#He's a very snarly man

[enderparty101]

Have this too! It's not finished.

I'd like to have uncommon moments of animated panels in the comics. Most likely I'll tag it whenever that happens.

[arlo-venn]

I can’t believe I live in a three dog household where Arlo is the least problematic and the most angelic of the bunch

[elloras]

Very relevant little story for Roy (and Jamie.)

Transcript:

Brett: There's a footballer that I spoke to in kind of researching this before I played Roy, and he told me this story that I always think about. 'Cause he -- I know this guy, and he's lovely, he's a lovely guy, but, when he played football, he was a captain, and he told me like, his job was...his job was to (*laughs*) be good at football, but it was also to scare people. He was like, you want people, when they're coming towards you with the ball, that they're scared. That they're thinking uh-oh, I'm about to face him. And he told me this story, of when he was like an aging footballer, when he was in his last few years, he was about to play a game, the teams were on the pitch, sort of warming up before the game, and there's this young kid, like an 18-year-old, making his debut on the other team. And the kid sort of comes over to him, really nervous, and he says, "Hey man, I'm so sorry to interrupt, I just want to say, hello, I have your poster on my wall, you're a legend, you've been my favorite footballer since I was a kid." And my guy, turns to the kid and he goes, *deeper, snarly Roy Kent voice* "Who the fuck are you? I don't fucking know you." Because he's about to play him in a game, and the kid was so shocked and horrified like "Oh god, oh god!" And [the footballer] said, and yeah, we won the match that day. And I was like, it's such an interesting story, like you know... 'Cause I know the guy in real life he'd have been so flattered like "Oh wow! That's very nice, thank you." But, "Not today. Not when I'm playing you, son." Interviewer: Feels like Roy would do that. Brett: Absolutely he would! Yeah.

Source

[pandadrake]

So it turns out the common thread between all my favorite characters in these movies is *loud noise*.

Can’t wait for the Prowler and Spider-man 2099 in BTSV to enter a room at the same time and blow out my speakers.

Selections from a doodle page of me teaching myself how to draw the Davis brothers. Plus bonus angry guy who is mostly just there cause I wanted to review where they crease faces in the film’s art style. His face creases so much.

Thing I’m noticing is that the boys in La Familia-42 don’t actually have much facial expression. They have really cold, serious faces that look really intense without actually showing much. It's a Prowler thing, I guess.

Aarons in general don’t make very exaggerated faces. There's lots of times where he looks super intimidating but his actual expression is just 🗿.

So if I want Aaron-42 to look more intense or scary, there’s not much I can push in his actual expression without making it look OOC.

Way different from drawing the big snarly man where you can pretty much put tiger expressions on a human.

[ywony]

Room 44 ⍟ Satoru Gojo

┊ Neighbors.

NOTE: this is my first time writing a fanfic… hope u enjoy :3

PAIRING: Satoru Gojo x fem!reader

CONTENT: friends (started as neighbors) to lovers + sorry if this is too badly written and includes typos, english isn’t my first language and i wanted to write smth for fun..!

You live in an apartment complex, room 43.

You led a pretty boring life since graduating. Waking up early in the morning, getting ready and heading to the office for work. Yet no matter how many times you try to wrap up early you always end up coming back home late from work, it’s the same usual scenery.

The moon making her way to her place, the sky turning darker and darker, parents picking up their children from the playground beside your work place since it’s getting late and the chilly breeze reminding you that autumn’s arriving.

-

You think of dating as a waste of time, well atleast, you’re the only one who tends to think so… You can’t find the time to make new relationships or get into one, plus you only have a few people in your life that you actually interact with .

You go out with your best friend on sundays for a drink to release stress and keep her up with what happens in the office, though it’s a pretty dreary topic but she insists that you tell her everything and after it’s your turn to ask her about how she’s doing ; you’re more like sisters than friends, and it comforts you to have someone that you can seek for advice.

The day after, your mom visits you to check up on you and brings you your favourite dishes.

-

Your mom is always nagging you to get a boyfriend and marry him in view of you not getting any younger..

“Mom, i’m only 28 years old..” that’s what you always say to her at the end of each conversation about dating.

In fact, even your best friend insists that she sets you up on a blind date to find your someone, but you end up refusing each and every time with the excuse that you want to focus on yourself and your job for the meanwhile. “Just get married to your work then, you workaholic!” she told you once in a snarly tone.

As much as you appreciate their concerns for you, you feel as if it’s still not the right time to start dating, add to that, you wouldn’t bother putting in effort to meet new people. Well, atleast for now.

-

It’s a usual friday night. You get back home, exhausted from a long day at work. You were left to finish overtime as per your boss ordered… but in return you get to have monday off in reward of your hard work.

You change into comfortable clothes and out of that suffocating shirt and tie choking ur neck all day long.

You lay in bed seeking for rest and peace after a long tiring friday, but as soon as your head touches the pillow you hear loud banging from the room next door, room 44. “Room 44? But i’m aware that nobody lives there…” you wonder to yourself and sudden thoughts run your mind, maybe it’s a thief? But there’s nothing to steal… And so that leaves you with one last conclusion, someone must’ve moved in next door.

Your new neighbor is very noisy. There’s always banging coming in from the next room late at night and it bothers you a lot… you’ve finally decided to confront him soon about it.

-

Usually you would hangout with your best friend at her place today, but this time you wanted to watch your favorite TV series alone at home.

You felt a strange sensation as you realized how silent things were, you were relieved that your eardrums were given a break from the noise. But you spoke too soon… A deafening bang hits the wall next room “BOOM!”

You get up, furious and angry, stomping your way outside to find yourself knocking on room 44’s door.

-

The door slowly opens, and you suddenly realize that you let your anger get the best of you.

A tall, handsome man was leaning on the doorframe. White frosted fluffy hair, deep crystal eyes hiding behind a pair of round dark sunglasses, a perfect nose and a grin was making its way on his lips. He was wearing a light blue shirt and dark baggy pants.

You can’t help but admit that he’s exactly your type… You get carried away admiring the man, your cheeks turn red and you rudely stare at him to admire his features. You got lost in his beauty that you almost forgot the reason you’re standing in front of him.

He tilts his head, greeting you “Well hey beautiful,” You can’t help but blush at his deep voice that just complimented you. Still you refuse to get easily swayed, “I’m from the room next door, you’ve been making a lot of noise ever since you moved in and it’s very bothersome. I can’t even sleep the night in peace.” you huffed while crossing your arms and tapping your foot.

He chuckled, “Are you sure you can’t sleep the night? You look too pretty for someone who didn’t get an an ounce of sleep.” he began. You got a bit annoyed because he’s not taking you and your complaints seriously, Not to mention, it seemed sarcastic because you knew you look horrible these days.

“Quit joking around would you, sir? I’m not here to play around or waste time. You’d better keep the noise down or I’ll have to file a complaint..” you scoffed while looking up to find his eyes. Why does he wear sunglasses indoor anyways? And at 9pm for God’s sake…

Before finishing that thought he interrupted, “Alright I’m sorry, it’s because I had visitors these last couple of days and they’re pretty noisy and a bit.. chaotic let’s say. But I wasn’t joking when I said you’re pretty.”

That was a bit unexpected, you thought he would drag it on considering his immatureness at the beginning. A smile escapes your lips and soon you chip in, “Thank you sir, I’ll head back then. I hope you have a good night.” You get ready to turn around and walk back into your room, however you feel a hand pulling ur shirt gently. “It’s Satoru Gojo.”

“What?” “…Gojo, that’s my name since you insist on calling me sir… I don’t even look that old...” he corrected you while pouting.

You can’t help but let out a giggle, “I’m y/n, Gojo, it’s nice to meet you.” you hummed.

“Do you have plans?” he asked, “Hm, well for now, not really.” you responded and it didn’t take him a second to say “Would you like to come in? Let’s have a drink together. I’d like to get to know each other. We’re neighbors after all.” he suggested, taking his sunglasses off.

“Sure,” you replied. That came out so suddenly.. you knew better than to enter a man’s house especially one that you just met above all… However, you just couldn’t help refusing after clearly seeing his gorgeous yet sharp blue eyes, staring at you with an excited look.

“Come in!” he cheered, moving out of the way and holding the door open as you entered the apartment.

[the-starry-seas]

omg you're a techo enjoyer too??? blessed 🥺 do you have any hcs or plot tribbles about them you'd be willing to share?

So Tech is the person that Echo spends the most time with, when he first goes with the Batch. This isn't because of any desire to connect on Tech's part - the only reason nobody calls him unfriendly is cause Crosshair is right there, in much the way that your neighbour's snarly dog isn't much of a problem compared to a rabid T Rex.

Instead, it's because the Bad Batch realise that, y'know, Echo's been Matrixed into a freezer for a while (timeline is not my strength but it was a few years, I think). Somebody's gotta figure out those cyborg parts and how to fix them, preferably before something breaks. And of course for something that serious, you choose the smart one.

At first, Echo is very awkward about this. The last thing he wants is someone digging around in his parts, even if it's for a good reason. But he also knows that it's going to be even worse for everybody if he has some sudden breakdown that disables him. So he grits his teeth and bears it.

(Tech does not notice shit about this. He has new science to explore, new problems to figure out, and human interaction has never been his strong suit. Autism King <3)

There's definitely some initial awkwardness, but Echo figures out pretty quickly that if he gets Tech rambling about something, the sound of his voice is soothing. Echo thinks nothing of it. (lol. lmao even.) He also comes to find it vaguely endearing when Tech gets distracted in the middle of something because he thinks of some cool upgrade that he can do. The Iron Man-style rocket boots are a total success. Tech is fully convinced his sensation of affection and pride is just because he got the boots working, and nothing to do with Echo himself (again: lol. lmao even.)

Tech pokes at the dataport, frowns, and looks down at his datapad. "Can you give me a hand with this?" A metal arm clatters to the floor next to him. Echo, across the room, hasn't moved from his co-pilot's seat and is still watching the latest episode of his holodrama. "Technically," he begins, adjusting his goggles with an indignant sniff, "yes, that is what I asked for. But I expected better of you."

Echo suddenly has some fucking thoughts about the possibility of Tech praising him, let me tell you. Still, he also has some reservations, because there's times where Tech gets too invested in the ✨ science ✨ and Echo starts feeling kind of like an experiment all over again.

Anyway the two of them are getting along pretty well and Tech is remaining fairly oblivious to both their feelings. (This is not a dig at Tech, I'm simply a huge sucker for ships where one of them doesn't realise their feelings until a Dramatic Moment, generally involving a near-death experience.) Except that Echo doesn't much like talking about his past and all the Clone Trauma™, especially pertaining to his lost Fives, and Tech's a nosy bitch who wants to know everything.

So Tech finds a way to get Echo's file. If the reg's not gonna talk, well, when has Tech ever respected a 'no access' sign? He reads through it and takes some notes, and it seems as though things are fine.

Except once Echo actually does start opening up about his past, Tech jumps in to fill in some details. Details that Echo certainly never told him. And Echo wants to know how Tech knows, and Tech's a shit liar, so the truth comes out.

Echo is not pleased with the truth.

