#the question not being how do you survive the wilderness. the question being how do you come BACK.
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There’s a line from American Gods I keep coming back to in relation to Yellowjackets, an observation made early on by Shadow in prison: “The kind of behavior that works in a specialized environment, such as prison, can fail to work and in fact become harmful when used outside such an environment.” I keep rotating it in my head in thinking about the six survivors, the roles they occupy in the wilderness, and the way the show depicts them as adults in society.
Because in the wilderness, as in prison, they’re trapped—they’re suffering, they’re traumatized, they’re terrified—but they’re also able to construct very specific boxes to live in. And, in a way, that might make it easier. Cut away the fat, narrow the story down to its base arc. You are no longer the complex young woman who weighs a moral compass before acting. You no longer have the luxury of asking questions. You are a survivor. You have only to get to the next day.
Shauna: the scribe. Lottie: the prophet. Van: the acolyte. Taissa: the skeptic. Misty: the knight. Natalie: the queen. Neat, orderly, the bricks of a new kind of society. And it works in the woods; we know this because these six survive. (Add Travis: the hunter, while you’re at it, because he does make it to adulthood).
But then they’re rescued. And it’s not just lost purpose and PTSD they’re dealing with now, but a loss of that intrinsic identity each built in the woods. How do you go home again? How do you rejoin a so-called civilized world, where all the violence is restricted to a soccer field, to an argument, to your own nightmares?
How does the scribe, the one who wrote it all out in black and white to make sense of the horrors, cope with a world that would actively reject her story? She locks that story away. But she can’t stop turning it over in her head. She can’t forget the details. They’re waiting around every corner. In the husband beside her in bed. In the child she can’t connect with across the table. In the best friend whose parents draw her in, make her the object of their grief, the friend who lives on in every corner of their hometown. She can’t forget, so she tries so hard to write a different kind of story instead, to fool everyone into seeing the soft maternal mask and not the butcher beneath, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.
How does the prophet come back from the religion a desperate group made of her, a group that took her tortured visions, her slipping mental health, and built a hungry need around the very things whittling her down? She builds over the bones. She creates a place out of all that well-intended damage, and she tells herself she’s helping, she’s saving them, she has to save them, because the world is greedy and needs a leader, needs a martyr, needs someone to stand up tall and reassure everyone at the end of the day that they know what’s best. The world, any world, needs someone who will take those blows so the innocent don’t have to. She’s haunted by everyone she didn’t save, by the godhood assigned to her out of misplaced damage, and when the darkness comes knocking again, there is nothing else to do but repeat old rhymes until there is blood on her hands just the same.
How does the acolyte return to a world that cares nothing for the faith of the desperate, the faith that did nothing to save most of her friends, that indeed pushed her to destroy? She runs from it. She dives into things that are safe to believe in, things that rescue lonely girls from rough home lives, things that show a young queer kid there’s still sunshine out there somewhere. She delves into fiction, makes a home inside old stories to which she already knows the endings, coaxes herself away from the belief that damned her and into a cinemascope safety net where the real stuff never has to get in. She teaches herself surface-level interests, she avoids anything she might believe in too deeply, and still she’s dragged back to the place where blood winds up on her hands just the same.
How does the skeptic make peace with the things she knows happened, the things that she did even without meaning to, without realizing? She buries them. She leans hard into a refusal to believe those skeletons could ever crawl back out of the graves she stuffed them into, because belief is in some ways the opposite of control. She doesn’t talk to her wife. She doesn’t talk to anyone. It’s not about what’s underneath the surface, because that’s just a mess, so instead she actively discounts the girl she became in the woods. She makes something new, something rational and orderly, someone who can’t fail. She polishes the picture to a shine, and she stands up straight, the model achievement. She goes about her original plan like it was always going to be that way, and she winds up with blood on her hands just the same.
How does the knight exist in a world with no one to serve, no one to protect, no reason propelling the devastating choices she had grown comfortable making? She rechannels it. She convinces herself she’s the smartest person in the room, the most capable, the most observant. She convinces herself other people’s mysteries are hers to solve, that she is helping in every single action she takes. She makes a career out of assisting the most fragile, the most helpless souls she can find, and she makes a hobby out of patrolling for crimes to solve, and when a chance comes to strap her armor back on and ride into battle, she rejoices in the return to normalcy. She craves that station as someone needed, someone to rely upon in the darkest of hours, and she winds up with blood on her hands because, in a way, she never left the wilderness at all.
How does the queen keep going without a queendom, without a pack, without people to lead past the horrors of tomorrow? She doesn’t. She simply does not know how. She scrounges for something, anything, that will make her feel connected to the world the way that team did. She moves in and out of a world that rejects trauma, punishes the traumatized, heckles the grieving as a spectacle. She finds comfort in the cohesive ritual of rehabilitation, this place where she gets so close to finding herself again, only to stumble when she opens her eyes and sees she’s alone. All those months feeding and guiding and gripping fast to the fight of making it to another day, and she no longer knows how to rest. How to let go without falling. She no longer wears a crown, and she never wanted it in the first place, so how on earth does she survive a world that doesn’t understand the guilt and shame of being made the centerpiece of a specialized environment you can never explain to anyone else? How, how, how do you survive without winding up with blood on your hands just the same?
All six of these girls found, for better or worse, a place in the woods. All six of them found, for better or worse, a reason to get up the next day. For each other. And then they go home, and even if they all stayed close, stayed friends, it’d still be like stepping out of chains for the first time in years. Where do you go? How do you make small choices when every decision for months was life or death? How do you keep the part of yourself stitched so innately into your survival in a world that would scream to see it? How do you do away with the survivor and still keep going?
They brought it back with them. Of course they did. It was the only way.
#yellowjackets#yellowjackets spoilers#yj meta#long post#shauna shipman#lottie matthews#taissa turner#van palmer#misty quigley#natalie scatorccio#the question not being how do you survive the wilderness. the question being how do you come BACK.#the way each of them tries so hard to keep moving forward#unable to untangle the girl in the woods from the adult suffering in polite society#how the world doesn’t want to hear about the pain or the night terrors or the sleepwalking or the addiction#the world wants the bright colors and the flash-bang headlines#the world doesn’t want who they are. who they had to be. it wants pretty perfect tragedy#that specialized environment lives on in each one of them every day#but it’s not a place anyone else can ever go#how do you feed that for so long and then just…stop?#constantly thinking about nat saying we didn’t make it out. none of us.#because no. no they didn’t. the girls died the minute that rescue chance did. what came back was risen from those ashes
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Monsters Reimagined: Bandits
As a game of heroic fantasy that centers so primarily on combat, D&D is more often than not a game about righteous violence, which is why I spend so much time thinking about the targets of that violence. Every piece of media made by humans is a thing created from conscious or unconscious design, it’s saying something whether or not its creators intended it to do so.
Tolkien made his characters peaceloving and pastoral, and coded his embodiment of evil as powerhungry, warlike, and industrial. When d&d directly cribbed from Tolkien's work it purposely changed those enemies to be primitive tribespeople who were resentful of the riches the “civilized” races possessed. Was this intentional? None can say, but as a text d&d says something decidedly different than Tolkien.
That's why today I want to talk about bandits, the historical concept of being an “outlaw”, and how media uses crime to “un-person” certain classes of people in order to give heroes a target to beat up.
Tldr: despite presenting bandits as a generic threat, most d&d scenarios never go into detail about what causes bandits to exist, merely presuming the existence of outlaws up to no good that the heroes should feel no qualms about slaughtering. If your story is going to stand up to the scrutiny of your players however, you need to be aware of WHY these individuals have been driven to banditry, rather than defaulting to “they broke the law so they deserve what’s coming to them.”
I got to thinking about writing this post when playing a modded version of fallout 4, an npc offhndedly mentioned to me that raiders (the postapoc bandit rebrand) were too lazy to do any farming and it was good that I’d offed them by the dozens so that they wouldn’t make trouble for those that did.
That gave me pause, fallout takes place in an irradiated wasteland where folks struggle to survive but this mod was specifically about rebuilding infrastructure like farms and ensuring people had enough to get by. Lack of resources to go around was a specific justification for why raiders existed in the first place, but as the setting became more arable the mod-author had to create an excuse why the bandit’s didn’t give up their violent ways and start a nice little coop, settling on them being inherently lazy , dumb, and psychopathic.
This is exactly how d&d has historically painted most of its “monstrous humanoid” enemies. Because the game is ostensibly about combat the authors need to give you reasons why a peaceful solution is impossible, why the orcs, goblins, gnolls (and yes, bandits), can’t just integrate with the local town or find a nice stretch of wilderness to build their own settlement on and manage in accordance with their needs. They go so far in this justification that they end up (accidently or not) recreating a lot of IRL arguments for persecution and genocide.
Bandits are interesting because much like cultists, it’s a descriptor that’s used to unperson groups of characters who would traditionally be inside the “not ontologically evil” bubble that’s applied to d&d’s protagonists. Break the law or worship the wrong god says d&d and you’re just as worth killing as the mindless minions of darkness, your only purpose to serve as a target of the protagonist’s righteous violence.
The way we get around this self-justification pitfall and get back to our cool fantasy action game is to relentlessly question authority, not only inside the game but the authors too. We have to interrogate anyone who'd show us evil and direct our outrage a certain way because if we don't we end up with crusades, pogroms, and Qanon.
With that ethical pill out of the way, I thought I’d dive into a listing of different historical groups that we might call “Bandits” at one time or another and what worldbuilding conceits their existence necessitates.
Brigands: By and large the most common sort of “bandit” you’re going to see are former soldiers left over from wars, often with a social gap between them and the people they’re raiding that prevents reintegration ( IE: They’re from a foreign land and can’t speak the local tongue, their side lost and now they’re considered outlaws, they’re mercenaries who have been stiffed on their contract). Justifying why brigands are out brigading is as easy as asking yourself “What were the most recent conflicts in this region and who was fighting them?”. There’s also something to say about how a life of trauma and violence can be hard to leave even after the battle is over, which is why you historically tend to see lots of gangs and paramilitary groups pop up in the wake of conflict.
Raiders: fundamentally the thing that has caused cultures to raid eachother since the dawn of time is sacristy. When the threat of starvation looms it’s far easier to justify potentially throwing your life away if it means securing enough food to last you and those close to you through the next year/season/day. Raider cultures develop in biomes that don’t support steady agriculture, or in times where famine, war, climate change, or disease make the harvests unreliable. They tend to target neighboring cultures that DO have reliable harvests which is why you frequently see raiders emerging from “the barbaric frontier” to raid “civilization” that just so happens to occupy the space of a reliably fertile river valley. When thinking about including raiders in your story, consider what environmental forces have caused this most recent and previous raids, as well as consider how frequent raiding has shaped the targeted society. Frequent attacks by raiders is how we get walled palaces and warrior classes after all, so this shit is important.
Slavers: Just like raiding, most cultures have engaged in slavery at one point or another, which is a matter I get into here. While raiders taking captives is not uncommon, actively attacking people for slaves is something that starts occurring once you have a built up slave market, necessitating the existence of at least one or more hierarchical societies that need more disposable workers than then their lower class is capable of providing. The roman legion and its constant campaigns was the apparatus by which the imperium fed its insatiable need for cheap slave labor. Subsistence raiders generally don’t take slaves en masse unless they know somewhere to sell them, because if you’re having trouble feeding your own people you’re not going to capture more ( this is what d&d gets wrong about monstrous humanoids most of the time).
Tax Farmers: special mention to this underused classic, where gangs of toughs would bid to see who could collect money for government officials, and then proceed to ransack the realm looking to squeeze as much money out of the people as possible. This tends to happen in areas where the state apparatus is stretched too thin or is too lighthanded to have established enduring means of funding. Tax farmers are a great one-two punch for campaigns where you want your party to be set up against a corrupt authority: our heroes defeat the marauding bandits and then oh-no, turns out they were not only sanctioned by the government but backed by an influential political figure who you’ve just punched in the coinpurse. If tax farming exists it means the government is strong enough to need a yearly budget but not so established (at least in the local region) that it’s developed a reliably peaceful method of maintaining it.
Robber Baron: Though the term is now synonymous with ruthless industrialists, it originated from the practice of shortmidned petty gentry (barons and knights and counts and the like) going out to extort and even rob THEIR OWN LANDS out of a desire for personal enrichment/boredom. Schemes can range from using their troops to shake down those who pass through their domain to outright murdering their own peasants for sport because you haven’t gotten to fight in a war for a while. Just as any greed or violence minded noble can be a robber baron so it doesn’t take that much of a storytelling leap but I encourage you to channel all your landlord hate into this one.
Rebels: More than just simple outlaws, rebels have a particular cause they’re a part of (just or otherwise) that puts them at odds with the reigning authority. They could violently support a disfavoured political faction, be acting out against a law they think is unjust, or hoping to break away from the authority entirely. Though attacks against those figures of authority are to be expected, it’s all too common for rebels to go onto praying on common folk for the sake of the cause. To make a group of rebels worth having in your campaign pinpoint an issue that two groups of people with their own distinct interests could disagree on, and then ratchet up the tension. Rebels have to be able to beleive in a cause, so they have to have an argument that supports them.
Remnants: Like a hybrid of brigands, rebels, and taxfarmers, Remnants represent a previously legitimate system of authority that has since been replaced but not yet fully disappeared. This can happen either because the local authority has been replaced by something new (feudal nobles left out after a monarchy toppling revolution) or because it has faded entirely ( Colonial forces of an empire left to their own devices after the empire collapses). Remnants often sat at the top of social structures that had endured for generations and so still hold onto the ghost of power ( and the violence it can command) and the traditions that support it. Think about big changes that have happened in your world of late, are the remnants looking to overturn it? Win new privilege for themselves? Go overlooked by their new overlords?
Art
#monsters reimagined#bandits#dnd#dungeons and dragons#d&d#ttprg#pathfinder#heavy topics#monsters reimagined
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Love in the Time of Cordyceps
pairing: joel miller x f!reader
summary: when the world ends, you promise you'll never love again. joel miller makes that rule hard to stick to
words: 7.1k
warnings: mentions of gore (pretty tame but still), swearing, sickness, angst, fluff, two dummies not realizing they love each other until one of them almost dies 🙄
a/n: this was supposed to be more angsty but then i remembered life is hard enough already. and i just want soft joel soooo here we are. also i meant to write 2k at most but boy do i love to ramble
read on ao3!
After the world goes to hell, you promise yourself you’ll never love again. A person, an animal, a place, nothing. Only a fool would choose to make themselves that vulnerable, needing every fiber of your being one hundred percent devoted to your survival and nothing more.
Was a life without love worth living? Every time that question enters your mind, you swat it aside. It’s like a nagging fly that buzzes around you until your persistence finally drives it away completely. Of course you could live without love. You’d been doing it just fine these past fifteen years.
Living without attachment proves useful in the new world you find yourself in. It makes the countless people you lose along the way easier to move on from. In the early days, your heart still twinges as the people around you drop like flies. Most fall victim to the bites of clickers, some to raiders’ gun, a few by their own hand.
The first group you had travel with is filled with Midwesterners who see the terrors of the new world and still somehow have a smile and a joke for you. Their joviality can’t save them, though. Clickers swarm you one rainy night two years after the fall of civilization. The sight of Gail, a woman who reminds you of your grandmother, having her stomach ripped out by an especially voracious clicker cures you of your need for any connections to the living.
Over the years, you make your way to the East Coast. Smiles, defiant in the face of adversity are replaced by permanent grimaces etched into the faces of everyone you meet. It seems as though every survivor has lost the ability for happiness of any kind. Good, you think, they’re finally learning. You wonder what took them so long.
Tales of peace the Canadian wilderness has to offer reaches your ears. In your heart you know it is most likely a tall tale spread by desperate survivors. But the good thing about a zombie apocalypse is you now have nothing but time on your hands. Working your way north, if all goes well, you’ll reach Saint John by May, continue to Port Elgin and then decide if you’d try for Prince Edward Island or turn east to Nova Scotia.
Plans are made to be broken, though, and yours, along with your ankle, break clean through one day as you make your way through Boston. It would have been over for you if not for the two survivors that find you nursing your injury in a department store that will most likely be swarming with clickers by nightfall.
The woman, after she puts her gun away, introduces herself as Tess. The man doesn’t offer his name, preferring to keep the barrel of his shotgun pointed at you. As they argue quietly over what to do with you, you observe their faces. Both are etched hard with years of loss and worry. Even harder than your joyless face. It’s impressive albeit in a sad kind of way.
Tess had somehow persuades the man to help you back to the Boston QZ. Joel. You hear her call him Joel. “Fine,” he had grumbles as he places your arm over his shoulder for support, “but if she scans red, I will not hesitate to put her down.” Oddly enough his threat somehow makes you almost like him. You sense a kindred spirit. Another follower of the “no love, no attachment” way of life.
You do not, in fact, scan red and are allowed to enter the QZ. An apartment is assigned to you, a crappy little studio with faded lime green paint. The old you would have adored it, called it quirky and planned out how best to decorate it with your meager funds. The new you just appreciates a safe place to sleep.
After your ankle heals, Tess invites you to join her smuggling scheme. Thoughts of Canada flee your mind for the time-being and you gladly welcome something to keep yourself occupied.
“But what about the cowboy?” you ask.
“Joel? What about him?”
Your eyebrows arch, “He threatened to shoot me.”
“Only if you were infected. Just don’t get infected.” She says it like you’re discussing the weather.
Joel allows you into the group begrudgingly, probably because he thinks they can use you as bait or a distraction if needed. Fine. Let them label you bait. You’ve been called worse before.
The first few months working together are tense. Joel reprimands you for the smallest mistakes and warns Tess you’ll get them all killed. At first, you bite your tongue, reminding yourself of the part he had in saving you. But one night after he scolds you for the millionth time about not checking your blind spots for clickers, you snap. “Fuck off, Joel! I survived the clickers for fifteen years. I think I know what I’m fucking doing!.”
He holds up his hands in surrender, wandering off with a hurt pout like he wasn’t the one who was just being the asshole. You wonder why your victory leaves you feeling hollow.
After that, Joel keeps his mouth shut around you. No nagging, no “helpful” tips. Just the bare minimum of whatever he needs to convey. You’ll never admit that it hurts. You don’t have to, though. Tess, at the end of her rope, explodes one night as the three of you eat dinner in awkward silence. “Couple of fuckin’ babies I’m working with,” she seethes. “If you don’t grow up I’m finding a new crew.”
It’s decided that you and Joel will do the next supply run to Bill’s. Alone. No Tess there to act as buffer between you and him. Joel grunts at that but doesn’t argue, always deferring to your leader. The trip to Bill’s goes as well as you can ask. There are no arguments between the two of you at least. You’re sure you even see Joel crack a smile. Of course it’s when you clumsily tripped over a raised tree root…But hey, progress is progress.
With the supplies in tow and Frank’s compound behind you, you actually think this trip might be a success. A gang of raiders lying in wait to sabotage you dashes your hopes of that. They had seen the two of you lugging your supplies and thought it would be an easy win. At first, they are correct. They outnumber you and Joel in size and wickedness. The four of them aren’t content to kill you outright. They tie you up and discuss what to do with you next.
Of course their attention quickly falls on you. The man with an ugly gash across his face leers at you. “Maybe we should keep her around awhile. She looks like fun.” Try as you might to act tough, that sends the blood rushing through your ears.
You almost don’t hear Joel snarl at them. “You lay one finger on her and it’ll be the last thing you ever do.” The venom in his voice snaps you back to reality. While their attention is on him, you discreetly start ripping at your bonds with the little pocket knife you thankfully decided to stow in your back pocket.
They beat Joel senseless by the time you get free. You honestly think you’re too late as you stab the goon nearest to you in the thigh, by some miracle hitting his femoral artery. The others turn to you, blindsided as you go wild at the sight of your bloodied and broken companion. Gash-Face comes roaring at you, all brawn no brains. The look of surprise as you lodge the knife in his neck makes you smile with sickening glee.
The remaining two corner you, murder in their eyes. Your gun is just beyond them, taunting you to come retrieve it. The only “weapon” you have is the belt you’re wearing, it’s clasp heavy and silver. You undo it and swing it at the nearest man. He grabs it, cackling victoriously as he uses it to pull you closer. In their grasp, you become the target of their blows. You curl into the fetal position, angry that after all the near death experiences you’ve had, this will be the way you go out.
A shot rings out, then another. Two thuds on the ground next to you make you open your already swollen eyes. As you look up, you realize your savior is Joel. Back from the dead. His face is covered in blood, like some kind of ghoul. But in that moment, you have never seen someone look more like an angel. The two of you limp back to the QZ where Tess nurses you as she simultaneously curses the deceased thugs.
