#how to start a war overnight

[superbeans89]

Nothing controversial here, no sir

[panharmonium]

“it would be meaningless if the citizens of the hidden leaf are dead” 

WHO is this root operative???  i need to know more

danzo is listening to this like ‘god no not another one who’s ready to have a life-changing chance encounter forcing them to re-examine their ideology and reject their misguided beliefs in favor of joining hatake kakashi’s found family; not again’

[nobody-expects-the-inquisitorius]

I think I’m okayish now but everything feels so weird

[fractallogic]

so let me get this straight—I'll wake myself up at 8:30 AM now unless I'm *really* tired and still feel like shit (because last night I was up reading until 2 AM again and was like "well I do have this 10 AM zoom meeting/writing group but I can set the alarm for 9"). I can actually eat a chewable breakfast and still feel like shit.

what the fuck gives

[batshit-auspol]

I really enjoy this blog so much. Gimme your most favorite batshit auspolitics moment from the 2000s to 2010s. please. i am morbidly curious.

2007: The APEC conference, where all global leaders converge in one city to pretend like they're doing things, is to be held in Sydney, Australia. With the war on terror in full swing, security is at a maximum, and large swathes of the city are placed behind a giant multi-layered steel fence to keep the world leaders far away from the unwashed masses.

Attempting to ward off trouble, organisers of the conference hold a meeting with notorious political comedy prank group "The Chaser", to tell them they are, under absolutely no circumstances getting anywhere near any world leaders, and to not even bother trying.

"The whole perimeter is secure," security forces told them sternly. "The only thing getting through that fence is a motorcade."

24 hours later The Chaser were on their way towards the fence with a motorcade.

Now a few things should have tipped off security guards that this fake Canadian motorcade was not a the real deal. Number one: Canada wasn't at the conference, number two: no country has actually had security running alongside cars since the 60s, and three: most security guards don't carry video cameras with them or passes that read "this is fake".

Nevertheless the ruse was more successful than anyone had anticipated, and The Chaser team were happily waved into the most secure area on planet earth by police, who informed the incognito comedians that "the road is yours."

Reaching the outside of George Bush's hotel, the pranksters now began to worry that they were never going to be stopped by police and decided to get out of the car and walk back to the fence.

While dressed as Osama Bin Laden.

At this point all hell broke loose. Snipers were locked on. Confused police scrambled, and immediately arrested the whole group, only breathing a sigh of relief when they saw the words "Chaser" on the fake security passes.

Bizarrely the police opted to give a full escort to the guy dressed in a suit, and allowed the other man cosplaying as the world's most wanted terrorist to just casually walk out on his own before booking him at the perimeter.

The Chaser team said that while being put in a cell overnight wasn't fun, they were less stressed after police started visiting to ask for photos and signatures.

The prank group were later hauled before the courts and threatened with a massive fine, but the case was eventually dropped after they successfully argued that it's not technically breaking-in if the cops happily wave you into a high security zone.

Needless to say they have changed that law for future APECs.

Making light of the situation, the prank group also returned to the site a few days later dressed as carboard cars, to see just how flimsy a disguise could get past police.

This time at least, they were not let in.

[star-girl69]

I Did Something Bad

Clarisse La Rue x Fem!Demigod!Reader

—-

synopsis: you somehow become the target of a deadly vendetta, and it ends in an overnight stay in the infirmary, a lot of blood, and a lot of your scary girlfriend being her scary self.

a/n: save me clarisse “touch her and die” la rue save me save me save me save me save me save me… this is a completely self indulgent fic and no i will not apologize. love y’all!!!!!

inspired by an ask @nvirskies sent me

I Did Something Bad - Taylor Swift

warnings: not proofread, VERY VIOLENT AND GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF Y/N GETTING INJURED!!!!! BLOOD!!!!! WOUNDS!!!!! YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED, anyways…. DANNNNNYYYYYY MY BABY!!!!! HES BACK!!!!!, ares cabin bonding time <3, FOUND FAMILY, y/n is crazy too, insane power couple who are insane together!!, y’all know what’s going on…… protective clarisse, possessive clarisse, insane clarisse, murderous clarisse, again clarisse gets a bit too into capture the flag, swearing, attempted murder!, LOTS of violence, kissing, clarisse hates talking about her feelings but she will do it for y/n, tell me if i missed anything!!

—-

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

It’s the one place where she really gets to be in her element. That’s where she prefers to be- in the moment, hard and fast, a flurry of swords and adrenaline and the feeling of someone surrendering.

Of course, Clarisse is never the one surrendering. You don’t think you’ve ever seen someone surrender to her.

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

And that love is also shared by her equally violently-minded siblings, which is why you’re sitting on her lap in the middle of the Ares cabin, listening to everyone scream and shout about tactics and plans and things that are just general boring.

Clarisse, of course, listens to everything. Silently humming to herself, drumming her fingers against your stomach, rolling her eyes and scoffing silently at some of her siblings ideas.

They all shout out ideas, but everyone knows that Clarisse has the final say.

You should probably be preparing with your own cabin- but this is just so much fun.

The tension in the room rises significantly after Nelson shuts down another one of Carrie’s ideas. Carrie has a mind made for the strategy of battle, where Nelson is all tough war and pain.

Clarisse likes to brag that she’s the perfect mix of both.

“I’m bored,” you huff, leaning back into your girlfriend. “Can they start punching each other again? Or something entertaining?”

She laughs and wraps her arms around your waist, kissing your shoulder. “You’re so violent,” she mumbles. “I’m supposed to be the violent one.”

“I jus’ think it’s really funny,” you shrug. “Like, can you blame me? It’s objectively funny.”

Danny, your favorite of Clarisse’s siblings, skitters through his older siblings and throws himself onto the couch next to you.

“Did they start fighting yet?” he asks, practically bouncing in his seat.

“No,” you sigh, dramatically.

Clarisse puts her arm around his shoulder, and you know she feels ridiculously proud over the fact that she’s the favorite of the most lovable member of the Ares cabin, and the fact you’re literally draped over her.

Not your fault she’s so comfy.

“Hey, how you feelin’ about tomorrow?” you ask Danny.

His face hardens. “I’m gonna fuck a bitch up.”

“Oh, my Gods,” you mutter, listening to Clarisse chuckle and pat his back.

“Hell yeah,” she smiles.

“Good!” you say after a second, feeling slightly disturbed over the 11 year-old’s colorful language. But, who are you to stop him?

Clarisse sighs after a moment, and you look up to see Carrie and Nelson finally at each other’s throats. Besides for the fact it’s just so funny when the siblings fight, they should get all of the anger out now so they can work as a team tomorrow.

“Well, no, Nelson, we aren’t gonna fucking ‘kill them with kindness,’ because that’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Hey, fuckers,” Clarisse says, but they’re too absorbed in the fight to hear her.

You scramble off of her, climbing over Danny, watching in amazement as he opens the bag of pretzels he did not have in his hand a second ago- stuffing one in his mouth and holding it out to you.

These pretzels might have been buried in between the couch cushions. But they’re sealed, so who cares.

“You know what, fuck you, Carrie!” Nelson shouts, pushing her back.

“Askin’ for it,” she laughs, winding up and punching him straight in the face.

You can’t feel bad for the crunch, because Nelson should have know Carrie was gonna punch him- he could have at least put in an effort to stop her. Instead, he just stood there and took it.

“Oh,” Matty winces, sliding next to you. Why the hell are random things just appearing? Did he come out of the cushions too? Probably, seeing as he’s always falling asleep. “Askin’ for it,” he mumbles, shaking his head.

Nelson recovers from the hit and jabs at Carrie- but she stands there, hand on her hip, completely still.

Clarisse catches his arm.

He’s breathing out heavily, and the room goes pretty much silent- except for you, Danny and Matty chomping on pretzels in the corner of the couch.

“You’re fuckin’ embarrassing, Nelson.”

He pulls himself away from her and huffs, heading to the bathroom to deal with his bright red cheek.

Clarisse sighs heavily.

“Gods, can’t have one night without someone punching someone.”

Carrie looks around the room with a smug smile, scoffing when Clarisse shoulders her as she walks past. She lays down in your waiting arms, kissing your hand as you wrap them around her.

“Gettin’ on my nerves,” she mumbles, closing her eyes and leaning into you.

“I know,” you soothe, turning around and making a silly face to Danny at her dramatics.

—-

Nelson is obviously still angry the next day. His helmet doesn’t cover all of the nasty bruise on his cheek, a sickening purple against his tan skin.

Him and Carrie swap glares across the the throngs of red helmets.

“Okay, Carrie, stop,” you huff. “He might actually kill you. You’re the one who got a punch in- let it go.”

She turns to glare at you, now.

“Tell him to stop staring at me.”

“Well, you can help by looking away first.”

“Fine,” she mumbles, putting her helmet on and tightening her grip on her sword. Chiron made his usual speech around 10 minutes ago, and Clarisse has finally finished updating everyone- more like yelling incoherently at everyone- about their positions.

But you have a similar strategy.

The blue team has the brains of the Athena Cabin, but the red team has all the brute strength.

Clarisse huffs, walking over to you and Carrie.

“Okay, ready?” she asks, reaching over to tighten the straps of your armor- even through they’re perfectly fine- by habit.

Carrie let’s out a deep breath. “Yes. Very ready to fuckin’ pummel those blue shits and pretend they’re Nelson.”

“That’s the spirit!” you smile, slapping her shoulder. She rolls her eyes and steps away from you, smiling slightly.

Danny and Matty walk over, and your little band is complete. You hunt in the woods just south of the flag, deterring a lot of hopefuls. The older campers know to come up with sneakier ways to get by, but Clarisse is otherwise confident in those she placed by the flag to really protect it.

You strike out into an offensive stance, pointing the end of your blade straight at Danny- and he quickly counters with his own impeccable stance.

“Oh, yeah, they don’t stand a chance,” you smile, and he returns it.

—-

You take your normal routes through the woods.

With the added weight of you and Danny, the group is not as stealthy as they could be- but Clarisse is a secret teddy bear who doesn’t like to be away from you for long, and Danny is too young to be set loose, left to watch the big kids work, occasionally jumping in for a few swings.

Leaves crunch under your feet in the otherwise silent forest. You’ve already come across a few stragglers, and before you could even raise your sword the Ares siblings had disarmed them. Your heart squeezed seeing the absolutely heartbroken look on Danny’s face- he was promised that this time he could really fight.

And after you pulled Clarisse off to the side and reminded her of her deal- Danny was leading the group, with you and Clarisse behind him.

He marches tall and proud, sword pointed out, even though Clarisse scolds him and says his arm will get tired- he’s young and doesn’t listen to his half-sibling.

You smile, watching him, admiring how carefree he is. The walk continues mostly in a stealthy silence- Clarisse, Carrie and Matty has mastered the art of walking silently- so your cover is lost by you and Danny.

Of course, whenever you try to convince Clarisse that maybe you should go somewhere else- she looks at you like you’ve suddenly turned into a female Minotaur.

Clarisse, her hand in yours right now, has a hard time understanding the concept that she can’t be with you all the time. That you might get hurt, that she can’t always stop it.

It’s sweet how constantly concerned she is over you, it makes your stomach twist so good.

She squeezes your hand, bringing you out of your reverie. Voices.

“Danny,” you whisper, almost silently, kicking the back of his leg. When he turns around, frown on his face, you point towards the direction of the voices- and now footsteps.

You all stop in your tracks.

Danny practically jumps up in down, you smile wide, and Clarisse signals to Carrie and Matty, urging you and Danny closer to the action.

When they come into the clearing, a few Hermes kids dressed in blue bandanas, swords in their hands. They’re all strong, you’ve seen them around- recognize them vaguely as potentials that lost to Clarisse in ugly sparring matches.

The siblings have disappeared into the trees.

So it’s just you, unsuspecting, and Danny.

You can see the triumphant looks on their faces.

Except for one of them.

Nicky, maybe? You don’t care enough about him to know his name. But there’s something more in his eyes that you notice immediately, something similar to the passion Clarisse gets in her eyes at the mention of this game.

Danny jumps forward, sword swinging just the way his blood knows, the way his siblings have taught him meticulously.

They seem momentarily surprised at the force his small body can produce, quickly countering with their own jabs, swords clashing together. The other focuses on you.

You’re not worried, you know the siblings are just letting the two of you have your moments before they really come in and you can sit back and watch Clarisse fight. Muscles rippling, sick smile on her face, spear glowing with electricity.

He comes at you and your swords clash together, the force of it making your teeth ring- Gods, he’s strong. He pulls back and you do the same thing a few more times, neither of you able to get the upper hand- until he finally seems to realize his height advantage.

He swings his sword down on you, pressing down hard- and with gravity on his side you have to put all of your focus into stopping that downward sword.

You don’t see his foot coming out to kick you back.

You only feel it, boot in your chest, wind knocked out of you, groaning as you slam into the ground.

“Fuck,” you breathe, tasting blood in your mouth.

“Y/N!” Danny shouts, and that’s when you see his sword coming down on you again. He does it on purpose, that much is sword, the strategic placing of his sword slicing through the top of your arm.

He doesn’t mean to kill you. He means to hurt you.

His purpose isn’t winning the game, you realize as the blade tears through skin, his purpose is to hurt you. That’s what you saw in his eyes.

Delight that his prey was right in front of him.

The realization washes over you like a wave- but like the real ocean, another one comes- an overwhelming feeling of pain, blooming outward like a flower.

He bites his lip in concentration, standing over you as his blade sinks into the dirt. He smiles wide, hitting his target.

You scream.

It’s a quick stop. The clearing is filled with the sound of your screams, swords stopping in midair- everyone realizing simultaneously that you’re really hurt. That this boy hurt you on purpose.

Something cuts through the air, wind in your ears, swiftly burying itself through Nicky’s armor and into his side.

You’ve realized in the last day that men are stupid. First, it was Nelson not expecting to get punched, and now it was Nicky not prepared for a retaliation after hurting you.

The thick armor slowed down the spear, so it unfortunately stabs his side and falls right out.

He yells in pain, ripping off his armor, revealing a small cut. Nothing compared to yours, but you can faintly recognize the fire in his eyes before Matty is leaning over you and Carrie is wrapping a bandana above the pain in your arm.

You hear the sounds of something happening, someone fighting, skin on skin.

You hear all of this, you see all of it, but all you can feel is the burning, burning cut in your arm. It feels like he cut it off. Your mind is hazy, you know blood is gushing, you never knew something could hurt this bad.

You faintly realize you bit your tongue when you went down. Blood spurts from your mouth when you cough, when you groan in pain, when you say her name like a prayer over and over again.

“Clarisse,” you moan, legs twisting around, trying to get away from the pain that you can’t escape from. “Clarisse, Clarisse, please, Clar…”

Matty pulls your head into his lap.

You can tell it’s bad, you can see the queasy look on his face. You clench your fist- the one you can feel, at least- to keep from screaming, heels digging into the dirt. You’re still trying to get away. But you can’t. You can’t get away from this all consuming pain.

“It’s okay,” Danny whispers, suddenly appearing next to you. He voice shakes, he doesn’t know, he can’t tell you anything reassuring.

“Can you go find someone, Danny? One of the Apollo kids, anyone?”

He ignores Carrie, starring at you for a second longer.

“Y/N,” he mumbles, his voice quiet, finally able to act like the young boy he is.

“You can go,” you breathe, somehow finding the strength to make him believe you’re okay. “Go help me, okay?”

His little footsteps disappear into the woods faster than you’ve ever heard him run, even when they have his favorite brownies for dessert.

You let out a sob.

“D-did he cut it off?” you moan. “It feels like he cut it off, please tell me he didn’t… he didn’t cut my arm off…”

“Oh, fuck, no,” Carrie breathes, pressing down agains the wound to try and stop the blood from gushing out- but it doesn’t really help. It’s just too much. “I mean, it’s deep and it’s nasty, but you’ve still got an arm, don’t worry.”

She laughs, awkwardly, nervously. You can feel even more of your arm drifting away, blood pouring out onto the ground.

“Hey, hey, no,” Matty mutters, lightly hitting your face.

“Wha-”

“Can’t fall asleep, Y/N,” Carrie says, nervously. “Sit up against Matty, come on, huh?” you lean against Matty, head clearing now that there’s fresh air in your system.

Your eyes focus on Clarisse.

Except she’s not anywhere near you, she’s 10 feet away, punching Nicky so hard you’re surprised he’s still standing.

Carrie cringes. “Okay, maybe don’t look at that.”

But you’re sort of entranced by her. She’s not outwardly angry, her face reveals nothing- just a mask of hard, unrelenting focus. It should scare you, how much concentration she puts into her deadly punches, blood flying with each hit she lands. Her knuckles are red, his face is a mess, but it’s exhilarating to know she would do this for you.

A sickening crack rents the air. “My fucking nose, fuck, fuck, screw you, you fucking bitch! Fuck-”

The smallest smile creeps it way onto her face. She wipes her mouth, leaving blood on her lips- but she doesn’t seem to notice.

“I can keep going!” she shouts back, grabbing his shirt. “You wanna do that shit? I’m only getting started. I’m gonna throw you around, then I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you.”

“Wait! Wait, okay, wait, shit,” he breathes, holding his hands up in surrender. Blood pours from his nose, down to her hand bunched in his shirt. He’s taller than her, yet he’s surrendering.

“You’re pathetic,” she hisses, pushing him back. He hits the ground with a groan, trying to grab for a rock, a sword, anything to defend himself against Clarisse and her fury.

Clarisse loves capture the flag.

One of the reasons why she does is because she gets to let out all her anger. She looks at you, but not in your eyes- she looks at the wound on your arm. You can see the red pouring out of the corner of your eye- but you choose to ignore it, instead focusing on the way the fire inside of her gets relit at the sight of your blood. She has plenty reason to be angry now.

She grabs her spear, sauntering over to him, laughing at the way he can’t even try to get up.

