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lampmeeting · 4 years

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The boys find old pictures of themselves as teens. It's all fun and games pointing out who had the stupidest haircut, worst acne, or embrassing clothing. All until they come across a picture of old, or should I say young, Rock and roll charles with his long 80's hair, sleeveless shirt, and half empty Jager bottle in his hand. They all burst into his office demanding an explantion of how someone so cool could end so lame.

okay this idea was SUPER juicy and i ended up writing…..a lot… hahah

—-

“Oh my fucking god.” Nathan buried his face in his hands and groaned. “How’d they even get this picture? I need to call my fucking mom.”

Dethklok passed around the latest People magazine, the cover of which boasted never-before-seen photos of the band members in their youth. The article started with a huge color photo of Nathan attending his senior prom in an ill-fitting dark purple suit and pink boutonnièreto match the dress of his date. Neither of them looked particularly excited or at ease.

“You look like a fuckin’ magician in that stupid ass suit,” Pickles laughed, and then turned the page and screamed. “For fuck’s sake!”

Murderface looked over his shoulder. “I wanna see!” He saw, and howled wildly. “Holy fucking shit!”

“Shut up! I was eighteen! It was LA! Snakes ‘n Barrels was just gettin’ off the ground and I needed coke money!” On the page, Pickles posed in high-waisted Daisy Duke shorts and a sleeveless flannel shirt tied in a knot just under his chest. His hair was feathered and his eyeliner was sharp. “It was just some modeling, it-it’s not a big deal!”

Skwisgaar and Murderface cackled, tears in their eyes.

“Wowee,” Toki giggled, “Pickle, I hopes you gets paid a lot.”

Pickles grumbled and flipped the page. “Yeah, yeah, laugh it up. Oh, shit! Toki!” He held up the magazine. “What the hell, dude? This is metal as fuck.”

Toki hid himself and went pink all over. “Ohh, no, don’ts shows that, it’s embarrassings.”

“I definitely wants to sees dis,” said Skwisgaar, and when he got a look he put a hand over his mouth. “What in de fucks names of Odin? Is dat evens yous, Toki?”

“Yeah,” Toki sighed. The photo was of him sitting on a ratty sofa in some basement, giving the camera the finger. His hair was long and stringy and his face was painted white with black jagged lines coming from his eyes and mouth. Both of his forearms were covered in leather bands punched through with long metal nails, and his white undershirt was drenched in blood.

Nathan had come over to peek. “Woah, wait. When the fuck was this?”

Toki rubbed the back of his neck. “That’s back ins Norways. I thinks I was fifteen. Me ands my friend Runke was ins a blacks metal band together after I lefts home. We only playeds one shows, though, and we gots in trouble ‘cause we poureds pigs blood on the audience.”

Nathan chuckled under his breath. “Brutal. Good job, Toki. What’s on the next page, Pickles?”

Pickles turned to the next photo and snorted before he could stop himself. “Jesus, Skwisgaar.”

Skwisgaar’s expression went sour and drained of color. “Ah, fucks.”

Skwisgaar must’ve been eleven or twelve in the photo, and he smiled with a mouthful of braces. He wore a tall white cone on his head covered in gold stars. and held a big gold star on a stick.

Murderface stuck out his tongue. “Why’re you dressed like a weird sad clown fairy?”

“Is Swedish traditions,” Skwisgaar said pointedly. “My mother always mades me dress as stjärngossefor Sankta Lucia. I…don’ts wish to talk abouts it.”

The rest of the band eyed him curiously, not knowing what to say. Pickles flipped slowly to the next photo to reveal none other than Murderface staring back at them.

“AHH!” Murderface tried to grab the magazine but Pickles jumped away and kept it out of reach. The others followed in order to get a good look. “No, no! Don’t you fucking look at that!” Skwisgaar took the magazine from Pickles so he could hold it even higher while Murderface scowled and gnashed his teeth.

The photo showed Murderface, no older than sixteen or seventeen, standing in someone’s backyard in a flame-print bathing suit and a neon green muscle shirt tucked in. Beside him, on the ground, was an old mattress covered in either dirt or blood stains, or maybe both. He flexed at the camera and tried to look tough through the whisper-thin mustache and zits.

“I knew it!” Pickles whooped. “I knew you had a fuckin’ backyard wrestling phase!”

“What was your ring name?” Nathan asked. “Lemme guess–Junk Yard Hog? The Dick Break Kid? Mr. Imperfect? Oh oh! Bret Fart.”

