#just wish a few more of the Veterans were here

[lostcauses-noregrets]

Look at them all!!!

[New Shingeki Worldwide AfterParty visual]

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 1

Part One | Part Two | Part Three | Part Four | Part Five | Part Six | Further Parts You move next door to a disabled veteran and his troubled partner.

Warnings and details: disabled!Johnny; established Ghoap future Ghoap/reader; domestic abuse (not Ghoap); heavy themes of suicide, violence, abuse, poor coping mechanisms, prescription drugs. I’m not sure if I have anything here, let me know if anyone is interested in this series.

#

A helicopter goes down in the mountains of Kazakhstan and it takes a piece of Soap with it. They never recovered the arm—nor the three service members who lost more than their arms in the crash. The thought is one that Johnny’s mind cycles back to often, in moments of quiet or while he lies awake at night feeling tremors in an arm that’s no longer attached. Suddenly he’ll wonder: what are those bones up to, buried in snow and ice so deep the sun will never touch them again? Do they miss me?

Fuck, he misses them.

#

After the accident, the world is very black and white. Mostly it’s black. Blackness at the edge of his vision threatens to creep in when he stands too long, when he stands on his own, when he turns his head too fast. Anytime his blood pressure rises over that Goldilocks number of 120/80, it threatens to drop him faster than Simon used to during their first weeks of training together in the 141.

The doctors say that he’s a miracle. The traumatic brain injury had his brain swelling and pushing at the confines of his skull like water freezing in a bottle. Give him a little longer in the cold and maybe his cap would blow off. Except it hadn’t; he was still dealing with swelling all over: in his thalamus, his hypothalamus, in his cerebrum, all the words he’d never bothered to learn in school and couldn’t fucking remember now no matter how hard he tries. He gets the point. Simon does too. Johnny should be dead.

Instead he just wishes he were.

Even now, when he can remember his name and Simon’s and even (more often than not) the name of the waitress who serves them chicken and waffles at the local diner every Saturday, there are still more bad days than good. Still more darkness than light. Still more nights waking up to the sound of helicopter blades slowing, the relentless hum becoming a deafening chop chop chop like the thrum of his heartbeat. There’s that moment of weightlessness when the helicopter goes down and he has yet to go with it that makes him wake in a cold sweat, nauseous and looking for something to be sick in.

Through it all, Simon is there. Simon is the light. He’d laugh if he heard Johnny say that—though a laugh is probably too generous. Simon doesn’t laugh much these days. Not when he spends three fourths of his time taking care of Johnny and the other fourth thinking about how better to take care of Johnny. If it weren’t for Simon, Johnny would have done himself in by now. There’s a thousand ways to do it; plenty of arms and munitions in the apartment they share together. Or there are the pain pills, if he wanted it to look like an accident. A few too many of those and he could crawl right through that darkness in his vision and find out what’s on the other side. As soon as the thought crosses his mind (and it crosses his mind more often than that fucking chicken crosses the road), the guilt comes, like anyone and everyone can read it on his mind: his mama rest her soul, Simon, Jesus on the cross. After all of the work that has gone into him, into saving his broken body and mind, into rehabilitating him, how can he even think of throwing in the towel?

Turns out it’s pretty fucking easy to think about it.

As a matter of fact, he’s thinking about it the first time he meets you, when you nearly do the job for him.

It’s spring, cool, and he’s working up a goddamn sweat anyway. Simon stands in the alleyway, smoking and pretending not to watch as Johnny hobbles up and down the length of the parking lot with his forearm crutch. His armpit throbs. His knee throbs. His head throbs as he continues along, beating out a strange little rhythm on the concrete—thum-thump, thum-thump, thum-thump. He says all the curse words he knows and dreams up a few new ones too. It’s supposed to be getting easier, but Simon just pushes him harder to make up for the ground he covers. That’s one of the shitty parts about loving an ex-military man; he never goes easy on you.

Johnny’s thinking about the tub upstairs, just big enough for him if he curls in on himself. Sometimes a hot bath helps the knots in his muscles, but sometimes when Simon leaves the room to get a washcloth Johnny will slip beneath the surface of the water and see how long he can hold his—

Then you come out of absolutely nowhere in your shitty little four-door and nearly hit him. As a matter of fact, you do hit his crutch, sending it sprawling out of his hand and sending him clattering to the ground on his bad side. For a moment, he thinks: this is it. This is how I die. Not in a helicopter in Kazahkstan but here, now, today, and he can’t tell if it’s relief in his belly or regret. Then your tires squeal like pigs on the pavement, the smell of burnt rubber thick in the air, and he is face to face with you and your horror, close enough that the air from your hasty turn brushes along his body and sends his heart pounding.

“What the steaming bloody fucking Jesus do you think you’re doing?” he finds himself shouting, pain lancing all along his side from his fake knee to the stump of his arm. Simon is there all at once, cigarette abandoned to smolder to ash in the alleyway, putting his hands under Johnny’s armpits and lifting him like a child even when he yelps in pain like a kicked dog. Johnny leans against him heavily. The edges of his vision are turning black. He bangs his fist against the hood of your car. “Did Jesus send ye? Did He tell ye to finish the fucking job and do me in? ‘That’s the cunt right there, beam him with your car’? Did he tell you that?”

You reluctantly get out of the car, not even wearing a goddamn seatbelt. The car’s soft, insistent alarm begins to remind you with unending politeness that the door is open and your seatbelt is off while you stand there, pallid, eyes huge and watering in the face of Johnny’s shouts.

He sees then that one of your eyes is swollen almost completely shut, blood turning the white sclera pink like the fine mist of blood over the snow when they finally pulled Johnny free from the helicopter. No wonder you didn’t see him coming, with a single functioning eye. He’s opened his mouth to tell you so (and to tell you a dozen other fucking things) when he nearly swoons, the rug of the world being tugged under his feet by the hand of God.

Simon slips a firmer arm around Johnny’s waist.

A man gets out of the passenger side. He begins to berate you for not paying attention, for nearly killing Johnny. Johnny agrees, but is annoyed all the same. He’s the one who almost died; leave the shouting to him.

“I’m so sorry,” you choke out, tears dripping near-constant from your eyes. “I’m an idiot. I’m so sorry. Let me get your—”

“Done enough, haven’t you?” Simon asks cooly. It sends you reeling back into the car where you sit with both hands over your mouth, chest hitching with your panicked sobs.

“Hey, is he, like, okay?” your partner asks.

“Fuck off,” Simon says, deftly ushering Johnny over one shoulder and holding the crutch in the other. He carries them back to the elevators without breaking a sweat, and Johnny cries on his shoulder from the pain of it, the sheer embarrassment of it the whole way home. The day before Kazahkstan he couldn’t have been able to tell you the last time he cried; now he cries every fucking day from one reason or another.

“I’m fine,” Johnny says when they make it back to the apartment and Simon eases him down into a chair. They arrange his knee in the one position that has it throbbing less, but then Johnny bats Simon’s hands away. ��Go. I’m fine. I don’t need you hoverin’ over me.”

“Alright.”

“Fuck off with yer alright.”

Simon doesn’t say anything. Johnny hears his footsteps leading toward the bedroom they share—hardly a bedroom, how long has it been since they slept there together peacefully? Since they fucked? Johnny can tell you how long it’s been. Since before things went black and white. The footsteps stop then.

“You stepped in front of her, Johnny,” Simon says, his voice low but not quiet enough to count as a whisper. “I watched you do it. Don’t think you’re so fucking slick.”

He shuts the bedroom door behind him.

[genderkoolaid]

I come late to organizing as a transgender activist. In doing so, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve learned transgendered people truly are everywhere and not just in New York, San Francisco and Washington D.C. I’ve learned many want to quietly assimilate into the white, heterosexual, middle class status quo that is the dominant culture of our nation. I’ve learned quite a few of us have no wish or desire for such assimilation — that for some of us, our greatest desire is to shake up that dominant culture, to question gender and identity on every level — social, biological, political and personal. I’ve learned that perhaps right at this moment there is a transgendered person — most likely an MTF transsexual or crossdresser, most likely a person of color, being brutally murdered. I’ve learned people much younger than I are coming out as transgendered in ways I never believed possible when I was their age and are challenging not only the status quo, but also calling on “old” activists like me to take another look around and see the world through their eyes. And I’ve learned that, perhaps like all other communities, we love to eat our own. Some of you reading this are aware of the controversies and conflicts swirling within the transgender community, most of which focus upon the organization GenderPAC. For those of you who aren’t up on it, here’s an abbreviated version. A significant number of transgender activists and community organizations have taken issue with GenderPAC’s expansion of its mission and vision to incorporate a larger view of gender rights rather than a specific and focused emphasis upon civil rights advocacy for transgendered people. Depending on whom you ask, this reinventing of GenderPAC is either the logical extension of its organizational vision to secure the rights of all people to free gender expression — or the cold-blooded abandonment of the very community by whom and for which it was created, nurtured and financially supported. Being the baby TG activist I am, I come to this drama late. Long after the battle lines were laid down. Long after sides were chosen, opinions formed and set in stone. Long after wounds (both real and imagined) were inflicted.

I’ve watched carefully for the past couple of years as the battle has played out online, in internet chat rooms, and on mailing lists. I’ve read statements from individuals and organizations that have taken a stand on the issue. I’ve received press releases and announcements from one camp or another; a battle of media propaganda that would make the veterans of the Cold War proud. And through it all, I’ve tried to be a rather casual observer, if one can be casual as they watch some of the best and brightest of their community consumed in an internal battle that threatens to tear the entire community apart. Of course my being a casual observer hasn’t stopped a few folks from demanding to know where I stand. I’ve been pulled aside at conferences and been given “information,” primarily innuendo and accusation, so I am up to speed on the situation. I’ve been directed to websites that were little more than character assassinations in badly laid-out HTML. And I’ve been emailed privately and off-list by those concerned I was going to make the “wrong choice.” Want to know what my answer to these people is? Okay, here it is — I really don’t care. That’s right. I DON’T CARE. You see, I believe almost everyone entangled in this controversy is acting in what they believe are the best interests of the community with which they feel most closely aligned. I believe they’re doing the best they can with what they have. I believe mistakes have been made by everyone involved, that the personal has become political in the most destructive of ways. I also believe in change and evolution; that even organizations that have had to be forced to listen to me and to consider my issues can learn from their mistakes and realize they must make a seat for me at the table if they are to truly realize the dream of civil rights for themselves and for others. But most of all, I believe in hope. I was asked point-blank whose side I was on. This is my answer: I am on the side of whoever has the guts and initiative to end this thing and make a real effort to move our community forward out of this debilitating and destructive conflict. I’m on the side of anyone who is more interested in healing the wounds than in proving who is right. I’m on the side of those who have the ability and the willingness to put aside their personal and political animosities and seek some way to bring together everyone involved to begin a healthy dialogue, one without finger-pointing and name-calling. Until that happens, I guess I’m on the side of those who are the most negatively affected by this dysfunctional family feud. In case anyone needs a refresher course as to who those folks are and the issues they are dealing with, allow me to introduce just a few of them. The transsexual FTM who has lost custody of his child when he began transition; the butch lesbian who lost her job because she refused to wear makeup or shave her legs; the crossdresser whose wife is seeking a divorce and custody of the children he adores; the effeminate gay man beaten to death and crucified on a fence on a lonely Midwestern plain; the 17-year-old MTF doing tricks in the back alleys of San Francisco because her parents kicked her out when they found “him” wearing dresses; the FTM who died of uterine cancer because he couldn’t get insurance approval for a hysterectomy after he had completed sexual reassignment. Ultimately, it is these transgender, transsexual and gender- variant people who have the most to lose if someone doesn’t step up to the plate to end this.

"Gender, Identity Politics, and Eating Our Own" by Alexander John Goodrum (2001)

[janeyseymour]

Never In a Million Years... Unless...- pt. 1

back on my bullshit and here with this for you

summary: Melissa feels a certain way about everything. And you? You're just happy to be there.

WC: ~1.8k

Melissa Schemmenti never wanted to be a mother. From the time she was little, she knew that she never wanted to have her own children. After having to take care of most of her siblings after her parents’ devastating divorce and stepping into a more maternal role at the ripe age of ten, the redhead knew what it took. She never wanted to be in that position again. Cooking, cleaning, running to the bus stop to make sure siblings got to school on time before attempting to get herself an education in a rightly manner was more than enough mothering than Melissa knew she ever wanted to have to do.

And she stood by that as she grew older. In fact, that single fact alone ruined quite a few relationships in the woman’s past.

“I don’t want children,” she would tell her partners. They would either try to sway her into changing her mind, or they would outright tell her that the relationship wouldn’t work out. Melissa found that she almost liked when they would just end it right there instead of trying to drag out something that would never work because of her stubborn position on the matter. The only person who didn’t push the idea of children on the woman was Joe- and she ended up married to him. Of course, she divorced him later on, but that’s besides the point.

All that being said though, Melissa Schemmenti knew that children were destined to be in her life one way or another- which led her to teaching. And teaching filled that hole in her heart of not having her own children. Some days, she almost wished she had her own children, specifically after her school children did something absolutely precious. But then there were the days where her school children were absolute menaces, and she was beyond grateful that she didn’t have to go home to her own little monsters (and she knows how Schemmenti children can be).

She led her life that way for oh so long, brushing off questions of when she was going to settle down again and finally have the children that others so desperately wanted her to have.

And then you came along- not that that changed her outlook on getting remarried and having children. But having you come into her life… it was nice. It was different. Melissa genuinely liked having you around, something that she couldn’t say about most of the people she worked with.

It had started because you were a new teacher at Abbott- a new kindergarten teacher to help take the load off of Barbara Howard. Quite frankly, the two veteran teachers weren’t thrilled with your appearance, but once they realized that you truly did have what it took to stay at the elementary school, they welcomed you with open arms- at least somewhat open arms.

And then one day, it changed. The redhead knew how perfect you were with your students, how you helped her best friend with the challenges that came with teaching at an underfunded and, at times, poorly run school, how your heart was in the right place… and that were absolutely stunning to look at. But when she was able to actual witness the magic that you seem to hold, she couldn’t stop herself from asking you out any longer. 

Everything that she stood for was laid out on the table right away, and you respected that. Hell, you leaned into it and promised her that the feelings she had about every matter on the table were valid. 

Your relationship with the sometimes brash and irascible second grade teacher was one of, if not the, healthiest relationships you had ever fostered. She had boundaries, you had your own boundaries, and neither of you crossed those lines. And if you did? The night was spent talking it out in a mature and calm manner, often times leading to making it up to each other in sweet and honest ways.

At this point, the two of you have been dating for a few years, and things still couldn’t be any better.

After a slight hiccup in the road, you’re living together. Domestic life could not come easier for the two of you. It is a blessing to be able to wake up to those sparkling emerald eyes, spend the morning getting ready together, have lunch together, cozy up on the couch after a long day with a warm meal, and then retire to the bedroom where you could fall asleep to the gentle beating of her heart.

Life is perfect with Melissa. There is nothing that you would change about her, and she wouldn’t change anything about you. Sure, the sometimes incredibly short temper on your girlfriend over menial things was challenging, and she didn’t necessarily enjoy the fact that you would kick your shoes off at the front door instead of placing them in the shoe basket you had. But every person has their faults, and you’ve come to learn that she needs space over certain things, and she’s realized that rather than pick a fight, she can just toss your shoes into the bin.

The topic of marriage and future is few and far between. Really, the only times that you ever spoke about it were when you first started dating, and then again when you took the leap and moved in with her. Neither of you were gunning for marriage or children, and that made the redhead breathe easier- knowing that you wouldn’t leave her over the topics.

You, in a blissful and loving haze, don’t know though, that things in Melissa’s mind are changing. You’re younger than her, and while you’ve made it quite clear that you’re more than okay with just being partners, doubts of you leaving her for someone else are never far from her mind. You could have anyone you wanted- a strong and beautiful man or woman who would gladly take your hand in marriage without hesitation and mother or father your children who would no doubt be the complete opposite of what a Schemmenti child is.

So when your girlfriend brings up the topic that is relatively taboo in your household, you’re taken aback.

“What?” you ask over a glass of wine, feet propped up on the coffee table.

“I don’t know, mi amore,” Melissa sighs as she plays with one of the rings sitting on your finger. Subconsciously, her hand begins to rub where an engagement and wedding ring could be sitting if you had decided that you wanted something else in life.

