#Anny Vigil

[toodrawtothink]

Hello all! I'm sorry for the long stint of radio silence. I have been busy compositing the film. All animation is complete and locked down. It has been a long process of putting everything together. If I'm lucky I will be able to finish the compositing this year!

Anyways, enjoy this small loop of a shot from the movie!

#character animation #animation #animated #short film #2d animation #western #anny vigil the vigilante #hand drawn animation #anny vigil #gif loop #animated gif #gif animation #gif

[sadquickchristmassnowman]

“we can have a candlelight vigil like lesbians on the news!!!” episode 2 and annie “girlkisser” edison is already longing for bits of that wlw lifestyle. I know what you are

#currently taking a break from my hardcore analysis community rewatch #so that I can do a casual rewatch #been going through sitcom withdrawal recently #between my intense good omens hyperfixation and how busy I’ve been there’s been no time #but we are SO back baybee #once again I’ll get to the encyclopedia asks asap I’m so sorry they’re taking so long #community #nbc community #community nbc #annie edison #lesbian annie edison #lesbiannie #jeffannie shippers dni but I’d hope that goes without saying #alright do you guys think that’s enough yapping in the tags or nah

[ridingtorohan]

The Warriors Trio reacting to Marco's ex/sibling trying to befriend or romance them

Spoilers for everything surrounding Marco Bodt's death + Season 3. Masterlist! _ Join the taglist!

For Annie it's an unfortunate situation. She sees Marco's face in yours, in the shape of your eyes and the lines of your mouth. In how you strap on your gear or tie your shoes. Whether you're an ex or relative, all she can see is him. Marco's death isn't something she's forgotten or forgiven herself for.

Bearing a cold front, Annie had always been aloof. Seeing her react to the loss of battle is different than most others. She gets silent, eyes distant. It's understandable because she had been on clean up duty.

What isn't is how she reacts to you, bearing the knowledge of how you wept over Marco's body. How you had been closer to him then Jean had been. Out of everyone, it's clear that she's avoiding you insistently.

Being near you leaves her feeling raw and vulnerable, regret pooling inside her chest. Because Marco had been kind to her, she had known him. To strip him of his gear like that, to see your grief laid bear, it's a different kind of tragedy.

Annie is far more hot-headed towards you, snapping short and quick remarks. Coming to her for grief bears little fruit; she tries to adamantly pawn you off to someone else. Anyone who sees her would swear that that's the most expressive she's ever been.

Maybe that's why you keep coming back. It's only through sheer persistence that you'll be able to break through.

Eventually, she collapses beneath your attempts, falling silent whenever you sit next to her. It's through this tender vigil that you bond over your shared grief. Annie is persistent on training, her duties, so with her it's "easier" to bury memories of Marco. You feel this grief because you are alive.

Dating her comes as a shock to both of you. If it happens, it'll be slow. Every time your knuckles brush, Annie is reminded of Marco's skin under her hands, his pleading voice. Feeling all these complicated feelings for you - letting herself feel them, had begun to heal old wounds that she didn't know she had.

Annie never makes it official with you, neither confirming or denying if anyone asks if you are dating. Doesn't rebuke it when/if you refer to her as your girlfriend.

Annie fluctuates a bit towards avidly making the most of these moments with you and feeling like shit for what she's done.

Learning that she had been directly responsible for Marco's death had been a low blow, rupturing the foundation of your relationship. The thing is, you want to believe her; remember how glassy her eyes got whenever you two got into deep conversations about Marco, the tremble in her fingers when she kissed you.

Knowing this and Annie's role in Marco's death, you can't help but wonder if she'd have reacted the same if it had been you who eavesdropped that day.

Reiner, at the end of the day, has filed this away like everything else, flitting it behind closed doors. He's adapted to it the only way he knows how.

He's appropriately aggrieved when Marco's death is announced. After all, he had been Reiner's friend too. This is something that he carries within himself, never quite understanding why he has nightmares about stolen equipment and begging.

Reiner, actually, is the one who approaches you. He sees your pain and as a fellow comrade, will do anything to soothe those feelings. Sits beside you whenever you need someone to talk to, always offering an extra bread roll.

Often, he talks about who Marco was, what a great friend he had been. But there's something aching beneath his ribs, beating fast. He's quick to talk about other matters, burying it under rounds of training, of bad jokes and long walks around the training yard.

Something twinges inside his head every time he looks at you, seeing Marco's compassion in you, familiar in how you eat your bread. Something feels wrong inside of him when he interacts with you, something like a rolling furnace, grief stricken in a different way. Like your loss of Marco is somehow more personal.

Somehow, you end up comforting him over Marco's death a little more than he does you. Which is completely understandable! He was one of Marco's friends.

Usually he likes taking you out for long walks, both of you silent or just talking about whatever came to mind. It's during one of these moments that he realizes the extent of his feelings for you.

Dating him goes surprisingly smoothly! It's a lot like being with him normally. If there's periods where he's suddenly distant, recoiling from touching you (aka thinking about Marco)... well, it's just written off as PTSD. He'll be a dutiful partner, proud to show you off, even if there's something so very reserved in his actions.

Then you overhear him talking to Eren on the wall and realize that maybe you didn't know him at all.

Bertholdt is, perhaps, the one most adapted to the necessity of Marco's death. It sits in his chest like a weighted stone but he understands. That call was a necessary one to make. He's so sorry that the call was made but it's now nothing that any of them can take back.

Grief is a funny thing. Reserved and withdrawn around you, he knows how much Marco meant to you; it was public knowledge of how close the two of you were, after all. But he'll engage, listen to you when you come to him for comfort. He'll respond to what you tell him. What you ask him.

While he doesn't know Marco well, not like Reiner or you did, Marco's passing is not as bad as it could have been. Certainly better adapted than Reiner by default and Annie. He just has an easier time of putting it into perspective, separating his feelings from the outcome.

When Marco gets brought up, especially by you, he gets quiet and sullen. But he's always claimed to be your friend, and a shoulder to lean on and he'll follow that duty to the end.

Bertholdt takes more of a quiet grief approach, a little like Annie who ruminates over the events. He's more likely to try to take your mind off what happened, redirect it to something more positive.

For Bertholdt, him mentally flagging Marco's death as necessary does make him both easier to befriend and woo. Marco may not be here but you are and so is he. Marco's death has nothing to do with his feelings for you - even if the burden of guilt sometimes suffocates him.

He still gets odd whenever Marco is brought up but is the best out of the three at hiding it. He'll love you despite what he did.

But, as necessary as things are as a warrior, Bertholdt does feel obligated to choosing Marley over the Walls. Over you. But it doesn't stop him from reacting vehemently if anyone ever makes the implication that Marco was killed so that he could get close to you. (Also refers to you present-tense as his partner so, there's that to deal with.)

That's not what that was, not who he is. He cares for you, with or without what he's done to Marco. Nothing will change that.

In the end, it might change your feelings for him.

#attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot #snk #annie leonhart #annie leonhardt #annie x reader #reiner braun #reiner x reader #bertholdt hoover #bertholdt x reader #aot x reader #reader insert #annie leonhart x reader #reiner braun x reader #bertholdt hoover x reader #aot x you #aot x y/n #snk x reader #ooc: // not quite satisfied with this but HERE WE GOOO #snk x y/n #snk x you #annie leonhardt imagine #reiner braun imagine #bertholdt hoover imagine #ooc: // y'ALL MY CAT DID NOT LIKE THIS POST SHE KEPT TRYING TO KNOCK my laptop off my lap as I was setting this up #ooc: // ma am pls. the marco defense is admirable but pls. #ooc: // bertholdt: man that sucks. anyway- #ooc: // idk. the forest scene makes me think bert would be the most mentally equipped for anything the mission required tbh #ooc: // annie be tryna shake you off like a wet dog fr

[shuttershocky]

as arknights CN approaches its 4.5 anni, what are your theories for what the big event will be? predictions on operators? hopes and copes?

I never have any theories or expectations for Arknights events, it's a surprise every time.

That being said the announcement banner had musical notes in it so a return to Leithanien is a shoe-in. I'm expecting this to be the event where Altria lol Arturia becomes playable.

Ill tell you what I do hope and cope for though, modules.

Ebenholz has opened the path for a third module and his third module has proved to be absurdly powerful while unlocking a completely new playstyle for him (seriously just look at this fucked up total damage graph)

This means a new hope burns for Phantom and his fans, hopefully one that makes his clone take 0 deployment limit (and lets him recast his skills upon their duration ending, fuck it 4x S3 bomb time).

Other units I'm hoping to get a module for

Ho'olheyak - Poor Ho'ol is Release Passenger levels of bad. Qanipalaat does her crowd control levitation job but better, since he actually does a controllable burst of 7s levitation rather than the RNG fest of her S2 or her incredibly slow and inefficient S3. She needs big number buffs the way Passenger had or a new mechanic added that she can use, as right now her damage sucks, her crowd control is meh (her tornadoes should be AOE instead of single target since it takes her 3 fucking seconds to attack), and almost nobody else synergizes with her. She's awful. I will of course be maxing her out at once.

Carnelian - Giving Lin a module with literally everything she wants to make her invincible while Carnelian got +80% max HP was a personal affront to me and to Carnelian fans everywhere. If Carnelian has Mlynar levels of restrictions (except even more because highground units have more restrictions than ground units), then she deserves nothing less than Mlynar level damage. Remove the 5 stack restriction on her S3 charge, make that shit 10 stacks (+200% damage) or unlimited even, fuck it. Make her ASPD scale with skill duration too so that her S2 becomes a permabind while her S3 builds the stacks faster and also goes with her ATK scaling up over skill duration. Are you telling me Carnelian has to wait 40 seconds to attack like Mlynar, but only has a total S3 damage of 44kish? Ebenholz can hit for 30kish on one fully charged Mod X shot with S3, this is some bullshit. Carnelian deserves more and better.

Vigil - Please. Please HG. Look at what you've done to him. At least makes his wolves tankier. Do you know how sad he looks when you compare him to the other free 6 stars? Silence the Paradigmatic, Lumen, fucking Gladiia?? How could he be released in this state. Penance has never punched a man in her life and she's out here soloing the top lane at max risk CC12 while her best friend Leon was poised to take over a mafia family and his best weapons are a couple of peashooters and pathetic shikigami. He's not as bad as the memes make him out to be but good lord he's still really bad and needs help.

Thorns - He's still really good I just want a module that buffs his much more interesting S2 over his S3 for the memes. The look on their faces will be hilarious.

#arknights

[lavendertales]

Guilty pleasures: Chapter 3

pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: cautious with your questions to and about Ellie, Joel snaps at you in private, the conversation culminating with a very surprising twist. But even that can't prevent you from drawing your own conclusions about Ellie.

word count: 4.7k

A/N: TENSION. that's all. this is a birthday gift for @katronautt. Happy birthday, my love, I hope your day is as cool as you ❤️and happy Valentine's Day to you all, my sweet lovebugs!

AGELESS/EMPTY BLOGS & MINORS WILL BE BLOCKED!!!

gif: @magnusedom

series masterlist | AO3

JULY

The air had grown thinner in the past month. Everyone could feel the warmth of the season wearing them down to the point where all they sought to do is kick back and enjoy a cold drink.

Despite the low number of raids and sightings of infected, the patrol group remained alert. You didn’t mind, really; starting the night shift when the sun was going down, after having spent most of the day in the sun, it offered you a sensation you hadn’t felt since your childhood back in California. If anything, it made you nostalgic. Even with everything that was going on.

Since news broke out that Tommy singlehandedly took care of a group of raiders in June, the people in Jackson have become more vigilant of their whereabouts and surroundings, but there was also a bizarre concoction of fear and admiration targeted at the man who built an entire town from scratch. Tommy was just as loved as before—people just knew now to never get on his bad side.

The other Miller brother though, that one was the thorn in your back.

Things have gotten more… quiet between the two of you. Which was preferable to the rest of the patrol who were growing tired having to listen to you bicker all the time. But, since that June night when the two of you nearly committed what could’ve only be described as a fatal mistake, Joel simply distanced himself from you. And you followed his lead; you did the exact same thing. It was much better this way. You both relished into the stillness of the environment, neither one of you being on the talkative side, and you only spoke when absolutely necessary.

The interesting thing about that? It grew to be bothersome. It was actually kind of upsetting that all you and Joel did was gaze at each other from afar, eyes darkened by unspoken things that you would’ve rather buried than to ever allow to come to the surface.