“So fuckin’ stupid,” she smiles, tilting her head. Then the tip of her spear is pointing right at his neck, she’s standing over him the way he did to you. “How’s it feel?” she smiles.

He coughs, hissing in pain.

“I’m scared, Clarisse, okay? You got your fucking revenge, but it wasn’t me.”

She laughs, loud and boisterous. “I just saw you cut her, dumbass. I really should kill you, just as a favor to the world.”

“Paid me,” he coughs. “Drachmas, in exchange for hurting your girlfriend-”

She presses the blade against his throat, he yells out.

“Who?”

He stays silent.

“Who?!” she yells, kicking his stomach.

“Nelson!” he screams. “Nelson! Nelson paid me, please, Clarisse-”

She moves the blade away, and he hisses- she probably just barely drew blood.

“I’m not done yet,” she whispers, deadly promise dripping from her words. She turns around, fades out of focus for a second, and then she’s right next to you.

Her hands are cupping your face, she looks sick, seeing you like this up close- but all she does is kiss your forehead. Like you, she doesn’t want to look at your flesh and blood.

“I’m here, I’m here, oh, fuck. Gods, what the fuck,” she mumbles, looking very pointedly away from the wound, finally seeing how bad it is up close.

“Clarisse.”

“I know,” she whispers, smoothing your hair back. “I know, baby, I know, but it’s gonna be okay.”

Danny runs into the clearing, shouting “just over here” while healers follow him, immediately groaning at the smell of blood, the sight of it.

Clarisse switches places with Matty, holding you against her, kissing your head again and again, muttering about how brave you are.

You almost laugh at the odd looks the Apollo kids give her, unused to seeing the big bad Clarisse so soft. But they just don’t know her like you do. She doesn’t love them like she loves you.

One of them starts to clean the blood, and your eyes drift shut as the other starts to mend your skin back together.

—-

You wake up with familiar curly hair in your face.

You spit it out, groaning, mouth feeling fuzzy, everything feelings fuzzy.

“Clarisse?” you mumble, eyes not even open, but you wake up with that hair in your mouth everyday, and you’ve memorized the weight of her arm around your waist.

She sits up immediately, jumping out of bed, standing up and fixing her messy hair like someone’s gonna be there.

“Um, hello? I was speaking, crazy girl.”

“Oh, thank Gods,” she mumbles, blowing hair out of her face and sitting back down. “Thought we got caught.”

You look at her, then your surroundings-

“Oh, holy shit,” she says, staring at you like a deer in headlights. “Wait, you’re awake. You’re awake!”

She throws her arms around you, burying her face into your neck, reverberating with the sound of your laughter.

“You make it sound like I’ve been in a coma for 10 years.” Your heart drops. “Have I… been asleep for a while?”

“Um,” she says, softly, biting her lip as she extricated herself from your neck. “Capture the flag was yesterday, so… no.”

“So you’re just being dramatic?”

“Possibly,” she smiles. “It’s not my fault you’ve taken over my entire brain.” She shows her bruised knuckles, split open, already starting to scab. “I said not to fix ‘em up. They don’t hurt that bad, and they look fucking cool.”

You grab her hands, relieved it’s only been a day, kissing the rough scabs. She blushes, although she tries her best not to, breathing in deeply.

“How are you feeling, baby?”

You look towards your totally healed arm, finally realizing that you know have full control of your hands, unlike yesterday. It’s wrapped in a bandage for precautions, but it feels totally healed.

“All good,” you smile.

“You gotta take it real easy for the next week or so, yeah?” she fusses, brushing hair behind your ear. “So you call me, or one of my siblings, anyone to help you with anything. No lifting heavy stuff, don’t do anything too fast- you might tear the healing.”

“I don’t suppose you’ll carry me around like a princess?” you giggle, laying back, inviting her into your arms. She gets back under the covers, head against your chest so she can hear your heartbeat.

“That’s not a bad idea, actually. Practical. Very safe.”

You hit her shoulder. “I’m joking.”

“Eh, I’ll change your mind.”

You smile, running your hands through her hair, enjoying the early mornings with her warmth against you, soft sunlight peeking through windows.

She sits up after a moment, laying her head back on the pillow, arm back around your waist. She just sits there for a moment, you can feel her admiring you. Clarisse doesn’t look at you. She traces your face with her eyes, imagining it was her hands, her lips, she admires you like she sees a reverence in your eyes that has nothing to do with your godly parent.

“Can you promise me something?” she asks, whispering softly, even though you’re the only two people around.

“What?” you say, staring at the ceiling, feeling like you might fall back asleep.

“Don’t get hurt. Like, ever again, please.”

You smile. “Okay, baby,” you mumble.

“I’m serious,” she smiles, nudging your cheek with her nose. “I… I was really scared. And I don’t like to feel that way, especially when it comes to you. I was angry, too. I was so fuckin’ angry I’m surprised I didn’t kill him. You can’t get hurt like that, not again, you just gotta let me protect you. Or else I might actually kill someone, Y/N.”

“I know,” you mumble. “I watched you.”

“Did I scare you?” she asks, voice soft. There’s no hint of your loving, smiley Clarisse in this bed right now. She’s worried, as if she could ever scare you.

“No,” you say, honestly. “It’s sweet how far you’re willing to go for me.”

“Yeah,” she mumbles. “You better like it. Do you know what I got for that? Eight months no dessert. Five months cleaning the fuckin’ stables.”

You barely hide your laugh. “Oh, my Gods, are you serious?”

“Yes,” she grumbles. “But, I’ve decided it’s fine. You’re my loving girlfriend, right? You can sit there all pretty so I have something to look at when I’m cleaning. And you’ll share your dessert with me, won’t you?”

“Yeah,” you mumble, turning your head. “I will.”

“I really love you. My perfect pretty princess,” she jokes, smiling lopsidedly, and you return it. “You’ll let me protect you, and maybe I can get some decent sleep at night, huh?”

When she presses her hand to your face and her lips to yours, you think nothing could possible ruin this moment. It’s just you and her, and everything that’s beautiful.

“You always protect me, Clar,” you smile.

She smiles, lips grazing yours. This is your Clarisse. The one who smiles just for you, who puts her rough hand softly against your face. This is your Clarisse, the one who would do anything for you, the one who wants to carry you around, the one who wants to protect you and hold you and never let anyone fuck with her baby.

The door slams open, someone is laughing boisterously, another person is groaning in pain, and a familiar voice is shouting your names.

“Clarisse! Y/N! Clarisse, Clarisse! Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!” Danny shouts, dragging out the last syllable of your name. He jumps onto the bed by your feet, even when Clarisse frowns, looking at you like a puppy dog who’s just brought a dead bird to your doorstep.

And as you look at the scene behind you, Nelson being laid on another bed, Carrie being helped into the corner- laughing hysterically, knuckles split open.

Nelson’s face is practically unrecognizable.

You suppose Danny really did bring something unsavory like a dead bird, dropping it right at your feet.

“So, we all woke up right?”

Your eyes whip to Danny, shocked as he know launches into a story about Carrie waking up to Nelson saying he hadn’t been called to the Big House yet, maybe he would get away from it- but swiftly received punishment in the form of Carrie’s fists. With Clarisse in your bed, no one had the guts to stop them, and they fought for what must have been 10 minutes- Nelson very obviously losing.

“And, now we’re here,” Danny sighs, breathing out after his long and embellished rant. “But you’re awake, Y/N!”

He looks at your skeptically- specifically, at your arm.

“Can I hug you?”

“Oh,” you smile, your heart twisting with such a fondness for this wonderful little kid. “Of course you can, Danny,” you smile, opening your arms wide.

“Yes, just be careful,” Clarisse cautions, her arm around your waist. “Watch the arm, huh?”

“He’s just a baby, Clarisse,” you mumble, breath messing his hair.

“He’s 11.”

“Baby,” you reinforce, squeezing him tighter.

“Y/N… you’re crushing me,” he groans.

“Oops,” you say, letting him go. “You’re just too cute,” you coo.

Clarisse scoffs from next to you. You smile, kissing her cheek. “You’re beautiful. Scary, dangerous. Not cute, though.”

She hums. “Yeah, you’re right.”

Carrie walks over, sporting her split knuckles, also opting to let them heal naturally like Clarisse. She shows them off with a wide smile, even as Nelson screams in the background when they reset his nose.

Matty rubs his temples.

You smile, looking around at your very dysfunctional, very awkward, but loving family-adjacent.

“Hey, did we end up winning the game?” you ask.

Clarisse snorts. “Oh, nah. Without us, they were lost. Who cares, though?”

“Yeah, I liked beating Nelson up much more than I would have liked winning,” Carrie smiles.

“Next time,” Danny starts, “Can I lead again?”

Clarisse squints at him. “…Maybe.”

You wink at him, nodding subtly.

“Okay!” he smiles.

Clarisse kisses your forehead.

“I love you, pretty baby,” she mumbles.

You smile. “I love you too, scary baby.”

—-

clarisse when she sees y/n get hurt: oh so the only natural response to to THROW A FUCKING SPEAR AT SOMEONE

appreciation for the fact she threw it from like really far away and just tore through his armor likkkkeeee

nelson and nicky sitting in the infirmary together hugging each other terrified clarisse and carrie are going to come back for more

nicky does not sleep at night anymore SHE SAID SHE WASNT DONE

—-

shout out to my baby danny he carried this fic fr

shoutout to y/n for getting WRECKED so we could have this beautiful moment w clarisse

shoutout to matty for being his beautiful self

shoutout to carrie for being her violent self

and finally shoutout to clarisse for being overprotective and insane

—-

clarisse after she actually convinced y/n to let her carry her around everywhere: 🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗🤗

bitch is so happy…

—-

taglist:

@lvrue @t-wylia @laughingcheese037 @kroumi @urdeadpoet @colezb @rey26 @harmzilla @elliewilliamsbae @amberfreemansburntface @kyuupidwrites @neverwaakeme-up @shark1008 @liballer @heyimadison @nvirskies @pnsteblnme @mar2ss @restellsss @ravisinghs-wife @marsconer @evangelinexo @randomhoex @luvrrish @rebecca37 @saltair-and-palemoonlight @ace-spades-1

[redpenship]

/r/stationsquare

I am at war with Sonic the Hedgehog

No, the title is not clickbait. I got a really nice hammock around two months ago and was having a great time using over the summer. It's one of those fancy ones with pillows and drink holders, so you can imagine that I was making great use of it.

Last week, I went to use it in the morning and found that it was covered in blue quills. Before you flame me in the comments, hear me out: I KNOW the city has an unofficial rule stating that you have to let Sonic use your lawn furniture whenever he wants. I KNOW he's saved the world a bunch of times over. Honestly, when I saw all the quills, I wasn't even mad. I pulled them out and carried on with my day.

But then it happened again. And again. And again. Guys, he sleeps on my hammock at least four times a week. I know he doesn't have a house or whatever (does anyone know why he chooses to be homeless???), but why does it have to be MY hammock all the time? It's really pissing me off.

Anyways, I've started to Sonic-proof my hammock, but nothing I've tried is working. I tried taking it down and putting it in my shed overnight, but I found quills in it again the next time I took it out. I think he literally set up the hammock and then put it back in the shed when he was done with it.

That wasn't the only thing I've done. I've left it covered in water (I guess he's only scared of actually drowning because that didn't work), mud and leaves (it came back clean?), and one time even covered it in crumbs so it would get infested with bugs (I think he just ate them). I'm out of ideas and I don't think he plans on stopping anytime soon.

Does anyone have any ideas? I'm going insane. Everything about Dr. Eggman is starting to make sense to me and it's terrifying.

edit: can the mods please tell people to be civil in the comments? edit 2: how is joking about eggman inappropriate? i didnt realize this sub was full of small animals. edit 3: what do you mean his fox friend is a mod here? does he even live here?

[callsignvenomcod]

a soft life

Prompt: Retired! Simon Riley. A slow life in a Manchester farm.

warning: mentions of PTSD, mentions of cartel related violence, mentions of violence, MDNI.

PS: Opening line is from the book "Jarhead" (2001) by Anthony Swofford.

______________________________________________________________

A story.

A man fires a rifle for many years, and he goes to war. And afterwards he returns the rifle in at the armory, and he believes he's finished with the rifle. But no matter what else he might do with his hands, love a woman, build a house, change his son's diaper; his hands remember the rifle.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets.

For a long time, it was hard to convince himself he deserved to grow old. It might have been a given fact to some other people but not for those in the military, not for Ghost, at least; not after Tommy and Beth, or Las Almas or Johnny. It took him a lot of time to be grateful to be almost 40. For several reasons, he never saw himself living past 20.

And now he was opening up the crates of the chickens he kept in his very own farm, a piece of land he actually owned, without a mask on, very far away from the bullet sounds and a barrack, from the mud and the camo, away from everything and everyone, not sound in the horizon but the chickens and Riley, the border collie dog he got, barking at a three somewhere in the distance.

He retired the summer he turned 40, there was a ceremony and everything, with Laswell and Price and he got more chest candy that would eventually end up in a wooden chest, never to be seen again, under the bed. There wasn't a reason, he just had to. He was in his prime, physically, but his mind was made of glass lately, everything rubbed him the wrong way, couldn't even train recruits without snapping too hard at them, making them quit, yell at them too much, scare them too much, beat them up to a pulp too much.

Every man in the military had a story. A life before, a life after. And in the middle, sand, or mud, or just camo. A war that last years, a mission that lasts hours. Silence and nosie.

He, like other recruits, like other Sergeants, Lieutenants, Colonels, had shadows over them. It took months for him to stop looking over his shoulder while doing the big shop on a sunday, started going to those overnight groceries store to shop alone instead. The butcher's reminded him both of his adolescence and the carnage he had caused, flinched whenever he saw a mohawk kid walking down the street, looked twice sometimes only to find a stranger.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets, aye.

He turned in his paperwork and retired silently with lots of medals under his name, lots of dead men and probably women under his knife, missing friends, missing nerves and too scarred to be a model now. Ha.

Oh, and Y/N's wanted to get away at some point anyway.

Y/N. The last drink he never should have had, the cut that made him hide his face, and the party that made him feel his age. Pulp's words, not his. All it took was a few nights shopping at the Tesco she was working in as a cashier, late night shift, for them to become acquainted.

A year of mutual pinning, a single night in which Y/N placed the bourbon bottle and the batteries inside of the paper bag and looked up at Simon, change in hand (because he paid in cash always, no traces behind) and smiled at him. COVID had made it easier to transition from the skull balaclava to a medical mask and then to a bare face, so Simon looked at her behind the black medical mask and stared at her while she opened her mouth.

-Why do bees have sticky hair?

Simon blinked, looking down at her. -Pardon?

No line behind him. It was the first time the cashier talked to him other than "Goodnight" and "Drive safe", or "It will be 5.66, please". There was a faraway sound of some sort of 80's American pop music, something to pass time by. Simon had noticed her since the first time he came into this very same Tesco a few months ago, had noticed how she sang along whatever music was on, how her Tesco blue uniform looked too big on her, making her look insanely small and slinky. He noticed how she was always almost without a medical mask and whenever she used it, it was laced around her chin; he noticed short, clean nails, and a heart necklace over her chest, a pair of dazzling dove eyes, full hips, a belly.

He really noticed the full hips.

The girl fucking giggled and repeated. She must had a bit of Irish in her judging by the sound of her accent. Simon felt as awkward as a teenage boy in front of any girl ever -Why do bees have sticky hair?

The man shook his head, still confused, a quid in his hand.

-Because they use a honeycomb.

Ah, a woman after his own heart. Such a lame joke.

He snorted out a laugh.

It simply slipped and he memorized the name tag before grabbing his shopping bag and shaking his head, hearing her giggle behind him as he exited the store, and he came back two days later after convincing himself he needed two jars of red bean jam instead of the usual one.

Sometimes he could still hear the bullets.

And now she sleeps here; and Simon had stared at her sleeping form wondering how much time it would take for her to start hating his way of loving, of being, how many times he would go silent on the phone, a bad texter, a worst caller, how he hated crowded places and loud noises and most of their dates happened in her flat, when her roommate was out, staring silently at a film on TV, her friends thinking she's getting her brains fucked out by an experienced, older, lust thirst Vet when in reality, Ghost was gathering up the courage to wrap his arm around her shoulders.

And now she sleeps here.

In the crook of his neck, his thigh over his hip, wild hair all over the bed, sometimes inside his mouth because he stopped using a mask a while ago.

In the mornings, tangled in their bed, warm sheets, the soft breeze of Riley sleeping under the bed, her sweet sweat and vanilla scented skin under his, it took Simon a few seconds to realize he was sleeping in the company of someone; in the arms of a woman and in his own bed, a king size bed with soft white sheets that were washed and changed every 5 days, not a twin bed in a barrack, that his years of active service were over, not forgotten, as if, but that he could allow himself to become whatever he might end up becoming if the 141 didn't happened.

-Come here, boy. Come here, Riley. Yeah, yeah...- said Simon scrunching down to caress right behind Riley's ear, the dog sticking out his long tongue and barking of joy mixed with the hyper sense of his breed, the soldier being careful not to break the eggs he held in a small basket. Simon had found him a puppy a few months ago, seemed like years really, in a litter box with 6 of his brothers and sisters, a beat-up cardboard sign reading "For adoption." And Simon picked up the only one with a lazy ear. He knew deep down that Y/N would appreciate that and simply put him in the passenger seat of the black Bronco truck he owned and drove all the way back home. -You're up early, eh? You having breakkie with us?

He had fallen into a comfortable routine now. He would wake up, crawl over Y/N's sleeping figure, careful not to wake her with the crack of dawn, 5AM with the BBC on his headphones, a 6'2 shadow jogging through the hills of the outskirts of Manchester, for an hour only the dark of the road, the eventual baby blue of the sky, the warmth of the sun. Sometimes Riley was up for it, sometimes he stood behind cuddled up in their room. And upon his return he would work out in their driveway for another hour, noticing the growing presence of what the media now called a "Dad Bod" (Y/N's words, not him) and eventually hearing soft barefoot steps coming from the room.