“Mel, I don’t need that stuff,” you tell her softly. “I just need you, and I’m the happiest woman alive.”

“I just…” the redhead trails off. “I’ve been thinking about it lately that you could have anyone you want, and maybe I’m just holding you back.”

At that you turn to face her, bringing your feet under you as you force her to look you in the eye. “Melissa Schemmenti.”

She hums, dropping her own eyes down to her lap.

“I could have anyone I want, and I have the person I want,” you tell your girlfriend fiercely. “You are not holding me back in the slightest. All I could ever want is the life I’ve built with you, and I do not need you getting in your pretty little head about the absurd ‘what if’s’ that are never going to come true. You’re stuck with me. I love you.”

“I love you too, mi amore,” she whispers as she leans in to kiss you.

“You are everything I could ever want,” you promise Melissa quietly. “Smart, sexy, confident, funny… brazen. Everything I could ever want, and then some.”

That night, just like every other night, you fall asleep with your head on her chest. And while the second grade teacher would usually follow suit relatively quickly, her mind is racing. She had always been so against marriage- giving her heart to someone else, only for it to be broken again the way Joe had broken her heart. She had spent so much time putting the pieces back together again, and even then, there were still cracks and scars from that relationship.

But… in every sense of the word other than legal parameters, the two of you are practically married as it is. You’re living together, you sleep in the same bed, she’s already given her heart to you. So maybe… just maybe, marriage isn’t quite off the table. 

She knows that you really don’t mind not being married, that you are perfectly okay with just spending the rest of your days together in the same realm that you are now, but… she also knows that you wouldn’t mind being married. And you’ve been so you about the topic of marriage- kind and understanding of her hesitations, doubts, and fears. You’ve never pushed for it because you’re so respectful of her boundaries. But she’s also heard when your coworkers ask when you’re finally going to have a ring. She’s also heard the way that you sigh softly, just the slightest bit of disappointment traceable in that little breath before smiling and saying that you don’t need one as long as you have Melissa. You’re just happy that you’re able to call her your girlfriend, your partner, the woman of your dreams.

The woman realizes that so far in this relationship, you’ve compromised on every big thing. You were willing to wait until she was ready to date, despite the fact that you knew she was into you way before she finally asked you out (she found out from Barbara that you had confided in your colleague and claimed that you were okay with waiting until Melissa came around to it herself). You were willing to accept her non-negotiable when it came to the romantic aspect of your relationship. You didn’t push her into living together until she brought up the subject, and then almost took back her offer because her own fears and doubts took over. The foundation of this relationship was mostly built upon the redhead’s views, and you were happy to go along with them because all you knew was that you wanted Melissa. 

And maybe… maybe it’s time she think about you. Of course, she still has doubts and fears about it, but jumping into a relationship with you was terrifying, and she thinks about where she is now. She said never in a million years was she going to get married again, but here she was- almost certain that at some point in the near future, she would be asking you to marry her. 

TAGS (and let me know if you want to be included!): @schemmentis @thesapphictimelady @marvel210 @itisdoctortoyousir @morgana-larkin @thesamesweetie @doesthatsuggestanythingtoyou @marvels--slut @gwennybriggs @megamultifandomtrashposts @lemz378 @http-sam @melissaschemmentisbranzino @imaginesmultifandoms @sexysapphicshopowner @lilfartbox1 @maybe-a-humanbean @imlike-so-gaydude @sapphicxrat @a-queen-and-her-throne @notinmyvocab @melanielaufeyson @dvrkhcld @cosmichymns @sasheemo

[sunflower-emoji]

Wallflower (Hawks x Reader)

You're shy. Hawks isn't.

(more Hawks fluff <;3)

It didn't matter that people would kill for a job like yours, you were going to quit. It wasn't worth this nightmare called a charity ball you found yourself at. 

You were young and far down the hierarchy. You had assumed that the higher-ups would send someone with an established reputation to represent the company. 

"No, you'll be perfect. A charming young face is exactly what our brand needs," your boss insisted.

You bit back a scoff. One of the reasons you became a costume designer was so you didn't have to schmooze people. You always loved the world of heroics, knew you wanted to be part of it in some way. But large crowds and larger personalities launched your heart rate skyward. Costume design was perfect: challenging, creative, and just the right amount of human interaction. Sure, you weren’t the most sociable, but you loved working one-on-one with your clients, getting to know them slowly over time and never worrying about going blind from direct exposure to the spotlight.

None of this seemed to matter to your boss, or your colleagues, who refused to take your place even as they sighed with envy. You were beginning to think it was part of a bigger conspiracy to get you to "come out of your shell," and you resented them for it.

Still, you wished one of them were here so you could have someone to talk to. Your charming young face didn't know a single person here.

That wasn't entirely true. You recognized some of your clients, had even tried to talk to one of them, making it through a full thirty seconds of stilted conversation before someone more famous pulled them away. You immediately fled to the periphery of the room where other guests floated past, preoccupied with other things and people.

That was fine, You were really only interested in one person here anyway, and you knew the chances of actually talking to him were nonexistent.

You had caught glimpses of him throughout the night. It was hard not to, his giant red wings a beacon, standing out even more in his all-black ensemble. Never long enough for eye contact, but you held on to the hope of getting a wave or a quick smile at some point tonight.

Hawks was an established client at your company, his costume the creation of your boss's boss. The two of you met a few months ago after you had been assigned to find a new material for his visor. Something sturdier without sacrificing visibility. He visited you regularly to test out the prototypes.

At first you were terrified, unsure how to talk to the loud, gregarious hero. The energetic banter your veteran coworkers had with him wasn't something you could match. But Hawks had surprised you with a patient smile and questions about your work, listening so attentively your passion overtook your shyness. It didn't take long for you to feel at ease with the hero, even if your heart never settled into its normal rhythm when he was around.

But there was a big difference between his visits to your studio and you approaching him in the middle of a giant gala, surrounded by dozens of other heroes and bigwigs. So you leaned against the wall, checking your phone and wondering if it was late enough to leave without getting yelled at later.

"Should've known you'd be over here!" You jump at the sudden visitor, who chuckles at your reaction.

Your heart's still in your throat, but you feel calmer now that Hawks stands in front of you. Something familiar at last.

"And what's that supposed to mean?"

"Just that you seem like the wallflower type," he replies with a head tilt and teasing grin.

"Am not!" You said it as a reflex.  Both of you knew very well that you were a wallflower. And you had in fact spent the entire evening against a wall.

Hawks' eyes narrow, deviousness creeping into his smile. "Oh? Well in that case, I guess you won't mind sharing a dance with me."

When you fail to immediately take his outstretched hand, he pouts. "Come on, Endeavor already turned me down. Are you really gonna let me be rejected twice tonight?"

You huff out a “fine,” and he guides you to the dance floor with an eager pull of your hand, his feet not quite touching the ground. To your relief, he stops in a space off-center, his wings partially open as he brings his other hand up to your waist. 

The two of you twirl around in what you think is meant to be a waltz. Hawks can't keep a beat but insists on leading anyway, just barely missing your toes. Without warning, he spins you out before snapping you back against his chest and you feel the rumble of his laughter. You're grateful he can't see your reddened face, dizzy from spinning and the scent of his cologne.

By the end of the song, you've gathered enough wits for a little payback. As the music swells for the final time, you slip your hand around to Hawks' back and press your knee forward. His eyebrows raise in delight at your mischievous grin and he lets you dip him, throwing his arm out with a flourish.

There's a smattering of applause, some conversation to your side, but you're not paying attention to any of it, too focused on Hawks beaming up at you.

"Sooo, how about it? Up for another?"

You agree without hesitation this time. It's not like you had anything better to do this evening.

[peachhcs]

Does Will tell any of the guys he's realised his mistake??

Or even just that he slept with someone??

i like to think will calls grace first. she gives the best advice when it comes to any of this and then he calls gabe and ryan to talk to them.

"what's up, will?" grace asked as soon as she answered the phone.

"i hooked up with someone," will said immediately which caught grace off guard.

"what?"

"there was this halloween party last night..i think i was a little drunk and i hooked up with this girl," the boy explained, chewing on the bottom of his lip.

"okay. did something happen?" the older girl grew concerned.

"only that i did it because i thought i'd be able to get over samy and i didn't. i only thought about her the entire time," the hockey player's head fell into his hands as he sat on the end of his bed.

"oh. i see," the older blonde was at a bit of a loss with what to say.

"i think i fucked up, grace. i think i really, really fucked up," will frowned deeply as all the feelings he's tried pushing away for months began resurfacing.

"will..you didn't..fuck up. did you make a bad choice on rash thoughts? yeah. you didn't completely fuck up though," grace tried reassuring her brother even though she couldn't quite back his decisions.

"i should've talked to her more. i don't..i don't know what i was thinking. i thought i was letting her go for the better, but anytime i see her anywhere i wish i could call her and everything was how it used to be," now will was crying.

"it's not too late to talk. reach out to her. tell her you wanna talk or something."

"i can't. she blocked me on everything so even if i wanted to talk to her, i physically can't," the younger boy frowned deeply.

"do you want me to mention something?" grace offered softly.

"no, that's gonna make me look stupid. she doesn't wanna talk to me and i don't blame her," a long sigh fell from will's lips.

"look, we all do stupid shit when we're 18. she definitely does wanna talk to you. you guys were best friends once upon a time. that kind of bond doesn't disappear that easily. is there any time soon you'll be out near michigan or something?"

"i don't know. days off are random sometimes and unpredictable," will shrugged even though grace couldn't see him.

"maybe talk to gabe and ryan. they could make something happen. i know they're rooting for you two as much as i am to get back together or at least talk," will knew his older sister had a point. he should talk to gabe and ryan, but then they'd just tell him i told you so and harp on him.

"i don't know. i'll see. i should let you go," will mumbled.

"i'm always here to talk, will. it's gonna work out, i promise," the hockey player really wanted to believe his sister's words and he hoped to god it was true.

—

"wow, look who's calling first," ryan grinned through the screen when the call connected. will rolled his eyes a bit, but smiled when he saw his friends on his computer screen.

"you look like shit," gabe commented upon seeing will's red eyes and puffy cheeks.

"fuck off," the blonde mumbled.

"i'm kidding. it's good to see you. you had a hella game the other night," the dark-haired boy cheered.

"dude, you put those older guys to shame. like you were flying," ryan laughed making will laugh as well.

"thanks, it was pretty cool taking some of the veterans down. they're gonna be after me now."

"yeah, no shit. i think everyone now knows why you decided to sign on so early," gabe grinned.

their compliments had will flushing with pride. he's been working hard to prove himself these last few games and he was glad it was all finally paying off.

"by the way, halloween was so legendary this year. we went to like four different parties," ryan chuckled.

"i bet it's crazy in california," gabe wondered as the topic shifted.

"yeah, it is pretty crazy out here. so crazy i even hooked up with someone.." will began which had gabe and ryan's eyebrows raising.

"wait, you hooked up with someone? who?"

"uh..i don't really know her name, but i think..i think i regret it. i thought it would like..help me realize breaking up with samy was the right choice, but it didn't. i just thought about her the entire time.." will felt almost ashamed admitting this to his friends.

"oh."

"you're gonna tell me i told you so, but i know i fucked up now. i..i shouldn't have broken up with samy. i thought it would be better for both of us, but i just really miss her and i wish i could talk to her or something," the blonde frowned.

"you're saying this now? six months after the fact?" gabe raised his eyebrows.

"oh come on, give me a break. i was stupid, i know. i finally realize that now. i don't know what to do," upon seeing their friend's face, gabe and ryan saw how torn up will was about everything. they knew he really regretted everything that happened.

"i just don't get why you didn't talk to her more about this before you even decided to break up? you know she would've talked with you about whatever you were worried about," ryan said.

"it was a bad decision during very rash thoughts. i was overwhelmed and a mess back in may. i got scared and pushed her away like i do to everything. you guys don't need to tell me how much i fucked up. i know already," will huffed.

the three fell silent for a moment. will pulled a hand through his hair while gabe and ryan spoke with their eyes.

"a few of us are going to michigan over winter break to samy's lake house. if you can find some free time, you should come out. i think samy would like to see you. you two can finally talk maybe," gabe finally said.

"i'll think about it," will nodded. could he actually fly out to michigan and see samy after not speaking to her or seeing her for eight months though? the idea sent will's head spinning and not in a good way.

[cry-ptidd]

Me and my sister watched Hellsing together. Here's her opinion on the characters

- Alucard: "He's a cunt, but he's entertaining. I'd probably pay to see him in a strip club. I didn't like him and his shit-eating grin and 'master' bullshit at first, but he grew on me quick and i don't like that he grew on me. He's a complex character, and he's hot asf when he cries. Also I wish we'd seen his Dracula form for longer; that was awesome. Him and Anderson had a thing going on."

- Seras: "Didn't really mind her at first, but liked her after she drank blood. Her transformation and the guns are really fucking cool. I didn't like her voice and her whining at first but it got better after a few episodes. I like her when her personality became a little bit more spunky. Her story's fucked up."

- Integra: "Absolute bad bitch. Her attitude reminds me of myself so idk if I should like it or hate it, she's got a lot of pride which I respect. Really human and I like it, she takes no one's shit and she's a badass. Didn't even FLINCH when she got her eye shot out. Girlboss. She gives me ace vibes also."

- Walter: "I liked him, he was funny. And then he betrayed everyone and became emo. He gave good advice, and he was cool as hell with that wise older veteran vibe. I'm disappointed in him, but the plot twist was actually good. You'd notice the signs if you suspected him from the beginning."

- Pip: "He's FINE. I'd braid his hair any day. I was in love and then I mourned. I'm widowed. He was hilarious, plus his voice actor nailed the French. My favorite character. Screeched when he came back. He's a good leader and I loved his speeches, also his death made me cry. And I don't often cry when watching anime."

- Anderson: "kinda neutral. I didn't like him at first, he was obnoxious as fuck. Then he respected women and opposed Maxwell and his orders so he grew in my esteem a bit. His character is cool as fuck tho. I wish he didn't turn into a monster, he fell to the same level as Alucard. It's like human greed or desperation for power. Him and Alucard had a thing going on."

- Enrico Maxwell: "Lucius Malfoy. I hate him but not the one I hate most."

- Heinkel & Yumie: "Really like these two lesbians. So cool and I respect their resolve, especially Heinkel's. Rip Yumi. You were cool. Heinkel being intersex is a dope detail, she's very androgynous too. I like their designs."

- The major: "Augustus Gloop? I like the fact he refused vampirism, that was cool, but he's an actual fucking sociopath and I hate him"

- The Captain: "Ngl, I actually find him quite dope, aside from the nazi thing. Literally no one respected him, that shit had me crying. His face is pretty and his tits are big, even if he looks a bit goofy at times. Wish we'd seen more of him. I felt kinda bad when he got defeated."

- Schrödinger: "I want this thing dead"

- Rip van winkle: "She gives me the vibes of a Dr Seuss character."

- Zorin: "Bleach Ichigo knockoff. Fuck this bitch in particular I hate her"

- The Valentine brothers: "A slav squat necrophile and his gay brother that used to be a runway model but got cancelled after a scandal"

Overall: A hit, neither of us expected her to like it. She likes the political and literary aspects, and also finds the characters interesting. She doesn't really know how to feel about the ending; she considers it realistic and a good end, but she wished it was more epic. But from a writing perspective it's good. Also she lowkey wished Alucard would turn Integra into a vampire, just because it would be cool. Now we send each other memes about it. She calls Nendocard a whore when she passes by him, but says she'd buy a Pip nendo in a heartbeat

[djarintreble]

Dad Eddie where daughter starts giving people at school the finger because she’s seen her dad do it

anon, so I totally went all out on this one. bringing an unexpected cameo haha than you for this request! I hope this is what you wanted! xx

pairing: dad!Eddie Munson x wife!reader tags: part of my dad!Eddie series, this takes place 1997, Arwen Munson getting in trouble at school, no mention of baby brother but he's alive and probably at daycare (Steve), we're in the principals office oh no, Eddie standing up for his daughter, not so nice teachers, typical Eddie and Arwen behavior, we are fully supportive. word count: 1.7k oops a/n: I have more requests incoming :)

When you swung open the school’s front door, the smells of childhood filled your senses. Did every elementary school smell the same way? Was that a good thing? Whatever the case, the smells of crayons, cleaning supplies and germs was not how you envisioned your morning. 

