#and apparently that is the thing that saved me from having a hard time surviving the 20 minutes the smell was around the house???

[baldursgate3tempobsessed]

Okay so thought would Astarion just be uber happy if tav is just clinging to him and is like let me stay here where it is safe for just a little longer pleaseee

I think I'm feeling the energy. And it's an actual drabble instead of a novel! Cw: In-game references, spoilers, but this is just some fluffy fluff fluff.

~

When Astarion made the decision to seduce you, it had been based in cold rationality. In the short time he had known you, you had proven to be intelligent, capable, attractive enough for sex to not feel like a total burden, and extremely hard to kill. Using a falsified relationship to wrap you around his finger was the easy choice for survival. And it did work, with varying results.

Because you provided many, many complications. Like the unfortunate reality that Astarion quickly had grown sincerely fond of you. Not only were you impressively competent, you were fun. Hilariously bitchy in a way that never failed to make him laugh. But you were still kind, kind in a meaningful way that Astarion was simply not used to.

It had felt like a shock when you were so adamant about his right to be his own person. When you didn't make him bite that drow cretin he was struck with the realization that you actually cared about him. What that thing had been offering in return would no doubt have been useful to your journey, but you didn't even give it a second thought. And Astarion wouldn't soon forget how you saying, "He said no," with so much conviction had sent a shiver up his spine.

Perhaps the whole event sent him into a tailspin that ended with him admitting his, in-hindsight, horrible plan, but it had been worth it in the end. Gods knows why, but you didn't abandon him when he revealed the truth. You just listened. You listened and opened up your mind for him to see just how much you cared for him. A care he perhaps didn't deserve, but one he would take. Even if he had no idea what the two of you were doing anymore.

But he did know that something shifted in your relationship after that, the birth of a new kind of trust. Apparently, Astarion hadn't been the only one holding back.

Because seemingly overnight, you got a lot more touchy. A facet of yourself that he really had not seen coming. Not sexually, no. You had been nothing but a dream when it came to understanding the hang-ups he had with that particular topic. But you did suddenly decide that you loved holding hands. You loved hugging him, for no reason at all. The two of you went from the occasional night together before parting ways to simply sharing a tent. And gods were you a cuddler. Every morning he would wake up with you wrapped around him, peaceful and at ease as you slept in his arms.

And... it was nice. Really, really nice. Astarion had always assumed that he would loathe being with someone who was so tactile. But it turned out when every little touch wasn't leading to mediocre and/or horrifying sex they were actually quite enjoyable. It felt good to have you so close, to know that you felt safe and comfortable with him of all people. Nice enough for Astarion to slowly get addicted to it. He wasn't quite sure when his favorite past time became reading while you laid on top of him, but he knew it claimed to top spot with startlingly speed.

Even now, with Cazador still looming, the tadpoles still squirming behind your eyes, worries and responsibilities abound, Astarion felt completely at peace. He was laying flat on his back on his bed roll, a book in one hand and the other carefully petting your hair as you dozed off; your body completely draped over him. He'd have to wake you sooner than later. Baldur's Gate was only a day's journey away now, and if you wanted to make it there before nightfall then everyone would have to get moving. He could already hear the sound of the others shuffling about.

He snapped his book shut, setting it to the side before he gently shook you, "It's time to rise and shine darling, Baldur's Gate won't be saving itself."

You mumbled as you buried your face into his chest, your words slurred, "Don't wanna. Too early."

That was another change with this newfound phase of trust. Astarion had become the only person who knew your little secret of not being a morning person. In the first few moments of wakefulness, you were at your clingiest, your whiniest, surprisingly your most honest, and arguably your most adorable state of the day. A fact that you actively hid from the rest of the group out of sheer embarrassment, but Astarion thought it was cute.

Not to mention that it made him feel special, oddly enough. That he was the only one who was allowed to see you like this; who could take care of you like this.

Astarion laughed at your response, "Tell that to the sun sweetheart. It's high-time we got going."

Despite his own words, he wasn't really doing much to move the process along. If anything he was hindering it when he wrapped his arms around you, only helping to make you more comfortable instead of less.

But then again, maybe he wasn't quite ready to let you go yet either.

You shook your head against him, your hands tightening on the fabric of his shirt, "Le'mme stay, just a little longer."

"That's easy for you to say when you're not the one to get Lae'zel's wrath," Astarion lightly argued, still making no moves to actually hurry this process along. But it was true, Lae'zel always blamed your lateness on him, her favoritism towards you blatantly obvious. The bitch. But at least she was a bitch with good taste, "I would prefer not to be murdered by a gith for being tardy."

But you were already back to being half-asleep, your internal filter completely disintegrated as you mumbled, "Feels safe here, with you. Don't wanna let it go yet. Please?"

Gods, how the in the nine hells was Astarion supposed to say no to that? He didn't. Instead the grip he had on you only tightened, the happy little sigh you let out at the movement striking him straight through the heart. He felt so... happy in that moment, through nothing more than the simplicity of holding you. Because you trusted him. You felt safe with him, which might as well have been a love confession in Astarion's world. It felt so good to have this, an intimacy that he'd been denied for centuries.

Astarion settled back, letting his own eyes close as he smiled. The others would get the two of you eventually, but until then he wasn't going anywhere. No, the two of you would be staying right here.

[nonasuch]

Did you ever write more to the "vader finds out that leia I'd his daughter" story?

No but it’s been percolating in my head for a while so let’s go

(continuing from this)

The first thing Vader does is cover his tracks. Wipes the security cameras for the whole cell block, wipes the prisoner logs, makes sure that no trace of Leia’s capture or escape will be in the files synced daily with Imperial Center. Puts in transfer orders for that nervous junior officer to somewhere very far away and very quiet. Saves only one short vid clip, to the secret hard drive hidden in his own respirator.

I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.

While he’s doing this, his children (children! plural!) are getting themselves into trouble, and out again. Apparently the trash compactor was involved. He will have more footage to scrub. Somehow they’ve acquired a Wookie.

Kenobi is with them.

Vader should have foreseen this. Of course, Kenobi.

His presence saturates the Force, nearly drowning out Luke— and Leia, too, now that Vader knows to look. It’s enough to break Vader free from the chill of shock, his rightful fury seen as through a window right up until it shatters, and engulfs him again.

But he forces it back. He wants answers, before he kills Kenobi.

(I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.)

He hasn’t played the clip again, but it echoes in his ears nonetheless.

When he faces Kenobi, Vader is still off-balance. Kenobi seems as calm, as unruffled as he ever did, though he’s far too obvious in buying time for Leia and Luke to attempt an escape.

Vader asks him: “Do they know?”

“You’ll have to be more specific,” Kenobi says, light and unconvincing.

“You kept them from me,” Vader says, and that is a thought that feeds the Dark, that lets him hammer at Kenobi’s saber until he’s nearly past his guard—

“I kept them from your master,” Kenobi says, his voice still even and pleasant and false, hardly betraying his exertion.

“I’ll kill you for this,” Vader vows.

“I expect so,” says Kenobi. “I swore I’d die before I let Palpatine harm another child in my care. If dying will keep them from him, it’s well worth the cost.”

(I’m Luke Skywalker. I’m here to rescue you.)

By the end of this speech Kenobi recovers a little of his old skill, turning Vader’s blows aside instead of merely bearing up under their weight. Too soon, Vader falters, losing the momentum of rage. They both fall back to defensive positions. Any living troopers have long since cleared the area; the whole deck is a ruin of saber gouges and shattered armor.

Vader rarely speaks without thinking. The nature of his breathing apparatus makes this a necessity, more often than not. But the words escape him anyway.

“Who named them?”

And now Kenobi is the one who falters. It is satisfying, if short-lived. “Their mother,” he says. “With her last breaths.”

A long time ago — a lifetime away — there was a list of names. Two lists, really, to start with, and then another of the names held in common to both. No record of it survives, not even on the hard drive hidden next to Vader’s heart.

On Naboo, children are often named for virtues. A child might be called Aluuk, for kindness, or Alié, for wisdom.

On Tatooine, a child’s name is the parent’s hope for its future. Perhaps Lukka would grow to be free; perhaps Leyah would grow to be fierce.

And perhaps they have. Vader does not know. Kenobi took that from him.

Vader won’t kill him yet, though. He still has questions.

[stop-talking]

How do you think jhutch characters would handle a baby?

I'm not quite sure if you're asking "what would they do if you handed them a baby" or "what would they do if you told them you're pregnant" but I'm gonna assume you meant the latter. (feel free to send another request if I got it wrong)

Ranking Jhutch characters from worst to best fathers:

Billy

☆ Would play dumb when you hand him the pregnancy test.

☆ "What's this? Oh, you're pregnant? Can't be mine. My pull-out game is too strong." (literally has NO pull-out game, refuses to use condoms because he "can't feel" with them on)

☆ Basically ghosts you until the paternity test proves it's his. Then he actually ghosts you.

☆ Drops off the face of the fucking Earth for years. Doesn't pay a dime in child support.

☆ Maybe he comes back like 3 years later drunk and demanding to see "his" kid idk. Literally the worst.

Derek

☆ Honestly I headcannon he had a vasectomy at like 24-25.

☆ His mom hit him up once she heard about his prostitute scandals and chewed him out. Gave him "the talk" even though he's a grown ass man... finally got him to get snipped when she brought up the possibility of paying income-based child support for 18 years.

☆ Assuming he doesn't have one, though...

☆ He'd initially be mad and blame you. "I thought you were on the pill!!"

☆ Then he'd be like "Is it too late to... you know... get rid of it?" (and kind of dance around the subject because he's too much of a wimp to just say the word abortion)

☆ Wallace and his mom would both force him to get his shit together and apologize. Eventually he'd come to terms with the fact he's gonna be a dad.

☆ He'd be the kind of bastard to throw an over-the-top gender reveal party. The kind that burns down half of California or pollutes a major water channel.

☆ I think he'd be a really good girl dad. He'd let her paint his nails and stuff. Spoil her. <3

☆ He would treat a son completely differently. Teach him to "be a man" or whatever when he's still learning to walk. Force him into random ass sports.

☆ He'd have them mostly taken care of by a nanny. That's probably how he was raised, anyways. Derek Danforth is NOT changing a diaper.

Futturman

☆ Whether we're talking pre-show or post-show, he'd freak the fuck out if you handed him a positive pregnancy test. I'm talking full-on pass out.

☆ Pre-show Josh would be like "Babe we can NOT afford a baby I literally live at home with my parents and work as a janitor."

☆ His parents would be so crazy supportive though. They've been hinting that they want grandkids for YEARS.

☆ They literally clear out a room IMMIDEATELY after hearing the news and offer it to you to use as a nursery.

☆ His mom buys you more baby clothes than you could possibly need. His dad builds a crib from scratch.

☆ Overall Josh is stressed asf but he does his best to be there for you, and his parents are OVERWHELMIGLY supportive.

☆ Post-show Josh, on the other hand, doesn't have that support. But he's survived unspeakable horrors across multiple dimensions, how hard could a baby be?

☆ Extremely hard, apparently. One day he just loses it and makes a huge decision without asking you.

☆ "Josh WTF happened to our savings??"

☆ "TRUST ME BABE we need to invest in Apple!!"

☆ You're pissed but it pays off in a few years and you're both able to live comfortably.

☆ Then in 2015-ish he did the same thing again, pouring all your savings into bitcoin. This time you SWEAR you're going to leave him, but it all pays out in the end. He gets your kid through college with that money.

☆ Overall he's a really good father, too. He had great parents, and even if he's not experienced with kids, he's naturally a very caring and attentive person.

Mike

☆ Cries when he sees the pregnancy test. He's not even sure if it's happy or sad tears.

☆ Gets sick to his stomach overthinking about how he's going to be a terrible father. His dad walked out on him, so he has literally no idea how to act.

☆ Abby, on the other hand, is absolutely delighted. She's always wanted a "little sister". Mike has to remind her that technically it's her niece. Or nephew. There's no guarantee on the gender yet.

☆ Eventually he comes to terms with it all. He's taken care of Abby for ten years, he isn't completely clueless.

☆ Takes you to all of your Dr.'s appointments, checkups, etc. Holds your hand. Makes all of your weird pregnancy cravings and doesn't judge.

☆ After the birth, he lets you rest. Nearly works himself to death trying to take care of the baby all on his own because he wants you to recover.

☆ I'm talking getting up bleary-eyed at 2am every night to microwave some formula and feed the baby. After working a 10 hour shift.

☆ Pulls the "I have a baby on the way" card at work in an attempt to get a raise. It works, thankfully. (In the novel version of the movie; it says he gets a job as a contractor at the end. So hopefully he can afford a kid...)

----------♡----------

[Remember: these are just MY headcannons. If you think differently that's fine. I didn't include Clapton because he's literally in highschool... and we all know Peeta is an amazing father.]

[powderblueblood]

HELLFIRE & ICE — eddie munson x f!oc as enemies to star-crossed lovers

CHAPTER FOUR — HOT SKIN and a HALL PASS

PREVIOUS | MASTERLIST | NEXT

summary: rules, you've recently learned, are for breaking– sanity is also, apparently, relative. after making a statement in the cafeteria, you play hooky with eddie in main street vinyl. content warnings: MINORS DNI tension you would need a chainsaw to cut through, farm-to-table snarking, do they even know they're yearning, nancy wheeler i'm sorry i shittalked you again (it will get better i swear) word count: 4k

Dear reader, do you ever feel like you’re completely losing your grasp on reality? 

You’ve cruised through life almost seamlessly up to this point. Yours is a well-oiled machine, one you painstakingly built yourself. But do you ever feel like you’ve spent so much time constructing something so carefully that it doesn’t make sense to you anymore? 

Like you can’t see the forest for the trees, or the treason for the thrill. 

Do you ever want to light your whole life up in flames, just to see what’s really fireproof?

“So, which is it?” 

You’re standing at your locker, making a bad job of touching up your now-flaking under-eye concealer when a voice rings out from the other end of the hall. It bounces off the cool metal of the lockers, the tack of the linoleum. It makes your shoulderblades go tense. 

“Has little Lacy been hiding a pair of brass balls this whole time, or is she on a suicide mission?”

You’d roll your eyes, but your face is aching. 

“Showing up with me this morning would have been one thing, but sitting yourself at my little table of outcasts? At lunch? The most important social event of the day?” 

Munson lets out a low whistle from where he leans, a couple of lockers up from yours. 

