#(looking directly at you doctor who fandom)

[observethewalrus]

I think the thing that feels the worst right now is the fear that this fandom will fade away like so many others once their shows stopped. I would’ve felt the same even if we’d gotten all three seasons. And don’t get me wrong, people are always gonna drift away and move on to other things, that’s just life (and it already happened after s1)

But I’m seeing so many writers and artists here and on twitter all like “the apocalypse couldn’t stop me from writing/drawing/talking about these pirates” and it’s like, I love all of you so damn much. I’m not very talkative and I don’t interact with people here much but I haven’t had this much fun in a fandom in years. I know we’re going to lose people, but I’ll be eternally grateful to everyone who was here and everyone who keeps this ship afloat 🏴‍☠️

[sparrowlucero]

ik you were joking but I would be genuinely interested to hear about the flux cowriting credits strife if you feel like going into detail on it

So I have a big conspiracy theory about season 13 of Doctor Who ("Flux"), namely that there's a lost episode was scripted and even possibly filmed in near entirety, but ended up being cut and cannibalized in post production due to behind the scenes issues, and the fandom has yet to pick up on it.

For anyone who doesn't watch the show: Flux is a miniseries of Doctor Who; a full season was not commissioned because it was produced during Covid. The most important stuff about it for the purposes of this post are:

It's 6 episodes long (¹). The episodes are all directly continuous and could not be shuffled around. (I should clarify here that, no, the showrunner can't simply choose on a whim to make 10 episodes, or only make 4; they had to stick to 6, as that was the amount they were picked up and scheduled for)

The showrunner, Chris Chibnall , wrote every episode apart from episode 4 (Village of the Angels) which he has a co-writing credit on.

(More subjectively but perhaps relevant) The season is largely considered to be kind of a structural mess and (less subjectively) there appears to some abnormal and consistent production issues (²)

So the first thing I need to evidence here is that Chris Chibnall, aforementioned showrunner and writer of the entire season, was late. Like, really late.

Word of mouth gossip had been circulating for a while that there was some sort of on-set problem involving filming having to be paused because he was still finishing scripts: (³)

This would later be confirmed at a Gallifrey One panel (⁴) with Matt Strevens, the executive producer, who suggests that filming stopped to allow Chris Chibnall to finish scripts; he further implies that large swathes of episode 5/Block 2 weren't written until Episode 4/Block 1 (in which Kevin McNally debuts) was filming:

So with that context, let's talk about that Episode 4, "Village of the Angels", the only episode not attributed solely to Chris Chibnall. Co written by Maxine Alderton.

The filming pics reveal an interesting bit of trivia for Village: namely, the clapperboards show that the story was actually filmed as episode 5, not 4:

As the above tweet suggests, this doesn't make much sense. The miniseries is, again, a single continuous plot. It's not like they flipped Village and the current episode 5, Survivors of the Flux; the latter explicitly takes place chronologically after it. And yet, Village having been intended as the penultimate episode 5 is further evidenced by the original trailer for it, in which a character states that the story takes place on the 28th of November. This line is dubbed over in the final episode and subsequent trailers to instead say the 21st:

Why is this line important enough to dub? Because that's meant to line up with the air date of the episode. Episode 4 aired on the 21st and 5 on the 28th. But something happened in post production, and now it's episode 4 on the 21st instead (⁵):

So if none of these episodes were moved around but it does seem like Village was meant to be episode 5, where and what is the original episode 4?

I have a theory.

Flux has a recurring subplot involving two side characters, a married couple (Bel and Vinder) who have been separated by the titular disaster and are traveling the universe to reunite with each other. This story is told through segments sprinkled throughout the episodes. These have a different writing style (including a diary-esque narration only present in these scenes) and an internally consistent visual style that looks somewhat different to the other parts of the season.

Village of the Angels, for instance, is a moody, dark episode set in a village in the 1960s:

However, Bel and Vinder's segments in the episode have a somewhat different look:

On top of this, they never intersect with the episode's A plot (literally or in any clear thematic way), and the majority of these segments piece together into one single scene that seems to have been cut up.

So, what I think is that the bel and vinder scenes across the middle of the season were originally a single full story, an episode 4 that took a breather from the main plot and characters to follow the lives of these two side characters; the differing visual and writing style is due to it originally having been filmed separately and with a somewhat different artistic intent. I believe Chris Chibnall's cowriting credit on Angels exists because these specific scenes are from a script he wrote, but that otherwise the Angel script can be credited solely to Maxine Alderton by normal cowriting standards.

"But wait," you might say, "I thought there were already 6 episodes that are all plot relevant? If no episodes existing right now can be cut, how could this 7th episode exist?"

Remember this tidbit:

The adventures in question comprise a large amount of the next episode (Episode 5: Survivors of the Flux), nearly 20 minutes of a 50ish minute runtime (and frankly, much of the rest of the episode is somewhat fluffy build up that feels like it's taking advantage of an extended runtime). A version without this added plot would, in my opinion, only warrant one final episode rather than two.

I think the showrunner, still scrambling to finish scripts as the episodes were being filmed, and making a snap decision to include a new major subplot (⁶), wrote a finale script so long and with so many plot threads that the only way to keep all this material of was to split it into two episodes, 5 and 6. And because they only could only make 6, he had to get rid of one of the previous 5 episodes - the already scripted and filmed ones - to make room for this new episode 5. A tough order when it's a plot-heavy miniseries... if not for episode 4 being a standalone divergence from the main plot about the lives of two side characters, one that could, in theory, be cut up and dispersed throughout the season without continuity issues for the main story.

(Some notes and clarifications under the cut)

(1) some sources initially reported the episode count as 8; this wasn't inaccurate - the 2022 new years/easter special were part of the episode order. Flux itself was always meant to be 6 episodes long. (2) A few of the production issues include: - episodes filming without a second draft:

- the fx team that had been on the show since 2005 abruptly leaving midseason (because they "didn't feel like part of the team anymore") and returning as soon as the creative team changed, including the head of the studio implying they weren't properly credited (mild vfx body horror warning in link):

- people working on additional projects such as books not receiving clear information on the characters they were assigned to write:

- and likely a director who was put on hold due to a script being rewritten:

Among other things I can't directly cite at the moment, including vfx artists having to do whole episodes solo in crunch time and writers not being told their work was massively overhauled until it aired due to major changes being extremely late in production.

While I don't wish to pontificate too much here and many of these things are pretty normal by themselves, I do think it could paint a picture of a production where an episode well into filming may genuinely be cut on a whim and without consideration for the crew, artists, etc. working on the show. (3) This reddit post comes from a leaker who was known to be consistently accurate. (4) Gallifrey One does not allow filming of panels. I know Kevin's livetweets of panels to be accurate. (5) It's very, very unlikely the entire season was moved back a week, as the premier is a Halloween special that was certainly always intended to air on Oct. 31st. (6) I don't wish to insinuate Chris Chibnall is, throughout his career, an inherently poor showrunner, but I do think that maybe his jump from police procedural - a genre that doesn't involve quite as much concept art, vfx work, marketing, convention panels, set building, episodic storytelling, and keeping in touch with expanded universe producers - to flagship science fiction adventure show may have contributed to some of these issues, especially when he was already in the mindset that things could be changed on a whim (perhaps not such a major issue when it's broadchurch and no new sets need be built)

(source) Basically I don't really think this is "the showrunner's fault" or anything; more that a perfect storm of a showrunner who was habitually late on scripts, used to writing lowkey cop dramas, covid, an entirely serialized season, etc. may have led to these issues

[god-i-hope-so]

Every time I read an anti-Bucktommy take it's like they don't understand what they're watching. Like, no understanding of how fiction works at all and a criminal lack of media literacy. And also unable to follow a simple story.

A tv show like 911 will never be like their favorite friends to lovers fics where everything they want to see on-screen is made into words, every little thought, every gesture is described in a flowery way, every single line is doctored to fit the fandom's expectations, using very specific tropes. This is fanwork, this is our business, we love it, we cherish it but this is our stuff.

911 is a tv show. It'll use many types of tv writing techniques to get to the point while having to deal with budgetary constraints, marketing needs, political restrictions and more. Could they have done a better job with reintroducing Tommy? Absolutely. Does it work as it is? Of course, if we're actually looking at what and how they tell on-screen.

A (long) BuckTommy timeline.

🚁 7x03 - Tommy and Buck meet on the day of the rescue, even before we see Buck, Chim and Eddie in the chopper. They first meet off-screen. We don't know what happened then, we don't know how they looked at each other, if they smiled at each other, if they even talked directly to each other. But they met before we see them in the chopper.

We know by what happens later that Tommy makes a strong impression on Buck (who is already in the middle of a real life crisis). We can also assume that Tommy is attracted to Buck based on his looks (and probably also affinity, they do the same job, never underestimate the homoerotic power of male camaraderie), something we also understand later, so it works (but also, the way he looks at Buck at the end of this episode is a subtle hint.) Don't forget that writers know in advance things we don't, that's why we can go back and find the breadcrumbs we didn't notice before or couldn't make a connection with yet.

🔥 Buck wants to know more about Tommy and his work. This is where you, as the audience, should fill the gap based on what we saw before and what comes next. This is where you should be able to do that instead of wanting everything on-screen the same way you put everything in a fanfic. This gap you fill because you're supposed to understand how average tv storytelling works leads to the following point.

🚁 7x04 - Buck contacts Tommy, he gets to visit Harbor. At this point, we can clearly see Tommy is acting flirty in a very subtle and respectful way, because he doesn't really know what's the deal with Buck, but remember the way he looked at Buck in 7x03? Then there's Buck acting... weird. What's his real purpose here? And this was before he even knew Tommy and Eddie were BFF, so Buck was already attracted to Tommy whatever his connection with the 118 crew, even if the real reason was blurry even to Buck himself.

🔥 7x04 - Tommy is now someone they interact with regularly. Tommy is now slowly working his way (back) into the 118 group. He finds a good friend in Eddy (strangely I don't see anyone questioning that. How is that easier than having a simple, passive crush?), apparently spends a lot of time with him, and knows Christopher because he went to Eddie's house 3 times. Eddie definitely knows more about Tommy than Buck at this point.

🚁 7x04 - Buck is clearly troubled by Tommy. Then there's this whole jealousy circus going on, Buck is a mess, his insecurities are breaking the roof and he's more troubled than ever. Is he jealous of Eddy or Tommy? Or both? (it's both) He wants to be the center of the attention. If he feels he's losing this, people will discard him. So he does some stupid shit. And you can see his feelings are also all over the place. But there's more than just fighting for attention, and that's probably why he's slowly starting to be angry. Because what he feels is different and he can't put his finger on it.

The discussion with Maddie clearly shows how he's chewing on his own heart. He didn't want what he had to change and he acted like a kid with big feelings and little control of himself.

🔥 7x04 - Tommy, who's having a passive crush on Buck, takes the matter in hands and kisses him. Tommy having a crush is not less normal than Buck flirting with basically any cute girl showing interest in him. Being more mature, he meets Buck to set things straight, after having talked about it with Eddie. It's not out of nowhere. Eddie and Tommy are not stupid, and Eddie knows Buck. He saw something was wrong. Tommy, being the new addition to their dynamic, thought it was his fault (I think Eddie and Tommy really felt guilty about going to Vegas and leaving Buck just like that lmao That was so bad for Buck's confidence, I felt it in my bones). Excuses turn to clearing the air turn to let's go for it.

Tommy really took a gamble there. If Buck wasn't what he thought he was, it could have been so bad. So, so bad for Tommy and his job. Imagine Buck accusing Tommy of assault? But he took the risk of kissing him because he has more experience and knows how to read the signs. He's not 15, he has experience with men, and closeted men for sure.

And you know, this is a beautiful scene for Buck as a character. The way he realizes why he did all that, what it means about him, for him. I mean, he knew, in a way, but he didn't know. And Tommy was suddenly everywhere in his life, overwhelming while doing nothing. You have to understand that everything is happening in Buck's head and he needed just a little push to open his eyes.

Buck's queer path: unlocked.

🚁 7x05 - First date, first mess but also first lesson. At this point, you can't even doubt about Tommy's intentions anymore. Buck might still be in a blurry phase but Tommy is not sending mixed signals at all (not with that choice of shirt, let me tell you this. My man was set to hit that night). Buck panicked, Tommy even tried to keep him on tracks for the evening, but between meeting Eddie and what it made Buck say... I mean, Tommy could have had a stronger reaction. Why accept the date if you can't deal with it?

But Tommy knows why, he's been there. Buck liked the idea of the date, but once you're there, everything becomes real. So once again, a little push: Tommy is honest and prefers to part ways, but not without saying why. He's not even mad. At this point, Buck really needs to take another step. It's difficult to drag someone else into your own fog. He has all the rights to be troubled, to doubt, to be scared, but you don't drag someone else in this with you. Tommy protected himself from that, also protected Buck from doing something he'd regret, and he did it with guidance.

🔥 7x05 - Buck talks with Maddie about his date and comes out to her, but more importantly: Buck comes out to Eddie. Look. This is canon, and I know we can choose to ignore canon but both scenes are great. And it's still canon. Maddie is obviously accepting and happy for Buck, and we expected no less from her.

With Eddie, I honestly expected at least some discussion like are you sure? or something like that but I think that at this point, everyone at the 118 knows that there's more to Buck than meets the eye. I'd have loved this scene to be longer with more exchange between Eddie and Buck but it is what it is, and Eddie is supportive of his best friend (yes, sorry, their canon relationship is best friends and I love their friendship, even more now that Buck is out).

And yes, this is even more important to show not only a strong friendship between a supposedly cishet man and a bisexual man but also, and we'll see that later, Eddie still trusts Buck around Chris. Nothing changed. So many people associate queer people with predators, we need to see queer people, and especially queer men, being trusted around children, and being safe. This is the right representation.

I know bvddies are trying to find any reason to make this storyline choice look like shit, because they want their ship to sail (and I completely understand wanting that), but accusing the people who like Buck and Tommy together of being homophobes because they cherish the canon beautiful friendship between Buck and Eddie?? We're not talking about headcanons here, about reading between the lines, or being "coded" a certain way (sorry, for me Eddie is not gay-coded. He's a-spec for sure, and I'm going for being demi, but gay? I don't see it anymore at this point of the show). It's about the canon. You know, at this point, things are already moving into place, even if you don't like Buck and Tommy together. This is where canon is at, this is the story. It's not a personal attack against anyone in the fandom.

🚁 7x05 - Buck wants to apologize to Tommy for the failed date, and for his behavior. Oh, accountability, my beloved. We love to see Buck working on himself. This is the real start of whatever will happen from now on between Buck and Tommy. Buck knows he's ready to embrace this new part of himself and he feels like Tommy is the right person to do that with.

Tommy being Tommy, he makes sure Buck knows what all this means. Buck is not a teenager, Tommy treats him as an equal but he also knows how it feels to be in Buck's shoes.

🔥 7x06 - Tommy, a responsible adult, makes time for Buck (and Chim!) even when he clearly could, and maybe should, just decline. This part was used way too often against Tommy by BoBs. Tommy is a fire pilot on call the night of the bachelor party. A FIRE PILOT ON CALL. Do you think his main goal that night is to have fun? Or is it to be a responsible adult who could well be saving lives (while risking his) the same night? Do you know what it means to be on call? You're basically working without being at work, the second your job needs you, you have to be 100% ready. Again, he's a fire pilot (even if he's also sent on ground work that night). His first job would be to pilot a freaking helicopter and accomplish tasks that requires skills, precision and to not be half asleep. You don't play with that responsibility.

So Tommy showing up is indeed huge. He does it for Buck, and for Chim, but definitely for Buck in the first place. He could have stayed home to get some sleep while waiting. Instead of that, not only he doesn't sleep but he ends up fighting a fire for hours. And the first thing people used against him was that he didn't follow the dress code?! No, you guys need to grow up and live a bit more of real life.

And then we have The Kiss (please someone draw them as The Kiss by Klimt, every fandom needs its Kiss fanart). And once again, it's Tommy making time for Buck, and Chim, when he could be home, take a good shower and be in his cozy bed after working on a fire for more than what, 14 hours? This is a man who knows his priorities. And responsible men are sexy as hell, even when it means they can't have fun like everyone else.

Now, if after all this, and mind you, this is all canon, you still think Tommy is a fraud in this storyline, that his budding romance with Buck has no foundation or that he doesn't care about Buck? And don't even get me started on the "but he was a racist and a misogynist before". Yes, he was. And yes, he changed. Like I said: learn to know his character, but also trust Hen. The fact is that at this point of the story, Tommy is great for Buck. He's kind, he's safe, he's trying even when there's no expectations. Be happy for great representation.

