#tw alcoholism reference

[mywingsareonwheels]

Some things that Morse doesn't know about Thursday in s9 of Endeavour (and may in fact never find out).

(Spoilers behind the cut, also CW references to child abuse, alcoholism, violence, and a mention of elder abuse.)

that Thursday taking the job in Carshall was Bright's idea, not Thursday's, and that Thursday needed to be talked into it by Bright specifically because he knew he'd be leaving Morse behind and was unhappy about this for both their sakes. (Honestly I adore Bright and I think he was right to do this, and right in gently encouraging Thursday in s8 to let Morse move on and grow away from them all, but it is still an important distinction!)

that Thursday missed him achingly when he was away (although I think that scene late in 9.1 makes it clear that Thursday would have told him if he'd thought Morse could cope with it... ;-)).

that Sam had a dishonorable discharge, which the family are covering up not because they're ashamed of him, but because they want to protect him.

the full extent of how unwell Sam is and how much this is manifesting in behavioural problems (although Morse has noticed a fair amount of this and knows something is extremely up, but the full degree of it, and how badly it's affecting the whole family? I don't know). Thus, the extent of exactly how desperately worried Thursday is.

that Thursday is a child abuse survivor, specifically of physical abuse from an alcoholic, and that this is his first time in adulthood sharing his home with an angry alcoholic who is (now Thursday is older and Sam in something like his prime, alcohol aside) physically stronger than he is.

(the punch at Strange's stag do is so much more upsetting in that context, I note, as is Thursday's instinctive placation. There's paternal kindness and loyalty and generosity in that moment, but I think there's an old trauma reaction too; it read to me awfully like an emotional flashback. It is extremely fortunate that Sam is very decent indeed deep down, seems shocked by his own action, and is doing better by the end of the episode. Sam is one of two men (the other being Morse) that I would not trust Thursday to even try to defend himself against.)

that Thursday finally gave into Lott's blackmail over Blenheim Vale at the point that Morse's life was threatened. When he talks about the pressures via "family"... he meant Morse, not just Win, Joan, Sam, Charlie, and (arguably) Strange. There were a range of threats, but that seems to have been the final straw, especially as it was the most explicit.

the phone call Thursday got from Ronnie Box trying to encourage him to get out of the situation (and Thursday refusing; he may have taken a while to talk into the new Blenheim Vale investigation but he wasn't going to abandon it once committed until it was that or let people he loved get killed; when the threat was only against himself, nah, nothing doing).

that Lott tried to kill Charlie, and Thursday still doesn't know where Charlie is; what Charlie's done to Thursday is horrible but still, yikes.

that Thursday was dreadfully worried about Morse at the wedding (that's Word of Roger, rather than in the script, mind you, but it would be extremely out of character if he hadn't been).

Morse does go through an awful lot in series 9, but the sheer fricking trauma conga line of Thursday's life in that series, all while he's trying to pretend everything's just fine... ouch.

None of it justifies Thursday's serious fuck-ups and wrongs in 9.3 of course! But I think it's absolutely crucial not to see Thursday entirely through Morse's eyes at any point in s9, because there's such a lot that Morse doesn't know, and for the first time Morse is liable to be far too harsh on his old mentor, not too gentle on him. Thursday is not okay at any point in series 9, and seems to spend the whole of 9.3 breaking down.

(I hope it goes without saying that I am very much of the opinion that Thursday should have told Morse at least some of all this!! But I find it very understandable that he didn't, especially as mostly he wasn't protecting himself, but Sam. Gaaaaah it's all so tragic!)

(Yep, I know I keep saying this, but I actually would find it deeply out of character for both Shaun Evans' Morse and John Thaw's Morse to reject Thursday and even his memory entirely for what happened. Even with the v limited data he knows. Protecting him by never talking about him to anybody while sharing a detailed (if perhaps coded) correspondence with him for the rest of the time they're both alive? Infinitely more likely. And can't you just see Thaw's Morse being that leeetle bit silently smug about still being closer to Strange's father-in-law (or possibly ex-father-in-law) than he is. ;-) )

[fullcravings]

Coconut Coffee Rum Cocktail (Non-Acoholic)

[thefreakandthehair]

The thing about drinking at 31 years old is that it's different from drinking at 18 years old– or 21 years old, or even 25 years old. Each shot, each drink, is one sip away from a terrible night’s sleep and an equally terrible morning.

Eddie Munson’s figured this out. Steve Harrington though? Steve Harrington has not. 

That’s how Eddie finds himself corralling his husband onto the couch after stumbling into the house, the front door slamming loud enough to jolt their cat out of her otherwise peaceful slumber. She glares for a moment before stretching her paws and curling back into a neat little ball. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Steve repeats, an immediate tell that he’s definitely not making it any further than the couch anyways. “I’m good, I’m fine, this– this is a nice couch.” He punctuates his thought by slapping the cushion and laughing. 

Eddie shakes his head and grins. “Yep, it sure is. You picked it out, remember?” 

Steve gasps and laughs some more, falling back into the corner of the sectional. “I don’t but it’s comfy so if I did, I did a good fucking job.”

He watches with fond comfortability as Steve squirms around on the couch and lays back, arms over his head and dopey laugh still on his lips. It takes a lot of willpower and frankly, respect, not to climb on top of this giggly, flushed, disheveled man he loves so goddamn much and kiss him until he’s flushed for other reasons, but he digs deep and focuses on doing the next best thing: taking care of him. Eddie’s a little worse for the wear in his own right but a sliver of his iron constitution remains from his wild youth and he hangs on by a thread. 

Eddie gets Steve situated into a comfortable position, his back against one side of the cushions and his head propped up on a few pillows to make sure he doesn’t end up with his face smushed into the corner somehow. 

“I’m good, I’m fine– hey, hey, what are you doing?” Steve slurs and Eddie looks up from his position at the end of the couch, his fingers moving quickly as he unties Steve’s sneakers. 

“Taking your shoes off? You can’t sleep in your jeans, Stevie. You’ll thank me tomorrow.” 

Steve hums from somewhere high in his throat but doesn’t say anything else Eddie moves to unhook his belt. 

“Stop–stop it, hey, I’m married!” Steve smacks Eddie’s hand and Eddie barely suppresses a cackle. “You’re hot and all but I’m married and my husband’s hotter than you anyways.” 

With that, Eddie can’t stop himself. Warmth spreads through his chest as he laughs, from his heart all the way down to the tingling in his toes. Even drunk, even with his eyes closed, Steve would still choose him without a thought and sure, after all these years, it shouldn’t come as a surprise but it does. Because Steve is Steve, and Eddie is Eddie, and Eddie still hasn’t figured out what huge karmic debt he must’ve paid for them to have become SteveAndEddie.

He stares at Steve who’s nearly asleep but feebly muttering words like “hot,” and “perfect,” and “lucky.” 

“Hey, hey, Stevie, open your eyes for a second?” Eddie brushes the hair back from his forehead, gently shifting it away from his bloodshot, glossy eyes. He’s beautiful, even like this, what the fuck?

“Oh,” Steve’s eyebrow unfurrow and the right side of his mouth turns up into a small grin. “It’s you. Hi, Ed.” 

“Hi, Steve.” Eddie chuckles and kisses his forehead. “Gonna get your jeans off so you can sleep, okay?” 

“Mhm, yeah, that’s– thanks.” 

Eddie coaxes them off, tossing them onto a chair where they’ll remain until the next morning, and sets a glass of water down on the coffee table for when Steve inevitably wakes up with cottonmouth. One more soft kiss and an even softer blanket later, Steve is out and Eddie tip toes up the stairs to bed. 

The next morning, Eddie wakes to see Steve next to him. At some point, he must’ve woken up and gotten himself to bed which gives Eddie the opportunity to stare uninterrupted in the silence of their bedroom. It stands in stark contrast to the boisterous night before– the loud music and jumping bodies and Chrissy popping a bottle of champagne in celebration of Robin saying yes, as if there’d ever been a doubt. 

