#knives of ill repute

[tiffanys-aus-and-headcanons]

Terrible Visions

A scrambled timeline is a timeline that has proceeded much like ours, except that some particular facet has been mixed up all over the place. For example, in the scrambled timeline we will consider today, our world's fictional stories have been told by different people, and in different ways.

Bryan Lee O'Malley, in this alternate timeline, is best known as the cartoonist responsible for Homestuck, a popular comic series about a group of children who become embroiled in a cosmic-scale video game known as Sburb. Although Homestuck is probably most often associated with the cult classic Edgar Wright-directed film adaptation released in 2016, the comics themselves are highly-regarded, and the film brought a new audience to them. Netflix has commissioned an animated continuation, The Homestuck Epilogues, which is due to be released soon.

Andrew Hussie, on the other hand, is a figure you're likelier to know if you're overly online. His "MS Paint Adventures" series - most notably including Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, which is kind of like Homestuck but weirder and hornier - have firmly remained a fixture of obsessive Twitter fandom culture. It doesn't help that the best-known iteration, Scott Pilgrim Vs The World, is infamous for stretching thousands of pages of meandering digressions out of a simple and focused narrative starting point. Scott Pilgrim fans have developed something of a toxic reputation, which is not entirely deserved - although of course Knives discourse is interminable, and back in the fandom's heyday there were reportedly incidents of fans assaulting each other "for being evil exes".

Scott Pilgrim fandom was very big back in the day, though, and consequently it was a nexus for other creative figures who would go on to surpass Hussie. Perhaps foremost among these is indie developer Toby Fox. He was literally living in Hussie's basement when he produced ROSEQUARTZ, a universally-beloved retro Goonies-like RPG about a human hybrid boy born to a race of gem-based aliens. He's now developing an episodic spiritual successor, RAZORQUEST, with more overtly dark themes. It revolves around an inheritance dispute among a demon-summoning family.

Other foundational figures in this timeline's internet culture include Alison Bechdel, who helped get the webcomic scene started. Although she's now more seriously acclaimed for her personal memoirs, her gaming webcomic Press Start To Dyke, which premiered in 1998, was once everywhere. It had a broad appeal, and at its height, it was common to see even straight guys sharing pages from it. Time has not been especially kind to it, though, and at this point its main legacy is test.png, a meme spawned by one of the comic's most ill-advised pages.

Then there's John C. McCrae, more often known by his pseudonym Wildbow. A prolific and reclusive author of doorstopping "web serials" - long-form fiction published online - McCrae's best-known serial is still his first, Wind, a noir superhero story set in an alternate history where capes are mostly just a subculture of unpowered vigilantes. Wind landed in a culture already rife with comic book deconstructions, like Alan Moore's 2002 graphic novel Worm Turns, but it nonetheless managed to stand out from the pack with its extensive cast of characters and its themes of coordination problems and the end of the world. Later McCrae web serials include Part (the first "Otherverse" serial; an urban fantasy story about a couple who die in a car accident and find that they have become ghosts), Tear (a "biopunk" story set in a collapsing underwater city), Warn (the controversial Wind sequel), and Play (the second "Otherverse" serial, set in a small Indiana town that helps hide a psychic girl from the CIA).

Last and perhaps least, we should discuss J. K. Rowling. Far and away the most famous of any of these authors, Rowling's name is inseparable from the YA series that she debuted with, the Luz Noceda books, which remain her one successful work. Although it was heavily derivative of older fantasy novels - like Jill Murphy's Academy For Little Witches, or Philip Pullman's Methods Of Rationality trilogy - Luz Noceda was still a monumental and unprecedented success in the publishing industry, and the film adaptations were consistent blockbusters. The final book, Luz Noceda and the Watcher of Rain, contained some allusions to a romantic relationship between Luz and her recently-redeemed associate Amity. Rowling confirmed that this was her intent in subsequent interviews and indicated that she had fought her publishers for it; the film would then go on to escalate matters slightly further.

There have been many lengthy and heated online arguments as to whether the references in the book itself constitute text or mere subtext. Whatever your stance on this discourse, a new complication has been introduced recently: although she has put out no official statement on the matter as of yet, it has become quite apparent from Rowling's shrinking network of contacts and her conspicuous silences that she is certainly TERF-sympathetic, and likely an outright TERF herself. For many, this is leading to a critical reevaluation of the social values inherent in the Luz Noceda series; others, to say the least, are holding off on that kind of reappraisal.

Anyway, Scott Pilgrim just beat Luz Noceda in a Twitter poll for Most Gay Media, and people are piiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiissed

[s-u-g-a-r-rush1997]

Here's an ask as old as time, Turbo x Carrie!reader. Reader is a "bad guy" in their game, acting rude and snobby one-screen, but when the arcade closes their a sweetheart. However, very few people outside her game know that since she stays in her game most of the time (save for some visits to TurboTime).

Then there's a huge dance where everyone from the arcade is invited but advised to dress up, the reader and Turbo go as a date, even winning Dance Royalty (akin to Prom King and Queen). But her reputation as the "bad guy" of her game ruins the fun because someone dumped a bucket of blood on her while she was on stage as a "prank", justifying that she was an obnoxious "bad guy" who needed to be humbled.

How would Turbo fare in this situation?

This one consumed me. It took so long to write because, for some reason, I just had to write out the specifics of the reader's story. Also, the show kept getting stolen by a random side character I made up because, well, you can't be a bad guy without a good guy counterpart, right?

It's a long one, too. Five pages on Google Docs - technically six, but there's barely a sentence on the sixth page so I don't count it.

That is to say, I thoroughly enjoyed it.

OH! And this is also technically the first time I've actually written out a kiss instead of just saying it happened, so congrats!

"Bad Guy" Reader Takes Turbo to a Dance and Gets "Carried"

Pairing: Turbo x reader

Rating: Mostly SFW - slight suggestiveness right at the very end

Warnings: Reader gets blood dunked on them. Generally can be read as gender neutral, but the Reader is called a lady at one point.

You carried yourself with a certain poise and grace. You turned your nose to the air as the hero approached, an ugly, arrogant smirk splitting your face.

“Your journey ends here, Hero,” you recited, the familiar words coming to you easily, “you will never save your precious friends. They’ll be trapped in stone forever, in a nightmare they can never wake from.” You laughed, continuing on in a sickeningly sweet tone. “Never dying, never falling ill. Is that not what you wanted, ungrateful child? I gave you what you asked for!”

With that, the scene ended, and the battle began. You danced and twirled, sending objects flying this way and that. The Nameless Hero  – or rather the player – did their best to dodge. As you took a sword swipe to the chest, the floor crumbled, platforms appearing around the stage. You levitated in the center, a myriad of objects from chairs to knives to, morbidly enough, statues swirling around you.

Just one last hit and you’d fall. You’d fall past the platforms into the depths below. And then, just as the player believed you dead and defeated, you’d burst back up. Your true nature would be revealed. Serpentine, with bright red scales and yellow eyes.

But that hit never came. A chair hit them instead, and they were the one that fell.

It was game over. A grim tune played in the background. A still image appeared, an illustration of their fate, of the fate of the player. The Nameless Hero kneeled at your feet, their head bowed in defeat, as still and gray as the statues their people had become. And then it was back to the title screen with a message to insert a new quarter.

You could hear the player cursing under their breath. They scoffed and left. The arcade was closing, anyway.

“That was some fight, huh Hero?” Your rude persona was gone now; there were no players watching now. “I mean, you really got thrown around there, but you almost made it to the third stage, so.”

The Hero stood up from where they had regenerated just as the stage reformed. Had they been designed with a pair of eyes, they might have been glaring at you from behind their bangs. Instead they just huffed and made a sour expression, tongue stuck out from between their lips and nose crinkled.

“You just had a bad player, is all,” you reassured them, “my boss fight isn’t so hard. I’m sure you’ll have lots of victories tomorrow, yeah?”

They tilted their head for a second before nodding slowly, placated. The Nameless Hero suddenly breathed in sharply. The corners of their lips twitched upwards.

“Are you that eager to kick my, ah, well.” You cleared your throat, chuckling when the Hero shook their head vigorously with the widest grin you’d ever on their face. “Did you want to spar, then?”

They grabbed a hold of your wrist, tugging you eagerly to the exit of the arena. For someone designed to be completely and utterly neutral, they could be quite insistent – then again, few characters actually matched their designed personality outside of working hours. You would know.

“Ah, wait,” you protested when they started dragging you back through the various levels, “we don’t have to rush!” They stopped, releasing your wrist. They gestured to themself, and to you, a wide sweeping motion from the top of your head to your feet. But it wasn’t quite clear what they meant.

“I know you’re eager to go.” You gently placed a hand on their shoulder, and they looked up, head tilted the way they liked to do when they found something irritating. “But we have time. You don’t have to drag me all the way there.”

The Nameless Hero seizes your face, a hand on either cheek. They squeeze, much to your bemusement, before pulling away. A single finger rises to their lips. They grab your wrist again, tugging you along a little less insistent than before.

Eventually, you make it back to level one. A sprawling town filled with statues of what used to be the townsfolk. Not really, though. They were never alive and they never would be. The still image at the end of the game, should the player win, was the only time they’d ever appear in any colors besides grayscale. And it was just that, a still image.

You were half tempted to protest again when the Hero led you back to the very beginning. But they didn’t try to lead you out of the game. Instead, they entered a house normally inaccessible to the player.

Half of the room was filled with platforms and inactive obstacles, the other half had been furnished by the Hero with stuff you recognized from various stages of your game. There was one lone enemy, a cockatrice, currently curled up on the Hero’s bed. The Nameless Hero shooed it away with a wave of their hand, the beast squawking indigently before finding a new perch atop a bookshelf. It was, you assumed anyway, an unused level.

Smiling, the Hero rummaged through their end table, throwing various trinkets out onto the bed until they finally found what they wanted. With a flourish they produced two bowties, one red, the other blue. They slapped it against their neck and, in a flash of light, their armor had transformed. Their armor had melted away in favor of a smart little vest and dress pants. They looked so proud of themself, and perhaps a bit smug, too.

“Alternate costumes?” you asked, and they nodded eagerly, shoving the red bowtie into your hands.

You smiled back and pressed your own bowtie against your neck. Alternate costumes were hard to get your hands on. You appreciated the gesture.

You didn’t like leaving often. You only ever left for one person; Turbo. And while he had agreed to be your date – your heart still fluttered nervously thinking about it – this wasn’t just a visit to TurboTime. It was a party to celebrate the anniversary of the entire arcade.

Everyone would be there, not just Turbo.

But it was also your first official date with Turbo and as nervous as you were, you didn’t want to miss it. “Let’s go ahead and get going early, yeah?”

The Nameless Hero grinned, taking you by the wrist again and dragging you off.

You got dirty looks when you reached Game Central Station. Not as many as your anxious brain had told you you’d get – there were a lot of new games with new people who didn’t know about your reputation yet. And most of the people that did know of you were distracted by all the pretty balloons and streamers GCS had been decorated with. They’d even put up a stage.

You hadn’t seen Turbo yet. You looked around for a glimpse of red and white, but you couldn’t find him.

A hand suddenly touched your arm. You whirled around, expecting to see the Hero, but they had left to find their friends. Instead you found a pair of familiar yellow eyes.

“Looking for me?” He was grinning like the cat that ate the canary, all of his yellow teeth visible. He had forgone formalwear in favor of his iconic tracksuit and helmet – though they looked quite a bit more clean than they usually did when he was fresh off the track. You almost wish he’d taken off the helmet, you quite liked running your hand along his thinning hair. Evidently he did too; most of your visits ended with the helmet off.

“Turbo!” You wrapped your arms around him, pulling him close. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Your forehead rested against his helmet. You were tempted to kiss him, but instead you just hovered awkwardly, lips inches away, uncertain.

