#Cannibal town seems pretty fine for me <3< /div> Explore tagged Tumblr posts

[lilfriezatyrant]

@reptile--queen ✨✨🥺👌

[viseralantlers]

old friend (c!karl jacobs x reader)

takes place in episode 5 of tales ! The wild west one !

warnings: Injury, swearing, character death

Request: nope!

note: using Kit as the alternate name to avoid confusion and follow how the time travel thing works kinda !!!! If you don’t like it feel free to pick another one and fill it in ! I was mostly trying to keep it gender-neutral !! Sorry if it makes it difficult to understand : (

John led Karl around the small town to pick up people to help stop the hostile bandits he had the pleasure to meet when he first entered the saloon just a few hours ago. Now an eccentric band of characters were leaving William’s shop to head to their last stop, the bakery. 

“Alright, so this is Kit!” John spoke with a slight drawl as Karl watched hesitantly as a head peaked up from behind the counter that had been covered in fresh loaves of bread. Karl paused at the sight, it was y/n. It couldn’t be, they had died on doomsday. He felt frozen to his spot as he studied their every move. Karl knew deep down that this wasn’t y/n. He’d seen these past versions, relatives of sorts. of his friends, but he’d never seen anyone that had looked like y/n. It had always been sapnap or technoblade, it was as if y/n died not only in the present but in every past he traveled to.

“Huh” they said as they wiped the flour from their hands on a black apron that had been tied around their neck and torso, stepping around to the group. 

“Hey, Kit!” John was cut off as y/n jumped into a question.

“John, I thought you already picked up your stock for this week?”  John scratched the back of his neck feeling Percy’s stare digging into the back of his head due to his newly revealed spending habits. Y/n, now Kit, continued talking before abruptly pausing when they finally noticed the crowd that had accumulated in their small bakery. “What’s all this about?” They said with a hint of anxiety slipping into their voice.

“Nothing to be worried about!” Karl jumped into action at the sign of y/n’s trepidation “We just wanted to ask if you wanted to help us take down those old democrat haters.” Karl nervously laughed.

“Oh! Yea, for sure bucko, I hate those guys as much as the next one of y’all.” They smile, a steady joyful expression breaking their former nervous demeanor. Karl felt strangely sick at the sight, at how much it reminded him of his old friend, or more so crush, before their passing. Though he also noted the change in your speech as a strong southern accent slipped in every once in a while, even using the word y’all.

“Good to hear, Kit!” John said happily as y/n and William shared a small conversation talking about stock and sales in the recent weeks. Karl trailed behind the group as he watched y/n converse with the crowd, their face filled with a wide smile, even daring to talk with Crops as if he wasn’t a convicted cannibal. They seemed as kind as ever, as an addicting presence as they used to be when the two lived together in L’manberg.

“Hey Karl!” y/n practically beamed at him as he passed them on the wooden prime path as tommy affectionately called it. “Niki and I made this new bakery together wanna come check it out!” They singsonged already reaching to grab at Karl’s sleeve. They smelled like freshly baked bread, their face dusted with a soft blush from the exertion of baking.

“Yea, sure!” Karl granted them his hand letting y/n pull him in to waste an entire day tasting pastries and sweets. He went home that night with flour handprints on his back and a warm feeling in his chest. 

“Great shot!” Karl was pulled out of his trance as he watched Michael whiff the target by a few feet. Shaking his head he studied each member shoot with varying success. Though what really caught his eye was an aim that only rivaled y/n’s own coming from who John had called Kit, the baker that smiled exactly as y/n had every time he whispered a bordering on senseless joke into their ear on party island. He struggled to solidify the name Kit in his head as he watched Kit stick out their tongue as they focused their aim and hit a perfect bullseye. Kit smiled to themselves before they followed the party to the tents surrounding a warm crackling fire.

“Hey, Kit, right? Sorry I’m just never very good with names.” Karl said as he settled down beside the sweet-smelling baker. 

“Yep!” They chirped with a relaxed face as they studied the flicking fire as it reached up towards the open sky.  “Need something?” They asked turning to Karl. Karl blushed at the eye contact not knowing why he started the conversation in the first place.

“No, no, no,,, uh nothing, I just wanted to say good shooting back there I guess.” He laughed to himself playing with the ends of his sleeves.

“Thank you very much, kind stranger! Just a little hobby I picked up after they built that old shooting range. You know, I don’t think I ever caught your name back in my store?”

“It’s Karl.”

“Karrlllllllll” Kit drew out with a goofy face focusing on the l “Pretty name!” Karl felt stuck in time as the interaction mirrored one he had had with y/n.

“Kaaarrrrrrllllllll! Did I ever tell you your name is pretty?” Karl looked at y/n confused.

“No, but ,,,, I wouldn't quite call it that.” He blushed looking down at his feet. 

“I would.” y/n nodded affirmatively “cause it’s Karl, not Carl, it’s pretty,,,,,, your pretty,, really.” y/n laughed at they looked up at the lazily passing clouds with a gentle smile plastered on their relaxed face. 

Karl laughed away the small compliment after he looked back up into Kit’s e/c eyes as the group broke into talking about the coming showdown between the two sides.

“Kit, I think you should fight, Mason. You have the best shot out of us aside from me, of course.” Sherif Thompson spoke. 

“That’s okay with me! Anything to stop those guys from ruining my pastries really.” Kit said as their interest was engulfed by the warmth from the fire once again. Karl felt fear dig its way into his chest as he looked at Kit’s side profile remembering the last time he had seen them like this. 

“Karl go to your library, please. The grid can’t reach it” y/n called to Karl over the never-ending sounds of explosions and falling rubble. “I’ll be okay, I got my bow and my charisma.” y/n chuckled sadly.

“Come down with me! We can be safe together. This isn’t worth it, y/n!” Karl begged as he yelled over to their figure standing tall knowing they were on their last life, knowing that they were not going to go with Karl, knowing this could end in tragedy. Y/n turned  with fresh tears trailing down their cheeks. 

“This is my home, Karl.”

“I know.” Karl resigned to the fact that you weren’t gonna come with him. Weren’t gonna cower as L’manburg breathed its final breath full of smoke. “I love you.” He yelled as they gave a brave smile jumping down to join the fray. He had imprinted the side profile of their face as they stood solemn, lit by the cloudy sky and the flashes of explosions.

Suddenly it was high noon. Tension building in Karl’s chest as he called out the paces studying Kit walk away from Mason. The track record had been 2-0 he could only hope it would remain so positive.

1

Y/n had died from an arrow.

2

An arrow through the chest.

3

It had been thought to have been shot from Dream’s grid.

4

No one knew who did it. There was no way to know.

5

They bled out at the bottom of the crater,

6

alone,

7

As Karl huddled in the library,

8

Eyes shut tight.

9

Karl knew that in some twisted way, he might as well of fired that arrow himself. 

10

FIRE!

They both fell to the ground, Mason dying upon impact due to the arrow directly piercing his heart. Kit wasn’t as lucky, the arrow had hit it’s target, but not quite a bullseye, the tip was lodged into their upper thigh. 

“y/n!” Karl called out in a panic, the strange name not lost to the group around him. He rushed to Kit’s side as tears freely flowed down his face. “Does anyone have a potion?” Kit stared at him in confusion.

“Hey, I’ll be fine, not an artery or anything, just hurts.” they gave Karl a soft smile trying to reassure him of the small injury not being lethal.

“Yea, yea, sorry, I just.”

“y/n’s dead, Karl.” Quackity said as he walked into the secret room of the library that was hidden behind the bookshelf full of y/n’s favorite classics. Karl was frozen in fear as he studied Quackity’s face for any sign of this being some sick sadistic joke. He only found sorrow and loss.

“No, no, y/n, will be here any second! The fight is over, and they are okay, right? Right?” Karl begged Quackity as he felt his hands begin to shake, his breaths becoming ragged. Quackity sat down beside him letting Karl curl into his side. Karl hand’s gripped to his shirt as he sobbed. Quackity knew he couldn’t stop Karl’s pain, but he could comfort him through it.

“I guess, you just reminded me of an old friend.”

[slashingdisneypasta]

Hewitts / Pleasant Valley x Fem!Reader || Oneshot

Title: The Multiverse Theory and the Horror Fandom 

Notes: 

I don't really know what it is, but I enjoyed creating it, so I’m posting it! If I get an idea as to what might happen next, I’ll probably add a part two. 

Its crack

Plot: 

Okay, you are from this universe and you are your Slasher fucker self. But you’re transported from your home, to the universe that the Slashers live in, specifically 2003 Texas Chainsaw Massacre. They capture you of course and decide to keep you.

Now the Hewitt’s have decided to go on a roadtrip and are of course taking you, their hostage, with them.

They end up staying in Pleasant Valley, despite your warnings not to. 