And that made you even grumpier and angrier. You failed to understand this kind of reaction to someone who repeatedly called you stubborn and relentless, and it was causing you to lose sleep too, to dwell into the littlest things and put them for observation under a microscope.

You knew why this was happening, of course. It was a no-brainer. But it’s not like it was your fault. Not even his, really. It was a silly little moment of distraction, nothing else. So what if you were caught in the rain and his calloused hands were over your waist, keeping you close, and you were unable to look away from his lips?

It was nothing but a momentary privation of judgment, a mere result of years of solitude and finally coming in contact with human warmth.

But, rather than stewing in your confusion, you chose to mind your business and go about your days as usual. Aside the occasional run-in with the infected, your life in Jackson has been pretty boring throughout the past seven months, as opposed to the unstable and chaotic life you’ve led in the past seven years. You can’t really complain though; it’s been a nice change of pace. It makes you think of your family, how they would’ve fit right in here.

Today, however, upon Annie’s request, you agreed to train some of the kids in town how to handle weapons. It wasn’t the easiest task if you really thought about it. You found it to be a grim scenario, teaching children how to use guns. But the world you’re living in is cruel and unforgiving, and there are worse punishments than death. In retrospect, learning how to defend yourself from a frail age might be a preferable choice than the alternatives.

A bullet flies right by your head, and you duck instantly. You search the fairly small crowd of children to find the culprit, and your eyes land on a brown haired, doe-eyed teenager. You make a face when you remark the guilt on her face.

“Sorry,” she apologizes.

You inch towards her. “Ellie, right?”

“The one and only. I think.”

“So you’re the infamous Ellie.”

She looks you up and down, eyes landing on the holster strapped to your right thigh, then moving back up to your figure.

“Saw you around with Joel,” you explain, unwilling to be misunderstood. You knew that sometimes people found your dry-spoken words to be intimidating, and you didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable. Trust was very important, and a must-have in any situation. “He seems fond of you. Which makes me think he’s part human.”

Ellie smiles, and so do you. “Jury’s still out on that one.”

“Ah.”

Her eyes drop to your holster again. “Can you teach me how to use that?”

You follow her eyes to the same spot, noticing she’s referring to the special knife you keep in the holster. You then raise your brows at her.

“What for?” you ask rather amused.

Ellie shrugs. “What if I need it?”

“You mean my one-of-a-kind knife that only I possess? Highly doubt it.”

“You said it yourself, it’s not a regular knife. I mean—look at that thing! It’s got that curve thing right there… it’s a nice blade!”

You suppress a chuckle, staring in admiration at her. She’s got spunk, alright. She’s excited and funny and warm, in spite of everything that the world may have thrown at her. You suppose that’s the magic of being a kid. You can still find the light in the darkest of places.

“Not many kids are interested in weapons, you know?” you tell her as you pull her aside. “Take a look around. They don’t wanna do this. But it’s a necessary evil. You, on the other hand… you’re a pretty special kid.”

“So I’ve been told.”

There’s playfulness and sarcasm in her voice, and it makes you like her more. You can definitely see why Joel took a shining to her as well.

Now, you don’t know the full story. You only know the bits and pieces Tommy deemed acceptable to confess to you. All you heard is that Ellie was wanted by the Fireflies and that Joel was supposed to deliver her to them, but changed his mind and saved her from them, killing an entire group of people who stood in his way. There were some pieces of that puzzle you could put together without anyone telling you anything explicitly, but you kept to yourself. You sure as hell wasn’t gonna ask Joel about what happened.

“So? What do we think?” Ellie asks. “Do we have a deal?”

You frown, half amused and half impressed with her boldness.

“It’s not up to me, you know.”

“Sure it is. It’s your knife, isn’t it?”

You huff, staring at her and hoping that she’ll get the message without you actually saying it. Luckily, she does; within the next second, she makes a face to reveal her disappointment.

“Do not say it’s up to Joel,” she nearly whines. “He’s just gonna say no.”

“Okay. Then I can say no.”

“Oh, come on! We’re at a how to use a gun camp filled with kids and you’re gonna deny a kid a little weapon?”

“You still gotta work on your aim with the regular gun. You nearly shot me in the head.”

“Holding a grudge, I see.”

You smile. Unbeknownst to you, Joel is somewhere in the background, your silhouette in close proximity to Ellie’s having caught his attention. He watches carefully, a dozen scenarios invading his mind at that very moment.

“It’s not a grudge,” you reassure her. “I just think that if you can’t handle something as simple as a gun, you won’t be able to handle this knife.”

“A knife is easier than a gun.”

“You think so?”

Ellie nods, and you pull out the knife, twisting it between your fingers. Her eyes go wide with admiration, thirsting for knowledge. Then, as you hand the blade to her, she looks at you utterly stunned.

“Go ahead,” you tell her. “Stab me.”

“Uh… what?”

“You said it’s easier than a gun. Show your work. Try and stab me.”

“I’m not gonna—“

“Try to.”

Indecisive, Ellie holds the knife, weighing it. Then, she moves towards you, swinging the blade as you instructed. You duck, and as she pulls away, she notices a little string of blood coming from her hand.

“Shit,” Ellie says under her breath, noticing her bleeding palm.

You take the knife back from her and sliding it into the holster.

“It’s not a regular knife,” you say. “You were right. Which means that if you don’t know how to hold it properly, you’ll most likely kill yourself before you kill someone else.”

Joel moves closer in the background, reckoning something was wrong. He sees Ellie slouched, staring into her palm, and his pulse starts to race.

“If you’d teach me—“

“You already tried to shoot me today, so I’m gonna stick with no. And as much as you might hate hearing it—or as much as I hate saying it—Joel is technically your guardian. If he says it’s okay, I’ll teach you.”

“So that’s not gonna happen.”

You shrug. “Looks like we’re both stuck on Joel.”

“We?”

Taken aback by your own words, you clear your throat as your eyes drop to her hand, still bleeding in the slightest. You take it in your hands, examining it, but she shyly pulls away, dragging the sleeve of her shirt over it.

“It’s just a cut, it’s not that bad,” you try to reassure her.

But Ellie looks even more hesitant as she gulps, staring into the ground.

“Why are you wearing long sleeve shirts in the middle of summer?” you ask. “Aren’t you warm?”

“I’m good.”

Her tone, like her face, drops, and it only raises more questions for you. Questions you don’t pose. Instead, you put a hand on her back to guide her through the crowd and head to the little stand you and Annie set up for this exact purpose, filled with medicine and bandages. You wrap her palm nice and tight and in the process, her eyes catch the tattoo on your right wrist. She opens her mouth to say something, to ask you questions, but when she glances over your shoulder and sees Joel fast approaching, she goes silent.

“Are you okay?” Joel asks Ellie, and she nods. “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Ellie says. “A little scratch.”

His dark glare goes to you, and you can tell he’s angry.

“Why don’t you go back to the group?” you suggest to Ellie.

“You don’t have to tell me twice.”

The tension between you and Joel must’ve been more obvious than you thought.

“What happened?” Joel asks you instead.

“She wanted to try out my knife, I said no. She insisted she can handle it, and I proved to her she can’t.”

“By cuttin’ her?”

“I didn’t cut her. She scratched herself with the tip. I told her this kind of blade can be dangerous if not held properly.”

“Wrong time to do a show and tell.”

You huff, visibly displeased. “What’s up with Ellie, though? Why is she still wearing long sleeve shirts?”

The question stuns Joel. It’s written all over his face; you swear you detect some fear in his eyes too, but dwelling into that wouldn’t bring you anything good. Maybe just another headache and sleepless night.

“I’m not her father,” Joel retorts coldly. “She can wear whatever she wants.”

“I’m just saying. It’s the middle of summer, it’s hot as all hell. You’d think—“

“I don’t know, okay? What’s with the interrogation?”

You frown at him, raising your hands in surrender. “Pardon me for taking an interest.”

“Others have taken an interest in her before. Didn’t turn out so well.”

“The Fireflies?”

Joel’s face hardens with anger as he moves closer to you. You can even hear his teeth clenched in fury. You haven’t seen him this mad thus far.

“What the hell do you know about that?” he growls.

“I know that the Fireflies are just an excuse for doing fucked up shit of their own,” you reply, hands crossed at your chest. “They’re not so different from FEDRA if you think about it. So I’m guessing that whatever happened that made Ellie wanted by the Fireflies, it had to be a huge deal.”

Joel keeps quiet, munching on his bottom lip as he stares you down. You’re a stranger, basically, and the history between him and Ellie is known only by the two of them, Tommy and Maria. And there’s no way that Tommy would reveal everything to a stranger, even if he valued your skills and even thought of you as Maria’s right hand.

“I don’t want to know what happened,” you tell him. “And I don’t care about it. I was just expressing interest in Ellie. She’s a great kid.”

“She is,” Joel admits rather grudgingly.

“You got nothing to worry about. You and I, we’re just on patrol together. If you wanna ignore me because you got scared or whatever, that’s fine by me, I don’t care.”

Joel’s stares you down with a vicious twinkle in his eyes, as if he’s suggesting you to stop talking before you regret it. But you don’t care; you said the truth and if the truth is bothering him, there’s some food for thought.

“I’m not scared, and least of all of you,” he emphasizes viciously.

You inhale, rolling your eyes. The gesture brings out to the surface even more anger, anger that Joel can barely contain.

“Whatever you say.”

You turn your back to him, to which Joel responds with his fingers curling around your wrist and holding you in place. The touch is unexpected, electric, and the grip itself is far from harsh. On the contrary: it holds a gentleness to it that you wouldn’t have thought such a rugged man is capable of.

“If you’re talkin’ about that night on patrol last month—“he starts, but you instantly cut him off.

“I’m not talking about that. I was just pointing out the facts. You’re the one who brought it up.”

“How the hell are you so—? Jesus fuckin’ Christ.”

He lets go of you, rubbing his temples as he impending sensation of a headache takes over. He looks at you, shaking his head in dismay. When he sees a smirk forming in the corner of your mouth, he furiously licks his lips.

“How the hell am I so—what?” you ask, downright curious.

“Quit askin’ about Ellie,” he warns instead.

After Joel storms off, you smile in Ellie’s direction. You notice she doesn’t even roll up her sleeves, and your suspicion lives on. You don’t go around asking anything, though. It’s dangerous to talk about such things out loud, especially when this is merely a hunch at the moment. A very strong hunch based on plenty you’ve seen, but a hunch nonetheless.

You respect Joel’s words though, which again, it baffles you. Normally you wouldn’t care, but minding your business is top priority right now.

Which is why you’re surprised when you find Ellie on your doorstep later that evening. She has the same spark in her eyes as she did when she asked about your knife, which points to curiosity.

“Ellie,” you greet her, doing nothing to conceal your astonishment. “What are you doing here?”

“Well… I was gonna ask you something, if you don’t mind.”

“If it’s female-related, I understand why you wouldn’t ask Joel.”

Ellie chuckles, rubbing the back of her neck. “I don’t know why everyone thinks I tell Joel everything, or that we got some sort of father-daughter relationship.”

You scoff, hiding the laughter that’s about to come out of your mouth.

“You’re kidding,” you tell her. “That man was ready to shoot me today when he thought I hurt you. I’ve never seen a man so protective over anyone. He cares about you. A lot, based on his reaction.”

“I care about him too, he’s a pretty cool and badass guy, but he’s not my dad.”

“Sure he isn’t. Come on in.”

As Ellie enters your little house, she takes a quick look around, fidgeting with her fingers. You find the habit quite adorable, seeing as how Joel struggled with that too sometimes when he thought no one saw him.

Fuck. Did you just use adorable and Joel in the same sentence?

Fuck no.

“So, what are you doing here? What can I do for you?” you ask.

“I saw your wrist tattoo today. It’s pretty cool.”

You sneak a glance at your left wrist, then you look back at Ellie.

“Thanks,” you say. “You came all the way here to compliment my tattoo?”

“I came here to ask… if you’ve got any other tattoos.”

“Why?”

“I’m… thinking of getting one.”

Let me guess: on your right wrist.

“Where?” you ask instead.

“Not sure yet.”

You notice the hesitation on her part, but you have enough common decency to pretend like you don’t.

“Okay, well,” you start, taking a seat on the couch with Ellie following suit, “I got five tattoos in total. The one on my left wrist, then one on my right thigh, one on my left ankle, one behind my left ear, and one on my lower back.”