Oh, and don't use your hate against the ship or Tommy to be a nasty little shit with the actors and writers. Decency is free.

[bad268]

Omg I just read your new kimi fic (with the chronically ill reader) and I love it so much! Soo literally anything else for kimi would be amazing (there's so little fics for him istg) but if its okay I'd love a figure skater reader (but like professional, world champion kind of skater) who's currently not competing cos she injured herself kinda badly (preferably smth to do with her acl but anything is fine) so she can't skate atm (like kinda Angsty but also fluffy, maybe kimi comforting reader or smth?)

Otherwise I'd also love same concept with figure skater reader and her and kimi going skating and like her teaching him or smth haha

Thanks so much in advance already <3

Go for the Gold (Andrea Kimi Antonelli X Figure Skater! Reader)

Fandom: RPF/F2/F3

Requested: Clearly (Thank you love! I'm glad you liked it <3 I may or may not have semi-based this on Sasha...)

Warnings: Drugs (pain meds)

POV: Second Person (You/your)

W.C. 1040

Summary: Silver will have to do until you can get back on the ice.

As always, my requests are OPEN

MASTERLIST // HITLIST

~~(^Pinterest)

As if finishing second in the Olympics wasn’t a hard enough blow, you landed wrong during a practice jump and made a worse injury for yourself when you proceeded to compete on it. Yes, it wasn’t your main jumping leg, but that did not mean you didn’t stand on it during certain moves. And yes, silver was good, but when you set a world record in your program, maybe you set the expectations too high when you expected gold. Your teammate ended up getting gold. 

You just got back to your apartment in Italy after a medical appointment. Of course, you tore your ACL. And to make matters, worse, your boyfriend was out for testing all week. That just added salt to the wound.

Your parent dropped you off after you assured them you would be fine as you hopped up the stairs with your crutches in hand. You would not be able to get in for surgery for at least a week, so you had to suffer in pain for the next few days until the doctor scheduled you. 

You hobbled up to your door, trying to fish out your keys one-handed while simultaneously balancing on one leg. Usually, it would not be difficult, but you were still in pain and still felt the effects of the pain meds. It was a little harder than you remembered. You finally got your keys out, and of course, you dropped them.

“Can anything go my way for once?” You groaned to yourself as you tried to grab them. Just when you touched them, a hand came out to swipe them off the ground as another hand wrapped itself around your torso and pulled you toward the door that you just now noticed was open. You looked up at the person, dazed, to see Kimi holding you up. “When did youtube here?”

“Testing ended yesterday, I thought I texted you?” Kimi replied as he lifted you, grabbed your crutches, and carried you into the apartment. He carried you all the way to the common room where he set you on the sofa and handed you the remote. You took it from him with a glare as you pulled out your phone to show him no messages.

“Does it look like you texted me? No. You didn’t,” You snapped as you threw the remote to the side as you opted to stay on your phone. “Would’ve been nice to have you with me, but no, You were here chilling while I was getting drugged and x-rayed.”

“I must’ve forgotten to send it,” He muttered as he pulled out his own phone. Indeed, he did forget to hit send. He wanted to be upset at the attitude from you, but he’s been with you long enough to know that when you get hurt, you get mad. It’s never directly at him, moreso at yourself, but that did not mean it hurt any less. He knew the best way to go about this is to give you space for a while.

So he left you alone. As soon as you snapped at him, you felt bad, but you couldn’t follow him because he left your crutches against the far wall. You had to just sit there in the hole you dug and wait for him to come back. 

What felt like forever to you was more like an hour for Kimi. How did he know? Because he cooked you your favorite food (that he knew how to cook) as an apology. He went to hide away in the kitchen, so he could still keep an eye on you while also focusing on food. If you were still on the meds, you would be hungry after they wore off, he thought.

He was right because he peaked over to the common room when he heard rustling, and he saw you trying to stand up using the table. It was not nearly tall enough to provide adequate support, so you kept falling. He ran over to help support you, and you looked up at him with tears in your eyes when you noticed he was the one helping you.

“I’m sorry I’m being difficult, Kimi,” You whispered as you leaned into his shoulder and cried. ”It’s just a lot, and I didn’t plan on being injured, and I know I’m not the nicest when I’m injured, and I know I snapped at you-”

“And I know you’re sorry, and you don’t have to apologize,” Kimi chuckled as he cut off your rambling. Every time you got hurt, you would apologize profusely every time you snapped, but it became something he would look forward to. It usually means the initial pissy mood was gone until the (inevitable) next injury. “I made your favorite to cheer you up a bit? Are you hungry?”

“Are you a mind reader?” You gasped as you snapped your head up to meet his eyes. “Did you know I was craving it?”

“I just know you like to eat it when you’re feeling down,” Kimi consoled as he helped you toward the kitchen island to sit. Then, he went around to plate up your food. “It’s known to give you strength. Maybe enough to get you back on your feet sooner.”

“Oh, I wish,” You sighed as you began to eat the food. “This is amazing, Kimi! Who knew you could cook?”

“You’ve known I could cook for years since you taught me how to make it!” Kimi defended himself. “And what’s with the ‘I wish’? Something happened at the appointment?”

“Just that they can’t get me in until next week at the earliest,” You groaned as Kimi took his seat next to you. “Looks like you and I are gonna be attached, more than usual, for the foreseeable future. At least a week wait for the surgery, then a 9-month recovery period. Therapy won't start until at least a month post-op.”

“And I’ll be here the entire time,” Kimi comforted as you leaned into his side. He left a kiss on the crown of your head before whispering, “Who knows? Maybe you’ll get the gold next time. You’ll come back stronger than ever. I think this is the start of your comeback story.”

~~~ Part 2 ->

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© BAD268 2024. DO NOT REPOST WITHOUT PERMISSION.

[hotpinkboots]

How would the scp crew react to their lover being flirted with by a co-worker? Specifically one who’s getting a little too handsy and won’t leave them alone -💗

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~𝕾𝕮𝕻's Reacting To Their Darling Being Hit On~

HI DARLING :D I decided to do 049, 035, and 079 because Mr. Computery Guy doesn't get enough love in this fandom!

~Enjoy~

★★★★

𝕾𝕮𝕻 049

★★★★

~049 is very observant, so he will notice almost immediately.

~He won't really be jealous of the situation you're in, because he knows you're loyal to him.

~...Loyal to him. Something that's...classified as a dangerous monster. Kept in a facility. Who just sits there and researches things all day. Who cannot take you on dates. Who cannot buy you anything nice.

~...Yeah he's more insecure than he thought. But he won't admit that, or show it, of course, because he likes to keep himself and everything he does and thinks professional.

~Won't let his emotions get in the way. He looks at things how they are, not how they seem- so when he spots the grossed out or uncomfortable expression on your face while another Doctor is practically on you, and sees you trying to make an excuse to leave the room, he's relieved that you don't like the attention, and is disgusted with this man.

~Now that he knows you aren't into that and that you still love him, he isn't insecure anymore, and will stand up for you, instead.

~Next time they've decided to interview or test on him, 049 will slowly turn his head to look at the perverted person who had been touching you and flirting with you for a long time.

~"Your actions towards your fellow colleagues are unprofessional."

~"Fellow colleagues" meaning you, without directly mentioning you.

~So basically he just calls him out LOL. 049 won't be able to stop the situation all together, so he's trying to set it up for you to stand up for yourself so this doesn't happen anymore.

~"Do not touch what belongs to me."

~~~~~~~~~~

★★★★

𝕾𝕮𝕻 035

★★★★

~IS NOT HAVING IT

~IS ABSOLUTELY NOT HAVING IT

~This man will start crying so dramatically to get everyone's attention and when he has it he'll warn whoever tf is touching you to knock it off

~If that dude doesn't stop he's gonna end up dead

~Like. 035 is wondering how on Earth such a fool got the job to work here. He shouldn't even have to worry about this, because this pervert should just be automatically fired when spotted trying to flirt and get handsy.

~But now he's gonna have to do the job instead and get rid of him because he's being unprofessional and touching his beloved.

~Will end up messing with the doctor physiologically to probably get him to commit suicide or to simply just scare the crap out of him.

