#its worse for ronnie

[rupturefarm]

ronnie is definitely fucked in the head. not only is she cutting up her own species, she's imagining herself being eaten by molluck, her owner and boss. i think as well as it just being a deep cognitive dissonance and desire to feel in control clashing with a prey drive that is instantly activated the second she's with him, it's also a great deal of survivors guilt. she never asked to do what she has to do, but she's become so complicit in the machine of hyper-capitalist oppression that i think in some weird way her guilt at her actions is clashing with her deep and buried fear that molluck actually will just turn on her at any point and will just order her to be slaughtered (double after the factory blows up and he's likely more emasculated and ashamed and cast lower down the ranks of the gluks). they have what is to a degree a "consensual relationship" but only in the sense that ronnie is also getting something out of it and is a willing participant. she still wouldn't technically be able to say no. he's her boss. it's an illusion of free choice she holds onto heavily. hell, she knows he's with other people, knows that he'd never treat her as a serious partner, and she's "fine" with that, because "why would i care? im only in it for the sex" is really "at any moment he could discard me so i can't make any demands".

[vamptastic]

Need to start taking the critical thinking questions bit away from people who clearly did not have to answer critical thinking questions in high school

[psychotic-nonsense]

NOW WITH A PART 2 AND PART 3 !!!!

Not sure if this is anything, and feel free to critique or add on or clarify and all that, but...

A few weeks post-Starcourt Steve, absolutely wrecked by the Russians and Billy. He's healing, little by little, but he knows he needs to put his pain aside to help out The Party. Especially Robin, who has not been coping with the trauma well. She's taken to spending the night at Steve's most of the time, and they help each other manage. She's not the best with physical comfort, nor is Steve with verbal comfort, but they're managing.

Yet despite the constant offers of help, Steve always refuses to "ask for too much" and often downplays his pain, forcing a smile to keep anyone from worrying. He's bottling up everything - probably handling it worse than Robin, even though he insists he's used to it and knows how to fix himself. Every day he gets a little worse, and every night he brushes off help.

It's during one of these late nights that disaster finds them again. It's Steve and Robin in his living room, and they're just about falling asleep on the couch when the ground begins rumbling, hard. An earthquake, shaking Hawkins and getting the entire Party in a frenzy. The radios are blaring with the kids' voices and Steve's trying to get Robin to stop screaming into the walkie, when suddenly there's a hole opening up in Steve's living room, and the earthquake stops. Steve and Robin go quiet, and the kids are urging for a response as they all rush to meet up at Steve's.

But he and Robin can't speak, too busy staring at the hole. One that looks way too similar to the Gates... but it glows blue instead of the usual red. Steve, ever the protector, is carefully stepping around the hole to grab a fire poker for defense. The second he does, the Party bursts in, just in time to watch the hole suddenly crack open further, sucking Steve in and closing itself behind him-

As Steve Harrington lands in the bedroom of Post-ST3-release 2019 Eddie Munson.

Eddie's living rough, bunking in his childhood friend Ronnie's basement. An orphan, can't hold a job, in his second senior year of high school purely because he knows he has nothing else to do after it. His only source of comfort so far has been DnD - either the DM hosting he does at the local library for the other poor lost suckers, or the one Netflix show with its elements that has captured his heart.

Eddie's a pretty big Stranger Things fan - it has its faults but is otherwise a really fun and interesting show - but ever since ST2, he's especially been a Steve Harrington fan. He feels like he goes mad just thinking about the implications of what that man has gone through, what all those kids have been through, and how Steve has put aside himself to focus on the kids. How much Steve has changed, and how under appreciated he is.

Since binging all of ST3 the day it released, Eddie's had a field day on breaking down this newest reformation of Steve. He adores Robin - clocked her as a lesbian from episode 1 - and loves that Dustin and Erica have been bringing out his bitchy side, while still keeping him in check. The Russian torture and strange parallels with Billy have made him cry on more than one occasion, and Steve's half-high speech in the bathroom legitimately felt like Steve finally acknowledging his change, even if for but a moment.

Ronnie's teased Eddie way too much about his "obvious crush on Joe Keery" but this feels way too personal for him to just be crushing on an actor. This is Eddie falling for the Fallen King of Hawkins himself, and it's much more embarrassing. Steve Harrington becomes his muse in every form of art; drawing, writing, character inspiration and improvisation. The Duffer brothers aren't the greatest at the rest of the show, but they've damn well got this guy down.

Hell, Eddie was halfway to crossing the last personal barrier to outright obsession (x Reader fanfiction) when the earthquake hit. In hindsight it wasn't the worst thing in the world, but Eddie had never experienced one before. He immediately dove right under his bed, covering his ears and curling up in a ball like a coward ("Nancy Wheeler would be ashamed," his weird ass brain supplies). He hears rumbling, things falling over, wood splintering and the world seemingly cracking apart all around him-

When a body suddenly lands hard on his bed with a loud scream of fear, cutting off as the whatever it is rolls straight off to the floor, and the world gives one final strain before going completely silent.

Terrified, Eddie's eyes are shut tight, cowering as the body on the floor just a foot away from him groans and gasps for air. It takes a sudden hiss of pain for Eddie to finally, carefully, crack one eye open.

Only to come eye to eye, through the gaps of his bedsheets, with the very muse he'd just been thinking of. Steve Harrington.

There's an immediate scramble of panic; Eddie bashing his skull into his bed frame trying to get out and away from the obvious hallucination, while Steve wobbles on his feet to defend himself against this strange humanoid Upside Down monster.

"What are you?! Where am I?!"

"What am- Are- You- No, you're not real- JESUS H. CHRIST MAN, GET THAT AWAY FROM ME!"

"I don't know what you're talking about, but you're gonna see how real this is if you don't tell me what's going on!"

"You think I know?! You fell into my room!!"

"Yeah, from your Gate!!"

"WHAT FUCKING GATE- WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!?"

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW!!"

That gets them both to shut up, just staring at each other. Eddie pressed up against the wall in fear with his hands up and out wide, Steve with the fire poker pointed straight at his neck and his hand held up cautiously. Eddie sees it, smells blood in the air, and ignoring everything, reaches out for it. Steve jabs at the air with the poker, but it's halfhearted, his energy clearly draining, too exhausted with the whole situation to try much further. Finally his arm drops, but Eddie doesn't move, watching Steve's face crumple in a way that aches everything inside his heart.

"Where am I...?" Steve pleas, tone just as desperate as the one from the Russian bunker, even when lacking its power.

Eddie fumbles for the words, but eventually just sighs. "Somewhere you wouldn't believe, my friend."

High and complacent on adrenaline and shock, Steve and Eddie just move in silence. Eddie grabs a wet cloth to clean the blood, Steve cutting off a bit of his sweatpants to use as gauze. It's just a gash from falling with the fire poker, nothing drastic, but the two stare at the cut in Steve's palm, easier to see than the one who's hand is on theirs.

Introductions are exchanged when they can finally stop shaking, and Eddie somehow drops the bomb on where and when Steve is, and what his entire existence is to this reality. Steve has a very brief existential panic attack about it, but is strangely comforted by Eddie's confidence about it all - "Even without El's powers, those kids are smart as hell. They'll figure out a way to make their own Gate and get you back home."

Then Steve just spends the next week or two in a reality almost 40 years in the future, where he and his entire existence is a sci-fi TV show. Some funny exchanges I've been thinking of:

Steve: Wait, so we're characters in a show, right? That means we have actors.

Eddie: Oh, uh, yeah, you do...

Steve: ...Think I could see them?

Eddie: Uh- Sure, I guess? Not sure what you're expecting, it's a live action thing, they look just like you.

Steve: Never getting used to your future phone... Huh, Joe Keery? Looks like a cool guy- woah, is that what my hair looks like short??

Eddie: Yup, again, literally just you.

Steve: Funny how we both have the most basic names too. Steve and Joe? Like, look at Dustin's actor, what kind of name is Gaten?

Eddie: Rude, the guy plays your little brother.

Steve: Quit bringing your fake show theories into my actual life.

Eddie: It's true though.

Steve: ...Yeah.

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

(Steve goes crazy after a few days of being locked in, and begs Eddie to take him out to "see the future." While they're walking around town, a group of girls suddenly freak out and rush them)

"It's Joe Keery! Guys, look it's Steve Harrington, from Stranger Things!!"

(Eddie's halfway to panicking, but Steve immediately handles the situation)

Steve: Sorry to disappoint, ladies, not him. Don't worry though, I've been getting that a lot since the show came out.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry! Hope we didn't make you uncomfortable, mister..."

Steve: Mark, and not at all! I get asked this a lot too, but do you girls want a picture? For bragging rights, getting to meet "The Steve Harrington?"

(They agree, Eddie takes it for them, the girls go on their way)

Eddie whispering: That's gonna be everywhere in 5 seconds, I hope you know.

Steve whispering: Eh, it's a crowd my actor didn't have to deal with. Besides, felt pretty good.

Eddie: Familiar experience?

Steve: For a better reason.

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

Steve, showing Eddie's laptop screen open to the FunkoPop website and the Scoops Duo, halfway to tears: They make figurines of me and Robin?

Eddie: Yeah, of all you guys. I've got a little Dustin on my desk.

Steve, beginning to cry from how adorable he finds it: YOU DO?

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

(Ronnie comes back from work early while Steve and Eddie are talking in the living room. Eddie freezes as Steve makes eye contact, and Ronnie just stares)

Ronnie: Um, hi?

Steve: Oh, hey! You must be Eddie's roommate, nice to finally meet you! I'm Mark.

(That allows a breath to finally enter and escape Eddie's throat in a bit of a laugh. Steve's really leaning into this Mark persona)

Ronnie: Ronnie, and likewise... Sorry if I'm acting weird, you're just a really good cosplayer. Thought you were actually Steve for a second.

Steve hesitantly: Nah, just a doppleganger.

Ronnie, shrugging and walking away: Well okay then, I'm way too tired to talk much more. Eds, just keep your nerd shit out of the sink-

Eddie: And stay quiet, yeah yeah, go rest, breadwinner.

(Ronnie goes upstairs, out of earshot)

Steve whispering: What's a cosplayer?

Eddie, suddenly also very tired: Tell you later.

I'm thinking that Eddie had sketchbooks, notebooks, and Word Docs absolutely stuffed full of ST character evaluation, which he immediately hid upon Steve's arrival. Maybe Steve gets bored when Eddie's out for whatever reason, and snoops around. That's when he finds it all crammed at the back of Eddie's closet. The kids, Nancy, Jonathan, Robin, Joyce, Hopper, hell Billy and Murray are in the pile. Drawings of them in their adventures, active and mundane alike. Pages upon pages of character description, Eddie's handwriting gushing about the parts of the show and characters he loves, hates, wishes was fixed, all of it.

But the part that gets Steve is one specific sketchbook and notebook, both dubbed the Steven Soliloquy. It's the same type of information as before, but only about him, and it's filled to the brim. Eddie talking about his development, his change of heart, the complete shift that Nancy and the Upside Down and the kids allowed him to have. The affects of his trauma, and how much he stuffed it down in favor of everyone else. Talked about his relationships, ones he cherishes, loathes, never thought of or never got the chance to make. Talked about "AUs," alternative realities where he got everything he ever wanted. Eddie's words, his sketches, devolve into adoration-fueled envy, wishing he could be near such an amazing man, that he was strong enough to be such an amazing man. How much his heart aches for Steve.

And if this were a normal situation, Steve would be uncomfortable, creeped out. But knowing the context of it all, Steve can't help but be enamored. That his family's journey, his entire story of survival - even when fictional to Eddie - is so valued makes it all feel a little more worth it. That there was someone out there during all of their terror, rooting for their victory, crying with their pain, screaming with their fears, understanding them because he lived through it all right beside them.

Eddie finds Steve in his room later that day, surrounded by those books. Staring at what Eddie considers his WIP magnum opus; a half-finished colored pencil recreation of the Last Supper with the entire Party, including all of the people they lost, happy and healthy. Eddie's two seconds from apologizing for how creepy it all must be - seeing how many of those books are open - but then he sees the tears in Steve's eyes. Gratitude and adoration and care, all bundled up and very suddenly staring right at him with the widest smile he's seen.

They talk about it. Eddie finally admits his minor obsession with the show, and how much they've helped him come to terms with being a self-dubbed loser. He honestly gushes way too much about what he owes to them about his life, but Steve listens to it all with complete adoration. At the end of it, Steve asks Eddie about the possibility that they've been adamantly ignoring for Steve's entire stay: actually watching Stranger Things.

And that's how they spend their last week. Starting from season 1, they sit in the living room and binge the entire thing. Steve learns an entirely new perspective about his family's adventures, not only from the show's canon, but from Eddie's theories and rants in between monumental moments. Eddie holds his hand during the scenes that focus on his worst nightmares; the Demogorgan in the Byler home, the breakup, his fight with Billy, the Russians. Steve provides his perspective on how he felt during it all, finally admitting to the pain he's gone through instead of just focusing on the others hoping it'll all go away.

Not sure where exactly it goes from here. Maybe some codependency grows between them. Maybe Steve falls a little in love. Maybe they just stay friends, the only ones who understand each other aside from their Platonic Soulmates.

Maybe, when another earthquake finally hits, opening up a Gate in Ronnie's backyard, Steve and Eddie finally must go their separate ways. Eddie promising to keep watching over them from across the realm, Steve promising to make a happy ending for their story.

