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angst-fairygodmother · 2 years

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Will you write more Lila? Please? With the protective prompt: “I love you. Of course I’m gonna defend you like that.” you're the beast Lila writer!

A/N: I wasn't planning on writing for Lila again, but this prompt just fit so well, that I managed to bang this out in a single sitting. So here you are, enjoy! (Also thank you for the compliment Nonny, you are too kind.) Word Count: 2162 Rating: T - canon-typical threats of violence, swearing, emotional abuse/manipulation

FIC CONTAINS NO SPOILERS FOR SEASON 3 OF THE UMBRELLA ACADEMY

The Temps Commission was all you knew. Not because you grew up there and were trained since childhood to be a master assassin or anything (that would never happen, right?) but because you had been there for so long, and time passed so unusually, that anyone you might have been before had long since faded into hazy memory, like a dream or a story that happened to someone else.

The other analysts were nice enough. Weekly lunches with Dot and subtle but increasingly dangerous prank wars with Herb (his sweet, almost fatherly face hid a frighteningly devious mind) gave your life structure and stability. But it was one of the field agents, you had come to think of her as your field agent by the number of assignments you’d worked opposite ends of, that really served as your anchor, never letting you become adrift in the strands of time, or at least not alone.

Lila Pitts was The Handler’s adopted daughter, and while officially the stance was that she wasn’t supposed to get special treatment based on that fact, unofficially there were betting pools and disgruntled grumbles alike over whether she was being groomed to take over her mother’s role, and when (some analysts didn’t think she should because she had never experienced your side of the work, but they had quickly learned not to express such opinions around you or face your wrath). And more important than who her mother was, she was bold and funny and stubborn and drove you crazy, in all of the best ways. She was easily the best friend you had ever had, or ever could.

“Hey sexy,” her voice was close to your ear and made you shiver as she kissed you on the cheek and boosted herself up to perch on the corner of your desk.

“Lila, you’re not supposed to be in here,” you couldn’t help laughing while you scolded her, knowing she had never cared about that rule before and wouldn’t now. The room was empty of other analysts anyway, since you had been working overtime on a particularly weird assignment.

“So? When has that ever stopped me before?”

“It hasn’t. But someday you’re going to get one of us fired. And I’m not convinced the Commission doesn’t have a severance policy that would add the word ‘on’ to that.”

She rolled her eyes at your concern. “Nah, it’ll be fine. My mother would never let that happen to me, and you’re my person, so I wouldn’t let them fire you either.”

“Your person?” you felt like your heart was in your throat, beating like a trapped bird and trying to escape. She might just mean it platonically, her friend, her favorite analyst, you made a good team. But you hoped beyond hope that it was more than that.

“Duh. You’re like the best thing about this place,” she said casually, looking at the pen she was fiddling with rather than at you. “I wouldn’t want to be here without you.”

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that was a confession,” you teased, immediately regretting it when her face darkened and she started shifting uncomfortably. “Lila, I’m kidding.”

“Would it bother you if it was?”

“No, not at all. I just…didn’t expect it.”

“Good to know,” she said, smiling mysteriously and hopping down to the floor. “I should let you back to work, but…I’ll see you around, yeah?”

“Of course. You’re the one who’s hard to pin down, not me.”

She smirked, and you felt your face growing hot at your accidental innuendo (or was it admission, you wondered, picturing all the scenarios where she might be pinning you and finding all of them set your blood rushing and head spinning).

It wasn’t unusual not to see your friend for weeks on end sometimes, but after the conversation between you, it still stung. Despite knowing the nature of the work you did, and she did, you couldn’t help but wonder if she was avoiding you or if you had misinterpreted the signals she was giving you.

And then one morning, while you were settling into the work you had admittedly been distracted from by your fretting, the shoe that you hadn’t even known was there dropped. You were being called before The Handler for “a quick chat,” and your stomach sank.

“How long have you been with the Commission, Y/N?” she asked in what was far too conversational a tone to put you at ease.

“I…can’t say, ma’am. It’s a bit of a blur to be honest,” you answered, fiddling with your hands in your lap.

“It’s been a long time though, right?”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“And do you enjoy working here?” Her elbows rested on the desk and her fingers steepled in front of her face as she studied you, like a bug under a microscope.

“Of course. It’s always fascinating, and tests me to the furthest of my ability. I couldn’t ask for a better job.”

“No you couldn’t. A smart thing for you to remember.”

You frowned. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Have I done something wrong?” she echoed in a mocking tone before scoffing. “Don’t play dumb with me. We both know if you were that, you wouldn’t be here.”

“Ma’am?”

“And you won’t be here for much longer if you keep toying with my daughter. Do I make myself clear?”

“Actually, no. You don’t. I have no idea what I could have done that would be considered toying with Lila. And I would never do anything to hurt her, not intentionally, so that puts me in an even more upsetting position if you’re saying to me that I have.”

The Handler’s hands slammed down on her desk, making you jump, as she stood up to lean menacingly over you in your seat.

“Lila is a very special girl. And she has a Great Destiny that I am going to help her fulfill. You are not special. Your only destiny is to fill a seat at a desk and push papers around, like all the other analysts.”

You swallowed nervously and shrank down in your seat to avoid her wrath.

“But my dear daughter has a bit of a romantic streak, and she fancies you. I can’t say I see why in the least. It doesn’t matter.”

You couldn’t help the giddy flip your stomach did at the possibility that Lila might return your feelings, even if the news was delivered in the most terrifying way possible, and wasn’t coming from Lila herself.

“You don’t matter. And I won’t have you distracting her or getting her hopes up that you and her can take a briefcase and run off to the riviera or somewhere equally cliche and live happily ever after forever and ever.” The Handler’s voice had taken on a mocking sneer again. “You cannot have her. Do I make myself clear?”

You didn’t know what to say. You wanted to say something about how you returned the feeling, and how that hardly equated to toying with Lila, that if she asked you would do exactly that with her in a heartbeat. Another, more cowardly part of you that thought The Handler might slit your throat with a pencil without warning wanted to assure her that you had no intention of getting in Lila’s way, or that you would just be happy to be able to watch and help her on her path, to promise that you would never act against The Handler. Neither of them, nor the part that said to just get up and flee and hope you could get to the briefcase room and out of there before The Handler brought security down, nor any other of your warring instincts that were swirling around inside you and leaving you quite nauseous, got to act.

Suddenly Lila burst into the office, and if looks could kill, The Handler might be a pile of ash on the opposite side of the desk from you.

“Mother! What the hell are you doing?!” Lila snapped, rushing to your side, moving as if to shield you from her mother’s wrath.

“Taking care of a little problem dear,” The Handler purred, voice turning sickly sweet. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“You’re threatening my best friend. I think that’s definitely something for me to worry about.”

“Lila it’s okay,” you whispered, placing a hand on her arm and wincing in surprise when she shrugged you off.

“No it’s not, Y/N. You mean the world to me, you’re my Focus Point. And I’m not going to let my mother, or anyone else, get in between us.”

“Oh Honey,” The Handler laughed dismissively. “I couldn’t get between you if I tried right now, you’re so close together. But people like Y/N come and go, you’re much too important to waste your time with them.”

“Stop it.”

“I know what I’ve asked of you hasn’t always been easy, darling, but I only did it because I believed in you. I knew what you were capable of. But maybe I didn’t take enough care to make sure you were strong enough.”

“I said stop.” Lila shook her head, eyes pinching shut, as if trying to block out The Handler’s voice.

“If you continue to waste your time on palling around with analysts, or chasing silly romances, you’re going to get soft. Emotions make you stupid, sweetie. And if you’re too weak to do what needs to be done, you’re going to get killed. You understand that don’t you? I’m only trying to look out for you.”

You watched Lila deflating before your eyes with every word out of The Handler’s mouth and felt a white-hot rage building up inside of you.

“Shut. Up,” you suddenly growled, standing to look The Handler in the eye.

“Excuse me?!” she laughed as if she couldn’t believe what she’d just heard, and Lila’s head whipped around to stare at you in shock and horror.

“With all due respect, ma’am, you can’t be fucking serious. Lila is one of the best agents this place has ever turned out. Even better than Number Five. And it is because she hasn’t become a cold, emotionless robot. Her heart and her humanity are her best quality. And she has so many good, no, incredible, qualities that that’s saying something. You could never be half of what she is. And yes, that puts her so far out of my league that I’m not sure we’re even playing the same game, but I don’t care. Because the most important thing to me is to support her. Not play pretend at it, not change her. And if I get to be in her life in any way, let alone have a chance with her, than I can consider myself the luckiest person in the universe.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you thought you saw Lila tearing up, and you held out your hand to her, giving a comforting squeeze when she took it, but you kept your eyes locked on her mother.

“And if you don’t see that, you’re the stupid one.”

The Handler rocked back as if she’d been hit, mouth agape, and then sat heavily in her chair.

“I have to say, Y/N. I wasn’t expecting you to have a spine. I’m actually impressed, and I’ll be keeping my eye on you.”

“No you won’t Mother, leave Y/N alone.” Lila still sounded small, but more sure. “Please?”

Before The Handler could answer, you turned on your heel and left the office, pulling Lila behind you. When you had made it to the courtyard, you finally stopped and let your panic set in.

“Oh my god, I can’t believe I did that!” you shouted, beginning to pace. “What the hell was I thinking?! She’s going to fire me. Or kill me. Or both. I’m going to be used as target practice. Or a science experiment. I’m sorry Lila. I really meant it for the best, and I hope that whatever she does to me, she doesn’t also take my stupid big mouth and idiocy out on you too.”

“Will you shut up?” Lila laughed, catching your face between her hands and making you stand still to look at her. “That was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. No one’s ever stood up to my mother before. Especially not for me. I can’t believe you did that!”

“I love you. Of course I’m gonna defend you like that.” The words tumbled so naturally from your lips that you didn’t have time to regret them.

And then there were no words coming from either of you because her lips were on yours, and yours were on hers, and everything else melted away.

“I love you too,” Lila laughed when you finally broke away to breathe, her hands still where they were cradling you. “For an analyst, I’m surprised you didn’t work that out sooner.”

#Lila Pitts x reader #The Umbrella Academy fic #mutual pining #with only limited pining #best friends to lovers #really this prompt was too perfect for her. I couldn't not do it #I did end up flipping it though and not having her the one doing the defending as I had originally expected this fic would go #now back to your regularly scheduled nonsense

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saphirered · 2 years

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Tempest Chapter 5: Witch (Eris x reader)

You can find the other chapters here. Let me know what you think! Happy reading. 😘

Summary: About to be burned at the stake as a witch by the village you’ve protected Eris finds you. He stands upon a knife’s edge; save you for the purpose you serve to him, or condemn you for the liability you might become should he let this infatuation go further. His father’s orders might have made that decision for him and extended your life for now.

His mind is elsewhere. The Heir of Autumn is deep in thought while he wanders. He has done everything he should, thought first to set assurances, to deal with what was placed in front of him. His father, gave him an opportunity in his eyes. In reality, Eris truly was faced with a weakness, a vulnerability and his first thought was to settle it, to get rid of that weakness before it could harm him, and punished those the cause of it. Even then in the back of his mind he found your wisdoms. Eris finds himself at the front door to that familiar cottage, at the top of the hill, on the edge of the forest overlooking the village below. He knocks. There is no response. He knocks again. He knows you rarely leave the confines of your cottage, for various reasons you have danced around the truth. He has tried to trick you into telling him as you have been getting him to spill more secrets than he would like to admit. You got far more out of him than he of you, but that has been decreasing over the days he’s spent in your company. He’s ashamed to admit he did not realise you were not merely prying or playing a game to earn favour, you were setting him up for mistakes, and taught him how to cover them better, to weave around even when the wrong thing was said, the wrong move was made.

Eris knocks again but there is no response. Were he anyone else, he might have acted differently, but he is not and he knows you well enough, or at least better than the masses. He feels safe to say he knows more about you than anyone else in this court, and he’ll also admit he knows very little still. Your past is your own, and he cares little as long as it does not affect him, or so he’d like to think. In truth you are an enigma he’d like to unravel, know every detail, yet he can’t. It is both frustrating and a challenge he is willing to uptake. Eris remembers, those who would wish to force their way in and those with wrongful intent will not get past the threshold. Those who prove their truth may step forward. So he does. He turns the handle and the door opens. The inside of the cottage is exactly as he has seen it in the past, give or take a few things that have been moved through general use.

A layer of dust covers the already messy interior. The fireplace is cold. Candles have not burned in a while. Provisions, especially fresh ones are beginning to grow stale and rot. You are not one to leave such things scattered. A teapot rests over what is a burned out fire, and the water within has grown cold. The usual cup you use has been set out, but was never used. You’ve been gone for a while but not expectedly. Today’s the day he was supposed to meet you. In but a few hours from this moment, after he was sure your village’s tithe would be collected, and he would be clear to sneak off without anyone important realising or questioning where he might go. You are always home when you know he’ll be coming. You’ve always been prepared for his arrival with a warm cup of tea already waiting on his side of the table and you seated on the other side. Yet you are not here and your home is empty.