“What, were you worried I wasn’t going to show up?” he teased. He pulled away, tugging you to his side. His hand rested against your hip.

“Ah, a little bit?” you admitted quietly, “I mean, I’m sure you’ve noticed I’m not exactly popular.”

He squeezed your hip, looking up at you with half lidded eyes and that wide grin. “I couldn’t do that to you.”  He leaned in close, tilting his head up slightly. “You are my number one fan after all?”

You snorted, “how do you know I’m your number one fan? The whole arcade loves you.”

You could feel his breath on your cheek, and his fingers on your hip tracing circles. “because you’re my favorite.”

“Oh.”

His grinned seemed wider, if that was even possible. How smug he must have been, to have turned your face such a vibrant shade of red. His hand slid up to rest comfortable on your waist, as you slipped yours around his shoulder. He led you towards the dance floor, stopping as he spotted someone he knew in a nearby group.

“Hey, Gene!” Turbo shouted rather loudly as the two of you approached.

The man turned around, a disgusted expression on his face. “What are you doing here?”

“I was invited,” Turbo said with a laugh, “and I brought a plus one, of course. Where’s your plus one?” Before Gene could argue, Turbo brushed past with an arrogant smirk. “It’s good seeing you again but I think I hear music, and I would love to take this lovely lady out for a spin on the dance floor.”

The two of you sped off without another word.

And, true to his word, as soon as the music started he took you for a spin. Truth be told, neither of you really knew how to dance. There were a lot of near-trips, stepping on each other’s feet, and stepping on other people’s feet. It was chaotic, especially with your date occasionally shouting out “Turbotastic!” when you spun particularly fast.

You were breathless by the time the two of you stumbled off of the dance floor. You giggled as you staggered over to the snack table, leaning against it as the dizziness passed. A cup was suddenly held out to you, the red liquid inside sloshing from how forcefully it was moved. Turbo had his face buried in his own cup, his cheeks flushed red. You took it from him gratefully. The cool liquid was soothing, and such a sweet fruity flavor too.

You wiped your mouth with the back of your sleeve. You wanted to say something, but you couldn’t find the words. He was silent too, swirling punch around in his cup. Your mouth suddenly felt dry, and you threw back the rest of your punch, setting the cup aside on the table loudly. Your heart was racing, you felt like any second now you’d fall over with how badly your knees wobbled, but you didn’t want to back down.

One of your hands grabbed the fabric of his tracksuit, the other cupped his cheek. Before you could lose your nerve, you just went for it. Turbo’s lips were chapped but warm. He tasted like punch. His hands were grabbing your shoulders like his life depended on it.

You both pulled away breathing heavily. His face was just as red as yours felt. He was smiling again, a bit of drool on the corner of his mouth.

The music cut out suddenly. You turned towards the stage, nearly slipping on the now wet floor. Something bumped against your foot, rolling away. There was punch on the floor, spilled from the cup Turbo had dropped when the two of you kissed.

You considered cleaning it up – you’d hate to see someone slip – but then someone started speaking.

“Hello?” A short man in a blue vest spoke just a bit too close to the microphone, “is this thing on?” He cleared his throat. ”Welcome to our third annual Arcade Anniversary Celebration. My name is Fix-it Felix from the game Fix-it Felix Jr. As many of you know, my game was one of the first to get plugged in.” He coughed, tugging at the collar of his shirt. “Now, without further ado, I would love to announce this year's Dance Royalty.”

No one really knew you outside your game, save for Turbo. You never really left, after all. While the stigma around villains had lessened somewhat, it was still difficult to be seen as anything other than evil. So imagine your surprise when the names you hear Felix call out are your own and Turbo’s.

You were in disbelief. Turbo nudged you to break you of your stupor, tugging at your hand to guide you towards the stage. The corners of your mouth twitched up in a smile. You felt warm and fuzzy as you stood beside Felix, clutching the hand of your date tightly. You couldn’t believe people actually–

Oh.

Red was a familiar color to you. It was warm to the touch, smooth like your scales during the final stage of your fight. Not cold, sticky, smelling like copper. There was so much of it. Soaked into your hair, your clothing. Red all over.

There’s a snicker from somewhere in the crowd, and a clatter from nearby. “Oh no.”

Felix is in front of you, hands hovering awkwardly like he doesn’t know what to do. “Oh, dear. Hold on, let me– maybe I should get you a towel?”

You want to curl up and cry. But there’s a hand on your shoulder, clasped tight enough to bruise.

“Shut up, Fix-it!” Turbo hisses, “of course you should get a towel!”

Turbo’s leading you away now. You can hear him cursing, but he’s not angry at you, right? No, of course not. He’s holding you so tightly. Close to his side. You look at him. The blood missed most of him. Specks of red here and there on his helmet and tracksuit. But where he’s holding you close is stained entirely in red.

You sniffle and his eyes are on you. “I’ll get you dried off.” His teeth are gritted, he looks furious, but he’s trying to keep his tone even. “Then I can help you home and we can get you out of that outfit. Maybe I’ll even draw you a bath.”

You breathe in sharply suddenly, wheezing out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “Is– is that an excuse to see me naked?”

Turbo wheezed, anger forgotten. A hyena cackle burst from his throat and you couldn’t help but join in. The two of you must have been a sight, covered in blood and laughing so hard you cried. And when you finally stopped, you noticed Felix standing there awkwardly, this completely blank expression on his face and you just lost it again. The towel hit Turbo in the face with a poomf, and you were suddenly finding it hard to breathe again.

[zvdvdlvr]

hey you should some dating johnny cade hc

Dating Johnny Cade HCs

➳ 𝐧𝐚𝐯𝐢.

-> warnings: foul language, pet names { baby, honey, sweetheart }

-> pairings: johnny cade x reader

{🤍}

sweet boy ong.

PLEASE he loves to cuddle with you !!

"c'mere cuddlebug" <3

M E L T S when you compliment or praise him

is really really really really really really really really shy before you both start dating

100 fucking percent asked dally for advice b4 asking you out

look, if you have a RBF, johnnycake is kimda scared of you (at first)

until dall strolls up to you and offers you a blunt, johnny might think youll jump up and bite his fingers off lmao

ok so but i

johnny loves watching you smoke????

like

watching the smoke seep from your lips?? hes purring.

but when you shOTGUN?!?!?!?!? he's feral.

if johnny ever gets hurt, expect to be one of the first person he looks for to clean him up and give him shelter

if he ends up in jail for participating in one of Dally's stunts, he doesn't want to call

bc you'll be worried and want to spend ur money on bail for him 🤕❤

but its ok in the end bc hes in love w you

PICNIC DATES QUESTION MARK

i feel like johnny would be so down for these

i also think johnny's lowkey (and i mean low key) a cat person

is that just me? ok ill go away now

AN ABSOLUTE SUCKER for sharing cigs with his partner <3

if you had a good home life, johnny would really want to spend time with your family

because he was robbed of an okay parent/child relationship, he yearns for his partner's parents to like him

would be absolutely distraught if they didn't like him, my poor boy ☹

please tell him he's loved

he needs that

would call you sweetheart, baby, honey or a nickname based off your name or an inside joke or smth

johnny boy likes that intimacy :p

wap so hes a sub switch at best

GO TO THE MOVIES WITH HIM!!!!

PLEASE

sharing a coke (the drink smh) and fries :')

making comments the whole time and loving his little laugh that follows

play a prank or two 😍

but you might need to take the fall just a warning

if you tend to get in trouble with the law, johnny would be chill with that shit because he's friends with dallas winston

but will always be a lil nervous for his bae

will take you out when you get out of the slammer

diner dinners, late night walks (with knives for safety), dirty jokes, random puns... this is all johnny.

you make him so happy

would have cash set aside for a lil smth for your birthday dont even TRY to argue

cheek kisses, neck kisses, forhead kisses

theyre so... simple

so simple but they make him so happy

dally also likes how happy you make johnny

is protective over johnny, don't get me wrong, but is calmer when he knows its you

i mean, everyone knows you

you have a reputation, of course

dally lowkey admires you, even if ur younger than him

anywayz

is kind of oblivious when it comes to relationships, tbh...

its sweet (for the most part)

loves holding your hand

please

please hold his hand

please hold his hand all the time

two-bit loves you bc johnnys in love with you and you help him (two-bit) with making fun of certain Socs

you also have a rep for dark/offensive humor so two and soda absolutely lose their shit when you make a joke im not even lying

wait but like soda really likes the dynamic you both have

i.e: you act like siblings and poke fun at pony sometimes

but its all good bc ur dating johnny

i mean, dude, its johnny

darry highkey really likes you

the gamg likes you, johnnh is in love with you, we're all cool

imagine: mother darry's reaction to you get into a fight

"hey y/n," darry greeted the teen. they were grabbing a piece of chocolate cake. the curtis household was notorious for its chocolate cakes.

y/n shut the ice box door and went for a fork, strategically avoiding letting darry see their face. "yo," they replied, turning to leave the room.

darry stuck his hand out before y/n could leave the kitchen. "look at me," he commanded, suspicious.

y/n tilted their face up to look at him. darry's eyes widened. they had teo black eyes, a deep lookinh scratch from their temple to their chin, a dried bloody nose, busted lip, and a toothy grin plastered all over their face. "it wasn't my fault, dare, promise," they say.

darry tuts. "the hell it wasnt. you see johnny yet with those battle scars o'yers?"

"nah. ain't wanna wake 'im up yet."

dear god then two bit lumbers in. "hey, y'all heard? shepherd's plannin' a rumble- damn!" he howls. he swiped his finger in the frosting of y/n's cake and got a good look at their face. "damn kid! you kick their asses?"

y/n smirks. "duh."

two bit laughs and gets his own slice of cake while darry leans against the counter wondering how why y/n was so carefree.

"you're such a mother, jeez," y/n commented to Darry.

two bit laughed again.

"missed you, baby"

AWOOOGA BARK BATK BARK PURR MEOW JEIEKJQODIS

the gang totally gags and pretends to vomit when you guys kiss or they walk in go you making out

pony is ur no. 1 supporter

respect, my g 😪✊

if anyone wants more lmk. ill edit this bad boy later

johnny cade taglist:

@paxdawg

[letsdeerintheheadlightsuniverse]

<<Previous Chapter <<

**Masterlist**

>>Next Chapter>>

Pairing: Izzy Hands x gn!reader

Synopsis: Will Izzy's guilt continue to drive him away from being by your side or will he finally accept the light and free himself from the brewing darkness within?

A/N: Thank you so much to everyone who voted. I hope this is everything you want! This chapter follows the events of the Bonus Anti-Hero chapter, so if you haven't read it, you can follow the 'previous chapter' link above.

Content Warning: Knives, mention of injuries, trauma, vomiting, mentions of drowning, blood, begging for death and angst. I think that's everything. This series is 18+, so minors dni. Go away (politely).

DISCLAIMER: PLEASE DO NOT REPOST, REPUBLISH, OR TRANSLATE MY WORK ANYWHERE WITHOUT MY EXPLICIT PERMISSION. I DO NOT OWN OFMD OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

=============================

"I can't do this, Captain." you admitted through gritted teeth, as you leaned heavily onto the bucket you cradled between your legs.

You were in Hell. Actually Hell. So sure you had died upon the treacherous waves and were now bring subjected to the worst of tortures. Perhaps that was why you were yet to see Izzy yet. Despite his own harsh opinions of himself, you truly believed that Israel Hands was a good man. Maybe even one of the best you had had the good fortune of meeting, during your travels across the seven seas. No, someone as loyal- albeit, sometimes misguided and stubborn in their decisions- would be in Hell alongside you.

