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waywardrose · 3 months

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THROUGH A GLASS DARKLY 27

stranger things

eddie munson x reader

rated e

6.9k

spotify playlist

for @punk-in-docs

fem/witch/goth!reader, sweetheart!eddie, magic, slow burn (for me), friends to lovers, angst with a happy ending, no y/n only pet names, series-typical horror, period-typical sexism and homophobia, historical inaccuracies and anachronisms, drug dealing and use, smoking, alcohol use, masturbation, mutual masturbation, fantasizing, one-bed trope, making out, fingering, dirty talk, chasing, oral sex, handjobs, condoms, piv sex, reader’s father is a dirtbag, mild spanking, magical violation, mental torture, body horror, blood, aftercare, nightmares, strict parenting, panic attack, past child abuse and abandonment, semi-public sex, break-ups, running away, guns, fist fighting, everyone survives, suicide ideation, tags will be updated as needed

Eddie would have to wait until his lunch break to see this new, hot, weird chick. He wondered which flavor of weird she was. Art weird? Theater weird? Band weird? Weird weird? He shrugged. He liked weird. In other words, you’re the new girl in town, and Eddie is intrigued.

note: This was going to be the last chapter, but it's too long. I'm splitting it and posting what's completed. Expect a last chapter and epilogue. Thank you for sticking with me!

The doorbell chime made him start, which was stupid. An invasion wouldn’t start with someone ringing the goddamn doorbell. He stared unseeing at the den’s television while MTV went to commercial.

Also, he should be used to the noise. Steve’s house was a hub of activity, between the phone ringing and the doorbell going off and people talking.

Footsteps thumped overhead. He identified that as the man of the house himself walking to the front door. A moment later, multiple voices, all male, rumbled from the foyer. Several pairs of footsteps moved farther into the house.

Then your voice joined the mix. He couldn’t gauge your tone, other than you weren’t pissed. He turned down the TV volume and frowned at the basement ceiling when you kept talking. A male voice said something you replied to.

Eddie eased from the sectional couch and padded to the foot of the stairs. Of course, it didn’t gain him anything. The door at the top remained closed, muffling any conversation. He considered creeping up the stairs, but he didn’t know where the creaks hid in the treads.

He put a knee on the third tread and crawled forward to half-lay on the stairs. Now midway to the door, he could distinguish between the voices. Yours, of course, Steve’s every so often, then three others.

No one sounded defensive or upset, so that eased his mind. Somewhat.

Everyone kept talking, though. He racked his brain for what they could be discussing. It probably had something to do with yesterday’s visit. He hoped it wasn’t government officials who’d changed their minds about not dragging him to prison. Or worse yet, to some underground lab to conduct experiments on him.

What if they were here for you, though?

Maybe they’d figured out you had magic and wanted you to do stuff for them. While in their clutches, they’d take bio-samples from you. They’d clone you — was that even possible? — or make babies in petri dishes — that had to be possible — to grow a whole witch army and take over the world.

Of course, the thought of having a second you intrigued him. Would a clone kiss like you? Taste like you? Would she moan like you do when he sinks inside her? Would one of you sit on his face while the other rode his dick?

His cock grew heavy and hot in his borrowed briefs.

Jesus H. Christ, he chided. Fucking focus.

It was quiet. Too quiet. He strained to hear what was going on.

Soft footsteps shuffled near.

He shot off the stairs and turned towards the TV. He couldn’t be discovered hanging around near the stairs with a half-chub like a perv. And the sleep-pants did nothing to hide it. His gaze darted to the VHS tape storage cabinet by the TV.

That would work.

He careened around the scuffed coffee table. The loops of the cable-box controller tangled around his foot. Like Gandalf in the Balrog’s whip, he’d been caught.

He hissed, “Shit, shit, shit,” as he hopped to the cabinet, shaking his foot free.

The basement door opened. He grabbed the cabinet for balance. A drawer of tapes wobbled open. He shoved it closed. Tapes clattered. Whoever opened the drawer next was going to have to repack it. Whoops. But it was cool. Everything was cool. He checked his crotch. His half-chub had subsided.

“Eddie?” you said as you descended the stairs.

He faced you, propping an elbow on top of the cabinet.

You’d changed into those black jeans he liked. They hugged your thighs and ass. He willed his dick to stay soft.

“Hey, hi, what’s up?”

You gave him a curious look as you stepped down into the basement.

“You okay?”

He waved a hand in a general sort of way.

“Other than, you know, everything, yeah, I’m okay.”

You nodded, though he could tell you knew something was off.

He said, “I was going to pick out a movie.” He glanced at the stairs. “Is everything okay up there?”

You approached him like he was a cornered dog.

“Yeah, everything’s fine, but don’t freak out—”

“Freak out about what?” he asked, warning sirens blaring through his mind.

“The police are here, and they want to take your statement.”

He straightened.

“Statement about what?”

“The night Chrissy died.” You held up your hands before he could protest. “I just gave them my statement about my interactions with Jason Carver. Who is dead.” With eyes wide, you gave him a leading look and head tilt. “I know you’ve had interactions with Jason, too.”

He nodded along as the implication clicked into place.

“Yeah, I’ve had interactions with Carver.”

“You want to give a statement to the police about that night with Jason and Chrissy?”

No, he did not, yet if he didn’t, he’d never be free. Vecna would continue to ruin his life. While Eddie still wasn’t sure about the existence of an afterlife, he wouldn’t give that asshat the satisfaction.

He girded his metaphorical loins — why did everything circle back to his crotch? — and headed upstairs. You walked behind him, not crowding him, but close enough to be supportive. He wanted to look at you, really look at you, and confess his love again. Just in case this all fell apart. There wasn’t time — and he was certain if he did, he’d wuss-out. Compound that with the fact he couldn’t hold your gaze for more than a second, he’d definitely wuss-out.

Taking two steps into the living room, he froze. He must be hallucinating. Chief Hopper, the very one who’d been there at Dad’s arrest, who supposedly died in the Starcourt fire, stood by the dining table. Though there was considerably less of him around the middle, his hair was buzzed short, and he looked like he’d lost a fight with the Wolfman, there was no question it was him.

Chief Powell sat at the table, facing the room. Metal crutches had been propped against the table next to him. Eddie recognized the deputy who stood at Powell’s left. He couldn’t recall a name, but he’d seen the deputy around town.

Steve leaned a shoulder on the tall curio cabinet behind the table. It was a King Steve pose he’d observed many a time at school. The sling and bandages were absent, courtesy of you.

You stepped beside Eddie and took his numb hand. On instinct, he curled his fingers around yours.

Hopper stepped forward, expression calm and hands placating.

“You’re not in trouble, kid.”

If it had come from anyone else, he’d consider it a lie. For a cop, Hopper had been a decent one. He’d ignored Eddie’s underage drinking at the Hideaway. He’d issued warnings instead of speeding tickets.

You turned your head to whisper, “I won’t let them take you even if they try.”

He gave a minute nod before releasing your hand and marching to the table. If they tried to arrest him, he hoped he’d retained that undead speed. He pulled out the chair across from Powell to sit.

You went to stand by Steve, who gave you a warm look. If anything happened, Eddie knew Steve would protect you and vice versa.

Powell cleared his throat and pressed the Record button on the cassette recorder to start the interrogation.

“Chief Calvin Powell and former Chief Jim Hopper speaking with Edward Munson, Monday, March 31st, 1986.” To Eddie, he said, “Mr. Munson, you’re not under arrest. All we want is your account of what happened the night of March 21st.” When he nodded, Powell said as an aside, “Note Mr. Munson nodded in understanding.” He continued, “We have multiple statements from witnesses placing you at Hawkins High School during the basketball game that night. We also have several overlapping accounts attesting to Jason Carver threatening them at gunpoint at a later date.”

Eddie nodded again, wanting to say that didn’t surprise him. However, Dad’s warning to never talk to cops kept him silent. “These folks stated Jason Carver said he’d sacrifice them for this town. They claim he’d wanted to break their bones. Does that sound like something he could do?”

Eddie glanced at you and Steve. If he followed Dad’s warning, he’d never get out of this. Of course, he didn’t have to give them everything at once. That would be out of character. He had to think like a DM and give them just enough to lead them where the party wanted them to go.

“Yeah, along with pinning all those murders on me,” he said.

Planting his elbows on a nearby chair back, Hopper said, “Sounds like he had the whole town fooled.”

He bobbed his head in agreement.

“I heard he hijacked a town hall meeting.”

Powell shifted in his seat.

“Mr. Munson, did Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham enter your home the night of March 21st?”

“Yes.”

“Do you recall the time?”

“No, not exactly.” He glanced up in thought. “I guess after ten?”

“What were they doing there?”

“Said they wanted drugs.”

“Did you sell them drugs?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have drugs.”

Which he didn’t. Now.

“But they thought you had drugs to sell?”

He met Powell’s gaze and said, “I can’t presume to know what they thought.”

Powell sighed, frustration clear.

“Alright. Jason Carver and Chrissy Cunningham enter your house sometime after ten, looking to purchase drugs. Then what?”

“I left them in the living room.”

Just like he’d left Chrissy for Vecna to kill. Bait on a hook.

“To do what?”

“Get my cigarettes.”

He could do with one right about now.

“Why would you get your cigarettes?”

“Why does anyone get cigarettes?” He shrugged with a huff. “I wanted a smoke, and I forgot them in my room.”

“Then what happened?”

He rolled his shoulders as if uncomfortable.

“They began arguing.”

“About?”

“I don’t know. I was still in my room.”

“But you know they were arguing?”

“Yeah, Jason raised his voice at Chrissy.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I grabbed my cigarettes and came back to the living room.”

“Did you step in?” Powell angled his head. “Try to intervene?”

“No, it was too late—”

“Too late?”

“Look, he was yelling at her. She said something. Might’ve been his name, I don’t know. Then it got quiet, and then I heard a real loud thump. When I came out, Chrissy was on the floor.”

Instead of floating midair.

“Alive?”

“I don’t know, but she wasn’t moving.”

“Then what did you do?”

“I wanted to go to her, but Jason was…” He shook his head, remembering how intense Carver could get. “Jason was out of his mind.”

“What do you mean, out of his mind?”

“He was, like, in a rage. Scared the shit outta me.”

“How so?”

“He screamed and pounded on his chest.” He mimicked what he saw in his mind, knocking his fist against his breastbone. “His eyes were wild, like something else was behind them.”

“Something else?”

He blew out a breath. This was make-or-break in the story.

“I’m not religious or anything, but he looked… He looked fucking possessed.” He rubbed his forehead. “I know how this sounds, okay? I know this sounds crazy.”

It was quiet for a moment before Powell asked, “Did Jason Carver have the same reaction the night of March 25th at Lover’s Lake?”

“I don’t know. He and—uh…” He snapped his fingers as though trying to recall. “A teammate?”

“Patrick McKinney.”

“McKinney, yeah. They were in the water, coming after me.”

“Where were you?”

“In a fishing boat, trying to get away from them, but I lost my balance and fell in the water.”

“Did you see what happened to Patrick?”

“No, I was swimming away from them.”

Powell nodded in acceptance.

“Okay, back to March 21st: Jason and Chrissy. Jason was screaming, and Chrissy was on the floor.”

“Yeah, I wanted to go to her.” He looked at the table, muttering, “I wanted to save her. Get her away from him.”

He’d tried to do it. He’d shaken her shoulders and yelled for her to wake up, snap out of it, anything, but Vecna’s hold was too powerful. Whatever she’d needed to break the curse, he hadn’t had it.

“What did Jason do?” asked Powell.

“He came after me. He chased me out of the living room.”

“Where did you go?”

“I ran out of the trailer.”

“Did you go to a neighbor?”

“No, I got in my van and left the trailer park.”

“Why didn’t you report this to the police?”

He threw a glance at Hopper. He suspected Hopper would’ve taken him seriously, but that hadn’t been a possibility. Everyone thought Hopper was dead. Including himself.

“Like any of you would’ve believed me — the son of a convicted car thief, trailer trash, a super senior, a freak — over Hawkins’ golden boy, the captain of the basketball team.”

Powell and the deputy looked equal parts uncomfortable and insulted.

Good.

“So, yeah,” he said. “I ran and hid, and Jason kept chasing me.”

While you morons stood around with your heads up your asses.

“Why do you think he did that?” Powell asked.

“Probably because I saw him hurt Chrissy. I was the only witness. Get rid of me, one way or another, and no one would ever know what he’d done.”

Powell shared a look with the deputy, whose face was unreadable. Powell saw something there, though, and turned to him.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Munson. We’d appreciate it if you stayed in town until we conclude our investigation.”

“Yeah, sure, of course.”

He didn’t know where he’d go or how he’d get there. He’d hidden his van in the woods off Coal Mill Road. He needed to retrieve it, but not until it was safe to leave this house. Also, he didn’t know where Wayne was, or if he’d survived. The thought made his insides shrivel and tongue stick to the roof of his mouth.

Hopper clapped him on the back, knocking him into the present. The cassette recorder was gone.

“Glad you’re still with us, kid.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Powell arranged his crutches to stand. The deputy assisted, while Steve straightened to show them to the front door. Powell shuffled around the table, his right leg supported at an angle.

Eddie felt your concerned focus directed at him, but he couldn’t indulge himself. Instead, he watched Steve lead the police to the door. Something compelled him out of his chair and moving towards them.

“Hey, Hop,” he said.

Hopper faced him, heavy brow lifted in interest.

“Wayne— Have you seen— I mean, do you know if my uncle’s alive?”

Hopper contemplated the question for a second.

“No, but I think I know who might.” He jutted his chin in a reassuring way. “I’ll give ‘em a call.”

“Thanks.”

Hopper nodded before jogging to catch up with Powell and the deputy outside. He said something to Steve in passing that made Steve grin.

Once Steve shut the door, Eddie dragged his ass to the table and flopped into his chair.

“Jesus, fuck…”

You asked, “Want a beer?”

He rubbed at his eyes, saying, “That’s a good start.”

“Holy shit,” Robin said from her seat at the kitchen island.

You kept smearing melting butter on your toast. Steve grunted in front of the gurgling coffee maker. Eddie, who sat across from her, remained quiet.

You’d learned Robin said ‘holy shit’ about a lot of things.

“Guys,” she said with a flap of the morning newspaper. “Guys, look at this.”

Steve abandoned his vigil to see what Robin was holy-shit-ing about. You took a bite of toast and turned. His eyes widened when he read what Robin had pointed out.

“Holy shit.”

