#i don't have the patience to polish this man

[blood-and-mud]

Just Lawrence being his sad self.

The boy belongs to @gatobob

#he's gonna visit the river very soon #someone give him a napkin #i don't have the patience to polish this man #lawrence oleander #boyfriend to death #btd2 lawrence #btd2 fanart

[fatesundress]

⭑ patience, please, and thank you. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom have always sought to best one another in school. it doesn’t help that upon graduating, you work for opposing shops.

tags. rivals to … rivals with benefits? lovers? there’s no real animosity just #flirting so i don’t know, SMUTT minors begone, fluff that may be ooc to some but Not Me, reader literally learns archaic latin for this man, poor boy x rich girl trope if you squint, pureblood reader (and mentions of pureblood marriage politics), explicitly f!reader this time sorry!, fem anatomy, fingering, piv, tldr tom riddle would be turned on by the culminated tension of an eight-year-long academic rivalry.

note. i was 5k words into something else (that is probably better) before this came to me and would not go away so. here it is. don't know where all the smut is coming from. head empty

word count. 6.4k

The bell to Borgin and Burkes knells low and hollow in your ear as you enter, and there he is. Prim waistcoat and perfect hair, tucking books away with a wave of his wand. Far too pretty a thing for a dusty place like this, you think, and you smile with your head held high, pretending to take in the inventory as if that's ever been your reason for coming here.

“You mightn't consider leaving at all," Tom says, regarding you briefly before returning to his books, “if you're going to return this often."

“Oh, Riddle, but then what would you do without my company? Talk to the bones?"

“A tempting offer when considering my alternative.”

He leans against the counter to watch you as you make your way down the aisle, fingers jolting as they brush the shelves of dark paraphernalia, preemptively casting a locking jinx on a particularly nasty skeletal hand that grabbed you once last year.

“Is there anything you're looking for?"

“Nothing in particular,” you hum as you peruse, “Curiosities of your friendly competitors.”

“Friendly,” he repeats, like he’s tasting a strange flavour.

You smile with just enough polished barb that you hope it bothers him. “Most cordial. And I am nothing if not the dutiful volunteer for the task." 

It is an objective truth that you are good at many things. Tom is good at all of them and perhaps one more: being pushed significantly and never showing symptoms of breaking. You'd like to be the one to change that.

“I presume you intend to leave with something?" There's a challenge in his voice, clear as day, as he stands straighter, but — not bothered. Not bothered, just intrigued. His hands fold behind his back and his chin comes up, daring you to say a single snarky thing that isn't true — that you're here to taunt him. Not to buy a thing, and not to enjoy his company.

It was such a boring day before this. If he only knew, he might have a tad more sympathy.

“Breathe, Riddle — if you can through all the dust in here — I've plenty of money to spare; there’s no need to fret about me leaving empty-handed." You select a book at random to prove your point, waltzing closer to hand Tom four sickles from your coin purse.

You're pleasantly surprised to see him actually smile, the corners of his mouth stretching with only the slightest degree of mirth. He reaches out and takes the coins, setting both upon the counter before turning up his nose at the book in your hands. “It must be an enthralling read to capture your attention."

You smooth the cover over with manicured hands and shrug at the indecipherable title. “Well, I’m remiss not to have a clue. I believe it's in Latin."

He runs his hand along the book, thumbing the pages with a raised brow. “It’s a history text. Ancient Roman institutes of magic.” His gaze returns to you. “Will that be all?”

You roll your eyes. He would know a dead language — it's such a remarkably Riddle thing to do — probably just for the sake of knowing it. 

“Yes, if that's satisfactory enough that I may be permitted to walk the premises without causing offence."

“Of course. Though I do expect a review of it soon," he adds, “to know whether my time hasn't been entirely wasted."

“A review?" You laugh. “And I suppose you ask that of all your customers? Mind the matter of it being in a language I don't know; it would take me a few months for a crude translation at best."

“Only my best customers," he says with a small shrug, as if that isn't a completely arbitrary standard he's just pulled out of nowhere. “In that case, you've the better part of a year to read it," he adds, and the smile on his face is less thin, less restrained, more cocky.

You raise a brow, scanning over the words on the first page as if hoping something will stick out. It's all gibberish. “I'm being timed now, am I? I don't recall accepting the task."

"Do you not?"

You scoff. "Of course I do."

“Or perhaps I could translate for you?" he suggests, “It's really no bother for me."

You should be offended — he's eternally eager to see you fail — but your stomach flips at the premise of a challenge you haven't felt since you were in school together, and most importantly, you never fail. “Give me a date, Riddle.”

“I think by Christmas would be fair. Does that give you enough time, or shall I set it a bit later?"

“Christmas," you agree, shaking his hand with all professionalism you can muster (this is, after all, a very professional exchange), turning away, and smiling to yourself as the shop bell tolls again.

It’s only weeks before Christmas when it occurs to you that this isn’t even for anything. There’s no prize should you win, no one else is aware of it, it’s a great waste of time when what began as a passable weekend hobby has now drowned you in English-Latin dictionaries and histories of Ancient Rome. The shop surpasses last year’s sales and you’re dozing off into your mother’s pastry dish during the family celebration. Even your father telling a rather pitiful tale of his Polyjuiced visit to Borgin and Burkes can’t keep your attention when he drones on about how easily he fooled Mr Borgin into remembering the details of some spat twenty years ago. Your brain is in a half-scattered language. It tugs you to what might be the most depressing December 25th of your life if you’re forced to give Tom the gift of your failure.

So you double-down. Your social life is nonexistent. You’re three quarters through the textbook and dreaming about duelling Tom under the Arch of Constantine, and he wins, and he wins, and he wins each time. It only propels you more. You’re downing Invigoration Draughts like a drunkard with a cradle of firewhisky. 

And you do it. 

You finish the damn book, you think you might have actually fucking learned Latin with how deep the words have rooted in your skull, and you win.

You win, in your prettiest dinner dress, snow clinging to your hair, wrapped in a brand new coat as the shop bell tolls and you step inside.

You’re grateful you don’t say as much (which you were planning on doing — planning on slamming the door shut behind you and carolling your bloody success) because it’s Mr Burke at the counter this Christmas evening, not Tom.

“...Miss?” He regards you with perplexity behind the counter.

You blink, recollecting yourself and stepping forward to shake his hand. “Mr Burke. My family wished to extend their best wishes for the new year.”

“Quite a gesture," comes a familiar voice from behind you as Tom steps out from the staircase, dressed in a dark suit and overcoat, like he’s just been out. He’s smiling. He looks disgustingly well.

You glance between the two men, and Burke bows curtly as if made aware of something he’d previously been warned of. “To yours as well, miss.” And then he’s off to assist the only other customer, an elderly woman in fur-lined green with so many glittering pins in her hair she resembles a Christmas tree.

“Riddle,” you say, facing him, unable to hide the triumphant grin that digs into your cheeks. You hand him the book, and atop it, your three pages of articulate, edited review.

“You made it. You read it," he acknowledges, though you doubt he’s surprised, and then nods to the stairs. “Come.”

You follow him up the narrow spiral into a short corridor, taking one look back at the old woman, now clasping a shrieking bauble you gladly turn away from. The door Tom opens is unlocked, presumably where he’d just come from, and — you feel a bit overwhelmed if you’re correct, but you have no idea what else it could be — presumably his flat.

When you enter, the door shuts behind you with an empty click of the latch. The room before you is rather sparse, a kitchenette in one corner, a cramped study in the other, with books upon books and scrolls stacked high on shelves along the dark walls. There's only the barest of seating, two armchairs beneath a dim desk lamp, a small table beside the fireplace, and… a bed, of all things, separated only by a thin divider and the courtesy of enough distance not to immediately draw the eye. You, of course, can't quite help it, gaze lingering on the tidy sheets and back to him.

It isn’t a thought you do well to dwell on. Too many directions for your imagination to roam.

“Well then," you say, hanging your coat at the door and trying not to display any overt anticipation as the parchment rustles in his hand, “Shall I just sit and await your evaluation?"

He raises a brow. “I was going to ask if you’d like tea. Do sit, though.”

Oh. Yes, right, you’re rushing things. Hospitality. Decorum. Consideration. You suppose Tom Riddle would extend those things for the sake of posterity if nothing else. “Something black, if you have any, please.”

The water comes to a boil quickly under the steady heat of his magic, and you’re sinking into a shockingly comfortable armchair taking in every shape and blemish of the room while you’re in it. You don’t have to guess that he doesn’t have many guests.

“Darjeeling,” Tom says as he offers you a steaming cup, “if that’s satisfactory.”

You resist a scowl at his mocking tone, placing the tea on a glass coaster and glancing purposefully at your work (your magnum opus, really) once more. “Perfectly.”

Tom notes your look with a smile, settling into the seat opposite yours. 

You take a sip of tea and lean back. “Do go on.”

“Eager,” he mutters, but begins.

He skims over the opening line before flipping the book open as if to be sure you haven’t made it all up, and then you think you probably could have made it all up if you wanted. Read one of the hundreds of magical histories of Rome that certainly existed — probably in your own shop, at that — and gathered much the same conclusion. But you did not. Tom must know you did not. 

The silence is thick as he reads, waned only by the crackle of the fireplace and the occasional turn of a page. His brows furrow the way you always remember catching in school, like he's concentrating on a particularly hard puzzle, and you have to busy yourself with a nearly empty cup of tea to pretend not to notice the way his beauty is something almost delicate. Framed by firelight and the indigo gloss of the night shining in through the window, you imagine his hair mussed, his long eyelashes speckled with snow, his cheeks pink from the cold. You wonder about him in a nicer suit than this. You could buy him one, if you liked.

And then, at last, he looks up over the parchment, expression carefully measured. “I'm impressed.”

You put your cup down and you can’t help it. You're smiling. You're proud. His approval is like bottling the tail of a rainbow (which you’ve been told is possible), and it's a feeling that’s been absent from you for so long, it's never come from him — Merlin, you've always wanted it to come from him, haven’t you?

“You’re impressed?” you ask, as you love nothing more than to push. “Is that all?”

He loves nothing more than to keep his face impassive, but there’s a twitch there. Something you’re aware you can only spot because of how much attention you pay him. 

“I enjoyed your perspective on the Romans’ utilisation of firedrakes. It was well-thought.”

“Well-thought?”

“Quite good, yes.”

“Good," you say, grinning in the bulk of your triumph, “I suppose that means I win."

Win. You’re not winning anything but the implication that Tom is somehow losing. Still he does not break, and you think at seventeen he would have. At nearly twenty his smile just grows. “Have you ever done anything less?”

Is he pushing too? That could be fun.

“Oh, first year tribulations. Nothing since — you wouldn’t remember.”

“Hm, I do recall an unfortunate lesson with a matagot in Beasts, and that must have been, what—” He tilts his head as though to ponder it— “fourth year?”

You narrow your eyes. “Paid an ever-close watch on me, did you, Riddle?”

“As close as anyone else.”

“And by that you mean to say—?”

“Only that it’s a most fascinating custom, the matter of pureblood marriage. It was hard to avoid your name in a common room full of your particular politics.”

“Ah,” you hum, summoning the teapot from the kitchenette to pour another cup, “so my potential marital affairs are what drew your attention. And here I was thinking it was because I was the only person who could ever best you.”

He stops your tea mid-motion, and you still as he sends both the pot and the cup to the table beside you. “Can it not have begun as one and have become the other?”

“Well, your curiosity knows no end; I should be flattered by such multifaceted interest.”

“So you won’t mind my inquiring.”

“Whatever you wish, Riddle.”

“Upon the current status of your betrothal.”

You blink, and then laugh. “There is no betrothal. At present.”

“At present. Is it subject to change?”

“There’s always talk,” you offer, and it offers impressively little.

“Elaborate...”

“I don’t know that you’re in any position to be making demands,” you gibe, “considering I paid four sickles to prove you wrong and I haven’t anything to show for it but my pride.”

He smiles. “Not enough to sate your desire to make me grovel, it seems.”

“You? Grovel?” You gasp, fingers circling your knee idly. “What a fascinating concept… Wait now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

“Is that not what you came for?” he asks, and it’s odd to see him amused by the idea. You push and push and he just continues to take. “To prove me wrong? To puncture my pride?”

You shrug innocently, even though you’d just said as much. “I’m here to wish you a Merry Christmas.”

He laughs, a warm, quiet laugh — more of a breath than anything — but true if you can read him at all, and that’s a bit alarming. “Of course. Near nine months of exhaustive translation all to bid me a nice holiday. It sounds almost like grovelling, doesn’t it? Wait, now, I’m trying to paint the picture.”

You bite back your smile. Damn him. He’s never been funny before. That’s a problematic development.

“Fine.” Your legs are already crossed and now you’re crossing your arms too, and you look very reserved compared to his relaxed stature. “A match would, of course, need to be of good title.”

“Of course,” Tom says, without even an attempt at masking his amusement.

“And he would need to be rich.”

“Naturally.”

“It would help to be from one of the Sacred Houses.”

“I should not expect anything less.”

“And I suppose age is a factor,” you go on. You push, and push, and push. Tom is impervious. He takes.

“What age would do well?”

“Near enough to my own. For health, of course.”

“For health,” he agrees delightedly.

What the hell are you talking about?

“It would be preferable that he be handsome.”

“And of his character?”

“Most agreeable.”

“Docile?”

“Hm, docile, yes.”

“It is a long list.”

“I’ve been told I’m a difficult woman to sate. Far too prideful, apparently.”

Your fingers are drawing figure-eights on your thigh now, and Tom’s eyes flash briefly to the motion. You stop as though caught, and you aren’t sure why.

“A defamatory accusation,” he says quietly.

You wonder if his voice has always had that tinge to it: the gravel underlining his polish like the crack of the fire, and — that must be why it’s so warm in here, too. It has been that way since you arrived, hasn’t it? Such polarising temperatures between your walk in the snow to this, you must have only just adjusted… an hour after arriving. It’s completely logical.

“So there are talks,” you repeat, if only because you’ve blanked on all else.

“Well,” he says, eyes boring into yours in a way that makes you feel transparent, “I wish you all the best. If it at all helps, you can now add a moderate understanding of Latin to your list of virtues.”

You drape an arm across your chair to match his easy posture. (And how is it he manages to look regal and informal at the same time?) “My list of virtues? Elaborate.”

He shakes his head with a small smile and you point an accusatory finger at him. “Ah, ah, Riddle — I won, remember? And I indulged your inquiring regardless.”

His eyes narrow. “You do want me to grovel.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I don’t believe that’s the purpose of the day.”

“And that matters to you?”

He leans forward, looking over you as if your supposed virtues will reveal themselves upon scrutiny. It’s a bit offensive, really. You’d hope he could find more than enough with one glance.

He settles, after a long moment where you feel almost bare, on, “Your pride is agonising.”

It’s — not exactly what you were hoping for. Not quite grovelling, by any definition, but then, what did you expect from him?

“Excuse me?”

“Your stockings are ripped at the calf.”

“Riddle—”

“Your lipstick may have stained my teacup. It is a shade I’m rather fond of, but I do not wish to see a trace of it left behind.”

“Quite good,” you say through gritted teeth.

“And I should not be agonised — incautious and unfettered at a sliver of skin or the gesture of your mouth —” You realise with horror that he’s speaking through something constrained too — “and yet I am.”

It’s — is that a confession? Have you broken him? Have you won again? Your stomach flips and it doesn’t feel at all like winning. He certainly doesn’t look like a man who’s lost. In fact, he’s watching you intently, and at your lack of response, the constraint forming a taut line on his lips seems to slip back into something deliberate. Curious.

You recover to the best of your ability. “It is a short list.”

“Shall I go on?” he asks, and it’s an answer, too: no, you have most definitely not broken him. He looks a bit like he’s found a neat pathway to breaking you instead.

“I’d hate to debase you further.”

He leans in, and he might be about to stand, and that might be an irreversible thing to do. “Are you sure? I can’t imagine you’ve painted the picture yet.”

Oh, you’ve painted the picture. You’ve painted a gallery.

“I find the image regrettable half-done. No point finishing it now.”

You do not.

“And besides,” you add, “I know my virtues.”

He smiles, and he’s half orange in the firelight and half blue in the night, green somewhere in the middle, and he should be condemned for being this beautiful. “Elaborate.”

You shouldn’t. “I’m intelligent.”

“Mhm.”

“I’m a quick learner.”

“So I’ve seen,” he agrees, still leaning in.

“I’m good at my job.”

And then he stands.

It is an irreversible thing. Your heart lurches like it knows he’s going to do something that cannot be undone. Your heart lurches because it is a thing you’ve anticipated, quietly, on late nights in scrolls of Latin so you might be able to pretend to mistranslate them — you know, in your first tongue and any other, that you do not want it to be undone.

“Anything else?” he asks. You aren’t sure if you’re resentful of the proximity of his seat to yours or grateful for it, because it takes no time at all for him to be standing before you.

“I’m well-mannered,” you say, and it comes out quieter than you mean for it to. “Lettered in etiquette.”

“Etiquette," he repeats slowly, in a voice dripping with sarcasm, and you don't quite know how he manages an intonation like that, but there it is, dripping with so much contempt you’re surprised he doesn’t fall over.

It wouldn’t be terrible if he did. He’d land right on top of you and put this little game to rest.

Instead he reaches a hand to your cheek — your hair — and brushes it like it’s an absolutely standard thing to do. He pulls away just the same. As if his hand is familiar with the shape of your face because it’s been there before. You'd definitely remember if it had.

“Of course,” you breathe, “patience and pleases and thank yous.”

“In all your manners, you might provide an example.”

Fine. If he’s going to be difficult. “I’d say I’m displaying great patience right now.”

“Hm.” His hands find yours where they sit on either arm of your chair, and his figure is blocking all light now. It shines on his shoulders, casts him like an aura. “That’s one.”

You look at his lips, and don’t bother to look away. You incline forward as much as you can when you’re caged in like this, until his breath is on yours and you can smell his cologne.

“Please,” you say, and for the challenge in it you don’t feel too humbled.

He is most obliging.

His lips just barely brush yours at first, and you did say you were patient — so you wait. The feather-light touch of them stills before it deepens, his hands pressing down on yours. Your open mouth. His tongue. You're kissing him, breathlessly and frantically and completely, and it is all you want.

Tom pulls back and you instinctively push forward. You will your eyes to open and he’s still right there — he hasn’t gone anywhere (what a deranged concern that is) — lips an inch from yours, and he’s smiling.

“That’s two.”

Oh. Oh, he’s an aberration in human variance. There’s something incredibly wrong with him.

There isn’t a way of turning gratitude into a challenge, you think. It doesn’t ask for anything. It appreciates. In this case it would more closely resemble worship. Thank you for your kiss, Riddle, I’d be nothing without it.

So you search to find a way around it that still gets you what you want.

“I’ll need a bit more than a lousy kiss if you want to see me grovel, Riddle." Your voice is a bit rough. You don’t know that your confidence lands the way it typically does.

But you came here to — what was it — puncture his pride? Push him until he breaks? You’ve already made it halfway, and you are, after all, very good at it.

And you suppose he wants to earn the third, because he scowls and then he’s kissing you again and this time his hands are on your face, and perhaps they are somehow familiar with the shape because they fit around you in some inexplicably whole way, like they were made for it. With your hands free, you’re carding your fingers through his hair, hoping for that vision of him you imagined earlier, with thick, messy waves and flushed cheeks.

Tom brings a hand to your waist and tugs you in, and you’re partly pulled from the chair by his insistence and overwhelmingly pushing to get out of it yourself, lips never leaving his as you stumble past the meagre divider to his bed.

The backs of your thighs hit the footboard and your knees buckle, gasping away from Tom’s mouth as you reach for the bedpost. His breath is heavy as his hand curves to the small of your back to keep you steady, your dress bunched in his fist, and there’s a heat in him pressed against you, like a match being held to kindling. And in the flash of fire when it finally strikes, everything in his eyes is clear, singularly focused, and he's pushing you to your back, splayed across his tidy sheets as he kisses you with bruising ferocity.

