#[ headcanon. ]

[foulwitchknight]

Eddie leaves his rings as courting gifts for Steve thinking he’ll pick up his intentions. However Steve keeps giving back the rings he finds. It happens one too many times that Eddie falls into rejection sickness very close to his rut. Steve visits him worried and ends up helping him through it. The next morning while Steve is cooking breakfast he finds the ring that Eddie was going to use to ask him to officially court. He tears up when he realizes it’s engraved with ‘My omega’. He immediately goes to wake up Eddie calls him a dingus and tells him how he’s been waiting forever to be his.

[recitedemise]

𝗠𝗮𝗻𝘆 𝗼𝗳 𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲'𝘀 𝘃𝘂𝗹𝗻𝗲𝗿𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝗲𝘀 𝘄𝗲𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗴𝗴𝗿𝗮𝘃𝗮𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗱𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗹𝗼𝗽 𝗶𝗻𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀, 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗠𝘆𝘀𝘁𝗿𝗮 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝘀 𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘁𝗹𝗲 𝗰𝘂𝗹𝗽𝗮𝗯𝗶𝗹𝗶𝘁𝘆 𝗳𝗼𝗿. This lengthy headcanon will refer to canon dialogue from mostly Gale, sometimes others. Reader's discretion is advised. There will be in depth explorations into grooming, emotional abuse, heavy manipulation, and suicide.

First, let it be said that Gale, a mortal man, will always be the powerless one in his dynamic with Mystra. Of course, nearing forty years of age, he remains entirely responsible for his own actions, his own blunders and every hurt he'll cause, but it's important to remember who formed much of who he is: his goddess, his deity, and egregiously, his lover.

Mystra is power. Mystra is possibility. She knows what sway she holds over her Ioyal, vulnerable, and entirely mortal followers. In all ways that matter, they are but lambs she can steer and herd as she sees fit. She knows they can't deny her and knows they'll never want to. Gale's sheer servitude and complete devotion. Mystra, knowing that, used him to filth.

Gale: I was just... practising an incantation. Player Character: No, there's more to it than that. I know devotion when I see it. Gale: What can I say? She's—she's Mystra. I can't describe it, the need I sometimes feel to see her - to draw the filaments of fantasy into existence... Mystra is all magic. And as far as I'm concerned, she is all creation. Player Character: I didn't realize the depth of your devotion. Gale: Magic is... my life. I've been touched with the Weave for as long as I can remember. There's nothing like it.

Gale, orb in his chest, doomed to be eaten by the very thing he loves the most, still speaks so reverently of the goddess, of his lover that has left him to die. He conjures images of her memory—and she is all the while forgetting about his.

Minsc: Gale reminds me of vremyonni of my homeland. The man-mages of Rasheman. While the girl-folk go on to rule as wychlaran, Weave-touched boys were hidden away. Trained to work their craft in silence and secrecy. It is an old custom, not well-observed. In truth, I thought it born of caution after some catastrophe of wizardly men-folk of old. Now, I wonder if it was not done to hide them from Mystra, and the snares she sets for young and prideful boys, hm?

Tales of Mystra's treachery spreads far, leaving those familiar waters surrounding Gale's tower in Waterdeep. They whisper her name, afraid to utter it one time too many, suspecting, perhaps, that she'll show in their mirror like some Faerûnian Bloody Mary.

Talent rouses Mystra. She can see who uses the gift of the Weave and feel them, sampling whatever delight sings their veins as they pull from her domain. Not unlike a spider, she'll follows every tremor that strikes her as just a sliver more profound; and Gale, a prodigy, plucked the Weave's web to so garner her focus. And like some black widow scurrying, she surged down that ripple to prey on a boy. There, Gale, so impressionable, was just a mite older than twelve whole summers. He sat so stunned, beholding Mystra as she lured him into the cradle of her Astral domain. Bathed in her magic, pleasantly coddled within that glittering cosmos, Gale felt blessed in a way he'll struggle always to recount, no word, no language, fit to describe it. He felt chosen. He felt seen. And potently, to a child, he felt loved. Now, imagine a child experiencing something like that. Imagine what they'd think, how brilliant they must be when stood beside the rest. She told him he was gifted, made his heart swell not unlike a child's appetite for praise. She knew what she was doing by offering these morsels, by preying on a child's most delicate mind, and Gale, child prodigy, was already so awash in the idea that his value was in magic. Unfortunately, Gale, susceptible, had no way of squirming out of his goddess' grasp.

Reality: She's laid down the seeds to creep into his heart. When he's just old enough—seventeen's sufficient, she thinks—she stakes her claim and makes him hers.

Gale: My virtuosic talent once caught the eye of the goddess of magic herself, Mystra, who named me her chosen and her lover.

Gale is stunned when she takes him to bed the first time. (Is this really happening?) Mystra claims his mouth in a kiss, taking everything she knows he offers so willingly. Mystra, of course, is not so stunned.

Dream Visitor: An elder brain... one of the cruelest and most powerful creatures in existence, enslaved by mere mortals. Gale, tasked with Mystra's missive to sacrifice himself: This is it... I must do as Mystra commands.

Gale has worryingly low self-esteem beyond his magic. As already explored, his entire worth as a man hinged on and was built entirely off his talent as a wizard. He fought tooth and nail for any crumb of affection Mystra would offer his way, something she only gave him at all seeing his gift as a child. He wants her forgiveness. He desires it genuinely. He believes so firmly that he has wronged his goddess, buying into the idea that sacrificing himself will right his wrong. She holds such dominion over him, making him reduce his confidence in himself into a mere, trifling pittance; after all, she wasn't just his lover, but the patron deity he prays to. And regardless, Gale is a people pleaser, his initial acceptance of her missive coming as no surprise.