Eddie, chin in hand, hummed as he stared at the window over the sink. However, your curiosity had been piqued. You stopped beside Eddie, anticipating Steve sliding the newspaper in front of you. When he did, you swallowed and stared at the headline:

DEVELOPMENT IN LOCAL TEEN MURDERS

You scanned the article. It mentioned the nationwide Satanic panic and how citizens had been led to believe a local cult was sacrificing children to the Devil. The writer praised cooler heads, namely Chief Powell and his deputies, who continued to investigate despite the earthquake and subsequent volcanic fissure eruption.

Ah, you thought, that was how they were covering up the destruction near the closed nexus.

Chief Powell was quoted:

“There is irrefutable evidence Edward Munson is the victim of false accusations. This office has cooperated with federal investigators and spoken with numerous local, credible witnesses to determine such a conclusion.”

Despite police not identifying a person of interest, the writer insinuated the actual murderer might be amongst those who had advocated for hunting down Eddie. They speculated the public accusations against Eddie had been a diversion. While the police investigation remained ongoing, an insider let slip police were closing in on a suspect.

The writer went on to report neither local nor federal investigations uncovered any cult, Satanic or otherwise, in the area. Of course, citizens were welcome to report any cult activity to the sheriff’s office. The article ended with the newspaper promising to keep readers informed.

Holy shit.

“Eddie,” you said, and placed a hand on his shoulder. “Read this.”

He blinked a few times before pulling his attention away from the window. With a concerned look, he glanced around the island.

“What?”

You pushed the newspaper in front of him and tapped a finger on the headline. He perused the accompanying article, eyes widening as he read.

To Steve, you said, “Better call Nancy.”

He nodded and dialed Nancy’s number on the kitchen phone. After a playful exchange with Mrs. Wheeler, during which Robin rolled her eyes, Steve’s manner turned serious. From listening to half of the conversation, you deduced Nancy had seen the article. He mentioned Dr. Owens, along with Jason Carver. Nancy said more about Jason, but you couldn’t make out her words.

Steve nodded as she spoke, though. When he hung up, you gave him an expectant look.

“The Feds found Jason Carver’s body. Or what’s left of it. His gun’s missing, but there were bullet casings nearby. Nance told Owens about Carver at The WarZone buying a gun, so that’s a lead for them.”

“It corroborates my story about him, too,” you said.

“And the Sinclairs’,” Robin said, leaning an elbow on the island.

After she’d returned to Steve’s last night, she told you, Eddie, and Steve about the police collecting statements from Lucas and Erica. Their statements had led to yours, then Eddie’s. Maybe others’. Who knows how many people Jason had terrorized after Chrissy’s murder.

You nodded as you pondered how many doors he’d knocked on before coming to yours. It was fortunate he’d found you before Mom. If he’d confronted her instead of you, she’d know all about you and Eddie. It’s funny how you’d been debating on introducing him that day. Eddie still had no idea.

Eddie slid from his stool, mumbling something about a shower. You watched him leave the kitchen. While you’d give him privacy, you first needed to tell him. It was an urge, like a hand pushing at the middle of your back.

He was halfway up the stairs when you reached him.

“Eddie, hang on.”

He stopped without turning to face you, hand on the railing.

“What?”

“The Saturday after Chrissy was killed…”

“Yeah?”

“Jason came looking for you.” When he said nothing, you continued, “I was out front planting—”

“Why’re you telling me this?”

“It’s called backstory.”

He turned his head enough for you to see his jaw around his hair, yet he remained quiet.

“He called me your girlfriend.”

“And I bet a whole bunch of other things.”

You sighed, though you remembered Jason’s accusations.

“That doesn’t matter. What matters was my plan for that day.”

“Plan?”

“I wanted to introduce you as my boyfriend to my mom when you picked me up. I was going to run it by you first, of course, but I wanted to.”

Voice dripping with sarcasm, he said, “Well, the pressure’s off now, isn’t it? They’re out of town for the foreseeable future, right?”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Your mouth fell open as he stomped from view.

What an asshole thing to say. You’d been trying your best this entire goddamn time.

“I hope your shower sucks,” you snapped, climbing the rest of the stairs.

His bedroom door closed with a definitive click.

You went to your room and shut the door. If he wanted to be a little brat about it, let him. All you’d wanted to do was tell him the truth. You understood he’d had the worst week and a half in the history of the world. You’d cut him some slack, but you were no doormat.

Maybe it was too little too late, though, and maybe he didn’t need to know. You sat on the bed and wiped at your stinging eyes. Why did you have to bring this up now? Of all times? It was just… It was just that you wanted him to know you’d… Been serious about him? Remained serious about him? That you’d never been embarrassed to be with him?

But shit, he’d been the one who wanted to pause the relationship. If he hadn’t, you would’ve introduced him much sooner. Sure, your father wouldn’t have been supportive, but no one you’d ever associated with ever met with his approval. He hadn’t liked your friends in New York. You weren’t sure you liked your friends in New York anymore, either.

Mom would’ve been more open-minded, though.

Dammit, you needed to call them.

It would still be foolish to call from Steve’s house. You could call from the hospital’s payphone again. You thought you remembered one in front of Bradley’s. With all the extra people Steve had been hosting and feeding, you assumed he needed groceries. A visit to Bradley’s would take care of both issues.

You changed into street clothes and slung your purse over your shoulder before heading downstairs. Steve and Robin sat at the kitchen island, chatting between spoonfuls of cereal. It reminded you of hearing their voices in the middle of the night. It made you miss Eddie even though he was only upstairs.

Greeting them with a soft “hey,” you volunteered to do a grocery run. Steve fumbled his spoon when you asked for a shopping list. Milk sloshed onto the counter. He wiped at the spill with the hem of his t-shirt.

Robin watched him with exasperation before fetching a paper towel.

“That shirt’s going to smell so bad tomorrow.”

He snatched the paper towel from her hand, saying, “You’re going to smell so bad tomorrow.”

“Real mature, dingus.”

He aimed a goofy sneer at her.

After cleaning the spill, he finished the shopping list and retrieved some cash. Robin offered money, but you and Steve refused to accept it. With their hours at Family Video reduced, and Robin’s parents making her pay for her band equipment, it didn’t feel right. You and Steve weren’t hurting for money, in any case.

“Remember, we’ll be gone by the time you get back,” he said, handing you the list and money.

You nodded and pocketed both. They were volunteering at the school, which was kind of them. It was also convenient for you since you’d probably argue with Eddie when you returned. He’d acted like a brat and deserved a spanking like one.

“Maybe I’ll join you two tomorrow?”

“That would be awesome,” said Robin, perking up and scooping soggy Cheerios from her bowl. “You can make meals with me and Vickie.”

“Cool.” You gave her a teasing look. “I want to meet Vickie and hear all about you two in Band.”

Robin blushed, hands fluttering. An arc of milk and cereal splashed across the counter.

Steve laughed, “God, Robin!”

“Shit, sorry!”

With a chuckle, you wished them a good day and left the kitchen. You didn’t want to be the next thing they flung milk on. As you crossed the living room, you noted Eddie’s closed door. That was fine by you. He should stay in there and chill the hell out.

On the drive to Bradley’s, you mulled over what to tell your parents. You couldn’t say you wanted to stay because of your boyfriend, who they didn’t know existed, or that said boyfriend was the accused cult leader everyone in town had been hunting. You couldn’t say you hated Hawkins, but the thought of leaving right now made you want to cry. And you certainly couldn’t say you were bunking with the flirty clerk from Family Video.

Bradley’s half-full parking lot was a strange sight for a Tuesday. With the ads in the windows exclaiming Two For Tuesday, you expected a swarm of shoppers. Then again, half of Hawkins had fled less than a week ago.

You bought two cans of generic soda from the machine out front with a couple of dollars. That supplied plenty of coins to make a long-distance call. You carried the sodas to the car. They’d be nice with lunch. Which was a meal. And Robin had invited you to volunteer making meals with her and Vickie.

Volunteering was a decent excuse to stay.

You deposited the sodas in the car’s drink holders and rushed to the payphone. After paying and dialing the Cincinnati number, the line rang twice before Mom answered. She sounded relieved to hear from you and asked after your car. It took you a second to recall the lie you’d left on their answering machine. You replied the radiator leak hadn’t been bad and had been repaired.

“Then when should we expect you?”

You sighed.

“I don’t want to come down to Cincinnati.”

Incredulous, she asked, “You want to stay in Hawkins?”

Your father’s voice rumbled in the background.

“Yes, actually,” you said. “I’m volunteering at the school. With friends.”

“The same friends you’re staying with?”

You nodded with a “yes.”

In reply, you got the swish of Mom putting her palm over the receiver. Your father’s voice sharpened, though you couldn’t make out his words. Mom responded, yet it didn’t sound like that pacified him.

You closed your eyes, waiting for him to grab the phone from her. Shaking your head, you realized preparing to be berated was something a previous version of yourself would’ve done.

“Mom.” When she didn’t answer, you said, “Mom.”

“Y-yes, honey? What is it?”

“I gotta go — I’m in the middle of a grocery run — but don’t worry about me. Everything’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll call you again, alright?”

“Honey… Where—? Your father—”

“No. I don’t care what he wants to yell about. I’m fine here. I’m safe, I promise. Just…” You took a stuttering breath. “I love you.”

She sighed.

“We love you, too.”

Your hand trembled as you placed the phone handset on the hook. A nickel dropped into the return slot. You never make anyone’s life easier, Vecna had said, using Eddie’s voice. You left it. The next person might need it. Besides, it was only a nickel. You turned to rest your back on the sun-warmed brick.

You’d done the right thing by staying. You were doing the right thing. It was the difficult thing, but you’d faced tougher. You weren’t some spoiled little rich girl who ran away from the aftermath. Even if it hurt — and it probably would. Even if Eddie left you — and it appeared as though he might.

You couldn’t worry about that right now. There were practical things to do. You felt like Scarlett O’Hara as you told yourself you’d think about the aftermath later.

Inside Bradley’s, shoppers and clerks spoke in hushed tones. Beeps from the checkouts didn’t carry beyond the cart corral. The quiet helped you concentrate on Steve’s shopping list. Item by item, you filled your cart, having to substitute skim milk for 2%, whole-wheat bread for white, and a carton of eighteen eggs instead of a dozen.

Steve had written ‘12 eggs,’ like you could buy them individually.

You huffed a laugh when turning into the ransacked paper aisle. The shelves for the industrial-sized packs of toilet paper were empty. That left you stepping onto the lowest shelf and struggling for the last two packs of the expensive floral-printed stuff at the back.

At the checkout, the clerk issued a rehearsed apology for the shortages. With the volcanic fissures now closed and road crews fixing the damage, they assured you shipments would start coming again soon. They helped bag your order since there weren’t enough baggers. They apologized for that, too.

You waved away their apologies and thanked them for their assistance. Because you weren’t an entitled person who didn’t appreciate a favor when it was offered.

Once the car’s trunk was loaded, you headed back to Steve’s. You didn’t know what you were going to say to Eddie about this morning, or how to broach the subject. He’d been dealing with so much stress. You understood that. You didn’t want to be another stressor. He needed to talk to you — or someone. He couldn’t just bottle up his emotions and get snippy when someone wasn’t mindful of his unspoken wishes.

As you made the left onto Cornwallis, an older truck paused at the stop sign on your right and followed you. You hoped they wouldn’t get aggressive when you slowed to get your bearings. You still weren’t used to the neighborhood. Something about it kept screwing with your sense of direction. Maybe it was how all the houses were set back from the road and obscured with manicured shrubs.

You recognized evergreen bushes and the u-shaped driveway of Steve’s house. You put on your turn signal. The truck did the same. You frowned at the rearview mirror, but pulled into the driveway. If the driver was some irrational, as your father had put it, country bumpkin, you’d make them regret tailing you.

You parked beside the enclosed carport and stepped out of the car, leaving your keys in the ignition and purse on the passenger seat. The truck stopped a few yards away. Sunlight glinted off its windshield. The engine went silent.

You stayed inside the vee of your open car door and waited for the driver to reveal themself.

The truck’s door creaked open, window reflecting the greenery of the front yard. Dusty work-boots hit the driveway. Something about them struck you as familiar. You studied the truck as you racked your mind for why.

The truck door clapped shut.

You gasped, eyes going wide. It was Eddie’s uncle, Wayne. He had a black eye and a shallow scratch at the top of his forehead, but otherwise appeared unharmed. You pushed the car door closed and hurried to him.

“Mr. Munson, oh my God! I didn’t— I’m so glad you’re okay!”

With a wry note in his voice, he said, “It’s good to see you, too.”

You offered your hands, which he grasped in his rougher ones. Tears prickled at your eyes. You hadn’t realized how on edge you’d been about Wayne’s absence until he was there.

You squeezed his hands, saying, “Eddie’s going to be thrilled to see you.”

He squeezed back as his expression softened, yet hardly shifted.

“Is he here?”

“Yes, sir.” You nodded. “He’s okay. He’s been asking about you.”

Wayne hummed, sounding pleased. “After that girl was found… Well, I’m sure you know by now. And with the trailer park done split in two, I’ve been staying at the Motel 6.”

“Of course, that makes sense.”

“This Henderson boy said Eddie was in the hospital when I dropped by the school on Saturday, but then that eruption happened.” He gave you a knowing look. “Course, the hospital didn’t have a record of Eddie being there.” He harrumphed and gently released your hands. “Then this morning, Agent Stinson, the one that put me up at the Motel 6, paid me a visit and told me about my nephew recuperating here.”

You glanced at Eddie’s bedroom window.

“Please, come in,” you said, pivoting to show him inside. “I’ll take you to him.”

“I first have a favor to ask.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Will you help this old man get a few things from the truck?”

You grinned.

“Absolutely.”

He led you to the back of the truck. You gasped a second time in so many minutes. Three guitar cases lay in the truck bed. You put a hand on your tight chest.

“I didn’t want to leave ‘em with no one at home,” said Wayne.

He’d never given up on Eddie. Like you, he’d known Eddie was innocent. His days must’ve been horrible, full of waiting and dread. You couldn’t imagine the stares and comments he must’ve gotten at work.

“—fit the amps, but I know these mean more.”

You nodded, feeling like a bobblehead doll as you blinked back tears.

“Whoa, hey now, don’t cry.”

You tried to reply you were fine, but the words wouldn’t come.

Wayne put a strong arm around your shoulders, grounding you. His faded denim jacket smelled of tobacco.

The guitars were just objects and could be replaced, of course, but Wayne was right: they meant something. You’d bet Eddie had resigned himself to replacing them. Coming to terms with that must’ve hurt.

You shook your head at the good fortune, then gave Wayne a smile. Now, Eddie wouldn’t have to go through that.