Murderface seethed, his cheeks red.“You’re all a bunch of fucking assholes.”

“GUYS!” Skwisgaar screamed, bringing the magazine back down for them all to see. “Guys, guys, looks at de last photos! Looks at whose ams on dere!”

Everyone leaned in to see. The final photo was a young man about eighteen, maybe nineteen, with long brown hair teased to hell and back. He wore a black bandana around his forehead, ripped jeans with boots, and a black Slayer tee from their Show No Mercy tour in ‘84 with the sleeves torn off. He held a bottle of Jägermeister in one hand and was throwing up the horns with the other, though his face was stern and serious.

Skwisgaar was covering the name underneath the picture. “Guess who dats is. I wouldn’ts has known without readings it.”

They all studied the man, trying to seek out anything at all familiar about him. Suddenly Pickles made a sound like he was going to barf. “THAT’S OFFDENSEN!”

They all stared harder, and then they were immediately on the move.

Less than five minutes later Dethklok came battering down the door to Charles’ office, interrupting him on the phone. He apologized profusely and put the call on hold to give the boys his full attention. “What’s, ah. What’s going on? You’re all in my office. At the same time.”

Pickles slapped the magazine down on his desk. “What. The FUCK. Is that.”

Charles recognized the photo, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses, and mumbled, “…freshman in college.”

“How the hell is that you?” Nathan asked. “This guy’s fucking cool. This guy can fucking hang with us. Fucking SLAYER. You’ve actually listened to Slayer? Who the fuck ARE you? I don’t even know who I’m looking at right now.”

“It’s like you got swapped,” said Murderface. “Like some body snatcher came and got you. Where’s THIS Charles?”

“Ya!” said Skwisgaar. “We wants to sees this Charles more.”

“I’m still that Charles,” Charles said, brow furrowed. “I just, you know, had to finally be responsible. I grew up. Trust me, if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t be your manager right now. I’d be dead in a ditch somewhere. I, ah, wasn’t exactly on a good path.”

“Well, you could try and be more fun,” said Nathan. “You don’t have to be one extreme or the other.”

Charles sighed, exasperated and wanting to return to his phone call. He made the sign of the horns and the boys lit up. After some laughter and a little more teasing, they drifted slowly out of his office to find something else to do, except for Pickles who lingered back for a moment.

“Hey Charlie?”

“Yes?”

“I’m glad you’re not dead in a ditch.”

Charles gave a brief laugh and put the phone back to his ear. “Thank you, Pickles, me too.”

#my god these prompts are so fucking good thanks y'all!!!!!!#and there like 3 or 4 more to do ahhhhhhhhhh #i promise i WILL do them all #they really are all wonderful #my writing #Anonymous

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fantasticworksandwheretofindthem · 6 years

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Softball Struggles

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader

Summary: In which [Name] climbs into Peter’s window, as per usual, after a softball game, but this night is a little bit different. ;)

Warnings: swearing, slight smut

Notes: This is a extremely based off my experiences with softball, so if you don’t understand the sport at all or don’t like the idea of playing it, don’t read. | Also, message me if you’d like to be added to my taglist!

[ peter parker masterlist ]

“Are you coming to my game today?” you asked Peter, pushing yourself off the tree and starting the walk home.

“I should probably watch the streets tonight,” Peter answered with a frown.

You were upset, but you had expected as much. It was a Friday, and he’d only patrolled two days this week; he probably would’ve done it all week, but you’d convinced him to stay and help you study for your tests.

“I’ll try to swing by, though.” Peter nudged your shoulder with his elbow. You could feel the smugness radiating off of him; you didn’t need to look at him to know he wore a smirk.

“All these spidey powers, and your puns still suck,” you laughed, shaking your head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, P.”

“Good luck, [Name]!”

“Hey, [Name], you wanna come in with me?” you looked over at Imogen, one of the only softball girls you got along with (mostly). She was already walking up to the white painted foul line.

“Yeah, sure,” you said, jogging up with her, picking up softballs as you went. “Do you know how many balls we’re supposed to have?”

“Eighteen and nineteen,” called one of the girls who were heading into the dugout. You watched as she sat down with a couple of her friends and rolled your eyes. For whatever reason, they thought they were so much better than everyone else and felt like they didn’t have to field during pre-game.

“You ready?” Imogen asked, bringing your attention back to what was most important - warming up.

“Yeah,” you muttered, picking up the bat you always used. You gripped the taped handle and positioned yourself.

“Don’t choke up on the bat, [Name].”

