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lynzishell · 5 months ago

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The Past 💛 Atlas

After handing our shoes over to the teenager at the counter and replacing them with the generic and ill-fitting bowling shoes, trying not to think too hard about how many random strangers have worn them before us, we make our way over to where Ash and Lex have already reserved a lane, bickering about how to enter our names into the machine.

Just as we’re sitting down, Lex leans over and bites Ash on the arm. “Ow!” He pulls away from her and rubs at the spot where she sank her teeth in, “Competition makes you so mean.”

“You being a dick makes me mean. Now delete it and walk away.”

I look up just in time to see the U and S disappear from the end of her name and chuckle under my breath. Even I know better than to use her full name under any circumstances lest I lose a limb.

Laughing, Ash hops out of the seat and walks over to us, lifting his sleeve to reveal teeth marks. “Can you believe this?”

“Yeah,” I say, “what did you think was going to happen?”

“I didn’t think she’d bite me,” he pulls his sleeve back down and turns to Dawn with a cheerful smile and says, “Hello,” giving her the opportunity she’s been itching for since I first told her about him.

“Hi! I’m Dawn.”

“Ahh, the twin! I’m Asher. Nice to finally meet you.”

“Likewise.” She looks over to give me the “he’s cute” look which I do my best to ignore.

Ash plops onto the seat next to her and leans in to speak quietly, “So, this is probably an annoying question, but do you guys have any secret twin powers?”

“Of course,” she replies and then looks around to ensure no one is eavesdropping, “Telepathy. We can read each other’s minds.”

“Fascinating. What’s he thinking now?”

She looks over at me and squints her eyes. I’m suddenly worried about what she might say to him. As far as she knows, Ash is just a friend from work that I have a crush on and maybe had some weird dreams about. I give her a slight shake of my head and mouth the word, “Don’t.”

She turns back to Ash and says, “He wants me to keep my mouth shut. He’s afraid I’m going to say something to embarrass him.”

“Are you?”

“Probably.”

“Oh, this is going to be fun. I like you. Do you want to team up?”

“Absolutely.”

Fantastic.

I deflate a little at being teamed up with Lex. Don’t get me wrong, I love Lex, but I think a part of me just assumed I’d be with Ash. Seems like a silly assumption now that I think about it, but I’m disappointed, nonetheless.

As Lex takes her turn, Ash and Dawn continue to chat about me as if I’m not sitting right next to them, making me feel more anxious and awkward by the second.

“So, Atlas tells me you’re an artist.”

He glances at me, then back at Dawn with a sly smile, “He can’t stop talking about me, can he?”

“Not for a second. He’s obsessed.” She’s all too happy to play along, probably assuming Ash is fishing for confirmation that I like him or something. She has a tendency to meddle, always thinking I need help when it comes to dating when in reality, I just move at a different pace than she does.

“It’s sad really,” he tells her, ��He needs to move on.” He gets up to take his turn as Lex cheers and skips over to me. I look up to see that she got a spare and am about to congratulate her when Ash looks at me and mutters, “We’re just friends, after all,” before he turns to walk away.

My smile falters as the sting of his words rushes through me. I clamp my jaw down, grinding my teeth and feeling foolish. How did I think for one second that changing our environment would somehow ease the tension between us?

I watch as he steps up to the lane, holding the ball in front of him with intense focus before stepping forward and tossing it toward the pins with perfect form, because of course he does. It spins down the lane with such force and precision that every one of the pins crashes down on impact, earning him a strike. He turns to us with bow as Dawn cheers and Lex yells out, “Fuck!”

I had no doubt I’d be the worst bowler out of all of us, but I didn’t expect everyone else to actually be good. I start to feel self-conscious about going up and taking my turn.

I suddenly see the whole night play out in front of me: the tension and passive-aggressive comments from Ash reminding me what an asshole I am, Lex getting frustrated at my lack of skill and being the reason we lose the game, and Dawn being so charmed by Ash that she’s completely oblivious to my misery while she tells him how he gives me butterflies and invades my dreams, only making the tension between us worse, and I wish we’d never come here at all.

“Don’t worry,” Lex pats my knee, “he got lucky. You got this.”

No, I don’t. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to do this. But I don’t want to be dramatic about it by storming off. I have no choice but to suck it up and get through the night, so I might as well attempt to have fun.

I take a breath and stand to take my turn, picking up the ball and trying my best to focus on the weight of it in my hand to keep my increasingly dark thoughts at bay.

I step forward and toss the ball down the lane sloppily, surprised that it doesn’t slide immediately into the gutter. Instead, it skims the edge and takes out a single pin on the far corner before disappearing.

Normally, I’d make a joke about it, getting overly excited about my one pin, but I can’t bring myself to do that now. It would feel stupid and awkward and forced. I just want to slump back down in my seat and disappear into the background, but I can’t. I have to stand here in front of all of them, waiting for my ball to return so I can throw it one more time, hoping it goes slightly better than the last.

Lex calls me over and I apologize immediately, “I told you I was a terrible bowler.”

She shakes her head, “Nonsense. We will not lose this game, understand?”

“I don’t—”

“Just listen. The problem is, you’re too stiff. You just need to loosen up a little, relax your grip, and make sure not to swing your arm in front of you. You’ve gotta keep it straight.”

“Lex, I don’t think I’ve ever done anything straight in my whole life.”

She snickers and swats at me playfully, “Alright then, at least angle your body a little to compensate.”

“I’ll give it a try.” Her cheeriness and optimism make me feel a little better. I still don’t know why she’s being nice to me after what I did, but I’m grateful for it. I’m realizing that she’s become one of my closest friends over the last few years, and it would be devastating to lose her.

I toss the ball with more intention this time, keeping Lex’s advice in mind. At first, it looks like a nice roll, but in the end, it lands in the gutter, taking the last shred of my self-confidence with it, and leaving my remaining nine pins standing. At least now I can go sit down.

Dawn gives me a smile as she walks by me to take her turn, “You just need to warm up a bit, that’s all.” Right. That’s what I need.

I sink into my seat, staring at my hands when I see Ash out of the corner of my eye scooting closer to me. “I hate when that happens,” he says, “Heading right down the lane, you think you know exactly where it’s going and then, boom, takes a turn and lands in the gutter. Hurts, doesn’t it?’

I look over at him, at his eyes, uninviting and devoid of their usual brightness, and I wonder if this is how things are going to be between us now; I wonder if keeping our friendship intact was as foolish an idea as coming out here tonight. All I can muster is a quiet, “Yeah.” Then, I stand and turn to Lex, telling her, “I’m going to get some air,” and I escape to the nearest exit.

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#ts4 #ts4 simblr #ts4 story #sims 4 #sims 4 storytelling #sims 4 challenge #starsignchallenge #starsignlegacychallenge #gen1 aries #aries pt4 #past #atlas stephens #asher goode #dawn stephens #lex mcphee

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juuuulez · 1 year ago

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📰 | prologue: capulet.

info: Carl Grimes-less chapter (sorry!), Negan x Daughter! Reader, pre/start of apocalypse, violence and minor gore, morally grey reader, mentions of child abuse/neglect.

summary: When the apocalypse breaks loose, you find yourself in companionship with your sport teacher, Mr. Smith.

THIS was so much fun to write!!!! Genuinely my favourite chapter I’ve done so far. Let me know what you all think, because I’d love to do more little tidbits that stray from the original story. But with that in mind, this instalment IS required to understand parts of the fic going forward. Prologue is mandatory…..I’ve just finally done it.

Chapters 1, 2, 3, and 4 are already out! 5 will return to our regularly scheduled program of Carl and (Y/N) bickering.

You valued consistency.

Doing the same thing, every day.

Even if your life was shit, at least it was consistently shit.

You always knew how to behave. What could just go unpunished. How to enter the house without making a sound. The perfect patterns to ensure your location wasn’t given away. What exactly to say to avoid being hit.

It was routine, comfortable. You permanently lived on the edge, waiting. Listening, watching. Observing those around you.

As routine, you were late. It was becoming quite the pattern, but you couldn’t help it. The bus ran late. Or, you suppose… if it ran late every day, then it was on schedule. Maybe you should start catching an earlier bus.

Whatever, it didn’t matter.

Second period, Tuesday.

Sport.

Now, you didn’t necessarily dislike sport. But you didn’t really love it, either.

The uniform always made you feel insecure. Which, at the ripe age of 13, doesn’t seem to be an emotion your peers are experiencing yet. Or maybe they are just better at hiding it than you are. It’s also incredibly performative, sport, which you hate. Being singled out, going one by one, choosing teams. All of it was terrible.

You didn’t mind your teacher.

Which, went a long way, considering you disliked most people who resided within these buildings. Teachers and students alike.

But Mr. Smith was nice. To you, at least. And to everyone. He was loud, had too much energy, but you didn’t mind. It just meant that he cared about his job.

You absentmindedly tugged at the sleeves of your shirt, the fabric wrapped around your arms to make up for the breezy garment of the girls tank top. It made you look different, set you apart. You hated that.

Regardless, you fall in line with the others.

Baseball.

Granted, you’ve never played baseball before. Sure, you’d watched it, on the small occasion that you were allowed to stay with a friend. It was a vivid memory. Watching from the hallway, over her father’s shoulder, whilst she was asleep.

You wished that your father liked sports. Or maybe cooking. Or collecting things, cleaning things, fixing things. Anything.

It’s almost the end of class, you’re standing at the back of the line. Three kids, then two, then just one. You. The others are standing on the bleachers, already collecting their equipment, preparing for break.

“Batter-up.” Mr. Smith says, though you don’t understand the colloquialism. Nonetheless, you move forward, accepting the bat from the previous student. Another is further down the field. Bowler, you presume.

The metal bat is cold between your fingers, clenched in your dominant hand. It’s heavy, but not an unmanageable amount, just enough to keep you aware of it. There’s weight to the swing, weight on your arm, shoulder. It takes a moment to find your footing.