Joel corners you in the bathroom the next day as you study your bruised face. “You could have run,” he hisses at you, making you jump. You don’t know what he wants so you just shrug. He invades your space, making you back against the counter. “Why didn’t you run?” His voice has gone low, anger simmering just beneath the surface.
Faces inches from each other, all you can muster is a weak, “We’re a team. I wasn’t going to leave you.”
Several emotions flicker across his face in quick succession. Anger, fear, worry and something you can’t quite put your finger on. Pride? Maybe that was you projecting but you hope you were right. Joel studies you for a moment longer, then reiterates, “Next time, you run.”
******
After that, things change. Joel is still a man of few words but the ones he does grace you with are softer and more intentional. Instead of berating you for the knowledge and skills you lack, he takes them time to teach you. He shows you how to identify fake ration cards and to spot the kind of guard you can bribe. Nights are spent with you following behind him like a shadow as he shows you all the secret ways in and out of the QZ. When your hands shake during target practice, he places his calloused ones over yours. It steadies your hands but frays your nerves, threatening to awake a feeling long thought dormant.
It goes both ways. Joel lacks attention to detail in certain situations and you show him how to read people and ascertain their flaws that can be exploited. During your runs you point out the flora that can be consumed safely or used as medicine. At Flynn’s, the only bar in the QZ, you teach him how to play pool. An essential to survival? No. But it sure helps you win a huge stash of ration cards from your fellows survivors. It also gives you an excuse to sidle up behind him and mold your body around his, all in the name of helping him get the “proper pool stance.”
Your excuses to fleetingly touch one another became more and more common. They are all perfectly innocent but carry the weight of something elicit, at least to you. Joel is never one to give away his innermost thoughts, happy to wear a permanent poker face. For all you know he couldn’t care less about you. Maybe he just knows keeping you alive is good for business and that’s why he takes a particular interest in making sure you’re safe. Whatever the reason, you hope he never stops.
******
During one supply run, a torrential thunderstorm forces you to spend the night at Bill and Frank’s. You know it makes Joel nervous to be indebted to anyone for such hospitality but you can’t hide your glee. A night there means a cozy bed and a hot shower, something hard to find in your home where the water runs tepid at best.
Afterwards spending way too long in the bathroom, you curl up in your bed, toasty and content, only to find sleep won’t not come. Your hosts are dear to you, even the grumpy Bill, but their snoring through the wall you share makes hopes for a deep sleep impossible.
After an hour of tossing and turning, you decide to go make your bed on the couch. As you tiptoe down the stairs you run into Joel, on his way up . “Going somewhere?” he drawls, exhaustion making his voice deeper than usual. You shrug, “Couldn’t sleep. There are two buzzsaws in the room next door.”
Joel chuckles, “I’ve had that room before. Can’t say it was the best night of sleep I’ve ever had.” You lived for these little snippets into Joel’s life before you came around, always eager to hear more. But the trek to the house through never-ending sleet and over the turbulent river left you more tired than you had felt in years. Right now all you want is to get where you could pass out immediately. “I’m just gonna make camp on the couch,” you say, stifling a yawn.
Joel shakes his head. “You take my room. The couch is good enough for me.” This man. Hadn’t anyone told him chivalry is dead. You sigh tiredly and beckon for him to come back up the stairs with you. “It’s a big bed. We can share.” There is silence behind you where there should have been footsteps. Joel’s smile disappears as his forehead creases in thought. “Please,” you pout, “I can’t sleep in my room and I won’t get any rest knowing you’re crammed on that dainty little loveseat.”
It takes far more coaxing than it should but finally Joel gives you a little nod and follows you into his - your - room. You gesture to the bed, “Care which side you get?” Joel thinks, then shrugs. “Left is good.” You flop onto the right side, eyes immediately drooping shut. Once again, there is no movement from your companion. Without opening your eyes, you chide him, “If you’re gonna be weird and watch me sleep all night then you can go sleep on the couch.” That got him moving again.
The sound of the shower turning on lulls you to a sleep that is disturbed only when you feel the dip of the bed several minutes later. You watch through barely opened eyes as Joel does a strange shimmy under the covers. It’s clear he’s trying his best not to wake you. The sight makes you laugh softly and his head whips to you.
“Thought you were asleep,” he murmurs.
You hum, “I was. You woke me up.”
It’s meant to be a joke but Joel grimaces. “Sorry.”
The sight is sweet and your heart flips, his frown making him look almost boyish. “It’s ok. It’s your bed.”
As you burrow into your cocoon of blankets, Joel props himself up, a pillow behind his back. He looks from you to the bedside lamp and back again. “You mind if I read for a few minutes?”
That surprises you. In all your time together you had rarely seen Joel do something just for the pleasure of it. There was usually no time. But Bill and Frank’s is a sanctuary and even the hyper-vigilant Joel Miller is able to slow down here. You nod enthusiastically, perking up. “What are you reading?”
It’s like you had asked him what his darkest secret was. He reddens, then finally grabs a book from the table. Pride and Prejudice. He stammers, “It’s just…I never had a lot of time for reading before and this was a favorite of…it was a favorite of somebody I knew.”
“You can read out loud to me if you want,” you offer with a grin. Honestly it was half in jest and half a serious hope. It had been decades since anyone had read aloud to you. Joel, always thinking you were making some sort of fun of him, smirks sarcastically. “Not a chance.”
Your glower slowly melts away at the sight of him putting on his reading glasses and settling in. Silently you curse as you feel your hardened heart crack just the tiniest bit. Idiot that you are, you try to talk yourself out of your own feelings. You aren’t attached to Joel. How could you be? He’s just a handsome, rugged man who keeps you safe and reads Jane Austen in his spare time. Maybe some lesser fool would fall for him but not you. No, sir.
The next morning, you find yourself curled into him, chest pressed against his back and arm draped over his side. Like a bomb diffuser, you carefully try to extricate yourself from the position, every movement slow and precise. Joel, still asleep, lazily grabs your hand, keeping your arm around him. He sighs contentedly as you settle back down and you swear under your breath, nestling your head at the crook of his neck. You are so that lesser fool.
******
The thunderstorms of summer give way to the pleasant days of autumn. Those good days don’t seem to last long enough. You should have appreciated them more while they were there but so is the way of being human.
Winter in Boston isn’t fun. Ok that’s an understatement. It makes you long for the soul-sucking, never-ending Midwestern winters you had lived through for most of your life. There is something about being next to the ocean that makes everything feel colder.
The nights are especially hard, the wind seeping through the cracks in the walls of your apartment. No matter how many blankets you tuck around yourself, your body never truly feels warm. Runs to Bill’s or anywhere outside the QZ become less frequent and more difficult. Only those deemed truly necessary are attempted and even then there is always a long discussion beforehand weighing out the pros and cons.
Runs between the months of November and January are too risky and after much debate, it is decided you three would lay low in the relative safety of the QZ. In the meantime, you’d assess your stockpile, make connections over the radio and wait for the spring thaw. With less food smuggled in from the outside, you decide to put your energy into earning ration cards. Even though no one could argue you don’t pull your weight in the group, you often feel like the weak link. Making sure Tess and Joel have a hot meal every night is the least you could do.
Joel had always told you to stay away from sewer work. It paid double what the other jobs did but at a high risk. Besides not being able to wash the stink off for days, the tunnels under the city were treacherous. Many had gone down there only to be blindsided by a stray clicker or jumped by a loner who made their home away from society up above. Some just got lost in the labyrinth, never to be heard from again. Or at least you had been told. You hoped those were just myths.
You and three other desperate souls are sent down to the sewers with the task of clearing the rubble from a recent cave in. A hard day’s work definitely but you were optimistic that you could get it done in a few hours time and be on your way.
The first few hours go well, the biggest pieces of the concrete being cleared easily enough. Your back aches and callouses quickly form on your palms. But still, all of that you can deal with, mollifying yourself with the thought of the stack of ration cards you’ll proudly gift to Joel and Tess.
Maybe if you hadn’t been daydreaming you would have heard the shouts of your fellow volunteers sooner. Finally coming back to reality, you move just in time to avoid another piece of falling rock. You save yourself from being crushed but lose your footing, coming down hard on your shin.
A stream of bright blood instantly trickles from the gash and you swear as you try to keep the tears that spring to your eyes at bay. Wanting to prove yourself, you brush off your group’s insistence that you go get it checked by the doctor. It doesn’t matter if you complete ninety percent of your shift. You still don’t get your payment if you leave early. So you suck it up for another hour, slogging through the muck as you finish the job. It’s fine, you tell yourself, it’s just a scratch. You’ll wash it off when I get home and be good as new.
With the job done and ration cards tucked away in your pocket, you hobble back towards your apartment. The thought of a shower, as lukewarm as it will be, is the only thing keeping you upright. That is until you feel someone putting your arm around their shoulder. Joel helps you the few blocks to your house, his icy silence hurting you more than the cut that now throbs with every jostle.
It’s only after you get inside and are deposited on the couch that Joel speaks. He rolls up the leg of your jeans, cursing as he sees the already festering wound. “I told you to stay out of the sewers.”
You suck in a pained breath as he starts wiping away the dirt. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cut. Besides, it was worth it,” you pull out the stack of ration cards and present them to him proudly. The sight gives him pause. But the look on his face isn’t one of gratitude, it’s worried exasperation. His signature grimace returns, “It’s not worth it if you lose your leg.” And people claim you’re dramatic.
Pushing him away with a shoo, you rise, limping to the bathroom. “I just need a shower. Then I’ll be right as rain.” As you peel off your now ruined clothes, Joel hovers on the other side of the door. “I can hear you pacing,” you call over the sound of the warming shower.
Even through the almost closed door you can hear Joel sigh. “I just think we should take you to the doc. Make sure you’re alright.” The water hitting you makes you audibly moan, the filth on your body washing down the drain and with it, the memory of the hard day. You appreciate the concern but all you want to do know is forget about the day. You call out to a still pacing Joel, “I’m fine. You worry too much!”
******
It turns out Joel worries the right amount. Of course he does. As eager as you are to forget about your day, it’s not long before you can’t ignore your leg. The wound is an angry red and the area around it has swollen, leaving it tender and throbbing. Thankfully you have Joel there to dress it because, honestly, you can’t stomach the sight of it. These past years have been filled with much blood and gore at your own hands. But there’s something different when it’s your own blood.
In any other circumstance you would have reveled in the feeling of Joel holding your leg so tenderly, his fingers brushing against your skin as he wraps the bandage around you. It would have driven you insane seeing him crouched in between your legs as he is now. But at the moment all you can think about is how you much pain you’re in.
You try not to show your discomfort, but your poker face is nonexistent. Joel’s eyes flick up to yours as you slowly exhale, trying to keep calm. Avoidance has always been one of your favorite tactics when dealing with uncomfortable situations so you pipe up, overly perkily, “See? All better. Now about those ration cards, I was thinking for dinner-“
Joel rolls his eyes, standing with a groan, his knees audibly cracking. “The only thing you’re gonna do tonight is rest.”
You slowly turn your body to prop your leg up on a pillow as he watches. Pouting has never worked on Joel but you figure it never hurts to try. “I still have to eat,” you mope.
“You will. I’ll open a can of soup or something.”
The disappointment is real and bubbles to the surface quicker than you realized it would. “I just wanted us all to have a nice dinner. You and Tess do so much and I feel like…” Thinking how you feel is different from saying it out loud and you have to psych yourself up. Joel’s softening gaze helps you continue. “I feel like I’m useless. I just thought this was one thing I could do to really contribute.”
The silence between you feels heavy as you avoid his stare. Finally, he speaks, confusion contorting his features, “Of course you contribute. We wouldn’t have kept you around if you hadn’t.” It’s meant to make you feel better but it doesn’t, especially in your current laid up state.
“So are you going to get rid of me if I’m no longer useful?” you gesture at your leg, feeling your eyes beginning to sting with tears.
Joel sits down next to you. Your fear has made you defiant and you meet his gaze, wanting to fight. But Joel speaks in a soft, level voice, as if teaching a child a lesson. “First of all, you’re going to get better. You just need to be patient. Second, you’re thinking there’s only one kind of way to be useful.”
“I can’t shoot like you two can. I can’t fight. I can’t threaten people into getting what I want. I can go on runs and earn ration cards. That’s it. I’m too soft for anything actually important.”
Joel frowns, “You say that like it’s a bad thing. ‘Being soft’ in a world like this is an act of defiance. It’s brave as hell. What you consider important? I don’t want that for you.”
Warmth spreads through your chest as you observe him. He’s trying so hard to find his next words, to make you believe his truth. “Me and Tess, we let the world harden us more than it needed to. It was easier that way. But having you around reminds us there’s still innocence and good out there.”
The angry tears have turned to ones of gratitude. The sentiment is too much for you, unused to such vulnerability from Joel. You give him a small smile and he returns it, leaning over to wipe a tear off your cheek. “You’re useful just being you.”
While you still wish you matched Joel and Tess’ levels of badassery, the conversation helps ease your mind. You might not think much of your survival skills but you remind yourself that you’ve stayed alive in a world that wants you dead. Fifteen years you’ve been fighting and surviving and that’s nothing to look down on.
“And for what it’s worth, “ he adds, “you scared the hell out of me the first time we met.”
You grin at him, shocked, “Really?”
He nods, smirking cheekily, “Really. Still do sometimes.”
******
Joel heats up a can of tomato soup for you to share. You try not to think of how old it must be as he prepares it. But actually, it’s not bad, the taste reminding you of your childhood.
It also helps that you’re sharing it with someone you care about. A part of you hates that how easily you’ve let him into your heart. The one thing you swore off all those years ago is now all you can think about as you watch him sitting across from you, ladling out the steaming liquid.
He catches you staring and breaks the silence, “Were you even going to tell me you got hurt today if I hadn’t run into you.” The fuzziness of your feelings for him makes your brain a little mushy and instead of having a grownup conversation, you reply with a childish, “No, I thought I’d let it be a soup-rise.”
Joel rolls his eyes in mock annoyance. You chuckle and continue eating your rapidly cooling dinner. You sober up a bit and add, “The extra ration cards will be good, though. Right?”
He nods, “Yeah. I think it’s soup-er.” His eyes flick up to yours as they crinkle, the only sign that he finds himself amusing.
After dinner, Joel excuses himself to go work his overnight shift. When he leaves and you’re left along, the throbbing in your leg returns with a vengeance along with a mild fever. Your usually chilly apartment now feels stuffy and you have to remove all of your layers except your t-shirt to be even somewhat comfortable.
Worry creeps in as you sit there, alone and increasingly unwell. You long for the company of Joel or Tess, anyone to reassure you that you’re fine. But you’re alone and the dark thoughts creep in, whispering in your ear that whatever is brewing is not good. Unsure of what else to do, you slip in to bed, hoping that whatever this is will be better by morning.
******
You don’t wake for two days. Or at least, you have no real memory of the past 48 hours. Later, when the worst is over, Joel will tell you the details of that lapse in your memory. He’ll recount how you faded in and out of consciousness, sometimes submitting to your fever for so long that he wasn’t sure you were coming back. His voice will waver as he remembers how bad it got and how fragile you looked…
But for now, he stays by your side, foregoing his own health to make sure you stay alive. The first thing you remember is waking up to the sounds of Joel and Tess arguing in hushed tones.
“We need to get her to a doctor. Now.” Joel’s voice sounds strained, like he’s trying desperately not to lose it.
Tess still maintains her signature composure. “We can’t, Joel. It’s too late for that.”
Joel must make some kind of face because Tess sighs and re-words. “It’s too late to take her in because if we bring her to the hospital all they’ll focus on is her fever. They’ve put people down for way less. You know that.”
In your addled state, you wonder who they’re talking about. Your throat hurts to much to speak up though and ask.
“The doc will give us the meds. We’ve bribed him before.”
Tess shakes her head, “Antibiotics are on lockdown. Shipments have been delayed because of the weather. No one gets any without FEDRA knowing. Breaking in guarantees we get caught. We’re no good to her dead. ”
Joel scoffs, “So what do you suggest we do?”
“She rides it out.”
“She’s been ‘riding it out’ for two days. Look at her,” Joel’s voice gets closer as he peers down at you, “she’s fighting but she’s losing.”
Oh. Fever may have taken hold of you, making your brain fuzzy and concentration near impossible, but you understand now that you are the subject of their argument. For Joel to sound so forlorn you must look bad.
If you’re dead soon, you want to let them know to leave it and just let you slip away. Your well-being means nothing if it puts them in unnecessary danger. Rule be damned, they’re your family now and you care about them. If you’re being honest, you’ve cared about them since you met them. It breaks your heart thinking you won’t be able to tell them that now. It nearly kills you right then and there to know you won’t get the chance to tell Joel you love him…
Opening your mouth to articulate all of that takes great effort and when you do try and speak, all that comes out is a strangled groan. The two rush over, Tess sitting down beside you. She takes your hand, an uncharacteristic show of tenderness. Yep, you’re dying.
“You’re ok, kid,” she whispers, “you just have to hang in there.” It would be easy to ignore reality and blindly trust her. But you’ve always been stubborn and so you shake your head and continue trying to speak. Again, nothing comes out but garbled nonsense as you writhe around trying to make your limbs do what your brain wants.
You must look a sight because Joel lets his anger overflow. “Maybe you can sit here and watch her die, but I can’t.”Heavy footsteps and Tess yelling are all that you can focus on as you fade back into oblivion.
******
Living is hard and unconsciousness is addicting. Peaceful and cozy are feelings you can scarcely remember having. It would be easy to stay in that enveloping darkness but the feeling of the back of someone’s hand on your clammy forehead pulls you back to the realm of the living. You grumble weakly as you’re made to come to.
Everything is painful. Stabbing jolts of electricity radiate up your leg from the cut. Your chest is tight, making breathing troublesome and your eyes can barely stand the dim, watery sun coming through the shades of the window. Someone places a damp cloth on your forehead to keep the fever at bay. Still out of it, you try and swat it away.
A gentle hand grabs yours, shushing you. “It’s alright. It’s only me.”
Joel. Maybe you have died and this is heaven. The man you love by your side, nursing you so tenderly. It’s more than you could have ever hoped for. This might be the afterlife believers talk about if only you weren’t in so much pain. The neurons in your brain begin firing more rapidly as your fever dies down. They remind you that you and Joel aren’t lovers. Your cowardice, disguised as intelligence, has kept you from telling him how you feel.
“What’s happening?” Your voice comes out croaky and soft but at least it’s intelligible. The bed dips as Joel moves closer to you. As you peer up through barely opened eyelids you can see him leaning over you. His tired eyes look down at you as he caresses your hair.
“You got real sick, honey. That cut you got festered and turned into a fever. We thought we were gonna lose you.” The slight falter in his voice makes your already tight chest contract.
“How long was I out?”
“Three days. We got you some meds, though. You’re gonna be ok.” He says it firmly, which does some good in easing your worry.
Trying to open your eyes a bit more you continue your questioning, “Where did you get the antibiotics from?”
Joel hesitates, “Bill and Frank had some.”
You try and sit up, angry that he made that trip and put himself in danger. Even now, you can see the snow whipping around outside your window. Knowing he made the trek there and back through that storm makes you curse. Joel tuts and puts a gentle hand to your chest, keeping you down and resting.
“It’s done. No use getting angry about it now.”
You glare up at him even though you’re really just upset with yourself. “Why would you do something so stupid?”
His smiles peacefully down at you, exhausted but eyes bright. “We’re a team, remember?”
It’s too much for you to handle. You cover your face just in time to hide the angry, relieved and grateful tears that spring to your eyes. Silent sobs wrack your frame, making you seize with pain.
Joel pulls you into him, shushing you as he resumes stroking your hair. You hide your face in his side, trying to regain your composure. Crying shouldn’t be something you feel the need to earn. But you’re all sorts of broken, so you take this rare opportunity to not judge yourself and weep with abandon. You almost died, for Christ’s sake. Surely that warrants some show of emotion.
After a few minutes, the tears stop and your breathing calms. Peeking up, you see Joel has his eyes closed. His face is the most serene you’ve seen it in ages, most of the worry lines softened. There’s still a few that refuse to relax, though. The crease in between his eyebrows remains stubbornly indented. You gaze up at him as he continues to run soothing patterns along your back.
Feeling the weight of your stare, he opens his eyes. Coward that you are, you glance away. “Thank you,”is all you can mumble out as he gazes at you. After a moment, you add a shy, “I would do the same for you. You know that, right?”
