#mainly that she is just the image of burnt innocence

[green-eyes-and-orange-ties]

Olivia Lark

There's just no time to die

Night Shift Podcast

[lluvguts]

“...secrets?” // byler

pairing: eleven / mike wheeler & will byers / mike wheeler

warnings: none!

word count: 2693

summary: Where Eleven snoops around Mike's house and finds a peculiar journal entry.

Eleven grew tired of sitting in the blanket fort, waiting for Mike’s watch to say the three numbers he told her earlier— ”When this read 3:15. Three, one, five. Got that, El?” Mike adjusted the digital watch to her wrist with soft, sweaty fingers— and letting her stomach settle the burnt Eggos he snuck back from breakfast.

“Just stay here in the basement, Eleven. So it’s a secret. And eat these waffles, understand?” Mike was staring at her with intense eyes, ones Eleven knew were filled with curiosity at her; those deep brown eyes; they were fixed on her face, on her puzzled stare, only belonging to the boy who saved her. Her friend. But Mike’s eyes led her to believe that maybe he found something more than a friend there, in her gaze. His looks were too deliberate and his gestures too sudden and eager—of the three boys who had rescued her, Mike was the only one willing to communicate, make her feel at home—and even if the other two thought she was stupid, Eleven knew better than to assume this boy sitting next to her thought of her as only a friend.

She herself was unsure what she felt, what she thought of him. No words came to her aid. A blank, soundless mind.

Eleven understood his words. Stay. Eat. It was but the one sentence that made the bite of waffle she had chewed off cling to the back of her throat.

“Secret?” She asked, letting the packaged Eggo return to her lap. Mike’s expression changed, once kind and assertive; now confused. It was a look Eleven had often recalled on the many faces of those around her—before. Especially her Papa, the white-haired man that occupied every vacant space in her mind, breeding intrusive thoughts of other places and nightmares she had no way of forgetting. A gentleness painted on the man that was quickly met with irritation when she did not comprehend a task.

But these new people, new faces, were different. Mike was different, she was sure of it. His thoughts and emotions were obvious for anyone to see. Sensitive and on display.

Too exposed.

“What?” Mike’s voice broke her from the memory. He leaned forward, just barely. From this close Eleven could discern every one of his freckles, on those pale cheeks tinged with blush, lashes dark and just as visible as the straight, raven-colored hair that framed his face.

“What is secret?” Eleven repeated the question, the word was familiar on her tongue, but had no meaning, no flavor. Dull and lifeless like the many things she found herself unable to remember.

Mike’s legs shifted on the blanket, searching the wall for an answer, as if it had one.

"A secret is something that no one else can know about,” he replied slowly, making sure she caught everything.

“I am a secret?”

“No! Of course not. Well, not exactly—” He assumed a body posture she did not like: too quickly did his shoulders rise to shrug, his face a notch above where it should be—looking at her—and mind clearly elsewhere. It made her feel unwanted—a weirdo, a stray dog—and that she was wasting his time with her questions. Did Mike not want to explain? Why must she stay in the blanket fort? Eleven wondered with hidden frustration. The bad men couldn’t infiltrate the confines of this house, the stability that Eleven needed it to have. Not even the other things, the screams she heard in her sleep from the Upside Down. Not yet.

All of her questions were lost past communication: so many words and phrases and meanings entirely taken from her, unable to speak them aloud.

“Michael! You better be up here right now if you don’t want to be late for school!” A voice shouted from upstairs, making Eleven flinch and cast wide, frightened eyes at the ceiling.

Mike set a hand on her sleeve to reassure her—and she paid careful attention to the fact that he did not touch her. Was he afraid of her abilities, that could stun an entire room? Like everyone else was?

“It’s just my mom. I’ll see you later, okay? Remember: three, one, five, El.” And with that he was gone, only leaving Eleven to reflect on his words—even the unsaid ones—and finish her breakfast.

But by that time Eleven was no longer hungry. More sounds echoed from above, she listened intently under the cover of blankets to every thud of footsteps and pinging clatter of dishes until the house settled into a comforting silence when the watch read one-zero. The only thing that stilled her racing heart was the repetitive blink of that watch, its numbers flashing in red light. A color that made Eleven’s eyes burn when she stared at it for too long, too closely, her pounding vision ringed in scarlet.

She didn’t want to stay in the basement, even if Mike said so. She wanted to discover other foreign things in the house, like whose voice accompanied what room, what his family looked like, where Mike slept. The image she constructed of his face shrouded in sleep—innocent features undisturbed, not a sign of worry or a frown—made her blush. Eleven smiled down at the Eggo’s crinkly plastic in her hands, surrounded by the speckled grey of someone else’s sweatpants; her shirtsleeve crusted with a coppery red from the ghost of old blood.

Not now. She couldn’t allow herself to dwell on it, her “superpowers.” A term the boys often used for it—either in amazement or fear she did not know. Eleven shook her head, if only they knew it was anything but a gift. They were right to be afraid.

Out of habit, she checked the numbers again: 12:37. Too early to leave out the back door, but just enough time to creep upstairs with no one home yet. The stairs were carpeted, mysterious blue steps that led her up into the house, soothing her bare feet. Once above ground, Eleven stood at the base of the kitchen’s hard tile and stared in awe. Many things reminded her of Mike, and possibly the other voices she heard during her stay: dirtied dishes, a child’s plaything, an old house phone suspended on the kitchen wall and backed by creamy floral wallpaper. Signs of life. Family.

Home was a far off place, invisible to her reach. She searched her mind for a taste of it, trying to force the past out of her, but the emptiness was inescapable; it only brought a blistering headache and the all-too-familiar faint feeling Eleven often adapted to for the past twelve years.

Somewhere in the living room a clock trilled the time: 1:00. How long had she been standing there? Eleven wiped her face, her sleeve returned wet with tears she did not know where there and the speckled dots of a nosebleed. The smell of blood burned in her nostrils, salty and pungent. It made her sick.

She spun on her heels and went to the staircase, hoping Mike’s room was somewhere up there. It felt wrong in some ways, like a burglar stepping into a stranger’s house; her stomach twisted with guilt but still she climbed up the stairs until she reached the landing, it’s walls covered with photographs. Mike’s face popped up in random ones, surrounded by people Eleven did not recognize. His smile was etched into the lips of other people, an older woman with thin brown hair she assumed was his mother. Sister with her arms around a much younger mike. Her pretty face, her prettier body. The final photograph stopped Eleven dead: the three boys, all standing around a podium, joined by a fourth.

Chestnut brown hair that curved around a kind face. Shy, expressive eyes stared back at Eleven. In a sudden moment of realization the face of the boy matched his voice, his shrieks of pain. The remnants of her time in the Upside Down were already fading but even still the sounds of his screams resonated with her, weeks after. The boy trapped in the other world. Will Byers.

It all began to make sense. This was who went missing, who the others were searching for. Eleven shuddered with emotion, with empathy for this boy: having to survive with the torment of the monsters in the Upside Down, the constant disillusionment, fearful frustration of not being seen. Completely alone.

Eleven’s finger landed on Will’s face in the photo, covering it.

“Hide,” she whispered.

Across the gallery was a series of bedroom doors, mostly shut but some left open. One final look at Will was enough; Eleven left the memories suspended in time, and headed towards the hallway.

Mike’s room was first, it's door left cracked. She knew this mainly because of its assortment of comic books and small figurines that matched the ones in the basement—and partially due to the smell: Mike had given Eleven his navy blue crew neck to wear that first day, it filled her blood-caked nostrils with his boyish scent. Again she caught her cheeks flame, standing at the threshold of his room, on the outside looking in.

With a cautious step she set a foot on the carpet. Apart from the mess the room was very intriguing to Eleven, with the exciting posters tacked on every available space, school books left in a haphazard pile by the bed, clothes strewn about, a lone mirror leaning against the wall. She crept inside the room completely and stood at the mirror’s length.

What was peering back left her speechless. A thin, androgynous figure with slouched shoulders stared ahead, hair shaved, a look of horror and alarm crossing its face. Eleven knew it was her—the borrowed clothes, the grime of tears and blood. It was her own eyes that startled her: dark and off-balance, like she did not trust herself. Like she was staring into the soul of a stranger.

She let her eyes trail across the glass until they landed on something tucked at an odd angle under Mike’s bed. Turning around, she knelt  beside the bed frame and touched the corner of the object—cool leather met her curious fingers, inviting her—until she found herself holding the item. It was a notebook. Eleven flipped the pages, poring over every passage undeniably in Mike’s handwriting. Although she was incapable of understanding some of the phrases, the entries were easily read until Eleven’s fingers stopped on the final page.

The latest entry, dated a few days ago. She read carefully, tracing the letters with the pad of her finger to feel them as she went, fascinated by the indents in his disorganized scrawl.

I won’t let myself believe he’s gone. Gone as in dead. He isn’t dead. He can’t be. But why is everyone acting like he is? Are they searching for Will because they feel bad? It’s the only excitement this town has had in years? That’s pretty shitty.