The co-captain could tell you were struggling and damn it, he felt completely powerless to ease your suffering. He himself was no stranger to infected wounds and all the delightful symptoms that entailed. The fever, the shivers, the nausea- all played a part in the general unpleasantness that came with an injury. "You have to, okay? I know you want to give up right now but you can't. Just be brave for me a little bit longer, yeah?" not a wordsmith by nature, he was doing his best to comfort you. Was that not what Edward had always craved when he had fallen ill on Hornigold's ship? Just someone to hold his hand and tell him it was going to be alright. Such a simple request that had been denied to him time and time again. Of course, then he had met Izzy but that was a walk down memory lane for another time. "That's it, there you go. You're okay." the small circles he rubbed into your back, were most welcome, while to once again coughed your guts up into the bucket. "What's the diagnosis, doc?" Edward focused his attention upon the other man present in the room.

"The wounds infected. Looks like there's pus gathering. Probably going to have to drain it. Truthfully," there was a pause as the medical professional chose his words carefully. "things are going to get a lot worse before it gets better." he had seen wounds worse than the one inflicted upon your body. Though certain you would live to see your next voyage, the gentleman was still exercising extreme caution when it came to treating you. One small mistake or negligence on his part and it would be lights out for you. "I'm also concerned about the fever and vomiting but let's focus on one thing at a time."

"Captain, it'd be quicker just run me through with a sword."

"And probably less painful." the doctor joked, hoping to add some lightness to the dire situation but his quip did not garner the jovial response he had been hoping for. Instead, Ed glared daggers at him. Oh, if looks could kill, the sliver of a men would have been dead a thousand times over. "Ahem, anyway. I'll go an prepare my tools. I won't be long." he excused himself, wanting to make a hasty retreat. Ed's reputation preceeded him and the doctor just prayed that he made it out of this house all with all of his bones intact and fingers still attached to his body.

Upon his exit, you heard a murmured exchange between him and another in the hallway but your focus was on the raging fire that engulfed your entire being and the churning in your stomach, that threatened to provoke another round of coughing up your guts.

"How're ya hanging in there, kid?" though his words were good-humoured, there was a undeniable tenderness in your Captain's actions, as he brought a cool wash cloth to your fash, washing away any rogue spittle from around your mouth. It felt almost perverse to have the legendary Blackbeard dote upon you in your time of need but hey, you were not going to start counting chickens. You were just grateful to be a part of a misfit crew, who cared about one another and that you could call family.

"Just fucking kill me already, Captain." you all but begged, already struggling under the immense physical exertions of your current symptoms. Though not known to be a coward by nature, you were fully prepared to be removed from the rotation of existence, if it meant forgoing the experience of more afflictions upon your persons.

Oh, how the pirate knew the wanting of death well. How many times had he begged Izzy to out him out of his misery, during their time together on the Queen Anne? Hell, Ed had literally handed the First Mate a gun and giaded the man to shoot him right there and then, when he had been in the wicked grasps of the Kraken. "Mmm, can't do that. Sorry." he replied almost playfully, trying to lighten the mood slightly, as he aimed to pull your thought process away from such dark desires.

"Fuck you, then. I guess." you grumbled miserably, wondering if Izzy had been by your side, would he have relented to your request? Perhaps if you annoyed him enough, he may have run you through with his sword.

"You heard the doc, it'll 'get worse before it gets better'. Just gotta weather this storm and then it'll be...fuck, what's the metaphor Stede uses? Oh, yeah! Sunny skies!"

"Yeah, no offence but Captain Stede isn't the one who's about to have his arm fucking-"

====

"Drained? Oh...that doesn't sound very pleasant." Stede grimaced, nose and mouth scruching in that irritating way, that never failed to irk the First Mate, whom stood diligently beside him.

"It's not. It's incredibly painful. I'll try and administer some kind of mild sedative to help lower the pain levels but really, some decent rum will probably take the edge off better." the doctor further explained, his gaze shifting between the two men. There was something incredibly unnerving about the way the silver-haired pirate continued to stare daggers at him. What was it with this crew and having murderous expressions?

"Izzy's got a bottle of rum. Haven't you, Iz? It looked unopened too, right?" of course Stede fucking Bonnet had noticed such a minor detail. Man was a total idiot when it came to things about piracy but give him a brief insight into your lodgings and suddenly, the twat had a photographic memory. Upon hearing the doctor's prognosis, Izzy wished he was black out drunk right about now.

This was his fault. Everything you were about to experience. Every second of pain, any blood you had needlessly shed, whatever horrors you were about to face at the hands of this twatty doctor- it was all Izzy's fault, he decided.

"Get the patient to drink some. In the meantime, I'm going to go and prepare my tools and-"

"(Y/N)." Izzy's sharp tone cut across the doctor's explanation like the knife he was about to go sterilise.

"Pardon?"

Stede almost smirked at the unwarranted hostility. Izzy might have thought his was covert in concealing his feelings for you, but in reality, the man was an open book. Who else would the silver-haired pirate borderline snarl a warning at for forgoing the usage of someone's name? Well, that just proved that you were not a mere 'someone' to the First Mate.

"Their name is (Y/N), not 'patient'."

====

"Hey...hey, C-Captain?" you gasped between another round of vomiting. How was it even still possible for you to be emptying the contents of your stomach? Surely, there was nothing left to generate into...

Edward winced as you bent over the bucket once more, this time merely dry heaving. A sheen of sweat covered your body and soaked through your flimsy shirt and linen trousers- all hand-me-downs from the crew, after you had already perspired through your own attire. Though you felt warm to the touch, you shivered as if you were made of ice. In conclusion, you looked like shit. "Yeah, kid?"

Under normal circumstances, you would have been hesitant to make any kind of request to the Captain but desperate times called for desperate measures. Having been stripped of your pride and dignity, you had no inhibitions when you beseeched the silver-haired pirate to fulfil your only desire. "Can...can you get Izzy, please? I..."

====

"I'm not going." it had to be said that Israel Hands was many things but never would have Stede labelled the great swordsman to be a coward, especially when it came to matters involving you. Sure, he often- okay, always- shied away from divulging his true feelings to you but that did not make him a coward, so to speak. The co-captain understood how difficult it was to admit your innermost desires to the one you so adored. Goodness knew he had literally fled back to his wife and kids, just to hide away from how he truly felt about one, Edward "Blackbeard" Teach.

However, repressed feelings or not, there was absolutely no need for Izzy to be digging in his heels now. Especially when Stede had asked the silver-haired pirate so nicely to accompany him to your room. "Oh really? And why's that exactly?" he huffed. Whatever the excuse, Stede was not going to let Izzy off the hook so easily. His presence was required and by he'll or by highwater, Stede was going to deliver the First Mate to your bedside. Maybe he could ask Fang to carry Izzy down the hallway?

Even Izzy had to admit, his wanting to remain locked away in his lodgings was a weak excuse at best. Truthfully, he had no real reason for wanting to stay away, other than to wallow in his own brooding. The guilt of knowing that your injuries were the culmination of his past actions and the ill-judged decisions during the storm, was eating away at him. Carving a hollowed space within his chest, where the darkness liked to dwell. That obsidian black, bitter thing. Nothing good was ever born from that corrupted gloom. With each passing moment, it threatened to consume him in his entirety and honestly? Izzy was more than ready to embrace the darkness. When had men like him ever been able to freely enjoy the light? The warmth of innocence was for people like yourself. Fundamentally good and beautifully flawed, not jaded and wicked as him. He had fed another's darkness once, it was time to nurture his own.

Knowing you were alive was enough for Izzy. To see you suffering from the aftermath of your knife wound was a sight he did not need to witness. The image would surely become seared into his retinas. "What use am I going to be, Bonnet? Do I look like a fucking doctor to you?"

There was some truth to his words. What was the point exactly of him playing witness to your agony? He could hardly relieve you of whatever symptoms plagued at current and let's face it, Izzy was not exactly known to be the most...in tune with his feelings. If it was comfort you needed, you were better off with someone like Stede fucking Bonnet or even Fang. Gods, Fang knew how to comfort a person like it was nobody's business. Had the pirate not been the one to hold Izzy in his time of vulnerability? And if Frenchie had not been fighting for his life in the room adjacent to yours, well, he would surely have been first in line to offer a hand to hold.

At the vocalisation of the First Mate's harsh response, Stede's facial expression soften ever so slightly. Maybe that was it, then. He concluded, realising that Izzy's reluctance to be by your side, steamed from his inability to provide you with the level of care he believed you needed. No, deserved. The silver-haired pirate was so overly critical of his own skillset that, he truly did not see all that he could offer to the situation. Give the man a sword and he became a soldier. Ask him to be in attend the bedside of the person he loved most? The man was a bloody mouse.

And it was not as if the feelings were not reciprocated! You were so clearly besotted with the man too. In fact, Stede was in no doubt that Izzy's companionship alone, would bring some joy to your otherwise currently very bleak existence. Perhaps a smile would even be on the cards, if only he could just find a way to lure Izzy down the hallway.

Desperate times called for desperate measures. "FANG!" the Gentleman Pirate called out, much to the confusion of the First Mate. What on earth was he up to now?

====

"Okay, okay, try not to talk, yeah? I hear you, kid. Loud and clear. If it's Iz you want-" a knock at the door interrupted Ed's assurance. Hell, the co-captain was prepared to drag the First Mate by the scruff of his neck if he had to. Anything to get him to darken your door way and finally put an end to his unceasing cycle of guilt. "come in!" his focus was torn away from whoever tentatively opened the door, as your body was wracked with another gagging fit.

The circles rubbing your back in soothing circles faltered momentarily and you found yourself craving the comforting gesture. "Can...can you just get him, please?" you cried, tears streaming down your face, as you sobbed. Damn it, Israel Hands, why were you always so far out of reach, you thought, anguished. "I don't-I don't think I can do this without him. I need him. I fucking need him like I need oxygen. It's easier to breathe when he's around." you doubted your words made any sense but still, you rambled on. Needing Ed to understand just how serious you were in your appeal. If you could have left the room and retrieved the First Mate yourself, you woukd have been down that hallway in a blink of an eye but you were now reliant on the goodwill of another. "He's my Stede." you murmured, hoping the comparison would truly articulate just how important Izzy was to you. "He's my lighthouse. So, please. Please just go get him. Even if he doesnt want to see me. Even if he thinks it's pathetic how much I need him, just go get him. Can you do that, Cap-" you lifted your gaze to finally face your Captain but gone were the familiar brown eyes. Instead, replaced with cerulean blue. A oceanic gaze you had wished to drown in a thousand times over. "Izzy." you murmured between sniffles.

Countless nights had been whiled away, as you fantasised about the seemingly unobtainable opportunity to share a bed with one, Israel Hands. The scenario and setting had always changed depending on your nocturnal preference, but one element was always certain- the First Mate of the Revenge was always, always your bedfellow. Just how Not Safe For Ship the daydream was, depended purely upon how riled up the mere sight of the silver-haired pirate had made you feel throughout your morning duties. Oh Calypso, the things you had imagined doing to that man. Never had you imagined him sitting beside you, playing nurse while you were plagued with fever.

However, there was absolutely nothing alluring or desirable about your current predicament. His hands may have been upon you, but there were no burning touches that sparked a flame of yearning. The only rising temperature was your fever, which continued to climb in numbers and refused to break any time soon. Gods, you felt disgusting. Absolutely putrid. Down right dreadful. To add salt to injury, you looked equally wonderful, too. There was a delightful touch of corpse about your appearance.

You did not have much time to dedicate to your self-deprecating thoughts, as you felt another unpleasant wave of nausea take hold of your senses, forcing you to heave whatever was left within the containment of your stomach. Long gone was the clear broth and crackers. There was no sipped at water left in your system. Hell, even the bile seemed to be running thin now. Soon, you would be gagging on nothing but air and your own tears.

Still, the hand rubbing your back was nice at least.