Joel pulls you gently into him, almost to remind himself you’re still here with him and that the danger has passed. He nuzzles into your hair, murmuring an affectionate“I know, honey. I know.”
******
After a few more hours and another dose of antibiotics, you begin to feel more like yourself. Joel still won’t let you get out of bed yet, except for a trip to the bathroom for a quick shower. Even though you’ve been dead to the world for much of your ordeal, you’re quickly getting bored with bed rest. But you’ve learned long ago that resistance is futile with Joel. So you shower like a good patient, scowling as the water hits your scabbing cut.
Once you finish, Joel hops in and washes the grime and worry of the past three days off. As you settle back in bed, you can hear him singing softly to himself. Through the patter of the water you can hear his soft rendition of Fleetwood Mac’s Songbird. It’s one of your favorites, too, and you hum along as you settle back into your pillow.
After a few minutes, sleep still won’t come. You toss and turn as Joel finishes getting ready for bed. He comes in to find you still awake. “I thought I told you to get some sleep.” He says it like a loving mother gently scolding their rebellious child.
You flail as you try and get comfortable. You shoot back a moody, “But I’m just not tired.” Joel chuckles as he sits down into the arm chair next to your bed. He smooths back his wet hair and gives you a faux stern look. “Your body’s been through a lot. You need rest.”
“What are you doing?” you ask.
Joel looks confused, wondering what he did wrong. “Sorry I just thought I’d sleep here tonight in case you need anything. I can leave, though.”
“No!” you yell out, completely abandoning any hope of looking cool. You give him an apologetic smile, “I want you to stay but you’re not sleeping in that chair one more night.”
Joel glances to the spot on the bed beside you, then looks to you for confirmation. He sighs, a smile playing at his lips. “If I stay will you promise to go to sleep?”
You nod very seriously. “Of course.”
Joel grins, knowing you too well to believe you. “Liar,” he chuckles but still gets up and makes his way to the other side of the bed. You pull back the blankets so can get in, then cover him up. Settling on your side, you watch as he suddenly looks lost, unsure of what to do now. It’s cute, this powerful man rendered helpless by something as innocuous as sharing a bed.
You can’t help but laugh at him and he looks down at you, eyes wide. Taking pity on him, you make a suggestion. “If you’re not tired you could read to me.” Joel opens his mouth to refuse but you blurt out a quick, “I did almost die, you know.” He glares at you but his lip quirks up. He grabs the book from the other room then flops back down in bed, opening to a spot in the middle.
Frowning, you reach out to touch Joel’s arm. “Do you mind starting from the beginning?” He rolls his eyes but flips back to the first page. You grin triumphantly as you settle into his side. Joel places his arm around your shoulder as he begins to read. “It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife…”
His southern drawl mixed with the Romantic Era style of writing makes for an amusing but pleasant combination. After a few chapters, your eyes get heavy and Joel feels you nodding off against him. Jane has just been invited to Netherfield Park but even that can’t keep you awake. Joel puts the bookmark in to save your spot and places the novel on your bedside table.
You grumble in weak protest as he tucks you in and turns off the light. “We can keep reading tomorrow. But right now you’re going to sleep.” Joel lies down beside you and with the pale light of the moon through your curtains you can see him studying you. He caresses your face and you close your eyes, delighting in the sensation.
“Don’t ever scare me like that again,” he whispers.
You force your eyes open, needing him to see the truth of it when you pledge a soft,“I won’t. I mean it.”
Joel nods gratefully and you reach out for him. He slides into your arms and you rest your chin on the top of his head. He’s watched over you for long enough. It’s your turn to take care of him and reassure him that, in this moment, you both are safe.
For most, an outright admission of affection is needed to understand how you feel about the other person. But you and Joel are cut from the same cloth, stubborn and slow to reveal your feelings. In this world, for people like you, ’I love yous’ are rare and replaced with actions and deeds.
You realize that even though you've never told Joel that you love him, you’ve shown it. Joel has been showing you all this time too and you were just too dull to realize it. While you know you’ll long to say the words to him soon, for now it’s enough to have him in your arms.
Joel’s breathing deepens and you feel him completely give himself over to sleep. Looking at his face bathed in the moonlight he looks like a new man. His edges soften and his vulnerability brims to the surface. It tugs at your heart and you understand how rare of a sight this is for Joel to allow anyone to see.
Smiling sleepily, you close your eyes and nestle into him. This feeling coursing through you is something foreign but familiar, an old friend you thought you had said your final goodbye to long ago. The love you have for Joel will leave you vulnerable. But it’s a price you’re willing to pay a thousand times over.
******
#im on a mission to make joel as soft as possible lol#joel miller x reader#joel miller x you#joel miller fanfiction#tlou#tlou hbo#pedro pascal#allie writes
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"In Scorching Waters" is an +18 interactive fiction fantasy story, featuring adventure, magic, and romance.
Demo coming soon. Inbox open for questions! (Minors, please DNI)
You are a deserter. You want nothing to do with the Kingdom and its army, with battle magic, or with the past life you’ve buried. That is, until one day you return home to find an old friend waiting for you by your doorstep, with a proposition that will have you putting your old skills to use in exchange for valuable information on your long-lost family.
After being taken from your family at a young age, you spent many years of your life honing your magic skills for combat and then serving in the army of the Kingdom of Keth. For a long time during the current war efforts against the Kingdom of Ashara, you had served your nation loyally – willingly or not –, until something made you turn your back on it.
It’s been four years since you started living a quiet, discrete life on an island far away from Keth’s influence. That is, until you return home one day to find Al, an old friend from the army, waiting for you by your doorstep, with a proposition that will have you putting your old skills to use in exchange for valuable information on your family.
The situation, as it stands: Al’s uncle, an important political figure in Keth, has been captured by a group who now hold the power to destroy their family’s political standing within the Kingdom – and that would be a best-case scenario. With negotiations for his release falling apart, Al has gathered a team of people who all depend on and/or would benefit from their family maintaining political power, and is planning to sail across the seas to release said uncle from captivity. They are asking you to join this quest, and in exchange, they promise you nothing short of your greatest wish: information on the family you were torn away from more than a decade ago.
Join in on a rescue mission that will have you sailing through dangerous seas, with mostly strangers for company.
Boost team morale and learn to work as a unit to survive the dangers of the journey, or face the consequences.
Face magically-induced weather events, mystical beasts, human criminals, and more.
Restore your years-long friendship with an old army companion, or push them even further away.
Pursue romance with someone from your new team (with two someones, perhaps), or have a fling with one of the crewmates.
And most importantly: make sure the mission succeeds and you survive to get the information that made you tag along on this journey in the first place.
Play as a man, woman, or non-binary person. Pick your character’s name, gender, pronouns, appearance, and sexual orientation.
Decide your combat magic specialization: play as an Elementalist, balancing the duality of fire and ice to unleash both frost and infernos on your enemies; a Countermage, proficient in shielding and warding yourself and your allies, and in negating magical effects; or an Electromancer, an expert in manipulating charges, currents, and electricity to wield lightning with your bare hands.
Choose how to approach your new companions: be cold, be rude, keep a professional distance, create new friendships, or perhaps do some flirting.
Different romances available: a friend from your old life, whom you estranged after disappearing without saying goodbye; a scholar turned outlaw, disenchanted and hardened after his fall from grace; or a sweet nomad, who despite spending most of their time alone in the wilderness, is the most excited one about the current company. (possible additions in the future)
Al, the Old Friend (Alistair/Alissa) – M/F, he/him or she/her. RO.
Dark brown skin. Coiled black hair, oval-shaped face. Alistair has a short, well-kept beard. Round dark brown eyes, straight eyebrows, long eyelashes, and a button nose. And the perfect posture of someone who has spent all their life training on how to present themselves in front of the masses. Alistair: 5’9, Alissa: 5’6.
Al comes from a prestigious family with a long, respected political history in the Kingdom of Keth, and they have spent their entire lives preparing for an eventual future in politics like the rest of their family. Al was one of the first people you met when you left the academy to join the mage army, and the two of you grew very close over the years serving in the same squad. And then you fled from the Kingdom without saying goodbye.
Possible variations: 1. close friends; 2. close friends and MC was in love with Al; 3. close friends in love, but neither tried to cross the final line. (Note: this choice won’t lock you out of romancing other characters/lock you into romancing Al.)
Kaden, the Outlaw – M, he/him. RO.
Light beige skin. Slightly rectangular face shape, with a square chin, with a cleft. Hooded, upturned brown eyes, with dark upward eyebrows. Starting to develop soft frown lines between the eyes due to constant frowning (both out of annoyance and due to his mild nearsightedness). Shoulder-length, straight black hair, kept partially tied back. 5’11.
Kaden was once a brilliant historian and archaeologist, but he stepped on too many powerful toes in his attempts to disseminate his research. His dismissal from the field, academia, and eventually from the Kingdom’s capital was as quiet and surreptitious as the removal of his publications from bookshelves.
His reason for joining in on this dangerous quest isn’t clear, but it certainly isn’t out of affection or respect for Al.
Castis/Catalina, the Nomad – M/F, he/him or she/her. RO.
Light, tanned skin. Heart-shaped face, with a pointy chin. Almond-shaped green eyes, thick rounded eyebrows, and a straight nose. Freckles all over the face and shoulders. Wavy, light brown hair that reaches a little below the shoulders. Castis: 5’10, Catalina: 5’9.
C is a sweet, approachable person, eager to socialize with anyone who gives them the chance to; it is both odd and impressive that someone who spends all their time alone in the wilderness can have such people skills. Despite being on a quest that may very well send them to their death in waters far away from the woods they are used to, they are very enthusiastic about the adventure to come.
This story is rated +18. It will feature strong language, violence, and (optional) sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.
Once the demo is out (and as it gets updated over time), I'll also be updating the content warnings, which will include a list of potentially sensitive topics.
#interactive fiction#choicescript#if wip#interactive novel#if#dashingdon#in scorching waters if#tales of osinia#tales of osinia: in scorching waters
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In the poly post you said that ithaqua is as close as it get to a yandere may I ask why you think that ? Or any headcanons related to that if that's okay with you (sorry if the English is bad )
As luck would have it, Ithaqua is one of the few Hunters I think I have a decent grasp on rn so I was also able to crank this out quickly! (To my other request-ees: I'm working on HC requests for several other characters rn! I should have them ready to spam-post sometime this weekend <3)
So here's some general and sfw relationship hcs for Ithaqua ;)
-A first small note, his exact age is not listed, but he’s described as a “young adult,” so I imagine him to be somewhere between 18-22.
-Ithaqua is a man who has entirely rejected society. He wants nothing more to do with it, with anyone, and any instance of breaching his territory is met with wind-swift punishment.
-It all fits when you consider the major events of his life. He was abandoned in a snowstorm, left for dead, because he was thought to be a devil. He was saved and raised by a “witch,” a kind woman who stood outside of society’s norms and was feared and hated for it. Their solitary home was trespassed on in the night, defiled, and his mother was kidnapped, tortured, and broken by a man with his exact face. Every small bit of comfort he ever had was destroyed by a mirror image of himself that was raised in “civilized” society. If that doesn’t cement the idea that people from that world can’t be given a chance, I don’t know what would.
-And I think on some level he questions the reality of it all. Did he do it? Did he destroy his own life? Was his so-called brother actually a copy of himself? Was Nathaniel supposed to be the better or the worse version? Was he himself evil before…or is he evil now? None of it matters in the long run, though. His only remaining goal in life is to defend his home and his mother’s resting place from interlopers. But he does get this distant, sour expression sometimes when he contemplates these things.
-I think he’s close to an as-is yandere because, if we assume he’s still capable of bonding with someone on a genuine level, that person would be a one true exception to his otherwise all-consuming distrust and hatred for society. He could not be “led to water”, so to speak, even by a partner who exemplified everything good left in the world. He’s just not capable of making that leap anymore.
-So again, he’s territorial, and that would 1000% extend to a partner. He’s not a master and you’re not his pet, but god would he try to keep you in his clutches. Use every sweet word and convincing anecdote in his arsenal to convince you to stay in the forest. The thing that keeps him from being all-out controlling is that his mother let him make his decisions for himself. She taught him how to survive in the wilderness, and she taught him about the rest of society, and she let him decide for himself if he ever wanted to get involved in it. He didn’t of course, because how could a place that shunned his mother be good for him? You deserve to make those choices too, even if he disagrees with what you pick.
-He will, however, watch you like a hawk. To not sugarcoat it, he’ll stalk you. Ithaqua wants to be prepared for the moment everything goes wrong. The moment he knows for certain will come, when you see he’s right about other people. When that happens, he’ll swoop in to save you. He refuses to be late again, like he was for his mother.
-He doesn’t leave the forest unattended often, but when you spend longer stints at your home in a village, you’ll notice the weather gradually becoming worse and worse. It seems to snow every day, and the wind is so harsh that walking outside is deafening and blinding. When you return to visit Ithaqua, the village mysteriously returns to its normal weather patterns.
-Ithaqua hates when other people interact with you. No one is no one is safe enough, trustworthy enough for him to not worry for your safety. They don’t deserve to even stand near you. But he won’t do anything until they do…or you say he can.
-Anyone he takes as a partner would have to remind him of his mother, at least a little. She’s the only example he has of a “good person” so he’s not likely to give people with divergent personality types much of a chance. He’s also more likely to trust a woman over a man, by a small margin.
-He won’t stand for being doted on or babied by anyone other than his mother or partner. he won't fall for other people's faux-gentleness! Don’t you know who he is? What he is? Call him cute or pitiful again and your blood will stain the snow red.
-His lips are always chapped to hell and back, sorry. Sharp kisses only for you.
#idv x reader#identity v x reader#idv night watch#ithaqua x reader#idv ithaqua#turbulentscraw#almost yandere...
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I’m gonna make a list of my fav Lockwood and co fics in the hope that someone will see this list then reblog it and say “wow good choices! You should really check out this fic!”
(PLEASE I NEED FICS) (Warning these are basically all mainly Locklyle fics just letting you know)
(okay obviously we need Policy 8 on this list!)
“Policy 8” written by by: The_Biscuit_Agreement
Ongoing
Plot Summary :
Policy 8 was established in the hope of encouraging the birth of increasingly powerful agents. All agents 18 and over must accept the marriages DEPRAC assigns them. Agents between the ages of 16-18 can volunteer to enter the programme or else be forced into it due to minor illegal behaviour.
Lucy Carlyle volunteered. Anthony Lockwood was forced. In an effort to protect the two teenagers from being turned into pawns in the games of the rich and powerful, Barnes ensures Lucy and Lockwood are married. But just because they aren't stuck as pawns, doesn't mean the teenagers aren't forced into the same dangerous games.
“As London Burns” written by: ScienceFantasy93
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
An AU About locklyle in the middle of world war two with Lockwood fighting as a RAF pilot and with Lucy as a news reporter. (very angsty) (idk what else to say about it tbh… BUT I LOVE THIS FIC!)
“The bones of our past written” by: moon2pluto
Finished (but has a sequel that’s ongoing)
Plot Summary:
Just a few months after the destruction of the bone mirror, the team of Lockwood & Co. has another big case to tackle:
When Lucy gets a letter from her little sister, begging her to come back and help her with a haunting doomed to kill them, she doesn't need long to make a decision, and neither George nor Lockwood are going to let her face this alone. To not get any unwanted attention in her hometown, Lucy and Lockwood agree to take a closer look disguised as a couple while George is busy researching. But when the haunting turns out to run much deeper and wilder than any of them thought, and other players enter the game, one question arises: Will Lockwood & Co. also make it out of this case unscathed?
(This one’s my all time favourite)
“The hidden archive” written by: BrooklynBooks
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
Ghost possession doesn't happen often, but fatality rates are high. Even if an agent does survive, there are the aftereffects to worry about. After surviving a possession, Lucy Carlyle struggles with recovery, delving ever deeper into the memories of Visitors and, in the process, stumbling into the world of blackmarket Sources. Meanwhile, George Karim races to learn the truth behind ghost possession in order to protect Lucy and save future agents. And Anthony Lockwood must face his own past with the London underworld if he wants to save his friends and himself.
“Connections” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement (I’m sorry i’m so obsessed with their fics lol)
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
Lockwood forms a psychic link with a dead young agent and the group try to use it to work out how the agent died with disastrous consequences.
“Crushed” written by: itripandfallalot, Salvoirfaire
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
A bad case and broken leg leave Lucy no choice but to return to Portland Row until she recovers. Lockwood is definitely not using this as an opportunity to persuade her to come back for good, because that would be unfair. And he never plays dirty.
“Because everything is the same until, very suddenly, it isn’t” written by: Netflixcapricorn
Finished
Plot Summary:
What happens when the only way out of this mess is a fake marriage?
(Here’s a warning, extremely angsty)
“Lucy takes the long way home” written by: agents_cxrter
Finished
Plot Summary:
Lucy might have left Lockwood and Co, but she can't get Lockwood out of her system.
(So many annoying emotions in this one like WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS TO ME!!?!)
“This is going to end badly” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
When Fittes Agent Lucy Carlyle is cornered by relic-men alone in the woods, she is rescued by an unlikely source: Anthony Lockwood, run-away and relic-man. When Fittes gets tasked with trying to track the young man down, Lucy finds herself in an interesting position.
“Perfectly Incandescently Happy” written by: OceanSpray5
Finished
Plot Summary:
After the death of her best friend, Ms Lucy Carlyle is given the opportunity to be sponsored for the 1815 London season by Norrie's aunt. Instantly compared to the Diamond due to their astonishingly similar looks, she befriends Lord Lockwood quite unexpectedly yet is left wondering if she was a fool for believing he'd look twice at a mere country girl.
(This fic is literally the cutest thing to exist… if you exclude the angst lollll)
“No One Cares About The Nightwatch” Written by: Nomolosk
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
Lucy Carlyle is a Listener, a failed agent, a runaway, and now works the nightwatch in London. One might think her life a failure from start to last- but Lucy has goals. She will get a grade four certificate, and reapply to all the best agencies, and her life will get immeasurably better.
However, firsthand experience of the treatment most people give the nightwatch, and a chance encounter with Lockwood and Co. have her reevaluating those goals... maybe she can do some good before she moves on...
“The Injury of Finally Knowing You” written by: booknerds_unite
Ongoing
Plot Summary:
Anthony Lockwood, the only surviving male monarch from the Lockwood line, has six months to find a wife or Parliament will make a case to keep him from the throne. Lucy Carlyle has just arrived at the palace to work as a maid and to escape her horrific mother. They were never supposed to meet.
On the night of Lockwood's birthday celebration, their paths cross and nothing will ever be the same.
“What lies between the lines” written by: The_Biscuit_Agreement
Ongoing
Plot Summary
When she arrived in London, Lucy Carlyle took up a job at the British Archives, spending her days determining which love letters, suicide notes and other collected paperwork could one day produce a visitor. It's a taxing job, made easier by king archivists and the presence of young agents doing research nearby. As Lucy becomes close with some of these young agents, she starts to receive love letters herself and finds herself using her under-utilised talents to try to work out who might be behind the notes.
(at this point just go through all of The_Biscuit_Agreement fics tbh… There all perfection)
(okay i’ve read a ton more really good Lockwood and Co fics but i feel lazy now so maybe i’ll post a part two of fic recs later)
#lockwood and co#fic recs#locklyle#lucy carlyle#anthony lockwood#save lockwood and co#lockwood & co#lockwood and lucy#george cubbins#george karim#ao3#part 2 soon?#please give me recs!!#i hope this helps someone
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the root chakra and whether i believe you could survive an apocalypse
the root chakra is telling of our survival instincts and what we need to survive.
1 (the magician): absolutely these people are super resourceful and can definitely figure out how to survive in a post-apocalyptic world.
media representation: mike lowe on alone s2
2 (the high priestess): you saw the end coming but likely want nothing to do with long term living in a world without life and only death. you probably are a prepper though.
3 (the empress): it's pretty unlikely you will live - you are too reliant on others providing for you and likely would miss the convince of the modern world.
4 (the emperor): 100% is going to live - this person saw it coming and was preparing for a long time (mentally, physically, etc). they don't have interest in a commune either or rather they would never be dependent on others to survive - they would probably become a leader in an apocalypse.
media representation: any lead character in a post-apocalyptic movie / tv show
5 (the hierophant): dooms-dayer - 100% percent would pray on those who are scared and convince them that you have minimal ways to survive most of which will involve aiding them. they are the type to dictate to others what they need to be done but won't get their own hands dirty. they have zero issues turning religion into a way of life and claiming that current passages were warning them all along - they definitely would result to implementing scare tactics.
media representation: david in the last of us
6 (the lovers): reliant on others for survival. they aren't likely to last long in that regard but also they are likely prone to depression and would become existentialistic.