Or maybe, Steve can't help but see what little Eddie has, how special Eddie actually is, and offer to bring him along. Into the very show he loves so much. Maybe Eddie convinces Ronnie that he'll be okay, swearing to be entertaining should he join the show in an important way, and making her swear that if he doesn't survive to bring him back in as much fanfiction as she can write. Maybe Eddie enters Hawkins, Indiana, and becomes a bit self aware about being in a TV show. It takes a while for everyone to warm up to the future man - and for Eddie to get used to Midwestern US in the 80s - but he becomes a close member of the Party quite easily. Maybe his involvement in season 4, his death, is avoided, and maybe it's not.

But his adoration for Steve Harrington never goes away. Not in canon, or in fiction.

[anon-sect]

Story requested by @chrishemsworthservant

It had been two weeks since receiving a special pair of white ankle socks and shoes. Both were super comfortable, and the material was quite durable. He had literally worn them nearly every day for the past two weeks. Liam Hemsworth had bragged about them to his brother Chris. He even used the socks as cum rags on a few occasions during the past two weeks.

Liam would have to change into costume for the movie set. He would leave his special pair of socks and shoes in his trailer to put them back on after the end the day.

Chris came to visit his brother on set one day, to hang out. He had asked about where he could find a special pair of socks and shoes like he had. HIs brother let him know that the studio could only make them sparingly since the material used is sometimes hard to get.

Chris Hemsworth wanted to know what it was like to wear such durable socks or shoes. While his brother was still on set filming, he went to his trailer and found them laying around. He grabbed them up. He left his socks and shoes in their place. Even though his feet were slightly bigger than his brothers, he tried on the special pair of socks and shoes. The socks began to stretch to fit his feet. He thought the shoes and socks would be tight on his feet at first. But he saw they were not ordinary shoes and socks. Both stretched and adjusted to his feet to fit his feet perfectly. He had never seen socks or shoe change size to fit whoever wears them. He began to wonder where they got the material for them and where he can get him another pair like these.

Ronny hated LIam's feet. Somehow his mind as still intact after two weeks being tormented by his feet. The bad thing was the actor was completely unaware of what he was doing to another person. Cleaning up his cum made his life so degrading, the way Liam used him. He wasn't all too pleased when Liam's brother got a hold of him. His feet stretched him, which was painful as he was forced to fit on the larger pair of feet. He then saw his form change to fit Chri's feet. The pressure of this new pair of feet was worse than the previous owner's feet. He mentally wished he could reach out to Chris to let him know what torment he was doing to another person, but lacking that ability just made his situation feel even more degrading. Another actor was literally wearing him as his socks.

Pete was so over smelling like Liam's feet. The constant being stepped on and stood on me him feel like he was in an unrelenting and unending hell. He so wished he could tell Liam what the studio did to him and his friend and how much his feet was punishing them. But he was a literal pair of shoes that couldn't speak or move on its own. But to have Chris's feet reshape him to make room for his big feet made matters worse for them. He felt the intense pain as Chris left the studio, crushing both him and Ronny. It was a constant wave of pain after pain. They never could get use to Liam's feet, now the brother was dominating them just like Liam did. He could hear voice all around him but could not reach out for help. The actor continued to enjoy what was on his feet while unaware dominating him.

Chris loved the way the socks and shoes felt. He had never worn a pair that was this comfortable before. He decided that he would keep them for himself since they are no longer the size of his brother's feet. He may give them back one day, but till then they were his.

ONE MONTH LATER.......

Chirs was out getting a few things for the house. Each step felt so good thanks to his special shoes and socks. He was so amazed how they were holding up after a solid month of full use. He did pay his brother Liam some money to compensate for losing his socks and shoes, but he just couldn't give them up. He didn't know how the studio made them, but he was glad they did. They were the best pair of socks and shoes he owned.

Ronny's mind was almost completely gone. He couldn't think straight whatsoever. He ceased to complain about Chris's feet. Chris would use him for gym sessions, running errands or just simply chilling around the house. For the past month, all he ever thought about was feet. No matter how much pain and torment Chris's feet did to him, this was his life now.

Pete's mind was nothing but a dumb pair of sneakers. He ceases to think at all by the time. When he once reeked of Liam's feet, it was now replaced with Chris's foot odor. It completely eroded his mind. His insole face was reshaped under the pressure of Chris's feet. The foot odor, and level of comfort his insole face was providing left him just as what he looked like., a pair of sneakers.

[sebastianmichaelisslander]

Any unpopular opinions/headcanons about shinigamis?

Lessgooo! I’d been waiting for this for a while!

Headcanons

• Not fully sure there’s a proper academy for Reapers, though that’s the case in a lot of fanon hcs and even the anime.

The Dispatch setup resembles a very typical one in the corporate world, though - newer Reapers are all assigned a mentor who they train under and who asses them for their capabilities in varying fields. According to this, they join a particular department and work under its head (e.g., collections, forensics, auditing, etc.).

• There are several different branches of the Dispatch spread out over major cities in England - and the same goes for branches in other countries. Headquarters will be either at the capital or in a major city (e.g, London).

• Though Reapers are all pretty much blind as bats without their glasses, younger ones would probably have it slightly better. Slightly.

• As for whether they would retain any memories of their past lives, it depends for me.

What would be worse than having memories of who or what was dear to them wiped to prevent them from straying would be remembering it all, but knowing they will not be able to return under any circumstances.

But as I’m uncertain about how to make sense of that, I’d say that I share my mutual @grimreaperauthority ‘s headcanon about their memories of their past lives being wiped and thus remaining mostly fuzzy. I’d say that’s the case, save for the day of their death or anything particularly defining which shaped or changed their beliefs, imho.

• Relationships between colleagues aren’t forbidden, but it’s expected that one adheres to decorum and keeps their liaisons under wraps. Especially if there’s a major power imbalance involved, because you’d be cooked.

Unpopular opinions

I’ll probably have several of you trying to break down my door with pitchforks and torches in hand, but here goes.

• I don’t see Eric as Scottish, lol.

I haven’t fully watched the musical so I don’t fully get where the whole headcanon about him came into being, but it’s not just that. I tried looking his last name up, and ‘Slingby’ isn’t even a real surname - closest thing is ‘Slingsby’, which is of English origin. ‘Knox’, however, is a Scottish surname, so make what you will of that. 😉 (Yes, I unapologetically write Ronnie as a Scotsman.)

• I do not ship Sascha with Ludger.

I always saw the former as a very young student figure of sorts to him, and not just because they appear rather young to me. I’ve never seen them as a couple given their interactions in the manga, and there’s also the fact that Sascha seems to be a literal teen.

Whilst Sascha’s age hasn’t been stated in canon and they could very well be an adult for all I know, which would be highly unlikely, them as a ship just isn’t for me. Ludger as their father/brother figure, though? That’s where it’s at.

• I’m mostly indifferent to Undertaker. I don’t know why, but I never paid him any special attention. Like, he do be kinda fit, but that’s about it.

• I don’t vibe with the fanon interpretation of Ronald as a player or fuckboy - and not only because I headcanon him as on the asexual spectrum. Even in the manga, he appears to be (quite a major) flirt at most - which can also be backed up by how he disappears.

• If Othello could talk to women, he’d be like a more toned-down Ronald when he’s interacting with them, but shyer too. But he can’t, lmao - he’s forgotten how to. Takes personal space and being respectful to them seriously, though.

Bi Othello is my fav headcanon for him. I can definitely see him with a woman as well as a man. And though he’s often absorbed in his work or Dispatch shenanigans and doesn’t think about girls (or guys) all that much, he definitely likes a pretty one as much as the next man.

• I don’t see William as a prick with all the emotional range of a teaspoon and little empathy whatsoever. Is he too harsh on himself and his subordinates? Yes. Can he be an asshole at times? Also yes.

But is he a terrible person with no redeeming qualities whatsoever and a rock in his chest where a heart would otherwise beat? No.

He seems like he’d be an overthinker and feel extremely strongly towards people and ideas both, but tries to suppress this as he thinks that he needs to. Not only to remain impartial for the sake of professionalism, but also because how men in general are socialised plus his tendency to withdraw when he’s overwhelmed mean it’s difficult to confront his emotions.

• I do not see Ludger as German William, but rather someone who’s similar to him yet incredibly different in a lot of ways. William is pensive, almost overly fastidious, and coldly professional. Meanwhile, Ludger is reserved, a tad rough around the edges, and focused - but he’s surprisingly patient and better with conflict than Will.

If I have more, that’ll call for another post!

[havin-fun-imagining-twd]

That was it.

(a new post? it's been months, bro!)

What -- Daryl had a dream featuring You. It's thrown him a little, ngl.

When -- the first day Daryl is bedridden following his two falling trips down the ridge in the episode Chupacabra. In the Slowpoke Series, it's a few hours after Redemption Arcs, which takes place the morning after Thank you, angel...

Who's in this one? -- Daryl, You, Carl, Lori

Perspective -- POV 3rd person Daryl

Relationships -- slow burn, currently platonic-but-confused Daryl x equally oblivious Reader

Pronouns - she/her

TWs -- some language, and reference to Daryl's childhood neglect, and ghastly screenshots with poor editing XD

Masterlist -- Official one here and Chronological one here

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

Her knock was recognizable and he got a rush in his stomach when he knew she was there. Three or four knocks, a pause, then one or two more knocks with some kind of greeting. This time, is was: “Daryl, you up for visitors?”

Was he ‘up for visitors?’

Ain’t like he’s some old dude in a nursing home, why would—oh shit, did this mean they found Sophia? Was Sophia the visitor?? “What is it?”

“It’s Carl’s first field trip out of bed other than for the toilet.”

“Y/N,” came Carl’s groan through the shut door.

“Carl,” she teased back back in the same tone of voice. “Mr. Dixon’s in the same boat, nerd, no leavin’ bed excepting for the facilities.”

Speaking for himself, the kid finally said, “I wanted to go see you first, Mr. Dixon.”

“Just—come in already,” Daryl grunted. He'd already tugged his bedsheets as high as they'd go, he was ready as he could get.

The knob turned, and as the two of them slowly walked in. He made himself relax when the nerves hit him at seeing Y/N.

It's stupid. His dumb ass started getting nervous around her this morning. Nervous around Y/N, of all the people here!

Daryl noticed Lori hovering by the doorway while Y/N and Carl walked in. She explained, “We don’t want to crowd you like yesterday. And we won’t stay too long, Y/N, Maggie and I will be going out for another sweep of our grid.”

The boy had more color than he did the other day when Daryl went to see him, which was good.

"The head wrap stuff they gave you looks cool," the kid told him. "I'm glad you didn't get hurt worse than you were. I heard you got hurt pretty bad." Slowly, Carl made his way to Daryl’s bedside and seemed beat doing it. “I would go out to help search today if I could. I was the only one of us who—well, other than you—who hasn’t gone out looking today. Beth’s older sister and Jimmy and his mom went, too.”

“Well, Mags came with us,” Y/N filled in. “Jimmy looked around the property and its perimeter only, but that’s because he got in trouble yesterday for joinin’ without permission. His mama searched with him to keep the peace.”

As the news hovered, rolled over him, then sunk in, it felt to Daryl as if were making him sink deeper into the mattress where he lay bandaged, bruised, and not much use to anyone.

He’d nearly died trying to find that little girl yesterday, found her doll. And after just about everyone went out searching today, and all them people came back with zip.

Daryl hated feeling helpless, and now he felt helpless, annoyed and angry.

Really, they all went out searching, and somehow all came back with nothing?

Carl kept chatting to him, but to his credit, Daryl didn’t snarl at him to shut up.

“I would’ve wanted to go to target practice, too. Did you know Mr. Douglas knows how to use guns? He told me he was an instructor, he’d started learning way a long time ago after something bad happened to this guy named Ronny King.”

“Rodney,” his ma corrected softly.

“I want to learn how to use a gun. How old were you when you learned, Mr. Dixon?”

Lori and Y/N reacted to the question in their own ways.

Y/N peeked at Lori and it looked like she was shrinking into her neck like a turtle as she walked to the window to get the stool for Carl to sit on.

Lori saw, shook her head and took it from Y/N’s hands, citing, “Let me, honey.” She placed it behind her son, then told him sternly, “You were just shot. Now’s not the time to discuss you using a gun.”

“But Mo—”

“We can talk about that with Dad later, okay, bud?”

“Y/N started learning to shoot when she was 8.”

That made Daryl blink, and it distracted him from his annoyance. His square, chick friend learned about using guns when she was 8?

Y/N gave her nephew a warning stare. “I learned because my own mama in our own circumstances made a decision for me that she determined would help keep me safe, the same way your mama’s makin’ one for you.”

He jut out his chin a little. “I would be safer with one. And I thought Shane taught you?”

“S-Sometimes babysitting me meant us goin’ to the range,” she allowed, eyeing Lori for help.

“Carl,” his ma told him, and with a look firm enough to make a nun cower. “That’s enough interrogating your aunt. We will talk about this with Dad when you’re able to leave bed for more than a few yards.”

“Okay,” the kid apologized, head lowering. “Sorry Mom, sorry Y/N.”

There were about three seconds of silence, tops, when the boy next asked Daryl, “Do you still think Sophia’s alive?”

Y/N froze, Lori tilted her head and looked Daryl in the eye warily.

As for Carl himself, he at least seemed hopeful. “If you could stay okay for nine days when you were a kid, Sophia can stay okay for five.”

Y/N’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. He'd told her the other day about it, then decided Carl should know to keep his spirits up.

Lori, who knew nothing about this, looked alarmed. “You went missing for nine days as a child, Daryl?” she repeated.

Daryl nodded, getting dizzy when he did. Wasn’t no big secret, just some dumb mistake he made when he was little. He'd figured that Carl staying hopeful and expecting people to find Sophia would keep the rest of the people here searching.

Y/N already knew about Daryl’s little nine-day accident, and Andrea; might as well let Lori in on it if it meant more people wouldn’t give up on Sophia.

