#and the twist was so brilliant and well thought out towards the end of the second part

[gregorovitch-adler]

I sort of binge-listened to The Creeping Man (both parts.)

I finally got down to listening to Sherlock&co.

1.) I really like this new take on he Holmes adaptation. It's different and intersting. Sounds fresh.

2.) Their voices are distinct, but personality wise, Sherlock is quite similar to BBC Sherlock's Sherlock. But not John.

3.) John is so hilariously awkward and I get so much second hand embarrassment listening to him. 🤭 But I quite like this new way of characterising him. He is authoritative when he truly needs to be. But the rest of the time, the intro and outro of his podcast are record so pathetically lmfao. Love this John Watson.

4.) Mariana from Hudson's instead of just Mrs Hudson? I thought her character was going to be based on Mary Morstan from ACD canon (because of her name), but not really. She's a completely different character altogether. And Sherlock keeps calling her Mrs Hudson and she keeps correcting him saying it's Mariana from Hudson's. XD I can't say much on her character because I'm just on The Illustrious Client right now but she sounds likeable.

5.) I love how they chose this story (The Illustrious Client) as their first one in the series of podcasts. I really liked that one in ACD canon too. The plot was quite intriguing and I like this idea a lot.

6.) John always calls him Sherlock but Sherlock calls him Watson sometimes. Many a time, actually. What's that about?

I'll probably make more posts as I keep listening to more. That's all for now.

@a-victorian-girl , @jamielovesjam

[ms-snape]

snaddy x readere angst, maybe where the nex dada professor

Title: DADA

Warning: Angst

Words Count: 3000+

Masterlist

---

Y/N stood at the edge of the Great Hall, watching as the students filed in, their voices a steady hum of excitement for the start of the new term. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the cloudy sky outside, casting a soft, dim glow over the long rows of tables. She had been at Hogwarts for less than a week, and while the castle was as breathtaking as she'd remembered from her own school days, there was an undeniable tension simmering in her chest. This wasn’t how she imagined her first day as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would be.

Y/N smoothed the front of her robes, forcing herself to take a deep breath. Teaching was something she had long dreamed of, the culmination of years of study and experience. She had spent so long preparing for this, but now that she was here, all she could think about was how wrong everything felt.

And then she saw him.

Severus Snape, dark and imposing, swept into the hall with his signature black cloak billowing behind him. His presence seemed to draw a line through the room, as students instinctively shifted their attention elsewhere. There was something about him that demanded authority without ever needing to speak a word. His eyes, black as coal, flicked toward her, and for a split second, their gazes locked.

Her stomach flipped.

She knew of Severus Snape, of course. Everyone in the wizarding world did. His reputation preceded him—brilliant, mysterious, and feared in equal measure. And though Y/N had spent only a few days at Hogwarts so far, she had already heard whispers from the staff about his resentment over her appointment. He had wanted the Defense Against the Dark Arts position for years, but once again, Dumbledore had passed him over. Instead, he had chosen her.

The thought made her feel uneasy. She had earned this position, hadn’t she? She had the qualifications, the passion. But it wasn’t lost on her that in taking this role, she had also taken something from him, something he had coveted for years.

“Y/L/N.”

The low voice snapped her out of her thoughts. Snape stood before her, his presence overwhelming. He was taller than she had imagined, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as they roamed over her. She felt a chill creep up her spine, the intensity of his gaze unnerving.

“Professor Snape,” she greeted, trying to sound confident, even though her heart was pounding. She extended her hand toward him, forcing a polite smile. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

Snape stared at her hand for a long moment, as if it were something distasteful. He didn’t take it. Instead, he raised one eyebrow, his lips curling into something that was not quite a smile.

“I wasn’t aware that anyone would consider this position ‘nice,’” he drawled, his voice laced with a cruel edge.

Y/N’s smile faltered slightly, but she refused to let him rattle her. She dropped her hand, shifting her weight uneasily. “Well, I’m looking forward to it,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I’ve always wanted to teach.”

Snape’s dark eyes flicked over her again, assessing. There was something almost predatory in his gaze, and Y/N had the sudden feeling that she was being weighed and found wanting.

“Ambition is a curious thing,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. “It often blinds people to their own limitations.”

Her stomach twisted at the veiled insult, but before she could respond, he turned on his heel, his black cloak sweeping dramatically behind him as he walked away. Y/N stood there, frozen for a moment, her hand still hovering awkwardly at her side. The encounter left a bitter taste in her mouth.

This was going to be a lot harder than she had expected.

The first weeks of the semester passed in a blur of lesson planning, classroom management, and a never-ending stream of essays to grade. Y/N tried her best to settle into her role as a professor, but every time she thought she was making progress, Snape would find some way to tear her down.

His disdain for her was palpable, and it wasn’t just confined to their private interactions. He made it a point to undermine her in front of the other staff members during meetings, offering sharp, pointed criticisms of her teaching methods or her knowledge of defensive spells. It was as though he relished in watching her struggle, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips whenever he found an opportunity to belittle her.

“What were you thinking with that Shield Charm demonstration, Y/L/N?” he sneered one afternoon during a staff meeting. His voice carried through the room like a whip crack. “Do you think sending third-years into the Hospital Wing is part of the curriculum now?”

Y/N’s face flushed with embarrassment as several of the professors turned to look at her. Her Shield Charm lesson had gone a little off-track when one of the students had been too eager with their spell casting, causing a minor explosion that resulted in a few singed eyebrows. But she had managed the situation, hadn’t she?

“I… It was an accident,” Y/N stammered, trying to defend herself. “I handled it.”

“Handled it?” Snape’s voice was sharp, dripping with derision. “Perhaps next time, you might consider teaching them proper restraint, or at the very least, monitoring their incompetence more carefully.”

Dumbledore, seated at the head of the table, glanced between the two of them, his brow furrowing ever so slightly. But he said nothing, choosing instead to let the exchange run its course. Y/N bit her lip, resisting the urge to snap back at Snape. What good would it do? He would only twist her words against her, just like he always did.

“I’ll take your suggestion under advisement,” she replied through gritted teeth.

Snape smirked, clearly satisfied with her submission. The rest of the meeting passed uneventfully, but Y/N’s mind was spinning. His insults were becoming more personal with each passing day, and no matter how much she tried to ignore them, they ate away at her confidence. She began to dread their interactions, the knots in her stomach tightening every time she saw him enter a room.

She couldn’t understand it. Was this simply his bitterness over the Defense Against the Dark Arts position, or was there something else? Some unspoken hostility that went deeper than mere professional rivalry?

By the time the winter holidays approached, Y/N felt like a shadow of her former self. The bright enthusiasm she had brought with her at the start of the term had long since faded, replaced by a dull sense of dread that hung over her every day. Her students seemed to enjoy her classes, and for the most part, they were performing well. But nothing she did felt like it mattered when Snape was constantly tearing her down.

She had tried everything—keeping her head down, avoiding unnecessary interactions with him, even seeking advice from other staff members on how to deal with his unrelenting hostility. But no matter what she did, Snape’s cold cruelty persisted, an ever-present thorn in her side.

One evening, after a particularly brutal day in which Snape had publicly criticized her handling of a difficult fourth-year lesson, Y/N found herself sitting alone in her office, staring down at a blank piece of parchment. The weight of the past few months pressed heavily on her chest, and as she sat there in the dim candlelight, a thought that had been lingering in the back of her mind finally solidified into something tangible.

She was done. She couldn’t do this anymore.

With a heavy heart, she dipped her quill into ink and began writing her resignation letter.

The next morning, Y/N stood outside Dumbledore’s office, her hands trembling slightly as she clutched the folded letter in her grasp. The gargoyle guarding the entrance slid aside as she gave the password, and moments later, she found herself standing before the headmaster, who looked up from his desk with a gentle smile.

“Professor Y/L/N,” Dumbledore greeted warmly, motioning for her to take a seat. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Y/N hesitated for a moment before placing the letter on his desk. “I… I’ve come to resign, Headmaster,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Dumbledore’s expression softened as he reached for the letter, unfolding it slowly. He read the contents in silence, his sharp blue eyes scanning the page with a mixture of sadness and understanding.

“May I ask why?” he inquired gently, folding the letter back up and setting it down in front of him.

Y/N swallowed hard, avoiding his gaze. She had promised herself she wouldn’t mention Snape—she didn’t want to sound like she was running away because of him. But the truth was gnawing at her, making her feel small and powerless.

“I just… I don’t think teaching is for me,” she said, her voice hollow. “I thought it would be different, but I… I’m not cut out for this.”

Dumbledore watched her closely, his keen eyes piercing through her flimsy excuse. “Are you sure that’s the only reason?” he asked, his voice laced with quiet concern.

Y/N hesitated. She wanted to tell him everything—to lay bare the truth about how Snape had made her life miserable, how his constant belittling had drained every ounce of joy from the job she had once loved. But a part of her didn’t want to give Snape the satisfaction of knowing he had broken her.

“I just don’t enjoy it as much as I thought I would,” she said finally, her voice small.

Dumbledore was silent for a long moment , studying her with an intensity that made her feel exposed. Finally, he sighed, leaning back in his chair.

“Y/N, I can understand that teaching can be a challenging endeavor, especially here at Hogwarts,” he began thoughtfully. “But I must ask you to reconsider. You’re an excellent educator, and the students have greatly benefited from your knowledge and passion. If it’s merely a matter of adjustment, I would implore you to at least finish the academic year. I can’t deny that I’ve noticed some tension between you and Professor Snape.”

Y/N felt a flush of indignation rising within her. “It’s not just about him!” she snapped, the emotion spilling over before she could catch it. She took a breath, forcing herself to calm down. “I mean, I don’t like teaching anymore. The constant second-guessing and criticism have worn me down.”

Dumbledore nodded, his expression kind yet resolute. “That may be true, but I believe that you are more capable than you give yourself credit for. In the meantime, I will speak with Severus about his treatment of you, as it’s evident that it has had an impact.”

Her heart sank at the thought. The last thing she wanted was to be the subject of more scrutiny or gossip among the faculty. She appreciated Dumbledore’s intentions, but it felt like he was missing the point entirely.

“Headmaster,” Y/N began, her voice wavering slightly, “I’d really rather not make a scene. I just want to leave quietly.”

Dumbledore’s eyes twinkled with understanding. “As you wish, Y/N. But do take some time to think it over. Sometimes, when we’re under pressure, our perspective can become clouded. I would hate to see you make a decision that you might regret later.”

Y/N nodded slowly, knowing he meant well but feeling cornered by his gentle insistence.

“Very well,” she murmured, standing to leave. “I’ll consider it.”

The rest of the day was a blur. Y/N moved through her classes in a daze, answering questions but barely retaining focus on her students. She could feel the weight of Dumbledore’s words pressing on her shoulders, mingling with her sense of dread about Snape.

Later that evening, as she entered the staff room to prepare for her next lesson, she noticed Snape was already there, his back turned to her as he meticulously arranged potion ingredients on the table. The sight of him sent a rush of anxiety through her, and she hesitated in the doorway.

“Professor Y/L/N,” Snape’s voice cut through the silence, low and disdainful without looking at her. “You do realize that the ingredients are supposed to be measured, not simply dumped haphazardly into the cauldron?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to ignore the anger bubbling inside her. “I’m not in your Potions class, Severus,” she replied evenly, crossing the room. “I’m here to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, not to take lessons in potion-making from you.”

He turned to face her, his dark eyes narrowing in irritation. “Perhaps if you focused on the subject you’re actually teaching instead of taking cues from everyone else, you wouldn’t find yourself struggling so much,” he snapped, his tone harsher than necessary.

For a moment, Y/N’s anger flared, igniting a fierce response inside her. “You don’t know anything about my classes, Severus,” she shot back, her voice rising. “You don’t have to be so cruel! I’m trying my best here!”

His expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering across his features before he returned to his impassive demeanor. “Your best is evidently not enough,” he replied coldly.

The words cut deeper than she anticipated, and the lump in her throat grew as she fought back tears. How had they come to this? She had started this journey filled with hope, but now, she felt completely defeated.

“I don’t need to listen to you anymore,” she declared, feeling the tremor of emotion in her voice. “I’m resigning, Severus. You’ve made it clear that I don’t belong here.”

As the words left her mouth, the silence in the room became suffocating. Snape’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Y/N thought she saw something shift in his expression—confusion, perhaps? Regret?

“You’re serious,” he said slowly, his voice devoid of its usual bite. “You really intend to quit?”

“I can’t take this anymore. I’m tired of your constant insults. I thought this job would be fulfilling, but you’ve turned it into a nightmare.”

Snape opened his mouth, hesitating as if to say something, but then closed it again, his expression darkening. “You think I enjoy this?” he asked, his voice suddenly softer, almost incredulous. “You believe this is personal?”

“What else could it be?” Y/N shot back, her emotions bubbling over. “You’re just cruel for the sake of it!”

His expression shifted again, something vulnerable flashing in his dark eyes before he turned away. “You’re wrong, Y/N,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She blinked, caught off guard by the shift in his tone. “What do you mean?”

Snape turned to face her again, his gaze intense. “You believe I’m merely tormenting you because I’m spiteful. But this isn’t about you. It never was.”

“Then what is it about?” she pressed, her heart racing as his words hung in the air.

“It’s about me.” He stepped closer, the distance between them shrinking. “I was angry when you arrived, angry that Dumbledore chose you over me. And instead of addressing it, I channeled that anger into something I thought would make me feel better.”

Y/N’s heart raced at the revelation. “You think pushing me down will make you feel better?”

