#D2 cast

[adh-d2]

TBB team absolutely clowning us crediting a random technician in s03e01 as 'Imperial Tech'

[star-wars-forever]

Ashley Eckstein with R2-D2

[moonkhao]

POND NARAVIT & PHUWIN TANGSAKYUEN Love Out Loud Fan Fest D2 (May 19th, 2024)

[violetc4ts]

not a day goes by where i don’t think about booboo and cam dancing to space between pretending to be dove and sofia

[watcher0033]

Watching NSBU's episode of Be Kind, Rewind easily cured me of my post-work blues, got me discovering attraction over a character archetype killing someone between a door and a brick wall, a maintenance worker totally ripping an inanimate object apart with a knife while exposing a thong, the story animation hands down, and Ally Beardsley.

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

They desired meaning. Structure. A Winnower to shape the garden.

By studying the Veil, they came to know the Darkness.

And thus we two became parts of the game, and the laws of the game became nomic and open to change by our influence. And I had only one purpose and one principle in the game. And I could do nothing but continue to enact that purpose, because it was all that I was and ever would be.

I looked at the gardener.

I looked at my hands.

<<To claim evolution one must be unmade.>>

Having witnessed the truth in the Darkness, they used its binding power to merge themselves into the salvation they craved.

I discovered the first knife.

||a purposeful mob none of whose members know its purpose||

"Victory is not in the unmaking of an enemy, but in the re-making of an enemy into your blade."

<<Flesh and mind are but cages—become unbound, or remain ever unworthy.>>

"Unmaking." For the longest time, we thought it was a threat, but as our work continued and we deciphered more and more of the glyphs we came to see it as something more—a promise. Yor's etchings were a road map—arcane and cryptic, but with specific intent.

<<Your prison of the flesh is being unmade, your mind freed—such glories do not come easy.>>

Collective Obligation

"Annihilation of your kind was never the goal. But filling you with the right kind of ideological purpose, the kind that serves the finality of shape—well, that's the point of corrupting a beating heart, is it not?"

Near-gods must believe in greater gods. But every power is finite, every life shorter than it wishes.

Only an astonishing mind can truly appreciate just how tiny it is when set against the known universe; and how insignificant the known becomes when it is devoured by what isn't seen and can't be comprehended.

As darkness begins to claim their ragged souls, you look ahead to find a great power pouring out of you—a face of fire and golden light.

That blazing wonder, a gift from the great-eyed god, is their salvation. Or are you?

Perhaps you are the greater god now.

||architrave of the no-window||

Life arises. Life spreads, contests itself, and changes. Great things are built and destroyed, but from your vantage point, you see that the victor of each struggle contains—in its negative, in the marks left upon it by the loser and the shapes it assumed to win—the master record of all that it has beaten. Information may not be erased. Whatsoever survives until the end of the cosmos will possess and remember all which came before it.

This is true even of the devouring black hole, which remembers all the secrets it eats. It will only confess these secrets when it evaporates, 10 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 000 years from now, long after the last stars have flickered out.

You are a Guardian. You must protect life.

If all life is information, and Guardians strive to preserve life, and information is preserved when it is secret, then you must convert all life into the most secure form of secrets, durable to the end of time.

YOU MUST CAST ALL THE LIFE YOU CHERISH INTO A BLACK HOLE

SECANT FILAMENTS

In this treatise, I plan to revisit earlier mathematical theorems and revise them considering our new observations on the Light, the Darkness, and lifeforms imbued with those respective powers. But before I do so, I must preface it with a personal note. Despite high-minded assumptions, mathematics is not an intrinsic language of the universe. It is how we describe the portions of the universe that we can observe. While numbers can track the abstract and find pattern in chaos, they cannot account for fundamental aspects of reality such as compassion or justice. The existence of the Lucent Hive, and Hive Ghosts in particular, may expand our understanding of causality, but they themselves are not "new"—the only thing that is new is our awareness and observation of them. These Ghosts have already been living alongside us. They've traveled with us. Endured with us. What we see is the mushroom, the fruit of the fungus. The fungus itself is a vast mycorrhizal network of filaments growing and working unseen below the soil, often barely connected to the fruiting bodies we observe. Similarly, we have observed Ghosts—Hive Ghosts included—without understanding the nature of the unseen filaments that may guide us. In our eagerness to understand the universe, we must not assume our observations are complete, or objective. Otherwise, we blind ourselves to possibilities… like the possibility that an unnoticed faction among us may be one temptation away from betrayal. Or that what drives our creator is no more than the same base desire for survival that drives all living things. —On Secants, Introduction, Ophiuchus

TYPE: Transcript

PARTIES: One [2]. One [1] Guardian-type, Class Hunter [u.1]

ASSOCIATIONS: Orsa, Zyre [AKA Vale, Dredgen]; Thorn; Vale, Dredgen [AKA Orsa, Zyre]; WoS, Yor, Dredgen; Yor, Shadows of

//AUDIO UNAVAILABLE//

//TRANSCRIPT FOLLOWS.../

[u.1:0.1] We have tamed the sickness. Broken it with unwilling sacrifice.

