#y’all are just making shit up at this point!

[ghostgirl-22]

so i actually need pt 2 to the older patrick younger art fic right NOW.. jk but it was amazing

Y’all. Y’ALL. I heard you. And though I don’t really love writing sequels… I’ll do anything for you honestly <33

Original.

It’s a mess and way too long which is prbly to be expected by now. Idk. Sometimes you just have to get out of your head and post 😭

18+ NSFW

CW: AGE GAP 10-11 years, power dynamics, teacher/student vibes, first time vibes, AND mild daddy!kink whoopsie! How did that happen? Obviously if any of these things make you uncomfortable don’t read. I don’t take it personally. I’ll explain myself a bit. Art in my imagination here didn’t get constantly shown up by Patrick and because Patrick wasn’t there Art got the attention Patrick got for his skills so he’s a little more arrogant (still a little insecure because that’s his core) and still messy. Patrick had the Tashi injury which makes him a little less arrogant (brought down a notch but still overcompensates and actively self sabotages because that’s his core) and still messy.

——

Art is still keyed up the next morning. His roommate, Devon, is bragging about hooking up with a senior. Art is trying to pay attention but all he can think about is how he got on his knees and gave messy head to Patrick, Coach Zweig, his 31 year old ridiculously hot tennis coach. And how Patrick practically promised to fuck him if he was a really good boy all week. He’s sitting on his hands trying not to go crazy.

“What did you get up to?” Devon finally asks him. Picking up his towel and getting ready to shower.

“Can you keep a secret?” Art asks.

That makes him sit back down. “Yeah of course.”

Art tells him about Patrick, most of it anyway, watching his eyes widen. He’s not on the tennis team but he’s heard enough about Coach Zweig from Art that he can’t help giggling.

“You’re fucking joking.”

“I’m not, I swear.”

“Holy shit. And I thought I was doing something with that senior. Wow. This would only happen to you.”

Art isn’t sure what he means by that but he’s suddenly asking a million questions. Art tells him some things, embellishing and withholding various details. The closest Art ever came to actually fucking a boy was when he used to sneak in Devon’s bed whenever he got horny at night. They were so close to fucking when Art made him stop. so he made Art promise to stop leading him on. And now they’re proper roommates with boundaries and everything. Though sometimes Art thinks if he asked for it Devon would still fuck him.

Devon thinks it’s hot, the whole Patrick thing. Thinks Patrick wants to make Art his kept boy. “Well I mean… he’s old and everyone says he’s loaded, right? He can give you whatever you want.” Devon says.

“Please, he wouldn’t even give me his phone number.” Art says dismissively. “And I don’t need to be kept I just need his dick.”

Devon chews his bottom lip looking Art over and Art wonders if he crossed a boundary. He’s so fucking messy with them.

“Lucky him,” Devon says dryly, rolling his eyes. “But maybe you should milk it. You’re young and beautiful and blonde and he’s your coach so it’s like.. it’s kind of illicit. He could get you a nice place off campus… be your sugar daddy. Girls do it all the time.”

“I think he’d kill me if I ever called him that,” Art laughs, making up his mind to definitely call him that at some point.

Devon agrees to come out with him next weekend but he still has to wait the whole fucking week. It feels like torture.

They have practice everyday and a game on Friday. Which means Patrick’s in those short shorts running them around the court every single day. Art can’t keep his mind off of him. Just wants his attention so bad, everyday he’s doing everything he can just to get Patrick to look in his direction. But Patrick’s got an epic poker face. He’s so fucking cool and calm and collected. So good at acting like nothing happened. Like everything is the same and they never did what they did.

There's one difference. Instead of having the assistant coach do it… he’ll bring Art to the side and personally correct him when he thinks Art could play better. Show him how to position himself, swing the racket, follow through. Big hands, rough hands, gripping Art's waist to turn his body, his wrist to direct his swing. The same hands that effortlessly lifted off his lap the other night.

“Can’t be all talk and no action sweetheart,” Patrick says lightly, as he’s standing behind him. God. It’s actually stupid how sexy he is. Art’s never thought this much about being penetrated, ever. He makes sure to arch his back just a little more than he usually does. Patrick presses a hand to the small of his back.

Art fingers the grip of his racket. “I don’t think I was all talk.”

Patrick chuckles, low and soft. “Stop it. Focus. Bring that energy here,” he says, “all that confidence right here and no one will rattle you.”

“Like this?” Art demonstrates. He makes a mess of it just so that Patrick will touch him again. It takes a minute before Patrick catches on.

“I think you get it,” he says dryly.

“Please show me one more time. I just wanna be a good boy for you,” Art says lightly. It makes Patrick swallow… his gaze falls helplessly over Arts body and then he looks away smirking.

“Are you having fun?” He says, leaning in close, eyes all crinkly with amusement.

Art wants to kiss him. “Mmhm,” he hums, pressing his lips together. “Though sometimes it still feels like my mouth is so full of you I could just… choke.”

“Yeah… right…” Patrick rolls his eyes, still smiling and then he takes a deep breath and drags his hand over his beard. “Hm…What’s today?”

“Wednesday,” Art says.

“And my plans for the weekend are still up in the air,” he says, patting Art on the shoulder as he takes his racket and turns to face the team. “Five laps around the court, everybody, let’s gooo!” He says loudly, blowing his whistle. “Fucking hustle!”

There’s an audible groan and the sounds of rackets dropping as everyone stops what they’re doing and starts running. “Go join them. And if you keep it up it’ll be sprints next.” Patrick says softly.

Art grins, as much as he hates running and he’s sure his teammates will assume he’s responsible for this bit of conditioning, it was still totally fucking worth it.

He probably should’ve focused more but he wins on Friday in spite of himself. Tennis is such a mental game and while he’s generally confident and loves the attention that comes with playing as number one on the center stage, he’s not consistent. That’s what Patrick always says at least. There are opponents that leave him feeling less sure of himself and then he tends to get in his head imagining he’s somehow inadequate or deficient.

One of those players is a French recruit from UCLA, Jensen Bordeaux. Art starts out strong. Crushes it in the first set. But when Bordeaux fights back in the second and he falls apart a little. It’s a bad habit. He wins another game but it’s not enough. He ends up nearly going into a third set.

“Remember what I said,” Patrick takes him to the side between points. “Stop acting like you can’t finish him off. You can have whatever you want right?”

Art gazes at him and bites his lip. “Mmhm.” He nods.

“Good. You know what you want. Just take it. Okay?”

“Yeah okay,” Art says breathlessly.

“Good boy,” Patrick says, rubbing his shoulders, a little smirk on his lips. “Try not to… you know… choke.”

Art feels heated from the inside out. He goes back on the court except he’s not thinking about the game. Instead he’s so anxious for the promise of tomorrow night that all this begins to feel like a mere obstacle to that. He makes easy work of it, winning the tiebreaker and shifting it so that Stanford goes home the winning team.

Everyone on the team goes out to a frat party to celebrate and Art is so drunk and horny by the end of the night. He stumbles into his dorm at 1 am, falls drunkenly into bed and starts touching himself. Fingers in his mouth imagining it’s the heavy weight and thickness of Patrick’s cock. Imagining Patrick’s large hands in his hair, imagining the soft, easily amused tone of his voice as he murmurs. “Good boy.” Makes him come so fast and hard he passes out.

He’s a mess in the morning. In more ways than one. They don’t have practice after game days so he sleeps off his hangover and the day flies by. He takes a long hot shower before he gets ready to go. Anxiety and anticipation competing for space in his brain and body. Devon loans him clothes that are so much tighter than anything he wears regularly. “Trust me, he’s gonna be all over you in this.”

They get there at the same time as last week but Patrick doesn’t come right away. Art’s waiting and waiting and waiting for Patrick to show up at the gay bar. Devon is at a table, a new boy on his lap and they’re making out. Art is half tipsy, swinging his legs on a barstool while this guy from the baseball team stands between his thighs asking him everything about tennis like it’s the most interesting thing in the world. And that’s when Patrick finally arrives. He spots Art across the bar and smirks. Art gets up right away, making excuses to the now frowning baseball player about seeing him around on campus.

“That was fast,” Patrick smirks, as Art sidles up next to him.

“Well I didn’t know you’d take so long to come,” Art says, moving closer. “Is that an old person thing?”

”Mm, you…” Patrick chuckles, tapping his credit card on the bar. He’s got such a great smile. God. Art is so far gone. This is tragic.