The hallway is deserted save for the both of you; you, out on a forged hall pass and him, probably just ditching to ditch. You peer at him from behind your locker door. He’s standing slanted in a long, lithe line made bold and jangly by his carefully curated metalhead armor. 

You, and this comes with a hefty dose of begrudgery, have to hand it to him– he leans great. 

“Talk about blowing up your reputation beyond repair.” 

You know he’s making fun of you– he’s not exactly subtle about it, nor is he about anything. It’s all in the lilt of his tone, how ridiculous he thinks the interwoven politics of the cafeteria are, how dumb he thinks you are for considering that in the least bit important. 

Munson’s idea of survival in high school is attacking conformity with a nuclear bomb, whereas yours is a little more artful. 

“I know this might be hard for you to comprehend, Munson,” you sigh, and the sound rattles through your ribcage– you are tired, tired of him, “given that your understanding of object permanence has clearly been stunted at an infantile level, but the world does not revolve around you."

"No?!" he croons, sarcasm slicking out of him.

"I was catching up with Ronnie.”

“Right, because you guys have been such good gal pals up to this point,” Munson scoffs. 

His face, framed by those wild waves, materializes in the reflection of your locker’s mirror, peering over your shoulder. You slam the door and pivot to face him properly, impact ringing out like a gunshot. 

He does a little jump, a shadow of his shock at you on Harrington’s porch. 

That reaction is like a shot of espresso straight to the veins.

Good. Be afraid. Asshole.

You're sure as fuck awake now!

“Lab partner love never dies,” you say, leveling his stare. “You’d know that if you showed up for Biology once in a while.” 

“Maybe I need a tutor. I could use someone to help me brush up on anatomy.” 

“Sorry. I don’t teach remedial.” 

“Maybe you should start. Rehabilitate your image.” 

“Again, who died and made you my parole officer?”

His expression cracks; a gasp of a laugh. “Oh, so you remember all that?”

“My hippocampus is alive and kicking.”

“Your hip– what?”

Your lips purse, and just as you’re about to throw another verbal dart at him, the voice of Ms O’Donnell cuts through the both of you. 

“I hope you two have a damn good excuse for loitering in this hallway– because if not, Mr Munson, I believe you’re less than one detention away from suspension.” 

Munson’s got this terminal disease where he’s more smarm than charm, despite his warped perception of himself. There’s no way he’s going to handle this with the grace that’s necessary, because O’Donnell hates him anyway. 

He keens his head in the teacher’s direction, ready to roll out some useless excuse. 

Before he’s even got the chance to speak, you cut him off. 

“Hall pass, Ms O’Donnell.” You flash the fake yellow slip at her, careful to obscure the names– you’ve usually got one of these forgeries to hand, just in case you need it, and teachers generally trust you enough not to check them out. It comes with the whole work-life balance you’ve been treading for the entirety of your high school career; you’re well-liked and you’re maintaining an impressive grade point average. They don’t give a shit what you do other than that. 

“The Weekly Streak has run into a printer snag and Nancy Wheeler’s car is on the fritz. Eddie,” his first name, which you never ever use, feels weird and heavy on your tongue, “offered me a ride to the printers to make sure it gets worked out– it’s a big issue. What with the game this weekend and everything.” 

O’Donnell’s eyes narrow. You nudge Munson right in his funny bone– hard enough for him to wince. 

“Right?”

“Right! That big game. Front page news, Ms O’D. Gooooo Tigers.”

The teacher clicks her tongue against her teeth, her rock hard stare challenging the delinquent beside you– it’s entirely likely that Munson could have blown it for himself just by virtue of being alive and in O’Donnells sight line, but you know she’s got no reason not to believe you. 

See, your reputation at the school newspaper precedes you; it’s just about the only thing that really holds your interest within the monotonous structure of Hawkins High. With your finger on the pulse of Hawkins’ student body, it only makes sense that you serve as a fierce and unforgiving editor of the Streak’s society pages– funnily enough, that hardline professionalism included never giving Munson’s infamously lame Dungeons and Dragons club a single mention in them. 

Vetoed, you’d drawled at one of the more well-mannered members that had shyly approached you about writing a piece. Not Ronnie– she knew better than that.

How come? they’d whined, as their fearsome leader glowered near the lockers just like he was doing now. 

On grounds of irrelevance. I’m not wasting valuable inches on a make believe board game club. 

This activated Munson. Lacy, you wouldn’t know valuable inches if they rammed you in the–

“Make it fast,” O’Donnell decrees, and you feel her watch you as you take off down the hallway. With a snappy quirk of your painted fingers, you gesture for Munson to follow your lead. And you better believe he does, almost tripping over his ratty Reeboks trying to keep in step with you. 

You both heave open the double doors, squinting against the unseasonable late autumn sunshine. Heels of your ankle boots clicking against the concrete, you make an unconscious beeline for the parking lot– for Munson’s van. 

“So– what now?” he asks, dur-dur dumb as all hell. 

“What now is I just got you a free pass to play hooky,” you say, little miss cactus flower, prickly with annoyance. You shield your eyes against the blazing light. “Weren’t you ditching anyway?”

“Yeeaaah,” Munson hums, scratching the back of his head, “But… the plan kind of was to smoke a joint and go to the record store.” 

“Doesn’t sound like a complete waste of time,” you hear yourself saying before you realize it, yanking at the van’s passenger door. You pause, raising an expectant eyebrow at Munson. Isn’t this your cue? 

Baffled, bewildered, but grinning despite himself, he extends that silver ringed hand and helps you haul your ass into his beat up chariot. 

Completely losing your grip on reality.

–

It’s a fugue state. It’s an out of body experience– you’re watching yourself from outside your corporeal form and you have no logical control over what you’re doing. 

That’s the only way to explain why you’re standing in Main Street Vinyl, elbow to elbow with Eddie Munson. 

But that might also be the weed talking. 

You don’t know where the hell he gets this stuff, but it’s strong– way stronger than the shit he’s sold to your friends ever since he started dealing. Well, you guess it makes sense that he’d keep the good shit for himself. You’d do that too, if you were him. 

What if I was him, you idly wonder, peering up at him as he flicks through letters R through T in the metal section. His tongue peeks out of his mouth as his ringed fingers work though the vinyl, carefully considering each one. 

This is what you mean by obvious– you, for one, would have the good conscience not to look so stoned while you’re so stoned. 

You definitely don’t look stoned right now. 

No one can even tell that you’re looking at him, up from underneath those thick lashes of yours. 

He’s got thick lashes too, come to think of it. 

Munson is actually not completely unfortunate looking– but again, if you were him, there’s no way you’d wear your hair like that. You’d keep it long-ish, though, you think. He’s got a point there; a nice curl pattern. Maybe to your ears. And the clothes obviously have to go– that denim vest is a patchwork disaster. Did he sew all those patches on himself? 

A vision of him hunched over the thing with a needle and thread in hand flits through your brain, pricking himself more than he can pick up a stitch. He’s gone out of his way to make himself look like this– kind of similar to the way you pick up your skirts so they’re always impeccably just short enough. 

Now, the leather jacket you could forgive if at least the collar was different. Maybe one of those Brando-style biker jackets, you could rock that. Or a brown leather number, to bring out your eyes– which are his eyes, of course, his crazy dark empty universes of eyes. 

The kind of eyes with the kind of stare that nails you in place and makes you want to do crazy shit like ditch class and get loaded and stand dumbly in a record store. Those eyes.

That are staring at you. He’s staring at you. Right back at you. 

“I can read your mind,” Munson monotones, unblinking. 

You go flush, heat crawling all the way up to your ears. “Wh–what?”

Then he nudges you and snorts, breaking the spell. 

“You have gotta stop thinking such dirty thoughts about me, ice princess. You’re gonna melt.” 

You scoff, shaking your head– but the cartoonish move is more to ground you in reality than a reaction to him and his idiocy. You’re Wile E Coyote after blunt force impact with an Acme anvil, shaking the circling birds away. 

“They don’t even have what I’m looking for here.” 

Stalking around the stacks of records, with no clear direction in mind, you feel Munson’s laser stare follow you. “Yeah, they don’t usually file Madonna next to Motörhead, Lacy.” 

They’re both filed under M, aren’t they? is what you want to say. “I don’t listen to Madonna,” you protest instead, all quietly miffed and earnest with a crinkle in your brow. 

“Mm, don’t think that’s true,” Munson smirks, rounding on you around the rack. “You gave me a pretty spot on rendition of Like a Virgin– or does your hippocrampus not recall?”

“Hippocampus,” you breathe out, but it’s lost in the din of Main Street Vinyl’s quiet, carpeted atmosphere, “I don’t listen to her, like, recreationally. I can’t help if that song’s an earworm.” A beat. “I also can’t help if you’re a particularly serenadable virgin.” 

“She’s gonna touch me for the very first tii-iime…”

“That was a threat.” 

You make an active attempt toward tunnel vision as you slowly tread through the store, feeling the high starting to turn on you– this was the part smoking weed that you hated, the few times that you’d imbibed in it. That lack of control over the way you were coming across. For a girl trained in the art of saying all the right things, this was dangerous. Your tongue felt both loose and heavy in your mouth, like it could come out with anything and you couldn’t stop it, it’d just roll on out. 

The malevolent presence of Munson and your pathological need to one up him wasn’t helping matters. 

Ever since the parking lot at school, you’ve been stalking around like there’s a target on your back. Evidently, you’re not the kind of girl that chills out when you smoke, which is equal parts a relief and a disappointment to Eddie. He wonders what you’d look like, mellowed out and floating. Your eyebrow unarched and your lips not poised for attack.

He’s also acutely aware that he wouldn’t know what the hell to do with you then, either. 

But he can’t tear his eyes away from you, a hyperfocus that he’s assuming is a symptom of his own buzz. Every little twitch and jump you do– it’s like it’s begging him to pay attention. Like if he looks away for even a second, he might miss something. 

“What are you looking for?” he asks, eyes trained on you while you thumb through the records. 

As much as you love music, and you do, you have a tough time describing exactly what you want to listen to. The notes in the songs that you revisit again and again read more like physical feelings, sparking off in your nerve endings. For example, listening to River by Joni Mitchell feels like something heavy is sitting on your chest. Listening to Hong Kong Garden by Siouxsie and the Banshees feels like you have fairy lights at the end of your fingertips. 

“I want something that sounds…” you say, noticing the distinct feeling of cottonmouth setting in, “Ticklish.”

“Ticklish,” Munson deadpans back at you. 

“Something that sounds like someone’s running a xylophone mallet down my spine.” 

He regards you for what feels like an excruciatingly long timewith this terrible, awful look on his face– brows ticked up over his glassy bloodshot eyes, pink mouth peeling into a grin, and this look, this look of wonderment. Like he can’t believe you’re real, and you’re here, and you’re saying shit like this to him. 

Join the club. 

“... You don’t get stoned a lot, do you?”

“Ugh!” you groan, a little louder than you mean to– the cashier shoots you a glare as you stalk past Munson, stalk past him, cheeks flaring pink. “I know what I’m talking about. I know it when I hear it– I heard a record just like that earlier this year! It’s like, some band from Scotland or something? Totally incomprehensible lyrics, yeah, but that’s what it felt like. It was like… bone deep.”

You hear Munson emit the teeniest hehe! and you just about snarl at him over your shoulder.

Rounding on the alternative section, limited as it is, you feel a welcome sense of familiarity. You haunt this corner when you can, when you’re out of sight from prying eyes. There’s only one other regular purveyor of this little corner of Main Street Vinyl that you know of. You trace a thumb over the spines of the cassette cases–it’s mostly tapes, rarely ever records because tapes are easier to import and harder to damage, and it’s always haphazardly organized–and then you spot it. 

Victoriously, you thrust it in Munson’s face, which is right over your shoulder. He’s frequenting that spot a lot recently. “Ha!”

“Oh!” he chirps, sounding almost pleasantly surprised and plucks the tape from your fingers. “... Cocteau Twins?”

You falter, eyelashes flickering as you look up at him. Dammit. He even pronounced it right. 

“You know them?” You hate how high your voice sounds.

He runs a thumb over the plastic casing, edging a little closer to you. That came outta left field. 

��This shit… sounds like what a haunted music box would sound like.” 

Aaand we’re back in the room.

“Okay…?”

“This is creepy, cursed doll music.” 

And the room is filled with assholes.

“Alright.”

“This is what you hear right before you’re about to get possessed by the ghost of Tiny Tim. The whiniest little bitch ghost of all time.” 

And all the assholes are named Eddie Munson. 

“I get it.”

“You better be careful with this stuff, Lacy-Wacy,” he teases, mocking that fraudulent concern ripped straight from an episode of Donahue. He taps the cassette case against your forehead. “Music like this is a gateway drug. A gateway drug to hanging out with, like, Jonathan Byers.”

You reach out and grab his wrist, tugging his hand and that damn tape away from your face. You’re shocked to find that the skin under your fingers is blazing hot–same as you felt through his shirt when he helped you to the door in your drunken stupor. 

Does he always run this warm? you wonder. Is it all that Satanic poseur poison coursing through his stupid veins?

“Well, it’s a little late for that,” you tell him, and you’re not quite sure why. Probably because every secret you swore would die with you is slowly but surely punching its gnarly hand from the grave, like fucking Carrie from fucking Carrie.

Munson doesn’t even express any overt shock, like he’s learning to roll with the punches of you revealing bits and pieces of yourself through sheer annoyance with him. He just cocks his head, challenging you with a silent, Really?

This chick. This blink-and-you’ll-miss-it chick.

“I ran into him in this corner a lot,” you explain breezily, tilting a shoulder up like it doesn’t bother you, like it’s never bothered you. “We’d always be standing next to each other at the listening booths, and I’d be listening to stuff I couldn’t take home and he’d be listening to stuff he couldn’t afford to buy and… We like a lot of the same music. We went out on like, one date if you could even call it that, and it didn’t work out.”

“Because he’s a creepazoid?”

“Because he was hip deep in it for Nancy Wheeler,” you supply, a green monster gurgling in the pit of your stomach. “Like every other respectable member of the male species.” 

It was the summer before junior year, a punishingly hot one even by Hawkins standards. You’ve never been good in the heat and that summer made your entire body feel ill-equipped, your skin ill-fitting. Main Street Vinyl had those big, big box fans right near the cash desk which was right near the listening booths, so you would spend the majority of your time there when you weren’t being forced to the lake or Skull Rock with your friends. 

