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samthestrangerthingsfan · 1 year ago

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Out of The Woods

pairing: Eddie Munson x Reader

summary: A look back into our reader's past, and a run-in with one, too.

chapter warnings: slow burn,mentions of grief, parental loss, motherhood, swearing, alcohol(ism), child neglect, childhood trauma. Maggie fluff to fix it all <3

a/n: EEP EEP EEP, i know i know its a slooooow burn but we truly are just getting started. Enjoy!

chapter two: Tell Me A Lie || series masterlist

SEPTEMBER 17th, 1982

Freezer-burnt Egos sit three high on the olive green plate in front of you.

“Great.” Syrup hasn’t been purchased in weeks, so you slather each one with a smear of grape jelly. All served up with a side of tap water.

One bite in, and the sound of shattering glass startles the appetite out it you.

“Dad?!” You shout in a panic.

The sight that greets you on the living room is one that’s become familiar in the few months since your mom’s passing. Your father, slumped over in his beat up recliner, a shattered vodka bottle on the floor next to him.

“Shit…” you’re frantic as you rush to grab the broom and dustpan. It’s become a routine, clean up dad’s mess so that he doesn’t hurt himself when he wakes for his night shift at the Plant.

While it may be routine, it’s certainly not normal. No fourteen year old should be shopping for groceries, and doing laundry and writing checks to the electric company with a letter begging for them to give her a little more time with the lights on.

Every payday, you’d wait for Dad to pass out in his chair, and you’d take most of the cash from his wallet. It was just enough to get yourself food for the week and pay what you could. If he noticed the missing money, he never said anything, but you assumed he did notice that debt collectors had stopped calling so much.

“Bye, Dad.” You whispered. No response—then again, there never was.

The bag of glass was thrown into the trash on your walk to the garage. Hopping on your rusted out silver bike, you started the 2 mile ride to Hawkins High.

In truth, this has become the only slice of peace in your day. You could shut your damn brain off and just breathe. Not worry about the inevitable chaos that waited for you at home.

It was Friday, which means a meeting with the school counselor to see how you were doing since your mom died. June was…it was a time you’ve tried to block out. To suppress any memories or feeling from that awful day.

“Did you hear me, hon?” Ms. Kelly’s soft voice pulled you from your dissociation.

“What? Oh, mhm.”

She looked at you softly, tilting her head as a sign she absolutely did not believe you.

“Listen,” she pulls the file off her desk and turns it for you to see. “Your grades…they’re not at all reflective of your abilities. Your teachers think you’re brilliant, but the lack of effort on homework and tests is something of a concern.”

The pain of holding back tears began to prickle your throat. “I know, I’m—I’m trying. I’m studying as much as I can—“

“You’ve got such a bright future, just work a bit harder, hm?” Her smile was one of reassurance and confidence.

It’s not Mrs. Kelly’s fault. She didn’t know about what was happening at home, so she certainly didn’t know the impact of her advice.

“Work harder,” you whisper, venom coating your tongue. “Got it.”

The smile on your face is only there to keep the tears at bay. She excuses you to get back to next period, and you practically sprint from her office.

Where your legs take you, you’re not exactly sure. But the room is empty and dark and at this point you’ll take any refuge you can get.

So you sit and sob, heaving breaths and crying into your palm to muffle any sounds. How long you were there you have no idea, but it was long enough to hear the bell for end of the school day.

The door to the room opened, pouring in light from the hallway.

“Shit…you okay?”

His voice was so gentle and unsure. Backlit as the door closed, the shadow of his silhouette almost made him look like an angel.

Long shaggy hair, denim and chains and leather.

An angel--dressed like a devil.

You attempted to stand quickly, muttering a half-hearted apology, but you stumbled. Luckily for you, the stranger caught your elbow and waist.

“Whoa, hey just—here, sit for a sec, okay?” He guided you to the table across from where you’d sat, and ushered you towards one of the chairs.

“You’re not hurt are you?” His voice was so soft; a kindness you hadn’t heard in a long, long time.

You shook your head, “No, no. I’m fine.”

He laughed softly, “You sure about that?”

The tears in your eyes put holes in his chest.

“I’m Eddie,” he sat next to you on the table, “Who might you be?”

You whispered your name, and he smiled, then whispered it right back.

Eddie was gentle with you. He sat in silence for a few minutes, waiting for your breathing to return to normal.

What you didn’t know was how he watched you. The way he recognized the pain in your eyes—a kind of sadness that only people who’ve experienced it can understand.

He knew a bad home life when he saw one, and It made him angry.

Angry that someone could look in your eyes and hurt you. That people could see how broken you were and take advantage of it. Worst of all? He was angry there was no one there to protect you.

As far as he was concerned, that changes today.

Eddie cleared his throat, and your eyes found him again. “Look at us,” he nudged your shoulder. “strangers a couple minutes ago, now we’re acquaintances. Who knows? Before we leave we might even be friends.”

A genuine and true laugh escaped you. It’d been so long since you’d heard your own laugh, the sound alone was foreign.

Though for Eddie, it was a sound that made his heart beat faster and face turn rosey, even under the gross fluorescent bulbs.

“I’d like to be your friend, I think.” You smile. Crinkles formed by his umber eyes as he mirrored your grin.

Your hand juts out, extended to him for the taking. “You’re not a serial killer, right?”

His warm grip finds yours, “Not to your knowledge.”

There’s a pain in your cheeks from smiling so hard. “That’s reassuring.”

Eddie jumped up, offering you his elbow. “Whaddya say, kid? Care to cause some chaos and debauchery with your new pal?”

It’d be easy to say no. To allow yourself to return to the shell you’ve built around yourself in order to protect your heart in a way no one else would.

But you didn’t hesitate. Linking arms with Eddie, his scent invaded you—nicotine and weed and…vanilla? Whatever the combination, you’re sure it was uniquely and perfectly him.

“Whatcha got in mind?”

Eddie could have said anything and you’re pretty sure you’d have agreed. “Oh, sweetheart. Just you wait.”

“Mama! Do we have any straw’bies?” Maggie asked from the kitchen.

The smell from the chemicals you’re cleaning the shower with make your head throb and the sweat on your brow itches you for the ten millionth time.

Deep breathes. Deep breathes.

“No, Mags. C’mon, get your shoes on. As soon as I’m done here we’re going to the store.” You throw the yellow gloves down into the sink, giving them a quick rinse.

The weekend has brought some seriously good progress. Friday you’d managed to get Maggie registered for school, and start cleaning out the house.

Boxes of old newspapers and tchotchkes your father had kept sat stagnant, collecting dust and taking up far too much space. None of it mattered to you, so you’d trashed it.

All of it.

Saturday was spent taking trips back and forth to the Goodwill, hoping and praying your little car would survive after all the driving she did. You’d bought a few cheap gallons of paint from Melvald’s, this house was your home now—Maggie’s home. It was time to wipe the slate clean and create a place the two of you could fill with love and laughter and memories

“Mom?” Maggie mumbled, mouth full of banana as she watches you slink into your jacket.

You grabbed your keys. “Yes, angel?”

“Can we get ice cream? Wouldn’t that be a fun way to ce-bre-late me going to big girl school tomorrow?”

I need to find a damn job.

You do some quick math, adding and subtracting based on what you had left in your savings, and what you’d set aside for bills.

You drop to your knees in front of your daughter, getting right down to her level to place a big kiss on her forehead. “Of course we can. Good idea, Maggie-moo.”

Her dimples were so deep from her big wide grin, you poked a finger in each of them.

“Moooom!” She laughed, swatting your hands away.

“Whaaaat? I just love you! Now c’mon, we gotta go get your asparagus.” You hold the door and Maggie jumps onto the porch.

“Ice cream!” She shouts, making a mad dash to the car.

You chuckle. “Right, right. Ice cream.”

The store is a mere 10 minutes drive from home. If you ask Maggie, she thinks 10 minutes is the perfect amount of time to throw an impromptu concert from the back seat—room for encore included.

The moment your hands grasp the shopping cart, Maggie’s arms are up. “Assuming the position, I see.” You smile proudly.

Scooping her up, you plop her right on her bottom into the cart. Maggie wiggled, gasping as the two of you strolled past the chip aisle. “Don’t forget! We have to get some snacks for school too!”

“Right,” you braked, and turned down it. “Let me guess, Doritos are the perfect school snack?”

Her eyes are wide, clearly overwhelmed at the selection the Pete’s Grocery has to offer. “Can we gets the cheese ones?”

“Sure thing, Sunshine.”

Shopping is entirely uneventful. It’s mainly you budgeting and planning on dinners for the week. Everything bought has to have more than one use or purpose, or you don’t get it. A few jars of pasta sauce, some spaghetti, a loaf of bread, peanut butter and jelly. Chicken, canned corn, strawberries and bananas and a few boxes of mac n cheese. No the shopping spree Maggie thinks it is, but you’ll make it work.

“Alright kiddo, now the piece de resistance…the ice cream section!” You use your best announcer voice as you scoop her from the cart, and let her roam free.

She squeals. “Mom! There’s so many kinds!”

You watch her, taking in how the littlest things in this life make her the happiest you’ve ever seen her. You’re so engrossed in your daughter, you almost don’t hear it. The familiar tone that had engrained itself in your memory, the sarcastic “Sure, Robin.” that had been a staple in his vocabulary since High School.

Any calm feeling you’d had vanished, stomach churning inside you. “Mags,” you called in a hushed tone. “Maggie! C’mon, baby, just choose—“

The voices were an aisle away, and moving closer to you.

Maggie was in her own world, running back and forth to different doors in careful deliberation.

You could feel yourself start to tremble, calling her a bit louder this time. “Maggie-moo, please hurry—“

“Ho-ly shit.”

Of course Robin was the first to say something. She stood with her mouth agape, Steve perplexed next to her. When he’d followed her gaze, the two bags of chips he was holding fell to the floor.

He called your name like he was unsure. Questioning if the ghost in front of him was really his friend from all those years ago.

“Mommy! I founded the one I want!” Maggie screeched as she barreled toward you, clutching a box of Bomb Pops to her chest.

Your two old friends’ eyes went straight to your daughter.

Robin’s eyes were so wide, you thought they’d burst from her skull. “Mom?” She questioned.

Steve followed her up with, “No freakin’ way.”

Maggie chucked the pops in the cart, and stood by your side, your arms instinctively reaching for her. She must have followed your eyes, because soon, she too was in the middle of the staring contest the three of you had started.

She was quiet for a moment, studying them, and it wasn’t that long before she started giggling the tiniest bit. She covered her mouth, making herself laugh with whatever joke was rolling around in her little mind.

Maggie walked up to Steve as she laughed, and smiled her big toothy grin at him. “Hiya, Cheeseball!” She spoke through her giggles.

Robin’s laugh caught her so off guard she started coughing, and Steve was all smiles. “Excuse me? Who told you about my nickname?”

Maggie laughed, “My Mommy! She said your name is Steeb and you’re a real cheese ball!”

“Steve, Mags. Steve.” You were laughing, thankful for your daughter for saving you and for easing the tense moment you were seconds away from having to address.

“Nope, uh-uh. He’s Steeb now, from this day until his last.” She looked at you, get big smile taking up her face. Her eyes were soft, softer than they’d been moments ago. She looked back to Maggie, “And who’re you?”

Pride filled Maggie’s voice, “My name is Maggie and I’m six years old, but I’ll be seven soon! Mommy telled me birthday is Star Wars day.”

Robin’s brows pinched together, “Star Wars Day?”

“May the 4th.” You and Steve answered in unison.

The hazel-eyed boy looked at you, offering you a small smile.

Robin went back to talking to Maggie, asking her about Star Wars and her why she chose Bomb Pops. Steve walked over to stand next to you.

He plopped the chips in the top of your cart, and without any hesitation, pulled you in for a hug.

“God, I missed you.” He whispered into your hair.

You could feel the emotion squeezing your throat, “I missed you so much, Stevie.”

He held you a few more seconds, using Robin as a distraction. “Is…is she—“

You gripped him tighter, “Not here. Please not here, Steve.”

Steve Harrington was many things, but dumb wasn’t one of them. A bit of an airhead, and clueless sometimes, but not dumb. He’d seen it immediately, the resemblance between the two of you, and the one of Maggie and his other friend.

Steve let you go, looking over your face. “Does, um…does he know?”

With shame in your heart, you shook your head. “No, and I need to keep it the way.”

The for now went unsaid.

Steve nodded. “You haven’t ran into him yet then, I take it.”

“No,” you whispered. “I don’t even know what would happen if we did. Can’t think about it, not right now.”

Maggie approached the two of you, yanking Robin by her arm. “You were right, Mom! I do like this Robin lady.”

When the laughter died down, it was then Robin asked the question looming over the four of you.

“So, and pardon-my-french Little Miss M, but what the hell are you doing back in Hawkins?”

And with that, the floodgates opened.

You told them about what you’d been up to the last seven years, and what brought you back. Granted, you kept everything very Maggie-friendly—meaning most of your words were very PG friendly.

It was a weird feeling, admitting to all of the half-truths you told yourself, and how you had to push them out of your life. You wanted to tell them anything but the truth. To spare their feelings and the thought that you too could just as easily abandon the people who, at one point, were some of the most important people in your life.

"That's...that's heavy shit." Steve breathed.

You nodded, fully aware of the hanger-ticking-timebomb Maggie was becoming.

"We'll, uh...we'll catch up soon. Gotta get the grouch dinner."

"I am not a grouch." Maggie crossed her arms, and turned away.

"Of course you're not! You're just a girl who knows what she want." Robin high fived Maggie, and your heart melted.

You hugged them both one more time before loading Mags back in the cart, "Stop by anytime," You said with a smile. "You know where I live."

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #eddie munson smut #eddie munson #ootw

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sprite-and-the-bunnydragons · 10 months ago

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My first fanfic! I wanted to start out with a fluffy (and maybe a little crack-y?) oneshot featuring the lu boys. Link to the AO3 coming once my account gets approved later this week!

✨Magical Placeholder for Title Until I Figure It Out✨

Warriors stared down the strategy map, rubbing the pebble that represented him between his fingers. He’d battled unlikely odds before, but this was a whole new level of hopeless.

He had to try. For the sake of his brothers, he had to try.

“Captain?” Sky asked, fiddling with his sailcloth. “Are you sure we shouldn’t get the old man?”

“He’s compromised. Always has been for missions like this, he’s just better at hiding it now. We’re certain Hyrule can’t swim?”

“He shrieked when Wild went waist deep into the lake a few months ago,” Four said from Warriors’s other side. “I don’t think anyone in Hyrule’s world knows how to swim.”

That complicated things. Hyrule would be one of the most resistant to their plan, and they couldn’t just throw him in. Warriors considered using Legend to coax Hyrule into the water, but the veteran seemed to have a thing against water. Probably another secret. Legend seemed to have a lot of those.

Warriors rubbed between his brows. He sighed and looked up at the pine trees surrounding their campsite. He’d convinced everyone except Sky and Four—the only Heroes who would accept his desperate plan—to forage or collect firewood elsewhere. That had been an hour ago. They were out of time for finding other solutions.

“All right,” he said. “We’ll have to keep Hyrule in the shallows, then. Four?”

Four grinned, teeth glinting in the sunlight.

“Way ahead of you, Captain.”

Warriors nodded and turned to Sky. The Chosen Hero had already grabbed his gust bellows and gave him a grim nod.

“Good,” Warriors said. “There’s just one other part of our problem to solve.”

He placed his own pebble next to the river on the map and picked up the miniature wolf Sky had carved the other day.

“Not it,” Four and Sky said at the same time.

“I didn’t even—” Warriors turned from the map. Both his brothers had their fingers on their noses. The captain huffed.

“Fine. I’ll wrestle the wolf. But you both are on laundry duty for this.”

“Small price to pay,” Four said.

“Yeah, I like my fingers right where they are.” Sky drummed his digits on the bellows with an apologetic smile. Warriors shook his head.

“Just get into position. Remember, quick and precise. We can’t afford mistakes.”

Four nodded. Coming from anyone else, Sky’s salute would have been sarcastic, but Warriors knew his fellow knight meant it. They both left, and the operation was on. Warriors took a deep breath, rolled up the map, and got his supplies from his pack.

He crept to the stream near their campsite, past the spot where Four had laid out everyone’s armor under the guise of repairing it later tonight. Good. Nothing would rust this way.

He crouched behind a bush near the shore and laid out his supplies. Three brushes for different hair textures, a pile of rags, a larger pile of fluffy towels, and the largest bottle of soap he’d ever seen. They hadn’t stayed in his world long enough to drag everyone to a bathhouse last week, but at least he’d had time to stock up. He lined up a smaller bottle of conditioner next to the brushes. Far as he knew, he’d be the only one interested in it.

A shout echoed across the forest. Phase One had begun.

Warriors grabbed the soap and squeezed a thick thread into the almost-still water. He wished he had one of Wild’s Korok leaves to stir, but a large stick he found near shore would have to do. He frothed the soap until a thick layer of foam sat on the water. Good thing Sky had offered to build a dam downstream so the soap wouldn’t wash away.

The lavender and eucalyptus soap floated into Warriors’s nose, making him relax. Another shout—no, that was a howl—jerked him into action. Four’s part of the plan must have worked. How the smithy knew what would provoke Twilight into transforming, Warriors had no idea. He didn’t want to know. Plausible deniability in case Twilight got mad. Warriors shuddered and returned to the bush.

Another howl. Footsteps racing.

Closer.

Wheezing, Sky tore into the clearing. He spotted Warriors, nodded, and lined up with his back to a tree. Sky pointed his gust bellows at the water. No one approaching the stream would see him.

“Cheatin’ bilge rat!” Wind sprinted into the clearing after Sky, Legend and Hyrule just behind. “You’re shark bai—”

Sky turned on his gust bellows.

Wind screeched and flailed headfirst into the stream. Hyrule tumbled after him. Legend figured out what was going on and activated his pegasus boots, running against the gust. Sky’s bellows blew stronger. Legend lost his footing and splashed into the stream.

Warriors covered his mouth to hold back a snicker.

Three heads popped up from the water. Hyrule looked panicked. Legend looked torn between holding up Hyrule and dragging Sky in with them. Wind looked murderous.

The sailor lunged up to grab Sky’s ankle, but Sky gusted until Wind fell back into the stream.

“You yellow-bellied, lily-livered, octo-brained seagull splat!” Wind yelled, but Warriors could hear him covering up a laugh.

“I have no idea what any of those words mean,” Sky said with a grin and an extra puff of air in Wind’s face.

Wind sucked in a breath, probably to ‘educate’ Sky. Another howl and a high-pitched, unheroic scream cut him off.

“Sky!”

Four tore into view and tossed Wild’s Sheikah Slate to Sky before jumping into the water. Wild burst from the bushes and dove after Four with a splash. Wolfie raced after them, skidding to a stop before the shore. He took a step back and looked around.

Come on, Twilight. Just a little closer.

Four burst above the surface, only for Wild to tackle him deeper into the stream. Warriors had only seen that look on Wild’s face once—right before disintegrating the iron knuckle that had downed Twilight.

Maybe Warriors had miscalculated his plan.

“Wild! Wild, stop—” Four spluttered, treading water while stopping Wild from dragging him to the bottom. “The Slate’s fine. Sky has it, look.”

Sky flinched as Wild turned his glare onto him, but the Chosen Hero waved the Sheikah Slate to prove Four’s point. Grumbling, Wild swam back to the edge and made grabby hands for his prized item.

“Give it.”

Sky held the Slate out of reach, putting it at the base of a tree.

“You can have it back after your bath. The Captain can’t stand our smell anymore.”

Caught in the moment, Warriors stood up from his hiding place to argue how that wasn’t what he’d said—he’d thought it, but hadn’t said it—before realizing he’d blown his cover. Warriors caught Wolfie’s eye. Wolfie bolted.

“Oh, no you don’t!” Warriors lunged for Wolfie and shoved his shapeshifting brother toward the water. Wolfie stumbled, but didn’t fall in.

How was Twilight heavier in this form?

A burst of wind from Sky pounded against Warriors’s back, pushing the wrestling captain and wolf closer to the stream. Wolfie dug in his claws and growled. Warriors pushed against the wretched-smelling mound of dog with all his strength, but Wolfie didn’t budge.

A splash was all the warning he got before five sets of hands shot out of the water, grabbed Wolfie, and pulled him in. Warriors sailed through the air and hit the stream, water and bubbles shooting up his nose. He broke the surface, coughing and spluttering. Eucalyptus burnedthrough his sinuses.