There was tea for two before he had to head out, get some tasks done, and a soft kiss hanging from Y/NS plush lips, and he would always try to push it, try his luck. He would smile against it, whispering "Good morning..." with a lazy voice, hands on Y/N's full hips, kneading them, in need of them, and Simon would press up with hard on against her stomach, while deepening the kiss.

It never failed to make her wet. It never failed to make her forget the kettle on the fire for a minute and simply give into his kiss, his embrace; him, overall. Simon would pick her up, easily, laid her on the counter, and her robe would open for him, with or without his help, and she was always so wet for him, so ready to do it.

-Simon...- she will say. - Breakfast...

And he wasted no time into twisting her words, dropping to his knees as if he was in the presence of a saint, of a virgin, of the end of the world, staring at her glistening cunt first thing in the morning, looking up with the adoration she deserved; she would gulp and argue it was not what she meant but she would recoil and whimper when Simon stuck his tongue inside his cunt anyway, overlapping her folds, blissfully eating her out before the sun was completely out.

The dog kept barking all the way down to the house, past the barn and the driveway, the small stable with the one horse they had, the pen he was building to eventually own sheep, and Simon felt the cold breeze of the early morning seeping through his black knit sweater and his jean jacket, as he walked all the way across the grass fields and into his porch, the swinging chair Y/N liked to read in, in a need of a reparation.

-Right...- he whispered to himself seeing the hammer he left outside to remind himself to fix the damn chair, bloody hell. Riley's nose peeked through the front door, opening it with ease and technique allowing themselves in, and the cold of the outside world was quickly gone.

Simon stepped into a cozy home, with a color palette he would have never picked, all warm yellows and oranges, pinks and whites, and soft cushions, warm blankets, a picknick turntable in the coffee table; and music, soft music he didn't recognize coming from it, a spinning record on it with yellow and pink lyrics, a girl signing about a loved one, and another voice, a present one, horribly trying to sing along.

He snorted out a laugh when Riley started barking and the voice was interrupted abruptly.

-Simon?...- Radio silence. -Babe?

Oh, the sound of his name in her mouth.

He crossed his living room, stepping into the kitchen, holding four eggs in a small bowl, one from each hen they owned, and he stood in the door frame, just a tad taller than him, admiring the view. He had endured white missions in the Russian winter, literal months of the gruesome torture and gory tasks and they all suddenly made sense because there was a girl.

Ah, there was a girl, alright.

Today was English breakfast. No peas for him, no sausages for her. It was stereotypical but easy to make and no one was around to judge them anyway. Next house was a few miles down the road, and even the road was far away, the town was a 30-minute ride. It was their little bit of heaven. The man stepped in, handing her the basket like every other day and kissed her temple, as she grilled some tomatoes slice ups leaning back against him. His hands would find her hips again and she would yawn with intimacy, hair still a mess, thighs still sticky. -Teas on the table, love. It's gone get cold.

-Ah, it's alright...- he said, hugging her tightly, as she kept leaning on him. -Slow morning today, eh...

She had been there and stuck around whenever the PTSD started acting up. She was the one that loved him when he started going fucking mental; and stuck around when she found her burning up SAS gear, a lost look in his eyes as he did so. He would throw in a Ghost mask and watch it burn for a moment, before murmuring a shocked sob and reaching out into the flames to retrieve it. She stuck around while he drank too much bourbon sitting on the porch, skull mask on, his dogs' tags held so tightly his knuckles will go white with force. Y/N even stuck around when the nightmares came, and she would wake up to Ghost whimpering on his side of the bed, breaking a cold sweat, his jaw tight and her brows furrowed, screaming out "Johnny! Johnny!" before waking up in tears, in raged hot tears down his cheeks, short of breath, his head a full of bullet noises and sirens wailings, pictures of his team and the blood and the grease paint. A mess. A shaking shadow.

Every October 11, she will make sure to hold him a little tighter, kiss him a little softer, love him, if it was possible, a little louder.

And she was here now, cooking breakfast, no peas for him; now he was living a soft life, with tea every morning, and a dog named Riley, with soft hands that wondered around his chest whenever he thought about Soap too much, about Gaz and that helo. But she was here now, and she had no sausages today, as they sat down on their small chair in their small kitchen in their small farm. He was living a soft life, and he didn't think of himself as worthy of it, but he must have been done something good to have her cooking breakfast and sleeping in their bed and caressing their dog under the table.

Tomorrow, Ghost would ask her to come out to the porch to find her reading swing fixed and a wedding ring.

She's going to say yes.

He didn't heard the bullets anymore.

_____________________________________________________________

Hello! Venom here.

Thank you so much to anyone that's been liking my story.

Happy 2024!

[skyclan-funny-name-squad]

Okay wow I was not expecting my kittypet fae post to take off overnight like this, but I'm glad you all like it! I've been thinking about kittypet culture so this is what I think is the reasoning behind the beliefs.

Kittypets are often well groomed and well fed no matter the season, while wild cats are often groomed there's a softness to kittypet pelts that you don't find in wild pelts. Along with pretty accessories that a wild cat would have no clue what they are like bows. As such they start to seem a bit uncanny valley because they look like you but not Quite. Especially because of more purebred cats who have brighter pelts or unusual colors or strange muzzles or weird ears. Which helps spread the thought that kittypets aren't fully cats, but something similar, something different but the same. Firestar as a purebred orange cat is just a lot naturally brighter or vivid then the more muted oranges that appear in the wild, and that scares cats.

Kittypets also like to share with their wild friends, they see their friend skinny and cold and want to bring them inside where they can get food and get warm. So they tend to offer it pretty often, however cats that do this start to get used to the ease of food and warmth of the den and find it harder to stay wild or to stay away from twolegs. Some kittypets may even aid twolegs in trapping their friends for the sake of protecting their friends from the harsh outdoors. Which everyone knows once you've bonded with a twoleg whether you want to or not your transformation into one of them is nearly complete.

Kittypet food is also meant to fill a cat as its been fine-tuned to fit the needs of a cat so even if a cat doesn't think it tastes as good as mouse, it still fills them in ways they may struggle to get with hunting. So cats that risk taking a bit start to go back for more, especially in harder hunting series. Sure sparrow may be a bit tastier but if its a sparrow once a week during leafbare or kittypet food every day, cats are going to be tempted.

With kittypets not being in a war culture and often just chilling beyond mild spats means there's more room for other activities like a lot more gossip and stories, news travels fast between cats because kittypets are horrendous gossips which means if you fuck over a kittypet, every other kittypet is going to hear about it and shame you for it. To clan cats it's shocking because kittypet news travels throughout an entire twolegplace and even beyond it thanks to some kittypets that travel in like trucks and stuff, so it can seem like despite being nowhere near the original kittypet, everyone still magically knows how you messed up. This extends to their friends as well, if you beat up a cat that the kittypets consider a friend over a border dispute all the kittypets are going to be like "hey why'd you do that that was mean" and potentially chase you away.

Now for names is something I think is interesting because kittypets are never really like "my names Mouse but the twolegs call me Mittens" so clearly twoleg names have some priority here for kittypets, while the significance of this can very between whatever you want really, its clearly important. So if you get taken in by a twoleg to heal a wound and the twoleg starts calling you Pants, then suddenly all the kittypets call you by that name. No matter how much you insist your name is Twigpounce, you're Pants now. Plus if you're actively stuck with kittypets, you'll start going by Pants as well. Thus the kittypet's steal your name.

Cats that come back from twolegs always come back changed, from how they talk, to how they walk, to what food they eat, to the things they say. They can still shake off the influence and return to the wild, but they'll always be a bit off, a bit different. Everyone knows Tallstar was pet-touched a long time ago from how he acts, but everyone politely doesn't bring it up.

Avoid kittypets! They're tricksters that look like us but they're liars with their fake mice and fake warmth! Do not trust! They aren't true cats! They're something different! Something more dangerous! Do not be tricked!

Also Longtail still throws down with Rusty because he's an idiot and also probably hoping that this will make the scary fae child leave his clan alone.

[unhonestlymirror]

I am horrified by how often I see people writing, "Well, we shouldn't take Holocaust into account when talking about Israel-Palestine war." Of course we SHOULD, and that's why:

"October 7 is getting rewritten and certain social media users are an active of the campaign to erase the atrocities.

I was barely awake on October 7th when news of the atrocities that were committed by Hamas began to trinkle in, horror by horror. With sleep still in my eyes, I had hoped it was a nightmare I could erase by burying my face in pillows and returning to slumber, but alas, reality was insistent. Hamas had butchered over 1,200 people, amongst them infants, pregnant women, the handicapped, and the elderly. Even dogs were not spared.

But Hamas didn’t just murder them in cold blood, they had tortured, raped, desecrated their bodies, and took hostages. Their depravity was limitless. And they were so proud of their crimes that they used GoPro cameras to record them, later releasing the sickening spectacles to the public as a form of psychological terror. Add to that the live streams, cell phone recordings, and CCTV camera footage, and you’ll probably have the most documented massacre in history—with a reported 60,000 video clips collected.

I’ve seen some of these videos, including those not circulating quite so widely in public. They will haunt me for the rest of my life—and that falls far short than the 47 minute “film” shown to select journalists and diplomats worldwide, a number of whom broke down and/or fell ill during the screening.

But as shocking as all of this deranged butchery was — which was entirely the intention — what stunned me in the aftermath is the world’s reaction.

Putting aside disputes of land and politics, it was jarring to hear such a blatant reframing of narrative. It started with calling Hamas the “resistance” and justifying the unjustifiable. A number of BLM chapters had put out “heroic” images of Hamas terrorists descending on parachutes. I half-expected them to release action figures of Hamas fighters too. Maybe they did?

And then came the "BUTs." Sure, some folks condemned Hamas, but it was always followed by a "BUT," justifying the unjustifiable. I've been asked, ad nauseam, "What would you do in their situation?" Well, my response remains steadfast: not commit random acts of murder, torture, and kidnapping. Call me old-fashioned. (For the record I’ve called many colorful words for my stance, but oddly that was never one of them).

It was a wake-up call for many, especially those of us in the global Jewish community. Overnight, the illusion of safety shattered, much like the dreams of anyone who's binge-watched a horror series alone at night. But now we were all collectively trapped in that nightmare, and couldn’t wake up no matter how hard with pitched.

The history of the Holocaust is taught in many schools around the world. “Never forget” and “never again” are sentiments that are echoed within that curriculum. Yet, while some might scoff at the persistent advocacy for Holocaust education, insisting that it’s hitting them over the head, a nationwide survey in 2020 reveals that the under-40 crowd seems to have missed the memo. Shockingly, one in ten respondents haven’t even heard of the word “Holocaust,” let alone being aware that as many as 6 million Jews perished in it.

Further, nearly a quarter of those questioned said they believed the Holocaust was a myth, had been exaggerated or that they weren’t sure. Meanwhile in Canada, one in five young people (under 34) either hasn't heard of the Holocaust or isn't sure what it is. And in Britain, one in twenty adults flat-out deny that it ever took place. Ah, the privilege of blissful ignorance.

Most who underestimate the number of Jews killed in Holocaust have neutral or warm feelings toward Jews.

But it's not just ignorance; there's an entire industry that has been propped up and dedicated to Holocaust denial, complete with books, “movies,” and groups. To make matters worse, alarmingly, fewer Holocaust survivors are around to share their firsthand accounts and counteract the flames of denialism.

Nearly half of the 1000 people surveyed had stated that they’ve seen Holocaust denial or distortion posts on social media or elsewhere online.

I’ve always thought that denials of genocide—such as the Holocaust —were something that happened over time, with history slipping away and being re-written.

However, I never expected to be observing this in real time.

While initially the so-called “resistance” was celebrated by a subset of society, this soon turned into full-fledged denials of Hamas’ actions on Oct 7. Despite overwhelming evidence in the form of videos captured and shared by Hamas themselves and shared on Telegram channels and elsewhere, I would read and hear people claiming that they had only targeted Israeli military. Absurd claims emerged using supposedly ‘leaked’ footage where an Israeli helicopter shoots at Nova music festival goers. That video was viewed over 30 million times on X alone. The video, which was actually originally shared by the IDF on Oct 9, was showing their attacks on specific Gazan targets—certainly NOT indiscriminate bombings of music festival attendees in Israel. (Here’s a great thread that details how this piece of disinformation spread and geolocation information that further confirms that the claim is fake).

I’ve heard countless denials of the rapes of women (and men), despite overwhelming evidence in the form of physical evidence, forensics, and a number of witness testimonies. Women’s rights groups, meanwhile, remained silent—thus offering a vacuum for denialists to fill. Proponents of “me too” also stayed silent. Worse, the University of Alberta Sexual Assault Centre’s director signed an open letter calling Hamas perpetrating “sexual violence” an “unverified accusation.” It took UN Women nearly two months to issue a lukewarm condemnation of the brutal attacks. “We are alarmed by the numerous accounts of gender-based atrocities and sexual violence during those attacks,” they wrote, following a letter writing campaign urging them to speak up. Better late than never though, right?

The roughly 40 dead babies claim was debunked as a lie. At least that’s what people on social media now declare as fact, citing a Haaretz investigation.

“Haaretz investigation EXPOSES all the ISRAELI LIES from October 7th just like I predicated (sic),” reads the post of one particularly large disinformation account.

These claims persisted despite Haaretz directly addressing that post and calling it “blatant lies” and insisting that it “absolutely no basis in Haaretz’s reporting.”

The denials continued regardless of the fact that a group of 200 forensic pathologists from all over the world had confirmed that babies were indeed murdered and that some babies were found decapitated, though it was unclear whether this was done before or after death. First responders also corroborated that they witnessed beheaded infants. Regardless of decapitation, these were babies, murdered.

The forensic pathologists also confirmed that humans were executed, bound and burned alive. Israeli police have over 1,000 statements related to the attack.

When some of the hostages were released, Hamas supporters claimed that the hostages enjoyed being held by them, that they hardly wanted to leave. That this was like a pleasant vacation for them, that’s all. Like sipping piña coladas by the beach. In fact, they would state that they were more concerned about their safety in Israeli hands. They even concocted stories of love affairs between a hostage who was shot in the leg and a Hamas captor. A sick and twisted take on reality where up is down, cats are dogs, and denial is truth. They dismissed the reality that many of these hostages watched their loved ones get murdered in front of them, and still had relatives being held in captivity. The hostages were also administered Clonazepam by Hamas, a mood-enhancing tranquilizing drug, before handing them over to the Red Cross, so that they would appear “happy.”

Meanwhile, the Yale Daily News published a correction of an opinion column stating that the “allegations had not been substantiated.”

The denials go on and on, and I can’t help but feel like I’m watching a version of Holocaust denial, except this time it’s happening in real time—not years after the fact. And this time, it has a Wi-Fi connection and a social media account.

The conditions for this were ripe. Moral relativism is why just several weeks ago, Gen Z embraced Bin Laden's 'Letter to America.' It has been building up for years across college campuses, a breeding ground for ideologies that support violent means to achieve political gains.

The perceived power dynamics play a role here too. In the eyes of many, the Israelis are seen as a superpower whereas the Palestinians, and by extension Hamas, are seen as underdogs. In their view, the underdog is always right because it is the victim, and the “power” is the oppressor. So how can the oppressor be a victim?

Israelis, despite the majority of the population being Mizrahi Jews, as well as 20% Arabs (who were also victims on Oct 7), have been framed as “white colonizers,” vs the Palestinians who are seen as “POC” in the context of this conflict. Never mind that Jews, including Ashkenazi Jews, can be traced back to the land through DNA, archaeological evidence, and historical documents.

An overall distrust for media is another factor, which has resulted in individuals taking the word of random influencer accounts as gospel over traditional media outlets. According to Gallup polls, Americans’ trust in media is near a record low. Only 34% of US adults have a “great deal” or “fair amount” of confidence as of 2022. This is a major hindrance to our sensemaking abilities.

And then, of course, there’s cognitive dissonance. When a group identifies so closely with the perpetrator and they commit heinous acts, confronting that fact happens to be uncomfortable. So, in an attempt to reduce that discomfort, they rationalize or deny the evidence. This means that they accept only evidence that supports their existing beliefs, while placing unreasonable demands on the other side.

But none of these factors would have gained as much traction if it weren’t for something that didn’t exist during the Holocaust: social media. This is the engine that helps drives this real-time historical revisionism and denialism. According to 2021 data from Pew Research, over 70% of Americans get their news via social platforms. A Reuters Institute report from 2023 found that 30% of respondents use social media as the main way to get their news.

We have a society that consumes sound-bites of information, both truth and lies (as well as lies based on grains of truth).

Social media algorithms—combined with human nature—tend to amplify outrageous untruths, which spread widely. Corrections, never make it as far as the original lie. They are just a faint hum.

Throughout the Israeli-Gaza war, we’ve seen AI generated images and bots used to paint a specific narrative—for evocative, emotional effect. But technologically sophisticatication isn’t a prerequisite for painting false narratives. Many “influencers” have taken to using existing images or videos and attaching misleading headlines to them—including sharing content that captures events in Syria while presenting it as taking place in Gaza. These networks of influencers have large reach, and can turn even the most blatant lie into a revisionist truth.

Researchers for Freedom House, a non-profit human right advocacy group, found that generally at least 47 governments have used commentators to manipulate online discussions in their favor, either via humans or bots. They’ve also recruited influencers to help spread false and misleading content, and have created fake websites that mimic actual media publications. Then there’s always Russia’s propaganda arm RT, and various other publications like Al Jazeera and Quds who have direct ties to Hamas and/or other Islamic regimes.