“Can I see them?”

You raise your brows at her, and Ellie’s face gets flushed.

“I didn’t mean that to be in a creepy way,” she quips, rather embarrassed. “I know some are private. I meant… for visualization.”

You smile reassuringly at her, and she seems to relax a little.

“Yeah, we’re not that close,” you joke, and that manages to steal a giggle from her side.

“Which one is the biggest?”

“My lower back tattoo.”

“What’s it of?”

“A snake with a half moon.”

“Whoa. Cool!”

The look on her face is quite adorable. You can tell that no matter what life threw at her, Ellie still carried some of that childlike innocence.

“What about the others, what are they of?” Ellie asks.

“I got a flower with leaves on my ankle, butterfly on my thigh, M for my sister Maya behind the ear and the rose on my wrist, which… you’ve already seen.”

You search her face for any reaction, anything that might tell you what she really noticed about your tattoo, but nothing appears. After all, she only caught a glimpse, a fleeting look. She didn’t have time to study the real reason behind the tattoo.

“You said the M is for your sister?” she inquires, and you already got a knot in your throat when you murmur a faint “mhm”. “Where is she?”

“Uh… filed under ‘people I’ve lost’.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

You clear your throat. “What about you, what tattoo do you want after all?”

“I don’t know. Something big enough to cover… scars.”

“Where?”

She falters yet again. “Right arm. I can’t—I can’t show you.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t gonna ask you to. But I do hope this is helpful.”

“It is, thanks.”

“Why me though?”

She shrugs. “I think you’re pretty badass and I like you.”

To that, you smile. “You’re pretty badass yourself.”

“Does that mean I get another go at the knife?”

You shake your head and reply No before she can even fully finish the sentence.

“What happened to your sister?” Ellie asks.

The air feels constricting as you stare at her, trying to verbalize the answer. Turns out, seven years in the making and the wound still remains fresh.

“That’s a… that’s a story for another time,” you say with a bitter smile.

Ellie knows better than to push when the conversation is clearly sensitive. After all, there are things about Riley that she can’t quite fully disclose, even though, paradoxically, she loved to talk about her.

She rises from the couch, headed for the door when she turns to you and sports a charming smile.

“Thanks,” she tells you, and you nod. “I don’t know why Joel keeps insisting you’re annoying.”

You do nothing to conceal your surprise at the reveal. “Aw, he talks about me? How nice.”

“He complains a little too much to make his case believable.”

“Yeah, well. Tell him I think he’s just as stubborn and thick-headed.”

“Tell him yourself.”

Your eyes shift to the window, noticing his silhouette on the porch. He’s got his hands on his hips, and his face is darkened by anger. You shake your head and huff whilst guiding Ellie to the door.

“Speak of the big, bad wolf,” you greet him.

“Ellie, get outta here,” Joel tells her.

“I was going anyway. Sheesh, such a drama queen, relax.”

Joel waits until Ellie is out of earshot. You both watch her get farther and farther away till eventually, it’s just you and him on the porch, underneath the stars-filled sky.

“May I help you?” you ask.

Joel is like a ticking bomb. And with those words, you just pushed the button.

“What the hell do you want from Ellie?”

“She’s the one who came to me.”

“For what? What do you want with her?”

You’re taken aback by how spurred on Joel is, how protective he’s become of that sixteen year old girl and the lengths he’ll go to in order to keep her safe. It doesn’t intimidate you though; if anything, it makes your hunch turn into something more.

“She came over to ask me about my tattoos,” you carefully enunciate each word. “That’s all we talked about. She was here for ten minutes. I didn’t snap her neck.”

Joel makes a dissatisfied sound. “I told you today to stop askin’ about her.”

“And I didn’t. Get it through your thick head: I have no interest in hurting her. I have no intention of hurting anyone here.”

Jaw clenched and lips pursed, Joel looks at you, some of his anger vanishing.

“She’s just a kid,” he says, guttural. “She’s been through enough.”

“I am well aware of that.”

“She doesn’t need other problems.”

You cross your arms at your chest. “You think I’m a problem?”

“I don’t know. Are you?”

You inhale slowly, painfully aware of how close you are to one another. The thick, dry summer air is boiling in between you, rendering this moment even more asphyxiating.

“What are you so terrified of?” you ask him.

You can tell the question stumps Joel. He frowns, his lips quiver, and he looks at you with genuine confusion.

“What?” he retorts harshly.

“What makes you freeze dead in your tracks when there’s someone else around you?”

Joel’s frown deepens as he tries to determine whether you’re being serious or not.

“In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been in this fuckin’ outbreak for twenty something years.”

“The infected don’t scare you, not anymore,” you continue seemingly mindlessly. “I know, cause that’s me. I see ‘em, I’m ready to shoot them down. Most of the time, anyway.”

You open your mouth as realization sinks in, watching a distressed Joel Miller drink in the sight of you.

“It’s human contact that terrifies you,” you conclude. “You can’t stand having people around you. You’re surprised when they stay.”

“I’m surprised when they don’t wanna kill me.”

“Lemme guess. Sad and tragic past, now you refuse to let anyone in because you’re afraid of the hurt and you can’t do it again. You tell yourself you can’t keep losing people you care about.”

“Just—stop.”

His voice is husky and harsh, filled with painful undertones that make you wonder of the tragedies in his past. You wonder what pieces of him are so far gone that he refuses to let anyone in.

That, in return, is scary to you.

“What’s the fuckin’ point, anyway?” Joel asks as if he’s having an internal monologue. “Some are lucky enough to live another day, others could die tonight. Living is a luxury. And getting’ attached… it’s got no upside to it. We’re gonna lose in the end no matter what.”

“I understand that,” you reply, much to his surprise. “Clickers, infected… those are easy. They have but one purpose: to kill. Humans, on the other hand… they’re tricky. You may never know what’s inside their heads. That’s the terrifying part.”

“You got your degree in psychology or somethin’?”

You stifle a chuckle, resorting to a mere smile. “Or something. What I can’t quite put together though is why you’re afraid of me.”

Joel cocks an eyebrow in your direction, growing more alert and aware of the fact that he is so close to you he could count your eyelashes. He swallows harshly, nearly breathless.

“Afraid of you?” he fights back. “I could pin you to the ground in one second. You ain’t a threat.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. You avoid me, you refuse to talk to me directly, but I hear you do talk about me with Ellie, quite a lot… so what gives?”

Joel does not avert his eyes from yours. On the contrary, he stares you down, fighting a losing battle with his own mind. There’s something about your words, so tantalizing and filled with shameless subtexts that cause his head to spin and his breath to come out ragged.

“Pin me down then,” you instigate him. “Pin me against the wall for all I care. You’re not doing it, and you are not going to. Because you’re afraid that you don’t actually find me annoying at all.”

The twitching in Joel’s fingers worsens, his heart racing and his throat completely dry, as opposed to his mouth which is damn near watering.

“Keep talkin’, see what happens,” he mutters.

“I think nothing’s gonna happen. Wanna know why? You talk a big game, but you’re just—“

The warm, intoxicating sensation over your mouth doesn’t register at first; it takes several seconds before you realize that this is, in fact, Joel Miller who’s kissing you.

His lips are tender against yours, but his hands provide a harsh contrast with that as they grab your hips and hold onto them for dear life. His moustache is tickling against your upper lip, his tongue glides against yours and you sigh; you actually sigh right into his mouth, the sound reverberating throughout Joel’s entire body and making him feral. You cup his face, desperately holding onto him, onto anything that might provide some stability because this… this is something wild and needy, and it utterly consumes you.

Joel is practically holding you into his arms as he’s kissing you like a starved man. There’s an omnipresent throbbing in your body, but especially in your belly, and you squirm against him, starting to crave more.

But then, Joel pulls away from you as abruptly as he began this whole shenanigan. Breathless, he stares at you with a hunger you wouldn’t believe if he weren’t right there in front of you.

Lips swollen and reddened, you fight to regulate your breaths. “Did you just—?”

“No.” His answer is rough, quick to deny everything.

“But I—“

“It’s nothing,” he says, licking his lips. “Don’t make a big deal out of this.”

You remain speechless. Truthfully, you’re not sure what could you possibly say right now. You messed around and teased him and now here you are, lips swollen from a kiss that Joel Miller gave you. A wet, needy kiss that opened a floodgate of desires for you.

He mumbles something to you before he leaves. What, you don’t fully comprehend. You’re all alone on the porch on that hot July evening, trying to process the fact that you shared the hungriest, most passionate kiss of your life with someone who did everything to keep you at bay.

Maybe this is why.

And maybe his overprotectiveness over Ellie isn’t that far-fetched either.

After all, protecting a girl who’s immune to a fate worse than death is a big deal.

previous | next

#joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller fic #joel miller fluff #the last of us #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou #tlou fanfiction #tlou fic #pedro pascal #pedro pascal fanfiction #pedro pascal fic #pedro pascal fluff #guilty pleasures series

[donaruz]

2 agosto 1980 ore 9,00

«Forza Carmelo! È ora di alzarsi, bisogna correre in stazione, c’è il treno che ci porterà da papà!»

«Uffa, va bene, mi alzo» Il piccolo Carmelo ancora frastornato per la giornata precedente dove aveva mangiato un buonissimo gelato e corso per le vie di Bologna come un giovane esploratore in una terra sconosciuta. Osservava tutto. Carmelo era alto, non dimostrava la sua giovane età e con quel bellissimo binocolo che gli aveva regalato suo zio e i pantaloncini corti era perfetto come ricognitore dell’ignoto. Aveva gli occhi azzurri, la mamma per scherzare diceva sempre che era figlio di qualche Dio dell’Olimpo greco; nessuno in famiglia aveva gli occhi azzurri. Da grande voleva studiare gli animali e girare il mondo alla scoperta di nuovi territori. Era un esploratore ancora prima di esserlo davvero.

Una semplice ma abbondante colazione e poi un bacio forte a Tobia, il cane. La strada è breve fino ai treni ma quella mattina i parenti devono portare la macchina dal meccanico, una vecchia fiat 127 ormai al termine. La decisione è presto fatta, si va in stazione a piedi, tanto il treno è alle 11, c’è tempo...

Carmelo è contento, ha visto una grande città del nord, piena di gente che corre, non ha capito il motivo ma si diverte a vederli indaffarati, al suo paese sono molto più tranquilli. Poi, finalmente, vede i treni. Che amore che ha per i treni! Ogni domenica il suo papà lo porta alla piccola stazione del paesello a vedere i treni che partono, ora anche lui potrà salire su quelle macchine meravigliose fatte di ferro e legno per ben la seconda volta nella sua vita.

10,20

«Mamma!, mamma mi piacerebbe tanto avere un amico cane, ma tanto tanto!»

«Va bene piccolo, vedremo, quanto torniamo a casa ne parliamo con papà e se lui è d’accordo andiamo al canile»

«Che bello!, che bello!, sono sicuro che il papà sarà d’accor……»

BUUUMMM!?!

«Mamma, mammaa, aiuto! Dove sei? Ho paura! è tutto buio, mamma aiuto è tutto buio..»

Suoni, strani suoni di ferro caldo. Un caldo feroce; gemiti che provengono dal treno di fronte ai binari, gemiti sempre più profondi e poi...urla disperate. Chi cerca la mamma, chi il fratello chi l’amico, la compagna, il figlio. Ma loro non sono più in stazione, sono stati sbalzati a 100 metri di distanza per l’onda d’urto. Come delle foglie strappate ai rami di un albero autunnale.

Poi il fumo si dirada e s’intravede il disastro.

«Mammaa!, dove sei? Dove sei?» Carmelo sembra un minatore appena uscito dalla galleria; la galleria più profonda del suo piccolo paese.

«Vieni piccolino, vieni in braccio, ti aiuto io!» Un ragazzo di 20 anni, una divisa da vigile del fuoco. Il ragazzo è nero come Carmelo, zoppica, ma continua a togliere pezzi di cemento dal piccolo corpo del bimbo. Solleva calcinacci pesanti e taglienti, rossi dal caldo; le sue mani ustionate, ma continua a spostarli. Alcuni giorni dopo venne ricoverato in ospedale per le ustioni. Perse tre dita di una mano.

«Chi sei? Dov’è la mia mamma?» Carmelo è sepolto da una montagna nata dalla violenza.