After all, Gale, at times, goes to incredible lengths to appease his audience. This habit, compulsion, impulse, whatever you want to call it, is a quality that was relentlessly exacerbated in his relationship with his immortal paramour. He wanted to content her, felt all he did was never enough, for as a matter of principle, he was oceans, leagues, and entire galaxies beneath her. Gale figures: well, how can a short-lived dalliance satisfy a god? He had to make her happy. Indeed, he'd done everything she'd ask. He'd bedded her how she liked, kissed her how she wanted, and of course, even said those words she'd said tasted best. She was his lover, a lover that never tended to his own needs and pleasures, and he fooled himself into thinking that's enough. He won't bend backwards for everyone, mind you, but if you're of the ones he would, he would stop at nothing to make you happy. After all, people pleasing is a way to keep oneself safe, a trauma response to sidestep discomfort, and though it achieves only a direly tentative peace, when that is all you've been fed, you will pursue it.

Gale did not want to lose Mystra; he couldn't bare the sting of it. And so, when Elminster visited him, Mystra's call for his death offered oh so callously, Gale, heartbroken, felt that part of him kick up. He couldn't endure the guilt, was so hungry for a chance to let his weighty heart breathe, even if it meant dying in the process.

At least this way, he'll finally do something right. At least this way, Mystra will forgive him, and all his friends will survive.

Gale: After I was afflicted with my condition, I locked myself in my tower for an entire year. I was inconsolable, wallowing in my self-inflicted tragedy. I'd given up on myself.

As a byproduct of people pleasing, Gale, too, is all too quick to accept all guilt. He self-deprecates, gaslights himself to a venomous degree, and twists his reality in so cruel a way as to make him the villain Mystra'd led him to believe. He self-flagellates himself, the first one in the world who will throw Gale of Waterdeep a mental punishment. Mystra's a goddess, after all, seen as utterly faultless, and twined so tightly with a being so mighty in esteem, Gale slipped into the role of the guilty often. When tied with anyone with grandeur like this, so immeasurable in their own self worth, it's important to keep in mind this: you are nothing but a prop in which to fulfill their ego. Gale was not Mystra's, not by a long shot. Rather, Gale was a tool, simply her mortal extension.

And he took every blow meant for her... a common and terrible habit for many people in imbalanced, ego-fueled relationships.

Gale's life beyond her wasn't something that interested her. She took most of Gale's devotion, manipulated his life to be her sole mantle of attention, for Mystra is not a goddess that shares very happily.

Indeed, long before his self-imposed isolation, this jealous deity did well at keeping him isolated.

Player Character: Picture kissing him. With tenderness. Then, with passion. Gale: I... I didn't think— Narrator: You perceive quick-fire embarrassment, trepidation, and finally... elation.

And so, cheated out of love, so reduced in his value as a man and lover both, suffice to say, Gale's slow to believe he can ever be loved. That's what happens when you're with someone so cold, consistent only in their infinite lack of respect. Gale looks at fondness, and he feels—confounded, to be sure. He thinks, is this truly mine to have? He doesn't know what to do, is nearly forty in game, and despite having lived decades devoted to one relationship, he feels, at the same time, entirely out of depth. To be frank, he greets it with embarrassment, like he's been caught red handed with something not his at all. He's like a child caught rummaging with his hand in a cookie jar, all this isn't mine to enjoy, not mine to indulge in, but he thinks, startled, but god, do I want. He wars with disbelief, uncertainty, and need, and in so many ways feeling utterly starved, with just a glimmer of affection, he falls fast into love.

Scenario: (And if properly romanced, it changes his world.)

Gale: In her (Mystra's) likeness, I used to read a thousand stories. She was beauty, wisdom, elegance, power... she contained universes. But now... it is hard to see any redeeming qualities in a lover who condemned you to death. I'd much rather gaze into your eyes than hers. Yours are capable of tenderness and feeling... No god could ever compare.

He says it with sincerity. There is such wonder, such love, and such awe in his eyes. He makes the act of kissing him feel like you've just reached into the trenches to but pluck him soundly from his ruin and despair. You think, Gale Dekarios, how unloved have you been all this time?

Gale: To know you love me for the man I am, and not the magic I command… none have loved me so purely before.

The answer is: entirely.

For so long, Gale thought love was simply being chosen. He knew nothing of being favored for the quality of his character, to be cherished and accepted even in those ways he fumbles and lacks. Again, his needs were seldom met, often treated with utter indifference by Mystra herself, and to meet someone so eager to treasure him, dote on him in a way his heart, his body is somberly new to, raptures his spirit and captures his soul. He's seen for who he is. He's... loved, desired for his silly quips, his easy smiles, and his growing affections. He bares himself to them, and in turn, they cradle his heart like something entirely precious. Gale thinks this has to be dream. He says, at times, you are more than I deserve.

Scenario: (But sometimes, he hopes too strongly and loves too greatly. As it always does, then, like he's once more wanted too much, he watches something beautiful slip right through his fingers. Of course, Gale Dekarios. Of course it does.)