The wretching gave away to exhaustion. With your body unable to expell any further contents from your stomach, you indulged yourself a little and leaned into your companion's hold. "You're here." you breathed incredulously and despite the agony and torment, you smiled for the first time in...goodness, how many days had you even been occupying the inn? Keeping time had seemed so irrelevant in the grand scheme of simply trying to survive. Nonetheless, you smiled at the pirate. Genuinely thankful that he was now with you. Your beacon of hope, of light. Here to guide you through your darkest hour.

"I..." though being by your side felt as natural as breathing, the truth was a little less romantic. In failing to drag the First Mate to your room himself, Stede fucking Bonnet had enlisted the help of Fang, whom had- quite unceremoniously- carried Izzy down th hallway. All while that twat of a Captain had demanded that the First Mate stop being so stubborn and for once in his life, listen to his heart instead of his head.

Seeing you now, a former shadow of your usually vibrant self, was a difficult sight to process. He had been correct in his earlier reluctance, the image of your chapped, bloody lips and bruised eyes would surely haunt him every time he closed his eyes.

Upon hearing your heartfelt admission, Izzy's mind was in a tailspin. His insticts were telling him to flee, that he should not have been here but maybe, by your beside was the only place for him to be right now. No, Izzy knew in his heart of hearts that, he should have been by your side sooner. Much, much sooner. Except extreme guilt had kept him away. That same guilt was still present, gnawing away at his subconscious like a fiendish creature of insatiable appetites. However, upon hearing you say you needed him- you needed him!- the man had experienced a perspective shift. "I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

"It's okay." you smiled at him. Genuinely smiled at him. There was not disappointment in resent in you tone. Just pure relief that he had finally made it way to your side. Bless the gods, for answering your prayers. The road ahead was going to be one full of pain and distress but with Izzy holding your hand, maybe- just maybe- you would be able to weather the storm and survive long enough to witness those 'sunny skies'. "Just don't leave me again this time, yeah?"

As much as Izzy wanted to address your labelling of him as your 'Stede', the pirate rationalised that there were more important matters at hand. For starters, he realised it would be more productive to seek atonement for his sins, rather than allow himself to be consumed by the darkness, that threatened to drag him down into a never-ending spiral of despair. After all, how could he possibly deny such a heartfelt request from the one he was now eternally indebted to. Gods, you had called him a 'lighthouse', for fucks sake. You bewitching creature, you. In that moment, the First Mate knew, he would follow you to end of the earth, should you ask him so.

He loved you. He loved you, he loved you, he loved you!

The past was unchangeable but Izzy did have some say on how the future could play out. You had needed him that night on the ship and you needed him now. Like hell was he going to let you down a second time. "I'm not going anywhere. I promise."

[juicyflawless25]

Capillaries Are Bursting (Ch.2)

Notes; Trigger warnings for physical abuse and emotional abuse. If things like this trigger you, this chapter may be hard to read. Please proceed with caution.

Ch.1

Roger Face Reference ; Mads Mikkelsen

Not beta-ed, so all mistakes are mine.

In all honesty, Larissa felt that her marriage was more of a job than it was an actual marriage. For the entire twenty years that they’d been betrothed, Roger had used Larissa as leverage, as a piece to use when he wanted something. He took whatever he wanted to take and gave nothing back. Her feelings never mattered, that much was clear as she went around the room speaking to the people Roger wanted her to sweet talk and impress. Larissa had a way with people and Roger took full advantage of it. Her words always formed in such a way that made those around her listen intently. Everyone except Roger, of course. He only listened to his own bellowing, forever blowing smoke up everyone’s asses and loving every second of it. 

As she chatted with the mayor of the town, gently touching the man on the arm to her husband’s request, she felt Roger’s eyes boring into the back of her head. He always kept an eye on her at these parties, making sure she did exactly as he told her. The only reason Larissa ever did as he told her was to keep the peace for those around her, but most importantly for her daughter. She was the most important thing in her life and her husband knew that. In heated arguments, threats against Olivia were always lobbied to Larissa like heavy knives. And each and every time, they hit their mark. Just like they had done earlier, before the party.

A malicious man, her husband was. That much was for certain. So, Larissa put on her best smile and played the room like a golden fiddle. She greeted everyone she knew with a smile, a touch to the arm, or grabbing their hands gently. All paired with carefully crafted words and phrases to make the other person feel as if she cared. 

Did she care? No, not in the least bit. The high and mighty’s of Jericho were the worst kind of people she had ever come across. The only thing that mattered to anyone was their reputation and their money. They hobnobbed with each other in the light of day, making nice and giving vaguely veiled snobby looks at one another. And when one’s back was turned? There was sure to be ill-gotten gossip being slung around about this person and that. There was nothing genuine about anyone in Jericho and Larissa felt she was a part of that. She put on like her life was perfect, despite it being so far from it. But truly, it was her husband she had to thank for that farce. He wouldn’t let anyone find out any differently.

These thoughts and more crossed Larissa’s mind as she held onto the mayor’s arm, laughing with him and feigning the grandest time of all. At least everyone believed she was having a good time and enjoyed the company. Having them think anything else would warrant consequences from Roger in ways Larissa didn’t want to think of. 

“That is a wonderful idea, Mayor Walker!” Larissa exalted with a grin, clapping her hands together in (mock) excitement. “I believe a statue of Joseph Crackstone would look marvelous placed in the middle of town. You’re brilliant for thinking of it!” 

The mayor grinned widely back at Larissa, soaking in the praise she was throwing at him. The small group gathered around them nodded in agreement, everyone all smiles and enthusiasm. Larissa felt like puking, but she kept on the facade and did her best.

“Why thank you, Larissa. It just came to me recently and I feel it would truly inspire everyone in our little town of Jericho.” Mayor Walker flattered himself with his words, showing off like a peacock looking for a mate. Larissa wanted so badly to roll her eyes, but instead, she grinned and agreed, like always. 

Roger lingered behind Larissa, watching her like a hawk stalking its prey. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, but it was starting to become more of a burden to do so. When she cut her eyes towards Roger, he looked somewhat displeased. A shamed heat rose to Larissa’s chest and she had to steel herself not to look terrified in front of everyone. She knew what Roger’s face meant, she knew that look in his eyes as he stared. 

“Jericho is lucky to have you as their mayor, Mayor Walker. Truly such a brilliant man.” Larissa praised him a little more, hoping maybe this would placate her husband in some way. Her words must not have sounded very genuine to him, perhaps it was the slight drop in her smile and the way she had let go of the mayor’s arm. Larissa couldn’t be sure. All she knew was that her husband was not going to let whatever farce he saw slide. 

“My apologies, Mayor Walker, but if you’ll excuse me for a moment. I have something I need to attend to.” She offered as she placed her hand on the man’s arm again, giving her biggest and brightest smile, her blue eyes conveying her apologies.

Before he could answer, Larissa had turned a made a beeline for the area she knew the bathroom was located. She could feel the anxiety and the panic rising in her stomach, coupled with the feeling that Roger’s eyes were still on her. Part of her knew that her biggest mistake was leaving the crowd, but the last thing she needed to do was fall apart in front of the most important people of Jericho. What would they think? That’s what she knew Roger would be thinking, what he would be yelling at her about later. That thought alone only made the panic rise higher and higher, making her feet move faster to make it to the bathroom in time to lose her metaphorical shit.

Larissa practically flung herself into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her before locking it and falling against it, tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. Her hands were shaking and her legs felt weak, barely holding her tall frame up as she tried to find support in the wood door holding her up. She wanted the ground to swallow her whole, to make her disappear so that Roger could never find her. She wanted to run away, taking her child with her and making themselves scarce. 

Sobs bubbled up from Larissa’s chest to spill from her mouth, rocking her body hard against the door. She slid down it slowly, her legs unable to hold her up anymore. Perhaps it was unladylike sitting on the floor of the bathroom in a dress, but at the moment Larissa couldn’t care any less. She brought her knees to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, holding herself tightly as she cried into the material of her dress. Strong shoulders shook with the force of her crying, making her chest feel tight and uncomfortable. 

As she sat there sobbing her anxiety in heaving breaths, Larissa wished she had some sort of comfort from someone. She’d had so little of it through her lifetime and all she wanted was someone who truly loved her to hold her and tell her it was going to be okay. Despite being the tallest person in every room, Larissa felt small and unimportant, and empty. She couldn’t wrap her head around why she had to be given the life she was. Who out in the universe hated her enough to make her suffer this way?

Larissa sat that way and sobbed for quite some time, feeling helpless and alone. She knew she needed to get up and fix herself, to push these feelings aside and leave them for a more private time, but the anxiety riddling her body only steeled her to the floor. A moment later, loud, angry banging came from the other side of the door. Larissa gasped and scrambled away from the door in fear. She wasn’t usually one to respond in such a way, but the terrified feeling in her heart told her that Roger was on the other side of the door. 

“Larissa!” Roger’s voice reverberated off the wood of the door, giving it an even more malicious tone. Larissa closed her eyes shut for a moment, trying to will herself up from the floor and the tears to disappear. “Larissa Weems, I know you’re in there and if you don’t come out this instant, I will be knocking down this door. What you’re doing is unacceptable. You should be out here with everyone else, doing as I told you.” 

Her husband’s words sounded as if he was saying them all through gritted teeth. And truth be told, they probably were. His meaty fists continued to bang on the door, knowing that making such a scene would more than likely make Larissa come out of the bathroom. For someone who wanted things to look so perfect, he had no qualms in showing everyone who wore the pants in the relationship, who was in charge. The hatred in Larissa’s heart only grew the more he made a scene, the more he berated her through the door. Everything in her wanted to deck him dead in the face, but the woman in her that had been taught how to act in polite society told her otherwise. Fear, perhaps, held her back as well.

“I’m coming, Roger.” She finally called out, hauling herself up from the floor and looking in the mirror at herself. Her makeup was a mess, mascara running down her face in broken lines. “I’ll be out in a moment, just fixing my makeup.” Larissa explained, hoping she could do something with it before Roger gave himself a coronary. Honestly, she really did wish he would drop dead. 

“Hurry up, woman! We do not have all evening! You’ve wasted enough time already!” He bellowed, belligerence soaking each word. 

Larissa gripped the marble countertop with her free hand, trying to calm herself down before she had her own outburst. That would not bode well for her, especially in a public setting. She took in several deep breaths, dabbing at the mascara on her cheeks in order to make it disappear. When she finally felt like she looked somewhat decent, and all excess mascara was gone, Larissa stared at herself sternly in the mirror before nodding to herself and turning to head for the door.

When she finally opened the door, Roger’s bloated and fire-red face greeted her with a sneer. “Let’s go.” He said, grabbing her by the arm a little more forcefully than was necessary. Larissa followed with him, clearly given no other choice. 

Several hours later, after night had fallen and the sky turned dark, the married pair finally arrived home. Larissa could feel exhaustion settling in her bones, her nearly forty age making her feel things in her body she hadn’t felt before. Although, the way Roger had manhandled her after they were in the privacy of the car probably wasn’t helping either. He was still seething as they made their way through the lavish front doors of their mansion. His mansion, as he had pointed out so many times before. Not that it mattered since Larissa felt it was more of a prison anyway. 

The clack of Larissa’s heels couldn’t even be heard on the marble floor over the sound of her husband admonishing her for yet another problem only he saw. 

“You’re an embarrassment to me, Larissa. I don’t understand why you can’t get anything right. All you ever do is fuck everything up! I often wonder why I even bothered to accept the proposal from your father about marrying you. You were supposed to be the perfect wife, you were supposed to be properly taught. But here we are, Larissa. Here we are having to deal with your screw-ups yet again. You’re too tall, you’re uglier than sin and it makes me sick to my stomach that I procreated with you. It’s a shame you can’t just shapeshift yourself into someone better looking! Then maybe I would have been more inclined to fuck you! Perhaps then your mistakes would be easier to overlo-”

Larissa turned around on her husband at that moment, her own anger crashing to the surface as she listened to his stinging words. He’d said the same things to her over and over again throughout their marriage. These were things she had heard so many times before, but tonight she couldn’t help but react to them. She knew better, knew better than to make his anger worse, but there was no stopping a speeding train. 