It took you a few tries, but you finally said, “He’s going to lose it when he sees you and these.”

“Eh, I reckon more for the guitars than me.”

You laughed as Wayne lowered the tailgate. He handed you the acoustic case and bossed around the two electrics. You closed the tailgate for him and led the way into the house. Television noise came from the open basement door.

In the living room, you and Wayne had a hushed conversation about leaving the guitars there. He wanted to surprise Eddie. You loved the idea and propped the acoustic against a sofa arm. Wayne added the electrics next to it before following you to the top of the stairs.

“Eddie?” you called.

“Yeah?”

“You have a visitor.”

“What? Who?”

You stepped to the side, giving Wayne access to the stairs. Eddie choked out something when Wayne was halfway down. You leaned on the doorframe, biting your grinning lip, waiting for their first exchange. However, it was quiet. You snuck a glance. Eddie’s arms were around Wayne, and Wayne’s around him. His fingers dug into Wayne’s jacket.

You closed the door to allow them privacy.

Taking a step towards the guitars, you remembered the groceries thawing in your car. That was unlocked. With the key in the ignition. And your purse in the passenger seat.

You dashed to the car and began unloading it. The kitchen counters filled with bags. Each trip obscured the counters until brown paper surrounded you.

By the time you finished stocking the refrigerator and pantry, Eddie and Wayne had emerged from the basement. Eddie’s excited voice came from the living room, making you smile. You padded to the doorway to watch the second reunion. Eddie knelt in front of the red guitar’s open case.

Wayne said to him the same thing he’d told you: he couldn’t abandon the guitars.

Wordlessly, Eddie nodded and stood. He hugged Wayne again, murmuring something into his shoulder. Wayne put a hand on the back of Eddie’s head and ruffled his hair as he replied. Eddie laughed with a sniffle.

You ducked your head and crossed your arms. If you saw him cry, you’d cry. Then Wayne would be stuck in a house of the emotionally compromised.

When Eddie and Wayne separated, you cleared your throat to make your presence known. Eddie beamed at you in a way you hadn’t seen in a long time, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling. Wayne was more restrained, but he appeared just as happy.

“Mr. Munson, would you like to stay for lunch?” you asked.

“I’d like that, but I can’t. The plant’s understaffed, and I’m workin’ a double.”

Eddie wilted, but you didn’t want him to give up hope. He needed something to look forward to.

You asked, “Maybe on a day off?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He glanced at Eddie. “My Friday’s free.”

“Come for lunch,” said Eddie.

“Yeah, stay as long as you want. Stay for dinner.” Raising your eyebrows at Eddie, you said, “We can invite the rest of the party. Make it a potluck.”

“I think we better run that by Steve first.”

“Like he’ll refuse.”

Eddie conceded the point with an agreeable shrug.

To Wayne, he said, “Steve’s got cable downstairs. There’s at least one sports channel.”

“Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason to return.”

Eddie barked a laugh and knocked his elbow against Wayne’s. He then turned to Wayne and perched his chin on the back of his hands, blinking owlishly.

“You mean my spectacular personality isn’t reason enough?”

Wayne said drily, “Your personality is a spectacle, alright.”

Eddie laughed again. Wayne’s eyes crinkled at the corners and his lips curved into a private grin.

After a moment, Wayne said, “Well, I best be off.”

“Thank you for coming by,” you said.

Eddie nodded.

“Thanks for everything.”

“Anytime.”

You heard the love in that one word. Eddie must’ve heard it as well, because his face softened. It was easy to forget his sharp smile and smart-ass remarks and big personality masked a tender heart.

As you thought it, you asked, “Do you have the phone number here?”

“No, ma’am.”

You hurried into the kitchen, found the pad of paper Steve used for the shopping list, and wrote the number. When you came out with a pad and pen, Wayne and Eddie stood in the foyer. You tore off the top sheet and asked for the motel’s number.

“Just in case plans change,” you said.

After trading numbers, you saw Wayne off. Eddie followed him down the front stairs while you remained in the doorway. Once in the truck, Wayne held up a hand in goodbye before reversing down the driveway.

As soon as Wayne’s truck was out of sight, Eddie brushed past you without meeting your eyes. You closed the door and trailed after him into the living room.

“You want to talk about this morning?”

“What’s there to talk about?” he asked, kneeling in front of the guitars and closing the red’s case.

“Well, geez, I don’t know.” You put your hands on your hips. “Maybe how you brushed me off?”

He laid the acoustic case flat and paused with his hands on top.

“I didn’t ‘brush you off.’ I didn’t want to talk about fucking Jason Carver, okay?”

“That wasn’t the point.”

“No, that is the point. He wouldn’t have targeted you if I’d left you alone from the start.”

You narrowed your eyes at his back. That was a crappy excuse. And still not the point.

“Why did you say it was good my parents had left town so I wouldn’t have to introduce you?”

“I don’t know, alright? Everything got screwed up.” His hands balled into fists. “I know part of it’s my fault.” He shook his head as his shoulders hunched. “I can’t undo it, so… It’s whatever.”

You huffed a breath through your nose.

“It’s whatever?” Letting your hands drop to your sides, you said, “Me being serious about you, about wanting my parents to know you, is not whatever.”

He muttered, “They wouldn’t have liked me, anyway.”

“Maybe not, but I’d make them respect my choice.” You tried to breathe with a too-tight chest. “Because I choose you. It sucks that doesn’t seem to mean a lot to you.”

You didn’t wait for a reply and headed into the kitchen. There were empty grocery bags to deal with. You folded and stacked them on the island while swallowing around the lump in your throat.

If Steve’s parents were anything like your own, there was a stash of empty grocery bags somewhere around here. You found a bag of bags in the pantry — something you’d missed a few times. Of course, you missed it. You’d missed plenty of things these past few days, evidently, but you wouldn’t cry over them. Not now. Not in Steve’s pantry. You added the new bags to the collection, then closed the pantry door.

You turned and startled at Eddie dawdling in the kitchen doorway.

“I choose you too, you know,” he said, fingers playing with nonexistent rings. “And it does mean a lot to me — that you’re serious about me. I’m serious about you, too.”

You nodded, voice constrained by the sudden stranglehold of too many emotions.

“I’m going to go upstairs now.”

You nodded again, though you didn’t like it.

He shifted from foot to foot before leaving the doorway. His faint footsteps disappeared from the first floor. All the while, you mentally screamed for him to come back. You didn’t need him to say more. He just needed to stay. Maybe to make lunch with you, though the idea of eating turned your stomach. However, you wanted to do something dumb, something mundane, with him, like make lunch and drink the cheap sodas you’d bought.

Instead, you trudged into the sunroom and flumped into one of the armless chairs.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson x y/n #eddie munson #stranger things #em tagd #waywardrose writes

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traumasurvivorshelpingsurvivors · 7 months

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Alternative Resources

because of the high volume of asks we typically get, we've decided to make a masterlist of alternative resources folks can use. please note that this post will likely be updated and expanded several times, so stay posted for new additions.

If you would like to offer your blog as a resource for others to send asks, or if you know of any helpful resources to add, let us know!

other tumblr blogs: https://www.tumblr.com/traumatizeddfox - a friend in the trauma community on tumblr, founder of a discord support group (listed later) https://www.tumblr.com/agirldying - mod bun's personal trauma support blog https://kokobot.tumblr.com/ - an automated service that allows you to anonymously vent and receive anonymous replies! the people who answer are not trained or vetted so the answers you may get could potentially be harmful so do keep that in mind.

twitch streamers: https://www.twitch.tv/cartoontherapy - this guy (Vince) is studying to be a therapist, his stream combines counseling and cartoons, the nature of the cartoons can feel refreshing but also tone deaf when heavy subjects are discussed so do keep that in mind https://www.twitch.tv/comfortablestranger - certified peer specialist, streams typically have set topics such as mental health in general or the idea of reciprocity in relationships, is also system-friendly (I highly recommend this person) https://www.twitch.tv/justagirllexi - ran by Lexi and her wife Crystal, talks about trans rights, is supportive of queer issues https://www.twitch.tv/linstantnoodles - mental health mondays, he uses google forms to submit messages ahead of time that will be answered on stream https://www.twitch.tv/lyleforever - not too sure about this one but it seems he takes calls live on stream, may be more lighthearted if you're looking to talk about heavy subjects so keep that in mind

forums: https://forum.heartsupport.com/ - part of a mental health support nonprofit based in but not limited to the metal music community, there are multiple groups of Support Wall Action Team (SWAT) that comment on each post at set times so responses are consistent https://traumasurvivors.boards.net/ - this is april's own trauma support forum!

support discord servers: https://www.tumblr.com/traumasurvivors/681008940002263040/i-currently-run-a-trauma-discord-server-in-order?source=share - parachute is a server run by April (founder of this blog), DM her for the link https://discord.com/invite/bKUY62FSJN - the den, ran by traumatizeddfox https://discord.gg/dctN57yU - hero journey club offers both a venting channel and group therapy sessions where they all play a particular video game together such as stardew valley, minecraft, and animal crossing https://disboard.org/server/851856291739205645 - the highvergent collective is a 420-friendly trauma support server https://disboard.org/server/666173431943004181 - osdd discord server, very helpful and supportive, especially for questioning systems

some other resources: https://www.7cups.com/ https://blahtherapy.com/ https://www.healthfulchat.org/mental-health-chat-rooms.html

#mod bun #masterlist #masterpost

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toomanyclans · 2 months

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Why is it called Too Many Clans?

Because there's 12 of them.

🔥PYRECLAN🔥

PyreClan's territory is a large stretch of hot desert, their camp surrounding the only oasis in the area. They mainly eat desert lizards, snakes and rabbits, and have large, thick-furred ears to keep them cool in the day and warm at night. They worship the element of fire, being the first Clan in history to figure out how to willingly light a fire and also the benefits of cooking food, which slowly spread to the other Clans over time. PyreClan also has built their own makeshift refrigerators in the ground of their territory, which is a function that only works in their climate, unfortunately for their neighbors. They've been since regarded as experts of food, and their ancestors typically take on a flaming translucent appearance. They have to trade frequently with the other Clans due to their harsh environment, making them a relatively peaceful Clan.

🌊TIDECLAN🌊

TideClan's camp is on the sandy shore of a vast, life-filled ocean, with the borders connecting to their neighbors becoming progressively grassier and more abundant with trees, however swampier. They get their water from ponds located deeper into their territory, and their dens are made of naturally eroded rock with hollowed-out caves. They mostly eat fish caught on their shores but will sometimes catch the occasional seabird, like a petrel or a sandpiper. They have short, sleek fur, allowing them to dry quickly after emerging from the water and to move through it easier and with less drag, and their tails act as rudders to steer them in harsh tide. They worship the element of water and their ancestors take on a deep blue, rain-like appearance. Their territory is mostly very abundant with resources, however they are friendly to other Clans regardless of need for trade due to their monopoly on the ocean's prey. Their neighbors will even offer them to hunt on stretches of their beach simply due to the fact they themselves don't eat fish, thus negating any competition for food.

☁️BREEZECLAN☁️

BreezeClan's territory is that of a deciduous forest, with a river running through it originating from a reservoir in SnowClan's mountains. They care little for the ground of their territory, however, since BreezeClan worships the wind and sky and chooses to camp in a vast collection of treetops. They hop from branch to branch, relying on squirrels and birds for food. Their legs are strong and able to spring them relatively far, and their tails are prehensile and able to help them hang onto things. They care little for trade and are relatively neutral to other Clans, however are defensive of their territory even if they have almost no need for anything below the treetops. They have quite the monopoly on feathers, however. Their ancestors take on a blustery, white appearance.

💎TUNNELCLAN💎

TunnelClan lives up to their name well. They worship the earth and the ground, and their territory is a sparsely-wooded, hilly area, however their camp lies underneath that. They have an insane combat advantage in their territory, with several routes from all sorts of underground tunnels, all connecting to one massive cave system, the center of which is their camp. They treasure special gemstones and materials they find via digging, and due to the natural allure of these items, use them often for trade, most likely for soft materials like furs and feathers to upkeep their bedding. They mostly rely on tunneling creatures like rabbits and mice, however other predators with underground dens are often a source of strife for them, like badgers and foxes. Their claws are durable and their eyes, ears and whiskers are larger, allowing them to navigate perfectly in their dark tunnels. Their type of preferred prey gives them a lot of smaller pelts to trade as opposed to MoonClan and SunClan's expertise on larger pelts. Their water source is an offshoot of BreezeClan's river, yet they also have access to saltwater, which they have mostly no need for and often lend to TideClan when times are tough. Their ancestors glimmer and shine as if made of gemstones themselves.

⛈️STORMCLAN⛈️

StormClan's territory is a vast, prairie-like grassland, with their camp being made of some of the only bushes in their land. They hunt rabbits and prairie dogs most often for this reason. They worship the elements of the storm, such as strong gales, rain and even thunder and lightning. Rain is seen as a sign of good fortune and thunder and lightning even more so, and tales say that their very first leader, Stormstar, died being struck by lightning, which is seen as the highest honor a cat in their Clan can achieve. They view it as being specifically chosen to serve the spirits' rank as a result of an admirable life. However, either very few or no cats at all have faced this type of demise since. They have a river in their territory, again originating from SnowClan's mountain peaks. They are rather neutral to other Clans, though are some of the most rigid and uptight in their beliefs. They have spiky, staticy fur, which they claim to be a result of the electricity in the air of their territory blessed upon them by the spirits themselves. They are fast and lean runners and quite enjoy snacking on bugs, despite the other Clans' disgust at the idea. Their ancestors are light yellow and brimming with shocking energy.

❄️SNOWCLAN❄️

SnowClan has one of the harshest territories in all of the Clans and are secretly revered for it. Their camp is in the caves of a snowy peak's cliffside, the rest of their territory arctic, high-up and hard to traverse. They have long, thick fur to keep them warm, and lengthy claws to break through ice and the rough hides of their prey. They mostly rely on arctic rodents like rabbits and lemmings, but sometimes have to resort to mountain goats, in which they team up to hunt (often by running it off the side of a cliff). They have a carved-out staircase down to the other Clans's territory for trade and Gatherings, however the other Clans view the structure as unstable and dangerous to travel on. They have a few sparse and ragged trees in their territory, and a pond that often freezes over and has to be broken through to drink out of. This is the water reservoir that flows into the rivers of all the other Clans. They heavily rely on furs but are able to produce their own a lot of the time. They worship the ice and snow and view their environment as a holy challenge from the spirits. Their ancestors take on a frosty, ice-blue appearance.

