#Lori Alter

[get-more-bald]

the fuck do you mean I have to leave....

[floweraccidental]

(I didn't know if I should do an introduction post, I panicked, so fuck it)

I have D.I.D and so does my boyfriend. And I just remembered the interactions when two of our alters were fronting at the same time. And it was adorable.

Please note that we were lying in bed, exhausted.

Lorie: You've got small shoulders.

Ash: *confused*

Ash: In what way is this an issue?

Lorie: *disappointed* You can't wear coats...

Ash: Wh- *more confusion* yes I can??

[a-cloud-of-dust-and-gas]

“Hot Take” on Prison of Plastic

(!! Spoilers !!)

This isn’t actually a hot take, more so something I don’t think many people have noticed — but I understand if people don’t really understand/agree with what I’m saying at first.

There are many issues in Lorelai and Molly’s relationship that makes them unable to find common ground. One of them is Lori’s cruel demeanor, but not in the way most of the community thinks.

A character detail that I think changed from the webseries is Molly’s pushover mindset. She seems to accept her family’s neglect because she is too afraid to fight back at all (key word: “at all”). But after Giovanni’s influence, she makes multiple attempts to get her family to help, Lorelai specifically.

(I believe the reason why nobody tries to ‘fix’ Martin is because everyone knows he’s a lost cause — and Molly seeking support from Lori is her subconsciously thinking the opposite; there’s still hope for her sister. That also applies to her outburst in chapter 7, it was her last shot at trying to alter Lori or else she’d view her the same way she sees Martin; beyond help)

But of course, Molly’s anxiety didn’t cure overnight. She’s stepping in the right direction, but still can’t find the courage to act stern, which is pretty much what Lorelai needs (it isn’t as simple as it sounds, but we do know that Martin’s lack of care and Molly’s lack of emotional power only fuels her).

As a result of not wanting to comply, Lorelai acts very spiteful to put up a wall that most people can’t break down. This wall seems to derive from many things; grief, fear, immaturity, isolation, Martin’s neglect, and likely more. In other words, there isn’t a concrete reason as to why she chooses this persona. However, what’s even more interesting is how Molly reacts to it throughout the book.

Molly doesn’t take Lorelai’s words personally. Her breakdown/monologue in chapter 7 didn’t start because Lori was being too mean, it was because Molly realized she truly couldn’t get through to her. Lori’s wall doesn’t hurt Molly, it’s just very hard to enter the other side. As long as her sister keeps it up, Molly can’t do much.

Unless she stops looking for secret entries and takes a wrecking ball to knock it down.

But she can’t guarantee Lorelai won’t get hurt if so.

(I needed to get this off my chest idk why)

Last thing! I know Molly got really sad in the beginning of the book when Lorelai said Martin didn’t like her, but I can’t help but view that as a rare occurrence when Lori crosses a line. She was very rude to her sis throughout the rest of the book but Molly was clearly not upset over what Lorelai was saying, rather how she wasn’t willing to stop.

[missmaywemeetagain]

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1 💔🥂❤️‍🩹

Thank you so much for your patience as I got this up on different platforms due to unforeseen life crap! 💗 Okay, so Chapter 11 got a bit away from me length wise, so for sanity's sake (and so I can make some more revisions to some much-anticipated sexy times 🤭), I am posting part one of the chapter instead of making y'all wait any longer.

Some major, life-altering things went down in Chapter 10 and this chapter from Lori's perspective deals with a bit of the reality and consequences of that. (You can refresh your memory here if you need to!) We jump back in the next morning. She's got A LOT of feels going on in this chapter leading into some more twists and turns in 11.2, so the ending of this might feel a bit abrupt since it will all be part of the same chapter. Sorry!

Also, please excuse my alterations of some of the recording dates a bit to serve the story!

Anyway, as always. I can't wait to hear what you think! 💋

Loves and kisses, Madi xoxoxoxo 💗

TW: So many angsty feels, the Colonel, pregnancy and related symptoms, fear of miscarriage, Elvis and his endless PDA...smut to come in part 2 🤭

Broken Glass Chapter 11.1

“You’re what?!”

You wince at the way Tom Parker spits the words out, his shock and ire so palpable it feels like a slap to the face. The anxiousness skyrocketing through you, paired with the rapid beat of your heart knocking against your ribs, leaves you unable to look at the man, but you know he’s furious.

“We’re getting married. As soon as possible,” Elvis repeats firmly, grabbing your hand and squeezing. It seems unconscious the way he steps slightly in front of you, as if shielding you from the older man’s anger. You appreciate the gesture. No one, save for your mother, has ever protected you.

Elvis sounds so steadfast and sure about all of it. He’s a better actor than people give him credit for, but this performance is going above and beyond anything you’d assumed he was capable of.

Or maybe he means it.

Your heart flips, just the way it did last night when he asked you to marry him.

The last 24 hours have gone and changed everything so quickly that your head is still spinning. The moment when Elvis kneeled on the bathroom floor with you, wiped away your sick, and offered to fix everything, it felt so very real. There wasn’t an ounce of hesitation in his eyes.  

And despite it being an arrangement born out of necessity and not love, it was nothing like Gianni’s horrific proposal.

Your stomach turns at the memory of that nightmare before Parker’s voice cuts through, bringing you back to the task at hand.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you, boy?” The beady-eyed man glares around Elvis’ broad shoulders at you. You resist the urge to shiver under his accusatory gaze. “Did you threaten to go to the press, young lady? Is this about money?”

“Hey, now, Colonel,” Elvis says, deceptively calm, but his voice is low with warning. “It’s not like that at all. And you best mind your tone.”

Parker’s eyes flicker to Elvis with an edge of surprise, taking in Elvis’ protective stance and words in silence. You get the impression Elvis hasn’t stood up to the man before, not like this, anyhow. The crackle of tension in the air has you all on edge.

The older man’s eyes narrow shrewdly, and you worry you won’t be able to pull this off. You’ve observed enough in the last month to understand the influence he has over Elvis, the slight manipulations he wields, pushing Elvis right where he wants him.

Parker looks at you with scrutiny. He takes you in from head to toe. Your breath catches in your throat and you want nothing more than to disappear and pretend the last day was a dream. But you cannot. Forcing yourself to hold his stare, you remind yourself of everything at stake here.  

There is no doubt in your mind he will throw you to the wolves the moment he senses anything amiss, the moment you threaten the image of his star client. So it has to be crystal clear you are here to stay, even though it makes you sick to lie.

But there are much worse things than white lies waiting for you out in the world. And as heartbroken and shocked as you are about this baby, you already know you’ll do anything to protect it.

You aren’t even conscious of the way your hand splays over your stomach, not until Parker’s eyes freeze there. His eyes snap up to yours and then to Elvis.

“Oh, you didn’t,” Parker groans. “Christ, I picked this one specifically because I thought she was smart enough not to fall into bed with you the minute you two were alone. Turns out she’s smarter than I gave her credit for—she managed to ensnare you and ensure she’d always be tied to Elvis Presley,” he spits.

Your cheeks flame hot with the accusation, and you can’t hold back your gasp at his insinuation, even though it shouldn’t be a surprise.

Elvis squeezes your hand tight and points at Parker, his eyes stormy and livid. “Don’t you dare blame her for this! On the train, you made it clear how she needed to improve her ‘attitude’ towards me and I told ya not to worry. Well, I took care of it,” he shrugs flippantly.

You try not to gape at his blasé attitude, wanting to trust Elvis to do what he needs to make this convincing.

“You damn well know I didn’t mean ‘get her pregnant’!” Parker hisses. “And we had this talk when you were just starting out! I know you know better than to—”

“I’m in love with her,” Elvis interrupts with such conviction your stomach swoops and you need to school your face to look like you aren’t amazed by how truthful his statement sounds. The earnestness on his handsome face takes your breath away.

Tom looks sorry for him. “Oh, son, we both know how easily you fall in love. But I don’t think you understand the gravity or responsibility of starting a family. What it’ll do to your image. Girls want you unattached and available, and they’re the ones buying the records."

From anyone else, it might be imbued with caring and concern, but coming from Parker, it is backhanded and insulting with the way he talks down to Elvis, as though he were still a 19-year-old kid instead of a 25-year-old man. But he does it with the finesse of a snake charmer.

You watch Elvis carefully as he recoils a bit, an innocence flashing over his features you’ve only seen in his most vulnerable moments making a quick appearance. For a second, you are terrified he’ll cave and you’ll have to pack your bags and head West after all. Thankfully, he blinks it away, steeling himself with the stubbornness which usually drives you crazy but just might work in your favor today.

“We’re in love. We’re gettin’ married, and that’s all there is to it.” It comes out as a growl and the sound reaches down to your toes.

Parker shakes his head, grasping at anything to control his client. There’s a carefully veiled desperation in his voice which barely conceals the threat he now lobs at Elvis: “This’ll ruin you, boy! What will your father do when the money is gone, hmm? Your cousins? Your friends? That big house you bought your mother? It’ll all be gone.”

Elvis looks as though he’s been slapped. But not you. Life has made you good at reading people, at seeing through men like this. Perhaps it is the fact you are running on adrenaline or because you have so much to lose, but you find yourself furious at Parker for speaking this way to Elvis.

 “And after everything I’ve done to ensure your success, you’d throw it all away for—”

“How?” You barely register you’ve spoken until Parker’s glare lands on you.

Elvis looks down at you with surprise. It wasn’t part of the plan for you to interject; Elvis thought he could handle Parker on his own.

“How exactly will getting married and having a family ‘ruin’ him? Last I checked, you weren’t a young woman. How do you know it won’t help him? His audience is growing up and getting married, so why can’t he?” you say, a fierceness you usually rely on at work slicing through your nervousness.

“Young lady, you best shut your mouth before you get yourself in more trouble than you’re already in,” Parker seethes.

“You don’t talk to her that way!” Elvis yells, stepping in front of her, pointing in the older man’s face.

Parker looks taken aback, and you wonder if Elvis has ever stood up for himself the way he’s standing up for you now.

Your heart beats in double time, but you gently put your hand on Elvis’ arm to bring it down. His eyes are blazing but they catch yours and you breathe in slowly, hoping he follows your lead. Once he doesn’t look like he’s going to launch himself at Parker, you speak.

“I was going to be around for the foreseeable future anyhow, isn’t that right? Perhaps much longer based on what the doctor said,” you say, miraculously keeping the tremble out of your voice. “It is easier—and more proper—to explain a wife being by his side than a long-term girlfriend living in his house, yes?”

Parker scoffs but doesn’t speak.

“And there’s nothing more young ladies like me want more than weddings and babies, even more so when the groom is the most handsome and charismatic man on the planet, one they want the best for. They will look at pictures of us and imagine themselves as me, I’d bet. And the men will be much less threatened by the family man who served his country and might come around, too,” you continue with fervor, surprised at how easy it is to be assertive when it’s Elvis you are fighting for.

“It doesn’t matter if he is married or has a thousand babies, Mr. Parker. As long as Elvis is alive and keeps doing what he was born to do, they will flock to him because he is an incredibly talented, gorgeous, and kind man. My being by his side won’t change that one little bit. In fact, a wedding will be free publicity for his comeback album, I’d imagine.”

A breath wooshes out of you now your speech is finished. Your fists squeeze to hide the tremor in your hands. Silence hangs heavy and you shift uncomfortably on your feet, but you force yourself to hold Parker’s eyes.

At first, he looks at you with something akin to shock, which quickly morphs into a smirk as he throws a cigar in his mouth, considering your words, perhaps. He holds the silence and your gaze much longer than he should, and you know it’s a show of dominance. You’ve seen a similar look on the men in la famiglia when they seek to intimidate.

It equally makes you want to stand your ground and shirk back into the woodwork. You don’t want him to win, but you also know you must play a role here, and a man like him will want any good idea to seem like his own. You lower your eyes in faux deference.

“Well, Elvis, we may be able to salvage this yet,” Parker purrs, gumming the end of the cigar.

Elvis’ eyes haven’t left you since your speech—you know because you feel them boring into you—but it’s not until you look back up at those depthless blues that you see the unabashed way he’s staring.

He looks at you like he’s smitten. Like you are everything he could ever need. And he’s blushing as if bashful about what you said. His movie star gaze pins you to the spot, with his bedroom eyes at half-mast and his full lips falling open like he’s going to say something.

You would love to be able to say it didn’t make your heart flip over and your knees a little weak to be looked at like this by him; in fact, you are going to chalk it up to your hormones because this is all part of the act, you are sure.

It’s almost painful, the way you tear your eyes away from him to look at your shoes. Suddenly you are winded and exhausted.

He’s just a patient. Maybe even a friend after everything you’ve been through together this past month. A better actor than anyone gives him credit for.

Madone, I will not swoon over a man just because he’s good at pretending he loves me.

Elvis may have acted like a spoiled, sullen child the days prior to arriving back at Graceland, but you’d never in your life seen had a man so entirely consumed with your wellbeing once he knew something was wrong with you. No man had ever treated you with such care.

A swell of emotion sits like a lump in your throat when you think about his proposal. What he’s giving up to save you. To save your baby.

And he’s been so earnest it makes it hard to compartmentalize the fact this arrangement is a quid pro quo and not some romantic folly. Your mind knows this, but your heart is having trouble keeping up. It doesn’t help when he is looking at you like you hung the moon. Like you are precious and beautiful. Like you matter.

You clear your throat and look away, feeling the blush spread across your cheeks. Then, a wave of overwhelm threatens to consume you. Everything in your world has been upended in the last 24 hours, and on top of that, you still have a job to do, yet your body is fighting you every step of the way.

Pregnant.

Your stomach lurches, but you swallow the toast you’d managed to eat earlier back down. Now is not a moment to appear weak by losing your breakfast all over the floor.

Parker is sizing up the both of you, chewing on the end of his cigar like a cow chewing on cud. It makes you want to squirm, yet you force yourself to remain still.

Elvis grips your hand reassuringly, sensing your discomfort. “It’s early, so that means we should do this as soon as possible, yeah?” He says it as if asking, as if the two of you hadn’t already decided it. You can’t quite tell if he’s asking for approval or if he’s smart enough to know it will go over better if the old man thinks it’s his decision. Either way, it seems to work.

“Mmm, yes. Though some are already going to assume the reason based on your impatience,” Parker counters, pointing at your belly.

“Let ‘em think what they want. But I want it public. I want everyone to know who I’m spendin’ the rest of my life with,” Elvis says definitively.

Parker looks at him and narrows his eyes. “Are you sure, my boy? It’s quite the gamble.”

“Didn’t get where we are by always playin’ safe, did we, Colonel?” Elvis counters.

“Hmm, I suppose not,” he replies after another long moment of scrutiny, “and I know you like to charge ahead without looking, but if we give them too much at once, they might be too ravenous. And we must control the narrative.”

Parker looks at your hand. “Get her a pretty ring, then go out and about and be seen. Tell your boys, your family, but no one else. Let them start talking.” His mind starts whirring, you can tell by the gleam in his eye. “We’ll sell an exclusive to the highest bidder, with terms to run the story along with the release of the album. We’ll push the release up, but that means you need to get up to Nashville in the next few days and finish cutting the record. With singles, RCA is going to need…” He pauses to do the math. “At least 11 or 12 more songs to have enough. You think you can do that, son? With everything going on?” The challenge is clear, but you are surprised to hear concern in his voice, too. Elvis is an ill man, after all, despite how gallant he is.

Elvis nods. “Yessir, I’ll get it done.” There isn’t a lick of doubt in his words.

