#ive been suicidal since I was 8

[changelingsandothernonsense]

Ah the courier service just decided not to deliver my pc.

And getting in contact is proving difficult. Honestly, I'm at the end of my rope with everything atm and I don't think I can keep dealing with constant bad shit happening all the time.

I'm done, I think I'm finally done trying.

[anotherpapercut]

you know it's bad when you keep fantasizing about killing yourself in front of them to traumatize them for life lmfaoooo

[trekkele]

Everytime I see a post about Bruce being a hypocrite, someone says "he lacks so much self-awareness, it's insane"

I can't help but think that's not true. You absolutely can be self-aware while acting hypocritical and Bruce shows this in his internal monologues and sometimes dialouge with other people, like Alfred or Clark, that he knows what he's doing and what effect he's had on other people and then critisezes or defends his actions to himself. He even critizises himself for being a hypocrite lol.

What are your thoughts on this? Is Bruce lacking self-awareness or is he not? Or something in the middle?

Also, there's something of a difference between being self-aware about himself and when it comes to his kids. But I didn't touch on it bc the writers like to make Bruce so OOC around the batkids it's hard to see his actual character. What I mean is the question "does bruce lack self-awareness around his kids because of the writers or because it's an actual core part of his character?"

Oh yeah i agree with you completely. Bruce is very self aware, he knows he acts hypocritical, it just doesnt matter. Also once again some of the things fandom calls hypocritical are just … parenting. Im sorry! But saying ‘no you cant fight crime with a bruised rib’ to your fifteen year old, even if you do fight crime with a bruised rib, isn’t necessarily hypocritical - its parenting. Bruce knows his limits and knows when to push them. He does actually take breaks in comics to heal. But making sure your kid takes proper breaks and doesnt push their limits is just parenting.

Im not sure what you mean by being self aware around his kids specifically tho, but i do agree that Bruce gets written wildly inconsistently around them so its kind of dealers choice i guess?

[themyscirah]

I think that comic creators should be forced to read the entirety of Ostrander & Yale's Suicide Squad run before they even THINK of using Amanda Waller in anything actually

[moonbeam-fox]

As someone who has survived multiple attempts, what i wish most ppl understood about suicide and suicidality is that in my view it is the final set of depression symptoms. It was true for my best friend, for my clients, it was true for me. It's not selfishness it's literally a feature of the thing. The thing of course being major depression. Dig?

[libraryfag]

holidays are all fun and games until the Constipation hits

[whitemochacoffee]

To my friends; i'm just really really sorry for everything. I love y'all

[stargazingpsychotic]

Feels like I might be able to go sometime this next couple weeks and that both scares me and makes me feel the most safe I can

[mooishbeam]

『♡』 Treasures of the Fraud

♡ featuring: pantalone x f!reader

♡ summary: it's been forever since you've seen your friend, and as the hero of liyue, a new interruption has arisen. you pursue it, only to find memories awaiting you. wc: 9.1k+ (D:)

♡ cw/tw: long lonnggg fic, obsession, mentions of murder, mention of suicide, mentions of blood, manipulation, toxic pantalone, mean pantalone, possessive, spanking, degradation, mild praise, fingering, thigh riding, missionary, overstim, begging, edging, comeshot, pet names (darling, slut)

notes: helloooo!! ive been slow to get stuff out college is kicking my ass rn so sorry. not proofread so i apologize for any mistakes. I can't wait to have more time :) art by yion_yi on ig! <3 comments and reblogs are appreciated!

12 years ago 

“Come get me!” 

The boy with inky curls spiraling down his back dips through trees, ducking under low hanging branches embellished with vibrant autumn foliage. Messy blends of pink and purple melt across the slowly bleeding sun carried into the night. His silhouette resembles that of a malevolent spirit peeking behind the boughs, leaping over tangled twigs and shallow ditches. His excited screeches signal you to chase after the leading direction. You’re both screaming and laughing down the undoubtedly dangerous shortcuts. If your mother knew about the adventurous risks you were taking at 13, you’d never leave the house again. Tag is a troubling game—despite the thousands of times you’ve played with him, you regularly end up being “it”. You don’t care about losing, though; having someone to call a friend is enough.  

You turn into a clearing with columns of trees overseeing your small presence, hundreds of them. The colder night is rising, not a celestial body to shield.  In this deep blue void, the leaves seem to be aggrieved at your interruption of some secret meeting, angry and smiling faces crumpling in the whispering wind. You spin around frantically, looking for signs or laughter, but neither reveal themself. It’s quiet besides the downy linger of grass. Your shoulders are snatched back and shaken to a rattling shock. You scream, and he laughs. 

“Rahhh! Did I get you?” he jests. Your eyebrows narrow, and you push him lightly to a stumble. 

“You scared me!” 

“Hah, that’s the point. C’mon, it’s late. Let’s go.” He's scared too, swiftly grabbing your hand as you both brave the darkness back to the village. 

“We should’ve been home a while ago” you say quietly. You feel the chill in your bones and press yourself closer to him. 

“Yea.” He holds your hand tighter at the sound of a small rock bouncing down a steep hill. 

“I had fun today. Let’s do this again tomorrow.” 

“I have something to tell you.” 

“Okay.” 

“I’m moving in the morning” he states. It was nonchalant, but your stomach turns a churning sickness. One you can’t understand yet, it makes you uneasy. 

“Oh. Okay, then.” It isn't okay, not in the slightest. But it had to be. Your best friend of 8 years looks at you, aiming to register the gravity of the situation. You both say nothing, but tears start to brim in your eyes in the silence. You wipe them with your arm. 

“Will you miss me?” he asks. 

“A lot.” 

“I’ll miss you too. Lots and lots.” He sways your interlocking hands. You pass by vacant homes tattered and aged by abandonment, overgrown with invading ivy. Homeless reside, caring each other to warmth from the freezing draft. You were lucky to have a home in this little forgotten sector of Liyue. It's a small, unfortunate room, with holes in the roof that drips when it rains and bags over the windows to keep the heat in. The stove never works, and you share a bed with your mother, but every birthday she makes sure to save just enough for a slice of cake with one candle. There isn’t more you could ask for. Everyone in the village suffered from poverty but they made it work, sharing crops and dairy to persevere until the next year. That’s how you met him, sitting on a rock as your mother collected rations. You perform two pebbles in your hands, mumbling sea shanties while imagining voyage on a grueling journey—he sat next to you. 

“Those aren’t dolls. They’re rocks.” 

“You’re a rock” you retorted.  

“No, I’m not.” 

“Do you want to be a rock?” 

“...That’d be kinda cool.” You gave him a pile of pebbles, and he joined the trip. 

You’re getting closer to the village, still processing who you’ll play with once he’s gone. You glance at him, he’s spaced out in a faraway stare. You crave the power to read minds. 

“Can we talk about something? I’m getting sad” you sniffle. 

“What should be talk about?” 

“What are you going to do after you move?” 

“I’m gonna be super rich” he assures, looking up at the starless sky as if a meteor would shoot across and grant his wish. “What about you?” 

“I’m going to save the world” you proclaim.  

“Cool. I hope you do.” 

“Me too.” 

You arrive at your makeshift door drawn together with scraps of wood and twisted rope for hinges. A dim candle glimmers inside, most likely your vexed mother waiting for your tardily return. He makes space for your entry, and you undo your hands for the last time. Before you go, he snatches your wrist. His eyes are foggy, cheeks an anxious tinge of pink. He isn’t sure what he’s feeling, but the strings in his heart are tense. His mouth shapes to say something, but nothing returns. 

“Yeah?” 

“...I... I’ll really miss you a lot” he whispers with a lump in his throat.  

“Then don’t forget me, okay?” 

“I won’t.” 

“You promise?” you say and raise your pinky towards him. He curls around it. “I promise.” 

“Good. By the way, you’re it now.” 

“I’ll get you back when I see you again!” he chuckles. You bid your goodbyes, unaware that it would mark the unforeseen conclusion. 

Leaves crunch under your feet as you make your leisurely traverse to Liyue Harbor. It’s just before sunrise and you finished helping the elderly in Qingce Village carry copious amounts of heavy produce to their homes. The thankful candies from seniors' jingle in your pocket as you stretch your weary arms. Your mom offered to cook, but you're determined to locate the best commissions Katheryne had before afternoon. “Maybe I’ll pick up some rice buns” you think out loud at the rumble of your growing appetite. You still had a long way to go before you got to the harbor. 

This was your new normal. After your thundering battle with Ningguang and Keqing against Osial, you became an example of Liyue’s triumph. You also became more aware of Fatui tactics, wiping out their swarms with the raging fury of your pneuma and swinging vision. Days of grueling bloodshed resulted in your victory, cementing you as the lionheart of Liyue. Beat up and bruised, the only request you made after your fight was a hot meal and a place for your mom to retire. They delivered both, and you used your recent hero status to provide help to the villagers where needed, be it casual favors or ruthless assault on Fatui agents. You were neither rich nor poor, and lived off the land and kindness of the Liyue Qixing. They often suggested you focus on less mundane tasks, but to you, the most vulnerable age groups warranted priority. There was something about the lighthearted innocent squeals of children and mellow grandparents rocking in their wooden chairs that made you protective to an almost volatile extent. 

Bustling interactions of trade and commerce carry through the wind as you enter the harbor—a sound that’s brought you peace for years. The smell of food vendors has you drooling instantly. As you devour the complimentary rice bun, you feel the yank of a little hand on your skirt. You look down and a boy with brown hair searches for familiarity in your face. You recognize him, babysitting him numerous times. You kneel and pat his head, but he doesn’t react or move.  

“Hey, what’s up? Where are your parents?” you question, briefly scanning your immediate area for his family. He’s hesitant to speak, as if he can’t find the panicked words, and rushes into your arms. You hug him instinctively and let him sniffle into your shoulder. You pick him up in your grasp and raise his head with your other hand so that he’ll hopefully be open to your compassion.  

“Can you tell me what’s wrong?” The boy wipes his chubby tomato-red face. “Grandma is on the floor, what do I do?” You quell your rising nerves to suppress his alarm and speak calmly.  

“Where is she?” 

Speed walking towards the destination, the commotion of a small crowd surrounds a kneeling woman in the distance. She’s on her sun-spotted hands and knees, wailing for some bygone Archon. “Grandma!” he yells and jumps out of your arms. You run after him, relieved that the worst case scenario hadn’t occurred. You push through the group and get eye level with her, forehead pressed to the ground spouting religious scripture. 

“Are you okay? Do you need medical assistance?” Wise sunken eyes wrinkled with age and torn by tragedy stick to your heart. Her feeble hands encapsulate yours, and tears stream down her cheeks. “They took my baby!” she rasps, rocking back and forth. “Who did?” you ask, and she weeps harder. “They took her memory...my baby, my daughter!” You support her weight and lift her hunched figure off the pavement. “What did they look like, ma’am?” 

“A black hood...red mask” she recalls shakily. Instantly miscellaneous chatter ensues. They whisper nervously in each other's ears, he who shall not be named steals their voices. “Fatui probably got ‘er” you hear the mumble of one. Fatui. Your blood boils at the word, and you direct your view to the shrinking man with hands in his pockets. “‘He’ got all of us” he scoffs. “Did they hurt you guys, too?” you ask, and they stare. They’re pained but accepting.  

“500,000 mora.”  

“194,000 for me.” 

They list off their debt one by one, and you’re horrified at the accumulating number. They seem to endure, however; no longer phased by the incurable tally haunting their lives. “H-how are you paying any of this?” 

“We can’t. It adds up. Interest, late payments, it always does. So, we give everything, and ‘he’ takes everything, until we have nothing left. We die poor without a possession to our name” a woman sighs. As a child, you heard of the loan sharks that purposely fed false promises to the poor, and once they were reeled in, charged insurmountable payments to blackmail—it was the origin story of most people in your birthplace. Your soul aches for them, but is there anything you can do? 

“...I’ll help you, all of you. I’m sure I can-” 

Ningguang arrives. She's a nurturing figure to you, the kind that asks if you’ve been eating well and politely scolds you.  “What happened?” You lead the tired elder to the Jade Chamber, and she tells her story through choked sobs. You didn’t expect Keqing to already be there, arms folded and turned away from the situation. Ningguang can barely glance at the woman. 

“They stormed my home and took my jewelry and belongings. They took the pendant my daughter gave me; it had her face in it. Archons give me strength, my baby! I can’t afford it; I have nothing!” she quakes. You rub her back and Ningguang nods, listening—you can’t help but notice the anxiety blooming on her abstracted face. They take her through the process and once she leaves, Ningguang and Keqing look at each other with a silent understanding. The room is eerily quiet, and Ningguang paces back and forth in front of the intel wall contemplating an uncertain danger. You fumble with your thumbs. 

“What are we going to do about this?” you wonder. Keqing clears her throat loudly, attracting the attention of Ningguang. She looks at you, and sighs deeply. “We already know about this issue.” 

