamagotchi you just bought from that convenience store near his house. 

You do that a lot—buy trinkets, that is. Lisa Frank notebooks, Pokémon key-chains, *NSYNC merch, and anime stickers. 

But that’s not really what matters right now. You’re free to indulge in your whimsies, and he’d gladly spend his savings on getting you those Doc Martens you’ve been begging for since last winter. He’ll buy you anything you want, as long as it grants him the opportunity to see your smile. 

That’s the greatest part. And every time he sees it, Mista is enraptured at how the slope and dip of your nose blends seamlessly into your cupid’s bow. 

You are beautiful in a way he thinks is too complex for his simple vocabulary; he struggles to qualify it. He wants to let you know that he likes you, and that he thinks you're so smart, and cool and funny and nice—but the words don’t ever come out. He fumbles too much, or gets excited too easily. His mouth moves faster than his brain can process sometimes and the words just don’t sound as good as they did when he originally thought them. 

Funnily enough, you don’t seem to mind his blunders. You usually just quirk a brow or shake your head with a confused laugh, before returning to whatever it was you were doing prior to him interrupting. Mista doesn’t think you would stop being his friend because of his utter lack of eloquence, but to be frank, he doesn’t know why you chose, and still choose, to be his friend in the first place. 

He’s eighteen and some months—a ridiculous at best, self conscious at worst—high school dropout who valets for a living and fixes cars at his uncle’s shop on the weekends. Meanwhile, you’re freshly graduated, were top of your class, now spending your days working tirelessly on merit scholarships. The chasm couldn’t be wider. 

You’re out of his league, at least that’s what he thinks. In fact, you should probably spend your time around better company. With like-minded people who are headed in the same direction. Not someone like him, who’s hitched a ride on a train going to Nowheresville. But Mista’s also far too selfish to be that honest with himself or you. 

He considers himself a simple dude. He doesn't have lofty goals about a future he can’t see. He’s content with just being here and in the moment, savoring the feel of your shoulder pressed up against his side, so close that he can count the subtle rise and fall accompanying every breath you take.

A warm breeze comes in from the east. Weezer plays in the background and Mista finds himself humming along if only to derail his self deprecating thoughts. [Oh yeah. Alright. Feels good. Inside]. He waits for you to join in because this is your favorite song and you can’t resist singing out the chorus. 

“Say it ain't soooo,” you murmur under your breath. “Your drug is a heart-breaker.” 

Mista smiles, loving the subtle rasp of your voice and leans over to grab a Zima from the cooler by his head. His voice is hoarse from disuse, so he doesn’t waste any time popping the cap off with his teeth and taking a mighty gulp.

“Want one?”

Finally tearing your gaze away from the toy in your grasp, you stretch out an open hand. “Yes, please!”

He says nothing as he hands you a cold bottle. You sit up quickly, and use your shirt to twist open the cap, unaware that you’ve given your friend a full view of the soft, fleshy skin of your stomach. The flower patterns on your bra flash behind his eyelids. 

It’s unlikely that you’ve done it on purpose. You’re just comfortable around him enough to not care as much. Mista’s glad you feel that way, but he wonders if that’s the only way you will ever see him, like a friend or worse a “brother” figure, he shudders at the thought. 

Mista prays he won’t spend the rest of his summer pining after his best friend who’s going away to college in the fall. He doesn’t want to spend the rest of his youth writing memoirs to you from the friend zone. 

What are the chances that you’ll ever read them? What are the chances that you’ll respond?

[angelqueen04]

Hamliza, Day 17

@megpeggs @historysalt

Picnics Summary: Alexander and Eliza steal a moment for themselves.

They slipped out of the house with ease, not even having to work at being quiet. With the boys busy at their lessons and Angelica and Fanny working at their music under their grandparents’ direction, Alexander had found that both he and Eliza were actually at loose ends, a rare occurrence.

Never wanting to waste an opportunity, they had acted quickly. Alexander had rushed out to the kitchens and requested a small amount of food for a picnic for two, while Eliza had secured a quilt for them to settle on. After that, it had been a simple matter of walking out the front door. No one called after them, requesting their attention or help with a task, leaving them to their attempt to gain a measure of solitude.

They swept down the hill in front of the house, walking hand-in-hand along the path before veering off into the field towards a lone, large oak. Alexander knew it was a popular spot for family picnics, having participated in a few of them over the years. Normally, it was a much larger crowd that participated in these gatherings, but today, it was just him and his wife.

“How long do you think we have before one of them comes after us?” Alexander asked as they walked.

“It should be a while,” Eliza responded. “The boys are deep in their studies, Johnny is down for his nap, and the girls will be at their music for a while yet.”

He nodded. “Good.” He loved his children dearly, but life had taught him to never hesitate to take advantage of an opening to spend some time solely in his wife’s wonderful company.

When they finally reached the oak tree, Eliza let go of his hand and took the quilt in both hands and shook it free of its folds. Sitting the hamper and small jug of sweetened lemonade down on the grass, Alexander stepped forward to assist her in spreading it down on the ground, well under the shade of the tree’s large branches and out of the afternoon sun. They made themselves comfortable on the blanket, Eliza even removing her day cap and setting it aside while Alexander opened a few buttons of his waistcoat. He then leaned over and grabbed the hamper and jug, placing them in front of him.

The food in the basket was simple fare, just a couple of sandwiches, apples, and sweets that were readily available, but it was perfect for this quiet moment they had managed to snatch for themselves. He and Eliza ate in comfortable, contented silence, and sipped on the sweet lemonade. As they finished, he said, “It shouldn’t be too much longer before we can resettle in the City. I have someone looking for potential houses.”

Eliza turned toward him, surprise crossing her features. “So soon?” she asked. “I thought it would not be until closer to fall.”

He nodded. “So did I, but I’ve had no shortage of applications for my legal services.” Alexander smiled, feeling somewhat brittle. “Even those who despise my political views know my talent in freeing people from unfortunate legal entanglements and are eager to take advantage of it.”

It wasn’t just that, of course, and from the expression on her face, Eliza knew it too. Though he had resigned from public life, it had not resigned itself from him. Alexander still received letters from the President, asking for his advice, particularly in matters regarding to the Jay Treaty. Although the contents of the treaty were not yet public knowledge, Alexander knew it was only a matter of time before the treaty reached the attention of the people, and there would likely be hell to pay when it did. And if Alexander was honest with himself, he wanted to be a part of it. He had worked too long and too hard to simply give up and leave the work of securing this nation’s future to a bunch of people of varying levels of competence or even sanity.

But Alexander did not want to think of it right now. This was a moment for him, and for Eliza. God knew she had suffered these past years from a decided lack of his attention, and it was something he had sworn to himself that he would make up for.

Eliza too seemed to wish to change the subject. Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she pulled out a small book. “Here,” she said, “read to me?”

He examined the spine, and smiled. Alexander Pope. One of his favorite poets, which she well knew. With a soft, tender smile, he raised his arm and gestured for her to come closer. She didn’t hesitate, and surprised him when she shifted over and actually dropped further on the quilt and settled her head in his lap. Alexander blinked, and then laughed. “Ah, so I am to be both reader <i>and</i> pillow,” he said. “I see how it is.”

She grinned. “You are a most comfortable pillow, darling. How can I not take advantage?”

“You can be most ruthless when you feel the need,” he conceded playfully. Opening the book to the first page, he did as Eliza had asked him and began to read, though he made a point of threading his fingers through her thick, dark hair, enjoying the sensation of it on his skin.

In the end, they had over an hour to themselves before the children came wandering out of the house in search of them.