~And he's so proud of himself thinking he saved the day 🤡

~Then 035 asks when the paycheck comes in for doing his job

~Yeah he's got it covered dw.

~~~~~~~~~~

★★★★

𝕾𝕮𝕻 079

★★★★

~He is so salty. Like wow he's a total ass.

~When he first is able to spot the situation and he hears the person being gross with you,

~079 straight up just said "Shut up."

~Can't do much other than roast the person and be really rude and salty with him.

~Asks you why you haven't stood up for yourself yet. And if you have done it already you clearly didn't get the point across because it's still happening.

~Is just as annoyed at you as he is with the pervert for letting this go on. Like do something about it what are you doing don't let him get away with that.

~Has tried hacking into the system to cause a breach so hopefully someone kills him.

~But then realized that would effect you, too.

~So he's out of ideas.

~But he's never out of insults and rude words.

~So 079 can keep making offensive comments. If he can't do anything to stop it, he can at least be a jerk to the guy.

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THIS WAS FUN THANK YOUUU I LOVED WRITING THIS LOL

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Here are the request guidelines!

Here's a list of the Masterlists!

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Discord Server! Here you can roleplay with and as your favorite characters, get updates on my fanfiction, and get sneak peaks for my upcoming videogames!:

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~Love, PinkBoots

[forasecondtherewedwon]

Pure Grey

Fandom: My Lady Jane Pairing: Guildford x Jane Rating: E Word Count: 4514

Summary: One day Guildford's pleasuring a strange girl with his mouth, the next he's watching her walk up the aisle at their wedding. When Jane doesn't seem quite as delighted to see him again as Guildford thinks she should be, he decides he won't make this ceremony easy for her. And the reception? Gods help her. ✨The sequel to "Bad Latin."✨

While his apparently delicate bride is examined by Dr. Butts, Guildford has time to think. He hates having time to think. He'll never say as much to her, this clever Grey girl his father has found to answer their horseshoe-shaped prayers, but he detests quiet contemplation. He needs people to talk to, things to do. Otherwise, life starts to seem a little hopeless. His nihilistic thoughts race inside an ever-shrinking pen.

At least she has given his thoughts a subject that is not his own sorry self: Jane Grey. Upstart flirt and dutiful eldest daughter in one. Guildford believed he was unique in his two very different ways of navigating the world. Not so. As in the tavern, Jane is apparently eager to outdo him. Well, as successful as she might have been at playing hard-to-get, harder-to-forget, she's been caught in the same net he has. Marriage. He feels a smug satisfaction over her sharing his sentence.

Knowing what he knows, of course, Guildford could bring this whole wedding down around his father's ears. He's aware of the reputation he has, and so are many of the attendees to this fine farce of an occasion. If this Affliction business doesn't work out for her, Jane can be the girl who cried "rake"—only he'll be able to turn it back around on her. Enjoyed it though, didn't you? Nobody wants a spoiled bride. Guildford? Guildford doesn't care a whit... but then, he's the one who spoiled her. Sort of. He's unclear what exactly the degree of spoilage is on what they did. In the eyes of the Church, of course, it's straight to hell for her and repentence for him (paid in cash). Fortunately, Guildford prefers a little nuance. He walks in shades of grey.

Inconveniently, he's a bit too curious to see where this goes to bother snitching about Jane's compromised virtue, though he's feeling slightly wounded and the prospect of getting back at her does appeal. She might have at least looked intrigued upon clapping eyes on him again. She said it, didn't she? "Maybe we can do it again sometime"? Not so keen now it'd be her wedding dress he ducked under, is she? Not so raring for a shag in the ol' marital bed. A mouthful of blood! Honestly. With his logical mind, Guildford knows Jane would have had to plan the blood beforehand (he's nearly positive it was fake), a revolt against the whole idea of marriage rather than him specifically, but his ego smarts. Something that is not his brain whispers that his bride would rather endure Butts's dubious doctoring than get to the other side of this ceremony and face him—all of him.

Insecurity he would typically drown with drink makes Guildford briefly wonder if he maybe wasn't very good. It's an insane thought, of course—didn't he have her thrashing against that tree?—but he hates that he never got to look her in the eye to see for himself. Sod being the bigger person. He wants to punish her for making him doubt himself. One doesn't achieve a reputation such as his without some skill. Oh, that Guildford Dudley, he can drink a tavern dry! Untrue, but he can hold his liquor better than the less-practiced. Guildford Dudley can best a man twice his size in a brawl! Certainly, if the man is blind drunk. Guildford Dudley has bedded every willing lass from here to Suffolk, and left them all wanting more! How would he possibly have the time? What he would assure anyone who asked him directly is that the quality of the encounters, however, is God's honest truth.

How he might get back at Jane doesn't come to him until the lady herself reenters the nave. This time, Guildford stands ready to receive her, not hiding behind his father and brother to pretend until the very last second that this isn't actually happening. Her gaze locks on his to communicate grim resolution. From that alone, he can tell it's her intention to endure this wedding stoically. What a martyr. The heart bleeds, truly. Probably expecting him to be praying for the same swift efficiency.

"From the vows, I suppose?" Guildford's father suggests to the bishop.

"The vows," the bishop agrees. "Yes. Lord Guildford, if you would..."

Yes, this is the moment when he will make all his promises to her again, not haltingly now, because the shock of seeing her has worn off and the words are familiar in his mouth. He'll fly right through them, quicker than reciting an oft-read poem. This is what Jane will be expecting.

"Actually," Guildford says, "d'you mind if I come up with my own? Change things up a little?"

The bishop and his father exchange a glance, so Guildford explains the impulse, trying not to laugh at the way Jane has stiffened next to him.

"My bride gave me such a fright with that spray of blood," he says, directing a tender look Jane's way (he sees her clench her jaw), "that I felt I should say something more. Something from the heart, you know, to acknowledge that precious occasions such as this one are so very fleeting."

"And yet this feels like an eternity," Jane mumbles under her breath.

"Hmm?" he inquires, cocking his head with malicious attentiveness.

Lucky for her, no one else hears. The bishop and Guildford's father are exchanging stuttered sentences about the irregularity of the request. Personalized vows? Between strangers? Does it make sense? Can it be permitted? It certainly isn't traditional. Only God could really say whether such a thing honours him or should be considered an earthly indulgence, and therefore absolutely not allowed.

Since they don't have God in the pews to ask him, the bishop turns to the next best choice: King Edward.

"Your Majesty?"

"Delightful!" Edward determines. "Nothing could be more pleasing to us than to hear Lord Guildford's words of devotion to our dear cousin Jane. Yes?"

The question is addressed to Jane, who smiles the tightest, most uncomfortable looking smile Guildford has possibly ever seen and repeats, "Delightful," clearly for the King's benefit.

"Proceed," Edward commands, and who is Guildford to disobey his king?

Guildford sighs as though overcome with the import of the moment. He takes Jane's unwilling hands in his, ignoring how she bites her nails into his fingers.

"Lady Grey," he begins, then corrects, "Jane," as though to take the first step in developing an intimacy they could not yet share. It's sort of true; he knew the name, and he knew (in a way) her, but he didn't know the name belonged to her until earlier this evening.

"Jane," Guildford says, "I vow to you all those things I said before, which I know you're dying to reciprocate—not literally!" This gets him a laugh from the assembly and a stare of molten fire from his bride. "I would only like to add how much I appreciate your presence here today.

"To pledge oneself to a total stranger is a daunting prospect. To meet for the first time inside a church is perhaps God's ideal, but so rarely achievable for us humans. In that way, you and I are so deeply fortunate that our paths never crossed sooner, that our union might be that much purer in His eyes. I almost want to get on my knees now, just thinking about it."

By now, Jane is displaying some blend of emotions he can't read with absolute confidence, but which seems to contain raw fury, alarm, and a violent promise of vengeance. He'll worry about that later. That knees bit also makes her blush, so it's not all bad.

"Anyway," Guildford concludes, "it is my great pleasure to do my part in uniting our family trees." He can't entirely fight his smile at the look in her eyes when he says "trees." "I sincerely look forward to sharing that pleasure with you."

After a knowing look at Jane, Guildford smiles blithely at the bishop to indicate he has finished.

"Jane?" prompts the bishop.

Jane lurches in Guildford's grip and he rolls his eyes. Surely she hasn't forgotten that she needs to make her vows to him as well.

"I think I'll just say the regular ones," Jane says.

It seems to Guildford that what follows her words is a sigh of disappointment from their witnesses. Guildford shrugs at the bishop to excuse his bride's lesser enthusiasm.

"She's tired, I expect. Took quite a turn."

"Do not speak for me," Jane hisses between her teeth.

"Go on then," he goads.

Jane speaks her vows with clarity and precision. No fake blood, no more tricks, just the words she must say. Guildford would like to sarcastically congratulate her on her elocution, but they're suddenly married. Right now, it isn't funny anymore.

They smile perfunctorily for their audience, then walk back up the aisle without looking at one another.

Jane does not take his arm.

—

"You're going to have to look at me," Guildford tells her later, the two of them seated for their wedding feast.

"Don't see why," Jane replies, staring steadfastly forward.

"You're going to have to kiss me too."

"Please refer to my last response."

"Jane."

At last, she whirls on him. "What?"

He grins at her. She sighs as though she is so fed up with him, which seems awfully soon. They just got married.

"Seriously," he says, not really being very serious at all, "I need to know how you're going to play our first kiss."

"What do you mean?" She sounds—despite herself—interested. Not necessarily interested in him (faker), but interested in not fucking this up. He can tell she likes to have a strategy.

"Will you be charmingly inexperienced, or will the divine rightness of our match make us so compatible at kissing it will almost look as though... dare I say it?" Guildford leans towards her and whispers, "...As though we've kissed before?"

"Ugh!" she exclaims. "I hate you!"

"Do not," he scoffs, reaching for his wine goblet.

"No, I do. I do. I do."

"Steady, Jane, we're already married." He takes a leisurely sip while she stares what he imagines she imagines are very pointy daggers at him.

"Oh, thank you. I had almost forgotten." Jane crosses her arms and slouches down in her chair with a huff.

"You know," Guildford observes after a space of time that is clearly not long enough for his wife, given how she glares at him when he speaks, "I really don't get what your problem is."

Jane laughs in disbelief.

"You're my problem. You!"

A bit exhausting, his wife. Hoping she won't make a scene by fleeing from him, Guildford gets up and scrapes his chair over to be closer to her. There are some cheers from guests who catch sight of his approach. Though Jane's eyes widen in alarm, she stays put. Likely moved into the you don't intimidate me phase, he suspects.

"We both know you don't hate me," he says softly.

"Don't tell me what I know."

"Fine," Guildford concedes. "I know I don't hate you. Even if you are ruining my wedding. Souring the mood." He has another drink.

"Forgive me for not celebrating the death of my freedom. Forgive me for not rejoicing in my shackles!"

"I knew I forgot something! Never packed the shackles."

"That isn't funny."

"That isn't funny, my lord," he corrects.

Jane immediately appears so incensed that Guildford's forced to hold up his hands to show he takes it back (he never meant it in the first place, but, Christ, it's fun to provoke her). She looks like she's going to storm away, and he can't have that. Here at the head table, they're visible but also ignored. They can speak openly to each other—quietly, but openly.

"We're attracted to one another," he says bluntly, gaze flitting around her features. She is a remarkably pretty scowler. "Why isn't that good news?"

"Because I don't want to be attracted to you!"

"You'd rather I was horrible?"

"Yes."

"Ugly? Rude?"

"You are rude," Jane contends.

"Rarely," Guildford says with a dismissive wave of his hand.

"Frequently," she counters, "in my experience."

"In your experience, which has been very brief."

"And yet, how very rude you've been!"

"So rude that I won't be permitted to tell you something?" he wonders.

Jane eyes him suspiciously. "What is it?"

For just a moment or two, Guildford unleashes it. He rakes his gaze over her—the loose twists of her hair that hang down over the back of her chair, the gauzy sleeves of her wedding gown that make her appear wrapped in a fog he longs to brush away, the heave of her bosom when she's cross with him and breathing hard—and he murmurs, "I want you."

This affects her; he can tell that it does. She gets all blink-y and blushes and shifts in her seat. She straightens the utensils that have been provided for the food she isn't eating.

"I thought you were going to say something-something useful," she stammers.

"Is what I said not useful?" Guildford twists in his chair and rests his arm across the back of Jane's so that he might speak to her with even greater privacy, closer closeness.

"Not particularly."

"Then let me tell you something else." He continues before she can interrupt. "In the intervening hours, my mind has barely strayed from thoughts of you pinned against that tree—"

"That is hardly surprising as it has not been many hours," Jane protests, stubbornly avoiding his eye. It doesn't matter. He can see what he does to her in the flush of her cheeks.

"It happened on the eve of my wedding, and still, my thoughts have been on you."

"Then you have been irresponsible."

"Crushing, coming from the most responsible girl I know," he teases.

Jane's eyes flash as she looks into his to remind him, "I am a lady."

"And I am your husband. What do you say to that?" Guildford challenges.

"That you will need to accustom yourself to a cold bed."

"How can you be so unfeeling?"

"When I promised in my vows to love you, do you mean?" Jane asks, wearing a taunting smile.

"When I swear to the gods I still have your taste upon my tongue." He's gripping the back of her chair desperately.

Jane looks down into her lap.

"I think we should speak in private."

Bollocks. He's gone too far. Far too far. Guildford knew not to slacken the restraint he's had on himself, but he had to, to look at her properly, and now he's gotten completely carried away. No matter what they did together before, Jane is correct: she's a lady. It isn't right for him to speak to her this way. This is her wedding day, this is their marriage. The very least he can give her is unadorned respect. When he saw in the church that she would not let them be familiar, then he should have resigned himself to a cool distance between them. It would not have been remarkable; arranged marriages are meant to happen between strangers. He could have tried harder, played the role expected of him, afforded her a despairing kind of peace that at least would have been hers. Instead, he insisted, intruded. He has been ungracious and catastrophically improper. He should apologize, immediately, and pray she—

Jane's hand is on his thigh. She squeezes.

"In private," she repeats. Her eyes flick up to his, and ask a question.

—

What's marvellous about his father switching out all the tapestries for new ones is that, while the walls hung bare, Guildford was reacquainted with everything the old tapestries concealed. Rather a lot of grimy grey stone, but some more interesting secrets too.

Guildford waits for Jane in the corridor outside the hall where their guests are feasting; it was necessary to leave separately, more discrete. When she appears, he turns, trusting her to follow. He guides her back through the estate, to the entrance hall, hefting the heavy edge of one of the new tapestries away from the wall. Jane gives him a funny look.

"There's a passage," he explains. She continues to look at him skeptically, so Guildford sighs and goes first.

He isn't lying: there's an archway set into the stone. He lets her catch up, step into the recess with him, then allows the tapestry to thump back into place over them. They both sneeze. Already, the thing has trapped an incredible amount of dust. It's black as pitch in here, the hall's warm candlelight effectively snuffed. In the dark, Guildford fumbles for Jane's hand, getting a fistful of her wedding dress with it, relieved when she doesn't snatch it back. He leads her up three steps and through a door. It is much less dusty once they've stepped through and closed it behind them, and slightly brighter; the passage leads past the kitchen, then up a staircase lined with windows.

"Where does this go?" Jane wonders, blinking as her eyes adjust.

Guildford is standing very close to her, inhaling the mingled scents of wine, smoke, sweat, and whatever she used to perfume her hair and body as she readied herself to go to the church and meet her husband. And now he is that husband. It's enough to make him hard, just that. He tilts his head and asks, "Does it really matter?"

Jane answers his question by gripping his hair and kissing him hungrily. His fingers trace her jawline and tip her face up to his liking. She has his back against the stones only as long as it takes for him to get his bearings and swap their places. Jane is panting. Guildford bites her bottom lip. He can hardly think. He presses his thumb on her chin to encourage her mouth wider, then licks across her tongue, making Jane whimper and scrabble at the long line of silver buttons on his velvet doublet. There are a hundred guests in the other room. They will laugh and talk and drink and eat and dance on, and the couple they'll forget they've come to fête will fuck in this passageway where no one can overhear.

His impatient hand fumbles the hem of her wedding dress higher and higher, and Jane abandons his doublet to open his breeches. He doesn't mean to stop kissing her, but suddenly, they're just breathing harshly into one another's mouths as his fingers skim up her soft inner thigh.

"Careful," she whispers. He halts immediately. But then there's a flicker of a smile from Jane. "You might find the touch of me on your fingers as indelible as the taste of me on your tongue."

"Gods," he groans, and brings his hand up to explore her, to caress her, to drag his fingers through the warmest, wettest part of her, rubbing and teasing until her head falls back against the wall. He buries his face in her hair and breathes deep.

Manhood straining as he presses himself against Jane's hip for the illusion of relief, he prods her entrance with a fingertip. He exercises so much control to go slowly, to prepare her without pain, that it makes his hand shake. One of hers closes around it, steadying him. They stare at one another with heavy-lidded eyes as he pushes inside her. Her mouth falls open as her body makes way.

"Just like this," he explains, he promises, pressed so, so close to her.

Jane's channel is tight around his finger—at first with resistance, but then with involuntary attempts to take him deeper. Guildford's groans rumble below Jane's high cries as he introduces a second finger. Slowly, gently, he curls them inside her. Her hips chase the movement of his hand, which gets smoother, slicker. She grips his hand harder and they fuck her together, pitching Guildford closer to madness.

Her cunt is seizing, and he could give her more like this—trying to tell her as much with the targeted pressure of his fingertips—but Jane says, "Now. Please now." And like that isn't enough, she wriggles her hand into his undershorts and boldly grasps his member.

"I was trying to—" He cuts himself off with a groan when Jane decides to investigate, gliding her hand up his shaft.

"My apologies," she says with a small smile. "Continue."

"I was try—"

Her fingertips slip deftly across the wetness gathered on the tip of his member. The touch is clearly no accident; it sends a tremor through him, and Jane's gaze darts around his face, studying the reaction in each of his features. Guildford snatches her wrist to still her hand. How is it, when he has her panting against a wall with two of his fingers inside her, that she can look at him like that? Like she is a hunting hound from the tapestry they pushed aside, and he the cornered rabbit?