🌙MOONCLAN🌙

Located in coniferous forest, MoonClan worships the darkness of night and is an almost completely nocturnal Clan. They look shockingly similar to TunnelClan cats, with wide eyes, long whiskers and big ears to help them navigate the night, and long claws for their unusual prey type. They hunt large game like boar and deer, and thus have very large and thick pelts for trade. They accomplish these hunts using traps, their hunting patrols large in number in order to safely navigate killing dangerous prey. This also gives them tusks and antlers for trade as well. They view themselves closer to their ancestors, who take on starry appearances, than any other Clans. They are mysterious, elusive and slightly hostile to other cats.

☀️SUNCLAN☀️

SunClan's territory is a stretch of savannah, with dried yellow grass and plenty of dangerous fauna to keep them on their toes. They worship the light of the sun and are exclusively active during the day. They are fast runners like their neighbors in StormClan, however also possess long claws to take down large prey like antelope, gazelles, and even zebra. They steer clear from more dangerous animals however, like crocodiles, elephants, hippos, rhinos, buffalo, and even big cats like lions, leopards and cheetahs. Hyenas and African wild dogs are the most feared among their territory however. They are less likely to use traps than MoonClan, instead opting for the risk to simply take down the tendons in their prey's legs themselves with teeth and claws. They have evolved to be larger than most cats as a result, to minimize injury. They have short fur to keep them cool under their hot sun, and also trade primarily large, thick furs and the horns of any beast they kill. On an off day, they'll go for smaller savannah animals, but value communal dinner greatly and prefer a large catch for the entire Clan to eat in unison. Their high regard for social health and communication cause them to be naturally friendlier to other Clans. Their ancestors take on a radiant light yellow appearance. They have ownership of a small portion of beach, which they don't use, and have allowed TideClan to hunt on it before, however TideClan doesn't really need it either considering the two Clans' distance from one another.

🌾FARMCLAN🌾

FarmClan are the most laid back of all twelve Clans and aren't very spiritual. They live on a stretch of farmland owned by Twolegs who haven't bothered to spay or neuter the lot of them, but are friendly to the cats and feed them often. They mostly rely on barn mice, however, which could explain why the Twolegs like to keep them around. They live in harmony with the farm animals on the land such as horses, cows, pigs, chicken and sheep, and even a few dogs. They care little for combat and are welcoming to visitors, and are thus seen as lazy pushovers that have strayed too far from spirituality by the other Clans. FarmClan cares little about others' opinions however. They value the cycle of growth and harvest the Twolegs practice among their fields and their ancestors take on a wheatish sort of appearance, as if the plant's seeds blowing in the wind had taken the shape of a cat. Their trading options are plentiful however, with them having little need for food and always willing to lend some to other Clans if they get desperate enough for kibble. They will also trade stalks of rye and helpings of stolen milk.

🩸ALLEYCLAN🩸

Their territory harsh and their culture revering violence, AlleyClan is one of the most feared and rumored about Clans. They worship the act of battle, however are not overly warmongering, despite what the stereotypes the other Clans make up may say. They heavily frown upon battles that were not needed or meant to be fought, and rushing into combat hoping to kill is a fool's pursuit in their eyes. Scars are seen as incredibly attractive in their culture, especially potentially lethal ones. Honor is their main concern, and overly bloodthirsty cats that attack non-combatants or a fleeing opponent are shunned by them. However, the blood spilled in battle is seen by them as incredibly sacred, and injuries are heavily revered. They live in a populous Twoleg city, surviving off rats, pigeons and scraps of trash. They are the only Clan whose territory does not possess a drinkable body of water, so the have to borrow from the river on the border of FarmClan, which FarmClan allows without question. AlleyClan has unique access to metals and even shards of glass, and their camp is a collection of old forgotten trash bags and bins in an abandoned parking lot. Their ancestors take on a scarlet, dripping appearance.

🌸FLOWERCLAN🌸

FlowerClan worships life and finds joy in every aspect of their territory, from the vocal birds of their lush jungle to the tall stalks of bamboo to the flourishing plants along the ground. The only thing they have to worry about is tigers.. and poison dart frogs.. and venomous snakes.. and constricting snakes. But those creatures are all simply trying to survive as well and deserve a place in the rainforest! FlowerClan's camp is among the tall, wild grass close to a bamboo patch. They have an entire shore to work with but allow TideClan to use it freely if they wish, a favor which TideClan returns by offering them some of their caught fish if FlowerClan is particularly low on food. However, that is almost never a problem for FlowerClan in their bustling territory, with tropical birds and critters aplenty. Their ancestors take on a lush flowery appearance. FlowerClan has a monopoly on dyes due to the several types of flora in their territory, and often adorn their dens, pelts and beds with colorful petals.

💀GRAVECLAN💀

Their territory a dull, grassy moor of countless headstones, GraveClan's sworn duty is to protect the burial rites of their fellow cats. They keep every grave tidy and adorned with offerings from their living kin, and are experts on communing with the spirits. Every cat has the right to bury their kin in their own territory, but many see GraveClan's land as sacred and opt to bury cats there. To challenge GraveClan is seen as blasphemous--but they are still a Clan. Pacifists at most times, the only time GraveClan will fight is in self-defense, or if another Clan's graves in their own territory are being purposefully defiled and destroyed, or if another Clan trying to bury a cat is being refused passage to GraveClan. They are able to sustain themselves on the crows and mice that scurry along their land's short grass but almost any Clan would be willing to offer them food if they had really fallen on hard times. Their ancestors take on a wispy, ghastly appearance. GraveClan trades with TunnelClan frequently for their stonework.

#warrior cats #warriors #wc #fanclan

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dogboyjackkennedy · 3 months

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screw it, i'm talking about my Dsaf Warriors au anyway.

alright, slight worldbuilding stuff:

clans aren't exactly permanent. like, even the more permanent-ish ones shift and change a lot of the time.

^ slightly related, clans having actual leaders (nine lives and all) is now incredibly rare.

most groups in the forest are either small bands of rogues/loners or traveling groups of families and friends.

you can generally tell who is a Clan Descendant by their names and how they talk.

you've basically got Normal Starclan (doesn't really have actual souls and is more ruled by a council who makes all the decisions; will gladly revive young-ish cats if asked, on the condition that the cat in question will have amnesia, and will basically be turned into blank slates (this is the closest i could get to Phone Guys)), Fredbear's Side of Starclan aka The Flipside (where kits and elders typically end up, although he works to try and drag more souls there so that they can actually rest), and the Dark Forest/Void (a Lot of souls end up here, typically because the cats here died young/were murdered and want vengeance/want to avenge another family member/have general unfinished business)

souls also work funky. some souls have stars in their pelts while others appear shadowy, with their wounds visible. kits always have tear tracks running down their face, regardless of how their pelts show up. if a kit has a shadowy pelt...that's generally a sign that something...really fucking bad happened to them when they died. like a murder. that they're pissed about.

The Real Fredbear is a ghostly Labrador Retriever.

the main clan that's important to lore stuff right now is Bearclan (Fredbear's)

so, here's everything up to Henry being dragged into the void. enjoy (warnings for animal violence and animal death):

so, we start off with a cat named Rosesight (Henry; name is based off the fact that he's pink. also, it's a reference to the saying "rose-tinted lenses." i'll let you figure the rest out from there). he's basically the leader of Bearclan, right? started out as a kittypet (regular house cat, for those unaware), eventually worked his way up here.

one day, some cats in his clan go "hey man, uh, we've been smelling a fox around the territory, uh, it's been moving around a lot?? like it knows we'll be checking around its den sites?? could you go check it out??" and he goes "ugh fine you're all fucking idiots guess i'll deal with this too since you're all incompetent 🙄"

so he decides to stake out around one of the den sites, believing the fox to either be hiding out in this one or might try to move into this one the next morning. when the next morning comes, he hears shuffling around in the den, and only a few moments later, he comes face-to-face with a black fox with a collar around its neck.

(why is Dave a fox, you ask? well, we know, canonically speaking, that Dave's not a human, and that he's a cryptid. so, i decided to make Warriors!Dave a different animal instead of a cat. i feel like he gives off fox vibes)

Rosesight is about to attack this poor guy, given that he seems clearly surprised and wasn't expecting any visitors, until the fox starts...talking to him? wait, how the fuck-?

the fox, with what few words in cat he can speak, introduces that his name is William, and that he's been following his clan for several months, and that he wants to join. it seems that he was smart enough to know that walking up to a bunch of cats in the middle of the woods, who typically have to worry about foxes as a legitimate danger, was probably not going to end well for him.

so...what's our beloved fox friend doing here? why does he have a collar for? well, long story short: imagine Todd from The Fox and the Hound, but if he were kicked out into the forest after only about a month. that's sort of the situation we're dealing with here.

Rosesight goes "eh, why not? i could use extra help with my Plans™" William just goes "ooo free home! :D free family!! :D"

what are Rosesight's Plans™, you might ask? basically to Hack Death (he wants to kill enough kits that basically neither side of the afterlife wants him, and thus will just do whatever they can to keep him alive. which. That's Definitely Not Fredbear's Plan! He Wants That Fucker Dead So He'll Stop Causing Problems!)

Rosesight refuses to give William a proper warrior name, something that upsets him. he does, however, tear his collar off. Clan Cats Don't Wear Collars, After All (he definitely doesn't tear the collar off in a painless way, either).

eventually, Rosesight comes up with a plan to kill William by luring him over to a fox trap and letting it kill him. why? he doesn't think that William's exactly...helpful. besides, he's worried that if he tries to have William as a partner in his Child Murder Plans, that others will find out William was involved and immediately blame him for even allowing him in the clan to begin with. a good chunk of Rosesight's plan involves others trusting him, so this can't happen.

long story short: William died, repossessed himself before Starclan could intervene with literally anything, and then just kinda went about his life like nothing happened. Rosesight was intrigued by this, and decided to keep William around. maybe he could get William involved with his kit murders. he just needs to make sure he's prepared first, and won't screw anything up.

it's at this point we now get introduced to three (technically four) new cats: Redpatch (Peter), Tangerinetooth (Jack), and Heartkit (Dee). also technically Caroline, Redpatch's kittypet mate that he kinda sorta went to live with. the trio were a family of Clan Descendants, and they just kinda chill.

Heartkit and Tangerinetooth live in an abandoned, run down barn in a field on the edge of Bearclan's territory.

Heartkit is between 3.5-4 moons (months). she's rather young, but she's been weaned. for a kit her age, she is quite capable of caring for herself. okay...maybe she still needs assistance, given she is Basically A Baby, but you get the idea.

Rosesight, who Really doesn't like Tangerinetooth and doesn't want him in or around the territory, Wakes Up One Day And Chooses Violence (< is about to kill a man's sister to hopefully drive him out)

William Doesn't Want Him To Choose Violence (< grew close to Tangy and his sister, and really doesn't want to help kill Heartkit)

Heartkit Gets Kidnapped And Murdered By The River. Rosesight steals the ribbon tied around her neck and leaves her body there.

Tangy finds her body after waking up and noticing she was missing, buries her, and gets understandably pissed about the fact that she was murdered.

he decides to hunt Rosesight down to kill him, but unfortunately Rosesight is several steps ahead, and lures out a stray dog to maul him to death.

Fredbear revives him, but his soul, going by the name Blackjack, roams the Earth, following Rosesight and William around to hopefully drag one or both of them into the Void.

Heartkit, now a shadowy spirit, realizes that she can now guide other dead kits to The Flipside. she also begins to follow William and Rosesight, hoping to either rescue kits from being murdered, or to guide their souls to the afterlife. sometimes she succeeds in saving them, usually luring them off until Rosesight and William leave under the guise of going off to play a game or to try and get help.

Rosesight also just kinda. repeatedly kills William. mostly by strikes to the head or around it. this starts to fuck William up mentally.

Rosesight runs into two cats on his Murder Adventures: Burntpelt (Steven; i can't think of names) and Redpatch. both of them witness him kill kits, try to stop him and get killed. Starclan brings 'em back, as blank slates, and they stay with the respective clans they were found by. Burntpelt gets his name changed to Clifffall (was found, barely conscious, by a cliff), and Redpatch is changed to Dogstrike (was also mauled by a stray dog. like his brother)

Rosesight tells William about his dead son, Violetkit. William, finally fed up of not having an actual warrior's name (and also, y'know, Very Fucked Up Mentally), decides to change his name to Violetsight, as a way of trying to make it incredibly clear that he wants to a) be taken seriously, and b) become Rosesight's son. Rosesight goes "What The Fuck" and just leaves him, going off on his own.

bad idea! because now Blackjack is dragging him into The Void!

so now we have Tangerinetooth, a Very Fucked Up Cat trying to save and release the souls of the dead kits, Violetsight, a Very Fucked Up Fox who's still committing kit murder, Heartkit trying to Also save and free the souls, Blackjack making sure Tangy stays on track, and Clifffall and Dogstrike, who have no memory of anything and are basically just doing what they've been told to do (run their respective Very Dysfunctional Clans).

and, of course, Rosesight deciding to cause Problems from the Void.

feel free to ask questions! this is just a very basic run down of the first half of the plot.

#dsaf #dsaf au #dsaf warrior cats au #dsaf henry #dsaf dave #jack kennedy #dee kennedy #peter kennedy #dsaf blackjack #dsaf steven

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canarycolemine · 10 months

Text

Death and the Promises He Made

Chapter 2 (finally omg)

Pairing: Papa Emeritus II x Female Reader

Warnings: MDNI, mentions of abuse, drug use, and forced prostitution

Tag List: @sirianisrock (let me know if you’d like to be added 💖)

I didn’t look towards Eddie as the skull faced man took my hand, leading me out of the bar. I knew, I fucking knew he had a smirk on his face. Just another way he could destroy me - break my boundaries. Always, I stayed in the lion's den he enslaved me in, but he gave me the courtesy to never allow the lions to drag my body away from the familiar cruelty. This, however, was a new cruelty.

Quite frankly, I didn’t care if this harsh looking man I followed would kill me. He looked like he could. Guiding me away, the unfamiliar man towered over my body, as did the strangely masked men. Physically, he could overpower me, but now, a mental overpowering was unfolding, too.

But I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, why this man held my hand so gently, as if it was made of glass. The patrons cat called as I left, but the man shot severe looks at them, which quieted them. I liked the power he had over them, his evil looks; what I could only hope is that he wouldn’t have cruelty with me, too.

As we neared the double doors of the bar, past the blue neon beer signs and posters of naked women, he let my hand go and opened the door for me. His hands were gloved; to his benefit, no human hand should ever touch those dirty bar doors. Still, holding the door open for me, a gentlemanly gesture, was something very rare for me these days.