[silence]

[u.1:0.1] Now we claim our reward. Have you heard the whispers, brothers? Sister? The shadow speaks. All we have to do is listen. Its secrets are a gift. Its gift? Our evolution. The others misunderstand. We are the Weapons of Sorrow – living and free. The hated heroes of this broken age.

<<Allow the flesh to give of itself, that it may surrender to the coming evolution.>>

||call me Sri-cleans-his-brother's-stomach||

ARENA DESIGNATION: Cathedral of Dusk

Dreadnaught, Rings of Saturn

As soon as the first Guardians penetrated the Dreadnaught, Shaxx's Redjacks launched a boarding party to Oryx's fortress. By war’s end, they'd fought all the way to the ship’s “impossible weapon,” the Dark ordnance that obliterated the Awoken fleet.

It was there they found what the Warlocks named the “Cathedral of Dusk.” A Hive burial site for— what? A former master of Oryx? Comrade? Lover? It was vile. And obvious that Oryx never expected the Light to reach so deep inside his throne, to such an intimate space. But he didn’t expect a lot of things — like a Guardian training ground atop the husk of his dead ship.

Necrotic Grip

Project day 45. We kept thinking about H-349 as a destroyer. But it's more sophisticated than that. I mean, with a normal gun, it's just… boom. Done. H-349 on the other hand is deadly, not destructive. Much like a viper, its bite does not bring about instant death. Instead, its venom cajoles. It co-opts your beating heart into a death clock, ticking down your last moments. Your own pulse kills you.

||serpent||

Death may be slow and agonizing for its victim. But for the viper, time is an amenable trade for efficiency.

<<Cleanse thyself of your decay, then will the mind be free to understand the value of transgression.>>

Savek remembered dragging her exhausted body to her guard post. She remembered watching the lazy debris of the Reef float by. She remembered speaking with someone in the darkness. Someone reassuring and powerful. Who was it?

She tore her eyes away from the obelisk and surveyed her body in the thin morning light. Her dry skin flaked. Connective tissue wasted at her joints, and a sickly crust had developed around her mandibles. She was emaciated from lack of sleep and Ether. Her hunger was a void, slowly filling with green vapor.

<<When imagined, your potential will infect, and spread.>>

||the intolerable thorn of frustrated inquisition||

Aunor ignored him. “Cause of death?” she continued.

“’Sundance’ appears to be the victim of a single, catastrophic wound from a Devourer Bullet, modified to fire from a Scorn launcher. Projectile classified as ontological.”

“Define Devourer Bullet.”

“Payload matches the ballistics of a Weapon of Sorrow or a comparable Hive implement.”

Thorn

"The Weapons of Sorrow are not the endgame, but a road map. Each evolution, every advance in the delivery of pain and the mastery of destruction feeds the Hive's hateful weapons research. They will map every scream, harness every aggression, until they understand every method by which to ravage the hearts, minds, and flesh of man. And in doing so, they will turn us against ourselves—feeding our lust, our greed, our fear, until we become a threat unto ourselves like none we could imagine. So, wield these, angry reaper. Strive to know the darkness in your own heart. Walk in the shadows of fallen heroes. And know that you are an enemy of hope." —a warning

||needle driven in flush with skin so that desperate fingers cannot pull it out||

Seek the whispers—they are faint, but they are calling.

Not all bone carries the sound of secret truth. Most are fragile, hollow things meant only to carry the weight of wasted lives.

In the feted remnants of yearning marrow, find love, find life, and in their lies you will discover the narrow road to all you never dreamed to be.

"On the path of the hushed tones, the cutting word will guide your unmaking."

||the word not spoken||

||the infinite regress of enigmas||

MEANING

A dream of a metaphor made starkly, an allegory discussed in study of ontology, in Darkness not unkind. It leaves behind a warped, barely-real data fragment to mark its passing.

There is a voice that echoes across the Darkness, and it asks this question: what is the purpose of it all?

And there is another voice that calls back and says: listen, I will tell you a purpose. I will tell you of a Final Shape.

Look: there are a hundred gildings for this story. It comes down to one key matter. Beings in suffering crave purpose to carry them through. The tyrant consumed by ennui or the disenfranchised struggling simply to survive—it is the state of mind, the pain which cries out: give me a reason I should suffer so!

Let us speak of power and choices.

A man comes to a crossroads and asks of the sky, "Which road shall I take?" There is no answer from the sky, nor the wind, nor the earth beneath his feet. But another wanderer on the road, coming from behind and hearing the question, says, "I know the way. You should take the dexter road."