Jonathan would look at you with alarm at first, like you were trespassing. Then he’d spy what you were listening to and sneak these small, shy smiles at you that you indulged in– at first, because you weren’t copping a lot of male attention from anyone else that summer. Eventually, it was because his shadowy eyes were always ringed with this tenderness, with knowing. Like you two were sharing a secret. It made you be able to look past the greasy hair and crippling social awkwardness. 

You know you rocked his world the day you breezed past him at the listening booth, leaned in and whispered, I love Linda Thompson's voice, don't you?

But still, the Love’s Baby Soft scented specter of Nancy Wheeler loomed large. You picked what you thought was a secluded spot in the park for your ‘date’, which included a conversation that was almost entirely cruise directed by you. Said conversation completely flatlined when you both spotted Nancy Wheeler cresting a hill, walking her family dog.

At this point, you and Nancy were most familiar with each other from the school newspaper– she, the peachy-cheeked junior, the rising star that was sure to make editor and you, the girl who knew where the parties were happening and where the bodies were buried. 

The picture of coquettishness, she offered you and Jonathan an awkward, stilted wave. Jonathan spoke a grand total of three words after she left, zeroing in on the spot where she appeared like a man possessed. 

You didn’t acknowledge his existence after that.

It’s not that you were particularly hung up on Jonathan Byers, but you didn’t expect someone like him to be able to elicit that cold sinking feeling you were used to experiencing at the hands of other boys and their ignorance. Maybe it hurt more because you thought you had something in common– something real, something that wasn’t shotgunning a can of Busch. Whatever it was, it made you sure of two things. 

You hated Nancy Wheeler, and she wasn’t going anywhere. 

You wished you didn’t hate her. But you also wished she’d dissolve into a fine mist.  

“Wheeler’s a priss,” Munson pulls you out of memory lane in a harsh left turn, face contorting into a half-grimace. It’s the general consensus on Wheeler– the shoes are too goody for everyone to be falling head-over-heels with her, if you want Eddie’s honest opinion. There’s no there there, not like with–

“I’m a priss.” It sounds like you’re defending her. In some weird way, you might be. 

I know what guys like you think of me.

“No, you’re a bitch.” 

His weight on the word bitch makes your knees feel unsteady. The way he says it. It’s not enunciated like an insult. It’s a dagger cloaked in velvet. It’s warm, like he is. It’s almost filthy. It makes you look at his mouth. 

“You’re a stone cold killer bitch,” Eddie’s voice hums low in his chest. His heartbeat is picking up, and he wonders if you can feel it where your freezing fingertips are squeezing his pulse point, “and I think–”

“You two truant assholes gonna buy anything today or am I gonna have to call the goddamn dog warden on y’all?” 

Heaved back into reality by the clerk at the cash desk. A trickle of cold sweat runs from the nape of your neck into the collar of your sweater. Heaved back into reality to see you’re still clutching Eddie Munson by the wrist, and he’s looking at you like you’re the last Popsicle. Cold shock in the middle of a summer’s day.

It gets so hot here in summer.

“I think,” you breathe as you unstick your fingers from him, suddenly aware that you’re parched and starving and your face hurts, “it’s time for me to go home.” 

“I– yeah,” Munson stumbles, also perturbed by the interruption. His red-ringed eyes gain a little more clarity. He’s seeing something you’re not seeing. He shouldn't be letting himself see that. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go back to the van. Let me make you look at me like that again. Let me see if you’re cold all over. I can fix that.

“No, I gotta…” Your head pounding, your thoughts swimming– the sharp and stupid realness of this whole afternoon coming into perfect view. What are you doing? “I need to walk it off.” 

He inhales sharply, a strangled chuckle– oof. That other shoe, that buckled heel of yours, clattering to the floor. He should have expected that, right? There’s no way you’d wanna… Because you’re you and he’s…

Eddie retreats back into himself a step or two; it looks like he’s gone all bashful, a little color dropping out of his cheeks. His hands clasping behind his back. His heart is in his big intestine. 

“That’s the second time you’ve turned me down today, sweetheart. Keep it up, I’m gonna start thinkin’ you don’t like me.”

Munson, get the fuck out of here before I ban you again! and Jerry, can’t you see me talking to somebody right now! explode in a cacophony, the boy and the keeper of the keys to the record store hollering at each other. You take this moment of interruption to nudge the door open with your shoulder. But you don’t start into the street without giving him one more look. 

“Lacy.” He’s grinning this dumb grin, eyes gone soft at the corners.

He’s giving this one last nudge.

Your heart thumps. A reminder– this is really happening. Shit. Fuck.

“That’s the thing, though,” you say, attempting to smooth your expression out with a frosty smile. “I don’t like you, Eddie.”

author's notes: of course, my eternal eternal ETERNAL THANKS for all the love you have shown this story and the anons you've sent!!! writing is crazy so thank you for caring about mine. onto the fun stuff because you know i love a reference: - he leans great. a shameless my so-called life drop but eddie to me is a kind of stunning midpoint between catalano (left back twice) and krakow (would go down on you for days) - someone in the tags said ronnie and lacy should hold hands and i don't disagree. lab partner love never dies! - there's never a bad time to listen to ace of spades by motörhead - there's also never a bad time to listen to treasure by cocteau twins, which is the album lacy is referencing - i always fee like the zombie hand reaching out of the ground motif is unfairly accredited to the living dead franchises or something like that, but of course the most iconic instance to me is from carrie (1976) because women own horror - god, we really need to bring back listening booths in record stores! like we really need to bring them back lest romance die forever. - richard and linda thompson, also forever!!!!! my headcanon for this re: jonathan byers is this particular record is a joyce byers influenced choice. joyce and lonnie loved this record (when they were happy... lol) and played it all the time when jonathan was a baby. their original copy got lost (or destroyed) and sometimes jonathan will play it in the main street listening booth but he won't bring it home because he knows it's painful for his mom. - all my stone cold killer bitches in the house make some noise - jerry from main street vinyl you will always be rob from high fidelity in MY HEART (eddie is barry even though he doesn't work there lmao) - ok my hellcats! that's all the cultural education for this chapter!! thanks again for reading, reblog and scream at me in the asks because i so appreciate (and need) the support and i'd also love y'all to send me prompts! don't be shy! i love an in-universe blurb!

[vasito-de-leche]

so remember when we were all wondering what's with the r1999 character profile page?

the "an arcanist's work displayed in the 19xx"

and with their length x width dimensions

and how our chosen character in our home page retreats to being a painting in the background

anyways...in one of the new game infos in the loading pages (which has a very short window of reading time so it was hard to catch), it was said that:

there was a strange phenomenon of people turning into paintings that they can't find the cause of

based on what we have so far i am not liking what bluepoch could be implying in that loading page 🥹

For those who don't know or haven't seen it yet, they're talking about the following loading screen (ty to Tale's lore server for providing these!)

I just assume that these details are part of the whole artistic theme within the game, like how each Chapter is named after a real book, all the references to artistic movements and so on and so forth. As well as Vertin's role as the Timekeeper─she's meant to record and keep evidence from different eras, which sounds to me like a job for an art collector, conservator or restorator! So it makes sense to me that the people she saves are seen as art pieces.

Besides, the suitcase/Wilderness is a very vague, mysterious place. It's a literal pocket dimension that just seems to do its own thing and follow its own rules. I'm willing to casually accept that, sometimes, people turn into paintings for no apparent reason because it's a LITERAL pocket dimension that pulls people from time and space.

If I think reaaally hard ... Maybe you're implying that the people within the suitcase are doomed to become paintings eventually, because they're in the wrong era?

But that makes no sense, because there's hundreds of other survivors within the Foundation, Manus Vindictae and Apeiron so far who survive just fine─and Chapter 05 revealed why some places are immune to the "Storm."

Any potential arguments to support this theory don't hold up from my perspective, either. For example, the idea that the arcanists Vertin pulls from the spinning wheel in the middle of the lake are different from people who survive the "Storm" through different means (siding with either the Foundation or Manus, or by being in Apeiron, these are the only examples we have so far), and therefore they don't count, so they could be affected in different ways. This doesn't hold up, because Vertin pulled Sonetto, someone from the same era as her, into the suitcase through the spinning wheel. Whereas Regulus, who comes from an entirely different era, was just pushed inside. And yet, both of these characters turn into paintings anyway when you select them on the main screen.

So I don't think I understand the "implication" you're talking about and why you wouldn't like it? But please, feel free to elaborate on a different ask/reblog/reply, etc etc! I'd love to know!

[wazzappp]

ALRIGHT WE BALL. Time to get on with the story (i have a story planned thats. a real shocker. im ass at writing but ill get this drawn damnit I promise)

This argument is one that just needed to happen. Robbie cant think of the infected he's been killing as people because that would mean he has killed a truly UNCOUNTABLE AMOUNT OF PEOPLE. Lisa has done what she has to in order to survive, and that includes killing the un-infected (which, of course, to Robbie is totally unacceptable). So when he's trying to explain the difference it just comes across JUDGY AS HELL. They're both proud and defensive and bad communicators and the conversation goes BADLY.

This happens while they're on their way to the Beneviento house. Lisa basically goes 'Alright if youre so high and mighty go ahead and beat this one yourself then!' and fucks off back to Duke with the intention to kill as many Lycans in the way as physically possible. Robbie goes ahead to the SPOOKY NIGHTMARE HOUSE trust me I have plans for what he sees in there and its appropriately disturbing but it also spoils the ending I have planned for this whole thing so :) hang in there.

BUT he ends up having a BAD TIME when he's trying to head back and what @rokhal suggested slotted in SO VERY NICE HERE (i feel i have sufficiently LOST MY MIND over the fic you posted i am JKSL:FJSDFDS F UCk)

'Picturing Robbie alone in the Village foraging for gunpowder and cash (because it's a Video Game and they can't just hang out in Donna Benaviento's house throwing the creepy dolls in the river while waiting for rescue after reconnecting the phone lines, no, they have to wander around the entire map) and he's saving the herbs for Gabe and using all the chem fluid for sniper rifle ammo or whatever. And he's fighting off werewolves and it's fine because apparently his health regenerates like mana because he's made of mold.

But as he's wandering around it starts to get harder and harder to remember how much cash and scrap he needs. And he keeps missing shots. And then he gets a little turned around but now he's lost and there's more fkn werewolves, and he's seriously low on ammo and he just wants to get back to Gabe, but he needs to regroup and his hands are numb so he tries to warm them at one of the villager's stoves.

And then he discovers that he's slowly turning into a mindless mold creature, and realizes that the only way to keep Gabe safe from him is to get really really really lost, so lost he'll never find his way back before something kills and eats him.

This does not work, but it does ensure that he is incoherent and barely recognizable by the time Gabe and Lisa track him down.'

Which is all MWAH. CHEFS KISS.

Anyway Robbie is gone for a WHILE and Lisa realizes that the puzzles she needs to solve to move the fuck on require 2 people so she's stuck killing any lycans that stray too close to Dukes camp and hanging out with Gabe. UNTIL, of course, Gabe decides yeah no fuck this fuck that Robbie has been away for WAY to long and I'm going after him. Only problem is that Gabe's abilities are kinda rooted too wherever his sclerotia pods (is adding pods to that redundant? whatever we ball) have had enough time to take root and grow. Meaning, despite her anger towards Robbie at the moment, if Lisa doesen't want Gabe caught, dragged to Mother Miranda and dismembered, she's gotta go with him (also featuring @moosemonstrous hilarious idea of her being proud of Gabe's attempted intimidation).

When they DO track him down he's barely awake. He keeps wandering in one direction then looks like he wants to turn around and go another but he keeps FORCING HIMSELF to go the other way (generally I think he would be a decent bit stronger, but fighting his instincts this hard make him seem more aimless. Robbie is borderline unstoppable when trying to get to his brother, but right now he's NOT trying to get to his brother. you feel me?). Lisa goes up first to make sure he's not going to lose his shit or something. He basically falls onto her with the single saddest "m'sorry" ever heard on planet Earth. If it's for FALLING on her or if its for the CONVERSATION earlier, Lisa isn't quite sure. But it's been years since anyone has apologized to her for anything and thats enough for her to decide she should at least sling him over her shoulder like a sack of potatoes back to Dukes camp.

They make it back to the Dukes camp and give Robbie a couple of med kits (GOOP JUICE!!!!!) and he's a little more coherent. He's still trying to stay away from Gabe even though everything in him is saying 'STAY CLOSE' but he's got SOME brain space available because at least he's in line of sight now. Scrambled brain time is not the BEST for trying at an apology but hey, Robbie isn't really known for his great ideas and he tries anyway.

(ft me being unwell about shoving them together)

They're on better terms after this. The communication is still weird but hey its them so everything is weird. Plus they get some extra bonding time because I also snatched rokhals OTHER suggestion of

'....Been thinking maybe The Duke has a recipe that would heal Robbie...requiring meat from a golden dancing fish and the breast of the blue bird that haunts the graveyard and the tenderloin of the magnificent boar that sires all the swine in the Village...or something. So Gabe and Lisa have to go hunting while keeping Robbie calm...'

Ah yes. the high end flesh of the Great Village Fuck Boar. Delightful.

Cause I mean he's BETTER but still not GREAT. I think now that he's with Gabe he would be unable to leave him again while like this. Gabe would HAVE to go with them (we can get >:] 'Robbie goes into an overprotective frenzy and sword hands himself to hack some poor lycan that got too close in half' its a good time [its not. sword hand is very disturbing to him])

So anyway what Im TRYING to say is that the brainworms will continue

[the-cookie-of-doom]

hmm here's a prompt -- and no pressure to do this one if you don't want to!

porsche enlisting kim's help to find a gift for kinn. that's what porsche tells kim, anyway (he just wants to get to know kim a little better).

Anything for you, my friend! I have clinical in like an hour so I'm not going to finish this, so here's part 1 of Five Things Porsche Learns About Kim (bc ofc this is going to be a whole Thing)

When Porsche puts his mind to something, nothing can stop him. He's stubborn that way. Him and Porchay wouldn't have survived if he wasn't. Life has been throwing cheap shots at Porsche for his entire life; he's learned to roll with the punches and come up swinging, grinning all the while.

All that to say, he gets what he wants. And right now, he's decided what he wants, is a relationship with his little brother's boyfriend. Because there's nothing Porsche is more stubborn about than family, and that's what they are, now, whether he likes it or not.

Kimhan Theerapanyakul is about to learn the hard way that the Kittisawats are a package deal.