«Sono un amico della mamma… stai tranquillo»

«Ma cos’è successo?» La sua voce non è più quella di un giovane esploratore, ora è rauca, piena di polvere e distruzione.

«Niente, non è successo niente. Piccolo…non è successo niente»

Fine

In Italia non succede mai niente.

La Rosa dei venti, Il golpe borghese, piazza Fontana, Gioia Tauro, Reggio Emilia, Brescia, l’Italicus, Genova, Il rapido 904, Bologna, Ustica, Firenze, Milano; non sono niente. Non è successo niente. Non è STATO nessuno. In fondo qualche pezzente, qualche moglie di pezzente, qualche figlio di pezzente cosa volete che sia, incidenti di percorso; incidenti per una democrazia migliore, più libera, più ricca. In Italia non è mai STATO nessuno, una cena tra poteri, un brindisi e poi le direttive agli organi di informazione:

“Dovete dire questo, dovete dire quello, dovete dire che non è successo niente; arriva l’estate mandiamoli in vacanza tranquilli, poi, quando tornano, avranno dimenticato tutto”

Ma non avete preso in considerazione una cosa: voi! infami manovratori dietro le quinte, migliaia di occhi hanno visto, sentito, sanguinano ancora. Loro lo sanno chi è STATO. Potete manipolare tutto, cancellare tutto ma dietro il vostro secchio di vernice bianca democratica ci sono pareti rosse di sangue pulito.

Quelle non potrete mai pi�� cancellarle.

-A Carmelo e a tutti i morti e feriti di quella mattina spensierata di un agosto solare-

(Breve parte dal racconto "Piccolo esploratore" contenuto nel libro "Stelle cannibali" ED. Il Foglio 2022)

#strage #bologna #nonsidimentica #nonèSTATOnessuno

[harrowharks-iliac-crest]

Alecto

Characters

<< Previous: John | Masterpost

-

Alecto, the most important character who we know the least about.

Here are some theories:

She was an alien of some kind: she's been described as "not human", and a "monster". Monsterhood can take on different forms, so it's fairly nondescript. But she was certainly exceptional in many ways.

She could have been a genetic anomaly, human but not, and it gave her powers.

Was she already this wild, angry, powerful, nonhuman monster before John resurrected her? None of the other Lyctors knew her before John resurrected her, and fused with her via perfect Lyctorhood. At this point, she would have been enormously powerful, and possibly using this power willfully; she wasn't just herself, she was an amalgam of her and John.

Here's how John describes her:

He said, “It stood for a couple of things. A joke, mostly. I often called her Annabel Lee. Annie Laurie. When I first met her I just called her First, One. She had a real name, but I buried it with her, and nobody says it anymore. “She has been dead for nearly ten thousand years, but she keeps her vigil with me, as a memory, if nothing else … Annabel Lee was my—what do I call her? Guide? Friend? I’d hoped so…” You did not know how to respond to this. He did not seem to need a response. God said, “She was the first Resurrection. She was my Adam. As the dust settled and I beheld what was left and what was gone, I was entirely alone. The world had been ended, Harrowhark. One moment I was a man, and then the next moment I was the Necrolord Prime, the first necromancer, and more importantly, a landlord with no tenants.”

No lie, John knowing Alecto as "First", and "One", to me creepily suggests that she was a specimen. That John was some kind of scientist studying her. (Yuck.) Perhaps even a genetically engineered fetus he created and grew himself. I could be misreading this of course. She could be an alien with alien powers. She might not have been human at all, though compatible enough with humans to Lyctor with them and possibly even reproduce.

John says she was his first resurrection. The way he describes the event makes it sound like he needed all the energy in the whole entire universe to do it, and that this was what killed the First House, and all the other Houses that existed at the time, and the planets, and the sun.

Then there's this:

The dead corse of the Locked Tomb—the death of the Emperor—the maiden with the sword and the chains, the girl in the ice, the woman of the cold rock, the being behind the stone that could never be rolled away—said, in half-confused tones she had never taken with you: “I don’t know. I died, once … no, twice,” but then she had said no more.

(Hinting at Alecto the Ninth - the future book - continuing the trend of being told from the perspective of the person who knows least about what's going on.)

But she died twice - once presumably before John resurrected her (allegedly), and the second time - when she got locked away? Or was there another one? (Still convinced Alecto isn't dead currently.)

Was Alecto's resurrection the same incident, or a different one, to John and Alecto's Lyctoral Ascension?

And who was Alecto... before she died the first time?

The Alecto we see in Harrow's "hallucinations" is quiet, protective of Harrow, secretive. She betrays little emotion, but when she does, it's never... vicious, her spirit so different from Wake in this respect. She seems genuinely sweet, far from the monster we've heard described. Her presence is comforting for Harrow.

We've also heard Augustine say:

“My lord,” said Augustine formally, “you told us the truth about Annabel—about Alecto—because she knew the truth about it too, and you never could control her. Even after two centuries, I’m not sure she ever managed to lie. That was what stayed my hand for such a long time. How would you have asked Alecto the First to lie—how would you have persuaded that mad monster into even an unsophisticated con?” God said, “Don’t call her that.” “A monster, John!” Augustine barked. “She was a bloody monster in a human suit! She was a monster the moment you resurrected her, and you went and made her worse!”

So she couldn't lie, but still "a monster" who John managed to "make worse". But also maybe not the brightest? Excepting the Monster part, she sounds like almost more of a himbo than Gideon.

What powers did she have then, to be so frequently called a monster?

It's very difficult to tangle apart what's actually Alecto, which of John's powers are actually her powers, and which of her post-resurrection/Lyctorhood powers are John's.

I think John's tangy type of magic which heals instantly and puts him back together again from atoms after Mercymorn "kills" him, the power which makes people so compelled to talk and tell him the truth, that's actually Alecto's powers - as discussed in the previous post.

Her powers - hers, not John's, or hers being used through John - post-resurrection and pre - are not very defined, at all, but it is safe to say that she must be very powerful. If I'm right and the citrus instant-powers John uses are actually Alecto's, then she is quite close to being a necromancer herself. I don't think her and John correspond neatly to the necro/cav dichotomy.

The whole thing with Ortus and Nonius shows that words are powerful in the River and possibly outside. I think Alecto's powers are as such that even saying her name can invoke her spirit - which is why John doesn't want her name to be said, ever. I think she is still alive - and the ice and tomb and wards are there to keep her out, and keep her spirit from attaching itself to people and things. I think that's what happened with Harrow when she opened the tomb. Alecto doesn't need a connection to something, or someone, to attach herself to them. Or maybe Harrow's instant love for her was enough. Or maybe the love itself is a manifestation of Alecto's powers? Either way, she did not have to be related to Harrow, or attached to Harrow, to hitch a ride with her. An impenetrable ice cave warded to all hell - not even a mouse would have been able to get in. Probably, Alecto would have been able to possess a mouse and get her spirit, at least, out that way. This is why it was important to keep everyone and everything out of the tomb and lock it forever. Alecto's powers are on the same level, if not higher, than God's.

I think Alecto must have figured out first that resurrection and necromancy was an awful, horrible thing to do that would draw the wrath of dead planets and souls.

I think a lot of the plotting against the emperor is by her design, somehow. That when she "went away" from Harrow in the last few weeks of HtN, she was Doing Something, her soul connecting to the Blood of Eden, or the Resurrection Beasts, or something. It's been established by now, quite formly, that just cus someone's dead - or incapacitated - this doesn't keep them from having influence on the plot. At least for the past eight years, Alecto has been with Harrow, and therefore much freer in how her soul would roam.

I'm hella excited to find out what will happen with Alecto.

This concludes the character section; I'm going to briefly attempt to predict some plot and theorise about Nona before actually getting this liveblog back off the ground!

>> Next: Plot Predictions

#tlt liveblog #the locked tomb liveblog #tlt spoilers #the locked tomb #tlt #gideon the ninth #harrow the ninth #tlt theories #no nona the ninth spoilers please #alecto the first

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

Sebek, Trey: Sugar Sweet and Bitter Step

Finally 👀 Sebek interacting with the dude that reminds him of his father… This is the juicy content I’ve been waiting for 😌 (It fucking slapped btw, did NOT disappoint 🦷 ✨ I especially loved when Sebek was describing the new candies he has tried and he describes pop rocks as candies that fucking attack you asduqbdoas) ASHDBAIDAIDqwehqbyoe8y IT WAS REALLY CUTE WHEN MALLEUS, LILIA, CATER, AND VIL'S VAS WISHED SEBEK-KUN HAPPY BIRTHDAY IN THE TWST YEAR III ANNI LIVESTREAM...

A Boy in Bloom, and his Flowering Future.

“What do you do on your days off?”

"Hmph, I'm glad you asked, human!" Sebek's laughter was smug and resounding. "I spend days off training!"

"You... train to relax? That sounds like an oxymoron."

The birthday boy scoffed. "As a knight and an attendant, there is no such thing as 'relaxing'! I must remain vigilant so as to best protect and serve the young master!!"

"I get that, but... your muscles would be sore after working out so much, right? You'd need to take some time off to recover, otherwise you'd be pushing your body to the brink and risk injuring yourself," Trey calmly pointed out. "I used to train back when I played soccer. Had to cut that short when I worked myself too hard, so I wouldn't want that to happen to you."

A sound like rumbling thunder collected in Sebek's throat. "O-Of course I know something as basic as that! I know to take breaks!! Don't belittle me, human!!

"When I say 'training', I don't mean it purely in a physical capacity! If I am not able to train my body, then I train my mind! As Lilia-sama says, tactical might has changed the course in many critical battles in the history of--"

"Oooh, I get it. You mean general self-improvement." His interviewer snapped his fingers as the clues all neatly fit together in his head. "So you like to read? What sorts of things do you usually go for?"

"A variety. I frequent the Mystery Shop to browse their selection, but Diasomnia and the school archives also contain a number of older volumes.

"Lilia-sama has advised that I expand my worldview, so I have taken it upon myself to read literature from many genres and eras. 'Even picture books have merit, Sebek! You should open your heart to them!' ... so he said."

"No kidding." Trey raised his brows. It certainly sounds like something Lilia would say... though I'm not sure how serious he was about it. "Hey, I've read some books to my little brother and sister before, so I could recommend a few to you."

"Picture books from the Queendom of Roses... I've yet to read those. I dislike having to make requests of others, but... on Lilia-sama's orders, I have no other option. You will provide a list of acceptable readings to me the day after today, understood?!"

"Sure, leave it to me." Trey offered a patient smile. "I gotta say though, I didn't think you'd be concerned about being so worldly. You seem a little too set in your own ways."

Ace and Deuce described him as hard-headed. Even Riddle said Sebek has a hard time handling horses in Equestrian Club because of his attitude.

Sebek looked as though he'd be struck in the heart. He recoiled, his face crumpling with upset.

"Hnngh!! I-I've heard as much from Lilia-sama that this would be a detriment if I am to serve the young master, who will no doubt face many diplomatic issues with other countries. That is why I'm making efforts to expand my horizons by diversifying my reading materials and experiencing new things."

"Such as...?"

"I have read in some texts that a good way to learn about other cultures is to consume their cuisine. I have taken to snacking on baked goods and sweets from different regions of Twisted Wonderland to this end. Cookies, muffins, and candies that the Mystery Shop stocks.

"There are lollipops in various shapes, candy so sour it makes your mouth bleed and colors it bright blue, and little granular candies that assault the taste buds with explosions when they hit your tongue...! Hard candies flavored with apples from different farms in Harveston, chewy taffies made with salt from the Coral Sea, gummy bugs from the Afterglow Savanna that gets stuck between my teeth, candied flowers from the Queendom of Roses..."

"Has the snacking helped you learn anything new about those places or the people that live there?" Trey asked, cocking his head.

Sebek paused to think. Moments later, he, with his full chest, proudly replied, "An Octavinelle student was monopolizing all the peppermint sticks in the shop, so I saw it fit to liberate them from his grasp!!"

"... In other words, you picked a fight with him." Trey sighed. "It’s… a start. A small one, but still a start if it gets you to interact with those outside of Diasomnia. You'll just have to keep working on that—baby steps now so you can be where you want to be in the future, yeah?"

"Indeed...!!" Sebek slammed the end of his broom into the ground, the motion hard and resolute. "If I wish to stand by Malleus-sama's side, I must do all that I can to be worthy of him. To go wherever the young master is... that is my greatest dream!!"