“Perhaps it was a misguided way of coping,” he admitted, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “But the truth is that I… I’ve felt something else when I’m near you. Something I’ve fought against. And in my attempts to push it away, I became cruel.”

The confession hung heavy between them, and for the first time, she saw him—really saw him. Behind the bitterness and disdain, there was a flicker of vulnerability. She was taken aback, her resolve faltering as she processed his words.

“You don’t have to do this,” she said softly. “You don’t have to keep pushing me away.”

He held her gaze, something softening in his expression as he stepped even closer, closing the distance until they were mere inches apart. “I don’t know how to be anything else. It’s easier to lash out than to confront what I truly feel.”

Y/N’s heart raced, and the anger she had clung to began to unravel. “And what do you feel?”

The air between them crackled with tension, an electric charge that sent shivers down her spine. Snape looked at her, his dark eyes searching hers as if trying to decipher something within her.

“I feel drawn to you,” he confessed, his voice low and raw. “I didn’t want to admit it, but it’s true. I pushed you away because I didn’t understand it.”

“Severus…” she whispered, caught between confusion and a flicker of hope.

Before she could say more, Snape reached for her, his fingers brushing against her cheek, a gentle yet tentative touch. The world around them faded away, the distance that had felt insurmountable only moments ago dissipating into a shared understanding.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, his voice thick with emotion. “For everything.”

And in that moment, she knew he meant it. The warmth of his palm against her skin ignited something inside her—an unfamiliar feeling that made her heart race.

She closed her eyes, surrendering to the pull between them, and leaned in, their lips meeting in a tentative kiss that quickly grew deeper. It was a kiss filled with all the unspoken words, the frustration, the longing, and the undeniable connection that had been building between them all along.

As they kissed, the rest of the world fell away, and for the first time in months, Y/N felt free. Free from the weight of expectations, free from the bitterness that had clouded her heart.

When they finally pulled apart, both breathless, Snape’s expression was softer than she had ever seen it. “Can we start over?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Y/N smiled, warmth flooding her heart as she nodded. “I’d like that.”

As the year progressed, the transformation between them became evident. Snape was no longer her adversary; instead, he became an ally in the classroom, offering her support rather than criticism. Their conversations shifted from hostile exchanges to something more meaningful, filled with laughter and a deeper understanding of one another.

They spent late nights in the staff room, discussing spells and strategies while sharing their hopes and fears. Snape revealed glimpses of his past, and Y/N found herself opening up about her own experiences, their bond growing stronger with each passing day.

The change in their relationship did not go unnoticed by the other staff members. Dumbledore observed them with a knowing smile, pleased that the tension had lifted, replaced by a genuine camaraderie that breathed new life into the atmosphere at Hogwarts.

By the time the end of the semester rolled around, Y/N was no longer considering resigning. Instead, she found herself excited about teaching and learning alongside Snape. The darkness that had clouded her spirit for so long had finally lifted, and in its place was something entirely new—hope.

On the last day of classes before the holiday break, Y/N stood before her students, a smile on her face as she wrapped up the lesson. “And remember, practice makes perfect. Keep working on your defensive spells over the break!”

The students filed out of the classroom, laughter and chatter echoing in the hallways. As the last student left, she turned to see Snape leaning against the doorframe, his expression softer than it had been at their first meeting.

“Are you ready to leave for the holidays?” he asked, a hint of warmth in his voice.

Y/N nodded, feeling a surge of joy at the thought of spending time with him. “I can’t wait.”

As they stepped out into the corridor, she felt a sense of peace wash over her. For the first time, Hogwarts felt like home, and she knew she had found a place for herself here, not just as a teacher but as someone who belonged.

And in that moment, as she walked beside Severus Snape, she realized that sometimes, love could blossom in the most unexpected places, even in the shadows of the past.

[i-am-minty-fresh]

(Here you are @certain-arcade-dinosaur)

Luffy blinks away the heavy weight of sleep to the harsh feeling of the sun baring down directly into his eyes. As his eyes finally open, he’s met only with the sun right above his head. Normally, he can’t look at the sun for too long or Chopper will tell him it can give his eyes ‘perforated damage’…but Chopper’s not here so he can stare all he wants!-

Choppers not here! He looks around him to find only sand, with waves pushing and pulling onto the nearby coast. He taps him head in contemplation before quickly noticing the familiar weight of his hat is neither on his head nor between his shoulder blades. He attempts to twist all the way around but finds something rigid on the back of his neck limits such contortions. Defeated by the rock in his neck he rushes onto his feet to turn around and look the boring way.

He’s met with an almost deserted island. Some spots of grass, a couple of shrubs, and one coconut tree. The island is small enough that he can walk the whole circumference of it without much thought. Turning away from the island and towards the sea he looks squints to look as far as he can. The sea sways and dips at will, but the reflection of the sun remains ever present amongst the waves.

His crew isn’t here. Something tells him that. He doesn’t quite know where here is but he knows that even if he could find his way off the island, only sea awaits him. Never a lions figurehead, never a blue nose, never orange or green hair, never warm food or lullabies.

Lonely?

Something whispers into Luffy’s mind. He turns to the island and squints, still seeing nothing of substance.

Our sea is vast but our path is never clear

He looks up to find his strawhat perched on a high-up branch on the lone tree in the middle of the island. He scrambles towards the base and starts his climbing, smiling widely at the thought of his treasure returning to him.

Why set out to sea at all if nothing is certain?

A few splinters and scraps cover his body before he finally gets to the branch holding his hat. Perching himself safely onto the thicker side, he gleefully places his hat onto his head, pulling the brim close, as a smile cuts through his face.

So much suffering, caused by my ignorance, how could anyone dream of something as selfish as sailing?

Finally, Luffy looks to the highest branch, only just out of reach to him, paying some acknowledgment to the noise.

I have no right for adventure when people need liberation….but how could I ever bring freedom at a time like this?

Hanging from the end of the branch is something familiar. A rotund purple fruit covered in swirls.

What adventures could even await me if we know only this land exists?

Staring back into the horizon, Luffy can make out the sun slowly setting.

I must rest.

The sun dies in a brilliant flash only for the water to get coated in the ink of the night sky. Luffy furrows his brow,

“Don’t give up, old man, they’re just not here yet!”

We alone carry the burden of liberation, we alone must sail-

“But that’s so boring! Once my nakama come, you’ll get what I mean! Nami and Jinbei are much better at sailing than we are, anyway! Plus if anyway’s sick, Chopper can help. If anyone’s hungry, Sanji can help. If anyone dead, Robin can help. My nakama are all so helpful! Besides…” Luffy stands on the small branch, steady even as the it lurches under his weight, “we’re pirates! We’re supposed to be selfish!” He smiles….

Islands start to erupt from the sea. Birds come into view along the horizon alongside thousands of ships. One ship, faster than the rest, expertly cuts through the island like icebergs coming from the sea bed. As it gets closer, the sound of laughter is better heard. Despite its multiple undocked anchors it arrives at the shore in record time. An out of tune guitar, a handmade flute, a well-loved violin and a bunch of untrained voices sing along to an old pirate shanty.

White clouds fill like fog around the coconut tree.

“What do you say, old man?” The pirate king turns to face a god older than time, “you wanna join my pirate crew?”

Was it always this easy?

“Only if you let it be!”

The dawn finally comes.

[phantoms-planet]

Barred Protection

Chapter Two

AO3 Here

First | Prev | Next

---

It wasn’t hard, per say, to keep up his public persona at the museum’s fundraising gala, but it was beginning to agitate him that he hadn’t been able to get close to Percy Daelus the entire two hours he’d been there. Everyone and their dog wanted to speak with him.

It was understandable of course. People wanting to invest in the new company, or thank him for what he did, or try and schmooze their way into getting discounts and partnerships. That was just the way these things were at galas unfortunately.

“B!” Dick’s hiss was only heard by him, being that it was through the comms. “Go to the bathroom, Daelus is on his way there!”

Bruce quickly excused himself from the conversation he hadn’t really cared about. Thankfully no one stopped him on the way and he was through the door before the target, meaning he could ‘go to the bathroom’ and be waiting at the sink.

An odd skill to have, faking bodily function, but one that had come in handy more than Bruce would ever guess if he hadn’t been the one to employ the skill. It was just as he put soap on his hands that Percy Daelus stepped up to the sink next to him. The man was unassuming in looks. Brown hair and eyes, average build, no distinct markings like freckles or moles. He was the most boring thirty four year old Bruce had ever seen.

“Ah! Mr. Wayne? Goodness I never thought I would get the pleasure to meet you in person. I dreamed, of course, but never that it would be in a bathroom.” Daelus chuckled slightly. His face had lit up like he’d been gifted the world.

Bruce smiled as water flowed on his hands. “Some of the best meetings are in the strangest places. It’s nice to meet you Mr…?”

“Daelus! Percy Daelus, I own the Ameliorate corporation.” Daelus was practically vibrating with excitement, bouncing on his heals a bit before soaping his hands.

“Oh yes, that new medical company! Brilliant work you’re doing, goodness knows Gotham has needed something like this for a long time.” A little flattery tended to go a long way with anyone new to high end circles. It certainly didn’t hurt right then.

Daelus beamed as he dried his hands. “That means quite a lot coming from you sir.”

Bruce opened the door for him. “No need to call me sir. I’ve heard good things about your company; I’ve been considering getting a consultation myself.”

“You look fit as a fiddle Mr. Wayne.” Bruce led him towards the hors d’oeuvres table. He both wanted Daelus closer to Dick for better analyzing and wanted something to eat.

“Well truth be told Mr. Daelus, it wouldn’t be for me. You see my middle child, Tim? He’s been having health issues after needing an organ removed.” Daelus’s face twisted into a sympathetic frown. “A mother at my youngest’s school mentioned her immune compromised daughter was feeling much better after receiving some of your medicine.”

He seemed to be genuinely proud at that. “Oh, so glad to hear it! You know, I could do a personal consultation with your son. You inspired me to make my company so it would be my pleasure to help him.”

Bruce had to quickly choke down…well, he wasn’t sure actually. He had been so focused on his goal that he had grabbed whatever was closest on the table. Whatever it was had a mild kick to it.

Pulling out his brightest smile, Bruce placed his hand to his chest. “That’s very generous, you don’t have to! I know being an owner of a company leaves your schedule quite full.”

“No no,” Daelus gestured vaguely. “I insist on it Mr. Wayne. I want to be sure everyone who needs our help gets the attention they need. And getting your son treatment so he feels better, maybe some medication to boost his system, it would truly be no problem at all!”

“Pull the overly protective parent bit B.” Dick suggested. “Like ‘oh but I feel better knowing exactly where my kids’s things come from’ or something like that. It won’t even be that hard for you!” Bruce pointedly ignored that.

He was a prepared father, not overprotective. Maybe. “Thank you very much. I’m not sure how I feel about the medication, however. Not that I don’t see how brilliant it is of course!”

Bruce let some of his worries show through. Truthfully Tim being compromised did make him anxious if he had to admit it, really what good parent wouldn’t be worried after their child lost a spleen. “But I really like to vet everything my kids take personally. Meet the scientists, tour the business, all that. They’re the most important thing in my life, you see, and I want to be sure they get the best there is.

Daelus nodded quite sternly. “I understand completely Mr. Wayne. Our children are our future; you can’t play around with their lives like a game. It’s incredibly admirable that you would keep track of these things so closely just for their health.”

“I don’t normally offer this,” Daelus held a hand to his chest with a warm smile that didn’t quite fully reach his eyes. “But we could arrange a tour so you can feel secure with our products.

 Yes! Bruce waved the thought away as if it weren’t exactly what he had been aiming for. “I wouldn’t want to ask too much by asking to poke my nose into your company’s workings.”

“Oh no Mr. Wayne, nothing would be asking too much from you!”

“Bet you twenty he’s just trying to get you as a financial backer. He’s laying this on really thick.”

Bruce was inclined to agree with his oldest. “Well, if you’re sure; it would be delightful to see how your brilliant scientists create these medicines. And if it helps Tim, and others of course, I would be more than happy to put some donations in to help further the research.’

Daelus flashed another million-dollar smile. “That’s very generous of you! Tell me when you’re next free and I’ll clear the whole day for you. Better yet,” He pulled out a card. “You can call whenever you would like and I’ll drop everything!”

[princessmisery666]

Fries, Goodbyes & The Rest Of Our Lives

Summary: Being stood up isn’t always a bad thing. 

Warnings/Genre etc.: Fluff, lousy singing. 

W/C: 2k

Characters: Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw, Mentions/Small Parts: Natasha ‘Phoenix’ Trace, Mickey ‘Fanboy’ Garcia, Robert ‘Bob’ Floyd, Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin, Harvard. 

Pairing: Rooster x Fem!Reader (you - no descriptions of body type or ethnicity).

Notes: I saw this post on Instagram, and it immediately made me think of Rooster. Songs: Is This Love by White Snake, Can’t Take My Eyes Off You by Frankie Valli.

A/N: the wonderful and brilliant @writercole helped with ideas, summary, and title and helped make the muses comply. 

Betas: @deanwinchesterswitch

Master Lists: Top Gun: Maverick // All The Fandoms

Fries, Goodbyes & The Rest Of Our Lives

It’s been a week. It’s not even worth listing all the things that went wrong. The icing on the cake (presumably made with salt and not sugar - cause it's that kind of week) was your date canceled on you as you took a seat at a booth in the diner.

You sigh as the waitress comes to take your order, accepting that you’ve been stood up and decide you may as well eat since you’re already there.