The first thing Porsche learns about Kim is that he's a squirrely little bastard. He weasels his phone number out of Chay - after finding out that Kinn didn't have it saved in his own phone, which will be a conversation for later - but Kim doesn't any answer any of the flurry of phone calls and texts that Porsche hurls his own way. Apparently, according to Porchay, Kim has memorized all the numbers of everyone important enough to be worth his time, and doesn't bother with anyone else.

What if someone has to borrow a phone? Porsche had asked.

Sucks to be them, Chay replied, with a silly smile that might mean he's kidding, or it might mean he knows exactly how ridiculous Kim is being, but still somehow likes him anyway. Porsche would prefer the former but he's almost certain it's the latter, and he's trying to figure out exactly why Chay would like him so much.

Because as far as Porsche can tell? Kim is more akin to a feral cat than anything else. Keeps his distance, sullenly watches Porsche anytime they happen to be in the same room, looking away only to scan for the nearest exit - which he takes at the earliest opportunity - and Porsche is certain Kim has actually hissed at him once. Probably not.

Since Kim won't answer unknown numbers, Porsche is forced to stoop to his level. Kinn's phone is of course out of the question, which only leaves one other person, at least only one Porsche can easily access, guaranteed to have it.

He's holding a struggling Porchay in a headlock while the phone dials. It only rings once.

"Hello, love," Kim greets, his voice warm and syrupy and so, so fond that Porsche has to gag, just to see the way his brother flushes.

"I'm sorry, Kim!" Porchay shouts. He's still struggling, digging his hands into Porsche's sides. "I tried to stop him!"

"Porsche." And there it is, that flat tone Porsche is used to.

"Hi, Kim, how's it going?" he asks casually.

"Goodbye.

"Wait, wait, wait!" It's no use. The line is already dead. Porsche releases his brother with a groan, and doesn't fight it when Chay snatches back his phone. "Why does he have to be so difficult?"

"Kim doesn't like being cornered, hia," Chay scolds him. "If you just talked to him like a normal person-"

"He won't let me! He keeps running!"

"You're intimidating!" Porsche doesn't believe that for a second. If Kinn wasn't intimated by him, no way his murderous little brother way. "Maybe you're coming on too strong? He probably think you're gonna kill him for, y'know..."

"No, I don't know." Porsche side-eyes Chay, who's no longer making eye contact. "Do I need to kill him?"

"No!"

"Should I want to?"

"Hia, No!" Chay throws his hands up. "See! This is why he won't talk to you! You're embarrassing."

"Good. Also, I don't care. I want to talk to him, and unless he wants me to lock you in your room and forbit you from seeing each other for the rest of your life, he better cooperate."

Chay lets out a sigh like the weight of all the world is bearing down on him. "I'll talk to him," he mumbles, sullen.

[aita-blorbos]

WIBTA for hiding medicine from my uncle?

So some backstory: I (16M) am basically disabled and reliant on my uncle (??M). He pretty much saved my life when I was younger for rescuing me from the terrorist attack that killed the rest of our family. My uncle is really cool! He's kind of this really important guy and he's working really, really hard to fix the way things are done since they've been messed up for so long. I'm one of the most important people serving him and the youngest person ever to earn the title he gave me! We're the only family we have left. My uncle is also fairly sick, but he's strong and hides it from the people. I help him take his medicine sometimes.

A few weeks ago, I really let him down. While I was getting him more medicine, one of his other subordinates (??F) shot me down and tried to kill me, which is pretty normal for her. Anyway I ended up surviving with the help of a formerly-wanted criminal's apprentice, but she distracted me at an opportune moment and stole the medicine! I should note that the medicine is really strong and powerful stuff- it seems harmless but it's made out of the same stuff used to kill my family and in the wrong hands it's a really bad thing. My uncle's kinda strict, but he's also fair, and I know I let him down when I lost the medicine. He said it hurt him more than it hurt me. :(

Now I'm in possession of one of the units of medicine but it's kind of like a comfort object to me. I'm very careful with it!! And I know he'd be REALLY really mad if he found out that I've kept it a secret from him. He's also having trouble getting medicine recently so his illness is really giving him trouble. I know I SHOULD give it to him, but I really don't want to. It's special to me. I think he's still upset about my failure because he hasn't given me any assignments recently. He says there are big plans for me, but I'm having trouble believing it?

Plus it's more confusing because the head of a major group (mid-40s?M, let's call him D) has promised to help me keep the medicine thing a secret. It's really weird because he used to not like me? Apparently his mentor was the guy who had this job before me, and he was a lot less disappointing. But ever since I f***ed (sorry for my language) something else up with some of my friends, he's been a lot nicer to me and has been teaching me stuff like sewing. It's cool but he also asks me a lot about how my uncle treats me? I guess D thinks it's wrong that sometimes I get hurt when my uncle's illness acts up, but I know my uncle never means it. My uncle's the only reason I'm not dead. Otherwise, with my disability, I'd be completely useless. My uncle gave me a device that lets me do things other people can. Besides, D doesn't know my uncle like I do.

Anyway, my uncle's been having a really rough time lately with his illness, and he's stressed out because I keep messing up and he's working on an upcoming major holiday celebration. He doesn't even want me around a lot of the time, which feels bad, but also a lot of people have told me I have an annoying voice so maybe that's why? Anyway D says I shouldn't have to give up the medicine to my uncle because it's important to me. I really want to keep it, but I know it's wrong and dangerous to have around. I just feel really bad hiding something from my uncle like this. Im the only family he has left, and if something happened to me, he said I'm basically irreplaceable.

So will I be the a**hole (sorry about the language again) if I keep it a secret for a little longer? or am I just being ungrateful and ignoring all the help my uncle's given me? Thanks.

[sawyer-is-not-my-name]

Ominis Gaunt x GN! Reader

synopsis: Reader is feeling guilty for everything that has happened throughout their fifth year. And their boyfriend Ominis tries to comfort them.

warnings: hogwarts legacy spoilers, takes place right before the house cup, and right after the entirety of the whole quest. Angst, and grief/guilt

Guilt and pain, were all you seemed to know these days. The end of the year was fast approaching, yet you weren’t as excited for it. All you wanted to do was turn back time, make it so none of it ever happened.

All of it felt like your fault, Sebastian’s grief, Ominis and Sebastians starting to fall out, Natty getting hit by the cruciatus curse, Professor Fig’s death, Solomons death. Everything felt like your fault, you were involved in all of it. You killed poachers, goblins… so many lives were on your hands.

You were having a hard time speaking to anyone, all people wanted to do was praise you for saving Hogwarts, but you didn’t feel like a hero. You felt like the problem.

So now here you were hiding in the undercroft, away from all prying eyes. Your knees curled into your chest, trying to keep your own tears at bay. You didn’t allow yourself to cry, feeling as though you weren’t allowed to be upset.

after an hour of sitting there, in the dark the door opened. As quietly as you could you peaked your head up, spotting your boyfriend Ominis. You focused on steadying your breathing making yourself as quiet as possible. He was one of the last people you wanted to find you like this.

“y/n?” You felt bad hiding from the blind man, but you had no interest in being caught having a pity party by yourself, in the dark (not that he’d realize its dark). “You have not been in classes today, everyones worried about you. I’m worried about you love.”

The thought of even having everyones attention on you made you sick to your stomach. You hated it, you just wanted to disappear. You kept your head down as the thought washed over you, before a sob erupted from you.

You’d been holding back crying for the past few weeks, the damn finally being broken. Ominis was at your side in a heart beat, taking care to not scare you as he gently kneeled down beside you, placing a hand on your arm.

He didn’t tell you to stop, he just sat their listening as the person he’d grown to care for and love broke down in front of him. You leaned into him, not even sure what you wanted but he seemed to realize. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you into him.

He didn’t often offer up his affection like this, but for you he would. The person he loved was hurting, the brave and cool exterior you had seeming to shatter, right before him, and he felt this need to protect one of the only good things he had.

When you finally calmed down, he didn’t let go of you. His head still resting on yours as you leaned into him.

“I’m sorry you had to see me like that.” He bit his tongue trying to hold back a sarcastic comment, but apparently he didn’t bite it hard enough as it feel past his lips. “Darling, I can’t see anything, so you have nothing to apologize for.” Your face heated up realizing your mistake.

“I’m still sorry you found me like this.” He shook his head, “Nonsense love, you shouldn’t have to be alone at a time like this.” You pulled back from his arms, feeling guilty for crying, remembering your whole reason for hiding in the first place. “Maybe I should be alone, it’s all my fault-“ he shushed you mid-sentence. “No. That is not at all true.” He shifted closer to you, searching for your hand, “I killed so many poachers, goblins, Professor Figs death, and Solomons is my fault.”

“It is not your fault, none of that was. You are a child doing the best you can to survive.” The all to familiar words, you had told him, but you couldn’t apply them to yourself. “You should hate me, if I never came along you and Sebastian would still be alright, he wouldn’t have been able to get so close to the dark arts.”

“He would’ve done that anyways, once he sets his eyes on something he will not stop until its too late. And you tried to stop him he’s just too stubborn to listen. Just like you’re being right now.” He pulled you into him again this time not letting you break out of it, “You’re allowed to be upset, you witnessed so much this year. You often times put yourself in the way of danger to protect others, don’t for second think you caused this. I know sometimes I might say things that sound that way, but I know its not you’re fault.”

His words calmed you down, your heartbeat slowed to its regular rhythm, tears finally coming to a slow and your body relaxing against him. He didn’t fully know how he did it, he had never had to comfort someone like this, nor really been comforted like this, yet with you he managed. Like his mind just new how to protect you and help you, knowing someone as kind, and sweet as yourself shouldn’t have to go through that alone.

He may not be able to take your pain away, but he sure as hell would stand by your side through it.

[thepenultimateword]

Ok, so since my first response to this post kinda went its own direction, I decided to give this prompt a second try. The prompt is originally by @gingerly-writing (I will write it in purple to separate it from the rest of the text).

"Oh," said the supervillain. Quietly. Too quietly. "I see. Kissing me was just a distraction."

"No! Well, yes, but...it's not like that!"

"Oh? So explain how it is. Quickly."

"Well...you see..." The supervillain's assistant fumbled for the right words. Which proved rather difficult when there seemed to be no right words to come by. How did one even begin to explain this dangerous, messy, swell of feeling expanding in their chest right now? A feeling that they still weren't sure should be encouraged or stamped out.

They'd never thought so much of themselves to imagine a relationship with the city's greatest criminal. They had been perfectly content standing on the sidelines, taking notes and fetching coffee with cream. They probably would have kept doing such, an important but unnoticed cog that kept their superior's life going smoothly. That is if it weren't for their stupid, idiot, ditz of a brother.

Their sibling had never been the brightest, sacrificing their own needs for others and putting silly morals ahead of good sense. Unlike the protagonist, who knew when to bluff and when to sell out, their brother was always so desperate to be right. As if there was even a true right in this crooked world.

And of course, they just had to go into hero work. Just had to go up against their boss of all people and put the protagonist's neck on the line. It wasn't like they were going to let the supervillain see them. Thinking back, there were probably a thousand less compromising things the assistant could have done for a distraction. Maybe that was a sign they'd been interested long before that messy, tooth-clashing first kiss. Could they sell that to the supervillain?

"Well...I did enjoy it."

The supervillain sighed, raising a crooked finger to the ever-present guards against the back wall.

"W-wait!" the protagonist cried. "I lied one time! One! As if you've never done the same!"

"My lies usually don't include so much tongue."

Their assistant blushed. "I was going for alluring. If it helps, the second kiss was more my style."

A sweet, soft thing that tasted of vanilla creamer, so much sweeter because it was alone and after hours. A coffee order that usually wouldn't have happened if the supervillain hadn't been intent on getting them on their own.

"A half-truth meant to appease me," the supervillain said with bitter-tipped nonchalance.

Maybe. The protagonist had walked into that trap willingly to keep up the pretenses of the first kiss, but they'd never planned any further than that. They certainly hadn't planned on the supervillain's clumsy small talk, or the way they held them so gently. Criminal overlords weren't supposed to be like that, were they? They were supposed to beat nobodies like them senseless for their audacity. Or use them up until they were a hollowed husk of their old self. They weren't supposed to be...cute.

"But still true," the protagonist argued. "I didn't know you would actually start to like me."

Not just cute. Soft. It was apparent within the first month that they were far more vulnerable then their villainous persona let on. 

Were they hurting a lot right now? Did the protagonist actually mean that much to them? Or was it simply the humiliation of having an employee play their feelings so effortlessly for an advantage? Had to be hard to face up to with the entire organization staring at them. They'd probably have to deal their assistant an especially hard hand to patch all the open wounds in their reputation.

"I was just trying to save someone close to me," the protagonist said, not certain whether the explanation made the situation any better. "After that, I was just trying to survive.''

"The hero."

Ah, so they did know. Probably shouldn't be a surprise seeing how they'd come to the truth in some way or another. The tone was a little strange though. They weren't quite certain whether it was jealousy or general disdain.

"How--"

"Security cameras," Supervillain said coldly. "You might have kept me from seeing them with my own eyes, but you didn't keep them off film. I didn't notice for a while; I was...otherwise diverted, but yesterday... But perhaps that was your plan all along."

The assistant couldn't hold back their scoff. "You really think I'm the type of person who can cling onto someone for literal months to hide a little recording?"

"Well, I think we've established that we don't really know each other. Apparently, you think I'm the type of person who wouldn't have taken a simple, 'I'm not interested' for an answer. You could have done it right at the start. You still would have been caught, but you would have benefited from me not feeling like this."

"How do you feel?"

Stupid. Stupid. Was that really important when the protagonist was simply trying to walk out of here alive? Why should they even care? Like the supervillain said, it wasn't like any of it was real enough to stake feelings on anyway.

They felt the the two suited security guards hovering at their back, looming and dicomfortingly close. They had paused uncertainly as the back-and-forth got started, maybe not quite sure if the signal to take the assistant away still stood. Now, finally, the supervillain gave them an unquestionably clear order.

"Go." Their voice dripped with a venom not intended for them. "I'll call if I need you."

The guards seemed almost relieved to comply, letting out held breaths and moving quickly but crisply toward the exit. 

For some reason, as the door clacked gently shut behind them, the assistant felt more nervous. Especially with the criminal's eyes burning into them like hot coals.

“You want to know how I feel?” the supervillain said.

The protagonist shifted uncomfortably. “I mean, you don’t have to tell me…”

"I'm angry.”