On the way to find Will, to find answers, we met a girl. I thought she was a boy at first. Her hair was cut really short. It was pouring buckets and Dustin was still arguing about turning back when we found her. Damn, did she look scared. Shaking like crazy. We took her back to my house, even though Lucas and Dustin didn’t want to. They said she was a freak, a weirdo. I wasn’t sure. She seemed nice enough for a girl who doesn’t talk. Eleven. That was her name. How weird? Who names their kid some number? Even more reason for the guys to be worried. I didn’t think it mattered, when she was cleaned up she looked really pretty. What’s that word on the vocab test in English? Stunning.

I tried to tell them she just needed a place to stay but they said I was crazy, that Eleven was crazy too. Just because Will’s gone and everything, now I have someone else to obsess over, they said. That isn’t true. I don’t obsess over him. It’s not like that.

But maybe I did? That day after school, when it was just him and I. Will was telling me about how the older kids were pushing him to the ground, calling him names. Faggot. Queer. He hated them for it. I almost said, ‘But Will, you aren’t a queer’ but as I started to talk he turned on his bike to stare at me. It made my stomach flip, why did it do that? Like stupid butterflies and crap. He looked at me like he knew I was lying. Like maybe I was lying too. To myself. But that’s a secret Will couldn’t tell, not to anyone except for me.

And now Eleven’s here. She’s asleep down in the basement. As I write this I don’t know what to think. I miss him in a way I didn’t think I could. Like a piece of mt is gone. God, that sounds sappy, huh? Great, now the kids are gonna call me names worse than Frogface. Say I like one of my best friends, the boy who might be dead.

But do I stop them? Are they wrong? I can’t get his face out of my head and it’s messing me up. I wish I could have said something that last night, when it was just Will and I. He was keeping a secret too.

The words ended there, but Eleven reread the page to make sure she didn’t miss what she thought she read. Mike Wheeler, the boy who found her in the rain, had secrets? Elven thought they were friends.

“Friends don’t lie,” she told herself, and the pages that said Mike liked Will. They also said that Mike liked Eleven too, and her heart hammered out a disjointed beat at that. Could you like your friends? In a way that was more? Eleven squeezed her eyes shut in concentration, trying to form the words that would make sense of it all. Mike was friends with Will, but there was something to his journal that was laden with different emotion too foggy for Eleven to fully grasp.

She opened her eyes. It was the same way she felt for Mike, that distant feeling. She relished in the fact that she knew something no one else did, but was shocked as well: are friends allowed to hide things like this? Keep locked away the shy smiles, the stares at one another, the rapid hearts? Friends but different.

A echoey toll sounded from downstairs, and for a shaky moment Eleven forgot about the time; she jumped at the noise and the notebook fell from her hands. It clattered to the floor with a soft thud and a rustle of paper. Eleven stared down at the black notebook for a long while, pondering over what she had read. Was it a secret she had snuck upstairs? No one had to know she was up here at all. But an outside grumble of a motor rolling up the driveway sent Eleven frantically back down the stairs, jumping the last few steps, and dashing into the basement. She retreated into the blanket fort and wrapped the sheets over her body. Her heart pounded with dread at the opening of a door, the preceding footsteps. A lively voice on the phone.

“Oh no, I don’t have to pick up Michael today. Stop by anytime. Yes, he’s with his friends,” the woman chattered. Eleven was trapped.

The numbers read: 3:08. It was too late now. She found herself once again stuck with her thoughts, staring at the same Eggo waffle wrapper. Wondering how she got stuck in a house she didn’t belong in, reading things that weren’t for her, feelings she couldn’t put into words.

Now Eleven knew two things: friend feelings, but ones that can be twisted into something else. An old word, with new meaning.

Maybe, Eleven thoughts, Mike hiding her in the basement was a secret, and Mike liking the boy in the other world was one, too.

[poptod]

rantipole (Merriel Shelton x Reader)

Description: rantipole (v.) - to be wild and reckless

Word Count: 2.9k

You know him well – too well, maybe. Your mother said that about two years into your friendship, claiming you 'needed other friends,' which you never actually got despite her insistence. Watching him grow with you and never counting the days, wasting away your youth in all the best ways possible, it was hard to want more than that. Him and his long eyelashes, the dusting of the freckles across his cheekbones. That was special. That was yours. He was special. You were his; sometimes you wondered if he in his entirety belonged to you. Would you even deserve it if you did?

Unlike you, he had lots of friends. Not that he was very close with any of them; according to you, there were two very distinctive sides of him, and a third that was false. The third was the way you met him, acting a polite little Christian boy in front of his parents – you'd thought him so sweet and innocent. Then he opened his mouth and the bitter scent of alcohol scented filthy words that would taint Lucifer himself. That was the second side of him, the one he used in front of his classmates, the one the general world knew, the one that every girl fell for, the one every boy yearned to both hate and love. It took a long while before you discovered his first side, though, and it was one you were happy to never share. Thoughtful, with every remembered fact and logged memory that made up the image of you that he knew. He remembered the way you took your coffee, not that he put it to use very often, and he remembered your siblings and your pets, your favorite color and each joke you couldn't help but laugh at. It was sweet. He was sweet, but you'd never tell him that.

For the longest time you had no idea as to why he bothered to spend time with you. He had other people much more interesting, and your mother wondered the same thing – she knew of his reputation around school. The question dissipated after a few years, vanishing as fast as it had come. Some things simply were that way, and it just so happened he was built for you as you were built for him, matching for the sake of matching. Nothing else seemed important, certainly not your massive crush on him that started around the age of 15.

The two of you were rather different. It was probably why your mother was ever so dubious about your friendship, which, in hindsight looking back at your childhood, was a valid query. You were silent. You never raised your hand in class and your comments to the general populace consisted mainly of 'excuse me,' 'thank you,' and 'sorry.' He was sultry, outspoken at the worst of times and coy at the best, which you adored about him. Like a show only you two could ever know, you pretended around others, put up false personalities and never minded the comments on your stark friendship.

It was sometime in later high school years that he started drinking heavily. This fact isn't worth mentioning for any horrible reason; he did not become violent, he did not use harsh words, he did not change as a person. He did, however, most definitely become a frequent user, and while this fact by itself means very little it marks the point where, from your point of view, your relationship pulled a whole 180.

You could clearly remember the first time he got drunk in front of you, for better or worse (though, with your mental health in question, probably for worse). A school dance where some freshman laced the juice bowl with cheap, strong alcohol they'd gotten from their parents. The teachers never found out who it was, only that it had to be a freshman, which you and Merriel found hilarious. At the time, however, he fully indulged himself, swinging haphazardly from the metal drain pipes while you watched in unaltered silence. He'd sung, something you couldn't understand or bother yourself with attempting to recognize, and continued to do so for the next ten minutes. The second you tried to help him, reach your hand out to stop his dizzying swinging, your touch shocked him into some sick form of sobriety.

His hand wrapped around your wrist, tighter than he'd ever held you and pulled you far away from the drainpipes out back of the school. Trampling muddy feet through the hallways he led you to the janitors closet – a place the two of you frequented when up to mischief – pushed you inside, followed you, locked the door behind the two of you, and with that the light went out. You felt your back hit the wall behind you with little grace, a firm hand on your shoulder pushing you into it and forcing you to stay. Then his breath, hot and harsh against your skin, brushed up your neck, stopping right below your ear where he proceeded to bite at you, drawing the slightest amount of blood as you yelped quietly. His lips met yours and in an instant your heart burnt to ash, your mind running with a million thoughts and your body forcing a thousand actions out of you. You'd never done that before, never been touched like that, certainly not in such a passionate fashion as his. Desperate to feel your heat his hands ran up your shirt, grasping tight around your bare waist and pulling you closer.

That was six years ago. From that night onwards he never stopped, and the situation mutated into something you never saw happening at any point in your life. At least twice a week he would invite you to a night out (you always said yes), and usually in one of those evenings he would drink to blackout, pull you into a closet, and kiss you fiercer than any of your partners ever would.

Tonight is one of those nights. It hasn't happened yet but you can already see it on the horizon, growing closer with each shot he took, competing against a heavy-set man wearing a leather biker's vest. You sat at the bar, watching them sit across from each other and down their drinks. Fortunately for the both of you, the biker-man's friend decided to fund the expedition, which made Merriel lose what little self restraint he had.

After the tenth-or-so shot they're fully inebriated (it didn't really help that he'd had two beers before this), swaying in their seats as you just laugh, watching as they attempt to force down another. Five more and the biker passes out, Merriel shouting out his victory in a slurred voice. Around him the audience cheers, patting him on the back as he tries to stand, making the short way back to you.

"Impressed?" He asks, his tongue heavy in his mouth. You chuckle, shaking your head – he's taken more and been fine, not that he should've.

"Yes. Terribly impressed," is what you say instead. He grins wide, the expression melting as his gaze lingers on you, on your lips, as he bites at his lower lip and his eyes glaze over.