(pain incoming)

"Well, I've... read your file," Tech says, hesitantly. He reaches up to adjust his goggles. A nervous tic, one that Echo usually finds endearing. But hearing that Tech was reading his file makes something twist in his stomach - what's left of it. Especially with Tech nervous about it. Echo's never really seen him like that. Not with him. "Okay," he replies, fighting to keep his voice and expression as close to 'calm' as possible. "And?" "I know it's been, well, hard. For you. For the other reg- the other clones." Echo stares at him, too shocked to attempt a look of neutrality any more. Tech must be joking. He must be. Not about reading his file, Echo had assumed that the Batch had all dug into him to find out who he was. But thinking that he knows anything about what it was like? Just because he read a file? He's seen the kinds of files that are kept on clones. They're dry, succinct, and mention nothing about who a clone is, just a service record like the kind you'd see kept about a machine. Because that's just about all they were, to the people in charge. The clones certainly weren't people to anyone but themselves. "So what's it like, Tech? Go on, you read the file." He waits. It's harsh, he knows, maybe even cruel, but he's not much in a laughing mood any more. "Maybe I... missed a few things," Tech hedges, looking very much like he wants to escape. "How much more do you want to know? Because they carved me out of myself, but they left the memories, and I see all of it every single night, so I can tell you more than the devil himself could stomach." He waits, but Tech doesn't say anything, just shifts his weight, eyes wide, fingers curling and uncurling around his datapad. Finally, Echo says, "You don't know shit, Tech. Don't ever pretend you do. Especially not around me." He leaves. For once, Tech's not distracted. For once, Tech watches him go.

So there's a bump in the road, as it were. Well, more like hitting a moose with your janky 90s sedan. You walked away from it physically fine but you have an overwhelming feeling about how oh god you're so fucked. Also who do you call about that???

Echo calls Rex. Rex does not know what to do about this. He lets Echo vent until they've been sitting quietly for a few minutes, and then suggests that maybe that was just Tech's way of trying to connect to Echo. Not exactly normal, "but you always did say, when you called, that he always paid attention to you and wanted to know more about you. Maybe this is an extension of that, and he didn't realise that he was crossing some lines."

(Yes, in my head, Rex is lowkey playing matchmaker. He's heard the way Echo's voice changes when he talks about Tech, and he wants to see where this goes.)

Meanwhile, Tech is bothering the shit out of Hunter because 'you know how people work, what did I do?'

This is the first that Hunter is hearing about any of this. He doesn't have the slightest idea what's going on, but he does have some experience with relationship difficulties caused by inadvertent assholery *inserts my Cross/Hunter agenda here*

So Rex helps Echo calm down, and Hunter helps Tech figure out how to apologise. Tech doesn't do shit with that knowledge because emotional conversations suck and he'd much rather pretend that just never happened, thank you goodbye. He's just a huge anxious mess because he doesn't know why people think he's being weird or mean or rude when he thought they were Just Vibing.

It takes like two months for Tech to make a move to fix this, is what I'm saying.

"Echo?" Tech asks hesitantly. He stands with his hands clasped in front of him, one thumb rubbing over the knuckles of his opposite hand. "Fuck off." Tech winces, but, well - with the way he inadvertently treated Echo, it's not like he can complain. "I- when I mentioned your file-" "Don't." "I was just trying to say that you didn't have to hide anything from me. That you were one of us. And we'd do our best to understand. I didn't- I'm not good at apologies, I'm sorry, I'll go-" "Wait." Tech freezes in the doorway, even more uncertain now. Echo sighs and looks at him. If his gaze is supposed to be communicating something, it's not in a language that Tech speaks. Maybe his uncertainty shows on his face, or maybe Echo was just waiting to collect his thoughts. "Thanks, Tech." Despite the awkward seriousness of their conversation, Tech smiles. "You're welcome, Echo. And if there's- I wouldn't blame you if you didn't want to, you know, but if there's anything you wanted to talk about, um, well, I'm only so far away. The Marauder's not a big ship." Echo doesn't say anything else, but he nods, and Tech feels like he actually managed to make some progress as he slips back out to the kitchen.

Anyway Echo has to comm Rex and send him ten bucks because Rex was right about Tech not being an asshole. Rex is only a little smug about this.

Echo slowly starts gravitating back towards Tech after that, and Tech is all !!!! not entirely sure what's happening but apparently the hot one Echo doesn't hate him any more so that's great!

They eventually get back into their groove and Tech makes him those kickass rocket boots to apologise for the whole... whatever that was. Words are hard, inventing is easy. He's still not 100% sure what went down, but Echo seems to have forgiven him, so he doesn't want to bring it up again. (He does, but it's like... a full year later, once he's definitely sure that Echo's not mad at him about it any more.)

Good thing that they do find their way back together, because one of Echo's legs breaks. And of course Tech's the one who immediately gets a little googly-eyed about finally being able to take Echo's leg apart. (He was strictly forbidden from Tinkering while Echo was wearing them, because Echo doesn't completely trust Tech to be able to resist the siren call of becoming a mad scientist. He adores the man, but he also knows Tech's weaknesses.)

Tech does indeed get a little mad scientist-y when he gets his hands all over those legs. He spends a week with a diet of space Red Bull, dry instant ramen, and no sleep, and comes up with Legs 2.0.11.8. He almost blows the ship up once or twice, but nothing seriously affects the life support systems, so it's fine, leave the lab alone.

Legs 2.0.11.8 are lighter, more durable, fit more comfortably, and have not only the fancy rocket boosters, but the ability to switch out normal treads for heavy ones and even climbing crampons! And a thousand other upgrades, but he's talking so fast that Echo genuinely has no idea what's going on. He figures that he can ask to read Tech's file about em later (yes he jokes about that, no Tech doesn't know if he can laugh).

When Echo first tries out his new legs, he loses his balance and goes straight into Tech's arms. Tech catches him and murmurs You're doing great, Echo.

Echo is running on an emotional high of having his legs back, having much better legs than the last ones, being caught by a hot nerd, and being praised by a hot nerd.

There's nothing to do about all that except kiss Tech.

He briefly thinks he's encountered a massive problem when Tech doesn't kiss back, and just stands there with a thoughtful look on his face. There's about a thousand things crossing Echo's mind in that moment, none of them exactly good. Can he get kicked off a squad for kissing someone???

Tech calmly says, "That was unexpected but perfectly acceptable. I commend your technique."

Echo isn't entirely sure what that means for a second, but then Tech pulls him in with both hands and tongues him, and Echo figures he doesn't need to ask.

The Batch is entirely unaware of this until three weeks later, when Echo joins them in the cockpit and sits right down in Tech's lap with his legs crossed. Wrecker wants to know why Echo's not in his usual co-pilot's chair. Echo just says figure it out and nudges Tech's chin up to kiss him.

Okay I've got so many headcanons too hold on

Tech's bunk is full of half-forgotten-about wires, metal sheets, pieces of rebar, loose screws, and the occasional shard of glass. Echo will not get into that bunk, they cuddle in Echo's hammock.

Tech will lay on top of Echo like a living weighted blanket and is perfectly happy to stay there for 12+ hours if he gets really invested in something on his datapad. This is often some design for another improvement to Echo's implants, so double bonus!

Strip chess

They love crosswords but they manage to get really competitive. Usually this means they make out about it, but sometimes they get mad at each other. Scrabble is banned after a few Incidents that resulted in yelling and a little blood, Hunter burned the tiles.

Tech keeps begging Echo into picking up dangerous insects, snails, frogs, and poisonous plants with his metal hand. Echo doesn't have to worry about getting bitten/poisoned and Tech can get a close-up look. Best of both worlds!

LEGO couple. If you haven't seen them for 16 hours? They got deeply invested into space version of some NASA set with 4000 pieces. Echo will bite you if you interrupt them.

Echo doesn't handle cold weather, it reminds him too much of being stuck as a POW. This means that the Batch leaves him on the ship on arctic missions but it also means Tech gets him eight pairs of fluffy socks because he read on the holonet that those are the best for keeping warm. Nobody's allowed to point out that Echo no longer has feet to keep warm. Echo wears them anyway and has favourites.

Sometimes Echo uses his USB hand to lock Tech's datapad when Tech won't go to sleep

He has a body pillow because it helps when his hips hurt. It's custom printed to look like Tech. Tech gets irrationally jealous over seeing Echo cuddle it.

Tech can do that finger skateboard thing and Echo uniroincally thinks it's really clever of him and admires his tricks

Tech makes Echo a new arm that has a human-shaped hand on the end so it has a wider range of function. The USB comes out of the tip of Echo's middle finger, at Echo's request.

Echo shakes hands/takes things from people with his metal hand. Tech is the only exception.

Tech likes crouching and crawling around, instead of walking 'normally'. There's been a few times that his head's popped up from where he's been crawling around on the floor like a snake, and Echo almost kicked him in the face because it scared him.

Echo can do some Black Widow shit with his new metal legs. He tries them all out on Tech cause it gets Tech real hot and bothered

There's been several times that Tech runs away from making out because he had a breakthrough thought on some project. Echo is always a little mad about it.

Tech snores. Loudly. Echo always turns off his hearing aids and lets that be everyone else's problem. He likes the way Tech's chest moves against his when they're sleeping together.

Echo keeps the lights off and his shirt on when they're getting intimate for years. Lot of self-esteem issues related to how his body looks. It's Tech's unfailing admiration for the occasional shirtless look, that eventually helps Echo start to accept himself.

Tech's name in Echo's phone is 'cyare' and Echo's name in Tech's phone is 'Echo 💙'

Echo once casually refers to a 'honey-do list' and Tech needs a reboot because holy shit he's honey!!!

Everyone can always tell when they were making out because Echo has hickeys everywhere. At first he was embarrassed about it but nowadays he shows them off.

Rex once commented 'oh, wow, did Echo get hit in the throat?' and Tech spat his water across the table. That was how Rex found out they were hooking up.

Rex said he was going to give Tech the shovel talk and Tech immediately started talking over him about the types of screws used to connect shovel heads. Rex never got around to his part.

Tech and Echo always walk holding hands. Sometimes the rest of the Batch stops or changes directions, and Tech doesn't notice with his datapad two inches from his face, so Echo gently tugs him in the right direction.

Sometimes the rest of the Batch didn't stop or change direction, and Echo is pulling him into an alley to make out.

Tech still hasn't lived down the time he came back from a detour with Echo and then had to go back to find his codpiece.

They stargaze whenever they're planetside. Tech loves infodumping about the stars and Echo loves to listen. Tech custom-built a two-person lawn chair so they can put their feet up. Echo's fallen asleep cuddled up to him more times than even Tech can count.

Echo has to be physically direct with flirting, cause if he just says something like "wow you're hot", then Tech just says "yes thank you", and keeps doing what he's doing. Gotta distract him from his project by kissing him or sitting in his lap or something before Echo can get to the words part.

[eggcompany]

He's Just A Baby Part 1

Sixteen year old Daryl Dixon and his jackasss thirty year old brother at the Atlanta camp. Everyone ignores the two for the most part. However after one of their arguments gets broken up by Officers Walsh and Grimes, things change for the young Dixon. Carol, mother and widow, grows to become rather fond of the boy. He's a lot like a lost puppy, snarly and biting and nipping at hands, but she thinks with a bit of guidance he's just an old abused pup who needs some motherly care.

“Fuck you Merle!” Rang out from where the two brothers had set up camp. It was a cracked voice, the younger boy. The brothers were always fighting even though one wasn’t even eighteen and the other was in his late thirties. 

