#implicit character death

[coffeeangelinabox]

Whumpril #12: Weak Pulse

Gene’s an engineer, he can do basic first aid. More than basic first aid. This is beyond him. 

He looks down at the woman he loves (how had he not known until now, until everything inside him is cracking and shattering at the sight of her still face, marred by bags beneath her eyes). He can’t even think her name, to name her makes it real, might draw Death down on her. (He’s an engineer, he’s not superstitious, but here and now, superstition, wishing, prayer is the only protection he can offer her).

Her pulse flutters beneath his fingers, barely there. The beating wings of a baby bird. He presses fingers into her wrist hard enough to bruise the delicate skin and presses the other palm to her chest, over her heartbeat, as though he can force the organ to keep pumping just by the intensity of his focus. 

He’s on his knees beside her, hunched over her fallen body. His whole body braced as a shield, to protect. (She’d hate it. She hates to need anyone and she so rarely does, she’s the strongest person he knows.)

His eyes drag desperately over her face. She’s pale. Eyelids not fluttering regardless of what the vids would have one believe. Her lips are beginning to tinge blue as the oxygen deprivation takes its toll. As her body (impossible, she’s strong, so strong) begins to fail. 

He slips fingers from her pulse point to grip her hand. She’s cold. Only the precarious, almost gone stutter of her heart beneath his hand proving that she’s not dead already. 

He’s an engineer, not a doctor. He knows that this is caused by trauma - electrical maybe, or drugs, choking or drowning, or psychic attack, but has no idea how to help. There aren’t even any visible wounds. He could staunch bleeding, soothe burns, set bones even. He curls ever more tightly around her as though he can share his warmth, his strength that she’s never before needed; as though he can hide her from the Grim Reaper who must already be lurking just over his shoulder. 

“Get David down here,” he demands and his voice sounds wrong, like he’s the one dying on the floor.

There’s a very long silence. Her heart forces out another begrudging thump. 

“I can’t,” Darrow says quietly, but his voice is rock solid.

Gene doesn’t turn, as though his eyes on her face are the tether keeping her here, but he jolts as though stung. “Get. Him.” He bites out. 

“He’s the only one left on the ship. We’d lose the Valjean, we’d all-”

“I don’t care!” Gene all but screams. 

Darrow crosses to him, crouches on his haunches on her other side. He looks down at her too, face set like stone. “I can’t,” he repeats. “They’d kill us all, and everyone we help, everyone whose sheltered us-”

To fly at him would mean letting go of her. He snarls instead, wordless and animalistic. 

Darrow takes her opposite hand, checking his pulse herself, his touch more gentle than Gene’s, no desperation to drive him to brutality. “She’s too far gone,” he says. His expression doesn’t crack. “David couldn’t help her. We’d be giving everything up for nothing.”

“You don’t know that! You don’t-” beneath Gene’s palm, that brave heart thuds once, twice and slowly patters down to a still slower rate. “I’ll never forgive you for this.”

Darrow smiles humorlessly and stands, pacing away to the far side of the room. “I’m far past forgiveness, Gene.”

He’s an engineer. He deals in logic and rational facts, but there are none here that will sway Darrow and no argument he can make that will change anything. “But it’s Jemma.” His voice cracks, pleading now instead of snarling or screaming.

“I know.”

[angelsdean]

ruthlessly deleting old 2021/2022 posts (not by me) from my dean studies tag like *click* un-incorporating that from my beliefs system! also the way SO many posts have me like ok uh-huh good aaand then say one completely wrong thing that loses me. it's so many posts.

[unproduciblesmackdown]

another day another "applying the concept 'disposability' to 'someone withdraws from a personal relationship, & that wasn't signed off on by the other'" kill me

[curiouschaosstarlight]

Y'know what.

Fuck you.

-Easily forgives your villains, gives them unconditional love and support, and helps them awaken to emotions they have yet to experience even once.-

-Lets them make mistakes. Lets them backslide. Lets them have terrible habits they may never fully get rid of. Lets them live with themselves and what that means for them. Lets them have things they don't regret doing. Lets them have things they will never regret doing. Lets them have things they will only regret doing after unpacking everything.-

-Lets them have great reasons for doing terrible things. Lets them have no reason for doing terrible things. Lets them have no trauma. Lets them be born different. Lets them have every trauma. Lets them have every illness. Lets them have every loss.-

-Lets them be selfish. Lets them be self-destructively selfless. Lets them decide to change sides just because it serves or benefits them in some way. Lets them decide to change sides because they have nothing to lose.-

-Lets them get stupidly attached to the person they said they'd never get attached to. Lets them have a complete lack of attachments. Lets them feel ready to die for the heroes. Lets them feel ready to sacrifice everyone else at any possible inconvenience.-

-Lets them betray everyone over and over and over again. Lets them betray no one ever. Lets them never feel fully secure in other people. Lets them have full security in everything. Lets them never even think someone might still have a problem with them. Lets them feel like everyone will have a problem with them forever.-

-Lets them have the ire of everyone and no one.-

-Lets them face every and no consequence of their action.-

-Lets them choose and exist differently under circumstances or reasons that make no sense to you.-

-Lets them love and be loved, and hate and be hated.-

-Easily forgives your villain and welcomes them back every single time no matter what they do or what they've done or what will happen because I'm here and I can.-

[noistanaccount]

Ryoko Kui Does Not Believe in Epiphanies (or: why Marcille and Mithrun's endings are great actually)

I have seen a couple of people who are upset about the way that Mithrun and Marcille's stories were resolved so I'm writing this to clear some things up. Ryoko Kui does not believe in epiphanies. An epiphany is a sudden and usually brief realization, an "aha" moment. Epiphanies are emotionally powerful moments. Both Marcille and Mithrun have powerful moments of realization, epiphanies.

Whether or not you like these resolutions, there's something you need to understand, Ryoko Kui does not put that much stock into these moments. Immediately after Marcille has her realization, Tansu responds like this:

While this is mostly his own opinion, what he is pointing out is that epiphanies are brief, they are singular moments that do not define a life. Life is long, and epiphanies do not sustain you. Marcille might feel like this now, but what about tomorrow? what about nex year? ten years, a hundred years, five hundred years from now? How often have you felt a sudden understanding? a burst of inspiration, or perhaps a realization that everything is pointless? It generally passes quickly, and you make dinner, and go to bed.

Think about the best meal you have ever had, it was probably a special occasion, maybe it felt like something magical, in the moment you might have felt like your life was changed. Then, in the morning you were hungry, so you ate breakfast. You cooked, you did the dishes, you went on with your life. What "meaning" did that meal have if you were hungry again the next day? Mithrun has to rebuild everything, every day he has to come up with new desires to do the very basics. None of it comes naturally, he has to find a reason to eat beyond being hungry, a reason to want to do anything when he doesn't want anything. Ryoko Kui tells us outright, that there is no magical solution:

The same thing applies to Ryoko Kui's representation of racism in dungeon meshi. Around when the orcs appeared in the anime I saw people gripeing about the way racism is treated. They seemed to think that Laios's party having dinner with the orcs was presented as them "solving" racism. Once again people misunderstand, they did not solve racism in a single moment. A few people, understood each other a little better, came to an arrangement and then parted. This was merely a moment in their lives. The characters continue to do micro-agressions, hold stereotypes, and have implicit biases. In dungeon meshi, characters don't suddenly stop being racist in the course of an evening. Life is a process, learning about others is a process, it's about the accumulation of experiences through the meat and potatoes of life, the daily activities that we actually fill our lives with, not the sudden realizations. Once you make learning about and living with other people into part of your routine, once it is embodied, then it is part of your life.

This is the real conclusion: life is not lived in a state of epiphany. Life is about chores, cooking, eating, shitting, working, and sleeping, it's everyday. Life is about doing simple things and doing them well. An epiphany is a useful tool for telling the reader that everything is going to be alright, we love to read epiphanies and be swept up in them. They can also be a breaking of a pattern, an escape from a spiral.

This is the other take away, it's about the people you do those things with, the way they rub off on you, the way they help you be human. For Mithrun and Marcille their paths would be impossible without other people pushing them back on the path as they stray. Mithrun literally would starve to death except for the thought that kabru and others don't want him to. Eating is a communal activity, so is living, you can have an epiphany on your own; you can't live on your own.

[edenaziraphale]

There's a lot to be said about the weaknesses and strengths of the writing in Dragon Age games, but for me there's nothing that trumps the way the writers' implicit biases shine through in their treatment of various characters. Anders and Solas showcase the very worst of this. Functionally Anders and Solas could (and I would go so far as to say should) operate as foils to one another. Anders is a victim of decades of abuse at the hands of both individuals and a system that demonized him from a very young age. We are given information about his childhood and time spent in the circle that makes it explicitly clear that Circles are an unjust and abusive system that traumatized him so much that he fled multiple times regardless of the fact that he knew the abuse would escalate each time he escaped. In the end, he chooses to chance death and lifelong struggle via conscription because it is his only shot at escaping his current reality. After that, in DA2, it's made clear that Kirkwall's circle is even worse. Karl is made tranquil, the templars are mad with power, and it's heavily implied that the tranquil are utilized as sex slaves and that some templars may even be selecting mages for tranquility based on their desire for them alone. In the light of all of that, Anders makes a very desperate and destructive choice. Regardless of how players feel about his actions, it's not really up for debate that the context surrounding them creates mitigating circumstances and a sympathetic backing. He was attempting to affect positive change for a group of people facing fates that the game makes clear are worse than death. Despite this, the game's writing treats him as an unsympathetic villain whose actions are not only reprehensible, but completely beyond the realm of human understanding. That dynamic at the end of DA2 carries into DAI. Solas, on the other hand, is on a quest to undo his own actions. His initial construction of the Veil and the problems that it caused can be viewed with (some) similarity to Anders circumstances in that Solas was attempting to right a wrong done by someone else, but the key difference is that, unlike Anders, who was a powerless victim attempting to free other powerless victims, Solas was on a revenge quest to avenge the death of his friend and had an incredible amount of power within the system that he existed as a part of.

His actions had horrific consequences that birthed what is essentially an entirely new existence for everyone in Thedas eons before the start of any of the games. He finds the outcome of his own actions intolerable, and seeks to reverse them. He harms friends and allies to do so, and makes it explicitly clear that he does not care who he harms or what the consequences are to Thedas or the people who live there in his quest to bring back the version of the world that he liked better. Functionally, Solas makes an excellent villain. He stands out from Anders (who operates in his narrative as a symbol of the rage and disenfranchisement of the powerless) as a representation of power and ego unchecked and the damage that they can cause.

Unfortunately, the writing of the game treats him as though he is the tragically complex victim of forces outside of his control when he is in fact the over-powered puppeteer. He is very much the master of his own destiny and he intends to be the master of everyone else's destiny as well by ripping apart the fabric of reality. No character in the series better demonstrates the writer's biases than Varric, who, as a narrator for DA2, essentially acts as the moral arbiter telling players how they should and should not feel about events, explaining what is and is not moral. His reactions to Anders stand out in sharp relief against what we see of his reaction to Solas in the Veilguard releases so far.

To be clear, I don't hate Solas as a character. I think as a villain, he works very well. His complete and total disregard for the wellbeing of others paired with his affect of wise and gentle mage are compelling to witness. His motivations are understandable from the selfish and self-centered core of us as people. He's a fantastic reminder of what happens when we decide that we know what's best with no input from others, when we pursue our desires above all else beneath the veneer of wisdom. He's fun, well rounded, and interesting. He is not, however, a tragic and morally justified sadboi victim of circumstance, and I resent that the writers treated him as though he was.

[buckleybltch]

Why Tommy is Different to Buck’s Previous Love Interests

and Why it Doesn’t Make Sense.

This is going to be a long and (primarily) impartial post intended for all audiences, whether you like Tommy or not. However, this is not the blog to be airing grievances on. I’m not here for that. I am going to put some opinions of mine through here, but that’s all they are, and I’m going to try stick with facts with a side of interpretation. And Please, for the love of God, read till the end before commenting.

If you want to think I’m nitpicking then go ahead, but every scene of this show gets analysed to death and back for varying reasons. This will be no different.

The Hospital Scene

For the first time, we see one of Buck’s love interests sitting with the 118 at the hospital while they wait to make sure one of their own is okay. In regard to the group chat that appeared on that scene, form your own opinions. We don’t know if Karen or Maddie is in this group chat either. Opinion: I personally don’t think it’s that unusual to have a work group chat, and I also think Bobby showed Athena his phone. I don’t believe that was meant to reinforce the idea that Tommy is an ‘outsider’- if he was an outsider, he wouldn’t have been at the hospital altogether.

Never before has a LI shown up for the 118 at the hospital with Buck. Ali and Abby turned up at the hospital for Buck because it’s him who was hurt, and Taylor was at the hospital with her camera man for the story (s5 May Day). When Eddie got shot, Taylor showed up at the hospital because she thought it was Buck who got shot. Tommy showing up is a unique situation- they were sat in their civvies as a group in the waiting room, and Tommy is there with Buck for Denny. Tommy was part of the 118 waiting room crew; we’ve never seen this before; Buck’s partner showing up for his team(family) at the hospital.

The closest we’ve had before is Abby showing up to Chimney’s return to work party, but at this point they weren’t actually together, and obviously Chimney was okay by this point, it’s not a hospital scene.

The Firefighter Life

When Ali breaks up with Buck, she says it’s because she can’t handle the firefighter life, waiting for him to get hurt. She says it’s not what she wants. This issue isn’t present with Tommy because he is also a firefighter. He knows what he signed up for with Buck, he’s perfectly and intimately familiar with the risks they take everyday and the risk of getting hurt. While it’s a perfectly reasonable assumption that this might still be an issue to some degree, no one wants to see their boyfriend getting hurt after all, they both understand the life and what it means. Tommy solves the reason Ali broke up with him.

The Bobby Approval

This one is a key one. When the scene first aired, I strongly believed (and still do) that this line was also intended for the audience. We have Bobby’s explicit approval of Tommy as a person and for Buck. He’s good people, he’s good for you.