Steve’s on his back, the sun just starting to intrude on their tranquility. He takes in Steve’s features, the same ones he’s memorized time and time again but that never fail to stun him just the same. The moles, the freckles, the scars that make him ache and feel thankful simultaneously. The strong line of his jaw, the eyelashes that flutter as he sleeps, that one tendril of hair that insists on curling until Steve forces it into place. Eddie’s seen a lot of the world now, having traveled a bit with his band, and there’s nothing that compares to the man sleeping next to him. 

Even if he’s snoring. 

When Steve does eventually wake up, trudging downstairs with one eye open and asking why Long Island Iced Tea’s even exist, Eddie’s ready with the necessities– a black iced coffee, two sausage, egg, and cheese sandwiches delivered to their doorstep, and a Gatorade for himself. 

“You’re the fucking best, you know that?” Steve smiles through the pounding headache as he sips his coffee and tears into the sandwich. 

“Eh, I try,” Eddie grins with a mouthful of egg and leans over to bump their shoulders together. 

Comfortable quiet drapes over them like the blanket from last night still over the back of the couch, and like the jeans hanging off the recliner– little reminders of the night before and of the domesticity of the life they’ve built together. 

Once Steve finishes his sandwich, their cat, Florence, hops up on the table and starts batting at the rolled up wrappers. 

“Think she wants to play,” Steve grumbles, sliding off the couch and laying on the carpet. “Listen, Florence, you know I love you but kid, I cannot play right now. I’m barely alive.” 

Eddie doubles over and nearly spits Gatorade all over the coffee table. Even their terrible, hungover, washed up mornings aren't all that bad.

[pfhwrittes]

"you love him. you've loved him since you were 9 and you love him now 20 years later." TW: references to transphobic bullying, angst, fluff, allusions to offscreen smut, alcohol mention, menstruation mention. pairing: kyle x ftm!reader

1.5k words of childhood friends to strangers to friends to lovers. as always i've barely edited it so typos and errors may remain. edit to add: a massive thank you and shout out to @gemmahale for cheerleading me with this one and reminding me to trust my instincts. i love you a lot.

-- you love him. you’ve loved him since he first shared his curly-wurly during break time at primary school. head over heels puppy love. your mum teasing you with a “my little girl with her first boyfriend!” despite the way it makes your cheeks burn (and something twist inside your chest) when you both stand shyly together at 3.15 hand in hand waiting to go home. 

you love kyle when he’s the joseph to your mary in the nativity. you love the way the teatowel your mum leant his mum slips into his eyes and causes him to laugh and forget his next line about needing to find an inn. you love him when he wraps you up in a big hug when missus king takes a photo of you both as your mum cheers the loudest from the back of the little crowd in the assembly hall. 

you love kyle even when you both grow up and go to secondary school at 11, split up into different form groups and different timetables. you love him even more when he folds you into his little band of miscreants, “one of the boys” he says with a cheeky grin that warms you all the way through.

you love kyle when he chooses you first for the biology practical lesson, flicking little slithers of onion at you to make you laugh, despite the way anna-marie looks you up and down and whispers something cruel about how “he just pities the he-she” loud enough for you to hear. 

you love kyle when he skives off school with you the day your period takes you unaware. he sneaks in through the kitchen door 15 minutes after your mum leaves for work, a battered curly-wurly and bottle of oasis clutched in one hand and his rucksack in the other. you love him when he settles onto the sofa, dragging your duvet over the two of you, flicking the telly on so you can both watch bargain hunt together. 

you love kyle the day he cuddles you into his chest, completely uncaring about the way your snot and tears mark his t-shirt as you sob, both of you curled up on your bed. you love him so completely when he listens to you stutter out that you think you’re not really a girl. you still love him when he pulls away for the first time, a tiny frown on his face. you still love him when he doesn’t reply to your text asking him if he got home alright later that night. 

you still love kyle when he starts ignoring you in school, no longer coming to find you during lunchtime. you still love him when he doesn’t laugh along with harry when you trip during design tech but he doesn’t stop james hissing “freak show” as you rub at your hip from where you banged into their table. 

you still love kyle even when your mum sits you down at the kitchen and asks you how you feel about moving schools at 16. you still love kyle when you ask her “but what about kyle?” and her voice catches when she offers you a gentle “oh love” with wet eyes. 

you still love kyle when he stumbles into you at mattie’s house party when you’re both 18, a shocked look on his face when he takes in your close cropped hair and wispy facial hair on your cheeks, despite the fact you haven’t spoken in years. you still love kyle even when he calls you the wrong name and your mumble gets swallowed up by cheers from the kitchen as someone spots kyle in the hallway. you still love kyle when you spot him crowd mattie’s older sister georgia up against the bannister and kiss her breathless before leading her up the stairs with his hand on her waist. you still love kyle when you end up sobbing into alex’s neck, their hand rubbing your back gently as the dew from the front lawn soaks the knees of your jeans. you still love kyle even as alex murmurs that “you should just forget him babe” into your hair as you sob anew.

you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle the next time you run into him, many years later when you pop into the pub under oath from mattie to meet her for a quick pint to catch up. you recognise the shape of kyle’s smile even if he is partially turned away to grin at a man with broad shoulders and a slightly flattened mohawk standing next to him at the bar. you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle when he catches you looking and his smile slips momentarily as he offers you a tiny nod of acknowledgement before turning back to his friend. you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle even when your eyes keep drifting over to him and the other three men in the corner booth as mattie fills you in on everything you missed during your years travelling around australia. 

you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle when you bump into him again in the same pub the following week. literally bumping into him as you turn away from the bar with a pint in your hand. kyle steadies you with a hand on your forearm and you feel your heart soar before plummeting into the sticky carpet at your feet. you pull your arm away from him and your drink sloshes over the rim of your glass as you offer him a tight smile before stepping to the side. you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle, but you can’t help but feel the warmth of his hand long after you’ve rejoined mattie and alex at your table. 

you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle but a thrill goes up your spine when he asks you if he could “have a word with you, mate” as he joins you in the beer garden the week after that. you’ve forgotten how much you loved kyle but your heart aches as he stumbles his way through an apology. you’ve forgotten how much you missed your friend kyle when he makes you stutter out a surprised laugh when he talks about his friend soap knocking some sense into him. 

you’ve forgotten how much you missed your friend kyle when he texts you asking if you want to join him and his sisters for a chinese. you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed your friend kyle when he hands you his vegetable spring rolls without asking. you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed your friend kyle when after dinner he leads you up to his childhood bedroom and he kicks his dirty socks under his bed like you’ve seen him do many times before. you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed your friend kyle when your ribs ache from laughing and he’s wearing that beautiful grin. 

you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed your friend kyle when he slips into the open seat next to you at the pub, his arm slung over the back of your chair, much to the matching shocked expressions of mattie and alex. you’ve forgotten how much you’ve missed your friend kyle when he takes alex’s frosty demeanour on the chin. you fall in love with your friend kyle again when he responds to mattie’s pointed rhetorical “you know you broke his heart, yeah?” with a small squeeze to your shoulder and serious “i know, i was a fucking idiot.”.

you fall in love with kyle again when his hands shake on your waist as he leans in to kiss you outside your house under the flickering glow of a streetlight. just like you hoped he would so many years ago when you were both teenagers. you fall in love with kyle again when he pulls away to take in your stupefied expression and he asks if you’re okay, if he can kiss you again. you fall in love with kyle again when he gently turns you around so he can push you up against the front door to trail sucking kisses down your neck as your keys hit the doormat with a tinkling sound. you fall in love with kyle again when you ask him to slow down - wait - please - as he’s reaching for the top button of your jeans. you fall in love with kyle again when he traces gentle fingers over the scars on your chest, adoration in his eyes.

you love kyle when you trip over your boxers and his shirt the following morning as you stumble to the bathroom. you love kyle when you slip back into bed and he sleepily nuzzles into your neck. you love kyle when his phone blares his alarm from the back pocket of his trousers near the door to your bedroom 30 minutes later. 

you love him. you’ve loved him since you were 9 and you love him now 20 years later as he presses a kiss to your hair. you love him. -- taglist: @kaadaaan

[chalpurnia]

Lupin III part 2 — Ep.88

[strawglicks]

flint getting themselves into trouble cuz its funny

[mi---amor]

Tipsy-Turvy

A//N: Chef Saltbaker x Self Insert OC

Although Amor's shown to speak/think in English for reading convenience, she's actually doing so in Spanish.

