#What Is Group Weight Loss & How Does It Work?

[burntheedges]

Pas de Deux Chapter 1

Din Djarin x f!reader | 2.9k | fic masterlist | main masterlist | ao3

fic summary: When Din Djarin – principal dancer at Concordia Ballet Company and generational talent in the classical style – suddenly left CBC and joined the Nevarro Ballet Theater mid-season, it shocked the ballet world. You never would have guessed that he would change your life, too.

a/n: here we go! Chapter 1 starts sometime in late fall, November-ish. See my notes on the masterlist about reader in this fic and ballet in general. Thank you @katareyoudrilling for being the best beta, as always!!

chapter tags/warnings: gen, ballet terms (see end notes and the masterlist for definitions), a bit of angst

Chapter 1

“‘In a surprise move that shook the dance world, the Concordia Ballet Company announced yesterday that they have parted ways with principal dancer Din Djarin.’”

You could hear the sudden gasps through the open door of the large studio as you walked towards it. You recognized Clara’s voice as she read the news aloud, you assumed from her phone. 

“‘Djarin, 27, who trained at the rigorous Concordia Ballet School from a young age, has been with CBC for 10 years and is in the prime of his career. He was promoted from soloist to principal two years ago, as is the norm at CBC, where they do not promote dancers younger than 25 to principal. His performances have been highlights on the CBC schedule over the last two seasons, earning many rave reviews.’” 

You turned the corner to enter the studio and found most of the company class crowded around Clara as she looked down at her phone.

“‘The CBC press release did not indicate the reason for the split, which only makes this mid-season decision more disconcerting for fans and donors alike.’”

The group around Clara murmured and shifted their weight. You had just read the article on the bus and knew what was coming next. You slid down to sit against the wall by the door, watching.

“‘This decision comes amidst the company’s preparation for spring and for the last show on their fall schedule, Don Quixote, with no explanation as to how their roster of principals and other dancers may be adjusted to compensate for this enormous loss. Djarin is well known for his powerful physique, technical mastery, and classically perfect performances.’” Clara paused, and then continued, “then it talks about some of his work, we know all of that already, blah blah blah, ok whoa!” She gasped. “Ok. Listen to this – ‘Djarin has not been available for comment, but was seen boarding a flight to Nevarro two days ago before the announcement was made public!'”

You started to put on your shoes for barre and watched as everyone else in the room started to completely freak out.

“Here?!” Owen exclaimed, hand thrown over his mouth. “Is he coming here here?” He gestured around the studio as he asked.

Clara shrugged. “It doesn’t say, look, that’s the end of the article.”

Sophie had started rising up and down on the balls of her feet by one of the barres and you weren’t sure if she was aware she was doing it. Her tone was excited as she asked, “would he come here? Why? We’re, like, not his style.”

The room broke down into several noisy conversations at that point, and you felt your friend Adrian slip down the wall to sit next to you. “So, what do you think?” he asked, nudging your shoulder. 

You shrugged. “No idea. I can’t see any reason he’d even want to come here. CBC is so…” You trailed off, but he knew what you meant.

“Yeah. Traditional. Rigid. Not like us at all.” Adrian waved his hand towards the mismatched group of dancers in front of you and you both smiled. The Nevarro Ballet Theater was different from the Concordia Ballet Company in many ways, and the diversity of dancers in the company was one of the things that set NBT apart the most.

You nodded. “Right. If his flight destination even means anything.”

“If it does, what would that mean for us?” Adrian looked around the room. “We already have a full roster of soloists and principals.” He bit his lip. He looked nervous, and he wasn’t the only one — you noticed Sasha, Lu, Carlos, and Isaac were huddled around the bar, clearly worried. All principals, you assumed they were nervous about losing out on parts. For Adrian, you knew it was because he had just made soloist at the start of the season. A new superstar coming in might shake things up too much.

You nudged his shoulder with your own. “I was thinking about that when I read it on the bus. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I heard what Karga said, about how good you are.”

He nodded, but didn’t look reassured. “At least you don’t have anything to worry about, Ms. Soon-To-Be-Principal.” 

You rolled your eyes and shoved down the anxiety lurking in your stomach. You’d made soloist a couple of years ago, and then first soloist this season. There were some people (including Adrian) who seemed to think you’d be promoted soon, as early as the end of the current season. But there were at least a few critics who disagreed, and for months you’d been having trouble putting the words of one in particular out of your mind. You could quote it from memory:

“While her lyricism and skill are undeniable, one wonders if she has the artistry or stage presence to carry a narrative. She more than deserves the promotion to first soloist, but is this her ceiling?” 

You wished you’d never read the article, but it had seemed to be the usual season preview and you hadn’t been expecting the targeted commentary. You’d spent the last few months trying not to think about it too much, or you knew you would get all in your head about it.

“Shut up.” You nudged him again and he laughed.

He opened his mouth to respond, but he was interrupted by the door opening next to you. It wasn’t your teacher who walked in, though, and once you saw who it was you both leapt to your feet.

Greef Karga, director of the Nevarro Ballet Theater, looked happy, but then he usually did. 

“Good morning, dancers!’ His voice was deep and loud and you all scrambled into a semi-circle facing him at the door, where your ballet instructor, Alexa, followed him in. You chorused a “good morning” in response.

“I’m sure you’ve all seen the news,” Karga continued, with a knowing smile on his face. “And you must be wondering why I’m here!” You glanced in the mirror and noted that everyone did indeed look both curious and a little wary. “Well, I am very pleased to confirm that Din Djarin will be joining us for the rest of the season here at NBT.”

There was some general murmuring and shock in response, but he was not deterred.

“I know we’re in the middle of the season, with many roles already planned. Din and I have agreed to try not to disrupt that too much this year. We’ll be adding some things to the anniversary gala and the mixed programs.” That made sense — the latter were showcases of the work of different composers and choreographers and could be more easily rearranged to include a new dancer. “We won’t be making any changes to Midsummer, Swan Lake, or Cinderella, which I know we’re already planning for and rehearsing.” You felt Adrian take a deep, relieved breath beside you. He was supposed to be Puck this year for the first time and it sounded like that wasn’t going to change. 

“Din will start joining your classes and the rehearsals for the gala and other programs over the course of the next two weeks. Please introduce yourself and welcome him — we are very excited to have him join us.”

You all nodded, of course, even though you knew a lot of your fellow dancers would be wary of the newcomer. 

“Well!” Karga clapped his hands together and smiled. “I’ll let you get started. Continue with your rehearsals as normal unless you hear otherwise. Have a wonderful day, everyone!”

Alexa moved towards the stereo system in the corner as Karga swept out of the room, and you turned to look at Adrian. 

“Well,” he said, turning towards his usual place at the barre. “This should be interesting.”

You nodded as Alexa turned on the music and you took your usual spot next to him at the barre. It definitely would be.

…

After all that excitement, you didn’t even see Djarin for a few days. He didn’t join the morning company classes right away, but you couldn’t really blame him — moving suddenly across the country wasn’t easy. It didn’t stop you from glancing around every room as you entered, trying to catch sight of your elusive new company member. 

You heard from the others that he’d dropped by a couple of rehearsals, and they’d overheard him talking about plans for the mixed programs with some of the choreographers and other staff, including Talia and Jee. You wondered if he’d ever met Kuiil, the current guest choreographer in residence, who traveled and usually worked with different companies every few years. You somehow doubted it — Kuiil’s style was much too contemporary for CBC.

You’d been in rehearsals for Nutcracker and Midsummer all week, though, so you weren’t really surprised that you hadn’t run into him yet. 

Finally, on Friday morning, you arrived early for class to find a group of your fellow company members huddled by the mirror and staring awkwardly across the room. You followed their gaze and found Din Djarin, in the flesh, warming up at the barre. For a moment you couldn’t reconcile the sight of him in your familiar space. He was tall and imposing, and dressed all in black — black ballet shoes, black tights, black sweats that cut off below his knees, and a tight black long sleeve shirt that showcased the breadth of his shoulders and just how strong he was. His curly brown hair was tousled. His signature mustache, somewhat uncommon in ballet, was in place, though you knew he often shaved for performances — there had been articles about his daring breach of the Concordia status quo when he didn’t. At least at NBT he’d be allowed to keep it, you thought. His face was blank, completely expressionless as he stretched. 

You knew he had to know the rest of the group was watching him, and when you glanced back and found them still huddled you sighed. You felt someone step into the room behind you and turned to find Adrian taking in the standoff. 

He shook his head. “Great start.” His tone was dry, and you laughed under your breath. 

“Should we say hello?” You sat to put on your ballet shoes and Adrian sank down beside you.

“Who, us?” Adrian raised an eyebrow at you. “Do I look brave to you?” 

You laughed again, and were about to suggest going together for moral support when Alexa walked in. She took in the situation and sighed, shaking her head as she crossed the room to where Djarin was still warming up alone.

“Look! Alexa took care of it.” Adrian nudged you and smiled. “No need for us to take one for the team after all.”

The two of you watched as she spoke with him, though you couldn’t hear what they were saying. He nodded at her, and she smiled before walking towards the stereo.

“Alright, let’s get started!” She called out without looking to see if anyone listened, but you all did. You realized as you took your normal spot that you were diagonal from Djarin across the space between two of the barres in the middle of the floor. You’d be able to see him whenever you were working your left side, and somewhat in the mirror on your right. You resolved not to stare.

You only sort of succeeded.

The problem, you quickly realized, was that his movements were beautiful. Even while doing simple pliés or tendus you could see the power in his body, the strength in his muscles, the rigor of his training. Every movement was precise, clean, and perfectly placed. The elegant line of his arm and the curve of his hip drew your gaze like a magnet, over and over again. His effortless coordination and control were mesmerizing. You watched the slow extension of his leg into grand battement until you had to force yourself to tear your eyes away.

Well, you thought, he certainly lives up to all of the hype about technique. CBC had a reputation and he more than exceeded it.

It made you painfully aware of the limits of your own abilities. You knew you were good – you’d made it this far, of course, and now you were first soloist, despite having what was seen as a late start in ballet (at age 7). And despite what the critics said, you were considered to be one of the better technicians at NBT. But you were no match for his level of skill, for the rigorous training you’d heard about at CBC. That much was obvious just from looking at him. 

You tried to clear your mind as the class continued, knowing your worries would start to show in your movements if you let them. It was hard to do that when so much strength and technical perfection stood only five feet away from you, demonstrating the ideal version of every move and transition that you attempted.

As you finished at the barre and quickly put on your pointe shoes to work in the center of the room, you finally put it out of your mind. There was no use in comparison, you’d learned that a long time ago. In the end, the only dancer you could compete with was yourself. And NBT was not a company that encouraged that kind of competition among dancers anyway.

You found your feet going across the floor, letting yourself sink into it as you moved through some jumps and short combinations. You tried to feel nothing but the pull in your muscles and pattern of your breath. By the end of the class you felt a little steadier, a little more centered.

Alexa dismissed the class, and you started to gather your things. As you slipped off your pointe shoes, you felt someone brush past you, heading for the door — Djarin didn’t look back as he crossed the threshold into the hall. You realized as he did that he hadn’t spoken a single word for the entire class. You wondered if he was unhappy to be here, after all. 

By the time you stepped into the hallway, he was nowhere to be seen.

Adrian fell into step next to you as you walked towards the larger rehearsal studios at the other end of the building. He hooked your arms together and looked around quickly to see if anyone was nearby. He leaned in to whisper, “did you see that? He was amazing!”

You nodded. “I know. I didn’t think anyone could live up to all that hype, but he does.”

Adrian shook his head, looking dismayed. “I know they said some roles wouldn’t change but, ugh. I wouldn’t blame them.”

“Hey,” you elbowed him lightly. “Don’t. You’re going to be amazing as Puck. And you know that role plays to your strengths. I don’t see him taking that one from you. It’s not really his style.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I guess. Ok, let’s hurry, I need to tape my knee before Nutcracker.” You winced in sympathy, knowing how much he’d be jumping in practice for both the Russian dance and the jack-in-the-box roles. But his words jogged your memory.

“Shit.” You froze in the hallway. “I left my tape in the studio. Go ahead, I’ll meet you there.”

He nodded, but you were already turning as you said it, waving him on.

You heard him jog off towards the rehearsal rooms behind you as you walked quickly back the way you’d come, turning past the bathrooms and the administrative offices. It didn’t take long and your tape was right where you’d left it. 

Tape in hand, you turned around again and started walking back down the long hall. 

As you approached the offices, though, the sound of Karga’s raised voice stopped you in your tracks, just around the corner from his office door.

“We talked about this, Din. It's part of this company’s identity. You want to break away from them? You need to make a statement.” You heard the slapping sound of one hand against another and imagined Karga hitting his hand with his fist for emphasis. 

“No, Greef, listen. I don’t—“ You startled. It was the first time you’d heard Djarin’s voice and it was much deeper and more pleasant than you would have imagined. 

Karga interrupted him. “No, you listen. Din, you can do this. I know you can. And it will show them everything they’re missing, everything they let slip through their fingers. They are so stuck in their ways, they have no idea what you can really do. What you’re capable of. Let me help you get there.”

You heard Djarin sigh. “This will go badly and I’m going to blame you.”

Karga chuckled. You tried to picture Djarin looking amused, too, and failed. All you could conjure was the expressionless mask he’d kept in place for all of class that morning. Karga continued, “I’ll take it happily. This is going to be great, don’t you worry! We’ll ease you into it. Now, let’s go share the news.”

You heard them start to move around in the office and startled into motion. As you turned the corner, the door to Karga’s office swung open in front of you and Din Djarin stepped out of it. He was moving quickly, shoulders hunched, brow furrowed. He barely glanced in your direction, but when he did, you took a surprised step back at the fierceness of his glare. It was the most emotion you’d seen from him so far, and it wasn’t exactly pleasant. He didn’t stop, though, and quickly turned away from you to move down the hall towards rehearsal. You blinked, frozen mid-step, unable to shake the look he’d just given you. What was that about?