He grinned with his teeth, displaying prominent canines. poking out from between two rows of pearly whites. It was a smile as radiant as the sun.

"Oh, that reminds me." Trey indicated his own mouth. "I hope you're remembering to properly floss and to brush your teeth well after eating all those candies. It's important to take care of your dental hygiene, especially after eating sugary snacks."

"Grrgh...!! Where do you get off on, giving me orders!?"

"I wouldn't call them orders. They were just suggestions--though I think your teeth would be happier if you followed them," Trey joked, trying to lighten the mood.

Sebek's expression creased all the same.

"That you would see fit to suggest anything of the sort to me is offensive!!" the birthday boy grumbled. "My father makes similar remarks, no matter how often I remind him that I am a grown man!"

"Ahahah... I'm sure that's just his way of showing you that he cares. It's hard for any parent to watch their kid grow up. To them, that kid will always be their baby.

"Hmph! R-Ridiculous," Sebek declared. He haughtily turned away, his cheeks tinged pink. There was hesitation, and then an uncharacteristically quiet voice that slipped out. "You... really are like him in every conceivable way. I cannot fathom humans like you sort."

"Exactly why you're trying so hard now." Trey nodded to the sky above. It was a cornflower blue morning with a healthy sprinkling of clouds. "You've been training hard, so let's see you in action."

"D-Do not presume to understand my skill! I'll show you just how powerful I am!! Faster than light, stronger than lightning... I AM HE WHO HAS SWORN TO PROTECT THE YOUNG MASTER!!"

The vow was made, his ambitions announced.

In response to his decree, the broom fizzled to life. It lifted off the ground in a single strong stroke, Sebek easily swinging on. His robes fanned out behind him, fabric flapping loudly in an errant spring breeze.

Magic crackled in the air around them, hot as sparks, bright as stars. His spells matched his energy: loud and proud.

His grip on the handle was as steady as his resolve.

His fierce gaze, focused on the future.

#Sebek Zigvolt #Trey Clover #twst #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #Sebek birthday takeover #something no one asked for #spoilers #disney twisted wonderland #the peppermint stick thing and the Octavinelle student Sebek fought with is a reference to Dorm Uniform Floyd's vignettes

[toodrawtothink]

Just a long needed update! I now have 8 shots left to revise. I. am. so. close.

#GIF #Animated gif #gif animation #character animation #hand drawn animation #2d animation #anny vigil the vigilante #anny vigil #coyote jon #traditional animation

[scripts4dreamers]

Not Your Hero. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

Chapter one, Chapter two, Chapter three, Chapter four, Chapter five

AN: Whaaaaaaat? A chapter of a WIP? From me? Insanity

Characters: Finnick Odair, Coriolanus Snow, Mags Flanagan, James Karakus, Annie Cresta

Pairings: Finnick x reader

Spoiler(s): None

Warning(s): Mentions of blood, death, murder, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, psychological manipulation, intimidation 

Prompt/Inspiration: House in Nebraska - Ethel Cain

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

While the games are on, no one ever really leaves the viewing room. Finnick knew that, all the mentors did, but for you this was a whole new experience. He watched you pace like a caged animal, stress eat from the neverending flow of food brought in by avoxes, and talk with James in a low voice whenever something happened. He knew for a fact that you didn’t sleep at all. Some of the others did, he did, but you just sat on the couch every night with your knees pulled up under your chin, staring at the screen.

Because of that, you watched Adam Donaldson die in real time on the second night. Finnick had stayed up with you, sitting in a shared and quiet vigil because, if he was honest, he’d seen it coming. Maybe you’d seen it too, because the first tear had slipped down your cheek before the careers had even noticed the smoke from Adam’s small campfire and made the connection. Finnick wished he could say it had been quick and painless, an arrow to the heart, a snapped neck. It wasn’t. It had been a slow day and Finnick knew better than anyone how those kids were trained, first and foremost, to entertain. He tried not to watch Annie, tried not to watch you watching Annie, reminded himself not to tell you that Annie was a good girl, really, that she was just doing as she was told. Compassion would come later, he promised himself, for now you were living one of the worst moments in a mentor’s life. You wouldn’t appreciate a spirited defense of your tribute’s killer.

It took the careers three full hours to finally put Adam Donaldson out of his misery, and you didn’t make a sound the entire time. You didn’t shift or move or eat. You barely blinked. Adam screamed and bled and died, and Finnick watched you bear it, adding another lost life to the list of sins you could never really really be forgiven for. A few mentors tried to stop by and comfort you but you brushed them off or snapped for them to leave you alone, like an animal in a trap. Finnick was the only person who was spared your annoyance so he held your hand and didn’t let go. He didn’t try and tell you that it wasn’t your fault, he knew you wouldn’t have listened. Instead, he just promised that it would be over soon. Just hang on, he whispered again and again, just hold on for a little longer and then it’ll be over. If nothing else, it would be over.

When the dust settled and the remaining body fragments had been collected, Finnick had watched something in you deflate and his heart pinched. He knew that moment, the pain, the guilt, the relief. You’d made it through. You’d gritted your teeth and made it through.

“First one’s the hardest,” Haymitch had slurred, shocking Finnick, who hadn’t thought Haymitch had even noticed what was happening, “Gets easier,” he shrugged, “or so they keep telling me.”

You gave him a look, as though you were weighing up the benefits of biting his head off, but eventually you just nodded, “Thanks, Haymitch.”

“Don’t thank me,” he replied, “I didn’t say it gets bearable.”

Finnick felt a rush of protectiveness sweep over him, but he forced himself to just stay at your side until you assured him that you would be alright, and then he allowed himself a rest. You returned to your pattern. You watched the male tribute from Four get beheaded by a rival a few days later, watched Serena slip away into the darkness, clutching a bleeding shoulder that wouldn’t heal, watched Annie’s psyche start to crack as she isolated herself and cradled the air, imagining it was her partner’s bloody body. And you told it all to Finnick each morning in a dull, monotone voice, the bags under your eyes getting darker and darker with each passing day. He wanted to help. He wished that there was something he could say or do to help you deal with the grief, but he couldn’t. He had to focus, to keep his eye on the end point and, right now, he had other things on his mind.

Annie was AWOL.

Losing Ajack had broken something inside of her. You’d told him the whole story; about how he’d gotten into an argument with the boy from District one, how they’d pushed and shoved at one another until the boy from one had picked up an ax and ended it, hacking at Ajack’s neck while his partner held Annie back. Apparently she’d screamed at the boy to stop, begged him even, and after Ajack’s head had been completely severed, she’d held his body for so long that the hovercraft hadn’t been able to collect it until the early hours of the morning. After that, she’d vanished, disappearing into the bush without any supplies. Whenever the camera found her now, she was muttering to herself, or fiddling with her fingers, or staring out into space like she wasn’t there anymore.

Finnick had never felt more helpless. He’d chewed his nails down to the beds, and used every tool of persuasion in his arsenal to keep sponsors from pulling out. He supplied Annie with food and water, with sleeping gear and climbing supplies. None of it had helped. Now, as he clung to the very edges of his sanity and wracked his brain, he had to admit: he was out of tricks. There was nothing else he could do. The sponsors had pulled out in favor of the pair from district one; Annie had no weapons and, even if she did, she was in no fit state to use them and, worst of all, it had been nearly two days since the last gruesome death. That usually meant one thing; the crowd would be getting antsy and the gamemakers would be planning something awful. He watched Annie’s lifeless body on the screen as she twitched and muttered in her sleep, his heart twisting into painful knots.

“Finnick!” Annie screeched, giggling as she scrambled up the rocks and away from his attacks, “Stop! I don’t want to get wet.”

“Why?” he laughed, pushing up off the ocean floor and letting himself float on his back.

The cool water lapped against his temples, filling his ears and cradling his body in its strong, reliable arms. He loved the water, lived for it. There was nowhere that he felt more at home, or more like himself than when he could taste saltwater on his lips and feel sand on his skin. His stomach churned with anxiety and a mixture of fear and anticipation, but he breathed in deep, filling his lungs with bright sunlight and the smell of warm ocean rocks and let the rocking of the waves soothe him.

Annie was perched on the rocks like a seabird, her long dark hair swirling and tangling in the wind as she watched him swim, a kind of quiet longing in her eyes. Not for Finnick himself of course, but for his comfort, for his ease in the ocean. Annie was terrified of the sea, she always had been. She was a strong swimmer, as all the kids in district four were, but she’d never trusted it, never truly believed that it could carry her and support her weight. She always felt, privately, in the back of her mind, that it was just waiting to drag her under, to a dark watery grave. Finnick opened one eye and gave her, what he hoped was, a confident smile.

“Like what you see, Cresta?” he joked

She scoffed, a delicate blush coloring her cheeks, “You wish.” she paused, worrying at the inside of her cheek, “How are you never nervous? It’s reaping day, and you haven’t even broken a sweat.”

Finnick pushed forward, tipping into a steady tread, and shrugged, “Nothing to be nervous about. We’re fourteen, Annie, it’s not going to be us.”

“It might be,” she argued, “York said that none of the older kids are volunteering this year.”

“Why wouldn’t they be?”

Annie shrugged, “They just aren’t.”

“But they have to.” He insisted, “That’s the rules.”

“We haven’t won in years,” Annie reminded him, “I think they’re just sick of volunteering to die.”

Finnick pressed his lips together, feeling the cold hand of dread creeping into his chest again. No volunteers? That was unheard of. What would happen now? A normal reaping? Could anyone be picked now? Could he be picked? He met Annie’s eye and saw his own terror reflected there in vibrant sea green.

“It won’t be us, Annie,” he assured her, hoping that he sounded more confident than he was, “I promise you, it won’t be us.”

Finnick’s eyes started to sting and he swore softly under his breath, burying his head in his hands and carding his fingers through his hair. It felt like his heart was shattering piece by piece and dragging him down into the depths along with it. Out of the corner of his eye Finnick saw a familiar shadow and, despite everything, some of the tension in his shoulders relaxed. You collapsed onto the couch beside him, reaching out and resting a hand on his back comfortingly. God, he hated how good that felt. He hated how he longed to lean into your touch, to bury his head in the crook of your neck and weep like the broken boy he was. I’m just a kid! He wanted to scream, I can’t do this! I can’t do this anymore!

“I know, Fin,” you whispered, as though you could read his mind, “you’re doing so well.”

A tear slipped down his cheek and he shook his head frantically, “Annie’s screwed. The sponsor’s are gone, she’s barely eating. There’s nothing I can do to save her.”

You were quiet for a moment, “There’s never anything we can do, really. It’s always just a big gamble.”

“I know but-”

“And you aren’t out of sponsors. I spoke to my guys and they’re going to back Annie since-” You pressed your lips together, “since Adam’s gone and Serena-well-she’s not going to be able to hold on much longer.”

Finnick’s head shot up, a mixture of relief and incredulousness filling him so suddenly that he wasn’t even sure he’d heard you right.

“What? Y/N, no-I can’t accept that.”

You shrugged, a hint of a sad smile at the corner of your mouth, “Good thing you don’t have a say then. Take the help, Finnick. If not for you, then for Annie. She needs you on top of your game right now.”

He remembered the way Adam had called for his mother, how you’d flinched as each slow, deliberate cut had chipped away at the person he’d been until there was only a bloody corpse. Annie had been a part of that but, looking at you now, it didn’t seem to matter.

He shook his head again, the momentary relief being swallowed up again by hopelessness, “She can’t win. She can’t even seem to walk in a straight line right now.”

For a long moment you just watched the screen together, two victors acting in perfect synchronicity. You watched the pair from district one slice through the underbrush like demigods, looking powerful and determined and painfully self-assured. Smart money was on them, anyone could see that. They had everything on their side; all the training, all the sponsors, all the gear and, most dangerously, that deadly team mentality that would keep them together until it stopped serving them. Finnick knew how powerful that bond could be, it had kept him alive more than once during his games and his every instinct told him it would get this pair through it too. However, as useful as weapons, sponsors, food and allies were, you’d had none of that. You’d been alone from the moment you were reaped. You had no skills, no real buzz, no friends. No one had given you more than half a look in the Capitol, and you’d come out on top anyway. The thought gave Finnick hope. Maybe Annie wasn’t completely screwed. Maybe, with you by his side, Finnick could still find a way to bring her home.

