Specialties: Hand-to-hand combat (strengths in mixed martial arts and Muay Thai), long distance shooting, endurance and speed
Age: 26 years
D.O.B: October 23rd (Scorpio)
Pronouns: He/Him
Nationality: Irish
Birthplace: Killarney, County Kerry, Ireland
Sexuality: Homosexual
=================================
Physical Info
Height: 5â2â
Blood Type: O+
Appearance:
(Art commissioned by me, artist is 10bcy on Twitter + Bluesky. Do not use this art for any purpose, public or private, as I paid for it only for my use and only of MY character.)
Ripley is a lithe young man with sufficient muscling along his arms and legs due to extensive exercise. He is covered in pale vitiligo patches and prominent freckles, as well as a series of scars. He has curly, mottled brown hair and a pair of vibrant green eyes. He has tattoos on his chest, left hand, and left ankle.
=================================
Personality Info
Analysis:
When not on a mission, Lapdog is quiet with no sugarcoating his words. Blunt to the point of being at fault, heâs made many people dislike him from speaking without a filter - though thankfully so far none of which have been his superiors. His words are laced heavily with sarcasm more often than not when he speaks, and he has a pessimistic point of view. Ripley is quite guarded due to trauma relating to the loss of K9-Force, as he subconsciously believes that getting close to anyone on the field with him will result in their death. He is easy to anger and hard to cool off, with a stubborn streak a mile long, and a questionable set of morals.
Likes: Animals, salty foods, nature, rock music, exercise
Dislikes: Spicy food, large bodies of water, anime/manga, lazing around
Hobbies: Running/hiking, martial arts, cooking
=================================
About the Writer/Player:
âSydâ || 25 || she/they || Minors DNI
Hello hello! Iâm Syd, and Iâve been in the COD fandom for a little over two years. My interest was piqued with TT edits of Soap and Ghost from the Modern Warfare 2 reboot. Overall, Iâve only played two COD games: MW 2 Reboot and Ghosts. I am an avid roleplayer that only works part time due to my disabilities, and I made this account to search for roleplay partners as well as to promote my AO3 account where I write COD fanfic. I have very few rules, but I do ask this:
-Please do not use any of the art I have shared of my character. Iâd prefer you not to even save it to any of your devices. I share these pieces with the goal to promote the artist, and share what my character looks like. These images are not for anyone but myself to save, share, or use. They are exclusively of my original character.
-Please do not interact if you are a minor. I am an adult and prefer to keep my company with adults as well, and I discuss topics not fitting for minors to address with adults. This is an NSFW-enjoying account.
-This is not a safe place for hate speech. No racism, sexism, transphobia, homophobia, etc. will be tolerated here.
Shoutout to @sgm_dingoprescott for the inspo on the intro post! This format was 99% inspired by them.
PSA: new type of bots plaguing AO3âs comments section.
as obvious as it is that these are all bots/scam, I believe there are still people who believe they are legit and fall victims to these trolls. so if you get a comment like these, donât panic, donât delete your works. they are all bots. youâre fine.
I am looking for 2-3 people willing to beta read my slow burn canon x original character fanfiction that takes place in the Call of Duty: Modern Warfare universe. The first eleven chapters are posted on AO3 and can be found here:
The Edge We Stand on is a polyamorous romance between John âSoapâ MacTavish, Simon âGhostâ Riley, and Ripley Barnes (my original character). If you like themes of found family, hurt/comfort, and the overall Call of Duty: Modern Warfare world, you may just like this fic!
I am tentative to declare that it is a representation of anything, but I do hope to touch on topics such as being LGBTQ+ in the military, the reality of trauma and the difficulties of working through it, and how to navigate relationships.
It may have some military inaccuracies, but if youâre knowledgeable in the military and can reduce those, thatâs a huge bonus.
As it is currently, TEWSO is almost 42k words in its first 11 chapters, and theyâve only known each other the length of half of the first game. All foreseeable chapters would preferably be beta read, but for now chapter 12 is 5k on the rough draft. I will probably not be able to be too frequent of an authorâmaybe one or two chapters a month if my health allows it.