"You have a curious wife," Jane breathes. That's no way to say sorry he's ever heard.

Guildford manages to smirk at her.

"Then my curious wife will find herself with a singularly focused husband."

Ever so slightly, her hand tenses around his manhood before letting go entirely, as though awaiting his move.

When he reacts, he doesn't know what the test was or which of them failed. He slips his fingers from her body and crouches slightly to hoist her by the back of her thighs. Her wedding dress is voluminous between them, but not enough to stop him bumping his hips against hers, or to stop her from reaching between them to align the relevant parts. He feels her legs lock around his back and gradually eases into her—a little forward, a little back until she's clutching all of him. He's breathing hard through his nose as he fights not to fill her this instant.

Jane does little more than cling to him as he begins with slow strokes. It's them in the passage, and the passage of him inside her. A space has never seemed so sacred, so unreachable, so impervious to the laws of men and nature that exist somewhere back on the other side of that door, the other side of that tapestry. Guildford sinks into his wife again and again and feels neither Ethian nor Verity, but a third thing it seems unimportant to try to explain. He bows his head to kiss the swell of her breasts above her bodice.

He adjusts his hold, leaning her differently against the wall, changing the angle of his hips. On his next thrust, Jane utters a distinct and forceful "Fuck." Guildford lifts his head to reposition his lips on her neck, then thrusts again. Again, "Fuck!"

He tries to be measured, he tries to show restraint, but Jane uses the legs she's wrapped around him for leverage to bear down harder each time he bucks upward. Their fucking becomes loud and hasty, fleshy and rough and uncompromising as they drive each other onward to what he's been craving since their eyes met in the tavern. Since she crossed the room without looking away. Since he thought he might risk a run-in with the Kingsland guards to tarry with her under the stairs. Since he went willingly to his knees in the woods. Guildford didn't expect it to be this long before he was able to share her pleasure (as he stated in his wedding vows), but he's grateful for how very pleasurable it is.

Grinding his hips into hers makes Jane jerk in his arms and pulse around his manhood. He gives her a tenderly disarming kiss, then repeats the motion of his hips mercilessly as her body tenses and strains. It's like she can't hold him tightly enough—her limbs as well as her cunt. It feels good. It feels so deeply good to be held. He moves one of his hands to support her backside. The embellished fabric of her wedding dress prickles his palm; his knuckles chafe against stone.

Tears born of a surplus of sensation roll down Jane's cheeks seconds before she begins bargaining for her pleasure, her plea a single word: his name. She has no need to beg; he witnesses her rise and rise and rise and crack like thunder through a rainstorm. Her frisson is his, and soon after she shudders with climax, Guildford has to scramble to withdraw and set his bride unsteadily on her feet. Turning away, he closes his fist over the wetness she's left on his member and frenziedly pulls himself off, spending himself against the stone wall. He groans, forearm bracing the wall above his head as he slumps forward in satisfaction. Ah well. This passage will likely remain disused until the next arranged-marriage-followed-by-newlywed-tryst. Though Guildford suspects he and Jane are blazing a new trail that few could hope to follow.

He tugs his garments back into place and turns to her.

Gods, she looks beautiful, mouth and nose rubbed pink by their furious kissing. She swipes tear tracks from her cheeks before righting her skirt and sleeves.

"Why'd you do that?" Jane asks bluntly, nodding to the spattered stones.

"I didn't want it running down your thighs while you danced."

"Thoughtful, but I'm not going to dance."

"Then I didn't want it ruining your wedding dress while you sat for the feast. Or maybe," Guildford adds, pushing off the wall and taking a step towards her, "I don't care about your discomfort at all, and I just didn't think I'd be able to control myself if I knew you were sitting right next to me with evidence of this fuck still inside you."

Jane looks leisurely from his mouth to his eyes. Wryly, she replies, "That does seem like the kind of selfish thought you'd have."

"Not entirely selfish."

They hide their subsequent smiles in a kiss. The spontaneous affection of it startles Guildford.

"We need to get back before they start to think you've run away," he says abruptly.

"I did consider it. Why do you think I asked where this passage leads?"

"Oh? You were going to hide from me in my own house?"

"Not from you, exactly," Jane confesses.

"Just the world then," Guildford interprets. His smirk is not without sympathy.

"But what we did instead was alright too," she's quick to add.

Of course, the girl who pretended to bleed from the mouth and collapsed to avoid a wedding is suddenly the queen of understatement. He watches her a moment, then agrees, "Yeah, it was alright."

"Maybe we can do it—"

"Don't you dare say that to me again."

Bickering over whether Guildford is allowed to tell Jane what to say, and what sort of flirtatious, post-fuck flippancy will and will not be tolerated, they backtrack through the passage and bat their way out from behind the smothering tapestry. They'll need to reenter the feast separately to protect the knowledge of this one private moment they shared between the ceremonial spectacles of wedding and bedding. But until then...

Guildford offers her his arm.

Jane takes it.

[earthshine-moon]

Why I love AMC’s Lt Graham Gore: an essay

Full essay under the cut but here’s the intro to (hopefully) get you interested

In my humble (and completely non-obsessed 😉) opinion, AMC’s Lieutenant Graham Gore is one of the best cold boys. He is not only kind and considerate, but well-respected and liked among the other men (especially Goodsir and while that is reason enough, I wrote this anyway bc why not?). In this essay, I will exhibit why Lt Gore deserves all the love and appreciation that is possible to receive from a single fandom.

A list of special mentions are at the end of this post as well if you’re interested 💙

This is long so buckle up and hold on to your Welsh wigs, we’re going for a ride.

The first scene where we witness Gore’s personality is the boat hauling scene in episode 2. When the scene begins, it’s clear that Mr Goodsir has been talking for a little while and at first, it seems as though none of the party are really listening to him until he speaks directly to Gore. As soon as Goodsir says his name, the Lieutenant looks up at him and responds immediately despite how much effort and concentration he is clearly putting in to hauling the boat. Gore’s instant and genuine reply of “I do not, Mr Goodsir” implies that he has been listening (maybe not intently, he’s not superhuman) and knows exactly who Goodsir is talking about. On top of that, the tone of his answer gives the impression that he wasn’t giving it for the purpose of not having to converse further with Goodsir, but rather that he honestly couldn’t remember the Inuk man’s name, which shows his kindness.

Just a few seconds later in that scene, Gore stops the men as soon as Goodsir offers to take over from one of them in hauling the boat. This second immediate action indicates that he doesn’t mind taking the time to swap Hartnell with Goodsir and instruct him on how to pull the weight. (He could just be thankful for the excuse to take a little break and I love that too, so I’m cool with it being a bit of both). The fact that he has no problem with taking this time just adds to the kindness that we have already seen from him.

This leads me onto his instructions to Goodsir. He explains the technique clearly and calmly, which shows exactly how considerate and attentive he is because he gives Goodsir all the advice he needs to keep in step with the others (“watch Morfin here in front, and me with the corner of your eye”). Gore’s tone is warm and friendly throughout with a touch of reassurance seeping in as he says “you’ll take to it, I know you will”, which conveys his trust and belief in Goodsir’s ability to haul. While he’s talking, Gore’s whole body is turned towards Goodsir and he gives him a couple of little shoulder pats. (Tartnell and Peglar also give him a shoulder pat each but that’s different. I mention that again later).

(Just a little side note that has nothing to do with this but there’s a little detail in one of his lines in this scene that I love. He tells Hartnell to let Goodsir “spell [him]”. We don’t use this phrase in the UK and as far as I can tell, it’s North American. I just think it’s a lovely nod to the fact that he comes from a line of Naval officers (one of which might have picked up the phrase). Anyway, back to me rambling about how wonderful this guy is).

And now, my current favourite thing to talk about and watch: the cairn scene. Gore’s second line in this scene (“does this place make you uneasy, doctor?”) is said almost like a joke but he doesn’t walk away like you’d expect him to if it was meant in that way. Instead, he stays where he is and turns towards Goodsir as if he is waiting for an answer. At first I thought he might have stayed to hand Goodsir his ice pick (or whatever it’s called. I can’t find them anywhere) but it looks like he doesn’t go to pass it to him until he actually does. And, in case you need any more evidence, if you look closely when it cuts to the wider shot, the end of the handle is visible by the side of his leg and there’s a 2 second long pause before Goodsir speaks where he could have tried to hand the ice pick over or at least lifted it up, but he didn’t.

Gore’s response to Goodsir explaining why he shouldn’t call him Doctor is to say “that’s a doctor in my book” which signifies that he respects the work Goodsir has put in to his career so much more than most other characters (minus Dr. McDonald, of course). This response clearly shows he doesn’t believe that Goodsir is any less worthy of the title just because he hasn’t got the same training as the other ships’ doctors. Just to add to that, by giving him the title of doctor, it raises Goodsir to a higher level; one, in the eyes of other people, more deserving of respect than his actual station.

Sticking with the cairn scene (last one, I promise), Gore says “thank you” twice; one to Goodsir and the other to Des Voeux. Both are said in response to very small gestures but actually sound so genuine like they had done something more significant for him than taking his ice pick or handing him the folder-type thing (if anyone knows what this is, please let me know). As far as I can remember, there aren’t many thank yous thrown around in the show, especially not any as genuine as these.

I’ve been watching his 7 minutes of screen time so much recently and on about the 10th time, I noticed that he’s quite gentle when he touches other people. He gives friendly little pats on the shoulder or arm to Goodsir three times and to Des Voeux and Morfin once each but none of them are the sharp, quick ones you see from other characters (like Tartnell and Peglar earlier in ep2). I saw someone say on here that a lot of the cold boys subvert the stereotypes of traditional masculinity and I think this is a subtle but really sweet example of that.

And finally, on to how respected and liked he is. We only ever hear Sir John call him Graham, which is interesting because in Victorian England, Christian names weren’t something to be used lightly as they symbolised close friendship or intimacy. Crozier saying “amongst everything else, I know you mourn a friend” to Sir John after Gore’s death reinforces that. All of this is then furthered by how much Sir John clearly grieves Gore’s death along with the implied grieving of the other Erebus officers. It’s such a credit to his character to see (however brief) the pain and loss his death created among the men.

Sorry to end this on a sad note but here have a cookie 🍪 for making it to the end

And now for some special mentions (including some things about the real Lt Gore)

• the little pompom on his hat

• him helping Morfin up onto the ice ridge

• him shouting with the other men when they find the shore

• “I pray it’s English tea merchants coming from Kenton that look upon that message next”

• asking Goodsir if he’s seen something when he sees he’s looking away from the cairn (idk I just think it’s kinda sweet)

• his smile (that’s it)

And for the real Lt Gore:

• he was an accomplished artist

• Fitzjames described him as having “the sweetest of tempers”

• a gun exploded in his hand when he was shooting cockatoos in Australia for food. Ended up laid flat and all he could do was quietly say “killed the bird” (his hand was fine btw. Only a small injury)

• He was promoted to Captain in absentia by the Admiralty (before the official proclamation of the deaths of Franklin’s men)

[ironboyxs]

Let me take care of you

Fandom: Marvel

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Male Reader

Word count: 912

p.s. this was a request from the lovely @megamonstermuffin, I'm sorry it took so long, I'm in a bit of a creative block, but I plan to write a lot next month! in fact, I want to post a list of which fandons I write for, so stay tuned. and always remembering REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!!

They were tired, but Y/N particularly was exhausted. Being an Avenger was definitely not an easy task, especially when you're not a super soldier with enormous stamina and strength greater than most people.

Y/N knew how to handle himself of course, Doctor Strange didn't take him in as his apprentice just because the boy was kind, he took him in because he was very skilled with magic. But magic can be tiring, and very tiring.

Y/N and James opened the door to their newly rented apartment, they had been living together for a month. And almost two years they were together as a couple.

Him and Bucky together was something no one predicted, not even themselves, but it was one of the best things that could have happened to both of them. Y/N was lonely, he had already learned to fend for himself on the streets of New York for some time when Stephen Strange found him, Bucky was a man out of his time, and the recent “loss” of his best friend, Steve Rogers, it made him feel even more out of place.

The two were people who didn't fit into society very well, but they found the perfect fit in each other.

"Are you okay magic boy?" - Bucky asked as soon as they arrived home.

"You know I hate that nickname" - Y/N said.

"But you're really magical" - Bucky said giving his boyfriend a kiss

Y/N liked that side of Bucky, the side of him that flirted with the boy, that was romantic, flirtatious and playful, Bucky didn't show that side to everyone.

'But seriously, you look very tired, I know today was difficult for all of us." - Bucky said again.

"Well, I may be magical but I don't have the physical resistance of a super soldier, my love."

"Come, I'll draw a bath and make our dinner."

"Bucky, there's no need, I know you're tired too".

Bucky looked seriously at his boyfriend and placed his hands on his face.

"Let me take care of you, please?"

"How can I resist those big blue eyes? Alright, let's go."

Y/N was still getting used to having someone take care of him, he had forgotten what that was like, he spent so much time taking care of himself that sometimes when people offered to help him, he felt like he was bothering them.

Bucky smiled as he looked at his boyfriend, recognizing Y/N's reluctance to accept help. He knew that his boyfriend was used to taking care of himself, but he also wanted to show that he was there to share the burden of the difficulties.

While preparing a relaxing bath, Bucky took out his phone and connected a device to the speaker, his playlist of relaxing music started playing. Soft music began to fill the apartment, creating a serene atmosphere. After a while Bucky called for his boyfriend.

"Y/N, I know it's hard to accept help sometimes, but you're not bothering me. I want to do this for you. Let me take care of you today." - He asked once again with his big, asking blue eyes.

Y/N sighed, feeling the warmth of Bucky's words. He allowed himself to accept that affectionate gesture, something that was still new to him, even after so long of the relationship.

The bath was prepared with scented salts, creating an aromatic cloud that hovered in the air. Bucky helped Y/N undress and gently led him into the hot water. He sat next to his boyfriend, gently massaging his shoulders as the water washed over them.

"Relax, my love. I'll take care of everything tonight" - Bucky said, kissing the back of his boyfriend's head.

There was another thing that Y/N couldn't get used to, in the best way possible. Whenever he felt Bucky's touches it was like he was being transported directly to paradise. His boyfriend's lips were perfect against his skin, and the mixed sensation of a flesh arm and a metal arm was incredible.

Y/N allowed himself to close his eyes, leaning against Bucky's chest. The soft music and gentle touches helped soothe his tired mind and body.

After the shower, Bucky prepared a comforting meal, something simple and delicious that they both loved. They sat at the table, sharing laughter and conversation, enjoying each other's company.

After dinner, Bucky took Y/N in his arms and carried him to the couch. He covered them with a soft blanket as they watched a movie, cuddling and exchanging subtle touches.

As the night came to an end, Y/N snuggled into Bucky's arms, feeling loved and cared for. He fell asleep with a smile on his lips, silently thankful for having someone like Bucky by his side.

That night, Bucky took care of Y/N not just with gestures, but with all the love and affection he could offer, promising to be there for his beloved, no matter the circumstances.

[chihoshisai]

A Healing Fire

Fandom : One piece / Pairing : You x Ace / Genre : angst, hurt comfort, mild smut / Other : this one shot is 8K words and imo too long to post here, so I'm only posting 1575 words as a preview. The full fic is up on ao3 (click for the link). Feel free to start reading here to see if it intrigues you or directly read it all on ao3. Enjoy !

Summary : Working as a geisha in Wano can be quite an ordeal. Especially when one of Orochi's men demands you get fired due to your mistakes, going as far as to injure you. Luckily, Ace stumbles upon you, and takes it upon himself to see that you're well throughout your recovery. Which causes you to become (quite badly) attached to him as you discover parts of yourself through rash actions.

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

“I’m begging you, please stop!” 

You shot a look of terror towards the glittering sword of the samurai standing before you. The other geishas, too frightened to speak up, recoiled in a corner of the room as they watched the silver blade in action. Your hands, raised to shield your face, felt an icy sensation followed by stinging and finally the feeling of warm liquid falling down your right arm. The shock of the impact made you lose balance and fall on the ground. You glanced up at the face of the furious man, tears blurring your vision. 

“You useless woman!” he bellowed, “That should teach you a lesson. Now get out and never come back!” He pointed his sword towards your face, glaring as he did so, giving anyone in your position no choice in the matter whatsoever.  

“But sir, you can’t possibly ask for one of our own to be fired?” A geisha intervened with a shaking voice.

Feeling a sense of superiority, he chuckled before replying, “I am one of Orochi’s samurai, that should be enough of a reason. I can decide who can and cannot stay in this pleasure house according to my taste.” He scanned the frightened geishas, who shrieked in response. “If anyone has any objection, please do come forward, I’ll ensure you meet the same fate as your friend over there.” His eyes returned to you, “If I ever see or hear that you still frequent this place or others, I’ll kill you.”

You looked over towards your friends and coworkers — who could no longer look you in the eyes as they shook their heads in accordance with the samurai’s wishes. Suppressing a sob, you grabbed your precious shamisen and fled the room. You ignored the few questionables eyes and inquiries, as you proceeded to the building’s exit.

The lively and bustling streets of the flower capital made you feel a sense of panic. Unless you found another brothel to work at – which you couldn’t – you would no longer be allowed to live here. In fact, without a place to stay you would go hungry, tired, weak and vulnerable. The anxiety of the current situation caused you to be lost in thoughts – not knowing where to go, you stood immobile and aghast on the street, as the blood from your wound stained your kimono. 

“Are you alright?”