“Can you buy me a drink?” Art asks in his ear.

“No fucking way,” Patrick says, amused.

“Seriously?”

“Seriously, how many drinks have you had tonight?”

Art holds up 3 fingers.

“Is that how many fingers I’m gonna have to put in before I can… nevermind…” Patrick says.

Art grins. Warmth spreading throughout his body. “It’s really big,” Art whispers. “Maybe you need four?”

“God…” Patrick laughs, incredulous. “I shouldn’t even fucking be here.” He sighs, as the bartender approaches them. He orders a whiskey and because it’s two for one he gives in and lets Art pick something. He orders rum and coke.

Art feels giddy as he sips on it.

“So used to getting whatever you ask for,” Patrick says, looking him over, teasing a finger into one of his belt loops. “Twenty years old. God. You make me fucking crazy.” He whispers in Art’s ear.

Art can’t help grinning.

Patrick makes him wait while he talks to people his own age. Acting all wholesome. “Oh he’s just one of my players, I’m gonna make sure he gets home safe.” He even gives Art the key so he can wait in his jeep. Art’s hard as soon as he gets in it. Listens to music too loud and ponders touching himself.

He’s kissing on Patrick right away when he finally gets in the car. He’s been so eager all week. “Mm…” Patrick pulls back, tangling his fingers into Art’s hair. “Fuck… gimme a minute to get you home, okay?” he says and he turns on the engine and puts the music back at a sensible volume.

“Is it far?” Art asks.

Patrick huffs a laugh. “Take a deep breath.”

It doesn't help. Everything smells like him. Art puts a hand on Patrick’s thigh, his skin is so heated. He remembers how warm Patrick’s cock felt in his mouth and then his mouth starts watering.

“Is Tashi there?” Art sighs.

“What do you fucking think?”

Art leans close, just breathing him in. Resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder. ”She’s so pretty.” He hums.

“I know.”

“You’re so pretty.”

Patrick chuckles, a low vibration Art can feel from his throat that makes him shiver. “And you're so tipsy. And so fucking young.”

“But you like it.” Art says softly, rubbing Patrick’s thigh. Skin so warm he’s like a furnace. Already hard enough that Art can feel it.

”And I know I’m gonna regret it.”

Their house is actually huge. On the nicer side of Palo Alto. It’s one of the ones with a pool and a tennis court and a crazy nice view of the city. Art doesn’t know any of this until later because as soon as they're inside he’s trying to get his tongue in Patrick’s mouth. Patrick walks him back towards the living room where there’s a huge leather sofa. Art climbs onto his lap as soon as he sits down. Patrick is touching him everywhere, fingers tangled into his hair. Hands under his shirt, rubbing him, teasing him. Art is just trying his best to feel him, lick into his mouth and taste him. All while grinding against his prominent bulge. Grabbing at his zipper trying to get it out.

“Can you fuck me?” Art begs against his lips.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes against his lips, he’s gripping Art’s waist tightly. Slowing him down. He sighs like he’s trying to pull himself together. “Mmkay. God. Stand up a minute. I need to get a condom and some lube.”

Art gets up reluctantly, nervous energy making him bounce on his toes like he’s waiting on a serve. Patrick smirks, “Relax… I’ll be back in a minute.” He pats Art’s shoulder as he gets up and disappears into another room. It doesn’t matter whether Art sits or stands, he’s anxious. He looks around the lavish room, fancy furniture, paintings that look expensive. Massive kitchen like the kind you see in movies. Patrick comes back and he’s all loose, t-shirt wrinkled, hair messy, eyes soft. He’s probably done this a million times. He’s got a condom between his fingers which he hands to Art.

“You wanna put it on me?”

”Mmhm,” Art says. He’s also carrying a little bottle of lube. Art’s trying to rip the packet open but his hands are all shaky. Especially when Patrick lifts his t-shirt off, he’s so solid, strong biceps, chest hair that gets darker condensed down the line of his stomach to where his jeans are unbuttoned. Art wants to lick it.

“Okay,” Patrick settles on the sofa, kicking off his shoes. “Give me that, you pretty little virgin and take those clothes off.”

Art hands him the condom a little embarrassed, and starts undoing his jeans. Kicks off his shoes and peels off his shirt so he’s only in boxers. Patrick bites open the packet and eases his jeans down and his cock out. Art takes shallow breaths watching him roll the condom on. It’s so big the condom is a magnum size and it fits snug. He’s heard horror stories about first times, even read a few on Reddit and he’s starting to feel a little panicked.

”Look at you.” Patrick says softly, eyes dragging slowly down Arts body. He pulls Art onto his thighs, god he has thick muscular thighs, Art can’t help wiggling. Patrick’s got him close so their cocks line up, and his palm is covered in lube and he’s gripping them both at the same time. It feels so fucking good Art thinks he might come too fast. He’s moaning, eyes squeezed shut when Patrick stops. Art opens his eyes to see Patrick wetting his fingers with more lube and slips a thick calloused finger back along Art’s entrance. Art feels himself seizing up as Patrick presses slowly inside.

“Take deep breaths,” Patrick whispers. Advice Art tries to follow but it just feels so crazy. He eases another finger in and Art tenses even more.

“Mm if your so fucking tight, I can’t fuck you sweetheart.”

“Does it hurt?” Art whispers.

Patrick takes a breath. “Yeah a little at first… but I think I can make it feel a little…uh better…”

Art shivers, his body suddenly overrun by pleasure as Patrick’s teasing his fingertips deep inside him. Art can hear himself moaning voice suddenly pitched so high he barely recognizes it. “Please… please… “he begs. “Please fuck me… fuck me… fuck me daddy.” Art gasps, losing himself as he’s riding the sensation.

“Fuck… what did you call me?” Patrick whispers.

Art bites his lip, his body heating up immediately with embarrassment. “Mm sorry. I didn’t… I didn’t mean to… I meant like sugar…” He says softly as Patrick slowly pulls his fingertips out. Art is breathless. Patrick doesn’t look mad but his expression has gone heady.

“Fuck… I can be daddy if you need it,” Patrick breathes. “Come…sit on daddy’s dick. Holy shit. What are you doing to me?”

Art swallows, his stomach doing flip flops for the way Patrick says it. He sits up on his knees, he can feel Patrick lining up. It actually feels like a lot. Like way too much. Impossible to take. He’s got his eyes squeezed shut and watering feeling the insane stretch as he sinks so fucking slowly down on it.

“Oh god,” he keeps whispering over and over like a prayer.

“Fuck,” Patrick breathes. His hands gripping Art’s waist.

He’s anxious moving slowly, gripping tightly, it’s too much, he’s too full. And Patrick starts to adjust him while gently rubbing his tummy. “Relax… lets try this angle,” Patrick whispers. Fucking into him in a way that he starts hitting that pleasure spot deep inside with even more intensity. “Good… good boy…that’s right…breathe… breathe… keep breathing… fuck…” Patrick coaches. And then slowly as it happens Art is moaning, bouncing on his lap just to feel it hit over and over and over and over again.

“I wanna… mmm I like it so much. wanna do it all the time,” Art moans nonsensically as he’s riding, not sure what’s happening, just that he’s seeing stars. “I wanna fuck you all the time. All the fucking time. wanna fuck you at school… during practice. In your bed. Wanna be your boy toy. Play with your big dick. Fuck me, oh fuck… fuck me daddy, daddy please. It feels so fucking good.”

“Jesus,” Patrick groans he barely grips Art’s cock and he’s coming loudly, spurts of it covering Patrick’s chest and his own. He can feel Patrick still pressing up into him, it suddenly feels like way too much. Every movement making him shake with how sensitive it feels and then Patrick stills, swearing over and over, gripping Art’s body tight and burying himself deep. Low gravelly sounds against Art’s ear.

”Fuck,” Patrick gasps, breathlessly. “Oh… god. You’re so… fuck I’m so screwed.”

“Mm,” Art collapses against his chest, running his fingers down Patricks soft chest hair all painted with his jizz. His knees are all sweaty and sticking to the leather but he doesn’t really care. He just wants to be close. Patrick is gently rubbing his lower back and it feels amazing. Art can feel him softening and slowly slipping out of him, he thinks he might fall asleep like this.

“You okay?” Patrick asks.

”Mmhm,” Art says.

“You sure?”

”Yeah. Can we do it again?”

“God,” Patrick laughs. “I need at least five minutes and I need you to get up cause I gotta piss.”