But when you do, the other student has already thrown the ball. It’s hurdling towards you, faster than comfortable. Spinning through the air with a distinct whizz, perfectly curved, heavy. Dangerous.

It’s instinctual. Your body twists, landing a hit on the spherical object with laser accuracy, the impact ringing in your ears as it soars away, towards the end of the pitch.

Your head snaps in the opposite direction, recalling the match you’d silently observed years ago. There are beige bases in the grass, thin plates. The bat falls from your grip, hitting the ground with a thud, and you move to start running.

It only takes a few steps before reality clicks in, and you realise the feat is pointless. Nobody else is playing. There is no-one to catch your ball, to cheer and clap. Everybody has already begun to leave. They didn’t watch you, didn’t continue the game. Three seconds tick over before the bell rings, releasing the crowd of children awaiting their freedom.

Suddenly the summer breeze is too hot, the sleeves of your shirt itching, sticking to your skin. The tank is too tight. It hugs your body in the wrong way, vulnerable, at their mercy. And yet, you are unseen in a similar manner, and there’s an inkling of you that wants to be judged, simply to say you’d been recognised.

You’re collecting your things, and by that, putting your muddied sneakers into a plastic bag and slipping on new ones. There are footsteps behind you. Heavy, easily identifiable as an adult. You have impeccable hearing.

Before he can announce himself, you’ve turned. There’s always been respect in your tone when conversing with teachers, well aware of the authority they hold, despite your frequent disagreeable on their methods.

“Never mentioned you were good at baseball.” Mr. Smith quips, already packing up the equipment left behind from the lesson into a large bag. Those concrete-hard balls, the plastic bases, the metal bats.

“I’ve never played, sir.” You tell him, flashing that usual, awkward smile that doesn’t really count as a smile, but just the pursing of your lips. An attempt at civility from somebody too irreversibly damaged for their age.

“Well, we’ve got a team running,” He continues to speak whilst organising, and though he does not look at you, your attention is drawn. “Could come find you later, give you the permission slip.”

That bursts your bubble. There’s no chance in hell that you could persuade your father to sign it. There was forging the signature, but this game would run in after-school hours, an extra curricular. You wouldn’t be allowed.

“I dunno,” You shrug in premature defeat, slinging the bag over your shoulder, coming to stand at the feet of the bleachers. “Not really a team player. Wouldn’t fit in with the older girls.”

Though there’s no visible indication, it’s obvious that Mr. Smith disregards this as a valid excuse. Which, it definitely isn’t, but it’s the little statement you tell yourself in order to feel less shitty about missing an opportunity.

“How about I get you the slip, and then you’ve got the option?” It’s said as a question, but clearly isn’t, as he’s then reaching into the duffel bag and pulling out one of those heavy, metal bats.

He holds it out to you, and you have no choice but to take it.

“Get some practise in before the weekend.”

Then Mr. Smith is leaving, and you’re left standing there, on the muddy field. The second bell rings out.

You’re late.

Now, this habitual lateness may not be all so coincidental.

Tardiness was handled rather vigorously in the seventh grade, for whatever reason. You didn’t understand.

But it hasn’t taken too long into the year to crack the metaphorical code. Detention was mandated for wrongdoings, ergo, another hour before you had to be home.

You’d take detention over home any day of the week.

So it was unsurprising when you ended up there this afternoon, settling into your usual spot near the back. There were a other kids, the typical troublemakers, and a few poor souls who genuinely had misfortune befall them.

Mrs. Hagerty, the librarian, overlooked detention. She was old and slow, grey hair, grey lips. Grey… skin. Well, she looked half-dead, which was saying something. You weren’t surprised, though it was a little suspicious how she hadn’t chastised you for bringing the baseball bat into the room.

It sat propped up against your desk.

Despite your adamancy against pointless procedures, public humiliation, gossip, and assholes in charge, you were quite good at school. English, primarily, was your strong suit. Reading, writing. All of it.

The peace that you’d carefully crafted was interrupted roughly halfway into the lesson. Or, babysitting session, as Mrs. Hagerty was yet to look up from her desk. Talk about worlds easiest job.

You still remembered that day, even now. Years later.

At the time, Mr. Smith was nothing but your sport teacher, someone with authority who you detested less than most other figures. A reasonable constant in your life, so far.

Now, he was Negan. Everything to you, in a way. Alike to how you were everything to him. Though you didn’t know it then, this was the day that he’d consume an entirely different part of your mind, forging a new identity that would terrorise, ravage, and torment communities.

But in the same breath, protect you, help raise you, construct an entire empire with you as the sun. Though you’d never succumb to the hive mind, you were not Negan. But you certainly were his.

Nonetheless, it all started within that room. The detention room.

“Permission slip.” Negan announced, placing the small pink paper on the desk in front of you. He attempted to keep his voice hushed, mindful of the other students who were meant to be studying, but appeared more to be sleeping.

Now that it was out of school hours, and he was likely printing, Negan wore reading glasses. Later, you would mock him for these, making comments about him being old.

It always awarded you with that same distinct look of warning. Yet, it never made you feel threatened, but appreciated. Seen.

You slide the permission slip closer, reading the small black writing. In the same motion, you fish out a pen, jotting down cursive letters in the underlined section.

You slide it back.

“I can’t take this,” Negan points out with a sign, gazing down at the signature that is obviously not one of your parents. “You’re really making me go back, and print another one?”

This causes you to roll your eyes, “So I can take it home and do the same thing? That just wastes both of our time… our you could take it now.”

However, he won’t budge. “It’s policy. Go home, get it signed. I don’t need to know how.”

Though you feign annoyance, the insinuation made you want to smile. Turns out, Negan knew more than he was letting on. Gossip spread across faculty quickly, and it didn’t take a genius to deduct your… poor living situation.

The long sleeves, the turtle necks, the gloves. Jeans in summer. Never a parent to attention parent-teacher conferences.

He’s about to turn and leave, when there’s a slight commotion at the front of the room.

One of the younger students, Jasmin, is talking to Mrs. Hogarty in a hushed voice. Goody-two-shoes.

When she gets no response, the student only continues talking, trying to elicit a reaction from the teacher that has otherwise remained silent. In an irreversible mistake, Jasmin reaches out, gently waving her tanned hand in front of glazed over eyes.

Mrs. Hogarty lunges at her, finally in motion, chubby hands gripping at the forearm of the girl and taking a bite from plush skin. Blood spurts from the wound, Jasmin screams in horror, alike to the rest of the few misdemeanours in the room.

Everyone is in motion. Some try to help Jasmin, others flee. You’re stuck. Truth is, though you boast agility, you’ve never been in a situation like this. Your mouth gapes like a fish, open, closed, searching for something to say, to do. A reaction befitting of this complete, disgusting travesty.

“C’mon, up. Let’s go.” Negan is talking to you, you realise. It’s like everything finally clicks back into motion, the water no longer clogging your ears, making everything muffled and distant. This is reality.

You scramble from the chair, grabbing books, pencils, hastily shoving them into your little brown bag.

But there’s a hand on your shoulder, urging you forward, towards the exit sitting towards the back of the classroom. “Leave it, no time.” Negan is telling you, helping you off the floor. Before the two of you can make a break for it, your hands clasp around the metal baseball bat.

It swings at your side as you leave the building, feet padding against the concrete of the pavement. It’s strangely… desolate. There is no increasing urgency, nobody around. It almost makes you question whether what happened was real. But you’re still walking, forward, away.

“Shouldn’t we help her?” You ask, to which Negan finally stops to look back at you. His brows furrow, confused, so you clarify. “Jasmin.”

“No, no, there isn’t any helping her,” He clarifies, talking slowly to try and get the idea in your head. “I read about this shit online, it’s in other countries. Europe. They aren’t people anymore.”

You don’t quite catch on, understand the severity of his words. But it makes sense. No person would act like that. Your feet begin to move again, travelling the familiar path.

“Hey, where are you going?” Negan calls out, and it’s only now that you become aware of the distance between you. Your head snaps into the direction of the bus stop, a silent answer, and Negan seems to deduct your intentions. He nods in the opposite direction. “C’mon.”

You obey, needing to skip in order to catch up with his longer strides. The bat is still clenched in your dominant hand, cold metal occasionally making contact with the side of your leg. It’s heavy, but you’re getting used to it.

As you approach the car park, the sun beats down, warming the asphalt. A few paces away is Negan’s truck, but before that, another person you quickly identify as an older student.

Stringy hair, grey skin, dull eyes. Arms reaching out, wandering aimlessly. The animated corpse seems to have some semblance of consciousness, as it spots you, limping over.

Preemptively, you take a step back, that familiar feeling of panic flooding your system at an unavoidable danger. Luckily, Negan appears to be significantly more composed than you are, as he’s reaching back for something. Extending a hand to you.

When you don’t react, he whistles, a high-pitched noise that instantly gets your attention. You did not know it yet, but this would become a familiar constant in your life. Nonetheless, you catch onto what he meant, letting the metal bat fall into his extended hand.

“Are you gonna…?” You don’t finish your question, as you’re unsure what exactly you think may happen. There’s a small part of you that doesn’t want to know.

Luckily, Negan provided little answers. “Go around and get in the truck.” He tells you, instructs you, and you listen simply because you trust him. Which, in this day and age, is dangerous.

You busy yourself with the seatbelt in order not to watch, able to mentally fill in the blanks as to the measure that Negan was taking. It made sense, you supposed. They weren’t alive anymore, couldn’t feel. Only wanted to hurt other people. Therefore, they needed to be put down.

There’s a clang as he places the baseball bat in the back of the truck, getting into the drivers seat and starting the engine. You watch this interest, unable to remember the last time somebody drove you anywhere. Never, if you recall correctly.

Thankful, Negan opts to ignore the way you inspect his every movement, like a little bird. Or a startled cat.

“Your address?” He requests, already making a start down the street that he would presume lead towards your house. It snaps you out of the little daze, face scrunching up.