Saltbaker will also sometimes be referred to by the hc name I gave him. Not too much in this one because this is set within the early days of them working together.

°•°•°•°•°

Amor followed a peculiar sound. Rich singing occasionally interrupted by hiccups and giggling. 

It was early. Too early for the dimly lit, sweetly-scented bakery to be occupied by anyone other than herself for the weekly anticipated order of produce. A 4:00 AM delivery, to be exact. 

Amor had no complaints. It was part of the job, one she enjoyed no less and had plenty of prior experience for. Being a chef’s baking assistant, she was readily willing to get up at what most people considered to be the butt crack of dawn, cleaning, going over stock, and arranging the deliveries to be as presentable as possible for when her boss arrived.

Strangely, she didn’t recall being told he would be coming in earlier than usual today, if her ears did not deceive her. The only reason might be to help with unloading the truck, but that was hardly a challenge for either of them. 

Poking through the kitchen door, Amor was met with several oddities right away. To start, the lights were not on. Instead, a procession of candles lined one of the countertops, illuminating a portion of the area in a surreal, seance-like way. 

Beside a wall adorned with plates, utensils, and frames, a gramophone filled the scene with lively orchestral music and an operatic singer- two of them, technically. Dueting over the recorded voice was another that was much lower, much louder, and directly at Amor's feet. 

“Sir?” she wondered as Chef Saltbaker merrily belted out the next chorus in unhinged, staccato Italian. He lay sprawled and surrounded by four hefty jugs most likely retrieved from the cellar, his uniform rumpled and undone. To complete his apparent desire to resemble a castaway sailor, his ascot was tied around his disheveled salt-and-pepper hair.

Underneath his coat was an undershirt that, during the events of whatever the hell transpired, had bunched up like a raised curtain. Inside his glass window of a stomach was a tinted, bubbling view of whatever he had sucked dry from the jugs, as well as the pounds of salt his mysterious innards were made out of. 

Probably not the best combination. 

Amor kept her gaze on her superior’s upside-down face shining in the abnormal ambience. She crouched nearer to his level to yell out a very confused, “Hello? Chef?”

Saltbaker’s half-lidded eyes rolled upward and lit with some semblance of recognition. 

“Oh-ho-hoh! Cia-*hic* - ah, scusami. Ciao, bellissima!"

Well, that confirmed it. Chef Saltbaker was plastered out the wazoo, a sight Amor hadn't had the privilege of witnessing before. 

Sure, she'd seen him sip daintily at a wine glass after a particularly busy day. She'd accepted a cup or two herself and could admit she looked forward to them and the friendly chats that ensued. The bottle would get finished by him most of the time, but evidently, it wasn't enough to affect him whatsoever. 

Not like this. The level of drunk the chef had achieved in secret was astounding and not at all something he seemed capable of doing. Not outside of his own home anyway.

Had he even gone home? 

Amor hurried over to the gramophone and stopped the record. Saltbaker held a warbling note until he gave a puzzled grunt. He groggily looked over, whining petulantly at his baking assistant.

“Why’d’y’do that?”

“Chef Saltbaker, sir, you’re uh. Very drunk.”

The chef dropped his head back with a clink. He waved the allegation away, looking as if he were being puppeteered by a sleepy toddler. 

“Jus' a-*hic*- glass or five. Not too much, n' if it was,” he gave a boastful slap to his middle, “it’s nothing this ol’ tank can’t handle, ha ha!”

“Sir, it’s 4:00 in the morning,” Amor insisted. “Have you gone home and slept? At all?”

Saltbaker slurred the question in his language, mockingly falsetto, and made himself laugh, shaking up the party’s worth of booze inside him. “Ehhh. Who has time t'do that anymore?”

“Right, okay.” Trying to think of how to go about the situation, Amor set her fists on her hips and stared at a mounted clock in the shape of a frying pan. The deliveries were going to arrive any minute now. She could handle them herself just fine, but she needed space in the kitchen to sort and count the items out. Not to mention figure out how to get started on everything else single-staffed.

Frowning, she returned to the lump of a salt man. “I have a feeling you’re not going to be able to sleep all this off before 8:00.”

“Why yes, I can! See? S-S-Sleeping!” Accepting the challenge, Saltbaker rolled over, sloshing audibly like a whiskey keg. He had basically become one and was not fit to do anything else for the day- or however long it took saltshaker people to reach a hangover. That much Amor knew and resented to be her problem to deal with. 

The chef she had begun to befriend and admire was supposed to be the opposite of whatever this was. She would have even gone as far as to say he wouldn’t ever put himself in such a predicament. Not when he had a business he seemed to care intensely for.

Did he have something else on his mind lately? Something…. troubling? 

Amor went over to his side where his cheek was smushed against the tile floor. He was doing a terrible job pretending to be asleep, blinking out of sync and mumbling along to the musical number he had been robbed of in his head.

Frustrated as she was, Amor had to admit… it was hard not to find the situation a tiny bit amusing. Out of all the types of drunks to be, Saltbaker luckily landed on jolly dialed up to a hundred. If it was on any other occasion, Amor would have no doubt been laughing at how ridiculous he was being. But this was not the place, not the time, and certainly not the type of boss she could work with. 

“Can you stand up?” she asked, although the answer was probably not going to shock her in the least.

“Yes, of course!” Saltbaker declared, flopping back into his previous starfish position. 

Amor waited, but after a minute he remained where he was, seemingly pleased with the zero amount of progress he made. 

“Sir?” 

“Mmm?”

“Can you stand, please?”

“Oh. Ohhh! You mean now?”

“Yes,” Amor said through one very tired rush of air. “Please. Right now.”

At his assistant’s command, the chef lifted his arms like an awaking zombie, gave a smidgen of effort, and then dropped them. 

“I think I- *hic* -like it down here. Heh heh, you should join me, gattina.”

Amor flushed pink at the pet name honeyed with flirtatiousness. No, she had to have misinterpreted that. Chef Saltbaker liked to tease and throw around nicknames for everyone… one difference being strictly in English. Maybe that quirk in his naturally charming tone had just been her imagination, which betrayed her yet again as she pictured herself cuddling in the big man’s arm and performing karaoke to Italian opera. 

A certainly ideal evening outside of work hours. 

Right now, he needed to move his ass out the goddamn way and maybe sober up at a table or broom closet. Seeing how he definitely couldn’t tell the difference between up and down and no one else was coming to punch in and lend a hand, Amor was the one stuck with having to deal with him- plus get everything else done for the day. 

She was not getting paid enough for this. 

“Sir, can you try to sit up one more time?” Amor asked. She nudged his shoulder with the tip of her shoe. “I’ll help you.”

Through a seesawing grin, Chef Saltbaker hummed at his assistant bathed in candlelight. “Amore mio, have I ever told you your ey- *hic* -excuse me, oh dear. Your eyes… they are sapphires shining bright…ly… no- yes- bright… they make th’morning… uh…” He trailed off and scrunched his brow. “Fiddlesticks. I had learned that jus’ for you. From a picture about cats. You like cats. I remember that abou- *hic* - you.”

Gosh, he was beyond ridiculous. And yet, Amor couldn’t keep a half smile from appearing on her lips. Never mind that her eyes were actually brown; he was right about the cat fact. It felt nice that he cared to remember that insignificant detail from one of their previous unwinding talks. She decided she’d let him have that one. 

“Yes, I do. And I liked whatever that was too. Very sweet.”

“Aw, really?” The chef beamed and fumbled a translucent, surprisingly soft finger to boop her nose. “Well, good! I have man-n-ny more. I'll think of ‘em.” 

“You can tell me all about it while you get up, okay?”

Chef Saltbaker watched with interest as his smaller assistant planted her feet firmly between his legs. She bent over with her hands out toward him, but he pulled his up to his chest like a scared puppy.