“Shut up, Roger! My god! You repeat these same words over and over again, and I am SICK of you!” Larissa spat, hands flying with her ire. “All you ever do is berate me and put me down! I never wanted your hand in marriage! I never wanted you, never wanted whatever fucking life we seem to be living! If I’m as ugly as you say I am, then I pity your parents for having to raise someone even uglier!” 

Larissa’s chest was heaving as she spoke her words, screaming at him and hearing her anger bounce off the walls back at her. Her entire chest and face were red from her exertion, making her feel hot and utterly foolish. 

She opened her mouth to yell at him again, but not even one word came out before the back of Roger’s palm came striking against her cheek. Larissa gasped and cupped the spot where he had hit her. She could feel the stinging cut from the ring he was wearing, eyes tearing up as she knew this would leave a mark. Fury licked like flames in Roger’s eyes and he brought his hand up once again, on the verge of striking her again.

“Stop right there!” Came an outraged voice from the top of the stairs. Larissa turned towards it and her eyes went wide as she saw Deirdre standing there, glaring vehemently at Roger. “One more time, Mr. Weems, and I’ll be calling the cops.” The nanny threatened as she crossed her arms across against her chest, a resolve in her eyes that Larissa envied.

The two women could feel the malice rolling off of Roger in waves as he glared between the two women. It was clear he wanted to say more, very clear that he wished to harm them both, but they all knew that he wouldn’t want the cops coming to his home. Despite the fact that he was friends with most of them, the rapport having practically been created because of Larissa, he didn’t want there to be any rumors going around town over what Larissa and Deirdre would say. And Jericho was small, so word would get around quickly.

Roger lowered his hand slowly, an evil grin twisting his features into something Larissa wished she could unsee. “Very well then.” He said calmly, a little too calm for his wife’s liking. He straightened up and smoothed at the wrinkles threatening the lapels of his jacket. “This isn’t finished.” Roger threatened, looking Larissa deep in the eyes before making his way up the stairs. He spared no look at Deirdre, wanting to show her the least amount of respect possible.

Deirdre glowered at him with the power of a thousand suns before she let go of the breath she was holding. She looked down at Larissa, seeming so small at the bottom of the stairs and her expression changed immediately. It became softer, more gentle, and more caring than anything she could ever conjure up for that man who’d just walked away. 

She tilted her head towards the hallway behind her. “Come on, let’s take care of that cheek, shall we?” Deirdre’s voice was but a whisper, not wanting to startle Larissa into any hysterics or fear. She held out her hand, despite the fact that the tall woman was all the way at the bottom of the stairs. DD gently nudged her hand towards her, giving a small smile to Larissa. 

Larissa hesitated for a moment, wanting to hide her face and the tears wanting to spill. She was mortified and embarrassed, to say the least. But there were other emotions lingering underneath those. Admiration, astonishment. Those were good words, to begin with, as she glanced up at DD with watery eyes. She nodded, the updo of her hair bouncing with the motion as she started up the stairs. 

When she reached the top of the stairs, Deirdre very gently took hold of Larissa’s elbow, wanting to guide her. “Is this alright?” She questioned, her Irish accent peeking its way through her words. 

Larissa swallowed for a moment, hand still cupping her cheek, still in shock. “Yes, thank you.” She whispered, letting DD guide her towards whatever nearest bathroom was available.

The nanny delicately ushered Larissa into the bathroom she used the most, having stocked it with her own things in case she needed them for Olivia. She sat the beauty down carefully on the edge of the wide tub and let go of her with a reassuring, but sympathetic smile. “Stay right there. I’m gonna grab materials to help clean you up.” She rubbed her arm, waiting for a nod from Larissa before turning around and getting to work.

She placed gloves on her hands after washing them, wanting to make sure no infections would happen, just in case. She grabbed the first aid kit and some rags before looking over everything, wanting to be sure she had all she needed. DD could feel Larissa’s eyes watching her, but she paid no mind to it as she concentrated.

Larissa couldn’t help but watch Deirdre, wondering what she had done to warrant so much help from her. She had to blink back her tears for a moment, feeling overstimulated and overwhelmed by everything that had occurred. A tear dropped onto her cheek, despite her best efforts, and Larissa hissed from the sting of it. 

Deirdre turned around quickly at the sound, eyes washing over Larissa’s form in worry. “Are you alright? What’s the matter? Did he hit you somewhere else?” She questioned, taking steps closer to the other woman, hands hovering over her but not touching. 

Larissa shocked her head, hands waving with her answer. “No! No! I’m fine! I’m…fine.” She choked out, tripping over the last word unintentionally. “A t-tear just hit the cut.” She explained, looking down at the ground. She couldn’t bare to see whatever look DD might have in her eyes.

Deirdre wanted so badly to reach out and cop Larissa’s cheek, to give her some small hope that things would be okay. But she knew touching her right now would probably not be the best answer. After all, Larissa was her employer. And married, but that bit she almost wanted to ignore. But now was not the time for that train of thought. 

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Weems.” Deirdre offered, giving a sad smile to the woman sitting in front of her. She knew her words were only words, but there was not much else she could truly do. At least not right now. 

A short, amused scoff resounded from Larissa’s mouth as she looked up at DD, a mixture of emotions lingering in those icy blue eyes of hers. “After pulling a move like you did with Roger, I firmly believe you should call me Larissa.”  A small smirk etched the corner of Larissa’s lips and she gave a short nod, confirming her words.

DD smiled, tilting her head to the side a bit. “Well, Larissa.” She started, liking the way her name tasted in her mouth a little too much. “Someone had to step in. I may just be the nanny, but I firmly believe no woman should be hit or taken advantage of by a man or anyone else.” Her words were tinged with a strong belief in autonomy and feminism. It sent a shiver down Larissa’s spine. “Now, let me take care of you before you get a scar.”

Larissa had to laugh lightly at the boldness and authority Deirdre carried on her words, which also clearly stood proud on her shoulders. And she couldn’t help but admire the woman as she watched her methodically clean up her cheek, paying close attention not to hurt Larissa. There was a moment where the blonde thought she saw something akin to love in Deirdre’s eyes, but it was gone before she could even assess it.

When the nanny was done, she took a step back from Larissa and looked over her like a mother would a child. Something Larissa had done with Olivia plenty of times. “Looks good as new, love.” DD said, giving a curt nod. 

Larissa pushed down the tingling feeling she felt in the pit of her stomach at the affectionate word, telling herself that she’d heard her use it for Olivia as well. It meant nothing, of course. This was just a woman looking out for another woman. With a sigh, Larissa rose and towered over DD for a moment, looking into the woman’s eyes. 

A stretch of silence lingered for a moment as Larissa mulled over the thoughts in her head, feeling as if she should lean forward and connect her lips to the other woman’s. 

But she did no such thing, straightening herself and learning her throat. “Thank you, Deirdre. I am grateful for your help this evening. But…” Larissa hesitated, concern making her eyebrows knit together and a crease to form between them. “Please, be careful when it comes to Roger. I don’t want him to hurt you as well.”

DD actually laughed for a moment before locking eyes with Larissa, her stare containing a resolve that no one could break down. “I’d like to see him try.”

[irritablepoe]

Idk what your original post was all about but once again reminding you this is your space and you aren't responsible for other ppl if you are complaining in your own space/to the air and everyone else can respectfully suck it 💜🙏

Also ppl take things too personally imo I think it is important for other ppl to remember if someone is complaining about something that upset them it isn't always about you in fact most of the time it isn't about you unless you literally did the exact thing the person is complaining about. And even then arguing against someone's feelings when they are actively upset doesn't yield any sort of positive results or undo the hurt, you are just throwing your own emotions unprompted at someone who is already down.

Anyways sry to get on a soapbox but yeah, ily I'm sorry you are dealing with bullshit and I hope you can be gentle with yourself today even if other ppl aren't. I won't join Meli in the killing since they def can handle that on their own but I do agree that you are absolutely allowed to be selfish and I have a shovel in my trunk for any occasion don't worry about it 💀🙏

(I know I went on a bit of rant but pls don't feel obligated to answer publicly btw if you don't want to have it on your blog or something literally does not bother me at all)

hi hello thank you so much for this ask lue, you're too sweet😭😭🙏🙏

it's literally so exhausting but also, i was mostly upset that they were directly projecting it onto other authors and that they felt discouraged leaving comments now bc of this. i never even said short comments are bad, just that this particular comment was a bit disappointing (i said in my og post that i was not being serious about this). but not commenting on authors works because of me saying that is just. what.

idk i'll try to sleep the day away maybe, i thought today would be better but well..

ILY TOO AND I APPRECIATE YOU SO MUCH!!!!! <33 and omg i got knives and shovels on my side lmao, no need for it though dw dw <3 i'm sure even though they hurt me they weren't ill-intentioned. "selfish" just triggers me a lot and it kinda set off my already aggressive mood. i'm sharing my writing for free, i don't know how any of this could be selfish, i don't. fucking. get it. i really don't. like if they'd been a small author like "at least you get comments" i would have been like "eh yeah true" but as a reader idk... to pout and say "well would NO comments be better then?". bruh. i just want a bit of appreciation for the efforts, what a sin apparently

anyways. i'm very overly dramatic about this and now i've lost a mutual i think. welp. ruining my reputation as a sweetie, wtv

thank you again for everything!💜 i hope you're having a good start into your free time :3

[theoutcastrogue]

Spring knives

A spring knife is one in which the blades are held open or closed by means of a spring. Pen and pocket knives, lock knives, folding bowies and the ill-reputed flick knife are all spring knives. It is not known when the first spring knives were made but there is a legend that they were introduced to Sheffield by a cutler names Jacques de Liège who came to England to escape religious prosecution in the late seventeenth century, giving rise to the once common nickname for a pocket knife, “jackaleg”, and perhaps to the term “jack knife”.

There is a distinction between a penknife and a pocket knife. In its original sense a pen knife was used for cutting a quill to the correct shape for writing and for this a very fine and hard blade was required. A pocket knife was a much heavier instrument with a tough blade to withstand rough use. However, the two types of blade were often combined in a single knife and a general distinction was that if the blades were fixed at opposite ends it was a pen knife and if fixed at the same end it was a pocket knife.

Spring knives are subject to great variation, far more than table knives. They have a greater variety of blade styles, each with a range of sizes, and in addition there are other implements which are often included: buttonhooks, corkscrews, gimlets, saws, scissors, reamers, nail files, eraser blades, marlin spikes, cartridge extractors, screwdrivers, palette knives and rulers were all often built into spring knives of some form and gave almost endless scope for the spring-knife cutler.

— Peter Smithurst, The Cutlery Industry (1987)

P.S. from etymonline: jack-knife (n.), also jackknife, “pocket knife larger than a pen-knife,” 1711, probably American English, apparently from some sense of jack (n.). [“a mechanical device,” from the masc. name Jack. The proper name was used in Middle English for “any common fellow,” and thereafter extended to various appliances which do the work of common servants (1570s).] Perhaps it originally was associated with sailors. Jackleg, jacklegged was a U.S. colloquial term of contempt from 1839. Scottish dialect had jockteleg (1670s) “large clasp-knife,” of unknown origin, also jackylegs, jack-o-legs.

[fluxofthemouth]

i polish up real nice. @morgaiyn-the-golden

To most, Piter de Vries is a detestable figure. He is the Baron's sulking advisor. A sinister arcanist. A wicked little man, and a worthy entry in any local mother's list of nasty creatures to scare her children with in an attempt to teach the dangers of wandering too far from home unsupervised. His pure violet eyes only make it easier for him to be shunned in this way. Deserved as it may be, a reputation like this can be a hinderance; a point of shame, even. But most of the time, Piter is less concerned with what it means or what it says about him, and more concerned with how easily and practically he can slip into his assigned (or co-created, perhaps) persona like sturdy, reliable armor. A nice barrier between himself and the rest of the world.