...

| next

a/n: sooo what do you think? ballet terms in this chapter:

see the masterlist for principal, soloist, class vs. rehearsal, season

plié - a bending of the needs (you've probably seen dancers standing at the barre and bending their knees -- that's a plié)

tendu - tight or stretched out - stretching one leg out long, often in brushes along the floor

grand battement - the leg is raised from the hip into the air and brought down again, both knees straight (with apparent ease)

barre - the rail that ballet dancers use in class (don't lean on it!). usually you'd wear normal ballet shoes at the barre and switch into pointe shoes (toe shoes) to do exercises in the center or go across the floor

and if you'd like a visual aid, one of the dancers I'm mentally modeling Din after is Carlos Acosta, who you can see in this compilation (~6:49) doing a variation from Don Quixote.

tag list coming in a reblog!

[wholoveseggs]

Can I maybe have an angst/fluff where the reader had turned her humanity off and Elijah is trying his best to flip it back on? Thank you!! Love your work 💕

Forgiveness

18+ ---- {Masterlist} {Tag-List}

After a tragic event you flip your humanity switch and begin to terrorize the Quarter. You have to be put down for the good of the city, but your husband will stop at nothing to save you.

♡♡ Thanks for the request anon(s) sorry it took so long! ♡♡

5.5k words - Warnings: so so so angsty, violent, reader does some evil shit, a bit of sex but its not sexy, this is definitely the darkest thing I've ever written.. you want angst??? you get angst.

Marcel sat on a stool in a dimly lit bar, staring into his glass of whiskey. He wondered how much more loss he could take, and when it would finally break him.

He was experiencing a kind of helplessness he hadn't experienced since he was a boy, sneaking half rotten apples in his shirt, running home as fast as he could so he wouldn't be caught.

He couldn't outrun his feelings now. They followed him wherever he went, nipping at his heels, mocking him for the things he couldn't fix, the things he couldn't undo.

It wasn't his fault, not really, yet he felt guilty, because a part of him still cared for you. Even after all you had done. All you had become.

He was pulled out from his melancholy by one of his nightwalkers, a vampire called Arthur, a man who had served in the first World War, and came to New Orleans, looking for the easy life.

He sat down next to Marcel and placed a gold chain necklace on the table, it had distinct little jewels, each one a different color. Marcel recognized it instantly and his heart sank at the flecks of blood still clinging to it.

"Jean," he said softly, picking the necklace up and examining it.

Arthur nodded his head. "I found her in an alleyway, anyone could of come across it," he told Marcel.

"How bad?" Marcel asked, already knowing the answer.

"Not pretty. I got rid of the body."

"Thanks," Marcel said, and he meant it. He didn't want a bunch of human detectives finding the body and raising questions. "I told Jean not to go after her," he said, shaking his head, the weight of his regret was almost crushing.

Arthur poured himself a drink, and looked at Marcel with a raised brow.

"What else was she supposed to do? Sit at the bar and mope while her friends are slaughtered," he said, taking a swig.

"You know it's not that simple," Marcel told him.

Arthur sighed, "I know," he said, "but we gotta stop her, she's killing us off, one by one,"

Marcel finished his drink, his knuckles turning white around the glass.

"Yeah," he agreed, his voice breaking, "I know."

He looked down at his glass, watching the amber liquid swirl around, wondering if he could ever drink enough to forget who you used to be, if he would ever get you back. The ironic part was that he needed some solid advice and the person he usually would go to was you.

He threw his glass on the ground and it shattered on the floor, causing the other vampires in the bar to jump.

"Fuck," he yelled, standing up, looking around at his people. "Listen up, she got Jean," he paused as the crowd murmured in shock, "and I'm not gonna stand here and let her kill anyone else," he announced.

"What about Elijah?" A young vampire asked.

"Fuck him," Marcel shouted, "he will let us all die before he hurts his precious wife."

"If you see her, bring her to me, and I will give you the daylight ring of your choice," he promised, and the crowd cheered.

"Now go, and do not approach her alone," he ordered, and the group dispersed.

"We got this Marcel," Arthur told him.

Marcel gave him a nod and watched him leave. His heart broke for what he knew he had to do. He would stop you, no matter what it took.

A soft low moan came tumbling past your lips as you rocked your hips forward, and dug your nails deeper into the neck of the man beneath you. His eyes were closed in a mix of ecstasy and pain, and his hips thrust upwards, chasing the pleasure you were giving him.

"Don't cum," you compelled him, and his body tensed beneath you.

"Please," he begged, his hands reaching for you, grabbing your thighs and squeezing.

You moaned and lifted yourself up, and then slammed down onto him, hard. He cried out in pleasure, his eyes rolling into the back of his head.

"Please," he choked out, and you could see the tears pooling in his eyes.

You were getting tired of him. His stamina was abysmal, and you assumed that since he was covered in tattoos he enjoyed a bit of pain. You had been disappointed when you had learned that wasn't the case.

"Don't be a bitch," you spat, "and shut up."

He nodded, and you could tell he was struggling. You sighed, and grabbed him roughly by the hair, pulling his head to the side and exposing his neck.

He groaned, and you bit into his neck, making sure your teeth sliced deep. Blood poured from his neck, you could taste a hint of the endorphins rushing through him and smiled. You sucked on his wound, and began moving again.

His breathing hitched, and his whole body was shaking, you knew it wouldn't take long for him to reach his orgasm.

"You can cum now," you told him, and he moaned, and his fingers dug into your hips.

You continued rocking into him, and a few seconds later he let out a strangled cry, and you could feel his cock throbbing inside of you.

You smiled through bloodied teeth then sunk your fangs back into his neck, tasting the flood of endorphins. You continued to drink, feeling him struggle underneath you.

"Too much," he wheezed, trying to push you away, but he was far too weak.

You kept going until his breathing slowed, and his body stopped moving. You pulled back and let his body slump onto the bed, looking down disappointedly.

"I don't even get an orgasm out of it," you complained, rolling your eyes.

You lifted yourself off him, stretching and cracking your neck.

You glanced over at the woman laying in the chair in the corner of the room, and frowned. You had forgotten about her. She was alive, her chest rising and falling, her heartbeat thumping loudly.

You had compelled her to be silent and still, she was doing an excellent job. You stood up and walked towards her. She stared at you with wide, terrified eyes. You were naked, and covered in blood, it dripped down your face, and neck, and coated your breasts and legs.

"Oh, honey," you cooed, brushing her hair out of her face. "I'm so sorry, was that your boyfriend?"

The woman whimpered, tears spilling out of her eyes, and you shushed her, gently running your thumb over her bottom lip.

"You shouldn't stay with a cheater," you told her, and she looked at you in confusion, "and you should choose better men," you advised, then snapped her neck.

You went to the bathroom, and turned the shower on, and stepped under the hot stream, letting the water wash away the blood and cum.

Your mind was calm, the only thought swirling around in your head was your desire to drink and fuck, and the two together was an amazing combination.

You washed yourself quickly, then found a dress and slid it over your wet body. It clung to your skin, but you didn't mind.

You put on some jewelry you found and checked yourself out in the mirror. You were beautiful, and the darkness behind your eyes made you look deadly.

You smiled, satisfied with your appearance, and left the hotel, deciding to find your next victim.

New Orleans was a big city, but it was full of sin, and you loved walking the streets, feeling its pulse, and knowing that somewhere there was a soul aching for you to feed on.

You could have compelled yourself a meal, but where was the fun in that? There was something so satisfying about hunting and the chase was exhilarating.

You walked down a back street, thinking about having a redhead for dinner when the hairs on the back of your neck stood up, and your stomach clenched.

You were being followed.

You sped up and the person followed suit, and you smiled. Finally, something to cure your boredom. You took a sharp left, and the footsteps following you became hurried.

"Fuck," a male voice shouted, and you laughed, and took another left, and then a right, and a left again. Leading them exactly where you wanted.

You were back near the hotel, and you slipped into the alleyway and waited. You were going to enjoy this.

You didn't have to wait long, a few seconds later a vampire rounded the corner and stopped when he saw you.

"Arthurrr, it's been a while," you said, licking your lips. "I thought you and your merry band of idiots would have learned their lesson by now," you told him.

"Well, you know me, I'm a slow learner," he replied, standing at the head of the alley, his arms crossed.

"Jean was such a nice girl, you guys were together, right?" You asked, knowing full well they were.

"We were," Arthur said, his jaw clenching, and you could see the hurt in his eyes.

"She was so sweet, always so eager to please," you continued, taking a step towards him, "and so willing to do anything for those she loved," you said, pausing, "it's a shame that you're all so willing to die for one another," you finished, taking another step forward.

"Has Elijah seen you like this?" Arthur asked, taking a step back, his hand sliding into his pocket.

"What, covered in blood and looking sexy as hell," you replied, grinning at him.

"No, like a monster."

Arthur watched you freeze, a flicker of emotion crossing your face. It was gone as fast as it came and your expression went cold again and you smirked at him.

It hurt him to see you like this, you had been his friend for decades. But this wasn't about him and you, it was even about his beloved Jean. He didn't care if Elijah would tear him apart for it. He would not let you hurt another person he loved. He had to put you down, like a rabid dog.

"Isn't that what we are Artie? Monsters."

"Not all of us," he said, his voice cracking.

"Come on, don't be shy," you said, stepping closer, "I'll let you get a hit in."

Arthur reached into his pocket and felt the needle he prepared. You were much older and stronger than he was, but all he had to do was get close enough to you and shove the needle into your skin and maybe he could end this nightmare

Marcel knelt down over Arthur's body, or at least what was left of it. He didn't have anymore tears left in him to shed.

"I'm sorry, my friend, go be with Jean," he whispered, closing Arthur's eyes.

"And Mark, Jessa, Sean, Patrick..." Said a voice from behind him.

Marcel closed his eyes and sighed, turning around and looking up at Elijah.

"How can you be so fucking callous?" Marcel snarled.

Elijah didn't know how to respond. He was numb, and the pain had become too much. He was barely holding himself together, the only thing keeping him going was his promise.

He was going to save you, no matter the cost.

"Are you just going to stand there and act like you don't care?" Marcel spat, standing up, anger and resentment coursing through him.

"Don't make this any worse than it already is," Elijah said.

"You are killing us!" Marcel shouted, taking a step towards him.

Elijah shook his head and clenched his fists, and Marcel saw the pain in his eyes. He stopped himself and took a breath.

"Elijah, she is out of control, you need to do something," he said, his voice softer.

"I know," Elijah agreed. "But... she's... I can't, not yet," he stuttered, his voice breaking, "just a few more days," he pleaded, looking at Marcel desperately.

"A few more days," Marcel scoffed, "Elijah, if you don't stop her, I will have to kill her."

Elijah flashed forward and shoved Marcel into the wall.

"You won't lay a finger on her," Elijah growled, his face inches from Marcel's.

"I don't want to," Marcel told him, and Elijah could see the truth in his eyes. "But I can't let her keep doing this, you can't expect us to sit around and let her murder everyone we love."

"Marcel..." Elijah warned, his grip tightening.

"Elijah, this has to stop," Marcel said, shoving Elijah back, "I have to stop her, before she kills the whole fucking Quarter," he exclaimed, his eyes glistening.

"I know you Mikaelsons only care about yourselves, so let me put this in a way you will understand." Marcel took a breath, and tried to remain calm. "We can't hide what she's doing anymore. The humans are scared, and are starting to ask questions. If this continues, they will figure out that we exist, and the whole world will come down on New Orleans, and none of us will make it out alive."

Elijah's shoulders slumped and he sighed, running a hand through his hair.

"What would you have me do, Marcel?" Elijah asked, his voice soft and defeated.

"Turn her humanity back on."

You felt like shit, cold yet hot, your throat was on fire and every limb ached. You sat up slowly and rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and blinked several times. Your vision was blurry, and it took a moment for the room to come into focus.

You thought it was just vervain in that needle, nothing a couple of drinks couldn't fix, but when you started to see things that weren't there, you realized that Arthur must have dosed you up with wolfsbane.

You managed to crawl into some hole of an apartment to hide from the hallucinations, hoping when you woke up you would be feeling better.

But it didn't, you were dying. You could feel it.

"No," you moaned, falling back against the wall, the reality of your situation sinking in.

"You didn't think I would just let you die," a soft, familiar voice spoke.

"You're not real," you told him, refusing to look at him.

"That doesn't mean I'm not here."

You looked up and Elijah was standing in front of you. You sighed and closed your eyes, but he was still there, in your mind.

"What kind of monster are you?" He asked and you laughed.

"Child killer," you answered, looking at him, his expression was blank. "Murderer, adulterer, thief, blasphemer..." You listed, but he remained expressionless.

"Whore," he added and you laughed again.

"I'm a terrible wife," you said, smiling.

"You are a monster," he repeated.

"So are you," you snapped.

"I never claimed to be otherwise," he said.

"If you are real you should kill me," you suggested.

"I'm not real," he reminded you.

"I know, the real you would never call me a whore," you replied, and he chuckled.

"I'm dying Elijah," you stated, your eyes welling up with tears, "this is it, I can feel it."

"What are you going to do about it?"

You took a deep breath and stood up, leaning against the wall for support.

"I'm going to go get the cure," you decided, stumbling out into the night.

The compound wasn't far from the apartment, and the cold air helped you wake up, and your head was clearer, and you could focus on your destination.

"Why not let yourself die?" Elijah asked, walking alongside you.

"Living is much more fun, so many possibilities," you said, "food, sex, money..."

"Family, friends..." He added.

"Waste of time," you dismissed, waving him away, watching him dissolve.