“I’ll take a cheeseburger, side salad, no tomato, extra dressing, please.” 

The elderly waitress smiles. It’s comforting and sweet. Her name tag says Pattie, and you imagine her grandkids get overly excited whenever Granny Pat visits. “You want the fries with that?”

You ponder for half a second before declining, “No thanks.”

“You sure, hun? They’re included in the price.”

You had dirty Cajun fries from the food cart outside the office at lunch. You know the diner’s fries won’t taste as good, besides you want to leave room for dessert, so you politely decline again. 

“I’ll take them, Pattie!”

You twist in the booth to look over your shoulder and find the source. A handsome guy sitting at the bar, wearing a light yellow floral print shirt, smiles and gives a two-fingered wave. You’d clocked him when you’d entered. You’d caught his eye too, and he’d given you a broad smile. His mustache was a flashback to a decade or two ago, but he wore it well. He carried it with a sense of pride and confidence. It looked good on him. Anyone else, you’d have thought it was creepy.

“Hush now, boy,” Pattie scolds, but she’s smiling when she turns back to face you.

You chuckle, nodding toward him, “He’ll take the fries.”

Pattie takes your menu and disappears to the kitchen. You look at Mr. Mustache, who tips his beer bottle to you before bringing it to his lips.

You grab your phone and message the “No Scrubs” group. 

You: Stood up again. Where you guys at?

Cole: At that navy bar I was telling you about. Come meet us.

You: I’ve just ordered dinner. Will see how I feel after.

You scroll social media while you wait. Pattie comes by a few times, brings cutlery and sauces, and refreshes your drink. 

You hear the bell ring to signal an order’s ready, and your mouth waters when you see Pattie heading toward you. The burger looks delicious. The brioche bun glistens under the lights as the cheese melts over the edge onto the plate. It's so tall there’s a wooden skewer through the top to keep it in place, and the fries are fat and look perfectly crispy.  

Pattie sets the plate down, “Enjoy, sweetheart,” and you swallow before drool slips out.

Just as you pull the skewer out of the burger, you hear, “Those are mine, remember.”

You laugh, twisting to look at him again. He’s got a cheerful smirk, but his brow is raised as if challenging you. “Why don’t you join me?” you offer. 

He grabs his beer and twists off his stool. The smile remains while he saunters over, and you can’t take your eyes off him, admiring the sway of his hips. He’s confident in an almost bashful way. The open floral shirt shows a white shirt beneath it, and the contrast against his tanned skin looks as edible as your burger. 

“Tell me,” he says, grabbing a fry and biting off the end. “What kind of psychopath doesn’t have fries with their burger?”

You shrug, “The same kind that offers to take a stranger's fries.”

“Touché,” he chuckles. 

You laugh, explaining, “I had fries at lunch and want dessert.”

 He nods as if now understanding your logic. “Ah, she’s got a sweet tooth.” 

“I’ve heard that the chocolate malt here is the best in the state. I can’t pass that up,” you grin.

“Well, that is true,” he shrugs, popping another fry into his mouth. “Make or break question here, whipped cream on top of the shake?”

“I fear this will affect our budding friendship,” you tease, “but ab-so-lutely whipped cream on top of the shake. Among other places,” you wink. 

His boldness flounders for half a second, recognizing he’s met his match, but he recovers quickly. Wetting his lips and giving a cheeky smile. “Are you flirting with me?” 

“Depends.” 

“On what?”

“I don’t see a ring, and you’re here alone. Are you single?”

“Yes.”

“Then yes, I’m definitely flirting with you.”

His smile widens and remains while the conversation flows and the two of you eat. Flirtations and laughter pass back and forth effortlessly.

Your phone chimes with another message, and you see the ‘No Scrubs’ group chat has two unread messages. You don’t want to be rude and pick it up to reply, but you know if you don’t, they’ll likely call to make sure you’re okay. 

“Somewhere else you need to be?” he asks, a hint of disappointment in his voice that he attempts to hide behind a sip of beer.

“No, just some friends trying to get me to go meet them at some Navy bar.” You roll your eyes and type a quick ‘maybe’ before locking your phone, setting it face down on the table.

“Navy bar? The Hard Deck?” he questions, tilting his head to the side.

“I think that’s what Cole said. Do you know it?”

“That’s actually where I’m headed after. I could give you a ride. If you need one, that is.”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“It’s Bradley, but my friends call me Rooster.”

“Rooster?” you laugh. “Please tell me there’s a good story there.”

“There might be. I guess that depends on if you want to hear it.”

“How about you tell me on the way to the bar?”

The open window lifts your hair slightly, and every time Rooster gets a hit of your perfume, he inhales deeply, savoring it. 

He sticks to the speed limit, if not a little below it. He’s not quite ready to say goodbye to you. He’s never had such an instant, effortless connection with someone, and he wants to make it last as long as possible.

You’d laughed at the story about his name. You’d have never guessed that it was a nickname his uncle gave him when he was a kid. The radio is playing at a low volume, but as soon as the opening bars of Is This Love by White Snake start, you lean over and crank the volume as loud as it will go, singing along as if he isn’t there.

“Is this love that I'm feeling?” you sing, holding a pretend microphone. “Is this the love that I've been searching for? Is this love, or am I dreaming? This must be love. 'Cause, it's really got a hold on me. A hold on me.” 

You can’t hold a tune, and your voice cracks a few times, but still, you belt it out with vigor, and Rooster thinks he may be falling in love. Did Pattie put something in those fries? 

“Sorry,” you say, settling back into your seat, “that’s one of my favorites.” 

It’s one of my favorites now too. But he doesn’t say it. Instead, he laughs, “I never would’ve guessed.”

“Are you not a car karaoke kinda guy?” you ask. “You seem like you like to sing along.” 

“I’ve been known to hold a few car concerts,” he admits, “but I didn’t want to interrupt your flow.” 

“Can you sing as good as me?”

He looks at you and sees the jesting expression. You know you can’t sing, and you don’t care one little bit.

“I’d love to serenade you,” he says, “but unfortunately, we’re here.”

“Some other time?” you ask, and he swears you sound hopeful.

Rooster opens the Hard Deck door, and as soon as he hears the hustle and bustle from inside, he wishes he’d suggested you stay at the diner. Holding the door open, he gestures for you to enter first, and you smile a thanks as you pass by.

You stop a few feet inside, scanning the room as he stands beside you. This is the one time he hopes Hangman is being himself and has, by some miracle, coaxed your friends over to the group so Rooster has an excuse to keep talking to you. 

“Those are my friends over there,” you say, dashing all his hopes as you point to the pool tables on the opposite side of the room. 

“I’m over there,” Rooster says, pointing to where the Dagger squad is assembled. 

“Thanks for the ride.”

“Thanks for the fries.” 

“Anytime.” 

“Enjoy the rest of your night.” 

“You too.” 

There’s a pause, neither of you knowing what to do. You rise to the tips of your toes, and he dips to let you place a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

His cheeks quickly flush, hearing the jeers, shouts, and wolf whistles, but you drop back down with a laugh.

“Sorry,” he says. “They’re a bunch of idiots.”

He scolds himself for being an idiot as you walk away. He should invite you over or ask for your number, but he’s suddenly tongue-tied. He stares at you, frozen to the spot, long enough to see your friends turn to look at him as you settle into your seat.

Throughout the night, flirtatious glances are passed back and forth, and smiles exchanged when they linger. Of course, it’s Hangman who notices the consequence of Rooster’s error. 

“Looks like you lose again, Rooster,” the blond pilot remarks, a way too smug grin showing off his perfectly white teeth. “Too snug on that perch, and Harvard is gonna take your lady right out from under your beak.”

Rooster doesn’t care if it proves Hangman’s point. He looks directly at you. Harvard is whispering in your ear. You're smiling, but Rooster thinks it's more of a polite, courteous smile than genuine interest. 

But it’s the kick he needs to take action. He looks to Phoenix, Bob, and Mickey, almost pleading, “I need your help.” 

Phoenix nods once, Bob smiles, and Mickey asks, “What?”

“He wants to do the Goose move,” Phoenix explains without Bradley needing to tell her any more. 

“What’s the Goose move?”

“It’s the move his Dad did to get his Mom,” Bob says. 

“I don’t know what that is,” Mickey shrugs. 

“Technically, we've been doing it for years,” Rooster says, “it’s just that this time, it involves my future wife.”

“So, no pressure,” Bob gulps. 

“Relax. I’ve got a plan,” Phoenix winks, gesturing for the three guys to come closer.

Harvard doesn’t seem all that smart, and you wonder if it's an ironic nickname or callsign, as Rooster had explained. Harvard certainly doesn’t understand body language. You’ve tried, unsuccessfully, to put some distance between you three times. The third time he slides his arm around your shoulders. 

Before you can shrug, his arm slips off, and suddenly, a pretty brunette woman is in his place. “Hi,” she says brightly, her back to a flustered-looking Harvard. “I’m Phoenix, and this is Fanboy. We’re friends with Rooster.” 

Butterflies dance in your stomach. Before she can say anymore or you have a chance to wonder why he’s sent his friends to rescue you, the jukebox cuts off, and a collective groan echoes around the room. 

“That was supposed to happen,” Phoenix smiles. Fanboy is speaking quietly to Harvard, and he doesn’t seem happy about whatever is being said, but you're grateful for the interruption. 

There’s a soft twinkling from a piano somewhere in the room, and after a few more notes, you find the source. Phoenix continues, “That’s Bob, and you’ve met Rooster.” 

Your eyes drift up from the piano player and land on Bradley, fingers tapping the wooden top, while Bob continues to find the right melody.

Rooster’s eyes are locked on you, a shy smirk lifting the corner of his mustache. 

“Thanks for the save,” you say to Phoenix but keep your eyes on Rooster. 

“Well, it wasn’t the actual intention, but Harvard can be a bit…” she trails off.

“Thick?” 

“That’s a good word for him,” she laughs.

The bright random notes turn into a clear, rich melody that flows through the room moments before the smooth baritone of Rooster’s voice fills the air. “You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you.”

Damn, he can sing! 

Taking the lyrics literally, he doesn’t avert his eyes while he serenades you. You feel Phoenix’s hand at your elbow, but you can’t look away from the gorgeous man belting out a song just for you. Only when he draws closer do you realize she’s guiding you to him. 

The bar is packed, and the crowd gathers around the piano, but somehow Rooster is always in your line of sight, and then Fanboy is in front of you, splitting the crowd to let you through. 

It feels surreal but magical when somehow there’s a clear path straight to Rooster. It looks like an aisle leading to an altar, and the man that awaits you has been sent from the heavens because he’s gorgeous, kind, funny, and clearly has a talent for commanding a room. You wonder what else you could uncover, given some time.

“At long last, love has arrived,” Rooster sings as you reach his side. Phoenix slips away as you reach for Bradley’s outstretched hand. 

Definitely an altar, and you’ll happily worship here for eternity. Interlocking your fingers with his, he pulls you against him. “Now that I found you, stay,” it’s more than a song, it's a question, and you nod. 

Slowly, he inches closer, and the crowd takes over, singing the chorus, when his lips connect with yours and the world melts away. 

Tag List Info

Take To The Skies: @alexxavicry / @b3autyfuldisast3r / @fandom-princess-forevermore / @imjess-themess / @justagirlinafandomworld / @leigh70 / @letsbys-library / @shanimallina87 / @wildbornsiren / @writercole / @xoxabs88xox / @atarmychick007

Master Lists: Top Gun: Maverick // All The Fandoms

[v3nusxsky]

Hello! Hope all is well hun! Love your agere stories so much! Was hoping to request one!

Enid goes to Larissa curiously since they haven’t seen teacher reader all morning and skipped morning classes. Reader is in their room and they’ve regressed without realizing after having a rough week. You can put you’re own twist to it

Struggling baby?| Agere

*Authors note~ I didn't know how much I needed this until I started to write it. Thank you for the prompt*

Trigger warnings~ Agere little r momma l

Prompt~ see ask^^^^

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You were the potions teacher at Nevermore Academy, all while dating the one and only Larissa Weems. You had your past, just like everyone else, but your methods of with that were ones you didn't want anyone to know about. You feared they would judge you, after all it was unusual for an adult your age to regress. Well truthfully it shouldn't matter but you knew first hand how cruel people could be.

Larissa was wonderful when she accidentally found out by catching you in your little state. You'd created a potion for that allowed you to look younger giving the regression a more realistic feel for you. It was rare that you used it though, only on particularly stressful slips. You had no care giver which made slipping harder until Larissa found you. She took you under her wing, immediately reassuring you that it was okay and you were safe. She knew your past and if this was how you coped then she would do her best to support you. That was the day your little found your momma.

Larissa hadn't heard from you since you her office this morning, she knew you'd have a busy schedule today so it wasn't too much of a concern. But just before your last lesson before lunch, the blonde, haired blue and pink ends wearwolf, came knocking on her door. "Miss Sinclair shouldn't you be in potions now?" She murmured sparing a quick towards the young girl. "Principal Weems, yes but miss Y/l/n hasn't shown up and I thought you should know. Has class been cancelled?" She pondered.

That was most peculiar. You'd never not attended without informing Larissa and you always had a good reason why. So unfortunately Larissa had no reason to give the young girl. "Take it as a study period Enid, I'll go check on Miss Y/n now. Thank you for letting me know." Larissa informed as she stood in to leave alongside the student.