I'm looking for a unicorn of an RP partner to play both Simon "Ghost" Riley and John "Soap" MacTavish from the Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 remake! Iâd also be so grateful to find someone comfortable with playing the full task force (Nikolai included). I know this is a bit of a hard search, as I do not double.
I am a semi-literate to literate 25 yr old roleplayer with 12+ years of experience looking for 18+ partners only! I write exclusively in third person, and would prefer you do the same. The goal is for long term RP, and I do prefer to write via Discord. There is a potential for smut here, so thereâs that warning. As the franchise is military based one can assume there will be related adult themes (war, injuries, cursing, etc.).
I have a LOT of free time on my hands, so ideally I would love a partner that can post at least once a day. I understand life happens and the muse can be challenging, though!
As for what Iâm hoping to write, Iâm very flexible. I do like to do canon divergent settings with new partners to get a feel for our writing styles, but I am very open to AUs!
I also have very few limits, but I am very happy to discuss them upfront.
My OC is a sergeant and sort of a combination role in his task force as a sniper and canine handler! He has a thought-out backstory, a visual reference commissioned by me to an artist, and many pieces of art depicting him. I am happy to provide a link to his information upon connection!
I'm looking for a unicorn of an RP partner to play both Simon "Ghost" Riley and John "Soap" MacTavish from the Call of Duty Modern Warfare 2 remake! I know playing canon characters isnât fun for everyone so I know Iâm looking for a shot in the dark here, especially because I do not double.
I am a semi-literate to literate roleplayer with 12+ years of experience looking for 18+ partners only! I write exclusively in third person, and would prefer you do the same. The goal is for a long term RP. There is a potential for smut here, so thereâs that warning. As the franchise is military based one can assume there will be related adult themes (war, injuries, cursing, etc.).
I work part time and have a LOT of free time on my hands, so ideally I would love a partner that can post at least once a day. I understand life happens and the muse can be challenging, though!
I have a vague idea of what I would like to do / where to start within the game for a canon-divergent RP. I'm looking for relationship development combined with action, angst, and sexual themes (when the time is right). I'm looking for a healthy poly dynamic for the canon divergent RP, even if it has a rough start. No toxic masculinity or toxic relationships for that dynamic, please.
We can also do AU settings, as I have ideas for those as well! I tend to end up doing canon first as an icebreaker with new partners, then branch out to AUs as we get comfortable with one another! Right now my biggest craving is an Outlast COD AU!
My OC is a sergeant and sort of a combination role in his task force as a sniper and canine handler! He has a thought-out backstory, a visual reference commissioned by me to an artist, and many pieces of art depicting him. I am happy to provide a link to his information upon connection!
personal opinion but, in fandom space, ai generated works are not fan-created contents. because a soulless robot cannot be passionate about something nor can it be âa fanâ of something the way human artists are
things some people, especially people who are new to ao3 or fandom/fanfic space as a whole, seem to not understand:
archive of our own is an archive. not a social media.
archive of our own was built with the stance that there would be no censorship, because other platforms already had censorship where some things that were taboo were reported/removed. ao3 was built with the purpose that all of these works, that were not allowed on other platforms, would be allowed on ao3.
the archive will house anything thatâs considered fanworks. so no, you cannot report this fic because it portrays in explicit details taboo topics about xyz, you cannot report that fic because it romanticizes and glorifies xyz. ao3 will not remove any of those fics, because whether or not you like it, those fics do not go against ao3âs terms of service.
âbut these things are not allowed on other platformsâ thatâs precisely why ao3 was created, to house and give a platform to these things that were censored/banned/removed from other platforms.
if you have a problem with this, you can use other platforms to post and read fanfics
but you should also know that ao3 by far has the best tagging system, meaning you wonât get anything like what ao3 provides on other platforms, meaning it may be a pain in the ass for you to find a fic with the prompts and pairing youâre looking for, meaning you may still get jump scared by things that are triggering to you half way through your reading of what you thought was an innocent fic. because other platforms donât have tagging systems, where you can find and avoid any character/pairing/tag as you please, like ao3.
OOC: This is an older story that I have already put on Ripleyâs Toyhouse page, but I was revisiting it and thought I would share it here!
TW: Sexism, religion, animal death + the processing of a game animal
Aideenâs father had never been the loving type.