Your boss was annoyed at your sudden need to leave work at the demand of Arwen’s principal. His tone only meant she had done bad and a parent conference was due. Eddie was on his way from work to meet you as well and together you would both tackle your first (and hopefully last) time sitting in an office due to your daughter's behavior. 

“Hi,” You attempted a smile at the receptionist. “I am here for a meeting with the Principal? I’m Arwen Munson’s mom.” 

“Ah yes, wait right here.” The woman led you to a row of chairs and you waited patiently.

Arwen was a good kid. She would never do anything maliciously. It was inconvenient that they didn’t explain the reason over the phone, making the dramatics of having you come in. Arwen was in 3rd grade, she was raised to use her words and to be respectful. There was no way she got into a fight or bullied someone. There was no way she’d find herself in those situations. And if she did… You prayed it didn’t come to that. 

You couldn’t help but feel that you were in trouble. In middle school, you only had to come to the principal’s office once because of a miscommunication.  Eddie always teases you for your good record and how you’d never do anything bad. In high school, he’d call you adorable for it. 

The other side of you were nervous for how this would look as Arwen is the daughter of Eddie Munson. What if she really didn’t do anything wrong but because of her dad, the veteran teachers who once taught her dad are now treating her like they wish they did him. That was unfair. Especially since Eddie was a kid who acted out as a mask. A defense for how he really viewed himself. If only these schools recognized that earlier instead of showing him he wasn’t worth two cents. 

The front doors barged open and you heard “I’m here! I’m here! Sorry I’m late. Was stuck under a car for 3 hours.”

“And you are?” The secretary asked nonchalantly. Close to the way the secretary at Hawkins High would sound when she heard a younger Munson run in tardy. 

“Oh-” You could hear the surprise in your husband’s voice. “Right, Eddie Munson. Father of Arwen Munson.” 

“Your wife is around the corner, you can wait for Arwen and Principal Jenkins there.” 

Your husband wrapped around the corner and gave you a smirk when he saw you. He threw a red and black flannel over his work shirt and jeans. A few rings helped make him look more put together and not as if he just came from the repair shop. 

“Well well well, I’m getting flashbacks.” He said as he slumped down into the chair next to you. “How are you?” He asked, leaning over to give you a quick kiss as a greeting. 

“I was doing good until I got this call.”

“It’s probably nothing.” Eddie reassured.

“If it was nothing, we wouldn’t get called up here. I’m just scared how this will affect her school life from now on.”

“I highly doubt it will, sweetheart. Besides, we don’t know what she did. Maybe this is a good thing! Maybe she got an award!” As he gave your lap a quick pat, you sighed.

“Maybe. Just the tone they gave makes me scared she's in trouble.”

“Mom?” You heard your daughter ask across the office. She stood there with her lunch bag which showed she was pulled from the cafeteria. Her hair was fashioned into a high ponytail after seeing DJ from Full House wear it that way. Her overalls unclasped from one side revealing an old faded band t-shirt that has shrunken from Eddie’s collection. When you locked eyes, she immediately looked away embarrassed of whatever she did.

“Hey, sweet girl.” You smiled. 

“Mr. and Mrs. Munson?” You heard someone call from behind you. Principal Jenkins was standing outside her door with a slight smile. 

“That’s us.” Eddie responded. 

“Come on in.” She walked into her room, inviting you to come inside. Arwen ran over and gave you and Eddie a quick hug before going inside with you. “Please sit.” 

The three of you sat in the chairs lined up on the other side of her desk. Arwen sitting between you and Eddie. You rubbed Arwen's back consolingly before facing the principal. 

“Thank you for coming on such short notice.” She started. Another set of smiles were sent her way despite you both being annoyed you had to leave work. “I wanted to start off by saying I am very proud of Arwen’s academics. She has complete excellence in all her studies and her special area classes. I wanted to ask if she would be considered for our gifted program.” 

Relief ran over you as the good news was delivered. You looked over at Eddie who showed nothing but a proud face. He gently shook your daughter’s shoulders. 

“That’s my girl! Yes, that would be amazing.” You noticed Arwen’s lack of enthusiasm and patted her leg.

“Is that something you’d want to do?” You asked. 

“There is one thing though.” The principal started. 

Oh no.

“It seems this morning Arwen decided to effect that perfect citizenship grade by an act of throwing a middle finger at her substitute teacher as well as some of her students.” 

“What?” you asked, baffled.

“I bring this up as a concern because that would affect the final process of the gifted program application. Her homeroom teacher must approve that she is capable of maintaining good citizenship when brought into the gifted classes.” The principal didn’t seem too happy. 

“Arwen, baby, why did you do that?” Disappointment settled in as your daughter sat quietly, kicking her feet slightly under her chair. 

“Sweetheart, you know that’s not appropriate to do.” Eddie added, yet his face seemed more worried. 

“I didn’t mean to. I just got really mad.” She admitted. 

“What happened?” You asked. 

“Mrs. O’Donnell saw my last name and asked if you were my dad.” She looked toward Eddie. The name rang the bell as your old English teacher from Hawkins High. Guess her retirement meant coming to torment 8 year olds. “I said yes and she said she hopes I don’t turn out like you. That she didn’t like the Munson kids. So I just did it.” Eddie sighed, knowing she didn’t know of the things he went through in school. Including the time he gave Hawkins high Principal and Mrs. O'Donnell the bird as he got his diploma...

Sure she knew he was a bit of a troublemaker but you didn’t tell her specifics. That was unfair of O’Donnell to say that to her but not okay to respond that way, especially with her presumption of Eddie’s children. 

“Yes, we are taking care of Mrs. O’Donnell’s behavior but it was not okay to do that on Arwen’s part especially toward her fellow students.” 

“They were laughing at me instead of standing up for me!” She exclaimed. 

“I can’t take away the mark on her citizenship for that as it is still behavior we do not allow.” The principal added.

“How does that affect her ability to do the gifted program?” You asked. 

“Her homeroom teacher has to approve that she is able to show good conduct in difficult situations.” 

“I promise, this was a one time thing.” Eddie reassured.

“I do hope so, Mr. Munson. I’m only concerned about how she has learned that behavior.” Her tone showed a hint of judgment. 

Your eyes widened, knowing this was a trigger for Eddie. 

“My daughter is nothing like me. She is more than I could ever be. I will not tolerate teachers having assumptions of her due to the mistakes I made when I was in school. This gifted program is an amazing opportunity for her and I don’t want that to be affected by anything other than her own accomplishments. We will make sure she does nothing like that again. But she deserves this.” 

You’ve never heard Eddie like that before. Prompted by his own past and his defense for your daughter, he truly has shown his growth. You didn’t think you could love him anymore but here you were, smiling wide at him as he stood up for your daughter. 

“Thanks, dad.” Arwen smiled. 

“We will put it into consideration, thank you for coming in.” Principal Jenkins was lost for words. The three of you stood up and left the office. 

“How do you feel about getting checked out and getting some dessert?” Eddie asked Arwen, giving her shoulders a tight squeeze as he led her to the front of the school. 

“Eddie…” You whispered.

“It’s okay I need to talk to her about a few things.” You simply nodded, trusting his judgment. “Go grab you stuff from your class, I’ll be checking you out.” 

“Okay!” Arwen smiled and ventured toward her class.

You and Eddie walked back toward the front where the secretary you greeted earlier sat.

“Hi, we’re going to check out Arwen Munson for the day.” 

“Alright, her class is at a special area class so she will be brought up with her teacher. Wait right here.”

Eddie put his arm around you and you wrapped yours around his waist in response.

“Are you okay?” You asked. 

“I’m doing great.” He responded. 

“Mr. Munson.” You heard. Turning around, you saw Arwen being brought to the front by Mrs. O’Donnell. This is why he checked her out…

“Ah Mrs. O’Donnell. Missed me so much you came out of retirement to see my daughter.” 

“Eddie!” You lightly smacked his back. 

“Yes, she is wonderful.” Mrs. O’Donnell deadpanned.

“Oh and thank you for those kind words you said today about me. Always a pleasure knowing you think so highly of me. Have a good one.” He said as Arwen walked toward the two of you. He wrapped her around and led the both of you out of the school.

“But she didn’t, dad.” She looked up at your husband.

“I know,” he said as he shut the door. “and so does she.” He said before quickly flipping off the school and running to his car laughing with Arwen.

So that’s where she learned it from… 

Looks like you had to be the one to get onto the both of them but you couldn’t help but be proud of the way they defended each other. 

--------

thanks for reading!!

more dad!Eddie can be found here -> Dad!Eddie Series Masterlist

series taglist: @geekmom3 @ruinedbythehobbit @dark-academia-slut

honorable tags I think would enjoy this story based on previous interaction (I love your comments on the last stories so hi ily): @aesthetic-lyssa @yodelingtea @wintermunsonreads @lovelyladymayyy @

eddie munson taglist thread: @catpjimin @senthiasworld @foxsmvlder @a-lil-pr1ncess @cryuki-patootie

[moonlight-prose]

HURT

➝ 01. THE CURSE OF THE FOLD

a/n: apocalyptic stories are probably one of my favorite genres to write, because angst is my bread and butter. so here i am writing the angsiest fucking story ever. i've plotted it entirely and worked on it while waiting for the show to drop to finally post this. so hopefully you enjoy. (this takes place about ten years before the last of us.)

summary: you were alone; watched everyone you love die or you killed them yourself. and you thought it would remain that way forever...till him.

word count: 6k+

pairing: joel miller x f!reader

warnings: not sexually explicit but still 18+ (READ AT YOUR OWN RISK BUT BE AWARE), gore, violence, tw blood, angst, death, assault, one bed trope, gratuitous prose about the apocalypse setting, probably ooc writing for joel, more angst. please let me know if i missed anything.

next chapter | series masterlist

You were going to die. That was no longer a concept that you found to be impossible in your early stages of life. No, you knew you would die sooner rather than later. You knew that survival was a thing to strive for and death had become something to welcome. When the world turns to shit, leaving humanity on their own to fight against monsters, death didn’t seem so scary in the long run.

It became peaceful—an end that you found to be the better option. You’d rather die by the hands of humans or your own than become one of those things. Turning wasn’t the way you’d go. It was brutal and horrific; left more heartache behind than the desired numbing sensation you hoped came with death. No, you refused to become something that was no longer deemed a human, but was now viewed as a monster. 

This was a promise you made to yourself ten years ago and even now as you stared down the barrel of a gun, you knew you made the right choice. Death would be swift—an end to your life that you found satisfaction in—rather than something you feared every fucking day.

You’d stopped on your journey in an attempt to find a safe situation for the night. One that wouldn’t leave you running in the morning; for a brief moment you figured this town would do the trick. You could hide out until the sun came up and finally find a few peaceful hours of sleep. There was no one around for miles (at least you assumed as much) and what few infected were around you could handle yourself. You weren’t the best with a gun, but you could protect yourself when your life was on the line.

If only you had kept going, then maybe you wouldn’t be in this fucked situation.

The scent of gunpowder burned in the air, the potent bitterness of blood mixed with it—creating a lethal combination. You ran out of bullets two dead bodies ago—reaching for the fallen weapon by your side when three more men came out of the darkness. Their faces were covered by dirty worn-in bandanas with only their eyes showing, illuminated by the dim lights of the moon, but it was in their eyes that you saw the truth. They were hollow. Just like the other three men who thought they could come after you. Their souls disappeared a long time ago, only to leave the remnant of a human shell that was forced to do things in order to survive.

This particular sight wasn't unusual to you in the slightest.

You’d seen the best of people become tainted, broken. After all, you were one of them. The consequences of this fucking virus reached you as well; tearing the life you built up to pieces. Leaving you to watch the ashes of what came before float in the air. 

You were the veteran of a war without end. A survivor of the life that only wished to see you gone and buried. The longer you looked at them—the man you figured to be the leader stepping forward—the more you understood why humans did what they did.

They were an idiotic group of people that let things fester; that would watch the world burn ten times over before helping those around them.

He gripped your hair, yanking it until your hoarse scream of pain echoed in the night air. The barrel of the gun was shoved beneath your chin, his dark eyes watching in glee as you struggled. He loved to feel the rush of power, watching as people grew helpless to his actions. You understood that just from looking at him. Yet another pathetic man that believed he could take what he wanted from someone traveling alone. So you stopped fighting. You froze in his hold, fixing him with a smile so sweet he could have sworn it was made of sugar cane.

“You’re afraid to die,” you said softly, wincing when his hold tightened.

“Shut the fuck up,” he spit, his voice was deep yet ingrained with the hesitation of a man who didn’t like that you touched so close to the truth.

You knew this game. A sick and twisted version of a power play in order to believe that they held the upper hand in this situation. When in fact that remained far from the truth. Though you held no weapon, no more chances of survival—you had something they didn't. You didn't fear what came next. It was a better deal than this shit one right here.

Your heart slowed to a steady beat; the welcoming hope re-entering your heart with each baited breath you took. When would he finally pull the trigger? When would you finally have peace? When would the pain—the torture—finally cease? You hoped the lingering questions all came with the same answer. Soon.

"Go ahead," you prompted, going so far as to tilt your chin in his direction—feeling the press of the gun's barrel dig deeper into your skin.

His finger hovered over the trigger, before—much to your dismay—he pulled it away. "You're feisty." You heard the jeering laughter of his friends in the background. "How about we just bring you with us?"

Your stomach dropped. A new unlocked fear sending a chill down your spine. There was always something worse than being turned into a monster, always something far more horrific than not dying by your own hands. It was being trapped in a cage with no lock and no key to get you out.

Fighting against his hold, you tried to grab the gun on the ground, but he yanked you back—the disgusting scent of his breath washing over your face. "Looks like I found what you're afraid of."

"Fuck you,” you spit in his face, struggling against his hold. You refused to be taken, to be treated like an animal put up for slaughter.

He merely laughed, his hold on you tightening with each twist of your body. Dropping your weight, you waited for him to jeer at his friends before slamming the heel of your boot into his foot. As expected, his arms fell away from your body, a howl of pain splintering through the night air. It was enough for you though. He may look tough, but he didn’t seem to be able to handle pain so easily. Yanking yourself free, you felt a cold chill wash over your body as the adrenaline spiked in your body—telling you to keep going. To fight until you were finally free.

Three against one wasn’t entirely in your favor, but you held one thing close to your heart—a belief that would keep you going till your last breath. If there was nothing else to fight for—no one else—then you would fight for yourself. For the past you that used to be desperate for a life, for meaning and purpose. Those two words didn’t mean jackshit anymore in this fucked up world, but to you it meant everything.

Grabbing the metal pipe that looked like it was torn off of a plumbing system, you put what little skill you had in your swing. Really it extended to one softball game in highschool, where you ended up with a ball to the face and a measly participation trophy. You barely had time to even swing the bat before chaos ensued. But it was enough for you.

Lining up your hit you swung.

The pipe hit with a sickening crack against his face, a splatter of red falling to the floor as he fell to one knee. You were pretty sure that you loosened a tooth in his rotten mouth and had half a mind to tear the rest out with your bare hands. His buddies began to advance, their makeshift weapons being pulled from their sides as they spit curses your way. The words of your father echoed in your mind as you took another swing, hitting against one’s side, jamming your elbow into his throat when he curled in on himself.

If you find yourself in a fight, you never let them take you out first.

“Piece of shit,” you snarled, your already bloody and raw fist slamming against the side of his face.

“Grab her arms dumbass!”

Ducking under their outstretched arms, you fumbled with the small screwdriver you found on a trek through one of the houses. With a huffed out breath, you jabbed it into the third guy's armpit, grinning at his cries of agony. He fell to his knees, trying very carefully to take it out without killing himself. Giving you enough to run outside.

The cold air was sharp in your lungs, the anxiety of the situation now rushing through your veins and causing your heart to beat erratically. But you were free.

“You fucking bitch!” The main man roared, his boots thumping harshly against the cracked cement.

Sprinting, you tried to keep a quick pace down the empty street, but the fear of running into anything overlapped the fear of dealing with an already injured man. So, like an idiot you stopped. He was limping, a gash stretching across his cheek and turning his pale skin red. A feral anger flashed in his eyes like an animal hunting its prey; coming in for the final kill. You knew he could practically taste your blood on his tongue.