"Understandable." The assistant flinched back a step from the furvor, though it proved pointless as the supervillain mirrored their retreat with a stalking step forward.

"And confused." 

"Of course."

"I want to tear my heart out of my chest. And yours."

The assistant blinked. That was...a reaction.

They tried shoving down some the sharp regret stabbing up through lungs, making it suddenly painful and hard to breath. So the supervillain had liked them that much. That was sort of a shame. Under other circumstances perhaps...well, it didn't matter now. They'd messed it all up. Actually, they hadn’t even really began. So they really shouldn’tbe worrying about the supervillain, they should just be worrying about themself.

"I don't know if I'm worth all that. We could just end this like two mature adults, starting with you letting me out of the building."

The supervillain narrowed their eyes. "You still haven't said it."

"What?" 

"I don't know why I expected any different. You always give me everything but a clear answer."

"I wasn't aware you asked me a question?" the assistant said, glancing over their shoulder and estimating just how quickly they could make a run for the door. 

The supervillain stepped forward, bringing their shiny black Derbys toe to toe with the assistant's ragged loafers. Nimble fingers took them by the chin, turning their face from escape to their burning carbon eyes. "Do you like me or not?"

The assistant could only stare.

"You say it was just one lie, and the way you talk doesn't close any doors, but then there's your hero and the infuriating fact that you can't come up with an ardent, overdramatic speech to salvage the relationship. I can't figure you out. Do you want out or not?"

"Wait..." the assistant held up their hands in front of them. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you not trying to kill me?"

The supervillain spluttered incredulously. "Kill you?"

"What?" the assistant cried, thoroughly confused by this point. What were the security guards and the ominous call to their office in the middle of the workday if it wasn't their life on the line?

"We kissed! I still have feelings for you! I can't kill you now. Maybe later up the road, but not anytime soon."

"You’re throwing me in secret prison then?"

"I'm only firing you."

"Oh." The protagonist took that in for a moment. "I suppose that's fair."

"Yes. The question that remains is do we continue seeing each other after I fire you? So please be explicitly clear. You like me. Yes or no?"

The protagonist hesitated, wetting their lips a moment before hesitantly wrapping their arm's around the supervillain's neck. "I thought that much was obvious."

"Clearer."

The protagonist pressed their lips softly to the supervillain's mouth.

"Clearer," the supervillain murmured, breath tickling sweet against their lips.

"I like you an extremely dangerous amount. To a point I'm afraid to say out loud. If you never say it, it never happened, right?"

The supervillain sighed. "You're the most infuriating, noncommittal... Your hero?"

"My brother."

"Your..." A burst of spontaneous laughter escaped the master criminal's previously tight lips. "I think that's the best news I've heard all day. Well, aside from that first bit."

Their hands settled warm and familiar against the small of the assistant's back, holding them firmly, yet carefully in place. 

Was it really over that fast? Could ugly, terrifying things like this actually happen and turn out ok? Hero would probably say yes. They believed in forgiveness and conquering love and all that nonsense. That wasn't what the protagonist chose when they joined this side. They chose cold, hard truth.

They pressed their palms against the supervillain's shoulders, pushing slightly back from them. "I hurt you."

It wasn't a real question, but nevertheless, the supervillain seemed to understand.

"And I'm still mad. Doesn't mean I can't enjoy the moment." Their smile faltered and their voice quieted again. "You...are telling the truth, right? Honestly?"

The protagonist's insides twisted uncomfortably, a mixture of guilt and aversion to such unfamiliar openness.

"Yes."

The supervillain nodded, enfolding them back in their arms. "I might check in with you every once in a while. Just to be sure.” 

“Yeah,” they agreed, still dazed. They pressed their face into the criminal’s shirt, breathing in the scent of fresh linen to assure themselves this was all real. “You’re really letting this go? How can you do that? How are you ever going to trust me again?”

Supervillain kissed the top of their head, a little more aggressively than normal, but still probably kinder than they deserved. “With time.”

Maybe in time they could learn to trust too.

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[scarsmood]

Repressing kintypes

Repression is the act of unconsciously pushing down unwanted thoughts, feelings or urges. It’s in the long term not exactly healthy and typically is a sign of a poor environment.

That’s to say when i first joined the therian community I was excited. In my childhood I suffered but in turn became extremely in touch with nature. My childhood nickname was “little deer” there was no question for me what I was it felt obvious. I was the forest guardian, I was the symbol of the forest, I was- a wolf? Wait what?

Well interesting thing about being a deer or a herbivore in general in the old therian community. Expect to get eaten. I didn’t want to get eaten or verbally abused. I was sick of the torment I got from it. So- I learned something. I’ll do what deer do and run. Right off from all these problems right into something stronger.

If I can’t be a deer i’ll be a ‘wolf’ were plural. We have ‘wolf’ alters so they can just front which means we are technically truthful. In turn our main personality cluster becomes dormant. To fit into the harsh categories pf something I felt I desperately needed at the time to save myself and survive everything else that was happening in my life.

I buried myself. I looked at myself knowingly and shot myself like a cabellas hunter and tossed the body in a ditch saying “i do feel bad but this is for the best” to turn around and roleplay as a wolf. Well to be honest it never felt right. Not for all of me at least. I felt forced to be fearsome while others took pride in it. I felt the urgency to do it to survive not because its fun.

In a room full of teeth why should I announce I have none? So playing along was my deepest urgency. This became so apparent it intertwined with who I was. I have to be scary. I have to show I am a carnivore. I have to show I am strong. Yet with every failure I spiraled. Depressed. Angry. I just want to be gentle thats my inherent nature. Virtuous. Strong but caring.

I don’t want to bite someone. I wanted to headbutt them. I didn’t want to eat raw meat it makes me sick. I wanna have veggies. But I can’t because not at that time. If I was a deer it was seemingly endless pestering. How would I introduce myself? I was to terrified to admit I was different.

I intertwined some characteristics pf my deepest parts of myself with being a deer. Cause I had been one for so long. I was always told I was gentle and caring. Soft and loving. People always said I have the body type of a deer long and slender. I was quiet like one. It was how i identified my feminity. I never minded being in a dress as a deer. It felt like a love letter to the flowers and grass I eat.

I was happy. But it had to go. Because when I got older these traits didn’t help me survive. So you draw the bow and let the arrow ring. When I came into therianthropy I was already partially repressing my deer traits. I didn’t understand why or what I was doing. I just did what it took to survive.

When I came across wolves and tried to pass off I was dual typed as deer and wolf the wolf was always accepted but the deer was always caught and questioned. So I stopped mentioning it. I was tired of being harassed.

Now the years have passed. The deer types come back. Stronger than before. Stronger than my carnivorous kintypes. I stand in awe with a feeling of being soaked in blood. That despite everything the original me is still here. That as a deer I weaved every obstacle and conflict. I ran when I needed to and hid until it was safe instead of dying I survived in the background.

Perhaps it’s feeling comfortable in the community. Maybe it’s feeling accepted. But I feel comfortable showing these sides now that aren’t so hard and edgy. Especially with this blog. I would have never imagined my voice would be listened to or ever considered.

My repressed kintypes are more feral i would say. They have a stronger urge to survive than even scar parasite kintype. Those parts of me feel stronger, tougher, more durable. They learned from the background and made choices to help us along without ever being seen.

Inside It feels painful. Having known now what all was missing it makes sense. I mourn for the time lost but at the same time understand how important those choices were. I wish I could have always been this way but that’s not the way of the this world.

I feel it’s probably more common to repress kintypes or parts of ourselves. It’s unfortunate how it happens. I was surprised to find how strong those parts are. Needless to say I won’t fuck with a deer.

[boygiwrites]

Harley D. Dixon 32

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📖Chapter List.

Herschel still looks like he's sleeping peacefully after a long day's work on the farm, with one of his arms flopped over the side of the bed, handcuffed to the frame. His fingers, curled loosely around nothing, refuse to twitch no matter how long I stare at them.

Maybe that's why it's so hard for me to imagine him as one of the walkers.

It's easy to forget that they used to be people.

"You best wake up soon," I tell the motionless old man, trying my best to sound like I mean business. It ain't lost on me that my Dad was in this same position last year, laid up in bed after he took that bullet to the guts and refused to die. It was Herschel that had saved him, only outta the kindness of his heart and nothing much else at all, 'cause he ain't got a bad bone in him, not even one. "We need you."

Crouched at his bedside, Maggie squeezes her eyes shut, a tear slipping down her cheek as she holds his hand.

When she opens them again, they're green and watery like fresh grass after a sun shower.

Even though Carl and I got an earful from our Dads about sneaking off, I'm glad we managed to get the supplies from the infirmary.

His leg — Or should I call it something else, now that half of it is gone? Is there a word for such an impossible thing? — is wrapped up in clean, white bandages, no longer pourin' blood. I know any one of us would happily give him one of ours, but we just can't.

"Thank you," Carol glances from me, to Carl, to Glenn. "By the way. I couldn't have done this without your help."

Glenn smiles a bit. "Should I say it was no problem?"

"Probably not," She chuckles softly, going back to tidying up the thin gauze around the wound.

Herschel was always so kind to me, even when I wasn't kind in return. There are just some people who are like that — Good. Like Dale — and can't ever be anything else. I used to think it was a weakness, because what good is an animal that doesn't know how to bite? How's it meant to survive? Nobody I ever knew was brave enough to be gentle, but Herschel was. He took us in when we needed help, fed us warm tea and potato soup when all we had to give in return was trouble. He cleaned the blood from my wounds, gave me a clean bed to sleep in.

No matter if somebody is as mean as a snake or as loyal as a dog — In my case, if they're both — we all bleed the same.

"Harley?"

Everybody turns at the sound of Beth's voice, the blonde girl peering around the doorframe.

"Yeah?"

"Could you come help me with somethin' real quick?" She asks, adding, "It won't take long."

"That reminds me, actually." Carol tells Glenn, "I need your help with something, too."

"I don't think I can leave Herschel again," He says.

"Let's talk about it outside."

"Um. Sure thing," I nod to Beth, standing from the metal seat and following her outta the cell, and into ours. "What is it?"

She kneels down on Carl's mattress where Mouse is napping, picking up a bundle of brown cloth and laying it across her lap. "He's gonna have a hard time walkin' around with one side of his pants draggin' on the ground. He could, you know, trip or somethin'."

She takes a tiny sewing needle and sticks it through the fabric.

Trip?

Her Daddy's on his deathbed and she's worried about him tripping?

"I just need you to keep the string from knottin' up," She explains as I sit in front of her. "So I can focus on the sewin' part."

Taking the string and picking the tangled pieces apart as she continues weaving the needle in and out, her thin fingers trembling, I decide to humour her, because it's the right thing to do. Some people cry when they're nervous, but I guess others sew up pantlegs.

"I asked Maggie to help me earlier," She muses, frustrated. "But she wouldn't do it."

I almost lose my grip on the string as she tugs harshly on it, catching it at the last moment.

"Oops."

"Apparently, she didn't want me to get my hopes up too high," She says. "You believe that? It's like s-she thinks he's gonna die."

I struggle to know whether or not I should tell her that's exactly what Maggie thinks, and that nobody can blame her for it. I thought my Dad was gonna die when we were on the farm, but it was never because I didn't have faith in him. I was just scared.

Feeling my stare on her, Beth looks up at me through her furrowed brows, pouting, "What?"

I shake my head. "Nothin'."

"Just say it, then." She slumps. "You think the same thing, don't you?"

Gesturing to her with the ball of string, I try to convince her, "Well, I'm helpin' ya, ain't I?"

She sighs as she looks back down at her needle. "Yeah, but I know you're just feelin' sorry for me. I felt sorry for you when your Dad was unconscious. You were like a sad little puppy dog waitin' for her owner at the door, but I couldn't do anything to help."

"I'on think he's gonna die," I insist, because it's true. "I think he's either gonna die or wake up, and that's totally different."

She pulls the needle through with a long, sweeping motion. "Sorry. I'm just... I appreciate you gettin' the medical supplies."

"O'course."

I ain't gonna lie and tell her I didn't second guess going with Carl, but what matters is that I only ever had Herschel in mind.

If you were to ask my Dad, though, he'd say that's exactly what the problem was.

She adds, "Just... Promise to be more careful, next time?"

"Who bribed ya to say that?"

"Nobody," She giggles, biting the string with her teeth and tying it off. "Nobody needs to be bribed to care about you, Harley."

"What'd they give ya?"

"Nothin'!"

"If it was cookies, I want one."

"Oh, shut it." She smooths out the pantleg before holding it up to look at. "There. These will do. Decent, right?"

I smile, "Yeah, you're really good at that."

"Thanks." Folding them neatly and grabbing the next pair of pants, she says, "My Mom taught me all about textiles when I w—"

"Oh, my God!"

Mouse's head whips up.

"Maggie?" I call out worriedly, throwing the string aside and running outta the cell. "What's wrong?"

She's backed up against the wall when I come to a stop outside Herschel's cell, staring wide-eyed at him, shuddering somethin' about, He ain't breathin', He stopped breathin', as Lori pushes past everyone and presses her ear to his chest.

"'Stopped breathin'?'" I exclaim but I don't know who to, horrified it means, dead.

"Oh, Lord," Beth croaks.

Lori lifts her head and without wasting any time, she starts pumping his chest, grunting with each brutal squashing of his sternum. I watch on, unsure what I can do, unsure if I'm gonna stop breathin', too. His heart's stopped, and I know that means dead.

Lori's hair hangs down, tickling the end of his nose like a feather.

"Come on," She's gritting through her teeth, "Come on."

I swear his nostrils twitch.

I'on even have to think about it. I pull my gun out, point it at his head, watching for any sign that he's waking up in the wrong way. It ain't like all the other heads I've had hovering on my sights. It ain't mishappen, rotted, peeled back, leaking. It's just our Herschel.

The handcuffs rattle.

I gasp.

All the little hairs on my arms stand up.

Lori squeals as his body lurches up like he's being sick and his arms reach out for her, Maggie pulling her into her side.

They hold each other, gawking at him.

Has he turned? Is he gone?

I'm about to move my finger onto the trigger when he lets out a thin sigh, slumps back down on his pillow, and starts to snore like a happy baby, none the wiser to any of the horror he just caused us. Well. I'm glad somebody's havin' a good time.

Lowering the gun, I look at poor Maggie, Beth, and Lori, suddenly quite ashamed that I had drawn.