A rugged man of few words and fewer soft actions, he had little interest in raising his daughters and poured his attention into producing strong sons. He spent his Sundays in church and kept a bible on top of his fireplace to read to his family every evening.
It was late fall when she made up her mind to approach her father. The annual family hunt was coming the very next day, and she had no intention of being left home.
He was sitting comfortably in his chair in their small cabin home, his stern face pulled into a tight expression as he read the newspaper clutched within his big, rugged paws. His belly was full from a hearty dinner that the matriarch and their daughters had spent the day tending to, and he had overall seemed to be in a pleasant mood that night. Aideen lingered in the doorway to his study, watching the way the flames in the firepit danced back and forth. Her eyes followed every sway as if she could read them and figure out what it was that her future held. One hand was curled into the material of her beige nightdress, gripping it tightly, her knuckles turning pale.
In his chair, her father shifted slightly and cleared his throat. Aideenâs bright green eyes flickered to him, then the flames, then him again. âWell, go on then, state yer business. Donât be gawkinâ at mah back,â he called without turning his head, lifting a large hand to usher her forward. Aideen shuffled her feet for a moment before easing forward, slowly coming around her fatherâs chair, her fingers lacing together in front of her stomach. She swallowed hard, finding her mouth dry and her pulse racing. Her heart slammed so violently against her small chest that she worried it would burst out and onto her fatherâs lap.
Still, she straightened, raising her chin slightly. âWill ya take me huntinâ this time, Da?â
She saw her fatherâs brow twitch, raise, then furrow. âHuntinâs no place for a girl.â
Her hands balled into fists at her sides. âI can shoot,â she countered, nearly flinching beneath his gaze when it was directed at her. âI can. Been practicinâ out back meself.â
Aideen watched as his chest rose with a deep, disappointed breath. He folded the newspaper in his hand once, then twice, and placed it down on his leg. His exhale ruffled the little hairs she could see sticking out of his nostrils.
âIf youâre up âfore the sun, be ready. I wonât be waitinâ.â
There was a moment of pause as Aideen processed his words, her eyes widening at the idea. Then she was grinning, her cheeks quickly starting to hurt with the almost foreign positioning. âThank ya, Da! Thank ya!â
His lips twitched and pulled downward, into a deep frown. He snatched his paper with a gruff grunt, tugging it back open and burying his nose between the pages. âA girlâs place isnât out there with a rifle.â
She decided not to press her luck, nodding once to him before tiptoeing out of the room, desperate not to change his response. The curly-haired brunette passed her mother, flinching downward slightly as she did so, and then she disappeared into the room she shared with her sisters.
As soon as she was sure that her daughter was out of earshot, Aideenâs mother eased into the study, drying her hands on an old towel. âTell me ya didnât mean it.â
He had occupied his hands now with an aged wooden pipe and a patch, working to light the tobacco inside. âMean what?â
âAideen. The hunt.â
âShe asked.â
âSheâs a girl, Seamus! And ya know sheâs not right,â the matriarch chastised exasperatedly.
âSheâs still mine.â
âJesus, Mary, and Joseph! What will people say?â
Seamus lifted his chin slightly, pushing himself up from his chair and standing tall. He had never, and would never, lay a hand on his wife. That didnât mean he didnât use his imposing figure to his advantage in disagreements, though. âWhoâd be askinâ?â
âAnyone with eyes, Seamus. Your daughter, in trousers and boots, goinâ on like a lad? Ya want the whole parish talkinâ? Ya want Father Byrne hearinâ about this?â
His hands balled into fists at his sides. âSheâs not goinâ huntinâ with the parish.â
BrĂd stared at him for a long moment, then folded the towel and draped it over her arm. Despite her husbandâs large frame towering over her, she didnât seem intimidated. Instead, his attempt seemed to irritate her further. âSheâs a girl. Covered in mud and haulinâ a rifle around? Good Lord, the neighbors will talk.â
âShe wonât be the first child to walk behind her da,â Seamus countered.
âSheâll be the first girl! And donât think I didnât see the way she looked at ya after. Like sheâd been given a crown.â
Seamus said nothing.
âYa wanted me to spend time with her,â he uttered finally, quiet.