“Yeah, nine days. Was perfectly fine, and that was with me bein’ nowhere near as sharp as Sophia, and without miles of farmhouses and shit around.” Daryl figured exaggerating might help Carl feel happy, so he added, “I was dumber than a post, and even I got away with only an itchy ass from using poison oak as toilet paper.”

It did make the kid smile, but then Carl whispered as if he was nervous, “Quarter.”

Y/N wasn’t nervous at all. “Two of ’em.”

Oh, right. Daryl had forgotten about the no-cuss-around-kids rule.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” is how Lori responded quietly to Daryl, then to his relief, she changed the subject back to asking Y/N how target practice went.

“Lore, did you know Teddy was good with guns?” Y/N shared. “I’d had zero idea.”

“He and Shane talked about being instructors on one of the first nights at the quarry.”

“Man, I missed that whole conversation.”

Lori smiled and began to fix the extra blanket that was crumpled on the side of Daryl’s bed.

Daryl almost missed what was being said because he was distracted by how casually nice that was. Damned thoughtful.

It was that moment when he noticed how he’d grown pretty okay with shooting the shit with these people. Wouldn’t seek it out, probably, but he wasn’t crawling out of his skin, neither. He really liked that the kid wanted to see him, too. It helped him feel like he wasn’t as big an asshole as he felt.

“You, Amy and Glenn were busy playing ‘I never’, if I’m remembering it.” Lori spread blanket out at the foot of the bed and folded it in an accordion-type way. “Either that night or the—no, sorry, it was the night everyone started talking about Bigfoot, the kids were sitting around you three. That was one of the first nights, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, right! We used up all the Tapatío, and this guy mentioned his chupacabra.” Y/N stuck the tip of her tongue out and lightly bit it, grinning big.

“Luis and me got so freaked out that night!” Carl joined in, suddenly as energetic as a little bunny-rabbit. “His older cousin told him all about Okefenokee Swamp, and, and the gators and the Pig Man and the Thing!”

“Your Aunt Evie and I camped with Grammy and Grandad at Okefenokee lots of times when I was a girl,” Lori told them both with a smile in her eyes. “Never saw the Pig Man or the Swamp Thing.”

“But they saw her,” Y/N mouthed to Carl. “Thank God we lived more upstate.”

That, Daryl could agree with, he even made a hum.

He was from way up north, close to the Tennessee border. But with this group that he’d stuck with for who-knows-why, to get to Fort Benning they’d driven far enough southwest that they was basically in Alabama.

“Yeah, you’re from further north, too, right?” Y/N sighed. “I’m so darn homesick, man. We’re just about on the fall line now, aren’t we? Driving to the city was one thing, close enough to home, but the roundabout, southwest mess we made trying to get to stupid Fort Benning was—w-we’re basically in Alabama!”

…His thoughts exactly.

“We’re further from Lake Lanier down here, though,” Carl said. Sounded like he was both trying to cheer her up and rib her. Inside joke most likely, Daryl guessed.

Y/N shivered at the name but couldn’t stop herself from breaking into a smirk, which made Carl crack up. After making a face at him, she looked at Daryl. “Dude, you’d have had a good time at practice.” Her smile grew and she leaned toward him. “As soon as it was time to try hittin’ the targets, Jimmy tried to shoot his pistol sideways.”

“What, all gangster?” he grunted back, glad that he wasn’t alone with her again. He liked didn’t mind being alone with her, but he obviously got smacked in the head a little too hard yesterday, seeing as he felt all nervous around her now. Really nervous. Like, so goddamned nervous, man, it’s good the boy and Lori are here, otherwise he’d be barely able to look her in the eyes.

Give it a day or two, he’d be fine.

“Teddy thinks Jimmy will have to undo Hollywood and video game gun stuff the next couple lessons.” She scrunched her nose, and wondered out loud, “Don’t know why that’s what they show in movies so often, that’s irresponsible firearm use. Oh! But the angled aim I guess is needed when one’s using a riot shield, right?”

His mouth lifted into a grin. Y/N could be such a square.

With that, she yawned and leaned on the side of the bed, causing it to dip down slightly. Daryl’s heart did a funny jolting type thing when she did, he inhaled too quickly as a result, which hurt his stiched side and bruised or broken ribs, so he then winced as a result of that.

“How long do we have ’til we head out again, Lore? I’m hittin’ my limit. Looks like Carl’s crashing, too, you doing okay, baby?”

The conversation that followed didn’t reach his head, Daryl was too distracted. The, um, the movement of the bed dipping as Y/N relaxed and reached back to massage her shoulder caused the memories from last night and the dream that followed to whoosh back to Daryl even harder.

His heartbeat did that funny thing again. And the helpless feeling he’d had, with its anger and annoyance, whittled away bit by bit.

A weird sensation replaced it.

He wasn’t sure that it was, but it felt like it was pressing him even further into the mattress.

So, the dream he had last night: Y/N was…laying down with him.

Nothing was going on, her arm was simply wrapped around him and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest. He remembers pressing his mouth to her head for a second, then she reached her hand to brush it across his temple or whatever, and they just laid there. That was it.

Really, that was it, the whole dream, nothing else went on. And he relieved but also...disappointed when he first woke up, saw the bed empty beside him, and figured out it was just a dream, ain’t that bullshit? Then he listened to Y/N's breathing where she lay on the air mattress and couldn't fall back asleep for what felt like a while.

He was all screwed up, wasn't he?

Granted, two days ago, her shirt had been soaked after they’d got caught in the storm and the outline of everything was clear as damn day. Like, sure, he’d turned his eyes away, but he’d still seen it and liked it! Then, yesterday during their argument when they’d suddenly been standing all close, he’d randomly imagined gripping her waist and crashing his mouth against hers before cupping her face so he could see if her cheeks were as soft as they looked, like what the in the balls was his deal? He ain’t mature enough to be friends with a chick or something? It’s never been a problem before, he used to barely even notice or care when he thought someone looked nice.

Her calling him all them pet names yesterday was enough, but, like, what was last night?

She literally massaged him. Who does that?

The massage had felt as if there were an angel, don’t get him wrong, he’d been in so much pain. But being touched so gently but so…close, and right on his bare skin, it made him feel something similar to scared.

It wasn’t ‘scary’ in that sense, that’s not it, it felt…weird. Again, he didn’t know how to phrase it.

Worse still was that he thinks he accidentally called Y/N “angel.”

Out loud.

He still ain’t sure, his sleep was too disjointed to tell if he was awake or not, but — she’d started massaging his feet, he knew that much! His feet had hurt so bad that he’d almost cried again when she’d started to rub them because it was just such relief.

Fast forwarding to this morning, when he’d made his managed to power his way all by himself out of bed (oh, it hurt like a bitch) and out of his room to find the pisser, of course the first thing he saw when he opened the door was Y/N, all sleepy-eyed, messy-haired, and wrapped in a blanket like he was.

And, of course, the first thing she did was help him walk by putting her good arm around his back. He could feel her warmth and heartbeat beside his chest again, and when he turned his head, his mouth collided with her head. Kinda hurt. And she smelled good.

But all that sent the dream he’d had, the one where she was laying next to him, crashing back all at once.

Plus the fear that she’d see him in his boxers again and/or notice his morning wood (ain’t his fault, he’d only just woken up and he had to take a whiz real bad!) was the only thing pinging through his mind as she walked him to the toilet.

Then when her brother dropped off some of his stuff from his tent, he had a sneaking suspicion it was Y/N who’d been the one to gather it up. Mainly because she’d been the one who promised him someone would bring him some things, but also because nail clippers and a toothbrush were on top of the pile.

He then got the dumb idea in his head to be embarrassed at how his tent wasn’t real clean.

The past four days were batshit crazy; getting all nervous around a chick — probably the only person he truly feels okay with around here — is the stupidest damn thing. Still, he never had a person he felt so damn comfortable with other than Uncle Jesse, his little cousin, Merle, and his old lady neighbor from when he was a kid.

So much happened with Y/N the past few days. It was like they’d been stripped and beaten together, but got back home in one piece. He even hallucinated her talking to him when he’d fallen down the ridge. And that’s not even bringing up how he’d been chill with her seeing his scars yesterday, which was only after he okayed Dr. Farmer literally teaching her how do literal goddamn stitches on him!

Almost like yesterday, Daryl could imagine the way Merle would bust his balls. “I can’t tell if you’re actin’ like a little boy clinging to the kid who was nice to ’em on the jungle gym, or a clueless virgin nervous around the girl who’ll look him in the eyes long enough.”

Lucky for him, Carl wondered out loud: “Maybe Jimmy wanted to practice shooting sideways,” so Daryl was able to shut his mind up.

Next, Carl, who definitely looked ready to hit the sack, started miming holding a gun and aiming it to the side (as opposed to shooting it forward, just cocked to the side like Jimmy had, according to Y/N).

“No, ya nerd, like this,” Y/N snorted, and held out her good arm as if she were aiming a gun forward, then twisted her wrist sideways.

“Oh, the cool way to shoot!”

“Nooo.”

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

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[allthistrashtalkmakemeitchin]

I'm putting all my covers of the Flower Series (+ 10 Things) together and also talking about why I chose the flower I did.

Ghostwriter, my beloved. It's my favorite cover. We all know yellow represents happiness; the same goes for the sun. Since sunflowers turn to seek the light from the sun, it symbolizes the light at the end of the tunnel. With tenderness, love, and care, anyone can thrive. For so long, Ronnie believed she had to suffer to receive the love she always wanted but she hadn't been looking in the right places.

The sunflower represents her. Despite moving across the country and worrying constantly about her father's prostate cancer, she survives and manages to soak up the sun the best she can. She stays true to herself and doesn't allow Hollywood to change her for the worse. She finds optimism in the darkest times and hopes that making it out on the other side of the tunnel will be better.

Finally, we have a face to the name or a face claim. For Battle of the Bands, we have Jasmine! These flowers are described in some spaces as unassuming. They bloom at night. In a way, this symbolizes how Lynette blooms once she changes her environment. She took a leap of faith and auditioned to be the fourth member of a girl group.

But it's also a nod toward how she adores the simplest things in life. She doesn't need fancy cars or expensive jewelry if she has something handmade with love. If something is made with love, it is the most valuable thing she could ever have.

Songbird! Represented by a singular daffodil. By itself, it can mean misfortune and unrequited love. Ashlynn's past has been paved with violence and mistreatment, but there is a rebirth factor. Daffodils bloom after winter. Although her heart has frozen over to protect herself, a new beginning is blossoming.

Working toward her dream and no longer living with her mother bring about many changes in her life. She makes space for herself in a world where she believes there is no spare for her. Her relationships and bonds reinforce the idea that her past doesn't define her.

Traveling on a Dream! At its core, the Water Lily represents Sarah. She makes the most of her life and sees the world with childlike wonder. Like the flower, she can be considered pure and innocent. The water lily blossoms beautifully from the muddy depths, which could be a nod to how much she thrives in Los Angeles after being isolated in Roxobel, NC, for so long.

10 Things I Hate About You. A flower that blooms in winter symbolizes strength, beauty, pride, love, and sometimes resilience. It's more representative of Marnie herself but pays homage to how stubborn and prideful Drake Parker is or, more so, how prideful they both are.

Unlike most of the other flowers, which are either white or have softer colors, the amaryllis is stark red because of the sheer determination shared between both parties. Marnie is determined to be seen as strong and independent, and Drake is determined to show her that she is worthy of love regardless of what anyone else thinks. It is strong and pushes both of them forward.

[nikrei]

I was gonna make a long post about how much Ronnie's dad sucks but then he died so I was like, hmm, is this in bad taste? But then this happened!!:

(Fury of Firestorm Annual 1)

So now I don't feel bad anymore get fucked asshole.

Edward A Raymond is a Fucking Dick and a Bad Dad, a photo essay:

(FoF 17)

Starting back in the og Firestorm (1978) we learn that Eddie is a) a single father, b) never around, and c) totally impossible to please.

(Firestorm 1, 2)

He's authoritative, doesn't listen, feels bad about his shit afterwards but never changes his behavior. Its to point where Ronnie feels like he's never once made him smile:

(Firestorm 4)

Then in Firestorm 5 we learn that he's hiding something mysterious in his background when his coworkers tell Ronnie that he's only been a reporter for a few years, after he's told Ronnie all his life he's a reporter (technically true as of Fury of Firestorm, he was a reporter when Ronnie was born, but then went into witsec lite. I'm not sure if that was originally the plan for him back in og Firestorm tho).

In the unpublished, non canon issue 6 we get Eddie apologizing and trying to talk it out, only to blow up again when he learns that Ronnie was talking to his coworkers.

He makes zero appearances while Firestorm is a Flash backup feature, so lucky for him has no chance to be a huge disappointment.

Then in Fury of Firestorm he makes a super strong start with this:

(FoF 3)

Just, the added disrespect of doing this in front of Ronnie's friend, add insult to injury.

Ronnie rejoins the basketball team on sufferance and presumably he and his dad avoid each other until we get to:

(FoF 7) (please note the man smiling at his son for the first time while he doesn't know that its his son)

Then, when Ronnie goes to talk to him at work, on professor Steins advise, his dad doesn't even remember that he's on summer break. Then when the building is taken hostage we get this lovely exchange:

(FoF 7)

Your lives are in danger!! And you're sending your kid away over petty grievances?! What the fuck, man. After they do get separated and Ronnie saves the day as Firestorm, Eddie apologizes and promises to talk it out:

(FoF 7)

But man, its not really enough without him actually changing the ways that he behaves.