You turned your head to see Venus Wallage, one of Royce’s best friends, also known as one of the girls who thought her shit didn’t stink, pretty much. “Choking up on the bat helps me.”

“If you didn’t choke up,” Venus began, tugging on her batting gloves, “you’d hit the ball better.”

You bit your lip, gripping the handle so hard your fingers began to sting. “It just feels weird with my hands all the way at the bottom.”

“Whatever,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes. “I’m just trying to help you.”

“Yeah, because you know so much about choking,” you mumbled as Venus started to walk away.

Imogen attempted to stifle her laughs, but came up short when a snort escaped.

“What?” you asked defensively. “It’s true!”

“Trust me, I never said it wasn’t.”

“Hey, who’s up?” you asked not anyone in particular; there were plenty of people crowded around the dugout entrance where the lineup hung. One of the girls called out that it was her; you recognized the voice as Imogen’s and starting making your way to the front of the dugout since you were after her. Out at the plate, Ta’Nia hit a line drive that sent her to first and advanced Aline to third. Imogen stepped up to the box, and on the third pitch, she was walked due to a dead ball.

“That’s okay, Immie, shake it off!” you called, though you knew damn well how much that ball must’ve stung.

“Don’t choke up on the bat, [Name]!” one of your teammates called as you began walking up to the plate. You had every intention of letting the comment go in one ear and out the other until you heard Royce.

“Y’all, it don’t matter, it’s not like she’s gonna hit the ball anyways.”

This made you stop in your tracks and your whole body tense up. You gripped the bat as hard as your hands would allow, giving one last aggressive warm-up swing before stepping up. “I’ll show them,” you muttered, and after you hit the ball, you would say to Royce, Now tell me again I won’t hit it.

You stood in position, bringing the bat up the way you preferred. The pitcher wound her arm and through the air the yellow sphere flew. As pretty as the pitcher’s process looked, the ball wasn’t; it was all the way on the outside edge, and you knew she was getting tired. The next pitch that came through, though, was a strike, according to the umpire. However, you would’ve liked to have some words with that call as you felt the ball was way too close to your abdomen to be anything but another ball. The next ball came, and you swung as hard as you could, sure as hell you had earned at least a double.

As soon as you heard the clash of the ball meeting metal and felt the good vibrations (sorry, sorry, I’m lame, I know, lmao), you dropped the bat and took off running. You were about three inches shy of the base when a deep voice called, “Foul ball!”

You groaned and discreetly kicked the dirt before turning around and jogging back to home.

“That’s a good cut, [Name]!” your coach called. “Let’s do it again, just make it fair!”

“Don’t choke up on the bat this time!”

You growled under your breath, grabbing the bat from the ground and tightening your fingers around it.

“Guys, it’s okay that she chokes up,” your coach told your teammates. “I do it, too, it’s okay.”

You felt a little better after your coach sticking up for you, but it still didn’t soothe your rage.

“1-2!” the umpire reminded the pitcher. One of the girls in the field encouraged the pitcher to throw one more strike. Knowing you would be the third out for this inning just added pressure to your rage.

So, the ball came and call it what you want - poor judgement, pressure from everyone else, a bad call, whatever - but that was your third strike. You sighed and stalked off back to the dugout, Royce bumping your shoulder mighty hard as she walked out to the field. You fought back tears of frustration as you tore off your helmet and threw it onto your bag.

Part of you was glad this was the last game of the season. At least you wouldn’t have to deal with everyone’s sore loser attitudes anymore.

“Siri, call Momma.”

“Calling Momma.”

You had to admit, hearing a male, British Siri pronounce Momma as “Mumma” was one of the funniest damn things you’d ever heard.

Your mom answered on the second ring. “Hey, baby. Is the game over?”

“Yes, ma’am,” you answered as you crossed the street. “But you don’t have to worry about picking me up. I’m just gonna crash at Peter’s.”

“Are you not gonna stop by the house first?” your mom asked. There was a loud crash like ceramic breaking in the background, followed by a whispered curse from your mom.

“Nah, I’m just gonna snitch some of his clothes to sleep in,” you said, beginning the climb up the fire escape of Peter’s apartment. “I love you.”

Your mom muttered an “I love you, too” before ending the call. You slid your phone into the front pocket of your softball bag. Peter’s window was already cracked open for you, as it always was, so you slid it open all the way, dropping your bag in first. You jumped in and started, “P, lemme tell you--” You cut yourself off with a yelp and an, “Oh, my God!” You turned your back and shielded your eyes, the image of what you’d just witnessed burned in your mind.

