#something old and forgotten and supposed dead coming back to fucking Get You

[celtic-crossbow]

But Put Together, the Cracks We’ll Close In

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader

Setting: Early Alexandria

Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; mentions of past child abuse; mentions of suggested abortion; blood and injury

Summary: Fresh into Alexandria, Daryl meets his match in a two year little girl and slowly loses his heart to her mother. You.

A/N: Based on the request/headcanon from @louifaith Just a couple of things. The child is described as in hair and eye color. Nothing is mentioned of reader so these traits could come from her father. There is also the mention of an “Eskimo kiss.” I grew up using that term but I’m not sure if it is offensive or PC nowadays. please feel free to send me a message if I need to change it. It is not my intention to be offensive to anyone! Also, sorry if anyone likes Spencer. He's always my go to asshole.

“S’that?”

Daryl felt the opossum sway in his grip, looking down with a scowl firmly plastered at the bright eyes returning his gaze, brimming with curiosity. She was a toddler, maybe two years old? Christ, someone had a toddler in this mess. “Dinner.” He grunted, pulling the dead animal out of her reach. He found out quickly that the curious little creature would not be deterred so easily. Standing on her tip-toes, she made a grab for the marsupial. “Knock it off.” He huffed and took a step back, bumping into Carol.

“Daryl, she’s a child. Don’t be such a grump.”

“Ain’t you got a mama—family to get back to?” He snapped, ignoring his best friend. The little girl’s eyes brightened.

“Mama! Mama!” She clapped. Daryl rolled his eyes at her enthusiasm.

“Yeah, go get ‘er.” There was an intense sigh of relief when the little human went running (waddling?) out of sight. “They got kids here.” 

“Yes, Daryl. That’s what that was.” Carol nudged him playfully. “The people seem to think they’re safe here. It gives me the creeps.” He nodded but didn’t comment. “They obviously don’t know what’s going on out there, not like we do. I think we need to be cautious here. Find a way to fit in but keep our guard up, you know?”

Daryl snorted. “Yeah, good luck with that. Ain’t got no intention of tryin’ to fit in with these folks. Livin’ in a fuckin’ fairytale here. Ain’t gonna last.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine.” Sasha clapped him on the shoulder as she passed, earning yet another grunt. 

“Mama, here!”

Oh dear god, no. “S’back.” The hunter stated flatly.

“Oh, and she brought a friend.” Sure enough, the little girl was dragging you along, tugging incessantly at your hand as if the child had found the world’s most priceless treasure. “You did tell her to ‘go get her.’”

“Nadia, slow down!”

And slow down, she did. Right in front of a scowl-wearing redneck with a bleeding opossum in his grasp.

“Mama, dinner! Dorl dinner.”

Dorl?!? Daryl looked helplessly over to where Carl was carrying Judith, the little light of his life. Would this be what she was like as she grew up? She already knew him, loved him despite how broken and hopeless he was. She would laugh at him if he was ranting about something and hold out those chubby little hands and he was done for, whatever had irritated him was forgotten.

But this child? This wasn’t his lil’ asskicker. 

Daryl liked kids but he liked them from a distance. He had no business being around them, save for Carl and Judith. I wish I could have known Sophia. He wouldn’t bother getting to know anyone in this place. It’d burn like every other home they had anyway. 

“Dorl, huh?” You smiled.

“Daryl.” He replied flatly, his lip curling.

“I’m Y/N. I assume Aaron found your group?” 

He didn’t answer, too occupied with trying to continuously move away from the small child clumsily reaching for his knife sheath. “Stop that.” He barked, expecting the kid to balk. She did quite the opposite and wrapped her tiny arms around his leg, just below his knee. What the fuck was he supposed to do now? Shake her off? Of course not. She might get hurt. While he really didn’t want to be touched, he couldn’t help but feel like it was somehow his job to make sure this kid wasn’t hurt. “Can ya—would ya—?” Shoulders slumped, he didn’t even gesture. You know what he was asking.

Chuckling, you reached down and gently pried the little girl loose. “Nadia, you’re supposed to ask before hugs, remember?”

“Hug Dorl.” The dark-headed child pouted.

That was his cue to step away, as quickly as possible, without running. He absolutely did not run. 

When you looked up, he was already gone, lost in the middle of his group as they headed in to surrender weapons and be interviewed by Deanna.

Daryl sat on the now red-stained porch, prepping his kill for cooking later. Carol had scolded him and made him promise to use the backyard going forward, but he doubted they would be there long enough for him to need the area. It was just the way the world was. Nice places like this could never last.

“Dorl dinner!” 

Jesus take the wheel. “Ya need a bell.” He grunted, looking around for you. “An’ apparently a leash.” Maybe if he ignored her, she would go find you. But what if she wandered off alone and somehow made it out of the gates? Shit. “Sit down, gremlin.”

She giggled and patted her chunky hands against her chest. “Nada.”

Daryl stopped moving and stared for a moment. Wasn’t that Spanish? Maybe? Wait. You had called her Nadia. Maybe that’s what she was trying to say. “Nadia?” Blue eyes squinted in wait.

Nadia bounced and nodded and then pointed at him. “Dorl! Dorl, Nada!”

He released his knife and leaned his elbow against his knee, the heel of his hand pressing into his forehead. “Dare-ul.” He tried.

“Dooorl.”

“Oh, for fucksake.” The archer gave up, picking up his knife and continuing with his task. Nadia didn’t even seem to notice what he was doing but leaned in closely with the most serious look he’d ever seen. He needed to lean back once she made it much too far into his personal space.

“Fucksy.” She said, maintaining eye contact as if she were challenging him. 

“No! Don’t say that. Can’t be teachin’ ya sh—stuff like that!” He panicked, opossum forgotten. Daryl threw back his head with a groan. “Can’tcha please just go to your mama?”

Nadia’s little face lit up and off she went with a chorus of mama mama mama. Watching her go, Daryl wondered where the little one’s father was, but soon banished the thought. It was none of his business. What was his business was to make sure the annoying curtain-climber made it home safely. Abandoning his dinner—no time to cover it if he was going to catch up—he walked briskly until he caught sight of her. Little legs can fuckin’ move. We’re fucked when Jude learns to walk. 

He stayed close, but far back enough to not catch her attention. She seemed to know exactly where she was going. Rounding the curb to the end of the street, he caught sight of the small house. Quaint compared to the other homes. The front door was open but he dared not go closer. Boots firmly planted on the sidewalk, he observed the struggle of a tiny human tackling front porch steps. Nadia was determined though. Had he chosen to help, he was certain she would give him that serious look again and yell at him in baby-speak.

“Nadia Avery, how do you keep getting out the door!” 

Maybe cause you leave it open? He suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. 

Regardless, there you were, swooping down to gather the bundle into your arms with a couple of sobs and more than a few sniffles. “Baby, you have to stop doing that! You scare mommy.” Nadia was nuzzling your jaw but then suddenly pointed right at him. 

“Dorl got Nada.”

When your eyes found his own, Daryl froze. His arms were out to his sides, his eyes wide. He looked nothing short of a deer caught in the sights of his crossbow when it realized it’s about to be shot. “I—uh, kid found me.” Forcing himself to relax a fraction, he rubbed at the back of his neck. “Didn’t want ‘er wand’rin’ ‘round by herself.” 

Your face softened into a grateful smile. “Thank you for making sure she got home.” He nodded curtly and you turned away, only to turn back in the same motion. “Would you like to come inside? I have some stew that I’m heating. Plenty for the three of us.”

A part of him that he didn’t know existed wanted to immediately accept the offer but the part of him that had kept him alive this long spoke louder. “Nah, got my own dinner I need to take care’a. Thanks, though.”

You nodded, the smile never faltering. “Think of it as a standing invitation. Nadia seems to like you. She’s a good judge of character.”

He snorted. “Alright.”

“Goodnight, Daryl.”

“Night.” He took two steps.

“Nigh’ nigh’, Dorl!” 

He heard the sound of a kiss being blown his way, but didn’t turn around. Maybe if he ignored her, she’d go away.

It had been three days since he had last seen you or Nadia. He found that it unsettled him but not enough to go looking. Aaron had gifted him a work area and parts to build himself a bike. It was the best thing anyone could have offered him at that point. He felt like he still wasn’t fitting in, and while that was the idea at first, now it just felt…lonely. 

Carol was always gone when he got up and not home yet when we retired to bed. Rick and Michonne couldn’t stay out of the bedroom for more than five minutes unless something ‘coppy’ needed to be handled. Carl was always outside with Jude in the nice weather. 

Daryl was alone. Though he usually preferred it that way, he couldn’t seem to shake the negativity it seemed to bring to the surface. 

Spending time around something familiar from the old world came to be a comfort. When the posh little community with its “good morning” while walking the dog and laughter over coffee at the gazebo became too much for Daryl, he disappeared into Aaron’s garage. Aaron and his husband seemed okay in the archer’s book. They never once stared at him like he was going to rob them blind or beat them to a pulp. They showed him kindness even if his only attempts at conversation consisted of nods and grunts. 

“You going to this party tonight?” Aaron asked from the doorway the led into the house from the garage. 

“Nah.” Daryl picked up a wrench and continued his work, not giving the question a proper thought. 

“You really should make an effort to get to know more people here.” 

“They don’t like me. Shouldn’t, really.” The archer shrugged. 

“They just don’t know you. Maybe you should give them a chance.” Aaron kept his persuasion in the doorway. He had gifted Daryl that space and was unwilling to step into it without an invitation he was unlikely to receive without asking. 

“Better they don’t know me.”

There was a sigh that made Daryl curl his lip. “Just think about it, okay?” The shuffle of feet and the door opening signaled the other man’s exit. 

Why should Daryl go? He had little interest in fitting in, even when his own group was making such an effort. Carol and Rick were wary and had whatever it was they had but Carol would tell him if she felt it necessary. Daryl was just plain wary, utterly uninterested. Most of them would likely be dead soon and he didn’t need anyone else to mourn. 

So why he found himself showered and in a fresh set of clothing that was his own form of presentable was absolutely beyond him. It had nothing to do with the fact that on his walk home, he thought maybe you’d be at the party. Nope, nothing like that. 

He had made it at least to the yard outside, watching the festivities through the window. Everyone he knew seemed so at ease in there. Dressed up, laughing and drinking. Mingling like they belonged there. He didn’t belong there. 

“Nah.” He said softly before turning away. He was passing by Aaron’s house when a call of his name from that familiar voice had him stopping with a sigh. “Yeah?”

“You went. Good for you. Did you have a good time?” Aaron asked from the porch. Daryl shrugged. The man’s eyes narrowed and suddenly the archer was nervous, feeling judged. “You didn’t go in, did you?”

Daryl shook his head. “Just ain’t my thing.”

“Hey, you tried.”

“Why didn’t you go?” That wasn’t supposed to sound so accusatory but Daryl was tired and had simply had his fill of the day and that place. 

“Eric’s ankle is still giving him trouble. We just thought it best to skip out on this one.”

This one? Christ. That insinuated there would be more. With an inward groan, he answered outwardly with a grunt. 

“We’ve got dinner ready. More than can feed us. Can we tempt you?” The offer was sincere and Daryl was hungry, but his battery was running on fumes. He glanced toward his own home and then back at Aaron. “Eric makes a mean spaghetti, man. Come on, you’re already out.”

Daryl sighed. “Fine.” He was grateful for the invitation, he just sucked at showing it, as with almost every other emotion. Aaron held open the door and with a nod, the archer entered, still ill at ease being inside someone else’s home when his own still felt less than comfortable. 

“Dorl.”

Before he could prepare himself, Nadia was latching onto his lower legs. Arms out awkwardly, he glared at Aaron. “Didn’t say she was here.”

The man just shrugged a shoulder. “Didn’t say she wasn’t either.”

“Hi, Daryl!” You came around the corner from the dining room, no doubt to gather your spawn but he couldn’t seem to form a thought around the smile you were giving him. 

“Mama! Dorl!”

“I can see that, baby. You think you can let go so that he can walk?” Nadia shook her head with a vicious pout. 

“Dorl up?”

“What?” He looked down at the toddler and back up at you, silently hoping you’d act as translator for the little gremlin. 

“She wants you to pick her up. You don’t—”

For reasons unbeknownst to even him, he bent down and placed his hands beneath Nadia’s arms, lifting her onto his hip. It felt no different than holding Judith. Nadia was heavier of course. 

“Dorl!” Chubby arms wrapped around his neck, her little cheek rubbing against his stubbled one. “Tickle.” She giggled like it was the funniest thing in the world and repeated the action. 

You were still smiling but much more softly. “She really likes you.” Daryl grunted. “You don’t say much, do you?”

“Ain’t gotta lot to say.” He shrugged the shoulder Nadia’s chin was resting on, sending her into another fit of giggles. She pulled back suddenly, very in his space and then pressed her face against his cheek. He flinched but otherwise didn’t move. There was the smallest flutter that tickled his skin before she reared back again, smiling proudly. “What—”

“Butterfly kisses.” You informed, arms crossed but your smile hidden behind your hand. 

“What the fu—heck’s that?” 

“Oh come on, you never gave your mom butterfly kisses?” You chuckled. 

Daryl felt nauseous at the mention of his mother. The only thing he’d shared with her were bruises and a few after-beating hugs. But you didn’t know him. He took the anger and locked it down, but it must have spilled into his expression. 

“I’m sorry.” Your smile was gone, but to his surprise (and relief), there was no pity in your eyes. Only understanding. Still, it wasn’t a subject he cared to let linger. 

He turned his attention to the child, who had developed a sudden interest in the hair over his ears. “Ya ever gave a Eskimo kiss?” He almost laughed out loud when Nadia’s eyes flew wide with wonder. She didn’t confirm or deny but the fact that she hadn’t moved was answer enough. “S’simple.” Daryl brought a hand up to the back of her head and gently urged her forward, rubbing the tip of his nose over hers. “There. Eskimo kiss.”

She kept those wide eyes as her little mouth began to spread open into one of the biggest smiles he’d ever seen on a kid, granted he hadn’t spent much time around any. 

“Again!” She squealed, grabbing his cheeks and pulling him forward. He expected to have a bloody nose from the force with which she came at him, but her movements became deliberate and gentle, as if getting it right was the most important thing in the world. 

Nadia was incredibly pleased with herself, her little hands patting against Daryl’s chest before she wiggled out her request for freedom and sprinted toward the dining room with this newfound information to share with Eric and Aaron. 

“Careful.” You said, though there was no hint of anything unkind in your tone. When he looked away from the other room, he found your expression to be one he couldn’t seem to identify. It was soft yet guarded. He didn’t move away when you reached a single hand out to adjust his vest. “You’re smiling.” And you walked away, leaving him there to realize that he was indeed wearing a small, lopsided grin. 

He shook it off with a groan, absolutely regretting his decision to come in for dinner. 

“Dorl!” Came the loud shout from the table. “Dorl, sketti!”

This was not going to end well. 

It had been two weeks since the spaghetti dinner, which in fact had ended rather pleasantly. Aside from your giggles when he realized he was eating his meal with the same gusto and manners as the toddler next to him, Aaron had offered him a job that let him go outside the walls. He’d accepted almost immediately. 

Little Nadia had been determined to take him home with them, so he walked you there with her tiny hand in his. Halfway, she had begun to tire and fuss, instinct had kicked in and he scooped her up in the same manner he would Judith. The child was asleep on his shoulder almost instantly. 

He had zero intention of entering your home and was thankful the kid was out cold so that she couldn’t initiate the suggestion. He had passed her off to you and started to leave. 

“Daryl.” You had called quietly. He still wasn’t sure why he had turned back to you so quickly. “That invitation is still open.” You smiled, he grunted. “Thanks for being so sweet with her. Goodnight.”

There had been a heavy feeling in his chest but he had nodded. “G’night.”

Now, you and little Nadia were almost a constant presence when he wasn’t beyond the wall. A presence that he found no longer really irritated him. 

He would sit on the porch with the kid, working on his crossbow while Nadia colored or played with toys. He had to find her some of her own to have there because it seemed she and Judith were at odds about Daryl’s attention. He had made the mistake of lifting lil’ asskicker out of her playpen while Nadia was on his heels and the latter had begun to wail. 

He had quickly passed Jude off to an equally concerned Michonne and scooped up the kid. “S’wrong? Hey.” Little arms wrapped around his neck and, though he didn’t see the angry pout directed at the other baby, Michonne did. He turned at her chuckle, eyes wide and confused. 

Before she could explain, those little arms squeezed harder. “My Dorl.”

From that moment on, he saved time with Judith for emergencies (there were none) and for after Nadia had gone home with you. 

“Don’t touch that, Dia.” Daryl huffed, catching her little hand reaching for the knife he had on the porch table. He had spent the morning skinning a few squirrels for Carol to use in a stew but was at that point, working on the tension on his bow. 

And babysitting. 

You had some inventory to do at the infirmary with Pete. The doctor gave him bad vibes so when you had asked, he’d accepted all too quickly. Even offered to tag along and keep an eye on the kid there. In the end, after you had politely declined, he had reasoned that you were a grown woman and could handle yourself. 

“Babysitting, again, hmm?” 

Daryl glanced up from his crossbow toward Carol on the top step, Nadia already beaming up at her from the hug around her waist. It lasted all of three seconds before the kid was back to her toys beside Daryl’s boot. 

“Mhm.” Was the only answer he offered, one that was mimicked from the little person below him. He didn’t smile but Carol didn’t miss the way his eyes left the weapon to regard Nadia for a moment before returning to the task.

“Where’s Y/N?” She asked, plopping down onto the other chair. She grabbed a toy that had rolled away and handed it back to the child.

“Some inventory shit at the infirmary.” Daryl shrugged, rotating the bow to check his work. Carol made a noise that gave him pause, one he didn’t like. “What?”

“No one’s at the infirmary. I was just there for Mr. Henderson’s blood pressure medication.” 

He could feel his heartrate picking up, a sense of foreboding so strong that he could barely think straight. “Pete weren’t there?”

Carol shook her head. “No one.” She sat up straight when Daryl stood, sheathing his knife and placing his crossbow on the railing. “Daryl?”

“Dia, I’m gonna be right back. You’re gonna stay with Carol for a few minutes. Tell me the rules.” 

Nadia’s wide eyes narrowed into seriousness. “No bow. No move. Be good. No shit.” It took her a moment to babble through the small list but Daryl ruffled her hair with the smallest of half smiles.

“No shit, Daryl?”

He was already stepping off the porch. “Her mama hears ‘er sayin’ that an’ m’a dead man.”

Carol laughed and shook her head, turning her attention to the little human that was already working up to a cry as Daryl walked out of sight. “Do you like cookies, Nadia?”

He checked the infirmary first. He didn’t doubt Carol, but maybe she had missed a room or something. It was, as Carol had said, empty. “Fuck.” The next most logical place would be your home. He ran the entire way. He’d feel like an absolute fool if you were fine, but he’d cross that bridge later. The door was open, he could see that from the moment he rounded the curb. You had a habit of doing that and he hated it, but who was he to tell you what to do?

“Y/N?” He took your steps two at a time and stopped on the threshold. “Y/N? Are ya here?” No answer. He felt like shit the moment his boot touched the floor inside. He’d never taken you up on an invitation for the dinner you continuously offered him, much less any offer to simply come inside. Now here he was tearing room to room, in your safe space. There were covered pots on the stove and the oven was on, but where were you? “Y/N!” He placed a booted foot on the bottom stair before your voice stunned him frozen.

“Daryl?”

He nearly collapsed in relief.

“What’s wrong? Where’s Nadia? Daryl?”

“She’s fine. She’s with Carol.” He rasped, sheathing his knife when he saw you staring at it. Your hair was wet, your clothes damp. You must have been in the shower. “M’sorry. Carol said ya weren’t at the—just got worried. M’sorry.” His eyes had lowered to the stairs below you but then your bare feet were padding down them to stop directly in front of him. “I’ll, uh—lemme go get ‘er.” He had barely moved before your hand was on his shoulder. To his shock, he didn’t flinch; didn’t even have the urge.

“Are you okay?” You asked, ducking your head to seek out his gaze. He continued to expertly dodge.

“M’fine. Just—I’ll go get Dia.” He stepped away and out of the loose grip you had on him, immediately missing the warmth of your hand. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I was making us dinner.” The words rushed out of you, like you were trying to get them out before he could leave. Daryl looked over his shoulder from the doorway, an eyebrow arched. “Us. Me, Nadia, and—well, you.”

“Me? Why?” He hadn’t meant to sound so unkind, ungrateful, but that was just who he was down deep, wasn’t it? Still, you seemed unbothered, your nervousness born of something else entirely.

“Because Nadia likes you. I like you. We’d like to spend time with you that doesn’t involve me asking for favors or the entire community leering and making assumptions.”

He still hadn’t fully turned, but narrowed his eyes. “Think they ain’t gonna make assumptions when ya have me in your house?”

“Fair point.” You nodded, chuckling. “Honestly, I don’t give a fuck what they think but I worry that you do.” Head tilted, Daryl turned but remained in the doorway. “You seem so private, quiet. I don’t want to do anything that makes you uncomfortable.” Your bottom lip disappeared between your teeth for a moment. “So, will you come? Please?”

As much as he tried, he couldn’t sense a single ounce of dishonesty or ill intent in you. It was certainly there, wasn’t it? No one outside of the group that had grown to like him over months of death and sorrow wanted anything to do with him. So, why you? Why Nadia? “Alright, I’ll go get ‘er an’ be back.” He turned and took a step before you called out again.

“Don’t worry about changing or anything. Just bring you, okay?”

He nodded around the very foreign flutter in his chest, clearing his throat and leaving the house before he could overthink things right there in front of you. He’d be able to do that in abundance on the way to grab the kid. 

To say he was confused was the largest of understatements. You were a beautiful woman. Where was Nadia’s father? In that world, the absence usually meant he was either dead or had willingly left, which he couldn’t fathom either. Was the kid the reason all the single men weren’t knocking down your door? That couldn’t be it. Nadia was amazing, all bright smiles and such an innocence that was refreshing in a world as dark it was. 

Even if you did have suitors, why were you taking the time to get to know him? He was damn sure nothing special and had nothing to offer you. Daryl growled at himself. He was jumping the gun. You hadn’t expressed any real interest in him. You wanted to have dinner. Aaron and Eric had him over for dinner all the time. It was what friends did. He was your friend after all. He had to be for you to trust him with Nadia. He snorted. Maybe that was all the brat’s doing and you were just along for the ride. 