Rick ran over, having just met the group, very alerted. He knew the brothers weren’t much for authority or manners or anything else but training was hard to kick. 

“Hey! Hey, fuckin stop it. Break it up.” Rick said as he was tailed by his best friend, Shane close on his heels. 

Merle was pinning the younger boy down by his shoulders. Daryl was kicking and yelling back, shoving at Merle’s face, neck, anywhere. 

“Yeah Darleena? What’re you gonna do about it?” Merle yelled, taunting. He was heavier, stronger than the thin malnourished teenager. Rick pulled the brother off, still shouting that they needed to stop and break it up. Merle went up, not fighting Rick’s grip on his arms very much. 

“I can take care of my fuckin self, I don’t need your help, asshole!” Daryl yelled and lunged forward but Shane already had the boy under the arms. Pulling him close to his chest so his feet didn’t touch the ground. Daryl immediately let out a loud, blood curdling screech. It didn’t sound like anger, it sounded like terror . 

“Hey let him go! Put him down!” Merle said and tried to shake Officer Grimes off his back. Rick only held on more, planting his feet and not letting the situation get any more violent. 

Daryl was twisting and screeching like a rabid animal. His shoulders screamed and he kept thrashing, he was going to dislocate his shoulder if he kept on. 

“Hey, calm down. Calm down.” Shane said loudly behind the boy but didn’t lessen his hold, still holding the boy off the ground by under his arms. Merle was yelling at Shane to put him down, Rick was holding him back, and Shane wasn’t gonna let up until the young man stopped. 

That was until Daryl’s screechy yells went from “fuck you let go of me, fuckin pig” to watery, pleading, begging “help! Help! Merle, help! Fuck, help me!” and he started to tremble. 

Merle elbowed Officer Grimes in the gut and Shane dropped the sobbing boy who scrambled to run off into the woods. 

“You fuckin bastard-“ Merle growled and swung his fist toward Shane’s face but Shane quickly ducked away. The officer put his hands up and shook his head. 

“Hey I was tryin’ to get him to calm down.” Officer Walsh said and stared back at Merle who was glaring daggers at the officer. They both had their shoulders up and their chests puffed out like fighting cats. 

“You were hurtin’ him and you damn well knew it. Don’t you ever fuckin touch him again.” Merle said, pointing at Shane, and glared at both cops before quickly walking the same way Daryl had run off in. 

By then Carol, Andrea, Amy, and Lori had come to see why the young man was screaming for help. Shane just rubbed the back of his neck and looked at his friend. 

“Man, I thought he’d bite me to be honest.” He said and blew out a breath. 

“What was that about? Are you guys okay?” Andrea asked as she looked at the scuffed up ground and Rick who was still cringing in pain. 

“Rick, are you alright?” Lori said and rushed over to her husband. They talked amongst themselves until Carol came back from looking around. She timidly asked a question which caused everyone to stare at her. 

“Where’s Daryl?” She asked and looked between Shane and Rick. She’d heard the boy screaming, what if he got hurt? They shouldn’t have let him run off without making sure he wasn’t hurt. 

He’d been kind to her, kind to Sophia. He always seemed to be around to share his portion of food. To bring back something special when they ventured to the city on runs. He was quiet, a nice awkward quiet. He was a good boy, by Carol’s standards. 

“He ran off. Probably gonna go cry it off.” Shane said and waved the woman off. Carol glared at him and crossed her arms. She had been filled with a small bit of extra bit of confidence, some oomf. 

“You probably scared him. Maybe he’s hurt or he got hurt before and you reopened it.” Carol said, standing her ground. Shane just blew it off and the group went back to the main camp to do their chores. Carol hung around the campsite until Merle came walking back. She rather didn’t like him and went back to washing clothes with the other women. 

“Shane said he was crying. What is he, seventeen? Eighteen? He shouldn’t be so wimpy if that’s all it takes for him to start crying. He needs to man up.” Andrea said as she shook out a shirt. 

They had been talking about the fight as Carol walked up. She felt a burn in her chest. Daryl was just a kid. They didn’t need to bag on him. His brother did enough of that for all of them. She could see the… the pain he’d faced. It wasn;t the same pain that nearly every person alive now felt. It was something that was carved deep, permanent. Something none of these people would ever understand. 

“He’s barely sixteen. He said his birthday was last month.” Carol said sharply and grabbed a pair of shorts from the basket sitting on the edge of the quarry. 

“Well still if he doesn’t want to get restrained he shouldn’t be fist fighting his brother in camp.” Lori said back snappily. She didn’t want that boy near Carl. He was always dirty and bloody and a bad influence. Most of the people in the camp thought a similar way about Daryl. He was a long haired, nasty mouthed, hateful, little bastard. That’s probably the reason he sleeps way away from everyone in him and Merle’s own mini camp. 

“That’s how they communicate. I don’t believe either of them would ever really hurt each other. They love each other, they’re just rough.” Carol said. It was easy to see that much too. One look and you could tell they loved each other. Daryl always taking the least but Merle taking the lion’s share just to give some to his little brother. They never really hurt each other, they could, but they don’t. 

“Love each other? They’re constantly at each other’s throats. Looks more like hate to me.” Andrea laughed and Amy agreed. The rest of the women agreed and chatted for only a moment. 

“Maybe they had a tough childhood. It’s pretty obvious they didn’t have a nice time before all this happened.” Carol whipped back and stared at the other woman's eyes. They knew what she meant. 

They worked quietly after that. Carol worried each mark and stain, worry heavy in her own mind. Where was Daryl? What if he’s hurt? What if he’s bleeding? What if a walker got to him? What if he’s trapped somewhere hiding? Why did he run off?...

-----

Later when the fires were lit and Daryl’s squirrels were cooking away in a soup of wild plants and a beef bouton cube, Carol had kept an eye out for Daryl and made sure when everyone else ate there was still enough for another bowl full. She cleaned up and Glenn took watch on the RV, they talked a bit. 

She heard rustling behind her as she wiped down the spoons and knives they cooked with. 

She quickly turned around, knife in hand, and there was Daryl. He was looking down and held his right elbow with his left hand. He looked so small. Scared. Carol gave him an empathetic smile and turned back to her utensils. 

“Hey Daryl. We missed you at dinner. I saved you back some, mind eating out of the pot?” Carol said and offered the boy a spoon and a wave toward the pot near the fire. 

“Sorry.” He mumbled and gently got the spoon and made his way to quickly scarf down the food. He usually ate like that. Like every single bite he had was the last he’d get. He still gave some up for everyone else, but when he was getting the lasts he ate all of it. 

Carol watched him practically inhale the food. And when he was done he handed her the pot and spoon. He was quiet, quieter than usual, and he wouldn’t meet her eyes. 

“Where’d you go? I checked your little camp but I only ever saw Merle. I was worried Shane had hurt you. Are your shoulders okay?“ Carol asked quietly and watched as Daryl sat down on the log by the fire. It was a little cold out at nights now, the seasons changing. He wouldn’t admit it but he was cold, the boy never seemed to wear sleeves. Carol had worried he’d get sick if he stayed out too long away from the fires. 

“I was ‘round. Settin’ traps. I’m alright.” Daryl said and fussed with some dirt near his shoes, between his legs. He was all hunched over and pinched together. 

“The other ladies said you’d been crying. I just wanted to make sure Shane didn’t hurt you. Physical or otherwise.” Carol said very gently and sat down next to the boy. Daryl kept his eyes down, his greasy dark hair falling down over his forehead. 

“Said ‘m fine. Didn’t need the pigs to come and start crap.” Daryl said and flicked a rock into the dwindling fire. 

“Shane can be… too rough. And not notice. But I think you're tough and I don’t think him holding you back hurt you.” Carol said and watched the boy. He lifted his hand to chew on his thumbnail. He glazed over at her a few times from the corner of his eye. 

“Don’t like not touchin’ the ground.” Daryl grumbled and flicked another rock into the fire. It took Carol to think of what that meant. 

“Shane picked you up off the ground? That’s what scared you? I bet it was scary since Rick had your brother.” Carol said empathetically and placed her hand on the top of his back. She let her thumb draw circles between his shoulders. 

Daryl nodded and kept picking at the ground. Carol shook her head and kept rubbing Daryl's thin back. 

“Just try to stay away from Shane. I don’t think he likes you much.” Carol advised and the teenager nodded. They sat by the fire for a while, Daryl picking at dirt or flicking pebbles and Carol rubbing his back. 

-----

Carol kept an eye on him after that. Making sure he had food, telling him to quiet it down, telling him when he said something bad, telling him to quit doing something irritating. She guided him quietly and discreetly as the rest of the group still edged around him and his brother.

“Hey assho-” Daryl shouted as he stomped up towards where Rick was about to walk into the woods with Carl. 

“Daryl.” Carol said sternly but quietly from where Daryl had been helping haul clean laundry to the camp and dirty laundry to the quarry. 

“Oh uh sorry. Hey Officer Grimes, there’s snares back there.” Daryl immediately shrunk and stopped. He turned to apologize to Carol and turned back to shout, less angrily, at the cop and his son. 

“Oh. Alright. Thanks for the heads up.” Rick said and smiled at the boy. Daryl huffed and went back to stand by Carol, hands in his pockets. 

Carol smiled at him and patted Daryl on the back. She was proud of him. He was shaping up. Yes he was still cursing, yes he got in fights, yes he was still in his brother’s racist, bigot shadow. But  he was nicer, he was trying. Everyone saw it too. It made Carol feel lighter in her heart. 

-----

“Daryl, you need to get a bath. Here we found a whole case of body wash on the trip yesterday! Make sure to wash your hair or you’ll get knots.” Carol said and handed the boy a bottle of “Ocean Breeze Sunrise” bodywash. It was her and Sophia’s bottle but there was more than enough for everyone. Daryl was fixing some of his arrows and only jerked his head to the side, away from the soap like it offended him. 

“Don’t need to.” Daryl mumbled lowly and kept working on his arrows. He was always working on his bow or putting new feathers on his arrows or sharpening them. He took good care of them. Carol found it very charming. She smiled and patted his back. 

“You do need to. You scuffed up your knee and we don’t need you to get an infection. You can wait until everyone else is done.” She said, leaving no room for arguments. Daryl just huffed and took the soap, putting it by his boot. Carol smiled and went back to help make dinner and check on Sophia while she read. Daryl was grumbling but that was okay. He was sixteen, sixteen year olds grumble. They fuss, they rebell, they hate authority. No need to pick at him when he already agreed. 

----

“Um I’m gonna go uh wash up.” Daryl said, his voice cracked over the ‘go’. He had already gotten the camp a good bundle of squirrels and a rabbit, eaten breakfast, and got firewood. He had wandered over to where Carol was sewing up a pair of jeans. 

She smiled at him and nodded. She was working by the fire that was closest to the quarry, keeping watch for the kids and any walkers. Plus the morning sun looked beautiful against the water. 

“Okay pookie. I’m gonna be right here sewing so if you need anything you can holler.” Carol reassured him and Daryl shifted around on his feet. He didn’t have clean clothes, everything was too big for him so he’d just wash his clothes 

and let them dry out as he washed up. 