“Shit, [Name], what are you-- what are you doing here??”

“My game ended, and the girls were being extra bitchy tonight, so I wanted to come and rant to you!” Your face was red and your neck was flushed with color. Part of this was, you had to admit, because you thought it was kinda hot, Peter “taking care of himself” like that. You couldn’t help but fantasize about helping him, or hell, even taking care of your needs with him.

“You couldn’t have knocked?” Peter’s voice was unusually high and cracked at the end.

“How was I supposed to know what you were up to?” you exclaimed, tugging on your jersey. You couldn’t figure out what emotion you felt more: arousal or embarrassment.

Peter was breathing heavily. You turned your head just slightly to see his arm resting against his forehead and his eyes closed. He was biting his lip, and his bare chest rose and fell with each pant. In the back of your mind, you pictured this would be how he’d look after you’d blown him.

After a few more minutes of awkward, silent tension, you strutted over to Peter’s dresser and opened the drawer where you knew he kept his sweatpants. As if you hadn’t just walked in on Peter in such a vulnerable state, you slipped off your pants and socks and pulled on a pair of his gray sweatpants.

Peter looked up about the time you had bent to take off your socks and immediately shielded his eyes again. It was one thing to think about you while jerking off; it was completely another to actually see you half-naked. “[Name]! What are you doing??”

“Your sweats are more comfortable than these softball ones!” you exclaimed, hopping to pull up the soft material onto your hips.

“You could’ve given a guy a heads-up!”

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist,” you dismissed with a wave of your hand. “Now, let me tell you about this fucking bitches.”

And off you went on your heated and curse-loaded rant, only fueling Peter’s desire for you even more.

#peter parker #spiderman: homecoming #spider-man: homecoming #spiderman: hoco #spider-man: hoco #sm: hoco #s-m: hoco #spiderman: hc #spider-man: hc #sm: hc #slight smut #reader insert #peter parker x reader #peter parker imagine #your name #self insert

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saintworthit-blog · 5 years

Text

O’ Sweet Daughter Mine: Chapter One - Daddy’s Home

Chapter One: Daddy's Home

Songs (Audio Enhancement)

"Easy Living" by Billie Holiday.

"Who Did That To You?" by John Legend.

"Hang Me, Oh Hang Me," by Dave Van Ronk.

On days like this, Eliza would be by the lake.

It was the middle of spring, and the air was cool and brisk: the perfect time to play by the lake. It was too cold and too shallow for swimming, but other children were bound to be there, skipping rocks and playing tag. In the summer, the lake would be an arid, dried-up wasteland, and nobody would want to play outside anymore.

But today was a beautiful day. The sun was shining. The pristine smell of the mountains melded perfectly with the forest dew. A fresh bouquet of snow graced the mountaintops like a blanket. A perfect day to play. But instead, Eliza was stuck at home, wasting away the good Springtime. She sighed. It wasn't like she was allowed to leave the house when her father was away working.

The Sharp family lived on top of a hill overlooking the town of Cold Springs, a sleepy community, just a stone's throw away from New Reno. They lived in a one story, three-room cabin, near the forest. Electricity was limited, and even on good days, the Sharps barely had enough to power their home. On cold days, it was freezing, and on hot days it was sweltering. The ground wasn't suitable for farming, and no animal could live off of the land. There was only one appealing factor of the Sharp family home, and that was the isolation. Way up in the hills, nobody often came up there. On good days, at least.

Eliza didn't have many good days.

On this day, Eliza was busy, repairing the water pump. Her father had built it a while back, and the Sharps had never been short of water since. It came out a little brown, but it was clean, and most importantly, it was free.

"We don't drink any government rationed water around here," she remembered her father saying. "I ain't paying for it. A man gets his own water."

Eliza wanted the pump to be fixed before her father came back from his delivery run. He'd been gone for a few days. Eliza noticed that the longer he took on his deliveries, the worse he'd smell when he got back. So Eliza always made sure that whenever her father completed a delivery, he'd have a hot bath waiting for him at home.

The water was not coming out the tap as intended, instead leaking out at the base. A loose pipe perhaps. She cursed under her breath, and went to work, wrench in hand.

While her father was away, Eliza was expected to take care of the cabin, which was even more boring than it sounded. Nothing ever happened around the Sharp family household. Some days, a stray mole-rat might pop out of the woods, but they were so easy to get rid of, Eliza gave up on killing them (The Sharps had made a makeshift spear out of deadwood to get rid of pests. They called it the "Sharp Thingy") and instead toyed with them, luring them away with bait, or trapping them with rocks. She even took to naming them; a habit frowned upon by her father.