Larissa quickly made her way to your room, her first port of call. Her mind conjuring up all the possibilities for why you teaching your lessons. How long had you not been at work? What if you were hurt or really sick? But there had been none of your warnings signs for regression so she hadn't thought it would be a possibility until she laid eyes on you.

"Precious girl are you little right now?" She murmured coming in the room to crouch down next to you. There you sat scribbling on some paper in a variety of colours only to look at her with tears in your eyes and nod. "Need be indapendant" you stated as if it was a matter of fact. "Baby, momma is here you don't need to be independent" she reassured opening her arms to you as an invite. "Cuddl?" You whimpered to your momma as she nodded with a smile. She doesn't think you've ever moved quicker than you did now, scrambling to clamber into her lap, nose nuzzled into her neck.

After a few moments there with Larissa stroking through your hair, "momma?" You whispered catching her attention. "Mm precious girl?" She hummed. "I pic you?" You stated happily flying off her lap to grab it and proudly bring it to you. There you proceeded to point and babble of your drawing, a drawing you thought was a very flattering picture of your momma. "That's brilliant pretty girl. Momma is very proud, how about I put it on my desk?" She murmured as you smiled so brightly nodding your head in agreement.

"Wuvs you we gets snack?" You mumbled pointing to your belly. Larissa would do absolutely anything for you, so if you wanted a snack you'd get a snack. She may not know why you've regressed so quickly, clearly you had no clue either, but she'd care for you with just as much love and care as she always did.

Word count~ 749

[empyrean-thrones]

CHAPTER NINE

-XADEN-

“You don’t think you’ll need those?” Sorrengail asks, gripping two of her daggers and facing me on the mat with an impressive lack of trembling. Hell, she looks more pissed than she does terrified that I’m about to end her, even though I’ve handed my weapons to Imogen.

“This is reckless,”  Sgaeyl lectures.

“Nope. Not when you brought enough for the both of us.” My mouth quirks into a smile as I crook my fingers at her, then lock my shields firmly in place, since Aetos hovers close by. The second-year is good on the mat, even if he’s a little too straight-laced to really be the best in this place. “Let’s go.”

She takes a fighting stance, and I forget the members of Second Squad surrounding the mat, forget the mission I’m due to fly this weekend, focusing solely on her. Violet Sorrengail. The five-foot-nothing daughter of the general who executed my father. I have every right to ruin her, according to the Codex. She might fall under my chain of command, but she’s not in my squad.

I could snap her neck and no one in this room would interfere. But the hundred and seven souls I’m responsible for would pay the price. So what the fuck am I doing on this mat?

Her posture changes subtly, her wrist flicking a second before she flings a dagger at my damned chest.

I catch it by pure reflex, then cluck my tongue at her. “Already seen that move.”

That  is what I’m doing out here. Took me all of two weeks to realize she’s somehow figured out who she’ll be facing and has been poisoning her opponents. That brilliant, devious mind might regrettably be a complete turn-on, but she’s going to get herself killed if she depends solely on that method—and flinging daggers like a carnival act. To my surprise, the thought doesn’t sit right with me. Nothing about her does.

She attacks in a typical first-year swipe-and-kick combo, which is as easy to predict as it is to block. I pluck the badly balanced dagger from her grip and catch her by the thigh, using her own momentum and slight bodyweight against her to drop her to the mat.

Her hazel eyes flare wide as she stares up at me, fighting to draw breath, and I drop the dagger at her side and kick it out of her reach, toward the squad leader who should have taught her better.

Were she any other opponent, I’d put the blade against her throat, proving my point and ending the match, but fuck me if I don’t feel like I somehow owe the first-year for keeping her mouth shut about the meeting she saw under the oak tree. My form of gratitude just happens to be not killing her as she lies at my feet, battling her own lungs.

Her ribs finally rise, and she heaves herself upward to a sitting position, then tries to plunge a knife in my thigh.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

I block the strike with my right forearm, then take hold of her wrist with my left hand and disarm her as I lean down into her space, mere inches from her face. “Going for blood today, are we, Violence?” I whisper.

Rage shines in those mesmerizing eyes as I drop her blade to the mat and kick it out of reach also. She’s too easy to disarm, and her false confidence that she’s not will get her killed. And why the fuck isn’t she using weapons suited for her body type and fighting style? Not that she actually has  a fighting style yet.

“My name is Violet,” she retorts, and I half expect her to hiss at me like a cat. That’s exactly what she reminds me of, all sleek lines and bared claws. Only the pulse fluttering beneath my fingertips gives away her fear.

Violet  is too soft of a name for her. Too breakable. I’m well aware of the shit people talk about her bones and joints, but from what I’ve seen, the woman has a core of steel.

“I think my version fits you better.” I release her wrist and stand to my full height, offering her a hand up and hoping she’s too smart to take it. “We’re not done yet.”

But she does.

Fuck me, she’s naive. I pull her to her feet, then whip her around before she can get her bearings, twisting her arm behind her back and trapping our hands between us as I tug her hard against my chest. Too naive for this place.

“Damn it!” she snaps.

I slip one of her obnoxiously big daggers from her thigh sheath and lift it to the soft skin of her throat, pinning her in place with my forearm. Her head falls back against my chest, the silver ends of her hair braided up like a crown. She barely reaches my collarbone, so I dip my head so the others won’t hear, and gods she smells really fucking  good like—

No thinking about how she smells, jackass.

“Don’t trust a single person who faces you on this mat,” I lecture quietly near the shell of her ear, careful to keep my mouth off her. Since when do I think about putting my mouth  on an opponent?

“Even someone who owes me a favor?” she retorts, keeping her voice equally low.

Warmth flares in my chest in appreciation of her discretion, her quick observation that this lesson isn’t for public dissemination, and I drop the knife, kicking it to her squad leader just like the other two and ignoring the bluster of threat in his stern expression.

“I’m the one who decides when to grant that favor. Not you.” I release her so I don’t dislocate her shoulder and step back.

She acts immediately, spinning with a raised fist, and I bat it away from my throat.

“Good.” I can’t help but smile as I block her next attempt just as easily. “Going for the throat is your best option, as long as it’s exposed.”

Her cheeks flush, anger narrowing her eyes as she kicks in the same fucking combination she’s already tried, and I grab hold of her thigh again, unsheathing the last dagger there and letting it fall before I release her. I lift my scarred eyebrow in sheer disappointment. She’s smarter than that. “I expect you to learn from your mistakes.” I kick it to Aetos.

She retrieves her next weapon from her rib sheath and takes a defensive stance as she circles me. It’s all I can do not to sigh in complete, utter annoyance. I don’t need to see her to hear every step on the mat behind me as she hesitates.

“You going to prance or are you going to strike?” That should get her moving.

The shadows on the mat give her away, and I twist and duck as she jabs forward, the knife slicing through the air where I’d been standing. At least she really went for it, but the move leaves her exposed, so I use her arm to flip her around the side of my torso, sending her face-first into the mat and following her down.

She gasps when I wrench her arm into a submission hold, forcing her to drop the dagger. Careful to balance most of my weight on my right, I set my left knee onto her back just enough to stress her. She has to learn how to move under pressure, how to think on the edge of death. I strip away another of her daggers and fling it at the squad leader’s feet, then pull another from her ribs and set it to the exposed skin beneath her jaw.

Then I invade what little space she has. “Taking out your enemy before the battle is really smart; I’ll give that to you,” I whisper into her ear, and she tenses beneath me. Yeah, Violence, I know what you’ve been up to. “Problem is, if you aren’t testing yourself in here”—I drag the blade down her neck, careful not to draw blood—“then you’re not going to get any better.”

“You’d rather I die, no doubt,” she spits back, the side of her face squished against the mat.

“And be denied the pleasure of your company?” Sarcasm drips from my retort.

“I fucking hate you.”

A corner of my mouth lifts. Gods, she’s just as merciless as Sgaeyl when it comes to her tongue. “That doesn’t make you special.”

I gain my feet and kick the knives to Aetos, leaving Sorrengail with two more to fight with as I offer my hand again.

She scowls, but doesn’t take the help this time, standing on her own, and another smile curves my mouth. I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. Every single one of her expressions is beautifully raw. There’s no guile. No artifice. But there’s also no control. “She can be taught.”

“She’s a quick learner,” she fires back.

“That remains to be seen.” I take two steps backward and beckon her forward by crooking my fingers again.

“You’ve made your damn point.” Her voice rises to a public level, and Imogen gasps behind me, no doubt worried that I’ll lose my temper and kill the first-year.

But killing her is the last thing on my mind.

“Trust me, I’ve barely gotten started.” I cross my arms and shift my weight back, curious to see what she does next and even more perplexed as to why I care so damned much.

Sure, she’s beautiful, but I’ve never let the symmetry of someone’s facial features sway me. And it’s not the palpable hatred in her ever-changing eyes, either. I’m used to being loathed. But the combination of her hatred and her silence about seeing us meet is too intriguing to ignore—

She moves, and I’m too fucking distracted to react like usual, and when she kicks for the backs of my knees, I fall. Hard.

Holy shit.

“What did I say about being reckless?” Sgaeyl pushes through my shields. “The silver-haired girl is a distraction you can’t aff—”

I plant my feet on that mental hillside in Tyrrendor and reinforce my shields, blocking her out. She’s never going to let me live this down.

Sorrengail lands on my back and attempts a headlock. Good for her. It’s a solid choice, but she isn’t physically strong enough to cut off my air supply. She’s fighting like she’s six inches taller and has another forty pounds on her instead of leaning into her actual strengths.

I don’t bother with her arms. Twisting quickly, I break her grip and grasp the backs of her thighs in one motion, throwing us into a roll that ends with me pinning her back to the mat. Before she can take another breath, I put my forearm against the delicate line of her throat but don’t press.

There are over a dozen different ways to end her in this position, and I have all the leverage. But though my hips anchor hers to the mat, I have most of my weight braced on my left arm so I don’t crush her.

She’s well and fucking caught, and the flash of fear that’s quickly masked by fury in her eyes tells me she knows it, too.

Damn it. I don’t want  to crush her.

What the fuck is happening to me?

She grabs for a dagger and makes the monumental mistake of going for my shoulder.

I abandon her throat and capture her wrist, pinning it above her head. Then I watch her face with rapt fascination as her expression shifts from wide-eyed shock, to tensing fear, to pursed-lipped anger all in a matter of seconds. The speed with which she processes information and compartmentalizes her feelings is such an advantage, and I doubt she even knows it.

Pink flushes up her neck and into her cheeks, and suddenly I find myself studying her for an entirely different reason. The blush, the skittered pulse, the way her gaze flicks toward my mouth for less than a second… I’m not the only one attracted here.

Fuck. This is dangerous. She  is dangerous.

The world outside the mat ceases to exist as my focus narrows to just Violence. She really is stunning, especially when pissed. Tension surges between us, and my heartbeat jumps despite my best effort to lock that shit down. But damn if I’m not critically aware of the feel of her body beneath mine, the warmth of her skin under my fingertips, the way her breath catches as I lower my face to hers slowly.

Sliding my fingers up the heel of her hand, I force her fist open, then toss the blade across the mat before freeing her wrist.

“Get your dagger,” I demand.

“What?” Her eyes fly wide.

“Get. Your. Dagger,” I repeat, moving her hand with mine and dragging it to her ribs, to the last of her daggers. I curl my fingers around hers, grabbing the hilt.

Even her hands are soft. Fragile. Breakable. And if I don’t teach her how to use her petite size to her advantage, the next opponent will use it to shatter her. And for some fucking reason I can’t identify or deny…I care.

Gods damn it.

“You’re tiny.” Anger simmers in my stomach.

“Well aware.” She glares.

“So stop going for bigger moves that expose you.” I bring our laced hands to my side and drag the tip down my ribs. “A rib shot would have worked just fine.” Then I lead our hands around to my back, leaving myself vulnerable for the first time since I walked into this prison of a war college. “Kidneys are a good fit from this angle, too.”

She swallows, and I fight the urge to watch the motion of her throat, holding her gaze instead. I swear, her eyes seem different every time I look into them. No wonder I can’t look away.

I bring our hands to my waist, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Chances are, if your opponent is in armor, it’s weak here. Those are three easy places you could have struck before your opponent would have had time to stop you.”

Her lips part, and she draws a shaky breath.

“Do you hear me?” I’m sure as hell not repeating this lesson.

She nods.

“Good. Because you can’t poison every enemy you come across,” I whisper, watching the blood drain from her face as I level the accusation. “You’re not going to have time to offer tea to some Braevi gryphon rider when they come at you.”

“How did you know?” She tenses under me, and fuck , her thighs clench around my hips.

I have to get the fuck off her before she realizes she has another weapon at her disposal when it comes to me. “Oh, Violence, you’re good, but I’ve known better poison masters. The trick is to not make it quite so obvious.”

Brennan would give one of his frustrated sighs if he knew just how obvious his little sister was. Then again, he’d also try to kick my ass for the position I have Violence in.

A bitter taste floods my mouth. She has no clue he’s alive.

She opens her mouth like she’s about to speak.

“I think she’s been taught enough for the day,” Aetos barks.

It takes every ounce of control I possess not to startle at the sudden reminder that we’re not alone. “He always that overprotective?” I mutter, putting a couple of inches between us.

“He cares about me.” She narrows her eyes at me, which I’m starting to think is her default expression.

“He’s holding you back. Don’t worry. Your little poisoning secret is safe with me.” I arch my scarred brow and hope she gets the hint to keep my secret safe, too. Then I slide our joined hands along her side and sheathe the jewel-hilted blade she has no business carrying. It’s too fucking big for her. Too easy to knock loose.