“No,” Art whines, unhappy about anything that means he won’t be warmed by Patrick's body heat even for a second. He wraps his arms around Patrick’s shoulders.

Patrick chuckles. “I can’t go anywhere?”

“No,” Art says. “You’re my pillow.”

“Guess I fucked your virgin ass good,” Patrick says.

“For an old guy,” Art says softly, smiling against Patrick’s throat.

“For your daddy, you little freak…” Patrick says gently, squeezing his ass. “Come on, get up or we’re gonna have a bigger mess to clean up.”

Art groans and unwraps his arms. “Can I come?”

“To piss?” Patrick raises his eyebrows.

“Yeah,” Art nods.

Patrick smirks and rolls his eyes before gently curling his fingers into Arts hair. “Yeah sure, come on.”

Art kisses him and he sighs into Arts mouth. “I need a fucking cigarette too.”

“Can I stay over?” Art asks against his lips.

“Mm…” he ponders and sighs. “Fuck it I don’t know why I bother pretending to set boundaries with you…” he says, helping Art to his shaky feet. “Tashi will be home tomorrow afternoon. So you know… better not sleep too late.”

Art grins at him. “Does she know about me?”

“Does she know that after I finally got a good job as a tennis coach at my old school that I’m this close to losing it because I can’t help fucking my barely legal 20 year old star player? No actually. She doesn’t know.” He says dryly.

Art laughs. “I wouldn’t tell. But I mean imagine if I slept with you both. I’d learn so much about tennis.“

Patrick snorts, “This kinda talk is gonna make me take you home tonight actually…”

“Mm too late. You let me call you daddy,” Art grins. “You’re never getting rid of me.”

[your-unfriendlyghost]

No Class

 Aka making Stevepop fight

this fic comes from the h/c I have that Steve’s not really close to anyone at school except Soda and Evie, so when Soda drops out, Steve gets frustrated. I’ll cross post this to Ao3 later I think.

All the Stevepop here is platonic technically but they’ve definitely got…something goin on idk- any way you slice it they’re each other’s person ok? (This is also pre-meeting Evie, that’s why she’s not mentioned lol.)

(edit- wait no i did mention her apparently?? Idk I guess it isn’t pre-Evie??)

There’s also a little inspo here from this post by @dallasgallant - they posted it ages ago but yk I think abt it still lol. I dunno that I really did the concept justice here, as I don’t go….deep into it or anything, but it’s definitely present

-

“You can’t drop outta high school, man,” Steve says weakly. “You…you can’t.”

  Soda sighs, tilting his DX cap down over his face. “Stevie…” he murmurs, voice soft and pleading. “What the hell am I supposed to do?”

  Steve shakes his head. He can’t wrap his mind around this. Soda can’t- he can’t just leave!

  “God, I dunno, take some of my shifts? Or make Ponyboy get a job?!” Steve says, running a hand down his face. “He’s thirteen, don’t shelter him like that-”

  “Jesus,” Soda mutters, as if there’s something obviously wrong with that that Steve isn't getting.

  “What?!” Steve snaps.

  Soda gives him a dull-eyed stare. “C’mon, he ain’t sheltered.”

  Steve scoffs. “Yeah, right- I’ve seen him cryin’ like a girl, and y’all just let him be a wimp. He's sheltered as hell. But Soda that ain’t the point-”

  Soda’s jaw clenches. “Aw, watch it, man.”

  “No! No, you can’t just leave, I won’t- you can’t- Oh, c’mon, we just have a year left- I mean, believe it or not, Ponyboy can pick up some slack ‘round here too-”

  Now Soda’s eyes flash, and he audibly snorts. “Shut it, you ain’t really one to accuse anyone of bein’ sheltered, Randle.”

  Steve freezes. “The hell does that mean?!”

  Soda shakes his head. “Nup- I shouldn’ta said that. Never mind,” he sighs. 

  “No! No, you tell me what ya mean!” Steve says, painfully aware of how shrill he sounds.

  “Naw. I shouldn’ta opened my damn mouth’. Just…just forget it, Stevie,” Soda insists.

  “Tell me what you mean, man, you said it, you gotta explain it!” Steve argues.

  “No! I don’t wanna talk about this right now, man!”

  “Spell it out for me, why don’t ya?!” Steve says, getting up in Soda’s face now. “‘Cos as far as I know, gettin’ kicked outta my own house all the time sure ain’t sheltered!”

  Soda shoves him back a bit, gently. “Jesus, I never said you was sheltered, I just said that Pony ain’t!”

  “No, no, I heard ya, don’t you go lyin’ to me now, Curtis,” Steve hisses.

  “Fine, ya really wanna know?!” Soda growls. “All I’m sayin’ is that you’re the only grease I know who’s got a three-story house, whose papa still makes good money, and who always has a wallet fulla cash! Yeah your ol’ man ain’t so great, but ya always have new clothes an’ shit-”

  “AIN’T SO GREAT?!” Steve yells, voice booming. “I SLEEP AT YOU AND DAL’S PLACES HALF THE TIME!”

  Soda flinches. “I know! That’s why I took it back! All I’m sayin’ is that you got opportunities that me or Pony’d kill for, and I dunno if ya even know it- but I know you ain’t sheltered, shit, man, I know it, okay?”

  Steve can barely hear him over the angry hot buzzing in his head. Opportunities?! Yeah right, what opportunities?! And the third floor ain't even a third floor, it’s just a damn attic room that Steve moved into for space! Ponyboy’s never been struck by his papa- and sure, Steve hasn’t either, least not after the age of five, but he’s been shoved hard which ain’t so different! Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with a look burning in his eyes like he hated him. Mr. Curtis never looked at Pony with horror, realizing he’d hurt his son- Mr. Curtis never said GET OUT, because he couldn’t resist hurting him and needed him gone- 

  “Soda-” Steve says, voice high and loud, louder than he means it to be, “fuck-” 

  Soda looks at him, eyes wide, and Steve realizes he’s grabbed the front of Soda’s shirt.

  He huffs and lets go, stepping back and shoving his hands into his pockets.

  “I’m goin’ to Dally’s,” he grunts, slinging on his leather jacket. “Don’t wait up.”

  Soda, now tired again, says “Didn’t plan on it.”

  “...Good,” says Steve as he shoves the door open, because he can’t think of anything tougher to say. 

  “Steve?” Soda says, flatly.

  For a second, Steve thinks he’s gonna apologize, because Soda always caves first. He glances over his shoulder at him. “What?”

  “Don’t talk about my brother like that,” Soda says, voice low.

  “Yeah? Well maybe you shouldn’t be so sensitive,” Steve bites back. He slams the door.

  Boy, he wishes Soda had just apologized.

-

  On the drive to Dally’s, Steve feels sick. His stomach twists as he replays the conversation in his head.

  Who is he to call Soda sensitive? Steve’s as sensitive as they come. Well, not sensitive, he’s no Ponyboy. Reactive, maybe. 

  But then again- what was Soda on about?! Dropping outta school?! Just to coddle the damn kid?! Steve swallows feverishly at the thought of school without Soda. 

  What about him?! Doesn’t Soda care? It ain’t hard to work at thirteen, Steve started at sixteen but he knows plenty of guys who started younger- Why should Soda bear the burden of leaving school? Why does Ponyboy get to stay?! Sure he’s leavin’ junior high a year early, but he can do school and work at the same time, can’t he?!

  Why’s Soda always gotta sacrifice himself for a spoiled little kid?

  Steve turns a corner too fast and gets honked at. Dammit. He rolls his eyes.

  Doesn’t Soda care about the fact that Steve’s gotta stay in school, and he can’t do that without Soda?!

  And yeah, the Curtises are low on funds, and yeah, Steve isn’t, but he ain’t a Soc either! He doesn’t- he doesn’t buy new clothes all the time- well, sure he has three leather jackets, but he got those for cheap at the charity store! 

  Plus, it was with money I earned from sleepin’ in the lot- Pony’s never had to sleep in the lot, Steve thinks madly. Neither has Soda- he just don’t get it…

  Steve’s not even sure who he’s fixin to complain to about it now. After all, if Soda don’t get it, no one else will.

  But Dal works. Two-Bit too, probably.

-

  Sometimes at night Soda paces. Back and forth, back and forth, in awkward dizzying figure eights. He flicks on the stove and walks to the icebox, turns around and walks back to the threshold where the kitchen meets the living room, and walks to the icebox again. It’s been a day since his argument with Steve.