Bobby and Buck never spoke about Natalia or about Ali. I hold the belief, like many, that Bobby never particularly liked Taylor because of how she tried to exploit Bobby in season 2. However, Bobby did help Buck decide on a Christmas gift for Taylor and vice versa. Yet, he never said on screen that he thought they were good together. Hen and Chimney do also come to Taylor for help (s5) with Jonah, but even in that scene they’re shown to not trust her with what they’re telling her.

Abby is more complex as she was a main character in season 1 and her relationship with Buck was a full-season arc. Bobby helped Buck tie his tie and gave him genuinely good advice before their date. Bobby even talks to Buck about having a serious relationship and how to handle it, about how to treat her with respect. Other characters definitely aired their reservations about Abby in season 2 (Is it the age difference? More like the time difference). I believe Bobby gave his implicit, but not explicitly said, approval of Abby through the way he treated and spoke to Buck about their relationship. Despite this, I do think it’s poignant that for the seven years after Buck and Abby broke up, we never saw Bobby approve or like another one of his relationships until Tommy.

The Future Talk

In 8x06, Josh straight up asks Buck if he can see a future with Tommy. This of course follows up Josh already asking “do you care about him, do you think about him when’s not around”. The discussion between Josh and Buck is unique, because Buck has never spoken to a friend about this before. His relationships with Ali and Natalia weren’t developed or long enough to warrant the discussion, he never talked about the future with Abby, and he said “no” at the prospect of proposing to Taylor. For the first time, Buck is asked on-screen if he sees a future with his romantic partner, and Buck says yes. This is explicitly said for the first time. Yes, he made a confused face when Josh asked if he loved him, because clearly Buck hasn’t given it that much thought until he’s confronted with it. Either way, Buck, for the first time, says he wants a future with his romantic partner.

This further prompts Buck to ask Tommy to move in with him, which, different to his motivation for asking Taylor to move in with him, is fuelled by wanting a future. Buck even brings up marriage in his discussion with Tommy, which he’s also never discussed with a romantic partner on screen before. The content of both discussions is something we haven’t seen Buck talk about or admit before.

Eddie Friendship

All of Buck’s love interests, bar Abby, have screen time with Eddie. However, Ali and Natalia only share screen time with Eddie when they first meet because they meet on a call. As Buck’s girlfriends, they don’t share screen time with Eddie.

Taylor once has dinner with Buck, Eddie, and Christopher, and she compliments Eddie’s cooking. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe this is the only main time they’re seen together. It’s civil, it’s fine. However, they aren’t friends.

Tommy is a unique situation again; because he’s a guy, it might be easier for Eddie to form a friendship with him. They’re very fast friends, they do Muay Thai together, Tommy works on Eddie’s car, they play basketball together, Tommy went to Eddie’s house 3 times in two weeks and met Christopher. Christopher likes Tommy, he thinks he’s cool, and Eddie invited Tommy to Chris’ virtual birthday party. He’s the first love interest to not only get along with Eddie, but become friends with him outside of Buck (emphasised by 7x04 where Tommy tells Buck that his friendship with Eddie has nothing to do with Buck). The show makes their friendship very clear.

I’ll fully admit that Eddie’s friendship with Tommy was needed for the plot in 7x04, but beyond that, why was it relevant? It already made Buck realise he wanted to be with Tommy. They might’ve needed it for a plot reason but they’re friends afterwards too. Maddie calls Tommy “Eddie’s friend” in 7x05 and they’re laughing together in the hospital and getting alone fine in 8x05. Why?

Fitting Into Buck’s Life

Of course, this all culminates by saying Tommy fits into Buck’s life extremely well.

Tommy doesn’t have to go through the awkward phase of meeting all of Buck’s friends, because the only one he hasn’t met is Eddie. Tommy was previously friends with Bobby, Hen, and Chimney, they already know him. He’s already met Athena. Sure, they might have some catching up to do, but they already have a good history. They’re familiar. Again, Tommy already gets along with Buck’s friends outside of Buck.

Why was Tommy at the hospital for Hen’s son if he wasn’t integrated? Why feel comfortable going to Maddie and Chimney’s wedding? Even Buck makes the point of saying that Tommy is already going to know everybody there; he’s not just his date, he already knows them.

Tommy is friends with Buck’s friends already, Tommy understands the demands of being a firefighter and what it entails with the risks and the commitment. Tommy understands Buck’s friendship with Eddie and Christopher, and his dynamic with Bobby.

Intention (Conclusion)

This is all to say- this is intentional. If the point of the relationship was always to breakup, why have Tommy included in these scenes? Tommy didn’t need to be there at the hospital for Denny, but they wrote it in for him to join the 118 waiting. Bobby didn’t need to give his approval of Tommy on screen. It didn’t further his relationship with Buck nor the plot. It was written this way for a reason, and I think anyone can admit the actual breakup in the scene was abrupt, and it’s all of the above context that makes it even more abrupt.

I know it makes his relationship with Buck more meaningful, sweeter, more heartbreaking for Buck, but we never saw these moments with his ex girlfriends, particularly Taylor, and their relationship was solid until it wasn’t. If this unique treatment of Tommy was meant to put Buck through heartbreak then I offer a second question: what is coming up for Buck that requires him to go through heartbreak?

Why go through the effort of writing Tommy to fit in so well with Buck’s life if he’s only there to further a plot? None of Buck’s other LIs were treated like that, and they achieved the plot they needed to. So why was this different? Buck’s relationship with Taylor was a lot longer, and they lived together, but we never saw these types of scenes with her. Why? Why was this different? What was the point of making the relationship meaningful and different?

Again, this post is not here for people to argue. It should be clear to everyone, regardless of why you think so, that Tommy was treated different by the show than Buck’s other love interests. There must have been a reason, even if that wasn’t clear. Is something big coming up for Buck that he needed to be heartbroken for? Is it poor writing? Is Tommy coming back? There must be some reason that Tommy was treated differently by the writers other than “just because”.

[claremikas]

the fact that I actively disliked her before I read the manga ohhh WIT studio there's blood on your hands

yeah we put your girl in a 2010s shounen adaptation and now half of the fandom hates her. yeah they changed most of her lines to be about the mc and added 20 scenes of her screaming his name that weren't in the manga. im sorry

[vechter]

ao3 for dick grayson fics is such a trying experience, truly bc what do you mean there's not one, not two but an overwhelming abundance of fics where dick is a bad sibling and jason todd is the ideal, supportive, drops-everything-for-your-crisis sibling?

like i can understand the appeal of exploring the lesser of dick's choices and character traits and how those impact his relationships with the rest of the bats but you mean to tell me that any of them- damian, tim, cass- tim, especially- would willingly go to jason for help when they have the option of asking dick?

as much as red robin is a deeply rich, complex story about grief and morality, i'm afraid it did irreparable damage to dick's character, not to mention tim's (that boy does not have an egregiously high body count, comics would never gloss over that kind of mass death or be implicit about it in any way if that had actually happened)

dick's primary character thesis is being a safety net for people who fall- the way bruce and batman were for him after his parents died. it's one of his chief driving forces. there is no world where he doesn't help out a stranger, let alone his siblings if they come to him for help. and despite all of the bats being notoriously bad at asking for help and support, the number of instances where dick is an empathetic listener, doling out advice and emotional support and compassion (even when people are tight-lipped about needing any of those things) far outweighs the times he has been short-sighted or intentionally harsh. no character is perfect but to see how often jason is written favourably whilst simultaneously dragging dick is maddening fr

like, fine you like jason a lot. it can be fun and cathartic to write about him choosing to develop relationships outside of his grief/trauma/revenge with bruce (although i think that the most compelling thing about jason is how much of his character post-resurrection is driven by existing as a dead boy walking so to see him actually care about living and making healthy choices would probably require something beyond therapy with harley quinn lmao) but is it really necessary to do that while putting dick down? both tim and damian have seen dick while he is decidedly not at his best (reeling from the circus burning down in nw '96, grieving bruce, finding his footing as batman) and have come out the other side firm in their belief in him. cass, unfortunately is more removed from dick's immediate circle but that's a whole other tangent about how peripheral dick is to both of the batgirls that come after babs. steph, by virtue of having a parent who is alive, is lucky enough to be removed from more of the complicated dynamics all of them have with each other. and while dick is an ass in her initial batgirl days, he does warm up to her (but that again is a whole other post considering the legitimacy and nuances of characterizations in batgirl- tim never gets the same flak for his treatment of steph despite being much, much closer to her and actually knowing her beyond the second robin to die- and even then, when dick finds out about steph's death, the gist of initial reaction is to blame bruce, perhaps, rightfully so)

like you're falling for his act!!! as readers of a form of media like comics, we are lucky enough to get a glimpse into dick's inner neuroses and thought-processes while simultaneously seeing how he acts on them. ofc we see him make mistakes but a lot of the other characters don't!! and if/when they do, they don't see beyond the performance he delivers. even barring the fucked-up-ness of a high stakes job like vigilantism where trauma and death and adrenaline are linked together messily, no relationship between two people is perfect. people hurt each other, people lash out!! but the most compelling thing about dick is how often he reaches out, how often he swings back even after he has swung away!! that's what makes him such a source of light, hope and positivity for everybody he encounters

and this is not even touching n52 which seems like the most hasty kind of decision making and writing from editorial with no consideration for a lot of the characters' histories, lore and their core characterizations

[evanpetersmybf]

All he asked for was you

Tate Langdon x female!reader

Summary: Tate loves you too much. He would do anything for you, to keep you by his side, to make you love him forever. He would cross any line to make you his, it doesn't matter how evil it is... But was it really worth it?

Genre: ANGST!! and some smut

Word count: 5,104

Warnings: Obsessive, stalkish and violent behavior, implicit toxic relationship; mentions of weapons, murder, mental health issues, family issues, school shooting; use of Y/N, swearing, cunnilingus, fingering, unprotected p in v. (i hope i'm not missing any...) NOT PROOFREAD !!

A/N: English isn't my first language!! Sorry if I have some mistakes and if Tate's a bit ooc (i tried to keep him in character as much as i could). I wasn't sure (and still not) if this is good but I spent days writing it, so I had to post it.

A small playlist with songs that inspired me for this: monster by meg and dia, pacify her by melanie martinez, all i want is you by rebzyyx, skyfall by adele, psycho by doko, paparazzi by lady gaga, dark red by steve lacy.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ཐི ♡ ཋྀ

Tate never believed in love, nor was he a romantic one. 

In fact, he despised it. How could he even believe in that feeling when he never felt loved by his own mother? At least that’s what he pretended.

The blond always had the facade of a tough guy, although he couldn’t fool anyone. Constance knew well he was a sensitive boy. Probably the most crybaby ever to exist… And the most unstable one.

Now he was here. His chest going up and down, breathing shallow and fast. His eyes were darting around the room, looking for something or perhaps someone. Some silly tears were rolling down his cheeks while he anxiously fidgeted with a ring on his finger. The clock on the wall continued its tick-tack. The time kept running. His heart kept beating. It was getting late.

He refused to look at the wooden floor. He didn’t want to accept reality. If Tate did that, he would feel like the biggest monster on Earth.

Nevertheless, he couldn’t stay like this.

He had to do something real fast.

Today, 18:40

You were supposed to arrive at 19:00.

But he remained there, next to the corpse of his rival. A bloody ax beside the dead man’s bleeding head.

Whom he thought was his worst enemy, was someone really dear to you.

Well, Tate fervently believed this was something justified. He couldn’t stand that fucking asshole anymore! That scumbag needed to be put back in his place. And Tate only did that. Furthermore, he actually helped him. He took him away from this shitty world. It was a favor.

He had already killed his mother’s boyfriend, so why was he feeling guilty?

Maybe because his victim was special to you. Because his death would hurt you. And Langdon swore to God he would never let anybody or anything hurt you, including himself.

He loved you.

He wanted to be the one to hold your hand forever.

Tate snapped back to the present and frowned. He picked up the weapon, putting it in his backpack. He didn’t even mind cleaning it. Then, he proceeded to knelt right next to the lifeless dude and cleaned the blood surrounding his body; afterwards, he dragged him to the basement and…

19:00

A knock on the door.

You arrived.

“DAMN IT!” 

He left his dead foe lying limp on the cold basement ground and quickly ran upstairs, straight to his room. He also left the backpack there.

Tate spent the last twenty minutes cleaning the mess he made in the living room after he atrociously smashed your friend’s head, forgetting that had poor time to get ready. 

He desperately looked for clean clothes, scrambling the entire closet in search of fresh garments while he cussed at himself, at his mother, at that freaking boy, at the entire world but you.

Finally he found some jeans and a striped shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror after changing and cleaned the tiny drops of blood that stayed on his face and hands. He never realized he left the bloody clothing on the bed.

Another knock.

19:07

Tate opened the door, immediately throwing himself at you and giving you one of the warmest hugs. His demeanor with you was completely different; you were the only creature capable of changing his fucked up mind into something more beautiful, more peaceful. The issue was that it only happened when he was with you, otherwise he would be aggressive and rude as usual.

You got the best of him. 

“Missed you so fuckin’ much, babe…” Voice muffled since his face was buried in the crook of your neck. Tate always did the same thing; clinging onto you like a small koala would.

“Heh, me too, hun!” You spoke with the same soothing voice he adored. Tate giggled and placed a tender kiss on your jawline, then another, and another, and another.

Soon enough, he was peppering kisses all over your neck, making you moan softly. Oh those sounds. He could hear you melting under his touch, his embrace, for the rest of eternity.

He loved making you squirm, making you laugh, making you feel loved.

He was way too sweet.

Only if you knew.

Four weeks before today…

Tate has always had the bad habit of stalking you. Yeah… He wasn’t proud of it. But can you blame him? He’s constantly afraid of you leaving him. He wanted to make sure you never did so… Otherwise he would die. Literally.

Don’t ask how he would die. You already know the answer.

You two were supposed to have a date, albeit you had to cancel your meeting.

And that, of course, made him overthink. It didn’t matter how many times you told him you were going to study; he felt betrayed, as if you were rejecting him. And Tate hated and feared rejection to the bone.