Your ears perk up. “Great, so how can I help?” 

“By doing nothing, (Y/N)” Keqing says. 

“...What?” 

“I have eyes everywhere; I’ve known for a long time. The Fatui are not people to be taken lightly, especially the harbingers. A few of their skirmishers were caught trading exotic goods and taxing medicine at high prices, on top of extorting the impoverished regions.” Ningguang points to one of the many Fatui exclusive headquarters on the wall. “Pantalone is the richest man in Teyvat, he has more political influence than anyone can imagine, and they answer to him. We can’t risk getting involved with this. They’ve brought this upon themselves, and unfortunately, they must deal with the consequences.” 

You can’t accept this response. How can they just desert them? It doesn’t comprehend in your naïvity—you scold yourself for not spotting the signs sooner, furrowing your brows and looking at them with distaste. “I expected this. You shouldn’t have said anything” Keqing chides. “...Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped before-” 

“You’re the last person I wanted to know about this” Ningguang interrupts. Your anger feels misplaced, and you bite your lip in restraint. She sits next to you and offers fleeting comfort with a graceful hand on yours. “You’re quite the reactionary type. In due time, this will be sorted. But right now, I need you to calm down, and trust me.” It sounds desperate, you know you shouldn’t go looking for answers, but a snagging thread pulls at the back of your consciousness, all too convincing. You bounce your leg. “You should want revenge just as much as me. Where we came from, where they end up, it isn’t fair.”  

“You know I do, more than anything. But we must handle this with care, before too many people get hurt. I’m doing this for the betterment of Liyue as a whole. It’s not easy to make these decisions.” 

“We can’t just go around serving justice, there’s laws we have to act with” Keqing adds. You don’t reply and stand up abruptly to leave. The worried Tianquan grabs your wrist one last time. “Promise me you won’t make a mistake, (Y/N). I’m trying to protect you” she pleads. 

“I promise. Thank you.” You flash a half genuine smile, already planning to rebel against her wishes. 

Who exactly is ‘he’—Pantalone. You don’t even know where to start looking. Too many headquarters, infinite possibilities. The best way you have to find him is through Fatui agents.  

You start taking up odd jobs late in the evening, scouring for the possibility that a fatui agent might fall into your hands. Though you considered playing the part of an impoverished villager taking out a loan at Northland Bank, it didn’t guarantee that you’d meet Pantalone in the flesh—it’s more likely that would raise unnecessary suspicion in the process. It’s awkward at first, seeing the hero of Liyue fish on the dock for petty change throughout the night. As you do, the malicious fire in your eyes burns bright at the occasional voice in chill silence. Your vision glows as you toss the hunting knife between your nimble digits. Listening closely to conversations, hoping that one might be unguarded enough to slip up, but nothing of the sort appears—not even the boldness of Fatui skirmishers enables them to divulge secrets under the baleful existence of Celestia.  

The moon illuminates sweetly on the tranquil waters lulling you to drowse. You hadn’t heard much since the start of your escapade. A fishing pole is weak in your resistless hold, and you’ve evidently given up on the idea of portraying the hardworking fisherman tonight. You vowed to help the people of Liyue, but justice was seemingly unfeasible. Maybe a direct approach? Should I ambush their headquarters? More so a suicide mission, you’d have no luck achieving that. Just as you’re about to leave, the crunch of withering grass straightens your posture. You make yourself hidden with a burst of energy and slouch behind the bushes as a Fatui pyro agent charges along the route. Through the glutted leaves obstructing your vision, you can just make out the heavy bag on his shoulder and jagged blade waiting restlessly on the other. His stride points towards Qingce Village. You hold your breath disguising yourself with the scenery and allow him to take a few feet between you before you begin following him. He’s rather shifty, those veiled eyes darting back and forth at the lightest noise. You’re careful to glide behind trees, moving with the heartbeat of the wind and taking advantage of the various melody's nature offers. You suck in a breath and duck behind a boulder a few inches too close, and his head snaps in your direction. The feeling of being watched besets him, but with no way to prove it and time running out, he secures his knife for the hypothetical ambush, and makes haste towards the target. Turning a tree, you watch as the pyro wielder knocks on the house of a small worn cottage. A short stocky man appears, shading half his body behind the door. 

“H-hello...” you hear faintly. The Fatui keeps his hand firm on the door, one boot propped under the hinge. He presents the flaming knife loosely as he towers over the man. “We’ve given you time.” You were sure now that he's working for Pantalone.  

“I don’t have it. P-please, if you could just give me some more-” He slams his fist against the wood, a resounding thump shakes the home. The man cowers. “Give me everything you have. The Regrator won’t wait any long-” 

A small rock flies past his mask, skidding on the ground until it comes to a stop. He glares in the direction of the tree you’re hiding behind. You have no plan, nothing but the distracting impulse to stop the assailant from attacking. “Stay here” he commands, and stalks towards you. His slow footsteps get increasingly louder, playful stomps toying with your obvious whereabouts. He twirls the razor-sharp knife, and as he sharply peeks around the corner, you’re nowhere to be found. “Here, kitty kitty” he taunts, spinning towards the lake, then the village grounds for footprints. He severs the air aimlessly in mirth, believing some amateur fighter came to challenge him. As he monitors the tracks under you, you drop down from the wiry branches. Legs wrap tight around his neck, and you catch hold of his hood trying to pull his mask off. He gags but he’s too quick, throwing off your steadiness as he slams your spine on the grass. He whips around to take a stab at your chest, but you roll away guarding the vital arteries. You kick him in the crotch, and he recoils giving you ample time to stand.  

You can’t feel the wet laceration dripping down your abdomen as you take a slash at his throat with your weapon, infused with elemental energy. He leans back and meets your strike. You trade blows, the strength of your smite bursting sparks of light above the scratches and bruises. Your wrist burns with the unmoving knives stumbling you. He begins to manifest blazing knives circling his figure, and you jump back from the singing cut melting the cloth. You wipe the dried blood from your mouth, and in the blink of an eye, he disappears. Suddenly, red auras similar to the pyro agent surround you. One by one, the clones charge at you, and you parry their overhead onslaught. Something is different about the last clone, your vision revealing a brighter outline than the others. When the next clone attacks, as you counter you pretend to fall for his trick. With your eyes on the other, he immediately passes through the black fog to deal the killing blow. You’re quicker this time and heave a heavy tear into his chest. Crimson splatters the grass, it shatters his element and rips open the robe. You tackle him on the dirt and wrestle until you kick his weapon away. Your knee digs into his back, and he can barely breathe with his arm locked behind him and knife rigid against his neck. He ttempts to swing at you, but you wrench his arm tighter and slice into his skin just enough to draw blood. 

“Fuck. Okay!” he wheezes. “Where is Pantalone?”  

“I don’t know what you’re- shit!” You’ve lost patience long ago and twist his arm to dislocate the shoulder. He lets out a blood curdling scream thrashing in pain—you tug hard and focus him. “Shut up and answer my question. Where is Pantalone?” you demand. He hisses in pain and coughs up phlegm mixing with reddening soil. “Kill me.” 

“Just tell me and I’ll let you go.” 

“I’m a dead man, either way.” he rasps and hangs his head waiting for the execution. You grit your teeth; a drop of guilt leaves a bad taste as you thwack the pressure point on his neck that forces him unconscious. You glance at the bag he left and limp over to rummage through the contents. Useless papers crumple under stolen items, but one note catches your eye. Presumably a to-do list, you read to the bottom. A list of homes, goods on standby exchanges—at the bottom of those, a rendezvous point: 

Report back- Yilong Bank, Liyue 

You rest in a plot of prickly bushes and leave in the morning after patching yourself up. You couldn’t stop now, not when you were this close to facing him. You soothe your body from the twigs prodding you all night, and check the wound suppressed by gauze. It’s a light scar now, apparent after bathing in the warm water on the outskirts of Qingce. You contemplated telling Ningguang about what occurred, but imagining the look on her face once she knew kept you moving. 

Tucking your vision where it can’t be viewed, you take a waverider to Yilong Port into the afternoon. You concoct a half-baked scheme, one that relies on every scenario being perfect to a tee. Unreliable, but probably your only chance. The plan amounts to scaling the building and breaking in through the office window, snatching everything owned by the villagers and breaking out before anyone notices. Easy in your capabilities, but you have no idea what the building looks like, nor do you know where the office is. The man driving wears all black, an outfit that stands out from the rest of the region. He stares at you blankly, and once you’re aware, you meet eyes. His smile is uncanny, stretching across his face with an abnormal friendliness. 

“Is this your first time at the port?” he asks, finger tapping the wheel. Be it sleep deprivation or ignorance; you don’t recognize red flags in his behavior.  You smile at the courteous face. “Yeah, the weather’s beautiful out here.” 

“Mhm, hot weather up here. On vacation?” 

“Nah, I have business here.” The minuscule edge of your vision catches in the light. He homes in on the passing twinkle. You wonder why his eyes widen momentarily, and his finger starts to tap methodically, as if memorizing a coded pattern. 

“Business...what kind?” 

“Oh...I have some items to trade.” You close off your answers feeling that you’ve said too much. He subsides with a stale expression. “If you’re looking to trade, you might find luck at Yilong Bank” he utters monotonously.  

“And where is that?” You feign disinterest, but victory is too loud on your tongue. 

“Up the mountain.” The waverider halts at the harbor, and he turns his head away from you unusually cold, akin to a mechanical bot shutting down. “Welcome to Yilong Port.” 

You make yourself invisible in the crowd and wait for nightfall. People still roam the port along with Fatui monitoring the front of the bank, which gives you leeway to blend in as you find passage around the back of the mountain. It’s a steep, dark incline jutted with irregular jagged stones. The imposing size of the climb tangles knots in your stomach, and you wipe the persistent sweat on your top. In one huge leap, you latch onto a craggy indent, and begin your ascension. 

Your legs feel like jelly with each contact of the unforgiving breeze. You sway alongside the spirit of anemo and swallow your anxiety before leaping to the next rock. Shoes plant into rock and nails excavate fresh cobble on the next jump. By the time you’ve realized, you’re already up most of the mountain. You tug yourself even with the land as a barreling gust of wind goads your glance to the ground, kilometers beneath you. Your breath stills, and for a second dizziness overtakes your nerves at the thought of slipping. I could die, one mistake and I’m dead. You focus, and spring to the next piece. Without warning, rock gives way into pebbles at the weight of your foot. You nearly plunge, but anchor onto the small bump out with one hand. You’re dangling off the edge, playing with death while you fortify your body. Hyperventilation makes your heartbeat thrum incessantly and stress palpitates tired muscles; If you didn't have your vision, you would’ve fainted to your demise. You bite the bullet, push your heels in and persevere through the hurdles. The next thing you clutch is malleable in your palm. You vault over the cliff, the smell of dew is overwhelming. The back of the bank—the end goal—is visible.  

One Fatui member remains in the front. You scale up the building effortlessly, nothing compared to the hell you just went through. Shifting window to window, your eyes land on the pitch-black darkness of the room at the top of the building. An ideal glow casts on the fraction of precious gold resting on a coffee table. This has to be it. You slink through the window soundlessly, and land on the balls of your feet. Analyzing the dish, you don’t discern the pendant. You can faintly identify some bookshelves near the dish, and tiptoe further inside. You creep around luxury sofas, and squint at the embellished glass case next to the door, containing all manner of jewelry and valuable possessions. You won; this was it. You scurry to it, moving with abrupt carelessness. One more step. 

Click 

The fireplace you didn’t heed is set aflame. It flickers sneering shadows on the opposite wall and brightens the case. You pause and hope. There’s a confining silence stirring in the room, like someone is with you. The case is visible now, and so is the key to opening it. 

You fell into a trap. 

“Looks like I have a little thief on my hands.”  

A bittersweet voice in the sable, reminiscent of rich dark chocolate, rolls off the room. He steps out obscurity behind his desk and your eyes adjust, revealing the tight black turtleneck compressing his willowy torso and gloves adorned with silver rings. You can’t see the upper part of his face, but the chains of his glasses hang in front of that duping smile. You expected the Fatui harbinger to be on the stronger side, physically intimidating. It’s not physical, but you feel a certain fear boiling in your body. He’s not terrifying, but you tremble. His presence makes your hair stand and sends waves of goosebumps up your arms. You can’t find the will to move your wobbly legs. His charmed laugh rings in your ears and causes you to hold your breath. He has no vision; you shouldn’t be afraid. You could take him on easily, why can’t you fight? 

“Hello, honored hero of Liyue” the headless man taunts. It makes it worse that he knows who you are. How long had he known you were coming? Was your plan doomed from the beginning? Your feet are stuck in molasses as your fight or flight shuts down at the man before you.  

“Now, tell me. What is the little thief doing, barging into my office to take the possessions I worked so hard for? Not very heroic of you, If I may say.” There’s power in his stature—you forget how to speak. He holds his palm out to you. Tangled between his fingers, is the ornate golden pendant you’d been searching for, a woman’s face in the frame. Your eyes widen, and the sweet familiar curve of his lips stretches in amusement. 