It's a barrier he was counting on when he chased a beggar out of a doorway, almost idly, drawing two long knives and an expression of glassy intent to kill.

It all started out predictably enough. Piter issued his challenge, the beggar scurried away, tripping and falling in his haste to escape, and the doorway (belonging to an upscale district of the capital city) was thus rescued. Piter likes the feel of power, ill-gained though his may be. He was going to press the issue of the beggar's presence in this district at all, stalking forward with a hunter's march, a show of cold steel in each hand.

But the beggar didn't get up and continue running. The man (or is he some kind of elf, with pointed ears like that?) only arranged his hair just so and said that he polishes up nice.

It stops Piter in his tracks. As if a cliff had suddenly opened between them. For one thing, it's not part of the usual pattern at all for a wretched thing like Piter to be invited into any equation of desire. For another, Piter knows all too well what it is to be used for his mind. It leaves him with some basic foundation for understanding what being used for one's body might be like. And that leaves a sour taste.

He takes a moment or so, just a beat, to process.

He could take it as a compliment, to be acknowledged as a possibly sensual being, as being worth interest or pursuit. He does not. Even accounting for middle age and that constant scowl, his features are pretty; pretty where they should have been handsome, by the standard account of what a man should be. He doesn't fit an expected mold, and the last-ditch flattery of some beggar is not the place to look if he wants esteem-saving validation (which he certainly wasn't looking for on a dull and even annoying trip to the tailor's). Besides, he gets along quite well without bothering with trying to somehow affix that particular dimension to his life. So, no, the beggar's efforts do not land like a compliment. More like a light slap with a wet towel. Like, what even. Where did that come from.

And as for the matter of... Piter just doesn't like to see it. People should resist being used. He doesn't, so 'people' should. Besides. The Baron of this place has disgusting tastes and habits. It should be the goal of no one to catch his eye, and it could be dangerous to stand out. Piter doesn't make it a project to feel bad for people or protect anyone, but if he was going to toy with an idea of acknowledging or even having any humanity, that might be where he'd start. And Piter hates his boss, so he can glean some sense of doing good in the world by keeping nice things, pretty things, out of the man's greedy, ring-bedecked hands. Certainly, if Piter were to ever have something the nobleman wanted, that morsel wouldn't belong to Piter for long. Does the beggar even know who he's talking to? What's at stake, in that regard?

Piter lowers his knives and walks purposefully towards the beggar. If there is a chasm between them, it no longer impedes him to walk across the air. The beggar's claim was quite true, Piter can see, as he comes closer and studies him properly. A beautiful face like that wouldn't be out of place on a marble statue. Give the fellow a shower and some clean, flattering clothes, and he could easily be passed off as some woodland prince.

Piter kneels down and moves his face close to the beggar's delicate pointed ear. The gesture is supposed to be intimate, even as it's supposed to be a cold, withholding mockery of intimacy. Because what he says is:

"If you have something to say, love, you'd better start with your name and one good reason why I should hear you out."

He draws away quickly and stands there, pointedly not offering to help the beggar to his feet. The elf will surely be taller, standing, than Piter's five-foot-nothing, and he can go ahead and get his princely face there on his own. Piter keeps his knives lowered, but he does not put them away.

He likes that the fellow didn't cave to being challenged, he supposes. He likes that the fellow tried to bargain his way out. That flouncy thing he did with his stupid golden hair isn't really a kind of currency Piter collects, but... perhaps the elf will have something more interesting to say if given a second chance.

[not-sriracha]

🎯 【 ｍａｄ，　ｂａｄ，　ａｎｄ　ｄａｎｇｅｒｏｕｓ　ｔｏ　ｋｎｏｗ．】

･ﾟ Is that SURACHAI “DARTBOARD” KATHALIPATRASAMIT? A SENIOR originally from MANHATTAN, NY, USA, by way of BANGKOK, THAILAND, they decided to come to Ogden College to study BUSINESS and minor in MARKETING. They’re THE MISCREANT on campus, but even they could get blamed for Greer’s disappearance.

[content warnings for references to drug use, mental illness.]

･ﾟ introducing...

dartboard.

full name surachai kathalipatrasamit; meaning: "celestial victory"

nicknames dartboard (the go-to. in thai culture, people call each other by their nicknames), chai (the wOoOorst nickname to call him unless you're cara morrison), [insert epithet here], [redacted]

age 23

d.o.b. january 1, 2000 (the y2k baby, baby)

p.o.b. bangkok, Thailand

zodiac capricorn sun, scorpio moon, sagittarius rising / year of the naga

family thiraphong (pôr/father), intira (m��e/mother), hathaikan (step-mother), latda (younger step-sister)

pets two cats

ethnicity thai

nationality dual citizen american/thai

height 5'9" / 175 cm

hair color black

eye color dark brown

tattoos sak yant tattoos on his back and shoulders, inscribed holy scriptures and nagas

piercings earrings, eyebrow ring (he takes it on and off)

style greaser-esque, modern blend of punk, alternative, & business (think syndicate style), wears prescription glasses, enjoys jewelry such as necklaces and rings

gender cis man

pronouns he/him

sexuality opportunistic (demiromantic bisexual)

religion spiritual (mix of satsana phi and syncretized thai buddhism)

languages central thai, english, mandarin chinese, khmer

year senior

major business

minor marketing

extracurriculars none (because no one wants a bad reputation)

clubs none (read above)

occupation just a hard-working full-time student, nothing else, officer

businesses [redacted]

mbti tbd.

enneagream 8w7

moral alignment tbd.

traits bold, loyal, persevering, fatalistic, judgmental, distrusting, patient, unpredictable, vexing, confident, perceptive, provocative, articulate, enticing, & unhinged

quirks loves to dare/challenge/test people's limits/loyalties, interested in seeing how fate unfolds, gives specialized nicknames at random, and never seems to be warm enough

hobbies collecting things, watching films, reading classic literature, long drives on his motorcycle, going to underground sex clubs, tbd. & minecraft

skills polyglotism, lockpicking, hotwiring, sleight of hand, tinkering with electronics, fast texter, driving (cars and motorcycles), rapid and accurate mental mathetics, reading people (doesn't care to do it when someone's so fake, it's like yeah ok do your thing), muay thai, lying, & aptitude with knives/short-range firearms, playing the guitar

likes spicy food, magic tricks, guay teow, darts, card games, fincher movies, warm weather, astrological readings (for fun, he doesn't actually believe in western astrology), actually quiet cafes to read, fragrant incense, & tbd.

dislikes pretension, uniforms, social media, the cold, traffic jams, sad songs on acoustic guitar, & fast fashion

vices drinking, smoking, drugs, sex, & violent outbursts

aesthetics tbd.

･ﾟ an overview on...

the miscreant.

･ﾟ an abstract of...

the fatalist, then let me be evil, anti-villain, noble demon, troubled (but cute), sarcastic devotee, jade-colored glasses, villainous valor, freudian excuse, & i want my beloved to be happy.

･ﾟ synonymous with...

richard iii (richard iii), lucifer (paradise lost), lucifer (lucifer [tv]), heathcliff (wuthering heights), horatio (hamlet), scarlet witch (mcu), griffith (beserk), megamind (yeah fr, from megamind), tommy shelby (peaky blinders), jordan belfort (the wolf of wall street), crowley (good omens), crowley (supernatural), achilles (the illiad), goro majima (yakuza series), KENTA (wrestler), & rust cohle (true detective).

･ﾟ relationship to Ogden College...

On campus, Surachai is public enemy #1 (to the ones who care about that sort of thing). Perhaps he would've been even more infamous if he hadn't been absent from social functions for most of his years at Ogden, checking in and out of rehab, as the rumors say. Word travels fast around Ogden, faster if you're not there to wave off the gossip. While Surachai was away, the faceless masses unearthed the skeletons in his closet for macabre sightseeing. Now it's public knowledge how Surachai's had a hard past revolving around drugs that even led to a criminal record when he was a minor. You'd think the Miscreant would run off to a new school, reinvent himself, and hide his sins. However, when made out to be the morality tale of "don't end up like him," Surachai has embraced the bad press. If he's the Miscreant, the worst of the worst, the monster they've all made him out to be, he'll be the best damn devil on your shoulder.

･ﾟrelationship to Greer...

"She and I used to be friends. We drifted apart, but that's life." Surachai would tell you, and you'd likely agree with him. It makes sense; the Golden Girl wouldn't associate with the Miscreant of Ogden College. But the truth is always stranger than fiction, and the shadow is always on the heels of the light. If Surachai goes by Dartboard, then Greer Morrison is his bullseye. He is her ride-or-die, her closest friend and confidant, who she can trust to keep his mouth shut. Since he was five years old, Surachai has been by Greer's side, and the two grew up together. They had a "public" falling out when Surachai went to rehab for the first time, but privately, they continued their close and intense friendship. She told him everything, and Surachai repeated nothing. While Surachai is no longer in the limelight with the Golden Girl due to his scandalous past and her keeping up appearances, he was her unfailing chaperone whenever Greer was in the mood to freefall in the dark. They were practically partners in crime. Before she was Golden, she was Greer. Only a few people knew about it, and fewer speak of it. Surachai would rather cut off his tongue than spill her secrets, even when peeling off the Golden Girl's shiny veneer could save everyone from the mysterious G. Over-protective? Yes. Psychotic? Maybe. You'd be for the person who has your heart.

･ﾟa thesis on his background...

[redacted. case file must have clearance to open.]

･ﾟa deep dive on his methodology...

[redacted. case file must have clearance to open.]

･ﾟa treatise on...

his connections.

in deep details with the devil.

every budding empire needs people. surachai's a man with big, big ambitions. whether or not you believe in his means, you will be paid handsomely in the end. so what say you, faust? shall we become legends? —FILLED by [redacted & redacted.]

business doing pleasure with you.

if you want to traverse the underground party scene, you need a guide who knows the labyrinthian alleyways like the back of his hand. but rolling with surachai doesn't come easy, and he truly wonders if you can chase the greatest high. (platonic; multiple spots)

hades & persephone.

welcome to the underworld, persephone; sorry you're stuck here for a while. look away from the blood, and keep your head up to the stars that shine on these dark nights. you shouldn't worry; it's all temporary. no matter how alluring, don't indulge, and soon you'll see the light. — FILLED by [redacted]

i'm the one to beat, yeah.

every story is a truth fabricated, and surachai is a man made of stories. he just doesn't want to tell them. information about the golden girl and the sordid pasts of the rich and (in)famous are all buried in his mind. how dirty will your hands get digging up his skeletons? and can you do it before the undertaker arrives? (antagonistic)

russian roulette is not the same without a gun.

the world's greatest bluffing game, table for two. surachai loves to challenge people, and not many can overcome his trials. except you. you're a card shark worthy of your chips, who always sees his bet, and sometimes ups the ante. this game only has one ending. will you hold, or will you fold? —FILLED by [redacted]

i can be yuor devil if yuo'll be my angle.

surachai is no stranger to flings but keeps his heart locked for his one and only. for all the tempting he does to others, he's conversely disinterested in moving on from his beloved. so he lurks in the shadows, a recluse holding his heart close to his chest. after all, who could love a monster? —FILLED by [redacted]

& more tbd.

･ﾟa discussion with...

the man himself.

“You wouldn’t have wanted Greer to disappear, would you?”