“Pretty please? Please, Y/N! I don’t wanna go home early, mom’s gonna be there and-and–”

“Tate, I can’t skip this. I have like, a test every day next week and I must study. I don’t wanna fail. Please, sweetie. I promise I’ll make it up to ya’, mhm?” 

He rolled his eyes and whined, almost throwing a tantrum. He didn’t try to manipulate you on purpose. It came out naturally. “But I need you, Y/N! Why do you always do the same, huh? Am I not that important? Don’t you love me any longer?”

His childish crying continued for a couple of minutes, until it stopped and the blond agreed a deal with you.

You thought he was calm now, but no. How naive.

You went to the library to study as you said… Without noticing he followed you.

Quietly, he got into that maze of books after you and hid behind some shelves.

Tate noticed you sat on an empty table. Thank God. Oh?

Who. Is. He.

A man Tate didn’t know sat next to you. Really close. Too close for Tate’s liking. He tried to think he was a stranger, that he wasn’t going to talk to you… He was wrong.

He clenched his hands into a ball when he saw that idiot talking to you, and the worst part was that you followed suit. It seemed you two were friends or something.

How DARE YOU talk to another man? No, how dare you talk to another HUMAN BEING!?

Tate was insecure 24/7.

If you weren’t there, Tate was falling apart. It was simple.

No Y/N, no happy Tate. Was it too hard to understand?

Three weeks before today…

It was Friday. Tate was impatiently waiting for you outside the campus, hanging a small bouquet of flowers he picked up.

Once he spotted you coming out from the building, he waved his hand and embraced you tightly once you were in front of him. He gave you the adorable present.

“Tate!”

“How did you do? Did you pass your tests? Don’t tell me, I’m sure you did.” Said, grinning from ear to ear. He was away from you for an entire week. How did he survive? He didn’t know, but he was glad to have you with him again. “Tell me about your life in the last days, baby. Please? I feel like I haven’t seen you in years!”

There he was, the one and only drama queen Tate Langdon.

You talked about the tests, about how the teachers were being a pain in the ass (which clearly triggered in him the intense desire of hurting them because they stressed you), and… About a guy. The same guy from the library, with whom you spent the entire last week studying. He couldn’t stand it. He saw him as a threat to your relationship, especially since he was an old friend that you met many years ago. 

As the days went by, you gave him more reasons to hate that jerk. Why? Well of course because you spent hours at the library doing homework or studying with him. Or even hanging out with him and other people.

In reality, you went out with him to a museum just once, and then skating with other colleagues. Nothing compared to the time you spent with Tate; in a week, you would hang out with him almost daily, and if you were way too busy, he would go to your place and spend the night there. He was so attached to you to the point he had to see you at least once a day. And that’s why he was so jealous of your friend. Tate couldn’t stand the idea of you sharing your life with someone else who wasn’t him or your family… And he also got jealous of them, but he was handling it.

Two weeks before today.

After Tate’s pleas, you decided to introduce your friend to him.

Probably a big mistake.

The date was really awkward; your friend tried being nice, and Tate acted surprisingly kind. Of course it was odd; usually, he despised all of your friends and treated them badly, yet this time was different. You were stunned, however, you tried to ignore it and instead got happy as he finally accepted a random person as your buddy. 

Still and all, he hated that moron. It didn’t matter how much he tried liking your pal, he was jealous of him. He was getting on his nerves. He denied the fact that you had more love for other people that wasn’t him. Tate desired being your only one. Your number one. Your entire world. Because that’s what you were for him. And he was willing to do whatever to keep you with him.

Tate exchanged numbers with him and meticulously plotted a plan to ascertain he would never talk to you ever again. At first, it came out as a simple “I’m gonna scare the shit outta him”, nonetheless, it turned into a darker idea, very likely involving physical violence.

One week before today…

The last few days, Tate won Peter’s trust. Ah yes. That’s your friend's name. You were glad that he finally opened his warm heart and began to meet more people besides you.

You thought he needed a friend, an empathetic person who could support the blond when you weren’t available, that way he would feel less lonely and depressed.

They went to the cinema, to the arcade, even to a music store. Everything was going according to what he planned.

Eventually, he invited Peter to his place to play chess and other board games on a Sunday afternoon, before you arrived and had a date with Tate due to your anniversary. 

Today, 16:00

Peter and Tate were eating pizza and having a great noon, talking about their lives and random stuff, like school and music. They both enjoyed Nirvana, and since Peter played the guitar, he agreed on teaching your boy how to.

If it weren’t for Tate’s twisted mind, they would’ve been best friends.

The guitarist wasn’t a bad guy. He was a great buddy that really appreciated you and the crybaby, but Langdon had something else in mind.

18:00

The men watched a movie. Tate didn’t even know its name; in fact, he didn’t even pay attention to it. Instead, he was focused on his next actions, plotting them carefully.

“Crap, mom’s gonna arrive soon…” Tate mumbled with annoyance, biting his nails and tapping his foot on the floor. He was lying. You were going to arrive, not Constance.

“Damn, bro. Well, I don’t have a problem. I wanna meet her.”

“Huh? No no no, you shouldn’t. That bitch is crazy.”

Peter scoffed, disagreeing with Tate’s rude manner to call his own momma.

“Hey, you shouldn’t talk like that. I bet she loves you!”

That pissed him off. “You don’t know anything, Peter. Your family is different. Your life’s different. You won’t understand!” He yelled, standing up from the couch and now pacing around the room, trying to keep it calm.

“Dude, calm down!

“NO! I fucking won’t!”

The screaming continued for a while. Tate revealed his unstable and crystal self. Even something so insignificant could drive him to the edge, like what happened today. That definitely surprised the other one, who used to think that Tate was a sweet boy. “I dunno why Y/N is dating you.”

“What did you say?” Tate abruptly stopped pacing.

“Y/N. Y/N doesn’t deserve you.”

“WHY WOULD YOU EVEN SAY THAT!?” He pounced on Peter, gripping his neck with one rough hand, applying enough pressure on the sides to stop the blood circulation in his carotids and make him lose consciousness.

Before passing out, Peter, getting pale, managed to croak out: “Because she deserves better…”

Soon enough, he fainted, giving Tate minutes to think about what else to do. 

Your boyfriend wasn’t planning on murdering Peter today. No, he didn’t have time. He also was supposed to meet you.. But this was the perfect excuse! And not only that; he indirectly admitted he was in love with you! Or that’s what Tate interpreted with his delusional point of view.

Peter didn’t feel anything romantic for you, he was just worried Tate might be too unhinged to be your partner.

Thus, he went to his room and grabbed his backpack. Then, went to the garden shed and picked up the ax that belonged to his father, and a bottle of lye.

He had to get the job done quickly, nevertheless, he lost track of time.

18:30

Tate came back to the living room, just to notice that Peter wasn’t there anymore.

“FUCK IT!” Langdon got nervous. What if he escaped? What if he told you that Tate was crazy? He couldn’t allow this, not at all.

Thankfully, or maybe not, Tate found Peter crawling towards the front door, the poor dude still feeling dizzy after being choked.

Tate didn’t have any mercy.

“Where do you think you’re going, lil’ piece of shit!?”

18:38

Tate finally did it. He brutally murdered Peter, smashing his head several times with the ax.

He got rid of that little issue. He took him to somewhere clean.

Once he assured the other man wasn’t breathing, he dropped the weapon on the floor, making a loud metallic thud.

19:10

Tate was pinning you down on the couch, the same couch where your dead friend was sitting just an hour ago.

His hands were traveling all along your body, tracing sweet patterns on your skin.

Eventually, his fingers were clumsily pulling down your panties, not minding to take off your skirt. “Did you bring this for easy access, baby?” Tate chuckled and buried his face between your legs, holding your thighs in place; his lips plastered messy kisses over the warm flesh, biting it and leaving tiny marks after sucking.

Your reaction was alluring to him; he enjoyed listening to your pleas, to your whimpers. If it was for him, he would spend the entire day making you cum over and over again.

He finally got rid of your underwear, tossing it aside. Without further ado, the boy spread your folds with his large digits, and continued to lick your throbbing wet cunt.

“So fucking pretty… So wet for me, huh?”

His tongue lapped your small clit two or three times, then, traced a zigzag and circles on the sensitive nub. While he devoured you, he inserted his middle and ring finger, pumping them in and out of your cute hole, curling them and hitting the right spot to make you feel butterflies.

Tate could feel his arousal growing; his erection being restrained by the tight fabric of his jeans. He was desperate, yeah. But he always put you in the first place, and that included pleasuring you before him.

After a while, he replaced his fingers with his tongue, fucking your pussy with the agile muscle and now rubbing your clit with his thumb, applying pressure that sent electric waves through your body. He stopped using his tongue on you and instead looked at that stunning face of yours. He was delighted with your flushed cheeks, with every single gesture you did, with the way your eyes rolled to the back of your head. He wanted to take a picture of you to remember this moment forever.

His thumb increased the pace, while his free hand lifted up your blouse and tried to undo your bra. He couldn’t. You giggled when he groaned in frustration; he was too horny to think straight and that’s why you helped him to take off the garment.

Tate sighed and after that awkward and funny moment, he kept rubbing your bud, using your own juices and his saliva as a lubricant, intensifying the sensation. His left pinched and pulled your nipple, making you gasp and twitch beneath him, whilst his mouth abused your other one, greedily sucking on it.

“Tate, ‘m gonna cum! I-”

Tate cut you off by kissing you harshly; his tongue invading your warm mouth, exploring it and then nibbling your bottom lip until it bleeded. He licked the tiny drops of blood, savoring the metallic taste of it.

Unable to hold on any longer, you reached your orgasm, coming undone while Tate kept caressing your pussy, decreasing the velocity while you finally calmed down.

He left you panting; your heart beating so fast just like his.

You tried to sit up on the couch, breathing deep for more air, but the blond prevented you from going away.

“Where do you think you’re doing? We’re not done yet, you’re gonna cum again!”

Tate carried you bridal style and went upstairs straight to his bedroom. He threw you on the bed.

Without stopping looking at you, he unbuckled his belt and pulled down his jeans along the boxers; his dick already erect and throbbing, the veins thick and the tip leaking precum.

Using the clear liquid as lube, he stroked his shaft for a while, jerking off to the sight of you. He groaned and whimpered, closing his eyes as his hand pumped himself.

One of your hands went to your breasts, massaging them softly as your right went down between your legs, slowly teasing your womanhood and coating your index finger with your arousal, using it to rub your aching bundle of nerves.

Tate’s dark room was now filled with both of your moans; Tate calling your name several times and you begging him to fuck you.

He couldn’t stand this anymore. He NEEDED to be inside you, to feel your warmth enveloping him. “On all fours. Now.” You immediately obeyed, feeling as eager as him.

“Look at me, mhm?” He positioned behind you and rubbed the tip against your wet folds, teasing you for a bit. Afterwards, he slowly entered his cock inside your slit, moving it slowly at first. His thumb went to your clitoris, toying with it just like minutes before. He picked up the pace and fucked you fast and hard; his cockhead brushing your cervix. Grabbing a fistful of your hair, Tate pulled your head towards him, still with the deep thrusting.  “Fuck, Y/N! You’re so pretty… So fucking precious, so fucking mine!” Moaned against your ear, voice raspy and agitated.

Panting, you stopped looking at him and instead looked to the bed. Why? Who knows, but you did it. And you saw Tate’s dirty clothes. Dirty with blood. A lot of blood.

You froze. Maybe it was red paint? 

“U-uh, Tate?” You muttered, feeling already bewildered by the sight. You tried not to jump into conclusions, although you knew Tate and he has always been… Secretive.. And aggressive, of course. 

After your boyfriend heard your shaky whisper, he stopped moving, even if he wanted to keep going. “Hm?”

“What’s this?” Tate sighed and pulled out from you, not understanding what you meant. 

“What’s what?”

Without saying anything else to him, you grabbed the shirt and touched the weird stain. It was still fresh. You took your fingers to your mouth to taste it; and the metallic tang was too obvious. “Tate, what the fuck is this!?”

You threw it at him. Freaked out, you stood up and picked up your clothes, putting them on again, all meanwhile Tate connected the dots and realized he was probably going to get caught.

“Wait, Y/N! It’s not what it looks like, I swear, damn it!” He yelled and grabbed your arm, not wanting you to leave like this. He had to save his reputation, he couldn’t let you think bad of him even if you had all the right. Because, why the fuck the fabric was soaked in blood?

“Then what is it, Tate? WHY DOES IT HAVE SO MUCH BLOOD!?”

“CALM DOWN, PLEASE!” 

You attempted to get away from his grip, struggling with him until, somehow, you managed to do so. However, you tripped with his dirty shoes and fell, realizing they were also stained with the red liquid. “Tate, what…? Why? What is this?”

“Nothing, I swear!” He didn’t have any excuses. Saying it was paint would’ve been lame. You were too smart and he knew lying wasn’t a good choice.

Feeling overwhelmed with the matter, you went downstairs, walking as fast as you could. Passing through the living room, a very familiar bag caught your eye. It was definitely Peter’s. You decided to grab it and realized it had his phone inside. Something was off.

Tate was standing behind you; fists clenched and heart beating like crazy. He tried to approach you, still thinking about what to do or what to say. 

“Tate… What is this doing here? Peter’s here?” 

“Huh? Yeah… He— He came earlier and had to go soon, he left this accidentally, yup…” You could see him fidgeting with that ring on his finger, again. 

“Bullshit!”

Tate scowled and grabbed your chin, making you look at his dark orbs. “Tell me, Y/N, do you trust me or not, huh? Look me in the eyes and say you don’t!”

The struggle continued for what seemed eternity. You trying to run away from the house and he trying to make you stay. “Please, Y/N, just listen to me!”

“You did something to him, right? I know him, Tate! He would NEVER leave his phone like this! Is this a joke?”

“Why do you care so much about that asshole!? What has he done for you!? Tell me!”

