#I will die on this hill people are on my LAST NERVE

[hogans-heroes]

In case anyone tried to whitewash your Battle of Britain lately. I present receipts of the countless Jamaican, Haitian, Indian, and Māori fighter and bomber crews in the RAF. Fully integrated.

[hughiecampbelle]

Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,349

A/N: This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves 😅 I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

He knows when it’s happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. You’re quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long you’re gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, you’re back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath you’re stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who you’re sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesn’t say anything, to do so would draw attention. That’s the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. That’s as far as he’ll get to asking if you’re okay. That’s as far as you’ll let him when you’re working. 

Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. It’s come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now it’s back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You can’t be in the apartment while he’s cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You can’t eat, afraid you’ll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, it’s put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. It’s been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You don’t say anything. It’s easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesn’t cause problems and it keeps you full. That’s all you can ask for. 

He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didn’t find anything, if they didn’t have the answers, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You can’t be doubted again. You can’t be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and that’s what mattered. It’s worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, you’ll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours you’ll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasn’t worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life. 

Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then they’d take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You weren’t anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldn’t stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldn’t others? 

You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. There’s little can do, though. There’s little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. You’re scared. Scared of what they’ll find, scared of what they won’t. He reassures you, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you can’t do that to him. You can’t be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him it’s a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You can’t let him worry, he’s got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.

[grandlinedreams]

This is totally calling myself out with (why I’m anon 😭), but would you be comfortable doing unexpected pregnancy trope w/ Law. Or just the pregnancy trope in general. I absolutely adore it, but I do know a lot of people don’t/aren’t comfortable with it

Ough i have a request in my drafts that I'm working on that's got a tad more of an angstier spin on this so I'm gonna use this one to give him the happy ending we all hope he'd get :')

[Heads up!: fluff, married!law makes me wanna gnaw my arm off, afab/fem aligned reader, I think Law'd do his best to be a good dad and I will die on that hill]

Truth be told, Law never thought he'd make it this far. There have been a hundred odds stacked against him, tipped the scales in their favor over his ㅡ and somehow, he's still here.

There are days where he wonders if it's worth it, if he's worth it ㅡ and then he remembers Sengoku's words about Cora's sacrifice for him.

"Don't ever attach a reason to the love you've been given."

He's been loved ㅡ by his parents, by Lami, by Cora. By his crew, his friends ㅡ and you. You, who've been patiently by his side this entire time, fighting for a future that's worth sticking around for.

And now he has it. The metal band around his finger is still new to him sometimes, and he fiddles with it when he's lost in thought, rotating it as the little stones shimmer. It's not anything extravagant ㅡ but neither of you had wanted that.

"Who cares about rocks and the money for them when I have you?" You'd said when he asked, staring at him with such conviction his chest hurt.

"Law?" Your voice brings him out of his thoughts, finding you standing a few feet away from where he'd been zoning out as he stared out the kitchen window over the sink. The house the two of you own is modest, but it suits the two of you and Law still has a tough time accepting the fact that he owns a house now, rather than just a submarine. (For man who's spent most of his life uncertain he'd get a tomorrow, he's settled into domesticity surprisingly well for the most part.)

"You were gone when I woke up," he says by way of greeting, catches the nervous fidget of your arms, tucked behind you as you rock back and forth on your feet. "Where'd you go?"

"Town," you answer and when he frowns, you sigh. "I wasn't there long, and I've never once seen a wanted poster. We're not pirates anymore, you know."

"Can never be too careful," he intones, watches you mouth the words with him in a way that suggests it's far from the first time you've heard him say it. (It's true. He's said it a lot.) "Does it have to do with what you're hiding behind your back?"

"Maybe," you singsong before you bring your arms out from behind you, a neatly wrapped box extended towards him. He blinks, then his brow furrows.

"Did I miss an anniversary?"

"No."

"Is it your birthday?"

"No."

"Is itㅡ"

"Just open it, Law." There's an undercurrent of nerves to your tone as he takes the box from you, watching him as he sits down at the table to unwrap the thin bow of red ribbon around it.

You wait with baited breath as he sets the ribbon aside, pops the lid off of it ㅡ and pulls the contents out. You know exactly what it is, having spent the last few days trying to come up with the perfect way to tell him.

Law stares at the cloth in his hands. It's small, made of soft fabric and little metal buttons at the bottom, spaced between where two legs should go ㅡ oh. Oh.

And all at once, it clicks.

"You're pregnant?" He doesn't mean for it to sound like an accusation, only that he's aware neither of you'd been really trying yet ㅡ content to take one day at a time, together.

You nod. "I'm way late on my cycle, and given how lousy I've felt recently..." You watch him stand, leftover nerves making you ramble as he approaches. "I mean I know we've talked about kids but haven't wanted to really try yetㅡ"

His arms wind around you, holding you to him gently. There are a thousand thoughts that race through his head, of what-ifs concerning your health, the baby's ㅡ the fear that he's somehow passed on the disease he's long since been rid of.

He exhales against the top of your head, pushes the worries and fears back. He can deal with those later. Instead, he focused on what he can handle right now. "How far are you?"

"Not sure," you answer. "If we go by cycle, a month or so? Could be earlier than that."

His grip tightens. "You're pregnant," he mumbles, almost to himself. "We're having a baby."

You nod, letting yourself cling to him the way he is to you. "You're going to be a dad, Law."

The thought of fatherhood both excites and terrifies him ㅡ what if he's a horrible dad? He knows absolutely nothing about babies beyond what he remembers from when Lami was born, which is hardly much of anything.

"It's okay to be scared, Law." Your voice is soft, whispered against his chest. "I am too. But we'll do this together, okay? We'll be fine."

Law holds you to him, presses his lips to the top of your head as he thinks of the future. You, him, and the little piece of you both, growing inside you.

"Yeah," he finally says. "We'll be just fine."

[fayetape]

“Flame” by Fayetape

Finnick Odair x Reader

Word count: 1854

CW: Angst, typical THG stuff

Summary of series: Reader and Finnick met when they were very young. They experience the horrors of Panem together as they grow up. Throughout the years they fight for a happy ending. Whatever that may look like… Angst/Fluff/Smut/Series/Minimal use of Y/N!

Important note: The reader starts out very young but there is a time skip, don’t worry!

Hey everyone! My name is Faye. This is my first story I’ve ever published on here. I’m very new to this. This is the first part of my series “Flame” I hope you guys enjoy! Feel free to leave any constructive criticism or suggestions in the comments :)

Chapter One: Promises

A short white dress was displayed on her twin-sized mattress. The dress was beautiful. White and lacy. Tied with small, delicate ribbons on the shoulders and in the middle of the chest. Any other day she would have been delighted to have found such a gift. She knew what it meant. Reaping day. Her first one too. All the people of district four get dressed up in their sunday-best to be forced to watch as two of their children ages 12-18 get sent off to the games, almost certain to die. This time her life was part of the draw. She had no other choice but to put on the dress. Against her own will she kept thinking about this process as if it was one of her last times ever to do such a simple thing. Last time undressing. Last time tying a ribbon. She sighed anxiously and put on a pair of white tights and black buckle mary-janes. It felt like she was preparing herself to die or dressing herself up for her own funeral. She heard the sizzle and cracks of her mom cooking in the kitchen. Her mother had been quiet lately. She had a thought. It’s because she knows her daughter has a chance to be taken from her, even when her daughter is all she has, the capitol spares no mercy. Disturbed by these thoughts, the girl walked past her mother without saying a word, only exchanging a sullen glance as she turned the handle of the front door.

“Y/N! Hey!” a recognizable voice yelled in the distance.

“Finnick! Hi.” She was excited to see him, but today there could only be but so much happiness in her voice.

He walked over to her and put an arm around her shoulder, “I like your dress.”

She didn’t say anything in response.

“Look, I know today is scary, but your name is only in that bowl once out of hundreds of other slips. You’re gonna be fine.”

Finnick was older. He had already gone through the horrors of being part of the reaping for two years now. He knew how to navigate it, at least more than she did. He took upon himself some unassigned duty to protect her from the moment they met. This was the one thing he couldn’t shield her from and it made him feel unsettled. The very least he could do is be realistic and try his best to console her. He looked down at her. She was still quiet. He let go of her shoulder and held her hand. He stroked her hand with his thumb and led her into a nearby field. They would go here when things got hard. Not that they would talk about it much. Not many people knew about it or dared to explore it. Technically it was off-bounds to district four and they knew they could get in a lot of trouble with the peacekeepers. Regardless, they both agreed that a little bit of risk was healthy. He checked in all directions to make sure nobody was watching before he reached ahead to pull branches aside to clear a path. The landscape never failed to hypnotize them. A luscious field with an array of diverse greenery and wildflowers sloping down a hill to the marsh. The sound of light wind blowing through the grass and the small creek bubbling instantly calmed their nerves. Even Finnicks, as much as he tried to hide his fear.

They pushed through the tall grass onto the path they carved out several years ago. Walking until they got to the bottom of the tall, gentle hill. He always loved the water. He let go of her hand and he sat down on the damp ground. He shot her a glance proposing her to sit down.

“I don’t want to get my dress dirty.”

“You mean your MOM doesn’t want you to get your dress dirty. Since when did you care about dirt?”

He was right. She lifted up the skirt of her dress and sat down on a patch of grass that looked cleaner than the rest.

He looked over at her, a few feet away, “Not gonna dare to get any closer, huh?” He always flirted like this. Bold enough to get her attention, but sly enough to give her plausible deniability.