All of this has contributed to narrative confusion, and the erasure of unspeakable acts of brutality, and the denial of the facts of October 7, right before our very eyes.

If we cannot even share a common reality, how can have any hope of resolving anything?

“Never again” is happening now."

[standfucker]

Finding Out You’re Stronger Than Them - Logia Edition (Crocodile)

"Cold Blooded"

Characters: Crocodile

Reader: GN

Word Count: 3.2k

CW: smoking, mildly suggestive, reader has body mods

Summary: “Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

-Thanks to @quinloki for beta'ing as my usual beta, @zoros-sheath, got sick. (Love you both, glad you're on the mend, Mama.)

Ao3 Link

Wealth was not Sir Crocodile’s ultimate goal, his burgeoning ambitions far grander than mere riches. But the vast quantity of treasure that had been stolen from him was not something he could ignore. Civil wars needed funding, and with over half of his hoard disappeared overnight–a feat that should be physically impossible–he couldn’t make the payment on the firearms he had shipped out.

He sends a pair of Officer Agents to take care of it, neither of whom report back. In the radio silence, he sends another, stronger duo this time. They also seem to vanish. Fed up, he finally sends his best, Mr. 1 and Miss Doublefinger.

Instead of hearing back from them, Crocodile finds the six bodies of his strongest Officer Agents dumped unceremoniously outside of his smoking room, beaten to shit and unconscious, but alive.

You're waiting for him inside, an unassuming masked figure picking through his humidors like you own the place. 

"You picked a beautiful country to play with,” you say without looking up, inspecting an expensive cigar. “I just love the landscape of Alabasta...reminds me of home." 

For a minute, he just stares, mentally running through the list of people he knows in the underworld who can both pull off a heist like that and beat his best assassins bloody. Your lavish jewelry suggests affluence, his eye especially drawn to the gold bracelet on your wrist. There’s a huge ruby mounted onto the band that’s jogging his memory in a bad way. You keep talking in the meantime.

"Sorry to invade on your private time. I understand the necessity of a good smoke break, but you wouldn’t grace me with your presence, so I had to take matters into my own hands."

You tuck the cigar behind your ear, take off your mask, and turn to face him. There are some differences from your bounty poster: You’ve changed your hair, and there’s now a gnarled scar stretching diagonally over your face, narrowly missing your eye. But the snakebite piercings are the same, as are the small, transdermal spikes implanted above your eyes, painted gold to represent your namesake.

“You’re the Thief King, Sidewinder,” Crocodile says slowly. Even with the facial scar, you’re beautiful, skin reflecting the moonlight coming through the window.

You smile at his recognition. “In the flesh.”

“It’s rare for you to leave the New World.”

“Seems you've heard a bit about me.” You look surprised at that.

“You’re a Devil Fruit user, but since you prefer to use Haki, little is known about your ability," Crocodile says, and your eyes widen. "Beyond stealing, your motives are a mystery, as you don’t engage in power struggles, nor do you rule any territory. The lack of land means no one knows where you keep your spoils.”

Of course he's heard of you. He knows the shock is an act, too. Sure enough, your expression relaxes into a casual smile. Crocodile bites down harder on his cigar. You’re notorious for targeting powerful people and getting away with it, but he'll be damned if you make a fool of him.

Crocodile takes off his jacket and tosses it onto a lounge chair. Cracking his neck, he starts to approach you. "Here are your options, thief," he says. "You can return what you've stolen willingly. Or, I can peel the nails from your fingers and rip the teeth from your skull, one by one, until you tell me where it is."

“How frightening.” You tilt your head, hands in your pockets as he gets closer. “Whatever will I do?”

He fires his hook at you, left arm becoming sand and extending. You calmly step around it, dodging by a fraction. He withdraws his hook and fires again; you step to the other side. Keeping his arm extended, he sweeps it out to the side to catch you. You duck, bending far back in an impressive show of flexibility, hands never leaving your pockets. He swings the column of sand at your feet, you hop over it. With every dodge, you move closer to him.

“I’m flattered you recognized me despite the differences from my bounty poster,” you say, pausing in your approach. “You, on the other hand, look almost exactly the same as yours. Except…” You look him up and down, seeming impressed. “I must say, Sir, the poster doesn’t do you justice.”

Rage simmers beneath Crocodile’s cool demeanor. He hates how genuine you sound–it feels more like mockery than true admiration to him. Moving faster, he forms a blade of sand with his right hand and hurls it at you.

“Desert Spada!”

You easily match his speed, side-stepping so the blade cuts through the bookshelf behind you instead. It collapses, sending a heap of wood and fine hardbacks to the floor.

“Careful now,” you chide, shining eyes focused on him.

Undeterred, he strikes again, and again, and again. Each time, you dodge effortlessly, moving with a light, fluid grace. It’s almost as if you’re dancing with him–he can see how you earned your nickname. Furniture crumbles behind you as it’s sliced and smashed to pieces. The more he attacks, the more you avoid, the angrier he gets.

Amidst the chaos, Crocodile suddenly realizes you’ve had yet to break eye contact with him, your own eyes slightly narrowed, assessing. There’s a faint smile on your face.

You're playing with him. 

That only pisses him off further. He won’t become another one of your victims–Crocodile races through plans in his head as he unleashes another Desert Spada, keeping you moving as he thinks. He won’t let this end with anything but his own gain. He’ll trap you and torture you until he finds out both where his money is, and where the rest of your hoard is stashed.

You’ll regret having ever made a target out of him.

Crocodile fires off both arms at you, hook aiming for your lower half to force you to jump, while his right arm forms a blanket of sand at the ground. When you inevitably land on it, he’ll be able to grab your leg and hold you still.

As he predicts, you jump over his hook and land on the sand–but somehow, for some reason, your feet do not sink in. It’s as if there’s something solid under your feet, letting you stay at the surface. At first, he’s not certain of how you’re doing it. Crocodile withdraws the sand blanket back toward him, aiming to make you trip, but you don’t so much as lose balance, simply walking forward over the sand like there are hidden stepping stones within it.

Crocodile rapidly withdraws his hook, going to catch your neck. You duck again, even doing a little twirl as you do, as if to hammer home the fact that he can’t destabilize you.

Both Crocodile’s arms revert to their usual shapes, and he stares you down. You’re only a few feet from him now. Whatever you did to avoid slipping, it must be your Devil Fruit.

“You’re making an awful mess,” you say.

“Why did you really come to Alabasta?” Crocodile questions. “It’s a long voyage from the New World–there’s plenty of game for you there.”

“I came to see you.” Again, your words carry nothing but sincerity, and you won’t stop looking into his eyes. Your own are sparkling with mischief.

“You robbed me.”

“That was just to get your attention.”

“Careful what you wish for, thief–” Crocodile fires off a sudden attack now that you’re close. You bend back, not fully dodging it, your shirt getting sliced wide open, “–because you’ve got…it...” His words slow as he sees beneath your shirt: you’re wearing lace underneath your clothes, as well as a leather harness. He frowns, trying to figure out what it all means.

“I’m liking the energy, but will you settle down a sec? You’re destroying your lovely smoking room.”

“You attacked my officers.”

“Your lackeys are lacking.” You grin to yourself at your wordplay. “Aside from that blade guy. Mr. 1, I think it was? He was more fun than the others. Couldn’t go the distance, but entertained me for a few minutes. He wasn’t your strongest goon, was he?”

Crocodile’s face twists up in rage, giving away the answer.

“He was? Goodness… Don’t you wish you had someone stronger?” You grin. “Maybe we could help each other.” 

“I don’t need your help,” he spits.

“Whatever you say,” you chirp. Then your eyes darken. “My turn now.”

You disappear. A split second later, you’ve grabbed his arm and hurled him straight through his door as if he weighed nothing. He bounces once, then catches himself, skidding backwards as he looks up, but you’re already behind him, grabbing and throwing him right back into the room.

Crocodile lets his form break up into sand, re-forming a distance away to give him a moment to spot you. His head whips left and right; you instead come from above, a brutal axe kick to his head that throws him onto his hands and knees. Pain thuds through his skull, and he clenches his teeth. Every time you make contact, there’s a moment he can’t transform. It’s that damned Haki of yours–he needs to become sand in the time you’re away from him. He dissipates once more, moving in a random direction away. You aren’t deterred at all–Observation Haki, too, it must be– as you’re right in front of him when he re-forms.

“Boo!” you hold your hands up like claws, making Crocodile flinch, and you smile, showing pointed canines. “Come on, Sir. I know you can do better than this.”

He can’t even bring his arms up to block before you punch him, black-fisted, directly in the solar plexus. He gasps, nearly dropping his cigar, body locking up for a moment before his knees buckle and hit the ground. There’s a faint smell of smoke that he realizes is coming from burned spots in the floor–from your feet?

Just what was your Devil Fruit power? If he didn’t figure it out, he might actually lose.

Suddenly you’re sitting on his shoulders, legs draped over his chest. Before he can move, you grab him by the root of the hair and yank his head back so you’ve forced him to look into your eyes. You have the cigar you stole in your mouth. Holding his head still, you lean forward and touch the tip of your cigar to his, lighting yours with an inhale. Then you exhale in his face.

Enraged, Crocodile grabs you by the neck and slams you into the floor. You grunt. He lifts and slams you again, then lifts you one more time, arm extending fast to harshly slam you into the wall. He follows swiftly, tightening his grip. He can’t kill you yet, not yet.

“I gotta say, Sir,” you say, a little strained, still smiling, “you seem to know exactly what I’m into.”

Crocodile brings his hook to your pretty face. Maybe he’ll give you another scar. Your eyes drop down to the sharp tip of his hook, then back up to his. You open your mouth, letting the cigar fall out. Then, slowly, keeping full eye contact, you lick along the hook.

Oh. You have a body mod there, too–a split tongue, each side curving around the hook and sliding up, their tips scraping the point of it. Caught off guard, Crocodile can only stare, feeling his blood surge and his pulse quicken. You smile knowingly.

“Everyone wants to know what it feels like.”

Another one of your tricks. He won’t fall for it, not when he literally has you in his clutches. Your Haki may be powerful, but you’ve made a mistake letting him make contact with you like this. He’ll simply dehydrate you, drawing out just enough moisture for you to cling to life, and will only grant you water when you tell him what he wants to know.

Crocodile focuses.

Nothing happens.

His brow furrows, gritting his teeth, and he focuses again. You stay utterly whole and perfect.

“Why isn’t it working?” you say. “Why won’t I shrivel up? Is that what you’re thinking? Maybe I just can’t stay dry when you play rough with me like this.”

“Once I have my funds back,” Crocodile hisses, “I’m going to kill you so slowly you’ll beg me for death.”

“Come on, Sir. If you’re so upset about the money, I could give it back. I don’t really need it,” you roll your eyes on the ‘really,’ “but I don’t intend on walking away empty-handed. You understand. Us cold-blooded types get what we want, right?”

“What is it you want, Thief?”

“I want you to think of more constructive ways to vent your frustrations.”

Crocodile’s about to stab your face when his hand starts burning where it’s made contact with your neck. Iron-hot, he can’t hold on and drops you. Thinking quickly, he follows it up by bringing a blade of sand down on you while you’re beneath him.

It all happens in a moment: You catch the sand blade. A searing, scorching heat runs through his arm. The sand instantly becomes glass. 

Your fingers dig into the glass and shatter it one-handed, your predatory gaze reflected in the thousand falling pieces all around him.

He’s stunned. At that moment, you grab him by the shirt collar and pull him down to your level, close to your face.

“You know, baby crocodiles, before they grow into apex predators, are prey for pretty much everything,” you smile. “Birds, fish, wild pigs… Snakes…”

You throw him onto the ground, the rubble digging into his back, and straddle his chest.

“You may be a threat in Paradise,” you continue, “but you’d get eaten alive in the New World. That’s why you left, isn’t it? Couldn’t hold your own among monsters like Whitebeard.”

Whitebeard. Crocodile grimaces at the mention, still feeling the sting of that loss. You shake your head.

“Now now, don’t feel bad,” you say. “He got me too.” You point to your scar. “Crusty geezer almost took my damn eye out, but not before I robbed him. He’s gotten slow.”

Suddenly, he remembers where he’s seen your bracelet, recognizing it as one of Whitebeard’s rings, one he had gotten decked by in the past. You stole the ring right off Whitebeard’s finger. He stares at you, starting to become aware of the difference between the two of you.

“You can’t beat me in strength,” you say simply, “what will you do?”

You’re right–he can’t beat you in strength. But he didn’t become the Desert King by being the strongest one. No, it’s never been about brute force. Crocodile takes in your shining eyes, your harness and lace, the sultry words you’ve been dropping, connecting the dots.

Grabbing you by the harness, Crocodile pulls you down to him for a kiss, crashing his lips into yours. As he suspected, you immediately reciprocate, parting your lips and licking into his mouth. Your split tongue is a potent distraction, as is your little moan, riling him up more than he expects. Behind you, his unsheathed, poison hook is poised to sink into your neck. You smile against his lips.

A second later, you’ve snapped the hook off its base and stabbed it into his shoulder.

“Heh… Did you think I’d fall for that?” you purr, licking your lips.

“What do you really want?” Crocodile growls.

“You’re far too smart not to have picked up on that by now. Or do you need me to spell it out for you?” You pull the hook out of his shoulder and toss it over yours, licking the blood from your finger. “You want motives? I pick strong targets because I'm bored. Everything I do, I do to entertain myself. But stealing doesn’t meet every need... I’m certain a man of your status is not wanting for company. But I’ve found that monsters like us tend to only feel sated when we’re with other monsters. Catch my drift?”

“So you’re thrill-seeking,” Crocodile says slowly.

“Please. ‘Thrill’ implies my life is in danger. It is what I’m offering you, though,” you smile. “Not that you need to worry, Sir. I won’t hurt you…unless you ask me nicely.”

“You rob me, beat up my men, and you expect me to sleep with you?” he says, incredulous.

“Not for free. I have an offer to make.”

He’s insulted you’d consider him no better than a whore, and spits out his next words.

“I don’t negotiate with thieves.”

“Let’s cut the illusion of rank. Becoming king of this land won’t erase your pirate background. You’re every bit the conniving cheat that I am.” You laugh. “I’ll return your treasure regardless. Chump change like that is meaningless to me. After passing a certain point of wealth, you start dealing in favors instead. So here’s my offer to you: Entertain me for the night. Do a good job, and I’ll join your little syndicate for a while. My power at your whim to use. I’ll let you order me around…” you trail a finger down his chest, “and I’ll behave until the end of our contract, at which point, you’re free to try and kill me again.”

A demonstration, Crocodile realizes as you get off of him. That’s what this all was: a demonstration of power, all so you could get what you wanted.

“If you only wanted to sleep with me,” he says, getting to his feet, “you could have just asked.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” you chuckle. “Really, though. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have fought me. This wasn’t going to go anywhere until you understood the gulf that spans between us. Now, you know that when you shove me against a wall, it’s because I let you.”

You dust yourself off and stick your hands back in your pockets like nothing had happened, idly kicking a piece of rubble. Meanwhile, the gears are turning in Crocodile’s head. You defeated Mr. 1 in mere minutes, allegedly. You tossed his own self around like it was nothing, and made him look like a second-rate pirate, much less a king. You have both types of Haki and an unknown Devil Fruit… All in all, an invaluable asset to be under his control. He regards you coolly. You’re waiting patiently for his response.

“So what’ll it be?” you say, sensing he’s made a decision. “I get to have a little fun, you get your most powerful minion yet. We both win.”

“How long would you intend to work for me?” Crocodile asks.

“Depends on your performance,” you shrug. “Let’s start with a few months, and after that, well. If you make it worth sticking around…” your eyes half-lid, letting the implication hang. “Sound like a good deal to you?” You hold out your hand in offering. When Crocodile takes it, you give that predatory smile. “I look forward to working for you, Sir.”

“From now on, you’ll call me Mr. Zero,” he replies, then pauses. “...You can call me Sir in private.”

You grin. “Sorry about your smoking room. Really.”

“Nevermind that. I’ll have someone clean it up. More importantly,” Crocodile says, “what's your Devil Fruit? I’m ordering you to tell me.”

“I can amplify the force of friction,” you respond obediently. “I'm an abrasion human.”

“...You certainly are,” Crocodile says. “It suits you.”

“I think you’ll find, tonight, that it suits you too.” You smile, tugging on your harness lightly. “So, when do we start?”

Crocodile pins you to the wall.

You let him.

[softguarnere]

Memories Feel Like Weapons

Edmund Pevensie x gn!reader

Summary: “People can be different. They can change. You’ve changed.” Gently, you use your pointer finger to hook his chin and turn his face towards you, making him look you in the eye. “You’re a good king, Edmund, and an even better man. A good brother. A good boyfriend. Everyone has forgiven you for what you did as a child.” A/N: What's up, y'all?! It's been freezing these past few days and I hate it! 🥴 So this is for all you other lovelies who are currently being plagued by SAD 🫶🏽 Also, in case it's not clear in the fic, for the purposes of the story, we're just gonna assume that reader's parents also sent them off to the country during the war to stay with the professor, that they met the Pevensie's there, and went to Narnia with them. Anyway, I hope you enjoy! ❤️ Warnings: Edmund has SAD but it's Narnia so it's never actually called that, the author is (once again) overusing commas

As interesting and as magical a place as Narnia is, you’re willing to admit that diplomatic negotiations are something that usually bore you to tears.

You try to take an interest, you really do, for Edmund’s sake. Political wheeling and dealing is his bread and butter. You’re not particularly adept at it yourself. Edmund has tried to explain the finer points to you many times, but it’s not something that you can wrap your head around. But maybe that’s just because you get too distracted thinking about how good looking your tutor is. Sometimes you raise a question or a particular point that you know he’ll jump to answer just to see how passionately he talks about his favorite subject. As far as you know, he hasn’t caught on yet.