“Oh my, you’re jealous! I knew it! All that crap about being his friend was a lie, right? Tate, you’re being delusional! I can have friends, I can hang out with whoever I want, whether you like it or not!” 

Tate pressed your cheeks between his thumb and the rest of his fingers, squeezing the flesh with his veiny, big hand, pressing it tightly enough to leave the mark of his long digits on it.

“You can’t! You’re mine. Only mine. Since the day you were born you were meant to be mine. Not his, not anybody, just me.”

“Tate… We should end this…” You thought this was the best for both. Being in a relationship with him was draining; always being careful to not hurt him, make him jealous or mad. He was such a sensitive boy that always took everything too personally. He felt everything a little too much.

Since the beginning you knew he was unstable and that he had many issues, but you tried to see beyond his sick mind, you tried to understand him despite being so different.

Tate felt so safe with you. You were the only person who understood him, or at least made attempts to. 

He felt rejected by the entire society, even by his own mother, until he met you and he had a minimum spark of hope that the world didn’t suck that much.

That’s why he clung to you. That’s why you were his everything. He would lose his mind if you leave him.

He felt like dying when he heard you wanted to finish the relationship.

He couldn’t breathe. 

Some tears were now falling to the floor, his eyes puffy and an ugly frown on his face. His mouth twisted as he sobbed loudly, tugging the hem of your shirt while he begged you to stay. He was crying like a newborn, like a baby who had to be apart from his mother for a second.

“No no no no, you can’t do this to me!” He whimpered, his speech cracking as he tried to hold you close whilst you were stepping back. You were slipping through his fingers, you were leaving him.

“Tate, if something happened to Peter, I will never forgive you! Can’t you see you’re hurting me?”

Tate swore he would never hurt you, nor let anyone. But here he was, finally snapping out of it and seeing the cruel truth. 

“You’ve been hurting me the whole time, Tate! I tried to understand you, I really did, I tried to help you, to save you from yourself! But it’s impossible. I’m losing myself here with you, I don’t even know who I am anymore! You don’t want help, do you? ‘Cause it doesn’t matter what I do, you’re never satisfied! You suffocate me!”

All those words were like daggers penetrating his skin, touching his nerves and making him die of pain. You were tearing him apart, just the way he was destroying you.

He finally let go of you, feeling a tornado of emotions. Tate felt depressed, mad, resentful, like he was going crazy. Though, he knew he had to leave if that’s what you wanted. He couldn’t bring himself to break another promise.

Thereby, he confessed his crimes to you. He explained he killed his mom’s partner a few days ago, and that now he had killed your friend. Why? He was jealous, he was scared you’d left him. You did it before you discovered the cruel reality, anyways. That’s why he told you. Because he couldn’t lose anything else.

The situation was utterly disgusting. Tate was sick. He murdered an innocent man and then proceeded to fuck you, as it was the maximum test of love, as if his life meant nothing.

You knew he wasn’t what people often considered “normal”. But this was definitely more than just being a “weirdo”. Tate needed psychiatric help… And being arrested, of course.

“You make me wanna puke, Tate! You’re the evil!”

Without hesitating, you left Tate behind, running as fast as you could from that living hell.

You just wanted to cry, curl up into a ball and wake up from this nightmare. You wished it was merely a bad dream.

Tomorrow morning, you’d go to the police, but for now you needed to sleep.

Monday morning, 11:05

You couldn’t sleep all night. You spent hours thinking about everything, about how this looked like a cruel joke to you. Eventually, you fell asleep at 4AM, and didn’t wake up at what seemed almost midday. 

An intense sound of police sirens woke you from your slumber. Startled by the loud noise, you rubbed your eyes and went to the window, trying to get a glimpse of what was happening outside.

Police cars and SWAT vans were going in a specific direction… Towards Tate’s street. It couldn’t be, right?

Did his mother find the corpse? Or perhaps something else?

You looked at the clock, realizing it was late and you had to go to class. 

08:00

After the most painful night of his life, Tate decided today everything would be over.

He had to cleanse the world… To take people to somewhere else, to some place full of peace away from the piss and the vomit that runs down the streets.

He was doing this not only because of your breakup, but also because of many other reasons. Your split up was the straw that broke the camel and drove him to the edge.

10:40

 After shooting the school, Tate left the place, looking unfazed about what he just did. He was unhinged. 

He peacefully got into his place, went to his room and stayed there for some minutes. 

The blond sat on the edge of the bed, leaving the gun right next to him and stared at nothing. His gaze was empty, but also there were some tears threatening to spill.

His mind was a whirlwind. Some part of him was satisfied, but the other was confused, wondering what was he thinking, what had he done?

What would you think of him now? Were you even there? Did he kill you too and he didn’t even notice?

In the end, he recognized he indeed was the evil you said. Damn it. You were right, again, as ever.

Tate wanted to hear your voice, to comfort him, to hear you saying everything was okay. That he’d be okay. He desired to hear “I love you” from you once more.

11:15

You went downstairs to find your family apparently mourning you.

They thought you were at school when the shooting happened. They believed you were gone, but here you were. 

Eventually, they explained to you what happened.

The first thing that popped into your mind was Tate’s wellbeing, still unaware that he was the culprit. You were afraid something terrible could’ve happened to him, you were regretting your last words to him, but you also had to get him prisoner.

Your heart dropped when they explained to you he was the shooter.

No, it couldn’t be possible. 

It was possible. After all, he had already killed two men.

Even if you despise what he did, some part of you still longed for him, still was in love with his once kind heart.

A terrifying feeling of dread filled your body, making you feel numb, as if none of this was real… 

11:25

After running to Tate’s house and seeing it surrounded by the cops and the SWAT team, everything stopped. Constance’s distressed cries and pleas were heard from outside, followed suit by the sound of bullets. It was over now.

Tate was certainly a troubled individual who dedicated his entire life to searching for something, to feel something, to feel loved.

All he asked for was love, to be loved, to love. All he wanted was you.

But at the same time, your love led him to an never-ending obsession that ultimately broke both of you.

He became your biggest regret.

All he feared, all his nightmares came true. Everything he was so afraid of was him and only himself. 

[valtsv]

i would love to hear more of your thoughts on michael shelley!!! 🌀🚪✨

you're in luck because i've sat on thoughts about him for years and i finally feel like i can articulate them. because michael shelley is such a well written case of tragic horror in the horror tragedy podcast. and, despite my criticisms of season 5, it really did do an excellent job in concluding his character arc with the gertrude backstory episode. in a podcast where a common in-universe theme is that knowledge, and the pursuit of knowledge, is dangerous, michael is a subversion in that his ignorance of the horrors of the world he lived in not only didn't save him, but was intentionally engineered to make him vulnerable to exploitation and harm (which, on a broader scope, emphasises the futility of the world of the magnus archives - regardless of whether you participate in or turn a blind eye to the systems at play, involved or uninvolved, you are not safe).

furthermore, i really appreciate the subversion of traditional tropes of the sacrifice as a typically female figure taken advantage of by a male father, brother, or lover, whose tragic and horrible death is used to motivate him (whether to greatness or self-destruction), with michael being a son sacrificed by his mother (or grandmother) figure, who never actually loved him and whose 'frail' and 'nurturing' qualities were weaponised incompetence used to gaslight and manipulate him - and who continues to operate successfully (at least in terms of what can be said to be 'success' in a world like the magnus archives) without being haunted by any apparent doubt about the decision she made, or any hesitation to use others in similar ways, following this betrayal. which makes the fact that he's sewn into the fabric of a being that represents lies in their most insidious form, used as a weapon to devour people and destroy their lives, all the more abhorrent in hindsight - he is forced to not only relive his trauma in an endless loop (or spiral, if you will), but to become the mechanism which enables it. michael is taken to the edge of something evil (at least from a human perspective), and pushed over the threshold with no hope of recourse. there's almost a reverse orphic quality to it - he descends into terrifying other world, one which exists side-by-side with but fundamentally seperate from his own, against his will, and looking back will only cause him pain as he's assaulted by memories of a life he will never be able to reach.

i think a lot of people forget to look past the surface with michael, despite there being an entire episode dedicated to doing so. which is understandable, he's a very outwardly expressive character - but this is intentional obfuscation to hide an incredibly damaged victim whose hatred of this part of himself is integral to his entire reason for being, and which the rejection of causes him to be unmade, incapable of existing as this contradictory nightmare any longer. it's a mercy killing, and yet it is violent and painful, because michael cannot and should not exist, and excising that graft used to muzzle the distortion is as agonising as latching it into place was in the first place. when michael-the-distortion says about michael shelley "he was born. he was pointless. and he should have died." there is an implicit longing there, a rage at the way he was used, his decisions made for him and used to imprison something else instead of ever being allowed to exercise any measure of free will. because michael shelley probably would have died for the archivist, given the opportunity, but he never got the choice.

[wee-chlo]

I'm rereading Harry Potter and it's baffling how people just... pretend Snape was a completely different person than who he actually was?

Granted, Alan Rickman's Snape and Book Snape are two genuinely different people, to the point that I think Movie Snape would be mildly disgusted by Book Snape. Movie Snape came off more as someone who was angry and spiteful to a select few for reasons that ranged from Understandable to Irrationally Petty, but generally very grim and stern, with a good heart beneath it all. Book Snape is a piece of shit.

Movie Snape doesn't have the same cruelty as Book Snape: his targeting of anyone other than Harry is framed in a more slapstick way and his teaching isn't neary as abusive. Neville being terrified of him doesn't have the same implicit showcasing of Snape being abusive but rather Snape being stern and unforgiving while Neville is meek and needs positive reinforcement to flourish.

Movie Snape is stoic, deadpan. I saw a clip of Rickman on YouTube and either he, a commenter, or both noted that a touchstone of Rickman's performance for Snape was that he didn't raise his voice. Not so in the books, where Snape's described several times loosing his temper and screaming, even shrieking. Snape is terrifyingly volatile in the books, in contrast to the movies where even at his most furious, most emotional, he remains in control of himself.

Book Snape is, unambiguously, just a bad person. Not just a bad teacher, a bad PERSON. He is a small, bitter, petty bully who shouldn't be anywhere near children, and honestly Dumbledore letting him near children is probably more of an indictment of Dumbledore's character than the fact that he used to be a wizard supremacist.

And to be clear, while teenage Snape isn't AS bad as adult Snape by virtue of being a teenager... he was also just Not Good. He ran around with Wizard Nazis. Lily called him out on that, on the fact that he was clearly ready and rearing to join Voldemort, that he used Dark Magic on other students alongside his death eater buddies, etc.

James and Co were little shits who teased and picked on students. But Remus and Sirius made a point that Snape and James had a uniquely, mutually hostile relationship. Remus and Sirius state directly that ultimately, one of the primary reasons James targeted Snape was because Snape was "up to his eyeballs in the Dark Arts and James hated the Dark Arts".

I've seen people use the fact that James never apologized to Snape as an indictment of James' character but like... when and why would he have apologized?

Genuinely, I think if Snape had made a good faith effort to be a better person BEFORE the death of the Potters, James may have apologized. But Snape at the time of James' death was a literal wizard nazi and honestly? I can't see him feeling terribly bad about bullying him, or at least not feeling obliged to apologize. And even if he had, how would he have done so? Send an owl to wizard nazi HQ?

But I think the thing that made me bristle the most about the books was the gaslighting that happened in book 6.

Remus is... going through it in that book, fair enough, but when Harry is talking to him about his suspicious, he gently accuses Harry of "inheriting James' and Sirius' prejudice" and being "determined to hate [Snape]". Like.... I'm sorry, but did Remus get hit in the head? Are we supposed to just casually forget EVERYTHING SNAPE HAS SAID AND DONE TO HARRY IN THE LAST FIVE BOOKS?!

If anyone came into it with an inherited prejudice and a determination to hate, it was Snape.

Justice for Book 6 Harry, everyone's treating him like he's bonkers but he's right.

[johaerys-writes]

....the Iliad doesn’t have anything explicit, or even implicit, about our heroes having sex. Patroclus and Achilles sleep in the same tent, but the narrator tells us that each of the men has an enslaved woman at his side. I felt I had to respond to the reader’s possible expectations and possible disappointment in two ways. One was to discuss the Patrochilles relationship fairly extensively in the introduction and notes, and make clear the ways that it’s taken absolutely seriously, and is at the emotional heart of Achilles’ narrative arc. In the introduction, I also discuss the fact that the Iliad doesn’t treat sex as a measure of closeness or love—so the fact that the poem doesn’t tell us that Achilles and Patroclus had sex is in no way a sign that they’re less than everything to each other. The characters who do have sex in the Iliad—Helen and Paris, Hera and Zeus, and various warriors with the enslaved women whom they regularly rape—are not exactly doing so out of “love.” 

Within the translation itself, I knew that I had to convey the profound intimacy and love of Achilles and Patroclus; the reader or listener has to understand on a deep emotional level that Patroclus is Achilles’ person, and that without him, he is all but dead himself—and he also knows that his death is at least partly his own fault. You, the reader or listener, should feel his devastation.

“My friend Patroclus, whom I loved, is dead.

I loved him more than any other comrade.

I loved him like my head, my life, myself.

I lost him, killed him…. “

By the time you get to Book 18, if you don’t feel the full horror of that moment with your whole being, I’ve failed.

Excerpt from Enduring Epics: Emily Wilson and Madeline Miller on Breathing New Life Into Ancient Classics on Literary Hub

[piosplayhouse]

Some thoughts on the narrative parallels between Scum Villain's climactic Maigu Ridge arc and TGCF's stabbing of Xie Lian + the difference in fan reaction between the two (copy pasted mostly from Twitter with quick edits) :

Some people reject the conflation of scum villain and tgcf's themes of sexual violence due to the idea that because tgcf has an explicit physical antagonist who becomes the vehicle for the idea of an aggressor and therefore can be safely vilified in a way that very blatantly subverts romanticization without much need for literary analysis. And so raises the argument that "scum villain is different because it was between the main characters", with the implication that because both characters were participants and neither of them are strictly cordoned off as an antagonistic aggressor who can be written off as indefensible that must mean the scene is intended to be romanticized or excused. But you can very obviously tell in the book that maigu ridge is not intended to be erotic, it's uncomfortable and both parties visibly hate it which is why you the reader feel so uncomfortable about reading it too.