You, however, are worried it’ll be too much for him. It’s a lot of pressure for anyone on a good day, but for Elvis, this could be dangerous. He’s already been pushing himself to the limit with his childish behavior in Florida. You want to say as much, but Elvis must know what you are thinking because he shoots you a stern look before you can get the words out of your mouth.

“Well, then, when you get back, we’ll have a small ceremony at Graceland. A church wedding is out of the question. Safety, timing, you understand,” Parker adds, shooting you a look like he’s sorry when you both know he is anything but.

You swallow and nod, but a snake of disappointment runs through you, nevertheless. You’d been raised to expect a Catholic ceremony but realize it wouldn’t be possible anyway. Elvis isn’t Catholic. In fact, you aren’t sure what religion Elvis is. The fact you don’t know sinks in your gut.

There is so much you don’t know about the man you’re about to marry.

But he’s not Gianni, you think. And he’s willing and able to give my baby the life it deserves.

And that is enough. It has got to be. Arranged marriages still happen every day—this is no different. A love match was never in the cards for you anyway. Not with your father and Gianni in the picture.

He may drive you crazy at times, but at least with Elvis, you and the baby will be safe and cared for.

You’ll just have to quell any expectations he will see you as more than his nurse. Or more than one of the many girls just passing through.

I shouldn’t have kissed him last night.

You blush at the memory. It was a moment of weakness, but you’d been so overcome with gratitude, shock and relief, you’d let your emotions get the best of you. It was too revealing, too vulnerable, considering your roller coaster of emotions recently regarding him.

It hadn’t helped he’d kissed you back with such commitment. Like he truly wanted you.

It scared you. But you’d backed away instantly after accepting his proposal, convincing yourself the look in his eyes was nothing more than friendly and then busied yourself with putting your clothes back into his—your—closet. Then you’d used your very real exhaustion as an excuse to go right to bed after that, ignoring the gnawing feeling of want in your heart.

Elvis would never love a woman like you. A woman who’s been chewed up and spit out by horrible men, a far cry from the actress and model beauties he is used to. He is a good man, helping a woman in need out of the kindness of his heart, out of a need of his own self-preservation, but you best keep reminding yourself that pity and helpfulness is not love.  

Lest you get too caught up in the fairytale you are spinning for the world, you remind yourself that once things settle down, arrangements will need to be made for him to get his other needs met.

It wouldn’t be the first or last time a powerful, famous man had dalliances, after all. They would just need to be discreet.

The thought makes your heart ache and tears prick at the back of your eyes, though you instantly try to push away the uncomfortable feeling. You don’t have time or energy to waste on such nonsense.

It takes a moment to realize the men have stopped talking and are looking at you as though waiting for a response.

“I’m sorry, what?” you say, shaking off your thoughts.

“I asked if you had any family or girlfriends that could assist you in preparations? You’ll need to get a dress and have any family travel in to be here after you get back from Nashville,” Parker says with a raised brow.

Your heart sinks. “Oh, no. There’s no one,” you say, trying not to sound as full of regret as you feel. The few friends from nursing school you had weren’t close enough to stand with you, and while you’d love to have your brothers come, there is no way to do so without alerting your father. And you feel absolutely sick at the idea of him being anywhere near you or Elvis.

Elvis looks at you with surprise. You hadn’t told him directly about the issues with Pop, but you assume he at least expected you to have friends. It’s pathetic, to be sure, but this was the reason you’d agreed to work for him in the first place. You are alone in the world.

Swallowing thickly, you hold your head high, even so.

Elvis, thankfully, takes your cue. “I’m sure Patsy would love to help,” he says with a gentle smile, pulling you into his side, his hand resting high on your waist. His double first cousin had been kind to you in the interactions you’ve had, so you suppose she will do.

You nod in response, hyperaware of the warmth of his hand radiating through your dress. It steadies you, tingling the skin beneath, and his closeness is a welcome anchor in this uncharted territory.

“Well, then, by this time next week, you’ll be newlyweds. I trust you’ll be able to continue to take care of Elvis despite your condition, Miss Cannava?” Parker asks under a veil of concern, but the accusation is palpable.

“I have no intention of shirking my duties, Mr. Parker. I want Elvis to be as healthy as possible.”

“Please, call me Colonel,” he says, an edge in his tone that lets you know your refusal to call him Colonel annoys him. But as much as you want to rub it in, you know you need him on your side.

“Of course, Colonel,” you respond, forcing a smile on your face. “And know I’ll continue to do whatever it takes to help Elvis keep doing what he wants to do.”

“I hope that’s true, young lady,” Parker says, “for everyone’s sake.”

You swallow down the threat, adding to your already churning stomach.

*

April 3rd, 1960

Nashville, TN

“Ready, Elvis?” the engineer up in the booth buzzes in over the com.

“Yeah,” he replies, shooting you a cheeky smile and a waggle of his eyebrows as he steps up to the mic.

You roll your eyes back at him, trying not to show just how much you are appreciating his presence. The secrets you two now share have matured him. You can’t help but worry about the dark circles rimming his eyes, though it is a bit unfair how it somehow only enhances his handsomeness.

Even so, he has been remarkably steadied and attentive these past few days, considering everything going on.

It is a godsend for you. Your nerves are fraying at the edges and more than ever, you want a cigarette, but you know Elvis won’t have it. Considering what he’s doing for you and this baby, you are happy to oblige him on this, despite your cravings.

With everything you’ve gone through in your life, you pride yourself on moving through adversity—for surviving as best you can—without falling apart. But since you returned from Florida, all bets have been off.

Along with putting on the performance of a lifetime in hiding your pregnancy, you’ve also needed to play the gleeful fiancée—a role that hardly feels natural for you, even if your relationship wasn’t a farce. A thousand other girls would be beside themselves to take your place, but for you it’s different. It’s like the ground is constantly moving underneath your feet and you are holding on for dear life, trying to stay upright.

It doesn’t help that your feelings for Elvis are rapidly slipping out of your control. While his poor behavior in Florida tempered them by the time you arrived back in Tennessee, his gallant actions since then, coupled with your exhaustion, have blurred the lines completely. Every touch, every knowing glance, every concerned look sends a cascade of tingles through your body.

You want to blame the pregnancy, you really do, but you aren’t sure you can at this point. Each sliver of attention and affection from him is peeling away the armor you’ve got around your heart, and you don’t have the mental or physical energy to keep rebuilding it.

It’s a recipe for getting your heart broken.

Your fingers twist nervously, still unused to the engagement ring now on your left hand. After telling him about Gianni’s gaudy monstrosity, you’d begged Elvis to keep it simple; he’d reminded you he has a standard to uphold. The compromise was a stunning ring with three large, round stones—a diamond in the middle, with blue sapphires on either side, surrounded by smaller baguette and single cut diamonds in a white gold setting.

You wanted to hate it, solely for its extravagance, but when he had shown you the piece ahead of the “surprise” proposal you both had planned for after dinner last night, you couldn’t drudge up an ounce of dislike. He’d looked so concerned about pleasing you, telling you over and over he could take it back if you didn’t like it, but frankly, it was one of the most beautiful pieces of jewelry you’d ever laid eyes on. It was elegant and sparkling, and the uniqueness of the sapphires set it apart. It didn’t take much acting to “ooh” and “ahh” when he’d gently placed it on your finger in front of his friends and family, cementing the reality of this strange situation. A flock of butterflies had erupted in your stomach as though he really had proposed, like the proud but blushing smile on his face was really because of his love for you and not an act.

Your ring catches your eye for the millionth time today and the sapphires suddenly remind you of Elvis’ eyes. How deep and endless they seem. There is no stopping the flipping of your heart.

Oh, Madone, it’s just a ring, you chide yourself. But it doesn’t stop you from twisting it around your finger again and again like a touchstone.

After a bit of back and forth, a heavy bass line and rhythmic snapping starts, jerking your attention to Elvis. The stripped-down jazzy sound is immediately recognizable—a Peggy Lee hit from a few years ago. Your brow quirks in surprise.

The slow grin spreading across Elvis’ face is sinful as he sinks into the music.

He wanted you in the studio from the start this time around, citing you as his “good luck charm.” Part of you balked at that. The other part was flattered. After the last two times you’d watched him come alive while performing, something deep inside you awakens right alongside the beat, scaring you in its intensity.

Never know how much I love you, never know how much I care…

He starts singing. It’s quiet and deceptively relaxed, but you know him well enough now to understand he’s a live wire under it all. And that makes it even more enticing when he locks his eyes on yours, singing the words directly to you.

You give me fever…

His voice skitters across your skin, lighting fires as it goes. After the beat drops, his limbs shiver with the drums and the movement feels directly connected to the shiver running down your spine.

And he’s just warming up.

Every line, coupled with the sultry timbre of his voice, drowns you further into the depths of his eyes. They don’t let you go for the entirety of the first take. Your face is flaming, your hands gripping the edge of your seat because it feels like he’s about to eat you alive.

Madre di Dio…you’d let him. Willingly.

He wakes out of the spell he’s seemingly cast partway through the second take. You watch him whistle and blink a few times, coming back to himself. He’s slightly more unsure through the third, but regains his original focus by the fourth, sliding into the take like he’s been singing the song his whole life.

You can’t help but feel this is an intimate moment you shouldn’t be privy to, when he homes in on you once again. You are barely breathing the entire last take, a throbbing pulse consuming your heart along with your belly, something liquid and warm heating the core of you.

When he grits out: When her daddy tried to kill him, she said ‘Daddy, oh don’t you dare’, you hold back a gasp, wanting desperately to squirm in your seat to relieve some of the pressure in your body you don’t have any idea what to do with.

Perhaps it is because the line hits so close to your own experience, but it is as if he’s channeling you. Or channeling into you. You aren’t sure anymore, other that you are combusting from the inside out by the end of the song.

What a lovely way to burn… he repeats again and again, and trails off, finally.

Indeed.

He comes out of his near-trancelike state, bringing you with him and you are suddenly not at all sure you’ll make it through the next few days of recording.

How did you forget what happened last time you were in this room with him? With everything that had happened since, you suppose it’s not that outlandish, but those feelings of want, of need, seep back into your bloodstream just like the last time he sang to you in Miami, and here in this very room just a few weeks ago.

Seems like a lifetime ago…

Forcing yourself to breathe, you think maybe you’ll have a reprieve with the next song, but the bluesy Like a Baby is so sultry it does absolutely nothing to quell the fire in your veins. It doesn’t help he looks positively proud of himself every time he drinks you in, gauging your reaction, with every word he sings to you.

The seductive quality of it all is so overwhelming you need to excuse yourself to the restroom the moment the final take is cut. You clutch your trembling hands, splashing cool water across your rosy cheeks.

Get it together, Lori. He’s just doing his job.

Letting out a shuddering breath, you feel an unusual slickness between your thighs that sends your heartrate skyrocketing.

Oh, God—the baby.

Frantically, you hoist your skirt, pull down your stockings, and examine your underwear for any sign of blood. Panic slices through you until you discover you aren’t bleeding or miscarrying—it’s only a clear, slick discharge you’ve not had before. Something hormonal, no doubt, due to the changes in your body.

Then you realize you are relieved.

Your heart stutters.

You’re not sure you should be relieved. If this pregnancy ended naturally, it would save all of you a heap of trouble. It would mean you might be able to put the memory of Gianni’s cruelty behind you. It would mean Elvis wouldn’t have to settle for you. You could break off the engagement easily enough at this point.

But the thought of losing the baby, of losing Elvis, makes your heart ache so much tears spring to your eyes.

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no.

You can’t want to actually marry Elvis. You barely know him. God knows you don’t feel ready to start a family, especially out of such horrid circumstances.

Then why does the idea of losing it all break your heart?

Sniffling, you look in the mirror and hold back the tears starting to well in your eyes.

It’s just hormones. Your body is just protecting itself and the baby, nothing more, you say in your calm and collected nurse voice. Nothing more.

Because anything more means perhaps your feelings for Elvis have truly gone beyond what you can handle right now.

Scrunching your eyes shut, you pray to understand the purpose of any of this. Why Elvis feels more like home than anywhere else, despite his sometimes infuriating nature. Why he has to be so alluring and charismatic.

Why the thought of being without him is untenable at this point, and not just because of Gianni or the baby.

It’s just a crush—a silly little crush.

No.

He’s all I have, you realize.

Of course, you feel connected to him. Right now, he is consuming your life and drawing out a safe future for the both of you. He is the only one truly in your corner. You may not know him completely, but he has not deserted you or thrown you back to your father. He is deep in this with you.

He could’ve easily fired and discarded you and been right to do so.

But for some reason, he did not.

A shuttering breath makes your chest heave. You can’t bring yourself to examine why that might be and you push away the thing you are most loathe to admit. The thing that makes pretending with him so very difficult, yet so sweet at the same time.

Shaking your head, you wipe your eyes, and straighten your spine. You powder your nose and reapply your lipstick. You put yourself back together, locking up the feelings you are trying so hard to fight.

Looking in the mirror, you see a young woman ready to do what she needs to do to survive.

Ignoring the headache brewing behind your eyes, you paste on a cordial smile and venture back to the studio. The light is on because they are recording, so you sit outside until it flashes off. You stand, brush off your skirt, and reach for the doorknob but it whips open before you can grasp it.

Gasping, your heart leaps in surprise as Elvis fills the doorway, looking a tad frantic.

“Little Bird, are you okay?” he asks, brow furrowed. He grasps your shoulders gently, taking you in as though you might be hurt. He thumbs your chin and looks into your eyes. “You disappeared on me.”

You bite your lip, concealing the smile wanting to appear at the fact he noticed you were gone.

“I was feeling a bit queasy,” you murmur. It’s not a lie, but not the whole truth, either.

The pad of his thumb brushes over your cheek. Your heart thumps and you look down to avoid the intensity of his gaze, lest he see more than you want him to.

“Let’s get you back to the hotel then, darlin’.”

“I’m fine,” you brush him off, “And I won’t leave you. You look tired. How are you feeling?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Don’t think I don’t know you’re tryin’ to change the subject, little one,” he muses. His hands find your waist, burning through your dress. “I am tired. Let’s call it quits for the night.”

Your mouth pops open and your eyes narrow with suspicion. “Has hell frozen over? Elvis, you’ve hardly cut three songs, and the Colonel said—”

“I heard the Colonel, but I’m tellin’ ya it’s time to go.” There’s an edge to his voice, warning you his mood is shifting. “And I’m doin’ what I promised by knowin’ my limits.”

“Okay, I’m just surprised is all. I’m used to you fighting me like a stubborn goat,” you tease, trying to lighten the mood. You can’t discern if he’s doing this for your sake or his, however. Perhaps it doesn’t matter if it gets the job done.

His cheeks are flushed, so you feel his forehead with the back of your hand. “I suppose you do feel a bit warm,” you concede. “Alright, let’s go get some rest, then.”

He nips at your hand playfully as you bring it down, pulling you closer. The flirtation has you blushing and you resist the urge to giggle, rolling your eyes instead. You can’t help but notice there is no one to perform for but remind yourself he’s just an overly affectionate guy. It means nothing.

“Hey, EP, you comin’?” Charlie yells from inside the room.

“Naw, we’re heading out. I’m tired,” Elvis says, giving you a wink.

Charlie sputters but recovers quickly, gathering the group as Elvis entwines his fingers with yours and heads out to the car.

He doesn’t let you go until you arrive back at the hotel, safe in the room you share.

Something is building between you two. You can feel it in the care of his touch, in the warmth filling your chest and your belly with each beat of your heart. It’s in his eyes as he sits on the edge of the bed, releasing the mask he wears for the rest of the world as you check his vitals.