Today proves to be different, though.

A chill in the air greets you when you awake. A crackling sound from the corner tells you that a servant has crept in at some point and started a fire in the hearth to stave off the cold. Blinking to adjust your eyes to the light, you’re greeted by the type of cold, white sunlight that announces a wintery morning and the season’s signature magical touch that often appears overnight – snow.

You leap out of bed, gasping when your feet kiss the cold floor. Hurrying to put on slippers, you wrap yourself in a fluffy robe and hurry to the door.

Edmund hates the winter. He hates the snow even more. No one can blame him for that. But you’re the only person he’s confessed this to.

Sure, his siblings might suspect as much. Those first few years in Narnia, no one dared suggest that they play in the snow whenever it arrived, for fear of what it might imply, and for fear of inadvertently upsetting the youngest Pevensie brother. After a few more years, he would find excuses to be tucked away in his library on snowy days, and no one would breathe a word of the fun they had without him while he was around. A delicate subject and a fine dance around it, to say the least.

It was only last winter that Edmund confided in you, and only because you had recently become a couple. He said the winter was hard enough on its own, but the snow brought back too many bad memories, ushered in nightmares so vivid that he sometimes woke up questioning what was real and what wasn’t.

This is going to be a rough day for him, to say the least. Which puts a damper on the mood, since ambassadors from a nearby kingdom are arriving to negotiate trade – something he was so looking forward to.

“Edmund?” Your voice seems too loud for the quiet library, and the echo makes you flinch slightly at the loudness of your own voice, at the desperate quality it holds.

Stepping further inside the room, you listen, and tune into the crackling of the fireplace along the far wall. You follow it until you can see the chairs in front of it, and in one of them, Edmund, slumped over a large tome, asleep.

He’ll have a crick in his neck from sleeping that way, you think. If you hadn’t known why he was here, finding him in his favorite place like this would be sweet. It still tugs on your heartstrings, yes, but in a different, heavier way.

“Edmund?” You gently shake his shoulder before stepping back.

The Just King startles awake, his book slipping out of his lap. His eyes are wide and wild as they flick across the room, struggling to make sense of his surroundings. Finally, they land on you and soften. “(Y/N)?”

“Good morning, sleepy head,” you reply, trying to keep your tone light, casual. “If you say that your neck doesn't hurt after sleeping like that, then you’re a liar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The painful popping noises that echo from his spine say otherwise, but you let it go. Slowly, he rises, stretches, and then takes a step closer to you and plants a kiss on your forehead. He sighs through his nose. “Today is the day.”

You slip your hand into his, intwine your fingers. “How are you feeling?”

Edmund shrugs. His relationship with his siblings has improved leaps and bounds in all the years that they’ve spent in Narnia, but sometimes he still hesitates to show certain emotions around them, to express himself the way he should. Sometimes it’s easier when it’s just the two of you in a space like this where he’s comfortable.

“I’ll manage.”

“If you’re not feeling up to it – “

He squeezes your hand. “I’ll be fine. It’s just a day that I have to get through.”

“Spring will come again,” you assure him, using the mantra that you often whispered to comfort him through last year’s winter season.

“And we will greet it with open arms and grateful hearts,” he finishes. He attempts a smile, but it looks more strained than usual. “Don’t worry, darling. Everything will be fine.”

. . .

It is almost immediately not fine.

The ambassadors arrive in all their splendor. Fine fabrics and shimmering jewels assure that no one can take their eyes off them as they enter the hall and approach the five thrones. They bow to Peter in the center, to Susan and Lucy on his left, then to you and Edmund on his right. Servants carry golden trunks behind them. They have come to these diplomatic negotiations bearing gifts in the most literal sense.

Though you will all retire to a separate chamber for the actual negotiations, the gift giving is a public affair for the whole court to witness. And because it’s so formal, it’s rather slow.

Strong weapons forged of foreign metals are gifted, followed by clothes of their country’s latest fashions, and small samplings of food for each of you, a different dish for you each to try based on what the ambassadors have heard about you.

Thank goodness you’re a good actress, because the ambassadors seem to think that you really do seem excited to try the food in the bejeweled silver container that they gift to you. In reality, you’re trying your hardest not to grimace at the unfamiliar looking treats inside of it, and trying hard not to become preoccupied wondering if the taste will be as . . . unique as the smell that emits from them.

“And finally, for King Edmund,” one of the ambassadors says with a bow before presenting a silver container to Edmund with a flourish. “I have heard a rumor that you are quite fond of these.”

Thankful for a distraction from the gift in your own hands, you turn your attention to Edmund. Sitting beside him, you are in full view of the show that his siblings are not. You can see the rosy color, the powdered sugar. The Just King’s smile immediately falters. Strong hands clamp the container shut before anyone else has the chance to see what’s inside – Turkish Delight.

For a moment there is nothing but silence, the labored sound of Edmund drawing a breath. It goes on just long enough that his siblings glance at him. Only then does Edmund seem capable of forcing himself to smile, to nod, to thank the ambassador for such a thoughtful gift. If his siblings sense that something might be wrong, they don’t even know the half of it.

Because what has just happened, really? Is this a slight on behalf of the other country’s rulers? Or do they genuinely have no clue the implications of their actions?

As the exchanging of the gifts comes to a close, Edmund coughs into his fist, clears his throat. Does it again. He thumps the flat of his palm against his chest.

Peter turns to him. “Are you alright?”

“I think I just require a bit of fresh air, if you’ll excuse me for a moment,” Edmund replies. He says it far too quickly, and he uses the excuse to dismiss himself from the hall. The silver container that holds the Turkish Delight has been abandoned, left behind on his throne.

It takes everything in you not to race after him, to follow him, to make sure that he’s okay. Instead, you’re stuck helplessly glancing between the doorway that he’s disappeared through and the ambassadors who won’t seem to shut up.

Finally, the niceties end. The other king and queens of Narnia begin to migrate into a separate chamber with the ambassadors to begin the negotiations.

Quickly, quietly, you catch Lucy by the sleeve of her dress and lean in close to her ear. “I’ve got to go find Edmund,” you whisper. “I’m worried about him.”

Lucy’s eyes go wide, but she holds her composure under the watchful eyes of the court and the visiting representatives. “I’ll cover for you,” she whispers back.

As one of the five Narnian monarchs, you don’t technically need anyone’s permission to leave – except maybe Peter’s, since he’s the High King. Still, you’re the only one who’s not a Pevensie sibling, which can sometimes be a little isolating. Knowing that Lucy has your back boosts your confidence as you slip away, heading for the nearest place that you think Edmund might have disappeared to.

A quick search reveals that he’s not in the library. Or the armory, or any of his usual haunts. As a last resort, you duck into his bedroom, and it’s there that you find him, standing before the hearth, staring into the flames. His hand holds the place on his side where the White Witch stabbed him on the battlefield, though the gesture seems absentminded.

“Ed?” You make your voice soft so as not to startle him.

He looks up, eyes wide, surprised anyway – and hurt.

You don’t waste time asking if he’s okay. Instead, you cross the room to meet him in front of the fire. “Oh, Edmund.”

He doesn’t bother lying and saying that he’s fine. That’s how you know it’s bad. When Edmund Pevensie goes quiet, retreats within himself, it means that he’s truly wounded. This is something deep inside of him that aches, that rots.

Not knowing what to do, you take a seat on the rug in front of the hearth. You’re careful not to touch him, trying to offer him the space if he needs it. But he follows your lead and takes a seat, too, which seems like a good sign.

For a while, neither of you speaks. You just sit near each other, staring into the fire. Edmund looks very numb when he finally says, “I didn’t mean to leave like that. I just . . . panicked.”

“No one blames you.”

“Seeing that stupid Turkish Delight – “ He shudders. “I can’t figure out if it was a poor choice given with good intentions, or if it was a slight on my honor, a reminder of what I did.” He frowns. “I suppose to some people I’ll never be Edmund the Just – I’ll only ever be just Edmund, The Traitor.”

“No,” you protest. Space be damned; you grab his hand in yours and squeeze it, like that gesture can also grab his attention, infuse the meaning of what you’re about to say to him so that he cannot ignore it. “Edmund, you’ve changed. You’re not a traitor.”

“Anymore.”

“People forget that I was there, too,” you remind him. “I tried to follow you to Jadis’ castle.”

“That was different. You were trying to stop me from betraying my family.” His brow furrows at the memory. “So I shoved you into a snowbank and ran off without you. And then you went back to Beaver’s the help the others. (Y/N) the Loyal,” he employs the epithet that Aslan gave you, but you can’t be sure why. Because of what you did then? Because you’re here with him now?

“People can be different. They can change. You’ve changed.” Gently, you use your pointer finger to hook his chin and turn his face towards you, making him look you in the eye. “You’re a good king, Edmund, and an even better man. A good brother. A good boyfriend. Everyone has forgiven you for what you did as a child.”

Edmund shakes his head. “But they haven’t forgotten. And I can’t, either, if I’m being honest.” He doesn’t meet your eye when he confesses, “It haunts me, the memories. Every winter.”

“No. But you can do something else.” You pause to make sure that you have his full attention when you make your suggestion. “You can forgive yourself.”

Edmund blinks. As smart as he is, it seems like the thought has never occurred to him before now.

“It doesn’t have to be now,” you assure him. “It’s not an instantaneous thing. Just . . . something to work on. A project. An ongoing one.”

Silence falls between you again as he turns back to the fire. It takes a few moments before he nods, the light shining off his dark hair and his crown.

“I’ll work on it,” he says, resolved. He turns back to you, and when he speaks again, his voice is so unsure, so timid, that you have the sudden urge to hold onto him with one arm and use your other to draw your sword and fend off anything or anyone in the world who might come near and cause him harm. “Can you help me do it?”

You nod. “Of course.”

“Thank you,” he clears his throat, shakes his head. “I’m going to need more than my own forgiveness for being late to these negotiations.” He makes no move to get up. His gaze wanders across the room, as if seeing it for the first time, before landing on the window and studying the portal to the frozen, white world beyond it.

“You don’t have to go if you don’t feel up to it.” Then, trying to lighten the mood, you bump your shoulder against his. “I’m sure Susan and Lucy ganging up on the ambassadors will give them a run for their money.”

Edmund chuckles, settles back on the rug. “Good, because I honestly don’t think I can look into the eye of a person who tried to give me Turkish Delight without hitting him over the head with my sword.”

Even though you’re in a relationship, it’s maybe the most vulnerable that Edmund has ever been with you. He places his head in your lap and stares into the hearth as you card your hands through his dark locks.

“Spring is coming soon,” he mutters, his voice heavy with the sleep that’s trying to catch up with him. “Maybe then I can start over . . . Would be nice to not have to worry about freaking out over a bad gift and embarrassing myself in front of the whole court.”

“Spring will come again,” you remind him, voice soft in case he’s already dropped off to sleep. “And we will greet it with open arms and grateful hearts.” Then, for good measure, you add a new line to aid you through your latest challenge. “And it will allow us to start over.”

[discount-shades]

Contract Spouse Chapter 7

Chapter 7: Realizations

A/N: This is a sad one. I've written Chapter 9 and only one chapter left to write!

Pairing: Jake Seresin/Reader (nicknamed Pip)

Warning:  Angst, death of civilians, war, PTSD

Length: 3000ish

Summary: Jake does some thinking and we find out why he is like that.

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“What we need are those veterinary gloves that come up to your shoulder.” You have a roll of tape out and combined with elastics and a small garbage bag you are trying to waterproof Jake’s cast. After finally being released from the hospital after 4 days, Jake is in desperate need of a shower. “Then you could use your hand. I’m going to order some from Amazon.”

“Why do vets need gloves that come up to their shoulder?” Jake watches you struggle to carefully tape the edges of the bag to the skin of his arm, fighting with the extra plastic.

“You know the long gloves Ellie wears when she digs in the dino poop looking for West Indian Lilac in Jurassic Park?” Jake blinks at you in confusion, trying to remember. “Vets wear them for a similar reason.”

“Eww.” Jake checks the seal around the tape job you did. “How do you even know that?”

“Remember when I dated a farm boy in university?” Jake nods. He remembers thinking the kid wasn’t good enough for you. “Well in those two months we were together I went and helped them when they preg checked their cows.” You give him a little half grin, “I learned I am not cut out for farm life.” 

You start the shower for him before carefully helping him remove his shirt. You wince when you see the bruises crossing his torso from the seatbelt harness of his jet. The brush of your fingers, featherlight over the bruises, burns before you abruptly leave the bathroom, telling him to call if he needs help. 

Jake sighs and finishes stripping before getting under the spray. Everything hurts and the concussion makes him feel like he is in a fog. His head is a constant dull throb and what he really wants to do is lie down and sleep some more. He holds his left arm hand up at a right angle and does his best to shower mostly one handed. 

Pulling a shirt on seems too difficult so he walks into the bedroom half dressed. You've pulled the curtains, so it is dark and he collapses into the clean sheets. A water bottle and his painkillers lined up neatly on his end table, as well as a few protein bars. 

You’ve thought of everything, you always do, but you seem different since the accident and he can’t figure it out. Every time he tries to think his head begins to ache. You are more clinical, less warm. Maybe it is because he is injured, maybe he is imagining it. 

He thinks back to the morning of the crash. Remembers waking up with you in his arms, how good it felt to hold you and talk to you. The hospital had been so lonely when they wouldn’t let you stay overnight. 

He wanted you to stay in California. He wanted to come home and have you there to talk to, he could always call you before, but living with you was better. He loved watching movies together, cooking together, cleaning, and grocery shopping. Every mundane task was better with you.

He couldn’t ask you to stay. He was too much of a mess. He couldn’t sleep and the guilt of what happened was always there. You didn’t deserve to be pulled into that. He was sure that you would stay if he asked. You and your misguided sense of duty and the belief that you owed him something. But if he asked then he would have to tell you and if he told you you would never look at him the same way.

He must have fallen asleep because the next thing he notices is your voice calling to him gently. His eyes flitter open and he can see you sitting on the edge of the bed. You are beautiful in the light filtering from the hall, and in that moment you take his breath away. “Doctor says you should be up and moving, so come have dinner.” 

When you go to leave he curls his good hand around your arm and revels in the feel of your soft skin sliding through his fingers. When he thinks you are about to slip your hand through his fingers you catch his palm and give a gentle tug and he feels himself following you automatically. 

“This can’t be what you are used to.” You say with a grin as you grab a shirt and help him into it. “Women are probably more keen to take your shirt off.”

“I’ll do anything if it's with you, pretty girl.” The words leave his lips before he can comprehend what he has said. Your sharp inhale makes him want to kick himself. Why did he say that? He never flirted with you. It was a line he refused to cross. 

He can see the flustered look on your face as you stand to go. “Come on flyboy, you must be hard up if you are flirting with me.” He follows you down the hall to the table. That wasn���t completely fair. Why wouldn't he flirt with you? If you weren't his wife he definitely would have tried to pick you up in a bar. 

That evening as you lie down beside him in bed you turn to him. “We have our first meeting with the couples therapist tomorrow, he wants to meet us separately first.” Jake had forgotten about the marriage counseling. “I think we should just say we want to keep our relationship strong, and I don't know, talk about how adjusting to living together is a challenge or something.” He just mumbles an agreement. 

Jake has no idea how the two of you are going to sell being married to a professional. He thinks of all the ways this might go as you slowly drift off to sleep beside him. Once he can hear your steady breathing his mind starts to slow and as he falls asleep he rolls over so he is curled around you. 

When he wakes the next morning he slides his arm across the bed feeling for your warmth but the sheets are cool. You are already gone.  When he gets up he finds you making omelets in the kitchen. 

“The contractor is going to be finishing up the repairs in the ceiling of my room today,” you tell him as you add the cheese. “You will have your bed back, free of my cold toes tonight.” 

“Oh, ok.” Jake doesn't know what to think and it takes him a moment to realize he is disappointed. Last night was the last time he would sleep with you in his arms. He thinks about all the times he left you in the mornings. He shouldn't have run away. He could have just rolled back to his side of the bed and talked to you on those mornings, now he would never get the option. 

You drive to the counselor’s and he spends his time in the passenger seat fighting his motion sickness. It's your turn first and you give him a worried look as you go, as he sits in the waiting room trying to get his head to stop spinning. If he says something wrong in the counselor's office he will just blame it on the concussion. 

When it is his turn you squeeze his hand as you trade spots. He can't help himself as he pulls you into a hug. Jake presses his lips to your hairline. He should hug you more, he thinks. 

You rarely initiate physical affection more than holding hands, and hug only on special occasions. He likes the feel of you in his arms, the scent of your shampoo, and the warmth of your skin. The way you melt into him is overwhelming before you pull away.

The session went well. A mixture of the truth and agreed upon lies slip easily off his tongue. At the end of the session Jake is given the same homework that you received.  

“I want you to come up with a list of all the reasons you are in love with your wife.”

The homework is a fixture in his mind over the next few days. Jake can’t figure out why he keeps repeating the counselor's words in his head. He lists the reasons he loves you. You are smart, funny, tough as hell, your kindness, you are supportive, you are so easy to talk to and you always know what to say, you call him on his bullshit. You are capable. 

He stares at the words he has written and feels they are not personal enough to sell it. You are beautiful, your smile makes his stomach clench, your laughter, you feel so good in his arms, how you being in his life made everything better. He stares at his list as the words play over in his head, ‘reasons you are in love with your wife.’

Jake drops the pen and buries his face in his hands as the realization hits him. “Fuck.” He is in love with you. When did that happen? Was it before you moved in or is it a recent thing? Sometime during the first or second year of the marriage he noticed he loved you. But it had always felt so platonic, a love of friendship, of convenience, and connection.

You have always been beautiful, and, if he was honest with himself, he had always been attracted to you, but with the nature of your relationship he had always locked those thoughts and feelings away. You were untouchable. But in the last month with you sleeping in his bed everything blurred. It didn’t matter when he fell in love, the only thing that mattered was that he is completely and irrevocably in love with you now. 