You pushed through the iron gates, trying your best to compose yourself. You entered the courtyard and saw a few nightwalkers scattered around, they didn't notice you and continued drinking and chatting.

"Where is Klaus?" You asked loudly.

Everyone turned and looked at you, and the room fell silent. All you could see was their fear and it amused you.

"I will not ask again," you said, smiling sweetly.

"In his studio," someone answered, and you gave them a nod, and walked past then, heading upstairs.

You barged right in and found him standing in front of an easel, painting. He only painted when he was troubled, and his canvas was filled with darkness and death.

"Lovely," you commented, walking towards him.

Klaus didn't turn to look at you, he simply continued to paint. "Elijah isn't home, but I expect you know that already," he said.

"How perceptive," you remarked.

"To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?" He asked.

"I need your blood," you told him.

"Rather bold of you to ask, considering the circumstances," he said, finally turning to look at you.

You didn't know what to say. You had no words, and for once you were lost for a witty remark. You just stared at him, and he studied you.

"I've been hearing about your extracurriculars," he said, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Is that so," you replied, and the corners of your mouth curled up.

"Killing a child, now that's unexpected," he remarked.

You ignored him, unable to respond, because it wasn't something you wanted to think about. You could see your hallucination of Elijah staring at you from the corner of the room. A small child appeared next to him, blood pouring out of her neck.

"Why didn't you save me?" She asked, her eyes filled with pain and betrayal.

"Shut up," you whispered, shaking your head.

"She died in pain, and you did nothing," the vision of Elijah said, and you closed your eyes, trying to will it all away. It was becoming irritating.

"I'm sure the mother will be most upset," Klaus said.

"Spare me the guilt trip, you've done far worse," you spat, opening your eyes, relieved the visions had disappeared.

Klaus observed your disheveled state and noticed how much you were sweating, and the dark circles under your eyes. You were clearly unwell, and it explained why you risked coming back to the compound. You really did need his blood.

"I have, love. But that's just who I am, it's not who you are," he replied, turning back to his canvas.

"Well, I've always wanted to try the whole serial killer thing," you said, trying to sound light-hearted, but the joke fell flat, and neither of you laughed.

"So you killed the child because you wanted to? Because you enjoy doing such things? I'm not even that diabolical." He chuckled, adding a bit of white to the canvas.

"Yes, Klaus, I wanted to kill her, I wanted her to suffer, and I wanted to see the look on her mother's face as I did it."

Klaus set his brush down, and turned back to you. "That's a lie, it was an accident, Marcel told me," he said, watching your eyes widen, and your face fall.

"It was an accident," the little girl's ghost said, appearing in front of you.

You stumbled back, bumping into the sofa, and the girl was right in front of you.

"Why didn't you save me?" She repeated, tears filling her eyes.

"FUCK!" You yelled, your hands gripping the sides of your head.

"Wolfsbane is one hell of a trip," Klaus said casually, watching you stumble back from something he couldn't see.

"If you won't give me your blood, just kill me, I rather not die in agony," you told him.

"Do you think you deserve it?" He asked.

"Deserve what? Death, mercy, life? Who knows, who cares," you answered.

"I think Elijah does," Klaus said, and you froze.

"I'm not talking about this with you," you said, turning to leave.

"Despite what you may think, I do consider you family, even in the state you are in," he said, and he saw the look of surprise on your face.

"Ahh, there it is," he said softly, "a flicker of feeling just under the surface, fight your way back y/n," he encouraged.

Frustration was the only thing you were feeling and you lashed out, pushing over his easel, knocking his paints off the table.

He raised his eyebrows at your outburst and laughed, it was a rough, genuine laugh, and he grinned at you.

"Very well, Elijah wouldn't be pleased if I let you die and I kind of like you like this," he admitted, "though, you are rather irritable."

You stopped yourself from talking back, just needing to get your hands on his blood. You didn't want to waste any more time with him.

"Now, what am I going to ask in return," Klaus said, stroking his chin, "something I've been wanting for a very long time."

"If you want to fuck you don't have to bribe me," you told him.

"As tempting as that is, no," he said, grinning. "I want a favor, in the future," he offered.

"You're going to have to be more specific."

"That's the beauty of a favor, it can be anything," he said.

"Fine," you snapped, "blood now please,"

Klaus smirked and opened a drawer in the table, taking out a vial and handing it to you. You snatched it from his hand and uncapped the lid, gulping the blood down.

"What hallucinations were you having?" He asked, and you froze, and he laughed.

"Private ones," you replied, placing the empty vial on the table.

"You're no fun," he pouted. "You have my blood now, get out," he said, returning to his canvas.

You didn't argue, leaving him to his painting, and returned to the main courtyard. You stood there, trying to figure out your next move. You knew what was waiting for you if you turned your humanity back on. Guilt and self-loathing, and the pain of knowing what you've done, and not being able to take it back.

You needed to leave the city before they forced you to turn it back on. There was nothing here for you anyway, not anymore.

"That's her," you heard someone say, and looked around.

"Are you sure?" Another asked.

"I'm sure," the first one confirmed.

They were staring right at you, but the fear in their eyes from earlier was gone, replaced with anger and resentment. You smiled and flashed forward, snapping the neck of the vampire who had identified you.

The rest charged, and you were surrounded by vampires, but it wasn't a challenge. You were far older and stronger than them. The courtyard turned into a slaughterhouse and the floor was covered in blood.

You were standing over a body, tearing the heart out when Marcel called your name. You dropped the heart and slowly turned, your lips curling up into a smirk.

Marcel grabbed your arm, trying to break your hold, but it was no use, you were stronger than him. You smiled, digging your fingers deeper, and he gasped.

"Marcellus," you greeted, smirking. Before he could react you slammed him against the wall. "I was hoping I would run into you," you said, pressing your hand into his chest. "We have some unfinished business,"

"I taught you better than that sweet Marcel," you taunted, twisting your wrist.

Marcel looked into your eyes, full of emotion, and you couldn't tell if it was sadness or pity.

"Stop this," he said, his grip tightening, and he tried to push you back. "I don't want to kill you," he said, his voice softer.

"And why not?" You asked, digging your fingers deeper, his face twisted in pain.

"Because..." he choked out, his heart slowing down, and his vision blurred, "I know you are still in there, my friend, and I'm not going to lose you,"

"I was so boring, so full of weakness," you told him, "this is who I was meant to be."

"No, you're not," he gasped, struggling to breathe, his legs buckling under the pressure. "You were the woman who helped raise me, would bake me apple pies whenever I had a bad day, would let me sleep in the same bed as her and Elijah when I had a nightmare, the woman who taught me love and compassion," he told you, and his grip tightened on your arm.

"And now she is hurting because she made a mistake, and that is something that I can forgive, because I know her heart is good."

You laughed coldly, his attempts to manipulate you not working, and you tightened your grip. You didn't want to hear anymore from him, his words were getting under your skin in a way that caused fear to trickle in.

"Goodbye, Marcel," you said, squeezing his heart, and it was too late for him to stop you, his strength was leaving him.

"Darling, put Marcellus down," said the last voice you wanted to hear. The one that could make all your pain return.

You felt him behind you, his hand on your waist. Your breath caught in your throat and the hairs on the back of your neck stood up.

"Let him go," Elijah said softly, his hand moving to your arm, keeping you from tearing Marcels heart out.

"Fuck off Elijah," you growled, struggling to get free, but his grip was like a vice.

"We can do this the hard way if you insist, I have no issue breaking your neck," he warned.

"You would never do that to your precious wife," you taunted, tugging in Elijah's grasp causing Marcel to cough up more blood.

Elijah let out a long sigh, then he moved faster than you could comprehend and everything went black.

You woke in a small windowless room, only a few candles illuminating the space. You were in a chair, your wrists bound by chains.

"You're awake," a voice came from the shadows, and Elijah stepped into the light.

"This is kinky, even for you Elijah," you teased.

He did not look amused, sadness and regret filled his eyes, and he had never looked so broken. He knelt in front of you, and rested his hand on yours.

"Turn it back on," he demanded, looking into your eyes.

"I can't," you lied.

"Yes, you can," he said, his grip tightening.

"No, I can't," you argued, "turning it off was the best decision I have ever made."

"What happened was an accident, it wasn't your fault," Elijah said, and you could see the pain in his eyes, "and turning off your emotions does not fix things, it only makes it worse."

You let him talk, he was so good at it, his deep sexy voice creating a perfect melody of bullshit. But you let him think he was getting through to you as you subtly slipped out of your restraints. Your loving husband was so trusting.

"We can work through this, I can help you," he continued, "I love you," he said, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand.

"I know," you replied, a small smile tugging at the corners of your mouth, and without a word you freed yourself from the chains and sped to the door.

Elijah was quicker, blocking your path. You let out a huff and tried to push past him, but he shoved you back and grabbed your shoulders.

You felt anger again, the only thing you could feel and you unleashed it on him. Clawing, scratching, striking him wherever you could. He took everything you threw at him, and eventually, he trapped you against the wall.

You let you a high pitched scream, it was feral and animalistic, and you thrashed in his grip, but his body pressed against yours, his hands on either side of your head, keeping you still.

"Stop," he said softly, it was barley a whisper.

Your body was pressed firmly against his, and you could feel his heart racing.

"Please," he begged, his eyes filling with tears.

He didn't look angry or annoyed, he looked sad, and it wasn't until then that you noticed his blood, covering your hands and clothes, and you realized how much you had hurt him.

"Just stop, please," he said, his voice cracking, and you knew the pain was too much.

You looked up at him and felt your anger give way into sadness. It was just a trickle, a soft misting of emotion, but it was there. You knew what was coming next.

You felt the weight of everything that had happened, all the hurt, and the pain, and the death, and it consumed you. The dam broke and you wanted, no, needed; to turn it off again.

Elijah could see the torment in your eyes, the light flickering behind them, fighting to return.

"Do you know why I fell in love with you? Why I married you?" He said softly, wiping the tears from your cheeks.

"You pity me, that's all," you said.

"Because," he began, taking your hand in his, "you have a heart," he said, placing your palm on his chest, "that's bigger than anything else, your kindness is endless. Even as a vampire you have always helped more than you've harmed, and that is a gift that not many have."

"Elijah," you whimpered, feeling the weight of his words and the force of your emotions bearing down on you.

"And I can't watch you destroy yourself any longer, because if you die, a part of me will die with you," he finished, leaning forward and pressing his forehead to yours. "You have to feel all the pain, it's worth it, because you also can experience the love," he said, gently cupping your face, "the love I have for you."

You couldn't help yourself, the flood gates had opened, and there was no closing them. You let out a small gasp, and the tears streamed down your cheeks, and he kissed them away.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," you sobbed, clinging to him.

"It's alright," he hushed, pulling away and brushing the tears from your cheeks.

You didn't respond, you couldn't. You felt a wave of nausea wash over you, and your knees buckled. Elijah caught you, and pulled you close, holding you tight.

"I got you, it's okay," he assured, lifting you off your feet.

He sat down in the chair and held you on his lap. You couldn't stop crying, your face buried in the crook of his neck, and he cradled you.

"I'm a monster," you said quietly, and he held you closer.

"Not to me, never to me," he said, his fingers combing through your hair, and he felt you tremble.

"I killed her," you whimpered, your body tensing and your eyes clenched shut. "An innocent,"

"Shhh," he hushed, and you clung to him.

"How could I," you said, pulling away from him.

"It wasn't your fault. It was an accident, you tried to save her," he reminded, stroking your cheek.

"What's the point of having the power to heal when I can't even save a child," you cried, the guilt and shame tearing you apart.

"She fell, no one could have stopped it, not even Niklaus," he said, his hand moving to the back of your neck, pulling your head forward.

His lips brushed over your forehead, and he planted a small kiss. "Let's go home," he whispered, and your eyes widened.

"I can't, everyone will hate me, I deserve to die," you protested, pushing him away.

"You've been my wife for five hundred years, but only now have you become a true Mikaelson," he chuckled, picking you up and carrying you to the door.

It would take time, penance, and a lot of groveling to repair the damage you had done, and there was a chance some of them may never forgive you, but you had a chance now, to make amends, and that was all you could hope for.

It had been a week since you turned your humanity back on, and it was still painful, and overwhelming.

Klaus came to you one day, while Elijah was out. He had his hands in his pockets and he leaned against the doorframe. He could see how much you were struggling, and a small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"I'm here to call in that favor," he announced, and your eyes narrowed.

"What do you want?" You asked, not bothering to look at him. "I'm really not in the mood, so say it fast and get out."

"You need to promise me that you will fulfill it, no matter how difficult," he warned, and you groaned, rolling your eyes.

"Just spit it out Klaus," you said, glaring at him.

"Forgive yourself."

♡♡ Tag-List ♡♡

♡ @gorgeouslydangerous ♡ @starkleila ♡ @lydia1369sworld ♡ @notleylaaa ♡ @vampiresluv ♡ @vamprium ♡ @myanmy ♡ @xflowerbombxo ♡ @maryvibess ♡ @always-and-forever-daydreaming ♡ @criminallminds ♡ @theesexystallion ♡ @rosemarypotion ♡ @spnaquakindgdom ♡ @amournoir ♡ @loving-and-dreaming ♡ @meeom ♡ @damienmorton ♡ @wickedmuse ♡ @sunkissedebony97 ♡ @idk00sblog ♡ @savannaounana ♡ @cs-please

[qqueenofhades]

what's been particularly vile to me is this group of white online leftists who insist that anyone who cares about more than this one issue for the election is a bad person, like, as if us black and brown people are making up reasons to be afraid and not.....believing the gop when they say they are coming for us. believing trump who has said previously that he does not bluff, that he will do the things he's said he will do (i hate what social media has gone to the word gaslighting but it feels like gaslighting. we lived through four years of trump. we saw the damage. stop treating us like we're being dramatic). it must be great to not have to worry about that i guess? "life won't change under trump" is such a telling admission because maybe theirs won't but mine will. and so many others' will.

and it is often again these (white) online leftists that love to call anyone who disagrees with them a white liberal (derogatory) because they know it would be racist (bad) to be this shitty and condescending to poc but they don't want to actually listen to anything black and brown voters are saying. it's easier to just call us white liberals and throw our opinions out, to ignore the work of black people for decades to gain the right to vote, to disregard the weight of telling them to not do that. it's genuinely appalling. they care so much about racism until it's time to engage with poc who have different opinions than their online echo chambers, then we're just stupid liberals with terrible opinions like..... wanting to live. not wanting four more years of trump. so sorry for that.

sorry for this vent in your inbox, i'm just so fucking tired of white people trying to rewrite history as if trump wasn't that bad. he was for my family and countless others and i am terrified for what's to come if he wins.