“Um okay. Don’t look at me.” Daryl asked and looked at the big rock everyone put their clothes on to dry by the fire Carol was at. 

“Okay honey I’ll keep my eyes on my work. If you want I can even cover them till you’re gone. Would that help?” Carol offered. She understood Daryl liked being private. He was incredibly modest and it wasn’t a big deal to offer him something to make him more comfortable. 

“Yeah. yeah that would be- yeah. Yeah. Thanks.” Daryl sputtered out and walked over to the most secluded part of the water. 

A while later Daryl called out a short “Miss Carol?” And the woman put her hands over her eyes and listened as the boy quickly walked over and put his rung out wet clothes on the rock and walked back. A short “thanks” and she was back to sewing patches onto the stack of clothes she had. 

It was almost an hour when Daryl came back to camp. Carol was done and was reading a book.  She had flipped Daryl’s clothes before leaving. She heard him but didn’t acknowledge him till he spoke. 

“Uh Carol? Miss Carol?” Daryl said shyly and she could hear him wiping his nose. She turned to answer him but came up short. 

“Yes Dar- Oh! Goodness, look at you. You look like a hair dried dog.” Carol exclaimed and covered her mouth, keeping her from laughing. Daryl’s grown our chocolate brown hair was… a disaster. It was sticking up in weird places, some of it was stick straight and other places it was curling into loose coils. It was shiny though, and looked quite soft. Daryl’s face was turning tomato red and he crossed his arms. 

“Do you have a hairbrush?” He asked quietly and Car0l nodded, standing to guide him to the RV which was empty now that everyone else was waking up. 

-----

Carol hummed as she ran the brush through Daryl’s chocolatey hair. He was sat on the floor of the RV and she sat behind him on the bench. Daryl was picking under his nails with the tip of Carol's small pocket knife. She told him to be careful but he just blew raspberries at her and started picking at his nails. He was cherry red faced but was trying to act cool. Carol was having a ncei time. Daryl was much less tender headed than Sophia, and he had very soft hair. 

“You have such soft hair. When it’s all dirty you can’t even tell it’s wavy.” Carol said and brushed the hair behind Daryl’s ears gently with the brush. She didn’t want to hurt Daryl’s ears. His hair was straight, mostly, but the back was wavy where it was longest. 

She brushed it until it was all smooth and there were no knots and no more wet patches. She just started brushing through his hair with her hands. He was quiet, his shoulders were relaxed. He was letting his guard down for the first time in a year probably. 

“Don’t like baths. Don’t like not wearin’ clothes.” Daryl mumbled and refused to move. He enjoyed the way the women's hands were gentle on his head. He enjoyed… her. She was like a safety blanket and a shot of liquor. Something that made him feel like he could talk and be safe. Carol was just so… something.

"Yeah? Is it because you don't like being looked at?" Carol said and kept on with petting through Daryl’s hair. If he wanted to talk, she was more than happy to listen. 

Daryl shook his head, he was looking down but she could tell he was holding something heavy. 

A few reasons flashed through Carol's mind. One reason seemed to be the most obvious though. 

"Is it the same reason you flinch when Shane hits the RV?" Carol said lightly but conversationally. She would hate to make Daryl feel… picked out. Daryl seemed to hate anything with ‘ feelings’ . 

After a long pause Daryl just shrugged. 

"Who made you not like baths? You know I'm a bit scared of baths too." Carol said. It was true. She still only bathed at night after everyone else had been cleaned and even then she kept a knife in reach. She didn’t want anyone to see the scars, or her at all. 

This seemed to intrigue Daryl who looked over his shoulder at her. He was looking at her like… like finally . 

"Was it your daddy? or um Sophia's daddy?" Daryl asked after coughing and turning back around. Carol nodded and hummed a ‘ mhm’ . 

"It was Sophia's father, my husband. We were married for a long time and I put up with it for a long time." Carol said and shook her head at herself. She ruffled the long parts of his hair. Of course it was his father. All backwood hick abuse, someone so far away that CPS, the cops, they don’t even care. 

"Oh... I'm sorry 'bout your husband bein’ a dickwad.” Daryl consolded and picked at his boots, his knees had been drawn up to his chest since the talk started. Carol huffed a laugh and ran her nails through his hair. 

"That's very sweet of you honey. Was it your daddy who made you scared?" Carol continued. She hoped maybe talking about it might help the boy. At least she would know the why . 

"mhm, yeah he made Merle scared too but Merle ain't scared no more. I'm just a pussy 'bout it." Daryl said deprecatingly and picked at the floor. Carol sighed and held the sides of Daryl’s head with her hands. Not grabbing or anything just covering his head with her hands. 

"Daryl that isn't true. We all process these things differently. Just because you flinch and don't like being naked doesn't mean your a.. a coward. I think you're a very brave boy."Carol said seriously and ran her nails through his hair all the way from his forehead to his neck with both hands. She let her hands rest on his shoulders, thin but broad shoulders. 

"Daddy didn't do stuff to Merle like he did to me." Daryl said so quietly Carol could only barely hear it. 

Carol paused. No, she thought, No not… not like that. Not something so… not to Daryl. 

"Yeah" Carol said softly and just caressed Daryl's head, letting her nails lightly drag at his scalp. Her throat was getting tight. Not Daryl, he was so kind. Daryl is so… special . 

"He just hit Merle. Just kicked him out and beat him up. He didn't start beltin' me till I got bigger.” Daryl kept going, his head was hung low, his voice was barely a whisper. His voice was getting squeaky and breathier. 

Carol rubbed her hands down to rub Daryl’s neck. Her own tears were growing in her eyes. She didn’t say anything, or make any sounds. 

Daryl sniffed and leaned back and over to one side. His back was pressed onto Carol’s leg and she could see his red face and reddening eyes. 

“Used to be pretty. But… but him and his friend. They liked lookin at me when they was drinkin’ or doin’ the shit. Didn’t like bein’ naked no more after.” Daryl said and tears started to run down his face as his breath started to pick up. 

“I understand. I understand Daryl.” The woman said softly and put her hand on Daryl’s chin to have him look at her. He was red faced and sobbing. He looked so sad, just a crying baby, that’s all he was. 

Daryl turned and shoved his face into Carol's hand. She just leaned down and pulled him up into a hug. He turned and pulled himself onto his knees and hugged her back, sobs ringing in Carol’s ears. He pulled himself so close, like he would die if he let go, his hands were fists against her back. She just hugged him as hard as she could. He was so skinny, she could feel his ribs each time he let out a watery sob. 

“Didn’t like it- I didn’t” Daryl mumbled, like he was trying to convince Carol. 

“It’s okay. It’s okay now Daryl. It’s okay. You’re just a kid, that should have never happened and it wasn’t your fault.” Carol said and kissed Daryl’s forehead. He was snotty and sticky faced and all red. She didn’t care at all. Daryl just cried and looked at her. 

“It won’t happen again. You’re so strong. It won’t happen here.” She said and a few tears rolled down her face in pity, in sadness she felt for him. He breathed a little deeper and wiped his face on his sleeve, well his arm where a sleeve should be. 

“Rick won’t-” Daryl started but Carol shook her head. Rick was new but he would never. She told the boy as much. 

“Rick would never. No one here would. I’ll make sure of it, poor baby.” Carol said and pulled him back to her for another hug. 

Daryl just cried and held onto Carol like she was his only lifeline. He’d never told anybody. Not Merle, none of his friends, no one. 

Daryl sniffed and pulled back. He wiped his eyes and stood up.

“Don’t tell nobody. They’ll think I’m really fucked up then.” He said with a joking huff. Carol shook her head and stood up, guiding the boy's head down for a kiss to his forehead. 

"Wouldn't dream of it, Daryl. Now, You look very handsome and less fluffy. It's time for the day." Carol said with a smile. 

[nukerooster]

a rough, messy thing that didn't get as far as I'd of liked bc time and once I got so far into the pages and saw all the ridiculous wonked out anatomy mistakes I lost motivation to do any more. Comics, even silly sketchy ones like these, are hard for me. It started out sketchier and just progressed into a more contrasted mess but still a mess no matter how I want to look at it. It was meant to be a fun thing following the idea of 'what if Kraus was zipzapped into an Arch, how would he react? How would he change? What would he do? What would his right hand man, Liam, do? It's a whole can of worms and I ripped the lid off. And now it's part of my AU pile and canon. Despite me stopping the pages, I love the idea and have spent an awful lot of time deepthinking, sketching, and exploring ArchKraus. His design here is inconsistent(as it was a very new thing at the time) but I kinda felt around as the pages progressed and now have a generally good idea of what he's like. Maybe someday I'll actually rise to the challenge of creating a short comic, but for now my busy busted brain can't handle much more than it already is.

If you're unable to discern who characters are, that's no fault of anyone's but mine lmao. Aside from sharing sparsely here, I tend to dump silly sketches and run so the who's who and what's what is all but lost sometimes. The only two mains here are Liam (Read with a soft and lightweight Glaswegian based Scottish accent, he's lost some of his accent due to being around folks that don't have his own accent for decades), and Kraus (Think Ralph Ineson without the English accent, a more assertive gruff, almost snarly, Kraus is big, he's 'mean', and he knows it.)

[intheorangebedroom]

Pleased to meet you, chapter 6

Summary: You meet Frankie. Again.

Pairing: Frankie Morales x French fem!Reader.

Rating: Explicit 🔞

TW: description of a panic attack.

A/N: I know I'm telling this story for myself primarily, as a mean to get it out of my head, but I feel even less confident about this chapter than the previous ones. Descriptions are killing me, don't start me on the military terminology, and we're getting into the tough part of the story. *presses Post now and goes scream into a pillow*

Word Count: 4.3k.

[prev] * [series masterlist] * [next]

Chapter 6: That Brooklyn bathroom

“Ok, careful, that car’s like 3 inches away,” Benny’s voice comes out low and tense, his leg bouncing up and down on the car floor, the sound of his boot hitting the metal doing nothing to steady your nerves.

“Metrics, Benjamin, please. Inches don’t mean shit to me,” you retort a bit more aggressively than you intended. You’re struggling to stay focused, parallel park was never your forte, and it’s the very first time Benny lets you behind the wheel of his Mustang. Tonight is decidedly special. In a nerve-wracking way.

“Right, whatever, just don’t scratch my baby,” he says to the back seat, craning his neck to evaluate the distance between the rear of his car and the truck parked behind. 

Peering in the rearview mirror, you sound even harsher when you shoot back, “You’re not helping, young man!”. 

Your unusually high-pitched voice echoes in the car, its authoritative tone bringing the electric atmosphere to a sudden standstill. Benny’s leg drops to the floor. In what feels like slow-motion, he shifts in his seat to face you, his eyebrows raised in surprise, a teasing smile tugging the corner of his mouth.  

“What’d you call me?”

Fuck. Your lips produce a “tsk” sound as you slowly lower your head in defeat, eyes closed. He’s never going to let you live that one down. 

“I said ‘young man’?”

Laying a strong arm on the back of your seat, he leans in closer, the leather creaking under his weight. When he speaks next, his breath fans over your neck, and you shiver imperceptibly. 

“And that working for you? Me being younger?” 

You can hear his cocky smile. Opening your eyes, you turn your head to look at him, trying your best to keep a straight face. God that idiot can be sexy. But you don’t need sexy, right now.