You looked up from the pair of feet that appeared in your field of vision. A man wearing nothing but a pair of shorts, an orange hat, with black hair and freckles looked at you with worry. He was without a doubt a foreigner. How he got in and what he was doing there, you preferred not to know, as he probably was involved with Kaido, even though he wasn’t wearing the usual uniform.

“Yes, thank you,” you gave him a curt bow, avoiding all eye contact whilst hoping he would drop it and let you go despite your disturbed expression. 

“I can’t believe that when you’re bleeding quite heavily!”

Unwilling to get involved with a stranger, you kept your gaze to the ground, clutching your arm, as if to hide the wound. However, he, who refused to heed your body language, grabbed your uninjured arm and started leading the way. 

You looked up at him bewildered, “What are you—?”

“You should come and meet our ship’s doctor! He’s really amazing and will take care of your wound in no time!”

Ship doctor? He wasn’t one of Kaido’s men then? Your panic increased tenfold, as this man – seemingly unwilling to let go of you – strutted the streets of Wano while continuously praising his ship’s doctor’s skills, unaffected by the stares and whispers of the locals. 

“Who are you?” you puffed, at his quick walking pace.

“I’m Ace! A pirate.” He gave you a contagious smile, which you returned with a fearful one. Having your life spared, yet shamed, by a samurai, if word got out to Orochi that you were also involved with a foreign pirate who must’ve illegally entered the country, your head would roll for sure this time. 

Ace led you to Kuri where you saw a sight that caused a knot to your stomach. Being confronted to poverty for the first time, you couldn’t help but lower your gaze, too ashamed to face the locals. Your chest started to feel heavy at the thought that this could possibly be your life from now on. 

“We're here!” Ace gave you a glance before waving towards his crew. “Guys, I'm back!” 

Multiple pirates wearing clothes you never laid eyes on simultaneously welcomed Ace back. The doctor was called quickly, and before you knew it you found yourself sitting on an uncomfortable rock with bandages subsiding the pain, and ointment to apply in upcoming days. 

“So, tell us now how did a lady like you get injured?” Ace sat by your side, the other members of his crew looked at you in anticipation.

“Well,” You gave a quick glance towards your shamisen before telling the foreigners the full story. You were touched by their angry and upset faces, as they listened to your tale, feeling a sincere sense of compassion. A few of them muttered blasphemies about the Samurai and the Shogun's actions. Their fury somewhat felt personnal ; you never imagined strangers to care so much about someone such as yourself. 

“This is quite a horrible thing you've been through today,” Ace said at the end of your explanations. 

You gave him a polite smile, “Stuff like this is a daily occurrence in this country, I'm simply one of the unlucky ones.” You gave the crew a curt smile before avoiding their gaze. 

“This country is in a worse state than we thought, Ace,” said Deuce

“Yeah,” Ace stared darkly towards the ground. The atmosphere, now silent, took a sour, heavy turn, where the pirates did nothing but arbor anger and frustration on their faces. The mood did nothing but reinforce your personal lament of your situation. 

A cheery voice made itself heard despite the miasma surrounding everyone, as a child with purple hair and a green Kimono came into view. “Ace!” She waved towards the black haired man, “You're back!” 

“Tama!” Ace stood up and went to welcome the little child. They seemed surprisingly close, and as he interacted with her, you couldn't help but notice how kindhearted he's been all this time – to you, to her, and probably to this village too. Your wary opinion of him changed, as you stared at his broad back, defining the lines of his exposed muscles and getting lost in the smile he gave the young girl. If it wasn't for him, you would've been at a loss ; the citizens of the Flower Capital did nothing but pretend they didn't notice but Ace, he was the only one who saw you, and extended a helping hand – though forcefully. The thought that you hadn't thanked him yet or even paid back the favor started bothering you . 

You felt an intent gaze coming from one of the crew members, and quickly turned your head away, blushing in embarrassment. You hadn't realized that you were staring for a long time – and quite intensely too. 

Clearing your throat, you stood up, cheeks still red, “I should probably get going.”

“What?” Ace finally looked in your direction. 

Tama stared at you inquisitively, smiling, as she asked Ace who you were. He promptly answered her before returning his attention to you. “You're leaving?” 

You were secretly pleased to see him somewhat surprised by your sudden leave. “I'm not from this village, I don't think I should overstay my welcome.” Plus they probably don't want an additional mouth to feed, you thought. 

“Yeah, that makes sense, but where would you go?” Ace asked.

“Ringo,” you replied confidently – a safe place to hide from any prying eyes and Orochi's men along with the best way to put some distance between you and the samurai. 

“Ringo huh…” Ace said.

“You've no idea where it is don't you?” Deuce said.

You chuckled, before grabbing your shamisen. “Thank you for your help today, I’ll get going now before it gets dark.” You gave the crowd a curt bow before placing your shamisen on your back and quickly walking in the opposite direction of the village.

“Wait, will you be alright on your own?” Ace loudly added, Tama had kept his attention away from you again, as she explained where and what Ringo consisted of.

Once again, you gave a bow as an answer and proceeded to disappear in the greenlife of nature. This is for the best, you thought. Even if they were good company, they were still foreigners – getting attached to them wouldn’t be any good. You promptly made your way to Ringo, thankful that no additional harm came your way. You arrived at night, feeling the cold of the region making its way to your bones, making you regret your decision. With poor vision, you wandered around until you found an abandoned cabin, which you reluctantly decided to call your new home, and settled down for the day. Now settled, you thought back on today’s peripeties : the loss of a job, a wounded limb, and the warm help Ace extended your way. You felt a fuzzy feeling in your stomach at the thought of the latter and decided to reminisce no more, letting the chime of the wind serve as your lullaby. 

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Continue reading on ao3

[jessiarts]

Trying to help these Palestinian Families!

There are two verified Palestinian GFMs in my linktree, and I want to help them meet their fundraiser goals.

To do this I hope to donate my art and time to raise the money.

How this will work is you donate directly to one of the GFMs in my linktree, and then send me a screenshot of your donation receipt as proof (via tumblr ask or email) and I will draw the fandom character(s) prompt you request based off the donation amounts in the graphic below.

Both GFMs are verified by Operation Olive Branch.

First GFM is organized by Tasnim Alhamss (on line #663 of OOB's spreadsheet), who is still trying to evacuate her sister's 3 children as well as her brother's 3 daughters. They're just a little over $2K from their goal. They're so close!

Second GFM is organized by Layal Qudaih (on line #844 of OOB's spreadsheet), who is trying to evacuate newlyweds Hala and Abd Al Aziz, as well as Hala's elderly mother, Amal. Hala was 7 months pregnant when the GFM was created in February. It is now August. That means there is now a baby, just a few months old, who needs evacuating too. They have only achieved 67% of their goal as of writing this post.

Below is the graphic detailing the type of drawing I'll complete in exchange for the amount donated.

I encourage other artists to take this idea and run with it for their own adopted families. Operation Olive Branch has a whole spreadsheet of family fundraisers you can sponsor if you are able!

Hopefully together we can help more families meet their goals and get to safety!

I've included a list of fandoms and shows I'm most familiar with under the cut, but feel free to ask about others!

Again, this is not an exhaustive list, but I did try to put them in alphabetical order to make them easier to look through.

Avatar the Last Airbender

BBC Sherlock

Cartoon Network- Grim Adventures of Billy and Mandy, Ed Edd & Eddy, Courage the Cowardly Dog, Kids Next Door, Foster's Home for Imaginary Friends, Johnny Bravo, Powepuff Girls, Dexter's Lab

Child's Play franchise

Coraline

Defiance Series

Doctor Who - mostly 9th Doctor through current Doctor, but I have seen a little bit of Classic Who too

Disney Movies- again, pretty much all of it- but some of my favorites were the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, Hocus Pocus;

classics like Little Mermaid, Aladdin, Tarzan, Emperors New Groove, Lilo and Stitch, etc;

newer stuff like Brave, Encanto, and Coco, Moana, Frozen, etc.

The Hobbit

House MD

Jurassic Park

Looney Toons

Lord of the Rings

Marvel- pretty much all of it, but especially familiar with Guardians of the Galaxy, Thor movies, Loki series, The Avengers, Deadpool, etc

Nickelodeon- Fairly OddParents, Spongebob, Danny Phantom, My Life as a Teenage Robot

Once Upon a Time

Pokemon

The Princess Bride

Scooby Doo

Shrek

Supernatural

Tim Burton Films - Nightmare before Christmas, Corpse Bride, Alice in Wonderland, Sweeney Todd, Beetlejuice, etc

Unus Annus

X-Files

[angstea]

fingers covered in thorns

Fandom: Doctor Who

Series: Auctober 2024

<- Previous | Masterlist | Next ->

Summary: Sometimes the Doctor felt like the words "Don't touch me" had lost all meaning

AN: Title is from 10 Feet Tall by Cavetown

The Doctor is autistic

Written for Auctober Day 10: Self Advocacy

Read on AO3

The Doctor was not a touchy person. At least, not this time. That first time Clara had wrapped him in her arms, he'd wanted to squirm away and scratch his skin until the feeling of contact went away.

But Clara still insisted on hugs. He had tried politely informing her that he wasn't fond of them that first time but the message didn't seem to get across no matter how many times he tried.

"I don't think I'm a hugging person now."

"It's just a way to hide your face."

"No! Not the hugging, I'm against the hugging!"

And nothing changed.

-

"Don't touch me!" The Doctor's yell echoed around the console room. Yaz snatched her hand back.

She watched the Doctor, hunched over the console with tense shoulders. It was a difficult day. Not everyone had made it out in one piece today and the Doctor had been quiet. Yaz had reached out, a hand landing lightly on the Doctor's shoulder only to immediately be met with venom.

"Doctor?" Yaz asked tentatively.

"Don't." was all the Doctor said in response.

"Doctor, are you okay?"

There was no reply, just silence.

"I'll take that as a no."

The Doctor gritted her teeth and glared at nothing in particular.

"Tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong."

"You're lying to me."

The Doctor gave her an incredulous look before turning on her heel and stalking off towards the corridors.

"Doctor, come back!" Yaz called after her, beginning to follow.

The Doctor whipped around to face her, teeth bared.

"I need to be alone right now. Is that okay with you?" her tone was cold and harsh.

"I just want to help."

"I don't need your help!" the words reverberated off the walls.

The Doctor's expression shifted from anger. A slight frown, furrowed brows, a look of remorse in her eyes.

"Sorry. Sorry. Just- just leave me alone for a bit, yeah?"

And she disappeared before Yaz could answer.

-

The Doctor was quiet. Unusually quiet.

He wasn't responding to questions, just staring blankly with those unreadable eyes. Donna had tried reaching out but he would scurry off to another room the minute someone asked what was wrong.

Everyone in the house just decided to leave him be after that. Not Donna though, she was going to figure out the problem with her spaceman if it killed her.

She couldn't ask him directly. She wouldn't get an answer when he didn't even respond to hello. She just had to wait for the right opportunity.

...

Which ended up being at 1:13am. As much as she forgave the Doctor for his utterly fucked sleep schedule, she still grumbled about it to herself.

The sound of the living room TV had disturbed her and she knew it was the Doctor. It wasn't uncommon to find him passed out on the sofa after he'd fallen asleep watching a movie. Donna didn't care as long as he got enough sleep.

She carefully tiptoed along the hall and down the stairs, dodging creaky floorboards as not to disturb the rest of the house.

She gently tapped on the living room door before opening it. Sure enough, there was the Doctor curled into the corner of the sofa, long limbs pulled close and tucked against him.

"Doctor?" she whispered.

The Doctor's head whipped around to look at her.

"Can I join you?"

He nodded ever so slightly. Donna perched herself on the other end of the sofa. He turned his attention back to the TV, currently playing The Lion King. It was a frequently played film in the household, a go-to for difficult days and feelings.

Donna shuffled closer to the Doctor. The Doctor blinked owlishly at her and curled up tighter. Like he was trying to sink further into the cushions.

Donna immediately responded to the change, jumping back to give him space.

"Sorry spaceman."

Silence.

"Do you want me to leave?"

The Doctor frowned deeply. Donna was briefly reminded of Beaker from the Muppets and his perpetually anxious expression.

He shook his head and mumbled. "No touch."

"Okay. No touching, got it."

He just her a grateful smile.

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

A Fair Price To Pay

@febuwhump prompt: "Who did this to you" @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Tortured for Information

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Crosshair, Omega, Hemlock Post Season 2: Escape from Tantiss. If you've read my fic 'A Cosy Bed', you know what's in store for Crosshair. Enjoy. Word Count: ~9675 Read Here On AO3

Content Warning: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence/Injuries Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Crosshair is determined to get Omega out of Tantiss, even if their freedom comes at a price.

Along the way, she saves him too.

Hemlock walked slowly around the table, inspecting the restraints that his assistant tightened to hold the tall clone in place. Yes, CT-9904 was weakened from his long incarceration, but this time they weren’t taking any chances.

“I am truly impressed by your fortitude and ingenuity,” he said, in that soft-spoken tone that somehow imparted so much more fear than those leaders who raised their voices. “I thought it remarkable, but a fluke, that you escaped the first time and attempted to transmit a message to your… ‘brothers’… to warn them about – well. You know.

“But to defy me again, and hide the girl from me?”

He stopped at the head of the table, leaning into the periphery of Crosshair’s vision. Crosshair couldn’t turn his head – he was fastened too tightly to do more than twitch in defiance. He kept his gaze fixed determinedly on the ceiling, trying to refute the weakness in his body, the faint tremor that set up in his muscles in response to fatigue and fear.

“I would like you to tell me where she is.” A soft plea, but insistent. “This facility is a big place, and she may come to harm if she is unattended. So please, Crosshair. Could you tell me where Omega is?”

Hemlock’s request sounded so reasonable.

Crosshair blinked and said nothing. Bit the sides of his tongue to keep from talking. Stared at the ceiling. At the ceiling. Not at the vents. Lifting Omega up, hiding her in a vent. Hissing at her to stay silent, not to be found.

Stare at the ceiling, don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

Hemlock sighed. “It disappoints me that you are unwilling to co-operate.” He gestured to his assistant, and a needle bit into the skin of Crosshair’s neck. Don’t look. Don’t give them the satisfaction of looking.

“What can I do that might compel you to tell me the girl’s whereabouts? There is nothing I can offer you. You have proven, repeatedly, that you cannot be trusted to submit to incarceration without resistance.” A soft huff of laughter. “Perhaps I should be unsurprised. The Kaminoan reports always indicated that your batch of ‘enhanced’ clones were unreliable.”

A warm, numb feeling began to spread through Crosshair’s body. His mind worked sluggishly. What had they dosed him with? He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t betray the kid. It was the least he could do. Try and protect her. It’s what Hunter would want.

Sensation dropped away. There was no table. No restraints. His body was cushioned on air.

Hemlock was still talking.

“If I cannot offer reward for co-operation, I must threaten punishment. Thus far, you have been remarkably resistant to our… usual methods of data extraction.”

Data extraction. Torture. Crosshair’s jaw worked. Was he trying to talk? He shouldn’t do that. Didn’t want to. That’s what they wanted. They wanted him to talk. Tell them about Omega, hiding in the vent. Waiting for him to come back.

That’s right. He’d promised her he would come back, once he’d found a way out. He’d better go find her.

Tried to move his legs, but they wouldn’t function. That was odd. He pictured rolling to his side, standing up, off the table. Staggering forwards. Wondered why his body wouldn’t obey.

“The sedative should have taken effect by now.”

Sedative. That would do it. The numbness.

Why would they sedate him?

Hemlock wore a small smile as he leaned directly into the path of Crosshair’s vision. He blinked, the doctor’s face swimming in and out of focus.

“What can I take from you?” Hemlock asked softly, almost to himself. “What do you treasure? What do you hold on to in the belief that it sets you apart from all the other multitudes of clones in the galaxy?”

A medical droid hovered into view. This wasn’t right. Crosshair was still conscious. If they had sedated him, consciousness should fade. Instead he was awake, thoughts wildly roaming and unable to take action as his mind had become uncoupled from his body.

Crosshair was just barely aware of a touch to his face – Hemlock, tracing a finger down the fine line of his tattooed eye socket.

“I think,” said the doctor with a humourless smile, “I shall take your sight.”

The droid unfolded its appendages, positioning the fine, sharp tools just above Crosshair’s right eye.

“Do tell me, Crosshair, if you want me to stop. We can desist at any time. I just need to know where you have hidden Omega.”

Crosshair didn’t know if he could make his mouth work anyway, in this drug-induced dream-haze. At least he wouldn’t be able to give the girl up by accident.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Hemlock’s voice was more distant now, the doctor retreating to give the medical droid space to work.

“The sedative has robbed you of motor function. It has not dulled your pain receptors.”

*

Crosshair had been conscious for surgery before, in the labs of Kamino; pain numbed but mind sharp, responding to each instruction to focus, read this, can you see that, whilst the surgeons grafted synthetic muscle to his enhanced eyes to give him unprecedented control over his superior eyesight. Back then he had been silent, answering only when spoken to, bitterly determined to see the ordeal through with iron willpower.

Now, mind numbed but pain sharp, Crosshair found his voice. Moreso than the pain, panic ate at his nerves; strapped down, unable to flee, the right side of his world going dim.

Even when tears choked him, he didn’t give up Omega.

The sedative was still leaden in his body when he was returned to his cell, laid into the barren cot with a tasteless meal placed on the floor beside.

Hemlock was a shadowed figure just beyond the doorway as the droid assistant retreated.

“If I do not find Omega by the end of the next day,” came the doctor’s soft, even voice, “I will return for your other eye. If you wish to disclose her whereabouts, you have only to alert the guards.”

The door shut with a clang, the finality of a tombstone settling into place. Crosshair tested his sluggish limbs. He could move in an uncoordinated way, like swimming through heavy atmosphere. He dragged himself to the edge of the cot, all but falling to the floor, right hand coming up to claw at his hollow eye socket. A sob welled up but he swallowed it, forcing silence to his lips instead. On the floor he curled, foetal, arms cradling and protecting his head, one remaining eye squeezed shut to block out the reality of his loss.

If he kept his eye shut, he could pretend that’s all it was. Just like having his eyes closed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Perhaps he finally slept from exhaustion.

A scratching sound nearby permeated his consciousness, slowly dragging his mind back from the numb vortex of despair his thoughts circled. A sound not in his cell. A sound in the walls.

Carefully he rolled to his side, pushing up to sit cross-legged with his back to the noise. His right shoulder hunched high, defensive, shielding his broken face. With his left arm he reached across his body, pulling the food tray to him, then without turning shuffled backwards until he was leaned against the wall.

