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cas-backwards-tie · 2 days

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Wonderstruck

Simon ‘Ghost’ Riley x Ex!Reader

Summary: Simon Riley finally takes it upon himself to check up on his childhood best friend and ex lover. He's been torturing himself reminiscing on your relationship and what went wrong for years now. Little does he know... you're in the same boat. Having seen someone today you swore was Simon on your way to work, you too, reflect on the past.

Words: 3.2k

Warnings: Cursing, Angst, Stalking(?),

Mentions of: Drinking, Smoking, Motorcycle Riding

A/N: I don't know why but I constantly am getting inspired by certain songs, or am reminded of certain characters, and all the lyrics were just screaming childhood best friends to estranged lovers, right person wrong time Simon Riley. Nevertheless, if you'd love to listen to some versions of the song which inspired me, here we are! Line divider credit: @saradika-graphics and I'd also love to thank @penelopepine for helping me with the ending <3

He knew it was a bad idea as soon as it'd crossed his mind, yet somehow he couldn't rid himself of it time and time again. That's how he found himself here; watching you cross the street, he can't help but notice the vintage band t-shirt you have on, frayed at the edges with the little strings of the hem coming undone that you've refused to cut off. In you hands you clutch a new phone, no doubt an upgrade from the last one he'd seen you with- though it's been a while.

As you mindlessly tuck a loose strand of hair behind your ear, he can't help the way his insides churn. You were always effortlessly beautiful; you never had to try for anything. Even now, the way you can walk across the busy cobblestone side streets of London in high heels without seemingly second-guessing yourself, body language still poised on guard and ready in case anyone tries anything, just like he'd taught you.

It's clear from your outfit and the lipstick you’re donning that you're attempting to sway the officials at work. Maybe trying for that promotion you’d always been talking about, but never had the gumption to make today the day. What’s different about today, he wonders. You'd always been a go-getter, and truthfully, it was something Simon admired about you. Even in the moments where he'd resented it the most, the constant pestering and prodding at him in an attempt to get him to move and drag him out of the holes his dug himself into...

Where would he be now if only he listened?

What if you knew better?

He couldn't deny that the thoughts kept him up at night while he was away. Though, admittedly, more often than not it was the string of random memories that he’d get glimpses of during the day. It’d always be at the worst times, too. Two weeks ago in Berlin he’d been clapping Kyle on the back, hoping he’ll get it together as he stumbled out the pub. While Soap had the camaraderie to slug half his mate’s weight over his broad shoulders, Simon found himself unable to help as his eyes were drawn in by a couple a few paces down the block.

“Bollocks!” He’d shouted out in frustration. Double-checking himself, he didn’t have a spare cap on him, and he knew he sure as hell didn’t bring an umbrella on your little last minute ‘trip’. Not that he’d really call walking down to the local Tesco for snacks late one summer evening a trip. ‘It’ll be an adventure! Just think of it like that.’ You’d persuaded him.

“What? Are you going to melt?” He hears you joke. As his brown eyes land on your face when you turn to meet his gaze, a few steps ahead of him down the road, he can’t help the smile that breaks out across his lips upon your laughter. Sure, you may both be a little drunk after spending the evening in and having a drink or two. But it doesn’t change the way he feels about you, if anything, it makes him even more keenly aware of the way you affect him.

“Maybe. Who knows?” He teases in responses, tugging his jacket up and over his head to shield himself from the cool summer rain. Despite the time, now he’ll most likely need a shower when you get home. As he jogs to catch up and bring you under his little makeshift cocoon, you do the unexpected.

It was you, of course… he should’ve known better, always testing him, pushing him. With a gentle drop of the plastic bag full of snacks upon the side of the road you’d been strolling down, he watches as you run into the empty street. The streetlights illuminate you in a hazy orangey-yellow light as you begin to spin and twirl, dancing in the street.

With a shake of his head, he’s left stunned once again by the vast difference of your personalities. Your jeans and t-shirt are starting to get damp and discolored, and there’s a taunting, displeased remark sitting on his tongue just waiting to be made. It’s the utter joyous smile on your face as you tip your head back and relinquish yourself to your fate that leaves him wonderstruck, he thinks.

“Come on, Simon!” You beckon, finally meeting his gaze once again with that familiar carefree, hopeful look behind your irises. With an outstretched hand, he knows he can’t deny you this… and really, there’s something inside him that tells him he doesn’t want to, either.

“It’s her, innit?” He hears his Captain’s voice call over his shoulder. Pulled from his memories, Simon dismisses Price with a nonchalant grunt. As the old man tries to place a hand on his shoulder he dodges it, realizing he’s been watching the couple for longer than he’d thought. With Soap and Gaz almost to the end of the block, Simon sighs before shrugging his shoulders to right his jacket and head off in their direction for backup.

That was a time when your playfulness been more easily taken and accepted without question. No fighting, no push back, resentments… maybe that was it: he’d stopped going with the flow. He’d stopped accepting the punches and started dodging and weaving your advances at fixing things and picking up where he left you. Because while it’s too late now, he’s finally realized it for what it is: he left you in the dark, he’s the one who pushed you away, closed himself off.

That night he’d curled up in the temporary bed he’d been assigned, more memories continued to consume him. The way you’d effortlessly ease his worries on nights he’d come home stressed, feathers ruffled from whatever petty drama went on during the day. Whether it was something the guys said that stuck with him, or something he couldn’t get out of his mind when he came back from deployment. Your kisses always seemed to be the cure, your love… or maybe it was just… you.

“You know furrowing your brows like that will cause wrinkles,” you inform him, reaching out to run gentle fingers over his bunched skin.

A grunt of acknowledgment leaves his lips. “More for me to worry about, hm?” While it’s all he says, his eyes are searching over your composure.

“No,” it leaves your lips without thought, “just something to think about, be mindful of. If you’re not upset, then why furrow them?” Voice quiet in the moonlit apartment, your fingers smooth out his brows gently as you admire him. “I read something the other day about how it’s possible our body informs our mental state. If you’re tensing all the time, it won’t help your stress, Si.”

He simply hums in response, doing nothing to stop you as you ghost your lips over his for a moment before planting a loving chaste kiss to his. While big and wide warm hands find the exposed bit of skin between the hem of your sleeping pants and the shirt you wear, it’s the unexpected cool sensation that elicits a muffled gasp. Your much smaller hands are sneaking up underneath his sweatshirt to explore his abdomen, caressing him like he were made of soft silk. Your lips meet again for a chaste kiss.

Then it’s turning into something more; you have to take it slow, your lips dancing against one another, his hand rubbing your back to let you know it’s alright. As you begin to run out of breath, it’s only when you pull away, lashes fluttering against his skin that you ask him. “You know I’d love you even with wrinkles, right?”

Taken aback, he can’t help but stare. Unsure how to respond or what to do, his lips part in search of words. “Is that so?” He finally questions, hand giving your side a soft squeeze.

“My favorite boy… I love you to the moon and back… scars and all. I always have, and I always will, Simon,” you whisper, ghosting his lips again before planting one on him, “I just hope you know that.”

And at the time, he swore he did. It’s odd, really, and he wouldn’t lie to himself about it either. Simon tried dating after you, he tried hooking up, he tried it all… but it never felt right. As many times as he replays the memory, he can never get past the feeling of home. With you, it felt like home. You never made him feel expendable, or worry of the abandonment he knew would inevitably come.

For years afterward he blamed you, he saw it as your fault that you left, you abandoned him… when, maybe, really it’s finally time he admits it was him. He made it a self-fulfilling prophecy, and there was nothing you could do.

It's on your way home from work that you see them; while waiting for the bus, there's a playground in the park a few meters away. Really, the idea that human nature is predictable is always laughable at first, but only after watching people and stepping back to become an observer you've noticed from time to time that... it's more than true. Even from a distance, the children in the park look happy... but that's not what catches your eye. There's a blonde boy, and a girl, much like yourself when you were younger, playing what you can only assume is something halfway between hide and seek and tag, considering the playground offers more space and obstacles than hiding spots.

Perhaps it's the joyous looks on their little faces, or the way they unabashedly play, carefree and unaware of the adult worries and burdens the world hangs above their heads, just waiting any day to drop upon their shoulders unexpectedly. However, you can't help but reminisce on the ways you'd spent your childhood playing games much like the one the children are playing in the distance with a boy, very similar to the one before you, loving life, content, happy, simply aspiring to be the best at finding your ultimate hiding spot.

The soft squeak of the wheels coming to a halt before you and the mechanical release of air as the doors open brings your attention back to the present. Before you know it, you're on the bus, unconsciously taking a seat along the windows, hoping, just maybe you'll catch a glimpse of them as the bus drives down the road down its route. Though as you pass, the sun is beginning to set in the distance, the children departing the playground their separate ways as dusk begins to take its toll and curfew sets in place. The whole time you'd been focused on yourself, it's entirely possible that your own boy wound up beating you at your own game, finding the best spot and hiding himself away from the rest of the world.

Maybe it's the fact that you could've sworn you'd seen someone that looked almost identical to Simon on your way to work this morning, but memories continue to plague your mind for the first time in months. All the weekends he'd spent over at your house doing aimlessly silly things to fill your time, from science projects, to playing 'warrior' outside, you never felt more alive than the time you two spent together.

"I'll keep ya safe, yeah? Nothin' to worry about," Simon insists, gently guiding you to the side of the vehicle. Despite going out with your friends to the city for dinner, you both were sober. It should be fine, it would be. You'd been with him a million times... how different could it be? He'd run it by you as many times as you'd asked.

You swear it's not a good idea, but you trust him to the ends of the Earth. With a look over your shoulder, his brown eyes are steady, not uncertain in his unwavering gaze as he nods in assurance. Swinging a leg over the seat, you're in front this time. Helmets in place, hands on the clutch and brakes, you make eye contact with Simon once more before he flicks both your visors down. "Ready?" You ask him.

"More than ready, Love," he quips. With a quick shove to the kickstand, balance (with Simon's help of course), and a rev of the engine, you start the motorcycle off slowly. Gloved hands around your waist, he gives you a gentle squeeze.

He was always pushing you out of your comfort zone, that one. It was the first time you'd driven his motorcycle, and while it'd been scary and daunting for the first fifteen minutes, you eventually got used to it and it blossomed into something freeing. You understood then why he likes it, and you'd never been more grateful for someone pushing you out of your bubble. While flashes of all the kisses, caresses, and intimate moments between the two of you start to effervesce, you force yourself to remember the last time you'd seen him.

With a lingering hug, you're hesitant to let him go. Even if you know it's necessary, it's still hard... it always has been. "You'll let me know when you get in, right?" You ask, searching his eyes. They stand out from the black warpaint, his uniform always made him look handsome, even if you couldn't imagine how intimidating seeing his actual attire would be in his enemies position.

A dismissive and irritated grunt meets your ears as he shrugs your hands off. He'd packed quickly, something he's been doing more recently; taking more and more jobs, you've begun worrying for his health, not that he'd talk about it, of course. "If I 'ave time."

While you weren't able to get all the details on this excursion, you did manage to get that it was essentially a 'clean-up' for him. He had to go in and make sure that the hostages they'd had a lead on were all rescued and no one was left behind, no assailants or informants lingering or hiding. You've known that his job is hard on him. Losing people can't be easy, especially when you feel like you could've done things differently and changed the ending to their stories. Yet, you also know that throwing yourself into work the way he's been doing without talking to anyone, simply managing to pass debrief counseling by whatever meter their measuring is... not working. Not anymore, at least.

"You're running from this! You won't even answ-" you shout, gesticulating as you do everything in your power to keep the anger and worry that's tightly wound wrapped up in your gut under control, not to let anymore of it seep out than already has.

"An' you're one to talk?! You don't get to interrogate me," he argues, rounding the couch to get closer. The dark circles under his eyes scream volumes, even if he's unwilling to acknowledge whatever's going on for him. "I deal with that enough in my line o' work. Don't-"

"Simon," you say, tone holding that familiar warning tone.

You'd gotten home safely and were able to change and make something to eat. The feelings haven't left the cavity of your chest, still lingering there, the way he always does. He may be 'Ghost' on the field, yet he still haunts your memories, always making you question whether or not you did the right thing. What if only you'd done more? What if you hadn't pushed him so much? It wasn't always in a bad way, either, in fact, most of the time you'd find yourself chuckling randomly at some inside joke only the two of you share, or something he'd find funny. The stolen sweaters and hoodies you know for a fact long ago washed away his scent. Even if you swear sometimes that you can smell the faint odor of cigarettes he used to smoke. In the city when you're out with the girls you'd find yourself fondly inhaling the smell whenever a stranger would be smoking one nearby.

You'd cursed him: Simon Riley. Yet, the aching inside you he left often made you feel like he there's some sense of closure he never fully gave you. The SAS would tell you that he'd get your letters, even if you stopped writing years ago a little while after the split. You never got a response, and you never really expected one. Simon never really was one for letter writing. It was the only way you felt like you could get that closure, that part of your life done with. Ultimately, it did help you move on in some way.

A sigh tumbles past your lips as you change the channel on the television, unsure what you really feel like watching. A reality comedy show is on, something of a local prank show. It wasn't the best show, really, but it's one you used to watch a lot as a kid, and thus, another reminder of him. This one makes you smile, nonetheless. It's a good memory; nostalgia envelopes you in the way that makes you crave times that felt easier. Just when you wrap yourself in your fuzzy blanket, there's a soft rapt at the door.

Heart accelerating, eyes widening slightly, you slowly rise from the couch. The television volume isn't on loud, and while there may be light coming from it to inform a stranger you're home, that isn't enough to say that you're alone. With slow and cautious steps, you approach the door, careful to check the window near the door from a vantage point you're unseen. It's a man in a black hoodie. Panic sets in and you turn to skillfully head back toward the couch in search of your phone with quiet and quick steps. That's when it strikes you.

With all pretenses abandoned, you rush to the door and fling it open, lips parted in shock and awe. "Simon?" Searching and attempting to scan the partially shielded face, you're able to see tufts of blonde hair lit from the porch light.

"I know you've no reason to-" he starts, hands removing themselves from his hoodie's pocket, "but please let me come in and explain."

"You came back," you whisper. It's more for yourself than him, and whether it's out of bewilderment, intuitive knowing, or a premonition; you were right.

As he takes a step forward and reaches out for you with shaky hands produced from the familiar black pocket of his hoodie, you don't retract. Slow and tentative movements on both ends, he grabs ahold of one hand, thumb consciously skirting back and forth repeatedly in a form of grounding and seeking comfort. "You were right," his deep voice rasps.