âNot like this. Not takinâ her out where sheâs no business beinâ. The forestâs for men, and menâs work. Whatâs next? Ya teach her to gut the kill? To carry a blade?â
She turned her back to him, resting her palm on the doorframe like she needed something solid. Her voice dropped, bitter and low.
âItâs not decent.â
The fire crackled behind them. A gust of wind whispered against the shutters, lifting a curl of ash in the hearth.
Seamus didnât argue. He watched the coals shift.
BrĂd glanced once toward the hallwayâwhere the girl lay further down, no doubt wide awake, holding hope in her small handsâand then back to her husband.
âYa let her out that door tomorrow, and ya mark me: sheâll start thinkinâ she belongs in that world. And once a girl gets the wrong notion of herself, itâs the devilâs work gettinâ her back.â
He looked at her then. Something flickered behind his eyes. Not anger. Not shame. Just the immovable weight of a man who had long since made peace with his own silence.
âSheâll come if sheâs up,â he said. âIf not, it ends there.â
She stared at him for a moment, her lips curving downward into a scowl, and then she threw one hand up in defeat. Making her way back into the kitchen, she went back to work washing the dishes, shaking her head to herself as she did so.
It was somewhere between late in the evening and early in the morning when Aideen stirred. She glanced over to her sisters, still sleeping soundly in their beds, before she began to ease out of her own. Her long brunette hair fell in wild curls around her, framing a soft, spotted face decorated in thick freckles and pale patches. Her feet were careful as they landed on the wooden floor, mindful of the one floorboard that was notorious for groaning. Making her way to the small wardrobe at the front of the room, she tugged one of the drawers open, fishing around in the dark for a pair of pants and an old t-shirtâboth of which she inherited from one of her brothers.
Aideen made quick work of changing her clothes, tugging her boots on and shuffling out of the bedroom, down the hall. The house was quiet, the fireplace cold, her parentsâ bed on the loft above the rest of the small home occupied by only one body.
Her father was sitting beside the door, rifle slung over his shoulder and his calloused fingers working at the laces of his boots. He didnât look up when Aideen stepped in front of him, though he did heave a heavy sigh, as if only mildly surprised that his daughter had woken up on time. âYouâre up, then.â
âAye,â she replied, her voice thin in the cold. She stepped on the tips of her toes, her boots stiff and too big, and reached for a coat that was much the same. The girl had been smart and stuffed the toes of her boots with old rags to keep them from slipping off. âDidnât sleep much.â
âThatâs the way of it,â he muttered.
Without fanfare, he reached for a small bag resting on the old wooden bench beside him and handed it to her. Inside was a heel of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a strip of dried meat, all wrapped in a linen cloth. Aideen took it carefully, as if it were something sacred.
âShould I carry anything else?â she asked.
âNo,â he said. âJust your feet for now.â
She nodded, gripping the bag tighter. Her gaze lifted toward the upstairs loft, where she could make out the foot of the large bed in the darkness.
âMamâs still sleepinâ,â she offered.
âBest she stays that way.â
Seamus led the way out of the cabin, holding the door open for Aideen long enough for her to slip through it. With care that didnât match his large stature, he made sure not to slam the door, starting to cross the yard in steady strides. As he did so, he checked the chamber of the rifle, quiet and methodical, then slung it over his back. Aideen trailed behind him, unsure of what to do with her hands as she clutched the small snack pack. He stopped by the shed, opening it and grabbing a small box of ammunition off of the table nearby.
Seamus turned and offered her a pair of leather glovesâhis, clearly, cracked and far too big. They smelled of oil and sweat and earth. She pulled them on anyway. They swallowed her fingers whole, but she didnât complain.
âIs it⌠hard?â she asked as he latched the shed door. âKillinâ, I mean?â
He glanced at her. Not long. Just a flick of the eyes. âItâs not meant to be easy.â
She hesitated. âBut ya donât cry or nothinâ.â
âThatâs not the same as not feelinâ it.â
He adjusted the strap of the rifle on his shoulder, then looked down at her for real this timeâface unreadable.
âKeep close,â he said. âStep where I step. And no chatterinâ. The woods donât care for talk.â
âI will,â she promised, chest tight with nerves and pride.