(FoF 11)

And if his kid is still scared of him by the time school has started up again, he really hasn't changed that much. Ronnie's friend is even shocked to realize that Eddy cares about him at all:

(FoF 13) (and here we see that Eddy has a temper problem with others as well)

And still we see that Eddy doesn't let his kid talk and doesn't listen when he does:

(FoF 15)

And! Then! He let's his kid think he's dead! Goes into witsec without him!! The boy is deffo not 18 yet!! He doesn't even think of the legal limbo that leaves him in (not to mention that Ronnie actually watches "him" get blown up (not that he realizes this cause he doesn't know Ronnie is Firestorm)).

And to make matters worse, the fuckin crime family that blew "Eddy" up deffo know that Ronnie is his kid and start going after him! They're just leaving him in the wind! Out in the open! He's fuckin bait!

Ronnie only finds out that his dad is still alive cause his girlfriend's cop dad starts pressuring people about it, and the Shine boss who's out to get them gets offed!

(FoF Annual 1)

In conclusion this guy is a dick, and even tho he knows he cares about his son, he let's his lingering trauma about his wife's death ruin their relationship. If he can't spend time with his kid, listen to him, treat him gently and be supportive, all his good feelings mean jack shit.

[thoughts-of-caly]

@eightysix-baby i was your hbowar secret santa!! i had a really fun time making your gift as i’d never done an x reader before. i hope you enjoy this spiers x reader fic (you can also find it on ao3 here)! merry christmas!!

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking for. Hours, certainly. You know that you only lasted half an hour before frostbite set in, turning the tips of your fingers and ears the deep icy purple of a bruise. You can still feel that your feet are cold inside your boots, so that must be good.

When you started walking, you could see your breath in plumes in front of you. Now, your breath is dangerously weak, and your eyes are too glazed over to see much of anything.

Your right cheek and arm, as well as that side of your neck, have faded from a roaring, demanding pain to a dull stinging. That might be a good sign, except it could mean more frostbite. What does a combination of second-degree burns and frostbite do to a person’s skin?

You might know the answer to that one if you had been able to afford medical school, but it takes all your effort just to put one foot in front of the other.

When you started walking, you could smell the smoke from the Division Clearing Station. Now, you can only feel the cold.

As a child, you used to joke—bundled up in a scarf, hat, and mittens—that Boston winters were so cold it hurt to breathe.

Bastogne with none of the above is far worse.

When you started walking, you could still hear the screams—real or imagined, you weren’t sure. Now, all you hear is the winter wind trying its best to kill you.

But you will not be killed. Not while the war is still going on. Those deaths have to mean something. Your father, your brothers, and most recently your friends—their deaths will keep fueling you, just like they have for the past three years.

You will keep walking until you are safe behind friendly lines.

Wait. What is that sound?

Surely it can’t be, you think. But it is.

Shells.

Shells whistling through the air, crashing through the trees, detonating with enough force to kill countless men.

And screams—screams, thank God, in English.

“Medic! Help, over here! Medic!”

You stagger forward a few steps, stupidly ignoring the danger, and try to call out. But your throat is dry, your lips are cracked, and no words come.

You can see shadowy figures now, running through the trees. You can only pray that one of them sees you too.

“Hey! Over there, take cover!”

But you can’t move anymore. It seems you are rooted to the spot like one of the trees, about to come crashing down.

The voice, somehow familiar, sounds again. “Get down, soldier!” A figure appears out of the wind-driven snow, grabbing you harshly and dragging you to the ground. A foxhole nearby is waiting, so close you could have fallen in it if you could have moved, as a shell hits inches from where you were standing.

As you fall, you hear a strangled gasp of pain escape your lips—the snow’s rough contact with your burns has torn off whatever scabs you had. When you sit up slowly, blood drips anew down your uniform, sluggishly moving, half-frozen, much like you.

“What the hell were you thinking, Sergeant?” The man who saved your life rubs a hand over his face in exasperation, and you see who he is.

No. Oh, no. Anyone but him. Why couldn’t I have taken a wrong turn somewhere?

You can’t speak for a few more moments, and he hands over his canteen, scowling. The ice inside clunks half-heartedly as you unscrew it, your badly burned right hand trembling.

You grip the canteen tightly anyhow. You will not act like some sniveling idiot. Not in front of Ronnie Spiers.

As soon as you’re done drinking, he takes a look at your face. “Oh, Jesus—” and at the rest of you— “What are you doing here?”

It hurts to open your mouth, but you bite back the searing wave of pain. “Krauts got the 326th. Surely you know that,” you can’t resist adding.

The words bring back the event, scalded into your memory and your flesh. They’d burned the trucks, the tents, everything, and you were wedged between an overturned table and a flaming truck for four minutes and seventeen seconds. You’d counted each one of them, feeling the heat ruin you, before something collapsed and you were free.

“I ran,” you say, remembering the blanket you’d stolen from a corpse and the fear that the Krauts would see you, almost paralyzing.

You don’t look at Spiers. Any pity he feels can’t be real—he didn’t feel any ten years ago when your family was starving and his had just moved into a suburban house with a manicured lawn.

The shellacking outside gradually ceases, and Spiers peers out of the foxhole. “All clear!” he bellows, and men are running again, calling for a medic, screaming, bleeding, dying.

“Come on—” He stops before saying your name. “Come on, Sergeant. We should get you to a medic.”

I am a medic, you idiot, is the first thought that crosses your mind, but a fat lot of good your hands will do anyone now.

You sit in the foxhole, trying to rise, and realize with a shock that your feet have gone entirely numb. Your hands, too—it feels like there’s nothing there, not even pins and needles.

“Come on,” Spiers snaps. “Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?”

You can’t even turn your neck to look at him when you whisper, “I can’t move.”

You feel yourself being pulled upright in the foxhole, boots leaking blood, and close your eyes, too exhausted to tell him not to touch you.

“Medic! Medic!” He calls until his throat is raw—surely because today you are just another paratrooper whose life has been destroyed by the Nazis—but no one comes. “Medic!”

He swears violently, furiously, and this is the Ronnie you remember. There’s the snick of a knife blade, and your tattered right sleeve is slit from shoulder to wrist. You don’t sense the fresh cold; the lack of feeling is terrifying.

You hear sounds of clicking and rustling, and then he says, “This’ll hurt like a bitch,” and something touches your arm softly.

You inhale sharply and grit your teeth to try and escape the pain that’s radiating up and down your arm now. Spiers seems to be doing his best to clean the wound, but he was right. It does hurt like a bitch. But at least you can feel it.

Then he arrives at your neck, and it’s all you can do to keep from howling like a rabid animal. You taste blood in your mouth, but refuse to scream. You’ll sit ramrod straight and bite your tongue off if you have to.

“Stop cr—” he begins, then cuts himself off with a curse.

What kind of person tells an injured woman to stop crying? Ronnie Spiers, that’s who.

But he stopped. He didn’t really tell me, after all.

New blood trickles down your face, warm and alive, mixing with your tears.

Spiers keeps working, muttering to himself. When he stops, your right side is still throbbing. “I don’t have enough bandages for all this,” he grumbles.

“In my pack,” you hiss through gritted teeth. “Left side.” You can only hope they aren’t too badly burned or frozen rock-hard.

You feel his hands struggling to unfasten the pack, but he seems to have gotten the bandages.

You try to open your eyes again, try to tell him what he needs to do, but only hear your breathing becoming slower and shallower.

You are not going to die here. Not after he’s put in all this effort. This attempt at nursing, at least, you can understand about him. And you wouldn’t want your own work to be for nothing.

You try your best to move your hand, even to curl your fingers into a fist in some small act of defiance.

“Stay with me, Sergeant,” Spiers urges, but it’s too easy to slip away. “Come on. Medic!”

As you collapse into nothingness, furious at yourself, you hear a word he hasn’t said in years.

Your first name.

When you feel yourself return to consciousness, the world is considerably warmer. Darker, too; and there’s a lantern lit on the opposite side of the foxhole. If it’s even the same foxhole. It’s really a wonder Spiers didn’t rush you to the hospital.

It takes considerable effort to keep your eyes open, so you close them again and try to take a few deep breaths. You have no idea how long it’s been.

You’re lying on the ground now; the lantern’s light is near your eye level. There’s some kind of blanket covering you—probably the one you took when you fled the wreckage of the 326th.

The next thing you’re aware of is how hungry you are. It’s a feeling with which you’re very familiar, but it never gets less painful.

You try to move, realize someone’s arm is slung across your body, and sit up immediately, barely holding in a small shriek. Your head is spinning now from the sudden movement; you touch your right cheek and feel the bandages there. They’ve been changed recently, and you can feel the wounds scabbing over underneath.

Next to you, Spiers is lying on the bottom of the foxhole.

You can see now that you were actually underneath two blankets, yours and another one.

He stirs, opens his eyes, and says in surprise, “You’re awake.” Is it your imagination, or is there a hint of relief, happiness even, in his voice?

Ridiculous. He’s proved time and again that he couldn’t care less about you.

But then why would he go to all this trouble?

You push the thought to the far back of your mind and say, your voice rusty, “How long has it been?”

“Four days.” This time, his voice does betray him. He had the audacity to be worried about you. “It’s Christmas Eve.”

You don’t say anything, trying to muster up the humility to tell him thank you. It doesn’t seem to be appearing anytime soon.

“You talk in your sleep,” Spiers says, sitting up.

“No, I don’t,” you immediately reply, because you know for a fact that this is false, then realize. “I was delirious? For four days?”

He won’t even meet your eyes in the dim light. “Even if you were delirious, you said some crazy shit.”

A bolt of panic shoots through you at the words. But why should you care if he thinks you hate him? You do hate him.

Don’t you?

“You hate me,” Spiers says. It’s clear he’s had plenty of time to mull this over. “I just saved your life, and you hate me.”

You snort. “Don’t be ridiculous. I hate you for other reasons.”

“I know,” he snaps. “You hold a ten-year grudge.”

You tamp down the feeling of guilt spreading in your chest as you say, “I’m excellent at holding grudges. If I wasn’t, I wouldn’t still be part of this war.”

“You can’t blame me for your brothers’ deaths,” he continues, his mask of tiredness shattering under your resentment. “You can’t blame me for every single thing that’s happened to you since—”

“—Since you looked me in the eyes as my parents starved to death? Since you moved to a nicer house and forgot I wasn’t living anywhere anymore? Since you saw me on the street and asked why I wasn’t in school, when you knew, you knew, exactly what my family was going through and that you were turning a blind eye?” Your voice catches and breaks, hot rage going through your veins.

“You didn’t even deign to give me the price of a newspaper. I saw you walk right by. And you say it’s not fair for me to blame you? If it wasn’t for the contempt people like you showed people like me when the Depression hit—when we lost everything and you didn’t—my brothers would never have joined up. They had marketable skills, dammit. They could’ve made themselves something. They just wanted to eat.”

He sits silently, looking at you for a long time. You see what looks like utter fury seething in his eyes.

Ten years of anger make the air brittle around you. You’re quiet, afraid it will snap, as you whisper, “Well, say something.”

Spiers says nothing, continuing to stare at you darkly.

“Go ahead, dammit. Tell me that I have no right to be angry, that I’m arrogant and spiteful and selfish and cruel. I know you want to say it.”

He keeps looking at you, and you have to turn away, tears burning your eyes. They’re tears of anger, you tell yourself. Because you hate him.

Do you?

You hate something. You have to. Or else what have you been angry at all these years?

“Say something,” you hiss at him. Because you certainly can’t.

And then you barely have time to inhale a gasp as he crosses the space between you and him and kisses you.

You pull away almost instantly, leftover rage still sparking, and just barely keep yourself from slapping him across the face. “You son of a bitch!”

Your words echo in your own head, but Spiers is yet again infuriatingly silent.

The tears won’t be stopped now, and it kills you to realize they aren’t tears of anger.

It isn’t long before you’re sobbing, still desperately trying to keep your bandages clean, and then Spiers does move.

You end up with him beside you, you’re not sure how, and when he reaches out to hold you, you don’t want to protest.

You find some reassuring familiarity in the beat of his heart as your breathing slows to match it.

And, although you can’t bring yourself to say it out loud, when your eyes meet again you can see that Spiers knows what you’re thinking.

I’m sorry.

[sprnklersplashes]

time won't fly (7/?) (ao3)

I should not be left to my own devices

Exactly a week after Jason Dean’s memorial, Veronica begins her day by violently throwing up into her parents’ toilet. Which is already a crap way to start your day, but then she realises she forgot to lock the door. It creaks open, slippers shuffle on the tiles and her morning goes from bad to worse.

“That’s a little over-dramatic, Sawyer,” Heather sighs from the bathtub. “You know most kids would kill for a mom to check on them like this.” 

Veronica lifts her head just slightly, enough to look in Heather’s direction and glare at her through her tangled hair. Had her mom not come in two seconds ago, she could’ve added something else to it.

“Oh, Ronnie,” her mom sighs, oblivious to Heather’s presence. Although the puking has-for now-finished, Veronica keeps her head down. She tightens her grip and stares at a little crack on one of the bathroom tiles. “You’re still not over that stomach bug are you?”

“I’m fine,” she mumbles. She wipes her mouth with her hand before flushing the toilet and pulling herself to her feet. Her legs are unsteady beneath her; matchsticks that could crack at the slightest push. 

As she stands, the colours of the room build and swirl and blend together. They push themselves against her eyeballs, demanding entry, before again muting and settling back on their normal palette. The ringing in her ears copies them; rises up and up and then winds down, fades out like a song on the radio. Inside her mouth, the aftertaste of her vomit lingers, heavy and horrible, dripping down the inside of her cheeks.

“I might make an appointment for you with the doctor,” her mom says. “Just to make sure its nothing serious.” Veronica nods briefly and then staggers over to the sink. There, she slurps some water and rinses it around her mouth. “When did it start again? After the pep rally?”

She spits.