Reaching towards you his fingers wrap around your wrist, something you've grown to know as familiar, something that makes you both sick and excited. He pulls you off your stool, dragging you through the disordered crowd towards the back door of the bar. In an instant the cold air hits you, distant jazz music echoing in the empty alley filled with trash and mysterious fluids. Curling his fingers tighter around you he pushes you up against the brick wall, pressing his chest right against yours till the scent of his intoxication fills your head, dizzying your thoughts till his lips meld with yours. He's soft, he's always been soft but his actions say otherwise. He grips at your hair, tugging and biting at your lip, practically grinding into you as soft pants fall between you.

"God, I love you," he mutters, the words kissing themselves into you, shocking you into stillness.

"What?" You breath out, trying to stop his frantic hands searching your body. It's the first time he's said that.

"I want you to be mine, entirely," he admits, just barely leaving your space to say the words before he attempts to lean in again, which you respond to with pushing him away. Your mind is melting, and now not just at his touch – he's never said anything even remotely like that, not in any drunken make-out session he's initiated or in any holy, quiet space. He's not that kind of person, he doesn't say things like that.

"You're drunk," you say at last as he stares into your eyes. You should've said that sooner, six years sooner, but you were wrapped up in the secrecy, the pleasure. You should've said something sooner.

"Then remind me in the mornin'," he mumbles, his accent growing thicker as he pulls you closer by the waist. You acquiesce, letting gentle kisses patter against your jawline and neck, against your lips and your temple. As your eyelids flutter shut from his touch, the evening dissipates into nothing as it always does.

In the morning, you wake up first, your hair a mess when you rise from your untidy bed. A glance to the side and half the sheets are off the bed, Merriel snoring on the floor with his limbs splayed out. Trying to keep your laugh quiet, you leave the room on tip toe, shutting the door behind you as you go to make breakfast. When he wakes up he sits at the table and you say nothing. He doesn't need to know what you heard last night, and you don't need confusion and chaos in your life.

Four days later he invites you to a party that his coworker is hosting at some sort of bar, a much nicer one than the last time he promises. Unfortunately, he alerts you of this occasion about an hour before it's supposed to start, making you rush through your clothing choices and styling. Halfway through finishing your hair he grabs your hand, tugging you out of the bathroom and rushing you outside where you grab a taxi in the rain.

"You can't just tell me when things are happening an hour before they're happening," you say in the car, fidgeting in your clothes and anxiously checking your hair in the rear view mirror.

"T' be fair, I didn't know it was happening. I jus' got a call from him," he explains with a shrug, feeling a whole lot more nonchalant than you felt, your hand clutched on your wallet.

Blue lights shine onto the wet pavement, bright lines striking against the rain as you open the car door, stepping outside. Merriel puts his hand on the small of your back, rushing you inside to avoid the rain. Once inside the touch ceases, not that you really notice – that's something he often does. The bar sat in the left corner of the large room, the blue tiles of the counter spanning a good amount of space, sitting opposite of the raised platform where a jazz band plays. In the hazy smoke from the many lit cigarettes you could see the dim blue lights, shadowing your skin and obscuring the specifics of everyone's faces.

"How could Pat afford a band?" You ask in a whisper, leaning in so only Merriel could hear you.

"I dunno, I don't think this is his joint, if y' know what I mean," he says, not turning to you, his eye caught on some girl ordering a Shirley temple at the bar.

"Go have fun," you say with a small chuckle, pushing him forward. He stumbles slightly but takes the steps toward her, and from there you look away, trying to interest yourself in the bass line of the melody swirling in the smoke.

For the most part you don't drink alcohol. If you ever got drunk with Merriel around you knew how it would turn out – you knew you'd wake up with regret, probably with him naked in your bed because for some reason when he's drunk he can't get enough of you. There was only one time you got drunk, and that was alone at home in high school, and the entire time you couldn't stop thinking about him. His mannerisms, the short and quick movements of his fingers when he's anxious, the way he sucks in a breath whenever he's in awe. At the time you couldn't get it out of your head, and now watching him flirt with the Shirley temple girl you find yourself so much like you were in high school. When his fingers drag over her face, pushing her black hair out of her face you almost break the coaster you'd been fiddling with. You promptly look away again.

Over the course of the night several people ask you to dance, the music picking up as the lights grow into a dizzying intensity, but you decline each time. Instead you just watch, you watch Merriel drift from girl to girl. His belt is tight around his hips, showing off his thin waist with the button down that bundles around his chest and arms, the sleeves unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows. What started as neat, trimmed hair becomes messy and unkempt throughout his avid dancing. You're content to watch, or that's what you tell yourself – either way you remain unmoved from your seat, the pop in your hands fizzing away as it looses its cold. You don't bother to keep track of how many drinks Merriel has had either, since you can already tell from the way he sways on his feet and the slur in his accent.

Somewhere around midnight he approaches you, sitting in the chair beside yours. Resting his chin on his palm, he stares at you, absorbing your entirety, or something like that; it's a little hard to tell when his stare is discomforting. He's got wide eyes that look like he's gone into shell shock sometimes, an intensity you can very rarely stand. You certainly can't stand it this time, so you look back out into the crowd, pretending you can't feel him burning holes into your face.

"(Y/N)," he says, and you turn to him. After that he says nothing, just reaching for you, fingers brushing against your cheek just like how he brushed the hair away from the Shirley temple girl.

"You alright?" You ask in full awareness that no, he's not alright.

In full view of the crowd he leans in, kissing you before you could even process that he'd grown closer, moving soft and tender against you, yearning for your touch against his. You want to pull away, you feel sick when you think about how anyone could see, but your body thinks otherwise. Reaching for him you can feel your fingers wrapping around his wrist, feeling his pulse rushing against yours. He pulls you closer. You don't know how to say no when all you can do is love him better.

"People can see us," you finally say in a quiet voice, barely able to say the words before his lips meet yours once more.

"Why the hell do you care?"

"I dunno, I just thought..." he pulls away, never breaking eye contact as he leans back in his seat. "I thought you'd mind."

Usually when he drunk-kisses you he does it in private.

"I don't care if the world knows I love you," he says, the second time he's said that, and you're still in shock from the first time he said it so your stupor only grows worse. As you try to process his words he leans in again, his hand coming to the back of your head and forcing you closer, closer still, like you give him purpose, like a moment without you is a moment unworthy of living remembrance.

"You're drunk," you say in a stumble, unsure of what else to say.

"Then remind me in the mornin'," he replies in a murmur. It's exactly what he said last time, and just like last time his hand moves to your waist and pulls you into his world of electrifying touch.

You say nothing in the morning.

This becomes the new routine – get drunk, confess your love, get 'rejected,' and forget in the morning. It repeats over and over again till you almost grow sick of it. He can't say anything when he's sober, and you don't trust that, so you never remind him and he never brings it up. You don't even know if he remembers. He probably doesn't, considering he never acts as though anything has changed, but you know he's smart. He bides his time, he's witty, and he's cunning – if he has something planned he's made sure you know nothing. It's a trait you admire and abhor.

Maybe one day you'll tell him. You'll tell him how you love his voice, the way he mumbles his words and the intensity he carries constantly, how he dresses and the way he walks. He'll know you adore him for everything he is, and yeah – he probably won't believe you. He'll probably say 'I don't deserve this.' He'll treat you like you're precious, like you're fragile and any false move will break your trust and ruin your relationship.

Maybe one day, you keep telling yourself, watching him dance with other people. Maybe one day he'll know you're his, that you've been his the entire time, that he never needed to lie or try so hard, that you simply liked him for who he is.

Who knows.

[fortune-fool02]

Child of Woe

Dio Brando x teenage son reader

Warnings: angst

This was mainly inspired by a Castlevania amv of Alucard. Please enjoy.

Their life had been peaceful in that manor of theirs. A father, a mother and their child living together as a family would be expected to. Though with the father being a creature of darkness and the woman a human, their love created what many would call an abomination of human and vampire.

But [Name] was nothing of a monster. He was as human appearing as his parents, the only features he inherited from his father were the fangs in his mouth, the cold touch of his skin and his father’s facial structure. With the addition of his own Stand that bared a resemblance to The World. Unlike his father, [Name] was capable of stepping into the sun’s light and be embrace by a loving warmth rather than a scorching agony that crumbled him to dust. 

This was the gift that his mother had bestowed upon him. The humanity of his mother’s blood allowed [Name] to be unharmed by the sun and for that, he was grateful for. And, as a family should have, they lived together without problems. Dio loved his wife and son. The wife loved her husband and son. And [Name] loved his father and mother. 

Sadly, this love was taken from them and used to severe the bonds that kept them together when members of the Church discovered them. Dio was out with his son when their manor had been broken into, the church members took his wife and dragged her to the centre of town. With the accusation of witchcraft and courting with the Devil, [Name]’s mother had been found guilt of such accusations and was burnt at the stake. 

[Name] was only the young age of eight when he lost his mother, and, in a way, he also lost his father that day. The news of his wife’s horrible fate broke something inside of Dio, the light that had once filled his body because of his love for his wife was snuffed out and a twisted anger took its place; plaguing his body with a parasitic rage that showed no mercy for anything. In one night of blind, heart-broken rage, Dio had slaughtered the entire town, not sparing a single soul -man, woman, child, animal, he didn’t care- he slaughtered them all. 