It is weird to feel terrible about an emotion considered so positive. Jake stares at the closed door to the office where you are working from home. He can never tell you. You had only stayed married due to his inability to process his trauma. 

He felt tainted, like you being with him would somehow mark you too. He didn't deserve you, he didn’t deserve anything good. And he loved you too much to let you be ruined by him. He wouldn't let you give up your life and the love you deserve. Because you need someone who is in love with you unconditionally, someone good. 

The day he had agreed to marry you had told him that you would always be there for him and he had taken advantage of that over the years. Taken advantage of your kindness and good heart. Someone as good and kind as you would never stay married to him. He could never tell you he loved you. He wouldn’t be that guy, the man who thought he was owed something just because he had feelings for a woman. He would let you go even if it killed him. 

– – –

Sleeping next to you didn’t stop the nightmares. They always came at the same frequency, mild ones a few times a week and the bad ones every week or so. What sleeping next to you did was calm him when he woke. Your breaths and the warmth of your skin would ground his mind and bring him back to the present like nothing else could. 

Before you he would never get back to sleep after a nightmare. He would go for a run or go to the 24h gym. He sometimes would mindlessly watch tv or stare at his phone until it was an acceptable hour to get up. In the weeks after the concussion he couldn’t do that. Strenuous activity and screen time were two of the things the doctor told him to avoid. 

Most nights he would just lay in bed. He had tried audio books but he could not focus on them. So he would lie there in the dark thinking about you, and everything that he loved about you, and torturing himself. 

His post concussion nightmares were more intense than any he had before but he still hadn't had a bad one yet. He could feel it coming. Lack of sleep and anxiety tended to trigger the nightmares. Stress also played a role and the night before the second marriage counseling session it hit him. 

Jake’s heart is pounding as he sits up in bed struggling to breath. The nightmares are rarely the same and his mind alway finds ways for his dreams to be somehow worse than what had happened, combining events and reimagining others. 

You died tonight. The person he had killed was you, and even though he logically knew you were fine he needed to check on you. Stumbling, eyes bleary, he walks to your room and pushes open the door. The smell of new paint and construction is almost gone. Leaning on the door frame Jake can see you sleeping and he takes in the sight. 

If he holds his breath and listens he can faintly hear you breathing from the doorway and he can’t help the muffled sob that slips past his lips. You stir and he bites his lips to keep from waking you but it is too late.

“Jake?” You lean up and look at him. “You ok?” he gives a jerky nod, unable to open his mouth. Afraid he would begin sobbing if he did. “Another nightmare?” He doesn’t know how you can tell. Maybe it is written on his face. 

“Come here,” your voice is soft and you open your arms and beckon to him and he is moving his feet before he can think about it. Jake collapses on top of the covers and into your arms, head pillowed on your chest listening to your heartbeat. His eyes flutter closed as you rake your fingers through his hair and down his back. Your gentle movements calm him and steady his mind but soon it is not enough. There are too many layers between you. 

He sits up and motions to the covers. “Can I?” he asks hesitantly, wanting to be able to hold you without the blanket between you. You nod and he slips beneath the covers and returns to his position with his head on your chest. Your hands resume their motions carding through his hair and stroking his back.

It’s still not enough. He sits abruptly and takes his shirt off before lying back down, slotting his body between your thighs and his head on your stomach this time. He needs to feel your skin pressed against his. He eases your shirt up so he can rest his cheek against your stomach. He can hear your sharp inhale but you don't say anything and for that he is grateful. You just go back to smoothing your hands over his bare skin. He doesn’t know how long he lays there with you beneath him, his hands curl around your rib cage as his thumbs smooth over your soft skin. 

After a while of your hands moving over him he feels you pause. “If you want to talk about it, I’ll listen.” He shakes his head in denial, not wanting you to know. But when he feels your nails scratch his scalp and drag down his neck he starts talking. 

“You know the military severely under-reports civilian deaths, right?” There is no change in you. Your hands keep moving in the same rhythm and your breathing is steady. “Every time we drop bombs we kill people and there is a chance we kill civilians. Mostly we don’t think about it. It is easier to drink the kool-aid. Accept the Navy’s narrative. But if you watch the news from other countries they will report it; show videos of civilians killed by American bombs.”

Jake stops talking, wanting you to respond, hoping you don’t. Looking for a clue to stop talking. You don’t give him one so he continues. “I shot another plane down, the first air-to-air kill in three decades. The Navy pinned a medal on me.'' Now that he was talking he couldn’t stop. The words he had never spoken to anyone pouring out. “No one mentioned that after I shot the jet it crashed into this community building. There were families inside. Sixteen people were killed, nine of them were children.

“They gave me a fucking medal for killing children. I saw the footage, the crashed jet and the injured people. There was this man carrying his dead son and I can’t get that out of my head.” Jake feels you shift and he raises his head to look at you but all you do is place a gentle kiss on his forehead before lying back down and resuming your motions. 

“Please hate me.” He doesn't know why he says it; why he needs you to condemn him. As if your condemnation will justify everything he feels.

“No,” you say simply.

“Why not?” he can feel a sob building in his chest. “I fucking deserve it. How can you just learn all that about me and not care?” 

“Javy told me years ago,” you confess, “actually I suspected. It was on the news that an American Navy pilot shot down a plane and what happened, I knew you were stationed in the area and you changed whenever we talked after, so I figured it was you and Javy confirmed it when I asked.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” Jake had been keeping his knowledge and shame bottled up away from you for so long; not wanting to change the way you saw him and to find out you had always known was gutting. 

“I knew you would tell me when you were ready.” 

“You should hate me,” Jake hates the way he sounds. Small, meek, hesitant. “I hate me.”

“I hate that it happened. It breaks my heart for those families, but I can’t hate you for it. You are responsible, but not culpable.” You say simply.

“Then who is to blame if not me?” You don’t have an answer for him, he knows there isn’t one, at least not an answer that will make him feel better. Some things you just have to live with. The tears start to flow down Jake's cheeks in ugly sobs as you pull him closer. He clings to you and finally lets himself grieve. 

[cultofdixon]

What Happens Next

Daryl Dixon • She/Her Pronouns • The archer was given the best news of his life, and one would say he’s one of the more involved in every single thing that has to do with his future child • ANGST/SFW/NSFW • TW: Pregnancy & Birth / Anxiety / Scars / Injuries / Sleep Deprivation • Ignoring Canon, cuz I can

Requested by: Anon

Daryl stared at her dumbfounded and a little taken back by what his wife had just told him. He had to sit down and the silence started to worry Y/N.

He doesn’t…

He doesn’t want this

We should’ve been more careful

Fuck he’s probably mad

What am I supposed to do—-

“Hey…hey…darling, what’s wrong? You’re crying” Daryl frowns as he has risen from his seat when the tears rolled from her cheeks abruptly. He carefully took a hold of her face wiping away the tears that kept falling. “Sweetheart…”

“I should’ve been more careful…”

“Y/N”

“You don’t want this—-“

“Love—-“

“Daryl I’m so sor—-“

“I want this, I want this if you do” Daryl states holding her face as the tears came on faster but no longer from her anxiety. He couldn’t help his own as he wipes the happy tears away before bringing her close in his embrace. “We’re gonna be parents”

“We’re gonna be parents”

First Trimester

“Are you going on the run tomorrow?”

“I’ll have to ask Y/N” Daryl states helping Rick pack up the truck for the overnighters as the retired sheriff gave him a confused look.

“Ask Y/N? Really? You usually never asked her before you did anythin’. Tell her yeah but—-“

“Things have changed. No more worrying of Negan causing hell on us anymore. I ain’t leaving her in the dark of anythin’.” Daryl shuts the trunk before making his way back to the house. “I’ll ask and let yea know”

“Okay…” Rick continues to have some suspicion about what’s hidden behind his words.

As Daryl enters the home he spotted Y/N immediately as she was sitting on the kitchen floor. He quickly ran over to her thinking the worse but she gave him a reassuring look that made him sit with her instantly.

“Are you alright?”

“Just felt icky when grabbing something to eat…had to sit down”

“Quickly I assume”

Y/N hums tiredly in response as she rests her head on his shoulder feeling his instantly rest on hers. “Did you tell anybody yet?”

“Am I allowed to?”

“Yes…but I wanna tell Carol. You can literally tell anybody else but this is my one. And Maggie.”

“If I tell Rick or Michonne what makes yea think they won’t tell others? Rick also doesn’t know how to keep his mouth shut” He laughs making Y/N do so as well snuggling into his side. “He’s going on a run tomorrow, wondered if I’m going”

“What’s stopping you?” She asks as the silence gave her her answer. “Oh, me? I never stopped you before”

“Mm. Told him I’d ask yea if I could go…” By the way he said such, Y/N knew he didn’t want to go. Leave her for too long…she couldn’t help the smile on her face.

“I don’t want you to go”

“Then I’ll stay. Take care of yea”

“Speaking of such…I’m hungry, but I don’t want to lose it instantly”

“I can make yea toast. Prob one of the few things I can make without burning it” He smiles listening to her laugh to such before slowly getting up and offering a hand to help her up but she shook her head. “Still icky?”

“Mhm. Besides I like the view” Y/N winks smiling up at her man while he groaned to the comment.

A few days went by and today was the perfect opportunity to tell Carol. Alexandria took a big hit after the Saviors War along with the Kingdom that they have been going back and forth to help rebuild each other’s communities with the help of others. It was the Kingdom’s turn to come to Alexandria which meant Carol coming by. But Y/N went on an infirmary run with Siddiq to the other communities. This meant Daryl has to bite his tongue from telling Carol.

Even though Daryl’s silent moments that was him biting his tongue, concerned Carol.

“How’s the house holding up?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well this place was set on fire and our first job was fixing the houses. Was wondering how yours and Y/N’s is doing. Anything you add since I’ve moved to the kingdom?”

“Nope” Daryl lied of course because he can’t talk about the nursery they are starting early before Y/N can’t help physically. “Only got the guest room set up for you. That’s pretty much the only thing we did to the place”

“Uh huh” Carol squints at the man waiting for him to reveal more but he didn’t. “Well, the crops aren’t going to take care of themselves and you’re certainly not helping by drowning the potatoes” she had to take the hose away from Daryl since his mind was elsewhere and that made her worry even more.

She was even more worried and a bit suspicious when Daryl stayed outside that night with the universal radio talking to who she assumed to be Y/N.

“You feelin’ alright, darling?”

“Yeah…Maggie made sure I didn’t overwork myself once I told her”

“She happy?…for us?”

“Why wouldn’t she be? She’s a bit surprised it didn’t happen sooner. Given yknow. The times she walked in on us”

“Do I still have to apologize for the first time in Alexandria or?” Daryl smiles listening to her laugh on the other end. “It’s about to get harder to hide certain things. You better get your ass back before I blab”

“You better fucking not Dixon”

“It’s either I—-Or Rick”

Bingo. Carol knew exactly who to go to and it’s the blabber mouth. Rick can keep secrets when it came to death level situations but life? The man will fold.

“Rick!” Carol calls out to the retired sheriff while he was carrying Judith on their morning walk. “Want some company?”

“Uhm. Sure?” Rick sets Judith down as she instantly reached to hold Carol’s hand as well as her dad’s. “What’s up?”

“Daryl is keeping a secret from me and I overheard him last night talking to Y/N on the radio”

“Why are you eavesdropping on the two?”

“Because they are my family and if something serious is happening…I want to know. I’ve lost enough” She knew playing the guilt card will get Rick to fold but Judith, as young as she is, knows when her father is about to fuck something up.

“I WANT MOMMY” She screams and let go of the two’s hands to sprint in the opposite direction they were heading.

“Sorry Carol I gotta—“ Rick gestures to where his kid is running as Carol waved him off.

As Rick catches up to Judith he quickly picks her up once again as she held her hand out. He immediately took out a hard candy from his back pocket giving it to her.

“You’re a life saver”

“Can you open it daddy?”

“Of course, sweetheart” Rick smiles helping his kid on the way back to their house.

Finally, Y/N returns home with Siddiq who on the drive back was telling her about the pre-natals they had and if she ever got too sick to move that she should see him right away. He was freaking her out really with everything he was talking about. The baby book that Maggie gave her already stressed her.

“Siddiq, I love yea. But please shut up”

“Sorry. Did I go too far?”

“Yes…” Y/N sighs laughing after.

Siddiq drove up to the infirmary and parked, Y/N quickly stepped out grabbing her duffle. “Let me get you the vitamins before you head back home, okay?”

As Y/N waited on the porch, it didn’t take long for Daryl to reunite with his partner knowing she would’ve stopped there first. He was also getting restless not being able to tell Carol the news and needed her to tell her. But she looked exhausted when Daryl drew close.

“You alright?”

“Been doing check ups all day…and driving back from the Sanctuary was physically and mentally exhausting…”

Daryl didn’t know one of their stops was the Sanctuary and felt awful knowing she went there. He took her bag for her and the timing was perfect when Siddiq came out tossing the bottle to the archer.

“How many times a day?”

“It says it on the bottle, but should be once. I’d take it around noon” Siddiq advises patting Y/N on the shoulder before going to unload the truck for them.

As the two made their way back to the house, they were welcomed by Carol standing obnoxiously in the middle of the foyer.

“So what’s going on between you two?”

“Daryl didn’t tell you anything right?” Y/N asks watching the confusion grow on her face. “I’ll take that as a yes…but I’m so exhausted…”

“Carol can she tell yea in the morning? It’s nothin’ bad” Daryl frowns rubbing circles on Y/N’s back as Carol’s expression softens before inevitably nodding.

“But if you forget, I will yell at you”

“Promise” Y/N gave her a soft smile approaching her and hugging her family. “I’m so happy you’re here”

After their small moment, Y/N didn’t wait any much longer to climb into their bed and get comfortable. Daryl brought himself to her side of the bed helping her get out of her shoes and her jeans so that she could be more comfortable.

“Yea need anything from your bag downstairs?”

“Mmm. Besides my shorts, can you get me water while you’re down there?” Y/N smiles as Daryl snuck in a quick kiss to her lips before doing such.

As the archer made his way downstairs he spotted Carol at the dining room table where he put Y/N’s bag…and the bottle.

“Shit”

“You fucking hid this from me?! I wouldn’t have reacted badly—-“ Carol stops when Daryl started shushing her. “Excuse me?”

“Y/N wants to tell yea. She even got mad at me about it. She really wants to be the one to tell you that she literally gave me a list of who I could tell and you were off limits. Same with Maggie.” Daryl took the bottle from her and stowed it away in Y/N’s bag. “You can’t say shit”

“Well can I say—-“

“You can say it in the morning when she tells yea”

When he turned toward his best friend he saw the permanent smile on her face as he clenched the shorts Y/N had him get for her.

You’re gonna be a dad Carol mouths to Daryl with her smile following as she held in her squeal to hug him just for a moment before letting him get back to what he needed to do.

The morning came and Carol anxiously waited at the dining room table for the two to emerge. But only Y/N woke out of them and by the looks of it, she woke up to puke and Carol couldn’t help the worried look.

“I’m pregnant”

“I know”

“I’m too tired to kill Daryl”

“He didn’t tell me, love. I found the prenatal bottle in your bag because Daryl wouldn’t tell me anything that I had to investigate. Even Rick didn’t tell me”

“Mmm…that’s impressive” Y/N was a bit proud of Rick for not spilling the beans. Then she started tearing up which lead to her close friend rising to her feet and making her way to her. “I’m so scared Carol…” she sobbed hugging Carol back once she wrapped her arms around her.

“Oh hun that’s normal. Trust me. You are going to be a great mom, and I know that man of yours is going to be a great dad by how over protective he is and the little one isn’t even here yet” Oh Y/N knew that the archer was looming around the corner as he didn’t want to ruin their moment but also didn’t want to leave her alone in case of anything. “Now come on. You go back to sleep and take it easy today. Dad-to-be and I will hold down the fort” Carol directs Y/N back to the stairs as she stopped to hug her husband feeling him tighten his grasp on her kissing her temple.

“Come find me if yea need anything”

“Mhm” Y/N hums happily parting from him to head back to bed.

“You are going to be difficult to ask for help that takes you away from Y/N, huh?” Carol smiles watching Daryl nod. “Then go! I’ll tell Rick you’ll help out later”

The first three months was a breeze even with the morning sickness and overly tired days. Daryl wouldn’t leave when the days were bad even if Y/N insisted he’d do something other than watch her sleep. But he didn’t care. He’d even catch up on some sleep as long as it meant being with her. Carol started visiting more and Maggie would give her items that helped her during her pregnancy with Hershel Jr. She’s honestly relieved that Y/N wasn’t pregnant during all the chaos, all that was happening was just rebuilding the communities. Some part of her really wanted to physically be there but couldn’t for reasons.

“Y/N, Carol is making me read this and it’s already fuckin’ terrifying” Daryl thought something like the prison flu or another asshole threatening their lives would be the thing he worries about. But there’s so much more to it and the new world changes a lot of it.

“You don’t have to read it if it gets too much” Y/N grumbles to herself as she struggles to her favorite jeans on.

“I wanna be prepared. Even if I have no idea what colostrum is…” Daryl stops reading the page he was on when listening to Y/N’s annoyance get louder. He dog-eared the page he was on setting the book down on the dresser approaching his partner to help when he noticed. “Stop. Wear something else”

“I’m working on the farm all day. I want to be comfortable”

“If comfortable is crushing my baby, I don’t want it” Daryl unbuttoned her jeans as Y/N looks at him confused feeling her face flush when he pulled her pants down low enough to show her in the mirror. “You popped”

“Don’t ever say that again” Y/N laughs resting her hands on her small bump feeling Daryl’s gaze burn into her as she took his hand to rest on it. “Your big ass hand makes it look like nothing”

“It’s still somethin’” Daryl couldn’t help his smile forming as Y/N kisses his temple while he continued to hold her bump.