He smells it in the air. That familiar scent of burning wood. It only takes one glance out of the window to see the smoke not too far from here, likely from the fields at the bottom of the hill. Eris realises now. The forest, previously quiet, is no longer eerily quiet. Instead he hears chirping birds, scurrying critters, the sounds of wildlife. Not just the rustling of the leaves in the wind. That strange sense of a danger nearby is gone. At first he thought it might have been because he had grown accustomed to your aura, but that’s not it. He is aware that aura is gone from here, not just through ignorance or desensitisation, but through a lack of it. You’re not here and the effects you have on your environment are waning. You’ve not been here for a while. The wind rustles the leaves of the forest and while he stands at the window he still hears it, it beckons him towards the smoke. Where there is smoke, there is fire. The winds urge him to rush so he does. He feels less inclined to ignore these feelings, given the urgency they instil within him.

Towards the smoke he rushes, folding between space, to close the distance efficiently until he finds himself among the yellowed fields. Eris might not be a farmer, but he is of the Autumn Court and theirs is the season of harvest. This is not a healthy nor prosperous harvest. This is a diseased one, that suffers the effects of nature left untreated. The soil is dry, and lacks nourishment for the crops as it will lack nourishment for the people. You’d admitted to having your ways to deal with it. You’d admitted that’s one of the ways this village remained off the map. Nothing significant. They paid their tithe on time, their harvests were modest, enough for the people, enough for the High Lord’s demands, but never enough to make them stand out. You’d said you assured the crops’ survival, and seeing this, you had not this time around. That begs the question why because he’d managed to get out of you you only did it because you benefitted from it, as much as the people did. He does not know why but that hardly matters. Why would you willingly put yourself at risk through not providing what you usually do? Because you didn’t.

The village is gathered in the fallen field. A pyre is central, even though they remain at a safe distance. At the heart of this pyre stands a pole and to it a figure is bound, arms up, chains heavy and, by the looks of it, toes barely touching whatever is beneath the feet. The villagers shout and curse, wielding their torches, spitting at your feet, disgracing you, blaming you for their poor harvest, for cursing them, and their children, for all the things wrong in this hellhole, that you are definitely not to blame for. The people have decided their anger, wield it and turn it on you. You just stand there, your features neutral if not severely annoyed. Eris waits and watches from the distance. He waits for you to unleash that power you have once before in his presence. He waits for you to live up to the name you told him; Tempest. Summon a storm, strike down thunder and lightning. Show the power you wield at your fingertips. He assumes you are merely waiting for the right moment, that you made this sacrifice in a power play, let them think you are weak, to show what they should be terrified off, what they should worship and be grateful for. But then Eris remembers you wish to remain in the shadows. A display of power to the masses is not that. You are stuck and it dawns on him you are prisoner. You have walked the gallows and now you stand on the pyre of your execution; to be burned to death. He realises then, you are without power. You are at the mercy of the mundane.

“Burn the witch!”

“Yes please. If I am to die, do hurry up.” You roll your eyes but gain no response. Eris realises you have accepted whatever comes next. Torches lit, grant you your wish. One steps forward and throws it into the pyre. The first flames ignite. He notices your breathing, even though your face doesn’t show it. He sees the sharp intake of breath you take. He sees you wish not to meet your end but sees that you accept what is before you, where your life has lead you. It is the acceptance of someone who thought they’d have met their end a long time ago and see this as their actions merely catching up to them. Another torch follows, and the flames rise closer to you.

“Our lands will be free when your ashes feed it.” A brute spits as he brings the torch to the flames closest to you. You lean into your restraints as much as they allow.

“Your lands will be doomed.” You reply back. Then you cackle. “My ashes will curse your lands. As I take my last breath of fire and flame, yours will be torturous. Hunger and disease will take you. You will beg for mercy but will find none. You will be abandoned and forgotten, until you take that last breath and may it be one of suffering. Only then will you remember the witch you burned, and remember my face, remember my curse for I curse you! I curse you!” Your words sound powerful, and some do tremble. Some do question if this was the right path for they think you a witch. They do not understand this is simply a reality they will face, and you will relish if they curse your name once more after you are long gone. Let your memory live on in the tortured ones that tortured you. One last hurray.

But then you see a flash of flames in the crowd, not true flames, the movement of a male you know, with hair like fire and eyes of russet. You’ve grown to recognise him for he is more vibrant than the dullness of anyone else. He stands pristine, in his fine clothes, at the back of the crowd, watching this all. You see him. You see him wait. Would he truly let you burn? You suppose if the roles were reversed you’d have at least entertained the thought. You’re a liability for what you know and how much might you have spilled? You meet his eyes and answer that question. Nothing. You said nothing. You had not even once mentioned him, and you hope through that nonverbal insinuation he sees you might still hold value to him, and he might find you worth saving. For the first time in a very long time you feel hope, even if the flames at your feet eat away at it. Those flames never reach your feet. You feel their warmth, you feel the sweat dripping down your brow but the flames never touch you, never truly burn you and then you stare into those russet eyes again, stare right through the mask of indifference, and see confidence, see mercy, see a hint of care, and willingness to do better, to be more than.

“What is the meaning of this?” Eris demands as he steps into the crowd. The people know what’s good for them and part at his words, leading a way for him towards the centre of this gathering. Were he not of flame, the earth might have shuddered under his feet as he commands the attention of the village gathered here. Once he reaches the pyre he circles, not once does he pay attention to you. or at least not in a way they’d notice. You do but you play the same game. You know how to perform your part. You’ll play along and follow his lead.

“Milord-“ One of them starts but the Autumn heir raises his hand in dismissal.

“I ask not for the words of a mere bystander, peasant. Who is responsible for this?” This is the voice of the heir the people of this court are used to see. This is the mask of the perfect son. This is the face of their future High Lord and they best remember it well. The villagers look among each other and the leaders of the group that held you captive are appointed. They cannot refuse a command, and so they step forward, heads low, at his mercy. They remember their place.

“We are, milord. This witch has cursed our lands for long enough. We seek only retaliation for those actions.” The young one speaks, stumbling over words, be that out of stress or fear what they might face.

“And you thought it appropriate to take justice into your own hands? On the day of the High Lord’s Tithe? Disgraceful.” He turns to you, puts on his charming smile as the fires shrink under his raised hand, closing like a cage. “Is this true, witch? Did you curse these lands? Is their punishment a fair one? Come on, speak.” You tilt your head a little.

“Why would I curse the lands I feed from? I committed no crimes, milord.” You speak eloquently. Eris shrugs and pretends to contemplate your words.

“Well, isn’t it your lucky day, then. The High Lord commands your presence, witch. It seems you are not to burn today.” Eris notices you bite the inside of your cheek. He supposes that’s about as neutral of a reaction anyone could have to meeting with Beron. He turns back to the crowd. “Release the witch. Go back to your business. As for all of you, your tithe has been risen. See to it the appropriate amounts are gathered for the collectors by sunset.” Whispers of discontent pass through the crowd and some look about happy to throw him on the pyre with you, if they would be assured he would burn at all but they keep relatively quiet as some find their way to the pyre to release you. They look on, trying to find a way to release you without getting burned themselves, trying to get proper footholds and gather a bucket to somewhat quell the flames to get over. With some time they do reach you but not without Eris letting the flames rise and lick up their feet, enough to make them sweat and look about ready to jump from the flames, but not enough to catch aflame.

“We would be happy to provide for our High Lord, milord but we simply cannot. Half of us will starve if we give more. You have seen our crops.” One of the villagers throws himself on his knees in front of the Autumn heir but he remains indifferent.

“You should have thought of that before you tried to burn this witch. Feed your children. Feed anyone who is not here right now. Then afterwards you may decide which of the remaining people will starve. See it as a positive. You’ll have far less mouths to feed come next harvest.” The ruthlessness of Autumn shows once more. Protests, begs for mercy fall upon deaf ears. None dare speak loud enough against him, even if they speak among each other. He cares little, he radiates the presence that, if they dare speak ill about him, he will make that choice for them. They’ll be the ones to burn. That’s the mask he must wear. His father sent him here with a command, he is to fulfil it. If he can show his father what he would do to those who disobey or disrespect him, and therefor the orders of the High Lord, he proves himself to be exactly where he is, where he belongs. This is but a measly sacrifice he can have his peace with.

You’re set free. Your arms are released from its binds and in that first moment of freedom you grab one of them, you recognise to have been one of your captors, by his shirt, and toss him from the pyre. The flames part for you as step down from it. This is your moment of retaliation. Retaliation is not justice, Eris is well aware but he is curious to see what you’ll do next. You too, wear a mask of your own. They want to see the evil witch they make you out to be? You’ll show them. The male scrambles backwards until he can’t no more, until he’s with his back to the flames, as you draw closer like a hunter, waiting to strike.

“You’re the one that whipped me, aren’t you?” Eyes blown wide the male does not respond. You expected no answer. “Tell me, are you left or right handed?” You purr. No answer but his eyes dart towards his right hand before they go back to you. He begins pleading. You simply snort and cast a glance over your shoulder. You curl your fingers in a grasping motion and the flames wrap around the male’s right wrist, holding it to the dirt beneath him palm up. You walk up real close, graze your nails along his face before your rise again. You stomp your heel into his palm, shattering the bones with as much force as you can muster. A pained cry echoes throughout the fields for all to hear. Then you step back and find your way to the High Lord’s son.

“If you are clever, you will burn your fields and hope the ashes will sustain your next harvests. That’ll be the only mercy I will offer.” You speak to them as the fire restraint lifts from the crying male who clutches his hand close to his chest. You make eye contact with the lordling; a silent thanks for playing along too. You could not wield the fire. If you could, you’d have escaped on your own with ease. He doesn’t say anything and simply offers you his hand. You place yours in his, and with that you fall through the world, through the roaring fires, and suffocating heat until you find yourself elsewhere. This must be the Forest House. This must be the lair of the viper that sits atop a throne.

“Play your part.” Eris urges you. You remain unpredictable. He knows of your distaste for his father and you may not have much to lose, save for your life which you were perfectly content with just a few minutes ago. He would be an idiot to underestimate you and whatever remnants of recklessness linger within you now but then he sees you, he sees that mask drop for a second.

“Is that what you ask in return for saving me?”

“No. We’ll get to that after you make it out alive. Beron’s in a foul mood. Given that everything has felt out of place all day, I assume that is your doing? The least you can do is behave.” Eris urges.

“Worry not. I will play the role I need to play.” You reach into your neckline, into your bodice between your breasts to retrieve a pouch. Eris is stuck between looking away and straight at you, between the manners he had been taught and the admittance that you are keen on the eyes and do not fail to keep eye contact with him, giving him a charming look. He knows you jest, if only slightly. He knows this might be a ploy to assure not just your survival but your wellbeing. Why in the world- and then you produce a decently sized red diamond at the centre of your palm. “It was supposed to be a gift for the heir, but I suppose it might serve better as the price of my survival?”

Eris has not the mind to dissect that sentence as you begin wandering, even though you know not where you’re going. He falters, for just a second before he catches up to you and leads you to where you are set to go, leads you to see his father and all those feelings of dread he had before, the urge to spare you his father’s wrath and flames, and the potential failure to do so given who you are, what you might be, it worries him beyond compare and he realises, you’re aware of his attachment to you. That’s a most dangerous place to be. Perhaps he should have left you to burn, and be rid of you. But then the wind returns. He could not have left you. he simply could not have. The flames under his skin coil against his thoughts and so he must face his father and hope for the best, hope you are merciful and will listen to his council for once. Please behave.

#eris vanserra x reader #eris vanserra x oc #eris x reader #eris x oc #acotar x reader #acotar x you #acotar x oc #acotar fic #acotar fanfiction #acotar #eris vanserra

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bitchapalooza · 2 years

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your ramble. hand it over.

ALRIGHT YOU ASKED FOR IT ❤

His name is 100% Edward. Ed is an acceptable nickname, but Eddie is out of the question.

Laventon rushes the fuck in sometimes when he's found or seen something interesting. No thoughts. Head absolutely empty. IMMEDIATELY after getting out onto the field, the professor fucking sprints it for the first starly he saw! What happens? He gets hit with a peck attack. Totally foreseeable. Totally avoidable. But he does not listen.

This man is absolutely hairy. You won't expect it exactly from all the layers of clothes he wears and how neatly trimmed he keeps his beard and hair, but it's a fucking jungle underneath. Very curly too.

6 foot tall dad bod Laventon. Enough said.