He is tired and a little feverish. You are proud of him for following through on taking better care of himself, even if you think it is because he is looking out for you and not himself. You give him a quick little smile before turning to put away the blood pressure cuff.

“I wish you’d do that more.”

“Do what?” you ask.

“Smile. I don’t think you realize how beautiful you are when you do it,” he says, low and quiet.

It rumbles through you like thunder, your heart skipping a beat. You pay special attention to clasping your bag closed, unable to look at him but feeling the weight of his gaze.

“Elvis—” you whisper.

“I want you to be happy,” he interrupts.

You sigh with the weight of your circumstances pressing on your shoulders, still unable to meet his eyes.

“But I understand why that’s hard right now. I jus’…I-I w-want you to know I’ll do whatever I can to make things easier on ya. Because you deserve to have more of those pretty smiles.”

The clasp of your bag becomes blurry and your throat tight. You clench the leather and force a deep breath. Tilting your head up to blink back the tears, you clear your throat before you can attempt to look at him.

Why does he have to say things like that? It makes it harder to resist the pull you feel towards him. You are teetering on the very edge of being professional and he seems keen to push you over, whether he knows it or not.

“Thank you,” you finally manage out, though so many words linger unsaid on the tip of your tongue. You meet his eyes and fireworks erupt over your skin at the way he looks up at you so openly. The air is sucked out of the room, deathly still, like before a summer thunderstorm. It leaves you buzzing and dizzy.

He stands, slowly, as if not to startle you, and steps forward. With each inch closer he gets, the air shifts, beginning to crackle with electricity. Your heart gallops faster. If he touches you, you are done for, you just know it. The lightning burning bright inside of him has the power to wreak irrevocable havoc on you. And you cannot afford to let your feelings get in the way of your survival because when he breaks your heart, which you know he will, you will have nowhere to go.

You have the baby to think of now. It is easier to sit in the discomfort of your complicated feelings than in the pain of the inevitable heartbreak that will come when he realizes you’re just like any of his other women—you’re replaceable, at least romantically. And God knows you’ve had too much pain in your life related to the whims of men to add more.  

The air sizzles as he reaches for you, tempting you to burn with his touch. Part of you wants to burn—the deep heat swirling unbidden low in your belly dares you to let him—but you jump back out of instinct.

“I-I should get ready for bed,” you stutter, racing to your suitcase to grab your nightgown before hightailing it to the bathroom and slamming the door harder than you intended. You think you hear him chuckle as you lean back on the door to catch your breath.

Your body shakes but not out of fear of him. No, it’s like you’ve refused it something vital and it quakes with the need of release. Like the crack of lightning in him would bring the relief of rain, cutting the heat between you.

It doesn’t make sense. You’ve never felt this before, but you know it is dangerous. Lightning is beautiful but deadly, after all.

As you stumble your way through your bedtime routine, you realize in a few short days, the storm of a man out there will be your husband. And one more boundary between you you’ve relied on to keep you on solid ground will be gone.

And one look in the mirror at the exhaustion lining your features, you wonder if it is too late; perhaps the coming storm is inevitable and will tear you to pieces no matter what you do.

There are worse ways to perish than in the arms of Elvis Presley.

*

The swell of electricity doesn’t go away. It abates some, at times, but your body is hellbent and hyperaware of Elvis’ every move, of every breath he takes.

You desperately want to blame your job—you’re supposed to be observant of him, after all—or the changes in your body because of the baby, but the waves of rolling thunder build under your skin despite the physical space he is trying to give you.

The marathon of a session on Monday does not make things better. You’d hoped it would be a distraction. He needs to be completely focused to bang out at least nine more songs to finish the album. There will be no time for anything but music.

Except you somehow forget music fuels him and makes him glow from the inside out. Instead of dissipating, the storm just builds and builds, like wild thunderheads in the sky. He lives each song so completely, expertly maneuvering through mournful ballads and bouncing pop and raunchy blues like he was born to do. It’s mind-bending and alluring, and every time he draws you in, it feels like he’s singing directly to you, about you.

He's enjoying himself, despite the long hours. Completely in his element. And electricity zings though your body during the playful moans at the end of Such a Night. By the Thrill of Your Love, you think you might combust.

And he knows it, by the sparkle in his eyes and the pull of his defiant but tempting upper lip. He wasn’t offended by the boundary you set last night in the slightest, giving you the physical space you desperately needed unless needed to keep up the ruse of your engagement. But everything he does, every lyric he sings, every twitch of his body, makes you feel as though you are swirling out of control. The more he respects your need for physical space, the more you want him to box you in.

He's doing just that, just not with his body.

You are completely on edge when not absorbed in his performance and technique. God, what an idiot you were to think he wasn’t talented. His stint in Germany only served to strengthen his craft. The world isn’t ready for this new and improved Elvis. Girls will be beside themselves.

You just never thought you’d be one of them.

By the time he gets to the last song, he can’t stave off how tired he’s getting. The marathon session has taken all night and into the dawn. He lets everyone know he’s not entirely convinced he should even sing this Are You Lonesome Tonight? but the Colonel, along with Steve, the RCA rep, press him.

Worry for Elvis’ wellbeing has you voicing your concern, but the men look at you as if you are a silly little girl and not a professional. It takes a moment to remember the only one who really knows your role here is Parker, and despite nearly being asleep on your feet, you are ready to go toe to toe with him. Elvis concedes to his manager, however, before shooting you a look and running his hands down your arms to placate you. The long touch of him distracts you enough to lessen your annoyance for the moment.

This last song is the only time he kicks you out of the room, along with everyone except the musicians, but you manage to sneak into the booth to listen. You can’t see anything through the window because he’s ordered all the lights be turned off, but the result has goosebumps rising all over your body with the emotionally eerie but gentle lilt of his performance.

By the end, tears are streaming unbidden down your cheeks, though you aren’t entirely sure why. You race to wipe your cheeks before the lights pop back on, but he catches your eye through the window and swell of emotion rises again.

You know you are careening quickly towards something beyond your control. The pregnancy is one thing pushing you towards the edge, but this new arrangement with Elvis, the intimacy involved, has your heart racing with both curiosity and fear. It is all so far out of your experience but there is no real choice. It is whatever this new normal is or running for your life.

Being off kilter and filled with feelings you don’t understand is uncomfortable, but you’ll take it versus the alternative, though you can’t help the fear you’ve put Elvis in terrible danger crawling at the edges of your mind.

It’s this that keeps you alert as you all board the bus to head back to Memphis after a quick diner breakfast. Elvis is dying on the vine, the energy of performing all night taking its toll. The darkness around his eyes and the pallor of his skin tells you everything you need to know, but his limbs twitch restlessly all the way home, even when he doses, curled up into you with his head on your shoulder. It’s as if he can’t shut it off even when he is completely drained.

It’s too much for him. Your anxiety builds and builds in the hours it takes to return to Graceland. You are worrying your lips raw between your concern for him and the position you’ve put him in. Guilt swirls in your stomach, making your carsickness worse.

On top of it, your body is desperate to be close to him, as though his presence is a balm to your burdens, but those feelings just bring more confusion. You relish the tickle of his long, soft hair against your jaw and the way his fingers interweave with yours, even in sleep. Despite how ready you were to leave mere days ago, you aren’t quite sure you could do so now without damaging a part of yourself you didn’t know existed.

It frightens you, but the tingle that zings down your arms and into your palm lets you know it is exhilarating, too.

The bus is quiet of its usual boisterousness when it pulls through the gates of Graceland in the early afternoon. It is hard to believe how much everything has changed in a few short days, since the last time you arrived like this.

“Elvis,” you whisper, but he barely stirs. His eyes are closed, and his full lips are open slightly, giving him an air of innocence that tugs at your heart. “Elvis, sweetheart, we’re home.”

Sweetheart? Madone, where did that come from? You blush at your use of the endearment, not having used it since your brothers were little boys and certainly never with a man.

Elvis sputters and his long eyelashes flutter open as he stretches his long arms. “Mmm, ‘sweetheart,’ huh?” he murmurs, his lips turning up in a small, sleepy smile.

“I—you must have dreamed that,” you reply, flustered, but you know your pink cheeks and the way you twist your ring give you away.

He just grins. “You can call me sweetheart all day, Little Bird.” Then, he pulls you down for a sweet, chaste kiss, which surprises you. He tastes of sleep and coffee and chewing gum. The kiss is quick but sends a tremble through you all the same, especially since the bus is nearly empty.

When he pulls back and takes a look at you, his eyes fill with concern. He runs his thumb under your eye, as though he could wipe away the darkness you know is there. “Did you sleep at all, baby?”

You shake your head no, trying to brush him off by getting up to walk away, but he stands and grabs your arm. Pulling you back gently, he wraps his arms around your middle. You give up trying to wiggle away—he’s stronger than you. You’re surprised to find you don’t mind it. If it were any other man, you’d be panicking at the closeness, but it seems you’ve grown used to Elvis’ near constant displays of physical affection.

“I’m fine, Elvis. Let’s go inside.”

“Little one, the doc said you need sleep…”

His vacillation through pet names and endearments should annoy you, but they don’t. Not anymore. You sigh.

“…and you’re gettin’ married tomorrow. You need ta look your best for your husband,” he says, waggling his eyebrows.

Rolling your eyes at his silliness, you try and mask the surprising buzz of excitement running through your limbs at the reality that in a day you will be married to this exasperatingly handsome and talented mess of a man. It’s overwhelming and a little exhilarating, but you can feel exhaustion pulling at you, knowing you’ll be knee deep in preparations in a few short hours.

You resist the urge to lay your head on his shoulder, but he senses your resignation in the way your body deflates. It’s hard, you realize, to let anyone else take care of you.

“How ‘bout I rest with you? Will you at least try to take a nap then?” If he’s conceding to more rest, you know you must look worse for the wear. But it does the trick.

“Alright, fine. I will rest if you do, too,” you concede.

Being back at Graceland—back home—helps you relax more. No one can get to you or Elvis here. You fear you won’t be able to sleep, but once your head hits the pillow, Elvis safe and resting inches away, you slide into the dreamless dark.

*

Taglist Pt 1

@eliseinmemphis@russian-soft-bitch@tattywood

@sassanoe@thella @suspiciousmidge @hiddlepiddlediddlewiddle@carolinesbookworld @juggernort @aesthetic-lyss @stitchattacks @donnamarie23

 @littlebitofgreen@paigevis@bugg06@xhannahbananax03@artlover8992

@18lkpeters@frozenhuntress67@girlblogger2002@kendralavon7@misspresley

@be-my-ally @whositmcwhatsit @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @thatbanditqueen @powerofelvis @from-memphis-with-love

 @precious-lil-scoundrel @stylespresleyhearted @prompted-wordsmith @crash-and-cure @elvisgf @lookingforrainbows @fic-over-cannon @godlypresley @ab4eva @whatstruthgottodowithit @elvisabutler @amydarcimarie@idontwanttoputanything @callieselvisobsessed @captainamerica1235-blog  @xenaspace3-blog 

@simplyamberj@claire-elvisgirl@everythingelvispresley@louisejoy86@deniseinmn @madelynpresley

[drdemonprince]

Im sure some of them have been way over a line but if you’re feeling petulant at vulnerable disabled people saying fuck yall to society imagine how we feel to see someone “reticent” to talk about covid issues because “people take it too far”. Sorry that’s probably not entirely fair I’m just so fuucking sick of it. Like of course their exceptions to masking. But don’t tell me how to speak after what I’ve been through. The paternalism makes me want to throw up

Yeah, I think a lot of people think this is about tone policing disabled people who are rightly outraged and despairing, and that's really not what it's about.

This is about the Joe Bidens and Lori Lightfoots of the world blaming covid spread on individuals behaving badly, while systematically dismantling the very social programs that would have made it possible for anyone to behave "well."

There are two conversations happening here that keep getting flattened because of context collapse on the internet. There is the conversation about which feelings disabled and high risk people are allowed to voice. there is no virtue in tone policing that. Disabled people need to express their hurt, hopelessness, and outrage, and no one can stop them from doing that. no one should stop them from doing that. It is not an act of shaming for them to say how they feel. it's important.

There is a separate, more tactical conversation to be had about which kinds of messaging are effective in altering behavior. This is the question for the public health researchers and the activists and the people planning outreach. We have to be able to talk about what works and what doesn't and why.

Just as disabled people who are despairing about COVID have the right to express their pain, disabled people also have a right to discuss how to best movement build and influence public behavior.

I am gonna talk about what the research shows about persuasion and why a lot of organizations are utterly fumbling in influencing people's COVID mitigation behaviors, and I do that because I care about those things changing. I have no interest in silencing my comrades who are experiencing deep grief and terror and outrage and wish to express that, and certainly no one will be silencing me. Even if listening to people who do find masking and social distancing hard and trying to meet them where they are at so that we can practice harm reduction does make you want to barf.

It's understandable you feel that way, and you don't have to do that kinda work. it's work I have the bandwidth for though as someone who also finds doing the "right" things hard here. no amount of people being mad about that is gonna change the fact that strict COVID mitigation adherence is difficult for me. if that fact becomes unspeakable, my behavior wont become perfect, it will just become more secretive.

a person can be angry at me for not being perfect and that's their right but it won't "fix" my behavior. it will just make me feel like a murderer for having pressing, life or death needs of my own. conversely, someone listening to me and caring about me and helping me meet my needs while also reducing my risks helps a whole ton. and so I try to extend that to others as best I can.

[topazy]

Tomorrow's promise

Pairing: Daryl Dixon × reader, Rick Grimes × sister reader

Warnings: Blood, childbirth, character death

Chapter: 3.03

“Come on, you can do it.”

Jace wraps his small hands around your fingers and manages to take a few steps in front of you before stumbling forward, but you use your hand to break his fall, so your hands are between his knees and the ground below. Jace repeats this action a few times until he becomes too tired and curls into your arms.

Carl claps his hands and says, “Well done, little guy.”

“Wow, big day for the both of us,” Hershel chuckles. “Give it a few days, and me and Jace will be racing each other in the yard.”

Hershel had adapted quickly to his leg amputation and learned how to walk with crutches. He looks great considering how much trauma his body had gone through a few days prior. Hershel really was a strong man. “You’re looking great; it’s good to see you up and about.”

“Well, Beth told me you helped her alter my trousers; I just wanted to say thank you in person.” Now leaning against the wall beside where you’re sitting on the ground, Hershel uses one of the crutches to point at a folded-up piece of paper falling out of your pocket. “What’s that?”

“Oh,” you say as you stand and shove the paper back into your pocket. “Me and Daryl are going on a supply run later; I was just making a list so I don’t forget anything.”

Carl cocks his head to the side. “I thought my dad said we had plenty of food.”

“I need more baby supplies, not just for Jace but also for your new brother or sister as well.” You didn’t want to embarrass your nephew by explaining that your breast milk was drying up. Daryl had overheard you telling Maggie at breakfast and immediately offered to accompany you. Changing the subject, you look to Hershel and ask, “So, how far have you walked now?”

“Only up and down this cell block so far, but I'm going for a stroll outside. Care to join?”

—

“Can I hold him?”

“Sure,” you smile down at Jace, who was trying his hardest to fight sleep. His eyelids would flutter shut, then he'd force them, then he’d whine and open them again. When Beth holds him, he beams up at her before his eyes betray him and close again. “You’re really good with him.”

Beth was only sixteen, and regardless of losing so many people at such a young age, kindness radiated from her. Beth would make such a good mom someday. You smile, noticing the proud look on Maggie, Rick, Daryl, and Glenn’s faces as they watch Hershel walk outside for the first time with his crutches.