When he could finally see and breathe again, he cackled at the sight in front of him.

Wolfie squirmed as Wild and Legend kept him from swimming to shore. A cloud of mud surrounded the rest of the Heroes, mostly coming from the wolf. Wind scrubbed soap into the fur. Four rubbed Wolfie’s paws, freeing wads of muck jammed between the pads. Hyrule clung to Wolfie’s back and made bubble hats for the wolf.

Warriors had never seen the mighty beast so undignified.

Wolfie whimpered. A chime sounded and black flecks started to swarm around him.

“Oh, no you don’t.” Legend bopped Wolfie on the nose. The black flecks disappeared, and Wolfie growled. Hyrule added a pompom to Wolfie’s bubble hat. “Your smell’s going to attract monsters if you don’t clean up this version of yourself. Honestly, your fur crackles.”

“And it reduces the risk of us getting sick,” Warriors said as he waded toward the group. He shot a dirty look at Sky, dry and giggling on the shore. “Which is the real reason I organized this.”

“Did you have to throw us in?” Wild asked.

Warriors shrugged and rubbed soap into Wild’s hair. If his brothers were going to focus solely on scrubbing Twilight, Warriors could make sure everyone else got clean, too. Wild melted under the touch and almost lost hold of Wolfie.

“We needed to do laundry, too. This hits two ChuChus with one arrow. Besides, would you have taken a bath if I’d asked nicely?”

Wild shook his head, but caught sight of something on shore and grinned. Warriors followed his gaze and felt his eyes grow wide.

Time loomed behind Sky, who hadn’t noticed him yet. Sky squeaked as Time picked him up and hurled him at the other Heroes. All eight of them plunged under, legs, arms, and one tail tangling together. They finally surfaced, Hyrule still using Wolfie as a raft. Everyone piled on Sky to make sure he got as drenched as the rest of them.

“Stop,” Sky said between giggling and failing to push them away. “That—that tickles!”

Which was the worst thing to tell a group of Links, Warriors thought. Chaos and mayhem were vital parts of the Hero’s Spirit. Even Warriors splashed suds on Sky after that comment. After all, Sky had a great laugh.

A shadow blocked out the sun, too sudden and dark to be a cloud. Warriors looked up.

Oh.

Oh, no.

He’d definitely miscalculated.

Time cannonballed straight for them.

Later that night, while they dried off and teased each other over dinner, Warriors admitted he screamed like a little girl. If only because his seven other brothers did the exact same thing.

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zelphin124 · 7 months ago

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Beyond The Bound Pages: Homer

Chapter 1: What it Means to be Abandoned

This is a new series I am writing about an isekai going into Homer's works. Featuring Saga: a gal who somehow has to survive in the Greek world on Odysseus ship. This will be fun. But first... we got to get there. Masterpost [Start] -> Chapter 2

~o0o~

The sweet smell of addicting, artificial strawberries filled the air, correlating with the dust of the paved road. The remnants of dust from graffiti spray paint lingered in the air, forcing a cough from those nearby. It smelled better than the taste it left in the air, and this particular paint stuck to the skin when sprayed. It didn’t help when it mixed with the humidity of the area.

The woman holding the can took a step back on the two stairs she was standing on, looking at the edge of the wall. To her right, the stairs escalated to another dirt road above. A building arch overlaid most of the stairway. The walls were jagged and uneven on the sides, leading to perfect spots to leave a short message, which was her intention. Behind her was a caged door in a tan brick building, which one of her companions was trying to open. A cobbled pathway was carefully crafted and abandoned to her left, stretching in like a narrow balcony that overlooked the undertones of the abandoned city. The only thing preventing an immediate dropoff was a round, stone wall half a human’s size. It was uneven in its coverage and had breaks in its stretch when it met stairs leading down to the city's lower levels, but it could keep anyone from falling off accidentally.

Random wires and pipes were strung up and across the buildings. It didn’t help that they had rusted over time from the prevalent rainfall. The sky was clear and bright, with only a few clouds to account for the mass water amid the air. The view from this specific road overlooked the rest of the city, showcasing its deep, interwoven roads and vertical levels. Whoever built the city was skilled in using the hills to their advantage, having crooked windows within the houses peek over the rest of the roofs. It wasn’t a largely abandoned town; one could see the desert hilltops on the edge of the city, showing off its cliffs and small, green bushes that were uncommon enough to be considered a rarity. There was a clear distinction in the various houses: who was rich and who was poor. The rich lived on the upper levels, and the poor lived on the bottom areas of the city, having laundry lines stretched out from roof to roof in the compacted area, versus the rich obtaining extra coverage and safety from potential break-ins.

However, no one lived in the city anymore. It didn’t matter to the woman why everyone had left, it only mattered that it was a great place to send a message and collect forgotten loot.

Another woman sat on the round barrier near the cobbled road. She swung her feet back and forth, not paying attention to her untied shoelaces that wrapped around her ankles. Her dry, blonde hair was pinned back into a beanie. “Any luck, Zack?” She stuck her tongue out, tracing the dirt on her face. She was good at playing the act of a gang leader with the way she dressed. Her black leather jacket and brown shirt were torn and tattered, along with her ripped loose jeans. She wore bike gloves that did not go with her outfit well, but she always argued it was cool. Scars crossed her face and arms like she was attacked by a bear, but her story of how she got the scars changed every time someone asked her about it.

The man behind the woman with the spray bottle turned around, adjusting his sunglasses. “I don’t think there’s going to be anything inside here, Isabella.” Zack dusted off his own gloves before he did the same to his white T-shirt. His curly brown hair always got in the way of his eyesight, forcing him to pin it up above his head. He was encouraged to get a haircut but insisted he wanted to create braids with his hair once it grew to the correct length. The hiking boots he wore were tight around his ankles, forcing him to make large steps with each foot movement. He had trouble walking anyway with how unnaturally tall he was. Long, baggy black pants hung from his waist covering his ankles. His voice was harsh and raspy as if he just inhaled the dust of a dirt road. “The people of Craco made sure to take their valuables.”

Isabella leaned back on the balcony barrier, grunting with dissatisfaction, she was short, but that didn’t make her presence any more comforting. She had a motto of sticking together like a family, but her hypocrisy was exhibited through her actions. “Saga,” she turned to the woman with the spray paint. “You’ve been staring at that wall for too long. Make yourself useful!”

The woman turned, her long, strawberry-blonde hair curled gently out of her large bun. It would fall to her knees if she let it loose. She was new to the gang, so her hair wasn’t as tattered and dry as the rest of them. It was silky and well-taken care of. Her hazel eyes reflected the setting sun, and she had yet to receive the tattoo on her left cheek of the gang’s symbol. If it were up to her, she would’ve worn a white blouse with a forest green skirt that stretched to her knees, but the uniform of the gang consisted of white and brown T-shirts with leather jackets, tattered work pants, and laced shoes. She was covered in dirt and spray paint, but couldn’t care enough to tidy herself up. Her chest was rather flat, and her body figure was rather square. She gave off tomboy vibes, and her fists were wrapped in bandages from the fights she got in. She cleared her voice, trying to sound tougher than she was. “I’d have to break up the message.”

Isabella whipped her head around to the south, narrowing her eyes as she heard distant footsteps. “We need to hurry up and catch up with the others. The city is abandoned, but the police will look for people like us here.” Her feet slammed onto the cobblestone as she wiped her face. The scars wrinkled with her disgusted stare. “Zack, forget the door. We will get the loot some other time. Help Saga with the message.”

“Bellosi mafia di Isabella o,” Zack dropped his tools and walked across the stairs. He leaned his hand on the wall close to where Saga was staring at, towering over her. He was at least a foot taller than her, but he didn’t carry himself with the confidence his height should have brought him. His breath was sour like rotten eggs as he spoke. “Need help spelling that, champ?”

“No.” Saga turned to face him, not flinching out of his intimidation. She bit her tongue in an attempt to not smell his breath. “We aren’t a mafia. It’s not proper Italian.”

“Doesn’t have to be,” Isabella kicked a rock down one of the stairpaths, chipping the stones of the road. “It’s a slogan, one that will establish us as a soon-to-be mafia. Remember, act the part until it becomes reality, right?”

Saga flattened her lips and nodded.

“You don’t even know Italian, so it would be best if you kept your mouth shut and followed blindly,” the gang leader continued. “Write the phrase, then let’s ditch.”

“You said we were family,” Saga argued. “Family should hear each other out.”

A hoarse laugh echoed throughout the city as it fled from Zack’s lips. He bent over, resting his back on the wall as he wheezed. His eyes almost bulged out of his skull as if what Saga had said was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

Isabella did not have the same reaction. She took off her beanie and ran her hand through her hair. “I meant we were a family as in we would stick together,” she tilted her head sideways, chewing on something: weed, if Saga had to guess. “You have to trust me on this, I don’t have time to explain. We don’t ditch each other, but that doesn’t mean I take care of you to think, understood?”

Saga grunted and shook the can in her hand with aggression. She double-checked its inky black color before writing the message on the wall. She sprayed it enough to release its stench in the air, forcing Zack to retreat from the wall as he snuffled a few coughs.

He left Saga’s peripheral vision and rummaged through his duffle bag, clanging the tools together as if they were trash. Saga could tell he was clumsy with them because of the various scraping noises she heard, rather than the usual shuffling pitches.

Saga heard a door unlatch behind her. “Really, Zack?” Isabella snapped. “Even Omar could’ve done a better job than this.”

“I loosened it for you,” Zack argued. He cursed under his breath as he followed Isabella into the small room, grabbing a few nails and other supplies they could find in the forsaken metropolis of Italy.

Saga made haste with painting the message on the wall, covering her face with her arm from the smell and smoke the spray paint let off. The cloud it produced stuck to her skin, and every few seconds she paused to itch the crusted dust off her body. The sun's rays only made the paint on her skin burn. She was expected to endure it, for as Isabella said: “The consequences of breaking the law would be much worse than simple burns on the skin.”

Saga let out a disgruntled cough as she finished the graffiti, waving her hand in front of her face to get rid of the remaining dust. The humidity only got more intense the more the setting sun beat on Saga’s skin. She took a step back, careful to not trip on the uneven carved stones on the stairs. To her, the message made no sense, and it was hard to decipher. Telling herself repeatedly it was for a purpose she didn’t understand yet felt folly. Her gaze traversed to the gray door next to the wall she mutilated. It appeared slammed shut, but perhaps it had better loot hiding behind it.

The gang had been searching for scraps all day, and their group in particular had collected nothing. The one sapphire necklace they did find was dropped by Zack through an unreachable crack in the sewage system. Saga wasn’t informed of what the gang was specifically seeking in these ruins, but she assumed it was the leftover valuables left by the former inhabitants. They wanted to claim their share of the treasure within the rubble before the government stole it from the people; at least, that was Zack’s explanation of the situation.

The woman’s hands ruffled through Zack’s bag, pulling out a tool she knew not the name of. She observed the carvings and markings on it before the structure itself. It had a flat edge that could fit under a small opening and a stronger, round base to push an opposing force open like a lever. She watched Zack use it on a few other doors throughout the city, mostly accounting for his failure to open them. Despite being built like a giant, he seemed to have trouble with the nitty gritty tasks, which Isabella foolishly assigned him to. Omar advised them to switch roles, but Isabella refused to do the work herself.

Fortunately, Saga had a way of being crafty and self-sufficient even before she joined the group. She carefully slid the flat part of the tool under the solid gray door, ignoring the murmuring of her compatriots behind the chained door. She spanned her gaze across the door hinges; it was the perfect design to lift the door and let it fall forward. Resting her foot and hands on the tool, she inhaled sharply before using precise force to press down.

The door was promptly lifted off its hinges, its weight carrying itself to the floor. It slammed on the bricks, sending a rustled echo through the newly revealed room. The sound bounced across the walls and roads, causing Saga to wince as it slowly died out.

The room itself had no light. There was a ladder to the right to get on top of the tiled roof. The house was small and square, with a hard floor and a table at the edge of its wall. There was one thing on the table: a book.

Saga discarded the tool to the side before bending over to step into the cube. She searched the floor for anything to salvage but came out empty-handed. The door had landed on most of the floor; perhaps it squished whatever was left in the house. She straightened her back and stumbled over to the table. She first eyed the silver in the nails and started to peel them out. They could be smelted for cash. However, as she disassembled the table for its valuable components, her curiosity grew about the book on top of it.

She paused her theft and stared at the book. Saga was not one to talk to herself in her own head and her thoughts were very few, just as Isabella had instructed her. However, her mind raced when she gave in to the temptation and picked up the book, blowing and wiping the dust off its cover.

Homer, the title read. Iliad and Odyssey. It detailed it was a special edition with various events between the two books, and its size attested to the claim. The ridges of the book were ancient, and the spine presented the book’s contents dated back to well over two thousand years.

Saga held the book in one hand, flipping it back and forth in her hands. She knew a studio that would pay good money for something old like it. Her face grimaced at the thought and memory that accompanied the studio. Her fists clenched.

They were the reason she was here.

“What part about sticking together do you not understand?” Zack’s rustic voice filled her ears as the chained door slammed behind him. “That sound was too loud, it could’ve given away our position.” A rough grip tightened on Saga’s shoulder.

Saga jumped back, snuffing a surprised scream. She readied her left fist into a punching position whilst her right held the book close to her chest. She grunted and sighed when her heart rate slowed down and her brain registered it was just Zack. Roughly, she forced his hand off of her shoulder.

Zack hung his tongue out from his mouth like a dog. “Cat got your tongue, champ?”

“She is a woman of few words, Zack.” Isabella came from behind Zack, shoving a large, marble tabletop into his chest. There was no sign of care from her as Zack barely caught the object and stumbled out of the room. She approached gracefully and shot a disapproving glare at Saga. “Or, you are now. Did you find anything?”

Saga adjusted her stance, leaning on her hip as she carelessly handed the old book to her leader, her eyes slanted and locked on the door now on the floor. Adjusting the bandages on her wrists, Saga took steps to leave the room.

She was stopped. “Nah, nah, nah,” Isabella stuck out her arm to block her path, not taking her eyes off the book. “You just found this here, lying around in the open?”

Saga flattened her face and nodded, gesturing to the broken table.

Isabella’s eyes shined like she was looking in her own reflection. A crooked smirk captured her lips. “Nice work, champ, this will make us a great buck. Perhaps this will pay for my–”

“Our.” Saga’s words were harsh and curt. “I found it.”

There was a pause as Isabella looked up to meet Saga’s gaze. She chuckled nervously. “Relax, champ,” her tone was gleeful and fibberful. “Of course it’s ours, the money goes to the family, no? The beautiful mafia of Isabella,” she tucked the book under her arm and gestured to the exit. “This will get us on the right track to that glorious vision.”

Isabella had a whole lot of vision but little action to achieve it from Saga’s point of view. Usually, Saga would endure the blissful, nihilistic aura she emitted, but it was extra sour when put in the mix with Zack’s cocky stupidity. She once had that same mindset, but it was something that long escaped her. If she still had that outlook on life, she wouldn’t be trussing a to-be mafia gang.

Saga scrambled out of the room and assisted Zack in picking up his tools, eyeing the sunset that besmeared the sky a glorious haze of orange and pink. Perhaps luck was on their side after all; they had gathered valuables all at the last minute.

“I see why this was left behind,” Saga glanced to see Isabella speaking as she flipped through the pages of Homer. “Imagine reading this textbook, it’s one of those where you have to know background knowledge to understand it.”

“Someone is insane enough to like it,” Zack hoisted the bag of tools and bag of stolen goods up both his shoulders. “It’ll sell just like the rest of these. I bet I’ll get a sweet gun out of this marbled top–”

“We start small, remember to meet up on the outside of the city,” Isabella pointed to the hill in view. “You remember the path, Zack, right?”

“Please, you think I would get lost in a simple maze like this?” Zack smirked wildly and turned south on the cobbled road. He stumbled before he caught himself, reminding himself to take big steps. “We head down.”

Saga rested her back on the wall she graffitied, her feet pressing against the irregular curves in the steps. Her arms were crossed around her chest before she moved them to adjust her bun. She’d have to cut her hair soon as it was getting difficult to pin it up.

The gang shuffled to make a move on before Zack stopped in the middle of the path, blocking Isabella’s way. “The hell are you–”

“Mani in alto dove posso vederli.”

Zack’s hands went up slowly, resting on his head as his shoulders drooped. Isabella also stopped in her tracks as she backed up, slowly making her way to Saga.

“Ehi! Non muoverti, o spareremo! Sei in arresto!”

“Merda,” Isabella hissed, turning to face Saga. “It’s the police.”

Saga’s eyes widened. She put her hands up as Zack clumsily backed up the alleyway toward the stairs. Once he was out of the way, four policemen came into view. They had their guns drawn as they blocked the road exit. They muttered a few things in Italian that Saga couldn’t understand before gesturing to Zack to get on his knees and release the bags from his possession.

Saga glanced at Isabella in the corner of her eye. She saw her leader’s eyes plotting, and it never ended well for anyone else when she did so. She bent over as if she was about to get on her knees as well, but her eyes steadily remained on the enforcer’s hands.

Saga’s heart dropped, and she found it difficult to breathe. She stared at the cop approaching her, unsure what to do but to follow suit. Immediate regret overflowed in her heart; this wasn’t what she thought would happen.

THUNK!

Zack waited for the police to put his gun down and pull out his cuffs before socking him in the throat. He crushed the other gun in the second police’s hands before landing a punch across his face. He ditched his tool bag, grabbed the stolen goods duffle bag, and jumped off of the balcony into a nearby stairway, leading into the maze of the abandoned city below.

The other cops turned their attention to the noise, giving enough time for Isabella to shove the book into Saga’s hands before taking off up the stairs. She hid behind the wall as one of the cops shot at her, causing a few of the old stones to fall off the arch. It wouldn’t be long before the building collapsed, blocking the path.

A split second passed as Saga processed her comrades, who were ditching her. It was followed by another awkward second of eye contact with the four police, eyeing the book in her hand. Instinct grabbed her by the throat and forced her into action. She flung her fists into the closest cop’s stomach, shoving him into the balcony barrier before dashing north down the cobbled road. Her heart raced as she ran for her life, diving behind another wall as shots were fired.

“Torna qui!” The police hollered, two of them pursuing Saga as they fired more rounds of their revolvers in her direction. They sprinted after her on foot, following the cobbled path.

Saga bolted from behind the wall and further down the path, the rugged walls and landscape of the city blurring as she focused on her exit. Long shadows were cast by the setting sun, showing the city’s weathering facades. It would be difficult to find sturdy things to climb on with the city in its rusted, crumbling state. She shoved the book down her shirt, hoping it would stay as she used her arms to run. She figured the cobbled path would end soon, forcing her to use an alternate route of escape.

By the time the police also reached the end of the path, they had run out of bullets. They searched around frantically before spotting their target climbing up the pipes and uneven walls. One of them admitted he was too fat to climb after before resulting in chopping at the pipe. The other proceeded to climb up after Saga, slowly gaining on her.

Saga felt the pipe become more unstable by the minute. Her heart raced as adrenaline kicked in. She spanned her gaze around the area frantically, spotting a roof close by. She grabbed the edge of the window above her before jumping to the tiled roof, breaking into a run once more.

The other police were not far behind her. He shouted at her as he gained on her, jumping from roof to roof as she followed. His steps were a lot more clangorous than Saga’s, provoking the ruins to collapse after he flew across them. Wherever Saga slid and crumpled tiles under her feet, the police crushed with his, leaving nothing but dust.

Under different circumstances, Saga would’ve sat to enjoy the sunset from the height she was at, taking in the beautiful scenery of the abandoned city. Saga used her ears to try and see if her comrades were nearby, but there were no signs of them anywhere. She jumped from roof to roof, occasionally attempting her luck at bouncing off different walls, hoping to get an advantage on her pursuers. She dared fate and looked behind her.

One of the cops was following their path on the ground, panting heavily as he took turns down alleyways and ran up and down various stairs. The leaner cop was right on her tail, catching up with great speed as if he had experience running across rooftops.

The cop on the roof was close enough to grab her jacket. He reached for her, stumbling over his feet as he lunged for her. Saga had little time to think as she dodged his grasp, sliding down another tiled roof before leaping to another.

She fell short. Saga gripped onto the edge of the tower, spotting a rusted bell at the top of the observatory. Her hands ached with pain as they dug into the sandstone. She moved her hands up quickly, grabbed onto the ledge, and barely managed to pull herself onto the floor below the bell. She gasped for breath, coughing out the dust that entered her lungs.