His shoulders were slumped, feet dragging by the time he made it back to his house, already opening his arms in expectation of the bundle of Nadia that would be leaping into them any moment. “Dorl!” 

“She was about to strap on your crossbow and come find you herself.” Carol teased from the doorway. 

“I was barely gone twenty minutes, kid.” He nodded to Carol and turned back to take Nadia home. “Your mama’s at home makin’ something for supper. Ya hungry?”

“Mmmmhmmmm!” Little legs were swinging while bright eyes watched the street in front of them, her arms loosely around his neck, trusting him to not let her fall. And he would never. Daryl craned his head to look at her, all dark hair and big blue eyes. She could pass as his own kid to anyone who didn’t know better. 

Whoa. That train of that was roughly derailed. 

Easily done when the top of her head leaned against his temple and she began to hum some tune he didn’t know. It calmed his anxiety enough to not eat him from the inside out before he made it back to your house. Nadia was wiggling to be lowered before he could even get her to the steps. Much to her annoyance (if her little growl and pout were anything to go by), he didn’t place her on her feet until they were on the porch.

The door was still open and, man, he really wanted you to stop doing that.

“Mama!” Nadia squealed, running right into your arms.

“Hi, baby! Did you have fun with Daryl today?” You hefted her onto your hip, your face turned toward hers even though your smile was aimed at the archer.

“We always have fun.” He was close enough to ruffle the kid’s hair without invading your space.

“No shit!” Nadia proclaimed with her arms in the air. You were smiling but your eyebrows shot up toward your hairline. Daryl cleared his throat.

“M’a tell Carol to watch ‘er mouth.”

“Carol. Right.” You chuckled. You started to reach for his arm but must have thought better of it and motioned toward the dining room instead. He found he was disappointed. “Go ahead and sit down wherever. There’s some wine and water already there.”

Daryl liked wine. He’d partake when at Aaron and Eric’s for dinner but here? He wasn’t sure that was such a good idea. The table could seat six but there were three places set, the middle chair holding a booster seat. He didn’t sit, wouldn’t until you did. Instead he noticed how close the glasses of wine were sitting to Nadia’s place and took the liberty of moving each of them to the other side. Not that the kid would bother them but it just felt—right?

“Alright, kiddo. You get to eat first.” You weren’t carrying Nadia anymore but she was right behind you, looking up at the bowl of pasta like a pup that was about to get its kibble. Daryl was already lifting the kid into her seat when you turned from placing the bowl on the table. “Thank you.” You did touch his arm then. “Go ahead and sit. I’ll be right back.”

Nadia had apparently chosen his spot for him, patting the back of the chair to her left. Chewing on the side of his thumb, he glanced toward the kitchen. Wasn’t he supposed to pull your chair out for you or something? Aaron had. 

“No, no, Dorl.” Nadia pulled at his elbow, earning a halfhearted scowl before he realized she was trying to get him to stop the anxious habit.

“Sorry.” He mumbled, not sure why he was apologizing when she just went back to dancing and eating once he had dropped his hand. He watched her for a moment, just being a kid, innocent and oblivious to the dangers and heartache that lay in wait just outside of Alexandria’s protective walls. She and you—just two more people for him to mourn in the end. What was he doing there? He had no business being in your lives. If he didn’t lose the two of you, then you would lose him. It was inevitable. It was fate. It was the way the world worked now, tirelessly snuffing out any semblance of light that could give someone like him hope.

And goddamnit, he’d be devastated. He adored your kid and though he couldn’t quite decipher what it was that he felt for you, he knew that if anything happened to you, he’d shatter. 

“Daryl?”

“What?” He snapped out of reflex, not fully out of his head before he had realized you were speaking. You flinched, the pasta in the two bowls you were holding bounced but didn’t spill. “M’sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it. Are you okay?” The bowls were placed on the table and a basket of fresh bread that he hadn’t noticed you had already brought out. How long had he been standing there?

“Yeah, uh—yeah, m’fine.” He shifted his weight from foot to foot, suddenly feeling very trapped in the small room. It wasn’t really that small, was it? “M’just—” He didn’t finish before he all but ran to the door, closing it behind him like he really wished you would start doing. He had a cigarette lit within seconds, trembling fingers bringing it to his lips for a long drag. 

Pale light from inside cascaded around him as the door opened. You didn’t move any closer, obviously staying near Nadia while the little girl ate. “You okay?”

“Mhm.” Lie. 

“Come back inside?” You requested after glancing toward Nadia, finding her eating her pasta elegantly with her fingers. Daryl said nothing, wasn’t even sure he could, but he flicked his cigarette toward the sidewalk and stood, walking past you with but a beat of hesitance. 

Despite Nadia’s excitement at his return, he remained quiet, but offered the kid a ghost of a smile when she offered a bite of her own food. Disgruntled at his refusal, she wore her own version of a scowl and continued to eat. You had taken your seat, giving the bread basket a tiny shove toward the archer.

“Thanks.” He mumbled. He wasn’t sure how to act around you anymore. Staring at his food, he questioned whether the way he usually ate might disgust you. It was never something he actively thought about. He grew up in a home where he snatched what he could get and ate it quickly before someone could take it or reprimand him for it. It was nearly the same now that the world had ended. Thankful for any scrap of food, but quick to make sure it was gone before someone came ready to fight for it.

“If you think any louder, I might be able to hear it.” 

Daryl glanced up, unable to meet your eyes. You were swirling the wine around in the glass with your gaze settled on him. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s just dinner, Daryl.” 

With a barely there nod, he picked up his fork and began to eat, slowly and carefully, not noticing the way you watched him with a quizzical expression.

Nadia was having a hard time keeping her head up by the time dinner was finished, her little eyes closing before snapping open with a jerk of her head. 

“Time for bed.” You announced, attempting to wipe her face around languid movements of annoyance. “Come on, baby.” Lifting her from the chair, you tilted your head when she leaned her upper body back toward Daryl, reaching out with lazy, grabby hands.

“Dorl night night.”

Halfway out of his seat, he froze. “Think ya should, uh—your mama should handle this’un, Dia.” She didn’t seem to have it in her to argue, flopping onto your shoulder. You managed to hold up a finger, asking him to wait while you put Nadia to bed. He did, but busied himself gathering the dishes, taking them to the sink, and rinsing them out as Carol had trained him to do. “Wow, my very own human dishwasher. Can I keep you?”

Daryl felt the heat rise in his face, traveling down to his chest and up to the tips of his ears. “Stop.” God, you were just as bad as Carol.

“Daryl.” 

Oh, boy. Your tone had gone from playful to serious in two seconds flat. His stomach was in knots but he dared not turn around and rinsed the same bowl at least three times. “Hmm?”

“I’d like to see, uh—I’d like it if you'd come around more often. Tonight was—it was nice.”

And there it was. The one thing that had caused him so much inner turmoil now confirmed. You were interested and, for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. When he finally managed to get his tongue to work, the words that spilled out were nothing like the ones running through his head and he regretted them immediately. “Where’s Dia’s daddy?” Christ, Dixon. “M’sorry.” He tried to backpedal, finally turning toward you and leaning back against the sink with a white-knuckled grip against the edge of the countertop. “Ain’t my business.”

“Gone. I don’t really give a fuck where.” You shrugged, so nonchalantly that he had to look at you. “He didn’t want her. Nearly got himself killed finding pills for me to take. I refused, he left. But I have her and I hope he’s a walker.” Your gaze was fond but serious, and he found not a single trace of annoyance or anger. “She’s never really liked men. Even Aaron and Eric had to coax her inside for dinner with a stale candybar.” You laughed at the memory, and Daryl realized he could listen to that sound for the rest of his life. “But then you. She wasn’t afraid, not for a single second.”

“It was the ‘possum.” He shrugged, shyly ducking his head for only a moment but looking back up through his fringe when you laughed again.

“Okay, we can go with that.” You lifted yourself up onto the island, kicking your legs, reminding him of Nadia. “Doesn’t really explain why she stuck to you like glue every moment since then, though. Dorl this and Dorl that. I’m not complaining. You’re good for her.” Daryl scoffed, ducking his head once more. “You are, Daryl. And I think she might be good for you too.”

“She’s a kid. Don’t know no better.” He shrugged, the urge to run becoming more and more prevalent. He didn’t belong there. It wasn’t his family. Nadia wasn’t his kid and you weren’t his. God, he wished you were.

You hummed, holding back something. “I had fun tonight, but when you come back, don't worry so much about what I think, okay?” The way he tried to eat more slowly?

“Yeah, okay. Was nice. Thanks, uh—thanks for havin’ me.” The archer made the choice to pass you and head for the door. Your bare feet hit the floor just behind him. “I’ll see ya ‘round. Lemme know if ya need someone to watch Dia.” Why the hell did he offer that?

“I will. Thank you.” The smile you gave him was almost sad. Maybe disappointed? “Goodnight, Daryl.”

“Yeah. Night.” He crossed the threshold but turned back, keeping his head low. “Keep your door shut.” There was no time for you to answer before he was jogging down your steps, barely slowing his stride all the way home. All the lights were off when he arrived and he couldn’t be more grateful to slip in and down to his room to berate himself properly until he was finally able to fall asleep.

Logically, he should have avoided you since that night, but Daryl never claimed to be the brightest crayon in the box. He absolutely did not look for reasons to go to your house, satisfied to find the door closed each and every time. If he saw you carrying something, he’d jog over to take it from you, no matter how big or small. He responded by meeting Nadia in the middle each time she called for him, even if he was covered in dark blood and brain matter.

“Dorl smell ick.” She would say.

He was down bad and though he would deny it until his last breath with the age old line of we’re just friends, Carol was smarter than that.

“Daryl, you and I are friends. You’re sweet on that girl and you can fight me if you try to claim any different.” She stirred at the brownie batter, intermittently swatting away his hand when he tried to sneak a taste. “You should just tell her how you feel.”

“Stop actin’ like ya know ev’rythin’.” He snapped with no real heat.

“Okay, fine. I know nothing.” She stated coolly, spreading the mixture into a baking pan. “Except that Spencer has been spending an awful lot of time around her and Nadia.”

Well, that had his attention. “What? When?” He hopped off the countertop and was quickly standing just beside Carol, moving accordingly so that she could continue her baking.

“Usually when you’re out. I think you intimidate him.”

“Damn well better intimidate him.”

“Why? You’re ‘just friends,’ remember?” Daryl curled his lip at her air quotes, turning on a heel to head toward the door. 

“Shuddup.”

He hadn’t been focused, lingering on what Carol had told him that morning. Worrying that Spencer was putting the moves on you that very moment he wasn’t there to do anything about it. What if he’d missed his chance? He growled, trying to take more of his own weight off of Aaron but his leg burned and ached.

“Ain’t that bad.” He tried to brush it off, but it was, in fact, that bad. He hadn’t seen the damn trap, the walker backing him right onto it. He was lucky the dead bastard didn’t take a chunk of him when he went down, but Aaron was quick. Had Daryl been alone, he’d likely be snarling and growling on the ground with his calf still locked within that metal.

“Keep telling yourself that and maybe your stubbornness will keep you on your feet until we can make it back.” The other man huffed. “First Eric, now you. I swear, I’m cursed.” Daryl groaned but couldn’t disagree. 

Christ. The archer’s head was fucked. He couldn’t focus with images of you running rampant at the forefront of his mind. The way you would smile when you saw him; how you’d laugh when he’d huff at Dia for calling him Dorl; you’d have him for dinner a few times a week and it was less and less awkward.

He was so fucked.

“Open the gate!” Aaron called urgently. Daryl hadn’t even been paying attention but maybe zoning out was what brought him that far with such an injury. The toe of his boot was dragging, his leg both numb and throbbing in a way he couldn’t seem to understand was even possible. Sasha was yelling, but he couldn’t understand what she was saying. He was too busy trying to look over his shoulder at the steady crimson trail that followed them. Would walkers follow it right to the gates? “Jesus, okay. I’m going to get help to carry you to the infirmary.”

“Fuck Pete. Gimme Y/N or just take me home.” Daryl slurred, his head falling back against the metal just inside the gates. He was fading, tired and smothered by a dark cloud that was creeping into the edges of his vision and mind. He knew he wouldn’t die from this, but damn, did it still suck.

“Dorl! Mama, Dorl boo-boo!”

Tiny, warm hands were on his face. He was cold, didn’t even realize it. Big blue eyes were hovering right in front of his face, a little mouth between chubby cheeks speaking with an urgency that made him want to scoop her up and soothe the worry. “Dia.” He breathed, his mind finally catching up, though he wasn’t sure for how long.

“Nada kiss boo-boo.”

Daryl chuckled breathlessly but pulled the little girl against his chest. “Nah, baby girl, don’t kiss that boo-boo. S’gross.” Big crocodile tears were forming and falling, and his heart ached. His little girl was never supposed to cry, never supposed to even be sad. “M’okay. Your mama’s gonna make it all better, you’ll see.”

“Mama, Dorl got big boo-boo.”

“I see that, baby. Can you move so mommy can take a look?” You were there, your voice a balm to the pain that was slowly fading. 

“She’s alright.” Daryl shifted Nadia to his side, letting her hold on with her head on his filthy chest. You’d have to give her a bath later and somehow, he had the energy to feel bad about that.

“Jesus, Daryl, what did you do?” You were cutting the lower part of his pant leg, right there on the street, but he didn’t have it in him to see who might be watching. He muttered bear trap but didn’t really recall it being his voice. Was it even him?

The child holding to him made a noise when the wound was revealed, jagged punctures that still steadily bled and she shouldn’t be seeing that. Why wasn’t someone taking her away? “Ssh. S’okay, Dia. Just look at me—can ya hum that song ya always do when we take ya home?” A tiny sniffle but then a little tune in his ear.

“What happened? He okay?” Rick.

“Daryl!” Ah, Carol. Good.

“Hey, take her, would ya? Don’t need to be here.” He was gentle if not weak when he tried to hand off Nadia, kissing one of her little hands when he finally peeled them away from his neck. “M’a be okay, Dia.” She cried. Even as Carol promised her cookies and brownies, she cried and his heart ached more than his leg. He barely caught the word disinfect before the hellfire in his leg struck him like a hammer to the head and he knew no more.

“S’not that big’a deal. I can take care’a myself at home.” Daryl grimaced and watched you moving things around in your living room. You disappeared and returned several moments later with pillows and blankets. 

“I know you can, but I also know you’re stubborn as a mule and you’ll try to go out of those gates behind Aaron within a day.” He barely opened his mouth before you held up an authoritative finger. “Don’t lie to me, Daryl Dixon. And don’t pretend I don’t know at least a little by now.”

“Dorl!” 

Before he could process her voice, the archer had a lapful of toddler. It was hazy but he could remember how he felt at the gate, the protective instinct, the absolute knowledge that Nadia was his no matter how untrue it was. He couldn’t seem to shake it.

“Hey, Dia.”

“Be careful of his boo-boo, sweetie.” You admonished in the most gentle tone while propping Daryl’s leg up on a pillow. “He’s going to stay with us for a few days so I can keep an eye on him.”

“Why?” Came the innocent reply. 

“Because Daryl is naughty and doesn’t like to listen when he’s told he can’t do something. Like you with Miss Carol’s cookies.” 

Nadia gasped dramatically and turned those big blues to Daryl. “Dorl takes cookies.”

Glancing at you, expression bland, he nodded. “Yeah, I take the cookies.”

“So he has to stay right here on this couch unless mommy is helping him, okay? Can you be my junior nurse and make sure he stays put?”

“That ain’t fair.” Daryl objected with an indignant pout. 

“Why? Because you know it’ll work?” 

Daryl grunted and crossed his arms. He was in for a long few days. 

A week later, the stitches were out but there was residual swelling that was hindering healing. Nothing to worry about, you had told him. 

“Why ain’t Ken wearin’ no clothes?” Daryl was concerned to be ‘playing Barbies’ when Barbie wore a bathing suit and Ken was naked as the day he was—assembled? So far he’d been able to avoid dialogue and just bounce the doll around with facial expressions that kept the toddler occupied. “Seems a lil’ fucked up.”

“You try finding doll clothes nowadays.” There was laughter in your voice and tenderness in your touch while you cleaned the wound and changed the dressings. Only a couple more days of that. 

“Maybe I will.” The archer mused, standing the doll on top of Nadia’s head, keeping it there with his finger on the top. Her little arms could only reach the legs, facing reddening and scrunching with giggles. 

“Time to pick up your toys. Daryl needs to rest and you, missy, need to get to bed.” 

“Noooooo.”

“Don’t sass your mama.” Daryl dropped the doll in favor of patting the kid on the head. “G’on now.” The archer dropped an arm outward, fully expecting the hug that was incoming. “Night, kid.”

“Nigh’ night’, dada.”

It was at that moment Daryl Dixon completely forgot how to breathe. His eyes were already on yours before the kid decided to drop that bomb and skip away to brush her teeth like she hadn’t just turned his world upside down. 

“M’sorry. M’so sorry. I don’t—she didn’t—”

“I’m just—” you interrupted, backing toward the doorway, “I need to put her to bed.” You stumbled out of the room as if he were chasing you. 

He wasn’t sure he could move if he tried. His heart was in his nose, his stomach in his ass, and his lungs were plaited around his spine. Why would the kid call him dada? It made no sense. A couple of months wasn’t long enough for anything like that. Right? Fuck, he needed to talk to Carol. His brain was malfunctioning. He couldn’t process this. 

Throwing off the blankets, Daryl sat up, levering to his feet. He still had a limp but it was easier now. Shuffling to the exit, he stopped, staring at the handle of the closed door. You’d been doing that now, hadn’t you? He said something once and you had listened. 

“So you’re just gonna run away after that, is that it?”

The archer spun so fast that he lost his balance, righting himself with a hand on the wall. “It ain’t—I was—just needed to talk to Carol.” He admitted. His shirt was damp and he was certain he would vomit. 

“She didn’t mean anything by it, Daryl. I’ll talk to her.” You were wringing your hands, your chin wobbling. 

Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. He had the sudden desire to hug you but didn’t dare move. Aside from casual touches, bumping shoulders in jest, and of course the occasional wound treatment, the two of you had never physically interacted. Not that he hadn’t thought about it. Wow, had he thought about it. “I know she didn’t mean nothin’.” Ouch. Somehow that revelation was worse. 

“She loves you, Daryl. I’ll talk to her, I promise. Please don’t walk out on her. On—on me.”

He likely looked like an idiot hobbling half the distance to where you stood. “Ain’t goin’ nowhere.” When you nodded and dropped your head, he dared another unsteady step. “M’a stay as long as ya want me here. You an’ Dia.” With one hand, he touched your shoulder and left the decision up to you. You needed no further prompting to step into his arms. For a moment, nothing else mattered. But then you were stepping back.  

“Okay.” You nodded, turning your head to wipe away a tear you thought he didn’t already notice. “I like having you here.” He returned the nod silently. 

Nothing else was said. Daryl went back to the couch, you went to get ready for bed. The night went on with both you and Daryl feeling more alone than ever. 

“She really called you dada?” Carol asked in an excited whisper, the wide grin on her face in direct contrast to Daryl’s frown. “That’s a good thing, right?”

“No!” He shot back immediately, looking over his shoulder at the little girl playing on the living room floor. They had somehow even managed to get her to sit next to Judith’s playpen, so long as Daryl didn’t touch Lil’ Asskicker, peace remained. “I mean, yeah. Fuck, I dunno what I mean, Carol.”

“Daryl.” The seriousness in her tone brought his gaze to hers, flinching when he found her leaning on her elbows much closer than she had been just a moment ago. “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want you to answer me honestly.”

“Ain’t never lied to ya.”

“Okay.” Her eyes, just as blue as his own, narrowed. “Do you love that little girl?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I do.” It was true. It was so different from how he loved Judith but yet completely the same. He would give anything for her to have been his, to have been there while you carried her. He wanted to spit on the man that tried to force you to end it. He couldn’t imagine a world without you and little Nadia anymore. It was as if the two of you were the missing pieces that could give him a chance to be whole. 

“And Y/N?”

“What?”

“Do you love Y/N?” Carol leaned back a little, her gaze no less intense. 

“S’a lil’ more—I, uh—”

“I said STOP!” 

Daryl was on his feet instantly at the sound of your voice, running outside. His limp was less profound and didn’t hinder him from descending the steps to see you across the street with your arm in Spencer’s grasp. You were likely on your way to collect Nadia.

“Come on, Y/N. You’re beautiful, and I’ve seen the way you look at me.” Spencer pulled you toward him. 

“You’re delusional!” 

“Stop being such a prude. You’ve got a kid. You think you got any other options out there?”

“Yeah! She does!” Daryl’s fist had already connected before the other man had even realized he was approaching. The archer stepped in front of you and stayed there, coiled to attack but holding steady until he was given a reason. 

“You?” Spencer spat, literally, a glob of blood and saliva landing next to Daryl’s boot. “The dirty redneck everyone’s afraid of? That’s laughable.”

Daryl started to move until he felt the smallest tug on his jeans. Nadia was looking up at him, equal parts curious and afraid.

“Dada mad?”

Your arms encircled his stomach with whispers of he’s not worth it repeated over his shoulder. “Get the fuck outta here an’ don’t come near my girls again.” The archer waited, arching a brow when Spencer hesitated. 

“You heard him.” Rick stepped up to Daryl’s left, Michonne and Carol on this right. “Best be going now.” Spitting again, the man curled his lip and scrambled to his feet, stomping off toward his mother’s home. “Well, that’s gonna be a problem.”

“I’ll go talk to Deanna.” Maggie offered, nodding at Rick but stopping to squeeze Daryl’s arm on her way by. What the fuck? Had everyone noticed?

“We should make ourselves scarce.” Michonne suggested with a knowing grin. 

Once they were all out of sight, Daryl deflated, one hand falling to the top of Nadia’s head. “Ain’t angry, Dia.” She sniffled and seemed to only hug his leg tighter. When it was clear he couldn’t turn with the added weight to his injured leg, you stepped around in front of him.

“Your girls?” You asked, expression so terrifyingly unreadable. 

“I just—he needed to leave an’ I didn’t want him to think he could come back ‘round.” His bottom lip was instantly being gnawed between his teeth. “Needed to make sure ya were okay.”