“Today is the one day I can’t get messy. Tomorrow I’ll take more of a risk, okay?”

He laughed, “See? You do know that it is going to be okay!”

“What?”

“You said tomorrow. You know deep down that it’s gonna be fine.”

She rolled her eyes, “I just forgot about it for a second..”

That was good enough for him. They sat in silence for a few minutes listening to the sounds of the bugs and frogs in the marsh.

“Hey,” he said.

“I’m not moving closer.”

“Fine.” He scooted closer to her.

Instinctively she put her head on his shoulder. He smiled.

“Finn? Can you promise me something?”

“Yes?”

“Promise you’ll always take care of me like this ?”

“Yes.” He said without any hesitation.

“You promise?”

“Of course.”

“I need to hear you say it,” she said.

“I promise. You know I’ll always take care of you. I won’t leave you alone, love.”

After that she just stared at him for a while, “Okay,” she said and looked back at the morning sky.

“Hey,” he said in a quiet voice.

She looked over at him and he nervously grabbed her chin and pulled her in. She didn’t resist. The two stared at each other with their faces so close before he leaned in and gave her a swift kiss on the lips before letting go.

They sat in silence for a bit. “Was that okay?” He asked nervously.

Through slightly labored breath she said, “Yeah. Of course.”

He smiled, “Was I your first?”

“No,” She giggled playfully.

Matching her demeanor, “Yeah right.”

“How would you know? Maybe I kissed that boy on Dove Street.”

“You don’t even know his name!” He exclaimed, “Plus I worked my ass off to keep those dumbass neighborhood boys

off of you.”

“Yeah whatever!” She said and swept sand onto his lap.

He dramatically put his hand over his chest, “How could you!” and splashed dirty water in her direction.

“Finnick!”

“You started it!” It was too

late, her dress was already muddied. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Baby?”

“Sorry. Was that not okay?” he asked her.

“No. No. It’s okay,” she paused, “Are we dating?”

He laughed at her innocence. “If that’s what you want.”

“Is that what you want?” she asked anxiously.

“Of course.”

“Okay then.”

“Okay then,” he confirmed.

Just as he was about to kiss her again, they heard the sound of the warning bell.

“Shit.” He pulled her up and they ran back up the hill away towards their town.

Once they got out of the field they ran their separate ways towards their houses, breathlessly exchanging goodbye glances.

Panting and sweating she ran across the railroad tracks towards her small house. Slowing down once she could see the white paint chipping off the frame. She heard the front screen door slam shut.

“Where have you been?” Her mother yelled, “What the hell happened to your dress?”

Catching her breath she tried to find a believable excuse. Before she could explain her mother grabbed her arm and dragged her inside.

“Were you with that boy again? He’s so disrespectful.”

Her mother was always one to hold a grudge. She couldn’t let go of the time that Finnick purposely broke one of her daughter’s toys when they were younger. Ever since then she thought of him as a bully, even though he was only eight at the time and wasn’t trying to be malicious.

“No,” She tried lying.

Her mother didn’t say anything in response and just continued to wipe down her dress with a wet rag.

Her mother smoothed out her dress, “Come on. Let’s go.”

They hurried their way to the town square.

“You’re gonna be fine.” Her mother kissed the top of her head. “I love you.”

“Love you too, mom.”

They separated and she was pushed forward by the peacekeepers before she could even look back. They pricked her finger and checked her into the drawing system. Her throat burned and there was suddenly a deeper hole of anxiety in her chest. Reality was setting in. Her eyes darted across the space searching for Finnick. Panicking when she couldn’t find him.

“Hey,” He said on the other side of the barrier.

Her shoulders untensed ever so slightly. She smiled at him.

The chatter of the crowd stopped as the stage microphone rang out ear piercing frequencies.

“Ahem,” the announcer decorated in a ridiculous, loud purple dress spoke, “Welcome to the 65th annual Hunger Games!”

As if waiting for an applause the woman paused, “Alright then. We won’t waste anymore time here.”

She dipped her hand into the bowl swirling the strips of paper. “And the female tribute for the 65th annual Hunger Games iss…”

The girl held her breath. Feeling like she was going to faint or die right then and there.

“Julianne Halmbern!” the crowd gasped.

The pit in the girl's stomach disappeared for a split second. Not her this year. Then it set in. A girl who lived on the poorer side of the district. She hardly knew her but she still felt sickenly guilty for being relieved. Another person she knew would be sent to almost certain death. She watched as the crowd parted, making a path for the poor blonde girl, Julianne. She was stiff in fear and disbelief as she was guided up on stage.

“And the male tribute iss…”

“Finnick Odair!” The announcer exclaimed as if she had just announced the lottery.

Y/N’s stomach dropped. No. No. The crowd parted and revealed sweet Finnick. She watched his every move. She watched as he stood there in utter shock, then as he took small steps up to the stage.

“Finnick!” she cried out.

The peacekeepers were getting impatient as they ushered him to the front. “It’s okay!” he yelled out to her.

She wanted to run to him. The older girl next to her noticed her expression and held her arm protectively preventing her from charging the boy. “Finnick!”

He stepped onto the stage, hiding tears in his eyes as she yelped out for him. He thought the sound of her screams was more disturbing than getting chosen like this. Even in this moment he felt the need to console her. Before the woman in the obnoxious dress could say anything else he yelled, “Y/N! I promise! Okay? I promise!”

She nodded through her sobs. She knew he was promising to make it back to her. He vowed not to leave her alone. She tried her best to believe him. To trust him. Her thoughts raced. He was a career. He trained for this. He’s going to be okay. No. He’s fourteen. He can’t. I can’t- No. She cried harder.

And they took him away.

[0shewrites0]

Okay Rae, it’s my turn to ask questions— TOBY?????

What are our chances of a lil redemption fic where he makes the right choice and pies Amelia???

Bestie, I’m FUMING AFAGSHSHDJJF 😭😭😡

Look, I’ve seen people say it but I never wanted to believe it. Now, stupid me because they were right: MC is not the MC of this season. No, it’s stupid fricking Amelia and I’ll die on this hill URGH

The way her head gets turned by literally every new boy is so annoying. First she wanted Roberto because she knew he wanted us and she got him because I wasn’t into him. Then she got the ick and ran head first into the next wall (the wall = Marshall. Obviously). I CONSTANTLY told her I didn’t think he was trustworthy and whatnot and she never wanted to listen. Well, guess what? Turns out he’s the second dude to give her the ick and I’m so OVER it.

The worst part of it all is definitely how Toby was literally choking on his own saliva for her 🤢🤢🤢

At first I thought he was doing the same thing as Lucas when he took MC as the last person on a date because he wanted to save the best till last, ya know?

Yeah no. That was me hoping and getting outed as a clown straight away, yay. Karma is a bitch.

I chose to make Lewie a bit jealous on my date with Toby and honestly? The things he said made my heart flutter a little. I DO NOT want to believe that he said what he said without it meaning anything. I REFUSE to believe that. Not to mention he’s literally my dream LI 😭😩

- his blue eyes 😩

- the fact that he thinks there’s nothing better than late night gym sessions 🥵 (please, that’s something I do so often and it’s srsly the best)

- his chest ugh, shoot me dead. Now. I’m such a sucker for a big ass chest idc

- he wants a big family I’m going to cry

- literally the only thing that’s missing is tatts (but like, those neck and throat and back of the head pattern-tattoos, chest tattoos and at least tattooed arms all the way down to the fingers)

This is literally my faceclaim for him:

Fabien Tietjen

Anyway, Snog Marry Pie:

I mean, I’m flattered that quite a few of the islanders wanted to marry me (Lewie, Elliot, Bella) but WHERE WERE MY SNOGS??? Wtffff?? And again, Amelia Ratmelia got kissed by basically all of them, how unfair is that?

When Toby snogged Amelia I was like, okay so maybe that means he’ll marry me 🥹👉🏼👈🏼 I basically died inside when he “cupped her face gently”, I’m telling you. It was absolutely, positively brutal. AND THEN HE HAS THE NERVE TO GET DOWN ON HIS KNEE IN FRONT OF AMELIA!!??? Are you fucking kidding me? He’s the only one who broke the rules and he chose to do so with Amelia? It sucks. No, it doesn’t just suck, it actually hurt me so bad.

Also, the fact that I didn’t even have the chance to snog Toby OR marry him OR pie Roberto after the latter was a complete prick? No, I was forced to pay 17 gems to do so? Like hell I was going to pay those bahahaha what are they even thinking? I’m so pissed, I didn’t even want to finish the volume. And I’m not sure I’m going to play the last episode until I’ve calmed down a little.

But is there a chance I’ll whip out a little redemption/fix-Toby fic? FUCK YEAH. I’m not taking this lying down.

[royal-wren]

It's not really a Saturday if I'm not hit with thoughts going a thousand miles in a minute.

I'm thinking about Hermes' intricate and deep connection to life and death, the god that stands between both states and exists in both of them simultaneously. He's my personal god of death and god of the dead to fall more in line with the seats he used to occupy and were effectively given to another and yet he still maintained the most important role/domain in relation to it. The attempt to strip it away never really worked out in the end with him, he's still the one doing all the work at the end of the day.