7 (the charioteer): their survival depends on whether or not they have survival gear - if they don't have a good baseline, they are likely going to be the first to go. they do make good nomads though so long as they do not depend on motorways too early into the apocalypse.
8 (strength): they start out strong then end up giving up. they can be prone to getting hurt too so it is likely they will succumb to infection - perhaps consider shaping up your first aid and herbal knowledge base.
9 (the hermit): the hermit himself was a man of the wilderness - he disappeared on his own and survived on his own. these people are likely to do the same. very little will impend them they just have to be of the mindset they can do it.
media representation: the tv show alone
10 (wheel of fortune): this is the person who just survives based off of dumb luck sometimes these people have really really bad luck though.
11 (justice): this is a practical individual - who knows how to use their resources. unfortunately, they are rather high maintenance so they might be unhappy in a post-apocalyptic world.
media representation: american horror stories: apocalypse (s8)
12 (the hanged man): nope 100% wouldn't make it - probably would be the one to want to loot and take from stores then get hurt in the process because they aren't aggressive enough.
13 (death): they bounce back all the time, so i wouldn't be surprised if they just keep coming back from almost dying.
media representation: joel in the last of us
14 (temperance): they would be great at moderation/rationing their supplies, but they can experience exposure to the elements that nearly kills them if not kills them.
15 (the devil): nope, they are too dependent on the modern world and likely couldn't adjust to new horrors of an apocalyptic world.
16 (the tower): i mean they are preppers and i can see them being capable and durable, but they are accident prone and can have a horrible death if not careful.
17 (the star): absolutely not - these people are quick to give up and feel hopeless in a post-apocalyptic world. they are also prone to being overly exposed to the elements.
18 (the moon): i feel like they could survive but the question is whether or not they could bear being alone with themselves... being alone makes you face all the shadows of the self. i don't feel that they would do well in a group dynamic as they would clash with the different personalities.
19 (the sun): oop these people dip so hard. they don't care what it takes to survive they simply will.
20 (judgment): simply yes. they are very capable of remaking a life in a world they no longer recognize.
21 (the world): definitely. this is a bad ass placement - they come out on top every single time. they are often the last man standing in a survival situation.
22 (the fool): they lack awareness and it tends to be their downfall. also they take too many risks and in a survival situation, you can't simply "wing it".
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Ooh could you pretty please do Lottie or Misty yandere hcs 🥺😍(adult or teen)
LOTTIE MATTHEWS AND MISTY QUIGLEY YANDERE HEADCANONS (SEPARATE)
warnings: typical yandere behavior, nsfw
A/N: I decided on doing the adults since I feel more comfortable writing them!! but also bare with me because I’m not too good with writing yanderes
LOTTIE MATTHEWS
🕯️Lottie is probably on the kinder side, as far as yanderes go
🕯️if you aren’t already at the compound, she will likely kidnap you under the pretense of “keeping you safe” especially if she thinks you may have plans to harm yourself
🕯️definitely has a few of her trusted followers keep tabs on you throughout the entire day while she’s busy
🕯️ will go through your personal items you gave up just to learn a few things about you to bring up in conversation to draw you to her
🕯️your therapy sessions are almost always private with her, not wanting anyone else to see you in such a vulnerable state
🕯️uses the wilderness as an excuse to get you to do things for her. “the wilderness wants us to make love, to connect in the most intimate way possible, and how could we deny it that”
🕯️extremely possessive, but doesn’t show it, will simply cock an eyebrow while looking between you and the person you’re getting a little too friendly with (planning their sacrifice to the wilderness)
🕯️often likes to assign you to the “guidance” therapy section so she can see you undress to get into the sensory deprivation water tank
🕯️will put maca root in your drinks to “increase your libido” so she can ravish you
🕯️she is the type to carry a small vile of your blood on a bracelet
🕯️speaking of blood, if she started getting visions again she’d urge you to gift some of your blood to the wilderness, and if it gets bad, to indulge the wilderness in a hunt.
MISTY QUIGLEY
🌸 an obsessive yandere, definitely
🌸 100% stalking you, no question. she will find out everything about you as well
🌸 keeps a file in her home and a copy on her laptop of all the information she’s found out about you
🌸 will find out your work schedule and break into your house to set up cameras while you’re not there
🌸 will slash your tires and conveniently pull up to ask if you need a ride to wherever you need to go and this is where her plan fully starts, the plan to make you hers forever
🌸 she’ll act all innocent and sweet and at the end of the car ride, she’ll give you her number, just incase you “need a ride to get your car fixed” which you so graciously accept
🌸 she will continue to watch you through the cameras she installed, furious when you have company over, even more so if said company is a fuck buddy, because that should be her, not them
🌸 probably will touch herself while watching anyways
🌸 if you end up on a date, she will poison your drink so she has to take care of you, and will make sure you stay in bed so she can take care of you
🌸 like she did as a teen, she will subtly trip you so she has an excuse to touch you to help you up, chastising you for being so clumsy, “you really need to be more careful! how would you survive without me”
🌸 kidnapping is a last resort thing for misty, if she feels you may be pulling away and trying to cut her out of your life, she will kidnap you and go on a rant about how you need her and she needs you and you guys could be so happy together
🌸 would kill anyone for her darling, but would never kill you, atleast not intentionally, but she has a bad track record of keeping the ones she loves alive …
A/N: I hope these were good!! sorry Lottie’s was so short I really don’t have much to say about her as a yandere
#yellowjackets headcanons#yellowjackets#yellowjackets season 2#yellowjackets x reader#yellowjackets misty#yellowjackets lottie#yellowjackets showtime#misty quigley x reader#misty quigley#lottie matthews x reader#lottie matthews
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Part Seven
[ Previous 〡 Next ]
You try to sleep, you really do. Every fibre of your being yearns for a moment of respite. For a brief escape from the reality, pressing so heavily upon you. But the harsh, glaring sunlight that stubbornly seeps through the cracks of the window, rudely swamping the room with an overbearing, sickly yellow hue, is unrelenting in its refusal to let you rest. You squint against the intrusive brightness. It’s a stark contrast to the darkness you’ve grown accustomed to.
With a gritty determination akin to a soldier preparing for battle, you manage to peel yourself off the bed. Your body protests with each movement as you fight off the gravity. You navigate the room with the intention to draw the curtains shut, hoping to shroud the room in the solace of shadows once more. But as you approach the curtains, you realise that sleep will remain a distant dream.
Your gaze shifts towards the window, where your fingertips begin to glide over the smooth, icy surface of the glass. It stands as a cold, unyielding barrier between you and the world blooming beyond it. It’s as if you’re a bird trapped within a transparent cage, observing the unfettered sky yet unable to spread your wings and fly.
You notice the absence of handles or the screws that once held them in place—there’s no easy way for you to open the windows.
You find yourself contemplating your courage, questioning if you would have the guts to leap through the open window, if given a chance. It’s a thought as daunting as standing on the edge of a precipice, staring into the abyss.
Your eyes sweep across the expansive landscape.. After enduring the relentless cycle of sunless days and pitch-black nights, trapped like a forgotten prisoner in the dim, dank basement, where the four unyielding walls often seemed to close in on you, as if threatening to swallow you whole, the sensation of watching the sunrise is strange. The vastness of the world outside, the freedom it represents, feels almost too foreign, too distant a concept for you to entirely grasp in your current state of mind.
The forest, a dense, mysterious stretch of greenery that extends around the entirety of the property, lies just across the house. Its daunting shadows and eerie silence send a shiver down your spine and open a floodgate of questions in your mind.
Would Simon be able to track you down in there? Or would the towering trees, with their thick canopies and hidden alcoves, provide you with the safety and invisibility you so desperately seek? There’s a part of you that wants to believe in the latter, to hold on to the hope that you could somehow disappear, meld into the forest’s undergrowth, and remain undetected.
But on the other hand, you’re also brutally aware of your own limitations. You have no survival skills, no knowledge of how to ignite a fire using nature’s resources, or how to locate a source of drinkable water in the wilderness. You don’t know how to protect yourself from the harsh weather, how to prevent yourself from freezing to death in the cold, unforgiving nights.
It would be comforting to imagine that you could stumble upon a sign of civilization - another remote house, a gas station tucked away on a forgotten road, or even just the distant hum of a car passing by. But the bitter truth is that you are far removed from civilization, located miles away, stuck somewhere in the heart of the wilderness.
As you continue to stand, your eyes dart over your shoulder, much like a hunted deer aware of the lingered presence of a predator. You contemplate your next move. The thought of going to the bathroom crosses your mind. With hesitant steps, you approach the door. Walking across the hallway is tempting, almost inviting. You could seize the opportunity to check if the windows there are as barren of handles as the ones in the room. And perhaps, if you dare to venture further, you could take a more thorough look around the bathroom. The possibility of finding something in there, something sharp and sturdy, something that could be used for self defense, lingers in your thoughts.
However, the moment your fingers wrap around the cold metal handle of the door, you find your hand retreating back to your side. Simon’s commanding voice echoes in your mind, reminding you of his order - to rest. Even though you don’t believe he would be particularly mad about you leaving the room, you decide not to take the risk. Moreover, you certainly don’t want to risk engaging in a conversation with him. The fear of revealing your insomnia, the fact that sleep keeps eluding you, gnaws at your insides. You worry that he might interpret your wakefulness as a willingness to spend time with him, to engage in intimate talks, or even to endure his touch. The worst outcome, you fear, is that he might decide to expedite tonight’s plans.
The notion of going on a date with Simon strikes you as amusing, albeit in a twisted way. It shouldn’t be, given that he is intimidating, crazy and unpredictable, and you can’t shake off the feeling that he will have all sorts of sinister expectations about how the evening should conclude. The possibility that it might end with him sharing a bed with you sends shivers down your spine, and the mere thought of it frightens you.
Caught in the dilemma’s iron jaws, too scared to venture out of the bedroom yet too restless to lie back in the bed, you decide to explore the rest of the room.
The wardrobe is indeed overflowing with a myriad of garments. Some of them look quite old, as if they had once belonged to someone else. Yet, nestling amongst them are other clothes — undeniably new, with fresh tags still attached, untouched and unworn... You find the skirt that Simon had mentioned. It’s short, black and looks just a tad bit small, which plants a seed of doubt about your ability to fit into it. Nevertheless, you decide to postpone worry about the possible battle of squeezing into it until later.
After carefully extricating the skirt and laying it gently on the nearby table, you resume your exploration. Your fingertips lightly graze over the stack of shirts. You pull out something that immediately catches your attention - a loose, long, and extraordinarily plain tee. It’s something you would typically prefer to wear because it would allow you to hide your figure as much as possible. However, in a sudden change of heart, you instead opt for a pink blouse. The colour is borderline garish, but you find yourself thinking it would somehow complement the skirt.
A scoff escapes your lips as you stand there. A sensation of self-betrayal creeps up your spine like ivy on a trellis. You shouldn’t care about your appearance, and yet, you can’t help but think that if you try to look pretty for Simon, it might serve as a convincing lie that you’re lowering your guard around him. It could make him think that he’s succeeding in weaving his web of manipulation around your thoughts, making you believe that he genuinely cares for you.
Venturing deeper into the wardrobe, you discover a considerable collection of lingerie. You can’t help but notice the array of sizes available. The fabrics, while appearing visually pleasing and feeling smooth under your touch, are unlike anything you’ve ever worn before. The panties, bras, and stockings look too risque, too revealing. If you would dare to wear them — and you definitely wouldn’t — it could potentially lead Simon to a wrong conclusion. And the last thing you want is for him to believe that you are willing to invite him into your bed.
Your exploration concludes with you settling on the bed, a book placed in your lap. As you gently pry it open, a squished paper flower reveals itself, nestled between the pages. Carefully, almost reverently, you lift it, noting how the paper has aged, turning a mellow yellow. You scrutinize the precious little thing in your hand, wary of making any sudden movements that might cause it to crumble.
Ripping pages out of a perfectly good book feels almost sacrilegious, like tearing a piece from a beautiful tapestry. But after checking the title and skimming through a few lines, you convince yourself that it might not be such a terrible offense. After all, the book appears to be nothing more than a biology notebook, and you have no intention of continuing to read it.
Transforming book pages into paper flowers initially seems like a mundane, boring task, but with nothing else to fill your time, you decide to give it a try. The next few hours are spent in an almost meditative state of ripping and folding, ripping and folding. Still, despite your best efforts, you find yourself unable to replicate the intricacy of the flower that now rests on the nightstand.
You entertain the idea of carefully unfolding the original flower, attempting to mimic its folds and creases on a fresh page. Yet, the fear of being unable to reconstruct it stops you. The thought of losing your only reference is too daunting, and you find yourself in a stalemate, with the delicate paper flower continuing to lie untouched.
The sun’s descent, painting the sky in hues of twilight, indicates the time, which slips through your fingers like sand. The door groans open, and Simon strides in, reminiscent of a lion entering his den. A towel is nonchalantly slung around his hips. His chest glistens with droplets of water, each bead shimmering like a pearl delicately strewn across a canvas of taut skin. His hair is wet and clings to his forehead.
You find yourself entranced. Your gaze gets hooked on him for a second too long. When your eyes finally meet his, a self-satisfied smirk is etched on his face, as if he has won an unspoken game that you didn’t know you two were playing.
He leans against the doorway, casual and confident. The slight shift of his towel draws your attention to the sharp angles of his hipbones and the V-line. An involuntary shiver courses through you — a moth drawn to a flame — prompting you to press your thighs together and shift uncomfortably on the bed.
The crumpled book page slips from your lap onto the bed, capturing his attention. His eyes sweep over the mattress and the floor, littered with pages and your botched attempts at origami flowers. As he nods in satisfaction, you notice the rhythmic tap of his fingers against his abdomen.
“You have thirty minutes to get ready,” he states, his voice echoing in the room, bouncing off the white walls. His words jolt you back to the present, reminding you that you need to dress up.
With one last lingering glance, he retreats, leaving the room as the door closes with a soft click. Only when his footsteps fade into the distance, swallowed by the silence of the house, do you roll out of bed. You don’t bother cleaning up the mess.
Struggling to fit into the tight skirt proves to be an arduous challenge. But with some effort, you muster the strength to shimmy into it. The fabric clings to your skin like a second layer. It’s a little too tight for your comfort; it’s uncomfortably restrictive. Yet the thought of searching the wardrobe for an alternative is too daunting.
Once you to button up the blouse, which fits much better than the skirt, you exhale in a sigh of relief—it’s a breath you didn’t realize you were holding in your lungs.
Glimpsing your reflection in the window, you can’t help but notice the unkempt state of your hair. It’s a wild, tangled mess since you didn’t brush it after it was washed. You know deep down that trying to look presentable in this situation is pointless, but the need for a brush gives you the perfect excuse to get out of the room.
Cautiously, like a mouse venturing out of its burrow, you approach the bedroom door and reach out to open it, revealing the hallway that yawns out in front of you. It seems longer than before, as if it has stretched out. Most of the curtains are drawn, cloaking the hallway in a blanket of dark shadows.
As you tiptoe towards the bathroom, curiosity pricks at your resolve and you dare to pull some curtains back. The sight of windows with no handles doesn’t surprise you, but it does send a chill of unease crawling down your spine.
The bathroom seems to have shrunk since the last time you were in here. You wonder how you and Simon managed to fit in this confined space. As you rummage through the cupboard above the sink, you try to push away thoughts about the intrusive shower you were forced to take earlier today. You consciously avoid looking at the stool that Simon sat on, which is now pushed next to the edge of the bath.
Before retreating back to the safety of your room, you take a moment to inspect the bathroom door. There’s no lock on it.
On your way back, you hear the soft echo of footsteps. Instinctively, you whirl around to find Simon emerging from an unseen corner — you can only assume that’s where the staircase is.
“You look...” His eyes slowly scan your figure, taking in every detail. You feel the heat of his gaze on you as it lingers on your blouse, then subtly trails to your chest, pausing there, before finally drifting down to your too-tight skirt. “Lovely.”
“Thank you.” You manage to strangle the words out. A lump of dread is lodged in your throat. A wave of nausea sweeps over you. Each second spent pretending that you don’t want to flee, that you don’t want to scream and hide from him, feels like an eternity. The charade of accepting his compliments, as if you’re not being courted by your kidnapper, is a bitter pill to swallow.
Simon motions for you to come closer. Gathering the courage, you approach him, daring to steal a glance at his casual attire — a pair of worn-in jeans and a black hoodie that seems to swallow him up. His hair is dry and a little ruffled.
As your gaze drifts further down to his feet, the absence of shoes catches your attention. A sinking feeling of disappointment swells in your chest as you realize that it probably, almost definitely, means that you won’t be leaving the house tonight. The first date that he promised to take you on will just be happening in the home.
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#simon ghost riley#writing#simon riley x you#ghost x reader#simon riley x reader#cod#call of duty#ghost x y/n#ghost x you#ghost cod#ghost#ghost call of duty#dead dove fic#fem!reader#cod fanfic#cod ghost#cod x reader#fanfic#ao3 fanfic#malheur
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𝚂𝚑𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚊 𝚂𝚑𝚒𝚙𝚖𝚎𝚗 + 𝚈𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝙰𝚕𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚝 (’96)
Warnings: Gore, Smut, homoerotic teenage friendship, and mature themes.
Notes: She is so babygirl it makes me hurt 🥺 @zhivaxo
*.·:·.☽✧ ✦ ✧☾.·:·.*
Affection: How do they show their love and affection? How intense would it get?
Shauna is someone who is entirely an act of service person. She will do anything for someone she loves, do your homework, drive you anywhere, and always be there to do things you don’t want to do. Shauna likes to work hard for you, so you never have to lift another finger in your life again. Shauna isn’t good with her words, but how she touches you screams all her thoughts to you. She is very intense sexually by holding/grabbing you with a firm grip or kissing you like she is devouring you whole.
Blood: How messy are they willing to get regarding their darling?
Very. Blood isn’t much of a question for Shauna or you. Shauna is very skilled at masking her darkness and hiding the darker desires she wishes to tell you. You see the grimaces when she draws a knife to the neck of one of the girls during a hunting accident. Shauna, slowly losing her mind from starvation and cabin fever, will start whispering to you what she wants to do sometimes.
“Shauna? Are you still up?” You whisper to her softly, her arms still wrapped around your waist protectively.
“Yes. What?”
“Baby, I-I,” you whisper as you stare into the darkness of the attic. You felt a shiver go down your spine from the wind and the way Shauna’s fingers grip your flesh. Forming small sore spots in your soft skin. “I am still messed up that we ate-“
“Bunny, please stop talking.” Shauna sighs softly, her nose nudges the back of your ear, and her breath hits your hair. “It was us three, you know. It was always me, you, and Jackie. But Jackie died. And Jackie feeds us. We might survive. You are fed, and that is all I can think about right now, okay.”
“Okay, sorry. Hold me.” You say and cuddle into her, deciding not to think about it like her.
Cruelty: How would they treat their darling once abducted? Would they mock them?
Shauna would not kidnap her partner, and it would be more of an installed Stockholm Syndrome from the years out in the wilderness. Shauna is the butcher. Shauna is why you were FED and would have died without her. You could not leave her from the guilt of her being your protector when you came back to civilization. I think the only way Shauna Shipmen would realistically kidnap someone would be if she married them and kept them in the house with her. But honestly, I think this would just be a toxic situation that y’all go to couples therapy. It would solve over time because Shauna does have a heart and knows deep down knows that she is fucked up in a lot of ways, so she is somewhat chill even though she still would like it if you were in the house. Shauna would honestly treat you like she treats Jeff, but with less secrecy about the woods, it looks more like you two don’t talk about it instead of trying to hide what happened. Shauna does love you and doesn’t like to upset you, but because y’all are not new to each other, she is like, “You’ll get over it.”.
Darling: Aside from abduction, would they do anything against their darling’s will?
I fully believe that Shauna would force-feed you meat. You were heartbroken to eat your friend and couldn’t do it; you would rather starve. Shauna would not take that, and neither does the Yellowjackets. Shauna would push the food in your mouth and then put her strong veiny hand over your mouth. She would stare you down as you chew the food she served; she wouldn’t let go of your face until you were fed enough. Shauna lost Jackie, and she will not lose her other best friend (that being you <3).
Exposed: How much of their heart do they bare to their darling? How vulnerable are they when it comes to their darling?