There's an urgency now to his movements that wasn't there before, and it's a stark contrast to his usual calculated demeanour, but that feels like winning. That feels like breaking Tom Riddle, whittling years of practised constraint to… this. That draws the third: makes you nice and grateful like he asked, because no part of you wants his careful fortitude here. You want to ruin him.

He appears to want the very same from you, which wrecks the whole thing.

Your legs move to wrap around him and he stops you, one hand pinning you by the hip and then down, past where you think he’ll go, as he finds the hem of your dress and lifts it from your calf to your knee. He draws circles over the thinly-clothed skin and you can do nothing but lie there, panting a little, staring at him with less patience than you’d proclaimed to have. And then his fingers move upwards, and they’re drawing figure-eights, and you understand that if this isn’t a taunt, nothing is. He copies your earlier motions. He does not kiss you. His fingers trail higher and higher and they’re soft like the shadows framing his face.

Finally he finds the waistband of your stockings and begins to tug them down your hips, stopping when he reaches that sliver of skin revealed by a tear in the fabric, taking your leg and hiking it up so he can look closely. He smiles, finger sliding down the tear in such a precise, meticulous fashion you can’t help but think he’s doing it on purpose. The moment does not linger when he pulls away, shuffling your stockings down the rest of the way so your legs are unclad before him, your heels already kicked off somewhere across the floor.

He watches your sharp exhale when he ducks down to kiss the skin of your thigh. A shiver runs through you at his softness, another when you see his face, see his eyes go dark with want of you.

His constraint is back, and it’s fucking detrimental. The only silver lining you can find in it, and you hope to be correct (haven’t you been so far?), is that maybe that means Tom Riddle can be broken in litany. Maybe he amends his ruination now but you can carve it out of him again later.

“Come here,” you say, your voice ragged.

Tom frowns, one hand pursuing a dangerous path up the inside of your thigh. “And here I was under the impression you wanted me to grovel.”

“Oh,” you huff, “is that what this is? Not some feeble attempt at winning after I —”

You grip his hair as his fingers curl under the lace of your underwear, as he smiles at the dampness there, the way your argument dissipates beneath his touch. “Winning?” he derides, breathy to match your tone in a way that feels cruel rather than considerate. You nod even as your breathing accelerates and he lifts the skirt of your dress to rest over your thighs, his eyes darting between your legs and your own heavy gaze as if he can't decide which is more intriguing. And then he slides a finger across your heat and you think he’s made his choice. "Is that what you think I want?"

You blink, feeling a bit lost. "What else is there?"

“Will you thank me after this?”

Right. That. You swallow, head falling back on his pillow. “Doubtful.”

“Hm,” he mumbles, some kind of consideration that can only be answered by the movement of his fingers against you, slow as they seek to learn you.

You arrest the moan that rises in your throat, teeth clenching together as Tom climbs over you once more, his body keeping you in place to watch the sustained details of your expression as one of his fingers dips inside you. You hiss, and his gaze burns into you, his mouth parted with a degree of awe and you think perhaps this is the picture he painted — you, under him, eyebrows pinched together as your hands scramble for purchase on his chest, fighting to remain intact.

But then his thumb brushes up against your clit and you let out a sound — half a moan, half a mewl. Tom doesn't give you a second to recover as his lips come down on yours again, hard, desperate, like he's trying to inhale you. And you let him, you take the little bit of ruin he surrenders in the great expanse of yours.

Even if you could quiet your noises you stand to think Tom would feel them, taste them, bite down on them like he does your lower lip, a second finger coiling into you. Your hand smacks at his wrist, clutching his arm with such intensity you can feel every sinew of his movement as he works away at you. Your legs are trembling, pressing around his waist an act of simultaneous resistance and desperation as you push upwards for friction and conquest.

You find both. Undeniable hunger — how he groans softly against your open mouth, how the imprint against your thigh is hard under his trousers, how he wants you.

His ministrations only intensify when your hand searches for the buckle of his belt, gripping your jaw like he needs to watch you fall apart before you can find parity in your desperation. It isn’t an impossible wish; your mind is hazy at the push and pull of his fingers, curving where his thumb draws ceaselessly on the other side, and you think, as much as you’re able right now, that he could succeed. But you force your eyes open to the space where your hand is wedged between your bodies, yanking hastily at his belt and sighing into his shoulder as it unfastens.

His trousers are unbuttoned, unzipped, and you’re arching into him with laboured pants even when your hand slips past them to find skin you've never travelled before.

Tom’s motions stagger when your fingers brush experimentally over his length, and you suddenly understand his ardent focus. You can’t help but stare at the way his jaw ticks, a hiss parting through gritted teeth, and the fact that you’re doing this to him is almost enough to push you over the edge. You grip him in one hand, and his fingers move again like some act of defiance, tightening his hold on your jaw. And then you’re pumping slowly, carefully, the only way you think to with the intention of pleasing him. Of weakening him.

He turns your head so you’re gasping into the pillow, neck exposed for him to press his mouth to. His teeth and tongue are on you and your hand slips from him for a moment as you shudder. Fuck him. This isn’t enough. You won't lose like this.

You tug at his waistcoat now, snapping open the buttons until the last few are clinging on by cheap threads. You’ll buy him that suit, you think. One that you can shrug off as fervently as you like without worrying about tearing the seams.

Your removal of his shirt is not aided by the swelling fire inside you, how the attention of his fingers has remained steady through your squirming and it feels like it’s culminating to something fatal. Your fingers grow shakier but don't stop their pursuit until every button is undone and you can soothe their trembling by pressing your palms against the warm expanse of his chest.

And then they’re back in his trousers, pushing them down his thighs as he continues to chip away at you. You bite back moans and blink through your dizziness.

Tom stops, and it might be more devastating than if he hadn’t. Your body is taut, a fine, thrumming wire spared a moment before snapping.

“More,” is all you say, tracing the shape of him through his briefs.

“More?” he asks. There’s a small mercy in the rasp within in his voice, the uncertainty despite himself. “I suppose that means I win.”

“Win?” 

His gall almost, almost pulls you back to reality. But he’s — he’s pulling his trousers further down and your body, like some separate entity to your mind, is flush against him when he’s finally free of all obstructions. 

“Mhm,” he hums, and almost-reality dwindles away into fucking nothing — disappears before your eyes when he brings his finger to his tongue and tastes you.

You tear him back to your mouth with a sound that so desperate your humility shouldn’t be able to take it but that's all gone now. His lips are wet and swollen and you’re adjusting yourself so his hips are lined with yours, and your head rolls back when he positions himself against your core and stays there.

“I win,” you breathe. “Everything else is just—”

He moves, hands on your waist as he presses ever-so-slightly inside you. You clutch wildly at his arms, your eyes wrenching shut.

“Look at me,” he says softly. His thumb caresses your cheek as if any act of his acts of tenderness are at all actually tender and not depraved requests for your resignation. 

You shake your head. “It’s ju-just—”

He sinks further, unhurried, and you feel like crying, your body clenching around him as the pressure deepens.

“Just what?” he asks, peppering kisses along your jaw.

“Just… um, just…”

“Hm?”

“I win... s’just… cheating…”

You feel him smiling against your neck, and then he detaches his lips to observe you, nodding with false sympathy. “You win.”

And he shifts himself forward so he’s pushed to the hilt. 

It’s a lie. It’s a lie as Tom holds you against him, carving kisses into your skin that burn, as you shudder a moan into the thick, hot air, as he begins to move rhythmically inside you, your fingers digging crescent moons into his spine and dragging.

You don't win.

If you are steel honed over years, it’s this moment that you melt, and you think if you were to be fused again it would be in a different shape.

And you mean that. You honestly feel liquified when he splits you slow like this, rolling his hips as you cling to him for strength like he isn’t the thing shattering you. 

You rock to meet him, you bury your nails in his back, you rest your moans with your teeth in his shoulder — whatever you can think to make this fair. Make true to your word. You are going to break, it's true, but you are going to break Tom Riddle too.

“Fingers,” you mutter, far too much of a demand for the way it almost stumbles into a sob, but Tom makes a strained sound in the back of his throat as if it gratifies him that you want it enough to ask.

“Thank me,” he answers on a harsh exhale.

You bite at his collar, shaking your head, but your legs are starting to shake and you wouldn’t ask if it was something you wanted — you mask it as an order because you need it. Because you imagine what he’s doing now combined with his thumb on your clit and it’s enough to make your abdomen clench just thinking about it.

Instead one of your hands forsakes the sweet curve of his muscles every time he thrusts into you so that it can snake between your own legs, and you mimic his earlier ministrations just long enough to drive a moan from your lips before Tom’s eyes dart from your lips, the rise and fall of your chest, to the hand missing from his back.

He grabs it with a scowl, pinning one wrist and then the other above your head.

“Stubborn,” he hisses, and he buries himself inside you like it's something personal, persistent in his strokes when his fingers finally rub over you how you wanted.

And you know you’ve done it when his head falls on your shoulder and you feel yourself tighten around him. His grip on your wrists is punishing. His mouth on your shoulder is stringent. He’s hard and full inside you and his fingers slide against you in delicate, torturous contrast. You know because it all stutters a bit when you pull him into a kiss, when you know you’re about to plummet into oblivion and he’s gripping you through it like you might steady him — like you aren’t the thing shattering him.

When you do, it’s something visceral. You think you might be spinning, or floating — screaming, maybe — spilling ill-mannered expletives in strings with his name because your hands are still trapped under his and your body can do nothing else. What you know, undoubtedly, is that you’re coming down from it for a long time, in a haze when you manage to breathe the words into his ear. “Thank you.”

Tom breaks. It’s the most beautiful you think he’s ever looked; eyebrows cinched and pink mouth parted, hair mussed like you wanted, neck tense as he stills inside you and you feel every part of him let go.

Your legs are too weak to cling to him through it, and you just pant under him, blinking languidly and in awe.

You stay like that for a long time.

He leans in when he finally pulls out of you, kissing you like one form of contact must be replaced with another. It's the same with his hands. He sinks into the space beside you and releases your wrists just to cup your face instead.

Yours come up instantly and shamelessly to his hair, craving nothing more than to curl your fingers through the dark mess of it. You trace the sharp shape of his cheeks, too, like his did to yours, like you need to memorize the lines of his expression and the heat of his skin before the world outside seeps in and it all goes cold.

But you pull away and you can't imagine it will.

There’s something in his eyes that feels new. Longing like he’s shed all pretence of acting like nine years of treading the lines of this rivalry has ever been anything but a pathetic display, like he knows you've shed it too. It makes you catch your breath to think this is what it feels like to be desired by Tom Riddle; that you desire him all the same; all this time.

“You know,” you say, and your voice sticks dry to your mouth, “I still win.”

He shakes his head. He smiles. You want terribly to kiss him again.

“I’ll just have to find something else to best you in, won’t I?”

You pretend like you’re considering it and not just staring at him. 

“I think by Christmas would be fair.”

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle smut #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

[up-in-flames-writing]

I feel like we never talk about how hard it is to be a trans immigrant. We never talk about how escaping from a country that persecutes you does not free you from suffering & bigotry.

I may not be able to attend my own graduation ceremony. I worked so hard these past three years to achieve something, to be the first person in my immediate family to finish uni, get a degree, & then be able to actually do something with it, to pick my own life course & not stray from it. I reinvented myself during these last three years so much, from the shy, dysphoric kid with no friends to a man who maybe isn't doing the best in life, but who has a hope for the future. I worked hard to present myself in the best way I could, & yet I won't be able to see the fruits of my labours.

And, sure, the reason is real silly. I can't legally change my name, so the name on the degree will be my dead one, & the Vice Chancellor will read out the corpse of my old self in front of all my teachers & peers, everyone who knew me as Booker, & Booker alone. And they will expect to see a young lady in a dress climb the stage, only to be met with a boy who isn't quite a man yet, who is still forced to live under a girl's name.

And why? Why! Because I am an immigrant who feared for my young life when Brexit was happening, who has been teased & bullied for being an ESL student, who never quite belonged. Because I am an immigrant transman who could be imprisoned in my country of birth for the crime of wanting to reinvent myself, who has to walk on eggshells around the man who reared me because he grew up Polish & catholic & who knows how he would react if I told him I was his grandson & not his granddaughter. I am an immigrant who has to hide behind their parents because who knows how my extended family will react to me, who is still not allowed to tell his cousin, his little sister whom he adores, his real name despite the fact I was her age when I started questioning my own gender & I somehow wasn't too young to be in pain!

I am an immigrant who cannot safely return home, but the country that took me in isn't quite the safe haven either. Because I need a passport to prove that my name has changed, but a passport cannot be issued to me under a name my birth country does not approve of. Because to change myself fully, I need to become a citizen to a country that abandoned my homeland after the war & looked away when it was being subjugated during it. Because I need to know how many of the swans in London belong to the Crown for the state to consider me a citizen of this dying empire, despite the fact I've lived here for so long, I can't remember what my childhood home back in Poland even looked like! I cannot truly remember what my room in that flat in a small, backwater Polish town looked like anymore, except for the bed that we now have in our guest bedroom, & the bookshelf that cradles all of my books on transness & queerness & feminism.

Because I am an immigrant from a country who hates me, I am forced to live in a country that hardly tolerates me, & to live as my true self I have to subjugate myself for the sake of an old empire that lost its touch. I have to submit myself to a personal sort of colonisation, to be able to walk onto that stage at graduation with my real name on the degree. But I can't do that, because I don't have the money, because I spent the last three years breaking my back proving to people that the little girl with behavioural problems who was always bullied, was able to become something greater than the sum of her parts. Because I now don't have the time or the patience to tell you exactly when the Union Jack was created, or at what hour of the day is tea time, & I don't have the time to wait for a passport to be sent to me, only for me to return it to sender with a plea of changing my name upon it.

Because my transmacs friends in college had their names changed at sixteen, while I'm already done with my undergrad & still have to contend with the question of what citizenship I would rather have. Because I will sooner be on hormones & growing a beard than I will be able to change my name.

And in all this I find it so ironic that I was named after an angel, & like everything else in my life, I reject the goodness & the easy way out, I reject the things that once made me, me, to become my own god & rebuild myself out of the scraps left behind by a life of turmoil.

And still I am just some immigrant bitch stealing jobs from good, hardworking Britons, & I'm still just a transsexual fag taking women's rights away, & I'm still just some freak of nature manipulating the kids into sin & immorality. And no matter where I go, where I turn to, I don't feel all that angelic at all.

#booker speaks #booker writes #transgender #transmasc #transandrophobia #transphobia #immigrants #xenophobia

[chogiwow]

member: professor! jake x uni student, gn!reader

warnings: slight age gap bw jake and reader, hinted suggestive themes

wc: 0.7k+

a/n: one word: hands. i love hands :'>

the sleeves of jake's shirt are folded right up to his elbows, your eyes finding it following its movement.

you were barely paying attention to what your friend was saying, quite blatantly staring at your professor, who stood a ways apart, leaning over a book that another girl was brandishing under his nose and pushing his wire framed glasses up his nose in concentration; no doubt she was smitten by the hot professor and you wouldn't blame her for it.

taking the pen from his student, he starts writing something down on the page and you're more than aware of the veins in his hands that stand out. lately that has been the only thing that you've been raptured about, especially since jake has almost never buttoned up his sleeves entirely, choosing to roll them up till his elbow.

it gives you a nice sight of his veiny hands and his attractive fingers, holding a chalk or marker or flipping a page of a book, and it's very attractive.

jake himself is attractive for that matter. you've almost never seen him in a shirt that is anything but white in colour, black pants, polished shoes and neatly cut brown hair. his choice of the material of his clothes though...interesting.

you hold this to the account of the singular time you had seen some of your batchmates pleading with him to join a game of basketball. while him on the court itself, dribbling a ball while unbuttoning yet another button had been quite a sight to behold, you don't think it was anywhere close to what your eyes had feasted upon the very next period.

his shirt, obviously moist with sweat due to his previous endeavours, had somewhat of a sheer quality to it which made it almost impossible for you to look away from his broad shoulders when the cloth insisted on sticking to his naked back and he'd have to ever so often shake the front of his shirt because he was too hot.

you hum absentmindedly at something your friend says, eyes still trained on the professor you've spent too many weeks fantasizing about when the man in question looks up and catches your eyes.

you somehow don't feel the need to look away, holding his gaze and responding to his smile with one of your own tight lipped one. eventually he has to attend to the student who looked like she was stalling him at this point and you chuckle at the sight. this catches his attention and he spares you a glance for a split second, slightly raising his eyebrow before getting engaged yet again.

he talks to his student patiently, answering her questions and indulging in something she says because you see him laugh and scratch his head, bashfully pushing up his glasses even though he didn't need to, as if he were embarrassed of something and was merely trying to keep his hands occupied.

you keep looking at them even though jake no longer has his attention on you – well, not physically no, but mentally he's wondering about your amusement – and it seems like your patience was finally paying off.

jake's little questionnaire ends and he finally looks up at you. your friend has long abandoned trying to engage you in her conversation, taking to scrolling through her phone in listless amusement and this lets you direct your undivided attention to your professor.

he walks over to where you were, slowly and purposefully, smiling and nodding at a few students who greeted him. an apprehensive excitement bubbles in your stomach, your fingers twitching as he approaches you and your oblivious friend.

almost as if he were teasing you, jake buried one hand in his pocket, holding the books in the other, his stride never ceasing to be any less alluring than his usual charismatic aura, only heightening in the way it almost turned heads his way.

it's a split second of contact you have, a whiff of a scent you don't recognise, nor having time to register given that it only lingers for less than a second and the sensuous way his shirt grazes your arm like a playful touch. it doesn't even last that long, this moment, but it does remain in your mind for a long time.

you're almost certain you hear him chuckle. you wouldn't know, you didn't turn back. and you also didn't know that jake had to turn right back after you left, for he had taken a detour just to walk past you.

#let's gaurrrrr :D #enhypen x reader #jake enhypen #jake enhypen imagines #enhypen imagines #enhypen jake imagines #sim jaeyun #sim jaeyun imagines #i am such a sucker for hands :'>

[girl-next-door-writes]

I Wanna Be Your Man

Characters: Steve Harrington x reader

Summary:  Amidst playful banter at a High School basketball game, Steve might just find his feelings for you aren’t as unrequited as he believed.

Word Count: 1066 word

Prompt: Sports Game. Wearing their hoodie. Seeing them with kids/baby. “Don’t You Dare.”

A/N: This is the final part of my Build-A-Festive-Fics and this one is a little birthday gift to myself. Thank you to all of you who have sent in prompts and to all who have read my ramblings. I hope you all have a very happy festive period.

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

The final game of the year, the high school gymnasium buzzed with infectious holiday spirit as a throng of enthusiastic attendees filled the space. The gymnasium, adorned with twinkling lights and tinsel, emitted a warm glow that added a touch of magic to the atmosphere that heightened the anticipation in the air.

The bleachers were filled with excited spectators, donned in a kaleidoscope of red and green attire, while Santa hats and jingling bells added a playful touch to the crowd. The cheerleading squad energetically led the crowd in spirited cheers, their voices harmonizing with the gentle beats of holiday tunes playing softly in the background. The polished hardwood court shimmered under the brilliant glow of the arena lights, setting the stage for an exhilarating showdown. As both home and away players mentally prepared for the game, even the basketball itself seemed to radiate with a hint of festive enchantment, enhancing the overall sense of excitement and celebration in the gymnasium.