“So, we’re not your girls?” There was definitely disappointment there. You were wringing your hands again before reaching toward Nadia.

“I mean, if ya—yeah.” Daryl swallowed hard. “Yeah, you’re my girls. Have been for a while. M’just a idiot an’ I was—I’m scared. Don’t wanna be like my old man.”

You hummed, stepping into him to brush back the fringe across his eyes. “You haven’t told me anything about your parents, but I’m willing to listen. I wanna know everything about you.”

“Me too—’bout you, I mean. ‘Bout Dia.” He was reaching for your face, leaning in just as you did. His lips barely brushed yours before there came another tug at his jeans again. 

“Home, dada.”

You laughed while Daryl just looked stricken and confused. “You heard her, Daryl. Let’s go home and figure this out.” 

One Year Later 

“Daddy! Lookit picture!!” 

Daryl looked up from the mess of rabbits he was skinning on the porch, blowing upward to move some of the hair from his eyes. The almost four year old was sprinting down the street from the Grimes’ house, a piece of paper waving in her grip above her head. He waved to Michonne who had been watching Nadia make it back safely. “Whatcha got there, Dia?” She was grinning from ear to ear when she presented it to him, holding it out in front of her because ew no when he reached for it with bloody fingers.

There were three stick figures. One was obviously him if the crazy hair and scribbled attempt at a crossbow were anything to go by. A small figure was at his side, dark hair and a big smile: Nadia. And then there was you. Daryl snorted. You were a stick figure with a circle drawn around the middle. 

“Your mama’s gonna ‘preciate that, kid.”

“Appreciate what?” You stepped out with two glasses of water, placing them on the table and resting your hand on your swollen belly. Nadia proudly displayed the drawing and received a big smile and mhm, so pretty from you while Daryl snickered into his shoulder. “Go put it on the fridge, baby, and wash your hands. Supper’s nearly ready.”

“Okay, mama!” And off she went in a blur.

“Not funny, Dixon.” You dug your bare toes into his lower back until he yelped.

“S’a little funny.” He wiped his knife across his jeans.

“About as funny as you cleaning these rabbits on my front porch.” He ducked his head sheepishly when he turned to watch you lower into your chair. 

“I’ll clean it up, Sunshine. Don’t get all uppity ‘bout it.” Rising from his perch, he gathered the meat onto a parchment you had given him and wrapped it, leaving the bones and fur to handle later. “Dia! C’mere!” Moving at inhuman speed, she was looking up at him from the doorway the next second. Daryl jerked his chin toward a bag on the table beside his water glass. “Broughtcha somethin’ back.”

You leaned forward with curiosity and watched your daughter pull out the contents of the bag, barely catching a glimpse of the different colors before Nadia hugged Daryl’s leg and disappeared back inside with squeals of delight echoing in her wake.

“What did you bring her?”

Daryl smirked. “Told ya I’d find clothes for them dolls.”

#murda writes #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x reader #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon x y/n #daryl dixon x you #step dad!daryl #dad!daryl #daryl x female reader #daryl dixon x female reader #daryl dixon the walking dead #daryl dixon twd #Spotify

[lucysarah-c]

Fifteen, what an age to be alive. Dad!Levi

Summary: Steal your father's car! What could go wrong? Author note: Since the Marley world seemed to be around the 30s-40s, I’ll set this idea in a world that looks like the mid-50s. This is POST WAR. Warnings: Cursing 'cause Levi, obv. And slightly mention of a group taking advantage of a girl, nothing really happens and there's no graphic description at all. Word count: 3.9k Pairing: Dad! Levi x Mom! Reader

His hands gripped the big round wheel of the car as his eyes scanned the dark night with a nervous smile, quickly turning into clenched teeth. His attention shifted to the passenger seat, soft as if it was a scene from one of the horror pictures he saw at the drive-in.

A light blond girl lay unconscious, her head resting against the door, appearing lifeless. She wore a typical sleeveless red button-up shirt and very short white shorts, with white socks crumpled down to double-coloured loafers. Her hair was still in a ponytail, exposing her face completely. It was August, plain summer break, and he knew that most of his classmates wore shorts or even swimsuits at the pool or beach. But somehow, her exposure made him blush and feel ashamed, as if even staring felt wrong.

Turning to the back seat of the car, he picked up his letterman jacket and placed it on top of her, covering her as much as possible. It looked big on her, and somehow, Adrien blessed every deity mentioned; he probably was inheriting his father’s uncle’s height and not his father's, a fact becoming rather obvious every day, as he was only 15 and already almost 1.80m.

“Calm down, Adie… you got this,” he whispered to himself, “I’ve no idea what I'm going to do but I got it.”

How did he get into this situation? It was supposed to be a silly night out; one of his friends invited him to a party of the seniors who were graduating from high school that year. What was the issue if he was just a freshman? Fifteen, eighteen, it’s the same! Plus, it was some party at some old forgotten building, half destroyed during the rumbling around ten years ago, in the middle of nowhere. Nothing wrong with that.

Yes, perhaps he stole his father’s keys and car. Yes, perhaps he lied about sleeping in his room. Yes, maybe he stole a bit (a lot) of money from his parents. “I mean… deep down, it’s my father’s fault for not allowing me to come legally,” Adrien argued with his own reflection in the car's mirror.

But everything went downhill when he saw a group of guys dragging a girl who was clearly not feeling well and decided to step in. Now, here he was, the party had turned into a mess as the fight happened, he got kicked out with an unconscious girl, and who knew what they had given her. He hit his forehead against the wheel as time slipped through his fingers; he was supposed to be back home already.

“Fucking shit! Who told me to step in!” he cursed under his breath. Deep down, he knew stepping up for what he had been told was horrendously wrong, knowing he had the strength to fight those assholes back. ‘The curse of being a fucking Ackerman, man,’ he thought.

He had done the right thing, at least one right thing during the entire night, but now he had to face the consequences. Muffled cries mixed with distressed groans filled the car, “My father is going to kill me!”

His forehead kept hitting the wheel repeatedly as if that would knock some common sense into him or perhaps give him a concussion and fake that he had been kidnapped or something. Surrounded by trees in a dead-end road, it wasn’t even paved. Only the footprints of multiple cars to follow back to civilization. The distressed teen didn’t even know where he was; his older friend had guided him there and left with his girlfriend at some point of the party.

Slowly raising his head up again to admire the endless kilometres of dim nothing, contemplating his options, seizing his courage. “Come on, Adie. Be a man, be a man!”

The trees’ branches creaked in the middle of the night, the car slightly swayed under the strong summer wind. “I want my mommy,” he muttered.

Hand on the wheel and turning on the car, one step at a time, he took a deep breath and then decided to go out on the road again. Forgotten somewhere, his father’s car’s papers and driver's license. In them it read “Levi Ackerman.”

Each branch from the forest that scraped the car was a personal pain, praying to any god's existence that it didn’t scratch it. Of course, his father had filled up the tank, obviously he had. Levi was like that, always cautious. Adrien did a personal wish his father had a map stored in the glove compartment, but obviously, he didn’t. After all, Levi knew the streets of the city like the back of his hand. He drove a lot, especially since his legs weren’t what they used to be anymore. Perhaps he didn’t need any support for walking any longer, but walking long distances wasn’t in Levi’s plans anymore.

“Perhaps I can… drive to the hospital, leave her, and like run away,” he contemplated, before groaning loudly, “No, I can’t do that. God, I’m dead.”

‘I could have walked away, but no, Mr. Adrien Ackerman has to be a hero. Mr. Ackerman has to do the right thing.’

Adrien had driven twice in his life; this one was the second. The first was a few years ago when his father sat him down on his lap and let him do it for a little bit. He was happy he hadn’t encountered much traffic and only had to drive ahead because he wasn’t completely sure yet what the third pedal was for.

“I got it, do not worry,” he said, trying to sound reassuring to the unmoving girl on his right. Adrien’s grey eyes checked on her from time to time, but she seemed deeply asleep, or so he hoped. “I’ll get to the hospital in no time, and you’ll be alright,” he promised.

His smile created a couple of dimples on each side of his face, but it quickly faded as fear kicked in. “And if you’re not alright, do not worry. I’ll throw myself off a bridge, and we can be not alright together,” he kept joking as if, by some miracle, the girl would reply.

He didn’t even know her name, and somehow, that made him feel even guiltier. As civilization began to appear and the sky began to lighten up, he lost hope of not dying at the hands of his own progenitor, but he was also hopeful that at least he was getting somewhere without crashing. The sun hadn’t shown up yet, but the deep blue of the sky had a particular glow to it that made it imminent.

The streets were deserted, and rightfully so; it was the middle of the night on a Monday. Adrien tried to park the car as best as he could, finally reaching the only hospital he somehow remembered the route to. Rushing to the other door, he carefully picked her up.

When he crossed the doors of the main hospital, which was almost empty at those hours, the doctors on duty quickly took her in, some searching for identifications inside her clothes. The police officer at the front gates forbade him from leaving the place.

“Alright, please hand me your ID,” the front gate secretary asked after informing him that the girl was out of danger, but she would have to stay for monitoring. Adrien’s suspicious silence made the woman raise her eyes from the form she was filling out to look at him. “You know that carrying IDs is obligatory, right?”

“Yes, madam…” He felt his palm sweating as he feared being taken to the police station.

“How old are you?”

Her voice sounded calm but tired as she quickly understood the issue, “… eighteen.”

With a loud sigh, she took off her cat-eye red glasses and then slowly blinked back at him. “Look kid, I’ve been on night watch for three days straight. I’ve no energy to deal with this.”

Adrien’s eyes remained glued to the floor, feeling small despite his stature. “… fifteen,” he admitted reluctantly.

Her unpleasant groans echoed in the empty walls that reeked of disinfectant. He slowly turned to the gates, and the security guys began to chuckle as they drank coffee. Feeling the need to clarify, he said, “I swear it wasn’t me who hurt her.”

“Kid, people who drug girls don’t carry them to hospitals,” she replied disinterestedly, pouring the information into the typewriter, the typing echoing in the place. Finally, she picked up a post-it with a pencil and raised it to the top of the reception table. “Your parents' contact number, please.”

Her eyes quickly moved to him and then back to her writing as he hesitated to fill out the paper. “You know I’ve done nothing; can’t I just go?” Adrien insisted, trying to escape the situation.

“Kid, you’re breaking national curfew and walking around without identification. A responsible adult must come and sign for you to leave; otherwise, you’ll live here until you turn 18.”

“Could you at least wait until 9 am to call my mother’s work number?” He smiled awkwardly, trying to find a way to avoid his father’s rage. The secretary looked up at the clock; it wasn’t even 5 am and then back to him, deadly. Unpleasant complaining groans echoed as he reluctantly wrote his house’s telephone number. “Sorry.”

Sat down at one of those uncomfortable waiting room’s seats with a latte and chocolate donut he brought at the cafeteria, he waited as someone waits to be hanged. The doctors and nurses moved here and there attending to the few people that came in with emergencies. Until the secretary walked by and said, “Your father picked up the phone; he said that getting the car and coming this way.”

Adrien’s grey eyes quickly turned in fear to check out of the window, grimacing uneasily as he admired the family's car parked outside. “Great…”

The longer it took, the more Adrien knew he was in trouble. Pressing his eyes closed and clenching his jaw, as if he could already feel the kick in his ass. Despite the nerves, his head bobbed forward as he fell asleep, and the tug of falling forward snapped him back awake. At some point, he rested his head on the joined seat and fell asleep, mouth open.

The front gates snapping open woke him up, and he wished to make himself smaller so he could hide behind the back of the seats. But as he turned backwards, Levi was at the front desk talking to the secretary and security guards. His dark hair was a mess, and it seemed like he had just put on some shoes and a shirt because he still had the pyjama pants on. Outside, the cap that his father had probably been forced to take there.

As the secretary picked up the forms for him to fill, his father quickly raised his grey eyes to shoot him across the room the deadliest glance he had yet to witness. ‘Goodbye everybody, it was nice knowing you.’

Avoiding facing death, Adrien remained seated, giving his back, but he quickly heard the footsteps of his father, characterized by the slight hobble he had after the war. With his presence looming, he looked down at Adrien, who slowly raised his attention up.

Smiling innocently, “Hi, dad.”

Levi didn’t smile back; quite the opposite, he frowned even more and extended his right hand that was missing two fingers. “My fucking keys.”

The teen searched for them inside his jeans and quietly handed them over with puppy eyes. Levi snapped them, but his hand didn’t withdraw. “And my damn money.” Repeating the same action but with the bills, Levi grabbed them and began to count. “And the rest?”

Adrien mumbled some incoherent groans as he refused to make eye contact. “Tch,” Levi clicked his tongue and gripped his shirt neck, raising him from his seat, pushing him to the exit. “Get in the fucking car.”

The walk of shame only accentuated as his father's angry tone didn’t match the polite one he used to greet the secretary and guards on his way out. He cowered in the passenger seat, trying to make himself a tiny ball as Levi slammed the door shut. Loud sighs that didn’t withdraw the deep frown before he turned on the car again.

“You’re so fucking wrong if you think I’ll stand this type of behaviour; I'm telling you,” Levi spat the words as he drove back home. “What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Adrien!” Levi insisted as the kid didn’t even reply, looking to his right as he waited at a red light. “You don’t want to talk? Fine, fucking ungrateful brat. You know how fucking worried your mother was when we received a call from the shitty hospital? Eh?”

“The drive-in the other day, the supposed hang out at your friend’s house that you were never fucking there, and now this. Are you fucking proud?” the ex-captain of the scouts kept going as his eyes were glued to the road despite only one of them working anymore. “You’re grounded, you’re so fucking grounded that I’ll fucking die, and you’ll have to get a damn Ouija board to contact me to see if you can go out to buy groceries.”

The teen just silently rolled his eyes as the long list of unhappiness of his father about his behaviour couldn’t care less. “Don’t you dare to roll your eyes on me, brat. You heard me? Drop that fucking attitude.” Somehow his father always seemed to have eyes everywhere. “Happy now? You ruined your entire summer break; beg all you want later on. You’re not leaving the house.”

“As if you’d let me go out anyway,” Adrien murmured mockingly under his breath.

“What?” Levi demanded. “If you’re going to have the guts to steal MY car, MY money, and break MY orders, then grow the guts to speak the fuck up.”

“That you never let me go anywhere!” Adrien shouted back angrily.

“For what? To go to this damn party in the middle of nowhere to hang out with fucking rapists and get

shit-faced?” Levi argued back. “You think I was born yesterday? I know exactly which places I don’t want you to get involved with. You think you’ve everything figured out, but that’s not it, Adrien! You’re 14! Fourteen!”

“I’m fifteen!”

“You turned fifteen two weeks ago, for fuck’s sake!” Levi shouted, slightly turning to his right before focusing back on the road. “I’m telling you, better fix your attitude or this is not going to end well. You may be getting big and feel cocky, but you won’t play smart-ass with me. You can grow up to be as tall as the fucking Colossal Titan, and yet you would do whatever the fuck I tell you!”

“I did the right thing! I stood up for her; I’m not stupid enough to do whatever my classmates do. Why can’t you see that?!” Adrien complained as they reached the front of the house, and Levi stopped the car.

“’Cause you were stupid enough to steal my car even when you don’t know how to fucking drive!” Levi complained as he got out of the car, walking to the front door. He kept going with the lecture but lower as he didn’t want to wake up the neighbours. “You don’t like it? Choose another father in your next life; in this one, it’s me, and I’m not going to let my teenage kid not give a fuck about the decisions I take. I’ve gone through too much shit for a fucking brat to tell me what I believe is the best for them.”

They both walked in, and Levi locked the door behind them. The room was still dim for the early hours, and their dog greeted them enthusiastically. The keys dropping at the front plate echoed loudly, and the tuxedo cat of the family finally appeared to rub himself against the legs of the teen, who quietly picked him up. Y/N quickly rushed to check on her kid.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did they hurt you somewhere?” She seemed clearly agitated, and Adrien remained with his eyes glued to the floor.

“No, mom,” he murmured, downcast. “I’m fine.”

“Oi, to your damn room,” Levi quickly ordered. “and clean it up; I won’t say it again.”

The kid left, cursing under his breath as he went upstairs and slammed the front door shut.

“What happened?” she asked Levi, who was preparing himself a tea to calm down, enveloping herself in a negligee.

“What happened? That kid is driving me nuts, that’s what's happening,”

Y/N sighed loudly, positioning herself behind her husband and running her hands through his arms, seeking to provide some comfort. She then switched to hugging him from behind. “He’s going through a phase… his new classmates are mostly kids who survived the rumbling, and some of them aren’t the best influence. He just wants to fit in, you know how important that is at his age.”

“Tch,” Levi kept facing the countertop, murmuring as the anger didn’t quickly wash away. But eventually, he closed his eyes and sighed loudly as the adrenaline slowed down. “The audacity of that kid, where the hell does he get it?”

Y/N couldn't help but chuckle against his back, “MH, I wonder,” she said sarcastically. “If they were still around, perhaps we could have asked some senior MPs… perhaps they could enlighten us on how you were as a teen,”

“I wasn’t like that,” Levi softly replied, almost ashamed of the point out.

“No haha you were worse,” Y/N was entertained as she kissed his shoulder blades tenderly. “Or do I have to remind you how you made me sneak out to meet you after curfew?”

“That’s different…”

Forcing him to turn around to place a kiss on his scar as she caressed his face softly, “He’s your kid,” she murmured against his lips. “He hates to be told what to do and has the strength to know he can get out of almost any situation. Asking him to be submissive is like asking him not to be an Ackerman; he got it in his genes,”

Levi just groaned, accepting the caress, her loving his face as if he was brand new and the residues of the war had never happened.

Days passed by, and while the mood in the house was slowly returning to calmness, the punishment still stood, and Adrien was reading in his bedroom, suffering the heat of summer without being able to go out with his friends. He couldn’t even play his record player because if in normal cases his father tolerated him to play his favourite bands loudly, now he was almost cursed to quietness. Levi didn’t seem to be very fond of Rock; perhaps Paradise music was too behind, and the period of adaptation was lacking. It sounded like loud noise to him.

A quiet knock at the front door was heard, mostly because the dog that was resting beside him in his bed raised hastily and rushed downstairs. The noise was almost imperceptible as his father was vacuuming the living room’s carpet while his mother prepared dinner. Adrien was about to raise himself from his bed and open the door himself, but the overwhelmingly loud noise of the vacuum stopped, so he guessed his father was on it.

Levi opened the front door without checking; he had faced so many adversities in life that he hardly doubted that anyone who rang his bell at 6 pm on a Thursday in their quiet family neighbourhood was a threat. “Yes?” he crossed his arms as he admired the young girl at the front gates. She was wearing the usual outfit of the time, white and brown loafers, crumpled low white socks, an inflated pastel yellow skirt that was tightly around her waist with a white blouse. The matching light cardigan was hanging from her shoulders, but she didn’t seem to put it on, another thing that Levi thought was some stupid new fashion trend from teens. That and his son’s imperious necessity to fold the sleeves of his t-shirts. High ponytail and blushed cheeks.

“Good evening, Mr. Ackerman,” The girl greeted him with kindness and politeness.

“Hello,” Levi replied, almost uninterested, his usual unfriendly nature not withdrawn even after years of not being on service.

“I was wondering if Adrien is at home,” she asked, and Levi wished he could roll his eyes at how almost immediately the girl blushed at the mention of his son’s name. “I’m the girl from the other night; I wanted to thank him…” seeing Levi’s slight frown at the memory of that early morning, she nervously added, “And you, of course, for what he did for me,” The young girl handed a package that was easily deduced to be a cake.

“He’s grounded,” Levi quickly replied. “And you don’t need to thank him; he did the only right thing to do. I don’t raise abusers,”

“Oh…” the disappointment in her voice was palpable, “Well, but please at least take the cake? For all the inconvenience,”

“No, kid, it’s alright-”

“Hi, sweetie! Adrien will be down in a minute!” Y/N popped behind Levi, slightly pushing him to the side and smiling softly at the girl. “Do you want to wait inside?”

Levi looked at his wife, confused and slightly offended by how quickly she overstepped him in the conversation.

“Ah, no, it’s alright; I don’t want to be a bother-”

Adrien appeared behind his parents, wondering what the whole issue was, and his mother quickly pushed him forward. “There he is!” She added while tugging Levi back inside. “Let’s give him some space,” she whispered to her husband, who was refusing to move.

“Oi,” Levi complained as he was forced back inside.

Both parents faking to be doing something in the living room to not be seen; Levi wasn’t spying, but his wife was. “She’s so cute,” she whispered, “and she’s crushing so much on him.”

Levi clicked his tongue, “He’s tall. All girls of that age crush on tall boys,” he argued back.

Y/N chuckled and turned to look at him, “talking from experience?”

“Ha ha,” Levi faked a sarcastic laugh. “He’s supposed to be grounded,”

“Shh, I can’t hear!” She hushed him back and then moved slightly as Levi joined her next to the window.

“Great,” Levi said annoyed, “she’s fucking bonnie,”

Confusion was written all over his wife's face as she grimaced dazed and raised an eyebrow, silently asking how those words could be said with such disappointment.

“Now I won’t only have to buy him all those stupid vinyl records, textbooks, and uniforms for the school team, but I’ll also have to start buying condoms; there goes my fucking salary,”

Tags!: @nube55 @justkon @notgoodforlife @nmlkys @humanitys-strongest-bamf @quillinhand @thoreeo @darkstarlight82 @i-literally-cant-with-this @angelofthorr @aomi04 @levisbrat25 @fxnnyackerman @secretmoneybearvoid @s0meb0dy-0nce-t0ld-me @trashblackrainbow @l3visthighs @hum4n-wr3ckag3 @hannieslovebot @feelingsandemotionsnotexplored @flxrartsstuff @starrylevi @rithty @mariaace @ackrmntea @emilyyyy-08 Wanna join my tag list? Here!

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[catfern]

deliverance

in support of palestine ∙ the reality of tlou ∙ resources

pairing: priest!abby anderson x afab!sinner!reader

music: the deliverance playlist

word count: 5k

summary: your mother is dead, and you're left returning to a home that never really was to pick up the pieces. memories are haunting creatures, insistent on destroying you. luckily, your redemption may come by the hands of god yet.