“No, gross. I can’t give you my address,” You say in a matter-of-fact tone, as if the idea of completely insane. “You could be a predator, for all I know. That’s private information.”

Negan gives you that look again, the same one when you’d forged the signature. He can’t quite understand you. “Why would I work in a school if I was a predator? Tell me, how would I get that job.”

You shrug, “Maybe because that’s exactly what you want.”

He becomes fed up with your inane accusation, rolling his eyes. Yet, despite the attitude you’ve adopted, he does not get frustrated with you. “Address, now. I’m takin’ you home.”

There’s a large part of you that doesn’t even want to go home, yet you obey, providing Negan with your address to which he turns down the proper street. Luckily, you don’t live too far from school… or, unlucky, you suppose. For it isn’t long until you’re pulling into your driveway.

You get out, footsteps cautious against the pavement. A few meters away is an older lady, half alive, clinging to the path with desperate hands despite the concave appearance of her head. Your neighbour. She groans upon noticing you, but her legs are broken, and cannot move forward.

Remembering earlier, you move backwards towards the truck, fishing out the metal bat. It’s shiny metallic end is caked with reddish blood, stringing bits of decomposing guts hanging from it.

You can only make it a step forward until Negan is holding your shoulder again, pushing you in the opposite direction, towards the house. “Nope. Just leave her, she ain’t hurting anyone.”

Usually, you would detest being controlled. Told what to do. The shadow of an adult so close behind you, watching, letting their hands intrude on your space. But you didn’t feel threatened by Negan, which was odd. You weren’t going to complain about it, that’s for sure.

You ascend up the shallow stairs, coming to a stop in front of the door. When you reach out, pressing on the doorhandle, you’re shocked to find that it simply swings open, already sitting ajar. Dread fills your body.

It’s not that fearful, sickly dread that you get when you know you’ve done something wrong, and are awaiting the inevitable consequences. No, its.. different. You’ve felt it very few times before. Concern, worry. Knowing that something is wrong, and you cannot stop it.

Nonetheless, you enter the house. It’s in its familiar state, which provides a slight comfort to you, but Negan finds himself taken aback. It’s practically a mess. Every surface has something on it, whether it be pointless junk, or the garbage of bottles and cans. A few areas remain spotless, like the kitchen counter, and the bin remains empty and carefully tucked away.

It’s clear that you upkeep the small areas which you require for your autonomy. The rest of the place? Not your problem. It’s no wonder you don’t like being there.

As you pat further down the hallway, Negan draws his attention to the entrance. There’s a large bookshelf, though the books are dusty, likely long since actually used. A few slots are unusually empty, indicating that you’ve taken some to keep elsewhere.

But it’s the top shelf that draws his attention. Two photographs, positioned around thirty centimetres apart, with two respective urns behind them. One significantly smaller. Mother and daughter, he recognises. Mother and baby, actually.

It’s apparent that this is the home of a family that’s lost half of its inhabitance. He can’t help but wonder, is this the fate that will befall him, come Lucille’s death? Hopefully not. Nothing like this.

“Dad?”

Negan regains his sense of reality, curiosity piked as you’re speaking down the hall. He moves further into the space, standing in the kitchen as he observes you, there on the porch.

You stand near the doorway, that bat still hanging from one hand. In front of you, a figure, sitting down. Next to him, a half-empty case of beers. Part of Negan becomes increasingly alert, aware, prepared to avoid letting any harm befall you. A harm that you’re likely accustomed to.

There’s no response.

“C’mon. Just say something.” You urge, sounding utterly defeated. And yet, your father gives no response, despite the impending doom blanketing the situation.

It doesn’t take a genius to understand. The vicious, red welt on your fathers neck gives it away, jagged and seeping blood that stains his already unkept shirt. It’s a matter of time, at this point. You’d like to extract at least one, genuine conversation. Absolutely anything before he disappears forever.

That isn’t seeming very likely.

Your eyes drift around the yard, welling with tears not of sadness, but frustration. This is it? You are to become an orphan, the world is ending, and your piece-of-shit father won’t even look at you? In this moment, you wished he was angry.

You wished he would yell at you.

Pin you against the wall by your neck.

Bruise you. Beat you.

Anything other than this.

“I made the baseball team.” You tell him, another futile attempt to elicit any sort of reaction. Pride, maybe. Congratulate his young daughter for her achievement. Even the smallest hint of recognition would go a long way, pull you from this spiral you’ve begun to succumb to.

And what does he do?

He scoffs.

His arm lifts, taking another swig of the near empty bottle.

Finally, you’ve gotten your sign. A signal, a hint. The divine intervention that sets everything straight, reminds you of your place in this world. Just enough attention to keep you subdued, but satisfied. Complacent.

Anger overtakes you before you’re even aware of these emotions, wielding a surprising amount of strength for a pre-pubescent girl. You want to scream and shout and hurt him.

So you do.

It’s a knee-jerk reaction, really. Unplanned, messily executed. But would you have done it again? Certainly.

You cannot feel remorse for causing pain to a man who’s soul died long ago. Died with your mother, died with your infant sister. Tried to kill yours along with it all.

It’s already happened before you can understand.

There’s a distinct soreness in your shoulder, strained from swinging the metal baseball bat with such force. There are little blisters forming on your palms from how tight you’re gripping, clawing, clenching around the handle. The movement has shifted your whole body, but you don’t look down.

You don’t acknowledge the mess you’ve made.

Blood splattered across the wooden porch, some even hitting the adjacent fence. Skull broken, concave. Oozing sticky red.

The glass bottle rolls down the steps. Clink, clink, clink. It hits the plush grass, silenced.

It was inevitable, anyway. Whether to the virus, or your own hands, your father was going to die.

It was a mercy-kill, at best.

Vengeance at worst.

But that didn’t matter anymore, because when you turned around, he was there.

Negan.

Standing in the kitchen, watching you through the open door. He didn’t appear horrified, or disgusted. Maybe unsettled, sure. There was a darkness within you that he recognised, understood. Sure, he didn’t put it there, but over the years he would cultivate it, guide you. Raise you as somebody who would never be taken advantage of again.

Untouchable.

#carl grimes x reader #the walking dead x reader #twd x reader #negan smith x reader #negan smith #twd x you #the walking dead #carl grimes

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platinumaspiration · 1 year ago

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So, yes, it's been done before. But, I wanted to put my lil spin on it :)

I reconverted the Yeti from Sims 4 and made it into a default for bigfoot & bigfootvest. He is still plagued as just a bodysuit (so no hair default), but now he has a bowler hat and bow tie.

MDP made a really fun rendition here and elvisgrace has a corresponding default, if you'd prefer.

#ts2cc #s2cc #sims 2 cc #sims 2 download #4t2cc #4t2 conversion #ts2 download #download #4t2 #sims 4t2 #dl: clothing #dl: def #dl: defaults #dl:mc #dl:mcb

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makriiii · 4 months ago

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Caught XVII (Arthur Morgan x f!reader)

Word count: 4k

Authors note: My powers been out so I finally had an excuse to ponder my next move in the series (spoiler!? you guys are IN for it this chapter 😈) I'm also of course, sorry as always for disappearing for months again!

Warnings: 18+, guns, cussing, alcohol, SA.

♡

Caught XVII

"You're too good to me!" You chirp, more than elated with the man you found in front of you. "Let me pay for our drinks this time."

"Oh, bosh." He reached up to adjust the bowler hat you remembered so fondly atop his head. "I got nothin' else to spend it on!"

"Well, I owe ya one anyway." You remark reluctantly, undelighted with his stubbornness.

"That blouse suits ya' well y/n." He spins a finger around, pointing at his wife's shirt that you had on. "I'm glad you're gettin' good use of 'em."

"I still owe you for that too, I reckon." You chuckle, all his favors for you made you feel bad without reciprocating.

"You're puttin' them to use. That's all you gotta do for me."

The generosity of this man baffled you. It weighed on your conscience, your life's path was not one deserving of the kindness he bestowed.

You patted his hand as a thanks. "Nevertheless. If there's anything you ever need, David."

He gave you a grin, shaking his head. "Just accept my drinks and we're square."

"I'dve never expected to have found you in Rhodes, David." You continue, watching Arthur who had positioned himself a few seats away from you and David. "What brings you to this dusty little town anyway?"

"Well, I'll tell ya what-" Slapping one hand on the bar and a head cocked back, the liquid in the glass vanished. "I'm gon' see how Saint Denis treats me. Just a pit stop for now."

David had clearly been here for a while already, his pockets loose and not a worry too light. His warm, bubbly attitude felt comforting. A man who didn't care about your past.

Arthur sat a few seats down, seemingly fine on his own, but his glares every so often made it obvious he believed you were unworthy of a gifted meal.

"Yeah?" You chuckle, "From my own experience, its high fliers too big for their britches and the ones that knock you upside the head for the few rocks you got in your pocket."

"Psh.. they wouldn't mess with me, ya know." He jests before grabbing another glass, though he seemed to have noticed Arthurs occasional glare which he promptly searched you for any explanation. "You know that man?"

"Don't mind him, he's had a long day." You stared back at Arthur while you spoke, eating his food so uptight.

As unexpected as it was, David started laughing. A small chuckle that grew.

You cocked a brow, unsure if it was the alcohol or just something you had said.

"He somethin to ya?" He asked with a grin, motioning for another drink.

His question felt like it squeezed the air out of you.

You felt stuck. Even with every feeling you felt for that man, they amalgamated into something you couldn't articulate.

David sat calmly, your aversion to your own feelings he seemed to sympathize with.

"I don't know."

David's eyes fixed on yours and with just a soft nod, you felt at ease. That alone was enough for him to understand.

He offered you the next drink and you didn't need any extra encouragement.

"I feel a lot of different ways about that man right now." You stared at the empty shot in front of you, disregarding the fresh dinner on your plate. "And I'm not so sure what of its right and wrong anymore."