She wished her father would teach her how to shoot. Every time she helped clean his guns, she always contemplated what it would be like to shoot something. To kill something. Her friend from school, Jake Sutter claimed he once shot a brahmin with his daddy's shotgun. "Shot one of the heads clean off!" he bragged to everyone in earshot. She secretly hated Jake Sutter; his family was rich, and hers was not. Ever since that day, she had wanted to learn how to shoot. She had made a point to bring it up with her father, but he was always too busy to listen.

Eliza hated the days when he went away. She wasn't allowed to go to school; he'd sent a note to her principal, excusing her from her studies when he was working. She was only allowed to go into town if absolutely necessary. Other than that, she was stuck up on their house in the hills.

She gave the wrench another strong turn. The pipes looked pretty tight. She pulled the lever. A rush of familiar, brown-tinged water came rushing through. She sighed in relief, running her hands under the stream. Nice and cold.

"Yes!" Eliza exclaimed, proud of herself.

"Well, ain't that nice," called a voice from behind her.

Eliza spun around quickly. Behind her were two men. Bandits, by the looks of it. She gulped. Nobody ever came up here. On a good day at least.

The first man was tall and lanky. He wore a dirty black coat over a gauche purple suit. He had a thick black mustache, and an ugly black top hat. Under his hat, Eliza spotted tufts of purple hair. A large revolver hung by his waist. The second man was a short, pot-bellied man who wore puke coloured overalls, worn over a filthy white shirt. In his hands, he carried a rather large knife. What Eliza most noticed about him right away was his smell. She was standing a fair distance away from him, and yet she could still distinguish the man's vile odor.

"Hey there, little miss," asked the purple-haired man.

"Hello mister," Eliza said, politely.

"You seem a little young to be all out here on your own. How old are you?"

"I'm ten."

The two men snickered. She raised an eyebrow.

"You're a pretty little thing. What's your name?" asked the smelly man.

"My name is Elizabeth Josie Sharp. But people call me Eliza," she said, frowning. She didn't like the look of these two. "What's your name?"

The purple-haired man gestured to his smelly friend. "This here is Bully Bogan. And they call me Purple Randy. You know why they call me Purple Randy?"

Eliza shook her head.

"They call me purple on account of my hair. And they call me Randy cause I'll fuck just about anything." The two men broke into laughter.

Eliza grimaced. She heard that word a lot: from her father mostly. She had never known it to be associated with anything good.

"We don't have much, but our water pump is working again, so we have plenty of water. Can I get you some to drink?" asked Eliza politely.

"No need for that. Is your momma home, Eliza Sharp?" asked Bully Bogan.

"My momma's dead. Radiation poisoning took her when I was young. Daddy buried her up on that hill," Eliza responded bluntly.

"Ain't that a crying shame" said Purple Randy, smirking. "And what about your daddy? Is your daddy home?"

She bit her lip. "My daddy's away working. He's a courier. He'll be back soon though."

"Oh Christ, Randall!" said Bogan, his voice broke into a whisper. "Ain't her daddy Albert fucking Sharp?"

"Quit worrying, he ain't around. Ain't that right little darling?" affirmed Randy, laughing. "You're all alone out here, aren't ya?"

Eliza dug her feet into the dirt. "He's coming back! Any minute now. So if you're tryna' rob us or anything-"

"Rob you? Oh no, not at all little miss!" snarled Bogan. "We just wanna get to know you, is all." The two men began to stalk dangerously closer to Eliza.

"I wanna know what you got under that pretty pink dress of yours."

"I don't got nothing under this dress," scolded Eliza.

"Oh I don't think so. You know what you got under that dress?"

Eliza shook her head once more.

"A ten-year old, pretty pink pussy," sneered Purple Randy. His friend cackled. "I think I want a piece of it."

Purple Randy suddenly grabbed Eliza's waist, while the other man grabbed her arms. Eliza let out a scream. She could feel their hands, ripping and tearing away at her clothes. She bit, kicked and screamed.

She heard Bogan squeal in piggish delight. The two men wrestled her to ground. Bogan grabbed her arms and held her down.

"Let go! Lemme go!" Eliza continued to struggle against the stranger's dirty hands. She watched in fear, as Purple Randy began to undo his belt.

"You a fighter, Eliza?" he asked. He brought his pants down. Eliza looked in horror at the thing in his legs. "I'll beat some sense into you!" he cackled. But suddenly, a voice called out from behind them.