Your hand cautiously seeks his cheek beneath the shield of his hood. Fully expecting to meet the spandex material of his balaclava, you're surprised by the warmth of his skin underneath your gentle touch. Wrist pushing against the cotton hood, it gives way, revealing his face. Searching his deep brown eyes for any sign he's genuine... you're met with truth.

With a weak nod you turn, leaving the door to shut softly behind the two of you.

~~~~~~~

forever taglist: @ohdamnadam , @safarigirlsp , @jynzandtonic , @moonlightsolo

#simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #my writing #song fic #taylor swift #cardigan #simon riley x reader angst #angst #angst with a happy ending #simon ghost riley x ex!reader #simon riley x ex!reader #simon riley x cbf!reader #simon ghost riley x cbf!reader #biker!simon riley #song fics

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zedecksiew · 3 months

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What Do Ability Scores Represent?

Recently, Into The Odd and the players in my home game helped me realise something fundamental:

Ability scores represent how good you are at acting under pressure.

STR isn't strength, it's toughness;

DEX really means reflexes;

WIS is more accurately calm or willpower;

etc.

+++

It is convention in roleplaying games that your ability scores / attributes / six stats determine who your character is.

High DEX means your character is spry, capable of acrobatic flourish; a good Willpower generally means you can browbeat others / themselves / reality (if you are spellcaster) into doing what they want; etc.

There is pleasure in looking at a sheet and seeing: Oh! These are the things my character is good at.

But you do run into problems. Does my 18 DEX rogue know they are fleeter than the 17 DEX bard? What if my wizard thinks she is stronger than her 10 STR? What if I have a brilliant scheme but my barbarian only has 9 INT?

How well, in other words, does the map represent the territory?

+++

(Art by Vesha, who is an illustrator! source)

I've got three players in my home game:

Vesha plays the teenaged trader Khabar (and his buffalo friend / parent-figure, Paal);

Amanda plays the monkey warrior Boots-Ra, now going white-furred;

Aish plays Captain Phung.

Phung does not yet own a proper sea-going vessel. Perhaps he lost his previous ship? Perhaps he never had one. (He does have a magic five-person sampan, though!)

He is impulsive. He tends to make dodgy deals with hapless village-folk, pick up dangerous-looking objects, and flirt with dangerous-looking men.

+++

Mechanics-wise, here's how my interactions with Aish / Phung tend to go:

Me: Okay, make a DEX save to duck before the hunter stabs you. Aish: Damn, my DEX is only 6, guess we'll see ... Amanda: Oh, no, Phung!

In a previous session:

Me: Okay, I think I'll call for a WIL save, because the ghost in the goat skull is trying to possess you. Aish: Well, my WIL is 5, hopefully this works out ... Vesha: Oh shit, Phung!

Some sessions back:

Me: The automaton shoves you. Make a STR save? Otherwise you'll be on the ground at its mercy. Aish: Guys I have 6 STR, I may be in trouble here. Me: Wait wait wait. What are your stats again?

So it turns out that Aish had terrible rolls at chargen. STR 6 DEX 6 WIL 5. Just going by ability scores, Phung is an idiot weakling.

+++

Thing is, Phung isn't an idiot weakling.

I've got crafty players; they are pretty good at cooking up multi-part schemes. (Their go-to tactic is bamboozling rival factions to show up at the same place, then benefit from the fallout.)

Phung is generally the face for whatever racket they've got going: he's the most obvious leader (the party is generally "Captain Phung and crew"), and Aish plays him as a capable, charismatic go-getter.

Looking at the character sheet, is Aish playing Phung wrong?

Fuck that. A player cannot play their own character wrong. I reject this notion outright.

What's going on?

+++

Different rulesets try to bridge the gaps between player action, character ability, and abstract math in different ways: eliminating mental attributes; going totally skill-based; etc.

The ruleset that comes closest to "solving" this, for me, is Into The Odd.

Saves are the only kind of test player-characters make, in ITO and its derivatives. This is key.

The ruleset assumes competency on the part of characters; you only go to the dice if you need to figure out stuff that is out of your control.

How badly a straight-up fight goes; whether you can jump aside in time if you've accidentally sprung a trap; whether you can improvise a lie on the fly.

+++

Implicitly, and in practice:

The STR stat in ITO is more accurately toughness---ie: how well you can withstand a physically demanding situation you didn't prepare for.

Ditto DEX, which is an abstraction for how quickly your reflexes trigger.

Same with WIL, which is how well you stay calm under duress.

I can be sharp when I've got time and it is a subject I have experience in. But suddenly ask me to make a speech and I'm toast (low INT).

Some folks have no martial arts training but can hold their own if a brawl breaks out in a bar (high STR).

Captain Phung is a pretty cool operator when he's in control, but tends to seize up when things go off the rails (low WIL).

There's my answer to the conundrum of Captain Phung: he's a genuinely capable guy. He's just not necessarily great under stress. His reach exceeds his grasp, sometimes.

+++

Your ability scores don't represent who your character is. Your ability scores represent who your character is, when under duress.

In other words:

Ability scores are who your character is when they are not in control. Ability scores are your character's reactions.

+++

I do feel slow on the uptake, for only grokking this now.

Chris McDowall probably has a post from the mid 2010s or something where he discusses this aspect design in detail, the clever genius bastard. It is probably internalised play-culture within the ITO-and-descendants community; Emms points out that the current edition of Mothership explicitly talks about stats in this way.

Still!

Am glad to have a regular TTRPG group again, and I have them to thank for my epiphany!

(They are kickass. I ran them through Whirling Mummy a while back and it was a RIOT)

#theory #design #ttrpgs #home games #captain phung #into the odd #ability scores

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the-whispers-of-death · 2 months

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i need more stone x bartender!reader plsplspls

Stone found himself back at the bar with the 141, celebrating another mission success, two weeks later. He hadn't even needed to be invited along when he came with them, and he internally scolded himself for being so...attracted to that heavily tattooed bartender that he had met two weeks ago at that very same bar. The one who had flirted with him.

He told himself he was being silly, he was sure you flirted with other customers before. He was mostly not the first man you flirted with. Besides, Stone doubted that you'd remember him. Sure, he was very tall and usually made an impression, but he was also just one bar patron out of thousands.

But when he sat down at the bar to order drinks for him and the 141, not even him could deny the way your smile turned even brighter and more natural when you spotted him. He felt butterflies in his stomach at the smile and he tried his hardest to convince himself that you were just putting on a front, to get a larger tip at the end of the night.

"Hey, handsome," you said huskily, practically sliding across the floor until you got to where he had perched himself at the bar. Normally, your flirtatious demeanor was indeed a front, but with him, you couldn't help but actually want him. "What will it be tonight?"

Stone cleared his throat at your compliment, unable to hold your gaze as he averted his eyes. "Four shots of whiskey and a glass of water, please," he ordered, regaining his composure.

You nodded and got to work on the four shots of whiskey and the glass of water. You could tell his eyes, those brown cold eyes, were on you and you felt a tug of longing in the pit of your stomach. "You never called or texted."

Two weeks ago you had given him your phone number and you had been waiting for him to text, or call. He seemed like a man who'd call instead of text. But he never did so. Maybe he hadn't felt the same way about you like you thought.

"I don't have a phone," Stone said, his cold voice quite awkward at the admittance.

He usually never was shy about his tech-aversion, but he seemed sheepish at the fact that he never told you that he didn't have a phone. Maybe he should've when you gave him your phone number, but he didn't even know your name or vice versa.

Stone found himself wanting to remedy that.

"People call me Stone," he said, hoping you'd answer with your own name. And you did, making the butterflies in his stomach intensify.

"So you don't have a phone, huh?" You asked, getting back to the topic at hand, your mind saying "Stone" over and over again, memorizing it. You put the shots of whiskey and the glass of water on a tray and pushed the tray towards him. "What do you use to communicate then?"

Stone grabbed the tray and got off his barstool. "I use a beeper. It's weird, I know. But I don't much like modern technology when I'm not on deployment. Of course, I have a phone technically right now. For the deployment."

You smiled at that, he did seem like a man who didn't need much technology in his life. "Maybe I'll get your beeper number then?"

"Maybe."

Stone gave you one last glance before making his way over to the booth the 141 were in. He was thankful that with his skin color that he couldn't blush, because he got strangely flustered when Soap and Gaz teased him about flirting with you. He grumbled in response, setting the drinks down.

But they all could see that he was enamored with you. Especially with the way he had managed to gravitate back towards the bar, sitting down and talking with you again. He had gone back for more drinks for the 141, but since it was a slow night, he had just gotten caught up in talking with you, the 141's drinks forgotten. Ghost eventually had to go and get the drinks, relieving Stone of his unofficial duty as the drinks-getter.

You were still attending to the few patrons in the bar, but you also flirted with Stone. And just like last time, he preened underneath your attention. It was so delicious, the way his eyes fluttered whenever you complimented him. You admired his scars and he practically melted at it, turning putty right then and there in the bar.

At the end of the night, when closing out the 141's tab, Stone rather shyly slid a piece of paper with his beeper number on it.

"Maybe we can meet up at a park or something when we're both free?" he asked, secretly so eager to see you outside of the bar. He had never gotten so...attached to someone so quickly, but he could tell you were worth it.

"I'd love to see you again," you replied, tucking the piece of paper in your vest. You wanted to keep it close to you, close to your heart.

Stone felt the corners of his lips twitch, the muscles wanting to smile but he had never really smiled before. The closest he had ever come was when he was playing with Monster. He bid you goodnight and left with the rest of the 141.

"So, did you manage to snag a date?" Price, surprisingly, asked when they were all outside. This made the rest burst out in laughter.

"Shut up," Stone growled, but he wasn't really upset. Just flustered.

Ghost nudged him gently when Soap had steered the conversation somewhere else, most likely about demolitions. "Did you give him your beeper number?" he asked softly, careful not to speak loud enough that the rest would hear.

Stone nodded and Ghost's eyes crinkled beneath his balaclava, smiling. "Good."

Reblogs are welcomed & appreciated! Asks are open, feel free to pop in and talk or request something! (SFW requests only, please and thank you)

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rageagainstmymachine · 5 months

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After War Is Over (Primis Richtofen / F! Reader) [WWI AU]

Summary: It's 1917. You are an American medic in the war, crawling through no man's land to save your fellow soldiers. You are captured during you rendezvous by a German field medic -- a dark haired man who's pointing a Mauser at you and bleeding out. You must save him, you have no choice.

You commit treason -- you fall in love with him, even when you don't speak the same language.

Words: Chapter 1 (this post) - 5,604, Full fic (7 chapters) - 25,216

Quick jump to full fic: (Ao3)

Notes: There is a lot of German in the fic, and I do NOT expect you to understand any of it. That's the point, the reader canonically cannot understand German. You aren't expected to translate anything (but you can if you want to, I might have slipped in a few jokes.)

Tactically translated German (Aka Maxis translating) is in bolded sentences.

1917, France

Your gaze peaked over the splintered barrier, eyes flicking back and forth as the screams broke out again from no man’s land. The echo made it difficult to pinpoint, and the cover of darkness didn’t help at all – perhaps it was best for the poor soldier, though.

It has been a few months since you had stepped foot on French soil, and the bright eyes and go-getter attitudes you and your fellow soldiers had was all but washed away in the dreary European conflict. Your forefathers had explained with reverie the honor and glory one can only achieve on a battlefield, but there was no sign of that honor in these trenches. No glory. The realization of that hit when you first climbed down in those trenches and saw the empty eyes of the French and British soldiers whose life this had been for the better part of four years. They were not men, they were walking ghosts, already resigned with their eventual death.

“Medic!” The man cried out again, the anguish growing in his voice.

You glanced behind you, soldiers huddled against the other wall, it was obvious they were tuning out the screams. You studied each man in view, no NCO’s, it was now or never.

You joined as a field medic. Your mother was a nurse back home, so it was only natural you followed in her footsteps. Many a nights under the cloak of darkness did you and a fellow medic crawl out into no man’s land to retrieve soldiers – dog tags if they were already gone. But it was always under the orders of a superior. An officer would judge the frequency of shellings and where they landed, the light levels, and a multitude of other things to determine if a rescue would take place. Tonight was a no-go. The shellings too frequent, the sky too clear. With a trained eye - as all soldiers had, you could see the grounds of no man’s land clearly. It was too dangerous, it was deemed. Do not leave this trench.

With one final glance, you hoisted yourself up, praying there wasn’t an enemy sniper watching. Hushed exclamations came from your fellow soldiers, some asking what the hell you were doing while others congratulated you for signing your life away. To the enemy or higher command, you didn’t know.

The mud caked your uniform immediately as you rolled out of the trench. The bright moonlight caught the puddles that littered the ground, illuminating the deadened ground. Barbed wire was everywhere, as well as bodies from both sides. Hands stuck out of the ground, helmets were common too, sometimes with brain matter still inside. These things had once made you gag, but now you were so desensitized, you barely glossed your eyes over them.

Besides onlooking Jerries, you had to be wary of the ravenous rats that feasted on the skin of corpses. They’ve been known to nibble on living soldiers as well.

Moans of an injured man found your ears again, and with bated breath, you started to crawl towards it, ever so slowly.

You awkwardly inched forward, one arm glued to the medkit to keep the sounds to a minimum. Gunfire rang out every now and again, and with how close it sounded, you prayed it wasn’t aimed at you. You got closer and closer to the voice that groaned and cried, becoming more anxious at the distance from the trench. This last push forward was rough, and you didn’t remember anyone making it this far. You looked back, back at the trench you came from. It was a good 40 yards or so. No soldier could have gotten this far under the conditions they were in, right?

Still, You continued crawling forward, eyes scanning for any and all life, freezing when you finally saw him, the pained soldier in the drab grey uniform

“Fuck.” You whispered to yourself, shuffling back in a panic. It was a Jerry, pale in the face that contrasted his dark black hair. He clutched his abdomen and even in the lowlight, you could see the red that darked his uniform.

With every inch backwards, you prayed he didn’t see you. As a medic, your instincts said to go help the poor soul, but you’ve heard stories of them being ruthless. That they shoot on sight, no matter if you were a medic. It would be a twist of irony if you helped him only to be thanked with a bullet.

Before you could turn around, the hand not clutching his abdomen raised, revealing a pistol that was now aimed in your direction. His eyes snapped towards you.

„Du rennst, Ich schieße, verstanden?” The German whispered harshly. Fuck.

There weren't many ways you could play this with a gun being pointed at you. Crawling away would ensure he had a good shot, and running away would definitely get you spotted by snipers. He’s injured… you could wrestle the gun away and…

That wouldn’t comply with the hippocratic oath, though.

“Don’t shoot! Medic!” You whispered hurriedly. “Medic, medic.” You did your best to point at the Red Cross armband wrapped around your upper arm with a shaky hand.

The Jerry lowered his gun slightly, looking at what you pointed at. He was relieved to see a medic, even one that was an enemy. You got a minute to look at the man as he studied your uniform. Dirt and grime settled in the creases of his face and neck. His black hair was caked in mud, even his thin mustache had flecks sticking the hairs together, and his blue eyes seemed to be lost of colour they once had, at least colour you assumed they had.

The gun was again aimed at you as he started speaking quickly. His voice was like gravel as he spoke in his mother tongue – a tongue you didn’t know. He was angry, maybe scared, whatever emotion it was, it was intense.

You were at a loss, although some battalions were taught basic German in preparation for dealing with a Jerry, whether pleading for their life or interrogating, you weren't a part of those lucky groups. At most you knew Ja and nein. – and, you’ve heard Gesundheit before, but that was it. Even if you did have a shaky grasp at the language, he was still speaking way too fast.

“I- I don’t” you faltered, shaking your head. It was clear he finally understood the language gap, he sighed, slamming his fist into the mud before pointing at his injury.