Warnings: Mention of real life people, breaking of the 3rd wall, if you look then there is some hints towards sexual assault cursing. Its comedy though mostly, so its pretty okay

~~~

“We’re lost.”

“No, mama, we not lost. We’re just taking the scenic route… “Hoyt transparently bullshits, looking around completely lost at the surroundings that we pass at a 100 km/h. Nothing but wheat fields and cows as far as the eye can see. Georgia is even more boring then Texas had been.

Luda Mae rolls her eyes, not taking any his shit after 6 hours in the car with him just today. God, I’m on her side. Can we stop somewhere just for a little bit? I mean, I don’t have to pee anymore since I held it for so long that the urge went away, but I’d still like to try because now I feel like I’m going to explode at any time. “So, we’re lost.” She announces, leaving no room for argument.

“Definitely lost… “Monty, in the seat beside me in the back seat of Hoyt’s tiny sheriff car, agrees with his sister, also watching the fields go by moodily. Why didn’t we take the goddamn truck, anyway? I would rather be tied to top of that, then squished back here between Thomas and Monty. I mean, there’s not even any doorhandles in the back here! Why did I have to be in the middle? Its not like I’m going to throw myself out the window! Sometimes I think Hoyt’s paranoid. And I hate him. And his ego’s too big.

Of course, Hoyt snaps back at Monty even though what he said was so mellow. It certainly didn’t have the amount of pent up frustration that Luda Mae’s had behind it. “We ain’t lost, goddamn it- Look! There’s a town. We’ll stop there and ask for directions if you really want. Just to make sure we’re going the right way, which I’m sure we are.” I look up from my hands, bruises all over the wrists from Hoyt and the ropes, and cuts all over the fingers from cooking with Luda Mae… and jagged fingernails from before I gave up. When I was still scratching at the walls and floor and Thomas, wanting to escape this mad family.

My fighting spirit isn’t completely crushed, now… but it has been a while since I screamed for help. I’m waiting for the moment, the right moment to try and escape. Of course, I don’t know if that moment will every come… but I still hope. And that’s something.

Now, looking up out the front window to see the town Hoyt’s talking about, I wonder if this will be the place that I’ll escape in.

Then we rush past the sign and I do a double take.

What did that say?!

I glance at Thomas, my designated warden to see what he’s doing now since he had been sleeping for most of today’s trip- yesterday he had stayed awake and alert, but today it seems that he decided I wasn’t about to crawl over anyone and creep through the window so it was cool to nap,- to see he’s alert, and when I look at him he turns to look at me back. I flash him a fake smile and turn to Monty, because he speaks. And he’s on the right side of the car, so he would have seen the sign.

“Hey, what did that sign say?”

“Why are they talking again?” Hoyt pipes up in the front as we get nearer to the town and I start to feel sick in my stomach. I raise my eyebrows at Monty instead of answering Hoyt’s goad.

Monty shrugs, leaning his back on his hand and looking out the window again. “Uh, Pleasant Valley.”

Oh my god.

It cannot be possible that more then one Horror movie exists in this world… right? I’ve been through enough trauma; I do not need to endure Robert Englund’s trademark craziness- oH, or Bill Mosely’s either. Oh god, - and his band of confederate lunatics. Do not do this to me, universe.

My heart’s beating faster then a bullet train as I wait, still as a statue and straight backed, for any more hints that I am where I think I am.

Thomas watches me with a hard stare, alert and suspicious about my odd change in posture and body language. I try to ignore him, which is of course hard, but I make do.

Then we start to pass people in this town, and they’re men in overalls and women in the most era-incorrect costumes I have ever seen. And they’re smiling and waving at us.

And I feel sick, and sink back into my seat so nobody outside can see me through Monty or Thomas, hopefully.

“Hoyt,” I call, quietly for the ‘sheriff’s’ attention. My voice doesn’t lift even to a normal volume, I’m so scared so he either ignores me or really doesn’t hear me. I try to be louder. “Hoyt!”

“Yes, hostage?”  

“I think we’re going the right way as well; I saw sign on the road a few miles back that said so. We should just keep going.”

“What?!” Luda Mae turns in her seat to look at me furrow her eyebrows- she doesn’t believe me one bit. “What are you doing, slouching in the back like that? Sit up!”

“Are we stopping?”

“Uhh… “She turns to look at Hoyt, and he nods. “Looks like it. About time, too. I need to stretch my legs, and we obviously need those damn directions.”

“We do not need the- “Hoyt sighs, exasperated, then furrows his eyebrows as he focuses on something in front of the car. “What the fuck are these wackos all doing out there in the middle of the road? Get outta my way… “

Mow them over, Hoyt! MOW THEM OVER.

Of course, he slows to a crawl and then a stop, and I thank god that the back windows don’t open, lest I feel any more in danger. If they were open, I definitely would have feared scary ghost cannibals would stick in their hands. As it is, cross my arms and let Hoyt do the talking. Of course, I mean. What else could I do?

I can see full frontal the mess that we’re getting into, which once upon a time in a different world -my world. Oh, how I wish I was there right now, - would have been a good sign. Seeing Kane Hodder, Robert Englund and Lin Shaye and the ‘Guts and Glory Jubilee’ banner would be a sign I’m about to have a good night full of horror movie enjoyment and probably fanfiction as well. But now I see it and I wish to never watch that movie again, much like the Texas Chainsaw Massacre franchise.

Hoyt puts his hand on the car door handle next to him. “No, no, no, don’t get outta the car!” I exclaim, quietly and reaching to grab him back but he looks over at me, gives me a ‘I do what I want’ kind of look and then gets out of the car.

“Good afternoon, sheriff! Welcome to our Guts and Glory Jubilee! You’re our honoured guests!”

Oh, dear god.

Hoyt slams his car door shut and Luda and I wince at the sudden noise. “What the hell are you people doing out here in the middle of the road??! Me and my family are tryna get through here.”

“Aw, my bad sheriff! We’re just so tickled to have you with us this fine day!” Buckman doesn’t seem stirred that Hoyt’s clearly southern, and therefore ‘confederate’, like him, as far as he’s concerned which is what I was hoping for, so I decide to blow this whole situation out of water- I have no choice.

And what, in hell’s name, could I possibly lose at this point?

I lean forward in the car, keeping an eye on the scene, to talk to Luda Mae. “Hey, so this may be a bad time to mention this but, uh.” How do I break this news? “Well, I’m from a different universe. That multiverse noise? That’s real. Anyway, more importantly, I’m from a world in which you and your sons, and Monty, are just movie characters. Your movie is called ‘The Texas Chainsaw Massacre’, Thomas is the Texan Chainsaw guy and he is called Leatherface.” Luda’s slowly turning her head to look at me like have 7 eyeballs. I keep talking through, quickly ad feverishly, desperate. “I know it sounds crazy, and you can ask me any question about ya’ll’s passed if you want as proof but just get your son back in this car please. This place also has its own movie, and its even less pretty then what goes on in your house.” I look pleadingly at her, hoping to God, by some miracle she believes me.

“Sit back down!! I’ve been in a car with 3 sweatin’, stinky men for 6 hours now today and I am in no mood for your stories.” She turns back in her seat. “God.”  

“Oh Jesus, you said it… “ I whine, plopping back down in my seat, looking at Hoyt and Buckman who have now met in front of the car and aren’t yelling at each other across the road and immediately assume the fucking confederate mayor is successfully feeding the fucking fraudulent sheriff’s ego, and drop my face into my hands. A few minutes pass, and I stay like this, occasionally making frustrated crying sounds without really crying, and getting annoyed groans and ‘shut up’s from Monty beside me, until a hit to the car jolts me up. “What! What? What’s happening- are they attacking!?”

Everyone who heard, ignores me and I see it’s just Hoyt coming around the car opening Thomas’ side. Oh god, breeze has neve felt so terrifying. “Come on out, family. We’re stayin’ the night! I can’t tolerate settin’ in this car with you people anymore.” On no. No, no, no. STAYING?

Thomas gets out and Luda Mae follows, opening Monty’s door for him and letting him out onto his wheelchair that Thomas gets out of the trunk for him and unfolds. I cross my arms and stay inside. When Hoyt realises this, he leans down to peer inside the car at me and thrusts a thumb to point behind him. Slowly, menacingly he drawls. “Get out of this car.”

Oh, what is he going to do? What could he possibly do that he hasn’t already done to me.

I stubbornly look away. “You said family, I’m not family. I’m not leaving this car, no way. You can’t make me.”

“You wanna bet, sugar?”

He reaches in, wraps a calloused hand around one of my arms and starts pulling me until I topple out of the car, into the dirt. He lets go of me and immediately slams the car door closed again so I don’t slither back in.

“Fuck.” I mutter, glaring up at him from the floor. He locks the car in front of my eyes.

“Now, when you’re feeling more like an adult and not a child, you can come on to our room- that building over there. “ I feel like running after him when he walks off to the building, but before I can get myself out of the dusty, beige dirt, a hand enters my vision and I follow it up and scream on the inside. Mayor George Fucking Buckman.

He smiles so charmingly… you could nearly believe he isn’t depraved. Then I see the eyepatch and I’m reminded. “Would you let me help you up outta the dirt, little miss?”

Mmmm, I guess.

Best to stay on his good side, I think as I take his hand and he hauls me up. I don’t want to be on the receiving end of one of those glares that the whole town like to take part in with him. Noooo thank you. Not for me.

“Thank you.” I say quickly, looking to get out of there and find the Hewitt’s. They’ve all disappeared into the building Hoyt went towards a moment ago now. I brush the dirt off my pants and then clap my hands off of each other to get rid of the dirt that’s on them now, and any remnants of feeling Buckman’s hand, then flash a tight smile in Buckman’s general direction and escape towards the building.

They have to listen to me!

I burst into the place and see Thomas trailing behind the rest of that devil family down a hallway and run down there. “Thomas!” I pant, because that was a long hallway. Where are we now?! The Overlook hotel!?! “Thomas, what kind of warden are you? Please, don’t you ever leave me alone with that man ever again!” Thomas narrows his eyes suspiciously at me above his normal, leather mask -Luda and Hoyt had decided before we left their murder mansion that the human flesh mask would probably not fly in normal society, so he swapped it in for the old one,- then nods in front of him for me to walk there where can watch, and I gladly go there.

___TIME SKIP: A couple hours later___

All day, I have been trying to persuade the Hewitt’s that I’m not from here. I described Texas Chainsaw Massacre: The Beginning in explicit detail, including of course the Sheriff Hoyt thing, the Eric/Dean confusion, Bailey, Monty’s legs being chainsawed off… I even recruited some comic book information about Hoyt’s time in the Prisoner of War Camp and Sargent Chow, but they just think I’m a stalker now.

I mean, why the fuck not? Why wouldn’t I stalk these freaks? Truly, being around them has been a joy filled time.

I don’t throw back at my face that I watched their movies religiously, readers. That’s was when I thought they were fictional! (Yeah, I know you’re there reading this. This sure feels like a fanfiction to me, and as a fangirl, I’m an expert.)

So, I’ve decided I have one more option. One more chance to survive.

Hopefully this doesn’t go worse then plan A did.

Through pretending like the rope around my wrists was too tight when Hoyt tied me up by the hands to his bed frame, when really in truth it was a bit loose, I manage to make him think I’m stuck for the night. So, when he falls asleep – I know he’s asleep because he snores like a feral racoon… that also has rabies… (He drools) – I carefully, quietly, I struggle out of the ropes and carefully put them on the floor. Then turn to the window.

We’re on the second level of this building, but the possibility of a broken bone or two will not deter me from getting out of this mess. Especially since Thomas is waiting in the hallway outside this room for any sign of me trying to escape and getting hurt from falling out of a window is much preferred to meeting the business end of his chainsaw.

Not that I’ll be out of danger when I get out… as I’ll still be in Pleasant Valley… but I will have completed Level 1 at least.

Opening the window, I wince and look back at Hoyt to make sure the gentle rubbing sound the window makes against the frame doesn’t wake him, then turn back and immediately get to crawling out. Once I have succeeded in getting onto the ledge I hold on to the gutter - hoping beyond hope that it’s sturdy, - and reclose the blinds and push the window closed as well again. Covering my tracks.

Then I start the perilous journey down the building, which somehow, I succeed in! When I finally drop down on the dirt again and turn around though, I nearly out loud this time. “Miss Shaye! -“I stop myself, making an ‘Oop’ sound. You would think I would stop making these mistakes- I have been tortured and keep prisoner by the Hewitt family. Certainly not the late R. Lee. Ermey or Andrew Bryniarski either. The Hewitt’s. - But alas, I am still making this mistake apparently. “Sorry, you remind me of someone else!” I smile at Granny Boone, who must have been standing there watching the whole time I conquered the hotel building, stands with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow purposely halfway up her forward. She’s waiting for an explanation. “I didn’t want to wake up my family, and its time for the midnight stroll. Couldn’t sleep!”

My heartbeat races in my chest, because I have every confidence that this woman could kill me with her bare hands if she doesn’t like my answer. For a few moments, she makes me wait as she does looks at me suspiciously like Thomas. Oh god, are you going to eat me or not, ghost lady!?

“Oh, well that’s very considerate of you! Could I join you on your walk? I’m in the same boat.”

Oh, for fudges sake.

I smile politely though, and we start walking side by side down the middle of town. Silence hangs between us, but as we walk, I start to think this could work. I was planning on finding Buckman and telling him my story to see if he would believe me and do something because this whole town is supernatural and hard to believe, but I actually think this may have worked out in my favour! Maybe. He’s a sexist, chauvinistic bigot. But at the very least Boone’s a woman like me, with less of a boner for authority so hopefully she’ll at least listen. So… maybe…?

“So… “I start, sounding loud since it’s so quiet out here. “Can we talk? Woman to woman? I don’t know, you just seem trustworthy!” Oh, puke. What am I saying? “Sorry if I’m out of line, but… something crazy’s going on in my life.”

“Oh, trust me. I know crazy.” I side eye her as she smirks ‘mysteriously’. Oh, I know you know crazy, lady. I know. I know it all. You know crazy intimately. “Uh but go on. Sure thing. What kind of good Christian lady would I be if I didn’t bend an ear to our esteemed special guests?”

… Uhuh.

Well, okay! Works for me. “Thank you.” I clap my hands together. “Well. It started a month ago now, I guess… Haven’t really been able to keep up with time. First, I should probably explain the multiverse theory…”

[until-the-sun-rises]

Virgil’s Promise

AU Intro Post

AU Creators: @a-valorous-choice and @ironwoman359

Summary: Virgil, his mother, and his little brother Thomas have been living in the woods since a virus outbreak wiped out most of the population, including Virgil’s father. Life can be bleak, but they make the most of what they have. However, when Virgil’s world is turned upside down again, will he have what it takes to keep his little brother safe?

Content Warnings: Apocalypse AU, angst, character death, death of a parent, guns, knives, violence, mentions of blood, zombies (called terminals in universe), mentions of eating people (in a zombie sense, not a cannibal sense), crying, grief, sympathetic deceit, sympathetic remus, cursing, bittersweet ending. PLEASE let us know if you need anything else tagged, and stay safe! There are moments of comfort sprinkled throughout but this is mostly an angst piece with, again, a bittersweet ending. Do what you need to do to protect yourselves <3

Word Count: 5,464

Read on AO3 Here

Author’s Notes: Here it is, the first installment of the AU! I had such a fantastic time writing this, I’m really really proud of it, and can’t wait to hear what you guys think! Looking ahead, you can expect more introduction fics like this for our other main players, then we’ll get into other details of the main plotline! In the meantime, asks are open if you’d like to scream at us about the AU, we’d love to scream back! Love you guys, thanks so much for the support! -Taylor ☕️

--- --- ---

“Mom, I found more berries!” 

Virgil looked up to see his eight-year-old brother holding out a handful of dark purple berries with a wide grin stretched across his face. 

“Thomas, put those down!” their mother Emma cried, rushing over to Thomas’s side. “Those are pokeweed berries, honey, you can’t eat those. They’ll make you very very sick if you eat them, okay?” 

“Oh...okay. Sorry.” 

Thomas’s lip wobbled a little, and Emma smiled, smoothing back Thomas’s hair. 

“It’s okay, sweetie, you didn’t know. They’re very pretty berries, aren’t they?” 

“Uh huh,” Thomas agreed, nodding. “That’s why I thought they were fine to eat.”

“There’s lots of things in the woods that look pretty, but not all of them are safe, okay? Pokeweed berries are never fine to eat, they make you really sick. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I do.” 

“Good boy.” Emma smiled, and pointed over his shoulder. “Now, see those white flowers behind you?”

“Uh huh.” 

“Those are Queen Anne’s lace flowers. And their roots are actually wild carrots! Why don’t you go over and dig some up for us, okay?” 

Thomas nodded eagerly and skipped over to the patch of flowers. Emma sighed in relief, and sat back on her heels, smiling fondly as she watched her son. 

“I thought pokeweed was okay sometimes?” Virgil asked, coming up behind her, causing her to jump a little. 

“Virgil! You startled me, who taught you to move so quietly?” 

Virgil grinned. 

“You did. When you insisted you take me paintballing for my sixteenth birthday.” 

“Fair’s fair,” Emma laughed. “What did you ask me just now?”

“Pokeweed,” Virgil repeated. “I thought you could eat it sometimes?”

“Ah, I see,” she said. “Well, that’s true, but never the berries, or the roots. You can eat the leaves sometimes, but only if the plant is young. If you see the berries start to form, even if they’re still green, you shouldn’t even try. And you should boil the leaves first too. If you’re not careful, you could get vomiting or diarrhea...and that’s something we want to avoid when we’re fighting for our lives, isn’t it?” 

She said it in an upbeat tone, but the sombering nature of their reality couldn’t help but settle over Virgil’s shoulders anyway. He tugged the sleeves of his hoodie down over his hands, gripping the soft fabric tightly. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you,” Emma said softly, and Virgil shrugged. 

“S’not your fault. The whole world is kinda upsetting right now.” 

It had been three months since the outbreak, three months since Virgil’s father had died and he’d been on the run with his mom and brother, trying to stay alive. Fortunately, Emma was an avid camper and lover of the outdoors, so the three of them had been able to avoid towns for the most part. Sure, staying away from civilization meant that they were living off of mostly foraged plants and birds eggs, and it’d been ages since Virgil had taken a real shower, but those were small prices to pay for being able to mostly avoid the terminals. Thy tended to be in larger groups closer to towns and cities, so sticking to the country meant fewer encounters with the deadly infected creatures. 

People, Virgil thought grimly. They may be like monsters now, but they used to be people.

“I know it is, sweetheart,” his mother said, pulling him from his thoughts. “And it’s not fair, how fast you’ve had to grow up now.” Emma sighed, looking over to where Thomas was eagerly digging up roots for their supper. “You should be enjoying your summer, deciding on a college or a career...not this.”

Virgil shrugged. 

“I didn’t really know what I wanted to do anyway.”

“I know that,” Emma said, giving him a sad smile. “But you had time to figure it out, to explore the world and decide what kind of man you’re going to become. Now that’s a luxury you don’t have anymore.”

Virgil looked down at his shoes, swallowing nervously. It wasn’t like his mom to be so openly melancholy; if anything, since they’d gone on the run she’d become even more upbeat and cheerful than usual. He had a feeling that she was trying to keep a brave face up for him and Thomas, but just because he knew it was partly an act didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate it. Some days he could almost pretend that this whole thing was just an extended summer camping trip, and then they’d go home and their dad would greet them at the door and they’d tell him all about it while sitting on the sofa in front of the TV. 

That illusion shattered every time they came across a terminal. 

“Virgil, listen to me,” Emma said, and there was an urgency to her voice that made Virgil look up. “Right now, the only thing we can be certain of, the only thing we can rely on, is each other. It’s my job to look out for the both of you, and it’s your job to look out for Thomas. Protecting him has to be the top priority, alright?” 

“Yeah,” Virgil nodded, swallowing down the lump in his throat. “Yeah, I know, Mom. I...I won’t let anything happen to him.” 

“Oh, honey, come here,” she said, and Virgil let her wrap her arms around him. 

He felt exceptionally small in his mother’s embrace, but not the bad kind of small where he felt powerless and afraid. He felt safe, protected, shielded from all the horrors of the world. Her grip tightened, and Virgil realized with a start that she was trembling.

“Mom?” 

“I’m so proud of you,” she whispered. “You’re so strong, and so brave. Thomas is lucky to have you for a big brother.” 

Virgil didn’t feel strong most days, and he certainly didn’t feel brave. Most of the time he just felt scared; strength and bravery were attributes he’d be more likely to apply to his mother than himself. But the way she held onto him now, as though he’d disappear if she let go for one second made him realize that she was also scared. Scared for herself, but scared for him, too, and for Thomas; scared that she couldn’t keep them safe in this new world full of dangers. 

Virgil may not have had much faith in himself, but he had faith in his mother. And she was putting her faith into him, and he’d be damned if he let her down. 

“I won’t let anything happen to him, Mom,” he repeated, hugging her back tightly. “I promise.” 

--- --- --- 

Virgil’s heart was pounding so heavily he was sure it was going to burst out of his chest. Wouldn’t that just be his luck, he’d escape being eaten by terminals only to fall over dead from a heart attack. His lungs were on fire, and his legs threatened to buckle underneath him more and more with every step. But then Thomas whimpered in his ear, burying his face deeper into Virgil’s neck, and Virgil took a deep breath. He adjusted his grip on Thomas’s legs and pressed forward, his mother’s instructions echoing in his ears and urging him onward. 

The old cabin had seemed deserted enough, with no trace of the previous inhabitants anywhere, so they’d gotten a little too relaxed as they searched the building for supplies. But it turned out the area wasn’t as deserted as they thought, and the sound of his little brother screaming had brought Virgil barreling out of the bathroom and into the main room to see three terminals bearing down on his family. Virgil’s mother was gripping a tire iron like a baseball bat and standing between Thomas and the advancing creatures.

“Virgil,” she’d said in a low voice. “Take Thomas and get out of here, now.”  

Virgil hadn’t wanted to leave her, but the look in her eyes had left no room for argument, so he’d scooped his brother up piggyback style and fled towards the back door, wincing as he heard his mother let out a primal roar, followed by a sickening *thwack*.  

Virgil didn’t stop running until he stumbled back into the clearing where they’d made camp, collapsing to his knees and letting Thomas climb off his back. Every muscle in his body ached, and for a moment he just stayed on the ground, gasping as he fought to get his breath back. 

“Virgil?” Thomas asked, voice wobbling, and Virgil looked up to meet his brother’s tear-filled eyes. “Are you okay?” 

“Yeah,” Virgil gasped, managing to give his brother a small smile. “I’m...I’m okay...just...just catching my breath.”

“Is Mom okay?” 

Virgil opened his mouth, then closed it again. Part of him wanted to lie, to promise that their mother would be just fine and would come and get them when the scary monsters were all gone. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, and he met his brother’s gaze with a grim expression. 

“I...I don’t know, Thomas.”

Thomas fell silent, and for a moment neither of them moved, Virgil still gulping down breaths of air, trying to get his wind back. Then, so suddenly that it made Virgil jump, Thomas crawled forward and nestled himself into Virgil’s lap, wrapping his arms around his middle and laying his head on Virgil’s chest. 

“Your heart is beating really fast,” he said, and Virgil nodded, wrapping his arms around Thomas and drawing him closer. 

“Yeah, it is, buddy,” he said quietly. 

“You should count your breaths like Mom says to do. Okay?”

“Okay, yeah. That’s a good idea,” Virgil said, grateful for something that could distract them both. “How about we do it together? Remind me how it starts again?” 

Thomas scrunched up his nose as he thought. 

“You breathe in for four counts, right?”

“That’s right, good job. Let’s do that together, okay? In, two, three, four…” 

Virgil led them through the rest of the breathing exercise over and over again until Thomas drifted off to sleep, exhausted by the stress of the day. Virgil wanted nothing more than to join him in a nap, but he couldn’t sleep now, he had to stay up and keep watch, to see if their mother...or anything else, would approach the camp. 

He waited for what felt like hours, every sense straining for any sign that somebody was coming. Finally, just as the sun was starting to dip in the sky, he caught sight of someone slowly walking towards the campsite. His heart leapt as he recognized his mother’s silhouette, short but strong with hair pulled up into a high ponytail. 

“Thomas?” he murmured, giving his brother a small shake. “Wake up, Mom’s here.” 

“Hmm?” Thomas asked blearily, still half asleep. 

“Mom is…” Virgil trailed off as he looked back towards where their mom was walking. 

Something was wrong. 

Oh no...oh god, no, not this, please not this…

“What about Mom?” Thomas asked again rubbing at his eyes. 

Oh god, I can’t do this, I can’t deal with this, please…

Virgil’s grip tightened on Thomas, and he scrambled to his feet, backing away while keeping his eyes trained forward. 

“Virgil, what’s–” 

“Thomas, listen,” Virgil said urgently, setting his little brother down. “I need you to hug this tree here and close your eyes, okay? Whatever you do, whatever you hear, don’t open them until I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Virgil, is Mom–” 

“Do you understand?” Virgil asked desperately, and after a beat, Thomas nodded. “Good,” Virgil breathed, pressing his forehead against Thomas’s for a moment and taking a deep breath. “Close your eyes now,” he whispered, and he stood back up, turning back towards his mom. 

No. That’s not Mom. Not anymore. 

The woman that was lumbering towards him moved her limbs in broken, jerky motions, as though she was a poorly controlled marionette. Her eyes were bloodshot and empty, and saliva drooled out of her open mouth. A low moan escaped her lips as she came closer, and Virgil’s heart tightened in his chest. He’d seen terminals before, knew how they worked and how to kill them. But this...this was different. 

This was his mother, and now she was a monster. 

Virgil scrambled towards the log at the edge of their campsite where they’d stashed their supplies. There wasn’t much there, just one change of clothes, a few handfuls of food, the last of their bandages, and...there. His mom’s .22 rifle. 

“We only have one bullet left, Virgil. So until we can find some more ammo, we’re not going to hunt or travel with this anymore, okay? We’ll keep it here in case there’s an emergency.”

Virgil’s hands shook as he pulled out the gun and checked to see that their last bullet was properly loaded. He’d never cared much for shooting, but after they’d made a run for the woods, his mom had insisted he learn to use it, teaching him how to hunt rabbits, possums, and other small animals that she’d then showed him how to clean and skin before cooking. 

He’d never shot a terminal before. 

Realistically, one of three things would happen. One, Virgil’s mother would attack them and he and Thomas would die, leaving their mother to feast on their remains. Two, Virgil’s mother would attack them and he and Thomas would turn terminal themselves, which basically boiled down to being brain dead while your body shuffled around in search of food. Or three...

Virgil raised the rifle up, tucking the butt to his shoulder and blinked away the tears that were forming in his eyes. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, then he squeezed the trigger. 

The gunshot echoed through the forest, and though Virgil’s ears were instantly ringing, he could still hear the sound of Thomas’s scream from behind him. Everything seemed to slow down as Emma’s body dropped to the floor of their campsite, instantly going still. A blur flew past Virgil, and he just barely dropped the rifle in time to catch Thomas as he rushed towards their mother.

Thomas struggled desperately against Virgl’s grip, sobbing as he tried to get free and run towards her. Virgil just held him tighter, ignoring his own tears as he pulled Thomas away. 

“Thomas,” he choked out as Thomas kicked and struggled. “T-thomas, no, it’s not safe...th-they can still turn you when they’re dead if you’re not careful…”

Thomas just kept kicking and sobbing, and Virgil could do nothing but hold him back, even as his own tears fell. Eventually, Thomas went limp against him again, though his little body still quivered with sobs, making Virgil’s heart ache even more. He wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball with his baby brother and sleep, sleep until all the anguish bled away and left him empty. 

But a steely voice inside him insisted that no, he couldn’t do that. The terminals were drawn to loud noises, and the gunshot was sure to attract more of the creatures to this spot. They needed to move, and quickly, if they wanted to avoid any more confrontations with the creatures, and with only his hunting knife left to defend themselves with, Virgil would rather avoid running into more of the terminals. 

“Thomas,” he said, drawing away to look his brother in the eyes. “Thomas, look at me.” 

Thomas looked up, his eyes puffy and red with tears trailing down his cheeks, and Virgil had to resist pulling him close for another hug. There would be time for grief later. 

“I need you to go to the log and gather up all our things, okay? Can you do that for me?” 

“M-mo...M-mom–” Thomas choked out, and Virgil cupped the back of his head, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I know, Thomas, I know,” he said, more tears pooling in his eyes. “I am so, so sorry, but it’s not safe for us here. More of them will be coming, and Mom would want us to get far, far away so that we can be safe. Okay?” 

Thomas sniffled, but nodded, and Virgil smiled at him through his tears. 

“There’s a brave boy. Now go gather up our things, we need to move.” 

Thomas stumbled over to the log, and Virgil took a deep breath before turning towards his mother’s body in the clearing. His stomach churned as he approached, and he swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat. It wasn’t pretty, but he knew what he had to do. 

Virgil pointedly kept his gaze away from his mother’s  face and carefully knelt down, sliding the straps of her knapsack off her shoulders. He took care not to touch anywhere near her now foam filled mouth, remembering what the news reports had said about the creatures when the outbreak had first occurred...back when they were still running news reports. 

The virus is transmitted via bodily fluids; even if the infected subject is deceased, their corpse may still infect others if their blood or saliva comes into contact with open wounds.