The desert winter air struck me harder than I imagined. The night was darker, more solid than it usually was when I typically left the bar - the usual lighting of early morning, making the mountains on the east side of this town more visible than in the solid night. But I couldn’t see the mountains tonight. I let out a cold sigh, seeing my breath mist as I breathed out.

The man slipped his hand on the small of my back to guide me towards his car, the other hand gesturing towards them. Instinctively, I recoiled from his touch. I just hated being touched and the violence that would so often follow.

He withdrew his hand, following my reaction. I didn’t think too much of it.

There were so many large black vans, looking awfully expensive compared to the bikes and trucks that typically filled the parking lot. This legion looked so out of place, so distinguished, too much for this place.

I shivered again, not quite sure if it was the cold or withdrawal hitting me.

When we neared his car, I could see one of those masked men in the driver’s seat through the tinted windows. The car was already running, exhaust fumes pillowing behind. He opened the back door for me, gesturing me to enter. Instantly, the warmth of the car’s heating soothed me.

The interior of the car was black, and the scent was like it was brand new - rich leather, real leather and very, very clean.

I scooted myself across the back seat’s bench, making room for the man to enter behind me. Silently, I buckled myself in, putting my purse at my feet.

“Buenosera, ghoul, we’ll retire for the evening.” He instructed the masked driver.

Ghoul? Damn, and I thought Eddie treated his employees rough.

“Si, Papa.” A husky, deep voice replied. The man sitting in the driver’s seat was stoic, as if he were a vessel, only able to move once commanded.

Papa? Too often, “daddy” was the name my patrons preferred; it was patriarchal and perverse. It was all the same to me. Any other night, I would have cringed at calling him that, but the deep voiced driver said ‘Papa’ like it was some sort of title. Someone he revered.

Regardless of any curiosity, I couldn’t help the cringe I made over the name.

“Something wrong, signora?” The man called Papa asked, observing my face.

“Oh, um, no.” I started, realizing I needed to silence the emotions I so often wore on my face. I did have a job to do, I suppose. “Just, I usually call my, uh, clients, daddy or something. Papa’s just a new one. Do you want me to call you that?”

“Ah. No, no. It’s a title, so to say.” He clarified. “You do not need to call me ‘Papa,’ the driver ghoul must call me Papa - I’ll send him back to hell if he doesn't use the name.” He playfully threatened.

I smirked, doubting him, but entertaining him. The way he said it, something about his stern face. He overcompensated his mean visage with these remarks, like he wanted to see me laugh, wanted to make me comfortable. It was nice.

I cast one look at the dinghy bar as we departed the parking lot. How cruel it really all was, and how lost I got along the way. This ugly place, and the wicked men it held. It destroyed the beauty that I held. It didn’t matter how I looked, I had simply become a ghost. Here I was now, being driven away from the bar, as if it was some sort of strong hold, a safe place. I shouldn’t be afraid, I shouldn’t miss this place. But, it was familiar.

Perhaps it was just the familiarity of captivity.

The glow of the bar’s halogen lights faded, as we drove further down the desert road. It was so novel, to be afraid of leaving the place that had destroyed me. I knew what to expect, but I hated it all. Hated what had become of my shit life. How I was so tired of being strong, hoping to escape from this miserable trailer park life, then so weak from abuse, and then, worst, nothing at all.

A sniffle I didn’t mean to take captured the man’s attention. In my peripheral vision, I saw his internal debate to acknowledge my emotions or not. I half hoped he wouldn’t, but the unsettling comfort he made me feel almost prompted something. Trust, maybe.

“Would you like us to drive you home, little one? We don’t have to return to the hotel.” He broke the silence.

“No, it’s fine.” I lied. “I’ll get over it. Sorry, I know some people don’t like sniffling.”

“You do not have to lie to me,” he cut through, “I am not going to hurt you. I promise.”

A promise.

Somehow, that broke me. I couldn’t control the sobs that I wracked suddenly. My breath could hardly keep up as my body crumpled in on itself. I felt his hand on my shoulder. It was as if he didn’t dare move it down my body.

Maybe I could blame my emotions on withdrawal, but I hadn’t felt emotions this strongly for so long. I couldn’t remember when I could feel. Just feel.

Why was I so affected by his words? Half of my brain, the last reasonable one, said that he’s just like everyone who’s said that before. They want you to trust them, make you feel comfortable, give you hope that he would make everything better - but always. Always. He left you. He’ll take your money, the last of your booze, and another piece of your soul.

God damn it. There was another half of my brain, the part that still wanted to be human. Maybe it’ll be different this time. He won’t me, and things will change. I could be free again. He could take me away from this life. Maybe I can get a piece of my soul back.

The battle raged in my brain, almost suspending my body in the moment.

A small squeeze he gave. Reassuring. Grounding.

“What can I do for you, dear, to make you feel better?”

“Can you just,” another sniffle, surely I looked a mess, “can you just hold me?”

“Like a hug?”

“Like a hug.”

“Of course, dear.” He waited for me to move closer to him. Only after I was settled did he wrap his arms around me. Almost paternal, but very safe, I felt steadied in his arms. Up close, through the tears, his suit’s thread was rich - a small paisley detail throughout the fabric. Each cut, immaculately tailored to his figure and not a thread out of place. His cologne was equally luxurious - smokey, subtle, masculine. Almost, almost, I felt trust. I could almost feel comforted.

I didn’t know anything about him, not even his name. And, I just asked him for a fucking hug. God, I felt pathetic.

“I’m sorry, sir, but could you not call me the pet names?” I probed, worried the comfort might end. But, so far, he hadn’t given me any indication that I couldn’t speak my peace.

“Certainly.” He said so solidly. “I will need your name though, if I may have it.”

“You can call me Eden.” It wasn’t my name, but I always liked it. I really didn’t use my real name anymore. I could pretend with him, as a last safeguard.

“Eden? That’s a lovely name.” The name felt safe in his voice.

“Thanks,” I said. “What would you like me to call you?”

“I have several names, little Eden, you can choose. Some call me Papa, others say Secondo, and those who are closest to me call me Lorzeno. But, eh, you could also use Mr. E.”

“Mystery?” I nearly cringed.

He chuckled at the miscommunication. “No, no, Mr. E. Emeritus is my surname.”

A pause. The thought came into my mind - emeritus. Before I had this life, I was a good Catholic girl. Emeritus was commonly used for a retired pope. I may have lost some of my reasoning, as well as my faith, but something about this man told me wasn’t Catholic.

Frankly, I didn’t have a prayer either way. At worst, he was going to kill me, I so thoroughly believed. I didn’t really give a fuck.

“I’ll call you Secondo. Sounds Italian.”

“Yes, my name means the second. I am the second eldest of my brothers.”

“Awfully creative parents you had,” I joked.

This brought some level of bemusement to the man, a small chuckle fell out. He patted my head, letting his gloves hand linger in my hair for a little while longer. It felt nice.

As cruel as prostitution was, the rushed intimacy between myself and a stranger broke down any boundaries or reservations about physical touch. Disgusting me often, but in his arms, just right now, the touch was almost welcome.

As if reading my mind, he said so, so softly. “Rest now, little Eden. I will awaken you once we arrive.”

So Eden I was.

No trust I could have for this man, who looked like nothing but death. Maybe that’s why it was so natural to fall asleep next to him - easily, faintly, quietly, I drifted to the lightest state of sleep. Like death, so natural and comfortable.

Time stood still, as it often does in between consciousness and unconsciousness. But I drifted, feeling as safer than I had ever been in that bar. Although unfamiliar, I followed him as he held me steady.

#papa emeritus secondo #papa emeritus ii x reader #papa emeritus ii #papa emeritus x original female character #papa emeritus ii fic #secondo x reader #secondo #secondo fic #we all need to be protected by the big guy

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bonkusdonkus · 1 year

Text

I’ve been thinking about bunnies again!

A while ago, I made a list of list ideas, headcanons, and hombrew thoughts on the Harengon, one of my favorite D&D races. Mostly because WotC just kind of slapped them into a book, mumbled something about how they like freedom, and left it at that, and I didn’t like that.

Well I’ve had more ideas since then!

I will now shotgun them onto the Internet so others may steal and\or get inspiration from them! Same rules apply as last time, Harengon and Rabbit folk are interchangeable terms, you can use any of these you like, or don’t! Okay! Let’s talk about bunnies!

Harengon traditionally have extremely long, extremely difficult to remember names. Their names are often literal paragraphs long, or even multiple pages. Some Rabbit Folk actually have names so long they literally need a novel sized book to write them down, and that’s just their first name. Harengon surnames can be encyclopedia sized. On average. As bizarre as it sounds, there is a reason for this. It’s a defense mechanism! In the Feywild, names have immense power. Giving a Fae your full name can have terrible consequences. So, being native to the Feywild, the Harengon counteracted this by making their names impossibly long and complicated, so that remembering them to use against them is near impossible. Plus, many Fae have short attention spans, by the time they’re even halfway through reciting their name, the dangerous Fae will probably just get bored and leave. Obviously, in every day life most Harengon only use a part of their full name, but traditionally all harengon are taught to memorize the full thing, just in case.

It’s common knowledge that Harengon are considered lucky. They have an unusual propensity for pulling victory from the jaws of defeat, or landing that one-in-a-million chance. Hilariously, this means that many casinos or gambling dens often ban Rabbit Folk from playing. Less amusingly though, it has also led to some ugly superstitions. One fairly harmless belief is that a kiss from a Harengon grants the kissed good luck. Some considerably less harmless beliefs are that drinking Harengon blood will give their luck to the drinker, or that having a charm made from Harengon teeth will ward off misfortune. There is little to no evidence that either of these superstitions are true, but doesn’t stop the depraved or the desperate from trying to find out…

On occasion, a Harengon will be born with pure red eyes. No pupils, no whites, just red. These Rabbitfolk are typically referred to as Unfortunates. Not because they’re particularly unlucky, but because they have a peculiar… Aura, let’s call it. Whereas normal Rabbitfolk are known for their supernatural luck, Unfortunates seem to almost suck the luck out of people around them. Specifically, people who wrong them. This is a very difficult thing to catalogue or measure, so it very well could just be a cultural belief of the Harengon, and not an actual phenomenon. But, well, they are from the Feywild. It also could be true…

Harengon aren’t immune to poison, but they are immune to several notable poisonous plants, such as hemlock and nightshade. In fact, they think these plants are quite tasty. They often eat them raw in salads, or cooked much like spinach. But the most famous use of these poisons, is the infamous Snake Blood wine. A potent, magically charged alcoholic wine said to taste like angel’s dreams and unicorn tears. Fanciful descriptions aside aside, it is an exceptionally valuable item, a luxury among luxuries. Brewing it is not only extremely difficult and time consuming, the method is a jealously guarded secret among the Harengon. And while it is still very much poisonous to most species, It can be imbibed by non-harengon, in very, VERY small amounts. Because of this, among wine enthusiasts, it’s become something of a pilgrimage or right of passage to taste the legendary Snake Blood wine of the Rabbitfolk.

One of the most common jokes people make about Harengon is that they love carrots. Because, you know, bunnies. The Rabbitfolk have no particular attachment to carrots, culturally or biologically. Though it’s not unheard of for them to like the orange vegetables, it’s no different than if a human liked them, just a matter of personal preference. However, some Harengon have heard so many stupid carrot jokes, that they have developed a deep seated hatred of them. There are multiple incidents of Harengon actively going out of their way to destroy carrots, out of sheer spite.

#dnd homebrew #dnd ideas #d&d ideas #d&d worldbuilding #dnd character concept #dnd #dnd stuff #harengon #rabbitfolk

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talonslockau · 3 months

Text

Forest of Secrets - Chapter 8

Chapter 7 (TW) || Index || Chapter 9

Fireheart’s paws felt numb as he stared out across camp, keeping watch as the morning sun rose. He didn’t know whether to be grateful to Tigerclaw for giving him the chance to rest, or angry that the deputy had given him the chilly morning watch. At least if he were on patrol, he would be moving, which would help him stay a little warmer. Instead, he was forced to fluff up his fur and do his best to keep the cold away from him.

Truthfully, there wasn’t much to watch in the time before sunhigh. Not even Goldenflower and Frostfur’s kits were out playing, preferring instead to stay in the warmth of the nursery. Most of the elders were curled up together in their den, waiting for the heat of the sun to warm the ground up for them before they came out. The only movement in camp was the occasional gust of wind tossing a few leaves from the camp ceiling onto the ground below.

Still, he patiently scanned camp for any sign of an intruder. He was just beginning to yawn when he heard a rustling in the bramble entrance, and quickly stifled it to see who it was. To his surprise, Longtail bounded through and headed straight for him. “There’s a kittypet howling for you on the border.” The striped tom snapped as he approached, his tail flicking impatiently as he glared at Fireheart.

A kittypet? His mind instantly raced to his sister, but he had warned her several times not to enter the forest, and he had just visited her a few days ago. Surely she would wait for his return rather than try to visit him? “What does this kittypet look like?” He mewed as he heard more rustling, glancing to see Bluestar sliding out of her den. If she found out he was talking with his sister…

“It’s a black and white tom. Fat, too.” Longtail sniffed dismissively. “A typical Twoleg plaything, if you ask me.”

A black and white tom…? It couldn’t be Princess then, he thought with a small sigh of relief. Not unless it was one of her friends, anyways. “Are you sure they were looking for me?” He asked hesitantly after a moment.

“Well, he said he was looking for Dusty, or something like that, but you’re the only kittypet I know of around here.” The other warrior sneered, even as Bluestar came over to stand by his side. “Unless you’re trying to say he was looking for a different kittypet?”

Rusty. He hadn’t heard that name in ages, and as much as he longed to correct Longtail, he knew it was better to leave it in the past. Still, as his mind raced back to when he was a kittypet, it suddenly snapped into place. “Did he say his name was Smudge?” Fireheart finally asked, thinking of the kittypet he had left behind long ago when he had entered the forest.

“You know about the kittypet Longtail is talking about?” Bluestar questioned, and he shrank a bit as he once again remembered Lionheart’s warning. But he had nothing to hide: he hadn’t seen Smudge since the first moon he had been apprenticed!

“Smudge lived in the Twoleg nest next to mine, when I was a kittypet.” The ginger tom mewed to her quickly. “But I haven’t seen him in seasons. Not since- since I joined Thunderclan. I don’t know why he would be looking for me after all this time.” He wasn’t sure if she would admonish him for letting Smudge go without a fight, all those moons ago, and he wasn’t about to find out.

His leader regarded him carefully for a moment, and he wondered briefly if she had picked up on his hesitation. Finally, she turned to Longtail. “Show us where this kittypet is.” She mewed at last.