WARNINGS: READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED ─ themes of religious trauma and abuse, hint of encouraged disordered eating, mother issues, non-major character death, some internalised homophobia

you never thought you had missed the magnolia trees. you had very little thought about the soft, white flowers of your youth after you left, scattered the pieces of yourself across the midwest to rot, forgotten.

a foreign pit sits in your stomach now as the jaunty convertible rolls across the dirt of the road. pillowy cream petals line the overgrown grass, dance in the wind and fall in your back seat. a concession. the only welcome you’ll ever get.

the soft smile on the solicitor’s face is a cruel, mocking joke. you don’t know how long he’s been waiting for you to roll down the long drive, but you can see the imprint of his shoes on the decaying wood steps, the scuffle of his path through the dead leaves, the rotten petals.

you had gotten the call late at night, breaking through an unwelcome silence. not from the hospital, but from the state. your mother was dead, and a team of lawyers had chased a harbinger trail left by your sixteen-year-old self to find you.

you left those breadcrumbs, in delusion, for your family. a final call, love me, love me, love me. years passed, no one followed.

you pull the car into park, the echo of the radio dying across the empty plains.

“miss-“ his voice is syrupy, a deep rasp coddled in the kindness of an all-american accent. he’s cut off by the slam of the car door, the scratch of your heels on the gravel driveway. you eye him, slowly, the foreign entity on your mother’s porch. stood by the neglected swing, the smell of rust and sand and infestation clinging to him, inane. 

“can’t you leave me to clear this place out in peace?”

he stutters something unsure, you can feel his eyes draping over you, a quick flash of something delusionally hungry, “w-well, miss, there’s the matter of the funeral. your mother named you executor of her will.”

of course she fucking did.

you sigh, something innately powerless nipping at your heels. your mother’s last laugh from the grave. well, from the morgue, really. if you could let that woman sit in a faithless freezer, an eternal purgatory, you would. she’s not worth the embrace of her god’s dirt.

“fine.”

you supposed you had hoped to get it all done in two days. pack everything in flimsy cardboard boxes and dump it in the parking lot of the nearest salvation army, purposefully forgotten.

and now, with the door forced open, the warm, unmoving heat of the sun pouring through and eating at your back, ghosts of a slighted childhood tease you, in the rotted landscape of your home. perhaps once, there was something happy here, but the domain of a conformist hoarder shows you no such peace.

the looming feeling of the cross your father nailed above the fridge when you were fourteen was something you had hoped to never feel again. a jittery taunt as the light inside it comes alive,

‘god sees your gluttony,’ 

clearly, considering the only thing left in the fridge was the whispering stench of rotted milk. you hold the carton at arms length as you toss it in the small waste basket in the pantry, and weigh your waning options.

spend a hundred bucks on food delivery fees, or make an appearance in town, for the low, low price of the dignity you lost years ago.

summer hasn’t changed, in the breast of the small town you grew up in. nestled between the buzz of marshes and the sprawl of empty, overgrown farmland, stately buildings with wasting foundations cast shadows, small reprieves from the unforgiving burn of the sun on the pavement.

the small chatter of young housewives echoes in the quiet of the late afternoon as you step out from the shield of the air conditioned supermarket, heaving your bags in tow. you forgot how much the underhanded heat sneaks into your body, lays in your bones. even still, with the foreign freedom of shorts and a shirt your mother would have never let you wear, summer sits in your crevices, uncomfortably in the hollow of your skin.

something flashes in the corner of your eye, something unfamiliar hiding in the sunlight. you squint, a misguided effort to chase the feeling settling deep beneath your stomach, pushing in on your organs. awareness abandoned, you stand in wait like a dog tied to a pole outside the corner shop, lips ajar as you stare into the blown light of noon, eager.

slowly, the anomaly comes into blurry focus. 

that’s new.

gold catches in the sunlight, a soft sheen of sweat like diamonds in your eyes.

a woman. you’ve never seen her before, and this place is hardly somewhere people choose to come.

She was shaking the hand of Mr. Collins, your neighbour. God, he aged poorly. Next to the shrivel of a man, she looked as if sculpted by god. a gift, the contour of her muscles beneath the relaxed fit of her shirt a taunting appraisal. cargo shorts and a graphic tee, not the expected attire of a woman. she definitely looked out of place, especially here, but the air of comfortability she carried said otherwise. people were happy to see her. her face, made so harsh and angular, was soft in conversation. figures.

you, an abomination. her, this stark difference to everything you were ever taught, welcomed.

your name echoes across the tranquility of the plaza, and for a moment, your eyes meet. the woman swallows.

“i thought that was you! my stars, i never thought i’d see you again!”

a manicured hand grabs at you, and you’re broken from your haze. 

prudence was smiling at you. you’d never seen her smile, only snicker and whisper.

“i haven’t seen you since high school!”

for a reason. you clear your throat, and manage a strained smile. friend, tormentor, you were always unsure whether she was going to unhinge her jaw and swallow you whole. you had hoped to never see her again.

“how’ve you been!” her voice was too sugary, too loud for the daze of a summer afternoon. you felt hungover.

“hm? fine, i’ve been fine.” you’re trying not to sound distracted, disinterested. you’re watching as the woman from earlier disappears around the corner of the store. her face, curious and kind, lingers in your mind.

the oppressive heat of the morning breeze wisps through your hair, beating the tenets of unease down onto your skin. the church stands foremost, casting a shadow that offers no cool relief, no reprieve. per her last wishes, you will bury your mother in her congregation.

the solicitor assured you that the old pastor has passed since you left.

an early morning appointment, for privacy, to discuss the burial. the way to go about it.

might as well get it over with.

it hasn’t changed, since you were young. you remember sticking to the pews, sweat melting your skin as you leaned to find a whisper of a breeze. the walls do well to trap the swelter of mid-year.

“for a minute there, i was sure you weren’t coming.” a low, calm voice echoes in the emptiness of the hall. 

there, the woman from yesterday stands, not yet looking at you. instead, she opts to fiddle with the cuffs of her blazer, her golden hair tied back in a neat braid, falling down her back and shimmering in the artificial light. when she meets your eye, there’s that flicker of curiosity and disquiet, the way she looked at you in the square.

she clears her throat, holding her hand out. “i’m abigail. you must be-“

“yeah,” you say all too quickly, taking her hand tenderly.

there’s a beat of silence, your bravery seeming to pin you looking at each other, unable to shake the gaze of the other.

finally, abigail speaks, “why don’t we-uh, do you wanna? let’s sit,”

you nod, following her as she leads you back, through the twisting, turning halls, a path so densely taken by you once. you knew the way, but you followed behind her all the same.

her office is .. different, to how father mckenzie decorated it. where his walls were bare, imposing, quiet and godly, abigail’s is showered in kindness, in humanity. pictures of her soccer team, of her volunteer work, her smile a littered memory through all of them. her degree in theology from a far off university is pinned proudly behind her.

learned, real, tangible.

“i was.. sorry to hear about your mother’s passing. i’m sure it was quite a shock to you as well.”

she uses that voice. the voice of pastors, the voice of god. for years, you’d wondered how long they practiced it. walking the line between genial and authoritative, the voice that brings others to kneel.

you nod slightly, remembering your obligation to reaction. your throat is dry, “yeah, well, we hadn’t spoken in a few years, so…”

she frowns, skin deep, a purchased expression, “i’m aware. she often confided in me her troubles, she was… kind. i can imagine a life without her support must have been difficult.”

a vicious laugh half erupts from your throat before you struggle to contain it, but you half expect abigail to shoot you a knowing smirk.

kind?

“are you sure we’re talking about the same woman?” you eye her now, slumped back in your seat, like a defiant child. tongue in cheek, you let your head roll back, “speak to anyone, i’m sure ‘kind’ isn’t the word they’d use.”

abigail clears her throat again, shuffling around some papers on her desk, letting the discomfort of the room get to her, “dutiful, then. i apologise if i struck a cord.”

“no, no,” your gaze is scrutinising, painful to be underneath. in a way, gratification snuck under your skin with how easy it was to upset her, to finally be the bigger, badderperson in this godforsaken room, “she was kind to you,” your eyes flutter over the heave of her body as she breathes, “you’re lucky then. that’s not a courtesy she extends-extended to many.”

“well, then i’m particularly grateful.”

“you should be.”

a stalemate, almost. your words sit dry in the air, hanging like a taunt.

“right, well,” abigail begins, looking down at your mother’s will, “your mother requested that i speak the sermon at her service. i know you aren’t particularly religious, but i would encourage-“

“did she tell you that?”

she looks up at you, her eyes hanging through her eyelashes. perhaps she grew tired of your contempt, perhaps she grew firm, “would it be such a bold assumption either way?”

that actually brings a laugh from you, harsh as it is. a beat, “no, i suppose not.”

you watch as she continues, skimming through the will and taking anecdotes with her right hand, penmanship on show. you can see the etching of her arm even underneath the cursed wool of the jacket, the broadness of her shoulders hiding beneath her holy uniform. you wonder how long it took for her to carve that out of herself. you wonder if the clergy collar was the thing stopping you from something you would’ve usually done.

“just do it according to what she wanted,” you say quickly, readjusting yourself in your seat as you break from your own glaring, “i suppose i’ll pay for it either way,”

abigail looks at you, a stare akin to a kind, confused dog. “oh, alright, well,” she stands curtly, going to shake your hand once more, “thank you for coming in then. it was good to finally meet you,”

you nod as if to say the same, but the words don’t actually fall from your lips. turning to leave, your name in her voice hooks you,

“i would encourage you to come to the sunday service, if you have the time.” she says, her face painted genuine, generous, “perhaps peace with the lord is something that you find you’ll need.”

it’s not like the invite was a mockery, you tell yourself as you buckle your heel. she was extending something kind. maybe she read you better than you did yourself.

you hadn’t exactly packed for a formal occasion, disregarding the knee length black dress you borrowed from walmart the day you found out you were staying for a funeral.

this was the next best thing.

dark red against the bare of your skin, your dress barely brushed mid-thigh, although the omission of fabric on your tits would be welcome in the afternoon trapped in the church. you eye the ornate glass cross your mother kept propped up on the console table,

oh, well. if god loved you, you suppose he would just have to forgive you.

you resolve to be david attenborough, you think to yourself as your convertible jaunts into park on the dirt road leading up to the congregation. scholar of these creatures in worship.

you can feel the town eyeing you as you take your first brave step, whispers a background to your arrival. makes you feel special, at least. you hardly have the time to act tough before prudence rushes you, husband on arm.

“we didn’t think we’d see you today!” she smiles, “you remember anthony?”

of course. anthony, the frightened young boy you had once shared a cigarette with outside the hubbub of the church’s youth mixer. you had comfort in you, back then, enough to share. you had told him once that his ‘weird feelings’ toward another boy at school was nothing to be scared of. nothing trumps the fear of god, though. he ran home and opened his mouth, he got you run out of town.

you stifle a laugh, and nod as you follow the swarm of people inside.

you know it’s narcissistic to assume that all eyes are on you, that every slighted giggle was directed at you, but right here, right now, it’s true. your mother no longer around to backhand your rebellion, you bare it full force.

you slip into an empty pew at the back, not scared, but rather hopeful to capture the breeze of one of the two standing fans.

the torrid heat already getting to you, a sheen of sweat is sitting on the cup of your cleavage that’s  bare, heaving with each thick, heavy breath. your eyes trail abigail as she takes to the pulpit.

“i am so, so happy to see you all here with me today, under the eyes of the lord,”

something about summer agrees with her, you suppose. the brutality of it doesn’t seem to cling to her, her stride and keen smile unbroken. you can still eye, from the back, the details in her hands as she flips through the paper of her sermon.

there’s strength behind how gently she carries herself. 

for one neurotic moment, you think you see her eyes dance over you, meeting yours before flittering away. you cross your legs and shake the feeling.

instead, you find yourself swallowed by the steel of her gaze. the authority that so well suits the sharpness of her features. you can tell she was not built to be generous, that god believed her stare to be absolution. the benevolence that she wears, that so illy sits on the brawn of her body, was never meant for her.

you wonder what abigail was like when she was mean. you wonder if she ever was.

“before we begin today, i want to remind you all that we will be bidding farewell to an esteemed member of our beloved community tomorrow. i beseech you all to attend if you can,”

softness doesn’t belong to her.

maybe, in another life, you would’ve seen the abigail god intended. crossed paths in the dive bar you frequent in the city, found her in the bathroom of a club, framed by the deafening beat of bad music.

you think to what her hand would feel like, rough and blistered with work unholy, pinning your wrist to the grime of a bathroom stall.

the warmth of her breath, coddled in whiskey and smoke, on your skin, the scent of her determined.

you eye her fingers as they turn the page of her notes, and imagine the strength of them pulling you apart, twisting you to her desire.

 “i urge you to keep her soul in your prayers, so that she may find her way home to the lord,”

you feel the trickling of heat up your neck, your ears burning, your breath quick and scattered. something sick and swallowing sits in your stomach, you can feel eyes on you, but when you look up past the congregation, you see nothing.

it’s like you’re being smoked out, a sinner in church. you almost fall to your feet as you scramble out into the aisle, chest heaving as you rush out the open door.

you break through the stuck door of your family’s home, arid and heavy. your grip on your mother’s glass cross is titan, as you toss it, watch it shatter across the floorboards.

this was a joke.

the soft, rhythmic flap… flap… flap of Mrs Dixon’s black bone hand fan was the drum procession of which you were to bury your mother.

considering the climbing heat of the day, it was a wonder her bones hadn’t already rotted in the cheapest coffin you could’ve found. the sun high and taunting in the cloudless sky, it burned down on the congregation, the swelling crowd that had come to worship the life of that creature. that tormentor.

the old women of the church, the same who had once chewed their cheeks over the skirt length of your sunday best, who had counselled your mother over her faithless daughter, stood crown among the sea of black, eyeing you, scrutinising you, as they had always done. and like a hare caught in the crosshair of a hunter, you found yourself shrinking, as you once did, when you were fourteen.

you purse your lips, and try to steel your withering facade.

“we gather here today, to put to rest our sister in christ,”

abigail’s voice was commanding, you had to give her props. gentle, but worthy of attention. you can imagine a kind word from her was heavily sought after, amongst the faithful, chasers of praise from the workers of the lord. you watched her, embraced by the back of the daylight, the skin of her neck glistening with a thin sheen of sweat. her breath was heavy but not scattered, the rise and fall of her shoulders, broad, something mesmerising, oddly comforting.

her hands tighten their grip on her sermon. you can spy the cursive writing sifting through the back of the paper, bathed in sunlight. she must feel the bristle of your gaze.

“a pillar of the community, a hero of the faith,”

you studied her, like you would a specimen, cut open and bare. there was something about her, something in her that your mother liked, enjoyed, despite her many ungodly flaws. like the indeterminable, you stood in fascination. what was it? what was it that she had, that you had lacked?

was she merely hiding behind the cross, behind her steadfast dogma? you could have done that. you didn’t, but you could have.

you could have stayed, here. played your part. you could have been that child of the church. you could have done it, had you not chosen your own convictions. would, then, have abigail still appeared, had you stayed and been your mother’s daughter? a perfect echo of everything you weren’t? 

was she just a spectre, summoned here to mock you in your failings?

the pit in your stomach is decaying, swallowing you whole. you knew perfectly well that had you stayed, you still wouldn’t have been what your mother wanted. you never were, never could be. you could not have deigned to touch the pedestal that abigail sat on.

a tear stings at the baseline of your eye, a foreign feeling, and you swallow the sharp presence in your throat.

abigail finishes, tucks her sermon away neatly in her pocket. the coffin is slowly lowered into the ground.

you never could’ve done the right thing, had you had the chance to go back and change it all. for your mother saw you, and saw everything she hated. every quality she herself turned away from god.

after all, filth begets filth.

the harsh clicking of the lighter broke a holy, suppressive silence in the halls of the church. you stare up at the great stained glass mural behind the lectern, fractures of colour scattered across the carpet. you pull the cigarette from the purse of your mouth and watch as the smoke swirls up, splits and ebbs into the clean, pure air.

“you can’t smoke in here,”

her voice isn’t harsh, or reprimanding, but rather, lost. quiet, unsure, like a mouse. something cowardly.

you hold the cigarette out to her, not risking to look back and face her. she takes it gingerly, but doesn’t bring it to her lips, doesn’t dare to put it out.

“my mother loved god. more than she loved my dad,” you look over your shoulder to meet her eyes. her brow furrowed, her expression meek.

“the lord is easy to love,” she steps forward, to stand level with you. her blazer brushes against the bare of your arm, soft cotton. you scoff quietly, mockingly.

“i never felt that.” you take the cigarette back from abigail’s hand in one fowl swoop and take another drag. she says nothing, “god is difficult.”

she looks at you, as if you were a mystery, quizzically, “you take His name in vain so easily.”

you meet her gaze and almost laugh. she’s frowning at you with the face of a child, with the same innocence that’s almost insulting, “yeah, well,” your words fall as you suck in smoke, “Him and i are old friends.”

there’s a sudden, shifting silence between you. the ash of your cigarette falls contrast on the red of the carpet, but you make no move to clean it. you hold your gaze at the cross at the front of the hall, almost daring it to look away first.

“i understand you and your mother had a complicated relationsh-“

“you know nothing about me and my mother,” you say quickly, sharply, negating any comfort. suddenly, you’re pinning abigail under your gaze, and her graciousness falters.

“she told me a great deal of things,” abigial says firmly, almost cementing herself in place against the wind of your unwavering disposition. for the first time, you see in her defiance, a challenge.

you step forward for a moment, unsteady on your tiptoes, and the fine details of abigail's features become briefly clear. the light, sun kissed pink brushed across the high of her cheekbones, the crook in her nose where she undoubtedly broke it once, the gold in the baby hairs that escaped her neat braid to frame her face wildly, contrast to the carefully kept order of her appearance. you had hoped to push her back into uncertainty, back into a quiet disposition, and perhaps you have. you watch her swallow headily. your closeness could melt you if you weren't careful, the heat from her breath swirling against your skin. you want to celebrate the nervousness creeping into her eyes, but instead you just feel... enthralled.

"and what did she tell you about me, hm?" you hold your chin high with a wicked cruelty in your smile, "did she disclose to you my many sins?"

her voice is a quiet choke, as much as she fights to keep it steady. she looks at you, examining you like a human to an animal, "you're troubled, you lack guidance-"

"your guidance? or god's?" your eyes flicker but you couldn't say to where. oppression is a symphony, in the house of the lord, makes the air syrupy, dazed. there's a blur in this moment between you, "is there any difference?"

you can hear her breath catch in her throat, the space between you thick, immobile. 

“tell me, am i exactly how my mother described?”

“more than.” she stifles an unearned breath, “you test me.”

you take a final drag of your cigarette, stamping the butt into the carpet. abigail says nothing, does nothing.

“is that what she told you would happen?”

she swallows, her breath shaky.

“you’re tempting me from god,” she sounds unsure of herself, even now. you, despite your air of ego, beg to close the distance.

“is that what this is?” your voice is barely a whisper on her lips, prickling at her skin.

in one fell swoop, she moves on you, wretched and despairing and yearning. her lips run down your neck messily, unsure of herself as she falls.

a jealous mantra, “forgive me, forgive me, forgive me,” as her face drags in the skin between your thighs, peppering fevered kisses with her warm breath up your dress.

you throw your head back in a quiet, celebrated ecstasy, ambrosia humming beneath your skin. you hear her pleas just faintly, “what?”

something simmers in her throat, a frenzy, her hands, so gentle, so firm, unseen from hard labour, drag up the silhouette of your body, bunching the fabric of your clothes up past your hips. laid bare, she means to worship you,

“for my sins, dear god,” she hums, her words a soft hum brushing your clit, your nails clawing wood from the pew,“forgive me,”

all grace forgotten, all discipline jilted, she’s tentative at first, so soft and unsure, her tongue dragging gentle, lazy traces, just to taste you. but you, oh you, weep ichor, something so velveteen and compulsive, something that sits in her throat and leaves her needing. her hands grab at the flesh of your ass, an anchor or a desecration against you as she moves, pinning you in your seat. shaky moans reverberate inside of you as she takes her fill, restless against you, her tongue an abuse that leaves you in threads.

your hands curl into the tight kempt of her hair, shaking her braid loose until it hangs on her shoulders, your nails scratching at her scalp.

“fuck, abby,” it falls from your lips before you catch it, not that you have the right to care anymore.       “right there, right -god- right there.”

abby, never before knowing this need, is ravenous, a temptation lost in your touch as she consumes you, greedily, a sharpness, a predatory unfamiliarity that is so unlike her. 

“god, oh god,” her lips drag sloppily up your body, smearing your own cotton slick against your stomach, your dress, a patterned trail to your lips, warmth resting in the friction between your bones. you taste yourself on her, but you smell her on you, pine and cheap cologne and sweat. 

“tell me to stop,” she chokes in a moment when she leaves your lips. she’s almost dragged back to you, a magnet to metal. “please, tell me,”

her hand is crawling down your body, down to rest between your legs. her fingers dance, hesitant, just brushing your clit. it stings, and your seethe melts into moans, “i don’t-i don’t want you to. don’t.”

“fuck,”

her fingers stretch you so uncertainly, so kind, content to just knowing the feeling of you. the push back you give her as your back arches, your breathing shivers. 

control. something so rarely desired by her, something you won’t give her. but for a moment, as she starts to find your heartbeat’s rhythm, her fingers pulling and pushing like the weight of the tide against you, she feels that rush. that supremacy she so desperately searched for. it only eggs her on for more of a taste.

her speed picks up, her forearm so lazily draped across the plain of your stomach, she looks up at you. pinned in your seat by her weight, your hair wild, your face contorted. a flush falls over your body, heat dripping down the dip of your chest as she pulls whine after whine from the swell of your lips. her.

“pastor abigail?”

prudence.

if pitchforks and torches were still in style, you’re sure an angry mob would’ve chased you, high on your heels, out of town. instead, you settle for a mournful, cowardly escape.

you slam the trunk shut, the sharp sound sending cacophonies of disruption through the magnolias. echoes of blue jays take flight across the muddled grey of the sky. the humidity is sticking to your skin, a sleekness that feels like an insult to the fragility of the moment.

abigail’s truck rattles down the distant drive, the silence of her despondence drowning as she screeches to a halt beside you. she stumbles out in a stupour, aberrant with an emotion difficult to recognise.

