#like. maybe this is just me. but wouldn't it have made more sense to make lucifer the youngest instead of gabriel.

[voltaicsnail]

Inspiration and all under the cut ! :)

Here my latest drawing , with Lysandre , Xerosic , my OC Ramzi , Malamar and the big cat !! In my AU , I use the Xerosic is controlled by Malamar theory and also tried to make it make sense with how I perceive Lysandre ! I'll explain more about my AU and the theories under the cut because I don't wanna force people to scroll for too long again lol (credit to that one reddit post that I can't find anymore for talking about the malamar theory , and Fumie Kittaka for the Malamar card that is driving me insane )

Xerosic Malamar theory : I found this theory on Reddit but I can't find the post again , it's almost like it never existed and it pisses me off but yeah , I don't take the credit for that and if I find the post again I'll make sure to link it right there ! So there is this theory that Xerosic is infact controlled / hypnotized by Malamar , and from what I remember those where the points that were made in the post : -Xerosic uses the suit on Emma the same way a Malamar would hypnotize something/someone else to force them to do specific actions. -Xerosic's main is Malamar , and the only moment he keeps forcing the suit on Emma is when you defeat his Malamar , and his personality suddenly switch , to him begging for Looker to not jail Emma and to take him instead. -There is this whole aspect of alien story in the beta of XY and Xerosic is alien looking in some way (bluish skin ) For me this theory makes even more sense when you consider how he acts in game and once you think about it being true , there is some hints here and there ! Why would Xerosic just use Emma to splatter some Ink on a random painting in the museum ? Why would Xerosic , a human being , be willing to destroy the whole human population ? I'll get back to that later because I need to talk about the involvement in team flare and my oc For me Lysandre is a character that is slowly losing his grip with reality through the game. It feels like for me he is truly and fully persuaded that he will save the world from an impending doom , without really realizing he is creating it. He does not seem to be driven by cruelty , but by a genuine concern for the world and feel like its his role to save it , even if he has to die for it. Almost delirious in some way ? He cries about everything having to die as if he isn't the one holding the gun.

And for me Xerosic (or Malamar) saw a man slowly spiraling and decided it wouldn't take much to push him to the edge. Lysandre is the perfect candidate for nuking a whole species and help Malamar to take over a planet or a region : He is a rich man with lot of influence , no one will suspect a thing before it's too late because he was always a bit of an eccentric , and it happens that Xerosic has a lot of knowledge in science and technology and knows Lysandre on a deeper level that plain colleagues : Malamar take over Xerosic , and use Xerosic to persuade this old friend to keep going with his plan , and maybe even giving him ideas. Feed into the delusion of Lysandre and maybe bring up a few new scientist so they can also add weight on the words of Xerosic. The machine is on and now they just have to wait. Lysandre himself ,at the last moment , tries to step back , as if he knew it was not the solution but felt to overconfident or conflicted to admit it. He let the player chose , he doesn't even trick him with weirdly colored buttons , he wants to be stopped , and when you do...Xerosic jumps in , doesn't elaborate and just force the weapon out of the floor. Now Lysandre is back to the wall , and he have to stay in control , it's a sign that things have to go that way. So basically at the end of the game , Ramzi steps it and side with the good guys to stop Lysandre , and they manage to get this button away from him , Ramzi struggles to forgive himself for not seeing Lysandre's mental health declining sooner , and wishes things would have gone differently. Lysandre is likely interned because my fella was clearly out of his mind and totally persuaded he was gonna save the world and needs therapy for life at this point- Btw I don't defend Lysandre ; I'm just trying to rewrite or reshape some stuff just for my ocs and all lol

I'm sorry I don't write very good I forgot to sleep to finish this drawing

also here is the TCG card that validate the Malamar Xerosic theory for me !! And my main inspo for this drawing :)

See how Malamar is looking directly at you , smug , while Xerosic seems totally unaware ? Malamar wraps its tentacle around him , while the other pokes at its head (brain?) Malamar is bigger , stronger , he is the one in control here ?? Sorry-

btw if i said anything clumsy or offensive please tell me i haven't slept tonight so it's possible that i express myself very badly !!!

also the real villain in XY is the protag because they saved france and that sucks -signed your local kalossian

[tryandbehappy]

I won't take the leaks for guarantee personally. We don't know where they come from, or by whom. And the way they are told can be completely different from the actual scene. The way the proposal scene was spoiled / leaked really sounds worse than the book before we can see the actual scene ; like Jere taking advantage of Steven's condition when he wasn't at all. So frankly, as long as we don't see it with our own eyes, I prefer not to assume anything. Just see how a whole part of the fandom talks in a completely twisted way about Jere's actions that are ultimately nothing horrible when placed in their real context. I don't know... Maybe I'm being too optimistic. But why demonize Jere so late in the story of this season 3 ? It wouldn't make sense. And if they really do it, it just proves that they have no writing talent.

Yeah, totally agree.

all they’re giving us now are these dumb little “signs,” like:

• he ordered the expensive food — like his fucked up dad. expensive as in… twenty bucks more? seriously? and adam did it on purpose, while jere wasn’t even looking at the menu —he had so much going on in his head, he clearly wasn’t thinking about menu prices.

and don’t even get me started on adult-ass laurel taking responsibility for the bill but apparently not being able to afford anything unless it’s the cheapest thing there 😂 like what are we even doing here??

• the wrinkled shirt. i have no comment. this man read a beautiful speech to his mom, supported belly the entire episode, and even handled laurel’s reaction with grace. he literally told belly to go with her mom — despite all the chaos. like?? what more do you want??

• and now the only person defending him at work is his dad’s mistress?? like… is that supposed to mean something? some clever little “clue”? 😂😭

Also this:

if they’re trying to subtly build this narrative that something’s wrong with jere — this is the dumbest thing i’ve ever seen.

it’s not about his character, not about his actual choices, or emotional responses — it’s wrinkled shirts and restaurant orders. what a fucking joke.

and honestly — if your only way to push an endgame is by completely destroying the “rival” with some random out-of-nowhere nonsense, and not by actually building up your endgame couple… then you’ve written a bad story.

but fine. let’s see how this plays out. i’m just bracing for the moment everything turns to absolute trash.

i just hope the breakup has some actual beauty or tragedy in it. let me cry over the pain, not roll my eyes at how they erase an entire epic love story in one episode just to shove bonrad down our throats.

because the thing is — they went too far with jelly. they made them so emotionally powerful, so epic, that now they’re trapped. they wrote themselves into a corner. and now they either give us real heartbreak, or they give us one of the worst narrative betrayals i’ve ever seen.

[gamebunny-advance]

Pre-Valdivian Dishy (Aka Dishie)

"Hello. I am Dishy. I was your dishwasher."

Warning for Emetophobia/light discussion of vomiting ahead.

Huh~ You can see me trying to figure out his face in real-time.

Anyway...

So, a while back I posted a question about what a "Dishy" without Valdivian's influence would have been like, and that kinda started me on a thought train that led to these sketches.

I was thinking about how Dishy says he's your dishwasher now, presumably because you had a dishwasher before him. So I started to wonder why the old dishwasher got replaced and what he would have been like.

But, I'll go over the design notes first, and then the lore~ Just look for the dividers if you only care about one or the other.

(Small note, I call this version "Dishie" just to make it easier to tell which one I'm talking about, but his name is actually "Dishy" just like the original.)

------------------

As per the canon lore, Dishie is just another form of the canon Dishy, so he takes a lot of the same cues from his Realized design. The main way to distinguish them aside from their clothes is that Dishie's cheeks are a little more sunken, he has pronounced eye bags, and his bangs are cut bluntly to mimic his towel a little more.

As for the overall outfit, I went with a butler style design because I like the idea that all Dishys are some form of service worker. So, while the canon Dishy is a corporate mascot, this Dishy is a private servant to contrast how he isn't directly connected to his manufacturer, and is instead entirely devoted to you.

I imagine that an industrial dishwasher (like the kind restaurants have) would have a more "waiter" inspired outfit. Or maybe he'd wear a jumpsuit or something.

But full transparency, this design happened because I was actually designing a maid uniform for the canon Realized!Dishy (because I wanted to draw something "cute"). I decided to try a "butler" style design to match it, but it actually resonated with me more than the maid outfit. So much so that I decided to flesh him out into his own character~

I decided to keep the motif of having the dish racks be a pattern on the clothing, but instead of also patterning it with dishes and bubbles, I left them empty since this version of him actually isn't getting used that much. The only reason he even has silverware in his pocket is because I like the idea of posing him with him holding them between his fingers in a defensive pose, and I wanted an explanation for where they came from.

The spray arm bowtie actually came fairly late, and it was just his sleeves that had the spray arm detail. Originally, he had an ornament there that was a plate with a crossed fork and spoon. I changed it because I wanted to add more dishwasher parts and to set him apart from Daisuke who *is* the dishware, so dishes only appear with Dishie as a prop. Besides, since this version of him actually isn't getting used much, he should have a limited amount of dishes in his design anyway. I love the idea that it spins when he's experiencing extreme emotions. Maybe water even comes out if he's especially irate - just to ruin your day. Tbh, that detail is a little "clownish" but I think it suits how cartoon-y he eventually becomes.

Originally his gloves were also white, but I later changed them to yellow to reference the rubber gloves often used for washing dishes, and so that they wouldn't get lost in the rest of his outfit.

The bubbles coming out of his sleeves/pants cuffs are actually a carry-over from the original maid concept, but I thought it made thematic sense here too, since his problem is that he's leaking water from a lack of maintenance. I did think about actually replacing the bubbles with detergent build-up (so it looks like his clothes have been crusted over a bit), but I thought the bubbles were more fun for his "acting." Here's a fun fact - dish detergent is specifically formulated to *not* foam up so this exact thing doesn't happen. Maybe the human accidentally loaded him with dish soap instead of detergent one time?

The timer garter is actually a compromise. Originally I thought of giving him a pocket watch to match the butler aesthetic, but then I remembered, "Oh wait. There's already a character that does exactly that." In a stroke of irony, even though I switched him from the maid design to the butler design to not let my biases overtake the storytelling, this actually made him less "unique" compared to other canon characters. That said, I do think the cut of the jacket and the other details help set him apart from Timmy and the other suit-wearing dateables, but the irony is not lost on me.

I kept the rollerskates because they're too iconic to lose. Every version of Dishy is obligated to wear some kind of wheeled shoe. I don't make the rules. I did however give him some socks because I'm too much of a coward to let him keep those grippers out (but it must suck to work with water and wear "open" shoes with socks on). >m<;

As for the details I "missed", I'm a little sad that I didn't work in his door handle or his pipes. I couldn't think of where to put the handle without looking too much like Stefan - who is also based on a big white cube - and there wasn't much room left for the pipes. In some of the sketches you might see the attempts of a sort of "split ponytail" to explore the idea of having his hair resemble the pipes, but since his hair is colored like the dishtowel, it didn't feel like a proper follow-through of the idea, so I probably won't keep it.

I think that's it for the details that warranted explanation.

So it's lore time!

------------------

Again, as per the canon lore, he has a lot in common with the canon Dishy, but some of his "quirks" manifest in different ways.

While the sketches make him look "naturally" unemotive, I think that this version is still just as "dramatic" as the canon one, it's just that his sickness leaves him exhausted, so he can't be bothered to "put on a face" unless it's absolutely necessary, or he's pushed to an extreme emotion. I like the idea that some of his poses carry over no matter what form he takes. So him twisting his towel in frustration and his eyes turning white from shock/anger are things all Dishys do.

While he tries to stay professional, if he's irritated enough, he will slip into his trademark snarkiness. Usually he's level-headed enough that this doesn't happen often.

Like Dishy, his identity revolves around the fact that the *only* thing he can do is wash dishes. He doesn't have any hobbies or real interests outside of this, so when he's unable to perform his job, it hurts him deeply. I wanted to keep this intact because in my opinion, a dishwasher is one of the most superflousus appliances you can own - it doesn't take that much time or effort to wash most dishes by hand, so even when it breaks down, it isn't necessary to replace it right away. So, I wanted to explore this aspect from another angle. If Dishy is an unchecked desire to be more than a single defining trait, then Dishie is a desperate need to cling onto that one idenity trait when it's disappearing.

He is absolutely dedicated to giving you the best service he's capable of, but due to his sickness, he is physically incapable of giving you his "best". This is something he greatly resents about himself, so he's always pushing himself beyond his limits, which is just breaking him more.

Because he's so sick, he often ends up coughing and/or vomiting mid-conversation. In some instances, it's so bad that he completely keels over. Luckily, Tyrell is usually close by to help clean him up and get him to his feet, but sometimes he'll be completely knocked out and there's nothing to be done but wait for him to regain consciousness.

This detail is actually inspired by Inspector Hosonaga from the Great Ace Attorney.

I like the idea that Dishie has these violent coughing fits, and then he calmly wipes it away and continues talking like nothing happened.

A quick overview of his relationships with the other dateables:

Originally he only talked to Sinclaire when there were dishes that weren't machine washable, but as he got more sick, he had to start depending on him more to get the dishes fully washed. It's possible that having Sinclaire do more of the dishwashing work is part of why he started to get backed up in the first place. Since the human was so used to just leaving the dishwasher to handle everything, they might have started putting things down the drain without using the garbage disposal properly. I think Dishie might have noticed this, but he had been replaced by the time Sinclaire went mad, and he didn't tell anyone about his concerns beforehand (he was pretty occupied with his own troubles at the time).

As already mentioned, Tyrell was usually close by, since there's a towel hanging from the dishwasher. They also only had a working relationship, but as Dishie got more and more sick, Tyrell started being on stand-by to help clean him up when he started leaking. Tyrell worries about him, but they wouldn't call each other "friends". They're not close enough for Tyrell to intervene when Dishie pushes himself too far, he can only be there to clean him up afterwards.

While Daisuke has always been protective of the dishes, he was more willing to let this version of Dishie take care of cleaning them. They might have even bonded about how carefully they both treated the dishes. But after the sickness (especially when he started to notice that the dishes weren't being fully cleaned), Daisuke became more hesitant about letting Dishie do anything with them. This was probably the biggest blow to Dishie's pride.

Otherwise, he had cordial relationships with the other kitchen dateables. He was always there to help clean any dirty dishes made by the other kitchen appliances/food/drink. He was respected, but he didn't really mingle enough to consider anyone a true "friend".

I'm still deciding on if Dishie is a separate entity from Dishy, or if Dishie somehow "evolved" into Dishy.

If it's the former, then I think they would have met briefly when they were being swapped out. I'd like to think that Dishie left his replacement with his notes about the human's dishwashing habits to help him get started, but also make him promise to "not repeat the same mistakes I made" which is part of where Dishy's obsession with efficiency and the human's health comes from.