They walked in silence beneath the still-barren trees, the fog hugging close to the ground like breath trapped in a cupped hand. The frost hadnât yet melted from the branches. Every step crunched softly beneath their bootsâmoss, leaves, scattered needles. Aideen did her best to step in the prints her father left behind, but her legs were shorter and her balance not nearly as sure. The forest felt both larger and smaller than she expected. Close, quiet, watchful. The kind of silence that pressed in behind the ears.
Her father didnât speak. He didnât have to. When he crouched beside a gnarled spruce, she crouched too. When he raised his hand, she froze. When he moved again, she followed.
They walked like that for what felt like hours but couldnât have been. Her boots chafed at the heels and her breath steamed in the cold, caught and thrown back at her by the trees. Every so often, her father would pause and glance downâat a print in the mud, a bend in the grass, a tuft of fur snagged on bramble.
It was like watching him read.
He stopped by a patch of churned soil, kneeling low. Aideen hovered just behind him, careful not to crowd. He ran his fingers along the printâdeep, cloven, the edges fresh and clean.
âRoe buck,â he murmured. âNot long gone.â
He touched two fingers to a pellet nearby, lifted it slightly, and dropped it.
âStill warm.â
Aideen said nothing. Her chest was poundingânot with fear, but with the sheer weight of trying to do everything right. She wanted to ask how he could tell. How he knew where to look. But the words dried up behind her teeth.
They moved again, more carefully now. Her fatherâs pace slowed, his shoulders low. He walked in a soft, slanted rhythm, keeping to brush and rock, avoiding the dry patches that crunched too loud. Aideen did her best to mimic it, but she wasnât built for silence. A stick cracked under her foot. He turned his head slightlyâjust enough to noticeâbut said nothing.
Eventually, he pointed to a narrow break between the trees ahead. There, past the veil of fog and bramble, movementâso subtle she thought she imagined it. But then she saw it: a ripple of muscle, the flick of an ear, the slight rise of steam from breath in the cold.
The buck was there. Not far.
Her father didnât raise the rifle. Not yet.
He crouched again and nodded for her to do the same. She lowered herself slowly, awkwardly, knees creaking against the cold earth. Her gloves bunched under her fingers, and a beetle crawled out from beneath a rotted log beside her boot.
They waited.
Not a word between them. Just breath, and fog, and the slow rhythm of blood in her ears.
Her father didnât speak. He only looked at her, then slipped the rifle from his shoulder and held it out, flat across his hands like an offering.
Aideen blinked. The air was still, the only sound the creak of trees shifting in the breeze. She stared at the rifle, then up at him. He gave a single nod.
Her fingers twitched inside the too-big gloves. She took the rifle, heavier than she expected. Solid. Cold. She settled it awkwardly into the crook of her shoulder, unsure if she was doing it right. Her father adjusted her stance with quiet, exacting pressureâa firm push to her elbow, a nudge behind the knee. He crouched beside her, breath misting beside her cheek.
âThere,â he whispered, so low she felt it more than heard it.
The buck stood framed between two trunks, dappled by mist and the faintest blush of dawn. Its coat was dark along the spine, legs long and spindly. A single ear flicked back, catching some noise in the distance. It didnât know they were there.
Aideen held her breath. Her heart beat so loud she was sure it would spook the thing.
Her finger hovered over the trigger. The sight wavered slightly. She blinked, breathed in, tried again.
Her father said nothing.
She squeezed.
The crack of the rifle tore through the forest like a whip. Birds burst from the branches in a shriek of wings.
But in that instantâjust after the trigger broke, before anything fellâtime slowed. Or maybe stopped altogether.
The buck turned its head.
Not in panic. Not even in pain.
It looked at her.
Its eyesâblack, glistening, ancientâmet hers with a stillness that didnât feel natural. She could see its ribs beneath the skin, the soft wet edge of its nose, the slow blink that happened just before its legs collapsed.
It was alive.
Aideen had never truly understood what that meant until the life began to leave it.
The buck staggered once, sharp and sudden. Its front legs buckled first, then the hind. It crumpled into the frost-laced moss with a quiet thud. Steam rose from its flanks as it shuddered, then stilled.
Silence returned to the woods.