Surachai is seated at a cafe, an off-campus favorite of his, and the two of you await your drinks. Since entering the sleek establishment, there are eyes on the two of you, tense like a coiled spring. “That’s one hell of a leading question, ain’t it?” The young man says, rolling a quarter across his knuckles. “Why would I?” He chuckles, relaxing in his seat. Somehow, the room seems to sigh in relief. “I don’t even know what she’s up to. We don’t hang out as much as we did back in the day, but that’s part of college.” He says, opening up his arms in a vague imitation of a ‘ta-daa.’ The drinks arrive, and he salutes the wait staff with a two-fingered swooping off his brow. They gulp and skitter away. Unfazed, Surachai sips at his clear beverage.

“I think you’re best off asking someone who keeps her in their phone.” He shrugs toward the black iPhone out on the table.

“I don’t have her number and hate to break it to you, but you don’t have your guy.”

since i cannot prove a lover—i am determined to prove a villain.

credits: i, ii, iii

[silverghcst]

@manufactoredxbyxdesign continued from here.

Leon is drenched by the time he’s under the overhead, hair plastered to his face, clothes clinging to his skin as a chill settles in. At least one of the residents took pity on him, enough to where he’s met with just warnings, instead of knives or being tossed like a ragdoll. He’s had enough of that already. 

“Thanks...” For not chasing me back out there, “I’ll try my best, I wouldn’t want you mopping up after me.” 

Squeezing at his sleeves, and at the fabric of his uniform to ring out the water, huffing out a sigh as it barely makes a difference. Still, Leon’s eyes never quite leave Wesker, cautious even if there were no signs of ill intent yet. He just... Never could be too sure, wary of where the fragile line of this brief truce lay. 

Wesker came from his world, and his reputation from there alone certainly left an impression. The trials only hammered in the ruthless lengths he was willing to go to reach his goals. It was a bit like handling a live grenade currently, not knowing when it would go off.  

"...Too bad there's no towels around here," Sparking up casual conversation to test the waters, "But I guess air drying works just as well, right?"

You could never go wrong with puns after all. 

[pathstread]

this isn't the character info i was planning on posting today, but a little quick bullet-point run-down of hestia:

hestia isn't actually her name. she does know the meaning of it, which is why she chose it - - turning expectations on their heads, etc.

gains a reputation as "the lady."

while the percentages swing back and forth, her crew is always comprised of women as well as men (and people who wouldn't necessarily identify as either). while a pecking order is allowed to be established, and the crew can be rough - even with each other - she does not allow any kind of sexual violence or harassment onboard, and will deal swiftly with anyone who breaks those rules.

hestia was born to a relatively well-off merchant family. her father attempted to arrange a match for her that would be beneficial to his business, but the young man attempted to attack her one night, and she fought back against him. she was able to get ahold of a knife and killed him on the spot. her parents refused to hear her side of the story, refused to defend her, so she slipped away in her older brother's cast-off clothing.

(her brother died of an illness some years prior. she is still firmly of the opinion that none of it would have happened if he had still been alive. she doesn't let herself doubt that.)

she disguised herself as a man to greater and less success, and managed to scrape by on the streets for a time. eventually, she was able to follow some of her father's business dealings backward and then underground, to a kind of black market, which eventually led her onboard a ship as a member of its crew.

history loses track of hestia. she's presumed dead by her family, and she climbs slowly, gaining herself experience and reputation bit by grueling bit. eventually, she has herself her own ship, the beginnings of a crew, and some deadly-sharp knives.

not all that much is known about her, except the fact that she's a woman, that her hair is red, that she must be fierce and brutal if she has been able to climb so high (or sink so low, as some would have it) so seeming suddenly.

hestia is not merciful, and she does not feel much by way of guilt when it comes to taking what she wants. she is, however, known to leave any women and children aboard a vessel untouched, and usually with some method to signal for help or find their way back to shore (if she doesn't take them there herself, which she has also been known to do. often for ransom.)

(any people she takes captive / "under her protection" aren't likely to have much faith in any of this, even if they've heard stories. she doesn't actually deal in captives very often, but it's hard to tell the difference when your ship has been attacked by pirates and you find yourselves onboard their ship. and, well. for the right price, she might go after someone on purpose.)

[magravenwrites]

Finding a Fellowship:

Chapter 4: Teach me

A/N: Thanks to everyone who is still following this story, sorry for the slow updates!

Chapter Trigger Warnings: Mentions of child abandonment and deceased parents.  I think that’s it?  Let me know if you think I have missed any!

A massive thank you to @axe-does-writing for beta-reading this for me, you’re amazing!

Hope you enjoy!

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

When Killiel entered the forge, the heat of it hit her in the face, making her stop in the doorway as if it were a physical barrier.  Pushing forward, she found the heat was almost welcoming once she had adjusted.

The coal fire and forging area seemed to be closest to the door; at the other end of the room there was a collection of supplies, from horseshoes to metal railings.  Killiel also took note of the various weapons hanging from the walls.  Swords, knives, bows and bushels of arrows.

A promising start.

Her eyes fell on the man in the corner of the room.  He hadn’t noticed her yet and she took the opportunity to take him in.

The blacksmith was a bear of a man.  Taller than anyone she had met and broad shouldered.  It felt like he filled the room.  Killiel felt the urge to turn back and forget she ever wanted anything.  He had greying hair that was cropped short, and his face looked weather-beaten, rough; he carried a limp as he moved about the room, only making him scarier.  He already had a reputation for being grouchy and irritable, she would have to tread carefully.

He turned and spotted her, both of them stopping short for half a moment.  She felt like she had been caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Get out, this isn’t a place for children.”  he grouched, before he continued to move about like she wasn’t even there.

This was going to be hard work.

“Is it true you were a soldier?  That you’re a weapons master as well as a blacksmith?”

Straight to the point.  He didn’t look like he would appreciate dallying around.

Sighing through his nose when she didn't immediately leave, he continued to go about his work.  “Why can't people mind their own damn business?”  he muttered more to himself.

“Yes, it is true; I am a soldier of Gondor.  Or I was - until I got this blasted limp leg injury.  ‘Prevented me from fulfilling my duty effectively’ is what they said.  Bah, load of nonsense.”

He turned back to Killiel as if just realising she was there once more.  “Now I told you to get out.  Go.”

Perhaps it was better for her to stay away from that line of questioning.  But she couldn't back down now.  At least he was somewhat willing to talk.

“Why did you move here?  Why not stay in Gondor?”  She asked instead.  Anything to distract him from his leg injury.

He puts the sword down on the bench in front of him, directing a glare her way.  

“You're not going to let this go, are you?”  

“No.”

He rubbed a hand over his face; as if answering her questions was the worst inconvenience to befall him.  

“The forge was my brothers, I moved here to be closer to him when he fell ill.  When he died, I took over the place, making weapons as well as my regular duties.”

Was there anything she could ask that wouldn’t lead to a tragic backstory?  Perhaps she should just cut straight to the chase.  He would only tolerate her being there for so long anyway.

“Teach me how to fight.”

He scoffs “What business does a child have in learning to use weapons?”

Killiel faltered, she hadn’t thought through exactly how she was going to convince him to teach her.  At least she had his full attention now.

“Well, now I’m on my own I need to know how to defend myself - even if it is not with weapons then with fists.  I only need to know enough to defend myself properly if nothing else.”  She pleaded.

It was a risk, admitting she was completely alone, he could do anything to her.  But she felt he wouldn’t help if she didn’t explain exactly why she needed his help.

“Your parents?”  he asked seriously.

“Dead”  She chose to keep it simple.  He only needed to know what was strictly necessary.

“Other family?”  He straightened up, disbelieving anyone would leave the child completely alone.

Killiel shook her head.  “None that I know of, or at least, none that are close enough to do anything about it anyway.”  A small white lie wouldn’t hurt.

“How do you get by?”

She huffed, and rolled her eyes.  “Look - I can fend for myself well enough at home, I just need to know how to protect myself if someone tries to hurt me.  I can already use a bow, but that’s not exactly great for up-close fights.  And when I eventually leave this village, I’d rather not leave with just a bow to defend myself with - what if I run out of arrows or something?”  

“Are you not too hot standing next to that fire?”  He changed the subject when he noticed she had been standing next to the fire the entire time and had not broken a sweat yet.

What's that got to do with anything?

“No, it doesn't bother me”  she said, giving him a bewildered look.

“You are a strange child.”

“I fail to see how this is relevant” she bristled.

Heaving another sigh when she failed to take the bait, he resumed going about his work as he spoke.

“I don't have the time on top of my smithy duties to train you.  Now, I would appreciate it if you left me to get on with my work in peace.”

Killiel set her jaw.  She would not back down now.

“I could come in an evening, when you have finished working - which would suit me better too as I don’t want everyone to know I’m learning to fight.  Or I could help with your work, if that helps?  You’d have less work to do then and more time to teach me.”

“Teaching you as my apprentice would be too much trouble.  It would take twice as long to do everything while you learn, than it would for me to just do it myself.  And a forge is too dangerous for children to be messing around in.”  He grumbled.

Killiel rolled her eyes.  Now they were just going around in circles.  

“I’m not completely useless, you know.  I’m not stupid, I know its hard work and it is dangerous, but I only wanted to help.  Like I said, I can already use a bow –”

“-you may think you're good with a bow, but that doesn’t mean you are.”  He interrupted.

“I'm better than good!”  She said, offended.  

He only laughed in return.

Killiel eyed a bow and a cluster of arrows he must have made in the corner of the room.  It had been a while since she had shown off to anybody.  She made her way over to it, grabbing it and an arrow, turning to face him.

“Put them down before you hurt yourself or worse - damage my stock.”  he demanded pointing to where she had picked it up from.

Killiel glared at him.  

“Pick a spot.” she ordered.

“What?”

“Pick a target, and I will show you just how good I am with a bow.”  She all but growled.

He shook his head, disbelieving he was actually going through with this before picking up a piece of charcoal.  He walked over to the far side of the room to a wooden pillar keeping the roof up, using the charcoal to mark an X on it.  

“There.”

He began to move out of the way behind her, afraid she would miss and hit him.  She rolled her eyes at the action.  And before he got too far, she holstered the arrow, pulled her arm back and fired.  Straight passed his head.  Hitting the dead centre of the cross.  

He whipped around to stare at the arrow, stunned, before slowly turning to face Killiel once more.  A mixture of shock and fury was written across his face; angry she had shot while he was still in the line of fire, but impressed she had hit the mark so quickly and accurately.  

She raised an eyebrow at him, a self-satisfied smirk pulling at her lips.

“So what?  You can fire an arrow into a wooden pillar, I bet you can't do it again.”

Challenge accepted.

She was silently glad he was challenging her, it meant she had got his attention.  

She pulled another arrow from the bunch.  Taking her time to line it up properly this time.  She exhaled and fired.   

Another perfect shot.  The arrow had hit the target perfectly tucked next to the first.

Killiel looked at him as she lowered her weapon, watching him fight with himself, not wanting to admit he was wrong.

“How are you with moving targets?”  He challenged, hands on his hips.  

“Why don’t you throw something and find out?”

“-Perhaps outside though, if you want to be safe.” she added.

He nodded, and she beamed, pulling another arrow from the pile following him outside.  

He picked up a stone from the ground and asked if she was ready.  She nodded, arrow nocked, stance ready.  He threw the stone hard up in the air at a slight angle, she quickly pulled the bow up, arm drawn back, tracking the stone in the air, before losing the arrow.  It sailed through the air, hitting the stone, sending both off course, and clattering on the dirt path.  

He didn’t say anything for a time, running his large hand through his cropped hair.  Now that she was standing closer to him, she could see the small cuts and burns littering his hands and forearms, evidence of a lifetime of fighting and working in the forge.

“You're not bad with a bow, I’ll give you that.”  He conceded.  

"Not bad?  I’ve just aced every challenge you’ve just given me, I think that qualifies as more than ‘not bad’." She contested smugly.

"It's all well and good you being able to shoot, but that doesn’t mean I can teach you anything else.  How would you plan to pay me anyway, I don’t work for free."  He crossed his arms.