By dawn, the town streets were decorated with the corpses of people who lived here, the streets ran red with blood and [Name] knew at that moment, the man who had done this was not his father but a creature of rage and anger. 

[Name] had disappeared off the face of the world to is father, but he knew his son was not dead, he would have felt it if he had fallen such a fate. Yes, as the years had passed by, Dio’s anger towards all of the human race did not falter nor weaken. He and his family had done nothing wrong and he had everything taken from him. And so he saw it only fair that he took away everything they had. 

It was during the termination of one town that Dio had crossed a familiar face among the flames’ smoke. His son, [Name]. The years had taken their affect on the once small boy who was practically a mirror image of Dio in his teen years before he took the power of the Stone Mask; of course, the features of his mother were evident more than ever now. 

In [Name]’s hand was something he never believed he would hold; a blade. In the years he was gone, [Name] had grieve in his own way and learnt to not let his own anger consume him as it had his father. His mother would not wish for that nor would she wish for Dio to unleash such carnage upon those who were innocent. The members of the Church who had taken his mother’s life were long dead, all of the lives that have died by Dio’s hand were innocent.

Much to how it pained [Name], he knew what he had to do. He had to stop his father. 

The battle was far from humane, as neither of the vampires were willing to back down. In Dio’s eyes, his son had been tainted by the humans and so he had to be stopped; in the name of his deceased wife, Dio would wipe out every single human on this Earth for the pain they had endured. This pain and rage blinded his father and [Name] wanted nothing more than to rip the veil from his eyes and let him see that he did not need to commit genocide for his mother. But that was impossible as the veil was branded into his father’s eyes by how they glowed with rage. 

Dio grabbed his son by the back of his jacket and launched him towards the manor, breaking through one of the many windows and leaping in after him. Blood trickled down [Name]’s face, his efforts to stand back up were pointless as his father slammed his foot into [Name]’s knee, shattering the bone like glass and then sending him flying through a stone wall. 

Dio took one step into the room and froze, a deer in the headlights as his eyes scanned the room. A room he has not stepped foot in many years, as it caused far too much pain for him to but now here he stood, in the centre of the room and open to the attacks it inflicted upon him. 

“It’s... your room.” All the memories, all the images, everything came crashing into Dio as he looked around; each memory as vivid as the day it happened. When [Name] took his first steps in this very room, where he would read to his son at night to calm him and soothe his frightened mind when awoken from a nightmare. All of it. [Name]’s young voice echoing around him as he watched the phantoms of those memories wander by. 

What has he done? Dio looked away from the image of his young child to the young man who laid slumped against the wall, blood staining his clothing and skin. Even [Name] looked as if he had been struck by the memories. How could it have come to this? It all seemed.... unbelievable. The peaceful happy life he had of his childhood was nothing but a distant life now, stained with blood and tears. The echo of his mother’s soft voice whispered in his head. 

An almost pained gasp was heard from his father, his clawed hand curled towards his chest where his heart would be; the flaring rage in his eyes fading away, an empty void of grieve and guilt. The veil had been torn and his father could see clearly again. His head lowered, eyes shadows as his shoulders slumped. 

“I’m... I’m killing my boy.” The pain in his father’s voice was something [Name] has not heard in many years, ever since they learned the fate of his mother. And even then, it was mixed with raw anger. This pain... it was pure. No anger. No bitterness. Just soul-crushing pain that could crumble anyone to their knees. 

“[Mother’s Name], I’m killing our boy...” Dio turned his gaze to a painting that hung by the side. The three of them, happy together. [Name] rose to his feet, grabbing hold of his blade and limping over to his father, stopping in front of him. 

For the first time in a long time, Dio looked... defeated. Tired, pained and defeated. The three things [Name] never believed his father could be. Dio looked down at his hands, a lost expression on his face as if he had lost his way. 

“Your greatest gift to me... and I’m killing him.” He rose his head and locked eyes with his son, sorrow laced tears pricking them. “I must already be dead.” 

[Name] blinked, his own [Eye colour] eyes damp with tears. After all the pain and suffering they were forced to endure, this was how it ended. What once bonded them together had torn them apart and now the stitch was too far to be fixed. 

Dio lowered his head, aware of the blade in his son’s hand. He accepted this fate for the guilt of harming his son was too much for him. He had broken the promise he swore to both his wife and his son that he would protect [Name] with all the power he had, and that was something he could not live with. With a heavy heart, [Name] rose the blade, piercing it through his father’s chest. 

Blood spilled from Dio’s mouth, trickling down the metal and down [Name]’s arm. “...son.” the word left his lips with the same gentleness he used to soothe [Name] when he was a child. Biting back a sob, [Name] drove the blade further into Dio’s chest, wanting to give his father a painless end. 

“Father...” With one more push, the blade reached its target and Dio gasped in pain. His body cracking like pottery before crumbling into dust, leaving his clothing as the only evidence he was there. 

Silence screamed around the halls of the manor as [Name] stood there for a moment, looking at where his father once stood before the blade fell from his grip, clacking to the floor with a loud thud. Tears trickled down the [Hair colour] male’s face as he fell to his knees, his body worn and exhausted from the battle and the pain of the memories. 

He could only pray to whatever God there was that his father was reunited with his mother. Somewhere where they could be happy again. 

Just like they used to be...

[crossbows-and-moonshine]

Into My Web (Chapter 1)

New story, who dis? :')

Most of you knew this was coming, but I’ll explain anyway for those that don’t. My one-shot Princess has been one of my most popular requests and I really wanted to do more with it. But instead of continuing it, I wanted to use it as inspiration to make a new multichapter fic. Now if you’ve read the one-shot, the flashback of this one might seem familiar to you, but please don't skip it because I’ve changed a lot and it’s the only that part that seems similar.

The one-shot was obviously fast-paced since it had to be done in one chapter, and this one will be slower paced. They won't fuck in the first chapter, it's not very realistic in context with Daryl if you think about it, but when you write one-shots, sometimes you gotta push things along loool.

So I used Princess for inspiration to make a new OC. The way she and Daryl are with each other is heavily influenced by my own one-shot. I hope you enjoy this, if you're like me and you love the whole ‘they hate each other first’ trope, then take a fucking seat and enjoy the ride lolololol.

Won't be canon, just so you guys know.

The name of this fic was inspired by a song (surprise surprise), its; Into my Web by The Used.

Maybe I will be the only one who could leave her.

Should I lie and just pretend that I couldn't kill her?

Maybe I can just pretend,

As she flies into my web.

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

Arabella’s eyes rolled around behind her closed eyelids as she slept. Just as she always did when she was asleep, she dreamt of better times. Moments in her life that were full of laughter and fun. She had wanted for nothing in her younger years, her family well off and spoiling her rotten. She never took for granted the life she had lead and she certainly fucking missed it now. When she slept she could immerse herself back into that world. The one full of people who cared, full of lavish parties and dinners. A time when things were simpler and there most certainly wasn't any dead people roaming the earth.

She groaned to herself when she felt someone shaking her shoulder and her blue eyes fluttered open, landing on Daryl fucking Dixon of all people as he stood over her with his trademark scowl. When he saw her wake, he retracted his hand like she had burnt him with a simple touch and she squinted at him. Rubbing her sleepy eyes as her brain tried to catch back up with her and remember where she was. In a prison.

“The fuck you want Dixon?” she asked harshly, glaring up at his form that she could just make out with the darkness of the cell.

“Ya got five minutes to get yer ass outta bed and downstairs, ‘fore I leave ya behind princess,” he spat before turning on his heel and leaving swiftly. She sneered after his retreating form as she sat up with a yawn and stretched her sore limbs out. The 22-year-old felt like she was about 75 with the way her body ached.

She really didn't know why Daryl hated her so much other than the fact she used to have money. Ever since his group, now her group, stumbled onto the farm after Carl had been shot, the gruff redneck just hated her on sight. She had joined the farm just before Rick and his band of misfits. She was in the area for business, tagging along with her dad to keep up his image of a southern family man, despite the fact the two barely ever spoke. The world went to shit and she was the only one to get out of there alive. After walking around, somehow surviving the wilderness for who knows how long, she had found herself at Hershel's farm. Dehydrated, starved, and a gnarly cut on her arm she didn’t even remember doing.

She would always be indebted to the man she considered her adoptive father, the man that took her in and cared for her more than her own real father had ever done. When Rick's group arrived, she had helped tend to Carl, and she had tried to get to know the rest of the group as much as she could since they seemed intent on sticking around. Apart from Shane, she knew right off the bat the man had a few screws loose and she didn't believe his bullshit about Otis either. She couldn't say she was too surprised when Rick had announced he had to kill him because Shane was going to kill him first. She couldn't say she cared much either.