Laventon worked for another team of people much like the Galaxy Team, but it's much larger in number and a little more well known(until its dispersal); The Kalos Reaserch and Expansion Team. He worked as a field researcher, as much as he does now with The Galaxy Team. Many times, he was sent out to other regions they were either based in or partnered with for trade reasons. He was sent to Unova as his first job, his task was to document ghost type behavior. He found a lost Oshawott along the way and was generously allowed to keep it by the man who had hatched it from its egg. Later he would be sent to Alola on a diplomacy mission of sorts. As a show of their kind hospitality, he and the other diplomat he traveled with was presented with three eggs to choose from and keep. The egg would shortly hatch into Rowlet. His last assigned job was more so an emergency helping hand than the fieldwork he was hired to do, but he was sent to help with the disastrous aftermath of a forest fire in Azalea Town, Johto. He was told once his work was done, he could be permitted to travel around the region since they had several offices posted around. He did so and found an injured Cyndaquill on the way.

He left the Kalos Reaserch and Expansion Team for a good reason. They didn't really believe pokemon should coexist with humans. They refused to fund his research in the Galar Wild Areas, saying it wouldn't be worth it when they were just going to run the pokemon off and plant a settlement there. Laventon couldn't believe the complete disregard for the pokemon that live there, so he left. Soon enough, he'd hear about the Galaxy Team and their need for more survey scouts. With little hope, he sends word asking them for the position of pokemon professor, packs his things, brings his unruly pokemon along, and sets out for Hisui.

He hails from Galar, pretty obvious, but he really comes from the Crown Tundra specifically, a very small dwindling village of the region's indigenous inhabitants. Others traveled out of this part of the region the moment the weather turned cold and crops came up wilted, but obviously Laventon's family stayed despite the continous famine. A lot of dedication and love for their king and village was there. Unfortunately, however, Laventon did eventually leave the Crown Tundra. He was 12. His parents had both died from the usual frostbite and infection (tetanus). He was orphaned but was still expected to pull his weight, seeing as he knew how to till, plant, harvest, and knew his way to the shrines and back. 12 was also seen as capable as an adult. A traveling doctor, a settler from the north, came down to offer his help with another small group of kindhearted settlers offering the villagers a bounty of food and clothing (if they weren't going to move anywhere warmer or plentiful, they were going bring it to them). The doctor noticed how thin and pale Laventon was compared to many of the other children— they were all quite skinny from the low rations, but Laventon confesses he either didn't know how to make a nutritious meal with his rations and he also gave quite a bit to the younger kids, not wanting to see them starve like he's seen happen before. The doctor insists he be taken up north where he'll be better taken care of, the other settlers backing him up. He offers goods, treasures, anything to help this kid out when his own village is unable to (they have so much more to worry about on top of caring for another orphan like Laventon). The village leader finally agrees, he too wanting to see Laventon survive and not die like many other children have before him. He's taken up north all the way to the edge of what was, at the time, slowly forming into Turffield where he's taken in by a farming couple. They've already taken in two other orphans, an older girl from Hammerlocke and a slightly younger boy from Wedgehurst. Through the years, six more would be adopted into the family and Laventon would come to love being apart of such a large family. The farm is where he learned his love for pokemon and grew curious for them, adventuring out, much to the discretion of his worrisome mother, to catch a glimpse at the long mysterious large(gmaxed) pokemon no one has yet (at this time) garnered the courage to study properly.

His need for warmth with even the slightest chillie breeze stims from his fear of succumbing to frostbite like his parents. But still though, he could survive cold climates even in shorts due to just how conditioned he is to them. But he's not really willing to go to many snowy area that often.

#more headcanons are forming as we speak #ask #pokemon #pokemon headcanons #pokemon legends arceus #professor laventon

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onetwofeb · 7 months

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Landscape

The sun is setting behind the mountains, the earth is cooling. A stranger has tied his horse to a bare chestnut tree. The horse is quiet-he turns his head suddenly, hearing, in the distance, the sound of the sea.

I make my bed for the night here, spreading my heaviest quilt over the damp earth.

The sound of the sea— when the horse turns its head, I can hear it.

On a path through the bare chestnut trees, a little dog trails its master.

The little dog-didn’t he used to rush ahead, straining the leash, as though to show his master what he sees there, there in the future—

the future, the path, call it what you will.

Behind the trees, at sunset, it is as though a great fire is burning between two mountains so that the snow on the highest precipice seems, for a moment, to be burning also.

Listen: at the path’s end the man is calling out. His voice has become very strange now, the voice of a person calling to what he can’t see.

Over and over he calls out among the dark chestnut trees. Until the animal responds faintly, from a great distance, as though this thing we fear were not terrible.

Twilight: the stranger has untied his horse.

The sound of the sea— just memory now.

Time passed, turning everything to ice. Under the ice, the future stirred. If you fell into it, you died.

It was a time of waiting, of suspended action.

I lived in the present, which was that part of the future you could see. The past floated above my head, like the sun and moon, visible but never reachable.

It was a time governed by contradictions, as in I felt nothing and I was afraid.

Winter emptied the trees, filled them again with snow. Because I couldn’t feel, snow fell, the lake froze over. Because I was afraid, I didn’t move; my breath was white, a description of silence.

Time passed, and some of it became this. And some of it simply evaporated; you could see it float above the white trees forming particles of ice.

All your life, you wait for the propitious time. Then the propitious time reveals itself as action taken.

I watched the past move, a line of clouds moving from left to right or right to left, depending on the wind. Some days

there was no wind. The clouds seemed to stay where they were, like a painting of the sea, more still than real.

Some days the lake was a sheet of glass. Under the glass, the future made demure, inviting sounds: you had to tense yourself so as not to listen.

Time passed; you got to see a piece of it. The years it took with it were years of winter; they would not be missed. Some days

there were no clouds, as though the sources of the past had vanished. The world

was bleached, like a negative; the light passed directly through it. Then the image faded.

Above the world there was only blue, blue everywhere.

In late autumn a young girl set fire to a field of wheat. The autumn

had been very dry; the field went up like tinder.

Afterward there was nothing left. You walk through it, you see nothing.

There’s nothing to pick up, to smell. The horses don’t understand it-

Where is the field, they seem to say. The way you and I would say where is home.

No one knows how to answer them. There is nothing left; you have to hope, for the farmer’s sake, the insurance will pay.

It is like losing a year of your life. To what would you lose a year of your life?

Afterward, you go back to the old place— all that remains is char: blackness and emptiness.

You think: how could I live here?

But it was different then, even last summer. The earth behaved

as though nothing could go wrong with it.

One match was all it took. But at the right time-it had to be the right time.

The field parched, dry— the deadness in place already so to speak.

I fell asleep in a river, I woke in a river, of my mysterious failure to die I can tell you nothing, neither who saved me nor for what cause—

There was immense silence. No wind. No human sound. The bitter century

was ended, the glorious gone, the abiding gone,

the cold sun persisting as a kind of curiosity, a memento, time streaming behind it—

The sky seemed very clear, as it is in winter, the soil dry, uncultivated,

the official light calmly moving through a slot in air

dignified, complacent, dissolving hope, subordinating images of the future to signs of the future’s passing—

I think I must have fallen. When I tried to stand, I had to force myself, being unused to physical pain—

I had forgotten how harsh these conditions are:

the earth not obsolete but still, the river cold, shallow—

Of my sleep, I remember nothing. When I cried out, my voice soothed me unexpectedly.

In the silence of consciousness I asked myself: why did I reject my life? And I answer Die Erde überwältigt mich: the earth defeats me.

I have tried to be accurate in this description in case someone else should follow me. I can verify that when the sun sets in winter it is incomparably beautiful and the memory of it lasts a long time. I think this means

there was no night. The night was in my head.

After the sun set we rode quickly, in the hope of finding shelter before darkness.

I could see the stars already, first in the eastern sky:

we rode, therefore, away from the light and toward the sea, since I had heard of a village there.

After some time, the snow began. Not thickly at first, then steadily until the earth was covered with a white film.

The way we traveled showed clearly when I turned my head— for a short while it made a dark trajectory across the earth—

Then the snow was thick, the path vanished. The horse was tired and hungry; he could no longer find sure footing anywhere. I told myself:

I have been lost before, I have been cold before. The night has come to me exactly this way, as a premonition—

And I thought: if I am asked to return here, I would like to come back as a human being, and my horse

to remain himself. Otherwise I would not know how to begin again.

Louise Glück

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coreymichaelsmithson · 8 months

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Debussy in the Boneyard

I've always been drawn to the gardens of the dead.

McEwen, the town I live in, has two cemeteries. The smaller one, technically speaking, is a graveyard, as the property belongs to a nearby Irish Catholic church. Its oldest section holds parishioners born in the early 1800s, emigrants from Kilkenny or Galway or Cork who might have fled the '40s famine and the crushing poverty that ensued, or those who followed the promise of work on the Nashville and Northwestern railroads. I imagine that many of the second wave who arrived in the '90s endured the traumatizing queues of Ellis Island, maybe even squeezing through the inoculating bottleneck of quarantine on Swinburne. All of them died as Americans in Tennessee.

The graveyard is just a few blocks from my house on Main Street, and I often go there when I need to take long phone calls or clear my head. The stones dating back to the 1850s are attractively mossy and worn, with many words eroded into illegibility, while the ones from this century feature elaborate etchings, embedded photographs, or even mounted souvenirs. There are a few shade trees, some benches to sit upon, and a surprising number of memorials with only a single date. The most touching grave belongs to Beau, stillborn on Valentine's Day, now attended by toy trucks and a teddy bear. Children's graves often bear gifts.

The younger and grander of the two boneyards is McEwen Cemetery. The walk there is also fairly short, but it's a far more satisfying journey, especially during the late afternoon. I like the cross-section of town it provides, its string of small but evocative details. Most of my route follows Railroad Street ... which, as you might imagine, runs alongside the train tracks, rising and falling for less than a mile before terminating in the cemetery. The road takes me past a few plain little prefabs, an ancient tupelo tree, a pink crêpe myrtle as gay as a spray of confetti, a mildewy white trailer, some crooked toolsheds, signs reading WELCOME in wooden letters, and hooded signal lamps hanging from the crossbucks.

Autumn is here, and the maples are the first to announce themselves. Throughout the town, people are lighting the fires of fall: leaves, trash, burn pits. The smell of their smoke seems specific to autumn ... perhaps it's the first snap of cool air, that quality people describe as "crisp", that lends these odors such vividness. You have a sense of things being taken in, the harvest nearing completion, a withdrawal into the warmth of home. Even the tacky décor of Halloween ... the orange wreaths, the faux skeletons, the polythene witches ... somehow hints at the shift towards winter and its gelid quietude, the annual death that is not really death but rather dormancy, of the inevitable cyclic renewal that requires some form of sacrifice from all living things. If you were to live long enough, for millennia rather than decades, you'd see everything sped up, as if you were holding the fast-forward button on a remote ... the rails obscured by ivy, the ravine choked with thistle, the lawns conquered by sumac, the asphalt shattered by dandelions, the road blocked by blackberry, the houses darkening with mold and falling inwards. At such a scale all human concerns would shrink to the busyness of ants, while the sun and moon chased each other through the flickering sky.

The plants along the railroad embankment are engaged in a battle for supremacy, with kudzu emerging as the obvious winner. I see long seedpods drooping from catalpas, a forgotten tire swing, a ramshackle trampoline. I hear the high school's marching band, and distant gunshots, and that insistent cricket song which sounds like power lines. There is one last yard, a pair of rusted tractors, a joyless swing set, some hollowed gourds meant for martins and wrens, a row of fruit trees, and then an empty field that somehow suggests Elysium. Finally, the narrowing and now nameless lane lifts above a long pond in a copse. I've come to think of this puddle as McEwen's version of the river Styx ... for as soon as we cross it, we'll be wandering among the departed.

While exploring the cemetery, I'll connect my phone to its earpiece, while keeping the other ear free for birdsong and barking dogs. Lately, I've been playing a few of my favorite pieces by Debussy ... "Prélude à l'après-midi d'un faune", "La fille aux cheveux de lin", and especially his "Danse profane". The lilting strings and rippling harp create a soft but stirring soundtrack for my communion with the dead.

Strangely, though, this place doesn't feel funereal. In fact, the cemetery throbs with life. I watch as a monarch lifts from the knotweed. A pit bull from the nearby farm trots over, tail wagging, to greet me. Behind a fence, a swaybacked mare nibbles on some fescue. Caterpillar nests gleam like silver on the elms, and poison ivy stamps its scarlet on the undergrowth. The orderly rows of monuments get disrupted here and there by natural features, such as hills or trees, and the ground settles unevenly, revealing the mounds of coffins. A few families elect to delineate their plots with low blocks of masonry or ornamental gates ... though the worms and beetles and mycelia will observe no such borders. Flags and plastic flowers abound. I visit a man who died on his 29th birthday, and a mother who perished on the same day as her two toddlers. A lone tombstone leans against a Spanish oak. Some of the smallest markers say, simply, "DADDY" or "MAMA" or "WIFE". As the sun sinks lower and drops behind trees, the remaining alleys of light grow narrower, until only the tallest obelisks stand bright and orange in the beams.