He wanted you to fix him. You surveyed the man, peering at his injuries as best you could the few feet away you were from him, and shook your head. You grabbed at your collar to get the pin to catch the moonlight. At the right angle, the U.S. lettering showed clear enough for him to see. “I’m American, I can’t help you.”

He didn’t understand your words, but he understood the shaking of your head, and he knew that what you were pointing to was an enemy pin. The message was loud and clear, and a desperate anger erupted in his eyes again. The barrel was once again pointed straight at you as he whispered harshly. You knew he would be yelling if he could, if it didn’t run the risk of enemy fire. It was obvious he wasn’t taking ‘no’ for an answer.

You looked at the man again and sighed, nodding slowly. If you didn’t comply, you would be killed. When he saw your efforts to crawl over to him, he lowered the gun. It was still aimed at you, but now resting on his lap. He gasped with every breath – you wondered how long he had been here writhing in his injuries.

As you got closer to the Jerry, you were able to make out more of him. He wasn’t that young, at least not compared to the fresh enlistees that showed up every couple of weeks, but he wasn’t old, like the higher command. Maybe 30-ish if you’d guess. You had thought all Jerries were blond haired brutes – that’s what the fliers that were handed out showed, but he was anything but. He looked like the moving picture star, John Gilbert.

More importantly though — he had his own Red Cross armband. He was a medic as well . A medic threatening a fellow medic! It became a little more clear why he could have been out here. He might have been on a rescue mission with another medic, but was left behind - what terrible fate if so, why would his comrade do that? Or maybe he was on his own solo mission like you… what a twist of fate.

You undid his belt and untucked his darkening uniform, pulling it and his undershirt up, exposing the wound for you to see. Blood oozed and stained pale skin, with each beat of his heart came more blood, it wasn’t a bullet, that would be cleaner than this. The jagged wounds that littered his midsection were from shrapnel - a far worse fate. Shrapnel meant shredded flesh, metal poisoning the blood, punctures that are hardly visible to the eye. Hell, this man needed a surgeon, not a field medic.

As you surveyed the scene, you took a deep breath, trying to figure out what you could do for him. He lifted the gun again in an effort to speed the process along. You were really starting to get fed up with that damn Luger, or Mauser or what ever the fuck he had. You took a deep breath.

‘ Bleeding, dressing, pain management, evacuation.’

You sat up the best you could while still being hidden from sight. You grabbed your canteen and used what water you had to wash the mud from your hands. You then reached into your coat to pull out the field dressing kit you had. It was a waterproof pouch that a Limey had given you, and a quick pull at the seams was enough to get it open. Inside held dressings, a suture kit, and what you were after currently – an ampoule of Iodine. You struck the capsule against your leg, breaking the glass to access the element. Half went on your hands so you could begin touching the man’s wounds.

With a clean rag, you began wiping away the blood, every swipe caused the man to groan. He stifled it the best he could, paranoid of catching unwanted attention. The rest of the iodine ampoule was poured onto his wounds. What mattered most right now was the bleeding, and getting his heart rate down to slow it. Rummaging through your things, you breathed a sigh or relief once you saw you still had morphine left. There wasn’t any water left in your canteen to mix it, but perhaps he still had his.

“Do you have your canteen?” You asked your captor.

„K-kantine? Ja.” He nodded, recognizing the similar word, grabbing it from where he had stuck it in the mud. It was half full, which was more than enough.

You tore open the powdered morphine, pouring in a little water at a time until it became a paste. You wished you had the supplies to inject him with the medicine, knowing it would work faster and be much stronger…. Maybe he did, though?

“Where is your medkit?” You asked him, after a second, you held up your, pointing to him, then to the bad. “Your medkit, where?”

„Habe meines nicht…habe es im Kreuzfeuer verloren.” He answered, letting his head roll to the side. After you blankly stared at him, he sighed, shaking his head. „Nein.”

Unfortunate. What you had on your person would have to do. You looked up to your patient, who watched with distressed eyes.

“Morphine,” You announced, holding up the packet.

„M- morphium?” He asked, hope filling his tired eyes. You nodded, which made him slump down, relaxing a little knowing that pain relief was soon.

The packet of the morphine was rubbed into the wound, and as you waited for it to work, you retrieved a pair of tweezers from the kit, wiping the area one last time to begin extracting the worst of the shrapnel.

You wished you could take your time, but the severity couldn’t call for it. You unburied the big pieces, and the pieces that were superficial, doing just what you had to do to properly bandage the wound. He still grunted here and there, but it was obvious he was in less pain than before, muttering something into the air. You threw the tweezers back in your bag when it was done and retrieved some gauze, stuffing the bigger wounds with it. They began to stain red, but that was expected. You packed it as best as you could. The only thing left to do was bandage him, so with a roll of bandages you set out to work. You laid the remaining roll of gauze against the wounds as you began to wrap him up. The injured Jerry got the hint and did his best to arch his back for you to pass the bandages under him. At least he was a very cooperative patient.

Soon enough he was bandaged. You encouraged him to drink water. It was important he kept hydrated. You sat there for a few minutes to keep an eye on the wounds, colour returning to his face. He was still pale as hell, but he was significantly less grey.

“I don’t think I need to tell you this, but you need to get to a hospital. You will need a surgeon to remove the rest of the shrapnel and stitch you up.” You explained to the black haired man, packing up your supplies. He just stared, eyes narrowing as he tilted his head to one side. You once again felt stupid that you expected him to understand.

“Hospital.” You said again, this time much slower as if that would cross the language barrier. He shook his head in confusion. “Hospi- fuck. Uh…” You pointed at your red cross again, knowing at least that was universal.

„Krankenhaus? Ja, natürlich werde ich in ein verdammtes Krankenhaus gehen!” He said quickly, almost in an annoyed manner.

He said ‘ja’ so you assumed he knew what was meant. You nodded, grabbing his hand to shake it before turning around, beginning your crawl back to the trench. You did what he asked, he will be fine as long as he gets medical treatment soon, you now know that their medics also do these kinds of rescue rounds, so you were fairly confident his men will find him. He might be uncomfortable, but you had more important things to worry about - the American soldier you crawled out into no man’s land to help, who was still out there in god knows how much pain.

„Nein.” He hissed, grabbing your coat to keep you in place. He all but pulled you back, once again pointing that damn gun.

Your eyebrows knitted together in confusion, was he really going to kill you after you saved him? Typical Jerry. They had no respect for the rules of war. Your hands went up in surrender, fear pooling in your stomach as you squeezed your eyes shut. This was it, you’ve lived a good life. Short, but pretty good.

The man sighed loudly, snapping his fingers in front of your eyes to get them open again. He pointed out into the distance, where you knew the enemy trench was. Your heart dropped.

“No.” You shook your head quickly. “No. Nein .” You were captured right now, but that would be your ultimate capture. There would be no hope of escaping an entire platoon. The thought of spending the rest of the war as a P.O.W. made you nauseous. You’ve heard stories of how the Germans treated their prisoners. You’d be lucky if they didn’t just shoot you on sight – you would just be another mouth to feed.

‘If he wanted to be saved so badly, why don’t I take him to our trench? ’ Your fellow doughboys would treat him well as a P.O.W., and he’ll see American Freedom at its finest.

“Krankenhaus? Ja… uh, ours!” You pointed in the direction from whence you came, miming dragging his body that way, and pointing at the Red Cross again.

He motioned with his gun again, saying something that sounded threatening, and again pointing towards his trench, much more aggressively this time. His face was red and scrunched, it was obvious he would shoot you, and perhaps you couldn’t argue, not with a gun pointed at your face. You solemnly nodded, getting closer to the injured man to help pull him across no man’s land.

It was slow and strenuous, pulling the Jerry across the mud that tried to keep him in place. You couldn’t move too fast, with how clear it was that night. Even when you got closer and closer to the German trench you had to be careful. Some new recruits were trigger happy, shooting at anything they saw out here, and with you sporting an entente uniform, the probability of getting gunned down was even higher.

Once the two of you made it to the edge of the trench, the black haired man pulled himself up to peek over, despite the pain and your hurried words of ‘please don’t do that! ’ yelling something in his rough mother tongue to the startled soldiers taken off guard in the trench. They relaxed when they saw his face, some even seemed relieved to see him. Two of them ran up to the side where you and him laid in the mud, grabbing the clothes of the Jerry to pull him into the relative safety of the trench.

One of them froze when his eyes landed upon you, no doubt recognizing that you did not wear drab grey like they did. His eyes ran from the arm band, to your Caduceus and U.S. pins. He staggered back, reaching for his rifle with trembling fingers.

„Halt!” Your captor commanded, eyes fierce as he barked at him. More words were harshly directed at the poor boy, you felt awkward being witness to this reprimand, even when you didn’t understand a word. The soldier who backed off slowly put his rifle down, cautiously returning to where he was, eyes burning into yours as if he was afraid you would bite.

The men pulled the pale man over the side, a few more coming to help when they saw the extent of his injuries. They did their best to be mindful of them. Quickly, he was brought down, and onto a stretcher that was fetched alongside what seemed to be two medics. One soldier stared into your soul with a burning hatred, curling his finger in a ‘ come here ’ motion.

You took a deep breath and carefully crawled down the side as well, shaking ever so slightly from the fact you were completely surrounded by the enemy. The soldiers’ expressions all ranged from shocked, confused, to disgust upon seeing you. You didn’t miss how some gripped their rifles just a little tighter.

The man you saved was getting hauled off, hopefully to a surgeon, by a few soldiers that accompanied the medics. The two that originally pulled over into the trench now stood in front of you, grabbing your arms tight enough to make you yelp. They began pulling you deeper in the trench when the dark haired man yelled yet again, apparently witnessing what was happening. One of the soldiers muttered something under his breath as they released your sore arms, instead gently ushering you forward. They lead you to a vein of the trench that obviously saw less traffic than the main avenues. Down into a bunker, you were pushed into a makeshift holding cell that held no light of its own. The door was slammed once the men had walked out, cloaking you in complete darkness, even darker than the midnight you were in.

You collapsed onto the floor, hyperventilating with your heart jumping into your throat. ‘ This is it. ’ you thought. ‘ I’m going to die here as a prisoner.’

—

You had no idea how long you had been in there. It was too damn dark to check your pocket watch, and the only noise you could hear was the occasional shell and gunfire. The shaking of the ground that accompanied the munitions helped your anxiety none. How disturbingly funny would it be to be killed by your own army’s shells.

You had calmed down in the unknown time frame and found yourself sitting against a wall, swinging the watch from its chain to keep your mind somewhat occupied. You’ve thought of ways to escape, but all was fruitless. You were tired, and cold, and so hungry. How the hell were you going to get out of this alive?

—

The door creaked open, flooding the room in faint light that, compared to the complete darkness you were in, was like a spotlight. You shielded your eyes as you sat up, not having a clue when you drifted off to sleep, but looking behind the silhouette of the man who stood in the doorway, it was still night. He approached you slowly, eyes narrowed and rifle held tightly. Oh god, this was it. Instinctively, you cowered away from him, bringing your hands up to shield your face. The man made a grunt of surprise.

When no bullet rang out, you slowly peeked out from between your fingers, seeing his look of confusion. He slung the Gewehr over his shoulder, grabbing your arm to pull you up. He wasn’t all that gentle with leading you back out in the trench, but it beat the bullet you were sure had your name on it.

You walked deep into the trenches, away from no man’s land until it became level with the ground, no more a trench, but feeding into a camp of sorts. Soldiers bustled about, a mix of running orders and simple leisure walks. Many stared at you when passing, but seemed to know better than to say anything towards you. He led you to a tent, the red crosses making this medic tent unmistakable. What, were you now going to be an enslaved medic? Helping the enemy? Stitching up the Jerries your fellow soldiers had shot? You didn’t want to make that a habit - it was truly a one time thing. He held the flaps open and ushered you inside the moderately busy pop-up hospital.

You were pulled along to a separate wing of the tent, an enclosed private area that only held one bed. You locked eyes with your captor, who laid on the cot bandaged up, looking more alive than when you last saw him. His skin was flushed with colour and he was no longer 50% mud - you wished you could say the same.

Another man was in the room, an older gentleman that sat at a close table. It was littered with maps and correspondence that was quickly covered when the older Jerry noticed you. He stood, giving you a polite nod.

„Du kannst jetzt gehen.” He said, presumingly to the soldier who brought you here, voice much more relaxed. His deep voice was almost comforting like this, when he wasn’t yelling at you– and pressing his pistol against your head. The soldier turned on his heel, leaving you alone with the two men.

“Ah, hallo. You are the medic that was took in, ja?” The older one asked. He approached you, reaching his hand out for you to shake. “It is always nice to see a fellow medic, even one from the other side.” He chuckled

You felt relief, seeing that at least one person here spoke English. You took his hand and shook it enthusiastically. “Yes that’s– that’s me.”

“I’m Ludvig.” He led you to the table, to a chair that sat between where he sat and the black haired man. He picked up a bottle of Whiskey and poured himself and the other jerry a glass. He grabbed a third and held it up to you in a silent question. You shook your head, declining the drink. “I speak English… obviously. Doctor Richtofen would like to converse with you, I will translate. Do you have any questions?” He gave the injured man - Doctor Richtofen - the glass and sat down, giving you his entire attention.

“Yes– I’m… not going to die, am I? I mean, I’m only a medic.” You asked, eyes trailing from Ludvig to Richtofen, not sure who to look at as you spoke. Ludvig turned to Richtofen and translated the question. He seemed taken aback by it, quickly answering while shaking his head.

Ludvig turned back to you. “No, you are not going to die. You saved his life, he is very thankful.”

You let out a shaky breath, laughing as you composed yourself. “Well, he was very eager to wave his pistol around.” You muttered. You didn’t expect Ludvig to translate that but he did, Richtofen looked sheepish at that. He responded.

“He apologizes, he didn’t think you would help him otherwise.”

You sighed, he wasn’t entirely wrong about that. You would have probably done the same thing if you were in his shoes. “Well then, can I leave?”

“No. As a medic you are an asset to the enemy, we cannot allow for your release.”

It was a longshot, and you missed. You nodded as you swallowed the lump in your throat. With the feeling of relief still swimming in your stomach that you won't be executed, and the distraught nature of being a prisoner, you couldn’t help the tears that pricked your eyes. You tried to blink them away, but a tear escaped, staining your cheek. Richtofen saw this and reached to the small nightstand next to him, grabbing and handing you his handkerchief. You took it, dabbing your cheeks, embarrassed you were crying in front of the enemy.

Richtofen softly asked a question, with Ludvigs words chasing closely behind. “What is your name?”

You told them men your name, earnestly knowing lying won’t help you at all. Richtofen repeated it, his accent making your name sound so much sweeter. He tasted it a few more times under his breath. “bist du hungrig?”

“Are you hungry?”

“God, yes.”

Ludvig chuckled as he stood, walking to the opening of the tent wing to call over some soldiers. He ordered them to fetch you some food, smiling warmly as he walked back. “I hope you don’t mind leftovers, dinner was over quite a while ago.

“That’s fine,” You said, turning back to look at Richtofen. He watched you intensely, holding your gaze unabashedly. You quickly look down, admiring the patchwork the docs had done. “No complications during surgery?”

Ludvig quickly translated your question, answering immediately after he was done. “No, we were able to get all of the metal out, mostly clean stitching, minimal scars. You cleaned und packed the wounds very good, Edward spoke highly of it, und I seen it myself.”

“Edward?” You asked, looking from him to Richtofen, the way the injured Jerry looked at you answered your question, but Ludvig confirmed it.

“Doctor Edward Richtofen” He clarified.

“Oh, right.”

A soldier appeared at the door, holding a tin mug and utensils in one hand and balancing a metal bowl in the other. Ludvig thanked him and brought the tray to you. It looked to be potatoes and some kind of meat. The mug had what smelled like very strong coffee. You quickly grabbed the bowl and began scarfing it down, not caring about any sort of manner your mother would slap you upside the head for not following. Richtofen laughed softly, watching as you devoured the meal in seconds. You looked up and caught his eye. Your mouth was full as broth dripped down your chin. You swallowed hard, wiping your mouth with the handkerchief you still had of his. “Sorry, I’m being rude.” You tried to catch yourself.