Your gaze swept across the lively crowd, and a gentle smile played on your lips as you identified your friends amidst the sea of faces. Ascending the steps toward them, the familiar sound of good-natured bickering reached your ears, a customary occurrence at these events. The intricate dance of negotiations to secure preferred seating arrangements unfolded before you, a complex strategy that often bordered on chaos, presided over by Steve Harrington. Even Dustin passionately defending his stance on avoiding the end of a row, did not diminish the buoyancy of your mood.

"For the last time, just plant yourself in a seat," Steve huffed, his patience wearing thin as he attempted to corral five spirited teenagers.

"I'll take the end, no big deal. You know I'm not picky about where I sit," you grinned, your arrival causing Steve's frustrated expression to morph into a charming smile.

"Absolutely not. I don't want you getting stuck on the steps when these goofballs start shoving each other," he yielded, stepping aside to let you claim the seat next to the end before finally settling down beside you.

"Hey there, hope these troublemakers haven't been giving you too much grief," you chuckled, playfully nudging your shoulder against his in the snug space.

"Nothing I can't handle."

"Of course not, you're the best babysitter in Hawkins," you teased, prompting an eye roll from Steve.

"Hey, look! It's Lucas!" Max blurted out, enthusiastically pointing to her boyfriend on the court and waving with gusto.

The game started and you were caught up in the electrifying energy of the court. Meanwhile, Steve found himself captivated by you, pleasantly distracted by your presence. His gaze couldn't help but gravitate toward you, a tender, goofy smile dancing on his lips. His feelings for you had been simmering for quite some time, yet the shift from friendship to something more eluded him.

Lucas nailed a three-pointer, prompting the Hawkins High crowd to erupt into cheers, and everyone leapt to their feet in excitement. "That was an insane shot!" you exclaimed, turning to Steve, who had seemingly missed the spectacular basket, his attention wholly fixated on you.

"The kid's good," he acknowledged with a nod, making a deliberate effort to redirect his gaze towards the court.

The game raced on at a frantic pace, maintaining its intensity, and Hawkins High found themselves with a narrow lead as the halftime approached. As soon as the whistle blew, Dustin hurried off to the bathroom, while Mike and Will made a beeline for refreshments, leaving Elle and Max engrossed in animated conversation about Lucas's stellar performance.

As you and Steve rose to allow the others to pass, he observed you shivering. Despite the gymnasium's warmth, you had shed your thick winter coat and sat there in just a thin t-shirt.

"Here," he said softly, swiftly removing his hoodie and extending it toward you as the two of you settled back into your seats.

"Thanks. I thought I'd be okay, but there's a draft in here or something."

"Don't worry about it. I was getting hot anyway."

"Yeah, you were," you teased, injecting a hint of flirtation into your words. His cheeks warmed as he observed you slipping into his hoodie, the sight of you wearing his clothes sending his heart into a rapid rhythm.

He didn't get a chance to respond, though, as a small kid, no more than six years old, stumbled on the steps beside him, accidentally spilling his drink, which ended up partly on Steve and mostly on the floor.

"Shit." Steve sprang to his feet, the cold soda seeping into his jeans. Instead of immediately attending to his own predicament, he bent down to check on the kid. "You okay, buddy? No injuries? We can fix a spilled drink."

Observing this interaction and then witnessing Steve help the boy back to his parents stirred a warm feeling within you. His kindness shone through, and while other guys his age might have grumbled at the inconvenience, he made sure the child was okay.

"How are you single?" you asked playfully, handing him some tissues from your coat pocket as he returned to his seat.

"I guess I'm just not good at the whole 'dating' thing," he shrugged bashfully.

"I'm not buying that. I swear I saw at least three girls swoon when you took care of that kid."

"You did? Which ones? I should go talk to them," he grinned, showing no intention of leaving your side.

"Don't you dare," you chuckled, narrowing your eyes at him in mock warning.

Whatever he was about to say in response was lost as Dustin, Will, and Mike returned, prompting the two of you to once again rise to your feet to let them pass. Determined not to lose the connection that had been building between you, Steve smoothly slipped his arm around your waist, drawing you into his side. He purposefully avoided meeting your gaze, focusing on the game as it started up again. As he felt you subtly lean into him, it became clear that you weren't upset with his spontaneous move, causing his heart to race with a mix of nervous excitement and contentment.

Years from now, Steve couldn't recall the exact score of the game, but he certainly remembered every detail about you. It was a day etched in his memory, marking the moment he decided to seize the opportunity and finally ask you out.

#Steve Harrington #Steve Harrington x reader #build a festive fic #gndw fic

[whumpasaurus101]

Nice and Easy

TO THE ANON WHOM I ADORE, i blame you FULLY for this /affectionate. bUT. i have a new story now. and it might acc end up having a plot unlike my other one LMFAO ENJOY Cw: drugging / creepy whumper / lmk if i missed anything

___

The mission was simple. Enter the party, get the information, and don't get caught.

The team went in staggered in twos, linking arms with girls the leader had hired.

“You're trembling,” One of the girls mumbled to Niko, who was linked with her arm. Niko rolled his eyes, huffing out a shaky breath, “It's barely been a minute, try being in my shoes.” The girl simply rolled her eyes and walked off, her heels clacking against the freshly polished marble floor.

Niko let out a sigh, making his way to the bar and slumping on a stool. He felt eyes on him instantly but tried to ignore it, drumming his fingers along the surface of the counter. A glass was slid over to him, catching his attention. He looked up to the grinning man beside him who slid his chair closer.

“Aren't you a pretty sight?” He cooed, eyes soaking Niko in as if he was his new obsession. Niko forced himself not to shrink back, taking a peanut from the bowl before him and laughed, “Is that your pick up line for every person you see?”

It was the target. The target was a 6ft 2 man, a slim figure who dressed neatly. The two sides of his head were shaved while the top half of his hair was swept into a neat bun. A stubble littered his face, well kept as it was trimmed close to his skin. His grin grew wider;

“Just for the cute ones,” He winked, making Niko inwardly cringe. It only got worse from there. He felt the man’s finger’s snake around his chin, grip tightening as he forced Niko to look at him. “Your eyes, like the ocean-”

“What is this, some sort of Shakespearean monologue?” Niko scoffed, trying to distract both himself and the other of how his cheeks flushed a crimson red. Get the information and get out.

“My name’s Martyn, and what is your name, buttercup?”

Even the name made Niko feel physically ill, but that's what he was looking for. 

“I don't think you’ve earned that yet,” Niko smirked, playing into the target’s games, and just as he thought it would, it worked.

Martyn pushed the drink closer to Niko with a chuckle, “Oh, you like being my mystery? Well don't you worry, butter cup, I love solving puzzles. Now, why don't you finish that drink and you and I can dance, hm?”

Niko’s eyes slowly dragged down to the beverage before him, roofied. How could he talk his way out of it- that seemed to always be his way out of things. He was never the strongest at fighting. Every training, the leader- his own brother had always given him shit for his bad mouth but he guessed that today it was going to come in handy.

He twirled in his chair, turning and facing the man fully, forcing a grin, “I’d like to save the drink for after we dance, wouldn't want to leave a guest parched on departure, hm?” He forced himself to stand up, holding out his hand as an invite to dance.

Martyn chuckled, taking Nikos hand and guided him to the open floor, “I must warn you,” He hummed, sliding an arm around his waist and drawing Niko in close, “I tend to take the lead in dance.”

Niko had to suppress his flinch, instantly wanting to free himself away from Martyn, gods, why was he sent on the creepy missions???

Martyn hummed along with the music closing his eyes as he gently danced with Niko. “I must say,” He sighed, “You are quite a dancer…” Niko smiled, “My grandma used to bring me dancing with her.” Martyn threw his head back with a laugh before suddenly his face turned cold. His grip on Niko’s wrists grew tighter and he forced the other closer to his chest, trapped.

“Cut the bullshit,” He snapped in a whispered sneer, “You better state who you are and who you work for before I lose my patience. And trust me buttercup,” He leant in close, his hot breath flush against Niko’s ear, “You don't want to see me angry.”

Niko felt his heart leap in his chest, oh shit, this was all he needed. He needed to check if the rest of teammates were safe, but there was no inconspicuous way to do so.

“Now, you and I are going to go upstairs and have a nice little chat, you are going to come with me willingly.”

Niko clenched his jaw, feeling his teeth on the verge of shattering, “And if I don't?”

A cruel grin spread across Martyn’s mouth, his eyes practically twinkling, “Oh, I was hoping you’d ask that! Have a look at the four corners of this room buttercup, you will see four separate armed men at each spot.”

Niko’s throat was dry, he tried to swallow over the lump in his throat as his eyes slowly roamed to the four corners. He wasn’t lying; at each spot there was a built figure, an earpiece in and a hand at the ready to draw their weapons.

“I, of course have more men here,” Martyn beamed, cutting through Niko’s thoughts as he suddenly pulled Niko flush to his chest, knuckles white as he tightened his grip on the other, “I just don’t think we’re that close yet.”

Niko started squirming against the grip, panic setting in. He whimpered as Martyn’s grip managed to grow even tighter than before, feeling the bruises form already.

“Ah ah ah, buttercup, you don't want to make a scene now, do you?”

Niko grit his teeth as he glared at the target, “You’ve got the wrong guy,” he growled, “Now let go of me before I shout for help.”He tried his best to stop dancing, only managing to trip himself up over Martyn’s feet. Martyn caught him before he fell; 

“Rusty with our dancing are we?” 

That was it, Niko had enough. His hand reached for his belt, where his pocket knife rested, but his wrist was quickly caught. “Oh honey,” Martyn whispered against Niko, making the other feel sick as he cringed back, “You just made things a whole lot worse for yourself.”

Martyn shoved Niko forward before snaking his arm along Niko’s waist, dragging him back towards the bar. He leant in close, whispering in his ear gently as they walked, “Now, since you decided to cause a scene, we’re going to sit at the bar. You are going to drink every last drop of that drink, the rest-” he let out a chuckle, “Well, buttercup, the rest is for me to know and you to find out!” 

He booped the other’s nose before more or less shoving Niko to the seat he was previously sitting at. Niko stumbled forwards, steadying himself with a hand on the bar’s table. A few seconds later, there was a hand on the small of his back, pushing him to sit.

“Drink.” 

The voice was completely different from how Martyn had spoken before. Niko’s eyes bored into the glass, feeling his chest tighten as a lump grew in his throat. He felt cornered, all of his training just chucked out of the window.

“A coke please.”

Niko’s head snapped up at the familiar voice, looking up to see Adrian, one of his teammates. He felt himself relax, it was nice to see a familiar face finally. Adrian will save him, he’ll be saved. Adrian turned to him with a smile, “Well, care for a dance, cutie?” 

Niko opened his mouth to answer but Martyn was quick to cut in, “Too late, buddy, this one’s mine.”

Adrian tilted his head back, grin on his face, “What a shame, I was really looking forward to-”

Niko slightly flinched as he felt Martyn’s arms sneak around his waist, pulling the other close to him, “Shame-” Martyn cut him off, “Move along, princess.”

Niko bit the inside of his cheek, looks like he wouldn't get to feel the safety of his own teammate until tonight. Adrian looked at Niko, hiding a sympathetic look as he nodded, “My apologies, if you change your mind, you come find me.”

Once Adrian left, the mood instantly turned cold. 

“Drink.”

Niko knew he had no other choice, his shaky hand reaching for his drink as he took his first sip, the Sprite bubbling against his mouth. 

“That's it, buttercup,” Martyn praised, carding his hand through the other’s hair as his gentle tone suddenly returned. Niko tried to place back down the glass but Martyn’s hand cupped the bottom of the glass, tilting it back up.

A tear slowly rolled down Niko’s cheek as he took another sip, finally giving into Martyn’s sick mind games. Martyn didn't let go of the glass until he had drank at least half of the Sprite. Niko coughed, letting out a quiet gasp as he looked at Martyn, tears brimming his eyes, “En-’nough… feel s’ck…”

Martyn pouted, cupping Niko’s face as he brushed his thumb along Niko’s cheekbone, swiping away a tear, “I know, buttercup, just half of it left and then you can rest, alright?”

Niko felt so weak, leaning into the touch as his eyelids began to droop. None of his thoughts were coherent, black spots filling his vision. He couldn't even refuse as Martyn brought the glass back to the other’s lips. Niko just began to drink, no fight left in him.There was a sand-like texture left in his mouth. 

Martyn chuckled, ruffling Niko’s hair, “Come on, buttercup, let’s let you rest hm? You must be exhausted!” 

Niko nodded, whimpering quietly as his body felt limp, as if he would collapse at any second. Martyn guided him to stand, guiding Niko’s arm to Martyn’s shoulder as Martyn held onto Niko by the waist, fully holding the figure, “Let’s get you some rest, dear, just nice and easy.”

Niko could barely see, leaning fully against Martyn. The last thing he could remember was being led into a room, a quiet and peaceful room and then suddenly everything went dark.

Nice and easy.

---

Taglist: (lmk if you wanna be added <3)

Next

#whump #whump story #whump series #nikos #martyn #cass #whumpee #whumper #creepy whumper #intimate whumper #drugging #whump community #whump writing #whump drabble #whumpblr #team whump #lee wrote something :o

[vigilante-fangirl]

Heroes Guide to Parenting

Adrian Chase/Vigilante x Reader Prompt: Surprise you're pregnant! What will you tell the team? What are you going to tell Adrian?!

Warnings: Reader is AFAB, Pregnancy, Cursing and Spoilers for season 1 finale of peacemaker in later chapters

The early morning at the headquarters of the office record store was shrouded in a quiet atmosphere. While everyone else busied themselves with typing on their computers or fine-tuning their weapons after a grueling mission, you found yourself slumped on the office couch, clad in your hero costume, feeling utterly miserable. "Ughhh! Kill meee!" you whined, the intensity of your complaint earning you a pen thrown by Harcourt, which ended up hitting your nose.

"Fucking shut UP!" Harcourt snapped, her patience wearing thin. "You've been complaining nonstop since we got back from the mission! Either go home or sit up and keep quiet." She punctuated her reprimand with a piercing glare. Before you could retort to her harsh words, an overwhelming wave of nausea surged through your body. The sensation hit you like a freight train, and you sprinted out of the room in a desperate bid to reach the bathroom, where you found yourself violently vomiting. Confusion spread among your teammates as they exchanged perplexed glances, unsure of what had just transpired.

"She's been sick for the last couple of weeks," Adebayo voiced her concern, closing her laptop and cringing at the distressing sounds emanating from the bathroom.

"Yeah, but only in the mornings?" Vigilante chimed in absentmindedly, engrossed in the task of polishing his throwing knives. "She's usually back to normal by the afternoon, so no big deal."

"Speak for yourself, dude!" Economos snapped at Vigilante, seated uncomfortably in a shirt that was a size too small. "Your girlfriend friggin' threw up on me while we were in the van! Now I have to wear this!" He grumbled, spinning around in his chair to point at a shopping bag filled with vomit-stained clothes. His now shirt being the only thing from the lost and found.

"She's not my girlfriend! Did... did she say she was my girlfriend?" Adrian questioned with an awkward grin, finally lifting his gaze from his previous preoccupation. However, his smile quickly faded as he registered the disappointed expressions on his teammates' faces.

"I don't know, man. Maybe we should check on her? This isn't normal for her to be this sick," Adebayo suggested sympathetically, her gaze fixed on the closed bathroom door, brimming with concern

"Listen, I've known (Y/L/N) for years. She's fine. She gets sick all the time, but she toughs it out. Now let's get back to work," Harcourt declared, gesturing towards the cluttered desks and piles of paperwork. However, her words fell on deaf ears as the team members continued their discussion about what could be wrong with you.

"Well, she has been moodier lately," Vigilante chimed in, his mind wandering as he recalled recent events.

Economos, leaning back in his chair and clicking his pen, sneered. "Like how she suplexed Peacemaker the other day just for asking if her costume got tighter."

Peacemaker, who glared at Economos for his comment, couldn't resist adding a quip. "Whatever, baby tee! She got lucky! She's so little I didn't see her coming. Like an angry lil Oompa Loompa."

Economos pulled down the small shirt, silenced by Peacemaker's remark. Peacemaker then turned to Vigilante. 

"Nah, bro, but  (Y/L/N) has been aggro lately. Remember that patrol we had a week ago?"

The scene shifted to a vivid flashback.

You stood atop a dog walker, mercilessly curb stomping the guy into the ground. Vigilante and Peacemaker watched, torn between concern and awe. While Peacemaker wondered when to intervene, Vigilante's gaze remained fixed on you, as if you had stolen his heart.

"I think you got him, bro?" Peacemaker offered tentatively. "Plus, I don't think he did anything illegal—"

"He yanked the poor puppy and then didn't pick up its poop! Animal abuse and littering?!" You interjected, halting your assault momentarily to pull the guy up by his hair.

"I didn't see the shit!" he sobbed, hoping for some leniency as you dropped him and resumed your relentless attack.

"Too baddd!" you yelled, your voice filled with a mixture of anger and satisfaction.

The flashback ended abruptly, and the team returned to the present, the memory of your intense outburst lingering in the air.

"Yeah! That was so hot!" Vigilante chuckled, lost in his thoughts as he reminisced about that night. His comment earned a groan from the team, prompting him to quickly clarify, "I meant it in a friend way, guys!" He course-corrected, fully aware that you would have his head if the group discovered the true nature of both of your late-night shenanigans.

Harcourt wished she could drown out the team's conversation, but a sudden realization struck her like a truck. "Wait? Nausea only in the morning? Constant mood swings? Is she... tired all the time?" she asked Vigilante, who looked at her with a puzzled expression.

"Yeah? She sleeps a lot after patrols! It's kind of cute as she—" Vigilante's words were cut off by Harcourt's interruption.

"Shut it!" she snapped, then turned to Adebayo, her eyes wide with hope to confirm her suspicions. Adebayo looked at her, initially perplexed, before her eyes widened in realization, her hand covering her mouth in surprise. Economos and Peacemaker were the last two to connect the dots, apart from Vigilante, who stood there utterly confused. They all knew there was something between you and Vigilante, some kind of relationship, but they were not aware the extent to it’s intimate nature. From the way you wore his clothes after missions to how he constantly hovered near you like a lost puppy, it was evident that there was more to your connection.

A heavy silence fell upon the office until it was shattered by the loud, sickening sound of your vomiting from the bathroom. Peacemaker burst into laughter, collapsing onto the table, while Economos joined in, unable to contain his amusement as he looked at Vigilante.Harcourt and Adebayo sighed in exasperation at the team's reactions.

"I can't believe that idiot, and by you of all people," Harcourt muttered, rubbing her temples in annoyance as she pointed at Adrian.

"Didn't you guys, you know... use protection?" Adebayo asked sheepishly, prompting Peacemaker to laugh even louder.

Vigilante looked rather confused for a moment before attempting to recall the details.

Another Flashback

You had convinced Adrian to accompany you to Walmart to run errands, despite his initial reluctance. After all, you believed it was something a proper boyfriend should do. As you pushed the shopping cart, Adrian's attention seemed to drift away, his gaze fixed on you as you playfully brushed the hair from your face while cracking a joke. Little by little, he started noticing the subtle things you did, like how you loved wearing his hoodies, which he intentionally bought extra baggy just so you would swim in them. Adrian couldn't help but smile as you continued talking, occasionally lifting the hoodie to hide the various hickeys that adorned your neck. His eyes wandered down, noticing the tight yoga shorts hugging your hips, and the way they accentuated your curves. Lost in a daze, his thoughts converged on that very moment when the shorts rode up, revealing the curve of your ass.

"Condoms!" Adrian suddenly blurted out, his voice echoing through the aisle as he remembered what he needed. You spun around, desperately trying to shush him as disapproving glances from nearby moms were cast in your direction. 

"W-what, Adr?" you asked, looking around in confusion."Condoms! That's what I was trying to remember!" Adrian grinned, his usual goofiness on full display as he guided the cart towards the family planning section. He was about to grab a box when you smacked his hand, causing it to drop.