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

No one had really believed Annie Cresta had a shot. Not James, not Chaff, not Brutus, not Seeder, not even Mags really. When Ajack had died, every reliable metric in the book had said that district four’s hopes of having a winner on their hands had died with him. But every reliable metric in the book had also had you pegged as an early death, so you said fuck the metrics, and believed in her anyway. The more you felt Finnick give up, the harder you believed. The more other mentors started to gently suggest that you let her go and move on, the more vehemently you insisted that she wasn’t out of the game yet and redoubled your efforts. At some point over the past few days, possibly when she’d gone against her team and given Adam the death he’d long since earned, Annie Cresta had started to mean something to you.

She was every discounted tribute, every long shot who got written off and left to die. She was you, and she was the tributes you’d already failed to save and, maybe, if you could find a way to bring her home, you would be able to live with yourself for letting Adam and Serena die. Serena’s arm was infected now, badly. Experts said she had maybe three days of agony in front of her and there was nothing you could do to save her. But Annie was healthy. Some part of her mind had gotten her to eat and drink, she wasn’t physically injured, and a lifetime of having enough to eat gave her stamina.

She could win, and she would, you told yourself again and again. She had to.

You told Finnick too, and when you did some of his old sparkle would threaten to rear its head and he would almost smile. Almost. It never lasted. He slipped in and out, between resigned, grieving and unimaginably tense. Sometimes, you had the sneaking suspicion that your hand between his shoulder blades was all that was keeping him anchored to this reality. So you kept it there, and you fed him bits of biscuits and sandwiches, got him to drink water, shower and sleep, and you wondered how long he would last, and what would be left of him if Annie didn’t make it out.

Selfishly, unforgivably, a part of you wondered if he was in love with her. You would never ask, of course. It wasn’t your business, it wasn’t the right time, but you couldn’t stop the wondering. Was Annie the one who Finnick lay in bed pining for? Was she the woman he daydreamed about and had planned a future with? Did it bother you if she was? Always, it came back to the same single fact; it didn’t matter. You wanted Finnick to be happy, and you needed Annie to come home. That was that.

Some days you were so close to the edge that it was only the memory of Finnick’s voice in your head that kept you from crumbling.

Just hold on, he’d whispered, you’re so strong, you can do this, it’ll all be over soon. It was like a mantra now, more than a prayer, a promise that this too would pass. There would be time to fall apart, time to grieve, just not yet. First you had to get through, and get Annie through.

You spent your 17th birthday throwing a massive party for potential sponsors. It was the event of the season, the magazines exclaimed, absolutely anyone who was anyone was invited. Finnick and Mags weren’t there, a few noted, but that was to be expected this far into the games. Your prep team hid the signs of exhaustion under layers of makeup and pressed fake finger nails over your chewed ones. Your stylist pulled you into a tight, revealing outfit that, months ago, you would have been too self conscious to wear out, strapped you into some heels and you were ready. The music was loud, the press was there and the party lasted all night. You let the tv crews interview you, you gushed about the Capitol, choking down disgust. You danced with those victors who had come in support of you, and you flirted and teased your way to raising enough money to buy Annie some iodine for her drinking water.

Back at the control center, after you had scrubbed off the remnants of the powders and creams and sickly sweet perfumes and slipped into something more comfortable, Chaff brought you a cake shaped like a lightning bolt. James took responsibility for all the presents the other victors, and your various admirers, had lavished you with. You and Finnick ate pieces of cake together on the couch, sighing with relief as Annie successfully treated her water and took her first long drink in two days. You didn’t think about your last birthday.

After Chaff and James had led everyone in a genuinely enthusiastic bout of “Happy Birthday”, Finnick nudged you with his arm, tearing your attention away from the screens, where the pair from one were hot on the trail of the boy from nine.

“Happy birthday, Y/N/N,” he said softly, his deep green eyes sparkling with something so sweet it made your teeth ache, “I-”

“You don’t have to say anything,” you interrupted feeling, with certainty, that he was going to apologize for not being with you in the sponsor pit, “there’s more important things right now.”

Finnick smiled with a fondness that had you feeling uncomfortably found out, and he strung an arm around you loosely, turning both of your bodies so you were facing each other. It was the first time you’d seen him look fully away from the screens and monitors in days.

“I was going to say that I’m…I’m glad we met,” he explained, “and that I hope, for your next birthday, we can do something a little less morbid.”

You pressed your lips together, feeling oddly touched, and tried not to think about how, for that to happen, both of your tributes next year would have to be dead.

“Thanks, Finn,” you said instead, “I’m glad we met too.”

He took your hand and kissed your knuckles gently, sending a tingle of electricity through your entire body as he pressed a small gift into your palm.

“For later,” he explained, as you examined the parcel.

You nodded in understanding, slipped the parcel into your bag and, again acting with the perfect synchronicity of two people with identical goals, you both turned back to your monitors to watch for signs of trouble.

Two weeks into the games, after everyone had written her off, you knew Annie had won. It happened quickly, a few days of rain, some flooding and a crack. The dam seemed as though it fell in slow motion and, in mere moments, all the perfectly laid plans Cashmere and Gloss had been working on all season fell to ruin. Serena barely stirred as the wave crashed down on her, by all accounts she died in her sleep and you counted it as a mercy.

The gamemakers slowed the wave, so it didn’t flatten the competition entirely but, by nightfall, even those who could swim were starting to struggle. The beautiful arena was now entirely flooded and Annie was swimming. Not paddling around, not hanging on for dear life. Instead, for the first time since Ajack’s death, she was virtually coming to life. She gilded through the water like a sea otter, evading the other tributes with ease and finding safe areas to rest away from the dangerous currents and undertow.

“She’s going to make it,” Finnick said incredulously, “Oh my god, Y/N, she’s going to make it.”

You nodded, “Hell yeah she is.”

A few stragglers held on for a while but, after another two days, Annie Cresta was airlifted out of the drowned arena, the official victor of the 70th Hunger Games. When the final canon sounded you couldn’t contain the sound of relief and excitement that slipped past your lips, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. It was like watching a dream play out in real life. When you looked at the screen you saw yourself, felt the momentary rush of terror followed by pure ecstasy as you realised that the impossible had happened: you had won, you were going home.

She had won. She was coming home.

If you were happy, Finnick was joy personified. He leapt to his feet and cheered, laughing with the unrestrained incredulousness of someone who had been well and truly hopeless for ages. You smiled up at him as he watched the screen hungrily seeing, for a moment, his youth written on his body like a sign. It was easy to forget sometimes that he was only eighteen. It was easy to forget that you yourself were only technically an adult with how old and world weary you already felt. You tore your eyes away from Finnick and let them fall on Mags who was weeping silently, a wrinkled hand pressed to the base of her throat as she smiled. She caught your eye and extended her free hand for you to take. You gave it a squeeze and you hoped she could feel your sincerity, how truly happy for district four you were. A year after you had personally ripped their chances away, they were bringing home a win. It felt almost fair.

“I didn’t think I would see another win,” she explained to you softly, “not in my lifetime. I didn’t think I would get to bring another one home.”

“But you did,” you said, looking back at Finnick, “you did it.”

Mags shook her head, giving your hand another squeeze, “You did it, the both of you. Finnick is a wonderful mentor, but even he couldn’t have gotten any more help to her without your sponsors. I won’t forget that.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I won’t forget that,” she repeated, “and I’ll make sure he never does either.” she finished, gesturing at Finnick with her head.

At that exact moment Finnick seemed to remember your existence and he turned back, sweeping you up into his arms and spinning you around like a carousel.

“We did it!” He laughed, “We did it, Y/N, we did it!”

“We did,” you agreed, laughing fondly as you detangled yourself.

For the briefest moment when you broke the contact Finnick seemed crestfallen, but it was over so quickly, swallowed up by his happiness, that you almost thought you must have imagined it. He pulled Mags into a similar embrace, whispering something to her too low for anyone but Mags to hear before looking back at you.

“You and me, Y/N/N, we fucking did it!”

You heard Adam’s voice in your head, saw him strain at the restraints on his wrists as he was tortured and jeered at. His sister had watched that. Sweet, kind Genna, who laughed a little too loudly and never quite knew when to stop being friendly, had watched her older brother get systematically and clinically taken apart and she would probably never be herself again now. Serena had been just kid, she hadn’t even started high school yet. She died after days of agony, with a raging fever. Her father had wept when she was reaped. They had been yours, and you’d been less than useless to them. Suddenly you were so tired, so drained. How many days had it been since you slept? The fragile pieces of you were cracking under the strain. James caught your eye, the corners of his mouth tense with suppressed grief. You don’t know what you were looking for really. Not comfort, not saving, maybe an acknowledgement? The shared recognition that something had happened, something had been lost here.

“You lot better get ready,” James said to Finnick and Mags, coming to your rescue, the way he was wont to do, “Annie is going to need you both. You don’t want her to be alone when she wakes up.”

Finnick looked like he wanted to argue, but a brief word from Mags seemed to remind him where he was. He shot you and your mentor an apologetic look, but you could still see the shimmering, bubbling excitement just under the surface, ready to burst forward at any second.

“Thank you,” he said seriously, “both of you. Just-” he breathed, letting out a burst of relieved laughter, “thank you so much.”

You felt James’ hand on your shoulder, a rough but familiar anchor to reality and you gave Finnick a genuine smile. Just a little longer, you heard him whisper in your mind, just keep it together for a little longer.

“Of course,” James said, speaking for you both, “it’s the least we could do.”

That was a lie, but you all knew it, so it couldn’t hurt anyone.

“I’m so happy for you,” you said, “truly.”

Some of Finnick’s franticness seemed to seep out of him into something softer and fonder and you watched, in real time, as he remembered where you were, what you’d lost, what you’d been through.

“Y/N-” he started, moving as though to step toward you.

Your eyes were pricking now, the suppressed panic and rage rearing its head so powerfully that you were almost frightened of yourself. James tightened his grip on your shoulder and, in one fluid motion, moved subtly between you and Finnick, angling his body in such a way as to not be obvious but still clearly making himself a barrier. Finnick recoiled, a flash of hurt crossing his perfectly sculpted face. You wanted to assure him, your instinct was to reach out and promise that you were fine, that he’d done nothing wrong, that of course you wanted to stay and be with him and Mags, but you were just so fragile. James felt like a lifeline, like your protector, swooping in and delivering you from the private hell you’d been living in and, if you were honest, there was nothing you wanted more than to fall apart in private.

Mags tracked the interaction with her eyes, tugging Finnick’s arm gently as he stared James down.

“Come, boy,” she said soothingly, “Annie will be waiting.”

Finnick gave you one last deeply apologetic look, and then nodded, letting Mags pull him away. James didn’t move. He stayed where he was, waiting until every last mentor, even drunk old Haymitch Abernathy, had slipped out of the control center before he stepped forward and crouched down in front of you.

His face was creased with concern, his dark eyes filled with the deep understanding that only someone who had personally put you back together more than once could ever have, and you absolutely shattered. In moments you had collapsed into a fit of broken sobbing, keening like a wounded animal as weeks of pent up anxiety and fear rushed out at once. To his credit, James didn’t try to calm you down, he just let you cry. He’d always been wonderful at knowing what you needed, how to get you through the pain without smothering you or talking down to you. Even before you were a victor. Even when you were just a scared fifteen year old girl who’d been handed a death sentence.

It felt like you stayed there for an eon, working through every last drop of resentment and disappointment in yourself until there was nothing left but a sort of deep, throbbing ache.

“I am happy for them,” you eventually said, voice shaky through your tears, “r-really I a-am.”

“I know,” James assured you kindly, “I know, but you can be happy for them and furious for us at the same time. I know they were when you won last year.”

You nodded, feeling the first slivers of solid ground beneath your feet again as you wiped your face and took deep, steadying breaths.

“Did you cheer and twirl people around too?” you asked, trying for a joking tone and almost succeeding.

“Oh yeah,” he answered, “you bet I did. I was fist pumping the air and shouting like a maniac, I thought Finnick was going to swing on me. I think I threw a chair.”

“What?” you laughed incredulously, “You did not.”

“I’m pretty sure I did,” James insisted, “Y/N/N I was so proud of you. I cried like a baby for days.”

You sniffed and wiped your eyes again, welcoming the change of topic, “You did?”

He nodded, giving you another fond look and giving your shoulder a squeeze, “You were amazing, you did everything right, made good on every opportunity. I did my job, I set things up but you just…” he shook his head, whistling, “you just ran with it. I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years and I’ve never seen anyone come close to the upset you pulled off.”