Player Character: I didn't know you felt so strongly, Gale. Gale: Perhaps I should have done more. Been more charming, more flattering, harder to reach... but I was only myself, and sometimes that isn't enough.

They don't love him anymore. It breaks his heart. He hurts so much, so profoundly and deeply, and he doesn't realize that he breaks their heart in turn.

Unable to ever voice his feelings with Mystra in any way that amounted to much, Gale's a tendency to wallow, expressions coming off as potentially 'guilt-tripping' and even, on occasion, passive aggressive. Firstly: Gale NEVER means to manipulate emotions, and he's no intention of twisting anyone's arm, either. Fact is, Gale, never taken seriously when he'd bared his vulnerabilities to the Mother of the Weave, can end up saying just a little too much. He feels very deeply, and for most his life, seldom had an outlet for these weeping sentiments. He sometimes lets slip raw words and oftentimes heart-wrenching expressions; all the same, it's not so pitiful as to shepherd an outcome, but rather, is a gesture taken by a man so desperate to be heard. It may feel like scheming, but the truth is far, far greyer: feeling as though he's no right to share the depth of his heart, Gale simply lets it geyser out in a way he can't cork up. In ways he doesn't realize, he's adapted to this ache, passively reacting so his feelings can at least be seen and recognized—no matter how pitifully unwhole. With someone who values so little his thoughts... well, when he slips into these moods, one can hardly feign shock.

Situation: (And if no one shows him trust and tenderness, any true care in his character or worth, Gale gets swallowed up by how wronged he was.

He thinks: Let me be a god. Let no one hurt like me anymore.)

Gale: They only want us to serve them, pray to them...and ultimately, to die for them. But what if we didn't need them? What if we wielded their power instead and helped ourselves in all the ways they refuse to? I could make that happen.

Gale is not above anger, and as stated, he is not above pettiness; however, more than that, he is not above righting himself whatever wound he was struck. Gale, if not offered much by ways of affection, understanding, is made to believe that one idea that's lived growing in his mind: Gale Dekarios is far from sufficient; he has to be more. He has to be better. Gale, in such an unkind ending for himself, sips too desperately—and perhaps greedily, too, but desperately serves as a far better word—at that idea that he needs power. And so, wresting the Crown of Karsus for himself, he spites Mystra in his own way, becoming a god he feels is leagues better than she will ever be. Damn her thoroughly. Damn her ego, her power, and her endless indifference. He will serve the people, protect them, and in ways Mystra never could, better the world.

Situation: But as a god, he loses all sense of his kindness. Humanity. All who loved him leave him, and even Tara spurns the image he's become. With power, he's gained the respect he thought he always wanted... but in turn, he lost in even greater measure all the love he's known.

Endnote: But healing, knowing to forgive himself and knowing he's deserving of care simply for being Gale Dekarios will remain, always, the best path for him.

[sunhated-a]

There is a huge part of Muzan that hungers for the world. And, when asked, he will cloak his motivations with layers upon layers of malice. He will claim he wants to kill every living being, an echo of the bitterness he felt at being abandoned.

For all of his talks of grand conquest of humanity, his true motivations are painfully mundane. For all of his life he has been stifled and limited. Though he was born into wealth, he still lived as a bird in a gilded cage. One he could not escape even if he had been born ablebodied, fated to just be married off and carry on a lineage for a family name he cared nothing about, most likely.

He expected some relief when he was turned into a demon, but in reality he just traded one illness for another. Because though he possessed a healthy and immensely powerful body, he was denied the soft comfort the sun once provided.

He could never live as a man.

He was forced to become this. In time he would come to embrace and relish his demonic nature, but it didn't come naturally. It didn't come easy.

Even through it all, Muzan has never even come close to what he truly wanted. His near encounter with death left him with a deep fear. A fear so powerful that he's stopped prioritizing self actualization, and instead he works relentlessly towards self preservation.

[xluciifer]

Do NOT give Lucifer nicknames.

He absolutely hates it, especially if it's not somebody he either likes, cares about or trusts.

There's no Luci, Lulu, Lu, or whatever other nickname you come up with when speaking to him.

To YOU it's Lucifer, your highness, your majesty, my liege, etc.

Easiiiest way to get on his shit list because it shows him you have no RESPECT for him. And he'll very easily show why you don't want to be on that list.

[backwaterscum]

GOOD LUCK TAKING CARE OF YOURSELF, merle & daryl fic/headcanon/whatever. 4k words. it's daryl's birthday!

tagging @deputyrabies, @viralcure, @polyodynos, and @auroradicit 'cause i kept yelling about dixons at you guys the whole time i wrote this like a crazy person. LOL.

O1. ZERO.

Caroline Dixon passes out as soon as she gets Merle’s little brother out, sweaty and tired and bloody between the legs. Pa’s gone as always, so it was Merle at her side as she came into labour, and Merle who stayed as the midwife guided the baby out. It feels right, though, that it was him-- all throughout Ma’s pregnancy he’d watched over her like a hawk (he wasn’t gonna let her lose another one, not again). And even if his hand hurts from how much she squeezed it, and even if it was the scariest thing he’s seen in his life, as the midwife hands him his baby brother all Merle feels is wonder.

For a moment, all the aches are gone. For a moment, the scars from Pa’s beatings seem to melt away (now why the hell would you keep me from your mother, you stupid piece of shit? From my own god damn wife?). For one blissful, beautiful moment, as the baby cries in his arms and the midwife teaches Merle how to soothe him, Merle isn’t sleepy, or tired, or hungry as all hell because he’s ten years old and hasn’t eaten all day.