Virgil tugged the bag out from under her, stepping away as she fell back against the ground. A quick rifle through its contents revealed most of the supplies that they’d gathered from the cabin, and his heart twisted again in his chest. By the looks of things, she’d managed to fight off the three terminals from the cabin and had stayed herself long enough to gather up their supplies and head back towards their camp. She probably hadn’t even realized she’d been infected until it was too late. 

Virgil took one last look at his mother’s body, and paused as he saw a glint of gold around her neck. He looked over his shoulder to where Thomas was packing up their bag, then bent down and quickly pulled a heart-shaped locket from around his mother’s neck. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, allowing himself one brief look at her face. “I’ll look after him, Mom, I promise.” 

He slipped the locket into his pocket, then turned and walked over to Thomas. 

“Hey, buddy. Got everything?” 

Thomas looked up at him and nodded solemnly. 

“Good. It’s time for us to leave then, okay?” 

Thomas looked over at their mother one last time, then back up at Virgil. 

“Can you carry me?” he asked. 

Virgil could already feel exhaustion creeping over him, and his limbs still ached from their earlier escape, but right now? There was no way he could say no to his little brother. 

“Sure, buddy. I’ll need you to carry the backpack though, okay?” 

Thomas nodded, and after Virgil had helped slide it over his shoulders, Thomas climbed up and linked his arms around Virgil’s neck. Virgil gripped Thomas’s legs and stood up with a grunt, taking a moment to readjust his hold now that he was standing. 

“Ready?” he asked, and he felt Thomas turn his head to look behind them again. His chest ached, and he reached up and gave Thomas’s hands a squeeze. 

“Yeah,” Thomas said eventually, laying his cheek against Virgil’s back. 

“Okay,” Virgil murmured, grabbing hold of Thomas’s legs again and stepping away from their campsite, one thought repeating over and over again in his mind as he walked. 

I’ll keep you safe, Thomas. I promise.

--- --- ---

Keeping an eight-year-old alive and safe in the woods during the apocalypse turned out to be harder than Virgil had anticipated, and it wasn’t long before he was completely desperate. He’d tried to replicate the traps his mother had set, and tried to fish using makeshift spears or reels, but he was either doing something wrong or had horrible luck, because the traps remained empty, and he was unable to catch more than one or two tiny fish per attempt. It wasn’t long before their meager food supplies ran out, and eating roots and leaves could only satisfy a growing boy for so long. Virgil was out of options. 

So he found himself here, gripping Thomas’s hand and standing on the outskirts of a small town at the edge of the woods. 

For most of their time living wild with their mother, they’d avoided towns. Areas that were once populated may have meant more supplies, but they also meant more chances of running into terminals, and Emma had wanted to avoid that at all costs, choosing instead to rely on her history of camping rough with her family as a child for survival. 

But Virgil simply wasn’t good enough to scrounge up enough to feed the two of them from the forest alone, so here they were. 

“Okay, buddy, remember what we’re looking for?” he asked, looking down at Thomas. 

“Canned food, clean clothes, blankets, and medicine,” Thomas rattled off, and Virgil smiled. 

“Yeah, that’s right,” he said. “Now, anything you find, you bring to me first to check the expiration date first, okay? We don’t want you eating something and getting sick.”

“I can read the dates myself, you know,” Thomas muttered, kicking at the pavement. “I’m not a baby.” 

“Right, of course,” Virgil agreed with a smirk. “You’re not a baby, you’re just a pipsqueak.” 

He reached down to ruffle Thomas’s hair, but his brother ducked away. 

“I am not!” he huffed, glaring up at Virgil, and Virgil held his hands up in surrender. 

“Okay, okay, whatever you say. Just let me look at the food before eating it anyhow, okay?” 

“Fine,” Thomas grumbled, and Virgil held back a sigh. 

The two of them had been on their own for just about three weeks now, and while some days were perfectly fine, other days there was an unmistakable tension between the two. It was worse when they were hungry, and with nothing but flower roots to eat for the past three days, it was fair to say they were pretty hungry now. 

“Thomas?” Virgil said, kneeling down so that he was eye level with his brother. “Can you look at me?” 

Thomas glanced over at him, and Virgil offered up a small smile. 

“I’m sorry if I seem too...overbearing. You know why that is, don’t you?” 

Thomas shrugged, and Virgil placed a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s because I want to make sure that nothing bad happens to you. I know I’m not always the best big brother to have, but all we’ve got is each other now. So if I...make some mistakes along the way, just know it’s because I want to keep you safe, okay?” 

Virgil was expecting Thomas to nod and move on, so he grunted in surprise when instead Thomas threw his arms around Virgil’s neck in a suffocating hug. 

“Okay,” he whispered, and Virgil didn’t care that he could barely breathe, he hugged his brother back just as tightly. “You were wrong about something though,” Thomas added, his breath tickling Virgil’s ear as he spoke. 

“Oh? What’s that, buddy?”

“You’re the very best big brother to have,” Thomas mumbled into Virgil’s shoulder, and suddenly Virgil was blinking back tears. 

“Thanks, Thomas,” he said, squeezing his eyes shut and pulling Thomas closer. 

He was about to let go when suddenly Thomas gasped, his whole body tensing up. Virgil’s eyes flew open in an instant and he stood up on instinct, gathering Thomas into his arms as he did so. There, barely a hundred feet away ambling into the street from behind one of the houses, were two terminals. It didn’t seem like they’d noticed the two brothers just yet, but searching the houses on this street had just become last on Virgil’s list of things to try that day. 

“Don’t make a sound,” he breathed in Thomas’s ear as he slowly stepped away. 

He tried to turn back the way they’d come, but froze as he saw three more staggering towards them from that direction. He spun around, his eyes scanning the street, and his heart slowly sank into his stomach. There was no way out of this neighborhood that wasn’t blocked off by private fencing or didn’t involve going past the growing number terminals. 

Well. 

Not for him anyway. 

“Thomas?” he said quietly. “Listen very carefully, okay?” 

Thomas nodded, his cheek brushing against Virgil’s, and Virgil held his breath for seven seconds. 

“I’m going to put you down,” he said slowly. “Then when I tell you, you're going to run straight down the street back the way we came, do you understand?” 

“Virgil?” Thomas asked, and Virgil pried him off his neck, setting him on the ground and staring at him intently. 

“Do you understand?” he asked, and Thomas’s wide eyes filled with tears, but he nodded. “Good,” Virgil whispered, squeezing Thomas’s hand. 

The terminals were ambling closer now, and he straightened up. He allowed himself one more squeeze of Thomas’s hand, then he let go and opened his mouth to scream. 

All of a sudden there was a *thwap!* sound that came from between the houses, and then the terminal closest to Virgil and Thomas had an arrowhead sticking out between its eyes. The creature fell forward and Virgil froze, too stunned to move. 

“Woo hooooooo!” a voice yelled from the direction the arrow had flown from, and the terminals turned towards the new source of sound. “Perfect headshot!” 

“Virgil?” Thomas asked, and Virgil dropped to the ground again, gathering his arms around Thomas and pulling him close. 

Another arrow flew into a nearby terminal’s chest, accompanied by more cheers, then a wild looking man in a dirty green t-shirt with a white streak in his hair burst out onto the street, a machete gripped in his hand. 

Virgil barely had time to wonder where on earth that maniac had gotten a machete before he was charging the terminals with it, squealing with delight every time his blade connected with a creature’s neck or head. It wasn’t long before every last one of them was no more than a bleeding corpse on the ground. 

“Coast is clear!” he called over his shoulder, wiping his blade off on his already filthy pants. “Oh, no...wait,” he added as his gaze found Virgil and Thomas crouching beside a house. “Looks like we’ve got a live one, Dee!”

Another man emerged from across the road, a yellow beanie on his head and a bow and quiver strapped to his back, though Virgil’s eyes were first drawn to the large burn scar covering the right side of his face. 

He approached calmly, ignoring the way Virgil scrambled to his feet and shoved Thomas behind him. He stared at the two of them for a moment, at Virgil’s narrowed eyes and Thomas’s hand clutching at Virgil’s leg before turning to his companion. 

“Remus, put your blade away, you’re scaring them.” 

The wild man, Remus, apparently, rolled his eyes but slid the machete into a sheath on his back and gave the pair of brothers a toothy grin. 

“Whoopsy! Wouldn’t want to give off the wrong impression. Don’t worry, I won’t hurt you, as long as you’re not a terminal or about to turn terminal or about to steal our stuff or hurt our friends or just be a dick in general!” 

“Forgive Remus, that’s just how he greets new people,” the man with the burn said, rolling his eyes in a fond sort of way. “He really does mean no harm...as long as you don’t fall into any of the aforementioned categories.” He raised an eyebrow at the pair. “Do you fall into any of those categories?” 

“We’re not thieves, if that’s what you mean,” Virgil growled, and the man raised his hands. 

“No need for the hostility, how about a ‘thank you for saving me and my…’” he raised a questioning eyebrow at Thomas, and after another moment of silence, Virgil mumbled,

“Brother. I’m Virgil, and this is my brother.”

“I see,” the man said, then he surprised Virgil by squatting down so he was at Thomas’s eye level. 

“What’s your name, little man?” 

Thomas looked up at Virgil, who placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a small nod. 

“Thomas,” he whispered, and the man smiled. 

“Thomas? That’s a wonderful name. How old are you?” 

“Eight,” Thomas said, then he puffed out his chest a little. “Almost nine.” 

“Almost nine, my my! So grown up!” he smiled, then glanced up at Virgil. “And what about big brother?” he asked, standing up.

Virgil frowned, and pulled Thomas a little closer to his side. 

“What’s it to you?” he growled, and the man quirked an eyebrow. 

“Just wondering if big brother is grown up enough to take care of an almost nine-year-old all by himself.” 

Virgil should have found the question insulting, but oddly enough, meeting the stranger’s eyes, Virgil didn’t sense any malice from him. 

“I’m eighteen,” he admitted quietly, and the man nodded. 

“Got anyone else in your party?” he asked, and Virgil clenched his fist at his side. 

“No,” he said, forcing himself to keep his eyes dry. “Wouldn’t be trying to scavenge alone with an eight-year-old if I did.” 

“Almost nine!” Thomas insisted, tugging on Virgil’s pants, and Virgil allowed a small smile to pull at his lips. 

“Okay buddy, almost nine,” he said quietly. 

“Right,” the man said, a smile flitting across his face as he looked down at Thomas. “Well, if scavenging alone on the streets with an almost-nine-year-old is getting a bit much to handle...I may have somewhere you two could stay for awhile.” 

“You’re offering them a space at Eden?” Remus asked behind them, shaking his head. “Wade’s not gonna like that much, Dee.” 

“Fuck Wade,” the burned man grumbled. “If he doesn’t like it, he can leave and they can take his bed. They’re just kids, Remus.” 

“Hey, I didn’t say I had a problem with it,” Remus said shrugging. “And I’ll take any opportunity to fuck Wade. Not the fun kind of fucking, mind you, the violent kind.” 

“Virgil, they said a bad word,” Thomas whispered, tugging on Virgil’s pants again, and Virgil didn’t know whether to attempt scolding the strangers or to laugh. 

“Seriously, though,” the man called Dee said, turning back to Virgil. “We have a place out in the woods. Nice and secluded, hardly any terminals around, and plenty of people to fight them off in case a few do show up. We don’t have much, but we can offer you a warm bed and a roof over your head.” 

It sounded tempting, Virgil had to admit. He could barely remember what it felt like to sleep under a roof, let alone in a bed, but he was skeptical. 

“What’s the catch?” he asked. “What do you have to gain by taking two strangers in?”

Dee shrugged. 

“We’re not a charity, if that’s what you mean. You’ll be expected to pull your weight around the place. But if you’re up for that, then you’re welcome to join.” 

Virgil thought it over, but it didn’t take him long to come to a decision, really. He couldn’t ensure Thomas would be safe and fed every day if he stayed on his own. If there was even a chance that what these men were saying was true, Virgil would have to take it. He leaned forward, fixing Dee with a glare.

“Anything happens to him and I’ll kill you, you got that?” he asked in a low enough voice that Thomas didn’t hear. 

Dee grinned, not unkindly. 

“Got it.” 

“Okay.” Virgil took a deep breath, then looked down at Thomas. “What do you say buddy, do you want to go somewhere safe with these, uh, gentlemen?”

Thomas seemed to consider it, staring up at Remus and Dee, then his stomach growled audibly. 

“You have food?” he asked, and Dee chuckled. 

“Yes little man, we have lots of food.”

“I wanna go then,” Thomas said, and Virgil smiled. 

“Okay then,” he said, holding out a hand to Dee, who shook it. “We’re in.” 

“Yay, new friends!” Remus said cheerily, bouncing on his heels. “This is gonna be fun, it’s been way too long since anyone interesting joined the camp, it’s no fun having only stinky Wade to share patrols with…” 

Remus continued rambling on, about what exactly Virgil wasn’t sure, but he didn’t really care. He looked down at Thomas’s hand in his, then up at Dee who was watching the two of them with an unreadable expression, though it morphed into a smile when he saw Thomas looking up at him. 

“Thank you,” Virgil mouthed at Dee, and the man nodded back. 

Virgil couldn’t say exactly what he was getting himself into with these two, but he hoped that whatever it was, it would mean he could keep his promise. He slipped his free hand into his pocket, fingering his mother’s locket. 

I’ll keep him safe, Mom. No matter what.

--- --- ---

Until the Sun Rises Taglist:

@the-permanent-fixture @maybe-i-like-the-misery @paint-in-flames @antisocialdragonenby @certified-demon @nonasidesstuff @idiot-annonymous @weird-spooky-broody-dude @ao-koshka @viana-dascolli @snail-giggles

[boog-shitposting-edition]

So I been playing a ton of Kenshi and watched all of the Mandalorian in a single day shortly before and it’s got me thinking about what makes what I consider a good action hero, because there was definitely a time where I thought the phrase “good action hero” was an oxymoron.

I grew up around some angry, unstable dudes who had that bad habit of watching horror movies and opining that in the same situation they would simply shoot the monster with the gun the character was holding. I got some views on the model of masculinity that sees the male ideal as functionally a tool for performing violence, condescension and occasional reddit-approved banter with all other emotional responses pared away or suppressed. This seems like a good way to manufacture a product for performing labor rather than developing a whole functional human being. So I generally veer away from that sort of thing pretty hard.

So I’m resistant to the Mandalorian at first, right? All the ads are basically star wars apocryphica and a power armored fighty gun boy. The last star wars thing I’d seen was The Rise Of Skywalker and my faith in the franchise is low. But it’s been a hot minute, the hype dies down, and my girlfriend is a better and more patient fan than I’ll ever be so we give it a go. And the first thing that really nails it for me is what a DORK the mando is. I’m delighted, his life is violence interdispersed with being an absolute buttfumble disaster. He slips and falls over things he could never have predicted, he burns his life down for a baby he finds in the desert. Pedro Pascal references Boba Fetts stiff menace and plays it off as someone who has no social skills other than stiff menace and it’s FASCINATING. Him explaining to the village woman who is obviously into him that he hasn’t taken the armor off since he was thirteen isn’t a badass declaration of martial devotion, it is the single saddest and most awkward interaction I have ever seen filmed and it hits all the harder for the fact that this is a character I’ve mostly ever seen as an action figure with a spring loaded missile backpack. Instead of being a faceless emotionless action-cudgel, Pedro amps up the body language in his acting to really sell you this heavily psychologically damaged, desperate, viking-space-catholic mess with no life skills other than violence and a devotion to his people’s creed that borders on obsession. Rather than paring himself down making him a psychological fortress, the Mando is an incredibly obvious walking raw nerve (”I’m not sad-” “Yes you are.”) So, Kenshi.

I’ve heard about this game on and off a few years and finally got it a few days ago. It’s been in early access since 2012, appears to be mostly getting finished by its modding community, and glitches like absolute woah. There’s no core storyline, just a post-apocalyptic setting with some surprisingly detailed autogenerated NPC interactions with some options for starting conditions and the sole goal of surviving. It’s essentially a rapid sequence of story prompts hidden underneath a closely interlocked system of XP grinding, survival mechanics and dismemberment algorithms, and is appallingly my shit.

My first run at the game got pretty far, went from a lone confused desert wanderer to a 13 man village running a tidy copper-mining operation to trade with the ant people. In the early game, fight mechanics are basically a death sentence; my first character immediately got her leg torn off by a goat and I had to restart. All skills grow only by excersizing them; you have to fight to get better at fighting, you have to LOSE fights to gain toughness, and when you lose a fight the consequences can range from “these bandits are stealing all your food” to “this monster is eating your leg/heart/head” to “these slavers are taking your character away and your game experience is Different now.” And while I was proud of myself for finding a way to survive, grow and thrive with a low-combat squad, once I tried the basebuilding mechanics that basically just meant my town was a source of free food and money for local bandits while my squad starved to death, unable to abandon our locale. So I got fed up and restarted.

As mentioned the game gives you different start positions; wanderer gives you 1 character, some money and pants. Guy and his dog gives you a dog, which is fun. Exiled officer starts you with good skills and the hatred of your former commander, which complicates things. Cannibal Hunters starts you already in a fistfight with 30 cannibals. It’s exciting times. But I figure this time I’d like to start my squad a LITTLE more capable of defending themselves, so I look at the Holy Sword start; you’re a bandit who starts with a stolen holy weapon, minuses in most skills, no money and a 20,000 bounty on your head from both major factions.

So I proceed to character creation and notice I can pick whatever I want for player species/subspecies with this start. There’s robot people and warriors made of stone and baseline humans and all sorts of fun options, but you remember those ant people I mentioned before? In game they’re called the Hivers, you find ‘em in 3 recruitable varieties (prince, worker drone and soldier) and they have an interesting in-universe quirk; ones that grow up in the hive are pheramone-addicted, chemically wired into the needs and wants of all of their fellows, but if you’re away from your kin for over a fortnight this addiction dries out incredibly fast and cannot be reinstated. Hivers who ever spend any time away from the hive are declared “lost ones,” and are often taken advantage of in the outside world as they long for a new community.

In survival sims I dont often play dedicated fighters, I always feel like being a brutal fight-beast isn’t really in the spirit of finding a niche to exploit and growing from a fumbling plebian to a major power. But I was already starting this game with my ONLY advantage being a nice sword. And the soldier hivers gain a buff to experience gained for melee attack and toughness, and a debuff to literally all else.

Manual labor. Science. Engineering. Farming. Cooking. First aide. In a setting that heavily prioritized your ability to survive using multiple vital skill sets, my character would start with negatives in his skills for putting on band-aids and FEEDING himself. So I gave it a go.

Getting more wild here, it turns out the Holy Sword opening also takes place in a time in the setting with more recent warfare, so a bunch of the starting villages are destroyed and it appears that more of the nearby cities are controlled by the factions that have a bounty on me. So my character CAN’T rely on other people or meet anyone to recruit at first. He can run, he can scrounge and scavenge, and as mentioned above starting characters can take lethal damage from GOATS so he can’t even hunt for food; the only way I was getting a meal was if I robbed someone or ran into merchants on the road I could hawk my salvage to for a scrap of bread.

He eventually finds someone willing to join him on his travels in spite of being flat broke, a shek named Ruka running from a dishonerable loss on the battlefield, and comparing their skills he’s so useless for everything besides combat that I assign him to bodyguard her. And again, this game’s appeal is that the survival mechanics make good story prompts, so imagine that in character.

“Fine, I need a change. I’ll join you.” “Thank god. Lead the way boss.” “What?”

Things regarding my characters bounty are starting to heat up in town, so we head north into hiver territory. We get attacked by bandits and heavily injured, my soldier gets knocked out, so Ruka picks him up and carries him until we find a hive town. I saw these guys all the time in my last playthrough, I survived by selling to them, they’re super friendly, should be fine. Ruka walks into the local shop and before I can have her ask for directions and a medikit the shopkeeper is already shouting- “SKREEE! LOST ONE! GET OUT! LOST ONES BRING MADNESS”

Apparently, my protagonist being a hiveless hiver means there’s a THIRD faction that’s hostile to him; his own goddamn people. Ruka has to leave him under a tree not just outside but like 50 feet from the edge of town, and just has  to hope none of the local wild megafauna eats him while she rushes back in to buy things from the now abruptly friendlier shopkeep.

I’m finally sitting there, having Ruka watch my soldier hiver sleep while she cooks scavanged meat and waits for him to finish healing, that I realize what the story being generated here is and it’s a good one; a Hive soldier whose only skills are violence, frantically scavenging and stealing to survive until he can find the one circumstance where he’s comfortable, sacrificing himself to protect others. He steals a sword that’s obviously important to two major governments, just because he knows it’s powerful and thinks that power will justify his continued existence as a hiveless soldier drone, essentially buying his way back into his people’s good graces by performing his function. Literally wandering the world until he found a single person who was willing to boss him around again and devoting himself to their defense to a state of pathological damage just to feel like he has a hive again. It’s sad. It’s badass. It’s deeply, unsettlingly pathetic.

But I also think it’s what makes a really really good gruff action hero!

Hypercompetence in violence is really interesting when you acknowledge the damage it can do to your humanity in the storytelling! The Mandalorian is unsuccessful in repressing his empathy response so he just tries to tough through the pain it causes him as best he can, until he meets The Child and it snaps. The Hiver is essentially playing pretend at being still valued as a product for committing violence, even in the face of being openly rejected for his previously esteemed role. This stuff is INTERESTING.

TL;DR version, a lot of these “supersoldier raised by the military/fight wizards/karate” characters are super boring and obnoxious when they’re put forward as power fantasies, and really interesting when you realize that being raised by Fight Wizards is why they’ve never had a girlfriend and called their handgun “mom” once.

[witchcraft-in-wonderland]

Two Sugars Please (Pt.3)

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

Business was slow in the cafe that day, Patton liked it that way, Hera didn't, she still had enough energy to handle fifteen customers at once and not get tired. Virgil liked it because it meant he had less to do.

Patton was startled out of his thoughts by the sound of the bell ringing, and what seemed like a cyclone entering the building.

"Remus! Adrestia! You can explore later!" now that was a voice Patton hadn't expected to hear until much later.

"Janus! Didnt expect to see you so soon," Patton said, smiling. Janus was joined seconds later by the boy with a drawn-on mustache, and the child with a black headband. On his other side was Roman, still sporting a red sash, and Aphrodite, now wearing a white crown instead of headband.

"I decided to check out the cafe, since I was on the street," Janus smirked slightly, Patton felt his face flush.

"Are you two gonna kiss or is this some weird staring contest," Hera said, tilting her head.

Janus laughed slightly, Patton plucked Hera off her perch on the counter and held her against his hip.

"Hera that's not the type of comment you make in public ok sweetie?" Patton said, poking her on the nose slightly. She let out a giggle and a sneeze.

"Well it's kinda hard not to huh?" Virgil said, Apate snickered behind a gloved hand. If Patton's face could have gotten and redder, it probably did.

"Very observant aren't they?" Janus said, there was a glint in his eye that sent shivers down Patton's spine.

"Daaaaaaaaaaddddddd- I want cookies," Adrestia's face had broken into a frown, their face pressed against the glass.

"Adrestia, we don't fog up display cases remember, pick out which one you want," Janus said. The three other children followed suit, and soon Patton was handing off four separate cookies for each child.

"I'm gonna be tall to one day!" Roman was standing on his tiptoes next to Virgil, as though trying to reach his height. This was in no way a difficult feat for the 12 year old boy, as Virgil's slouch made him rather small.

"Heh, yeah, maybe you will," Virgil said, ruffling Roman's hair.

"So can you teach us to make these to!" Adrestia and Aphrodite were following at Apate's heels as they worked.

They smiled, if only barely noticable "Of course, I'd love to," they said.

"So when you're older you can help me with world domination to!" Remus, meanwhile, was instilling chaos via teaching Hera the meaning of words such as "arson" "warfare" and "cannibalism" while the younger listened intently.

"Remus, you can teach her about world domination later, you still have chores to do when we get home dont you?" Janus said.

"They're quite a handful huh?" Patton said, laughing.

"That they are, its refreshing, keeps me on my toes," Janus said, still keeping a close eye on all four.

"You must need a lot of breaks though huh?" Patton said, turning back to his work.

"Oh of course, actually, I was wondering if you might accompany me to a dinner I have next week, of course I'll be hiring sitters, it's a three day vacation for my colleagues and I," Janus said, his eyes now less glinted and more curious. Patton could feel him watching his every move.

"Janus that sounds wonderful, but what about mine? I can hardly afford a sitter for 3 days on my paychecks-" he said, it was hard to conceal the guilt in his voice.

"I can handle that, I've seen how tired you look our past few meetings, you deserve a break every once and a while," Janus said, the smirk returning to his face.

"You really don't have to do that, it doesn't seem right," Patton said, laughing slightly.

"Please, don't mind at all," Janus responded. This argument went on for a few minutes, Patton finally caving in, albeit after a bit of pushing from his eldest children.

"And you're both sure this is ok, I can trust you not to make a mess?" Patton said, arms crossed over his chest.

"We promise," all three of his children said in unison.

"That goes for you four as well, just because there'll be seven of you doesnt mean you can establish another anarchist rebellion against your babysitter," Janus said, his eyes lingering on Remus and Adrestia for a few seconds longer.

"Fiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnneeeeeeeee," the quartet groaned.

Patton still had several thoughts racing in his head as he drove home, the excited jabbering of his three children ringing in his ears.

"Dad, you're acting like me during finals week, it's only three days, we'll be with an adult, we'll be fine," Virgil was seated next to him on the couch, finishing up his homework and listening the the tv show Hera had put on while he worked.

"But what if something happens, what if Apate forgets to take off their binder? what if Hera gets hurt again? what if-" Virgil raised an eyebrow.

"Those all sound like things that phone reminders and text messages can handle pretty well yeah?" he said, Patton nodded.

"You're a really smart kid, Virgil, I hope I've told you that enough times," Patton said.

"Love you to dad," Virgil responded.

Patton had started his day feeling like he was missing a major part of his life, but now, he felt like maybe this new friend of his might be just what he needed to get himself back together.

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

Tag List:

@official-lucifers-child

@oceanart123

@spooky-scary-virgil

@misunderstoodshadowling

@devil-towne

@kawaiikat54

[death-himself]

Could You Meet Me Beyond the Grave?—Chapter 3

thank lord jebus for giving me the willpower to pump out a new chapter of this

this chapter switches between first and third person a little bit but ya know what? that’s fine. It was kinda needed for it to work the way I wanted it to so  ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

previous next (AO3 Link)

Summary: Virgil nearly gets caught, and now must deal with the results of his actions

Pairings: Eventual LAMP/CALM, Remile, QPR RED

Word Count: 2,294

Warnings: Referenced Eye Trauma (welcome back to the Willow AU), Kidnapping, Deceit being an anti-villain (I’ve decided on that term for him now because idk he’s either that or morally grey depending on your view on life)

(anything else you need tagged lemme know)

Roman slowly stirred his drink, the ice clinking against the sides of the glass. He then groaned, letting his head fall to the table. "How long is he gonna make us wait?"

"It's been five minutes, Roman."

"It feels like it's been forever!" Patton giggled, patting Roman on the head. "Give him time, he said he'll be here!"

"He says that all the time now." Roman grumbled. "I mean come on, Patton! He tells us he'll be here and then ten minutes after he's supposed to be here he says he can't come! He continuously gets our hopes up then just pummels them into the ground!" Patton hesitated, looking out at the streets hopefully. "Just...give him time—"

"We've given him a whole month! Every date we talk about, he's always like "Oh I'll be there, I'll finally grace you with my likely very handsome face" and then he's a no-show! I mean, come on! He, he keeps...ghosting us! That's the word! He's a professional ghost!"

"Roman, what are you even—"

"You've gotta agree with me, Lo! He's being weird." Logan rolled his eyes, taking a long sip of his coffee to establish dominance. "He has been acting particularly odd recently, I can't disagree with that, Roman. However, we have always known him as a rather strange person. He does tend to procrastinate and worry about things until it's too late for him to make a proper decision. This is our fourth date since Virgil began doing this, so—"

"So he has to show up today!" Patton interjected. "I mean, one more time would be just crazy, right?" Roman thought it over for a moment, before sighing and nodding his head. "You have a point, darling. I suppose I can wait a bit longer." Logan opened his mouth to speak, before sighing and sitting back in his chair in resignation.

They sat in silence for a moment, before they heard a yelp from outside. Patton furrowed his eyebrows, listening curiously. "Hey! Watch where you're—" The person seemed to freeze, then only a few seconds later a second person screamed in terror, and a man ran past the cafe window as fast as humanly possible, horror painted across his face. The three stared wide-eyed as he passed, before Roman turned to Logan. "What do you think that was about?" Logan hummed, taking a sip from his coffee. "I haven't the slightest idea."