The thing about (the often-white) Online Leftists is that they have become just as much as a radicalized death cult as the diehard Trumpists. If you don't want to die for The Revolution and/or sacrifice your life, friends, family, the rest of the country, etc., then you're Insufficiently Pure and must be Purged. (Which I think is just complete BS, as none of them could actually handle sacrificing anything, but it's increasingly the only kind of performative rhetoric that is acceptable in leftist-identified discourse spaces.) This is functionally identical to "if you aren't willing to lay down your life for our Lord and Savior Donald Trump and the Great White Christian Nationalist Dictatorship, you're a liberal cuck," but with the names and justification changed. It doesn't change the underlying radicalization, nihilism, and insanity of the premise.

Another thing the Trumpists and the Online Leftists have in common is that they are busily rewriting just how bad Trump was in order to serve their Ideology. Ever since January 6, 2021, the Republicans have thrown everything they have at revising and whitewashing any suggestion that it was an "insurrection," and the Online Leftists have done the same, in an attempt to "prove" their insane point that Trump "would be better" than Biden. This is embodied in the recent ultimate-brainworm-nonsense maximalist-online take that "Biden has to lose so the rest of the world will see that the US rejects genocide!!!" That's right, the message that the rest of the world would take from Biden losing to Trump is that the US rejects genocide. Never mind if Trump literally wants to commit all the genocide possible and to install himself as a fascist theocratic dictator. In the deeply twisted minds of the Online Leftists, this is the only possible interpretation of Biden's loss, so they'll push for it as hard as they can! The Trumpists and the Online Leftists, at this point, are working pretty much in concert to damage Biden for similar insane reasons and get Trump elected. Etc etc., one Nazi and ten people at the same table is eleven Nazis.

Like. Sure. Four years ago, when Trump was president and people were dying by the thousands because he didn't want to wear a mask because it smeared his bronzer, just to name literally one of the terrible things he did every single day (and not even mentioning how much worse a second term would be) we were absolutely better off. Super-duper great. (Sarcasm.) Either that or "there is suffering and evil in the world and the only solution is to drastically increase the suffering and evil for everyone and to destroy what progress we have managed to make because It Does Not Fix Everything Now" is an absolute moral imperative, and either way, yeah. I'm calling bullshit.

[silovsmenot]

Family Skate | Artūrs Šilovs

Requested by anon…

i love ur writing sm.... what if i suggest an imagine where reader and Arturs go on a skate date, like at an ice rink or something, and he teaches reader how to skate. i think that would be really cute idk that man is soooo beautiful and i want to hold his hand

WARNINGS: As usual, this is just pure fluff. PAIRING: Artūrs Šilovs x f!reader. NOTES: I would sell my soul to hold his hand, ngl. I haven't proof read this, so hopefully no major issues. WORD COUNT: 1792

The closing of the season was bittersweet. The team had fought so hard, but with the 3-2 loss in game seven, the Canucks were eliminated from the playoffs. You’d sat and comforted Artūrs all night, barely sleeping as he sat silently and over-thought every decision and move he made in that game.

The loss was nowhere near his fault, but he blamed himself — as would many of the guys, if you’d have to guess. The wives and girlfriends group chat was quiet for the first time in weeks, only the occasional message coming through about how proud each of the partners was of the players. Messages that you showed to Arty, but nothing could draw him out of his slump.

The next day was not easy, nor the day after that. All of the guys were second-guessing themselves and speaking little of what happened. The press-conference came and went, Arty and the boys answering every question that came their way with the lingering dark clouds above their head. But there was a light on the horizon, something that you knew that Arty was looking forward to — whether he’d admit it or not.

It was no secret that you couldn’t skate. Sure, you could stand on skates and, with knees bent and arms clinging to the side, you could shuffle around the boards. But that wasn’t exactly what you’d call skating. Artūrs had long spoken about taking you to the rink when things were quiet, of teaching you to skate and you were excited for the day.

And with the season now over, and the ice days from being lifted, the Canucks organisation would put on their annual private family skate. It would be your first with the team, and while you’d met and become close with the majority of the other wives and girlfriends, it was a daunting idea.

You’d smiled from ear to ear the night before when Art had appeared in the living room of the small condo beside the Rogers Arena with a pair of skates in your size. He’d had them sharpened and made ready all without you knowing that evening — if he was honest, it was a good escape from the weight that still rested upon him. And the sight of your smile was enough to lift a large amount of the sadness.

Unsurprisingly you were the first pair to enter the rink that morning, the short commute from the condo to the family area taking you only about five minutes with skates in one hand and the Latvian goalie claiming the other.

Weaving through doors, he held open the Canucks changing room door for you and followed close behind. There, you paused for a moment — even now, it looked so empty. It came with a solemn feeling in your chest, but the names were still above the stalls and you spotted his  name quickly. Art sat you down first, kneeling at your feet as he worked the laces of the new skates.

“Does that feel okay?” 

You quickly nodded in response, hands clasping yours as you pulled onto your feet. You wobbled lightly, but could stand. He led you a few steps, then back and finally nodded in success.

“They suit you.” Art whispered as he leaned in close, planting a tender kiss upon your cheek which still bought a pink flush to your cheeks. He always told you that you looked beautiful, and you’d never tire of hearing it. 

You stayed standing as he sat to tie his own laces, shifting on your feet to get to grips with the feeling — turning to smile and wave as the door would open for the first flood of players and their partners. Teddy Blueger and Monique were the first to come in your direction, Teddy giving you a playful and light nudge with a hand ready to catch if you stumbled. Both Teddy and Artūrs were quick to grab hands and pull into hugs, exchanging fast words in their native language while Monique rolled her eyes lightly to you.

“And they’re off.” She teased in a hushed voice, pulling you with her to sit. The changing room would soon buzz with life, and with the bare stalls, it was a welcome change. It wasn’t right when it was quiet and bare.

Bodies soon began filing down the corridor toward the ice, the busy chatter filling the silence nicely as you and Artūrs would intertwine fingers once more. It felt strange to him now, walking down the tunnel to an empty ice rink. Of course, it was no different to training, but everything had ended so abruptly… It still hadn’t quite sunk in for him.

But whatever he was thinking, he hid it well from you — the smile still firmly glued to his lips as he watched your face light up.

“Just take it slow, Art.” You quietly said as you neared the ice, your boyfriend stepping onto the ice without hesitation or any kind of shift to his stance. This was just like walking to him, but to you? You weren’t so sure.

He offered a second hand, ready to guide and balance you as soon as you stepped out onto the ice. With a steadying breath, you took the step — perhaps a little eager as your skates attempted to slip from beneath you immediately, the hands of Artūrs rescuing you before you lost your blades.

The soft sound of his laughter followed instantly, and it was so contagious to you. Any sense of embarrassment was lost in his laugh, the first signs of actual joy on his face since game seven. You didn’t care that it was at your expense, you were just so relieved to see it. And the fluttering would instantly return to your stomach.

“Are you alright?” He spoke through calming laughter, pulling you close to him with a soft thud of bodies. There, he could hold you tight as he made slow skating motions backwards. He wouldn’t spare a glance over his shoulder for he was too enraptured by your gaze, slightly shaken up but still entirely captivated by him.

“I’m fine, just go slow.”

And he would from that moment. You’d had your near-tumble-experience, and that was enough for him. He held both of your hands, skating backwards as you struggled on forwards. He’d give you tips with every movement, bending your knees, not leaning forward, keeping your head up and so many more. You were struggling to keep a note of each tip, but you were comfortable within his hands — Artūrs wouldn’t let you fall.

With every lap of the large rink, you felt more comfortable. The Latvian goalie gave a little raise of his brow as you released one of his hands, to skate side-by-side with a little confidence. You were less step-skating now, and more gliding. He was certainly pulling you along, but you were trying and he was thriving on the sight of you trying your best with this.

“Keep your knees bent, push forward with your skate — yes, just like that.” He encouraged with each passing moment, grin growing exponentially as you were doing well. 

Artūrs was a pretty good teacher and an even better balancing point. He did a good job of distracting you from everyone else around, skating with ease or children stumbling and giggling. You were in your little skating world with him, the occasional squeeze of your hand as silent encouragement from him.

You were enjoying yourself. Even when he released your hand with a playful wiggle of his brows, skating backwards in front of you, just out of reach — the look of mischief clear upon his face.

“Artūrs, come back here. Please!” You cried out through the lingering laughter, the confidence leaving your motion instantly. Your gliding movements turned back to awkward step-skating, with hands outstretched for him which only served to have you leaning forward.

“Straighten up, y/n.” He calmly said, stopping himself before you. He was close enough to grab you if you fell, but far enough that you couldn’t just hold onto him. “You can do it.”

You weren’t sure if you could, but you concluded that there was no harm in trying — as long as he caught you. You didn’t want the bruises.

Another heavy, steadying breath parted your lips as you straightened up. Your hands at your sides as you took the first step, pushing your bladed foot forward as he’d taught you. You clenched your eyes shut, half expecting the tumble into his arms or the ice, but you drifted. So you took the second step, skating gliding forward — you took the next step, and the next, until you were skating alone.

Artūrs looked simply triumphant as he watched you, weaving backward without even lifting his skates. He didn’t even try to hide the pride on his face from you as you sheepishly laughed to yourself, hands balled as you stopped yourself from dancing (knowing you’d definitely go tumbling with that).

“You’re a natural, y/n. Want to join the team?” The voice of Jack Hughes shouted as he neared, shooting a cheeky wink in your direction and was gone as quickly as he appeared. You batted his hands away with a dramatic swatting of your hand, gaze playfully narrowing in a glare toward him which only served to make the captain laugh.

Almost as soon as you were getting truly confident with it, the session was over. The honking of the zamboni turning all heads, and the rink staff standing ready at the gate. Couples and families were quick to file off the ice, till it was only you and Art making your way toward the nearest gate. He waited on the other side, hand ready to support you as you’d make the first step off the ice.

In comparison to your step onto the ice, you did it with grace. There was no tumble this time. And as they often did, fingers tangled together at the first touch of his hand — the smiles immediately upon both faces.

“Did you enjoy that?” Art was quick to ask. Your head nodding swiftly and truthfully. “You did really well, I’m very proud of you.”

You simply melted to hear him say that. And you’d only melt further as he leaned down, pulling you into him as lips would collide. His free hand softly playing with the strands of your hair, you could feel how he smiled into the kiss and it was intoxicating.

“Come on, lovebirds — we’re going for a drink!” A voice shouted from down the corridor, abruptly breaking the kiss with a shared laugh. You raised a hand to acknowledge the shout, foreheads resting together as you simply revelled in the moment together.

[sliebman10]

Teacher AU

(Harry's loss of his parents is discussed but nothing is graphically described)

“Hello, I’m looking for Professor Lupin,” a voice said from the hallway outside Remus’s third grade classroom. 

“Can I help you?” Remus asked politely.

“I have an appointment regarding Harry Potter? I’m Sirius Black, his…godfather,” Sirius said, stumbling slightly over the relationship. It was all so new, after all. But he couldn’t think about that now.

Remus wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he’d arranged the conference with Harry’s guardian, but this tall man with long hair and a leather jacket was not it. He offered his hand and Mr. Black shook it and Remus couldn’t help the jolt of energy he felt when he touched this man’s hand.

He gestured for Mr. Black to sit. He’d prepared a speech about how Harry was acting out, and he’d referred him to the school counselor, but maybe he needed outside therapy…but he forgot all of that as he watched Mr. Black, who was now lounging comfortably in a small plastic chair next to Remus’s desk. 

“Is there someone who usually sits here?” Sirius asked, looking sideways at Remus, taking in his messy curls and cardigan with the sleeves pushed up to reveal his rather sinewy forearms

“That's not a permanent seat, no,” Remus answered. “A student might sit there if we are having a conference about their work…or if they need some space from their group to concentrate.”

“Does Harry sit here?” Sirius asked. The question had weight to it. Both of them could feel it. Remus knew what he was asking. Does Harry sit there because he can’t cope with being that close to his classmates?

“Sometimes,” Remus responded, truthfully.

Sirius nodded, like he was expecting it. “What should I do?” Sirius’s voice sounded small. Without thinking about it, Remus reached out and took his hand. It was cool, and his fingers were long and lean. Sirius curled them around Remus’s gratefully.

“Is he in therapy?”

“Yeah, But he hates going,” Sirius said, with a sad smile. Remus didn’t blame him. Not many nine year olds would want to talk about their feelings after losing their parents.

“What about you?”

“Me?” Sirius looked confused. “What do you mean?”

“Are you taking care of yourself?” Remus asked softly, wondering about his real motive for asking but then deciding he didn’t care. He didn’t want to see these two sink under their shared grief. 

“I mean…I guess? I thought we were here to talk about Harry?” Sirius said, a mischievous expression crossing his features but was gone so quickly Remus thought he imagined it.

“Right,” Remus said, embarrassed.

“But I’ll tell you what, Professor…we can chat about me over drinks tomorrow night.”