  Two-Bit’s watching some show on the TV, maybe the Twilight Zone, although Soda’s not rightly sure. Two glances at Soda’s pacing, but doesn’t question it- maybe he would have, normally, but he’s half asleep as is, and besides, he’s probably seen this display plenty before anyhow.

  “Did you just turn the stove in with nothing on it?” Two-Bit asks instead, blinking.

  “Huh? Oh,” Soda says. He puts the kettle on the fire. “Oops.”

  “You gon’ remember to turn it off, ya airhead?” Two-Bit grins.

  Soda grins back, a little sheepishly. If the comment had been from anyone else, it woulda stung. But Two-Bit gets it. He knows the score. After all, he’s a month away from eighteen, yet he’s in the same grade as Soda.

  “You gon’ remind me?” Soda replies, cocking his eyebrow.

  Two snorts. “Naw- leave that to me, an’ you’ll end up with your whole damn house burned down.”

  “Aw, well, that’s just as likely if it’s left to me- I mean, I’m the dumb one, ain’t I?” Soda laughs, but he must’ve done a pretty lousy job at hiding the hollowness in it, ‘cos Two-Bit’s eyes soften.

  “No you ain’t,” Two-Bit sighs, tilting his head back.

  “Sure I am,” Soda spits. “Y’know, sometimes I gotta ask Ponyboy for help on my goddamn homework- you know that, right?” he says, whirling around and walking back to the sink, and then the icebox.

  Two-Bit’s shoulders slump. “Stevie was sayin’ to me and Dally the other night that you was fixin’ to dropout.”

  Soda stiffens. “He did?!”

  “Sorta thought he was just bein’ dramatic at the time, you know how he is…but I reckon he wasn’t after all, huh?” Two says pointedly. Two knows he’s right- when it comes to real knowledge, Two-Bit’s only wrong when it’s funny. He just wants to hear Soda admit it.

  Soda clamps his jaw shut. “That ain’t fair. Ain’t none of his goddamn business. Ain’t yours, neither.”

  “Okay, sure, I reckon that’s a fair assessment,” Two-Bit says easily. “You ain’t gotta tell me nothin’. …You will though, won’tcha.” He says it like a statement, and cocks his eyebrow.

  Soda scowls and opens the cupboard, getting out a box of cereal. “I ain’t got nothin’ to say,” he says, shoving a handful of cocoa pebbles into his mouth to prove he really doesn’t.

  “Right, you don’t,” Two-Bit says sarcastically.

  “I just don’t get what Sth-teve is so hung up ‘bout!” Soda lisps through the mouthful of cereal.

  Two-Bit smirks, like ah there it is.

  “Sthut up,” Soda groans.

  “Hey hey, my lips are locked, bub,” Two-Bit says innocently.

  “I mean Chrisht-” Soda pauses and swallows the last of the cereal- “he knows I ain't bright, what’s goin’ to school even doin’ for me?! It’s just a waste of time that I oughta spend makin’ money, makin’ myself useful! It ain’t like it’s some damn tragedy, I ain’t Darry!”

  “Hey, no one is,” Two-Bit says, patting Soda’s shoulder.

  “You know what I mean- I mean, I ain’t…I ain’t got no…what’s the word? For when ya could be somethin’...polenta?”

  “Potential, I reckon,” Two-Bit says. “I only know that ‘cause of how often Ma says I’m wastin’ it,” he adds hastily.

  “Yeah, well, I ain’t got none to waste,” Soda sighs. “I ain’t a sport, I ain’t a brain, and the only classes I’m passin’ are gym and shop. What the hell is the point? Steve oughta know that!”

  “Steve oughta know a lotta things he don’t know,” Two-Bit says, wiggling his eyebrows. “Y’know?”

  Soda blinks. “...Maybe I’m slow, but…ya lost me.”

  Two shrugs. “Well, Stevie-boy ain’t got the same problems as you and me, that’s all.”

  “Right, ‘cos he has more money.”

  “Well, kinda, but I mean he ain’t got no one he’s…lookin’ out for the way we do. He’s just got himself and his folks.”   “Just his dad, really. His mama ain’t been home from the hospital since we were like…fourteen,” Soda corrects on instinct.

  “See?”

  “So? He still can use his heart a bit, can’t he?” Soda protests. 

  “Sure. But when have we ever known him to?”

  Soda wants to protest, ‘cos that isn’t true, not exactly. When Mom and Dad died, it was Steve who held him, who didn’t need him to keep it together. It was Steve who signed up with him for double shifts on the weekends, because Soda needed the money but hated working alone. Steve watches out for Evie, too- when she needs a place to stay, to get away from her stepfather and her mom, she hides out at his place. 

  But Steve’s always disliked Ponyboy. Maybe Two’s right. Maybe Steve just can’t get it.

  But it isn’t like Steve hates the kid, either, right? He just cares more for Soda’s company than he cares about Pony’s grades.

  Soda chews his lip. It isn’t like he’s not sad to be missing out on time with Steve, either. Sitting in class, tossing notes at Steve, sneaking off campus with Steve, wrestling Steve in PE… They’re like the highlight of his school experience. 

  But he’s sixteen now. And unless he plans on getting back into riding rodeos any time soon, his future’s just gas stations, and maybe the army if he gets bored of gas stations. There’s just no point in putting it off if it’s coming either way.

  So yeah, he’ll miss Steve, but Steve’ll just have to deal…right?

  “He just keeps sayin’ it isn’t fair, ‘cos I reckon he’ll miss me,” Soda mutters.

  “Well it ain’t like you’re abandonin’ him,” Two-Bit shrugs. “He’s bein’ dramatic.”

  “He is dramatic,” Soda sighs. Steve’s always been dramatic. 

  But Soda…kinda gets it.

  Steve’s a pretty lonely guy. He’s got Soda, sometimes Two-Bit, sometimes Dally. And he’s got his old man, and his ma, but only when she’s conscious enough to talk.

  Soda puts the cereal box away. “Hey Two, tell Darry I’m at Steve’s place, yeah?”

  Two-Bit smiles faintly. “What’re ya gonna say?”

  “I’ll figure that out when I get there.”

-

  “Hey Steve, come on a walk with me?” Soda says. He’s breathless and red-faced, like he ran here, and is cupping his hands ‘round his mouth to yell up from the backyard.

  He’s gotta do that, ‘cos my room’s on the third floor, Steve notes miserably. He really is the only greaser he knows who lives in a house with three stories. 

  He wants to fly out the window and throw his arms around Soda. Sure, Soda’s wrong, but still…

  He resists that urge though, and instead, he leans out the window and says “I’ll meet ya downstairs.”

  “Tuff.”

  Outside, Soda gives him a little smile. “The uh…weather’s nice, huh?”

  “It’s May,” Steve says. He cringes. He didn’t mean to sound smart-mouthed.

  “Yeah,” Soda says, scrunching his nose. “I guess.”

  “I ain’t…I ain’t a Soc, Soda,” Steve mutters. Sure his old man has a good job and a college degree. They still live on the East Side. Steve’s still never gonna get outta Tulsa.

  Soda nods. “I know that, Stevie. I shouldn’t have said that to ya. I’m not sorry for it though.”

  Steve scowls. “Then what’re ya here for?”

  “To take a walk with my best buddy,” Soda answers, tossing an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “C’mon.”

  He leads them down the street, out towards the empty lot. 

  “I don’t like school, Steve,” Soda says, running his hand along a chain link fence. “You know that.”

  “No one does,” Steve mumbles. “That’s why they gotta force ya.”

  “Pony does,” Soda says, nudging Steve’s shoulder. “Pony digs school pretty okay.”

  “…I guess.”

  “And y’know, he’s pretty damn good at it, too. Gets all As n’ all.”

  “Except in math,” Steve corrects. Ponyboy definitely got a B- in math last semester.

  “Except in math,” Soda says, smiling. “But the point is, he’s got somethin’ special. He’s got a brain. And he’s gonna get outta this town someday.”

  “Yeah, he’s a real Einstein, huh,” Steve grunts, a stab of irritation in his gut. All hail Ponyboy, child genius, better than downtown hoods like Steve and Soda. “We get it.”

  “C’mon, I gotta be able to support that, y’know?” Soda says, ruffling Steve’s hair. 

  Steve swallows. Fine. Sure. He gets it. He does.

  “But that don’t mean I don’t wanna be ‘round you, you dig?” Soda says.