But Daryl fucking Dixon, what a fucking dick. The moment he first laid eyes on her, she had smiled politely, but he scowled at her like he wished she would burst into flames. She paid no mind at first, mainly because he looked at everyone that way, including his own group which was a strange thing indeed. She figured he couldn't be a bad man, not with how he was out looking for Carols daughter and even injured himself in the process. But with each passing day on the farm, she seemed to be the only one he couldn't stand to be around. She tried to change it at first, wondering if he actually took the time to talk to her he would realise she wasn't some asshole. But when she did try talking to him he would promptly tell her to leave him the fuck alone, and in the end, she gave up.

She couldn't remember just when the nickname princess appeared, but it was there just the same. It wasn't said sweetly like he thought she was a beautiful Disney princess. He spat the word like venom, making it clear he thought she was some prissy bitch. Things only got worse after Beth, in all her innocent sweetness, had sat around the campfire and gushed about her to the rest of the group. How they had the heiress to Jack Daniels living at the farm with them. She went on to tell them all the stories she had told her about fancy parties and dinners she had to attend. Sure she had embellished them a little to sound fancier, because she had told them only to Beth, and when she looked at her with her big hopeful eyes, she wanted to tell her whatever she wanted to hear to make her happy. She hoped her innocence would never fade from this world, it was needed in the darkness.

She had no clue Beth had told everyone else until the next day when Andrea said something to her. She had been mortified, she didn't really want anyone else to know. Yes, she was the heiress to the whiskey company, it had been in her family for generations. Yes, she did have a lot of money, money that in her wild teen years was spent on booze and drugs as she tried to cope with her life. From the outside people thought she had the perfect life, and in some respects she did. She wasn't going hungry, she had a huge roof over her head and if she wanted something, all she had to do was buy it. But all she ever wanted was to feel cared about by her parents, not dumped off on nannies every day and to be left to fend for herself. They hadn't even noticed her spiralling as a teenager until she got arrested at 18. And instead of her parents wondering why their seemingly perfect southern baby girl had done this, they had made her feel like a failure for letting the family down and embarrassing them. Her father had even threatened not to give her the company when it was time unless she cleaned up her act, and they shipped her off to a rehab facility.

After Beth's wonderful stories, Daryl seemed to hate her even more. Instead of not talking to her at all, he would give her cheap digs here and there about her being an uppity bitch who would die on her own. She never felt the need to argue with him about the fact she spent a lot of the time after the world fell apart on her own, how she hadn't been with the Greene’s long. Hershel had made out like she had been there from the start and Arabella couldn't find it in her to say otherwise. It wasn't until the prison when she actually started arguing back with the redneck asshole. He had been shocked at first when she told him to go fuck himself with one of his bolts, actually speechless that the girl who always just seemed to lay there and take his bullshit had the cheek to say something like that to him. The look on his face was the best thing she had ever witnessed and ever since that day, she had no issue with arguing with him whenever he opened his stupid fucking mouth. She liked to say shit just to get under his skin, like the day before when Rick had asked the pair to go on a run together. She loathed that stupid redneck and his stupid attitude. He assumed she was a preppy princess who had rich parents and a horse that shit rainbows, but he knew nothing about her at all. He was just a judgemental dickface in her opinion and if he wanted a war, she would damn well give him one.

Mostly the group seemed to try and keep them apart, knowing the animosity was there even if they didn't fully understand it. But when it came to runs, Rick needed them to pair up and do it together because they were two of the strongest they had, they never came back empty-handed. He just hated breaking it to them every time they were supposed to go out there together, knowing what was about to happen when he did.

~~

She glared at Daryl from across the table and he glared right back. If looks could kill they’d both be walkers by now. She wasn’t even paying attention to what Rick was saying as she was too busy trying to send telepathic insults to the asshole sat opposite her, and she was quite certain he was doing the same. They were both staring at each other, too stubborn to look away first, until Rick slammed his hands down onto the table. Arabella and Daryl jumped and snapped their heads towards Rick.

“What the fuck Rick?!” Daryl barked.

“You’re like a pair of school kids. I’ve been talking to you both for about ten minutes and I bet you didn’t hear a damn thing I said!” Rick scolded. She bit her lip and felt a little bad, she knew this between her and Daryl was getting on Ricks last nerve, and he was right, she had no clue what the fuck he was talking about.

“I’m sorry Rick. Whatever you need, we’ll do it,” she smiled at him, always one to help out no matter what it was.

“I want you to both go on a run for some clothes, it's getting warmer now and we need stuff for everyone,” he sighed, he just knew what was coming, it happened every time.

“Hell nah! I ain’t goin’ with this dumb bitch. She’ll just get me killed!” Daryl yelled, earning a dirty look from her.

“Shut your mouth asshole, you can’t even take one for the fucking team? Selfish prick,” she spat, knowing how to push his buttons, she had learnt in her time of standing up for herself just what to say that really got under his skin and would cause a reaction. He stood up that fast that his chair fell over.

“What d’ya just say to me, ya fuckin’ whore?!” he roared. She just sat there smirking smugly at him, knowing she worked him up.

“That’s enough!” Rick bellowed, causing them both to look at him sheepishly.

“You better deal with these issues and put them aside. We’re in the middle of a damn apocalypse for crying out loud, grow up!” with that he stood up and left the room, she and Daryl feeling like naughty children after a telling off. They’d be going, they always did, and around in circles they went.

~

Daryl sat in the driver's seat of the truck near the gates waiting on miss fucking uppity. If he had it his way he would be out there already and would have left her prissy ass in the dust, but he knew Rick would kill him. The only good thing about these runs was the fact Rick would put him in charge every time, it was the only chance he got to order her around and she had no choice but to listen. She could take care of herself, that he could reluctantly admit. Not to her though, just to himself. At first, he had thought she was a spoilt little princess who had never lifted a finger in her fucking life. But after the farm, she quickly proved to be pretty competent in the new world and it had shocked him a little. Beth had told him at one point how she had been out there on her own for a while and he hadn't believed it at first, not until he saw her actually taking out walkers like she’d done it a million times before. Still, she was a stuck up bitch and he fucking hated her.

He watched as she walked casually across the yard to the truck, taking her sweet time like he wasn't waiting on her and he knew she was doing it on purpose. His hands clenched around the steering wheel as he glared at her through the window of the truck, gritting his teeth. She had that look about her, one that screamed stupid dumb blonde, and before the world went to shit he probably would have taken her home and gave her a good fuck until she couldn't walk. Unless Merle got to her first. She was hardly a model, she wasn't stick thin, she had some curves in all the right places. But it was her face that always got to him. With her wide doe-like eyes and her plump lips, it just pissed him off more. The pretty rich girl. She wouldn't have given him the time of day before all of this and he knew that. She would have looked at him the way the rest of the rich folk did, with disgust and judgement in their stupid eyes.

When Arabella hopped into the truck, she shot him a glance, perturbed by the fact he hadn't shouted at her for taking her time. She just settled down in the seat though as he started the truck. He got like this sometimes and it always weirded her out. Most of the time he would spend his time shouting at her, berating her for every little thing she did wrong or just being a prick about her past at every chance he got. But other times he would remain silent, not talking to her or even looking her way at all. And although she should have enjoyed that silence, it bothered her even more than him calling her a stuck up bitch.

She was always quiet though when he was like this, like she somehow understood he needed space and for some reason, she allowed him that. It often confused Daryl why she didn't run her mouth off like usual when he was quiet. Why she would just sit there and leave him to it. He presumed it was because she didn’t want to fucking deal with him unless they were fighting. The ride there was thick with tension as the silence drowned them both but neither made the move to speak, and before long they had arrived. Daryl was agitated as always when he was around her and Arabella was just plain fed up by this point. She hopped out of the truck, knife in hand and a gun strapped to her side. She knew better than to use it unless it was an emergency though, so she hoped it would stay there.

They moved to the shop front by the door and Daryl knocked on the glass, his bow at the ready as they listened. There were the telltale signs of groans and they glanced to each other.

“Sounds like only a few,” she muttered, earning a grunt and nod in response. Despite how much they fought and disliked each other, they worked well as a team on these runs. With only each other to have their backs, for a brief moment they would shove their issues aside to make sure they were both safe. Daryl opened the door and it didn't take long for the pair to dispatch the walkers. Then they made quick work of packing up the empty duffels they had brought with them full of summer clothes for the group.

Arabella picked up a pretty black sundress and looked at it forlornly. When was the last time she had been able to wear something pretty? Instead of mud-stained jeans and an ill-fitting tank that felt like it was 2 sizes too small. She sighed to herself, hoping she would be the one to keep this. Maybe she would just stuff it in her own backpack and no one would be any wiser.

“S’wrong princess? Sad ‘cause it ain’t Gucci?” she heard Daryl sneer from behind her. She should have known his pensive silence wouldn’t last long, it never did.

“Surprised you know what Gucci is Dixon, didn't think they had that where you were from,” she spat back, shooting him a glare. He squinted, his right eye twitching in annoyance as he looked at her, resisting the urge to throttle her tiny little neck. She just stomped past him, giving him a little shove that didn't move him an inch as she made her way back outside.