If it's the latter, then I think this transformation is a result of Dishie wanting to "fix" all the things he thought was wrong with him. He wanted to be stronger. More efficient. More useful. But the tradeoff was a loss of identity and agency.

In my "canon" timeline, the human never actually meets Dishie because he was replaced before they got the dateviators. I can imagine Dishie "silently" pleading with the human to not replace him, but is powerless to do anything about it.

I'd need more time to think about what a proper "route" would be like with him, but I feel like they can only end in tragedy since he *will* eventually be replaced - I guess it's just a matter if your actions finally "kill" him or if you convince him to gracefully "retire".

------------------

That's all I've got for now. I have *some* ideas for things I want to do with him, but who knows if I'll actually get around to them. I've already got a few fic ideas on the backburner, and I'm starting to get overloaded with stuff I want to do~

As a "reward", here are the original maid sketches that got us to this point.

I won't talk about them as much, but I really liked the idea of the "caged dress" and the plate headband~ I'm never gonna have a design idea that big brained ever again ToT

[biteyoubiteme]

I was so very excited to read this when i realized it was a familiar fic, ive always loved reading books, watching movies that have the concept in it and this was so so so good, i actually did not realize it was coming to an end i was so engrossed and emotional im sad it ended but this has to be one of the best things ive read on here. It was so atmospheric and warm, warm in a fall, dark, and moody kind of way that comes with reading dark academia and this was kinda hinting at that for me. Your writing style is so pretty and i know you said you wrote it well over three years and i could not tell, all of it flowed so well together. Anyways i loved this ><

Your magic has been weaker lately. You can feel it like a dwindling fire inside. Everything that should be easy is difficult, and all that was once difficult has become impossible. Not only are you half the witch you were, but you also feel like half the person you know yourself to be. Looking dazedly around the room, you try to calculate how long it’s been since it began. It began a few days past the last occurrence of the full moon. Was that a week ago? In your mind, you try to pry the blur of days apart, but since most of them have been much the same – lethargic and hazy – they seem unintelligible from one another. Ugh i love the way youre setting up the lore here, i love your writing style.

At your feet are the tracks of your dear companion; little paw prints still sunken into the soft dirt of the path that leads from your door to the garden gate. Stop this is actually so cute. 

You would be able to see every emotion of his in those eyes if you weren't able to feel them for yourself through the bond. "I didn't mean to be gone so long, o-or go so far. I lost track of time, and I was coming home but..." He trails off as he senses you aren't upset, your calmness washing over him. He sighs and leans back into the cushion of the settee tiredly. There's food in his belly, he's warm and cozy, taken care of, and most importantly, home. "I missed you." ugh i can feel the warmth and welcome, you made it so cozy. 

and, he’d pointed out, what was he to do with a pair of shoes once he’d shifted? Carry them around by his little cat mouth? Lmao stop now im picturing a cat with shoes in its mouth ;-;-; my own cat brings me her toys and im just seeing that lol 

If you were to lose your life, Hyuka would soon follow after. But if Hyuka were to die, you'd go on, your life forever missing one integral piece. Other familiars might come, perhaps, but they wouldn't be Hyuka. Hyuka, with his superstitions about ravens, scowling at them through the window as if he might pounce through the glass even in his human form. Who always muttered in his sleep when he went to bed with a full stomach. Whose soft snoring you had come to be unable to sleep without hearing across the hall. The small black bundle of fur with glowing moon eyes he shifted to and fro, always making you laugh as he strayed from the path his human counterpart had told you he would take the minute he saw a butterfly; chasing them always seemed more important to the cat. You were sure you'd still see his phantom running around the house and garden for years to come if he were to be taken from you. All you can do is what you have always done; do your best to protect each other and hope that fate will be kind. Stop i love this so much and i actually started to tear up, with real tears, i love their bond that they have ;-;-;

“I’m sorry I took it,” she says a little breathlessly. “I slipped it off while petting you when first we met. I don’t know why…” You can see her body growing heavier against the concrete of the porch, hear her breathing more shallowly. “Maybe I just wanted something to hold onto. Something like… a friend…” no this breaks my heart so bad, and knowing its mainly a token to show their bond so when kai wears it, its about reader, so its something closer to what she lost ;-;-

“She said this has been happening a lot, and getting closer to the village,” you say in an almost whisper, as if the trees might overhear and spread your words. “Do you think… do you think we're safe?”-A brisk chill blew across the clearing, as if the very wind itself was relaying a warning. -He meets your eyes and you find there a cloud of emotion and determination like you've never seen. When he replies, his voice is rough but firm. “We'll make sure of it. We'll lay low. At the first sign of trouble, we'll leave.” -You nod solemnly. “I'll do everything in my power to protect you,” you say, as if it needs saying. -“I know,” he replies in a gruff voice, and you feel your shared feelings of protectiveness intensify as his grip on your hand tightens.-As he takes a step forward, you fall into step beside him. He leads you out of the clearing, back through the forest, towards the village – towards home. Neither one of you lets go of the other's hand, both silent once more as you trek home in a flurry of emotions and anxieties, wondering what the future holds, and grateful to have each other. Ugh i know this is a big just block of text ive copied over but this is just so good, i loved every bit of it, i dont know why when i read like soulmates it sometimes feels so proformitive almost but reading this or about any familiar really it feels lived in, like its something deeper, i dont know if that makes sense but i love it so much. 

Safe & Familiar - Huening Kai

Synopsis: When your familiar goes missing, you set out on a search, only to find danger is brewing (I’m no good at writing synopsis)

Warnings: death, grief, brief mention of imprisonment and someone being killed (slowly so maybe torture?), reader is a witch so themes of magic, eludes to the beginnings of some considerably dark historical events 

Author's note: Finally finished! A little ashamed to say this took three years when hardly anything happens in it, but life happens and other ideas come up, and my writing brain doesn't always want to co-operate. This is a story I was really excited about when I started it and couldn't wait for it to be done to be able to post it, so I hope it's a good read because I enjoyed writing it. I was halfway through writing this when I lost someone special, and I thought it wouldn't get finished for a lot longer due to that. Surprisingly, the grief spurred me to work on it and I ended up able to use my own feelings because it matched the character’s thoughts. If it feels a little bare-bones or disjointed, it's because I worked on it on and off over three years including when I had lost my writing mojo but just wanted to get it finished!

Word count: 4.7k

At the break of dawn, with the first light of day intruding through the windows of your room, you decide to give up on the idea of sleep. Proper rest has evaded you for weeks, slumber slipping from your grasp as soon as you seem to catch it. You feel ragged and rundown, drained and lackluster, and you know the cause.

Your magic has been weaker lately. You can feel it like a dwindling fire inside. Everything that should be easy is difficult, and all that was once difficult has become impossible. Not only are you half the witch you were, but you also feel like half the person you know yourself to be. Looking dazedly around the room, you try to calculate how long it’s been since it began. It began a few days past the last occurrence of the full moon. Was that a week ago? In your mind, you try to pry the blur of days apart, but since most of them have been much the same – lethargic and hazy – they seem unintelligible from one another.

All you could clearly and vividly remember was the day that ended with the full moon. Watching your familiar disappear past the front gate, tail flicking between the garden shrubs, and then gone. Then you'd begun preparing for your own full moon rituals. It had been the same as every month before. Except that your familiar had not returned come next morning, and had not returned since. Every full moon phase the cat would go, called to the natural world, to explore, to hunt, bathe in the moonlight, instincts leading it out into the forest, part wild animal. It'd never been away from you this long, always returning home by mid afternoon of the following day.

Pushing yourself up from the still cold mattress, you walk to the doorway of your room, from which you can see through the open door of the room opposite. Once again finding the bed inside empty, you breathe in a sigh. Despite your misguided hope, you had not expected to see anything otherwise. Exhaling deep and slow, you resign yourself to what you know; that something is not right, and that it's time for action.

Not bothering to eat, for you have no appetite, you wrap a shawl around yourself over the clothes you have not changed for days, and slip your feet into a pair of boots. With one last look around the strangely empty quarters, you step out into the brisk early morning air. 

The light of day is hidden behind a substantial layer of cloud, casting a grey gloom over the garden. At your feet are the tracks of your dear companion; little paw prints still sunken into the soft dirt of the path that leads from your door to the garden gate. Closing your eyes, you visualize the animal leaving that day, before you'd closed the door behind it. You focus on the feeling of the cat and the empathetic bond that you share, searching for the tether between you. 

There – you get your first instinct of where you should be headed, though vague and foggy, and step onto the middle path into the woods, trampling through layers of pine needle and shredded tree bark, scanning the landscape of rocks and trees. As you walk, you try to reach out through your bond, asking for a sign. The cold bites at your face, and you curse yourself for leaving it so long, for not gathering your remaining strength to search earlier. Your familiar knows its way around, never lost – you know that. If it had not returned home, it meant something was stopping it – something has certainly gone awry. Why have you not forced yourself into the forest sooner?

The wind in the trees makes it harder to listen out for movement, creating noise all around you. The chill of the breeze tries to distract you, make you focus on yourself, the feeling of the cold settling heavy into your face and limbs. A few times you almost stumble clumsily as you look around you and not at the placement of your steps. As you venture further and further still, pushing your weary body along even while it begs you to stop, you feel something; a faint presence not far away, though there is no living being in sight. Unconsciously, you pick up your pace, ignoring the exaggerated ache of your legs and feet, eyes straining and searching, until suddenly, you stop. Your eyelids close of their own accord.

In your mind you see yellow and orange leaves making the transition from green to red, different from the foliage of the trees around you that remained a deep green. You caught a fleeting scent of moist soil, as if it had flown by on the swiftest of breezes, shivering as the phantom sensation of cool water dripping down your neck tickles your skin. Water.

Without another thought, you instinctively turn in the direction you know there is a stream in a glade. You find yourself almost at a run now, your body despises you for it. As the evergreen trees around you thin, you see the yellow-orange leaves of the liquidambar trees ahead. You begin to feel another pain, a pain that is not your own. 

Approaching the stream, eyes trained on the plants around the bank, you see black shapes against the greenery. Shapes that, as you grow closer, focus into birds. Sleek black feathers and beady eyes – five of them. Your mother had always tried to teach you the symbolic meaning of the number of crows one came upon, but you can't remember now, for better or worse, which number meant death or misfortune or good luck. You shoo them away, making them clear out, screeching their loud piercing calls, a blur of feathers and a racket of strong flapping wings. Finally, as they fly off, you lay eyes on your closest friend, laying in the shrubbery. 

Your heart pulses as you take in your familiar's unkempt state. The cat's midnight black fur is damp in patches and ridden with leaves and twigs from the forest floor. The yellow of its eyes is less vibrant than usual, and less attentive of the scene around it. Not until you stepped closer, until the two of you made eye contact, did the animal's eyes seem to focus. Worst of all were the cuts and scratches to its face and body. Whipping your shawl from around you, you carefully scoop up the cat, eliciting a pained ‘orw’ from the poor creature. 

"Shh, we're going home," you soothe as you wrap your shawl around it. 

----

The house is warm and welcoming, and relief washes over you the moment you step inside. The cat is sleeping in your arms, having relaxed into you on your journey back, and you can sense how it has missed your presence, that it feels safe once more with you. You feel considerably more stable and capable yourself. 

Placing the sleeping bundle on the settee by the fire, you leave the room to fetch water and some cloth. The kitchen is in disarray, having had no strength or desire to see to any of your chores since the last full moon. Thankfully though, the bread you bought last week is still good, and you grab it on the way back. 

"Ah ah," you scold as you enter the room and find your familiar halfway off the settee. 

Dark eyes look up at you, the bloody cut across his nose shining in the firelight, your shawl falling over his shoulders, no longer big enough to keep him warm. "Sorry," he says quietly, bringing his foot back up off the floor. 

His wounds don't look as severe on his less tiny body, but they need to be cleaned nonetheless. You hand him the chunk of bread as you set the dish of water on the table and sit on the space of floor in front of him. You hear his stomach make itself known at the sight of food, catching his eye as he chuckles with a small smile. Oh, how you've missed that smile. 

Being home again is doing him good, giving him more strength and allowing him to shift. He would not have been able to shift to his human form at all while he was out there alone and injured, away from you and your magic. Your bond causes you to depend on one another, and though other magic users found this frustrating, you felt that it made the magic that you did use more meaningful. 

One hand clutches at the edge of the shawl and readjusts it around himself as he eats, eyes watching your fingers dip the cloth into the bowl. You should have brought a blanket, you realize, but then you feel the warmth of his skin as the hand you use to press the wet cloth to his arm comes in contact with, and decide the fire is enough. 

"You scared me, Hyuka."

His chewing stills as his eyes find yours; those big innocent eyes that let him get away with even more in his human form. You would be able to see every emotion of his in those eyes if you weren't able to feel them for yourself through the bond. 

"I didn't mean to be gone so long, o-or go so far. I lost track of time, and I was coming home but..." He trails off as he senses you aren't upset, your calmness washing over him. He sighs and leans back into the cushion of the settee tiredly. There's food in his belly, he's warm and cozy, taken care of, and most importantly, home. "I missed you."

Images play in your mind of when Hyuka had come into your life. You had begun to have dreams, more vivid each night until he arrived, of paw prints through your house. Then one morning you'd opened the door to a ball of midnight fur. He had been nervous about how you'd feel about him being a shifter, and shy when it came to revealing his human form, but he needn't have worried. He'd come to you just when you needed him and you grew alongside each other. Now you could not do without each other, magical bond or no. 

His hand moves to the back of his neck, a well-known habit of his. His eyes grow startled as he feels the absence of leather cord, his hand flying to his throat to confirm the loss. "My... my charm… Do you have it?"

"No," you answer. You'd been too worried about getting him home to notice his accessory was missing. 

"I must have lost it in the tousle… a wild cat picked a fight with me," He looked down at a scratch on his forearm as he spoke with a scowl, as if mentally cursing said animal. 

You knew the charm was important to him—it was special to you, too. It was a long running tradition amongst magic users to give their familiars a token of their bond. Not only as a symbol of the connection, but for other magic folk to determine familiars on sight, give them shelter or aid, accept or send messages, or follow them to their human counterpart if they were in need of help. "We can go and look for it. Maybe in a week, when we're both back to our best, hm?"

Hyuka agrees, his eyes back to their usual warmth and calmness. As you tend to his cuts and scratches, he watches the fire, his mind wandering back into the forest. He'd gone further than he'd ever been, and if it weren't for his cat form's senses, he probably would have been lost. 

"There was another familiar in the woods," he says suddenly, remembering more as the haze of hunger lifts and the warmth of home settles into his being. 

Hands stilling their work, your eyes lift to his face. You had lived in this area your whole life, born and raised and never left, and never met another magic kind—not one you weren't related to. "A familiar? Are you sure?" 