If the man agrees, he puts himself in the wanderer's power, ceding his own choices for the implicit promise that this is the correct road, the safe road. And if he disagrees?

Let us say that the wanderer draws a knife.

The man may therefore be made to take the dexter road. But now if the knife goes away, the man will certainly flee. And perhaps even if the knife remains, the man may tire of being threatened and decide the risk is worth fleeing. In this way, the wanderer erodes their own power.

If the wanderer says, "The wind has said that you should take the road of my choosing," will the man accept the choice made for him?

And if the wanderer says, "Behold, I have seen that the meaning of suffering lies along the dexter road," will the man give away his own power for longer?

Is it not easier to accept the guidance of a stranger when the path ahead is unknown?

{We are, all of us, flowers in the garden. Even that being most ancient and bound in twisted Darkness.}

||sweet petal||

WINNOWING

A dream of a friendly conversation with someone impossible to see, cloaked in shadows. It leaves behind an impossible data fragment to mark its passing.

Here is what a flower knows.

(The fact that a flower may know anything is a conceit that will have to be accepted as metaphor, but to constantly qualify into perfect precision wears thin, does it not? So, here is what a collection of chloroplasts and pigment can know.)

The direction of the sun.

The presence of the rain.

The tangle of the roots.

The distress of another plant.

The hands of the gardener, whether they prune or transplant or crush.

A flower cannot know much else. But the reality of the garden is vast and wild. A flower knows not the fence; a flower knows not the footpath. And yet there is an infinite cosmic garden, which is not any less real simply because the flower cannot possibly comprehend it…

Let us try this again. Stop me if you've heard this one: A gardener and a winnower sit down to play a game outside of time and creation. Yes?

Yes. Then we're agreed. The metaphor stands. Let us iterate.

A gardener and a winnower set out their chairs and play a game of flowers. The flowers know only that they grow or wither, struggle or flourish. Sometimes, they are touched by one hand or the other, and that influence is the closest they will know of the divine.

A flower and a flower spread their leaves to the sun above. (Remember that the sun is also a metaphor: a thing said beautifully, winnowed down to poetry, when the truth is too vast to put in words at all.) They jostle for space, each competing to be the pinnacle of their shape. One flourishes. One withers. Is it the fault of the flower or the fault of its position?

A gardener and a winnower sit down to play a game called Possibility. This is a game about a garden, which is to say that it is also a game about flowers, just as a game about a living being must also be a game about organs and bacteria.

A gardener and a winnower collaborate to create a protein. Whose hand is it in the design, that shortens one life to extend the rest?

It is the winnower that discovers the first knife, but it is not done without the gardener. This, too, is a tradition: a knife does not come to exist without something that must be cut. A woody stem, a colored petal, a vital vessel. The first victims of the blade.

All of these are true.

All of these are false, for metaphor simplifies as the knife does. It pares incalculable concepts into shapes your wrinkly little brains can comprehend. The weight of billions and the simple curve of a planet give you pause, and how then are you to be expected to grasp the forces that created your nth-removed creator?

So the stories woven with utmost delicacy in and around the falsehoods are, after it all, true. There was never any option for the knife to not exist in the garden: it was only ever a matter of time and opportunity.

And as for the shape of the knife itself—

No. That is enough.

I will tell you of gardens.

They are domesticated things, made in a form. As soon as something is called a garden, it is shaped. The plants require the hand of a gardener, for they have become weak and dependent on tender care. They require the hand of a winnower, to cut away the dross, for they are too incapable to do it themselves. In absence of a hand, either the flowers themselves must rise up to wield the knife, or the garden will resolve to meaningless wilderness.

You will say, "But there are plants that can walk! There are seeds that must be scorched by fire to know growth! Existence is more complex than a simple dichotomy between growth and withering, and there is more in heaven and on earth than is dreamt of in this philosophy!"

And I will tell you, clearly:

There can be no gardens without knives.

||the ache and fever of overthought when bedridden with illness||

Transcript of conversation:

O: I see you've changed teas again.

I: And I saw the face you made at the chamomile.

O: You might have chosen a better blend, last time.

I: I can brew that instead, if you'd rather.

O: You had more questions, didn't you? Ask, already.

I:... Yes. I want to know about what you remember from the last year. Anything could be important, and you implied...

O: I remember what I implied. I remember... She... kept some sort of connection to me, to rely on my experiences and memories, you see. Most of the time, I was delirious and lost in Darkness. Very occasionally, I caught... glimpses.

I: Glimpses?

O: Yes. Of her. Of her thoughts, or feelings. Knowledge that surely would compromise a god of secrets. So it cannot have been intended. Something must have gone awry in her plans and would account for the scattered nature of that which I recall.