“Let me park this car, Ben,” you warn him. 

Steering the vehicle to the right, you maneuver relatively swiftly into the parking spot, before switching off the ignition, letting your hand relax as it slides along the driving wheel. Benny is still looking intently at you, from this close you can practically feel his hungry stare grazing your skin. His baritone voice trickles in your ear like syrup.  

“Ever been fucked in a Mustang, baby?”

“No one has a car in Paris, Ben. We’ve got good public transportation. I don’t think there’s enough room for that in this car, anyway.” His smile broadens to downright insolent and you can’t help but smile too. “Oh shit, no, don't answer that.”

You like his rumbling laughter. It never fails to cheer you up, even when you don’t think you have it in you to brighten up. It teaches you lightness. 

“I can show you after, if you want,” he says with a wink. Something seems to cross his mind and he adds, in a more serious tone. “Hey. You know you’re the first one to ever meet the guys, right? The only one. You nervous?”

You draw in a sharp breath.

“Of course, I’m nervous. Will is already there, right?”

“Probably. Will’s never late.”

You glance at your watch: 7.30 pm.

“Right, good. How do I look?” you ask, smoothing your sweaty palms over your jeans.  

“Beautiful,” he replies without missing a beat. 

You’re fairly certain that if you were to cover his eyes with your hand and ask him what colour your shirt is, he would be at a loss. Yet, you don’t doubt his honesty one moment, however plain his answer. It comes in stark contrast to Éric’s snarly comments on your choice of outfit, on yourself. Especially the ones he’d casually fire at you for the sheer pleasure of throwing you off balance, before stepping out to one of the formal parties his job entailed, and that you always did so poorly at. “T’as pas autre chose à te mettre? Et si tu mettais du rouge à lèvres, pour une fois? Essaye de sourire, si c’est pas trop te demander.” [“Don’t you have anything else to wear? How about some lipstick, for a change? Try to smile, if it’s not too much asking”], Christ, you can’t understand why or how you put up with him for five years.

“Right”, you snap yourself out of it. “Ok, Benjamin Miller, let’s go before I chicken out.”

You remove the key from the ignition and hand it to him, and open the door to exit the car.  

—

When you join him on the sidewalk, he takes your hand and leads you toward what looks like a biker's spot to you. It’s nothing like the fancy cafés you used to frequent back home, and you feel once more confronted with your foreigner’s status. You try walking faster to catch up with him, but he’s already crossing over toward the entrance in a few long, rapid strides. In the small windows, neon signs announce Budweiser, an ATM, and Truly Hard Seltzer. It’s about all you have the time to notice before Benny ducks his head to avoid the awning and pulls the door, which opens with a loud, ominous creak. When you step inside behind him, it takes a moment for your eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. 

The place is surprisingly big, considering its narrow facade. It also looks vaguely familiar, probably because you’ve seen the likes of it in approximately fifty movies. Directly on your right stands a large bar with at least half a dozen beers on tap, a mirror wall with several shelves, lined up with bottles of all sizes, shapes and colours. On the left, the space opens widely, and ten round wooden tables are spaced far enough so that customers can talk without disturbing each other. Despite the early hour, all the tables are occupied. Yet the bar doesn’t look crowded. A low-tone humming of rumbling male voices coats the atmosphere. At the back, on the far left, sits a low stage demarcated by a wooden balustrade, with three billiards and two games of darts. You make out the dark silhouette of a woman standing in front of a jukebox, the most luminous spot in the room, that the feeble wall lights struggle to brighten. Everything else looks dark, from the hardwood floor to the brown panelled walls. The styrofoam ceiling, that might have been white some years ago, is now a dirty shade of yellow.

Benny takes off his jacket and your eyes fall on Will, sitting at one of the tables. On his right, facing you, a tall man with unremarkable features and short brown hair is polishing off a pint of beer. On the left side of the table, a handsome, shorter man with dark eyes and lush black curls is laughing heartily. There’s an empty chair on his right, next to which a third man is sitting, his back to you. He’s wearing some sort of baseball cap, short, dark locks curling on his nape and around his ears. You’re not so stressed that you can’t notice he’s got nice square shoulders, his washed out denim shirt pulled taut across them, his dorsal muscles straining against the confine of the fabric. 

Will sees you and waves in your direction, and two pairs of eyes dart towards you, cranking up your anxiety a notch. Only the man with the cap remains still, but when Will gets up to greet you, he tilts his head down and to the right, exposing his profile. 

You make out the lines of his strong nose and his sharp jaw in the dim light, and your chest collapses on itself. The air rushes out of your lungs as your heart jumps to your throat, ice flooding your body. Your hand lets go of Benny’s faster than if you’d been caught cheating at a card game. Will is standing in front of you, pulling you into a bear hug, and you stand on tiptoe, eyes locked on the man in the cap over Will’s shoulder. When he releases you, you sway on your feet as he greets his baby brother. 

Finally, Frankie pivots on his chair and faces the three of you. You get a glimpse of his dimple, before his lingering smile drops, as Benny guides you toward the seated group, his hand on the small of your back.

Music starts playing but your mind fails to comprehend the sounds, distorted like a record player spinning backward. You’ve reached the table now, and you’re joined by the girl from the jukebox. She looks young, younger than you by at least eight or ten years, and stunningly beautiful, dark eyes alight with a clever spark, long black hair, thick and wavy. She’s the first one to greet you, offering her hand and a friendly, radiant smile. 

“Hi! I’m Yovanna, Santi’s girlfriend,” she punctuates her greeting by placing her other hand on the shoulder of the man with the black curls. “I’m so happy to meet you!” she stresses the word “so”, raising her eyebrows in exaggerated relief. 

Your static brain leans on her warmth to summon the strength to plaster a polite smile onto your face, and before you have to take actual action, Benny’s giving you a proper introduction. Your peripheral vision catches a glimpse of Frankie hanging his head, forearms braced on his thighs. 

“That’s Tom, here. You know, Redfly” Benny gestures towards the man with short hair who, from up close, looks exhausted. You somehow remember Benny telling you he’s the oldest. He greets you with a nod and a curt smile. 

The man with the black curls half stands up and extends his hand, his left arm wrapped around Yovanna’s waist. He flashes you a charming smile, adamant to put you at ease. “And I’m Santi. Very nice to meet you.”

“Yeah that’s Pope,” Benny’s grinning like a child, before adding, “And this right here is Frankie, he’s like a brother to me.”

Frankie raises his head, his eyes finding yours immediately, and slowly leans back in his chair. He doesn't smile. But he holds out his hand. 

"Hey", he grunts, voice like gravel. 

In the orange bedroom, you tried to fuck in the shower but you kept sliding and laughing too much, so you gave up. He fucked you hard though, right after, on the bathroom floor, and something had shifted then. His chest pressed against your back, he’d pinched your nipples so forcefully you’d screamed for him to fuck you harder, and he had sunk his teeth at the base of your neck. You bore the mark for days, wishing it would scar your skin forever. You had come together, so intensely and so loudly, the lewd sounds bouncing off the tiled walls, you were certain people heard you from the street below.

That's the first thing you recall, when your brain resurfaces to the sound of his voice. He's older now, his voice deeper, and it brings you back involuntarily to his low growls in that Brooklyn bathroom all those years ago.

Well, not the first thing you recall. Not exactly.

There’s a slight beat before you’re able to take his hand. His skin feels hot against yours. It’s the heat you’ve been fumbling for in the dark for the past sixteen years. When he releases his tight grip, your arm falls limply to your side. He lifts his cap and combs his fingers through his hair, eyes on you still.

“What you drinking, baby?” Benny asks you. “I think they have the beer you like, here.”

Frankie’s jaw ticks. Your mind scrambles, you haven’t been able to utter a single word so far, save for “hi”. 

“Can I have a whiskey and coke?”

Benny looks slightly surprised but he nods, before turning his attention to his friends, asking who wants another round. He pecks your cheek and saunters off to the bar. 

You’re left on your own. 

Yovanna sits down between Frankie and Santi, beaming at you, thawing the cold inside your limbs, so you gratefully follow her cue, sitting on a chair Will has dragged on his right, and you tentatively return her smile. 

Frankie’s breathing through his nose, well aware that Will’s eyes are on him. He should stop staring at you, but he can’t, what if you disappear again? 

You swore to call him. And vanished into thin air. Sixteen years of silence, questioning his sanity. And now you’re here, before him. He never thought he’d see you again.

Sixteen years worth of suppressed memories and sensations come back rushing, loud as a swarm of bees inside his brain, except it’s too late, and everything is tainted with anger. He needs a drink but his jaw is too tightly clenched. You haven’t changed, not that much, anyway. He just sits there, pinned down to his chair, caught up in his resentment, everything feels different, only it’s really the same. Your face, your unassertive smile, your neck, your wide eyes trying and failing to look at anything else but him, just like they did when you started talking on the fire escape. He remembers the way your skin shivered when he touched your arm with that bottle. God your skin, the softness, the taste of your skin, he can’t think about that right now. 

Benny comes back with your drink and a pitcher of beer. He sits down between you and his brother, pulling his chair closer to you, telling you they didn’t have whiskey, only bourbon, wrapping his arm around your shoulder. 

Santi and Yovanna are relentless with their questions, where do you come from, why did you come here, do you like it, how did you meet Ben… He should listen to your answers but he can’t, he knows this is probably hell for you, being the center of everyone’s attention, perhaps his, especially. He wants to shield you. Against his better judgement. Fuck that shit, let Benny deal with you.

“Ok, guys, give her a breather, let her drink,” his voice comes out strained and breathy. He just couldn’t fucking help himself.

Under the table, between his legs, his right thumb finds the small tattoo on his left hand and starts worrying at it with his nail, an old trick devised a long time ago to divert physical pain. Eventually, he faces away and reaches out for his beer, the condensation on the surface of the cold glass making it slippery. That, or his hands are shaking. 

He stopped asking about Benny’s girlfriends a while ago. Not that he doesn’t care. But there’s been too many. Around for a short amount of time. Benny has a short-attention span, but he’s not the one to blame. And even if he were, Frankie’s hardly one to talk, going through months at a time of abstinence before railing strings of random women in a frenzied row. No, it’s always been Benny’s lifestyle. 

When he met him, they were serving in the Army. The girls he picked up never stuck around for more than two or three months, not wanting to put up with the distance, or unable to live in perpetual worry. Now it’s the fighting. Women who attend the fights literally throw themselves at him afterwards, but these, Benny doesn’t care for, preferring the artsy, intellectual kind. Yea, you fit right into that. Only usually, these ones run away as fast as their legs can carry them the minute they find out what he does. 

So with time Benny stopped talking, and with time, Frankie stopped asking. 

When Benny started to mention “his girl”, Frankie didn’t even ask for your name. He got intrigued when he heard Will was spending time with you, and downright curious when Benny announced he wanted you to meet them. But again, not enough to ask who you were. Now Frankie can’t even remember if his friend brought up the fact that you’re French. He would have picked it up. Knowing Benny, he had probably said “Europe”, if anything at all. 

Frankie finds himself staring at you again, but this time you manage to avoid his gaze. You’ve already downed half your drink, and Benny tells you to go ahead, he'll drive on the way back. Benny knows your favourite beer. Benny knows your preferences in liquor. Benny calls you his girl. Benny fucks you on a daily basis. As a matter of fact, Benny’s probably gonna fuck you tonight after driving you back to his place. 