Word Count: 441

@wolfstarmicrofic

[mal3vol3nt]

Are people like these even really Katara stans?

https://www.tumblr.com/illycanary/744233626924875776/kataras-story-is-a-tragedy-and-its-not-an?source=share

"Katara continues to be the manager of everyone else's emotions while simultaneously punching down her own. The scales finally seem to tip when Zuko joins the group. With Zuko, we see someone working alongside Katara doing the same tasks she is doing around camp for the first time."

bruh what? the way zutaras will literally make shit up and try to pass it off as canon is laughable

first off, katara canonically is not made to do the work around camp alone. there is literally an entire episode after toph joins the group where katara gets onto her because she isn't carrying her weight like everyone else does. she utters these words in book 2 episode 8 "the chase":

Katara: So Toph, usually when setting up camp, we try to divide up the work.

Toph: [Shrugging casually.] Hey, don't worry about me. I'm good to go.

Katara: Well, actually what I'm trying to say is, [Holds arms out in gesture.] some of us might fetch water, while someone else might set up the fire pit, or put up the tent. [Momo flies over to her, dropping several berries he had collected into her hands.] Even Momo does his fair share.

this whole "katara is forced to do all the work around camp like the woman she is" argument that zks have been throwing around is so stupid because it is entirely untrue. i'm assuming this comes from the few times where we see katara cook food, which in the minds of zks is proof that sokka, aang, and even toph all bully katara into being their mommy who feeds them and that katara is in need of a big strong feminist man like a fire nation colonizer prince to rescue her. but what about all the times where we see aang and sokka fend for themselves or even provide the food? in the episode where we meet haru, sokka is the one who went hunting for the food. aang frequently has to find food for himself considering his diet is different from all his friends ("the headband" where aang says he'll find some lettuce in the garbage while his friends head into a meat shop). katara is not the only one who performs manual labor in the gaang i can promise you that

secondly, when are y'all going to let the "katara does all the emotional labor in the gaang" argument die. it is actually such a comically stupid argument considering it is birthed out of the instances where katara makes the conscious decision to console aang while he's in the avatar state. the first instance being where he stumbles upon the decayed body of his mentor and best friend, gyatso, thus proving that the fire nation was in fact there at the temples and did in fact kill his people. this sends aang into an emotionally triggered avatar state. do y'all realize how much he must have been hurting for the avatar state to be forced upon him? it is stated multiple times in the show that the avatar state is a defense mechanism, so imagine how badly he must have been in pain for his body and spirit to go into defense mode. katara made the decision to console him instead of running for her life because she is a kind-hearted person who can relate to the loss of a loved one. in front of her was another genocide survivor finding out that he is completely alone in this world without his people. she was being kind-hearted by telling him that he still has a family with her and sokka and that despite his loss he is not alone. i would not consider that emotional labor considering aang was quite literally experiencing one of the worst things a person can experience: finding out your entire race of people have been exterminated and you are the sole survivor

the second instance of katara reaching out to aang while he's in the avatar state is when he comes face to face with the sandbenders who stole appa. this is the one most zks latch onto because they think it's ridiculous that aang went into a rage over "the loss of a pet", forcing katara to act as his emotional support system once again. you guys lack so much empathy it is insane. appa is not just "a pet" to aang. in fact, he's not even a pet to him. appa is his best and longest friend, the one other being who was alive to see the air nation at its most beautiful and the only other being who possessed the ability to airbend. in the earth kingdom chronicles, aang says it himself that he doesn't feel like the last airbender with appa around. so appa is not just a friend but a literal connection to his lost people and culture. not only that, but appa is aang's animal guide. they have a spiritual connection, so i bet you anything that when appa was lost it felt like a piece of aang's very spirit had gone with him. aang lost so much the moment appa was taken from him that i'm genuinely surprised so many people use "the desert" episode as something against him. again, how much pain do you think he was in to have the avatar state forced upon him? a lot of people seem to forget that aang doesn't purposefully go into the avatar state, something he isn't even capable of doing considering he has yet to master it. he is literally being triggered into it in every single instance before the finale. katara reaching out to him isn't aang being manipulative by forcing her to take care of him. it is literally just her recognizing that her friend has been pushed beyond his limits and deciding to be there for him rather than run from him

aang tries doing this for her in "the southern raiders" when her pain and rage pushes her into behaving a certain way that is unlike her, but y'all brush this off as him not accepting the "real her" so you can keep living in this delusion that katara is only truly understood by zuko and all her friends and her literal brother just don't get her. "Zuko is the only person who never expects anything of her" WRONG. he literally asks her what is wrong with her when she isn't behaving friendly towards him like everyone else, expecting her to do so because all the others have already forgiven him. rewatch this episode again since it's y'alls favorite but try actually paying attention this time

"...and whose emotions she never has to manage because he's actually more emotionally stable and mature than she is by that point."

y'all do not actually like katara. because someone who actually likes katara would not say that a man who literally became physically sick after he did ONE (1) good thing is more emotionally stable and mature than her. zuko's redemption arc is not complete by the end of the story and i need yall to get that through your heads. by the end of the show, he is still racially unaware and insensitive (his comments toward aang) and in order for a former colonizer to be fully redeemed, he has to become aware of his racial insensitivity/prejudices and fix that. just because he switched sides and helped end the war doesn't mean his work is done. he still has a long way to go, and if you consider the comics canon then he actually MAJORLY backtracks on his path to redemption by asking his genocidal maniac of a father for political advice. give me a fucking break. never speak on katara if you genuinely think zuko has a leg up on her in terms of maturity of any sort. this is the same boy who decided to start spitting balls of fire at aang instead of using his big boy voice to communicate the urgency of them continuing to train. and to be fair, no one in the gaang is really all that mature, katara included, but zuko is 100% at the end of the line. the only reason y'all think he is super mature is because he had his worldview changed whereas all the other characters didn't have to go through that to become good people

"For reasons that are never explained or justified, Katara rewards the hero by giving into his romantic advances even though he has invalidated her emotions, violated her boundaries, lashed out at her for slights against him she never committed, idealized a false idol of her then browbeat her when she deviated from his narrative, and forced her to carry his emotions and put herself in danger when he willingly fails to control himself—even though he never apologizes, never learns his lesson, and never shows any inclination to do better." 

the utter delusion

katara does not just "give in" to aang's advances. she returns them herself and we see that throughout the show. aang is the only one she is physically affectionate with (cheek kisses, hand stroking his cheek, holding him against herself, etc.) and the only one who she doesn't have a teasing banter with. he is the only character, other than jet, who makes her blush multiple times. him leaving in "the awakening" left her so upset that the trauma of her dad leaving was of equal levels of hurt. she got jealous of him dancing with another girl in "the headband" which would only make sense if she had feelings for him. zutaras have convinced their selves that katara never had any actual feelings for aang and that is just canonically untrue

the whole "aang sexually assaulted katara" argument needs to die. in atla/tlok, spontaneous kisses are not meant to depict sexual violence/violations. now this is 100% the mistake of the writers for not choosing to go about creating romantic drama in a way that is healthier and more acceptable in the real world, but it is clear that in these universes those kisses are not meant to be actual violations of the characters' autonomy. especially considering that many of the spontaneous kisses we get between characters are well-received with only the few being used to spike drama. this is much the same with aang and katara. aang kissing her before the invasion was spontaneous but well-received as she kissed him back and blushed. the kiss during the play intermission was not well-received and was a mistake on his part. the atla/tlok writers should not have used these kisses to create romantic drama/tension in the shows and should have portrayed better communication between couples to firmly establish consent. now after the ember island play, aang and katara's relationship is put on the backburner as they must focus on ending the war, and when their relationship is picked back up once the war is over it is katara who initiates contact. she follows him outside, hugs him, and then leans in to kiss him. she takes the lead here and he follows her cues

i don't know what this person means when they say aang lashes out at her for slights she never committed because aang rarely ever lashes out at any of his friends. the one instance that immediately comes to mind is, of course, "the desert" where everyone becomes his opp lmao. but i have to ask the question, why are characters like zuko allowed to lash out when they're emotionally suffering but aang isn't? zuko lashes out at iroh so many times during season 3 alone that i'm surprised zuko stans even feel comfortable holding other characters' moments of aggression against them. now if this person is maybe referring to "the southern raiders" where aang tries to keep katara from murdering someone, then i'm still confused. because aang doesn't ever get angry with her during that episode. he isn't happy, obviously, but he's never angry with her nor does he talk down at her or accuse her of committing any kind of act that isn't truthful to the situation. at most, he tells her that she sounds like jet which isn't entirely wrong. jet's trauma turned into rage that overwhelmed his character and became the driving force of his behavior. it led to him not caring if people died, as long as he was able to hurt the people who hurt him in the process. and while the comparison isn't perfect and hearing it didn't help katara, it isn't entirely unsupported. again, not sure what op was getting at here but i'll take a wild guess and assume it's not even based on canon in the first place

aang never idealizes her as a false idol and then browbeats her when she strays from his idea of her. that's just stupid. now i know this is referring to "the southern raiders". aang loves katara's fire. he cheers for her when she fights pakku. he calls her a hero when he finds out she's been lying to help the village in "the painted lady". he even jumps at the opportunity to help her and has the biggest smile on his face while doing so. he absolutely does not think katara is this perfect saint who isn't capable of destruction. if anything, he knows katara has a fire within her and he loves it when it comes out because it usually ends with her helping others in need and changing their environment for the better. the only thing is, he wants to see this fierceness be expressed in healthy ways because he cares about her. when katara wants to murder yon rha, she's in a blind rage. her emotions are haywire and all she can focus on is what she believes will alleviate her of this pain and guilt she feels surrounding her mother's death. it is much similar to what aang went through in "the desert" when he had the chance to get back at the sandbenders. but katara reached out to him, allowing him to let his anger out--to express himself--before calming down. and she didn't do this because she thought aang's rage was wrong but because she knows aang. he'd be so angry with himself if he came out of his rage and saw what he did. "the southern raiders" was katara's "the desert". she had the opportunity to confront yon rha but wanted to kill him. aang (and sokka!!! her literal brother!! the person who has known her her whole life!! and can share a piece of the actual tragedy she's mourning!!!!) tries talking her down from killing the man because he knows she'll regret it when she comes out of her rage. aang isn't against her rage, in fact he tells her to let her anger out. he just doesn't want her to get her hands bloody at 14-years-old. i don't know why this is so controversial, but not wanting your friend to commit murder in cold blood shouldn't make you the devil reincarnated

"and forced her to carry his emotions and put herself in danger when he willingly fails to control himself" you zutaras lack so much empathy it's actually pathetic to witness. "willingly"?? it is stated over and over again how aang does NOT have control of the avatar state and it is a DEFENSE MECHANISM. it is his instinct as the avatar. he can't suppress it nor get out of it until he masters control. katara did not have to reach out to him during those moments. she could have ran away like sokka and toph did. she chose not to though because even when he's in the avatar state she sees him as a human 12-year-old who has literally gone through so much tragedy, has pushed down so much, that it all comes to a head when confronted with his pain full on. she reaches out to him because she cares and wants to keep him from making a mistake. it is not her responsibility to do that, and aang never forces that on her. if anything, it is being forced on him considering he literally cannot control the power of the avatar state yet

and he DOES learn. his mistakes are always addressed by him beating himself up for them, repressing his emotions, and accepting the consequences. in "bato of the water tribe", aang owns up to his mistake and then accepts the consequences. he doesn't try begging sokka and katara for forgiveness or try making them stay. after "the desert", aang feels so bad about his blow up that he literally represses his emotions. he becomes a walking blank slate because he doesn't want to hurt anyone else. in "the serpent's pass", he realizes that it's important for him to still hold onto hope and to not suppress everything he feels. and he literally TALKS TO KATARA AND ADMITS HE WAS WRONG. he tells her that his pain got in the way of his ability to function, but that he has been reminded of the importance of letting yourself have hope and to love. in "the ember island players" he berates himself by saying he was so stupid and banging his head on the banister. he literally always owns up to a mistake and internalizes it by suppressing his actual feelings, accepting the consequences, and berating himself. again, why are characters like zuko allowed to make mistakes, take episodes upon seasons long to realize those mistakes, and then make up for them in the form of "i'm sorry i colonized a part of the world and called you a disgraceful old man" apologies but aang isn't?