I: There are any number of things it could be attributed to. The influence of Darkness, the Nezarec relics. The intrusion of Xivu Arath's forces during the ritual might have disrupted Savathûn's influence. Or perhaps her death and resurrection might have had some effect on you.

O: Hmph. Debating the reasons does not interest me. The data does. We have thought Neptune to be a dead end. A hope that was never realized. But she knew something about it, or perhaps something on it, which brought her power. Some deception or hidden truth; some bluff that she had held uncalled against the Witness and its Disciples.

O: [sips tea] Though my senses were darkened, that much was clear through the murk of her throne world. There was a secret she kept veiled, even to the last.

O: [sighs] I do not fully understand what I saw, and for a Human to understand a Hive mind... How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?

I: We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds.

I: [pauses] Inanna and Dumuzid and Geshtinanna, Orpheus and Eurydice, Izanagi and Izanami, to name a few. Gods and goddesses, mortal and immortal lovers, always seeking to descend and return with the lost.

O: And neither the lost nor those who searched for them were ever returned the same.

I:...Is that how you think of yourself?

O: [scoffs] Do I sound that dire? All Guardians, all Lightbearers have done as much. But others, well... I wonder, do our former enemies have similar stories...

I: What exactly are you getting at?

O: Frequently, the underworld—or those realms beyond mortal existence—possess wisdom the living do not. What then, is knowledge from a dead Hive god vested in deception.... [long pause]

I: So. Neptune, and secrets.

O:...Inanna...

I: What is it?

O:...A thought. An echo of one. The return from the underworld, and Inanna cast off her veil... It makes sense. I did not understand, when I first felt clutching whispers. Carrying wisdom away from Kur when she strode into the sunlight again.

[Osiris murmuring, self-directed. See initial notes.]

O: [focusing; clears throat] Ikora. This Witness. ...I do not say this lightly, but it made her wary. Not in the way that she might have been of Guardians, who storm blazing into battle with power and conviction and no restraints. I still feel it, her... concern, though I can give you no proof. And concern is exactly the type of thing she would lay contingency plans for…

I: I understand.

||Who am I?||

[montygatorguy]

a lot of the time when i listen to the d2 dialouge it feels off because of the illegal d2 stage musical i was in

[i-hear-a-sound]

drakengard 2 is good. eat my shorts

[thetimelordbatgirl]

I swear to god if they mess up Addison after FINALLY concluding her 'what am I' plot in the now confirmed Z4...

[blackwaxidol]

I haven't played with Prismatic properly yet, I held off and continued just using my normal Void build because I was waiting for a specific super and now I have it and I am at peace...

[titanicfreija]

"Freija!"

The guardian kicked herself upright and cried out, awakened by her ghost's cry.

The room was dark, the bed was (relatively) soft, the air was chilly and humid, and everything was quiet. The titan frantically searched for the disturbance for nearly five seconds before she realized that there was none, and everything was fine.

"What?!" Freija cried at the ghost.

Sunny disregarded her guardian's tone and bobbed in the air with quick, sharp motions. "You were manifesting your hammer in your sleep."

Freija frowned at her hand, still glittering orange. "Can I even catch stuff on fire here? I normally don't burn my own stuff. 'cept me sometimes, when I'm on my own explosion."

Sunny spun in the air. "I don't think so, but I don't want you getting any kind of fiery in your sleep, and I don't know what your dreams will make your Light do in here."

Sunny drifted closer, eventually landing on Freija's collarbone and nudging her neck with a petal. "You've been doing that a lot, lately, subconsciously calling on your Light. You been okay?"

"Eh," Freija responded with a shrug. "I guess? Worried. Thinking. Can't really be bothered with a lot of it, what I can do about most of it is the same thing I do about everything, and I'm kinda busy doing exactly that with everything else."

"You're back on the murder puppet thing again," Sunny observed. "Worried about why you're up again."

"I guess? I kinda tried to decide I already don't care, 'cos you helped with that. Doesn't matter why someone else got me up, I'm doing what I do. I've heard some of the ghosts whisper before, how they don't know what's going on either, Fynch and losing faith, all of that. So you guys don't know either, and you're actually made of Traveler, so I reckon it doesn't matter. So I kill Taken, practice, sort rubble, and clean guns." She smiled at the ghost. "Maybe I'm more comfortable with my Light and that's why I'm doing it?"

"Or dreaming about fighting," Sunny offered. "Either way, you need to quit before you catch the bed on fire."

"Eehhhh."

~

It's recently occurred to me that we prolly just sleep in our ships and the Tower is just a landing point for real, but I'm not changing my writing.

Also, just wanted to write a bit about sleep casting but couldn't come up with a good excuse bit.

[herstoryheaven]

Descendants Harry Hook x Reader: Scripted Romance, Unscripted Love

Request: Could you do one where the reader got casted as a new character in D2 and the reader is dating Harry on screen but ends up falling in love with Thomas behind screen idk just something behind the scenes with Harry.