"Hey guys, is it just me, or did that first guy sound kinda like Vee?" Roman's eyebrows raised, before he shrugged. "Virgil making someone scream in fear? It does match his aesthetic. But no, that...probably wasn't him." Patton shrugged, resting his chin on his hand as they continued to wait.

A lecture from Dee was the last thing I wanted at the moment. Granted, I never wanted lectures from Dee, but this time was especially irritating. "You can't just run off like that hopelessly chasing after your soulmates, Virgil! You nearly got caught this time!"

"Dee, I—"

"Go to your room! This whole situation is ridiculous!"

"Are you seriously sending me to my room? I'm not a child and you're not my mom. I'll go to my room if I want to." I shoved my hands into my pockets, standing up and making my way to the stairs. I heard Dee's frustrated groan as I stormed up, shoving my door open and slamming it shut. I collapsed onto my bed, running a hand down my face. I knew I had screwed up, but it's not like I was gonna admit that to Dee.

There was a knock at my door, followed quickly by it opening, Emile's scent drifting into the room. "Dee's been pretty uptight recently, huh?"

"Ever since I started trying to meet them."

"He is a bit...controlling. I've been suspecting it's just overprotectiveness taken to the extreme, I mean...he does care a lot about you." There was a short silence as we both collected our thoughts. Emile sighed. "What exactly happened this time?"

"I...tried to meet up with them at this cafe in the middle of town. Then there was this one...asshole who kicked at my leg and made me lose my balance. I just barely stopped myself from falling on my face. Then I turned to him with a full speech on how much I hated him for doing that when I realized that my scarf had slipped down my neck and my sunglasses had slipped down my nose. All my exposed muscles and missing eyes and shit were, well...exposed. He must've seen them 'cause I heard him scream and run off. Then Dee grabbed me and dragged me back here." Emile had moved to sit next to me on the bed. I rubbed one of the blankets between my fingers, the motion soothing in a way. "We're lucky he was probably the only one who saw. No one's gonna believe one guy saying that he saw a man with his skin torn open and no eyes. At least that's what Remy said when we were fighting."

Emile sighed, gently rubbing circles into my hand with his thumb. "Why don't you get some rest, Lapis? If you want, I could have Remy come give you some of his sleeping gas." I wrinkled my nose. "Fuck no! That stuff smells awful! Plus, he always uses way too much on me, I can just tell." Emile hummed in agreement, giving my hand a small squeeze before he stood up. "Well, try to get some sleep anyway, Vee."

"Thanks, Em." I muttered, sighing as I heard my door close and his footsteps walk away. I lied down in bed, picked up a marker, and began writing my fourth apology letter to my soulmates onto my arms.

Emile walked downstairs, smelling Dee and Remy on the couch. "Vee's not doing too well, Dee."

"I know." Dee groaned. "It's just...I don't know what to do about him!" Emile sat down on his left, Remy on his right, preparing himself for the rant that Dee had definitely been in need of for a long time. "I understand why he'd be so insistent on meeting them; I, admittedly, wanted to meet you two more than anything when I first found out about you. Virgil can attest to that. But...all the danger he's putting himself in, and he doesn't even know—"

Dee slapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide. Remy gently tapped Dee's leg. "Doesn't know what, babe?" Dee slowly uncovered his mouth, his hands trembling slightly. "N-Nothing, Remy."

"Aw come on, you can tell us!" Emile said with a smile. Dee took a deep breath, carefully taking his hat off and cradling it to his chest. "His soulmates aren't becoming Willows."

"What?"

"Think about it Emile! The three of us died at the same biological age because we're soulmates! Virgil's biologically 19! His soulmates are 28! They're going to die and pass on into whatever kind of afterlife there is while Virgil will be stuck here with us! And when he finds out about that, he's going to be absolutely heartbroken! That is exactly why he can never find out!"

"How do you know soulmates have to be the same age to be Willows? I mean, we don't really know if someone'll be a Willow until they—"

"I've been around for 200 years, Emile. I've seen this before, with other Willows. I've noticed the pattern. Soulmates who both become Willows are always the same biological age when they die. Those that aren't the same age," Dee sighed, "they do exactly what Virgil's doing now, and they always either get killed or heartbroken." Emile pointed his head to the ground, lips pressed together in thought.

"Why don't we give Virgil's soulmates a try? You know, as humans?"

Remy snorted. "You kiddin', Emy? What kinda human falls in love with people who eat humans? Who aren't cannibals or murderers? I mean, come on babe, it took us months to get used to Dee, and we were Willows when we met him."

"If Virgil goes with them he may have to re-integrate into human society." Dee mumbled, eyes wide with the realization. "He'd have to leave the tower for good if he does somehow end up living with his soulmates. They're human, they still have to live normal human lives." Emile felt the fear radiating off Dee as he continued mumbling to himself. He slowly put a hand on Dee's back, rubbing steady circles in hopes of calming him down. "Is there any way we could make them into Willows?"

Dee shook his head. "Willows are born from suffering; they'd have to be put through quite a lot to become like us. It might be too late anyway." Emile suddenly felt his emotions alter completely, Dee going silent as he thought. Remy seemed to tell something was different as well, as he asked, "You okay, Dee-Dee?" Dee was silent for a bit longer, before taking a deep breath, saying, "I'm fine. I just...need to take a walk. I'll be back in a few hours." With that, he grabbed his scarf, sunglasses, and cane, then exited the tower. Emile strained his ears as he listened to him leave, not liking the aura he had been giving off.

It had been roughly forty minutes since Dee had taken Virgil out of the city. As per usual, his soulmates' date would last roughly two to four hours, and Virgil would have finished his apology by now. Still plenty of time to put his plan into action. While it was definitely one of the worst plans he had made, it was worth a shot. He just hoped Virgil would never realize what he was doing. And if he did find out, Dee hoped he'd realize he was doing it for him.

He felt his skin itch and tingle as he shape-shifted into Virgil. He had never understood why they had gotten these powers when they became Willows, but they had definitely helped him in the past, and would definitely help him now.

Dee entered the city, subconsciously making himself smaller as he navigated through the crowds of people, forcing himself not to take in their scents as he headed to his destination. He found the place he had grabbed Virgil and pulled him to safety, then continued walking a bit further.

Roman stared glumly out the window, feeling Patton writing out a response to Virgil's apology. "How many times is he gonna do this?" He mumbled. Logan sighed, paying for their food and standing up. "Perhaps we should just head home? We could, possibly, stop by that new dog park if either of you happen to be interested?" Patton perked up immediately, smiling at Logan, trying his best not to show just how upset he was. "Sounds great, Lolo!" Roman chuckled at his enthusiasm, not taking his eyes away from the window.

That's when he saw a familiar black and purple hoodie, dyed purple hair, and white cane. Roman jerked upright, staring wide-eyed as the man walked past so casually. "That's Virgil!" He whispered.

"What?"

"From when I bumped into him at the store! It's him!" Roman stood up, grabbing Logan and Patton by the hands as he pulled them all out of the cafe. "He's not getting away this time." Once out of the store, he jogged over and grabbed "Virgil" by the shoulder. "Virgil" jumped, before spinning around.

"What is your problem? You give us an apology saying you couldn't come, and now here you are! Why didn't you just—"

"Hey, hey, Roman! I'm sorry, okay?" Dee disguised as Virgil shouted, putting his hands up in surrender. "I'm not really supposed to be here anyway, but...I wanted to show you something. I...need to show you something." He purposely made his voice softer, so as to gain their sympathy.

"Oh, sure thing Vee! What is it?" Patton asked.

"Follow me." Logan furrowed his eyebrows. "Are you sure you know where you're going?"

"I have this part of the city memorized, L. Don't worry about it." Logan seemed perfectly ready to ask a few more questions, but held off, instead watching with suspicion. Dee led the three humans to the edge of the city, then to the edge of a forest. "So...where are we going?" Roman asked hesitantly.

"You'll see." Logan, walking behind everyone else, fished a blue pen from his pocket. He wrote a simple question on his arm: “Virgil, what are you up to right now?” The first odd thing about it was that Roman and Patton had instinctively checked their arms, feeling the familiar itch as Logan wrote. So why didn't Virgil check? After a few more minutes of walking, "Virgil" stopped, turning around to face them. "We're here." Logan felt writing forming on his arm. He glanced down to see Virgil's purple handwriting. Where was Virgil's pen?

Dee took his time memorizing their scents, figuring out as much as he could about them, before allowing himself to stop. He let go of his disguise, shifting back into his normal self as Logan said "That's not Virgil" just a few seconds too late. He sensed Roman come closer, blocking a punch to his face and ducking as Roman tried to make a second blow. He grabbed Roman by the head, slamming it against a tree. Roman went limp, falling to the ground. Patton screamed, being quickly muffled as Dee charged both him and Logan, knocking them down to the ground and choking them until they went unconscious. He took a deep breath, tying the three up and sneaking them back into the tower, dropping them into the most secure room in the building. Anything for Virgil's sake.

[jupitermelichios]

Smallville Recap S2E20: Witness

Lionel is back and he’s as much of a bastard as ever, I am for one am glad to see him. In other news Chloe Sullivan can absolutely do one.

Oh good, Lana has developed another plot-related hobby. Maybe if she actually stuck at fucking anything for more than one episode, she wouldn’t so fucking boring!

Chloe, you do realise you edit a student paper, right? This isn’t the Wallstreet Journal! No one reads it! Also, you don’t get to order Clark to quit and then be sad that he did it!

Someone really needs to give Clark some anatomy lessons. Preferably focussing on how throwing people into walls hurts them!

Wait, the organised armed robbers hijacking armoured vans are high school students? Sure, why the fuck not. At least it’s not cannibalism I guess?

So if there’s one moral stance that Smallville takes seriously it is, for some insane reason, that everyone who enjoys sports is evil. Like cannibalistic murders for kicks evil.

Lionel, you stylish bastard, I have missed you!

Wait, Lex gets the school paper delivered?! Is that a thing in the States or is Lex just being weird?

Clark’s acting like the idea that people find him unreliable is some big revelation. Like it hasn’t been the plot of 90% of the episodes so far.

To give the writers their undeserved credit, running an illegal metal smelting business is definitely not where I saw this going.

Oh my god, why is everyone so one board with murder in this god-forsaken town?! Teenager finds out about your illegal metal smelting business and makes some baseless claims about you committing robbery, time to burn him alive! That’s a totally rational reaction!

Lana’s step-mom turns up at the Talon to tell Lana that she’s divorcing her husband because sometimes he spends time with his daughter now and she apparently can’t deal with him spending time with anyone except her. Because that’s a totally normal thing to put on a teenage girl who didn’t want anything except to spend some time with a dad a couple of times a week! You know I hate Lana Lang, but she is objectively blameless here!

Man, Lionel is a bag of dicks but I love that he’s been lurking in the shadows in this guy’s hospital room on the off chance that Chloe might break in and he’ll get the chance to monologue at her.

Chloe Sullivan, you do not get to tell someone they’re not your friend any more like a spoiled 3 year old and then be upset when they’re decide that you’re a wanker!

Wow, that’s escalated quickly. Villain “Maybe you should think about your parents before you fight me, you can’t always protected them.” Smash cut to Jonathan and Martha CHAINED TO THE CEILING OF THE BARN

It’s been two seasons of Lex being nothing but open, honest, supportive and thirsty af, how is Clark’s default reaction still to assume the worse of him every single time?! This is why your only friend is fucking Pete Ross, you colossal bellend!

Stop giving Lex Luthor head trauma! Unlike you he doesn’t have fucking superpowers! He can’t just walk this shit off!

“Clark, use your other abilities.” Apparently his other abilities are just becoming immune to kryptonite when the plot requires it, so that’s useful!

Jesus Christ, Lana is telling her dad that he shouldn’t spend time with her because she thinks that if she sees him again it’ll be her fault if his wife divorces him, and apparently that’s just fine!

Oh yeah, Martha’s pregnant. I keep forgetting because it makes no fucking sense as a plot point!

So you know how I said last episode that I thought Lana had just lost her horse? I’m pretty sure she’s just lost her horse. Her plot-related hobby of the week is dressage and she’s competing in a big competition… on Whitney’s horse. What happened to your horse Lana?! What did you do with him????

Is Lionel funding Chloe’s crazy for a reason or is he just doing it to fuck with the people of Smallville, because honestly either one seems pretty likely at this point. Man, I love Lionel Luthor.

[sevenfists]

drawerfic #2: hockey hugs

I wrote this for @werebeary more than a year ago; we were very emotional about all of Sid and Geno’s bench hugs during the 2017 Cup run. I think I might have cannibalized parts of this for “All the Way Through” if anything seems oddly familiar. 3.5k, there’s some hanky-panky in here but nothing explicit.

1. February 19

Sid wasn’t an emotional guy, but all the business with his thousandth point was getting him pretty worked up: the crowd screaming, his parents crying—his dad crying. All of the stuff his teammates said about him to reporters. It was just a lot to deal with. And then, when he thought it was mostly finished, there was a pre-game ceremony in the locker room, the team core waiting to present him with a golden stick.

Fuck. He was definitely going to get choked up, and someone was definitely going to catch it on film.

He hugged Kuni and Tanger, who he had known for so long that they were basically family, and Flower, who was family, and who Sid was going to lose. He was so distracted by that thought that he forgot about Geno.

“Hey! Give me a hug,” Geno said, joking but also not.

Well: okay.

In hockey, a hug meant nothing.

No, that wasn’t true: it meant you were teammates, and you liked and trusted each other. You shared big joys and big sorrows. You were friends, or at least you got along well enough and maybe went to each other’s houses from time to time for a cookout or to watch football. You hugged on the ice, shamelessly; you hugged in the locker room, but those hugs were more reserved, a quick arm around the shoulders and a pat on the back, or a clasp of the hands and a bump of the shoulders. There were rules about all of this, even though nobody ever talked about them. During games, all bets were off, but the rest of the time, you still had to act like men.

Geno knew the rules, but he liked to bend them. Everyone let him get away with it, because who knew what kind of weird shit they got up to in Russia? And Geno had a special talent for making everything seem like a joke.

But it was still weird when he asked Sid for a hug.

Not weird: awkward. The hug itself was awkward, and that was weird. Sid had been hugging Geno for a decade. They’d had plenty of practice. There was no reason for it be awkward, but—it was.

Geno hugged him again in the locker room after the game. They had lost, which usually put a damper on things, but Geno approached Sid anyway, shirtless and sweaty, and wrapped him in a bear hug.

“G, you smell terrible,” Sid said, his words muffled against Geno’s shoulder.

“You’re best,” Geno said. His lips brushed Sid’s ear. He squeezed hard, and Sid laughed breathlessly and tried to break out of his grasp, but Geno held him firm. “Best,” Geno said again, and then he released Sid and stepped away with a swat to his ass.

Later that night, Sid curled up in bed with his tablet and watched the video again, the one with current and former players congratulating him. Horny was wearing a Penguins workout shirt, Kuni had actual sweat dripping down his neck post-practice, and Geno was inexplicably in a suit and tie, his hair combed. Sid watched that part a few times, listening to Geno’s familiar accent, his wholly familiar teasing.

Maybe there had been signs before then, and Sid just hadn’t noticed. But looking back, that was when he first started to wonder.

2. March 25

In Buffalo, the Penguins clinched their playoff spot, and Sid lost a few teeth. It wasn’t a big deal; they were fake anyway. An hour after the game, he was good as new.

Geno was out after blocking a shot with his shoulder and hadn’t traveled with the team, but when Sid checked his phone back at the hotel, Geno had texted him: Sid not pretty((((

Sid rolled his eyes. Pretty wasn’t in his job description. My teeth are fine. Thanks for the concern

Geno sent him a penguin emoji. best goal, and playoffs!! celebrate when u home

For sure, Sid replied, the way he agreed with most of Geno’s schemes, never really expecting them to get off the ground.

But when they were back in town a few days later, on a rare day off between playing the Islanders and playing the Flyers, Geno texted him mid-morning: come for dinner, I cook!!

Sid regarded his phone dubiously. He and Geno weren’t on casual dinner invitation terms, and he also didn’t really want to eat Geno’s cooking, which could most kindly be described as edible. Is this a prank?

Geno texted a string of eye-roll emojis, and then, no prank, want celebrate!!! I make freezer pelmeni

The infamous freezer pelmeni were made by Geno’s mom, and lovingly hoarded. Nealsy was the only non-Russian who had ever been permitted to eat them, and Sid still heard about it every time they played the Preds. Geno was pulling out all the stops.

Okay, dinner sounds good, Sid replied, mostly because he wanted to be able to take the wind out of Nealsy’s sails.

He drove to Geno’s that evening. Geno was waiting for him on the front step. He was dressed up, a little, in nice jeans and a collared shirt, one that Sid vaguely remembered complimenting when Geno had first worn it. Sid looked down at his own T-shirt and well-worn jeans and felt distinctly under-dressed, which wasn’t a feeling he had ever thought he would associate with Geno.

“Uh, I brought wine,” he said, and offered Geno the bottle.

“Sid! Don’t have to bring,” Geno said, as if Trina Crosby would ever raise a son who showed up empty-handed. But Geno smiled, and accepted the bottle, and guided Sid into the house with one hand resting lightly on his back.

Dinner was ready, even though Sid was exactly on time and had sort of expected that Geno wouldn’t have even started. There were flowers on the table, a nice seasonal arrangement. Geno opened the wine and took off his apron.  

“Bon appetit,” Geno said, and Sid grinned at how good his pronunciation was: too much exposure to French Canadians.

They ate. The dumplings were good, and Geno told a series of very funny stories, about a friend who fell overboard during a fishing trip, and three baby raccoons breaking in to a neighbor’s house. Sid realized after a while that Geno was exerting himself to be charming. Well, Geno was charming all the time, casually, incidentally, to everyone around him; but he didn’t usually expend any particular effort on Sid.

“Nice out,” Geno said, when the meal was done. “We go sit outside?”

“Sure,” Sid said. He was having a nice time. He wasn’t ready for the evening to be over.

Geno emptied the rest of the wine bottle into Sid’s glass, ignoring Sid’s protests, and took him outside to the swinging bench set up in the yard behind the house. It was nice out, mild still even with the sun sinking behind the trees. Geno stretched one long arm along the back of the bench, stretched his long legs out across the grass. The bench creaked gently as Geno used his feet to rock them back and forth.

Sid felt warm from the wine, and from the way Geno was studying his face, close and fond. Geno wasn’t telling any stories now, and Sid found that he couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

“Thanks for having me over,” he said finally, unable to bear the silence any longer.

“Thanks for come,” Geno said. His fingers skimmed along the slope of Sid’s shoulder and then away.

When Sid went home, Geno hugged him: not a locker room hug, but an on-ice hug, a celly hug, both of his arms around Sid’s shoulders. Sid closed his eyes and pressed his face against Geno’s neck for one sweet moment, breathing in Geno’s musky cologne.

3. April 9

The evidence piled up. Sid considered keeping a list, but that would mean he was taking it seriously; so instead he kept a mental list. The cologne was on there, because why was Geno wearing cologne to have dinner at home with Sid? And the hug was on there, and the swing. The way Geno started lingering in the locker room to talk with Sid before practice, not about hockey business, but about—nothing, really. He just seemed to want to make Sid laugh. And the way he started texting a lot, like every day, sometimes more than once. There was even another dinner invitation, a week after the first, and another careful, enveloping hug, and that was the point at which Sid had to admit to himself that something was pretty obviously going on.

It wasn’t like he was surprised that Geno liked men—that Geno maybe preferred men. It was an open secret in the organization. He even had a boyfriend for a while, a Russian grad student at Pitt who came to a few team events—always introduced as ‘my good friend,’ but everyone knew. Geno was discreet, but he didn’t hide it. Sid had seen him pick up more times than he could count. He was good at it, confident without being pushy. Geno liked dark-haired men, smaller than he was, out of his league looks-wise. He rarely struck out.

Somehow it had never occurred to Sid before that he was exactly Geno’s type.

He talked to Flower about it, finally, because he didn’t necessarily trust his own perceptions. They went for lunch after practice, and Sid picked at his food until Flower set down his fork with a sigh and said, “What’s on your mind, Sid?”

This conversation had been a lot less awkward when Sid mentally rehearsed it in the shower. “I wanted to, uh. Talk to you about Geno.”

“Yes?” Flower said.

Sid really wanted this to be one of the times that Flower read his mind and spared him the agony of having to spell things out, but the universe wasn’t going to be that kind to him. “Have you noticed, lately—it seems like he’s been kind of, uh. Maybe I’m just imagining things, but I think maybe he’s, um.”

Flower’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”

“God damn it, Flower, you know what I’m trying to say,” Sid said.

“I really have no idea,” Flower said.

For Christ’s sake. “I feel like maybe he’s been flirting with me,” Sid ground out.

“Oh, that,” Flower said. “Yes, I agree, he’s absolutely flirting with you.”

Sid wanted to kill Flower and then himself. “So what do you think I should do about it?”

“How should I know?” Flower said, and then his face softened, and he said, “You know you don’t need anyone’s permission, right?”

“Sure, I know that,” Sid said.

“Okay,” Flower said. He gave Sid a long hard look. “You have my permission, though, if you need it.”

“Thanks, Flower,” Sid said. He knew he didn’t need permission, but—it was a big step, and if Flower thought he was crazy, maybe he wouldn’t do it.

But Flower didn’t think he was crazy.

They closed out the season with a final road trip, Newark to Toronto to New York. In New York, Sid went down the hall and knocked on Geno’s door, his palms a little sweaty even though he didn’t think there was anything to worry about, not really.

Sid was maybe not entirely straight, and Geno maybe knew it. Sid hadn’t acted on it since some ill-advised experimentation in his early twenties, but Geno had been around for that, and—well, he probably knew. And he knew Sid knew about him, and so—it wasn’t innocent, all of that stuff on Sid’s list. Geno meant something by it.

Geno opened the door. He grinned widely when he saw Sid standing there, but then his smile faded.

“Sid,” he said.

Sid drew in a breath. “Let me take you out to lunch. I—on a date. If you want.”

Geno’s face shifted through confusion and into cautious joy. “When?”

“Now,” Sid said. “If you’re ready.”

“Yes,” Geno said, and Sid waited while he found his wallet and his sunglasses, and then they went down to the lobby to catch a cab.

Sid could never remember much about that meal. It blurred into a golden haze. He remembered laughing a lot, and Geno’s feet bumping against his beneath the very small table. He didn’t have any idea what he ate. He remembered Geno leaning back in his chair and smiling and holding his water glass in front of his mouth like his smile was a secret that he wasn’t ready to share. Sid hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Maybe not ever, not exactly like this.

It was a nice day, and the hotel was only a half-hour walk away. They strolled back slowly, their shoulders bumping, their hands brushing until Sid stuffed his in the pockets of his jacket to remove the temptation. Geno cast him a sly glance and nudged him so hard that he had to grab Sid’s elbow to keep him from tipping off the curb.

“Trying to kill me already, eh,” Sid said.

“Sorry, sorry,” Geno said, patting Sid’s shoulder. “I’m too big, don’t know my own strength.”

“Yeah, that’s definitely it,” Sid said.

Geno bumped him again, more gently. “Surprise you ask me.”

“Oh, uh. Should I not have?” Sid asked.

“No, no,” Geno said. “Very happy you do. Only, I don’t expect. First, it’s fun, you know? Have crush, think about, flirt a little bit. I don’t think you notice. Then—” He glanced at Sid. “Then maybe it’s not so fun. Maybe I start want for real, ask you come over, but still you don’t notice.”

“I noticed,” Sid said, and got to watch Geno duck his head and smile down at his shoes.

Back at the hotel, Sid walked Geno to his door, and then things got kind of awkward, both of them shuffling their feet uncertainly and making eye contact that probably qualified as bashful. It was ridiculous. Sid was too old for this.

Geno sighed, rolled his eyes, and said, “Come in for one minute. Okay?”

“Okay,” Sid said, and when the door closed behind them, Geno pressed Sid against the wall and folded him into a hug.

It was warm and close, and Sid wrapped his arms around Geno’s waist and held on, certain now that it was okay. He turned his head to rest his cheek on Geno’s shoulder.

He felt Geno press a few gentle kisses along his hairline. “Maybe we go slow, okay? I know you kiss boys, but—maybe only kissing?”

“Yeah,” Sid said. “I never—you know.”

“Okay,” Geno said. He made a soft, amused noise, and Sid didn’t have to look at his face to know he was grinning. “Only kiss boys, maybe it’s big change for you to kiss man.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Sid said. He pulled back and gave Geno his best unimpressed look.

Geno was grinning. He stroked a thumb along Sid’s cheekbone and said, “After Blue Jackets, then I kiss you.”

Sid narrowed his eyes. He wondered if they could manage a sweep.

4. May 10

The trouble with playoffs was that there was never enough time: not for sleeping, not for practicing or recovering, and certainly not for starting a secret relationship with your alternate. They had a few days after the series against Columbus—not a sweep, but five games was close enough. Geno came over for dinner the day after they closed out that series and kissed Sid for the first time, leaning against the kitchen counter with his hands cupping Sid’s face, their mouths moving together so slow and hot.

Sid drew back at last and licked his lips. “What do I get after the Capitals?”

“Think you get something? You greedy,” Geno said. “Kissing not enough for you?”

“Uh, no,” Sid said.

Geno grinned. “Let me think about.”

What Sid got was a concussion, and Geno pale and worried at his house first thing the next morning, with a bag of Sid’s favorite breakfast pastries; and then he got to lie on the couch with his head in Geno’s lap, and Geno endlessly kissing his forehead and face and murmuring, “Sid, poor head,” and then going off darkly into Russian.

The Capitals took seven hard-fought games. During the final game, Horny scored a clutch backhander for a 2-0 lead early in the third. When the puck went into the net, Geno turned immediately to Sid and opened his arms.

It was an on-ice hug: a hockey hug. But it was also just a hug with Geno, the type of fond embrace Sid could have now whenever he wanted and craved constantly, like now that he had that option he wanted to be wrapped in Geno’s arms at all times. He thought about Geno nonstop, at the grocery store when he saw Geno’s preferred brand of bread on the shelf, at home when he looked again at the fifteen heart emojis Geno had texted him the night before. And it was so easy now to lean against Geno’s chest for just a moment and be close to him, even through all their gear.

Geno leaned over to him afterward, when everyone had settled down on the bench once more, and said, quietly, “I think we win this game.”

They did.

What he got was Geno in his hotel room that night, after they won, and Geno’s hand on his dick, and his on Geno’s, half out of their clothes on the bed and kissing and laughing, giddy with winning and with having each other. Geno went blotchily pink all over before he came, his chest and shoulders all mottled with it, and Sid sat up toward the end, amazed, so he could watch Geno’s eyes squeeze shut and his mouth fall open.

“Stay the night,” he said, when they were cleaning up, and Geno did.

5. May 29

The series against the Senators was a long, boring grind, but somehow they won that one, too, and then it was on to the Predators.

They won the first game. Bones capped it off with an empty netter at the end of the third, and when Sid turned toward Geno on the bench, he knew for sure that Geno would be turning toward him.

Geno yelled something incoherent and pulled Sid against him, sitting on the boards to straddle Sid’s hips and squeeze him close. Sid couldn’t believe how lucky he was, to get to play good hockey with this man beside him, always ready for the next pass, always waiting for Sid to call to him or to lead him out onto the ice.

He went to Geno’s house the next afternoon: not for lunch, not for dinner, but just to hang out. Geno made a pitcher of water with lime slices and spread a blanket on the grass in the back yard, under the shade of a tree. They sprawled together and watched game tape on Sid’s tablet until Geno, predictably, fell asleep. And then Sid just watched him sleep for a while, feeling a little creepy but not enough to deter him from it. Geno’s face was so animated when he was awake, constantly shifting from one expression to the next, but in sleep he was peaceful. He looked younger. He looked tired, but they were all tired, this deep into the playoffs.

He looked like someone Sid wanted to keep beside him for a long time.

1. June 8

Game 5 was a 6-0 blowout. Sid got three points; Geno got a Gordie Howe hat trick.

“You’re a fucking menace,” Sid told him in the locker room afterward.

“Me?” Geno asked, all innocence. “What I do? Get two points, score goal—”

“Fight Josi,” Sid said.

“Only roughing!” Geno said. “Everyone fight, Haggy, Dales—”

“Don’t bring me into this,” Daley said.

“Fight Josi,” Geno muttered to himself, and stomped off to the shower.

Sid grinned. Geno was way too easy to rile up.

He riled him up even more in the parking deck. It was late and dark, they were two of the last people at the arena, and Geno only put up a token protest when Sid shoved him up against the driver’s side door of his stupid sports car and kissed him. Geno spread his legs and slouched down and Sid could feel him getting hard inside his suit pants, and they were being really dumb and Sid didn’t want to stop.

“You turn me on so much,” he said, kissing frantically at Geno’s neck, sucking kisses above the collar of his shirt. “You were so good tonight, you—”

“You first star,” Geno said, his voice rough, and he used his grip on Sid’s ass to pull him in a little tighter.

“Okay,” Sid said at last, tearing himself away. “Okay. Fuck. Okay. Let’s get out of here. Let’s go back to my place.”

“What I get?” Geno asked. His eyes were half-lidded. His mouth was wet and swollen. His ugly mustache was wet with spit.

“I bet I can think of something,” Sid said.

[interestingshitonmadikomgezrapou]

"On The Pleasure Of Hating" (c.1826)