  Steve’s breath hitches. “Oh- Soda, ‘course I know that,” he says, although he’s not rightly sure he did a second ago.

  “Okay. Fine,” Soda says, amusedly. “But you get it, right? I mean, you’re the only thing I’m gonna miss about that damn school building, savvy?”

  Steve smiles. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Just ‘cos we ain’t gonna have class together don’t mean we’re gonna not…stick together, okay?”

  “It’ll be different,” Steve says, maybe just to be stubborn.

  “Yeah, but not really. You’ll have Two and Dal and Johnny.”

  “Not really. They got other buddies. And it ain’t the same.”

  “Of course it ain’t. Ain’t no one in the world who I like the way I like ya, Stevie. You’re special, and I reckon I’m special to you in the same way, huh?”

  Steve nods, looking at the cracks in the cement under his shoes. 

  “You’re my best friend, Sodapop,” he murmurs. He’s also Steve’s only real friend.

  “You remember how when Dal showed up, how you got all angry?” Soda says, squeezing Steve’s shoulder.

  Steve shrugs, even though he remembers it perfectly. 

  “Yeah, you acted like I was replacin’ ya or something,” Soda grins.

  “You both liked horses. I felt all left out and whatever. Sue me, I was eleven,” Steve says, flushing a bit. 

  “Well I stuck by ya anyhow, even though you’re scared of horses and we all know it.”

  “I’m cautious ‘round horses, not scared,” Steve protests, smiling a little.

  “Sure ya are,” Soda humors him. “The point I’m gettin’ at though is that it was different after Dal met us. Things were different. But I was still me, and you were still you, y’know?”

  Steve nods. “Yeah. I guess,” he says, leaning his head into Soda’s shoulder.

  “So you ain’t mad that I’m droppin’ out then, yeah?” Soda says softly.

  Steve sighs. He is. It’s illogical and unfair, but he’s a little mad still. He lets that throb and die though, in the back of his mind. 

  “I just…I’m gonna miss ya,” Steve says.

  “I’m gonna miss ya too. But we’ve always got work, and the weekends, and hell Stevie, it’s nearly summer, so you ain’t gonna have to worry ‘til September. And then after that, you’ll graduate and we can be free to hang whenever we want for the rest of time.”

  “I wanna hang with ya for the rest of time,” Steve says, so quietly he almost can’t hear himself.

  “Good,” Soda grins. “Me too.”

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

I didn't want to update this post, but I'm doing it anyway, and it's long. Be glad I'm putting a "Keep Reading".

The point of this post isn't that your local fascist can be anyone. The point of this post is that y'all can't recognize dangerously bigoted rhetoric for love or money. The point is that the people who have been raised to know when things are getting dangerous have been sounding the alarm bells for... I don't even know how long. I heard the first alarms in 2018 with Marjorie Taylor Greene's antisemitic dogwhistle-filled Facebook post about space lasers causing wildfires, and people have only gotten more vocal about what they've been seeing since then. We have been getting very loud, and a lotta y'all haven't been listening or have been falling headfirst into the rhetoric yourselves - your bigotry isn't righteous just because you believe in universal healthcare or whatever.

You can read all you want about Hitler's rise to power, or Mussolini, or any other of the I-don't-even-know-how-many authoritarian regimes, but that doesn't do jack shit unless you understand the rhetoric and when it goes from off color remarks to blaming a country's problems on groups of people. Bigotry is baked into the fucking foundations, and a lotta y'all know it but can't recognize it.

The point isn't that the sweet old lady who runs the community center can also be a rabid bigot and still be a bastion of goodness in the community, it's that some of us have been taught that it doesn't matter what that sweet old lady does once she mentions offhandedly how she wishes conversion therapy wasn't so looked down on anymore, or how the Jews have all the money, or how killing disabled people isn't a bad thing because they don't contribute to society. But no one listens when we point out that, with those beliefs unmasked even once, her being in charge of the community center is dangerous. Does that make sense? It doesn't matter who's saying what or whether you agree with them on other things or how nice they are if they say something like that and you know what they mean.

And a lot of us have been saying just that. Yet, now that the worst is happening, all the people who wanted to write us off are posting their revelations as if all of us thought Nazis and other rabid bigots were a mythical big-bad instead of the people who murdered our families and would gladly shoot us dead right along with them.

“I never understood how the Nazis rose to power until this year-“ don’t say that like we’re all in that position. Some of us have always known how it happened because we never had the luxury to not understand

[dixons-sunshine]

More Than Meets The Eye | Quarters Of The Undead

(GIF isn’t mine)

Summary: After Shane demands mushrooms be included in the evening’s dinner, Georgie is sent to go searching for some, her first time ever drifting that far from the camp. But she soon discovers that there’s more than just mushrooms out in the woods.

Era: The Quarry

Part of the Quarters Of The Undead AU.

Warnings: Swearing, arguing, I think that’s it.

Word count: 4.7k

Pairings: Georgianna Hawkins x Daryl Dixon (unestablished/“platonic”); Lydia Vector x Scud Frohmeyer (established/romantic)

A/N: This took me forever to finish but here it is! I hope y’all like it. And massive thanks to @dixonsdarkelf for help with the summary.

Life as she knew it was over. Gone were the days of staying up late to work on grading assignments. Gone were the days of lounging around in the living room with Scud while waiting for Vec to come home from work. Gone were the days where deadlines and failed dates were Georgie’s biggest worries. Instead, now she had to worry about survival. She had to worry about food, safe drinking water. She had to worry about whether or not she would live to see the next day. Despite living in a camp that seemed safe, she knew that everything could change in a blink of an eye. She had seen it happen when the dead first started walking.

Georgie sighed as she worked on fixing a hole in Shane Walsh’s shirt. Or ‘Deputy Dick’, as she had so affectionately named him. A title Vec and Scud had picked up on and used more than even she did. She sat by the unlit campfire as she worked, dreading the nearly full laundry basket of clothes that all had tears or holes that needed fixing. Yes, she loved sewing, but her hand was beginning to cramp up. She needed a break, but she did not want Deputy Dick breathing down her neck for it.

“What the fuck does he do that makes new holes appear in his clothes every single day?” Georgie muttered under her breath, her brows furrowed together in frustration.

From beside her, her best friend, Vec, simply chuckled. “Roll around on the ground, probably,” she mused, leaning back in her chair. “At least then he would be doing something except sit on his ass and “guard the camp” all day.”

Georgie laughed at that and nodded in agreement. “So true.” Her laughter got replaced by a small hiss of pain when she accidentally pricked her finger with the needle. “Shit!”

“You alright, babe?” Vec asked in concern, her blue eyes sparkling in the sunlight.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just pricked my finger,” she replied with a sigh, closing her eyes to will the stinging sensation away.

“You sure? If you think you need stitches, let me know. I’ll go get the kit right now.”

Georgie laughed at her best friend. She appreciated her attempt to lighten the mood. “I’m sure I’ll survive.” She finished closing the hole in the shirt and tossed it into the laundry basket, before getting up and stretching to get rid of the kinks that had formed in her back. “I think I need a break, though.”

Before Vec could speak up, a pair of arms wrapped around her shoulders. “Hey, Vee,” Scud greeted her, having to lean down to press a kiss to the top of her head due to Vec being seated on the chair.

“Yup, now I definitely need a break,” Georgie joked, sending Scud a pointed look.

Scud rolled his eyes and flipped her off. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of you? Definitely not.” Georgie pretended to gag, before laughing and looking back to Vec. “I’ll be right back. I just wanna go get something from the tent.”

“Okay,” Vec replied, bringing her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun as she peered at Georgie. “You think you could bring my notebook with you?”

“Of course.”

With that, she stalked off towards the tent she shared with Scud and Vec. It was set up near the outskirts, close enough to be a part of the camp, but far enough away that they still had some semblance of privacy. Well, some privacy. Another tent was set up not too far away from theirs. A gray, medium-sized tent that belonged to the Dixon brothers.

Georgie did not know how she felt about the Dixon brothers. When her and Vec had been brought back by Shane, they had already been there. Merle Dixon had wasted no time in being crude to her and Vec. Sexual comments, rude gestures, everything. Georgie had met quite a few guys that needed a reality check in her life, but none of them had been quite as bad as the oldest Dixon brother. And Daryl…

Truth be told, Georgie did not know what to make of the younger Dixon brother. All she knew about him was that he could be quite the sass mouth when he wanted to be. However, he tended to keep more to himself, slinking away into the woods more often than not, sometimes only returning days later with squirrels or other game. From what she could gather, he was a bit of a hothead at times, but he seemed to be nothing like his brother. At least, as far as Georgie could tell.