 "Ow! (Y/n), what the hell?" he protested, rubbing his hand and looking at you as if you were insane.

"Look at that price, babe! $11.99 for a box? That's too expensive!" you argued, placing the box back on the shelf.

"But you have some shower stuff that costs, like, $79 in the cart," he pointed out, reaching for the box again, only to receive another slap. This back-and-forth continued, with Adrian growing increasingly frustrated after each slap.

"(Y/N)!" he finally exclaimed, his annoyance evident in his voice, but you stood your ground, crossing your arms.

 "I refuse to pay that amount, Adrian! Besides, we don't even need those! God's got me!" you declared confidently, catching sight of a shelf displaying the new squishmallows. Adrian had intended to argue further, but as you ran over to the shelf, his attention was once again diverted by your hoodie riding up, revealing more of your enchanting figure.

The flashback came to an end, and the team returned to the present. 

Adrian's eyes widened in shock as he finally pieced everything together. Peacemaker, still laughing almost breathlessly, couldn't contain himself upon hearing the story.

"God... got me?" Harcourt and Adebayo both yelled in disbelief, their exasperation evident. "Both of you are idiots," Harcourt muttered, shooting glares at the closed bathroom door. She had expected this kind of behavior from Vigilante, but not from you.

Peacemaker attempted to catch his breath, jokingly remarking, "Aw, looks like thimble's little soldiers can still hit their target!" However, the gravity of the situation quickly sank in for Vigilante. 

"Dude! This is serious! N-no way, right? She would have told me!" he exclaimed, grappling with the reality that if you were indeed pregnant, you hadn't been dating for that long. The question of what he would do next weighed heavily on his mind as he turned towards the bathroom door, calling out your name with urgency.

The scene shifted to an hour ago, with you trembling inside the bathroom. You had pretended to be sick, using it as an opportunity to test the waters. From your cloak, you produced a box of pregnancy tests, investing a hefty $17.99 in ensuring the accuracy of the results. 

With a feverish haste, you tore open the box, causing the tests to clatter onto the floor. Hastily unzipping your costume and discarding the cloak, you sat on the toilet seat, nervously fumbling for one of the tests and scanning the torn instructions.As you peed on the blue stick, you placed it on the counter, praying fervently for the next three minutes. Your pleas to the heavens mirrored those of a sinner seeking redemption in church, as you shut your eyes tightly. The moment arrived, and you cautiously retrieved the test, squinting to discern the results. Two bright blue lines stared back at you.

"Like hell I am!" you exclaimed defiantly, discarding the test and grabbing another one. Once again, after three minutes had passed, two blue lines appeared before your eyes.

“....fuck.” is all you could say before a wave of nausea hit you causing you to actually vomit. 

#vigilante peacemaker #peacemaker #vigilante x reader #vigilante #adrian chase x reader #adrian chase #Chapter 1

[neonthewrite]

Grey Landing (Part 9)

GT July continues (in October, Don't Worry About It)!

The prompt this time is "Intimidate" and there were literally too many options for this one. I ended up going with some more of Isaac's misadventures, because, well. He's got a few giants trying to make sure he knows he's tiny and strange (he knows). Also, the language barrier makes it a bit more fun, in my opinion.

Thanks everyone for your patience with these!

(Part 1) (Part 2) (Part 3) (Part 4) (Part 5) (Part 6) (Part 7) (Part 8)

(Part 10)

~~~

Getting caught by a giant had been bad enough. Watching them reel in fish the size of whales had driven home how dire his situation was in this strange place. Isaac’s nerves all seemed to light up when Clei, the one giant who seemed halfway sympathetic, dropped him into Gufnad’s waiting palm. He flinched and tried to twist in the air as if he’d somehow flow around the unfriendly hand before it could catch him. He gave a yell as he landed anyway in that grasp and a giant hand, callused from years of work, closed tightly around him.

“Don’t do something I’m gonna regret, you great fool! Ain’t done nothin’ wrong to you or yours!”

The giant met his protest with a scoff and a glare that looked like it usually worked to shut someone up. Here was a man in charge of looking after the household, providing what he could and keeping it safe from harm. To an extent, Isaac understood. He was an outsider here, had washed up from nowhere. Unknown could mean trouble.

But these were bloody giants, for God’s sake. If anyone had cause to be so distrustful, it was the man who’d spent time in a pocket.

Gufnad’s heavy steps rattled all the way up to his unforgiving hand as he stomped over to the dining table, a single, thick slab of wood propped on sturdy legs. There was a wooden bowl of low ferns sitting as a centerpiece, as well as some steins the size of Isaac’s late fishing boat. He didn’t get a chance to notice much more than that about the decor before the hand around him relented and he dropped several feet to the polished table top.

It only looked like a few inches to the giants, he supposed. But it was starting to wear on him, all this rough handling. Isaac tried to land on his feet so he could get right back to his faceoff with the damn giant. He tried; but he only had so much strength left. He fell to a knee and winced.

Giant hands slammed into the table on either side. Isaac looked up in alarm to find Gufnad leaning over him, a storm of distrust in his wild eyes. Isaac let himself shudder. He didn’t let himself cower away. If he allowed the man to intimidate him now, he’d never come back from it.

To that end, Isaac freed his fish hook from his belt and held it low but ready. In his periphery, the other two giants sidled around so they could watch the proceedings, whatever they ended up being. Clei might be cowed by this man, might bend over backwards to follow any order. Isaac hadn’t sailed under a captain in years and he wasn’t about to go back to it.

“Well?” He goaded, perhaps against better judgment. “You bloody well have my attention, Gufnad. If you got somethin’ to say, would you aim it that way and stop breathin’ down my neck?”

His tone came across, even if his words didn’t. The other giants gasped, and Gufnad scowled even deeper. He hissed a word that definitely wasn’t polite, lifted a hand, and swept it towards Isaac slowly, threateningly.

Isaac snarled back and pushed himself to a stand. While he lifted his claimed fish hook at the ready with one hand, he held out the other in warning. “Don’t.”

The hand stopped its approach, to his surprise. Then, it curled into a fist and slammed decisively into the table, causing a jolt under Isaac’s planted boots. More words dropped on him from overhead, spoken with disdain and narrowed eyes. It might have been a simple insult. It might have been a question. Isaac had only heard a few of their words so far.

“I. Don’t. Under. Stand. You,” he said, bellowing up at the man and trying to match his volume. As he did, he gestured with each word, broad movements of his hands and fish hook that he hoped might convey how damn pointless it was to keep saying nasty things to him.

Gufnad was ready to say more. He opened his mouth, probably some new insult that’d probably make a priest faint if he was any kind of sailor at all. But before he could get out more than a syllable, someone else spoke up, in much more measured tones. “Gufnad. Pruhi ugedal.”

Isaac couldn’t risk taking his focus off of Gufnad, so he saw as he looked away, as his face softened a touch for the woman. “Trydi …”

Trydi huffed. In the corner of his eye, Isaac saw the unmistakable stance of folded arms and tilted head. He’d seen his mum take that exact pose many a time, and there was no arguing with her then. She enunciated each foreign syllable clearly, though whether that was from frustration or some attempt to be clear to both of them Isaac couldn’t say. “Gufnad. Laor gre. Gedal. Prygwu brefr, kaigwaf ‘ag.”

Clei started to say something, too, but Gufnad and Trydi both shot him a look and his voice tapered away. Finally, Gufnad turned his focus back down to Isaac. Isaac tensed as the man moved, straightening up but somehow looming less than he had moments before. Those narrowed eyes promised that their would-be argument wasn’t over. But whatever Trydi had told him, he had little choice but to comply. Isaac hesitantly lowered his fish hook.

“Kaimu,” Trydi said next, the word sounding like mew. The others didn’t respond. Gufnad raised an eyebrow down at Isaac. She spoke again, more stern than before. “Kaimu.” Isaac turned his head, giving it until the last second to actually switch his gaze to Trydi.

The first time he’d seen her, she’d been smiling at her family’s return, radiant and colorful. Now, the colorful patchwork clothing remained, but she wore a doubtful look on her face. He’d seen that chiding expression before, after getting into trouble. The only thing missing was his mother’s withering disapproval in her eyes. Instead, there was distrust there. Isaac found himself more intimidated by Trydi than Gufnad had managed all day.

Assured she had his attention, Trydi uncrossed her arms and held out one of her hands. The fingers twitched a few times in an insistent beckoning motion. A get-over-here-right-NOW gesture that demanded he comply.

Isaac glanced at the hook in his hand. It didn’t seem so necessary, though he knew Trydi could probably swat him across the room as easily as Gufnad could. He had a feeling she wouldn’t; if she wanted Isaac destroyed, she wouldn’t have made Gufnad back off. He stowed the hook in his belt again, held his head high, and made his way closer to the lady of the house.

She pursed her lips as he approached. There was trepidation there, which felt silly on a giant face. Whatever these people were afraid of, Isaac didn’t have any plans to deliver. He’d say as much if he thought it’d make a difference.

He stopped when Trydi drew her hand back at his approach, and then tensed when it came back towards him. “Trydi?”

She paused, startled by the sound of her name from the stranger in her midst. Then, with a huff, she gingerly closed the distance, reaching over him to grip the edge of his improvised shield in her thumb and finger. Isaac choked on a noise of surprise as she lifted him up by it, the leather cord digging under one arm while he scrambled to grip it tightly.

“Careful, lass!” The words meant nothing to them, and he knew that, but the admonishment dropped out of him all the same while his stomach dropped to his toes. Dangling by his own improvised knots was a test of his skills that he hadn’t expected to face so soon. If the cord didn’t hold well on that abandoned fishing reel, he’d drop right back to that unforgiving wooden table, and she only lifted him higher. His legs curled upwards as if to protect him from the drop.

Trydi held him at arm’s length, and Isaac once again recognized her posture, so similar to when his mum found a mouse in the house and snatched it up by the tail. His heart hammered at the thought of being tossed right out a window after coming all this way. The giant turned, but instead of heading for the windows, she crossed to the kitchen area. Her free hand snatched at a tall, broad bowl carved from wood, waiting at the back of a counter. It was a few heads taller than Isaac, and as wide as a fancier man’s bedroom, so he didn’t have to guess what it was for.

Indeed, his stomach did more odd flips as the dangling grip on him lowered him right into that container. Despite the quick movements, Trydi set him down much gentler than Gufnad had done. Isaac fell to a seat and looked warily up at her.

She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, scanning the size of the bowl compared to him. Isaac would probably be able to climb out, on a good day. At this point, though, he wasn’t sure he wanted to try. He was exhausted. He stared back at her, wary as ever.

From his view in the bowl, Isaac could no longer see the other giants, only Trydi with the backdrop of all her hanging herbs overhead. “Dyu,” she said, turning away. “Hi styuluges pruf.” She disappeared and giant footsteps creaked on the wooden floors as they hurried to follow whatever command she’d given them.

Isaac prepared to sit there waiting for their eventual verdict, listening to them enjoy a giant’s dinner and wishing he’d avoided that first capture. Enormous chairs scraped against the floor. Plates clattered against the table. The stew filling the room with its aroma plopped into waiting bowls. Clei passed by close enough once to send Isaac a guilty look. Gufnad ignored him.

Trydi returned, looming overhead with her hand held before her. That distrustful look remained, and Isaac returned it, until the hand lowered. She didn’t come any closer to him than she had to, but when she tilted her hand, a torn piece of bread and cheese tumbled over her fingers and landed near Isaac’s boots.

They were crumbs to the giants. To Isaac, he might as well have a full loaf of bread and most of a small wheel of cheese. His stomach practically howled at the sight.

Before diving for them like the starved castaway he was, Isaac clapped his weary, calloused hands together in an attitude of prayer and looked up at the woman before she could turn away. “I know this don’t mean a thing to you, but thank you, lass. Thank you.”

She gave him an odd look, her eyes flickering away for an instant before she shook her head. “Bru, kaimu.”

And then she was gone, attending to her own dinner and to her family. Isaac cared not for the somewhat clipped conversation happening just beyond his sight. He grabbed the food Trydi had graciously given him and was determined not to waste a single crumb.

~~~

@not-a-space-alien

@amenarae

@starskichild

#gtjuly #gtjuly2023 #mywriting #gt #g/t #giant tiny #g/t handheld #handheld #trapped #threatening #giant sailor #language barrier #isaac grey #clei cefniad #gufnad #trydi #food #giant food

[clatoera]

struggling so much right now and missing my best friend who literally gets me through everything(i haven’t seen her in two weeks), so can i get some clove and glimmer bestie headcanons? if u have any 🩷 love u friend

Hi there, sorry to hear that you are struggling!!! So full transparency these all 100% take place in ARWBFB especially post war because like..thats when they are able to actually be normal 20-something girls without the threat of..well everything happening to them. So! ARWBFB au ahead.

1.One time they made an impulsive decision that they wanted cookies, like really good fancy cookies. Naturally speaking that said "oh you know who makes those really good cookies? Peeta." They had no idea how far District 12 actually was, and they did in fact end up on a 24 hour train ride there. Glimmer was fucking horrified by the state of the district and clung to Clove afraid she was going to catch poverty or something. But really, who was more shocked to see Miss District One and Miss Flayed a man alive in District 12; Peeta (who had to see these two walk into his bakery unannounced) or Haymitch (who had to hear about it later and thought peeta was lying). They do come home with a LOT of good treats, but they also leave two VERY concerned men in One and Two when they disappear for two days. yeah maybe they're concerned glimmer and clove finally ran off together what about it

2.In the spirt of them being young silly twenty something girls, they absolutely like...end up actually blacked out in the streets of District One on like a Tuesday night in September. By night I mean like...7 pm. It was one of those situations where you go too hard at brunch, get kicked out, and then keep drinking all day because you don't realize how drunk you are until it's too late and also you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. They are escorted to bed by 7:30 p.m and quite literally tucked into bed. Glimmer insists they sleep in the same one because "it's like a sleepover" and Clove is literally too incoherent to argue. She does in fact wake up the next morning very confused in this pink fluffy blanket.

3. On a sadder (?) note, Clove had such a lonely childhood for a little girl, and never had any friends her own age (especially not girls). She can do her own hair and like throw on a coat of nail polish if she wants (she has extremely steady and dexterous little hands). That being said she's never done any of those things for someone else. When she has her daughter later on, Glimmer kind of has to teach her how to like...do those things? She has to teach her how to do someone elses hair, and paint tiny squirmy nails, and all of those girly things that Clove can do but never for someone else. And by that she lets Clove practice on her with extraordinary patience and explanations. Even when she pulls her hair a little too tight.

4. Clove is forced to lose any sense of like...modesty and privacy when it comes to Glimmer as soon as she gives her the options to make her a dress. Glimmer will in fact walk in and start tugging and pulling on things to make that dress sit right, and that involves hands being reached right down the front of it.

5. Kind of well known by now but Clove learns to like..show love and friendship through food. That directly translates to Glimmer's life, in the fact that when she has the girls? Clove practically moves in for weeks to feed her (and marvel, too). She's like a personal chef, shopping, cooking three meals a day (AND snacks), and then cleaning it up. She doesn't know how else to help. That translates again to every stage of the girls like..getting bigger? Clove is there to make them baby snacks and appropriate food and that carries on until they're like..adults honestly.

6. Glimmer isn't one to weaponize her trauma. That being said, she has an actual meltdown when it comes time to send her girls to school and out of her care. She puts it off as long as possible. It gets to the point where she just starts begging Clove to teach them (because Clove is the smartest person she knows). begs. Begs and begs and begs. (she succeeds, but only for a few years, because none of them were ever taught anything after 6th grade except where to slice an artery and how to laugh for an audience).

7. As a result of the Enobaria/Cashmere situation they once sat down and stared at each other like "are we...related?" they aren't. But they tried to math the math of okay your sister and my kind of sister does that make us..sisters in law? cousins? (no! It doesn't!)

I hope these make sense and/or bring you a little smile my friend. It was fun to put some of these things out into the universe!

#arwbfb tag #arwbfb reactions #arwbfb au #cato and clove #clove tag #glimmer tag #answered asks

[myfearless-love]

Hello everyone!

After what feels like an eternity, I am thrilled to announce that a new chapter has finally arrived! 🎉 It's been quite a journey, and I appreciate your patience and continued support throughout this hiatus.

I must confess that during this time, I've been hard at work behind the scenes. Not only have I been crafting new chapters, but I've also taken the opportunity to revisit and revamp previous chapters. My goal was to polish the storyline, enhance character development, and ensure a more cohesive reading experience for you all.

I understand that revisiting old chapters may seem daunting, but I promise that these revisions are aimed at elevating the story to new heights. Whether you're a returning reader or discovering this fic for the first time, I hope you'll find these changes enriching and enjoyable.

As always, your feedback is invaluable to me. Please don't hesitate to share your thoughts, reactions, and suggestions in the comments. Your input helps shape the narrative and contributes to its ongoing evolution.

Buy me a coffee here if you feel like :)  

Summary:

Vampires, Werewolves, Mages, and Elves. For centuries, they kept their existence a secret, but the constant rebellions against the strict laws of the Guild had led to a terrible tragedy. In an open clash, it became apparent to humans just what kind of monsters lived among them. Emma Swan loses the love of her life in the first battle of the war. A few months later, while still trying to process what happened, a mysterious and terrifying figure worms his way into her life. But the man is hiding far more terrible secrets than he reveals to her, pulling them both into a horrible situation…

Read on: AO3

Words: ~5.5k

Previous parts:

Ch 1 II Ch 2 II Ch 3 II Ch 4 II Ch 5 II Ch 6 II Ch 7 II Ch 8 II Ch 9 II Ch 10 II Ch 11 II Ch 12 II Ch. 13

Preview:

#captain swan #cs #cs ff #killian jones #emma swan #ouat #captain hook #once upon a time #ouat ff #emma x killian #TWPYR #niki writes #cssns21 #captain swan supernatural #CSSNS 2021 #cssns

[golden-kingdom]

Favorite Crime - Chapter 2

Word count: 4.5k

Warnings: Mentions of violence

Author’s note: I'm so inspired by this fic, I can't stop writing. So you get chapter 2 earlier than expected. Like I said in the first chapter, I can't guarantee a schedule so enjoy for now. I'm on spring break so I might have another chapter written before the end of the week but I don't want to promise anything.

Masterlist

Read it on AO3

Celaena arrived at Arobynn’s office after a quick shower and took a deep breath before knocking on the wooden door. It took a minute, but her boss finally replied.

“Come in.”

He was busy speaking on the phone, so Celaena sat down on the plush armchair in front of his large black desk and waited. She knew he liked to test her patience and her commitment by making her wait like this. She looked around the room. Arobynn was a rich man and he liked to show it off. His office was big, with dark walls, polished wooden floors, and a deep red rug sweeping under his desk. There were a few bookshelves against the wall behind him, though she doubted he was much of a reader. It was mostly for appearance.  Lined on the shelves were all kind of expensive decorative objects and bottles of alcohol. On his right was a large window overlooking the courtyard and on his left was a painting, no doubt exorbitant and made by someone famous. The lighting was always dimmed to create an ambience as ominous as the man sitting there. She always felt a little claustrophobic in here, no matter the size of the room.

After a few minutes, he finally ended the call, putting his phone down. He looked up, staring at her like she was an inconvenience when he was the one who had asked to see her in the first place.

“I want you to follow Whitethorn,” Arobynn simply stated, crossing his long fingers in front of him.

Celaena had to take a few seconds to make sure she had heard him correctly.

“You want me to do what?” she asked, baffled by the sudden change of plan.

“I know you heard me perfectly, Celaena, don’t make me repeat myself,” he replied in a tone leaving no room for debate.

“But you told me to stay away from him,” she insisted.

“Yes, but it doesn’t prevent you from trailing him and gathering information on his investigation, does it?” the man said with irritation in his voice.

He moved his chair forward, getting closer to Celaena, and looked her in the eyes with his piercing gray stare.