Maigu ridge should provide a feeling of visceral and violating horror just as strong as xl's stabbing does, but it's treated with a double standard because it's explicitly rather than implicitly sexual. Sure bai wuxiang is the villain orchestrating, but he's not the one physically violating the protagonist. He instead made a bunch of innocent people hurt xl under extreme duress- which is actually exactly the same as what Maigu ridge is! A villain (xin mo/the system) forcing 2 parties into a gruesomely violating act for their own sadistic satisfaction under threat of death and destruction.

Despite the similarities in theme, tgcf is praised for "lacking" sexual content as a whole (which isn't even true if you remove the metaphorical violence-power-sex connection but besides the point) despite having very implicit scenes of sexual violence, while sv has explicit scenes that aren't really about the sex, but rather about the nuances of bodily autonomy and ironically the media glorification of sexuality as an end all be all to relationships, but are reduced to preconceived notions of what ppl think sex scenes should be (erotic and for enjoyment).

[famwhy]

Right Way Up (04)

Stranger Things

Yandere! Steve Harrington X F!Reader, Yandere! Eddie Munson X F!Reader, Yandere! Billy Hargrove X F!Reader

Synopsis: You always hated when your favourite characters died in shows or movies; always longed to have the opportunity to save them. So when you're transported into one of your favourite shows of all time, what else are you supposed to do besides save your beloved characters?

Warnings: Threat/violence, Gore, Mentions of sexual content (implicit), Death, Manipulation, Depictions of toxic relationships, Drugs and alcohol abuse

Note: omg guys, I came across an account that said their current favourite fic was this one in their bio. I'm acc so happy, tysm

prev part. masterlist.

04. bring unto me peculiarity

trait: e.m.

YOU blinked, jaw hung open and muscles tense as her grip around you tightened—constricting your movements and clogging your airways. Though, breathing was the least of your concerns when it came to tight hugs at the moment, not when you had your dumb arm to worry about.

As if on cue, a sharp rupture of pain spiked your side, and you winced, grunting a little before sucking a breath in through your teeth and asking—albeit with scrunched up features—"...sorry, do I know you?"

"Wha—?" She pulled away at that, and the look she gave you—oh, the look she gave you—it was full of heartbreak, emotional turmoil spanning as far as the eye could see. "It's me, baby, it's mommy."

"Mom?"

You thought you didn't have a mother. 

"Yes, baby, it's me. It's mom." She smiled, pupils shaking in—and you could be wrong about this, but—what seemed like... desperation?

What's up with that?

And, if this lady really was your mother, where the hell had she been all these days?

"Y/N? The hell is taking so—?"

A strange sense of déjà vu drenched your form as your eyes followed the new voice, landing on the slightly-parted lips and wide, almost-disbelieving eyes of your second oldest brother—hands still covered by the huge, red gloves he often adorned.

Then, his features scrunched up—though, it wasn't like yours had just done—no—his were harder, more purposeful; his were clouded in a storm consisting purely of loathing so unadulterated, you had half a mind to think he was staring—no, glaring—into the form of his worst enemy.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" And as he spoke, venom spat out of his mouth, launching itself straight onto the woman still loosely holding you and causing her face to scrunch up in a pained wince. "Shouldn't you be on one of your fucking five-year-long business trips?"

"Oh honey—"

His glare grew sharper. "Don't call me that."

"I..." she trailed off and you blinked, helpless to the scene that was playing out right before your very eyes.

"I don't know what the fuck got into you but you can't just waltz in here like..." his face scrunched up, brows furrowing as he paused the sentence for one... two... three seconds before continuing, spite still as prevalent as ever, "like you belong!"

You watched as her face dropped even further at that—the barely visible bags under her eyes looking about ten times worse than they did before.

Now, you had no idea what type of past you were meant to have shared with this woman—how horrible it truly was—but surely someone who greeted you so warmly at the door couldn't be too bad?

So with that thought in mind, you narrowed your eyes by the slightest amount—a little... hesitantly—before lightly scolding, "Hey. Curt, maybe tone it down a little?"

His attention averted from the woman—hateful, dark eyes that were once throwing daggers her way, now unapologetically directed towards you. "'Tone it down a little'? Do you hear yourself, Y/N? That woman missed almost every single birthday of yours! Every. Single. One!"

Alright, so, you didn't usually consider yourself to be much of a coward, but being the recipient of that deadly gaze was enough to make you yield just this once—both of your hands flying up to rest in the air beside your head. Hey, you tried, he just didn't listen.

Besides, you were only a mere bystander in this squabble anyway. Sure, you felt bad for the woman, but not bad enough to get socked in the face by a boxer for her.

...okay, now you just sounded like a jerk. 

Feeling your heart tighten slightly, you shook your head to rid yourself of those awful, intrusive thoughts and parted your lips in an attempt to redeem yourself.

Keyword: attempt.

Before even a word could breeze past your tongue, another voice entered the fray—one a lot more grounded than any other you'd heard since you opened the door—"What the hell is with all this—? Mom?"

You tilted your head just enough to catch the approaching form of your oldest brother—his figure growing with each step he took—and the closer he grew, the clearer his facial expression became.

His brows were furrowed, but instead of the hostile way that Curt's were, his were more... well, confused?—shocked, perhaps?—or maybe a better word for it would be baffled? Either/or, he didn't look like he was terribly upset with her appearance, further grinding your theory of her not being that bad into reality.

"What are you doing here?"

"I just thought that—" the sudden lack of warmth around your arms had your head whipping back, eyes watching as the same fingers that were once wrapped around you, now awkwardly rubbed the woman's other limb, "—maybe it was about time I spent some quality time with you all?"

Before you could even register what she had said—Curt's voice hastily cut through the air; a tone of finality you hadn't heard him use before laced so deeply within it, "Too little too late."

Though—if you were being entirely honest—you were starting to tune it out—all of it: the apologies, the confusion, the arguing; all of it. A familiar sense of surrealism washed over you as you witnessed the events unfold; as you watched their mouths move soundlessly—your new brothers seemingly arguing with a woman who held the looks of your mother but seemed to act nothing like her.

It was weird, strange. You weren't even sure how to feel. From the looks of things, this... mother of yours seemed to not be around much—and one of your brothers hated her for it, while the other merely seemed to... well, you weren't entirely sure what he felt yet. Hell, you didn't even know what you were supposed to feel.

Should you be sad? Mad? Indifferent?—'cause that's what you felt right now. This world wasn't even meant to have you in it at all. There was no character named Y/N who looked exactly like you and had two older brothers with a seemingly neglectful mother and who-knows-what-happened-to-him father.

Even if you wanted to copy the mannerisms of the Y/N belonging to this world, you couldn't because there wasn't one. She didn't exist.

How the hell were you supposed to react?

You could've asked yourself that question a billion more times, but the sudden rush of air that hit your face crashed you straight back to reality—just in time too, for not even moments later, an abrupt 'slam!' echoed from behind.

Confused, your gaze found Cain's.

"Give him some time. He's probably off to go fuck some chick and get his mind off this."

Slowly, you nodded.

Then, you heard it; the sound of her voice continuing to speak behind you with that broken lilt—the one she just couldn't seem to drop—laced so deeply in her tone.

"I'm so sorry, babies." The woman—your mother—reached out, and you felt her fingers graze you again, "I'm so so sorry."

"It's... alright, mom," Cain responded before you could—voice seeming almost... hesitant, "It's all good."

There was no chatter after that—not a single sound escaped their lips. That was your cue; your cue to either condemn her down to hell or forgive her for this supposed neglect you weren't even around to experience.

"Sweetie..." her voice was shaky—desperate, no doubt, and seeking the forgiveness of a daughter that didn't even belong to her, "please..."

"Uh..." you weren't sure what it was, but something was holding you back from saying anything; from doing something—

—and it looked like she noticed that too. 

"It's okay, I understand..." 

She seems a bit... what's the word?

With hands that were once hopefully clasped around one another, now pitifully falling by her sides, and eyes that seemed to droop just a tad bit more despite the small, ingenuine quirk of her lips upwards; her whole demeanour almost screamed...

Ah. Forlorn. 

Your chest felt heavy at the sight—tight and weighed down. Some type of... guilt was it? ebbed away at you. Though you didn't know why—it wasn't like she was your real mother, after all. In fact, she was a complete stranger to you; someone who you wouldn't even bother sondering over if you passed her by on the street.

How strange.

"Y/N," the soft call of your name caused your ears to perk up, and you turned to your remaining brother, "C'mon, you're due for a change."

"A change?" You tilted your head, eyes still not all there—at least, not until—

"Your bandages."

"Ohhh." 

To be honest, you completely forgot about that.

"Bandages?" From the looks of things, though, your mother couldn't pass it off as easily as you. "For what?" 

Immediately, Cain's eyes locked with yours—his hues swirling with a query you were able to decipher pretty easily: 'Should we tell her?'

Should you? Well, the fact that he had to ask that question in the first place was concerning, to say the least. Maybe you'd hold off on telling her for now. Just for now. Nothing permanent.

Mind made up and eyes stopping at nothing to avoid her own, you told your mother, "Don't worry about it, it's all good."

Her lips turned down, shoulders sagging and gaze falling to the floor like a glossy river over the edge of a cliff; swift and hopeless to anything wishing to stop it.

She looked so... so...

Defeated.

"Ah, okay."

You wished you could say you forgave her—you desperately prayed to—but how could you when the words refused to come out of your throat?—when they relentlessly fought with your tongue to the point they immobilised it and unfairly rendered you incapable of speech?

You could have stood there hopelessly staring at her for hours if you so wished, but the small tug on your wrist averted your gaze, and you found yourself staring at the loosened expression of your other kin.

"Let's get you wrapped up, Y/N."

You nodded.

He then took to guiding you towards the kitchen, and the whole way there, your gaze didn't leave your mother's form—watching as her figure grew smaller with each step—shorter with each breath—before completely disappearing around the corner.

"Don't feel bad."

Your ears perked up—head turning to face your older brother. 

"'Bout mom," he continued, not particularly looking your way, "She hasn't been around for most of our lives, you're allowed to not forgive her."

"What about you?" You asked, "You didn't sound too sure of forgiving her yourself."

He paused. 

"I..."—a rough 'ahem'—"I'm trying to."

You tilted your head. "Trying to?"

"It's..." He trailed off and furrowed his brows, as if searching for something in his mind, before continuing, "hard. Really hard. To look after people—I mean. Especially on your own."

It was your turn to furrow your brows, lips tugging down as you took in his words and really—well—thought for a good second.

It was clear that he was trying his best to be empathetic; to sympathise with her situation. And who better than him? You didn't have to be a genius to decipher the fact that he had been the one to take care of both you and Curt for pretty much the majority of your—supposed—'life'. He probably had to grow up a lot faster than 'you' would've. In that case, he could relate to her.

But, on the other hand...

"It's not fair."

"Huh?" He turned your way, blinking twice.

"To compare yourself to her," you continued, lips still curved down, "You're completely different. While she never bothered to be around, you did. You learned how to cook, clean—hell, maybe even change diapers—"

"Maybe even? You were a little shit and you know it—"

Shit, he changed your diapers too? You were just trying to be dramatic but damn.

"Okay—" that came off a little more exasperated than you wanted and clearly he could sense it too, judging by the way he snickered right after, little shit, "—my point is, you were there and she wasn't. And it's not even your responsibility to take care of us. I get that she has her supposed 'five-year-long' business trips, but she could've made time for us. You're her son too, you're allowed to be mad that she wasn't there."

He stayed silent for a few moments, and you found your hands naturally drifting down—fingers digging into your skirt harshly; anxiously. Sweat gathered on your brow and anticipation ate at your insides, chipping away at your organs and clogging your brain with worry; worry for the elongated silence that greeted your words.

Had you said something wrong? Was he going to snap at you?

Goodbye, cruel world, remember—

A chuckle.

Your ears perked up and your eyes widened in disbelief.

"And here I thought I was the one meant to be cheering you up." His shoulders bounced in a pattern you could only describe as uneven, one hand rising up to swipe at his eye.

The sight caused your muscles to loosen up, fingers losing their grip on your skirt and eyes crinkling fondly as you watched him reach up into an open cupboard—arm disappearing within the confines before reappearing not long after with a red, rectangular bag.

The sound of a zip was the next thing you heard—accompanied by his voice as he said, "Alright, let's get you all patched up, worm."

You scrunched up your nose. "Worm?" 

"Yeah, annoying little things, aren't they?"

"Rude."

Another snicker had your lips quirking up again, a swirl of warmth gathering in your chest; a hint of fondness and pride. Was this how sibling banter felt?

It's... nice.

Before you could enjoy the moment any longer though, your brain just had to ruin it, giving you a thought that had your ears falling again—stomach dropping into a bottomless pit within the confines of your body.

"Is..." you started, and his ears perked up from behind the arm that slowly tugged at the grey gauze, "Is Curt gonna be okay?"

A scoff. "Yeah. You know him, he'll be super bitchy about it but he'll come running back tomorrow morning so don't worry."

You smiled. "So long as he's—ow! Watch it!"

"My bad."

"You did that on purpose."

"I did that on purpose."

"Asshole."

"D'aww, is wittle sissy's feewings hurt?"

"Shut up, you dick!"

You took it back, sibling banter was so not nice.

But, at least it was somewhat fun—unlike what happened next.

"Sweeties?" You tensed, head turning as Cain backed away—the warmth of his hand leaving you with new, pure white gauze around your arm—and turned with you. "I'm gonna head out for the night and go meet up with some old friends. Are you two going to be okay?"

Maybe if you were actually part of this world, you would've said something petty like 'nothing new there' or 'you've already not been around for most of my life, what's one more night?'—but, you weren't, and so settled with a good old fashioned—"We'll be fine,"—instead.

She was out the door in no less than two seconds.