Hyuka nods, looking solemn. "I had walked a long way. I must have been halfway between our village and the next. I was about to turn back and make for home, but I spotted a house. It was abandoned, I think. But... there was a woman."

Sitting back on your heels, you listen intently, fingers worrying at the cloth in your hands subconsciously. "At an abandoned house? Was she a squatter?"

"She was using the shelter. She was weak. I could tell she'd been through an ordeal. She was like me. A shifter, I mean."

Blinking in this information, your mind begins to rush with possibilities. Has there been someone else with magic close by all this time? Just a walk through the forest? Could you have had a friend, someone to share everything with? To exchange notes about herbs and spend traditional holidays with? Just the thought of it made your chest squeeze with longing. You had Hyuka, of course, but a familiar was different; an extension of yourself, in essence.

“Was she separated from her witch?” you ask, intrigued. “Was she lost, like you?”

You feel his mood dip lower before he even formulates an answer. “No,” he answers, eyes blinking faster, the way you knew he always did when trying to keep his composure. He looks off again, remembering. “I’d never met another shifter before, you know. What they say is true; I could sense that she was one, and she sensed me too. She talked to me, told me I’m more lucky than I know to have a bond. She told me I should go home.“ You notice a longing in Hyuka, just as you had felt moments before, perhaps a little stronger now. “She told me her witch was dead. She knew it would be her turn soon.“

Moving on instinct, you get up from the floor, planting yourself on the settee beside him and clasping his hand in both of your own. “That's terrible.”

He looks at you again, with sorry eyes and a heavy heart. If only you could take it away for him. “I wanted to do something to comfort her, to be able to say something, but…”

“You couldn’t shift to your human form,” you finish. Hyuka nods. As ragged and tired as you are, the feelings of desperation and distress you feel, both your own and shared, outweigh everything else. “Do you think you could find your way back to that house?”

His eyes light up a fraction. “But you need to rest and–“

“We can't just let her die all alone out there.” You feel your frazzled nerves sparking as you speak, mentally preparing yourself and what little strength had returned since your reunion. “Someone should be with her. If you’re up to going back again.”

Hyuka stands faster than you can blink, almost knocking over the dish of water at his feet.

–---

 Leaving the house with Hyuka in human form alongside you is something new. While his animal side was a keen adventurer, as a human he was somewhat of a homebody. As someone who could change himself from man to animal, Hyuka didn’t own a single pair of shoes. You’d offered to buy him a pair in the beginning, but he’d refused. For one, he never planned on walking around outside of the house as a human, and, he’d pointed out, what was he to do with a pair of shoes once he’d shifted? Carry them around by his little cat mouth?

For the first time, you were witnessing his bare feet in the elements. The pine needles, broken twigs, stray stones and other natural materials that made up the forest floor didn’t seem to bother him the way it would your own feet. 

It was getting into the afternoon now, and the sun had made an appearance from behind the clouds. Hyuka was much easier to keep up with when he was a cat; his long human legs made for big strides, and while you struggle to keep the same pace, straggling only a few steps behind, you understand his haste. 

Fear creeps in as your mind wanders ahead. What if you were too late? You can feel the desperation in Hyuka, wanting to help even if it was just by being there for someone, even a stranger, in their final moments. You knew that if she was already gone, he’d be crushed. You would be crushed. Hoping against hope, you chant silent prayers in your mind that there is still time.

Hyuka turns to look over his shoulder at you as he dodges a stray branch that had already lost all of its leaves. For once, you can’t think of anything to say to him, so you give him a small reassuring smile which he returns, though you both know the other’s feelings like your own – there could be no hiding them. You both wanted to say something to comfort each other, and that knowledge was enough. 

The further you walk, the drier the surroundings grow, as if the place had been abandoned not only by people but by nature itself. Brambles catch on your clothes, dried needles crunch and snap underfoot, and the air somehow feels stale as your lungs breathe it in and push it out again. This was unfamiliar ground for you, and so different from the areas close to home you were used to.

“Almost there,” Hyuka announces as you pass the remnants of a broken down and weather worn horse cart.

Your heart squeezes with hope when you approach a clearing and a small cream coloured house with a faded roof comes into view. Sensing Hyuka’s pulse quicken, you attempt to slow your breathing and be strong for him – for the both of you. He was losing something that might have been too, but he was also seeing his fate first hand should anything take you from this world.

As the two of you draw nearer to the home, you can make out the figure laying still on the doorstep. The closer Hyuka advances, the more carefully he treads the dry woodland floor, so as not to startle the woman. A few paces from the step of the porch, he stops and calls out softly, “Hello.”

The woman’s weary eyes open, and or a moment she looks panicked, her body tensing, the expression of a scared animal wanting to flee crossing her features. But you can see she is too exhausted to make a move even if she wanted to run away. Your stomach pangs with the realisation that the woman is not far from death. To look at her, you can see how shallowly she breathes, as if each intake of oxygen is an effort. You wish with all your being that this was an ailment you could cure with magic, with some special brew, but there could be no righting her condition or her fate.

“It’s okay,” Hyuka assures her, his hands held out flat in what he hopes is a calming gesture. “We’re friends. Remember the black cat you spoke to?”

A wave of understanding and surrender rolls over her face and she physically relaxes. She must feel comforted by the fact that she is in the presence of her own kind – even as her eyes take you in, it looks as though she puts it together; a familiar and his magic user. You feel Hyuka relax slightly at her acceptance.

“What’s your name?” he asks.

The woman’s lips part, her tongue darting out to wet them before she speaks in a weak, hoarse voice. “Alita.”

“Alita,” you address her gently as you step wider out from Hyuka so she can see you in full. Her eyes are slow to drift over to you once more. “Where is your bonded one?”

Alita’s eyes fall closed as if recalling a nightmare. “She is gone.”

“What happened to her?” Hyuka asks. Carefully he steps forward onto the porch, and when Alita doesn’t look frightened by this, he kneels down by her side. You follow suit, crouching down next to your companion. Her eyes look broken as she looks up at the two of you, flitting between both pairs of eyes. There is a sadness there that you can only imagine. 

“They came in the night, the people of our village. Shouting and banging on the door, on the walls. So many men. A few women, but mostly men. They were angry – more rage and hate than I’ve ever seen in one person, multiplied many times over,” Her lips quivered as she found her next words. “They broke the door down and took her, my mistress. Dragged her from the house and into town, locked her up. She was locked up for days, and they wouldn’t say why. Then she was taken to the town hall. There were so many people there, even people we knew. People my mistress had helped. Everyone was shouting at her. They all looked at her like she was the most evil thing they’d ever laid eyes on. A trial, they called it.”

You watch as Alita shudders, a sign you recognise as the irreversible cold someone feels as they linger at death's door. Even if you had a blanket to give, she would not get warm. She would never be warm again.

“I’d name it a screaming match. They all shouted such terrible things, claimed my mistress had done things that just weren’t true. It went on for days.” Alita’s next inhale was so shaky and stuttered you thought she might’ve been choking until she spoke again. “They said they knew she was a witch. That part was true. It wouldn’t be tolerated, they said. So they took–” Her voice caught in her throat. Hyuka placed his hand comfortingly over hers which laid limp on the concrete of the porch. You could see the pain written all over her face, her eyes far away as she relived the whole ordeal, grief that she would never get to heal taking her over. “They took her away again, and they killed her. Slowly. I know because I could feel it.” 

She was looking at Hyuka now, and when you glance at him you see tears wet on his nose. You had never seen him cry. He always held it back on the rare occasion he got choked up. But in this moment, hearing this story, he couldn’t. “It’s been happening more and more in our town,” she continues. “We thought we’d be safe because we live just on the outskirts, close enough to visit but not really part of it. I thought we were safe because so many people appreciated my mistress's help. She always went to them when they asked for her.”

Feeling your own eyes prickle, you take a sidelong look at your familiar as he holds Alita’s hand. You imagine what it would be like if he were suddenly gone from you, from the world; to never again be able to look into his eyes and feel seen and understood; no longer feeling that connection, your bond severed, left feeling cold and untethered. A shiver threatens to take over as you consider your life without him, and you stifle a gasp as a pain throbs in your chest. Alita’s fingers weakly clench Hyuka’s hand as she sobs. You are so lucky, your thoughts remind you. Lucky he came into your life, lucky the two of you get along as well as you do, and that your bond is a strong one. Lucky not to be completely alone in the world and your little cottage. 

If you were to lose your life, Hyuka would soon follow after. But if Hyuka were to die, you'd go on, your life forever missing one integral piece. Other familiars might come, perhaps, but they wouldn't be Hyuka. Hyuka, with his superstitions about ravens, scowling at them through the window as if he might pounce through the glass even in his human form. Who always muttered in his sleep when he went to bed with a full stomach. Whose soft snoring you had come to be unable to sleep without hearing across the hall. The small black bundle of fur with glowing moon eyes he shifted to and fro, always making you laugh as he strayed from the path his human counterpart had told you he would take the minute he saw a butterfly; chasing them always seemed more important to the cat. You were sure you'd still see his phantom running around the house and garden for years to come if he were to be taken from you. All you can do is what you have always done; do your best to protect each other and hope that fate will be kind.

Alita turns Hyuka’s hand over and presses her palm into his with a weak squeeze, and Hyuka’s eyes are drawn to their touching hands with curiosity. Her hand slips away and he up-turns his palm to find a silver moon charm in a leather cord – the one he had lost. She meets his eyes with a slightly guilty look in hers. Her breathing is growing more ragged by the minute, her eyes losing more and more of their light, and you want to suggest that she save her strength, but you don’t want to deny her of her last interaction. 

“I’m sorry I took it,” she says a little breathlessly. “I slipped it off while petting you when first we met. I don’t know why…” You can see her body growing heavier against the concrete of the porch, hear her breathing more shallowly. “Maybe I just wanted something to hold onto. Something like… a friend…”

Suddenly her eyes go hollow, the breath draining from her chest. Hyuka just has time to draw back his hands before Alita’s body shifts one last time into her animal form – a grey dove. 

You take in a shaky breath, feeling so many emotions yet numb at the same time. Hyuka turns to you, his eyes wet, and presses his forehead to your shoulder. The two of you sit like that for a while, until you’re sure Alita’s spirit has passed on. Until you’re both ready to do what needs to be done. Then, you pick up the grey dove and follow Hyuka in silence to a nearby tree, the biggest one in the clearing. Using his hands, he scoops out enough dry earth to make a hole just big enough. You place the dove inside, then carefully bury her together, handful by handful. You place some stones to mark the spot, but don't dare to leave any likeness of a symbol of magic.

Standing side by side looking over the site, you grasp Hyuka's hand. The numbness has given way to questions and concerns, leading you to finally break the silence. “She said this has been happening a lot, and getting closer to the village,” you say in an almost whisper, as if the trees might overhear and spread your words. “Do you think… do you think we're safe?”

A brisk chill blew across the clearing, as if the very wind itself was relaying a warning. 

He meets your eyes and you find there a cloud of emotion and determination like you've never seen. When he replies, his voice is rough but firm. “We'll make sure of it. We'll lay low. At the first sign of trouble, we'll leave.” 

You nod solemnly. “I'll do everything in my power to protect you,” you say, as if it needs saying. 

“I know,” he replies in a gruff voice, and you feel your shared feelings of protectiveness intensify as his grip on your hand tightens.

As he takes a step forward, you fall into step beside him. He leads you out of the clearing, back through the forest, towards the village – towards home. Neither one of you lets go of the other's hand, both silent once more as you trek home in a flurry of emotions and anxieties, wondering what the future holds, and grateful to have each other. 

[coldbycrossfade]

MAN THAT REALLY COLORS THIS RESPONSE IN THIS CONVERSATION SO DIFFERENTLY FOR ME

[adammilligan]

just from the way michael talks about lucifer and not the other archangels i do think there was something going on in the whole department of "i raised lucifer [but not raphael and gabriel]" because. it just. i mean. they framed lucifer as a Youngest Child and gave him Youngest Child Syndrome to parallel sam when lucifer. is a middle child? so it kind of implies that michael & lucifer were separate in some way from raphael & gabriel. but given that gabriel and lucifer have scenes where they're clearly familiar which each other in a brotherly way (lucifer literally starts trying to lecture him in 5x19 despite. everything) and raphael has a throwaway line about lucifer (albeit in a negative way) in kind of the same way that gabriel has a throwaway line about michael (again. in a negative way) so clearly there was SOME overlap. but michael just never talks about any of them except for lucifer except for HIS throwaway line of “my brothers are dead” in 15x08 which. wasn’t even the main point of his sentence lmao. so like. what happened. was it a thing of michael raising lucifer who in turn raised raphael who in turned raised gabriel? did lucifer raise gabriel AND raphael while michael followed god around like the good son he was and stopped by periodically to check on lucifer and by EXTENSION the other two? was michael’s favoritism just that blatant and part of the reason he and raphael grew so distant from each other even though they both remained in heaven. who the fuck knows!!!!!

[xxplastic-cubexx]

just read the new mutants issue where Charles chose to stay behind in space and my god the juxtaposition between Charles trusting Erik and Erik joining the hellfire club and wondering at his own trust worthiness. I wonder how much of Charles decision was him ultimately trying to avoid the fact that his first class had seemingly betrayed mutant kind and not be willing to face them and how much of it was Dani and Illyana's reaction to him having Karma mind control Illyana. the fact that Illyana was depending on him to ease her mind through limbo and in choosing to stay he forced karma to do it instead, probably fucking up their relationship in the process.

I love him, this is crazy, how much of this is him trying to runaway and how much is this him not trusting himself to fix things and how much is it just him trusting Erik?

i keep trying to put into words my exact thoughts about the sitch but there really is a lot for one issue aintit... oh charles you and your brain...