Carl raises his gun. “Walkers!”

“Everybody, get inside now!”

You cover Beth as she runs to safety. Hershel hits a walker with his crouch and makes it into the small, fenced-off area with his daughter and Jace. The undead continue to close in on you, their hands reaching out to grab hold of your clothing and pull you down, but you manage to dodge their grasp and continue to fight, the bullets you fire landing in their rotting bodies. Rick, Daryl, and Glenn sprint to the prison yard, but you didn’t have time to wait for them.

“Lily, quick!” Maggie waves you over to join her, Carl, and Lori as they go into the prison.

You narrowly avoid walkers while getting to the doorway. But you’re unable to close the door behind you, knowing Jace is on the other side of the yard. But when you look back, you see that your brother has reached them and is taking the dead out one by one. Knowing your son is safe, you slam the door shut.

As you run from the walkers already in the prison, your heart pounds in your chest as you catch up with the others. You swear you can feel the hot breath of the undead on your heels, and when you glance back, you see Shane. Except it couldn't be him; his body is still on the farm. The walkers' moans and groans grow louder as they close in on you.

“Aunt Lily! In here!”

You run to the cell block Carl, Lori, and Maggie are in. Soon as your nephew slams the gated door shut, while catching your breath, you notice Lori crouching over in pain, her hand pressing against her back. “Somethings wrong.”

“Are you bit?” Carl asks, panicked.

“No, no, the baby is coming.”

A deafening alarm starts to blast through the prison. You clap your hands over your ears. “We need to move; that damn thing will draw every walker right to us.”

—

You manage to make it to the boiler room without coming into contact with many walkers. You help Lori stand; her screams of pain fill the air. She lets out a deep breath. “The baby is coming, now!”

While Maggie helps Lori lay down and take her pants off, you go to Carl, who is terrified and crying. You gently squeeze his shoulders. “Carl, keep an eye on the door for us, just not, okay?”

His voice is filled with fear and uncertainty. “Is my mom going to make it?”

Unable to respond, you kiss him on the forehead and turn him to face the door. He didn’t need to see his mom give birth.

When you hear Maggie saying, “Okay, it’s time,”

You go over to where Lori is standing, gripping tightly onto the metal poles tightly as she starts to push. You're not sure how to help, you let Lori squeeze your hand so tightly that it will probably bruise as she tries to push again.

“Stop, stop, stop!” Maggie says. Maggie holds up her blood-coated hands. “Somethings wrong.”

—

“Mom, look at me. Look at me. Keep your eyes open.”

As you watch Carl cry, your heart breaks not only for Lori but also because you know he’s about to witness his mother dying. Tears stream down your face as the realization sinks in that she was going to die during childbirth.

“I know what it means, and I’m not losing my baby.” She looks directly at Maggie and says, “You’ve got to cut me open.”

“No, I can’t.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“You won’t survive.”

“My baby has to survive, please. My baby... for all of us. Please! Maggie! Please!”

“Carl? Baby, I don’t want you to be scared, okay? This is what I want; this is right. Now you... you take care of your daddy for me, all right? And your little brother or sister, you take care.”

“You don’t have to do this,” Carl weeps.

Lori breathes through the pain and says, “You’re going to be fine. You are going to beat this world. I know you will. You are smart, and you are strong, so brave, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Maggie holds onto you while sobbing; she wasn’t ready to perform a C-section with Carl’s knife. The baby was breech, and this was the only way to save them. Lori knew that and was saying goodbye. When she meets your gaze, you immediately crumble. No matter how much she hurt you in the past, you never wanted this.

When you kneel beside her, Lori wipes your tears away. “Lily, when this is all over, you need to do what we talked about; it can’t be Rick.”

“No, no, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can; you need to. And promise me you will love this baby as if it were your own, and you'll take care of Rick and Carl for me. They will need you.”

Kissing the back of her hand, you nod, tears obscuring your vision.

Carl hands Maggie the knife.

All three of them were being so brave. Hershel had taught his daughter the basics of a c-section, so Maggie would take the lead. “Carl, baby, turn around.” Through your blurred vision, you see him still watching. “You don’t want to remember your mom like this; please turn around or close your eyes.”

When Maggie makes the first cut, Lori screams out in agony, and Carl begs for the brunette to stop. Lori suddenly goes still; you weren’t sure if she had bled out or passed out due to the shock of the pain.

“Lily, give me your hand. Lily please.” Maggie places your hand on Lori's stomach, where she needs it. “Keep that site clean, okay? If I cut too deep, I’m going to cut the baby.”

Everything that happens next feels like a blur. The alarms have been cut, and the room remains silent except for the distant growling of walkers. Behind you, Carl froze, unable to talk or move.

“I can see the ear. I’ll hold this open, and you pull the baby.”

You follow Maggie’s instructions and pull the baby out. “It’s a girl.” When the baby doesn’t make a sound, you turn her over and rub and pat her back until her cries fill the room. You sob, “She’s breathing; she’s breathing.”

After Maggie cuts the umbilical cord, Carl takes off his jacket and gives it to you to wrap the baby in.

“We can’t stay long,” you whisper to Maggie. “The walkers will smell the blood.”

“I can’t leave my mom like this; she’ll turn.”

“He’s right,” you say, squeezing your eyes shut, and when you open them again, Carl is pointing a gun at his mom's head. “No, no, no!”

He pulls the trigger.

—

The closer you get to exit, the louder Jace’s cries become, which is a relief knowing you’d see him any second, but it didn’t change the massive gaping wound in your heart. Lori was gone. If it wasn’t for the newborn baby in your arms, you would have thought everything that just happened was a horrid hallucination.

Your voice breaks as soon as you see your brother. “Rick…Rick…”

Upon hearing your voice, he smiles for a split second, but the horror etched onto your face and the baby in your arms, and immediately knows that his wife didn't make it.

“Wh-wheres Lori? Where is she?”

You try to answer him, but only a sob comes out.

When Rick tries to go up the staircase you just came from, Maggie stops him. “No,” she says, grabbing his arm. “Rick, no!”

If he saw Lori as you left her, it would completely break him. Rick looks to Carl, hoping his son can reassure him that Lori isn’t dead. “No…no…no.” He cries, “No, no, no!”

Your heart breaks for the innocent baby screaming in your arms, as well as your brother and nephew. She was born into a world that is so cruel and full of darkness and death. You start to shake, your body wracked with sobs, as the guilt of not being able to save Lori sinks in.

Daryl hands Jace to Beth and comes over to you, his eyes full of concern. He wraps a comforting arm around your shoulder. Softly, he asks, “What is it?”

“A girl,” you say, your voice wavering. “She’s—she’s dead. Lori’s dead. The baby… she was the wrong way.”

Holding you tighter Daryl whispers, “There was nothing you could have done.”

[breakthrough88]

Overthinking Lorelai's Epithet

This will contain spoilers for Prison of Plastic Lorelai's epithet lets her do essentially anything she wants but there are still some rules to it that I want to go over. When and where Lorelai can use her powers First things first, something that a lot of people tend to gloss over is Lorelai DOESN'T NEED her dream bubbles to use her epithet. She turned Giovanni into a gargoyle and grabbed Naven with plants before she made her mega-dream bubble. Lorelai's dream bubbles are just pocket dimensions for her to use her epithet in. You could technically play soccer inside your house but you go to a soccer field so you have more space and you won't break your mom's expensive vase. Same concept with Lorelai's dream bubbles. At the end of the book, Lorelai makes her hand glow to look at Giovanni's baseball. Plus Molly brings up Lorelai used to use her epithet more outside of the dream bubbles.

How people get affected by Lorelai's Epithet

Unless it's done for showmanship like Lorelai's rhyming, it seems that the target of her spells has to be touched with something physical. Each time she does something to another character it's generally in the form of a magical projectile except when she gives Giovanni the gargoyle potion. We haven't seen Lorelai go "You're a toad now" and then someone turns into a toad without any sort of action. However, we will have to wait for the series to go on before we can figure that out. It can be assumed Lorelai can also touch someone to affect them but because she isn't exactly a close-quarters combatant we likely won't see anything like that. We also know she can set terms for her spells such as when Rick, Trixie, and Feenie go in and out of the bubble they still transform into their mini forms. When dealing with her own creations Lorelai can morph them as she pleases when she makes Spelling Bee disappear with a snap. It is possible she can affect real people with just a snap but we haven't seen her do it, so for now we'll just assume that only works in regards to her summons. Lorelai's Body Sort of going off how people are affected by her epithet. Lorelai can alter her body as she pleases without any effort such as when she gave herself fangs, went rubber hose, and REMOVED HER HEART. This might also be an explanation as to how part of Lorelai's hair is blonde but my personal headcanon is that Martin's genetics are so freaking weird it gave Lorelai two natural hair colors. I mean Molly has stars in her hair, I think it wouldn't be too far-fetched for Lorelai to have naturally multi-colored hair. I know people who are also fans of One Piece compare Lorelai to Uta in terms of powerset but I just want to bring up that Lori can also make herself stretchy and rubbery like Luffy... just food for thought. Exiting the Bubble

When people exit Lorelai's bubble, not including when Molly uses her epithet to do it, it seems to be a chaotic affair with people sent tumbling outside. Even when Lorelai fully exits her own bubble she does a somersault. Some would say she's doing this on purpose but at the end of the book when the bubble is destroyed, everyone except Naven and Lorelai herself is put in a random position, even when it's not on purpose exiting her bubble isn't exactly a calm affair. This leads to my next topic. Lorelai's Control and Imagination

Lorelai claims she had much better control over her epithet when she was younger. I think it may be a matter of as she grew stronger, the more thought she needs put into her work. Not in terms of creativity, but in terms of setting boundaries within her own magic. I'm no gardener but here's the analogy I came up with. Say you are planting flowers. If you don't put them in a flower box or some sort of way to keep them in their own little area they can grow into places that you don't want. Lorelai is planting her flowers but isn't doing anything to stop them from getting into unwanted places. Lorelai makes her bubbles but she doesn't put in the effort to make sure they stay a certain size. When she makes her worlds she thinks about what she wants in them but isn't making sure they end on her terms. This applies to what Jello said on a stream about how Lorelai could make nutritious food but only if she concentrates during the entire digestion process This kinda plays into how Lorelai's imagination is required for her powers to work. Despite the fact she said newt when she transformed Rick, he became a chameleon because that's the image she created in her head. Plus it explains the ogre being just a little guy since Lori was put on the spot when she made him. Her emotions also affect her control given all the times she gets flustered when talking to Giovanni and I'd bet her having her traumatic breakdown was a key part of how the bubble was destroyed at the end of the book. I would also like to hope her "Heartless Spell" was more from being unable to control her emotions rather than intending to physically remove Molly's heart. Maybe the intent was to brainwash Molly into doing stuff? Still not great but better than murder. I'm a Lorelai fan, I recognize she's done awful stuff but she's not the worst person in the series. But I digress. Everything is Temporary This we don't know nearly as much about and the only time this has been brought up is by Martin Blyndeff of all people. Martin says everything Lorelai makes eventually fades away which he claims is why the family isn't rich. We don't know if Lorelai's stamina goes down each time she makes something or if it's a constant drain the more spells she keeps up. I think it's likely the former and everything Lorelai does just naturally has some sort of time limit before it fades into nothingness. However, we don't know what this time limit is.

[lily-radiance]

Random fic headcanons and ideas:

TWD season two Daryl Dixon with an S/O who's in trouble

Both loners

MC is not from Georgia

Early 20s MC dating mid-30s Daryl

She knows how to shoot archery bows but not crossbows

Touch-starved

Andrea considers MC like another younger sibling

Everyone advises Daryl not to go for you and vice versa

When Rick, Hershel, and Glenn go to the bar, MC accompanies them. Daryl only goes when Lori tells him that you are in danger.

Carol gives him advice

Andrea and Lori warn him if he breaks your heart, he's a dead man.

RE4 Leon with a high school best friend who became an Umbrella Scientist.

MC was initially training for the force with Leon but dropped out to find another passion

She wants to help people but gets pulled into Umbrella’s dark research

Leon caught a glimpse of her at the end of RE2 but couldn't be sure if it was her.

Ashley doesn't trust MC, but Leon ignores it

Both have combat experience and have undergone physical conditioning

MC does not have Las Plagas

Krauser spars with MC, causing Leon to jump in.

Krauser asks Leon to choose between you and Ashley.

IDK if Leon would be sweet here or a Yandere.

Arkham Movie Trilogy Jonathan Crane, Harley Quinn, and Poison Ivy x Psychiatrist reader

This story is currently in progress!!!

Reader works at Arkham Asylum

Friends with Bruce Wayne

Knows about his alter ego and occasionally helps him solve cases

Reader believes Bruce should do more with his money to benefit Gotham

Combines Heath Ledger’s Joker with Margot Robbie’s Harley Quinn

The reader was in the same major as Harley in college, and the two dated briefly

Harley constantly teases the reader when she catches wind of a new crush

You try to ignore her, but eventually can't as she warns you that the doctor is deadlier than he lets on

You brush it off, too fond of your coworker to accept the notion that he can hurt you

Bruce doesn't like your new counterpart, picking up a destructive energy that screams guilty

In defiance, you decide to bring your beaux to one of many parties and get on your friend’s last nerve.

A kiss is shared in front of the crowd, some murmuring complaints while others smile. You wish to stay in Jonathan’s arms, but the moment is interrupted as Bruce pulls you aside

Naturally, two upper-class socialites fighting in front of an audience calls for bad publicity, but not on your part

“If you keep this up, you'll become a sewer rat criminal just like the rest!”

Luckily, you decided to wear a few rings to accentuate your outfit. Not only do you look stunning, but you reel back and land a brutal slap on his cheek. Yet that doesn't hurt as much as your following words.

“How dare you, Bruce. How dare you scrutinize what you can never understand. Thomas and Martha would be ashamed of you, and you, of all people, know they were difficult to rattle. Next time you need anything, ask someone who gives a shit.”

Your friend has to watch in shock as you exit the home, arm linked with a man he despises. Even in disagreeable situations, you manage to exhibit grace and elegance. It's the beginning of a new era and the opportunity to forget the complex life of the wealthy.

“Is your hand alright, (Y/N)? Better yet, are you okay?”

Never underestimate a psychiatrist to get into your head. He walks you to the car, watching your lips tremble in the darkness. You meet his stare, and one thought crosses your mind: kissing him sounds lovely. The doctor is efficient at picking up social cues, leaning down to meet your lips, and extinguishing the frigid temperature.

“As long as I'm with you, Jonathan. I can do anything with you by my side, no matter the risks.”

I want to make the reader an anti-hero vigilante with the “Grim Reaper” theme. Supernatural powers in Batman don't really occur so I will brainstorm. Most villains are the work of genetic experiments gone wrong so maybe I'll work with that?

JD(Heathers 1989) dating the reader

You are friends with Veronica and the despicable Heathers

Instead of going along with their charades, you often argue and challenge Heather Chandler

She constantly threatens your social standing but knows that the campus would easily choose you over her.

Purple color coded

JD can't help but admire your tenacity as you begrudgingly follow Veronica to the table, attempting to stop the girl from doing Heather’s bidding.

When you walk over, he seems uninterested in the girl speaking to him, instead transfixed on your disinterested attitude. Unknowingly, you lick your lips, tasting lip gloss and wiping some glitter away. When you lock eyes, you swear your heart stops beating, drawn to his carefree attitude.