It quickly grew dark following that—night approaching faster than you could register—and there had yet to be any sign of Curt. Guess Cain was right when he said the younger of the two would be back in the morning.

Speaking of Cain, he had some last minute call from a client regarding car troubles. Apparently, they were stranded and in dire need of assistance, so Cain was required to go to them in order to help—though, he was quite reluctant as he, no doubt, voiced to you.

"Oh my god, Cain, I'll be fine." You rolled your eyes.

"Are you sure? This street isn't exactly known for safety," he responded, expression scrunched up with what you recognised as pure worry.

"God, you're just like Steve. Nothing will happen, don't worry."

When the corner of his lips quirked up in response to your words, you felt something akin to dread claw at your innards. "Oh, I'm just like Steve, am I?"

"Shut up, he has a girlfriend," you were saying that more to yourself than him, to be honest.

"Yeah, that he drops anytime you're within two feet of him."

"I swear to god, Cain."

He snickered.

"Just go! I know you're doing this just to stall, go find that poor person stranded by the phone booth!"

"Okay, okay, I'm going."

And as his shoulders kept jerking up and down, your hand found purchase against the bumpy texture of your wooden door before pushing at full force; a 'slam!' echoing not long after.

"Stupid piece of shit," you grumbled, though, not genuinely.

...okay, maybe just a little genuinely actually, 'cause now he put the stupid thought in your head; the stupid thought of Steve Harrington actually liking you.

Preposterous.

He probably just thought of you as a really close friend—he supposedly knew you since childhood, after all, of course he would value you over Nancy sometimes.

But... theoretically, say he felt more, what would it be like?

Would he hold your hand and pull you in close? Whisper sweet nothings into your ear as you lay against him in the dead of night?—sinking into his warmth and stuffing your face in his sturdy chest. Would his lips feel soft against the bare skin of your neck?—passionate and sublime as he marked you up as his own, going lower and lower and—

Three knocks against your door.

Ugh.

"Oh my god, Cain, how many times—? Nancy?"

Lo and behold, there stood the very girlfriend of the guy you were just fantasising about.

Honestly, you would've thought it awkward had you not caught a glimpse of her expression; just a glance long enough to bleed you dry of all your previous thoughts and scrunch your face up as a whole new set rushed in—worrisome ones.

Her eyes were bloodshot, red veins visible and bringing out the puffiness to a degree that had your heart clenching and your lips subconsciously parting open to ask, "Are you alright?"

She gulped, voice shaky as she responded with, "Can I come in?" 

Slowly, you nodded—palm pushing against the door just enough to allow it to fall slightly more ajar.

"Here, come sit." You gestured to the couch, hands hesitantly ghosting over her shoulders as you guided her there—watching as she gently sat down, the cotton shifting under her weight. "Can I get you anything?"

She didn't respond: head tilted down, shoulders drooped, and overall demeanour looking to be completely put-off. The poor thing.

You figured a cup of water would be fine, she looked like she needed it.

What was she doing here, anyway? From what you gathered based on the very few interactions you'd had with her, the two of you weren't very close. Why, then, would she suddenly show up at your door so late at night?

Those thoughts plagued your mind as you made your way over to the kitchen—bare feet numb to the cool of the floor. They haunted you as you reached for a cup with one hand and twisted the tap with the other—fingers unfeeling of the pressure that rained upon them. They consumed your entire being until you were left with nothing but the husk of a person on autopilot—quietly making your way back to the living room.

It was only when your eyes landed on her form again, that you snapped out of it in a small burst of surprise.

Gone was the once sat-down figure with an air of dismay clouding her form—replaced, instead, by one that stood up straight, brows furrowed and shoulders tensed as she paced back and forth vigorously. Keyword: paced—she stopped as soon as you arrived, much to your own confusion.

"Nancy, what are you—?" 

"You're thinking about Barb too, right?"

She looked you dead in the eyes, and you almost found yourself growing fidgety under her intense gaze.

"What?"

"It's just that..." she trailed off, faltering for a moment, "well, Steve mentioned you've been acting off lately—"

Shit. Steve was catching on.

"—and I was wondering if... it was bothering you too." 

You blinked, parting your lips to ask for a little more—for some sort of elaboration—but her voice continued before you even had a chance.

"I mean, it's dumb that we have to keep this whole thing a secret!" She exclaimed, hands making wild gestures now. "Her family deserves to know." 

You stood there, blinking in a daze that hadn't quite passed since the moment she arrived. It felt like you had just wandered into a confusing maze, with twists and turns spanning as far as the eye could see; each one riddled with its own set of confusing obstacles you couldn't quite wrap your head around.

On one hand, Nancy's words made sense, you saw why she felt that way—you heard her—and it was so much more prominent in person than over a screen.

On the other hand, as a viewer of the show and a victim of unfortunate circumstance, you hadn't a clue where she was going with this. You knew why she was telling you all of this (you were acting strange and she was feeling off so duh she would try and see if you related) but, where was she going with it? What did she want with you? Surely it wasn't just comfort.

"Do you... want to come with me to tell her parents?"

Ah. There it was.

She wanted you to join her. This was certainly quite the twist. Everything that had happened up until now had alluded to the fact that you were going to join Steve for this season—and to be honest, you preferred that over this.

Besides, she was meant to do all of this with Jonathan—if you said yes, you'd just be getting in the way of their romance and, ergo, the plot itself.

"I don't know..." you started, mind already made up but heart trying its best to ease her into it, "the government wouldn't really like that and we could get in a ton of trouble."

She scoffed. "Who gives a fuck what they think?"

You deadpanned. "Well, Nance, they are kinda the government so..."

"There's this guy," she started, cutting you off and handing you a card, "Barb's parents told me about him—if things don't work out, we can go to him."

Sure enough, you recognised the character as soon as she mentioned him—another prominent adult within the series, quite the funny one too. But, not funny enough for you to pass up spending this season helping out Steve instead.

"Look, Nancy, I—"

You were cut off when her gaze hardened, fists clenching and head shaking from side-to-side—almost seeming disappointed.

"God, you're just like him." And when she spoke, it was bitter—plagued with an icky green—"You two are perfect for each other."

The following events happened too quickly for you to register; one second, she was standing before you with desperation clear on her visage—the next?—she had snatched the card right out from your hands and stormed over to your front door, steps heavy and quaking and loud.

"Nance, wait! Nancy!"

A slam.

Well shit.

You bit your lip, brain replaying the events that had just occurred in too rapid of a succession for you to be able to even respond to them.

A small voice prodded at the back of your mind, lulling you into following after her and clearing up... whatever the hell that was.

However, a much larger, more prominent voice said, fuck it. Because—well, you were in Stranger Things for god's sake! Who the hell cared about some teen drama when there were fucking monsters to worry about?—monsters that you sure as hell weren't about to face weaponless.

Nancy could get over whatever was bothering her so much on her own, you had bigger issues to worry about.

Come on, Y/N, get your head out of the clouds and into the game.

Resolve strengthened and distractions now temporarily at the back of your mind, your feet bounded towards a familiar box mounted onto the wall, fingers wrapping around the cool metal before you punched in a number you had long since memorised over your time in this world.

Turned out, this drama was just the push you needed.

"Harrington residence."

"Steve."

It was silent for a few seconds before you were graced with a response. "Y/N? If you're calling about the dinner at Barb's, I swear—"

"No, no. It's not that, don't worry."

Another pause.

"Are you... okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Don't worry about me."

"You sure? You sound a little... tense."

Your lips quirked up. "You can tell?"

"Well, yeah. I've known you since like, birth."

Leave it to Steve Harrington to put a smile on your face where there wasn't one before.

Seriously though, you might not have actually known him since birth but... something about him noticing how you felt from just the sound of your voice made you feel all... tingly inside—like a warm cloud of pure pink coated you within its comfy confines.

 "Y/N? You there?"

"Oh." You jolted, fingers halting in their ministrations with the phone wire, since when did you start twirling it around? "Uh, yeah. I just called to let you know I'm skipping tomorrow so don't bother picking me up, okay?"

"You're skipping? What? Why?"

"Just—uh, don't feel like it."

"You know you've already missed seven days, right?" 

"Yeah—" you shrugged as though he could see you, "—what's a couple more?"

"...alright, if that's what you want."

"Thanks Stevie, you're the best, love you!"

You slammed the phone back into the wall before he could respond, but you imagined he released quite the long sigh after your words.

Nevermind that though, you should probably head to bed—you had a long day ahead of you tomorrow; one consisting of many preparations for the challenges that lay ahead.

First things first, you needed yourself a weapon—and no, a wrench was not ideal. You got lucky the first time, you'd rather not risk it the second.

A gun; long reach, high chances of actually killing, probably easy to use—it sounded perfect. Just the thing you'd need. The only problem you could possibly see was...

...how would you get one?

You weren't terribly familiar with gun laws—never had the need to look into them—but even if you were, they definitely changed since the 80s so you were pretty much clueless in that regard. 

You could ask one of your brothers if they had one, they certainly seemed like the type—at least, Curt definitely did. 

Or maybe he's the type to only fight with his fists?

Tricky—that's what this all was. So tricky, in fact, that the rest of the night was spent contemplating how you would go about obtaining the lethal weapon—

—actually, that wasn't entirely true; you sure wished it was though. Unfortunately for you however, your brain rather stupidly refused to focus on the task at hand, randomly flushing you with thoughts of both your... mother and Nancy whenever you least expected it, two huge pieces of drama that you—quite frankly—didn't feel like dealing with.

But apparently, pushing them to the back of your mind was easier said than done.

Come next morning, you figured indulging in those thoughts wouldn't be too big of a headache after being well-rested with a nice cup of coffee to aid you through your day.

Okay, so, Nancy's behaviour last night wasn't too strange; she had that dinner at Barb's—one you knew she cried at since they dedicated a whole scene to her sobbing in the bathroom. That explained why she was quick to jump to aggression you guessed.

Still, it was strange how she snapped at you (basically her acquaintance) like how she had done Steve (her literal boyfriend) in the show. Did you get something wrong? Were you two closer than you thought you were? Perhaps you had some history with her you weren't aware of.

Unfortunately, until you had more information, you were gonna have to leave that trail of thought.

Now, about your mother...

"Morning, sis."

You nodded—eyes clouded—before responding with, "Morning Cain," and then, as if just registering who you were talking to after their name spilled from your lips, your eyes cleared up and you turned to continue with a much more firm voice, "Hey, do you know if we have any guns at home?"

He paused, one hand rested against the handle of the fridge, one floating mid-air. "Guns?"

"Yeah, guns."

He turned to you fully now, eyes narrowing and sturdy arms folding over his chest as the door shut behind him. "Why would you need to know where the guns are?"

The lie was quick to form on your tongue. "For self-defence, duh."

"Uh-huh."

"Please Cain—" you clasped both hands over each other, "—I promise I won't hurt anyone with them."

Not anyone human, at least.

"You do realise they're made for hurting people, right?"

"Yeah, but I won't use them that way."

He deadpanned. "You're not getting a gun."

"Dammit." 

Okay, this was fine. You could work with this. He just confirmed to you that you did, in fact, have guns in this house. All you had to do was look for them. And you knew just where to start.

"Uh, where the hell are you going?"

You paused, hand grazing the bumpy, wooden rail as you tilted your head just enough to peek into the kitchen again. "To my room, where else?"

"Don't you have school?"

"Don't you have a job?"

He crossed his arms again. "You're not skipping, shitbird."

"What?" 

"I said: you aren't skipping."

Your eyes widened, jaw dropping open and stomach falling with the spoilt remains of your plan—the ashes and dust piling up enough to cause you to splutter and ask, "You serious?"

His gaze was stern, holding no hint of that playful demeanour you acquainted yourself with last night, "Completely. No playing hooky. You've already got enough absents from that injury of yours."

As if suddenly reminded of its own existence, said wound sent a shock down your arm—trailing through your veins to usher a visible wince on your face.

Before you could say anything else though—plead your case and hope to god he'd let you off—his eyes widened a little, mouth forming a circle before he spoke again, saying, "That's why Harrington ain't here, right? You told him you were skipping?"

You said nothing.

A long, highly exasperated sigh. "Just go get ready, I'll drop you off."

He didn't have to tell you twice.

You rushed up the stairs, wasting no time to burst into a room flooded with posters—all holding different expressions with one, huge thing in common; a pair of bright red gloves.

If anyone had a gun, it was definitely Curt.

Tick. Tock. You were on a time constraint so you had to be quick with this. Anything that even remotely seemed to have enough space to hold a gun inside was instantly ripped open—hinges jingling and wood slamming against wood as your hands scurried the area—rummaged through the masses—desperately seeking what they had yet to find.

That was—until, now.

In the midst of multiple hung up pieces of soft materials shrouded in darkness, your fingers grazed something cold and solid; rough and bumpy. Slowly they wound around the thing, noting its shape, before exerting a force—a tug.

Nothing. It didn't budge.

You tried again, pushing this time.

Again. Nothing.

Third time's the charm.

This time, you pushed upwards.

Bingo.

As if by magic, it fell straight into your hands, and you wasted no time to pull it into the light.

Dark, L-shaped, and a lever poking out from one side—yup, there was no doubt about it. Though, it was one of the weaker variants of the lethal weapon—it would have to do.

Now you could—

"What are you doing in my room?"

Curt. Shit.

"Scratch that—what are you doing with a gun?!"

Your wrist was seized at the entrance before you could even attempt to sneak past—his E/C eyes trained on the object in your hand, not at all paying attention to the way your expression shifted into one of unease, smile twitching a little.

"Curt, hey! When did you come in..?"

"Doesn't matter," he dismissed, "Why do you have a gun? Is someone bothering you at school? You know you can say the word and I'll take care of it, right? Like in Freshman year?"

"Freshman year?" What happened in Freshman year?

"That dickhead Senior who kept picking on you? How did you forget that already?"

You parted your lips, an excuse practically begging to be released from your tongue, but he beat you to it.

"Nevermind, just tell me who it is and I'll take care of it. There's no need to bring a gun into it."