“you’ve led me to the slaughter,” her face is red, the heat clinging to her hairline, her chest heaving. christ, the redeemer, is slung around her neck, lopsided, “I will live forsaken from god.”

the taste of sulphur sits on your tongue, like a burnt match rotting in your throat. you look at her, and she looks at you, her pupils blown with pleading, like a child who has just become conscious of death.

what have you done to her? brought her down to you? pulled her down from the pyre, stripped of her defences;

has that made you happy? have you finally settled inside yourself, with this victory? looking up at her, seeing a pleading servant of the creature that turned you away, are you happy in her defeat?

you purse your lips, an ill attempt at forgiveness, at apology. moving past her, you feel her hesitance, her corroding need to reach out to you, like wading in waist high water.

in the car, your fingers wrap around the steering wheel, a vice grip. the last tether to this plane of existence, this piece of yourself.

“take it from me,” your voice is a soft croak, unsure of itself. you look up from the driver’s seat, and see her. is her own god forgotten in her eyes? you swallow, 

“your guilt won’t purify you.” 

─ psssst, hey! you made it this far! great! just wanted to let you know i've opened up a kofi to help support time for my writing. if you like my work and want to show your support, even just 1 buck would go a long way for me right now.

taglist; @whore4abby @endureher @beemillss @afraidofheightss @sentimentalyellow

#abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson smut #abby tlou x reader #abby x reader #abby anderson x y/n #abby anderson x you #abby anderson x afab!reader #abby anderson

[softgreengrass]

would you be willing to do a sad nat one shot? sorry I just need to feel something 💀

Punishment

Natasha Romanoff x reader

Summary: you are dead (sorry) and nat has to live with that 😞 (most of this takes place inside of a dream hopefully it’s not too confusing)

Word Count: 1.2k

Warnings: death,, referenced torture

Author’s Note: sorry this is on the shorter side! tysm for requesting ☺️ i also use fanfiction to feel so hopefully it’s sad enough for you

It’s a nightmare, like always. You’re there, like always.

“Nat!” your voice rings out, light and sweet in the hazy morning light, and Natasha rolls over, burying her face in your side of the bed. It’s still warm. “Nat!”

“Five more minutes,” she grumbles back.

Your footsteps come to a stop next to the bed. “I made cinnamon rolls, you know.”

Natasha smiles to herself. It all feels so, so real. The sheets smell like your lotion, and the sun is pale through the curtains, just like it always is in winter. How it was the last winter you were with her.

You poke her shoulder. “Aren’t you supposed to be a superspy? Get up.”

“I’m off the clock,” she says, sitting up anyways. The glimmer in your eyes looks so real. Her lungs tighten at that, and she wraps her arms around your waist, hugging you tight.

You laugh and run your fingers through her hair. “Missed me that much, huh?”

She closes her eyes and sinks deeper into you, praying as hard as she ever has. Begging for just one more life with you. She remembers how to breathe again as you scratch her scalp gently and lean into her embrace, and she inhales you again.

After far too little time passes, you rest your hands on her shoulders. “Come on, baby. They’re gonna get cold.”

She lets you lead her out of the bedroom, hands intertwined. The apartment looks just how you left it. Because it’s so easy to, she slips back into routine. Like you’re there every day when she wakes up. She tugs open the blinds over the sink and waters the plants on the windowsill; you pour two cups of coffee. You sit down at the table together like it’s any old Saturday.

“What’s with you today?” you ask with a slight smile, immediately pulling a cinnamon roll from the pan.

“Me?” Natasha replies.

“No, the milkman.”

She grins, shaking her head. “Sorry. I don’t know, I’m just out of it.”

“Well, you’re not too out of it to talk crossword, right?”

God, she had forgotten about that. You’ve been on a crossword kick lately, though you heavily rely on Natasha’s knowledge bank of language and policy and science. Really, you mostly cover the pop culture clues. “Never.”

You spread the newspaper out between the both of you and drop a pencil in front of her. “I’ll start with down, you’ll start with across?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

You scribble down some answers, eyebrows furrowed.

Natasha stands up for a moment, just to get the cream, but when she turns back around she’s not in the kitchen anymore. She’s strapped to that chair, staring at you in that cell. Your eyes are bloodshot. The dreams always wind up here, no matter how innocently they start, and Natasha’s stomach churns.

“Nat,” you croak, and her heart shatters for the millionth time.

She thrashes against her restraints, but they must be made of fucking vibranium because they cut into her wrists without budging. She doesn’t have any tricks up her sleeve — she’s in her pajamas, for God’s sake. No widow’s bite or portable EMP. Not even a way to signal Clint.

“Nat, please,” you beg, your voice as raw as the bruises on your face.

“I’m going to-” she says, struggling against the restraints again. “I’m going to get you out.”

But of course, she can’t. She might as well be a bronze statue in that chair. They’re going to make her watch you die again.

She racks her brain for as long as she can, fights the excruciating dejá vu. Maybe something will be different this time. Maybe she can get someone’s attention, some lackey she can convince to let her out. She’ll murder them all, then. Murder them and take you home.

A vent catches her eye, in the corner of your cell. You don’t have much at your disposal, but there’s a food tray on the floor that might work. She has to say your name three times before you recognize it.

“What?” you ask suddenly, eyes wide.

“I need you to try something, okay?”

You’re weak. You’ve been there for days at the minimum, been under intense interrogation lights and an array of torture methods. Natasha was the one trained for that, not you. “I don’t know…”

“Please.”

You swallow iron-tinged spit.

“Can you break that in half?” Natasha whispers, flicking her eyes to the tray. She doesn’t remember if you’re under surveillance or not. She figures you must be.

Your hands shake as you reach for it. It must be tin, that’s how flimsy and light it is, but you know you don’t have the strength to break it by hand. That ship sailed about three gut punches ago. You’d vomited out everything but your will to live, though that was fading fast too.

“Use your legs,” Natasha hisses like she can read your mind. “Stick it under something, get leverage.”

The sight of you stumbling to the bunk sends fire up her throat. She’s going to burn them all alive.

You wedge the tray under one of the bunk’s legs and pull up on the other side before stepping down on it as hard as you can. All it does is fold in half.

“Fuck,” Natasha mutters. “Can you rip it? With your teeth or something?”

You’re pretty sure your teeth would fall out if you so much as bite an apple, so you drive the tray down on the sharpest edge you can find: the corner of the tiny sink. Later, Natasha will think about how strange it was that the cell had so many amenities. She’ll come up with triple the ways to escape. All too late.

The corner pierces it, and you claw at the hole until the tray is split in half. It slices your fingers in more places than you can count.

“Use it on the vent,” Natasha says. Despite herself, she feels an ember of hope in her chest. You’d never gotten this close before. She can barely watch as you balance on top of the sink, trying to shove the sharp little metal sheet into the seam between the vent and wall. It’s slippery with blood.

A door in the cell she hadn’t even noticed swings open. A man in black storms in. Before she can get a word out, he grabs you, throws you to the ground.

Natasha recoils, forcing her eyes back open as quickly as possible. He kicks you, over and over, and you cry for mercy.

Her restraints seem to tighten. They cut off her circulation, so that not even dislocating her wrists would let her save you. She’s absolutely helpless. You sob and curl into yourself, and she’s sure she’s never felt such anguish before. But she has, and she certainly will again.

Her eyes shoot open to dark ceiling. She’s in the living room, using the couch like a cot. She still hasn’t brought herself to touch the bed you made. She probably never will.

She drags herself to her feet and shuffles to the kitchen counter, turning on the electric kettle. Only chamomile helps her breathe now.

All those people she’d managed to kill. All those missions she’d executed to perfection, for the Red Room and HYDRA and Fury. All of the people caught in the crossfire of her tunnel vision. And yet, in the single most important moment of her life, she had failed. Failed.

She figures it could’ve been karma. A cosmic punishment for the arrogance of trying to wipe her slate clean. With that much sin to atone for, she shouldn’t be able to live happily. That’s what the universe seems to think, at least.

#angst #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #marvel #mcu #natasha x reader #black widow #black widow x reader

[sixhours]

One Day at a Time - Chapter 1 - Conception

Series Chapter Index | Read on AO3 | Complete

Rating: Explicit, 18+, here be smut Series tags: The Last of Us, The Last of Us (HBO), Joel Miller x f!OFC, Joel & Ellie, mostly follows canon, SMUT, gratuitous smut, dubious consent (drunk sex), unplanned pregnancy, fluff, references to past miscarriages, angst, hurt/comfort, romance, age gap (~21 years), childbirth, fluffy baby stuff, I've probably forgotten some so please let me know <3

~*~

It was probably the alcohol.

No, it was definitely the alcohol. That shit was lethal and he should have known better.

Charlie wasn’t even supposed to be on the patrol roster that day. Joel was usually paired with Tommy; the brothers had a good rhythm and years of partnership that made their runs almost effortless. But Tommy’s kid was sick, and Charlie had shown up for his shift.

Joel didn’t mind. She was serious, a good shot, and she didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. Even Tommy could get chatty when the mood struck, and Joel was infamously allergic to small talk. It was one overnight run–ride north, spend the night in Beaver Creek, keep an eye out for hordes, and salvage and scavenge what they could–and then they’d come home.

If only she hadn’t cut her damn leg.

“Hold still,” Joel grunted as Charlie’s calf twitched under his hand. The gash was deep enough to require stitches, but he wasn’t going to try that, not with his arthritic fingers, not in this damp spring chill. He poured a splash of alcohol over the wound and winced at her hissed out-breath.

“Motherfucker,” she growled, and Joel’s cock gave an involuntary twitch at the timbre of her voice, a hazy borderland between pleasure and pain.

Yeah, he’d noticed her. The way her ass looked in those jeans, the way her thighs gripped the saddle and held firm, the way her competent hands wielded a rifle. Her hair was a shock of silver-white that complemented strange light gray eyes and full pink lips.

He’d noticed all of it. He was old as dirt, but he wasn’t dead .

When a clean rag was wrapped and tied around the wound, he sat back, examining his work.

“How the hell’d you manage that?”

She gestured to the corner of the outpost where refuse had piled up. “Was looking for the log. There’s a broken window, didn’t see it.”

“Log’s on the other side,” he grouched.

“Yeah, I figured that out,” she muttered, wincing as she shifted her leg.

“S’it hurt?”

She shot him a look. Of course, it fucking hurts.

So he handed her the flask from which he’d poured the makeshift antibiotic.

“This’ll help.”

Charlie took the first swallow greedily, eyes watering, wheezing and coughing when the stuff hit the back of her throat. “Holy shit, what is this?”

He smirked, taking back the flask and helping himself, letting out an involuntary cough at the burn. “They don’t fuck around at the distillery.”

“You don’t say,” she said, gesturing to him with a flick of her fingers. Give it back. He obliged.

He forgot he hadn’t had a stiff drink in too many months. He forgot the stuff was so potent . He forgot the cold made it easier to get shit-faced.

The drink helped ease the tension and pass the time as they passed the flask back and forth. It loosened his tongue and made him soft, malleable, fuzzy around the edges.

He remembers her leaning into him, seeking warmth. He remembers putting an arm around her and thinking she smelled really good, then her face was really close to his and…then the flask was empty and Charlie was straddling his lap and her hot little tongue was licking his mouth and he had no concept of how she’d gotten there.

Worst of all, he didn’t really care.

The next time he came to, she was pinned underneath him, three of his thick fingers pressing into the hot slick of her mouth. He watched, mesmerized, as she sucked them in deeper, swirled her tongue between the sensitive V of his middle and index fingers…then fucking smiled around them.

The noise he made was something between a croak and a moan, cock buried in her to the hilt, hips rocking against hers involuntarily as she clenched, clenched, clenched . At some point, she’d taken off her jacket and he’d pushed up her shirt, pulled the cup of her bra down over one perfect full breast, and he had just enough wherewithal for his lips to find her nipple, sucking it hard between his teeth. He fumbled then, wanting the other breast, but his other hand was still in her fucking mouth, pressing against the soft warm pad of her tongue, and he couldn’t hold himself up. He growled in frustration, used his teeth against the lace cup of her bra, pulled hard, and freed his target.

Then he promptly forgot what he was trying to do.

The little sounds she made, cooed and purred directly into his good ear, were going to drive him fucking insane. It shouldn’t have been possible to get this hard , not at his age, and certainly not while on the verge of blackout drunk. He felt like he’d taken one of those little blue pills he used to trade. And she was so wet, so soft. She was burning around him and he wanted to die in her fire.

Then his groin pulled tight, a molten heat pooling low in his belly, and he couldn’t make himself stop thrusting, couldn’t make himself wait.

“You–you gonna–” he fumbled, trying to get the words to cooperate but his tongue was a useless piece of meat in his mouth and he was too fucking gone.

Charlie’s strong body arched under him, cutting him off, and all he could feel was her sweet, slick fluttering pulling him deeper as she came with a wail. A dim part of his mind thanked a god he didn’t believe in and followed suit, spilling into her with a final sloppy thrust that wrenched a harsh cry from his lips and his mind from his body.

He vaguely remembers her pushing him off, panting and muttering about not being able to breathe, and then it all went black.

~*~

He wakes with a groan that tastes like bile. 

Oh, his aching head, his godforsaken head . He’s having a stroke. That’s gotta be it. Only explanation.

He rolls to his side in agony and dares a tiny peek through swollen, dry eyes. The light is a white-hot blade to his frontal lobe.

Nope, that’s not gonna work.

He hears retching outside. His hand touches something cold and metallic—the flask. 

The empty flask.

Jesus. He risks another glance at the too-bright world and it hurts a tiny fraction less. Maybe not a stroke after all. His cock is still hanging out of his boxers, flaccid and freezing, and he has just enough capacity to tuck himself back in and sit up before Charlie comes limping into the cabin.

The sight of her calls up a hazy memory of heat and searing pleasure along with a wave of nausea. It must come back to her, too, because she’s looking at him warily.

“Did we…?” she says.

“We did,” Joel mutters, forcing himself to stay absolutely still. The slightest movement leaves him feeling like a rowboat tossed on the open sea.

“Thought so. Shit.”

After a few excruciating moments, Joel’s stomach settles and he attempts to get to his feet. His back has other plans, and when she offers him an arm for leverage, he takes it reluctantly, pulling away at the first possible opportunity when he’s sure he’s not going to keel over.

“Look–”

“Listen–”

Fuck.  

“You go,” he says, closing his eyes. Oops, that was a mistake. The world spins behind his eyelids. He drags them open, stumbling toward the door, searching for something to hold onto.

“I think…we’re two people, who had a consensual–consensual-ish—”

Joel’s gut rolls, pitches, yaws. He flings open the door just in time, depositing the meager contents of his stomach into the mud.

Leaning on the door frame, her hand on his arm brings him back.

“This doesn’t need to be weird,” Charlie says. “Can we chalk it up to a couple of bad decisions and move on?”

“Yeah,” he grunts, swallowing another heave. “S’fine.”

He’s barely conscious for the trip back to Jackson. The glare of the early spring sun and the lope of the horse beneath him is nauseating. Charlie doesn’t seem to fare much better, but true to her nature, she doesn’t complain.

They ride through the gates and part ways with barely a nod and a wave between them. No one asks why their run proves fruitless, chalking it up to Charlie’s injury. She limps off to the clinic to get stitched up, and Joel staggers home, collapsing in bed to sleep off the worst hangover of his life.

#the last of us #fanfic #fanfiction #joel miller #pregnancy #babyfic

[lost-in-sokovia]

close to my heart, never to part

AN: hey team!! so, it’s quite apparent that i haven’t written anything on here in ages!! tbh since early 2023 it’s been difficult for me to enjoy writing fanfic style and therefore it’s been fucking forever since i’ve done it!! however, i’ve started writing again but in a completely different style of writing, and my friends and even a few of my professors at school have been really supportive and so it’s given me more confidence. so, i wrote this little piece over a span of two nights. it’s not proofread, it all came to me on a whim from a thought that stemmed in the shower one night. as some of you might know, lullabies are incredibly important to me. my parents always sang “you are my sunshine” to me so that’s the one i grew up on, i still listen to lullabies, and giving my babies lullabies is something so important to me. so i was thinking what joel’s lullaby for sarah would be, and i remembered that nico parker was in the live action “dumbo” movie that i actually saw in theaters with my sister when i was younger. so, obviously i had to take that connection and translate it, and this idea hit. so, without further ado, here is something i wrote that im incredibly nervous to post because i haven’t posted an original writing since literally 2022 and i need to do a masterlist cleanse of all my old shit spanning back to when i was like 14/15 whatever and here’s something i wrote for joel miller who i am not an expert on tlou fandom girlies please be gentle with me😭

tw: alcohol consumption, language, angst, pre-/no! breakout joel, sarah is a baaaaby🤍, no use of y/n, this isn’t even an x reader fic😭

(if you want to listen to my favorite rendition of “baby mine” that helped inspire this, here it is!!)

it wasn’t like he was sleeping, anyway.

joel miller was sitting on his couch in the dead of night, slouched over with heavy, glossed over eyes mindlessly staring at whatever the fuck had come on the tv at this point.

it was the first night without his wife, without the mother of his infant daughter.

the austin air was quiet that night, and seemingly all that existed (or didn’t exist, joel was still debating) was joel, his couch, his beer, and his tv.

joel had been slowly nursing a beer all night. just one, he had told himself, because he couldn’t be drunk and alone with his daughter.

however, as the hours passed on, joel had forgotten about the existence of his peacefully sleeping daughter in her nursery, and yet he still held the same amber glass bottle tiredly between his fingers as it rested on his knee.

still in jeans and a t-shirt, joel’s heavy eyelids fluttered open and closed, the obnoxious bright light of the television piercing his pupils when opened and nearly provoking a headache. he was hopelessly fighting the sleep that could take him away from all his problems for a short time. his eyes dry and salty from the tears he’d shed earlier in the night were losing the battle of exhaustion as his head slowly began to fall back against the leather couch.

not even moments later, small hiccuped cries began to erupt from sarah’s nursery. joel jerked awake and looked around through squinting eyes as he ran a hand over his face and through his hair. the cries of his daughter intensified and joel let out a heavy sigh, closing his eyes and shaking his head.

what was he supposed to do? taking care of sarah in the night wasn’t new to him, but doing it alone was.

what if he couldn’t get her to stop?

what if she wanted her mother? that’s a thing babies usually cry for, right?

joel pushed down the fresh set of tears that pricked at his eyelids and forced himself to get up, his stomach churning with dread (and the nausea provoked by drinking a beer after eating almost nothing all day).

it took everything in him to climb the stairs to reach the nursery. his legs dragged with exhaustion and his willpower to take care of whatever the issue was was close to nothing, despite the fact his baby daughter’s cries intensified the longer she was up there alone.

when joel finally reached her nursery, the sound of her cries pounded in his head.

“oh, oh oh,” he cooed as gently as he could, voice gruff with sleep. he carefully lifted sarah out of her crib, bouncing her lightly as he held her to his chest. “why’re we cryin’, babygirl? what’s wrong?”

sarah’s little fists were beside her face that was scrunched unhappily, her mouth stretched wide as she wailed. joel cooed and continued to bounce her, trying to get her to calm down.

he lifted her higher to do a smell-check of her diaper to see if that was the problem. nope, the scent of baby powder still penetrated his nose.

he held a finger in front of her mouth to see if she’d try to suck it, a sign she may be hungry.

nothing, just a bit of spit from her tiny mouth sprayed his finger as she cried.

“sarah, darlin’, work with me here,” joel pleaded helplessly. he walked around in a small circle as he bounced her, looking around her nursery; light blue walls with quilted decor of the alphabet above her crib, sheer curtains patterned with lively little polka dots, a rocking chair, a nightlight, a changing table, a little bookshelf, toys and stuffed animals set nicely in a corner…

each and every piece of furniture and decor laced with memories of sarah’s mom.

joel wasn’t sure how many times he’d made the same circle, and he had gotten used to the sound of sarah’s cries by now. his eyelids were heavy and his head had the dullest ache.

he felt like he could cry too. he was completely drained and at a loss. was this what every night for the next year was going to look like? how the hell was he supposed to raise his daughter right without her mother in the picture? what was he going to do about work? who was going to watch her? who—

joel didn’t realize tears were sliding down his cheeks until sarah let out an absolute guttural cry.

“i’m sorry, babygirl, ‘m sorry…” joel apologized, using his thumb to try and gently wipe the mix of his and her tears off her soft baby cheek. he stared at his daughter in the dark, weakly whispering continued apologies.

he was sorry for letting his tears drop onto her. he was sorry she was crying. he was sorry for however the rest of her life was about to be.

he was sorry he wasn’t her mother.

joel’s last and final resort hit after he had taken a few deep breaths. he remembered singing.

sarah’s mom wasn’t one for full-on singing for her daughter, but joel, who had wanted to be a singer, was. he’d gently lay sarah’s tiny body on top of his blanket-covered guitar and play soft lullabies for her, singing into her little ear. a popular song with her had been “baby mine” from the movie “dumbo.” before sarah was born, joel and her mother had collected as many vhs tapes of movies that she would hopefully enjoy from second-hand sales. among that pile was the movie of the elephant with the big ears, who when flying made sarah laugh and squeal.

joel cleared his throat as quietly as possible, sarah’s cries and whines still persisting.

“baby mine, don’t you cry,” joel began softly, voice a bit scratchy. “baby mine, dry your eyes. rest your head close to my heart, never to part, baby of mine.”

cries subsided into little whines.

“little one, when you play…”

little fists unclenched.

“don’t you mind what they say…”

sarah’s tiny tensed body relaxed.

“l-let those eyes sparkle and shine, never a tear, baby of mine…”

joel cradled her and rocked her slowly back and forth, watching his daughter fall asleep once more. though emotion flooded up in his chest, he knew he couldn’t stop now.

“if they knew sweet little you, they’d end up lovin’ you too… all those same people who scold you, what they’d g-give just for the right to hold you…”

joel wasn’t sure if he could finish. his voice was choked up and more tears slid down his cheeks as he admired his peacefully sleeping daughter, calm just from the sound of her father’s voice.

he took a shaky breath before forcing himself to finish out the song.

“from your head t’your toes, you’re not much, goodness knows—“

with a small crack in his voice, he finished out the rest of the lullaby in a whisper.