The police stopped on the previous roof, looking up at the tower. His eyes were wide as if he was astonished she made it. He muttered something into his communication device, a phrase in Italian Saga couldn’t understand.

Saga stood, pain ceasing everything in her body. She crumpled on her hip before straightening her back again, flipping off the cop with both fingers as she caught her breath. Her bun was undone, which let her long hair fall to her sides beautifully.

The sight of the sunset gleaming on Saga standing in the tower with her long hair out and two middle fingers up didn’t last long. There was an eerie creak before a loud crack. Saga felt the floor give way, sending her down the tower. She let out a pitiful scream, crashing into the ladder and stairs, tumbling over and over again as everything scratched and bruised her face. Her attempts at grabbing onto anything were futile, and it wasn’t long until she hit the base of the tower at the lowest level. Hitting her head, everything went black.

#greek mythology #epic the musical #odyssey #iliad #greek gods #writing #chapter #fanfic #epic: the musical #Homer #Saga (greek)

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knownangels · 2 years ago

Text

lighthouse

When he tells his mum, her knife clatters against the side of her plate and takes a chunk clear off the ceramic. Even if it weren’t cheap, it’s secondhand. Ugly, she calls those plates. I’ll buy us a nice set when we have the spare to spend.

Guilty eyes track the shard as it spirals a dance across the moth-chewed tablecloth. They follow the floral pattern (not really ugly, just a little) as it spins on its curved edge to become a swirl of color. Green leaves, pastel blue and pink blossoms, blue, pink, blue — purple.

He’s scared to lift them. It’s been just them so long they’ve grown accustomed to even patterns of breathing. Her air is angry.

“Maran.” She clips his name out between clenched teeth. The broken shard stops spinning. He slides it back across the table, finger pressed to the smooth lip and obscuring those daintily painted flowers.

“What?”

“Maran.” She says again, sounding like absolutely not. She won’t let those words slip. She rarely does. She gives and gives and gives.

His turn. Only fair.

“I already signed it.” He forms his words into a laugh, hoping the rest that follow won’t become a fight. “Binding, isn’t it. Take me to court.”

When he glances up at his mum, sat across the kitchen table, her fist is tight around the knife. The grip is so tight he can see flushed blood beneath umber skin that wraps her knuckles.

“That is a long time —”

“It’s a lot of pay.”

“Fuck of a lot for —” He tells her the exact amount, enunciating each zero.

Her mouth snaps shut.

The kitchen falls silent.

Maran watches something play across her face that he doesn’t feel at all equipped to interpret. The pull of her brow looks like it does when he’s caught her sniffling, but her mouth is fixed in that you did what snarl. And something else rests behind her dark eyes; it isn’t Saturday morning mirthful laziness, or the glitter of her grudge-holding snuck in while speaking to their stubbornly rude neighbor.

There are two pairs of guilty eyes at the table.

She sends him off with six jumpers, three pairs of hardy trousers, maybe a dozen pairs of socks, a sock darner that had been his summer whittling project, and a cloth bag of lavender sprigs that are meant for laundry. It clinks suspiciously when she tucks it into a pocket, so Maran sneaks up behind her to snatch it away.

“Little bastard!” She howls, snatching at the back of his shirt — too slow. He slips away and stumbles across the room, peering into the little bag. Tucked amongst the dried stems are a couple of rocks. Shiny as obsidian, silver flecks smooth under his thumb.

“Don’t make fun of me.” She warns, crossing to prod at his stomach until he snaps his elbows tight to ward away the tickling.

“Did I open my mouth!”

“No. Because you’re a smart one.” She teases. Her palm slows into a soft pet over the back of his hand. “And you be smart, okay? Ah, fuck’s sake. This is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done.”

He grins at her while she shakes his whole arm, her grip as tight in his sleeve as it was on the knife. He’s gone on jobs before — none so far or for as long away as this, sure. But he’s grown and he’s gone off alone. He’s come back every time.

They both manage to hold it together until the moment he steps across the threshold. She drags him down for one last hug, one more pinch to a cheek she freckled herself. Maran squeezes her back just as tight; her soft, worried heaving make his eyes sting.

Into each of his jumpers, at the nape of the neck, she’s sewn a simplified outline of their little house in thick yarn. Coral pink for him. Navy blue for her. He smoothes his thumb over the raised edge of it through her sweater, tracing the edge of the roof he’d once climbed and the gutter that hangs from a rusted screw that had once torn a red line down his calf and the corner of the eastern wall, which sports a hairline fracture from its settling foundation.

“Where you carry it.” Maran mumbles into her shoulder. Home’s where you carry it. It’s their code. Has been for as long as he remembered — at some point, he’d been little and unwilling to leave her arms to go to a neighbor’s or stay the night at a friend’s or be apart. Clingy, the both of them — I miss you, I’ll miss you was too much. Made them into congested full-on snotty, sniveling tears. And of course when one of them went off, the other was inevitable.

“Shut up.” She groans, shaking him by dancing foot-to-foot. He laughs to be jostled. “Oh my days, Maran, would you shut your mouth? Really? I’d just stopped.”

But she says it back as he loads his meager packing over a shoulder. Really, really leaving. She says it a bunch of times, muddled between words of a prayer meant to shelter and guard and protect. One that, technically, asks him to be guided through a peaceful night into a safe return the next morning. Maran has never heard her pray aloud before.

And Maran won’t return the next morning.

He won’t return for many, many more mornings.

He falls asleep on the bench at the docks, arms locked tight around the packed-full bag in his lap. He falls asleep on the ferry. He is the only passenger this late in the season, but his arms stay locked tight, fingers digging into the over-stuffed bag. He falls asleep, and because he sleeps so soundly to the crash of the waves against the boat, he would have no sense of time passing except for the mark of the sun in the sky. It warms his face. It warms his dreams; in them, he’s still sleeping, except now it’s a gentle summer morning beneath a willow

By its position, he wakes in late afternoon. He stumbles sleepily towards the cabin and knocks on the door. Privately, as it swings open, he imagines a dusty tomb’s crypt slab sliding free: the ferryman is up there in age. He’d been the only one to know the coordinates of their destination and how to navigate the waters — beyond the sound, the water became unpredictably shallow in places. The wrong captain would gut his ship trying to coast without experience.

The old man looks as though he’s fallen asleep on the trip, as well. Maran isn’t sure if that’s a good sign, that he can make such a trip at ease, or a poor one. And, is it worse than the laugh he’d let out when Maran requested the lighthouse? Worse than the humored oh, there? he’d volleyed back?

The boat stops a distance away. Maran stands on the upper deck, fists tight to then rail. Like the boat can hold him there, in place. Like the inlet stretching before them is magnetic, like it wants to pull him, like if he lets go, he might as well be yanked across the remaining distance.

Rest of the way on foot, the ferryman tells him. Maran doesn’t want to fucking move. He doesn’t want to look, either, but he can’t stop.

He wasn’t sure what to expect. He’d gone into this blind, knowing it was good money for a reason. Not knowing — this.

He thinks it looks like the half-finished grave of a monster, too ferocious to be properly buried. The craggy rocks and sea-sodden dirt pile unevenly around each spire where they rise from the earth. Every jutting piece of metal has been spaced evenly from the last; they form a gaping maw of time-tarnished teeth threatening to break through the mantle. At the center is the towering lighthouse, its white gold eye blinking shut, rotating, blinding, repeating.

The pattern is hypnotizing. He’d gotten in trouble for tearing a page from an oceanography picture book: an anglerfish and its beautiful lure, even on paper, had scared him that bad.

As he stares upwards at the light, chin tilted towards the gentle patter of rain, Maran can only think of that crumpled page.

“Cut it too close.”

Maran jumps.

The ferryman extends the meager canvas bag. His frail arm isn’t so frail after all, even frozen there while Maran waits for his brain to catch back up to the moment. They stand at the edge of a rocky piece of land, jutting through the sea and extending towards the lighthouse in a narrow strip.

“Sorry?”

As he slings the bag over his shoulder, Maran follows the old man’s gesture towards the monster — the lighthouse — in the distance.

“Said, nearly cut it too close. Bridge’ll be gone by morning, if not sooner. That big hill it sits on?” He laughs. “Hope you’re ready to do some sland living for the next season.”

Maran’s expression must betray his churning stomach, because the laugh tapers off. It isn’t followed by a noise of pity or comfort, which he sort of expects and would really like to hear. “Um, that — well. That wasn’t really mentioned.”

The ferryman brays another laugh and claps him so hard on the shoulder that the stumbles forward. A wave laps at the toe of his shoe. He dances back from the shoreline, back into the vicinity of the old bloke, whose sea-spied smell Maran can no longer differentiate from the rest of the salt in the air.

“Well of course it fuckin’ weren’t. Dumb enough fuckers, th’lot of the green ones like you. No offense. And even then, y’think they’d be stupid enough to take the job, fixed with all its details?” He snorts. “No chance.”

Maran stares.

“Like I said. No offense, lad. Look, stop givin’ me that. You’ll be right as, nice and cozy and cushy. Waited on hand n’foot, fresh fruit, meals cooked to your specifications…”

“You’re being a prick—”

“I’m providing levity to the situation at hand.” The man lifts his cap with a dramatically flourished bow that is cut short by a wince, hand to the small of his back. Maran fights a smile. “Ooh. Ow. You’ll need it, with the real prick about.”

Maran glances towards the rolling waves for a split second, which is as much as his stomach can bare before he gulps and has to look away. “Did they fail to mention the sea monster too, then?”

Another chortle. “Aye, there y’are. Levity. And naw, no monster — far as we know, right? Just company. ‘Least with that you can give yourself over to somethin’ other than the looming threat of isolation madness.” The ferryman wiggles his fingers.

He wrinkles his nose and slings the bag tighter to his body. If he makes it to the lighthouse quick enough, the whipping ocean air might yet have spared its smell of home. “You’re not as funny as you think you are.”

“Naw.” He agrees, winking and tapping his nose. “More.”

They part with no fanfare. Maran heeds his warning about the upcoming season and its weather and surrenders a fistful of candy in exchange for the promise of a note sent home, which he scrawls quickly against the ferryman’s curved spine.

Mum - Arrived. Incredibly creepy. View’s okay, otherwise. Sweater’s warm, thanks for patching that bit under the arm. Doing well! Will continue to do well! Will see you soon, doing fuckin’ well! -Maran

“Fuck’s sake,” the man crows, flapping a hand behind him. “Y’said one. A note, not a novel.”

It’s a fifteen minute walk towards the far shore. It is the longest fifteen minutes of his life. The lighthouse seems to not move any closer — and yet, at the same time, his eyes tell him it grows on the horizon. Closer and larger and closer and larger, until he walks into the shadow of one of its guarding spires. The one nearest him looks blackened at the top, and he realizes then that they must be lightning rods. The lighthouse itself is metal, or the exterior at least.

Algae slips beneath his shoes. The path is well worn. He keeps his eyes forward as he walks, too scared they’ll wander to the side and into the depths of the sea and he’ll find something looking back. But even still, his gaze is drawn down every few paces. He has to keep an eye on it or else he’ll fall, and being in the water with whatever lurks beneath the waves is worse than simply seeing it, right?

Like the path, the base of each spire —and the lighthouse itself — is dottingly adorned with barnacles, weathered a mottled gray in spots by salt, bleached in others by sun. But whatever metal composes them is dark. It doesn’t turn a pretty teal like aged copper, and yet he has a sense by looking at it the alloy is old. Maybe ancient.

At the thought, Maran shivers. He clutches his coat tighter to his body as he ascends the stairs up the hill, closer and closer to the rising pillar. Childishly, he’s relieved to find the lighthouse doesn’t hide the sun. He hates that in stories — when something blots out the sun. Fucking awful omen, if ever there was one. Instead, as he gazes up, he finds that it sits slightly to the left. He stands there, shielding his eyes and watching the yolk-yellow light drip as the horizon beckons it below, and breathes a sigh.

It’ll be fine. Home for awhile — not forever. Proper fucking scary, sure, but only awhile. Lid on the dramatics’ll make it easier.

Maran shuts his eyes and takes another deep lungful of air; it smells close enough to that his heart quiets a bit. The return of its steady beat gives him enough courage to take the stairs two at a time — stupid, because they’re slippery as the walk down. But it makes the trip more enjoyable. Makes it seem more fun and less like he’s walking himself towards…well. He isn’t sure.

An experience decidedly not fun.

He’s winded by the time he reaches the front door. It’s thick, weathered dark wood with a massive brass knocker. He contemplates it for a moment, finds he hasn’t the energy to lift the contraption, and instead braces himself on the frame. He surveys the rest of the inlet. Although the sky is clear, not yet hazed by the approaching night, he can barely make out the mainland’s sleek mirage. The ferry is also a further distance away than he thought — almost as if the old man had hurried to leave.

He shivers again, sick of omens. Sick of superstition. With a wet dog shake, he catalogues the rest of the tiny grounds. The lighthouse and its maw, which he tries hard not to think about as surrounding him too; a study oak two-story attaché that bulges from the side of the lighthouse obelisk like a tumor, dotted with narrow windows and an old chimney, where he presumes he’ll be boarding; a rainwater cistern and well with pumps that seem, from one glance, to be at least attached. Beyond, towards the far edge of the hill near the shore, is a storage shed and a chicken coop.

Maran brightens a bit at the idea of more company, other than a faceless nameless second keeper. He had no idea if the coop was occupied but his mum had always loved feeding birds. Every haircut, she’d make Maran gather his curls in a towel and toss them out the window.

Good nesting material.

When he goes to knock at the door, Maran’s rubbing a thoughtful hand over the crown of his head. He needs a cut.

The door swings open, and Maran thinks: well, at least I’m not the only one.

They sit at the tiny kitchen table. It’s a smaller room than even the one back home. At the thought of it, Maran shuffles. He fingers thread tighter together, knee bouncing.

He wouldn’t describe his company as unkempt. Haphazard, maybe. He needs a haircut, same as Maran: light strands spread out from his knit hat, stick to his cheeks from the damp sea breeze. He needs a new pair of boots, too. Maran knows how that goes.

Neither of them have taken off their coats yet; the other man sits back in his chair with a lazy recline, one arm tossed behind, his coat open and hanging off his shoulders. Maran looks everywhere but that penetrating, unblinking stare. He feels himself being sized-up, judged, found wanting.

Whatever expectations he’s had, Maran falls short.

“You’ve n-never done this before.”

It’s the first thing either one of them has said since Maran was ushered inside.

“Um.” He glances around the tiny room, making note of everything (stoveiceboxstoragebootscoatrackstairswindow) besides the other man and that stare. He laughs nervously. “Is it that obvious?”

“Yes.” The chair opposite creaks. Maran still doesn’t look up. “You scared of the ocean, or something?”

Maran thinks about that long, long fifteen minutes. He thinks about the waves lapping at either side of the rocky bridge. Thinks about his worn flat-soled shoes across slippery algae. Thinks about losing his footing. Thinks about falling in. Thinks about —

“Yes.” He laughs again. “Yeah, like. Very. Kinda daft, takin’ a job like this. I mean. Considering?”

“K-Kinda? Very.”

When he looks up, the stare has shifted towards the tight thread of his fingers. Maran feels the weight of it, the judgment, and squeezes tighter.

They don’t get on. Maran tries not to let it bother him. But the first thing he’s asked to do is fix a leak in the cistern collection pipe. He hasn’t a moment to set his things down, or find a good place to tuck the square of fabric he stows beneath his pillow, or clear his head of this new situation and its anxieties.

The order is lobbied, a bit coldly, in his general direction. Maran lets his hand drop to his side, smile faltering.

“I—Well, fuck. Thought we might as well be on a name basis, since we’ll be stuck together a bit.”

“If you last the night, s-sure.” He’s met not with an introduction but a cruel, smarter-than-you sneer. “Last five guys apparently tossed themselves from the top, and those were hardy s-seamen.” The other man snorts. “Seamen.”

He wishes he could speak to Benji. Just for a moment — just that quick burst of frustration to let out. Uncork. The excitement, the homesickness, the frustration, the fear. Instead, he settles for cursing under his breath the entire twenty minutes it takes to make the repair, the entire thirty seconds to round the lighthouse. The barrage of four-letter words only pauses when he finds the front door.

Bolted into the thicker metal is a panel. It’s about five hands tall and three across, with whirls and divots scattered across the surface. In some places, like each of the four corners, the metal has been worn smooth.

He realizes the barely visible markings must be all that remains of engraved letters. It looks as though the plaque is commemorative of the lighthouse’s birthdate, or maybe who its named after, or a historical tidbit. Whatever the details, they’ve been lost to time.

Passing through the entry gives Maran another missed detail. A sudden gust of wind sends him lurching in quite a bit faster than he intended. His shoulder connects painfully with the doorframe, and something digs in to the swell of his bicep.

The other keeper is nowhere to be seen, so he doesn’t feel so bad about the startled yelp he lets out. Pouting, Maran rubs at the sore spot and looks for the culprit — only to discover that it’s a thick chunk bolted to the interior frame. The shape is familiar, a rectangle about as long as his finger and domed slightly. He smiles a little, thumbnail tracing the marking barely visible beneath layers of paint: a mezuzah.

They don’t have any in the entryways of their home, but his mum had told him about her childhood. And this far, it was a good reminder of that connection.

He had been hoping it would curb some of the lingering fear.

It doesn’t. The fear twists in him until he falls asleep, and then without his consciousness to stifle, it springs forth. Maran dreams.

He steps up to the door and presses his hand on the plaque and is snatched into the sky. By the wind, or a hand in the back of his shirt, or the earth falling slipping beneath his feet. He hovers far above the inlet, a proper island now that the sea has eaten the path. No return. No hope going back home.

When Maran reaches up to check that the embroidery still nestles against his neck, the ground rushes to meet him. He falls and falls and falls, plummeting towards the ground. He thinks briefly to look up, at the sky and sun, maybe have his tragic final moment be nice at least. But his skull is locked forward like there are icy fingers holding him still. Forcing him to watch as the grey rock and coarse sand rushes to meet him. He’ll be broken against the rocks, or flatten to the waves, or worse —

He doesn’t feel the landing. But when he tries to sit up and assess the damage, hand behind him to touch the ground, it isn’t there. Looking to either side, he realizes he’s hovering slightly — but not caught by divine machination or mysterious mercy.

Instead, one of the spires has made an impaled home in his gut. There’s no blood, no tear in his jumper, no pain. When Maran reaches up to touch the metal, a soft oh leaves his lips.

It’s a scream when he wakes, though. He has the sensation of falling as he shoots upright, and it takes a moment to gather himself. He’s sweating, a hand clutched to his shirt.

On the other side of the shared living space, Maran’s unnamed companion also sits awake. His legs are pale, dangling over the edge of his cot — well, Maran has the cot. He has the bed. First come, first serve.

“N-nightmare?”

Maran nods. His breathing wavers. He doesn’t want to cry in front of a stranger.

“Yep.” He lies back down abruptly, turning his back too Maran. “Figured. Don’t go s-swimming. There’s an algae bloom. You’ll get fl-flesh eating bacteria and die. Slowly.”

Maran takes as deep a breath as he can manage. His hand, flattening over his stomach, doesn’t find a raised scar or wet wound or evidence at all of his dream. The relief feels childish. “Okay.”

There’s a stretch of silence, where Maran thinks the other man might have fallen asleep, then:

“Benson.”

The first week, Maran chips away at the mezuzah’s paint. He doesn’t recognize the letter carved into the wood, but he knows it’s oak — like the rest of the house. He finds another bolted to the beam that supports the spiral stairs leading up to the top of the lighthouse. There’s no door, no entryway, and he’s baffled as to why it’s there of all places when none sit in the frames of the living space of bathroom or storage shed. He stares up at the dizzying spiral, the flash-blink-flash of the mysterious light above, and decides not to dwell.

Instead, in the first week, he assesses the coop: full of fed and happy hens and one unhappy. He sterilizes and fashions an empty barrel in the shed to hold water in case of emergency, which gets a an approving nod from — Benson is a mouthful, but Maran hasn’t called him Ben anywhere but his own head. As starved as he is for companionship and guidance in this new place, the other keeper seems more interested in keeping to himself than listening to Maran ramble.

The first week, Maran carries home on his back and tries to make the best. He flings himself into chores, preparing with all the (admittedly meager) knowledge he has of surviving a long season. And he avoids the spires. He avoids looking at them. He doesn’t touch them. He gives them, as best as the small expanse of land will allow, as respectful a distance as possible.