"HEY!" It was a loud, barking voice. An angry, frightening voice. Eliza smiled.

It was her daddy's voice.

Purple Randy and Bully Bogan turned to look at the stranger behind them.

He was dressed head to toe in black, from his black boots to his black hat. He wore a thick duster over black armor, emblazoned with the shiny white image of a two-headed bear, made impeccably noticeable by years of thorough cleaning (Eliza liked that bear). His eyes were empty and soulless, and his hands were quick, ever-moving. A large gun was strapped to his side. His gaze was set straight on the bandits attacking his daughter.

Purple Randy didn't seem to recognize the danger in front of him.

"This ain't any of your business stranger. Keep walking," said Randy.

"This is my goddamn house. And that's my goddamn daughter," he snarled.

The color disappeared from Bogan's face. "Aw shit! It's Albert Sharp! I told you we shouldn'ta gone up this far-"

Eliza barely blinked as Bogan's sentence was cut short by a loud crack, as a round went straight through the man's throat. Blood shot out of the bandit's neck like a geyser, as Bogan fell to the ground, clutching at his fatal wound. She looked to her father, his gun suddenly in his hand. He pointed it at Purple Randy.

Purple Randy was now a pure shade of white. Fumbling, Randy aimed his gun at his attacker, letting out a shot in panic.

The bullet zipped into her father's arm, tearing a small hole in his duster. He really did love his duster. He took one look at the bullet hole, and looked back to Randy incredulously.

"Motherfucker!" he exclaimed.

Randy dropped his gun, his fingers paralyzed in fear. He held up his hands in surrender.

"N-now hold on, mister Sharp. I-I was just on my way, you needn't worry 'bout me no m-more!"

Her father reached into his jacket, pulling out his knife: the one that Eliza was never allowed to touch.

The bandit dropped to his knees. "P-please! I'll never come back I promise!" The outlaw spotted his gun on the ground. He made a motion to grab it, but was intercepted by Eliza, who quickly snatched it away. Eliza then brought the butt-end of the pistol down on Randy's face, who howled in pain, clutching his forehead.

Randy looked up. Above him stood the man with the large knife. He raised it above his head.

"P-please-"

Eliza looked away.

When it was all said and done, they didn't even bother to bury them.

Her father took each bandit in one arm, dragging them as if they were lifeless sacks of meat; which they now very well were. Eliza noticed that his left arm was bleeding heavily, but he didn't seem to notice.

He dragged them up over the hill, into the woods, where the colony of mole-rats lived. He told her to stay a far distance away, but she wanted to see what happened next.

The mole-rats and the Sharp family had a mutual understanding. The mole-rats left the Sharps alone, and the Sharps wouldn't kill them. While it was rather inconvenient to have such vermin close to home, it did offer some sort of "protection," so to speak. To any brave bandit who came through the woods looking to off one of the Sharps, they'd meet their grisly fate in a nest of hungry mole-rats.

The two made their way to a ridge, overlooking a small clearing- a pit. All around the walls of the pit were holes, large enough for a dog to crawl through. Tunnels, made by mole-rats. Eliza stared into the pit. Inside it, wrapped around the skeletalised arm of a dead raider, was a shiny, brown leather Pip-Boy. She recognized it on the arms of wealthy travelers, passing through to New Reno. Not even Jake had one. She eyed it greedily. Her father looked at her.

"Don't go in there," he warned.

"I won't," she pouted.

He flung the two bodies down into the pit. Eliza watched as the corpses comically tumbled down into the clearing. A minute or so passed by. Eliza looked at her father.

"Just wait. They'll smell 'em."

Sure enough, a few seconds later, out from a hole popped a single mole-rat. It was a large one, muscled and hairy. It's leathery skin stretched out over it's entire body. A distinguishing brown mark adorned its side.

"It's Mocha," Eliza said quietly.

"Mocha" carefully walked up to the two corpses lying in the clearing, sniffing at them. He took a bite, tearing off Bully Bogan's ear. As he chewed, he started to squeal, signalling to the rest of the family that dinner was on.

Suddenly, another mole-rat popped out from the ground. Then another. Then another, and another, and another, until there were dozens of mole-rats, swarming the bandits.

Eliza watched in fascination as the mole-rats went to work, stripping the flesh from their bones. She could barely make out the bodies under the tidal wave of pink, leathery, wriggly vermin. Eliza watched as Mocha took a huge chunk out of the smelly man's neck, leaving the head dangling from the body by a string, until it was torn away by the rodents. Another fat mole-rat came and dug itself between the Randy's legs, tearing off the disgusting thing with it's sharp teeth. She looked to her father.