“Is this what you’re looking for?” The plod of low-heeled boots accompanies unveiled darkness, and you can observe his entirety. Amethyst eyes drunk with an orchid hue pool into your being. Lazy curls brush against his glasses and kiss his porcelain skin. He’s beautiful, a calm enticing rip current that sweeps you with immeasurable pressure before you can pull yourself out. He leans on the desk, observing the chain halfheartedly. If you weren’t careful, you’d mistake the look on his face for genuine kindness; you’d drown, just like he craved. Nonetheless, you can’t shake the emotion his smile grants. 

“Yes. That’s all I need, and I won’t bother you again” you whisper meekly, hoping that he’d let you go with the pendant in a spur of forgiveness. The jest in his eyes says something different. 

“Come get it.”  

Come get it. Your mind begins to piece the man into a stage of your life you’d forgotten. It can’t be him. Memory tells intrusive truth in short flashes. Inky curls spiraling in front of you as you chase. He was consistently miles ahead of you. It was irrelevant how far apart you were; he’d always find you. That big, curving smile for every match he won. Purple eyes glancing back at yours; the same ones that withheld tears when you said goodbye. 

“Come get me!” 

Tears stream down your eyes for the friend you thought you’d never see again. Childhood laughter bleeds into his current cat-like conniving snicker, and you gaze at his face. 

“I... remember you” you choke. He looks up without a smile, perceiving an unexpected thought, and meets your eyes. There’s a hint of affection in the warm smile beaming on his face. “My my, (Y/N). You have quite the memory.” 

You’re motionless, full of something that catches in your lungs. This isn’t the triumph you wanted, and now that you’re face to face you feel powerless. He must’ve known the entire time. Watching you fight and work alone, sending Fatui to roam in Liyue, all done to toy with you. Your lip quivers, swelling in your already deafening heartbeat.  

“How long...” you utter. He inquires with the tilt of his head. 

“How long have you been messing with me?” Your eyes adhere to the floor, pride that won’t permit you to shed misery for Pantalone. He drinks in your resistant frame, the kind he desires to break; perhaps this game of cat and mouse isn’t done, after all. 

“This hurts me too, (Y/N). I wouldn’t be doing this if you weren’t so…persistent.” Your confusion spills over in shaky, weak huffs. You can’t maintain your composure, and make yourself first to oppose the authoritative man on his own territory. 

“How could you do this to anyone? We grew up poor!” You shout with balling fists. 

“It’s inefficient to dwell on the past” he replies with gentle cadence and languid grace unrepresentative of his cruel tactics. You nearly regret raising your voice. 

“These people are at their wits end and you’re taking advantage of them” you chide. He slowly paces towards you. Pantalone looks down on you from height disparity, but the royal glower pities you, judges worth you can’t see. 

“Driven by emotions, are you that simple? You presumed that if you stormed in here, and professed a touching story, that I would suddenly see the error in my methods?” You’re not sure what you’re here for anymore or why you haven’t left yet. Subconscious urges can't determine if they should slap or hug the man inching towards you. “I simply enforce contracts and exchanges. No one can be swindled by a debt accreted on their own.” 

“No one asks to be poor either” you interject. Pantalone’s a foot away from you now, analyzing your reactions to his personal entertainment. He recalls the blurry past—the pranks you pulled together that ultimately failed from your loud hurried sneakiness tripping to alert the farmers, helping out for loose change so that you’d split a snack between each other that wasn’t big enough to share, gazing at the twinkling night imagining a distant future—you changed and stayed the same, but he keeps wanting more.  

“Weigh the odds. They either die impoverished or live by passage of loans. I merely provide a service. Does that make me so cruel?” You can’t find an answer. 

“You’ll always be my friend, but I need it back. It can’t be much to forgive someone’s debt” you plead.  

“You still consider me a friend?” 

“I think…you’re hurt. And you’re trying to heal. We all are. I know I’ve dealt with a lot as I’ve gotten older and I think you have, too. Power corrupts even the best people in this world, so maybe you’re not a bad person. But you’re doing bad things, and this isn’t the right way to get better.” 

Pantalone is quiet for a few long moments. His hands web his face, but you can clearly see the pearly fangs in his open-mouthed smirk. Then he laughs—dulcet and mocking, it lingers for too long as he throws his head back and relishes the obtuse notion. He gazes with insulting compassion and stalks towards you. 

“Incredibly…. gullible. Mora is the pathway to all endeavors. Devoid of gnosis or divine knowledge, wealth has rendered me impervious to control. Suffering and destitution only manifest if I will it. I am the guise of a false god, an emblem of achievement.” It’s borderline delusional the way he regards himself, arms moving in theatric grandeur, the star of his own opera. 

“Does that make you feel good? Stepping on the backs of the community that raised you, and abandoning them because they chose not to be influenced by greed?” Pantalone towers over you. His fingers brush light against your sensitive ears, trail to your clenched jaw, and finally cup your frustrated cheeks with the cradle of a long-lost lover. 

“It does, in fact. I’m not easily swayed by ridiculous optimism, that’s why I’m at the top. You’ve devoted your blood and tears to a region that will succumb to adversity in your absence. Is that not a pointless feat?” 

“So what? That doesn’t mean we just don’t help people. You have nothing without the Fatui, you’re a pawn just like the others” you retort. He brings his lips close to the shell of your ear, and his breath hot on the untouched skin drags a tingle up your spine. 

“And what do you know about the Fatui?” he whispers. 

“I know enough. You’re all disgusting.” He huffs out his nose. 

“Disgusting isn’t the right word. I’d say...opportunists.” Pantalone backs up, sliding his hand up your chin and tilting your attention to the intense glint. “But you’re clever, I’ll give you that. If only you were clever enough to know your place.” You'd forgotten you were acting out of line. You refocus your mindset to negotiation. 

“I’ll do anything you ask for the debt. Please, just give it back.” The word “anything” evokes a malicious yearning—so forthcoming without understanding the implications of “anything”, of eternity. He caresses your cheek. 

“Anything, hm? Even if I said to give up being a hero for good? Would you still call yourself a heroic traveler if you weren’t allowed to travel or adventure as you please?” he teases. Your mouth opens to refute, but you bite your bottom lip instead. Pantalone walks back to his desk and leans while dangling the golden chain. Now that he’s far, the invading space between you two shows how insignificant you are in this luxury palace. 

“Your resolve moves me. Consider this; make an exchange with me, and I’ll guarantee not only her debt, but the debt of all residents in Liyue forgiven” Your face instantly lights up, ready to accept it without thinking. 

“What is it?” you ask. 

“In exchange for regional loan forgiveness, I want you.” 

“...What?” 

“I want everything you have. It’s the fairest exchange I can make. Your obedience, your loyalty, and your body.”  

The choice turns in your frontal lobe. You can’t fathom giving yourself to a man, let alone a Fatui harbinger. It’s unbecoming of a hero to lie with the enemy. 

“Absolutely not” you assure. 

“Alright. Then allow their village to be reduced to nothing.” No, wait. “You may leave. However, if you do, you’ll cause great misfortune to that woman and her struggling family” You play into his covet so smoothly as you stand in the center of the room, reluctant to leave.  

“I’m not a complete monster, so I’ll give you 5 seconds to make a choice.” He sways the pendant in his hand like the transient time of an hourglass. 5 seconds, all you have to sign your life away. 

“4.”  

What if no one ever sees you again? What’s the point of sacrificing your happiness and freedom, are the people of Liyue truly worth it? 

“3.” 

You could threaten him, take him hostage so that a harbinger might bow to your demands. That, or they kill you, and the village suffers anyway. 

“2.” 

You think of your graying mom, the sweet boy with his chubby red face who cries over the smallest things, the grateful elders that give you candy after every good deed, Ningguang and Keqing stressing over the next financial impact. 

“1.” 

“I’ll do it.”  

Pantalone swings the chain into his palm, an undefeated smug overbearing as he sets it on the desk. There was never a point in resisting; he always got what he wanted, no matter how long it took to achieve it. He waited months—no, years—to get you in this exact moment. There’s a daunting beguiling charm in the way he closes the gap between you two. You glare at him; a temper common people would dread shooting. He assesses the pending punishment and lowers himself eye-level. He grins, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

“I can see the defiance in your eyes. Do you want to talk back? Go ahead, challenge me.” You don’t test this scenario and turn your head. “Don’t patronize me. Get it over with, ‘Pantalone’.” 

He quirks an eyebrow, and pliable flesh strains your teeth as your face is gripped rough by satiny leather. You’re twisted sharply to the calm expression—it humbles you. 

“That’s not how you address your superior. What should you call me?” You don’t answer promptly to his liking, and he tightens his grip. “Answer me properly, darling.” 

“...Sir.” Pantalone plants a sickly sugary kiss on your forehead, the kind that makes you forget how petrifying he can be, and lets you go.  

“Good.” He walks back to the desk and sits in the onyx chair embellished with silver jewels fit for a king. His chin rests on bridging hands. “Strip.” 

You don’t move, your heart hammers in your chest at the request and you stir uncomfortably. You have no experience with sexual gratification, let alone exposing yourself to an old friend.  

“(Y/N). Don’t make me say it again.” Keen agitation in his voice serves as a final warning. He eats you with his eyes, homed in on your hands clumsily snaking the top over your head. A glimpse of the scar you received during your fight with the Fatui captures him. He takes a mental entry, for an explanation that might justify why the agent suddenly goes missing. You were generally too busy to look in the mirror or analyze your assets, and pleasure was a removed afterthought—so the hungry fervor warming your skin and permeating the room clamped your thighs shut. You’re visibly flustered and nervous fumbling with the clasps on your bra while stabilizing your anxiety, and he delights in every second of the accidental strip tease. It feels like fresh meat introduced to a savage animal, and the instant your bra omes off, a new vulnerability coils in your gut. You move to your bottoms; the sheen of sweat polishes your plush thighs to wiggle out of them. You’re left in nothing but tantalizing panties hugging you in the right places. His eyes undress and redress you, tracing up and down the perk of your nipples, tempting fullness of your thighs, each unseen curve and perfect imperfect mark on your glistening body. He lets out a deep breath to stop himself from jumping over the table and taking you right there. 

“The underwear. Take it off” he says, an undertone of lust. You shimmy the fabric off and fully expose yourself. You impulsively cover your intimate parts and avert your eyes, but you can still feel Pantalone on you, ravaging you. He doesn’t bother telling you to put your arms at your sides, your bashfulness combined with an attempt at stoicism is comical. 

“Ah, the little thief is trying to act tough. That's cute” Pantalone teases and leans back in the chair. Manspreading, he pats his thigh. “Crawl.”  

He’s hellbent on shaming the defiance out of you. It’s a vile command, but you begrudgingly drop to your hands and knees. You drag your chaffed knees on wood, balancing like a newborn fawn adjusting to its legs. It’s humiliating and downright degrading; the cold floor fails at cooling your burning fever. You’re on the verge of tears, but Pantalone can’t help but smile. You get around the desk and look up at him, waiting for the next horrible thing he’ll have you do. “Unfortunately, the stunt you pulled impeded my paperwork. Be a good thing and sit on my lap until I’m done.” A “thing”—that’s all you were now, a shiny trophy meant to be ogled at but never taken seriously, used and thrown away. You stand off your scraped raw knees and straddle his thigh, hands balancing the leg so you don’t fall. 

And Pantalone starts to work. Working as if you’re not there, filling in the spaces on his documents. For some reason, it’s more demeaning this way, you truly are just a prize. One hand dances beautiful penmanship in masterful motions on embossed paper, the other fondles and explores your being. The gloves brush down your delicate spine, nonsensical shapes drawn on your lower back that make you shiver and pool heat in places you’ve never thought of. You’ve never been touched like this, it’s needles light on your skin. They move to your stomach, pleasant circles above the pelvis that threaten to go lower. He’s careful to trail his hand up your cleavage and behind your neck, neglect your hardening nipples and repeat the process over and over. He’s painstakingly slow, savoring the dazed arch of your back, massaging your inner thighs and dragging the sleek material over your rear.

Middle and index sweep across your lips, pulling your bottom lip to reveal teeth, and prods your mouth. Pantalone’s fingers are invasive, they exploit your gums and twirl around the squishy tongue molding to his appetite. He plays with the pink mass, and it fills you like a kiss. He’s everywhere and he hasn’t looked at you once. You hate it, the kind elegance and refinement of his technique that makes every calculated word and action reek of opulence. Yet, arousal pools on the surface, sticking to your labia and clouding your drowsy mind. It’s an extreme ache that doesn’t go away from cold showers or shrugging off like you usually would. You can’t remember what you did today, yesterday, or the day before that. The sensation of him consumes you and persists in spots he left. He smells of expensive cologne, hints of heady wood and sage. You’re lucky his fingers are in your mouth, or piteous moans would spill out of you. Flat on his thigh, the subtle jolts of his leg rub against your hypersensitive clit and set your nerves on fire. Throbbing swells in your core, and you struggle to stay stiff as your hips stutter.  