“Oh my… Miss Leches, that’s quite forward.”

As politely as she could, Amor told him to shut up and grab hold. Once she got a grip on him, she yanked with strength befitting someone more his size.

Jerking forward with a yelp, the chef stayed vertical for a full second. Before he could rush back to the floor’s embrace, Amor scurried and braced herself against his back. 

She didn't know what lifting a waterbed strictly with her spinal cord felt like, but this had to be it. 

“Unf-! Come on, Chef, work with me.”

“I do work with you, yes. And I- *hic*- enjoy your company very much! Too much, probably.”

Amor huffed and puffed and dug an elbow in, hoping the pain would at least register somewhere in his body and get him to move. With a sturdy little support digging into his shoulder blades, Saltbaker seemed to sense his limbs needed to create useful movement. He lurched over onto an elbow and took the long, sloshy journey to his feet.

“Whooo, so much spinning! I believe I'm going to regret this later.” 

“Yep, probably. Good job not falling on me.”

“Not a problem. Thank you-u-u for being so…. ever so helpful.”

Amor more or less let him lean on her like an armrest before he dropped anchor against a blessedly nearby counter. Believing the worst to be over, she went to gather her hair out of her face- only to catch the chef chuckling as he started sinking to his knees like a melting ice cream.

“No, no, no! Up, stay up.” Amor righted him with another elbow jab to the squishy source of all her wasted energy and time. 

“Oof-!” Saltbaker stuck out his bottom lip and, finally noticing he wasn't decently dressed, decided a little too late to cover up his exposed target. “That wasn't very nice,” he admonished, waggling a finger parentally at his assistant.

“Neither was any of this,” Amor grumbled, patience well spent. “What happened? Why didn't you go home?”

“I have… *hrp*- a much better question. Do you?”

“What.”

Thinking she hadn’t heard him in the otherwise completely silent room, Chef Saltbaker folded in on himself to close the several feet of distance that separated them height-wise. His nose nearly gouged Amor’s eye out, and by his breath alone she feared secondhand intoxication. 

“Do you drink?” the chef clarified, bouncing a little on his toes for emphasis. 

“Chef, I do. But like this?” Amor gestured at his everything. “No. And my advice is that you shouldn’t either. Would you like me to call you a cab or something?”

Saltbaker didn't really seem to understand, which was entirely expected. He had no idea where he was going with his initial question anyway as the world grew increasingly disorienting the longer he stood.

He rocked in place and rambled on. “I asked this, why? Because I dunno if you do. And 'f you do, you knew, who know… knew do. And I do. Knew. Mmmm-hm.” 

Convinced he'd spoken gospel truth, Chef Saltbaker set a fist on his hip, his other going for the counter. He missed completely and his center of gravity gladly took over. 

Amor nonchalantly sidestepped as her boss face-planted into the ground, rattling everything within a five-mile radius. He didn't move or say much else and she decided that was for the best. She continued with the morning duties after a brief checkup confirmed the chef was more than okay. He was snoring. 

Amor shook her head and wished him well once he woke up.

He was going to have a massive headache, and she wasn’t going to make it any better by asking him for a raise. 

[merthurians-prat-and-idiot]

Buck tries to go to both Chim & Maddie's Bachelor/ette parties even though they're on at exactly the same time across town from each other. He gets a taxi back and forth 27 Dresses style. Buck gets progressively more bedraggled looking as the night goes on (but no-one really notices because they're all pretty tipsy). The burn on his trouser leg is from when he was running back to one of the parties' and tried to vault over an open fire pit outside the restaurant. And one of the times when he gets back to Chim's he full on collides with Eddie (who might've started to wonder where the heck Buck's been rushing off to & come outside to find him but shh) & they go tumbling onto the grass- Eddie spills an entire bottle of wine over his shirt (hence taking it off) and Buck's suit leg.

[accidental-tally-hall-reference]

Here's my cat, Hawley, about to sleep in a cardboard box

I hope he’s not spending every dollar at the liquor shop

Accidental Tally Hall reference, now capitalized properly just for you!

[veinsfullofstars]

🐭 The thief and the soldier. 🦇

(ID: Kirby series fanart of Daroach and Dark Meta Knight sitting at the edge of a pool in a confetti-strewn courtyard - presumably Dedede’s - beneath a starry night sky, each holding a glass of… fruit juice… orange and lime respectively, and lit a soft blue from the water beneath them. On our left, Daroach is lounging back on one hand, pointing and babbling incessantly, his face flushed, a foot dangling lazily in the water. On our right, DMK - also flushed - is hunched slightly forward, his head resting on his left fist, the tip of one sabaton dipped in the water, staring silently and inscrutably through his mask at the chatty rat. END ID.)

Me, in the kitchen, making my own food. (Also, remind me to use the Shading Assist feature in Clip more, holy heck, what a useful tool.)

Started 10/17/23, finished 10/18/23, updated for color correction 11/02/24. NOTE: This was originally posted on my deleted account on 10/18/23.

[arl3kinka]

rattober, day 1 — blurry rat

(first day and I'm already late uohoo!)

[nymdraws]

learning csp with some scribbles of These Guys

[thechaoticscenejester]

New tadc au soon!!

The au:

⚠Trigger warning: Alcohol use, drugs, abuse⚠

Okay, I have no idea if this is already made or something but I had this idea that Caine was actually a human in the past.

This isn't a theory so there's like no evidence but in the au Caine was the father of Pomni, age 13, and, with his brother Able, was one of the CEO's of Caine & Able industries and they were working on tadc, a new vr game.

With all this work, he left Pomni (I have no name ideas) alone at home a lot. She was alone almost all the time and her mother couldn't even stand up unless it was to get another bottle.

One day, Caine left to work and never returned. Pomni was soon informed that he went missing at work. Even with an investigation, Caine was nowhere to be found. Soon, Pomni went to live with Able and her mother was arrested for child abvse.

Pomni, now age 15, was happy for a short while. Able was starting to act weird and it worried Pomni. Able was seemingly getting angry and more irritable. Pomni, having delt with her mother, knew not to bother him. With this ignorance, Pomni was able to do drvgs and Able never knew.

After years of neglectance, Pomni, now 20, moved out and took notice that Able seemed upset that she left. She shrugged it off and got a small apartment for herself. She soon got her life back on track but struggled to find a job.

She lived alone for 5 years until she got a call from Able. He asked her to come visit his job for opportunities and Pomni, needing a job, agreed and drove to C&A industries.

Able dazzled her and got her to come with him to the basement room to try the new vr set model. She had a bad feeling but didn't think he would do anything to her... why would he anyways?

When they went down and Able suddenly hit her on the side of the head with a metal bar, knocking her out. When she woke up, Able had tied her down and forced the headset onto her head.

When Pomni woke up, she woke up in the circus...

After math:

Eventually, Pomni finds out that Caine is her father and this sends her off. She remembers how he left her with an abvsive mother and then disappeared and snapped in front of everyone, Shocking them.

It basically went like this:

Caine feels bad and tries to make it up to Pomni and be a better father to her in the circus. He even tries to help her find the exit or a glitch in the code.

With this, chaos unfolds as Able enters the circus and Caine disappears again. This makes Pomni think that he's abandoning her again and it makes her stomach curl. Soon, the circus members find out what really happened to Caine. Pomni couldn't be more angry.

(Want more? Don't forget to leave a like or reblog! That will give me more motivation to continue)

[buildarocketboys]

54 or 95 + Peterick! (no pressure ask!!)

Thanks babe! Some hiatus angst for you!

54. “I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem.”

Pete practically drags Patrick home from his bar.

The man is Drunk, with a capital D. Pete's not sure he's ever seen him this drunk, and he's known Patrick since before he was of legal drinking age. Hell, he was there when Patrick got drunk for the first time, and may or may not have been responsible for several of the beers and shots that had gone down Patrick's throat that night.

But this is something else. Patrick's a mess.

Such a mess that Pete doesn't trust Patrick to be able to get home by himself.

He slips into the cab next to him.

Patrick makes a face at him.