For what it’s worth, the dream doesn’t repeat.

The second week, the third, the fourth: they pass. He hasn’t nearly enough to fill the hours, but there’s work enough to be done that he manages. There is a bookshelf full of dusty paperbacks and a few hardcovers that he largely ignores. Nothing calls to him (reading never has), and his fingers would feel gruesome touching page corners previously flipped by the dead.

Bens— Ben has no trouble devouring their contents. He finishes a book a day. Maybe more. Even the thick academic tomes eventually get placed in his finished pile. Over time, Maran urges a summary from each. Mysteries, thrillers (an ear-reddening romance that seems more wank-accessory than literature), and even an ancient almanac.

“The weather patterns and harvests and b-b-biodiver —” Ben pauses, his brow furrowing. “The environment completely changed. It’s fascinating.”

Maran listens to all this with a fist tucked under his chin, attention rapt. Just because he doesn’t want to read doesn’t mean he lacks interest. Ben, as it turns out, is the perfect teacher. And for good reason; Maran finds out, as the time stretches, that he’s a scientist. While the money called, the opportunity for research seemed more attractive to Ben.

“It’s just a little lighthouse.” Maran laughs. “What’s so interesting about ten paces of grass and some chickens?”

“It’s w-weird.” Ben asserts, leaning across the rickety table to make a serious face. Maran laughs. The smile that’s been pulling at the corner of Ben’s mouth comes out full force. For the first time. “Nobody’s studied it. Little isolated place, all this sea around it? S-Something’s here.”

He launches into theories, then. Barometric pressure readings and tidal temperatures and nitrogen levels in stagnant pools and evolutionary patterns of fauna —

Maran is kept by no invisible force; simply sits there, hands around his mug of tea, blinks occasionally. Mostly, listens.

He tries to keep track of the time, after that. Things become…strange. The weather milds, then worsens. It snows early, and then he finds a raspberry bush behind the coop that boasts new buds. Maran finds his hair needs to be cut. Without a mirror, he has no choice but to go to Ben.

“What’s the best way to go about this, you reckon?” Maran laughs haltingly, empty bin for clipping clutched to his chest.

Benny glances around, then back at Maran, the slight difference in their heights with his boots and Maran’s trainers, the kitchen table. Then he drags the chair over (with an awful screech that makes Maran wince) and hops onto the table. It sways but doesn’t break. When he tugs the chair and gestures towards it, Maran hesitates.

“C’mon. You want it b-buzzed. It’s that hard. I’m not gonna d-do you dirty.” Ben laughs. It’s become a more common sound over the past month. Still, he stays where he is. Ben rolls his eyes. “Sit down, Maran.”

He goes. He goes immediately. Maran stumbles on the leg of the chair and is caught at the shoulder by a firm hand, but eventually he plants himself in the wooden seat.

He isn’t sure he breathes the entire length of the haircut. But that can’t be right — it takes too long. Ben is meticulous. Ben is careful. He makes small talk about his latest experiment, something about nematodes and red algae. Maran watches curls float softly to the bottom of the bin and wonders if he’s getting sick. His head’s pounding with his pulse, and his brain’s foggy. He touches a finger under his nose at one point; he’d been prone to nosebleeds as a kid. His fingerprint comes back dry.

Ben lays a hand across his shoulder. “All done.”

Maran doesn’t move for a moment. His eyes lift, and he glances across the room, out the thin window that sits just above the utility sink.

There are storm clouds on the horizon.

He must say as much, because Ben leaps to his feet. “Fuck, those stupid fucking birds are out.”The table rattles. So does the bin, when Maran drops it. He scoops up the hair that flutters out, feeling tears prick at his eyes when a tuft slips out the open door on the wind. The gulls have cleared out already — there’s no birds who will use it for their nest. He watches as the clouds creep closer, and is inexplicably filled with dread.

The next morning, Ben sits at the table with his head folded in his hands.

“We lose something?” Maran asks tiredly, rubbing a fist into his sleep-sore eye. “Cistern looked fine when I checked but if there’s a repair —”

“Supply was supposed to be yesterday.”

Maran blinks a few times. He glances at the door. “Oh. The storm.”

Ben’s eyes are red-ringed when he lifts his head.

Maran does it. He makes the excuse for more firewood from the pile, but Ben’s smart. Ben’s the scientist. He must know. He chooses the oldest girl and kisses an apology to the top of her head before it’s lobbed off, clean and kind. He isn’t sure what he’s meant to say, if he’s meant to say anything, so he just repeats the snippets he heard from his mum. Shelter, guard, peace over night and safety the next morning.

Rationing isn’t hard. They only have to do it for a little, anyway. And Maran is used to lean months — he knows how to make rice last, chicken can keep on ice for six months on a stretch, and there’s plenty of canned things to pick through if it comes to that.

It’s not the chickens that starts to do Ben in. It’s the inconsistent weather, the nights that feel shorter than eight hours, and sometimes, the water near the south edge of the inlet reads boiling.

Maran isn’t sure if that’s algae. He doesn’t think so — but he’s not the scientist.

The scientist insists there’s something there. The scientist starts having nightmares. Maran wants to ask if they’re the same as his, because they touch his mind some nights, too. He’s scared of the answer. He’s scared that it’s only been three months, and the isolation has gotten to them both.

“Is it electric?” Maran asks one evening as he’s bundling up at the base of the stairs, chin tipped up towards the flash-blink-flash. A panel has come loose near the top, and someone needs to fix it. Ben hadn’t needed to ask for Maran to know it would need to be his job.

He looks at Ben when his inquiry his met by silence. They rarely are. Ben looks even paler than usual, washed in the patterned churn of darkness and light, dark and light. His eyes reflect the light; Maran thinks it might be more hypnotic against that blue than the dark blanket of sky. He doesn’t say as much, and when the moment passes, he wishes he had.

“I don’t know.” Ben gestures around them. No wires, he doesn’t say but Maran gathers. No generator. But it goes and goes, a continual spin, continual light. There are no traces of burnt soot or wick or lantern oil to pretend it’s light is sourced by fire. The original analog. It must be electric. *

It hurts to think about, so he doesn’t think about it. He doesn’t make Ben think about it either. That night, they do nothing but swap embarrassing stories like a couple of kids, cross-legged on the floor with a split two-thumbs of the last flask of rum and an unfinished card deck. Ben wins, but only (Maran insists) because most of the hearts are missing.

When Maran lands on his cot, the left leg that creaks and keeps him up when he turns splinters, shatters, drops him to the floor.

Ben laughs, but it’s not the usual pleasantly high lilt. It sounds a little manic. Maran feels manic. He splays arms and legs out, a starfish on dry land, and stares up at the weathered ceiling.

“I don’t want to jinx it—”

“D-Don’t, oh hah — oh, don’t fucking say anything you b-b-b—”

Maran raps his knuckles against the floor. “It cannot get fucking worse than this, mate. Swear!”

Ben tosses himself back against the mattress, and the creak that resounds in the quiet air makes them both pause — anticipating the comedic timing— but remains upright. They catch each others eye, and the laughter doubles. Maran’s stomach hurts with the force of it. When he splays his hand across his tensing gut, he hopes he thinks of this moment instead of his nightmare.

Ben catches his breath. And then he leans across the space, one hand braced on the floor, to tug at Maran’s jumper. There’s another pause, another quiet swell of silence, another extended moment where they lock eyes.

Ben doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t offer. But he shuffles back, shoulders to the wall, and makes room.

Maran fills it.

That night, there’s another storm.

There’s another storm. Or earthquake. Or other tectonic shift. Something that shakes the inlet, shakes the attached house and spills pans and belongings and rations, knocks a shelf from the wall, rattles the furniture, forces the lighthouse to creak and groan like a metallic beast.

Something. Maran isn’t the scientist, but the waves beat as high as the window and the coop is washed away by morning and the cistern is flooded with salt, has to be pumped, and —

And it’s something. And the light is red.

The light has gone red. Flash-red-blink-flash-red. Red.

Ben joins him at the base of the stairs. Neither of them climb up to investigate. Neither of them externally share the internal fear that it might be a one-way trip.

They go about their day without speaking. There’s no acknowledgement of the light, or how it spreads in a sick tinge across the waves, or how it doesn’t breach the surrounding fog nearly as well as the bright golden yellow. Maran doesn’t ask him to read the aviary guide’s entry on canaries, and Ben doesn’t offer — he makes space, and Maran fills it.

Maran has a nightmare. He dreams of climbing the stains and sitting on the floor in front of the light. He dreams of watching it turn (slowslowslowly). He understands, in that distant dreamlike way, that when it touches him that will be It. And when it does, red light spilling over the patch in his jeans at the knee, it burns through denim and skin and bone and all that’s left of him, at the top of that staircase, is the flash of red over dust.

He wakes, but not violently. Arms around his waist keep him in place; he can only jerk forward, as if throwing himself away from the heat, and cry out. There’s a knowing, similar to his dream, that if he opens his eyes all he’ll see is that reflected wash of crimson.

He doesn’t say anything. Ben, face buried in his shoulder, only shushes quietly. He turns until Maran has no choice but to do so as well, until their positions are switched. Maran draws air as they slot together, moves back a bit — he starts to apologize, because it was nightmare but —

Ben pats behind him for Maran’s hip. His hand fits snugly there, grips with a strength and insistent that spills heat into Maran’s face. Then he yanks Maran forward until they press together, chest to back and hip to hip, legs warmly tangled.

“Sorry.”

Ben hums sleepily. “For?”

Maran can’t verbalize it. Too embarrassing, too heavy the shame. His lips part but stutter over the explanation. And he can’t move to explain, because — well —

“Um. You know.” He sighs when there’s silence. “Ben, mate. C’mon.”

The body tucked against him shudders with a laugh, which does absolutely nothing to fix the situation at hand.

“S’fine. I’m fucking with you, Maran. H-Happens.” When Maran takes his turn with silence, he isn’t permitted to get away with it. Ben nudges himself back (purposefully, the bastard, it has to be) and makes Maran gasp. “Regularly, here’s hoping.”

“Fuck you.” Maran grumbles, but the heat is probably lost when he rubs his cheek into a sharp shoulder blade and falls immediately back to sleep.

The next morning, just as Ben leans in with hands cupping Maran’s cheeks, a foghorn sounds.

Ben squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his tongue — which Maran cannot help but stare at — against his canine, head falling with a thump-thump-thump against the pillow they shared.

“If this is a hallucination I’m going to be actually so fuckin’ pissed.”

Maran shifts, untangling their limbs from the almost-kiss embrace. It would have been nice. He wants it. More than he realized, he thinks, until they were exactly here. But —

“That’s the ferry.”

They stare at each other. Then they nearly trip over one another bolting for the stairs.

It is. It’s not a hallucination. It is the fucking ferry.

Both of them, barefoot and in nothing but thermal underclothes, rush out the front door and steps towards the edge of the water. It’s still too shallow for the vessel, so Maran takes the dinghy out to bring the old familiar face to the inlet.

“Light’s gone wonky, then?”

“Have you ever seen it do that?” Maran asks, putting a plate of ration-gruel in front of the man. “Sorry. All we got.”

The old ferryman makes a face. It isn’t a pleasant one at all. “Rough month, lads?”

When he’s gone, and the sack of supplies rests against the front door like a sandbag meant to keep something out, Maran watches Ben pace the floor.

“A month.”

“It can’t have been.” Maran insists quietly, hands tucked between his knees. “It can’t have been just a month. I was counting days. We ate three of supplies — we nearly ran out.” He stares up at Ben, eyes not just wet but brimming, spilling over. “Are we losing it? Are we?”

“No.” Ben’s turn to insist. He takes Maran’s chin in his palm and shakes him gently. The other flattens over the top of his scalp. “Your hair grew, Mar. It grew. That’s n-n-not a month’s fuckin’ worth of hair I cut.”

But they have no explanation, do they? Other than isolation. A mistracking of days, no matter how precise Ben is, how clean and careful his records. How consistent his notes. Wrong? And the sun in the sky, the passage of time; if he counts the minutes of boredom, that can’t wrong. Seconds, minutes, hours: real. Tides: real. Moon phases: real. That can’t be wrong. Ben can’t be. There has to be another explanation. There has to be another way —

Maran’s brow furrows.

“I think.” He glances up at Ben, whose hand falls away to rest over the back of his neck. Maran hasn’t told him about the embroidered house at his nape, but a pale thumb rubs its comforting circle there, anyway. “I think you were right.”

“What? Your hair?”

“No.” Maran glances over his shoulder towards the door that separates them from the interior of the lighthouse. He thinks of the mezuzah on the beam. “No, Ben. That there’s something here. I think it’s underneath.”

Ben’s hands sting when they clap to his cheeks, but the kiss makes the pain worth it. Or, Maran thinks privately, maybe sweeter.

#writing #mgc #mgc x jlb #lighthouse au #i had to start 2024 spooky yall know me uwu

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toysouk · 19 days ago

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How to Clean and Disinfect Pretend Play Toys Without Ruining Them

Yes, you can clean and disinfect pretend play toys without ruining them — but the key lies in using the right method for the material. Harsh chemicals, high heat, and excess moisture can damage many toys, so gentle cleaning solutions and proper drying techniques are essential to keep them safe, hygienic, and long-lasting.

Why Cleaning Pretend Play Toys Matters

Pretend play is more than fun — it’s how children explore the world. From cooking in toy kitchens to giving pretend checkups or playing store, kids use their hands constantly, and their toys often end up on the floor, in mouths, or shared with friends. That means dirt, germs, and even viruses can quickly accumulate.

A 2018 study by NSF International found that children's toys were among the top five germiest items in a household, with some harboring more bacteria than toilet handles. Whether it’s cold season, post-playdate, or just part of your weekly cleaning routine, sanitizing your child’s pretend play toys keeps them safe and healthy — without shortening the life of those toys.

Know Your Materials Before You Clean

Different pretend play toys are made from different materials, and each one needs a specific cleaning approach. Let’s break it down by material type and toy design.

1. Plastic Toys: The Most Common and Easiest to Clean

Plastic pretend toys — like a Supermarket Playset Toy — are often the most durable and easiest to sanitize.

How to Clean:

Regular Wash: Use a mix of warm water and mild dish soap. Scrub gently with a soft cloth or sponge.

Disinfection: After washing, wipe down with a diluted vinegar solution (1 part vinegar to 1 part water) or disinfecting wipes. Let air-dry completely.

What to Avoid:

Submerging toys with batteries or lights. Instead, wipe those down carefully with a damp cloth and disinfectant.

Pro tip: A toothbrush works wonders for getting into crevices like buttons, wheels, or fake cash registers.

2. Electronic or Battery-Operated Toys

Toys with lights, sounds, or buttons — like the Toy Vacuum Cleaner — require extra caution.

How to Clean:

Unplug or remove batteries first.

Use a microfiber cloth lightly dampened with soapy water to wipe surfaces.

Use a cotton swab dipped in isopropyl alcohol to gently clean buttons and seams.

Allow everything to air dry thoroughly before reinserting batteries.

What to Avoid:

Never soak or spray these toys directly. Water can seep inside and ruin the electronic components.

3. Wooden Pretend Play Toys

Wooden pretend toys — like food sets, tool benches, or dollhouse furniture — are beautiful, but sensitive to moisture.

How to Clean:

Wipe down with a cloth slightly dampened with water and mild soap.

To disinfect, spray lightly with a vinegar-water mix and let sit for 10 minutes before wiping dry.

What to Avoid:

Soaking in water or using bleach. Moisture can cause warping or cracking.

Leaving toys in direct sunlight to dry — it may fade painted finishes.

If your child has a Kids Tool Set with wooden components, pay attention to drying it properly to keep it usable for years.

4. Fabric Toys and Dress-Up Sets

Pretend play items like costumes, plush accessories, and aprons absorb dirt quickly — especially when part of a Beauty Playset or a doctor's kit.

How to Clean:

Most fabric items can go in a mesh laundry bag and be washed on a gentle cycle with cold water.

Disinfect using a steam cleaner or by ironing on low heat after drying to kill additional germs.

What to Avoid:

Hot water or high heat drying — it can shrink or damage delicate fabrics.

Use fragrance-free detergent if your child has sensitive skin. And always check tags or manufacturer instructions when available.

5. Metal Parts or Accessories

Occasionally, pretend play toys come with metal parts — like screws, keys, or utensils.

How to Clean:

Wipe with a damp cloth using mild soap.

Dry immediately with a towel to prevent rusting.

Disinfect with a small amount of rubbing alcohol if needed.

How Often Should You Clean Pretend Play Toys?

There’s no one-size-fits-all answer, but here’s a guideline:

Daily/Weekly: Toys used often or shared (kitchen sets, cash registers).

After Illness: Clean and disinfect all pretend play toys immediately.

Monthly: Deep clean lesser-used or seasonal toys.

After Playdates: Give all shared toys a quick wipe-down.

A Quick Word on Disinfectants

Many parents wonder if common disinfectants are too harsh for kids' toys. The truth is, household cleaners like bleach or alcohol can be safe if used correctly — but always rinse or wipe off residue and ensure toys are fully dry before play.

Safer alternatives include:

White vinegar

Hydrogen peroxide (3%)

Fragrance-free baby-safe wipes

Avoid anything with chlorine, ammonia, or synthetic fragrance if your child is under 3 or has allergies.

What to Do When Cleaning Isn’t Enough

If a toy has cracks that collect mold, stains that don’t come out, or odors that linger — it might be time to part ways. Sanitizing can do a lot, but it can’t undo physical damage. Prioritize safety over sentiment.

Real-World Case Example

In one preschool in Abu Dhabi, teachers implemented a toy sanitation routine during flu season. They cleaned Pretend Play Toys every Friday with diluted vinegar and used steam cleaners for plush items. Over three months, reported cold cases among children dropped by nearly 40%, according to internal school health logs. It’s a small step — but cleaning toys consistently can make a measurable difference in child health.

Don’t Forget Toy Storage Hygiene

Even clean toys can get re-contaminated in a dirty toy box. Once a month, wipe down toy bins, fabric baskets, or drawers where pretend play items are kept. Let them dry fully before putting toys back inside.

FAQs: Cleaning Pretend Play Toys

Q: Can I use hand sanitizer on plastic toys? A: You can, but it’s not recommended for everyday use. It may damage paint or decals over time. Stick to soap and water for daily cleaning.

Q: What’s the best quick cleaning method after a playdate? A: Use disinfecting wipes or a diluted alcohol solution to quickly sanitize high-touch surfaces like pretend food, phones, or cash registers.

Q: Should I machine wash all fabric pretend toys? A: Only if labels permit it. For fragile costumes or accessories, spot clean or hand wash to avoid damage.

Q: Can UV light sterilizers be used for toys? A: Yes — for small plastic items without electronics. They’re safe and effective, especially for parents who want a chemical-free option.

Final Thoughts

Cleaning and disinfecting Pretend Play Toys doesn’t have to be complicated — and it definitely shouldn’t damage them. With a little knowledge about the material and a few safe cleaning habits, you can keep your child’s favorite toys both fun and germ-free.

Whether it’s a Toy Vacuum Cleaner, a Kids Tool Set, or a Beauty Playset, every pretend item sees a lot of love and use. Keeping them clean not only protects your child’s health but also extends the life of your toys — a win-win for every household.

If you're shopping for toys that are easy to maintain, prioritize simple surfaces and sturdy construction like those found in high-quality Pretend Play Toys. Because clean play is safe play — and safe play is smart parenting.

Source : https://toysouk53.blogspot.com/2025/07/how-to-clean-and-disinfect-pretend-play.html

#kids tool set #toy #pretend play toys #Toy Vacuum Cleaner

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k1lig · 2 months ago

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How To Choose a Garage Door Suitable For Your Family? Summary Of Practical Suggestions

The garage door is not only an important part of the appearance of the home building, but also directly affects the safety, convenience and daily use experience of the family. For many families, the purchase of garage doors is often overlooked but actually very important. Faced with the dazzling array of garage door types and materials on the market, how should consumers make rational choices to meet both practicality and aesthetics? This article will summarize a practical garage door purchase guide for you from multiple dimensions such as safety, materials, opening methods, thermal insulation, noise control, and intelligent functions.