Veronica says a few words to you, trying to convince you to let her administer the lunch poll

As she talks, you playfully roll your eyes, causing the delinquent to smirk in your direction. He hides a chuckle from breaking out, finding your careless joking funny given the circumstances. When Veronica walks off, it allows you to sit across from the newcomer, albeit a little too eagerly.

“Mind if I ask for a smoke? I'm dying from boredom.”

“Sure, I could never say no to a girl like you. I’m guessing you’ve been trying to break from those devils all day.”

He lights your cigarette as you take it between your teeth, enjoying the visual more than he lets on.

“It's all thanks to you, my knight in obsidian armor.”

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

Penance + (knock-off) Ambrosia

still alive, slowpokes :P

When -- during the meal at the Greene's Farm as seen in S02 Chupacabra. After Shame on a plate.

What -- Carol wanted to cook a communal dinner for the Greenes in thanks for all they've done to help your group. Under the weight of Otis' death as well as possibly having to vacate to God-knows-where, the shared meal is tense. Meanwhile, Daryl's busy beating himself up alone in his room and won't eat.

Relationships -- slow burn Daryl x You

Perspective -- You 2nd, Daryl 3rd

Pronouns -- neutral

TWs -- some language, and a non-descriptive allusion to Shane's actions in Stuck in a damn bed.

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

feedback is nice to get :D

Jimmy’s note to you reads: “What’s a pirate’s faverite letter?”

Easy, you know this one!

After double-taking at the typo, you scribble back “aRRRR!” and pass it to where he sits beside you, a smug grin tucked in your face. Only rule is: don’t laugh.

Yo, this table is fun, you’re not even embarrassed about being in your mid-twenties and sitting at the kiddie table. It’s too bad Carl tired himself out earlier, he’d be in stitches!

Oh, come to think of it, that wouldn’t be good, his actual stitches are still healing. So are yours, for that matter…

Anyway, it started off as a silly thing: Not 5 minutes into the meal, Beth had tiptoed to get her drawing pad from the den and wrote “please pass white gravy + pepper?” instead of whispering it, because supper had/has been that darn quiet.

This immediately (and somehow wordlessly) turned into the no-laugh competition you’ve all got going.

Granted, laughing out loud might would make the dinner a little less stiff, but you aren’t certain.

The big table seems rough. They’re barely making eye contact, not really talking, eesh.

Before dinner began, Patricia, Lori, and Carol were chatting as they finished up the cooking, and at the same time there was light discussion as you were helping wash the dishes and set the table with your friends. Even Lori exiting Carl’s room after plainly having been crying didn’t alter the good jibing any, things were chill.

But when everyone came in, sat down together? It got uneasy. When Mr. Greene said the blessing it almost felt too loud.

Now the room is limited to clinking, scraping noises, murmured niceties, and hushed requests to pass things.

You did almost lose the no-laugh game first when Glenn quietly mimicked the way Gollum said “what’s taters, precious?” because you whispered at him to “pass the mashed taters, please?” instead of ‘potatoes.’ Don’t fret, you’d obviously murmured back the only correct response of “po-tay-toes?” as well as the cooking instructions Sam says in the movie.

You almost lost it again when Glenn next decided to break the silence by asking the entire room if anybody knew how to play the guitar. The crickets that followed, hilarious!

Except, then Patricia spoke up that her husband had known, Mr. Greene agreed about how skilled Otis had been.

Oh, did the tension spike.

First thing you'd done was peek around to see if Shane was okay. He wasn’t.

His expression had taken on that 1000 yard stare sort of deal he’s been slipping into. Scared, lost. Then hard and almost mean.

Something got broke in him real bad that night Otis got killed. It’s scary, especially considering how he snapped at you yesterday and even…never mind, you don’t want to get into it.

At any rate, he made a very serious apology to you earlier today, very serious.

So, yeah, the room turned way more tense after that innocent guitar question, certainly sobered you up right quick.

And the strange sensation you’d had after Amy got killed, the one where it felt as if her blood was back on it, it started to come back pretty strong. Granted, it had come back after what happened with Shane the other day, too, but the sensation revved up more after the guitar question. Rest in peace Otis.

And at least to you, it made the unspoken understanding of Sophia twist harder, too.

When poor Jimmy got teary when his dad was brought up, you traced a blessing on his forehead and set to scribbling the next dumb joke you could think of on another scrap of paper for him and reminded yourself your hand was clean and that Otis and Sophia’s fates weren’t on you.

As for poor Glenn, once the exchange was over, he looked like he wanted to transform into a chair.

Silver lining was that Maggie helped him feel better; she slipped him a note that must’ve been a really good joke because Glenn seemed giddy as a schoolboy as he wrote down the punchline or whatever.

‘Schoolboy’ is definitely the best term — Mr. Greene and Dale happened to see Glenn sneaking back his response and were staring at the folded paper in his hand.

It’s kinda silly, right? Not only were you, Margaret, and Glenn sat at the kid table, but you were also acting like kids, what with the note-passing. Caught by the principal lol.

In the moment, you’d figured might as well, and so scribbled in big letters on the back of the notepad itself: “Too quiet, so we pass notes!”

When you held it up to the two of them, Dale read the words, swallowed a smile, then mouthed "troublemaker" to you.

As for Mr. Greene, his expression was, per usual, unreadable.

That was, what, all of 10 minutes ago? And it’s still a quiet, tense meal.

Maggie hasn’t taken the note from Glenn out her pocket to share it. A part of you hopes it’s something sweet, therefore private.

And, well, right now, you’re staring at your plate and thinking on how you’ve already got helping #2 on it. It makes you wonder if the quiet in the room, tense as it feels, might could be related to the food?

’Cause dude, it’s been so long since a hot meal this good!

Even the heartbreak about Sophia isn’t enough to stop the cravings from going into overdrive (not true, actually, but the meal is great, is what you mean)—and Carol orchestrated the dinner, anyway. She’s in a place where even she can eat, so…

Wiping your hand on your napkin again (and again), you take another sip of water, and fidget with your fork and knife.

God save you, you want to go hog wild on the food and shove it all into your mouth in one fell swoop. So, you know, maybe everyone else is also extra quiet to focus on eating politely and not stuffing it all in their face like half-starved hamsters, too.

That’s a nice thing to imagine, rather than it being gonna-get-kicked-off-the-property-and-we’re-very-sorry-Otis-is-dead-and-are-we-allowed-to-enjoy-things-when-Sophia-is-probably-dead? tenseness.

Because the food really is so yummy! And there are potatoes! Carol was so thrilled to find out they have potatoes! And there’s dairy! Therefore butter and cream and milk — hallelujah!— oh, you did a happy dance the second a forkful of the mashed taters touched your lips!

Back to the present, as you set to crafting an unnaturally large bite featuring a taste of everything from your plate, Jimmy is reading your response to his pirate joke while — grinning wide and shaking his head?

Then, you see as he scratches with the pen again on the note in his lap and hands it back to you.

Is not a pirate’s favorite letter R? What other letter could it…

You keep chewing while you open the folded note.

It reads:

“aRRRR? Nay, ‘tis the C!”

…

…

OH MY GOSH—

___________________________

Him

___________________________

A familiar laugh belted out from down the hallway where they was all doing dinner. This was followed by couple seconds of silence even more dead than the dinner already sounded.

But after that? It was as if a dam had burst and carried in pack of hyenas who quickly overtook the dining room.

He next thought he heard the word “pirate,” but that made no sense. A few minutes later, the hyenas seem to have left, judging by how shit got all quiet again.

That is until another noise, this time suspiciously moan-like, called out from the dining room. Within a second or two, he heard the food’s praises sung, T-Dog leading the charge, and, well, the din stayed put after that.

One, big, happy family.

Minus one missing little girl.

Daryl hadn’t touched his plate yet, hadn’t moved from his spot on the bed. Didn’t feel like eating.

How those dickbags was having a dinner was beyond him at that point.

The search today was a bust, yet again. The neighborhood T-Dog’s group went to check was mostly burned down, and the highway spot set up for Sophia was still untouched.

Carol’s words to him wouldn’t shut up, neither — and why in the hell she gave him a kiss on his head?!

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life,” she’d told him.

Can you believe that shit? “You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole life.” If failing and getting benched for a week was the best that little girl ever got, she had a piss poor life, and that fact whipped Daryl on the back harder than his own old man ever had.

Speaking of, when Carol brought him his tray, she hadn’t knocked. Meaning, Daryl hadn’t had time to pull the sheet over his shoulder before she walked in. His shirt had been off.

Daryl’s hope was that it’d been dark enough in the room that she wouldn’t see the scarring, just the tattoos. It's his own damn fault— he hadn’t felt like putting his shirt back on after Patricia checked his stitches, and house got warm from the cooking, besides. And because he didn’t care to slump out of bed and wrench open the window more, he stayed shirtless and decided to simply kick off his blankets.

Joke’s on him. And now, someone else had seen them.

He could just about hear Merle tell him, “quit wallowin’ like you’re on your period, Darylina.”

Well, Merle wasn’t really there, so Daryl would wallow all he wanted, and think on Carol telling him that he was also “every bit as good as them.”

As Rick, as Shane, as T-Dog, as Glenn, as — fuck, who cares, it didn’t matter. Because Daryl was not.

Carol wasn’t the best judge of character, just look at the turd she’d married.

“You did more for my little girl that day than her own daddy ever did in his whole li—”

—A steady knocking sounded at the door, breaking up the echoes of Carol’s words and setting Daryl on edge.

Yup, it was Y/N’s knocking, no mistaking it.

“Just open it!” was the loudest he’d spoken all day. He didn’t want to be around people, was that such a big ask?

There was a pause before he heard the door open a crack.

“Would you prefer to be left alone awhile longer?” his friend asked softly.

The annoyance Daryl had felt eased and drained off. His whisper was hopefully loud enough for Y/N to hear. “What is it?”

After another pause, whatever they said in response was too quiet and blocked by the door. All Daryl heard was “Red furseh?”

“Y/N, y’can just come in,” he relented. He even bothered to turn toward the door for them, except, his friend hadn’t opened it up yet.

“A-Are you decent?”

Am I…what, did they think he had his hand down his pants or something? “Yes.”

He watched as the door opened and Y/N (nervously?) looked at him, eyes flitting down along the bedsheet.

Goddamn, Y/N really did just worry if I had my hand down my pants.

“Are you ready for seconds?” Y/N repeated, relaxing.

Got it, that’s what they’d been asking from the doorway.

Daryl responded by way of a gruff, soft, “Nah.”

Another pause.

“Do you feel sick? Or are you,” they tilted their head and frowned again, “‘wallowing’ ain’t the right word — are you beatin’ yourself up, Daryl?”

Yes, somebody has to. “What do you want?” If Y/N could not hit the nail on the head right now, that would be great. He had a bandage on it, after all…

“I’m-I’m asking ’cause the symptoms are usually the same, I mean,” his friend started walking toward the bed as if they was hesitant to do it, “you ain’t even touched your plate, your voice is — for real, sugar, d’you feel sick, depressed, or both?” Saying this, they laid their wrist against his forehead.

“Careful, I got a bandage!” was stupid of Daryl to grunt, because it was coming off tomorrow morning and because Y/N was careful, but he grunted it anyway. Just — why’d they need to use that pet name?

“There were a whole lot of ways you could have contracted yourself an infection, and, well, y-your shirt is off. Ain’t never seen you do that, um…” Y/N inhaled, then exhaled slowly, and pulled their wrist away. “You are kinda warm, but it is warm in here. Really warm, actually, um, d’you want the window open more?”

Yes, please. “M’fine.”

He shifted back onto his side and resumed staring into space.

“Let me do somethin’ for you before I go,” Y/N gently insisted. “Please.” They put a soothing-type tone on. Normally, a tone like that would cause him to feel belittled or pitied, but, he didn’t know, maybe after this week he was used to it. And, he didn’t know, maybe pity wasn’t such a bad thing.

“First, would you like a shirt, or are you good?” his friend asked.

‘Would he like a shirt,’ hell yes, he would like a shirt.

The tugging sensation in his chest came back for a sec. Y/N had a knack for hitting the nail on the head with him. And while the offer was both innocent and loaded, he started to feel as if his soul had been stripped bare-naked in front of them again.

The fact that he’d even let them see his back had been a lapse, a huge lapse. He didn’t know what he’d been thinking.

But, if right now he didn’t act like it was the worst thing, he hated hated hated people seeing, nobody was supposed to see, weren’t nobody’s damn business! a big deal, it wouldn’t be, right?

Which is why Daryl decided to make no effort to cover up more at that moment, so that nothing would seem off. It made his skin crawl to not, it made him feel cornered, but he left the sheet where it was and decided to kick Y/N out.

Yet, strangely, instead of hoarsely grunting at them to 'leave him be' like he thought he was about to, he softly admitted, “Yeah.”

Y/N grabbed the clean, folded shirt and pants that Lori had brought and placed it beside him.“Here’s your pants, too, make it easier in the morning when you get discharged. Miss Patricia will come in and you’ll be all ready!” A nod at his untouched meal. “Want the plate to stay, or go?”

“Take it.”

“Positive? Carol, Lori, and Patricia went ham cookin’ the food. Literally, they cooked some salt ham, but there’s also a little of the fish left that Andy caught for me, if you’d prefer?” They tried to entice him more. “The green beans are fresh, the veggie casserole is creamy, and the mashed taters got fresh butter in ’em? There’s white and brown gravy…”

The thought of eating was tempting as hell, he’d give it that. He was hungry and the food smelled amazing. Still, he shook his head. The thought of putting a bite in his mouth made him feel sick.

Y/N looked a little disappointed, but accepted his decision with a tiny, forced smile. After a beat, their smile turned real. “You’ll get awarded MVP for not touchin’ your plate tonight,” they teased. “It’ll get shared well. I don’t reckon there’ll be crumbs left at the rate we’re hoovering it down, I-I accidentally already had thirds. But, um,” they added, biting their lip. “Dare, in a little while, please might can I bring you a bowl of dessert, in the least? You must be terrible hungry by now and you need to eat if you’re gonna heal, hon.”

He just sorta stared back, didn’t know what to answer yet. Them using a pet-name again wasn’t helping none.

This was no problem for Y/N, who seemed to have begun nervous-jabbering. “When I told Jimmy there was dessert, his eyes got all big. I’m not gonna lie, it was so darn cute. But I didn’t ruin the surprise and tell him what it is, I just winked and let him imagine. Do you wanna know what it is?”

His cheeks warmed. “What is it,” Daryl dutifully responded.

“It’s a surprise!” was the completely expected answer. Y/N looked very pleased. “But it involves hand-whipped cream,” they sing-songed.

___________________________

You

___________________________

You haven’t seen anyone’s mood here drop as low as Daryl’s has in the past few days, not since Andrea’s did after Amy died. Not even Shane after what happened to Otis, he’s handling the pain differently.

But just now when you enticed Daryl with the notion of whipped cream, he almost smiled, you saw it!

Victory!

And, before you went to Daryl’s room to see if he wanted more, you’d walked over to the big table and whispered in Shane’s ear that when dessert was served, he should wake Carl to give him a bowl and get “cool uncle points,” and he smiled, too!

Victory!

Why do you feel like you are personally responsible for holding everyone’s shit together?

Like, even at the dinner, after you’d burst out laughing, it felt so good to have eased the tension in the room, even if by accident. Then, when you heard the laughter dying down and the room going quiet again, you felt as if you’d just failed. So, you had to fix it.