“Us?” Fireheart questioned quickly, wincing a bit as she glanced back at him. Did she not trust him? Was she accompanying them because she had caught on to his lie?

“An intruder trespassing so flagrantly is unusual. I would be remiss as a leader if I didn’t investigate it further.” She replied evenly, giving nothing away in her gaze as she turned back to Longtail. The tom sniffed in slight disapproval, but said nothing as he led them through the bramble and towards the Twolegplace - towards Fireheart’s old home.

His ears perked as they neared the border, catching the faintest fragments of an argument. The three slowed down, finally coming to a halt at the edge of a clearing where Smudge was arguing with Darkstripe as Willowbranch looked on.

“He’ll understand as soon as I explain! Please! If I don’t see him, then all the housecats will-” The kittypet tom cut off as the three emerged from the bushes, his yellow eyes wide as he caught sight of Fireheart. “Rusty! I knew you’d come!” He rushed up and all but slammed into the warrior’s side in a hearty greeting. “I told them you would!”

“It’s Fireheart now.” He corrected his kittypet friend, doing his best not to appear fazed by the overwhelming greeting. “What are you doing here, Smudge? I thought I told you not to come into the forest. It’s dangerous here.”

“Well, yea, but-” Smudge seemed surprised at his cold indifference, taking a few steps back to take in his kithood friend. “You don’t understand! All the housecats are in danger now!”

He glanced at Longtail, who just shrugged and rolled his eyes in annoyance. “What do you mean, all housecats? Have the Twolegs done something?” He couldn’t imagine why Smudge would come to him for help with Twolegs, but maybe he imagined that a strong cat like him could defeat anything.

“What? No, no - the housefolk are fine. Mine’s been giving me lots of ham from the table lately, and-” He shook his head. “But that’s not the point! This huge band of wild cats has started attacking us in our own gardens, Rusty! They’ve threatened to kill all of us if they see us! We can’t even sunbathe anymore without risking a clawing by those thugs, it’s just terrible! Poor Hattie was attacked just yesterday!”

He stared at the young kittypet for a few moments, trying to process everything he was saying. “It’s Fireheart now.” He repeated after a few moments, before slowly shaking his head. “What do you mean, wild cats? None of the Clans would attack kittypets without provocation, it’s too risky.” As he said it, he side-eyed Darkstripe, wondering if Tigerclaw and his followers would do such a thing. But even then, they would probably just have attacked Smudge for trespassing if they were responsible, not gone to fetch a sympathetic ear. “And who’s Hattie?”

“Oh! You never met Hattie, she’s the cat your housefolk got to replace you. She was in her own garden when she was savaged!” The kittypet’s spine bristled angrily, real fury burning in his yellow eyes. “I don’t know who those wild cats are, but some of them are as big as you! Bigger, even!” He eyed Bluestar and Fireheart as he said it, as though they were the biggest cats he had ever seen. Part of him wondered how the kittypet would react to the sight of Lionheart, though the golden warrior was busy patrolling the Riverclan border. “Please, Rusty, you have to help us! Can’t you fight them off?”

He glanced at Bluestar, but he could already see the disapproval in her eyes. “Look, Smudge, it doesn’t work like that. I can’t just leave the Clan to go fight for you. It’s leafbare, and we have our own problems to worry about.” Some of them more than others, he thought to himself as he eyed Darkstripe standing there.

“Please!” Smudge’s giant yellow eyes anxiously pleaded with him. “We’re friends, aren’t we? We grew up together! Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

He sighed heavily at that. He wanted to help, truly, but he knew the Clan would never approve. “Can’t your Twolegs help you? After all, I doubt these cats are as big as a Twoleg.” He mewed patiently, glancing towards the Twolegplace fence.

“The wild cats do run away when they hear our housefolk coming, but the housefolk can’t be there all the time. They do their best to heal our wounds, but what about when a housecat gets killed?” At the thought of a dead kittypet, Fireheart shuddered. Twolegs cared deeply for their pets, albeit some more than others. What would they do if they thought the cats in the forest were responsible? “Please, Rusty. I know you can chase them away! You’re so big and strong now!”

He turned to Bluestar with a sigh. “Bluestar.” He mewed at last, already seeing her ears dip. “I know these are kittypets. But if you’ll remember, my old garden is right on our border.” He glanced at the rest of the patrol hesitantly. “If these rogues are attacking kittypets for territory, then they could start attacking us next. Maybe we should investigate, at least to make sure they aren’t a threat to us.”

He caught sight of a spark of surprise in her eyes as she considered his words. “Not to mention that if the Twolegs think that we’re the ones attacking their kittypets, they might try to attack us. The whole Clan could be in trouble if we don’t act.”

Darkstripe snorted in amusement. “You’re just saying that because you’re soft for kittypets.” The spiteful warrior growled. “Let’s just send him on his way. This doesn’t concern us.”

“Fireheart has a point.” Bluestar said thoughtfully before he could snap a retort. “The Twolegs don’t seem aware of our presence, but if they think wild cats are attacking their kittypets, the best place to hide is the forest. They could bring their tree-cutting Monsters here, to try and drive out whatever is attacking them. All of the Clans will be in danger then.”

All of the warriors shivered at the thought. He had seen the Monsters of the Treecutplace yesterday, on the way back from a Riverclan patrol: he had little doubt they could eat their way through a large swathe of forest. “You said the kittypet in Fireheart’s old nest was attacked?” She asked Smudge, who nodded mutely. “Fireheart. Why don’t you talk to her? You can examine her wounds, and decide how dangerous these rogues really are.” She nodded decisively and flicked her tail towards the border patrol. “Take Longtail with you.”

“Why do I have to go with him?” Longtail spat, saying the words on the tip of Fireheart’s tongue. “Surely he can face one little kittypet on his own.”

The leader’s blue gaze narrowed. “Because if these rogues return, I would prefer the chances of two warriors over one.” She snapped back, before rising to her paws. “You may report back to me and Tigerclaw when you have reached a decision.” With that, she flicked her tail for Darkstripe and Willowbranch to follow her, leaving for camp before either could protest.

Smudge was staring at them with wide, saucer-like eyes. “Thank you, Rusty!” He mewed happily, pressing into the former kittypet’s side once more. “I knew you would help us!”

“It’s Fireheart! Not Rusty!” He snarled at the kittypet, tail raising in anger, before sighing and lowering it as the tom shrank back. “I left that name behind me when I joined the Clan. Can you please at least try to remember that?”

The black and white tom slowly nodded. “I-I will.” He glanced hesitantly at Longtail. “So, uhm, I can show you-”

“I remember the way.” Fireheart mewed, tapping his old friend’s shoulder with his tail. “Come on. Let’s get this done quickly.”

He led the other two cats back through the trees, trying not to let the path dredge up old memories. He had been so young and foolish when he entered Clan territory, three seasons ago now; though he didn’t regret it in the slightest, the memories he had of sleeping next to his old Twolegs still felt far too comforting for the warrior he had become. He didn’t want any cat accusing him of wanting to be a kittypet again, or that he was too comfortable around Twolegs.

He paused at the edge of the fence, gazing up at the bare wood. He had only seen this side of the fence once, when he had returned from his fight with Graypaw. Now it seemed daunting, a barrier between him and the place he had once called home.

Smudge jumped up beside him, and with some hesitation he and Longtail followed. He gestured with his tail to an evergreen bush in the corner as they landed. “We can hide under there from the Twolegs. Smudge, why don’t you call Hattie out?”

“Of course!” The kittypet tom mewed, trotting over to the Twoleg nest and jumping on the windowsill. He immediately began pawing at the glass as Longtail and Fireheart found hiding spaces under the bush, keeping as far apart as they could while still hiding in the shadows. “Hattie! I brought that friend I told you about! He wants to talk to you!”

There was silence for a few moments, and then he watched as a young tabby molly - all too similar in color to his sister - jumped up on the other side. “Can’t he come in here?” He heard her say, though it was muffled by the window in the way. “Surely he can visit his old home for a bit!”

Smudge glanced back at them hopefully, though immediately winced when he saw the wild cats’ angry glares. “He brought another friend with him, to help protect us.” Fireheart looked at Longtail. Friend was hardly the word he’d used to describe one of Tigerclaw’s most loyal followers, but he wasn’t about to contradict the kittypet. “They’re not big fans of housefolk anymore. They’ll keep us safe if any wild cats attack us, I promise!”

She looked doubtfully at him, then past him to the bush where they were hiding. Though her green eyes searched, it was clear she couldn’t see them through the window. “Alright, Smudge.” She mewed after a moment. “But if they come back-”

“Then we can stay in your house together, I promise!” Smudge mewed, headbutting the window as though it would reach her. “This is just part of getting rid of those wild cats for good, alright?”

She disappeared, and after a few heartbeats the cat flap opened as she slid out. Smudge jumped down to greet her, and moved protectively alongside her as she trotted over to the bush. It was almost cute, though Fireheart dismissed the thought as he looked over the kittypet molly now that she was close.

He could see now that she was missing chunks of fur, though most had likely floated away on the wind by now. Her face had several long, painful looking scratches across her cheek, and there were only more down her flanks. Even the tip of her tail looked as though it had been mauled, perhaps chewed on by a rogue. “She looks worse than I did driving out Brokentail.” Fireheart hissed to Longtail, who only twitched an ear in acknowledgement.

“So you’re Rusty, then?” The dark tawny molly mewed as she looked down at him with blazing green eyes. “Smudge told me you ran away from my housefolk to become a wild cat.”

“It’s Fireheart.” He was surprised to hear Smudge chime in at the same time he did, and looked gratefully to the young tom before looking back to Hattie. “And yes, I did. My Twolegs were good to me, but I belong in the forest now.”

She huffed at that. “If you say so.” The tabby sat down and began cleaning at one of her paws. “So. What do you want to know?” She finally asked between licks.

“Why don’t you start at the beginning?” Fireheart mewed kindly, ignoring Longtail’s derisive huff. “Smudge said you were attacked in this garden.”

“I was.” Her ears flattened at the memory, though she pretended it was only because she was cleaning them as she drew a paw over her ear. “It was yesterday, while the housefolk were out. We’ve heard rumors of a band of savages attacking cats, but I thought it was just a story, and that I’d be safe in my own garden!” She sighed dramatically. “It was a bit chilly, but I was enjoying the scent of the catmint before leafbare frost took it. Henry says that there’ll be snow any day now-”

“Get to the point!” Longtail hissed at her, causing her to jump and give an anxious glance towards Smudge beside her.

Though the kittypet tom looked worriedly at the two warriors, he nodded for his friend to continue her story. “Well, like I said, I was enjoying the catmint when these three huge cats jumped over my fence like it was made of twigs! They were between me and the cat flap over there - I had no chance to get away.” She shivered at the memory. “I’ve never seen cats so big! Not even wild cats like you two were as giant as they were.”

Though Longtail let out a low growl at that, Fireheart had to agree with her. Even amongst the Clan, he and the tabby warrior beside him weren’t the biggest warriors. He wondered if she would say the same if it had been a cat like Lionheart accompanying him. “Did you fight back?”

“I tried! But I was like nothing compared to them.” She despaired out loud, Smudge pressing comfortingly into her side. “They pinned me down and mauled me like I was a toy! I only managed to get away when the tabby with the short tail let go of me for a moment. I raced for the cat door and under my housefolks’ favorite chair until I heard their Monsters return!”

His ears perked at the description of the rogue that had attacked her. Hadn’t he met a cat like that before? “Hang on. What did these rogues look like, besides the short-tailed tabby?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It all happened so fast.” Still, her brows furrowed as she thought about it. “Two of them were tabbies, I think. They kind of blended together.” Then she gasped as she remembered. “But their leader! Oh, he was the biggest of them all, I’d never seen a cat like him. He was nearly all white, except for his feet!”

As he glanced at Longtail in shock, he could see the glimmer of recognition in the tabby warrior’s eyes. “And his feet?” Fireheart prompted her quickly, his heart racing.

“They were very dark, like the wood shreds that the housefolk use in the garden. And huge! It was like he had ten claws on each paw!” She stared at her own paw as she remembered. “And those claws… they were so sharp! It was clear he’d never had housefolk to trim them like mine do.”

“That’s Spiderfoot. It has to be.” The ginger tom hissed to his Thunderclan companion. “Brokentail must have moved on to easier prey.”

Longtail flicked his ear in acknowledgement, but he still seemed doubtful. “But why would Brokentail go after kittypets? It’s not as though he’s stealing their food.” The tabby warrior replied as he stared at the two kittypets in front of them distrustfully.

“Did they say anything to you? Before or during the attack?” Fireheart asked as he turned his attention back to Hattie. Longtail was right; he didn’t see Brokentail stooping so low as to eat kittypet food, not when there were other options like stealing from Thunderclan.

“I… I’m not sure.” She mewed, her head dipping as she searched her memory. “It’s all such a blur. They were yowling a lot; Why, even Henry could hear it from his garden!” Then she sat upright, a flash of remembrance in her green gaze. “I did hear one of them say something clearly while they were attacking me! I don’t know which one it was, though; I didn’t see.”

“That’s alright.” Fireheart encouraged gently, keeping his own green eyes locked on her. “What did the wild cat say?”

“He said something… something like ‘getting that kittypet band.’ It wasn’t very clear through the other two yowling.” She considered that for a moment. “Maybe they wanted their own collars? I don’t know why they think attacking kittypets will get them one, though.”

The Thunderclan warriors squinted in confusion at her. “No, these cats would have called collars chokers. If they’re the ones we’re thinking of, that is.” As he thought back to his battle with Brokentail, trying to puzzle it out, his blood suddenly chilled as a sickening realization hit him. “Are you sure they said band, and not Clan?”

“What? Why-” She glanced at Smudge for support, but after a moment shook her head. “I- I guess I’m not. What’s a Clan?”

“Brokentail swore he’d get back at me one day.” Fireheart hissed at Longtail, his tail bushed as he remembered. “Surely they know I’m a kittypet, and that I came from the Twolegplace. What if they think they’re getting revenge on me by attacking my ‘kin’?” His heart raced as he remembered Princess. Had he put her in danger too? Her Twoleg nest was many nests away, but they had no idea what Brokentail’s new ‘territory’ was. “Maybe they said, ‘We’re finally getting back at that kittypet Clan’!”

Longtail’s face screwed up in a grimace. “We’re not all kittypets, you know!” He spat back at the ginger tom angrily. “I’m a forest-born warrior, through and through!”