David swirled his drink, his usual demeanor hazed with a soft and contemplative veneer.

"He's wronged me more times than I can count and yet I still find his presence appealing."

"Another ladies offering him a night." He blurted suddenly.

Your eyes shot over to Arthur, though one still alone upon a quick inventory.

David shook his head and started up with that chuckle again.

"You'll be the end of me, David, right in this chair here." You heaved a sigh, covering your face with your hand.

"I reckon you could deny it for the rest of your days, you'd also come to regret it as long too."

His words steamed over you once more, lingering and burning a hole inside you.

Oh, how obvious it was now.

You shoveled a few bites into your mouth, his reasoning sorting out the mess of your feelings.

"It's not often ya find one like that, y/n." David laments, "you feel right 'round him, don't ya?"

"More than I should, I suppose."

Despite your sentences growing short, you only filled with a sense of longing. Your glances over to Arthur becoming brief and timid.

"I have a firm reason to believe it's not reciprocal." You murmured. Talking about this aloud and with Arthur so close? Perhaps you were about to find out from his own appearance.

He hummed a familiar tune before taking one last swig of his drink. "He's waiting for you." He pats your shoulder before popping himself out of his chair, stretching on his way out.

You hesitated before standing up to send David on his way, surprised he was leaving so soon.

"I'd do anythin' to tell my wife what I feel for her once more." He whispers as he embraces you. "You owe me after all. Don't lose yourself on silly worries and wind up like me."

He was right, whether fortunately or not. That you couldn't deny.

"Thank you, David." The unfamiliar feel of your lip quivering frightened you, tears welling up threatened further punishment. "I'll do my best for you.

"I know you will, y/n." He smiled, on his way for what he desired in Saint Denis.

You watched as he walked out of the saloon, still contemplating the conversation that had just transpired. The one man not predestined to despise you for being an O'Driscoll- or a traitorous Van Der Linde member leaving you to yourself once more.

A large hand on your shoulder startled you out of somber thought, bringing you back to the present predicament.

"You gon' finish that food?" Arthur questions behind you, finally deciding to waltz up to you.

"You can have it." You offer, turning back to sit with him. You didn't feel like eating anymore.

He stood over you, deciding on your words before walking to sit down with you. "Ya sure?"

You simply nodded. Staring down at the dirty floor boards as you collected yourself. No way were you gonna let him see you shed a tear.

"Who was that man, anyway?"

Clearing your throat, you swallowed the lump in your throat, assuring that today was not the day to let loose. "Good buddy of mine."

Arthur seemed to pick up on whatever it was you were feeling. If not due to your unusually quiet demeanor then perhaps he'd noticed the shake in your voice.

"Not your fabled husband then?" He inquired, his typical smirk adorning his lips.

The age old fib you had tried to sell him he still brought up every so often, ruling out the ability to be in the doldrums.

You scoff with a growing smile, "I'm afraid he's not annoying enough, Mister Callahan."

That, he had not expected. A soft chuckle erupted from him as he looked you over. "We happen to marry drunk? I cannot recall."

"Me neither. Suppose we'll have to make up a date."

As Arthur finished the rest of the food, you both spoke back and forth about various aspects of the town of roads and the contents of its residents, particularly the grays. A light hearted conversation free of the angst and trouble often given by the one or both of you that was often the set tone.

The saloon soon grew in capacity, prompting you and Arthur to pack up. Neither of you wanted the attention you felt you were getting now.

Eyes of many ogled and monitored you both when a pack of men most recognizable by their yellow scarves pushed through the doors.

Their cheering and hollering lessened as they paused on you and Arthur, of whom kept close to you.

One of the men mumbled something you could only catch bits of, which filled you with dread as you pieced it together. "I know that face from somewhere."

Arthur glanced at you with caution, avoiding the men.

"Hey." A gruff, messy and an overall unfortunate sight stopped you two, his eyes trying to gather just where he might've seen you. "Y'all aint gon' be trouble are ya?"

His comrades surrounded your sides, everyone else had quieted down, not sure what they were to anticipate. Like a hungry hoard of coyotes.

"Just passin' through." You oblige, stepping for the exit with Arthurs in tow.

"You do look awful familiar." He interrupts so callously. The man held out his hand as to halt both of you, taking the chance for further inspection. "Say... what's that gang, boy?"

He reaches out with a harsh slap on his pal's shoulder. A younger but just as rough member of his gang. "Van Der Linde." He musters with a hiss, comforting his shoulder.

"Ya aint one of em, are ya?" He interrogates, his eyes beating through you. "What's your names?"

"Arthur and y/n Callahan. Just through this way to marry, that's all." Arthur admonishes, grabbing your hand as a demonstration. "We're only leaving."

"Married?" He was taken aback, as if it was unheard of. Light chuckles erupt from the encasing of men, some hollers and whoops once more. "Why, congratulations!" The taunting irked you and Arthur, squeezing his hand to encourage him out with you.

The man seemed to accept that as you pushed past him, but that sentiment was cut short. It was like they saw through it.

"Give us a little show, ey?" He remarks, everyone moving out onto the veranda as you and Arthur made for the horses. "Y'all ain't leavin' otherwise."

"Newly weds oughta." Another harps, egging the rest on.

"Christ." You drawl, still with Arthur in hand as you both stopped. "What's it take for a break?"

"Go bout your own business." Arthur grumbles, waving him off. He was about to continue on when the all too familiar sound of a cocking gun sounded from the group.

"That or ya sit here and wait till we figure out where we remember y'all from." His voice deepened, breathy and threatening.

Your heart. Your stomach. Everything retangled, worse than before. Arthur glared at the men, hand still held firmly in his grasp.

"It ain't hard to kiss your new wife!" Came from the left and an agreement shouted from the right.

Arthur hesitated, his eyes darting to you and back several times. Your hands grew so hot, sweating was unavoidable at that point.

You couldn't, could you? Could he? Would he?

"They fibbin', ain't they, boss?"

The man hummed, your chance was about to vanish and trouble worse than a kiss would follow.

With a heart beating like mad and an arm around Arthur, your lips met his with nerve.

A tense and swiftly executed action.

The whooping, hollering and laughing arose once more as the men got what they wanted.

As you pulled away ever so slightly, his eyes met yours, searching each other for any semblance that this was unwanted - undesirable and forced. It was an impossible find.

Arthurs arms pulled you in firmer, his eyes lit with that hunger you'd only seen sparsely.

Intense yearning drove your every instinct as your lips met again, the all familiar taste of whiskey and cigarette meeting your tongue.

Every fiber of your being wanted this moment to last forever. Not even the bother of the infuriating crowd discouraged you, that was hardly a worry.

Your stress, your worries, your overthinking- a remedy above any and all amounts of alcohol, disappeared like it'd never been.

Pulling away with a heavy breath, Arthur reluctantly let you go, gesturing to leave with his hand on the small of your back.

The men let you be as they all continued with their previous intentions, leaving you and Arthur to sit with what you had just done.

He still tensed as he walked with his shoulder scraping yours lightly, brushing his fingers across his lower lip.

“Are you okay?” He peeps, his eyes searching for assurance.

“Dandy.” You muster, continuing with the plan to hide your burning face with a hand over your mouth.

You felt about ready to blow. If that was any descriptor.

---

Javier strummed his guitar lightly, tuning it as he ran his finger across each string to adjust it better.

The occasional pops and crackles from the fire added to the song Javier was warming up for. Lighting the faces around the fire.

Sean and Bill's voices heightened every so often as their conversation slighted to bickering and back again. Something about the military and another about Ireland, you couldn't quite catch what they were on about.

Kieran had just gotten done reporting to you his catches from the nearby fishing spot he'd found. Some talk of a massive, mythical sounding bluegill. He was particularly excited about it and you were glad he was getting his mind off of the people in camp.

But you could not get one particular man in camp off your mind.

He was sat on his bed across from camp, nose in his diary. The dark made it hard to see exactly whether he was drawing or writing, either way you were curious to see.

The bustle of the camp started to die down as night befell the land, a calm you always looked forward to.

Fiddling with your pistol in hand, you decided to give it a quick clean. Running your fingertips over the engravings, the accidental scratches and dents that signified all it had been through with you.

The rag you used was due in for a cleaning of its own, the gun oil and dirt splotched the once red color of the fabric. The flame of the fire danced in reflections along the barrel of your gun, a mesmerizing sight.

From the first sin you committed, to the many that followed suit after, the feeling inside you was not one you felt you would ever succumb to.

That kiss lingered in your mind, unrelenting in its replays. The taste of him still on your tongue, the look in his eye before he kissed you.

Men are not typically a subject of desire, particularly in your field of work. They were rotten, vulgar, dangerous.

Not to say you nor Arthur were above that, but rather, it simply just didn't seem so bad with him.

It felt silly. A crush? Arthur seemed not the type for shenanigans like that either. Love. That's the worse one.

You tapped your finger against the gun in your palm, checking your bullets.

Confessing? You cringed back at the thought. Was it obvious with that kiss? Or did he feel it just a ruse as it was meant to be?

Standing before him and muttering a phrase that barely made your feelings understandable to him was particularly deplorable. What would he say to that anyway, how would he react? Maybe he'd finally tell you to get lost for good.

Uncle came lumbering out of the woodwork to join you by the fire, though not giving you much space. "Just 'bout nearly pissed myself." He groaned with a stretch of his back, having exerted himself to such exhaustion.

Javier glanced up with a furrowed brow, shaking his head, his light strums on the guitar interrupted. "We always enjoy knowing that, Uncle."

Sean had himself a giggle at Bill's glare, dismissing Uncle's antics to return to his previous rant.

"You can't thank me enough, huh, O'Driscoll?" Uncle elbows you lightly, bringing your attention to him. He noticed something amiss.

"I don't reckon I'll ever be able to show my gratitude." You smiled as you reholstered your revolver, Uncle's breath nearing a biohazard.