When I look to my left, Carl's shakily lowering his gun, too.

"It's okay," Maggie soothes us after a breathless moment has passed. "It's— It's okay."

"I'm sorry," I say. Even if he had turned into a walker and I was forced to shoot him, it still would'a had her Dad's face on it.

"Don't be, honey. It's okay." She says. "He's okay."

Beth suddenly breaks free of them and marches outta the cell.

Not wanting her to be alone after what just happened, I holster my gun and follow after her, Mouse at my heel. I don't care that I'll probably be stuck with her for hours. Some people sew up pantlegs when they're nervous, but I guess others help them hold the string.

Beth and I have finished tailoring and folding away all of Herschel's pants by the time Rick, Dad, and T-Dog return to the cellblock, approaching Carl, who's standing in the doorway of Herschel's cell, telling them, "Herschel stopped breathing before. Mom saved him."

"It's true," Glenn nods as they crowd into the cell with us, Rick coming to his bedside, sadly gazing down at him.

"I almost shot him, Dad," I whisper, thinking of the night he was forced to raise his gun to Dale's head. "Thought he turned."

His expression solemn, he reaches down and wraps a hand around the nape of my neck, squeezing reassuringly.

"S'alright," He rasps quietly, leaving the rest unsaid.

I let the pressure calm me as I watch Herschel's sleeping face, his wrinkled mouth parting as if to speak a silent word.

Wait.

His mouth is parting.

Realizing the same thing, Maggie rushes to his side.

"Daddy?" She softly calls out to him, searching his closed eyes for something. "Daddy, we're here."

"We're here," Beth agrees.

Please, I think to myself, This has to be it, right?

I feel Dad move his hand onto my shoulder, stopping me from reaching for my holster. He rests his fingers on the grip of his gun. Rick gently puts his hand on Maggie's back, glancing back at him with a tense sort of look before focusing on Herschel again.

Then, without any grand affairs or a single word from anybody in the room, his eyelids slowly flutter open, and they're not milky, or bloodshot, or twitching, or anything. They're just a tender blue, focusing and unfocusing on the bottom of the bunk above him.

The first thing he turns his head to look at is Maggie's tearful, laughing face. Beth lets out a squeaky cry, and the corner of his mouth pulls into a weak smile as his hand twitches in the handcuffs, tryna reach out for them in the human way, gentle and loving.

He's okay. He really is.

Dad relaxes, removing his hand from his gun.

Taking the keys from his belt, Rick unlocks the handcuffs and they fall away, letting Herschel embrace Maggie's wet cheek.

"Hey, sleepyhead," Beth sniffles.

"You scared us," Maggie adds, putting her hand over his.

He looks over her shoulder at Rick, at me and Dad, at Carol and T-Dog, at Lori, Glenn, and Carl, and lastly, at smiling Mouse.

"I hope my bed hair isn't going to s-scare you all over again," He says hoarsely, making us all chuckle. "How long?"

"About half a day," She says. "We dressed your leg up real good. Got the bleedin' to stop. You're gonna be okay, Daddy."

"Of course I am," He smiles.

"Let me get you some water," Carol says as she turns outta the cell, leaving everyone to bask in the moment, sharing relieved glances.

We got no choice but to believe him when he sounds as certain as he does. He's a tough one, alright. Tougher than all of us combined.

When she returns, Maggie shuffles outta the way to give her room to crouch down, helping him take a long sip.

"Easy," She cautions, pulling away. "We want you rested up."

"Yes, I think that's a good idea," He agrees, peering down his belly at his half-leg, giving it a bit of a wiggle.

"Does it hurt?"

"Oh," He chuckles. "Only my pride, my dear. You did an excellent job."

"Well, I had an excellent teacher," She says proudly, brushing some of the hair back from his face.

"And, Rick," He reaches out for the man, who takes his bony hand in his strong ones. "I think I owe you just about everything."

He shakes his head. "No more than I owe you."

"I haven't quite taken an axe to your leg, yet, son," He jokes, releasing his hand to point at him, "S-so, not exactly."

Dipping his head, he laughs, "Fair enough, old man."

Taking Maggie's hand again, Herschel's eyes begin to droop sleepily before he falls back asleep, a faintly happy look on his face, like he's having a nice dream. Maggie kisses Beth's cheek and holds her Daddy's hand under her chin, placing another kiss there.

"Let's leave him to rest," Carol says, gently guiding everyone out. "He needs it if he's going to be up and walking."

Stepping into the cell hall, Rick sighs heavily, "That was a relief."

"He's a tough son of a bitch," Glenn agrees.

Rubbing her belly, Lori asks, "What happened with the prisoners?"

"We tried to take cell block C with them," He explains, his brow splattered with wet blood and gunk, but with no wound. "I mean, these are guys who thought we might have a phone for 'em to use, so you can imagine how it went. The rest, I'on think the kids should hear."

"So, where are they now?" Carol asks.

"Two of 'em are in cell block C," He says, leaving me to wonder where the other three are. "It's a mess, but they agreed to stay."

I ain't sure how I feel about havin' neighbours in here. The prison is definitely more than big enough to share with them, but some neighbours are just better off dead, even if they give us dry corn and canned beef. It's not what Dale would've said, I know, and I think that's the reason Rick let them live. For now, at least. It's not as if they've threatened us, unlike that group of bandits he murdered last year.

Yes, the prisoners' leader did have his gun aimed at Rick's head, but Rick had one aimed at his, too.

"Hopefully they stay out of our way," She shrugs, though she doesn't look very happy. "Nothing else we can do."

"Don't worry. We're keepin' an eye on 'em," T-Dog reassures her.

"Well, I'm gonna go clean myself up," Rick announces, his exhaustion suddenly obvious. "I need a good sleep."

"Ditto," Dad groans.

That night, I think we all rest more than a little easier knowing that Herschel will survive.

My knife sinks into the soft meat of the walker's knee, the bone popping open as I twist the blade like a key.

It gives out a gurgling cry, gripping the fence with its blackened fingers as it falls to its knees, tonguing at the wire.

SQUELCH.

Stabbing it through the eye, the rotting lady's jaw goes slack, right before she slumps over and another walker replaces her.

"Nicely done." Dad says. He's making good on his promise to let us help clear the courtyard. "How many's that now, girl?"

"Eight," I pant.

He's standing a few feet down the fence from me, holding his hand over his brow and sneering against the glare of the sun. Behind him, Carl deftly drives his knife into the knee of a walker and then its head, pulling it out with a spray of blood. 

In the background, Mouse is busy doing his own thing, sniffing weeds.

"Good. Make it ten." Dad approaches me and takes my knife from me, wiping it on his thigh. "And remember to keep this clean."

With the newly gunk-free blade, he swiftly kills the walker in front of me.

It drops to the ground.

"Like I said, it don't gotta be sparklin', but you don't want all that sticky shit dryin' on there and makin' it harder for you to pull out," He explains, handing it back to me. He watches me stab the knee of the next walker, breaking the bone. "That's it. Now the head."

Its face presses up against the fence, eye level with me, only managing half a growl before I stick the blade through its eye.

It's all the more satisfying when I imagine it's the walker that tackled me on the farm, or the one from the hospital, or the one from yesterday. It sure feels good being able to kill a thing that wants to kill me. With each kill, I'm gettin' better, faster, more accurate.

"And you, boy?" He calls over to Carl. "How many?"

As the walker in front of him collapses, the boy grins. "Ten. Guess I've mastered the class, huh, Daryl?"

"Ten?" I sass. "You lyin'."

"Make it twelve," Dad orders, wiping the smug look from his face. "Remember yer footin'. S'why you're stumblin' all over the place."

I can't help but snicker.

Dad unlocks the small gate as I cripple and take out one more walker, bringing me to ten kills, one for every one of my fingers.

Dad pulls his bandana over his head. One of the many walkers shuffles toward him, but before it can do any damage, he effortlessly lunges forward with the fabric and braces it between its teeth, dragging it into the courtyard and tying a knot behind its head.

As Mouse starts barking at it, I soothe, "Shh, boy. It's okay."

Dad kicks the gate closed, and with the walker angrily chewing on the bandana, he muscles it over to us.

"We're gonna practice without the fence."

I remember we did this a few months ago on the side of the highway when we were first learning how to properly kill walkers.

Until then, we only knew the basics — Aim for the head!

Now, he makes us practice every few days.

It's one of my favorite pastimes. Even better'un playin' soccer and ridin' our bikes!

"Y'all know the drill. It can't bite ya." He reassures us, the walker's thrashing no match for the strong grip he's got on it. "I'm gonna let it go and you're gonna take it down however you feel is best. But you wanna keep on its eight and four. Why ya gonna do that?"

"That's its blind spots," I recite. "And ya don't wanna get behind it, 'cause it might fall on ya."

"Easier to dodge," He agrees. "Harley, you're gonna go first. Carl, you get seconds. Hold the dog. Ready?"

Carl crouches, holding Mouse still. "Yep."

"Ready," I nod.

"I'm right here if things get messy." Dad shoves it forward. "Alright. Meathead, in the ring. Show 'im who's boss, girl."

The walker locks eyes with me.

Without anything to hold it back, it starts to clumsily stride toward me with purpose.

"You got this, Harley," Carl cheers, Mouse whining worriedly.

"I'mma kill it, Mousey," I reassure him. "It's okay."

Let's do it. Eight and four, eight and four. As soon as it's within arm's reach, I dodge it, ducking under its arm. Confused, it looks around, sniffing at the air to find out where I went because it's a fuckin' idiot. Rearing my knife back, I drive it into the back of its knee.

It stumbles drunkenly, landing on its stomach, but with my hands still wrapped around the knife, I fall with it.

Landing against its thigh, I grunt.

Mouse's whining gets louder.

"I'm here. Stay calm," Dad coaches me as Carl shushes the dog. "Get that knife out 'fore it gets back up."

Righting myself, I pull the blade out and crawl up to its head, stabbing the nape of its head.

Pink brains and blood leaks out.

It's dead!

As I stand back up, heart racing, Dad comes forward and starts untying his bandana from the walker's mouth.

"Good work," He says, shaking it out. "You know why you fell, right?"

"I ain't took the knife out quick enough. Pulled me down with it."

If I was up against any more walkers, they would'a piled on top of me while I's on the ground. Eaten alive, in Rick's words. Eugh.

Not a good pastime.

"Was only practice," He soothes, kissing my hair. "Next time, give it a bit of a wiggle and it'll free up quicker."

"Alright."

"You didn't warn us about us falling on them, Daryl," Carl jokes, releasing Mouse, who runs straight for me.

"Shut up, Carl," I smile, petting the dog's big snout. "It was only practice."

"Woohoo, Harley!"

We all look up at Glenn standing out in the field with Rick, grinning and holding a bunch of firewood.

"Good job!" Rick adds, waving.

Dad scoffs. "Didn't know we had an audience."

I cup my hands around my mouth. "Thanks!"

After that, Dad dresses up another walker for Carl to practice on. While he don't fall over like I did, he keeps nervously dancing around it like some sorta twinkle-toes ballerina, until my Dad's patience wears thin and he shouts at him to make a move, and he finally kills it.

SQUELCH.

"Alright," Dad says, "Back to work."

Fifteen, I count in my head, pulling my knife free, when the door behind us suddenly swings open.

What was that?

At first, I think it's more walkers spilling into the courtyard, but when I turn around, I see it's not walkers at all.

It's the prisoners.

The white guy with the ugly moustache and the black guy that wanted a phone to call his family.

That's them, emerging from the dark.

"Oh. H-Hey, guys," The shorter of the two greets us breathily, holding up his hands as the door shuts behind them. "Fancy se—"

"Back the Hell up!"

Dad's got his crossbow aimed at their heads before they can take a single step toward us, his finger curled around the trigger.

Mouse starts bark, bark, barking at them, but I lunge toward him, holding him back.

"Holy shit," The prisoner exclaims, looking like he's about to wet his jumpsuit, or cry, or both. "Man, w-we don't want no trouble."

If he ain't careful, he's gonna get an arrow to the head and a dog bite to the neck.

"What do you want?" Dad growls, blocking their view of me and Carl with his body. "Cell block weren't cozy enough for ya?"

"Please, mister. We know we had a deal," He begs. I ain't never heard nobody call my Dad, mister, before. He must really wanna get on our good side, but what he don't understand is that when it comes to strangers, we don't got no good side. "But you gotta understand! We can’t live in that place another minute, you follow me? All the bodies. People we knew. Blood. Brains everywhere. There’s ghosts!

Rick, Glenn, and T-Dog must have noticed all the commotion, rushing into the courtyard.

Frowning hard, Rick demands to know, "What's goin' on? Why're they out here?"

Lowering his crossbow, Dad sneers, "Fellers got cold feet, is what I'm hearin'."

"We just can't live like that," The taller one says. "We can't."

"Why don't'cha move the bodies out?"

As Glenn herds me and Carl behind him, T-Dog scoffs, "You ain't done that, yet? You should be burnin' them."

"We tried," The blonde blubbers.

"The fence is down on the far side of the prison." The other explains, making everybody share tense glances with each other. A downed fence ain't good at all, if we wanna fortify this place. "Every time we drag a body out, those things just pile up."

Well, that's what they're best at. Piling up. That, and bitin' into people like they's burgers.

It's a bible-level miracle these two ain't dead, yet.

"Look," The weaselly little man says, becoming even more antsy at our prolonged silence. "We had nothing to do with Tomas and Andrew. You tryna prove a point? Yeah? W— You proved it, bro! I swear, we’ll do whatever it takes to be part of your group!"

When he gestures to me and Mouse, Dad's hands twitch around his crossbow.

"You—? You got a dog? I mean, that's awesome," He puffs. "Clearly, you been doin' well for yourselves. What's his name?"

"Don't'chu fuckin' talk to my daughter, man," Dad scolds him.

"It's just, I love— We love dogs. I actually used to have a labrado—"

"Man, will you stop?" His friend tuts. "Have some balls."

Mouse gives a little huff.

He don't like 'em, neither.

"I'm just sayin'," He sighs, "I really, really, really don't wanna go back to that cell block again. Please don't make us."

"Our deal is non-negotiable," Rick replies coldly. "You either live in your cell block, or you leave. We have kids here."

"We ain't pedos, mister. Swear!"

"Jesus Christ," Glenn mutters under his breath, because this guy is embarrassing.

"We ain't here to test that theory out," Dad scowls.

Rick agrees, "You even think about steppin' into our cell block, and you can consider yourselves dead."

