#better than bor but still :(

[babygirlthor]

📖

alright, apparently at any given moment I‘ve got four something variations of mer/sea creature infinity stones AUs so here goes one…

the tesseract is on Asgard, hidden in the vaults— except she’s never been a cube and instead appears in the form of a sea creature. she’s a bit of an amalgamation of a box fish & a dragon sea slug but also vaguely humanoid shaped like a mer would be. So in the vault, instead of on a pedestal like everything else, Space is a bit separated from the main trophy room. Her water tank is completely blocked off by (energy) reinforced glass.

Young Loki finds the water tank cause he’s sneaky and wants to see the vault (because he’s drawn to it). The glass is a bit fuzzy and harder to see through when the bright barrier flares, though sporadically it’s more clear. The water is somehow not murky, as it stays completely clean.

Loki is of course fascinated by the strange creature he sees on the other side, though (at first) the feeling is not mutual as Tess is wary of all asgardians (and isn’t familiar enough with them to realize Loki is a child).

The cage, I mean- tank, is pretty small and barren, so although its depth goes a bit deeper than the floor, there’s no hiding spaces or similar creature comforts. There’s no algae, and no obviously no sun.

This also means that even tho they’re as far away as they can be, and Tess far larger staying in front, it’s obvious that there is two creatures here.

They don’t even attempt to communicate anything back to loki for a long time.

The second here is Mind, and he has been here for a long time. This was originally just his cage, and he has no idea Tess was in another section of the vault. At first, Odin had considered not keeping Tess at all, because having two infinity creatures in one place seemed risky even for him. He realized it was too risky even dumping one of them in a random spot in the ocean, because that would allow them to heal and become too powerful.

Tess had no idea mind was there either, but once she realized what was happening she attempted to contact the others. The message is vague as this kind of communication isn’t her strong suit, it’s mostly emotions and pain, but enough so if any of the others were nearby, they would know where she was.

Mind attempts to contact her back, but now behind another barrier, Tess’ abilities aren’t strong enough in this aspect for it to reach her. Mind is already worried at the message, but the lack of response is panic inducing and he knows they can’t die and the alternative can only be something worse.

In his panic, he manages to destroy his cage and the barrier, but it hurts him more than it did the tank. it could be rebuilt, and it was, multiple times. Odin eventually realizes keeping Mind away isn’t worth the effort, and he’s only destroying his vessel to the point, losing more and more of the leaf shaped structures (scales I guess? but also not really) he was once covered in.

And Odin isn’t cruel you know, he needs them weak, but not on the brink of “death”.

So he puts Tess in Mind’s tank, and well, that fixes one problem.

[Put "📓" or some other version of a book emoji into my inbox and I'll explain the plot of a fanfiction that I haven't written but daydream about.]

[ofglories]

Had a sudden and terrible realization that, had it not been for Lionel knowing better, Bors likely would have thought Claudas was his father considering he was a newborn when Gannes fell. And that that's likely what Claudas would have wanted considering he only had mercy in his heart for Bors.

Oof. Scary thought.

[munsster]

road trip (trope bingo)

A/N: thought i might try this format out. also introducing a new face to my tumblr repertoire. i’ve written marvel before, just never on this site. enjoy!! (gif creds: @bubbarnes)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Summary: You think Bucky is shallow for rejecting a pretty stranger in North Dakota. Little do you know. 1.6k words

Warnings: fluff, dummies not talking about their feelings, pet names (doll), slight angst but resolved, perhaps mutual pinging, a really good hug, playful bullying, cursing

"Ooh, she's cute."

You've been doing this for over an hour. He's downed at least four coffees by now. And the worst part is you call it finding a suitable mate. But he's just not interested in the women you're scouting for him at a rest stop a few miles out from Fargo, North Dakota. He would've just left, gone and sat in the truck, but he'd feel bad leaving you rambling to yourself when you're the one paying for this meal.

"Come on, Buck, you're no fun," you huff, dropping your spoon into the thick mug now emptied of hot cocoa.

"You're right. Can we go now?" He starts to slide out of his seat when you scoff. He goes still like a deer in headlights. This should be fun.

"James Buchanan, you're telling me none of the lovely ladies in this diner tickle your fancy? Not even third barstool? She's tall, Buck, like... model tall," you suggest with your brows raised.

"I'm not... we're in North Dakota, you think that's what I'm lookin' for?"

"Just one date! You wouldn't take her on one, single date? The little bar across the street seems sensible, why not?"

"Um—"

"Tell meee," you whine, leaning over the sticky, vinyl tablecloth with a pout.

He shrugs. "Not my type."