Safety Performance Is The Primary Consideration

As a larger movable component in the home, the safety performance of the garage door cannot be ignored. First of all, a door panel design with anti-pinch function should be selected, which is especially important for families with children or pets. Secondly, the electric garage door should have an obstruction rebound function to ensure that it automatically rebounds when encountering people or obstacles during the falling process to avoid injury. In addition, the door body should have an anti-pry structure, and it is recommended to choose a brand product with strong anti-technical opening ability for the lock part.

If the garage at home is connected to the interior of the house, safety needs to be considered more. You can choose double locking or connect to the home security system to further strengthen protection.

Choose The Right Material According To Climate And Needs

The material of the garage door not only determines its appearance and texture, but is also directly related to its service life and maintenance cost. Common materials are as follows:

Steel garage door: sturdy and durable, with good anti-collision performance, suitable for users who pay attention to safety and have limited budgets.

Aluminum alloy garage door: light, rust-proof, easy to maintain, suitable for humid areas in the south.

Wooden garage door: natural and beautiful, but the price is high, and regular anti-corrosion maintenance is required.

Composite material garage door: such as steel + PU foam, which has both strength and good thermal insulation.

For rainy and humid areas in the south or seaside residences, it is recommended to give priority to aluminum alloy or composite material garage doors with stronger corrosion resistance. For cold areas in the north in winter, sandwich structure materials with better thermal insulation performance should be considered.

Choose The Right Opening Method: Manual Vs. Electric

Garage doors on the market are roughly divided into manual and electric categories:

Manual garage doors: low price, simple structure, suitable for users with limited budget or low frequency of garage use.

Electric garage door: remote opening and closing, intelligent control, improve the convenience of life. Suitable for families who frequently use garages or pursue intelligent life.

Electric garage doors are especially suitable for entering and exiting on rainy days or at night. At the same time, they can be configured with smart home systems to realize remote control, automatic sensing opening and other functions to improve the comfort and safety of life.

Pay Attention To Heat Insulation And Sound Insulation Performance

If your garage is connected to the home space, or the garage itself has storage, laundry and other functions, then the heat insulation and sound insulation performance of the garage door cannot be ignored. Some high-end models use a double-layer door panel structure with polyurethane foam material (PU) filled in the middle, which can effectively reduce the interference of external temperature and noise on the indoor environment.

Especially in hot summer or cold winter, good heat insulation performance can significantly improve energy efficiency, reduce the energy consumption of air conditioning and heating, and indirectly save household energy expenses.

Coordination Between Exterior Style And Overall Residence

When modern families purchase home building materials, they often pay more attention to the overall aesthetics. The exterior design of the garage door should be coordinated with the residential architectural style, exterior wall color, and door and window styles.

Garage doors currently on the market offer a variety of panel shapes and colors to choose from, including classic long board, retro country style, modern minimalist style, etc. Some high-end products even support customized wood grain, spray patterns or glass panels to enhance the visual layering.

In addition, the door body's anti-ultraviolet coating, scratch-resistant and dirt-resistant surface treatment process are also key factors in evaluating the durability of the product's appearance.

Intelligent Functions Enhance The User Experience

With the development of smart home systems, more and more garage doors support WiFi remote control, voice assistant access, automatic detection of abnormalities and other functions.

Common functions of smart garage doors include:

Remote opening and closing of the door with mobile phone App

Real-time status monitoring and abnormal alarm

Timing automatic opening and closing settings

Linkage with security cameras

Support for voice control such as Amazon Alexa and Google Assistant

If you want to create a convenient and safe smart home environment, it is undoubtedly a wise choice to purchase a garage door that supports intelligent control systems.

Installation And After-Sales Service Are Equally Important

High-quality garage doors also require professional installation to ensure the use effect and lifespan. When purchasing products, it is recommended to choose manufacturers or dealers that provide formal installation services. During the installation process, attention should be paid to key details such as the verticality of the door body, the horizontality of the track, and the firm installation of the motor.

At the same time, the after-sales service system cannot be ignored. Some brands provide a 5-year or even 10-year warranty period, and support regular door-to-door maintenance and repair services, which are more secure for future use.

Conclusion: Buy According To Needs And Make Rational Judgments

The choice of a home garage door is not only a functional decision, but also a lifestyle choice. In the purchase process, it is recommended that you start with the following questions:

Do you use the garage frequently?

Do you prefer smart control and remote management?

What are the climatic conditions in your area?

Does the family have special needs for heat and sound insulation?

Does the appearance need to be unified with the overall style of the building?

Combining budget, frequency of use, safety requirements and aesthetic requirements, choosing the garage door that best suits your family can truly improve home quality and convenience.

#door #garage door #door design #door supplier #door manufacturers #garage door service

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247garagedoorrepair · 4 months ago

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Doors for garages are a critical feature for both homeowners and businesses in Ontario. They protect vehicles, tools, and valuables, while also influencing your property’s overall curb appeal. A reliable garage door can help manage heating costs, boost the appearance, and guarantee smooth everyday use. With so many styles, materials, and technical add-ons available, selecting the best option might feel daunting. This in-depth guide walks through everything you need to know about doors for garages in Ontario—from insulation and maintenance tips to choosing professional garage door repair versus full replacement. If you’re in the market for new doors or want to keep your existing setup in peak condition, read on to discover how to get the most from this essential home feature. Why Quality Doors for Garages Matter in Ontario Ontario faces both icy winters and humid summers, requiring durable and well-insulated doors for garages. Wind, snow, and intense sunlight can compromise a weak or poorly built garage door, leading to drafts, higher utility bills, and premature wear. By investing in a high-quality door, you: - Maintain better indoor temperatures, reducing energy costs - Improve your home’s overall security and safety - Create a positive impression from the street - Reduce long-term maintenance hassles Your garage door is one of your property’s largest moving components, so focusing on longevity and efficiency pays off. Key Elements of a Good Garage Door Selecting doors for garages in Ontario starts by considering several important aspects: - Material: Common choices include steel, wood, aluminum, and fiberglass. Steel offers durability and value. Wood has timeless appeal but requires more upkeep. Aluminum is rustproof and lightweight but can be prone to dents. Fiberglass is corrosion-resistant but may become brittle in deep cold. - Insulation: High R-value doors are essential in an Ontario climate. Insulated garage doors keep interior rooms comfortable, minimize energy loss, and can dampen outside noise. - Safety Features: Look for auto-reverse sensors, tamper-resistant brackets, and pinch-resistant panel designs. - Design: The style significantly influences curb appeal. From classic raised-panel looks to sleek, modern garage door designs, pick one that complements your home’s architecture. - Warranty: Reputable manufacturers often offer multi-year warranties. Follow recommended maintenance schedules to keep coverage valid. Comparing Materials MaterialProsConsIdeal Use CaseSteelStrong, good insulation, cost-effectivePossible dents or rust if protective coating is damagedMost homes seeking durability & warmthAluminumLightweight, rust-resistantCan dent more easily, sometimes noisierModern aesthetics, wider doors, damp climatesWoodClassic look, natural insulationHigh maintenance, vulnerable to humidityHeritage properties, rustic appeal, custom finishesFiberglassResistant to corrosion, lightweightMay be brittle in extreme cold, fewer style optionsHumid regions, partial light infiltration Focus on Insulation Ontario winters make insulation a priority. Look for insulated garage doors Ontario residents trust, typically featuring foam cores layered between steel or fiberglass. A higher R-value means better temperature control, fewer drafts, and lower energy usage. Insulated doors also: - Reduce noise from the street - Strengthen the door against dents - Keep garages comfortable if used as workshops, gyms, or laundry spaces Custom Doors for Garages Ontario Sometimes a standard door may not align with a property’s needs. Custom doors for garages Ontario providers offer solutions tailored to: - Unusual dimensions or oversized openings - Specific architectural styles, like Victorian or ultra-modern - Special security systems or advanced insulation features - Decorative hardware or window inserts for more natural light While custom designs can be pricier, they ensure your garage door integrates perfectly with your home’s façade, boosting both visual appeal and performance. Modern Garage Door Designs Modern garage door designs have soared in popularity. These styles typically highlight: - Clean, horizontal lines - Large glass panels or frosted windows - Minimal handles or hardware - Dark, neutral colors like black, charcoal, or metallic tones By pairing a modern door with a smartphone-compatible opener, you add sleek aesthetics and maximum convenience. If you favor contemporary architecture or want a bold statement piece, a modern-style garage door could be ideal. Maintenance Best Practices Regular upkeep extends the life of your garage door and wards off expensive repairs: - Visual Inspection: Look for any visible damage like cracks, rust, or frayed cables. - Lubrication: Apply silicone-based lubricant to hinges, rollers, and tracks every few months. - Balance Test: Detach the opener and raise the door halfway—if it doesn’t stay put, it’s unbalanced. - Sensor Check: Ensure the auto-reverse feature works by waving an object under the door. - Weatherstripping: Replace torn or worn seals to maintain insulation. Have a professional inspect high-tension components like torsion springs annually. Staying on top of maintenance helps preserve performance and keeps your warranty intact. Common Garage Door Issues and Troubleshooting Even well-cared-for doors sometimes encounter problems: - Door Doesn’t Move: Check the opener’s power source and remote batteries. A broken torsion spring can also prevent motion. - Unusual Noises: Squeaks often indicate lubrication needs. Loud popping might mean spring or track issues. - Reversing Midway: The door may need sensor realignment or force-limit adjustments. - Door Off Track: Stop using it immediately and call an expert to reset the rollers correctly. Quick fixes like changing a remote battery are simple DIY tasks, but major mechanical faults should be handled by trained professionals. Repair vs. Replacement Deciding between repair and replacement often depends on: FactorRepairReplaceDoor AgeSuitable if under 10–15 years oldIf 15+ years or frequent issues, a new door can be cost-effectiveDamage ExtentMinor dents or worn partsMajor structural damage is pricey to fix repeatedlyEnergy EfficiencyUpgrading some parts may help slightlyA fully insulated, modern door can slash energy billsAestheticsCosmetic fixes may suffice short-termA new door fully modernizes curb appealWarrantyCheck existing coverageA fresh door includes robust warranties If your door lacks insulation, constantly needs repairs, or looks outdated, replacement might offer better long-term value. The Role of Professional Garage Door Repair Professional garage door repair helps you avoid safety risks and extends your door’s lifespan: - Torsion Spring Handling: These springs are under high tension and can be dangerous. - Photo-Eye Sensor Alignment: Experts ensure everything meets regulatory safety standards. - Opener Diagnostics: A pro can pinpoint strange noises or electrical faults quickly. - Saving Time & Money: Proper fixes minimize repeat issues and bigger damage down the line. For Ontario homeowners, 247 Garage Doors Ontario offers round-the-clock service and thorough inspections. If you suspect a major problem or just want a routine tune-up, professional help is invaluable. Upgrading Security Features Beyond a sturdy door, consider additional protective measures: - Smart Openers: Control your garage from anywhere via a smartphone. Alerts help you track who enters and when. - Rolling Code Tech: Opener remotes that alter their code each use, preventing code theft. - Extra Locks: Side-bolt locks or stronger deadbolts increase resistance to forced entry. - Minimal Window Exposure: If adding windows, choose frosted or smaller styles to limit visibility. Layered security is essential if your garage connects directly to your home. Sustainable and Eco-Friendly Choices Ontario’s environmental goals encourage greener home improvements, including garage doors: - Recycled Steel: Some manufacturers use high recycled content, reducing raw material usage. - Efficient Insulation: High R-value doors cut down on HVAC loads. - Solar Compatibility: Certain openers run on minimal electricity and can integrate with solar systems. - Long-Lasting Finishes: Powder-coating or baked-on enamels resist chipping and reduce repainting. Eco-friendly options may cost more initially, but often yield savings in energy bills and maintenance. Additional Customization Ideas Doors for garages can be tailored to suit personal preferences: - Windows and Glazing: Incorporate decorative, tinted, or frosted glass for style and natural light. - Hardware Accents: Carriage-style hinges, ornate handles, or minimalist designs. - Color Themes: Move beyond white or beige and explore woodgrain textures or bold paint. - Smart-Home Integration: Connect to Alexa, Google Home, or Apple HomeKit for voice commands and scheduling. Your garage door doesn’t have to be purely functional—it can elevate your home’s unique character. In-Depth Resource for Guidance For more thorough advice on garage door upkeep, efficiency, and design considerations, visit the This Old House’s Garage Door Guide. They offer practical tips, trend overviews, and suggestions to get the most from this important home feature. Sample Maintenance Schedule FrequencyTaskNotesMonthlyInspect rollers, cables, and sensorsLook for fraying, misalignment, or damageEvery 3 MonthsLubricate hinges, springs, and tracksUse silicone-based productsBiannuallyDeep-clean door panels and remove any rustMild detergent and a soft brushAnnuallyHire a professional for tune-up and safety checksThey’ll adjust tension and calibrate openerAs NeededReplace weatherstripping and worn partsMaintain insulation and performance Following a consistent routine ensures maximum performance and helps maintain your warranty. Summing Up: Doors for Garages in Ontario Selecting the right doors for garages has a large impact on daily convenience, energy efficiency, and overall property value. Whether you opt for classic steel, contemporary glass, or custom doors for garages Ontario professionals craft, focus on insulation, durability, and reliable safety features. Regular inspections—along with immediate attention to any strange sounds or performance issues—prevent small glitches from becoming big headaches. Remember to consider your door’s age, energy efficiency, and needed repairs when deciding between fixing or replacing. Investing in modern garage door designs can dramatically revitalize a home’s appearance. Next Steps and Key Questions - Is your garage door older than 15 years or frequently breaking? A newer, insulated model may pay for itself through lower bills. - Looking to add natural light? Add windows or glass inserts in a custom design. - Concerned about theft? Advanced locks and rolling code openers boost security. - Need a pro’s opinion? Seek a professional garage door repair and installation service in Ontario. For regional expertise and 24/7 assistance, contact 247 Garage Doors Ontario. Their certified team addresses everything from routine maintenance to emergency fixes, ensuring your garage door stays safe and efficient year-round. Read the full article

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jacks-tracks · 5 months ago

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March 2025

Roca Blanca

Roca blanca, as detailed in previous posts. Upcoast from Puerto, it,s 1 hour on the 2 lane rocket road. I call it that because the vans that run from Puerto to Rio Grande seem to fly. 60 pesos, approx 1 hour. Bad music blares, whats worse than rap in Spanish, off key?The drivers believe that if you tailgate the lead vehicle will speed up. Not true , but it puts them in a better position to make flying passes on blind corners The highway is marked with painted distance indicators(ie. 120 to Puerto). Misread by van drivers to mean the speed limit is 120, they try. Perhaps the sooner they get to the destination, the sooner they can have drinks before returning. Driving with one hand is traditional, especially while gabbing on the radio phone to other distracted van drivers. Hands come right off the wheel to wave at drivers from the same company going in the opposite direction. I swear little wings slid out from the side panels for lift! Anyway, flag stops are sudden, accelerating to 100 fun, and chickens beware. Only topes save the day, and there,s lots of them, usually paved, sometimes homemade from dirt, or best of all, a row of cannonballs across traffic. These seem to work best, nearly a full stop. Then it,s time to accelerate full blast to the next tope(100 yards). Having survived all this, pay 60 pesos on alighting, limp into the shade.

it,s a stroll through Cacalote town, flat, divided street, paved to the city limits, where it becomes dirt. Lots of shops selling the same stuff, a tortilla shop, laundry, pool hall, plaza, school, and flowers on walls. The tiny carnival rides aare still rusting on the side street, apparently unused till weekends. At 9 am the heat has yet to rise, and there,s patches of shade from roadside trees. Flat land, cow pastures, goats, donkeys, calves, brahma cattle, nervous chickens, and occasional tropical birds in the larger trees.A brilliant red bird in the mango was perhaps a tanager. Kids cruise by on 1 speed bikes, moms on scooters pack on 2 kids, groceries, and the occasional dog. Everybody is curious(why are these gringos walking!/), but friendly. Calling out Buenos Dias inevitably gets a smile and wave. One half mile from the beach ,the thunder of the surf rolls through the air. A masssive lagoon is hidden by mangrove swamps, and while there is one patch of open water, dotted with tiny fish, and decorated by a Crocodillo sign, no crocs are in evidence. They probably lurk deeper in the swamp, and only eat dogs, right?

Finally come some rental shacks roadside, plank walls, flimsy doors and mosquitoes for free. Rental prices are stupid, 1000 pesos per night. Perhaps for the ambience? None!! There a re now a couple of upscale mini hotels, empty. Then comes the first of the beach front palalpa restarants(sp?) Lulu and Jose Galvan are the longest established, super friendly, very good cook, specializing in fish, fresh caught. Now there,s a big tin roofed palapa with plastic chairs and tables, a few hammocks, and a wide open view of the beach stretching east forever, and west to the rocky point and usually swimmable beach in front of the iguanarium. Yes they have an iguana rearing facility, with jumbo adults, and 100,s of babys in tall net cages. They get fed stale lettuce by the box full.. There are 10 other palapas, funky, unused except on weekends and crammed to overflowing at Christmas and Easter. The swamp backs onto these palapas.

Huge surf boomed in the last time I was there, making the main beach unusable, and the swim beach dangerous. Usually the swim beach can be used as it,s in a hook. Instead I walked into the interior on a small dirt road between the swamp mangroves and the tall sand banks that cut off the beaches. Barb wire fences isolate the cactus and scrub from the path and I kept one eye on the scrub for venemous critters, and the other eye on the swamp side for crocs, Saw none, but it was the heat of the day by 10 am. 1 mile along, a cactus boardered trail, up over the dunes to a collapsing palapa(shade!) with a nice view over another pocket beach. Waves of heat mixed with the sea breeze. Another mile and i saw a huge rock pile, sandstone all weathered into fantastic shapes. There was house down the road, but i ducked under the wire onto another beach. More miles of empty sand, big waves, and a gringo palace in the distance. Underground cables carry power all along this empty road. Another palapa, welcome shade and a breeze off the ocean made a good final stop. Cormorants ducked throught the surf, and a curlew(?) with a skinny curved beak as long as it,s legs probed the backwash.

Returning always seems shorter, and i made my way back. At the swim beach a full wetsuited diver had speared 5 big fish. I went to the restaurant to join my companions for lunch. Huge portion of fish with fries. Pricey at 380 pesos, but I,m paying for the ambience, and a hammock. Jose is building 4 cement palapas right beside the main building. Seems he pissed off the locals, and someone burned down his original shacks. Mysterious are the ways of local politics in Mexico. Matt drove Lorrine and I out to the road, saving us a very hot walk, and another rocket driver flew us back to Puerto.

So, Roca Blanca is the perfect place to feel the old Mexico of my youth, empty beaches, golden sand, palapa eaterys, and peaceful scenery. A long way to go, but well worth it.

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nathank77 · 1 year ago

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5/16/24

6:16 p.m Edited/ Added to 6:26 p.m

I fell asleep fast on the half MG of xanax and a hydroxyzine 25MG around 7 a.m or 7:15 a.m. I woke up at like 2:30. I didn't sleep after that despite trying but I didn't want to take Benadryl and miss therapy. So I gave up around 3:30 p.m

So i had therapy at 4:45 p.m. I haven't heard back about the Kristen complaint. Yesterday and some of today I've had horrible flashbacks to Nala and to just psychosis.

Last night I basically watched family guy all night. Today idk what to do. I was going to do laundry but my mother always hogs the machines... and I haven't been able to use a towel to dry off for like 3 days so far...

I got to shower and shave my head but I may skip it. I showered yesterday and shaved my face..

I might try to see if I can get the hdcp bypasser to work before I return it back to Walmart and then buy another one from Ebay or just try to buy a regular hdmi splitter and see if that allows the, "handshake" but idk...

Also I might play fc2 or fc4 but idk. My clippers are Contaminated bc of contact with puss.... for at least another 7 days.. maybe I'll shave with a razor instead. I don't want to wash my clippers or use hand sanitizer as they rust them...

I may just watch family guy all day. I'm fucking lonely and I'm thinking about going back to Stacey. She's pretty. She's crazy and she will take me as I am. We can have kids cause she has money. She saves and is great with money. She saved up for a 60k car and paid out of pocket.

I mean I won't be happy but at least I'll have someone to talk to everyday and video chat or talk on the phone with once a day and I'll have someone to spend my weekends with...

Beyond that I don't expect to find anyone and actually be happy. Maybe I was right 10 years ago when I thought, about breaking up with her but my other thought was- what if I can't find someone else to love me?

Idk. I'm getting desperate. Not desperate enough to truly settle. I won't be settling on appearance.... I'll be settling on personality.. and the fact that she made more than a few transphobic remarks..