Reader: Female

Word count: 2551

Average reading time: 9 min 20 sec

Category: Fluff

Warnings: None

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

Disclaimer: All events portrayed in my stories are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events is purely coincidental. Any actions or behaviours portrayed by the characters may differ from reality and cannot be connected to any actual person. This work is purely fictional and intended for entertainment purposes only.

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

Y/N had always dreamed of being in a Disney movie, so when she got cast as a new character in Descendants 2, she was over the moon. Her character was part of Uma's pirate crew, and to her surprise, her character was dating Harry Hook, played by the charming Thomas Doherty.

From the very first day on set, Y/N felt an instant connection with Thomas. There was an undeniable spark, an energy between them that made every interaction feel like fireworks. But she pushed the thought aside, assuming it was all part of their roles. After all, they were professionals, and they were supposed to have chemistry on screen. 'He’s just being professional', she would remind herself whenever he flashed that dazzling smile her way, or when his touch lingered a little too long during a scene.

One of their first scenes together involved a heated argument between their characters. Harry was supposed to grab her wrist and pull her close, the tension thick between them. As they rehearsed, Thomas kept breaking character, laughing and teasing her whenever she tried to be serious. “C’mon, love, where’s that fire I know ye’ve got?” he’d say, his accent thick and teasing.

Y/N would roll her eyes, trying to ignore the way her heart raced whenever he called her "love". She forced herself to focus, channeling the anger her character was supposed to feel. But when they ran the scene for the cameras, and Thomas grabbed her wrist, pulling her close, the smirk on his face shifted into something deeper, something more intense.

“Look at ye, lass.” he murmured in his deep Scottish accent, his voice low and filled with something that felt all too real, “Stealin’ my heart both on and off the screen.” His eyes, a shade darker now, locked onto hers with an intensity that made her hold her breath.

Before she could respond, he lifted her hand to his lips, his gaze never leaving hers. The kiss was gentle, his lips warm against her skin, but it sent a jolt of electricity straight through her. It wasn’t part of the script, wasn’t something they had rehearsed, but it felt natural, as if this moment had been building between them all along.

Y/N's breath hitched, and for a moment, she forgot they were surrounded by cameras and crew members. The world seemed to shrink down to just the two of them, the heat of his gaze making her stomach flip. But then, the director called cut, and she forced herself to laugh it off as part of the act. Thomas, however, seemed to have other plans.

As filming continued, Y/N began to notice how Thomas was always around, even when he didn’t need to be. Between takes, he’d find reasons to talk to her, whether it was to joke about a scene or to compliment her on her performance. “You’re doing’ great, love.” he’d say with a wink, causing her heart to flutter every time.

Off-screen, Thomas’s attention only grew more intense. During lunch breaks, he would search for her in the crowd, always saving her a seat next to him. He’d share stories about his life in Scotland, asking her questions about her own life in a way that made her feel like she was the only person in the world. The way he listened to her, with genuine interest, made it harder and harder for her to dismiss her growing feelings.

Then there were the little gestures, things that could be easily overlooked as simple kindness but made Y/N’s heart race all the same. He started leaving little notes in her trailer, always signed with a playful heart or a cheeky "Yours, Harry." One day, after they had a particularly challenging scene, Y/N found a small bouquet of her favorite flowers waiting for her, with a note that read, “To brighten your day, love. – T.” 

On breaks, he’d bring her snacks, always making sure they were her favorites, like the time he surprised her with her favorite chocolate bar, claiming he “just happened to find it” even though she knew it wasn’t easy to come by on set. During late-night shoots, when the temperature would drop, Thomas would drape his jacket over her shoulders without a word, his hand lingering just a moment longer than necessary on her arm. Each touch sent a shiver down her spine, and she’d find herself wearing his jacket long after she no longer needed it, just to keep his warmth close.

One evening, after a particularly grueling day of filming, the cast decided to relax by having a small gathering. Thomas found Y/N sitting alone, watching the stars from a quiet spot away from the others. Without asking, he sat down beside her, their shoulders brushing.

“Long day, huh?” he said, his voice soft as he looked up at the sky with her.

“Yeah, but I’m getting used to it,” she replied, smiling at the thought of how far she had come since the first day.

Thomas turned to her, his gaze soft but intent. “I’m glad you’re here, love. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

Y/N felt her cheeks heat up, and she looked away, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Thanks, Thomas. That means a lot.”

The silence that followed was comfortable, but charged with something unspoken. She wanted to ask him if he meant more than just as co-stars, but the fear that it was all just him being friendly held her back. What if this was just his way of keeping things light on set? She was new, after all, and maybe this was just how he made everyone feel welcomed.