"Throughout the comics, Katara makes herself smaller and smaller and forfeits all rights to personal actualization and satisfaction in her relationship. She punches her feelings down when her partner neglects her and cries alone as he shows more affection and concern for literally every other girl’s feelings than hers."

literally huh? are they referring to aang meeting his fanclub and the beginnings of the air acolytes? cause aang doesn't neglect her—is she a puppy or a human girl?

also, katara never suffers in silence and allows aang to do as he pleases even in the shitty comics. she vocalizes herself when she disagrees with him on the harmony movement thing and is the one who gets him to start thinking differently. she doesn't make herself smaller to allow him to be the big and strong man. you zutaras are just stupid as all fuck and want her to become a lesser character so you feel justified in saying that kataang ruined her character

"She becomes cowed by his outbursts and threats of violence. Instead of rising with the moon or resting in the warmth of the sun, she learns to stay in his shadow."

literally pulling shit out your ass. when does aang ever get violent? this is aang we are talking about. the pacifist monk? also, katara is the one who encourages him to accept zuko's promise of killing him if he becomes like ozai. so yeah, sure buddy, aang is the one with the knack for vengeance and katara is his little abused puppy forced to follow his orders or else she won't get her scooby snacks

"She gives up her silly childish dreams of rebuilding her own dying culture’s traditions and advocating for other oppressed groups so that she can fulfill his wishes to rebuild his culture instead—by being his babymaker."

in the comics she helps fight and suppress the budding civil war between the north and southern water tribes. it is canon that she spent a lot of her time going from the water tribes to areas in the earth kingdom that needed her help after the war. her and aang didn't go everywhere together despite their relationship. also, calling her a babymaker is misogynistic. she had 3 children and there is literally nothing to suggest that she did that unwillingly. in fact, we know that katara was excited to have children considering she pestered aunt wu with question after question about who she was gonna marry and how many kids/grandkids she was gonna have. there is nothing to suggest that she never wanted to be a mom. also, becoming a mom doesn't wipe a woman clean of her accomplishments nor does it prohibit her from accumulating more of them. her life did not end when she became a mother and i need y'all to never speak on her if this is your attitude towards motherhood. this girlboss feminism that you zutara stans have is so fucking ridiculous. introduce yourself to intersectionality

"Katara gave up everything she cared about and everything she fought to become for the whims of a man-child who never saw her as a person, only a possession."

again, making shit up and insulting aang for no reason. just because aang, at 12-years-old, behaved childishly doesn't mean that aang, as a grown man, will behave the same exact way. and if you can't see the huge jump in maturity he had from the beginning of the show to the end, then that's you being purposefully obtuse. also, no canon proof that aang ever saw her as a possession considering he fell in love with all aspects of her character and was willing to go to extraordinary lengths to protect her and help her thrive ("why would i choose cosmic energy over katara" and "you're like a secret hero" and the biggest fucking smile a person has ever worn while committing ecoterrorism with his best friend)

"The story’s theme was destiny, remember? But this story’s target audience was little boys. Zuko gets to determine his own destiny as long as he works hard and earns it. Aang gets his destiny no matter what he does or doesn’t do to earn it. And Katara cannot change the destiny she was assigned by gender at birth, no matter how hard she fights for it or how many times over she earns it."

are we forgetting that katara only became a waterbending master, her literal dream, because of HER efforts? pakku turned her away because of her gender but she didn't take that. she made that man fight her. she wasn't going to just sit there and let someone refuse her because she's a girl, and she didn't! she became one of his students and through her OWN hard work became a master. she shaped her future as a waterbending master because she worked hard to ensure it was possible for her. and her talent at waterbending opened her up to new possibilities like healing and bloodbending. her experience with bloodbending was forced upon her and she addressed that by later outlawing bloodbending. she outlawed it. yakone literally namedrops her. but you zutara dumbasses will sit there with your thumb up your ass blabbing about how she was never involved in politics and just became a barefoot housewife for her abusive husband who'd get home and make her give him another baby

"I will never get over it. Because I am Katara. And so are my friends, sisters, daughters, and nieces. But I am not content to live in Bryke's world."

so you admit it? katara is your self insert? you project onto katara and think that because you had a crush on the colonizer that katara should too?

also the white feminism here is insane. again, introduce yourself to intersectionality sometime. it'll radicalize you

"I will never turn my back on people who need me. Including me."

how you felt after saying that

[hughiecampbelle]

Nausea (Billy Butcher Oneshot)

Character/s: Butcher

Word Count: 1,349

A/N: This is a re-upload bc the first time I posted it I got self-conscious and deleted it lol. It's just not my best writing, but I feel like I have to get it out. Just me writing about my issues again! I still have no idea what's going on, but all the same diagnoses come back from the first time (uc/crohn's/celiac/gastroparesis) and it's so infuriating. My doctors don't know what's wrong and my family, who I love, just think it's nerves. I don't think my very graphic symptoms are nerves 😅 I have so many remedies by my bed, it looks crazy. I haven't slept well in a few days bc of the pain, but I'm also so afraid of not being believed again, it's a vicious loop. Okay I swear I'm done complaining! Thank you for putting up with me!!! 💜💜💜💜💜💜

He knows when it’s happening. There is no great show or performance. There is no crying or whimpering. No one else would even notice, but he knows the signs. Albeit too late, but he does. You’re quieter, withdrawn, hand over mouth, hoping this will stop the nausea. Deep, even breaths: breathing through it. When that is not enough, when that stops working, you slip quietly out of the room and into the bathroom. He tries not to notice how long you’re gone. Mere minutes. It feels so much longer. Someone snatches his attention from you and suddenly, you’re back. You reappear as if you were never gone. You offer a smile, a joke or two, a sense of normalcy, but beneath you’re stomach is churning, clenching, radiating pain through your middle. You only let him tell a few people, who you’re sure told everyone else. Still, none react besides him. He doesn’t say anything, to do so would draw attention. That’s the last thing you want. Instead, he moves towards you, casually, standing beside you. Close. You can feel his jacket on your arm. Worn and scratchy. Familiar. He looks at you and you offer him a small, insignificant nod. That’s as far as he’ll get to asking if you’re okay. That’s as far as you’ll let him when you’re working. 

Its been happening on and off for years. Off, for a long time. You thought it was over. Gone. Dead. It’s come back, though, an uninvited guest. This sudden pain, this distress, this mystery no one is curious enough to solve. When they looked, they found nothing. Said you were fine. You were embarrassed, hurt, questioning if it was all in your head. Eventually, you moved on. Things got better. You believed them. And now it’s back. A fullness, nausea, pain, weight loss. You can’t be in the apartment while he’s cooking. The smell repulses you. The taste, too. You can’t eat, afraid you’ll be sick. Again. He urges you, please, something more than your morning coffee, but you cannot handle it. Everything you try you end up spitting out: everything is gluey, everything is profoundly unappetizing. Hiding in the bathroom away from the scent or leaving altogether, it’s put a rift between you. Meals that were safe turned poisonous. Entire food groups cut off unwillingly. It’s been days. Your stomach growls, but that is a trick. You try to ignore it, hide it, knowing what he will insist. He watches you. You can feel it. You don’t say anything. It’s easier this way, not to fight, not to argue. This is a hill you will not die on. He does what he can, pouring your coffee, grateful you at least have that. So far, it doesn’t cause problems and it keeps you full. That’s all you can ask for. 

He wants you to get looked at, checked out. You refuse. You were so sick, so scared, and they told you nothing was wrong. You were constantly doubting if this was even real, then and now. If they didn’t find anything, if they didn’t have the answers, you’re not sure what you’ll do. You can’t be doubted again. You can’t be looked at and deemed dramatic. You knew the pain was real. Why did you have to prove it? Why did you have to show them when they refused to believe you? So, you keep it to yourself, far from friends and family. They congratulated the weight you lost. Said you looked good. Remind them you were petrified to eat. You were smaller and that’s what mattered. It’s worse at night. Lying beside him, you push from him, untangling his arms from around you. A trash bin by your head, waiting for it to pass. If things are bad, really bad, you’ll lock yourself in, on the floor, praying for it to go away. He wakes up to an empty bed night after night. The pain wakes you up. You have nausea patches, and losanges, and a heating pad he is constantly rewarming. If you lay very still, perhaps you can trick it. Play dead. Hours you’ll spend curled in a ball, wondering what it was that you ate that set it off, that made it so angry. Was it the time? The combination? You were down to drinks with minerals and vitamins, hydrating agents to keep you going. Baby food. Liquid diet. You missed food. You missed having an appetite. You missed cooking. But it wasn’t worth it afterwards. Immediately or hours, the nausea, the pain, the discomfort invites itself back into your life. 

Butcher isn't a natural worrier. There isn't a lot that scares him. But this? This leaves him petrified. There is something wrong and no one will listen. You try to shrug it off. It was so much worse all those years ago. It was excruciating. This, if anything, is a walk in the park in comparison. Uncomfortable sure, but that's all. It's not Vought or Homelander, that he can protect you from. That he can stop. Your body working against itself? That he can do nothing about. It isn't fair. It isn't right. And yet, there is nothing to be done. The tests they did were inconclusive. Why risk it again? Why waste your time? You assure him soon it will be gone, a few days, maybe a few weeks. Last time it was six months. You swallow that time like a prison sentence. Six months. You could do it again, if you had to. You could manage. Maybe by then they’d take you seriously. He wanted to yell and scream, at them. Order them around, insist they help, but would that even help? More tests, more waiting. By the time it would be your turn, it would have gone into remission. Loved ones would hypothesize, becoming doctors themselves. Their favorite diagnosis? Nerves. You weren’t anxious, or nervous, or worried. You were wasting away. You were spending your nights trying not to throw up and your days doing anything to prevent discomfort. Even certain clothes, too close, too constricting, were off the table. You couldn’t stand the way they looked at you, everyone but Butcher, wondering if it was physical or mental. He heard you, he saw you, he knew this was all too real. Why couldn’t others? 

You're more tired, exhausted as soon as the sun starts setting. You lose a lot of hours at night, in the early mornings, praying to anyone who will listen that you’ll wake up tomorrow and it will be gone. That you will be fine again. That it really was all in your head. Falling asleep in the car. He tries to avoid bumps in the roads, potholes, not wanting to wake you. Your attention straining: it's always there, in the back of your mind, at the back of your throat. It sits deep in the pit of your stomach and it mocks you. When you finally do complain, just a little, when it's too much, he knows it's really getting bad. He's helpless all over again. The people he's loved, the people he's lost, he can't risk it. Not again. Not with you. There’s little can do, though. There’s little anyone can do. This is not someone he can kill, this is not an organization he can take down. This is chronic, spontaneous, vengeful. It has no rhyme or reason. You let the mask slip every so often. You’re scared. Scared of what they’ll find, scared of what they won’t. He reassures you, whatever it is, you’ll figure it out together. You trust him, you love him, but you can’t do that to him. You can’t be a burden. You body is your own to take care of. So, you throw up in the bathroom, and wear your patches, and make your jokes. You tell him it’s a three, always a three, on a scale from one to ten. You can’t let him worry, he’s got enough on his plate. Yours will remain empty until, hopefully soon, it goes away just as it has appeared.

[mcsm-confessions]

Another anon mentioned having a hard time seeing how the Jesse twins AU would work, and to answer the question, without a serious overhaul of the storyline, it wouldn't work in any way that would result in a meaningful, non-redundant story.

In stories with dual protagonists, even siblings, each protagonist each serves a different purpose in the narrative, and both represent different aspects of the story's theme. The issue with most twin AUs is that they don't really consider this, and have an extra Jesse tacked onto a preexisting narrative role that's already accomplished by one person. The other Jesse's just... there.

This causes more issues, namely the fact that some choices can only be filled by one of them. Who carries the amulet that causes the Witherstorm to follow the group? Who becomes the leader of the Order of the Stone? Who puts on the gauntlet, and who ultimately wields the Golden Gauntlet to defeat Romeo? You then have to pick and choose which Jesse does which, leading to an uneven distribution in character moments and growth.

And for something less often mentioned, having to make certain choices is what makes the games' decisions feel like they actually matter, to an extent. Sacrificing Ellegaard or Magnus. Unchipping Lukas or Petra. The admin's choice of champion, and staying in Beacontown or going with Petra. These decisions simply don't carry as much weight if you can have your cake and eat it too.

In order to actually make the twin AU work in anything other than funny vibes haha land, you need to put in the legwork to write a believable narrative that gives each Jesse a different role to play in the story, resolving the issue of trying to fit two characters into a role meant for one.

Conflict is the engine of story, and the twin AU gives you an option to do it. Maybe f!Jesse wants to explore the world and find out what her passion is, while m!Jesse's more content with being with his friends and staying in town. What situations could you engineer to really push those differing beliefs into strong conflict with one another, and explore the chain of cause-and-effect that arise from how each Jesse deals with problems differently?

If the central thematic question of the story is 'Is it worth sacrificing your humanity to achieve your goals?', maybe over the course of the story f!Jesse grows to embody the 'yes' to that question, while m!Jesse is the opposite (emphasis on how relationships are more important than goals). You can then take other characters in the story to show them as different aspects to the side of the theme each Jesse represents.

As an example: m!Jesse's more laidback nature syncs up with Axel, or f!Jesse's ambition more closely aligns with Olivia's desire for recognition. If, for example, f!Jesse goes to Redstonia with Olivia, and end up sacrificing Ellegaard to stop the Witherstorm, this might reinforces the belief for them that, partly because this loss is more personal, Ivor should be shown no mercy after he shows up at the cave, repentant. M!Jesse, who went with Axel to Boom Town instead, hasn't felt that more personal loss and might disagree with her decision, and is more willing to forgive Ivor.