"Why're you here?" he slurs. His voice is filled with such venom, even in his state of advanced drunkenness, that Pete cringes away.

"Just making sure you get home OK," he mutters, suddenly wondering whether he's doing the right thing. He thought he had been, thought he was just being a good friend (are he and Patrick even friends anymore?) good person, anyway, making sure Patrick gets home safe. But maybe he should have let someone else do it. Patrick obviously doesn't want anything to do with him.

Even though he had come to Pete's bar.

Patrick snorts. "Nah. I know what you want." He pokes Pete in the chest, then grabs Pete's hand and holds it against his crotch. "Go on. Take it."

Pete snatches his hand back, alarmed. "Patrick, I'd never do that!"

Patrick blows a raspberry and mumbles something that sounds like, "Yeah, right."

Pete lets his head fall back against the headrest, closing his eyes and threatening to stem the tide of self-loathing that threatens to overwhelm him. Because Patrick's not entirely wrong. He likes to think he's better than that these days, and he's never taken advantage of anyone this drunk, but even so.

He gulps air like he's dying and hopes Patrick's too out of it to notice Pete having a minor panic attack next to him.

Some part of Patrick must register it, though, because suddenly Patrick's hand is firmly gripping his knee. A calming, grounding presence.

Pete covers Patrick's hand with his own. Patrick doesn't push him away.

Bit by bit, his breathing slows and he's gradually able to calm himself down. By the time they're at Patrick's house, he feels almost normal.

Patrick falls down trying to get out of the car. Pete hauls him up, excruciatingly aware of how much lighter Patrick is these days.

He helps Patrick to the door as Patrick fumbles in his pockets for his key. He eventually pulls it out, to Pete's relief, because he's not sure he'd hear the end of it if he had to slide his hand into Patrick's ass pocket.

He takes it from Patrick and unlocks the door; it'll just be quicker.

Patrick scowls at him, his gaze a little unfocused. "I could have done that," he says.

Pete sighs. He can feel a headache coming on. He hasn't even drunk anything tonight - how is that fair? "Let's just pretend we had this argument and I won, OK?"

Patrick mutters something no doubt scathing under his breath and lets Pete guide him up the stairs, the two of them nearly stumbling and falling over a pile of stuff halfway up.

Actually, Pete realizes once he's got Patrick to his bedroom, Patrick's house is a dump. He wonders if Patrick still has a cleaner; he's never been good at looking after himself, so he'd hired a cleaner pretty much as soon as he was making enough money to do so. But he knows Patrick's plowed all his savings into making his solo record; maybe he'd decided a cleaner was an unnecessary expense.

Pete takes a shaky breath in and rubs his face. Not his problem anymore. Patrick doesn't want anything to do with him anymore, and Pete had promised himself he'd give Patrick some space. Patrick doesn't need him all up in his business.

Patrick's made that very fucking clear.

He staggers down the stairs to the kitchen, thinking he'll just get Patrick an aspirin and a big glass of water and then clear off.

When he tentatively knocks on Patrick's door and pokes his head round, he's relieved to see Patrick's in bed.

He sets the glass of water and the painkillers on the nightstand.

"Pete?"

Pete had thought Patrick had passed out, but apparently not. His (ex? former?) best friend blinks up at him from the bed, like he's only just seeing him.

Pete swallows. "Got you some water. And an aspirin. You might hate me, but there's no reason you should hate yourself when you wake up in the morning."

The joke falls flat as Patrick just stares up at Pete.

Pete clears his throat, about to make his excuses and leave, when Patrick speaks.

"I don’t hate you. I could never hate you. That’s the problem." Patrick's voice is raw, vulnerable.

Pete can't even bear to look at him.

"Yeah, well," says Pete. Then he gives a weak chuckle that sounds wetter than Pete would like. "I should be going." He turns away from Patrick toward the door.

"You can sleep on the sofa, if you want," Patrick says.

The sofa.

It's an olive branch and a bitter pill rolled into one. The Patrick of even a year ago would never have made him sleep on the sofa.

Pete kind of wants to curl up and die.

"Uh, thanks. But I've kinda gotta get back to the bar."

It's a weak excuse, and they both know it. Pete glances over his shoulder, wondering if Patrick will put up a fight, hoping he will.

But the light in Patrick's eyes just fades out, and he slumps back into his pillows. "Oh. Yeah."

Pete waits a moment longer, for what, he doesn't know. But Patrick doesn't say anything else, and neither does he.

He leaves. Wishing with every atom in his body that he could stay.

[rose-riot-johnson]

Hey my Tumblr Peeps😁I have a treat for you, not only I'm gonna write another One Piece fanfic, however considering that I have been noticing that there are people (aside from myself) who is a fan of Bartolomeo, I decided to give writing about him a try🔰😃👍

*This fanfic contains 1 or more long paragraphs😅

🔰Why Do Want To Join My Crew?🔰(Bartolomeo x Afab (assigned female at birth) Reader)

Genres: Comfort, Possible Smut, Possible Angst (Warnings +18⚠️: Sexual Comments, mentions of cheating (niether the reader nor Barto are part of cheating), Language, possible mentions of jealousy, alcohol use (and reference))

You were one of Bartolomeo's childhood friends and one of his secret crushes. While he did worship Luffy since the incident in the Loguetown where he saw Luffy escape from Buggy (which prevented Buggy from executing Luffy), you are also very, precious to him in many ways. Unfortunately, you had a boyfriend before at the time prior to Bartolomeo becoming a captain of his own crew and what makes things worse for Barto is the fact that your boyfriend is a captain of his own crew, because you ended up joining your boyfriend's crew before Luffy inspired Barto to become a pirate and even joined your boyfriend's crew (and dated him) before Barto was able to confess his love for you.

Bartolomeo was happy for you and all, however eversince he met your boyfriend (and captain), he always has been feeling off about him. Barto has been tolerating him, especially to save your feelings, however there was just something he doesn't like about your boyfriend. Barto wasn't sure if he was jealous of your captain or if there was another reason he's easily irritated deep down, however he just has always felt off about that captain who you were in a relationship with.

Sometime after Bartolomeo and his crew formed an alliance with the Strawhats (Luffy and his crew), it became a coincidence that he bumped into you, as he notices you were currently in the same exact area of the same village without the captain or any of the rest of the captain's crew. Barto was surprised and excited to see you (even though he tried his best to contain his excitement). You were actually low-key happy to see him, as you gave him a hug. You asked him about how he has been doing and he actually was more than happy to tell you about his adventures with his crew, how he met his hero Luffy and other stuff he was super excited to tell you, even tough he believes that you only wanted to check on him to see how he was doing, as friends do. You listened to every word he told you, as you admitted being happy to hear that he's doing well. After he finished talking about his adventures, you then asked, "I hate to intrude on you or anything, however may I join your crew? Navigator or possibly any position you set me up in for your crew? If I can't join your crew, may I atleast tag along for a while, Barto?".

Bartolomeo was actually confused and surprised that you have asked the questions that you had asked him, as it took him a minute to think about your questions, as he then answered, "I'm confused... You want to join my crew? We will talk about that later, considering that I thought you were in a crew with, (captain name).", as he then smiled ashe continued, "However you can certainly tag along with me and my crew... I certainly don't mind...". You were actually glad he was going to let you atleast tag along, however you were surprised with his answer. It's not actually about his confusion, however it was how he answered you, as you somehow, expected him to not even let you tag along.

It was sunset, when you and Bartolomeo went on his ship and you were fascinated with how his ship was set up. You then asked him, if he did have his own room and if you could have alone time in his room if he did have his own room on his ship, which made him blush and was surprised you asked him this, so ofcourse he's going to tell you yes. He would never turn down any opportunity to hangout with you, especially without that captain you were around alot.