A couple of weeks ago, Merle stayed up with Ma thinking of names together, reading things out of a book he stole from a library.

“Your father wanted French names for our children,” she said, smiling as she thumbed through the pages. “That’s why we named you Merle—you’re our little blackbird, see?”

Merle hasn’t felt little in a long time, but he’s sure the baby that goes quiet in his arms is the tiniest thing in the world. His little pink mouth opens, his little pink hands open and close, and Merle can’t tear his gaze away.

“Maybe we can name him Daryl,” Ma said. She tucked hair behind her ear, and Merle pretended he wasn’t staring at the burn on the side of her hand. “'Beloved', it says. Ain’t that sweet? You’ll love your baby brother no matter what, won’t you, Merle?”

Daryl drools in a way that is so god damn ugly Merle can’t stop himself from laughing. He pulls the edge of his blanket up to wipe it off.

“Sure, Ma. ‘course I will.”

O2. FOURTH.

Daryl’s a weird kid. He doesn’t like sweets much, doesn’t talk, and likewise is more interested in bugs and plants than toys. On the one hand, this means Merle doesn’t really have to get him gifts that cost anything (he collected fireflies in a jar and Daryl thought that was the coolest thing ever)—on the other, it blows that Merle can’t just get him a chocolate cake and be done with it.

There was a store that sold sweetcorn cake: disgusting if you asked Merle about it, but one of the guys Merle works with told him that it wasn’t sweet at all. The fact the cake was specialty meant it cost an arm and a leg, and so Merle had done everything he could to sell as many cigarettes as possible. Pa found some of his stash, though, and spent a good bit of it, and then Ma asked for money for her “job” because she “had to look pretty”, and on Daryl’s birthday, all Merle could afford was a single slice.

The kid was happy, at least, when Merle revealed the box of sweetcorn cake to him. He was so happy he left the yard all on his own, leaving behind whatever beetle he was playing with so he could go into the kitchen to be with his big brother. Then he wiped his shoes and washed his hands, sat his ass in his chair, and kicked his legs as Merle set the box in front of him and opened it with a “how do you like that?”.

It was supposed to be a good day. And when Merle lit a candle for Daryl and started singing for him, it was pretty damn close to being perfect.

But then Pa came home, asking for money for pizza. And Pa didn’t like that Merle had nothing left because he spent it on cake.

Daryl’s a weird kid. Merle knows this because his little brother doesn’t burst into tears looking at the cake that’s smashed on the floor. His blue eyes are wet—of course they are, after Merle was smacked so hard across the face—but perhaps in some form of bravery, he’d kept himself from crying until their Pa stalked off to his room. And even then, Daryl only lets the tears fall once his little hands take Merle’s face between them.

“I’m okay,” Merle tells him. Daryl doesn’t believe him, so Merle pulls him in for a hug and says it a second time: “I’m okay.

“Sorry about your cake, baby brother,” he whispers, but all Daryl does is shake his head. The hands that hold him pull back, and with a look of determination rivalled only by his desire to hunt insects, Daryl walks to where his cake slice fell and breaks pieces off to gather them in his palm.

His baby brother doesn’t need to speak when he holds a palmful of cake pieces towards him. Merle understands the sentiment well enough.

“Yeah,” he says, unable to keep his eyes from stinging. “I’ll eat it with you.”

And it turns out the sweetcorn isn’t so disgusting after all.

O3. EIGHTH.

Daryl has wanted to ride this rollercoaster for ages, apparently. Merle didn’t even know about it until he asked “so, what do we do for your birthday this year” and Daryl had answered without hesitation. When grilled about it (because his brother’s never shown interest in rollercoasters before), Daryl had admitted bashfully that he saw a photo in the papers and couldn’t stop thinking about it after.

“How’s it feel to even get that high?”

“We go up mountains, stupid.”

“Well—we don’t go up mountains like rockets, stupid!”

So, because Daryl hardly ever asked for anything, Merle got them tickets to the amusement park, and isn’t surprised when on the day itself it’s Daryl who shakes him awake at four in the fucking morning.

Age didn’t make Daryl more or less of a talker, but Merle can tell just from looking just how excited he is. Daryl’s practically squirming in his seat even belted in, and each time they pass by a sign that reads the amusement park’s name, he presses his face against the glass with eyes as wide as dinner plates. The kid couldn’t be more obvious, but then again, Merle’s sure if he never asked Daryl wouldn’t have admitted he wanted to go to a park in the first place.

Lining up at the entrance, Daryl takes his hand. Merle smacks it away because it isn’t manly, and there’re too many people around them to see.

Being there at opening time means they get to run to the coaster before everyone else (and if Merle has to slip the guy at the turnstiles a couple bucks to let his short brother in, well, that’s between him and God). Daryl takes him right up to the front car with a claim that the view’s gotta be best up there, and Merle doesn’t have the heart to say that up that high, everything probably looks the same, anyway.

It occurs to him as the coaster drops that he’s never heard Daryl scream that loud before. It occurs to him, too, that Daryl spends the whole ride laughing, and that Merle spends the whole time laughing with him. Daryl pulls him for another round, and while the queue this time is longer, none of his excitement fades. It doesn’t fade the third time, nor the fourth, and they ride and ride and ride until Daryl ends up puking in a trashcan. Embarrassing as it is to stand by him and pat his back (Merle calls him an idiot, too, for not pacing himself better), Daryl still smiles at him after, with his face pale and clammy and gross. Then he asks if they can go again.