These are by no means good examples, but you get the point. You can apply the same kind of thing for Lukas and Petra. There are some interesting ramifications you can explore for the Admin arc, but I'll leave that to your imaginations.

~~~

[live-laugh-legolas]

Hi! Could you write something set during the first night after the fellowship left Lothlorien in which Gimli is still dealing with the entire Moria situation and sneaks off into the woods to basically cry a binch while the rest of the fellowship is sleeping but Legolas joins him and cue hugs and crying, the more the better (maybe they sleep while hugging). It can be romantic, but I would prefer platonic. Thanks.

This is so sweet and I’m such a sucker for hurt/comfort so this feels like a good prompt to try writing my first one shot. I’m going to put extra emphasis on the fact that I’ve never written a one shot before so set reasonable expectations lol. I also have no idea what to title this so if there is any better suggestions lmk :)

The Weight of Moria

(Gimli x Legolas)

They have only been on the river for one day now. Although the group feels slightly rejuvenated from their time in Lothlorien, the weight of losing Gandalf and having to face the rest of this journey without his guidance is still heavy. Frankly there hadn’t been much time to really work through everything they’ve seen. There is not time to dwell on the past with orcs on your tail; when one misstep could very well cost them the quest, and in turn, their world. So when they set up camp for the night it is very quiet. It’s their first night in the wild without their wizard. Even Pippin who is usually full of energy cannot find it in him to speak.

They have all experienced a loss together, it is a shared grief. However Gimli can’t help but find his mind wandering to the Mines he had been so excited to enter.

He had never been into the famed mine before but he knew he would be welcomed warmly. He thought he could share a bit of dwarvish culture to his companions as they had gotten to experience that of the elves. And to be honest he was homesick. Despite their journey having just begun, it has been hard and he longs for the comforts of home.

Even after first entering Moria to find the mine seemingly deserted he would not abandon hope that his kin would be further in the mines. But you know the story, this was not the case. The dwarves of Moria were long gone from this world. In the mines he went through denial and anger. He bargained in Lothlorien, during so he even fooled himself into thinking he was alright.

But now sitting around a fire with his new friends he finds the camaraderie suffocating. He looks at the group and cannot muster any hope. He sees the faces of his kin scared and trapped, awaiting death. Because that’s what they are doing aren’t they? This quest is impossible at best.

He finds he cannot breathe. His chest will not expand and he feels an unfamiliar shake in his hands. He gets up and silently excuses himself before speeding off into the dark forest. Had he been thinking logically he would not have gone so far, but he isn’t. He eventually collapses on the ground gasping for breath, breath that keeps being stolen from him by choked sobs. He cannot feel anything more than the burden of his grief, never has he felt so depressed and without hope.

He does not know how long he stayed there before his spiraling is interrupted by a gentle hand on his shoulder but he cannot find it in him to look up. He vaguely registers a voice speaking to him and a man sitting down next to him. As proud as dwarves are, they are not ones to hide their emotions, so he doesn’t make much of an attempt to stop them. But the quiet presence remains next to him.

As he starts to calm he looks over slightly to see the pants of the only elf in their group; go figure

“Can’t a dwarf cry in peace?”

“Not if he wanders so far from camp” Legolas says in a gentle jest, mirroring the tone Gimli took with him.

Gimli sighs and slumps back over slightly “my mind was elsewhere”

Despite their differences and their strained relationship Legolas does care about the dwarf even if he isn’t sure he wants to admit it. He rests his arm over the shoulder of the dwarf in a half hug, allowing space should Gimli wish to pull away, but when he doesn’t, he allows his grip to tighten.

“You needn’t dwell in your sorrow alone. I cannot fully understand your pain, but I do know the weight of loss and that it is much easier to bare if the weight is shared”

Gimli looks up at Legolas, finding nothing but sincerity and compassion in his eyes, “thank you”

They stay there a little longer as Gimli collects himself, finding a quiet solace with each other’s company that they would never have predicted could exist. But they can’t stay forever so Legolas stands and offers Gimli his hand.

“Come, let us return to the others”

Gimli lets himself be pulled up and nods in gratitude to the elf. As they walk back to camp Gimli finds himself feeling comforted, finding acceptance in the losses and a renewed feeling of hope for their journey. Maybe this elf isn’t the worst…just maybe.

————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Well that’s the first one shot I’ve ever written and idk how I feel about it lol. One thing I’ve learned is I don’t know how to write dialogue, like at all.

I’d really appreciate some feedback as I personally feel like I may have drawn out the beginning and rushed the actual interactions at the end which feel kinda sloppy to me but maybe I’m overthinking idk.

I hope this fulfills the request enough, ik I didn’t include much hugging or comfort so I apologize if it’s not what you wanted, but I personally just couldn’t imagine much more at this point in their friendship without it feeling a bit ooc. There is nothing wrong with ooc, but I personally prefer to avoid it as much as I can to give myself a little structure :)

[pumpumdemsugah]

That Nikocado Avocado guy 'pretending' to be insane and batch recording his videos so he could spend the next 2 years losing weight isn't impressive it's fucking mental

How is that not weird concerning behaviour? He still did it, and I don't believe he planned this out as much as he was pretending to. I think he eventually figured out ohh I can do many of these in a day and save so much money that he didn't have to work for 2 years and focus on weight loss.

I used to watch his videos when he was a raw vegan in 2016 and when I saw him very obviously get addicted to being controversial because he got views by first speaking out against being raw vegan ( and those videos were fine and were genuine ), then veganism in general because he said its not healthy or sustainable and then some videos after only made junk food mukbangs that got bigger, I knew he's an attention seeker I need to ignore.

He does not need to be congratulated for humiliating himself online for years. He wasn't acting on a set or had a research group. This isn't what a social experiment is.

It's far too easy to be financially rewarded online as long as you're willing to completely and utterly humiliate yourself. There's a level of shamelessness needed to become and stay popular online, but this is beyond

[nobody-nexus]

TADC Incorrect Quotes

(With have Ragatha/Pomni, Jax/Zooble if you squint, and maybe like ONE Jax/Bubble for shits and giggles)

Ragatha: As your best friend— Gangle: Zooble's my best friend? Ragatha, holding a knife: As your best friend—

====

Ragatha: Pomni is at that very special age where an adult only has one thing on their mind Caine: Boys? Pomni: Homicide

====

Pomni: You know what? When I join this friend group, I thought you guys would be dealing with my bullshit Caine, Zooble and Kinger continue screaming about mold water Pomni: Not the other way around! Bubble: I dunno, sounds like you need to drink the mold water :)

====

Gangle: How do Zooble and Jax usually get out of these messes? Ragatha: They don't. They just make a bigger mess that cancels the first one out

====

Ragatha: Just be careful, Pomni! Pomni, heading out the door: I'm always careful, Ragatha! Pomni: It's everything around me that's careless

====

Caine: I truly believe that water can solve all your problems! Gangle: Weight loss? Drink water Ragatha: Clear skin? Drink water Jax: Want to get rid of someone? Drown them.

====

Zooble: Hold on, I can explain Caine: Really? Can you now? Zooble: I can if you give me a minute to think of a convincing lie

====

Caine: You have to apologize to them Jax Jax: Fine! But I must warn you that this might make me a better, nicer person and that is NOT the person you fell in love with!

====

Gangle: I came out here to have a good time and I'm honestly feeling so attacked right now

====

Ragatha: Do you guys ever have a civilized conversation that doesn't require insulting each other every time you get a chance? Zooble: No. Jax: No. Ragatha: Didn't think so

====

Pomni: Hostage or not, sometimes it’s nice being held Ragatha: Are you okay

====

Zooble: When I get Doordash I order 20 Cheeseburgers at a time and heat them up throughout the week so that I don’t have to pay the delivery fee multiple times Ragatha: I hope you understand how food poisoning works Zooble: I hope food poisoning understands how I work. I never met a burger I couldn’t eat

====

Ragatha: Wake me up- Pomni: Before you go go Gangle: When September ends Caine: WAKE ME UP INSIDE

====

Ragatha, smugly, after security arrives to escort Jax and Pomni out: So, do you wanna walk out of here or do you wanna be carried out? Jax, in defeat: Let’s go Pomni: Wait. Jax: What? Pomni: I’d kinda like to be carried out...

====

Gangle: We have fun, don’t we, Pomni? Pomni: I have never been more stressed out in my entire life

====

Kinger: Hey Ragatha? Ragatha: Yeah? Kinger: What's your favorite color of the alphabet? True or false? Ragatha: Ragatha: ...What.

====

Jax: How high are you? Pomni: Mm, I don’t know how to say it in feet. Zooble: No, he's asking what drugs are you on Pomni: Oh, antidepressants, why?

====

Caine: It is 6:09 . Caine: I am wondering why I’m still alive. Caine: Send Wendy’s. Pomni: The whole restaurant?!

====

Zooble: I’m the smartest person in this group.... Jax: Really? Then why is your hand stuck in a vending machine? Zooble: I paid for my Mars Bar, I’m getting my Mars Bar.

====

Pomni: Which one of you was going to tell me that tea tastes different if you put it in hot water?? Jax: Y- you were putting it in cold water?? Zooble: Pomni. Answer the question, Pomni. Pomni: Yeah??? I thought people just put it in hot water to speed up the tea-ification process. didn't realize there was an actual reason. Pomni: Plus, you think I have the patience to boil water? Jax: You don't have the patience to microwave water for 3 minutes?? Zooble: Why are you putting it in the microwave to boil it? Jax: Do you think I have the patience to boil water on the stove? Zooble: It takes less than a minute. Jax: Is your stovetop powered by the f#%king sun??? Zooble: How long does it take you to boil a cup of water on the stove? Jax: Like seven minutes?? Gangle: Just stick the mug on top of the stove on medium heat and it boils in like 2 minutes... less than that if you use a saucepan! Zooble: Why are you putting the whole mug on the stove?? On medium heat?? Gangle? Your stove is enchanted! Pomni: Every single person here is a f#%king lunatic. Ragatha: Do none of you own a f#%king kettle?

====

Gangle: Guess what I'm about to get! Jax: On my nerves.

====

Zooble: Jax has discovered "deez nuts" jokes and it's all they say now. Everything is deez nuts. They simply can't stop. Zooble: I asked Jax where he learned that joke. He made me promise him wouldn't get in trouble if he told me. I agreed. Zooble: So, he leans in and whispers, "deez nuts."

====

Pomni: HELP! I TOLD RAGATHA I'D COOK DINNER TONIGHT BUT I CAN'T COOK! Jax, pouring milk directly into the cereal bag: And you thought I could help?

====

Jax: It’s impossible to make a sentence without using the letter A. Ragatha: Despite your thinking, it is quite possible, yet difficult, to form one without the specific letter. Here’s one more to further disprove your theory Pomni: F$%k you.

====

Zooble: New challenge! Don't say stupid sh!t for 24 hours!

====

Pomni: Coca Cola is a health potion, Pepsi is a mana potion Ragatha, amused: What’s grape soda? Pomni: It’s f#%king purple baby!!!

====

Zooble: It doesn’t have a bone Jax: Then why is it called a boner?

====

Pomni: Can I get a waffle? Caine and Bubble: *fighting and yelling at each other* Pomni: Can I p l e a s e get a waffle?

====

Jax: I committed all 7 deadly sins in 30 minutes Zooble: Wow, I've gotta hear this Jax: I was angry and envious of my neighbor, so I lazily seduced his wife and ate all his groceries and didn't share Ragatha: You forgot pride Jax: No, I'm pretty proud of this

====

Ragatha, trying to be cute: WOW, Pomni, you want to hold my hand before marriage? How AWFULLY lewd of you. Pomni, confused: We literally slept together yesterday? Ragatha: Eh- sweetie no that's not-

====

Caine: Can we talk about that mass email you sent? Pomni: Why? It was important Caine: All it says is, "I'm back on my sh!t". Jax, shrugging: The people need to know

====

Jax: We’re getting married, bitches! Bubble: And we're about to make it everybody else's problem

[frodothefair]

Nisilë vs. protracted SSRI withdrawal, an update.

Welp, here's a health update. As some of you may know, in early 2023 I tried an anxiety medication that I've taken before, had a bad reaction that was initially not recognized as such, and then when I started to get off of it, I had a different bad reaction, which turned into so-called protracted withdrawal. (For those interested in the topic, there's a website known as Surviving Antidepressants, a support group for people in my situation). Apparently, now I have to go off this medication over the course of several years, and I hardly wanted to be on it in the first place.

Anyway, things are a lot better this year than they were last year. The bottom line is that with this condition, things do get better, it just takes an inordinately long time. This time a year ago, if I had a good day it was a miracle. A lot of the time, I felt like I was having a low-grade panic attack, or like I had food poisoning, or like I was hungover. Whether or not I got sleep on a given night was a game of Russian Roulette.

This summer, most days are good, but I still get symptoms every few weeks, or when I encounter certain triggers. One trigger was a simple cold. Another was particularly spicy food. So I've cut out anything that could stress the nervous system: alcohol, coffee, spices. I'm fanatic about wearing a mask in public and avoiding travel. I won't get on a plane unless there's an emergency, because idiots fly with COVID all the time. (I personally know two such people).

But while I could take or leave it with the coffee, the alcohol, and the spices (I'll probably be healthier for it, in the long run), I was absolutely gutted when I learned of another trigger.

I can't do even the lightest exercise for more than 20 minutes, particularly when it's hot. I tolerate it fine in the moment, but the next day I feel like I've been poisoned, I may struggle to sleep, and I get panicky even when there's nothing going on. You'd think exercise would be helpful, but no. It has an invigorating effect, but for me that invigoration becomes over-activation.

So now, where does that leave me? I can forget about travel, because how realistic is travel without at least some walking? I can't sit on a beach or go swimming, and I used to love beach vacations; Hawaii was everything two years ago. I used to be an active person: there was no physical activity I could not do: hiking, biking, skiing, tennis, lugging suitcases up five flights of stairs when there was no help available... I did not do any of those things particularly well, but I had the strength and the physical prowess.

What's worse is that I've been wanting to get back into exercise. I've never done it regularly before, but I'd grown efficient at my job and I hardly take my work home anymore, so I finally have the energy and the time. I'm also in a place where I'm ready to make changes. For instance, I've stopped biting the insides of my mouth, and I'm doing my continuing medical education credits after I get home from work, rather than procrastinating until they're due. I also count my calories again, though without exercise the weight loss is painfully slow.