Pantalone knows exactly what he’s doing. Your labored pants sound like saintly melody while you writhe on his lap. The fabric goads your pulsing pussy, and you hang your head in embarrassment of the juices soaking your thighs and his. He’s surprised you have strength left to withstand the itch. You do your best to hover above it, trailing thick strings of slick. “There’s no need to pretend you don’t like this. Just give yourself to me” he whispers. And it’s so enticing, an invitation that might let you come if you ask. However, remnants of pride cling to your melting resolve, you can’t give in yet. He takes the fingers out and presses on your nipple, flicking the bud. You can’t hold the mewl, and he snickers.  

“So indignant for the hero of Liyue, to be on a harbingers lap, reduced to a pretty pet.” Your ears tune out the insults. The damp gloves pull and pinch your puffy nipples, then knead to soothe the pain. He does the same to the other, switching between both as he feels you squirm.  

He works on the last few pages. Piles upon piles of reports and records—they detail the deaths, or “suicides”, of clients who’d disappeared mysteriously after extended absence of payments for millions of mora, people who dared go against the Regrator. Unruly, uncooperative clients that take advantage of fair exchange, and pay the price for it. 

Your arms get tired, and you settle on him again. Pantalone starts to softly bounce his leg, enough for you to notice the friction on your clit. It’s too much, you can’t take it anymore, and start to rut your hips on his thigh. You look messy, smearing your essence on those overpriced slacks and biting back your moans. Pleasure flows in your veins, and you give up. His cock throbs nonstop, print stealing space in his pants. “Did you believe I wouldn’t catch you? You’re not sneaky enough. You’re not good enough," he taunts from the corner of his eye. You hump his leg like a desperate bunny, chasing the addictive high.  

“Nasty slut, fucking your hips on a man you barely remember.” He moves his hands to your clit and replaces the slacks with slippery leather. You grind on it harder and hold your moans. More, more, more. He coats it in the mess and finally diverts his attention to you. He teases your entrance gliding vertically on your vulva before pushing one finger in. It hurts at first, but your walls hug him eagerly, pulling it deeper. He coaxes it to take another and starts scissoring your gushy walls.  

“I’ll devour you. I’ll inscribe my name upon every surface of your physique until it adorns your lips, and I’m the only thing that remains.” Pantalone starts pumping rhythmically, tormenting, poking everywhere but your g-spot. Gloss drips down his knuckles and glazes his rings. 

“S-sir please, s’too much” you whimper, mustering up an ineffective stable voice. “Hmm? Can you hear the lewd sounds you’re making?” Loud squelches sing from him fucking your insides. Each time you try to speak, he elicits another moan. 

“M-my sto-mach hurtss” you whine. He holds your waist in place with the other hand and continues the assault. “I know, it hurts? Would you like me to alleviate the pain?” he coos. You nod fast. 

“Hold it in. You ask for permission every time you’re close, do you understand?” You don’t reply and try to angle your body to get more contact. You make the mistake of guiding yourself to your clit and earn a harsh stinging slap on your hand. “Don’t touch what��s mine” he orders. You’re frustrated and he’s doing it on purpose, it’s entirely too hot where pleasure and pain blur. “N-not yours” you stammer, and he stops. He pulls out your warmth and you whine from loss of pressure. Looking at him, there's no smile, and the irritation on his face makes your heart drop. You're really in for it. 

Without delay, your stomach flies over one of the chair arms, and you hold onto it for dear life. It presses firm on your ribs, and he slants your ass to the air. “You have courage, speaking back to me” he says. He pulls his gloves off and hurls them. They’re lovely, the silken soft hands of a man who hadn't lifted a finger through combat a day in his life. They sink into your sex, and you moan out for him. The other winds back, and you feel the palm hit brutally on your unsuspecting backside. Crack. It echoes in the room, and you almost fly forward. 

“Disrespectful.” Crack. He keeps pumping through it, and tears collect in your lashes. 

“Disobedient.” Crack. There’s blood rushing to your head, and violent smacks make your pussy flutter and ass ripple; his control won’t give you adequate touch.  

“Little.” Crack. Every time he feels you getting there, he pauses. A masochistic pleasure whirls innermost. 

“Brat.” Crack. Both cheeks are a sore fiery color and beginning to welt, but he resumes. You’re drenching his palm, sobbing from prolonged edging and Pantalone laughs. “Pfft, you’re crying? Too embarrassed to beg? Perhaps I’ll give you what you want, if you grovel hard enough, darling.” An incoherent orchestra of please’s mesh with broken moans. “Sir m’sorry. Wan’ it so bad, p-please!” you mumble. There’s no dignity on your lips, no residue of the hero you once were. Drunken ardor floods your short-circuiting brain. 

“Oh, what do you say? You want it? Is that it? I'll let you have it... but only if you say it loud and clear for me” he croons. He winds his fingers in a come-hither gesture that licks your core. 

“Please...I won’t misbehave again!” He spreads your ass apart and watches your hole pucker from lining the brink. 

“I’m not sure I want to give it to you now. It's a lot more enjoyable watching you squirm and beg.” 

“’M yours, sir. Please give it to me. I’ll be s’good, promise!” you mewl. You’re so pathetic, it’s endearing. He simpers and maneuvers impossibly fast while gyrating your clit. “How humiliating. You’ve satisfied me.” Your eyes roll back, and you dissolve in pure euphoria. There’s black dots in your vision, and it doesn’t stop as he starts torturing your overstimulated clit with the pad of his thumb. Your tears only encourage him. You jerk and spasm, but he moves where you move with insistent skill. “T-too m-” 

“Aww, what’s wrong? Isn’t this what you wanted, where are your manners?” Pantalone pulls out and delivers staggering mean swats to your pussy, and you recoil. “Say thank you” he demands. 

“Thank you, sir.” He hums and picks you up in his arms. Before color can return to your numb cells, he lays you on the desk. You watch him pull his shirt up to his pecs with haste and uncover the lean skinny midsection. Unzipping his pants, he unsheathes his leaking thumping erection. Even his dick is pretty, it curves upwards and shades a starving dusty pink past the thin strip of tissue on the underside of his bulbous tip. Composure thinning, a bead of pre come runs down his tip at the sight of provocation sluicing your ass and thighs. His glasses plunge down his neck, body blushed wildly, but he doesn’t care. Pantalone slides between your labia and groans at the sound. Engulfing the tip in awaiting velvet warmth, “You’re so good for me, hm?” he sighs. You embrace him, delicious searing stretch of your walls forming to his cock. Your orgasm builds just from your body accommodating the size. He places your hands on your calves and holds them at your sides. He slips out, and in one swoop, drives into you. His heavy balls smack against your ass as he thrusts frenetically in the gooey grip he’d been waiting for, stalking and spying for. He digs crescent shapes in your waist and uses you to his abundance. The desk base creaks and grinds on abrading wood and obituaries float to the floor with overturned calligraphy ink from the unrelenting momentum. You throw your head back and indulge the carnal lust washing over you both. 

“You’ll never see anyone ever again. Fuck- you’re mine, and mine alone. You’re nothing but a come dump, your purpose is to please me, hah, until I say it’s over” his voice is unexpectedly deprived and weighty with vulgar whimpers. Pantalone eyes your neck and encapsulates it in his slender hand. He clenches tight and releases in sporadic bursts that have you seizing around him. For a split second there’s the image of you—exorbitant pearled collar wrapped around your throat, with “Pantalone” inscribed in bedazzled letters—and he loses it. He swipes your clit rapidly and feeds you deep strokes; you’ll definitely die. You speak, but it’s unintelligible rambling. 

“Use your words” he lilts, squeezing your airflow taut. “C-can I, sir, please?” 

“You’ll do it on my command.” Pantalone thrusts frenetically, you can feel him bucking, twitching and quickly approaching his climax. His hips sputter, chanting some mixture of your name and curses under his breath. “You’re so obedient for me, aren’t you? F-fuck, darling, go ahead. Come on my cock.” You permit yourself to surrender, white noise streams in and time slows as you come down his shaft. A creamy ring forms at the hilt of his slaps. You recite “thank you” through wails with the semblance of a follower at the altar of their savior. Then he grabs your face and goes in for a kiss.  

It’s sloppy and misses half your lip, but its doughy attachment mellows your blissed out head. His lips taste like the bitter excess of green tea, and you crane for a better sample. His tongue does things his fingers couldn’t, and swirls around yours in a passionate bruising waltz. Pantalone breaks away, a string of saliva when he frees himself. “Mm, coming. Gonna claim you everywhere” he whimpers. Sweat on his lustered abdomen, he pumps his tender cock before spurting thick hot ropes across your tits and stomach. He paints your vulva with the rest and plunges the tip in your entry so as to not waste the endless globs of white. He tremors inside you until soft, and when some dribbles out he fingers it back inside.  

Afterwards, Pantalone opens one of the drawers on the desk and takes out an embossed loan dismissal form. You can’t read the finer details through hazy eyesight. “It’s already signed, so don’t worry. I won’t deceive you.” He caresses your face in his normal sing-song attitude. “We depart in the morning.” You don’t have a clue where you’re going or how you’ll get there as you drift unconscious. Once you’re asleep, Pantalone shuffles in a different locked drawer. He twiddles the stunning purple geode in his hand, a crystal lined mineral you gave to him years prior. He looks at you, then the druse, and cackles. 

“Mine. Always.” 

[on-my-vigilante-sht]

Capitol Punishment III

Haymitch x Reader

Summary: The Capitol continues to torture it’s victors no matter how long ago they won through punishment, exploitation, and worst of all; their relationships.

A story in which Haymitch’s lover is a plaything for the Capitol.

Warnings: Canon level violence, rape (though never explicit), alcohol, murder, systemic poverty, exploitation, rebellion (?), more reliance on movie than book, suicidal thoughts

Word Count: 3.0K

Part II | Masterlist | Part IV

You, Cinna, and Effie were all eagerly sat on the couch in the living room of the penthouse waiting for Katniss and Peeta to return from their individual session with the game makers. You were discussing game outfits with Cinna when Effie suddenly interrupted you. “Y/N where is Haymitch?” she demanded.

“Calm down,” you began, “he’s down in the training area waiting for them.”

Before Effie could huff anymore the elevator dinged and out stepped the tributes and Haymitch. Haymitch made a beeline for the bar again as Katniss and Peeta approached the couch. “So how’d it go?” you asked.

“Katniss shot an arrow at them,” Peeta jumped in to answer.

“Peeta!” Katniss scolded.

“Katniss!” Effie shrieked. “Why would you do such a thing?”

As Haymitch rounded the couch, drink in hand, he gave Katniss an emphatic thumbs up. You were glad to she a smile tug at her lips, probably the first since she’s gotten here. “Calm down,” Haymitch told Effie as he sat next to you, throwing an arm over your shoulder.

“Calm down? This reflects badly on all of us!” she huffed.

Haymitch just ignored her. “Tell Y/N what you said,” he laughed.

Katniss chuckled, looking down at her hands. “Thank you for your consideration.”

Haymitch laughed again, repeating the line as Caesar Flickerman appeared on the screen, rattling off numbers until he got to District 12. “From District 12: Peeta Mellark. 8.” Everyone erupted into excited gasps until they were quelled by Caesar’s voice. “Katniss Everdeen. An 11.”

Had you not gotten so good at keeping your face blank, your jaw would’ve dropped. An 11? That was practically unheard of. “I thought they hated me,” Katniss said in disbelief.

“They must’ve liked your guts,” Haymitch answered.

“And your accuracy,” you added.

Cinna then stood up, glass raised. “To Katniss Everdeen, the girl on fire!”

~

You and Haymitch were stood with the other victors and tributes who had already gone, huddled around the screens displaying the tributes’ interviews. You watched intently, the career districts dazzling the audience as always. As for the poorer districts they were all clearly very uncomfortable, boring the audience. You had been a lot like them. You were very uncomfortable with the skin tight, almost sheer dress you had been put in and you gave short, quiet answers to Caesar’s questions.

You watched as Katniss entered the stage looking dazed, tension clawing at your throat. “She’s gonna pass out,” you commented to Haymitch who had a hand rested on your hip.

“She’ll be fine. She’s the girl on fire, people will eat it up.” You only nodded, eyes still locked on the screen as Caesar welcomed her to the stage.

Caesar made a comment, waiting for a reply but all he got was a “What?” from Katniss.

“I think someone’s a little shy,” he laughed gently. “I said that was quite and entrance that you've made at the Tribute's parade the other day. Do you want to tell us about it?”

“Well, I was just hoping that I wouldn't burned to death.”

The crowd erupted into laughter, meanwhile Katniss still looked like she was going to throw up. “When you came out of that chariot, I have to say… My heart stopped. Did any of you experience this as well?” he asked the crowd which let out an applause. “My heart stopped.”