“but you’re so precious t’me… cute as can be… baby of mine…”

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller tlou #the last of us #joel tlou #joel the last of us #pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller angst #sarah miller #sarah miller tlou #pedro pascal the last of us #pedro pascal tlou #Spotify

[lovesickonmybed]

OKAYY Hear me out on this one!! Giving yourself really intense wedgies, having forgotten that Eddie was supposed to come over later that afternoon, and he barges in catching you in the act. Rightfully humiliated, you try to take it off and then he’s like, “Want some help with that?” And then over time he just becomes your wedgie dom <33

I swear to god you know what I’ve been thinking about because last night I watched a video where a girl was caught by her roommate giving herself a dangling wedgie and planned to write an Eddie fic based on it.

NSFW Under the cut! Warnings for humilaition, degradation, wedgies, handcuffs, gags, and cunt slapping.

Eddie was supposed to be gone for a few hours, he had told you he wouldn’t be back till 5 so you had the apartment to yourself for a few hours. You had a fantasy you had been wanting to try out for a while, sure it would be safer to try with somebody else but there’s no way anyone in Hawkins would ever be into something like this. You dressed as nerdy as possible to immerse yourself into it. You wore your old Hellfire shirt, a pair of tight jeans, black suspenders, and of course a pair of white granny panties. You grab your waistband and pull up hard, tugging on the fabric until your leg holes are visible, once they are you slip a canvas belt through the leg holes and secure it tightly.

You grab a gag and a pair of handcuffs, putting on the gag and attaching one handcuff to one of your hands. You drag a stool over to your closet door and get onto the stool and attach the belt to the top door hinge. You secure the other hand cuff so your hands are restrained behind your back and then step off the stool with one foot to adjust. As you plan to step back with your other foot you accidentally slip off the stool, causing it to fall back and causing you to be suspended in the air by your underwear with no way down. You gasp around the gag, eyes going wide as you realize just how fucked you are. You kick your legs trying to get your underwear to break but because you had picked your sturdiest pair, you’re stuck. You’re hanging for 15 minutes squirming and bouncing, doing anything you can to get down when you hear the front door open. Your eyes go wide with fear. “Fuck…” You mumble around the gag.

“Hey! Gareth canceled on me, do you wanna watch a-” Eddie says, barging into your room and freezing as soon as he sees you. The first thing he does is laugh, which makes you want to curl up and die. You close your eyes, wishing you were dead and thinking about how you’re definitely going to have to move now. 

“What the fuck?” Eddie says, walking over to you to get a closer look. You’re dressed up like a nerd, your panties stretched beyond belief, the leg holes reaching almost to your shoulders now. Eddie doesn’t know what to make of it. He grabs you, causing you to yelp in surprise, and turns you around to get a look at the back of you. He laughs even harder now and slaps your ass before letting you go.

“You do this to yourself, loser?” He asks, his voice switching to the one he uses during DnD sessions. You make no attempts to move or speak, embarrassment filling your body. Your face is hot and there’s a pit in your stomach. Eddie chuckles and removes your gag, smiling up at you.

“My mistake sweetheart, now why don’t you answer my question. Did you do this yourself?” He asks sternly. You hate how much his demeanor is turning you on.

“Y-Yes…” You respond softly. You wish he hadn’t come home.

He laughs in your face and shakes his head, “Pathetic. You wanted to feel like a nerd, like you were being bullied, loser?” He asks undoing your suspenders. 

“I-I-” You can’t bring yourself to respond.

“You so touch starved you had to rely on a hanging wedgie to get your little cunt filled?” Eddie slaps your covered cunt and laughs as you yelp.

“You handcuffed and gagged yourself too, I would be impressed if you weren’t so pathetic. How long have you been hanging up here, nerd? I bet it hurts by now…or maybe it feels good. Maybe you like how it’ll ache whenever I get you down from here…god I can’t wait to see how stupid you’ll be walking for the next few hours. It’ll remind me of what a fucking nerd my roommate is,” Eddie says as he undoes your pants.

“W-What are you doing?!” You exclaim as you watch helplessly as he pulls your pants down, exposing your wedgied cunt. He slaps your cunt again and you jolt forward, whining in pain.

“Fulfilling your fantasy, nerd. You should be lucky I’m not just leaving you to hang and pray that your panties will rip, eventually. This brand is strong, if I didn’t come home you’d be up here for hours.”

“H-How do you know that?”

“Do you really think you’re the only one in Hawkins who’s into some kinky shit, nerd?” You blush every time he calls you a nerd.

“I-I didn’t think anyone else was into this…” You respond.

“You should be lucky I found you, sweetheart. Can you imagine if anyone else had been your roommate and walked in on this? You’d become a laughingstock…but I bet you’d be into that, huh?” He knows just how to fuck with you.

“C-Can you get me down…I’ve been up here awhile, Eddie,” you plead. Eddie grabs the knocked over stool and brings it over to you, he picks you up by your legs to help lift you onto the stool. You sigh in relief as the pain subsides a bit. He unhooks you from the door hinge and helps you slowly remove your wedgie, your face contorts in pain as he does so. He grabs your chin and has you look up at him, “Don’t ever do that again without me here, you need someone to help you out if you get stuck and to make sure you’re doing good. I can help you explore this, okay?” 

“Okay, Eddie. Thank you…” You reply, burying your face in his chest.

“Of course…nerd,” He chuckles.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x female reader #eddie munson smut #bully!eddie munson #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson fic #mean!eddie munson #perv!eddie munson #wedgie kink #imagine

[aikoiya]

LoZ - Yiga!Link is a Riot

I gotta say that the concept of Yiga!Link is effing hilarious. Especially if it's Zelink.

Because, think about it.

In this situation, Ganon has literally everything lined up perfectly. Link, his eons-long, multi-life arch-nemesis is essentially his minion & he likely doesn't even know it.

Kid's probably deep into the sauce too, man.

Then, either along comes this pretty little princess & he's like, "yeah, sorry bro, but I'm gettin' me some of that." Maybe he was kidnapped as a baby & Link & Zelda met previously as kids? Maybe she did something for him that he'd never forgotten, then when they remeet, she does something for him that seals a huge crush on her, & thus can't bring himself to kill her? I dunno, there's a lot of ways this could go. OR, he learns personally that he's the Chosen Hero, the very person he's supposed to despise & kill. Meaning that if the other members learn about it, they'll likely kill him. His whole life comes crashing down around him. The first blow to the cult's programming.

Like, it'd just be such a power move on destiny's part.

Like, as dangerous as Ganon obviously is, he simply does not win for very long. He always looses eventually.

And this would just cement that fact. Like, he had his effing arch-nemesis in the palm of his fucking hand & didn't even know it & he'll still fucking lose.

I dunno about you, but I'd be pretty damn demoralized after that.

I might just need the next 10,000 years dead before my next reincarnation to mentally recover.

---

At the same time, it does make me wonder. Why do non-Sheikah Yiga stick with them? Like, we know the reason why the Yiga was originally formed. A Hylian King from 10,000 years ago forced the Sheikah to decommission their technology, fearing it'd bring about Hyrule's demise. (Which, despite how unfair it was, he was... actually right. Makes me wonder if he actually learned that the Sheikah Tech could be taken over. Maybe he'd been an accomplished mage & had managed to use his magic to take control of the machines, then realizing that he likely wouldn't be around for the next Calamity, he ordered the Sheikah to find a way to prevent the machines from being possessed by magic. But no matter what they did, they couldn't manage to figure it out, or maybe they did for a while, but the king kept testing them to make sure it was fixed. However, much like hacking in real life, there will always be new ways to exploit the system, thus the king was left with no choice but to decommission them.)

But, anyway, what exactly do they tell their members to get them to want to stay? Hell, why were they even still a thing in BotW? Why hadn't they made their move? There were no more guards, or soldiers, only a few trained Sheikah, all of which were either too old to keep fighting or were swiftly getting there, & there'd been no royal family besides Zelda, who was keeping Calamity Ganon sealed away.

Why didn't they take over the rest of Hyrule, asserting their dominance & killing all the loyalists so that when the Hero returned, he'd be an outlaw, thus making his journey harder? (It certainly wouldn't have been the first time something like that would've happened in the series.) In fact, why reveal themselves to him when they meet? Just wait till his back is turned, then Eightfold Blade him in the back! Or have a Yiga replace the Sheikah & Hylian innkeepers/Stable Managers, then when Link rents a bed for the night, give him a poisoned complementary meal! Then, when he collapses, just execute him!

It's that easy! Or it should be, because they're effing ninja!

I mean, they were perfectly fine with killing Dorian's wife, who Dorian had been a member of the Yiga before, thus they've no issue with the act of killing.

Which, btw, why didn't they instead kidnap her, maybe even his daughters too, & use them as blackmail to keep him under their thumb?

LoZ Wild Masterlist

LoZ My Fanfic Masterlist

#loz #legend of zelda #botw #totk #breath of the wild #tears of the kingdom #zelink #yiga link #hilarious

[erin-bo-berin]

ok so

I will give you a pregnant and nonpregnant option and you can choose bc you know which I will always choose but I know it's not for everyone 🤦‍♀️

your back is killing you and you're exhausted bc you haven't been sleeping well lately. (did you work a long shift at the hospital as a nurse or are you pregnant or both?) Steve's kind of worried about you bc you are very stubborn about accepting help and definitely pushing yourself too hard lately taking care of everyone else. so he does some research and figures out the best way to give you a back massage.

he knows he has to start subtle bc again you're so gd stubborn, so he starts by just rubbing your shoulder while you're sitting together. and when you admit it feels great/make the right noises he's like awesome bc guess what I know what you need and it's a deep tissue massage. he even impressively arranges pillows around to support your hips etc. and gets to work and you're like omg he's very good at this and he even bought special lotion with your favorite scent (just on a person note, can this not be lavender-scented, pls? lol I'm allergic and #selfish)

but's basically he's straddling you and touching very low on your back and maybe around your ears/neck and you're only human and eventually you get p turned on. and he's already back there so maybe reader's like um Steve that's great honey but I have a better idea while you're already back there. and Steve's like well this was supposed to be about relaxing you and reader's like IT STILL IS, GET TO WORK. *commence doggy*

and then reader's so fucked out it's the best night's sleep she's had in ages and Steve just spoons her, feeling very satisfied with himself.

eh?

❤️❤️ with love, flaming basketball ;)

FRICK. Love this idea!

Also I’ll make this one non pregnant but if you come up with more, I’ll make the next one with pregnancy!

Imagine that’s actually his plan all along is to fuck you lol would he every admit that though 😏

Let’s all pretend that the reader is Nancy in this gif and it’s totally not in the middle of the upside down lol

The Harrington Touch

Steve Harrington x Reader

Warning: Smut

How was it possible to feel three times as old as you truly were?

The answer? Back pain; it truly is no joke.

Here you were at barely 20, your back thrown out and trying not to grimace every time you moved—mainly for the sake of your boyfriend Steve, who’d been saying you were too stubborn for your own good to let him help you out. Maybe you were, but you hated to worry him; he already did so much for you and you never wanted to be a burden.

You had no idea how it happened—you must’ve pulled something at some point while working. Between your waitressing job that had you on your feet for several hours long periods and always on the move trying to keep a clean house for you and Steve, there was no telling what could’ve caused it. All you knew was that you’d woken one day last week with a dull throb in your lower back that had gotten slightly worse over the week.

You’d also slept horribly lately, due to it. With such a hectic schedule as your own, that just wasn’t acceptable. So not only were you dead on your feet at most times, your back was also tight and knotted. If only you could get rid of the pain then you might actually have a decent night’s sleep.

You could practically feel Steve’s worried gaze boring into you as you limped from the kitchen to the living room, finally finished cleaning up and ready to relax. He had two Tylenol and a glass of water already waiting for you on the table. You’d been so busy, you’d forgotten to taken the medication you promised Steve you’d take.

“You’re a life saver,” you groaned, sounding like an eighty year old as you sat on the couch.

His concern didn’t waver as he watched you swallow the pills, making sure you’d taken them.

“Babe, you’re doing too much. Pushing yourself can’t be good for your back. I wonder if it’s stress.”

“Steve, I’ll be okay. I just need a good night’s rest,” you yawned, laying back into his arms.

“You’ve been saying that for a week,” he pointed out gently.

“Well, I have yet to have a good night’s sleep,” you commented.

“Why don’t you let me help?” he asked gently, placing a kiss on your head.

“Help how?” you murmured, eyes growing heavy.

“I don’t know, let me do some of the cooking or cleaning, let me give you a massage, something.”

He frowned when you didn’t respond to him.

Peering down at you, his frown turned into a soft smile as he realized you’d fallen asleep. He scooped you up in his arms, carrying you to bed, all the while hoping that you’d be able to get some sleep.

Regardless if you liked it or not, tomorrow he was going to figure out ways to help you.

•

Steve didn’t do anything half-assed. When he was dedicated to something, he was dedicated to it.

After a little research, he learned a bit about massages for sore muscles. If he had to drag you by your feet to bed so he could rub you down, he was going to. He even bought your favorite lotion from downtown—vanilla honeysuckle. It smelled like a delicious, warmer version of the typical vanilla scent. It was your staple aroma and one he associated with you. After telling the sales clerk his plan to help you, she even threw in a massage oil in the matching scent then sent him off with a wink.

Now, if only he could get you to be less stubborn.

He knew exactly how to do that. All it took was a little distraction on your part. It came later on that week, when he walked out of the adjoining bathroom, already ready for bed even though it was only 7 pm. You were sitting stiffly on the end of the bed, watching some show on the TV you kept in your shared room. He padded over to you, clad in only pajamas bottoms, moving to sit behind you.

“Feeling any better?” he asked.

“Not really,” you grimaced.

He pouted, rubbing your shoulder comfortingly and you leaned back into his touch, not knowing until now just how much you might’ve needed his touch.

“Want me to rub your shoulders?” he asked, brows raised, both hands coming up to massage them gently.

His thumbs rubbed circles over the nape of your neck and you practically melted under his touch.

“Jeez, babe, you’ve got knots on top of knots,” he said, “Sure you don’t want to take up my offer to rub your back? I even got some of your favorite lotion and a body oil in the same scent.”

That made your ears perk.

“Vanilla honeysuckle?”

“Mhm. Only the best for my honeysuckle,” he grinned, leaning up to kiss your cheek.

“You’re so cheesy,” you groaned through a smile, “But I think I will take you up on the massage though, if you don’t mind.”

“Babe, I researched this days ago. I’m all prepared,” he pushed you gently so you were standing, “Strip while I set things up okay?”

Knowing he’d prepared beforehand didn’t surprise you in the least, that was just Steve. But that didn’t mean you weren’t touched at the gesture.

“I have to get naked for a back rub?” you laughed, pulling off your top.

“I mean, it’d be nice,” he smirked, a devious twinkle in his eyes, “But, you can leave your underwear on if you want.”

“Okay,” you nodded, watching as he arranged the pillows for you to lay on.

There was one for your head and arms to rest on, towards the head of the bed. There was also one towards the bottom—for you to rest your hips on, he claimed.

“Alright, go ahead and lay down sweetheart,” he said, motioning to the bed.

You were a bit chilled, the cold hair hitting your bare skin as you climbed onto the bed, on your stomach, bare breasts pressed against the sheets. You crossed your arms on top of the pillow, laying your head on top of them.

You heard Steve walking around for a moment before he climbed on the bed with you, straddling your back.

“This might be a bit cold at first,” he warned as you felt a very runny liquid hit your back.

“Shit,” you cursed, flinching, “That is cold.”

He chuckled.

“Sorry. I wanted to get some of the oil on your back before I started. It’ll help me from massaging too hard in tender places, at first.”

“Makes sense,” you said, with a nod.

Then he got to work. He said he’d start at your shoulders and neck again, then work his way down your back as he was still hesitant about hurting you. The smell of vanilla honeysuckle filled your nostrils, making you happy. It was such a calming scent to you as you didn’t care for lavender. It almost smelled like baking, but without being cloyingly sweet. It was a unique combination and you loved it.

His large hands gripped your shoulders firmly, rubbing them gently, thumbs coming back up to the nape of your neck, rubbing circles over the tension there. They moved outwards, rubbing around your neck and near your earlobes at a much gentler touch.

You sighed contentedly, feeling weeks, possibly months of stress leave your muscles. Maybe you should’ve given in to Steve days ago. As he worked, he told you what he was doing, showing off the knowledge he’d gained.

“So this is an effleurage stroke,” he said, hands gliding gently from the bottom of your back towards the top.

He’d yet really touched the lower, sore spot as he said he wanted you to relax before he worked the sore muscles.

“A what now?” you mumbled into your arms.

He chuckled, continuing his explanation.

“An effleurage stroke. It’s meant to help the soft muscle tissue and the hands should just glide across the body. I’m using it to help relax you. I don’t want you to be too tense when I get to the soreness.”

“Gotcha.”

“This,” he said, pausing his strokes, returning to your shoulders to demonstrate, “Is the petrissage stroke. It’s most common around the neck and shoulders, but it can be done anywhere. This will be helpful with your back if it’s not too painful for you. It involves squeezing and rolling the muscles between your hands, aiding in loosening muscle tension.”

“I’m impressed,” you smiled, propping your chin on your arms.

“Hey, I wanted you to enjoy it and I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said, concern laced in his voice.

“You aren’t,” you promised, “It feels amazing.”

“I’ve always been good with my hands,” he smirked.

“You’re lucky I’m in no position to smack you for that comment,” you huffed, laughing.

His answering snicker faded into concentration as he reached your lower back. As his hands and thumbs worked the sore spot you released a moan that went straight to his dick. He mentally chastised himself; now was not the time to get hike a tent.

“I didn’t hurt you did I?” he asked, concerned.

“No it’s helping a lot,” you mumbled, “Keep doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

He was absolutely amazing at this. Better than he probably had any business being. You now wanted to take back your snide remark from earlier in response to him being good with his hands because damnit he was turning you on.

Your bare skin that had been chilled earlier was now flushed and heated at his gentle touch, the way his hands glided up and down your back as he massaged. You especially felt the tingling beginnings of arousal as he got to your back, his hands just inches from your ass.

You felt your breasts becoming heavy, the desire starting to ramp up your body, your nipples puckering underneath you. If you even managed to shift slightly, your nipples would brush against the roughness of the fitted sheet, making the ache between your legs worse. Suddenly, you were thinking of his hands in other places.

Steve was struggling too.

With each pleased sigh, moan and whimper leaving your lips, he couldn’t help by harden more. He couldn’t help it—he was only human after all. Besides, his mind went straight to other not so innocent times he’d made you make similar noises.

The moment you felt his arousal brush your back, you were done for.

“Hey, Steve?”

“Hmm?” he answered, sounded distracted.

You sat up on your elbows, peering over your shoulder at him.

“While you’re back there…” you trailed off, smirking as you arched a brow, suggestively.

“No,” he shook his head, bending over you to kiss your shoulder.

“Oh so that wasn’t your hard cock pressing into my back, hmm?”

“I can’t help it. If you’re gonna moan, my dick will respond,” he said matter-of-factly, “Besides, this is supposed to be about relaxing you.”

“But I’d be even more relaxed with your cock buried deep within me,” you responded with an innocent smile, brushing back against his crotch, making him groan.

“Oh would you? Is my touch not doing it for you then?”

He played along with your teasing, but you didn’t have the ability to form a response when you felt his hand cup you through your skimpy underwear. You cursed yourself now for bothering to keep them on.

His fingers pried the fabric aside, one tracing the seam where your arousal had gathered. He looked pretty proud of himself to have turned you on this much from just a simple massage.

“I mean, I could just skip touching you all together if you’re not pleased with my services,” he mock frowned, plunging two fingers into your warmth.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you moaned, body instantly responding to his curling fingers.

He chuckled lightly.

“I take it I’m getting a glowing review?”

His long fingers thrust into you, moving, rubbing and curling against that one, spongy spot that made you go breathless. The only way you could answer was with your hips bucking and his name falling from your lips.

You were still on your stomach, propped on your elbows, Steve hovering over you as he bent to kiss your neck, whispering in your ear as his fingers moved in and out of you.

“You’re so pretty,” he mumbled, leaving hot kisses along your neck, making your head fall to the other side so he’d have more access to it.

His fingers twisted teasingly in you, knuckles rubbing euphorically against your inner wall.

“You’re my pretty girl,” he whispered, continuing his torture with both his mouth and his fingers—albeit in two different places on your body.

“Steve,” you whined, grinding against his hand.

The sensation was nice, but all you wanted was for him to take you, hard. If you were going to suffer from back pain, it might as well because he blew your fucking back out.

“What do you need, baby?” he hummed.

“You. Inside me,” your teeth were clenched, desperately needing more.

You felt his fingers leave you, then felt your underwear being pulled down your legs and off around your feet. You heard the rustle of fabric and you assumed he’d shed the clothes left on his lower half.

You were up on your knees, anticipating him as he left soft kisses long your spine. You whimpered at the feeling of the head of his throbbing cock teasing your folds.

“C’mere,” Steve said, putting an arm around your waist, pulling you upwards until your back was flush against his chest.

As much as Steve loved the sight of your ass, he didn’t enjoy the typical from behind position as it wasn’t as intimate as he wanted it to be. He wanted you pressed up against him, his chest hair scraping your back, arm holding you tightly kind of closeness. He much preferred that.

Once you were as close to him as you could get, he pushed into you with mutual moans of satisfaction coming from both of you. His other hand snaked along your body and palmed one boob, as his hips started a slow, tantalizing rhythm.

His thrusts were slow and shallow, just getting you worked up, you knew it. His head dipped, mouth attaching to your jaw.

“More,” you breathed, needing to feel him hard and deep.

“As my baby wishes,” he smirked against your skin.

Your hips worked opposite of his, slamming back against him at a rapid pace, sending his cock deep within you, hitting pleasant spots repeatedly. He held you right in his grasp as your head fell back against his shoulder.

“Fuck, Steve, keeping doing that,” you panted after one thrust nearly made your eyes roll back.

One hand was clamped over his arm that held you and the other reached behind you to tangle into his hair as his mouth sucked bruises onto your skin. You could feel his chest heaving against your back and the delicate scrape of his chest hair as he continued to pound into you, giving fully into the mutual desire from earlier.

You let out a cry when the hand that’d been kneading your breast, scraped your sensitive nipple. His fingers tweaked it and the sensation went directly to your clit. You were fast approaching your climax as was Steve, who was starting to feel the tingle at the base of his spine and his balls tense—signaling he was going to shoot his load at any moment.