You felt something that could have been pride, a stubborn urge to take some pleasure in your win, before the sadness won out again and your lip began to tremble.

“Fat lot of good it did them,” you said, “fat lot of good I did them.”

James sighed, “That’s what I’m trying to say here, there’s nothing you could have done. You made it out because you played smart, you fought hard, you kept your wits about you and you clawed your way to the top, not because I did something to get you out.”

“I had sponsors.”

“Not at first,” James admitted, “not enough, not nearly enough. You convinced more people to put their money behind Adam from the start than I’d managed to rustle up for you. At the end of the day the money means jack shit, there’s only so much we can do.”

“I told them to shift their pledge to Annie,” you whispered, Serena’s shaking body flashing behind your eyes like snippets of film, “I could have poured more into Serena. I told them not to, I told them to sign with Finnick and-”

“And Annie won.” he reminded you kindly, “Those rich idiots will blame you for their massive payouts and they’ll trust you implicitly now. How many more kids will you be able to help with their money in the coming years, hmm? The handful of die hard rich people we still had available to us couldn’t have raised the funds to save Serena from that infection, Ash, you know that.”

“I could’ve done something! I could’ve-”

He shook his head, “No, you couldn’t have. Listen, whatever you think you could’ve done, I’ve tried it. I’ve tortured myself with what-ifs for longer than you’ve been alive, they never work. Trust me, you did everything right.”

You tried your hardest to listen, to really take in what James was saying like he was offering you a balm for your aching heart, but the pain just sat there in your chest, stubbornly refusing to dull.

You felt your eyes start to prick again and you longed for home, for your mother’s embrace and the safety of your room.

“Then why does it hurt so much?” You cried, collapsing into James’ chest again as you devolved into a fresh bout of sobs.

James doesn’t have an answer for that, so he just held you close and tried to be as comforting as he possibly could be. James’ feelings for you were….surprising, to him at least. When he’d turned thirty-nine he’d joked to Ivette that the only thing he wanted for his fortieth was to make one return journey to the district with a living person. Just one, he’d laughed with an edge of franticness, he wasn’t asking for the plethora of success stories the mentors from some of the other districts had, he just wanted one.

It had been a joke, mostly, but here you were. When he’d first met you on the train after the reaping, there’d been a sort of ache in the back of his teeth, like the ghosts of the countless hours spent biting down on his jaw were finally coming back to haunt him. You were so young, he remembers thinking, not yet sixteen and already doomed to die. Only…there was something about you, something in your eyes that felt like defiance. It felt like anger, like the will to live. James had looked at you on the train and had seen himself, but even that hadn’t been enough to override his deep dread. He’d lost too many to have any real hope for your survival. At most, he hoped you would die quickly, and without suffering.

He still did his job, of course. He smiled, he made contacts with possible sponsors, liaised with stylists and publicists, he gave you advice on how to play smart, and he mapped out a place along his spine to tattoo your name, alongside the nearly forty others he carried with him, when you died. Unfortunately, as the big day came closer, James had gotten sort of fond of you. You were funny and smart, and you had a sharp tongue that made him laugh incessantly, but that also spoke to how personable you could be. Your interview had been a smash hit. You had an instinctual knack for grabbing an audience’s attention and holding it. For the first time in decades, James had felt something resembling hope, but he crushed it down. He reminded himself that there was only so much he could do, that personability wasn’t enough. He’d settled down and re-resigned himself to watching you die and delivering you home in a box.

The games started and when you made it through the first day, and the second, and the third, that damn spark of hope had come back in full force. It was small, he tried to temper it but when, on the fourth day, you’d managed to literally tear your way out of a net with a combination of your hands and teeth, and had successfully rewired the trap to spring up and capture your original capturer, he’d known that you could win. James had never worked the sponsor circuit that hard. He barely slept, he did anything and everything he could to get you whatever you needed; medicine for your bloody hands, food, some wire and, eventually, a current generator. He’d poured twenty-two years of dashed hopes and dreams into you, broken every carefully cultivated rule he’d ever set for himself about not getting attached and, when Claudius Templesmith announced that you were the winner of the sixty-ninth annual Hunger Games, he had wept like a baby and cheered until his voice was hoarse. Just two months shy of his fortieth birthday, James had gotten to make his return journey with you by his side, broken, battered and scarred, but alive.

Afterwards, James couldn’t quite shake his feelings of responsibility for you. He was still your mentor and you were still his tribute, and now the game he was determined to get you through was just life, the After of it all. He had never been able to bring himself to find a nice man and settle down or to have some kids of his own, but if he had, he imagined he might feel about them the way he felt about you. So this, sitting with you in his arms while you fell to pieces…well, it hurt pretty damn bad.

“Y/N/N,” he said gently, when your body had stopped heaving and your violent sobs had softened and faded, “let’s get you home, yeah?”

You nodded, wiping your eyes with the heel of your palm, and James couldn’t help but see your youth. You were a couple of days past 17, practically a baby in his eyes, and already the kind of tired that most adults don’t get until their mid-forties. You knew too much, you’d seen too many horrors and carried too much grief to ever be carefree, the way a 17 year-old should be and, for the millionth time, James felt the rush of pure, black rage bubble up in his stomach. He would tear the Capitol down for this, he promised himself. Not today. Not now, when Snow could take revenge for anything James did out on you and Ivette, but someday. Someday he would find a spark and he’d do what he did best, what had gotten him in that victor’s chair in the first place; he’d stoke it into a blaze, an inferno that would burn out the infection of the Hunger Games for good.

You let your mentor pull you up and walk you back to your apartments, now empty of tributes, and you clung to him like a child, wondering why you could so easily let yourself be held by him, but not by your own parents. Some small part of you wondered if this is how it started, if all those lonely victors you’d met, who had no one but each other, had once had family and friends who they couldn’t bear to be around anymore because they reminded them too much of a version of themselves that was long dead. It felt different, you noticed, as you and James sat down for dinner at an empty table. Not bad, just different, knowing that, on every floor but one, someone like you, with more scars than they deserved, was sitting down to dinner in an equally vacant apartment. Everyone had failed except Mags and Finnick. It should have felt depressing and morbid, and it was, but it was also a kind of solidarity. You weren’t suffering alone. The Capitol had done this to all of you, together and, in a way, that meant none of you were alone. Maybe this was your new home, maybe this was what you got now.

You waited until you were alone in your room to open Finnick’s present. It was small, about the size of a plum, wrapped in soft blue paper and twine. It looked too rustic for the Capitol, you noted with a sudden rush of warmth, as though he’d brought it from home just for you. Slowly, being careful not to tear the wrapping paper, you peeled it open, revealing a beautiful spiral shell, cleaned and polished, and woven bracelet. It was a combination of brown leather, blue chord and flat pearls braided together carefully, with practice and skill. Finnick and Mags both wore similar bracelets, you’d seen them weaving them aimlessly whenever they got stressed, but this was different. This one had been made for you. It wasn’t flashy, or polished, but it fit your wrist perfectly and you knew that, if it was your choice, you’d wear it forever. Slowly, you pushed yourself up and made your way over to the phone, dialing the extension for the floor below you.

“Y/N,” Finnick said, without hesitation, on the third ring, “I’m so sorry, I can’t believe I was so tactless, I-”

“What would you have done if I was James?” You interrupted, smiling despite yourself, “I could have been James, you know?”

Finnick paused and then laughed, his voice tinged with barely suppressed exhaustion, “But you’re not James, are you? You’re my-” he corrected himself, “you’re Y/N/N. Mags made me promise to give you some space, but I knew you’d call.”

You hummed in agreement, worrying at the inside of your cheek as the silence stretched, warm and comfortable, “How is she?” you eventually asked.

“Annie?” Finnick asked, “she’s…she’s alive. That’s all that matters.” he continued with a deep sigh, “Her mind is fragile right now, I’m not sure she understands what’s happened exactly, but…yeah.”

“It’s early days, Finn,” you replied instinctively, “you remember what it was like at the start. I’m sure you were a little fragile too. She’s been out of the arena for less than 5 hours, give her time.”

“I knew where I was,Y/N,” he countered ruefully, “I knew it was over, I knew I’d won.”

You sighed, “Give her time,” you repeated, “she’ll come back to you when she’s ready.”

“The doctors say she had a psychotic break,” Finnick said, his voice small and vulnerable, “they say she might not ever…that she might always be…”

“She’s alive,” you interrupted, reminding him of his earlier words, “you’ve got the rest of your lives to figure out how to move forward from this, and yeah maybe she’ll always be a little fragile. That’s alright, we’ll take care of her when she needs us to.”

“We will?” Finnick asked hopefully.

“Of course we will,” you insisted, “you, me, Mags, Chaff, James, even Haymitch. We’re all here for you, and for her.”

“I’m sure Haymitch has some thoughts about that,” Finnick replied, jokingly.

You smiled, “Yeah well, he’ll have to take it up with me if he does.”

“Terrifying,” Finnick said, and you could hear the smile in his voice. Again, you sat in silence, just enjoying the sound of one another’s breathing, before Finnick continued, “ Did you open your present?”

You looked down at the bracelet, “Of course I did. Thank you, by the way, it’s beautiful.”

“Pretty bracelet for a pretty girl, what can I say? Just made sense,” Finnick joked, slipping into his old seductive persona, which pulled a breathless laugh from your chest. You could imagine the catlike grin on his face as he lounged against the wall, all faux grace and elegance, the picture of destructive beauty. “But really, you like it?” he asked in his regular voice.

“I love it,” you promised.

There was a pause on the line, and then Finnick let out a shaky breath. You could feel the exhaustion in your own body catching up to you again, the weeks of staying awake using expensive Capitol medication finally coming for their due.

“I-uh-I need some sleep,” you explained, “I’ll see you soon, Finn.”

“See you soon, kid,” he replied, “and thank you again for-”

“Stop thanking me,” you insisted, fondly, “and don’t call me kid.”

You hung up before you had a chance to change your mind and, as you lay down in your bed and drifted off to sleep, the ghosts of the veldt crept in, joined by two new faces; a tall, lanky boy with a sister who laughed too loud, and a young girl, clutching an infected shoulder, writhing with fever.

—

Finnick stared at the phone for a long time after you hung up, trying to parse his emotions in a way that made sense. His heart was a complete wreck, torn between grief and joy and hope and, fuck it, why hide it, love. Annie was alive, but broken. You were safe, but exhausted. He had his family, but he had secrets, and he’d never be able to stop towing the line without risking losing it all again.

“I love you, Y/N,” he whispered into the empty air, covering his mouth with his hand.

Beetee had assured him that he’d blocked the audio bugs in the apartments, but old habits die hard, and Finnick wasn’t taking any chances. Not with this. Not with you. He ached for the feeling of your hand between his shoulder blades, the comforting weight that had kept him grounded for weeks and that he’d grown to rely on without even noticing it. You had a strange way of worming your way into him like that, like a drug. One hit and he was hooked for months, chasing more time, chasing more closeness.

“Finnick, dinner’s ready!” Mags called from the dining room, “The doctor sent us updated reports on Annie.”

“Coming!” He responded, casting one last look at the telephone as he left, adjusting the band of woven leather, chord and pearls on his wrist.

#jordsie #jordsie writes #The Hunger Games #thg #thg imagine #hunger games #hunger games imagine #the hunger games imagine #finnick odair #finnick x reader #finnick odair x reader #finnick imagine #finnick odair imagine #finnick x you #finnick odair x you #reader insert

[magic-is-something-we-create]

EMBER TIMBER - The Millennium Saga [Firebreathers ; Echoseers ; Goddess-Touched]

I pay my respects to the quiet rebellion by relighting the candles of their vigil. By snapping the leafy mark-pairs of one of the stolen wreaths out of the slotted wooden ring that held them, and leaving the ring among the other symbols of silent support. If I could do more, I would.

Basics:

They/them - Genderfluid

Biromantic Gray-asexual - 21 (~23 on Earth)

First-generation Mae Ehlf - Fire Mage

Where they begin:

We meet Ember on a busy street at the height of the Night Market in their hometown of Aree, picking pockets to make up the difference between the week's pay and rent at the inn their family is calling home for the time being. Orphaned at eleven, and losing their last remaining guardian at seventeen, they and their twin brother are the only ones caring for their five other siblings--a task made all that much harder after Ember quit the corps shortly after that number dropped from six, never making it to the front lines and never seeing a paycheck.