“You’re not going to disarm me?” she questions as I slip my fingers from hers and lift my weight off her.

Thank gods  she has the common sense to release my hips from the grip of her thighs, because mine has fled, replaced by the urge to leave them right where they were and carry her to the nearest empty room to see just how attracted  we both are.

But that way lies absolute disaster.

“Nope. Defenseless women have never been my type. We’re done for today.” I stand immediately, leaving her there, and walk to the edge of the mat to get my weapons from Imogen.

“What the hell was that?” she whispers, handing back the last of my knives.

“Aetos.” I ignore her question and turn toward the squad leader across the mat, who’s busy coddling Violence as usual.

His head snaps toward mine, and the anger there almost makes me smile.

“She could use a little less protection and a little more instruction.” I level an accusatory look on him until he nods, then turn and walk away.

“You in the mood to spar with first-years?” Garrick asks, keeping pace with me once I’m a few steps from Second Squad, a smile tugging at his mouth. “Or just that  particular first-year?”

“Sometimes I hate how fucking observant you are.”

“It’s hard to miss the way you look at her,” he says, lowering his voice.

“Like I want to kill her?” I retort, spotting an interesting match in Claw Section.

“Or fu—”

“Don’t finish that sentence when I’m in the mood to hit people.” We’re mutually assured destruction against each other, which makes us the perfect sparring partners, but I’m just aggravated enough to do some real damage to my best friend, despite the size he has on me.

“Oh, would you, please?” He puts his hand to his heart and grins. “I need you to use those big, strong hands to show me—”

I shove his shoulder hard enough to send him staggering sideways and keep walking out of his section and into Claw. The farther the better when it comes to Sorrengail.

[babytarttdoodoo]

hi! I've loved all the fic's you've posted so far! could I please make a request for something where Jamie gets officially diagnosed with ADHD and the team (and Roy and Keeley) are like 'well that makes sense' and are just so supportive through the process?

This was a doozy, anon, and I hope I’ve done it justice. Sorry Keeley didn’t get a lot of screentime - it ended up being a lot more introspective.

Thanks for the prompt!

(Prompt Fill Masterpost)

—

It wasn’t like no one had ever suggested it before.

Jamie, in fact, could clearly recall those cautious, gently probing questions Simon had ventured a few months after they’d first met. He was a teacher - a genuinely brilliant one, at that - and had recognised certain behaviours in the smart-mouthed teenager he was suddenly spending an inordinate amount of time around.

Unfortunately, Jamie had been a stubborn, prideful 16-year-old with little more than vicious dismissals for his mum’s cheery new boyfriend.

Years of school report cards and conversations at parents’ evenings echoed the same things.

If Jamie could just focus…

If he really applied himself…

If he tried a bit harder…

Exasperated teachers, tutors and coaches all leaving Jamie feeling stupid and frustrated with their attempts to guide him towards being better. Towards acting normal.

He had learned to live with the fact that some things were just harder for him than they seemed to be for everyone else. He set multiple alarms and reminders on his phone for everything he could think of. He wore jewellery and clothes that he could tug or twist or pull at without drawing too much attention to himself.

He learned to hold his tongue when he was overwhelmed and irritable for reasons he couldn’t define... and tried his best to apologise when he couldn’t keep the harsh words or knee-jerk reactions under control.

He coped.

It had finally taken a suggestion from Dr Sharon, a woman who had built up such an impressive amount of Jamie’s trust in a startlingly short amount of time that he often felt like she knew him better than he did himself, before he thought about doing anything more than that.

She had referred him to a specialist. Jamie made an appointment and answered the questions as best he could. Now, weeks later, it was official. He had ADHD.

Sitting with that information was strange. Deciding what to do with it was worse.

The first person he told was his mum. Obviously. She was reassuring and supportive, like he knew she would be, and even offered to take the train down that weekend to visit. Jamie declined, but he did have another request.

“Can you tell Simon?” he managed to choke out at the end of the call. “I think he’d like to know.”

The next conversation was a bit more complicated.

In amongst the information he’d received with his letter from the clinic were recommendations for ‘workplace accommodations’ - things that could help make ADHD easier to manage in a professional environment.

Most of it was completely irrelevant. Jamie didn’t need to sit in meetings all day or focus on a computer screen - he just needed to play football and that was the one thing he’d never had any problem with. But the advice (which Dr Sharon endorsed) was to discuss options with a manager.

Problem was, his manager was now technically Roy Fucking Kent.

And Jamie had absolutely no idea how to go about saying ‘hey, apparently my brain works differently’ to him in a way that wouldn’t end in either ridicule or dismissal.

(He was aware that he was perhaps being unfair to the man who was in many ways one of his closest friends these days. But there was a long and colourful history there that shaded every new interaction between them with the potential for chaos.)

Finally, driven half demented by days of overthinking it, he printed out a copy of his letter from the clinic and tossed it more or less directly at Roy’s head while he was filling out paperwork in his office. It mercifully landed on his desk, rather than smacking him in the face.

“Well, fuck you, too.” Roy deadpanned, fixing Jamie with a half-hearted glare and making no move to open the folded paper. “What’s that?”

“You could just fucking read it.” Jamie sulked, shoving his hands deep into the pouch of his hoodie. “‘S a letter, innit? From the doctors’.”

That had Roy frowning, what Jamie recognised as concern bunching up his brow. He picked up the document and unfolded it about as aggressively as one conceivably could. Kind of impressive, actually.

Jamie pinpointed the exact moment the information sank in and averted his gaze, locking in on the one part of the desk that wasn’t covered in files or wires or photo frames.

“Right.” Not bad, as far as reactions went. In his peripherals, Jamie saw Roy nod and readjust his hold. “... thank you. For, um, letting me know.”

“Yeah, well.” Jamie shrugged, plucking at the seams inside his pocket and studiously keeping his eyes trained on the same corner of Roy’s desk. “The leaflets and that they gave me said I should tell my boss. So. Now I have.”

“Right.” Roy repeated, agreeing like that made sense. He cleared his throat. “I know fuck all about it.”

“Join the club.”

That eased some of the weird tension that had been brewing and Roy huffed a laugh.

“Fair enough. Are you alright?”

Jamie gave that due consideration and finally dragged his stare back to Roy’s face before answering. “I think so. It’s weird, being told your brain is all…” He waved a hand around. “But it’s… nice. Knowing it’s not just me.”

Roy narrowed his eyes, assessing the truth of Jamie’s words, and seemed to accept what he said. “Is it alright if I put it in your file? Nate and Beard might have some input. Higgins should know too, probably.”

“Whatever.” Jamie chewed on his lower lip, mulling the implications over. “I don’t want to have to, like, say anything about it. But, yeah, you can tell whoever.” 

“That include the team?”

Jamie sucked in air through his teeth and pursed his mouth. Why that set his teeth on edge, he didn’t know. They were good lads - not always the most sensitive but they all (Jamie included) tried extremely hard to lift each other up when a difficult topic wormed its way into the safe space of their locker room.

This wasn’t Colin coming out or Sam fighting back against racist dickheads, though. It was just Jamie and his weird fucking brain.

“Dunno. I mean. Yeah. If you want.”

If Roy noticed his hesitation, he didn’t mention it.

Not a lot changed over the next few weeks. Jamie was still Jamie, after all. His quirks hadn’t disappeared overnight or become suddenly worse.

He coped. Just a bit differently. 

And so did the people around him.

A few days after his talk with Roy, Jamie was confronted by a smiling Keeley bearing a colourful gift bag: a present of cool rings that had spinning bands and mini gears he could fidget with, for ‘no reason’ other than she’d been thinking of him.

He spotted Sam with a book on the bus after a match, the title confusing him until he looked it up later. And then it cropped up again and again: on the shelf of Isaac’s locker, in the passenger seat of Colin’s car, sticking out of Jan’s bag.

Higgins approached him with a quiet and pleasantly confident assurance that the club’s management would do everything in their power to ensure Jamie was granted approval to use any medications that became necessary to his wellbeing.

The coaching team gave him a (mildly offensive) signal to use when he needed a minute, either to stick in his airpods and tune out, or to shuffle down to the boot room and breathe. More often than not, Dani would be waiting for him afterwards, beaming and ready to provide physical contact or launch into a full discussion on any inane topic he could think of.

Everyone was careful not to get outwardly annoyed when he asked them to repeat themselves or if he lost track of time. They let him talk when he went on a tangent. They were quick to forgive when he interrupted them or spoke without thinking.

They were… brilliant. It was brilliant.

Jamie carried on his therapy and worked hard to manage his symptoms and learn new behaviours. Despite Higgins’ promises, he decided against trying any of the medications offered to him, too concerned about weight loss and what (to his mind) felt like an unfair advantage on the pitch.

Diet and exercise became about more than just his job, they were further tools he could use to keep in control. He felt calmer most days and when he didn’t, Roy was there with extra workouts and an open door if he just needed a safe space.

It wasn’t perfect, of course it wasn't. Jamie still fixated on it when he fucked up and acted impulsively, screwing over his team or friends. He still let people down sometimes and struggled to understand how or why. He still needed to be held accountable. Shame at not being better still occasionally reared its head.

But that was okay.

Jamie was coping. And he wasn’t alone.

[leoandraphssoulmate]

The Worst Part is Not Knowing

A TMNT Short

LeoXFem!Reader

Click clack clack click

You wrapped your arms around yourself, staring out at the rain. It was coming down in heavy sheets, obscuring the street below. You sighed, wondering when it would finally let up. You were tired of the gray hazy days and long cold nights. You were so ready for the sun! To feel it on  your face, your arms, your shoulders. Silently, you pressed your hand to the window, saying a silent prayer for your beloved. Nights like these made you nervous for him and his brothers. The rain made it easier for bad men to hide in the shadows. Leaving your extended family vulnerable. 

You glanced at the clock on the small nightstand next to your bed. 1:00 a.m.. He was late. He normally stopped by around midnight. Your apartment was conveniently on his route back towards the lair. The cup of tea that you made him sat chilled by the window, steam no longer rising from its center. Your heart skipped a beat as you tried to shove away the hundreds of negative thoughts that threatened to pull you under. You refused to believe that something had happened to him. To any of them. He must have got caught up with something. Maybe a robbery? A mugging?

You smirked to yourself, remembering how you met him, once upon a time finding yourself in an alley at the end of a gun. You remembered how calm and collected he had been when he rescued you and so very sweet. The fact that he was a 6 foot mutant turtle absolutely meant nothing to you. He was taken aback by your nonchalant attitude. So much so that he felt comfortable enough to introduce himself to you. 

“My name is Leonardo.” His brilliant blue eyes sparkled as he looked you over. “But you can call me Leo.” He smirked.

Leo. The most beautiful name in the world.

Slowly, his brothers introduced themselves as well. 

That was five years ago. 

How time flies! Especially when you finally find where you belong. Over the course of those five years, you found yourself down in the sewers more than you ever thought possible. Leo wanted you to move in with him, but you just weren't ready. Now, staring out the window, you regretted that choice. What if something did happen? You quickly glanced at your cell. Should you call? What if he’s in the middle of a fight? Would it distract him? Making something inadvertently happen to him? Your gut twisted and squirmed. Now was the time when you really hated that Splinter didn’t have a cell phone. 

Your mind whirled. Who could you call? Casey? You looked at the clock again. Would he even answer? You licked your lips, walking over to your phone. You slid your finger over Casey’s name, your breath hitching as you waited for him to answer. 

“Y/N?” His sleepy voice came over the line. 

“I’m sorry, Casey. I’m having a bit of a hard time.” You explained. 

“What’s going on?” He asked, more alert. 

“It’s Leo. He’s late. He’s never late!” Your emotions began spiraling out of control. 

“Hey, Y/N! Calm down, hun! I’m sure he’s ok! I haven’t heard anything from the guys. I’m sure they’d call if he wasn’t ok.” He said, his words soothing your mind.  “I’d call you if that ever happened.”

Tears stung your eyes. “I didn’t think about that.” You said softly.

“Tell you what. Let me give Raph a call and I’ll call you back. Ok?” He said. 

You nodded. “Yeah. Ok. Thank you, Casey.”

“Sure thing! Be right back!” He hung up, a buzzing sound filling your mind as you pulled the phone away from your ear. 

Seconds felt like hours as you stared down at your phone, your eyes fixed on the time. 1:30am.. You squeezed your eyes shut, intense dread filling your gut. “Please be ok!” You whispered harshly. You were definitely going to insist that you at least be able to text him while they were out on patrol from now on! There’s no way your heart could handle another night like this! Your hand absentmindedly squeezed your phone as you sat down on the edge of your bed. “Come on, Casey!” 

“Hey.” Leo’s voice suddenly drifted across your bedroom.

You instantly stood, your phone falling to the floor as you locked eyes with him. “Leo.” You whispered. 

He took a few steps toward you, the base of his shell dripping as he left wet footprints on your carpet. “I’m sorry I’m late, Y/N.” 

You thought you’d be angrier at him, that you’d sling a few biting remarks, but the truth was, you were just glad he was there and most importantly that he was OK! You shook your head slightly, a few tears falling down your cheeks. Without another word you ran to him. You wrapped your arms around him, your pajamas soaking up the rain from his plastron. Leo sighed, wrapping his arms around you as well as he kissed the top of your head. 

“We need to come up with a better arrangement.” You said as you pulled back to look up at him. 

“I agree. Does this mean you’ll move in with me?” He smirked. 