Richtofen waved you off once you were translated. „Nein, essen.”

You drank the last of the broth, along with the coffee, and heaved as you finally caught your breath. Once you were able to think clearly again, you turned to Ludvig thinking about something that caught your attention earlier.

“You said ‘we’ when you were talking about his surgery… did you operate on him?”

“Ja. I am Doctor Ludvig Maxis, a lead surgeon. Not only that, but Edward is… a dear friend, I wanted to make sure he got the best care - und that’s me, of course.”

“Right.” You nodded, looking away with a small smile twitching on your face. American surgeons, German surgeons, they really are all the same.

A commotion erupted outside the tent, maybe at the entrance of the field hospital. You heard men shouting and groaning, it sounded like incoming injuries. You’ve heard those yells many times. Ludvig quickly stood, walking to the canvas doors to take a quick look. He sighed, walking back.

“Entschuldigung- I’m sorry, I have to go for a minute, injured soldiers” he explained. He left before you could say another word to him, leaving you with your injured captor, who still looked at you like you were the most interesting thing in this room.

Well, you probably were, this tent was pretty boring.

„Ohne dich wäre ich tot.” He said, voice so soft and comforting.

You still didn’t know German from the time you last saw him to now, and it was getting frustrating trying to grasp even the slightest understanding of this damn language. None of those words sounded similar to English. It sounded… good? He wasn't berating you, so it must be good.

“Richtofen I don’t-” You sigh, rubbing your eyes.

He tilted his head to the side, lost in his thoughts with almost exasperated eyes. He wanted to communicate, you did too, but you were both imprisoned by your own knowledge - or lack-there-of.

He reached his hand out, silently asking for your own. Did he want you to… pray with him? Was that what he was asking? You timidly gave it to him. His bright blue eyes stayed on yours as he brought your hand close to his lips, gently kissing the knuckles.

„Danke,” He whispered like a praise. „Danke, dankeschön.”

It clicked.

He was grateful.

He dropped your hand when Ludvig returned, almost shooing you away so as to not get caught. You could imagine what kind of trouble fraternizing with the enemy could get him. You sat back down, watching with doe eyes as Ludvig walked over, new blood stains on his uniform.

“Apologies about that.” He cleared his throat and clasped his hands together, getting right to business. “As you know, as a prisoner of war, we cannot let you leave. However, Doctor Richtofen has pulled some strings to make your… living area much more comfortable since you saved his life. It is getting fitted with a cot und a lamp, as well as a water basin - everything that comes with that, und clean clothes. Meals will be brought to you.”

Your gaze fell to your hands, the reality of the situation setting in even more. This is where you’ll stay for the duration of the war - behind enemy lines.

Ludvig ushered you up and towards the exit of the tent. You turned to look at Richtofen one last time, who looked at you with just as much intensity. He gave you a nod, as if to say goodbye, which you reciprocated. You had no idea if you would ever see him again. You saved his life, yes, but in turn he supposedly made your stay here more tolerable, so you guess that made you even. He had no real reason to seek you out again, and who’s to say higher ups would even allow that. You looked back at him until you couldn’t anymore, turning the corner to walk out into camp, the sun peeking over the horizon, marking the first day of your new life.

You were led to the small bunker again, seeing the amenities you were given - everything Doctor Maxis mentioned, as well as a chair, a small table, and a deck of playing cards. Your medical pack was in the corner of the room, it seemed they were allowing you to keep it. Ludvig curtly gave you a nod, wishing you a goodnight. You muttered your own farewell, stripping quickly once he left.

The water basin was a godsend, finally able to bathe yourself. You flaked off as much mud from your clothes and skin before lathering the washcloth with soap to scrub down. You scrubbed until your skin was red but mud-free, your hair washed and unmatted. You washed your clothes with the now dirty water when you were done, scrubbing, wringing, then throwing them over a beam for them to hopefully dry off. You felt nice being in clean clothes, even if they were German military undergarments.

You laid upon the cot, the kerosene lantern long blown out. The events of the night kept running through your mind, every mistake you made, every chance you had to turn, or run. But what plagued for some reason was the man you saved, the man who put you in the position you were in now - Doctor Edward Richtofen. He was your last thought before slipping into thrashing nightmares of sleep.

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#edward richtofen #primis richtofen #cod zombies #call of duty #fanfic #x reader #reader insert #female reader #call of duty zombies #finished fic #happy birthday richtofen lol

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your-divine-ribs · 2 months

Text

Ice Cold Part 7

Words: 2.8k

“Maybe I didn’t make myself clear… I’m the jealous type” 💙

Ice Cold Masterlist Main Masterlist

I slammed my hand down on the desk, my anger borne out of the frustration I felt at being temporarily pulled out of the field. I knew this kind of investigative work was key, but if the adrenaline wasn't flowing through my veins whilst I was in pursuit of my target I didn't feel alive.

I should have just been thankful that the convoluted and quite frankly far-fetched story that I’d fed Paul had been digested and believed, but I was restless, the ache inside me intensifying as I flicked through files containing photos of Van.

"Is this really necessary?" I addressed my boss as he came to a stop behind me, peering down at the photo I held in my hands. "I mean you and I both know I'm better when I'm out there."

He let out an audible sigh, pulling out the empty chair next to me and sitting down, leaning into me, hunched over, like he didn't want anyone else to hear the conversation.

"You were lucky the last two times, but one day your luck's going to run out. And I don't want to be the one responsible for sending you out there when it does."

Now it was my turn to sigh. "It kinda comes with the job. If I'd wanted safe and predictable I would have gone for a job in bloody accounting or something!"

He chuckled but it was short-lived, replaced by a stern kind of seriousness as he replied. "Don't underestimate the good work you're doing here. If we can get inside McCann's head we can calculate his next move. It's the only way we're going to stand a chance of catching him. It's like chasing a bloody ghost. He's running rings around us."

I pulled out a file on possible targets, leafing through. There were a lot. "This is impossible... Where do I start? I just don't have the patience for this. Please Paul... I know I fucked up... again. But it'll be the last time."

Paul got to his feet. "I must admit, you're the only one who's actually got close to him. But it's too soon for you to be out there. I don't know what he's playing at but I don't like it. Holding you hostage to try and make a deal?" He huffed. "He doesn't make deals. No... there's something else... there has to be. I just need to work out what it is..."

He looked off into the distance like he was searching for an answer there, and I was just relieved he couldn't see the heat that had risen to my cheeks from the lies I’d spun him.

"I'd getter get on anyway..." I mumbled, head down to pore over the files.

Paul walked away, still muttering to himself.

The long days sitting behind a desk weren't the only tedious parts of the job I’d been temporarily assigned. I had to face night after night in my pokey flat rather than staying in various hotels, with nothing but the television and a bottle of wine for company.

This wasn't me. I didn't do Saturday night TV and an an early night. I was restless, and by my second glass of wine I’d picked up my phone, opening up the Tinder app.

The first twenty profiles I flicked over were no-hopers. Hmm... this one had potential. I paused to read his bio. Looking for romance... Fuck that! I scrolled past thirty more, sighing and reaching for my wine again.

Oh... now this was more like it. He had an angular face and hair that hung long around his ears. Blue eyes. I held the phone away, scrunching up my eyes. If I squinted hard enough he could almost pass for...

Stop it Lyla!

What the fuck was wrong with me? I had to purge myself of this sordid fantasy before something bad happened. And this would probably be a good start. Within ten minutes I’d connected with 'Andy' and arranged a meeting at a pub in the city centre within the hour.

I shot upstairs to the shower, grabbing my razor to ensure sleekness everywhere and then I was poring over my underwear, choosing a sheer black lace set and slipping a tiny figure-hugging black dress over the top. I adjusted my cleavage in the mirror, taking in my smoky eyes and my cherry red lips, puckering up and blowing a kiss at my reflection. A little fizz of excitement shot through me as I stepped into my heels and made for the door.

The pub was loud and busy and my heart sank as I walked in and recognised Andy sitting at a nearby table. He shot me a wide smile with dazzling white teeth and stood up to greet me, air kissing me and hugging me warmly in an all too familiar way. He was certainly a good-looking guy but he just looked too... nice... clean-cut. I smiled sweetly at him, noting his eyes flitting down to my cleavage before he asked me what I wanted to drink. Well, at least that was a good start. God, why were men so easy to read?

Within half an hour we’d settled down with our drinks and were chatting easily. I’d spun my usual web of lies, telling Andy I had a dull job in marketing and my hobbies were shopping and watching Netflix, and he'd preened and postured about his senior role in investment banking, flashing his Rolex and the thick wad of cash in his wallet as he'd offered me yet another drink. I just went along with it, biding my time, fixing him with that wide-eyed slightly vacuous look as I hung on his every word, playing up to his ego.

I sighed as he got up to go to the bar, scrolling through my phone. It was always the same. Men were so... predictable. Most men anyway... Not like Van.

I couldn't help it. I flicked through my gallery, scrolling through the pictures of Van that I’d saved from recent assignments. Shit... the way even looking at a photo of him made my belly flip and heat radiate through my body.

"I thought we should move on to champagne next..." The voice snapped me out if my daydreams and I hurriedly locked my phone and looked up to see Andy hovering over me with two champagne flutes and an expensive looking bottle.

"Ooh lovely!" I injected fake enthusiasm into my voice. "Are we celebrating then?"

Andy flashed me his pearly whites as he took the seat next me this time rather than the one opposite that he'd been occupying. "Well... let's just say it's not every day you swipe right on a girl like you Lyla. I'll be honest with you. Most girls I've met up with just seem interested in the contents of my wallet. You seem... different. I know we've literally only just met, but... I don't know... there's something about you that intrigues me. I want to get to know you better."

My smile didn't match the sinking feeling in my gut. This was the last thing I needed when I was simply after some no-strings attached fun. I obviously needed to take a different approach.

So I fixed Andy with a steady gaze, slipping my hand on to his upper thigh under the table, squeezing it gently. "Look Andy... don't take this the wrong way... you seem like a really great guy... but I've just come out of a relationship. I'm really not looking for anything... serious. Can't we just have a bit of fun tonight?"

"Oh... errr... yeah...." Andy faltered, glancing down at my hand which was inching higher and higher as I spoke. "It's just that you seem like such a nice girl..."

Nice? I caught my bottom lip in between my teeth, leaning into Andy, my hand slipping up to his inner thigh right between his legs, making him jolt.

"Maybe I'm not such a nice girl..." I whispered breathily into his ear.

I heard his breath catch in his throat and smiled to myself. "Shall we go back to mine?" I purred.

Andy's eyes widened and he looked flustered for a moment, his mouth opening and closing rapidly. God, I hoped he wasn't one of those weak men...

I closed the distance between us both quickly, pressing my lips to his, felt him shiver beneath my touch. When I pulled away he was still looking shell-shocked but now wearing a slick of my glossy lipstick.

"I... err... yeah… sure… we can go back to yours... I just... errr... I'm just going to the gents okay?" He stumbled to his feet and I drained my glass, tapping my nails on the table top... waiting.

My phone vibrated and lit up with a text notification, and I casually picked it up. It was an unknown number. Probably just some junk or a wrong number. I opened the message...

Lyla you ARE a bad girl...

Fuck! Anxiety ripped through me, my heart almost short-circuiting. My mouth suddenly went dry as I craned my neck, looking around the crowded pub, searching every face I saw and drawing a blank. Then I realised I was sat near a large window and I turned in my seat to look out. It was hopeless, the light from inside the pub made it impossible to see out into the night. However I could imagine how clearly I was lit up to anyone looking in. Like a shop window with the goods on display.

"Shall we go?" Andy's voice made me jump and I whirled around. Suddenly the prospect of stepping outside with this almost-stranger didn't seem so appealing. If Van was lurking in the shadows... but that was a ridiculous notion. Wasn't it?

"I... errr... I need to go and... use the ladies before we go..."

Now it was my turn to stumble over my words. I shot up out of my seat on shaky legs, grabbing my bag and coat and making for the door which led to the corridor where the toilets were located. I came to a stop, rapidly typing in a reply and hitting send.

Where are you?

I breathed deeply, willing my heart to slow down as I suddenly saw the tell-tale dots appear on the screen that indicated a reply was being typed.

Maybe I didn't make myself clear. I'm the jealous type.

"Shit!" I mumbled under my breath, starting to pace up and down the corridor.

I considered my options. I could ignore Van and take Andy home, try and act like my life wasn't really spiralling out of control at the behest of this dangerous man I hardly knew. Or I could ditch Andy and go home alone. Be a good girl... for Van. But then what?

I acted without thinking, glancing back once but then walking purposefully forward, pushing through the fire escape located at the end of the corridor and out into the night.

It was cold now and my breath came in frosty plumes. I shrugged into my jacket and made for the street, stealthily creeping past the open pub doorway so Andy wouldn't spot me.

The city centre was busy, full of groups of late-night drinkers, all going about their business, raised voices, smiling faces, not a care in the world apart from where their next pint or cocktail was coming from. I, on the other hand, was hurriedly making my way down the high street, glancing furtively around, checking the shadows in every shop doorway as I passed. I was shivering and it wasn't just from the chill evening air.

Maybe I should text him... or call... I quickly dismissed the idea. What a ridiculous thought! A dangerous assassin wanted in several countries and here I was, entertaining the idea of encouraging him. And to what end?

I knew what I should be doing. He'd left himself wide open contacting me on a phone number that my team could trace within minutes to a precise location. They could handle the trace whilst I called him... maybe I could keep him on the phone until one of the team could swoop in and capture him. Dead or alive. This could all be over tonight. But I didn't.

I was only five minutes from my apartment now so I picked up the pace. I’d left the hustle and bustle of the city streets behind and I was in a quiet residential area. My heels made loud clip-clop noises on the pavement as I pounded along, my breathing coming hard and fast, fear and anxiety spurring me on to get to the safety of my home as fast as possible.

I suddenly heard loud heavy footsteps behind me, and a strangled cry erupted from me as I stumbled to the side, my stiletto heel catching on a crack in the pavement.

"You alright love?" The male voice sounded right next to me and I looked up to see a young man dressed in running gear jogging on the spot.

Relief flooded me. "Yes... yes... I'm fine. Thank you." I blurted, then just as he was about to take off I called to him. "Um... excuse me? Gosh I am so sorry but I think... I think I'm being followed. Would you mind just walking with me? I only live on the next street."

The words tumbled out without me even thinking about them and I shocked myself. I’d trained with the best. Learnt the techniques to incapacitate much bigger, stronger people than Van. I’d come up against heinous gang members and murderously aggressive killers twice my build and still brought them to their knees. There was just something about Van that made me feel like a frightened little girl.

The kindly jogger agreed, chatting animatedly all the way to the end of the road, but it was a one-sided conversation. I was too busy glancing around, hoping I wasn’t leading this poor, unsuspecting man into some kind of danger.

There it was. My apartment block, right up ahead. The lights glowing from behind the curtains and blinds looked inviting. A safe haven.

"This is me... thank you so much! That was really kind of you!" I gushed to the man.

"That's okay love! Done my good deed for the day. Don't like to see a lady in distress! Are you sure I can't walk you to your apartment?"

"No... no it's fine... honestly," I assured him, forcing a smile. "State of the art security here. No one gets in without the key code!"

"Well if you're sure... goodbye..." And then he was off, waving goodbye.

I swiftly turned and pressed my key fob against the panel, simultaneously keying in the code, heard the quiet bleep and the catch engaging. My heart beat wildly as I pushed through the door, then I slammed it quickly shut, a sense of relief coursing through me as I looked out into the dark night. Safe at last.