THERE is a spider crawling along the matted floor of the room where I sit (not the one which has been so well allegorised in the admirable Lines to a Spider, but another of the same edifying breed); he runs with heedless, hurried haste, he hobbles awkwardly towards me, he stops -- he sees the giant shadow before him, and, at a loss whether to retreat or proceed, meditates his huge foe -- but as I do not start up and seize upon the straggling caitiff, as he would upon a hapless fly within his toils, he takes heart, and ventures on with mingled cunning, impudence and fear. As he passes me, I lift up the matting to assist his escape, am glad to get rid of the unwelcome intruder, and shudder at the recollection after he is gone. A child, a woman, a clown, or a moralist a century ago, would have crushed the little reptile to death-my philosophy has got beyond that -- I bear the creature no ill-will, but still I hate the very sight of it. The spirit of malevolence survives the practical exertion of it. We learn to curb our will and keep our overt actions within the bounds of humanity, long before we can subdue our sentiments and imaginations to the same mild tone. We give up the external demonstration, the brute violence, but cannot part with the essence or principle of hostility. We do not tread upon the poor little animal in question (that seems barbarous and pitiful!) but we regard it with a sort of mystic horror and superstitious loathing. It will ask another hundred years of fine writing and hard thinking to cure us of the prejudice and make us feel towards this ill-omened tribe with something of "the milk of human kindness," instead of their own shyness and venom.

Nature seems (the more we look into it) made up of antipathies: without something to hate, we should lose the very spring of thought and action. Life would turn to a stagnant pool, were it not ruffled by the jarring interests, the unruly passions, of men. The white streak in our own fortunes is brightened (or just rendered visible) by making all around it as dark as possible; so the rainbow paints its form upon the cloud. Is it pride? Is it envy? Is it the force of contrast? Is it weakness or malice? But so it is, that there is a secret affinity, a hankering after, evil in the human mind, and that it takes a perverse, but a fortunate delight in mischief, since it is a never-failing source of satisfaction. Pure good soon grows insipid, wants variety and spirit. Pain is a bittersweet, wants variety and spirit. Love turns, with a little indulgence, to indifference or disgust: hatred alone is immortal. Do we not see this principle at work everywhere? Animals torment and worry one another without mercy: children kill flies for sport: every one reads the accidents and offences in a newspaper as the cream of the jest: a whole town runs to be present at a fire, and the spectator by no means exults to see it extinguished. It is better to have it so, but it diminishes the interest; and our feelings take part with our passions rather than with our understandings. Men assemble in crowds, with eager enthusiasm, to witness a tragedy: but if there were an execution going forward in the next street, as Mr. Burke observes, the theater would be left empty. A strange cur in a village, an idiot, a crazy woman, are set upon and baited by the whole community. Public nuisances are in the nature of public benefits. How long did the Pope, the Bourbons, and the Inquisition keep the people of England in breath, and supply them with nicknames to vent their spleen upon! Had they done us any harm of late? No: but we have always a quantity of superfluous bile upon the stomach, and we wanted an object to let it out upon. How loth were we to give up our pious belief in ghosts and witches, because we liked to persecute the one, and frighten ourselves to death with the other! It is not the quality so much as the quantity of excitement that we are anxious about: we cannot bear a state of indifference and ennui: the mind seems to abhor a vacuum as much as ever nature was supposed to do. Even when the spirit of the age (that is, the progress of intellectual refinement, warring with our natural infirmities) no longer allows us to carry our vindictive and head strong humours into effect, we try to revive them in description, and keep up the old bugbears, the phantoms of our terror and our hate, in imagination. We burn Guy Fawx in effigy, and the hooting and buffeting and maltreating that poor tattered figure of rags and straw makes a festival in every village in England once a year. Protestants and Papists do not now burn one another at the stake: but we subscribe to new editions of Fox's Book of Martyrs; and the secret of the success of the Scotch Novels is much the same-they carry us back to the feuds, the heart-burnings, the havoc, the dismay, the wrongs, and the revenge of a barbarous age and people-to the rooted prejudices and deadly animosities of sects and parties in politics and religion, and of contending chiefs and clans in war and intrigue. We feel the full force of the spirit of hatred with all of them in turn. As we read, we throw aside the trammels of civilization, the flimsy veil of humanity. "Off, you lendings!" The wild beast resumes its sway within us, we feel like hunting animals, and as the hound starts in his sleep and rushes on the chase in fancy the heart rouses itself in its native lair, and utters a wild cry of joy, at being restored once more to freedom and lawless unrestrained impulses. Every one has his full swing, or goes to the Devil his own way. Here are no Jeremy Bentham Panopticons, none of Mr. Owen's impassable Parallelograms1 (Rob Roy would have spurred and poured a thousand curses on them), no long calculations of self-interest -- the will takes its instant way to its object, as the mountain-torrent flings itself over the precipice: the greatest possible good of each individual consists in doing all the mischief he can to his neighbour: that is charming, and finds a sure and sympathetic chord in every breast! So Mr. Irving2, the celebrated preacher, has rekindled the old, original, almost exploded hell-fire in the aisles of the Caledonian Chapel, as they introduce the real water of the New River at Sadler's Wells, to the delight and astonishment of his fair audience. 'Tis pretty, though a plague, to sit and peep into the pit of Tophet, to play at snap-dragon with flames and brimstone (it gives a smart electrical shock, a lively filip to delicate constitutions), and to see Mr. Irving, like a huge Titan, looking as grim and swarthy as if he had to forge tortures for all the damned! What a strange being man is! Not content with doing all he can to vex and hurt his fellows here, "upon this bank and shoal of time," where one would think there were heartaches, pain, disappointment, anguish, tears, sighs, and groans enough, the bigoted maniac takes him to the top of the high peak of school divinity to hurl him down the yawning gulf of penal fire; his speculative malice asks eternity to wreak its infinite spite in, and calls on the Almighty to execute its relentless doom! The cannibals burn their enemies and eat them in good-fellowship with one another: meed Christian divines cast those who differ from them but a hair's-breadth, body and soul into hellfire for the glory of God and the good of His creatures! It is well that the power of such persons is not co-ordinate with their wills: indeed it is from the sense of their weakness and inability to control the opinions of others, that they thus "outdo termagant," and endeavour to frighten them into conformity by big words and monstrous denunciations.

The pleasure of hating, like a poisonous mineral, eats into the heart of religion, and turns it to rankling spleen and bigotry; it makes patriotism an excuse for carrying fire, pestilence, and famine into other lands: it leaves to virtue nothing but the spirit of censoriousness, and a narrow, jealous, inquisitorial watchfulness over the actions and motives of others. What have the different sects, creeds, doctrines in religion been but so many pretexts set up for men to wrangle, to quarrel, to tear one another in pieces about, like a target as a mark to shoot at? Does any one suppose that the love of country in an Englishman implies any friendly feeling or disposition to serve another bearing the same name? No, it means only hatred to the French or the inhabitants of any other country that we happen to be at war with for the time. Does the love of virtue denote any wish to discover or amend our own faults? No, but it atones for an obstinate adherence to our own vices by the most virulent intolerance to human frailties. This principle is of a most universal application. It extends to good as well as evil: if it makes us hate folly, it makes us no less dissatisfied with distinguished merit. If it inclines us to resent the wrongs of others, it impels us to be as impatient of their prosperity. We revenge injuries: we repay benefits with ingratitude. Even our strongest partialities and likings soon take this turn. "That which was luscious as locusts, anon becomes bitter as coloquintida;" and love and friendship melt in their own fires. We hate old friends: we hate old books: we hate old opinions; and at last we come to hate ourselves.

I have observed that few of those whom I have formerly known most intimate, continue on the same friendly footing, or combine the steadiness with the warmth of attachment. I have been acquainted with two or three knots of inseparable companions, who saw each other "six days in the week;" that have been broken up and dispersed. I have quarrelled with almost all my old friends' (they might say this is owing to my bad temper, but) they have also quarrelled with one another. What is become of "that set of whist-players," celebrated by Elia in his notable Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq.3 (and now I think of it - that I myself have celebrated in this very volume4) "that for so many years called Admiral Burney friend?" They are scattered, like last year's snow. Some of them are dead, or gone to live at a distance, or pass one another in the street like strangers, or if they stop to speak, do it as coolly and try to cut one another as soon as possible. Some of us have grown rich, others poor. Some have got places under Government, others a niche in the Quarterly Review. Some of us have dearly earned a name in the world; whilst others remain in their original privacy. We despise the one, and envy and are glad to mortify the other. Times are changed; we cannot revive our old feelings; and we avoid the sight, and are uneasy in the presence of, those who remind us of our infirmity, and put us upon an effort at seeming cordiality which embarrasses ourselves, and does not impose upon our quondam associates. Old friendships are like meats served up repeatedly, cold, comfortless, and distasteful. The stomach turns against them. Either constant intercourse and familiarity breed weariness and contempt; if we meet again after an interval of absence, we appear no longer the same. One is too wise, another too foolish, for us; and we wonder we did not find this out before. We are disconcerted and kept in a state of continual alarm by the wit of one, or tired to death of the dullness of another. The good things of the first (besides leaving strings behind them) by repetition grow stale, and lose their startling effect; and the insipidity of the last becomes intolerable. The most amusing or instructive companion is best like a favorite volume, that we wish after a time to lay upon the shelf; but as our friends are not willing to be laid there, this produces a misunderstanding and ill-blood between us. Or if the zeal and integrity of friendship is not abated, or its career interrupted by any obstacle arising out of its own nature, we look out for other subjects of complaint and sources of dissatisfaction. We begin to criticize each other's dress, looks, general character. "Such a one is a pleasant fellow, but it is a pity he sits so late!" Another fails to keep his appointments, and that is a sore that never heals. We get acquainted with some fashionable young men or with a mistress, and wish to introduce our friend; but be is awkward and a sloven, the interview does not answer, and this throws cold water on our intercourse. Or he makes himself obnoxious to opinion; and we shrink from our own convictions on the subject as an excuse for not defending him. All or any of these causes mount up in time to a ground of coolness or irritation; and at last they break out into open violence as the only amends we can make ourselves for suppressing them so long, or the readiest means of banishing recollections of former kindness so little compatible with our present feelings. We may try to tamper with the wounds or patch up the carcase of departed friendship; but the one will hardly bear the handling, and the other is not worth the trouble of embalming! The only way to be reconciled to old friends is to part with them for good: at a distance we may chance to be thrown back ( in a waking dream) upon old times and old feelings: or at any rate we should not think of renewing our intimacy, till we have fairly spit our spite or said, thought, and felt all the ill we can of each other. Or if we can pick a quarrel with some one else, and make him the scape-goat, this is an excellent contrivance to heal a broken bone. I think I must be friends with Lamb again, since he has written that magnanimous Letter to Southey, and told him a piece of his mind! I don't know what it is that attaches me to H---so much, except that he and I, whenever we meet, sit in judgment on another set of old friends, and "carve them as a dish fit for the Gods". There with L [Leigh Hunt], John Scott, Mrs. [Montagu], whose dark raven locks make a picturesque background to our discourse, B---, who is grown fat, and is, they say, married, R[ickman]; these had all separated long ago, and their foibles are the common link that holds us together.5 We do not affect to condole or whine over their follies; we enjoy, we laugh at them, till we are ready to burst our sides, "sans intermissions for hours by the dial." We serve up a course of anecdotes, traits, master-strokes of character, and cut and hack at them till we are weary. Perhaps some of them are even with us. For my own part, as I once said, I like a friend the better for having faults that one can talk about. "Then," said Mrs. [Montagu], " you will cease to be a philanthropist!" Those in question were some of the choice-spirits of the age, not "fellows of no mark or likelihood'; and we so far did them justice: but it is well they did not hear what we sometimes said of them. I care little what any one says of me, particularly behind my back, and in the way of critical and analytical discussion: it is looks of dislike and scorn that I answer with the worst venom of my pen. The expression of the face wounds me more than the expressions of the tongue. If I have in one instance mistaken this expression, or resorted to this remedy where I ought not, I am sorry for it. But the face was too fine over which it mantled, and I am too old to have misunderstood it!...I sometimes go up to -----'s; and as often as I do, resolve never to go again. I do not find the old homely welcome. The ghost of friendship meets me at the door, and sits with me all dinner-time. They have got a set of fine notions and new acquaintances. Allusions to past occurrences are thought trivial, nor is it always safe to touch upon more general subjects. M. does not begin as he formerly did every five minutes, "Fawcett used to say," &c. That topic is something worn. The girls are grown up, and have a thousand accomplishments. I perceive there is a jealousy on both sides. They think I give myself airs, and I fancy the same of them. Every time I am asked, "If I do not think Mr. Washington Irving a very fine writer?" I shall not go again till I receive an invitation for Christmas Day in company with Mr. Liston. The only intimacy I never found to flinch or fade was a purely intellectual one. There was none of the cant of candour in it, none of the whine of mawkish sensibility. Our mutual acquaintance were considered merely as subjects of conversation and knowledge, not all of affection. We regarded them no more in our experiments than "mice in an air-pump:" or like malefactors, they were regularly cut down and given over to the dissecting-knife. We spared neither friend nor foe. We sacrificed human infirmities at the shrine of truth. The skeletons of character might be seen, after the juice was extracted, dangling in the air like flies in cobwebs; or they were kept for future inspection in some refined acid. The demonstration was as beautiful as it was new. There is no surfeiting on gall: nothing keeps so well as a decoction of spleen. We grow tired of every thing but turning others into ridicule, and congratulating ourselves on their defects.

We take a dislike to our favourite books, after a time, for the same reason. We cannot read the same works for ever. Our honey-moon, even though we wed the Muse, must come to an end; and is followed by indifference, if not by disgust. There are some works, those indeed that produce the most striking effect at first by novelty and boldness of outline, that will not bear reading twice: others of a less extravagant character, and that excite and repay attention by a greater nicety of details, have hardly interest enough to keep alive our continued enthusiasm. The popularity of the most successful writers operates to wean us from them, by the cant and fuss that is made about them, by hearing their names everlastingly repeated, and by the number of ignorant and indiscriminate admirers they draw after them: - we as little like to have to drag others from their unmerited obscurity, lest we should be exposed to the charge of affectation and singularity of taste. There is nothing to be said respecting an author that all the world have made up their minds about: it is a thankless as well as hopeless task to recommend one that nobody has ever heard of. To cry up Shakespear as the god of our idolatry, seems like a vulgar national prejudice: to take down a volume of Chaucer, or Spenser, or Beaumont and Fletcher, or Ford, or Marlowe, has very much the look of pedantry and egotism. I confess it makes me hate the very name of Fame and Genius, when works like these are "gone into the wastes of time," while each successive generation of fools is busily employed in reading the trash of the day, and women of fashion gravely join with their waiting-maids in discussing the preference between the Paradise Lost and Mr. Moore's Loves of the Angels. I was pleased the other day on going into a shop to ask, "If they had any of the Scotch Novels?" to be told - "That they had just sent out the last, Sir Andrew Wylie!" - Mr. Galt will also be pleased with this answer! The reputation of some books is raw and unaired: that of others is worm-eaten and mouldy. Why fix our affections on that which we cannot bring ourselves to have faith in, or which others have long ceased to trouble themselves about? I am half afraid to look into Tom Jones, lest it should not answer my expectations at this time of day; and if it did not, I would certainly be disposed to fling it into the fire, and never look into another novel while I lived. But surely, it may be said, there are some works that, like nature, can never grow old; and that must always touch the imagination and passions alike! Or there are passages that seem as if we might brood over them all our lives, and not exhaust the sentiments of love and admiration they excite: they become favourites, and we are fond of them to a sort of dotage. Here is one:

---"Sitting in my window

Printing my thoughts in lawn, I saw a god,

I thought (but it was you), enter our gates;

My blood flew out and back again, as fast

As I had puffed it forth and sucked it in

Like breath; then was I called away in haste

To entertain you: never was a man

Thrust from a sheepcote to a sceptre, raised

So high in thoughts as I; you left a kiss

Upon these lips then, which I mean to keep

From you for ever. I did hear you talk

Far above singing!"A passage like this, indeed, leaves a taste on the palate like nectar, and we seem in reading it to sit with the Gods at their golden tables: but if we repeat it often in ordinary moods, it loses its flavour, becomes vapid, "the wine of poetry is drank, and but the lees remain." Or, on the other hand, if we call in the air of extraordinary circumstances to set it off to advantage, as the reciting it to a friend, or after having our feelings excited by a long walk in some romantic situation, or while we---"play with Amaryllis in the shade,

Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair"---we afterwards miss the accompanying circumstances, and instead of transferring the recollection of them to the favourable side, regret what we have lost, and strive in vain to bring back "the irrevocable hour" - wondering in some instances how we survive it, and at the melancholy blank that is left behind! The pleasure rises to its height in some moment of calm solitude or intoxicating sympathy, declines ever after, and from the comparison and conscious falling-off, leaves rather a sense of satiety and irksomeness behind it... "Is it the same in pictures?" I confess it is, with all but those from Titian's hand. I don't know why, but an air breathes from his landscapes, pure, refreshing, as if it came from other years; there is a look in his faces that never passes away. I saw one the other day. Amidst the heartless desolation and glittering finery of Fonthill, there is a portfolio of the Dresden Gallery. It opens, and a young female head looks from it; a child, yet woman grown; with an air of rustic innocence and the graces of a princess, her eyes like those of doves, the lips about to open, a smile of pleasure dimpling the whole face, the jewels sparkling in her crisped hair, her youthful shape compressed in a rich antique dress, as the bursting leaves contain the April buds! Why do I not call up this image of gentle sweetness, and place it as a perpetual barrier between mischance and me? - It is because pleasure asks a greater effort of the mind to support it than pain; and we turn after a little idle dalliance from what we love to what we hate!

As to my old opinions, I am heartily sick of them. I have reason, for they have deceived me sadly. I was taught to think, and I was willing to believe, that genius was not a bawd, that virtue was not a mask, that liberty was not a name, that love had its seat in the human heart. Now I would care little if these words were struck out of the dictionary, or if I had never heard them. They are become to my ears a mockery and a dream. Instead of patriots and friends of freedom, I see nothing but the tyrant and the slave, the people linked with kings to rivet on the chains of despotism and superstition. I see folly join with knavery, and together make up public spirit and public opinions. I see the insolent Tory, the blind Reformer, the coward Whig! If mankind had wished for what is right, they might have had it long ago. The theory is plain enough; but they are prone to mischief, "to every good work reprobate." I have seen all that had been done by the mighty yearnings of the spirit and intellect of men, "of whom the world was not worthy," and that promised a proud opening to truth and good through the vista of future years, undone by one man, with just glimmering of understanding enough to feel that he was a king, but not to comprehend how he could be king of a free people! I have seen this triumph celebrated by poets, the friends of my youth and the friends of men, but who were carried away by the infuriate tide that, setting in from a throne, bore down every distinction of right reason before it; and I have seen all those who did not join in applauding this insult and outrage on humanity proscribed, hunted down (they and their friends made a byword of), so that it has become an understood thing that no one can live by his talents or knowledge who is not ready to prostitute those talents and that knowledge to betray his species, and prey upon his fellow- man. "This was some time a mystery: but the time gives evidence of it." The echoes of liberty had awakened once more in Spain, and the mornings of human hope dawned again: but that dawn has been overcast by the foul breath of bigotry, and those reviving sounds stifled by fresh cries from the time-rent towers of the Inquisition - man yielding (as it is fit he should) first to brute force, but more to the innate perversity and dastard spirit of his own nature which leaves no room for farther hope or disappointment. And England, that arch-reformer, that heroic deliverer, that mouther about liberty, and tool of power, stands gaping by, not feeling the blight and mildew coming over it, nor its very bones crack and turn to a paste under the grasp and circling folds of this new monster, Legitimacy! In private life do we not see hypocrisy, servility, selfishness, folly, and impudence succeed, while modesty shrinks from the encounter, and merit is trodden under foot? How often is "the rose plucked from the forehead of a virtuous love to plant a blister there!" What chance is there of the success of real passion? What certainty of its continuance? Seeing all this as I do, and unravelling the web of human life into its various threads of meanness, spite, cowardice, want of feeling, and want of understanding, of indifference towards others, and ignorance of ourselves, - seeing custom prevail over all excellence, itself giving way to infamy - mistaken as I have been in my public and private hopes, calculating others from myself, and calculating wrong; always disappointed where I placed most reliance; the dupe of friendship, and the fool of love; - have I not reason to hate and to despise myself? Indeed I do; and chiefly for not having hated and despised the world enough.

_______________________________

FOOTNOTES:

[1]

Panopticons was the name given by

Bentham

to a proposed form of prison of circular shape having cells built round and fully exposed towards a central well, from which the jail keepers could at all times observe the prisoners.

Robert Owen

was the first in a line of 19th century socialists who in fact carried out experiments at his cotton mills at New Lanark mill where he erected a block of buildings in the form of a parallelogram to house the workers.

[2] Hazlitt refers to Edward Irving (1792-34), the Scottish divine and mystic who took over the Caledonian Church, Hatton Garden, London, and where he enjoyed a phenomenal success as a preacher.

[3] Lamb's Epistle to Robert Southey, Esq., was published in the London Magazine, Oct. 1823. See my page on Robert Southey.

[4] "On the Conversations of Authors" by Hazlitt and which first appeared in Sep. of 1820, and which was in his book of essays, The Plain Speaker (1826).

[5] Hazlitt seems to be referring to most of those who gathered at Lamb's house, c. 1808, more Lamb's friends than Hazlitt's: Captain Burney, Martin, his son; Wm. Ayrton, musician; James White, treasurer at Christ's Hospital; John Rickman, clerk to the speaker; Edward "Ned" Phillips, another clerk and Rickman's successor; Geo. Dyer; Joseph Hume; et al. One could have seen them at the residence of Charles and Mary Lamb where they met every Wednesday night; for discussion, cribbage and whist.

[atopearth]

Samurai Love Ballad Party Part 3 - Date Masamune and Katakura Kojuro Routes

(Didn’t realise SLBP doesn’t let you post CGs so I didn’t screenshot and have to rely on these that I found on the Internet haha..)

Not sure who the other guy is but Masamune seems cute, I am looking forward to meeting him and knowing him better, since he seems rather honourable and all about the fair and square kinda attitude to all battles even if it’s war because honour and keeping to your beliefs are much more important. The rumours of Masamune being a cannibal and having a demon residing in his right eye sounds like a straight up horror story lmao. Nice to see that the heroine can tell that the food smells off! She could have seriously died on her first day! Not sure why people still do this when there’s poison tasters though.. I mean if you’re going to poison the warlords, bribe the poison taster to put poison so that they’ll eat it and be fine and then do something to it and kill him. Kinda ridiculous to keep killing all these poison tasters instead. Anyway, Kojuro is Masamune’s retainer it seems, he looks pretty nice and elegant?

How very dangerous for her to go out at night and follow a delicious aroma! Hahaha! Can’t blame her though I guess lol and luckily Masamune isn’t really a cannibal, he probably just likes his own food and to cook for himself. Ooh, Kojuro made him food! I guess Masamune’s life has been wrought with way too many poison attempts to kill him, making him have no appetite to eat anything even if it’s super salty rice balls and miso soup by Kojuro. At least he can feel safe eating them. Which is really saddening since food is so good! Salty miso soup always reminds me of NANA. Anyway, it’s great that the heroine is a cook and revamped the dishes mixing them together into a sort of miso porridge that Masamune actually managed to eat the whole pot of! I guess the reason why he used to eat at her restaurant all the time was because the food was good and he felt safe there.

Guess her job is to make Masamune’s dinners from now on! How dangerous for her to save Umeko and use herself as a decoy! Luckily Kojuro helped her in the nick of time!! It was really sweet of Masamune to buy the heroine a new hairpin because the thugs broke the one her father gave her. I guess he has some affectionate feelings towards the heroine that always served him at their restaurant in Kyoto. Maybe because he really liked the food too haha. Even a page for Masamune must be educated and well taught in martial arts, but I guess that’s expected since he’ll always be by his side. At least the heroine gets an exception though!

Talking with his mother must have fouled Masamune’s mood since they don’t have a good relationship and she only cares about his younger brother. I mean, Masamune pulling out his sword to put it at a clingy maid’s throat doesn’t sound like him. Good that Shigezane (Masamune’s cousin) was here to calm the tense atmosphere! Obvious that Kojuro knew she was a woman and omg thought it might be a cliche onsen scene since she went in and then found out Masamune was in there too! But Masamune was so considerate towards her lie that she has a big scar that she doesn’t want others to see and so he distanced himself and waited for her to dress in her boy clothes again. He doesn’t know she’s actually a girl but that consideration and kindness he gave to her was really valuable and sweet. It’s nice that the heroine got to help mend a bit of the relationship between the retainers and Masamune, group morale is very important! She nearlyyyyy got killed by a wild dog though! She’s always in dangerous situations lol.

So the peace conference they were heading to was a facade to get Masamune to let down his guard and then kidnap Masamune’s father… I remember in Ikemen Sengoku, Masamune said he killed his father with his own hands because his father didn’t want to be a hostage hindering their clan or something and so made Masamune kill him so they wouldn’t have a need to bargain or whatever. Is this what we’re going to have to see? And it is! At least, Masamune’s father was able to say that Masamune did well by destroying the enemies. It was a hard decision for Masamune but he knew what his father would have wanted him to do and it was this result. Even if no one else understands, Masamune merely fulfilled what his father wanted him to do. Maybe it’s seen as heartless but I’m sure for his father and many other people, they do not want to be a burden that will cause casualties or the downfall of their own people just because they wanted to save them. It’s war after all.

How brave of the heroine to shout back at Masamune to tell him that they all care for him and that she won’t leave him to starve himself like this over the guilt of causing his father’s death. Super brave of her to reveal her presence when he’s crying as well, like wow, it’s as if she has a death wish lolol. It seems that his body finally gave out though, not surprising considering his lack of food, personal stress and the stress coming from everyone around him condemning him as the demon that killed his father. It’s so painful to see Masamune like this though. He made the “right” choice because that’s what his father wanted but it’s a choice he’ll have to live with for the rest of his life..

It’s so kind of Masamune to allow the heroine to come along with him to Kyoto so she can see her family since she’s been rather down and homesick. Really scary and cool that Yukimura came and stopped a sword with his bare hands to protect the heroine. Too bad she still got hurt. Don’t know why he has to be provocative when Masamune comes misunderstanding that Yukimura hurt the heroine when he didn’t, sigh. So cute how Saizo comes grabbing Yukimura by the back of his collar like a little pet and escapes hahaha. Masamune’s rage isn’t something you really want to face I guess XD