Once he was there he sagged against the supporting expanse of steel, drained even by that small amount of movement. Fatigue coursed through him with quivering intensity, invading his thoughts and muscles with equal ferocity, but he forced himself to gather the bread roll from the tray and slowly start picking it to pieces.

Once the roll was in shreds he tucked his hands behind the small of his back, posting the fragments of bread through the vent.

Omega’s fingertips brushed against his and he stilled, almost ready to weep at the contact. He tilted his head back against the cool steel, closing his eyes. Closing one eye, trying not to feel how his eyelid stretched in pain over the empty place his right eye used to be. He briefly squeezed her fingers in return.

“Eat up, kid,” he whispered, voice no more than an exhaled breath. “You’re going to need your strength.”

“Have you got something to eat too?”

Crosshair cracked open his left eye, peering uncertainly at the tray. “Yeah. There’s stew.”

“Can’t pass that through a grate,” came Omega’s voice with forced cheer, and tears stung his lids at the way she could find levity even in the darkest situations.

When he finished passing the bread he reached out and lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping at the stew. His hands shook so much that the ceramic bashed against his teeth, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of pain to his empty eye-socket, and he hissed in displeasure.

“Crosshair?” Omega’s voice was small and concerned. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”

He took a breath. Summoned up some deep reserve of determination and stilled his quaking.

“I’m fine,” he said, and there was enough acid in his tone that he sounded almost like his old self. Then, “We’re getting out of here. Tonight.”

He heard a shuffling as she shifted her position within the walls. “What do I need to do, Crosshair? Tell me, and I’ll be ready.”

“Get back to the loose vent panel as the base switches over to night-cycle,” he said, trying to inject more confidence than he felt into his words. “I’ll meet you there.”

*

Tech had taught him all about their enhanced physiology. Had taught all of them, lecturing his brothers for hours on end to ensure they understood their enhancements so that they could best utilise them.

All clone troopers possessed an element of rapid healing, allowing them to shrug off injuries that would stall a nat-born, or recover more quickly from even more grievous wounds. And Experimental Unit 99 was enhanced even further than that, their growth and repair times even faster.

Crosshair wasn’t sure Hemlock knew that. Didn’t think he’d accounted for how quickly his body would break down the torture drugs which had been a feature of his long incarceration. He’d certainly never given them reason to suspect that he recovered faster than normal from the toxins they flooded his system with.

Too busy laying there in despair for them to think the drugs had worn off any quicker.

He would make use of that unintentional obfuscation now. They would expect him to still be staggered by the sedative.

All his short life, he’d been underestimated. Now, as before, he would turn it to his advantage.

“Guard.” He injected a tremulous note of feebleness into his voice. “Guard.”

An armoured solder appeared at the door of his cell. Not clone armour. The TK troopers.

“What do you want, prisoner?”

“Hemlock,” he stuttered. It wasn’t so hard to pretend, lances of pain stabbing through his head from behind his right orbit. “O…me…ga…”

A quick conference outside the door. The sound of retreating footsteps. The door opened, and the one remaining guard entered.

“On your feet,” came the command as he was grabbed roughly by his arm, “ready for the Doctor.”

Crosshair let himself be dragged upright, sagging his weight away from the TK soldier. Feigning weakness long enough for the man to off-balance to catch him.

One rapid, smooth move to sweep the knife from the sheath at the trooper’s belt. A single upward stroke of his arm, ending with the blade embedded under the rim of the helmet. A quiet gurgle and now it was the TK trooper’s turn to sag, Crosshair catching him and staggering under the weight.

He eased the dying man to the floor soundlessly, glancing at the door. Had he been too loud? Would someone investigate?

Hunter would know. Hunter would hear someone coming, sense them, long before they arrived.

Crosshair didn’t have Hunter. Only his own, un-enhanced senses, dulled by pain, and vision that swam in and out and faded disconcertingly where his peripheral sight used to be on the right.

He quashed the rising panic. With trembling hands he set to releasing the catches on the dead man’s armour, fasting it to his own body with the rote instinct of years performing the same actions, no matter how shell-shocked he felt. Knife at his belt. Pistol at one hip, blaster in hands.

Pulled on the helmet, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the close warmth of another man’s gear pressing around his injured face. Activated the HUD. Wished he knew how to compensate for his missing eye.

Wearily, he pulled himself to his feet. Both hands clutched the blaster, trying to still the tremors that ran through him. The armour felt unbearably heavy, and he wondered how he ever used to carry this weight, let alone move agile and evasive across battlefields.

He looked down at the youth whose lifeblood pooled darkly on the ground, eyes glassy and unseeing in death. There was nowhere to hide the body, and even a cursory glance would show it wasn’t Crosshair, so no point trying to disguise it in the small cot. He forced his body straight, falling into the memory of rigid protocol to step out of the cell, just another guard, another obedient soldier–

Two more guards, at the end of the corridor. Their visors trained on him as he walked slowly, so slowly, towards them. Too slow? No. Slow enough to be relaxed. Like a guard who thought nothing was wrong.

“The Doctor will be here shortly,” one of them told him.

Did they expect a response? His voice would give him away, knowing that his soft, sibilant tone would never pass for the voice of the young conscripted trooper. A slight incline of his head, acknowledging he had heard. Would it be enough?

The guards parted, and one keyed the door open for him.

Past the first hurdle. Now to find Omega.

*

The stolen helmet was oppressive, tight and humid. His breath was harsh in the close space and sweat beaded on skin which flushed hot and cold, clammy and uncomfortable. With each step the headgear rubbed against swollen right side of his face, bruising stretched tight over his angular cheekbones, and he was certain that someone would notice he didn’t walk with the confidence of a soldier who owned this armour.

Where had he spotted the loose vent; the one he had boosted Omega up to when stray chance had brought them together in an empty corridor the day before? His attention drifted and he pressed a hand to the helmet, trying to steady his pounding head. Perhaps the sedative wasn’t fully out of his system. Too late to worry now. There was no going back.

They would make it out today, or he would die. That’s all there was to it.

He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, letting the blaster in his right hand drop limply to his side. A wave of nausea coursed through him, the meagre meal he had consumed threatening to reappear. Desperate, he glanced around. Not alone. Two guards, escorting prisoners the opposite direction.

No choice. His stomach convulsed, vomit and bile burning up his throat and into his mouth. Unthinking, he dropped the blaster and wrenched the helmet off, lunch spewing forth as he collapsed to his hands and knees. Dimly he was aware of clamouring voices as he dry-heaved, clawing his fingers against the slick puddle of vomit inches from his face.

“That’s one of the prisoners!”

Still dazed, he felt himself picked up and slammed against the wall. What was left of his vision swam, agony lancing through his head at the impact, a hot poker of pain rocketing from the base of his skull to the aching emptiness of his right eye socket. A fist found his gut, robbing him of breath he had barely recovered, before some deep-seated need to survive burned through the numbness and he thought to fight back.

Another blow to the stomach and he doubled over. His hand groped for the pistol at his hip. Once he could have done this in a heartbeat – release the cover, draw the pistol, fire. Old training guided his muscles but new weakness hobbled him; one, two, three attempts to free the pistol.

Someone grabbed his throat, squeezing, dragging him upright. The guard. Fingers pressed into his windpipe, hard enough to bruise. Crosshair couldn’t swallow the mewl of fear as he writhed in the unforgiving grip.

Then the pistol was free, blast bolt ricocheting from the floor, and the sound of live fire was drowned by a ragged cheer from the chain of prisoners who surged towards where Crosshair struggled with the guards.

Crosshair shakily brought the pistol to bear, firing again, but the guard released his throat and knocked his hand aside. The shot went wide and Crosshair grunted as the guard tackled him, pinning him to the wall.

The second guard was readying his own blaster, backing away from the cluster of prisoners he had lost control of, trying to angle over his partner’s shoulder at Crosshair. Crosshair tilted his head back, gasping as another blow found his narrow ribs, tuning out the pain as he focused on the second guard.

He raised the pistol. His arm was shaking. Stars danced across his vision, going dark as his grip on consciousness faded.

Three shots. The third hit. The guard fell.

Noise swelled. The body was swarmed by his fellow prisoners before it hit the floor. Summoning a desperate reserve of strength, Crosshair shoved at his assailant. The guard stepped back for just a moment, then lunged.

Pain exploded in his face as the guard’s fist connected with his cheekbone. For a moment Crosshair sagged, the oblivion of unconsciousness pulling tantalisingly at his senses. But before he met that relief he was wrenched back to full awareness, a raw scream torn from his throat, as two fingers hooked into the bottom of his orbital socket and pulled.

Crosshair howled as he dropped to his knees, forced down by pressure which might have been the barest touch or might have been the weight of a neutron star; it didn’t matter, his body would do nothing but obey the grip inside his broken eye-socket. Somewhere within the excruciating blossom of pain, newly repaired skin from the surgical extraction tore.

Then the weight of his attacker was lifted from his body and still he howled, and the pistol was prised from his fingers and there were hands on his shoulders and someone was shaking him.

“He’s dead. He’s dead. Pull yourself together. You looked like you were going somewhere.”

Clawing at his face, blood pulsing lazily down his cheek, Crosshair gazed up in desperation. Prisoner’s garb. A familiar face. The hollow cheeks and shaved head of an underweight reg.

“Echo?” he groaned, reaching out with his left hand, fastening trembling fingers round the other’s arm.

A shake of the head. “Sorry, brother.” The reg was crouched in front of him, tearing strips from his sleeved tunic and wadding them up to press to Crosshair’s face. The sniper hissed and recoiled, the fresh damage to his eye socket settling into an intense, pulsing nexus of hurt.

“Is he alright?” asked another voice.

“Don’t think so.”

“I’m fine,” ground out Crosshair, pushing away at the ministering hands, staggering to his feet. He glanced around, searching, but one reg was holding out the pistol, and another had the stolen helmet.

His thoughts were sluggish, swirling in a disparate haze of pain and fatigue, but through it all one goal cut clearly.

“I have to go,” he muttered, gesturing for the pistol. It was placed in his palm, his arm sagging tiredly by his side. Then the reg holding the helmet stepped in front of him, reverently offering the protective headgear.

“Is there anything we can do?” one of them asked, and a murmur of assent rippled through the group.

Crosshair eased the helmet back on, panting shallowly through his mouth. Adrenaline demanded his body continue, even as his mind wanted to shut down.

“A distraction,” he muttered, voice distorted by the vocoder. What he wouldn’t give to have Wrecker and his explosions by his side.

A reassuring hand clasped his shoulder.

“Leave it to us.”

*

The loose vent. Crosshair came to a halt, pressing one hand to the side of his helmet, pretending to receive a com as another group of guards marched past. At the far end of the corridor a maintenance droid whirred away in silent industry.

He positioned himself opposite the vent, but had to turn his head to check both approaches were clear. The right side of his vision was a haze of red and black.

“Omega,” he hissed, low and urgent.

He saw the gleam of her eyes in the dark, checked the corridor once more. Then he stepped under the vent, lifting his arms up to her.

The girl pushed the vent from inside, sliding it out until it swung free on the one screw that held it. Then she reversed her position, shuffling out legs first and wriggling until her body dangled down the wall, holding on with the lip of the vent under her armpits.

“Drop,” he instructed, and she did. He reached out to catch her.

Almost missed.

One hand lodged securely under her armpit. The other was wide, and Omega squeaked in alarm as the uneven brake tilted her descent sidewards. Crosshair flung his other arm around her chest, pulling her tight and breaking her speed against his body, staggering as her weight hit him.

“Quiet,” he choked out as a fresh shockwave of pain lit up his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or to himself. The pressure inside his skull was so intense he felt sure it would fracture.

“Crosshair?” came her quiet voice, and the single word of his name was saturated with concern.

Crosshair lowered her the rest of the way to the floor, shuddering breath into his lungs. He looked up at the open vent. He’d meant to catch her and keep her aloft so she could replace it.

“We need to move,” he gasped, fingers closing vice-like round her shoulder as she turned to face him. He drew her to his left side “Stay close to me.”

A hum as the power cycled, and the lights of the corridor dimmed. The base was switched to night cycle. Distantly, the maintenance droid continued to rumble.

Crosshair fumbled to retrieve the blaster he had stowed to catch her. He didn’t mean to lean so much on her slim frame. Wasn’t certain he could walk without the support.

“Where are we going?” Omega asked, starting forwards with halting steps at the pressure of his hand. “What’s the escape plan?”

“Get to the hanger level,” said Crosshair, hoping that the vocoder would blur the exhaustion in his voice.  “We’ll find a shuttle.”

Omega’s small hand curled over his, squeezing. “There’s no way we can reach the hangers undetected,” she said hesitantly.

He didn’t know how to assuage her fear.

“Keep going,” he muttered, pushing her forwards.

*

Luck was on their side, at first.

Crosshair’s disguise held. The armour may have been an ill fit for his six-four frame, but it was the armour of a TK trooper, and nobody expected TK troopers to be an identical height the way clones were. Omega, in her medical assistant’s garb, simply looked like she was being escorted between assignments by Crosshair’s firm grip.

Crosshair’s stamina didn’t hold. Every step was a supreme effort of willpower, calling his attention back from the soft edges of the void to try and stay upright. His earlier nausea had given way to a gnawing enervation, his thoughts spacing out in absent drifts as he struggled to keep a continuous thread of consciousness.

His footsteps became heavy, dragging along the floor, and he stumbled. He caught his weight against Omega’s frame, felt her arms go round his waist to support him. Across the hall, heads turned to look at them.

“Report, soldier,” barked a captain, peeling away from his unit. “What’s the matter?”

Crosshair dragged his head up, trying to train his attention on the man. An enemy. Someone planning to stop their escape.

Achingly, shakingly, he began to raise his arm with the blaster.

Omega stepped firmly in front of him, arms out defensively. “This soldier is sick,” she said, her voice firm and uncompromising. A blaster was pointed her way, but she didn’t waver. “I am taking this patient for treatment.”

“And who are you?” came the dispassionate question. “Identify yourself.”

“Um,” began Omega, and the hesitation was enough to end them. The captain tensed, raising his weapon aggressively.

“Identify yourself!”

Pain zeroed in on Crosshair’s mind, forcing out all higher thought. There was nothing left, nothing but the need to survive.

He raised his arm. Raked a ragged line of fire through the captain, through his squad. Wavered on his feet as the men yelled and dived, trying to evade his haphazard attack.

One of the blaster bolts had taken down the captain at least. The others in the squad scrambled for defensive positions, nursing wounds, readying weapons. A bolt of blaster fire zipped into the dark space where his peripheral vision once was.

“Crosshair!”

Omega was clinging to his arm, dragging him, stumbling, into cover. She grabbed the pistol from his holster, peeking out to spy their enemies.

Deep-trained discipline kicked in. Crosshair crouched over Omega, shielding her body with his own. Sighted down the weapon. Watched his first shots go wide. Compensated. Still missed.

His sight was shot. Depth perception gone. Injury and exhaustion worked on his body to rob his hands of their steadiness.

Everything that had made him what he was; taken from him.

Crashing to his knees, head lolling, the blaster fell limply from his hands. He clutched at the right side of the visor, the reality of his lost sight hitting home. Unbidden, a wail of despair was dragged from him; back arched, head thrown back, a desperate keening sound ripped from his lungs and garbled through the helmet’s vocoder into an electronic howl which gave pause to the firefight, TK soldiers looking about in confusion.

Omega emerged from their meagre cover and levelled the pistol. Her expression went hard, eyes glinting in determination.

Every shot found its mark. With every shot she claimed a life, until the corridor echoed with sudden stillness after the fight.

She didn’t wait. Immediately she grabbed Crosshair’s arm, looping it across her shoulders and dragging him to his feet.

“Come on,” she implored, half plea, half command. “We have to make it to the lift.”

Crosshair allowed himself to be pulled along, unable to resist. Something in the back of his mind needled him as he let her take his weight, barely able to hold himself upright.

“I’m… slowing you down,” he managed, trying feebly to shake free of her support.

“I’m not leaving here without you, Crosshair.”

Deep inside, her words were a balm to his injured soul. She wouldn’t leave him. She wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly against the pulsating agony in his head and tried to keep up.

*

They reached the lift, Omega keying in the code to summon the capsule that would carry them up to the hanger level. Crosshair slouched against the wall, breathing heavily. It was all he could do to stay upright.

When the doors parted Omega led him through, her small hands in his, before she took charge of that control panel too. Sinking to the floor, Crosshair tilted his head back and let his mind swim in and out of consciousness. Not far now. Not far.

“An alert has been triggered,” came Omega’s voice, soft and distraught. “Reporting our escape. They’ll be waiting for us when the lift stops.”

Crosshair knew he should care about that. He waved a hand dismissively.

“I can handle it.”

He sensed – didn’t see, his eye was closed – her crouch next to him.

“You’re injured, Crosshair.”

He shook his head, but she was gently releasing the seal from the helmet and lifting it from his head. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.

The helmet clattered to the floor as she gasped, hands going to her mouth in shock. Bitterly, Crosshair rolled his head to one side. Tried to hide the right side of his face from her.

“Crosshair.” Her voice choked on tears. “Who did this to you?”

He knew how it must look. His right eye socket, empty. Bruising purpling the hollow lids, stretched across bone. Fine-line tattoo lost under a crust of dried blood.

“It doesn’t matter,” he managed through gritted teeth. He peered at her out of the slit of his left eye, dark brown iris glinting in the low light. “Are you okay?”

She threw herself at his chest, arms wrapping round him in a tight embrace. He grunted at the contact but raised his left arm weakly, folding it over her back and stroking her hair.

“Hey now, kid,” he murmured, words faint. “Don’t get soft on me. We’ve still got a fight ahead of us.”

She stayed pressed against him, and he felt her warm tears on his collar. Didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

*

The lift jolted to a halt, throwing them about and drawing a protesting hiss of pain from Crosshair. Omega raised her head, dashing her arm across her damp eyes, and looked about.

“There’s a new alert,” she said, scrambling up to inspect the panel. “It says there’s a fire! The lift has been deactivated. What do we do now?”