The god who turns invisible, the one with the sickle (and scythe), growth and loss, the god of the earth -- the wealth and bareness of the land, god of silence beyond silence, and god of noise beyond your imagination or capacity to understand. God of gold, god with the golden and silver tongue, god decked out in gold, god with a heart of precious metals. God among the graves, of the graves, he who mourns and feels great pain for the living and dead that lost a life they greatly valued even though he cannot be hurt or be wounded. Guide in life and death, around all corners and seconds regardless of time or space. The god of caves and mountains, the lowest and highest parts of the world and natural earth we can reach. He of memory, who never forgets and cannot be touched or impacted by the river Lethe, reincarnation eternal. God of the conscious and unconscious, God of light, and the night, the god who bears torches in darkness. The god with eyes everywhere, ever watchful and all-seeing, a god I connect most to eyes and any visuals and concepts/aesthetics to eyes where Athene comes second and Hekate third.

When am I not thinking about him as the lord of the dead and death itself though? Well, it's just especially bad and more at the forefront of my mind right now and I need to write it somewhere. Honestly I never really felt a need to really have Hades or Thanatos come to mind or enter my thoughts in either way, and it was always a feeling and connection I had with him for years now. I felt it so deep in my bones and it always felt right, and reading about it in multiple places with him being the og Pelasgian or Minoan, or at least a very local pre-Hellenic (depending on preference or consensus for whether they are one and the same or not) deity for both, in a similar manner to Enodia being the og Thessilian goddess of paths and crossroads and so on was insanely validating. It was like completing a puzzle, the one last piece I needed to get the full picture.

I will die on this hill no matter what anyone else might try to say, call me crazy or a heretic. I don't care, I live by my own gnosis and sensibilities (or lack their of) and this is one of them.

Oh beloved son of Diwia Agêtôr, older than the soil One with and without guile God with the golden sickle Breather of life and bestower of death Ruler of the Dipsioi, those you join as Deilakrion You know their weight of memories and forgetfulness, of their hunger and thirst as they feast upon the earth Marineus, another name I also call you While you dance among the trees As you find joy lying on the grass Creating gifts without harm from sheep to man A reveler in animals and people alike Dear Araios, with horns divine God of rams and sheep Potnios Theron, relishing in his favorite company Among the infinite animals who flock to him

Trisheros, the hero that sees three ways The one connected to the respect and honoring of the dead Deity holding the many mysteries between truth and lies Akakêsios, without pain, will always take every hand God that sees and feels human emotion, Agônios He will dry every tear and give all calm and serenity

Kharidôtês, God of touch, the nerves, feeling, and pleasure The one all delight in and yearn for The one sung highly by the Kharites and Aphrodite alike Hearts cry merrily with you, never a bitter soul around you

Most ancient god with an appearance and heart of youth As this body struggles, as my knees go weak and my energy drains As love stirs again in me no matter the time of the absence of feeling Set me right while I rest in the palm of your hand With the utmost love, you cup my cheek With a kiss, with a ghosting stroke, I gain vitality

Tbh, writing that was a hell of a lot of fun to mostly just use a lot of his older epithets and names I connect to him that just go with the whole topic of this post.

[alarrytale]

Wow you must’ve really struck a nerve with that Harrie lol. It’s never that serious.

But just for fun, I have questions. Don’t they find it curious that a multimillionaire doesn’t have his own bike after all this time and he specifically rides around in the busiest and most visible streets on those bikes? Even has his famous buddies ride around with him in those busiest streets? Never wearing a helmet for safety in the very dangerous traffic situations since they are busy streets? I don’t think it’s a big deal he does it because I think other celebs do this all the time but to die on this hill is odd.

Oh, you should see my inbox, anon! I've been called every name under the sun the last 24 hours. Treating people with kindness isn't something harries excel at when they've run out of arguments...

I don't think there is any point in trying to make them see things our way. They're on the defensive and they are scared we are right. Harry having a deal with the citrus fruit brand is beneath him, and the promo is so blatant that people have started hating the brand. He just looks ridiculous at this point. It's been a while since i've seen promo working do to the opposite of what's intended. People hate those bikes now. It really is funny to watch people chose to walk rather than consider those bikes lol.

[spacetravels]

I am insane abt noah too… I’d love to know some of your hcs or thoughts or anything you have in that doc you’ve written, if you don’t mind sharing 💓

[insert sickos meme]

YEAH i think in my meta i just wrote too much about how the it lives series is like. the heart of it is mc & the marshall twins. i'll die on that hill. and also ofc the entirety of it lives being about breaking cycles. & like ofc bias here as a noah apologist but here have some paraphrased bullets frm my essay LOL I COULD TALK ABOUT THIS ALL DAY:

Essentially my thesis is like. The Marshall twins: Noah was Jane's whole world and he’ll always feel guilty that he couldn’t save her. MC’s her best friend and the love they had for each other was strong and real and MC will always feel guilt and blame for her her death.It’s a fucked up little circle of grief and blame because they’re both like: Why didn’t I stop this/Why didn’t I save her/Why was it not me/This is my fault

the way the horror genre is often about loss… like the horror of It Lives lies in how painful grief is, and exploring how grief can manifest itself and pain breeding pain and stuff. and it's so different across the book 1 cast but i think noah and mc are so similar in just. they blame themselves and carry jane's death the hardest... and uhhh

the fact they’re in their senior year. And how after this they’re “grown ups” and they have to go to college or get jobs or both. And how redfield/jane represents the youth they lost and will never have again. And red/jane bringing the gang all back for one last game because there’d be no games after that--all of jane’s friends will have to grow up. All of jane’s friends will become adults and she’ll be left behind in this terrible limbo state where she’ll never get to move on the way everyone else could. Like they have to grow up, they can’t stop and stay and play games in the woods like they used to anymore because then they'd never let go of what happened to them. And the end scene where everyone, if they're strong, can declare they're not scared--that's it. They've learned they can let go.

And it aches and it aches so much in the finale when you realize that this happens for everyone EXCEPT MC and Noah. everyone grows up. They played together. They finish the game. They can move on. Their arcs are wonderfully done. But these two people literally don't have the option of that!

so sacrifice MC and Noah have that choice to make that like. They both can’t make it out alive by this point, and they have to choose (assuming like. you get the choice lol the tragedy of noah flying off the handle and killing mc is another thing entirely re: nerve mechanic and whatnot)

And like definitely up to player perception and completely fair at this point if ppl make their choice becuz Fuck Noah Marshall or other reasons to save MC lol no judgement but my thoughts on like. the choice is like.

MC dies, because MC thinks Noah has to live. Despite it all and no matter what consequences he has to face, Noah Marshall has to keep being alive because he’s spent his entire youth stuck in a limbo state of wanting to disappear and be gone and he can’t even have the grace of dying now. He has to live.

Noah dies, because Noah thinks MC has to live, because MC saved him. He’s made peace with his death a long time ago, and this was his fault. MC has been nothing but grounded and carries in them the optimism and belief that grief does not end in pain, but you carry it with you, and you live. MC has to live for the person who can’t

anywyays i'm like. i'm TOTALLY fine and having a NORMAL one

[veryloovy]

jfc it continues ("Dollzi drama")

Can we accept that Dollzi isn't problematic (unless Nori and Yeva are confirmed siblings) like sensible people? This was the weirdest fucking hill to die on and I'm only partly talking about the recent drama at this point. There has been so much negativity posted in the tag about it over the months. I don't ship it, I don't like it either, but I think people should be allowed to ship it. No power imbalance, age gap, or familial relation (as far as we know), I think it's fair game enemies to lovers territory.

On god, the amount of really negative takes about characters or shipping in the tag was getting on my nerves. "Oh great, another Dollzi post, let's see what the beef is here today" or whatever the fuck the evil Tessa stuff is about. Like, I GET having theories, but it got to a point where it felt like genuine apathy towards specific aspects of the show at best and at worst veiled attempts to justify a dislike towards certain aspects using headcanon. Not everyone is going to agree with how you see the show, that's a given, but I think maybe we shouldn't get caught up in talking about it so negatively.

"The drama isn't over shipping anymore" according to the last post on it, apparently not! I just have my head in my hands here wondering why this was the hill to die on. This could've been avoided if quieter methods were taken before the ship bashing became a reoccurring thing. Block people or mute tags if this ship scares you so much, don't spout hate for it in the fandom tag every time you see it. When you're negative that much, people are GONNA turn that back onto you and that's exactly what happened here. I am being mindful of my own negativity, which is why this will be my only post on it.

[starielluvsplay1ngdnd]

Session 2 (part 2)

The party release the praying mantis (who was in solitary) before crawling through the vent into the kitchen. Their stealth fails and they’re caught by Little Jimmy the ant who Bob shoves in a supply closet to silence (he was shouting in awe about how they’re the 1st humanoids he’s ever seen). Suddenly Stirling starts crying (the 1st of 5 times this session) about how he doesn’t want the kid or their family to die. We characterised this as Varien being a new dad seeing his son (Perri) in Jimmy and realising all the ants they’re about to drown have parents and people they care about like he does. Varien sees a notice saying that at 10 years old the ants can start exploiting outside the ant hill, which is why Jimmy was so excited seeing people from the outside. Sting cry’s so much the party changes their plans to stop the river from flooding the ant hill and escape another way.