The next thing you did was follow Bartolomeo inside his room, as you became very fascinated to see, how he decorated his room. "I see, you liked what I did with decorating my room, (Afab reader name)...", he happily cooed before offering you an alcoholic beverage he knew you enjoy drinking. Once the both of you started drinking, he then said, "I will admit... I was shocked you asked me the questions and I'm honestly most shocked about the fact you asked me to let you join my crew... As much as I would be more than happy to let you join my crew, let me get something straight... You were in a crew with your boyfriend (captain name), who I thought was still your captain... I really don't know what to make of this... So, if you don't mind, I would like to hear your explanation on any motives you might have about asking me to let you join my crew, (Afab reader)...", as your questions from earlier were the main things that crossed his mind, as he was having mixed feelings of concern, happy, and frightened, while making sure not to jump to any conclusions about your questions you asked him earlier.

You were annoyed about something he said, as you were trying to keep as calm as possible as you explained, "It's complicated, Barto... I really thought my captain loved me... A few months ago, he had me fetch him a keg of beer... Unfortunately after I got back to his ship with a keg of beer I fetched for him, I caught him and another crew member having sex together... I snapped asking the both of them what's going on, to let them know I caught him cheating, because it was fucken obvious that he was letting her ride on him... After I asked, they were shocked I caught them, then they stopped fucking together, as he then told me that he no longer wants to be with me and I'm no longer his navigator... I was confused as I asked what did he mean by what he said, because I thought I have been doing an amazing job as a navigator and I treated him well, so he told me this woman who is part of his crew is my replacement, because I'm so horrible in bed that he couldn't help look at me anymore and that if anyone else finds out how horrible I would be to have sex with, they would cheat on me and/or wouldn't want me in their crew and that I would be the most unlovable person, where I'd be the most impossible to love... So, his philosophy is that if I'm horrible in bed, then I'm also a horrible navigator, crew mate, and lover anyone could ever have... So, eversince (captain name) started fucking his mistress who is his other fucken crew mate, dumped me, and kicked me out of his crew, I pretty much traveled alone... I did overhear plenty of people talk about your hero Luffy, his crew, you, and your crew often... Tough I haven't talked to anyone until we bumped into eachother and it was a complete coincidence... I'm actually surprised you still talked to me... I mean I wasn't trying to get at anyone nor was I being desperate by any means... I just want you to know I want to make things right, if I do join your crew... Just ask me for anything and I will try my best for whatever you ask... Tough, I might be terrible at anything you ask me to do, to warn you...", before you looked down at the floor. Barto was shocked about what he heard from you, however he was still confused about what you meant when you said about making things right. He also notices your felt really degraded.

Bartolomeo then asked, "What do you mean when you said about making things right? And doing anything I ask even tough you believe you can't do things right? Do you actually believe you have to be perfect in bed to be considered as someone'a amazing significant other and a great navigator?". You then began to sob, as you broke down in tears, proceeding to hug him. Barto then had his arms around you, while petting your head with his left hand. He just truly felt bad for what your ex captain (who is your ex boyfriend) did to you. Now Barto figured that no matter if he was jealous of (captain name) or not, he now has found a reason why he couldn't stand your ex. Your ex turned out to be that bad, after all.

Bartolomeo then calmly said, "You don't have to worry about being good at everything, sweetie... Infact, nobody is perfect... I can just tell from what you're telling me, he hurt your self-esteem really bad... Since you seemed to have good motives to join my crew, I will let you join... Just hear me out... I've been wanting to tell you this for a very long time... I had been in love with you for a long time... Even before I became inspired by my hero Luffy, to become a captain of my own crew... I will understand, if you only like me, as a friend... I rather not pressure you into anything... I just want you to be yourself... Fuck what anyone else thinks of you, (Afab reader name)... Sorry to say this, but fuck what your ex thinks of you, too... I knew something was off about him, it's just I didn't know he would stoop low as he did... Even Luffy would be ashamed of him, because how much of a disgrace he turned of to be, if he was to find out about it... I shit you not... Luffy would also be very livid to hear what your ex did to you, needless to say... I'm saying this, out of a captain's love, considering I will be your new captain now and you asked me to join your crew... So, all I'm asking you is to not push yourself into any favors, and you to be your own person... Seriously... Just because I have a huge crush on you and I'm your captain now doesn't mean, you have to throw yourself at me and be an object to pleasure me... Okay, (Afab reader name)?". You then stop sobbing, as you replied, "Okay, Barto... Thank you for being there for me, especially when I needed you... And may I hug you, atleast a little longer?". He then replied back, "No problem and go ahead... And that's what I'm here for, so hug me, as long as you need to, my precious angel...".

After that evening or night, you began to realize you were a part of a crew that really cares about you. Yes, even your captain Bartolomeo truly cares about you, obviously. It did took some time, however you and Barto took some time with your relationship with him, considering that it turned out, you felt the same way for him, as he does for you. It's like the both of you are soulmates, who are destined to be together.

A bonus for Bartolomeo is when he saw your ex hanging out with his mistress, Barto madesure to wait for your ex's mistress to go to another area, where your ex would be alone, before Barto does beat the crap out of your ex. The way Barto beat up you ex (captain name) alone, will tell your ex how Barto truly feels about him and Barto madesure your ex paid for what he did to you.

🔰The End🔰

Okay my Tumblr Peeps😃👍While I did get inspired to write some ideas down for this particular One Piece fanfic, I honestly have been wanting to write a fanfic about Bartolomeo for a while, especially before reading some fanfics pertaining him and a few fanfics that pertain characters from a different anime😁🔰While it's rare I write about the character beating up the reader's ex (which was something I have written in 1 of my Bleach fanfics), for this fanfic it was kinda a last minute idea while writing this fanfic😅 Aside from the character, no matter what character I write about I honestly wanted to write a fanfic with some ideas the way I have written this fanfic and I did my best to be creative with this fanfic best I could think of writing🔰💡😃👍As for grammar, if I made any spelling or grammar mistakes, it might be because I really wanted to write this fanfic about Bartolomeo and I may have rushed with the fanfic where I forgot to check it😅 Otherwise I hope you enjoyed this fanfic about him, and I really had fun writing this fanfic about Barto🔰😁👍

*Fun Fact: While I was reading one of the chapters of One Piece, for what Bartolomeo did to the guys talked trash about Luffy, I honestly don't blame Barto at all and this is why I have tons of respect for Barto🔰Ofcourse he's 1 of the characters I'm keen on😃🔰

[thesilliestrovingalive]

To meet oneself

Chapter 1: Escaping into the wilderness from a nightmare

POTENTIAL TRIGGER WARNING: Viewer discretion is advised due to references to alcoholism and self-harm.

The Sparrowhawk Operations Base slumbers quietly, its occupants lost in the depths of their subconscious, enveloped by the soothing oblivion of sleep. A lone window in the quarters stands sentinel, bathing the room in soft moonlight that stretches down the rows of bunk beds, where Marchrius’ team rests peacefully. On this spring night, the air holds a crisp chill, yet hints at the warmth of summer's impending arrival. Though the beds aren't as luxurious as those at home, comfort and gratitude fill the room, for in this tranquil space, rest is a treasured solace. Returning to the base always feels amazing! The team reunites, sharing lively conversations and celebrating their victories. After a fulfilling day, they unwind, preparing for a well-deserved rest—whether tomorrow holds action-packed adventures or a welcome escape from the daily routine.

Tarma's deep snores fill the air as he murmurs softly about a vivid dream. In his subconscious, he, Fio, Eri, and Marchrius are revelling in an intergalactic adventure, defeating evil Martians after a night of drunken celebration. His burly arms wrap tightly around Fio, who sleeps even more soundly, her snores harmonising with his. Her beautiful face nestles snugly into the warmth of his chest, enveloped by his calming presence and gentle tenderness.

Nearby, Ralf sleeps undisturbed by the chirping crickets outside or the occasional creaks that break the silence. His own soft snores punctuate the stillness, accompanied by a gentle trickle of drool that runs down his chin. Above Ralf, Clark slumbers, lost in an underwater odyssey. In his subconscious, he rides the back of a horse-sized Sparky, his beloved charcoal Bengal cat, forming unlikely friendships with a menagerie of bizarre and fantastical aquatic creatures. After a frustrating day of fishing, Clark deserves some rest, but Ralf's restless tossing and turning, coupled with Tarma and Fio's cacophonous snoring, makes it challenging for him to fall into a deep sleep.