He bit his lip hard, trying to hold back until you were coming apart with him. His hand slid down your stomach, middle finger finding your clit as he gave it the attention it needed.

The tension in your body was building with every slap of skin and rub of his finger as you both panted and moaned, mutual pleasure mixing together in a song of bliss. The orgasm hit as quickly as a sink overflowing with water; one second it was close to too much and the next, gushing over the porcelain rim, much like you were on his cock.

“Fuuuck,” came his drawn out moan in your ears, his naturally deep voice like gravel in your ear.

Even with only your back pressed against him, you felt him tense against you as his own climax reached its peak before sending him down the rollercoaster of ecstasy. You felt his cock twitch inside of you, the pulsing of it alerting you that he was right there—and sure enough within moments you felt his release drip back out of you. You moaned softly at the sensation, always incredibly turned on when he let himself go.

The ragged breaths coming from you and Steve were the only sound for a moment and you felt his chest heave with his uneven breath, his grasp still on you. He kissed your shoulder blade, your shoulder, then finally your cheek, nuzzling it with his nose when he finally found the composure to move, separating you two.

“You know, you really oughta let me give you more massages in the future if it’s gonna lead to this sort of fun,” he chuckled as he helped you lay down on your back.

“I will gladly let you rub me down and fuck me thoroughly any day,” you answered, fatigue becoming making your mind hazy and limbs feel weak.

You didn’t miss his smirk as he got off the bed, pulling on his boxers before heading to the bathroom.

“Where you going?” you pouted, “I want to cuddle.”

“Getting you some pain relief,” he said as you heard the medicine cabinet open.

He grabbed a paper cup from the supply in the bathroom, filling in with water, grabbing a washcloth for you to clean up with.

You watched sleepily as he came back with the items. You tossed back the Tylenol, downing the water as he ran the dampened cloth over your thighs, cleaning you up.

He pecked your lips, taking the paper cup from your hands to toss in the trash.

“How’s the back feeling? The sex didn’t make it hurt worse did it?” he frowned.

“I promise you, I feel no pain at all,” you assured him with a yawn.

He chuckled, satisfied with your answer as he went to discard the cup in the trash and the dirtied rag in the bathroom. By the time he got back to the bedroom, you’d fallen fast asleep, on your side, arms stretched out towards his side of the bed as if even in sleep you were awaiting cuddles.

Steve smiled, pulling the covers up to your shoulder, then slid into his side of the bed, kissing your forehead.

“Sleep well, angel.”

It ended up being the best night of sleep you’d had in weeks.

#steve harrington #steve harrington smut #steve harrington fic #steve harrington blurb #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x reader #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things blurb #stranger things smut

[vikingnerd793]

So uh. The Ubisoft Gear Store is dead. Just disappeared out of nowhere with random Tweet replies that it was shut down. Mirage still has no gameplay shown and it was supposed to launch in March. Three unknown projects cancelled, Skull and Bones delayed for a sixth time. I believe Prince of Persia was already canceled. Two non AC games bombed this year, projected loss of $500 million. Keep in mind Valhalla earned a billion in a year which is the most of ANY AC GAME and the 2nd best in Ubisoft history. That revenue is huge for them. So, a $500+ million loss is not small. They’re reducing headcount for two years to try to keep afloat I just read.

I’ve said this multiple times as a guess, but now I truly believe it’s not a guess. I think Ubisoft is in serious, serious trouble. I think the only reason we even got The Last Chapter at all, with likely ZERO resource and budget behind it, was if the content was a promotion for Mirage first, with a modest focus on Eivor’s conclusion. Wouldn’t be shocked if they took a crumb of budget from Mirage for it. It’s why all support was abandoned. No Yule, no NG+.

I don’t think The Last Chapter was meant to be the way it was originally. It felt like a project that got chopped. No other content in its two years of existence felt so basic. No actual gameplay. Like an hour of cut scenes. What little recycled assets they used, the peacock feather bug STILL happened and still has not been fully fixed. I doubt we will ever see another patch for it. This isn’t trying to excuse what we got, as honestly it felt so bad it shouldn’t have even been released. Just cancel it. But my visceral reaction, that this content felt like something that didn’t belong because it didn’t have any of the thought or depth of previous content, likely wasn’t off base.

I wouldn’t be shocked if the choice to make Mirage such a big project, while ALSO announcing multiple AC games being done simultaneously, and also hemorrhaging talent with huge projects being worked on (and now having to reduce headcount further with bad financials) is maybe not working out well. Especially with other titles floundering the way they are. It’s like they NEED Mirage and Infinity to not only happen, but sell at or above Valhalla levels just to survive. I might be wrong, but it’s pretty ominous. They can’t just get these games launched. They bit off possibly way more than they can chew and need record numbers from AC now.

So I can see execs telling them ACV is a dead game to them. Support was done after Forgotten Saga and the licensed crossovers that likely got them some cash flow, and the Mirage promo masked as TLC. Fuck the fans of this game who made us record money, we need the old fans who are long gone to come back and we need to focus on getting the new fans to focus on the next games. But I’m not sure that was the smartest idea, as you want to respect fans who you just got in the door if you want to keep them around.

I don’t feel happy, per say, about this, as this will affect livelihoods of many people and this company did give us Valhalla and some other great games. But it at least feels like circumstances contributed to the disappointment of Valhalla’s “end of life.” Not just a conscious decision to ruin Eivor and make her ending about a different game’s setup.

EDIT: oh I’m totally not wrong.

[th3-ineffablehusbands]

Trigger Warning!

sélf hàrm, ûnãlívîñg, bløød

I just needed to post these somewhere, not sure where so I decided here where no one knows me

A collection of poems during Sélf Hàrm

Oh so Divine

I'm crying out for help

begging

pleading that someone

something out there can get me out of this enclosure

please

get me out

I want to be free

the only other way out

is from the inside

please someone notice and drag me out

even just reach through the bars

let me grab your hand

give me hope

give me anything

__________

sometimes I forget that the cage is there

it's invisible to me too

I start going forward

navigating

and then

bam

it makes itself known

I reach my hand out anyways

it burns

fuck it burns

but anything

please anything but the cold

__________

red

isnt that pretty

it's the most pure, deep red you'll see

it's thick and it forms beads on a line

like a rosary

except this time I'm praying not to survive

but red turns old

it hardens within a few minutes

it turns maroon

and soon enough, brown

but it's there

my arm is burning

turning into ashes

hints of white shows itself

anything but the cold

__________

red

it looks ugly sometimes

it feels ugly

it stings

beads morph into a thick line

of red

not nearly enough to get out of this enclosure

how much more will I have to endure

to get out

__________

this is my way of crying for help

yet nobody notices

nobody sees

I don't allow them to

no one can

I don't want them to

but they should

cant they see my tears?

cant they see my rage?

fuck it stings

I can feel it deteriorating

but its delightful

it's turning more brown now

time to draw

__________

it's concentrated

quite

cant let anyone see after all

at least it's less likely

__________

hair

it's supposed to be for hair

for new

for change

yet I'm defiling it

I put red in it's hands

gave it to it on a silver plate

I wonder how that feels

__________

why

why does it sting as such

hasn't it been a few

why do you keep hurting me

well

I did make you do that

it's my fault

__________

I can feel everything

I want more

youre just so beautiful

arent you, red?

__________

perhaps I'll keep it this way

it's quite beautiful this way

but its also very conspicuous

maybe that's a good thing

___________

words on a white screen

both the pen and the sword kills

it will look just as dead

it will feel just as terrible

__________

how much red will it take to get out of here

I'm curious

let's find out shall we

_________

a brush of fabric

I open my mouth in a silent scream

was it pleasure or pain

I don't know

__________

make it worse

draw more

isnt it beautiful

each trace of the blade has its own story

my mind says

the heart says die

__________

all of this

just one night

impressive

why don't you impress me more

since this is so beautiful to you

the artwork

priceless

the artist is left forgotten

just another statistic

__________

each bead

dried up

frozen like a photograph

nice piece of art you got there

thanks

it cost me everything

__________

1

2

3

4

cross it out

makes a 5

how many 5s does it take

to run out of ink

__________

enough

it makes me live another day perhaps

how many days

will it take

to get out of here

to escape

to be set free

or to carve myself out from the inside

explode

a dying star

arent those beautiful

wouldnt you like to become one of those

__________

autumn

fall

red

yellow

leaves

they die

arent they so beautiful

wouldnt you like to become one of those

as you disappear from existence

everybody marvels at you

takes pictures

oh so beautiful, the dying entity

__________

is that enough attention for you

you don't quite get to see it

but at least you'd be out of the cage

__________

it's small

it smells divine

quite fruity, childlike

it's anything but

__________

it's there

making itself known

oh the ecstasy

__________

a mere twist

writhe

you grimace

good luck hiding, my dear

__________

but leaves

they come back don't they

they get replaced so easily

aw

time to plant a new one for spring

and it will be just as beautiful as it was when it was dying

__________

just a whiff

just a breeze

its awful but oh so divine

__________

do I have the strength

something

somewhat

somehow

until tomorrow

rest

__________

shatter the cage into pieces

destroy it

crush it into dust and blow it into the wind

fly

be free, darling

#depressing shit #tw depressing thoughts #tw depressing stuff #poetry #poem #self h@rm #tw s3lf harm #tw #trigger words

[kissingghouls]

hello hello! I've finished chapter two of my secret society/life in the abbey fic and settled on a title. thank you to everyone who encouraged me to keep writing.

Let the Poison Spill summary: A strange nun makes you an offer.

tags: x fem reader, Papa Emeritus III x fem reader, Cardinal Copia x fem reader, occult secret society, scheming Sister Imperator, 18+, NSFW, eventual mature content, blood Chapter Two (Chapter One)

Chapter Two - Temptation

The nun’s card hung heavy in your pocket while you tried desperately to distract yourself. Make the bed. Fold the laundry. Tidy the bathroom. Go through that junk drawer that has never once held anything useful to search for untold treasures. It was the same old shit. Things you didn’t need. Things you would never need. Dead batteries. Old packets of salt. The occasional soda can tab for no good reason. Under the flotsam was a lighter left behind by a former lover, long since forgotten, but still good for something it seemed.

After two hours of mindless tasking, you collapsed on the sagging sofa and pulled your knees to your chest. Your hands itched to touch the card again, mind racing through the possibilities it held. Somehow the nun had managed to say next to nothing and hypnotize you all the same. No matter how you shifted, you couldn’t get comfortable. The corners of Sister Imperator’s business card stabbed at you from every angle, demanding your full attention. 

The mysteries of the world had always had a special hold on you. Myths, legends, gods, demons, magic, all of it had a special place in your heart. It had become a slight obsession in your formative years, anything from ancient relics to modern puzzles. There was a thrill in the unknown, in things unseen for centuries or unprovable by scientific methods. And now turning that smart black card over and over in your hand, you were presented with the fact that something largely believed to be bullshit could actually exist. And there was no telling what a secret Satanic church operating for hundreds of years could have amassed.

Tempted wasn’t the right word for how Sister Imperator left you feeling. Terminally fucking curious fit slightly better, as there was no guarantee you would come out of this alive. It angered you how well she read you and dangled knowledge in front of your face like a carrot but fuck if she wasn’t right about you. Within a few hours an old nun had completely turned your life upside down, because you, silly as it may sound, could not resist the allure of the unknown. She was far more cunning than you’d initially thought, knowing exactly how to leave you questioning the encounter. You began to wonder if His followers had such silver tongues, how anyone could be expected to turn down the Devil.

You were finally starting to understand that whole thing with the apple.

The building gave a heavy groan, pipes creaking and clanging as steam began to rise through them. The radiators let out a high pitched squeal that pulled you back to the present. You held up the card, finally giving it a closer inspection. The matte black paper was thick and embossed in a tasteful glossy black font was Sister Imperator’s name and number. Tilting the card this way and that revealed a barely there Levithan cross that flashed in the light. How ridiculously on brand.

Unfolding your body from the sofa, you dug out your laptop and propped it on the coffee table. A quick search yields few results for The Order of Asmodeus, but you’re hardly surprised. They weren’t supposed to exist at all, why would they have an internet presence? The few articles that did come up dealt mostly with the conspiracy of it all, stories you’ve heard a thousand times before. Old. Secret. Satanic. Blah, blah, blah. Other cursory searches only told you Asmodeus represented lust. Imperator meant commander, which seemed to suit the nun’s energy and apparent love for authority perfectly. Commander of what exactly, the internet couldn’t tell you.

It was clear you weren’t going to find any answers on your own. Maybe that needed to be enough.

Sister Imperator had left you with two options, neither of which were all that great. Could you really go back to living a normal life knowing the Order was real? How were you supposed to buy groceries and pay bills knowing that an ancient secret society was out there with answers to questions you didn’t even know to ask yet? And if you chose to say yes, what would that do to your life? Was it worth it to join? To find out exactly what they had hidden in their vaults? What would it cost you?

You had to hand it to the nun. The seed she planted only took about mere hours to fully bloom before you found yourself dialing that number. The line rang out, a dull repetitive sound that didn’t fit the severity of the situation. Your heart began to pound, lungs aching with every breath. Dizziness swam in your head as your palms began to itch again. A thin sheen of cold sweat was forming on every inch of your skin, and you were fighting the urge to dry heave all over your living room. But you didn’t hang up, not even when the other end clicked.

You stopped breathing, eyes growing wide with a mixture of terror and anticipation.

“You’ve made your decision then?” was all Sister Imperator said. There was no greeting or chitchat, only the expectant tone of her voice and her quiet breathing as she waited.

“Yes,” you replied, your mouth going dry as the word left you.

“And?” You could practically hear her eyebrow raise with her inflection.

“I—I’m in,” you croaked. Your heart hammered against your ribs so wildly you could hear it in your ears. That wasn’t what you’d meant to say, was it? Did you really just agree to this?

“We’ll send for you tomorrow. Nine AM.”

“Wait what?”

There was no answer, only the tell-tale sign of a receiver being hung up before the line disconnected. The nun still had a landline.

Nausea swirled around the dizziness, bringing you to your knees on the floor as your phone fell from your hands. What have you done?  What the fuck have you done? It wasn’t the first time you’d done something violently impulsive, but this time you really had no idea what you had just agreed to. Or why you couldn’t resist the pull of it.

You scrambled to your feet, racing to the bathroom to empty the contents of your stomach. Tears streamed down your face with the effort, leaving hot trails down your cold skin. The anxiety and paranoia got the better of you there in that tiny room. Everything began to spin and tilt and blur as your chest tightened with that familiar panic, but before it could get bad it shifted. The weight seemed to shift, and a strange euphoric feeling spread through your limbs, carried by the excited butterflies that formed in your stomach. Maybe knowledge was the right choice even if you didn’t know the cost.

Whatever the Order was doing, they were good enough to be doing it for hundreds of years.

The positivity you felt the night before quickly evaporated as three sharp knocks echoed loudly through your apartment, waking you from a deep sleep. It felt far too early for someone to be at your door, but the display on your phone read exactly nine AM. You grabbed the first available pair of jeans in your room, stumbling as you crossed the apartment while trying to pull them over your legs and shouting to the visitor that you’d be right there. With one hand wiping the sleep from your eyes, you tried to wrench open the front door, but the old, swollen wood sealed you off from the rest of the world like it always did when the building got too humid. When it finally swung free, a cold wind rushed up the stairs and caught the heavy door sending it into the wall with a solid thud.

But that wasn’t what made you jump.

The hallway was occupied by a man, barely visible in the shadows. The little light filtering up the stairwell caught the metallic mask that obscured his face. Its blank, expressionless face was vaguely humanoid, but there was no mouth, only a blank space that smoothed into a pointed chin. A small set of horns peeked out from the molded hairline, coming to sharp points at their tips. The man tilted his head, studying you quietly like an animal observing potential prey.

“Can I help you?” you asked slowly, infusing your voice with a well-practiced faux bravery. Looking the man up and down, you noticed he was dressed remarkably well. Each piece of his all black outfit was tailored with such precision that it must have been made just for him. Probably the mask too.

Well-dressed or not, he did not answer your question. He stared at you for a moment longer, his head tilting again, eerily slowly this time. It was unnerving the way he silently watched you and you had no interest in whatever he was offering.

“Ok then. No thanks,” you said quietly, shifting your stance to reach for the door.

Before you could complete the movement, the man closed the space between you. He moved with an unnatural speed, locking an arm firmly around your waist. You shouted and struggled against his hold, but the man was so much stronger than his thin frame suggested. Staring deep into your eyes, he raised two fingers and pressed them hard against your forehead. The touch somehow made you overwhelmingly drowsy, eyes threatening to close immediately. His grip tightened as your body began to go limp. It felt like the floor was disappearing from under your feet and your body no longer responded to your brain’s commands. Your vision clouded before going black and in the arms of that strange masked man, the world fell away from you.

It was impossible to tell how long you had been out. The edge of a seatbelt was digging into your back and from the ache, it had been that way for a while. Your head throbbed, pain pulsing behind your eyes as they adjusted to the light again. You sat up and blinked hard. The dark leather interior of a large SUV came into focus, the cab rocking gently as the tires crunched over gravel. The man, still masked, sat silently in the driver’s seat as he brought the car to a stop. You weren’t even sure he realized you were awake. It was probably better if he didn’t.

A tint covered the windows, so dark it was probably next to impossible to see inside the vehicle. If anyone else was even around. You slid across the seat, quiet as a mouse as you slowly inched your fingers toward the door. How fast could you run? Which direction should you go? All those tips you’d found on the internet on sleepless nights escaped you. With your fingers wrapped around the handle, you took a deep breath. Either way you had to do something.

You pulled.

Nothing happened.

The doors were locked and no amount of force you could generate was going to change that. You tried the controls for the windows, but nothing moved. Fuck.

The Masked Man let out a low growl of warning, his black eyes following your movements in the rearview mirror. Slowly, he lifted his right hand, pointing long clawed fingers at something out the window. Creating another small noise in his throat, he tapped at the glass, indicating he wanted you to look.

You swallowed hard and slid back across the seat to press your face against the opposite window. An enormous stone structure stretched out before you, its gothic architecture jutting and curving up and meeting the many spires that scratched at the pale sky. It was full of impossible detail, difficult to see in the dull light, but you were able to tell the crosses that topped the spires were all upside-down.

The front door opened with a creak loud enough to shake the car. Three silhouettes emerged, dwarfed by the sheer size of the door. Backlit by the warm light inside, their faces remained obscured until they began to descend the many steps outside. Sister Imperator came into view, the long skirt of her habit bunched one hand as she moved, the other wrapped around the arm of the masked man guiding her. She came to rest at the bottom of the stairs, flanked by the masked men.

With a nod from her, the masked man in the car leapt from the driver’s seat and yanked you from the car. An iron grip held your arm as he forced you across the gravel and dumped you unceremoniously at the nun’s feet. Dots formed in your vision as whatever the man had done to get you in that car began to fully wear off. Dizziness pressed against your brain as you tried to look up at the nun.

“What the fuck, lady?” you grinded out as tiny rocks dug into your hands and knees. “You can’t just kidnap people.”

“I believe this is what you wanted?” she replied, shooting a wry smile down at you.

“Not this—”

Instead entertaining your argument, Sister Imperator turned on her heel and started up the steps. Halfway up, she paused and called over her shoulder, “bring her inside.”

Imperator’s men advanced toward you with hungry grins, flashing sharp white teeth. Their masks were differed from the driver’s—still humanoid with horns—but notched at the bottom to partially reveal their faces. The exposed skin of their jaws and hands varied in tones of ash gray, highlighted by the all-black uniforms hugging their frames just like the driver’s.

With a hand under each arm, they hauled you to your feet and began to carry you up the steps.

“I’ll walk,” you grumbled as you broke free, holding your hands up in surrender.

You traced Sister Imperator’s path up the old stone steps, acutely aware of how closely the two masked men were following. You weren’t entirely sure, but you swore one of them had leaned forward and sniffed at you. It was odd, yes, but not more or less strange than anything else that had happened to you today. You focused instead on taking in your surroundings, but there was so much.

The main hall’s vaulted ceilings reached high, its beautiful lines meeting in geometric patterns above and dotted by chandeliers washing the room in a warm light. The floor was tiled in expensive stone, arranged in intricate patterns of blue, white, and gold. Along the walls, massive oil portraits of men in ceremonial robes were prominently displayed. Oddly, their faces were painted like skulls, though each was slightly different. The eerie eyes of the portraits seemed to follow you along, daring you to notice that all the men bore one white eye. Gilded frames and golden nameplates reflected the candlelight, each engraved with a different title. Nihil. Primo. Secondo. Terzo.

The nun turned, darting under an arch, and disappearing through a doorway. The masked men quickly ushered you after her.

The difference in the spaces was jarring enough to make this room feel small, though the ceilings must have towered to twelve feet. Warm, dark wood surrounded the room as thought the space itself had been hollowed out. At one end, a fire crackled away within the carved housing of a large marble fireplace. Sister Imperator moved through the room with ease, taking her seat behind an unnecessarily large desk. She gestured for you to sit as the men arranged themselves by the door, standing at the ready like soldiers guarding the room.

Two wingback chairs faced Imperator’s desk, each upholstered in a plush velvet the color of absinthe. The chair swallowed you up as you settled in, but it did little to dull the thrumming pain still brewing behind your eyes. Whatever the masked man had done to knock you out left you feeling hungover and slightly dazed.

“Ok, where the fuck am I and what did you do?” you grumbled, pressing your fingers against your temples.

The nun simply smiled and pushed a green depression glass bowl full of hard candies toward you. “Peppermint will help will the headache. It’s a nasty little side effect of that kind of contact with the Ghouls, but it really is the best way. Much safer than what we used to do,” she noted a little too fondly.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

“You’re with the Order,” she said flatly. “I’m afraid you’re not going to get much more information than that.”

“But you said—"

“Did you really think I would just let you walk in and have unrestricted access to everything we are after meeting you once? Please tell me you’re smarter than that.”

A clock ticked loudly somewhere in the room as you bit your tongue. It was clear that you were not nearly as smart as you thought you were 24 hours ago, but you weren’t about to give the nun the satisfaction of your doubt. Sister Imperator reveled in your silence, another smile growing on her face as she leaned forward to speak.