Georgie heard them before she saw them. Looking up from the ground, she stopped in her tracks and had to witness the same men she had been thinking about only moments prior argue for what seemed like the millionth time. She tended to ignore them when they got into their debacles, but she would not be able to now. For some reason, the two brothers had decided that the front of her tent would be the perfect spot for their battleground.

“What the fuck were you thinkin’?! We could’a used that, Merle!” Daryl exclaimed, angrily motioning towards the tent, towards something that Georgie couldn’t see.

Merle simply scoffed and rolled his eyes, absentmindedly wiping at his nose. “Well boohoo. If ya ask me, you oughta shut your mouth before I break your teeth, Darylina.”

Georgie could see that Daryl was getting angrier by the second. He was practically seething at that point. If someone didn’t intervene, the front of her tent would definitely turn into a war ground, and not only metaphorically. She knew she would not be able to stop them, but if they truly were about to start throwing punches, she wanted to at least get what she had came for before they began.

Forcing herself to brave the situation, she walked on and brushed past them, turning their attention to her. She suddenly felt small under their gazes, but she attempted to remain calm.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. You two can go on in a moment,” she mumbled, ducking into her tent. Working at lightning speed, she grabbed Vec’s notebook and pen from beside her sleeping bag, as well as her own sketchbook and pencil. Shane Walsh’s clothes be damned, she wanted to unwind. While doing so, she was rather shocked that she didn’t hear anymore arguing. Seems like her interruption had managed to prevent the fight from escalating, she figured.

Making her way out of the tent in record time—it had to have been less than a minute—she was surprised to see Daryl still standing right where she had last seen him. Merle had already walked off, her prior interruption having stopped their argument long enough for him to have been the one to get the final say before disappearing. Daryl, however, was still rooted in his spot, for reasons even he himself was unaware.

His piercing cerulean-coloured eyes bored down into her chocolate-coloured ones. He was silent, unmoving, his eyebrows furrowed together in a thoughtful look. His gaze made Georgie shift her weight from one foot to the other, feeling a touch unsettled by it.

“Do you need something?” she asked after a few more beats of silence. Merle was gone, so what could Daryl still be doing in front of her tent? She did not know what to expect. She had never even spoken to him before. She had to learn his name from Scud, so she was unsure what he was about to do. Apologize? Yell at her for butting into their argument? She did not know.

After a few moments of contemplation, Daryl simply turned around and walked off. No apology, no yelling, nothing. Just silence as he disappeared into his own tent. Georgie raised her eyebrows as she watched him close the tent flap, not knowing how to feel about what had just happened.

“Okay, then,” she mused aloud to herself. She shook her head and made her way back to the campsite, back to the unlit campfire where Vec and Scud were.

When Vec saw Georgie, she nudged her head in the direction of their tent. “What was that all about?”

Georgie collapsed into the chair, reaching over to hand Vec her notebook and pen. “You saw that?”

“I heard it.” She opened her notebook, before adjusting her glasses on the bridge of her nose.

Georgie sighed and shook her head. “I don’t even know. Daryl was pissed at Merle for something. Said “they could have used it”,” Georgie repeated what she had heard. “I wanted to get our things, though, so I pushed past them. That seemed to end their argument.”

“Wait, seriously?” Scud voiced, a little bit impressed. “You usually hate butting into people’s arguments.”

“I do, but they were in front of our tent. I wanted to get our things,” Georgie shrugged nonchalantly. Truth be told, even she was surprised by how bold she had been. Despite not having said much or told them to go argue somewhere else, that was still something new for her. Usually, she would have shrunk away, let them be and hoped that they would go away soon enough. It seemed like the apocalypse was beginning to strengthen her resolve, little by little.

”Damn, Gin. I’m so proud right now,” Vec spoke up, playfully wiping away a nonexistent tear. “I knew you had it in you.”

Georgie chuckled and threw her pencil at Vec, which only elicited a laugh from her. “I hate you both.”

Vec’s laughter died down, and she leaned back in her seat. “Those brothers really are something.”

“Yes, they are.”

Georgie couldn’t seem to get that look Daryl had given her out of her mind. Despite it not being friendly, it had not been hostile, either. For a moment, it had looked like he had been… intrigued?

No, she thought to herself, opening her sketchbook and gratefully accepting the pencil from Vec. She was overthinking it. She needed to forget about it.

However, that was easier said than done.

Georgie sighed as she walked up to Dale. She glanced back towards the cliff, in the direction where the most of the women in the camp had disappeared down to wash the laundry. The Hawkins woman would have followed behind them like usual, but she had been stopped by the Horvath man. For what reason, she was unaware.

“Georgianna,” Dale said in greeting, sending her a friendly smile as he moved to meet her halfway, a small bag in his grasp.

Georgie smiled at him. “How many times do I have to say that just ‘Georgie’ is fine?” she asked him light-heartedly.

“Well, I think Georgianna is a beautiful name and it should be said more often,” Dale countered playfully.

Georgie simply shook her head. “What can I do for you, Dale?”

“How much do you know about mushrooms?”

That took her off guard. “Oh,” she began, frowning slightly. “Enough to know what the poisonous ones look like, but I’m not super confident in my skills. You’d probably have better luck asking Lori.”

Dale pursed his lips. “I would, but I have no idea where she is.” He adjusted the strap of his shotgun over his shoulder. “Shane wants there to be mushrooms with tonight’s dinner.”

Georgie scoffed and rolled her eyes. “Of course he does,” she muttered under her breath. “So you want me to go look for some?”

“If it isn’t too much trouble,” he confirmed, holding the bag he had in his hands out towards her.

She smiled at him reassuringly. “It’s not.” Georgie took the bag from him and stepped back. “Believe me, this is a blessing. I’ve been waiting for a reason to explore the woods a bit.” She stopped for a moment and frowned a little. “Am I gonna be alone?”

Dale thought for a moment. “Yes and no? I think Daryl is out hunting, so you might run into him. But you can take someone else with you if you’d like.”

“No, it’s okay,” Georgie said. “I got it.”

Dale smiled at her. “Don’t go too far, though. Stay within shouting distance,” he repeated what he always told anyone that went into the woods. He moved towards the ladder that lead up to the roof of the RV. “And be back before sundown.”

“Could you maybe tell Vec where I’m going if she asks?”

“Of course.”

With that, Dale made his way up the ladder, leaving Georgie alone with her thoughts. She smiled to herself and walked off, stopping only for a brief moment to pick up one of the knives that laid on the chair next to the campfire. It wasn’t exactly the type of knife a person would use when hunting or defending themselves, but it would do. She would not go into the woods without some way to defend herself.

With one final glance at the campsite, she disappeared into the trees, making sure to keep her senses on high alert as she stalked further and further away from the safety of the camp. Despite nothing having happened thus far, she did not feel like testing her luck. She definitely did not feel like getting eaten alive.

“Mushrooms,” Georgie muttered to herself as she looked down at the forest floor, slowing her pace down. “Look for mushrooms.” She bent down and picked up what she thought was a mushroom, quickly discovered it wasn’t, and threw it to the side. “Much easier said than done, but it’s fine. At least I don’t have to do laundry for a change.”

Georgie didn’t know how long she was in the woods, scouring the ground for mushrooms and cutting her hands on a twig once or twice. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours. She had a tendency to have no grasp on time or reality when she busied her mind with a task. However, she quickly got brought back to reality when she heard a twig snap behind her. She spun around and gripped the knife in her hand, fully prepared to see a walker stumbling towards her. However, she was surprised to be met with a crossbow raised towards her, piercing blue eyes peering at her over the weapon. The same blue eyes of the man she had spoken to at her tent a few days before.

The air was thick, the silence palpable. For what felt like forever, Georgie and the crossbow-wielding archer just stared at each other, their respective weapons still raised in front of them. However, surprisingly, the younger Dixon was the one to back off first.

Daryl lowered his crossbow and simply looked at Georgie for another few seconds, before speaking up. “The hell’re you doin’ out here?”

Georgie’s eyebrows raised in surprise. She lowered the knife in her hand and simply raised the bag she held in her other one. “Scouring for mushrooms.”