Tequila is trapped in a harrowing nightmare, reliving the horrors of the battlefield alongside his former comrades. His whimpering, laboured breathing, and restless tossing and turning betray the turmoil in his mind, clutching his blanket and bedsheets tightly as if he’s desperately trying to find solace. Across from him to his left and below where Fio would usually sleep, Eri sleeps peacefully, her insomnia unusually absent. Fortunately, she’s sober, sparing everyone from the rowdy chaos of her sleepwalking. The others in the spacious dormitory remain undisturbed by Tequila's distress, Ralf’s restlessness, and the loud snoring of Tarma and Fio, sleeping soundly in anticipation of a potential mission the next day.

Unbeknownst to the others, Marchrius is trapped in a vivid and terrifying nightmare. His face contorts in anguish, fists clenched as his breathing turns ragged. Cold sweat drips from his brow, and his body tenses as the nightmare's intensity threatens to drag him back to the horrific memories he's desperately tried to bury. It begins with Marchrius restrained on a filthy hospital bed that resembles an operating table. An angelic figure with a feminine, nude body, wings of frazzled teal plumes, and a gilded halo resembling a Black Sun, approaches him with sly, eerie grace. Her radiant form stands in stark contrast to the gore and blood that drenches her surprisingly youthful body. Her face, hair, and eyes eerily mirror that of someone he once knew, a woman he hastily abandoned after she betrayed and violated him to obtain precious samples.

The angelic apparition straddles Marchrius’ hips, her weight crushing him and her thighs gripping him like an iron vice. His breathing becomes erratic as his stomach churns at the ghastly sight. A violent gag reflex takes hold, and he vomits forcefully, the contents of his stomach surging up his throat. A fetid substance settles upon his chest, comprising a noxious mixture of seminal fluids, the iron-tainted fluid of blood, and the acidic, tar-like essence of black bile. Before he can unleash a blood-curdling scream, she abruptly forces his head into a hidden recess beneath the silky white pillow, where a dark, blood-stained pool awaits. The water within is a noxious, smoke-filled abyss, emitting a piercing, hellish resonance that reeks of charred flesh.

With a deep breath and eyes clenched shut, Marchrius is suddenly transported back to the battlefield in a twisted, nightmarish version of Gerhardt City. Merciless Rebel forces surround him, unleashing brutal attacks on his former comrades. The air is thick with the sounds of suffering and torment as they overpower and brutalise those he once called friends. The deafening explosions and relentless barrage of bullets fill his mind, forcing him to watch in a powerless state as those he cares about suffer through their final, agonising moments. His vision blurs with tears as Marchrius rushes to Tarma's side, only to find his best friend's bruised, stabbed, and bullet-ridden corpse.

As he teeters on the brink of madness, Allen O'Neil and a squad of fanatic land troops emerge behind him, pinning him down. Allen's voice drips with malice as he delivers the brutal commands. The troops carry them out with savage efficiency, tearing away Marchrius’ left arm and gouging out his left eye. His screams echo through the air as blood erupts from his fresh wounds, and the fanatics respond with cruel laughter and sarcastic shrugs.

General Morden's face looms before the group, his eyes glinting with malevolent intent. A fanatic presents him with Marchrius' grotesquely removed eye, its dangling vein quivering in the macabre breeze. Morden's grin twists into a wicked smile as he presses the cold muzzle of his Chiappa Rhino 40DS against Marchrius' forehead. With a dark chuckle, he savours the gruesome scene. The sound of the trigger being pulled jolts Marchrius awake, shattering the nightmare.

His breathing is heavy and shaky, punctuated by a few stray tears that trickle down his cheeks. Sweat drips from his face and palms, and his body trembles subtly with fear. His mouth feels parched and uncomfortably dry. Frantic, he scans the room before leaning forward on the edge of his bed and peering down. A sigh of relief escapes his lips as he spots Tarma, safe and sound. He wipes away the sweat and tears that dampen his face and chinstrap beard. He had been on the verge of panic, fearing the worst—that Tarma had vanished. But as his past traumas begin to resurface, threatening to overwhelm him, he knows he won't be able to shake off the wakefulness that's taken hold. He decides to slip out of the dormitory, seeking a distraction from the darkness that's creeping in.

He cautiously throws off the blanket and descends the bunk bed ladder with silent deliberation. His feet meet the wooden floorboards, and he freezes, scanning the room with darting eyes, holding his breath in hopes of not disturbing the others. A few seconds pass, and the soft rise and fall of chests reassures him everyone remains asleep. With a deep, calming breath, he proceeds. The old floorboards groan beneath his feet, sending a shiver of paranoia down his spine, but he presses on undeterred. Marchrius’ sweaty palm wraps around the bronze door handle, and he turns it slowly, easing the door open with deliberate quietness. He slips through the narrow opening and shuts the door behind him, the soft click of the latch a welcome sound.

He knows Wysteria and Celaphios are sleeping in the lounge, surrounded by the trio of affectionate cats—Perifa, Sparky, and Mr. Kibleton—that have made this place their home. He continues with caution, tiptoeing towards the storage room where their uniforms and tactical gear are kept. Inside, he flips the light switch, and the sudden brightness forces him to shield his eyes. He squints, waiting for his vision to adjust, and his laboured breathing disturbs the silence.

As the room comes into focus, he navigates through the rows of lockers, his footsteps quiet on the floor. Approaching his locker that boldly displays his first name in crimson marker, he grasps the combination padlock, its gilded surface gleaming in the light. A tired yawn escapes his lips before he focuses on entering the combination, his fingers deliberately turning the dial to the precise numbers.

"5-9-21," he murmurs, his voice barely audible as he recites the combination.

As the dial reaches 21, the padlock yields with a soft click. With a weary sigh, he lets the padlock fall, its metallic clang dulled by the worn wooden floorboards. With a gentle tug, he opens the locker door, revealing his neatly organised gear. His uniform lies neatly folded at the top with his other tactical equipment lined up below in orderly rows. His gaze drifts to an old photograph taped to the locker door's side—a pre-teen version of himself, flanked by his father, Salvatore Rossi, and childhood cat, Grubley. A faint smile creases his lips, but it fades, replaced by his usual stoic expression, now tinged with a hint of melancholy.

He focuses on dressing, selecting key items: a platinum grey sleeveless shirt, a crimson vest with four pockets, khaki-green army cargo pants, a pair of olive green paratrooper boots, and a leather belt. He dresses methodically, securing each piece, and finally threads his belt through the cargo pants' hoops, clicking the buckle into place. The routine gesture is driven by practicality, but a flicker of vanity underscores his actions—the thought of his pants slipping off in public still embarrasses him. Despite his pride in his masculinity, he has always been baffled by men who seem unfazed by their pants sagging. To him, it's a matter of functionality and dignity, not just image.

He shakes his head, clearing the fatigue, and scans the room cautiously before reaching for his concealed combat knife. Secured in its sheath, it lies hidden in his locker, protected from scratching the metallic interior. His gaze lingers on a secret treasure, a six-pack of beer, stashed away from prying eyes. A lazy smirk spreads across his face as he retrieves it with his cybernetic left hand, the prosthetic moving with smooth precision. Marchrius cradles the six-pack with delicate care, a guilty pleasure he conceals from his friends. It's his solitary solace, a means to dull the emotional pain that still lingers.

With the knife and six-pack secured in his grasp, he softly closes the locker door and clicks the combination padlock into place. He can't shake the concern that leaving it open would spark unnecessary worry among his friends, prompting them to launch a frantic search. Gripping his blade's handle firmly, he slips out of the storage room and quietly exits the Sparrowhawk Operations Base, disappearing into the night.

It’s a beautiful night, filled with the soothing sounds of crickets chirping loudly, a distant wolf howling at the full moon, and the haunting hoots of owls echoing through the distance. The grass, still damp from a spring shower that passed a couple of hours earlier, releases the sweet scent of wildflowers and petrichor as the gentle breeze stirs. As Marchrius weaves through the landscape, he can't resist glancing up at the sky. The vast canvas above is dotted with countless white stars, scattered like diamonds across the dark velvet of the night sky, twinkling brightly. For a fleeting moment, he thinks he spots a comet streaking across the sky, but his tired mind might be playing tricks on him. As he ventures deeper into the forest, common glowworms flicker green and dart away from him, disturbed by the rustling grass beneath his feet.