"Why don't they ever come up and eat us?" she asked.

Her father stared emotionlessly at the macabre spectacle.

"Because if they ever did, I'd kill 'em," he replied.

He spat into the pit, which went unnoticed by the squirming creatures.

"Fuck 'em." And with that final statement, he turned and walked back towards the house.

Eliza took one last look into the pit. She watched as the blank-eyed face of Purple Randy was slowly torn apart. She spat into the pit.

"Fuck 'em," she said quietly to herself, as she ran off to rejoin her daddy.

Another fight. Another fresh new pair of scars for Eliza to treat.

Once they were inside their cabin, Eliza helped her father out of his armor. She looked at his chest. It was adorned with new wounds, scars and cuts. None more serious than the fresh bullet hole in his arm. He took a seat against the wall as Eliza retrieved the first-aid kit. He looked fatigued- he was pale and sweaty, and it looked like he hadn't eaten in awhile.

"Do we have Med-X?" he groaned, as she applied the tweezers to the wound.

"It doesn't look that bad. An' we don't have that much Med-X left," she said, clumsily trying to extract the bullet from his shoulder. He winced.

"I don't care. Get the Med-X," he said, taking a deep breath. "Your hands are shaking all to hell."

"Sorry," Eliza mumbled, as she got up to retrieve the medicine box from the bathroom.

Eliza had learned the basic fundamentals of first-aid a few years ago, back when her father came back from a particularly hard day of work. His leg had been shattered, as he had jumped off a particularly steep ridge while escaping the clutches of a band of raiders. He showed up to the house, wobbling and cursing, bleeding half to death. The femur had protruded his thigh; a thick, shining white bone, dripping in blood. He collapsed onto the floor, a few moments away from dying of shock. As he lay there, screaming his lungs out, Eliza frantically went to work. Working off an old physicians magazine, she sterilized the wound, created a makeshift splint, and properly administered painkillers. It was only due to Eliza's skills as a medic that he was able to hold on until she could run into town and fetch the surgeon. She was six.

"Hurry up!" he called. Eliza cursed under her breath. There was only one dose of Med-X left in the box.

"This is the last one we have," she told him, carefully applying the syringe to his arm. She slowly pushed down, administering the Med-X. Her dad's breathing slowed. He closed his eyes in relief.

"Thanks," he said, his voice sounding more steady. "What about whiskey? Are we out of that?"

"Uhm…" She got up and went to the kitchen. It was times like this she appreciated having a small house- it made her chores easier. Like retrieving daddy's alcohol. She opened their tiny fridge. It was dryer than the lake in the summer time.

"...No, no more whiskey."

"Shit," he breathed slowly. "Check the bottles. What do we have?"

Eliza carefully inspected the clinking glass bottles in the back of their dirty fridge.

"There's beer...something called "B'kardy"...an' there's this clear glass bottle of water…"

"What does the label say?"

"...Ab-slut Vodka."

"That's the one. Bring it here," he said, beckoning her closer.

Eliza sighed, and pulled out the glass bottle. It was half full, and warm. The fridge hadn't been working properly for weeks. She handed the bottle to her father.

"Thank you," he said, taking it graciously. "And it's pronounced 'Absolute'," he said, twisting off the cap, and putting the bottle to his mouth. He burped.

"Then why's there no 'E'?" she asked.

"I don't know," he admitted, taking another swig. He offered the bottle to her. Eliza recoiled.

"That stuff tastes yucky," she said, grimacing at the bottle. She never tried that particular one before, but all of dad's bottles had a similar, unpleasant taste.

"You don't drink it for the taste," he said. "Your hands shaking like crazy. You keep doing that and the bullets likely to sink deeper into me. I need you stable."

Eliza's face distorted unsuredly. Her father's voice softened.

"Just a little bit. Come on," he said, comfortingly.

She grabbed the bottle.

The vodka made Eliza's hands steady, but it also made her feel sick. She had successfully extracted the bullet, and she had managed to staunch the bleeding. Her father's arm was now nicely wrapped up in thick white bandages ("You saved us a trip to the Doctor, huh?"). Now, however, Eliza was feeling rather ill. Her head was spinning and her tummy ached a little. Her father told her to lie down.

He too, was experiencing some slight dizziness, from the mixture of painkillers and alcohol. He sat up against the wall, head up, eyes closed, breathing softly.