The huntsman hummed in acknowledgement. However, he still looked tense. “Y’shouldn’t be out here,” he replied curtly, his tone cold and lacking any friendliness. “S’too dangerous.”

The Hawkins woman let out a scoff and rolled her eyes. “Typical,” she mumbled, shaking her head, before raising her voice again. “I’m fine.” With that, she turned around and walked on, continuing her search for the damned mushrooms.

Georgie barely got a few feet away before Daryl’s voice rung through the air once more. “S’gettin’ dark. Pretty sure s’hard to find things when ya can’t even see.”

She couldn’t figure out if he was being condescending or not. His tone didn’t waver, nor did his stance, Georgie noted when she turned back around. He was rooted in the same spot, a few squirrels strung over his shoulder and his face betrayed nothing. He managed to upkeep his stoic stature.

Glancing up, Georgie realized that he was right. The sun was beginning to disappear from the sky, its rays painting the sky in hues of orange and yellow. Time had flown by. How long had she been in the woods?

Daryl shifted his weight from one foot to the other, silently observing her. He waited for her to say something, to tell him to get lost or to leave her alone. He expected it, honestly, and after what she had witnessed between him and Merle, he couldn’t blame her. He would tell himself to go away after that.

“Jesus,” Georgie began after a few moments, turning back to him. “How long have I been out here?” She knew it was futile to ask him. Unless he had been following her since she left the camp, she seriously doubted he would be able to answer her question.

Daryl shrugged and cleared his throat. “The hell’re ya askin’ me for?”

“Sorry.” Georgie raised her hands in mock-surrender. “It was a rhetorical question. No need to bite my head off.”

He simply hummed again, his eyes flickering over her face for a few moments, before looking behind her at something. “Behind ya.”

Georgie spun around, her heart pounding against her ribcage, fully prepared to find someone—or something—but she was met with nothing except trees. Was he doing this for laughs? Did he do that as some sort of payback for interrupting him and Merle the other day?

“Why the fuck would you do that, Daryl?” she asked in exasperation, turning back to him. “You want me to have a heart attack?”

Daryl said nothing. He merely looked at her for a second, before stalking over to her. Or, well, behind her. He bent down, picked something up and extended it towards her. A mushroom.

Georgie felt rather stupid in that moment. She’d snapped at him for nothing. He was just helping her out. However, he definitely could have pointed it out in a better way, she thought to herself as she accepted it from his grasp.

“Thanks.”

Daryl stood up and adjusted his hold on his beloved crossbow, slightly towering over her. He wasn’t that much taller than her—only about four inches, if she had to guess—but it was enough to make her have to look up at him. The sun caught in his hair, giving it a golden hue, and upon closer inspection, Georgie could see little specks of green in his eyes. And the—

“Don’t mention it.”

That snapped Georgie back to reality. She frowned at herself and took a step back from the archer. What was that about?

Daryl glanced up at the sky. “I’d head back if I were you. It ain’t safe out here.”

“Why do you care?” She knew she was being harsh. She knew it was uncalled for. She instantly felt bad about it. “Sorry. I’m sorry, that was rude. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Ain’t nothin’. Heard worse.” Daryl wiped his hand off on his jeans. “Jus’ don’t feel like havin’ your death on my conscience if somethin’ happens.”

Georgie nodded and slung the bag over her shoulder. Choosing to be civil as long as he was, she sheathed the knife through the space between her belt and her jeans and crossed her arms over her chest. “That’s fair,” she replied. “Lead the way, I guess.”

Daryl’s eyebrows raised in mild surprise, but he made no comment on her compliance. Instead, he nodded and began walking, making his way back. Georgie followed behind him silently, knowing that there was a time and place to be stubborn, and that was neither the or place. With a quick glance around as she moved, she realized that she had no idea where she was anyway, so Daryl choosing to be somewhat persistent about her following him back was a blessing.

Maybe he knew she was lost. He seemed like an observant guy, so she wouldn’t put it past him.

The minutes ticked by in relative silence. The only thing that could be heard was the sound of leaves crunching under their shoes, the distant sounds of birds’ chirps being replaced by those of crickets, and the whooshing of the late afternoon breeze. It was calm, peaceful, serene. It reminded her of the camping trips her dad used to take her on as a kid.

“Sorry.”

Daryl’s voice rang through the air, taking Georgie by surprise. “What?”

“Sorry,” he repeated himself, keeping his eyes trained in front of him. “For the other day, I mean. The argument. It was ugly and ya didn’t deserve to see it.”

“Oh.” Realization dawned on her. She was shocked to hear him apologize for that. She definitely didn’t expect it. “It’s fine. Shit happens.”

“Mhm.” He glanced at Georgie, finding himself slightly admiring her, even against his better judgement. He wasn’t blind. From the moment he had laid eyes on her, he thought she was beautiful. A few days of observing her from afar showed him that she was a good person. And now their earlier encounter showed him that she had a fire in her, too. So how could he not be a little blown away by her?

After a few more seconds of silence, Georgie found herself speaking up again. “So how hard is it to handle that thing anyway?” She knew her attempt at conversation could have been futile. However, if she had to walk in that tense silence a minute longer, she would lose her mind.

Daryl raised his eyebrows in question. “This?” he inquired, raising his crossbow and continuing when she nodded. “Ain’t that hard if ya know what you’re doin’.”

“It can’t be that hard if you’re asking me,” Georgie scoffed, continuing the conversation now that she knew the archer wouldn’t bite her head off for talking.

“Good thing I ain’t askin’ you, then,” he retorted, stepping over a fallen log. “Think you could do it?”

“I mean, I probably could. I can use a compound bow.”

It was Daryl’s turn to scoff. “S’two very different weapons.”

“Still can’t be that difficult. I think I could use it,” Georgie joked, a smile spreading across her face. “In fact, I’m confident that I can.”

To his surprise, Daryl felt his lips quirk up into a small smile. However, he quickly wiped it from his face. “Whatever ya say. M’willin’a bet that you can’t.”

“Okay,” she mused, nodding her head. “Challenge accepted, Robin Hood.”

The archer snorted at that, but he quickly covered it up with a fake cough. To his shock, he found himself enjoying her company. He couldn’t say that about a lot of people, especially not most of the people at the camp, but there he was. He didn’t know how to feel about that fact. He was conflicted.

“Guess we’ll see—”

The sounds of groans reached his ears. Daryl signalled for Georgie to stop, slowly raising his crossbow in front of him as he stalked forward, his footsteps much quieter than they were only seconds before. Georgie followed behind him, her hand hovering close to the knife that rested against her hip. It took her a little bit longer to hear what he did, but when she did, she realized why he was acting so on edge.

“Is it a walker?” she whispered softly, staying close behind him.

Daryl shushed her. “Be quiet, woman,” he warned her.

Georgie nodded. He was the hunter, after all. If there was anyone that knew about the dangers in these woods, it would be him. He practically lived there, anyway. Despite not knowing him well at all, Georgie knew that she had to trust his judgement. So she shut her mouth and observed as he pulled a few leaf-covered branches back to see what danger lurked there.

Of everything that the two of them could have stumbled across, nothing could have prepared them for that. Just as quickly as Daryl lifted the branches, he just as quickly dropped them, too. His face scrunched up in disgust as he practically jumped back, that visual forever ingrained into his mind.

The visual of Shane and Lori going at it in the middle of the forest floor.

Georgie shared his sentiment. Her eyes were widened in horror, her stomach churning as she fought against the urge to throw up. She definitely could have gone her whole life without seeing that. She never wanted to see that.

“Jesus,” she muttered. “I didn’t want to see that.”

Daryl agreed with that statement. “Yeah.”

“Could have gone my whole life without seeing that and I would have been happy.”

“Mhm.”

The Hawkins woman groaned as she walked as far away from the scene of the crime as she could, reassured she was going the right way when Daryl followed behind her instead of correcting her. “At least now I know why Shane keeps getting holes in his shirt. And Lori…”

“Best if ya try not to think about it,” he advised her, although he knew it would be easier said than done.

“Yeah,” Georgie mumbled. She’d had her suspicions about Shane and Lori—they weren’t as subtle as they thought they were—but she never thought she’d confirm them by seeing them in the act.

The rest of the trek was spent in silence, the previous unexpected camaraderie nowhere to be found. The campsite came into view after about another five minutes of walking, and Georgie could see people gathering around the fire pit. Nobody had spotted them yet, but she was sure they would soon. It’s not like Georgie and Daryl were exactly friends, so them coming back together would probably raise some suspicions.