He chuckled his usual loud chuckle, a bottle in hand and his red pajamas soaking up the droplets he spilt as he took haphazard drinks from the bottle.

He smelt of a lot of unpleasant things, mainly alcohol and musk but the man was as aloof and happy as can be.

It wasn't long that he had another story to tell everyone who'd listen. You weren't one for it tonight, longing for the quiet some space would give you.

Excusing yourself from the fire, you decided to take the guard position. It'd give you some time to think - away from everyone else.

As your eyes adjusted to the dark, you saw Lenny come out from some brush, shotgun in hand. He walked with a drag in his step and slump in his back but a glint of hope sparkled in his eye when he noticed you.

"I'll take over for you, Lenny." You extend your arm to relieve him of his duties, though he hesitated for a moment, eyeing you.

"I ain't been out here for long," he states, "you sure?"

"It ain't no trouble."

He nods, setting the shotgun in your hands, leaving you to the dark of the surroundings.

He certainly wasn't sure of you still either, as was the running theme with the members in camp. You knew and sympathized with the reason, but you were beginning to feel the desire to be a valued part of the gang. To just be.

Reminiscing on the nights that you'd find yourself around a campfire with the O’Driscoll boys, some of your best comrades, singing, drinking, eating by the fire. A true feeling of belonging. They had trusted you.

Perhaps it was retribution. Never feeling proper after what you'd done to them.

You felt overwhelmed as you sondered into the dark, shrubby forest, walking the border quietly. Gazing up every so often as you breathed in the stuffy air, the stars sporadic in their blinking. As if in a way to remind you of that night, your near fatal mistake that landed you here.

Barely were you paying attention, lost in your thoughts, though still sure to keep your distance from whoever else was on guard, when two hands pinched your shoulders tightly.

Letting out a gasp as you tensed, a voice hissed out, "O'Driscoll."

Whipping around to free yourself, the voice matched who you suspected.

"Micah." You return, clutching the shotgun in your grasp. "You ain't gotta take over yet."

He scoffs harshly, "I wasn't bouta take your duty off your hands." The sneer on his face barely visible through the shadow, though his wiry blonde hair was clear to see.

"Then we got no business," cynicism and doubt lined every word of yours. "Do we?"

"Oh, we do, O'Driscoll." His voice always did bother you. There was something about the man you couldn't stand. "I've been catchin' you and that other rat 'round camp- doing what I can only imagine to be conspiring."

He paced a small stretch in front of you before looming over you in a fashion that seemed to be signature to him. "We just wanna be knowing what's being said."

Conspiring about a fish out of a fairy tail, perhaps. You shrugged him off and stepped away. "Kieran and I are on our best behavior. We dropped the O’Driscoll kinship long ago."

"Say what ya want, little lady." Micah followed, his voice sharp and menacing. "Dutch... Arthur- Arthur. " He repeats out his name with pure malice, "They might be lettin' you off easy? I'm not."

Micah's hand grabbed your healing shoulder with every intention to make it sting, his other targeting your neck.

"What the hell?" You choke out, shocked he felt he had much of any right to be doing what he was doing.

Shooting the man off you was desirable. But as you tussled underneath him, grunting as you fought off his hand, you knew it wasn't an option.

"I want to know," he grips onto your wrist to drive back your arm, "exactly what you're tellin' each other, especially Arthur."

He wasn't a feeble man by no means, which alarmed you as you swung wrestled with him, the leaves and brush making it hard to get good footing. "You're poisoning him, aren't you?"

"He tells me bout his fish, I tell him bout my fish." You remark angrily amongst the struggle before dealing out the classic. The side of his thigh met your knee as if he knew exactly when you'd utilize it. "Goddamn you big bastard! Arthur and I hardly stand each other."

"God may damn me all he wants." His hand on your wrist and another on the shotgun, he tried yanking from you, which you had no intention on letting happen. "But that ain't it. There's things happenin' that shouldn't. "

"Get off me, 'fore I do something we both'll regret." You hiss out before your back hits a tree. The situation ever more dire.

A shit eating grin split his face as he knocks the breath out of you, your lungs both struggling in the heavy humid air. "I want answers, O'Driscoll."

His eyes a blue that pierced through the darkness, and they sent a message, clearly, nothing short of frighteningly.

"I have nothin' to say to you, Micah." You state firmly between breaths, anger boiling your skin. "Get off me."

He hums a consideration not dually considered, his face horribly close to yours. His eyes trailing to your lips and back up.

For a moment, he paused. The only sound amongst you was heavy breathing.

The horrible feel of his free hand running down your waist zapped you of your breath. Never did his eyes stray from yours as your face twisted in disgust and horror.

"So close to camp too, no one would even bat an eye." He enjoyed every which way your face distorted because of him. Deriving a sick pleasure from your terror.

"Tell me just what you've been telling him." He demands once more. Your entire body shivered, wanting to simply dissipate or perhaps make him do so.

The tingle of your trigger finger turned into a deep nauseous ache in your stomach as his hand reached lower.

"Or ya gonna be quiet enough..." his grin turned into a hoarse, sinister cackle as if he knew you couldn't do much against him. That he could do as he pleased. "that we can have a little fun right next to camp?"

As his hand made for your belt buckle, he glanced down to take it off, and the hand he should've held shot up into his eyes.

He gasped out something fierce as you pointed the shotgun at him, the barrel stabbed harshly into his skin as you used it to shove him away.

"Damn whore!" He snarls as he hunches over, pained by the blow you dealt him.

The hammer of your revolver clicked back, a menacing and unfavorable noise to be heard in the dark. "Consider your next move a return to camp, Micah."

Now you had both your guns in his face. A bit much? Perhaps. Though that wasn't a concern now.

"Don't get too excited, O'Driscoll." He warns harshly as he wipes his eyes vigorously. "I'm not done with you." His words echoed with intent akin to the most sick of the population.

Keeping your aim trained on him, you stared as he stumbled out of the forest, grumbling his hate under his breath with each step.

As soon as he disappeared back into camp, you sighed out your relief, slumping with exhaustion. You were in shock, to put it lightly. The adrenaline bringing you down with it.

Straying further into the forest, you found your previous thoughts had left you, left you with nothing except for one.

Arthurs arms firm around you filled you with such a sense of comfort. A way to easily cope with Micah's actions toward you.

A feeling that shouldnt come from the very one who did the opposite for so long.

The whole day had taken a toll on you. The chance you took for peace veered horribly south, you didn't even know what to make of it, were you to say anything?

Would they even care? Believe you? O'Driscoll traitor accuses loyal Van Der Linde member. You shook your head.

Hugging the shotgun tightly, you trudged back and forth as long as you could muster. The fire and liveliness from camp dispeled gradually until it finally became near silent.

The frogs and crickets kept you company through the ensuing hours, an occasional firefly alerting you to its position amongst the trees and bushes every so often.

Needless to say, it was a mistake to sit down against a tree for a break.

♡

P.s.

This one I finally gave in, I couldn't WAIT to get to this chapter, I also had to star David cuz I unfortunately do have daddy issues and appreciate the found family trope way too much, but I tried to keep it minimal.

Just wanted to say I appreciate everyone who reads my stories, I absolutely love writing them despite how long it takes sometimes (cries dies) and there will be more soon, big, big plans.

I also have a little fic out based off a removed gunslinger in rdr2, I thought he was sexy so I couldnt help but write something about him... dont be shy to head over to that one.

A Kinship, of sorts. 🫣

Also, also, plan on a mini series where I write buncha one shot shenanigans with the all Van der Linde members, based off the events in this story, just know I do plan on spoiling you guys, I feel it necessary 😘

Im going through each chapter again, rewriting and adding little tid bits here and there. I also havent fixed the lemoyne raider in valentine mishap.. I had a dream I did or maybe I didn't save my changes ☹️

Much Love, M. <3

#arthur morgan #red dead redemption arthur #red dead redemption two #rdr2 #rdr2 fanfic #arthur morgan x reader #arthur morgan x you #red dead fanfic #dutch van der linde #rdr

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sonicmovieupdates · 2 years ago

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So, Cary Elwes just revealed what character that he will be playing in the upcoming Knuckles spin-off series. He will be playing a championship bowler named Pistol Pete Whipple.

#knuckles #sonic movie #sonic the hedgehog movie #sonic the hedgehog #sega #paramount pictures

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supernovasilence · 11 months ago

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Meet the Family

Written for Futuristic Four Week 2024! Today's theme was Family. (I'll also be posting these as a series over on ao3, though we'll see if I make all the days on time lmao)

Summary: Wilbur invites his friends over to meet his family. He maybe should have given a few more details on who--and what--all his family includes. Gen, humor.

“No…” Wilbur said warningly as the great, gaping maw lowered slowly toward Hiro and Violet, teeth edging toward Violet’s forcefield while one beady eye watched Wilbur to see if its owner could get away with this. “Don’t do it…”

The monster lunged. Violet shrieked and slammed more energy into her forcefield. Hiro yelled and ducked instinctively, then peeked out from behind Violet’s shoulder, bare fists raised as if that would somehow do any good.

“No!” Wilbur yelled. “Bad dinosaur!”

Hiro and Violet screamed again as the T. rex chomped down on Violet’s forcefield and began to shake it like a dog with a ball. Violet concentrated everything she had on not dropping the forcefield as Hiro crashed into her and the two teens bounced around the purple bubble. They could dimly hear Wilbur still shouting.

Suddenly they were spinning across the grass in bright sunshine.

“Wo-o-oah!”

They rolled and tumbled and somehow, finally, slowed to a stop. Hiro staggered up, swayed, and promptly fell over again, too dizzy to stand. Violet clambered to her own feet carefully, trying very hard not to lose focus on the forcefield. It looked like it was dripping drool.

“Ew…”

“At least the shield held,” Hiro wheezed. “Thanks, Vi.”