“Let me make this perfectly clear,” he started, drawling out the syllables. “You are under strict orders to never approach him or reveal yourself to him.”

“I understand,” Celaena replied quickly.

“Do you? Because the last time you didn’t seem to understand.”

“I won’t approach him. I’ll follow him from a distance,” she said in an obedient tone that was unlike her. But she knew it’s what he wanted to hear.

“Good,” he said with a smile that was all but comforting.

When Celaena didn’t stand up, he added: “That’s all. You can leave.”

She didn’t have to be asked twice. She hated this place. She had clear memories of all the times Arobynn took his anger out on her in here.

…

Rowan was late to work. He had had another sleepless night thinking about her. He hadn’t even had time to stop at his favorite coffee shop on the way. He would have to do with the office’s bland coffee. Though that wouldn’t do much for the dark circles under his eyes.

Serving himself a cup in the kitchen space and focused on his thoughts, he didn’t hear his colleague arrive. He startled when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Gods damn, Whitethorn, why are you so stiff?” Fenrys asked with his usual laugh.

Rowan glared at the blonde man in response.

“Not a good day, I’m guessing?” Fenrys said sarcastically.

“How perceptive of you, Moonbeam,” he deadpanned, putting down the coffee pot.

Fenrys didn’t let his tone deter him. He was used to Rowan’s broody temperament.

“Maybe you’ll be happy to learn Salvaterre has new information on Sardothien,” he told Rowan.

Rowan instantly looked up from his coffee cup. 

“How do you even know that?” Rowan asked him, trying to not look too eager even though he was dying to learn what Fenrys knew.

Fenrys didn’t miss the way Rowan’s attention shifted at the mention of the assassin.

“Ah! I knew it was about her,” his colleague exclaimed. “You gotta stop obsessing over her, my friend.”

Rowan glowered at this, giving the blonde man a dark look.

“I’m not the one who has the hots for a psychopath,” he replied.

He took a sip of his coffee. It was horrible but he needed the caffeine to stay awake.

“I don’t have the hots for her. I just like to imagine how she looks under that hood. Someone so skilled has to be beautiful. Don’t you ever wonder what she looks like?” Fenrys mused.

“No, I have better things to do,” he replied without missing a beat. “And skilled? Is that how you qualify a murderer?”

“You gotta admit she’s good at what she does,” replied the younger man.

“I don’t have to admit to anything. My job is to catch and arrest a criminal. The end,” he said, indicating the conversation was over.

“You’re boring,” complained Fenrys, pouting.

Rowan didn’t even bother replying to that and left the kitchen. He headed straight to his boss’ office. He knocked on the door and the only answer he got was grunt. He opened the door and let himself in. Lorcan took his eyes off the papers in front of him and looked at Rowan, waiting. The dark-haired giant was man of few words, Rowan knew that, so he got straight to the point.

“Moonbeam told me you have new info on Sardothien,” he told him.

“Yes, sit down,” Lorcan simply replied.

Rowan took a seat in front of him.

“Remember Sam Cortland, the young man we found almost dead at the docks a few weeks ago? He wants to talk to us,” Lorcan said.

Rowan remembered Cortland. He had been tortured and left for dead. When they had found him, he was barely breathing. He didn’t understand how that was related to the female assassin though.

“He knows Sardothien?” he asked his boss, perplexed.

“Yes. Well, he’s not very inclined to talk to us about her in particular but he has info on The Guild,” replied the other man.

“What kind of info?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I’m going to see him in the hospital right now. I want to see what he has to offer in terms of information.”

Rowan nodded thoughtfully, tapping his fingers on the desk.

“I’m coming with you,” he told Lorcan.

Lorcan didn’t say anything. He just stood from his chair and grabbed his jacket and his gun. Rowan downed the rest of his coffee, making a disgusted face at the taste, and followed his boss.

…

When they arrived at Rifthold’s Hospital, they headed straight for the floor where Sam’s room was located. There was only one security guard at the door, and he let them in when they showed their badges. Rowan didn’t know what to expect. The last time he had seen the young man, he was in a terrible state. Sam was laying on his bed, his face bruised and his lip split, but otherwise in a much better condition than he had been three weeks ago.

The two men sat down in the plastic chairs next to his bed. Rowan got out his notepad, scribbling on it, while Lorcan talked.

“Hi Sam. We’re agents Salvaterre and Whitethorn from the FBI. We heard you wanted to talk to us,” said Lorcan in an uncharacteristically kind voice.

“I know who you are,” replied the younger man. “You’re the ones who found me and saved my life. Thank you.”

“Just doing our job, kid,” said Lorcan. He wasn’t about to have this young man get emotional on him. He hated this part of the job; he was not good with feelings.

“Do you know Celaena Sardothien?” Rowan asked abruptly, looking up from his notepad. 

Lorcan gave him a disapproving look. He was going too fast; this isn’t what they had agreed on.

“I… well, yes,” started Sam. “But I’m not willing to say anything about her right now.”

“Why? Did she threaten you?” Rowan replied quickly. “We can have more officers placed in front of your room if that’s the case. You don’t have to be afraid of her.”

He gave Sam a look that meant to be reassuring, but truly was more threatening. But the young man didn’t recoil.

“No, she didn’t. I haven’t seen her in weeks,” he stated.

“Is she the one who did this to you?” Rowan pressed on.

“What?” Sam said with surprise. “No! She would never do that.”

Rowan was about to argue, but Lorcan gave him a silent look to tell him to stay quiet.

“What did you want to tell us then?” asked Lorcan, taking back control of the conversation.

“I want to tell you about The Guild. I was working for them before… Well, you know,” the young man said, pointing to his face. “I don’t know exactly who did this to me, but I’m certain it was them.”

“Alright. What do you know?” said Lorcan, giving a pointed look to Rowan to take notes and not open his mouth.

“They are a secret criminal society, much bigger than they let on. Hundreds of people work for them. Yes, they have assassins and hitmen, but they also have conmen, thieves, spies, drug dealers, IT experts… And they have eyes and ears everywhere. A lot of officials are on their payroll,” Sam started.

“I was recruited two years ago, when I had just turned 18. I had no money, no job, no prospects, basically I was the perfect target. They lured me in by promising money and a dream life. I didn’t have any goals in life, but by joining them I finally had a purpose,” he continued.

“They started by training me. They own this huge manor in town where I lived and learned the ropes with other recruits. They taught me everything I know. It was great at first. I was so proud when I was sent on my first mission. But after a few months, it started turning bad,” he said with a grimace.

“The people who work for The Guild are not kind. You aren’t supposed to make friends with the others. You keep to yourself and obey what you are told. You don’t ask questions. And if you fail, there are consequences.”

Sam stopped, composing himself. Lorcan gave him an encouraging smile, urging him to go on.

“The first time I failed a mission, I was terrified to go back to the manor and face my boss. But I had nowhere else to go. I was beaten to a pulp, and I had to stay in bed for a week to heal. Since I wasn’t able to work, I didn’t gain any money. So as soon as I felt a bit better, I was back on my feet,” he carried on.

“Time went by, and I got used to the violence. I didn’t flinch anymore when they hit me. But I was miserable. That’s when I met this girl. She looked like an angel, but she was deadly with weapons. She was always kind with me. She gave me hope in this ugly world,” he said with a smile.

“Last month, I decided to quit the criminal life and run away. I had a plan, I had everything figured out. But someone learned about it. I was called into a meeting by my boss and, before I knew it, I was tied up and brought to an abandoned building. They tortured me for hours. They thought I had information on something. I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t know anything, I swear. I just wanted to get away,” the younger man went on.

“When they realized they would not get anything out of me, they just left, thinking I was dead. That’s when you guys found me and brought me to the hospital. And here I am,” he finally said, taking a deep breath.

Lorcan and Rowan exchanged a look.

“Can you tell us the name of your boss? Of anyone?” asked the dark-haired agent.

“Everyone went by aliases. I only knew my boss by Tern, but I doubt it was his real name. I know he had a boss, the one behind everything. Everyone was scared of him, even Tern, but I never saw him. He was like this shadow watching everyone from afar,” Sam replied, suppressing a shiver.

Lorcan looked at his watch. They had already been here for more than an hour. Rowan seemed eager to keep going and ask more questions, but Lorcan wanted to take the time to digest and analyze all this information before going further.

“Okay, you did the good thing by telling us all of this,” he reassured Sam. “We will let you rest, and we’ll come back tomorrow to ask you more questions, if that’s alright with you.”

Sam nodded his head. Lorcan stood up from the uncomfortable plastic chair and motioned for Rowan, who was still looking at the young man, to follow him. They walked out of the room and headed to the elevator.

“I told you to just shut up and listen. You pushed him too far with your questions about Sardothien,” Lorcan said, anger in his voice.

“He knows something. He’s not telling us everything,” Rowan replied in the same tone.

“This is not how it works, and you know it. The kid is traumatized, we need to take it slow. He already gave us a lot of info on The Guild. It’s not by pushing him by force that you’ll get him to open up,” his boss argued.

“We need all the info we can get on Sardothien. It’s urgent; she’s dangerous and we need to stop her,” Rowan replied curtly before getting into the elevator.

“You’re not in charge here, Whitethorn. I am. We are doing this my way. If you’re not happy with it, you don’t have to come tomorrow,” Lorcan said, following him inside. His tone was final, and Rowan knew not to push him. He gritted his teeth but didn’t fight further.

…

Celaena had followed Whitethorn and his boss to the hospital. She was surprised to see Sam Cortland there. She had no idea he was in the hospital. When she realized the young man was talking to the FBI and providing them with information on The Guild, she quickly made up a plan. She needed to get this handled.

The assassin went to the employees’ locker room and found scrubs that sort of fitted her. The green color made her look sick, but it would have to do. She couldn’t be picky about clothes right now. She put a stethoscope around her neck and pulled her hair up in a ponytail. She looked at the entry logs and discovered there was a nurse called Lillian who wasn’t working today. She smiled to herself; fate had always been on her side. She waited for the two agents to leave before swiftly grabbing a medical chart and a name tag that said Lillian Gordaina.

She made her way to Sam’s room, giving a charming smile to the security guard before entering. Sam was laying on his bed, looking out the window, and he didn’t notice her. She walked up to him and couldn’t help the way her heart sank when she saw the yellowing bruises on his face and how he was holding his ribs, clearly in pain. Who had done this to him? But this isn’t why she was here, she reminded herself, she had a task to accomplish.

When she got next to his bed, Sam turned around and finally saw her. His eyes widened and he started panicking.

“Celaena! What are you doing here?” he whispered, worry in his voice. “Are you here to kill me?”

He gazed around in horror, but he didn’t alert the security guard. He looked at her, resign on his face.

“Please make it quick and painless,” he told her, closing his eyes.

Celeana took his hand in hers and he opened his eyes, startled.

“I’m not here to kill you, Sam,” she said softly. “I’m here to help you.”

“What?” he exclaimed, surprised.

“If someone else from The Guild learns that you’re talking to the FBI, they’ll kill you. You need to run away and disappear,” she said quietly, but in a firm tone.

“How?” Sam asked, taken aback. “I don’t even have any money or IDs.”

Celaena looked back at the door, making sure they were alone.

“Let me take care of that. We need to get you out of here right now.”

She dropped his hand, but he took it back, squeezing it.

“Why are you doing this for me?” he asked her.

“Do I need a reason to be kind?” she said. “Come on.”

That’s when they heard steps coming their way. Celaena grabbed her stethoscope, putting it over Sam’s chest and acting like she was taking his vitals.

“That looks good,” she told Sam in a confident voice.

The steps stopped at the entrance of the room.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to interrupt. I just forgot something.”

She turned around, in complete shock, but trying to keep her face neutral. Rowan was standing in the doorway, looking at them.

“Lillian?” he said, taken aback when he recognized the blonde woman from the bar.

Sam looked between them, terrified Celaena had been caught. But Rowan simply got closer to the bed and gave her a confused look.

“What are you doing here?” he asked her, puzzled.

“What does it look like I’m doing? I work here,” she said, letting out a nervous laugh as she pointed to her scrubs.

“But I could ask you the same question, Rowan,” Celaena said, rolling his name on her tongue.

Rowan couldn’t help the way his lips twitched up. He didn’t know why he was happy that she remembered his name, but he was. 

“FBI,” he simply said. “And I forgot my badge.”

He went to the bedside table and grabbed it, putting it safely in his pocket.

“How are you doing?” he asked her, ignoring Sam’s presence.

“I’m doing fine,” she replied with a small smile. “But I really need to take Mr. Cortland to get a CT scan before my boss yells at me.”

“Oh, right,” he said, remembering Sam was there. “I’ll let you go then.”

He walked toward the door, but before leaving, he turned around to look at her.

“See you around?” he asked, hopeful.

“Of course,” Celaena replied, her turquoise eyes glinting.

When she was sure Rowan was truly gone, she turned back to Sam.

“How do you know agent Whitethorn?” he asked her.

“It’s a long story. We don’t have time for this. We need to go.”

She helped him get up from his bed and into a wheelchair.

“Follow my lead,” she simply told him.

Celaena walked outside the room, pushing Sam’s wheelchair. The security guard stopped them.

“Where are you going?” he asked them.

“He needs a CT scan. Doctor’s order,” Celaena replied with a quick smile.

“Nobody warned me,” he said, looking at them suspiciously.

“Well, I’m telling you now. Can we go?”

She was getting impatient. They needed to get out of here.

“Wait a minute, I’ll call someone to take you there,” he told them, grabbing his walkie talkie.

“Oh, no need!” she assured him before he had time to make a call. “It’ll only take like 20 minutes and it’s not very far. We’ll be back as soon as you know it.”

He looked at Sam, who was sitting silently in the wheelchair. The young man gave him what he hoped was a reassuring smile. The security guard pondered the situation for a few seconds before saying: “Well… alright. But be safe.”

“We will, sir,” Celaena replied confidently.

She didn’t waste any more time and rolled Sam away until they reached another corridor. She turned left, then right, then left again. When they were sure they were alone and not being followed, Sam got up from the wheelchair and hid it in an empty room. Celaena grabbed Sam’s hand, pulling him toward the stairs. She knew he was in bad shape, but they couldn’t risk taking the elevator. It was too slow. Lucky for them, Sam’s room was only on the third floor.

She needed to take care of the cameras before leaving. She asked Sam to create a distraction and, when the security guard in the surveillance room got out to see what was happening, Celaena quickly entered the room. She wasn’t a tech genius, but she knew a thing or two about cameras. She deleted any footage of her in the hospital. The guard had left his jacket on the back of his chair and she took it, slipping into the corridor with her head low.

She found Sam hiding a few rooms away, the guard out of sight, and she gave him the jacket. He pulled it on and they left the hospital, trying to keep in the cameras’ blind spots. When they reached the parking lot, Celaena broke into an old car and hot-wired it. She drove out of the hospital’s grounds, keeping an eye out in case anybody was following them. She drove around for a while, taking turns here and there to lose anyone who might be trailing them.

When she was confident they were safe, she drove to her apartment. She helped Sam get out of the car and walk up the stairs. Once they were inside, she locked the door and let out a deep breath. She headed directly to her walk-in closet, unlocking the door and going inside. She found what she was looking for and brought it to Sam who was still standing in the living room in silence.

“Okay, so here are some men clothes I had here, I hope they fit. And here are fake IDs and money,” she said, handing it all to him.

Sam looked at the passport and made a face.

“I don’t look like this guy at all,” he complained.

“Well, you both have brown hair and brown eyes and are about the same age. It will have to do. If anyone asks, your name is Wesley Doyle and you’re 21,” she said assertively.

“How do you even have those IDs?” he asked her.

“Now is not the time for questions, Sam,” she replied, impatient. “You need to leave.”

Sam went into the bathroom to change. The clothes were a bit too big for him, but he could make this work. When he came out, he had a strange look in his eyes.

“Come with me,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Run away with me. You’re better than this life,” he pleaded.

Celaena sighed.

“This life is all I’ve ever known, Sam. I can’t throw it all away and just leave. I just can’t,” she replied.

He opened his mouth to argue, but Celaena shut him with a kiss on the cheek. Sam blushed slightly, suddenly quiet.

“Thank you for always being nice to me,” she said in a final tone. “Now leave. And never look back.”

…

Rowan was sitting in his office filling in paperwork. This was the part of the job he hated. He yawned, looking at the time. He had only been doing this for 15 minutes, but it felt like an hour. All of a sudden, his door opened abruptly and Lorcan appeared.

“It’s Cortland,” his boss said without any preamble. “He has disappeared.”

It took a few seconds for Rowan to process what he had said.

“What do you mean, disappeared?” he asked Lorcan, baffled.

“He isn’t in his room anymore. Nobody can find him,” he replied hastily.

“Fuck.”

That was the only response that felt appropriate.

This was bad, really bad. He was their only informant on The Guild and Sardothien, and they had managed to lose sight of him. He knew he should have put more security at his door. Now he was probably dead.

“Fuck,” he repeated, hitting his desk with his fist.

…

Rowan knew he shouldn’t be here. Lorcan would kill him if he knew, but he didn’t care. This was too important. It was a matter of life or death.

“I’d like to talk to a nurse called Lillian, please. I’m not sure about her last name but she works on the third floor I believe,” he said to the hospital’s receptionist. “It’s urgent.”

She gave him a curious look but complied and typed away on her computer. After a few clicks, she said: “I’m sorry but Lillian isn’t working today. I can tell her you stopped by.”

“What do you mean she’s not working today? I saw her earlier,” he replied, irritated.

“I’m only telling you what the log entries say, sir,” said the woman.

Rowan ran his hand through his silver hair. This didn’t make any sense.

“I really need to talk to her,” he insisted. “Do you have her address?”

“Sir, I’m afraid this is confidential information. I can’t just give someone’s address like that,” replied the woman, a bit overwhelmed by his behavior.

“I work for the FBI,” he explained, trying to keep his calm. “She could be in great danger. I really need to see her.”

He showed his badge to the receptionist who looked at it, unsure.

“Come back with a warrant then,” she said.

Rowan sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Alright,” he conceded. “When is her next shift?”

The woman looked back at her computer screen.

“In three days, on Thursday,” she replied.

“Thank you. If you see her before that, tell her Rowan is looking for her,” he said, insisting on the last part.

The woman simply nodded and went back to her work.

He turned back on his heels and exited the hospital. This would have to do, he thought. It’s not like if he had any other choice.

…

The night was dark, the street only lit by the few streetlamps that still worked. Rowan parked his gray sedan next to his apartment and got out of the car, lost in thoughts. He had tried to convince Lorcan that Sardothien was the one who kidnapped Sam Cortland, but his boss didn’t want to jump to any conclusions. He had said that anyone from The Guild could have come for Cortland. He might even have run away by himself, scared for his life. They would ask for the surveillance videos tomorrow and go on from there. But Rowan had a gut feeling that the cameras would have been tempered with. They needed to interrogate the security guard, that was their best bet.

He was so focused on replaying the events of today in his head, he didn’t notice he was being followed. A shadow was trailing him quietly. Next thing he knew he was stabbed in the neck with something long and sharp. He turned around, but all he could see was a dark silhouette a few feet away. He reached for his gun, but his hands weren’t steady enough and his vision was blurry. His whole body was suddenly feeling heavy. The last thing he saw before his vision faded to black were two bright eyes staring into his soul.

...