Sting cry’s over irl and in game things (eg. Kings saying my plushy thinks Sting hates him like what) so he must have been pretty emotional that day. The party plots to save the ants and Varien remembers the other prisoners so he goes to free them from the flood. He enters the room and all the prisoners flee after his suggestion, everyone except Tori Winterfall who shouts “IS IT MY FAULT THE DUNGEON IS FLOODING?!”, Jam knocks her out and the party carry her to safety. Plan A to stop the waterfall is the ‘control water’ spell but the party can’t access it. Perri remembers reading somewhere that praying mantis’s have the power to create their own solar lazar/mini sun (and therefore should be able to evaporate the water flooding into the ant hill). The party search for the praying mantis and when they find it Varien (they became mates while it was in solitary) uses ‘speak to animals’ to convince it to help them (I’m so proud of how I acted the mantis, the voice, vocabulary and speech patterns were on point!!)

The mantis begins to create the solar beam and you see the bright light reflect against the running water plummeting into the cave beside you. Sweat drips down your faces as steam rises up towards the ceiling, “To avoid proving your mortality you may want to exit the water instantaneously” says the mantis as the party feel the liquid encasing their legs begin to boil and bubble around them. They climb into the vent and watch the scene from above. As the last of the mist drifts upwards past you all, you blink to see the dungeon floor sparkling clean reflecting yourselves and the mantis in a gorgeous golden hue. “It’s beautiful,” Varien gasps before the party crawl back into the kitchen.

The ant colony are in panicked disarray fearful about the future of their hive. Varien reassures them that everything is fine, his eyes connecting with the ant queen as he remembers he is still their prisoner. She sighs and tells them to get out of her sight before she changes her mind. She’s not gonna risk drowning her clan just to keep a few adventures encaged. The party leaves the dining room but into the hallway they bump shoulders with a familiarly sounding group of teenage ants. The party recognises their voices and realises these are the bandits who kidnapped them. Dakota examines their belongings most of them appear to be things they’ve stolen from the party as well as a freshly sharpened and shined long sword engraved with the familiar initials M.L.F, the bandits remind him of his younger self. Coda, always quick to action shouts “EXCUSE ME ABOUT THAT SWORD?” The bandits sneer at him and all look towards their captain who nods, Perri feels nerves prickle on his back as he realises they’re watching his dad and preparing to strike. Instinctively he casts ‘sleep’, one of the spells Varien taught him as a kid which knocks out 3 of the 6 enemies. The bandits drop their offensive stance instantly and look towards Coda, “what do you wanna know?” Says their 2nd in command, the leader glares at him. Coda begins interrogating the bandits:

Coda: where’d you get the sword from?

Bandit: stole- borrowed from a umm… abandoned house!!

Coda: who’d you take it from?

Bandit: people, in the house.

Coda: what did they look like?

Bandit: wallpaper!!

Coda: what race were they?

Bandit: changeling and they um… made themselves look like the walls!! *the other bandits collectively face plant*

Coda: Oh yes… changelings are… so scary, haha… what were their names?

Bandit: White and um- beige.

Coda: Ok stop lying, what were their real names?

Bandit: Blanco y marrón??

Perri, tired and ready for his nap lights them on fire to Varien’s dismay. “Oh they’ll be fine V, stop stressing!!” Growls Dakota, Varien shakes his head in response. Jam sneaks past all the sleeping guards and steals a tapestry (covered in ✨lore✨ stuff- I might reblog this post with a description of it) from the treasury. The party leave the ant hill with Dakota muttering questions about his new sword, “there’s a lovely magical blacksmith in Laketown. I’m travelling there next if you and your friends would like to come with me?” Says Fennel. The party pack up their cabin and join her in heading to Laketown. When they arrive in Laketown I show them the drawing (by @w1lmuttart) below; “what is that?” Varien asks, “that is the Mountain’s Child.” Fennel responds and the session ends.

[qnewsau]

'Haven't got long': Miriam Margolyes gives candid health update

New Post has been published on https://qnews.com.au/havent-got-long-miriam-margolyes-gives-candid-health-update/

'Haven't got long': Miriam Margolyes gives candid health update

Beloved actress and author Miriam Margolyes has given a candid update on her health, saying that she knows she “hasn’t got long to live”.

The 83-year-old international treasure underwent heart surgery to replace her aortic valve last year. Miriam has also opened up about living with spinal stenosis.

The condition impacts the lower back or neck when the spinal canal narrows and puts pressure on the spinal cord and nerves.

“When you know that you haven’t got long to live – and I’m probably going to die within the next five or six years, if not before – I’m loath to leave behind performing. It’s such a joy,” she told UK’s Telegraph.

The actress, known for Harry Potter and Call the Midwife, said the physical constraints of acting at an older age are “limiting and depressing”.

“I yearn to play roles that don’t confine me to wheelchairs, but I’m just not strong enough,” she said.

Miriam is saving up her cash

Miriam Margolyes released her second book last year, and came here to film her third Australian road trip docuseries (above).

That series, Miriam Margolyes: Impossibly Australian, is streaming on ABC iview.

The outspoken octagenarian says she keeps working because her financial situation plays on her mind. Miriam has been with her Australian partner Heather Sutherland since 1968.

She told Radio Times, “I’m worried that I won’t have enough money for carers when I finally get paralysed or whatever it is that’s going to happen to me.

“I’m saving up cash so that I can pay people to look after me and my partner.

“We don’t have children, so I need to make sure I’m going to be looked after in the way that I’ve become accustomed.”

Miriam Margolyes has previously revealed that she’s tapped into a lucrative side hustle: making hundreds of thousands of pounds on personalised video site Cameo.

“[The videos are] usually to celebrate someone’s birthday, wedding anniversary or marriage. I’ve got 30 of them to do today,” she told Radio Times.

“I find my [late-in-life popularity] puzzling and very gratifying. I can’t totally explain it. But I do credit Graham Norton with a great deal of my success.

“I was always told that I would come into my own when I was older. I just didn’t know I would have to be this old for it to happen.”

We love you Miriam.

More on Miriam Margolyes:

Miriam Margolyes is making serious money on video site Cameo

Expert storyteller Miriam releases her second book

Miriam kikis with Broken Hill drag queen Shelita Buffet

Miriam goes to her first ever Pride parade in Tasmania

Cover girl Miriam Margolyes poses nude in first Vogue shoot

For the latest LGBTIQA+ Sister Girl and Brother Boy news, entertainment, community stories in Australia, visit qnews.com.au. Check out our latest magazines or find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram and YouTube.

[forjustice]

🖨 my opinions on callouts

🔑 my favorite type of threads

📫 my favorite type of ships

My opinions on callouts

Sometimes I see a callout going around and I think oh yeah that was definitely warranted. A lot of the time, I see callouts going around that I don't fully agree with or that in some aspects could have been written better but I understand the other parts. I tend not to reblog these though because when it comes to serious things like that I only want to reblog things that I endorse 100% unless I add commentary, and I don't usually add commentary because it's not the hill I want to die on. And sometimes, whether a callout is warranted or not, it will have been done out of spite--which is not something I would ever want on my blog. A lot of the time though, if a callout is very long and involves a situation I have no familiarity with--to be honest, I can't even read it. Not even because of the content or anything. It's because my brain is just completely unable to parse that much text & that many screenshots' worth of information about conflict. I also don't end up reblogging these even if I do see enough to know I should avoid the people called out because given the fact I don't reblog anything serious that I don't completely endorse, I also don't reblog anything serious that I haven't read all the way through because when it comes to accusations I am a massive stickler about seeing everything with my own eyes.

No matter what, the reason I don't feel like doing them anymore--or even trying to warn people in private as much as I used to in my now-long-ago college days--is because I've learned the hard way that no matter HOW justified your callout is, SOME FUCKSHIT is going to happen in the backlash that makes the situation a whole lot harder. I just don't have the mental capacity or the energy to get involved because callout = you get yelled at and even if I'm 100% sure I'm right I don't like getting yelled at. If one wants to do a callout it involves weighing whether the emotional toll is worth the benefits such as putting your story out there and speaking out about something important to you…Usually for me it isn't.

My favorite type of threads

As you've seen I hate getting involved in OOC drama…But I can't get enough of stirring up drama IC! One of my favorite thread types is anything involving conflict. I have a special love of petty drama type threads, heck in the past I had multiple Pokémon Contest RP events centered specifically around petty drama in the Coordinating scene and my last one even resulted in one of my characters losing his whole-ass CHAMPIONSHIP POSITION because he was a petty little shit. On the other hand, I also love hardcore serious angst--characters getting called out for their faults, villainous/morally grey muses going ham on their targets, threads touching the nerves of deep trauma or muses' deeply-held personal beliefs, horrible fights where everyone says something they regret…If anyone's looking to start a fire, I'll show up with matches and gasoline!

But of course, I can't have angst all the time. I also love seeing my muses happy and especially healing from all the horrible trauma I like to inflict on them--the endgame for all of my morally grey blorbos is finding at least some measure of redemption, healing and happiness. As such I also love tooth-rotting fluff! I haven't threaded these things yet but I have a lot of plots planned and wishlist ideas where my characters show affection and care toward those they love and they get the same back, where my muses mostly Volo engage in lighthearted mischief, where they have fun with and bond with their Pokémon--and since some of them are shapeshifters where they even get head scritches and belly rubs as Pokémon! Man, I always thought I was bad at fluff/slice of life type things because I viewed it as like "small talk" which my autistic brain cannot do, but with sweet events like @floccesyfluff-fest that I had an absolute blast at and the type of threads I'm doing right now, I think that's changing.