Looking out, Violet saw Wilbur, not too far away (apparently they had done more spinning than actual traveling, which explained why her head was doing cartwheels), hands on his hips, scolding the T. rex that had almost just eaten his friends, while it sat on its haunches with a shamed, hanging head.

A panicked shout for Wilbur to get out of there! hurtled up Violet’s throat, paused, and died. It was replaced by annoyance. Extreme annoyance.

“Are you seeing what I’m seeing?” She looked at Hiro.

He’d managed to get to his feet, and was watching with a nonplussed expression.

“Seriously, Wilbur?” he yelled.

Wilbur looked over, grinning. Hiro and Violet glared.

“What?” Wilbur asked.

“‘What?’” Violet shrieked.

“When you said we should meet your family, this was not what I pictured,” Hiro complained.

“I told you I had pets!”

“You said you had dogs!” Violet said. “You said Buster was, and I quote, ‘a Kennel Club crossword champion’.”

“That is not a dog!” Hiro gestured violently at the dinosaur, which was trotting happily after Wilbur as he walked over to his friends.

“Because that’s not Buster,” Wilbur said as though Hiro and Violet were the ones being silly here. “That’s Tiny.”

A shadow fell over the bubble as Wilbur—and his scaly terrier—reached it. Violet looked up at the dinosaur. It was easily 10 or 15 feet tall.

“Of course it is,” she said.

“Bowler Hat Guy brought him from the past during that one incident I’m not really supposed to talk about,” (Wilbur ran on too fast for either of the others to point out that they already knew practically everything about ‘that incident’, because Wilbur was absolutely terrible at not talking) “and we couldn’t figure out exactly when or where from to put him back. I mean, you can’t just dump a T. rex anywhere—he’d totally mess up the local ecosystem! And then we accidentally socialized him, and you really can’t dump a tame T. rex anywhere.”

“I don’t think tame T. rexes try to eat people,” Hiro said.

“He wasn’t trying to eat you. He was playing.”

“How was that—!”

Violet’s indignant question was cut off by the jangle of Hiro’s phone. He fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

“It’s Penny.” He put her on speaker. “Hey, Penny.”

“Hi, Hiro. Are you already at Wilbur’s?”

“Yeah; Violet, too.” He looked at Tiny, clearly pondering the best, snarkiest way to mention their situation.

“I wanted to tell him sorry for being late, and I’m heading over now, but he forgot his phone somewhere again.”

“I did not!” Wilbur protested. “I…put it in a secure location.”

“You lost it,” Penny laughed. “Why do you sound so muffled?”

Hiro flicked on video chat. After a moment, Penny appeared on the screen, squinting at her phone.

“Why are you in a forcefield?”

Hiro silently panned the camera over.

Penny yelped and vanished in a pinwheel of house-grass-sky-Penny-house-grass. A second later she snatched her phone off the ground again and gaped at it.

“Is that a dinosaur? …he’s not eating Wilbur.”

“He’s tame!” Wilbur threw out his hands in exasperation. “He only went after Violet and Hiro because Dad made him some extra-reinforced jumbo beach balls to play with, and he thinks the forcefield is one.”

Tiny looked up hopefully and thumped his tail at the phrase ‘beach balls’. Violet glared.

“…are you serious?” Penny said slowly.

“I—”

“You’re petting a T. rex without me?! That’s so unfair! Aw man, traffic’s terrible this time of day. It’ll take forever to get there.”

“I can get Uncle Art to give you a ride,” Wilbur said. “He left on a delivery out near you right before Hiro and Violet showed up, and his ship’s plenty fast.”

“Don’t you need your phone to call him?” Hiro asked at the same time Violet said:

“Wait, so all those times you mentioned his spaceship, you meant actual spaceship? Your cousins aren’t going to turn out to be vampires, are they?”

Wilbur glared at them both.

“That’d be great, Wilbur; thanks!” Penny called loudly over the phone, though she was clearly stifling laughter too.

“…I might need some help finding my phone, though.” Wilbur said. He looked pointedly at the forcefield.

Violet eyed Tiny skeptically.

“You sure he’s not going to eat us?”

“Hurry up and find Wilbur’s phone so I can meet the dinosaur, guys!” Penny called.

“His name’s Tiny,” Wilbur said.

“Oh, that’s so cute—”

“Seriously, Penny?” Hiro asked. “You don’t care at all that we’re about to get eaten?”

“Alright, here goes nothing,” Violet said. “But Hiro, you better keep that call going. If we’re going to get mauled by a T. rex for Penny’s curiosity, I want her as a witness.”

Five minutes later, tentatively scratching Tiny’s great bronzy side, Hiro asked:

“So, are the rest of your family this weird?”

“Oh, no,” Wilbur said with a shrug. “The frogs are all from this time period; Mom just genetically modified them for intelligence. Which reminds me, we better go in through the side door. They tried to start a protection racket with Uncle Spike and Dmitri’s lawn gnomes, and now there’s a mafia war going in the front yard.”

“…I’m going to take that as a yes.”

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cazzyf1 · 7 months ago

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My favourite and interesting quotes from the book 'Challenge me the race' by Mike Hawthorn

We played football, hockey and cricket, but my cricket career was soon cut short. One Saturday afternoon, I went in as wicket-keeper, and while the batsmen were putting their pads on, the bowler sent down a practise ball, which thumped me hard on the nose - p15

When I was about thirteen, I went off into the woods with another boy to shoot rabbits; he had an air rifle, and I had an air pistol. He was leading the way, swinging the rifle backwards and forwards; as he swung it outward, I took aim at the butt to give him a bit of a surprise, but there must have been something wrong with the sights; the pellet went into his leg. We were not far from a church, so I whipped him into the churchyard and bathed his leg with the water from a flower vase. Eventually, I managed to squeeze the pellet out, and we both went home. Of course, his leg turned septic, but he talked his way out of it and his family never knew what happened. - p15

I always had a feeling I would like to play the trumpet, and after breaking-in as a bugler, I have since brought a trumpet. I doubt I shall cause Eddie Calvert any sleepless nights unless he happens to be in the next room while I am practising, and I do not aspire to emulate Johnny Cales, who was popular both a racing driver and a dance-band leader, but if the race-driving and the motor trade fail, I may still be able to make an honest coin - p15/16

While I was still an apprentice, my parents concluded that daily use of a motor-bike on the road would have to stop if I was to stay in this world - p17

I did not realise at the time but I took an awful shaking at Dundrod. I did not feel too bad at the time, but the next evening, I suddenly passed out and had to go to bed with whiskey and hot milk. My interior organs were in revolt against being thrown about like a stone bouncing down a tin roof, and this may have been the first sign of troubles for which I later had to have extensive repairs on the operating table - p25

I caught sight of Rodney and Mike Oliver, the Connaught development engineer, standing at Madgwick Corner, and I thought that on the next time around I would really show them what I could do. I did. When the car stopped spinning round and round, I realised that any hopes of driving a Connaught would have to be postponed for the time being. - p26

He produced a bottle of alcohol and started to swab it off with that. I nearly went straight through the ceiling with alcohol on a sort of raw wound. "We'll leave it alone, shall we?" I said eventually. - p47

After I had been in bed for a couple of days, everyone came to see me, Lance Macklin, John, and Laurel Heath, and a lot of Italians came to see me - one or two of them had been prisoners of war in England - and altogether everyone was very kind - p48

"There are two ways of getting rid of it: we can either leave it and let it go on its own accord; or we can stick a needle in you and drain it off." I said: "Thanks very much, I'll leave it and let it go away on its own." So they said: "Fair enough." - p48

I tried some ski-ing, but found it - and I did not reckon this at all - most dangerous, I thought, "No, this isn't for you, Hawthorn, leave it alone." I kept falling, and I could feel the bones of my leg bending; I did not fancy it at all. - p49

I hated the idea of being driven for long distances by other people, so I announced that I was going to drive and anyone who wished could sit in the back. The announcement did nothing to further amicable Anglo-American relations, but to my relief, the others did not argue the point - p72

Some time later, I emerged onto a deserted circuit, whence driver mechanics, spectators and officials had fled long since, and then I remembered that I had no transport. Our crippled race cars had been taken away in the vans, and my own car was at that moment standing outside the Le Mans railway station, as I had lent it to Farina, who had wanted to catch a train before the race ended. There was nothing for it but to start walking. After about a mile, I heard an old 2-litre Lagonda hurtling up the road behind me, so I thumbed a lift. The car screeched to abrupt stop, and I got in gratefully. By way of conversation, I said: "My father used to have one of these cars. They're jolly good, aren't they?" It was a mistake; thus encouraged, the driver tried to demonstrate that what I had said was indeed true and went weaving in and out of the traffic at a furious pace. We went hurtling up to the backs of trucks, braking late, with all wheels locked, and it dawned on me that he too had been celebrating-and rather too well. Sweating with fear, I frantically tried to keep the conversation going in the hope it would slow him down "Jaguars did a good job, winning at that speed," I said. "Yes, old boy," he replied, snatching another gear. "Drove those damned Ferraris right into the ground. Showed 'em how to drive." I had struck the right note and for the rest of the way into Le Mans he told me with much elaboration and adjective and expletive how a Jaguars had ground the pride of the Italians and their drivers into the dust. He got so interested in this that he forgot to drive so fast, which made me very happy, and I kept on agreeing with everything he said. He was kind enough to take me back to my hotel and as I staggered out of the car, surprised but happy at having arrived one piece, he said: "Hope we meet again some time. We might have a drink." "Yes," I said. "We might. Remember the name, it's Mike Hawthorn." The effect was wonderful. His face seemed to subside like a load of cement sliding out of a wheelbarrow. Oddly enough we did meet again that same night and we had several drinks together. P74

I think it was called Punta del Este - the hotel kept a line of horses for the use of guests. Maglioli and I decided to risk a trip on a couple one day; he selected a low-built job which kept his feet near to the ground, but I had a normal job. We went off into the woods, but after a while, I missed him and found that his steed had taken him up the drive of a private house to the front door. The owners did not seem to find it funny, but Maglioli knew a little Spanish and talked his way out of it. I was roaring with laughter, but in the middle of it, my mount started walking backwards - and kept on, no matter what I did. In the end, I had to jump off and stop it and get it started the normal way. - p100