Second Trimester

It was the first deer she has seen in a while, given she usually gets rabbits and squirrels once she learned how to use her bow. Y/N snuck up on the creature perfectly as she readies her bow, the first time she had to readjust given what she was carrying. She took the shot once it was clear and managed to get the deer.

“Yes!” Y/N cheers putting her bow back on her back approaching the downed deer, pulling the arrow out once she put it out of its misery. She heard the walker approaching and given her knelt position it was going to take her a minute to get up but she was going to take it out before it got near dinner.

Then an arrow shot past her taking the walker out as Y/N quickly turns around finding her man had took the shot and gave away his position.

“I told you I could’ve done this alone”

“But yea ain’t alone, and I didn’t make any promise to the peanut. Ain’t leavin’ her alone”

“You really want a girl don’t you?” Y/N smiles ignoring how she felt a second ago to gush over the fact that Daryl really wants a little girl and how cute it was that he did.

“I ain’t calling the baby an it that’s for sure” Daryl scoffs going to retrieve his arrow and help her carry the deer back, and by help, do it himself. “Yea feel anything yet?”

The archer has been reading the baby book given to him non-stop. He’s already protective of those who’s he cares about, and the book only made it 100 times worse because of all the scary things that could happen. But there are good parts. In this regard, the baby kicking.

“I just got to five months. It won’t magically happen instantly”

“I know…but I wanna be there”

“You most likely will. You don’t leave me alone for more than a minute” Y/N laughs quietly as the two got closer to where they’ve been staying for a month. The Sanctuary. Rick had asked Daryl if he could watch the Sanctuary for a few weeks just until they’re comfortable knowing not another Negan will emerge. He also promised Y/N that it would only be a few weeks and then they can be back home enjoying their lives just the two of them before their new addition joins.

It’s been a month and Daryl hasn’t seen anything happen with the ex-saviors but has seen his wife become more anxious the longer they stay there.

“I’m talkin’ to Rick tomorrow about going home. I think the place is fine without supervision. Just as long as someone checks in every now and then…” Daryl frowns looking at Y/N who was actively ignoring the conversation knowing Rick is only going to ask for another couple days. But he was persistent this time. “Y/N. We’re gonna go home. Not have to worry about anythin’ else but gettin’ ready for the little peanut”

She really wasn’t there mentally when Daryl would talk about that. All she did was give him a small smile before hesitantly heading inside the place.

“You can go back if it’s that bad”

“Rick fuckin’ owes me this time. It’s one thing dealin’ with my own shit. But Y/N not saying more than five words a conversation while in this hell, I ain’t having it anymore Carol” Daryl frowns gripping the radio in his grasp as he tried not to lose it while he stepped outside for a moment even if his anxiety was telling him to not leave Y/N. “I need to go back inside”

“You should”

Daryl looks up from his lap finding Carol in the protective gear that Kingdom guards wear as she brought herself to sit beside him. “When did yea—-“

“You’re not the only one with access to that radio.”

“She’s talkin’ to yea and not…Carol if something serious is—-“

“Don’t. Don’t jump the gun. It has nothing to do with her state or the baby. For the most part” Carol set her pack down going through it and handing Daryl a few things at a time. They were all baby related and some clothes for Y/N that would make her more comfortable even if wearing Daryl’s sweaters were enough. “We talk about her and the baby in good terms. Whenever I do bring up the Sanctuary, she goes quiet and doesn’t want to talk about it at all. She doesn’t want to be here. So I am helping y’all get out of here and if whoever has an issue with it, they’ll talk to me”

“Or me. I don’t want Y/N to stress just from being here.” Daryl frowns holding a Fox plush that was in the pile. “Rick should’ve thought this through”

“Mm. He should’ve. But right now? We have our priorities”

Y/N was sleeping uncomfortably in one of the rooms at the Sanctuary as she would wake to every noise she heard and didn’t like being so close to the cells knowing where Daryl has been held captive for weeks. Her anxiety was the worse that night Daryl and Carol decided to sneak her out in the middle of it, the door opening lead to Y/N taking her gun out from under her pillow.

Daryl held his hands up watching Y/N relax but also break out into tears. “Hey…no I’m sorry. Shouldn’t have snuck up on yea or anythin.” He frowns sitting on the side of the bed wiping away her tears. “We’re going home, not waiting for Rick or anybody else for that matter. We’re going now”

“But—-“

“Nah. I need my wife and baby safe, and even if everything is fine here. You don’t feel safe. I need yea safe” Daryl presses his forehead against hers resting his hand on her belly and that’s when it happened. Right at that very second, Daryl suddenly pulls back keeping his hand cemented on her belly as Y/N rests hers on top of his laughing through the tears.

“Timing couldn’t be more perfect”

“Peanut didn’t like it here either” Daryl kept his attention to the movement until it stopped for the time being as he brought Y/N close to hold his family. “We’re gonna be okay. I promise”

Nobody questioned their return, and Rick definitely didn’t bother asking because he knew he’d get chewed out. But a huge part of him was thankful to have them back.

“Daryl told me to check on yea while he’s gone, but by the looks of it…” Michonne enters the nursery. “You’ve been busy” she smiles seeing all the work Y/N had managed to get done.

The walls were already a grey and Daryl found paint cans in one of the garages that matched the shade enough to fix the spots. The one part he didn’t let Y/N do because of fumes. Even though he did try to convince her to let him move furniture but she would yell at him every time he tried. It’s the simple stuff. The closet had the extra supplies, there was a dresser that held the baby clothes Daryl found and hand me downs from Maggie, a basket on top of such that held cloth diapers and burp clothes, a crib, and the rocking chair Y/N was currently sitting in that was gifted to her by someone at Oceanside. There was still much to be done but she was exhausted when Michonne came in.

“He’s on a gas run but knowing my partner he’s going to come back with things. He never comes home empty handed” Y/N shifts a bit getting used to being a growing planet of a human being as she rubs circles on her belly. “Wish he’d be back already”

“You want company?” Michonne smiles watching her friend’s eyes light up to those words.

The party of two became three and then four. That being Rosita joining once she heard a girls night was commencing in some way and Carol joining after she came to visit to do her usual check in on Y/N. Daryl isn’t the only hoverer. At first it was talking about the changes happening in the others’ lives and then the talking became talking and working on the nursery with the directions given by Y/N.

By the end of the night, Daryl came back with Rick as the two were heading toward the Dixon residence.

“You excited?”

“Who wouldn’t be?”

“I was terrified with Carl and that was before the outbreak happened. Then Judith, same feelin’ but with the undead around. Y’all having a kid with the sickos still walking. Just thought you’d be a bit more—-“

“Scared?” Daryl chuckles gripping the strap to his crossbow. “Never said I wasn’t scared and as much as hell continues to surround us, as long as they’re safe and well, our bubble can stay intact.”

“You did seem to be a natural with babies when Judith was small. I know for a fact you’ll be great” Rick pats his brother on the back watching Michonne step out of the residence with a smile on her face and immediately hugging her man.

“Have a good night” Daryl tells the two as he enters his home seeing Carol and Rosita in the kitchen cleaning up their mess but also enjoying dinner. “Hey”

“Hey, look who’s back”

“Y/N misses you. Should go check on her” Rosita states watching Daryl give her a questioning look by how she said such before doing exactly that. Since it was his plan the second he entered Alexandria.

Daryl’s first stop was the bedroom half expecting her to be in bed already. But since she wasn’t there, he knew to check the obvious and he was surprised by the finished nursery. It was very gender neutral even if he was convinced and convinced Y/N that they were having a girl. But he loved everything about it.

“You’ve been busy”

“I had help from my girls” Y/N smiles happily from the rocking chair that now had a blanket resting on the back of it. It had little woodland creatures on it. “Do you like it?”

“I love it, love it even more if you didn’t lift a finger”

“I didn’t. All the moving was done by them and Carol told me off every chance I tried” She laughs leaning forward when Daryl brought himself over leaning into her to kiss her as she met him halfway. “How was your day?”

“Found enough gas for a few more trips. Gonna try Maggie’s alternative and see if we can eventually change to that” Daryl brought himself to sit on the floor beside her enjoying the feeling of her hand running through his hair. “Did get more stuff for her”

“I figured. But you should look at one of the shelves before you bring the new items in” Y/N states watching Daryl get up with a slight groan after having an exhausting day as he goes to the shelves finding some of the plushies but books they found on display.

But there was a solo shelf above the dresser that held knickknacks. He felt a warmth in his chest finding little wooden carvings that represented each member of their family. Crossbow…arrow…sheriff hat…katana…knife…baseball cap…and the last item was a framed Polaroid that the two had taken with their family all the way back to the prison.

“Eugene whittles and got them done perfectly in my opinion. He also felt like he owed me for the time I was three months and he made me cry for an hour” that got a laugh out of Daryl even though he remembers the day perfectly where he didn’t even know his own strength by how he managed to lift the poor guy off the ground for scaring him in thinking he hurt his wife. “I think it’s perfect but we’ll need something temporary to mount them”

“I’ll think of something but they’re fine where they’re at for now” Daryl smiles returning the picture back on the shelf.

Third Trimester

I’m a fucking goddamn planet Y/N thought as she tries to look down at her feet from sitting on the bench at the end of their bed. Seven months wasn’t so bad. Eight is fucking hell.

Daryl came upstairs once he stood at the front door for too long waiting for Y/N. He thought she was right behind her but she wasn’t.

“What’s the matter?”

“I’m huge. My back hurts…and I can’t tie my shoes” Y/N frowns lifting her feet up and setting them down gently as she readjusts from her seated position holding her belly.

“You should’ve just asked for help, love” Daryl knelt down once he got close enough and helped tie Y/N’s shoes feeling her distract herself by messing with his hair. “Why are you even wearing this pair? I got you shoes without laces”

“You found shoes without laces and I forgot where I put them” Pregnancy brain is a bitch. “Why are we doing this again?”

“It’s a walk around Alexandria. It’s five to ten minutes top. You also bugged me to remind you of such the past few days we’ve been doing this” He tried really hard to contain his laugh but his grin was prominent. “Helps the swelling in your legs”

“Sometimes I wish you’d listen to my tired brain over my screaming one from a few days ago”

“When we get home I’ll rub your feet”

“Sold” Y/N stops messing with his hair, fixing it quickly before he stood to his feet holding his hands out to help her off the bench.

Daryl gave her a quick kiss, then one to her bump. He’s been doing that every day since her bump became more noticeable.

It was a cool fall afternoon that the two were walking around Alexandria as Y/N watches all the familiar faces go about their day along with the new ones. This community expanded like the others and her heart swelled over the fact that this little one has a village in case of anything. But boy did her man make sure everything would go smoothly.

“I’m not naming our kid after any dead relatives”

“Middle names are fine. But you also have to give me boy names” Y/N watches her man roll his eyes as she was just preparing for that just in case. “C’mon baby. We don’t know the gender and our already huge list of girl names over power our list of boys that is literally nothing. It could happen”

“It ain’t but fine. What are yea thinking”

“I really like Shepherd”

“Done. That’s the name if we have a boy—-“

“Daryl!” Y/N smacks him in the chest lightly. “Actually come up with one instead of instantly agreeing with me. What would you like for a boy that would be on the same level with your favorite girl names?”

“Robin can go both ways”

“Okay, fair. But come on” Y/N returns her hand to holding Daryl’s as he was silent for a long time before actually thinking of one.

“Andy ain’t bad”

“Short for Andrew? That’s cute. Andrew Glenn Dixon” That sounds nice.

“Mmm. Gregory”

“No” Y/N immediately shot down. “Steven?”

“Not my first option, but an option. Mmm….” Daryl looks around the place thinking something would inspire him as Y/N tugs at him to take a seat at the gazebo. “Josh—Nah that didn’t sound right leaving my mouth”

“I had an ex named Josh in the old world”

“Then that’s a fuck no” Daryl leans back into the bench resting his head on top of hers once she placed herself on his shoulder. “Can we just agree on Andrew or Shepherd for the boy names?”

“Then Robin or Evelyn for our top girl choices” Y/N sighs happily knowing she doesn’t have to stress about that. “Glad we got that covered”

The two were simply enjoying themselves as a party of two for a little while longer. Listening to the wind of autumn…watching life continue even while outside the walls was a scary place…Daryl couldn’t help but think about the future. Would he mess up? Would he turn out like his father? But those thoughts washed away every time Y/N would look into his piercing blue eyes with her beautiful E/C ones. She’s always been the light that lead him back to reality. He knew he’ll be fine with her by his side every step of the way.

A few nights have past since that calming moment, Daryl brought his arm around his love bringing her close even if it meant her back flush against his chest. Y/N shifted slightly in her sleep out of discomfort from the size of her belly and the movement of the baby. She brought her hand on her belly hoping rubbing circles would soothe it but instead the discomfort got worse.

“D…”

“Hm?”

“Your baby won’t stop moving” She sighs feeling Daryl shift behind her enough to bring his hand to her belly. Her hope was dad’s touch would do something but it didn’t.

Daryl got up entirely from the bed moving himself to her side watching the discomfort in her face grow as she tries to hide in her pillow.

“Imma get Siddiq”

“Please don’t leave me…” Y/N sobs feeling his calloused hand brush the hair out of her face before taking care of the on-going tears.

“Hun if you’re in labor we need the doc”

“My water hasn’t broke yet…”

“Y/N. I don’t want to take any chances here” Daryl frowns hating that she was already experiencing a lot of discomfort that they both knew was only going to get worse. “The second it breaks I’m getting Siddiq. But what do you want me to do right now for you? Just name it”

Early stages of labor was mainly discomfort and the body preparing itself. Daryl didn’t like anything Y/N was suggesting they’d do before her water breaks.

Like the walk they were taking at 3AM and Daryl growing frustrated every time Y/N would smack his hand away when he tried to hold her in some way. She was starting to feel crowded in her own person making her stop suddenly in the middle of the street.

“What’s happenin’” Daryl frowns resting his hand on her back as she tensed to the touch. “Y/N. Tell—-“

“Shut up. I don’t want to walk anymore” She groans turning herself around and waddling incredibly slow back to their place.

The sound of a door opening caught the archer’s attention as he quickly noticed Rosita stepping out of the house she shared with Eugene and Gabriel. She looks at the two confused as Daryl tried his best to tell her what was happening with hand gestures. Rosita is a smart woman she caught on without Daryl’s gesturing as she went back inside to get her shoes on and leave to go get Siddiq for the Dixons.

“She’s in the bath”

“Hm. That makes sense” Siddiq rubs the sleep out of his eyes as it was now around five in the morning and her water hasn’t broken yet. “How do we know these aren’t Braxton?”

“The fake ones? She’s in a lot of discomfort. I doubt it’s fucking fake” Daryl frowns his anxiety was spiking his rage slightly. “I gotta check on her. Just. I’ll come and find yea—-“

“I’m already here. I’ll just be on the couch until anything. Okay? But if it gets worse, I have to check her myself to see how dilated she might be”

“Alright” Daryl quickly went back upstairs, surprised Y/N even wanted to be back up there. But it meant having their kid in their bedroom if it comes to it.

Y/N was comfortably uncomfortable in the bath as she didn’t say a word when Daryl entered, only looked at him with tears still blurring her vision.

“How bad is it?” Daryl sat on the edge of the tub taking her hand into his, feeling her crush his hand instantly. “Fucking hell”

“You should’ve told me sooner if you were a big baby.”

“I wasn’t?” Daryl knew her emotions were going to be all over the place, and her anger is starting to get there. “I was premature.”

“You gave me a big ass baby” Y/N squeezed her eyes shut and the grip on his hand got tighter indicating the pain getting worse. These weren’t fake. These were real contractions. “God she’s going to fucking rip herself out of me”

There’s a mental image Daryl is never going to forget, and the man has seen Alien. Okay now it’s worse applying a chest buster to labor.

“Siddiq has to check yea to see how dilated you are”

“Only you can see me fucking naked. I need to get the fuck out and put a shirt on before that happens”

“Are you even ready to—-“

“NO” She snaps wanting to remain in the tub for a little while longer.

Word got out that Y/N was in the early stages of labor and as more of their family entered the living room, the more it progressed. Siddiq had left to get everything he’ll need from the infirmary given this is now happening in their home. Oh what the doc would give for a hospital right about now. He knows what he’s doing but he still feels inexperienced every time.

Y/N wore one of Daryl’s shirts covering most of her as she felt like a tiny person carrying a planet even more now that her water has broke all over their floor. She leans against the bed gripping the sheets trying to distract herself, appreciating Daryl’s hands working their magic on her back to ease the pain while she took deep breathes.

“I hate you”

“Mm. Fair.”

“No don’t agree with me I’m not serious” she started to sob again. Nice job Daryl. “I love you…I love you so much and I’m excited for this chapter but HOLY FUCK DOES IT HURT” she screams as it startled Daryl a bit, especially their friends in the living room.

“I’ve gotcha love” Daryl brought himself beside her resting his head against hers feeling her lean into him. “Just a few more hours and it’ll be all over”

“I can’t…Fucking, I can’t” Y/N sobs into him feeling his arm wrap around her shoulders to bring her closer.

“You’re the strongest person I know. You can, and you will.” Daryl states kissing her temple before helping her back into the bed.

A few hours have passed and Siddiq checked how dilated she was once more before giving Daryl and Y/N a look that it was time. While he got himself prepared, Y/N gave her partner a horrified look.