Eliza buried herself in the couch pillows. Her head felt very warm, she thought. She felt ill, but at the same time, strangely energetic. She nudged her father.

"I don't feel good," she said, poking him.

"Mm," he grunted.

She poked him again. "I don't feel good," she repeated.

He tisked. "It's just the vodka. Sleep it off. You'll feel better in the morning," he said slowly.

Eliza shook her head. "No I won't. Whenever you drink that stuff, you always wake up cranky."

"Will you shut up?" he asked, annoyed. He closed his eyes once more.

"Daddy? What's a 'pussy'?" she asked him.

"It's that thing between your legs. Don't ever say that word again."

"Oh. Cause Purple Randy said he wanted a piece of it. Why'd he want a piece of it?"

"Who the fuck is Purple Randy?" asked her father angrily.

Eliza made a small head motion towards the woods behind her. Her father sighed.

"Because some people are fucking evil, alright?"

"Is it 'bout 'sex?'" she asked.

"How you know about that?"

"Jake Sutter told me."

Her father grumbled. "I'm gonna stop sending you to that fucking school…"

"I'm hungry," Eliza whined.

"We don't have any food," he snapped.

She groaned. Her stomach rumbled disappointingly, as the notion of a hot meal evaporated. She heard her father sigh.

"Look, tomorrow morning, I'll take you into town, and I'll buy you a new dress. Then afterwards, we can go get breakfast, okay?"

Her eyes lit up. "Milo's?" she asked. Milo's Bar and Diner was Eliza's favorite restaurant in town. On the off days they could afford to eat there, Milo was always ready to serve them. He had a nice smile. He gave her extra syrup on her pancakes.

"Sure. You can get some of those…what are they called? The thing you like?"

"Pancakes," she said dreamily. "Are you sure we can eat at Milo's?"

"Mhm," her father grunted. "I'm getting paid tomorrow."

"Oh, good. Cause we also need to buy more Med-X an' more whiskey, an' a new dress."

Eliza carefully played with the loose string on the couch. The ache in her tummy was beginning to dissipate.

"Can I be a courier like you? When I'm older?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow at her. "Why do you want to be a courier?"

She shrugged. "You get to go places. See a lot of stuff."

"There ain't a lot of 'stuff' worth seeing these days, sweetheart," he laughed softly. "Ain't worth the trouble. Be a doctor. You're good at it."

"I don't wanna be a doctor."

"Well, you're damn sure not going to be no courier," he replied curtly.

Eliza shifted in her couch. "Jake Sutter says that his daddy used to be a courier. Said his daddy had the fastest gun in all of California."

"Sutter? The fucking mayor's kid?"

"Uh-huh!"

"Tell your friend he's a fucking moron, and that his daddy's an even bigger moron." He spat into the ground. "He was never a fucking courier."

"How do you know?" Eliza asked.

Her father's reply was tinged with venom: "No fucking 'politician' could do what I do. Least of all, Bill fucking Sutter. Any junkie with a pistol could kill three Bill Sutters."

"Okay…" said Eliza. A few awkward moments of silence went by. Then, a thought wormed it's way inside Eliza's head.

"Daddy?" she asked innocently. "Will you teach me how to shoot?"

"No," he said, not even opening his eyes.

"Pleaseee?" Eliza begged. "It'll be easy! I already know 'bout all the types of bullets, an' I can use the small gun that you keep behind the bed, an'-"

His eyes shot open. "How do you know about that gun?" he barked. Eliza jumped a bit.

"...Found it."

"Listen to me," he said, looking her in the eyes. "You don't touch my guns, understand?

Eliza pouted immediately. "Why not?" she whined. "Jake Sutter said-"

"Shut the fuck up about Jake fucking Sutter," her father snapped. "I'm not teaching you to shoot."

Angered, Eliza stomped the flimsy wall behind her. The entire house seemed to shake.

"I hate you! You never let me do anything!" she yelled.

His laughter did nothing to cease her ire. "Shit, my daughter's a mean drunk. I feel sorry for your future husband."

"You're the worst dad ever!" she cried.

He stopped laughing. He turned to look at her. She looked back at him defiantly. Some days, she could get away with small things. Other days, however, he'd use his belt. She didn't care. Her eyes never broke with his. Her father opened his mouth to speak. Eliza braced herself.

"I know," he said. Having said that, her father then promptly fell asleep.

#iwillneverfinishthis #fallout #newvegas #fnv #fnvoc #courier six #fanfic #fanfiction #osweetdaughtermine #saintworthit

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