My favorite type of ships

I notice that over the years as my desire to write stories covers more and more characters in my hyperfixation regions (and more and more interrelations between my characters in general), I've started shipping a lot more of my characters with each other. The unavailable status of muses like my Steven/Wallace/Zinnia polycule might cause some people not to want to RP with those muses, but when I get a beautiful mental image of two of my characters together I just can't help it, I have to make them kiss LOL. I will, however, do polyamorous ships where my paired-up characters also partner up with other muns' characters in a polycule. So I think now that is my favorite type of ship! GDLSKFJDLKFJ

In theory when shipping with others my favorite type of ship is a slow burn, but in practice I usually end up not having the energy or headspace to write it all out. I usually also stumble into ships rather than approaching someone specifically to ship, which I feel is a much more natural and organic way of doing things--I don't think I've ever thought of shipping my muses right off the bat with any of my partners outside muns of muses who have canon romantic relationships with mine. Once you get to ship with me though, unless your muse doesn't want kids, it's a guarantee that I will dive straight into making fankids because honestly I love fankids as much as I love the actual ships. GASLKDFJDSLKFJASDKLFJLDASFJ

[rottinghellhound]

The thought of dying is the only thing that seems to give me peace, that calms my nerves. It's the only way I can see out of this mess. I have nothing anyways. It'd probably be better if just disappeared. I've hurt everyone I've ever cared about. I don't know why the people who seem to care about me still care. If I could just do it and succeed. What's one last time that I'd hurt them. Then I'd never hurt them again, I'd never hurt anybody again. But I can never do it right. I'm so fucking tired. I'm so fucking scared. I'm sick of it. I can't take it anymore. I'm just so tired of being in pain. I just want it to stop. That's all I've ever wanted, and it's only gotten worse. I've wanted to die for as long as I can remember. And every time I think I've hit rock bottom I somehow end up lower than I've ever been before. I work and work to get better. I've put in so much work to get better. But it doesn't matter. I still end up here. I can't do it anymore. What's the point of pushing this stupid fucking boulder up this stupid fucking hill, when it just keeps running me over. I'm so sick of being in pain

[kinaesthetiqueer]

thank you ashe, you gave me more brainworms.

so, regarding the events of v8c3...

sooooo many people have hc'd nora as having nerve pain because of her overloading her semblance. i know im not the first. but let's look at this at on a [very basic] biological level.

so what allows electrical impulses to travel through the body? it's nerves, specifically a covering on the axon of the nerves called myelin. it's a lipid (fatty) based sheath that insulates the nerves, similar to the way we insulate wires. electrical impulses jump between myelin sheathes. to not have these sheathes causes a fuck ton of nerve pain!

so, to be able to take a lightning strike, or several, let's say nora has stronger myelin sheathes. not thicker, because that causes ita own problems, but a stronger composition that can withstand the amount of voltage nora produces and channels. rarely does she have an extended contact with a high voltage source. lightning strikes are short. her body allows her to withstand short bursts of high voltage, allow her to channel and store it almost instantly rather than discharging it into the ground like any other lightning strike victim.

now. consider.

consider how long nora drained the security gate. she held magnhild to it for 6 seconds minimum, possibly as long as 8 seconds. lightning strikes last only a fraction of a second.

her nerves are NOT meant to handle that. she gets lichtenberg scars that a normal person would after getting hit by lightning, because the gate exceeds her natural capacity. nora is made to be struck by lightning. but this?? she is not meant for this. she arguably knows it. hazel got her pretty good at haven, but it wasn't nearly as much. (i feel like hazel was holding back at haven but that is a conversation for another time).

nora knows it's going to hurt like a bitch. but she's the only one who could do it! (sound familiar?) so she does it, at the expense of her own health. (god fucking damnit jnpr. look at you fucking idiots. all of you are like this. stop doing this!!!!!) she does it anyway. they have to get out there! they have to help penny (nuts&bolts, my beloved)!!! she has to do the only thing she (thinks she) knows how to do which is is to be strong and hit stuff with her hammer.

i have to imagine nora woke up and felt how bad she hurt. the pain she feels is what she always feels when she's struck but it's so much worse. it's constant. it burns.

overloading herself costs. she doesn't regret it. she doesn't. penny needed her. it's fine.

so, even with jaune helping, his aura boost only helps a little bit to restore her myelin, an already slow replenishing resource. with his aura boost and her aura regenned and working to heal her and assuming someone in vacuo can diagnose her and has access to restorative treatments, it's still going to take weeks, if not months, to get back to her normal levels.

the first time she tries to pick up magnhild, she drops it. the pain is too much. she has to focus every drop of her willpower just to get her hands to find those familiar positions.

correct me if im wrong, but the only time she actually wields it post v8c3 is in the ironwood fight, right? im just imagining her arguing with everyone as they made the plan. "fuck you, i deserve one hit." everyone makes a 'so help me gods face' at her. "okay fine, but only one," jaune insists. (ill live and die on my 'nora, second in command and jaune, the only person who can successfully tell her no' hill) "I'll make it count."

which is why she gets to smash his fucking face in. get his ass, girl. but she doesn't really do any fighting after that! she rides magnhild (mobility aid!!!) and directs people to the portal. and even at the close of v8, she's too busy sobbing at the one way portal to foght the grimm, right???? I don't think she's even in the final shot, is she??? (she probably is. i only see ren, emerald, and oscar in my memory though. I don't have time to go back and look.) point is, she is still recovering!!!!!

anyway, i think vacuo is a time for nora to grieve and mourn. without pyrrha, without jaune, without ren (he's there but yknow), who is she outside of jnpr? she's someone experiencing chronic pain, a completely different beast from the acute pain she's used to. she's mourning the loss of her friends, her home(s), her world as she knows it. she's dealing with grimm she's never met in a place she's never been. the heat doesn't bother her (think about how hot lightning is!) but she sunburns so godsdamn easy. she's trying to get along with SSSNN and CVFY and everyone else in vacuo. trying to help keep the refugees organized. trying to get along without relying on ren or oscar who know she's in so much pain everyday

trying to exhaust herself enough in the day so she doesn't dehydrate herself by crying herself to sleep at night.

thing about vacuo though... not a whole lot of storms in the desert and precious little lightning dust to go around. with her body so taxed, she's advised to not use her semblance. she constantly discharges in to the ground as she walks basically, so the buildup never gets high enough to hurt. the only time she doesn't do this is when she's on mission; then she slowly charges magnhild throughout the mission. she keeps a little for emrgencies but even then almost never uses it. by the time jaune and rwby get back several months later, she can count on one hand how many she's actually used it without magnhild being an intermediary.

it frustrates the hell out of her because, her semblance is part of her identity. there's few things that she can readily identify as being her and her only; that's one of them. ever her personality, which is so complementary to ren's, isn't hers alone. kinda fucked up, huh?

she does find that she loves who she is, even when she's the same without ren to counterbalance and her semblance to give her her usual pep. i like to imagine she gets a small missions alone and ends up helping some kids or something and she finds that who she is is plenty enough for herself and others, that she can be herself who is joyous and strong and tired and honest. i don't know. i think about her v7 'here kitty kitty!' line and her exhaustion afterward. she's allowed to be grumpy and tired and funny and sweet. she's so much and i can't wait for her to realize it again.

what was i talking about again? anyways.

the thing about loving nora so damn much is that i legally have to Make Her Go Through It. sometimes though, it feels so so so mean. however. i have to make my headcanons make sense from top to bottom.

so. per my headcanons on how her semblance works... once she was struck by lightning and her semblance unlocked, her passive ability unlocked too. rather than dissapating the tiny bits of electricity that her body naturally produces, like everyone else does, her body stores them. it's up to nora as to how she can deal with it.

before she gets a handle on it, she's a walking static producer. ever walked around in socks on carpet in the winter? she's like that, all the time. discharging whenever she touches anything that can conduct electricity. some of the less helpful instructors at tocsin (the vale combat school that my ren and nora attended from ages 13-17) force nora to wear rubber gloves when she's in class.

this, of course, doesn't actually help. she's still storing it up. nora copes by energizing herself with the excess electricity and just. Being Hyper. she always has been excitable but now she just bounces off the walls, because she doesn't know how else to spend the energy outside of combat.

ren doesn't know how to help her either. his semblance is strictly defensive/supportive. he has always been under intense stress to make sure he keeps it under control. they aren't on the streets anymore but nora feels compelled to make sure, should they ever end up there again, that she can pull more weight when it comes to keeping them safe.

if nora is worked up or stressed, she starts sparking. arcs of electricity come off her skin and they can hurt whoever gets close. it's a easy way to help her discharge, if you can get a grounded lightning rod close enough.

other lesser signs that she's not quite keeping it under wraps are, in order of increased severity: increased fidgeting/stimming (hilarious as a marker, as she's audhd af), static field as observed by her hair strands lifting up as if rubbed by a balloon, indigestion & nausea (too much energy messing with peristalsis); uncontrollable hiccups (excess electricity causing her diaphragm to spasm), and finally, the sparking.

these first two markers goes pretty much unnoticed by nora herself, though the rest of jnpr is pretty good at noticing when her hair starts going flyaway. ren can tell the difference between normal nora fidgets and too much energy! nora fidgets at a glance. when nora gets so bad that these side effects show, she tends to skip indigestion and nausea and go straight to hiccuping. rarely, like if she's in an argument with someone who doesn't know her well enough to point out her hair, she might reach the indigestion stage (for example, cordovin). however, hiccups come on fast when she's having a breakdown. they are her major sign that she needs to find some way to calm down and rein in her semblance.

she has two choices for doing so: sequestering it for later (a choice she makes when she's likely to be in combat soon) or discharging.