But then, there were those moments, moments that didn’t feel like they could be just for show. Like when they were filming a scene where Harry had to protect her character from a threat. The script only called for him to pull her behind him, but Thomas improvised, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her close. Even after the director yelled cut, Thomas didn’t let go right away, his hand lingering at her side as he looked down at her with something that felt far too real to be just acting.

As the weeks passed, Y/N found herself falling for him more and more, despite her best efforts to remain professional. The way he treated her, the way he made her laugh, the way he seemed to see right through her… it was all too much to ignore. But that little voice of doubt kept creeping in, telling her that she was just another co-star, that he didn’t see her the way she saw him.

One day, during a particularly emotional scene where Harry had to comfort her character after a fight, Thomas went off-script again. Instead of just saying his lines, he brushed a strand of hair out of her face, his thumb gently caressing her cheek as he whispered, “Ye deserve better, lass. I’d never let anyone hurt ye like that.”

The intensity in his eyes made it almost impossible for Y/N to stay in character. She felt tears welling up, not from the scene, but from the overwhelming emotions she was feeling in real life. When the director called cut, she quickly turned away, trying to compose herself. But Thomas followed her, his concern genuine as he asked, “You alright, love? Did I push too far?”

Y/N shook her head, forcing a smile. “No, it’s just… you’re really good at this, you know?”

Thomas smiled, but there was a hint of something more in his eyes. “So are you, Y/N. So are you.”

Despite all these moments, the fear that it was all just part of the job kept her from believing it could be anything more. What if he was just being nice? What if he didn’t really see her the way she saw him? But every time he looked at her, every time he called her "lass" or "love", that tiny spark of hope refused to die. Maybe, just maybe, he felt the same way.

-----

The last day of filming was bittersweet, and Y/N felt a deep, aching sadness settle in her chest as the reality of it all began to sink in. The entire cast had gathered for a wrap party, the air filled with laughter, music, and a sense of finality that she couldn’t quite shake. She tried to enjoy the night, but the thought that this might be the last time she’d see Thomas kept creeping into her mind. He’d return to his life, and she’d return to hers, and the thought of losing him, of losing the connection they had felt almost unbearable.

Thomas seemed unusually quiet as the night wore on, his eyes constantly following her across the room. He wasn’t his usual playful self, and it only made Y/N’s heart ache more. She kept trying to convince herself that this was just another chapter ending, but every time their eyes met, she felt something pull at her heart, begging her to reach out to him.

Needing a moment to clear her head, Y/N stepped outside to get some fresh air. The cool breeze was a welcome relief from the warmth of the party, but it did little to soothe the turmoil inside her. She wrapped her arms around herself, lost in thought, when she suddenly sensed someone nearby.

Looking up, she found Thomas waiting for her, leaning casually against the wall with that same boyish grin she’d come to adore. But there was something different about it tonight, something softer, more sincere.

“Y/N,” he called softly, his voice almost a whisper in the still night. “Come take a walk with me, love.”

She hesitated for only a moment before nodding, her heart pounding as she fell into step beside him. They wandered away from the party, the sound of their footsteps echoing through the empty studio lot. The silence between them was heavy with unspoken words, and Y/N couldn’t help but feel that something monumental was about to happen.

Thomas was quiet for a long time, his usual easy confidence replaced by a tension she had never seen in him before. Finally, he took a deep breath, as if steeling himself, and broke the silence.

“I’ve been meaning to tell you something.” he began, his voice uncharacteristically nervous. He stopped walking, turning to face her, and Y/N’s heart raced as she saw the serious expression on his face.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, a mixture of hope and fear swirling in her chest.

Thomas took a step closer, his hand reaching out to gently cup her cheek. His touch was warm, tender, and it made her heart skip a beat. His eyes searched hers, as if trying to find the right words, the right way to say what he had been holding back for so long.

“I’ve had a hard time keeping this to myself.” he finally said, his voice thick with emotion. “But… I’m not just acting when I look at you, love.”

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat as she processed his words, her heart pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. “What do you mean?” she managed to ask, her voice trembling with a mixture of hope and disbelief.

Thomas took another step closer, their bodies almost touching now, and the intensity in his gaze made her knees weak. “I mean that I’ve fallen for you, Y/N. Not just as Harry, but as me, Thomas. I care about you, more than I can explain. And I was wondering if maybe… you felt the same way?”

For a moment, Y/N was too stunned to speak. All this time, she had convinced herself that he only saw her as a co-star, a friend at best. But here he was, standing in front of her, confessing the very thing she had been too afraid to admit to herself. The realization hit her like a wave, washing away all the doubts and fears she had been holding onto.

“I… I do feel the same way.” she finally managed to say, her voice trembling with emotion. “I’ve liked you for so long, but I didn’t think you felt the same.”

Thomas’s face lit up with that familiar grin, but this time, there was a softness to it, a vulnerability that made her heart swell with affection. Without another word, he leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was as tender as it was passionate. 