I look to the sky, at a froth of cirrus blown sideways, and think of how thin our atmosphere actually is. All that protects us from the chilling vacuum of space is this fragile blue blanket of vapors, doomed to disappear in the next 2-3 billion years. We'll be long gone by then, along with the oceans and plants.

I consider the blip we represent in the galactic timeline ... and of the ecologies that must be thriving elsewhere in the cosmos. I think of the countless beasts on distant planets that are swimming or flying or fighting the peculiar battles of their biomes, beings as ignorant of us as we are of them, each creature obeying its native imperatives, each destined to its private oblivion. I think of asteroids and rogue proto-planets and unfortunate trajectories. On some ill-fated world somewhere, ruminants will stop grazing and lift their shaggy heads, blinking with incomprehension as the conclusive comet plunges and ignites in their atmosphere. But their nullification will not be for naught. The atoms that fashioned them will still exist. Heat and electricity and magnetism will still exist. All their matter will be recycled, each molecule being torn asunder so that new and more exotic configurations may be born, each particle playing but a bit part in an endless continuum. Death is only a singularity, a point through which life contracts and expands again. Dying stars seed space with carbon, magnesium, calcium, zinc. The hare surrenders to the grass, and the mushroom heralds a miracle, and bone meal betters our roses.

Meanwhile, I keep tapping on my phone to repeat the Debussy. Something about his music in this setting feels both melancholy and warming, plaintive and romantic. The word that comes to mind is "bittersweet". Claude Debussy has been dead for over a century ... yet he accompanies me now, on this fine autumn evening, chaperoning me as I consider the illusory boundary between life and death. His ghost makes for good company.

As I stroll among the graves, it occurs to me that the lives buried between these markers are not just a bunch of discrete units, self-contained and aloof from the stirrings of the world, but rather they form an occulted plexus of connection: families, businesses, churches, catastrophes, commencements, picnics, reunions, love affairs, scandals, marriages, maladies, baptisms ... and, of course, funerals. The space between the stones seems at first to be measured by the standard span of coffins ... but in truth the cemetery chronicles a cumulative tale, a ceaseless and bewildering concurrence of human narratives, forever bubbling and piling and collapsing upon itself like foam on the surf. There is a message to be found in the muster of plots.

One of the best things you can do for your spirit is to spend some time in the presence of the deceased ... so I suggest that you avail yourself, at the next available opportunity, of the boneyard's splendid gifts, preferably during the golden hour that leads to dusk, and as you pass through the gate please make a point of turning towards the setting sun, and watch as its last slanting ray sets fire to the trees and outlines the edges of leaves and lights the Brownian dance of gnats ... and in this one enormous expanding instant, you may apprehend, in its entirety, life itself, life ever surging, ever swarming, proliferating, bursting free of rocks and ponds, rising from the loam in long unfurling gestures, clutching at the sky, vying for sunlight, and in all likelihood you will fall in love with the naked face of existence all over again, even with its grim chaotic terrors, even with its throttling vines, its tumors, its housefires, and you will find every process to be in order, every animate thing to be in perfect alignment with its purpose, and your mind will assign equal merit to the acorn and the oak that opens from it, and you will consider with an untroubled eye the upended armadillo, the ruined document, the torturous divorce, the smoke that curls into the sky, the vulture with clotted blood on its beak, the limping dog, the sagging porch, the leaning fence, and you will find mirth in the collapsing leer of the Jack O' Lantern, and you will see the world for all of its punctual cycles, its fecundity and decay, its apparent tumult and hidden patterns ... and you'll understand that one day, a day not very far from now, your newly unfettered consciousness will be at liberty to roam, to go further, to fly far from the shore towards the middle of the ocean, and that your mind may arrive at a calm expanse, a place with only one horizon, and there you will be truly free, free to explore, free to swim without the need for body or breath, to plunge beneath the surface and zip among the wriggling fish, to go below the bloated whale, to praise the cetacean that falls in soft white clumps towards the benthic midnight, to descend the cold column of dark that spans from blue to indigo to black, to sink amid the snowy detritus of plankton and hake scales twirling into the depths, to be gobbled by hagfish and crabs or lost among the fronds of sessile things, to be broken by worms, to molder into bare and quiescent motes, to become a carbonate slush on the sea floor ... and then you will know, know for certain, that nothing ever ends without beginning anew, and that you have always been and will always be, and you shall find yourself satisfied once again by the transitional nature of death, pleased to greet yet another death in a long unbroken line of them, and you will await with serenity all the deaths to come, and you will treasure the fleeting lives between them, and you will be at peace, assured that nothing dies forever, for life is forever, and forever is forever, amen.

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aubzikins · 9 months

Text

Alaskan Darkness

Please read the original story written by my amazing friend Rahsindri

When your absolutely amazing talented friend writes a Zombie Apocalypse Fic and adds ya into the mix, what else would you do but provide your POV?

Work Text:

It was a regular day; I had signed onto work and was busy typing away. Checking my discord from time to time to see the updates from Rah at the meet-and-greet VIP event that they had been able to get tickets for. I wanted to go to the meet-and-greet and the concert that night but unfortunately, I had already had my vacation planned beforehand. It all went to hell in a handbasket and then put through the shredder. Not that any of that matters now.

It’s been a week now since the world was turned upside down. We always made jokes about the zombie apocalypse and what we would all do. But no one could have predicted that we actually end up living through it. Being up in Alaska was a blessing and curse. We were lucky enough to be far enough west of where the NEO had hit in Canada, also far enough east to not have to deal with the crazy storms going on down in the lower 48. We were still dealing with snow since Break up season wasn’t due to happen for a few weeks. The temps were in the teens, so things were starting to thaw.

The first five days were the hardest. It was just Nick, me, and our youngest kiddo Gabriel. Without knowing what was going on, all we could do was stockpile the house with supplies and equipment. We had our greenhouse, our 3 extra generators and enough preserved food to last a long while. Nick and Gabriel had made a few trips around to pick up extra stuff.

Being one of the youngest couples living in the estates, we had many elderly neighbors. We started checking on everybody. At first everyone was okay, scared but okay. They had also been prepared for the worst because we never knew if we would be snowed in and possibly stranded.

After the first 24 hours, we witnessed a couple of neighbors had started to have seizures and then started dying. We had originally wanted to bury them, but the permafrost made this very difficult. Instead, we had started putting the bodies we found into one of the storage containers that a neighbor who passed had on their property.

Something was killing off our neighbors and we couldn’t figure out what, so we assumed it must be some type of virus. After six of our neighbors had died, we were concerned. We made sure to use precautions when moving the bodies. Nick had been able to get onto post and had grabbed what he could, including a few hazmat suits. When yet another neighbor had died, we went to put them in the storage container along with the others but found the storage container empty.

“What the fuck babe? Where are bodies??” I asked Nick panicked.

“I have no clue; they were here last night before we went home…” Nick says.

“That is so creepy… Maybe we should lock the container tonight?” I ask.

“Yeah, we can lock it tonight and see what happens tomorrow. Let’s do another round in the neighborhood and see if everyone is okay.” Nick suggests.

“Alrighty” I reply.

We moved the body into the storage container and locked it. After another round of checks, we found nine more bodies. About 90% of our neighbors had died within the first two days. We used one of the neighbors’ trucks to transport all the bodies to the storage container. Once we had unloaded all the bodies, we locked the storage container up. We also drove the truck to the middle of a field, but still within walking distance and set it on fire. We then took off the hazmat suits we were wearing and started our decontamination protocals.

On Day three, we had done another round of checks in the neighborhood. Our last remaining neighbors had left a note at their house saying they were heading south to go find their daughter who was in college down in Anchorage. It was officially only the three of us left in the neighborhood. We then went and checked on the storage container, finding the door had been wedged open somehow and all the bodies were missing.

“Um… yeah this is getting a bit too weird babe,” I say to Nick.

Nick steps a little closer, making sure not to touch anything in case it was biological. He looks around and then suddenly stops. “Babe, we need to go back to the house now.” He grabs my hand, and we start running towards our house, not stopping until we get inside.

“What was that about?” I ask.

“The door was wedged open… from the inside of the storage container.” He says.

“Huh? How? They were dead! No one else was in those containers. You don’t think we may have mistaken someone’s death?” I ask worryingly.

“No, they were all dead. Whatever it is, lets just stay inside unless we absolutely need to leave.” He suggests.

Day Four was the quietest day. Without actual data or Wi-Fi, we had no way to check on anything. I had a slight cold, so I spent the day sleeping.

We finally got cell service and internet back on Day Five. I immediately checked on the two older kids who were down in Anchorage. Both were fine and said they were hunkered down. They insisted they were safe, but I made them promise to head north if they had any sort of trouble. I then sent messages to all my friends and extended family.

While waiting for everyone to check in, I started trying to check for news. TikTok was a buzz about the NEO, the Zombie Apocalypse, and the evolution of Zombies. We seemed to have been lucky because the Zombies didn’t seem too interested in Alaska currently.

I was only able to really get into contact with a few friends on Discord.

Rah let me know that a bunch of our friends had met up with them and that they were safe. Then they dropped the bombshell that they were also with the Stray Kids. I about died. We kept each other up to date with the stuff going on in both areas.

Day Eight:

April 11, 2029

Discord Notification:

Writer’s Collective – Rah: Hey @Aubz, how would you feel about helping out some friends?

Me: hey Rah, Always Happy to be of service.

Rah: KCON goers are trapped in LA. The storms are going to decimate the coasts, we need to get to the north of Anchorage. You got room up there?

Me: Yeah, unfortunately we’re kind of isolated up here. A lot of the old people died. They left a long time ago, though.

Rah: Left?

Me: Bodies just kind of vanished. No Walkers, no Runners, no Crawlers, no Flyers.

Rah: I... Okay. We’ll have to revisit that later.

I turn to look at Nick, "Looks like we may need to start getting these houses cleared out and prepared for guests…"

#fanfic #stray kids #fanfic newbie #friends fic #friend insert #my pov #kcon fanfic #ateez fanfic

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necroneos · 2 years

Text

Records (1.4k words), Melone x OC (Anguria Eccitato)

Summary: Having heard from Anguria about her coworker Dante bullying and harassing her many times, Melone decides to take action.

CW: MENTIONS OF SEXUAL ASSAULT, SEXUAL HARASSMENT, AND PEDOPHILIA

“You've had your face buried in your computer all day, the hell are you doing Melone? I mean, your face is almost always buried in it but you've been typing away without stopping. Clearly it's something important or else your face wouldn't be two inches away from the screen.”

Formaggio stared at the focused lilac-haired man from two feet away, sitting on the same couch. It was weird seeing him work so fervently like now. Usually he worked at a casual yet quick pace and finished his tasks easily. But the gray-haired male shrugged it off as Melone being Melone.

A small ping came from the busy male's phone. Melone stopped his feverish typing to pick up the phone without a word.

9:35 – Today sucked. Dante tried something new today and it was so gross. I know he doesn't like me and has been trying to get me fired, but today he actually tried to cop a feel! The guy grabbed at my ass and gave it a squeeze. Ew...I feel so gross.

9:35 – B

9:36 – Oh, sorry, didn't know you were still working. Talk to you later then

Although his expression remained calm, he felt a mild anger begin to bubble within. Only another reason for him to continue his current task.

By the time it was one in the morning, the male had finally got ahold of everything he needed. The only thing left to do was take action. He closed his laptop and rubbed at his uncovered eye, blinking a bit afterwards. He needed to sleep for tomorrow's event.

~*~

Neuroscience Institute of Italy, 8:30pm

Dante decided today that he'd put in some overtime hours. But it wasn't just that, he also had to finish his report for the day. It was a pain to do but he always got it done. After the report he'd start on the overtime he set out to do. As he typed away at the computer in the empty building, he stopped when he heard a male speaking in a thoughtful voice.

“Hmmm...Dante DiMaggio, 52 years old and born August 21, 1949. A Leo, which makes sense. A well known and respected man in both his field and community. Known as a hard-worker and has discovered new and amazing things in regards to neuroscience. Has also helped some doctors in solving patient's cases.”

Dante swiveled his chair and stood up quickly. “Wha - ! Who the hell are you!? This building is closed to everyone but the employees. How did you get in here?”

Sitting on a nearby desk was Melone, blue-green eyes scanning some papers held in his right hand.. His lips curled up into a small smile and he looked up, his eyes cold as he stared into Dante's.

“How interesting. Four counts of rape. Two of four were with underage individuals. But with the power of money, you were able to keep yourself from being put on the list of known pedophiles. I also see here you have a history of sexual harassment in the work place. That seems to have been covered up as well.”