Her arms shook. Not from the recoilâshe barely felt thatâbut from something else entirely. Something hot and thick rising in her chest like it didnât belong there.
She looked at her father, expecting somethingâpraise, pride, a word, even just a nod.
But he didnât look at her. He was already rising, already moving toward the kill.
Aideen stayed crouched a moment longer, rifle cradled in her hands, staring at the place where the buck had fallen. A patch of red now stained the white moss. It wasnât bright like paint. It was dark, thick, seeping slow.
She swallowed hard. Her breath misted in the air and vanished.
The woods didnât care for talk.
And neither did her father.
So she stood, wiped her nose with the back of her glove, and followed.
The buck lay on its side in the moss, steam still rising faintly from its body. Its eyes were open, fixed on nothing, glassy and wet. Aideen stood a few feet back, the rifle now slung awkwardly across her chest. Her gloves felt heavy. Damp, maybe. She didnât check.
Seamus crouched beside the carcass and ran a hand along the deerâs flank as though testing a loaf for doneness. Then, without a word, he drew his knife.
The blade was short and thick, with a worn wooden handle and a faint notch near the base. Aideen had seen it before, hung by the shed door. It looked different in his hands.
âYa watch,â he said. It wasnât a command, but neither was it a request.
She nodded.
He knelt by the buckâs belly and pressed the point of the knife just below the sternum. The hide gave with a quiet rip. Then came the soundâwet, thick, stickyâas he drew the blade down in one smooth pull, unzipping the body like it was nothing more than cloth. A warm, coppery scent filled the air. Not sharp like blood from a cut finger. Heavier. Animal.
The buck's belly spilled open.
Steam poured out in thick ribbons. Her breath caught. Inside, everything glistened. Coiled pinks, pulsing reds, the slick swell of a stomach slumped to one side. The sight didnât make her gag, exactlyâit was more like her insides curled in on themselves, trying to find somewhere else to be.
Her father worked quickly, hands steady. He reached in with a thick cloth and twisted something she couldnât see, then pulled. The entrails slid out in one long, wet loop. He piled them neatly to the side.
âToo much weight to carry whole,â he said, not looking up. âYa take the legs, the head, the heart. Leave the rest.â
Aideenâs eyes locked on the heart when he lifted it from the chest cavityâround and dark, streaked with fat and still twitching faintly. Her stomach lurched.
He mustâve seen it on her face. âDonât go faintinâ now,â he said, but not unkindly.
âIâm fine,â she lied.
He handed her a burlap sack. âHold it open.â
She stepped forward. Her boots squelched in blood-slick moss. She held the sack wide and tried not to look too closely as he dropped the heart in with a soft thump. Then the liver, the tongue, and strips of flank meat followed, each with its own quiet noise, each heavier than she expected.
The sack grew warm in her arms. Not hot. Living-warm.
Seamus stood and wiped his hands on the snow-crusted grass, then nodded toward the trees. âWeâll come back for the antlers.â
Aideen didnât move right away. She looked down at the buck. Its eyes were still open, but the steam was gone now. The frost crept closer to the blood.
Her father gave a low whistleâonce, sharp.
She followed.
As they walked, the sack thudded against her thigh with every step, warm and wet and heavy with what she'd taken. Her gloves were stained now. She didnât bother wiping them clean.
The door creaked open just past mid-morning. Pale light filtered into the kitchen, weak and watery. BrĂd was at the table, kneading dough with thick fingers and a rhythm that didnât pause when the boots hit the threshold. She didnât look up right away.
Aideen stepped inside first, boots slick with blood and mud, a warm, sodden sack hugged close to her chest. Her arms ached. Her back ached. Her belly was still twisted with something she hadnât figured out how to name.
Seamus followed behind her, silent as ever. He set the rifle by the door and hung his coat on the peg. The fire had gone low again, and he knelt to stir it back to life, scraping old coals into place. Aideen remained frozen in the doorway, unsure where to go, what to do.
Only then did BrĂd turn.
Her eyes swept from the girlâs dirt-streaked face to the blood on her gloves, the sagging weight in her arms, the way her knees wobbled ever so slightly beneath the too-big boots. Her mouth set into a tight line.
âChrist above,â she muttered, wiping her hands on her apron. âLook at the state of ya.â
Aideen said nothing.