There's no need to bring a gun but it's totally okay beating them up? Some scuffed logic there.

"No one's bothering me, Curt. I uh, I just need it to kill the wolf that attacked me the other day."

He rose a brow. "Kill the wolf that attacked you the other day?"

"Uh... yup."

God, this was so stupid. What kind of excuse was that? 'Kill the wolf that attacked you the other day'? Yeah right.

"Atta girl. That's my sister."

A good excuse apparently—it was a good excuse.

You almost couldn't believe it—the way he pulled you in, wrapping his arm around your neck in a half-hug that almost made it seem as though he was proud of you.

Surely he had taken way too many hits to the head in his profession because you had no clue how he bought that.

But, you weren't complaining.

"Hey, uh, do me a favour?" 

He rose a brow. "What?"

"Don't tell Cain, yeah?" 

He rolled his eyes. "Of course not, he'd have my head in a heartbeat if he knew I was condoning this."

You grinned, just about ready to give him two thumbs up leaking gratitude and appreciation—when a voice called from downstairs.

"Y/N! Hurry up!"

"A few more minutes!"

That was your cue to go to your room.

Cool air hit your skin as soon as the cotton of your sleepwear was removed—the slight buzz of pain on your arm making itself known once more with another prick, annoying but not unbearable; not like before.

The new bandages looked better than the previous ones; cleaner. Some spots seemed to have given in—allowing red to seep through their snow-white sheets; stain their pure surface. Those parts were stickier than the others, but also, few and far between.

Damn, kinda looks badass.

"I'm not getting any younger here, Y/N!"

"I'm coming! Gheez."

What was that? His catchphrase or something?

With a roll of your eyes, you threw on a top, slipped into a skirt, very quickly touched up on your make-up, and ran down the steps. Nothing too elaborate—you didn't plan on actually going into school anyway.

What? You said you'd skip, so you were gonna skip. You'd just wait 'till he drove off or something.

Actually... this could work out better than you thought.

He was bringing you to school; where one Steve Harrington currently was. And you know what else was at school? Steve's BMW—AKA, the perfect place to store your gun until it was needed.

Yeah, this could work out perfectly.

"Get in, shitbird."

You said nothing, seizing the frigid handle like you had done many a time before, and climbing straight in.

The sky was bleak—the sun invisible; covered by the vast curtain of grey clouds that seemed uninteresting but, for some reason, you couldn't stop looking at. 

The pistol you held was tucked under you—out of sight; though not of mind. It felt cool against your skin, sent a shudder through you, up your spine and through your nerves. It kept you rigid.

"I would've let you skip."

You turned, observing the way Cain's gaze stayed trained onto the road ahead, one hand on the wheel, one resting on his lap.

"On any normal circumstance," he continued, shrugging, "but y'know, mom's home and—I don't know if you wanna stick around for that."

"Okay."

"You good?" Now he gave you a bit of a side-eye, one brow raised.

"Yeah, just... thinking about what I'm gonna wear for the Halloween bash at Tina's."

That was a lie, you honestly couldn't care less.

"Party, huh?" He turned his gaze back ahead. "I remember the ragers I used to go to way back when."

"Must've been fun, huh fossil?"

"Watch it, worm."

You snickered.

"Alright, we're here. Get out before I make you."

Older brothers are a piece of work.

You shimmied in your seat, swinging both legs over to the open door, hand firmly around the handle of the weapon beneath your thighs, when—

"What are you doing?"

You froze. "Uh, I don't... I don't know what you're talking about."

"You're getting out of the car weirdly." His tone was pointed—suspicious—and even without having to turn around, you could tell his brow was raised in question.

"No I'm not."

"Uh, yeah you are."

"No."

"Yes."

"No."

"Yes."

Slowly, you found yourself able to move your limbs again—annoyance bringing both them and your own brow to life, filtering out any previous fear within an instant. "Don't you have work or something?" 

You heard nothing for a few tense moments—though soon, a curt—"Just go,"—made its way to your ears, and the weight on your shoulders was relieved of you.

Once again, you found yourself thinking, he didn't have to tell you twice.

The cool air almost felt relieving against your skin when you finally jumped out—the 'crunch!' of pebbles echoing beneath you—but nothing could compare to the pure amount of genuine solace you were graced with when the sound of the engine starting up again behind you danced into your ears; the sound of wheels skidding across the ground slowly growing farther.

That was a little too close for your liking.

No matter, it was time to find Steve's BMW. While looking for it, though, you might as well review your thoughts.

The events of Season 2 had already kicked off the moment you saw Billy, which meant that while you waited for the next canonical event to occur with the teens, the main group of kids were having their own scenes play out. You were sure by now they were off trying to befriend Billy's stepsister. But, quite frankly, that was irrelevant information to you.

What was relevant, however, was the fact that one of the kids—Dustin Henderson—would end up dragging Steve into quite the predicament. That predicament being one wherein he would end up being surrounded by a bunch of grotesque, man-eating monsters with nothing but a bat to defend himself with—granted, it had nails on the end but it was still not a weapon you'd use.

Now, more likely than not, you would be by his side while it all went down—and you already established that you weren't about to die in this world, so, really, your only option was getting that gun to use in case those demon dogs changed their minds and decided they wanted a taste of fresh, alternative dimension meat.

You had seen first-hand what they were like—held scars they forced onto you on your first day. You felt that chilling fear grip you at the sight of them—chain your limbs up and strangle you enough to almost render you immovable; immobile. Their boney structure, their razor-sharp teeth, their—

"N/N? What are you doing here?"

You jumped, startled out of your thoughts to meet with two pools of brown—familiar in their warmth and softened edges.

"I thought you were playing hooky today."

"Oh, uh—" you cleared your throat, patting down the ruffles of your skirt and avoiding any eye-contact, "—I still am but, Cain caught me and drove me to school so."

He didn't say anything after that, so you took to peering up again. This time, however, you were met with a different set of eyes, ones looking a little bloodshot and inflamed—barely noticeable if you hadn't already seen it the previous night. 

They were looking at you through narrowed lenses, pupils shrunk in and gaze heavy with the events of the other night—the distaste of that fateful encounter.

You looked away.

"Oh, uh, Steve?"

"Yeah?"

"I uh, left some of my lipstick in your car, do you mind if I go grab it?"

You returned your gaze to him just in time to catch the pointed look on his face, hands on his hips in that 'mom' way that just screamed Steve Harrington.

"Really, N/N? This is—what?—like the tenth time already?"

You forced a sheepish look, turning your lips up with nerves that weren't triggered by the sentence you'd just heard, per se—but rather, the pair of eyes still burning a hole through your head.

You ignored them when Steve tossed you the keys with a playful roll of his eyes; when you half-entered the car, stuffing the gun into a compartment you knew he wouldn't open anytime soon; you even ignored them as you made your way back to the duo, handing Steve his keys back and quickly denying his offer to cut class with you.

"You sure?" He pushed, brows scrunched up and lips tugged down.

"Yup!" You rose both thumbs. "Hundred percent!"

He parted his mouth open but you didn't wait for a response, turning around quickly to scurry off with those eyes still refusing to leave your backside.

Why the hell did she have to be there?

You couldn't even enjoy your successful little quest, too tense from Nancy's heavy gaze to do anything. It was as though the moment you saw her, your brain instantly replayed the events of last night—the disdain in her voice—and from the looks of her glare, she had the same problem.

Man, this sucked.

You just wanted to experience the world of Stranger Things as safely and non-dramatically as possible but noooo, you had to deal with freaking monsters and teenage girls who—

"Woah, we have got to stop bumping into each other like this."

Your lashes fluttered, eyes training onto a familiar battle jacket littered with logos a plenty—all of which belonged to heavy metal bands. 

"Eddie." 

"Hey, sweetheart." His lips quirked up—smile reaching his eyes so much so that they crinkled. "What are you doing here? I thought you were playing hooky?"

You deadpanned. "Does everyone know I'm skipping?"

"Well, you are kinda the Queen Bee, sweetheart." His hair bounced as he shrugged.

A thought occurred to you just then, and you found your eyes widening slightly in alarm. "Even the teachers?!"

"Well, no wastoid is exactly going to tell any teachers that the Queen of Hawkins High is skipping." 

Wastoid? Wha—?

"Hey, uh—" you blinked, watching as Eddie took to throwing a hand behind his neck, rubbing against the skin as he continued, tone feigning confidence, "—I was actually planning on skipping too so, if you want, we could hotbox in my car?"

Tempting. With all this stress from Nancy, your mom, and the demodogs—weed seemed like the perfect thing to kick back to.

You deserved some time to relax, no? 

"Yeah, sure, let's do it."

He perked up, excitement seeping through the grin on his lips as he dramatically bowed with one hand stretched out. "Right this way, milady."

You giggled, your own hand rising up to rest gently against his as you tried your damndest to keep from squealing because—holy shit, you were holding Eddie Munson's hand. You knew girls who would fucking kill to be in your position right now.

His skin was hot against your own; or maybe that was just your whole body heating up in general. You couldn't deny your attraction to the man—hell, you got literal heart eyes whenever you watched him on TV.

Eddie Munson—the guy who got held back in high-school for two years (well—one year as of right now). Eddie Munson—the guy who held the personality of a fun, playful ray of sunshine despite the way he dressed. Eddie Munson—the guy who sacrificed himself to save a whole town of people who abhorred him.

Yeah, you had a big, fat crush on the man.

He could literally be leading you to your death right now and you'd thank him.

"Alright," the sound of a car door sliding open perked your ears up, "I just got a new batch rolling in from Cali so—"

He cut himself off when he turned back around, jaw falling slack as a streak of red slowly crawled across his face, tinging the tips of his ears and ushering a cough straight out of his mouth.

Now, you would normally wonder why he'd reacted that way but you were too distracted by the ache of your own cheeks to—

Ohhh. The ache of your own cheeks.

You quickly cleared your throat, steeling your expression and cursing yourself for being so obvious. Gushing so blatantly in front of characters was going to get you killed in this world, you really had to get rid of that habit.

Lord knew what type of ridiculous expression you had on your face just then.

"Right, uh, you were saying?" You asked as you climbed in, willing yourself to ignore what had just happened.

"Oh, uh, I just had a new batch come in from Cali."

You perked up, interest piqued. "From Cali?! They have the best stuff."

He grinned with you, blush calming down as he rummaged around, hands digging through the many different boxes that scattered the floor.

Meanwhile, you took to shutting the door of the vehicle. Come to think of it, this van kinda looked a bit like the mystery van from scooby doo, except, without the colour. 

It was a mess on the inside; if there weren't boxes of who-knows-what substances lying around, then there were various different instruments instead, nothing differing from the norm associated with a band; and yet, just the fact that Eddie was here—that all of this belonged to him—was enough to make it feel special.

You should really ask Eddie if you could sit in on one of his practices one day.

Speaking of the drug dealer, he finally emerged from the pile of boxes hidden in the corner—a plastic zip bag containing a crushed substance within one of his ring-clad hands.

He flicked it with a grin on his face, head turning up as a pair of excited pools met with your own. "Bag of peaceful bliss right here."

You watched with intrigue as his fingers got to work, rolling up the substance effortlessly, as if he'd done it a million times before—which, granted, he probably had.

"Ladies first."

Your lips quirked up, fingers winding around the roll and, in turn, brushing against his own. It was a light touch—a feathery brush—still, it was enough to run tingles down your arm.

The stick was placed to your mouth with one hand, the other curling in on itself in a gesture that asked Eddie to pass over the lighter.

His large hand slowly came to cup your own, fingers engulfing yours—sending warmth to circulate in your blood; to flood your vision in pink—before lightly moving it away. "Allow me, sweetheart."

You didn't move, staying still as he pulled the metallic box up to your face, thumb flicking against the open lid a few times before the flame jumped to life.

It was hot; unbearably so—his breath across your face. The flame was practically nothing compared to him and his proximity. And it only got hotter as you continued staring at him.

It was because you were staring at him so intensely, in fact, that you caught the way his eyes briefly flickered. It was quick, barely noticeable—but you had noticed, and you had seen where they looked.

Your lips quirked up and you took the roll out of your mouth, puffing smoke straight into his face. "Staring at my lips, huh, pretty boy?"

Your grin only grew when he spluttered. 

Before he could respond, though, you had lightly shoved the roll into his mouth—lips still quirked up.

You only withdrew when he rose two fingers to rest the cigar against. 

"Hey, Eddie?"

He blinked.

"You're not gonna make me pay for this, are you?"

The roll left his mouth with a puff. "Depends."

As he placed it back inside, you rose a brow. "Oh?"

"Yeah, oh."

"Well..." you trailed off, slowly shifting your hips up before plopping them back down—

—straight. onto. his. lap.

His breath audibly hitched; a series of coughs following not long after.

"Careful," you hissed out, plucking the roll from his lips and shifting in your seat—about to climb off—when a warmth snaked its way around your waist, rendering you motionless.

"Where do you think you're going?"

Heat crawled up your spine, invading your senses and hyperfixating your attention on Eddie and the way his lips grazed the lobe of your ear. Any and all previous thoughts were washed away; taking with them your breath.

His hand fell over your own again, ushering the substance back into your mouth and your eyes grew heavy as you took another puff, melting into putty in the arms of the school freak.

The car was quickly fogging up—everywhere you breathed was starting to have that strong, earthy taste to it.

Trippy.

You pulled away, mind hazy and barely able to register the way his lips tugged down. 

With just a little wiggle of your hips, his arms fell and his brows scrunched up with worry. You didn't let him voice it though, quickly turning around to lay down and prop your elbows up on his thighs—arms almost immediately going lax once you got comfortable.

Your head now rested on his lap, and you peered up at him through hooded eyes. "Much better."

He smiled down at you again, finger moving to trace your cheek with that same feathery touch from before—the one that elicited a flurry of tingles through your skin.

"Tell me about yourself, Eds."

"Hm?"

"I wanna know you better."

Better than you already did, that was.

"What d'you wanna know?" He asked.

"Anything." You threw your hands up, puffing once more. "I wanna know more 'bout Super Senior Eddie Munson."