“Well, of course I know that.” The former kittypet snapped, ignoring the other two kittypets sitting there for a moment. “But do you think Brokentail’s rogues are going to really make that distinction? We have to tell Bluestar - they could be planning an attack, and they know where our camp is!”

He could see the tabby tom’s spine beginning to bristle in fear at the thought of another attack on camp, but he stubbornly shook his head. “We don’t know for sure these are Brokentail’s rogues.”

“Have you ever met another cat like Spiderfoot?” Fireheart snapped, his patience running thin with the other Thunderclanner. “It’s got to be them. The tabby with the short tail is probably Stumpytail. And the other tabby-'' He paused. There had been a few tabbies in Shadowclan - it could have been any of them. “It doesn’t really matter.”

“You expect me to return to Tigerclaw advocating an attack on behalf of these kittypets based on hearsay?” Longtail retorted with a condescending sniff. “He’ll want more proof than a kittypet’s word.”

“Oh, for-” He rolled his eyes and looked back to Hattie and Smudge. “You said you were attacked by the catmint bush, right? If it was only yesterday, there are probably still scents lingering. Maybe even blood. There hasn’t been any rain to wash it away.”

“You want to investigate a Twoleg’s territory in the open, in broad daylight? Are you mad?” The tabby beside him hissed furiously. “I’m not going out there! If you want to return to your Twolegs so badly, be my guest.”

Fireheart resisted the urge to raise his hackles as he glared at the other tom. “The Twolegs always leave their nests during the day. None of them are here right now. We’ll be fine.” He glanced at Hattie quickly. “Right?”

She stared at them with wide eyes, silent until he addressed her. “Oh! Uhm- yea. They take their Monsters and leave. You’ll hear their Monsters coming before they return, and that won’t be until near sunset.” She gave him a pleading glance. “You’ll help us, then?”

“These rogues are a danger to us as well. They’ve killed a member of our Clan, and taken our kits from their mothers. If they are bothering you, we will stop them.” He glared at Longtail beside him, then slowly emerged from the bush. “Just stay with your housefolk the next few days, alright? I’ll come back when they’ve been taken care of.”

“Killed?” Smudge squeaked from beside Hattie, who was shivering and seemed paralyzed by fear. “You don’t think they would have killed Hattie?”

He glanced back at her briefly. “No. They only kill cats that are actually a threat.” He turned his gaze to Longtail, who was still hiding under the bush. “Now come on! Do you want proof or not?”

Longtail gave him a sneer, but slowly emerged from the bush as well. Fireheart left the two kittypets on their own as he led the way across the garden to the catmint bush he remembered from his youth. He could see where Hattie had been attacked, the earth churned up and scattered by claw gouges. There were still remnants of the kittypet molly’s light fur, though most of it had drifted away by now, and the too-familiar tang of blood.

As he opened his mouth to draw the scents across his tongue, he was nearly overwhelmed by the tangle of scents. Hattie’s fear-scent, and the blood, but a stink that he remembered all too well lingered; the acrid stench of crowfood, the steamy scent of the marsh, and the heavy smell of pine trees.

“Shadowclan.” He didn’t have to confirm it for Longtail, whose ears were flat as he scented the air himself. “It’s only been a couple of moons since Brokentail’s exile. He wouldn’t have lost the Clan-scent yet.”

“Bluestar has to know.” Fireheart mewed, and for once the other tom didn’t disagree with him. The two headed for the fence, the ginger tom nodding to the two kittypets as they passed by. “Stay safe, you two.”

“We will!” Smudge replied, pressing into Hattie’s side. As the two warriors jumped the fence, he thought he heard his kithood friend say something to the other kittypet- his replacement- but he pushed it out of his mind as he bounded into the forest. Without even a glance at each other, the two warriors raced back to camp, their newest findings at the forefront of their mind.

Brokentail could not be allowed to return.

#talonslock #warrior cats #fanfic #the prophecies begin #wc #fireheart #longtail #bluestar #smudge #darkstripe #willowbranch #hattie #talonslock story #forest of secrets

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moths-wc-aus · 11 months

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HF - Writing System

The Sects have a rudimentary writing system made up of symbols. It's used primarily to warn each other of dangers and to mark their territory. The River Sect has a larger system, which they use to carve stories into their clay pots.

Symbols can be combined to create more meaning. For example, "Moon" and "Bird" placed next to each other means "Owl". "Death" and "Holy Place" next to each other signifies a burial ground. Symbols for predators are often found next to "Danger" or "Caution", to really drive the point home.

Numbers 1 through 9

Nine, five, and four are deeply important numbers in Sect culture. There are four Sects, a cat has five claws on their front paws, and a leader gets nine lives. Since nine is the highest of these numbers, that's the highest the Sects' numerical system goes.

When a number goes past nine, you will find another number added to it (Ex; "Nine" and "Four", meaning thirteen).

"Many"

Used when the number of something is too high to count.

"Sun / Day" and "Moon / Night"

Not found often on its own, these symbols are typically paired with another one to alter its meaning (Ex; "Moon" and "Bird" mean owl, "Sun" and "Wolf" mean dog).

Sect Symbols

Used to mark territory. It's not uncommon to see different Sect symbols in the same place; it means that the area has traded paws throughout history.

The "River Sect" symbol is occasionally used in Thunder Sect to mark the existence of water!

The "Sky Sect" symbol, however, is only found in one place- the Deadpines- and only if you go deep enough. Modern cats are unaware of its existence- and if they've somehow happened to see it, they won't know what it means.

"Danger"

Not usually found on its own, this symbol is typically paired with a predator symbol, "Poison", or "Sick". In Wind Sect, you may also find it alongside "Tunnel", to mark that a tunnel is dangerous and may collapse.

"Snake"

Marks that a snake (or several, when paired with a number) has made a home there. Snakestones on Thunder Sect territory has this symbol carved into the trees surrounding it, alongside "Many", "Poison", and "Danger".

"Wolf / Hound"

When alone, it marks that a single wolf has made a home nearby. Alongside the symbol "Many", it means that a pack of wolves live nearby.

As stated under "Sun / Day" and "Moon / Night", adding the sun symbol changes wolf to dog.

"Bird"

On its own, this symbol most often means hawk or eagle. When paired with "Moon", the meaning changes to owl. Adding "Prey" to "Bird" means that this is a place where smaller birds (thrushes, sparrows, etc) like to hang out.

"Alligator / Crocodile"

This is a symbol found only on Shadow Sect territory, but it's an important one. It warns that an alligator or crocodile lives nearby.

"Moose / Elk"

A pissed off moose is no way to lose your life. This symbol warns that moose or elk like to stop by the area, so be alert!

"Fish"

Surprisingly, this symbol is uncommon even in River Sect. It's really only used when paired with "Danger", warning that there's a pike or other such fish in the area.

"Fox", "Bear", "Badger", "Bobcat", "Cougar", and "Coyote"

Used to mark the fact that a den or hunting ground of one of these predators is nearby.

"Turtle"

Most often found in River Sect and Shadow Sect, this symbol doesn't represent your nice cute box turtle. Instead, this means a snapping turtle lives nearby.

"Stoat / Weasel"

Often paired with "Tunnel", this is a symbol seen almost solely in Wind Sect.

"Prey"

Used to mark that an area is rich with prey and has good hunting.

"Poison"

Most often found by plants like yew and hemlock. These are typically left by healers, warning those who aren't as knowledgeable of plants that these aren't something to mess with.

May also be found near the "Snake" symbol!

"Safe"

Often found near the "Holy Place" symbol, this marks the fact that an area is meant to be safe. There's no fighting here.

"Caution"

A less severe version of "Danger". Often found alongside predator signs, "Poison", or "Sick".

"Dead / Death"

Never found on its own, this symbol is seen alongside signs like "Sick" and "Holy Place". "Dead" and "Sick" paired together warns that whatever sickness is nearby is deadly, while "Death" and "Holy Place" means that a burial ground is nearby.

"Sick"

Warns that there's sickness nearby. Often paired with "Death", "Caution", or "Danger".

"Tunnel"

Marks that a tunnel opening is nearby. Most often seen on Wind Sect territory.

"Garden / Farm"

Marks that an area is farmland or a garden, so please do not rip things up or kill the prey here!

"Holy Place"

Found on its own at places like the Fourtrees and Mothermouth, and paired with another symbol for places like burial grounds.

#warrior cats #warriors #wc worldbuilding & headcanons #hf lore & worldbuilding #worldbuilding #healing fire #hf au

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twola · 1 year

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Devil's Backbone : Diablo Ridge II

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x FemOC/Reader POV Tags: Longfic, Slow Burn, Smut (18+), Violence, Canon-Typical Injuries

Limpany’s burning was a lot more than meets the eye. Deception, greed, and murder follow everyone touched by Leviticus Cornwall. A story where the Van der Linde gang gets even more inescapably involved in Cornwall’s dealings, with the survivor of the massacre at the heart of it all. Slow burn. Pre-Blackwater and beyond.

Diablo Ridge II: A Den of Thieves

Perhaps, she thinks forlornly, she came to this group looking for safety, but has found that she is but a hapless doe in a den of wolves.

cw: gross sexual advances, injuries, suicidal ideations

➵ AO3 Link ➵ Fic Masterlist ➵ Previous | ➵ Next

“Ever robbed someone? Broken into a homestead? Charmed the money or a watch off a man?”

“Can’t say I have…”

The blonde woman snorts, rolling her eyes as she takes a sip of beer from a bottle, before placing it back on the table and getting back down on her knees again in front of the large tin tub, water sloshing as she tosses another piece of clothing into it.

“Karen, we all started somewhere. Don’t be on Ruth's case before she even has a chance to prove herself.” Tilly eyes her over the tub and grabs a soaking wet shirt from it and pulls it over the rungs of the washboard tilted over the rim, “Don’t mind her none, Ruth. Karen’s just in a mood.”

You cast your eyes down toward your lap, sitting on your knees as you work at a particularly stubborn stain in a man’s shirt. You’re not sure what the stain is - mud, horse shit, blood, likely blood , in the blue check-worked flannel. The water in the large tub swirls, grey and dirty as the women washed mounds of clothing of their use. Bubbles of soap pop on the surface.

“Oh, Ruth, it’s alright. I’ll teach you some of the tricks of the trade.” Mary Beth leans in and smiles at you for a moment before returning to her task, hanging a threadbare union suit to dry on the makeshift clothesline suspended between the wagon and a tree several feet away.

“You just gotta be nimble with your fingers,” She laughs, stepping around Tilly and plucking Karen’s beer bottle from the table with relative ease.

“Hey! Get yer own!” Karen hollers at her, throwing a wet sock at the young woman, who ducks and shrieks with glee, darting behind a sheet hung from the clothesline. Karen grumbles, eyeing where Mary Beth hides, and you can see she has another sock balled up in her hand below the water’s surface. Mary Beth peers from behind the sheet, her brown curls falling over her shoulder.

Her scream sends Tilly and Karen into hysterical laughter as the latter hits her with the balled-up sock square in the face. You even chuckle, cracking into a grin for the first time in the several days you’ve been here in this camp.

“Eugh!” Mary Beth yells, wiping her face, “That’s one of Uncle’s socks!”

Karen guffaws back at her, “Serves ya right, you thief!”

Tilly chuckles, looking at you over the tub. You make eye contact with her briefly, before looking down at the shirt in your hands again.

“Ruth, you’ll be alrigh’. We’re lookin’ out for you. Ain’t nobody here gonna kick you out, don’t mind their blusterin’. We all come from somewhere where nobody looked out for us.” Tilly says quietly, and you raise your gaze to hers again.

“Thank you, Tilly.” You say meekly, before handing her the shirt in your hands.

Tilly smiles, covering your hand with hers. Her eyes dart up, behind you, and she snorts slightly, “Best look busy, Grimshaw’s stompin’ her way over.”

You glance back over your shoulder, and indeed, the stern-looking Susan Grimshaw, who you have learned runs the camp with an iron fist, is moving quickly toward this corner of the clearing where the laundry is set up. She likely heard the commotion between Mary Beth and Karen.

Approaching the group, Susan places her hands on her hips, her trademark scowl painted across her face.

“I don’t think that laundry requires y’all to be hootin’ and hollerin’, ladies.” She spits, eyeing the group with disdain. Karen turns her head away, rolling her eyes. Mary Beth meekly ducks behind the sheet hanging on the line, making herself look busy. Tilly grimaces and scrubs a pair of pants on the washboard.

Grimshaw’s unfortunate gaze rests on you. Your eyes dart back down to the pile of dirty laundry next to your lap.

“Missus Shaw.”

Well, no hiding now.

“Yes, Miss Grimshaw?”

“You’ve got Hosea saying that you have a bit o’ medical experience. Time to show it. Mister Callander over there had a run-in with an O’Driscoll and needs some sewing up.”

You stand from your knees, wiping your wet hands on the stained apron covering your blue woolen skirt.

“Yes ma’am.”

Grimshaw leads you toward a large tent in the middle of the camp, you recognize it as Dutch’s tent, far more grandiose and large than any of the other ones spread throughout the glen. She pulls back the canvas flap and pulls you inside, none too gently.

Dutch leans against a table opposite a large cot. Another man, blonde with a short patchy beard and stringy hair, sits on a chair in the middle of the makeshift room, his right arm bloody above the elbow. Susan grabs a small stool from the side of the tent and places it next to the man seated in the chair. She nods her head to you to take a seat. You do so without putting up a fight.

“What, I ain’t good enough for you, Grimshaw?” The man retorts, pulling off his flannel shirt and balling it up in his lap.

“Mister Callander, you’re good enough for Missus Shaw over here to prove some worth. Let’s see how your arm looks when she’s done."

The blonde man snorts, unbuttoning his greying union suit and peeling it down to his waist. He winces as the fabric, stained bloody red, is slowly peeled down his right arm, an ugly gash a few inches long oozing coagulated blood graces his bicep.

He looks you up and down. “Hope you know what you’re doin’, missy.”

Grimshaw hands you a wooden box, and without responding, takes her place next to Dutch, eyeing you with disdain as she places her hands on her hips. She waits a few minutes before huffing and leaving the tent.

You open the box and take a quick survey of the items inside. Linen bandages, thread, needles, a few half-opened bottles of tonics, and the like. An old bottle that you hoped was some kind of alcohol, maybe a kind of moonshine? A long breath, like a sigh, escapes your mouth as your gaze moves up to the man’s arm.

“Alright,” you lean closer, fingers moving toward the wound, “Mister…”

“Mac Callander.”

“Right, Mister Callander,” You grab a rag to blot against the drying blood on the man’s skin, “What was this from?”

“Bullet graze. Shoulda seen the other guy,” He grins smugly, laughing while looking over to Dutch, “Fuckin’ O’Driscolls.”