“So did mine,” Katniss breathed, earning another laugh.

“They love her,” you said in awe.

“Yeah they’re liking the vulnerability and the girl on fire thing,” Haymitch said, taking a swig from his drink.

“Now tell me bout the flames. Were they real?” Caesar asked.

“Yes,” Katniss answered with a slight smile. “In fact I'm wearing them today. Would you like to see?”

You clutched Haymitch’s blazer as the crowd began cheering.

“Wait wait wait. Is it safe?” Caesar asked. Katniss smiled and nodded, standing up. She faced the audience before spinning around, flames erupting from the bottom of her gown. “Woah woah woah! Steady!” Caesar called as Katniss’s spins slowed. He helped her sit back down, giving her a second to gather herself. “Katniss, that was something. That was something. Thank you for that. I have one more question for you. It's about your sister,” he paused for a second taking her hand. “We were all very moved, I think when, you volunteered for her at the reaping. Does she come to say goodbye to you?”

“Yes,” Katniss’ voice echoed across the now silent audience. You could see everyone looking incredibly sympathetic towards her.

“And what did you say to her in the end?”

“I told her that I would try to win. That I will try to win for her.” The crowd ‘awed.’

“Of course you did. And try you will,” Caesar said solemnly before take her hand and standing up. Back to him normal, excited presenter self he yelled, “Ladies and gentlemen, from District 12, Katniss Everdeen, The Girl On Fire!”

“They ate that up,” Haymitch celebrated, jostling you a bit. “Sponsors will be clamoring to help her.”

Katniss then walked in, spotting you and Haymitch just as Peeta was entering the stage. “Nice job, sweetheart,” Haymitch complimented. “And nice dress.”

“Thanks,” she muttered before turning her attention to the screen.

Peeta was sat on the chair next to Caesar, looking very comfortable with the spotlight. “How are you finding the Capitol? Don't say with a map,” Caesar said with a laugh.

“Uh, it's uh… different. It's very different,” Peeta said with a suave smile.

“Different? In what way? Give us an example.”

“Uh okay, well the showers here are weird.” The crowd laughed.

“Showers?”

“Yes.”

“We have different showers,” Caesar told the audience.

“I have a question for you Caesar,” Peeta leaned up a little. “Do I smell like roses to you?” he asked very seriously even.

“Um…” Even Caesar, a seasoned professional, seemed surprised by the question.

“Do I?” He seemed especially surprised when Peeta leaned closer, gesturing Caesar to smell him. “Do I?”

“Yeah,” Caesar agreed. “Do I smell like it?” The audience once again roared with laughter as Peeta smelled the host.

“You definitely smell better than I do,” Peeta said, leaning back.

“Well I’ve lived here longer.”

“That makes sense.”

None of the other tributes’ interviews held a candle to Peeta’s. The Capitol was eating up his charming banter and they had adored Katniss’ awkwardness coupled with her image as the girl on fire. You glanced around the room, finding the career tributes sending side eyes to Katniss. Some were trading their glares between Katniss and her district partner on the screen.

You were brought from your thoughts by Caesar’s next question. “So Peeta tell me… is there a special girl back home?”

Peeta chucked bashfully. “No, not really.”

“No? I don't believe it for a second. Look at that face. Handsome man like you, Peeta. Tell me.”

Peeta licked his lips, the only sign of nervousness tonight. “Well, there a… there's this one girl that I had a crush on forever. But I don't think she actually recognize me until the reaping.”

“Well… I'll tell you what Peeta. You go out there and you win this thing. And when you get home, she'll have to go out with you. Right folks?” The crowed cheered.

“Thanks but I uh… I don't think winnings gonna help me at all.” Peeta was picking at the arm of his chair, not making eye contact. “Because she came here with me.” All three of you froze, both you and Haymitch slowly turning to look at Katniss. She had a look of shock that slowly morphed into anger.

The crowd broke out into sounds of sympathy and shouts of support.

“Well, that's bad luck,” Caesar said, surprised again for the second time this interview.

“Yeah. It is.”

“And I wish you all the best of luck.”

~

You, Haymitch, and Katniss headed towards the elevators, Katniss still silently fuming. Once you pressed the button, Peeta rounded the corner to meet you. Katniss made a beeline for him, pushing him over into a table, knocking over a vase which broke. “What the hell was that?” she demanded.

“Stop it!” Haymitch yelled, standing between them.

“He made me look weak,” she seethed.

“He just did you a favor,” Haymitch countered. “He made you look desirable. Which in your case can’t hurt sweetheart.” Ice rushed through your veins as you realized what Peeta just did to Katniss should she be the one to come out of the games.

You stepped over broken glass, towards Peeta. “C’mon,” you said, gesturing to help him up. He reached up towards you but stopped when he saw blood coming from hi palm. “It’s okay,” you dismissed his concerns about getting you dirty, “we’ll get that bandaged up.”

He took one of your hands with his non-injured one, allowing him to stand up. “We’ll go to the infirmary. See you up there?” Haymitch nodded, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before facing the elevator once more.

You led Peeta down the hall, finding the training room and the infirmary just off of it. “Hello?” you called, expecting someone to be there. You got no reply.

“I don’t think anyone’s here,” Peeta said, still applying pressure to his palm.

“Yea, me too. Why don’t you sit down, I’ll find some gauze and bandages,” you requested, guiding him towards a chair. You then went into one of the back rooms, finding all the supplies you’d need. You grabbed them, walking back out towards Peeta. “Let me see,” you tugged on his hand, squatting down. “So, was that thing about Katniss real?” you asked, dabbing blood away from the wound.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly, seeming to have nothing else to lose. “I used to watch her walk by to school every day.”

“Well, sorry she kind of rejected you,” you laughed. Fortunately he did too.

“Yeah, definitely one of the harsher rejections.”

“Well if it’s any consolation, the sponsors absolutely loved you.”

“Hey, what’s your deal with sponsors?” Peeta asked. You froze, trying not to show it. “I mean you change whenever sponsors are mentioned.”

You huffed. No point in keeping this kid in the dark. “Because the sponsors who saved my life feel… entitled to me. And it’s become this situation where people pay Snow, and in return they get me for the night.”

“Oh…” Peeta said. “I’m sor-”

“Don’t be,” you cut him off. “It’s the price I pay for getting to love Haymitch. If not for him, I’d be long gone by now.”

“Do the people know about you and Haymitch?”

“No, Snow wants me to seem available. Even if we were allowed to be a couple publicly I doubt it’d change much. The Capitol loves to take things from the districts. I suppose my… predicament is also Haymitch’s punishment.”

“Can I ask— and I don’t mean to be rude—” you laughed internally at that. You were pretty sure this kid didn’t have a rude bone in his body. “Why are you with Haymitch? He’s like 15 years older than you and an alcoholic.”

You chuckled a little at the ridiculousness of it. Many others who knew about your relationship had asked you the same. “Because he was there for me my entire games. Even after he was beaten down by the Capitol and cynical about the world, he was there for me, meanwhile I had absolutely no one else. I won my games out of spite… Haymitch has become my only reason to live.” Peeta sat speechless, not sure what to say. “C’mon,” you said, taping down his bandage, “let’s get you to bed.”

You headed upstairs, making small talk as if you hadn’t just poured out your heart to this kid. You made your way into Haymitch’s room where he was laying on the bed, watching a holographic television. “Hey, how’s the kid?”

“He’ll be fine, just sucks he has to go into the arena with a cut open hand,” you said, lying down next to Haymitch. He rolled closer to you, pulling down the neckline of your dress a little, revealing bruises you didn’t cover up with makeup. Your presence had been requested by a Capitol man not long after Katniss’ 11 was announced. As he was using your body he demanded to know how Katniss scored an 11 and when you refused to tell him, he got violent until a couple avoxes that had been in the room had to pry him off of you.

“They’re getting more violent,” Haymitch noted, an edge of anger in his voice. “Y/N this is getting really dangerous.”

“There’s nothing either of us can do about it,” you sighed. “I’m doing this until I’m no longer desirable.”

“You’ll always be desirable to me,” Haymitch murmured, pressing his lips to yours. He rolled more so he was on top of you, sliding his hands down your body.

You placed a firm hand on his chest, pressing against him. Taking the hint Haymitch pulled away from you. “Not right now, I want to wash him off me first.”

“Yeah, of course. Take as much time as you need,” he said, pressing a peck to your lips before getting off of you.

~

The next morning both you and Haymitch walked Peeta to his tube, Katniss having decided to go with Cinna, the two of them becoming close over the past couple days.

“Remember, run away from the Cornucopia, nothing in there is worth getting killed in the first two minutes,” you advised. “If you join an alliance leave early, remember no one in there is your friend. Only one person comes out.”

Peeta nodded nervously, standing in front of the platform.

“I really do, sincerely hope I get to see you again,” you said, pulling him into a hug.

As you stepped back, Haymitch reached forward, taking Peeta’s hand, shaking it. “We’re going to try our best to help you in there.”

You watched nervously with the other victors as the time counted down. “3… 2… 1.” The tributes ran to the cornucopia. You watched as Peeta ran off into the woods along with two others. As for Katniss she ran towards the cornucopia, stopping only a couple feet in. She looked around, trying to figure out what to do as you internally cursed her for not having a plan.

Fortunately all the career tributes who had weapons were too distracted, slaughtering the others tributes who also went for supplies. Which gave Katniss enough time to decide to grab a backpack further away from the cornucopia than the weapons. She was suddenly knocked to the ground by another fleeing tribute before he was taken down by the girl from District 2 with the knives. She flung another one at Katniss which would’ve hit her in the chest had she not used the backpack as a shield. Taking the knife out of the backpack, she ran for the trees. Fortunately the girl with the knives lost interest in Katniss.

By the time the bloodbath was over there were 11 dead children, and you needed a drink. Seemingly reading your mind, Finnick appeared with a whiskey. “Sorry about your tribute,” you muttered into the drink.

Finnick shrugged sadly. “He was only 12. Didn’t have much of a chance anyways. Just sad that no one volunteered for him.”

“Yeah,” you agreed softly.

“I see your human torches are still alive. Congratulations.”

You chuckled. “Yeah well only one listened to me. Katniss got lucky the other careers didn’t target her as soon as that timer went off.” You looked over at Cashmere, Gloss, Brutus, and Enobaria who were observing their tributes as they officially formed their alliance. Every other tribute had either fled or laid dead, leaving them in control of all the weapons and supplies.

Suddenly, Peeta and the boy from District 3 came out of the woods, hands raised high in surrender. “No Peeta,” you whispered under your breath as Beetee came over to you.

“They’ve formed an alliance,” he commented.

“Yeah one that’ll get them killed as soon as they eliminate their biggest threat: Katniss.”

“I think Byte will prove to be a bit more useful to the careers than yours,” Beetee said in a slightly excited way. “No offense.”

“None taken,” you muttered. It wasn’t uncommon for victors to take pride in their tributes, especially the ones that had a shot at winning. No one wanted to watch the child they had just trained for a week get slaughtered.

“Sorry about your tribute Finnick,” Beetee said. Finnick only hummed a response.

You all watched as Peeta and Byte acquired the careers’ trust. With Byte saying he could rig the explosives to protect their supplies. And Peeta promising that he could help find Katniss. Finnick sucked air through his teeth. “Cold blooded. Say you’re in love with the girl from your district only to create an alliance to hunt her down.”

“Unless he’s slitting all their throats in their sleep, they’re going to kill him the first chance they get,” you said.

Suddenly peacekeepers entered the room, making a beeline for you and Finnick. Seeing the threat, Haymitch was immediately by your side, wrapping a protective arm around your waist.

“Finnick Odair,” you silently breathed a sigh of relief, “your presence is requested.” Finnick huffed, used to the drill, before handing you his drink and begrudgingly heading off with them.

“Glad it wasn’t you. I don’t think your body could handle it,” Haymitch muttered against your hair in relief, referring to the wounded state you had been returning to him in.

Part II | Masterlist | Part IV

[realbeefman]

Do you have any good house fic recs? I am Struggling with my search.

for sure! although Disclaimer, i havent been reading house fanfic for very long and ive pretty much only read house/wilson so far, SO this is more of a hilson fic rec list than anything lol

Warning Signs by out_there - oneshot, 12k words, Wilson-POV, set around the end of s3. SUCH A GOOD FIC i laughed so much while reading this. genuinely delightful. possibly my fav house fic i’ve ever had the pleasure of reading.

The Line of Thought by tevinterimperium - oneshot, 12k, Wilson-POV, set after s3 e15. THEEE classic fake-dating AU. this was the first fic i read in this fandom and it absolutely fucks. im a SAP i love a good “no homo but OH GOD THE FEELINGS” plot!!