Tag list:

@backtobl4ck

@rowanaelinn

@morganofthewildfire

@leiawritesstories

@fireheart-violet

@autumnbabylon

@swankii-art-teacher

@violet-mermaid7

@goldryngalathynius

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#rowaelin fanfiction #rowaelin au #rowaelin #aelin ashryver galathynius #rowan whitethorn #rowan x aelin #rowaelin smut #tog au #tog fanfiction #throne of glass fanfiction #throne of glass #rowan and aelin #rowaelin fanfic #rowaelin fic #celaena sardothien #sarah j maas #sjmaas #aelin galathynius #tog #my writing #favorite crime

[mizuseyebrows]

Blue Eye Samurai characters as ATLA non/benders part 2

🏜️; Ringo —Sandbender

every pic in this post is from pinterest, I just did the collages

He’s a little more difficult to place in a single element. I even thought he might be a non-bender, but that came more from internalized ableist thinking, and I feel horrible for that. Ringo would definitely be a bender, but I'm starting to wonder which one to put him in.

He has the versatility and adaptability of a waterbender, my baby can function in any scenario and I love him for that. He also has the spirituality, lightness and fluidity of an airbender, he can be anyone's spiritual guide, because of his enormous sense of hindsight and optimism. Have I told you that I love him? At the same time, he also has the resilience, strength, patience, and ability to listen and wait for the right moment of an earthbender. I also consider that he has the liveliness and burning spirit of a firebender... perhaps Ringo can be the avatar?

It would be interesting to see an all-powerful avatar who managed to overcome his disability. In ATLK we had Ming Hua, she not only had no hands, she had no arms, and yet she is one of the most powerful waterbenders we have seen so far in the avatar universe. What can stop Ringo from achieving something similar? nothing, just himself. But we already have a character who does not allow his "limitations" to be an impediment to achieving what he wants.

However, I don't want to name anyone an avatar in my theories. I feel it is not necessary to emphasize how powerful benders they could be. So, I was thinking about some element or sub-art that could compact all the characteristics of Ringo's personality.

And that's when I got to sandbending. It is an elemental art that caught my attention ever since I saw the episode of Appa's kidnapping. It is a sub-art that has a little bit of everything. It has the fluidity and speed/agility of airbending. The bending techniques are very similar to those we see in waterbending, plus it is a branch derived from earthbending. I think it would be the perfect element for Ringo.

While I'm sure Ringo would be a competent earthbender, I feel like this sub-art fits who he is much better. A unique elemental art for a unique character. Yes, give me three.

Furthermore, after having the most powerful god and owner of my insides, Gaara of the Desert, we can have an idea of how potent and advantageous it could be to have control of an element as changeable, light and potentially dangerous as sand.

And if we continue with my theory of Mizu being a waterbending prodigy, this duo would become a real threat to everyone. Just imagine Mizu teaching all the water techniques to Ringo so that he can improve his sand control, homie will be unstoppable.

Sidenote, if Ringo were a non-bender, he would be a descendant of the air nomads, which would explain his enormous connection to the spirit world. Additionally, he could have the recessive airbending gene. It would also be interesting if his story was based on Ringo trying to learn the history of his ancestors.

Ringo's potential backstory in the world of ATLA during the hundred years’ war

A diamond in the rough that just needs a little polishing

I don't think his story will change that much. His father's restaurant could be in one of those isolated desert villages. That idiot may not even know that his son is a bender, his little head can’t conceive that someone without hands could achieve anything in life.

Maybe Ringo learned a little from watching the desert bandits who stop by from time to time for a nice bowl of soba. He could look forward to the sandstorms, so he could measure how much his control has improved.

One day he met a strange traveler, with a strong and stubborn spirit, with exceptional control of water. Ringo knew that his story to greatness began that same day and decided to follow that strange man so he could learn from him.

Although at first the relationship was cold and a little uncomfortable, over time everything improved and they became an unstoppable duo.

Ringo was filled with Mizu's physical wisdom, and Mizu was filled with Ringo's spiritual wisdom. You could say that they were meant to come together and complete each other, creating a good balance between them.

here's Mizu

#blue eye samurai #ringo blue eye samurai #ringo #ringo bes #bes #sandbending #sandbender #avatar the last airbender #atla

[lansplaining]

Thirty-year-old MDZS constipated characters sitting around a table painting each other's nails. What happens, and who is the most artistic of them all?

i hate making fun of misspellings or autocorrect but i have spent the whole morning puzzling over this

IS it an autocorrect tragedy

is there some kind of cultural association between being constipated and painting your nails that i don't know about

it sounds like the premise of one of those freaky AI youtube videos for kids. constipated spiderman and elsa paint their nails!

anyway, for the combination of precision and patience that excellent nail art requires, one man sweeps away the competition and that is lan qiren. he learned when lan xichen was having his seven-year-old fascination with nail polish that wangji naturally had to try, too

#ask answered

[teamprettystevie]

ALL THAT SMUT

we don't stop but the time do (lovers in another life let me remind you)- inevitablemeow

He is every one of Steve’s wet dreams, standing there on long legs clad in tight black leather. The material is thick, but even so, those thighs….

He’s wearing a matching motorcycle jacket, and there’s a matte black helmet under his arm as he works his way through the crowd to the bar. Steve hears the thunk of it hitting the polished wood top and swallows heavily.

The man turns just so, and Steve can get a profile look at his face. What a face. His cheekbones are a high slash, his brow is strong, the cut of his jaw is sharp. There’s a few days’ worth of stubble on his face, a deep chocolate brown, and his hair is just long enough to brush his chin. There are streaks of caramel in the rich dark of it.

It’s a long minute as the man orders from the bartender, offering her a smile Steve can half-see from where he sits that lights up his face into something breathtaking. She leans in and murmurs something to him that Steve wishes he could hear, and the man’s grin stretches wide.

Steve doesn’t have to wonder for long what she said. The man spins on his stool until he’s looking right at Steve, still wearing that smirk that makes him look so perfectly smug.

a rocky heart for breaking teeth- thiccbuckybarnes

Bucky takes a sip of his drink, his gaze still locked with the sub over the rim of the glass. He sees the curiosity in those forget-me-not-blue eyes, that flash of interest, of attraction. It makes Bucky’s blood set ablaze under his skin, like a match striking a dry surface, igniting from friction. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time—decades, even, considering he’d been chemically castrated during his imprisonment as the Winter Soldier and is now pumped up with enough suppressants to—well, to abate the intense needs of a super soldier that happens to be a Dominant.

★❀★❀★ Or, Steve yearns, and Bucky pretends not to feel.

We've Got Time- Sam_Haine

Steve's been through enough. Bucky never wants to see him hurt again. He wants to take him and love him like he deserves.

Teach Me- stucktogether (WIP)

“You know what I think, Rogers?” Bucky is whispering right in his ear, low and filthy and smug.

He can’t get his mouth to close in order to form words, so he just shakes his head.

“I think you might be a little into guys.”

Steve would argue, but he’s currently leaking a shocking amount of precome onto another man’s fist, so…

Fair assessment, I guess.

Wet Dream- sarahyellow

Bucky's teased him for twelve days, and Steve's taken it beautifully, going down easier each night that he's denied and tucked away into his cage. It's no wonder he's started having wet dreams, humping the bedding without any self-control.

“Poor baby," Bucky coos. "You must be aching by now, huh? So full." He reaches down and traces the seam of Steve's heavy sac. "Not your fault, sweetheart. This big ol’ body of yours. It just needs to cum all the time."

Blush Pink- voluptuous_panic

Bashful has always been Steve’s best look.

He's just Daddy's boy- Neonbat

Bucky might hate magic but he hated seeing his boy so distressed. How is he supposed to stand there and watch Steve beg for him while out of his mind on some kind of magic horny dust? Especially when Dr. Strange was taking his merry time showing up and Bruce was severely out of his depth. His patience can only last so long.

Love You Til You're Seein' Stars and Stripes-emchant3d

It doesn’t happen after every mission. It doesn’t even happen after every mission that goes bad. But sometimes, every once in awhile, Steve gets too stuck in his own head, in his own so-called mistakes, and Bucky will be damned if he lets him stay there. It’s a delicate process, though, and it takes a certain kind of touch, a certain kind of attitude, different every time. Sometimes he needs it gentle, soft words and careful caresses. Sometimes he has to be made to say it wasn’t his fault, held right at the brink until he shouts it alongside Bucky’s name.

And sometimes, he needs Bucky to get a little mean.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 26

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📖Chapter List.

Author's Note.

We. Are. Back!!

It's been almost six months!! 😶 Motivation comes and goes, but I'm very happy to be posting again. Like I said in a comment on Ao3, this book is too special to me to ever abandon. Thank you for your patience!! 💙

When Rick kicks the stool out from under Jim's feet, there's a simple crunch sound, and then he's dead.

I watch from afar as his body dangles from the rafters like a doll filled with sand, wondering why I thought it would be louder. It feels like I can breathe again. As if I've had a noose of my own wrapped around my throat until this very moment. Jim's dead. He ain't a threat. Just dead and dangling. Silence pours out across the farm. It feels strangely comforting; a hug from somebody you thought you didn't like.

I know Dale would disagree. I don't gotta ask to know he didn't want this.

If he weren't under six feet of dirt and bugs right now, I think I'd tell him I'm sorry.

Not just for Jim having to die, but also for being angry. He knew it never did nobody any good to be angry. If I hadn't told Carl to leave that muddy walker alone, wanting it to suffer and pay for some crime weren't even its fault, then maybe Dale would still be here.

I kinda realize in this moment that I don't care if dead people don't gotta see bad things. Because Dale ain't get to see the good things anymore, either. Like books and soup. Hugs, jokes. The baby, once it's born. Neither does Momma or Sophia or Shane.

It's like Jim said. I should be dead by now. On account of all laws of nature and chance, I should be long dead.

But obviously, I ain't.

And I'd be a stupid, silly, brainless little girl to not think that makes me at least a little bit lucky.

As I fiddle with the metal buckle of my overalls, Dad and Rick carry Jim outta the shed, their hands hooked around the dead man's armpits and ankles. Carol's probably thinking something like, He's with his loved ones now. But I ain't Carol, and I don't believe in heaven, so all I'm thinking is, I hope it didn't hurt. I've never had my neck snapped before, so I wouldn't know. They shuffle over to the pile of wood and walker bodies, tossing him on top, dusting their hands off on their pants. They's gonna burn him. No graves for them that ain't family.

Good. We have enough of those, anyway.

Dad and Rick turn away from the pile, their faces largely blank.

Before they can see me, I stand from my spot near the fence and scurry away, because I know I'm not meant to be watching.

That morning, everybody gets busy doing something. Whether it's bringing supplies into the house or cleaning a grimy rifle, nobody's twiddling they thumbs. There's something about putting work into a thing that needs it that clears the mind, I guess. Stops us from thinking about Jim, anyhow. Me, I help out by going around with a basket of fresh fruit, handing them out to anybody who wants some.

The first people I swing by are Rick and T. They've begun reinforcing the fences together, using old metal sheets and planks of wood to barricade any weak points they find. They gratefully take a juicy pear each, leaning against their handiwork to bite into the sweet flesh, groaning at the taste. Something nice happens in my chest when I see them smile. It's like looking at a puppy. You just can't be sad.

"Wow, this is good," T-Dog nods, turning the fruit over in his hand. "Thanks, Harley."

Rick doesn't say nothin', but I'm just glad to see him enjoying himself. Even for just a moment.

I head over to Patricia and Carol next, who are scrubbing at some laundry over by the trees. I earn myself two more smiles when they take a couple peaches, leaving them to their own devices and making my way through everyone else. Herschel, keeping Maggie company as she hangs up some wet clothes over a line in the sun. Jacqui and Lori, tidying up camp a bit, preparing lunch. Jimmy, polishing guns.

When I give a pear to Dad, who's fixing some of his crossbow bolts, he kisses my cheek as thanks.

And Beth. I don't forget her. She sits in the bay window of her bedroom, nibbling away at a green apple.

I know eating a good piece of fruit ain't never stopped nobody from wanting to kill themselves, but everything counts.

I've only got a peach, apple, and a pear left tumbling around in my basket when I approach Glenn and Andrea. They're stood around the hood of Dale's RV, frowning into the rubber tubes and gears like there's a jigsaw puzzle in there, muttering to each other.

"You gotta tap it three times," I think he's saying, pointing at something, "And—"

"— And give her a twist," Andrea sighs, throwing her hands up. "I know, I know."

Glenn notices me out the corner of his eye. He doesn't light up exactly, but the tension leaves his shoulders. "Oh. Hey, Harley."

"Hey." I give a little smile, holding out the basket. "Y'all want some fruit?"

"Ugh. Yes, please."

They each pick one out, leaving me with the apple. I toss the basket onto the nearby folding chair and bite into its waxy skin, the sugary juices leaking down my chin. It's sweet as candy. Well, from what I remember candy tastin' like, anyway. It's delicious.

Andrea seems to agree. "God. Remind me to always become stranded on a farm with an orchard."

Glenn bites a chunk out of his peach as he takes the screwdriver from the blonde, scooting around her to stand in front of the exposed engine. "Here. Let me have a go... Dale told me that in these old vehicles, the points get corroded."

I wipe my sticky chin, watching as he pokes around with the small tool.

Dale knew everything there was to know about this RV. Whenever it broke down, he didn't even need to check beneath the hood before he knew exactly what was wrong with it. Hell, even I've picked up on its quirks by now, and I know jack about vehicles. There's all sorts of screws and bolts and duck tape crammed into the poor thing's inner workings, but it just refuses to die. Like a stubborn old mule. 

A bit like Dale. No matter how many times ya put that old man down, he'd come back ten times stronger.

"I let him down," Glenn suddenly sighs, and it's easy to know who he's talking about.

I glance over his shoulder, through the front windshield. Dale's ridiculous amount of souvenir air fresheners still hang from the mirror. Oklahoma. Illinois. Missouri. Kansas. That ain't even half of 'em. We used to tease him about them, but he always just laughed us off and recited some philosophical quote from a dead guy about how memories feed the soul, or whatever.

Nobody ever understood it when he said stuff like that, but I still know we all miss it.

"He was proud of you," Andrea tells him; then me, "Both of you."

I sheepishly look away, picking at the stem of my apple. No, he weren't. But that's nice of her to say.

"That's easy for you to say." Glenn shakes his head. "You had his back."

She doesn't know what to say for a moment.

"Well... All I know is that there's no way he didn't know how much we all cared for him, even in the end. He was too smart for that."

I got no doubts about that. He knew everything. Knew everything about the RV, about poetry, about us. He was just one of them types of people. I only wish I hadn't argued with him that day, but I argue with Dad all the time, and he still loves me. So, can't all be bad.

Glenn pulls back from the engine with a resolute, "Welp... That should do it."

When Andrea climbs inside and twists the key into the ignition, I'm proven right. This old RV just refuses to die.

"Well done, Glenn," I smile over the noise of the engine. "You did it."

He turns to me with a smile of his own, looking proud of himself.

After that, he and Dad leave the farm to search for a hearing aid. 

Maggie hands them a list of houses they can try their luck in, and then we exchange the usual goodbye hugs and kisses before waving them off. There ain't no use in sitting around, wondering if they're going to get bitten and die because of me, so I leave to find something I can distract myself with instead. Luckily, Rick and T-Dog are more than happy to let me help them out with the fences.

If we're gonna get serious about staying here at the farm, we're gonna have to make some upgrades.

I obidiently tail them as they work, lugging around a bucket filled with rusty nails to pass to them.

"You know, Harley," Rick grunts as he hammers a scrap of metal to the wooden posts, "Carl still ain't stopped chewin' my ear off about all those things you taught him the other day. If I have to hear the word 'mushroom' one more time... I'll go crazy."

I pluck a nail from the pile and hand it to T-Dog.

Just to be annoying, I say, "Mushroom, mushroom, mushroom."

"Hey. Watch it." He scolds me, but not very well. He's smiling. "Anyway. You two ain't on good terms right now, are you?"

I raise a brow. "How'd ya know?"

"Well, I figured you'd be playin' with him right now if you were. And to be honest, he's been in a bit of a mood lately."

I huff a little, silently cursing Rick's parents for making him like this. "We squabbled. That's all."

He hums thoughtfully.

"Whenever I argued with my sisters," T-Dog tells us, "They'd start messin' with me. They'd hide my Xbox controller. Eat my snacks."

Rick chuckles. "They sound nice."

"Yeah, you could say that," He chuckles along with him. "A real pair of peaches."

"Well, Carl ain't done any of that," I suppose, adjusting the bucket in my grasp, "But he did call me a stupid baby."

Rick turns to look at me. "What?"

"He snitched on me about the shed and called me a stupid baby. Then I told him I hated his guts."

As I stand there, he fixes at me with a funny, What am I going to do with you?, sort of look, until he returns his attention to the work at hand. "Well, he was right to 'snitch' on you, but I'll have a talk with him when I can. It's not okay to name-call."

"I think it's 'cause he's gonna be a brother soon." I think aloud. "He said he's gotta protect me."

T-Dog argues, "You got all of us here to protect you. Boy's got nothing to stress about."

"I know. He just likes bein' somebody's keeper."

Hammering the last nail into the metal, Rick gives the thing a bit of a shake to test its strength, pleased to see it won't budge.

"Okay, I think this one's good." He decides. "Let's move onto the next one."

As we gradually make our way down the fence line, we continue chatting away about other useless things. The weather, future plans for the farm. Something we don't talk about, though, is the baby inside Lori's belly. I don't think Rick wants to think about it, let alone talk about it. He must be mulling over all the hundreds of things that could go wrong. As the leader, that's his special talent.

By the time we reach the area around the barn, I'm not listening to the conversation anymore. It's difficult to concentrate on making out their voices for such a long time, so I just tune myself out, absentmindedly gazing past the two of them, into the field.

That's when I notice something off about the burning pile.

It's still sitting there, a boring bunch of wood and junk, but the problem is I can't seem to spot Jim's body on it.

I know they didn't move it to some other place, and it's definitely not been lit on fire yet, so it can't be that.

When Rick holds out his hand for me to pass him another nail, I leave him hanging. He frowns down at me in concern; confusion. I think he says my name, but then he follows my gaze, followed suit by T-Dog. I can tell the exact moment they catch on.

"Okay," T-Dog levels with nobody in particular, holding up his hands, "That's creepy as shit."

"Stay here," Rick wearily tells us, before jogging away to investigate.

I don't need to be told twice. Clutching the bucket to my stomach like it's a teddy bear, I huddle closer to T, letting him step in front of me as if a chupacabra is gonna pop out from under the debris and gobble us all up. We watch Rick approach the burn pile, creeping up on it, concerned he might wake it up. He peeps this way and that, the hammer held tight in his grasp, ready to strike.

Was Jim bit, I find myself wondering, Was he bit, and we just didn't notice?

No. No, that can't be right. If he was bit, he would've turned long before we had the chance to hang him.

Rick flinches backward. He gawks at his own two feet. I think he might've crossed paths with a snake, or even that chupacabra, but then a hand shoots out from behind the burn pile and we learn the thing tryna bite him ain't an animal. It's got black hair and a grubby red shirt, a pair of milky eyeballs. It's Jim. He crawls after Rick like he's tryna avenge his own death, his neck still swollen and wrong.

Once he's absorbed his own shock, Rick brings the hammer down on Jim's skull, but he's fresh, so it's not mushy like it is usually. He has to bludgeon him two, three, four more times before the bone cracks open like an egg, wet brains dribbling down his face.

We all catch our breaths. I don't think any of us were prepared to watch Jim die twice today.

"Where was the bite?" T-Dog calls out, sounding like he's about to barf all over himself.

Rick kneels to check under Jim's shirt, flip him over, roll up his pant legs, because of course he does. There has to be a bite.

But when he stands, he calls back, "I can't see one."

There's a gaping pause between us all.

"Well, it ain't on his ass cheek, is it?"

Rick raises a brow as he steps over the body. "You wanna go check, be my guest."

"Nah, thank you, man." He answers drily, eyeing the blood dripping from the head of the hammer. "Well, what the Hell happened?"