I would say Shauna is guarded and the more quiet partner. She likes being a support for a more outgoing personality, and she likes to protect that person with everything she has. Shauna will side with opinions she disagrees with, fight anyone you ask, and just be the best support in your life. However, Vulnerability is something Shauna doesn’t like, and she doesn’t like exposing those parts of herself. She is the type to cry in private because she doesn’t want to be seen crying. So Shauna doesn’t expose her inner thoughts and feelings, it feels unnatural for Shauna in some ways, and she gets cagey when pushed too far.
However, there are points where she is forced to be vulnerable because of the crash and Jackie’s death, affecting both for how close you both were to Jackie. Shauna doesn’t cry; when she does, it is like an explosion, just like her rage and fear; it just boils out of her. She is very passionate and emotional when she is exposed in that way. You always make sure to be extra gentle to her by holding and crying.
Fight: How would they feel if their darling fought back?
Shauna would fight harder. Shauna is a fighter through and through, and if she thinks you are leaving her, that is her only line of defense. She started little fights, maybe even big ones, and then she would pull you in with her big brown eyes again. She doesn’t like how it feels when you pull away or disagree; you two were bff girlfriend soulmates that are supposed to agree on everything 🙄
“STOP FIGHTING ME!” Shauna yells at you as she grips your wrists. She holds the butcher's knife in her other hand, trying to teach you how to cut up a body correctly.
“Shauna, stop it-”
“No, you need to learn this! You need to do a job here that isn’t picking berries; people will start to notice.”
“Shauna, It’s Annie. I can’t do this-”
“You have to be fed. We all need to be fed. Shut up, and do this.” Shauna hisses at you and pulls you in, forcing you to follow her hands as she slices into the flesh of your friend.
Game: Is this a game to them? How much would they enjoy watching their darling try to escape?
Shauna doesn’t play a game with you, but she does toy with you a lot. She likes to see how your eyes widen when the tip of her knife is on your throat; she likes to bite your flesh harder than needed so that you bruise a deep purple and green, and she likes to remind you who is in power in your relationship. In some moments in the wilderness, Shauna does become aggressive, and sometimes she comes to become that way from someone coming too close to her, making her jealous.
Hell: What would be their darling’s worst experience with them?
The worst experience with Shauna would be her not communicating her feelings of monogamy and blurring the lines between jealous play and boarding on cheating. Shauna kind of likes the feeling of other people lusting after you, she knows it makes you feel sexy, and it makes her want to claim you over and over and over again. But I feel like this type of playing in a relationship will end up with a few situations of actual jealousy and redefining the lines in the sand for you two to be fun. I feel like Shauna might go too far and kiss someone else infront of you as you two are partying, you might be dancing with someone dirtily, and she would play off of it and kiss a girl close to her. It would be a toxic moment, a Toxic cycle of overwhelming feelings.
Ideals: What kind of future do they have in mind for/with their darling?
Shauna sees you two living in Rhode Island while she goes to Brown and you two living out the late ‘90s lesbian dream in a city (mainly because y’all are from a small town and thinking moving to the city will fix the homophobia). Shauna wants to get roots with you and see what happens with your future. She sees a future with you and doesn't think she won't be with you in the upcoming years, but she doesn't necessarily plan on anything specific, like proposing or starting a family. She is mainly focused on you and her future and setting that up. She's just trying to get through the wilderness, though.
Jealousy: Do they get jealous? Do they lash out or find a way to cope?
Shauna wants you to have your own life and doesn’t mind you talking or being friends with other people. She even encourages times when you have girl nights with your friends without her (Not her friends) and lets you do your thing most of the time. She gets jealous when people flirt with you, with or without you knowing, but most importantly, if the spotlight in your life moves away from her. Shauna will end it if it’s another girl, friends, school, work, family. She doesn’t give a fuck.
So when Shauna Shipmen is jealous, it's a beast. She doesn’t cope. Shauna's motherfucking Shipmen lashes out by punching whoever threatens her relationship, she will start fights, and she will fucking pull hair and earrings out if it came down to it. Shauna will make it your problem, and she will punish you in many different ways for this. Shauna will say cruel words to whoever is taking your attention, and sometimes you are collateral damage that pushes you further away.
Kisses: How do they act around or with their darling?
BFF girlfriend soulmates. Shauna and Jackie, there was a power imbalance, with Jackie being the more dominant one of the two, but with you, Shauna is dominant. She subtly controls you in the gaze of being a friend and correcting you to make others like you more. But she just wants to have that power over you. However, Shauna doesn’t rub it into your face because it just strokes her ego, and you seem to enjoy it when she tells you how to do things like skinning deer or dancing.
Love letters: How would they go about courting or approaching their darling?
You, Jackie, and Shauna have been friends since pre-k. You and Shauna follow Jackie around and hype her up every chance, forming a closeness that you and Shauna never had with Jackie. As you enter middle school, you and Shauna devise a perfect idea because Jackie started dating Jeff and talking about how good it feels to kiss someone. You two decided that you should practice kissing before you started dating boys, and you two did it every time you had a sleepover. Over time, things started no longer about “Practicing”; instead, it was just excitement from lusting after each other. Kisses became makes outs, make-outs became heavy petting under the covers, and then they became something more.
Shauna’s plush lips gently peck at the side of your cheek as you rest on Jackie’s bedroom floor. Jackie always sent you two on the floor at her sleepovers. It used to be annoying, but now that you and Shauna have used your space away from Jackie.
Shauna’s hand runs down your side, her finger pressing onto the soft edges of your waist, adoring your body's curves. She pulls her face away from your cheek to look down into your eyes. Her soft, puppy brown eyes look down at you with heat and passion.
She whispers as another hand delicately touches your throat to keep you looking into her eyes. “I don’t want ‘this’ to be practiced anymore.”
Her other hand slides under your pajama bottoms and underwear, grazing your clit with her long finger. Your breath hitches in your throat as you panic to stay quiet, as jackies soft snores can be heard from across the room.
“I don’t either.” You whimper.
Shauna smirks as she drives in to kiss you in a devouring kiss, her fingers easing into you with two of her wide and long fingers. Your legs open and wrap around her waist. You struggle not to moan into her lips as she keeps kissing you with force.
“You’re mine. I would never let you date some guy.” Shauna hotly whispers to you as she comes to kiss your neck. Leaving little love bites on your jaw, you muffle an ecstasy groan in your palm.
Mask: Are their true colors drastically different from how they act around everyone else?
No, because she is brutally honest about herself and her feelings in her guarded way. IF Shauna doesn’t want to do something, she will, you know, and not do it. She doesn’t fake anything for anyone. She just acts herself because she was blessed with the confidence to be Shauna simply. And Shauna doesn’t mask her ways or how she acts because she is not changing that.
Naughty: How would they punish their darling?
When Shauna is unhappy with you or punishing you for something in the relationship, you will know because she will make it your problem. She is an immature 18-year-old and will give you the silent treatment, but it would be more like she would ice you out and ignore your whole presence. Shauna would move her sleeping bag away a few feet, just enough for you to notice she moved away from you but not enough for you to say anything without sounding crazy. Shauna is not above spanking or tying you up somewhere to make a point if you have been naughty, even before the crash and in the wilderness.
Oppression: How many rights would they take away from their darling?
Not at all oppressive. Shauna wants you to be your person, and she likes that about you; she doesn’t want to be a dictator over your life. Shauna likes to have her own space, and a very healthy part of your relationship is that there is space to be your person, unlike the relationship with Jackie.
Patience: How patient are they with their darling?
Shauna is 50/50 and is okay one day and not the other. Shauna’s patience runs thin most of the time, but she tries her hardest not to be a bitch about it. She gives space as much as she can but is very proactive, so she has a tough time with it.
Quit: If their darling dies, leaves, or successfully escapes, would they ever be able to move on?
No. Shauna would make you Jackie 2.0 and eat you to make you a part of her. You can’t ever die if you are inside her, where you're supposed to be.
Regret: Would they ever feel guilty about abducting their darling? Would they ever let their darling go?
Shauna would never feel guilty for keeping you with her through manipulation  and pressure. She simply does not give a fuck because she is getting what she wants, and she doesn’t do anything to you that she thinks is wrong. She treats you like the only person that fucking matters, but that doesn’t mean she is perfect and wouldn’t use that info against you in a fight.
Stigma: What brought about this side of them (childhood, curiosity, etc)?
Jackie’s death.
Tears: How do they feel about seeing their darling scream, cry, and/or isolate themselves?
Shauna won’t stand it and would do anything to stop it. She would break fucking door if she had to. She would force-feed you if she had to. She would fucking kill anyone she had to. She would do anything for you because you are the only reason she is going. However, Comforting isn’t Shauna’s forte; she doesn’t always succeed when she tries to comfort you when you cry. She just holds you, gets quiet, and hopes that whatever power there is is enough. That she is enough.
Unique: Would they do anything different from the classic Yandere?
Shauna is very much POLY and/or OPEN! I think she doesn’t might other people having you in some way, but she doesn’t want that spotlight taken away. She wants to be your world but wants you to have your own. She is still only a teenager, so she just goes with the traditional monogamy thing but sometimes talks about how ridiculous some people are about relationship rules.
Vice: What weakness can their darling exploit in order to escape?
Sex and companionship. However, you better never come back because trust is broken, and Shauna would not be good to you at all and would become a fucking monster, yandere. Like kill everyone and lock them in the attic if you try to do shit again and exploit the vulnerable.
Wit’s end: Would they ever hurt their darling?
No, intentionally at all. Shauna gets a little rough with her words, hands, and rope. She doesn’t mean it, but she leaves marks on you.
Xoanon: How much would they revere or worship their darling? To what length would they go to win their darling over?
Do anything for them. Shauna would revere you and would make you her whole world. You stain everything for her, and she wants the same. Like a red marker on a notebook bleeding through every page, it is marked by you.
Yearn: How long do they pine after their darling before they snap?
Shauna would never snap if you two were friends that turned into lovers. She would be silent and wouldn’t think about her actions if there were a moment she would snap. And in all honesty, there is no telling what she is capable of doing.
Zenith: Would they ever break their darling?
Yes, over the years, with the SS and homoerotic friendship turned intense first relationship. But Shauna wouldn’t break your brain because she loves how you are wholeheartedly. She just kind of trains you with Pavlov's dog trick and love. She wants you to be you still; she just wants to own you.
Yandere Level
3/10 (She is intense and overbearing, but she isn’t scary or threatening with expressing the more intense things.)
Freedom Level
10/10 (Girl, you are free, and you are your own person, YAY!)
Lottie ✿ Taissa ✿
#Yellowjackets#yellowjackets x reader#shauna shipmen#Shauna shipmen x reader#dark!shauna shipmen#dark!shauna shipmen x reader#yandere! yellowjackets#Dark! Yellowjackets#lesbian#shauna shipmen smut#Shauna shipmen angst
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Of Love and Loss Ch. 11 (RDR2 Fanfic, Arthur Morgan x F!Reader, 18+)
Summary: After narrowly escaping with your lives, the trip goes on without further trouble as the weeks begin to add up. To pass the time during a snowstorm, you and Arthur exchange questions over a bottle of gin.
Author’s Notes: Nothing like a little alcohol to make you admit your feelings to yourself :) Arthur and reader both get drunk in this one. Chapter eleven of this one.
Tags: Arthur Morgan x reader, high honor Arthur Morgan, minor character death, loss of parents, blood and injury, grief/mourning, survivor guilt, strangers to lovers, slow burn, eventual smut, graphic depictions of violence
AO3 Link
~
Of Love and Loss
Eleven: The Gentle Act of Teaching
Word count: 5574
It has been a month since we started this journey and, as I assumed it would, it has come with no shortage of setbacks. Rambling like we do, I have seen a lot in my time and maybe even grown used to the pointless violence of it all. The wilderness is unkind and man more so, but I haven’t given it much care or thought until now. Now it seems I’m only leading a woman just to show her how cruel this world can be. That haunted look on her face will stay with me for the rest of my days.
~
Arthur rolled his shoulders, trying to undo the persistent ache that tightened them. Riding three days without much of a break to speak of had worn on his body, his mount, you and yours. In fact, it was so wearying you hadn’t said a word to him since the night before.
Your grief seemed to come in waves. This time it was pulling you back down into that shell of yourself you had been, unspeaking, unreacting, seemingly doing all you could just to make it another day. It was tough to watch, but Arthur didn’t have it in him to cheer you up. He was too worn down himself. That, and there was another nagging reason in the back of his mind he hardly let in for fear of letting it eat at him—that this was all his fault. He couldn’t do a thing about what else had happened to you, but he’d lost his head in that town. The mere thought of that slimy bastard calling you out like that had him bristling even now, fingers twitching with the need to shoot something. That nasty little look in his eye had been why Arthur had drawn iron in the first place, so fast it was more instinct than any sort of decision. That same look that had said plenty without words, that said the man felt he was owed something from you which warranted him following you out of town. Arthur didn’t care to ponder whether the man would have followed had he not threatened his life. It didn’t matter now anyhow. He had killed them all, exposed himself for what he really was. All because he saw red at the mere suggestion of someone wronging you. For protection’s sake, he had done his job. But it was obvious that you needed more from him than that. Your near silence since his shooting those men was plenty proof of that.
The truth was, Arthur suddenly felt that the side of him that town had revealed was glaringly wrong. It was a strange feeling, like denying the truest part of himself. But it gnawed at him now, that who he was did not have to be defined by his talent with a gun, but by the possibility of being something more. That the man he wanted to be became something he actually pondered. Things used to be about survival, about protecting those he held dear and nothing else besides. When had that changed?
As Arthur looked sidelong at you riding beside him, the empty stare on your face like that of a corpse, he knew. He had never had someone pure-hearted enough to warrant the believability of some better version of himself. With the gang, with Mary, there had only ever been a separation of good and bad, white and black, and he was always caught on the latter side of those things. But you made him think he could push beyond that, into some unknown middle ground. That look on your face was making guilt curl low in his gut for the first time in a long time at the act of taking lives. So he would push, do his best to shield you from it all. For you were good, and you deserved to remain so, lest he die trying to make it truth. If he didn’t try, no one would. Then you would be left like this—empty. And he knew enough about that to be determined to keep you from it.
~
The fourth day riding away from that terrible place and those terrible people, Arthur finally relented his pace. You had stopped here and there in the meantime, but never for a full night. The tiredness threatening to roll your eyes shut was testament to that.
Before the sun had even set and Arthur had finished with the tent, you laid back on the hard, thankfully snowless ground and fell asleep, the empty bliss of it like a gift.
When you woke, the sky was already lightening above you. You’d slept the whole night through, mercifully dreamless.
You looked down, curious over the warmth surrounding you despite the cold air, then remembered the bison coat. It was doing its job. The wind could hardly touch you with it on despite your poor judgement in sleeping outside the tent. And, like a pair of fools, it seemed Arthur had done the same. He sat against a nearby tree with his knee up, a gun in his lap and his head lolled down in sleep. Like he had every intention of standing guard but had let his exhaustion get the better of him. You couldn’t blame him.
No, the past few days had been anything but easy. You had been so plagued with guilt and worry and shame and regret the whole time it was a wonder you hadn’t given up. Given Arthur your mule and laid down and died right there in the dirt. In fact, the mule had been the only measure of happiness tethering you to the world at all. She still was. Though, sleep had helped clear your helplessness some. Instead, you were left feeling like you could go on but that there wasn’t much point in doing so. There was only brutal, unknown life ahead of you. And just like every interaction with strangers on this trip, that terrified you. The only comfort you’d known since losing your parents had been Arthur’s steady company. But that wouldn’t always be there. And, it seemed, you weren’t cut out for simple comforts anymore. It was time to grow up and see the world for what it was—unforgiving.
After plenty of rest, the pair of you packed back up and set out again. This time, you went two weeks without a break in routine. You passed over into Nebraska in the meantime, plenty of snow and cold following you in. You finally admitted to Arthur just how far you had left to go, nearly midway into the state, with no small measure of annoyance resulting on his part. But he agreed nonetheless, saying he had come this far. At least the railroad would tie into the trail soon, and he could take it back down to Denver instead of riding all the way back alone to join up with his gang.
His gang—you still hadn’t grown used to that. You hadn’t brought up the subject of his killing those five men, though it often crossed your mind to. The only thing stopping you was the fact that he didn’t owe you a thing, squeaky clean reputation included. In fact, his killer instinct had probably kept you alive thus far. Your judgement would be no help. If anything, it would just set you two to arguing again, as you often found yourselves doing. And the fact of the matter was you were tired of arguing. You were tired of a lot of things.
When the trees finally seemed to give up their steady growth, leaving behind nothing but wide open plains and brutal cold, Arthur stopped midday for the first time in a long time. The snow was blowing in sideways, and you nearly groaned in relief when he stopped his horse and swung off of her, saying, “Forget it. I ain’t freezing my balls off just to wait ‘til nightfall to do it again.”
You gave a pitiful laugh and dismounted, your legs like ice picks themselves when the pain of reaching the ground shot up them.
You and Arthur cleared a circle of snow for your camp, then built the tent and the fire. Arthur had been carrying kindling and a bit of wood for miles considering there wasn’t much of it to come by anymore, and you were impressed with his campfire skills when he got the thing burning despite the pelting snow. He had built it on the far side of the tent so that the canvas was blocking the weather, and when the flames began small then built, it took all you had not to shove your gloved fingers and your booted feet right into them.
You were both huddled close enough to the fire that Arthur suddenly took to laughing, calling you both idiots for being out in this kind of weather.
You managed a faint smile. “Montana got a lot colder than this, but…cold is cold.”
“Cold is cold,” he agreed. “How was it up there anyway? In the winter.”
“Brutal,” you admitted. Lots of days spent inside, chores finished as quickly as possible, week-long stretches where you didn’t know if the food would last. But it always did. Lucky you and your father were good hunters, your mother a good motivator.
“It wasn’t always like this,” you went on, having to raise your voice to talk over the wind. “It was sunny and pleasant some days. But still cold. The snow never left.”
Arthur just hummed his acknowledgment before holding his hands out to the fire, black gloves and harsh light eating up the reflection of the flickering flames.
After long enough, he reached around to his satchel and pulled out a box of cigarettes. Not a day went by he didn’t do this, whether for habit or enjoyment you couldn’t tell. You didn’t have the experience of smoking one to know. But when he lit one, the butt smoldering to life beneath his inhaled breath, it suddenly seemed like just the thing to warm your bones. So when he offered, as he always did regardless of how many times you turned him down, you took one.
“Well,” he said with a drawl. “Finally become a bad influence, have I?”
You didn’t respond, sticking it in your mouth, rolling it over your tongue. It was faintly earthy. Bitter.
You watched him light a match, touching it to the end of his own. Then he brought his hands over to you, cupping them around the flame to keep the wind from snuffing it, touching the match head to your cigarette.
You didn’t know what you expected to happen, but nothing did.
He grinned at you. “You gotta breathe in. Just- small breaths-” he added, but too late. You had taken in such a large breath that your lungs crumpled beneath it, burning from the inside out. You took the cigarette away and coughed and coughed, the feel of it like hellfire trapped inside your chest.
He was laughing at you, but you couldn’t quit coughing enough to berate him for it. You did hand it to him, the disgusting taste and the horrible feeling enough to convince you that it wouldn’t be your new pastime. Then the cold set back in, frosting over your throat and combining with the burning feeling in your lungs. All in all, it only served to make you feel worse.
Arthur’s chuckling finally tapered off. “At least you didn’t get sick on yourself.”
“Does that happen?” you asked, hoarse.
“Sometimes.”
“Lovely.” You wrapped your hands around your knees, scooting closer to the fire, glad for your shaggy coat. It was nearly unbearably cold, but your only other option was inside the tent, and without the fire it would only be colder.
You watched Arthur smoke both cigarettes with ease, one after the other, like he needed their smoke to breathe.
“Why do people do that anyway?” you asked, still miserable from the rawness in your throat.
“What, this?” he said, putting the one that had been yours to his lips and taking a long drag. He blew out of his nose like a dragon would, smoke billowing out of both nostrils.
You didn’t answer, knowing he was just trying to show off or work you up or both.
He finally turned to you. “Calms you down. Takes the edge off.”
The first time he’d offered you one, he’d said the same thing. What edge had he been so desperate to dull back then? And each day since? It wasn’t hard to figure now—cold like this could drive any man to madness. It was certainly making you want to run circles around the camp like a crazy person.
“Same as anything I guess,” he went on, blowing more smoke. “Why does anyone do anything? Alcohol, sex, drugs, they’re all the same.”