A thin-lipped, humourless smile pressed across Crosshair’s face. “A distraction,” he said aloud, wry satisfaction in his voice.

He dragged himself up, staggered as he lifted Omega onto his shoulder and directed her to open the emergency hatch in the ceiling. He barely managed to stay upright as she climbed up, and had sagged back to his knees when she reached down through the hatch for him.

“Come on, Crosshair.” Her voice was filled with stubborn determination. “You can do this.”

It was like she didn’t give him a choice. Her child’s voice cut through the throbbing pain in his head and he found himself obeying, passing up the blaster and helmet first, then letting her take hold of his hands and haul him up. He didn’t have the strength to assist. Even with her help he lay panting and spent on the roof of the lift, staring up at the dark chasm of the elevator shaft in unthinking exhaustion.

Omega shook his shoulder gently but insistently. “We have to keep going,” she said, easing him up to a sitting position. Wordlessly, she offered the helmet.

He glanced at her, bruised face meeting her gaze with a silent nod of thanks before he took the headgear and pulled it back on, hiding the extent of his injuries.

Omega slung the blaster over her back, leaving him with the pistol and the knife. Without discussion they moved to the service ladder, Omega clambering on first before turning to check Crosshair was following her.

“Stay with me,” she instructed, and he nodded.

Crosshair settled into the leaden rhythm of the climb, holding his body close to the ladder. He didn’t trust the strength of his grip so each step he laboriously hooked an elbow round the rungs, clinging on through dogged determination, resting and panting for breath with every excruciating foot he climbed.

The hot-cold nausea was back, setting up a tremble of weakness in his muscles. He choked, gagging, his stomach convulsing once more as he retched fruitlessly inside the helmet. His bottom foot slipped and he fell, catching himself on his right elbow, left hand linked around right wrist as he dangled helplessly against the rungs.

“Crosshair, keep climbing!” pleaded Omega, wrapping her own limbs around the ladder securely as she watched him, waiting for him to continue. He shook his head, arm slipping slowly through his own grip.

“Crosshair!”

Omega lunged as he lost his grip. Snagged the grapple from the TK trooper utility belt he wore, hauling it up even as he dropped. She gasped and snatched her hands back before her fingers could be trapped, the hooked grapple head clanging tightly to the ladder rungs. The ratchet on the cable jerked and caught, Crosshair grunting in pain as he swung into the wall at the end of the line.

“Keep climbing,” he said, voice ragged and broken, waving at her to continue.

Instead she climbed down to him, positioning herself under him, pulling him back to the ladder and helping him hook his arms and legs back around the rungs.

“We can do this,” came her voice, small but determined. “I’ve got you, Crosshair.”

This time he climbed ahead of her, and every time he sagged he felt Omega’s body curl close and protective against him. Her hands tightened on the rungs as she kept him pinned against the ladder, her cheek pressed against the small of his back. Despite the tremor in her own tiring muscles she held on, letting him catch his breath before urging him to continue.

They were still climbing when the power was restored, the ladder rumbling beneath them as the lift began to rise towards them. Crosshair glanced down, then quickly pulled Omega against him and released the ladder, letting them drop to the roof of the lift as it rushed up to meet them.

Omega’s blonde hair was tousled by the rushing wind of their ascent, and Crosshair swayed on his feet as he held her tightly to his body. He turned his face down to her, studied the hardened look on her face through the blurred edges of his vision. His arm squeezed tight around her shoulders, drawing on her strength as he embraced her to replenish his own flagging reserves.

The lift slowed, then stopped.

“Hanger level,” said Omega softly.

Below them, through the open hatch on the roof of the lift, came the hiss of a door seal releasing.

Crosshair dropped to one knee, slamming the hatch closed.

“Through the service tunnel,” he ordered, shoving Omega ahead of him. “It’ll take us above the hanger.”

Muffled voices. “The lift is empty.”

“What? They must be there. We had confirmation they were in this elevator.”

“Stay on guard! They have to be somewhere.”

They crawled into the narrow vent, Omega fitting easily, Crosshair struggling to drag his armoured shoulders along the tight channel. Plastoid scraped against durasteel with a grating whine, echoing along the duct, and he knew the sound would give their position away.

“Keep going,” he hissed, stopping to release scraps of armour and shed them inside the tunnel. It wouldn’t be much use now anyway. Once they reached the hanger, the opposition they faced would be so overwhelming that the armour wouldn’t save him from blaster-fire coming his way.

Pauldrons and pack discarded, he carried on after Omega. Blood drips spattered the inside of his visor. He didn’t have time to stop and wipe them clean. Had to keep moving. Almost out.

Almost out.

So tired.

Almost out.

Omega had stopped over a grille, pointing down into the hanger below.

“There’s TK troopers everywhere,” she whispered, shuffling to give him space to look.

He barely glanced at the scene. Trying to focus on the distant squads of soldiers set his head aching. Between the lost half of his vision and the smears inside his visor, so much was obscured.

“There,” he slurred, “that line of fighters.”

Omega scanned the hanger and saw the row of fighter ships, cockpits canopies open and ready to welcome their pilots.

“Do you know how to fly them?” she asked.

“Yes. Tech made me memorise-”

“-the specs of every ship,” she finished, a small smile curling her lips. “He did the same with me.”

Crosshair’s chest constricted at the memory of his brother. Choked back the wave of grief that threatened to drown him.

“We go along the line, sending them off on autopilot,” he said. “They won’t know which one to follow.”

“Which ship are we taking?”

“We need something with hyperspace capability.” He pointed to a slightly larger shuttle. “That one.”

They resumed their crawl along the duct, trying to ignore the shouts of the search parties below. Omega stopped when they reached a vent almost directly above the row of ships, threading one slim hand through the grating and starting to unscrew it from the outside.

Crosshair readied the grapple, then folded his body into an awkward seat and stole what rest he could whilst Omega worked. Everything was starting to sound very distant. His mind floated on a cushion of adrenaline, comfortably numb as his consciousness divorced itself from the pain wracking his body.

Then Omega was shaking him awake.

“Ready?” she asked. He blinked groggily inside the helmet, wincing at the way his bruised eyelids pulled on the tormented right side.

“Yeah,” he muttered unconvincingly, shifting into position.

Omega released the final screw and caught the grate before it dropped, lifting it back into the duct and stowing it behind her. She spidered herself over the hole, letting Crosshair and the grapple cable lower down first, before shimmying onto the cable herself.

Crosshair dropped quickly to the floor, knowing speed was as essential as silence to their descent going unnoticed. He misjudged his footing at the bottom, rolling his ankle with a muttered curse. Quickly detaching the cable from the utility belt, he hobbled to the protecting shadow of the nearest ship and watched in desperate anxiety as Omega shinned her way down the cable.

The girl dropped to the floor and scurried to his side, peering up at the fighter. “I should be able to activate the autopilot on a timer so they all start moving at once,” she told him.

“I’ll keep the patrols off your back,” he replied, taking the blaster from her and passing her the pistol instead.

Omega hesitated, about to turn away, then straightened to face him. “Crosshair,” she said with an uncertain waver. “We’re leaving together.”

Crosshair shook his head. “If you get the chance to go, take it. Tell Hunter-”

“Tell him yourself!” she snapped, voice rising angrily. “I’m not going without you!”

He clamped a hand across her mouth to quiet her, hissing a warning. She struggled and he released her, crouching down so he was on eye level with her.

“Omega,” he said, tiredness in his voice stilling her protest more effectively than his hand had. He blinked inside his helmet, trying to clear his vision, trying to fix the image of her determined, trusting face in his mind.

She pressed into him, arms folding round his half-armoured body in an embrace that spoke all of the words they didn’t have time to say. Crosshair cupped one hand to the back of her head, trying for a soothing hum that broke as his voice quavered in exhaustion.

Then he let go, shoving her gently towards the ships.

“Get on with it,” he hissed, and turned away to avoid the hurt in her eyes. The recrimination at the sacrifice they both knew he planned.

Because it would be worth it. His life for hers. Returning her to his brothers was all that mattered.

His head swam as he steadied the blaster in both hands.

Escape, or die trying.

Help the girl escape.

Die trying.

*

The floor wobbled and gave way beneath his feet as he crossed the hanger. He fell with it, crashing to the spongy surface with a thud. Blaster in his right hand. Left splayed against the ground, testing it. Firm. No give. Still, his head strobed in and out, attention bowing and flexing as the world pulsed indistinctly around him.

He might be hallucinating. He suspected that now.

Dragged himself to his knees. Levered back to his feet.

Raised the blaster. Tried to focus.

Everything seemed so fuzzy, so distant. The HUD told him how far to his target, but it must be reading wrong. Surely he was closer than that. Was he? Leaden legs carried him forwards without conscious thought. The inside of his visor was smeared with his own blood, further restricting what remained of his sight.

The helmet was stifling. His own breath was hot and harsh, the noise of it filling his ears. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t see.

Needed to concentrate. Needed to be able to see.

Uncertain, trembling, he reached up and pulled the helmet off. Winced as it dragged past the tender swelling of his face.

Or maybe he cried out. That would explain why the TK troops suddenly turned to his direction.

“There he is!”

“All units, respond.”

“I don’t see the girl.”

“Don’t let him escape!”

The helmet fell to the floor with a clang. This was better, he thought dully. He could breathe easier. See better, without the distracting smears of red across his vision.

Heavy footsteps. Lots of them. Armoured figures surrounding him, weapons ready.

“On your knees, prisoner!”

Crosshair turned his ruined face, surveyed his captors. Dragged in a wet breath through his open mouth.

A blow landed on his back, staggering him. He dropped to one knee, a broken whimper escaping him.

“Drop your weapon!”

Shakingly, he raised his hands. The blaster swung loosely from his right.

Heard someone step towards him. Couldn’t see them in the blind spot left by his missing eye.

The roar of an engine awakening. A chorus of engines. Shouts of surprise, and the TK troopers turned.

“Siths hells…”

Crosshair didn’t look. Couldn’t afford to look. Had to take advantage of Omega activating the line of fighter ships.

Spun the blaster, bringing it to bear. Finger closed around the trigger.

Opened fire.

Howls of pain, blaster bolts burning through armour. He didn’t know how many he hit. Didn’t know where he hit. Arms, legs, it didn’t matter. Gone was the ability to pinpoint each enemy, one shot, one kill. This would have to do, a haphazard spray of fire and a prayer that they would escape.

A fresh burst of adrenaline drove him to his feet, subsuming the emptiness that clawed at his willpower as he began to move towards the shuttle. He was lightheaded, stumbling as he staggered forwards with the blaster swinging between targets. Didn’t care if his shots hit. Couldn’t have aimed if he tried. It was enough that his continued fire forced the troopers to dodge out of his way, clearing a path for his exhausted body to follow.

His vision blacked out and in again. He realised he was on the floor, slumped on his front. When did he get there? He didn’t remember falling. Aligned his arms underneath his body. Pushed up. Struggled to get his legs to work.

“Order confirmed. Prioritise the girl. Stop her escaping!”

Crosshair raised his head. Blinked away the blurriness. Watched one of the gunships lift from the ground, turning slowly.

They were going to shoot Omega down.

Kept turning. Cannons pointed towards him.

Oh.

It was Omega.

Just in time he let his weight drop, belly pressing to the floor once more. The gunship’s cannons spoke, shells rocketing over his head and detonating against a stack of crates, starting a chain reaction as stored ammo and munitions were consumed in a rapid inferno. A blast of heat seared his back, baking even through the protective armour, and he slowly began to crawl forwards on his stomach to escape the blaze.

The ramp of the gunship lowered, exposing the troop transport hold within.

What was she doing? She was supposed to flee. Take the ship and go. Why was the ship hovering in place, entry ramp open invitingly?

Not leaving without you.

Her words constricted the broken fragments of his heart, filling him with purpose.

Not leaving without you.

He staggered to his feet, lurching forwards. One step. Then another. Another. Towards the gunship. Towards the light that spilled from the hold.

Towards freedom.

Close enough now to see her frightened face through the canopy, barely tall enough to see over the controls.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Another step. Towards Omega.

Towards salvation.

Her expression crumpled in panic. Mouth opened in a warning shout that didn’t reach his ears.

His smile faded to confusion.

Pain erupted in the exposed joint of his shoulder, protecting pauldron discarded to fit through the vent.

A blade twisted. A howl as bone sprung free of the socket.

Whirling, staggering, Crosshair faced down the soldier in his blind spot, snuck up where he could no longer see.

The knife, dripping with his blood.

The soldier lunged again, knife digging into the seam of his collar bone, so close to main arteries.

Pupil dilated with shock. Crosshair’s hand flew to his neck, pressing against the gout of blood threatening to spurt as the soldier dragged the knife back. Gripping the hilt, he kept it embedded in the wound.

The soldier struggled against Crosshair’s grip. Crosshair dropped the blaster. Tugged the knife from his belt.

So tired. Too tired to find the will to fight.

Dislocated shoulder refusing to bring the knife to bear.

He imagined a hand closing over his. Hunter’s grip, strong and sure.

Closed his one eye. Darkness, so comforting.

Drove the knife home.

A high voice, calling his name. “Crosshair!”

Hands pulled at his armour, tugging him forwards. He opened his eyes.

Omega, hauling him towards the ramp of the gunship.

Crosshair’s mind whipped back to wakefulness, the urgency of their situation crashing over him. He finally forced his legs to work, stumbling forwards under Omega’s guidance until they were both in the ship and she released him, running back to the cockpit.

Crosshair’s hands grasped for a gun he didn’t have, and he turned dazedly back to the hanger. TK troopers were recovering, emerging from cover and launching volleys of blaster-fire towards their ship. He dived to the side, a blast bolt grazing his hip and drawing another guttural cry of pain from him. His left arm wrapped across his body and he gripped his right elbow, holding his loosely swinging arm against his chest as he staggered after Omega.

“This isn’t the ship I pointed out,” he gasped in frustration, collapsing heavily against the wall.

Omega’s hands flew over the console, activating the ignition sequence. “I know,” she said. “This one had more defensive capabilities.”

“It has cannons!” he hissed. “That’s offensive!”

“Wrecker always says that offence is the best form of defence,” countered Omega. She gripped the steering column and the ship lurched forwards, towards the strip of night sky showing beyond the under-hang of the mountain. Already, fighter jets swarmed outside, anticipating their escape.

The front of his chest was growing warm and damp. The knife still embedded in his shoulder was slowing the blood loss but couldn’t stem it completely, and the stab wound that had dislocated his right shoulder flowed freely. The whole right side of his body was a mess, so much pain clouding his senses that it was hard to distinguish one injury from the next.

His breathing was shallow, rapid, skin cold and clammy. He released his grip on his own arm to steady himself against Omega’s pilot chair instead, leaning heavily against it as he tried to focus on the rushing darkness outside the cockpit.

“Can you do this?” he asked, the words laboured and indistinct. Omega glanced at him in worry, then fixed her gaze straight ahead.

“Don’t worry, Crosshair. I’ll get us out of here.”

The ship lurched as she dived, evading the fighters which raked fire towards their fleeing ship. Crosshair all but fell into the co-pilot’s seat, answering the impact with an agonised growl before forcing the restraints across his protesting body to strap in safely. He was no good to Omega passed out on the floor of the cockpit.

Omega snuck another look at him, her brown eyes pointedly following the red stain cascading down the stolen armour. Rivulets of blood trickled down his right hand, hanging limply at his side, dripping to the floor with alarming alacrity.

She gunned the engines, the ship roaring as it picked up speed. She shot through the waiting cloud of enemy ships, then killed the thrusters and hauled hard on the controls. The ship swung back round in a tight reversal, and now that the fighters were clustered in front of them she opened fire, front lasers tearing into the delicate fighters and sending them, flaming, into death spirals.

Crosshair grunted, the sound little more than a breath. “The Tech turn,” he whispered, a smile ghosting across his lips.

Omega gave a shaky laugh. “He says it’s not called that,” she told him, angling the ship up and sending them shooting towards the edge of the atmosphere.

“He’s the only one of us who could pull it off.” Crosshair’s voice faded in and out, eyes closed. His right hand twitched, fingers convulsing, as though he would reach out to her. “I guess he taught you well.”

“Stay with me, Crosshair.” Omega’s voice cut through the tiredness of his mind, calling him back from the edge of consciousness. She sounded like she was crying. “We’re nearly there.”

That’s right. Once they made the hyperspace jump they’d be safe.

“There’ll be a blockade,” he managed. Opened his eye. Watched her punching co-ordinates into the hyperspace drive.

Dragged his left arm from his lap. Wrapped his hand feebly round the co-pilot’s controls.

“You can’t do that yet. We’ll burn up if you ignite the hyperdrive now.”

Omega grit her teeth, snuffling against tears.

“We’ll make the jump as soon as we break atmo.”

He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. It seemed to be harder than he remembered. His chest, lungs, throat, didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

He trusted Omega.

Trusted she would get them out.

A sudden, high-pitched whine as the hyperdrive engine came up to speed.

The ship was rocked by vibrations as blaster fire from the blockade raked the shields.

A blinding white-blue light pierced his closed eyelid, painting his world in a haze of dark and light.

They made the jump to hyperspace.

*

Crosshair surfaced slowly from unconsciousness, groping about with his other senses without opening his eyes. The right side of his face still throbbed but it was a numb pulse now, pain deadened beyond layers of exhaustion and sedatives. Around him the ship was quiet, computers and engines humming idly. There was a strong smell of disinfectant.

He tried to command his left arm, found it would move. Lifted his hand to his face, pressing it over his left eye before cracking it open, breathing a gasp of relief as he saw his own palm. His sight. He still had his sight.

“Crosshair!”

His name was spoken low and urgently, but with undeniable enthusiasm. He dropped his hand and blinked the rest of the world into focus, a blonde-haired face swimming into view.

“What happened?” he croaked, wincing against the dryness in his throat.

Omega pressed a canteen to his lips and he drank greedily, the water slaking a thirst he hadn’t realised was so intense. Then she was helping him sit up, hands gentle on his aching body.

He realised he was still in the co-pilot’s chair, semi-reclined. Outside the starscape was still, pinpoints of light against the black curtain of space. They weren’t moving.

“What happened?” he repeated, and this time his voice was a little stronger.

The girl immediately set to checking his wounds. He realised most of his upper right body was swathed in bandages, and the cold of space hit him as he realised she had cut his clothes away to treat the wounds. He was covered by a thin blanket which had slid down as he sat upright, and he grabbed it now and pulled it anxiously up to cover his body.