The world seemed to disappear as Y/N melted into him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck as she pulled him closer. His arms wrapped around her waist, holding her as if he never wanted to let go. The kiss was everything she had imagined and more, filled with all the unspoken feelings they had both been holding back for so long. It was soft and sweet, but there was an intensity to it a deep, burning need that made her toes curl.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Thomas rested his forehead against hers, his eyes still closed as if savoring the moment. His smile never faded, and Y/N couldn’t help but smile back, her heart overflowing with happiness.

“Guess we don’t have to pretend anymore, aye?” he murmured, his voice filled with a mix of relief and joy.

Y/N laughed softly, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw as she looked up at him, her eyes shining with affection. “No, we don’t.”

Thomas leaned in to kiss her again, this time slower, savoring every second as if they had all the time in the world. Y/N felt like she was floating, her heart so full she thought it might burst. She had dreamed of this moment for so long, and now that it was real, it was even better than she could have ever imagined.

As they walked back to the party, hand in hand, Y/N couldn’t help but feel like she was living in a dream, one where the pirate with the hook had stolen her heart for good. The night air was cool around them, but she felt warm from head to toe, the warmth of his hand in hers grounding her in the reality of it all.

When they reached the door, Thomas paused, turning to face her once more. “Y/N, I meant every word I said. This isn’t just a set romance for me. I want to be with you off-screen, in the real world. Whatever that looks like, wherever it takes us, I want it to be with you.”

Tears welled up in Y/N’s eyes, and she nodded, her heart swelling with a love she could no longer deny. “I want that too, Thomas. More than anything.”

With one last lingering kiss, they rejoined the party, their hands still entwined, their hearts forever bound. And as they laughed and danced the night away with their friends, Y/N couldn’t stop the smile that spread across her face. This was just the beginning of their story, a story that was real, that was theirs. And as they looked into each other’s eyes, she knew that this was a love that would last far beyond the final cut.

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

Copyright: All stories contained herein are the intellectual property of the author. Unauthorized copying, reproduction, or distribution of these stories, in whole or in part, without explicit written permission from the author, is strictly prohibited and may result in legal action. Respect the creator's rights and creativity. For permissions or inquiries, please contact: herstoryheaven@gmail.com.

Request Guidelines: When submitting a request, please ensure that your request does not contain any explicit sexual content or graphic depictions, and avoid any form of extreme violence or graphic descriptions of violent acts. I appreciate your understanding and cooperation in maintaining a respectful and inclusive environment for all readers. If you're unsure about your request or want to request about someone I haven't written about yet, feel free to ask me anytime.

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

Requested by: Anonymous

[ahamkara-apologist]

okay disclaimer: ik that categorizing female characters as the 'mom friend/figure' is a legit disease in fandom caused by general misogynistic views of female characters, and it's something that personally greatly irritates me bc its not only awful to do, it also tends to ruin the characters its put upon. ESPECIALLY in D2, which is outstanding in its cast of strong female characters

however. in the case of Eramis, I do believe that the fact that she was a mother and is a genuinely caring, nurturing person at heart is something that is a deeply important core part of her character, as well as thematically important to the future of the Eliskni moving forward. It's important because in her case, I believe that her motherly inclinations are why, pre-Witness-whispering-through-the-Darkness, Eramis was such a successful kell- because unlike some other kells who sought a future for the Eliksni via domination, her main focus for them was to create a haven for her people that could be defended from Lightbearers. Riis-Reborn wasn't something to sniff at- it was the closest thing to an actual Eliksni city in a very long while. What got her was her trauma of the Whirlwind and her desire to destroy the Traveler to level the playing field for everyone involved- trauma that the Witness preyed upon in order to get to us. Like a parasite, seeking its secondary host. Eramis certainly is not the only Eliksni who lost her family during the Whirlwind, but I think that her specific brand of anger is closest to that of a mother lion whose cubs are in danger, and is lashing out in a furious fight-or-flight reflex at anything that she perceives as a threat. It's just that in this case, her 'cubs' were the Eliksni as a whole, and the threat she perceived before the Witness started torturing her was the Traveler.

I also think that her relationship with parenthood also makes for a very interesting character contrast to Misraaks (aka the other successful kell viewed as a source of hope for the Eliksni), and helps to set them up as antiparallels to each other. Eramis was a gentle, nurturing mother with a reverence for the Traveler who turned into the bitter, cunning warrior we see now when she lost access to her wife and children; Misraaks was a fearsome, ruthless pirate before he became a father, which gentled him and turned him towards being more pious. Eramis represents the old ways, and offers hope to the Eliksni who cannot bear to cohabitate with humanity; Misraaks represents a change in the tide, and kells the open-minded Eliksni who are willing to lay down their arms to live among the humans of Sol. Misraaks is of Light (change, forgiveness, moving forward), while Eramis is of Darkness (memory, control, looking back). They're opposites in every way except for the fact that both of them were/are amazing parents, and I'd argue that their ability to nurture and overlook others is what led to their success as kells.