They spend the whole morning and the first two hours of the afternoon riding everything they can. Eventually the queue at the rollercoaster becomes long enough that Daryl leads Merle to other attractions, holding a map in one hand and pulling Merle everywhere his little heart desires with the other. Watching Daryl run about, watching him have fun—it makes it hard to believe that these days it’s Daryl who hunts and brings home dinner. Because Merle stays home less, Daryl’s the one taking care of their parents: he cooks, cleans, does the laundry. The kid’s only eight and he talks to Merle about their Ma’s liver, and because of the way Daryl is it’s easy to forget how young he is, too.

Today, though, Merle is hyperaware of it. As Daryl’s eyes light up when he gets a free balloon, he looks more like an eight year old than ever, even when Merle watches him tie that balloon expertly around his own wrist. Showing his balloon off, Daryl looks at Merle like he’s the greatest person on the planet, and he doesn’t even get mad when Merle’s pager goes off and tells him he needs to be elsewhere.

Before he leaves his brother behind at the park, Daryl assures him he can take the bus back home on his own. And as Merle gets in his car, he thinks about his brother’s arms (stronger than an eight year old’s should be) around him, and the way Daryl had so gently murmured thank you for giving me the best day ever.

Later, when Merle stumbles into their home bruised and battered from another gang fight, it isn’t Daryl’s birthday any more. But he leaves a keychain from the park beside his brother’s pillow, and pretends it doesn’t make his chest ache when he sees it hanging off the pack Daryl takes to school later.

O4. THIRTEENTH.

Darlina,

Congratufuckinglations! You’re a stupid teenager now. Enjoy the pimples, the boners, and the nasty fucking body odour. Not like the mountains don’t make you smell like shit half the time anyway.

I stuck some money in here so you can get yourself something nice. Ain’t really nothing I can ship from the barracks anyway, less you want some fag’s cumrag. (You don’t. I almost wiped my face with one because these animals leave all their shit in the bathroom! Can you believe it!?)

I saw you eyeing the Stryker at Johnson’s supplies couple months ago. Maybe you can use the cash to get that for yourself huh? Then you don’t gotta use Uncle Jess’ rustbucket of a bow ever again. I seen the way you aim with that thing—I know Pa gives you shit ‘cause a rifle’s better (and that’s one of the only things that fuck could ever say that I gotta agree with), but maybe you’ll be the first ugly mother to ever make a crossbow work. Or maybe you’ll just be ugly.

Anyway, never say your big brother Merle never got you money for nothing, that’s all I’m gonna say. Happy birthday kiddo. Love you to bits.

Don’t be a fucking idiot. Don’t be no fag neither. hahahahaha!!!!

Merle

O5. TWENTY-SIXTH.

Merle comes to coughing, and he’s so confused he doesn’t notice Daryl’s been there the whole time until he feels his brother’s hands cupping his face. Bleary eyes slide across the room, seeing their apartment’s shitty wallpaper and the cracks in the ceiling, and when Merle’s gaze finally settles it’s Daryl’s teary eyes that swim to focus in his vision.

“Merle…” Daryl’s sobbing, really sobbing, all ugly tears and dripping snot from his nose. Merle can barely hear him. If it didn’t feel like there were cotton balls in his mouth, he might have called his brother a stupid crybaby princess, but as it is all he can do is watch Daryl shakily pull away, grab a glass of water on the nightstand, and then beg him—really beg, like a pathetic whimpering dog—to drink some of it.

Merle does, even if it burns all the way down. Merle drinks even if his throat feels raw. And when it’s all gone, and he realises the room smells like piss and shit and puke, he heaves again until he’s spilling bile over the floor.

He wants to ask what the hell reeks like that, but then figures out quite swiftly that it’s all coming from him.

All day, Daryl doesn’t leave his side. He helps Merle out of bed, gets him in the shower, and then runs around the house sorting out sheets, clothes, food, and cleaning. Merle asks, in the middle of Daryl helping him put his shirt on, where the hell Pa is, and Daryl only shakes his head and says, “It’s just me.”

But it’s always been just him, anyway, and Merle feels stupid for asking at all.

Drinking soup that Daryl cooked for him, Merle gets the gist of what happened easily enough based on the way his little brother sits protectively at his side. He went too far last night—had shot up too much, had eaten too little—and after passing out must have gone into shock. Daryl probably just returned from his night shift by the time the worst of it was happening and taken care of him then; Merle’s certain he’d fallen asleep on his back like always, and he’d woken up earlier this morning trembling on his side.

He looks Daryl over, taking note of his red-rimmed eyes, the teeth worrying at his lip, and the way he hasn’t touched his own bowl. You should eat, too, hangs on the edge of his tongue, but all that comes out is, “You look like a bitch in that uniform.”

And Daryl, who doesn’t even scowl at him, blinks and mumbles, “Yeah.”

Fuck’s sake.

“I ain’t dead, you know,” Merle says.

Daryl sniffs. “You came pretty fucking close, Merle.”

“But did I kick the bucket?” Merle points his spoon at him, almost accusatory. “Am I not breathing now? Huh? How long you gonna fucking sulk about it? You ain’t the one who OD’d, you stupid shit.”

“I… I dunno.”