“Sometime around then.” She rinses once again, then smooths her hair and heads for the door. “I have to go. I’m going to be late.”

Not to her surprise but definitely to her annoyance, her mother follows her. 

“Maybe you should take a day off,” her mom says. She comes into her room but keeps a generous distance, as if she’s contagious. Or at risk of exploding.

“I’m fine.” She grabs her bookbag and jacket from her bed. A cough prickles in her throat, but knowing how it would look to her mother, she forces herself to ignore it.

“You’ve thrown up every day this week.”

“And once I get to school, it’s stopped,” she sighs. It’s not entirely true, of course, but it’s close enough. In the grand scheme of things, she’s lied about worse things. “I’ll be fine.”

“Ronnie.” Her mom is standing in the doorway, as formidable as she can be wearing a floral blouse and white slippers. Veronica tightens her grip on her bookbag and wonders if she is really about to stare down her own mother. Her mom, who up until a few weeks ago was bringing celery sticks and hummus up to her room and rearranged her closet while she was at school. Who knew nothing about her life then and knows even less now.

She buttons up her jacket.

“Mom, I’m going.”

“What do you think will happen to you if you miss one day of school?” she asks. Without warning, she steps into Veroncia’s room and cups her cheek. Her palm is cold, and her touch reaches past her skin and squeezes her heart. Veronica tries to hide it, but the shudder passes through her, wrecking her like a tree blown about by the wind. The grip tightens on her chest, her heart beats wildly. Little by little, the world around her begins to lose focus.

Eyes wide, her mom pulls her hand away. Silence hangs in the air between them, uncertain, accusing. An apology sticks in Veronica’s throat. It should take such little effort to put it into the world. But it won’t move.

“I’m going,” she says instead. “I know you don’t want me to, but I’m going.” Then she brushes past her mom and is running down the stairs.

‘What do you think will happen?’ The question lingers and although she could never say it, she has answers. If she doesn’t show up today, Martha will eat lunch alone, circled by vultures who are desperate for afternoon entertainment. Duke will barricade herself in a bathroom stall and force up last night’s dinner. Mcnamara will smile and bat her eyes while hiding a pill bottle in her pocket. And those are the best case scenarios. She needs to be there. Even if its just to hold those three up, she needs to be there.

As for her? She already knows what she’d do if left to her own devices. Early this morning, she sat with her back to the closet door and re-read her diary, from September 1st to last week and back again, searching for something that would make the last few months make sense. Over and over, her bloodshot eyes read those pages until she forgot how to breathe and she once again felt the noose around her neck. Faded pink claw marks linger on her thighs from last night, and if she stays home today, they’ll end up bigger, deeper.

So yes; she’s going. Because it’s a shitty option but loking at what she’s got, its the best thing for everyone. 

“I’m still making you that Doctor’s appointment,” her mom calls after her. Veronica jumps down from the stairs. Heather is already waiting for her at the bottom, her lip curled and her blue eyes raised up to the landing. Veronica keeps her face blank; her teeth grind until pain flashes through her jaw. If Heather picks up on it, she doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking expectantly in her mom’s direction, as though she’s a director waiting for the line that will end the scene.

“Thank you,” Veronica calls up. She raises her eyebrows at Heather, a silent ‘happy now’ thrown her way. Before Heather can react any further, Veronica runs out the door and into the bleak November morning.

Did she mean that sincerely? Probably not. Does she feel like crap about that? Absolutely. But her mom will take it as such, and that is all that should matter.

                                                                      **********

The Doctor’s appointment is on Saturday morning. Her mom told her about it once she got back from school that day. Veronica guesses it had slipped her mind because when her mom opens her curtains at 8:00am, her first words are “Mom what the hell?”. Which is responded to with a chiding “language young lady” before she reminds her the appointment is today. And seemingly to make up for Veronica’s slip of mind, her mom talks about tsaid appointment the whole way there.

“And I was so surprised at how easily we were able to get booked in,” she tells her in the car. “Especially so last minute. Heck, remember when I had that chest infection last winter? I couldn’t get anyone to see me for days.”

Veronica nods and nods, adds “mm-hms” when appropriate and doesn;t mention that it was, at best, a mild cold. Outside, the sky is blanketed by dense, dark clouds, promising rain soon. Stray trash blows around the sidewalk. Her breath fogs up the window, white across grey, until the world beyond is more like a kaleidoscope of dull colours than an actual place.

It’s kind of comforting.

“You feeling okay, Ronnie?” her mom asks. Veronica stiffens, takes a deep breath, pulls her sweater tighter around her. According to the dashboard, her mom has had the heating on the entire time. She is yet to feel anything.

“M’fine,” she mumbles. The lie is potent on her tongue, her lips clumsy when they say it. She settles herself in the seat and forces herself to look ahead. In her periphery, she can see her mom glancing at her.

“Oh honey,” she sighs. “I told you you should’ve stayed off school.”

“I’m fine at school.”

“You’d be more fine if you took a day off. Just look at how pale you are.” The car slows as they come to a red light. “Look hon, I know senior year is a big year for you and you’ve been waiting for this year since you were a kid. But you need to take care of yourself too.”

The first part catches her off-guard. Had she really waited since she was a kid for senior year? Right now, it feels close to impossible to remember anything before JD, when her life turned into a series of near-misses, close calls, unwavering passion and now, this gruelling day-to-day survival. If she looks back, she feels something, a small whisper of excitement, brushing against her fingers like smoke. Maybe she was excited for her senior year at some point, back when she thought high school was where everything would make sense. And then she was 14 and she grew up.

God, if that kid could see how her senior year had turned out, what the hello would she do? What would she tell her? Probably to run away while she’s still able to. Get as far away from the upcoming damage as possible.

None of that, however, is what her mom needs to hear right now, so she folds her arms and digs her nails into her upper arm. 

“I’m fine,” she says again. They’re quiet for the rest of the journey.

                                                                        ******

“I’ll wait out here for you, hon,” her mom says. “Suppose you don’t need your mom coming into the Doctor’s office with you.” Veronica nods in response, seeing nothing untrue in what she said. Then a second passes, and she sees the expectant look on her mom’s face. Behind her, Heather pokes her back, blonde curls bouncing as she nods towards her mom.

“Are you sure you won’t be bored?”

“Oh no,” she replies with a shake of her head. “They’ve got a stack of nice looking magazines over there. Think I’ll have a nice little catch up with the Bratt Pack.”

“How very,” she mumbles, and then the grey-haired secretary points her down the hall and to the left, to the office of Doctor Holly Mason, who opens the door with a bright smile and red-rimmed glasses hanging around her neck.

“Hi, you must be Veronica,” she greets as she lets her in. The office is simple enough-a small room with pale blue walls, equal parts decorated by cliche posters and diagrams of the human body. Holly pats the chair beside the desk. “Take a seat here and we’ll see what’s wrong.”

Entering behind her, Heather jumps up on the table and huffs a laugh. 

“Not unless you’re a psychiatrist, babe.”

And in spite of everything weighing her down, a giggle bursts from Veronica’s throat. Because… well, shit, that was a poor choice of words on Doctor Mason’s part.

Of course, Dr Mason doesn’t get the joke. She eyes her with caution, concern creasing her face, and Veronica clears her throat.

“Sorry.”

“Let’s get started then,” she says. “So, your mother tells me that you’d been nauseous most mornings?” She nods. “And how long has that been going on?”

“A week… ish.” She shrugs. JD’s memorial was a week ago on Tuesday. She’d marked that day on her calendar. “About a week.”

“I see. And your mother says you’d come home injured after a pep rally the Friday before, is that correct?”

“Well, Mommy dearest didn’t hold back, did she?” Heather asks. She’d since strolled around the room and stood behind the doctor, frowning disapprovingly. “Hm. Shame. She could be hot. Anyway.” She lifts her head. Veronica finds Heather’s blue eyes blazing at her, twin daggers flashing. “Go on Sawyer. Tell the lovely Doctor lady how you got hurt.”

Goosebumps rise on Veronica’s arms. She breathes in, then again. Straightens her back. Images flash before her like projector film; the boiler room, the bomb, JD slamming her to the ground. His body, so much smaller than it used to be, int he middle of the football field. The sky looming above her when she was thrown backwards.

“Veronica?”

“There was a gas explosion at the school.” She bites her tongue. Breathe, she tells herself. “I um, I got caught in it. I hurt my ankle, mainly. And my ribs. Sort of.”

“I see,” she says softly. “And how is the pain now?”

“Fine.” Just as she says it, a series of painful flashes flare along her ribs, one after the other. She swallows. “It’s fine.”

“Maybe we’ll get you an x-ray to make sure,” she suggests. “Now, here are the awkward questions I’m afraid.” She chuckled. “Are you sexually active?”

Behind her, Heather gasps and guffaws and laughs like it’s the funniest thing in the whole entire world. She cackles and cackles, until she falls to her knees and her perfect skin is a bright red.

“Oh my God!” she screams. “Oh my fucking God!” She wraps her hands around her middle. “Who’d have thought! Who could’ve guessed that you…” The sentence breaks off into peals of laughter and she is on her back, hand pressed to her mouth, feet drumming on the floor.

“Veronica? If the question is too uncomfortable-”

“No,” she interrupts. Heather squeals again. “I mean it, it is but it’s not… Yes I’ve had sex. With my boyfriend.”

Her first instinct is to thank God her mom is not in the room.

Then she hears what she’s said. That JD was her boyfriend. It’s the first time she’s said it, she realises, but what else would she have called him? He was the boy who made butterflies take off in her belly, the boy whose shoulder was her headrest after a long day, whose arms felt like safety and whose lips felt like home. It almost feels too weak a word, but its the closest thing she has. Regardless, a puzzling cry of false, false, false echoes in her brain.

Eventually, she realises.

“My... my ex-boyfriend.”

Heather pauses her laughing and looks at her. The Doctor nods and notes it on the chart.

“And did you and your boyfriend use protection?”

“Protection?” she repeats. She shakes her head, flexes her fingers. “I was-uh-I am on the pill.”

“And your ex?” she asks. “Did he used a condom?”

“Yeah tell us,” Heather says from the floor. “Did the desperado put his gun in a holster?”

“Oh my fucking God!” she exclaims, cheeks red. “No he did not use a condom!”

And its only when she buries her fingers in her hair and pulls that she realises her mistake. Apparently, the pain makes her think clearly. Her feet are flat against a tiled floor and there’s a buzzing coming from the light and she doesn’t see Heather or anyone else, just Dr Mason who is in real time trying to process the fact that this teenage girl just screamed at her in her office because she tried to do her damn job.

Holy crap. Is she ever going to stop?

The red in her cheeks fades away.

“I’m so sorry,” she says. She tries to breathe, but her chest feels stuffed with cotton. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s all right,” she reassures her. “So. Your ex didn’t use protection?”

“No,” she whispers. “He didn’t.” Dr Mason only nods. Her eyes flick to the door behind her, then to the chart, then to Veronica. Now, with her attention finally wher eit should be, Veronica sees her square her shoulders. Bracing herself. In case Veronica loses it again.

For fuck’s sake she tells herself. Keep. It. Together. Daringly, she glances behind. Heather is gone. She can take this. Whatever it is.

“Veronica?” she begins delicately. “Is there any chance that you could be pregnant?”

Except that.

“Pregnant?” she repeats. “No. No I’m on the pill. And we never… did anything like that.” Liar. She shakes her head again. Her heart grows faster. “No I’m not pregnant.”

“I understand why you feel that is the case,” she explains. “But it can only take one moment. And what you’ve said, nausea in the morning. It sounds like a possibility.”

“I was on the pill,” she says again, and then she flinches. Was. No, is. Right? She took it every morning. This morning? The one before? The one before the party, definitely. 

But-

Then she woke up at JD’s place.

Then Heather died.

Then-

Desperately, Veronica searches for the image of her opening the dresser drawer, tries to conjure the oh-so mundane action of grabbing the sleeve, get a pill out, get water, down it. One move at a time.

Surely, she had to have done it. But she can’t remember.

And as for her and JD. That night after the party wasn’t the only time-

“I’m on the pill,” she says again.

“Well, do you remember roughly the date of your last period?” she asks. Something washes over her, something cold, dragging her down. Its November. November started two, three weeks ago. It happened, of course it happened, it was-no, who remembers the exact date of their period? It happened though. It happened. 

Her fingers curl around the chair. Threads inside her come loose.

“I can’t be pregnant,” she says again. It’s hollow. “I’m not pregnant.”

“I understand this is a distressing idea,” the doctor tells her. Veronica heard it and she nods, but she wants to scream because no, you don’t understand, because she is not pregnant with Jason Dean’s baby. “We can do a quick test to rule it out. To make sure.”

Her first instinct is to tell her no, to jump from this chair, get to the car and just drive. Maybe flatten the hospital on her way out.

Instead, she just nods.

Dr Mason explains the process bit by bit, a strange mix of clinical and comforting. Veronica nods and nods and answers when she needs to. She drinks a juice cup. Dr Mason leads her to a little bathroom and waits while she pees in a cup. She hands it back to Dr Mason, is led back to the office. 

Through it all, Veronica doesn’t feel a thing. Once she agreed to this, she stepped outside her body and stands as a ghostly observer, a spectator who watches another girl’s fucked up life. Not with amusement or horror, but with a detached curiosity.

“Right,” Dr Mason says. “Now, I’ll just get my colleague to run a quick test on this. In the meantime, do you want your mother in here?”

“Absolutely not,” she hears herself say. This time, there’s no follow up; she doesn’t apologise, Dr Mason doesn’t respond. Instead, she opens a little cupboard and hands her a cookie.