Cue you to shove a big bite into your mouth and loudly moan about how good it was in the hopes that saying so would keep the momentum going. And prompt Hershel to accept your people, change his mind, keep your family safe, and keep everyone together because what if you personally aren’t trying hard enough or doing it the right way and things fall apart? Who’s fault will it be? Why does your stupid hand feel like Amy’s blood is on it again? Dale already explained how it’s ‘self-reproach because of survivor’s guilt,’ so why can’t you shake it off?

Okay, chill out, it’s not all on you. You’re not responsible, you cannot control and fix it all, it’s not all on you.

Surrender it up, and trust.

Offer it up and trust…

Thankfully, Theodore had joined in with your noise of appreciation, declaring, “I second that, mmm-mm!”

Good Moses, you could’ve legit knelt down and pledged him your fealty (or whatever it is squires did for knights in shining armor).

Heck, you were tempted to ignore the age difference and propose marriage to him instead, you were that relieved that he’d gone with it, because it prompted those at the big table to join.

Shane was right there for you, too. “This meal is hittin’ all the marks,” he quietly praised, “ain’t had grub this good in a while.”

Then there was a toast (thank you, Ricky and T-Dog), and things stayed fairly light after that. Light and comfortable.

And only during your last bite, when you noticed everyone else had seconds (…or thirds…), was it that you scrambled off, mid-chew, to Daryl’s room to see what he wanted for seconds and maybe convince him to join everyone.

Instead, you were met with an untouched plate and a man who’s voice could barely raise above a gruff whisper. So, you had to try and fix it, obviously, even if the only thing that would actually fix it is finding the little girl who everyone’s hearts have already mourned.

“Wha’ was so funny earlier?” Daryl suddenly surprises you by asking.

You snort. “We were trying to see who’d break first and laugh — this is at the kiddie table, by the way.”

“Yeah, I figured.”

“Psht,” you play-grumble. “But yeah, I lost the game big time. I’d just taken a very impolite sized-bite of food, too. Ain’t never swallowed a bite that big in my entire life, but I didn’t want to snarf in front of everyone!” Way to overshare, weirdo. “Oh, right, you’ll probably want to know the joke,” you remember. You can get scatterbrained when you’re carrying on. “What’s a pirate’s favorite letter?”

“A pirate’s what?”

“Favorite letter.”

“A pirate’s favorite…” Daryl makes a low, soft hum as he exhales. “Didn’t, uh, wasn’t most pirates illiterate?”

“Bro.”

“I dunno, um, the…P,” is the gem he comes up with.

Bless his heart, has Daryl never heard the ‘arrr’ joke before?

“Why a P?” you’ve simply gotta know.

“P…P for pirate, and peg-leg and um, eye-patch, and, the uh, they got parrots. That’s a lotta Ps.”

The immediate gut reaction you have is the strong desire to gasp with delight and smooch him square on the lips WHAT THE, why did his answer turn you on?? Oopsy lol, yeah, gross, no way. You meant to say, um, ah,…?!?

Anyway, you unfortunately end up squealing, “Oh Lord, that was hot.”

It’s fine, you slip in a ‘dude’ right after. “C’mon, dude, what do pirates say? Like the, the sound they make in movies and books?”

“I don’t, uh…'Yo-ho…ho?'”

That’s now you, belly-laughing, even as it makes your stitches pinch more. “No, the noise they make, like, when they’re mad or tryin’ act all scary.”

Hold the darn phone, is he — good Moses in heaven with the angels and saints, Daryl Dixon is blushing.

He’s gone from plain to red splotches on his cheeks, it’s visible even in the low lighting. The inconvenient butterflies start fluttering around in your stomach again, but this is such an unexpected treat, who cares? Ha!

“No way you’re turnin’ red, nerd,” you whisper.

“Stop,” he grunts in his way, and his eyes are crinkled and his mouth is threatening to grin.

A pleasing shiver travels down when you scrunch your pointer finger into a hook. “Arrr,” you enunciate with spot-on cartoonish flair, if you say so yourself.

His eyes shut when the punchline hits him. “Sonofa—it’s R, then?”

Hot damn, is this joke satisfying. “R? Nay nay, boy, ’tis the C!”

___________________________

Him

___________________________

That he’d gone from wishing he were left for dead in a ditch to laughing out loud in the few minutes his friend was in the room with him…Y/N was something else.

A weirdo, too.

The dessert was ambrosia, by the way, Y/N eventually came back into the room with two bowls of it. “Ambrosia” was a loose term; it didn’t have none of the usual stuff but for the pecans and cream dressing.

“It’s peach, raspberry, wild blueberry and pecan ambrosia with hand-whipped cream — Glenn won’t even know to miss the marshmallows!” Y/N had chirped.

Him telling them it was “knockoff ambrosia” (as a joke) only lead to them pursing their lips, giggling, then immediately going back to happily twittering on how: “Lori hand-whipped it to make it extra special, and Carol added a mite bit of buttermilk to get the tang it needs. Can’t wait to taste how it came out…”

Their little food dance as they took the first bite was cute.

And shiiit, the little moan they made as they shut their eyes and tilted their head back shouldn’t have been enough to turn his thoughts sexual, but yeahhh did it. The cabin fever was apparently messing with his dick, too, great.

But, like, why did Y/N say something he did was “hot?” Was it slang for something else, other than what he knew it usually meant?

“Dare, what do you think?” Another quiet, hummed moan, and then Y/N opened their eyes and saw that he hadn’t tasted any. “Oh, Daryl, c’mon and try some? It’s heavenly. I think I’m dying, it’s so yummy.”

Nah. As good as Y/N was making it seem, he couldn’t, and so, shook his head.

But then his friend said something that, weird as it was, for some reason hit the nail on the head for him once more. It was as if there Y/N was, seeing his soul bare-naked again.

“If I were your confessor,” they began so casual-like, “other than explaining how accidental injury ain’t sinful, I’d tell you your penance was to eat what’s in front of you.”

Y/N almost took another bite as if in example, but hesitated before the spoon reached their lips. The light expression they wore dimmed and turned serious. “All you’ve gone through this week isn’t divine justice, that ain’t how God operates. It was an accident. Just like Sophia. It, it wasn’t no test or punishment what happened to her. It was just a… a bad thing,” they hushed, eyes fixed on their bowl, spoon. With an empty half-laugh, they mumbled, “Suddenly can’t stand the thought of food, now, neither.”

With that, Y/N put the bowl to the side and didn’t seem to know what to do next other than maybe cry, by the look of them.

Daryl would’ve missed it if he’d gone back to spacing out and wallowing, but from the corner of his eye he noticed them wipe their palm on their knee a few times as if to dry it off.

He recognized what was going on, or was pretty sure, anyway.

After Amy got killed, Y/N had this messed up thing go on with the hand, the one they’d used to try and stop her from bleeding out. For a few days, it felt to them as if Amy’s blood was still on it and wouldn’t clean off.

Back when Sophia first went missing, he noticed their hand thing came back a little that first afternoon.

“Y/N.”

“Yeah?”

“It’s clean.”

“What is?”

“Your hand.”

They took an extra beat to respond. “I-I know. It’s nothin'.”

“It’s clean,” he repeated, which resulted in Y/N bowing their head. “Ain’t nothing there, Y/N. Lemme see?”

His friend lifted their head back up, raised their hand for him, and shrugged. “Dale says it’s a guilt thing.”

Yeah, he could see that.

“It's not on you to fix everyone’s everything,” he needed to say. Y/N seemed like they didn’t remember that sometimes.

“Ayy, way to come at me with a hammer,” his friend answered with a dry smile. “I know I can’t fix everyone’s stuff,” they spoke carefully, their throat sounded tight. “But we’re called to help, right? After how far things have fallen, we’re called even more now to, to bring, you know, that, that light, to do what we can. And, and,” they stuttered, then took a deep breath. “I dunno. Before all this—did you ever feel like your life was stagnant? Like you was just...existing?”

Did Y/N know how well they could hit the nail on the head?

Yes, Daryl felt like his life was stagnant, it fucking was, he was a nobody! Didn’t do shit with his life, he’d just…rotted, and fixed up bikes in whatever direction his brother drifted. “Yeah.”

“That’s how I was was for years, too. Kinda floated one day after another, just tryin’ to make it to the next.”

Daryl stayed quiet. Yet again, they’d hit the nail on the goddamned head and he wanted Y/N to keep on talking.

And Y/N did, they kept chatting very matter-of-fact. “It got better, ev-eventually, I um, I got help, and then started forcin’ myself to do stuff, get out in the community, all that. Healed a bit.” They swirled their spoon around the bowl. “It didn’t fix everything boom, like: I still felt stagnant a lot, or like a failure, or that things were all my fault, still sometimes wanted to die really bad,” they shared with a shrug, very chill. “But that’s why we can’t rely on feelings, right?”

The invisible string was tugging Daryl’s whole damn torso toward them at this point and he just wanted to hold them to him and — shit, sorry, uh, he meant he wanted to pat ’em on the back, at least.

“Really, it was when the, um,” his friend bit their lip. “This is gonna sound weird.”

“Prolly, if it’s you we’re talkin’ about,” he ribbed, completely dead-pan.

His friend liked it, and even taunted back all goofy, “sure is, betch,” before their smile fell away. After a beat, Y/N quietly, quietly told him the rest. “It was when the…outbreaks happened, that I-I didn’t have to force it anymore. There was suddenly such a, a, a clear duty, clear sense of purpose, I dunno. Just—so much to do, so much to live for, and,” a big exhale, “so much work to be done.”

That explained a lot. Y/N tended to go hard, burn the candle at both ends, if that’s the right phrase.

In fact, he flat-out said so. “Is that why you push too damn hard to be ‘useful?’”

“Again with the hammer on the nail, dude. And, no, it’s—” Y/N found their words. “When you think how w-we, we might could get killed, at any second, any one of us. And how we’ll look back on it all, all our choices, and then answer what we did ‘for the least here on earth’…”

Ah, that checked out, too.

It was something, to see someone still believe in all that stuff after the world fucking ended, he’d give it that.

He used to, too. Not that he’d been any good at it.

Didn’t matter, he didn’t anymore. Not after the dead started walking.

“Now, before Teddy materializes in here to scold me, I get that ‘It’s not through our own efforts.’ And the problem I have with feelin’ worthless is a separate issue my faith helps tackle. Now, I know it ain’t about racking up works of mercy, but, dude—there’s so much work to do! And I want to do as much as —” Y/N shook their head a few times as if shaking out of it. “Sorry, I-I’ma just quit while I’m ahead, here. Oversharing Olympics.”

“Mm.” Hey, it was. “But that’s part of the deal with friends, right?” he murmured while trying to think of a good way to razz on them. “Means you trust ’em.” Y/N tended to make light about everything, so a tease would do ’em good, right? “It, like, Sunday or somethin’, preacher?”

The tease might’ve missed the mark that time, if he was seeing it correctly.

“Friday,” was all his friend mumbled back, and looked embarrassed as shit. The forced smile they offered in return — it made Daryl’s side ache more, somehow. And the way Y/N then sat there, curling their feet in and looking as if they felt…just about as small as Daryl did?

It was as if the invisible knee to the nards was connected to the invisible tugging string on his chest, because while that knee to the nards got him good, he felt that strange string tug toward Y/N big-time.

It was next, when Y/N stood up and moved to take the dishes out, that something very forceful moved in Daryl that had him sitting himself upright (sort of upright) and reaching for his bowl and spoon (oww) before his friend could get to it.

“It’s still good without the cherries and the marshmallows?”

His friend blinked. “Th-there are some, uh, it’s technically got those mini freeze-dried ones, as an extra-surprise.” They tilted their head, squinting at him in a way not unlike how Rick squinted at shit. “The Greene’s had some hot chocolate packets in the back of the pantry, we separated the marshmallows out.”

“That’s a lot of work,” Daryl commented, scooping a spoonful. Looked real pink because of the raspberries.

Y/N next twisted their mouth and almost seemed shy, when they realized what he was about to do.

It made Daryl feel good, seeing them spark up like that. And their shy smile was damn cute, as always.

“Oh, here, try mine if you’re only havin’ a bite,” Y/N asked, holding out their own bowl to him.

“Nah, m’gonna do the whole thing. It being penance and all,” he grunted, then waved his spoon at them. “You, too, go on. Do your penance.”

“My penance?”

“Yeah.” Oh goddamn, the stuff was delicious. “Have a seat, eat up.”

His friend settled on the side of the bed, still looking as if he’d caught them off-guard. They watched him eat for a few moments, and, Daryl had a random, unusual worry that he was eating too sloppy. But holy shit, fresh fruit and whipped cream!

He glanced over mid-scarfing to see Y/N nibbling on (no lie) half a pecan.

“Quit playing with yer food.”

This earned him a small huff and a “I’m savoring it.”

“White lies cost a quarter, remember.”

The amount of attitude Y/N next put into their next bite was funny. “I’b also sduffed a’ready, banjy hick,” they added with their mouth full.

Don’t smile too big, Daryl. “Penance is penance.”

“But pedaces ca be cobooted.”

Don’t smile too big! “They can be what?”

Y/N apologized, swallowed their food and their giggle, and repeated: “Penances can be commuted.”

“They can travel to work?” was his idea of a dumb joke, and this time it did the trick and he made them burst out laughing a second time.

Y/N broke into a laugh so hard they hinged forward and caused some of the cream dressing to get onto their shirt right before their spoon clattered to the floor.

“Laughing like that still hurts, you butt,” his friend wheezed, pressing their arm to their stitched-up side. They coughed a few times, still giggling, and when they thudded their chest a few times they winced. “Ow, bruise. And Lore just washed this top, too.” Another snort. “My fault for bein’ a sucker for dumb jokes, I guess. ”

“Ain’t nobody’s fault, just an accident,” he got the immediate urge to tell them, and so, did.

In response, Y/N looked at him with an expression he wasn’t sure how to read. It wasn’t a bad expression. Then, because that expression made his stomach do more flippy-floppies, Daryl gestured to their bowl again, and Y/N obligingly took another spoonful.

“Dis is so gub,” they hummed softly after taking the bite.

“Damned tasty for knockoff ambrosia,” he had to admit, joining along with another scoop of that damned tasty knockoff ambrosia.

“Do’d even deed deh bigger barshballows.”

Y/N was so fucking cute sometimes. “Or cherries.” He loved the cherries the best, after the marshmallows.

Y/N swallowed their bite.“Or the mandarins.”

“Or the pineapple.” His third favorite part.

“Oh, or the coconut,” Y/N realized, then thought out loud, “Shucks, this is a knockoff.”

“Tasty knockoff, I’d eat it again in a heartbeat,” Daryl murmured. He couldn’t believe his bowl was already empty. “Y/N, you just say ‘shucks?’”

“Shut up.” His friend shook their head and smiled. “Y’know, Daryl, this is prolly one of the top five penances I’ve ever gotten.”

“Top five?”

“One time I got ‘buy yourself something nice that you’ll get good use from. It’s okay if it’s a little expensive, it’s okay if it’s a little frivolous.’ Almost a direct quote, that. I’d been bein’ too, um,” they cleared their throat, “the priest thought I was a bit too hard on myself.”

Daryl knew whatever came next had to be something good, based on his friend’s playful little grin.

“That’s how I bought me my PS3. Pre-owned, so it was a solid deal, and it got very good use.” And with a wistful sounding exhale, they finished, “I miss that thing.” Y/N wiggled their bowl at him. “Please help me with this?”

Daryl’s mouth watered. The stuff tasted so good. Fresh, creamy, sweet, tangy.

Y/N raised their eyebrows at him and smiled.