My heart rate was already slowing as I called the lift and got in, hitting the button for floor number 7, resting my back against the wall and tipping my head back. I was covered in a light sheen of perspiration from my fear and exertion and I pushed my hair back, fanning myself with a hand.

The lift arrived and I cautiously peered into the corridor before stepping out.

Don't be silly Lyla, you're safe now.

I’d worry about the fact that Van may have potentially followed me and now knew where I lived tomorrow. He likely already knew anyway. Maybe I could go and stay with my aunt... my mum was out of the question but my aunt was nice and undemanding. She'd understand. I’d not seen her since... I pondered this as I fished my apartment key out of my bag and pushed through into the dark hallway, flicking on the light. Was it July? No... August. It was November now. Oh well, she knew I wasn’t one for staying in touch regularly. My mind was whirring with thoughts as I started down the short corridor to my kitchen....

And froze in my tracks...

The first thing I noticed was the faint smell of cigarette smoke. I stood stock still, hardly even daring to breathe, my ears straining to pick up the slightest noise. There was none. But there was that feeling, that spine-tingling sensation of a presence, the fine hairs raising on the back of my neck. I knew I wasn’t alone.

#ice cold #van mccann fanfic #au fanfic #vanfic

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earlgreytea68 · 7 months

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If I may present some more lyrics related thoughts: The line "Last night I dreamt I still knew you" probably haunts me more than any other on SMFS, and I can't help but wonder if Pete had the hiatus in mind when writing them. He and Patrick went from being basically inseparable, to Patrick not knowing his kid, and performing his own music with so much more confidence than the boy who hid his face under a hat onstage all those years ago. Pete must have felt like a ghost in his own life without his musical other half by his side, but now here they are together on the other side, and they're stronger than ever!

okay, okay, so to me Flu Game is SUCH a hiatus-y song that i wonder sometimes if it's not a song with old lyrics stuck in it, or if Pete sent old lyrics to Patrick, Idk, did it finally seem like time to write through the hiatus in this particular way? But the lyrics seem more depressed than the rest of the album. Even given things like "I used to be a real go-getter," there's a brutality to "Oh, God, kinda please would you kill me now?" (I know Genius says this is "kindly please" but I stand firm that I think it's "kinda please.")

Anyway, everything about this song feels like it could come from the hiatus, because it's all about someone you knew so desperately well, someone you carved out space for in the world, just you and him against the world, and now you're so distant that you're just a face in the crowd he's up there performing to, and there you are, left with all this love and no one to give it to, trying to pretend you're getting through each day when it's exhausting, and what are you dreaming about? That you still knew each other (all of my wildest dreams ended up with you and me). That's your wildest dream (I will never ask you for anything except to dream sweet of me).

I can't be who you need me to be is so very what Pete Wentz thought at the beginning of the hiatus, and all he's doing is working flat-out to keep everything going and it's totally not appreciated and he can't even figure out anymore what's real or fake and he worked so hard to carve out that space and you're just going to leave it.

And he knows none of this really matters and nobody will care and it's all pointless but he can't seem to stop wanting to catch all of your ears, he can't stop seeking that attention, none of it is healthy or good but he's stuck in it, what else is he going to, he's got all this love and an empty space next to him.

There are also a lot of themes in these lyrics that strike me as being more common in his pre-hiatus stuff: The idea of faking how hard everything is so that you make it look easy shows up in Alpha Dog (we must make it hard to look so easy doing something so hard) and I'm pretty sure it shows up somewhere else, too, but I'm blanking on it now. The idea of Pete writing as Fall Out Boy the band and its unhealthy relationship with its fans also feels more pre-hiatus than post- (that's in Hum Hallelujah and Our Lawyers...). I might just be forgetting the post-hiatus occurrences of these themes, but they feel older to me. I have long wondered if this song is an old-lyric song. In interviews about the album, it seems clear that Patrick likes this song a lot and that Pete is less enthusiastic about it and considers it one of those "Patrick-y" songs that comes out of his head and his head alone. Which to me also slots into "he pulled these lyrics from God knows where." But, again, I could also see it that maybe Pete found them and finally thought it was time to share them. Who knows?

I haven't even talked yet about my absolute favorite lyric in this song: "Late at night in my room, lie awake and think of you and all your little dooms." First of all, this is another one of Patrick's odd-rhythm specialties, and I love it so much because it highlights so nicely my favorite part of the line: you and all your little dooms. Ugh, I just love that. Genius tells me it's probably a reference to orgasms and I just think that Pete Wentz never talks about sex as much or as straightforwardly as Genius thinks he does lololol. Which isn't to say he doesn't talk about sex, just that this lyric is about so much more than orgasms. It's so brilliantly evocative of that kind of relationship where a million little things seem to condemn it and drag it down. And given how hiatus-y the song feels to me, I think of the way Pete must have felt as it was all falling apart, that talking to Patrick was just an endless series of "little dooms" that Patrick kept flinging at him. What a perfect, beautiful little turn of phrase for the way things can succumb to the quicksand of problems.

Idk, I just love Flu Game.

And it is perhaps important to note that it leads into "Baby Annihilation," Pete's return to the poetry of the pre-hiatus time, but this time polished up to be JUST POETRY, no song it's being tacked to the end of, this standalone moment of Pete Wentz (with Patrick backing orchestration, the truest representation of their partnership we've really ever had, tbh), with it's closing musing of "what is there between us if not a little annihilation?" AND THEN we get "Kintsugi Kid," a song EXPLICITLY about that period of Pete's life where he was self-destructive but titled for how he came out so much better in the end, AND THEN the Patrick Stump special of "What a Time to Be Alive," the song Pete has very fondly called "pure Patrick," and it just seems so fitting to me that at the end, Patrick comes roaring back into this hiatus-y stretch, and we come back into the present.

#peterick #fall out boy #fob

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wolfish-nightmares · 2 months

Text

Game of Survival

Pairings: The Group x gn!reader

Era: Season 1-11

Warnings: TWD gore and violence. Bad language. 18+

Category: Fluff. Angst.

Word Count:

Summary: With no other choice, you must learn to play this new game of survival.

Prologue

Season 1:

1x1 - Days Gone Bye 1x3 - Tell It to the Frogs 1x4 - Vatos 1x5 - Wildfire 1x6 - TS-19

Season 2:

2x1 - What Lies Ahead 2x2 - Bloodletting 2x3 - Save the Last One 2x4 - Cherokee Rose 2x5 - Chupacabra 2x6 - Secrets 2x7 - Pretty Much 2x8 - Nebraska 2x9 - Triggerfinger 2x10 - 18 Miles Out 2x11 - Judge, Jury, Executioner 2x12 - Better Angels 2x13 - Beside the Dying Fire

Season 3:

3x1 - Seed 3x2 - Sick 3x3 - Walk With Me 3x4 - Killer Within 3x5 - Say the Word 3x6 - Hounded 3x7 - When the Dead Come Knocking 3x8 - Made to Suffer 3x9 - The Suicide King 3x10 - Home 3x11 - I Ain’t Judas 3x12 - Clear 3x13 - Arrow on the Doorpost 3x14 - Prey 3x15 - This Sorrowful Life 3x16 - Welcome to the Tombs

Season: 4

4x1 - 30 Days Without an Accident 4x2 - Infected 4x3 - Isolation 4x4 - Indifference 4x5 - Internment 4x6 - Live Bait 4x7 - Dead Weight 4x8 - Too Far Gone 4x9 - After 4x10 - Inmates 4x11 - Claimed 4x12 - Still 4x13 - Alone 4x14 - The Grove 4x15 - Us 4x16 - A

Season 5:

5x1 - No Sanctuary 5x2 - Strangers 5x3 - Four Walls and a Roof 5x4 - Slabtown 5x6 - Self Help 5x7 - Consumed 5x8 - Coda 5x9 - What Happened and What’s Going On 5x10 - Them 5x11 - The Distance 5x12 - Remember 5x13 - Forget 5x14 - Spend 5x15 - Try 5x16 - Conquer

Season 6:

6x1 - First Time Again 6x2 - JSS 6x3 - Thank You 6x4 - Here’s Not Here 6x5 - Now 6x6 - Always Accountable 6x7 - Heads Up 6x8 - Start to FInish 6x9 - No Way Out 6x10 - The Next World 6x11 - Knots Untie 6x12 - Not Tomorrow Yet 6x13- The Same Boat 6x14 - Twice As Far 6x15 - East 6x16 - Last Day on Earth

Season 7:

7x1 - The Day Will Come When You Won’t Be 7x2 - The Well 7x3 - The Cell 7x4 - Service 7x5 - Go Getter 7x6 - Swear 7x7 - Sing Me a Song 7x8 - Hearts Still Beating 7x9 - Rock in the Road 7x10 - New Best Friends 7x11 - Hostiles and Calamities 7x12 - Say Yes 7x13 - Bury Me Here 7x14 - The Other Side 7x15 - Something They Need 7x16 - The First Day of the Rest of Your Life

Season 8:

8x1 - Mercy 8x2 - The Damned 8x3 - Monsters 8x4 - Some Guy 8x5 - The Big Scary U 8x6 - The King, the Widow, and Rick 8x7 - Time for After 8x8 - How It’s Gotta Be 8x9 - Honor 8x10 - The Lost and the Plunderers 8x11 - Dead or Alive Or 8x12 - The Key 8x13 - Do Not Send Us Astray 8x14 - Still Gotta Mean Something 8x15 - Worth 8x16 - Wrath

Season 9:

9x1 - A New Beginning 9x2 - The Bridge 9x3 - Warning Signs 9x4 - The Obliged 9x5 - What Comes After 9x6 - Who Are You Now? 9x7 - Stradivarius 9x8 - Evolution 9x9 - Adaptation 9x10 - Omega 9x11 - Bounty 9x12 - Guardians 9x13 - Chokepoint 9x14 - Scars 9x15 - The Calm Before 9x16 - The Storm

Season 10:

10x0 - Holiday Special 10x1 - Lines We Cross 10x2 - We Are the End of the World 10x3 - Ghost 10x4 - Silence the Whisperers 10x5 - What It Always Is 10x6 - Bonds 10x7 - Open Your Eyes 10x8 - The World Before 10x9 - Squeeze 10x10 - Stalker 10x11 - Morning Star 10x12 - Walk with Us 10x13 - What We Become 10x14 - Look at the Flowers 10x15 - The Tower 10x16 - A Certain Doom 10x17 - Home Sweet Home 10x18 - Find Me 10x19 - One More 10x20 - Splinter 10x21 - Diverged 10x22 - Here's Negan

Season 11:

11x1 - Acheron: Part 1 11x2 - Acheron: Part 2 11x3 - Hunted 11x4 - Rendition 11x5 - Out of the Ashes 11x6 - On the Inside 11x7 - Promises Broken 11x8 - For Blood 11x9 - No Other Way 11x10 - New Haunts 11x11 - Rogue Element 11x12 - The Lucky Ones 11x13 - Warlords 11x14 - The Rotten Core 11x15 - Trust 11x16 - Acts of God 11x17 - Lockdown 11x18 - A New Deal 11x19 - Variant 11x20 - What's Been Lost 11x21 - Outpost 22

#the walking dead x reader #game of survival

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runnerk · 4 months

Text

Hello @crazyspookies ! I was your ZR Secret Santa! I want to tell you that you were my PERFECT match - Stam/5tam is my *favorite* pairing. And I know it wasn't a requirement to put in every single thing you asked for, but I tried to include everyone on your list: Sam, Five, Steve, Simon, Janine, Amelia, and a Radio Cabel cameo.

This story is a Christmas Tree Farm AU. Title, "In the Bleak Midwinter" from the Christmas song of the same name. Sam has inherited the Yao family tree farm business. It's December 23d, closing day, and one last VERY PARTICULAR customer comes in demanding a tree. But when the closed sign goes up, the Christmas spirit (spirits?) take over and the lines of friendship get a little blurry.

Will post on AO3 eventually, but I wanted it to be here, for you, first. 🤶 Enjoy. Merry Everything.

Story under the cut. AU so no spoilers. Hints at NSFW material.

Thank you @notforconsumption and @delucadarling !

“If I were a wise man, I would do my part. But what can I give him? Give him my heart.” Quote from "In The Bleak Midwinter"

In The Bleak Midwinter

Five threw a log into the pot bellied wood stove and willed its hot breath to defrost her toes. She slammed the door closed and sighed as the wood popped and groaned.

The smell of burning wood.

It used to be one of her favorite smells.

It turned her stomach a little now. Since that one day - The Day - the day everything changed. .

She shivered despite the warmth wafting her way.

The door to the little shack flew open and Sam walked in, brushing snow from his hair, stark white falling from jet black. Sam grinned.

“Thanks for covering for me, Five. My alarm didn’t go off and-” Five cut him off with a shake of her head and a loud cough

“Janine knows about your car trouble.” She winked. Sam nodded his appreciation.

Sam never asked for this life. Heir to a Christmas Tree Farm. He expected his parents to grow old and die safe in their beds, hearts gently coming to a natural stop. He would also be old and would sell the farm to the highest bidder as he went on with whatever life he had chosen for himself.

But fate had other plans.

And now here he was, barely 30, owner of Abel Christmas Tree Farm. Even after all these years, he still had no idea how to run a business. Which is why he used the majority of any inheritance money (there wasn’t much) to hire Janine DeLuca as the farm manager. She was organized and..well…a little mean, if he was honest. She knew how to get things done.

“It’s okay, Sam.” Five continued, reassuring him. “It’s December 23rd. It will be a quiet day except for a few frazzled last minute tree getters.”

“It will be nice to close this place up and not have to think about it for a few months.” Sam sighed and made his way behind the register tucked away a corner of the little cabin.

“You still coming over to my place for Christmas? My parents are looking forward to seeing you.” Five grew up next door to the tree farm and spent most of her childhood chasing Sam through the trees. In the spring, racing between the saplings. The Yaos shouting reminders to watch their steps. Summers lying in the shade of the taller trees. Reading. Listening to music. Always in each other’s company. Then the fall would come and the cheerful holiday paths would be temporarily lined with skeletons, ghosts, and zombies. Haunted trails brought in money when finances were at their tightest. As soon as they were old enough, Five took on the job of acting as a zombie hunter. Sam would ride on the hay wagon and narrate stories. It was Five’s favorite time of year. As soon as the last zombie head was taken down, the farm once again became a magical winter wonderland.

Five and Sam had been the best of friends for as long as she could remember.

“Yeah, I think I will. It’s just…” He stopped. Thought. “I’ll be there.”

Five smiled. “You’d better. I’m making that cornbread stuffing you like. And I think Steve is stopping by with some shortcake.”

As if on cue, Steve threw open the door and entered with a bang.

“Happy closing day!” He stomped the snow off his boots.

“Close the door.” A voice came from a dark back corner. “We aren’t paying to heat the outside.”

“Merry Christmas, Janine.”

“Same to you, Mr. Sissay. Again, I ask you to please close the door.”

Steve turned to Five and raised his eyebrows before flicking the door and letting it slam closed.

“At least she said please.” He shrugged. He made his way to where Sam was tangled in receipt paper in an attempt to replace the spool in the register. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”

Sam looked like he was overheating.

“Uh, yeah. Same to you, Steve.”

Five turned away to organize the few ornaments they had left in the small sales section of the cabin. Truth be told, the little cabin was one of her favorite places in the world. It was the size of a garden shed, but there was a wall of sparkling ornaments for sale, a wood stove along the back wall to keep warm despite the lack of insulation, and in the front corner sat the register, a little stool, and an electric kettle for hot chocolate. The most recent addition was a janky folding card table in the darkest back corner, which Janine called her “office.”

It wasn’t much. But it felt like home.

“Where is Simon?” Janine muttered from her corner. Sam and Five often referred to her as Scrooge, but never to her face.

“He’s outside. I passed him on the way in.” Steve answered, continuing to look at Sam. “He’s just getting one last smoke in before he’s officially on the clock.”

Janine sighed, irritation evident.

A few minutes of silence passed. Five continued straightening ornaments, Janine shuffled paper. Steve had finally grabbed the roll of receipt paper from Sam and swiftly placed it in the machine.

“You can tell me I’m your hero. It’s okay.” Steve chuckled. Sam just looked at him with his mouth open. It was rare for him to be at a loss for words, but Steve somehow managed to tie his tongue with a single glance.

There used to be a team of people working at Abel Tree Farm. They stayed for a few years after…well, AFTER…but each year a few more would find reasons not to return. And the year before Janine was hired, Sam had to let any remaining staff members go. There was no money to pay for help.

Janine saved the farm within the year. She agreed to hire a few new people, but there wasn’t much interest in tree farm work. Sam was able to find two interested parties. One guy, Steve, was a pyrotechnician who spent summers working at a local amusement park in charge of their fireworks shows. The other, Simon, was a personal trainer at a local gym with a flexible schedule. And flexible…everything.

Janine hired them because their schedules were flexible.

Sam approved the hiring because he liked how they both looked like burly lumberjacks.

Simon burst through the door moments later, smelling of cigarettes and pine.

“Little things!” He sang, obnoxiously loud. Five watched Janine’s head fall into her hands. “Like that happy noise. As a brand new day is dawning on this lovely Christmas morning!” He barreled through the little shack over to Five and cradled her neck in his strong arm. He dug his knuckles into the crown of her head as she struggled to get away.

“I didn’t know ABBA had a Christmas song.” She joked.

“ABBA has a song for everything.” He replied, and flexed his bicep, keeping her in place. “Little things,” Simon continued singing. “Like your naughty eyes. You’d consider bringing me a breakfast tray, but there’s a price.” He let Five go and she kicked him in the shin. He winked at her. “Go on. Guess the price for bringing me a breakfast tray.”

“Stop being gross, Simon.” Five scolded, but she couldn’t contain her laughter.

“Mr. Lauchlan, this is a professional environment. If you can’t behave-”

“Aw, don’t be jealous Jenny. Come on, it’s almost Christmas.” He walked over to her with such long strides Five could swear it only took him two steps to cross the entire floor. “You know everyone has been calling you Scrooge?”

“Simon!” Sam yelled, a blush bursting across his cheeks.

“I do not care about how others feel about me. I wasn’t brought here to be popular. I was brought here to run a tree farm.”