Your chest heaved, the breath leaving you faster than you could keep it in your lungs, but you wouldn’t go quietly. That was a death you would not accept. No, he’d take you down fighting until you eventually dragged him down to hell right alongside you. If you couldn’t survive, you’d leave behind something to remember. Your hands curled into fists, teeth baring as you watched him approach slowly. The energy in your body was beginning to wane, exhaustion seeping in, but you kept your stance.

Forever choosing to be stubborn.

You never expected the loud bang of a shotgun to go off behind you. The man fell back, his head hitting the sidewalk with another crack—turning the asphalt a darker shade of black. Fear shot down your spine, the realization that you couldn’t fight against someone with a gun while you stood with nothing. You remained still, frozen and watching in horror as the man who nearly ended your life was wiped from this planet entirely. In a way you were relieved, but the knowledge that someone else was walking up to you quickly dampened that feeling instantly.

“You okay?”

The man’s voice was deep, gruff, with a southern drawl you’d heard once before in college. You couldn’t respond—your heart still lodged in your throat. If you were in the right state of mind, you’d say your body was going into shock. His boots stopped a foot away from you, calling your attention as he stood, the shotgun still gripped tightly in his hands. 

For a brief moment you allowed your eyes to trail up his figure. Taking in the dirty brown leather jacket that looked like it’d seen better days, jeans with a sewn up hole in the knee, and a black t-shirt. You barely skimmed his face, drinking in his slightly graying dark hair and scruff before he was asking you another question.

“Did he hurt you?” His eyes were focused on the blood that stained your once clean shirt.

“It’s not mine,” you said softly, the panic now wearing off—relinquishing its hold over your body.

He nodded, his brown eyes fixing back on yours. “Are there more?”

“Not anymore,” you replied, staring at the house in the distance.

Oblivious to the slight hint of surprise in his eyes, you felt him step closer. To which you responded by stepping back, keeping the distance as much as possible. You didn’t need to fight another man tonight, who’s weapons far outweighed your own fighting capability. But then he raised his hands as if in surrender. He held his ground, waiting for you to come back to the present, before trying once more to take a small step in your direction.

This time…you let him.

“I’m not gonna hurt you.”

How could you be so sure that his words were the truth? There was a small voice in the back of your head that told you to keep running. Run until you had no choice but to stop. Till you were finally safe from the dangers of this world. Yet you knew that danger was everywhere, plaguing the very ground you walked on and this man…had just saved your life.

Rarely did you find people who wished to help you. Who were simply there as a stroke of luck in your seemingly endless string of awful situations. Once you used to run with people, be a part of a group that watched your back as intently as you watched theirs. But pain and grief seemed to follow you like a ghost. Haunting every turn you made on this never ending journey.

Voicing your thoughts, you fought back against the urge to flee. “You just shot a man and you’re telling me you won’t hurt me?”

“A man who was trying to kill you.”

He had you there.

“What’s your name?” you asked, quickly glancing in the distance—wary that something would come from the darkness.

“Joel.”

You met his brown eyes again. “Why are you here?”

He shrugged, turning away from your scrutinizing gaze. You made his skin itch with just that single look, but he could recognize the underlying fear that flared every now and then in your eyes. A look he once wore when all this shit started. Joel didn’t get scared very often anymore, having seen his fair share of horrors. But seeing you stand there helpless, yet ready to die fighting tooth and nail, made his heart lurch in a way it hadn’t in sometime.

“I could ask you the same thing.” He hiked his bag up higher on his shoulder, catching the way the fading sunlight began to dip below the houses. Casting the both of you in darkness. “Why were you running?”

Scoffing, you crossed your arms against your chest. “Usually when people try to kill me I run.”

Thankfully he didn’t question what was the motive behind their intentions. Already understanding most of it. Once again he glanced at the sky, knowing that if you didn’t find shelter soon you’d be knee deep in shit. He didn’t want that to be how either of you ended. So, he turned away from you, gesturing for you to follow him. If you were smart you’d do it without question, but Joel had a feeling you were stubborn down to your core.

“Where are you going?” you called out, confirming his suspicions with only a few words.

He nearly chuckled. “Finding shelter for the night.”

Catching up, you fell into step beside him. “You won’t kill me right?”

That time he chuckled; the sound striking you in your heart unexpectedly. “You sure are untrustworthy aren’t you?”

“Yeah well…” You fiddled with the strap on your nearly torn backpack. “I haven’t trusted anyone in a while.”

Neither had he.

He didn’t say it outloud though. Joel already knew what came upon those that dared to open themselves up in the midst of anguish. He’d been on the receiving end of that pain and chose to close himself off to it. It would help him more in the long run, than letting the feeling dig its way into his heart. Gnawing away at his insides like a meal.

What he was doing now…keeping you close when in fact you may very well kill him, wasn’t like him. He had half a mind to keep going—leave you here to fend for yourself. But then his eyes met yours, and there was that look. That pain he knew too well. Back when he thought he was going to die without a way to save himself.

He saw himself in you and maybe that’s why he allowed you to traipse along beside him.

You didn’t take kindly to people very often. Preferring to go it alone after what happened with the people you once knew, and this was no different. Staying with him for one night before parting ways would mean nothing to you in the long run. Just another stranger you passed by in the hopes of finding somewhere safe to land. You hoped that this town would be it; that you wouldn’t have to go anywhere for a long time. But the blood on your shirt continued to prove you wrong.

“There’s a two story house about a block away with a fence going around the property.”

He nodded, changing directions and heading towards the old brown building that had seen better days. The windows were broken, the front yard overgrown with weeds, and you weren’t sure if the door worked. It would have to do for the night. You couldn’t risk staying out in the open. Not when those men had found you so easily as they were passing through.

The scent of pine filled your nose as you stepped towards the black gate covered in dead vines. A large tree stood in the center of the yard—beautiful amidst the destruction caused by the world falling to pieces. You wondered what it used to look like—who lived here—before you pushed open the gate. The loud creak echoing in the night air, sent chills down your spine. Perhaps the ghosts of the owners still resided here. Wandering the halls of their former home in the hopes of finding some serenity in the chaos.

Or perhaps…they were infected.

That thought alone nearly made you back away from the property, but Joel walked right in. He seemed to hold no qualms about the building or its past. To him it was just a place to stay until he had to move right along to the next one. He held no permanency in this world—not anymore—and it had been a long time since he hoped for some.

Staying somewhere permanent always ended in death. Or at least that’s what he believed.

“You never answered my question,” you said, following him slowly up the path and to the front porch that was caved in at one spot.

The door opened with a similar haunting creak, similar to the gate; filling your senses with a musty scent of old furniture and molding wood. He crossed the threshold without another word, his hand still gripping the shotgun’s strap on his shoulder. If you were smart, you’d part ways with him right here. You would find a different house to stay in for the night before leaving this place behind when the sun rose. Yet the lingering feeling from earlier still remained in your chest.

If he wanted to kill you, he wouldn’t have saved you.

“Looks old,” you noted, staring at the furniture in what once was a put together living room. Now the couches were torn up, most likely by animals, and the floorboards had water damage to them.

A ripped painting hung above the mantle on the fireplace, small pieces of the original owners coming through strokes of a brush. You caught a glimpse of a girl with red hair and blue eyes. A woman with the exact same features on the other side. A tear went through the middle, severing the young boy and man. Turning the painting into something else entirely.

The sound of his footsteps bounced off the wooden walls as he came downstairs again. Catching you staring at the painting with an intensity in your eyes that he’d never seen before. For a moment he left you alone. Gave you this time to linger in the space of what once was—what would never be again. He used to be torn up about things like this, but eventually he learned that the past would never change, and the future was nothing but a continuous fight for survival.

Eventually he cleared his throat, drawing your attention back to him. “There’s a bedroom upstairs still in pretty good shape.”

You nodded, moving away towards the stairs. “What are the chances of this house still having running water?”

“Slim.”

Something about that response made you smile. You couldn’t put your finger on why, but you took it for what it was.

The bedroom still looked relatively normal, despite the torn comforter and water stained ceilings. The musty smell still remained—the copper scent from blood on your shirt not helping. You wondered if you’d get lucky and find clothes in the closet. Or at least a shirt that could act as a replacement. You made sure to make a mental note to check for that later.

“You can uh—you can take the bed.”

Once again your lips twisted up into somewhat of a grin. “Thank you,” you replied softly, glancing his way briefly.

You’d remember him for his kindness. 

That was evident in your mind as you moved towards the bathroom. In all your years of surviving, you’d never taken so quickly to a person. For some unknown reason it felt like you’d known each other for some time—already acting like you’d been on the same journey together. When in fact he would leave tomorrow (as would you) and you’d be lucky if you came across each other again.

Maybe in another life, you mused.

Sure enough, no water came from the sink. You sighed, dropping your head forward as an ache began to spread through your forehead. What you wouldn’t give for an aspirin right about now. Shit, what you wouldn’t give for a stiff drink and a good night’s sleep. They were luxuries you hadn’t partaken in since the world was normal. When you were younger and life still had a bright hue of color about it.

You sighed, scrubbing a hand down your face before exiting back to the bedroom. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his bag on the ground by his feet and shotgun across his lap. The single sight made you think about a sculpture you’d seen in a class you’d taken before the world fell apart. Of a man sitting in the hand of god, his body curling in on itself—the weight of the world crushing him down.

Even now in the horror that became this world, life imitated art.

“Any water?” he asked, breaking your focus.

“Huh?” You glanced at the sink behind you. “Oh…no it’s dry.”

He nodded. “I’ll take the blanket.”

Standing, he winced slightly before gathering what remained of the blanket at the bottom of the bed. Just the sight caused your heart to twist. You damned yourself, wishing that you could be like everyone else. Able to watch someone else suffer on the sidelines while you protected yourself. Except you couldn’t. Not when you were taught your entire life to care for those in need; to share what you could with others.

“You already said you weren’t going to kill me,” you began, saying it with a slight smile. “So I don’t see why you should take the floor.”

For a brief moment his whole body stiffened, causing you to wonder if you’d stepped over a line. A boundary that he didn’t want to cross with strangers he just met.

“Why?” he asked, turning to face you with an unreadable expression on his face.

You shrugged. “The bed’s too big for me.”

It was partially true. The mattress looked like it would swallow you whole if you let it, but you knew the truth. And something told you he knew as well. He saved your life—this was the least you could do in return. A thank you without actually saying the words. An act of kindness that left a lingering warmth in his chest he hadn’t felt since before the outbreak.

He hesitated, staring at the soft plush bed that would no doubt give his back some relief for the night. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you said without a semblance of doubt in your voice.

Trusting someone this much may wind up to be a mistake on your part, but you pushed that thought aside for the moment. He would most likely be gone before you woke up. Or at least that’s what you told yourself. Sitting on the opposite side of the bed, you allowed your fingers to dig into what remained of the sheets. They were yellowed with age, stained by time, but still soft enough to nearly startle you.

You felt the bed dip on the other side when he sat down.

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

He sighed, the sound deep and ragged. “Not someone to give up easily are you?”

Once again your lips curved into a slight grin. “Nope.”

“I’m heading to Boston. Happened to be passing through on my way here.”

A sensation akin to fear streaked down your spine so quickly, you barely had any time to react. The name sent chills through your whole body. Boston. A city you hadn’t heard about since you left it. You could remember the day vividly; could practically taste the difference in the air as you exited your dorm room. You hadn’t known it then, but your entire world would shift in only a few hours.

You were barely nineteen at the time of the outbreak. Still a kid starting your second year of college with nothing ahead of you but time. Until the campus fell into chaos. You could still remember the screams; the agony of people losing the ones they cared about, to something worse than death.

“You know…” The memories still replayed in your mind on an endless loop. Like a movie with no end. “I went to school in Boston.”

That small detail seemed to catch his attention, because he angled his body slightly to see you better. “You did?”

You nodded, doing your best to breathe evenly in order to stave off the anxiety filling your body. “I was majoring in art history. I wanted to work in a museum one day.”

“Yeah?” He watched you turn slowly, the tension in your muscles dropping slightly the more you told him. “Which one?”

“The Met was my dream job before…”

He sighed, expression shifting to one of understanding. There were plans he had for himself, goals for his life for his family, but now that he could see the bleakness of what his future held, he’d given up the simple act of dreaming. What was there to dream about anyways? But he could see it in you. The hope that remained just beneath the surface of your sorrowful gaze. You were too young when it happened, too young to lose your life that quickly.

“I’ve been there.”

The grief faded slightly, a light returning to your face. “Really?”

He nodded, shifting until he was sitting with his leg extended on the mattress, back pressed to the headboard. “Back when I was in high school, we took a trip up there.”

Mimicking him, you felt the relief in your spine as you finally moved to a comfortable position. “What did you think?”

“Well I’m no expert in art, but I liked it.”

If you weren’t careful you would wind up falling asleep in the middle of speaking. But you fought against the exhaustion that seeped into your bones. Adamant on remaining awake, just to talk to him for a bit longer. His brown eyes watched you settle into a laying down position, your hands clasped together against your stomach. The blood on your shirt had dried to a deep brown color—until you could hardly tell it was there anymore.

“No one has to be an expert in art to appreciate its beauty,” you said softly, staring at the light brown stain in the ceiling that formed rings. It reminded you of what the inside of trees looked like. “I think all you have to do is see it and that’s enough.”

Joel settled in beside you, his back practically screaming in joy at having such a plush bed beneath him.

“Take the portrait downstairs,” you continued, unaware that he had turned his head to watch you. “Anyone can tell it used to be a well painted piece of art, but now it’s torn, severing the image of the family entirely. I think it’s poetic.”

He hummed, catching your attention and causing you to turn your head until your nose practically brushed his. “Poetic huh?”

“It reminds me of my past,” you whispered, taking in the soft lines that were beginning to form on his face. “Tells you a lot about what might have happened here.”

Joel didn’t respond, letting your words settle in his mind. Oblivious to the way they sunk into his heart as well, breaking down a small minuscule piece of the walls he’d placed there. The sound of the crickets outside rang through the open windows, filling the silent spaces between the two of you. He wondered what came before this for you—what would come after this.

“Do you have a place to go after this?” he asked, seeing your eyes grow heavy.

You shook your head. “I haven’t had a place to go in a long time.”

A part of your mind wanted to tell him that you did in fact have somewhere to go, but you couldn’t get the words out. You found that you liked his company; that you didn’t mind who he was as a person. Even though you knew nothing but his name and his path. Except to you…that was enough.

“I hear there’s a quarantine zone down in Boston.” He couldn’t get the question out, letting its implication hang in the air between you in the hopes that you’d understand. Thankfully, you did.

The breath caught in your lungs as you considered it. Returning to the place where it all began for you. The place where your future was meant to start. Just like the painting, you found it poetic in the most gruesome way. But something sour built in your chest. A feeling that told you to stay here; that if you left you’d find your way to even more destruction.

You chose to ignore it in the end.

“Okay,” you breathed, attempting a half-hearted sleepy smile before your eyes fell shut against your own will.

When you woke up, you’d deal with what this meant and how it would work, but you refused to let sleep elude you this time. Whether or not he fell asleep slipped past your mind—your body giving up after hours of strain. The ache would begin in the morning; pain you were familiar with and even welcomed. However for that moment, you were free of it; of the grief that was burrowed so deep in your heart you were afraid it’d never leave.

Unbound from the horrors that awaited you in the early hours of dawn.

You heard the birds first, chirping in the pine tree as they let the rest of the world know that the early morning hours of the day had finally arrived. You felt his arm around your waist, second. Sometime in the night you’d gone from lying side by side, barely touching shoulders, to him pressed firmly against your back. His breath hit the back of your neck, warm and accompanied with the odd snore here and there. It sent shivers down your spine.

Though you both wore several layers of clothing to stay warm during the night, you could still feel the heat of his palm seeping into your stomach. He was still asleep and while you might have agreed to go with him last night, you knew that it was better to leave and go it alone. After all, that’s what you’d been doing.

Holding your breath so as not to make any more noise, you began to shift away from him. Unfortunately for you, his grip on you was a bit too tight for you to remove. You didn’t want to disturb him. What with everything that happened last night. The fear was still a bitter taste on your tongue—reminding you that you could have died last night. That you had him to thank for why you were here in the first place.

Suddenly leaving didn’t sound like the better option anymore.