But if there's one thing they did get from the corps, it's an aim unlike anything Aree's ever seen in another archer, even their father.

What they find themself confronting:

When Ember picks from the same pocket twice in as many days, their conscience starts to kick in.

When they go to give some of what they stole back the next time they stumble on the poor soul, they're surprised with an entire wallet being pressed into their hands with an invitation to join the rebellion tucked between enough money to cover their rent for months.

They've been wanting to help. Now they can.

But are they prepared for what comes after?

Important connections: (intros will be linked when posted)

Family: Nimbus, Autumn, Dusk, Ash, and Oak Timber. Formerly Starlight, Luka, and Akari Timber, and Lileya Wolfsbane (all deceased).

Friends: Gabbro (partner), Annie (best friend), and Andy Meywin, K'Ron Isa.

Enemies: Genli Rainer (Godfather; former drill sergeant), Artrix Palm (corrupt Citylord of Aree), and Ruti Palm (in solidarity with Gab).

MUSIC

Themes - Knights Templar by Adriel Fair, Between Worlds by Adriel Fair, The Hero Within by James Paget

Vibe(s) - Dirty by grandson, Six Feet by Patent Pending, Brother by Kodaline

#writeblr #character intro #wip intro #original writing #original character #the millennium saga #tms intros #snip #my.art

[arcobalengo]

La storia del Comitato Terapie Precoci meriterebbe di essere raccontata in uno di quei grandi film alla Steven Spielberg, dove persone comuni vengono scosse da una consapevolezza improvvisa e qualcosa le spinge a trasformare le loro esistenze, fino a quel momento perfettamente normali, in vite rivoluzionarie. (Altro che il film sull'inventore della bomba atomica). Comincia con i bollettini dei morti, le lugubri conferenze stampa che blindano le persone in casa, le immagini di Bergamo, i camion militari che trasportano le bare di gente morta per una malattia gravissima e sconosciuta. Fin da subito, però, alcuni medici si accorgono dell'assurdità di affrontare una patologia che viene definita mortale con l'attesa, in fondo lo sanno anche i bambini che ogni malattia prima si cura e meglio è. Allora visitano come hanno sempre fatto, provano con dei farmaci di uso comune, ignorano il clima di terrore. Nelle loro teste risuonano i principi a cui hanno prestato giuramento il giorno in cui sono diventati medici. Un avvocato, noto per delle cause calcistiche di rilievo nazionale, si propone di organizzarli, li raccoglie insieme, elabora un meccanismo per smistare le richieste attraverso un gruppo Facebook. Intanto viene formalizzato un protocollo, lo discutono con luminari di tutto il mondo, lo sottopongono a degli studi. L'influenza è più pesante di quelle stagionali, ma la cura funziona, i medici e i volontari ricevono continue conferme di guarigione, anche da persone di 80, 90 anni. Da decine diventano centinaia, da centinia migliaia. Salvare vite fa scorrere l'adrenalina, medici e volontari lavorano di notte, rinunciano al proprio tempo libero. Ma in televisione continua il bollettino dei morti e gli annunci delle istutuzioni, che dovrebbero evitare il panico, sembrano sempre più una strategia di manipolazione psicologica per generare allarme: "rinunciamo all'autunno per salvare il Natale, rinunciamo al Natale per salvare la Pasqua..." I medici vogliono spiegare al ministro che il modo di curare esiste, ma il ministro si rifiuta di incontrarli. Allora il noto avvocato passa alle manifere forti: ricorre al TAR per abolire il protocollo Tachipirina e vigile attesa, il TAR gli dà ragione, ma il consiglio di Stato impugna la sentenza. Ormai è chiaro che quel protocollo non è solo un errore. E' qualcosa di indicibile, che fa paura solo pensare. Per smuovere le istituzioni vengono organizzate due manifestazioni: una a Roma e una Milano. Le piazze si riempiono, partecipano decine di migliaia di persone. Dalle piazze sale spontaneo un grido rivolto al governo: "criminali". I media ignorano, oppure minimizzano. Un sito di fact checking, diretto da un noto giornalista televisivo, arriva a dire che si tratta della "solita manifestazione". Eppure mai, nella storia repubblicana, si era vista una piazza con migliaia di medici che, invece di aumenti di stupendio o diritti sindacali, chiedono di poter curare le persone efficacemente. Il ministero continua ad ignorare le richieste di confronto, anche quando una terza manifestazione viene organizzata proprio davanti al suo portone. Quando inizia la vaccinazione è impossibile allontanare il sospetto che negare le cure serviva proprio a giustificare la violenta campagna di inoculazioni. Ma questo non si può dire perché si rischia di essere etichettati come complottisti.

Purtroppo l'unica cosa che manca a questa storia è un lieto fine. Le dichiarazioni del presidente di AIFA, che a Porta a Porta lo scorso maggio ha candidamente ammesso che "non serviva certo tachipirina e vigile attesa bensì gli antinfiammatori", lascia un sapore ancora più amaro, molto lontano dal bisogno di giustizia che prova chi ha vissuto questa storia.

Sono stato onorato di aver partecipato alla loro festa, dopo mesi e anni di battaglie e di fatica. Non mi aspetto certo che qualche produttore rinunci alla sua commedia della rimpatriata tra cinquantenni per fare un film su di loro, ma per tutti noi, spero che abbiano il loro lieto fine.

Adalberto Gianuario.

[turuin]

Forse adesso, dopo quasi dieci anni, sento questa casa mia davvero mia e inizio a capire che tutto questo disordine è un rilfesso del disordine dentro la mia testa. Non so nemmeno se posso dire che la mia testa è disordinata, è più un discorso di : ci sono mucchi di cose, di ogni genere, in ogni angolo, senza un posto giusto o una collocazione. Proprio come in casa, so dove trovare tutto, ma obiettivamente è il caos, e per spostarsi da una stanza all'altra, a volte, bisogna scavalcare oggetti sul pavimento, mucchi di roba, appiattirsi alle pareti. Non molto feng shui, lo ammetto. Ma è così. Così, mentre penso alle incombenze quotidiane, il mio cervello vaga altrove; mentre suono, il mio cervello pensa ai servizi; mentre lavoro, il mio cervello mi riepiloga tutti i motivi che mi spingono a fare quello che faccio anche se non lo amo. Ma anche: mentre guido mi viene in mente una cosa che ho fatto vent'anni fa. Mentre parlo con qualcuno, mi viene in mente un film che ho visto, o cose che solo io posso capire, come quando una volta, quando vivevo a Roma, ascoltavo la radio e c'era "I Am Mine" dei Pearl Jam con la sua intro e il bus stava arrivando alla fermata e io sono salito sul bus ESATTAMENTE all'attacco della strofa, o quell'altra volta che ho fatto fino all'università, in via Salaria, tutto il percorso ascoltando "Babe, I'm Gonna Leave You" dei Led Zeppelin e sono arrivato davanti alla bacheca dei risultati dello scritto di Economia Politica proprio sull'accordo finale del pezzo (passato con 21, accettato senza orale, I regret nothing). Mentre parlo di altre cose, a tavola, mi viene in mente che in catanzarese c'è un verbo perfetto per chi passa il tempo a cazzeggiare e non fare nulla, ed è "paparijara", letteralmente "papereggiare". Prima, ho avvertito un'ondata di familiarità da questo appartamento, e ho pensato che forse dovrei davvero prendermene un po' più cura, e forse un po' di quell'ordine entrerebbe anche nel mio caos, dove ogni idea fa il pogo come facevamo noi ai concerti negli anni 90 (ma si chiama ancora pogo?). Ho contemporaneamente pensato che dovrei decidermi a entrare nella mia testa, aprire le finestre, spazzare via un po' di polvere e fare lo spazio giusto per sedermici dentro a gambe incrociate, schiena contro schiena con la mia ombra sempre vigile e attenta, e lasciare passare un po' d'aria. Ma c'è un calore ed un senso di vissuto, una voglia di stare sotto le coperte e un'idea di letargo che, pur uccidendomi silenziosamente, fatico ad abbandonare. Spero nella primavera, in questo anno che non ha conosciuto l'inverno.

#vivere in un guscio di noce e sentirsi re di uno spazio infinito

[scotianostra]

On June 13th 1814 The Strathnaver Clearances began on the Sutherland estates. Families were given half an hour to remove their belongings before their cottages were set on fire.

Strathnaver was part of the estate of the Countess of Sutherland and her husband the Marquis of Stafford. They had decided to “improve” their lands by turning them over to profitable sheep farming and were intent on moving their tenants to new villages built on the coast.

From 1814, the evicitions were undertaken by the Sutherland Estate factor, Patrick Sellar. He was ruthless in his actions, destroying homes and burning crops to force people from their land. His actions were so extreme that in April 1816 Sellar stood trial in Inverness on a variety of charges including fire raising and culpable homicide. However, he was acquitted and returned to Strathnaver where he had leased a large area of the land to farm sheep.

There are the remains of many abandoned townships throughout the Strath, the best known of these being Rosal. This is mainly thanks to Donald Macleod, a native of that township, who witnessed the clearances and wrote passionately about them. He is remembered in a memorial close to the site of the settlement.

One of those affected by the clearances was Annie Mackay, who was a child at the time, years later she wrote the following poem

‘Twas not the beacon light of war, Nor yet the “slogan” cry, That chilled each heart, and blanched each cheek, In the country of Mackay, And made them march with weary feet, As men condemned to die.

Ah! had it been their country’s foe That they were called to brave, How loudly would the piobrachd sound, How proud their “bratach” wave; How joyfully each man would march, Tho’ marching to his grave.

No! ‘Twas a cruel, sad behest, An alien chief’s command, Depriving them of house and home, Their country and their land; Dealing a death-blow at their hearts, Binding the “strong right hand”.

Slowly and sadly, down the glen They took their weary way, The sun was shining overhead Upon that sweet spring day, And earth was throbbing with the life Of the great glad month of May.

The deer were browsing on the hills, And looked with wondering eye; The birds were singing their songs of praise, The smoke curled to the sky, And the river added its gentle voice To nature’s melody.

No human voice disturbed the calm, No answering smile was there, For men and women walked along, Mute pictures of despair; This was the last sad Sabbath they Would join in praise and prayer.

And men were there whose brows still bore The trace of many scars, Who oft their vigils kept with death Beneath the midnight stars, Where'er their country needed men, Brave men to fight her wars.

And grey-haired women tall and strong, Erect and full of grace, Meet mothers of a noble clan, A brave and stalwart race, And many a maiden young and fair, With pallid, tear-stained face.

They met upon the river’s brink, By the church so old and grey, They could not sit within its walls Upon this sunny day; The Heavens above would be their dome, And hear what they would say.

The preacher stood upon a bank, His face was pale and thin, And, as he looked upon his flock, His eyes with tears were dim, And they awhile forgot their grief, And fondly looked at him.

There are still people who underplay what happened during The Clearances, on e main denier is that eejit Neil Oliver, now many of you will know, and like the TV shows he has been involved in, but he is an absolute tool of a man, I should only have to point out he is employed by the right wing broadcaster GB News to show the mans mettle, but check out the article on this link for more on him

You can find more pics and info on the Clearances herehttp://www.abandonedcommunities.co.uk/page31.html

#scotland #scottish

[crazybutsensible]

"La NATO vuole occupare la Russia".

18 anni fa, l'ex presidente libico Muammar Gheddafi predisse la politica espansionistica della NATO nei confronti della Russia e la distruzione degli Stati Uniti.

"Ufficiali russi di alto rango mi hanno parlato di questo e hanno detto che conoscono questo obiettivo. Sanno che il vero obiettivo della NATO è occupare le miniere di petrolio, carbone, gas, ferro e oro che si trovano in Russia, nel Caucaso e che non sono nella NATO quindi vogliono occuparli.

Devi essere vigile se sono vivo o qualcun altro viene dopo di me comunque questo discorso è ora registrato e disponibile.

Se la NATO viene ad occupare la Libia possiamo tutti diventare martiri se non lo faremo avere protezione nazionale non essere come l'America.

L' America si sta uccidendo, ora sono contenti si stanno uccidendo spendendo in marine, basi militari, aiuti, tangenti, monopoli e soldi oscuri ovunque e poi verrà l'ora in cui l'America crollerà come l'Unione Sovietica è crollata", ha detto Gheddafi.