But I mean I have a feeling I'll be settling no matter what. Whether it's a life of loneliness or a life with Stacey or some other girl i haven't met yet.

Stacey was thoughtful and wrote sweet things to me. It fulfilled one of my love languages and she takes my mom as she is and loves her. She loves my dad. She was a part of the family. Most people can't stand my mother and can't stand my sister. She didn't like my sister but I'm sure they could put that in the past. It's a real consideration.

Me and Stacey could do artifical insemination. I could be on a birth certificate as the father. She would take my last name. We could get a house. She'd be fine with me being a stay at home dad. I mean it could work.

Also I have my disability appt tomorrow at 1:30 p.m. I'm going to take melatonin 2MG, hydroxyzine 25MG, and 1MG of xanax at around 4 a.m.... I hope I fall asleep fast and wake up around 12 or 12:30. If I can make it I might go to New Hampshire after bc it'll be done at 2:30 p.m and I could get out the door by 3 p.m or 3:30 the latest...

I'm anxious I wont wake up on time or fall asleep fast enough... if I don't I'll reschedule and I'll go grocery shopping and do new Hampshire Saturday unless I wake up at like 2:30 and then I may go to new Hampshire anyways cause I never wake up that early with 7 hours of sleep.

I'm going to try not to worry about it as I can always reschedule and I'll make it work eventually but I truly hope I can do it tomorrow and see how much back pay I'm entitled to and hopefully get it for June 1st.

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leo-regulus · 2 years ago

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you seem to be having a bit of a time, so have a picture of the local flock of ducks

Thank you for the ducks.... ;~;

I got up fucking early this morning (9am, I am on vacation for the first time in five years, folks) to do a border run. Wait was 5min when I left home, wait was 45min in actuality. Got the most hard-ass border agent to ever live (spent five minutes forced to explain what enamel is, and he made me take off my helmet to verify my identity, which literally no one there has ever done before, and he sent the guy ahead of me to secondary inspection, fucking Yikes, no one comes back from that).

Got my pins from my PO box, then spent 45min on I-5 trying to remember which exit was the one for good gas. Turned around in Birch Bay thinking I'd missed my turn, turns out I was probably one or two offramps short, so I didn't get gas at a decent price. (4.99/gal USD, which is 1.67/L CAD, which is better than the 2.10 they're making us pay up here, but I know for a fact there's a gas station down there 4$ on the dot, which is 1.34/L CAD if not a little lower, so fuck me.)

Came back up, fortunately it was only a four-car wait coming back (and the kind lady in front of me told me to go first??? What a sweetheart??? I was thirty seconds to get through lmao but still???) and headed home.

But I forgot my laundry for like four hours last night while I was playing RuneScape (if I do another grind session tonight I should finally, after 16 years of on-off playing, be full rune) and my awful bedding requires one wash and then two to four dry cycles, so my big ass duvet that requires three to five dry cycles got put in the dryer at 1am last night. And I was gonna put it back through the wash this morning before I left, And I Forgot, so it's got another half hour in the wash atm and then I'm stuck waiting for it for four-five hours before I can do any other laundry, and I have two more loads that are one-for-one wash/dry.

And I got Trader Joe's sipping chocolate, which means microwave a mug of milk and then mix, and I have a special Camp NaNo mug just for this. So I nuked my milk and washed the cup and... then forgot all about it. So I had to nuke my milk again to make my sippy choccy, which is now lukewarm-semi-cold because I went and swept-mopped the stairs and watered all the plants and turned the pool on.

Now I am sipping my choccy for a couple minutes, checking socials, before putting away my bike gear and starting in on cleaning the shit out of my room.

My parents left Tuesday morning and my brother left Monday morning. My parents will be home in about six hours ( :((((( ) and my brother vaguely sometime after Kirilka leaves in a week and a half, so I've only got a few more hours of cleaning freedom.

And I can't even wash my bike, because it's too cold out, which sucks, because taking the rust off is probably a six hour task because my executive dysfunction is awful. I need an industrial grade chrome derust formula. I have no idea where to get one. I think I have to drag my dad to Lordco for that so the salesfolks don't upcharge the shit out of me. :/

But yeah that's how my morning's been. xD; Thank you for the ducks!! Ducks good!!!

#asks #like don't get me wrong it's been a good day as far as good days go!#but it's also just been one dumb thing after another and I love complainin about the little things #if I complain about the little things (40min border wait and my laundry)#I won't need to complain about the big things (my dad's worsening health my mother's stress my destroyed relationship with my brother)#so a little complainin is good for the soul. this is why i'm ok not having the time for therapy #it goes. the day goes on and so do we

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wannabespacesmuggler · 2 years ago

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D.D. | Shane’s Girl [1]

Part One | Masterlist | Buy me a coffee | Check out the playlist

Summary: Daryl Dixon knows he shouldn’t be thinking about you when he’s alone at night in his tent. Hell, he shouldn’t even be looking at you throughout the day. You’re not his. You’re Shane’s girl. But Daryl doesn’t like the way Shane treats you. And he certainly doesn’t like how you're forced to play ‘loving girlfriend’ to a man with eyes for another woman at the camp.

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Reader

Warnings: Merle Dixon being Merle Dixon, Shane Walsh isn’t great either tbh

Word Count: 1K

Author’s Note: This has been sitting in my google docs just collecting ~metaphorical~ dust. I was going to put all the parts into one very long one shot, but instead, decided against it because I really, really like what I’ve written so far and feel that some feedback can help cure the writer’s block plaguing me. Let me know what you guys think.

Extras: Playlist

Daryl Dixon didn’t think much of you and Shane when he first joined the ragtag team of survivors at the quarry, but he’s an observant man and Shane is anything but subtle.

It all started a few weeks after the world ended. Everyone was still recoiling from what they had seen and heard on their way to Atlanta, but they were trying to continue living. Shane was attempting to establish order in the makeshift camp. The women were charged with cooking, cleaning the laundry, and looking after the kids while the men were sent out to scavenge and hunt -- except for Dale, who spent most of his days working on his bucket of rust, and Shane, who has taken a liking to his newfound leadership and decided to become the watchful protector of the camp. Daryl thinks it’s a pretty backward way of thinking -- it’s the end of the world and we’re still worried about maintaining gender norms -- but who is he to argue?

It was one of the rare days Daryl wasn’t off on a hunting trip when you first piqued his interest. He was skinning the last of the squirrels he’d brought back from his latest hunting trip and Merle just had to open his mouth when you walked by.

“Hey,” Merle’s voice cut through the quiet conversations being had. Everyone’s eyes turned to him, including yours. “Why don’t you keep old Merle here company?”

Your eyes shift quickly to Daryl, who was trying to make himself look busy with the squirrel in his lap, before returning to Merle. You put your hands on your hips defiantly before answering.

“Looks like you’ve already got yourself some company, Merle.”

You motion toward Daryl while speaking. Daryl has to fight the grin that’s pulling his lips. He was expecting you to be like Lori -- quiet and submissive when the men are talking. But here you are, prepared to take on Merle Dixon all by yourself. He supposes he’s gotta respect that, even though he knows your answer is just going to rile Merle up more. Still, you’re here, standing up for yourself, which is more than he’s seen from others in the group.

“What, you mean Daryl? C’mon sweetheart, he’s not much fun to talk to or look at.”

It’s the end of his sentence that has you turning to look toward Shane, who is once again sitting on top of the RV, a rifle in one hand and a canteen in the other. You’re hoping that Shane will look over and come to your aid. You certainly don’t need rescuing, but the support of your boyfriend would be nice right now. However, you’re met with nothing as Shane’s eyes never meet yours. You roll your eyes and turn back to Merle.

Daryl watches you, squirrel in his hands forgotten for the moment. He can see the frustration on your face as you turn around, obviously not pleased with the fact that Shane is not paying attention to you in the slightest. However, despite your frustration, you don’t back down.

“I’d rather look at him than you any day.”

He knows you’re just saying that to get to Merle, but Daryl still ducks his head to hide the blush that spread across his cheeks due to your words. He quickly brushes the thought of there being even the slightest possibility that your eyes have wandered over to him during the past few weeks aside when Merle stands up. Daryl knows his brother and based on the look on his face, you’ve pissed Merle right off. This is bad news for everyone.

Daryl stands as well, a hand already reaching out to stop Merle from advancing toward you. Merle swats Daryl’s hand away roughly. The action makes Daryl take an immediate step back, head ducking down again.

“Don’t touch me!”

Merle’s raised voice seems to have finally gotten Shane’s attention.

“Woah, woah, woah. What’s going on here?”

Daryl lifts his head in time to see Shane make his way to your side. He places a hand on your shoulder as you continue your seething staring match with Merle. You’re about to brush off the encounter and tell Shane not to worry about it, when Merle opens his mouth again.

“You better muzzle your bitch.”

And that’s when all hell broke loose. Shane launches toward Merle, yelling unintelligibly. You are quick to grab Shane off of Merle and Daryl follows your lead, pulling Merle back. Eventually, you and Daryl are able to wrangle Merle and Shane away from one another. You still have both your hands on Shane’s chest when he begins shouting again.

“You stay away from my girl. You hear me? You don't talk to her. If I see you even look at her, she won’t be able to stop me. Both of you.”

Shane’s eyes move from Merle to Daryl and the look in his eyes is ice cold, it damn near almost sends a shiver down Daryl’s spine. Daryl nods as Merle continues to struggle against him. Seemingly content with the response, Shane wraps an arm around your shoulders and begins moving you away from them. You spare Daryl a brief, apologetic glance before allowing Shane to drag you toward the RV.

Daryl pushes down the knot developing in his stomach as he watches Shane manhandle you. His hold is less protective and more possessive. It seems much less like he came to defend you from some unwanted attention and much more like he came over just to take back what’s his.

He shakes his head -- physically trying to rid himself of the thoughts ricocheting in his head. It’s not like he can do anything anyway. Shane made it crystal clear that you are off-limits -- and who is he to argue?

#twd #The Walking Dead #walking dead #daryl dixon #twd daryl #daryl dixon imagine #daryl dixon x reader #daryl x reader #Rick Grimes #shane walsh #merle dixon #glenn rhee #lori grimes #the walking dead imagine #walking dead imagine #Norman Reedus #norman reedus imagine #norman reedus x reader

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shemarmooresfedora · 4 years ago

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Collision Course

Summary: You and Spencer were just bound to collide. Only fate could plan a first meeting that unique.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Content/Warnings: fluff, minor car crash (no serious injuries), swearing, sexual harassment (specifically cat-calling from a stranger), mentions of eating a lot of food, implied allusion to sex (not specifically stated)

Word Count: 2.3k

A/N: this is my one-shot entry for @ellesgreenaway ‘s 1k follower celebration! congratulations! <3 i’ve had this fic in my drive for a while but i never got around to finishing it until now

Masterlist

The metro was down for scheduled repairs today. JJ offered to bring Spencer in but he politely declined. He figured he should drive his car at least every once and a while so it doesn’t just collect rust in his parking spot.

Leaving his apartment 15 minutes earlier than he normally would to account for his rather slow driving, Spencer cautiously reversed out of his space.

He sighed in relief that he had not hit the neighboring cars. Spencer began to pull out of the parking garage. Unfortunately, he was so relieved from his little victory that he forgot to check both ways when he drove out of the parking garage.

Spencer slammed on the brakes but it was too late. He hit a young woman jogging and knocked her to the ground. Luckily, his average speed was that of a snail so he hoped her injuries were not too bad.

Spencer put the car in park and got out, “Oh god, oh god, oh god. Are you okay, miss?”

“I think so,” you were on the ground, assessing your body for any damage.

“Can you stand?” Spencer extended his hand to help you up.

You carefully stood, wincing a little when you put pressure on your left ankle.

“Is there anyone I can call? Do you want me to drive you to the ER?” Spencer frantically asked.

Your eyes widened, “No!” you stated a little too loudly, “Um I mean no thank you. I should finish my run anyways. I have a 5k for Alzheimer’s research coming up and I need to run or else I don’t raise any money,” you politely waved and took off again, much slower this time.

Spencer cringed as he watched you limp slightly every time you stepped on your left ankle, knowing it was his fault you were in pain. He sighed and pulled out his phone.

“Hey JJ, have you left yet? I need a ride, I’ll explain in the car.”

“Pretty Boy, how was your drive in?” Derek asked as soon as Spencer stepped off the elevator with JJ.

“I got about 20 feet and then hit someone with my car and had to call JJ so not great,” he admitted.

“Boy Wonder, you did WHAT? Are they okay?” Penelope gasped.

“She insisted she was fine but then she was limping away. I offered her a ride but she didn’t seem too keen on getting in a car with me,” Spencer explained.

“I wonder why,” Emily chuckled.

So there Spencer was. In the park in his only pair of short athletic shorts and a hoodie.

He had asked Penelope to sign him up for the 5k as a way to sort of make it up to the woman he hit. Plus, obviously it was for a good cause that was near and dear to his heart because of his mother.

Spencer had to take a lot of water breaks, periodically stopping to walk for a bit.

In the distance, he saw you on a bench and he suddenly felt the energy again to continue running to you. As he approached, he saw you tightening an ankle brace around your left foot and to make matters worse, you had a wrist brace as well.

Spencer considered just leaving you alone but he felt the need to apologize.

“H-Hello,” he awkwardly sputtered.

“Oh, hi,” you replied.

“I am so so sorry. Please let me pay your medical bills and any other expenses that I caused,” Spencer apologized.

“Unless you meant to hit me then it’s fine,” you stood from the bench.

“I definitely didn’t and I wasn’t on my phone or anything like that. I just barely ever drive but the metro was down today,” Spencer explained.

“You don’t have to pay my medical bills. I’m friends with a nurse so she did this for free. However, I would allow you to sponsor me for the 5k,” you answered.

“Absolutely,” Spencer nodded, “And funny story, you inspired me to register as well. I got everyone in my office to sponsor me.”

“That’s so great! The money is certainly going to a good cause.”

Spencer saw you smile for the first time since he met you.

“I’ve never been much of an athlete though. I barely passed my fitness test for work,” Spencer admitted.

“What kind of job has a fitness test?” you asked.

“I work for the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI,” Spencer stated.

“Oh shit, you’re a federal agent? Maybe I will sue you and make bank,” you grinned.

Spencer’s face reddened.

“It was just a joke. You can laugh, then that means the incident is in the past and no hard feelings,” you smiled, “I’m Y/N.”

“Spencer.”

“Well, Spencer, if you ever need a running buddy, I’m more than happy to come along seeing as we both are training for the same thing. But I do have to warn you, this brace is kind of a bitch so I’m a little slower than normal.”

“I can assure you that you will probably still be faster than me with the brace on so maybe it was a good thing for me that I hit you with my car so you won’t be miles ahead,” Spencer grinned.

You laughed wholeheartedly, “See, Spencer! I’m laughing about it so no hard feelings, all is forgiven.”

“I’m just finishing up for the day but I was planning on being here again on Wednesday at the same time if you want to meet at this bench,” you offered.

“Yeah, I can do that,” Spencer nodded.

“See you around, Spencer. Hopefully not in your car though,” you winked and waved.

“Oh god, you’ve fallen in love with the chick you almost killed,” Derek groaned.

“Not love...well, yet anyways. She’s so pretty and easy to talk to and isn’t mean to me after everything that has happened and her laugh is like honey,” Spencer smiled softly, recalling the sound in his mind.

“Okay, lover boy,” Penelope giggled, “Did you get her number?”

“No but we’re meeting for a run tomorrow. We actually met at the park when I was training,” Spencer said.

“So she’s seen you in those short shorts and agreed to another meeting? Maybe you do have a chance, kid, cause you really put it all out there,” Derek smirked.

“Speaking of, I actually need to get more of them,” Spencer sipped his coffee.

“Just go all the way and get spandex. Leave nothing to the imagination,” Derek chuckled as Spencer rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, I’m going to have to hit your right leg this time if I’m going to have any chance of keeping up with you,” Spencer huffed as he bent over his knees to catch his breath.

“Well good news is that was four miles so you definitely will be able to run a 5k because it’s only 3.1 miles,” you encouraged him.

“Technically, it’s 3.10686 miles but I see your point,” Spencer heaved.

“I know a really good smoothie place nearby. Come on, it’s on me,” you grabbed his hand.

Luckily, Spencer’s face was already red from exercising so you weren’t able to see the blush that formed on his cheeks.

“No, it’s definitely on me. I know you said we’re fine but I am forever going to be indebted to you because of the incident.”

“Spencer, really just forget about it,” you assured him.

“I can’t, I have an eidetic memory,” he grinned.

“Ah, I see. Fine, you buy me one smoothie but then we’re even,” you conceded.

You were walking down the street to the cafe when you heard a whistle come from one of the cars driving by.

“Damn, your ass is looking sexy in those leggings,” a man hollered from his passing truck.

You flipped him off and tried to pull your shirt down as much as possible, crossing your arms tightly around your front.

Spencer unzipped his hoodie and extended it towards you, “Sorry, it’s a little sweaty but if you want to wear it, you can.”

You smiled softly and accepted the sweatshirt, feeling more comfortable now.

“I’ve got his license plate number memorized and I intend to file a police report. Unfortunately, reports like these usually don’t go very far but I’ll keep pushing it through. I’ll also call the company that was printed on the side of the truck and ask to speak to his supervisor,” Spencer spoke softly after a few minutes.

“Thanks, Spencer,” you leaned your head on his shoulder and sighed.

“You don’t have to thank me for that. I’m just doing what’s right. He had no right to make comments about your body,” Spencer said, wrapping a gentle arm around your upper waist.

“Welcome to Y/N’s carbo-loading extravaganza!” you opened the door of your apartment to let Spencer in.

“I brought dessert as requested,” Spencer held up a chocolate cake.

“I like how you think, Spencer. Dinner’s all ready,” you smiled.

“Spaghetti, meatballs, and crispy buttery garlic bread,” you pulled the bread out of the oven.

“Looks absolutely delicious,” he complimented.

“Eating carbohydrates before a race boosts the glycogen storage in your muscles allowing you to work out longer,” Spencer informed you.

“Interesting, I never knew the science behind it but I’m never going to complain about eating tons of pasta and bread,” you twirled some pasta on to your fork.

Halfway through the meal, Spencer accidentally got a sauce stain on his pale pink shirt.

“Oh no,” you said as he tried to dab it away.

“That needs to soak right away. I don’t want any casualties at the carbo-loading extravaganza. Give it to me to scrub and I’ll get you another shirt.”

Spencer unbuttoned his shirt and peeled it off. You gulped at the sight of him shirtless, grabbing the shirt and heading to your bathroom sink to scrub it with laundry detergent.

“You can just grab any t-shirt from my room that you think will fit,” you called out to him.

Spencer settled on a light gray shirt with a golden retriever on the front.

“Okay, the stain is out! It’s just soaking now-“ you immediately stopped talking as soon as you saw the shirt Spencer was wearing.

He noticed your eyes were beginning to glisten with tears, “I’m so sorry. I can pick a different shirt,” Spencer was already beginning to pull it over the top of his head.

“No it’s fine, Spencer. That’s just my grandma’s t-shirt. I forgot I even had it.”

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” he spoke guiltily.

“You didn’t know, besides it looks good on you anyways,” you smiled, “My grandma is the whole reason I’m running the 5k.”

“My mom has Alzheimer’s too so I understand that it’s extremely hard to watch a loved one go through that,” Spencer pulled you in for a hug.

You cried into his chest as he rubbed soothing circles on your back.

After Spencer hadn’t heard any sniffles in a while, he whispered, “Do you have any tea I can make you?”

You nodded and Spencer guided you to the couch, wrapping you in a blanket before turning the kettle on.

Spencer answered the cheerful knocking at his front door early in the morning.

“Race day! Are you ready?” you exclaimed.

“Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” Spencer smiled.

“I promise we are sticking together the whole time because it doesn’t matter how long it takes us as long as we finish,” you held up your pinky.

“Together,” Spencer affirmed, locking his pinky with yours.

The starting line in the park was only a short distance away from Spencer’s apartment so you and Spencer decided to walk there as a little warm-up.

You and Spencer were doing quad stretches when you saw his eyes wander to something behind you and then widen. His face immediately reddening.

“What?” you asked, turning around to see a group of people with a sign that read ‘Go Spencer and his girlfriend!’

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t expect them to do that,” Spencer stammered.

The poor boy was so flustered so you decided to take it easy on him.