“I’ll go and give this to my colleague,” she says again. “And tell your mother that we’re doing a test and we’ll be done soon. Okay?” She smiles. Her voice is higher, her tone more suited to a preschool teacher than a doctor. “I’ll leave the door open. I won’t be long. Will you be okay?”

She forces herself to nod. Doctor Mason smiles and tells her to eat and then she’s gone, urine in hand, door open, the black-and-white tiles of the hallway sitting before her.

Slowly Veronica can feel the clothes over her skin. She pulls apart the cookie in her hand. 

“Well,” Heather sighs. She’s back on the floor, probably gathering all kinds of dirt on her robe. “Preggo huh?”

“I’m not.”

“Something about rivers in Egypt,” Heather sighs. With impeccable grace, she rises from the floor and shakes out her glossy hair. Not a strand is out of place. “Have you thought about what happens if you are though?”

She swallows. An answer appears in her mind, but she pushes it away in a second. Because she won’t do that to her friends, to Martha, to her parents. And because she promised JD she’d stick around.

So Heather doesn’t get an answer. The best she can do is shake her head.

“Shame,” Heather tuts. “You’re smart, Sawyer. Or, you were. Can’t believe you didn’t plan for something like this.”

“Did you ever?” she asks. Goosebumps rise on her arms. Her hands sit limp in her lap. “When you were… like, with Kurt and Ram? Or…” She pulls at her sleeves. “Anyone?”

Heather laughs, a short, bitter-sounding thing.

“Did I never tell you?” she replies dryly. And its that moment, with her knees pulled to her chest and her chin resting atop them, that the Demon Queen of High School looks… well. 17. Like a 17 year old who should be off screwing the entire football team and making sure they have condoms.

Neither of them should be here. Heather has stuff she wanted to do and Veronica should’ve done anything else.

“Don’t fall apart now, Sawyer,” Heather says. She nods at the door. “We’ve got company.”

Veronica looks up and Dr Mason is coming back into the room, a piece of paper held carefully in her hand. She sits up straighter, tightens her shoulders and her jaw and her back, as if screws are wedged in her joints and forcing her to stay together. Her heart stops and starts and stops again. The cookie lies in crumbs on her lap.

God, how long has it been?

“Veronica,” she begins. “We have your results.”

If she’s expecting a reply, she doesn’t get one. From head to toe, her body trembles with the effort from staying in this chair. She thinks she should pray, beg the universe to stop this. She doesn’t.

“Veronica… you're pregnant.”

Silence.

All at once, the air is sucked from the room. The colour goes next, then the warmth. Dr Mason is saying something to her; her lips move but the sound can’t travel and its just meaningless movements. Her rigid joints come loose and float from each other. Her mind is gone too. The Doctor is speaking to a collection of scattered parts, not a person.

Weakly, Veronica presses her hand to her abdomen.

She’s pregnant. With his baby.

Someon speaks beside her.

“Well.” It’s not Heather. Its low, smooth, the unplacable accent curls around the words. “Quelle surprise indeed.”

No. No.

She turns her head. Just a fraction.

Jason Dean is at her side, a grin cutting wickedly across his face, dimples indenting in his cheeks, dark curls falling in front of his face. His eyes glitter.

Veronica stands.

“Maybe I should’ve worn a condom, Ronnie,” he shrugs. “My bad.” He doesn’t look sorry at all. He looks so fucking glad. 

“Veronica?” the doctor asks.

She finds her voice then. It starts as feeble moan, quietly emerging from the back of her throat.

Then, she opens her mouth and starts screaming. 

[mourinhomerchant]

"This is Roni," he said, holding up a gray tabby cat which looked rather displeased with the sudden disruption of its sleep.

"This is Roni," he said, holding up a gray tabby cat which looked rather displeased with the sudden disruption of its sleep.

Reece gushed at the sight of the grumpy feline. "Oh my god, he's adorable! It's nice to meet you Ronnie."

Misha cringed at the mispronunciation of the name, but didn't remark for fear of Reece getting upset with him. "He always attack your flowers, so I keep them on the high shelf." Misha motioned upwards, and Reece's eyes moved up to look at a row of all the bouquets he'd ever gifted the Ukranian, the oldest already looking worse for wear.

"You...keep all of them?" Reece asked, in awe, "I recognize every single bouquet up there."

"Of course I keep," Misha replied, shrugging his shoulders, "Why would I throw away anything you gave me?"

[tomorrowusa]

Former White House doctor Ronny Jackson is now a House member. He takes reliably MAGA positions on issues before Congress. It looks like Jackson may have picked up an aversion to the truth from his former colleague George Santos.

On his congressional website, the Texas Republican describes himself as a “retired U.S. Navy Rear Admiral with nearly three decades of military service.” But that leaves out one big omission—that Jackson was demoted from the senior naval flag rank to captain in July 2022. That move came after the Pentagon inspector general released a scathing report on Jackson’s behavior while serving in Donald Trump’s White House, including that the doctor—who had retired from the Navy in 2019—berated, drank with, and sexually harassed subordinates while serving as the director of the White House medical unit. Jackson was also accused of popping Ambien throughout the workday. Those revelations came with a $15,000 cut in annual pension payouts for a 24-year veteran like Jackson, as well as social stigma within the ranks. “The substantiated allegations in the [Department of Defense inspector general] investigation of Rear [Adm.] (lower half) Ronny Jackson are not in keeping with the standards the Navy requires of its leaders and, as such, the secretary of the Navy took administrative action in July 2022,” Lt. Cmdr. Joe Keiley, a Navy spokesman, told The Washington Post. Jackson casually dismissed the report in his July 2022 memoir, Holding the Line, conveniently skipping over the part where he was formally demoted.

In early 2018 Jackson's bizarrely bullish report about Trump's health made national news.

Dr. Ronny Jackson’s glowing bill of health for Trump

The press briefing he gave at the White House was widely mocked and inspired a sketch on Saturday Night Live.

Two months after that fabulist medical report, Trump tried to appoint Jackson as Secretary of Veterans Affairs to his revolving door cabinet. The move was widely viewed as a reward for services rendered. In April, Jackson was forced to withdraw from consideration. He was too corrupt even for a position in the Trump administration. 😱

Ronny Jackson withdraws as VA secretary nominee

The Jackson scandal is a reminder that we still lack direct credible information on Trump's physical or mental health. Considering that Trump apparently drinks 12 Diet Cokes® a day and is a notorious consumer of junk food, the true state of his health is probably far worse than what Dr. Jackson or Trump's self-reporting reveal.

[theserpentsadvocate]

On Names

So I try to post (work of some kind) on my days off + stats, and it's BC Day, but I didn't quite manage to crank out a chapter of Satisfaction in time (I did write 5K today, though - I cannot wait until I can quit my second job and write fanfic on the weekend), so here is a rant/meta I did about my pet peeves on names in fic, and how this applies to Veronica Mars specifically. (I started with a wide net, but the main focus ended up there because of course it did.)

Fanfiction peeve of the day –

Please, I am begging you, pay attention to names in canon! It’s so glaring when people get it wrong, but it’s so common and I don’t understand!

If two characters have any kind of important relationship in canon and we see them interact more than once or twice, we know what they call each other. Do not deviate from that to be cute, or to emphasize a character’s accent. (Cordelia’s nickname is Cordy. Doyle calls her Cordy. He also calls her Cordelia. He should not be calling her ‘Delia’ just because he’s Irish.) Do not randomly switch a character’s nickname to a different nickname for no reason, or so that their love interest is calling them something special! (Shortened nicknames are not a thing in Middle-earth unless you are a hobbit. Unless you feel qualified enough with Sindarin (usually) name construction to have someone give their friend or spouse an epessë like ‘Tinúviel’, that person should be using their full name. Yes, even if it’s three syllables. Spare me from this ‘Fara’ nonsense – Eowyn would call him ‘Faramir’. Yes, always.) Do not assign a character who doesn’t use nicknames a nickname they never use in canon just because you can’t imagine intimacy coexisting with a long name, or a standard one! (Hermione goes by Hermione. She takes pains to get Viktor Krum to say her full name, even if she tolerates a bit of mispronunciation. She is not ever called Mione.) If someone threw out a one-off joke nickname for someone, for the love of Dante, do not start using it as a regular form of address!

And for the love of god, pay attention to the context in which people use nicknames! I am running across this willy-nilly in the Veronica Mars fandom right now, so, for my sanity:

Veronica:

I am reading an otherwise mostly-good fanfic right now where Logan keeps calling Veronica ‘Ronica’ and it’s driving me up the wall. No one has ever called her ‘Ronica’ in the history of ever, and it’s not even a standard nickname for Veronica, so it’s even worse. (This is extra annoying to me because I happen to think ‘Ronica’ is an exceptionally stupid nickname (although it would actually be fine as a name in its own right), but YMMV.)

Veronica typically doesn’t use nicknames, she doesn’t introduce herself with nicknames, she’s comfortable with her full name. Her dad (nor her mom for that matter) never calls her anything but ‘Veronica’ (or ‘honey’). Her two long-term boyfriends only ever call her Veronica (with one exception that I will Get Into below). Cliff, Wallace, and especially Weevil have been known to call her ‘V’* on occasion, which is a sign that they have relatively close relationships to her that also have a strong element of casualness or flippancy (notably, during Season Four, when they are not close, Weevil only ever calls her ‘Veronica’). Lilly, who was exceptionally close to her, lengthens her name as a nickname/form of endearment, calling her ‘Veronica Mars’ pretty often.

Logan does call her ‘Ronnie’ in early Season One. This is extremely obviously him being an asshole; he’s addressing her by a diminutive she doesn’t use to emphasize that they’re no longer friends and because doing so is inherently demeaning (imagine if you have a Michael who goes by Michael (or even Mike) and you suddenly start calling him ‘Mikey’ – it’s rude and dismissive). No one ever calls her that except him and Dick, and once Logan and Veronica are back on good terms, no one calls her that except Dick, who is doing it to be irreverent and disrespectful. It is objectively incorrect for her friends and/or boyfriend to be calling her ‘Ronnie’ and utterly bizarre for the narration to be referring to her that way.

*I feel strongly that it should be ‘V’ and not ‘Vee’ because it’s not short for a name that starts with a ‘vee’ sound (e.g., if her name was Vianne or Vita I might feel differently), it’s the actual letter V that her name starts with, but I acknowledge that that’s subjective.

Also, Felix referred to her as ‘blondie’ one time, dismissively, to Weevil – ‘Blondie’ is not his nickname for her! Wallace, insomuch as he has a nickname for her, calls her ‘V’, although he sticks with ‘Veronica’ most of the time; ‘SupaFly’ was a one-off joke and he should not be calling her that on the regular any more than she should be calling him ‘Sodapop’* just because she made an Outsiders reference in the pilot.

*And on that note, it’s ‘Sodapop’ because that’s the name of a character from The Outsiders, not ‘soda pop’ like the drink.

Logan:

I am begging you, Weevil called Logan ‘Opie’ one time. It was a generic insult, not a nickname. Even in an AU where they’re somehow bros, it is not something he would be calling him on a regular basis! (Conversely, Logan should not be calling him ‘Paco’ for the same reason, and also because it’s racist so that’s even worse!)

Weevil:

Authority figures (Keith, various teachers, Cliff when representing him in court, etc.) typically call Weevil ‘Eli’; his friends, particularly the PCHers, call him ‘Weevil’ pretty much exclusively (except for Veronica), and his family seems to waver between the two with a preference for his actual name – his grandmother calls him both ‘Eli’ and ‘Weevil’ when she’s talking about him, but sadly we don’t get enough scenes with her to know what’s more common (the only time we hear her actually address him she calls him ‘m’ijo’), Chardo usually calls him ‘Weevil’ but switches to ‘Eli’ when he’s making an emotional appeal, Claudia appears to exclusively call him ‘Eli’. (Context makes it pretty clear that Jade calls him ‘Eli’ as well, which is unsurprising.) We never hear Ophelia call him anything, but he refers to himself as ‘Uncle Eli’ when talking to her.

Veronica only ever calls him Weevil when she’s talking to him, notably, although she does use his real name on occasion when she’s talking about him – to her criminology class, when representing herself as his PI in ‘Weevils Wobble But They Don’t Fall Down’, and to Jade (even correcting herself from ‘Weevil’) in Mr. Kiss And Tell. (Interestingly, she’s more likely to use his full name than just his legal first name – she calls him ‘Eli Navarro’ several times, but almost never uses just ‘Eli’. She’s also probably the only person to call him ‘Weevil Navarro’*, presumably because in that instance she’s talking to him.)

*although Cliff does call him ‘Eli ‘Weevil’ Navarro’ on one occasion, complete with audible quotation marks

The point is, Weevil does get called both, and there’s some leeway for things to change a bit as relationships change – it’s not necessarily out of character, for instance, for Veronica to start addressing him as ‘Eli’ if they’ve started dating, or if it’s a fic (particularly an AU) set around the time of the novels – but it shouldn’t come from nowhere, and it shouldn’t be arbitrary. Keith wouldn’t be addressing him as ‘Weevil’, and Felix and Hector wouldn’t be calling him ‘Eli’ (unless maybe he’s secretly dating one of them it’s Felix and they’re in private). [Writing that sentence made me low-key start shipping him with Hector – why do I do this to myself?]

What he should not be getting called is ‘Weevs’, which is right in the midpoint between ‘Ronnie’ and ‘Opie’. Yes, Logan called him that once or twice (keywords once or twice) – in the exact same context that he called Veronica ‘Ronnie’, which is to say, as a mocking diminutive. It should not be serving as a general nickname even when Weevil and Logan are antagonistic, and it should definitely never be something that Hector or Veronica calls him! (And yes, I have seen both.)