I followed on a horse; it went lame fairly soon, and I had to take a stone out of it's hoof, after which it refused to do anything but take me back to the hotel. I tried tempting it with bits of sugar, but it simply stretched out its neck for the sugar and then doubled back every time, so after a lot of pulling and tugging, I gave up and asked for another horse, which would really take me where I wanted. They gave me another, something quite different. No sooner had I set foot in that stirrup than it was off, and nothing I could do would slow it down. Down the road we went, thundering past a Ford and a Jeep, with me, very frightened, holding on like grim death. It only slowed down when it got tired. I tested it - and myself - and then tried to start back for the hotel. It soon began to accelerate again, so I jumped off and led it the rest of the way, which must have been a couple of miles. That was the last time I rode a horse - p100/101

In Uruguay, we spent most of our time on the beach or in the casino, where I lost money regularly, but we made an interesting excursion to an island just off the coast which was absolutely covered in seals. In small numbers, seals are amusing creatures, but amongst this vast mass - it was the mating season, and fantastic battles were going on amongst the males, with bodies of former losers lying rotting on the beach and creating an appalling stench - we quickly lost our enthusiasm for nature study - p101

Like most fair-haired people, I get sunburnt very easily and surgery agonies from blisters, so I used these weeks in the sun to try and build up a resistance to it, gradually lengthening the exposure. I put up with weeks of pain and eventually acquired a dirty colour, which I hoped was the foundation of a handsome tan, but it all disappeared on the plane coming back to Europe and by the time I reached Italy, I was my normal pink self - p101

Stirling Moss had a room in a motel with a spare bed, so I moved in with him for the night, but we had an unhappy time as the sanitary system gave off a vile chemical smell - p102

Just before the race, there had been a lot of excitement in the papers about a statuette of the Madonna in a working man's home which was supposed to be weeping, and I had been taken along to see it on the exhibition in one of the public squares. There was an old woman there selling white flowers, and she had presented me with a sprig, saying, "Carry thus with you while you are racing." I put it in my breast pocket, and when I survived the crash, word got around that I was because of a flower. People came streaming into the hospital to see me. No one stopped them, and whole families crowded into the room, father, mother, and the children, just standing there silently gazing at me. I was finding it rather a trial. - p106

As I got stronger, I was given a pair of crutches so that I could hobble about a bit, but the pain under my armpits was excruciating, so I had a wheelchair instead. I soon worked out a few circuits round the corridor of the hospital and started timing myself round them with my wrist stopwatch, but it was decided that I was a menace to hospital staff, who might be carrying bottles or bed-pans, so the wheelchair was taken away, and I had to persever with crutches - p107

My face had been scorched by the flames, and I had grown a beard and moustache, but they were not very successful, so I shaved them off when I was fit enough to move about again - p108

Jenny lent me a Guzzi motor scooter, which enabled me to get around and see a number of people I knew, but after one late party with Captain Johnny Johnson of B.O.A.C. and some other airline pilots, I found I was not nearly as strong as I thought and had some explaining to do to the doctor next day - p108

The girl behind the bar said that Reuters had been trying to find me. They soon came through again and asked if I was going to England to see my father. "Why should I be going?" I asked, "Don't you know?" They replied, "He's had an accident." It was obviously pretty bad, so I got through to the garage at Farnham and learned from one of the girls in the office that my father had had a car crash the night before; there was not much hope for him. The planes to England that night were fully booked out, but Bernard Cahier, the journalist, got me first refusal on the last plane of the day, and I rang Farnham to say I hoped to arrive that night. They told me that my father had died a few minutes before. - p109

I knew perfectly well that, having just lost my father, she (Mike's mother) would have liked nothing better than to see me give up racing immediately, especially knowing how badly she was affected when she saw me in hospital in Rome, and I shall always admire the courage with which she faced up to that difficult decision - p111

The woods are barred to the public during the race, and the Swiss police use fierce Alsatian dogs to enforce the ban. One of them went for me, snarling and snapping, and it took the policeman in charge of it some time to calm it down. Life as a professional racing driver has lots of risks which have nothing to do with motor cars. P122

On the last day of practise, Collins, cornering fast on the Vanwall, was caught out by oversteer, slid into a sandbank and flipped over. A few minutes later, Moss came in with the back end of his Maserati crumpled. I laughed at the two of them, saying, "You simply shouldn't do that sort of thing." I then went out to try and do a fast lap in the Squalo, lost it on a corner at the top of the hill and spun backwards into the straw bales, smashing up the tail end. - p128

Ever since I was seventeen, I had suffered intermittent pain in my back and I mentioned it to my doctor when I got back to England after recovering from the Syracuse burns, and he sent me to a specialist who diagnosed kidney trouble and said I would have an operation in the end of the racing season - p130

I staggered from the pit, saying I was finished with racing and was not going to get in the car again. I suppose I was near hysteria as a result of shock; coming on top of the concentrated nerve strain of the previous two hours, I was led away by Duncan Hamilton and his wife Angela, who took me to their caravan, sat me down and put a drink in my hand while Duncan talked to me like a father, trying to calm me down. When he had seen all the team cars refuelled, Lofty England came over to see how I was, and I again said that I was not going to drive again, but Lofty said quite firmly, "Oh yes you are! You're going to go out there and finish the race. It's the only thing you can possibly do!" - p152

I knew I must break free before it landed again, or I should be finished. Suddenly, there was a feeling of utter relief. I had broken free and was alone in mid-air. It was quiet, and I seemed to be floating in space, defying the law of gravity. Then, the bone-jarring shock as I hit the ground. - p173

I was taken to a doctor in Towncester who proposed to stich up the wound on my face. I said: "No you don't" - p175

Why Klemantski (photographer) was not run down by my Cooper-Bristol we shall never know - p177

I was being hustled from all sides, so I retaliated and shunted somebody off the course; it turned out to be Ivor, who had lent me his car, and he gave me a very old-fashioned look afterwards - p192

It would be idle to pretend that racing drivers are always perfect guests from the hotelier's point of view, and that night, the hotels' magnificent fire precautions, consisting of highly polished devices like stirrup pumps in gleaming copper-bound tubs, provided an irresistible temptation. A hosepipe battle developed in which a good deal of water fell wide of the primary objectives. At breakfast next morning, one of the race officials appeared and obviously had a problem on his mind. It was obvious what the problem was, so after an exchange of pleasantries, we said: "Well, how much is it?" He was immensely relieved and said: "Thank you, gentlemen! If you wouldn't mind leaving a little something at the desk when you go, the bill will be sent later," we did, and a mutually acceptable figure was ultimately agreed upon - p193/194

I struggled convulsively and then must have been knocked out, for I remember no more until I heard someone moaning and groaning. I wondered who it might be until it dawned on me that I was the person making all the fuss. Spectators rushed up, and one started trying to comfort me, saying over and over: "It's all right, Mike, you're all right." "How the devil does he know?" I asked myself - p194

I sent Ferrari a telegram saying: "I am interested if you are," to which he replied saying he was interested - p197

I gave myself a bad fright through over-estimating my powers of seamanship while returning from a party late one stormy night in a borrowed cabin cruiser - p201

After that, I went back to flying and took von Trips up in a Piper Cub to get some ciné pictures. He wanted to shoot some scenes of the river and the yachts, so I took him down low and was just thinking that this would be an awful place to have to make a forced landing, when the engine cut. Below us was nothing but water and semi-jungle; not a possible landing place for miles. I was just debating the chances of survival in a ditching when I glanced down and saw that the throttle had shut. The machine had dual control, and von Trips had caught his elbow against the lever as he leaned out of the window with his camera - p201

I did not think I could possibly last through the second heat, but I got someone to drill a lot of holes into my crash helmet, swallowed some salt tablets, and put on a light sleeveless pullover. Musso had fallen ill with the stomach trouble, which was to keep him out of racing for some time to come, so Peter took his car, and Masten Gregory moved into Peter's car. I again made the silly gear change mistake, and so did Peter and some of the others...I was so exhausted by the heat that I slowed down and was passed by Fangio, Behra and Peter Collins. I would gladly have signed an undertaking never to go motor racing again and at the end of the race was practically prostrate. Yet Peter was as lively as a cricket. I said: "That was a pretty good effort Pete." "Yes," he replied. "Weren't those pills wonderful?" "What pills?" said I, and then I learned that while I had been monopolising the shower, a doctor had been round distributing heat pills which had made everyone but me more or less immune to the heat - p202

Before the race, Peter and I had arranged, we would put on a bit of a show for the crowd, and he said: "I'm happy if we go over the line side by side; if you have the lead, you win, and I will come in second because I won at Syracuse." I thought this was a very fair thing to say, and we took it in turns to take the lead and were pushing each other fairly hard - p209

I left Modena with Trintignant, and he drove me up in his Renault Dauphine. The road from Genoa to Monaco is very difficult and twisty, but these Renaults are fantastic little motor cars, and he drove it flat out the whole time. Knowing that I am a very nervous passenger, he did the usual trick, waiting until I was just dozing off and then suddenly putting the brakes hard on, which scared the daylights out of me as I thought we were about to hit something. I did wake up once to see the back of a large lorry looming in front of my face, but that was the only time we ever seemed to be in any real danger of hitting anything. - p212

I hit the pole barricade running along the edge of the quary, and the car rode up high, then crashed down on top of Peter's car, where my wrecked front suspension missed his head by inches. Peter leapt out, running like a deer across the road, and I followed while the tail-end cars went whizzing by. I was so relieved to find no one hurt that I burst out laughing, but it was no laughing matter. - p214

There was no time to see if the Maserati had been rolled over or not, and I was very worried about Stirling until I saw next lap that the car was intact except for the missing wheel - p217