"You know, I told you this was a waste of time," The tall one scoffs, smart enough to ditch the begging route. "These guys ain’t no different than the pricks who shot up our boys. You know how many friends’ corpses we had to drag out this week? Just threw ‘em out-like. Those were good guys! Good guys who had our backs against the really bad dudes in this joint, like Tomas and Andrew!"

None of these guys were put in here for no reason.

Everybody used to say that only bad guys went to prison, but I never believed that. I saw the people I cared about be rounded into cop cars and driven away into the night more time than I cared to count, always watching the flashing lights disappear down the road while standing on the porch with Merle, shivering in the wind in my pyjamas. No, I knew it was only people the police ain't liked that went to prison.

Whether it was because they was murderers, or brawlers, or tax-dodgers; or if they had only given 'em a sour look.

My Dad, he was all'a those things, but it weren't no sour look that got him put in handcuffs in the end.

He ain't like Herschel and Dale. Ain't all good. He's nasty and he swears and he's killed people, but that's only part of him.

I feel a little bad for these two.

They're clueless, like babies. They don't even got a word for the walkers, yet. But I know that even though our group love my Dad for who he is, and they know he's been to prison, and that it don't make him all bad, they won't feel the same way for these two strangers.

The most important thing we have is each other.

I've seen first-hand what we do to anybody that threatens that.

"Now, we’ve all made mistakes to get in here, chief," The man continues uselessly. "And I’m not gonna pretend to be a saint, but believe me — We paid our due. Enough that we would rather hit the road, than to go back into that shithole for one more second."

He doesn't know he's just described to a T what's about to happen.

Rick levels them with an indifferent look. "Then you're on the road."

His face falls.

And it's probably not because he won't get to pet Mouse.

"We'll die out there."

Again, Rick shrugs.

Raising his crossbow once more, Dad herds them outta the courtyard and into the field.

Author's note.

I enjoyed writing this chapter! Probably because nothing bad happened. We have low standards here at Harley D. Dixon.

As always, I sincerely hope you enjoyed reading! 💙

@poetoflawed

[kahlanmars]

BAD FEELING part.3

part.3 is here! I'm sorry, I know I'm spamming but I just like this fic so much and I love Haymitch and I love everything. As usual, english is not my first language so please have mercy.

Comment if you want me happy! *gif not mine*

MASTERLIST

Part 2

Too damn beautiful 

After dinner, Effie suggests you see the reapings in the other districts before you go to bed. It’s actually a good idea, because you don’t want to go to your room and think. Thinking it’s something you crave not to do right now. 

«Why are the last victors not here?» Your tribute asks, and it’s actually a fair question.

«Oh, President Snow thought they had so much to do with their wedding! They’ll be mentors next year.» Bummer, you could have used Peeta’s help. This boy is the mastermind of strategies at the age of seventeen. And Katniss… Katniss could have helped you with survival skills. You are terrified your mentor drinks his heart out not to see you two die in the games, not even trying to save you. No, he wouldn't. He would? You are not sure.

You sit beside Haymitch, far away from Clark that always looks at you like he wants to murder you. He has plenty of time for that in the arena, you don’t understand why he needs to be so open about it.

Your mentor is visibly drunk, but you know how to handle this man when he drinks and he actually feels safer than your companion in the games. And he smells really good in spite of his inebriated state. Like musk and whisky - and no one can deny whisky has a great taste. You want whisky. Maybe later.

Effs lights the television - followed by your “thank you, Effie” and the district one is displayed in his honour. You have to admit district one is beautiful. 

A young woman volunteers, she looks like she’s your age, she has a wonderful muscular body and shiny blonde hair. Straight out of an academy, probably one that was in line to volunteer when she was sixteen.

«She’s stunning and deadly.» You comment, mesmerised and scared by her beauty.

«You can look deadly too if you commit to it!» Says Effie. “Thanks for the stunning part”, you think, but it’s true. You can pass at “nice” and “pretty” if you clean yourself, but it’s a kind of prettiness that disappears in front of girls like her or your escort. 

«We will have another strategy for her.» Declares Haymitch and he places a hand on your leg. You thought he fell asleep, but apparently he is awake.

The male tribute of district one is similar to his female counterpart, and so the tributes of district 2 and 4. District 3’s girl is barely nineteen years old, crying her heart out. You get her. You want to protect this little girl, and it scares you. Same thing with the man of District 10, who has to be thirty but he looks like a middle aged man due to his hard work, and has a stare so sad you want to say to him everything is going to be okay.

«How am I going to kill these people?» You whisper to yourself, letting yourself go on the couch. The weariness is coming, you managed to be chatting and outgoing all day, consoling everybody next to you, but right now you can’t anymore and when you feel tears merging through your eyes you know you have to be alone.

Yours is the last reaping. You see yourself be called, in your pretty little dress and daisies in your black hair, jumping into Haymitch’s arms and then saying hi to Katniss and Peeta. You look distraught, almost in shock, while Holly is devastated. Clark has a stolid, imperturbable look on himself, like he knew. In comparison you are the weak one.

Well, in reality you are the weak one.

«I’m sorry, I’m so tired.» You excuse yourself and go to your room.

You are tired, but you can’t sleep. Instead you begin to cry, and at least you can do it alone, when no one watches you and judges you. You cry because it’s unfair, you are only twenty four, you can still do a lot of things. You wanted to be a teacher. You wanted to marry one day, have kids because you are terrific with children and now you are condemned to be a murderer if you are incredibly lucky, and killed in 90% of the possibilities. And everyone expects that you are on board, combative, competitive, lethal. You are not. 

You eventually fall asleep sobbing.

You hardly hear a knock on the door. You think of not opening that, but this could be Effie, and you don’t want to be harsh on her. 

You get up, as you try to clean your face from the tears, but your eyes are puffed and sparkling. You notice with a surprise that in front of you there’s no Effie, there’s your mentor.

«Haymitch?» You ask, your throat sore from the bawling.

«You are waking up the entire train, sweetheart.» He points out. If he was sleeping he didn’t change his clothes, he probably passed out drunk on the couch where you were two hours ago. You are almost ashamed of yourself for thinking “Still fine, tho”.

«I’m so very sorry, tomorrow I’ll ask for sleeping pills.» You reply in a light tone, as if anything is wrong. Maybe he is tired and doesn’t want to debate. 

«Mh.» He stares at you with his blue eyes. You smile like it’s everyday and you are still working for him, but it’s a charade and he knows it. «It’s ok if you lie to them, but I’m the one who has to keep you alive.» 

«Will you try?» You murmur, dropping the fade. You are terrified of letting him see the truth, because when you stop acting there’s no guarantee you can do it again tomorrow.

«Will you?» He shots back.

He knows you, he knows you have no combat skills and you can’t even kill the rabbits to eat, as you always let him or Holly do that, or you buy them from Katniss and Gale Hawthorne when you cook for the major. He has to know you have zero chances.

«I’m not a hunter.» You whisper as if you talk slowly and briefly it’s not the truth.

«There is more in the games than just being a hunter. You are a pretty thing, you can actually have sponsors, and you know the erbs. But I can do my part, for your part I need your collaboration. If you decide it’s not worth it, you might as well tell me now so I can accept this goddamn drink I want!»

He is raging, you’ve never seen him that way, not even when you are in his house and he storms in strongly inebriated. The first instinct you have is to say sorry, but you can tell it’s not the right thing to do.

«I promise I’ll do everything I can to stay alive.» You say instead, shivering from the fear and the cold, as you are standing bare feet in a nightgown. 

He seems to calm down, and he takes a look at you. «Tomorrow we will discuss strategy. Now go before you catch a cold.»

«Haymitch?» You call him before closing the door.

«Mh?»

«Thank you.»

You wake up early in the morning, take a long hot shower and then you choose a white dress. You don’t do a braid or anything, let your raven hair loose on your shoulders, and you dare to use a little bit of the blush and mascara you have found in your room. As you watch yourself in the mirror you can look at a doe eyed, cute sweet girl. It’s not much, but you think you can work your image on that. 

You leave your room to have breakfast, and you can see Effie is delighted to see you and even make you do a spin. You feel a little proud of yourself.

«That’s lovely, my dear! You look like a… a…» She can’t quite pick a word but Haymitch, sitting at the table with his glass already full, helps her.

«Princess from a fairytale.»

«A Princess, exactly! It is wonderful, my dear. And without a designer! You have talent.» She looks very happy, and that makes you smile. You like making Effie happy, genuinely happy. 

«What do you think?» You turn to Haymitch, and you hope he notices this is a way to commit. He nods.

«Come, we’ll discuss the strategy.» He seems a little tipsy. 

«Shouldn’t we wait for Clark?» You ask. You hate him, but you don’t want to be rude. 

«I don’t think you two will be allies, do you?»

He totally has a point. You take a cream puff and you nearly squeal when you taste it. It’s so good! You’ve never had something so good in your entire life. You take another. And another. The older man watches you with a smirk on his face that makes you blush.

«Talk! I can listen and eat at the same time.» You tell him with a smile.

«I didn’t want to spoil your fun.» He jokes. «So, you are not a warrior, or a killer. But you are good with plants, and you know who to cook and light a fire, and you are nice to people. It makes you bearable.»

«He is trying to say you are adorable, dear!» Effie steps in. You thank her, but you can swear that’s not what Haymitch wanted to say. 

«But doesn’t that make me look weak?»

«Could be, but you are strong too. You can carry me to bed when I can’t do that alone, remember?»

You nod. It doesn’t happen often, but it happens. 

«Strength and sponsors can save your life. Today you will meet the stylist to prepare you for the parade. Make an impression.»

«Thank you, mentor.»

«Don’t call me that.» He shushes you and he drinks. It’s barely eight o’clock. 

As you go into your room before Clark arrives, you approach an avox. «Miss Trinket says not to serve any alcohol before midday.» You say to him like it’s an order that Effie gave to you. 

You quickly arrive at Capitol City. The city is marvellous, and you go to the window of the train to wave at the people and to see as much as you can. You thought District 12 to be the least interesting, but a lot of people are waving and blowing kisses in your direction. You quickly understand that you are so lucky to be there at that precise moment, you have to act. You blow kisses, say hi particularly to the little kids, smile for the crowd. 

When you see Haymitch coming from the table, addressing his room, you catch him by his arm and point your finger in his direction for the crowd to see, as you continue to be Capitol's little princess, and when you notice Effie approaching you, you run in her direction to take her near the window with you, letting her have her five minutes of fame beside you as you preach her and give a little kiss to her on the cheek.

«What is that?» Haymitch asks you when he's able to go away from the windows. «They have to remember you, not us.»

«You managed to save not one but two of your tributes last year, I want them to connect me with you.»

«And Effie?»

«Look at her, she is so happy.»

He shakes his head, eager to be alone in his room.

Due to Katniss's marriage, Cinna is not able to be your stylist this year and the poor Portia has to collaborate with the two tributes. 

You have to go to the prep team, and you meet three weird figures. A man named Flavius and two women, Venia and Octavia. They are in typical Capitol fashion, with wigs and strong makeup.

The only man, named Flavius, watches your hair in displeasure and sighs. 

«Haymitch told us not to change your hair, sweetie.»

Thank you Mentor, you think. 

After what you think is almost an hour (you really didn’t want to know what a wax was), you are headed to Portia. 

When you arrive at the parade, you don't even look like yourself anymore. Portia is a genius. Your outfit is black like coal, but it's a long chiffon dress with a low - very low cleavage. Your neck and shoulders are full of black small pearls that sparkle with the lights. Your makeup is elegant, red lipstick and black eyeshadows. They added perfume, something you never had in your life.

You feel pretty. Maybe not beautiful, but pretty. Even taller.

Effie greets you with compliments when you approach your team for the parade, but you search the other tributes. They are so beautiful you are quickly humbled. Clark is there too, but you two ignore each other.

You are actually looking around when another mentor comes to you. District four. What the hell, it’s Finnick Odair. Even in the District you know Finnick Odair, because he is a celebrity. No, he is *the* celebrity. He is handsome, with a wicked smile and he wants you dead, you assume. You hope that Haymitch wants the other tributes dead. Does he plan to kill you when he is with Clark? Is he making his mind right now, deciding who to save?

«First Katniss Everdeen, then you. District 12 only has beauties.»

«It’s Portia’s work, not me.» You admit. Shit, maybe you could lie. You didn’t think about it. Are you panicking? You are panicking. For Finnick Odair. Well, it is fair. How is his hair so shiny? It’s not possible. Maybe it’s the sea water.

«Give yourself some credit, Pinecone.» He hands you something. «Want a sugarcube?» 

«Did you put poison in it?» You answer back, with a smile on your face. 

«Not before the games.» He assures. «I hope we’ll see each other again, Pinecone.»

«But you shouldn't…» You are talking alone, because he’s back to his tributes in a moment, leaving you confused as hell. 

You return to your team, where everyone is staring at you with a big question mark on their forehead. You can’t help but notice Haymitch, who got cleaned up. He is in a black suit and you immediately forget even the name of Finnick Odair. He is rough and he has to shave his beard and you absolutely adore him. If he doesn’t want to let you alone in the arena and give all the sponsors to Clark.

«What did Finnick Odair want from you?» Effie asks, and you can tell she is excited. She has a point.

«He offered a sugarcube.» You say back. You literally have no idea what just happened. 

«And did you take it?» She keeps going. «He is handsome!»

«Not my type, but yes, he is.» You manage to look at Haymitch. Oh, c’mon, you are going to die in a week, you can flirt a little.

«Look at you two!» Effie changes the subject and gives you and Clark the hand. «You are so beautiful! For a tribute. You are going to collect a lot of sponsors tonight!»

«Tonight?» 

«Since you are older, President Snow thought that you could participate at the party tonight. It’s not the right place for a sixteen year old…» Or a twelve year old, but she doesn’t say that. «But you are older, so why not?»

You can think of a reason or two, like that in a few days you are sent to die, but she seems so happy you just can’t spoil her fun.

«Come, it’s time.» Haymitch declares and puts a hand on your hips. Dear heavens. «I know your balance, do you want a hand with the chariot?»

You glare at him, but he is actually right and your tribute is not going to help you. «My knight in shining armour.» You ironically say back.  

«Tonight you stay close to me.» It is an order, not an invitation, and he is deadly serious. «You are too damn beautiful for your own good.» Your heart skips a beat. 

«Thank you?» You whisper.