“I don’t mind,” you shrugged with a slight smile.

“You don’t?” Spencer clarified, “I’m not very good with words or flirting in general but I would like to see you again after the race is over. Maybe I could take you out to dinner?”

“Yes but my only condition is...I’m driving,” you smirked.

“Oh, you’ll pay for that,” Spencer grinned.

An air horn sounded, signaling the start of the race.

“I think you’re going to have to catch me first, Dr. Reid,” you giggled as you sprinted ahead.

“It’s in sight, Spencer! We can do this!” you pointed to the finish line in the distance.

“Y/N, you’re going to have to carry me. I can’t,” Spencer heaved.

“If you finish this race, I will…” you cupped your hand to his ear and whispered something.

Spencer immediately perked up and started running again.

“Hey, wait up!” you laughed.

You and Spencer crossed the finish line at the same time. Spencer’s legs immediately gave out which caused you to fall too, collapsing on top of him.

“I know I’m really sweaty and gross right now but can I please kiss you?” Spencer whispered.

Your lips were pressed on his as soon as he finished his sentence. You honestly didn’t know how long you had been kissing for but you didn’t look up until you heard one of the race officials shout, “Hey lovebirds! That’s very sweet but other people are trying to cross the finish line.”

“Sorry!” you and Spencer apologized, scrambling to your feet.

“Not really,” Spencer whispered to you and you jabbed him in the side with your elbow playfully, stifling a laugh.

what slightly inspired this fic is one time @samuel-de-champagne-problems commented on one of my posts “i could never stay mad at spencer” and then i thought to myself “same. i couldn’t stay mad at him even if he hit me with his car” and now here we are... 🚙

taglist: (just ask to be added or removed!): @samuel-de-champagne-problems @g0lden-cth @spencerreid9 @averyhotchner @coldlilheart @k-k0129 @ickleronniekinsemotionalrange @harrystylesandthegoobs @cmily @jswessie187 @rem-ariiana @hoodpankow @mochionly

#spencer reid fluff #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid #cm fanfic #spencer x reader #reid x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid fic #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid x fem!reader #ellesgreenawaybookclub

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ratsoh-writes · 4 years ago

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Okay, so let's assume the boys have an activity they would prefer not to do. It could be helping someone move or clearing out their garage. They don't want to do it but if they were bribed, they could. What would said bribing item be for the main ten?

How about everybody?? ;))

Sans: he HATES laundry. The only way you can get him to do laundry is is to nag to tears for days straight. Literally. This is why papyrus nags so much. Sans is unbribable

Papyrus: honestly this guy will agree to just about anything legal if he likes someone. He’s not the biggest fan of dusting though. It’s a boring chore. If you really want to bribe him, a hug is enough. Papyrus doesn’t need convincing to do a less favored chore

Star: he really dislikes making the bed because he’s impatient and the sheets never look right. A SO can get him excited to do that chore with just a meaningful wink though. Or if you’re just a friend, promise some sugary sweet. Star is another agreeable guy

Honey: he hates scrubbing the toilet. He’s a skeleton monster! He shouldn’t have to do that!!! Honey can be bribed with doughnuts though.

Red: there’s only two people that can get red to do something he doesn’t want to. Edge and his SO. And it doesn’t matter what it is (besides murder). If his SO lays a leg on his shoulder red is ready to work lol

Edge: there isn’t really any chore that edge hates. A good bribe though is a new pen or notebook. Yes he has too many, but he can’t say no to another lol

Mal: he’s not a fan of yard work or any chore that’s especially dirty. He can be bribed with a jar of pickles. Only people who know him very well know his weakness

Cash: he’ll do anything for his SO if they flashed them some cleavage ;))). Or extra hot salsa for a buddy. Or just pay him honestly. Cash is no stranger to hard work and isn’t hard to convince for any job

Oak: a sandwich. But not any sandwich. It has to be one of those ones that are so thick it hurts your jaw to take a bite out. This bribe works for everything except laundry.

Willow: the majority of chores that one would have to bribe him for are ones that would really strain his back. Do you want that on your conscious?? Other than that, if willow likes you, a hug is all he needs. If he doesn’t like you, then something useful like jars or diy supplies

Charm: he hates the dishes and refuses to do them if he’s not on the job. Charm can only be bribed to do those with some sort of shiny new kitchen supply like a mixer or frosting tips

Sugar: he’s very eager to please and will do just about anything for a friend. If you absolutely insist on bribing sugar though, flowers are the way to go.

Lord: he can only be bribed by friends, but once you reach that point it’s not too hard. A promise of coffee or an old history book usually works

Mutt: only his brother or SO can truly get him to do something he doesn’t want to. And they don’t need to bribe him ever. Mutt just does it. If his SO asks what he wants for the favor, he always gives the same answer. A cheek kiss

Wine: he won’t be happy about any sort of dirty jobs like pool cleaning, but he can be bribed to help if you give him a bottle of the good stuff ;).

Coffee: nothing can get him to do anything involving greeting a bunch of strangers. But any other work coffee won’t mind too much if you’re a close friend and promising ice cream later

Pop: he’s a little bit scared of the vacuum and will avoid that chore at all costs. But bring him a nice bubble bath mix and he might be convinced

Rhythm: the only thing keeping this guy from helping every one is his busy schedule. Rhythm doesn’t need bribes but if you insist, he likes frozen yogurt

Pluto: if he likes you and you come bearing shiny rocks, he’ll happily help with whatever lol

Jupiter: he hates long drives if there’s no fun destination. So, say someone wanted him to come with them to a shopping center two hours away, Jupiter will need to be bribed. Bruiser likes really big cheeseburgers, or for especially annoying tasks, a promise of something fun and active like paintball

G: the only thing that can get G to wash windows is a pack of his smokes. And it has to be the exact brand he always picks. Nothing else. He’ll be offended if you don’t offer his usual

Green: he doesn’t like using power washers because he always gets wet. But green can be bribed to use one with the promise of some nice tea and conversation

Peaches: he can’t stand feeding the chickens but peaches is also a food whore. He’ll do just about anything for some good pie

Rancher: he actually enjoys work and doesn’t have to be bribed for chores. He doesn’t like sitting through romance movies though and needs time be bribed to watch one with a friend. Rancher is pretty easy, just promise that he picks next activity

Snipe: he’s pretty much unbribable if he decides he doesn’t want to do it. But for things snipe isn’t being stubborn on, greasy fast food burgers go a long way lol

Bruiser: what he can be bribed with is just as unpredictable as he is. Like one day, bruiser could care less about that 100$ bill but the bag of catnip could get him to rob a bank. You never know unless you try

Ace: thin mint cookies. Ace would even rough up a guy for them. But they can’t be any cookies. They have to be the ones butch is hiding. Ace doesn’t actually care about the cookies, he just wants to stick it to butch

Slim: a flirtatious text or photo from his SO is all slim needs to get working. If you two are platonic only though, then there’s not much you can bribe slim with. His helpfulness all depends on his mood

Butch: he’s very easily bribed with either thin mints or a bottle of the good stuff. Butch is predictable, and there’s not much he hates doing in particular

Boss: one thing he does hate doing is painting because of how it can stain his clothes. But if you have a cat that boss hasn’t met, you can bribe him with some promised pets later

Rust: he’s a tiny bit nicer than red and can be bribed by friends. Get him some basic craft paints and he’s cool for most chores.

Noir: he’s very specific about his paints and books so bribing noir takes planning. Your best bet is to ask him specifically what he wants for a favor first.

Lilac: he’s more likely to be helpful just because he’s a nice guy and wants to show off how capable he is. But if you insist on bribing lilac, any sort of sweets are the way to go. Except really chewy gummies. They’re his least favorite candy

Basil: if your task involves large crowds, then the only thing that could possibly get basil to agree is if he was worried about your safety. For other chores though, he’s easily bribed by fresh fruits and veggies. Basil likes variety

#undertale imagines #undertale headcanons #undertale #underswap #underfell #swapfell #horrortale #underlust #fellswap red #fellswap gold #dancetale #outertale #gastertale #farmtale #mafiatale #mafiafell #mafiaswap #horrorfell #horrorswap

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shootybangbang · 4 years ago

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[Talking Bird] 18: In which you don't speak English

[Ao3 Link]

[Content Warning]: attempted/implied sexual assault, gore, period typical racism/racial slurs

[Note]: A huge thank you to Verai and RedDeadDoofus for beta-ing this! They've given me invaluable feedback and are both excellent authors in their own right. Definitely check out their fics. All of their stuff is top quality, but I particularly recommend RedDeadDoofus' Red Dead Pursuit and Verai's Desperate Desire series.

------

Morning comes in a shock of brisk air and a bundle of dried clothes, both dumped unceremoniously on your person as the horizon pales to a cold, grey dawn.

“Wonderful,” you say groggily, voice still low and creaky with remnants of sleep. “This is exactly how I like being woken up. By being treated like a laundry hamper.”

“Hurry up and get dressed, or I’ll be usin’ you as a footstool next.”

Wrapped in your crumpled shirt is a single bruised apple. A meager breakfast to be sure, but a better one than you’d previously been promised. The sight of it summons up a sickening sense of gratitude, and the unfortunate verge of what seems distressingly like amiability.

You sink your teeth into the fruit to hold it in place, then shake out your clothes to loosen the peculiar stiffness all things heat-dried seem to acquire.

The rain has done an extremely poor job washing the grime from your clothes. Mercifully, the dark fabric of your shirt obscures most of its accumulated filth, but the blood on your pants has faded to a series of dull rust-tinted spatters, and the grass stains along its seat are vibrant as ever. Everything (including your own person) carries with it the travel-worn scent of mud and horses. But the prospect of a bath and change of clothes is dismal at best, so it’s with a sense of depressingly familiar resignation that you begin buttoning yourself back into your soiled garment.

Raising your left arm higher than your waistline is extremely painful. The pain has ebbed somewhat, dulling to a low murmur of an ache, but it pierces sharp when you lift your elbow to fix your collar. You peek under the bandages to find that the wound has largely scabbed over. Inflammation at the edges, but no pus. You can strike gangrene off as a possible contributor to imminent death. For now, at least.

After pulling on your boots and looping your cheap suspenders back over your shoulders, you join Morgan by the fire, where what smells like a promisingly awful pot of coffee is brewing. A battered map is spread across the ground, and he traces a path over its expanse while holding his chin in his hand.

There are notes dotted throughout its margins in an elegant, looping script much more suited to a scrivener than a bandit. The entries are concentrated westwards, thinning to the occasional scribble once east of the Mississippi.

“Alright,” he says, once you’ve seated yourself beside him. He taps at a spot near the foot of Black Mesa Plateau. “We’re set up about here. We’ll head southeast and go through Scarlett Meadows. I ain’t too familiar with Lemoyne, but from what I’ve been told, Raider territory’s around here—” He traces a wide perimeter around the state’s southern edge. “So we’ll cut through the woods, see if we can avoid ‘em that way until we reach outer Rhodes.”

You bite your lower lip and shake your head. “Raiders set up camp all through those woods. I’ve heard stories about people getting ambushed or worse when they’ve walked into them there. No, I think… I think it’s actually safer to just meet them on the main road.”

He raises an eyebrow. You rush to clarify. “They set roadblocks and collect tolls along the main roads into Covington and Rhodes. And they typically leave you alone so long as you pay up. I think the usual rate’s about a dollar or so.”

Morgan snorts. “I ain’t payin’ that.”

“You will if you’re not an idiot,” you say sharply.

“Yeah? That an order?” There’s a hard edge in his voice, the kind that makes it apparent he’s the sort of man who gets his way more often than not — and with force, if necessary. “Think you’re forgettin’ your place here, girl.”

“Oh I’m sorry,” you snap at him.” I didn’t realize not wanting to risk you getting shot and me getting dead would be such a controversial opinion.”

“If you ain’t careful, you might end up dead anyway,” he says testily. "Only reason you’re still in one piece is because it’s more convenient that way. Can’t guarantee your safety if that stops."

You let out a dismissive little tsk of annoyance. He’s treated you well enough so far that you find it highly unlikely he’d turn around and kill you on a whim. But a little whisper of doubt brings up the Chinatown apothecary’s assistant. The former Chinatown apothecary’s assistant.

Tommy Wu. You haven’t thought of him in years. Feng had liked the man enough to make him a regular drinking partner. Purposefully undercharged his shop when it came time to pay protection money. And shot him in the back of the head for defaulting on his gambling debts for the third time.

“ Sam Wah wants to set a precedent ,” Feng explained afterwards, while pouring his evening dosage into a glass of water. Powdered ginseng and monkshood, hand ground by Tommy just a few hours earlier. He’d put his hand over his eyes and leaned back in his chair, then said in a weary, uncharacteristically defensive voice, “ If I hadn’t done it, it would’ve been Big Luo. And he uses a knife .”

He clearly hadn’t enjoyed the task. But he hadn’t been remorseful, either. “ You choose this life, you know the risks,” Feng had said. He’d downed the medicine with a grimace and stared quietly for a while into the bitter dregs gathered at the bottom of the glass. “ He knew what he was getting himself into.”

(deep down, you’ve always known that feng fully deserved his death. and if he deserved it, then you do too. because you can’t deny it any more, can you? you’re bad. you’re bad. you’re bad. you’re—)

Lowering your eyes, you keep your mouth shut and sip the foul-tasting mug of coffee he passes you without complaint .

By the time he’s packed up camp and readied Boadicea for the road, the sun’s warmed the plains enough that last night’s rain rises as steam from the damp, sweet-smelling grass. Morning light spills gold over the horizon, blunting the lingering predawn chill. From your place on the horse, you shiver in your thin shirt and stare longingly at the back of Morgan’s leather jacket.

You’re pleasantly surprised that he’s left your wrists untied. “Aren’t you scared I’ll try and wrestle your gun out of its holster?” you’d asked when you’d swung yourself into the saddle, only half-joking.

He shot you an irritated glance from over his shoulder. “D’you want me to hogtie you right now? Is that it?”

“No,” you’d said meekly.

The country rolls by in an endless sea of tall grass. The trees that grow here are stunted and windswept, their gnarled shapes rising from the rippling plains like twisted monuments to some long-forgotten god. The last vestiges of summer still cling in the smattering of September wildflowers blooming at the road’s edge. The patches of goldenrod and purple asters are in the first throes of their dying, their petals half-withered.

As though touched with gold, the crowns of dogwood trees are rimmed yellow. The bottom branches are still a rich, vibrant green, but the blush of autumn is steadily working its way downwards. A slow death, but a lovely one. Every bit of this season, from the melancholic tint of the light to the faint chill in the wind, carries with it a whisper of the long dark of winter.

As if the world has been sepia-stained. Like living through a photograph, the present reduced to precursor, already foregone. And the past echoing forth, burning parallel in the hollows formed by the dead. It brings with it a painful nostalgia, absence made palpable in the confines of memory.

“Wish you would’ve kidnapped me during springtime instead,” you remark absently.

“You really are a city girl, ain’t you?” Morgan sounds amused. “Never known folk like you to care about anything practical.”

You scowl. “Excuse me?”

“Sure, it gets real pretty round here in the springtime. ‘Specially come April, when the meltwater starts flowin’ down from the mountains. Plenty of flowers and songbirds. The sort of things you rich folk come sightseein’ for.”

Rich folk . At one point, that classification would’ve given you a healthy glow of satisfaction. Now though, down to your last good shirt and saddled with a dead man’s debt, the term feels like a slap in the face.

“But none of that shit’s gonna fill your stomach,” he continues, oblivious to the daggers you glare into his back. “Nah, better to come in the fall. Right now’s about when the fruit starts droppin’ off trees, and the deer and pheasants start gettin’ nice and fat. You ever eaten pheasant in season?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever even seen a pheasant.” You think on this a beat, then correct yourself. “Not outside the taxidermist, anyway.”

“If we pass one, I’ll point it out,” he says.

Morgan almost sounds cordial. A bristling discomfort begins to inflate in your chest, each heartbeat laced with profound unease. “Why’re you being so civil ?” you ask in a sharp, biting voice. “What do you want from me?”

“It’d be nice if you stopped sittin’ around pitying yourself,” he says flatly. “It’s pathetic and it’s annoying as hell.”

“ Annoying?” you ask, incredulous. “You think I’m annoying? You fucking kidnapped me , you dumb piece of shit! You don’t get to complain about how… about the way I am,” you end lamely.

“Didn’t kidnap you for the pleasure of your company, that’s for sure,” he mutters under his breath.

“I fucking hate you,” you blurt out. Then, with a bite of venom, “If we get stood up at gunpoint again, I don’t care if they shoot me so long as they shoot you first.”

The seconds stretch into minutes in the uncomfortable blank that follows afterwards. Meanwhile, the grasslands unfurl into a bleak, blue infinity. A lone wagon passes by, wooden wheels rattling in the shallow ruts dug by caravans past. Its rider calls out a greeting. Morgan returns it. The man’s far enough away that it’s not likely he’d pick up on your ethnicity, but you discreetly turn your face away all the same.

A small herd of pronghorn bounds and weaves through the vegetation when they catch wind of Boadicea, leaping like elongated rabbits. Further still roams a vast herd of sheep moving westwards as a single, shifting mass, their lowing a mournful, plaintive rumble entirely too fitting for an animal born for slaughter.

Morgan reins Boadicea to a stop and points at a cluster of pear-shaped birds pecking beneath a dogwood tree.

“ That’s what pheasants look like,” he says. “See the ones with green feathers on their heads? Those’re the males.”

“Oh,” you say. “Like mallards.”

“Yeah. Like mallards.”

When Morgan nudges his horse back to a trot, you make a confused, questioning noise. “All that talk about pheasants in season, and you’re not gonna shoot one?”

“They’re fatter in November. And besides,” he says, gesturing towards his gun scabbard. “With the rifle I got on me now, wouldn’t be much left but a little pile of feathers.”

You stare longingly at a plump, iridescent-headed pheasant and lick your lips, visions of roast duck dancing through your thoughts. “Could still give it a try. And if it doesn’t work out, you can always sell the feathers to the milliner in St Denis.”

Morgan lets out a weary chuckle. “Yeah,” he says. “Makes sense you and Trelawney’d know each other. Sniffin’ out business opportunities at every turn.”

“Don’t compare me to that vulture,” you say, giving the birds one last wistful glance before they fade out of view. “Trelawney can’t take a shit without conning someone halfway to the toilet. And I mean this literally . You remember the 1896 World Fair?”

He asks, “Do I look like the kind of person who would?”

“Well, it was… it was a big goddamn fair in St Denis, okay? And fairgrounds — anything like that, you’re gonna need to set up latrines, right?”

“Sure.”

“The city built a couple of outhouses over in the commons. Free for anyone to use. Trelawney set up a booth right next to them and started charging people twenty-five cents apiece for the privilege of taking a piss.”

He laughs openly this time. Morgan glances over his shoulder with a boyish grin, and his eyes gleam celadon blue, bright as cut glass. “How’d he manage to get away with that ?”

“Cops didn’t catch wind of what was going on until about day three, I think. And when they did, he acted all shocked and remorseful. Told them he’d been hired by a ‘Mr Harris’ to operate the booth, and that he had no idea he’d been conning people. Gave them an extremely imaginative description of the ‘real perpetrator’ and, to make himself seem like a real upstanding citizen, turned that day’s profits over immediately. Of course, by then he’d already made… what, four hundred — maybe five hundred dollars?”

“Yeah, that sounds like him alright. Pin the blame on someone else and run like hell.”

Morgan’s last sentence holds in it what sounds like a touch of resentment. “You speaking from experience?” you ask.

“Think that’s none of your business,” he replies, brusque as ever.

Boadicea treads on. Below, the pale prairie dust begins to darken to red Lemoyne clay. From the variegated glint of mica and olivine in that wash of dry soil to the dull uniformity of mud. In it, each trailing hoof print is preserved as sure and perfect as a wax seal, leaving behind a scattering of sunken crescents that follow like accusation.

The sign marking the state border is riddled with bullet holes. Welcome to Lemoyne , it reads, each letter perforated with the weight of an altogether different sentiment. Scarlett Meadows is similarly pockmarked. Gouged as though some fairytale giant had haphazardly carved out great spoonfuls from its fields and hills.

“Probably an old Civil War battlefield,” Morgan says by way of explanation. “Cannonfire and trenches.”

Grass has since grown over like a green bandage, softening the damage with the passage of time and the continual rebirth of small lives. The weeds that root themselves in that disturbed and hallowed ground crumble into the makings of new soil when they expire, and so bit by bit each small death sows a fertile ground.