I dropped in at Deauville, where there was an air rally, and I was faced with the problem of finding a dinner-jacket for a party on the Sunday night. One of the people at the hotel gave me the address of some people who would hire me a suit. This turned out to be a laundry and dry cleaners. We ran through what seemed to be the customers' clothes until we found a jacket and a separate pair of trousers which fitted me approximately. The trousers were too long even for me, so the legs were turned up, and someone lent me a tie. That left me with the problem of shoes so I took my racing shoes, which were an oil-soaked brown, had then blacked and turned up the picture of the elegant man about town - p222

I motioned to Peter to come alongside and pointed behind us with thumb down to indicate that Fangio seemed to be in trouble. He nodded, put his thumb up, then pointed to me with one finger and back to himself with two. He wanted me to win and was prepared to come second himself, which I thought was a very sporting gesture - p227

Peter and his wife left their car at Colouge and flew with me in the Gull. We stayed one night in Hamburg and took off the next morning, but we had only got to about 2,000 feet when the engine cut dead. We looked at each other, rather worried, for below us were water and docks and steamers. Louise, who was sitting in the back reading a book, buried herself in that and refused to look out. Fortunately we had sufficient height to turn, and I decided to try and guide back to the aerodrome. As I did so, the engine began firing again on three cylinders, and I picked the longest runway for the forced landing. - p229

Bernard Cahier, the journalist and photographer who usually manages to be present with his camera when racing incidents take place, had faithfully recorded his 1956 excursion into the cornfield and boasted that he would get some more pictures if I repeated the performance this year. Unfortunately, I did run off there quite early when the breaks started fading away, and he got the picture. Well, I did it again later in the race I was relieved to see there was no photographer in sight, but Cahier had got it again...from a helicopter - p231

Our team consisted of Collins and myself, Musso and von Trips, the latter now wearing an imposing beard - p232

The prospects looked grim as the island contained nothing but the airfield, a few houses and a single-storey hotel with camp beds and very simple furniture. But a film show was put on for us - with very old films, but perhaps no older than we get on television - and in the evening, a Spanish girl came along to entertain us with songs and dances, so thay we had quite the merry party - p240

#i love mike and his funny commentary #all the situations he got into #so many near plane crashes lmao #nearly died when reading he got banned from racing his wheelchair around the hospital #classic f1 #f1 #formula one #formula 1 #vintage f1 #mike hawthorn

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ijustreallylikepirates · 6 months ago

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i had this dream last night where the world ended

i was at school and the teachers were like "you guys have to solve puzzles or else the world will end"

i teamed up with my friend and a friend of my best friend (who I've never spoken to once) and we were solving the puzzles

we came to this big room with a tv on the wall and a table with a sphere of vanilla cake on it

fucking mario came into the room and climbed up on the table and said, "this cake is the universe" and then fucking crushed the whole thing with his fist

me and my friends all winced but nothing even happened

then the tv turned on and it showed another vanilla cake sphere in like space

then these two big hands came and started tampering with the cakiverse and like messing up the cake skin

while the hands were doing that random ass noises were playing like dinosaurs roaring and then cavemen fighting each other

then a huge dinosaur and the man with the bowler hat (goob) from meet the robinsons shows up and the fucking dinosaurs chomps down on the universe

this time shit actually went down

the world started spinning and turning blue and white and me and my friends all hugged each other and were like "I love you guys we have to all be friends in another universe"

then i fucking woke up

that's an awful weird way for the world to end but ok i guess the universe is made out of cake

#dream #dreamcore #dreams #weird dreams #super mario #super mario bros #super mario brothers #mario #mario bros #meet the robinsons

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one-highfalutin-sonuva-gun · 1 year ago

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Newsie: Fist-Pump

Actor: Dak Eubanks

Fist-Pump wears a dark bowler hat, a dark vest over a checked olive green shirt and dark pants.

He likes to give double fist pumps.

His other recreational activities involves: spinning,

shoving

and double fist jumping.

He's one of Swifty's many pals.

#newsies #newsies92 #backgroundnewsie #92sies #fist pump #swifty

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kishmishorkissish · 9 months ago

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😌😌😌😌

pressure mai runs chahiye , bnwa dunga.

Bcci ko gaali bakne ka mn hai ,dilwa dunga.

Captain leading from front😌😌😌😌🎀🎀🎀🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿🧿

Aur bhai ye selection hone ke baad perform karne ka koi punishment milta hai kya jo ye log kr hi nhi rhe 💀💀

All rounders batting achi nhi kr rhe but bowling thik kra rha hai , pr batters aur bowlers ka kya bhai . Arshdeep ne 50 pitwa diye.

Aur dube spin bully(like vo spin bowlers ke saamne bhit khatranaak chlta hai isliye likha hai) got out on golden duck that to from a spinner and bro couldn't even stop a 4 💀💀 , like bcci chosed him over rinku💀💀💀, bro please show that why they chose you 😭😭dube bro don't rob uss like this plixx😭😭😭😭😭

And jaddu bhai T20 mai ho aap 😭😭😭😭

#rants #ipl2024 #t20worldcup #ruturajgaikwad #rinkusingh #ravindra jadeja

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thecreaturecodex · 2 years ago

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Millindemalion

[Another Wonderland-y monster after the astrosphinx, this is 2e Pathfinder's take on a decidedly madder than usual Mad Hatter. This is one of my favorite monsters in Bestiary 3, and the conversion is fairly close. My main change was to make the status effects it can inflict with its hats a little nastier, as befits a CR 13 monster.]

Millindemalion CR 13 NE Fey This little gnome-like man has leathery skin with discolored lesions on his face and hands. He wears a hat almost as tall as he is, and carries a pair of shears.

There are plenty of stories about kindly fairies assisting mortals to make clothing, clean homes, or even spin straw into gold. When these friendly house fey are abused and mistreated, they may go sour. Boggarts are the most famous of these, but a powerful variant is the millindemalion. Millindemalions are created through exposure to toxic metals, especially the mercury used in hat production. A millindemalion can rapidly create magical hats that force other creatures into strange and disruptive behavior.

A millindemalion is more than capable of just stabbing people to death, and its magical shears are nasty weapons. Still, they prefer to torture rather than to kill, using their magical hats to force their victims to slow down, attack their allies, or simply blind them with animated flaps. Few millindemalions are willing to fight to the death, and often fight using hit and run tactics to minimize full attacks.

All millindemalions have a mania for hats: making them, collecting them, showing them off. Some make hats from the fur, feather and skins of their victims, whereas others slip contact poison into the hats for sale in reputable haberdasheries. They look enough like gnomes that they can disguise themselves as one with relatively little effort. A magical hat may be used as a bribe to gain a millindemalion’s favor, and a millindemalion who desires to disrupt people’s behavior for longer than a few seconds at a time may be on the look for cursed magical headgear.

Millindemalion CR 13 XP 25,600 NE Small fey Init +8; Senses low-light vision, Perception +28 Defense AC 28, touch 20, flat-footed 19(+1 size, +8 Dex, +1 dodge, +8 natural) hp 178(21d6+105) Fort +11, Ref +18, Will +14 DR 10/cold iron and magic; Immune confusion and insanity effects, curses; SR 24 Defensive Abilities unsettling mind Offense Speed 30 ft. Melee +1 combat shears +19/+14 (1d4+5/17-20x3) Special Attacks hat toss, sneak attack +5d6 Statistics Str 19, Dex 27, Con 19, Int 24, Wis 18, Cha 14 Base Atk +10; CMB +13; CMD 43 Feats Combat Expertise,Defensive Combat Training,Dodge, Exotic Weapon Proficiency (combat shears) (B), Improved Critical (combat shears), Improved Feint, Mobility, Point Blank Shot, Shot on the Run, Spring Attack, Toughness, Weapon Finesse Skills Acrobatics +32, Bluff +26, Climb +28, Craft (hats) +31, Diplomacy +26, Disguise +26, Intimidate +26, Knowledge (local) +31, Perception +28, Sense Motive +28, Sleight of Hand +32, Spellcraft +31, Stealth +36 Languages Aklo, Common, Gnome, Sylvan Ecology Environment any land and urban Organization solitary or pair Treasure standard (+1 combat shears, other treasure) Special Abilities Hat Toss (Su) As a move action, a millindemalion can create a magical hat. It can then throw this hat as an attack action, treating it as a ranged touch attack with a thrown weapon with a range increment of 20 feet. A creature struck by the hat must succeed a DC 22 Will save or the hat magically attaches itself to the creature’s head, inflicting one of the following conditions for 1d4+1 rounds: Befuddling Bowler: The creature suffers a -6 penalty to Wisdom. Bewitching Bonnet: The creature is charmed by the millindemalion. Dazzling Deerstalker: The creature is blinded. Fettering Fedora: The creature suffers a -10 foot penalty to all its speeds. Maddening Mortarboard: The creature is confused (as the confusion spell). Tiring Tricorne: The creature is exhausted. A hat cannot be removed during its duration except through the use of a remove curse spell or similar effect. Once the duration expires or the hat is removed, or if the hat fails to hit a creature, it crumbles into scraps of fabric. A creature can only wear one of these hats at a time, but these hats do not interfere with magic items in the head or headband slot. A millindemalion can have as many magical hats as its Intelligence modifier in existence at a time. This is a curse effect, and the save DC is Charisma based. Unsettling Mind (Ex) A creature reading a millindemalion’s thoughts must succeed a DC 22 Fortitude save or take 5d10 points of damage. Whether or not the creature succeeds the save, it learns nothing unless the millindemalion allows it. This is a mind-influencing effect, and the save DC is Charisma based.

New Weapon—Combat Shears Light melee exotic weapon; 10 gp; dmg 1d4 (Small)/ 1d6 (Medium); critical 19-20x3; damage slashing and piercing.

#millindemalion #fey #mad hatter #pathfinder 1e #pathfinder 2e

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