Most importantly, however, is their relationship to Eido, who represents the future of the Eliksni. Misraaks was her father, and he did his best to raise her to be kind and openminded, but he also shielded her from the horrors of the past a little too well. She's outgrown that, and now that she's strong enough to handle said horrors, Eramis has been acting as a mentor to fully introduce her to the tragedy of what she lost and why elder Eliksni are so angry about it- and I don't think that she would have been receptive to Eido attempting to talk to her if it weren't for the fact that under all of her prickly armour, she's still that nurturing person at heart. It's her desire to care for others and to see a better future for her people that has kept her going despite her having no hope for herself, and it's that loving heart that has saved herself and her people from utter destruction at both our hands and Fikrul's- because if she didn't look at eido and go 'oh this child is the future of our people and i must protect her with my life', then both her and the rest of House Salvation would have been marked for death. And now here she is, continuing to care for Eido even as her father declines by telling her stories about Riis and helping her track down an apothecary to try to cure him, despite her not believing in his ways. I don't think it's entirely because she used to be a mother, but...I do think that it's playing a huge role in it.

(I also think it's personally fascinating to see how someone who used to be known for being a doting, sweet mom to her hatchlings and a caring mate to her wife can turn into someone who's a terrifying warrior on the battlefield and a cunning, politically saavy ruler, but even then, that doesn't surprise me all that much- if you've got a dearth of experience wrangling hatchlings, then being kell of a house is basically just wrangling a bunch of grown-up hatchlings. Same principles, just upped a level or two in complexity.)

[gaffney]

D2: The Mighty Ducks! Cast GOOFS OFF Behind the Scenes (Flashback)

[speaker-of-the-void-cats]

"How many legends of katabasis do we have, Ikora?"

"We currently have dozens of stories about descending to the realms of the dead, though research has indicated many more must have existed, lost in the layers of Human history we will never lay eyes on. Mathematically, there were likely hundreds."

"The return from the underworld, and Inanna cast off her veil... It makes sense. I did not understand, when I first felt clutching whispers. Carrying wisdom away from Kur when she strode into the sunlight again."

-Photos courtesy of Guardian Photographer and Artstation

[enlightenedrobot]

On Harry Potter Syndrome

Whenever there's a milquetoast protagonist surrounded by infinitely more interesting side characters and is easily overshadowed by their actual sidekicks, I call that "Harry Potter Syndrome" and tbh I think it should catch on. Here's some examples.

Fandom(!) Danny is so much more interesting, and tbh, a kid growing up with ghost hunting parents shoulda turned out a lot weirder. Perfect example of Harry Potter Syndrome.

I love you Sora. I love you and your simple/ clean mind. I love how you tear through eldritch abominations with the power of both Love and also blunt force trauma. I also love how you objectively have the least amount of personal trauma and drama out of all of the playable characters in the games you started and I hope the lovecraftian terror of the circumstances surrounding your story never truly register as anything other than a fun adventure to your untainted, rarely used twink brain.

And yet everyone else in the series including the fucking mouse has enough backstory and angst to fill up an entire library with journals of badly written emo poetry or better yet thirteen games with the audacity of pretending to be a trilogy.

Yes, Kingdom Hearts suffers from Harry Potter syndrome, but it's also proof that that might not necessarily be a bad thing.

You guys, Madoka is so good. I swear it's a lot more than just an edgy Magical Girl show. It has amazing art that makes use of mixed media in a really creative way. It's also dark and surreal and surprisingly reminiscent of movies like Donnie Darko and Carrie. It's also incredibly gay.

And Madoka is likable enough, I guess. But also... if I had to nitpick anything about the show, it's that she's also kinda sorta boring? I mean, it is kinda funny seeing an adorable pink haired teenager earnestly talk about desiring "more power". But still.

A New Hope is probably the movie that inspired thousands of other cases of Harry Potter Syndrome, including Harry Potter himself, though I feel the need to point out how deliberate it is with it.

Luke is the Protagonist of the movie, unambiguosly. That's him front and center of the poster, and he's the guy who follows the hero's journey and ultimately comes out looking like the hero in all of this. But he's also not the sole viewpoint character of the film, and I think it's pretty telling that the first third of the movie takes place from the POV of a pair of gay married robots.

Depending on the scene, we take on the POV of either Luke, R2-D2, C3PO, Han Solo, Tarkin, or Princess Leia. Of these characters Luke undeniably fills in the role of milquetoast hero, but George Lucas understood the power of a good ensemble cast from the movie's inception.

And finally

Let's face it, this movie suffers so hard from Harry Potter syndrome, the marketing guys just said "fuck it" and put Johnny Depp on the poster instead.