“With the field you're in now, you'd need to cover it up to get through college and earn the PhD you currently hold. My, Dr. DiMaggio. Not only are you respected by people in your field and community, but you're also considered an expert. I wonder what would happen if everybody learned of this.”

The doctor swallowed, gaze nervous. “W-What do you want?”

Melone chuckled. “Well, you see, somebody I know works here. I'd appreciate it if you stop copping feels and trying to get her fired. She works very hard and I'd hate to see her in trouble.”

“Just what are you getting at?” Dante demanded, growing even more anxious.

“Well, I could leak all this information,” The mafia member waved the papers in his hand,”Or I can just keep it to myself. That all depends on you though, doctor. Keep bothering her or lose your job.”

His casual smile was still plastered on his face and his eyes were still icy as he continued to stare at the other man in the room.

“F-Fine...just don't leak that information, I beg you.”

“A reasonable man. I like that.”

The lilac-haired male jumped down from the desk and turned away from Dante, waving at him from over his shoulder.

“Addio~”

~*~

The next day, 7:23pm

7:23 – Melone, you won't believe it! For once that damn doctor didn't try anything! He seemed oddly nervous around me though. Kinda weird but whatever.

7:30 – That's good. I was starting to get a little worried with how much you were talking about him.

7:31 – Aw, you were worried about little old me? How cute.

Melone stared at his phone screen with a small smile and chuckled. He set it down and got back to the many tabs open in his browser window. He had some work to do.

After he finished his work, he walked out of the main room in his team's headquarters. He made his way to the cordless phone that sit in the other room and picked it up, dialing down the first number on his written list. With this phone, he was able to stay anonymous while he called.

“Yes, hello. Is this Station 9? I'd like to inform you of something I believe you'll like.”

~*~

Friday, 6am

Melone sat in his apartment on the couch, grabbing his remote. He'd called nearly all the local news stations and sent e-mails of Dr. DiMaggio's criminal record last night alongside it. He'd never planned to just let those records stay secret in the first place. While he himself could be quite the cold and calculated individual, he seemed to lose some of that cool he had when it came to Anguria. He flipped through the channels until he reached the first news channel.

“...And in other news, shocking information was submitted last night by an anonymous caller. An e-mail containing the criminal records of Dr. Dante DiMaggio was submitted as well. A respected man in his field and community, as well as a leading expert in neuroscience.”

“His records have revealed four counts of rape and numerous charges of sexual harassment of female coworkers. Two of these counts of rape have been found to be with underage individuals. These actions taken by Dr. DiMaggio were covered up by him through a hefty sum of money many years ago before he acquired his PhD. The board of directors are currently looking over the information with Mr. DiMaggio currently suspended.”

The assassin's lips quirked up into a confident smirk. His work had paid off.

~*~

Friday, 4pm

4:10 – HOLY CRAP, MEL!!!

4:15 – What's up?

4:17 – It's Dante! He wasn't here today and I asked a few of our coworkers. They didn't know what was up themselves. So I went to the manager and asked about it. He told me that Dante was put on suspension! I asked why and thankfully since the manager trusts me he told me. Four counts of rape and some sexual harassment! I almost can't believe it.

4:23 – Mind if I come over at 7?

4:23 – You don't even need to ask anymore at this point, silly. You have a copy of the apartment key.

4:27 – A poor decision, really. I just thought I should at least ask first.

~*~

Friday, 9pm

Anguria laid in bed tiredly, her arms wrapped around the slim and slightly bony frame of Melone. His arms were wrapped around her as well, absently drawing aimless patterns on her back with his thumb.

“I wonder how those records got leaked though...” She murmured.

“Doesn't matter now.” Melone only replied.

He leaned over slightly, pressing a gentle kiss onto her head. She blushed and was thankful that he wouldn't catch it in her position. She wasn't ready to say anything to him yet as she still wasn't sure the nature of his feelings. He was a hard person to read. But she also didn't major in psychology.

Bashfully, she leaned upwards and pressed a few slow kisses on his jaw, leading up to his cheek and eventually stopping at his neck where she nipped twice.

“Keep going and I think we'll be awake all night.” He mused teasingly.

“You know we both wouldn't mind~” She replied, wiggling her eyebrows and grinning.

Because right now, Anguria only wanted to focus on the bright side. Things were going to be easier for her now.

#jojo's bizarre adventure #melone #melone (jjba)#melone x oc #melone (jjba) x oc #anguria eccitato #my fic #my writing #jojo oc #jjba oc

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cs-go-weapons-garrys-mod-6w · 2 years

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Steam Workshop::Counter-Strike: Global Offensive Weapons

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They also have the most detailed and impressive appearances, as well as Blasting their way through the competition, here are ten gun-toting video game babes! Video games are home to some of the loveliest ladies in fiction. And a number of them just so happen to be gun-wielding badasses. Which, you have to admit, is pretty darn sexy. Here we celebrate 10 Sexy But some weapons stand out from the rest. From explosive Destiny 2: How To Get Sunshot. Do you like the Sun? Then the Sunshot is definitely your weapon of choice. The Sunshot is an excellent Exotic hand cannon to use in Destiny 2. Its main perk is firing explosive rounds that damage multiple What can we say? We adore video game babes with guns to bits. Spear Wilson standing readily with his spear. The spear Destiny 2 - How to get Ace of Spades by This Week in Video Games If there's one thing you shouldn't be, it's wasteful, especially when it comes to an awesome gun like the Ace of Spades. 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libraryofloveletters · 3 years

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A June Wedding

Evan Buckley x Reader

Warnings: alcohol and the consumption of

Category: Fluff

Word Count: 2.8k

Author’s Note: idk what this is, I opened the doc and just started typing, so yeah // the flashbacks are set two years ago, when y/n meets Buck. The end is back to the present

----

From B: I was thinking about you.

From B: I miss you.

The phone sat in your hand, you stared down at the message on the screen. It had been months, maybe longer since you met him- 2 years to be precise.

The two of you had a weird friendship to say the least. One of those “will they, won’t they?” kind of things. Everyone seemed to notice how the two of you were in love except the two of you.

Your story starts in a hole in the wall coffee shop two years ago, when Buck comes in after his first shift at the station.

*Two Years Before*

Tired and hungry was a typical look you saw among the folks who came to your shop. It was downtown LA and there were a lot of businesses around including station 118.

Among your typical morning crowd, there were people in suits and ties, the few hippies/skater crowd and your favourite, the fire-fighters.

They were your favourite not because they always had larger orders but they usually left big tips and were super sweet.

It was around 9 in the evening when the bell on the door chimed as it was pushed open. You were closing up for the day but the ‘come in, we’re open’ sign still hung on the window that was ideally supposed to be taken down an hour ago.

Pulling a tray of cookies from the oven, you were startled by the door considering that you thought you locked the door. Peering from the doorway of the kitchen, there was a man by the counter, staring up at the menu board.

“Hi,” you smile, hesitantly stepping towards the counter from the kitchen. He glances down at you and smiles, mumbling a hello.

“Uh, we’re actually closed right now.” you inform him.

His brows furrow, glancing over his shoulder at the window. “But the sign-” “I forget to take it down.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I’ll- okay, I'm gonna go.” he looked.. disappointed. He pulls a phone out his pocket and sighs. You take that moment to study him. A grey sweatshirt and a pair of jeans, there’s a hat sitting backwards on his head and a duffle bag tossed over his shoulder. As he turns to leave, you notice the 4 letters written on his hat in bright red - LAFD.

“Hey!” you call out, “You’re a firefighter ?”

The blonde smiles and nods, “yeah, I started today actually. The guys at the station were talking about the coffee shop down the street. I didn’t get a chance to come during the day so I thought I'd come now- but I can come back another time, you’re closed”

Waving off his statement, you pick up a cup from the counter. “Nonsense, I'd never turn away one of the city’s finest.” you smile, he chuckles. “The city’s finest is more of a cop thing.” he tells you.

“Is that so ?” asking, you begin looking through the fridge to see if there was any milk, he hums.

“I think you’re pretty fine yourself” you mumble, standing straight when you realize what you’ve said. Your back was to him, a blush burning up your face.

What you didn’t know was that Buck was blushing too, a pretty person like you calling him fine was surely going to make him blush and that it did.

Clearing your throat, you turn to face him again. He was looking anywhere but at you for the moment.

“What can I get you ?”

“What do you have right now ?”

“Just about everything, except for baked goods. I usually put those in the oven in the morning but I do have a tray of cookies if you’re interested.”

“That sounds good,” he smiles at you. “I’ll take a cookie and uh-” glancing up at the menu, “whatever is your favourite drink”

Humming, you turn and head to the kitchen to get two cookies for him and then begin mixing some coffee and creamer in a cup, along with ice and some caramel sauce. You ended up making two, one for him and one for you.

The man was sitting at one of the stools by the window. He was watching the cars drive past. “Here,” you slide the plate over to him and set the cup beside it.

He smiles, “thank you. How much do I owe you ?” he asks, reaching for what you assumed was his wallet. “Oh, don't worry about it. The register is locked and it’s your first time here, I wouldn’t have charged you anyways”

“You don’t charge first time customers ?”

“Only the firefighters, y’all hold a special place in my heart” you laugh, he smiles once more.

“Are you in a hurry to leave? I can take it with me if you are.”

“No, you're alright. The cookies are warm, I just took them out when you got here.” you sit beside him, taking a sip of your drink. He also takes a sip of his, you watch as his face twists and he smacks his tongue to try and figure out what it is.

“I call it the y/n special” filling him in, his brows furrow. “It’s basically just caramel ice coffee” a small laugh passes your lips as you take another sip.

“I’m y/n by the way.” “I’m Buck” he smiles.

From that day, Buck was a regular in your shop. You made him a regular coffee before his shifts, 2 cream and 3 sugars - you've come to realize he had a bit of a sweet tooth. After work, he’d stop by for an iced coffee and a cookie. You’d always keep some in the back for him.

This became a routine, you asked him for his number so he could let you know when he was on his way to work that way you’d have his coffee ready if he was running late.

Most mornings you’d just get an ‘coming’ or a little fire truck emoji letting you know he’s on his way to work.

Over the next year and a half, the two of you became close. All the guys that came in from the station always teased you about your “boyfriend Buck” although he wasn’t your boyfriend.

The two of you were close, you hung out all the time - when Buck had days off, he’d still stop by the shop for coffee or just to see you even though he lived in the opposite direction. He would also pick you up after work when you could walk home because you lived down the street.

You often stopped by the station when you knew they were on a 24 hour shift. Buck would text you hourly with whatever he was thinking about, especially during the nights when most of his team was asleep and he couldn’t. During those 24 hour shifts, the last few hours kicked their asses, everyone was tired and too lazy to move to do anything about it- those were the days that you headed into the shop early to get some stuff together to take over for them.

Over time, the affection between the two of you became clear to everyone but the two of you.

You only really noticed you liked him after his unfortunate run in with the fire truck and his promotion which you decide to celebrate with him.

There you were, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a bag of Thai takeout in the other - the perfect thing to celebrate his new- temporary as he kept reminding you- position.

He had invited you over to watch a movie but life was short as was recently reiterated after Buck’s “getting stuck under municipal equipment” phase as the two of you joke.

“Hey!” he smiles at you when he opens the door, immediately noticing the bottle of champagne in your hand.

“The nice stuff,” he hummed, stepping aside so you could come in. You set the bag on the counter with the bottle before venturing further into the kitchen to find glasses.

“What are we celebrating ?” he watches as you tumble through the cupboards.

“Y/n?” “What ?”

“What are we celebrating ?” he asks once more.

“Do you not own any champagne glasses ? All I can find are solo cups and those ugly ass mugs you have.” sighing, you grab the solo cups knowing his answer already.

“Y/n/n, I'm a 20-something year old guy living by himself-” “What makes you think I have such things?” finishing off the sentence for him which makes him laugh.

Setting the cups down on the counter, you push the bottle over to him. “Would you be so kind as to do the honours?” you hop onto the counter. Buck peels the casing from around the top and then shakes the bottle.

Your brows furrow, “that’s going to make a mess-” before you finish your sentence, the bottle pops.

The cork ends up somewhere in the apartment whilst the very expensive champagne is sprayed everywhere. Buck just so innocently titled the bottle your way, soaking you in the liquid.

Laughing, you pull the bottle away from him. He's standing in front of you when you grab his chin, pulling him towards you. Your left hand is cradling his jaw and leaning his head back to pour some of the champagne in his mouth. You over poured and split it on his shirt.

The two of you were a laughing, sticky mess and the bottle was already half way empty. He held the cups out for you, letting you pour some into each cup before handing you one.

“Okay, now will you tell me what prompted the champagne showers ?” he smiles, leaning against the counter next to you.

“Well, life is short. You’re a fire Marshall now so, I’m here to celebrate.”

Buck smiles at you, he wasn’t the biggest fan of his new job to be honest. Sure he liked it, but he’d do anything to be back out in the field.