Janine sounded stern enough, but Five noticed that Simon had begun rubbing her shoulders and she wasn’t shaking him off. In fact, she seemed to sink a bit lower in her chair and…was she relaxing?

That was new.

A Christmas miracle, almost.

Seems Sam wasn’t the only one who liked his lumberjacky-ness.

The rest of the morning went by in a lazy haze. Between small talk about holiday plans and organizing the store for closing, a peaceful calmness filled the shack.

Five sighed.

She was going to miss this.

There was something so unbelievably comforting about these people.

It was just-

“I need a tree.”

Nobody heard the door open, but a cold breeze wafted in with the most striking woman Five had ever seen. The room froze.

“This is a tree farm, is it not?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Simon spoke first, tripping over his own feet to get to her and take her hand. He grasped it and shook it wildly. “I can help you find something thick and sprucy.”

The woman’s face twisted in disgust and she took her own hand back. She shook it as if it were contaminated.

“A standard thickness will do. I need one that is tall and has all of its branches perfectly balanced.”

“One well-balanced tree coming right up.” Simon was at the door and gestured her out first.

“Simon.” Janine called after him. “Behave."

Simon smiled and winked.

“There is no chance of him behaving, is there?” Sam asked. Steve laughed.

“Not the slightest.”

They were back in minutes.

“Amy, I’m sorry! You can’t call a tree ‘perfectly erect’ and not expect a comment!”

“The name is Amelia and as a customer I have a reasonable expectation of professionalism no matter what words I choose to use.”

“Our apologies, Ms…”

“Spens.”

“Apologies, Ms. Spens. Our other associate, Mr. Sissay, will bring you the finest tree we have. AND he’ll be quick about it.”

“On it.” Steve disappeared outside as both Janine and Amelia glared at Simon, who, for his part, looked completely unashamed.

“Would anyone like cocoa?” Sam asked.

“Yes, please.” Five grinned. Of course Sam would know how to break the tension.

“I’ll take some, Sammy.”

“Oh no you won’t, Mr. Lauchlan.” Janine said. “I would like to see you out back.”

Five and Sam gasped. Out back was the wood storage shed. It was cold and dark and had a potent woodsy smell. Five had once compared it to the feeling of being buried six feet under in a pine box and since then…nobody wanted to go out back.

But Simon looked oddly intrigued.

“Have I been a bad boy, Jenny?” Janine’s cheeks flushed and she shook her head.

“Actually, yes. And I need to speak with you urgently.”

Five thought they left a little eagerly, but it was really none of her business.

“Anything for you, Amelia?” Sam pushed the button for the electric kettle and started setting out mugs.

“From an electric kettle? And is that…powdered mix?” She shuddered. “I’ll pass.”

“Please have a seat near the fire while you wait. I’m sure Steve will be back momentarily.”

“He does seem quite strong. Those biceps are certainly impressive.”

An awkward silence filled the room until the kettle began to boil. Sam poured two mugs of hot chocolate for himself and Five and offered Amelia a cup one final time.

“Absolutely not.” She shook her head. “Horrifying.”

Five took a sip, slurping loudly.

Sam immediately looked away. Five never slurped anything in her life. He knew if he looked over he’d see a devilish look in her eye and she would only double down on trying to annoy their only customer of the day.

Amelia was browsing their selection of ornaments.

“Some of these are quite beautiful.” She picked up a miniature snow globe hanging on a string. Five smiled.

“Oh, that’s a great one. It was handmade by-”

“This is the ugliest snowglobe I have ever seen.” Amelia squinted as she examined it. “I mean, really. As I was saying, some of these are beautiful, but this is not one of them.”

Five looked over at Sam, who was still facing the wall. She knew even without seeing his face that he was holding back laughter. Five, on the other hand, was not feeling overly playful with this terrible woman.

“Listen, I don’t know who you think you are-”

“Here you go, ma’am. The perfect tree. It’s almost 200 centimeters tall, blue spruce. She’s an absolute stunner.” Steve announced from the doorway.

“Do you commonly equate women with trees?” Amelia asked. Steve didn’t miss a beat. He leaned on the counter, making sure his arm muscles rippled under his flannel shirt, which was at least two sizes too small.

“No, ma’am.” Steve said. He seemed to be remembering that Simon was currently out back for his attempt at innuendo. “I rotate pronouns with trees so all sexes are represented equally through the…whole forest. Out of respect. For nature.”

Five winced.

“Hmm. Very well then.” Amelia walked over to Sam and leaned on the counter, gently bumping Steve with her backside.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Uh - no charge. Because of the - uh - trouble.” Five watched Sam die a little inside.

It was definitely a weird day.

“I guess this place isn’t as bad as I assumed it was. Happy Christmas, workers.” Then, to Steve, “You’ll be tying this to the roof of my car?” It was a question but also - not.

“It’s my pleasure, ma’am.” Steve grinned and followed her out.

Five and Sam stood frozen for a solid minute before Sam finally burst with laughter.

“What the hell was that?”

“That woman was a real piece of work. We need to hang up a picture with her face and never let her back in here again.”

“Aw, come on, Five. At least she didn’t take any of Simon’s nonsense.”

“Yeah, but she insulted the ornament that the children’s hospital made.”

Sam made his way across the little shack and folded Five into a hug.

“She couldn’t have known that. But I’m sorry she didn’t let you explain.”

“And she insulted your hot chocolate.”

“Well that was definitely out of line. You’re right. We should ban her.” Five giggled into Sam’s shoulder.

“See? I told you. She was terrible.” Five felt Sam start to let go but pulled him closer. “How are you Sam? Honestly?”

Sam paused and Five felt him tense up in the hug. He took a long breath, considering his answer carefully.

“I’m…okay. It’s been a long time but…some days are lonelier than others. Christmas still stings quite a bit. Which is inconvenient, you know? Since I pretty much sell Christmas.”

When silence and sadness fill the space between words, it’s hard not to fill it. Five fought the urge to say something encouraging like, “It will get better” or “Your parents are so proud of you for carrying on” because truly there was no way to know either of those things. She wasn’t in the business of making empty promises. Not to anyone, but especially not to Sam. Never to Sam.

“Which is why you shouldn’t have to wake up alone on Christmas. Why don’t you-”

Sam pulled back to look at her.

“Wha-”

“Oh! Am I interrupting?” Five and Sam both jumped. Neither one had heard Steve come back in.

“Nope. No. Not at all. Just - normal friendly conversation.” Sam stammered. Five laughed.

“You’re fine, Steve. Hey, listen. I’m not the owner of this place or anything, but I’m thinking that was probably our last customer. She was the only person all day looking for a tree and it’s getting late. What do we say to closing an hour early?”

“Also not in charge but I say that’s a great idea.”

“As the person who IS in charge, I’m calling it.” Sam walked to the small, frost covered window in the front and flipped the open sign. “Closed for the season.” He sighed.

“So I’m no longer an employee here until next season, right?” Steve asked.

“Right.”

“Then I can’t be fired, right?”

“Ummm, right.” There was a hint of a question in Sam’s voice.

“And, since we’re closed…” He pulled a flask from his pocket. “This isn’t drinking on the job, right?”

Sam shrugged. “I suppose it isn’t.”

“But only if you share.”

“Five, darling. I wouldn’t ever whip out whiskey and not offer it to a lady.”

“I’ll warm up more water for hot cocoa. Whiskey would be great in cocoa.” Sam added more water to the kettle and clicked it on. Five chuckled. She knew Sam wasn’t a fan of straight alcohol. Five on the other hand-

“I’ll take it straight from the flask.” She waited patiently for Steve to finish swallowing and grabbed it from his hand.

She took a long pull and the whiskey burned her throat on the way down. She felt the warm liquid sit in her belly and run through her veins. It was a feeling not much different than getting a hug from Sam.

She couldn’t remember exactly when she met Sam. Somehow it seemed like they had been together since the day they were born. The best of friends. There was never a question. Except lately something was changing. Something felt …more. She took another swig and handed it back to Steve.

He seemed to sense that she had been thinking about other things and gave her a questioning look. She smiled to reassure him that she was okay.

“Do you still have that little radio?” He asked. Sam, still behind the counter, reached down and pulled out a tiny radio. He turned it on and static blared through the shack. He adjusted the signal until he heard a voice break through.

“Today, Cit-i-zens, everyone here at Radio Cabel will be sharing our favorite holiday traditions!” Phil Cheeseman’s voice blared from the speakers. “You start, Zoe.”

“I like to start the day by making a nice breakfast and eating it in front of Christmas specials with my cats.” Zoe paused. “Later in the day I go see family and it’s busy and crazy, so I like having the time to myself to prepare for all of that.”

“That sounds kind of lonely.”

“It’s actually not. I like a balance of quiet and loud.”

“Not us.” Jack cut in. “Since Eugene and I have been together, we started a new tradition of blasting Christmas music and dancing in front of the tree while we open gifts.”

“No,” corrected Eugene. “Jack blasts music in front of the tree and dances. I try to get in as much coffee as I can to keep up with him all day.” Eugene let out a gentle laugh.

“And you love it.” Jack chuckled. “This next song is one of my favorites to annoy Gene with.”

The water was boiling and Sam mixed another cup of hot chocolate before joining Five and Steve in the middle of the cabin.

“You didn’t drink it all, did you?”

Steve winked and poured a large quantity of alcohol into his mug. Sam raised his glass as if to say ‘cheers’ and took a large gulp. He coughed and sputtered a bit but managed to play it cool.

“Yum.” He managed to squeak out. Steve laughed.

“Don’t worry. If we finish this, I have one or two backup flasks in my coat pocket.”

“Of course you do.”

The next song came on the radio. Over the intro, Phil gently spoke of how this song sparked memories of his childhood traditions.

Five found herself wrapping her arms around Sam, who responded in kind. They began some kind of involuntary swaying that she supposed could have been dancing.

Another set of strong arms wrapped around them.

The song ended with the three of them huddled together. They each took another drink - Five and Steve from the flask and Sam from his mug - and sat on the ground.

Sam leaned toward the merchandise for sale and pulled over a few tree skirts and some bags of cotton, sprinkled with glitter to look like snow. They wiggled around, arranging the items to make pillows and blankets. They cuddled together for warmth.

“Come on, loves. Tell me. Are you really best friends or is there something else happening here?”

“Yes.” Five said, while Sam stammered something incomprehensible next to her. The drink had loosened Five’s tongue and she continued without thinking. “We were always friends but since his parents died and his sister skipped out on him, I guess I want to be his family now. But not in a gross way. In a way that, like, I just want to be there for him all the time. I want to be the person who…” She trailed off, realizing that Sam had now propped himself up on an elbow and was staring at her. “Well…it’s true.”

“What happened?” Steve asked. Five, apparently a chatterbox when drunk, opened her mouth to answer. Sam never spoke about The Day. But he took a deep breath and launched into it.

“It … it’s going to be sad.” Sam warned. Nobody spoke. He shrugged and continued. “It was Christmas Eve. Everyone was home - my parents, my sister, and me. I had moved out into my little apartment down the road and my sister lived on her University campus. But as it was Christmas - this was the first time since the summer we were all under one roof. We had a fire going in the fireplace that morning, feeling festive and whatnot, and for just a few minutes - that was all it took - everyone was distracted. I don’t know where they were. I was upstairs in my room, wrapping some last minute presents when the fire alarm started blaring. I tried running downstairs but there was already so much smoke. The house - that damn house - we only had one working alarm. It was something my dad always said we needed to fix. But we never got to it. So anyway, by the time the smoke set off the alarm, it was already a pretty big fire. I don’t know what happened, but my parents never made it out of the house. Maybe they went to go get our dog? I don’t know. Maybe the downstairs just filled with smoke too fast? It doesn’t matter. The doctors tried explaining some theories but honestly I didn’t care enough to listen. What did it matter how it happened? My sister and I both made it out by jumping out the second floor windows. There were big trees around the house. Both of us could climb down. We got outside and it was just - the whole house. Flames out of every window. I don’t know. I can’t quite remember much. But I made two phone calls that morning. One to the fire department. The other…” His voice trailed off.

“Was me.” Five finished, quietly. “You called me. I ran over from my house as fast as I could. It was…awful.”

“Where is your sister now?” Steve asked cautiously.

“She didn’t stick around. Right after the funeral she took off with her boyfriend - his family is rich - and finished her schooling in some tropical location. I don’t even know where she is. She didn’t leave an address. She just said she wanted no part in the tree farm business and just - left.”

The room was quiet save for everyone taking a few gulps of their drink.

“I’m so sorry, Sam. I really had no idea.” Steve said eventually.

“Yeah. I don’t like to talk about it. I can’t bring them back. But it is why…it’s why I don’t go out to the tree field much. I like to stay in here. If I go too far back, to the last row of trees, I can see the foundation of the old house. They tore it down, but…they left that part.”

“Yikes. I’ve seen that before. I just figured it was torn down to make room for the tree farm.”

“Nope. Just the shattered remains of my old life.” Five patted his shoulder. “Anyway, it’s okay. I mean, no. Not okay. My therapist keeps reminding me that I don’t have to say it’s okay. Because it’s not. It’s just…thank you. Thanks for your…uh…concern. And stuff. I’m dealing with it.”

Steve leaned over and took Sam’s face in his hands.

“You’re doing really well, love. This is a great business you’ve got here. Everyone who comes here feels welcome and has a great time. Well, everyone except for Amelia.” They laughed. Despite his laughter, Sam squirmed a bit.

“Your face is..uh…close.” Sam licked his lips and winced, suddenly realizing how suggestive that was.

“You’re adorable.” Steve said and kissed him gently. Five raised her eyebrows.

“Well, that wasn’t on my list of things I thought I’d see today.”

“Oh, darling. You should always expect the unexpected. Especially when Christmas magic is in the air.”

“And whiskey is in the glass.” Five raised the flask and took another swig.

Sam remained still and silent as Steve backed up to give him space.

“Thank you.” He whispered.

Five laughed, but Steve just whispered,

“You’re welcome.”

The radio played another slow song, long gentle lyrics about bleak midwinters and moaning wind. “Snow had fallen, snow on snow on snow.” Caught up in the music, in the warmth, in the closeness, a shirt was discarded. Hands grasping. Not quite sure what belonged to who. Lips on lips on lips. Skin on skin on skin.

If anyone had approached the little tree farm shack that night, they would have had a hard time seeing through the windows, steamed with heat and want. Three bodies silhouetted in the light of the wood stove. Friends and passion and love.

It was close to midnight by the time Steve left. The drink long gone, a few hours of sleep, the fire snuffed. And then it was Sam and Five, closing the door to the shop. Closing the door on the season. Closing the door on the only closeness he still felt to his parents.

Five kissed Sam long and deep, knowing there was no returning to “just friends.”

“Don’t go home.”

“Where - what?”

“Don’t go home. Ever. Forget your little apartment. I want you with me.” She held him close but pitched her head back to look him in the eye. “Stay with me.”

“Five, you’re all caught up in the - whatever…”

“Christmas magic.” Five grinned. “Yes. But also, no. Sam - I have loved you for a long time. I’m your family. I’m your love. Stay with me.”

Sam was quiet, contemplative.

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes. But…I’m not giving up my apartment yet. Just in case.”

“You won’t need it.”

“It’s just…it’s hard to believe things can be permanent. Awful things can happen, Five. I don’t want anything to happen but I know -”

“We’re going to be great, Sam.”

“How do you know?”

Five stopped and thought. How could she possibly know? She didn’t. Of course she didn’t. Just like she didn’t know that Sam would be okay or that his parents would be proud. But this didn’t feel like a lie.

“Sam, I don’t know. I have no idea if things will work. And I could be ruining the best friendship in the world. But here’s what I do know. I don’t want to spend another minute without you. You are my whole heart. I have loved you for as long as I can remember. We’ve wasted so many years treading so carefully. Without great risk, there can’t be great rewards. And Sam…a lifetime with you would be the greatest reward I could ever imagine. It’s worth the risk.”

Sam stared at her, mouth gaping.

“Okay.”

“Okay? I gave you all that and you’re giving me okay?”

Sam chuckled.

“I love you. So much. And I owe Steve my whole life for getting us over this friendship hump.”

“Wow. Poetic. And don’t get me started on how much Simon would love the use of the word hump.”

“Let’s go home.” Sam said. “To your place. I’ll move my toothbrush in tomorrow and it will be home.”

With that, Sam and Five started down a long, winding path. Winters are a lot less bleak with someone you love by your side.

#runner five #zombies run #sam yao #simon lauchlan #5tam #Zombies Run Secret Santa 2023 #ZRSS23

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muuum-am-i-adohhhpted · 8 months

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A Demon in Hermit's Clothing (Hermitcraft)

I realize I didn't post this short fic here on Tumblr, only on AO3, so here it is. Inspired by Cleo announcing the Blood on the Clocktower game (which I still haven't watched)

Summary: Gem wakes in the night. She's ready to kill again.

AO3 Link

Word Count: 1077

Warnings: death and murder