“You move a lot,” he grumbled. Your heart stopped in your chest for a brief moment.

“I–I’m sorry.” The words caught in your throat when he shifted, something pressing briefly to your lower back before he turned away. He grunted when he sat up, the sound shooting right through you. “We better get a move on.”

He still wanted you to go.

Sitting, you felt the fear begin to dissipate somewhat. “Oh…right,” you said, choosing to do what he did. Ignore that what you felt against your back was in fact what you thought.

The choice might prove better in the long run as you two traveled together. You’d been there before and in the end, it got messier than you wanted. Staying simple—alone but together—would be the easiest option. It would save you from dealing with another loss if something were to happen to him, and you hoped he felt the exact same way. Torment, heartache, they were all things you carried with you at the end of the day. A side effect of the fucking sickness that plagued the earth.

A disease that could never be reversed.

“Do you know how to get to Boston from here?” you asked, reaching for your bag.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out,” he replied, stopping in front of you, a black piece of clothing in his hands. “Here.”

You must have looked confused, taking what you figured out to be a shirt. A man’s shirt if you looked close enough. “Where did you find this?”

 “Went digging through the drawers in the other room.” He turned away, heading out the door before you could give him a real response.

Except you couldn’t find the right words to actually say to him. He was a man of few words. You could tell that right off the bat. Yet his actions seemed to speak volumes, telling you all the things you imagined he’d say. Or maybe…you were on the precipice of losing your mind due to constant stress and pressure. You remember watching movies about the apocalypse and insanity always played a part—the end usually resulting in death.

You figured believing the latter was far better than assuming something about a man you just met last night. While he said he wasn’t here to kill you, the uncertainty in your veins still stuck to the instinct that told you trust had to be earned.

Heading downstairs, you found him in the exact position you were in yesterday. Standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the portrait. He met your gaze when you entered, the shotgun back where it was yesterday, bag still in place.

“Ready?” he asked, watching you adjust your bag and fix your jacket in place. The black t-shirt now underneath it. You left the ruined one in the sink.

“Ready,” you confirmed, following him outside and into the sunlight.

You wondered if there would be others after you and him inside the house; if people were looking for a safe place to stay for the night. Would they see the painting and think of its origin like you had? Or would this just be another place. A hollow building with no life anymore—a corpse that stood against the destruction around it. You smiled bitterly at that thought, knowing that if you were a building…you would be that. A walking ghost amidst nature’s final painting.

Joel walked beside you, his stroll measured and assured. He knew where he was going with each step—unafraid of what he’d find in the distance. So, you fell into step with him, your eyes focused on the horizon as you both walked along the empty street. Leaving the house behind.

[pyxis-stellae]

I finished BO6 and here are my thoughts! (Part 4)

BO6 spoilers below the cut

Okay, so. Sims is back. I LOVED seeing him again. I didn't realize how much I missed him, and he's so done with Adler's shit it's hilarious. Sims is trying to make everything right and Adler is treating the Geneva Convention as a checklist

Interrogating Gusev was... Something. I loved it, I could see how terrified he was and you know what? Good.

Then, Vorkuta. It was nice seeing the map again in better graphics. I felt nostalgic, and might replay BO1 later just for the escape mission. Sev was being a diva again (I persuaded everyone to help me). Very nice. Running into the tunnels with Case was something, I want to replay the mission just to see how Harrow reacts to each option Case can tell her when they met.

Btw I haven't changed my stance Harrow can do anything to me I don't care. She's a little fucked up but I can fix her

I finished the safehouse puzzles, and then... Separation Anxiety. I was terrified of Harrow's part, mainly the second shard with the generators. For a second, I thought her father had killed himself (the hanged mannequin) and I'm scared of her doll. But I was also sad for her - I almost cried. She was vulnerable, and she was manipulated. I wish she hadn't gone down such a destructive path, but I understand.

I know I shouldn't be surprised, but Woods knowing about the "separation" as Adler called was a bit of a shock. My guy why are you so comfortable?? You know what this shit does to people!! Mason is rolling in his grave right now!!

I also loved the fact Separation Anxiety and Checkmate were interleaved. It made a frenetic rhythm that suited the end very well. I also like the reoccurrence of the chess theme.

Now, for Checkmate, I confess I was more paying attention to Felix going absolutely ballistic. Sir aren't you against weapons? Where's Mr. I don't want to touch guns anymore? Don't get me wrong: I'm living for it. I was terrified for a few moments as I thought he'd die on that bridge, but I'm happy it didn't happen.

Harrow's and Woods' conversation was... Something. And even if I knew he wouldn't die because of BO2 I was terrified when he was stabbed.

And then Case losing his shit on Harrow. Completely justified btw. Yes smash her with the weapon they forced you to be. The way she talked about him, it made me feel sick. And I really, really hope he didn't die. It would be a huge waste of a good protagonist, even more if they plan on keeping the Pantheon as the villain, because then it's personal

Overall, I really enjoyed the game and think it did a good job. I do think some things could be better, mainly Case and his link to the Cradle, but again, if he isn't dead this can be fixed easily. It was a fun ride, now I gotta write (I want to make a series of "what ifs" for the game) and replay everything to get it done on veteran :D

[flowersandbirdsflyingfree]

My interpretations of the Main 4 Postal Dudes 🚸✂️

I understand if there are some disagreements about my perspective, but this is just how I see them

UNDER THE CUT ⬇️

Postal 1 Dude

• Holy hell’s bells scrupulosity and schizophrenia do NOT mix

• The second nicest Postal Dude. Very quiet. The definition of a man who’s been pushed to the limit because mankind has been the greatest cancer to his soul. He does make an effort to be a good samaritan to others if he deems an opportunity worth it. But if you press his buttons, he can become pretty vicious.

• He was involved in the air force for the briefest amount of time during the Gulf-War. Despite being discharged, he’s still an avid weapons collector. He has attempted to use his veteran status to uncover government secrets in guarded areas (most are considered conspiracy theories).

• Dude is able to have conversations with The Demon. He can hear him when he’s awake and only sees him when he’s dreaming. It’s not always terrorizing. The Demon has a sense of humor.

• One of his few joys is setting up a fire in the outskirts of town. Nature has a grounding effect on him. He has made friends with the birds and a few ringtails. He wishes his societal expectations didn’t chain him from his dream of living in the middle of nowhere away from it all. His second favorite joy was ice cream sundaes with strawberry sauce, but lactose intolerance is a bitch.

Postal 2 Dude

• Easily the grumpiest of the Dude quartet. Not all the time though! Once he’s free from his failed marriage and awful time in Paradise, he can be somewhat content. The Postal Dude has titanium resilience. He doesn’t worry about the grand scheme of things. We only have one life. May as well enjoy it and make the most of the present.

• We all love his snappy one liners. They get much more venomous depending on how his day went. If he were to fall in love, he would use sharp banter before settling into the softness of vulnerability. It’s a coping mechanism, okay? Nobody’s ever been so nice to him without stealing his wallet.

• Favorite TV Shows/Movies include but are not limited to: Scarface, The Big Lebowski, Sin City, Dan Vs, Reno 911, Xavier: Renegade Angel, MTV’s Downtown and X-Files.

• Dude rescued Champ at a junkyard sometime around his teens. He was a puppy then, tugging at his jeans. Poor little guy was abandoned by his mom. “Surviving out here all by yourself too, huh? C’mere… I’ll take you home. You’re a real champ for sticking around.” Needless to say, Champ’s become his emotional support dog. He loves that dog so much that he throws him a birthday party every year.

• Despite being an anti-social sociopath, he actually doesn’t exalt that about himself. The Dude is humble about it. Just let him finish his errands peacefully. He does believe that the system we live in is corrupt and people are all inherently fucked up in some way. But don’t expect his “We live in a society” rant to be something valiant, no. His “We live in a society” is on par to George Constanza being denied his crab bisque at Soup Nazi’s kitchen.

Postal 3 Dude

• A confident, smoother Dude despite how much of grungy himbo he is. Lack of impulse control is on overdrive. Since starting a new life in Catharsis, he has eased his once tense shoulders into the great unknown. Dude is more in touch with his loner wolf instincts being left alone, making him somewhat more optimistic. Also draws more juvenile cartoons in his spare time

• He’s a bit clumsy when he isn’t setting fire to everything on purpose. Like if he leans against a wall and accidentally sets the fire alarm off. Or maybe throwing a box at a temp job before being told “Be careful! It’s fragile.” He has a pinch more drive than most Dudes. Still doesn’t earn the A for effort.

• Where P2 has a refined edge to his offensive personality, P3’s delivery always comes off as distasteful and on-par to a teenager learning how to make 9/11 jokes for the first time. Also SHUT UP ABOUT SARAH PALIN ALREADY-

• You hand this guy the aux cord and it is the most obnoxious playlist you’ve ever heard. Slut pop, annoying hits that get stuck in your head, outdated meme songs, douchebag rock, hillbilly bagpipes. And he isn’t fucking with you either. He’ll fold his arms behind his head with that stupid grin on his face and hum along.

• Finally having a computer all to himself, it lead to his first exposure to use the internet longer. Holy shit. This opened a whole new world of meme culture for him and his ADD to fixate on. And there’s free porn too?! Sign him the fuck up! Unfortunately, the Dude contracted terminal brain rot in the process (2010 variant). So, expect it to seep into his vocabulary.

Postal 4 Dude

• So laid back. Doesn’t really need crack anymore because he’s a huge kush stoner instead. He would be the very cool uncle in a found family way. His wisdom isn’t the best but he’s got the right spirit at least. So used to rolling with the punches that he isn’t able to get angry as often. It’s more like, “Huh. This may as well happen. Time to head home.”

• His jokes have mellowed out to be more on the crass side. That’s not to say he won’t throw in some dark one-liners though. They’re just not the same bite it used to be. “I always thought Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire was perfect for a commercial about hemorrhoids.”

• He actually got the bathrobe from a mall he temporarily worked in as a security guard. The job was the best 4 months of his life. Of all things, he got fired for urinating in the mall fountain. He left with a bird flipped in one hand and a smoothie in the other.

• 7/11 is his comfort store. There’s just something about the convenience stores that have brought him a slice of comfort in his endless trying times. Life is short. But the pathetic 2 for $4 hotdog rolls on forever.

• Dude has a vocal stim which is him meowing to the tune of whatever song is stuck in his head. It’s actually kinda cute.

[icekingofhope]

(Enjoy this meme here-)

so the Sonic 3 trailer is out and I decided to go on and make a silly post and a small announcement

I have decided after much debate I will start officially making sonic art NOW KNOW I am new at drawing the sonic artstyle so the characters may look like something out of the shining or something cause I’m getting used to drawing them I done the same with the lmk style until I perfected it

Anyways I decided to ramble my thoughts on the trailer and why I love Sonic

now I am a sonic veteran I have drawn sonic before but when I was way younger but Sonic has stuck by me I remember back in the 2000s I used to watch sonic underground a lot on Netflix that’s how long ago it was I always loved sonic I loved the video games even own some sonic games myself!

my first one was sonic unleashed one of my favorite games I always loved and still love to this day the time where he was a werehog and sometimes I even wish he can go back to werehog sonic and plus it introduced me one of my comfort songs endless possibilities

I got way more into Sonic thanks to the anime Sonic X I didn’t watch the whole series cause it started to get weird but it was how I was introduced to shadow one of my favorite characters

I remember I was so intrigued I tried to find other content and then I found YouTuber named animebromii (who unfortunately is a…well piece of shit to sum it up he was one of those found out to get to close to kids type of YouTubers category but that was found out right after I stopped watching him) I remember his Sonic videos always made me filled with joy and made me love the characters more

although I stop getting into Sonic as fans started to get a little to weird for my taste and such and Sega didn’t know what the fuck they were doing

what rekindle my love for Sonic was well the Sonic movies and as I watch I remembered the joy I had for it and started to slowly get into Sonic again and explore more of it due to being more mature and such I turned out to have well a lot of unpopular opinion that I know will have a mob of angry Sonic fans chasing me with pitchforks

Just Some headcanons and ships I don’t agree on and such even some dislike on how Sega is going about like trying to make sonamy now NOTE I don’t mind sonamy hell as a kid I was one of the people who ship it or more specifically the werehog sonic x Amy (i saw so many AMVs and one of those story shits….you have no idea how much of a huge werehog sonic fan I was) but the reason it makes me uncomfortable cause I found out Sega have gave the group canon ages at one point….

which where Amy is 12 and sonic is 15 NOW I don’t know if this is true I haven’t seen proof and out of all honestly I personally think the ages shouldn’t have been confirmed cause well it feels like to me it fucks up the lore and a lot of ships people love and you could have your own headcanons and such for their ages and to me Sonic doesn’t feel like he is 15 to me like hell when I was younger I thought he was ALEAST 18 or 16

There is only few ships I feel comfortable with that is Elise x sonic and sonia x knuckles

now admittedly yes I maybe not the biggest Sonic fan I haven’t read any of the comics i haven’t played all the games hell sometimes I don’t know half of the characters sometimes but still I love Sonic with all my heart and I hope you guys enjoy this little adventure of mine of Sonic the hedgehog

[amywritesthings]

silver underground. / chapter 12

( Read on AO3 )

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x F!Reader (Attack on Titan / Shingeki no Kyojin)

Word Count: 4.2K

Summary: flashback two - you're fifteen. it's been three years since you last saw the boy named levi.

Warnings: depictions of violence, mentions of death, injuries, levi doesn't have a single chill cell in his body, hurt/comfort, wound dressing, levi is 16 and mc is 15

Previous Chapter. / Next Chapter. | Masterlist.

CHAPTER 12 - FLASHBACK: TWO

Three years pass without seasons.

Every now and then you think about him — the small boy you fought, the small boy you shared bread with—

The small boy you would never see around the fighting circuits ever again.

Levi.

For someone as scrawny and unassuming as he might have been, it’s hard to forget him — how piercing his gray eyes are, how his voice carries like a whisper in the wind.

Days come and nights go, but in your loneliness, you seek what could have been.

Sometimes they’re nightmares — his eyes turn hollow, lifeless, as he crushes the life clear from your lungs by his hands around your throat. An attack out of necessity and never out of anger; you often wake up gasping, holding your neck with your hand where he once squeezed.

Sometimes they’re dreams — he appears at Roxy’s without cuts or bruises and sits besides you. His clothes aren’t tattered anymore. His hair stays the same. He shares the same food with you, over and over, until you can no longer eat bread without thinking of Levi.

You imagine conversations about nothing in particular. Most of the time, you do all of the talking: about your life, about made-up aspirations, about wishing you could get the hell out of here and fight for something bigger than another person’s purse. 

If he ever responds, then you can't remember. The details of the exchange tend to disappear as soon as you open your eyes.

And you wonder:

Maybe he’s taller now.

Maybe he’s managed to escape to a life on the surface with the living world, making a name for himself in the sun.

(There is a third option to his fate, one more permanent and honest, but you don’t wish to entertain it.)

In your head, you’ve told him everything:

How you cannot picture your mother, but you hope you really do have her eyes.

How you don’t remember your father, but have a feeling you might have his nose.

How you’ve lost so many siblings as you grew up to violence. You tell him their names, their favorite colors, their little quirks, so someone can remember them, too.

How you want to someday see beyond the Underground City, beyond the Walls, and make something of a name you barely own. James; it was a name Mother gave you, but it isn’t your given name. You know your first name. You were just forbidden to use it around her.

(She hoped you’d forget. So many kids do. You never did.)

He doesn’t say much in return to your confessions, but it’s nice to tell someone else.

To exist in someone else.

Except he isn't real, not really.

The boy indifferent to winning a fight to the death one gloomy evening in the underground three years ago is only a figment of your imagination.

.

.

.

.

Until he isn’t.

.

.

.

.

Even off the clock, the street fights never cease.

Strangers love to think — to pretend — they can take on fighters. At fifteen, you’ve learned the reality of this all too well.

The dim lit alleyways and backroads paved to avoid wandering Military Police offer plenty of opportunities to get jumped by begrudged managers, other fighters, other people — the same snakes lining Mother’s pockets.

To them, it's a chance to take on the seasoned veterans out of the ring but with the advantage in the element of surprise.

It’s how you’ve ended up here tonight — trapped in an alleyway a few blocks from Roxy’s pub with nowhere to run.

Your assailants’ silhouettes have their intentions etched all of their postures.