He hummed. "I plan to make it big one day."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Groupies 'n everything."

You reached up, placing the blunt against his lips as you proclaimed loudly, "I bet they would trip over 'emselves to get a taste of you."

He winked. "That's what 'm planning." Then, he paused for a minute, expression softening before another inquiry left his mouth. "What about you?"

"Me?"

What were you planning? Survival, really. But, to be honest—and this wasn't just the weed speaking (or was it? You couldn't really tell)—you just wanted to experience the show; meet the characters and bond over little things. Kinda like what you were doing right now.

"I plan on..."

The characters from this show were precious, and you loved them all to bits. They didn't deserve any of what happened to them, that was why you planned on...

"...protecting those I love."

Yeah, perfect.

His eyes widened a little—startled, no doubt, and not expecting that kind of response from you. The perfect opportunity to trip him up more.

"Wanna be one of them?" 

He already was one but—he didn't know that.

You assumed he must've been too flustered to talk, because he didn't respond to that—only choosing to continuously blink at you.

This weed was sure making your confidence sky rocket.

Speaking of things the weed was doing for you—your vision was tripping majorly.

The ceiling seemed to zoom in, but also zoom out at the same time, and sometimes you swore you could see the detailed wisps of the smoke that flooded the car's inside; the very atoms that made them up. 

Colours were hard to register in your mind; their names even harder—but, with how relaxed the fumes were making you and your tensed muscles, you couldn't really bring yourself to care.

And Eddie—oh Eddie—he just looked so pretty to you right now; so jaw-dropping and mesmerising. Even with how red his eyes were and the extent at which his pupils dilated, they still looked tremendously pretty. His lips were so cute, pink and begging for attention.

You couldn't help it; the way your hand reached out to cup his cheek and guide his head down. Luckily, though, you still had enough sense to tilt his head enough so that instead of your lips touching, your noses did.

If you were going to kiss Eddie, it sure as hell wasn't happening while you were high.

"Y'know," Eddie breathed into your eyes, causing them to flutter shut as you hummed, "I used to think you were a huge bitch."

That shot your eyes open.

"I mean, when you stuck around with people like Tommy H and Carol, it was kinda hard not to."

Ah. Steve's former friends.

"Not to mention King Steve. Though, I don't know if I should call him that anymore."

"'Cause of Billy?"

"Yeah." He chuckled. "Have you seen him? It's only, like, his second day and he's got girls wrapped around his finger like it's nothing."

"I'm sure it'll stay that way permanently too."

"Yeah, he seems like the type to like it."

"Hm?"

"The attention."

Your lips tugged down. "Are you implying something, Eddie?"

"...maybe a little."

Your frown grew deeper. "Y'know, Eds, you shouldn't judge people without getting to know them first."

"Oh? And I suppose you know a ton about Hargrove, huh?"

You narrowed your eyes before you spoke again—tone laced in warning—"Eddie."

He rose both hands, and you let out a breath you didn't even know you were holding in.

"My bad."

"It's okay, let's just forget about it," you said, "I came here to relax and enjoy some time away from stress."

"Stress?"

Well, you supposed it wouldn't be the end of the world if you shared a little with the class. 

"Nancy said something... weird to me the other night." 

"Harrington's girl?"

"Yeah... she sounded bitter."

"Maybe she was jealous."

You moved to sit up but Eddie was quick to push you back down, both hands placed firmly—yet gently—on your shoulders. "Jealous?"

"Yeah."

"Why would she be jealous for?"

He scoffed. "Oh please, you and Harrington are attached at the hip—if I were your boyfriend, I would be jealous."

For a moment, you allowed yourself to ignore the hypothetical scenario of Eddie being your boyfriend, if only to pay more attention to the apparent green creature that held Nancy by the neck.

Could it be? Was she jealous? Was that why she reacted as strongly as she did when you tried to let her down slowly?

"Hey now, whatever you're thinking, stop thinking it." Eddie's finger tapped against your cheek, sending tiny ripples through your skin. "You said it yourself, you're here to relax, not to stress."

He couldn't be more right.

And with that thought in mind, you sank deeper into the warmth of Eddie's lap, pure safety and comfort shrouding your form—blanketing you so nicely in the soothing presence that was Eddie Munson.

And as your eyes fluttered shut, you whispered one last thing with a warm smile, "This was nice. Thank you, Eddie."

@bdudette, @tanyaherondale, @killerqueenfan, @l3xiluve, @thedoubleexposurephotography, @xxqueenofdemonsxx, @briarsheart, @nickey-diano, @uselessbutinteresting, @steeldaisies, @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom, @patheticreative, @majestichugs, @eddiesbitch83, @secretdryrose, @bloodywickedvamp, @charlizekkelly, @sophiaj650, @mfnqueen1, @axionn, @harrysgoldenwatermelon, @simpfo, @adrienette715, @tippyeddy

I've been watching a lot of zombie stuff recently so I was wondering how Steve, Eddie, and Billy would react to a zombie apocalypse. I'm tempted to write an au but I need to focus on the next part 😭

Tell you what, if the masterlist to this series ever reaches 500 notes, I'll write a zombie apocalypse AU (Edit: Holy shit, it's at 400, wtf?)

[caesarflickermans]

Why Plutarch Heavensbee is the likely protagonist of Sunrise on the Reaping

Plutarch embodies SOTR’s propaganda theme

“With ‘Sunrise on the Reaping,’ I was inspired by David Hume’s idea of implicit submission and, in his words, ‘the easiness with which the many are governed by the few,’” Collins said in a statement. “The story also lent itself to a deeper dive into the use of propaganda and the power of those who control the narrative. The question ‘Real or not real?’ seems more pressing to me every day.” (AP)

Plutarch’s character embodies the themes of propaganda and controlling the narrative. He understands that it is “moves and counter-moves” (CF, 32:20). In his foil against Snow, he laid out a plan to destroy Katniss’ image through overexposure on TV, thus employing propaganda to control the image of a growing rebellion he secretly wanted to foster (CF, 32:35).

This understanding is in line with David Hume’s first principles of government, where he states that “the governors have nothing to support them but opinion” (Hume, Of the First Principles of Government). Plutarch understands this, as his plan of rebellion is based on influencing the opinion through the images shown to the TV audience.

His expertise continues in Mockingjay, where he lays out his plan in the shape of “propos--which is short for 'propaganda spots'--featuring [Katniss], and broadcast them to the entire population of Panem” (MJ, 3). Katniss recognises him as the mastermind behind the production, and sees a resemblance between these actions and his role as the Head Gamemaker (MJ, 8). At the end of the war, Plutarch’s expertise grants him the role as secretary of communications, in line with his previously gathered experience (MJ, 27).

When Hume speaks of “the implicit submission, with which men resign their own sentiments and passions to those of their rulers” (Hume, Of the First Principle of Government), it is Plutarch Heavensbee who mirrors this understanding and informs Katniss about it in the shape of Panem et Circenses; “Panem et Circenses translates into 'Bread and Circuses.' The writer was saying that in return for full bellies and entertainment, his people had given up their political responsibilities and therefore their power.” (MJ, 16). The fact that this is Plutarch who views the Games as such appears pivotal enough that Collins mentions him in reference to the quote:

SC: But there’s a dark side to bread, too. When Plutarch Heavensbee references it, he’s talking about Panem et Circenses, Bread and Circuses, where food and entertainment lull people into relinquishing their political power. Bread can contribute to life or death in the Hunger Games. (Scholastic, 2018)

Suzanne Collins’ previous interest in Plutarch

But when I step back and look at the series, she's not the character that I would identify most with. [...] This is such an unflattering thing to say about yourself, but it would be Plutarch Heavensbee. [...] Because he's the head gamemaker. Plutarch is creating the story, and he's creating the arena, and he's manipulating the characters--a writer isn't far from a gamemaker. I'm not for creating arenas or anything, but if you look at it from a creative perspective, we're really doing the same job. (times, 2013)

Suzanne Collins’ interest in Plutarch has culminated in the 10th Anniversary interview, where she makes frequent references to him, such as speaking about the reason why he was motivated to rebel. This indicates that Suzanne Collins has had deeper interest in Plutarch as a character and has an extensive backstory for him:

SC: Plutarch is the namesake of the biographer Plutarch, and he’s one of the few characters who has a sense of the arc of history. He’s never lived in a world without the Hunger Games; it was well established by the time he was born and then he rose through the ranks to become Head Gamemaker. At some point, he’s gone from accepting that the Games are necessary to deciding they’re unnecessary, and he sets about ending them. Plutarch has a personal agenda as well. He’s seen so many of his peers killed off, like Seneca Crane, that he wonders how long it will be before the mad king decides he’s a threat not an asset. It’s no way to live. And as a gamemaker among gamemakers, he likes the challenge of the revolution. But even after they succeed he questions how long the resulting peace will last. He has a fairly low opinion of human beings, but ultimately doesn’t rule out that they might be able to change. (Scholastic, 2018)

Not only is Plutarch the character linked to propaganda, but he is further juxtaposed with Snow, the first prequel protagonist. In this interview abstract, she places these two characters at odds, potentially indicating that Plutarch can be seen as an antithesis to Snow:

DL: One of the things that both Snow and Katniss realize is the power of media and imagery on the population. Snow may appear heartless to some, but he is very attuned to the “hearts and minds” of his citizens . . . and he is also attuned to the danger of losing them to Katniss. What role do you see propaganda playing in the war they’re waging? SC: Propaganda decides the outcome of the war. This is why Plutarch implements the airtime assault; he understands that whoever controls the airwaves controls the power. Like Snow, he’s been waiting for Katniss, because he needs a Spartacus to lead his campaign. (Scholastic, 2018)

Fitting as a future protagonist

YA protagonists are aged between 14-18 (Writer’s Digest), which Katniss (16-17) and Coriolanus (18) fall into. Thus, SOTR’s protagonist is unlikely to be someone older like Tigris, Snow, or Caesar. If the casting choice was representative of Plutarch’s age, he is within the fitting age range during the 50th Hunger Games.

A Gamemaker would offer a new perspective unlike the previous tribute and mentor point of views. Potentially, Plutarch could serve in the role of a junior or intern Gamemaker in between the Capitol’s High School (Academy) and College.

Suzanne Collins has hinted at several potential plot points that might be addressed in the prequel, such as:

At some point, [Plutarch’s] gone from accepting that the Games are necessary to deciding they’re unnecessary, and he sets about ending them. (Scholastic, 2018)

What was that point? What motivated him to wish to end the Games?

Like Snow, [Plutarch’s] been waiting for Katniss, because he needs a Spartacus to lead his campaign. There have been possible candidates, like Finnick, but no one else has captured the imagination of the country like she has. (Scholastic, 2018)

When and why did Plutarch realise he needed a “Spartacus to lead his campaign”? When did this campaign begin? Who else was a possible candidate?

“[...] They never planned on anyone using it as a weapon. It made them look stupid that he figured it out. I bet they had a good time trying to spin that one. Bet that's why I don't remember seeing it on television. It's almost as bad as us and the berries!” [...] “Almost, but not quite,” says Haymitch from behind us. (CF, 14)

Was Haymitch’s “almost” rebellion perhaps the original inspiration for Plutarch to organise a rebellion through the arena? How did they try to spin his act? Was he the first possible “Spartacus”? Was there perhaps more to it that only the Gamemakers and Haymitch know about? Was footage manipulated or adjusted? Was the live show already manipulated or only later footage? How do the Gamemakers control the narrative? Will there be any insight helping us understand why the Gamemakers acted the way they did for the 74th Hunger Games?

Plutarch Heavensbee has been, for several years, part of an undercover group aiming to overthrow the Capitol. [...] We are currently on a very roundabout journey to District 13. (CF, 27)

Who was part of this group? How did he get in contact with District 13?

"Tigris," she says. "We need help." [...] "Plutarch said you could be trusted," adds Cressida. Great, she's one of Plutarch's people. / Tigris. Deep in my brain, the name rings a bell. She was a fixture--a younger, less disturbing version of herself--in the earliest Hunger Games I can remember. A stylist, I think. I don't remember for which district.  (MJ, 23)

How did Tigris and Snow fall out? How did Tigris become one of ‘Plutarch’s people’? Did they perhaps meet when Tigris was still a stylist and what was her life like then? Which Districts did Tigris work for?

"No. My mother and younger brother. My girl. They were all dead two weeks after I was crowned victor. Because of that stunt I pulled with the force field," he answers. "Snow had no one to use against me." (MJ, 12) / The crew hurries inside to edit the material, and Plutarch leads Finnick off for a chat, probably to see if he has any more stories. (MJ, 12)

Why and how was the decision made to kill Haymitch’s family? Did any people within the Capitol die due to Haymitch’s force field trick? Some that Plutarch might have known—possibly giving a personal motivation for rebelling against Snow?

Others begin to die off and it becomes clear that almost everything in this pretty place—the luscious fruit dangling from the bushes, the water in the crystalline streams, even the scent of the flowers when inhaled too directly—is deadly poisonous. (CF, 14) / A clock. I can almost see the hands ticking around the twelve-sectioned face of the arena. Each hour begins a new horror, a new Gamemaker weapon, and ends the previous. (CF, 23) / He made sure the wire was among the weapons. Beetee was in charge of blowing a hole in the force field. (CF, 27)

Were the arenas intended to be parallels to one another, seeming paradises until the true threats were revealed? And was the usage of the force field as the final act to destroy the arena an intentional parallel to Haymitch’s rebellious act?

As far as I know, Haymitch has only been here once, when he was on his Victory Tour decades ago. But he must have a remarkable memory or reliable instincts, because he leads us up through a maze of twisting staircases and increasingly narrow halls (CF, 5) / And finally, how our mentor, Haymitch Abernathy, betrayed us both for a cause he pretended to have no interest in? (MJ, 2)

Will we learn why Haymitch knew the Justice Building in 11 so well? Could a young Plutarch perhaps have accompanied him on the victory tour who knew the place? Was this tour perhaps the beginning of their plotting together against the Capitol—with Plutarch trying to convince Haymitch to trust him?