“Man the fuck up!” Merle drops the spoon into his bowl, getting on (unsteady) legs and pressing his hand to the tabletop. “Shit happens—I didn’t fucking die, so I don’t know why you’re acting like such a god damn baby about…”

Daryl ducks his head, and immediately Merle’s voice trails off. His little brother’s shoulders fold in towards himself, and despite how broad Daryl’s become the gesture somehow makes him look as tiny as he was the day he was born.

Beloved, Ma said. You’ll love your baby brother no matter what, won’t you, Merle?

“I don’t want you to die,” Daryl whispers, tears dripping down his cheeks. Merle watches, transfixed, as they drip onto the plastic table beneath his bowed head. “And I was scared, Merle. There was all this shit comin’ outta your mouth, and you wouldn’t stop shaking, and it was like you couldn’t breathe and I… I’ve never been so fuckin’ scared in my life.”

“I’m stronger than that,” Merle says. “You think I’m weak? Is that it?”

Daryl’s head lifts, and right then and there Merle sees both the way his brother’s lip trembles and how his blue eyes burn with rage. “That ain’t the point and you know it.”

There’s plenty Merle could say in response. He could say that it’s getting harder and harder to wake up these days. He could say that since his last stint in prison—where the drugs were necessary, and he had to partake or be kicked out of the only group keeping him safe—he’d spend his whole day shaking without them. He could say that he caught Pa yesterday just before that sack of shit left for the bar, and that he said Merle shouldn’t have come home in the first place. He could say that Pa told him even Daryl didn’t want him around. He could say that Pa grabbed him by the shirt collar, said he made everything worse by being here, and that nobody missed him when he was gone, so nobody would miss him if he died, neither.

But what kind of man would he be if he told Daryl all this? What image of manhood would his brother have if he knew that Merle was so broken inside? Daryl’s head drops again, and Merle watches as he buries his face in his hands. He says nothing when his brother starts sobbing again, soft and shaky and terrified to the core. He says nothing when Daryl curls in on himself, looking small and sad in his 7-Eleven uniform.

Merle’s eyes drift, glancing absently at the calendar on the wall. It’s Monday today, he’s sure—the date is July 12, 2004. The number makes his eyes wide, and his heart sinks to his stomach when it hits him: I didn’t get him anything for his birthday.

Merle sits back down in his chair, shutting his eyes all the while. He runs a hand down his face, then curves it over his chin to rub at the stubble there. Daryl, on his end, doesn’t move.

It’s minutes of silence until— “Fine,” Merle spits out, and he pretends he doesn’t notice how Daryl’s shoulders jump like he heard a gunshot. “If you’re gonna be such a god damn bitch about it, I’ll quit. I’ll never touch the stuff again.”

Daryl doesn’t look at him, but he does pull his face from his hands to wrap his arms around himself.

“No, you won’t,” he whispers. “Liar.”

“I will,” Merle insists without delay. “Just you fucking see. Unlike you, I ain’t no pussy.”

Daryl bites his lip.

“I ain’t no pussy, Daryl.”

Teary blue eyes look up at him, and though Daryl opens his mouth to say something, Merle’s stomach lurches without warning. He runs to the bathroom to throw up In the toilet, Daryl hot on his heels, and doesn’t fight when he feels his brother’s hand on his back to ease him out of the nausea. Now tears burn both their eyes, and when Merle is pressing his forehead to the cool porcelain of the toilet, Daryl disappears only to bring Merle another glass of water and sit on the floor with him.

“You mean it?” he asks as Merle takes the glass from him.

“What?”

“That you’ll quit. That you won’t shoot up again.”

Merle scowls, swirling the water in his glass. “Yeah.” Then, grumbling, he adds, “Since you’re being such a fucking baby about it.”

“So I’ll help you,” Daryl says, fingers curling into the hem of Merle’s shirt like the kid’s eight years old again, “I promise.”

His brother’s smile is shaky, but at least this time he doesn’t look away. “You don’t gotta do none of this alone, okay, Merle?”

“I don’t need your help, stupid.”

“I know.” Daryl’s free hand lands on the nape of Merle’s neck, and when his brother’s forehead touches his, he hears Daryl start sniffling again like the annoying bitch he is. “But I wanna help you, anyway.”

Merle scoffs. “Whatever.”

But his hand mirrors Daryl’s, and it is probably the safest he’s ever been.

O6. EARLY THIRTY-THIRD.

After all is said and done, and Daryl makes it back to the prison alone, he feels nothing except changed. The world turns as usual, filled with the dead and the living, but it feels like it’s been tilted a few more degrees, too. The weight of his brother’s corpse had been heavy, and after walking for hours with Merle in his arms finding the perfect spot to bury him, the ground might never feel solid for him again.

Nobody notices Daryl come back. Nobody sees him trail dirty footprints behind him, nor the blood on his clothes, nor the gore and earth that’s gathered on his palms and under his fingernails. Daryl walks, almost in a trance, towards his cell and the bed waiting for him. Daryl falls onto it face first, and when his head hits the pillow he hears the crinkling sound of paper that’s been hidden beneath it.

A part of him wishes he didn’t hear it. A part of him wishes he didn’t lift his head, stick his dirty hand beneath the fabric, and pull the folded piece with his name on it from its hiding place. Maybe his life would have been better if he never saw it: Merle’s handwriting, Merle’s last words, Merle’s tears where they stained the bottom of the page. Maybe he could have stayed changed his whole life without feeling like his soul was drained out of him, too.