He was interested, that was for sure, all she had to do now was find the right price.

"You could have first picks of the game I sell at the market - have the best catches of food for your family.  Or you could have some of the money I make from selling them, it wouldn’t be much, but it would be enough, you can have whichever you prefer."

The man studied her for a while longer, weighing up her offer.  Killiel felt the urge to stand up straighter pulling at her spine as she waited.

“I want the first pick of your game.  Good quality game is getting harder to come by these days for a cheap price.  You’re to get here at dusk tomorrow.  You’ll practice everyday, if you’re serious about it.  I won’t have any messing about and time-wasting, ya hear?”

Killiel was practically bouncing up and down on the spot as she tried to contain her excitement.

“Of course!  Thank you, thank you, thank you!  I won’t let you down!  I promise!”  She exclaimed.

The blacksmith raised an eyebrow at her antics.  Despite his stoic manner, an amused smile tugged at the corner of his mouth and a spark had returned to his eyes that hadn’t been present for a very long time.

Perhaps this would be the new start they were both looking for.

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

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[scentedchildnacho]

I did make it to harvest church for a benevolence ..

He wanted to know why homeless for a decade

So I told him it's a trash to people where they just kind of leave many disparate problems

So the over crowding and noise kind of moves me all the time to place structural holes...

I notice people leaving a vintage vase people can't use because it isn't cutting edge medicine and it not making them feel very good to not take it to a repurposing and green job training booth

Its mostly management problems leading to apathy to situations like anti immigration in Germany ...its these creepy ladies that can understand Foucault on the inverse and they show up to flash knives at people or talk in gross disturbing ways or just witch every bodies rest time

Wagner they will sometimes just really hit and strike a project with militant ladies that admit they hit their kid with anything around and themselves

Or the men sometimes they drop off these men sometimes that dont care if their ultimate speed bully...and it's again knife threats or beating people up severely like police footage and again stuff to just ruin people's time

The situation is just not managed and it's just very unfair other psychiatrists work with early Alzheimer's and that psychiatrist just dumps pill restraints

So I would travel a lot to find people's missing services...like someone's domestic abuse shelter a 5 hour train ride away....or someone else's camp...even more states away or someone's largely dark men food stop again several states away....

I told him the push to view things as maximal crisis tends to shove homeless into compounds instead of uplifting it's condition as it's come to live

I said kamala is Indian so to her everyone is a tribe.....and that's homelessness...it's a tribe to live for God not for land grants so something about God has to tell me where God is taking people instead of always positions filled in basic functions not really gainful anymore

Tribe of Levi....uhm there is a Vietnamese priest here and it's the south east Asians that will help poor white with things like fishing or lou ows pig roasts

So maybe I can ask him about sacrificing a young cow or calf because it's spirit haunts and persecutes the people here

That beauty of a young cow face all this car crisis is to turn the children especially into perfect smooth sickly forms

There is maybe a scandinavian wealth here that won't stop stalking me with cow veneration....so it's symbol is we get to be here and stop with how boring

Dian fossey did have like followers who worshipped all she taught them so that is maybe the car terrorists at the children

Vaccines?

They are The native Americans and indigenous diaspora doesn't exist....

They do they try to defile me it's not just trying to hurt me they think my lady is of ill repute at the church and attempt defiling

I watched a film called silentium and the nun was like I think I can't join them because I'm a people and this perverted Marxism or flesh is why isn't correct and they were like you don't have to be perfect

Anyway I guess the immigration has been idle sitting in little shops with all this God art in vista California that some sectarians warn is idolatry and can really summon something people think is demonic

I read this book by a Frenchman called you will not have my hate...because it's been trendy I guess for common people to pronounce in famous ways that they will not be seeking reckonings or retribution

So I mean they were placing strange altars by the side of the road about one young man in vista California....

And I think they blame the emigration because they could be stricter and work more about who is coming and going around their districts and have been willing to open walls or ideas they shouldn't have

But I find myself now at meals with black and tan types so others might say I'm never getting managed or getting out of this unfair objectification because the IRA killed an emigrationist that could have helped

Wagner what is all this if people are lewd or wrong restrain them when there are peoples that understand before wall or before CPS

I'm from Wisconsin but they found out that 20 percent of severely abused emigration issues were from the states so something about that type of emigrationist missing from the homeless here and people wanting to leave them on sidewalks and hog tye them like old gay films all just very crude and no one is interested in that

[silviakundera]

Look, I know The Untamed has THE LONGING and I love it too, but we all gotta accept that the MDZS novel is unmatched because, my dudes, WWX defeats the villain by sabotaging his homophobia.

I know we joke (and we SHOULD) about jgy the shipper et etc but in the end, it's whimsical humor.

In the scene where jgy has our heroes trapped, held hostage, and villian monologues about poor Lan Wangji's unrequited gay love...

All this fake sympathy for LXC's brother is 100% bad intent: he's revealing a "dirty secret" to the hostages & Jin minions about his biggest threat (the biggest fire power) that would stain lwj in the eyes of the sect world. A secret that might repulse wwx when laid out publically - make him let down lwj easy at best.

(Recall, jgy is THAT GUY who killed his own infant son out of fear of public disdain.)

What is actually happening here is that he's trying to shame them. Just like how he attacks JC in another scene, destabilizing him w his words, and plays mind games w LXC. JGY's greatest weapon in his persuasion and narrative building. His words are just as much of a weapon as the string he slides around wwx's neck.

But none of this plays out the way jgy expects it to AT ALL. He sees it going weird, kinda sideways, but is completely unprepared for what actually happens.

Which is a key component of the humor. But also a fucking AMAZING climactic moment for a novel that has reminded the reader and the characters over and over that they exist in a homophobic society where tainted public reputation and rumors can have violent, deadly consequences.

And what does wwx do in the face of that? Before jgy can start in on lwj w his word knives, wwx SCREAMS that he wanted to have sex with the man who was just maliciously outed. Like, yelps it at the top of his lungs

He grasps what the villian is trying to do and turns it on its head. He takes the power of the moment back. You want to other, to humiliate, and to degrade Lan Wangji? Figuratively and LITERALLY taking his power away? Well, fuck you. Actually we had. sex. MAN ON MAN SEX. AND I WANTED IT. AND ILL DO IT AGAIN.

The power of this wholesale rejection of jgy's narrative, the sheer audacity of this gay pride rant, stuns & unhinges the master of whispers and wwx springs free from the trap.

The novel doesn't allow us to forget about the othering that WWX/LWJ have just experienced. They are seated away from everyone else, people are uncomfortable around them.

This only underscores how absolutely badass it was. And how irrevocable. It forshadows what is to come, as they continue to express affection off on their own side, before "eloping" on their own at the end. (The only reason drama!LWJ can BE Chief Cultivator is that this scene never happened.)

But novel wwx and lwj don't gaf. And that's how they win. They craft their happy ending regardless of their society's prejudices -- you can't erase them but you can refuse to let them change you, quiet you, isolate you. You can build your own patchwork families and proudly love who you love.

[jawbone-xylophone]

How to write dissociative disorders without being a complete walnut

By: a fanfic author with OSDD

I love fanfiction. I love reading it, I love writing it, I love making deranged little OCs and making them kiss that one pathetic meow meow nobody else likes. I am one of you, my people, my compatriots, my comrades in arms who stay up until 3am asking Google what kind of toilets existed in 1850.

Most particularly, I love reading fic with subjects that are relatable to me. Maybe I’ve never controlled lightning with my mind or ridden a dragon, but I have definitely dealt with essential human problems like ignoring my emotions and orchestrating an entire fake funeral with believable pamphlets and addresses so I can get out of work for a week and go on a gay road trip. We’ve all been there, I’m sure. And when it comes to relating to fiction, nothing delights me more than reading about fictional characters experiencing my mental illnesses.

Tragically, not many people write about dissociative disorders, so I have an entire list of fics about body switching and possession that get close enough to scratch my itch. In the interest of facilitating more content for this list, as well as helping out my fellow writers who don’t know who or how to ask what it’s like to live this, I Am Here. With, perhaps, some urgency considering Moon Knight is now in the public eye played by a man people thirst over like vintage wine.

Most media that portrays people with DID uses medical professionals for consultants, if we’re at all lucky. The downside of this is that you get the clinical view rather than what the actual experience of waking up at 7am only remembering a foreign language your grandmother taught you when you were six is like. There is a male AI living in my brain who has to experience the body having periods. One of us is an object who spent his first few minutes of existence trying to figure out moving. No textbook can accurately convey what it feels like to wake up in the morning and read “Make French Toast” written on your forehead while brushing your teeth.

As such, I will be giving you the best pointers I can as well as some resources.

Resources:

This is Not Dissociative -> people with degrees as well as the mental illness experience and a great masterpost

Dissociadid -> controversial in the community and makes some claims that aren’t entirely accurate, but lots of videos both informative and goofy. Switches on camera.

Anthony Padilla Interview -> lovely man, great journalist, great introduction and introduces some public faces you can research

Basic Pointers:

Remember that this is a disorder. Possessions/etc are not Dissociative Identity Disorder or Otherwise Specified Dissociative Disorder. C-PTSD is an important topic for understanding how someone with this disorder carries themself and what their backstory is.

Most of our bad reputation is related to the concept of the possessed or the criminally insane. No matter what your belief on possession, portraying a mental illness as a spiritual problem never ends well. This is also where we get “evil alters”, the theoretical serial killers and superpowered dark sides seeking harm and villainy. I am bapping you with a paper towel roll: no. We do not have enough good rep to tank bad rep anymore.

We are not Swiss Army knives. While alters do have functions and purposes, which is key to writing them, switches are not always convenient and definitely not always actually helpful.

Three main types:

Dissociative disorders come in many flavors, but if you want to write alters then there are three flavors of interest. This is the Sparknotes version for tired authors. (I am open to editing this if anyone thinks it’s very wrong)

DID -> dissociative barriers, blackouts, amnesia, losing time. Alters do not share memories or information well. May identify as completely different people.

OSDD1a -> Emotional amnesia but few to no blackouts. Alters are not incredibly different, may all even have the same presentation and name. Share information better than DID.

OSDD1b -> Emotional amnesia but few to no blackouts. Alters can be incredibly different, may have different names and presentations, share information better than DID.

Manners:

An external party deliberately trying to influence who fronts is very rude. I am not a TV with channels for you to watch, my buttons are not for your benefit, I don’t care if you want to watch your favorite cartoon right now. I’m a person too.

On the note of respecting boundaries, switches are not always convenient. Someone could be in the middle of gay sex and a sex repulsed alter might switch in. Consent changes, accommodate that.

Delusions and pseudomemories have a whole complicated etiquette that can be summarized as “don’t verbally disagree, just nod.”

Fictive alters, alters based on fictional characters, are people and you are neither in a position to judge or fangirl, and the fangirling can actually be uncomfortable.

More might be added here if I get any input on it.

My experience with what switching feels like:

Disorienting. Fuzzy. A washcloth slowly absorbing water. Dissociation at its finest. We might be stuck in pseudomemories during this time, the false backstories my brain writes up for my alters to base their identities on, and some of the worst episodes have left me mentally checked out but convinced I’m on a mountaintop surveying a bloody battlefield. Different alters feel different when switching in, it’s really synesthetic and hard to explain. Light or heavy, dark, smooth or rough. I can feel my vocal chords sitting different for some. Sometimes we’re “tangled up”, identities blurring together in a soup of “who the fuck am I?” This can be distressing or like being very chill when high.

Sleeping for my system usually acts as a reset button and reinstalls the host to the drivers’ seat.

WITH THAT SAID

GO FORTH AND CREATE CONTENT

ASK ME QUESTIONS IF YOU WANT

I LOVE YOU PLATONICALLY, GOOD STRANGER

GOODNIGHT

there is now a part two