“A few stitches and you should be fine, sir.” You open the bottle of mystery liquid and give it a sniff, grimacing when indeed, your hunch was correct. Very strong moonshine. You pour a little onto the rag and wipe at the wound, before placing the rag down and threading the needle from the box, “Be sure to hold still.”

The needle pierces the man’s skin, but he does not wince, nor grimace, nor complain. You continue your work, placing tight sutures across the gash, sewing the skin shut.

“Arthur said you ran into O’Driscolls on your way back from Blackwater. Seems like you’ve been acquainted with them.” Dutch crosses his arms, peering down at your handiwork on Mac’s bicep to inspect the sutures.

“Yes, they seem like a pleasant lot.” You reply, keeping your eyes on stitches, not looking up at either man.

“Good only for a bunch o’ bullets.” Mac snorts, giving Dutch a grin before he looks back down as you pierce his skin with your needle again.

Blessed silence for a few moments while taking a small knife to cut the thread, tying it off when the stitches are complete, but alas, the quiet was not to last.

“So, Ruth, Hosea said you were a recent widow. May I ask what happened to Mister Shaw?”

You sigh, wiping the oozing blood from Mac’s arm with a rag. You were wondering when this would come up. “Robbers, I guess. I came back from Blackwater and the house was looted, and he was there…” you trail off, voice becoming small.

“Probably was those O’Driscolls, them rat bastards.” Mac spits, grabbing his shirt from his lap.

Dutch places a hand under his chin in contemplation. “You were over past Blackwater, right? Still in West Elizabeth?”

“Yes.”

“Probably was. Colm’s been moving around this state quite a bit. My condolences, Ruth.” Dutch places a hand on your shoulder as you gather your supplies, the needle, and extra thread.

“Thank you, Mister Van der Linde.”

“Please, it’s Dutch. No need to be so formal.”

You nod. Before you can stand up from the stool you’re perched on, the canvas flap of the tent is pulled back, and the stern matriarch of the camp pushes in, past Dutch and over to Mac.

Miss Grimshaw looks critically over the stitches.

Dutch leans in, “Come now, Susan. I know you’re never satisfied but Missus Shaw over here did a quality job on ol’ Mac.”

“Hmph.” She replies, turning on her heel and exiting the tent with an unmoving scowl.

“If yer lookin for any kind o’ approval from her, yer barkin’ up the wrong tree.” Mac laughs, watching your eyes follow the older woman out. Dutch snorts, and makes to leave as well.

“Oh, I… uh…”

“Missy, I’ll be sure to kill some of those damn O’Driscolls fer ya.” Mac says as he rebuttons his work shirt, “Would be my pleasure, ‘specially after how kind you was with me.”

You smile nervously back at him, nodding. “T-thank you.”

The blonde-haired man runs his hand through his stringy locks before placing a worn hat on his head. He looked every bit as rough and tumble as an outlaw should.

You move to stand, stepping toward the opening of the tent, when the man behind you clears his throat. You turn your head to look back at him.

“Wouldn’t mind them kind little hands on other parts of me,” Mac says lowly, a lascivious smirk painted across his face.

A cold shiver goes down your spine as you turn back, pushing your way out of the canvas, refusing to respond. You walk, purposeful in your gait, toward the open tent and wagon claimed by the women.

Perhaps, you think forlornly, you had come to this group looking for safety, but have found that you are but a hapless doe in a den of wolves.

—

The pine trees here weren’t Ponderosas. They didn’t have the sweet smell of vanilla and caramel when you pick at the bark. The wood beneath your fingers is hard, and the strong smell of pine, tart, and spicy, reminding you a bit of the smell of gin.

Mayhaps they were junipers.

“Miss.”

A man’s voice interrupts your thoughts.

“So, Missus- what was yer name again?”

“Shaw. Ruth Shaw.”

“Right, Missus Shaw. Micah Bell. The third. What brings you here?” The man, another blond one with stringy hair and a patchy beard - dirty and soaked in the overwhelming smell of whiskey, sauntered around you as if he were heaven-sent.

“Mister Matthews invited me back when we met in Blackwater.”

“Hmm. And can you shoot, steal, rob?” Micah asks, circling you critically.

“I haven’t done any of that before, no.” Another person asking this question. You were starting to get a sinking feeling in your gut about this group and what place you were finding yourself in within it.

“Well, Miss, least there is one thing you can do that’ll be easy fer ya.” Micah drawled lowly.

“What’s that, Mister Bell?” You dread to know the answer with the way the man was looking you up and down.

“ Seducin’ .” He whispers, reaching out and touching a lock of your wavy hair that falls over your shoulder.

You don’t respond, as earlier. It’s probably safer for you not to agitate, not in this group. Not in this band of outlaws, criminals, and highwaymen. Maybe you were safe with Hosea or amongst the women, but cornered by these rough-and-tumble men? You’re sure their morality wouldn’t possibly extend to not beating a woman who fought back at them, or worse.

“You lemme know if you need any practice, Missus Shaw. Would be happy to oblige.” He steps even closer to you, unhanding that lock of hair, as you step back in a cold, fearful sweat.

“Micah, leave her alone.” A sharp, curt female voice snaps from somewhere behind him.

He steps back frowning. “Why, Miss Kirk, sweet thing, I was just gettin’ to know our newest member.”

“She look like she don’t want to get to know you. Go sulk somewhere else.” A petite, brown-haired woman walks with purpose toward you, her straight hair down and unbound, framing her face.

“Fine, fine. But don’t be jealous, girl, you know you’re special to me.” He retorts with a sickeningly sweet tone, unmatched completely by the depravity gleaming in his eyes.

She groans, rolling her eyes, while grabbing your arm and interlacing it with hers, walking both of you out of the camp and into the woods.

“Th-thanks for that, Miss.”

“Watch out for him. I made a dumb mistake when I joined this group - thinkin’ if I shacked up with one of these men I’d be safe - safer than I’d been before. Turns out I chose one of the snakes of the bunch.” The woman spoke with an aggravated tone in her voice before turning her head to you, giving that look that all women know.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Kirk.”

“Jenny,” she corrected, placing her other hand on your forearm as you walked side-by-side, arms interlocked, “It’d be best for you if you dropped some of the manners. Y’dont need em here. Makes you kinda stick out like some high-society lady or the sort.”

You snort under your breath, a smile finally gracing your face at the irony.

“Even if you are, from what I’ve heard, you ain’t haughty ‘bout it like Molly is.”

“First off, I’m not any society lady. I was born in a one-room cabin and my people were dirt poor. And Molly? Is that the red-haired woman with Dutch?”

“Sure is, she fancies she’s above us all, and somehow over Grimshaw’s orders. Must be nice sleepin’ with the King. That’s a girl who chose right.” Jenny leans in, lowering her voice while she raises her eyebrow.

You nod, not wanting to get embroiled in the politics of this group, not until you figured out who was who, who was loyal to who, and who you could trust.

That was a small list at the moment.

“You let me know if you need anythin’. Including chasin’ any of those bastards off.” Jenny taps your arm comfortingly, as the two of you continue slowly walking through the pines on the edge of the camp.

“Thank you, Jenny.”

“Now c’mon, I heard Pearson sayin’ that we actually have some fresh meat for dinner. Thank god someone here knows how to hunt. Bless Charles, that man’s wonderful.”

–

He chafed at the red leather of the vest, not broken in, hard and new and clean. Give him an old workshirt and a pair of broken-in denim to make him feel comfortable.

But no, he had to be trussed up like some prized hen, a clean pressed shirt, and new pants, his boots polished and free of the dirt and dust that he lived in. His hair was even tamed with pomade, slicked back like he was some feckless city boy, his face freshly shaven.

Hosea had some kind of scam going on, real estate speculation, or the like. Some hapless fool in Blackwater, straight from some city in the east, who was sweet-talked into investing a sum of money for a plot of land in the basin of the Great Plains. This was Hosea’s specialty, making unknowing men with little common sense feel comfortable, taken care of, looked out for. Then he would rob them blind.

Arthur figured he was just along for insurance’s sake. He wasn’t much for acting. Give him a bandana and revolver and he’d get money, maybe with a little bloodshed involved. He knew he wasn’t a smooth talker, but the barrel of a gun always did enough talking for him over the years.

Boadicea tossed her head, whinnying loudly as Arthur pointed her down the trail, following Hosea atop Silver Dollar. Arthur clicked his tongue, calming the horse and running one of his hands through her dark mane. With a tap of his heels on her side, he spurred the horse to catch up with Hosea, falling in abreast of him on the road.

He knew he shouldn’t open the can of worms ‘bout this new girl. Hosea seemed firm in his desire to keep her around, though to what end, he had no idea. Wasn’t like Hosea to keep a woman around for the sake of having one - that was more Dutch’s thing.

But chafing in this stupid vest, pulling this stupid scam, dealing with Bill’s stupid coach robbery the other day, Arthur was itching for a confrontation.

“You done with her yet? Had enough flirtin’ with that girl?”

Hosea rolls his eyes, pulling Silver Dollar’s reins back as the two horses cross over a small creekbed.

“I don’t know why you’re death on her, Arthur.”

“Y’didn’t have to offer her anything. Look at her. She’d scared shitless and ain’t made out fer this kinda life. Shoulda dropped her off on that ferry ‘nd let her go.”

Hosea scowls, “I dunno, I guess I see somethin’ in her.” He turns his head to the side, idly staring off across the plains.

“Sure y’do!” Arthur throws his hand in the air, raising his voice indignantly, “Y’see a girl that looks like Bessie did back in the day.”

Hosea glowers back at him with a heat and malice Arthur had not seen for many years. With the sternness of a father, he speaks slowly, in a low, disappointed tone. “Might behoove you to remember I took a chance on a fourteen-year-old boy, starvin’, cold, and alone. Saw somethin’ in him once.”

The older man digs his spurs into his horse’s side and breaks him into a canter, moving ahead, effectively ending the conversation.

Chided, Arthur turns his gaze back to the road, to Blackwater ahead of them. He pulls on Boadicea’s reins while beckoning her to pick up speed, “C’mon girl, let’s get this over with.”

There was work to be done.

–

While the camp’s occupants had finished dinner, another stew with meat of dubious origin, for the umpteenth night in a row, they settled in around the campfire. Someone was playing a guitar, and a bawdy song was drunkenly sung, sometimes shouted, by various men and women.

You had no desire to socialize, creeping around the darkened tents to where the stash of alcohol was kept. Finding a bottle of wine, you snatch it and scurry toward the woods. Working at the cork as you step through the underbrush, you begin to climb the hill toward the top of the ridge, you had heard someone say you could see much of the Dakota valley there.

You take a swig from the bottle, the tart, near-sour taste making you cringe. It was certainly not an enjoyable vintage of any kind, but for an outlaw camp, this was by far the best you could do.

What in God’s name were you doing?

Somehow, in some godforsaken way, your life keeps getting worse. You’re alone, your husband of ten years dead, your town and friends slaughtered, you’re still reeling from the loss of a child. Now you’re amongst a crew of criminals, where the men could give a fig about your virtue and it was only a matter of time until they threw you to the wind.

You continue to drink the wine, straight from the bottle, hoping and praying that the alcohol could make you forget, at least momentarily, the fresh hell that had become your life.

You reach the peak of the hill, leaning against a tree and sliding down against its trunk, sitting on the ground. You tip the bottle back again, taking another overwhelming mouthful of the wine, as tears prick at the corner of your eyes.

You lose track of time in the night, the wide open sky over West Elizabeth bright with stars.

Somehow, after drinking most of the bottle, you drag yourself up, swaying in your steps toward the edge of the ridge. The curving, meandering waters of the Dakota reflect the moon’s light, shimmering in the distance. The cliffside beckons. A warm wind blows north from the plains.

This could be all over. You wouldn’t have to worry about ruffling outlaws’ feathers or where your meal was coming from. You wouldn’t have to worry about dangerous men possibly forcing themselves on you. You wouldn’t have to worry about the pain you feel in your chest upon waking, to find that indeed, your current life is not just a nightmare.

“Ruth, dear, are you alright?”

You sigh, letting a stuttering breath between your lips before letting your eyes close. The grip on the neck of the bottle you’re holding loosens, and the glass slips from your fingers. The bottle rolls into the grass, and over the rocky cliff, bouncing and crashing in a cacophony of sound as the pieces rush toward the base of the ridge below.

“What am I supposed to do, Mister Matthews?”

“Well, first, we’re gonna move you away from that ledge,” you feel Hosea’s hand on your arm, and allow him to pull you back from your precarious spot. You lean back into him, and he winds his other arm around your ribcage as he walks you back, unsteady on your feet. A few steps away, he walks you to an overturned log, placing you gently to sit upon it. He sits down next to you, placing a hand on your upper back.

“Now, how about you tell an old man what’s on your mind.”

You place your head in your hands, bending over as a sob escapes your lips. Hosea slides closer to you, winding his arm around your shoulders.

“I… I don’t have anyone. He- he’s gone and…I’m… alone,” you sob, allowing Hosea to rub your arm.

“You’ll be alright, Ruth. You’re a strong woman.” Hosea says softly, “Y’may feel like you can’t go on, but it’ll get better. It’ll get…less.”

“I just…” You trail off, pulling your hands from your face, finding them damp with tears. You rub at your eyes, sniffling.

Hosea sighs. “I spent an entire year drunk after Bessie died. I know it’s hard, trust me, dear, but you can go on.”

You look up at him, tears continuing to spill from your eyes, unhindered by the drink you consumed.

“I…I don’t want to die alone, which I guess means I don’t want to die.” You confess, staring at your feet.

“I understand. I know it’s not much, but dear, you’re not alone with us. We’re a family, this gang. I know we’re a bit rough ‘round the edges, but there’s nothing more important here than each other.” Hosea says, pulling back his arm from you to place his hands on his thighs before pushing himself up to stand.

You remain silent, clasping your hands between your knees, hot tears rolling slowly down your cheeks. The weight of it all, the piercing wound of loss, it chokes your throat in a vice-like grip. It presses on your rib cage like an animal desperately trying to claw its way out.

Hosea gives you his hand. You blink back tears, unbidden now, and sigh loudly before moving your gaze from his hand up to his face.

In his eyes, even through your alcohol-induced haze, you see a sadness, a hint of pain, a familiar graying of something that once was vibrant.

You take his hand and allow him to pull you to stand. He places the hand of yours that he holds on his arm, steadying you.

He leads you back to camp, slowly, walking you back to the women’s tent amongst the dying orange embers of a campfire gone neglected as the group allows silence to overtake the night.

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