But Daryl’s always suffered from caring too much, and hindsight is always 20-20.

Whenever Merle wrote him from prison, his letters always filled pages. There was always something to say: a funny (and often mildly racist) anecdote, a rant about how much he missed burgers, or some other inconsequential topic he decided was important to fixate on for the day. Every time, Daryl would read them and either roll his eyes or laugh; more importantly, though, he would miss his brother and wish he was home.

The last letter Merle leaves him is short and to the point. There are no stories. There are no rants. There isn’t anything except the stark determination he imagines his big brother died with, and an honesty he wishes Merle always had from the start.

I won’t make it to your birthday this year, but I hope you like the present. I know you always thought my knife was bitching, so I hid it under your mattress. It’s yours now. Take care of it and don’t be a fucking idiot.

Sorry it took me 33 years to do anything worthwhile.

I’ll always love you.

Daryl reads it over and over and over. Daryl reads it until every word is burned into his mind, until he’s read the last line so much he can almost imagine his brother saying it. Daryl reads it, and weeps, and asks a piece of paper why it is Merle couldn’t wait for him before going off to sacrifice himself.

He knows the answer, of course, and always has. Merle was always trapped—trapped by their father, by their mother, by the self-imposed parametres of his existence. By the end of it, the only thing that kept him going was making sure Daryl would be okay, and now Daryl can’t even argue with him that he wouldn’t be.

The paper crumples in his hands. Daryl holds it to his chest, curls in on himself, and cries. He thought he was done earlier, burying Merle alone and standing over his grave, but his brother always did think he was a crybaby; it seems only fitting that Merle would make him sob like this one last fucking time.

It's terrifying thinking of a world that doesn’t have his brother in it. In every sense of the word, Daryl’s never existed without knowing he was alive somewhere. Merle told him he was the one who held him when he was born, and Daryl always assumed ever since that it would be Merle holding him when he died. He was at peace with that, safe with that. And he was fine so long as he knew Merle was out there somewhere, and that eventually his brother would come home to him.

Now he realises he wasn’t just changed. Now he realises that he isn’t just different. Clutching his chest and bringing his knees towards himself, Daryl tells himself his brother is dead, and everything will be worse forever.

O7. THIRTY-THIRD.

“My name’s French. Did you know that?”

“Mm. ‘Peletier’ is French, too.”

“Merle told me it meant ‘beloved’. Said he and Ma picked it a long time ago.”

“Your brother helped name you?”

“Yeah. He was always there for her… you know, until he wasn’t. But I guess it was just too much for him being home.”

“Daryl…”

“I miss him.”

“Do you wanna talk about it?”

“Nah. You wouldn’t get it, anyway.”

[foulwitchknight]

I Want You to Want Me: Part II

Eddie had known Steve Harrington was his mate for years and he can’t say he was thrilled about it. He’d bumped into Steve in beginning of Sophomore year and his heart sank when he heard him hiss out Watch it! Thankfully Steve had been too preoccupied at the time and hadn’t even noticed him. Eddie still took it upon himself to avoid him like the plague for the rest of the year so they wouldn’t interact. Thankfully they ran in completely different circles so it was was easy. Eddie just couldn’t see how they would work. He’d watched Steve strut around town and treat people like Eddie like shit. No way Steve would accept him as his mate. He kept hoping he’d made a mistake but the longing and restlessness he got when he thought of Steve confirmed it. He just accepted that it was his fate to watch Steve court then marry some rich Alpha while he ended up pining and alone. Times got rough and he decided to help out by getting a part time job at the country club in a town close by. The same one he finds out later was a favorite of the Harrington’s. It honestly made him panic. He didn’t think he could face the youngest Harrington without exposing their mate status. So imagine his relief when he found out Steve rarely came there. He started to relax little by little confident that he would never see him and then the Incident happened. Eddie had always hoped that Steve would change but the display that day made him realize he never would. Not as long as the Harrington fortune and social currency would protect him. With their mating exposed, Steve started coming around the club more. He would seek him out to talk or flirt and always left him fat tips. Eddie tried to keep it as professional as possible. It didn’t help that Steve started wearing things to draw attention to his neck and his physical attributes. There was no question that Steve was beautiful even more so now that he could see him up close. The biggest issue though was that he smelled like heaven. He’d been denying himself even a whiff of Steve’s scent for a long time and could hardly handle his now constant exposure to it. All he wanted to do was bury his nose in his neck and take a deep whiff. Or better yet bite him and officially make him his. He already smelled like he should be. He was secretly thrilled by Steve’s attention, but Eddie really didn’t want him to know that so he wore scent patches to hide his attraction. He could tell that Steve was disappoint by Eddies seeming lack of interest, but in the long run Eddie thought it was safer this way. Steve was better off mating with one of those rich “charming” Alphas he was always going with. There was no way they could be together so why try.

Part 3

[vtriol]

what tarot card are you?

THE EMPRESS:

you are only independent insofar as you have others to care for. this makes you dependent in your independence. they want your knowledge, your skills, your talents, your affection. what can they give in return? “teeth” is not an acceptable answer, nor is “keeping the shadows to the corners”, nor is “glory”, nor is “love”. there is no acceptable answer, no gift of a magnitude which can match the thing you know, which is that they are taking from you.

they are stealing from you. you should stop them from doing that, darling. you only have so much to give. you are not infinite, and when they have taken their last they will remind you of that. my advice is this: give enough to keep them at bay, but be careful. their teeth can turn on you too. there is no easier way to make an animal dangerous than by feeding it.

tagged by @longerhuman! tagging @fatedriven, @satellitewar, @voidcut, @inverdade, and whoever else wants to!