“Among other things.” You sighed, leaning up to kiss him. Just behind you, your phone dinged. You didn't need to look to know it was Casey texting you that Leo was in fact quite alright.

@leosgirl82 @thelaundrybitch

[fangirl-saya]

The Reddit Q&A

Because I'm a normal person with normal amount of appreciation for Renfield and Hoult, I went through this thread and pulled out all the replies that had to do with Hoult. Enjoy. Reddit thread

Putting it under "Keep reading" because long post is long.

Hoult: I watched all of them but Dwight Frye is obviously such an iconic wonderful performance and one that I did try to take a lot of inspiration from.

Hoult: They’re all difficult for different reasons. I don’t have as great an answer as that… but playing Beast was quite challenging simply because of the makeup. [To Cage] Which reminds me, I really felt for you in this. You took it in stride.

Hoult: Something that I love is when you’re on a set and you open a drawer and someone has taken the time to write a letter. It may never end up on screen, but it’s so incredible that they took the extra step to make each aspect of the film feel more real and to make that moment special.

Hoult: We were all (the cast) growing up together. So, whilst we were pretending to do all those things on the show and be those characters, outside of it, we were becoming great friends and experiencing all those things in real life. We were 16 and 17, so to share that time with those people and still be friends with them now is very special. I feel lucky to be a part of it.

Hoult: Hmmm. I liked the first John Wick. Speed as well.

Cage: I’m just going to go on record now, Nick is a hell of a dancer, and he worked his ass off to do this incredible dance sequence which didn’t make it into the movie, but it was brilliant. That was a lot of work.

Hoult: That was, yeah, that was a lot of work and rehearsals. Choreography came up with this wonderful fantasy sequence of Renfield dancing with bugs, just over the moon with love. But yeah, sadly it didn’t make it into the film but maybe it will end up as a deleted scene?

Cage: No reason in terms of method, but the fangs were genuine fangs, they were ceramic and quite pointy. So I did bite my lip a few times which made me drink my own blood.

Hoult: I quite like the taste of my own blood.

Cage: There is something warm and fuzzy about it.

Hoult: We were inside a church at one point, during a hurricane. It wasn’t paranormal, but it was eerie. We had to stop filming and all gather together towards the center of this church and wait out this hurricane.

Cage: One of the recent ones, THE MENU, I just thought it was so delicious. That movie is about cooking so that is the right word. It was one of my favorite movies of the year. Darkest comedy in the most delicious way.

Hoult: Face Off, Con Air, Pig, Adaptation, The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent.

Hoult: There’s a line that she added (in a scene in the apartment and I was making her cookies) and she said “I don’t want your murder cookies." That was a very funny line that she made up. That gets me every time.

Hoult: I like the idea of Frankenstein's monster, but Dracula would be up there as one of my favorites as well. 

Hoult: I mean he’s horrendous on some levels, but he’s also quite caring and nurturing on others. So it’s always a matter of perspective, isn’t it? If you saw a vignette of the nicest moments of their lives together it would seem picturesque and wonderful. And then at its worst it probably is horrific and as bad as it can get. So it’s both things at the same time.

Cage: I’m fairly certain that Dracula and Renfield had a few wonderful laughs together over the years. Big laughs? That’s probably the better word to use.

Hoult: Thank you so much. In some ways, tonally, these are similar films and I love making those horror comedy/twisted genres. If you like those, hopefully you’ll like Renfield.

Hoult: I learned today that Nick edited Shadow of The Vampire, which I didn’t know and I was surprised by it.

Cage: I don’t think anything surprises me about Nick Hoult. He’s making all the right moves and I knew he would.

Hoult: For me? Hot and sour soup.

Cage & Hoult: Both did all the time.

Hoult: Oh I wouldn’t want to say a least favorite. I like them all.

Cage: Thank you. You're great too.

Hoult: To quote a great actor, '"Thank you. You're great too" -- Cage'

...

Thanks for the questions! We gotta go see the children of the night about a bite to eat - but make sure to watch RENFIELD, only in theaters on April 14th.

[ihaveacorgi]

Zuko used to love sitting on the roof as a child. It was a way to get away from the servants and nannies, the tutors and instructors, and most of all, his father. It was his happy place, his escape, the one place in the palace where he could just… be. It was just a roof, maybe nicer than most others, but it served the same function in the end. It was just a roof, but it meant so much to Zuko. And he knew Sokka wouldn’t understand that, that he had no idea why Zuko was so nervous to bring him out here. It was just a roof, afterall.

Sokka seemed to love it too, from the awed way he looked up at the stars and out over Caldera. “This is beautiful, Zuko,” he breathed, turning his brilliant smile towards Zuko. “I bet this is how Yue sees the world. It’s incredible. She would’ve loved this,” he continues, gazing sadly up at the moon. And Zuko knew it didn’t mean anything, but he couldn’t help the spike of jealousy that flared in his chest, regardless.

Zuko stamped it down and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, though he had never met Yue and knew nothing about her. It was what was expected, so he said it.

“Thank you for showing me,” Sokka said, as he leaned over to kiss Zuko. They existed like that, in stolen, hidden moments, cloaked in shadows and darkness, unable to be open like Katara and Aang.

“Sokka, I… I wanted to tell you something.” Zuko swallowed heavily. That was the whole reason for showing Sokka this place. He wanted somewhere that he felt… safe, for this. “I… um, I wanted to tell you how I got the scar.”

“Oh,” he replied quietly, his voice lacking any hint of joking or amusement in the way it so rarely did. And Zuko was sure Sokka had probably guessed. He was smarter than the entire Fire Nation court combined, and Zuko’s father hadn’t exactly hidden his hatred of his son well, nor had Zuko been able to hide his fear of his father.

“I… I’m sure you’ve guessed, what happened. O- or someone told you, li- like Uncle Iroh, or Aang might know, but I… I wanted you t- to hear it from, you know, me,” Zuko began, haltingly, stuttering and tripping over a few words as he tried to find the right ones to say. He’d never really been good at words and sharing his unfiltered thoughts rarely ended well, but he was going to try his Agni-damned hardest, because Sokka deserved to know. He deserved to know it how it was, not some twisted-up version, told by one of the witnesses and warped by hatred or sympathy. No, Sokka should know the truth, and Zuko knew there were only two people in the world who would tell it to him. And there was no chance Aang or Zuko would let Sokka anywhere near Ozai, bending or no.

“Ok,” Sokka replied, pressing a kiss to Zuko’s temple. “You can tell me, Zuko.”

“It… well, I guess it started because I asked Uncle to let me into a war council. Or… maybe, maybe it was before that. I, uh, I was always a disappointment. My father, uh, Ozai, he used to say that Azula was born lucky, but that I was, uh, lucky to be born. And, well, you know Azula. She was a prodigy, you know? She was always better at fire bending than me, and, well, Ozai always favored her. But I tried, Sokka. I wasn’t… I wasn’t trying to slack off, or fail on purpose, or make mistakes. I did my best to make him proud, but… he just… didn’t love me. Or… maybe he never loved anyone. I don’t… I don’t know. But, uh, anyway, when I was around thirteen, I asked Uncle to let me join a war council. He told me to be quiet, not to say anything. And I, I should’ve listened, Sokka. Uncle, he’s usually right, you know? But, well, I– I didn’t listen. There was this general, uh… I don’t remember who, actually. Uncle probably knows. Anyway, he wanted to sacrifice a division of new recruits, the 49th – who were probably drafted, come to think of it. But they were young, and he wanted to send them up against part of the Earth Kingdom army as a distraction and come around the back for a completely insignificant piece of land. It was… it was dishonorable. Barbaric. We were… I was told we were better, back then. That we wouldn’t… that we weren’t like that. So, I spoke out. I thought he would be proud,” Zuko spat the word. “I thought that would make him proud, Sokka. That I would be showing him I was capable of leading, of thinking about our people the way a good Fire Lord is supposed to, but, uh, that’s not what happened. The general challenged me to an Agni Kai, a fire bending duel over honor, because, by speaking against his plan, I had insulted him.”

Sokka took one of Zuko’s hands, and he realized he was shaking. “You didn’t fight the general, did you?”

Zuko shook his head. “It… it was my father’s– it was Ozai’s war room, and I had disrespected it… disrespected him. I… I didn’t fight him, Sokka. I couldn’t fight him, and I begged. I knelt and I begged, like a coward, and he burnt me. It was his right, I forfeited, he won. His words to me were ‘you will learn respect. Suffering will be your teacher,’ and, uh, and then he banished me. He told me that I… that I could come back if I captured the Avatar. For, uh, for context, your sister didn’t get Aang out of that iceberg for another, uh, three years, give or take. He expected me… no, he hoped that I would die, first from the burn, then again in exile, but I…” Zuko laughed bitterly. “I thought he wanted me back. That he’d offered me a way home because… because deep down, that’s what he wanted. That I could… that I could finally make him proud.”

“That… that wasn’t your fault, Zuko,” Sokka replied, wiping a stray tear that Zuko hadn’t noticed.

Zuko sighed, wearily. “I know, Sokka. I was a child. A stupid one, but a child. I just, I wanted you to know.”

“Why didn’t you tell us when you tried to join Aang during the war? He would’ve understood. He’s a very forgiving person.” Sokka asked, but he looked like he knew the answer.

“I didn’t want your pity. I wanted– no, I needed to know that I could… that I could do better than Ozai. I still, sometimes I think I’ll become like him. I get so angry, sometimes, and I… I wonder if it’s just in my blood. I… I asked Aang to kill me, if I’m ever like him. I made him promise. If– if he ever tries, let him, Sokka.” Zuko’s voice was barely above a whisper. “I love you, so much, Sokka, but you can’t… you can’t let me turn into a monster.”

Sokka just pulls him closer and promises him that, if necessary, he would kill Zuko himself. It’s not what lovers are supposed to say, in these situations. Zuko knows that they’re supposed to tell each other that they’d never become that, that they’d always protect each other. But this, this promise is far more comforting, because if Zuko has to die by someone’s hand, he’d rather it be Sokka’s.

And, if Sokka spends that night crying for the childhood that Zuko lost, swearing to himself that he’ll never, never do anything to hurt the beautiful boy next to him, the broken, angry, but, above all, kind boy sharing his bed. That, no matter what Zuko did, he would never raise so much as a pinky finger against him, because there was nothing Zuko could do to end up anything like his father – even back when he was screaming about honor and trying, so hard, to be just like him – then that was between him and Yue, and no one else.

[yandere-fics]

I kind of imagine their spirit stuck in the item and being a looming spirit, but the reader and the OC are linked mentally. Like in the field while fighting their more focused of keeping reader safe and guiding their actions so they're in the item. While when it's calm, maybe walking through a market then they come have a "body" and loom.

I also have the idea that they have very limited control over the readers body. As well as having different kinds of control due to them being different items.

Like if Abigail sees reader do something that puts them in danger she jerks their arm hard enough to make them stumble back. As if she's grabbed them by the wrist. And when they try to leave to go on some dangerous adventure the hand that she's worn on grabs the other to stop reader from opening the door.

With Elisha who's a hair tie or a choker she might have slight control over the readers mind since she's so close the readers head. Same thing with Theanna and Ainsly.

I also think that when you realize how toxic they are they have ways to stop you from removing them.

Abigail constricts around you hand so tight she might end up breaking it. Veronia just wraps around you like a cocoon. If Elisha's a choker she tightens until you either tap out or pass out. If she's a hair tie then twists and pulls on your hair so hard it feels like you're being scalped. Ainsly makes the pendant untouchable whether it her heating it up or electrifying the thing. And Theanna squeezes around your temple harder and harder it feels like she's going to cave your head in.

Again this is just spooky brainrot so if you have anymore ideas feel free in hopping on bus. I'm interested in what you think too.

(I'm so sorry this took so long since I had to gather my thoughts on it but it's finally here, please enjoy.)

♡ Them As Cursed Objects ♡

Perhaps putting on the faintly glowing crown of the former leader who rose to power through mysterious methods was a bad idea, but with your fellow rebels gathering around you, you could deal with the after effects later. For now the kingdom needed a symbolic leader and you could always relinquish control to a real leader later so you put it on.

She didn't appear immediately, which now you realize was the crown luring you into a false sense of security. She wanted to make sure she got it right with this ruler so it started with your dreams being invaded. Dreams with brilliant ideas for how to lead the kingdom towards peace. Things that made you feel as though it were destiny for you to take control since you saw the perfect way to run things as you slept.

Then the specter from the corner of your eye. She looked to be a noble woman, dressed in the garb of a prince but when you turned to look at her, she was gone. It started as being in the corner of your dreamscape, weird dreams that you always remembered when you woke up and were way more comprehensible than before.

It wasn't long before she appeared in court, invisible to those around her, except you. Almost as if giving the message that she was behind all the peace in your kingdom, that you shouldn't allow the power to taint you. And you, well you were far more respectful than previous kings, it only seemed fair that you leave offerings for the spirit that was so generous to guide your decisions.

You weren't aware that she was tied to the crown until one day you were set to meet another noble, someone who could be your consort, when the spirit appeared and your crown felt as though it was tightening painfully. She glared in your room, and you obeyed, afterall she must have some reason that this one will not work out.

So you tried again, and again, and again, and it was always the same thing. There wasn't really any way to ask the spirit who you should marry since she never seemed to talk except for in dreams, and well in dreams you always seemed to forget to broach the subject.

It wasn't until two years into your reign when you began to discuss replacements, that she finally spoke and you almost wish she hadn't because it seemed the spirit thought of herself as the king and you as her queen. Like you two were romantically entangled and now that you knew that, she was only more persistent in her advances.