For a mountainous region, it's absolutely stunning, with the perfect elevation for a military compound to be situated away from civilization. Conifer and deciduous trees cover the rocky landscape, while large patches of grass are home to flowers native to Britain, such as cow parsley and wood anemone. However, none of these compare to Wysteria's favourite spot: the serene cerulean lake. Its edges are lined with broad-leaved trees, a few conifers, and various flowers, with primrose dominating the landscape. The gorgeous surface of the water shimmers beneath the pale moonlight, adding depth to the darkened waters.

Marchrius reminisces about how Clark occasionally comes here to fish, mostly for fun, but sometimes brings back game. He vividly recalls the fish Clark caught, shared over dinner at the Sparrowhawk Operations Base just days after his arrival with Ralf: a handful of common carp, brown trout, bream, northern pike, and minnow. A faint smile spreads across his face as he remembers the time Clark taught Wysteria how to fish. She had been eager to learn the ins and outs of fishing, but her excitement quickly turned to surprise when she reeled in a silver eel—a species Clark had never seen before.

With an exhausted sigh, he trudges onward, searching for a secluded spot to indulge in some much-needed solitude. The biting wind sends a shiver down his spine, but he grits his teeth and presses on, undeterred. As he ventures deeper into the mountain forest, the foliage grows denser, and he remains on the hunt for a secluded haven. The crickets' chirping, the glowworms' ethereal dance, the occasional snap of twigs, the soft rustle of leaves, and the faint crunch of grass beneath his feet blend together in a serene symphony, punctuated by the distant, mournful hoot of an owl. For a brief moment, he sees a pair of glowing red eyes stalking him among the tangled deciduous and conifer trees, watching his every move. He freezes, a shiver racing down his spine, as his gaze locks onto piercing eyes that hold for an unnervingly long moment. The spell breaks with a sudden blink, and the eyes disappear, banished by a sharp shake of his head. Shaking off the unease, he takes a deep breath and continues walking, attributing the unsettling encounter to his overactive imagination.

As he walks, a majestic oak tree emerges from the landscape. Its trunk, robust and weathered, catches his attention, particularly the left side, where a dense thicket of shrubbery forms a mysterious veil. He approaches cautiously, setting the six-pack beside him near the thicket of bushes. With a deliberate motion, he lets his combat knife slip from his grasp, its weight thudding softly onto the earth. Then, he rests his right hand against the tree's rugged trunk, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on the rough bark. With a contented sigh, he turns around, leaning his back against the tree and arching his spine to release a satisfying crack. As he settles in, he slides down the trunk and sits cross-legged, exhaling a deep breath. His gaze drifts lazily to the six-pack beside him. Marchrius reaches for the six-pack with his right hand and pulls out a beer, his grip firm but gentle. He gazes at the can, its blue surface adorned with a white circle housing a red-trimmed black star at its centre. The lukewarm beer rests comfortably in his hand, but his apathy prevails. For him, a warm drink is just as effective as a chilled one, both serving a singular, fleeting purpose: dulling the inner turmoil that churned within.

Before opening the can of beer, he pauses, taking a deep breath to fortify himself for what lies ahead. He tosses the beer into his left hand and, with his index finger, effortlessly lifts the tab and opens the lid. The can cracks open with a satisfying hiss, music to his ears, signalling a perfect opening. The robust aroma of fizzing beer fills his nostrils, reminiscent of fresh apple cider. Opening a beer with his left hand has become second nature, thanks to his cybernetic prosthetic's impressive physical strength and precision, courtesy of its micro-sensors and neural interfaces. He recalls the early days after Tarma built his prosthetic, when he'd accidentally crush newly bought beers, struggling to adjust to the new limb. However, with time and practice, he mastered it, and the prosthetic proved invaluable in combat situations and everyday tasks, both on and off the job.

Without hesitation, he downs the entire beer, feeling the refreshing liquid soothe his parched tongue and throat. He’s hooked on the taste, indifferent to flavour or bitterness. The specifics of his latest six-pack purchase are a blur because they were overshadowed by the urgency of preparing for a mission against a pirate raid. Yet, as the beer's crisp, fruity notes dance on his palate, Marchrius identifies the unmistakable hint of apple black cherry. A sly smirk spreads across his face, accompanied by a low, amused snort. He carelessly crushes the empty can and discards it, already reaching for the next one.

He grabs another beer and repeats the familiar ritual, but this time he takes a moment to savour the taste. The beer's addictive flavour temporarily dulls the pain lurking in his subconscious, bringing a fleeting sense of joy to his troubled life. It's a small comfort that lifts his spirits during times of overwhelming sadness and dread. As he takes a second sip, he lets out a loud belch.

His mind drifts back to happier times, remembering a night when he, Tarma, Eri, Tequila, Gimlet, Ralf, and Trevor had gathered for drinks. Trevor sipped on a blue raspberry slushie and puffed on a joint, while Ralf indulged in a homemade root beer float. The others, meanwhile, enjoyed their drinks of choice. Eri's thunderous belch startled Fio, who was completely absorbed in baking a caramel-layered red velvet cake, adorned with chocolate truffles, coucougnettes, and strawberry jam macarons for Nadia's 26th birthday. The memory brings a deep chuckle, but as his thoughts continue to wander, the darker moments of his life begin to resurface. He tries to shake off the resurfacing memories, downing the rest of his second beer, and sets the empty can on the grass beside him before grabbing another.

He rips open his third beer with trembling hands, his breathing growing erratic. Memories of fallen comrades flood his mind, and he desperately tries to shake them off. But the pain cuts deeper when thoughts of his mother resurface—the one who never loved him, never accepted him. The worst of it comes when he recalls the day she abandoned him, locking him in the dark basement of his childhood home before vanishing from his life forever. As he gulps down the beer, his cheeks flush with a hint of intoxication, and tears suddenly well up in his eyes. He pauses, the can half-empty, and takes a deep breath, attempting to calm his racing nerves.

His gaze drifts to the combat knife he'd dropped earlier before snapping back to his beer. After a moment's hesitation, he downs the rest in one swift motion, crushing the can in his left hand with a mixture of anger and desperation. He tosses it aside, joining the other empty cans.

He gazes at the combat knife once more, his lower lip trembling and a few tears escaping his eyes. His breathing turns ragged as he hesitantly pulls out his right arm and begins to unwrap the worn gauze covering it, the fabric clinging to his skin. His hand shakes subtly, his conscience screaming for him to stop, but he's too far gone. This ritual has become ingrained, a primal instinct etched into his mind and bones. Once the gauze is removed, his left hand drops it to the dirty, grassy ground. With a gentle touch, he caresses his forearm, despite the numbness that grips his left arm. His eyes trace the map of self-inflicted cuts etched into his pale ivory skin, a testament to years of pain and suffering. The scars will never heal, never fade.

He pauses, his hand lingering on his forearm before slowly reaching for the leather handle of his combat knife. The blade's once-gleaming silver-white sheen had dulled slightly, bearing testament to its frequent use. He takes a deep breath, holding it for a moment, then exhales heavily, releasing pent-up anxiety. He boldly prepares himself for the unbearable, desperate for a temporary reprieve. He holds the blade above the middle of his forearm, the glint of steel reflected in his tense expression. With a deep breath, he presses the blade lightly against his skin, the pressure deliberate, drawing a thin line of blood. A faint wince escapes his lips as he moves the blade horizontally to the left. The sharp edge gleams crimson as he raises it, blood trickling from the self-inflicted wound.

Undeterred, he lowers the blade to a spot below his wrist, the motion deliberate, and cuts again. A soft groan escapes his clenched teeth; his eyes squeeze shut, bracing against the sharp pain coursing through his arm and spine. Each cut is a calculated attempt to distract himself from the haunting memories of his past, the physical pain is a desperate bid to conceal his emotional anguish.

@fruitypixel