“If I gotta,” he grunted back.

“Thanks for the assist. Plus, it’s penance.”

“Mm, guess I have to." Oh yeah, big scoop. "If it’s penance.”

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

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

-> Masterlist link here <-

and our teeny tiny taglist :D

@spenciepoo338 ; @its-freaking-bats​​​​ ; @whistlesalot ; @buffy-the-assbutt-slayer ;  @dreamingaboutthewonderland ; @kwazii-kat ; @darylsmavis ; @outlanderhornet22 ; @battinsonrobs ; @dontputyourfckingdrinkonmytable ; @writingmybeloved ; @boomergirl123 ; @iheartathena0 ; @moonliight-luv ; @suniloli ; @supernaturalgirl02 ; @cnake-garden ; @daryldixmedown ; @sophehe ; @crashlyrose ; @virgo-sunflower920 ; @jennythe ; @theficbaker ; @vampireautism ; @rosetta196 ; @wifeof-barnes ; @thegemthatreads ; @olive-branch-witch-library

(inbox is open if you would like on or off the taglist, slowpokes. Please don’t feel bad or nervous if you don’t want to be tagged anymore, just let me know in the inbox! We’re all friends here and your comfort level matters)  

[koshka-sova]

it is supremely satisfying and also amusing to me that zwillingstürme im herbst not only sheds light to arturia and viviana as characters (as it should, given theyre the banner characters) BUT ALSO gives some hefty development to federico and ebenholz. some highlights below (SPOILERS).

federico's time with loris, and later yulia, are among my favourites featuring him. narrative dictates that loris poses a remark about law, a similar tone to clément's on chaos and strife. these remarks pose as questions to federico, furthering his journey of reflection on law since his sainthood. loved the scene with him on the piano, and how yulia reminded him of clément's flower.

for eben, it was definitely his time in the kargereich. with the barrage of accusations thrown at him by urticans, biegler, even the witch king, he is asked, who is your enemy? feels not unlike friston's debate in lone trail. in fact the different things happening to every person in the void feels like a debate. eben laughs upon realising his answer, and we see his growth in full in the last part, where hibiscus confronts him. he's thought things through and is staying in urtica.

viviana's time in the void feels like a culmination of all her emotions. how she wishes things were different, if any single decision was even slightly altered. after all, the event manages to create such a strong image of her life being put on a set road, and she often paces around the setting like she doesnt have a choice. thus, there is a sort of satisfaction to seeing her explore the different possibilities her life couldve had. of course, the last door she went into was her own memory, and with the threat of the void in front of her, darkness became her wake up call. also, im glad that she ended up declining ewigegnade's call to be a Voice.

arturia, arturia... a woman so misunderstood by everyone, even federico, and also the fans! it took the witch king in his pocket pavilion to tell it to her directly: WHO are you, arturia? because it wasnt until she met the witch king that she was written in the forefront. in fact, throughout a good chuck of the event, arturia seems almost floating about the scenes, simply providing the background music while the play continues. this is in spite of the readers knowing full well she had a hand at all of the cases regarding the witnesses to the witch king's death. loris, seeman, brandt, gerhard, cora... but finally in the kargereich, we bear witness to her true goal: true empathy. a lofty ideal, and probably an unrealistic future. and even then! we still know nothing of what she feels. until the witch king mirrors back at her, and spells it out for the readers: you are empty. you are the furthest from your own utopia. arturia always matches her emotions with her audience, and she can only do it so perfectly by not being anything at all. i could yap more but i think it's sufficient for me to see her get a wake up call, even if it has to come from herkunftshorn lol.

side note, the event manages to almost meticulously write federico and arturia as parallels, quite nicely too. i love how much you can see theyre related, even if they can seem so fundamentally different.

[madlori]

Hi Lori! I bought a crossbody bag made by you like 8 years ago and I still love it— just used it today, actually (thank you!). Are you still crafting and do you want to share something cool you’re doing? If you’re on a pause, what’s one thing you made you were super proud of?

Oh my gosh, that's awesome to hear! I love knowing that something I made has stood the test of time. (if you have a pic, I'd love to see which bag it is!)

I'm on a bit of a pause with crafting. I spent 2ish years making over 2500 masks and ngl, it burned me out a bit. I also did a lot of early-pandemic crafts during lockdown - embroidery, paint by numbers. I did make a really cute embroidered pendant that I just wore today!

I haven't touched my sewing machine in a couple of years, except to mend/alter a few pieces of clothing. Lately I've been feeling like I want to pick it up again, though. Maybe try sewing some clothing. It's a matter of not having a lot of time, these days.

I am actually very proud of the masks I made. I did sell them, but for very reasonable prices, and I had so many people tell me that the fun fabrics I chose and the comfortable cut of my masks made it a lot easier and more fun to wear a mask. That really made me feel good. It's a small thing, but if something I made brightened someone's day, especially when everyone was so stressed and scared, then maybe that's not such a small thing.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Oracle of Jersey

Fandom: DC Comics, Batfam, Birds of Prey (Comics)

Summary: Barbara Gordon runs a podcast that results in six teenagers looking over a dead body.

Chapters: 1/?

Characters: Barbara Gordon, Dinah Lance, Renee Montoya, Charlotte Gage-Radcliffe, Lori Zechlin, Wendy White, Cassandra Cain, Stephanie Brown, Tim Drake, Ted Kord, Jean-Paul Valley, Dick Grayson, Helena Bertinelli, Zinda Blake

Relationship(s): TBA

Additional Tags: Mentor Barbara Gordon, No Powers AU, Podcast AU, Murder Mystery

Episode 1: Female Sleuths & Self-Defense

"Hello, Pythians. It's been a while. Today we'll be discussing some sensitive subject matter. This includes but is not limited to domestic violence, child abuse, grooming, and murder," Barbara's tone allowed a hint of personal sadness. Her voice was subtly disguised with a Mid-Atlantic accent. Her voice was mature and robust, but there was something sweet and feminine about her cadence. The lilt in her voice was unlike her natural speech, but it added to the bit, along with voice-altering software. Oracle was a character, and she had to stay that way. She took a breath to collect herself. "Today, I have a special guest. She is loud and proud... And she is fighting to elevate the voices of domestic violence survivors during Gotham's lockdown. Miss Dinah Lance. Dinah, can you take a moment to tell us about yourself and your organization?" Barbara leaned back away from the mic as she put Dinah on speaker.

"Hi, Oracle. Well, as you said, I'm Dinah Lance. I've been in Gotham most of my life, and this organization is near and dear to my heart. Black Canary is my mother's non-profit organization dedicated to survivors of domestic violence. It goes back to before I was born.

"My mother lived in a community filled with women in violent and unstable relationships. She quickly realized that most of these women didn't have the tools they needed to escape, let alone protect themselves. So, she took it upon herself to secretly offer free self-defense classes in her apartment. My mother knew this wasn't enough, but it was all she could do at the time.

"Fast forward a few years. My mother married my father and got pregnant with me, and she had to take a break from offering classes. To her surprise, her neighbors took over for her. They went on to teach their friends everything they learned. Eventually, this led to a connection with lawyers, doctors, and childcare workers... And from there, my mom founded the Black Canaries.

"I was fortunate to grow up with two loving and supportive parents, and I took it upon myself as soon as I was old enough to continue what my mother started. Since then, we've expanded to all victims of domestic violence. Not just women," Dinah replied. She was obviously passionate about her cause.

Barbara made a soft noise to acknowledge all she'd heard. "I wanted to take this time to tell the listeners your organization now operates online. I left a link in the description... But I also wanted to ask about a specific case that's gained traction in the media. I understand that you've taken a personal interest in the Anna Stanfield case... You've also expressed discomfort with the long-time trend of giving murder cases nicknames," Barbara paused, "After a message from our sponsors, we'll talk about that and how this case is different from anything the Black Canaries have dealt with this far." Barbara played an ad for Ted Kord's tech company.

During that time, Barbara took the opportunity to quietly thank Dinah for the interview. "I appreciate you coming on the show, Dinah. I wanted to ask you personally if you'd like to come back to talk next month for Mother's Day?" Barbara asked.

"I would love to," Dinah replied, "And thank you for allowing me the opportunity to talk about Anna Stanfield."

Barbara smiled to herself. "Of course. It's always a joy to have you on the show," Barbara replied, "We're back on air in five... Four... Three... Two... Welcome back, Pythians. Before the break, I asked Dinah how the Black Canaries have taken an interest in the Anna Stanfield case and her critique of the media buzz surrounding this cruel Gotham slaying."

"Right. For everyone unfamiliar with the case, Anna Stanfield was an eighteen-year-old girl from Gotham. Last month, she got married to a man seven years her senior, and at some point on the first night of her honeymoon, she was brutally beaten and ultimately smothered to death.

"The media's taken this as an opportunity to talk about the lack of knowledge about her past. Instead of putting forth the efforts and energy to spread information about the case, they've focused on dissecting this girl's life to blame her for her murder. Her husband, Eddie Stanfield, is seemingly missing and has been since the discovery of Anna's body. Few efforts are being made to find him despite his history of violence toward women... And instead of being treated like a suspect, they are searching for Eddie Stanfield as a potential victim... Despite all evidence pointing to the contrary.

"What makes this case different from anything the Black Canaries have ever dealt with is the type of case that this is. Black Canaries deals with survivors. This is the first time we've ever dealt with a murder case. We're all working to find Eddie Stanfield and bring him to justice, and there's a lot I can't say legally... But I can say that we've got a few leads we're checking out," Dinah explained.

"I know you said you can't talk about the investigation for legal reasons, so I wanted to hear what you had to say about the nicknaming of the Anna Stanfield case as the Honeymoon Murder," Barbara replied.

Dinah took a breath before speaking. "With all the media buzz for the case, people have forgotten that Anna was a living, breathing person. People view this case as a form of entertainment rather than an actual murder of a real human being.

"The media's done a terrible job of depicting Anna's humanity. They've instead chosen to sensationalize her murder and reduce the brutal slaying of a teenage girl to nothing more than a series of puns and online memes," Dinah answered.

The two went back and forth, discussing the details of the case before their second set of commercials. "When we return from break, I'll introduce you to one of Gotham's best P.I.'s," Barbara announced.

The second set of commercials was three minutes long, allowing the two women to talk. "I hope I'm not talking too much. I don't wanna overwhelm-."

"You're doing fine, Dinah. Actually, I wanted to ask how you were doing? I've been following your work for a while now, and I saw that you've received threats-. Sorry, I sound like I'm still interviewing you. I wanted to know if you were okay," Barbara interrupted.

"It's okay... I've had worse. A few threats aren't going to scare me away from the truth," Dinah replied. Barbara pushed up her glasses and ran a hand through her hair. "Hell, if I wasn't mistaken, I'd think you were worried about me."

"I am," Barbara replied, "You know, Dinah... Let me know if there's anything I can do to help." Dinah made a soft noise.

"Keep an eye out for Eddie Stanfield... And boost my tip line," Dinah replied. Barbara could hear the smile in her voice. Barbara bit the cap of her pen before typing the tipline number and adding it to the description for the video. "You know what? I feel like I know you."

Barbara held her breath for a moment. "I make a point to get to know everyone I interview... Even if it's through research," Barbara half-lied. She didn't want Dinah to know they'd met before. Barbara's podcast identity needed to remain secret, not only for the safety of her daughters. The work she did in connection with her podcast was borderline illegal.

"It was so wonderful having you on the show, Dinah. I hope to hear from you in the future... I know you have to go, but I did enjoy speaking to you today," Barbara beamed. She chewed the cap of her pen as she waited to hear Dinah's voice.

"It was nice talking to you, Oracle... I'll keep you updated on the case," Dinah replied before hanging up.

She tossed her head back and ran both hands through her hair before calling another woman. "Hello? May I call you Question?" Barbara asked.

"Only if I can call you Oracle," Question joked. Barbara recognized the voice as ex-police officer Renee Montoya. She didn't see fit to mention it, though. Barbara chuckled.

"Of course, you can. We're about to go on air in a minute or two, and I want to let you know you don't have to answer any question you don't want to," Barbara reassured her.

"Let's get into it," Renee replied enthusiastically.

"Okay. We're back on air in five... Four... Three... Two... One. Welcome back. Before the break, I promised to introduce you to Gotham's finest private investigator, the illustrious and anonymous, Question. Question, would you like to take some time to enlighten the viewers on your connection to the Anna Stanfield case?" Barbara asked.

"Someone hired me to find and notify her family... A friend of Anna Stanfield who wanted to remain anonymous," Renee replied, "The issue is, Anna Stanfield doesn't exist. Or at least she didn't, up until a few months ago... But that made me wonder how Eddie Stanfield came to know her. She's an eighteen-year-old girl with no past, no known family, and no history... Not so much as a report card from her."

"It sounds as if you have some suspicions about the crime. Can you elaborate at this time?" Barbara asked.

"I've found some important information that's led me to a family within the city, but I'm not at liberty to say. The police have been notified. But I can tell you, I have reason to believe Eddie Stanfield is guilty of a series of violent crimes against Anna... And I'm not talking about her murder," Renee replied. Barbara took her pen and jotted down a note.

Silence fell between the two for a moment. "Are you-. Sorry, that's such a shock. I wanted to know if you were working with the Black Canaries or anyone else to get information on this case?" Barbara asked, stumbling over her words out of shock. She didn't think anyone would have any new information like this.

"Yeah, I've talked to Dinah before finding what I found... I told her I'd look into finding Eddie," Renee paused, "And I've gotten a bit of information from her as well."

"Can you tell us if that information led you to your most recent revelation?" Barbara questioned.

"Yes, actually, she did. Dinah personally went and found information of her own that led me directly to a series of truths that led to this mystery family," Renee replied, "We're not sure if they're her family for sure. We only know interesting circumstances surrounding them point to this case."

Barbara typed something on her computer while she listened to Renee speak. Barbara mulled over the details mentioned by both women and wondered if she should delay posting the episode another week. As it came to a close, Barbara pushed up her glasses and started the editing process.

[traitorca]

My Iron Lung - The Walking Dead

Daryl Dixon x Grimes!Reader - 2

Masterlist

He’s dead. Rick is dead, that’s what he told you. Shane couldn’t stay in there long, and neither could any of you as troopers shot and killed just about anyone in sight. You slapped him, for some reason you actually slapped him. It wasn’t that you didn’t believe him- no, of course you didn’t, it seemed so unlikely. His vitals were just fine as of your last visit- but Shane wouldn’t lie about that- That was his best friend and you couldn’t just feel entitled- no, paranoid because of your relationship. Despite your inner turmoil, it took everything in you not to rush back in there and see for yourself the outcome of Rick.

That leads you to now, grip on the steering wheel harsh as you drove out of Kings County, to the interstate which would lead you to Atlanta. The radio said that a safe zone was put up, that seeking refuge would be possible while they figure out how to stop this outbreak. But from an epidemiologist’s perspective, you didn’t think it could be stopped.

Prior to the apocalypses reign in the States, you had received a call from your colleague when the UK had just been shut down for quarantine. They had asked- urgently, for any information based upon your latest research. Now that you thought about it, it seemed suspicious of you to leave so urgently after working on a patient who undoubtedly was a cause of this pandemic. You had told them all you knew, bacteria, infection- ants.

Why ants? Well, you were sure it had something to do with the zombie ant fungus native to the rainforests of South America. This disease was capable of taking pathogenesis and altering the entire behavioral system of an ant, and making it a tool for conquering. To an extent, this victim would die spreading a disease- but unfortunately, not all of the symptoms in this apocalypse matched those. But it was entirely possible- the thought of the world sweltering due to atmospheric change, global warming- who wasn’t to say such a fungi wouldn’t adapt to its surroundings? In an attempt of desperation, try a different host? Not to say this was all caused by an ant, but there were no theories that served as a proper alternative.