“I’m not ready”

“Love, it’s time”

“Daryl I’m not ready” She cries. “What if I’m a terrible mom? What if I mess up so bad that she’ll resent me? I-I…”

Daryl squeezes her hand bringing it up to his lips kissing the back of it before resting his forehead against hers. “You’re going to be great. No one is ever ready. I’m scared shitless. But I know I’ll be great with yea, Y/N. We’ll be great. We’ll mess up and take care of it along the way. It’s bound to happen but again, we’ll be great. We have a village. Have each other. I’m right here, sunshine”

His words made her cry even more but in ease. Siddiq was finally ready and bringing the blanket up checking her once more when Daryl got an idea. He kicked his shoes off and had Y/N sit up enough for him to slip in behind her. She instantly presses herself against his chest feeling his hand move to her knees after instructed to do such.

“Okay, push on the next contraction” Siddiq states letting the nature take its course.

Y/N started to get anxious when the contraction hit her like a truck which lead to her pushing given her instruction. Daryl felt her hands grip onto his forearms as he moved one of his hands off her knee a second to grab her hand letting her squeeze the hell out of it while he brought her leg back into position.

“Good. Good” Siddiq made sure everything was happening smoothly. “Only push on the contractions, Y/N. Or you’ll tear”

“I want to push now…” She sobs feeling Daryl rest his chin on her shoulder.

“Just wait love” Daryl squeezes her hand and her knee with the other one as she rests her head against his.

Push

Push.

Push!

It felt surreal, like how the hell did this even happen? How did they manage to create this perfect little human being that was currently crying up a storm on Y/N’s chest…Daryl couldn’t help the tears that breached from his eyes as he watches their little girl sob into her mother’s chest.

“We did it love…”

“You did it, sweetheart” Daryl kisses Y/N’s temple continuing to keep his full attention on their little one. “She’s perfect”

As the day progresses and the news of little Robin Elizabeth Dixon spread through their entire family, the day felt as if it slowed for just a moment. That moment being Daryl holding his little girl for the first time, letting his wife rest as he took care of her.

Daryl hasn’t stopped smiling since he first saw his daughter and how perfect she came out. He didn’t have to worry about losing either of them during the process, and she was a healthy little girl that calmed instantly in her father’s embrace.

“Are you happy, Daryl?” Y/N smiles tiredly watching the two from her spot seeing his smile grow.

“Yeah, yeah I am”

[carolperkinsexgirlfriend]

Steddie Upside-down AU Part 9

Part 1 Part 8

There’s blood on Eddie’s fingers, slowly drying. It’s sticky and red and he wants it gone. But his arm is around Harrington’s waist, helping him limp slowly home. He wipes his free palm on his borrowed jeans, watches red flake onto his thigh, joining the mud stains from the quarry. He can still feel it, no matter how many times he wipes his hand raw.

Harrington’s eerily quiet beside him – Eddie wants to bring him home, but the Harrington mansion is closer. And he would probably appreciate a change of clothes from his own closet.

The driveway looks insurmountable, long and curved like it’s a fantasy road meandering up to a castle. Their footsteps sound nothing like horses and carriages, though, and if Eddie had known that quests would involve so much blood and terror, he wouldn’t have wasted so much time wanting it.

“Home sweet home,” he says, squeezing Harrington closer to him in preparation for the tight squeeze of the front door.

Harrington looks up at the red front door like he’s surprised to find himself there. His brows furrow, and his mouth puckers, but he follows Eddie through the threshold when he nudges him along.

Eddie closes and locks the door behind them, regardless of how futile the whole thing feels. Even the few seconds it might gain them should that thing come for them again might save their lives.

He starts leading Harrington toward where he vaguely remembers a guest bathroom being. That brings about the first signs of life he’s seen from the other boy in hours. Harrington pulls away, stumbling as he takes his own weight fully before Eddie rushes to follow him, wrapping his arm back around his waist.

Harrington heads doggedly toward the stairs. His steps are becoming surer, less of his weight on Eddie’s shoulders, so that by the time they’re at the top of the stairs, Harrington has shrugged himself out of Eddie’s arms entirely. It feels like a loss.

He follows Harrington into his bedroom, stands awkwardly at the threshold of the en suite bathroom as the other boy stands in front of the mirror, grimacing as he tears the hastily applied bandage off and pulls his shirt over his head.

The wound is bloody, punctured deep in the meat just above his armpit, becoming shallower as the claw marks swipe up toward his shoulder an onto his back. It’s ugly, but not as bad as Eddie had thought when he’d been bandaging the wound with shaking fingers and Harrington had gone catatonic in his arms.

Maybe it’s like in Melvald’s with his feet? Harrington’s eyes had gone distant, mind gone until he was like a doll, pliable as Eddie had cleaned and bandaged his feet, trying not to panic. Wayne got that way sometimes – shellshocked and distant across from him at the breakfast table. He explained it to Eddie, once, when he asked.

“Ain’t nothing for you to worry about, boy,” Wayne said, reaching across table to clasp his shoulder comfortingly.

“Are you crazy?” Eddie asked. He’d been thirteen and whiney, testing the boundaries of their shifted relationship. Overnight, he’d gone from visitor to ward, and he’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop, still not realizing there weren’t any shoes at all.

Wayne settled back into his rickety chair, eyes distant, but not in the way where he was somewhere else, just like he was thinking. Eddie shrunk back into his char.

“Sometimes when bad things happen to people,” Wayne said, “they go back there in their minds when nothing’s happening at all.” He enunciated each word in a slow, thoughtful drawl, like he was picking each word precisely to ease Eddie’s worry.

Eddie didn’t ask what had happened to Wayne that was so bad. He learned later that it was war, and sometimes there were bombs and gunshots going off in his Uncle’s head that only he can hear.

Eddie wonders what Harrington’s hearing when he goes somewhere else.

Harrington’s still just staring at the wound, mouth slanted sideways like he doesn’t know where to start. It pulls on something deep in Eddie’s chest. He’s dropping his backpack to the ground and rifling around in it before he’s even thought about it. He pulls out his water bottle and fresh bandages.

Harrington’s eyeing him warily when he stands, finally crossing the threshold. “Got a washcloth?”

He points Eddie toward the cupboard below the sink, seemingly unwilling to bend down and grab them himself. Not that Eddie can blame him. He bends down, nudging the other boy’s thigh until he scooches over enough for Eddie to be able to open the door unimpeded.

Beneath the cupboard is a neat row of cleaning supplies – the name brand shit – and even neater rows of folded towels and washcloths. Must be what it’s like to have enough money for a housekeeper.

He grabs a few of the washcloths and points at the closed toilet like Harrington’s a dog he’s bringing to heel. He gets a furrowed brown in response.

“Sit.”

That probably doesn’t help the whole metaphor, but Harrington does sit gingerly on the lid. His stomach jumps and bunches with movement. Eddie turns his attention toward generously wetting the washcloth with their precious water, pointedly not thinking about what he’s about to do.

Once the washcloth is soaked through, Eddie sits up on his knees, grabbing Harrington’s side to steady himself as he eyes the wound up close. The blood’s mostly dried now. It looks almost black in the dim light of the bathroom. He starts where it dripped away from the wound, near Harrington’s pectoral. It comes off easy, flaking onto the floor like dried paint flakes.

Harrington’s still, like a doll as Eddie moves slowly upward in deliberate strokes, rotating the washcloth as one side gets too dirty and dry to do much good. It isn’t until he reaches the edge of the wound that Harrington flinches. It’s a full body thing, the way he jerks back away from Eddie’s ministrations, hand coming up to clench tightly at his wrist until his fingers turn pink with the trapped blood unable to flow back out toward his heart. It tingles immediately. Eddie shakes out his fingers, trying to find some relief from the pins and needles.

Harrington drops his wrist with a quick, “shit, sorry.”

Eddie clenches his fist a few times to get the feeling back. “No harm done, Harrington.”

“We almost died together,” Steve says, like it’s funny. Maybe he’s just hysterical. Eddie could get behind that. He left safe and sane behind about ten stupid decisions ago. “Call me Steve, man.”

“The call me Eddie, man.”

Steve laughs, hair flopping into his eyes. It looks greasy, destroyed of its usual coiffed state from blood and sweat and ash. It’s fucking gross. Eddie has the insane urge to reach out and tuck Steve’s hair behind his ear. It’s not even long enough for that.

“May I?” Eddie asks, holding up the washcloth in offering.

When Steve nods, Eddie moves to continue cleaning him up, being as gentle as possible.

Steve clenches his hands on his knees, knuckles turning white with pain, which effectively kills any of Eddie’s unwanted feelings about being this close to King Steve’s naked chest.

Once he’s scrubbed all the blood he can, the wound is still staring up at him, an angry pink surrounding it from all the scrubbing. That’s normal, right? Eddie’s pretty sure that’s normal and doesn’t indicate some horrible bizzarro world infection is starting to set in.

“Should we like sanitize it?” Harrington asks, as if he was thinking the same thing.

“You got rubbing alcohol?” Eddie asks. “Nail polish remover? Vodka?”

Steve stares into the distance for a second, like he’s thinking about it, before he’s levering himself up, assisted by a hand on Eddie’s shoulder. Eddie stays there, crouched in front of the toilet as Steve walks out of the room.

Should he follow? Where is he going? Is he coming back? Will that thing get one of them if they separate? If it gets Steve, will he even know what happened or will he just be doomed to keep looking for him?

That’s the thought that makes him jump up, following in Steve’s wake like there’s a string tied around both of their throats, keeping them from getting too far from each other. Eddie’s not sure he wants to get ride of the string. Not here. Not now.

He follows the sound of footsteps on carpet into a larger, more opulent, but equally empty bedroom, and into another en suite bathroom. Fucking rich people.

He finds Steve there, rifling through a medicine cabinet that must belong to his parents. His shoulders are tense, like he, too was waiting for some monster to come and eat them both. They relax when he retrieves a nearly full bottle of nail polish remover. He grabs Eddie’s wrist on his way out of the bathroom, dragging him along until they’re back in his own bathroom, Steve once again seated on the closed toilet lid.

Steve uncaps the bottle, seems to brace himself for pain, before handing it over to Eddie with a sigh.

Well, alright then. Guess he’s seeing this through to the end.

He pours almost half the bottle directly onto Steve’s open wound just as the other boy bites his lip. What might’ve been a scream instead comes out as a muffled yelp.

“Sorry, sorry, sorry, shit sorry!” Eddie says, yanking the bottle back. “I’m done!”

Harrington glares at him, hands clenched like he’s going to throw a punch. Eddie hastily puts the bottle down, holding up his empty hands like he’s placating a wild animal. They stare at each other in tense silence until Harrington sags into himself, hands lolling down into his lap.

“Thanks,” he sighs, closing his eyes.

“Anytime.”

Eddie bandages the wound with clean shit still in his pack, hoping to keep it contained and infection free. Steve stays slumped, eyes closed the whole time. Eddie almost things he’s asleep, but once he’s done, his eyes open, gaze drifting down to the mostly empty water bottle by Eddie’s knee.

“We used too much water.”

“We’ve got plenty left,” Eddie says with a forced smile. They do have enough for a while, but Eddie never wants to go back to the quarry again, if he can help it. Nothing like blood red water to drive home the unreality of the situation. “Besides, that’s tomorrow’s problem.”

“Who says it’s not tomorrow now?” Steve asks, shoving his shoulder playfully.

“Well, if it is, I’m beat, man,” Eddie replies with only a slightly forced yawn. “We should sleep.”

He doesn’t question it when Steve leads them to the closet again, this time dragging a blanket and a couple pillows along with him. He shifts his eyes to Eddie, as if waiting to be taunted. Eddie keeps his mouth shut, laying down head to feet with Steve Harrington without a word.

“Night, Eddie.”

“Night, Steve.”

They sleep.

Part 10

[aphroditeinthesea]

can you do connor stoll x reader where the reader got to camp a month ago and they havent talk yet. there personalities are both loud and defined and over time they become really good friends. then they start to realize they like each other as more then friends... but the reader is a child of Poseidon and has to leave with the argo two.

“ i’m such a fool for you ”

connor stoll x daughter of poseidon 🐍

reader comes to terms with feelings for her best friend while trying to deal with the disappearance of her brother

tw none

✩₊˚.⋆☾⋆⁺₊✧

Y/N found herself befriending the younger of the Stoll brothers after a prank he had pulled on her only a little after she had arrived at camp. On a morning where her brother had left the cabin early, so she was alone in cabin 3, she found her cabin surrounded by cups of water as she tried to leave. At first she thought she thought this was the dumbest prank to pull on her, after all, she could control water. However, when she tried to empty the cups, the water wouldn't budge. No matter how hard she tried, the cups stayed still, unaffected. She began to panic, wondering if she had somehow lost her powers overnight. So, she grabbed the cup closest to her, just to find that it wasnt water at all, just clear jello.

“Hey, L/N!” she heard called. She looked up to find Connor Stoll standing in front of her, holding a cup identical to the ones that surrounded her, “how’re the water works going?”

She huffed, “Did you two do this?!”

“Actually,” he smiled, “I did this one myself.”

“Good to know,” she watched him take a sip of his cup, “by the way,” she began.

“What?” He asked before his drink was entirely splashed onto his face.

“You're cleaning this up, Stoll.”

Despite her initial annoyance, she had to admit the cleverness of it. She only wished she could find a way to return the favor.

Which she did, as she was somehow able to get Travis on board. During a game of capture the flag, she snuck back to camp and hid in the Hermes cabin, where after the game, while everyone was still celebrating the winning team, Travis would tell Connor they needed to talk in private.

She watched Connor follow behind his brother as they walked in, “dude, is it something serious or like-” Before he could finish, a puddle of water that had been floating above him, poured down like a rainstorm.

“So,” Y/N laughed, walking over to him, “how’re the water works going for you?”

He wiped his eyes, “good one, L/N,” he sarcastically sighed.

She nodded, beginning to walk out of the cabin, “by the way, thanks for the help, Travis!”

“You helped her?!” She could hear Connor exclaim on the other side of the door as she giggled to herself.

The joy of her revenge was short lived though. The day after, she found her older brother to be missing.

She sat on the sandy beach, asking her father for help, but hearing nothing in response. She tried to calm her anxieties by drawing circles in the sand.

“Y/N?” She heard a familiar voice call from behind her.

She took a deep breath before forcing a smile and turning her head, “hey, Stoll.”

“I heard about your brother,” he sat down next to her.

She nodded, “yeah, I’m sure he’s fine, but still…”

He bit his cheek, “you know, if you weren't all upset and everything, I would have totally gotten you back for yesterday.”

She chuckled, “You’d really start a prank war with me?”

“You bet,” he smirked.

“Try me.”

So then on, the only thing that could cheer her up through the months that her brother was missing was the same person who annoyed her most. Or so she said.

“Seems like Annabeth’s pretty stressed about that one shoe boy, huh?” Connor mentioned as they walked through the forest.

“Yeah,” Y/N answered. She didn't want to admit how hopeful she was about the prophecy. She was sure there were lots of demigods who could lose a shoe, gods know she has plenty of times.

“Pretty embarrassing for him though,” he joked, “you get back to camp after months and you're a mess.”

“Connor,” she spoke as she stopped walking.

He paused, “yeah?”

“I know it’s not gonna be my brother,” she added, “I just know. And I really just don't wanna think about it right now.”

He nodded, “oh, sorry,” he awkwardly responded, “but you gotta admit, it’d be embarrassi-”

She grabbed a stick off the ground and poked him in the side, “shut up.”

He raised an eyebrow and grabbed his own stick, “make me.”

“You!” She yelled, trying to stab him with the stick again, but he instead began running.

He ran backwards, looking back at her, “you have to admit, I’m pretty fast.”

“You're such an idiot!”

“What do you mean-” he asked right before slamming his back into a tree.

Y/N cackled as she reached him, “that’s what I mean,” she smirked, poking him with the stick.

“Kick me while I’m down, that’s real nice.”

She smiled and helped pull him up. She lingered her grip on his hand for a little too long before letting go, but she noticed his hand not even budge enclosed in her fingers. They both awkwardly stayed silent for a moment, feeling like there was something on the tip of their tongues that they both wanted to say.

“Y/N!” Annabeth’s voice rang through the forest. Annabeht stopped as she stared at the two of them, “Y/N, he’s here, come on.”

Y/N nodded, “right,” she began walking towards Annabeth, “see you later, Connor,” she waved.

He stood still for a moment, “bye.”

She walked alongside Annabeth, trying to shake the feeling in her chest.

“Let me get this straight,” Connor questioned. He was in the middle of training with Y/N when she told him about the plan, “you’re going to the Roman camp with Annabeth, Jason, Piper, and Leo?”

She nodded, resting her sword down, “yeah.”

He shook his head, “you can't just go like that, L/N.”

“What?” She breathily laughed, not believing what he had just said, “it’s my brother, I have to go with them.”

He ran his fingers through his hair, “but that’s- what am I supposed to do with that?”

“You have friends other than me,” she replied, “this isn't about you, Connor.”

He sat down on a nearby bench, “I know but…”

She sat next to him, “but?”

“Y/N,” he egan, “I’ve been really wanting to tell you something and I can’t yet.”

She nudged his shoulder, “you're my best friend, Connor. Come on, hit me.”

He sighed, “you're really going?”

“Yes,” she muttered, “now, will you just tell me?”

He stood up, “can we talk somewhere else?”

“Alright,” she obliged. He suddenly grabbed her hand and led her away. She might’ve said something if she didn't enjoy the feeling of his hand in hers so damn much. When he walked into her empty cabin she knew whatever he had to say was important.

He hesitantly let go of her hand, “Y/N, I- uhm- I really, really like you,” he whispered, “I get that you have a lot going on right now, but-”

She smirked, grabbing his face and kissing his lips. She couldn't tell how long this went on. All she knew was that he immediately relaxed into the kiss, his hands finding her waist to pull her closer to him. She knew that she could feel his lips curled into a smile that mirrored her own.

When they pulled away, their faces were still only centimeters apart and a trail of saliva reached between their lips, “I kinda like you too, Stoll.”

He just smiled even more, quickly pulling her into another kiss.