I know period pain is always used as some cliche to get the guy to care for the girl, and a lot of people, guys and girls think that it’s so exaggerated that the heroine would like faint because of it, and I think that I would have thought the same if I didn’t have a similar experience. I never fainted but my period pain has caused me to feel so unwell that my face went completely white and pale and I honestly felt like I was going to faint as I staggered back home. Ever since then, the pain every month has just been quite unbearable with me usually unable to get out of bed because of the pain. So really, all I wanted to say was that even though romance stories like to use this cliche, we shouldn’t demean it just because they use it so often, because it’s real. It was so kind of Masamune to carry the heroine all the way to a village and show such concern for her. She must feel pretty bad for lying to him that she’s a guy. But he’s figuring it out now so… It’s sad that Masamune just dismissed her from her role like that after he found out she’s a woman, considering all the things they went through together. But it was so heartwarming of Shigezane to say and still treat her as one of them even if she’s a woman. He is truly kind. It was so sad when right before she left, she told him that all she wants is for him to remember to eat. She still thinks of him so much.. I’m happy that Shigezane shouted at Masamune to come to his senses on how important and trustworthy the heroine is to Masamune and that he should be more honest with himself rather than be barricaded with the idea of gender or that she lied when she had no ill intentions.

I like how cute it is that Shigezane is trying to get Masamune and the heroine together and makes them stroll around town by themselves hahaha. It’s pretty saddening that Yoshihime is Masamune’s mother and yet her disgust at his different coloured eye and hatred that he didn’t save the father has made her only the more malicious towards him. It’s pretty difficult to watch considering Masamune’s perspective. When he dismissed the heroine from his service because he knows she has feelings for him and she so bluntly acknowledged it and properly confessed to him, I thought the heroine was so brave, cool and kind, I really love her. I know he wants to protect her but that must have been so heartbreaking for her.

Well, Yoshihime is quite despicable to poison the heroine and plot with the brother to kill Masamune. At least Masamune’s little brother Kojirou is good and thinks for himself rather than merely following his mother’s path. He loves his mother but he knows what is wrong and right and that is something we can be glad for. Oh, so Yoshihime was deceived by her brother (Masamune’s uncle) that Masamune killed his father when he was begging him to not shoot, your husband isn’t so spineless, woman! But really, no wonder she hated him even more..

I’m touched that Masamune is willing to exchange his life for an antidote to save the heroine but I’m also sad that by offering it, he is ready to abandon all his vassals that follow him and his own ambition. It’s great that he’s found someone he’s willing to give his life for but he has such an important duty and responsibility that could cause grief and pain to all the people that believe in him if he were to die and his uncle and mother were to take control. I don’t want to be disappointed but I kinda am tbh. Masamune has the power to achieve great things and bring better lives to lots of people, giving it up here for a simple girl is not something I’d like to see. I feel so harsh lol. I guess I got a bit ahead of myself, Masamune only said that to get his mother to let her guard down so Shigezane could come and steal the antidote off her, I’m happy again LOL. He knows his duty to his people and his promise to his father so I’m happy. I am glad that the heroine’s influence helped him to forgive his mother and hopefully be able to amend their broken relationship though.

I approve of feeding her the antidote with mouth to mouth lolol, just because she was too weak to move anymore and couldn’t open her mouth but tried her best to swallow. If I was on the verge of death and could see the dead, it would be nice if I could see someone important to me too, I don’t know who it’ll be but it would be nice to think that I could be on my way with another person instead of alone. So cute to see Masamune feed the heroine and insist on it hahaha.

I really love how gentle Masamune is. He’s so shy but sweet too. The thought of Masamune having a bride that is not the heroine or other concubines as well really tears my heart apart. Of course it’s something normal and a part of life that the heroine probably has to accept considering that he’s a Lord that governs land and would naturally have many wives to bear descendants for him… But it’s sad to think that she was the one that brought his true self out and yet she won’t be the one to truly be able to share the rest of their lives together. Sigh. But I so loved when she asked Masamune what he loves about her and he practically writes her a love letter because he’s too shy to say it in person! But omg the letter was so cute and sweet that it’s even better, she can keep it and read it all the time haha! It was so heartfelt, I loved it.

It’s an otome so of course he’d only take the heroine as his wife but hearing him say it is just so reassuring and heartwarming. Lmao when he starts leading her to his room and she’s like “my room is over there” and he’s like “let it stay over there” as she goes over to his room hahaha. Legit loved Masamune’s route as well, don’t think there’s been a route I didn’t like haha.

Time for Kojuro to move my heart🤣 it was so cool when he ripped up the piece of paper that would let him join another clan if he wanted to, he’s so loyal to the Date clan though, I wonder why~ it’s so cute that for Kojuro, he usually doesn’t have any problems that he can’t solve but he needs the heroine to pretend to be his lover to reject the numerous marriage proposals.

A man that is willing to risk his life and go into a burning residence to get the last keepsake of the heroine’s father is a man that you can’t help but fall for. Except that’s really dangerous! Nothing is more important than their lives! Living together with Kojuro sounds great though. I mean, if the place has burnt down, nowhere better than Kojuro’s place since he knows that she’s a girl and can be much more accommodating than living at the servant quarters with everyone stuck in one room. Lmao at how messy Kojuro’s room is. I feel sorry for the heroine, she slipped and Kojuro caught her by taking the brunt of the impact but she got hit in the head and shoulders by books😊 glad she cleaned the room for him. Now she needs to fix his bad habits of having the bare minimum amount food and sleep! Which she did by slapping him hahaha, good on you heroine! She’s right that if it affects Masamune and his work, then it’s not just his problem.

Lmao when she got drunk, threw up and Kojuro took care of her and then teased her when she misunderstood what happened between them in the morning since her clothes were changed lolll. Kojuro’s mistake in giving Masamune poisoned manju once before must really weigh heavily on him, especially considering he is Masamune’s closest and most trusted subordinate and yet he failed him. I guess that’s why he’s so relieved and wants to keep the heroine here no matter what since Masamune has finally found cooking that he can trust.

The heroine is so strong to learn self defence skills and others from Kojuro and Shigezane. Pretty admirable when she was found out to be a girl and she flipped that guy too hahaha. That’s what you get for being a bully! So childish and ugly of them to do that! Sure she lied but it’s not like she did it with bad intentions! It’s always so heartbreaking when the guy tells the heroine to go back to Kyoto in order to protect her but they say it in such a mean way to get her to go, sigh. Didn’t think Kojuro was a double agent but I guess that’s understandable, he’s the only one Masamune can 100% trust after all. It’s saddening that Kojuro has to ‘die’ and leave Masamune’s side. It must be painful for the both of them to separate since they’ve been together since they were children..

Where will Kojuro go now..? Does he even have anywhere else to go? At least he took the heroine home~ but omg when she grabbed his sleeve telling him to not go and he couldn’t help but kiss her, it was so cuteeee! Living with Kojuro and working together at the restaurant sounds so blissful~ well, he’s living in the empty house behind the restaurant but same thing same thing la hahaha. I agree with the heroine that if he didn’t go back to help Masamune then he wouldn’t be the guy the heroine fell in love with. Too bad she got kidnapped by the enemy… It was reckless of Kojuro to go save her alone but it was touching that he did. At least he went about it smartly! And Masamune came to save him not just because he is very fond of Kojuro but also probably because he’s indispensable to his army tbh. Glad to see everything working out.

Kojuro’s proposal to her was so beautiful, I teared. It was so heartwarming to hear that he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her because you can really feel the sincerity in his words. I loved it~ Overall, I loved both routes! They were both cute and sweet in their own ways <3

[nightmareonfilmstreet]

7 Horror Reads to Chill Your Soul This Summer

It’s summertime, and word on the street is that the livin’ is easy. If you’re anything like me, summer’s arrival means that you’re hiding in the air conditioning and comfort of your home (mosquitos find me quite the tasty treat and I’m not trying to contract West Nile). Othersout there who aren’t as delicious to the carnivorous ectoparasites of the world as I am are hitting the road. They’re going to the beach, they’re camping, and they’re laying in the sun to absorb the delectable, radioactive rays of the sun. It’s the time of cold drinks, loud music, and if you’re a fiend like the rest of here at NOFS, spooky stories.

While the rest of the world tries to limit the creepy and macabre to the month of October, we live a life of perpetual petrification. When you’re at the beach or hanging out by the pool, let the other people get in and splash around like shark bait. We know that there’s nothing sweeter than a horror novel to help keep you cool and take your breath away. So, for this article, I’m going to highlight some of my favorite horror novels that are great summer reads.

So what makes a horror novel a “Great Summer Read”? Well, brevity is a plus. We don’t really want to be lugging around Stephen King’s IT or Robert McCammon’s Swan Song on our way to the beach or up a hiking trail. I struggle to carry those beasts from my bookshelf to the couch, to be honest. So, while it’s not an automatic disqualification, I tried to stay away from the 1,000 page behemoths of the horror world. I also tried to take a look at subject matter and pick titles that involve summer, summer breaks, vacations, or basically anything that can whisk you away to land of pure imagination. Basically what I’m saying to all of you is that this is a completely subjective list. I loved reading these titles either this summer or in summers past, and I think you will, too.

So, without further ado, here is my list of Great Summer Horror Reads:

  1. The Troop by Nick Cutter

    This was the first novel I read from Nick Cutter, and it hooked me for life. It follows a troop of 5 14-year-old boys as they embark on their yearly summer scout adventure on Falstaff Island, an uninhabited area not far from their home on Prince Edward Island. Their excursion is cut short when a bone-thin, obviously diseased man who tries to eat everything in sight lands on the island. Scoutmaster Tim does his best to help the man, but he is soon overtaken and the boys face a nightmare that worms its way into the group and destroys what they thought they knew about themselves.

This book is gory. It is disgusting. It is a vivid walking nightmare that is best read out in the open air, surrounded by other people. Nick Cutter has proven himself to be one of the most visual authors in the horror genre, and never is that more evident than in The Troop. He uses the remote setting and the fear of foreign beings inside your body with an insatiable appetite to create a suffocating sense of paranoia and claustrophobia. You are trapped on this small island with these boys as they fight the disease that brought the skeletal man to their shores, and you must find the survivor inside of you to make it off.

Perfect For: A long hike and camp in the wilderness. Read it by the light of your Coleman lantern. Don’t worry about the noises you hear in the darkness, they only approach when they’re hungry…

  2. The Cabin at the End of the World by Paul Tremblay

    I didn’t think that a book would ever crawl inside my bones quite like Tremblay’s A Head Full of Ghosts did. I was wrong. His new novel, The Cabin at the End of the World is his most tense, terrifying book to date, which is saying a lot.

Seven-year-old Wen and her dads are vacationing at their cabin deep in the forests of New Hampshire when she is approached by a giant stranger. He seems pretty weird, and he tells her that her dads are not going to want to let him in the house, but that they have to. Then three more just like him show up. Wen runs into the cabin and her parents barricade the door. The strangers approach, and they knock. They are disciples of a god that visits them in visions, and Wen and her parents are the only people capable of ending the coming apocalypse.

This is much more than a home-invasion story. It’s s tale of survival, sacrifice, apocalypse and doom that has you guessing until the very last chapter. Not only is the fate of this loving family at risk, but the future of the entire human race may just rest on their shoulders. (Side note: The Cabin at the End of the World is the first horror novel that I have read that has a queer family at its center. I know there must be others, but this is a first for me. Well done, Paul Tremblay.)

Perfect For: Staying at that creepy lodge you booked online. You and your family should be just fine! Maybe just don’t answer the door when you hear a knock, ok?

  3. Providence by Caroline Kepne

    You may know the name Caroline Kepnes from her amazing novel You, which has been turned into a series for Lifetime that will air this fall. Her depiction of narcissist/psycopath Joe Goldberg was refreshing, funny, dark, and utterly terrifying. Providence, her third novel, follows a different path than her earlier works, but it is just as gripping and horrifying.

One morning, middle-schooler Jon Bronson is abducted from his small New Hampshire town (what is the deal with New Hampshire, you guys? I mean, is it really that spooky?). He awakens at his home four years later with no memory of his kidnapping or his captivity. Beside him is a copy of H.P. Lovecraft’s The Dunwich Horror and a letter from his abductor that tells him that he is fine, but he has an un-specified special ability. The joy that his best friend Chloe feels after his return is smashed to pieces once they find out that his “special ability” begins to threaten the lives of those he loves.

Kepnes is one of the finest authors in the world and she is a master at creating pace and tension. All three of her novels force your eyes across the page like they are tied to the front of a freight train. Providence is an exploration of not only what makes us human, but what keeps us that way.

Perfect For: Sitting on the back porch with a sweet tea and plenty of sunshine. Be sure to pack sunscreen for the rays and extra Kleenex for the nosebleeds that will splatter the page.

  4. Some Will Not Sleep by Adam Nevill

    A bestial face appears at windows in the night. In the big white house on the hill, angels are said to appear. A forgotten tenant in an isolated building becomes addicted to milk. A strange goddess is worshipped by a home-invading disciple. The least remembered gods still haunt the oldest forests. Cannibalism occurs in high society at the end of the world. The sainted undead follow their prophet to the Great Dead Sea. A confused and vengeful presence occupies the home of a first-time buyer . . .

If you have read any of my articles, then you know how much I love Adam Nevill and his terrifying tales. I was able to interview him last year (check it out HERE), and that piece remains the highlight of my journalistic career. Most of you may know him as the author of The Ritual and Last Days, but I fell like his work that is most like a “Great Summer Read” is his collection of short stories, Some Will Not Sleep.

While the book itself has some girth, it is conveniently sectioned into several perfectly crafted short tales of the horrifying and disturbing. These stories, according to Nevill on his website, were written and published between 1995 and 2011, and they reflect fears that are often the author’s own. About the title of the book, I can’t explain it better than the Master himself:

Some within it do not sleep, some who read it may not sleep, and he who wrote it often doesn’t sleep.

Perfect For: Reading in the car on the way to your destination. That way, the nightmares hopefully won’t be able to find you as you travel down the road.

  5. Rabbit in Red: The Complete Series by Joe Chianakas

    (Disclaimer: Joe is a local author that I have had the pleasure of working with in the past through my job. The inclusion of his series was neither asked for nor was it paid for… Joe… come on, man. GIVE ME SOME MONEY, BRO!)

Have you ever wondered what it would be like if Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory was designed, created and run by Rob Zombie? Well, wonder no more! This series of books (the first of which was selected to be included in a 2016 Horror Block and sent out to tens-of-thousands of subscribers), compiled together in one volume, follows a group of teens as they spend their summer vacation competing for an internship under the reclusive owner of a horror film company.

They compete in VR challenges that mirror some of the most iconic scenes in horror film history and intense trivia that will leave even the most knowledgable horror hounds scratching their heads. This series of books is a quick read that will keep you up at night as the kids win their internships and enter the dark web of their beneficiary. It is a love letter to the horror genre and, as it did with me, it will make you fall in love with the genre all over again.

Perfect For: Handing out to your teenage niece or nephew when they visit for the week. They have annoyed you enough with the youth-words that they use, so it will feel really good to keep them up at night.

  6. Meg: A Novel of Deep Terror by Steve Alten

    You didn’t think I would put out a list like this and not include a shark book? You know nothing about me! Instead of going with the classic Jaws by Peter Benchley (which, to be honest, I really do not care for), I decided to opt for the book that started the series that the next great shark movie, The Meg, is based on.

Jonas Taylor is a deep sea diver working with the United States Navy. He spots a Megalodon while on a top-secret mission in the Mariana Trench. No body believes him, of course, because the Megalodon is supposed to have been extinct for millions of years. To prove them wrong, Jonas becomes a paleontologist (as one does) and attempts to find the beast again. His wish is granted when he returns to the Trench, only this time, one of the beasts follows him back up to the surface.

Chaos ensues. People are gobbled up like Tic Tacs and there’s only one man in the world that can stop it. JASON MOTHERF**KING STATH… oh, sorry… JONAS TAYLOR!

It’s ridiculous in all the right ways. It is a 50’s monster movie come to life with thrills, chills, blood and awesome one-liners.

Perfect For: Enjoying the bay while laying on one of those giant inflatable pool floats that look like a swan. You know the ones! Take a deep breath, relax, and hope that there’s nothing watching you from beneath the waves.

  7. Malevolents: ‘Click Click’ by Thom Burgess and Joe Becci

    I must say that I am a novice in the realm of horror comics. I know that there are a lot of them out there, but I’ve just never gotten into that style of horror literature. I can gladly say that Malevolents: ‘Click Click’ has opened my eyes to a whole new world of terror.

This incredible comic book from award winning writer Thom Burgess follows four school friends who dare one another to spend the night in one of Britain’s most haunted houses. They bring along with them an Ouija Board (what could go wrong), and tell each other the story of the ghost that lives in the walls and wants to take your tongue from your mouth.

I include it in this list because it is short (only 32 pages or so), it’s horrifying, and it transports you to a different place and time. If you’re stuck at home due to work or insufficient funds, Malevolents will take you on a trip that you will never forget.

Perfect For: Reading by flashlight after a summer storm has knocked out your power. If you don’t look at the shadows crawling out of the walls, they won’t come after you… I promise. ‘Click’

So, there you have it! Whether you’re out and about this summer or hanging out in the house like me, here are 7 horror reads that will chill your bones and keep you cool as the temperature rises. Do yourself a favor and pick these titles up today! While you’re at it, join our Facebook group, Horror Fiends of Nightmare on Film Street, and let us know what you think.

  The post 7 Horror Reads to Chill Your Soul This Summer appeared first on Nightmare on Film Street - Horror Movie Podcast, News and Reviews.

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[vaperroreon]

1. this and number two literally contradict eachother 2. They do seem to be dependent on slaves for child birth and war efforts, huh. There’s a part of their base that pretty blatantly resembles a sweatshop.  3. This is PragerU shit, people probably stand against perceived “order” when it’s fascist, authoritarian or overly violent, which The Legion definitely is. A majority of the NPCs, as awful as they are, have dialogue commending you if you killed Caesar. EVEN THE CANNIBAL CLUB. 4. slavery and the desecration of the lower class as weapons in army directly goes against this as well as the last core value you claim they hold.

The first interaction you have with them is in Nipton where they crucify a town’s worth of people for perceived debauchery, that is the exact opposite of a philosophical response to supposed immorality AND “have fun, be yourself”. They wouldn’t give a FUCK about Nipton if they believed this, they wouldn’t even be pillaging and invading as much as they do. There is little to no methodology or thought to anything the Legion does as a unit, the whole point of Caesar’s speech about Hegelian Dialectics is that he sees democracy, and in a broader sense, choice, to be useless in terms of leading a commonwealth. Caesar’s Legion is the most comically evil group in the GAME man

so this argument could go either two ways, either it’s about giving birth to children or the emotional welfare of the children being born, and you botch this twice-fold because a. There are eons of ways you could go about giving birth without using slave labor, I’m sure Novac, Primm and Goodsprings are doing just fine in terms of children and even if they were on the decline, they’re insanely small towns that would be a blip on worldwide birth rates. Now that I think about it, why WOULDN’T families move to Vegas if Mr. House’s hypothetical fuckery actually worked? It’s a place where jobs are thriving, people would move in! I don’t even LIKE Mr. House, it’s the route for people who larp as revolutionaries but are actually centerlib failsons, but if that WORKED, it would be an easy short-term solution. Long-term it wouldn’t work, but if you’re REALLY that concerned about child bearing, it would work short-term. And again, WHY in the everloving FUCK would they care about places like Nipton or Vegas in the first place? There is little to no birth control in Fallout, let alone New Vegas, the only in-game existence of birth-control are Jimmy Hats in Fallout 2, and after that they literally NEVER come up again. People are probably giving birth left and right to babies. b. if places like Vegas or Nipton are so morally corrupting, why would you throw out Novac, Primm, and Goodsprings? They’re not particularly amoral, they’re just a bunch of people trying to live their best life as far as the player can tell. And even then, let’s say the worst happens to a New Vegas child, that pales in comparison to being born into the Legion. Let’s think about this, If you’re born to slaves your game is rigged from the start. You have no civil freedoms to speak of and exist as either meat to protect the 1% or a tool to advance their war efforts whether it be through making weapons or producing more soldiers. If you’re born into a higher up family, then congrats, you avoided being a meat-shield or broodmare for a totalitarian fascist state. You’re still probably going to be sent to war though, and if you fail and you’re still alive, you might even be set on fire! Caesar admits that his soldiers fight due to their loyalty to him. IT’S A DIRECT QUOTE IN THE GAME. “My Legion obeys me, even unto death. Why? Because they live to serve the greater good, and they know of no alternatives.” And even best? There’s no meaningful content in game to show he even ATTEMPTS to cultivate a civilian culture. of any kind. People in his ranks are tools for him. tl;dr he speedran this game on the first playthrough and didn’t pay attention to any of the story

[weareinnkeeper]

I’ve been away for a while (life things and also Mass Effect: Andromeda) but I wanted to chat about my D&D game (where I’m the DM, not the one where I’m a player). The game consists of five players (M, L, H, D, B). Since I can’t brag to them about how awesome my plans are, I’m here to share with you! And maybe there are some ideas here you can use in your games. Or send an ask and I’d be happy to expand on any of these.

It’s gotten long, so behind the cut!

Random Encounters are Only As Random As You Expect

L’s character is an ex-soldier who was fighting a long time war against a dragonborn army under the command of an Ancient Black Dragon.

One random encounter on the way to town the party had was a Young Red Dragon Wyrmling and a red Dragonborn acolyte.

Surprise! A delegation from a Dragonborn kingdom has come to the town to offer peace and trade treaties. Friend W is immediately suspicious, but no one knows that he’s an ex-soldier, so he keeps his mouth shut.

The random encounter was 75% random. It’s not related to the delegation at all, they just happened to meet an evil dragon on the way to town. The 25% not-random part is that I wanted to keep them on their toes and just a bit cautious.

Players Will Pick Up the Most Obscure Details and Miss Everything Obvious

H’s character is from a dwarven/gnomish city I call the “City of Tomes” because it’s a place of learning. Sort of like if the Library of Alexandria filled a whole mountain. As I was filling out my pantheon of gods I created one of “Stone and Study” to be the patron god of the City of Tomes. But, because half of the city is academics I decided that most of the knowledge of this goddess is unknown. So followers write treatises and academic papers about if she exists, why she doesn’t reveal herself, etc. It was just a bit of fluff with no purpose but a joke that only one character has read because most of the group doesn’t bother to read my background docs.

Anyway, so H decides that he wants to learn more about this goddess. The goddess that has no information because that stuff has all been lost through time (aka I didn’t write it because she was basically a throw away).

Okay. Fine. I will make up something for this unknown god. That’s my job anyway!

I send him to a temple of the goddess, which doubles as a school and have the kids outside singing songs and rhymes and I repeat a rhyme (”one for sorrow, two for mirth...”). Then he goes in and the teacher/priestess gives him free reign in the library and I have him find something in his research that sticks out to him: “Seek my children... count the ways to my throne.”

None of the party caught the clue, unfortunately! Had they figured it out and asked the teacher, she would have had a suggestion for them of a location called the Graven Hills (for sorrow, but far, far away, giving me enough time to build the next clue/location).

Everything is a Mimic

In the second session I put a chest near a pool of water, half buried in the ground. One of the players was like “what if that’s a mimic?”

L had never played D&D before, and instead of asking what a mimic was, said “I’m going to open it.”

He learned really quickly.

This last session they began investigating/cleansing a cursed tower. One of the rooms I described having a comfortable and fancy divan, shelves of books and scrolls, and a glass decanter with a violet liquid inside.

L was about to say “I’m tired from fighting all these other things*, I take a seat on the divan.”

*A Rug of Smothering almost killed him in the last room.

D speaks first though and says, “I am going to attack the divan.”

“Okay,” I say, betraying nothing. “Roll attack... roll hit... okay, everyone roll initiative.”

Pandemonium!

After they killed the mimic, M asked about the books, and if she would find anything interesting for her journey. She rolled investigation and didn’t find anything useful - but specifically said she didn’t touch the books.

Well that got everyone interested and they started rolling investigation to find books on their interests (fighting for the barb, magic for the wizard, necromancy for the secretly LE guy). L rolled poorly and discovered that one of the books he touched was another mimic! I wasn’t sure they would find both of them, didn’t expect it at all, but of course they had to touch everything (they took the liquid too, after identifying it as liquid faerie fire).

I think I’m going to retire mimics - two or three sessions of paranoia and attacking every piece of furniture I put in a room and they’ll relax enough for me to bring them back again.

Going Left or Right Requires More Discussion Than Who To Trust

The party had to make a decision. Before they left on a quest to defend the town from potential invaders a rogue waylaid them and told them to come to her and not the councilors, that they couldn’t trust the rulers of the city.

During their quest they received proof that one of the councilors was evil/conspiring against the town. So could they trust the rogue who tricked them or the councilors, one of whom might be untrustworthy? They tried doing some investigation on the councilors, but rolled poorly for most of the five and didn’t get a lot of information on who could be the betrayer.

They chose the rogue (which was the good option - they would have been taken to the Secret Evil Councilor had they chosen to tell the Councilors). I am pretty sure it took longer for them to decide whether to take the left or right path in the previous session however.

How Do You Solve A Problem Like An Orphan Child?

The party found an orphan during their dungeon delving. The kid had been taken for a sacrifice but escaped (and found a key that they needed to move forward, since NONE in the party is a rogue. I’ve had to find unique ways of having locked doors because of this).

The party didn’t really like the kid and honestly, kids are annoying. They eat your rations and Goodberries, they want the shiny treasure you found, and usually get in the way. This kid was at least really good at hiding, so they weren’t too bothered with her during combat or anything.

But when they got to town, they really had to get rid of her.

My notes had multiple ways to “dispose” of her:

1) The teacher/priest wouldn’t take her (schools are not orphanages), but she suggested that the other temple to the good god would probably take the kid.

2) One of the merchants suggested taking her to one of the Councilors. The Councilor had a connection with the child’s parents (possibly) and might know where her family was. But, could they trust this councilor?

3) If they brought her to the meeting with the rogue, the rogue (leader of a thief group!) would offer to take care of her. This is what ended up happening. Only one of the party members seemed upset.

If they check in with the girl in a few years, she’ll be a very accomplished thief (and could fill their rogue-less spot!).

The World is Alive

In the first session the party found a forgotten tomb that had once been the resting place of knights but became a haunt of goblins and bugbears. They resisted the urge to desecrate the tomb after cleaning out the baddies (there definitely would have been skeletons had they tried this) but a couple of them have said they’re going to go back later.

They don’t realize that I’ve planned for this. Word of their cleansing of the tomb has spread and followers of the goddess will have returned to restore the place to its former glory. When/If they go back they’ll be welcomed by some priests/clerics and young acolytes hoping to become knights in service to the goddess.The resting place has become one of worship. And there will be no more magical items to loot because they’ll be Holy Relics. Unless the party wants to steal or take by force.

Your DM is a Cannibal

The majority of the story is my own. It is vague and malleable and depends on player decision, but it’s “mine”.

BUT. I’ll use every resource I can get my hands on to build the world. Name and place generators. Monster randomizers. Precreated maps. Five room dungeons.

I’ll take everything and repurpose it to my design. Cannibalize it all!

[victorineb]

Things You Should Know

Rules: Answer all questions, then add one question of your own

Thank you for tagging me @devereauxsdisease and @annoyedone​, you are utter sweeties <3

1: Coke or pepsi: Coke. I’m not allowed the real stuff anymore, so Coke Zero for preference. Pepsi is weak sauce and I won’t have it XD.