[blueblurseptember]

they are all definitely wrong, but yes. i get where you're coming from, and i enjoyed reading your thoughts here too. thanks for sharing! but yeah, to each their own hills indeed.

i think, another factor for me that's made me lean towards sympathizing with wang shuo and wu suo wei more is that there's quite literally the two of them, and somehow, they're going through same exact roller coasted of emotions during their affiliation with chi cheng. seeing how similar their emotional troubles are, you can't really help but assume, does their boyfriend kind of have a problem or does their boyfriend just have a type? 😮‍💨

because literally, what do you mean in the two times he'd genuinely fallen in love and entered in a relationship, both relationships had the same underlying issue? that both boyfriends found issue in trusting that he's entirely committed to them and not feeling some other feeling for someone else?

yes, chi cheng becomes soft when he falls in love. but i think that's precisely where the issue ends up arising from. when he's in love, he becomes too soft and too considerate, that he takes on everything by himself without entirely understanding that his partners want to feel that he can rely on them and that he needs him the same way he wants to be seen as reliable and needed.

wang shuo's entire beef with guo chengyu was that despite everything, chengyu still seemed like chi cheng's number one person. even when it came to whatever relationship problems they couldn't seem to surmount, chi cheng would ultimately choose to seek chengyu out in the end instead of indulging wang shuo's whims, which, at that point of the relationship, probably intensified the doubts bc why the hell was chi cheng indulging him in everything else but this thing with guo chengyu.

he made chi cheng his number 1 for so many years. the thought that even after all that, he's just a placeholder for something chi cheng couldn't have must've stung, and i can totally see how seeing chi cheng kiss guo chengyu and say his name in his sleep must've felt like a confirmation to all his insecurities.

it's quite similar to the situation with wu suo wei now, in which, he's failing to really address the root cause of the situation. though yes, he's definitely learned from the last time, and has become more verbal with telling wu suo wei that wang shuo is now just a person from his past, but he's hiding something important again this time, choosing to deal with a massive problem by himself, effectively achieving strikingly similar outcomes as before.

it doesn't help, too, that just like how it was with wang shuo before who saw him kiss chengyu, wu suo wei ran into wang shuo kissing chi cheng, giving suo wei a false sense of confirmation too of his own insecurities and suspicions.

both boyfriends seeing "tangible confirmation" of suspicions likely also played a big part in them desperately trying to get a tangible counter-confirmation from chi cheng and not being able to be as honest in a conversation with chi cheng, bc really, how could they trust just the words and likely "empty" grand gestures of someone they saw with their own two eyes (from their POV) get intimate with the person they suspected they would?

idk, but if chi cheng stopped insisting to take matters unto his own hands and embraced the aspect of partnership that needs you make life-altering decisions with your partner, i feel like things would've been a lot different for his relationships.

maybe he and wang shuo still wouldn't have been endgame, but if wang shuo knew how much chi cheng grieved him and how the only reason chi cheng ended up spending so much time with guo chengyu was bc he and wang shuo kept fighting, wang shuo might not have felt as embittered. bc really, i think that's his main feeling now.

all that revenging and plotting isn't exactly because he wants another chance. he wants to get back because he felt used, mistakenly thinking that he's just replacement for chengyu. but also, there's a part of him that still hopes he's wrong. that at least one thing about what he and chi cheng had was real outside of chengyu, and thus the crashing out. in his head, there are two very opposing forces at work. one is the hope to find an undeniable proof of love to silence the insecurities, but the other is to find irrefutable proof that there's no more (or never been love) so he can stop loving chi cheng already.

it's the same for wu suo wei, and less complicated too. honestly, chi cheng is straightforward and morally ambiguous enough as a person to totally ignore the plea of wu suo wei's mom to keep her illness a secret, if only he'd cared less about them. but as much as chi cheng also wanted to respect mama wu's request, i'm sure another reason he's kept mum is because he can't fucking take how broken wu suo wei would be once he finds out. hence why, ideally, he thinks it'd also be better to have mama wu break the news to him herself.

pls, this is the man who's into bdsm but blindfolded his boyfriend during their first time, not bc of the kink, but bc he can't stand to see him cry. he was not prepared to deal with tears that he has no way of stopping, not if it's wu suo wei. but of course, wu suo wei doesn't know this. believes all the sneaking around is bc of his wavering feelings now that wang shuo's back (and it makes sense, he saw them kiss and ride a car together).

and this said, just like wang shuo, wu suo wei's desperate acts to get the reaction he wants from chi cheng come from a place of hoping either to prove his own suspicions wrong or to prove himself that chi cheng is better off without him (or vice versa).

but yeah, they're all a mess, really. that's definitely one thing we can agree on.

another thing we can agree on is hating on wang zhen, man 😭😭😭

for some reason, i hate that mfer so much too. like my hatred is visceral. glad to see in the next ep's PV that chi cheng and chengyu are aboutta beat him up together. he gives me major ick 😮‍💨✋

another hot take, but y'all, as much as i love chi cheng, but man. i'm sorry, i genuinely think this entire mess is mostly his fault. because you, guys, pls. if you really look into it, just look at how wu suo wei's been acting lately vs. how wang shuo's acted in the past. both of them are crashing out in very similar ways.

then, wang shuo only really wanted assurance that chi cheng loved him and not guo chengyu, only to end up having to resort to extreme methods because somehow, chi cheng, for the life of him, just somehow couldn't give him that assurance. and now, here we have wu suo wei who also just wants assurance that chi cheng loves him and not wang shuo anymore, but is steadily finding himself pushed to more and more extreme methods to get this assurance because again, chi cheng's not properly communicating.

chi cheng's communication skills is so shit, neither his godly looks, money, or skill on bed could compensate, man. fumbled a baddie who's genuinely down bad for him once, and is otw to fumble another one pls.

i love him too tho 😭✋

[psychopomp-namine]

.

[alwaysoc]

[whydoyouquitworkingonme]

.

[inbabylontheywept]

The Motherfucking Lizard King

No one at work trusts my boss. 

He's smart. He works hard. He's not trustworthy. He hasn't actually fucked anyone at work over, but he's ruined his last two marriages with affairs, and got dumped by his third fiance when he wouldn't sign a prenup. The fact that we all know this is just a hazard of working in a small town. 

Anyway: The thought process of the people in the lab is that if he screwed over his first wife, and his second wife, and was probably planning on screwing over his third wife, it would be insane for him not to screw us over. After all, what kind of idiot treats their employees better than their spouse? 

I dunno. His kind, I guess? He's had a few chances to fuck us over, and he hasn't taken them. Opposite really. When our parent company was doing furloughs, he stayed in the office almost a hundred hours, talking and talking and talking his way up the corporate ladder. And in the end, no one at our site got furloughed. 

He's pulled strings like that before. And it baffles me, right? Because it really does make zero sense. He'll move the heavens and the earth for us, but his wife and kids are afterthoughts. It feels like any moment, he's going to look into the mirror and realize how stupid that is. It feels like I'm betting on him making the same stupid mistake again, and again, and again - like it would be less cynical to believe he was, eventually, going to stab me in the back. But he hasn't yet, and as far as I can tell he's been making that mistake for close to fifteen years, and it's already cost him everything it can. If he was going to learn, he would have by now. 

So my position on him is that if he wanted to date someone I cared about, I'd warn them off. I don't trust him there. But I tentatively trust him to be my boss. Maybe one day he'll stick the knife in and twist, and everyone will say Ah, Babs, we warned you, but for now, I accept that he's doing a very predictable, very irrational thing, and I've made my peace with it. 

---

My job has glue traps. 

No one likes the glue traps, but we don't have a lot of options. Poison's banned by state law, spring traps are banned by company safety, and several non-lethal options tried in the past failed to work. The mouse problem can get pretty bad if it's ignored, and there's some real health hazards in that. Our site has never had a positive hantavirus test, thank God, but the big base about a half hour away has. That guy's gonna be on oxygen the rest of his life. 

If a mouse gets caught, we just euthanize it. But more than mice get stuck. Lizards can wander into those traps too, and the people working there have different feelings about the lizards. They don't pose nearly the same kind of risk mice do. They're chill little guys, and they keep the moths away, and they're just 

You know. They're friendly. There's something to be said about walking into a room, and hitting the light switch, and seeing two little guys on the wall start to do pushups as soon as they see you. 

People used to just euthanize the lizards too, but I had pet leopard geckos as a kid and I couldn't take that so I wound up googling how to free animals from glue traps. Now, when a lizard gets stuck in a trap - which happens once or twice a week - I get some vegetable oil from the breakroom, and a little plastic fork, and I'll spend fifteen to twenty minutes just kind of gently prying the little guys out. 

I have a team of technicians that help me operate one of the larger machines. They're real blue collar guys, ex-airforce, and they make me look like a little kid. Being an engineer means they'll look to me as a leader sometimes, which is a wild experience. And I started helping the lizards for my own conscience, but one of the crazier consequences of it has been that it seriously boosted my leadership cred. Because those guys see me, and they go: Hey. If he's willing to fight for a lizard, he's gotta be willing to fight for me. 

I cannot overstate how nice that is. Most engineers that want to make a change to a maintenance practice, or try an upgrade, they have to work their asses off to get the techs to buy in. But I can just ask. They already trust me to do good. They know I'm new, and they know I'm not the smartest engineer in the building, but they also know I'm the one who gets lizards out of the glue traps. 

And just because of that, they're willing to follow me. 

---

My boss has a meeting every month or two. It's typically basic house cleaning stuff - reminders about routines we've gotten lazy on, and updates on future projects. Maybe some warnings about problems coming from higher up in the company.

People are, in my opinion, a bit too cynical about the meetings. It stems from people not trusting our boss, which again, I understand, because it would make so much more sense if he wasn't trustworthy. It's a testament to the man's incredibly unhealthy priorities that he is. But as we made it to the end of the meeting, one of bullet points was: 

Do NOT mess with animals in the building. 

So I looked at my techs, and they looked at me, and when he got to the point, he was so scathing I actually just wanted to crawl under a rock and die. He said basically that he'd heard some reports about someone in the building handling animals that found their way in and got stuck, and that he just wanted to emphasize how insanely inappropriate that was, not to mention dangerous, and that if he needed to speak to anyone about it again, there would be severe consequences. 

I was willing to just take the shame and move on. I was. But one of my techs is old. Old enough he could've retired two years ago. And his actual literal goal is to one day get angry, yell at someone, and storm out. That's how he wants to retire. So instead of biting his tongue like everyone else, he stood up and said: I hate the glue traps. You hate the glue traps. We all hate glue traps. But we've all sat here for years, ignoring the little things that get stuck in them, watching them die, and then Bab's comes in, and he is the first person in decades to give enough of a shit to start pulling the lizards out. And I don't want him to stop. 

Get humane traps or shut up but we are not going back to the old way of just letting things starve. 

And my boss actually froze up. He got all wide eyed and stared at Marc, and then the other techs jumped in, and there was a very small but intense rebellion in the meeting and my boss kept trying to interrupt while getting absolutely bowled over by this gang of angry middle aged air force vets, and eventually he just went 

I will speak with Babylon about this afterwards! After! And then he will speak with everyone else, but I have more points to cover. 

So they went silent, and my boss rushed through the last five minutes, and we all adjounred. The techs really didn't like that I was going in alone - they thought our boss was going to try and shout me into compliance. Marc in particular was like, Look, if he tries bullying you, stand your ground, and if he threatens anything, just come get us, and we'll give him hell. 

So armed with that, I went to my boss's office. I sat in the chair across from him, and he kept his composure for maybe five seconds before just flopping back into his chair. 

I had no idea you were saving lizards, he said, but I'm glad you are. I always hated seeing them die in the glue.  

I wasn't expecting that. I was about to ask him what the comment from the meeting was about then, but he answered that before I even got the chance.

A snake got into the building last week, and - someone picked it up and chased a coworker around. Turns out that coworker was severely afraid of snakes, and now it's a shitshow. We're a small site, and now I can't ask those two to work together anymore, to say nothing about how the snake fared after all that. Being upset about that is a reasonable thing, right? 

And he gave me a look like he actually wanted an answer, so I said Yeah, totally, chasing a coworker around with a snake is a dick move. Especially if that coworker is already afraid of snakes. 

And he said Exactly! and then we sat there a few moments longer. He looked so incredibly tired that I did, actually, feel kind of bad for him. And then he somehow managed to sink even further into his chair, and said

Look, I know I'm not a good guy. But I'm not evil. I'm not some sort of crazy asshole that's going to demand that everyone watch lizards starve to death. When you go back downstairs, could you try to pass that on? That I'm not evil? 

I said Sure because it wasn't a hard request, and he looked relieved. I actually made it halfway out before I realized I had a question. 

Who grabbed the snake? I asked. 

Not supposed to talk about it, he said. But whoever comes to mind first is probably right. 

ThatGuy? I asked. And he looked me in the face, nodded his head yes, and said No. 

---

The techs seemed a little disappointed that they didn't get to storm the boss's office, but were otherwise in good spirits. They were actually a little bit embarrassed to hear about the snake story - apparently, it wasn't much of a secret. It'd just slipped their minds because it happened three weeks ago. 

We did maintenance after that, the same basic repairs we did every week. The meeting had been stressful and it was a relief to work with my hands. When the parts were reinstalled, everything cleaned and smooth and ready to go, Marc found me again. 

You know what the lesson of today is? he asked. And there were quite a few answers to that that I could have taken - from don't assume the worst of people to be careful with how you spend your trust - we all need it more than we think. 

But instead I said what? because I wanted to hear what his answer was going to be. 

That I got your back, he said. Then he clapped one very, very large hand on my shoulder, gave it a good squeeze, and walked back to dosimetry lab.

---

The next day, Marc gave me a package and told me to open it in my office. I was suspicious, but I followed the request.

Cardboard gave way to a small baggie, obviously full of fabric, which opened to reveal a t-shirt that read

"I Am the Motherfucking Lizard King."

I looked at it, I loved it, and then I got an idea. I went to my boss's office and knocked on the door. When he opened it, I asked him if he would be willing to allow something very unprofessional to happen for morale building purposes.

How unprofessional? he asked. I held the shirt up in answer. He gave the shirt a short look over and snorted.

You can wear it on weeks without customers, he said. Which just so happened to include that week.

I'll pass on that it came with your blessing, I replied, and he looked oddly relieved.

Thanks, he said. And then I went downstairs.

---

The techs were very, very happy to see the shirt. And while my boss's reputation remains in tatters, and probably will be until he moves (or dies), the next time there was a meeting, there was quite a bit less complaining about how mere presence. Which is, I guess, a start.

We'll see if he squanders it.

[yanderedrabbles]

Yandere Prison Warden

After getting thrown into jail for a crime you refuse to talk about, one of the wardens takes a keen interest in your past. Tags: Male Yandere x Fem Reader, blood, violence, mentions of child abuse, lowkey kind of sweet, 10k words

Being in jail is no fun. Being in a maximum security prison after being found guilty of homicide? Somehow even less fun.

You've tried to make the best of it. Got some posters to put up in your cell, started a book club, took up macramé. But you can't really paint a veneer of normalcy over incarceration.

It's violent, it's dirty, and most inmates tend to avoid you. And the thought of at least thirty more years of the same routine, day in and day out? Well, that's plain depressing.

Still, some days are worse than others. Today seemed like it was going to be a good day. The cafeteria food was actually hot, an acquaintance shared some gum with you, you managed to get a new book from the library. Things were, if not great, at least bearable.

Until the tour.

The wardens - also called Corrections Officers, COs, screws, or rotten, motherless bastards - were almost always training new recruits. The prison system had an unsurprisingly high turnover, which meant an almost constant stream of new faces. With time, you'd learnt to ignore the tours and walk-throughs. With one exception.