“The most important thing we do here is keep the secret. No one can know where you are, what you’re doing. In return for keeping the secret, if you behave, we’ll begin the initiation. And all those pretty little promises I made you will come true. But I will only ask you once, so I need you to be sure of your answer,” she said with a strange seriousness. The tone she took even seemed to make the masked men uncomfortable, shoes clicking against the wood floor as they shifted behind you.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. You were facing that same problem you had the night before. You know what you chose then, but you still didn’t know the cost. Did you want to know the cost of backing out now? The things you’d seen, these two rooms and the strange paintings probably didn’t even scratch the surface of this place. Could you really take two steps back now?

Sister Imperator’s expression turned slightly smug as she watched you relax in the giant chair. She placed her hand palm up on the desk and motioned for you to place your hand in hers. Your heart jumped to 150 bpm as her soft, warm fingers held yours. She raised her other hand expectantly. One of the men moved forward and placed a dagger in her hand.

Fuck.

You braced yourself for the worst as she raised an eyebrow at you.

“Are you ready to swear? Right here, right now?” she asked.

“I—” you started and looked around the room. The masked men were crowding around your chair, hovering ominously as they awaited your answer.

“Say the words,” Sister Imperator coaxed gently, a flash of fire reflecting in her eyes.

“I swear.”

In one swift motion she brought the dagger down. You flinched hard, trying not to rip your hand from hers as she leaned in closer…

…and pricked your finger.

The sigh of relief that left you would have been embarrassing if it could have been heard over the sound of the two masked men growling. Sister Imperator tossed the dagger toward them and like children licking a mixing spoon, the two men ran their tongues over those few drops of blood. You could only blink in total confusion.

“Words are well and good, but the Olde One requires something a little more binding,” she offered as if it explained anything. “This particular ritual only requires a drop.”

“Uh huh. And that?” you asked, pointing your bleeding finger at the two men still licking wildly at the dagger and each other.

“Oh, that’s just Ghouls,” she answered dismissively, waving her hand. “They love a little blood. Greedy little things, but sweet. Extraordinarily helpful.”

“Ghouls,” you repeated flatly.

Sister Imperator dragged her candy dish back across her desk and noisily unwrapped a golden butterscotch before popping it in her mouth. “Our abbey is home to many Nameless Ghouls. Nameless is a bit of a misnomer, as most have adopted some sort of moniker to tell them apart, though it’s nearly impossible to remember them all. They come to us from a very specific plane of existence below. I should note there are many, many things in our abbey that are not of the natural world. I suggest you adjust quickly, otherwise you might never stop being surprised.”

“Ghouls,” you said again slowly.

“Yes, dear, Ghouls,” she sighed and waved one of the Ghouls over. “It’s ok. Please, show her.”

The Ghoul shrugged and gingerly slipped the silver mask from his head, flashing you a shy smile. Underneath he didn’t look all that different. He still had very human features—eyes, nose, and mouth all arranged the way you’d expected, but the horns that extended from his hairline weren’t just a part of the mask’s aesthetic. His eyes seemed to glow as they caught the light, like a cat hiding in the dark. If you were honest, he was quite beautiful, but he seemed more comfortable as he slid the mask back in place.

“Thank you, Ghoul. Would you please escort our new novitiate to the library? I’ve assigned Mary as her mentor, but it seems they’ve forgotten our meeting,” Sister Imperator requested.

“Yes Sister,” the Ghoul replied softly, much to your surprise. He moved around Sister Imperator’s desk and motioned for you to follow.

Don't worry. Everyone will start to show up in the next chapter. Thank you for your time, love!

#ghost band fanfic #my writing #fanfic writing #ghost fanfiction #tags are hard

[pwderedsugar]

stop me if this has already been done in a fic because i wouldn’t put it past my brain to scramble stuff up and make me think i had an original idea for once. anyway… let me ramble.

here’s the pitch:

a group of saviors come back one day from picking up shit from a non alexandria group and when they’re unloading the truck, negan sees one of the saviors has a pair of sunglasses hanging by the collar of his shirt. a genius idea hits him; more genius than any idea he’s ever had before. maybe even more genius than wrapping his old baseball bat in barbed wire and naming it after his dead wife! ok, well definitely not that far but it’s still damn fucking good. he plucks the sunglasses off his men’s shirt and now all there is left to do is wait until his next visit to alexandria and he hopes rick’s been hauling ass because the date’s just been moved up.

negan rides up to alexandria all giddy and eager and having to stop himself from skipping to carl’s side the first chance he gets. well, he’s as patient as he possibly can be and after busting rick’s balls so bad he’s practically got a deflated balloon hangin between his legs, he seeks out carl and leads him to a secluded spot in between some unoccupied houses.

“got a surprise for you, kid!” negan says, grinning like the maniac he is, and dangles the sunglasses in front of carl’s good eye.

instead of gratitude like he was expecting, negan is met with an exasperated and confused glare.

“you grimes’ should put a patent on that stink-eye, jesus! how about a ‘thank you’?”

“yeah, okay except i don’t even know what i’m supposed to be thanking you for? what the hell am i going to do with sunglasses?” carl points to his bandage like negan has suddenly forgotten the whole lack of an eye situation instead of reminding him of it every chance he gets.

“you must think i’m real stupid, huh.”

negan sighs, holds up the open glasses in front of carl’s face as if he’s about to put them on him, then punches one of the lenses out of the frame and hands them to carl.

the glare on carl’s face is momentarily replaced by realization before it’s back again tenfold.

“i thought you said i shouldn’t cover it up.”

“hey, you know i think it’s badass but clearly you don’t so here you go. at least it’s better than that shitty bandage. it was looking pretty grimey,” negan singsongs and punctuates his cheesy pun with a wink.

carl groans and rolls his eye. “if i say thank you will you stop now?”

“i dont know… might take a bit more than that now. how bout a kiss? or something more if you’re feeling real grateful to ol’ daddy negan,” negan says, crowding carl up against the paneled side of the house.

this time his joke is met with a gag as carl rips of his bandage and hastily shoves on the glasses to replace it.

“fuck off,” carl replies as he stalks off hoping negan hadn’t seen his cheeks turn fiery red or his hands trembling.

this kid is something else, negan thinks, wishing he could take himself up on the offer to plant one on him, this plan worked out so well. definitely, 100%, in his top two best ideas ever.

#cegan #this is not an actual full on fic ok just a brain dump so sorry if it’s terrible #i say as if a full on fic written by me wouldn’t be terrible too but ykwim! #text post

[geocait0815]

The Heist - Chapter 21

This is a fanfiction game which starts here.

You can find all previous chapters here: Masterlist

A few hours before --- Jake's POV

The Mustang crashes through the ticket onto a grassy clearing. I can see a dead end with a ditch approaching fast. “Jump now!” I call to MC. And thankfully, she does without any further discussion. By the time she dives out the passenger door, I am already leaning back to grab the bag with my laptop, the foot still on the gas pedal. To my dismay, I realize that the strap of the backpack has caught on to something and is stuck. I take the foot off the gas and pull as hard as I can until I feel something rip. As I turn around, the car bucks and I can feel it crashing over the edge. I clench my teeth and brace for impact.

It turns out that this is one of the few moments in which luck is on my side. The ditch must have been used as a landfill. The car had slowed down a bit after I went off the gas pedal and it drops only a few feet down onto a heap of old garbage. From there, it slides to the bottom of the pit. I open the door and scramble out of the car, still in disbelief that I survived this unscratched. Relieved, I take a deep breath. That was a mistake. The air is filled with the smell of rotten leaves, garbage and ... dead goat?

But all this is forgotten when I hear MC scream. Ignoring the stench, I scramble up the landfill back to the edge of the ditch. Up there, the next surprise is waiting for me. MC lies unconcious in the arms of my old friend Kyle.

******

“We brought you here in Kyles car.” Jake finishes his recall of the events. Only now I realize, that my hands are balled into fists. “Are you kidding me? You almost got yourself killed over your laptop?” Jake looks flustered. “We would have been screwed without the computer and all the data I have on there.” “You. Could. Have. Died.” I press through gritted teeth. Jake pulls me into a hug. “I'm sorry, MC. I guess I wasn't really thinking at that moment.”

After he releases me, I turn to Kyle. “How come you were there? Weren't we supposed to meet you in Raderdorf?” “That was more luck than anything, to tell you the truth. I was already on my way to the old factory, when I got wind of Marks men catching on to you. I was able to follow their movements and cut your path using some side streets. Your car was anything but subtle, so spotting you and following was a piece of cake in the end.” “Do they know you were there, too?” I ask. He shakes his head. “Unlikely. I left all devices, that could potentially be tracked, behind. And the car is a rental.”

“I could really use a drink right now.” Walking past Jake I leave the room and find myself in the kitchen of a run-down shack. “We only have water, sorry” Kyle chuckles and points to the table where a few bottles are lined up. I grab one of them and take a big gulp. The cold liquid makes me feel a bit better and helps clearing my head. “So, what is the plan now?” Eyeing Kyle again, I come to the conclusion that I can't fully read him, yet. But Jake seems to trust him and buy his story of wanting to bring down their former mentor as well. I decide to do the same, for now.

“James filled me in on your situation. I know what evidence the FBI is after to be able to nail Marks ass to the wall. Noone, except Mark himself, has access to the system containing the data. But I do know where it is and how to get to it.” Kyle stops and takes a deep breath. He gives Jake a look as if saying 'You are not going to like what comes next.' Then, he continues: “We can't have you just walk onto the farm. Especially not you, Jake. Everyone is on the lookout for you, Mark made sure of that. With her, on the other hand...” he points at me “...we have a chance to get her in unnoticed.” “There is no fucking way, I'll allow that.” Jake interupts him. “Are you trying to get her killed?”

Kyle crosses his arms in front if his chest. “Let me finish, before you rip off my head. Mark has summoned everyone to the farm, for some sort of big announcement. I know, this will make it more difficult for us. But at the same time it is our best chance. There will be a catering company. Every employee has been screened, but I managed to set up everything to sneak in an additional waitress. I just need a foto of MC, to make an access pass. James and I will monitor everything from the inside and cause a distraction, if the need arises. MC will get in, sneak to the server room and access the data with your remote help. She'll wear a wire and a small body cam for you to communicate.”

“Over my dead body!” Jake bursts out. “I won't allow risking MCs saftey like this.” The two of them are getting into a heated argument and look like they are about to throw hands, while I feel anger rising up in me. I smash the water bottle onto the table in front of me, causing the others to topple over.

“Enough!” Both men flinch. They obviously forgot that the subject of their argument was standing right there. “Don't I get a say in this?” I put my hands on my hips and look from one to the other. “I'm in this shit as deep as any of you. And you can be damn sure that I'm going to pull my weight. This is what I signed up for. And I'm not going to chicken out, now that we are getting close.” For a long minute, both Jake and Kyle stare at me in shocked silence. It seems as if noone dares to speak. So I say: “Let's get to work, shall we?”

@renneiscent It is your turn ;)

#duskwood #duskwood everbyte #duskwood jake #duskwood jake x player #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood mc #jake x mc #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood the heist #duskwood fandom #duskwood game

[blubushie]

GOOD MORNING BLU, LEAFANON HERE! GIVE US SOME MUSIC RECOMMENDATIONS!

So I typed up a whole response to this, hit undo by accident, and lost it all. Terribly sorry, leafanon. Let's try to do this over.

I HOPE YOU LIKE COUNTRY 'CAUSE BOY DO I HAVE A LOT OF IT.

First on this list is Luke Combs’ Where the Wild Things Are. I’ve been listening to his song on repeat for the past two days and I love it. It hits something in my heart I suppose? I can definitely relate to it. Not only does the verse “American Spirit hanging out of his mouth, just like our daddy” hit me because American Spirit (the blue pack) is my choice of cigarette when I’m in the States (and red Winnies in Oz), but my parents also wanted me to stay in California, so the verses “He kickstarted that bike one night and broke mama’s heart. He pointed that headlight west, out where the wild things are” really strike home with me because I absolutely did break their hearts when I left. This song is faintly hinted at in the upcoming Chapter 11, but blink and you’ll miss it!

I also get emotional at the very end verses of the song, “We buried him out in the wind ‘neath the West Coast stars, out where the wild things are” because I want to be buried in Australia. I don’t want my body transported back to the States to waste away on some plot of land in a California cemetery and be forgotten about after a few generations. I want my ashes to be spread from the summit of Table Top at Kakadu, where the wild things are. Let the land remember me, because in a thousand years no one else will.

The next song is another Luke Combs song, You Found Yours.

“Age of seventeen, you worked all summer long washing cars and pulling weeds from your neighbour’s lawn. Well, it wasn’t no King Ranch, but she was paid for. When you find that kinda freedom, buddy, you found yours.” Story of Matilda right there. I worked graveyard for two years to afford a hard-loved ’99 Ford ute. One year for the ute, and another year for the cabin plus some extra cash for stability. Dad helped me fix her up and I went east for six months, taking jobs out in New Mexico, Texas, and Oklahoma. Came back with my wanderlust worse than ever and got Matilda on the first boat out of San Francisco to Australia.

Next is Where I Find God by Larry Fleet. “That day out on the water, when the fish just wouldn’t bite, I put my pole down and I floated around. It was just so quiet. And I could hear my old man saying, ‘Son, just be still, ‘cause you can’t find peace like this in a bottle or a pill.’” Saying I sympathise with that is the understatement of the bloody century.

Now for my favourite song (besides Waltzing Matilda) by my favourite bush bard! It’s Old Dingo by Slim Dusty!

Little-known fact about me: I’m a part-time dogger. When someone has an issue with a particular individual or pack of dingos, I’m the bloke they have come out to take care of it. I only do this when all other management options have been exhausted. I don’t like shooting dingos, but sometimes it’s necessary, like coyotes.

“And because his tracks are frequent to the these paths and often seen, there’s a dogger and his bullet’s got your name… Oh, they watched his movements day and night until he came to water at the station bore beyond the coolabah. And as he raced for freedom a single shot rang out. Now he lays to rest beneath the desert stars.”

Sometimes I feel like the dogger. Sometimes I feel like the dingo. Either way, sometimes when I’m hunting from a far enough distance that I don’t have to worry about my prey hearing me, I’ll find myself humming this song under my breath while I’m waiting. “So run old dingo, watch your tail, keep your wits about you, never let your concentration slide. For the word’s out that they want you, and they’ll track you till you’re dead as long as there’s a bounty on your hide.”

The next song is my favourite song of all time and the song that should’ve been our national anthem if the pollies weren’t such fucking sooks about a bad image because if you ask me there’s nothing more Australian than lifting a sheep and throwing yourself into a billabong to drown when you’re caught because you’re going to die on your own bloody terms and no one else’s.

Ignore that the song is sung by Rolf Harris. We don’t claim the nonce but he’s got the best version of this song both because of the commentary, the excitement with which he sings it, and because you can hear the audience singing along with him.

Some other great songs by Rolf Harris, as much as I hate to say it, are Tie Me Kangaroo Down, Sport (I sang this religiously as a kid and my teachers hated me) and Sun Arise, which I sometimes find myself singing in the early morning when I’m half-awake and making coffee.

I also love war songs, don’t ask why, reckon it’s the history aspect. The entire Remembrance album is great. It’s an album completely dedicated to World War 1, but The Green Fields of France strikes a chord with me that makes some deep sorrow well in my chest.

“Did you leave a wife or a sweetheart behind? In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined, and though you died back in 1916, to that loyal you’re forever nineteen? … And I can’t help but wonder, oh, Willie McBride, do all those who lie here know why they died? Did you really believe them when they told you the cause? Did you really believe that this war would end wars? Well the suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame, the killing and dying, it was all done in vain. Oh, Willie McBride, it all happened again. And again, and again, and again, and again.”

The main song on that album that really hits me is And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda. The song starts off with a man relaying his life: “Now when I was a young man I carried me pack and I lived the free life of a rover. From the Murray’s green basin to the dusty Outback, well I waltzed my Matilda all over. Then in 1915 my country said, ‘Son, it’s time you stopped rambling, there’s work to be done.’ So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun, and they marched me away to the war.” Just from this we know he’s an Aussie bloke and if you know anything about the Australians in WWI you’re probably feeling an immediate concern. Maybe you’re hoping he’s sent to Europe to lay mines, but then you get the next verses: “And the band played Waltzing Matilda as the ship pulled away from the Quay, and amidst all the cheers, the flag-waving and tears, we sailed off for Gallipoli.”

And anyone who knows about what actually happened at Gallipoli knows just what’s in store for this poor bloke.

Now for some folk songs! Moreton Bay is one I sing often as it’s very easy to remember and has a nice melody. This song also makes an appearance in Chapter 12. The Fields of Athenry is an Irish folk song, but the man it’s about, a lad named Michael, is sent to Botany Bay in Australia as a convict so I’m counting it as an Aussie song too!

Of course we also have some non-country/folk songs!

Back on the war songs, another great one is Khe Sanh by Cold Chisel about the repercussions of the Vietnam War on an Australian soldier. Many American vets have heard this song and strongly identify with it. Amazing how an Aussie band understands the American veteran mindset better than American bands at the time. (Don't even get me started on how the American populace treated soldiers returning from Vietnam.)

Another song on that list is Redgum's I Was Only Nineteen. My dad loves this song despite not knowing any of the Australian locations, but he can name all the Vietnam ones. He gets that faraway look in his eyes when he listens to it. The verses "Frankie kicked a mine the day that mankind kicked the moon. God help me, he was going home in June" cracks something in my heart each time I hear it. My dad was in the Vietnam bush and they didn't even find out that MLK had been killed until over two weeks after it happened, and it was an immediate uproar amongst his men as there were black and white Marines in his company. After an hour the row quieted and then there was just mourning from everyone involved. Even the people who weren't well-versed in who MLK was (not that there was many) were mourning simply because their brothers in arms were mourning. There isn't race in the bush, no white or black or anything else. Everyone is green--the colour of the camouflage they wear.

And lastly on a more upbeat note, how could anyone forget about the song that even people who haven’t heard Waltzing Matilda have heard and associate with Australia. The quintessential Aussie song! The one we play at international sport matches, the one we ANNOY THE FUCK OUT OF EVERYONE WITH when every fucking Aussie in attendance starts singing along to it, the one that causes a row of “AUSSIE AUSSIE AUSSIE! OI OI OI!” in succession for five minutes after the song ends. The Aussie song: Down Under by Men at Work!

#blu whos #blu tunes

[straightouttatheashes]

Silver / Darkness

DWC 2022 (August) Day 1 - Silver / Darknes

----

“I hate this, I hate this, I fucking hate this.” Pheonix shuddered for the twentieth time since setting foot in the dusty, abandoned, eerie, bloody-cobwebbed-adorned shell of what once probably was a really nice estate. Or some sort of lived in building, at least. She wasn’t quite sure what it had been, but the remains of grand furniture and many bedrooms just reminded her of some noble’s fancy mansion. Kind of like hers.  ...Maybe this is what the Brightfall Estate was gonna turn out like, and then there’d be two jackasses messing around in it in the dead of night, trying to loot the place one day in the future. She had to chuckle at that, before fingers suddenly gripped at her waist and she jumped, whirling around to push Barry away - who only cackled as he was shoved back. “Don’t do that, you asshole!” “Aw, I was expectin to get punched.” He stuck his bottom lip out at her in a dramatic pout, before stepping out of reach when she swung at him. “Calm down, Cream Puff. What, you scared of ghosts?” “I don’t...like them.” She huffed, keeping a keen eye on him, before finally turning to inspect a half-battered locked set of drawers as they made thier way down yet another hallway. “I don’t like the vibes in here. I’m not vibing with this place.”  She said it matter-of-factly, when she was supposed to come off as funny-casual. Ugh, was that just wind making stuff creak, or were there actually footsteps coming from the floor above them? 

“Heard that too, huh?” Barry was beside her, tilting his head as he watched her struggle with the lock on one of the drawers. “Pfft, you know this is my area of expertise. You’re here to protect me when the big bad things come out.” “Shut the fuck up.” Phe huffed, moving aside and letting Barry do his thing. She wasn’t sure if there was anything still in there, but locked chests and drawers sometimes hid very nice little secrets. Glancing back down the hallway where they’d came from, she couldn’t help but bite her lip as she heard the noises again. One, two. One, two. One...........two. They sounded like footsteps but....as if someone was really planning out their steps. Something was off at least about them.  One, two, three.... And then they stopped completely. No more creaks, not even a thump or any other noise. It was now eerily silent, besides the click of Barry’s tongue as he unlocked the drawers. And then came the tug and scraping noise of said drawer being opened. “Fuck, someone hasn’t opened this in awhile. What sweet shit have we got? Mm, nah, hm...” Phe let him rustle around in there. It seemed like there were some old documents, coffee-stained and put away to be forgotten. There were no seals on them, nothing of much note or important. The writing was hardly able to be read anyway.  “Anythin?” “Nah. I mean...couple of silver, but it ain’t much. Damn. Thought if this was locked it woulda had somethin better in it. This looks like a rich place. Where’s the rich folk’s shit?”

“Disappointed? Aw, baby....” Phe smirked at him, and he rolled her eyes at her - guestuing towards the staircase nearby, that would continue up to the second floor. “They better have some good stuff up there.” Barry put his lockpicks away and leaned in towards her. “Otherwise you owe me for draggin me along for no reason.” “Aw fuck off. You know you wanna be here.” Phe rolled her eyes and gave the side of his face a little pat.  “Yeah, I get to scare the shit out of you in this haunted mansion.” “I’m not -” One. Two. One. Two. One. Two. Both scavengers paused and stared at the staircase, Barry instantly unsheathing his daggers as they exchanged a glance with each other. Someone was up there, and those footsteps were coming closer.  Backing up a little, Phe brandished her brass knuckles - trying to get a glimpse to the top of the staircase. A large shadow crossed briefly infront of the moonlight that shone through an upstairs window, a glint of metal...and then it began it’s descent down the stairs. Before she could react, Phe felt herself being pulled into the darkness of one of the rooms nearby, and she held her breath as Barry kept his hand on her shoulder. The stranger may have heard them before, but the opportunity of first blood would be theirs.

@disruptanddisturb​ for mentions

@daily-writing-challenge​

#dwc2022 #writing #sometimes you just have to get a bit spooky #wonder if they ever did find something cool in here