2: Disney or Dreamworks: Disney. I was born in ‘83, Disney pretty much defined my childhood. Plus, they made Hamlet with cartoon lions, how could I not respect that?

3: coffee or tea: Urgh. Coff... no, tea... no, coffee... can you get back to me on this one?

4: books or movies: TV! Or fanfic.

(disclaimer: I do not in fact endorse Penny’s opinion, reading is awesome!)

5: windows or mac: Windows. Macs frustrate me no end.

6: DC or Marvel: Ok, Bats is my favourite, so DC wins on individual characters, but Marvel overall.

7: xbox or playstation: I don’t really game anymore (because it is so hella expensive and I get obsessed) but it used to be playstation. Though, actually, I really prefer handhelds, so game boy FTW.

8: dragon age or mass effect: Never played either.

9: night owl or early riser:

Sorry, ok, I am such a night owl. It’s not even funny. I so rarely see the morning from the “right” side. If I could design my life so that I could stay up all night and sleep all day, I wouldn’t even hesitate.

10: cards or chess: Cards, I’m pretty good with. Chess, I suck at. I tend to approach it with the aim of just taking as many of my opponent’s pieces as quickly as possible, which is, apparently, not the idea?

11: chocolate or vanilla: CHOOOOOOOOOOOOCOLATE!

12: vans or converse: Converse. Lo-tops for preference. My favourite pair have maps on them - I can’t even bring myself to wear them, they’re too pretty!

13: lavellan, trevelyan, cadash, or adaar: Um... what now?

14: Fluff or angst: Fluff. I’m a fluff girl at heart. I mean, mainly Hannigram fluff so I’m also here for angst, sex, murder, and terrible puns, but make sure to put some fluff in there, I need it.

15: beach or forest: Beach, so long as it’s secluded and not disgustingly hot.

16: dogs or cats: I’ll take one (or two, or seven) of each please!

17: clear skies or rain: If I’m indoors, rain. If I’m out, clear skies please.

18: cooking or eating out: Eating out. I like cooking fine, but honestly, I could do without the clear up afterwards!

19: spicy food or mild food: Mild. I like a little spice, but once it gets to the point where I can’t taste the food anymore, I can’t really see the point.

20: halloween/samhain or solstice/yule/christmas: Christmas. Not a massive fan of either, tbf, but halloween just irritates me. No, I don’t have any sweeties for you, random child, please get off my fucking lawn.

21: would you rather forever be a little too cold or a little too hot (and no the winter coats and AC’s are not an option)?: COLD! I am always, always too hot and it’s such a pain.

22: if you could have a superpower, what would it be?: I always thought shapeshifting would be a fun one. “Hmm, I’m bored. Maybe I’ll change into Beyonce and walk into town, freak out a few people.”

23: animation or live action: Both can be wonderful, just make sure there’s a well-written script behind them.

24: paragon or renegade: Hermit.

25: baths or showers: Showers, they make you feel cleaner.

26: team cap or team ironman: Cap. I’d follow that fine ass anywhere.

27: fantasy or sci-fi: Fantasy, by a tiny margin.

28: do you have three or four favorite quotes, if so what are they? If not do you think you will in future?: Gosh, that seems like it requires a rather longer answer than would fit this post! I have lots of favourite quotes, though I find myself using, “It’s fine to be weird,” courtesy of everyone’s favourite gentleman cannibal, rather more than any other.

29: youtube or netflix: I love Netflix. (Hi Netflix! You’re wonderful. In fact, the only thing that could make you wonderfuller would be a few new seasons of Hannibal...)

30: classic disney, disney renaissance, or modern disney?: Renaissance, please! That run from The Little Mermaid to The Lion King was fucking amazing.

31: what would you tell your younger self?: Go get some therapy, get a job and move out of home as soon as fucking possible.

32: make music or listen to music?: Make (I’m not good but I love doing it.)

33: shakespeare’s comedies or tragedies?: Comedies, probably. I think I’d rather watch Beatrice or Rosalind run rings around everyone than Hamlet having a tantrum cos his mummy’s getting some.

34: what song do you have stuck in your head right now?: Eels’ cover of Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.

35: favorite animal: Bear.

36: favorite tv show: Hannibal.

37: what relaxes you the most? I have to steal @annoyedone​‘s answer here and say being home.

38: musicals or plays? Plays.

39: name something on your bucket list/something you’d like to do or see before you die: Have a book published. Could be fiction or academic, I just want an ISBN to call my own.

40. Will Graham or Hannibal Lecter both ask you to run away with them, who are you going with? Welp, ok, it really doesn’t matter cos I’m just gonna spend the whole time convincing the guy that he needs to get his shit together and tell his murder bae that he loves him. In which case, probably Hannibal - I prefer wine to bourbon.

41. What was your first ship? Lord, probably something from Buffy. Buffy and Angel, or Xander and Cordy, something dull like that XD. Or, if you really wanna go back, I remember shipping Monica and Chandler on Friends pretty much from the start. Ah, the first sweet taste of my ship going canon, good times.

My question...

42. What is your absolute favourite fanfic trope and/or kink?

Tag! @desperatelyseekingcannibals @slashyrogue @hotsauce418 @tcbook @wraithsonwingsposts @shiphitsthefan @drjlecter @llewcie @sirenja-and-the-stag @kateera @ishipthemsogoddamnhard @pragneto @evenunevenme @thesilverqueenlady @disraeligearsgoestumblin and @wrathofthestag (I know you got tagged already, meme bestie, but I do so hate to let a meme go by without you!).

[boschlingtumbles]

White Wedding (Chs 34-36)

Brienne (Vice and Wish 3 of 12)

Brienne tried to take a deep breath as the spa attendant applied the mud mask, and lightly placed slices of cucumbers over her eyes. Her body was tightly bound in some kind of aluminum cocoon that was moisturizing her body while keeping it very warm.

So far so good right? She’d made the executive decision that they didn’t need a three day weekend together. She had booked them all a night at a five star spa resort on the Island of Faces that Vogue had called ‘a transcendent experience elevating the soul through purifying the body.’ 

Everybody had met up Saturday morning, they’d had a full day of waxing and manicures and pedicures and highlights and haircuts and eyebrow threading and body buffing. They’d had a classy dinner from the tasting menu, where everything came in spoon sized portions. And then they’d retired early because Brienne had scheduled them for all of the pampering treatments on Sunday.

She was trying to keep things low-key, because Cersei couldn’t drink, but she was prepared to concede that this hen party might be a bit duller than they tended to be portrayed on screen. Really, it was just as well that they’d had the massages this morning, because Brienne needed something to eradicate her building stress. She was tired, she was hungry, Cersei was clearly both as well and being unbearable, and Brienne knew it had only been a day but she missed Jaime. How many more weeks until this wedding? She was nearing the end of her rope.

Worse, the maid of honor’s dress had come. Cersei had insisted on ordering it a size smaller than Brienne actually was—proper motivation to stick with her diet—and it was still too tight. She had managed to get into it with great effort, but was keenly aware that if she so much as sneezed, seams would split.

“Psssst,” the voice whispered. 

Brienne tried not to frown, for she did not wish to crack her mud mask and make more work for her attendant.

There was a light touch, and then one of the cucumbers over her eyes disappeared. Melisandre stood over her, smirking. As Brienne tried not to raise her eyebrows, Melisandre popped the slice of cucumber in her mouth and crunched down.

“If I don’t get some real food in the next hour, I will be forced to resort to cannibalism,” Melisandre stated, matter of factly. “Are you in?”

“Mel, I really can’t,” Brienne tried to explain without moving her lips.

Melisandre rolled her eyes and ate her other cucumber slice.

“Why not?”

“I won’t fit into my dress,” Brienne tried to explain. “It came earlier this week and I can barely breathe in it.”

“I’ll let out some fabric for you. These dresses are designed to be fitted, I promise,” Melisandre sighed. “Believe it or not, I’m pretty good with a needle.”

Brienne hesitated. She knew it wasn’t the right thing to do but...

“Nobody will ever know,” Melisandre smirked, her voice tantalizingly confident.

Brienne bit her lip, and the movement inadvertently caused her mask to crack. Well now you’ve done it, she scolded herself. The attendant will have to redo the whole thing, at which point you may as well get up and stretch your legs.

She emerged from her aluminum cocoon, less like the promised rebirth of a Phoenix from the ashes, and more with a great deal of mud and crinkling.

“Why Miss Tarth, you’re beautiful,” Melisandre drawled, and Brienne flicked some mud at her. 

A quick dip into one of the plunge pools later, Brienne was making a break for freedom in cloth sandals and a fuzzy bathrobe.

“What’s the plan?” Brienne asked Melisandre as they furtively skirted the compound, looking for a way back to the main hotel.

“Well I’m not talking raiding the mini-bar. We are well past cashews. I want a slice of pizza from the greasiest dive I can find, or maybe a burrito from a food truck that smells like chorizo,” Melisandre had to wipe a strand of drool from her face.

“Wait,” Brienne froze, and Melisandre smacked into the back of her. “They collected our key cards at the front desk! We’re locked out from our rooms!”

“I have not come this far to be stopped because I didn’t have anything to wear,” Melisandre lifted her chin haughtily, gathered up her bathrobe, and continued on. Brienne gulped and followed.

It was always so easy for Melisandre, who simply floated over to one of the grounds-crew, wearing her robes like they were, well robes, and not a bathrobe, and demanded to be escorted to town. Brienne hovered behind, as Melisandre commandeered a golf cart, feeling a bit like an escapee from an asylum.

All the same, she wasn’t complaining, as the security gates slid open for their break to freedom. The half of the island that was not dedicated to the resort was mostly inhabited by locals who survived on the tourist day trade. Melisandre pushed the accelerator to the floor as she drove them toward town, and the speedometer crept from fifteen to perhaps seventeen miles per hour.

Brienne felt the breeze from the lake, and looked at the faces carved into all of the trees. Don’t judge me! She wanted to cry. You don’t know what I’ve been through!

Upon reaching town, there was a brief discussion of where to go.

“Oh look,” Melisandre grinned, slowing to a halt in front of a thrift store. “Bridesmaids dresses! Still time to ditch your dress entirely!”

“I probably wouldn’t fit into those either,” Brienne said glumly.

“Lame,” Melisandre rolled her eyes. Fortunately she was too hungry to press the matter further. Ten minutes later, they were sitting across from each other in the darkest booth they could find in the grottiest pub they could find—Cersei would never look for them here—as Melisandre dug into a four cheese macaroni with bacon bits and Brienne tried to eye her burger without drooling.

She felt less guilty than she thought she would, all things considered. Brienne reflected, as she wiped a smudge of ketchup from her face, that this might give her the fortitude to survive this afternoon mostly in once piece.

“Only seven hours until checkout,” Melisandre sighed contentedly. “What do we have to be back in time for?”

“We’re meeting the other girls at the hot springs,” Brienne checked the calendar on her phone. “I thought we could talk and play some bachelorette games this afternoon.”

“Bachelorette games? With Cersei?” Melisandre sounded dubious. Brienne flushed.

“Well it is a hen party! I looked a bunch up online, some of them seemed rather cute.”

“If you say so,” Melisandre wrinkled her nose. “Excuse me? I’d like an order of the fried jalapeño poppers to go?”

“The thing is,” Melisandre said around a mouthful of jalapeño popper, as they drove the golf cart back to the resort, “it’s Cersei.”

“I’m aware of that,” Brienne rolled her eyes.

“And there’s no alcohol.”

“I am deeply aware of that.”

“Half of those silly games are only funny when everyone is hammered.”

“But it’s a hen party! We can’t just avoid each other and get spa treatments all weekend!”

“Fine,” Melisandre’s lips pursed in a moue of disapproval. Or maybe it was just the jalapeño popper. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Melisandre could be a little doom and gloom, Brienne consoled herself. There was no reason to think that things wouldn’t work out. Sure enough, they got to the grove where the hot springs were, to discover that only Catelyn Tully had gotten there first.

“Hi Catelyn,” Brienne waved. 

“Hi,” Catelyn replied tonelessly. Brienne and Melisandre exchanged a glance. Catelyn had been quite worked up over the situation with her father and Ned. And Brienne felt for her, truly. It was just she had been somewhat counting on Catelyn being somebody she could lean on this weekend, a pillar of good cheer and rationality to counterbalance Cersei. And well, it hadn’t worked out like that.

Catelyn heaved a wistful sigh and sank under the water entirely. There were only a few bubbles from where she sat at the bottom.

“Should I?” Melisandre started.

“I’m sure she’s just um meditating,” Brienne said. “The Tullys are all very good swimmers.”

The bubbles stopped. 

They both peered down into the water.

“On the other hand,” Brienne wrung her hands.

“On it,” Melisandre plunged into the water, hauling Catelyn up by her hair.

“He punched him in the face!” Catelyn said mournfully, by way of explanation.

They were saved by the sounds of Cersei and Lysa coming up the path.

“I feel the most deliciously dizzy, don’t you all?” Cersei beamed at them. 

“I think that’s the lack of caloric intake,” Melisandre snarked.

“So delicious!” Lysa agreed quickly.

“You know what they say—nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” Cersei shed her bathrobe and joined them. “You’ll get there eventually Brienne.”

Brienne tried to smile, and wondered if Cersei could see her little food-baby under the water. Hastily she crossed her arms.

“So we still have all day to kill before checkout,” Lysa chirped. “What should do?”

“Well,” Brienne said, stoically avoiding eye contact with Melisandre, “I thought we could play some bachelorette games in honor of the big day!”

“Oh fun!” Lysa clapped her hands.

Catelyn sighed and started to slip under the water again before Melisandre grabbed her.

“...games?” Cersei asked uncertainly. She did not seem familiar with the concept.

“Well okay, here’s a classic one. And you don’t even need to drink,” Brienne tried to explain. “I have here a box of chewing gum. I asked Robert twenty questions about your relationship. I’ll read you the question, and you have to guess his answer. If you get it wrong, you have to put a stick of chewing gum in your mouth. The more you get wrong, the more chewing gum is stuck in your mouth and you get all drool-y. It’s fun!”

“It sounds like public humiliation,” Cersei said.

“Well it’s just us bridesmaids, nobody will tell,” Brienne frowned.

“Well what if I get a question right? Do all of you take a piece of chewing gum?”

“I mean, I guess we could,” Brienne said uncertainly.

“Very well, you may begin,” Cersei said briskly. 

“Um where was your first date?”

“It was Sadie Hawkins of my junior year, but Robert will say it was the King’s Landing Dragons game he took me to that December.”

“Uh right,” Brienne glanced at the card in her hand, with Robert’s strangely childish handwriting. “Dragons v. Suns game.”

“You may each take your bubblegum now,” Cersei waved a hand imperiously. Brienne winced as Lysa and Melisandre favored her with decidedly annoyed looks.

“Okay,” Brienne said as she chewed, trying to find a harder one. “What is his favorite sex position.”

“Cowgirl,” Cersei replied promptly. “He’s so LAZY!”

A coincidence! Cersei and Robert had never seemed that in tune with one another, Brienne though as she passed around the gum once more. Surely it was just a matter of finding the right question?

Many, many sticks of chewing gum later...

“Wash ish hith pet peef ooooh do?” Brienne tried to read, swabbing at the saliva leaking from her mouth in vain.

“Oh give it here,” Cersei plucked the question card from her hand. “What is his pet peeve that I do?”

“Eee ettah get ith wrong!” Melisandre glared from behind her own wad of gum.

“Whah?” Brienne frowned, trying to make out the words.

“I ed eee ettah get ith wrong!” 

“Nothing,” Cersei replied, previously furrowed brow abruptly clearing. “He loves everything I do!”

“Ahah!” Brienne pointed. “No! Ith all-ays eeing on or phone!”

“What?” Cersei snapped. “Are you sure?”

Brienne looked down at the card.

Always being on her phone. Lolz jk! I love everything she does <3

Brienne looked guiltily up at a fuming Melisandre and Lysa. Even Catelyn had woken from her catatonic state to look a little put out.

“Tho Therthee winth,” Brienne spat out the enormous disgusting lump of bubblegum. 

“I love games!” Cersei clapped her hands enthusiastically. Everybody else scowled at Brienne.

“What’s next?” Cersei asked brightly.

Brienne swallowed. She had planned for their next game to be a zucchini-carving contest with the winner producing the most lifelike penis. But somehow, giving knives to the other girls at this exact moment seemed ill-advised.

She frantically consulted the Pinterest page on her phone.

“Well that’s a drinking game,” she mumbled as she looked at the next option. “... and so is that. Um that’s an icebreaker when people don’t know each other... that’s another drinking game.”

She looked up guiltily.

“Maybe we just talk for a little bit?”

Cersei’s expression had soured.

“Sooo,” Brienne looked around the circle frantically... “Lysa! What have you been up to?”

“Well,” Lysa’s rather pale blue eyes lit up and she preened, not accustomed to being the center of attention. “I’m finding myself in the middle of a love triangle!”

“Oh?” Brienne said politely.

“Well you see, my high school boyfriend Petyr and I have been together for years and years! Seven years actually. And three months and six days. And I always thought he was the love of my life! But what if he isn’t? You see, there’s been some... fidelity issues. It’s not his fault exactly, he just has some needs that are a little outside my personal comfort zone. If I were better at satisfying him, he wouldn’t have to look elsewhere! So I’ve tried to be patient, but it feels like it’s getting worse, not better. And he’s so wrapped up in his stupid photography thing and never has any time for me!” Lysa pouted.

“Then on our family trip, I met the most marvelous older man. He’s sophisticated and charming and so well read! He’s very kind and always interested in what I have to say. And I always thought Petyr was the love of my life, but now I’m wondering if I wouldn’t be better off taking a chance on this other guy!”

“It’s Mr. Arryn from senior English,” Catelyn said flatly from her corner of the hot springs. 

“Wait, Jon Arryn?” Cersei sat up. “He gave me an A Minus on my Tale of King’s Landing and Lys! An A MINUS!”

“But seducing your high school teacher? I love it!” Melisandre grinned. “Lysa, you have hidden depths!”

“I just don’t know who to choose,” Lysa beamed, a mixture of emboldened and abashed by the sudden surge of interest in her life.

“It doesn’t matter,” Catelyn said glumly. “They’ll only disappoint you.”

“I’m sure they are both equally good options,” Brienne jumped in, anxious not to let Catelyn bring the mood down. Personally, she did think it was kind of weird to date your former high school teacher, and she did not have fond memories of Petyr Baelish.

“There is no such thing as equally good options,” Cersei stated matter of factly. “Only whether or not you can figure out which one is better.”

“But I have to figure out who to ask to Daddy’s brunch tomorrow,” Lysa fretted. “I can’t possibly figure it out in one afternoon.”

“Well who is the sex better with?” Melisandre asked matter of factly.

“I haven’t had sex with Jon yet, he wants to wait until we’re exclusive,” Lysa blushed. “But Petyr... he does this thing with his tongue and his fingers that—“ she leaned over to whisper something in Melisandre’s ear. Brienne was relieved. She didn’t really need to hear what Petyr Baelish did with his tongue or his fingers.

“So Petyr gets the nod there,” Melisandre said slowly. 

“But like, Jon says the nicest things! Look at this text he sent me!”

I woke up this morning thinking of you—you must have been in my dreams. Regardless, you are in my heart.

“That’s so romantic!” Brienne blurted, touched by the sweetness.

“I don’t think Stannis has sent me a text like that ever,” Melisandre agreed.

“But that doesn’t help me pick!”

“These are basically the different love languages,” Cersei said thoughtfully. “Physical touch and words of affirmation. Who buys you better presents?”

“What?” Lysa frowned.

“Well you have the other three left. Receiving gifts, acts of service and quality time. Whomever is better in more of the love languages. That’s your answer as to who the better fit is,” Cersei explained.

“I don’t know if I can compare them—especially since I haven’t spent as much time with Jon,” Lysa chewed her lip uncertainly. “I definitely couldn’t figure out the answer by tonight when I have to invite one of them.”

“Unless you set up a series of tests for them this afternoon,” Cersei offered, sounding far too intrigued for Brienne’s comfort.

“Texts?”

“A competition! Tell them you’re dying to see them and that they have to bring you a present!”

“A competition?”

“Wait, I don’t know that this is such a good idea...” Brienne had a distinct sensation that things were spiraling out of control.

“It’s like a bachelorette game!” Cersei beamed at her. 

Brienne gave a pleading look at Melisandre.

“It’s not really a bachelorette game,” Melisandre interjected smoothly. Thank you gods. “...unless we all bet on the outcome.”

What.

“What did you have in mind? I’m afraid you girls have used up most of the chewing gum.” Cersei smiled, showing a few too many teeth.

“Whomever loses has to take the winners out to a place of the winners’ choosing...”

Cersei frowned, not terribly excited at the prospect of allowing her little chicks to eat.

“...wearing an outfit of the winners’ choosing,” Melisandre finished, crossing her arms.

“Deal,” Cersei announced promptly. “I pick Petyr.”

“Jon Arryn,” Melisandre smirked.

“It doesn’t matter. Our father will just drive him away,” Catelyn said apathetically. Cersei and Melisandre glared. “...Petyr,” Catelyn sighed.

“I don’t know that we should be turning Lysa’s love life into some kind of game show!” Brienne protested.

“Oh I don’t mind,” Lysa said brightly.

“Unless you wanted to keep going with the bubble gum game? You skipped a couple of the questions, I noticed,” Cersei responded pointedly.

Melisandre arched an eyebrow.

“I take Jon Arryn too,” Brienne caved. It was just such a lovely text.

“Perfect. Now here’s what I’m thinking for Round One,” Cersei leaned forward, dropping her voice into a conspiratorial whisper. And against her better judgment, Brienne leaned in as well.

Melisandre (Vice and Wish 6 of 12)

It wasn’t that Melisandre hated Cersei per se, although she was fast approaching her very last nerve. It wasn’t that Melisandre hated hen parties—oh wait, she did. She hated them just as much as she hated every stupid asinine forced tradition surrounding weddings, up to and including weddings themselves.

But Lord of Light, if anybody deserved to feel what it was like to lose... 

Lysa Tully would pick Jon Arryn if she had to be dragged kicking and screaming every step of the way. 

It wouldn’t come to that though, Melisandre told herself firmly. Petyr Baelish was a weaselly creep who was using Lysa for her social connections and would absolutely dump her the moment a more advantageous opportunity presented itself. He cheated on her, belittled her, and wouldn’t know love languages if the book hit him in the head. 

Jon Arryn might not be age appropriate, but he was a kind sweet man who seemed to genuinely like Lysa for who she was. As far as Melisandre was concerned, this game was in the bag. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t going to take precautions.

“I think we should all trade phones,” Melisandre said sweetly. “That way nobody can ruin the game by cheating.”

“Such a good idea,” Cersei gave her a patronizing smile. “You can take mine.”

So Cersei and Melisandre swapped and Brienne and Catelyn swapped, and then they put their heads together to craft the appropriate text that Lysa Tully would send to each man.

“Petyr was going to pick me up anyway, so that’ll be easy. I’ll just tell him we’re wrapping up and can he come early. And that it’s our seven year anniversary so he better surprise me,” Lysa added.

“Won’t he know it’s not?” Brienne asked doubtfully. 

Lysa rolled her eyes. 

“Hardly, most years he forgets. What do I say to Jon though? We’ve only been on a few proper dates.”

“If he’s as thoughtful as you think, you probably don’t need to say anything,” Cersei chipped in.

“You’re saying something,” Melisandre interjected, glaring. “It’s not fair to say something to Petyr and not to Jon.”

“How about ‘Having a disaster of a weekend, can you please pick me up? Bonus points if you can think of something to cheer me up.’”

“That’s still not the equivalent of an anniversary,” Melisandre protested. 

“Well if you have an alternative suggestion, I’m all ears,” Cersei arched her eyebrow.

“My ride fell through and everybody’s forgotten it’s my birthday. What a disaster of a weekend, can you please pick me up?” Melisandre recited flatly.

“Ooooh,” Lysa began typing.

“Not bad,” Cersei conceded grudgingly.

“I still think this is silly,” Brienne put in. “An artificial demand that each of these people find you a gift in thirty minutes as they’re driving to pick you up doesn’t tell you anything about them.”

There was a ding of a text.

“Jon’s on his way!” Lysa announced brightly. 

“So he’s a fast responder than Petyr. Interesting,” Melisandre couldn’t help noting.

There was a pause as they stared at Lysa’s cell phone for Petyr’s text. Nothing happened. Maybe she would just win by default? 

“If you’ll excuse me girls, I need to use the ladies’ room,” Cersei reached for her robe.

Melisandre promptly pulled herself out of the hot spring pool as well.

“We can go together,” she said. That was something girls did wasn’t it? She didn’t have many female friends. Regardless, she wasn’t giving Cersei an opportunity to wander off and find a pay phone.

“Of course,” Cersei dipped her head.

“But...” Brienne blurted, glancing at Catelyn, who had not said a word in twenty minutes, and then back at Melisandre.

“She’s fine, aren’t you Catelyn?” Melisandre said soothingly.

“I’m creating a mental flow chart for brunch tomorrow, gaming scenarios that might go wrong, and coming up with back up plans for each,” Catelyn answered absently.

“See? She’s doing... that,” Melisandre waved a hand. “Totally fine.”

She hurried after Cersei, who had not bothered to wait for her.

“Oh there you are!” She feigned enthusiasm, grabbing her arm. “Such a fun weekend, right?!”

“Simply marvelous,” Cersei smiled back, and was it Melisandre’s imagination, or did it look a little strained?

“The ladies’ room is the other way,” Melisandre gently turned her in the right direction.

“So easy to get turned around in these woods,” Cersei shook her head, and Melisandre definitely saw her eye twitch.

Once they were in the bathroom, Cersei cleared her throat.

“You don’t mind waiting outside do you? I have a shy bladder.”

“Take your time, no rush,” Melisandre said cheerfully as she breezed past into the next stall.

She was wondering if they really would be here until Cersei actually had to use the restroom, but fortunately there was the telltale tinkle after not too many minutes.

“You don’t mind if we stop by our suite, do you? I’m sure the girls would prefer some clothes besides these bathrobes,” Cersei suggested.

“Actually that’s a good idea,” Melisandre admitted. Certainly she wanted Lysa dressed to impress.

Under close supervision, Cersei found some outfits for everybody. (One thing Melisandre had to admit—Cersei had good taste in clothing. And like Melisandre, she subscribed to the ‘if you’ve got it, flaunt it’ style.)

This momentary charitable impulse toward Cersei dissipated promptly upon returning to the hot springs, where Brienne, Catelyn, and Lysa were still lounging. Well Brienne and Lysa were lounging. Catelyn was sitting with her knees pulled to her chest and staring into space.

“Petyr responded! He apologized for the delay, he was busy at the jeweler’s shopping for my anniversary gift,” Lysa beamed.

Melisandre shot a look at Cersei who seemed innocently pleased with the outcome.

“That’s clearly a lie, because it’s not actually your anniversary,” Melisandre pointed out rather testily. Something was clearly fishy. Somehow Cersei had forewarned him. 

“An important attribute in any partner is a willingness to blindly agree with you,” Cersei countered.

“Well it certainly explains your choices,” Melisandre muttered under her breath.

“I didn’t catch that?”

“Just something in my throat,” Melisandre growled.

“Okay, Jon’s getting here at three. I’ll greet him, then ask him to bring the car around. Petyr will get here at 3:30. So we’ll be done with the first test by four,” Lysa said happily.

“Excellent,” Cersei nodded. “For quality time, you can tell Jon that you’ve changed your mind and want to do a walking tour of the forest before you leave. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to Petyr about outstanding wedding issues—“ 

“Which Brienne will be present for,” Melisandre added.

“—and then you can tell Jon you need to pack and we’ll keep him occupied while you tell Petyr you want to take a boat out on the lake before you go,” Cersei finished.

“What about acts of service?” Lysa asked, hanging on to Cersei’s every word.

“That’s just a tie-breaker. I don’t really think it’ll come to that,” Cersei said airily.

Melisandre glowered. Thought she had it in the bag did she?

The next hour was a flurry of changing, scoping out the best places to meet Jon Arryn and Petyr, and fussing over Lysa. They brushed her dark auburn hair until it positively shone, and Cersei worked some makeup magic that made her normally pale blue eyes glow. 

“Don’t seem too impressed with either of them. Make them work for it,” Cersei lectured her. 

“I don’t think you should be unkind,” Brienne frowned.

“Just be confident,” Melisandre assured her.

Catelyn only sighed and came out of her shell enough to hug her little sister.

“Either one would be so lucky,” she told Lysa. “But this is silly and if you’re upset with Petyr, you should really talk to him instead of playing him against your high school Lit teacher in some kind of secret game show.”

Poor thing was just so undone by the Ned situation. 

“Do you want to know who to invite to brunch tomorrow or not?” Cersei pressed, and Lysa slipped from Catelyn’s hug, eyes wide.

Jon Arryn arrived ten minutes early in his sensible sedan. A little beaten up, but it got good gas mileage and as far as Melisandre could tell when it was her turn with the binoculars, very clean inside. 

“Why do you have these?” Brienne asked Cersei when Melisandre handed them over for her turn.

“A lady should always have a pair of good binoculars in her purse,” Cersei said absently, as she adjusted the focus. “He kissed her on the cheek. What’s she saying? Is she pointing at us?!”

Catelyn turned up the volume on her cell phone, which was in minute five of a telephone call to Lysa, who had her phone on speaker in her pocket to catch conversation.

“Our suite was up there, it had the most marvelous balconies,” Lysa was saying. The girls, huddled on their balcony, crouched lower.

“Well I’m glad you were able to enjoy something—I was so surprised to hear about everyone forgetting your birthday, that doesn’t seem like Catelyn at all!” Jon Arryn put his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

“Oh, ha, she’s just been so caught up in the drama with Ned and Daddy,” Lysa covered quickly.

“But the other three? You can’t tell me Cersei doesn’t have a master spreadsheet of every friend’s birthday and an automated text program to send out personalized well wishes,” Jon Arryn laughed.

“I do have that,” Cersei mentioned to the other three.

“Well... I just really keep my birthday under wraps! I don’t like to make a fuss,” Lysa twisted for a second. “Why, I bet you didn’t even know it was my birthday!”

Oh well played.

“You caught me,” Jon admitted. “I’m so sorry, I would have planned something more elaborate if I’d known in advance.”

“I guess you didn’t get me anything then?” Lysa bit her lip. Melisandre realized she was biting her own as well. Cersei looked smug.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Jon Arryn said, a little mischievously.  He reached into the car and pulled out a small wrapped package.

“I bought this in the Summer Islands, I keep waiting for the right moment to give it to you. At first I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate, if you felt what I felt, and then the last two weeks have been such a whirlwind...” Jon Arryn was blabbering on a bit, but Melisandre could tell he was nervous. It was cute!