You didn’t quite understand the sex part but let it pass. One conversation with him about it was enough to last you a lifetime. But the mention of alcohol had you suddenly desperate to try that too. You had before, what little you’d been able to get your hands on up in the mountains, but it was never enough to take much effect.
“Would alcohol warm me up?”
He eyed you, that boyish gleam returned. “Not necessarily. Though it can make you too busy thinking about other things to remember how cold you was before.”
Anything would help at this point. “You got any?”
He huffed a laugh and stood, walking over to his horse. The poor animals were both standing with their backsides to the wind, close enough to share body heat. Arthur pulled a small glass bottle from his saddle bag and shuffled back over, kicking snow as he went. He tossed you the bottle, and you caught it, flipping it. It had no label.
“What is it?”
“Gin. ‘Fraid I drank all the whiskey.”
You eyed it. “How can you tell? There’s no label.” The liquid was clear, tinged green due to the tint of the glass.
“I can tell,” he said with amusement. “Can’t afford the labeled stuff.”
You eyed him for that, wondering about your saddle and bridle and the mule standing beneath them. He was either exaggerating, or you owed him more than you thought you did if one bottle of good gin would put him out. He just inclined his head toward the bottle in your hand with a slightly upturned mouth, not giving whatever worry you had about owing him a moment’s thought.
You uncorked the top with stiff, numb, gloved fingers then lifted it to your lips. The burn of it was immediate. Almost as bad as the cigarette. You forced yourself to drink it down but let out a wincing cough after you did.
“Christ. Are all the vices so terrible?” you asked, wiping the excess off your mouth and handing the bottle back to him. It had to be a punishment, for people to drink that. Addiction born of the need to punish one’s self.
Arthur was snickering again, but this time you joined him in it.
“Tastes smooth to me,” he said, lifting it to his own mouth. You watched him drink it down with near reverence, his eyes half-closing as he did. Savoring it. He brought the bottle down and examined it. “Shitty, but smooth.”
You leaned over and snatched it from him. Like hell was it smooth. It was as cutting as swallowing ice. But the aftertaste wasn’t near as bad as the cigarette had been, so you took another sip, letting it cut all the way down.
Arthur took it back. And after some back and forth, minutes passed and enough swallowed to dull its burn, he stopped you from taking it again. “Slow down there, or it’ll come right back up. I ain’t letting you put out the fire with your own sick.”
You cringed at the thought but felt that familiar defiance within you stand up at the challenge. You went for the bottle, but he snatched it away before you could grasp it.
“Don’t be dense,” you spat, going for it again. He again held it out, far enough you couldn’t reach it. And the resulting smile curving across his face was making you mad enough to tackle him for the damn thing.
You were about to lunge for it when he stopped you with a hand held out. “All right, all right, quit it. I’ll make a deal with you.”
You already didn’t like where this was going. To hell with the gin. Now you were just angry. You crossed your arms at him.
He grinned then said, “You answer a question, I’ll give it back.”
As annoyed as humoring him made you, you just shrugged.
“Agreed?”
“Go on,” you snapped. Better to get it over with, get the bottle back and walk away so as not to have to deal with him anymore.
He thought on it a moment, taking another sip as he held your gaze, an amusement lighting his eyes you didn’t much care for. Then, “What’s something you never told anyone?”
That you still wished you had died with your parents. That life didn’t feel like it had much meaning after their deaths. That one of the sole reasons you went on was because the man staring back at you had given a damn at the right moment. But you didn’t want to go down that slippery slope, not right now and not with him. So you reverted back to your younger years, to the girl who was full of life and grit and the ability to get her way. What had you kept hidden even from your parents?
You landed on it then hesitated, heat staining your cheeks from embarrassment.
“Spit it out,” he said accusatorially, sensing that hesitation.
“I…” How to word it and not sound ridiculous? “When I was a kid I…fancied the postman.”
Arthur burst out laughing.
“Shut up,” you said miserably.
“That’s your deepest, darkest secret?”
The deepest, maybe. Certainly not the darkest. But his laughter was slightly contagious given how stupid the confession had sounded, so you just said with a laugh, “I was little! He was handsome!”
“I’m sure he was,” Arthur said, tilting his hat to you in obvious sarcasm, his grin never leaving.
“And I never got to go to the post office,” you went on, unsure why you were explaining yourself. “So when Pa let me come with him, the hours that it took to get there, it was…it was just nice to see the man is all!”
Arthur was veritably howling with laughter now.
“Shut up!” you said, leaning over and shoving him. “Like you never had an infatuation with a girl.” This did seem to sober him some, and that gave you an idea.
“Give me that,” you snapped, yanking the bottle away. “And it’s your turn for a question.”
“Well, I never said-”
“Yeah, and I don’t care. You’re answering one.”
He settled back with a sigh but didn’t protest. So you took a swig of gin for courage and looked him straight in the eye. “Who taught you to shoot so well?”
Surprise crossed his face, lining every inch of it. He had obviously assumed you were going to ask about said girl, whomever that may be. But no, you wanted to know how he had taken down five men in a matter of seconds.
His face turned contemplative. Then, “No one, I guess. I always had a good eye. Good aim.”
“That aim was better than good,” you admitted. And the reference to what had happened back in that town seemed to sour his mood. He snatched the bottle back and took a long pull from it.
“Yeah, well, you’re either a decent shot or you get killed pretty quick in my line of work.”
His line of work. On the opposing side of the law, where bullets were aimed at you as often as a dirty glance.
“Do you ever get scared?” The question pushed out before you could stop it.
Arthur just looked at you, face tinged with mild curiosity.
“Not really,” he said. “Not anymore. But—” He tipped the bottle at you. “It ain’t your turn.”
You rolled your eyes and sat back, looking into the flames instead, knowing he would fire off another stupid question whether you got on to him for it or not.
Sure enough, he spoke, the amusement in his tone not lost on you. “You ever get into trouble up in them mountains?”
“What kind of trouble?”
You shouldn’t have asked. The smirk he shot back was enough for you to know he didn’t mean the kind where you got lost in the snow, where your life was in danger.
When he didn’t answer, you sighed like he usually did, drawing it out. “A few times. Once for this,” you said, taking the gin from him.
“What, getting drunk?”
“No, they caught me before it got to that point. I raided the liquor cabinet. It wasn’t much, a bottle of whiskey and some wine. But I was trying both when Momma and Pa came back from town early. They gave me hell for it.”
Arthur snickered. “How old were you?”
“Twelve,” you answered. “But it’s not your turn,” you said sweetly, making him shake his head, though his smile never left.
You took a sip of gin, wondering what it took to be drunk. But you wouldn’t waste a perfectly good question asking Arthur about it. Instead, you asked him something you had wondered since the night after leaving that trading town.
“Why didn’t you buy another bedroll? At that trader stall.”
Again, Arthur seemed surprised by the question. He took some time to answer, gesturing for you to hand him the gin. You did so, and he took another long pull of it. Long enough that you wondered how often he did this, drinking his thoughts away.
“It honestly didn’t cross my mind,” he muttered, staring into the fire. “I was trying to keep an eye on you when I was talking to that old croak. Weren’t thinking about it.”
You let out a breath of relief at his response. You had assumed he’d spent all his money and resources on you, that he couldn’t afford one. And, as it stood, he had been using the very edge of your bedroll ever since, both of you colder than you cared for but too prideful to cling together for warmth like you had that night after the wolves. So you had thought all this time another bedroll had been neglected at the cost of the coat on your back. But now that you knew otherwise, you didn’t feel quite so shameful. And you were grateful, too, that it had been because Arthur had kept such a watchful eye on you.
He took another long drink from the bottle, and you watched him, watched his throat work and his mouth purse with the harsh liquid. This man who you thought you knew—you didn’t really know him at all.
Arthur looked over and caught you staring.
“What?”
You shook your head, pushing the thought from your mind. Not because it scared you, but quite the opposite—you always assumed he was bad, that he was the low-down outlaw, and at every turn, he proved you wrong.
“Nothing.”
He chuckled lowly. Then, “You ever kissed anyone?”
“Excuse me?” It was all you could manage through your embarrassment. Not this again.
“Couldn’t ask it any clearer,” he said, about to take another drink. But you snatched it away before he could, taking a long pull yourself. Drunk. You needed to be drunk.
“How much of this do I need before it blocks out the sound of your voice?”
“So, no then,” he said with that god awful smirk.
You drank again.
He laughed. “Easy there.”
“I told you,” you said, voice hoarse from the harsh liquor. “There wasn’t anyone up there to kiss.”
“Not even the postman?”
You could have hit him. Instead, oddly enough, you laughed at that stupid smile on his face. “No, not even the postman. He was twice my age. Maybe more.”
“Hm.”
“What?” you fired at him, the bottle clutched tightly in your hands.
“Nothing, just…” He smiled again, his teeth showing. “Imagining it, is all. That life you led.” He pried the bottle from your clawed grip, smiling as he brought it to his lips. “Sounds…boring.”
You tried not to think about his mouth kissing the bottle, his mouth kissing anything, as you replied, “It was what you made of it. I enjoyed it.” At your nerves, you reached over and took the bottle away before he was even done drinking. He made a noise of protest, but it didn’t register before you had the bottle at your own mouth, trying desperately not to think of how his lips had just touched the same spot.
When you brought it away, you looked at him. Really looked at him, all notion of it being improper to do so suddenly lost. “There are other ways of enjoying yourself, you know.”
His brows rose high, either at the way you were looking at him or at the implication in your voice.
After long enough, he said, “You plan on enlightening me?”
“I…” Your eyes dipped to his mouth before you took another long pull, the bottle blocking your view of him. Shaking loose the thought that began to plague you. The urge to experience something new, something you were afraid would be addicting in its own right, alcohol aside.
When you didn’t respond, just pulled the bottle back down and looked to the fire, Arthur said, “I can’t imagine it would be much beyond snow sledding or the like all the way up there. You telling me that’s the secret to happiness?”
There it was, an out. A diversion to the path this conversation had led you down. And in anything other circumstance, you would have taken it. But for some reason, you were starting to believe that drunkenness snuck up namelessly after all, a haze of intuition lost.
You looked to Arthur, to the soft amusement on his face, to the casualness that seemed to always weigh on his shoulders and make its way to his mouth.
“You could teach me.”
“Come again?”
Your eyes dropped to his mouth again, seemingly of their own volition. Then words spilled out of you like gin from a bottle.
“Kiss me. Show me how.”
His face softened. Surprise, realization, a bit of embarrassment. Then deflection as he chuckled, his face tingeing redder in the gray light than the cold could account for. “Nah, you don’t want that,” he said, like he was trying to convince himself. “Not your first-”
“Kiss me,” you said again. You couldn’t imagine it being anyone else in the world. There was no one else you trusted. “I wouldn’t ask if that were the case.”
He looked at you then with such raw surprise you wondered when the last time anyone had shown him such affection was.
He stared at you, and you stared at him, and before you could ask if his brain had shut down entirely, he looked to the fire and said defiantly, “No.”
You scoffed. “Come on. It’s not that big a deal. Just think of it as teaching me something new.”
“But it ain’t that,” he fired back. He still wouldn’t look at you. “It’s…kissing someone to learn something and kissing someone because you want to are two different things.”
“Exactly,” you said, taking another sip of gin. “If it‘s just for learning’s sake, what’s the problem?”
He shook his head, disgruntled. “Forget it. I ain’t doing it.”
You groaned aloud, unbelieving he was being the stick in the mud for once. “You know, for an outlaw,” you said, standing, pointing the bottle at him. “You’re awfully honorable.”
He let out a barking laugh like he didn’t believe that in the slightest but still didn’t take the bait. The stubborn fool.
The ground swayed a bit beneath you as you added, “And cowardly.”
“Excuse me?” he asked, the question poised somewhere between annoyance and a threat. But he had finally looked at you at least.
“Woman asks you to kiss her, and you won’t even consider it.”
He stood now, swiping the bottle from your hand. “You’ve had enough.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” But you couldn’t have pried the glass from his grasp if you wanted to, your vision starting to swim. “You don’t want to kiss me that’s fine, but don’t tell me what to do.”
He laughed that annoying laugh again. “I ain‘t kissing someone who can barely keep her feet.”
“Oh yeah?” you said, stepping over to him to prove a point. Close. You could have leaned over and kissed him yourself you were so close. In fact, the thought was a breath away from being turned into reality when he lifted the gin to his own lips, blocking you, his eyes catching on your mouth. Or maybe that was your shoddy vision making things up.
When he brought the bottle away, he was grinning. “Real impressive, being able to walk.”
“Shut up,” you said, but didn’t shove him like you wanted to. His closeness was…distracting you. And any forceful movement would likely land you on your backside.
“Tell you what,” he said, shifting his weight so that he stood even closer. Not backing down from you in the slightest, that cocky grin lighting his face. “You answer one more question, and I’ll kiss you.”
Your face burned with those words, like your body was realizing this might actually happen.
When you didn’t respond, his grin went wider. Feral. Then, “Tell me your name.”
Damn him. Because he knew it was the one thing you wouldn’t give him.
“That’s not a question,” you said simply, holding his eye.
“Come on,” he coaxed. “Why don’t you want me to know it?”
Now it was your turn to grin. “Because they were the last people to call me that.”
Arthur was confused by your smile despite your words, his brows pinching together. And you said without hesitation, “And I just answered your question. So kiss me.”
Realization hit him again, and he immediately let out an unbelieving laugh. “You’re a damn sneak, you know that?”
When his eyes met yours, his gaze shifted the slightest bit toward serious in the harsh daylight. And he definitely eyed your mouth this time. Alcohol or no, you could see it plain as day. Then at last, he groaned his annoyance, or tried to shake how flustered he was, and said, “All right then. You win.” He dropped the gin and stepped toward you.
All you had ever known of this suddenly became futile, juvenile, worthless in the eyes of him bringing his gloved hands to the back of your head. Your scant knowledge couldn’t hold a candle to the gentle way he brought your mouth to his, meeting you at last in a kiss so tender it sobered you. This was happening. Arthur was…
All thought was lost when his mouth pressed against yours a second time. Slow. Caring. You let him be, forgetting entirely what this was supposed to be about, instead navigating the newness that was kissing someone back.
The kiss went on for an eternity, the effect better than any cigarette, any gin, anything in the world. There was no snow, was no cold, was nothing but the way his lips parted. You did as he did, and soon your mouth was at his with a fervor, his tongue warm against yours, the taste of gin and tobacco all you knew and all you ever wanted again.
Then he was stepping away, letting his hands fall, his gaze shy as it hit the ground.
“Was that…what you wanted?” he asked softly, meeting your eye as his hands fell a bit nervously onto his gun belt, fidgeting.
You just stared at him. Dove deep inside yourself to remember your words, to remember your circumstances and who you were supposed to be to each other. Because it was certainly blurring as the warmth of his mouth lingered.
After long enough that he kept shifting his weight, you spoke. “I understand it now. Why people…enjoy that.”
You thought you saw the smallest softening of his gaze before the mask returned, his teasing smirk back in place. “You really don’t know nothing, do you?”
You couldn’t even be bothered to chide him. Not after what he had just given you.
You pursed your lips like you could hold that kiss forever then looked at the bottle at your feet. You knelt and picked it up, pushing it into his chest. He grabbed it. And you wouldn’t meet his eye for fear of wanting him to kiss you all over again as you said with a giddy smile, “Thank you for teaching me,” and stepped around him. Aimed for the tent. Focused on keeping your feet beneath you, keeping your head somewhere inside reality, keeping your thoughts away from the man at your back. Away from just how much you truly felt for him, your fondness veiled like the unfamiliarity of a kiss until now.
_________
Chapter twelve is here.
tag list: @nayomi247 @ultraporcelainpig @photo1030 @spiritcatcherxo @calcarius445
#arthur morgan#arthur morgan x reader#arthur morgan x female reader#high honor arthur morgan#rdr2 arthur morgan#rdr2 fanfic#rdr2#fanfic#writing
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creepypastas of your choice being new parents (reader can be included or not, or the reader can BE the kid. either works)
Eyeless Jack, Slenderman, and Jeff as dads/dad figures
getting silly with it. last request in the inbox, might write some other stuff later today for myself but idk we'll see, admins feeling a little sleepy RAAAAAAH
no real mentions of reader i think, just the characters being dads but there might be vague mentions of partners so you can imply that is reader. shrugs. i tend to write these notes before actually writing the post
this was originally going to have laughing jack but then i got bummed out when i realized that jack would not make a good solo parent simply because hes too chaotic
accidentally swapped from saying "the kid" to "you" midway through writing this but im too tired to fix it so uhuh im making it everyone elses problem/j
SLENDERMAN:
by default i think slenderman can be an okay dad and im purely basing this on the fact that i grew up on the 2010s era of the fandom where quotev quizzes and fics for the fandom were peak. i think in the beginning he would be a little lost, especially if hes going to be raising the kid alone. i mean hes a solitary creature that rarely connects with others, he knows knowing about raising a human child. and thats assuming the kid is even human. if he has a kid with a human reader, are they more human or more... creature..? are they a hybrid? how much of slendermans genetics carry over? can he even have children since admin personally thinks he was made by zalgo like all other demons in this timeline? many questions. protective and strict dad, makes sure the kid does their work and chores, but makes sure he doesnt raise a pushover... definitely hostile towards anyone who harasses the kid, be it bullying or generally just being a douchebag. i think if hes the sole parent he raises them in the woods and teaches them things himself. doesnt bother with putting the child through schooling, theyre a child of the woods now babey!!/hj
look at it this way the kid is really self sufficient and can survive in the wilderness for an extended period of time and they know how to kick butt, assuming they also grow up with his proxies. yeah.. thats going to be interesting... would they see them as uncles or as sibling or family friends? its anyones guess. bonus father figures!!
EYELESS JACK:
also does not know what hes doing. i think i wrote somewhere that jack would put the baby in a carrier and walk around with them in the woods. maybe even showing them different animals and plants even if he knows that the kid cant understand him. definitely a case where hes going to need someone else to help him, be it his partner if theyre still around, or someone else... naturally its going to be harder to find someone to help him if his partner is out of the picture for one reason or another. main reason because that jack is... oh you know, literal man eating demon who sometimes goes into blind feeding frenzies if he gets hungry enough + he tries to put off feeding for as long as possible because it literally means taking a life and he still has his humanity in there. not going to say it out right but i think you guys can put two and two together and understand why jack is wary about having a small child hanging around his cabin. also he wants the kid to be able to grow up around other people. its unlikely, since the other person is likely going to be another creepypasta character because any normal person would rat him out... but he might also want the kid to have a 'normal' upbringing. lots of feelings here for him. kind of like a tired dad, between juggling the child and the things going on with him is really going to do a number on him. giggling at the idea of him trying to get slender to help him esp since i hc they have weird territorial beef going on
JEFF THE KILLER:
actually has a decent grasp of how to treat them but thats because he had liu/was an older brother. the dynamic is less father child and more so older brother younger sibling. probably lets you have a fair amount of free reign; he doesnt really strike me as a strict guardian. probably forgets to pick you up from soccer practice/j ....actually wait no i can kind of see him actually doing that on accident. tries to make it up to you by giving you treats because he does kind of feel bad for leaving you behind. you remind him a lot of his brother. im still torn on whether or not liu is still alive in my silly au but imagine hes not and he kind of. tries to raise you good and treat you well to make up for everything that happened. jeff with some level of mental clarity after the height of everything hits me in a weird sad way i can quite describe. like dont get me wrong hes still the knife wielding dude hes usually written as, but hes a little.. just a tiny bit mellowed out. just a tad.. side note i fully blame the idea of jeff being remorseful over murdering liu from a fic that had a chokehold on me in middle school so oooo... you probably know/interact with ben through jeff since theyre good friends. jumping into my personal hc/au jeff carries ben around in a phone since bens usually confined to electronics and they grew up together. obviously jeff outgrows ben because. you know ghosts dont grow up. so imagine you start becoming best friends with ben and ben is just. SPILLING so much old stuff on jeff, mostly dumb stuff jeff did and him being a jackass. idk i just think thats funny. its like when you suddenly get dad lore but instead of getting it from your dad you get it from dads ghost best friend
#creepypasta x reader#creepypasta x you#slenderman x reader#slenderman x you#eyeless jack x reader#eyeless jack x you#jeff the killer x reader#jeff the killer x you
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I'm curious, how do you view Åland in your head? Are they Sweden and Finland's kid or something else? How about Faroe, what is their relationship to Denmark? Or Greenland (I know for a fact that Greenland's relationship with Denmark isn't good)
Sorry for the long ask ;w;
Hello anon! It's not a long question! I just don't really know how to introduce these guys, so let's start with an oversimplified relationship chart, I guess?