Anyway... I was in a funk about the above for a while, but I'm happy to say that I'm over it. After all, the mantra on Surviving Antidepressants is "this, too, shall pass." Someday I'll be able to hike and go to the beach again, but for now, I'm ripping through my continuing education requirements, I'm editing old work and putting out new work, and I'm happy to be alive. I am right where I want to be, for the most part.

[notjosieyouremy]

every edsheeran book ive ever read and what i thought

*reblog without tags please

update #1: i just finished reading Letting An@ Go by anonymous. the teenage drama and romance is gross and annoying. the protagonist has a lot of strong opinions about peoples weight, especially her mother’s, which is very triggering. plenty of m3an $pO if that’s your thing. rampant fatphobia. i give it 3 out of 5 ⭐️⭐️⭐️

5 star tier ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

• hunger: a memoir of (my) body by roxane gay. one of the best edsheeran books ive read. it’s about sa, food addiction, boolimia, feminism, fatphobia, the struggles of just trying to exist black woman in a large body. would recommend

• i’m glad my mom died by jennette mccurdy. it’s so good. i think i finished it in a day. it’s about a lot more than edsheeran. highly recommend. go read it right now

• unbearable lightness: a story of loss and gain by portia de rossi. a gay actor’s struggles with edsheeran. one of the few i’ve read more than once. would recommend

• wasted: a memoir of an0rex!a and boolimia by marya hornbacher. really deserves to be in a class of its own. it’s the best written edsheeran book out there. it’s sad, hilarious, intelligent, perfectly captures the internal voice of mania. highly tr!ggering, so proceed with caution. after wasted was published she relapsed, which she speaks about in madness: a bipolar life. it’s also a very good book but edsheeran is not the focus

4 star tier ⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

• insatiable: a young mother’s struggle with an0rexia by erica rivera. if you wanna read about someone who takes fistfuls of bisacodyl and exercises intensely, you might like this book. it’s very good. would recommend

• dying to be th!n by nikki grahame. imagine being so severely malnourished as a child that you never go through puberty. thats how serious her illness was. she basically grew up in treatment facilities, managed to recover against all odds, went on big brother (the reality show), published a book, relapsed, and tragically passed away in 2021. the covid lockdowns were hard on her mental health. would recommend

• the girls at 17 swann street by yara zgheib. semi-autobiographical work of fiction. what sets this one apart is the protagonist isn’t a teenage girl. she’s, like, 28 i think? something like that. would definitely recommend if you get tired of reading about teens and preteens all the time

• elena vanishing by elena dunkle. at a certain point, all these books can be summarized in one sentence: she had to choose between recovery or death. it’s a very good memoir. would recommend

• born round: the secret history of a full-time eater by frank bruni. we love to see male representation in the edsheeran community. he was a chubby kid, turned to unhealthy means to achieve we!ght loss, eventually learns to heal his relationship with food and becomes restaurant critic for the new york times (ever heard of it?). would recommend

• sure, i’ll join your cult: a memoir of mental illness and the quest to belong anywhere by maria bamford. if you don’t know who maria bamford is, she’s one of the best stand up comics, period. that’s not even my opinion, it’s just an agreed upon fact within the stand up community. she’s brilliant. the book is about her mental illnesses and all the different self help groups she joins (so many!). she does go into her struggle with exercise boolimia, though that’s not the primary subject. it gets 5 stars as a book, but 4 stars as an edsheeran book because there just isn’t a lot of dis0rder talk

3 star and below ⭐️⭐️⭐️

• stick figure: a diary of my former self by lori gottlieb. good but i had trouble relating to the protagonist because was quite young and immature

• the art of st4rving by sam j. miller. some much needed male representation in edsheeran literature. and some lgbtq representation. it’s YA (young adult) fiction, not really my taste. would recommend for those who like YA. great cover art!

• wintergirls by laurie halse anderson. a lot of people love this book. i thought it was ok. it’s a work of fiction by an author who isn’t really part of the edsheeran or recovery community. it’s another YA book. i will always prefer memoirs and non-fiction

• fat chance by lesléa newman. this was the first edsheeran book i read. it was assigned reading for my high school health class. it’s a YA novel about a 13 year old girl who wants to lose we!ght. she re$tricts, she b;nges, she poorges, she becomes boolimic. i can trace my edsheeran back to this book. i started d;eting, b;ngeing, and abusing lax4tives as a direct result of reading this material. it did the exact opposite of its purpose, trying to steer young people away from toxic d!et culture. my take away was, i’m overweight, therefore i should be willing to do anything to get th!nner. it’s not very good tbh. maybe if you like YA you’d like it but otherwise, would not recommend

[harleyxhoward]

Analyzing The Abilities of Characters From The Boys Pt. XIII

🧲Andre🧲

In loving memory of the incredible Chance Perdomo, thank you so much for giving us not one incredible, generational ally and hero, but two: Ambrose and Andre.

Andre, the son of essentially this world’s Magneto, has the identical ability to his father. They both possess the ability to manipulate magnetism, which expresses itself as mostly bending metal to their will. This is a perfect example of how genetic factors influence the way compound V manifests in subjects, much like Maverick with Translucent.

Andre’s interesting to me, mostly because he’s what holds the friend group together, almost like his magnetism works on them as well. He drew Marie in and placed her in their orbit. He encouraged Jordan to go out with her, and was quick to console Cate after Luke’s death. He was the group’s heart in a way, which matches well with his power.

Additionally, the fact that he’s constantly under the pressure of his father, Polaris, to be the best at everything he does insinuates that his power has a downside. We find out that overexertion of his power results in potentially fatal brain damage. The source of his strength is also the source of his weakness, and yet, Andre chooses to defend Marie regardless in the S1 finale.

Magnetism can attract, propel, and in Andre’s case, crush him under the weight of his father’s expectations, almost like his father’s magnetism was interacting with his own. He was constantly expected to be one thing or another. He should have been the hero, saving the day and getting the girl. He should have lived* to take down Homelander. He should have gotten to Cate sooner. All of this is to say that maybe all he had to be was the true hero he truly was: a friend.

*I’m well aware nothing has been confirmed for his character following Chance’s passing, but I doubt they would recast a role like his given them only really having one season left for his character. I can imagine they kill the character off in an offscreen jailbreak that would be implied to have taken place after the Gen V S1 finale, and the characters have to grapple with his loss and potential sacrifice, but I’m also talking out of my ass right now.*

[timandlucy]

Chenford + 💙

💙 Drunken kiss / tipsy

Tim would never admit it, but he's having fun.

When Angela had insisted on a group night out for all of them, he'd rolled his eyes, but reluctantly, he has to admit, his friend was right. They needed this. After this stressful couple of weeks at work—after losing one of their own, kidnappings and failed weddings and several attempts on their lives, a fun night out might be just what the doctor ordered.

Not that Tim would ever admit that.

But his notion of fun is currently threatened by a very tipsy, and very touchy Lucy Chen. She's been leaning into him for the past half hour, invading his mind and his personal space, and Tim is in his very own version of hell.

“Hey, Lopez, I'm taking Chen home.”

Angela nods, giving him a knowing smile and he knows she hasn't had as much to drink as she led on. He can't quite say the same for Lucy.

At her insistence—and because he knows it'll do her morning hangover good—they stop for tacos on their way to her apartment, and end up eating them mostly in silence in the back part of Tim's truck. He glances at her with a puzzled expression. Lucy is never normally this quiet. As if she can read his mind, she leans in again, resting her head on his shoulder, letting out a sigh of content, and he figures she must be exhausted from the dancing and the alcohol, so he lets her.

He tries to ignore how good it feels—how natural the weight of her head is and how he almost feels flattered that she trusts him this much. When she lifts it suddenly, he mourns the loss.

Tim isn't left wondering for long, because Lucy grins and—in what seems a natural extension of her resting her head on his shoulder—leans further in and presses her lips against his.

He's a much worse person than people give him credit for, because he doesn't instantly pull away. Instead he allows her lips to move softly over his, his hands finding purchase on her hips, pulling her in before pulling back. He's going straight to hell just for wanting this so much that he has to convince himself this isn't the way.

Because Tim has been in love with Lucy for a while, but this—filling some invisible hole inside of her when she's drunk—isn't how he’s imagined it. Her lips chase his for a moment, before she realizes he's not kissing her back anymore and her mouth forms a pout.

“Lucy—”

“Um, no I get it. Crystal clear.” Her big eyes fill with tears and she looks down to hide her cheeks flaming with rejection.

“That's not—I'm not—”

“You don't have to explain.”

“I'm not saying no. Just, not like this. Not right now.”

Her eyes widen and she dares to look up. Understanding fills her features and somewhere inside of him hope blooms.

He drops her off at her apartment, walks her up to her door and remains the picture of a gentleman the entire time.

Only when he's telling her to lock the door, to drink water and take an aspirin, does he allow himself to let loose the words weighing him down.

“God, I hope you still want this tomorrow.”

She offers him a soft smile before closing the door, and it's the most sober she's looked since they left the bar.

Tim drives back to his house, making a mental note to thank Angela, even though he doesn't sleep a wink that night.

Lucy's stubborn “I will,” to his desperate sentence is echoing in his mind on repeat, the promise of tomorrow lingering in the air around him. When his tired brain finally does shut down, and he succumbs to sleep, it's no surprise Tim dreams of kissing Lucy.

[daitranscripts]

Iron Bull: Warm Approval

Tell Me About Your Troops

Iron Bull Masterpost

Available after meeting the Chargers and if they are not sacrificed.

PC: I’d like to hear more about the Chargers.

After Demands of the Qun Iron Bull: They’re good. Riding high after we hit those Venatori. Glad they made it out alive, too.

Iron Bull: Always happy to talk about my guys. What do you want to know?

1 - Dialogue options:

Investigate: How did you start? [2]

Investigate: You must have crazy stories. [3]

Investigate: Your group is diverse. [4]

Investigate: Tell me about Krem. [5]

General: Goodbye. [6]

2 - Investigate: How did you start? PC: How did you start the group? Iron Bull: It’s easy to make a name for yourself as a merc when you’re a head taller than most folks. I spent a year or two working for Fisher’s Bleeders, but their captain was crap. Figured I could do better. The best folks in the Bleeders agreed with me, so we split off.

Dialogue options:

Special: What about Fisher? [Back to 1]

7 - Special: What about Fisher? PC: I imagine Fisher disagreed. Iron Bull: (Grunts.) He came at me. I snapped his sword in half, and we talked things out over drinks.

3 - Investigate: You must have crazy stories. PC: What are the craziest jobs you’ve ever taken? Iron Bull: Besides this one? There’s a lot of violence between the nobles here, but that’s standard work. The fun stuff is when they party. They always want to impress each other, and that means getting something shiny. We’ve hunted wyverns, fought through caves to find some old magical crap, even went giant-baiting once.

Dialogue options:

Special: Giant-baiting? [8]

[Back to 1]

8 - Special: Giant-baiting? PC: What’s giant-baiting? Iron Bull: So this old guy, Comte Vanchess, has some kind of pageant planned, but he needs a giant, which is off in some damn cave. He’s got some kind of rare charm to control the giant, but no way he’s going into that cave himself. So we go in, kill some spiders, find the giant, and wake it up. It attacks us, because of course it does, and we let the big bastard chase us outside, where Vanchess is waiting.

Dialogue options:

Special: You let it chase you? [9]

[Back to 1]

9 - Special: You let it chase you? PC: That was actually your plan? To let a giant chase you? Iron Bull: Yeah. We had to stay out of reach but close enough that it wouldn’t give up. It was tricky. Good news is that giants are slow. Long as my guys ahead could clear out the spiders, we were fine. Bad news is that giant spiderwebs slow you down a bit more than you’d think. PC: But at least Comte Vanchess got his giant for the pageant. Iron Bull: Ah, turned out that charm was a phony. Giant ate the poor guy alive. It’s okay, though. We still got paid. [back to 1]

4 - Investigate: Your group is diverse. PC: You have people from plenty of different backgrounds in your group. Iron Bull: Yeah. Well, when you’re in Orlais and you look like me, you can’t be picky about who you take in. A lot of ’em got turned away from other companies that didn’t want a knife-ear or a crazy dwarf. Their loss. You get my back in a fight and carry your own weight, you’re good with me.

Qunari PC Iron Bull: How about you? You had a company of your own. How did you put yours together?

Dialogue options:

General: I took all kinds. [10]

General: I mostly stuck with humans. [11]

General: I used Tal-Vashoth. [12]

10 - General: I took all kinds. PC: Like you, more or less. I took anyone who could take care of themselves and follow orders. Iron Bull: Great minds… [back to 1] ㅤㅤ ㅤ 11 - General: I mostly stuck with humans. PC: I only had humans, for the most part. I thought I’d get more work with the nobles that way. Iron Bull: Yeah, that makes sense. Some of them only want the right people bleeding for ’em. [back to 1] ㅤㅤ ㅤ 12 - General: I used Tal-Vashoth. PC: My company was mostly Tal-Vashoth, like me. Iron Bull: (Grunts.) Well, it’s better than becoming bandits, I guess. [back to 1]

5 - Investigate: Tell me about Krem. PC: I’d like to know more about Krem. Iron Bull: He’s a good soldier, and a better second-in-command. The troops need someone to complain to when I’m being a hard-ass. He’s good for that.

13 - Dialogue options:

Special: But you hate Tevinter. [14]

Special: Him being her isn’t an issue? [15]

[Back to 1]

14 - Special: But you hate Tevinter. PC: You don’t have a problem with him being from Tevinter? Iron Bull: Nah. PC: But you hate “the Vints.” Iron Bull: Sure. But he’s not a Vint. He’s just Krem. I can get worked up about a group or a nation just fine, but people… It’s too much work to hate them one by one. [back to 13]

15 - Special: Him being her isn’t an issue? PC: You don’t have any problems with him being a woman? Iron Bull: He’s not a woman.

Iron Bull (Qunari PC): Look, you and I have to walk carefully so we don’t accidentally break the furniture or the elves. Iron Bull (Dalish PC): Look, I’ve got horns. You’ve got pointy ears and those freaky, big elf eyes. Iron Bull (dwarf PC): Look, I’ve got horns. You only come up to my knee, and you can’t dream. Iron Bull (mage PC): Look, I’ve got horns. You can shoot fire out of your ass. Iron Bull (human PC): Look, I’ve got horns. You’ve got a magic mark on your hand that makes demons pop out of the sky.

Iron Bull: We’re probably not the best people to go around deciding what’s normal. Krem’s a good man. I don’t give a nug’s ass that it’s a little harder for him to piss standing up. [back to 13]

6 - General: Goodbye. PC: See you later, Bull. Iron Bull: Nice talking with you, boss.