He wants to get drunk but that's really not a good idea. Fuck knows what he'd do then, or say, to you or worst, to Ben, fucking Benjamin who saved his life in that fucking shit-show near Al-Qa'im. He remembers the ACAB button on your bag, he'd like to know where you stand on that topic, now that you're fucking a second Delta Force operative. He wonders what you know about him.

He knows one thing, and it’s that he still wants you. He sees the way your breath hitches when he takes off his cap to readjust his hair, he sees your heart beating madly under the pulse point of your neck, he can see everything from where he sits, and you squirm on your chair, like you did under his body. Why the hell did you never call?

The one they call Pope cracks a joke and they all laugh. You force another smile, trying to act like you’re not in a trance. You thought about it a million times. Finding him. Seeing him again. Played the scene in your head at night, on the bus, in line at the movies, reading a bad novel. 

In all of your dreams, he looked like his younger self. 

You try your best to keep your eyes on whoever is talking, but you’re ceaselessly drawn back to him, you can’t help yourself. He’s aged but it suits him, small belly, broader chest, fuller cheeks. The crease between his brows got so much deeper. You used to smooth it with your thumb. His neck, strong and lean, with pebbled skin, and the dip at its base, you repeatedly licked it clean of his sweat. He hasn’t learned how to properly button up a shirt. You recognise that bigger freckle underneath his left ear, the one you liked to kiss best. He’s got a patchy beard, that’s new to you, with strands of grey hair. His short stubble had left the soft skin of your inner thighs abraded, toward the end of the weekend. He must be approaching forty, you think, and all the years in between, everything that you missed rests heavy on your chest. What did he look like with army-short hair? When he turned thirty? Thirty-five? It’s forever too late. 

You wonder what he thinks of you, you must have aged too, and you wince, you never fancied yourself pretty but you had youth for you, now that’s gone, what’s left? You wish you’d known that, back then. You catch yourself, how can you be so vain?

He’s not the tallest of the bunch but he’s still the most impressive to you, glaring at you from under his furrowed brow, and you feel small again, only this time you don’t want to. 

Comprehension slowly crawls out from the depth of your dazed brain. It’s not about you and his friend. It’s far worse than that. In all these years, nearly sixteen now, you never considered once that he might think you didn't call him purposefully. You bared yourself to him. There was no mistaking your feelings. He has no right thinking that. It destroys everything. 

You get up so abruptly that your chair threatens to topple over. Excusing yourself, you count your steps as you walk on shaky legs towards the toilet, so as not to run. 

When you pull the door open, a backdraft charged with a stench of ammonia rushes to your face, raising goosebumps on your skin. You dive into the room, you have no choice, you need the hiding place. This space is even darker than the main one, lit by a single naked bulb, the walls painted black, with three urinals and a stall. You run the tap and use your hand to drink a few gulps; the bourbon, too sweet, left a bad taste in your mouth, and you don’t feel the numbing effect of the alcohol yet. Fucking useless. When you raise your head, your reflection is waiting for you in a small rectangular mirror. That’s more than you can deal with right now. Turning on your heels, you get in the stall and lock the door. 

Your breath is coming short, your lungs won’t open up, you know what’s coming. Doing your very best to ignore the cold sweat breaking on your forehead and on your back, you press your right fingers on your sternum and try taking a deep breath. You can do this. You know the drill. Once, you remind yourself, you fought off a panic attack, clad in a sequin evening gown, in the bathroom of the Palais Garnier. You can do this. Only your chest won’t fucking open, and you really can’t breathe. 

Ok. Breathe in through your nose, breathe out through your mouth. Lower your shoulders, stretch out your neck. Press on your sternum. Harder. Again. Nothing. Your mind is spiraling, you're losing your train of thoughts, it’s not working. You throw your back against the panel, eyes clenched. 

Happy places, think happy places. Coney Island, 1997, with Rosie, yes, Rosie, your first corn dog on the Wonder Wheel, eyes on the open sea. 

Nothing. 

Inishmore, Aran Islands, 1995, the salted ocean breeze on your skin, eyes on the open sea. 

Nothing. 

Your chest heaves in a dry sob, your mouth twisted in pain. The orange bedroom emerges inside the darkness of your eyelids to wrap you in its humid heat, soft light, Sunday morning. The comforting contact of his smooth skin. Brooklyn. 1999. 

Your chest expands a bit and lets in a gulp of stale air. Slowly. Breathe in. Steady. The orange curtains. Breathe out. Easy. The cotton sheets. You open your eyes. Breathe in. His arm laying heavy across your waist. Breathe out. Deeper. That’s it. You made it to the other side. 

You hear the door open and Yovanna calling your name. 

“You ok in there?”

Her voice anchors your entire body back into the dirty toilet. You look at your feet on the wet tiled floor before you can answer. 

“Yeah, coming.”

Your voice is trembling but it’ll have to do. One step at a time. You refrain from looking at your image in the small mirror but you can’t avoid the worried look on her face. However distraught you must be looking right now, she quickly reverts to a warm smile. 

“They’re a lot, aren’t they? Sorry about all the questions, earlier. Can I do something for you?”

You appreciate her discretion but you don’t have the strength to be subtle.  

“I’m better, I’m good, thank you. So much for a first impression,” you grimace. 

“Oh no, don’t be too hard on yourself, you’re doing great. Look, you got Will in your pocket, and he’s the hardest to get. It took me literal months before I could carry out a conversation with him. And don’t mind Tom, he’s… well, I shouldn’t be telling you that, please don’t judge me, but he’s an asshole, so who cares what he thinks. And Frankie’s a sweetheart. I don’t know what’s with him tonight, but he’s usually very sweet. He’s a good man. Like, capital G, capital M.”

Your chest contracts just the tiniest bit. She takes a step, closing the distance between you, before cautiously but firmly putting her hand on your arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. 

“I can bring you a glass of water, if you want.”

“Oh no, thank you, I’m good. I feel like such an idiot.”

Tears start prickling at the corner of your eyes and she adjusts her strategy accordingly, stepping back just a bit. 

“Ugh, I hate this place. I think we’re the only women to ever come. I don’t know why they insist on meeting here. So we don’t join too often, I bet!”

You reward her effort with a small smile. If she goes on like that, you’ll probably kiss her too. 

“Listen. I’m eight years younger than Santi and I met him on one of his missions. My first time here was pure, fucking, hell,” she punctuates the last words with a shake of her head. “Just don’t pay any attention to Tom, and you’ll be fine. Come on, let’s go back before he makes a joke about ‘girls problems’ or some stupid shit like that,” she air quotes. 

“Wait!”

You bite your lips and pinch your cheeks to bring back some colours to your face, before nodding to indicate you’re ready. 

—

You exit the toilet in her stride and follow her sheepishly to the table. Benny’s talking animatedly to his friends and barely acknowledges you, which suits you well. You decide to ignore Yovanna’s advice and focus on Tom. Feminist wrath is just what you need to bring you around. 

If you took a peek at him, you’d see plain as day Frankie’s worried look etched on his face.

As the evening drags on, you gratefully follow Yovanna’s cue through every conversation. The guys don’t leave much room for the two of you any way, which is juts as well. 

Every once in a while, you risk a glance across the table. Is it real? How can he be sitting there, at arm’s length, how can you carry on? How can you stay still and not get up, walk over to him and curl up on his lap, wrap yourself around his frame? You’d never have suspected you possessed this kind of strength. Is it really strength? Is it shame? Or sheer terror? You’ll think about it later. 

More than once, you consider showing him the torn piece of paper with the smear of wiped ink that you carry in your wallet, next to your ID, but do you have it in you, step aside with him, a mere feet away from Benny? “He’s like a brother to me.”

“Look at me,” you plead in silence. “Look at me. I tried. I swear.” 

***

Taglist (Thank you 💕): @elegantduckturtle @mashomasho @lola766 @flowersandpotplantsandsunshine

[zehecatl]

2024 media thread part JANUARY :D

1st January: Super Mario Bros. Movie

finally got around to watching this, and okay, yeah- it was a lot better than i expected. a good time! really fun to watch! it definitely felt like actual fans worked on it, or at the very least, that Nintendo kept a real close eye during production. loooved the little nods to canon; when Pauline showed up, i literally paused to excitedly tell my mom about who that was, haha. also LOVED the difference uses of power ups!! tanuki suit AND cat suit my beloved :]

Bowser was definitely the high point, like!! that IS my little guy!! Jack Black did SUCH a good job, and man. the ANIMATION. the bits where he got all snarly was SO good. would have loved to watch those on the big screen. Luigi was also very Luigi, which i always appreciate. Mario was... eh? not bad! Chris Pine did an okay job, and while i would have preferred something more, it was... fine. and Donkey Kong was a whole lot of fun, actually? tempted to check out his games, because i did really like him

meanwhile, my BIG BIG complaint, is Peach. like, holy fuck. they absolutely butchered my girl! like, yes- as characters, none of them have a lot of personality to work with, but they're archetypes. you're supposed to push within the archetypes- they even did this with Mario. but they just- they completely abandoned who Peach is, as a character. straight up just wrote Daisy instead, which is. really frustrating! and i dislike it A LOT, because there is so much you can do with Peach as a character, and they didn't even try

but otherwise- fun movie! could have been so much worse!

4th January: Outpath

really relaxing and chill game, where you basically just run around collecting resources, upgrading stuff, and unlocking more island. definitely one of those 'put on some music and zone out for a bit' games. that is not a negative

really liked the graphics, and it was fun to just- run around? you get more movement upgrades as you go along, and it actually plays really nicely. also some tasty environmental sounds

i'm not a 100% done with it yet, but i hit the end credits, so. not sure i'll get all the achievements, but i do intent to go back and clean up some loose ends. also really like how it incorporates some idle elements, like you still getting credits(/money) while being offline. makes it more rewarding to open it up and vibe for a bit

i do think there was an.. attempt? at some kind of story, but i entirely missed it, so i guess that's my only real critic. it was just a fun chill game to sink like, 25 hours into lol

9th January: Momodora: Reverie Under The Moonlight

i've had this game in my library for literally who knows how long, and it's one i've always been aware of, since it was really big back in the day, and oh my god. oh my god, why did i not play this sooner?

it's rather short, took me around 7 hours, but it just- it nails what it wants to be, this tough little game with so much moodiness and tragedy, and i'm so enamoured. i tried playing the original one before this, but it wasn't quite hitting, but man. this one just. it hit so fucking good

there's so many layers here, so many unspoken little details. so so much tragedy you could really dig your fingers into, and as a Tragedy Enjoyer, ooooh it hits good

i'm considering either replaying it myself, or watching a LP and then writing some fic, because there is a little thing hiding here, something i want to put words to. it's good, can't wait to check out the rest, and the upcoming sequel/finale. also, the game is gorgeous

18th January: Switch OVA

so Switch is a two episode long 'adaptation' of a manga, and while it very much just drops you into the middle of the plot, it- works? like, i personally wasn't missing anything, and the case they chose to adapt works really well as a teaser for the manga, because i did leave it considering checking out the manga, and while the whole thing isn't anything to write home about, i did enjoy myself

(i also watched the whole thing on my phone, curled up in bed, so that did maybe increase my enjoyment. it was cozy! what can i say!)

funnily enough, i did walk into this thinking it was a yaoi, and while i don't think it is, there really was nothing to disprove me of this assumption. there's literally a moment where protag guy gets told 'he likes' the other protag guy, and he bLUSHES. LIKE. STRAIGHT OUT OF A YAOI FR FR

all in all, it was honestly just a really cozy time. it wasn't long enough to lose my interest, and there was enough in it to keep it- and i really like the design of the red haired guy! very simple, but really appealing too. i genuinely might check out the manga, my interest is definitely piqued

[divinekangaroo]

Fav season of peaky? Why..