Three against one. 

It was supposed to be an unfair fight.

And it was — for them. 

You find yourself being held back by the armpits by one of men keeping you stationary, your back to his chest. The other two, emboldened by the rare chance, wail on your face and torso. They’re cheap shots. Nothing you can’t handle. 

None of their hits would have landed if you hadn’t just left a fight an hour prior. They'd caught you off guard while nursing your wounds after winding down from a victory.

These three idiots are not calculated, though. Each want a chance to show off their moves, to prove they're strong against the strongest.

(They haven’t thought this attack through, have they?)

You’re the one with the advantage.

So you make them pay for it.

You manage to escape the hold from behind by slamming the back of your head into the one person's nose, causing the tallest boy to scream in agony. Next you attack the girl fumbling to keep you still.

You grapple and punch your way out of their triangulated attack, dropping each body like flies.

The first goes down with a kick to the groin.

The second crumbles the minute you flip her over your back.

The third? He tries to run, but you quickly follow and slam his face straight into the brick wall.

You step back to observe your work: all of lay there groaning and whimpering on the ground, spent and pleading to be left alone.

(Does that count as four victories in one day?)

Except you can't stay to admire, not down here. In an attempt to avoid potential onlookers hoping to brawl next, you run.

You stick to the shadows you’ve grown to memorize and nurse your fresh wounds as you limp towards shelter. 

Going home isn’t an option — Mother will question the fresh wounds with scrutiny.

You have to fix them alone, here, with nothing but the clothes on your back.

You park yourself against a brick wall to catch your breath, dissolving a wheeze to something more stable as your teeth grit with the shooting pain in your torso.

From an initial mental assessment, your ribs feel bruised but hopefully not broken. The one son of a bitch got a shot to your jaw, but when you move it side to side, it isn’t clicking. 

Good. All good signs. So far it’s superficial.

Though your hands might need bandages before next week’s—

“You look like shit.”

A baritone voice sounds at the other end of the alleyway.

Your neck cracks by how quick you lift your chin to find it.

Maybe you did get hit hard enough to hallucinate, because what you see staring straight at you are piercing gray eyes you’ve seen a thousand times by now.

However, it’s only the second time you would have seen them in the flesh.

This person — a young man — has jet black hair shaved at an undercut just above his ears. The front of his hair flops along the edges of his face, framing his pointed nose and even pointier scowl.

You know those eyes.

You know that stare.

He wears a white, long-sleeved shirt, bundled up by a burnt orange vest that buttons at his abdomen, and a pair of fitted dark trousers. It fits better than the mangled tee you’ve recalled for all these years. His hands are at his sides, resting in fists.

“Mind your fucking business,” you bite back in warning, ignoring the shooting pain your torso.

He ignores your aggressive demand and dares another step forward. 

“How bad did they get you?”

You blink in rapid succession to see if maybe his form changes.

It doesn’t.

You clench your jaw as you push your back from the brick wall.

“Why do you care?”

“I don’t,” he cooly replies, feet stopping just outside your personal bubble.

(This cannot be real.)

You shamble a step towards him, but pain shoots straight through your system. Your arm instinctively wraps protectively around your abdomen. 

His eyes drop to follow. 

“I guess the answer is bad enough.”

“Fuck off,” you exhale, maintaining an aloof attitude in conjunction with the hammering of your heart in your chest.

“Sure." The word drips with boredom, but he doesn’t turn to leave.

Instead the two of you stand there, staring, allowing a beat to pass.

You’re afraid your internalized excitement — relief — has overtaken your entire face.

Levi.

He really exists.

“You can leave, you know,” you force yourself to tell him. “I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah, you’ll be fine so long as those shitheads don’t get up.”

Your attention flickers over his shoulder, past the rows of buildings lining the streets where you’ve left three unconscious idiots to rot.

So he saw the aftermath of the jump.

(How much did he see?)

There is something hidden between the lines of his statement that has you reconsidering. Levi’s voice is nothing like you remember. It’s languid. Smooth, like a buttered whiskey. 

Your first thought is that his voice doesn’t match his height in the slightest — he’s still short, never quite hitting that growth spurt you imagined in your sleep.

“I can’t believe you’re still alive,” you finally tell him, unable to hold in the thought any longer.

He shrugs a noncommittal shoulder and resumes his trek towards you. 

“I get that a—”

“Whoa.”

You stumble back a step, using the wall to keep your balance while your other hand creates a barrier between you. 

“Hold on. What the hell are you doing?”

He says nothing beyond a tilt of his chin: really?

“I said I’m fine,” you repeat.

His tongue clicks. Tch. “Yeah, and I’m six-foot fucking three.”

The deadpan joke takes you by surprise, forcing you to lock eyes. Levi doesn’t betray the passive act he’s putting on, but he doesn’t stop moving, either. 

Not until his chest stops where your open palm hangs in the air.

The teenager regards you briefly, gray eyes flickering down then up.

“Roxy’s is close.”

“I know.”

“They have back rooms with supplies.”

“I know.”

“So why not go?”

He’s taunting you. Great. 

You draw in a slow inhale through your nose, only to halt when a sharp pang hits once more. A pathetic squeak of pain exits your throat before you can suppress it.

“C’mon, dumbass.”

In that moment, Levi swats your boundary away with a flippant hand. He crosses the threshold, attention fixated on you as he drops a centimeter in height. You wait with baited breath when he dips to situate a strong arm under your armpits, pressing your battered body right beside his.

You can smell something herbal on his breath, and the world feels a little smaller.

“Why?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Because,” is all he replies.

He could be leading you to more danger. He could have switched sides and turned into an MP rat of the Underground. He could be a lot of things, and you have one last fight in you to ward him off, but you… don’t.

He’s surprisingly gentle when he takes a step forward, testing just how hurt you might be. You limp beside him, determined to look brave. Strong.

He never moves faster than the pace you’re able to give.

Levi is right: Roxy’s pub is close. And every single inebriated soul at Roxy’s knows you, which is why you avoided the watering hole at all costs. You might be fifteen now, but you’re still under her reign. If Mother was drinking early, or one of your siblings— 

He must have a psychic link to your stream of worry, because the first right turn he takes is into another alleyway. You recognize where he’s headed immediately:

Not the supply closet but the staff back room door.

“You have a key?” you ask, perplexed.

“No,” is all he replies.

Once you both make it to the door, he maneuvers your body off of him and props your back against the wall adjacent to the entryway.

Levi doesn’t fumble into his trouser pockets. He doesn’t pat down his vest.

He instead takes a decided step back.

Then he kicks hard, flinging the wooden door wide.

Your eyes mirror, rounding like large saucers.

He appears not the least bit bothered by what he’s done, instead returning to retrieve you under his arm. You reach for him this time, understanding his intention. Awkwardly the two of you pass through the opening of the door sideways, squeezing chest to chest to fold inwards.

To go from his hands on your throat to sandwiching together in the midst of a break-in, you’re sure you’re still dreaming or dead on a cobblestone street.

Levi shuffles you both to a chair situated askew in the tiny backroom and unceremoniously drops you onto it, lowering with you so not to spark any added pain to invisible wounds. For someone you envisioned so violently, he's... gentle. Careful.

You’re watching him like a mirage that may flutter like ash in the wind.

None of this makes sense.

Why is he helping you?

(A worry lingers in the back of your mind: perhaps he’s not.)

“Oi.”

You return to your body and find yourself staring at the open door, lopsided on its hinges.

You blink to the teenager’s face with cloudy interest as he stares down at you.

“Eyes on me. They aren’t coming.”

They. The assailants.

You realize he must have assumed you were keeping guard instead of spacing out.

“What makes you so sure?” you ask absently.

He doesn’t answer as he crosses the room to a lower cabinet by a sink. The room fills with the sounds of gentle rummaging, clicks and fabric, until he stumbles upon a med kit. 

You swallow to coat your parched throat and lick your dry lips, keenly aware of every movement he makes.

He turns to you, kit in hand, and holds it out to you. You continue to stare, immobile.

“What do you want me to—”

“Hold it, idiot,” he snaps. “I can’t do everything.”

You liked him better when he barely spoke.

Snatching the kit from his hands, you let the fabric sit on your lap. His gray eyes map out quadrants of your face with diligent focus, noting a scratch here and bruise there with the hover of his hand, before getting to work.

You sit as well-behaved as you can manage while your attention switches between his hands and his face.

“I don't understand.”

You pause, expecting pushback. 

“Why are you doing this?”

A rude remark never comes beyond a tentative press of medical cloth to your forehead. 

“Helping anyone down here paints a target on your back, so why would you step in?”

Wordless, he presses a bandage to the spot where the skin broke.

“Levi.”

Sharply his attention rips down to you, and your breath halts.

So it is his name.

You’ve never said beyond your mind’s eyes, but it feels nice on your tongue. Like an answer to a question that was almost lost forever.

His arms remain raised, hands busy with pressing a lukewarm rag to the cut on your cheek.

Then he responds:

“Does it matter?”

“Yes,” your murmur.

“Why?”

“Because it’s harder to help than to ignore.”

Something flickers in his dulled gaze.

“Kind of like giving bread to a strange kid, right?”

His rhetorical question knocks the wind right out of your lungs, flaring the pain in your bruised rib cage. Levi ducks his attention back to tending your wounds, discarding sullied rags to the nearby sink display after addressing each bloodied cut. 

Twelve years old with a selfless act.

Now you’re fifteen, soon to be sixteen, and he’s repaying the favor.

Neither instance ought to make any sense.

“I don’t know,” you answer truthfully. “I’m not a saint for giving you food.”

Levi doesn’t react beyond a flare of his nostrils, but that could be attributed to a silent exhale.

“I could have killed you,” he says, dipping lower to hover slender fingers right where your arm clutches your ribs. “Broken?”

“Bruised.” Strands of hair fall into your face as you shake your head. “I’ve felt broken before.”

“Positive?”

“Yes.” His hand drops away from your torso and to his side. “And I was trying to kill you back then, too. It wasn’t our fault.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” he corrects simply.

“But you could have.”

His fingers pause for a fraction of a second. “Yeah. I could have.”

You barely nod. “I thought maybe something happened to you. I never saw you on the circuit again, so I thought—”

“That was the first and only time I fought in that nasty shit.”

Your brows furrow as his fingertips lift your chin. “...so you weren't sold into it?” He shakes his head. “I was your only fight?”

“Technically.”

“So then why were you—”

“Practice, in case I ever met someone who needed to kill me for quick cash.”

Someone yells cheers! from the other side of the wall where Roxy’s patrons gather for an early evening binge. Muffled laughter bubbles in the throats of strangers, causing your muscles to instinctually tense.

“That's a morbid reason,” you decide after a beat. “You were just a kid.”

“So were you, but for some reason you’re still in it.”

His words simmer with a hint of anger you can’t quite place. Levi drops his hands from your face, shoulders deflating in a rushed exhale.

“Good news: you look like shit, but you’re not in deep shit. I can’t do anything about your ribs, but your face should be fine. You have a bad habit of leaning into your hits.”

“Excuse me?” you blurt from the 180-degree turn of his assessment.

Levi doesn’t respond. His fingers draw the med kit off your lap, folding the fabric ever-so neatly in his hands — it’s more pristine than how it was left.

As his words fester in the air, your temper starts to get the best of you.

Your mirage is an asshole.

When he turns to the cabinet, you stand from the chair.

“What do you mean, I have a bad habit?”

“Did those shitheads make you hard of hearing, too?” he sarcastically bites.

“No, shithead," you mock right back. Although you’re grateful for his help, you’re not one to let someone walk all over you — Mother does it enough. “I don't lean into them."

Levi regards you from a side-eye stare. “Yes, you do.”

“What, so you’ve watched my fights?”

“I watch fights. Not just yours,” he corrects. “You're not special, so get your head out of your ass.”

“Oh fuck you, man.”

He hums, something like hmmph, but you could swear it’s paired with a smirk.

“Leaning into them makes an opponent feel like they have the upper hand,” you explain hotly. “Let them hit, then you strike.”

“It’s a shit strategy.”

“I’m smaller than a lot of my opponents.”

“So?"

“So? Coming out to a fight like you own the place puts a target on your back.”

“Did your Mom teach you that?”

Your nostrils flare. “Maybe she did, but your Dad sure as hell forgot to teach you manners.”

“He wasn’t my father.”

All of the heat gets sucked clear from the room as Levi’s icy statement cuts through it. The teenager finally faces you now, standing at his full height, and taps the cabinet door closed with the toe of his boot.

His expression has soured in contrast to his softening voice. You lift your chin in defiance in a show of bravery.

(Levi didn’t scare you back then. He doesn’t scare you now.)

“And you’re a better fighter than that. Making yourself look weak is a shitty strategy for someone who can't land a punch, let alone someone who can. You take the punches because you damn well know you're better than every opponent they match you with. If you didn’t play the theatrics, then those idiots would all be dead in minutes.”

As you bask in the whiplash of his insults switching to compliments, Levi walks across the room with his sights set only on you.

"I met you three years ago. I thought by now you would've found a way out."

Then he asks a question. Four words.

“Do you want out?”

When your eyes widen, he takes one more step closer. You don’t move away.

“If I had a way to get you out, would you take it?” he clarifies.

Your voice is hardly above a murmur. “...I don’t have a way out.”

“You do.”

“I don’t,” you snap, voice crackling. “I’ve tried. You know people in the circuits—”

“You have a way out."

“Levi—”

“James.”

The surprise is evident all over your face when Levi murmurs your name against his lips. It takes you completely out of your body, drowning in a dream that’s become reality.

There’s a dream where we run away together. You barely know me, but I tell you my name.

How long has he known the name Mother gave you?

“This isn’t a charity hand out. We need a fighter.”

“We?" you whisper sharply. "Who the hell is we?”

His jaw sets. “Furlan Church and myself.”

“Furlan fucking Church?” You sputter in disbelief. “That’s where you ended up after all this time, with that idiot?”

“If you stay in the circuits, then you will die,” Levi snaps, voice raised with deadly seriousness. “That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years. Do you really want her to win?”

His words should be a kindness you run towards.

But according to rumors, Furlan Church is an insufferable, big-headed thug. You’ve heard his name in passing among the youth for the last year or so now — he’s some gangster not much older than you in the midst of building a criminal empire.

Head in the clouds yet simultaneously in his ass, you’ve seen his very tiny crew rob a plethora of street brawl managers through the circuit.

And now Levi associates with him.

The boy with the bread at the pub found himself doing business with that stupid idiot, responsible for—

Responsible for challenging authority.

Responsible for running the show on swiping the seediest of trades in the Underground right from under the noses of corrupt MPs.

Responsible for mugging and attacking people in the middle of the night.

You stagger a step away from him and ask before you can talk yourself out of it.

“Wait — did you send those guys after me?”

Something indistinguishable flashes over his eyes — are you naïve enough to think it’s guilt?

“The three in the alleyway,” you continue. “They attacked me after the fight. It was really convenient of you to find me in the nick of time. So was that one of his initiation stunts?”

Finding you wasn’t a divine intervention of fate but a curated — calculated — test.

An audition to an Underground City gang that evidently Levi had leverage in.

Levi stares, unwilling to dispute your accusation.

“Dirty trick,” you spit, getting ready to turn the other way.

He steps a pace forward to stop you.

“We need muscle for our next heist,” he finally says. “You would get a cut. You would have a permanent place to sleep. You would have routine meals, day and night."

"I'd be selling myself for one contract to another," you growl.

"You're free to leave whenever you want," Levi tells you. "This doesn't work out in a week? Fine, then you can go. But if you do this, then you would never have to see that woman’s face again.”

“She’d find me,” you reassure in defeat.

“Not if I have anything to say about it,” he tells you with an unspoken promise. “You would be protected with me.” Then he corrects himself. "With us."

Your shoulders slump, too exhausted to fight him. "Levi..."

"You'll be paid."

"I don't give a shit about pay," you say, studying his eyes. "I have no money to my name as it is. Your... proposition just sounds too good to be true, that's all."

His brows knit in surprise. "What do you need to be convinced? We sent our three best brawn and you cleared them in minutes. You can see why we'd want you."

"And if I say no?" you hum, brow quirking expectantly. “Are you two going to keep sending people after me?”

“No,” Levi assures with utmost seriousness. “I'd let you live your life. This isn't an intimidation tactic. You would never hear from me again.”