Instead of telling us he doesn't know, or offering up a theory, Rick just sighs. He tosses the hammer into the little wagon we've been pulling along with us, rubbing at the faint wrinkles on his forehead. I remain hiding behind T-Dog. I know there's no snake or chupacabra to be heard of, and now, not even a Jim. But I don't like the danger in the air. The danger of something being wrong and not knowing what it is.

Rick lowers his hand, gaze landing on me. He keeps it there for a moment.

To be a walker, you gotta get bit. I can't see one. Everyone knows that.

"Come on," He eventually mutters, reaching to take the heavy bucket from me. "Let's get back to the house."

"Rick, what's wrong?" I whine as he grabs my hand. "We ain't workin' on the fence no more? Why?"

T-Dog snatches up the handle of the wagon and hurries after us.

"Don't worry about it, honey," He soothes, giving my fingers a squeeze. "The grownups will handle it, okay?"

Rick says this, just like he always has, but all he does when we get back to camp is eat lunch and talk to Maggie about our progress on the fence. I decide it's not a big deal. I trust him. Maybe he's just waiting until me and Carl aren't around to talk with the other adults about it. Maybe Jim did somehow get bit while he was in the shed. Maybe it really was on his ass cheek. I won't pretend to know.

In any case, I dig into my scrambled eggs and buttered bread without giving it much more thought.

After lunch, the three of us go back to working on the fence, anyway.

"Hope you enjoyed the apple."

With her forehead resting against the window, Beth gazes down at the farm, like some lonely angel peering down at another world. The afternoon sun gently contours the subtle curves of her girlish face, which isn't looking nearly as dreadfully pale as it did before.

"I did," She answers sweetly, smiling as I come to sit next to her on the thin cushions. "Thanks, by the way."

I give a shrug. "Yer sister says peach and pear season's just about up, so all we's got for a while is apples, anyway."

She surprises me by giggling at me, a pretty tinkling sound that suits her. "That shouldn't be a problem for you, right?"

My cheeks go warm. "Huh?"

"I saw you," She explains, a fondness in her eyes. "Chowin' down on that apple just before."

"When I was wit' Glenn and Andrea?"

She nods. "You were smiling. It was nice."

I contemplate calling her a stalker, but all that comes outta my mouth is an amused scoff, rolling my eyes and turning to look out the window. I understand why she likes it up here. I can see the whole farm. People milling about camp, chickens pecking at the ground. And off in the distance, the herd of black cows dotting the paddocks like little beetles, munching on bales of hay. And quiet. Precious quiet.

I glance at the distant treeline, thinking about the recent whispers of the horde. I brush it off quick as I can.

I steal a glance at Beth, instead.

That little smile is still pulling at her lips, a lively glint in the soft green of her eyes.

For some reason - mainly my talent for speaking without thinking - I ask her suddenly, "Do you still wanna die?"

She stiffens ever so slightly, and I only have a few short moments to feel awful about it before she meets my eyes.

"I just mean," I continue, wishing I ever knew the right thing to say. I think back to when Carl was in my exact position, asking nicely for me to not do what Beth did. He also threatened to smack me in the face, but I don't imagine that would go over too well with Beth. Neither would shouting at her like Dad. So, I just do something stupid, another one of my talents, and I improvise. "I been worried about you. Not, like, pity or nothin', but... I know how you feel. And after Dale... I realized that just 'cause people die, it don't mean I gotta die, too. It ain't a reason to wanna die. It's a reason to wanna live. 'Cause I'm just glad I ever knew Dale and Sophia and everyone else that died at all."

I feel encouraged by her glassy expression to keep talking. Not that I could stop myself if I tried.

"So that makes us lucky, y'know. Yer Momma's dead. My Momma's dead. But we loved 'em, and you can keep lovin' other people, but not if you're in a grave somewhere. Besides, it would just pass it on to them that would miss us. Not worth it, if ya ask me."

When I finish my word puke, she pins me with a tense, watery look that makes my insides cramp up.

"Maggie told me," She says, "That if I decided to keep living, that I'd find moments where I'd know I made the right decision."

She takes a deep breath, chuckling afterward.

"I think this is one of those moments," She decides.

"It is?"

I feel a weird sense of pride. I know me and my stupid apple and bad advice didn't singlehandedly solve anythin', but I was able to make her realize she don't got nothin' to regret by surviving her own mind, and that's more than enough for me.

I nod, trying not to smile, because this is supposed to be a serious moment. "Good. That's... good."

Her chuckles turn into laughter. "Why you so awkward all the darn time, Harley?"

Then I'm being wrapped up in a hug. I hate hugs. But this one ain't too terrible.

When we part, I ask her, "Are we friends?"

She seems to find that funny. "'Course."

"Well, my Dad and Glenn are gonna be gone for a few more hours," I tell her, "So, we should play something 'til then."

Beth warns me that she's seventeen years old, so she might not be able to play the same way me and Carl play, but that's okay. We don't have to play pretend or anything. We can do something she likes. Apparently, that's painting our nails. I have to try not to pull a face, but I guess I end up pulling one anyway, because she bursts into giggles and pulls me to my feet. I'm not the biggest fan of girly things. It's just not what I grew up with. I'm used to scuffing my nails while climbing trees and playing in the dirt, not painting them. But I'll give it a go.

"What's your favorite color?" She asks me, setting me down on her bed and rummaging through her desk.

"Yellow," I chirp.

"Actually," She lilts, pulling out a little bottle of yellow polish, squinting at the label. "It's Electric Spring Citrus."

I scoot over to make room for her on the bed, presenting my nails to her.

The afternoon slips away easily after that.

Nighttime paints over the orange sky.

Me and Beth have migrated downstairs by the time the sun has disappeared beneath the farm, lured in by the domestic commotion of dinner being prepared. It's soup again. I recognise the smell by now. While we wait to be served by Maggie and Patricia, the rest of us gather around the coffee table, ribbing each other as we break the rules of a card game Jacqui suggests. Carl keeps cheating by lying about what cards he has, but he's too dumb to realize he'll have to show them to us at some point. I laugh hysterically when he loses.

"You weren't listenin' to the rules, was ya?" I enjoy taunting him as he goes red. "Typical!"

He complains, "Shut up, Harley!"

"Okay, okay," Lori placates, doing a very bad job of hiding her smile behind her fan of cards. "Settle down."

I almost don't think about Dad and Glenn or Dale or Sophia or Shane or Momma for the whole game. By my standards, that makes for a good time. Carl continues losing miserably, whining even more miserably-er, while Jacqui beats us over and over again.

I'm reminded of the night we had our first dinner together - The one where Patricia made everyone feel super uncomfortable, and then I almost died. It's hard to believe this is the same house and the same people. Probably because it's filled with laughter.

We continue playing even through dinner.

When I lose for the fifth time, I take my bowl of soup and retire to one of the sofas, settling in next to Rick and quietly sipping at the warm broth. He sends me a bit of a look as if to ask me if I'm okay, probably reading my face in that weird way he got, noticing I'm thinking about Dad and Glenn. I reply with a simple nod. He doesn't seem satisfied with that response, but he can't do nothin' about it.

It's too noisy in here for him to talk to me, and neither of us know a single lick of sign language.

So, he just gives me a thumbs up and hopes it gets the point across. They'll be okay.

Eventually, even Herschel gets roped into playing.

"Hey, I actually happen to know a thing or two about this," He tells us, before proceeding to eviscerate Jacqui at her own game.

We all go awww, as she throws down her cards.

"Darn..." She sighs. "You weren't lyin', old man."

"As Jesus as my witness," He holds up a hand, "I never lie."

Lori asks, "Where'd you learn to get this good?"

"I used to spend a lot of my time in bars, young lady." He explains. "I got more than enough practice finessing card games."

"Well, I'd say it paid off."

He raises his fluffy white brows. "They used to call me Great-Hand Greene back in the day, you know."

Everybody in the room can't help but laugh.

"Now, Daddy," Maggie exclaims, "That's a lie!"

Great-Hand Greene calmly enlightens her, "It surely isn't."

This is the moment headlights turn into the driveway. Everyone turns to look. My heart squeezes. Dad and Glenn. The two lights come to a sudden stop, watching us like two eyeballs through the dark. The sound of doors slamming. I place my bowl on the coffee table and hurry out of the lounge room, followed by some other footsteps. But when I reach the foyer, the door bursts open without my doing.

Dad first, then Glenn. Both of my lungs deflating in relief, and then both of them knotting right back up again.

"That horde's headed this way," Dad wastes no time in announcing, "And it ain't stopping for nothin'."

Everybody freezes. A horde? The horde? Headed our way? Right now?

Rick pushes past everyone. "You saw it?"

"Trust me, man." He jokes dryly, shaking his head. "You can't miss this thing anymore."

"There were hundreds of them," Glenn agrees, frantic. His hair is suckered to his forehead with sweat, even though the season's turned. "We were over by Mallory Road when we caught wind of them; got us stuck for a couple hours until we could slip past."

"Not that it matters now," Dad snides.

Maggie asks, "Were you able to get the hearin' aid?"

He gives a nod, but nobody's paying attention. "Bits and pieces."

"Patricia," Herschel orders, our card game long forgotten, "Kill the lights."

We follow Rick out onto the porch. The night welcomes us with a cold gust of wind. At first, I can't see much of anythin', but then the lights blink out one by one and my stomach drops into the floorboards. On the other side of the field, leaking out from between the trees, are bodies, bodies, and bodies, so many it's not worth trying to count. They make the group on the highway look like a couple of stragglers.

As the masses of feet stumble up the driveway, I'm hit with the feeling that our fences aren't going to save us.

"I'll get the guns." Andrea mutters, and I think that feeling has hit everyone else, too.

Rick runs off in the direction of the cars. It's where we've kept our bags of emergency supplies for a time like this. Does that mean we're gonna leave? Or are we gonna fight? Is it even possible? I didn't even get to finish my soup. That feels important, somehow.

"Maybe they're just passing." Somebody stupidly guesses. "Like that herd on the highway."

"Should we go back inside?"

"Not unless there's a tunnel downstairs I don't know about." Dad drawls, gazing out. "Horde this size will rip the house down."

I worry up at him, "Daddy, I don't want it to rip the house down."

He shushes me, putting a strong hand on the nape of my neck, squeezing reassuringly. I let it calm me. I feel a fool for panicking, but if there were ever a time to panic, it would be now. I cling to him as Andrea dumps the bag of guns on the floor. She passes them out to everyone that got two thumbs and a brain. Maggie, Glenn, Dad, Rick. Jimmy. Even Herschel. Nobody is being left out of this fight.

Not even me and Carl. A gun is pushed each of our hands. You know how to use it, I remind myself.

"This the plan, then?" Dad confirms with everyone, because it's crazy. "We take 'em all on?"

Andrea passes me a loaded mag. I don't have to count the bullets inside to know it's not enough.

"We have guns. We have cars."

"We kill as many as we can." She's on board. "We'll use the cars to lead the rest of them off the farm."

"The burn pile," Glenn adds, "There's a bunch of kerosine and matches down there. We could lure them into the barn, set it on fire."

Rick climbs back onto the porch. "Bags are all packed. If things start to get hairy, we can leave."

"We're not leaving." Herschel argues.

"Herschel—"

"This is my farm." His voice booms as he pumps a pair of fat bullets into his shotgun's chamber, fire in his eyes. "I'll die here."

"Alright." Dad lilts over the droning rumble of death incoming, looking around for objections. "It's as good a night as any."

I get herded into Maggie's car. Dad gives my face a kiss and slams the door shut. I bump the mag up into the chamber. I know how to use it. I do. Two more slams. Glenn at the wheel, Maggie in the passenger seat. I've shot two walkers before, when I was out in the woods with Shane. I just have to do it again. And after that, again and again until they're all gone. Glenn stomps on the gas. The car screeches forward, ripping through the grass, barrelling into the night. I don't even bother buckling myself in. That's not how I would die tonight.

"You got enough ammo back there, honey?" Maggie fusses, digging through the glovebox and throwing me a spare.

"Thanks." I catch the cardboard box, trying not to shiver as Glenn rolls down all the windows. Groans and wind flood the car.

He shouts, "Start shooting!"

Just like that, gunshots erupt from all possible angles.

I grip my pistol tight, aim it out the window. You're gonna hold it like this, Shane's voice tells me, Firm. Confident. You're the one in control, here. I'm in control. My home's bein' invaded by the dead, and a horde this size might rip the house down, but I'm in control. The car spins. I lurch. It's hard to aim like this, but I gotta try. I line my eye up with the wobbling sight. I breathe in and out.

I squeeze. BANG. 

I can't even tell what I hit, or if I hit anything at all, but it don't matter. I squeeze again. BANG.

Glenn weaves us in and out, around, through the horde, never getting too close, never veering too far.

In the other car, T-Dog, Andrea, and Carl. They swerve around us, shooting down every dead bastard they can hit.

I squeeze. BANG.

BANG, and again, BANG, and again, BANG.

The jaw of a nearby walker explodes off its meaty hinges. It swings around. It trips. It slumps. I've killed it.

"How we doing back there, Harley?" Glenn calls out. "You okay?"

"I— I'm fine!" I shout back, pulling my body back into my seat to reload.

I peel open the box of ammo. A curse falls from my tongue when the little bullets go tumbling onto my feet, rolling under the seats. I quickly snatch them up, shoving them into the mag. On the other side of the car door, fireworks of gunpowder and bullets, squealing tires and breaking bones, a blazing Hellfire lighting up the sky. Orange and roaring. I notice it, then. Dad. Rick. That must be them. They've set the barn on fire. It's cracking and falling to pieces, a burning church. The walkers fight to get inside like it's the last Sunday on Earth.

An important beam succumbs to the flames, snapping in half like a broken twig, bringing the rest down with it.

I hear wood breaking, and then there are chickens running lose across the field, screaming, flapping.

I squeeze and I squeeze and I squeeze. BANG.

A rotten old man crumples to the ground. BANG.

A lady's shoulder bursts open, a pop of bone and muscle. BANG.

A girl with one of the poor birds in her mouth, choking on feathers, dead. BANG.

For every one we kill, five more are there within a heartbeat to replace it. Glenn's foot falters on the pedal, and we come to a crawl, and then a stop, unable to do much but watch as the farm is consumed. This is a losing battle. There's no other type.

Herschel said we weren't leaving tonight, but that can't be true. I guess he is a liar, after all.

"We gotta go," Maggie's shaking her head, the tears in her eyes collecting like little pearls. "We're not gonna win this. We gotta go."

As if only to prove her point, the barn collapses once and for all. I almost feel like crying.

"I'm sorry, Maggie." Glenn says weakly.

Yeah. Me, too. I gaze out at the oak tree, still standing bravely; the little wooden crosses clueless beneath it.

As Glenn drives us back into the chaos, my pistol stays in my lap. I don't got any bullets left, anyway. I just sit there, watching everything pan by. Mine and Dad's camping spot, tucked away in the distant trees, just how we liked it. The crumbled fireplace where I talked to Dale for the last time. The shed. The swing outside it me and Carl used to play on. The orchard. The patch of dirt where Sophia died.

I wish I had the power to know when things were gonna end. That way, I could've savoured my last day.

It's not as cool as the superpower's them people in Carl's comics got, but it's the one I'd want.

It was silly. Working on the fences today with Rick and T-Dog made me think we were gonna be okay.

When I look up, we're approaching the house. Jacqui's sitting on the porch steps all by herself, staring out at us.

Glenn pulls us in close, getting out and hovering around the hood of the car, waving her over. "Come on! We gotta go!"

I crawl across the seats and shove open the door. "Jacqui? Come on!"

She's not coming. Why is she not coming? The door is open. We can all leave together. When I call out her name again, she convulses ever so slightly, as if she's got a bad cough but doesn't wanna let it out. I feel my face fall all at once. Her arm gives out, slumping from her neck, into her lap. I notice the blood first, all ten gallons of it, and then the bite. Her muscles spasm again. Oh. No, no, no.

"Jacqui?" I call out uselessly, but Glenn's already back in the driver's seat and Jacqui's already dying.

"C-Close your door, Harley," He orders, slamming his own.

She's dying. We can't stay here. I know both these things, but it still takes everything in me to pull the door shut.

After that, the deaths just keep coming. We drive past Patricia as the horde pull her into their mouths, Jimmy as he stumbles from the RV, clutching at his open throat. There's nothing we can do for any of them, but we manage to reach Carol just in time. She climbs into the seat next to me, and we ask her if she's seen anybody else, but she hasn't; she hasn't seen anybody.

Turning my face to the open window, I let the wind dry my tears, seein' as my Daddy ain't here to do it for me.

The faces of the horde pass by, a sea of rats on a burning ship.

I want to go collect my things. I want to pet the cows one last time. I want to do everything we won't get to.

My body lurches all on its own, then.

A face in the crowd. It's different from the rest. I'm not good with faces or names, something my teachers used to grumble over, but I'm good with this one. That one walker, tucked in with the rest of them, wearing the Police cap. It's Shane Walsh, dead and walking.

How? How is that possible? Why are the tears back tenfold, now?

Lit by the moon and the flames, I see his broken cheekbones for the first time since that day, the way they're bulbous like apples, mishappen like clay. Everything about him is wrong. His nose is broke. Clothes all mussed up. Ribs pouring. His eyes are glossed over. He don't seem to mind his broken body, or the fire, or the smoke. He just wants what all other walkers want. To bite into something. It's him, but not.

I almost want him to look at me. I clutch my locket, wanting our eyes to meet just to make him prove it.

This just can't be true. He didn't get bit. He got shot and beaten, but he didn't get bit.

As if I've willed him to do it, he looks my way.

"Carol," I croak, watching as he noses at the air like the animal Dad always said he was, "You got any bullets left?"

I feel something being placed in my hand. It feels just like the locket, but colder. I shakily load it into the chamber; lift the gun. I believe in you, His voice is back. Now line your eye up with the sight. I stare down the barrel, carefully placing his face on top of the sights. I only have this one bullet. I can't miss. Not only because I need to put him down, but because I think I want to make him proud.

Breathe, I take a deep breath, In and out. 

Damn it. These fuckin' tears, they're messing up my aim. I smack them away and line up my shot again.

And squeeze.

BANG.

All the air rushes outta my lungs as his body hits the ground, disappearing amongst the horde.

I lower the gun.

Carol's already looking at me before I glance her way.

When we peel onto the highway, I can still see the flames burning over the tops of the trees, like some old religious painting.

Maggie breaks the silence. "What if nobody else made it?"

Nobody answers. I preferred it when the only noise in the car was the gentle humming of the engine, but I can't blame her for asking. We got no idea who else made it out alive. The four of us are all alone out here. Ain't no phone number we can just dial to ask if they're alright.

"They made it," Glenn eventually just decides, staring out at his high beams on the dark road. "They had to."

"Well, how are we going to find them?" Carol asks innocently, petting my hair as I lay my head in her lap. "They could be anywhere."

Maggie sighs. "We could circle back to that place I found y'all on the highway?"

"No," Mumbles Glenn. I can see his finger tapping against the wheel. "No, the horde came from that direction."

That's where our ideas run dry.

"Glenn?" I whine, clutching at my temple. He glances at me in the mirror, concern in his eyes. "My head. The ringing. Hurts."

He makes a troubled sound. "It must've been all those gunshots... I'm sorry."

Carol suggests, "Maybe we should just stop somewhere for the night."

There's a pause between them, but it's a short one, because it doesn't take much for Glenn to agree. He's musing to himself about how we can't drive all night. It would be a better use of gas to drive in the daylight. But really, we all know it's because he's a big softie.

He pulls us into a little nook on the side of the highway, killing the engine and turning on the ceiling light.

"I'm sorry," He says again, as if he put the ringing inside my head himself. "Maybe there's something in the supplies?"

Maggie unzippers the bag at her feet, pushing around the stuff inside it, shaking her head. "Just some water. Thirsty?"

I shake my head.

"I think we should all get some sleep." Says Carol, her voice a whisper.