Slammer.

He was a senior CO who seemed to almost always turn your cell into the final stop on his grand introductory tour of the glorious prison system. Maybe you were just nice to look at or maybe he had a chip on his shoulder. Either way, things almost always ended with you being gawked at.

Like right now.

The 'tour group' was clustered outside your cell. Slammer was in the lead, his baton out and his little piggy eyes gleaming.

The trainees were in their new minted uniforms. Most of them uncomfortable and tugging at the scratchy, starched collars. You could have told them not to bother. That it was better for them to at least pretend they were comfortable. COs weren't your friends - every single prisoner in here would see that lack of confidence, that slight sense of unease. And they would pounce on it the first chance they got.

You hated being looked at like a zoo animal. And you especially hated the way Slammer showed you off to them like you some prize piece in his menagerie. Fellonus Homicidus perhaps.

You hated feeling their eyes on you. But you weren't going to make the mistake of showing them that. The less the COs knew about you, the better. It was like rule number three of incarceration. (Rule one being ‘never trust a warden’ and rule two being ‘don't fight the jacked inmate with prison tattoos.' Obviously).

You didn't bother to get up from your bunk to greet them. You stayed just as you had all afternoon - one arm behind your head and one leg hanging off the bed.

You pretended to keep reading your beat up paperback.

"This one is especially dangerous. Stabbed her neighbour forty eight times before the cops could get her off," Slammer told them.

"Forty six," you corrected without looking away from your book. "Coroner said it was forty six. Allegedly."

You could feel their eyes on you again.

"Right," Slammer drawled, "Because those last two stabs made all the difference."

You didn't bother to answer him.

"She really did that?" One of the trainees, a lanky guy with too large ears, asked. "She looks harmless."

You were almost offended at that. You flicked your eyes over them. They were mostly men, and most of them were looking at you in that hungry, contemplative way you knew so well. Wondering how much they could get away with once they were full fledged COs.

It should have bothered you. It didn't. Horny COs were just a part and parcel of life here. If you were smart, you could wring all sorts of goodies out of them before their supervisors caught on.

"Listen to me son. Every single prisoner in here is dangerous. They wouldn't be locked up if they were like you and me. They don’t feel guilt, not even when they steal from their poor old momma."

"You wound me, Slammer." You turned the page with a flick of your thumb. "I loved my mama. Only stole from her once or twice."

You didn't have much hope of them noticing your sarcasm. COs weren't the brightest bunch.

Slammer ignored you. "Don't ever say they're harmless. They sure as hell ain't. Two weeks here and you'll know exactly what I mean."

You could tell they didn't believe him. In the popular imagination, a women's prison was nothing like the men's. Women weren't dangerous. The trainees probably assumed you spent all day knitting scarves and talking about the lovely husband and kids you were oh so keen to get back to.

They would lose that notion pretty damn fast.

"Are you supposed to tell us the prisoners' charges?" A man's voice, neutral and respectful, but you thought you could hear a hint of reproach in his tone.

You looked back at the group and you were amazed that you didn't notice him earlier. He stood perfectly still, hands clasped behind his back like he was at parade rest. Unlike the others, he had the quiet confidence of someone who knew their job and knew it well.

His blond hair was slicked back and his uniform sat on him in a way that was a lot more natural than any of the others trainees. Ex-military or police, if you had to guess. Not that unusual. Corrections wasn't such a huge leap from those fields.

You sat up and answered him before Slammer could get a chance.

"He's not. Inmate information is confidential. But Slammer here doesn't always listen to the rules."

You shot the head CO a condescending smile. "He's a reaaal rebel."

Slammer scoffed. "The new officers have a right to know exactly how dangerous you are."

You put a hand to your chest, all faux innocence. "Little old me? Slammer, I'm a saint! A nun! I've been to chapel three times this week."

"Yeah. To sell cigarettes and buy booze."

"Just as the good Lord intended."

Slammer didn't find you funny. You could tell from the fact that a) he wasn't laughing and b) he was grinding his teeth like he was a beaver about to dig into a particularly scrumptious tree.

"Fact is, prisoners like her are the worst of the bunch. You think they're harmless, but the second you turn your back, they'll shiv you and run off with your tazer."

You grinned at the trainees as winningly as you could.

"Only did that once by the way. And the guy had it coming, swear on my mama."

Most of them were shifting around uncomfortably. Hearing Slammer keep banging on about your crimes was finally enough to get it through to them. The prisoners are not nice.

You'd assume that was obvious, but incarceration taught you that however slow you thought the wardens were, they could always get dumber.

The only one who didn't seem bothered was the blonde. He was looking at you like you were nothing more or less than a piece of furniture. You got the sense that he was analysing you, looking past your fake smile and even faker bravado.

You also got the feeling that he wasn't impressed with what he saw.

You flopped back down on your bunk and tried not to let it bother you. One more person thinking you were a delinquent. What difference did it make?

He was the last to leave. His eyes did one final scan of your cell before they landed on your paperback. He raised a brow.

"The Green Mile? Isn't that a bit depressing?"

You shrugged, uncomfortable but not entirely sure why.

"I like to think of it as aspirational."

"And why's that?"

"The wardens aren't all assholes."

That earned you a flicker of a smile before he turned on his heel and disappeared.

You forgot all about him after a week. To be fair, there were other things to occupy you. A fist fight on D Block that you somehow got dragged into. Drama in the book club. A warden getting caught with his pants down. Standard prison fare.

It was a Tuesday when you saw him again, in the middle of the cafeteria. You only had a split second to recognise him before he was dousing you in pepper spray and sweeping your legs out from under you.

That was misleading maybe. He wasn't totally unjustified in greeting you like that. You were technically in the middle of beating a CO with a lunch tray.

(He deserved it, but that's not exactly a good excuse when his nose is gushing blood all over the table).

You were still coughing on pepper spray when he hauled you to solitary, your eyes and throat burning.

"Glad...to see you got...the job Blondie," you managed to wheeze.

He sent you stumbling into the cell with a practiced push.

"Yep," he said simply, "They hired me on the spot."

Your shoulder was still a painful mess when he slammed and locked the door, leaving you in the half dark to wash the stinging out of your eyes.

You rubbed at your aching joints. "I can see why."

Pepper spray was considered the least lethal way to subdue a prisoner. Easier than a taser, less brutal than the baton. But despite its shining reputation, it was your least favourite tool in a CO’s belt. A taser was at least quick. The baton left a bruise but the pain didn't linger.

Pepper spray on the other hand? It left your eyes and throat and nose irritated for days.

You were still trying to rinse it out of your mouth when he returned, boots heavy on the linoleum and his keys rattling.

You turned to him with your white prison issued tank practically soaked. To most other guards, that would be an invitation to gawk. Not him though. His eyes never dipped below your chin.

"Sit down. I've got some cold cloths for the swelling."

You sat, more confused than anything else.

"That's not standard regulation Blondie. Usually, they just let us suffer through it."

He tossed you the cloths, still icy from a quick minute in the freezer. You pressed them to your face gratefully.

"It is standard regulation. Treating pepper spray once the prisoner is subdued."

You scoffed. "Why am I not surprised that no one ever told us that?"

He stayed quiet and you peaked at him over the edge of the fabric. He was a lot leaner than you realised, his sleeves rolled to his elbows, his forearms toned with muscle.

And covered in tattoos. Damn, he had some sick tats.

You cleared your throat, not exactly sure why he bothered to do this for you.

"Thank you. It sucks to deal with. Makes everything taste awful. For days."

He raised a brow.

"I just dragged you to solitary and your main worry is that the food won't taste good?"

"The food never tastes good. This is more so a matter of bloody awful becoming hellish awful."

"It can't be that bad."

"Get back to me after you've spent five years chomping down on lukewarm hash browns and soggy peas."

"You've been in here five years already?"

You sighed, pressed the cloth against your brows so you didn't have to look at him.

"Yep. And I've still got another thirty to go."

"Why?"

That got an unexpected laugh from you.

"Didn't you hear Slammer? Homicide. Found guilty on all charges."

"Did you do it?"

"Allegedly."

What was his angle? Was this some new, interactive approach to corrections? Getting friendly with the inmates so they were less likely to riot?

"Didn't they teach you not to ask those sorts of questions?" you asked. "Not really something people in here like to talk about."

You saw that little flicker of a smile again.

"They did. But I get the feeling you don't mind it as much."

He was right. You didn't mind. At least, not with him. He had a kind of quiet confidence that, surprisingly, made you feel comfortable.

"Why did you want to work in a prison? Or more accurately, what the hell went wrong that you ended up here?"

"You think it's such a bad job?"

"I'd never do it and I live here."

He leaned against the cell wall, hands on his belt. There it was again. A veteran's stance, weapons in easy reach in case you tried something.

"It's a boring story."

"I've got nothing but time."

That earned you another raised brow.

"As we've established."

What's this? A CO actually cracking a joke? You never thought you'd see the day.

"And anyway, we're not here to talk about me. I'm here to find out why you attacked my fellow officer."

Ah, so that was why he was playing nice.

"I didn't like his face."

He narrowed his eyes and pushed himself off the wall. "Disappointing. I thought you'd have a better reason than that."

You didn't like his tone, or the way it made you feel. Ashamed. Like you'd failed his test, even though you didn't know you were supposed to be studying.

He paused at the door, like something occurred to him.

"What's her name? The girl he was picking on?”

You raised you head. "What?"

"The guard you attacked. He was causing trouble, wasn't he?"

How did he know? Did he see it? Oh God, was Ruby going to get into shit because of you?

"Listen, she had nothing to do with it. She had no idea what I was going to do. It was all me."

He shrugged. "How am I supposed to believe that's true if I don't know the full story?"

You bit your lip. You didn't like saying too much to the COs. And your instinct was telling you this one would be able to read a lot deeper than the rest.

"Guess I'll just have to ask her then."

"No!" You dug your hands into your sheets to stop yourself from bolting to your feet.

"No, Ruby has nothing to do with it I swear. She’s almost sixty. She gets enough shit as it is. Just leave her alone."

You swallowed. "Please."

He was looking at you again, much sharper this time.

"Explain."

Your grip on the sheets tightened until your knuckles were pale. Did you really have to talk about this shit out loud?

"Ruby is..." you started. "She's different. Older than most of us, keeps to herself. She's not...all there, if you know what I mean."

He turned to face you and settled back against the wall. "Go on."

"Most of the inmates don't bother her. Why would we? She's just a little old lady. Not harmless, no ones really harmless, but about as close to it as you can get. But some of the COs..."

His lips thinned. "They have a nasty streak."

"You can call it that. Usually it's just calling her names. But sometimes some of them get it into their heads that what she really needs is a hard knock. Rattle those screws around enough and maybe they'll fall back into place."

"Is that what happened today?"

You sighed, looked down at your hands and the blood dried in the crevices of your nails.

"Yep. CO was all in her face, being nasty. Grabbing her wrist. Taunting her. And she... she just stood there and took it. Old enough to be the his grandmother and he didn't care."

You closed your eyes.

 What else were you supposed to do?

He'd been at it for five minutes when you stood up with your lunch tray. By then you'd had enough. No one else was going to do anything, so it was going to be you.

The lunch trays were a hard plastic, meant to keep from breaking on impact. You'd left your half eaten bowl of chow on the table and walked up behind him, your heart beating steady and calm. Some part of you had already decided the consequences were worth it.

Some of the inmates were looking at you and every single one of them knew exactly what you intended. But none of 'em said a word.

You could still feel the smack of your tray against his head. The way he stumbled forward with the momentum.

You'd caught him by surprise and you weren't going to let him get over it. You swung the tray at his face, as hard as you could. You could feel his nose breaking. He was on his knees by then. And maybe you'd have let him up, might have ended things there.

But then you saw Ruby's wrist. A frail thing, with the warden's finger marks standing out a livid red.

"I see."

You opened your eyes. He was still watching you, his face unreadable.

You shrugged and tried to smile.

"Today was practically hum drum by our normal standards."

"How exciting," he deadpanned.

"Just wait 'til Christmas time. It gets positively festive."

He snorted and started for the door again.

"You're aren't such a hard ass after all, are you? Saving little old ladies in your spare time," he said.

"Just think how safe senior citizens will be when they let me back out."

It was only for a few seconds, but you liked it when he smiled. It softened that tough guy demeanour just enough to make you wonder about the man underneath.

When he was gone, you laid down with the cloth still pressed against your cheek. Who'd have thought it. A CO who you didn't want to punch in the teeth.

The CO you beat didn't come back to work for two weeks, and when he did, you heard that he asked for a transfer to a different block.

Ruby made you a macaroni necklace and said something about alien warships picking you out of everyone else. You figured that was her way of saying thank you.  

And maybe the most notable thing of all: Blondie was assigned to your cell block. Surprising. Yours wasn't the worst part of the prison, but you weren't a bunch of saints either. Rookies wouldn't even be considered until they'd had at least a year's experience.

It was yet another thing pointing to his past. Something, somewhere, had given him enough experience to slip ahead on the promotion queue.

You didn't much mind it. Hell, you'd almost say it was enjoyable. He wasn't rude, he didn't pick favourites and he was keen eyed enough to catch a lot of the under table business that inmates engaged in.

You didn't go out of your way to talk to him - getting too cosy with a CO wasn't a good look - but you made it a point to greet him whenever you could.

Well, you called it greeting. Most other folk saw it as a smirk and a sing song "Hey there Blondie!"

He must have had some sort of interest in you too. You'd look up from your lunch and see him watching you, head tilted just a little. Like he was trying to puzzle you out. You took to winking at him whenever you caught him.

It would usually be enough to make him look away, but never for long. His eyes would always find you again.

You should have been annoyed at it, or unnerved. But honestly, the way he looked at you was borderline sweet compared to the other COs. You'd occasionally catch some of them watching you too. Usually with their hands on their belts.

There wasn't much to do in prison besides read, sleep and exercise. But around the third week after his arrival, you started getting letters.

Not totally uncommon. Plenty of folk wrote to prisoners. But to you? That was a different story. You put the letters you received into two categories: perverts and the pervertedly curious.

The perverts were exactly what you'd expect. People who thought your mugshot was the hottest thing since Megan Fox taking a swim. Their letters were particularly uncomfortable to read. And often sticky. You never wrote back.

The pervertedly curious were a whole ‘nother class. They probably ran across your case on a true crime podcast or on a documentary. And their first thought at hearing the story was to wonder exactly what it felt like. They'd write and ask you what was going through your mind. What did the knife feel like sinking into his flesh? What did the blood smell like?

A fun bunch of freaks. You'd write back sometimes, more for your own amusement than anything else. Your answers were never even remotely true. I was mostly thinking about how late my taxes were and what a bastard it would be clean up. Stabbing him felt like cutting a steak except more scream-y. The blood smelt like a stack of pennies on a warm summer day, but mostly it just smelt like blood.