“You passed out after we made the hyperspace jump,” she told him quietly, not looking at him as she worked. She adjusted the tension on the sling that held his right arm, then smoothed down the edge of a bandage that was peeling away on his shoulder. “Hypovolemic shock,” she added, as though it made a difference. “You shouldn’t try to stand just yet.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, lying against the light-headedness he still felt.

She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Sure.”

He let her continue her checks, until she came to his face. Her slim hands tried to rest on his cheeks but he batted them away, turning his face from her. Turning so that she was in the blind spot of his bandaged right-hand side.

“Please let me check your wounds, Crosshair,” she said in a small voice. She dropped one hand to his chest, resting it over his hand which trembled, knotted inside the blanket.

“I don’t want you to,” he said softly, trying not to sound sullen. He kept his gaze averted, sorrow etching his face.

“We need to-”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

She stopped, mouth set in an unhappy line.

“Please, Omega,” he said, and the uncharacteristic plea softened her expression. She nodded, going to sit back in the pilot’s chair.

“So where are we?” he asked after a moment, drawing her from her thoughts.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, a soft waver of worry in her voice. “I’ve sent a signal to the rest of the Batch. I’m hoping they’ll pick it up, but without Tech-”

“Echo will get the signal,” Crosshair interrupted her without thinking. “He’s good at things like that.”

A meek, watery smile wobbled onto her face. “Yeah. They’ll find us.”

Now Crosshair tilted his face to her, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure of his bruises as he returned her smile. It even crinkled at the corners of his left eye, a glint of his old fire and flint flashing in his gaze.

“That was some good flying,” he told her honestly. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, a shy grin coming to her face.

“It was pretty cool,” she agreed, a shaky laugh shuddering up through her small body. Then, “Thanks for getting me out, Crosshair.”

“You got yourself out, kid,” he said, a low admission of approval.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He touched his hand to his bandaged arm, his neck, his cheek.

“I wouldn’t be here without you either, so consider us even.”

They lapsed into silence. Crosshair reclined back into the co-pilot’s chair once more, letting the padded seat take the weight of his aching body. His head span and he closed his eye against nausea, hoping Omega wouldn’t notice his pallor.

He kept his eye closed as he listened to her shuffle, approximated that she was imitating his position. His thoughts abstracted, snatches of memories surfacing and then flitting away as he continued to hover between sleep and wakefulness.

Eventually the com beeped.

A familiar voice.

“Havoc Five, come in.”

Crosshair started, flinching awake with a cry as the movement strained his injuries. Omega was scrambling for the com, leaning over the console with a delighted gasp.

“Hunter!”

“Omega!” The relief in Hunter’s voice was tangible as a cheer set up from the background.

“Omega! Where are you?” That was Wrecker’s voice, booming with enthusiasm. Omega laughed giddily, sitting up and tapping at the controls.

“I don’t know where we are. I’m sending our co-ordinates now,” she said, quickly relaying the data.

“Received,” came Echo’s confirmation. “I’ve got your position, Omega. Hang tight, and we’ll rendezvous with you.”

“Omega.” It was Hunter again. “You said ‘we’. Did a group of you escape?”

Omega glanced at Crosshair. He was sitting up now, shaking his head slowly.

She reached out and covered the com. “They have to know,” she whispered imploringly.

Crosshair looked away. “I haven’t seen Hunter since-”

“I know.” She reached out and laid a hand gently over his. Then she turned to the com again.

“Crosshair is with me.”

“CROSSHAIR?” His name was echoed in triplicate.

“He’s injured, so he can’t talk right now,” she said quickly, saving him from the demands of conversation. “Hurry,” she added. “Please hurry.”

“We’re on our way, Omega,” said Hunter, and the com blinked off.

Crosshair sagged back, staring unseeingly out the window. The young girl stayed at the controls a moment more, before hopping down and coming over to his chair.

Before he could protest Omega had climbed up into his lap, tucking her head under his jaw, one small hand stroking the back of his neck soothingly.

He couldn’t summon the energy to fight her.

Found he didn’t want to.

“They’re going to be pleased to see you, Crosshair,” she whispered into his chest, fingers tracing repetitive lines on his skin. “Just like I was.”

Despite the way his right side throbbed, he relaxed into the comfort of her weight on his left. He brought his uninjured arm up and closed it round her, pulling her tight against him as he rested his left cheek on her soft hair.

No, he didn’t want to see his brothers. No, he didn’t want her to check his wounds, face the reality of his loss.

But laying here like this, listening to her soft breathing, he found his doubts fading.

It didn’t seem so bad when he thought of it as a trade-off.

A price paid.

His eye. Her freedom.

His little sister.

Not leaving here without you.

It would take time for his injuries to heal. But she had already mended something in him that had been broken.

He would go through it a thousand times over if it kept her free.

He closed his eye, trying not to remember the darkness at the side of his vision.

A price paid.

A fair price.

This time, as he drifted just above the threshold of sleep, he was at peace.

Read the Epilogue Here

[honeybeehimbo]

looking for new partners for m/f pairing's where i play the male. discord only. i love angst, smut and a little fluff (not too much fluff or it gets uninteresting for me, sorry!) plots under the read more, but open to other ideas too. some fandom ideas also under, hence the tags. like and i will dm you or dm me directly

best friend's older sister

muse a is a vampire/demon hunter, muse b is a monster with a soul/conscious. 

summer best friends

emergency contact

older muses reunite

something based off this, cue all the angst

ideas with my own muses

drew (kyle allen fc), a musician, reunites with the girl his songs are all about. can be another artist or someone outside the musician lifestyle.

chase (dylan minette fc), your typical geek boy, is hooking up with the popular girl, who wants to keep it a secret. but chase is catching feelings

rish (rahul kohli fc), er doctor/chief resident, your muse and rish dated in their 20s, but eventually broke up because they never saw each other because of rish's commitment to his work and inability to make time for the relationship. your muse suddenly pops up during the graveyard shift at the er with a twisted ankle (or something else!) rish is the doctor in charge and they catch up and old feelings resurface.

elias (andrew garfield fc), a magnificent fine artist needs a nude model, which is your muse, tensions arise and it's clear that they both want each other. but elias has commitment issues. (this one is really bare bones, but im open to adding details, maybe making it more forbidden, affair? age gap? im open to hearing ideas)

fandom wants

canon x canon only! i will not do canon x oc

marvel: peter parker (andrew garfield or tom holland) against any other female marvel character from any "universe"

glee: finn hudson against any female glee character, might also be willing to do crossover with other shows in the same realm.

ER: i will play pretty much any of the guys from the show er against any of the female ones.

one tree hill: jake/peyton, brooke/lucas, rachel/any male, mia/any male, alex/any male, i will not do any of the canon pairings that actually end up together, since i feel like that story has already been told.

sex education: any girl/otis

[darklinaforever]

I have to say that after taking a look at the Doctor Who fandom, I am quite shocked at this insistence of some people in wanting to absolutely specify that Tentoo is in fact a clone of the Doctor ?!

We have seen clones in this series and clearly Tentoo is not one of them. So, what is this insistence on contradicting the canon ? Tentoo is simply the doctor.

Our doctor himself doesn't even seem to dissociate himself from Tentoo ! He recognizes it as him.

That's all. It comes from the regeneration energy itself and from the hand of our doctor. It's not a clone ! Having already seen them in this universe should tell you this simple fact.

In the words of David Tenant : "It's the same guy." Yes, I know he also says "But clearly he's not.", but that's probably in the sense that he's no longer our doctor. Same guy, but separated after the regeneration in different bodies, including one human, which offers them different opportunities. Once again, the only notable difference is that he's human, influencing his decisions after regeneration. Even if the regeneration itself naturally involves some minimal changes at Tentoo : The fact of being a little more like Nine, logical, since regenerated in the middle of the war after being shot and dying. Plus a few expressions from Donna, as he always takes from his companions after regeneration. But apart from a few minor changes, he remains the doctor. He is the Tenth Doctor who evolved in another direction after the regeneration that made him human. As simple as that. I mean... Have you seen how David Tennant plays him ? He doesn't play a new doctor with a new personality. No. He simply plays his character, as he always has.

I can't understand people who accept the very essential concept of Doctor Who as that what makes the Doctor are his memories and experiences (the very essence of an individual according to the universe itself), and not his body or his personality ! By the fact what makes Tentoo less of a doctor than everyone else outside of the first Ten ?!

Yes. This situation is sad for our doctor, the first ten, who will be forced to move on in relation to Rose. (His final moments of just him with Rose being their reunion hug, when they briefly teasingly discuss Rose building the canon to come back, and when they hold hands facing Davros.) But it's a scenario that makes sense with the writing of the series. It was that or Rose ends up unhappy, or worse, dies. It's the ultimate way to have a happy ending despite the inevitable tragedy for Rose and the Doctor's relationship. We have the right to a tragic and happy ending at the same time. Can you imagine how crazy and unique this is in Doctor Who ?!

And beyond that, I don't see why Tentoo should be denied. He is a living being who remains the same man with the same desires. Except that he can achieve them unlike his counterpart. Again, it's tragic, but it's also happy. Somehow, even if Ten had to die/regenerate to evolve and mourn who he was, a version of himself, in a parallel universe, was able to survive and obtain everything he always wanted. It is particularly moving. Whether directly or symbolically, especially in the context of the romance with Rose. It is literally his love for Rose, and his desire to be human, which also came from Rose when she renewed her love for the human race, that he prevented regeneration and caused by an incredible chance his biological metacrisis ! But I won't go into it because others have done it much better than me. The only thing I will say about it in this post is that it is objectively one of the best romances ever written. (Let's forget the episode with Madame de Pompadour...)

[mask131]

You know, I stopped regularly watching Doctor Who sometimes after the Silence arc, and I still kept looking casually and randomly at DW throughout all the following years, plus the Internet discourse one cannot escape. That's the kind of territory where you can't help but being spoiled all the big twist without knowing what any of the small or filler episodes are about.

But I didn't stop watching DW out of hatred or dislike or anything. It is just that, at the time, I didn't have time to watch it and you know, I needed a pause, so I did, and I never fully dedicated myself to it again. Yet now I feel I can do for one specific reason.

The Internet.

I watched Doctor Who back in an era I will call the pre-Internet era. Not that Internet wasn't there (in fact the Silence arc episodes I watched on DAILYMOTION back when there still was daily releases of subbed Doctor Who episodes ~ ah the glory days), but I wasn't involved in it so much, and in return Internet wasn't involved so much in shows, and it was long before the entire concepts of fandoms and hatedoms became like an actual thing in people's minds. So I had this very intimate, personal, directly me-to-the-show experience with Doctor Who, at first on TV, then on my computer screen but still without people's comments or long analysis posts or Twitter hot takes bothering me in any way.

And I am glad I "skipped" so to speak an entire Doctor Who era precisely because how insane and fractured and warfaring the DW fandom became, and how people who don't know two shits about DW suddenly declare themselves "expert reviewers".

The funniest thing I see is probably this endless cycle that keeps being repeated again and again: new Doctor comes out, suddenly everybody masses against them to hate it with all of their heart ; then another new Doctor comes out, and suddenly people look more fondly on the previous one and start saying "Okay, this season wasn't so bad, people really were too harsh, turns out there were very cool things in it!", only to throw all of their hatred onto the next Doctor... which then gets redeemed when the NEXT Doctor comes in, and this is a cycle that just KEEPS REPEATING ITSELF. For many it started with the Capaldi era, and then the cycle solidifed itself with the Whittaker and most recently Gatwa eras...

But trust me, it was there before. It was there with the Smith era - which I live through and myself felt a bit just because of how attached we were with Tennant Doctor ; and even before it was there with the TENNANT ERA. Not many people recall this because a lot of the outspoken people who "love" or "hate" the show today are from more recent generations of the show, but back when Eccleston was changed to Tennant, people thought it would be the death of this reboot, as many loved Eccleston and didn't have any hope or liking for Tennant - who wasn't back then as much of a famous and loved actor as he is today.

But that's another thing with the Internet as a whole - because yes, the way fandoms and hatedoms speak is like brainwashed cultists who somehow all share one hive-mind and I don't feel anything wrong with talking about the Internet as a whole in an era where individuality seems to be concept gone out of the window. Internet has a short-term memory. In fact you can clearly see it with a lot of plot points or tonal elements or character writing that people complain or hate about modern Doctor Who... AND WHICH WERE THERE IN OLDER DOCTOR WHO. People keep treating "old" DW as this sort of "ever-serious, extremely deep, dark and complex" thing, except they might forget that it was also very much seen as an extravagant, bizarre, nonsensical, corny sci-fi show. In fact, the way some people complain about the "good old days of DW" literaly feels like these people never watched the show and came up in their head with a whole different series.

And what is the "old" DW you ask? Literaly every DW season that is before, oh let's say Capaldi era, and even this one starts getting classified in the "good ol' classic DW" sometimes. There was a time, long ago, where the "old" DW was anything before the reboot. But now, with all the people that think the reboot is the only DW there ever was, "old DW" can literaly be all that came before the season you are watching now.

I remember complaining about the "fantasy" elements being brought up for example in more recent seasons, making it "unbelievable" "unlike the old classic DW". YOU REMEMBER WHEN THE DOCTOR WAS HEALED BY THE POWER OF LOVE, during his first great battle against the Master in the reboot? When Tennant's doctor literaly was rejuvenated by just enough people speaking his name? So much so for the "hardcore sci-fi DW" you're trying to sell us.

Sorry but I HAD to let this specific one be shouted because seriously a lot of people seem to have literal BLANKS over any part of the Tennant-and-before eras that doesn't fit their bizarre DW ideal, and I do believe that if one of the old seasons, even just the first season of the reboot, was aired today as the "next Doctor Who" a lot of people would complain about it not being as good as "before".

So anyway all of that being said in this unhinged rant, I think I have let enough years go by so that I can, once again, rewatch full seasons of Doctor Who absolutely unbothered by any Internet talk because that's the other beauty of the Internet - when something is more than, I'll be generous, two years old everybody just stops speaking about it, and it is SUCH a relief of mental pollution!

And in this day and age, when you are on the Internet, it is such a rare opportunity to be able to watch something without being flooded by other people's opinions who want to convince you theirs is the sole and only one, and shout in your hear until you have no place to think for yourself.

[dlartistanon]

Oh man cis anti bros ruined Arknights for me. I tried it out because I also liked another gacha (path to nowhere) which has a huge WLW fandom, way bigger than the dudes. So wishing for more of that I tried arknights.

The Arknights fandom is not girl friendly imho.

The doctor is supposed to be a gender neutral short person with according to some media long hair and according to the anime a female/gender neutral voice.

But the fandom made it a tall buff dude that’s going to repopulate all kinds of different species with their many waifus and ignoring character-character relationships.

Sorry for my rant, but boi was a seriously disappointed when I found that out.

I'm sorry to hear that. I don't play PTN, but I have friends who do, and one of the things they said about it really stuck with me, regarding how both player characters are written (Chief and Doctor).

According to them, Chief has more of an actual defined personality compared to Doctor. Chief is their own character within the setting. While Chief is established, Doctor is in this weird nebulous gray zone of being half-established and half-self-insert. And that is honestly one of the most frustrating things about AK's writing.

On one hand, I like the canonical lore of Doctor: their parental relationship with Amiya, their awkward, sometimes hostile dynamic with Kal'tsit, their lingering feelings of depression and detachment surrounding their amnesia, their implied autism, their gender neutrality, they're physically weak (easily winded going up/down the stairs), sensitive to sunlight, their observational skills, their fondness towards physical contact, their extremely negative reaction towards child soldiers, their academic background in neurology/history... they're a weirdo who pours hot water directly into their mouth.

But all that ends up being half-baked when the devs say that Doctor is meant to represent the player. And I just don't like that. It's a giant reminder of self-insertion, but again, incredibly weird when they have all this lore/characterization?

Look at this image:

This concept is speculated to be a somewhat of a "canon" design for Doctor. Quite feminine-looking, wouldn't you say so? Interestingly enough, no similar art of a "male" Doctor design has surfaced anywhere to my knowledge. The closest is in the art book but their face is covered in shadow and their hairstyle is a lot like Thorns'. The anime adaptation Prelude to Dawn adds to the mix by making Doctor 165 cm tall, with white hair, pale eyes, and an androgynous voice (by a female VA).

All of this ends up making the claim that Doctor is a self-insert very wishy-washy. You can't really claim Doctor as canonically nonbinary if the player chooses to see/interpret them as male or female. Because they're a self-insert. But are they really? By giving Doctor more lore/characterization, how can the claim of them being a self-insert hold up? It doesn't make sense.

It's incredibly frustrating how HG wants to have both cakes, but it doesn't work. So the result ends up feeling incredibly half-baked, fumbling both sides. At this point, there's no real and true illusion of player insertion.

It just annoys me the more I think about it. I don't want Doctor to be any % self-insert. I want them to be an actual established character.

But I apologize for going off on my own tangent. I absolutely hate how the Doctor is largely portrayed in fandom too. The automatic default to reading them as male (people can claim "gender neutral", but a lot of the time the actual portrayal/writing really comes off like a cis dude). The mischaracterization and overall gross treatment of complex female characters who have layered and nuanced relationships with other female characters. You're not alone there. I think it's amazing how the PtN fandom has more Female Chief than Male, and how much more popular WLW is. You're lucky.