And since I’m already aggravated – while I’m on the subject ‘Eli’ is a name unto itself. There’s a subset of fandom that seems strangely convinced it’s short for ‘Elias’ or ‘Elijah’ and… no. It’s not.

[how-very-salty]

anxiety

very short oneshot that I write last night. kind of vent, i think

JD lay awake staring at the hole in the ceiling that was slowly spreading. At first it was just a small black dot on the perfectly smooth whitewash. Then it burst open with a loud crack, shooting thin protrusions out to the sides. This sound echoed in his ribs with a dull, aching pain. Without taking his eyes off the ceiling, he rubbed his chest with his hand. It wasn't getting any easier. The cracks were getting bigger. They spread further and further until they reached the walls. The room was silent for a moment, and then there was the loud crunch of the wallpaper tearing, and the cracks crept down. How long would it be before they reached the bed? The hole in the ceiling grew wider and wider, and JD couldn't take his eyes off the gaping void inside. It was like a void throbbing beneath his ribs. It was greedily devouring every thought, every feeling, every word that carelessly formed in his tired mind. And with each new crack in the ceiling, his own emptiness grew more insatiable. It took even the smallest crumbs of warmth from him. The only thing the emptiness left him with was loneliness. But JD couldn't feel anything: no sadness, no anger.  The emptiness swallowed everything.  He wasn't really alone - Veronica slept beside him. He could reach out and touch her... but JD kept watching the ceiling collapse in on itself, disappearing into a greedy black hole. It wouldn't be long before it erased him from the world. Without a trace. Though his own emptiness would be the first to destroy him. It was as if it had already devoured the world and now it threatened to crush him under its weight before devouring him alive. JD rubbed his chest with his knuckles. The pain was getting worse and his heart was suddenly out of rhythm. Cracks had already crept into the floor and it began to crumble with a faint rustling sound.  A small sigh sounded nearby and the sheets rustled. Veronica stirred restlessly and rolled over to face him. Without waking, she pressed herself against his shoulder and whimpered pitifully. It seemed she had a bad dream ... With an effort of will, JD turned to her and pulled her closer, hugging her gently. She was terribly hot, or was he freezing? Awake for a moment, Ronnie lifted her head and smiled weakly. He brushed a strand of hair from her cheek and tucked it behind her ear. She giggled sleepily, rubbed her lips against his palm, and the hole in his chest began to close slowly, startled. 

...but it never completely disappeared, remaining a small black dot somewhere on the white surface of his ribs.

[therecordconnection]

Playlist: The Record Connection's Top Thirty Hit Songs of 1981

(Bear with me, gonna try something new here.)

Playlist Cover Border Created By: @ohmarigold, Font provided by: https://www.fontspace.com/las-enter-font-f19041

The Record Connection's Top Thirty Hit Songs of 1981

Playlist Description: "Exploring the strange year of 1981 by choosing 30 of the best representatives from Billboard's Year-End Hot 100 Singles of 1981"

Track Listing:

"(Just Like) Starting Over" - John Lennon

"I'm Coming Out" - Diana Ross

"Another One Bites the Dust" - Queen

"Sukiyaki" - A Taste of Honey

"Together" - Tierra

"(There's) No Gettin' Over Me" - Ronnie Milsap

"Queen of Hearts" - Juice Newton

"9 to 5" - Dolly Parton

"Suddenly" - Olivia Newton-John & Cliff Richard

"Guilty" - Barbra Streisand & Barry Gibb

"Just the Two of Us" - Grover Washington, Jr. & Bill Withers

"A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)" - Ray Parker Jr. & Raydio

"Lady (You Bring Me Up)" - Commodores

"Celebration" - Kool & the Gang

"Don't Stand So Close to Me" - The Police

"Urgent" - Foreigner

"Take It On the Run" - REO Speedwagon

"Too Much Time on My Hands" - Styx

"Miss Sun" - Boz Scaggs

"Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)" - Christopher Cross

"Hey Nineteen" - Steely Dan

"Tell It Like It Is" - Heart

"Boy From New York City" - The Manhattan Transfer

"Hungry Heart" - Bruce Springsteen

"Hold On Tight" - Electric Light Orchestra

"Kiss On My List" - Daryl Hall & John Oates

"Jessie's Girl" - Rick Springfield

"Time" - The Alan Parsons Project

"For Your Eyes Only" - Sheena Easton

"The Winner Takes It All" - ABBA

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A Few Words About 1981

Time, Electric Light Orchestra's 1981 science-fiction concept album tells the story of a man who is transported to the far distant future of 2095. The album explores his homesickness while observing the many ways the world has changed around him. During "The Way Life's Meant to Be," bandleader Jeff Lynne sings, "I wish I was back in 1981." Lynne has never explained why he chose to use the year the album was made as the year the time traveler comes from (probably just convenience), but I've always found that yearning to return to 1981 in particular to be funny, because if people had a time machine to go back to the eighties, I highly doubt anybody would pick 1981.

For a long time, I've loved looking through Billboard's Year-End Hot 100 singles list for [insert year]. I think it's really fun to look through them and often times you can really get a good idea of what was insanely popular during a given year. Lots of stuff gets big or falls through the cracks in a given year, but this one is the stuff that everybody vibed with (or got utterly annoyed with).

1981 is a weird one. 1980 is considered a much worse year (a lot of really boring, nothing ballads got super big that year) but '81 isn't the winner that the '83-'85 years are considered. When people (over)romanticize the eighties, they're mostly going crazy about that chunk of the decade and 1987. The early eighties have no idea what the hell they're going to be yet. Then again, no decade ever knows what it's gonna be right out the gate. I think people tend to have this idea that the ball dropped on December 31st, 1979 and suddenly it was THE EIGHTIES! It doesn't work that way. Often times, the first two years of a decade are strange and they serve as a transition point.

1981 is definitely a transitional year. It's one of my favorite years in music due to just being an oddball time. Lot of strange new wave stuff was slowly crossing over, arena rock bands were really ramping up and beginning their reign, early eighties R&B was starting to find its groove, and more. The Hot 100 list doesn't reflect most of what was happening. It rarely does, but it is a really good starting point when trying to figure out what some of the biggest stuff was for a good chunk of the year. If you ask me, the eighties don't become the decade everybody loves until Duran Duran releases Rio and Michael Jackson makes the video for "Thriller." You can start to see the beginnings of what the eighties will become with 1981, but it's also not quite there yet.

So, this playlist explores that Year-End singles list and attempts to give a good overview of what was going on at that time. I listened to all one-hundred songs and cut it down to the best thirty. It was originally going to be twenty, but I found that I liked too much of the list to limit it that small. These songs are not arranged from #30 to #1, rather they're arranged in a way that highlights connections between certain songs, common themes, and hopefully ends up highlighting all the different musical worlds that were enjoying success during the year.

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Some Words Regarding The Process Behind This Track Listing

There were three John Lennon hits that year, which is fitting, considering he was killed in December, 1980 and everybody was still shaken about it for most of '81. I picked "(Just Like) Starting Over" as the representative, since I think it's tragically ironic and also reflective of why people were so upset about Lennon's murder. (Note: For the curious, "Woman" and "Watching the Wheels" were the other two hits that got big from Double Fantasy).

After Lennon, the next four songs highlight the last of the disco refugees (Diana Ross, Queen, and A Taste of Honey) and the final whispers of the previous decade (Tierra). "I'm Coming Out," "Another One Bites the Dust," and "Sukiyaki" are the songs that are just on the cusp of being eighties funk, but they're still clinging to disco in a lot of ways. "Together" by Tierra sounds has all the sonic hallmarks of a seventies one-hit wonder... but somehow came out in 1980. That's what I mean when I say that you can hear those final whispers of the previous decade.

There was a good deal of country crossover on the list. Not a lot of it survived the cut for me, mostly because a lot of it is corny and lame in a bad way. Kenny Rogers had three soft ballads get big in 1981 and I dislike all of them. Unless names like Eddie Rabbitt, Terri Gibbs, or Rosanne Cash mean anything to you, I don't think you'll be upset. Personally, I'm a much bigger fan of country in the nineties. The very best of the country crossovers are represented here. I went with Ronnie Milsap's "(There's) No Gettin' Over Me," Juice Newton's cover of "Queen of Hearts," ("Angel of the Morning" almost beat it, but I think this one is more fun) and finally, "9 to 5" by Dolly Parton. The three country songs here are light and super fun and I think represent that the country music world was having fun during the start of the decade and finding crossover appeal with the masses beyond Nashville.

After our journey to country, we explore some of the team-ups that got big during the year. "Suddenly" (a great love song from the not-so-great movie Xanadu) sees Olivia Newton-John and Cliff Richard together, "Guilty" sees Barbra Streisand and Bee Gee Barry Gibb at their best, and Bill Withers lends his vocals to an all-time classic Grover Washington, Jr. cut ("Just the Two of Us").

Ray Parker Jr. (still with his band Raydio) shows us some early eighties R&B magic and good advice with "A Woman Needs Love (Just Like You Do)" and the Commodores and Kool & the Gang bring the funk and the party with the classics "Lady (You Bring Me Up)" and "Celebration" (the definitive party song to end all party songs). These songs are missing the disco elements that were still found with Diana, Queen, and A Taste of Honey and represent the direction funk music was heading in. Lionel Richie would pivot away from the funk as the decade went on, but the funk was just getting started for Kool & the Gang.

After the funk, we take a look at what arena rock bands were doing. In 1981, they were worried about romantic relationships. "Don't Stand So Close to Me" finds a teacher being in a secret relationship with a young student and worried about people finding out. "Urgent" finds Foreigner in panic mode. The narrator is worried that his love is being taken advantage of and only used for one night stands. REO Speedwagon enters into the frame, worried that a certain someone has been doing some cheating (though they heard this from a friend who heard it from a friend who heard it from another...) Styx lightens things up by having fun and goofing around while Tommy Shaw laments that he has "Too Much Time On My Hands." These four bands are good indicators of where rock was heading in a world where a lot of the seventies rock giants were beginning to find themselves in unknown waters.

Speaking of unknown waters, Yacht Rock was still sailing the seas in the early eighties and three representatives are found here. Cool cat Boz Scaggs sings a groovy song for "Miss Sun," Christopher Cross sings about the movie Arthur and tells you the best thing you can do when you're caught between the moon and New York City in "Arthur's Theme (Best That You Can Do)," and Steely Dan tells the tale of pathetic older dude pining for the past and finding it hard to relate to a nineteen year old girl he's trying to pick up in "Hey Nineteen." These three represent the smooth cool cats that weren't pop, but weren't rolling with the arena rock of the moment either.

Speaking of pining for the past, 1981 was a year where some bands and artists gave us some throwbacks and tried to capture that old rockabilly jukebox sound that Lennon was doing at the start of the playlist. Heart provides a wonderful cover of the 1966 Aaron Neville classic "Tell It Like It Is" and The Manhattan Transfer present a lovable and fun little cover of the 1964 Ad Libs song "Boy From New York City." Bruce Springsteen gets in on the throwback fun with the awesome "Hungry Heart," and Electric Light Orchestra lead us into the future while still writing a love letter to the past with "Hold On Tight." These songs all have the common thread of "everything old becomes new again" and are the earliest examples of the eighties bringing the sixties back to life and turning it into something brand new.

The last five songs presented have no unifying theme, they just ended up being my five favorite songs on the list. "Kiss on My List" and "Jessie's Girl" are both fan-fucking-tastic songs and show how good both Hall & Oates and Rick Springfield were as songwriters. I never get sick of those songs. "Time" by The Alan Parsons Project is my favorite ballad on the list. Vocalist Eric Woolfson had this whisper like quality to his delivery that nobody else had. The entire song is just this beautiful, melancholic, transcendent song. The whole thing feels like it's floating. It sounds the way that the bright stars at night look. Just wonderful.

The final two songs feature fantastic performances from two dynamite women. Sheena Easton's "For Your Eyes Only" is my second favorite Bond theme ("Nobody Does It Better" beats it) and "The Winner Takes It All" is the greatest song ABBA ever laid to tape. Both are these sweeping pop masterpieces and Sheena and Agnetha Fältskog deliver some of the finest performances of their careers on them. You feel every emotion and every detail is done so incredibly well. I'm hopeful that you'll find the playlist ends on a high note!

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(Thank you for indulging in this little experiment. :) Making playlists is a lot fun and I'd love to make this a semi-regular thing if there's an interest for it. So let me know your thoughts and opinions if you have them! I would love to hear from you! Thank you.)

[spookychick78]

End Of The Line

Chapter 12: Blue Eyes Crying In The Rain

Thomas Hewitt X AFAB!OC

Warnings: Cannibalism, forced cannibalism, violence. This chapter is pretty heavy, so beware.

Word Count: 3,391

Sleep didn't come easy for Ronnie that night. The echo of the shotgun and that man's eyes came for her each time she shut her own. How could she sleep with such guilt weighing heavy on her head? She wondered if he was still down there in that chair unmoving, stiff, or worse. She wondered if they'd taken him to the basement where she should have ended up when she first passed through the front door. He had taken her place. She knew nothing of him, but their stories had been the same. He had taken the same road she had, he was going somewhere, only he ran into her, not Thomas. Ronnie had been the one who led him right into their trap, she had played into their game, whether she meant to or not. Only, unlike Ronnie, maybe he had a family, a wife who would wake tomorrow and the days that followed to an empty space beside her. Those eyes she kept seeing belonged to someone's son, brother, husband, father and his blood was on her hands. She may not have pulled the trigger, but she put him in front of the gun. She put him face to face with death because she wanted to live and he paid the price.