There is hidden weight to that statement, whether you want to admit it or not. Not us, not Furlan — me. He doesn't correct himself this time.

Your eyes finally leave Levi’s face to watch the broken door.

That bitch has been trying to put you in the ground for years.

She has.

Do you really want her to win?

Not at all.

Do you want out?

More than anything.

You’ve wanted out since your first fight, but saying yes to his proposal means that you’re potentially stuck fighting worse.

Military Police, for one.

The gallows, another.

“James.”

You’ll never get tired of it — hearing a name you used to hate now flowing against his lips like cool water.

As if he’s waited to say it just as long as you’ve dreamt saying his.

Someone remembers you—

Sees you.

Just as you see him.

You speak before you can regret it.

“I’m in.” 

Levi’s expression shifts, brows softening. Surprise etches across his face.

You draw in a breath, slow and controlled, and memorize the look of surprise when you nod with determination.

“I’m in. I’ll go where you go.”

.

author's note: your replies/reblogs/asks seriously are my lifeblood. chapter 13 is already written, i just have to do final edits, so it will be posted next friday am! thank you dearly for your encouragement and support. xo

tag list: @lazylizzy3 @notgoodforlife @sad-darksoul @dailydoseof-love @maliakealoha @nube55 @kateastrophies @blinkingsuns @gomigami @voidszoro @tanyeonn @chishiyasan @im-just-a-simp-le-whore

[tacomedli]

Tainted Hero - Chapter 1

Sooooo I'm gonna try to start writing this story again, it was started in 2021, posted to ao3 in 2023, aaaaannnnd I never got past the first chapter. But here's to hoping! Anyway this chapter is already on ao3 obviously but I figured I might as well post it here too as something to get me started again.

Sneak peek:

Warriors barely glanced at them as this was happening, but in the split second that he was distracted he heard another cry--this time coming from none other than Legend. The captain watched in horror as vines of a black something crawled up the vet’s body, coming from--coming from his shadow.

“LEDGE!” Wars ran forward, not really having a plan but knowing he had to reach their veteran. The other heroes were shouting behind him, and he heard the thud of boots running in his direction, but he ignored it.

“I’m fine,” Legend bit out, then grabbed one of his legs and yanked. “I just can’t move.”

Warriors wrapped his arms around Legend’s torso and pulled. No luck.

The black grew steadily, now climbing up his waist. This was not good. 

Full chapter under the cut!

The monsters were infected, of course. It had been a while since Warriors had seen any that hadn’t been. In fact, the last time had probably been back before he’d met the other Link’s. What had caused all this strengthening black blood, anyways? Probably Dark Link, as he’d appeared in battle a few times to watch them from afar.

The heroes had grouped off into pairs, watching each other’s backs, with Wolfie helping out where he could. Twilight was nowhere to be seen, as he’d been off fetching more firewood when the ambush had happened. Hopefully he hadn’t been caught by monsters himself.

Warrior’s train of thought was interrupted by a particularly heavy slash from the lizalfos he was currently fighting against, and he almost staggered under the weight.

Keeping his balance was difficult on the uneven terrain, reminding him that they still had no idea whose time they were in--if anyone’s at all. Wars gave one final stab through the flesh of the lizalfos, piercing it through the heart. With an agonized squeal and a puff of purple smoke, the enemy was gone forever. The hero took a deep breath and turned around, looking for anyone who needed help.

His eyes widened when he saw the Shadow himself, the despicable Dark Link, sitting lazily in the branches of a nearby tree, his expression somewhere between amused and bored. 

“Time!” Warriors shouted, throwing a look over his shoulder at their unofficial leader. “The Shadow is here!”

Eight pairs of ears (though one covered in fur) perked up at that. If only these monsters would give them a break so they could face the real threat!

Time grunted in response, unable to move away from the two stalfos that were currently circling him. Wolfie bounded up to him, snarling and making to bite the ankles of one of them. Time spared the wolf a glance, his grip on the Biggoron Sword tightening. “Wolfie, I got this! Go help Warriors!”

Wolfie gave a sharp bark in return, then turned around to scan the battlefield for royal blue and midnight black. 

It wasn’t hard to spot. War’s blade flashed silver in the sunlight; scarf billowing out behind him. Dark Link’s grin was eerily wide as he slipped down from the tree limb, not bothering to equip any sort of weapon.

Wolfie’s eyes narrowed as he sped toward them. If the Shadow was unconcerned with the danger surrounding him, then he must have something up his sleeve yet. Wolfie wished briefly that he was human right now, so he could shout some sort of warning to be cautious in Warriors’ direction. 

At that moment, Warriors risked a look behind his shoulder. He’d heard Time’s yell, so it didn’t surprise him when he saw Wolfie coming closer. What did surprise him was the blur of red and green that matched an arrow’s speed, and the fierce battle cry as the Tempered Sword was raised high.

Legend.

Dark Link didn’t move until the last possible second, whipping out a blade that was black as coal to counter golden orange as Legend slammed into him. Warriors didn’t even know where the black sword had come from--but knowing Dark Link, it was probably summoned by dark magic or some other evil spell thingie.

Said Dark Link was unharmed from the attack, but even so, the force with which Legend hit the Shadow’s blade sent them both skidding forward a few feet--or backwards, in the Shadow’s case.

The latter still grinned as he pushed against the interlocking blades with a shove, forcing Legend to jump back. By this time Warriors had reclaimed his wits, and after taking a deep breath, charged the Shadow head on.

Dark Link was light on his feet, however, if the next minute proved anything. He barely even used any sort of magic as he alternated between defense and attack with his opponents, Wolfie included.

Neither side was gaining, though the heroes seemed to be the only ones growing tired. They’d been battling a camp of monsters up until now, after all, while Dark Link had only laughed to himself as he watched from the safety of an oak.

Upward swing, jump back. Spin attack, shield. Dodge, jump back. Swing again--

Warriors could feel the beads of sweat rolling down his temple, and was all too aware of a surprisingly painful pebble in the bottom of his right boot. How much longer was it going to take before someone else came to help? He’d like to think the three of them could take the Shadow on themselves, but he’d learned long ago that underestimating the enemy was no small mistake.

Wolfie jumped to bite Dark Link’s arm, but as he’d done countless times before, the Dark side-stepped him while simultaneously clashing swords with Warriors. That eerie grin was finally gone, but there was a glint in his eyes that Wars didn’t like one bit.

Legend threw himself forward yet again, hoping to get in an attack while the Dark was occupied. However, Dark Link vanished into thin air just before Legend could reach him, causing Wars to stumble from the sudden lack of pressure.

“Argh!” Legend whirled around. “Where are you, you--”

Warrior’s eyes widened. “Leg, look out!” he yelled as the Shadow reformed behind the veteran. 

Legend knew exactly what Warriors’ warning meant, and that if Dark Link was truly behind him, there wouldn’t be any time to turn around before he was quite literally stabbed in the back. So instead, he opted for a spin attack.

Which probably would’ve worked--if Dark Link wasn’t insistent on showing off his teleportation magic. Or in this case, his ability to merge with the hero’s shadow. Legend stepped back quickly as soon as he realized what had happened, but of course, his shadow followed.

Wolfie snarled, but heard an indignant yelp as Wind was disarmed by a stalfos a few feet away from them. He sprinted to the boy’s rescue, clamping his teeth down hard on the culprit’s neck as Wind hurried to retrieve his blade.

Warriors barely glanced at them as this was happening, but in the split second that he was distracted he heard another cry--this time coming from none other than Legend. The captain watched in horror as vines of a black something crawled up the vet’s body, coming from-- coming from his shadow.

“LEDGE!” Wars ran forward, not really having a plan but knowing he had to reach their veteran. The other heroes were shouting behind him, and he heard the thud of boots running in his direction, but he ignored it.

“I’m fine,” Legend bit out, then grabbed one of his legs and yanked. “I just can’t move.”

Warriors wrapped his arms around Legend’s torso and pulled. No luck.

The black grew steadily, now climbing up his waist. This was not good. 

Suddenly, Sky was there. “I have an idea,” he said, looking to Wars.

“Well, let’s hear it,” the captain replied, voice clipped. “Doesn’t look like we have much time here.”

Sky nodded, then held up the Master Sword. Sacred light climbed the blade, preparing it for a Skyward Strike.

“Oh, none of that, please,” came the disembodied voice of Dark Link. “If you’re going to be so rude, I think I’d best take my leave.”

Legend inhaled sharply as the black vines grew higher with increased speed, beginning to cover him—

“NO!” Without a second thought, Warriors lunged to grab ahold of his friend, unsure of what this strange magic would do and not really wanting to find out.

His fingers barely grazed Legend’s shoulder when there was a sudden flash of light, and he was no longer in the middle of a battlefield. His stomach grew nauseous and he was light-headed, and before he knew it he was keeling over and everything hurt and something felt wrong and—

Warriors’ eyes peeled open, and he blinked a few times. He immediately noticed two things: one, they were in a very dark and ominous prison cell, and two, Legend, who was slumped on the ground next to him, wasn’t moving.

Great. Just great. This was wonderful.

[churromancermasterofchurros]

I think that the switch from reddit to tumblr is particularly difficult for me so far, and i know it's just been a few days, but i wonder if other people are having these issues as well, so i thought it might be a decent idea to write out my thoughts here.

-first off, i was a lurker almost exclusively on reddit. Much more introverted, and i only spoke about things i knew or if i knew id get karma for it (being a person with RSD, i kind of hated downvotes, regardless if they were just "useless internet points" or not).

-tumblr requires you to be more interactive and speak out more with its etiquette, by reblogging and so forth (ive read in a few places that comments sections werent used much before the refugees invaded tumblr, which i think seems like a cool positive)

-while there arent any downvotes, i still feel anxious to talk/put myself out there. Am i reblogging right? Are my tags funny? Is my blog a big uninteresting mess?

This isnt a problem with the site itself, but with me obviously. But we are talking about my difficulty here, so it still needs to be said.

-the communities arent built in here like they were with reddit, so you sort of have to find it, and the regular posters who have the kind of quality content you want. This is pretty cool, but vastly different from reddit and im having a tough time getting used to it.

-there's definitely a few people i missed from the reddit communities i was in, and i wish i knew if they were here or not. (Talking about you, u/nepalman230)

All this being said, holy hell, its wild. Im putting my thoughts out here right now, and while it does feel....uncomfy, i think its more because im not used to it. It feels more like shouting out to the void. Maybe itll talk back. Who knows?

But i think this site is very neat, and i love love LOVE how much more inclusive tumblr is. Im straight and a cis male, but there were a lot of toxic communities that would just not let people be who they say they are, and im so glad that all my LGBTQ+ friends have a more inclusive place like this, and that so many have migrated over here. I wish i wouldve come here sooner.

Im also very grateful to all you veteran tumblr users putting in the effort to help us out. Youve put so much out here for us, to help us better understand how to navigate these new waters, and honestly? I'd have been really screwed without the help ive received, because tumblr is really kinda chaotic.

Its good to be here, and i'm hoping i can get over all my dysfunctions and really enjoy this space you've shared with us.

[randomwriteronline]

Mata Nui refused to sleep.

He had not given a reason for it, in the distinct way one does not give a reason for something they find immensely discomforting, so none had bothered to pry further, and he had never slept.

This was a useful problem. Useful, because he could still rest through meditation whilst remaining aware of his sorroundings, meaning there was always someone to keep an eye out for the many rogue crawlies that infested Bara Magna at night and any Bone Hunter ambushes, so there was no need to take turns keeping awake and vigilant; a problem, because Kiina now had to be wrestled to sleep lest she abused the down time they had to pester the stranger on space and planets and the such, and Mata Nui was more than glad to speak of anything she might have inquired about at length.

That would have also been a useful problem, as his explanations were told in a low gentle monotone that could have lulled a furious Rock Steed into a chittering pup gently kicking and pawing at the sand in its slumber, if the Gaquri would have managed to stop interjecting with far too loud a volume of voice.

As it was, however, all their conversations did was hinder everybody else's attempt at getting some shut-eye.

When Ackar awoke, the night was perfectly silent.

He wondered briefly why in Plude he'd stirred. A sudden flesh-rendering pain jolting through his right shoulder answered him a little too eagerly for his tastes, and he groaned as he kneaded into it with his fingers.

"Ackar?" a half whisper reached him.

He grunted in acknowledgement.

Mata Nui shifted from where he sat to lean over him: "Is something the matter, my friend?"

The Glatorian pushed himself upright with a bit of difficulty: "Nothing, nothing... Give me a second," he muttered, "I shouldn't sleep with it, but - urgh! Alright, alright, hold my elbow a moment, would you?"

He hissed his thanks through gritted teeth as his limb was caught in a gentle grip. His fingers slipped below his armpit and fumbled angrily with the folds of his skin as his grimace twitched with each spark of pain: at last, with a few clunks and exhausted pops, the arm went limp in Mata Nui's hold as it detached from the rest of Ackar's body, leaving the Glatorian to sigh in relief and move his hand closer to the crook of his own neck.

His friend stared at the body part suddenly in his palms with no shortage of surprise.

"It is a prosthesis," he noted, a little awed: "I did not realize that."

"Yes, well - it's not really your fault for that. It's not that easy to tell, and I never mentioned it," the Glatorian replied as he did his best to massage his aching shoulder blade.

The motion attracted the attention of blue eyes: "Are you hurt?"

"Ah... Nothing to be worried about. I should not sleep with it, is all. It decides to start stinging like Plude if I do that too much."

"You have slept with it all these nights, though."

Ackar gave a lopsided smile: "I know, I know - but when you're out here in the desert, it's always better to have two arms at the ready rather than one."

Mata Nui nodded solemnly, with a grave air about him, as though the Glatorian had bestowed great wisdom upon him instead of basic Bara Magnan common sense, and the veteran warrior could not help chuckling a little at him.

The otherworlder took great care to place the fake limb on the sand so that it would not jam its inner mechanisms before turning once more to his friend: "May I help you?"

"With what?"

"Your shoulder."

"It's just inflamed muscles."

"It doesn't seem as though you can reach the spot bothering you very comfortably on your own. I would be glad to lend a hand."

"Oh? You have experience with this?" the Glatorian teased him lightly, but he did slowly begin unfastening his chest armor with careful movements made surprisingly swift by half a lifetime practicing with only one hand.

"I do not," Mata Nui confessed, completely missing any and all implications: "But I do wish to be of help."

"If it would please you, then, be my guest," Ackar smiled. "Though I will say, at the cost of sounding like a frail maiden - take off your gauntlets at least. I'm pretty sure you'd rip my flesh right off of me if it got pinched in your armor."

"I see. That is an unfortunate request."

"Why so?"

"I am physically incapable of removing my armor."

The other just shrugged casually as he pulled off his undershirt: "I can help you with it."

"You are very kind, but I did not mean that it is impractical to fasten or get out of," the otherworlder clarified. He placed a palm on where his clavicle should have been, lightly curling his phalanxes around the edges of the golden yellow metal covering his upper half: "Taking this off would be akin to skinning me."

Ackar responded to the information with a wide eyed stare.

"Ah," he convened finally: "That'd be quite terrible."

"It would indeed, my friend."

"So - hold it, hold it. You've been naked this whole time?"

"I... Would not... Describe myself as such."

"No, no, I mean--" the Glatorian reworded himself as he scooted over, "This whole time, we've been running around fighting for our lives, fending off vicious beasts and Bone Hunters, and you haven't had a single piece of protective gear on you?"

Mata Nui blinked: "I am shielded," he replied.

"I don't mean Click and the whole - thing, that you make him do that turns him into a shield," Ackar said as he settled down with his back to his friend. "I mean something that keeps your soft insides from getting sliced in half at the first swing of a blade, or from getting skewered by the first Thornax launched into the back of your knee."

"I am shielded." the other insisted.

"By what?"

"My carapace."

His fingertips laid on the Tapyri's back, only to retreat in confusion a moment after. Whatever puzzled him was eventually deemed inconsequential, as he returned to study the shoulder blade beneath his fingers in search of any anomalies beneath the skin that could clue him in on where to strike.

"Your what?" Ackar asked.

"My body is naturally armored," he explained without breaking focus: "Much like insects, certain species of reptiles, or likely the Vorox and Zesk from what I could observe of them, I am covered by an exoskeleton meant to protect my organs and sustain my body. It is unclear whether I possess an additional endoskeleton, like you, but I must confess I am not very keen to find out."