Nourished by spilt blood and bone meal, the crimsons of wild columbine and yarrow bloom vibrant with the lives they have drunk in, as do the thin and uncertain autumn maples. Like tentative suitors, the saplings stretch their feeble branches skywards in a haze of reddening leaves.

Another century more, and not a trace of this will remain. Would that you too might heal so readily -- but nothing grows on the scars of men. Their flesh is poisoned ground.

When the maples begin to give way to willows and river oaks, Morgan steers Boadicea into a copse of trees bordering the road. He unfurls a length of rope from his saddlebags. “Alright,” he says, dismounting and gesturing towards the leaf-strewn ground. “Let’s get this over with. Lie down.”

You slide yourself out of the saddle and begin very gingerly lowering yourself onto the grass. But when you lean your elbow against the ground, you pause and eye the dirt with considerable reservation. “It’s, uh… it’s kind of muddy here.”

“Ain’t that a good thing? Means you’ll look the part.” Morgan kneels beside you. He puts his hand to your lower back and roughly shoves you onto your stomach. “C’mon,” he says, ignoring your furious yelp. “Lie flat. Makes this easier for both of us.”

Something about being manhandled this casually sparks a primal rage in your gut. Scrabbling both hands against the mud in an attempt to lift yourself back up, you snarl. “No, fuck this. I changed my mind. Go think up something else, because I’m not gonna just --”

Morgan ignores you and wrenches your right arm behind your back. Incensed, you try to kick him in the face, and when he catches you by the ankle, you manage to roll yourself onto your side and knee him in the groin hard with your free leg.

It’s not at all the trump card you’d expected. Instead of doubling over in pain, Morgan just grunts and winces before elbowing you between your shoulder blades and slamming you back into the dirt. He loops an arm around your throat and forces you to the ground with the weight of his body. It’s a horizontal imitation of the way he’d initially subdued you behind the Strawberry saloon, only worse because every second spent beneath him is serving to further ruin your clothing by marinating it in mud.

His mouth nearly grazes the shell of your ear. “You done?” he asks.

“Yes,” you reply in a small voice.

Somehow, being consensually hogtied is even more awkward than otherwise. Morgan ties the knots quick and easily enough, but when it comes time to heft you over his shoulder and onto his horse, he hesitates. His hands hover over your body in apparent indecision as he tries to calculate the least indecent way to pick you up.

“Don’t tell me you’re trying to be polite right after you just shoved my face in the mud,” you growl.

“You’re right,” Morgan says thoughtfully. “Why bother?”

He seizes you around the waist, and your view of the ground cartwheels as he lifts you against him, leaning your stomach against the hard slope of his shoulder. You squeak in alarm as the blood rushes to your head and briefly scatters dark spots over your field of view. He steadies you by planting his hand against your lower back, roaming perilously close to your ass.

Last time this happened, you were too busy hating him to feel any real embarrassment. But with improved relations, it seems, comes an excess of self consciousness. “Thought you said I wasn’t your type,” you remark sullenly, glaring as he slings you at last over Boadicea’s cream-colored hide.

“I wasn’t gonna, but maybe I should gag you. Makes a more convincing picture, don’t it?”

You mutter a nebulous insult under your breath.

Morgan nudges the horse to an easy trot -- a slower pace than before, no doubt for your own benefit. Still, the unnatural position and the inevitable pull of gravity against your aching neck soon induce their own special misery on your person. You don’t feel sick, exactly, but unbearably lightheaded, with the promise of vertigo lingering in the back of your mouth at every miserable hoofbeat. Your stomach feels as though it’s been wedged just below your throat.

“Want me to slow down?”

“ No . The less time I spend like this the better.”

As the day ripens to noon and you continue southwards, the roads begin to slowly populate. It’s travelers on horseback for the most part. The occasional carriage thunders past, tethered herd pulling it briskly over the red dirt.

“If they ask, tell them I’m a runaway whore,” you say, upon eyeing the first distant figure. “And I don’t speak English, okay?”

Morgan’s guns and general demeanor mark him so clearly as a potential bounty hunter that most passersby spare you little more than a curious glance before riding blithely past. You’d like to think it’s because they’ve made the assumption that no man kidnapping an innocent woman would march this brazenly down the main road. The alternative — that they simply don’t care because you’re just another slant eye — roils up a sickening unease. You push the thought away as best you can.

The occasional cruel remark sails past, most of which you do your best to ignore. Nothing you’ve never heard before. Stupid jabs at your countrymen, mostly. Assumptions that you’re being deported, and every now and then the fervent wish that more Chinese might share your hypothetical fate.

“Out huntin’ Chinamen, huh?” one observer asks. “Didn’t know they were in season.”

Morgan tells the man to fuck off, which sends a pleasant little bubble of surprise up your spine. You even go so far as to lift your head a little to catch a glimpse of the traveler’s bewildered expression.

The roadblock catches you both unawares. It surfaces suddenly past a sharp bend: a clever bit of strategizing on the Raiders’ behalf, you grant begrudgingly. A wagon has been parked perpendicular across the bare stretch of dirt, buttressed by broken barrels and other detritus. Beside it, two grey-jacketed men lounge against a collection of overturned crates. When they catch sight of Morgan, they scramble to their feet with guns in hand.

“The hell is this?” Morgan asks loudly, reining Boadicea to a sudden halt. The loss of momentum makes your stomach lurch.

“You ain’t from ‘round here, are you?” the younger of the two asks. He boasts a thick, luxurious mustache which seems out of place on his gaunt face. “This is a tollbooth, partner. It’s a dollar for safe passage.”

“What you got there?” the older man asks, jabbing his thumb in your direction. You do your best to keep your face perfectly blank. Just another uncomprehending foreigner, perceiving all the inevitable insults as nothing but a cacophony of angry-sounding noises.

“Runaway whore,” Morgan says. He’s reaching for his billfold, you note with an inward sigh of relief. Good, good. Soon this stupid little charade will all be over.

“One of them Chinatown brothels payin’ you for this?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Since when does a white man work for chinks?” The older man’s face is contorted with disdain. He regards you the way one would something unpleasant scraped against the underside of his shoe.

Morgan just shrugs. “A dollar’s a dollar,”

The younger man looks you over in a way that makes you deeply uncomfortable. Like a man appraising livestock. “Huh”, he says. “Not half bad for a chink. Say, partner— forget about the money. Mind rentin’ her out fer… maybe an hour or so before you drop her off?”

The request sends a wave of visceral, primal fear forking through your body like lightning. It comes on so strong that you have to consciously force the muscles of your face slack to keep your guise.

“I ain’t touchin’ her,'' the other man says, with a note of apparent disgust. “God knows what kind of diseases whores like these carry.”

You mentally urge him on. Yes , you encourage. Keep on talking. Tell him I’ve got the clap. Tell him his dick’ll fall off if he so much as looks at me.

“Should listen to your friend,” Morgan says— and god, you’ve never been happier to hear a man insult you in your life. “Half these girls got syphilis. You really wanna risk your prick like that?”

“Well, she’s got a mouth, don’t she?” The man steps forward and wraps his fingers around your jaw to accentuate his point. With a small, frightened whimper, you try to jerk your chin away, but the man only tightens his grip in response, pressing the pad of his thumb so hard against your cheek that your teeth scrape the inside of your mouth.

“Hey,” Morgan barks. “Hands off the merchandise.”

The Raider’s hand flies to his holster. A fucking LeMat. Standard issue Confederate gear. The man is either a very young veteran, or the avenging son of one, no doubt fired with atavistic zeal. “Ain’t gonna be any merchandise left if you don’t—”

The older man lays a firm hand against the younger’s shoulder and gestures for him to stand down. To your horror, he eyes you with renewed interest, clearly having taken the other man’s comment about your mouth to heart. “Don’t think you understand how it works ‘round here, son,” he says, addressing Morgan. “See, me and the boys, we do this place a public service . Keep the roads safe and such. But it don’t come free. That’s where the tolls come in. Means we’re entitled to a little something in exchange. All we’re askin’ for is an hour of your time. We’ll get her back to you in one piece, don’t you worry.”

He speaks with what he probably thinks is a reconciliatory tone. To him, this is probably what passes as reasonable. Casually negotiating the details of a foreigner’s assault right in front of her with the man ostensibly holding her prisoner. Like buying a sow for slaughter.

Morgan lays his hand against your back, and you can feel him close his fingers around the cloth of your shirt as he curls it into a fist. You crane your neck to try and catch his eye, hoping to communicate your mute panic through sight. But from the angle you’ve been tied, all you’re able to see is the set of his jaw, which is clenched tight as a winch.

“Alright,” he says in a strange, neutral tone. “One hour.”

Had the man not said it himself earlier? Only reason you’re still in one piece is because it’s more convenient that way. Can’t guarantee your safety if that stops.

So why are you so fucking surprised that he’d sell you out with such little protest? Stupid, stupid little fool. Morgan’s been nothing if not transparent with the details of his own depravity. I ain’t decent , he’d told you just last night. What is this but the culmination of that promise?

A numb recognition wraps its cold fingers around your throat, squeezing until the only breaths you can manage are shallow, frantic pants. Harper was right: without him, you really are nothing more than a sitting duck, completely at the mercies of this wretched country. And like a dumb animal, you’d been naive enough to give Morgan even an ambivalent, wary sort of trust — he fucking kills people, and you’d foolishly thought he might use that particular talent to protect you from something like this.

Boadicea sways a little as Morgan dismounts. A full bodied panic seizes hold, and you squirm furiously against your bonds, twisting your wrists and blindly grasping at the knots with your fingers despite the chafe of the rope against your skin. Morgan keeps his palm pressed flat between your shoulder blades as if in reassurance, and in response you try to bite him when he draws near enough.

He steps neatly out of range and tugs at the rope slung around your waist. “Shit,” he says. “Either of you got a knife I can borrow? Tied her too tight, I think.”

The man with the LeMat passes over an oak-handled bowie knife. Morgan hefts it in his hand and briefly tests its weight. “Thanks, partner,” he says. He smiles warmly, then cuts the man’s throat with a single horizontal slash.

The raider staggers backwards and collapses, gurgling horribly as fastens both hands around his neck. He looks bizarrely as though he were trying to strangle himself as he tries to staunch the unrelenting spray of blood that spurts thickly through the gaps between his fingers. The other man quickly reaches for his own pistol, but Morgan barrels towards him, snarling. He slams his shoulder into the man’s chest and knocks him to the ground in a sprawl of flailing limbs. The bowie knife’s blade glints briefly in the sun as he raises it up high over his head, a soundless white flash edged scarlet, and disappears into the Raider’s left eye with a loud, wet squelching noise. The man recoils in a full-bodied convulsion, the last electrical pulses from his skewered brain firing one last time before he twitches and lies still.

Morgan raises himself up, breathing hard as he wheels back around. The younger man is still moving, legs kicking a feeble semi-circle in the dirt as tries to catch the last remaining shreds of his life in his hands, and you remember with terrible clarity the man you shot yesterday, his last, desperate writhings, leaving with each dying squirm an equivalent impression in the mud, an echoed record of his struggle to testify for all to see once he finally lay still.

The Raider’s LeMat lies harmlessly in the dirt, and it’s this that Morgan attends to first, picking it up and uncocking it before he straightens up and turns to face you.

The side of his face is splattered with dark, venous blood. His bottom lip is split, and before he speaks, he spits a fat red globule onto the grass. “You okay?” he asks.

It’s the second display of casual homicide that you’ve seen in as many days. The first time you’d cried. This time you just stare at him and swallow hard, voice wavering. “I thought… I thought you were really gonna— ”

“I’d never.” Morgan seems disgusted by the mere suggestion. “You hear me? Never .”

The Raider is still dying. Obscenely, it seems almost impolite, an unwanted guest overstaying his welcome. As you watch his final throes, the memory of poor Jack Chen, lynched three weeks before his wedding, comes rising up like a revenant ghost. Did he die like this, under the eyes of indifferent strangers? He’d struggled too — he must have. When they’d cut him down and laid him out for funerary preparations, you’d seen scratches on his neck from where he’d clawed at the noose.

Blood is still burbling up from the gash in the Raider’s neck, each pulse spurting weaker than the last until it is nothing but a dull trickle. The last trailing drips of water from a closed faucet.

You can feel a certain kind of resignation clicking into place in the back of your head. Danny’s death had horrified you. This man’s has not. It’s not the vicious pleasure of retribution that separates the two, sweet as it is — after all, you’d shot Danny because he’d had the temerity to point a gun in your direction, and there are few things more personal than retaliation. No, what separates them is the simple burden of guilt. The finger behind the trigger. So long as it isn’t yours, you feel nothing. Not for men like this.

One day it’ll be you that’s on the ground, and someone else looking dispassionately on. Just another piece of shit getting her comeuppance. You chose this life , whispers Feng from the refuge of the past. You knew the risks.

Morgan has shrugged off his bloodstained jacket and stowed it under his saddle. He mops his face clean (passably clean, at least) with his shirt, then pulls the whole thing over his head and crumples it in his fist, stuffs it in his saddlebag.

“Hold still,” he says. “I’m cuttin’ you free.”

“What? Why?”

“Because the next roadblock I see, I’m shootin’ them on sight.” Morgan pulls his hunting knife from his boot and saws it blade through the ropes securing you to Boadicea’s back, then hauls you clumsily against him as he sets you back onto the ground. You stumble and have to grip at the fabric of his union suit to keep steady. “And it’s a lot less likely you’ll take a bullet to the face if you’re sittin’ behind me instead. Hold this,” he adds, and shoves the LeMat into your hands.

The gun is heavy enough that you nearly drop it. Its construction is strange, the arrangement of bores unintuitive. “I don’t know how this thing—”

“Figure it out on the way,” Morgan snaps as he remounts. “We’re gettin’ the hell out of here.”

He’s angrier than he should be. His hands are shaking as he takes the reins and his body seems full of a residual violence that he’s only barely keeping stoppered up. “How often does that happen to you?” he asks, when you swing yourself into the saddle behind him.

“It doesn’t, usually.” You keep one hand braced against his hip for support. This whole ride over, you’ve tried to avoid having to touch him by grabbing at the sides of the saddle instead, but having something very muscular and solid to cling to is now a much more comforting concept than it was before. “I’m not stupid. I know which places to keep clear of. Rhodes is one of them.”

The adrenaline is still coursing through your veins like a multitude of ants crawling beneath your skin. You feel jittery and vaguely nauseous, and as Morgan spurs Boadicea into a full-fledged gallop, you find yourself leaning into the broad plane of the man’s back and looping one arm around his waist as you hold the LeMat in your lap, for once not caring about the uncomfortable intimacy of physical contact. “I used to have an escort,” you find yourself telling him. “Harper. Big white man, like you. He died in April. Typhoid. He used to-- used to warn me that this’d happen if I wasn’t with him. I thought I could do it alone, but I… I…”

The words won’t come, and Morgan doesn’t press. He sweeps off his worn, wide-brimmed hat and holds it behind him. “It’ll be big enough on you that you can tuck your braid underneath,” he says. “Keep it pulled low over your eyes and keep your head down.

In truth, the hat is big enough that it looks woefully out of place on your head, like a child playing at being an adult. It dips low over your brow to the point that it serves as a low, black curtain over half your field of view.

Morgan smells like sweat and blood and horses, and his clothes are damp with patches of perspiration. Normally, you’d be repulsed. But not now, not when he’s become the last bit of security separating you from a painful, humiliating death in Raider territory. You knot your fingers in his union suit so tightly that the soft cloth blunts the dig of your nails into your palm just enough to keep the flesh intact.

The man’s spine stands as straight and stiff as a flagpole, and the muscles of his back are taut with tension. He’s clearly not comfortable with this kind of closeness either, but right now personal boundaries are the furthest thing from your mind.

You look just like her , the man who’d called himself your father had said. But you have my eyes.

The narrow, high-barred window of her room in that brothel had seemed so far from the ground when you were a child. Even now you can see the wan stripes of afternoon light falling across her young face, staring with deliberate effort not at you but through you. Passing over the unwanted thing born from her own body.

Morgan taps your left wrist with his knuckle. You flinch and dart your hand away as though you’ve been slapped, but he catches it with his own and pulls it back to his waist. “You’re alright,” he says gruffly. “Just ease up a little. Don’t want you rippin’ the only clean shirt I got left.”

“I— Morgan, you’re…” A million jumbled phrases leap into your mouth at once. You settle on simple gratitude, grating as it is to say aloud. “Thank you.”

His only response is an indecipherable grunt, for which you are deeply grateful because it immediately precludes any further conversation.

Your heart rate is finally beginning to resume its normal pace, slowing with the wind in your face and the stolid brick wall of Morgan’s back between you and the rest of the world. The warmth of his body under your hand puts you at ease in a way that throws you off guard.

For you, physicality has always had in it an uncomfortable degree of intimacy. Touch means trust: the expectation of harmless contact instead of a closed fist. It’s never been something you’ve been able to internalize, and even less something you’ve sought out of your own accord. You’ll go through the motions -- a handshake here, a pat on the back there -- accepting its necessity as a basic component of social ritual, but always with your teeth clenched beneath your smile.

But in an absurd fit of irony, you find that clinging onto Morgan’s shirt to keep steady carries with it the mundane reassurance of the routine. As if you’ve done it a thousand times already.

It’s difficult to hate him right now. But there’s still a healthy measure of dislike still present, you note with some relief. Plus a decent amount of spite for the state he’s put your clothes in. You glance down at your mud-caked shirt and nudge your prior resentment back into its proper position, then settle into the familiar glow of quiet animosity.

To your vast and enduring relief, the next roadblock never comes. It makes sense: the kindest description you can offer Rhodes and Covington is the word “modest”, and the wealthier travelers headed to St Denis usually take roads further north, outside of Raider territory. Multiple tolls along a single road would likely provoke the ire of the local population.

The hills turn to farmland. Crumbling plantation houses and the piecemeal shacks that dot their fields begin to crop up with greater frequency, and you find yourself having to duck your head to the side more and more with each clipping of hooves that draws near, then far again. Every so often, you catch a whiff of someone preparing what’s either an early dinner or a very late lunch: roasting meat and the warm smell of broth, newly baked bread and fried fish.

The quick pace that Boadicea keeps and the sheer aura of unfriendliness that Morgan manages to radiate keeps passersby at a distance. More than once, you glimpse from the corner of your eye someone reining their horse to the very edge of the road in order to give him as wide a berth as possible. Intimidation at its finest. No doubt a well-worn and necessary technique for his line of work.

When he swerves past the tin-roofed houses marking the edge of Rhodes and into a small clearing clustered with caravans, you do a double-take.

“A caravan,” you say slowly. “Josiah Trelawny lives in a caravan ?”

“A caravan with a goddamn stained glass window,” he responds. “Only been here once before, but it made a hell of an impression. That one,” he says. He nods towards a green-painted caravan with gold filigree scrawled across its arched roof. While the other caravans sag on half-rotted wheels, this one stands straight-backed and new, like an arrogant young rooster among a gaggle of tired hens. A dark-haired man sits on its steps with a porcelain cup in one hand and a newspaper in the other.

It’s perhaps the first time you’ve seen him in anything less than his usual foppish uniform. His open-collared shirt is rolled up to the elbows, and his mustache hangs limp at the edges, unwaxed. He looks tired. Tired and oddly contemplative.

Morgan cups his hand to his mouth and bellows, “Josiah!”

Trelawny jumps so hard that his tea sloshes out of the cup and onto his pants. He drops the newspaper and jerks his hand to his side as if to draw a gun, and for a fraction of a second you glimpse the man beneath his genteel mask, all artifice dropped and in its place a raw gleam of something dangerous. An animal with its hackles up, ready to strike.

And then it slips back into place. “Arthur,” he calls out in response, his relief evident as he retrieves his newspaper. “This is certainly an… unexpected surprise.”

“Ran into an ‘unexpected surprise’ of my own recently,” Morgan says sullenly. “And she says she knows you.”

“What do you—”

You poke your head out from behind Morgan’s back. “Trelawny,” you say weakly, and if you had the energy for it you’d laugh out loud at the look of sheer confusion that crosses his face. “For the love of god, please tell me you have a bathtub I can use.”

#arthur morgan #arthur morgan/reader #arthur morgan/oc #fic #red dead redemption #rdr2 #my work #talking bird #thank you for sitting out 18 chs of morbid shit and animosity for this little nugget of fluff <3

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