You'd always end your sentences with your trademark allegedly.

These new letters were nothing like those at all. The paper was crisp and clean and most importantly, not sticky. The folded lines were sharp, like the writer pressed them down with their thumb nail.

The writer didn't ask about the murder. They didn't ask about your bra size. They were almost...sweet.

You must be lonely in prison. You must get bored. I hope you're safe.

You read it again and again before you wrote a reply. Silly really. They seemed much too nice to be writing to someone like you. Maybe someone trying to do a good deed.

You should scare them off. Writing to a prisoner is sweet and all, but most folk in here would use it as just another way to wring someone dry. You were no different. Your anonymous pen pal would be better off working at the animal shelter if they wanted to help a stray.

I've got a whole host of buddies. We discuss the best ways to get blood out of our socks and pillow cases. I'm not bored at all. We've got a badminton league. Obviously the best way to spend federal cash. I'm as safe as a lamb in the hay. Only got stabbed twice last week.

There. That would get rid of them.

You mailed it out on cheap exam pad paper with a stamp you lifted off your neighbour. You didn't expect a reply.

When the mail got delivered the next week, you were more than a little surprised to find a new letter waiting for you.

The same crisp paper, the same neat, slanting hand.

You can't scare me off. I know you're only prickly and sarcastic because deep down you're scared. Scared a lot. Scared all the time.

I looked you up. You were barely out of high-school when it happened. Well behaved, normal family, no record of misdemeanours. Prison must have been an awful adjustment.

You had to put the letter down and take a deep breath. The kid clocked you. Less than two letters in and they'd read you better than anyone had in years. Better than anyone ever had maybe.

What were those first few years like, I wonder. How did you survive? Please write me back. I like checking in on you.

You considered not replying. What were they hoping to achieve, getting all familiar with a killer?

The letter sat on your shelf for half a week before you gave in and wrote a reply.

I survived by being mean and cruel and evil. Stop writing me kid. I'll bite your head off and drink your blood.

The next letter came almost instantly. If anything, the writer seemed amused more than anything else.

Scary. Did they put you in for homicide or suspected vampirism? You want to get rid of me, but I'm not going anywhere. You don't have to reply, but I know you must need a friend. They aren't easy to come by behind bars. Any alliances you form will always have the expectation of reciprocation. It must be exhausting.

Did I tell you I bought a new car last week? A Camaro. I know. How stereotypical of a Marine to buy a car like that, right? But it's gorgeous. I'd like to take you for a drive someday. Nothing but the open road. I think you'll like that.

You didn't even wait a full day before you wrote back. Because they were right. You really did need a friend. Someone to just shoot the breeze with, without any subtext of a favour being repaid later on.

You didn't know anything about your mysterious pen pal. Not their age or their gender or even the colour of their eyes. They signed all their letters with a simple from B.

They mostly asked you questions. Not obtrusive or gross ones either. They wanted to know which foods you missed the most, which tv series and movies you wanted to catch up on, which actors you thought were getting Grammys this year.

When Grammy and Oscar season rolled around, you choked out a fellow inmate to get the TV remote. You left them sitting up on the couch, passed out and looking like they were just asleep. Blondie almost caught you. He walked past the door and paused to stare at your victim.

You gave him your most charming grin.

"She said the opening ceremony was too long and to wake her up when the red carpet is over," you explained.

He scoffed and moved on.

When you wrote your next letter, you packed it full of award show details.

B wrote to you for the better part of a year. But you only learnt a handful of things about them. They were in the Marines, they now worked some kind of federal job, they had tattoos, they liked Nicole Richie, and they hated fried chicken. Like really hated it. With a passion.

I promise to never cook you fried chicken, you wrote, only fried calamari, fried onion rings, fried mushrooms, fried liver, fried green beans, fried -

Can you even cook? they wrote back. Or are you just running your mouth?

For a while, you were happy. They'd occasionally send you new books in the mail, burnt CDs to listen to on your busted radio, packets of sweets.

Prison was hell, but it was a structured, expected sort of hell. You could deal with it.

But then she arrived.

You didn't bother to learn her name. She was tall and lean, green eyes like pond scum, and teeth chipped from fighting. You didn't like her from the first, but you had no reason to quarrel and so avoided her as much as you could.

Blondie didn't like her much either, and that's where the trouble started.

She'd deliberately bump into Blondie whenever she could. Hard enough that you could almost feel the impact.

"Oops... Didn't see you there."

If it was anyone else, they'd probably get thrown in solitary. But Blondie was a stickler for the rules. He'd brush his uniform off like just touching an inmate was enough to cause a plague. And then he'd settle his blue eyes on her, cool and detached.

"Watch where you're going next time."

That was how it went on. Weeks of passive aggression, slowly getting more and more physical.

You didn't want to intervene. Blondie could protect himself. Still, you kept your eye on him as much as you could.

There was another thing about the new girl you didn't like.

She had a way with people.

Could convince even the most stubborn inmate to do something, even if it was against their own best interest.

She got an inmate who was almost out on probation to attack and almost blind a CO. She got innocent old Ruby to start selling cigarettes. She almost got you to pick a fight with someone for damn near no reason at all.

She was dangerous, in a way no one before her had been. You could feel it in the harsh whispers after lights out. Got to make those dirty screws pay. Fucking COs have had it too good for too long. Who the fuck do they think they are anyway?

A riot was brewing. You started staying in your cell a lot more. Managed to pull some metal out of your mattress and spent every night sharpening it to a point.

Some of the COs were smart enough to notice the tension and your outside time got shortened to half an hour, lunch got pulled back to fifteen minutes. Their solution was to keep you locked in your cells for as much of the day as possible.

Not a good move.

Prisoners with no distractions tend to amuse themselves by planning all sorts of nasty things. How to grab a CO from behind and get their keys before anyone noticed. How to choke out the one bastard who kept throwing them in solitary. How to pay back all those times a CO groped them in the middle of a search.

You could feel it heightening to a point. Could feel it in the dirty, oily stickiness of the air.

When Blondie came past on patrol, you stopped him. You'd been hoping to catch him for a few days and you weren't going to miss your chance.

"Yes?"

Those blue eyes were staring straight through you, cool as a winter without a radiator.

You remembered the pepper spray, the cool cloth pressed against your burning skin.

"Listen, I think you should call in sick for the next week."

Oh no, it came out sounding like a threat.

You cleared your throat, tried to smile.

"I owe you one, okay? So just trust me on this and don't show up for a while."

He narrowed his eyes.

"There's going to be a riot,” he said.

"Seems like it."

"When?"

"I don't know. It's not exactly a scheduled thing. But it's going to be bad."

He looked away from you, scanning the long row of cells across from you. You could hear the ambient shuffling and coughing and laughing of a hundred people living together.

"Can it be stopped?"

You sighed. You'd seen it play out a few times already. Wardens had all sorts of ways to handle riots, but once the fever was brewing, it was near impossible to break. It was in the atmosphere, in the tense glances between prisoners. It was bigger than all of you.

He must have seen the answer in your face.

He shook his head, stubborn to the last.

"I've got a job to do. If I got scared every time the prisoners got rowdy I'd be out of work real quick."

You sighed and pulled away from the bars.

"Your funeral Blondie."

You really hoped it wouldn't be.

The thing that started the riot was so small that on a normal day you'd call it borderline routine.

A CO was watching the cafeteria line, hustling people along when they paused longer than he liked. When he came to one of the girls a few spots ahead of you, he got impatient and shoved her forward. Not hard. Barely enough to make her stumble.

You cringed. For a second or two, you imagined you could feel it on your skin. A static crackling like lightning about to strike.

She punched the CO in the throat.

He stumbled backwards, holding his neck and gasping.

Other prisoners  were already moving forward. Three of them grabbed his arms and bunch of the others ripped off his gear. Taser and baton and pepper spray now in the hands of a pissed and petty prison populace.

The other officers were already coming forward, batons out. Usually that would be enough to break things up, but they had just about everyone against them. Numbers always won.

 The veneer cracked and the riot finally started. It took less than a minute.

The yelling was enough to make your head throb. Bouncing off the cafeteria walls and ringing ringing ringing in your ears.

You ducked out of the way as much as possible, always on your guard. Riots weren't just dangerous for the wardens. Inmates saw them as a way to settle old scores without ending up in solitary or back in court. And lord knew,  you'd accumulated a hell of a lot of grudges over the years.

A prisoner rushed you. She was clutching a shiv made out of a ballpoint pen and a piece of wire coat hanger.

You dodged, sticking your foot between her legs and making her stumble. Your adrenaline was pumping, your vision dark at the corners.

You grabbed her hair before she could recover, and slammed her head against the edge of a metal cafeteria table.

She dropped like a rock.

You stepped away before any of her friends noticed you, your heart so far up your throat you could almost taste it.

That's when you saw her. That green eyed bitch, slipping out a side door with two of her cronies behind her.

You could feel your neck prickling.

There was only one score she had to settle and you knew exactly who it was aimed at.

You followed as quickly as you could. The backup had arrived and two tear gas canisters were belching thick white smoke into the room.

Despite your best efforts, by the time you made it out your eyes were stinging and she was long gone.

You swore and sprinted down the corridor, thinking fast.

If she managed to corner Blondie, she’d want to take her time with him. That's how scores were settled when you had a mean streak. Slow. Painful.

That meant she’d want privacy. Somewhere the riot officers wouldn't immediately find her when things calmed down.

You grabbed the corner of a wall and used it to shoot down the main hall, prison issued sneakers pounding the linoleum.

The showers. That's exactly where you'd go if you were her.

She didn't have time to block the doors. You banged through them shoulder first, the same way a cop would. The room was still thick with steam from earlier and Blondie's blood was running in thin streams toward the drain.

"The fuck is wrong with you?" she barked.

Green eyes, the one who instigated this whole mess.

She was standing with her sleeves rolled up and a razor blade between her fingers. The small, rectangular kind that goes in a straight razor.

Her two cronies were holding Blondie by the arms, stretching him out like he was on a cross.

Blondie clearly hadn't made it easy for them. Green eyes had a nasty bruise blooming on her cheek and both her cronies were sporting ugly nose bleeds. His baton was laying abandoned on the shower floor, rolled up against a bench.

Even a man as strong and well trained as he was couldn't go up against three armed felons and win.

You must have been just in time. The worst they'd done to him was cut his cheek, all the way from his temple to the bridge of his nose. It was bleeding bad, but didn't look too deep.

You straightened up and smiled at them, big and broad like you'd never had a better reunion.

"Having some fun without inviting me?"

Green eyes scoffed. "Why do you care? This shit is personal. Find something else to do."

You tilted your head, still smiling.

"You're right. It is personal. As in I owe Blondie over there a personal favour. As in I don't want you fucking with what's mine."

Blondie was watching you with those sharp eyes. If he took issue with being called yours, he didn't show it.

"Let him go." You didn't scream. You didn't demand. You simply said it. That's what made them nervous.

"Listen bitch - I don't care that everyone is scared of you. What you did on the outside doesn't matter one fucking bit."

You kept smiling, but your fingers were buzzing. The same why they had the night you stabbed a man forty six times.

You flicked your wrist and the shiv fell into your palm.

It was as long as your hand and sharpened into a wickedly pointed tip. It could slide between someone's ribs and kill them in less than five heart beats.

"They aren't scared of me because of what I did outside."

The two cronies were looking at each all worried-like. You vaguely recognised them, but it was clear that they recognised you no problem.

The boss turned to face you fully, light and easy on her toes like a boxer.

"You really gonna make a big deal over a fucking screw? A CO?"

"Since he's the only CO I've met who isn't a total piece of shit, I've got a vested interest in keeping him around."

She rolled his shoulders like a fighter would. You bit back a sigh. This was going to really hurt.

She didn't come at you right away. She ran her eyes over your body - your posture, your build, everything that might give you an advantage.

Then she charged.

Fast, even on the still slippery tiles. There wasn't enough time to duck or dodge.

You blocked her first punch with your arms, her fist smacking against your skin and spiking a sharp pain all the way down to your bones.

You stepped backward and kicked at her knee, but she saw it coming and turned her leg at the last second, took it on her thigh instead.

She’d dropped the razor blade - without a handle it was just as dangerous to her as it was to you - which meant she had full use of her fists.

She kept pummelling at you, catching you on the ribs and then on the sternum. You slammed back against the lockers, winded.

She pushed her advantage, going straight for your throat. You dropped down at the last second and her fist slammed full force into the metal.

She screamed and then screamed again as you slammed your shiv into her thigh.

You grabbed her throat and shoved her away from you, breathing hard.

She was clutching her thigh with one hand, blood welling up between her fingers. Dark red, but not enough to be fatal. You hadn't hit any arteries.

You slammed the heel of your hand into her nose, aiming upwards. You felt cartridge crunching.

She screamed again and scrambled away as quickly as she could with her injured leg.

Blood was running into her mouth, and when she snarled at you, her teeth were red.

You smiled again, as cheerful as a choir girl.

"Had enough?"

She spat blood at your feet.

You waited, half your attention on the other two. They hadn't yet moved to help her. You weren't sure if it was out of fear of letting Blondie go, or just a strong self preservation instinct.

Green eyes finally gave in. Or more accurately, her leg did. She buckled and fell, knees smacking hard on the tile. You winced.

She looked pale, in the about to pass out sort of way.

You sighed and jerked your head at her.

"Get her to the second floor nurses office. Wrap something around her leg. Tight. She’ll live but it's going to hurt a whole lot more if you aren't quick about it."

The other two were looking between you and her, eyes wide.

You wiped the back of your hand across your mouth, still holding the bloody shiv.

That seemed to decide them. They let go of Blondie all at once and grabbed their boss under the arms. Between the two of them, they were able to drag her out.

She left a trail of bright red behind.

When they were gone, you sat on the closest bench, holding your ribs. Hopefully they weren’t cracked - it hurt to breathe. You'd have to visit the infirmary as soon as things died down.

"She’s going to get even with you," Blondie said.

He was watching you. He hadn't moved. Blood was still running in thin streams down his cheek, like he was crying red.

"Yep. She's got a lot of friends too. It's not going to be fun."

"Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Act so light hearted about everything. I can see your hands shaking."

You balled them into fists and avoided looking at him. The silence stretched.

Finally, "Why did you really kill your neighbour?"

"I didn't like his face."

"I don't believe you."

"Believe what you want. The court already made up its mind."

He finally moved. Picked up his baton and slipped it into his belt. Grabbed a towel and balled it up, then pressed it against his face. The white started spotting red almost immediately. You watched him from the corner of your eye.

"Give me the knife."

"It's called a shiv. You should know that."