Quick explanation under the cut. I don't know why it is so scary to talk about my OCs publicly, aah
Åland isn't Sweden and Finland's kid, but she's significantly younger than them, and they did end up practically raising her together. I've been going back and forth on whether I want her to be their "kid" or not - but in the end, I decided to apply the same logic I use with Denmark and Iceland; it's some kind of guardianship.
To me, guardianship means person X is looking after person Y and being responsible for their upbringing. In these instances, we're talking about significantly younger Nations that have been juveniles for most of their lifetime; someone has needed to take the custodian responsibility over them. But because the relationship can be interpreted as parental or siblinglike (with a significant age gap), I just prefer to use the term "guardian."
Faroe, just like Iceland, was raised by Denmark. Except unlucky for him, he's still stuck with the old man. Faroe just tends to get forgotten a lot. He's a friendly young gentleman, the "easy" child in a messy household, if you will. Though he wishes he made more of a noise about himself - to remind everyone that he exists and show that he's indeed an individual. Well, at least he has Åland to keep him company, since they're both doomed to sit at the "kids' table" during family gatherings. And yes, they're the same age as Iceland
While Denmark has been Greenland's "guardian" on paper, they never developed that kind of relationship. She doesn't feel particularly close to him and for various reasons, she never adjusted to her "adoptive" family. The relationship is rough but they still try to make it work somehow. Nowadays, she's happier with home rule, slowly making her way toward potential full independence. Greenland, Kalaallit Nunaat, has been inhabited by indigenous people for thousands of years. But this isn't the same Greenland that would have been around during the Viking Age. I'm just basing that on the fact that the ancestors of the modern people of Greenland, the Inuit, came to the island from the east in the 13th century, referred to as the Thule culture, which replaced the former Dorset/Tuniit culture.
Sápmi is the oldest Nation of the bunch by a long margin. Because of this, she has acted as a mentor figure to the Fennoscandians in their youth and is often referred to as their "aunt." Sápmi's relationship with her neighbors has been extremely turbulent. But still, she remembers them as hopeless little kids getting lost in the wilderness, whom she taught survival skills. She sees them as her unruly boys but feels especially bad that Finland had to grow up so soon. She still finds herself scolding Sweden, who to this day acts like a little kid around her. Norway views her in high regard, someone he goes to with his worries and feelings. She's a nation with no state, but tries her best to represent her people and culture to the world.
Karelia is an older Nation as well, perhaps older than the Scandinavians. Karelia is a Baltic-Finnic nation extending from Lake Ladoga to the White Sea. She has longtime connections with Finland, Sweden, Estonia, Ingria, Sápmi, Russia, and Ukraine. But she has always been a nation between East and West, being literally split between them even to this day. Karelia's borders have changed constantly throughout history, making the region extremely diverse. Because of this, and her people being broken apart multiple times in recent memory, her identity feels a bit shattered. Yet it's incredibly strong, with colorful culture, traditions, and language - being unique from the other Finnic groups.
I personally think that Nations and their relationships with each other don't have to be 1-1 adaptations to their real-life counterparts, where every single historical event plays out exactly like in a textbook. History, culture, politics, and, most importantly, people's personal experiences and relationships with their country will always be individual even to people from the same group. But we also shouldn't completely ignore and sugarcoat history, thus downplaying or, in the worst case, contributing to the ongoing harm. So, as rich as the source to create OCs is in this fandom, it's also an endless loophole with no clear answer to anything. But as long as we're ready to be respectful, be willing to learn, and keep an open mind, I don't see a problem with it <3
#i'm bad at explaining but hopefully my idea comes across#also perhaps this explains why i don't feel particularly strongly about shipping the nordics with each other - there is a lot going on#oc talk#hws faroe islands#hws åland#hws greenland#hws sápmi#hws karelia
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All I Ever Knew, Only You 14: Light 'Em Up
Chapter Fourteen.
So bright, the flames burned in our hearts,
That we found each other in the dark,
Black beast, out in the wilderness,
We are fighting to survive and convalesce,
But we're gonna live, we're gonna live, at last,
Then I heard the church bells from afar,
But we found each other in the dark
Summary: Hawkins was your typical quaint, mid-western town where nothing ever happened. People were born here, lived their entire lives within the town limits, and eventually died here, peacefully in their sleep. But one cold November evening in 1983 would change everything.
Despite a child with psychokinetic abilities and ravenous monsters that lacked faces, stranger things had definitely happened in the small town in Indiana. One of them being your reluctant and slightly imposed friendship with Hawkins High’s own King Bee, Steve Harrington.
Characters: Steve Harrington x Non-descriptive F!Reader (eventual)
Words: 5,726
Chapter Warnings: Explicit language, mentions of injuries, fluff, Protective!Hopper here for duty, the death of dart that i am still not over, attempted suicide in the absolute most minimal way i promise (you'll understand when you read it i promise, everyone is good everything is fine i just don't know how else to label it), i am now totally unsure which one is the bigger idiot.
Series Warnings: Strong language, mentions of underage drinking, mentions of drug use, canon-typical violence, mentions of alcohol abuse, mentions of possible mental health disorders, child abuse, slow burn, kinda enemies-to-friends-to-lovers, I like to call it ‘two idiots who begrudgingly befriend each other only to realize… ‘wait a damn minute…’, eventual sexual content, no use of y/n, canon-typical time-period bullshit. 18+. Minors DNI.
Previous Chapter
Next Chapter: coming soon
Chapter Fourteen: Light 'Em Up
The tires of the blue Camero groaned in discontent, screeching as the car finally came to a stop with half of Merrill’s pumpkin sign still attached to it.
Steve had progressively become more awake, and also more panicked during the ride, and despite the pain you’d be in any time you had to brace during Max’s overzealous drive, you couldn’t deny the fact that had any of the boys driven, you probably wouldn’t have made it out of the Byers’ driveway.
“Told you. Zoomer.” Max told them proudly before pushing open her door and allowing Mike to climb out, followed by Dustin as you and Steve were left to clamber — or in Steve’s case, fall — out of the too-small backseats.
You made your way around to the trunk, grabbing goggles as the kids tied their bandannas around their faces. You didn’t have much time to look for real supplies, and you just prayed that what you had would suffice.
Either way, it would have to do.
Steve groaned as he pulled himself up from the floor where he’d all but rolled to, his face beaten and swollen slightly as he stumbled for a moment whilst he tried to get his bearings.
“No… Guys. Hey, where do you think you’re going?” He questioned Mike as the younger boy strolled right past him, can of gasoline in hand, “What are you, deaf? Hello? We are not going down there right now. I made myself clear. There is no chance we’re going to the hole, all right?”
You passed Steve, too focused on the task at hand to bother yourself with his dramatics, and instead handed Mike a rope as the older boy continued to emphasize his argument. Walking back around to the trunk to grab your own gear, Steve’s hand shot out, the boy stumbling a little as he held on to you.
“This ends now!”
Shrugging his hand off, you sent him a sharp glare whilst Dustin finally responded, “Steve, you’re upset, I get it. But the bottom line is, a party member requires assistance, and it is our duty to provide that assistance.”
Dustin stormed off, making his way toward the group as they began to lower items into the hole whilst Steve stood — still a little dazed — and inhaled deeply. You could tell he was frustrated, but at least he wasn’t yelling about it anymore.
“He’s not wrong.”
“You too? I thought we were on the same side here.” Steve sighed, his tired eyes roaming over your face. The boy had perfected the kicked puppy dog look.
Biting your bottom lip, you moved closer to the boy and placed your hand on his arm that was leaning against the open car door, “We are on the same side, okay? Look, these kids are gonna go down there whether we go with them or not. If you need to stay up here, that’s fine. I get it. But I’m not letting them go down there alone, especially not with those things running around.”
Steve sighed, tightly squeezing his eyes closed, “We said we’d keep them safe…”
Your hand moved from Steve’s forearm, hovering over his bruised knuckles for just a second before gently squeezing his hand, causing the boy’s eyes to pop open almost comically, “So let's keep them safe. You got this, Steve. We got this.”
Your left hand grabbed a backpack from the trunk containing a bandanna, goggles and Steve’s trusty nailed bat. You held it out to him with bated breath, waiting for his decision. After the relentless attack from Billy, you wouldn’t blame him if he decided he needed a time-out. Your own head was throbbing, you couldn’t begin to imagine how his felt.
Nor could you ignore the relief that flooded your bones when he took the bag from you, a simple nod from the boy before you began to pull on your own gear.
In usual Steve fashion, the boy demanded he go first into the hole to check it out and make sure there wasn’t a pack of hungry Demo-dogs waiting underneath for you all to drop directly into their open mouths.
“Holy shit,” Steve gazed around the tunnel as the rest of you dropped down, Mike pulling out a map before setting off in the direction he believed would lead you all to the hive mind.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hey. I don’t think so. Any of you little shits die down here, we’re getting the blame. Got it, dipshit?” Steve grumbled, pushing past Mike, “From here on out, I’m leading the way. Come on, let's go.”
You all began to follow him, no questions asked as Steve led the group and you brought up the rear. By the time you were deep enough into the tunnels, you were ready to throw your flashlight at him. A little hustle this, and c’mon, pick up the pace that.
You’d almost forgotten that he was captain of both the basketball team and the swim team and was more than comfortable ordering people around.
Vines wrapped their way along the long floors, keeping you conscious of where you were stepping, as if they might leap out at you any second and dangle you upside down, and the particles of something floating in the air made you cautious that maybe the bandannas you all wore were not enough to keep your respiratory system safe and working.
You felt like your head was turning every few seconds, paranoia from the Demo-dogs, as well as uncharted tunnels, making you feel on edge and Dustin’s sudden screaming really didn’t discourage that.
Rushing toward the boy as he fell to the ground, his shouts desperate enough to rattle your bones, you grabbed at him as he flinched away, unaware of your presence until you managed to get him to look at you, the boy calling for his friends as the group quickly returned.
Slipping from your grasp as he continued to flail about, the group surrounded him, “What happened?”
“It’s in my mouth! Some got in my mouth! Shit!”
He began to hack up a cough as you pulled down your bandanna, trying to catch Dustin’s attention as you called his name, pulling his face into your hands, all but forcing the boy to look up at you,
“Dustin, relax!”
Gulping in a large breath of air, the boy finally settled, his blue eyes peering into yours, “I’m okay…”
“You serious?”
“Very funny, man. Nice. Very nice.”
The group continued on, murmuring under their breath as you helped pick the boy back up, a possibly too-hard whack to the back of his cap to send him on his way after you pulled up your own bandanna once more.
This was going to be a long night.
“Alright, Wheeler,” Steve sighed, flashlight pointed at the crossroad of tunnels surrounding you, “I think we found your hub.”
“Let’s drench it.”
And so you got to work, covering the walls and surrounding tunnel entrances in gasoline. Turning toward Steve, who was busy pouring out his own canister, you pulled your bandanna down once more,
“Are you sure you won’t, like… light up like a Christmas tree?”
Steve’s brow cocked, the only hint that he was silently questioning you.
“You know, with all that hairspray, are you sure you’re not flammable?”
Despite not being able to see his facial features, you felt it in your soul when Steve was glaring at you, causing a smirk to pull one side of your mouth upward.
“Ha ha, very funny,” the boy’s monotonous tone only caused your smile to broaden as he moved closer toward you, the tips of his sneakers knocking your own slightly as he reached forward with his free hand, rubber glove gently gripping the bandanna that now loosely hung around your neck and pulling it back over your nose, “And stop pulling this down. We don’t know what’s floating around down here.”
Rolling your eyes, you secured the cloth a little tighter around your face and wondered how ridiculous you all looked.
“You guys ready?” Steve asked once you were all standing at the entrance to the tunnel you came from.
“Light her up,” Dustin confirmed as Steve pulled out his lighter.
You felt his dark eyes peering up at you from where he knelt on the floor, “We are in such deep shit.”
You placed a hand over Max’s shoulder, pushing the girl in front of you as the tunnels lit up, an unbearable and unforgiving heat beating across your face as you watched the vines along the floor begin to dance along the embers. Everything really was connected, and you could only hope this didn’t hurt Will more than it had to.
“C’mon, go!” Steve pulled you along by the wrist, only letting go once he was certain your feet would follow, as he pushed his way to lead the group once more, “This way!”
Unfortunately for you, you were running just behind Mike when he took a tumble — a thick vine wrapping around his ankle and slowly dragging him across the floor — causing you to trip right over him, your own ankle rolling under your weight as you failed to catch yourself on the sharp walls of the tunnel.
Mike’s screaming caught the attention of the group as you tried to drag yourself toward the thick vine, unable to untangle it as it fought against you, only tightening its grip on the boy. Despite struggling to pull off your backpack, you finally managed to pull the ax that you were yet to return to Mrs. Byers and hobbled to your feet, balancing on your one good foot as you swung at the vine, cursing as you lost your balance and tumbled toward the wall.
A shrill screech seemed to emit from the vines as they curled up, releasing the boy's ankle as Steve’s bat connected with it once, twice, three times.
Lucas and Dustin pulled Mike up, a tight grip on their friend as they checked him over whilst Steve turned to you, eyes wide even under his goggles as he looked from your face to your ankle, and back again, noting your flamingo-like posture,
“You good?”
Before you could respond, a growl from behind the group stopped you all in your tracks.
A Demo-dog stood on all fours, large mouth opening, and closing as it continued its inhuman noises. Dustin watched for a moment, head cocked slightly to the right.
“Dart.”
When the monster didn’t immediately attack, seemingly checking out the boy in front of him — friend or foe? Possibly even snack — Dustin stepped forward, despite everyone pleading for him to stay where he was.
“Shh, stop. Trust me, please.”
Dustin remained eerily calm as he slowly approached the dog, the monster taking a few cautionary steps closer too, meeting him near the middle of the tunnel.
“Hey, it’s me. It’s your friend, it’s Dustin,” the boy pulled down his bandanna before lifting his goggles in hopes the monster would recognize him, “It’s Dustin, all right? You remember me? Will you let us pass?”
The monster snarled at him, revealing far too many sharp teeth for your liking, but remained in place. If it wanted to, it easily could’ve ripped Dustin apart by now. You knew that as well as the boy did. But this… thing, something about this one was different. Maybe it really was Dart, and maybe, he and Dustin had formed some kind of weird, fucked up human/alternate-dimensional-creature bond in the few days it had taken Dart to sprout four legs and a mouth full of teeth.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry. I’m sorry about the storm cellar. That was a pretty douchey thing to do. You hungry? Yeah?” Dustin reached into his backpack, pulling out what looked like a Three Musketeers bar, “I’ve got our favorite, see? Nougat.”
As Dustin opened the wrapper, the creature slowly padded toward him, much like a family dog might’ve. Once Dart began to eat, Dustin shooed the rest of you through, Steve holding you up as you hobbled alongside him.
Once everyone had passed, Dustin stood, pulling down his goggles as he moved past to follow the group, turning around as Dart did the same, “Goodbye, buddy.”
As your group rushed back looking for where the rope to safety dangled, leading back up to the surface, the whole tunnel system seemed to shift, rumbling and sending you all in different directions.
“What was that?” Max asked, turning in the direction of… roaring?
“They’re coming. Run! Run!”
Steve lifted Max up first, the girl pulling herself up the rope with no problem, quickly followed by Lucas and then Mike. Dustin was halfway up the rope, clutching to his friend's hands when you saw the first shadow of a Demo-dog on the wall.
“Harrington,” you swallowed, heart pounding against your rib cage, eyes beginning to water as you realized your fate.
“I know, I know…” Steve panicked, gripping his bat in his hands as he shouldered Dustin a little further up, “Go, c’mon, get up-”
You both knew you didn’t have enough time for the two of you to get back out to safety and somehow, Steve had continuously surprised you in these life-and-death situations — especially when it was between his life and your death — constantly putting his safety on the line. Back last year with the Demogorgon, hell, even earlier that evening at the Junkyard.
This time… This time, it was your turn.
“We’re not gonna both make it up there in time. You need to go.”
His head swiveled around so quickly, you were sure he almost gave himself whiplash, but you didn’t give him enough time to disagree as you rearranged the ax in your grip, holding it high and standing your ground despite your shaking hands, “I’m not gonna get up there quickly, it’s pointless. Just go. Please.”
Ignoring the crack of your voice, and the shouting from the kids above you, Steve shook his head, eyes darting between yourself and the incoming monsters, their roaring getting closer and closer, “No, I-”
“Go, Steve!”
“Not without you.”
Snapping your own head toward the boy, you both stood silently as the few seconds that passed felt like hours, before finally accepting your fate.
The kids would be safe. But you were doing this. You and Steve would foolishly take on a pack of Demo-dogs.
Despite Steve’s eyes flicking back to the tunnel, yours remained on him as you tried to swallow down the fear that was crawling up your throat, clutching at your vocal cords and making it impossible to speak.
The first Demo-dog rushed around the corner, but you barely saw a flash of it as you were suddenly spinning around, Steve’s chest colliding with your back as he gripped you with one hand, turning your body behind his.
When the pained cries and shouting and screaming didn’t come, your eyes peeled open, watching as the dogs ran straight past you, entering a different tunnel and paying both you and Steve no mind.
Once the echoes of their rushed feet had disappeared, the tunnel remained silent, even the kids above were in shocked silence. Blood rushed in your ears, as your body shook, the ax falling from your grip and landing by your feet.
Steve’s labored breaths pushed his chest into your back repeatedly, and you weren’t quite sure if it was your heartbeat or his that you could feel.
His grip remained tight around your waist, rubber gloved fingers digging into your skin a little too tightly to be reassuring, yet you still leaned your weight against him, head bent backward at a mildly uncomfortably angle as you pulled down your bandanna and caught your breath, trying to work out if you were actually still alive.
It was only when he tilted his own head down, resting his chin on your shoulder that you flinched away — his panting a little too loud in your ear — the previous pain from earlier that evening finally ebbing its way back now that the adrenaline was finally dissipating from your veins.
“Eleven,” Mike shouted down, “She’s doing it, she’s closing the gate. Get out of there, now.”
Neither of you needed to be told twice, and once Steve had awkwardly lifted you halfway up the rope, allowing you to place your weight onto his shoulder as the other kids had helped you crawl out of the hole, he quickly followed after you just in time to watch the headlights beam on Billy’s car, momentarily blinding you all.
And, just as it had seemed last year…
It was over.
Steve had managed to drive to Hopper’s cabin thanks to your directions as the kids huddled in the backseat. Nobody uttered a word, and the car radio remained off the entire drive. The only words you spoke were a mumbled thank you as he assisted you out of the car, tucking your arm over his shoulders, his own hand wrapping back around your waist as he helped you slowly hobble toward the cabin.
You could only pray that whatever had its hold over Will was gone, leaving the boy unscathed and that Eleven and Hopper were alive and safe.
Thankfully, you’d spotted Hopper’s Chevvy hidden where he usually parked it between the trees and found yourself all but rushing toward the safety of the cabin.
The commotion from the kids must have alerted everyone to your appearance as the group, bar Will and Eleven, stepped out onto the porch, eyebrows pinched together, confused at your sudden appearance. The plan was for you to stay at the Byers and wait. It was clear to everyone that somehow, for some reason, that plan had changed.
You felt a whimper force its way out of your lips before you even recognized the sound as your own when you caught Hopper’s gaze, the man pushing through the small crowd outside the front door, his long legs reaching you quickly.
Steve released you from his grip as soon as the larger man approached, brows still furrowed on his face as he pulled you into a tight hug,
“What the hell happened to you guys?”
It took Steve a second to realize that Hopper’s attention was now directed toward him, his dark blue eyes taking in his bruised face.
“Uh, something came up. We… We couldn’t stay at the Byers. I know we said… I promised we’d look after the kids, but-”
“Can we talk about it later?” You sighed, hoping Hopper would take pity on your tired eyes and pained limp, “Eleven and Will… are they okay?”
Hopper helped you up the porch steps, a sweet smile sent Joyce’s way as she took your face between her warm palms and placed a kiss on your forehead, “They’re fine. Exhausted but… Alive. Safe.”
It felt like a weight had been lifted from your chest, the ability to finally inhale deeply causing your vision to blur a little. The plan had worked, and most of you had survived. Mike had already made his way into the cabin, grabbing at both Eleven and Will and pulling them into a tight hug, quickly followed by the rest of the kids, bar Max who hung back a little.