Your arm stretched out, “So to you Mr. Evan Buckley, wait should I say Fire Marshall Buckley ? Anyways congratulations my love, you deserve the job but if the power goes to your head, I'm putting you in your place.” laughing, you bump your cup to his.

“To a speedy recovery and hoping for your return to the field soon because you’re driving everyone mad. Cheers!”

Both taking a sip before Buck hops up onto the counter beside you. He shifted slightly, making a gap between the two of you and pulling the bag of takeout to the spot. Dinner was had on the counter, eating straight out of the containers.

“Bobby would be so upset if he saw us right now.” Buck mumbles, his mouth full.

“Mhm but he’s not here. He doesn’t have to know.”

A few moments later, his phone began ringing. He pulls it out and his eyes widen. There’s a confused look on your face, waiting for him to give you some context or tell you who’s calling. Finally he shows you his phone.

Bobby is calling.

“You summoned him!” Buck shouted. You resisted the urge to laugh.

“Answer the phone!”

You watch as Buck answers the phone, holding back his laughter at the conversation moments ago. He looked happy, you loved seeing him like that. The way his eyes glimmered when he smiled that million dollar smile of his, how his curls showed when his hair was wet or if he hadn’t cut his hair in a while.

It was the little things that made you fall in love with him.

He was still on the phone when you decided you’d find something to change into.

He watched as you made your way to the bathroom, coming back out shirtless with a towel in your hand, drying off. He noticed the way you took a step every two steps like he does. He could hear you humming from upstairs, the way you went up in pitch when you saw something you liked or how you’d stop in-between to start whistling. He smiles to himself as he ends the call.

He too had fallen love with you somewhere along the line.

----

You watched as the little bubbles popped up on the screen on and off for the next few minutes.

Today was your wedding day.

You hadn’t spoken to him all day, things had been hectic. You promised to see him before you got married but truthfully, you had been so consumed with planning and making sure everything was ready that you didn’t get a chance to.

Your friend comes in, sticking their head in and smiling at you. “You ready ?” they ask, you hum before taking one more look at the phone.

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

It was a hot summer day in June, you and your fiancé had decided on an outdoor wedding considering you had always wanted a June wedding.

Standing at the end of the aisle, each side of the yard was filled with people you loved and cared about but your love was smiling at you on the verge of tears at the altar.

Resisting the urge to laugh at him, you smile as the music begins playing - your cue to make your way down the aisle. Making it to the end without tripping, you smile at him.

“Hey,” you smile, reaching for his hand.

“You look beautiful” he smiles, he leans forward to give you a kiss when a hand against his chest stops him.

Bobby gives him a disapproving look, “I’ll be fast but you gotta wait to the end to kiss them, Buck.” The statement earned him a laugh from the crowd.

The heat was getting to everyone including the two of you so Bobby skipped over the unnecessary parts, letting the two of you say your vows.

You started, your hand giving his a squeeze. “The day you walked into the shop, I thought ‘damn, I'm gonna die. Why do I always forget to lock the door?’ but little did I know, it was going to be the love of my life walking in. From the moment we sat down and started talking was the moment I knew you were the one- you made me smile, laugh, gave me butterflies but you also made me feel safe, like I could tell you anything and you’d always be there for me. I watched you walk out with the promise of coming back in the morning and I knew then, we were gonna have a June wedding.” you laughed.

“You taught me what love was, how to be happy, to never give up no matter what life throws my way because for the last 2 years, that’s what I've watched you do and I'm so incredibly proud to be marrying you. There’s no one else for me. It’ll always be you.” you smile, blinking back the tears.

“How am I supposed to compete with that ?” he hums, giving you a grin.

“Everything about you is.. perfectly imperfect, in every single sense of the term. You strive for perfection, but you come up with a slightly different version every time and I love that about you- like when you run out of breath while singing you start whistling so you don’t lose the melody, it’s the little things that make me love you. You hold the stars and the moon, you’re my whole world y/n, there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You make me a better man and I could never thank you enough for that.” Both of you are about to cry, looking at each other with the most love and adoration in your eyes.

Bobby cuts to the end, both of you now impatient and waiting for him to announce that you were officially a couple and the moment he does, Buck pulls you towards him, kissing you like it was the last time he was ever going to.

The sound of clapping and cheering filled your ears, making you both smile as your made you way back down the aisle officially as the Buckleys.

----

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astraskylark · 3 years

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Can we talk about Weiss in V8 chapter 13? Can we talk about how amazing she was in that episode despite all the batshit crazy insane shit happening around? Like it starts out with a full on Team RWBY Vs Cinder battle royale.

Weiss is literally never still even for a second here. She's clearly learned from Volume 5 that staying still in battle for a fighter with her attack type is a bad decision so she's constantly moving over here appearing on all sides in a matter of seconds while keeping the movements of her teammates in mind as well.

She's literally mid fight here half through zooming across the battlefield after an attack and she's already setting up a glyph to boost Blake up so she can attack Cinder keeping the momentum of the fight going in the split second she needs to move across.

Weiss's fighting style often leans to support and a series of attacks rather than one heavy blow. And support is probably the most complicated role to play in a fight.

It's all about insane mid battle calculation. She has to keep track of her team's movements to perfectly time her glyphs (also deciding what type of glyph based how her teammates are moving and their surroundings) and HOW EXHAUSTING IS THAT??? Because she not only has to keep track of the opponent's movement but she's also keeping her eye on three other people who are in continuing motion looking for any gap she can offer support in??? While constantly moving on the field and launching her own attacks in tandem with the others???

The minute Ruby is falling back Weiss is already pelting ice picks at Cinder. And okay mad props to Cinder because this entire attack sequences from RWBY was hardcore and Cinder managed to dodge it all. And back to Weiss.

So we have this insane battle where everyone is mentally exhausted and then we have Neo attacking Ruby and Yang falling into the void. And I've seen a lot of people shitting on how Ruby and Weiss didn't react fast enough and let me just say they acted exactly how you'd expect them too.

I don't have the pic here cause Tumblr has a limit but if you remember the split screen showing Ruby,Weiss, Blake and Neo we can all see Blake already starts moving. Ruby starts getting attacked by a feral Neo a second later and has no time to even process any event(a running theme this volume Rubes your breakdown is coming).

Now here Weiss starts moving a literal second later. And now remember this is Weiss, master of mid fight distance calculation.

The minute Weiss turned and saw Blake she knew. She knew that judging from how fast Yang fell of the ledge and how fast Blake moved the only person who had a sliver of a chance of saving Yang was Blake. She knew she would be a second late if she tried. She knew that summoning a glyph in the event of Blake missing would be no use because she's done the math in that heated second of fear and anguish and knows that she will be too late.

Which is why Weiss Schnee master of logic and cool headedness in the battle field and emotional wellbeing off the battlefield knew what would happen a second later. She knows Yang. Weiss was the first person we've ever seen Yang be vulnerable around. And I bet the reason Weiss was so sure Blake would find her way back to them is because Weiss and Blake are alot more similar than you think. So Weiss knows. She knows the Blake Belladona would not hesitate for a second to jump into the literal unknown for Yang.

She would too. But they're in the middle of battle and Ruby is being attacked and thousands of Atlas and Mantle citizens are in the middle of a space that shouldn't exist and she knows despite how she wants too she cannot jump. And she cannot let Blake jump either because she cannot and will not lose another member of her family today. And she immediately pulls Blake literally dragging her from the surface(and this is no easy feat because we know how crazy swol Blake is and adding that with mad grief Blake is basically the strongest most impulsive person in that space right now) and you can see from that single frame that Weiss herself is so close to tears but she has to hold it together for Blake. For Yang. For Ruby.

And once Blake takes off in a rage she knows that Cinder is left with no one to fight her. And Weiss (who is probably a little traumatised after having been stabbed and almost dying because of her) she immediately faces Cinder and Weiss is frantically dodging because remember Cinder was able to take on all four of them with barely a scratch and now Weiss is facing her alone.

And I also love this because it seems like Weiss is just zig zagging her way in a frenzy but she's trying to make herself really difficult to target here. You know how they say to run zig zag when your being chased by an animal right? That's what she's doing here. She's stays in a position for just enough time for Cinder to shoot her fire and then immediately takes off in a tangent making cinder have to spend a split second trying to reorient her attack cause all her attacks shoot in a straight direction.

I included this picture because she looks so fucking cool here. She literally fights fire with FIRE and I love her stance and pose and if you've actually read this far you can kinda guess I love everything about her.

And now we see her skating up. Because she knows the advantage and how being in a higher position can help. She needs to get to higher ground. And I'd like to highlight that Weiss only takes this pathway cause at that moment it is completely empty. She assumed that people had already finished evacuating from there which is why she chose that place. But it turned out that particular door was one for Atlas and Atleasians were alot more hesitant to use the gates than people from Mantle which is why there are people still there(this might also have been a convenient plot narrative to make Jaune aware that Cinder was here, who knows we shall see)

She uses her gravity glyph to try and hinder the airborne higher ground advantage that Cinder has. And it works. Cinder is momentarily focussed on Weiss allowing Penny to regain her stance and figure out her weapon situation.

And then an Atleasian steps out and Weiss realises in a matter of milliseconds that shit she has to protect them.

And if you notice Cinder is imitating Weiss's attack here. Weiss attacked Cinder with the same Ice pick move 5 minutes ago. And Weiss has to protect herself and the now emerging Atlas citizens. And I love how it's shown that she doesn't have the time to fully summon her Knight so only summons the arm and blade and protects everyone from actually getting hurt. Also I don't know if this the first time we've seen the summoning glyph for the knight in this angle but it is absolutely gorgeous and I really want to see what the Nevermore one looks like.

And I ran out pictures but Cinder literally tosses Weiss over the edge and the only thing stopping Weiss from certain fall in the void is her own gravity glyph which she is maintaining after all of the stuff I mentioned before.

I mean we know that Weiss has the lowest stamina of the team and the role that takes up the most energy. And she's still standing and she still going to fight in the next episode.

I just-- GODS Weiss Schnee is an absolute legend and possibly the best ally to have on the battlefield. She's is a super skilled ,level headed and versatile fighter whose constant presence and observations in the battlefield are such an asset and I wouldn't be far off in saying that she's probably the smartest fighter after Ruby and there's a reason they're partners because for every wacky absolute bonkers plan Ruby has, Weiss will be there to build the foundation to launch off from. And I cannot wait to see her learn and grow even more.

#rwby #rwby spoilers #weiss schnee #ruby rose #yang xiao long #blake belladonna #me writing a weiss simp post?#more likely than you think #rwby meta #or a weiss analysis post I guess #I mean i know we're all super distracted by the extremely distressing events of the last ep #but weiss was a silent heroine in this #and deserves more appreciation #because damn what would team RWBY do without her #ey i hooe we never find out #anywho #I LOVE WEISS SCHNEE SHE'S SO COOL #long post

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starlessea · 3 years

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𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Prologue 0. Closing Time

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 6286

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury

The sky was empty — save for one bird.

Daryl watched it fly above him, so close to the ground that he could make out the beating of its wings and swore he saw individual feathers flutter in the breeze.

His fingers itched over his crossbow, as he contemplated shooting it down from the sky and plucking it clean. He'd have something to eat then, at least. Though, for some reason, Daryl Dixon couldn't bring himself to let loose his arrow, watching as the bird soared overhead — and disappeared beyond the trees.

The man sighed as he kicked up some loose stones with the toe of his boot. What a waste, he thought, before trudging through the field once again.

The sky remained cloudless for the rest of the day, existing as a pale, washed-out grey that made Daryl feel uncomfortable as he hunted. The game must have felt the same, since the deer he'd been tracking made itself scarce, and the string of squirrels hanging from his belt seemed no heavier than it had done when the sun rose that morning.

Still, he trekked onwards over the thick, winding grass and through damp forest overgrowth. He was nearly back at the quarry already, but he hardly had anything to show for it. A few measly rodents and a sprained ankle were barely worth his trip in the first place; they sure as hell wouldn't be enough for all of the mouths he now had to feed.

Daryl cursed at himself for hesitating to shoot that bird straight out of the sky, and clip its wings. It wasn't much, but maybe it would have lasted a day if he was lucky. Still, there was no use wondering now, since it had swooped so close to him that he almost felt the downward draft on his cheek — and then he let it fly away.

He thought that it had been a jaeger; it definitely looked like a seabird that had veered too far from the shore. It was a gull with a white breast and dark, blackish feathers — and a wingspan that made sure you couldn't miss it.

He remembered you pointing one out to him, at 3am, parked up on that deserted beach as the two of you stared out into the rocking ocean.

"Ya thinkin' 'bout 'er again, baby brother?"

Daryl could hear Merle's voice taunt, in the deepest, darkest corners of his thoughts.

"Tha' lil' birdie of yours?"