They got all that they could so they made their way back to the prison, the silence once again uncomfortable. But this time she welcomed it. It was easy to forget how much he irritated her when he opened his stupid fucking mouth and she was growing tired of it. She was sick of the day to day battle of just being around him. She just wanted a day with no fighting. When they got back, Rick was waiting for them as she hopped out of the truck, grabbing the duffels full of women's clothes that she had packed. Ricks face lit up seeing the bags stuffed full as Daryl joined her.

“That's great you guys, I knew you would come through, you always do,” Rick grinned at them.

“No problem boss man, anything to help the fam out,” she snorted, grabbing her bags and tossing them over her shoulders carelessly. She was about to head inside when Rick started talking again.

“Before you go, I wanted to talk to you both about something,” he said, making the pair eye him warily. They didn't know what it would be but they had a feeling they wouldn't like it. He went over to near one of the tables outside and grabbed a bag, tossing it with a thud near Daryl's feet.

Daryl looked at it before looking back to Rick who just gestured to it. Daryl huffed, crouching as he unzipped the bag, getting out a small crossbow. He stood up, inspecting it as Arabella looked at it, unsure why she had to be here for this if Rick was giving Daryl a gift.

“It’s in good condition, damn near new. Too small for me though,” Daryl said gruffly, glancing to Rick.

“I know, that's why I thought that you wouldn't be the one to use it,” he said giving him a pointed look. Arabella blinked as the pieces clicked into place but before she could speak up, Daryl beat her to it.

“Fuck no!! Like hell I’m teachin’ her to use a damn bow!” he yelled, looking thoroughly offended at the mere notion of it. Arabella glared at him and rolled her eyes and Rick heaved a sigh.

“Look Daryl, I know you two have your issues, but we could use another hunter. We need more food. You told me yourself before now how light on her feet she is,” Rick protested, making Arabella’s eyes widen a fraction in shock as she looked to the hunter. She was shocked that something akin to a compliment had ever left his mouth about her.

“I don't give a damn if the bitch can fly, I ain't teachin’ her how to use the damn thing,” Daryl sneered, his anger flaring that Rick had just fucking said that right in front of her. She saw Ricks face fall and she hated it, Rick was a good man and he was trying his best here to keep shit together.

“It’s fine Rick, I’ll teach myself,” she smiled wearily at him. He looked relieved yet somewhat guilty, no doubt over Daryl being such a dick about the whole thing. Daryl stuffed the bow back in the bag and tossed it to her harshly, making her stumble as she caught it with how heavy it was. He didn't look sorry in the least though. She just shot Rick one last look before heading off inside.

“The hell was that about Daryl? She's a nice girl. Don't you think it's about time you got your head outta your ass about her past?” Rick frowned, looking at him like he was scolding a child. The whole thing set a fire inside Daryl as he fought to keep himself in check.

“Ya don't know shit, so how about ya keep ya damn nose out,” he snapped, harsher than he meant to but Rick didn't act surprised.

“This is for the group Daryl, we need this,” Rick sighed, looking at him imploringly.

“Fuck the group, I don't owe ya shit. Ya left Merle on that roof to rot, so I’ll be damned if I start bowin’ down to ya now,” Daryl sneered before storming off. Rick shook his head with a sigh. This Daryl wasn't who he had grown to love like a brother, this was the old Daryl, the one he hadn't seen in a very long time. He hadn't even mentioned the whole Merle incident in so long. He didn't know why he was behaving this way all of a sudden but he didn't like it.

Daryl fumed as he made his way inside. Like fuck he was teaching that uppity bitch to use a bow so she could come with him. Deep down he knew Rick was right, they could use another hunter in the group. But the thought of her in his space like that, out in the woods there with him, it got under his skin way too much. When he was out hunting, that was his time and his alone. A chance to escape from the family he had grown to care about without wanting to. Time to just be himself. He always felt at peace out there and he wasn't about to let that bitch ruin that for him, to take the only fucking thing he had left. Over my cold dead fuckin’ body...

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

This one’s so weird for me now already. I miss Flames. 

:( Anyone else miss Merle? looooool

Taglist; @risingphoenix761 @daryldixonandfrogs @arlaina28 @divadinag @keeperofwonderlandus @jodiereedus22 @easnuppa @fand0m-fiend @txladyj-blog @walkingdead-dixon

[tf2headshotcanons]

Mercs Addictions/Obssessions

Scout - Porn LOLOLOL. Nah mate, he's addicted to BONK! mostly. Needless to say, it's the caffeine and the rush. I'd also say exercise, to a degree. You know how you can get health nuts or people addicted to happiness? It'd be the same concept here. Also, that porn one could be a possibility. Though that wavers for me. Scout - in my headcanon - has the more "innocent" addictions. Soldier - Like some of the mercs, he drinks and smokes, and though he's more of a drinker (I mean, you would if you wanted to keep up with Demo), smoking leans more of an addiction. But not quite. A cliche, but his addiction is his obsession. He's obsessed with the ideology of being seen as a hero and war. So he fights to an "obsession" to keep this image. To a degree, collecting "trophies" from his kills is also an obsession, similar to OCD in which not collecting causes great anxiety. Pyro - Obvious, but in a similar matter to Solly, it'd be linked to collections and arson. Hes addicted to the look and scent of fire, so she'll do anything - ANYTHING - for that comfort. They collect matches, burnt objects (including food and stuffed animals), lighters, the lot. They also have the impulse to burn every couple of hours, again, otherwise it causes great anxiety. He's also addicted to sugar. Demo - Drinking. Ain't it bloody obvious? It's his main addiction Anyways, the one anyone would know after meeting him in the first 5 minutes. Even his body can't recognise normal and healthy foods and drinks because of it. However, like Engi, I picture him to have some form of addiction to creation. In his case, he'd love the make bombs to the point of obsession and collection. I also imagine he's addicted to collecting alcoholic bottles, bottle caps, and playing traditional games such as dominoes. Though that's more obsession. I also picture him being a gambler. Heavy - Reading. And not just books, he has to read EVERYTHING. Shampoo bottles, Engis blueprints, the fine print on a contract. He has to be in the know, but not in the typical nosy sense. He has trust issues. He reads until it commits to memory. He also likes stacking things up - but that's a hobby. I'd say he has an addiction to family. The point of where he does anything and everything to protect them. Though not happy Solly is with his sister, he knows she's in strong hands. And stupid ones. He also collects bullets from the battle field. Engineer - Like Demo, he has an addiction to invention - but on the next level. He HAS to invent. He has to be the most advanced inventor. This rivalry is shared between RED and BLU Engi. He also loves a good drink and smoke. He's also obsessed with order. If things are even SLIGHTLY out of place - he loses his God damn mind. Sniper - Like his enemy, he's an addict to smoking. It's a need in times of dire stress. Likewise, he also is a collector of nearly anything. Leaves, bullets (look at his pocket), stamps, postcards. He's a hoarder because of it. In Paulings Tough Break lines, it's implied that they go on a drug trip together. Which leads me to headcanon that he's addicted to shrooms for the high and release - quite dark! Also, he collects animal pelts. Medic - Need I say? Drugs, baby! He's obsessed with experiments and LOVES the rush of self experimenting. He's mainly addicted to morphine and the heal gun rays. Stuff like that. A right bloody junkie. But, he's also obsessed with doves. They're very beautiful and like Earth's angels. Ironic for a man who conned the devil. He's obsessed with that angelic appearance, white and angels in general. Spy - Smoking, like Sniper, because of stress. He just hides it a lot better (tosser). His biggest obsession... Is vanity. He's obsessed over the "perfect" image. Something I'll cover later (linked to his and Snipers rivalry), but despite his mask, he wants to LOOK as professional as he feels. It's a front. And ego stroke. An addiction. And a lie. Also, his fear of intimacy may implement an addiction to use or push other's away.

[newmayhem]

Character Analysis: Alexander Weatere (Part 3)

As always, I’ll keep using original names if I’m talking specifically about the original iteration and in quotations and stuff, but I’ll be referring to everyone by their new names in all other situations.

Alejandro in the present

For this last part, I wanted to do a breakdown/analysis of Alejandro’s scene with Roksana at the end of the book. Of the very few scenes of him we get, this is the only one to take place in modern day and I can imagine someone reading it for the first time and being taken aback by it. There’s undeniably a lot of judgement, unrealistically high expectations, and overall hypocrisy on his end, and it’s so different from what Roksana had been telling the readers of his character all along:

I was hoping I could convince you not to follow those creatures ... but I guess it's too late, isn't it?" …

He turns around, and for a moment I look into golden eyes that are mirror reflections of my own. But then he looks past me, at the area where Aubrey and I fought. I see Alexander's gaze linger on the blood that pooled on the ground when I cut open Aubrey's shoulder. "Why?" he finally asks, his voice soft. "There had to be some other way to deal with this." I look into Alexander's eyes again and see the judgment there. It does not matter that I am his sister. He does think I am a monster. I laugh, and Alexander flinches, because it is a bitter sound. "Would you rather I just let Aubrey get away with it?" I say. "I thought he killed you, you know. Did you want me to just forget that? Or did you think I could turn the other cheek and ignore murder?" Alexander looks away for a moment, pain filling his features as he hears my scornful use of words from the Bible, which he always held so dear when we were children. "I thought you would hate me for what I had done," he says. "And just what have you done?" He pauses, shaking his head, and then reluctantly meets my gaze. "After Lynette was burnt, I would have done anything to protect her. I prayed that I would learn how to control my power, and ..." He takes a deep breath, steadying himself. "A woman heard me praying. A Triste. She taught me more than I ever wanted to know about the vampires and every other monster on this Earth. I listened because she also taught me how to use my gifts." From a curse to a gift, I think. Does he still consider himself damned? "A few nights before Ather ... changed you ... I caught her trying to feed off Lynette. I stopped her, but ..."