Best gal for Tommy? Why..

Is death the best end for Tommy? Why..

Thank you 😊

Fav season of peaky?

Season 5, season 6 close second, because of Themes.

In an interesting outcome, S5 is better for what then happens in S6. Tommy's experiencing the emotional/moral trauma/consequences of the deferred traumas of all his other seasons' worth of activity by S5 and yet still pushing forward, because it's all he knows how to do (all about action) and it's what he thinks needs to be done (do good things that can only be done by a 'bad' man because of what/how he has to do it), and the ego aspect is thinking only he is capable of doing it and what that then means for him/everyone around him; putting himself into an even worse pressure cooker (British politics stretching into global impacts) for which he is blatantly unprepared and honestly, feels like he's floundering, compounded by the class/sexual/political/ethnic attacks imposed by Mosley all in one aristocratically snarly package? So interesting. The dynamic between him (good man doing bad things for good reasons and perceived as a bad man) and Mosley (framed as evil and righteous and all things accepted by British culture as proper) is insane. That sense of creators creating a situational pressure cooker and watching to wait for it to go bang...

I do struggle to rate the plotline in S5 / S6 - so many coincidences, so much happenstance, so many things that even on detailed rewatch and script reading and headscratching I grapple with. But thematically wow. S1, S2 and S3 were better written/plotted, S4 felt like huge amounts of fun and was dramatically and visually great, but S5 and S6 for thematic emphasis.

Best gal for Tommy?

IE, who would be the most healthful? Jessie Eden. Ironic how it ended with her, because that was the one relationship where I was like, this woman who, in and of her characterisation only, is someone who could work with him as a partner and who would recognise and navigate his traumas without adding to them or taking them on her own shoulders. Everyone else, there were huge swings and roundabouts in power dynamics, blame, self blame etc. If he'd married Jessie between S4 and S5, he might have actually been equipped for S5's confrontations. Although that would have created a very different story XD.

I do love watching/writing Tommy x Lizzie for multiple reasons, and I do think there is love and care there, but they have a conflicted and complicated relationship which makes it difficult to say "this is best for Tommy".

I don't believe May would have been good long term for reasons explained before. May also wasn't love, it was just...fun. And sex, and interest. I don't think May could have ever accepted who he was. And I don't believe Grace would have been good long term because Tommy immediately put her on the most insane pedestal, and I think he was too immature to recognise that; I imagine they would have divorced, or similar to my thoughts on May, he would have had a diifferent kind of (and much earlier) breakdown through forcing himself into a mould he didn't fit into. And I know there's this thing about "only you see me" with Grace after he beat a man to death; but that was one act only, his violence, and it was a reachout to balance Grace's own violent act which was also scaring her right then. But that didn't get anywhere near his lying, his deceiving, his dealing - in S3 it was immediately obvious Grace was unaware of the extent of what Tommy does for business; I think it was represented that he did definitely love her, but he was also putting on a front for her no matter that line or his love, and I think that would have backfired at some point.

Is death the best end for Tommy?

Nope. Get old, live, suffer, live, learn, go to prison, still have to live, actually change, actually grow, etc. Also more storylines if he lives!

Plot and theme wise, I think it would be SUCH a cop out to have him die in any closing movie. There's nothing very appealing about this idea of repentence through death-sacrifice. There's also too much religious connotation to that to be of purpose with who Tommy's character is, slipping into a saint's martyrdom or a jesus-like sacrifice feels too easy.

Plus, they've now effectively done a death (and subverted) in S2 (brilliant), S5 and S6 (very good for very different reasons to S2), substituted Arthur's death in S4, and had a few representations of 'little death' in S3, so if they repeated that? Like how many ways can they do this?

I mean, repentence through death has always itched at me though, because he doesn't seem repentent? He does have a sense of wanting to balance bad acts with good, but he doesn't exactly regret those bad acts...only their consequences if they bounce back at him.

I suppose I could buy into a cool shock-value death sequence if he dies through pure incidental mischance in the first fifteen minutes of the movie and the rest is about how his brothers/family have to pull their shit together for revenge, but not a death-as-repentence sequence.

[remembertheplunge]

The Diary: a repository of my most precious self

August 31, 1988

The workday was nuts. 

A "Hill Street Blues—Laugh In" mix.

One  client’s baby was taken to be adopted. I told him tonight in the jail.

 Another client, said he tried to hang himself. He asked “Will you be there tomorrow? "I’ll hang myself tonight if you won’t come "(to court for me). I said, "Just hang in there"…twice!  Oh God Lew, choice of words man!

And , earlier today in court, a client  got 2 years prison and the Judge pulled me aside to asked “Did I do the right thing?” The DA said it was slap on the wrist. The Judge was happy to see me, but then got snarly.

I screwed up on a case.

I hurt my lower back.

My jaw aches from the stress.

My hemorrhoids improve.

Heat of the day.

The Diary turns 11 years old tomorrow!

September 1, 1988

Happy #11 years Diary.

My God, you extend from late  CSU Chico through all this craziness to here. I’m glad that you exist. You are very precious to me. You are the one I can most easily come home to. A repository of my most precious self—

Today, again, a Jacuzzi talk with a male friend. He painted a bleak, bitter childless future for me if the gay life is chosen . He is hard to be around, but his beatings make me stronger.

End of entry

Note:

Hill Street Blues was was a 1980’s TV show about life in the criminal justice system. I loved it’s theme song and lead in section to the show.

Laugh In was a comedy show on TV in the late 1960’s. It took a satirical look at contemporary society. It was outrageous for the times.

Criminal law practice is a mix of the grace and dignity of Hill Street Blues and the slap stick insanity of Laugh In!

Today is September 1, 2023. The Diary turns 46 this month!

I started the Diary in my last semester at CSU Chico in September 1977.

My jacuzzie friend was about my age and very religious. He was trying to save my soul from rotting in hell for being out and gay.

[arlo-venn]

Question—

Is there a way to teach a dog to growl as warning prior to opting to bite???

Arlo’s bitten Tyrell for the second time since we’ve been living here (NOT hard enough to break skin I genuinely think he would never do a for real bite unless it was a man/unless I was being attacked), and neither time did he give her any/much warning first.

I don’t know that he didn’t give ANY warning because the first time I wasn’t there, and today I wasn’t paying full attention because I was continuously handing him treats so I may have missed cues while multitasking.

We both forgot that he’s weird about food with anyone who isn’t me or Rory (he tolerates Ottilie but it’s obvious he does so through discomfort- I don’t blame him there bc she used to steal his food from him before he got an elevated bowl last year). We were spraying him down with cedar oil because he still has live fleas on him even though he had nexguard 3 days ago and has been out of the flea-ridden environment (basement). He’s oh so slightly nervous about spray bottles, so I was giving the treats for that reason (we didn’t hve the time for proper deconditioning bc he needs the fleas off him), and he fully chomped her wrist when she got near his ears. He’s only sensitive physically with people other than me around his back end so it was really unexpected for me. Didn’t break skin like I said but did leave a couple teeth indents for a few minutes.

So like it was totally 100% our fault for 1) forgetting he’s iffy with food and 2) because when I noticed he was a little uncomfortable about the cedar oil and I said “do you want me to muzzle him?” Tyrell said no, and I okayed that? I shouldn’t have taken the risk at all knowing he’s was nervous even without the food, but Tyrell is his second Main Human so we genuinely didn’t think he’d bite. Not an excuse though.

ALL THIS is to say— neither time did he growl or make a snarly face to indicate he wanted to bite or for her to back off. I presume bc it was an imminent threat of his food being stolen so he may have felt the need to act fast, but that’s so unsafe. He did do snarly face after to tell her he didn’t want her to keep touching him (which obviously she respected), but is there a way to train him to understand the importance of a warning growl?

I mean obviously we’re going to remember not to use treats with Tyrell near, right, and if he ONLY reacts that way when food is involved then that will solve the issue, but. If there is a way to teach him I would still like to try, he’s very receptive to training obv

@shootingstarbujo

[farieshades]

What do you think about Geralts character?

Out of all the characters I've looked at for you, Geralt might just have to be the poster child of traumatic childhood experience. I mean, abandoned by his mother, watched countless brothers die, experiencing painful mutagens that can kill a boy not once but twice, abusive training methods to make the boys stronger, and then finally 20 years old or so getting out into the world only to come home at some undetermined point to find most of the school is dead and your maybe 1 of 20 left before that happens again leaving maybe 7 before they keep dying off and it's only your closest brother, some scrawny younger brother, and the fencing master [honestly I haven't a clue how these numbers work considering its the 4 in the game and then you have like 12 random Witchers in TWN and we're just going with random numbers at this point, huh Lauren?]. 

He is going through it, also in a state of being believed dead and also alive depending on eye-witness accounts of him being stabbed with a pitchfork much later. Yeah. Also, forewarning, this is about to get confusing as I am absolutely not going to distinguish Book from Game from Netflix and for my enjoyment I might even toss in a Hexer reference or two :) 

The reception of Geralt depends on the point of view, really. Often times when described by himself there are more negative descriptors and a general 'ugly' tone, whereas people outside of Geralt find him strikingly handsome in presentation despite the scars and if he could stop glarring that be better for his face I think Yennefer mentiones? Anyway, he rarely partakes in friendships and company outside of very few friends that find themselves on his Path and his kinship bonds.

Geralt is also highly intelligent, memorizing beastieries and alchemical recipies (because also if one doesn't you wouldn't survive as a witcher long), but he is also not the brightest with interpersonal relationships. Which, I mean, most Witchers probably aren't considering they aren't really socialized as kids. But if you’re facing some unknown monster thing, he’s definitely the one you want, just don’t try to make subtle advances into his bed? Not that he’s against that, considering his relationships with certain sorceresses and the foursome he’s had, he’s no virgin, but also, say it outright don’t be coy, I suppose is what I’m saying… 

Life and destiny have been unkind to Geralt, leaving him with crippling self-doubt and what I'd probably lable as paranoia but not? 

He’s not a religious man, believing in his sword and his own power rather than in gods that may or may not exist. With this, eh, disbelief, he also has a regular attitude of not believing in good things happening, whether that is company or otherwise. Geralt often tries to head off any possible rejection or abuse sent his way in multiple different ways depending on the media form. In some he shows a more upfront disclosure with a hint of caution whereas others have him more gruff and snarly at it all, rejecting people preemptively. Geralt however, does manage to gain a ‘friend’ in Jaskier/Dandelion. And while Geralt sometimes is portrayed to be physically incapable of saying the word friend, others have no problem labeling his relationships for him. 