«Not the right answer. The right answer is “Yes, Haymitch, I’ll be on sight”.» He seems raging. You are sure you didn’t do anything wrong this time. You look into his blue eyes for answers, but receive nothing.

«Yes, Haymitch, I’ll be on sight.»  

Why the hell is everyone talking in code at this damn parade?

[ilikedyourablogithere]

My Dislyte 2023 Awards

Same as last year

Time to rant about the things I liked this year

if you had things you liked this year go ahead and make your own post

anyways

The Element of The Year

Flow

From Intisar to Liam, 4 or 5 Star, every Flow Unit this year has been a banger and very useful

Pantheon of the Year

Greek

while not my personal go to, it is very obvious this was the Greeks year. Having the spotlight on them through out the various stories and bounties

My Favorite Character of The Year

Falken

you don't get any points for guessing Falken is my favorite esper of the year again. And if you're disappointed he's my pick for another year... tell the dev team to make a character I will like more than Falken ?

But it's not that hard to see why. He got his Universal +20% Speed lead, great in boss fights, the new equipment gave him even even more viable builds you can make with him and of course his divinate allows him to do what he does even better

There was more fun to be had with this guy than last year and for that... he's the best

Best Boy of the Year

Javid

Was once told good cops don't end up staying "good" cops. They usually either end up quitting or worse happens to them

and Javid is no exception to that

As chief marshal he ended up forcing a whole marshal department to defend the citizens against a monster swarm, sending them all but him to their death. Meant to die along side them he somehow survived and now riddle with guilt of surviving he's been imprisoned where he also keeps the citizens safe and the miracle a bay

It takes alot to stand by your values especially during the bad times. And that's the thing I like about Javid, he stands by what he mean. He believes in fairness even when if means he ends up on losing side of being fair. He could have left and abandon everyone and everything and saved his own skin but that wouldn't have been fair to all those who died now would it?

He's not winning any popularity awards tho, he's still a hard ass stick in the mud at the end of the day. And his fairness can border on cruelty but that's part of what make him interesting

Best Girl of the Year

Ain

Tragically there no deep reason for choosing her, she's simply a kind person. She has a bit of a temper and apparently a bit of a prankster in her but she's part of her community and is making it a better place for herself and those around her.

From helping those down on their luck, sharing her knowledge and passing down what she knows, being a cat lover or simply being a quirky event in another's life. She's very much a part of her community

It's something the majority of us can do and even strive to make a part of our own lives

She's very inspirational and for that she's 2023s best girl

Husbando of 2023

N/A

yee same as last year, no one has resonated with me like yet. But I'm always open to being surprised

Waifu of 2023

Aquafresh

my dearly beloved who is named after a toothpaste brand for some reason I will never understand

She's so mysterious ... by which I mean I do not understand this npc

Best Billboard Event of 2023

Sea and Song

I mean it made me feel

Norah is an excellent main character with a relatable story of an artist who lost her art mojo

The npcs were very likeable and just make you want to help them and save the day

and while my like of Anna has greatly soured since her released Norah sure make her seem like a cool person and while their ending is sad, I'm glad they got to see each other again

Pretty satisfying end to the Cube Miracle arc

Best Track of 2023

Without You - Northside Nate

it's song that fills in a spot in the musical taste buds that rarely gets satisfied

Best Boss of the Year

Barros

an interesting esper, on one hand he's doing his best with what he can get his hands on the help his lil' nephew. But on the other hand "doing his best with what he can" is him gambling the rest city's citizens to accomplish this and seeing how he's the mayor...it's probably for the best to stop him

Also he's a pretty cool 2 part boss fight

I'm surprised they haven't put him in towers or cube miracle or something

But ya that's my best of 2023 awards for dislyte for anyone who was curious

[purplehairedwonder]

Chapter 1082: Setting the Stage

Wait, so you expect me just to... move on from 1081? That’s rude. I’m still in mourning 😭

Sigh. Fine.

On a lighter note, the cover illustration this chapter is adorable.

It made me smile, which I desperately needed after the devastation of last chapter.

On to the chapter, which continues to set the stage for the race for Laugh Tale:

We see the first major casualty of Cross Guild: T-Bone. 

It’s interesting that of all the Marines that could have become victim to the Cross Guild bounties, it’s T-Bone, one of the few genuinely good ones. That shows that, for all fandom was cracking up at the idea of Cross Guild pulling a Reverse Uno card on the Marines by putting bounties on them, it’s actually quite a damaging thing to do. It’s a stark reminder that these people we’re following, have, in some cases, come to feel affection for, are pirates.

Perhaps it’s inevitable T-Bone would become a victim of the Cross Guild bounties; when we first met him back in Water 7, he’s described like this:

His hobby is saving people and he’s willing to do anything to help others “even if it destroys this body of [his].” When we see the man who apparently killed him for his bounty, he’s utterly pathetic:

His family was starving to death; it’s easy to imagine T-Bone willingly giving himself up so this man could claim his bounty for his family’s sake considering what we’ve seen of the man. But now the Marines are down one of their best men and are worse off for it.

Speaking of Marines, it’s also good to see Sengoku and Tsuru. They chat about the danger Cross Guild represents to the Marines before Hina drops a bomb on them:

I have to wonder if we’ll see Sengoku and/or Tsuru follow after Garp to Hachinosu. Tsuru has her granddaughter to think about while Sengoku has his close friend--and, though he doesn’t know it yet, Blackbeard has just wiped out the crew of his sort-of grandson. Moreover, it’s possible Blackbeard recovered the Hearts and brought them back to Hachinosu as prisoners. Wouldn’t that be interesting to see Sengoku faced with Law’s crew?

Meanwhile, we also get some great comedic relief with the Buggy vs. Mihawk and Crocodile dynamic.

The Cross Guild ship is hilarious.

And Buggy knows that’s not going to sit well with Mihawk and Crocodile. 

He’s right.

Interesting that Mihawk says they need to establish overwhelming power when we just saw two captains worth 3 billion defeated and possibly in need of new direction. What did Law say back on Punk Hazard about surviving in the New World? You either join an Emperor or you try to become one.

I have a hard time imagining Law aligning himself with this group (even if he would fit the whole former Warlord vibe; Law’s far more likely to reunite with the Straw Hats, I think) but Kid? (Assuming he survived, of course. This is One Piece, so I feel pretty safe in that assumption.) Kid’s going to want revenge against Shanks for destroying his crew, and who better to get him close to Shanks than Buggy?

We also get some further elaboration on the grudge Buggy has been holding against Shanks -- and it’s completely unexpected.

Buggy thought Shanks was going to follow in Roger’s footsteps, but when Shanks decided to hold off, Buggy felt betrayed. This is... weirdly wholesome? And earnest? Like, Buggy had so much faith in Shanks as Roger’s successor that Shanks not immediately going for Laugh Tale comes across as a betrayal. Buggy is disappointed in Shanks.

(It’s also interesting to consider how Shanks and Buggy are the inverse of one another. Shanks is the strong head of a notoriously weak fleet while Buggy is the comedic relief figurehead of a group of more powerful pirates.)

So, Buggy decides he’s going to do what Shanks refused to do for all those years.

Why does Buggy, of all people, have me up in my feels now? Rude.

A lot has been said about Blackbeard being a dark parallel to Luffy, but Buggy has his own parallels to our favorite rubber boy. Back at Marineford, Mihawk noted what Luffy’s true strength is:

And Buggy has a similar ability, which he puts to use in this chapter:

So, at this point we’re seeing all four Emperors making moves toward finding the One Piece.

Meanwhile, surprising absolutely no one, Sabo is fine:

He wasn’t on Lulusia when it was blown up; he was evacuating some people from Lulusia who wanted to join the Revolutionary Army. We’re on the verge of learning what really happened at Reverie...

So, any bets on how many chapters it’ll take to return to Sabo’s story?

(Anyway, I’m going to crawl back into my hole and continue crying about Law, Bepo, and the Hearts.)

[sahtherat]

OK. This is a translation of our joint work with my bestie @imnotherewoup and me.

Here's a "regularly" updated list of One Piece characters' traumas with a slightly more realistic eye.

The => correspond to the consequences of the traumas we've identified in the manga (irl, there would be many more).

Don't hesitate to let me know if there are any mistakes or things to add.

TRIGGER WARNING (these are traumas after all) take care of yourself ❤️🤙🏻

Luffy

- No parent or parental figure

- Beaten by grandfather + constant pressure Marine

- Living with bandits / slums

- Law of the jungle = survive early, hard and alone (with 10-year-old brothers)

- Daily near-death experiences

- Kidnapped and beaten by bandits as a child ×2 (tortured the 2nd time)

- His idol sacrifices himself for him and loses his arm

- Fake death of his brother

- Death of his other brother

- Death of his brother (really this time) in front of his eyes to save him

- Poisoned ×2

- Shooter on hormones

- Assaulted by drug-craving children

- Starved himself

- The loss of Merry

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

- Responsibility of being captain + having to fight his buddies

=> PTSD

=> Fear of being alone

=> Survivor syndrome

=> Feelings of guilt

=> Fear of losing loved ones

=> Depressive episode

=> Self-arm

=> Nightmares

=> Survigilance

=> Little consideration of the hazard itself

Ace

- No parent = Death

- Father figure demonized by strangers + daddy issues

- Being beaten by adoptive grandfather + constant pressure Marine

- Living with brigands / slums

- The law of the jungle = survive early and hard and alone (with best buddy his own age)

- Death of best friend

- Near-death experience (fires, etc.)

- Taking care of a kid / taking responsibility early on

=> Self-esteem XXXS

=> Suicidal thoughts

=> Survivor syndrome

=> Spend his life finding a reason to be in the place to be

=> All symptoms of depression

Sabo

- Abusive parents : confinement, manipulation, devaluation = no family

- Runaway

- Police violence

- Living with brigands / slums

- Law of the jungle = survive early, hard and alone (with best buddy his own age)

- Near-death experience (assassination attempt)

- Amnesia overcome

- Death of best friend

=> Traumatic amnesia

=> Feelings of guilt

=> Survivor syndrome

=> Anti-system / Anarchist

Nami

- Murder of her adoptive mother in front of her eyes to save her = no parents

- Slavery

- Threat from the village

- Life of hardship / poverty

- Pressure to succeed

- Life of solitude

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing her friends' traumas

=> Racism

=> Materialism + theft

=> Self-mutilation

Zoro

=> Desire to control everything -> Manipulative

- No parents / parental figure / apparently lives alone as a child

- Death of best friend / rival

- Daily near-death experiences (Mihawk, Kuma, Albert etc)

- Deported by kuma = government figure

- Self-arm

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> Impossible grief because he has to fulfill his friend's dream

=> Alcoholism (?)

=> High sense of sacrifice

=> *a bit crazy*

Usopp

- Mother dies in front of him of illness

- Abandonment of father (he still went to fetch milk* with his buddy shanks)

*I don't know if this expression exists in English, but in French it means abandoning wife and child for no particular reason.

- Threatened by pirate

- Losing the Merry

- Fighting his best buddy

- Deported by kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> No parental figure

=> Feeling of illegitimacy / low self-esteem

=> Anxiety (and unfortunately he's the only one)

=> Lying to keep control

=> Survivor syndrome

Sanji

- Bullied / abused / mistreated / sequestered by his entire family

- Except his mother, but she died of illness

- Genetically changed

- Runaway

- Shaky father figure

- Fighting his captain

- Starvation

- Electrocuted

- Arranged marriage + manipulating + threatening father figure

- 2 years on the run from transvestites (yes, I know I'm tired of it)

- Heartbreak (by Viola)

- Near-death experiences

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> Smoking (like all the time)

=> Giving himself away in the kitchen

=> Obsession with women

=> High sense of sacrifice

TonyTony Chopper

- Non-consensual transition

- Rejected by everyone = Discrimination and marginalization ++

- Doping

- Getting beaten

- Death of his mentor (among others) due to his fault

- Pressure to succeed at work

- Life as a doctor = hard to fail

- Haggling

- Attacked by needy children

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> Guilt

=> Isolation

Nico Robin

- Only survivor of his people's genocide = no family or friends

- Left with her aunt who hated her and treated her like a slave

- Lonely childhood

- Harassed by government

- Wrongly sentenced to death

- Rejected by everyone

- Manipulated

- Exploited

- Near-death experiences (Aokiji, Ener, Crocodile etc )

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> Desire to die

=> Self-esteem as a skill only = objectifying herself

=> Does not project into the future / into social relationships

=> Survivor syndrome

Franky

- Abandoned by his parents

- Mentor gets beaten in front of + death sentence (among others) because of him

- Hit a train

- Family break-up (adoptive)

- Arrested by government

- Near-death experiences

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

=> Self-mutilation

=> Guilt

Brook

- Loss of his entire crew + witnessing their death

- Solitude for 50 years

- Stealing your shadow

- Get blown up by the guy with your shadow

- Loss of humanity/body

- Deported by Kuma = government figure

- Witnessing his buddies' traumas

- Sequestered by Satanists

- Exploited by music industry

- Sequestered by Big Mom

=> Talking to himself / alone all the time

=> Forced and repetitive humor

=> Guilt

=> Depression

=> Survivor Syndrome

Vivi

- Fighting alone in a criminal organization

- Under tension for months/years

- Threat from her country + her people killed

- Father killed by government

- Servant almost dies to save country

- Fake death of her other servant / buddy

=> Pressure / mental burden of ensuring the country's survival and her role as princess alone

Trafalgar Law

- Epidemic in his village + Genocide

- All his family + loved ones die = loneliness as sole survivor

- Hiding under corpses

- Being exploited

- Sick + rejected by doctors

- Father figure killed in front of his eyes to save him = solitude v2

- Shot by his former boss

- Beaten / Tortured / Near Death Experiences (a classic after all)

=> Desire for terrorism

=> Survivor syndrome

=> Working for a criminal organization

=> Looking for a way to die

=> Large-scale project to destroy his former boss

Shirahoshi

- Mother's murder in front of her eyes

- Isolation for half her life

- Child sexualization

- Stalker trying to kill her for years

- First date ends in battlefield

- Family beaten in front of her eyes

=> Childish behavior

=> Generalized anxiety/social anxiety

=> Sexual harassment trivialized

Yamato

- Sequestered all his life by his father

- Lived in prison

- Exploited by father

- No real parental figure

- His only friend is dead

- His idol is dead, killed by his father

- Child of a criminal who ravages a country

=> No social skills

=> Seeks to create a separate identity