…

Alexander pulls his gaze from mine, and this time it falls to Aubrey's blood on my hands. "Rachel, how could you do that? I never thought I'd see you with blood on you, willing to kill another. You walk with them as if you are one of them."

This raises some questions for me, mainly - How could Alejandro have possibly believed that Roksana survived literal centuries if not by drinking blood?

I wouldn’t put it past him to hold out hope that she had been surviving on animal blood or that she was feeding on humans without killing them (hopefully volunteers?). But could it also be that maybe a part of him was secretly hoping that she had starved herself to death and preserved her ‘innocence’ rather than survived by drinking human blood? It would align well with what we already know of his character. And idk if I actually want to go there, but it could be a metaphor for  issues of female sexuality/virginity and sexual assault in that I see a lot of parallels between this mentality and how there are so many female saints who were martyred because they chose death over losing their virginity (and this would work pretty well since I’m re-setting the story in a more Catholic culture).

That said, upon closer inspection, I can gather that Alejandro’s definition of turning to the dark side specifically involves seeking revenge, fighting, and causing bloodshed. 

That last bit, though, the bloodshed, actually makes a lot of sense in how it illuminates his hypocrisy.

Alejandro, as a triste, also feeds on the life force of other living beings (mainly humans) in order to sustain his immortality. The only real difference between the feeding necessities of a triste and those of a vampire is that with vampires, there’s blood involved- it’s visceral, it’s messy, you can see it, you can smell it, there’s no denying the destructive force of it.

This tells me that Alejandro seems to be, at least on a subconscious level, more preoccupied with keeping up the appearance of being ‘good’ regardless of whether or not there’s any truth or depth to it. This is also evidenced in Alejandro not being willing to empathize with Roksana’s experience when she tries to explain to him her very valid motivations behind her seemingly reprehensible actions.

As a side note, to circle back to Alejandro’s definition of turning to the dark side, another possibility this brings up is that maybe Alejandro somehow found out Roksana was headed back to Puebla, he sensed that she might be going back to initiate a revenge plot, and his mission was specifically to keep her from doing that. I will expand on this in a separate post that’s specifically about Roksana (and Alejandro’s) motives for returning.

Going back to what I had mentioned earlier, the contrast between who Alejandro was (or rather, who Roksana remembered him to be) and what he became is very stark.

As devout and morally rigid as Alejandro was as a human, you can still see that he was a good guy who genuinely cared about people (in fact, most of his moraly rigidity was directed at himself). However, when we meet him again in the final scene, he’s seemingly lost all sense of empathy. We even see in Persistence of Memory that he’s taken to shaming people (sometimes people he doesn’t even know that well) and picking fights about religion.

So how did it get to that point?

Well, Alejandro’s training was very intense. Pandora is notorious for training most of her students literally to death and we know that Alejandro was kind of...soft, for lack of a better term, so there’s no doubt that his training, on top of everything else he’s had to endure, traumatized him.

Based on how I’d imagined his human life/outlook to be (in part 1), it makes sense that he’d deal with this hardship the same way he dealt with growing up in a racist society - by doubling down on his belief in whatever the current authority deemed good and right (Pandora in this situation) and working hard towards the standard that’s been prescribed to him.

I noted that Alejandro referred to his powers now as a ‘gift’ whereas before, he considered them a curse. Roksana even calls this out.

Alejandro didn’t intend to, but ultimately, he gave up so much in order to become a triste. Because of this, he really needed to believe that he made the right choice, that none of the hardships and losses he suffered were for nothing, that he is indisputably on the side of good, and that his powers are a good thing. Anything less than that would be considered a waste.

Something else to consider regarding, in particular, Alejandro’s judgement of Roksana, as well as the stark difference between Alejandro now and then - perhaps both Alejandro and Roksana had kept each other perpetually frozen in time in their respective memories and therefore, had stopped seeing each other as actual human beings with complex morals and motivations.

For Alejandro, he and Roksana were forcibly separated before their personal differences had a chance to really manifest into any sort of direct confrontation, so in his mind, she’s still his beloved twin, his other half, someone who was undeniably on his side.

As for Roksana, her last image of Alejandro was of him trying to protect her. It didn’t matter that their relationship had already started to fracture. In light of Alejandro’s murder, everything else just seems petty. It’s no wonder that he’d forever after be not just idealized, but practically sanctified in her mind. This idealization of Alejandro (and the guilt over his death and her frustration with him in the time preceding his death) could also explain why Roksana (who, admittedly wasn’t as devout as her brother was) became so much more morally resistant to becoming a vampire. I will go into this in a separate post. 

And because this story is all from Roksana’s (unreliable) point of view, we have no choice but to take this idealized picture of Alejandro as truth until the present reality shows Roksana otherwise.

This raises another question that I will also go into separately- in the rewrite, should I stick with the original first person pov? If not, what are the best ways to adapt it? Should there be multiple different first person povs?

[kadobeclothing]

Inside the Mexican village where children as young as SIX are being armed to fight a deadly drug cartel – The Sun

GUN-toting kids as young as six are quitting school in Mexico to help fight vicious drug cartel gangsters. Urged by their scared parents to take up arms, young villagers are being trained to defend their family and friends from marauding thugs controlling nearby territory, a horrifying report shows. 13 Children walk in a single file, holding toy and real guns, as they show newly learnt skills from military-style weapons training, in Ayahualtempa, MexicoCredit: Reuters13 Miguel Toribio, 11, puts a pistol belonging to his father into his beltCredit: Reuters13 Lopez Obrador’s government has struggled to get a grip on gangs and violence, so kids are having to learn to defend themselvesCredit: ReutersAn investigation by news agency Reuters has revealed that girls and boys in Ayahualtempa, Rincon de Chautla and other villages are receiving military-style weapons training to fend off attacks from cartels. Abuner Martinez, 16, stopped attending school a year ago after his father was kidnapped outside CRAC-PF territory, tortured, and then beheaded. “I got scared at that moment. I didn’t want to go to school,” said Martinez, who now wields a shotgun as he guards a checkpoint. Desperate villagers are learning military manoeuvres to protect their loved ones. David Sanchez Luna’s mother-in-law, 56, was tortured and killed after daring to venture out of her small Mexican community encircled by drug cartels. His distraught wife, Alberta, sobbed as she described receiving her mom’s body riddled with torture marks. “It’s terrible what’s happening to us,” she said, wiping away tears.COMMUNITY COPS After her horrific death, David let his daughters – aged just seven and ten – be trained how to use guns. The corn farmer lives in the violence-plagued southwestern Guerrero state, where kids are afraid to attend school, and those living in the enclave of 16 mountain villages are too scared to leave their ‘enclave’. Five years ago, the rugged region formed a self-defence “community police” militia to protect itself. David told Reuters that kids, too, are being armed “to prepare themselves to defend the family, their siblings and defend the village”. 1313 A hooded young resident of Tecoanapa, in the Mexican southern state of Guerrero, which has formed its own vigilante police force, stands guard at a checkpointCredit: AFP – Getty13 Guillermo Gatica, 6, holds a toy gun as he demonstrates newly learnt skillsCredit: Reuters13 Reinel Toribio, 9, walks past state police officers in Ayahualtempa, MexicoCredit: ReutersIn Ayahualtempa, 13-year-old Alex told The Washington Post that he had once hoped to become a schoolteacher. Now, though, he spends his days training how to use a hunting rifle, joining other armed kids wearing uniforms with “Community Police” in yellow letters. He told reporters: “I’m preparing to defend my village.” The Post says that about 600 indigenous people live in Ayahualtempa. Kids and adults are trying to fend off raids from a powerful drug cartel, Los Ardillos. I’m preparing to defend my village.Alex, 13, Ayahualtempa However, the move by villagers to offer arms training to school-age children has shocked the nation. Their defensive reaction made global headlines last month after local media broadcast images of children as young as six toting guns and showing off military manoeuvres. Elders in the mainly indigenous community near the city of Chilapa privately admit that young kids would not be used to fight cartel gunmen. But they say their gambit to get the help of far-away officials in Mexico City is borne of desperation for help. 13 A community police agent poses for a photo as he guards a check point in Ayahualtempa, MexicoCredit: Reuters13 Community police agents escort widows on their way to claim a pension from a government authority, in AlcozacanCredit: Reuters13 45mm caliber bullets are shown to a visiting photographer in the village of AyahualtempaCredit: ReutersTen musicians from the area were ambushed and killed last month by suspected Los Ardillos cartel members. Officials said their bodies were burnt as they had dared to step out of the territory guarded by their self-defence militia, known as CRAC-PF. The victims were aged between 15 and 42, and their remains were burnt beyond recognition, reports the BBC. The vile attack followed a spate of murders in recent year, including a beheading, that rattled the 6,500 residents, Reuters adds. Parents say their children are forced to stop formal education once they reach about 12 years of age, as the middle schools are in territory controlled by the cartel. THOUSANDS SLAUGHTERED Lopez Obrador’s government has struggled to get a grip on gangs and violence, with a record 35,588 homicides last year, the most since comparable records began to be kept in the 1990s. Obrador, who took office in December 2019, has in the past referred to his security strategy as hugs not bullets and emphasizes addressing root causes of violence such as poverty, youth unemployment and corruption. Unfortunately for innocent people trying to eke out a living in Guerrero – one of Mexico’s most violent states – the area sits amid fertile poppy-growing farmland that feed the region’s heroin trade and supply routes to the US. The grisly murders and siege-like conditions facing residents go to the heart of cartel power and state failure in modern Mexico, says Reuters. ‘LOSING THEIR MINDS’ Trump mocks ‘mumbling’ Pelosi & slams Dems ahead of key primary BRAIN TRAUMA More than 100 US troops ‘suffered traumatic brain injuries in Iran strike’ EVIL FAMILY Four family members who ‘tortured & killed teen siblings’ facing death penalty PERV’ BUSTED Sham Uber driver ‘lured drunk women into car to sexually assault them’ ‘NO SIGNS’ Weinstein accuser ‘wasn’t upset after attack’ & called him ‘spiritual soul mate’ KILLER CONFESSES Jealous man ‘slit YouTube star’s throat’ after she kissed someone else   There are some 70,000 troops nationwide, but cops and troops often find themselves outgunned by the cartels. Violence – including murder – has been creeping out of Mexican barrios, or neighborhoods, and closer to the tourist enclaves. The Sun reported last year how a new generation of violent drug gangs are waging a bloody war in the tourist hotspots of Mexico’s Caribbean coast. 1313 Community cops meet at an intersection to buy products, at a territory allegedly controlled by Los Ardillos cartel members near AyahualtempaCredit: Reuters13 A burnt out cop car being inspected the morning after the CJNG murdered 15 officers in an ambushDo you have a story for The US Sun team? Email us at exclusive@the-sun.com or call 212-416-4552.  