Of course, this isn’t always the case, as the wonderful books have us meeting Jaskier with “He’s my friend” right from the get go, despite being opposite to who Geralt was. Later, notably in a lot of stuff I've read revolving Chireadan and Geralt, the “I’d sit on a scorpion with my bare backside if I knew it would help him”, emphasizing how strongly Geralt feels, because while I have no doubt he would risk life and limb for just about any goddamn village out there, none of those would have him needing to sit on a scorpion with a bare ass. Similarily, there also exists this quote; "There are good and bad people. You usually meet the evil ones on your path. It's the Path of fighting... violence and aggression. You were forced to walk it. But there is more... Love, frienship, poetry. They are like pearls, diamonds, rare and thus so valuable. If someone is close to you, then it is worth living for. That's most important." And I think that helps sum it up, how Geralt has lived life, except the precious gems of friendship are sometimes things he fears to hold in almost an unclean sense [not physical, more related to the ideas of Mary T. Douglas, except thats religion and this is... not?]

[gonegrove]

Your Billy Psycology post was very good and articulated why I find him so interesting as a character. Idk not enough people seem to be able to talk about him without being super black and white. He’s either evil incarnate or has done no wrong, when in reality he’s a deeply flawed young man who weather people like it or not accurately depicts the ways some people are shaped by abuse. His relationship with Max is also something I’d love to see people delve into more (totally not because I had a similarly shitty relationship with my sibling and would love to see the dynamic repaired and become healthy in a way that’s not possible since my sibling is genuinely sadistic and has shown themselves incapable of change). Like it’s the perfect display of the cycle of abuse and it plays into Max’s relationships and Psycology in an equally fascinating way. Anyways don’t feel bad for rambling I loved it and you’ve fed my own adhd brain.

YES GOOD I'M GLAD !!!!!!!!!!!!

yeah i get people's urge to pivot into woobifying him. i get it. he's our baby. you wanna show how he's a little sweetie baby. but like.... it actually does him a disservice in the long run.

let him be messy and troubled and gross and annoyingly horny and all these imperfect things that make him more interesting.

Runaway Max is flawed as fuck but I'm INSANE about some of the segments of how Max talks about Billy. I love how she had him on a pedestal at first, she totally fell for the Billy charm. Completely starstruck when they first met. Even later when they're in Hawkins she'd got him on this like, broken pedestal. They both love each other and want to connect but they're both these little hot headed stubborn snarly creatures.

Billy is only interesting to me if he's like, gods most perfect fuckboy and i know i seriously need to put more time into writing his and max's relationship bc i need to get them to the point where they form an olympic level bullying team and demolish people like Mike and Jason.

[harrison-abbott]

Bouts of Oxygen

That was where that boy smacked me, I thought, as I past that spot, where, sixteen years back, I had some kind of induction of violence. For me personally, induction-wise, I mean. For I had seen my elder brother have his head bashed in when I was nine and that was shattering and quite exuberant and has damaged me my whole life and there was no sense of therapy for the trauma of that. I remember my mother asking me repeatedly to explain what had happened, “What happened?” over and over and I didn’t want to go over the memory but she needed my account of it.

The leaves, today, were slathered by the stormy rains from last night, and though there was a brief blue sky and brave yellow son for now there were gaudy clouds on the horizon. I was heading down to the mall to pick up some stuff.

My foot had been a bit sore of late and there was this sharp pain in the big toe and it got me worrying about gout, as incredulous as that seemed, because my elder brother had/has gout and so does my uncle and thus there is that genetic danger. Really hope not. What made it all the more bizarre was that I used to be so healthy when I was a kid. And I still am – in terms of exercise and eating. I eat very healthily and I walk a lot. But there’s a tremendous ironical bombshell when it comes to alcohol. Bombshell is not the correct word. More like absurdity, or suicidal behaviour, a long jaunt to suicide. Oh. I suppose it’s hard to explain for individual people.

Alcohol can be like voluntarily jumping into a pool that looks merry and turquoise and shiny on the top and then you go under the water to swim down – and you can still open your eyes underwater – but there is no bottom, and then you get confused because you keep swimming down, as if to try and reach the floor, and never quite find it. After this, you make to go back up to the surface, but this is tricky to find as well. And you imagine bursting out into the air once more and heaving in these huge medicinal bouts of oxygen. That everything will be okay when you have done that. No. It doesn’t work like that. But the entire irony is that you stay underwater … and you never drown. (At least, not instantaneously.)

But, I was still alive for now.

I got to the end of the road which leaned on to the motorway and everything got louder. There were about five hundred pupils spilling out of the high school, which had just shut for the day.

When I was in primary school, which was half a mile down the road, I used to get the bus back here – to that stop, there, across the road. And I was terrified of the snarly raging birdsong of the kids waiting to get on the bus as well. A lot of them just skipped on the bus without paying the fare, through the back doors that the driver opened to let people get off, and the driver couldn’t do anything about it because the whole area was thronged with these crazy children and he was probably afraid of them too.

Nowadays I mostly felt sorry for the children. Solely because they were in high school. The world, for them, looked worse than it did for me when I was there age. [And I’m sounding like an old man, even though I’m only 30. But these three decades sure make me feel old.] They were facing climate mayhem, right now: whereas when I was a teen it was just beginning, and there were all of these warning signs which the politicians across the planet did nothing to tackle. Most of them, anyway.

What amazes me about the climate apocalypse is why they can’t appreciate the beauty of nature, even when they love it as well. I suppose that’s like asking why there are several wars pumping across the globe, right this minute, querying why clans despise each other.

“Hey there, Pal,” one of the boys said to me. He was with his mates.

“Hi.”

“You really need a haircut!” he grinned. His chums laughed.

Ah. Yes. I usually attracted this kind of thing. At thirty years old I was still a little prickly around nasty schoolkids. Perhaps why there are wars: because people who are doing nothing and look civilian tend to attract aggro.

I changed the song on my headphones and continued onwards, and by the by it began to rain. An ambulance invaded the scene by the end of the motorway and then invaded the sound of the song and I wished whoever was in the back of it or whoever the vehicle was racing to, well. Hoped they would heal up or get some help.

The rain came down in gusto. When I turned off the motorway and into the park the water made the grass look extra green, strong emerald green shining in a mass gem-like way that wondered the eyes.

The park was right next to my old primary school that I mentioned above. It was madness, in a way, to think that I haven’t moved much since those days – that building that perched atop the hill above the park, one of the largest schools in the city. That I’d left when I was 11. Those memories of primary school were still strong. I recalled the laughter from the kids, the fearsome faces of the teachers and their tall frames, the intense heat through the windows at the sides of the classrooms and the radiators that were up full blast in winter and if you touched them then they’d blister the skin; recall the toilets that were constantly clogged up because the boys stuffed them with looroll; and the scrawny lumpy fields in the playground where we played football and the matches were full of cheating and if there was a discrepancy about whether a goal had gone in they would demand “Penalty about it! Penalty about it!”

And I remember being heavily disliked by almost all of the children and being almost entirely alone. But I didn’t mind being solitary; that was just the way I was. During the breaks I would sit and draw pictures, or read books. Whilst the other kids loudly chomped their packets of crisps. Chomp scrunch crack.

I passed through the park and on to the car park that headed on to the supermarket. This brooding building that’d been erected in the 1980s. It sure looked like something that belonged in an 80s action movie.

Inside, I passed the newsagent/bookstore. I’d published ten books of my own – and yet I knew that none of them were in this store. It was odd how I was technically ‘a writer’ and it meant very little inside a bustling supermarket; a fact versus another fact. I passed the posh chocolates shop where they sold expensive chocolates as gifts and there were older people in there meandering about, high on the prospect of sugar; and I passed the videogame shop and when I looked in the windows there was a new console which had just come out and it was eyewateringly expensive and there were games advertised around it – shoot em ups, where you go kill terrorists with a machine gun. I passed the hiking/mountaineering shop where they sold ‘waterproof’ clothing for prices that were worse than that videogame console. Then the travel shops, which only made me think of trips to Europe – and their sadness and buoyancy and wistfulness and glee combined.

Then I got the vitamin store which was my main reason for being here. I got a vitamin B tub. Apparently folks who follow my diet need vitamin B supplements because they can’t source it from certain types of food which they morally choose not to eat. I bought the cheap one. The woman who served me was foreign and had this frizzy bulk of hair and she seemed like a character, in the loud certain way that some people seem to give off. And I was still unemployed and wondered whether I could work in a shop one day and even something which would seem simple to another person seemed daunting to me, in all my freakish shyness and introversion against the blustery world.

Still had the vitamins, though. They keep your blood clean and your mind controlled. Supposedly.

I had done a visit to the doctor last summer and after he took a blood sample from me he told me my liver was under strain and that my white blood cells were low, compared to the general norm.

And my mind was, whenever I seemed to be awake, flashing around in a hundred places at once, with memorial content and present dilemma exploding altogether. Much like this attempt at a short story. My mind was not controlled or controllable. I was fucked up, pent on disaster, and I flashed about the shopping centre with these verbal ticks that I couldn’t control.

I kept saying the name of my old girlfriend that I hadn’t seen for nearly six years and who I was still in love with. In these sporadic bites of noise. I didn’t know whether the other people noticed but they probably did.

Onto the main store, the supermarket, that big brand company owned by corporate cunts where most of us flock to get our food for survival week in and week out. I headed to the magazine section first of all and looked at the titles. And there was one mag that was a famous American one that many of ‘my heroes’ had written in, in the past. Way back in the day. When publishing and the literary mechanisms were totally different. And, quickly browsing the innards of the mag, I found that there was only one short story in the entire magazine: only a single part of fiction. The rest of the content was journalistic and politically oriented. 70 years back I wondered whether this would ever be the case. And it was ironic that the population back then had jumped so intensely, and that a writer, back then, would be thrilled to be included in this famous magazine, but that this one sole writer, who I had never heard of, would be ecstatic to be included at all – and maybe thought that his inclusion would propel him to international fame, like it did seventy clicks ago: but it couldn’t now: because the world was too huge.

I skipped the magazine section. Did wish to read some of the magazines but they were way too expensive.

Needed a new belt. So went to the clothes & shoes section. I technically needed new shoes as well because the fabric on my boots had come undone, although the soles were still fine and kept the water out. I looked over the belt section. They were hideously overpriced as well. And several of the items were OUT OF STOCK. So I moseyed for a while and then just decided against getting a new belt today. Or shoes for that matter. I headed out towards the main doors again. There was a security guard ogling me as I ventured. I’ve always been threatened by eyes; can’t pose for photographs; hate being stared at: can’t easily make contact with eyes. But, nothing happened with this man, this stranger, and he didn’t follow me, and I continued out of the supermarket and into the main atrium again.

And I walked down the floor towards the main doors of the mall. Where, through the broad glass windows, I could see a thrashing white sensation beyond. I got closer. It was raining extremely outside. You could hear it as I approached.

And a gabble of people had congregated before the doors and windows, with their trolleys. They were watching the rain, a clique of five or ten people, amazed by the power of the rain.

I stopped by one of them. Who was a woman in her mid sixties, I guessed. I looked at her. And said:

“Was there ever rain as heavy as this when you were wee?”

She blinked and then she responded:

“Yes. But it never lasted as long as this.”

“Yeah. I think of it the same way.”

I put my hood up and I headed out of the doors and into the thrashing waterfall.