You rubbed the handle against your pants, getting rid of any fingerprints. Redundant, given there were three witnesses who saw you stab another inmate. Old habits don't really die, you supposed.

You handed it to him without looking at his face.

He wrapped it in a smaller towel and stuck it in his belt.

You could hear faint sirens from beyond the door, and his radio was crackling with orders. The wardens seemed to be getting things under control.

"I'm throwing you in solitary. And then I'm requesting a transfer to another block."

"Aww shucks, I'll really miss you Blondie."

"Not a transfer for me, you idiot. A transfer for you. It won't stop her entirely. There's always a little bit of communication between the blocks, no matter how hard we try and prevent it. But it should give you some time to make friends of your own."

"I've never been very good at that."

"Maybe try being less sarcastic."

He grabbed your upper arm and pulled you to your feet. His grip was light, a formality more than anything.

"Why did you really save me?"

You couldn't look at him. You shrugged.

"It's like I said. You're the least terrible warden in here. Not a very high bar to be fair, but still."

He started towards the door and you followed.

There were officers coming down the corridor in full riot gear. He waved them down and thrust you towards one.

"Solitary. Protective custody."

"Why?"

Blondie didn't even hesitate. "Because she saved my life."

Solitary wasn't so bad when the other option was tossing and turning on your bunk, just waiting for a knife to your ribs.

You'd almost call it relaxing. Your ribs were bandaged tight and the painkiller the doc gave you left you floating on a cloud of dope.

When you heard the footsteps pause outside your door, you didn't bother to get up.

Blondie didn't say anything for a long while. When he finally spoke, it was so soft that you had to strain to hear it.

"I still don't believe you. I don't think you're a cold blooded killer. I think that whatever happened between you and that man wasn't really brought before the court."

You sighed.

"Drop it Blondie."

"No."

Maybe it was the medicine or maybe it was the confession booth feeling of the half dark. Either way, you ended up giving away more than you intended.

"It doesn't matter. If the whole thing was public, it would only hurt people who've already been through enough."

"You had a reason for killing him."

"Yes."

"What?"

"I won't tell you. Won't tell anyone, ever. It's not my story to tell”

 “You're in jail because of it. Who else could possibly have more to lose?"

"You'd be surprised."

It was his turn to sigh.

"I'm going to find out eventually, y'know."

"Have fun with that. Don't give yourself a headache."

He sighed and walked away.

You didn't see him again for half a year.

They kept you in solitary a whole week. Long enough for your ribs to stop hurting and for the bruises to lighten. Long enough for green eyes to be processed and transferred further up-state. That was unusual, even if she was the one who instigated the riot. You had a feeling someone pulled some strings behind the scenes. And you had an even stronger feeling about who it must have been.

When you were finally out, you were assigned to a new block. Your stuff was already waiting for you in your new cell, your books and CDs and a new letter from B.

Won't be able to write for a while. I've got something important to work on. Hopefully I'll be back soon.

You couldn't ignore the way that stung. Without meaning to, you'd come to rely on their letters. A little reprieve from the life you were stuck with.

The new block wasn't too bad. You took Blondie's advice and made some friends. Tried to avoid fights as much as possible. If green eyes ever managed to convince someone to get even for her, they didn't go through with it.

Life was, if not good, then at least bearable. You tried ignoring the little nagging part of you that constantly wondered about both Blondie and B. Without either of them, you felt...emptier somehow. Lonely.

When a warden came to tell you that you had a visitor, your heart lurched. Your family didn't visit you much anymore. And you cut off your friends the day you got convicted - no need to draw them into your mess. Secretly, you hoped it was B. You had no clue what they looked like, but after six months without hearing from them, you were almost desperate.

You smoothed down your uniform before you stepped into the visitors' centre, your eyes sweeping the room for familiar faces.

You noticed him almost immediately. Blondie, his hair shaggy when it wasn’t gelled back and his usual uniform replaced by a flannel shirt and jeans. A man was sitting next to him, his pinstripe suit still neat and pressed despite it being late afternoon.

He didn't even give you time to say hello.

"This is Mark Lawrence. Your lawyer."

You squinted at the man, confused. He was clearly a cut or two above the overworked district attorney who'd handled your case.

"No he isn't. I haven't seen him before in my life."

He sighed, irritated. "Mark is the lawyer I hired to represent you when we go to court next month."

"...Why am I going to court next month?"

"To challenge the original ruling."

"Okay. Why?"

"Because I've found another witness to your case, one that didn't testify last time."

You felt like were slammed face first into a bucket of icy water. With rusted nails in it.

"Who?"

"The victim's daughter."

"No."

"Yes."

Your handcuffs rattled as your balled your hands into fists.

"She's just a kid. What she needs is to put the past behind her, not re-live every minute of it up on the witness stand. No. We're not doing this."

You glared at him and he met you straight on. The tension cracked.

The lawyer finally interjected.

"Knowing the full details of the case changes things dramatically. Your charge goes from first degree murder to manslaughter. We might be able to cut your sentence down to fifteen years or less, with time served contributing."

"No. I'm not putting that little girl up on the stand."

Blondie practically snarled. "Yes. You. Are."

"No. I'm. Not."

"She's so much older now! Practically a teenager. She can handle it. And besides, she said she's happy to do it."

"You spoke to her?!"

Could this day get any worse? Why the hell did he have to go and drag up old memories? It must have been just as unpleasant for the kid as it was for you.

"Yes. Myself and the original detective both."

"Why? Is this what you've been doing the past six months? Trying to overturn my sentence?"

He looked away from you for the first time, his ears turning red.

"Yes."

You leaned back in your chair, conflicted and confused more than anything else. You hated to admit it, but a part of really wanted this. Even if the chance was slim, even if it meant another round of dockets and cross questioning. You were tired of prison. You wanted your life back.

You watched the late afternoon sun reflecting off the ceiling.

"I want to talk to her first. And then...maybe."

"Deal." Blondie sounded immensely satisfied.

You kept watching the sun and half listening to the conversations around you.

"Why are you doing this for me Blondie?"

Your voice was awfully soft.

"I'm returning a favour."

Your eyes slid to the lawyer.

"Pretty damn expensive way to do it."

He smirked. "I prefer my method to yours. Requires a whole lot less stabbing."

The kid came to visit you the next day. Blondie was right. She was almost a teenager. Did time really go by so fast?

You grinned at her.

"Hey kid. Sorry to drag you out to this place, but they don't let me out much."

"I bet."

She’d lost a lot of the baby fat from her cheeks and her dark eyes didn't have the haunted look you remembered so well.

"How's life with your aunt?"

"Great actually. The school is nice and we've got this Great Dane. And she isn't like... well, she isn't like my dad."

That made you happy. The kid deserved something good after everything she’d been through.

She broke in before you could keep asking questions.

"I want to do it. I want to testify against my father."

You paused, your smile fading. You could still hear her voice from that night, high and tinny and begging her dad to stop.

He hadn't stopped. He hadn't stopped beating his little girl until the moment you sunk a knife into his chest.

You swallowed, your mouth tasting like metal.

"Are you sure? It's not going to be easy."

She met your eyes. "I don't care. You saved me. I'm not going to let you rot in a place like this."

When she left, you couldn't help thinking about her eyes. The last time you saw her, she wouldn't even look at your face. Wouldn't say more than three words at a time.

The kid might never outrun her past, but she’d done a damn good job so far.

You tried not to be too hopeful. Homicide was almost impossible to overturn.

You tried not to be too hopeful, but the lawyer Blondie hired clearly knew his stuff. He laid it all out in front the judge.

How you used to babysit the kid when her dad wasn't around. How the man used to get violent when he was drunk, but never hit the kid until that night.

How you heard the screaming and banged at his door for fifteen minutes.  How you broke in through a back window when it wouldn't stop.

How you found the girl half dead with her father standing over her. Still going at it.

How you grabbed a knife, just to try and threaten him, maybe bring him back to his senses.

How he attacked you. How you stabbed him and then kept stabbing him until he stopped moving. 

How you bundled the kid off to her aunt and then called the cops on yourself.

The whole story this time. No pleading guilty and then sitting back down without another word. No half hearted defence by a state lawyer already over worked and underpaid. No half truths.

It took three weeks of court dates to get through the whole story, with witnesses and cross examination. By the time it was done, you wanted to wash your hands of the whole mess. Innocent or guilty, you just wanted to stop reliving that night.

The judge was a hard faced man who'd seen a thousand criminals come and go. You didn't have much hope for yourself when the bailiff told you to rise for the verdict.

"In the case of the state versus the accused, in regards to the appeal and additional information provided to the court, the court hereby considers this appeal to be..."

You felt your heart stutter. The last time you were in court listening to a verdict the outcome was a forgone conclusion.

"Granted."

You almost sat back down, your knees weak. There's no way. After all this time, were you really about to have your freedom back?

The judge continued, "The accused's sentence has been adjusted to account for time served. The original sentence of life imprisonment with the chance of parole after thirty years has been changed to immediate parole on strict assessment."

The judge looked at you, eyes maybe a little softer than they were before.

"This court will never condone murder, not even in defence of a child. But I think it's clear, young lady, that you've spent more than enough time behind bars."

Your lips felt numb. Your whole future changed in one sentence. In one afternoon. It was staggering.

"Thank you, your honour."

The bailiff read out a list of regulations to follow. Weekly check ins with both a parole officer and a state psychiatrist. No furthers run ins with the law, not even misdemeanours. If even one person close to you felt you were a threat, they could report it to the police and have you sent back to jail almost immediately. You were on house arrest until further notice. It was one of the strictest parole agreements you'd ever heard.

You didn't care if they told you to do a hundred push ups morning and evening. You were free again. You were going to behave like a damn saint for the rest of your days.

The only hiccup was when he mentioned the address that you were registered to stay at. You raised a brow at your lawyer but he avoided your eyes.

When court was finally dismissed, the first thing you did as a free woman was give Blondie a hug.

He was much taller than you, though you'd never realised it before.

"How much do I owe you? When I get a job, we can work out some kind repayment plan."

He waved you away and lead you from the courthouse. You tried to ask your lawyer about the house arrest, but he managed to slip away before you could.

His car was waiting for you. A new Camaro barely a year months old.

You let out a low whistle.

"She’s a beauty."

When you climbed into the passenger seat, you were sure to buckle your seat belt. No tickets for you, not ever.

The car started up with a thrumming purr.

It ate away at the road, even in the dense city centre. It wasn't long before you were almost at the city limits and cruising.

"By the way, do you know where I'll be staying? I didn't recognise the address."

You couldn't be sure, but it seemed like his hands tightened on the steering wheel just a tad.

"Mm-hmm. You're staying with me."

What? You couldn't possibly do that to him.

"Thank you. But don't you feel a little awkward having a felon in your home? I've still got my savings from before. I can rent my own place for a little."

"You're staying with me. Do you know how hard it is to get a good apartment with a criminal record?"

"I guessed as much. But Blondie, I already owe you. I can't possibly intrude on your life. Maybe you think you still owe me from that day. You don't. We're square."

He was quiet for a bit, but finally managed to force a smile into his voice.

"No. I'm not doing this because I feel indebted to you."

He kept his eyes on the road, his hand loose and confident on the wheel. His sleeves were rolled up again and you got your first good look at his tattoos. They were a collection of really well done pieces, each small tattoo blending with the others. Mostly fine line work, simple and clean.

"Why are you doing it then?"

He didn't answer.

When you arrived, his house was ranch style three bedroom with a huge, rolling yard and a neat wraparound porch.

You let out another low whistle.

"How do you afford this on a correction officer's salary?"

"I don't. It's paid off already. I was in the USMC for a long time. The money was good."

"I knew you weren't a normal civvie."

He grinned. "What gave it away?"

"The muscles."

He laughed and pulled your duffel bag from the trunk.

You'd told your parents to donate all your clothes when you were first sentenced. You didn't think you'd ever be free again so why hoard? Someone out there was probably making good use of your Doc Martens and distressed denim. Whatever normal clothes you currently had were what you were locked up with. The outfit on your back and little else.

The suitcase was instead filled with your meagre prison possessions, the stuff you didn't want to leave behind. Your collection of books. Some postcards. The CDs that B sent you.

Blondie carried it across the lawn like it weighed nothing at all.

Stepping into his house was a surreal experience. You hadn't been inside someone else's home since the night of your crime. Your last few years were exclusive to the grimy and outdated rooms of state buildings.

It was like stepping back in time. Or more accurately, like stepping into a future you thought was lost to you.

Clean, without the tang of cheap, industrial grade bleach. The walls painted and wallpapered instead of just whitewashed. The feeling of finally being somewhere you could relax. Not an in-between place.

Home.

He showed you to your room, a neat guest bedroom across from his, with a double bed and wide windows.

You didn't sit down on the bed or on the neat desk chair. You didn't feel clean enough. You still felt the stink and grime of prison clinging to you.

He raised a brow but showed you where the bathroom was.

It was another taste of freedom. Showers in prison were monitored and timed affairs. No standing under the water and just enjoying the heat, no taking the time to scrub and exfoliate. In and out and done as quick as possible.

You stood under the hot water for a long time, your face wet not just from the spray.

When you finally climbed out, you felt clean for the first time in years.

Blondie was gone when you got downstairs, a hasty note scrawled on the fridge about grabbing you some new clothes. You tilted your head at the handwriting. You could swear it looked so familiar... But no, it couldn't be. That was ridiculous.

You brewed yourself a hot drink, fully intending to sit on the porch and enjoy it. Like a little old woman.

The backdoor was locked.

You frowned. Okay, not that uncommon. Folk kept their doors locked all the time. He probably intended you to use the front door instead.

But that one was locked too.

So were all the downstairs windows. Closed shut with little hatches you hadn't noticed earlier.

You tried not to panic. He was probably just looking out for you. Being careful. You were still a felon. How did he know you weren't going to make a break for it the second you could, his tv and laptop in tow?

It was fine. You were fine. You could just drink at the table and wait for him to get home. You kept telling yourself that, even as you searched through the kitchen drawers for a spare key.

Nothing.

You didn't want to panic. You'd spent years locked away. Wasn't this much nicer than a cell?

No. Because at least in a cell you had no illusions about your freedom.

You ended up in his bedroom without knowing when you'd gotten there. You didn't dig through his drawers. He'd know instantly. But you did open them all, one by one, as if you'd find the key right on top of his neatly folded shirts.

You found the letters in the last drawer. The one right next to his bed, like he read them every night.

It took you a while to recognise them, even though you were looking at your own handwriting.

Your letters to B. Every single one of them. The envelopes neatly cut open and the letters themselves stacked in chronological order. The most recent one was at the very top and you picked it up with numb hands.

Hey B! Guess who's going back to court. Guess they missed seeing me strutting down the aisle.