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[chaandkhidki]

They killed my innocence

They killed my innocence cut me in images, make my pieces and eat ,drink,gullop you have to follow the hierarchy sir, they spread wrong things,fake news to malign me they don't call you because you don't attend their parties oh!, you ask work, we will charge you of misconduct and insubordination oh!, he meets with open heart,let us close all the doors over him oh!,he says he does not belong to our group,to any group for that matter, let us close all the doors oh!,he laughs awkwardly with no sense and does and say things that we do not want to hear Oh!,he does not greet us and he sings anywhere anytime ,let us complaint oh!,you lose the game,they are going to blame you and defame you oh!,they invite you to their place because they need something from you oh!,do not talk about your dreams, they will ruin them break, toss,puncture my head,I should not ask questions do not speak up to elders sir, it does not matter whether they are respectable or not how dared you meet the top boss, you should follow the process he got angry at you , you did not touch his feet, it does not matter what you think, you got to touch his feet you gave them cake because you wanted to,they gave you cake back because you gave, it is give and take, you see I let you suck my breasts because you were rich and I wanted all your wealth,Oh!, I didn't know that,I thought we were in love! don't meet people often, maintain a distance, that's how you are valued, okay! how dared you say 'No' to them, now they will bring disgrace to you ,just see! don't send things in writing, they will misuse your words, don't speak in a gathering, they will see you afterwards! they will lie, speak loud and watch over you ,just so that you don't stay there drink , bake , bite my voice, my walk, my body, my laughter Death in the society , a death of reason… I am a man of revolt …… Oh!,you were shaking your legs….you were loud..you need to behave There is death of consciousness.. A death of dialog, conversation…. We are mainly before death and after death..then why this .. Ye cochla kaahe ko bhai.. a silence , a denial, why they don’t like me ,may be they like me,,they see something in me, which looks like theirs Main krantikari hoon ,meri kranti apne khilaaf hai…samaaj ke khilaaf nahi kyonki samaaj mein kranti laana namumkin hai,,kranti apne khilaaf hi ho sakti hai.. Apne vichaaron ko mukt karne waastey … main des,kaal,bhasha ,dharm ki vividhtaaon se mukt hoon, I am a citizen of this world….I have lost sense of heirarchies and of some unseen great future….. I am man of present and my armor is innocence.. They laugh at artists, they laugh at a singer ,artist should be a rebel, self-sufficient Sugar bleeding through the dancer’s den It can create monsters in the park Some painted orange on her face She screamed all night in the bar Fire in the artist’s memorabilia It burnt pictures, books, women ,freedom They say they do not need artists Art is a hearsay, a fraud Well, they may be right They may be just But I am not too sure If they are sane They have bound the river, its flow, they have built bridges and shores where they do aarti and offer flowers, the river is locked in chains ,has been pulled out of her natural habitat,and they bathe in it to wash off their sins,.hey are hypocrite they have cut all the forests, animals are running, searching their habitat in the cities, Jaanwar aadmi ko shehar mein dhoondh raha hai , jaanwar ko aadmi ne apne baunepan se ,apni dhoorttaa se chidigharon mein band kar diya hai …..ab aadmi jaanwar ko dekhne chidiyaghar jaata hai… aur jaanwar ke paanv kaat diye hain, uske daant tod diye hain, uski khaal nikaal li hai ,uska munh baandh diya hai …phir usko tukde phenkta hai, ussey kartab karaata hai , uska khoon karke usey khaa jaata hai …. well, you are saying nonsense things, they do not matter , why do you think like this…enjoy! life is to ENJOY!!

[tarapai-blog]

when there is no line between fantasy and reality.

“April 3rd. All Cary Street is burnt, and Main Street is on fire, it is spreading rapidly; almost every minute that Flory and I run out to the gate to see if the Yankees are coming…” was written by Frances Calderon de la Barca Hunt on her diary during the American Civil War in 1865 in Richmond, Virginia. Nothing can describe the depth of her sadness to become an eyewitness to such catastrophic event… she was just fourteen years old. Many children encountered hardships and violence that forced them to grow up quickly amidst a nation at war itself –– “I was ten years old today, I didn’t wish to have a birthday cake,” mourned by Carrie Berry, “I just hoped to have peace in our land.” Her childhood had apparently slipped away. A few sentences from her had included an overstepped experience that general children at this age would never be able to understand profoundly. Did violence make children mentally stronger? The answer is worth thinking about. It is true that some children were ready to fight, ready to help people, ready to grow up, and ready to face the truth, but some were not. “The world is built by thought,” said by Rudolf Steiner who was an Austrian philosopher. He claimed that children experience things as a living and create a form of life based on what they think and question. Nevertheless, children are still children, even though some of their minds grow faster than they should, reality and fantasy are still too difficult to differentiate for them. Dolls during the war were happened not to mainly entertain but to distract children from the violent conflicts. A medium that allows children to learn how to love, to care, and to have feelings. According to Jean Piaget, a Swiss psychologist, children may behave toward dolls as if they were real persons; set up scenarios and entertained themselves. Unawarely, children used them to make sense of the world around them, used doll-play scenario as a narrative device to piece “real” information through “imaginative” screens. The behavior of adults, the surrounding emotions, words, images, are integrated into doll-play which reflects the adult world. It reminded me of when I was in the elementary school; I cannot remember the exact age, but what I always remember is I did not like my teachers so much. They hit me with rulers when I answered their questions wrong. But really, did this solve the problem? I was not brave enough to tell my parents what happened but instead, I set up a classroom in my bedroom, all my dolls were students, and I hit them just like the way teachers hit me. I didn’t tell my parents the truth, never asked my teachers why, and by ignoring the unacceptable punishment, it didn’t mean I was strong, but fear and incomprehensibility controlled me to reflect my emotions and thoughts into the form of doll-play scenarios which made my parents thought that I just had fun playing around. “Josephine and her dolls,” a book which was written by Mrs. H.C. Cradock from 1916, was the first book for children to address war from a child’s perspective. The character Josephine was very innocent and raised during the World War I. All friends she had were a bunch of dolls to play with. She named one of them Sunny Jim who needed to go off to the war for protecting his family. She hid Jim in the closet as he left his family to serve and she didn’t plan to bring him out of the closet. Then she started to cry along with the other dolls. Who knows? Jim may be her father who had gone for military and never come back to see her face again. Dolls are more than what adults think. They are innocent, belong to children. Dolls are their friends, are a part of their families. Dolls are the “connection” between fantasy and reality. Dolls are something “alive,” which give children motivation, inspiration, and accessibility to understand the world.