~~~

Etho’s blood is still slowly dripping down the brick from where his body was impaled at the top of the clocktower during the previous night. It stands out particularly well against the moonlight, the dried red dark against the white walls.

Gem creeps out of her house, fog curling around the cobblestone path. She smells blood—whether it’s from Etho or her fellow villagers, she doesn’t know. Her eye twitches and she glances right and left where everyone else is peacefully sleeping. Only the misty moon and low-burning lamp lights cast a glow across town.

Her first day went well; she’s pretty sure she’s sliding under the radar so far. She spoke to Impulse and Pearl first where they all hard-claimed to one another. Of course, with her being the Imp, she was given two bluffs, and Pearl herself was the Spy and therefore knew the entire Grimoire, it was easy to lie to Impulse’s face. Once he left, Pearl quickly recited everyone’s role in the town, some highlights being Cleo the Saint and Grian the Drunk Empath who said Doc and Ren were good, before they separated as to not cause suspicion of talking too long together.

She decided to leave Doc to his own devices for the day, not wanting to seek out her second minion on the first day. Besides, Gem was pretty sure no one was asking Doc about his role, already assuming he wasn’t going to say anything. She would have to speak to him in the morning; she’d like to know who he poisoned.

The sound of a faraway owl has Gem’s hairs on her neck standing up. With no wind, all sounds seem to be magnified.

Gem flexes her fingers, their sharp talons extending into deadly points. The only person she’s truly worried about is False. As the Slayer, all she has to do is accuse Gem of being the Imp and the townsfolk win. But it’s not like Gem can kill False now; there are ten others alive and her death would signal a possible Spy, which Gem certainly doesn’t want.

She thinks back to that evening, where the entire town congregated and began putting together everyone’s first-night information. With Ren the Investigator learning there was a Poisoner in play, Etho’s Washerwoman ghost communicating that either Impulse or Cleo was the Undertaker, Grian the Drunk Empath saying Doc and Cub were good, and Keralis the Librarian learning that a Drunk was in play, there was a lot to chew on. The Drunk really threw a wrench in the system, as nobody knew whose information was reliable. It was utter chaos.

Gem had to resist smiling.

So maybe she should kill one of the only first-night info getters? She really wants to wait to kill Impulse later, when either Pearl, Doc, or Grian, are possibly executed so he won’t figure out their true role, and killing any important role is too risky.

Gem starts in the direction of Cub’s house, nestled in between Grian and False’s. Maybe she can kill two birds with one stone. Cub’s the Mayor and has the chance of not dying. If Cub doesn’t die and it pings off someone else, Gem hopes it will hit an important role. If it hits Scar the Soldier who can’t die by the Imp, Gem’s Monk bluff can be mostly proved. But if Cub dies, Grian’s Drunk Empath powers will reach False (his next living neighbour), and Gem can only hope that False will turn up evil and the town will execute her without Gem having to lay a finger on the Slayer.

Cub’s house is a burgundy, its little chimney puffing out smoke. Gem silently walks up the front ramp and slides one of her talons in the front door’s lock, it clicking open almost instantly.

Inside, the fireplace is slowly dying and the boxy television is on a low volume, playing some sort of movie or show. Trinkets and various other things lay in the cabinet directly to Gem’s left and a collection of snow globes sit on the wooden coffee table in the middle of the living room.

Gem stalks towards Cub’s bedroom. She presses an ear against the door, only hearing the sound of light snoring. Gently, she twists the doorknob and pushes open the door.

Cub’s peacefully asleep in bed. A book is face-down on the nightstand next to him and a pair of fuzzy slippers peek out from beneath the bed frame. The window’s latched shut. As if doing so dissuades Gem from breaking in another way.

She makes quick work of Cub; a quick talon through the heart has him dead in his bed. The metallic smell of blood reaches Gem’s nose, her own heart fluttering with adrenaline and the satisfaction of an easy and decisive kill.

Carefully peeling back the bedsheets, Gem slides her hands under Cub’s neck and knees to lift him up. His body is still warm. She carries him outside, not bothering to close the door.

Then, her bones creak and her ears pop as leathery wings sprout from her back. With a thwump, Gem rockets towards the sky, wind rushing past her ears, her clothes flapping. Her heart thumps rapidly and a grin breaks out on her face.

She hovers over the clocktower where Etho’s body is still skewered by the long metal cross on top of the spire. Here, Gem can see the entire village and the surrounding sea, forests, mountains, and lakes. It’s beautiful, really. It’s too bad she plans to run this place to the ground.

Already, townsfolk are hesitant to trust their information in fear that they’re the Drunk; they’re hesitant to trust for fear that the other person is the Imp or a Minion. Factions are in the process of being made and lines are starting to be drawn. A handful of people are beginning to be suspicious of Cleo since Cub told the group that, after he’d claimed his role to them, they hadn’t returned the favour and had been overall very curt.