Joyce, however, moved her attention to the young girl, pulling her into a motherly hug, “Whatever you kids did tonight… Thank you.”
“Can we, uh… Clean up a little?” you turned toward Hopper, nodding toward the bathroom, knowing there was a first aid kit stashed in the medicine cabinet.
Hopper’s gaze switched between you and Steve before sending the latter a slight glare, despite his nod, “Head on through, do you want me to-”
“It’s fine, Hop. We won’t be long,” you sighed, trying to put as little weight onto your ankle as possible as you shuffled Steve into the too-small bathroom.
Once the folding door was shut, shutting out the quiet mumbles from the group, you let out a long, exasperated sigh, leaning on the door whilst Steve was already looking through the cabinet, pulling out the small box.
“Do you want to-”
“No, no… You sit down, I don’t think that ankle is gonna handle any more pressure on it tonight.” Steve interrupted, motioning for you to sit on the closed toilet as he nosed through the first aid supplies.
Finding some ointment for bruising and a clean cloth, Steve ran the tap until the water was warm, ringing out the excess water before standing in front of you, hesitating.
“Do you, uh-”
“I can’t exactly see the back of my head, Harrington.”
Nodding, Steve placed the cloth against the back of your head, a mumbled apology falling from his lips when you hissed in pain.
“Billy, he uh… He didn’t-”
“Billy didn’t touch me,” you sighed, “not really, anyway. Shoved me away from Lucas and I hit my head on the counter.”
An unintelligible grumble fell from Steve’s lips, his eyebrows almost connecting as he frowned, only deepening as you continued to speak, “I must say though, Harrington. I’m pleasantly surprised. You got in, what? At least three hits before-”
“Before he blindsided me by hitting me in the head with a plate?” Steve huffed, pulling away the cloth and rinsing it when he found only dried blood. He took a second to look over the wound, unsure as to what he was really even looking for.
“I mean, it’s Billy. Do you really expect him to play fair?”
Shrugging his shoulders, Steve groaned slightly as he bent down, resting on his knees as he lifted your ankle. After taking off your sneakers and socks, then rolling up your jeans a little, he turned your ankle cautiously as he inspected it. The skin had already begun to swell, and a deep red bruise was blossoming along the outer side of your heel,
“You really need to ice and rest this,” Steve placed the cold cloth against the skin and held it there, continuing to scrutinize your injury.
A small huff fell from your lips as you sent the top of his head a smirk, “Where did you get your Ph.D. from again?”
“I play sports,” Steve’s eyes met yours, an annoyed, but innocuous glare settling across his face as he peered up at you, “I’ve rolled my ankle enough times in Basketball to know how to deal with it.”
A high, mocking tune rumbled in your throat as you cocked a brow, “My bad, Harrington. Didn’t know you liked to play Doctors and Nurses in your spare time.”
“Why do you do that?” He interrupted thumb subconsciously grazing the part of your skin that the cloth didn’t reach.
Your face scrunched slightly, feeling a little too defensive already, “Do what?”
His shoulders slumped as a long sigh escaped his nose, but his eyes remained focused on you, “You know, I think tonight, when you were convincing me to follow those little assholes into the pits of Hell… I think that was the first time I’ve heard you actually call me by my name.”
“I call you it all the time-”
“No,” he interrupted once more, the line between his brows emerging once again as he tried to stress his point, “You call me Harrington all the time. Normally with a glare, but still…”
You remained silent for a moment, wondering if you did, indeed, do that, “Does it matter?”
“I mean, it makes you sound like you’re always mad at me-”
“I am normally mad at you,” you joked, but your smile slipped from your face just as quickly as it had appeared when his expression didn’t change, “I don’t know why I do it, alright? I do it to everyone, I guess…”
“I just…” Steve sighed, the hand that was holding the cloth to your ankle moved to push his hair back from his forehead before quickly reattaching itself to you, as if he needed to anchor himself to something to get his thoughts out, “I like it when you call me Steve. Makes me feel like we’re, you know… Friends.”
You watched as he shrugged, his throat bobbing as he tore his eyes away from you in what you could only assume was embarrassment.
Because even after everything you went through together almost a year ago, even after he saved your life… you weren’t friends. But now?
“Seems like the universe is trying to tell us something.”
Steve’s eyes returned to yours, confusion etched on his face as you sighed and sat up straighter, your body a little closer to him, “We are friends. I mean, you saved my life twice in one year. It would be kinda rude not to be, right?”
A small puff of air forced itself from his chest as he sent you a small smile, “Third time’s the charm,”
“Oh my god, why would you even say that?” You laughed back, mouth agape in faux offense, “But, I suppose I could… try and reserve last names for when I’m actually mad-”
“It would save me a lot of confusion.”
You shared a small, almost silent laugh, his eyes boring into you, seeming much darker in Hopper's dodgy bathroom lightening, Steve’s thumb still subconsciously skimming over your ankle as you both reveled in the quiet, the voices in the lounge were low and muffled slightly, so when the folding door was swiftly yanked open, nearly sending the boy into your lap, you both jumped out of your skin, your wide eyes narrowing into a glower as you stared down the man on the other side of the door,
“You kids need some help in here? Been long enough I thought you’d got lost.”
Rolling your eyes, you settled back against the tank of the toilet with a sigh, “Waiting times in the ER are outrageous. I’ll tell my doctor to hurry it up.”
Steve cleared his throat, discomfort written on his face as he sent Hopper an almost pained smile, unable to keep eye contact for more than a few seconds, “Almost done. Promise.”
You watched Hopper as he watched Steve — the boy suddenly finding the bare wooden floorboards beneath him a little too fascinating — his eyes flitting to you for just a moment before settling back on the boy, “Yeah, well, speed it up, alright? I need to take a leak.”
“Hop,” you heard Joyce warn, pulling the man’s attention for just a moment. His tongue ran across his bottom lip as if he were deep in thought, before he finally conceded, pulling the door across once more, but not shutting it fully.
Steve quickly poured the Arnica ointment onto some toilet paper before gently dabbing it onto your ankle, brows furrowed in concentration “We really should speed things up.”
“Ignore him. He’s just… weird.”
Steve sent you a quirked brow, all too aware that you didn’t bother to lower your voice and that the possibility of Hopper hearing you was high.
“You’re pretty close, huh?”
“He, uh… He dated my Mom. Hung around for a while and never really left, even when they broke up.”
“That’s nice.”
Shrugging, you peered through the gap in the door, eyes finding the man across the room talking quietly with Joyce for a moment before disappearing from your obstructed view, “I guess so. I don’t really see eye to eye with my Mom. I mean, I know what people say about her, about my family, but Hopper, he just… He never cared about all that stuff. I, uh… I cried myself to sleep the night they broke up. I mean, I’d seen guys come and go for years, I was used to it, and I just kind of thought he’d disappear like everyone else. Cross the street when he saw me, duck his head when he saw me in the same aisle at Big Buy… But he just… didn’t, you know? It wouldn’t have ever lasted with my Mom, but he’s been there for me more than anyone. Especially my own dad. I owe him a lot.”
“I don’t think he sees it that way.”
Steve’s comment caught you off-guard slightly. You’d heard all the gross accusations that high schoolers had thrown your way. That Hopper had left your mother for you, that he was your real dad and everything in between. You had thought for so long that he had simply hung around because he felt guilty. Then, you’d heard that he had a daughter, Sara, who had passed away in New York, and you thought that maybe his protectiveness over you was down to grief. That he was trying to make you fit into a Sara-shaped hole.
But Hopper, despite all of his flaws — and he had plenty — was simply a good man.
Sending your sudden tension, Steve scrambled to continue, “I mean, I don’t think he thinks you owe him anything. He seems like a decent guy-”
“He is,” you cut Steve off. Your chest felt heavy and tight as if your body was desperate for the conversation to finish before you burst into tears and embarrassed the both of you.
“All done,” Steve smiled, placing the toilet paper into the sink to be flushed later. He placed your ankle gently on the floor after rolling back down your pant leg and pulling on your sock, “I wouldn’t even try the sneakers, but you do need to ice it.”
Holding out a hand, Steve pulled you up, your bodies a little too close in the cramped bathroom, “We should-”
“Sit your ass down, Steve,” you wanted to pat yourself on the back for remembering, “It’s your turn.”
Eventually, you and Steve emerged from the bathroom, one arm slung over his shoulder as he guided you back into the lounge, Hopper quickly moved from where he was leaning against the wall next to the bathroom and took over, walking you back to his armchair whilst Steve quietly argued — and lost — with Joyce as she tried to give up her own chair, eventually reassuring him that she was going to check on Will, who was resting on Hopper’s fold up bed across the room.
When the once cold can of beer pressed against your ankle had warmed to room temperature, and the box of ‘Eggo’s’ Steve had held against his bruised face had turned soggy, the boy finally pushed himself up, clearing his throat, “I, uh… I should get going.”
You’d explained most of your evening to the group, leaving out that Hargrove had been the cause of your own injuries, and Hopper had told Steve that Billy would find himself on the receiving end of a few extra speeding tickets since the former didn’t want to press charges, and by now, everyone was visibly exhausted. It had been a very long weekend.
“Can I catch a ride?” You asked, already pushing yourself up off the armchair to follow.
Steve nodded and extended the offer, eventually driving you, Max, Lucas, and Dustin out of there. He’d have to drop Billy’s car back before anyone became suspicious, but he’d just waved a hand at you when you’d offered to drive the Camero back after picking up his own car, telling you he would simply walk home and collect it from the woods where he’d left it with yourself and Dustin at the beginning of your hunt for Dart.
Despite Hopper offering to stay at his for the night, you declined. You just wanted to crawl into your own bed and not emerge for a couple of days, despite knowing it was the beginning of another school week. So, after Jim had made you promise to radio him if there was any issue, he begrudgingly sent you off into the night with Steve.
The excitement seemed all too much for the kids, each one falling asleep before Steve had even passed back by Merrill’s farm. His voice was gentle as he woke them up, bar when he gave Dustin a shove, the boy snoring obnoxiously loud as he spread out across the backseat, the last to be dropped home.
Once the boy was safely inside his house, Steve sighed and pulled away, ready to make his way to your house. He could've easily dropped you home first and left Max to last, but the both of you remained quiet as he drove past the long, winding road that would've led to your street. His eyes were red-rimmed and heavy, and he cursed each time his hand subconsciously rubbed at them after he'd pulled over outside of your home.
You hesitated for a moment — your hand ready to open the door — unsure of what to say. So instead, you let out a long sigh and turned in the boy’s direction, “Get home safe, okay?”
Steve nodded, “Want me to walk you to the door? You really shouldn’t be putting weight on that-”
“-After everything that’s happened tonight, if I get murdered between this car, and my front door, then so be it,” you joked, a small smile on your face as Steve tiredly returned it.
Steve’s mouth opened, ready to retort, but instead remained hanging wide as you shuffled across the seat, pulling him into an awkward but quick one-armed hug, “Thanks again, Steve. And I’m sorry for, you know… dragging you along to the tunnels.”
Clearing his throat, Steve sent you a firm nod, “No, it’s… I get it, you know? I mean, either way, we kept the kids safe, right?”
“Right…”
“We make a pretty good team,” a puff of laughter fell from Steve’s lips. The irony wasn’t lost on the boy. 12 months ago, Steve wouldn’t have given you the time of day. You both knew that. Hell, you were certain he wouldn’t be able to pick you out from a lineup full of new students that he’d never met, despite the fact Hawkins only had one high school.
“Yeah, I guess we do. Goodnight, Steve.”
You shuffled out of the car ungracefully, and Steve watched with a wince, forcing himself to remain seated as you hobbled your way up the creaky, decayed porch steps and eventually into your home.
Only once you were tucked away safely in your house, bedroom light flicking on a moment later, did Steve finally drive away.
#steve harrington fanfic#steve harrington fanfiction#steve harrington x reader#stranger things fanfiction#steve harrington x you#stranger things fanfic#stranger things fic#steve harrington fic#steve harrington smut
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Howdy lovely!!
This might be a strange request but I’m just really curious about what the bad batchers would think about their S/O being a teacher for younger kids. Im a teacher for younger kids and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a HC about it. Thank you for looking at these requests and as always don’t do this request if you don’t want to or feel comfortable
💚 lots of love ~ Madison
Aloha, sweetheart!
Not a strange request at all, I think it's cute 😊
The Bad Batch x Teacher!Reader HCs - Teaching The Next Generation
Hunter
The moment he finds out how you make a living, he is hooked. He tries to imagine you teaching the kids, and just the idea warms his heart. Hunter himself can't quite explain why, he doesn't really realize he's a family man, but he definitely is. The thought that you're good with kids automatically makes you even more attractive to him.
The first time he sees you working with children, he is excited. Working with children requires sensitivity and patience, two qualities Hunter appreciates and admires. He volunteers to come along on a field trip to help supervise and share some of his knowledge.
Hunter is very nervous at first, but he quickly settles into the role of teacher with your help and enjoys being able to pass on his knowledge. The children may be skeptical at first because of his appearance, the face tattoo seems a little dark, but they quickly learn how kind and patient Hunter is, from him, they like to learn everything about flora and fauna, how to read tracks and survive in the wilderness if you get lost.
Wrecker
He is enthusiastic. Wrecker loves kids and the kids love him right from the first time they meet him. By now, they call him Uncle Wrecker when he picks you up from work. His playful, friendly nature goes down well with the little ones, and of course his appearance amazes the kids. Plus, he always has candy with him.
You definitely have something in common when it comes to dealing with the kids; you have that certain sensitivity, patience, and sense of play and fun. Wrecker has respect for your work, and is always happy to lend a hand when you prepare special projects for the students.
He talks about your work with pride when he talks about it with others. Wrecker thinks what you do is incredibly inspirational.
Echo
He has respect for your work. Echo feels that you have an important part to play in shaping and preparing future generations. It is a part of you that he finds very attractive, that you are so patient and full of sensitivity, which also benefits him in your relationship.
One of your school children is dependent on prosthetics, much like Echo. When you notice how difficult the child finds it on a physical but also emotional level, you ask him to drop by in class. Echo is hesitant at first, but then agrees.
Of course, he is stared at, but that is nothing new for him, and he doesn't really hold it against the children. The said child with the prostheses marvels at him shyly and Echo takes time for this child to explain that even with prostheses you are still a person, you can achieve everything you want if you only want it.
"We are different, that may be, but we are not worth less. We are also allowed to have goals, dreams and desires. Look at me, I'm still what I always wanted to be, a soldier, and I'm good at it because I want it and work hard for it"
The children gather around him and ask questions, and he answers them all patiently, showing and explaining the function of his prosthetics. You look at him gratefully, and he winks at you. Echo can always be counted on, and the fact that you admire him for what he is doing makes his heart beat faster.
Tech
"An admirable profession"
Tech knows that patience and sensitivity are important, but so much more. Empathy, adaptability, and of course, a certain intellect. He admires you for that, in fact he's fascinated by your profession.
"You should be a teacher, too, when the war is over," you suggest, hoping he'll consider it.
Tech adjusts his goggles with his index finger and says thoughtfully, "A nice idea, I guess I have the know-how, but I suppose I don't have the sensitivity or empathy."
You look at him in surprise and say, "You shouldn't underestimate yourself in that regard. I've already seen that you unexpectedly have a fine radar for things emotional, you just express yourself a little too directly sometimes."
Tech thinks about what you said long after that conversation.
On a visit to your class, he's talking to the kids and explaining his job and answering many other questions the kids bombard him with when you have to temporarily leave the classroom.
At first, Tech feels very uncomfortable being alone with the kids. But when you return, he is engaged in a chess game with one of your high-achieving students and about to lose, the rest of the class set up excitedly around the two as if watching an exciting fight.
Sure enough, Tech loses and says, "You win, young man. You know you're way too smart for your age?"
The boy beams at him, revealing a few missing teeth.
When you ask Tech, perplexed, "Did he really beat you at chess?", Tech just winks at you unobtrusively, conspiratorially, and replies, "Fair and square".
You smile and say softly, "You should really consider changing jobs."
Crosshair
He is not good with children, but admires what you do. He feels uncomfortable around children because he can't do anything with them.
"They're loud, ask nosy questions and grab at everything," he growls, rolling his eyes as you ask why he never picks you up at work.
You can't help but laugh, whereupon he cocks an eyebrow at you.
"What's so funny?"
"That you're afraid of children."
Crosshair frowns unwillingly.
"I'm not afraid of anything"
"If you say so" you return with a smile.
Doggedly he looks at you, "Tomorrow I'll pick you up from work, at your classroom. What's the number of the room?"
"201," you say, still grinning.
When he picks you up the next day, he seems anything but relaxed. There are kids running around in the hallways, and his eyes are twitching back and forth as if he expects them to infect him with something deadly. But the children automatically give the gloomy-looking man a wide berth.
You say gently teasingly, "Relax soldier, this is not a battlefield."
He snorts, "I'd feel more comfortable on a battlefield."
You chastely kiss his cheek and say, "Okay, you proved to me how brave you are. I won't ask you to pick me up here again".
He looks at you, scrutinizing, as you walk side by side down the hall to the exit.
Finally, he says, sighing, "But you'll be disappointed if I don't".
"I didn't say that"
"Your face said it"
You shrug your shoulders and Crosshair finally gives in with a sigh, "Twice a week I'll pick you up here when I'm on site"
You smile lopsidedly at him, whereupon he grabs your hand and growls, "You're going to drive me crazy, Kitten"
Ko-Fi (If you feel like giving me some coffee)
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hey hi how does travis parallel common feminine tropes? i need to hear from the travis expert
Okay, so the "Problem" is that there's a preface and conclusion that's, like, way longer than just my bit about Travis's funny little parodies and then genuine relationship with femininity. While answering this ask, I realized just how big it is and I don't want to unload all of it here because I am just. Too tired all of the time to have all of it done in one swipe, and my attempt to do so ended up frustrating me more than anything LMAO
I write this with the promise that I'll expand on it and actually get to the meat of your question. I have a lot of it written, already!
The preface is easy: what's up with Travis and his relationship with gender?
Travis is trying to present as a very masculine, powerful character. It's an easy defense mechanism when he's alone in a crowded room. The thing many people fail to consider is that he doesn't know any of these people, and he probably dislikes most (if not all) of them on principal. The girls have a bond that existed in the before times, and Travis doesn't. He's an outsider. He's trying to grasp for some semblance of control by playing a sort of parody of the stoic, macho man... and it doesn't work.
Because of how he does this, a lot of people into the show are not into Travis. He's one of the only characters that are overtly and loudly misogynistic. It makes sense that people don't want to look past that when he acts so nasty. This means many write him off as exactly what Travis wants people to think he is.
Kevin Alves says it best in his Boys by Girls interview. I suggest reading the whole thing, it says a lot of what I'm saying and more.
So, even though he's pushing this masculine agenda when he's in the wreck with all the girls, my assumption in him has always been that he's never been the most big or the most masculine of guys at school. This is him really trying to pretend to be someone that he is not, this is not him.
This dramatized, fictional version of him is how he thinks he'll find a place within the group. The alternative is getting Coach Ben-ed and slowly being ousted from the group. Sitting in the back room and rotting in complete solitude just seems like a downer.
(Here he is looking sad for emphasis)
Travis was never the top dog. The girls do not take him seriously when he acts like this, and he probably wasn't taken very seriously in school. His insecurities lead to a lot of failures in his relationship with Javi and Nat, and no relationship with anyone else. If it continued any further than it did, he would've died for this. Like with Jackie, he'd be frozen out.
What Travis learns, and we learn as well, is that to be part of the in-group, you must also be a part of the dominant culture in the cabin and Wilderness itself. For Travis to be a part of the Yellowjackets, Travis must also be one of the girls.
Travis's story, the link between season 1 and season 2, is one of transition.
Some interpret this as a social transition, but I believe it to be literal.
The surviving group is not "the Yellowjackets and also Travis." By the end of season 2, (actually by the end of Qui,) Travis is indistinguishable from the rest. He's eaten Jackie with them, he's given blood to Shauna, he's taken blood from Lottie, he has led the group in their second act of cannibalism. Travis is a Yellowjacket.
Credit where credit is due:
@monstrousgourmandizingcats really helped me grind out these ideas and has a lot of cool YJ takes in general, and most of the screenies were given to me by @nicothecowboy.
Now, for YJ Fic Writer's Weekend I should hopefully have the part of this that you asked about ready. Until then, I have some interviews, and I cannot recommend the PaleyFest panel more. It has a lot about Travis in S2 and his relationship with Nat and Lottie.
youtube
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