He quickly shook his head — even though it was the truth.

It had been Daryl's own mind that conjured up those words, after all. Merle wasn't actually here. He was probably back at the campsite, lazing about and leering after women far too good for a beaten-up redneck like him.

Though, funnily enough, Merle had said the exact same thing to Daryl when he noticed his gaze settling over the new bar server, who swiped away the froth spilling over from their draught beers. Merle had given him even more of an earful when he realised that his younger brother was waiting for her shift to end.

Daryl took a deep breath, before rolling his neck to try and relieve the tension that had built up there. Once his mind drifted into thoughts of you — even if only for a split second — it often sank to the point of no return.

You were all consuming; you had been from the first time he laid eyes on you in that old, country auto-repair shop.

He remembered the way your voice chirped like a bird's, despite the curses that often fell from your lips.

You even made those sound sweet.

And he could also recall the way you yelled over the rumble of his bike engine, and competed with the screeching that came from his tyres losing their grip on the worn-out tarmac.

You'd told him that it felt like you were flying — and that was probably the reason why Daryl Dixon couldn't shoot that jaeger.

Then, the man heard something louder than he had done since the world ended — and suddenly, the sky was no longer empty.

There was an explosion, and that dull greyness was set alight with brilliant hues of red and orange. It made fire start to rain down upon Daryl, who could only stand and watch below. Debris fell out of the sky like a meteor shower, landing beyond the trees in the distance — to a place that Daryl couldn't quite make out, no matter how much he squinted.

The air became full with the sounds of scraping metal and flickering flames that caught the leaves and made them burn up like the end of a cigarette. Daryl felt his heart race as the adrenaline pumped its way through his veins, and made him flinch each time something crashed heavily to the ground.

There was often a moment in a person's life where their brain got kick-started into gear — and they awoke from whatever auto-pilot they'd been functioning on until that point.

For most, it was probably a mundane milestone like marriage or parenthood.

For others, it might have been a life or death situation that made them re-evaluate their perspective.

For some, it had only happened when the world actually ended, and the apocalypse began.

And perhaps, if Daryl had been a smarter man, it would have been this instant — as he gazed up at the sky and watched it burn above him. Maybe this was his second life-changing realisation; maybe he was lucky enough to get two.

But, for Daryl, the first had just been a regular Tuesday.

The garage was sticky hot that day. It was the kind of heat that made you sweat no matter how many fans you had blowing — since Old man Dean was too cheap to install air conditioning. His boss was a bit of a stickler for paying his bills, and nit picky with his nickles, but he'd always been kind to Daryl.

That being said, working as a mechanic wasn't exactly where Daryl had pictured himself at his age; but then again, he couldn't really picture himself anywhere at all. He felt like that last piece of the jigsaw puzzle, which didn't quite fit in with the others — the one that you had to bend into shape just to make it work.

Sure, he enjoyed seeing the different bikes roll in and out of the shop — those models he would never be able to afford — and Daryl appreciated having a few extra dollars in his pocket for when Merle raided his savings to score some pot.

Besides, there wasn't much else to do in the boonies. Daryl's old man once told him that the only interesting thing to rear its ugly head out of Georgia's backyard in the last fifty years was Dean's Auto Shop. That's probably why Daryl started working there in the first place, as a summer job when he was teenager — and had never really left since.

As much as he didn't want to admit it, his old man had been right about one thing — despite the bastard never catching on to the role of father. He'd been right about the shop being the only interesting thing around.

Because it was the place where he met her.

And then she became the only thing in that small town even worth being interested in.

Daryl didn't hear a car pull up into the shop, but he heard the mumbling outside from where he sat in the breakroom — chewing on some of Dean's leftover pizza that was bordering on stale.

"Dixon, get your ass out here for a second, would you?" the old man yelled, banging on the thin wall that separated them with his fist.

Daryl cursed below his breath, throwing the rest of his food into the trash and dusting off his hands over his jeans. He stepped out into the shop, and was met by an unfamiliar face — looking over at him curiously.

He suddenly felt unexplainably nervous, and dropped his head down to his feet as though it were a reflex he didn't know he had.

"This is your guy," he heard Dean say, before letting out one of his usual chesty coughs.

The man smoked a pack a day too much — and that was coming from Daryl.

"Owner of that bike you've been eyeing, too," he went on.

That caught Daryl's attention, and he instantly glanced up at the woman in question. She was breath-taking, but she also looked very much out of breath. She seemed as though she had run here, despite the Georgia heat.

"You ride?" he asked, but his gruff voice made it sound like more of a demand.

He grimaced at his own tone, but the woman didn't seem bothered by it in the slightest.

She laughed, and it sounded like nothing he'd ever heard before. "I wish," she said, running her palm along the polished metal and tracing her finger over that shiny logo.

Usually, Daryl would bark at anyone who touched his bike, and Dean seemed as though he expected him to do just that — from the way he raised an eyebrow at the daring woman, too oblivious for her own good.

Except, Daryl stayed quiet.

"Was never allowed within a mile radius of one," she went on, before turning back around to grin at Daryl like it was easy. "My folks were scared I'd take off into the sunset, never to be seen again."

He could relate to that. After all, it was exactly what he and Merle had done as soon as they'd gotten the chance.

"Mhm," he hummed back, before glancing over at the car parked in the middle of the shop. "She's pretty."

It was a steel blue colour — would definitely benefit from a lick of paint, but still pretty nonetheless. The tread looked good on the tyres, and Daryl couldn't see any signs of the rusting those models were prone to. Someone had taken good care of it.

"Excuse me?" the woman asked, and suddenly Daryl was reminded of just how bad he was with words.

He cleared his throat, and ran his hand over the hood.

"Yer car," he explained, "'69 Chevy Camaro?"

Daryl asked, but he already knew the answer.

"Oh yeah, that," she replied, sending him an apologetic look. "It's my grandpa's, so we're going to have to be real discreet about this situation over here."

Daryl raised an eyebrow as she beckoned him to the other side of the car, crouching down near the wheel arch.

"Some bastard left a nail in the road, and I ran straight through the thing like it was a stop sign," she grumbled, pointing out the puncture.

Daryl almost laughed at that — but he was still much too jaded from being caught in the middle of his break.

The woman stood back up and toed the deflated tyre with her boot, scowling at the sight of it.

"I know you're closing soon, but I had to push it half a mile just to get here," she said, and wiped her brow with the back of her hand.

Suddenly, her appearance made sense. Since he'd first laid eyes on her, all she'd done was tug at the collar of her vest, and try to stand in front of one of those poor excuses for a fan. But even then, Daryl couldn't quite believe her story.

"Ain't no way ya pushed that thing 'ere by yerself." The words left his mouth before he could consider them twice.

And the look she shot Daryl in return made him want to take them straight back.

But then, she smiled.

"I'm stronger than I look," she protested, leaning against the hot car. "You can ask the dozen assholes who catcalled me on the way but never offered their help."

This time, Daryl did let out a chuckle.

"Damn lucky y'ain't pass out," he quipped back, "heat's no joke."

She grinned again, and Daryl wondered whether she had an endless supply — or if she'd saved them just for him.

"Tell me about it," the woman teased. "Never liked visiting Georgia because of it."

Then, it all made sense to Daryl — the reason why she intrigued him so much.

"Y'ain't from 'round here, are ya?" he asked, surprising himself.

Usually, he couldn't give a 'rat's ass', as Dean called it, about anyone who stumbled into their shop. Never did they get more than a half-hearted greeting from Daryl, or a grunt as he told them to mind their head on that low door frame (she didn't have that problem). Though today, he seemed oddly talkative.

"Haven't seen ya before," he added.

The woman folded her arms over her chest.

"Would you recognise me if you had?" she asked.

"E'erybody knows e'erybody in this place," he answered. "I'd remember if I saw ya cross the street."

It was partially the truth. Daryl knew most people — but he only bothered to remember a select few.

"Moved here last week," she caved, proving him right. "I'm keeping my grandparents company watching daytime cable and doing grocery runs."

Daryl smirked. "An' runnin' over nails with their car, apparently."

"That, too," she confessed.

It was silent for a few seconds, and Daryl realised that he should probably give her a quote for the job. Though, she interrupted him before he could.

"Listen, your new neighbour would be really grateful if you could cut her a break," she said, eyeing the Camaro like she was considering whether it was even worth the hassle. "The old man's going to kill me if I come home on foot tonight."

Daryl knew what she was asking. The notice in the shop window made it clear that they'd be closing in half an hour; Daryl had been all but ready to flip the sign himself. Before she'd arrived, he'd even dared to think that he could shut early — and possibly get to crack open a cold beer and enjoy the breeze of his porch.

He sighed.

"I'll see what I can do," Daryl mumbled, "but I ain't makin' no promises," he warned — as he caught the way her eyes lit up at his words.

But that was a lie. Daryl knew he wouldn't let himself go home until it was finished.

The woman was utterly gleeful. He watched her smile much too widely for her face, and for a moment Daryl thought that she might even jump at him. But she seemed to catch herself at the last second, and abruptly stopped.

She didn't falter long, though. "Thank you, thank you so much!" she said, excitedly, before pausing to tap at her jean pockets. "I don't have any cash on me for a deposit, but I'm heading to work now."

She looked sheepish as she explained herself.

"I'll come straight back and pay in full," she added, trying her best to convince him.

Daryl narrowed his eyes like he didn't quite understand. Then he did, and he laughed properly.

"Deposit?" he asked, shaking his head. "City girl, here we jus' keep yer vehicle if ya can't pay."

The woman's expression was priceless. She looked as though she couldn't figure out whether he was joking or not, and stared at Daryl with her mouth slightly agape as she debated which it was.

He couldn't watch any longer.

"Where ya workin'?" he asked.

Then, he cursed himself for doing so. Time was ticking on, and he already had to stay overtime because of his inability to say no. Well, usually he had no problem with the word; it just seemed like it was stuck in his throat today.

"Joe's bar," she replied. "It's a few blocks over and-"

"I know Joe's bar," Daryl interrupted.

Everybody knew Joe's. It was the only place around that sold a decent draught beer. He'd been going there since he was a teenager — younger than he should have been, but old enough to know better.

"Me an' my brother go there a lot, but I ain't seen you 'round."

She nodded.

"Only started a few days ago. Hopefully they don't fire me for being late."

Daryl glanced at the clock. It was approaching his closing time and her opening one.

"Ya better get runnin', Camaro," he noted, tapping at his watch that didn't even work. "Rush hour soon."

The woman narrowed her eyes at the nickname. Daryl didn't know her real one yet, and felt like it was too late to ask for it. He'd have to catch a glimpse of Dean's log book later to find out.

"Will do," she replied with a smile. "Thanks again, Dixon."

Though Daryl couldn't quite work out how she knew his name, either.

He watched her scurry about collecting her things, and walked her to the entrance. The sun was starting to set — leaving the sky a pinkish orange that only made him squint the more he looked at it. He held the door open for the woman, and heard Dean snort from the back of the shop. But the way she thanked him made it worth the teasing.

"Take care of that sixties Honda," she winked, "she's a real beauty."

Daryl was surprised that she knew the model of his bike, considering she'd never even ridden one.

"If only ya knew," he mumbled back as he saw her off. "Will take ya for a ride one time if yer willin'."

She stopped in place. Daryl didn't know why he said that. It had just slipped from his mouth like oil from a can.

The woman laughed and rolled her eyes like she didn't believe him.

"That's what they all say."

Then, she started to jog down the street — just like she said she would — and Daryl thought her crazy for even attempting it in this midsummer Georgia weather. That woman had entered the shop like a whirlwind, and when she left Daryl couldn't remember what he'd even been doing before.

Dean cleared his throat and threw a rag at him that he barely managed to catch.

"Keep it in your pants, boy."

Daryl scowled at the man; he knew him better than that. So, he didn't give him the satisfaction of a reply, and instead got started on setting the Camaro up on a jack.

"She's a beauty, I get it," Dean went on, despite his silence. "Her type don't belong in a place like this, that's for damn sure."

Daryl had to agree with him there. He'd gotten a glimpse of his reflection in the wing mirror of her car and grimaced. He had grease on his face, and part of him cursed Dean for not telling him before he'd left the breakroom.

"But you know Mike and Doreen?" the old man asked, and Daryl nodded. "That's their granddaughter."

Daryl furrowed his brow — not realising he'd done it until he caught himself in the glass once again. Mike was a hard man, the type to straighten out any kinks in a person with brute force and that baby boomer spite.

"She may be real pretty, kid, but that one's trouble," Dean noted, confirming his suspicions.

He ignored the way he called him 'kid'. The old man still hadn't grown out of the habit — despite Daryl being well beyond his teenage years now.

"Trouble?" he repeated, like he couldn't quite comprehend the word being associated with someone like that.

Dean chuckled — but it turned into one of those coughs that made Daryl wince.

"Maybe more so than you," he said. "Got kicked out of the military, I heard."