Yeah. A good sleep sounds really good right about now. I think we've earnt it. Georgia will still be here when we wake up.

"Okay." He reaches up to press the ceiling button that turns on the moon, its dim white light spilling across the console in the dark. We all loosen slightly, completely exhausted. "We can just pick up again tomorrow. I'm sure the others are doing the same thing."

"Goodnight," Maggie tries to smile, reaching around her seat to stroke my shoulder.

"Goodnight," I mumble, echoed by Glenn and Carol, and then it's silent.

I close my eyes.

No eggs and buttered bread for breakfast today. Just a stale granola bar I gotta split with Carol, and a sip of water I gotta split with all three of them. After we take turns peein' in the bushes outside, we're back on the road again, and we're on it all day.

I don't know where we're going. I don't think Glenn knows, either.

I'm starting to think we might be driving all night, too, by the time we run into the others. That's right, the others. Herschel's shitty old pick-up truck is parked in a swath of brown leaves on the side of the road, right next to Dad's truck and bike, and another grey car.

When Glenn pulls on the brake, I think we're all crying happy tears, but I'm too busy crying happy tears to notice.

I climb out, grinning, running into my Dad's arms.

"Harley," He sighs in relief as he picks me up, squeezes me tight. "I knew they'd take good care of ya."

"I knew you'd take good care of you," I giggle, hooking my chin over his shoulder.

"How did you guys find each other?" Glenn marvels.

"Well, when I saw their little Toyota goin' the speed limit," He nods behind him, "Figured there just had to be a cop at the wheel."

As chuckles break out between the group, he places me back on the ground.

Maggie asks, "Where's the rest of us?"

"We're the only ones that made it so far," Rick answers, and it's now I notice just how much smaller we are now; barely ten. We're just as alone as we were when it was just me, Glenn, Maggie, and Carol. No shelter, no food, no direction. Feathers in the wind.

"Where's Andrea?"

Lori shakes her head. "She was with us at the farm, but we got separated."

"Did you see Jacqui?"

Jacqui. Poor Jacqui. Maggie, Glenn, and I share a look without even meaning to.

"It was awful, Dad," I mutter, the memory caught in my throat, "We found 'er by the house, but we had to leave her behind."

Glenn explains, "She was bit."

"They got Patricia, too." Beth says. "Took her right in front of me. I was holdin' onto her, Daddy, but they just..."

"We saw Jimmy, too." Maggie sighs as Herschel wraps her little sister in a hug. "He was in the RV. It got overrun."

"But, you guys definitely saw Andrea?"

"There— There were walkers everywhere," Lori seems sorry to say, "But, yeah. We saw her."

"Well, we have to go back for her."

Rick argues, "We don't even know if she's still there."

"She ain't." Dad butts in. "She's either somewhere else or she's dead."

"So, we're not even gonna look for her?"

"No. We gotta keep moving." Rick agrees. "There's walkers all over the place."

Maggie scoffs, "That's an understatement if I ever heard one."

"I say we head East." Dad suggests, pointing vaguely in the direction of the sinking sun, cresting through the fog. "Head East, and stay off any main roads like this one. Bigger the road, the more walkers we gon' run into. The more assholes like this one."

He lifts his hands from where he's been resting them on my back, swinging the crossbow off his shoulder.

"I got him." He grumbles, sending a bolt through the stray walker's nose.

"Well, I hate to tell you guys," T-Dog scratches at his head, "But we been riding red for the past hour."

"We can't all fit into two cars."

Rick decides, "We'll have to make a run for some gas in the morning."

"Spend the night here?" Beth hisses, shivering lightly. "I'm freezin'."

"We'll build a fire." He gestures at my Dad. "You can go out lookin' for firewood, but stay close."

He raises a greasy brow. "I only got so many arrows, man. We can't just sit here with our asses hangin' out."

"Watch your mouth," He snips.

Glenn raises his hands at the group. "Everyone just stop panicking, and listen to Rick."

"Look, Glenn and I can go make a run right now," Maggie placates, "Try and scrounge up some gas so we can get back on the road."

"No." He shuts her down. "We stay together. God forbid something happens and people get stranded without a car."

That other side of Rick is back - Someone I might as well start callin' Second Rick; Scary Rick - and everyone can tell. It's the same one that was outside the shed, telling us with no room for argument that he was going to execute Jim. He's tense. He's a rubber band pulled tight, his eyes darting from face to face, just waiting for a flash of disagreement from somebody for him to pounce on.

I make sure he don't find one on my face. I'm not keen on upsettin' him.

Glenn's a little braver than me, though, because he says incredulously, "Rick, we're stranded now."

He shakes his head. Not listening. Not accepting it. Just, No, no, no. 

"I know it looks bad," He reasons, even though we don't need to be told. "We've all been through Hell and worse. But we found each other. I wasn't sure. I really wasn't, but..." He scans our faces again, a little less coldly this time, taking us all in. "But we did it. We're together, and that's all that matters. We'll find shelter someplace. It's gotta be out there somewhere. It's gotta be."

But we had shelter already, I feel like shouting at him, I don't want another one.

"Rick, look around, okay?" Glenn's voice raises. "There's walkers everywhere. They're— They're migrating or something."

"There's gotta be a place not just where we hole up," Rick doubles down without care for what he's saying, smacking his knuckles into his palm. "But that we can fortify. Hunker down. Pull something together for ourselves. Build a life for each other."

That's what we tried to do at the farm. He should know that. He was the one fixing the fences with me.

"I know it's out there," He says angrily, as if that place he's talkin' about is hiding just to spite him. "We just have to find it."

I muster up the courage to voice my thoughts.

"But, Rick," I say, "How many those places we already been?"

He shakes his head again. "We fooled ourselves into thinking they were safe. We won't make that mistake again."

At the quarry, our mistake was being too close to the city. That was way back in the beginning when nobody had died yet, and we thought we just had to wait it out until the army came. But they didn't. And after that, our second mistake was trusting Jenner. We wanted answers, but we almost lost everything trying to get 'em. Then, the farm. I guess that was a mistake, too, now. You never know 'til after.

I don't say anything to that. It's cold, and I'm hungry, and I don't want to argue any more.

He's pleased with my silence. "Okay... We make camp tonight here; get back on the road at the break of day."

Carol murmurs something.

Whatever it was, Beth agrees with her. "What if walkers come through, or another group like Jim's?"

"Speaking of Jim," T-Dog fixes Rick with a look. "We ever gonna talk about him?"

Lori's confused. "What do you mean? What could possibly be left to talk about?"

"We saw him turn," He's happy to reveal to everyone. "Thing is, though, he wasn't bit."

"How is that possible?"

"Shane, too." I blurt. "I— I saw him when the farm went down."

Lori turns her gawking expression onto her husband. "What the Hell is going on?"

He's not looking at any of us. He's glaring at some ordinary pebble on the ground, brooding, hesitating.

Then, "We're all infected."

What?

It's so vague and profound that nobody knows what to make of it.

My Dad does us all a favor and squints at him. "How you mean?"

"At the CDC," He confesses, his voice a hoarse whisper that I can only just make out, "Jenner told me. Whatever it is, we all carry it."

We all carry—? The germs that make the dead ones come back? We all carry them?

He's been lyin' to us this whole time. The CDC, that was months ago.

Sometimes, lying ain't just sayin' something. It's not sayin' something. Daddy taught me that the night I told him I'd had a good day at school, and then come dinnertime, I let it slip that Ethan, the boy that sat behind me in class, had actually punched me in the belly that day at lunch. He got so mad. He ripped off my shirt. There was a purple blotch on my pale skin. Then he taught me how to punch boys back.

That's what Rick's done. He's hidden a purple blotch from us, and now we should be angry.

Carol steps forward, her silver brows pinched. "And you never said anything?"

I consider my body. I don't feel sick. Not like I did when we thought I was bitten.

Rick lamely asks, "Would it have made a difference?"

Yes, I think, but he already knows that.

Glenn accuses him, "You knew. You knew this whole time."

So, that's why Jim and Shane woke back up. You don't gotta get bit. You just gotta die and come back with enough to be able to bite.

That means even if you jumped off a bridge and all your bones were broken and you died, you would still come back.

My—

My Momma would'a still come back.

"How could I have known for sure, huh? Until we found Jim, I had no proof Jenner was even tellin' the truth. You saw how crazy that mother f—"

Glenn cuts him off. "That is not your call. Okay?"

"When Daryl found out about the walkers in the barn," Lori adds, "He told everyone as soon as he had the chance."

Rick don't care. "Well... I thought it best if people didn't know."

Glenn and Dad look right at me. Like they've both thought the same thing I have. They're the only ones here that know what happened to my Momma. I remember telling Glenn about it at the CDC. Momma. We were outta the city when it happened. It was the night the world ended twice. First when we got the call, and again when our neighbours tried to eat us. It's a lot of people's worst ever night. It's mine.

I won't ever know for sure, but I'd be kidding myself if I thought the rules didn't apply to my Momma.

At least we know that if any of us were to die, the others would make sure we didn't turn. Survivor's honor, or whatever it's called.

The silence goes on for so long that he just gives us one last look over, turns, and walks away. Nobody cares where.

Dad crouches; looks up at me. "You okay, baby?"

"Yeah," My voice wobbles, but I'm telling the truth. "I just... Don't wanna think about it."

Glenn clears his throat. "Well, it looks like we don't have much of a choice about this. We need to set up camp."

As everyone slowly breaks off to do their part, Dad takes my hand and leads me over to his motorcycle. "Got somethin' for ya."

Oh, right. The hearing aid; bits and pieces.

I'd almost forgotten.

"I hope it ain't complicated," I tell him, fiddling with my craggled ear. "Maggie said Herschel don't know about this stuff."

"We'll figure it out." He promises, before squeezing my hand and letting it go. "I ain't even sure if they work."

He opens the saddlebag, taking out a wrinkled plastic bag. He reaches in and pulls out what looks like an unusually shaped piece of skin-colored plastic with a rubber bulb on the end. And two other hearing aids, one brown and one purple, the type I'd recognise.

He stuffs the bag away and tucks some hair behind my good ear, making room to stick the first one in.

"I think it goes like that." He leans in closer, messing around with something on the back of it. "How do I—...?"

Something clicks.

All of a sudden, there are birds in the trees.

My eyes go wide, jaw dropping, gawking out at the forest like I've never seen one before.

A grin sneaks its way onto my face.

"The birds," I muse quietly, taking in the sounds of their distant chirps. "I can hear 'em, Dad."

It's not perfect. It's not as crisp as it was before. I think the batteries are low. But I don't care. It's still one of my favorite sounds.

He's smiling faintly up at me. "Good."

"Dad, your voice!"

"My voice?"

"I forgot what it's s'posed to sound like," I giggle. "It's so loud. And annoying."

He snorts, giving my butt a smack for being silly. "Well now when ya tire of my naggin', you can just pull that thing out."

As quickly as it had come to life, it makes a crackling noise, a sudden beep, and then there are no more birds.

I pluck the aid out my ear, giving it a bittersweet look. It didn't last forever, but it was nice while it did.

He mumbles something; then, louder, "We'll find some more batteries soon. Sorry, baby."

"Don't be sorry." I say. "It was perfect."

After packing them back into the saddlebag, we leave to collect firewood together. I imagine the sounds of the birds around us.

Night comes. We can't stop it.

I pretend we're camping.

We're not stranded. No, we just decided to go on a camping trip together because we thought it would be fun. That's why we're all huddled around a campfire in the dark, instead of sleeping in our beds at the farm. I'm curled up against Dad's stomach, which is better than a bed, I think. Beth's cuddled into her Dad's side, too, staring into the flames while Maggie and Glenn whisper to each other beside them.

I wish we had a deck of cards. I wish any of us would wanna play.

We got nothing but a wall of stone to protect us from the forest on the other side, but I pretend that away, too.

I just focus on the sound of an owl hooting somewhere off in the trees. I bet it ain't scared. Owls; they know the night.

Tomorrow, we're gonna have cheap steak and ketchup for breakfast, and then Merle's gonna let me sit on his shoulders just like always.

"We're not safe with him," Carol suddenly mutters, and that's not something I can pretend away. I'm back here, now, and we're stranded. No steak. No ketchup. No Merle. "Keeping something like that from us. Why do we need him? He's just gonna pull us all down."

Maybe I don't wanna be camping, anyway. It's good enough right here, surrounded by the people I care about.

"Nah." Dad's voice is a rumble in my lower back. "Rick's done alright by me and mine."

I cuddle further into him, shuddering lightly as he rubs my cold arms. His leather vest don't make a great blanket.

"You're his henchman." She reminds him. "And I'm a burden."

He scoffs. "And Harley?"

"You both deserve better," She says softly, her face pensive in the orange light.

It don't matter what we deserve, I told Shane when he said the same thing.

Unamused, Dad pries, "What do you want?"

"A man of honor."

"Rick has honor."

They leave it at that. I think they wish we had a deck of cards, too.

The owl hoots again.

Then, a branch breaks.

CRACK.

I straighten.

"What was that?" Beth murmurs worriedly. "Was it a walker?"

We all stare off into the dark, ready to fight whatever might come out of it.

"Could be anythin'," Dad mumbles as he stands, readying his bow. "Could be a racoon. Could be a possum. Could be the Easter bunny."

Carol hugs herself. "We need to leave. I mean, what are we waiting for?"

"Which way?" Glenn asks.

Maggie points at the thin trees behind T-Dog. "It came from over there."

"That's back from where we came."

"Yeah."

"The last thing we need is for everyone to be running off in the dark." Rick scolds us, reminding us he's here. The light from the fire washes him in flame, the dried blood on his forehead glistening with sweat. "We don't have the vehicles. No one's travelling on foot."

"Don't panic," Herschel soothes us all calmly, still clutching his shotgun.

Maggie argues, "I'm— I'm not sittin' here, waitin' for another herd to blow through. We need to move. Now."

"No one is goin' anywhere," Rick snarls.

"Do something!"

"I am doin' somethin'!" He retorts. If he really was that rubber band, this is the part where he would snap in two. "I am keepin' this group together. Alive! I've been doing that all along, no matter what. I didn't ask for this. I shot my best friend for you people, for Christ's sakes! For you Daryl, and you, Harley. I was the one that took care of Jim. Me! Everything! Everything has been on me!"

I know I said we were supposed to be angry with him. But, actually, I think we're just scared.

Lori's holding Carl's head to her chest. Dad stands in front of me, as if he doesn't want me to see. T-Dog, Glenn, Maggie; all with their mouths sealed shut, not sure where to look, or what to say. Is this really the same Rick that comforted me at dinner?

"Maybe you people are better off without me." He shrugs, taunting us. "Sure. Go ahead."

I've never had to be a leader before. I did have to kill Shane, but Rick's done so much more for us. I'm not better off without him.

"I say there's a place for us out there, but maybe—" He's just rambling, now. "Maybe it's just another pipe dream. Maybe I'm— Maybe I'm fooling myself again. I'm just as much a sucker as Shane was. But, hey, why don't you go find out yourself?"

He sweeps his hand behind him, presenting us with the forest.

"Huh? Send me a postcard."

I can't hear the owl anymore. I think it flew away.

"Go on. There's the door. You think you can do better? Let's see how far you get."

I pull the leather of Dad's vest up to my face, shyly peeping over the top of it; breathing shakily. I don't want to see how far I can get. I want to stay right here with my people, whether we're starving or not; freezing or not. I think everyone else does, too.

Or at the very least, they want to stay here where there's a warm fire and guns.

"No takers?" He lilts. "Fine. But get one thing straight. If you're staying—"

He pins every single one of us with a look.

"— This isn't a democracy, anymore."

That word Dale used. The one that means things is fair.

Then he sits right back down where he was before, like he didn't just threaten to abandon us all.

Slowly, everyone else sits back down too, because there's nothing else to do. We all heard him. We can't leave. When Dad settles in behind me again, I squirrel into his chest, his arms wrapping around me. There's no sound except for the branches crackling in the fire and the heartbeat beneath his shirt. I don't know where we go from here. But I do know Dad will keep me safe, and Rick will keep the group safe. He's worked himself raw and bloody to make sure we survive. The fish fry, the CDC, the highway, Shane, the fall of the farm. All of it.

We didn't survive all that bullshit just to fall apart now. There's still something out there for us.

We just have to find it.

Author's Notes.

I sincerely hope you enjoyed 😊

I'm sad to see the farm go, but we had a nice time while we were there.

Please leave a comment! I'm anxious to hear from you all after so long :)

#the walking dead #twd fanfiction #fanfic #daryl dixon #daryl dixon daughter #twd #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon twd #angst #rick grimes #reader #original character #daryl dixon x reader #twd daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl twd

[muertawrites]

I learned a bit about metal subtypes because I was bored and while Eddie likes trash metal and they don’t generally wear makeup and nail polish. I can see reader putting on eye makeup and nail polish on him for funsies. He complains the entire time but in reality he LOVES the attention and care you put into it, how close you are to him and gentle. How you have to hover over, what if you accidentally tripped and fell on top of him? Oops how’d that happen 🤷🏽‍♀️

i, personally, would hire myself as a stylist for the band. none of them asked me. none of them even wanted me. but i'm blowing the lead guitarist and have an abundance of halloween accessories so they can't get rid of me.

lmao honestly tho he would like the attention, they all would. hyping them up before gigs, making them look like their heroes, they would eat it up.

convincing eddie to wear a button up shirt for a gig would be a hard sell. but you have a vision, and it's one of naked chests and heavy chains and pure, hot, gruesome sex. so you wrestle him into it and only close less than half the buttons, showing off his "cool tatties" god i cringe at him sometimes and slapping on a chain (with your name on it) to go with his signature guitar pick.

if that didn't knock everyone in the front row up, the way you ratted his hair into a perfect mess definitely did.

nail polish he definitely digs. he's horrible at doing it himself because he has zero patience, but he loves letting you do it because "idk man it's just magic how you get it to work" (your trick is to use acrylic paint and quick dry clear coat so he doesn't have to wait around. this is also my trick bc i am also not patient.) also likes the excuse to hold your hand and pet your hair and give you very sloppy, intrusive neck kisses while he has you close.

eyeliner and other makeup however? he's not into it. don't let the hair fool you - he's a manly man. plus he's very energetic, and he gets super sweaty during gigs, and he doesn't want any of those cancerous chemicals getting into his eyes ("eddie you smoke fucking cigarettes don't talk to me about 'cancerous chemicals' ")

the one time you convinced him to let you put eyeliner on him he hated it. pouted the whole time, flinched when the pencil got close to his eye, took one look in the mirror and made you remove it. the only reason he even agreed to let you do it was because you sat on his lap while you did.

no matter how many times you tell him it's tacky, eddie wears t-shirts for his own band while performing. he actually does it just to annoy you now. for one gig he convinced the entire band to wear their t-shirts on stage and could not stop laughing during the set at how pissed you looked. he thinks you're so CUTE when you're peeved at him <3

speaking of t-shirts, you love to make homemade ones for him. you punk them out, spray painting stenciled letters with bleach and making strategic cuts that you mend together with safety pins. his favorite shirts are the one you made that says "security" across the front (a-la hayley williams of paramore) and the one that says "groupie". even when he's dressing the part, he's gotta be a goof.

eddie bitches constantly about your wardrobe direction but honestly he loves when you make a fuss over him. most of his complaints are playful, just to tug at your strings a little bit.

the one thing you don't let him do is perform completely shirtless. the groupies are already vicious and, despite eddie only having eyes for you (he has literally walked past groupies trying to flirt with him in order to get to you, man's whipped), you want to keep some of him for yourself. (he kind of prefers it anyway, since he's actually pretty self conscious of his body. he's still got a lil baby fat around his stomach that he doesn't like anyone but you to see.)

#eddie munson #eddie asks #eddie munson headcanon #eddie munson drabble #eddie munson blurb #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #rockstar!eddie munson #corroded coffin