Don't worry. I haven't down anything bad (at least not this time). Someone who thinks they owe me a favour has gotten it into their head that the best way to repay me is to get me out of jail.

The legal way, that is. No midnight tunnels or disguises. (Boo. How boring. What happened to romance?)

I don't have much hope, but at least it means a break in the monotony. And nicer chow.

You'd better write me soon. Can't believe I'm admitting this out loud, but I get a warm fuzzy feeling in my heart whenever I get a new letter from you. I think it must be acid reflux.

-your favourite felon.

B did, in fact, write back quickly. For the last time - no return address on the letter. In that, and in so many other ways, it was clear it was the final letter you were getting.

You're the most complicated person I've ever met. Caring and kind but somehow wrapped up in the most sarcastic personality. I've fallen in love with you. Stupid. Incredibly stupid. But it's true.

I love you.

-B

You'd sat in your cell with your eyes almost bugging out of your skull. Wondering what B did to have the misfortune of falling for a girl like you. Wondering if you could have loved them back, if given the chance. Wondering who they really were.

Well, here was your answer. B, the person who wrote you sarcastic poetry and hunted down your favourite books, was Blondie, the warden who owed you his life.

And he was in love with you.

You sat down, knees replaced by lunch time jelly cups.

No wonder he did what he did. No wonder he paid for an attorney and got your house arrest registered at his house. No wonder he kept the doors and windows locked.

There was a light step behind you and you flew to your feet, the letter still clutched in your fist.

He was standing in the doorway, watching you with cool blue eyes.

"So. You found them."

You couldn't answer.

He stepped into the room, his eyes never leaving yours. He'd taken off his shirt and stood in only his tank top and jeans, his arms lean with muscle. You'd spent years fighting and you knew in one glance that you could never take him. He was stronger. Had years of Marine and police training. It had taken three prisoners and a razor blade to finally hold him. What chance did you have?

"The world isn't built for prisoners. Rehabilitation is hard. What were the stats again? Eight out of every ten end up back in jail before ten years is up?"

He continued towards you, as calm as ever.

"You're safer here. With me. You said you'd be a great housewife remember?"

"I was joking," you managed. "Just kidding around."

He reached you and gently took the letter from your unresisting fingers.

"I won't make you do anything you don't want to. But you're not leaving me. You're not leaving this house."

"Why?"

He smiled, that half smile that gave you a glimpse past his tough guy shell. This time, you didn't like what you saw.

"You know why."

"I'm a terrible person to love. I'm prickly and sarcastic and I suck at doing the dishes."

"I've got a dishwasher."

"All I know how to cook is fried chicken."

He wrinkled his nose. "We'll work on it."

"I snore all night."

"You don't. I've watched you sleep."

"Really?"

"Really. I'd stop outside your cell and just watch you sometimes. I couldn't help it. You're so much calmer when you sleep. It's like seeing another version of you."

He tilted his head and closed the last bit of distance between you, until you could smell his cologne and see the flecks of green in his eyes. You'd never noticed them before.

"There are worse cells than this, aren't there? All you have to do is stay with me. Be happy. Let me love you."

"Do I have a choice?"

He smiled that secret smile again.

"Nope. It's either me or straight back to prison."

It was true. He was a model citizen – a veteran with a clean record as a corrections officer. Even if you did talk to your mandated psychologist or parole officer, they wouldn’t believe you. You’d be the ungrateful prisoner trying to manipulate her way out of house arrest.

You knew it from the start. Rule one - never trust a warden. They never have your best interests at heart. All they want is to cover their own skin and get theirs.

But, you never were very good at following the rules, were you?

[moonstruckme]

Seeing Stars

summary: after a bump on the head, you wake with your head on the shoulder of a beautiful stranger (who isn't really a stranger)

cw: hospital setting, concussion, memory loss, mention of vomit

Sirius Black x fem!reader ♡ 1.1k words

You wish the drone of all these people would quiet down so you could sleep better. You’re so tired, and conditions are perfect for it otherwise, your body heavy and a warm pillow of ideal firmness beneath your head. There’s a gentle brush of something against your forehead every now and then which feels inherently comforting. It does it again now. 

“That’s nice,” you murmur. 

A low chuckle. “Happy you think so.” 

You tilt your head towards the voice, startled to see a rather breathtaking man looking back at you. He’s close enough for you to count the long, dark lashes fringing his grey eyes and to catch the little tick his mouth does, as though he’s pleased to be looked at by you. Your warm, ideally firm pillow seems to be his shoulder. 

You sit up. Flashes appear behind your eyes; you blink to dispel them. “Sorry,” you say. 

“Hey, it’s alright,” the man says. He’s frowning, suddenly, brows sewn together in apparent concern. Every movement of his face only serves to make him lovelier; it’s dizzying. “What’s the matter?” 

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you.” 

The brow situation worsens. “Don’t be sorry for that, lovely. I hardly mind. Come on, why don’t you come back?” He folds a hand around the side of your head very carefully, as though wary of hurting you, to guide you down again. “The nurse said it’ll be good for you to rest while we wait.” 

You don’t argue, because he seems to know things. You trust him. Maybe it’s foolish, but who wouldn’t trust someone treating them so kindly, who presses his lips to your forehead as you settle and covers your ear with a hand when the wail of a passing siren cuts through the room and you wince. 

“I know,” the angel-man murmurs, sounding woefully compassionate to your plight. “We shouldn’t have to be here much longer. Are you feeling okay?” 

You hum unsteadily. 

“Do you think you might be sick again?” You’re unsure. “You should tell me if you might be. I’ll have to get a bag.” 

“Have I been sick?” you ask, looking up at him. 

Something flickers over his expression at your question. He rubs his thumb over the space behind your ear soothingly. “You have,” he answers, “but that was before we came, so it was a bit different. I don’t think they’ll let me follow you into the toilets here.” 

You feel your eyes widen. “You were there?” 

The man grins. It’s worse than anything he’s done so far, so dazzling you feel you have to close your eyes. You’re seeing stars again. 

“I’m not so terribly squeamish as to leave my loveliest girl all alone when she needs me,” he says. “I’m not that awful.” 

“I don’t think you’re awful,” you tell him. 

“No.” He makes a humorous-looking pouty face at you, still stroking behind your ear. “No, you wouldn't. That’s why you’re my loveliest girl, you’re too good to me.” 

“What does that mean?” 

“What does what mean, gorgeous?” 

You shy a bit at the misnomer. Surely people this beautiful shouldn’t just be dolling out compliments like that. “Your girl.” 

His thumb doesn’t stop petting you, but it slows. He looks at you for a handful of moments. It’s rather a lot; you shift in your uncomfortable, plasticy chair, but don’t think once of lifting your head from his shoulder. 

“Do you know who I am?” he asks eventually. 

You worry your lip between your teeth. “Am I supposed to?”

“No.” He folds his hand over your head again, kissing your temple. “That’s okay. You’ve had a bump on the head, and it’s made you forget some things, but it won’t be forever. My name’s Sirius.” He says this all very patiently. You get the sense he’s done it more than once. “We’ve been seeing each other for a while now.” 

At this, you do lift your head. Sirius lets you, though he watches like he doesn’t intend to let you go far. “You and I have?” you ask.

The corner of his mouth ticks. “That’s right.” 

“How long is a while?” 

“You say two years.” He tilts his head from side to side, like really it’s up for debate. “I say two years and a few weeks, because I thought our first date was to the Ramones show but you thought we were hanging out as friends.” 

You gawp at him. Your mouth has actually dropped open. “Are you my boyfriend?” 

“Some have said that,” Sirius says, smiling. “I prefer exclusive live-in soulmate.” 

You don’t know how you know, but you sense he’s half joking about the last part. Not the first, though. 

“Really?” you ask. 

Sirius quirks a brow. “Is it so difficult to believe?”

“You’re just—you’re so pretty.” 

“Really?” His smile returns to knock the air from you. This one’s wide enough to make his lashes kiss at the corners. “You think so?” 

“Of course. You’re beautiful.” You shake your head, surprised when it hurts and then startled anew when Sirius cups your face to still you. You trace the length of his arm with your eyes, admiring the patchwork of tattoos that goes all the way up to disappear under the sleeve of his t-shirt. 

“Be careful with yourself,” Sirius murmurs. 

Your eyes flit back up to his face. “You have to know.” 

“Have to know what?” 

“That you’re beautiful.” 

Sirius looks absolutely delighted by you. “Well, it’s always nice to hear it,” he says. “Especially from someone so lovely as yourself.” 

You feel your features pinch with genuine dismay. “I don’t tell you?” 

“You say you don’t want to give me a bigger head than I already have. Something about throwing the earth out of its orbit or something.” He strokes your cheek while he talks, as though this sort of disparagement could inspire only fondness, but at your obvious distress Sirius softens. “I’m joking. You tell me, you just don’t usually look so surprised when you do. Come here, sweetheart.” 

He coaxes you under his arm, helping you snuggle up against his side where he can kiss your head as often as he pleases. It’s like Sirius knows exactly what you need; with your head against his chest, now the thing you hear most is the steady beat of his heart. His body works like a grounding point for you, calming your nerves and hushing your thoughts. The sweep of his thumb over your shoulder sends pleasant little shivers all down your arm. 

“You don’t have to be so shy, my love,” he murmurs into your hair. “It’s only me.” 

If you weren’t shy before, you are now. You hide your face in his chest. “Please don’t call me that.” 

Sirius chuckles. “No?” he asks, his voice slow and syrupy sweet with a heart-pittering quality that rings familiar. “You usually like it when I call you nice things.” 

“It’s too nice.” 

He hums amusedly. “Sorry,” he says, in a tone not sorry at all, “I think you might just have to get used to that, lovely.”

[magicalpuppet]

"Are you new here? I’m new too." What if the one she met wasn't Frank at all?

If somebody is interested in the madness “theory”, I'll put it right under here.

Keep in mind before continuing: this is straight up just a theory/headcanon, I'm gonna share it without any other purpose than having fun theorizing. I put some points you can follow, I am sorry this is gonna be long and crazy.

So, I believe the puppet Julie met could be...Wally.

This whole madness was caused by Julie's story in the video "regard forgetfulness silence"...

The memory The way Julie is speaking seems off to me, as well as the way she recounts her first meeting with Frank.

She "think" that's how she met him, isn't it strange she can't recall precisely how she met the dearest puppet to her?

We know Julie have difficulties with her memory, but she seems to remember stuff that happened when hanging out with Frank, why the most important moment is so unclear to her?

This could mean that she can't remember the interaction correctly and that her memories are being heavily corrupted by something or that the whole thing is made up by someone.

The encounter

Even the encounter is iffy, the puppet she met doesn't seems to speak like Frank Does.

"Are you new here? I'm new too. My name is Frank"

This speech pattern sound more similar to Wally to me.

And after that, she says that he made a corny joke and she laughed at it, we know that Frank is not really the one who tells jokes. Heck, he is not even good at telling them.

You could argue about Wally and jokes too, he's not very skilled at telling them after all, but I can imagine two scenarios: -Him speaking normally and not realizing he is saying something funny to her. (this could apply to Frank too)

-His best friend love to tell jokes and we know that Barnaby encourage Wally to chat and tell jokes to the Neighbors, it could be that noticing she was scared he tried to tell a joke to her.

The fruit basket

Okay now I am really looking into stuff, I know, but why would Frank bring a big fruit basket around? Julie says it's because he was going to say hi to her but we know the friendliest neighbor in the whole place is Wally itself. Wouldn't it make more sense for him to be the one going to say hi?

The fruit basket could also just be related to Wally going out into the woods to paint a still life since he is a painter.

“Was he mad?”

She was worried that "Frank" was mad at her when they met.

Strange, because Frank emotions are very easy to read, he's a very expressive puppet. We also know that when he feel a very strong emotion (like being mad) his head spins. Why she would question it? If it was Wally, his emotions are more difficult to read and it could be that she didn't understood his intentions immediately.

Wally itself

The fact she bring up Wally while recalling Frank's meeting is strange too. She says she met Wally the same day, why not meeting the whole neighborhood then? Maybe it was just them at the beginning and it would make sense in that case.

But Wally comes up at the end of the audio asking "Did all that really happen, Julie?" like he is asking her like all of that was made up or straight up incorrect.

Aaand I'm done! I'm not even sure any of this makes sense to anyone else, but it was stuck with me since the update and I wanted to draw it and share it.

Maybe it was Frank, maybe it was really Wally, maybe it never happened in the first place but... Everything sound too strange to be as the story says.

And don't get me wrong with all of this! I love Frank and Julie relationship a lot, I am not going against them in any way. I like to go deep inside the stories I am following and I speculate a lot about stuff! (Also I wanna apologize if my english is not the best, it's not my first language)

[the-aviary-system]

Mood. We've had to stop playing games like this because we'd get unhealthily addicted to "number go up"

Like we'd get a withdrawal like effect, we'd get anxious about missing out on potential number going up if we didn't have whatever idle game we were obsessing over running in the background of our computer 24/7. Doing schoolwork? Keep it in the background and tab in like every 5 minutes to check in on it and buy upgrades. Planning D&D? Same thing.

Other games that use the "number go up" formula often got greedy with their players and kept trying to exploit their addiction to make them spend money, they made it more and more grindy until it was impossible for free-to-play people like us to keep up. (We didn't have a job, so no consistent money, so that's a reason why we were FTP. I dunno if we would've fallen into the trap of spending tons of money on games like these if we had a consistent income)

After getting disillusioned with our latest "number go up" simulator, I decided to try cookie clicker because I heard it wasn't pay to win. Yeah, I used an autoclicker too. And CC was pretty neat and all, it wasn't exploitative, which I appreciate- it was a grindy game in its purest state, grinding for the sake of grinding, gaining numbers for the hell of it, instead of trying to make money off of players- but since it wasn't actively trying to exploit us with FOMO it let us stop and think, and we realized we don't even enjoy these kinds of games that have taken up hours and hours of our lives.

So we made a rule for ourselves. No more of these games. From now on, we only play games if we're actually enjoying them, not just playing it out of obligation to make the number go higher. And it was really hard to stop playing since we got that same kind of withdrawal effect, the little itch in the back of the head that "I could be more productive right now, if I just had one of those games open in the background while I write I would be more productive" but we had to just fight that.

Anyway, that's not to say nobody should play these games. I'm not writing this to shame anyone for playing them, I'm not trying to sound preachy and hope that it doesn't come off that way- this comic just reminded me of our experience with these types of games and I felt like talking about it since we were addicted to these kinds of games for a good while. Some people will definitely be able to handle the addicting nature of these games better than we can. Some people genuinely enjoy the grind because it lets them just turn off their brain for a little while or not have to focus too much on something. Just be mindful to not let it become an addiction, is all.

So yeah that's the story of how we had an addiction to really grindy idle games

-Emyr (he/it)