Daryl spat at the floor, and Dean laughed again. They both hated those military dogs who often paraded through their town, looking at them as though they were trash beneath their government-issued boots.

But, if she'd been kicked out then maybe they could find some common ground.

Old man Dean wagged his finger at him, recognising Daryl's no-good expression; he'd become familiar with it by now, from all the times he'd worn it throughout the years.

"So don't go losing your head over her, Dixon," he cautioned, pretending not to know how good Daryl was at throwing caution to the wind.

"And remember to close up before you leave."

But it was too late.

Daryl had already lost his head, and his heart — but he wouldn't know that the latter was missing for a very long time.

You ran the cloth along the oak bar surface, wiping away any sticky beer rings that had been left there.

This is why we have coasters, you sighed.

It had been a slow Tuesday night, but you'd somehow still been roped into working the close. You tried to tell your boss that you were having car troubles, and had plans to stop by the garage on your way home — but he seemed to prioritise his own date over yours.

Well, you wouldn't exactly call giving the local mechanic his cheque a date; usually, you didn't have to pay for those. But you couldn't deny how it had made you feel when he smiled that smile your way — so small that you'd almost missed it — before you took off running out the door.

It gave you whiplash.

Perhaps he was just being friendly. But, then again, he didn't seem like the naturally friendly type. You shook your head, throwing the beer-soaked rag into the sink. You didn't trust that man in the slightest.

That wasn't a new development, really; you didn't trust most men. And, you often found that the ones who made your heart race like that were the worst of them all. He was trouble, that one, and you'd had enough of that to last a lifetime.

You untied the double knot of your apron, and folded it up neatly. There were a few whiskey stains on it — you'd caught a whiff of that top-shelf scent a few times now — but you were already too late to even consider putting it in the wash. Instead, you left it at the end of the bar, and swapped it out for the ring of keys lying there.

It was closing time, and you prepared yourself to run three blocks in the dark. You stepped out into the night, feeling the cool breeze on your cheek as opposed to the midday heat that had been there when your shift started. You flipped the latch and turned the key in the lock until you heard it click.

Then, you held them between your knuckles so that the jagged edge poked out.

"Ya done for the night?" a voice came from the shadows, and your heart dropped.

That brief second lasted a lifetime as the blood rushed to your ears like a strong current through running water, and your grip tightened over those keys. But then, you noticed the reflection in the glass panels of the door — and relaxed.

"Jesus, you scared the shit out of me," you scolded the man, "thought you were a dejected patron tryna jump me or something."

Perhaps he was; you still didn't know any better.

Dixon was leaning against that dingy brick wall, opposite the back door of Joe's Bar. You didn't even know what that other building was — but some sketchy figures usually loomed about it, so you tried to stay clear.

Maybe he didn't get the memo, you thought.

"Tha' happen before?" the man asked back, casually.

Though, the dim street lights overhead illuminated his face, and you caught a glimpse of his serious expression before he let it drop. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers — almost smoked down to the butt already — and it made you wonder just how long he'd been waiting for you.

"Maybe once or twice," you laughed, but it didn't sound as natural as you had intended.

You noticed the man's eyes flicker down towards the keys held between your knuckles, and you quickly slipped them into your jean pocket — hoping that he wouldn't pry. Luckily, he didn't seem like the type to unnecessarily butt into other people's business.

The smoke trailed from his lips and caught the stark light of the street lamp. He almost looked cold — bathed in that bluish tint which made those cigarette fumes seem nearly luminescent.

"You here to make sure I don't run off with your paycheck?" you teased, fishing out the wad of bills from your back pocket.

You waved them at him, and considered how precarious the situation may seem to an onlooker if they happened to pass by. The man looked as though he felt the same, since he quickly glanced over his shoulder down the alleyway — checking to make sure you were alone.

"Don't worry, Dixon, I busted my ass tonight just so I could leave you a nice tip," you said with a smile, handing the money to him.

He took it, slowly, as though he had to remind himself what it was even for.

Then, he let that cigarette butt fall to the floor, and stamped it out with his boot — before dragging it along the concrete until it was nothing but embers.

The man shook his head at you. "'M here on behalf of the welcome committee."

You snorted as you processed his words, and followed him out of that narrow alleyway into the main street.

"Bullshit," you called, "as if-"

You rounded the corner after him, and stopped. He was there, leaning against that pristine sixties Honda bike — spare helmet in hand.

It was parked up on the sidewalk, polished metal glinting in all its glory under those neon lamps. Dixon was almost camouflaged against it — his black leather jacket also speckled with white light. He held out that helmet, as if it were an invitation he was waiting for you to accept.

But he seemed shy — as though acutely aware that it was only an invite, and nothing more. So, you took it, and shook your head as you realised that it wasn't his spare helmet he had offered you; it was his only helmet.

"Said I'd take ya," he murmured, fastening the strap gently under your chin.

It was too big, so the man compensated by tying it tighter until you felt like your jaw was wired shut. But, you just smiled.

"An' I ain't no liar," he said when he was done, and kicked his leg over the bike.

Then, you sped off into the night.

You yelled over the sound of the engine for him to go faster, and laughed as you had to spit out the stray hairs that had blown into your mouth. Your clothes whipped in the wind, too, and you clung to the man in front of you as though you were afraid they might catch the draft, and make you fly away. It was electrifying; your whole body felt like pure static as you rode past shop displays and windows that made your reflections look like hazed blurs.

That whole trip felt like a hazed blur, really, because suddenly you were there.

"Where are we?" you asked, unsure of where 'there' even was. "Why'd we stop?"

You pulled the helmet from your head and cocked your leg over the bike. The man let out a chuckle at the sight of your hair, sticking up from the static — as though lightning might strike at any moment.

"Smoke break," Dixon grumbled, before coaxing out the squashed cardboard packet from his jeans. "You want one?" he asked, offering it to you.

You shook your head; you didn't smoke.

He shrugged in response, cupping his hands to his face to get a flame from his lighter. You left him to it, and turned away from the bike to catch the view.

And what a view it was, indeed.

You hadn't even noticed the sounds of the lapping ocean waves before you saw them. The cliff overlooked the beach below, desolate, with a high tide that drew the shore into you. Your grandmother had told you about this place once, on the phone a few months back as she tried to sell rural Georgia to you.

It wasn't like you were given much of a choice, anyway.

But now that you'd been shipped out here — against your will, no doubt — you had to admit that she'd been partly right. It was breath-taking. Back in the city, a place like this would be littered with beer cans and tacky, disposable barbeques within a week of someone posting about it online. Here, however, it looked untouched.

It was as though the two of you were the first to ever set foot here, on this particular crag that overlooked the waves — leaving your footprints alongside tyre treads for the next pioneers to discover.

You glanced back at Dixon over your shoulder — who was busy trying to look as though he wasn't already looking at you — and smiled.

He was one hell of a welcome committee.

Daryl almost choked on the fumes of his cigarette — letting out a cough that reminded him of the way old man Dean spluttered in the mornings. He really needed to kick that habit, he thought, and snubbed out his cigarette on the ground.

Then, you scowled at him, so he picked the butt back up and stuffed it into his pocket, grimacing at the thought of having to clean it up later.

He had been lying about the smoke break, really, but then he needed to carry out his excuse. Initially, he'd only thought about picking you up from the bar and offering you a ride back to the shop. He hadn't the slightest clue of how that plan had become this.

Somewhere along the way, Daryl might have accidentally taken a wrong turn, and ended up in the most scenic place he would think of. Stupid damn street signs, he cursed, as though he hadn't driven those roads a hundred times before.

Camaro seemed to call him out on his bluff, too, since she turned to face him and immediately shook her head.

"You're lying," she said, as though she were certain, "but the view is extraordinary, so I'll forgive you just this once."

Daryl swallowed thickly, tasting the tobacco that had made his throat so dry. For someone who claimed himself not to be a liar, that was all he seemed to be doing today.

Then, he watched you make your way towards the edge of that cliff, like you couldn't even hear him warning you to be careful. It was like you weren't paying him the slightest attention. Daryl was used to that from women — but somehow, this was different.

You didn't look down on him, nor at him with any hint of prejudice for wearing jeans still coated in oil, and boots he'd had to tape the soles of just to keep them together. In fact, you weren't looking at him at all. You seemed far more concerned with the stars that flickered in the night sky above you, but at the same time grateful towards the man for having brought you to them.

"You treat all your customers like this, Dixon?" you asked him.

He watched you turn around and look at him like you'd only just remembered that he was there. But, then you beamed a smile at him so bright that it put the stars to shame — and made all of your other ones look dim in comparison.

"Y'ain't special," he grumbled, shaking his head. "Jus' given' ya a lift home 'cos Dean told me to."

Though, Dean had left the shop hours ago.

Daryl watched you laugh like you'd caught him out one more time.

"There you go again," you said, teasingly. "Do you ever tell the truth?"

No, he didn't. He always tried to, but oftentimes it never did him any good. The people of this town had already made the assumption that he was a natural born liar. You were the first person to ever make the distinction between his white lies and those other types.

All his life, Daryl had been pigeon-holed into the role of good for nothing redneck, and had only recently graduated to the slightly less stereotyped town mechanic. But that night it was as if someone, for the first time, tried to get a peek at whatever was underneath.

Old man Dean was right. You were trouble — but not for the reason he had said. You were trouble because you seemed entirely unaware of your place in the world, and it made Daryl start to question his own. You seemed nice — perhaps even lovely — but Daryl never trusted those types. He knew you were far too good to be wasting away the early hours of the morning with the likes of him — and it left him wondering what exactly you wanted.

You'd already paid for his services, after all.

"Thank you for letting me see the stars again," you breathed, stretching your neck which ached from staring at the sky. "It's been a while."

Back then, Daryl didn't quite understand what that meant. He'd thought perhaps that you'd been talking about city pollution.

On the way back, Daryl felt you cling onto him tightly as he drove through empty roads, and passed the old, flickering street lights that blinked like camera flashes. But, when his fingers accidentally brushed up against yours, as you both reached for the shop door, you pulled your hand away.

It had only been a random Tuesday — that had eventually rolled into a Wednesday by the time he'd gotten you back into your repaired Camaro — but that was the moment in his life where Daryl felt like he had finally woken up.

But even awake, he often found himself lost in daydreams of the woman who crash landed into his life, and disappeared from it just as quickly as she came.

Daryl followed the trail of debris that had fallen from the sky, as though he were tracking some giant, metal bird. He didn't want to stick around too long, given that the noise had probably attracted every damn walker in the area; he just hoped that he was still far enough away from camp that they wouldn't be drawn there.

He stepped over the hunks of hot wreckage, some of it still ablaze, until he eventually came across something soft and not made of metal.

It was that jaeger. It was dead.

It looked as though it had been struck straight out of the sky. Its feathers lay scattered around it — the white breast now red with blood — and its wing was bent at a crooked angle, broken.

Daryl scowled. If he'd known that it was going to have such a meaningless death, then he would have shot it himself. Though, he still didn't add the bird to his string of dead animals; he thought that it had suffered enough.

He continued onwards through the brush until he stumbled across what he'd been looking for. But even as he saw it with his own eyes, Daryl couldn't quite believe it. Before him was the husk of a downed helicopter, burning in the middle of the forest.

Immediately, he ran to it, tripping over the wreckage as it got thicker and harder to navigate.

Though, there was no pilot inside — only radios and machinery parts that Daryl didn't know the names of. They screeched high frequency sounds as they caught on fire, and it made his ears ring the longer he listened.

So, he turned back.

That was when he saw it — them — a few meters away. His stomach dropped. Guess that's the pilot, he thought, looking up at the body tangled in the trees.

He'd never seen a parachute in real life before — only ever in the movies. He'd also never understood how that flimsy material could stop someone from plummeting to their death.

Well, in this case it hadn't.

The pilot was dangling from one of the branches, all caught up in those wire cables like a fish on a line. The limbs were contorted awkwardly, and Daryl swallowed thickly at the sight of their arm which had definitely been broken — reminding him of that miserable jaeger's wing.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave. The smell of burning rubber and the white noise from those radios would probably keep him up for the next few nights, but there was nothing he could do about that.

He'd been all but ready to turn around and leave, but then the body spoke to him.

"Dixon?" he heard it gasp.

And Daryl wondered just how many impossible things he might encounter today.

The voice startled him, and he almost stumbled over his own foot in return. Walkers couldn't speak, and they surely wouldn't know his name, either. Then, he caught the slightest movement, and recognised a jacket much too familiar. It had been his, after all, before he'd given it to you.

The pilot groaned, and Daryl recognised that tone of voice, too. He quickly fumbled about for his pocket knife, not even stopping to consider how the hell he'd be able to cut you down.

He couldn't even comprehend how you were alive-

"How's it hanging?" the voice spluttered.

-and how you'd kept that same god awful sense of humour.

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