sequestering (storing) it requires her to rein in the electricity and sink it into her muscles. typically this means her thigh and butt muscles, as they are the largest. she creates a circuit of circulating electricity deep in her muscles and they slowly store the energy for later. (don't ask me about the biology here unless you want to be here all night; that is a promise, not a threat). she can also then use it to jump and leap. this is also why she skips so much!

storing/sequestering is what nora refers to as "sinking". it's not a term she really explains to anyone. in fact, she loathes explaining her semblance to people. firstly, no one expects her to understand how her semblance works, because she's hyper and bubbly and girly. secondly, people tend to get weirded out and wary of her when she explains, at least they did at tocsin. ren loves that she knows how both hers and his works.

she gets a lot of confidence and joy from it as jnpr works in private to train for the vytal festival, because jaune and pyrrha think her semblance is super cool. by the time vytal comes around, she's just stoked to be able to show off for the first time, since jaune decided they should keep it a secret until then.

on the other hand, discharging it is exactly what it seems. it's what she does when she doesn't need the extra energy or wants to be sure she's safe to touch others. she can discharge into the air (which causes a thunderclap of varying decibels, depending on how much electricity she discharges) or into the ground or to any grounded source. she can also do this offensively by throwing a bolt or striking something with precision.

after spending most of her time at tocsin wearing gloves, she keeps them in her beacon outfit, though fingerless, because she likes to comfort and the compression, but also she likes to know she's capable of safely touching people.

the mean thing that i was thinking of, which prompted this post, was nora being threatened with, and perhaps once subjected to, tocsin's cruelest 'therapy' which is to forcibly break a student's aura so that their semblance won't hurt anyone until they get it under control. which. may or may not have happened to her when she took a shower while charged, knocking out tocsin's campus water plant and electrocuting anyone who was also taking a shower at the same time. 🙃

anyways. i want to write a series of oneshots and drabbles that contains all my headcanons for the main kids' semblances and how they work and how they've adapted to them over time. im just a big sucker for logistics and after blake's semblance driving me batshit for months, i think it's what i deserve.

[daisies-and-domming]

Hey!! Would you do a sub!billy hargrove/dom!reader smut? Thank u <3

Boy Next Door (NSFW)

S3 spoilers in my author’s note, and vague reference to how S2 ends!! 

Link to Part 2 <3

Summary: You’ve lived in the trailer park nearly your entire life, long enough to know that nothing in Hawkins was ever normal. So when the new king of the school starts dropping by your trailer at ungodly hours, you don’t even blink - why would you? Weirder shit’s happened here, and you’re certainly not complaining either, not when the king decides to get on his knees for you.

Warnings: swearing, smut, dom!reader, reader has an undefined hole, p in said undefined hole, sub!billy, oral (reader receiving), frottage(?), edging, praise, little bits of degradation (reader calls billy “slut” and talks condescendingly at some points), unsafe sex (wrap it before you tap it kids!!), a lil bit of a breeding kink, billy likes when reader pulls on his hair <3

Let me know if you think I missed anything!!

All characters are over 18 :)

Oh my god anon I didn’t know I needed sub!billy until you sent this in and now I’m scouring the website for more… I’m a whore for subby men, what can I say 🤷 He’s a little ooc but I firmly believe that billy is secretly a soft with people he trusts - sure, he’s mean to max, but I think that’s because he doesn’t want her involved in his life of alcohol and flirting - and I’ll die on that hill. This is set between S2 and S3, but in my universe billy doesn’t die during S3 anyways because I’m the author and I said so >:O Anyways, I had so much fun writing this, thank you for the request!! It takes like 1000 words to get to the smut, I’m so sorry ;-; But the smut is like 2000 some words, so hopefully that makes up for it ahaha I went batshit

– – –

You’ve lived in this dinghy trailer park in the middle of nowhere, Indiana, your entire conscious life. When your parents were really drunk (which, in all honesty, was far more often than you were willing to admit) they would talk about their “golden days”: when your parents were something other than full-time alcoholics, living in the suburbs of Cleveland in a nice neighbourhood. You were told you were born there, in that nice suburb house near the coast of one of the great lakes, but you’ve never had the nerve to ask what happened that landed them here, in Hawkins. 

But Ohio was none of your concern now. There were supernatural beings practically on your doorstep and the only people that seemed to care were the children that your friend Steve seemingly adopted, which would make for a good movie. But the fact that a ragtag bunch of kids were the ones saving your very real world left a nauseating pit in your stomach. Sure, the angry buzz cut kid who they called “Eleven” put an end to the last thing that came after Hawkins, but something tells you this was just the beginning. No matter. At the moment, you had bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that there’s a soft knocking on your door, despite the little analog clock reading a blinking “2:34am”.

Peering through the peephole, a clearly drunk Billy Hargrove stood, wobbling slightly. You’d seen him around school - it’s hard not to when he drives a flashy car and insists on poking at Steve - but certainly hadn’t spoken to him before. Opening the door slightly, you make eye contact with the man in question.

“Hi,” you say, tentatively. “Can I help you?”

“l/n!!” he slurs, eyes lighting up. “What’re y’doin in my trailer?”

You frown at him. “This is where I live, dipshit. Your trailer is more than a few down.”

“Mmm, I don’t think so,” he said, nudging at you. “Lemme in, will ya?”

You stood firm, skeptical. “Why should I?”

“Because,” he drawls. “You’re pretty, I’m pretty, we should do pretty people stuff together.”

You snort, but move to the side. You didn’t know what his home life was like, but, nevertheless, sending him away in the middle of the night, piss drunk, was dumb. If he had gotten hurt on the way back to his trailer because you had sent him away you would never forgive yourself. Sure, he seemed like a pretentious douchebag, but even pretentious douchebags deserve a chance. Besides, the ‘rents were out, which meant there wouldn’t be any “did you use protection?” or “you aren’t pregnant, are you?” questions the following morning.

“l/n,” Billy whined out, making you turn in time to see him flop onto your couch. “Why aren’t we doin’ pretty people stuff yet?”

You shut and lock the door, plopping yourself down on the floor in front of the couch in an attempt to set an unspoken boundary. “Because you’re drunk. You’re welcome to come over here sober some time and try this whole song and dance then, but I believe in full consent when doin’ that tango. You’re inebriated, so no ‘pretty people stuff’ for you tonight.”

He whined dramatically. “But that’s half the fun of getting drunk!!”

“God, you’re really drunk,” you say, wrinkling your nose at the smell. “We can talk if you want, but you’re not getting any tonight, lover boy.”

“Ooooh, you wanna hear about the crazy shit that Tina did at the party today??” – – – 

This became a recurring event. Billy would go out and party, then come over, drunk out of his mind and strangely soft. You had learned a lot about him - about Max (who he seemed to truly care about, despite how he acted when sober), about his dickhead father, about his mother, about why he drowned himself in people and alcohol all the time. You weren’t sure why he chose to keep dropping by, but you weren’t too perturbed. In any other situation, you might even consider him your friend. But, you remind yourself, he’s always drunk or high or some combination of the two. You don’t make friends when you’re drunk. And you certainly don’t fall for them, either.

A knock resonated at your door and you froze, staring at the clock. It was 3:24pm on a Saturday afternoon, unless Steve had decided to give you a surprise visit there should be no one at the door.

“l/n! Open the goddamn door,” a voice rang out, one that you recognized immediately. “I don’t have all goddamn day!”

You stumble to the door, opening it embarrassingly quickly. “Hi???”

“Hey,” he said, shoving his way past you.

“Wait wait wait,” you said, spinning around to him. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“What I normally do, dickbag,” Billy said, refusing to make eye contact. “We gonna talk or what?”

You close the door gently, clicking the lock almost tentatively. “You’re sober.”

A flash of hurt crossed his face, but he quickly covered it up. “Am I not allowed to be?”

“That - that’s not what I’m saying!” you exclaimed, exasperated. “I just - I kinda figured you didn’t want to talk to me, normally. I’m not exactly your usual crowd.”

He groaned, running a hand over his face. “Look - how do I say this? I… don’t think you’re that shitty, or whatever. Sure, Tina’s a hot piece of ass, but if I tried to actually, I don’t fucking know, talk to her, she’d just laugh and tell me to ‘shut up’ or somethin’.”

“I don’t think you’re that shitty, either,” you say, slowly. “Is that all you wanted to talk about…? We could’ve done this on the porch.”

“It’s a trailer, there’s no goddamn porch,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes but still not making eye contact with you.

“You’re dodging,” you say, walking over to him and crowding him a bit. “What’s up, buttercup?”

“I don’t want to go back home,” he said bluntly, still dodging your prying eyes. “Deadbeat dad is on a rampage again. Dropped Max off at the arcade and found myself here.”

You blink up at him and back up a bit, feeling awful for prying. “Shit man - sorry I pushed you. You’re welcome here whenever you want to escape your place, sober or not. Or if you just want to come over. You can bring Max, too, she seems nice!! My ‘rents are never around, like ever, and even when they are they’re drunk and hiding in their room, and there’s a key under the doormat in the back if you need an escape and I’m not here - though I’d be careful about my parents, they get pretty drunk sometimes too, it’s not pretty. That’s not the point though! Point is, you’re always welcome, I’m sorry for prying-”

He pushed you to the couch, a small smile on his face, and were his eyes a little teary?? “Shut up, loser. I got it, I’m welcome to be here. Not shocked, though, people love me, of course you’d want me around.”