“Thanks,” she began, turning back to Daryl. “For bringing me back. I know I was a bit of a bitch earlier. You could have left me.”

Daryl shrugged. “Nah. Like I said, don’t need your death on my conscience.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” she said, turning away. However, before she could walk off, his voice reached her ears once more.

“What’s your name?”

Georgie turned back to him. “What?”

Daryl hesitated for a moment. Even he was surprised by the fact that he had asked that. He could easily have let her walk off and be done with her. That would have been easy. He didn’t need friends. But despite that, he found himself repeating the question, the same question he had wanted an answer to for longer than he wanted to admit.

“What’s your name?” he asked again. “I mean, y’know mine. You said it earlier. Now I wanna know yours. Ain’t it considered the good mannered thing to do when exchangin’ names with a stranger?”

Georgie’s lips quirked up into a small smile. “You could always just ask my best friend what my name is. Or Scud or Glenn or somebody,” she replied.

Daryl scoffed. “Yeah, but I don’t wanna do that. I wanna hear it from you.”

The Hawkins woman nodded and sent him a small smile. “Georgianna,” she told him after a few beats of silence. “But just about everyone calls me Georgie. It’s your pick, really. I respond to either.” With that, Georgie turned back around and finally left to head back into the campsite, leaving Daryl alone with his own racing thoughts, ones that confused him immensely, ones that he didn’t understand. Ones he needed to figure out. And Georgie left with the thought that there was definitely more to the archer than meets the eye.

After stopping to drop off the bag with the mushrooms, and telling Dale to sort through them just to be sure none of them are poisonous, Georgie stalked over to her tent at record speed, having piping hot tea to spill to her best friend. Outside, Vec was already waiting with her arms crossed over her chest, a smirk on her face as she peered at Georgie.

“D—”

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to show her face again,” Vec cut her off, the smirk on her face not wavering, even just for a second. “Don’t worry, by the way. It looks like you’ve got all your clothes on the right side out.”

Georgie furrowed her eyebrows in confusion. “What?”

“I’m a little surprised. A few days ago you weren’t even speaking to each other, and now you’re already getting down and dirty? Even Josh and I didn’t move that fast.”

Realization dawned on her. “Dia, no, we—”

The doctor cut her off again, her excitement getting the better of her. “Tell me everything. How was it?”

“I—”

“Is he a good kisser?”

“He—”

“Did he actually make you finish?”

“No, listen—”

“How many times?”

“Wait—”

“You gonna do it again?”

“Lydia!”

That finally seemed to get Vec’s attention. “What?”

Georgie rubbed a hand over her face and laughed. “First of all, nothing happened between us, but we’ll get to that after.”

Vec cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “After what?”

Georgie lowered her voice to a knowing whisper. “You’ll never believe what I saw.”

Georgie belongs to me.

Vec belongs to @dixonsdarkelf.

Taglist: @kat-herine00 @gothic-pumpkin @weirdoneattheparty @holdmytesseract @negansbestie @ffsjustletmesleep @imadisneyprincessiswear

You can reach out to either of us to be added/removed from the taglist.

[sashisuse]

free geto from the shackles of jjk twt’s lack of reading comprehension 😣😣

[jedi-enthusiast]

I can’t believe that one simple question of- “hey should I donate to this nonprofit organization that brings happiness to me and others” -has brought such fucking vitriol out of some of y’all…

..,if your cause is driving you to tell people to kill themselves because they thought about donating $5 to a fanfiction website, maybe you should go outside, touch grass, and rethink your morals, yeah?

[chimerahyperfix]

Being frozen in time definitely does something to you. Physically it cages you. Mentally it throws you into the longest dream you could ever have. It's not comfortable-- far from it in fact-- but you've grown to look forwards to it, when you loose. It's better than being mashed to dark paste at least.

You're frozen right now, in fact. Waiting in silence for time to loop back. Stuck with your thoughts and a vauge feeling of a dream. The house is around you and you're moving through it. Empty rooms and endless hallways, curling and twisting in ways that make them feel alive despite the lack of any living thing that isn't you. No sad monsters, no frozen bodies, no dark stains. There doesn't seem to be an exit.

The dreams you have when frozen seem to correlate to how you're doing emotionally. Most of them have been lost to time, like most things in your life now. Dreams, wounds, emotional bonds; everything is turning back with you, and that’s started to do something to you, because now you can predict the actions of those around you with quite a bit of accuracy. You can recall little bits of things, but the further back you go is just static. There was a bunch of dumb things that you can’t piece back together anymore, there were times with those you love, there was endless rage flowing through your very being, and there was this. The desperation. The empty halls of the very House you’ve worked so hard to protect.

You want out.

You've kept count of how many times you've been frozen. How many times you've died. How many loops. 61 is the counter and it's far, far too many times to relive the same day over again. You grew tired of the monotony by the tenth go around. Twenty five felt like a stab wound. Forty, like you were being split in two. Big 6-0 felt like drowning. You don't feel real anymore.

But that's fine! You can still see the good in this, if you stretch your imagination like taffy, as far as it'll go. It's better to be just you, just one person, than everyone else! You can live with the weight of the country on your shoulders for a bit longer, if only to keep it off of Euphrasie's. You’re doing this for her! For everyone. You can do it for a bit longer. You just need to find the King’s weakness, or something. Make a more powerful potion, or scrap together the materials to make a second craft bomb, or, or something! You’ll find it soon enough. You’re smart! You can do this!

You have to.

You turn down the hallway. Find yourself on an entirely different floor. Just as much of a ghost town. Just ice and cold and tiredness, your breath forming clouds in the air. That’s fine. This is just a dream or something, anyway. You’ll wake back up at your desk any time, with the looming vials of all sorts of toxic stuff you keep drinking that you crabbing neglected to put away because you didn’t think time would crabbing loop, because realistically, WHY would you assume that would happen? Preposterous! Ignore the burning feeling in your throat and the smell of sugar and push on. Wait for it to start all over again.

Because it has to be you, doesn’t it? You wished for this, or something. You don’t remember. It was a long time ago. It has to be you, because only you have the power. It HAS to be you, because who else would it be? Euphie? She’s already got enough on her hands. Mirabelle? You’d rather die. It’s better you do this than the ones you love.

It has to be you.

it has to be you it has to be you it has to be you it has to be you it has to be you it has to be you it has to be you it has to be

It's sucks, having to be the one to do it. Your limit was a long time ago.

You can't do this forever.

[tenwhiteandalusians]

is episode 8 the domitian arc ? more on this and EVEN MORE narratives i’ve been ignoring that the show said “actually,,,” about in 5

[twistedappletree]

“bUt YoU cAnT dO tHaT bEcAuSe It iSnT cAnOn-“ very cool, can i interest you in considering that i don’t give a fuck?

[korkiekenobiconfirmed]

…can scott antis be serious for five fucking seconds?

[mabaris]

that stupid comicbook.com article and also fan response in general to the companion romance situation annoys me so bad for the sole reason that everyone acts like the only people in the game are the pc and playable companions

[melrosing]

anyway in an absolutely wild turn of events I think I’m free of my hideous job and like. substantially richer for it??? lmao 2023 you really owed me

[stargirlfeyre]

A lot of people seem to be confused on the whole “Nesta was trained in politics” so let me just say that she wasn’t actually trained to be a ruler or a politician. She was trained to be the wife of a ruler or politician. She was trained to seduce men of high status and she was taught to be cunning so she could do so. She was called a queen by her mother because she wanted Nesta to marry a prince. That’s it.

Saying Nesta has more political training than Feyre is just incorrect because no where in the books does it say that she was trained in politics or how to be a “good queen”. She was trained to seduce people of high status. Not to be a ruler. Whenever her training with her mother is mentioned, her dancing is always the key focus. It’s never once mentioned that her mother was sitting there and teaching her how to be a good queen and how to run a kingdom.

Seriously why do you think she’s never shown to have any of the qualities a ruler has beyond looking the part of a queen? Why do you think she’s never shown to know the inner workings of a kingdom? She was trained to present herself as this regal figure because that’s what would secure her a good marriage. She was not taught anything about actual ruling.

[tariah23]

Literally still annoyed a little bit from the other day because no way

[bakumai]

“but- but he has family problems at home!!” bitch so do i, do you see me bullying people?? no, tf

[wild-karrde]

A very specific subset of Crosshair girlies miss the point like it’s a fucking Olympic sport I swear to God.