Desert Mesa Motel - 8 miles outside of Kingman, Arizona - 12:03 AM by plorp - ficlet, 1k, House-POV, post-canon. this makes me BAWL. very very good fic but SAD. and DEPRESSING. will make you CRY/pos

How Not To Be Boring by fourleggedfish - incomplete/abandoned, 497k, Wilson-POV, AU from around mid-s5. if u like whump (which i absolutely do) u will probably like this fic. if u are squicked out by sex, u will hate it bc these guys bang 24/7. this fic had me pacing, glued to my phone, sick to my stomach, crying (several times), and obliterated my sleep schedule. i can’t rec it highly enough. every chapters includes appropriate content warnings, but some major themes that appear throughout are character death (not of main characters), the aftermath of severe child abuse, and mental illness. if any of these topics are a trigger for you, please don’t read this work.

Forsake Me Here by MonsterBoyf - complete, 8k, Wilson-POV, ambiguous setting. Wilson has intrusive thoughts about mutilating House. He tries to cope. features a lot of very graphic imagery and does an excellent but extremely accurate job of portraying an OCD-spiral that could be triggering to people. i LOVE this fic i think about it so so much.

An Inconvenient Truth by anathaema - complete, 15k, House-POV, ambiguous setting. contains the quote “You’re the suicide bomber of revelations” and is one of the funniest things i’ve ever read. plus the way in which wilson’s sexuality in this fic is handled is honestly so realistic and entertaining. HIGHLY recc this to absolutely everyone who enjoys hilson

the more it took away by scribespirare - oneshot, 10k, House-POV, ambiguous setting. Omega!House has his first heat since presenting. Alpha!Wilson helps him through it. I LOVE OMEGAVERSE AND I LOVE FUCK OR DIE AND I LOVE THE WAY THIS FIC HANDLES THIS IS JUST GRAHHHH. If u don’t enjoy omegaverse u won’t like this but i can’t make a house fic rec list and NOT include this one

Aftershocks by black_cigarette - series, around 125k in total, various POV’s, set sometime post-Tritter arc. this fic IS gen, but honestly, i didn’t know that going in and didn’t realize it wasn’t a slash fic until the very end. tldr is that wilson is brutally assaulted because house has been gambling with some unsavory people, and house helps him deal with the aftermath. this fic does not pull punches. its is extremely graphic and everything wilson goes through is described in detail. it is a messy story about recovering from brutal trauma and everything that entails. DISCLAIMER: there are sequel(s) to this series available on the author’s livejournal, but i haven’t read them and can’t speak to anything they discuss.

no need to worry (making up your mind) by scribespirare - complete, 25k, House-POV, set sometime in the early seasons. House lies about having a Jewish boyfriend to get out of visiting his mother at Christmas. Things quickly get out of hand. THIS FIC IS SOOO *tears into it with my teeth*. I love when they scheme together <3

[suffarustuffaru]

my feelings on certain otto [redacted] flags in arc 8 👍

heyyy so this is gonna have major spoilers so ill put it under the cut 👍👍 again, this is all my opinion so youre perfectly welcome to disagree <3

ok so. i dont know if this is controversial to say or not but i dont think otto should actually permadie. instead, i think that he should have a fakeout death (also you know, deaths that get reversed by rbd if you want to go that route too). but not a PERMANENT one.

and ok i know anyone whos looked at my blog content lately would probably be like “oh you dont want him to die for real because hes one of your favorite characters ever???” and like no yeah, but its not that im opposed to punishing my favorites. im opposed to otto permadying because i feel like him permadying would be spitting on the purpose of both his character and certain themes in rezero.

otto is a very sacrificial person. hes a lot like subaru—he is willing to die for his loved ones. he would sacrifice anything, including himself. all of ottos deaths in rezero so far are reflected in that. he dies in arc 3 because he goes back to save subaru after pushing him out of the wagon in the white whale loop but he dies on the way back. he dies in arc 4 because he pushes subaru out of the way and gets killed by garfiel. otto writes a suicide note in arc 4 before confronting garfiel because hes perfectly willing to die for subaru. ottos been going on a darker path now, because now we know his absolute sacrificial loyalty extends to letting entire countries die, letting people subaru cares about die (louis/spica), and opposing subaru to the point where otto deems it his “reason for being”—aka his reason to be in vollachia, his reason to be in the emilia camp, and his reason to exist and live. otto is set up for a collision course with subaru, and this wont be ending well for him.

ottos faced consequences for his actions in the past—when him bringing the tome into priestella caused the siege, he was severely injured and left bedridden. this was a personal consequence for his actions there. but he hasnt faced any lasting consequences yet, especially when hes fully convinced that he himself knows whats best and is doing the “right” thing, and so hes perfectly set up to have lasting consequences at some point in the future. hes the perfect candidate for a permadeath, even—the arc 7 side stories brought him closure to the plot point of him being exiled from his hometown, and hes someone whos death will create ripple effects from his family and marone (who’ve featured in various side stories as well), the emilia camp (both as a friend and internal affairs minister), and subaru most of all (who, well, has rbd and is determined to save everyone, as we know, and subaru is aware of the possibility of otto ending up like chisha).

but i still have problems with otto dying permanently.

otto permadying punishes everyone around him more than it punishes HIM, the latter of which has been the buildup for his entire arc. otto permadying would only really have that as a narrative purpose—punishing the people otto cares about, particularly subaru. thats ALL that would be accomplished out of an otto permadeath when a fakeout death would not only still get the emotional impact across but also be a better writing choice in general.

as ive said, otto is prone to sacrifice. otto is prone to self-sacrifice on top of that. he always has been since his debut in arc 3. the way hes most likely to die is and always has been through self-sacrifice, especially for subaru, and especially since ottos death flags are a parallel to chisha (who died to save vincent). otto also parallels subaru a lot. more specifically, his current arc follows similar beats to arc 4 subaru or even greed if subaru - otto is, frankly, a control freak who thinks he knows best, refuses help from anyone else, and is self-destructive. but subaru gets called out by the narrative in arc 4 for going down this path, and greed if shows the complete consquences of this (aka - greedbaru ends up dehumanizing everyone, including himself, and tramples over other people's free will). so why is subaru allowed to learn the value of his life and continue trying to grapple with that lesson over the next couple arcs while ottos arc goes down the same path as subaru's but has the potential to end up with him ultimately dying?

then again - yeah, subarus the main character. and yeah, otto permadying wraps up his arc and character in a nice little bow. it's had a lot of buildup and would be a very perfect tragic character arc for him. however it is 1. i personally find this to be the more boring choice in a series where characters can die and come back to life, especially for a crucial side character to subaru like otto and 2. this is the more straightforward predictable choice given the Numerous Obvious Hints that something bad will happen to otto, namely permadeath, and 3. i think that the amount of characters being fridged for subarus character development should be kept to a minimum. we've already seen this with rem being gluttonyed. and being fridged for subaru's character development is something that otto would be very fine and happy with, so again, this is punishing everyone around him more than its punishing otto. ottos character arc buildup does suggest that he'll have to face consequences eventually. him permadying is not the most interesting narrative consequence that could happen imo, and given his parallels to subaru, i feel that this would not serve as a reflection of how otto is a dark parallel to subaru. otto permadying would be less a reflection and a warning to subaru and more so just otto winning over subaru in a story that supports subaru choosing companionship and trying to save everyone.

"what do you mean 'otto winning over subaru'?" otto is, again, a dark mirror to subaru. otto values his loved ones over everyone else, and he is willing to pay any price to save his loved ones. he is willing to destroy everyone else for their sake, and in arc 8, he has always tried to choose the more ruthlessly logical and practical choice over the morally right one that subaru embodies. otto goes nope, lets leave vollachia for dead but only take the people subaru cares about while subaru insists on saving everyone, as he always has tried to do since ARC 1. ottos even warned subaru in arc 8 - what happens if someone very close to subaru, like anyone in the emilia camp, gets hurt or dies all because they decided to stay in vollachia? otto permadying, especially as a result of the vollachia conflict, proves him right all along. that they shouldve chosen the more practical option over the morally right one. which i feel that would kind of miss the whole point of the STORY ITSELF supporting subaru trying to save everyone while holding onto hope and stayed determined since, again, ARC 1.

"but subaru needs to learn that he cant save everyone, and otto permadying would be a good way to show this." yeah. thats true. subaru needs to learn that he cant forgive and redeem everyone, subaru needs to learn that some things are just unavoidable, and that some things cant be forgiven. otto is very against subarus ideology to the point where hes decided his whole reason for being is to be against subaru. otto dying is very fitting, and if he does permadie, he'd represent the friend and loved one that you cant save - the friend that you try to help, refuses your help, and then ends up destroying themselves. its a very realistic, human thing. but 1. again, i think characters being fridged for subaru should be kept to a minimum bc the whole point of rezero is that they are ALL people with their own lives and 2. again, ottos parallels to subaru make this a little. odd, for lack of a better term. 3. subaru has other chances to learn that he cant save everyone, because ultimately the otto subaru conflict needs a middle ground.

so 1. about fridging characters for subarus development. again, its not as if you cant kill or hurt characters for another character. you can still do this. but i think this should be kept to a minimum - or at least have more than just "subaru will learn a lesson from this" as the narrative purpose behind it. subaru over the course of the entire main route learns that the people around him are just that - PEOPLE. not npcs or anything like that. and now once we get to arc 8, he has a lot of empathy for others. hes quick to forgive, especially because hes seen so many people at both their worst and best, and many of the worst times happened in timelines that no longer exist ergo those people are no longer those people. this is especially poignant in a series with so many damn side stories and side characters each with their own complicated lore; these are people. they still have lives outside of subaru. fridging characters for subarus development, i think, kind of undermines this if thats the ONLY reason youre gonna kill or hurt them.

especially when it comes to permadeath. it isnt a writing choice you can make lightly - especially in a series where, again, characters die and come back. so 2. given how much otto parallels subaru and his perpetual struggle with valuing life and valuing himself, neither of which otto values unless its his loved ones (and even then otto is willing to emotionally devastate them if it means theyre safe), i think an otto permadeath would kind of. undermine subarus struggle in that sense, imo - because otto is struggling with almost the EXACT SAME THING.

would it be interesting if subaru has to see otto end up permanently dying for similar reasons that subaru often dies for? would it be interesting if subaru has to see otto destroying himself in ways that hit a little too close to home? yeah. it would. and it WOULD continue that ongoing motif of otto mirroring subaru in the darkest ways. subaru has to look at otto and see not just himself, but see that he could end up like otto. but i think that this is ALREADY happening. subaru seeing the parallels with him and otto will happen, if it hasnt already, and it sure can happen without killing otto permanently. if otto tries to sacrifice himself and fails to do so, subaru can still see this and be impacted by it. if a fake otto death happens, subaru will still be destroyed by it. and of course, eventually subarus bound to figure out ottos thoughts and plans regarding louis/spica, along with everything else going on in ottos brain right now. theres no need to kill otto for good when all of the emotional weight behind it is still possible in many other ways without undermining subarus character development - because otto is going through very similar character development. and again, otto would be HAPPY to die for subarus sake. calling out subaru while letting otto do the same thing as subaru would feel a bit. odd. to me.

and 3. yeah. subaru has other chances to learn that he cant save everyone. he has multiple chances, in fact, and this already started with rem being gluttonyed at the end of arc 3/start of arc 4 (along with injuries that occurred in the white whale fight + crusch being gluttonyed). subaru learned that sometimes terrible things can happen and rbd wont be able to reverse it because his save point updated to AFTER it happened, and rem was a good example of this because she was the person he was closest to at the time. this continues on later, too - the injuries that happen in priestella, for one (such as the juukuliuses being gluttonyed, the dragon blood, numerous citizens, etc), along with subaru having to face this in vollachia when he tries to pull off his bloodless sieges and avoid as many citizen casualties as possible. or when he thinks about if todd can be redeemed only for todd to continue proving him wrong again and again. and this is on top of all the other people subaru befriends in vollachia, of course.