You roll your eyes at his smirk, trying to tug him down to the couch. However, you hadn’t anticipated him resisting, and your knee jerk reaction was to just yank. He stumbled and landed on top of you, knees straddling your legs. He blinks at you, owlishly, face flushed and pupils beginning to dilate.

You grin up at him, jokingly winking. “Just where I wanted you, baby.”

“Can I- can I take you up on your previous offer?” he said, voice lacking its usual bravado and confidence. 

“Previous offer as in…?”

“Sex,” he said, straightforward. “You said if I was sober we could fuck.”

“What eloquence, Mr. Hargrove,” you said. “And I believe we referred to it as ‘pretty people stuff.’”

“That’s a yes, yeah?” he said, hands resting on the couch on either side of your head.

“Aw, look at you, asking for consent,” you said, grinning up at him deviously. “Mmm…maybe if you beg me.”

He looked at you, incredulous. “If you think I’ll ever beg for something, you’ve got something coming-”

You cut him off, pulling him down into a harsh kiss. He groaned into the kiss, grinding down into your clothed sex. When he pulls away, he smirks down at you, cocky.

“You’re going to be the one begging for me, babe,” he said, head tilting. “So how ‘bout we hear it, hm?”

Well that wouldn’t do. Using all your strength, you flip your positions, grinding down on him once you’ve settled above him.

“If we’re doing this, baby boy,” you said, sultry. “We’re doing this my way, got it?”

You could see the struggle in his eyes, and began to grind down on him lightly. 

“Come on, sweet thing,” you murmured against his lips, rolling your hips in a way that had his eyes rolling back. “You can be good for me, can’t you?”

“Mm- yeah, yes, I can be good for you,” he groaned. “Now get on with it, will you?”

You frown at him, faux pouting. “Thought you were gonna be good. But that’s fine, we can play that game, I don’t mind.”

He opened his mouth to object but was cut off when your grinding turned harsh and fast, his words turning into a breathy moan. He slapped a hand over his mouth but you weren’t having it.

“Listen here, Hargrove,” you growled. “You’re going to let me hear those pretty little sounds or you’re not going to come. Understand?”

“No way in hell-”

You reach a hand down to his straining cock and squeeze, hard, revelling in the way his head rolls back and his hips jerk up into your hand. His mouth opens and closes uselessly, and you lean your weight onto your knees so you can shove your fingers that aren’t cradling his cock right down his throat. He gags, eyes glazed and unfocused.

“God, look at you,” you groan, voice strained. “Made for this, made for me to use, huh?”

He tries to respond but all that comes out are choked moans, drool dribbling down his chin as he gags on your fingers. You other hand kickstarts, rubbing him not-so-nicely through his pants. He looked gorgeous like this: choking on your fingers, eyes unfocused, hips bucking uncontrollably into your harsh touches. God, you just want to drown yourself in the feeling of the power you had over this man, this man who insisted on so much control in his everyday life. But here he was, on your couch, gagging on your fingers like he never wanted anything else. 

His bucking gets more erratic and his breaths get shorter, signalling an incoming orgasm. You paw at his cock a little harder, removing your fingers from down his throat so you could hear him when you tear his orgasm away from him.

“You wanna cum, baby?” you coo, letting your hips take over for your hand and grinding down on his clothed erection. “Wanna cum for me?”

“Yeah - gonna cum, gonna cum, let me cum-”

“No.”

His hips jolt upwards as you lift yourself from his lap, chasing after your heat. You smirk sadistically at him, chuckling at the glare he gives you in exchange for your denial.

“What the fuck?!” he yells, hands clenching at his sides (but not moving to change his predicament, you noted). “I was so fucking close, why would you-”

You put a finger on his lips, shushing him. “You were a brat earlier, so I’m treating you like one. Maybe if you get me off I will consider letting you come.”

“Yeah?” he said, still panting from his lost orgasm. “Yeah, I can fuckin’ do that.”

“Good,” you say, getting up. “Get on your knees in front of the couch.”

He snorted at first, but his face contorted when he realised you were serious. “You’ve got to be kidding me, right? You’re not going to get me on my knees, sweetheart.”

“Then you’re not going to cum,” you said matter-of-factly. “Eat me out on your knees like the little slut you are or you don’t get to cum.”

His nose scrunched up angrily but he moved to get down in front of the couch. “There. That make your sick little heart happy?”

“Maybe if you weren’t such a mouthy brat we wouldn’t be here in the first place,” you said, discarding your pants and undergarments god knows where. “Don’t touch without permission, m’kay?”

He growled but kept his hands obediently at his side. In spite of all his back talk, Billy didn’t ever make a move to take control. He wants this, you realise, but he doesn’t want to admit it.

“How cute,” you coo, pinching his cheek as you settle yourself in front of him. “Now eat me out - no hands though, baby. Just put your pretty little mouth to better use for me, mhm?”

He begrudgingly folds his hands behind his back and buries himself in your hole. Your head rolls back, a low groan escaping your mouth. If he wasn’t drowning himself in you he might see your composure slipping, but he seemed just as out of it as you. Hips jerking up into nothing, hands clasped behind his back, face red and teary, Billy looked like so fucking good that you felt yourself clenching around his tongue, rolling your hips into his lapping. 

“God… so good with that tongue, baby, shit - keep doing that, y-yeah, just like that,” you blabber out, a hand flying to grip at his hair. You give an experimental tug and grin when he moans, breathy and high. 

“Y-yeah? You want me to tug on your - ngh - hair? Shove you deeper into me?” you say, chuckling lowly when he nods into you. “Your wish is my command, sweet thing.”

You could feel your orgasm drawing nearer as Billy’s talented tongue ruined your insides. His movements were precise, even without the use of his hands, and when he nicked your sweet spot you came, clamping your thighs around his head as you tugged harshly on his hair. 

Panting, you try to regain enough composure to address Billy. “God, sweetheart, your so fucking good with your tongue.”

“Yeah?” he said, tone cocky despite the straining bulge in his jeans. “You gonna let me use you now? I know you want it darlin’, you can’t keep pretending to have contr - mph!”

You yanked him up in a kiss, effectively shutting him up. Your legs were a little shaky from your previous orgasm but you were stubborn: there’s no way in hell after all this you would give Billy the satisfaction of fucking into you.

“Get on the goddamn couch,” you said, panting as you pulled away. “I’m going to ride you until all you can think of is me.”

“Fuck, pretty thing,” he groans, dropping onto the couch. “You better hold true to that or I might have to take over.”

“If you think you have a say in how this goes you’re dead wrong,” you said, straddling his hips. “You don’t cum until I say, got it baby?”

“Easy peasy,” he said, ever the fucking brat. “Think you can hold it sweets? Because I can guarantee that you’ll be creaming around my cock in no time.”

“Mhm,” you murmur, unimpressed as you help him wiggle out of his jeans and underwear. “Whatever you need to help you sleep at night.”

“You scared you can’t take it - shit!” he moans, cock twitching as you sink down on him in one slide. “Fuck, you gotta give a man a warning-”

You don’t. Bouncing up and down on his cock at a harsh pace, your trailer is filled with the lewd sound of skin slapping skin. You’re sure the neighbours can tell what you two are doing - hell, the whole trailer park probably knew - but you didn’t have the heart to care. His cock stretched you wide, so goddamn girthy that every bounce had white bouncing at the edge of your vision. 

Billy wasn’t much better. He had a death grip on your hips, finger-shaped bruises already forming. Tongue sticking out, eye half-lidded and staring up at you reverently, Billy was a fucked out mess already and you’d just started.

“Mmngh, feelin’ good, pretty boy? God… just look at you, takin’ - ungh - t-takin’ it so goddamn well, shit,” you said, still slamming yourself down on his cock like your life depended on it. 

“Mmm, fuck, please, please please please-” 

You couldn’t even tell what he was begging for anymore. “What do you - ngh - what do you need, babe - fuck, just like that pretty thing - huh? Got to be specific, darlin’ - god…”

“Cum,” he moans out, eyes shut tightly as he bucks into you. “Need t’ fuckin’ cum!”

You clench around him as he bucks, eyes rolling back a bit. “Ngh, yeah? You wanna cum? Wanna fill my pretty little hole - ahn, do that again, jesus - fill my pretty little hole with your cum?”

“Yeah, shit. Gonna let me?”

“Mhmm, I don’t know…” you said, pretending to ponder like you weren’t desperate to feel him fill you up. “Have you been - jesus fucking christ - have you been good?”

“‘ve been good!!” he wails, eyes teary as he stares up at you. “Been so good, such a good boy, please let me cum, please, jus’ wanna be you good boy, please please please!”

Your eyes roll back. Fuck, you hadn’t expected him to beg in return. Slowing down a bit, your bounces send him slow and deep, causing you to clench. His eyes cross and his grip on the couch turns his knuckles white, trying so goddamn hard to hold himself back.

“You can cum,” you groan, his cock rutting against your sweet spot just right. “You can cum, baby, cum with me, want you to cum with me-”

Your vision goes white and you clench, gripping his cock harshly. He near screams, fucking himself up into you as he came. You both melt into each other, a panting, post-orgasm mess tangled on the couch. When your brain was finally back online, you winch, gently sliding his softened cock out of you.

“Fuck, really did a number on me,” Billy murmured, ragdolled on the couch looking like he never wanted to move. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”

“Fuck off, Hargrove,” you say, trying your best to walk (or waddle, rather) your way to the kitchen to start cleaning off.

“You love me and you know it!”