BrĂd crossed the room in two strides and snatched the sack from her arms. The girl flinched, almost stumbling. BrĂd set the meat down on the counter with a hard thud that rattled a cup nearby.
âBoots off,â she snapped. âYaâll track blood all over my floors.â
Aideen bent quickly to obey. Her fingers fumbled at the laces.
BrĂd turned on Seamus then, voice sharp as a blade.
âYa proud of yourself?â
He didnât rise from the hearth. âShe made the shot.â
âSheâs nine, Seamus.â Her voice rose. âNine years old and yaâve got her elbows deep in a carcass like sheâs some farmhand? Sheâll never wash the stink out.â
âShe asked,â he said, still not looking at her.
âShe didnât know what she was askinâ.â
BrĂdâs hand shot out, catching Aideen by the chin before the girl could slip past her. She tilted her face upward, eyes searchingâlooking not for wounds but for something else. Guilt. Horror. Defiance. Whatever she expected to find, it didnât satisfy her.
âDid ya like it?â she asked, low.
Aideenâs lips parted. Her voice came out dry. âI⌠donât know.â
BrĂd released her with a click of her tongue. âThatâs worse.â
Seamus stood then, slow and solid. He dusted his hands on his trousers.
BrĂdâs head snapped toward him. âThatâs not the same as beinâ ready.â
He said nothing.
BrĂd stared at the meat sack, the rifle, her daughterâs shaking fingers. Then she turned back to the dough on the table and began kneading againâharder this time.
âYaâll not be takinâ her again,â she said, without looking up.
âWeâll see,â Seamus said quietly.
Aideen stood barefoot on the cold floor, gloves still on her hands, sticky and stiff. No one told her to wash. No one told her sheâd done well. No one told her anything at all.
She stepped lightly through the kitchen, trying to make herself small, as if silence could keep her out of her motherâs sight. BrĂd was still at the table, her hands buried deep in dough, fingers moving in hard, deliberate presses that made the wood groan. She didnât look up.
By the hearth, Seamus was crouched low, feeding fresh logs into the fireplace. His broad back rose and fell with slow breaths. Sparks flared as he adjusted the coals. The heat barely touched the chill that clung to Aideenâs clothes.
No one spoke.
She moved past them both without a word.
The hallway beyond was cool and dim, lined with mismatched shoes and coats on pegs. She passed the shared bedroom, the door half-shut, her sistersâ voices a faint murmur beyond itâstill waking, still unaware. She kept walking until she reached the small bathroom at the end of the hall.
She eased the door shut behind her and stood in the stillness.
The bathroom was colder than the kitchen, colder than the woods somehow. A single square window was cracked at the top, letting in a thin trail of winter air. The washbasin sat beneath it, pale porcelain stained faintly grey, the mirror above it freckled with age.
She peeled off the gloves slowly, finger by finger. The inside clung to her hands, damp and tacky. She set them on the edge of the basin, where they sagged like shed skin.
Her hands were filthy. Red ringed her wrists. Her fingernails were rimmed with something darkerâblood, soil, bits of fur, maybe. She turned the faucet. The pipes groaned before water began to trickle through, cold and clear.
She held her hands under the stream and watched the blood slide away in thin pink ribbons. Some of it stuck in the cracks of her skin. She rubbed harder. A flake of something blackâdried muscle, maybeâlifted off her palm and vanished down the drain.
Her reflection in the mirror stared back at her, tired and freckled, curls flattened under the weight of her coatâs hood. Her eyes looked different. Not olderâjust⌠farther away.
She thought it would bother her more.
Not the blood. Not the mess. Not the weight of the sack against her leg or the way the deerâs eyes had stared through her as it died.
The moment had come, and gone, and now here she was, scrubbing the proof from her hands like it was no more than dirt from the garden.
She searched herself for guilt. For shame. For sorrow.
And found only silence.
She thought of how the deer had lookedâhead lifted, chest steaming, ribs shifting beneath the skin. How its legs had folded like a marionette cut from its strings. She remembered the heat of its heart in the sack, thudding against her thigh.
Aideen scrubbed harder, knuckles scraping against porcelain. Her breath was shallow. Her stomach felt hollow.