"but subaru needs a PERMANENT consequence." well, theres also the fact that subarus trying to save 50 million people, aka the entire population of vollachia right now, which is very much a herculean task. if he manages to save almost everyone but some citizens die, this would still get the point across. and if you need a bigger, more personal consequence to subaru than that - louis/spica is RIGHT THERE.

the current conflict over spica is already sowing the seeds for this, because this is a lasting, permanent conflict. people like julius and otto want spica dead and acknowledge that, given the amount of people she's hurt, that is the most likely scenario for her. people like the rest of the emilia camp acknowledge that spica is guilty, but that its difficult to punish her given her mental state right now and the fact that subaru and rem care about her. meanwhile subaru and rem themselves care for spica like a daughter and dont want her to be hurt or punished in any way. that being said, the louis/spica conflict - again, needs some kind of solution, and i dont think letting louis/spica scot-free is the right solution here from a writing perspective.

we already get robbed of an arc from louis in the sense that after she fucked around and found out (ie: experienced rbd for herself after messing with subaru), by start of arc 7 she just. became mostly a blank slate. of course its understandable that shes traumatized after experiencing rbd, but it is also kind of. a bummer. that we dont get an arc where she actually grows and changes gradually she just goes from Point A (pre-arc 7) to Point B (now having the mind of a toddler in arc 7+), but there is a slight intrigue to her now being a blank slate. how do you reconcile her past actions and past self with who she is now? is she still capable of doing those things she did before - is the person she was still in there? because you know, since she cant really communicate properly its hard to understand her straightforwardly too. but i dont think that louis should get off the hook - unlike many other people subaru has forgiven, she didnt grow. her past self basically got erased. and its not like all those people whove done things in other timelines that they wouldnt do now - things that ultimately only subaru was affected by because hes the one who knows and hes forgiven them of course. but louis? subaru and rem arent the only ones whove been hurt by her, theres SO MANY others whove been affected by louis and gluttony in general. every one of them has a say in what happens to louis, and her getting no consequences kind of misses the point.

that and. well, subaru can learn that he cant save everyone because 1. he is forgetting that he is not the only gluttony victim here ergo he is not the only one who has a say in what happens to louis and 2. if he sides with louis/spica over everyone else, this is going to have disastrous consequences for him. not just in the sense that you know, this is causing friction with his friends - and not even only in the sense that thisll cause a TON of uproar if this gets out publicly because again, a lot of people have been affected by gluttony - but also because theres the question of if that past louis is still there. or what happens if louis gluttonies someone on accident? or on purpose? can subaru still really side with her then? can he really save her when theres a LOT that shes done? and if someone like otto manages to kill louis and subaru is prevented from rbding - hes still going to be absolutely destroyed emotionally. spica is not freed from consequences just because subarus claimed her as his. and subaru is not freed from consequences after deciding to choose spica over many of his friends (julius is a BIG one, because subaru of all people knows how much julius - and joshua - were fucked over by gluttony). subaru cant save everyone. he has to learn that eventually, and spica is somewhere to start.

that being said, again, i dont want otto to win either when it comes to the vollachia arc in general. his habit of keeping secrets and doing things behind other people's backs and fading into the background whenever it suits him has gone on for a while, and he NEEDS to be called out for it. subaru and otto's moral dilemma conflict just needs to have a middle ground of some kind, and i really dont want ottos ruthless pragmatism to be the end all be all. but i also dont think subaru should win at EVERYTHING either, because his idealism needs to be reeled back a tiny bit. as it is in vollachia rn, its not sustainable and its not realistic. rezero is not a children's story about how no one dies and everyone's friends in the end, but it damn sure tries to be with its main route in the sense that the point is that you TRY to do that to the best of your ability. but if you cant - if youve exhausted all other possibilities and theres no other choice - then you just cant. the point isnt that you give up and abandon people to suffer and die. the point isnt that you hurt people on purpose either. the point isnt that you try to save EVERYONE even to everyones detriment. the point isnt that you try to be perfect and completely flawless at all times too, because thats not possible.

the point is that you do your best, try to save as many as you can, and thats enough.

"ok so if otto isnt permadying then how is he gonna get punished by his hubris???" easy. do EVERYTHING to hurt him shy of actually killing him permanently. that and like - if he decides to pull some shit similar to chisha and make a whole plan to sacrifice himself for subaru, but then he still lives afterwards... what do you do now? how do you live on now? thatd be more mortifying to him - living on and being emotionally vulnerable with everyone around him after planning to die - than ACTUALLY DYING. living and knowing all his loved ones see him as who he is in all his entirety - the good and bad and the really ugly - would, again, be a worse consequence for him than DYING. make him get close to death and then yank him back and youd get more interesting results than just straightforwardly killing him. because hes been planning for this since that time he wrote a suicide note in arc 4. if subaru doesnt get off the hook for this behavior, then otto narratively shouldnt.

therefore a fakeout death for otto would still get all the emotional weight and narrative punishment that a real death would, complete with being able to see the effect this has on subaru + ottos other loved ones. a fakeout death would be the perfect middle ground between a permadeath + letting otto live. and when otto comes back, he’ll still have to face consequences for his actions, including having to learn how to live for his loved ones, not die and sacrifice for them.

[aubyrei]

okay so. drdt ep 8 spoilers under the cut, also please check the tags for tws - a lot of the motives are quite sensitive so please beware!!

last night after the ep, my friend (hi @sentinel-kinjo) and i tried to see if we could connect the motives to the characters. ill explain the reasoning for down below. those that don't have a character next to them means i don't have enough info to be able to pinpoint on who that motive belongs to, even using process of elimination

ace - your body is falling apart but you still refuse to eat

there is a lot of evidence to support this. ace has a low bmi, didn't eat the cake in chapter 1 and has been said to like low-calorie foods in QnAs. ive seen some people throw around arturo due to his body image standards, but he doesn't seem to care much about himself specifically appealing to beauty standards, and was also one of the people who ate the cake in chapter 1.

??? - ever since you kissed her, you were afraid your sexuality would ruin your friendships

im not sure about this one at all- but using process of elimination, and the context, it is definitely one of the girls. the ones i didn't put anywhere are min, hu and eden, so it's probably one of them? i honestly don't really have any basis for pin pointing any of them as this one. maybe we should all collectively comb over ch1 to see who the biggest girl kisser is

j and arei's motives are canon, so i won't go over those

xander - you're constantly blaming yourself for the death of your parents and siblings, it doesn't matter that it's not your fault, just that you didn't go with them

pretty self explanatory, honestly.. we have many examples in the story of xander suffering from survivors guilt. his secret quote also speaks of survivors guilt. i feel like this is the only one that could fit him.

whit - your mother is dead, you always omit that truth

whit speaks highly of his mother, even having dyed his hair because of her. he does omit the truth also when trying to guess what his secret is during ch2, he doesn't speak about his mother being dead at all. his secret quote is also "we tend to idolize the dead" which goes hand in hand with both his motive and the very strong admiration he has for his mom.

charles' is canon, so skip

veronika - you only took on your talent to distract yourself for the incessant need to harm yourself for fun

i won't speak very much on this one, but she fits. the thing she dislikes the most is boredom. she seeks thrill in horror and dark media. it's possible that her talent has helped her heal from these tendencies.

david - you were quite the hopeless child. dying once wasn't enough, so you attempted suicide three times.

ive seen many different guesses on this one, but david is honestly the only one that i feel works completely. his secret is "i hate you, i hate you, i hate you, i wish you'd just die." i hate you is notably repeated three times. this might seem like a reach but i think its also worth noting that when David mentioned that his secret was a family history about depression, nobody corrected him. i feel like if he had lied, or if his secret was something completely disconnected from said depression, the person who had his motive would've stood up and called out his bullshit. but three suicide attempts and depression are not unrelated. i think he was vague about the details of his depression due to his own discomfort talking about these subjects.

rose and nico are canon, so skip

teruko - how could i even select what secret to be your motive? just about everything you've done in your life is worth killing for. the killing game is your fault.

pretty self explanatory. teruko herself says she has too many secrets and doesn't know what they could possibly use against her. don't think anything but this fits

so the remaining ones are levi, arturo, hu, eden, and min. i can't seem to pinpoint these three anywhere due to lack of info... if you guys have any guesses pls let me know :> i love theorizing!!

[erasawordsmithofsorts]

this is a really long post and you dont have to read it, its more of a word vomit towards the end but its really detailing my experiences with 5sos c: (its kind of sad but it means a lot to me that i finally put this into words)

i love 5sos. like a lot more than i could put into words. i have such a long and extensive history with this band that its just so much, like.

ive been a fan of 5sos since july 15th, 2014. i was 5/6 years old sitting on the front porch of my grandma's house with this girl i was friends with. she showed me some of their songs and i was in love. i didnt stop listening to them for years, they were my everything. idols, best friends, family, everything. and the only reason i stopped listening to them ever is because of some really heavy traumatic events that happened to me when i was 8-10 years old.

fast forward a few years, i start dating this guy. this guy really liked 5sos, he got me back into 5sos. my brain was so traumatized, it blocked out most of my memories with this band, with the fans of this band, etc. and him getting me to listen to their entire discography? yeah that brought them flooding back.

yet i still stayed, with him and the band again. this guy became really toxic. we argued every night, he blatantly ignored my needs, he got mad at me for getting more 5sos streams than him, he made fun of me for only listening to their old stuff. he acted like i hadnt told him, "hey, some really fucked up things happened to me in 2014-2016 and i forgot pretty much everything from those years so i kind of obsess over them"

but me and this guy were ldr, my mom took my phone, i texted him through a friends' phone. he starts cheating on me. i come back, my mom is having heart surgery, and he tells me i have to break up with him. so i do.

i break up with him, i go through the shit, i get pissed off, i get upset, i cry. i cry a LOT. and for a bit i didnt listen to 5sos. and then i get back into 5sos, because im not gonna change who i am at my very core because some idiot guy who was 'there first' made it about him. i'll make it about me again, i will obsess over it, i will go back to being six years old crying on the front porch with my best friend. i will go back to being a kid who didnt know why people didnt like her.

and i did. im back there, im who six year old me dreamed of being. sure, i have my days where the only thing i can do is cry and try not to hurl myself down a flight of stairs, but im still here arent i? ive made it to the age i always dreamed about being, havent i? im still absolutely in love with the same exact bands, the same exact places, the same exact aesthetics.

5sos is why im me, like that is such a beautiful and poetic thing to me. im still here because of a band, im still here because some guys that at the time were across the world gave me some motivation to keep going? of course im gonna love them. of course im gonna advertise the shit out of them. of course im gonna know every detail i possibly can about them.

like, i mean yeah, i took a little break. but i was forced to by my own brain. and even then, what helped me start healing form that trauma? 5sos. what helped me start healing from that breakup? 5sos.

tw for s/h + suicidal stuff under the cut! its nothing bad bad, just mentions attempts and stuff but its talking about getting better :3 tl;dr in bottom of the cut!

its so weird to say that "this guy who doesnt even know i exist, saved my life" but its true sometimes. like i was in such a bad place when i was younger that i couldnt function. yearly, i was being checked into psych wards. they never helped. i tried therapy, i tried medication. nothing worked.

and then 5sos came back into my life and i finally felt whole again. i finally felt like i was me again. i had been self harming since i was in the third grade, and once you cope like that for so long, its really hard to stop.

but i finally made the decision to get clean, i finally said "enough is enough, i dont want to be like this anymore. i wanna live and be healthy, i wanna live and be happy, i wanna wear shorts, i wanna wear skirts, i wanna wear short sleeves and tanks, i want to wear dresses without sleeves that show my thighs a little. and would ashton or luke or michael or calum really want me to do this to myself? no, no they wouldnt, get your shit together era." and so i did? i got it together, i made my life work. i started looking for the good again, i started behaving like a little kid that knew no bounds again, i started acting my age. i started loving me again. and thats powerful? thats metal as fuck.

the app that i use to track my clean streak has a section for "reasons to stay clean" i have pictures of my friends, my animals, and most importantly, the guys that finally inspired me to pick myself up off the floor and put myself back together.

because i did, i really had to scrounge up the broken pieces. i really had to dig deep and try and piece them back together. and it took work, and im still working on it. and even though ive been clean from s/h for three months, the urges are still there and every time theres just that little voice in my head that takes on ashton's that goes "hey dont, its not the right way." and every time i feel like the world is over, like i dont have anything else, it's always just a reminder.

there will be something else, no matter what theres gonna be something else. no matter what, the suns gonna rise again. no matter what, something good will come of all your pain, all your struggles, all your heartbreak, all the tears. the sleepless nights, the trauma, the guilt, the anger, the fear, the sadness, all of it. it means youre human, it means youre alive. it means good things are gonna happen, you just gotta wait for it. you gotta pick yourself up and keep going. keep fighting, keep running, keep walking. hell if you have to, keep crawling. keep crawling while youre crying. dont look back, youre not going that way. think of how far your faves have come, think of how your younger self wants to know what theyre gonna grow up to be. think.

its not over, it will never be over. pain is human, youre human. youre experiencing life as it was meant to be experienced, its okay to have off days.

tl;dr 5sos + me have been together since i was six and ashton irwin has quite literally kept me alive and from destroying myself mentally and physically for nearly ten years. cool beans bro

[raincamp]

11 03 2023

discovering that i experience pathological demand avoidance / pervasive drive for autonomy (PDA) as a symptom of my autism has been fucking life changing.

i spent all these fucking years feeling so helpless, my parents telling me that im lazy, feeling like a failure because i couldnt even graduate highschool. i didnt understand how everyone else could just sit back and waste their entire lives at the demand of someone else. how they could work 40+ hours a week and not come home so exhausted that they can't even find time to take care of themselves.

i couldn't find a justifiable reason why i was physically unable to do what everyone else has been able to "just suck it up" and suffer through. working full time, being at school full time, it was all enough to make me lose sight of why i was even alive. enough to make me have mental crises. enough that i ended up in the hospital several times.