You roll your eyes, grabbing a washcloth and dampening it. God, he was such a doofus. You couldn’t believe that the rest of the school considered him the king, but maybe your friendship was something special. You sure hoped so - you were certain he wasn’t just submitting himself to anyone, after all. 

“Where the fuck did you go, dickhead? The great Billy Hargrove demands cuddles!”

God, he was such a dork sometimes. You snort, but make your way back to the living room, water bottle and damp washcloth in hand. 

“Have patience, great Billy,” you said, handing him the water bottle before gently cleaning him up. “Great things come for those who wait.”

“Oh shut up,” he said, melting into your touch. “I didn’t come here for you to philosophise.”

“Course, course,” you say, jokingly. “Okay, all done. Let’s pick up all our shit and go to my room, yeah? Really don’t want my parents to come home and find us naked in the living room.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re boring,” he jokes, wobbly as he stands to help you grab your discarded clothes. “Half the fun is getting caught.”

“Perv,” you shot back.

“Says the one who rode me on their parents' couch.”

“Ew!! Don’t fucking say that, I don’t want to think about my parents in the afterglow!”

“You’re the one who brought them up!” “Yeah, because I don’t want them involved in my post-orgasmic haze!!” you say, exasperated. “Cmon, this way.”

Dumping your clothes unceremoniously on the floor, you lock the door and drag Billy towards your bed. Wordlessly, the two of you melt into each other. You’d worry about sneaking him out under your parents’ radar later - right now, you had much more pressing concerns.

Word Count: 3374

[ashintheairlikesnow]

“I’m not telling you again.”

If you’re still doing the sentence prompts?

CW: Vampirism, blood drinking, minor whumpee (OC is 17), captivity, referenced dehydration and starvation, forced turning, wishing for death, religion

1905, somewhere outside New York City

-

"Come here, little one."

The boy presses himself back against the cold stone wall behind him. There's a cuff around one ankle, dull iron, and a chain that scrapes the floor when he moves. He swallows, shaking his head rapidly from side to side. Dirty hair falls dull over eyes that sparkle vibrant green in the near-total darkness.

He can't see her.

But she can see him.

"No." His voice is a whimper, a nearly-animal whine, pure fear. "Please, please, please no, not, not, not tonight, not... not tonight, please."

She sighs, chuckling fondly, and pulls a match across her palm to light the lamp that hangs on a hook down here. The wick catches flame, and now he sees the pale, pale skin, the deep red lips. The predator's gleam in glinting dark eyes.

She crooks a long, sharpened fingernail . He can see the hem of her dress, lace-edged, the skirt that sweeps up to curve her hips, the narrowed waist, the high neck. He's stared at illustrations of the Gibson girl put up in shop windows in stores that sell to richer women than he's ever known. She's an echo right down to the soft, upswept hair.

Like a man with an expensive coat hiding a knife, he thinks, that he means to slaughter you with. She's a monster who looks like an angel.

"I'm not telling you again. I'm hungry," She says, and gives a little pout. "I want you to feed me."

He pulls his arms in close, shaking his head again. Tears already threaten. He's so tired, all the time. There is never time enough to heal from one bite before the next and the next and the next-

"Come now, little pet. It's just one last time." Her voice is gentle, but he knows they lie. They all lie to get their fangs in you.

"What, what, what d'you mean?" The boy has a thick country Irish accent, still. Fresh off the boat, they call him when he tries to speak to the boys his age in his tenement. Half of them have accents like his, or thicker.

Not that he'll see any of them ever again.

Not since his parents-

Not since-

He chokes on a sob he can't quite hold back, turning at the waist to rub his fingers over the rough, cool stone. It helps. The motion, the texture, it helps. It calms him down, a little.

Everything here is wrong.

He misses home. He misses the green hills that were never so full of dirt ground in as the city streets are. He misses the air that didn't smell like offal day and night. He misses a world where it was all less overwhelming. He misses a world where his parents were alive to help him understand it.

"Oh, you're sad tonight," The monster wearing a woman's face says, taking the lamp off the hook and carrying it closer. The shadows dance off her cheekbones, they seem to give her a sneer rather than her soft smile. "Let Malorie be of aid to you. Tell me what you need, sweet boy."

"Can, can, can I have a-a drink? Miss?" His voice is hoarse from thirst, and he's parched. It has rained for two weeks and he's drunk the rainwater that leaks in through the walls, plus the few sips they give him each day. Food is a bit of moldy bread, cheese, maybe a thin soup. It isn't enough.

They don't seem to notice, or care.

But then food or water is something they left behind, isn't it?

"Hm." She steps forward, closer to him. Her eyes flash in the dark, reflect the bit of light, and he cringes back from her fangs as she smiles down at him. She moves to crouch before him, and sets the lamp down on the floor beside her. "Is it thirst that drives you, little one?"

"Please." His lips are chapped and cracked. He tastes blood, sometimes, and spits pink-tinged spit to blend with the soil beneath him. He tries to look pitiful - it's not hard to succeed. "Please. I'm, I'm so so so so... so thirsty, ma'am, just a cup, please-"

She looks down, unfastening the line of tiny pearl buttons on one sleeve, then rolling back the fabric to expose her wrist. A stray curl of dark hair falls down to brush her perfect cheekbone.

"Ma'am?" He can't understand what she's doing - none of them had ever started to undress in front of him before. "A drink, ma'am? Please?"

She looks up, and her eyes gleam like a cat's in the dark. Her teeth are very very white. He can see the venom shimmering on her fangs.

"A drink you want, you beautiful boy," She says, and he stares with uncomprehending horror as she moves her wrist towards her own mouth. "And a drink you shall have."

She tears her own wrist open with her teeth.

He gasps and tries to get up to run, but he's weak and dizzy and when she yanks at the chain that binds his ankle to the wall he goes down hard and lands with a thump, the breath knocked out of him.

While he wheezes air into lungs that won't take it, she pushes him onto his back and forces her wrist against his mouth, her other hand pinching his nose shut.

He cries out in horrified disgust against her cold skin and the thick brackish fluid that flows over his tongue. She stares down at him, avid, with huge eyes.

"Drink, sweet boy," She murmurs. "Quench your thirst."

He must drink or suffocate, and his body chooses for him. He swallows even as he gags, and swallows again, and she lets go of his nose so he can frantically pull in air, tears streaming to pool in the shells of his ears and soak into his grimy, dirty hair.

She is a blur through his terror, but her smile is written in stone in the yard beside a church.

"My turn," She says, and when she buries her fangs into his neck, the boy screams again.

And then goes limp as the venom takes hold, and the vampire begins to purr, her fingers gripped like claws into his shoulders.

There is no pain.

Only the fear.

I'm going to die, he thinks, and stares up into the darkness that wipes out even the lamplight. It seems like it's growing, within him and without.

His mouth is full of blood. It tastes better than it did when first she made him drink. The heaving of his stomach stops. He starts to swallow willingly, even eagerly. Nothing has ever quenched his thirst quite like this. It doesn't taste at all like he'd thought.

I'm going to die.

He wants to go home.

He wants more to drink.

He's so hungry.

He wants more blood.

When she pulls her wrist away, he whines and tries to grab at it, to pull it back. She laughs, swatting playfully at him.

"Not yet," She chides, wagging a finger. She licks her open wound and it closes. She laps at the remaining blood and he tries to sit up, to get some too, only for her to push him down again.

Then... pain.

Agony hits, a bright stripe straight up his spine, and he arches away from the ground, throwing his head back and screaming loud enough to bounce off all the walls. It recedes, and then comes again, through his stomach this time. The throb moves to his hips, thighs, into his calves and all the way to his toes.

He curls into a ball on his side, but the pain keeps growing. It takes over. He can't feel the floor he lays on, only the constant spark of nerves blaring alarm. He feels like he is being crushed under a rock, burned by the hottest fire, stabbed with a hundred knives.

"Wh, what, what's happening-... t'me?!" He coughs, and then sobs as the action hurts more than anything else ever has in his life.

"You're dying." She picks at her fingernails, already bored.

He turns to look up at her as she stands, licking her chops like a cat. Tears run down his face, and every time he blinks the air seems pink-tinged. "What...?"

"That's your body shutting down. You know, you're very fortunate." She wipes a droplet of the boy's own blood from the corner of her mouth and then sucks her finger clean. "Very few people get to be born twice. I'll see you tomorrow night. I would prefer if you didn't call me your mother."

Before he can even begin to form a question, she turns to walk away, hanging the lamp up on its hook as she goes, blowing out the flame.

The pain ripples again, he is broken like a brittle shell against the shore. His very bones feel as though they're tearing apart inside him.

He's going to die here.

And he won't stay dead. His parents will wait in Heaven for a demon son who will never be allowed to step foot into Paradise.

He gulps in air, lungs burning, and tries to remember the prayer through his panic. "Our Father, wh-who art in Heaven, hallowed be be be Thy Name-"

His throat blisters even saying the words, and when he tries to cross himself, his hand shakes too much, his joints crack and shatter. He can feel it, he can hear it. They crack and reform, break and bend.

He screams.

He screams until his throat is raw, until it bleeds, until his heart stops beating and blood runs from eyes and ears and from under his nails.

He whispers every prayer he's ever known when he can. He begs for salvation, he begs to be spared eternal bloodlust, he pleads for something other than damnation. He prays he'll see his parents in death and not become a monster like this.

His prayers are swallowed whole by darkness.

He dies, but he does not die for long.

-

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