She sat up and peered over the edge of the bed to see Thomas was fast asleep. She had given up on getting any of her own at that point, so she quietly let her bare feet fall to the floor. She kept a close eye on him as she silently turned the doorknob. Once the door was opened, she stuck her head out to make sure the rest of the family was asleep. The silence that hung about the old house reassured her that they were, so she crept down the stairs. Her body felt heavy as fear weighed down each step she took towards the dining room. She had to see if they'd left him in that chair. As she rounded the corner she saw it was empty in its spot at the head of the table. The moonlight from the windows made the blood stains he'd left behind just barely visible. She made her way over to it and let her hand rest on the wood. Luda had done her best to clean the blood, but she could see where it had sunk in deep to leave a reminder of what they'd done. Of what Ronnie had done. Had she just accepted her fate, he wouldn't have met his there. He would never have had that expression that haunted her so on his face. She had never seen such terror in someone's eyes before as he begged death himself for mercy. It sent a chill racing through her bones because in watching his death, she feared she saw her own. She not only saw it in the stranger's eyes, she saw it in Hoyt's. That man was just a placeholder for who he really wanted to shoot. His blood would satisfy death for now, but it was her's he'd aimed to spill. She had taken Thomas' loyalty for her own without even knowing it and she knew sooner or later she would pay.

She heard the floorboards creak behind her and she held her breath until she felt a familiar hand on her shoulder. She let out a ragged sigh as she tried to tear her eyes away from the empty chair.

"I couldn't sleep," she whispered.

He knew she couldn't, he hadn't expected her to. Death was a way of life there, but he remembered well what it took from him the first time he'd seen it up close. After so much, he'd been left almost completely numb to it, but the cuts it left were deep. His had long since scarred over, as would her's with time, but the scars would remain until they both met their own end.

She turned to face him, "Will I ever?"

Sleep would find her again, but not easily, not for sometime. He could see she was in desperate need of it, though. He gave her a nod before he took her hand in his to lead her back upstairs. She reluctantly let him pull her away from the table. Just before they reached the bottom of the stairs her eyes landed on the basement door. She felt sick just looking at it. She knew he was down there, she could feel it. Thomas felt her stop and turned to catch her staring at the metal door. He felt a pit in his stomach the longer her eyes lingered there. He knew he couldn't hide it from her forever, but seeing what was down there, especially that night, would break her in ways she wasn't ready for. No, she was too fragile in that moment. Any forgiveness she might have found for him would die down there. He squeezed her hand and she turned to face him. He shook his head at her and silently begged her to tame that growing curiosity within her. Ronnie was frightened enough to ignore her desire for further knowledge for now, but her eyes kept wandering in its direction the whole walk up the stairs.

They entered their bedroom and went to their separate resting places. As she stared up at the ceiling she wondered how many hours it would be until the sun rose. The darkness was doing her no favors as she resumed her struggle to find sleep. She knew he must have been doing the same as she listened to him try to find comfort on the wooden floor. She shut her eyes only to find that man waiting for her once more, only this time he was in that basement. She felt tears stinging her tired eyes.

"Thomas," she said quietly into the darkness.

He turned his head towards the bed and waited for her to continue. It was a long while until she did as if what she was about to say was something she wasn't yet sure of.

"I can't lay here alone tonight," she whispered.

He knew she shouldn't want that. His own hands had dealt worse than what she'd seen Hoyt do. He was keeping secrets that would hurt her far worse than she knew. He felt more guilt than ever that she had no choice but to ask a monster to lie next to her to ease her mind. But he wanted to. He wanted to badly.

"Please," he heard her say under her breath.

She felt his weight sink the spot on the bed beside her. Though it was hotter than ever in that room, she was surprisingly cold. Her hand rested on his chest and stung his skin through the thin cloth of his shirt. He could feel her tears on his shoulder where she buried her face. He wanted so badly to offer her relief from the pain she felt, but he was so out of his element. She was something so different than anything he'd ever experienced. For anyone else here, she was unbreakable, but for some reason she trusted him enough to let him see her come apart. He wasn't sure what he was doing to earn more of her, but he had every intention to keep doing it. To know he was what she needed, even if it was just for that moment, made him feel something he wasn't sure he'd ever truly felt before. He felt warm. He stayed awake until he heard her soft snores in his ear. Once she was still, he let his hand rest on top of her's.

Hunger woke her earlier than she hoped. She winced as her stomach tightened in on itself with an angry growl. Other than the scraps here and there that Luda had offered her, food wasn't something she'd had in what felt like ages. Though this morning, her hunger felt the worst it had been since she got there. She lifted her head off of Thomas' shoulder and realized it was due to the smell wafting up the stairs. She breathed in and a mixture of seasonings filled her nostrils, which drew another growl out of her empty stomach. A wave of relief had just started to wash over her until it was stopped short by a horrifying realization. The man from the night before. She suddenly felt overcome with nausea and hopped up from the bed. Thomas woke to find her heaving. He sat up, concerned, then he smelled it too. He was just as hungry as she was, but he had a feeling he wouldn't be partaking in the day's meal. If he wanted to keep her trust, he couldn't. Ronnie stood back up and he could see she was back to her stubborn self from the look in her eyes.

"I know you're just as hungry as I am, but Thomas," she said as she shook her head, "this is wrong. We can't."

He silently agreed with her as he got out of the bed. He was well aware going down there and refusing the food that was made would only cause more tension between the two of them and Hoyt. Then again at this point, what didn't. He had a feeling Hoyt was beginning to realize his plan to force Thomas into a life of misery with this woman had gone more than awry. She was changing him and quickly. The more he saw of that, the worse he would become. He hoped Ronnie could handle it as well as he could, because it wasn't going to be easy. Hoyt ruled this roost. He had a way of doing things and he didn't like to be challenged.

Before he opened the door, Ronnie grabbed his arm, "I don't wanna go down there," she said as she held her nose to keep the sickly sweet smell of that meat out.

He took her hand in his and squeezed. They couldn't stay up there, it would only disrupt things further, but he'd be right beside her. She let out a frustrated sigh and relented. She followed him down the stairs and the smell only got more intense. He could feel her dragging her feet behind him the closer they got to the kitchen. Mama was setting the table in the dining room when they walked in. Thomas did his best not to allow himself to look at the full plate she set down at his usual spot. This time it was Ronnie who squeezed his hand to remind him not to give in.

"Glad y'all are up, I just finished cookin'," Mama said as she motioned for him to take a seat.

He heard Hoyt's footsteps behind them and didn't have to look to know he was leaning in the doorway, watching. Thomas gave his Mama a pained expression, he knew she wouldn't quite understand why he would refuse the meal she had prepared.

"I know you ain't tellin' me you're not hungry, Thomas," Mama responded, concerned.

"He's not," Ronnie cut in as she folded her arms, "neither am I."

"Bullshit," Hoyt said as he walked past them.

He had a plate in his hand that he set at the head of the table, right where blood from the night before stained the spot underneath it. He looked right at Ronnie with a grin.

"Sit down," he ordered the two of them, "and eat."

"I ain't eatin' that," Ronnie said as she glared at Hoyt through darkened eyes.

He clenched his jaw before he took a few painfully slow steps towards her. Thomas tensed as Hoyt got close enough so that he was almost touching her. Ronnie refused to back down as she craned her neck up to hold his unsettling gaze.

"Hoyt," Mama said sharply, "they'll eat if they're hungry enough."

Hoyt lingered a moment more before he scoffed and went to take his seat.

"Why don't you both just sit for awhile," Mama said in an attempt to break the tension.

Thomas looked to Ronnie who reluctantly nodded her head. Hoyt watched the exchange and shook his head.

"You're so whipped, boy and you ain't even gotten any," he muttered.

Mama shot him a disapproving look as Thomas walked towards the head of the table.

"No," Hoyt said before he could sit down, "she's sittin' there today."

Ronnie briefly imagined breaking that damn plate over his ugly head as he waited for her to move. She could tell he wanted her to protest, but she wouldn't give in, not just yet.

"Hoyt," Mama said again, agitated this time.

"No," Ronnie said firmly, "it's fine. I'll sit."

She marched over to the chair and sat in it. She kept her eyes forward to ignore the deep red stains on the wood. She was glad to see that grin didn't spread across his face this time. He only glared back at her until Luda instructed him to say grace. He pushed his seat back and stood to bow his head.

"Lord, we bow our heads in prayer to thank you for providing food when we were hungry. We especially want to thank you for Ronnie," he said.

Ronnie cut her eyes up to him. She knew she wasn't going to like where he was going with this.

"She proved she may be quite the provider herself by bringin' us the biggest meal we've had in ages," he continued.

Ronnie felt her stomach turn as he opened his eyes to study the sickened expression on her face with satisfaction. She silently hated the victory he'd achieved by playing on her guilt.

"We sure are thankful for her, lord. Amen," he finished before he took his seat again.

He kept his eyes on her as he tore into the meat in front of him. She had to look away, she'd never seen something so vile.

"God, that's good," Hoyt said with a full mouth, "he had enough meat on him to last a good few weeks, don't you think, Mama?"

Luda and Monty hummed in satisfied agreement as they too helped themselves to large forkfuls of the poor man. Thomas couldn't look either, he was so hungry, but he was determined not to let it show. It hadn't bothered him like this in awhile, but watching them eat with a full plate in front of him when he hadn't eaten in ages was more than painful. The worst part was not knowing when either of them would get the chance to eat something again. If she hadn't realized by now that food, especially anything other than what the rest of his family was eating, was a rarity around here she was about to find out the hard way. If he wanted a happy wife, he knew he'd have to be right there with her, starving. He wasn't quite sure what Hoyt had meant by saying he was 'whipped', but he reckoned he probably wasn't wrong, cause he'd starve with her if that's what she wanted.

Hoyt finished his plate and leaned back in his chair. He curled his lip as he looked at the untouched food in front of Thomas and Ronnie.

"It'd be a shame if you two dumb asses let that go to waste, 'specially after Mama spent all mornin' slavin' over it for you," he said as he eyed Thomas specifically, "and you don't wanna hurt Mama's feelin's do you, Tommy?"

Thomas could feel his gaze heavy on him, but he refused to look up. He heard him shove his chair back to walk around the table to him. He rested his hands on his shoulders before he began to speak again.

"One bite ain't gonna kill you now, is it?" He said smugly.

"He doesn't want it," Ronnie said sharply.

Hoyt looked right at her as he leaned down to whisper in Thomas' ear, "What's she gonna do about it, boy? Not like got somethin' to lose, we all know she ain't fuckin' you."

"Hoyt," Luda snapped.

"If they ain't gonna eat it, hand it over," Monty said through his already full mouth.

"No," Hoyt said as he moved from Thomas to Ronnie, "they're gonna eat it."

He stood behind her and grabbed her jaw. Thomas quickly pushed himself up from his chair, but Hoyt stopped him where he stood.

"You sit the fuck down or I'll break her damn neck," Hoyt said as he eyed Thomas.

Thomas looked at her frightened eyes, but he did as he asked. He knew he meant what he said and he wouldn't have time to stop him if he tried. He had no choice but to listen. Hoyt tore off a piece of the meat on Ronnie's plate and brought it to her. She did her best to keep her mouth shut, but he dug his fingers through her lips so forcefully that she couldn't. She screamed in protest, but she was helpless to stop him just as Thomas was.

"You'll thank me later, girl," Hoyt muttered as he shoved the meat in her mouth, "now chew."

Tears streamed down her face as she shook her head no, but Hoyt wouldn't budge. He took her jaw and forced her to chew.

"If you don't swallow it, I'll push it down your damn throat myself," he said through gritted teeth.

"Hoyt, stop it," Luda finally chimed in, though her voice wasn't as sturdy as it usually was. It sounded shaky as if she was just as frightened to challenge him as Thomas and Ronnie were.

"Hush up, Mama. I'm teachin' her a lesson," he said with a grin as he watched Ronnie swallow the food, "you don't bite the hand that feeds."

He looked over to Thomas who had his fists clenched, "Same goes for you, boy. Wipe that damn look off your face and eat or she ain't leavin' this table breathin'."

He looked to Ronnie once again. It broke his heart to see her relent this time. She nodded as much as Hoyt's grip would allow and Thomas ate as fast as he could.

"That's right. Clean the damn plate," Hoyt said smugly before he ripped his hand from Ronnie's face, "fuckin' ingrates."

Ronnie stood quickly and ran out of the room with tears rolling down her face. Hoyt went to follow her, but Mama was quick to stop him.

"That's enough. You let her be," she said sternly with a disgusted expression on her face, "Thomas, honey, you go to her. Make sure she's alright."

"Go on to your master, boy," Hoyt muttered as he watched Thomas with a wicked grin.

Thomas clenched his fists tighter than ever. He'd never wanted to lay a hand on him more than he did in that moment. He left the room without so much as a glance in his direction. He couldn't stand to see him look so pleased with himself after what he'd just done to her.

"What is wrong with you?" He heard Mama say to Hoyt as he exited the room.

He found Ronnie in the bathroom forcing her fingers down her throat. She sobbed through her gags, but her body refused to give up the only sustenance it had been offered in weeks. She slammed her fist against the wall beside her so hard he was afraid that she might have broken bones and the scream she let out sounded so pained. The sobs that came from her were frightening. They weren't like the ones he'd heard before, they were almost unnatural they were filled with so much grief. What had just happened had taken a part of her, that was evident. What little sanity she had been holding onto thus far was now dangerously close to slipping from her grip. He knelt down and grabbed her by her waist. He let himself fall against the wall as he held her in his lap. He couldn't watch her hurt herself more than she already was. Her fingers dug into his arm as she continued to dry heave. He rested his forehead on her back and winced as he felt her tear into his skin. He knew she didn't mean to, her body tensing was far out of her control. After a long while she finally let her head fall back onto his shoulder, exhausted.

"Thomas," she said in between breaths, "I'm. Gonna fucking. Kill him."