"I can not allow MY queen to retire, I swear anyone that you attempt to give the crown to share perish by my hand until you resume wearing the crown." It was in the library, you were looking through books of noble families who supported the rebellion to find a suitable candidate, when those words came out, the spirit shredding your book to pieces.

"That book was property of the royal library, please don't damage any property." You stood up and rushed out of the library, realizing it was kind of stupid considering that the spirit would always be at your location but you had to get out when you considered how possessively the spirit spoke to you.

She seemed to subsist until later in the day when she approached you in your chambers, you now being acutely aware of how the spirit watched you sleep at night. All her gazes as you danced at balls made sense now. When you laughed and got close to your rebel buddies. How angry she looked at your proposal letters, taking them and throwing them in the fire as she read them from behind you.

"I refuse to allow anyone else to be my queen, as long as the crown lasts, you shall be my queen and we shall rule together, darling." Her cold lips gave you a kiss on the cheek as she sat on your bed for the first time since this had begun and beckoned you. And of course, like a fool you followed, afterall who could disobey the spirit who made your kingdom so prosperous.

The hair tie was intoxicating, cursed artifacts always were but this one particularly so. It had made it's way into your wares and well, you had to know what the item was before you could sell it to your customers. You knew a curse object when you saw one so you felt it was best to try it on to see the effect.

It was only a day after that you generally seemed happier, your sleep was better, you seemed healthier, and your mind was clearer than ever. It was magnificent. Yet, you knew it was cursed for a reason and you didn't want to be responsible for a death by giving someone a product that they don't know everything about. It had to be tested by you, especially as you had warding devices around to ward off anything too malicious.

Some days it changed form, to a simple choker, like it could anticipate what you would want to wear that day, as if the object almost aimed to please? Cursed objects never usually were so friendly but you surmised this wasn't the typical object that you were dealing with.

Perhaps something cursed by accident without malice, an object made for nefarious purpose that had a will of it's own and didn't want to hurt people. Well that thought was disproven quickly, so quickly that you might have gotten whiplash.

There the spirit stood, in the middle of the market place, smiling as she killed the guards that stole all of your wares. Sure your wares were illegal but the only reason you got them confiscated was because you didn't want to pay a bribe. Well now you figured out why the object was cursed, but strangely, you didn't feel the need to take it off, even after seeing her tap the guards with her cold hands and causing them to instantly fall to the ground.

Your first impression of the spirit was that she was clearly loyal to her master, it would make her a great object to keep around, you couldn't sell this, it was too good for protecting your business. The second thing you noticed was she looked cute, the kind of girl that doesn't look like she would do these things, she didn't seem to fit the setting, as if she was born in another world.

You barely spoke to her but she spoke often, sitting next to you at your stall and telling you little secrets about every customer who passed. She never seemed to harbor bad intentions towards your customers either, sure she was protective but otherwise she seemed non-violent.

Or maybe that was the hair tie manipulating you to justify all of her actions. Either way, your life was better now so did it even matter if the spirit was made with malice or not? You couldn't even bring yourself to care about how it had made it's way into your wares or why it looked somewhat unfamiliar to this world. Why the hair tie came with a cute spirit with the power to kill in a single touch. It never mattered to begin with.

At least until a fling of yours visited your room at the inn one night, someone with no malicious intent but the girl didn't see it that way. One tap was all it took and you had a big mess to clean up. Oh well, it really didn't bother you, afterall things were so much better than before, right?

Coming from a family of sword fighters and not learning to sword fight made you the black sheep of the family. You were much more interested in becoming a proper lady and obtaining the love of a knight, but at the current moment you were from a lesser family ans so the only way to earn your way to court was to be exceptional. That was how you would be able to catch the eye of a pretty knight.

You did have one skill, and that was lore on magical items. Ones that made the wielder invisible on the battlefield, one that would get you exactly what you needed, fame and glory. A handsome lady who would swear a knight oath to you.

And thus began a year long journey to visit any old dusty caves that you could in order to find any object that called to you. Still you found nothing until you were alerted to a cave that had been caved in near your families property. And what is any desperate lady to do except to take a pickaxe and bust your way in there.

Your family would forgive you when your hard work paid off, and paid off it did when atop a pile of untouched goodies sat a beautiful knight, holding a glove and seemingly looking at you.

In truth she had been buried there for years and was unable to wander far from her glove, but before the cave in she would go to the edge and see you reading books of love letters in the meadow, hoping that when you got to court that a lady would swear and oath to you.

Abigail never got to have that in her human life before she was bound to the glove, but if she got you to put the glove on then you'd both get something that you wanted. She knew that knights were rarely loyal even after and oath of loyalty, and she knew your chances of going to court were slim to none, so she'd have to give the pretty maiden what she desired.

It's only fair since you pulled her out of the cave, and this way, you'd be protected no matter what. She'd always be able to guide you out of danger and she'd have complete control over her precious lady so she could guarantee that you wouldn't be meandering with any foolish squires, desperate for a crumb of attention(coochie).

The spirit, she called herself Dame Parley, though said you could call her any name you liked as it had been so many years that she forgot her mortal name, you decided on Abigail, wrote you lover ballads almost every day. You presumed she was just so grateful to be free from the cave.

Sure it was nice to have the attention of a knight but this wasn't what you were expecting, she rarely even allowed you out on the battlefield despite now having enough skill to become a hero. She didn't seem to want you to make your name known, content to stay on your small family estate.

You were the one who wanted a knight to swear their oath to you, and what was a more permanent oath than a cursed glove that promised you would be the only lady in their life and that if you ever died, they would have the glove thrown into a flame to go with you.

Veronia, the spirit, made a very nice travel companion. She said that she was bound to the coat in order to maintain the original masters health but now that you were the owner, she had to help you wherever you decided to go. You thought of her as a companion that others were unable to see.

She liked you far more than any other fool she had been made to serve, putting in more attention to detail than she had done prior. You actually spoke with her and bantered with her on your journeys, unlike the previous adventurers who had worn her.

Adventurers did tend to be a selfish bunch, you knew that all too well, your travels had been filled with strife before your luck changed and you met Veronia in an equipment store. You got a wonderful deal too since no one seemed to notice she was attached to the coat.

Your most common complaint on the road was having to cocoon in Veronia's coat temporarily so the other adventurers who were destroying your camp would see you, and so you wouldn't see when Veronia made her appearance and slaughtered them brutally.

You always wondered why that was the only time she showed herself to people other than you, but otherwise you weren't too bothered. She was just your companion until you reached the quests end after all and she was good company, minus the murder.

Veronia didn't see it your way. How could she? I mean despite being a spirit, she also had a destined mate and it was you. It did take her longer to discover that then it would have if she had her physical form still, but all that mattered was that at the end of the day, she had finally found her mate.

Now she just had to find a way to broach the news to you. You'd understand right? She was your only companion on the trip, at least consistent companion, others tried joining but were often unsettled by her aura being all around you.

You were also the exception to the people that found her aura to be haunting. Previous users wanted her off as fast as they could, often thinking using the coat was more trouble than it was worth but you had been wearing her for months now so surely you'd accept her as your eternal companion.

Of course, you couldn't even find any complaints with this, being on the road was dreadfully lonely and having permanent company would be a blessing, right? Yeah, let's go with that.

Ainsley had come to you with the bargain first, the pendant dangling from her hands. You had limitless potentially when it came to the study of magic but very little mana. Ainsley had infinite mana but no body anymore to continue to use it with.

She was property of the magic academy but no one had been allowed to wear her until she decide she wanted you to be her wearer and the academy had to oblige though they were warned not to warn you of any of the side effects.

She'd fallen in love with you as she saw your study, the way your mind worked when it came to magic was incomparable and she knew that you two must be destined for each other. She just had to make the circumstances to make it happen.

It wasn't hard to make the choice to wear the necklace, although you were a little bit bothered by the flirtatious spirit inside, a spirit was all she was so it wasn't like anything could actually happened and you wanted to progress your research before marrying your wonderful fiance so it was a win in your book.

Ainsley really wanted to give you privacy to begin with, she really did, she swears, but seeing you giggle and kick your legs like a schoolgirl when you received letters from home, was just pushing her limits.

For a genius, you were so blind to her advances so she should have seen this coming. She needed to work harder, after all you two were soulmates and with your weird circumstances, it meant she had to push for the relationship much harder. You'd come around.

She had almost free roam of the academy but usually chose to remain at your side, near the necklace so she could guide you in the right direction when you needed a firm scolding. Her free roam would work to her advantage.

The kingdom was desperate to keep her infinite well of mana on their side so they'd do her almost any favor, including sending a woman to seduce your fiance and then send you proof of the seduction so you'd realize that being with mortals when you were on the cusp of immortality, was extremely foolish.

The immortality was just a fun little surprise she'd tell you about later once you finally were rid of the mortals who were holding your studies back. Afterall, only those with a use were good enough to be near her baby girl.

[optimist-pine]

Alone | Don West x Reader (Lost in Space 2018)

Word Count: 1,404

Warnings: Angst, probably depression, thoughts of wanting to end one's life, loneliness

Summary: You're struggling and Don comforts you

---

Out of all the assumptions you had made about what space travel might entail, loneliness was not among them. How could you possibly feel alone traveling with hundreds of people past trillions of brilliant stars? How could you have the time with all the routines and schedules and required tasks keeping you sufficiently busy?

But then again you never really thought you'd be stranded in space. And then the whole alien robot thing happened. And because the odds seemed to be astronomically stacked against you, stranded yet again. 

Suffice to say, it's a lot to take in sometimes.

You pull your legs tightly in towards your chest, your body folded and crammed into the co-pilots chair. The metal armrest digs into the skin of your calf and your back aches from the way your spine is curved. The grey waves outside the window usually help - they aren't. Your heart is crying. No - that's not it - your eyes are crying, but your heart just hurts. It's probably okay. Yeah, it's okay, and you're okay and everyone here is fine. At least you all have each other...

Well, the Robinsons have each other. And you're glad for it. Dr. Smith - whoever she is - probably has her multiple personalities keeping her company or something, you don't care to know. And Don even has Debby. You're the only one on this ship - on the entire planet - who is absolutely alone.

The waves pounding on the shore are supposed to lose you in them, that's how this works, you stare until the longing, the wrench twisting up your insides, fades and goes numb and takes you too. Your lungs are trying to do their job but they're not working. It's like they're broken too. The waves, waves come and they're not alone. 

But you are. Compared to them you're small and far away and you can't even touch them because they'd kill you. Maybe that wouldn't be so bad - surely it'd be faster than this - this is agony. And you haven't realized it until now but it's killing you.

Your hands press against your mouth, some vague reminder that there are people sleeping, not to be bothered. Your hands are wet and salty and maybe this is it. Maybe the sea is finally coming to take you with it this time. If only -

"Who's- oh, what's...What is it? What's wrong?" It's Don. Turn around, please, just go away. But no. Something heavy settles on your shoulders. "Hey, hey, it's alright. Don's here now it's all gonna be okay. Shhh..."

Every piece of you is broken. Falling apart. If he would just go away. You wish he wouldn't see you like this. You want to be alone. No. You are alone... Aren't you?

His hands are warm. You are a girl made of ice. A crack, a thaw flows from your shoulders. Then down your arms, faster now. You're falling. Surely you'll shatter when you hit the hard floor. But no, you're thawing faster now. 

"I've got you." He says. Rumbling up out of him like summer thunder rolls across the land. And you are the rain. You shake and you pour and drench your face, his shirt, his arm with tears. You feel your heartbeat slow every time his hand trails down your head, smoothing your hair, slowly pulling it from your face and tucking the strands behind your ear. Either he's rocking you or it's your sobs as your lungs try to regain control again.

He holds you for forever it seems. He is warm and soft and his hands hold so much care despite their roughness. He is not like the sea.

"Why?" You whisper. Why do you care about me? Your head screams.

Don's movements pause for a moment before continuing. "Why what?" He asks quietly. He sounds tired and guilt pulls at you. Your fault.

Your breaths are small hiccups now. You can hear his heartbeat pressed against your ear, rhythmic, soothing the crater inside of you. "Why...why are you here?" 

"Do I have to have a reason why?" He asks, pulling you just a little bit closer. You've never felt more safe than you do now, his arms are strong like a shield around you. Protecting you from yourself. You've never felt more vulnerable either. These feelings are ugly and messy and you're a disaster that no one was ever supposed to see. "I'm not just going to leave you alone."

Your heart lurches, it's trying to break away. "I'm sorry, you shouldn't have to... I'm such a..." You gesture vaguely.

He chuckles, "Hey, who isn't? Do you... Do you want to talk about it?"

"No, no.... This's good." Your hand lay on his chest, palm against the worn cotton of his shirt. Warm and soft like all of him seems to be. "You can talk if you want though... feels good." Please, please do.

"Okay... Okay, yeah, I can do that." The vibrations are so comfortable it isn't long before you feel your eyelids sliding shut. Like the purr of a cat or how car rides magically lull babies to sleep. You can't really follow what he's saying, something about Debby molting you think. Your heart doesn't feel quite so lost now. It's been pulled out of a long dead winter and sun rays warm it, melting away the hard parts a little at a time. 

You don't want it to end. If only you could stay in this moment just a little while longer...

You wake in the morning in your bed. Alone. No, not alone anymore, you remind yourself. Maybe you never really were.