You couldn’t even cry, that’s how strange this all was. Your brother was dead, and you couldn’t feel a thing but the adrenaline rush. If you weren’t careful, you were sure to rear end someone on the highway as they all seemed to slow down. To be honest, you weren’t that familiar to road rage, but this was a new level of anger.

Shane was sitting in the passenger seat, arm propped up on the open window. It was too hot to sit idle in a car, underneath the setting sun, on the middle of a highway in Georgia. Atlanta better be worth it.

An accident of some sorts had happened up on the road, a blockage of cars preventing the caravan from moving further into Atlanta. This called for the people in their cars to gather outside, mingle together at any chance for survival or support until they were able to make it there safely. Which- to some people, is a good thing. Strength in numbers. But if you learned anything from your line of work, and you were sure Shane knew it too, people don’t change overnight when the world goes to shit. Maybe their world was shit already, and this only would give them an excuse to act out and lose the last ounce of morality they had.

You sat on the car's hood, a melted popsicle in hand as you watched Carl talk to a girl about his age. You had packed the last few Otterpops left in your freezer, and it was holding Carl over, and you were surely content as you could be. Lori and Shane had wandered with a group of people into the woods, dusk falling over the sky. Helicopters flew past overhead, their propellers slicing through the air as you bit into the ice.

“My Aunt is the coolest! She’s a scientist- I think she can figure this whole thing out-!” Carl, bless his heart, was just excited he had someone to talk to. But things like that- saying you could potentially save the world? That was a large claim, and you were unsure you were fit to fill the expectation.

“A scientist?” Sophia responded, looking up at you. “You don’t look like a scientist.”

“I don’t look like a lot of things.” You responded, smiling down at her as you pushed yourself off the hood of Shane’s jeep. “I am a scientist but-“

“So you know what’s going on?” Sophia’s mother, Carol, seemed to train attention to the conversation. “What ‘this’ is?”

“Well- it’s really hard to say, but before I left my research, I had found that it could be related to fungi-“

“Or the wrath of God!” Carl finished for you.

“Yeah. That too.”

This didn’t seem to bring any comfort to Carol or her daughter, but she seemed keen on staying around you. “Do you think… you could fix it?”

“Well- I don’t know if IM the right one for that, there are plenty of other experienced people in my field-“

“But could you?”

“Carol, stop fucking around with this woman.” Her husband came out of their car, eyes narrowed as he grabbed her wrist. “Sorry if she’s bothering you, Doc.” The nickname was bitter, almost as if it was drenched in venom.

“No. It’s okay. I’m just afraid I don’t know all the answers.” You laughed anxiously, looking back at Carl as you ruffled his hair.

He laughed at that. How charming, if you could roll your eyes you would. “I wouldn’t leave that job to a woman anyway, leave it to the professionals.”

“Excuse me?” Out of all the misogynistic things said to you your whole life, this was honestly something you weren't expecting. You were pissed, other hand clenched around the otterpop that was long gone by now. Before you could get another word out, the horizon lit up in large, orange plumes of light. The ground shook, noises comparable to thunder flooded the air. Helicopters whipped past, smoke visibly now as it surfaced over Atlanta.

What happened to Atlanta being safe?! Safe my ass.

Carl dove for your arms, hands gripping the back of your tank top as he shook. “Where’s mom-?! She should’ve been back-“

“Shh- no, she’s fine. She’s with Shane, alright? He wouldn’t let anything happen to her. Just like I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” You whispered, kissing your head. “See? See, people are coming back from the woods. Lo will be here.” You really had to work on your comforting skills, because as much as you wanted Carl to believe your words, you weren’t sure you believed them either.

The next few days were slow, hot, and downright depressing. You had found a group at that blockade on the highway a few days back, and had located yourself at a quarry. Your new found purpose was in the form of a man named Dale, sisters Amy and Andrea, T-Dog, Glenn, Morales and his family, Jacqui, Jim, Carol, Ed, and Sophia- you were never popular in highschool, so this really must be your IT girl phase.

Rumors of your ex-occupation spread fast, Carl not leaving a single detail out. You were unsure if he was saying these things to show off, or convince himself that this world could be fixed. It was sad when you thought about it, Carl never really had the chance to be a kid. He was about- eleven now? No, twelve. This really was a reminder you weren’t around much. You were glad you were here now at least, and you were damn sure Carl wouldn’t leave your sight this time. Lori could take care of herself- well, more like Shane would take care of her instead. You weren’t going to act dumb, you knew the way Shane looked at her wasn’t just friendly. Nothing about Shane was “just friendly”.

People seemed to keep you close, constantly making conversation with you- questioning you on your job. You hate to say it, but you didn’t get the job for the money or the attention. You weren’t like a NASA scientist or whatever- so this was strange. People were so convinced you were some special, intelligent alien from another world- but you were just a woman in her twenties.

Rick would know what to do. Rick always knew what to do, he’s the reason you got out of Kings County- because he told you that you were meant for more. Not to be locked in a life you couldn’t escape. You had no doubt Rick loved his son and wife, family was a big part of being a Grimes, but you knew you weren’t just your family name, and he did too.

All the things you could’ve said to him, and you couldn’t. And now he was dead, probably mauled to death in some hospital bed, infected- a freakish monster, much like the ones he promised to protect you from when you were just a child.

How you missed the times when THAT was the thing to be afraid of.

You liked your time alone, you had always been a loner- but this was another level. Walking alone as a woman was scary enough- but now it was much more than men who would grab you without thinking twice. Now they didn’t have to think at all. Despite this, you enjoyed walking out by yourself- with a firearm of course, considering nothing was really illegal and it was the ONLY option anyway. Besides, the group didn’t have any real, concrete food sources, and you were damned to hell if Shane was really going to feed you all frogs for dinner. So you offered to find berries and plants that were edible, because- not to brag, you were pretty darn smart when it came to a lot of things.

The pine straw shuffled beneath your feet, sun slowly setting above you as birds softly chirped overhead, almost as if they were scared to draw too much attention. Your lips were pressed into a thin line, a small drop of sweat dripping down your forehead at a leisurely pace. You had a bucket with you, filled with all sorts of plants you had collected from the underbrush. You missed real food- even squirrels were starting to look better on a dinner plate than in a tree- and that’s when you KNOW you’ve gone crazy. Maybe the apocalypse wasn’t for everyone, but your resilience made you a strong contender- but also, a really big fucking idiot.

Picky eaters suck ass in situations like this.

You didn’t get too terribly far, but you were starting to realize that your surroundings were becoming a little bit too unfamiliar for your liking. With this in mind, you noted that you should probably head back soon as the sun was getting lower every passing moment.

Your feet turned, body instantly colliding with something as you fell to the ground. A freak. A fucking freak gnawing at you- shaky hands keeping his jaw lengths away from your face. How had you not heard it?! What the fuck- Teeth, nails, teeth, nails, teeth- teeth teeth teeth- watch the teeth!

You cursed, hand reaching for your gun as your bucket was long gone from your grasp. You struggled, grunting as you attempted to push its body off of you with just one hand. How fucking embarrassing- no one had ever caught you this off guard before, much less a freak.

“Get the fuck off! Get off-!” You yelled, hand finally freeing your gun from your belt. You knew loud noises would draw them- you couldn’t risk that, not with your camp near. You ALSO knew that if they heard a gun fire, you couldn’t pretend to know nothing about it. Shane would never let you out again if he knew what a close call you had. So, you did the next best thing. You slammed the butt of your gun straight into its head, knocking it off of you. It rolled, gurgling as it went to stand again. You rolled away, hands pushing yourself up as you turned to face it again. You raised your gun, mentally preparing for the shit show Shane and Lori were going to be when you got back, having fired a gun-

You aimed, fingering the trigger as you slowed your breathing. Remember what Rick taught you, slow, precise- shoot.

The walker fell, but you hadn’t pulled the trigger.

A second passed as you stared.

Another, as you lowered your gaze to the ground.

In its head, where the bullet would’ve been, was a carbon arrow with a green fletching.

“Well look a’ what we have ‘ere, Darlina… I dare say you just saved her ass.”

Men fucking suck.

taglist:🏷️: @poubxlle @kovieky @fallenkitten @dixonsboy19

[schraubd]

Leaving the Mess for Later

One thing that's come up in a few of the Supreme Court's recent blockbuster decisions is the shakiness of the fact pattern in the underlying case. Mr. Kennedy in Kennedy v. Bremerton School District wasn't really just an average citizen whose desire to privately pray on his own was stymied by the evil liberal school district. Ms. Smith of 303 Creative v. Elenis might have outright falsified documents suggesting that a gay couple asked to engage her services. The Supreme Court's conservative majority did not care, blitzing ahead in decisions that made dramatic alterations to major areas of constitutional law doctrine.

At one level, I actually understand the perspective here. When it comes to abstract, "philosophical" question regarding the scope of the Establishment Clause or whether anti-discrimination law must sometimes yield to free speech commitments, the details of the individual case don't really matter. If it wasn't Kennedy, it'd be someone else. If what you care about is the broad, sweeping change -- interring Lemon v. Kurtzman for good, or laying a marker that public accommodations laws must yield to businesses right to "expressively" discriminate -- the details don't affect the underlying arguments all that much. The same claims and counterclaims that would be made in any case would be aired here. 303 Creative probably already felt like the can that was kicked down the road from Masterpiece Cakeshop. Similar impatience was seen in some of the concurrences in Fulton v. City of Philadelphia -- we know we're going to have to decide whether to revisit Employment Division of Oregon v. Smith, and we know the arguments for and against preserving the precedent, so why delay the inevitable? Just make the decision one way or the other and get it done.

At another level, though, this speaks to how the current conservative judicial cadre really doesn't care about the formalities of law and legal doctrine. It's movement conservatism through and through -- the important thing is the bottom-line results, and the Court will shoot first and let others clean up the mess later. This especially stood out for me in 303 Creative, a case where it was striking how much more legalistic Justice Sotomayor's dissent was compared to Justice Gorsuch's majority opinion. The former, whether one agrees with the result or not, worked through the relevant First Amendment doctrine via the same methodology I'd teach my students -- explaining the relevant doctrinal framework, explaining why this case falls into a particular part of the framework, and explaining the implications thereof. The majority opinion was basically an abstract ode to the importance of free expression but skipped past significant swaths of the seemingly essential legal analysis (often by vague gestures at party "stipulations" or just treating as gospel certain holdings of the Tenth Circuit). It was hard to escape the sense that the nitty-gritty details of Lorie Smith's case were not at all what interested the majority, and so they were disinclined to spend significant time on them. They wanted to make a big statement about the interplay of free speech and anti-discrimination law, so that's where they devoted their attention. 

From that vantage, the fact that Lorie Smith's case may not have been the cleanest vehicle isn't really all that important. Of course, from the vantage of lower courts trying to figure out what the hell 303 Creative actually means, it's extremely important, because nobody actually knows the concrete rule that 303 Creative is actually establishing, and the blurry fact pattern means that trying to infer it from Lorie Smith's situation is a doomed initiative. But again, that's someone else's mess to deal with. I honestly believe that the Justices in the 303 Creative majority did not care if Lorie Smith, personally, deserves the exemption from anti-discrimination law under the doctrine that will eventually lay out. What they cared about is being decisive in defending the existing of these exemptions in concept. Lorie Smith just had the good fortune to be the next case in line that could be plucked onto the docket.

I've written before of the Machiavellian character of the current Supreme Court, specifically, it's absorption of Machiavelli's advice to tyrants: that they should take their big oppressive swings early, in full force, and all at once. You won't gain any advantage from dragging things out, and you'll probably get credit if you cut back later. And the repeated pattern we've seen is of the Court taking these huge right-wing swings that delight conservatives on the level of ideology, but without much care for how they can be operationalized as a workable legal doctrine, and leaving it lower courts to clean up its mess. And to give an inch of silver lining, there is the chance (this follows from Machiavelli too) that as that "mess" resolves itself the Court will then quietly file down some of the roughest edges. The Bruen decision, which reads as a right-wing ideological fantasy document but which has unleashed utter chaos in lower courts, may be an example if the Court uses the Rahimi case to cut back the most extreme interpretations. Take the big swing, make the chest-out assertion of insisting that no amount of public necessity can weigh against robo-originalism, and then later on at their discretion maybe pick and choose a few morsels to dial back on and claw back some legitimacy.

But nonetheless, it really is striking the degree to which the conservative legal movement just no longer cares that much about the law. As a law professor, it makes for depressing teaching. As a citizen, it makes for depressing living. Just depression all around.

via The Debate Link https://ift.tt/03PY6Qg

[actualori]

hi i’m ori!

but you can call me any name (besides lori) and i go by she/he/any pronouns

i’m an mcyt fanartist and mainly draw mythicalsausage. i make a lot of ship art so be warned. every ship i draw is of characters not the real people

some rules

- go ahead and send in letters in my mailbox (the ask box) i’m very happy to talk about theories aus headcanons etc! doodles requests are open but are slowly being accepted since i’m usually busy

- do not send anything nsfw or overly personal or graphic in my ask box. anonymous asks are on for now but will be turned off if you’re weird

- please don’t reblog/discuss my art on primarily nsfw blogs. i don’t and won’t draw anything nsfw and don’t want to be perceived that way

- dni if you are racist, transphobic, homophobic, ableist, or discriminate specific demographics of people for no reason

- i do enjoy tag games so feel free to @ me! i will usually participate but there’s no guarantee

- feel free to use my art as a pfp banner etc just don’t alter the artwork without permission and please credit me!

- be nice

this post will be updated as i think of more important stuff to add. hopefully this one doesn’t get swallowed by the void as well

[xx-blood-lemons-xx]

i heard a rumour that the tua tv show didn’t exist and that actually only my person hcs about allison hargreeves are real. here they are

•black

•her hair is CONSTANTLY changing because she can rumour people into doing it for her exactly the way she wants it, but she especially loves it being blue.

•when she’s in the 60s in dallas she’s got much more toned down hair with a hidden blue streak, but when she’s in modern eras she gets really bold with it

•her rumour powers can alter reality like in the comics and she uses this to go around granting little miracles to help where she can (i heard a rumour that your eyesight came back) she’s basically seen as a modern prophet to those who know of her

•tw for emetophobia -she knows she can’t monitor klaus 24/7 but she does what she can in harm reduction. she has definitely rumoured klaus into throwing up substances when he’s taken too much and has saved him from overdosing multiple times in her life especially when they were younger and never 100% sure if klaus would make it back the next time

•she’s insecure no one will like her so she rumours them to enjoy her company, but this backfires and makes her more insecure because she never can gauge how far it extends past her doing or if people just put up with her cause they have to

•would rumour the other kids to help them go to sleep at night. when she has claire she remembers vanya asking her to rumour her to bed on really bad insomnia nights and offers it to her daughter when she’s diagnosed with the same

•would do literally anything for claire. i mean anything. “i heard a rumour your daughter dropped out of the campaign.” “i heard a rumour your daughter dropped out as the lead of the play” sometimes this bothers claire but sometimes they think it’s a fun way to bond.

•when claire reaches college age she’s caught rumouring claire into elite schools and is arrested lori laughlin style

that’s all for now cause i’m tired but she’s literally my favourite character other than apocalypse suite white violin PLEAAASSEEE ask me about the rumor