but idk, im fine when i have control over my schedule. i was thriving during COVID when school was no longer a thing i was forced to do, but something i got to choose to do. nobody was making me sit in a building for 6 hours bored out of my mind. i got autonomy over my schedule, over my life, and i genuinely haven't been able to recreate the feeling of freedom it gave me since.

and when i was forced to go to school again, despite how easy it was, despite the fact that i barely had to do anything, the mere idea of having to sit in a classroom against my will made me burn with such rage that i made it so that i had autonomy over it. i would only come to classes i wanted to go to, which meant going to school three hours late and walking out when the class was over.

now obviously thats not how highschool works so i had to drop out. after a lovely (/s) visit to the psych ward my parents stopped giving a fuck. but then it was my choice to get a diploma/GED which i had zero problem doing, i was happy to do it even. why didnt i just sit through the last 6 months of school instead? idk, to me it felt like fucking torture.

i still feel that way, working full time. working part time even. i hate it because i want nothing more than to enjoy having a career like everyone else can. to be able to have a life outside of work, a fulfilling one even. ive never been able to do that. and it saddens me. why is it that everyone around me can find happiness in working their entire lives away but not me? why do i come home everyday wanting to die? why am i the only one who sees it as an injustice that my entire life is going to be spent at the whims of someone else's demands?

i burn with helplessness and anger and pain at the mere thought. but still i suffer through as many months as i can handle at jobs until i have enough money to last me a couple months of freedom. even though i have to sacrifice my mental stability for it. even though it means hospital visits and alcohol dependency and suicide attempts.

a perfect life for me doesn't include not working though, not working feels unfulfilling, i want to make a living for myself. i want to be financially independent. i dont even mind working 8 hours a day if i got to choose my schedule. if i could wake up one day and say "nah ill wait till 2 pm to start work today" or could start work at 7 am when i wanted, take as many days off as i wanted, which honestly wouldn't be a whole lot because i find value in productivity.

its the fact that i have to follow the demands of someone else that sucks the life out of me.

and now that i have this knowledge i can learn how to use it to accommodate my struggles instead of feeling like a fuck up

- andrew

[tropes-and-tales]

Angels in Disguise, Part IV

CW:  Heavy angst; talk of serious injuries and death; talk of suicide, trauma, and PTSD.

Word Count:  2238

AN:  Part of a miniseries.  Other pieces can be found here.

For the first time since you were small, you don’t have much to worry about.

No tireless pursuit of perfect grades to get into the top college to graduate with honors to become a veterinarian to start your own practice to save the lives of sick and injured animals.  You’ve been marching that narrow path for years now.  

Now you have no obligations.  No decisions to make.

Your days in the center are laid out for you.  Wake up by 8.  Breakfast.  Jog around the track or take tai chi. Morning therapy.  Lunch.  Art therapy.  Individual therapy.  Dinner.  Bed.  Repeat the next day.

The only variability is the weekends.  Sometimes the week’s therapy stirs up so much shit, you go for longer jogs until your shirt is soaked with sweat and your legs burn.  Sometimes you have a breakthrough and you coast on that tranquil feeling.  Days like that, you like to camp out in the bright, airy art room and work on your watercolors—just blobs of bleeding color, but there’s something soothing about putting brushes to the pleasingly thick paper.

Weekends mean visits too.  Your mother, usually, because your father finds the prospect of suicide distasteful and limits his communication to terse phone calls commanding you to get well.  Your sisters visit too, but only once.  They have their own lives—spouses, kids, jobs.

It’s a weekend, and your mom visits as usual.  The two of you sit outside, and she chatters about everything and nothing at all.  What your nieces and nephews are up to with their various sports and activities.  What the new neighbors did with their landscaping.  How your father’s cholesterol is down.

Frivolous stuff.  Your family has always shied away from the difficult conversations, which is at least partially how you wound up here.

Your mom takes her usual tact, which is to avoid the uncomfortable bits of your conversation until she’s standing up and halfway out the door.

“I was going to tell you,” she starts, and you recognize the way her eyes slide away from your own to fixate on something in the middle distance.  “We had a policeman come to the house last week.  He was asking about…well….you know.”

That day on Alameda.  The day you stepped into hell, like some doomed asshole from a Greek myth.

“What’d he want?”

“I guess that policeman you helped…he recovered.  He was looking for you.”

Your stomach twists into a knot.  You swallow hard against the sudden tightness in your throat—a motion your mother misses because she’s not looking at you.

“Did he say why he was looking for me?” you ask, and your mom sighs and finally looks at you.  She reaches out to cup your face, hold you steady as she presses a kiss to your cheek.

“He probably just wants to thank you, sweetie,” she says.  “I told the first policeman that the one you helped can call us.  He might want to talk to you.  He might even want to visit you.”  

She pats your face gently, then adds, “but only if you’re up for it, sweetie.  Maybe it’d be better to leave that day in the past, where it belongs.”

-----

Isn’t that part of why you’re here?  The family dynamic of burying the bad things so deep that they never see the light of day?

It didn’t take much digging in therapy to learn that the bury-and-forget method of dealing with bad shit doesn’t work for you.  You put in a noble effort for years, but it all blew up on Alameda.

You can’t bury that sort of moment.  In the days that followed, you tried—but it refused to stay buried.  It crept up in your dreams, which turned into screaming, waking nightmares.

It crept up in your waking hours.  The sight of blood made your mouth flood with saliva before you invariably threw up.  The smell of food, the act of eating made you sick.  Anywhere big and wide-open, anywhere with too many people made your skin prickle in fear.

You stopped eating.  You stopped sleeping.  You became a hollowed-out wraith, and then you…did what you did.  Which is the oblique way your family refers to your suicide attempt.

You know your mom means well, but maybe you should meet up with the cop from that day.  No one in your life knows what it was like on Alameda, but he does.  He was there.  Maybe he knows what it’s like to struggle like you’ve been struggling.

At the very least, maybe it’ll give you a bit of peace, seeing the man alive and well.  Seeing that you did at least one good thing, keeping him alive until the paramedics came.

-----

Your mom is the one who sets it up.  The man—his name is Ben—wants to visit if you’re okay with it.  After you talk through your feelings in group therapy (and make a terrible watercolor as you contemplate it), you decide that yes, you are okay with it.

-----

The man’s face—Ben’s face—is etched in your nightmares, but you don’t recognize him at first when you see him in the reception area.  

For one thing, he’s upright and not covered in blood.

For another thing, his face goes from a stoical, unsmiling sort of expression to grinning so broadly that his eyes almost squint shut.  It’s like the sun breaking through the clouds, and it makes you feel amazing, seeing him smile like that because he sees you.  Recognizes you.

He stands up, and the motion is a little lurching.  You remember the injury to his leg, and that might be enough to push you into the shadowy ruminating you do, but he makes his way over to where you stand, and you have no time to wallow.

He says your name, a slight questioning inflection at the end of it.  You nod, and you feel exposed suddenly. Shy.  His gaze is unblinking, heavy as he stares at you.  

“I wasn’t even sure you were real for a while there,” he tells you.  His voice is softer than you would have guessed.  “But I’m glad I finally found you.”

You’re not sure what to say to that.  You’ve never been great at social interactions with strangers.  Small talk paralyzes you, let alone a moment like this, more fraught with your shared history.  

You ignore his comment.  Instead, you tilt your head towards the door and ask, “do you want to go outside?”

*****

Benny’s first thought is:  there she is.  Finally.

His second thought is:  she looks like she’s in prison.

He wonders if the in-patient facility provides the clothing.  You’re in shapeless grey pants, a dark navy t-shirt and zip-up.  Slip-on sneakers like the kind his elderly grandpa used to wear, like the kind they give at-risk inmates who might use shoelaces to hang themselves.  You look a lot like a woman booked on an overnight stay in county.  Tired but resolute.  Nervous but tenacious.  Ready to get out but realistic about your prospects on the outside.

It’s awkward at first.  What do people like the two of you say to each other?  You staunched the bleeding when his neck was torn open by a bullet.  Hardly seems worth the effort to talk about the weather with you.  But he’s never said a word to you until now, and he can’t just launch into the deep shit.  Can’t ask you about the shadow you live under, and if it’s the same as his own.

He certainly can’t ask you if you felt anything that day on Alameda.  If you feel anything now.  For him.  If you have any mad, stupid thoughts about soulmates.

Because even as the two of you walk outside in silence, around the back of the complex where a handful of benches are set under some trees, Benny is certain there’s something there with you.  He can’t explain it.  He can’t even put it into words in his own head.  He just knows that you’re it for him, that the moment on Alameda was fate, and this moment is a continuation of that same shared destiny.

The awkwardness bleeds off fast, once the two of you settle onto a bench.  You turn and look at him, a shy smile on your face, and he thanks you.  Finally.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says.  “You saved my life that day.  If you hadn’t been there…”  He trails off, lets the rest go unsaid.

You shrug as if it’s not a big deal what you did for him, but then you gesture to his neck.

“It looks like it’s healed up pretty well,” you offer.

“It is.”

Another shy smile.  “It went right through the middle of your tattoo there.”

He returns your smile with his own.  “I got that tattoo when I was younger.  I thought it made me look like a bad-ass.”

You laugh quietly.  “The only thing more bad-ass than a neck tattoo is a bullet hole through a neck tattoo.  That’s got to be, what?  Bad-assery times two.  Bad-ass-squared.”

He chuckles too, and you ask about his leg, his elbow.  He gives you the rundown on all of his injuries—he’d gotten a concussion that day too—and he talks a bit about his recovery.  He skirts around the mental stuff; the day is too sunny, too perfect to bring that up.  Each moment that passes bleeds off more of the awkwardness, and his visit flies by like it is minutes, not an hour.

The awkwardness appears against just as he’s leaving, just for a second.  Neither of you know how to part, so you stick your hand out to shake.  He takes it, but then he asks, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

You blink in surprise, then nod, and it’s awkward for all of a breath before it feels natural.  Like second nature.  Like you fit together perfectly, which you do:  he wraps his arms around you carefully, gently, and you slide your own arms around his middle.

It seems paltry, his earlier thanks, so he mutters it again now, right against your ear.

“Thank you,” he says, his voice low.  “You saved my life.”

You respond by squeezing him a little tighter.  He holds you as long as he thinks is polite, but when he goes to release you, he hears it—a quiet sniffle.  Then he feels it, the almost-imperceptible trembling.  It’s faint, but he feels it.

You’re crying.  It’s quiet, like you’re trying not to, but it slams him back in that moment on Alameda, the last time he saw you:  kneeling in the street, weeping.

Benny Magalon is largely unflappable, and he keeps his own emotions well in check, but he starts to tear up too.  Everything about the last few months hits him all at once:  the gunfight, the hospital, his lonely recovery.  Losing his career.  His depression.  The dark thoughts.

He starts to cry too.  It’d shame the old him, the him that existed before the shootout with Merrimen, but he doesn’t feel an ounce of shame now—not with you here, the two of you holding the other up.

“S-sorry,” you manage to choke out against him.  “I swore I wouldn’t cry, b-but….fuck, I’m still a mess.  Sorry—”

“Not a mess.  Not at all.  You’ve been through it,” he replies shakily, cutting you off.  

“We both have.”  You squeeze him tighter.  “Both of us.”

-----

The second time he goes to leave, once you’ve both cried and then dried your tears, then did the whole embarrassed-laugh, wave-off-the-big-feelings-with-jokes thing, he turns to you.  Hesitates for a beat, then asks, “you think I could visit again?”

You shake your head but pair it with a smile.  “I’m getting out the week after next.  Next weekend is a family therapy thing, so no visits then.”

“Oh.”  He schools his face, hopes the disappointment isn’t blatant.

“Maybe you could call instead?  I get my cell phone back for thirty minutes each evening.”

Just like that, the hope resurfaces.  “Yeah, I’d like that.”

He swears he sees the same hope reflected on your face, in your soft smile.  The same anticipation of something good coming out of this entire sad situation.  Benny wonders if your stomach is playing hell like his is, the fluttery feeling of possibilities.  

“Between seven and seven-thirty each night, okay?” you say.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he replies.

“Don’t stand me up, Officer,” you warn, a playful lilt he’s never heard from you before.  “I need all the news of the world.  I’m pretty secluded in here.”

“Yes, ma’am.  But I’m not an officer anymore.”  He doesn’t bother to clarify that he was never really an officer—he went from a deputy to a detective to a medically-retired pensioner.  “I’m just Benny.”

You gaze at him, but this time there’s no bashfulness that he can see.  You’re looking at him like you’re really seeing him, and he wonders what you’re thinking.  What conclusions you may be drawing about him.

He doesn’t have to wait long to find out.

“I’m really glad you visited,” you tell him, and there’s a hint of wonder in your voice, like you’re surprised by how your day has turned out. 

He shoves his hands in his jacket pockets, suddenly self-conscious.  “Me too.  I’ll talk to you soon.”

“I’m looking forward to it, Benny.”