Perhaps she should feed into that belief. After all, if Cleo is executed as the Saint, Gem, and her minions, automatically win.

Her wings beating in the air, Gem unceremoniously drops Cub onto the metal cross atop the clocktower, his body making a squelching sound as he’s pierced through the stomach. There’s a slight thumping sound as he lands on top of Etho.

Gem goes back to bed.

#hermitcraft #geminitay #hermitcraft fanfic #hermitcraft fanfiction

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joylinda-hawks · 11 days

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Master, I have made a decision. I made an oath that in my entire life, until the end, there would never be a single moment in which I would fail Ah Xiang. WOH, episode 35. MHY starts talking to the kneeling CWN, insulting GX. GX, hearing this, tells himself that he can handle it and endure for the sake of CWN and the other champion. MHY looking at GX states that he thought GX was some extraordinary beauty and she is a completely ordinary girl. A surprised CWN explains that GX is not a seductress, although she lived in Ghost Valley, she is in fact very sincere and kind. He adds that on Qingfeng Mountain she went through a lot with the CWN Sect. CWN says MHY doesn't know because he's never been with her, but the second master knows. MHY tells CWN to stay silent and turns on GX, calling her a seductress and is impressed that she managed to trick his student. GX tries to stay calm. MHY says Huai Kong was sitting here, he will come here and said a lot of good words about GX. He tells CWN to think carefully if he really wants to go down the wrong path for this she-devil. CWN firmly states that he has made his decision and vows that he will not let GX down for the rest of his life. MHY is disappointed with the student's attitude. CWN adds that MHY has been telling him since childhood that they must keep their promises. CWN claims that it will not hold back on the words given to the girl. MHY tells him to stop and adds that CWN cannot disappoint this she-devil, but he can disappoint the sect by becoming the laughing stock of the entire Jianghu. CWN is horrified by the master's words. MHY says it's great that he put so much effort into raising CWN and how he repays him, and then turns away from CWN. CWN bows deeply and declares that he knows his sins, that he is unfaithful and disloyal. CWN grabs the master by the robe and explains that in the future, he and his wife will be able to live with dignity and act justly. CWN asks MHY to show mercy and agree to their marriage. MHY is fed up with listening to CWN's pleas, turns to the kneeling young man and wordlessly helps him up. GX believes that the Master has given up. MHY, speaking well, places his hand on CWN's face, then brings his hands closer to the man's face, gently stroking him, and then in one deft move, in front of GX, twists CWN's neck. GX doesn't understand what happened yet and looks at CWN who falls to the ground. MHY orders the students to attack. The fight starts and GX drops to his knees next to CWN's body. Here, MHY presents himself as an implacable sect leader who verbally reprimands a rebellious disciple. I think MHY hoped that he would be able to convince CWN to change his decision, but he took into account that the boy might refuse him. Unfortunately, his assumption was correct. CWN is an honest, open young man. He knows he has to keep his word. MHY is an old man full of prejudices. For him, only his opinion matters. He has no heart for CWN who bows before him. GX also behaves calmly, even though she is insulted, this energetic, go-getter girl is an oasis of peace here. He does it for CWN. This is the scene where the young couple hoped for the blessing of the MHY leader, but it tragically ended with CWN's death. I will write once again that the young actors did a great job in their roles.

#zhang zhehan #zhou zishu #word of honor #wenzhou #wen kexing #gong jun

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omegasmileyface · 7 months

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The Forest, the Trees, the Fire I: CATALYST

Chapter 9

chapter 9.......... Authors: @ectolemonades, @attackradish, and me Artist: @/crunchysart

For the full characters list, word count, content warning, and a directory to all the currently available chapters and related content, see the Table of Contents!

full summary: The world outside of Amity Park has learned about the existence of ghosts, and the time for first impressions has arrived. The delicate public consciousness could be disrupted by the slightest ripple. Danny Fenton is being ripped apart from all sides, and when he finally breaks, the ripples will be very big indeed.

warnings: none

words: 2227

AO3 link

first chapter

previous chapter

next chapter

===

January 23, 2007

Tucker looked at the note again to avoid having to look at the stained concrete that made up every corner of the building. The yellow paper was smooth and almost white at the edge from his rubbing it, but the ink was still intact in the center.

"Really wanna help ghosts? Join the magic defense squad. Tuesday, 6 pm, 1042 Larch St."

It was the most goth piece of paper Paulina had ever handed him, but to be fair, it was also the only piece of paper Paulina had ever handed him.

Why not? Magic was real, he was fully familiar. It certainly could be used to help ghosts. And most damningly, if his classmates started trying to use it without someone like him there to watch them, things would get real weird, real fast.

Plus his mom nearly jumped for joy when he said he was staying out after school! So that's good.

And now, here he was, 45 minutes early to a high school cult meeting, with the freshly re-stolen scepter of Duul Aman in his backpack just in case, loathing every second of his day.

…Maybe 45 minutes was too much. He left his PlayFriend at home. Time to memorize the cracks in the floor.

The door opened and shut with more echo than the tiny building should have been capable of.

"Oh! Tucker?" Jazz Fenton entered with two entire bookbags and a clipboard.

"Woah, what are you doing here?"

"Aren't they doing that 'magic defense' thing here?"

Tucker frowned. "How do you know about that? I thought it was just between high school students."

"Some regulars at the Skulk 'n' Lurk are joining because they have experience with occult literature. Spike texted me because she figured I'd have some experience."

"Okay."

Jazz set her bags on the floor and laid out her jacket to sit on.

"…And do you?"

"Have experience?"

"Yeah."

Jazz grunted. "I guess as much as ghost business can be considered magic. I've never done any spells or read any real magic books or anything, but… I don't know. I read a bit out of Showenhower's tomes back when I wanted to publish on him. Talk to Dora once in a blue moon."

"Well, Jasmine Fenton, we've reviewed your resume and found that you have at least three times as much relevant work experience as anybody else in Amity Park. You're hired!"

She snickered.

They fell into a calm silence.

Next time the door banged open, it was half an hour before the meeting and it came with the sound of Goth music on a speaker. "Oh, man, are we back to being at the center of everything that goes on around here?"

Tucker almost tore his invitation. "Oh my God, Sam!"

"Yeah, yeah. Hello again, Ghost Getters of Amity Park. Your hero is back, or whatever."

Along with a backpack as big as Tucker's little sister and her portable CD player, Sam was carrying a few folding chairs under her arm. She mercifully set some up.

Jazz stood to help. "Didn't you move away?"

"Well, yeah, but not because I wanted to. What about you, weren't you off in Pennsylvania?"

Jazz looked away. "Home seemed more important than college for a bit."

Sam nodded. "Yeah, I could see that about now. But yeah, I got detention for trying to rekindle the pro-ghost movement on my first day—"

Tucker grimaced. "Oh, man, do they have Guys in White out there, too?"

Sam dropped her bag on the ground, and it sounded like there could have been a corpse in there.

"No, that's the weird thing! Let me finish. I was trying to get a good discussion going about ghost rights, right? And a couple kids were saying confidently that ghosts couldn't think, or whatever, but most of them just didn't care. Like, they'd never thought about it before. They just ignore the fact that this whole species is out there and nobody has decided whether they're allowed to exist or not."

"Huh," said Jazz. "I guess it would be easy to consider it none of your business if you don't see ghosts every day."

"So why'd you get in trouble?"

Sam grunted. "I guess because I wouldn't shut up even when people stopped listening. I thought it was relevant to the class, since we were talking about psychology, but the teacher didn't like it when I 'tried to stir things up'." Sam broke out the finger quotes and deep voice. She must have been pissed about it. "So, yeah!" She smiled wryly and crossed her arms. "In Littleriver, Michigan, they don't silence you for thinking ghosts are people, they silence you for thinking ghosts."

The room was silent as the teenagers contemplated this. At the heart of ghost activity in the living world, it was easy to not notice how the rest of the world was reacting to news.

"And yeah. I ran away a few days ago. Hit up some keepers I knew at the Skulk 'n' Lurk, I've been staying with them. Heard that somebody from the class wanted to use magic to help ghosts, came so I could maybe keep them from accidentally killing us all."

Tucker tapped the legs on his chair and listened to the ting! reverberate around the room. "Yep," he said into the silence. "That's pretty much why we're here, too."

Sam pulled out a book. "Well, then. Maybe we can even get them to do some good, if all three of us are here."

They didn't say anything else. Tucker couldn't force any more words out of his mouth. Do you forgive me? How are you doing? Can I forgive you? How's your grandma been? Do you understand why I never called? Did you know Lola's got a recital next week?

No. He was choking, and he figured Sam might have been, too.

Next time the door opened it was two minutes late, and came with the clamor of a quarter of a high school class and some extra goths.

Paulina quickly found the center of the room, never making eye contact with the three who were already there. "Alright, everyone! Set up a chair and gather your resources! We've got an agenda to set!"

===

Three days later, in the same grungy building, Jazz was perched over one of the Amity Park Public Library's myriad ominous unmarked hardcovers when something else crossed her mind.

"Has anybody heard from Valerie recently?" she asked.

Sam and Tucker both paused in their research to realize that, no, they hadn't. Sam hadn't heard a lick since she moved. Valerie hadn't been at the Nasty Burger, either.

"Not since lunch last Friday," said Tucker.

Sam had to wonder what things had come to, that they could go so long without seeing one of their friends and not even notice.

"I asked to meet her on Wednesday so I could add her to the comm system," said Tucker. "She hasn't responded."

Jazz closed the tome and folded her knees up under her chin thoughtfully. "Do you think she—"

A shocked cheer came up from the other side of the room. Star was carefully holding up her laptop so Mikey and Dale could read something on it. Mikey looked like he was going to burst.

Sam climbed to her feet to look. "What is it?"

Star's eyes were wide. "The ghosts are standing up for themselves."

"Not only that!" Mikey grabbed the laptop to show Sam. "Phantom wrote the notice! He's some kind of ghost king!"

Sam stopped. He's what? Oh, God. Danny, what have you gotten up to without us there for you?

Jazz put a hand on her shoulder. She must have looked mad. She shook it off.

Tucker slid around her and grabbed Star's laptop. Sam tried to look while he read, but he twisted out of the way. Asshole.

After a few seconds, Tucker rubbed his hand over his mouth and inhaled. That was never a good sign. He only did that when he was trying to figure out how to process something without turning it into a joke.

"He's signed as 'High King of the Infinite Realms'. And some other stuff too. He's said that ghosts need a voice among the living, and if they don't get it they'll—"

His voice cracked.

"They'll go to war."

Holy shit. That didn't sound like Danny one little bit. Something was wrong.

Jazz bit her hand softly.

"Seems fair enough," said Kwan, who was stationed over a phonebook on "find people we can interview" duty. "We can't get their perspective if they don't get a chance to talk, and the government would have no clue what to expect from a military move if they, y'know, didn't say it."

"It's way too violent!" said Dale. "America's not gonna want to give 'em a stage if they come out swingin' like that. You're supposed to go in with, like, open peace if you want peace back. If you go in with threats everybody's gonna be scared of everybody else."

"Well…" said Monica, who was on plant use research. "We really didn't know anything about what ghosts are up to in the Zone. We didn't even know if they had a military— well, okay. We knew, 'cause we've seen it. But, like, the government hasn't seen it. And they already know what to expect when they're dealing with other countries. It is diplomatic to say 'hey, JSYK, here's what we're gonna do and how we're gonna do it if you don't like our terms."

"Isn't that pretty much mutually-insured destruction?" Brittany said.

"Assured?" Monica suggested.

"Yeah. Like, only keeping everybody from fighting because they'd all die if they did."

Tucker finally spoke up, shakily. "Well, he said they didn't want to. So that's gonna have to be good enough. We'll just have to hope they get a chance to talk."

Jazz was looking at Sam suspiciously. Probably expecting her to argue with someone. Well, Sam was still figuring out how she felt about this, and she didn't have classes with these people anymore, so who cared if she got involved in their debates or not?

"So Phantom became some kind of royalty since we last saw him?" Dash mumbled, looking up at the ceiling like it might have an answer.

"The High King!" Mikey said. "Whatever that means."

Ginny from Skulk 'n' Lurk joined in. "Could be like that guy who took over a couple years ago. He claimed to be a 'the' ghost king. Maybe Phantom took over from him."

"Or he was royalty the whole time!" said Paulina. "Could have been hiding it for some reason. Or avoiding it."

"Then how could the big viking guy be the ghost king, Pauli? Huh?"

"I don't know! It was just an idea, Jesus. Maybe they're related."

Sam finally shook herself off and dragged Jazz and Tucker outside while conversation shifted to whether it could have been a different "Phantom".

"He's in trouble."

"No duh, Sam."

Jazz tried to get under the eave to keep out of the snow. "Could he have been lying about the Ghost King thing?"

"God, probably not," said Tucker. He scuffed the gravel with his boot. "He's always getting into stuff that's too big to handle."

Sam regretted coming out here. It was fucking cold. "How long do you think that's been going on?"

Nobody had an answer.

"Well, obviously we've gotta help him," she said.

Jazz nodded. "As far as I can tell, though, all the portals are gone."

"Crap," said Tucker. "Does anybody have a way to get in touch with Wulf? Or… uh… any other ghost?"

"No, sorry."

"Well!" Sam clapped her hands. "We'll just have to put all this magic research to use, then."

They all came back inside to a truly riveting discussion about ghost surnames. Sam couldn't focus on her research for the rest of the evening.

Danny, why couldn't you stay safe, just this once?

===

Sammy,

Look at you, running away like this! Just like your mother and just like me. I knew you wouldn’t back down from the things you believe in. Hopefully your mother comes to her senses with all of this nonsense and realizes the apple doesn’t fall very far from the tree. I swear, that woman needs to take the stick out of her ass.

It was so silly of your parents to up and move, what with my condition and the roots our family has grown in Amity Park over the years. Your friends back home will be so happy to see you. I always liked having them around the house, and I know you’ll be safe with them. It’s impressive how smart you young ones are. Back in my day, ghosts were only in stories we told each other at night. I always believed in them a little more than that, though.

I hope this will remind you how loved you are and that at least one person in this family believes in you. You know I don’t have long left, bubbeleh. I may not get to see all the things you accomplish. I hope I don’t become a ghost, but if I do I’ll be by your side helping you win this fight. Don’t forget how much your grandma loves you.

May God bless and keep you, Grandma Ida

#danny phantom #my writing #invisobang 2023 #ftf catalyst #the forest the trees the fire

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