You feel guilty when Don shows up at breakfast, dark circles under his eyes, but he's no quieter than usual. His smile is charming, eyes seeming to follow you until you quietly reassure him you're okay now. Well, maybe not okay yet, but better at least.

After breakfast you pull him aside, struggling to control the impulse to stretch out your hand and feel the luring pulse of his heart. "Thank you for last night... For reminding me I'm not alone." You say a little awkwardly. For keeping me from falling apart entirely.

He shoves his hands in his pockets like he's trying to keep from fidgeting. "Maybe next time you could let me know? If you're ever feeling... I- I understand." He says, eyes dropping to the floor for a moment before they flicker back to yours. He looks like he wants to say more and you've never known Don to be short on words.

It's an odd thing to experience. Do you? Do you truly understand the way I feel? You hope your cheeks aren't as pink as they're starting to feel. "Deal." You say with a nod.

"How about some gin rummy tonight? After dinner?" He asks quickly like he's afraid you'll say no unless he jumps on the moment before it passes.

You're lonely too.

You feel blind and selfish for not having considered it sooner. For assuming you're not needed. It seems so backwards, so silly now in the light of day. All this time you'd been stuck in your head, some part of you telling yourself you were the only one with problems, the only one struggling. You could see now, how far that was from the truth.

A beat passes in which a smile crawls its way onto your face, the thought of friendship and a companion sparking... joy. "That sounds really nice. I'd love to." You say, and you mean it. Something inside you feels like it's falling back into place, exactly where it belongs. A piece of your heart, perhaps, is not so unfixable as you once thought.

The good nights you pass playing cards, or reading, or talking. And the bad nights, those nights where you feel like the world is once again crashing down on top of you burying you until you finally suffocate, those nights you spend holding each other. Far from alone.

[episodicnostalgia]

Star Trek: The Next Generation, 112 (Jan. 16, 1988) - “Datalore”

Written by: Robert Lewin & Gene Roddenberry Directed by: Rob Bowman

Episode Breakdown

Data gets an origin story!

The episode begins with the Enterprise’s arrival at the colony where Data was discovered. We’re told that colonists all died under mysterious circumstances before Data was activated; as such he’s unable to shed any light on the matter (Presumably the ship that found Data never had time to investigate). Picard figures they might as well take a look around since they’re in the neighbourhood, because what’s the worst that could happen? While on the planet’s surface, the away team discover that Data is the creation of Noonien Soong, a brilliant scientist who disappeared after a failed-first-attempt at creating a positronic brain; since that is precisely the type of brain Data possesses, the team rightly concludes that Noonien finally succeeded in achieving his goal. The team also discover a second android that looks exactly like Data, albeit disassembled.  Since Data is understandably curious, Riker agrees to take Data’s twin back to the Enterprise to rebuild him.

In a twist that may shock you, Data’s long-lost twin (named Lore) turns out to be evil; he’s also capable of greater emotional expression, including the ability to lie convincingly.  It turns out Lore was Noonien’s first android who, prior to being disassembled, summoned a giant crystalline entity from space to consume the colonists.  Somewhere along the way, Noonien figured out that his new creation might be a raging psychopath and took Lore apart before building Data (and also before getting eaten).  Now free to roam the ship, Lore inevitably betrays and deactivates Data, with the intention of signalling his old Crystaline pal to come eat the Enterprise crew.  However, since Wesley is (annoyingly) the most amazing boy in the universe, he’s able to see through Lore’s pretense. With the help of Dr. Crusher, Wesley gets Data back online just in time for the two Androids to duke it out until he can beam Lore into space, (where Picard presumably decides to leave him without any further discussion).

Thoughts

So far ‘Datalore’ has been the best episode of the season. We get some decent world building, a good intro to Data’s evil twin, and nice dose of tension and atmosphere. What’s not to love? Even the moments that feel dated (and there are many) all add to the episode’s charm. There are still a handful of times I had to roll my eyes at specific bits of dialogue, but if the ending had been a little stronger I almost would have considered giving this an extra half-star.

3.5 stars (out of 5)

Stray observations:

Picard’s (mostly) not an asshole: That traumatizing holodeck adventure from last episode must have been more relaxing than expected. For the most part he seems to be in an uncharacteristically encouraging mood towards his crew.

Except Wesley. Picard really lets the kid have it this week. He must still be mad about that time Wesley got impaled and then didn’t die a couple episodes back.

There are some rather pointed scenes where Picard and Co. go out of their way to be exceptionally reasonable and mature about a variety of potentially difficult or awkward subjects (mostly regarding the nature Data and Lore’s sentiency/creation); it would be fine except that they keep commenting on it. My guess is that it’s an example of Gene Roddenberry’s influence, who was known for wanting to avoid depictions of interpersonal conflict between the crew. But personally, I like to think this is a result of HR calling out Picard for his less-than-cordial behaviour from previous episodes, and so now the captain is on his best behaviour, and everyone is acting like it “never even bothered me that much anyway, I heard other people were complaining, but not me.”

Okay I hate to say it but… ugh, Wesley was right. After deactivating Data, Lore masquerades as his brother.  The crew test Lore with questions he wouldn’t know the answer to, but they do it in the most easy-to-evade way.  It’s pretty unintentionally funny, but means the adults were missing what any child should have been able to (and evidently DID) see.  

HAHA! Wesley saves the ship and Picard is like “fine, you can go back to the bridge, now beat it!” Zero apologies of any kind. Excellent. It’s as if even the writers were pissed that Wesley saved the day, and honestly I get that.

[oh-a-very-toxic-octopus]

Finally got around to watching the Terminator films. We've seen 1–3 so far and I fucking love them. Spoilers in my rave below the cut.

The Terminator

Yeah, it's old and the score is cheap & doesn't rise like a modern audience expects and some of the dialogue is unintentionally silly, but the pacing of this film is mind-blowingly perfect and Linda Hamilton is just the coolest person on the planet. (Shout out to the invisible hand of Gale Anne Hurd, who surely did a lot here.)

The early character work is intensely 80s but I fell in love with Sarah and her buddies so quickly. Their chemistry is brilliant.

I love the stakes of the story and how succinctly they're explained. A lifetime of struggle and a near-impossible victory could be undone in an instant. Hhhh. We don't even need to see much of the future — its impact is evident in Reese (who I thought was Rhys, btw, so I died when it was revealed Reese was his surname and his first name was KYLE) and how battered and war-wearied he is.

The props and prosthetics are about as bad as you'd expect, but the team knew it and mitigated that by keeping those shots short. I loved the stop-motion terminator regardless. It's kinda charming and the final fight is so good I was carried away by the action.

Terminator 2

Jim is of the opinion this is the best Terminator film, so I went into it primed to be contrary, naturally. But I liked it!

I'm sad time and pop culture has removed the big reveal at the start; I can only imagine how fckn awesome it must have been to watch a contemporary screening of this film and experience the heel-face turn unspoiled.

The T-1000 is just plain cool, and the old CGI was clearly such a labour of love (and money) that it stands up remarkably well.

I love love the film's focus on what future sight really does to you, but I kinda hate it when characters go crazy, so I didn't much enjoy Sarah's early scenes.

I didn't much enjoy the sniper sequence either.

But in an unusual turn... I liked the kid actor and his interaction with the Terminator. The slang sounds even more ridiculous now than I imagine it did then, but it's fun.

As a result, I died at the end. When his arm was ripped off, I piped up all "omg, but they have another one for him in John's backpack!" Apparently Jim watched me from that point onwards and saw the moment my little heart broke, lmfao.

Terminator 3

I know this film gets a lot of hate, and I agree it skews too silly/kiddy in places, but the T-X was a really good active threat and seemed even more focused on her target than the T-1000. The boob joke was the only miss with her, in my opinion.

I enjoyed the film, liked the way it explored the impact of a supposed victory on John and then spanked him with that original fate/choices quote.

Kate was pretty cool but underutilized towards the end; I felt they failed to capitalise on the idea that she sent this Terminator back after it had killed her fckn husband. Not to understate how brilliant the final twist was to watch, but I wanted more Kate in the scene just before it; that final showdown shouldn't have been solely between Terminators, which 2 had clearly recognised.

I wish John's move with the T-800 in the hangar hadn't worked. Honestly it felt like Arnie had a hero clause or something; clearly the most impactful thing to happen there was a mirror of things to come, his attachment to a robot leading to his demise. Kate could have rescued him somehow and then have that image in her damn brain for decades until he's terminated in the future. I just... Yeah. Your main villain can control machines and she only hacks the good Terminator for three minutes? When there's so much emotional material to tap into with the betrayal? Boooo.

Overall I think 3 ties thematically into the other two films, so I like it and I'm unimpressed they've tried to hide it from the world. Might watch Dark Fate next and see how it fares as a replacement.

[chronothread]

Stamp

Something catches the corner of your eye.

In your carefully curated room of individuality most certainly unbecoming of a highborn heir, one thing stands out in particular. Amidst the medical and alchemical instruments, the fashion pieces you have yet to complete, and the armaments you maintain on the regular, a seemingly mundane item glows like dragonfire in the night sky. 

It’s an envelope. You must have left it out when you were rummaging through your bedside drawer earlier, looking for your signet ring (you had already slipped it on your finger prior, silly elezen). You take a step towards it, and you find that your breath catches in your throat, and you find difficulty taking another one. As if - almost like a targeted attack -  in the interim after your exhale, your room had suddenly become a vacuum, your gasping futile and unproductive.

You spot it. The envelope itself is fairly simple, the exception being the trim on the borders, a shade of glossy purple. You run your finger across the trimming. Pleasant, intriguing, as it always was. A wax seal is present on the envelope - the seal of House Charny. You turn it over slowly, a twisting, churning feeling of dread setting into your stomach. Because you know what you will find. Bereft of surnames and titles, you find familiarly clean penmanship, a highly stylized cursive evoking the writings of poets long past. The envelope seems to be several winters old, judging from the texture. That, and the thumbprint stamped on the bottom of it, brownish in color.

To: Gale

From: Lucien

Lucien de Charny.

Your old flame.

You remember this. You took it from his hands, and you never opened it. You didn’t have time to - so many things had happened those few winters, so many loose ends that you had to tie up, so many matters that demanded your attention. You figured you had put it in the drawer and forgotten. Or…perhaps put out of your mind.

Because you never forget.

You immediately swipe your letter opener - its heraldry is Halonic but the blade is shaped like a dragon’s talon - and fit it under the flap of the envelope. Your mind is a kaleidoscopic static of conflicting thoughts and emotions. Your body is steady, assured - efficient - as it slices cleanly through the seal. You cut into the corpse, something you should have left respected and undisturbed, its putrid gases seeping from the incision and permeating your senses. The letter itself has the same penmanship present on the back of the envelope.

My Dearest, Gale,

A comma before your name. Always a comma before your name.

I spent many a night agonising over whether or not to even write this letter. More numerous still are the crumpled pieces of paper that outline the floor of my wastebasket. In the end, however, sentimentality triumphed in this war of attrition that has ravaged my mind. In the end, in spite of everything, I owe you some form of closure. An explanation.

If you are reading this, then it means I will no longer be able to see your reaction the next day. They’ve always been infuriating, you know, your reactions or…lack thereof. You’ve always been so good at giving so much but telling so little, and I always wish that you told more because there is so much of you to love. But I suppose that is difficult in this society we live in, I understand that very well. It made our initial courtship so…frustrating! You were always you, so unapologetically you, but you were never all of you. It was never a lie, but it was never the whole truth either. And yet I always found myself coming back for more. You were a puzzle with ever shifting pieces, and in knowing you I learned to love following those shards rather than trying to fit them into their mould. You were beautiful, you were brilliant, and you challenged me every day to be better in every aspect, all so I could keep up with you and your ever quickening pace. I was chasing the wind.

I do not want to dwell on what is to come, what has already been wrought. Instead, I wish to dwell on you. On me. On us.  I want you to know that whatever the outcome in the days to come since I have written this letter…whatever you have heard, what you have learned? That not a single drop of my love was untrue. And I do not say this to twist the knife - not intentionally - though I do say this knowing that it may happen anyway. Every word I spoke. Every breath I took from you, every opportunity I took to slip my fingers between your soft, purple locks - intoxicating, the scent of lavender. Every moment I spent lost in hypnotising amber, only to find myself in your embrace again…no one has ever drawn me in so wholly, so completely, so perfectly as you. One way or the other, no one will ever be able to enchant me as perfectly as you.

In the days to come, I will have the answer to a question I have asked myself more times than there have been lives spent in this thousand-year war our home has waged. In the days to come, I will finally know whether our love wasn’t right, or if my cause wasn’t. Whatever the answer is please. Know that I regret none of the time I have spent with you. And whatever happens, I only wish for peace and happiness for you, my love.

In another life, I would have loved to grow old with you. In another life, I would have loved to fight and die alongside you. In another life…I would have loved to forever be frustrated by you.

Your once beloved,

- Lucien

You set the letter down. By the time you finish reading, the knots in your stomach unwind. By the time you finish reading, the corpse is now a grave. By the time you finish reading, there is nothing efficient left in your motions. With shaky and even shakier breaths, you fold the letter and place it in the envelope once more, barely securing the flap before your mind’s myriad thrashing and screaming triumph in its war of attrition on your body, and you break down into tears over the recently tidy sheets of your bed. It isn’t a pleasant feeling, but it is cathartic. It isn’t a feeling you allow yourself often. Your sobs turn to wails, and your hands numb as you lose track of time, of all surroundings, of all reality. 

Fresh tears grace the faded brown thumbprint of the envelope. His envelope. Your envelope.