[wraithful-muses]

// Satan will kill for you. Period. He doesn't care who it is. If someone has wrong you and Satan has affection for you in anyway (Lover, Friend, family.) He will kill them without care. He is known after all as "THE LORD OF SLAUGHTER."

[recitedemise]

𝗚𝗮𝗹𝗲 𝗶𝘀 𝗮 𝗽𝗮𝘀𝘀𝗶𝗼𝗻𝗮𝘁𝗲, 𝗶𝗻𝘃𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗱, 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝗻𝗴𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗳𝗲𝘀𝘀𝗼𝗿. Make no mistake, when you're signing up for any course taught by Professor Dekarios, you can expect a rigorous, trying, and extremely rewarding time. Gale, as an instructor with high expectations -- both for himself and for his pupils -- will never allow 'taking it easy' to feel acceptable. Slack on your coursework, and rest assured, you will be in for murder and a half of an exam-season crunch. When signing up for him, he expects you to take your studies very seriously. As such, with not a hint of interest in wasting your time, he will thoroughly test your abilities and challenge your limits. He does this out of care, both for the integrity of his field and the sheer love of learning, and when one chances on his seminars with his funny worded lectures, one would see easily his love for his craft.

He's animated and excited. He encourages participation and offers both spectacle and awe. He'd veil the ceiling with the stars or reanimate a small mouse to scamper about the floor. He's a man of bold actions and incredibly strong impressions, and as such, he aims as much as possible to captivate his classroom -- an endeavor, of course, that can both endear and frustrate. To most, his unparalleled zeal would feel borderline infectious. He may be a difficult grader and offers very little room to catch up when you slack, but his reputation to most would be challenging but fair -- and, to most who pass him, actually inspiring.

In fact, it isn't all too difficult to believe why students (and a great deal of them, too!) would like him. Beyond his fame, of course, he is also known to be an incredibly thoughtful man. Invested in his pupils, he consistently supports visiting him during any time during his office hours. If time permits it, too, he'd even offer a little 1:1 session. In fact, he'd even go so far as to pick out the interests and the strengths of particular students. If one struggles in illusion, for example, he may notice instead that they've a fondness for the clerical. In that instance, he would do his research to offer them prospects in that field that would offer more enjoyment, pulling up eligible courses and instructors he vets.

Overall, Gale is a difficult, sometimes unorthodox, controversial, and invigorating professor. And what's more, it doesn't seem he's a love saved for only wizardry and spellcraft, but a most genuine devotion to his students as well.

[sunhated-a]

What mood will Muzan be in today? Let's see. We have:

Okay.

Annoyed.

Annoyed.

Irritated.

Stressed.

Irritated and stressed.

Good mood! ( You've won the lottery )

Wrath.

Happy. (Diabolical)

Hyperfixation.

Forgot what he was doing. (You may assist)

Forgot what he was doing. (You may NOT assist)

PURE MANIC ENERGY ( Dangerous )

Patient and affectionate care. (Hard reserved for loved ones.)

[xluciifer]

Lucifer has meticulous knifing skills.

Do with that information as you will.

[nectaric]

something something and sex for zeus is about connection. and sex for hades is about control, and sex for poseidon is about stimulation, and sex for ares is about devotion, and sex for athena is about emotion, and sex for hera is about vulnerability, and sex for makaria is about attention, and-

[tornadotame]

more kate headcanons!

even before losing her friends, kate was pretty terrible at texting and communicating. she’s one of those who will see a text, acknowledge it, and then not respond to until hours or even days later. it’s very easy for her to get lost, be it in her work or in her mind, and she just forgets.

picks her nails bloody when nervous, so she started getting them professionally done in new york to try and curb the habit. nothing too fancy or extravagant, just simple and practical. she still gets them done occasionally once she’s back in ok, mostly for when she has meetings or presentations, but she will admit that she misses her nail tech from the city.

is a diet coke girly. looooves a crispy coke.

her favourite ice cream flavour is cherry garcia.

i’ve said it before on here and i’ll say it again : the necklace she’s wearing at the beginning of the movie and the end was a gift from jeb.

has no memory of her dad beyond the handful of photos in her childhood home, and she doesn’t really wonder about him or feel like she’s missed out on anything. it’s always been her and her mom, and she’s fine with that.

[fayeito]

faye + film inspo.

kabe no ma. literally translated as between the walls, a woman is trapped in the confines of her own home while recovering from an illness that takes her ability to walk. while left to her own devices, her sanity slowly deteriorates as she becomes convinced there's a woman living in the walls of her own home. it's a film that explores the paranoia that can come from being a prisoner in your own home, and how damaging isolation can be to an already fragile psyche. the ending shot of the woman crawling over her husband's unconscious body is a direct reference to the story that inspired it, the ye.llow wallpaper. this was produced a year after faye's release from a mental institution. the film debuted at the o.saka asian film festival and developed a cult following. non mutuals, including personal and resource blogs, do not reblog this.

[themosthatedbeingg]

//— Lucifer is also not the best at cooking … not for lack of trying but .. there is a reason the Morningstars have Royal chefs …

He can make apple pies and apple tarts and that’s it .

[rcguish]

have some colored silver wips lmao