Lysa opened the package, and under the pretext of holding it to the light, turned the box towards the girls on the balcony.

It was a hair pin in the shape of a dragonfly, the wings a shimmering iridescent that had to be turquoise.

“Oh it’s beautiful!” Lysa exclaimed, her finger gently tracing the delicate craftsmanship.

“It was the blue I noticed at first, because it reminded me of your eyes,” Jon Arryn was saying. “But then I realized it was in the shape of a dragonfly and how appropriate that was.”

“A dragonfly?”

“You’re my princess of dragonflies, like the old legend. The beautiful sweet and mysterious girl who showed up and bewitched the Targaryen prince. And he ran away with her and left everything behind,” Jon said shyly. “I thought at forty-five, I knew the arc my life was taking. Rowena and I never could have children, but we built our own kind of family, and after she died, I never felt the need to go out and try again. Put myself through the whole rigamarole of dating. I was happy with what I had. My friends, my hobbies, my job. And then you showed up and everything changed.”

Lord of Light, Melisandre had had no idea. She had liked him as a teacher sure, but she’d found him overly attached to the old Westerosi canon of Great Works. In Great Works, the women were always in distress, which Melisandre had found rather tiresome and dull. But clearly he was just an old-fashioned romantic, lonely and pining for some girl to sweep off her feet. It was adorable!

“Lysa would be lucky to resell that for a couple hundred dragons on the secondhand market,” Cersei sniffed. 

“Would you do me the honor of letting me pin it in your hair?” Jon Arryn asked. And Lysa giggled and nodded, and as he fastened it, the light caught the turquoise and in that moment, Lysa, who Melisandre had always thought of as a poor man’s version of her prettier smarter more vivacious sister, fairly sparkled.

Melisandre arched an eyebrow at Cersei. Cersei rolled her eyes.

“Where is Petyr, anyway, he should be due shortly,” Cersei sniffed. “Do I have your permission to use your phone to make sure he knows where to pick Lysa up? You will of course be able to read the texts.”

Petyr, it turned out, had gone to the hotel side and not the spa side, so Cersei walked around to meet him, Melisandre stoically following after.

“Petyr darling!” Cersei swept the weedy fellow into a hug. He was wearing a suit, which was inherently suspicious.

“Is Lysa ready?” Petyr asked. He gave a slick smile. “It’s our anniversary after all.”

Melisandre tried her best not to scowl. If anything this was proof that she had backed the right horse.

“Lysa’s actually over this way,” she said, and escorted him around the back, even as a surreptitious glance at her phone confirmed that Brienne and Catelyn were taking Jon Arryn around the front.

“Babe!” Petyr broke into a light jog when he saw Lysa, sweeping her up and spinning her before he set her down again with a lingering kiss. Melisandre personally thought it was a little tacky to grab your girlfriend’s ass in public, but Lysa just laughed.

“I’ve been missing you,” Petyr brushed a strand of hair out of her face, frowning briefly as he noted the hair clip.

“But you haven’t been responding to any of my texts all weekend,” Lysa pouted.

“Work, no rest for the wicked I’m afraid,” Petyr sighed. “But I brought something to make up for it!”

“Oh?” Lysa tilted her head, curiosity sparked.

“Close your eyes,” Petyr smirked. Lysa’s lashes obediently fluttered shut.

He pulled two large emerald pendant earrings from his pocket, carefully clipping each one to her ears.

Melisandre goggled. They were huge! There was no way that Petyr Baelish, a fellow scholarship kid from Prep, had managed to afford those. Even if Cersei had warned him, there was JUST. NO. WAY.

“Open,” Petyr commanded, and Lysa opened her eyes. 

“Earrings?? They’re heavy, let me see!”

“Of course, smile—“ Petyr pulled her into a one armed hug and took a selfie of the two of them. “What do you think?”

“Gods,” Lysa breathed. “They’re absolutely gorgeous!! How on earth did you afford them?!”

“Selling some photos. That’s what’s kept me busy all weekend sweetling,” Petyr have her a saccharine smile. “They match your eyes.”

Melisandre ground her teeth. Lysa’s eyes were blue! 

“They look just like the earrings that Cersei wore in her interview in Yes! last month,” Lysa beamed, looking at Cersei for approval. “Don’t they just?”

“Not exactly,” Cersei laughed as Melisandre slowly turned toward her with an icy glare. “Mine were actually the pair worn by the famous Lysene actress Johanna Swann in The Stepstones Saga. They are one of a kind and I really wouldn’t part from them for any extended period of time.” This last part was said with slightly narrowed eyes at Petyr.

“Of course, mine were designed by a jeweler who specializes in reproduction. Give him a week’s time, and almost nobody would notice the difference,” Petyr nodded back at Cersei. Was Melisandre seriously the only person picking this up?! She turned around for Brienne and Catelyn’s acknowledgement, only to remember that they were last seen escorting Jon Arryn in the opposite direction.

“Petyr, can you give us a minute?” Melisandre tilted her head. “We need to speak briefly with Lysa and then I believe Cersei had some wedding issues she wanted to go over with you.”

“Of course ladies,” Petyr gave a bow that had Lysa tittering and Melisandre rolling her eyes.

“I think Petyr wins this round,” Lysa said as soon as he was out of earshot, touching the earrings dreamily. “I’ve never gotten a gift this nice.”

“Jon Arryn’s gift was thoughtful and sweet and he actually knows what color your eyes are,” Melisandre growled. “Petyr obviously regifted some of Cersei’s earrings.”

“How on earth would he have done that?” Cersei smiled at her bemusedly. “You’ve been with me the entire time.”

“I. DON’T. KNOW,” Melisandre bit out.

“Poor dear just doesn’t like losing,” Cersei said in a stage whisper to Lysa who pulled a sympathetic face. Melisandre seethed.

“If you’ll excuse me, I need to take a walk and clear my head,” Melisandre said tightly.

“I thought you wanted to be present for any discussions I had with Petyr,” Cersei replied coyly.

“Clearly you have already managed to convey everything you need to,” Melisandre said haughtily, and swept out. 

So Cersei wanted to play it like this did she? Melisandre absently began walking toward the boathouse on the edge of the lake. Cersei wasn’t the only person who knew a little something about ruining people’s day.

An hour later, Melisandre finished washing the engine grease off her hands and found Brienne and Catelyn in the library of the hotel listening to Catelyn’s phone.

“Oh look at all the funny faces these trees have!” Lysa was saying tinnily from the speaker.

“These carvings are said to pre-date the arrival of Andals in Westeros. The First Men worshipped the weirwoods as gods,” Jon explained. “This is one of the best preserved historical sites in the country and I’ve always wanted to visit. Look at you Lysa, making my dreams come true.”

“So it sounds like it’s going well?” Melisandre asked.

“He’s such a dear. I would have never guessed from senior lit, that class could be so boring!” Brienne admitted.

“What if the reason Ned isn’t responding to my texts is because he’s not coming?” Catelyn suddenly asked. “Like this whole time I’ve been planning out doomsday brunch scenarios, I’ve forgotten the most obvious problem. What will I do if he’s decided to hell with my family and to hell with m-me?!”

“You know that Ned worships the ground you walk on,” Brienne said immediately.  “He would never do anything to hurt you. You have a family together! His phone battery is just dead, you’ll see.”

“That’s right,” Melisandre agreed. Granted she hadn’t been spending all summer with him like Brienne had, but from Stannis’ occasional off-hand comments, Ned seemed like one of the good ones. “There is such thing as overthinking a problem, you know? Distract yourself,” she eyed the cell phone meaningfully.

“You’re right, I know you’re right,” Catelyn massaged her temples. “And I know the two of you don’t think much of Petyr, but we grew up together. And at least he’s Lysa’s AGE! I’m not saying I love the way he treats her, but she also has literally never confronted him about anything. I just think sitting down and having a conversation about her expectations in a relationship is the healthier option here.”

Melisandre shifted uncomfortably. Gods, when did Catelyn Tully become such an adult?! Was this because she was a mom?

“Look, it’s all in good fun,” she finally allowed grudgingly. “The prize is an invitation to brunch, not Lysa’s hand in marriage.”

“You guys, they’re heading back now,” Brienne warned, still listening to the phone conversation. “We should make sure Petyr is ready to take Lysa out on the lake.”

“Say Lysa can swim right?” Melisandre asked casually.

“Like a fish,” Catelyn smiled fondly.

“How about Petyr?”

“Um not super great as I can recall.”

“Excellent,” Melisandre smiled.

“Why do you ask?”

“No reason at all.”

Cersei (Vice and Wish 9 of 12)

Cersei tried to maintain a pleasant expression on her face as Jon Arryn animatedly expounded on the symbolism of the weirwood in the legends of the First Men to her and Brienne.

Honestly, she didn’t have a dog in this race. If she were Lysa, she wasn’t sure whom she’d pick. Petyr Baelish was penniless of course, and Jon Arryn might play at being a high school lit teacher, but everyone knew that the Arryns owned half of the Vale. They were one of the largest landowning families in Westeros. But money wasn’t everything. Petyr had ambition and his career would be exciting and come with power and influence. Personally, that appealed to Cersei more than being some high school teacher’s wife, no matter how loaded he was. 

But Petyr cheated on Lysa, and Cersei couldn’t imagine tolerating that kind of disrespect without eventually being driven to killing him.

But Jon Arryn had once given her an A minus on a book report on Wuthering Heights! An A MINUS!

It really was a difficult decision.

But at the end of the day, Petyr was an occasionally useful person to have around. Cersei just didn’t see how Lysa dating Jon Arryn benefited her, Cersei Lannister. And once she was committed, well Cersei Lannister had never lost in her life.

But she’d realized, the moment that Jon Arryn responded immediately and Petyr Baelish did not, that she might have her work cut out for her. The problem, at the end of the day, was that while Petyr was great at digging up dirt on people and subtly manipulating them, he was not great at being a boyfriend. If Cersei didn’t intervene, Petyr would just pretend he hadn’t seen the text, and when he finally did show up to pick Lysa up at the original time, Jon Arryn would have already walked away with the prize.

However actually warning him proved to be trickier than anticipated. Cersei had turned her phone over uncomplainingly—she was never without a burner or two in her bag—but getting away from Melisandre to actually send the text proved nigh impossible.

Finally ensconced in a bathroom stall, Cersei had been forced to pour out a small bottle of perfume into the toilet to get the desired sound effects as she quickly typed out a warning to Petyr. After that, it was a simple matter of grabbing an extra pair of earrings while she was getting everyone’s outfits sorted, and transferring them to Petyr’s pocket when she’d hugged him hello.

Now though, she’d laid all the groundwork and could relax and enjoy her victory. Petyr could easily be charming when the occasion called for it, and he had a seven year head start on Jon Arryn. A tranquil boat ride across the misty lake, some beautiful sights, some emotional reminiscing... Some of the grounds crew went running by the window, looking harried. Odd.

“In fact, the sheer wilderness of the forest, the untamed tangle of it existing nearly upon civilization, reminded me of your essay on the moors as an expression of the soul. Do you remember that Cersei? I submitted it to that national essay contest on your behalf and it won third prize!” Jon Arryn beamed at her.

“...you submitted that?” Cersei said in a strangled tone. She had never known who had sent it in, but had rather assumed it was Jaime.

“Of course! I remember writing in my comments that it was the best essay I’d read in years!”

“But you gave me an A minus!” Cersei sputtered. 

“I gave you an A plus,” Jon Arryn frowned. “I had to write a note to Aemon Targaryen explaining why the curve would be thrown off and getting special permission.”

Had Cersei misread that grade? She did recall him having atrocious handwriting... There was a low buzz of conversation as some new guests walked by the library.

“...can’t think what could have happened. Those poor people stranded!”

Cersei glanced at her watch. Lysa and Petyr should have been back half an hour ago.

“Would you just excuse me for a brief moment?” Cersei smiled sweetly, leaving Brienne to keep him entertained.

She hurried down to the docks, only to see Catelyn bundling her dripping and shivering sister into a large fluffy towel as a flustered dock manager tried to offer her hot cocoa and a discount on future trips.

“Well Jon wins quality time,” Lysa huffed, upon seeing Cersei.

“What happened?” Cersei frowned.

“Well first our engine started making a funny noise and then it died when we got out to the middle of the water! And Petyr made me swim to get help and my dress is sopping wet!” Lysa recounted dramatically, although she seemed more excited than upset. “You know Jon would have never made me swim for it. He’s a great swimmer, we saw him in the Summer Islands all the time! Or he could have fixed the engine himself. Did you know he was in the Air Force?”

As Lysa prattled, Cersei analyzed the facts at hand. There was no way that the boat had just ACCIDENTALLY broken down. Someone had sabotaged it. Someone who had disappeared for an hour shortly before their boat ride. Cersei turned on Melisandre who was surveying the scene with disinterest m.

“You couldn’t have possibly known which boat they would take out,” Cersei began slowly. “Why you would have had to tamper with...”

“All of them,” Melisandre said boredly. Cersei’s gaze slowly lifted to the lake where at least eight boats could be spotted stranded, their occupants frantically waving to shore. Suddenly the commotion amongst the staff made sense.

“Why that’s...” Cersei began.

“Cheating?” Melisandre asked wryly.

“Brilliant,” Cersei conceded. 

She had cheated on an epic scale, and not for any normal reason like Cersei who wanted Petyr to be around to continue to do errands for her. She couldn’t be bullied, bought or reasoned with. Some women just wanted to watch the world burn. Cersei had new found respect for Melisandre, and reminded herself to cross her only if the occasion absolutely called for it. 

“So that means it’s one all,” Cersei folded her arms.

“Guess we’ll need acts of service to be our tie-breaker after all,” Melisandre allowed the faintest smirk to curve her features.

“No holds barred?”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Melisandre riposted.

“Then give me back my phone,” Cersei said haughtily. You didn’t ask Michelangelo to work with a sledgehammer after all. An artist needed their tools.

“Fine,” Melisandre tossed it back. 

Cersei checked it and then did a double-take. Three HUNDRED texts?! She’d been away for a couple hours sure, but even for her this was a lot.

Then she opened the first thread. Then she sat down on the dock.

“Oh what happened?” Melisandre snarked. “Don’t tell me your Vogue coverage got pulled.”

“It might be worse than that,” Cersei admitted flatly. 

There was a pause and then Melisandre huffed as she smoothed her skirt and sat down on the dock next to her. Cersei handed the phone over without looking, choosing to squint instead at the figure in the lake that she was fairly sure was Petyr Baelish.

“Oh shit,” Melisandre breathed. “Is this for real?”

“Taena was sorority sisters with Alysanne Hightower who’s Alerie Tyrell’s sister and Alerie says she got it from Mace who spoke to Ashara herself,” Cersei said matter of factly.

“So...?”

“Almost certainly.”

According to Taena, according to Alysanne, according to Alerie, according to Mace, Ashara fucking Dayne had a bastard child with Ned Stark and wanted him to take it.

Clearly there were questions. Was it before he married Catelyn or after? Had he even known about the child? What would this do to her seating arrangement? 

“One of us has to tell her,” Melisandre said slowly. Cersei looked back down the dock where Catelyn had cajoled Lysa into taking the hot chocolate and was popping a marshmallow into her mouth. Finally distracted, she seemed almost happy.

“I’ll tell her,” Cersei said grimly. Crushing people’s happiness was a specialty of hers. “But first we need information.”

She got Alerie’s number from her wedding spreadsheet, and dialed it. The phone only rang once before she heard Alerie’s eager hello.

“Cersei Lannister! What a surprise!” Alerie sounded positively delighted. Cersei pulled up her mental Rolodex. One of the Oldtown Hightowers, mediocre grades, went to Sunspear even though her family practically built the Citadel. Spreading her legs for the likes of Mace Tyrell was probably the smartest move she’d ever made. Second smartest, if rumors about a safety pin and a condom were true.

“I realized I never thanked you for the lovely—“ Cersei checked the spreadsheet on her phone and rolled her eyes, honestly if this was the best you could do why bother, “—dish towels you sent as an engagement present.” 

“Oh you’re so sweet!” Alerie said. “Say, while you’re on the phone, have you heard the latest?”

“About Ashara Dayne? Naturally, Ned is Robert’s best man,” Cersei replied lightly. “What have you heard? I do so love how the details get twisted in each retelling.”

“This wasn’t a retelling,” Alerie sounded a trifle affronted that Cersei thought she had better sources. “This was straight from the horse’s mouth. My husband spoke to Ashara herself, and she told a Mace that Ned was family and that he’d be a wonderful father.”

“Ah,” Cersei said, brain dissecting the words frantically, trying to produce any alternative but the one inescapable conclusion. “That’s not exactly right.”

“No?” Alerie sounded suspicious. How to sell this?

“Let me just get permission to spill the beans,” Cersei dropped her voice conspiratorially. “I promised I wouldn’t tell, you know how these things are.”

“Of course,” Alerie still sounded on the fence.

“But tell you what, I’ll call you back with the real scoop. You’ll be the very first to know. Deal?”

And on that, Alerie Tyrell née Hightower was sold.

Catelyn was still talking to Lysa.

“Just remember at the end of the day, this is your decision. It’s your life, not some silly game we’re playing, and you shouldn’t pick who you date based on what will make certain people happy...”

“Excuse me, can I talk to you for a moment?” Cersei interjected. An expression of annoyance flashed across Catelyn’s face, but then she saw Melisandre hovering behind her, face ashen.

“What’s happened?” Catelyn said, and her voice quavered and for a moment even Cersei felt a little queasy.

“There is a malicious rumor going around that Ashara Dayne had a child with Ned,” Cersei said briskly, squelching any squeamishness.

“What?” Catelyn said slowly.

“It’s Alerie Tyrell who’s spreading it, that little gossipy twat, as if she’s one to talk about children out of wedlock,” Cersei gave a judgmental sniff. Melisandre cleared her throat and Cersei wondered if she was coming down with something and made a mental note to have her personal physician pay a house call to all the bridesmaids. Nobody would be getting sick on HER wedding day.

“What?”

“When really all Ashara said was that Ned was family to her son. So I think this is just a misunderstanding but it is IMPERATIVE that we get out ahead of this story.”

“What?” 

Cersei ground her teeth. She just did not have time for this kind of coddling. She grabbed Catelyn’s shoulders and stared her in the eye.

“Would Ned cheat on you?”

At last from the wellspring of hurt and bafflement and confusion came a spark of something angrier.

“He certainly would not. He’s not Robert.”

Okay, just this once, Cersei was going to let that pass. But if Catelyn ever made a comment like that again, Cersei would hack off her stupid braid in her sleep.

“Right. Who would cheat on you? Who DID cheat on you sophomore year of high school as I recall?”

Catelyn frowned and then there was a dawning recognition.

“Brandon.”

“Right! Brandon Stark never could keep it in his pants. Who’s he married to now? Barbrey Dustin? So he has some torrid little affair with Ashara, gets her in the family way and waltzes back north to his political career and pretends it never happens. Meanwhile Ned runs into Ashara in Dorne, and the whole secret come spilling out,” Cersei finished with just a note of pride. She could totally be a detective. Not that she would ever take a job that paid below six figures. What did a detective make?

“So Ashara had a baby with Brandon, but now Alerie Tyrell is telling everyone it’s mine?!” Catelyn repeated as she worked through the information.

“Oh gods,” Lysa breathed. “The brunch!”

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” Cersei said flatly. “Jon Arryn is going to turn around and go home and surprise Hoster Tully with eighteen holes of golf at his club. Or whatever it takes to get him away from his phone. The last thing we need is someone like Olenna Tyrell calling him up ‘just to say hi’. I’m going to go through out school newspaper archives... remember when Brandon asked Ashara to dance at spring fling and it made front page? I’ll text that photo to Alerie. Meanwhile, Petyr is going doctor one of Brandon’s recent publicity photos to have Ashara in the background. He’ll casually ask one of Alerie’s friends if Brandon and Ashara are dating, it’ll get back to her within a couple of hours and by tomorrow morning, the truth will be known.”

“I’ll get Jon and Brienne and let them know,” Melisandre said and hurried back toward the hotel.

“What should we do?” Lysa asked.

Cersei rolled her neck, feeling the joints popping into place. Now this was a challenge worthy of her time.

“You are getting Petyr off that fucking boat,” she said.

While Lysa and Catelyn swam back out, Cersei closed her eyes to think. She needed a student ID to access the school newspaper archives. Who did she know in at Prep? Tyrion had graduated the year before, and it’s not like he’d had many friends... wait a minute.

“Go for Renly,” Renly Baratheon drawled on the third ring. Cersei, who could hear a decidedly masculine giggle on the other side, gritted her teeth.

“I need your user name and password for Prep,” she said.

“I’m sorry, who is this?”

“You know who this is!” Cersei snapped.

“Ah I didn't recognize your voice without that hysteric pitch. Do I even want to know why you’re trolling your old high school’s intranet? Or are you on the prowl for fresh meat already?”

“Renly, if you give me your account information this instant, I will have you cast in your first television role before the month is out.”

“You can’t do that,” Renly laughed, although Cersei detected an undercurrent of interest.

“If I can make Beric Dondarrion famous, just think what I can do for you,” she purred.

“My username is RBaratheon2,” Renly said, sounding slightly sour about that fact, “and my password is Tywin4Evah. Do you need help spelling Tywin? It’s—“

Cersei hung up on him with a shudder.

When Petyr was finally towed by the Tully sisters to dry land, Cersei was carefully cropping the archive photo on her phone to make it look like a candid.

“I hear my services are required,” he said in an oily voice that showed a lot of confidence for someone who hadn’t just been saved by his girlfriend and her sister.

“I need recent photographic evidence that Brandon and Ashara Dayne are a thing,” Cersei said, fiddling with her phone to try and lighten the photo.

Petyr didn’t even ask how he was going to be paid. Maybe he did care about Lysa.

“Don’t worry Cat, I have just the photo,” he put his arm around her and squeezed her shoulder. “I caught a candid of Brandon walking in the rain with an aide under an umbrella that I never found any use for. I’ll just swap in Ashara’s face, and nobody ever need to know Ned Stark’s dirty secret.”

“It’s not true Petyr,” Cersei said crossly.

“Of course it’s not,” Petyr stroked Catelyn’s hair.

“Right, I’m just going to say goodbye to Jon Arryn,” Catelyn mumbled, extricating herself. Cersei would have scolded her for blowing the game and scolded Petyr for not acting surprised, but there just wasn’t time for that.

She finished doctoring the photo to her satisfaction and leaned back to craft the perfect text.

You’re right about one thing, she began to Alerie, Ned is family.

She texted the photo of Brandon and Ashara dancing.

He’s just not the father. Did you know that Brandon and Ashara had a torrid affair sophomore year? It was our school’s best kept secret.

Alerie called her almost immediately, but Cersei let it go to voicemail. A little mystery added to the charm of the story.

“I texted Jorah Mormont, who was my year at Prep and knows the Starks. He’s dating Alerie’s cousin Lynesse,” Petyr said briskly. “In my experience, he tells her everything.”

“Isn’t Petyr brilliant?” Lysa beamed.

“Not bad,” Cersei conceded. “Let’s find the others.”

By the time they located Brienne and Melisandre, Cersei’s phone was buzzing like an angry hornet. She smirked. Dance puppets.

“Catelyn went back to the library, she just needed a moment alone,” Brienne said worriedly.

“Jon promised to keep Hoster away from his phone even if he had to drop it off a cliff,” Melisandre added.

“I’d better check on Cat,” Petyr said solicitously and excused himself.

“Our counter story has been leaked and is making the rounds,” Cersei smirked. “Also apparently Barbrey Dustin threw a plate at a waiter’s head ten minutes ago, so you know SHE’S heard it.”

“Barbrey and Brandon always seemed rather happy,” Lysa shook her head. “Volatile, but happy.”

Cersei shrugged. She had difficulty feeling empathy for people she didn’t know. And for people she did know. Everyone really.

“I have to admit,” Melisandre looked around to make sure Petyr had actually left. “As far as acts of service go, Baelish did come through.”

“Yeah, that photo was so romantic,” Brienne chipped in. “I never would have thought it was a fake for a second!”

“We stopped playing the game, it was a draw,” Cersei waved her hand magnanimously. Even though she totally had won.

“Just saying, now is your chance to make us eat salads and wear silly outfits,” Melisandre said drily.

Cersei was about to respond that they really shouldn’t be eating at all when there was a scream from the library.

“What was—“ Brienne began.

“Cat!” Lysa bolted toward the sound. There was a second scream, this one definitely Lysa. The remaining three looked at each other.

Brienne, having much longer strides than either Melisandre or Cersei, managed to get there first, but all that time on the treadmill had made Cersei plenty spry, and she arrived second only to bounce off Brienne’s back. Shit, that better not bruise.

Petyr was standing before Catelyn and Lysa, his eyes wide and his face branded with a dark red handprint.

“Let me explain,” he began desperately.

“You TRIED TO KISS ME!” Catelyn howled.

“I misread the situation...”

“She’s MY SISTER!” Lysa screamed.

“I just thought that with Ned’s recent indiscretions...”

“GET OUT!!!” They yelled in unison.

Petyr looked at Cersei plaintively. She gave him her coldest death stare and pointed toward the door.

“Fuck having a conversation with him,” Catelyn sniffed, wiping away a tear. “He’s the worst Lysa.”

“He’s dumped,” Lysa hugged her. “Choosing Jon. Don’t cry, why are you crying? I’ll start crying!”

“It’s just been such a shitty week,” Catelyn admitted, scrubbing at her face as if she could erase the evidence of the tears. “Gods Cersei, I’m so sorry, this weekend is supposed to be about you and I’ve made it all about me and my problems!”

“You haven’t,” Cersei protested, after a small nudge from Brienne.

“I have!” Catelyn gave a hiccupy sob.

“Listen, it takes a selfish bitch to know a selfish bitch, and you my dear don’t have what it takes,” Cersei put her hand on her hip, which at least earned a smile through the tears. But then Catelyn kept crying. Ugh she was always shit at comforting people. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Lysa was crooning, dubbing her back. “You’ll see.”

“I can’t even get him on the phone!!”

“You know they’ve made some stupid boy bet to turn off their phones because they’re stupid boys,” Brienne had sat down on Catelyn’s other side.

“Petyr was supposed to pick us up! Now we don’t even have a ride home!”

Petyr. The snivelly weaselly untrustworthy little TURD! Cersei clenched her fists, feeling her nails digging into her palms. After all she’d done to help him with Lysa!! She had given him her one of a kind earrings!! How the fuck was she supposed to get those back! And worse... technically... from a certain light... if you squinted...

Cersei looked over to where Catelyn was still a pathetic blubbery mess. She closed her eyes. Was she really going to do this? Gods help us all.

“Ahem,” she cleared her throat. Nobody paid her any mind.

“BRIDAL ANNOUNCEMENT!” Cersei bellowed. That got their notice.

“As I was saying,” she continued sweetly. “It has come to my attention that Catelyn and I have lost.”

“Lost?” Brienne blinked.

“The bet. You see...”

“Lysa chose Jon Arryn,” Melisandre breathed.

“Therefore...”

“You have to wear anything we want! And you have to EAT anything we want!” Melisandre finished triumphantly.

“Cersei, I don’t think...” Catelyn began.

“Hush, eating your feelings away is a time honored tradition for a reason,” Cersei shushed her. Only to gulp at Melisandre’s slightly deranged smile.

Two hours later, they were eating at the most disgustingly greasy pub Cersei had ever set foot in. It made Robert’s old favorite Hollow Hill look fancy by comparison.

“I recommend the jalapeño poppers,” Melisandre said politely. 

“Boys suck,” Catelyn announced to the table, shoving a nacho (piled high with ground meat of some kind and sour cream and... was cheese supposed to be that color?) into her mouth. “Brandon sucks, Petyr really sucks, and my father is THE WORST.”

“Have some more beer,” Cersei sighed and pushed the pitcher over.

“And you need to eat,” Brienne said firmly, depositing a burger on her plate.

“Excuse me?” Cersei arched an eyebrow.

“I mopped up the oil with my napkin, and you can take the bun off, but I don’t think you’ve had solid food in days and it’s making you even worse than...” Brienne realized what she was saying and abruptly shut her mouth flushing, but still shoved the plate toward Cersei.

Cersei eyed the bare patty suspiciously. She cut off the smallest sliver and placed it in her mouth as Brienne watched her, chewing slowly with narrowed eyes. They might break her diet but they would never break her will.

“Um hi,” some local yokel who fancied himself a ladies’ man had approached the table. “Me and my mates couldn’t help but notice your dresses.”

Cersei looked around at the five of them in their equally tacky thrift store wedding dresses. She’d insisted on the other girls joining her and Catelyn when she’d seen what Melisandre had planned. And well, Lysa didn’t take much convincing, and then it was three against two.

“Where are your grooms?” The guy grinned, running his hand through his hair.

“You’ve been watching us for the last twenty-five minutes and that’s the best you could come up with?” Cersei asked boredly.

“You’re a man. Do you suck?” Catelyn squinted at him suspiciously.

“Are you going to date me for six years and then try and get it on with my sister?” Lysa stuck out her tongue.

“Um what?” The guy gave a nervous laugh. “I should be getting back to my friends.”

“Please stay,” Melisandre purred, tossing her veil behind her. “You can marry all of us.”

The man fled.

There was a pause and then they all burst out laughing.

“Can you imagine Stannis’ expression if he heard you say that?” Brienne teased Melisandre.

“Hey what happens during the hen party stays with the hen party,” Melisandre tsked.

“But what happens at brunch needs to be shared with all of us,” Cersei put in.

“Maybe it’s just the beer but I’m rather looking forward to brunch,” Catelyn gave a rather dreamy smile. “I’ve been spending all this time trying to make everybody else happy. Well now we’re going to try something different.”

“That’s right! Hear me roar!” Cersei encouraged.

“You’re Catelyn fucking Tully-Stark!” Brienne piled on.

“Tell your dad where he can shove his eligible young men!” Melisandre whooped.

Lysa didn’t say anything, just slid a quarter into the jukebox.

In retrospect, Cersei was almost glad that she wasn’t allowed to drink. Had she been drunk, she might have missed the Tully sisters belting “I Will Survive” from on top of the table. Had she been drunk, she might have missed Melisandre dragging Brienne on a crazy cheek to cheek tango down the aisle. Or throwing a glass at the bartender when he cut her off. She would have missed them all fleeing into the night, laughing hysterically, when he called the cops. Catelyn insisted on carrying her bridal style as Brienne shout-sang the wedding march, and Lysa skipped ahead of them, stealing flowers from people’s window boxes to sprinkle in their path.

Had Cersei been drunk, she might have missed any number of details. But she didn’t take a single photo to use later. Now that was friendship.