"Huh," his friend noted. After a moment, he added: "Because you'd have to be skinned."

"Yes."

"Very fair."

That was quite the load of information.

By all means, this wasn't necessarily the first time they'd heard of carapaced sentient beings - the Fezeri of the Iron tribe had something of the sort, and if you tried searching through their old settlements enough you were bound to find some molts that had survived the passage of time - but they still had bones in them. Like normal people.

And yes, of course, Mata Nui was abnormal under every aspect if you looked at him for longer than two minutes.

But being a huge humanoid bug?

Now that was unexpected.

More than everything else.

Including coming from space. Because even Kiina had imagined that spacepeople would have had bones in them, or at least been aware of having them.

All of a sudden the Glatorian gave a short snorting laugh.

"You're so confusing," he said whistfully, craning his neck back. "By the looks of it one would guess you're just a slightly irregular fellow, and yet you're some sort of alien who's more like Click than any of the rest of us. You're just full of surprises."

"Oh! I suppose that is true," Mata Nui mused.

He sounded somewhat amused by his resemblance to the beetle. Like he hadn't noticed it himself until now.

His fingers slid on what seemed like a slight bump under the oily skin. That must have been the problem, he thought to himself, and without further ado dug his thumb in the spot: against his carapace he almost felt the individual fibers of muscle flatten under the pressure he exercised upon them, the tight knot they were wrapped in struggling not to yield and unfurl.

He didn't quite get the time to focus on that, however, as he was startled out of the tactile sensation by a deep gurgling sound rattling almost right in his audio receptor.

Ackar, for his part, was trembling so much that the flesh folded around the back of his ribs seemed to be trying its hardest to imitate the vibrating tempo of a dragonfly's wings as it raced its peers across the surface of a lake.

"Oh, I think you found it!" he gingerly said before his friend could wonder whether he'd accidentally hurt him - which in a matter of seconds was no longer a concern seeing as the Glatorian all but leaned further into his thumb: "Go on, go on, those bastards are hard to get rid of--"

Another growl reverberated through the otherwise still air, and Mata Nui realized it was coming from directly under his palms.

Ergo, it was coming from Ackar.

He tried digging harder into the skin: the shoulder wiggled around his finger in a very curious way and the gurgling's volume raised a little more, while the trembling returned to rattle through the Tapyri just as hard as it had before.

Sound and tremors repeated in varying intensity as he continued to knead his fingers against the suffering spot, usually accompanied by the body in question trying to recline directly into the pressure much like certain creatures do when gently scratched in specific areas. He deduced these reactions must have been positive ones, meant to communicate a contented or happy disposition - perhaps specific to the Fire tribe? The trembling in particular, with its very visible reverberations all across the being's frame, seemed to require the presence of an amount of skin which was notably higher than what he could glimpse on Gaquri and Lebori alike... Although Ackar was also significantly older than Gresh, Berix and Kiina, and it would not have been wise to rule out the possibilty of age playing an important part in determining the quantity of soft tissue.

Speaking of the skin, though he was very taken with the large splatter-like marks all across his back, there was also something else that was puzzling if not outright concerning him about it.

"You're sweating quite a lot," Mata Nui noted out loud.

Ackar leaned so far into his hand that he almost dropped down right onto the sand.

"Ah - 'sss not sweat," he drawled through the rumbling in his neck: "Don'- don't frrreak out now, ok- 's mucus."

His friend hummed, unbothered: "That explains the consistency."

"Don' worrrrrry about it - 's norrrmal, yesss? We - us Tapyri, we jusss' make it, see... For the, the tem- RRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR! Sorrrrrry, so'ry... We live near volcanos 'n' open lava pools, so the temp'raturesss would shrrrivel us up..."

"I understand... It keeps you hydrated in otherwise extreme climates."

"Uh-huh... Plus 's easierrr t' wash off the ash like that... Jusss' ssscoop it all off, and the'e, all clean like an oil'd up--" an even more powerful gurgle took over his throat, and he arched his back so much that Mata Nui had to quickly catch him with both hands before he slipped right out of his grip. Now that the Tapyri's face was in view he could note with great interest that his thin teeth were paraded in a wide trembling grin, almost clattering together, and that his eyes were squeezed shut as if he were in great pain - although the effect his expression gave off, even looking at it upside down as the fallen god was, seemed closer to exceptional enjoyment. He watched him mutter a curse under his breath before his voice raised again, slurring in bliss: "A'e you su'e you've nev'r done this beforrre? Y're good!"

"I am afraid I only have theoretical knowledge at my disposal, although in great quantities," his friend replied, a little embarrassed as he laid the other's head down onto his armored legs.

Ackar grinned a little wider as his nape touched down on something pleasantly warm: "Ahhh, booksss, booksss..." he chuckled, wriggling in place, fingers idly pulling the air in uncoordinated motions: "I g'ess they'rrre good f'r sssom'thin', eh?"

His chest jumped with a giddy silent giggle, causing his rumbling to stutter a few times.

Now that he looked at his actual arm better, Mata Nui realized that its back too sported large splatters of different pigmentation. He caught it in his free hand very carefully, turning it over to observe it better while the Glatorian simply allowed him to, maybe not even noticing: their position and shape was not as random as it appeared, but instead seemed to follow an imperfect pattern which mirrored that flanking the man's spine. A quick glance at his prosthesis revealed no such detail on the fake flesh.

Such a curious thing, he mused as he thoughtlessly played with the organic limb - pressing on its palm, lifting it, bending its elbow and wrist to watch the skin crease and muscles tense or relax. He'd seen this sort of appearance on a few creatures along his travels, usually to ward off predators by denoting some sort of poisonous nature... Perhaps the Fire tribe had evolved to secrete a type of venom mixed into their protective layer of mucus in response to threats, or it could have been a strategy of ages past that had managed to survive with each subsequent step they'd taken up their evolutionary ladder for some reason or another.

He'd never had a tongue to test the effects of different poisons personally, and while he might have had one now (though he wasn't sure, since he had not had the time to properly study or think about this body's anatomy much) he was a little uncertain on whether his friend would have appreciated having his fingers shoved in Mata Nui's mouth for the sake of scientific research.

He had come across a few sapient species that considered that a formal greeting, but he would rather not take his chances.

Maybe he could have asked later.

He felt Ackar's shoulders shift and squirm in his lap to get more comfortable, and he returned his attention to him just in time for the Tapyri to open his eyes and meet his gaze in turn.

For a small period of time they simply looked at one another. The otherworlder continued idly moving the other's limb, exercising a gentle pressure upon his palm as he shifted the arm up and down without any rhyme or reason; Ackar himself just let him do as he pleased, only blinking back at him, face stuck in a neutral expression, not making a singular attempt at stopping him.

"Oh," he spoke at last with a nervous laugh: "Well. Hello."

What a strange thing to say. Mata Nui tilted his head slightly: "Hello," he replied in tone.

"I've made myself comfortable, haven't I?"

"If you are referring to your position, I took the liberty to recline you myself in order to keep you from getting injured."

It was unclear if the information reassured the Glatorian or not, as his reaction was to widen his pupils slightly, considerably darken the skin of his nose, and only peep: "Ah."

"You were leaning rather far back. You could have fallen."

"Ah," he repeated. "Thank you, friend."

"It was my pleasure."

Ackar's nose turned a little darker again.

Mata Nui touched it thoughtlessly: its temperature had increased, he mused to himself, so perhaps blood was rushing to that specific spot for one reason or other.

"You might be building a fever," he warned.

"I do not believe I am," the Tapyri replied a little stilted, again with an embarrassed chuckle, "But thanks for worrying."

Concerns soothed, the fallen god dug a digit back in the pained spot and earned another gurgle for his good deed, which reverberated this time across the plates of his legs. He was surprised to find it caused a weird, pleasant sensation akin to a feeling he unfortunately was not sure he had a name for yet.

He returned his attention to his friend: "How is your shoulder feeling?"

Ackar had shut his eyes again, and squirmed in a sort of pleased manner: "Betterrr," he replied, growls now coming from his throat in shorter bursts. He cracked open an eyelid to look at his own arm being maneuvered by Mata Nui's hand as though it were the limb of some sort of machine, losing himself in the feeling of the armored palm and the limp movement of his own joints: "Havin' fun?"

The other followed his gaze, and instantly turned bashful: "Oh - I apologize. I was lost in thought," he whispered sheepishly, placing the limb down on the Glatorian's chest.

His friend cackled: "It's quite fine, it didn't hurt."

Another gargle rumbled through him as the last kink in his muscle was smoothed down.

Mata Nui continued massaging the spot either way, and Ackar continued quietly responding to his kindness with soft purrs; and for a short while, as the desert breathed its tired chill and the winds didn't blow any sand into their eyes or noses or mouths, they simply remained quiet.

Fingertips ran across his arm softly, slowly.

If he concentrated enough he could hear how the barely perceptible sound them scraping the mucus off of one another.

It was terribly comfortable.

Terribly soothing...

A soft monotone stirred him from the torpor he was falling into: "In truth, I was quite taken with your skin's markings."

Without opening his eyes, Ackar turned his head: "Hm?"

"These," his friend explained. He felt him trace an unclear shape on his forearm a few times, gently: "You present an irregular pattern of noticeably different pigmentation both here and on your back. The closest condition I could try to compare it to would be vitiligo, but it does not appear to be anything like it."

The Glatorian hummed softly: "Oh, we just have them... They're common, to us Tapyri. Splatters, spots, dots... Various colors, too..."

"How curious," the otherworlder murmured. He moved from one spot to the other seamlessly, following their borders. "Poisonous creatures often advertise their toxicity to potential predators through similar visual cues."

"Is that so..."

"Perhaps you too have some."

Ackar chuckled as he humored him: "Perhaps I do, who knows!"

"Like a salamander."

"And what is that?"

"It is a term that indicates a family of small amphibians of which many species contain a potent poison within their mucus-covered skin. Their appearance is quite similar to that of lizards, so they are often mistaken for reptiles despite their lack of scales. Land-dwelling turtles often incur into a similar yet opposite misconception, being believed to be amphibians when they are not."

"Hm. And their poison, what does it do?"

"It is deadly in exceptionally small doses and can affect the victim by means of contact with bruised skin, ingestion, inhalation, and injection."

"Oh, I'd like that."

"You would?"

"Yeah, why not? First sand bat to swallow me whole gets a nice surprise, and I take that bastard down with me."

He laughed softly, reclining his head further into Mata Nui's lap.

His yellowish eyes looked up again curved into half moons, meeting the fallen god's own with a lopsided grin: "That'd be a nice little consolation at least, wouldn't you think?"

His friend's glowing irises looked back down at him with a sort of vacuous glimmer.

They were a very nice blue.

The otherworlder's hands were heavily segmented, each articulation encased in a golden shell fitting perfectly against the others. It was really curious how he'd never noticed that until he had his cheeks cradled into one of those palms, weirdly coarse and warm like sand.

Mata Nui looked directly into his eyes: "You are so deeply interesting," he said with such earnest awe.

He sounded so starstruck - he was so starstruck, staring at the Glatorian utterly entranced as though he was marveling at the sight of in the most incredible discovery of this age.

"If the circumstances of our meeting had been different, less wrecked with quests and worries," the fallen god continued, speaking awfully softly as he returned his mellow grip to the Tapyri's hand and began shifting his arm around aimlessly again, to feel the shift of muscle and skin and mucus, "I would have loved to simply watch you live for weeks on end. To take note of your speech patterns, your specific anatomy, how your body moves, how it reacts to stimuli..."

"That," Ackar murmured, breathless: "Is a bit forward - isn't it?"

His friend leaned his head to the side ever so slightly, not blinking.

"At least you should first..."

He choked on his own breath very briefly; he shut his eyes with a little bewildered wheeze and smacked his palm on his face.

Great Beings.

That could have been incredibly awkward.

Mata Nui, who was still holding onto his hand waiting for an elaboration with a fair share of interest on the matter, decided the necessary amount of time for an explanation's request to be polite had passed and curteously encouraged him: "Do continue. I would like to know the proper steps to follow."

But the Glatorian shook his head with a breathy cackle: "Don't- it's nothing, don't think about it. I'm very tired and talking stupid."

"I apologize. I should let you rest, then."

"Oh, no, if you - if you want to talk about something, it's fine."

A surge of warmth radiated from the carapaced fingers wrapped around his hand: "It would not bother you?"

"No, no... You've got a soothing voice really, so it wouldn't... I don't know how long I can listen to you consciously, but if you'd just keep telling me about... Oh, I don't know..."

"Would you like me to continue with the salamanders?"

Oh, he knew that little wiggle that had just shaken his friend's legs. It was the same as Kiina's flapping knees while sitting crosslegged, Gresh's one-handed claps and the weird little laugh Berix sputtered when he saw something he liked way too much.

Mata Nui really wanted to tell him more about those beasties.

Maybe he was excited about the similarities he'd found between them and the Tapyri. Or maybe he just liked talking - he'd always seemed awfully happy rambling to Kiina.

Either way, the little terrors had already gotten in his good graces with their poison, so why not learn more about them?

"I reckon I would," he smiled.

His arm was lifted again, and he could now see the excitement in his friend's eyes: "It would be my pleasure," he assured him. He leaned a little further down, closer to his face: "What would you like for me to start with?"

The Glatorian twisted his mouth for a moment: "To start, to start... The legs, let's go with those. How many do they have?

"They tend to have four limbs, two front and two hind, although certain species completely lack the latter," Mata Nui began without missing a beat: "The number of toes is also variable, but never exceeds four on the front and five on the rear. A rather incredible ability the entire salamander genus can vaunt is that of fully regenerating entire limbs without any trace of scarring."

Ackar hummed, amused, and moved his lone shoulder blade as though its arm was still attached: "That's a real good one, I'll say... Don't quite get the lack of back legs, though."

"Specimens that showcase such a peculiar characteristic tend to be fully aquatic throughout their entire lifetime, so perhaps an additional pair of limbs were considered more superflous to them than they were to other species that maintain an amphibious existence or even turn completely terrestrial upon reaching adulthood - though still favoring damp, cool habitats due to their permeable skin, preferrably near water." the otherworlder explained. Then, as though remembering it suddenly, he added in a slightly humored tone: "Sapient inhabitants of the planet on which I observed these creatures most often associate them to fire, particularly to the ability to resist it unharmed or putting it out entirely. A misconception created by the salamanders' habit of making their nests in rotting logs, from which they would flee when they were placed in the fire, also led to the belief that they were born from flames."

Something else they had in common with Tapyri...

One of their oldest tales, a myth to tell children - they were the spawn of embers, born from ashes still warm of extinguished bonfires, from the glowing rivers trickling down the sides of volcanoes...

Ackar squeezed his eyes hard and forced himself concious. A small sigh escaped him: he was already fighting a losing battle with his eyelids to keep them open, lulled into a thoughtless state by Mata Nui's excited monotone gently and eagerly pouring as much information as he could into his head.

His throat rumbled weakly, its grumbles vibrating against the equally pleased lap wiggling beneath his head - oh, if he could stay awake a little more, just a little more...

"Their diet tends to vary based on their environment and size, but they are known to eat anything the deem large enough," Mata Nui kept going softly, stroking the Glatorian's hand with his thumb: "Among their most common preys are insects such as flies, beetles, cicadellidae, moths, caeliferae and aquatic bugs, arachnids such as mites and spiders, earthworms, hexapods, and various larvae, while larger species may also hunt crabs, small mammals, fish, and other amphibians; in case of particularly scarce resources they might also resort to cannibalizing other salamanders, something that often happens between young specimens. Their jaws have each a row of small teeth capable of bending inward to keep the prey from escaping, sometimes helped by patches of teeth found on their palatine bones and vomer as well to better hold it down - aquatic specimens rely on them to macerate and tear the prey, as their tongues lack muscles and cannot be flicked out to catch food in the way their terrestrial counterparts' can. This is made possible by their ability to secrete a sticky mucus from glands positioned on the roof of their mouth and the tip of the tongue itself..."

And he continued talking for a good couple of hours, droning in the night with his quiet excitement without worrying too much about Ackar's silent snoring adding itself to the sound of Kiina, Gresh and Berix, simply happy to listen to them breathe and live around him and talk, talk, talk about all the marvelous things he'd loved alone until now.