"Bullshit. She's everybody's type. She's my type, Bucky. Are you blind or just plain stupid?"

"I'm not interested."

You pull a face like you're offended on her behalf. Bucky rolls his eyes and wishes you'd drop it.

"Oh, I get it," you say. Leaned back, arms stretched across the length of the seat, you huff and glare at him. "You think you're too good for her, huh? Just 'cause she's a North Dakota ten, and you're a Brooklyn eight, you think that makes you better, don't you?"

"What? An eight?" he mumbles, shaking his head.

"Ugh, you men gross me out sometimes. Massive egos, teensy little brains," you say, slapping a twenty on the table and standing with a vicious squint. "Well, let me learn you something, James"—you loom over him and poke your pointer finger at his chest—"you're shallow, and you're no better than her. You prob'ly couldn't take her out if you wanted to. Goodnight."

You huff and walk away, but he chuckles and calls after you: "It's noon, doll." Flipping him off, you march out into the parking lot. He considers the woman for a moment. You called him a Brooklyn eight. She's pretty, he'll admit, but he wasn't lying when he said he wasn't interested. Bucky's seen the far stretches of the Earth, which means he's seen women of all forms. Accountants and soldiers from all over, all professions, all languages. All beautiful. But nothing intrigues him quite as much as you do.

...

"Did you ask her out, or are you choosing to remain a coward?" You've got your boots propped on the dashboard, the truck bumbling eighty down the highway. An emery board swipes back and forth at your middle fingernail as you snap your bubblegum.

"Come on, doll, play nice. We're leavin' anyway, didn't want to hurt her feelings," he grumbles.

"Tough. Doesn't make you any less of a pussy, Barnes."

You flick the nail file at his cheek and drop your feet heavily on the hot car mat. You called him a Brooklyn eight. You cringe at the remembrance while Bucky revels in it. He even grinned stupid all the way back to the parking lot. To himself, but still. He hates how deep under his skin you are. He hates how he likes the itch.

His tongue twists with all the things he could have said. He should have said. But he grips the steering wheel tight and drives till you cross the border into Minnesota.

"Wanna go anywhere before Wisconsin? They've got... lakes here," he shyly suggests, voice soft, hoping you'll just ignore him and turn up the radio. He doesn't think you'll ever ignore him, even if he did prefer it.

"Only if I could push you into one of them."

"Listen, kid—"

"Kid? That's great, Bucky. It's getting dark, why don't we just find a motel." You cross your arms. The cold is getting to you. Even in a down jacket and two pairs of pants. It gets like that up north.

He does what you tell him because the last thing he needs is for you to hold another grudge against him. This one's quaint, so he gets the last double available, chuckling nervously when the older woman at the front desk mistakes you for a married couple.

"Sure you don't want a single, honey? Not gettin' any kids outta separate beds—"

"Nope—thanks, miss—that's—double is fine, double's perfect, thanks," he huffs. You chuckle.

She gives a rolling, belly laugh, head tossed back as she croaks, "Won't file any noise complaints against youse! Have a fun night."

"Geez, she was great," you sigh, still smiling from the ridiculous interaction. You flop face down onto the bed closest to the window, rattling the ice from the crevices in your boots. It crunches to the floor and you wriggle out of your coat as Bucky locks himself into the pale yellow bathroom.

He starts mumbling from the other side of the door, so you sit up and toe your boots onto the floor with a thud. Digging your fingertips into the edge of the hastily tucked sheets, you stare at a wine stain in the middle of the beige carpet. At least it smells nice in here. Even if half the lights are out, and cable doesn't come through clear enough to watch.

You find yourself, cheek pressed to the door, eyes wide as you listen through the flimsy wood.

"I don't think so, Steve. No, listen, it's like... beyond repair. She wouldn't take an apology even if I knew what i was sorry for—no—she's way too good for me, I can't do that to her."

Still moping over women found in North Dakota's lowest rated diners? That's highly unlike him. But even Bucky's a wildcard six-thousand miles into a roadtrip. You press closer, chewing your lip and closing your eyes.

"No, no, everything—this stuff's easier for you, pal, you don't get it, 'kay? I'm just saying... I mean, even a stranger thought we were married"—What—"has to mean something, right? Even strangers are realizing... there's something... there. I just don't want to accidentally—no, I know, not like that, I mean...well, I like her a lot and I don't want it to scare her—"

You back up slightly, hands held in front of you like surrender. Not out of fear, but realization. That's why he didn't ask her out. Or even fish for her number. Because—

You hit the floor with a thump.

"Steve. I gotta go."

The door whips open and floods the room with warm light. You scramble to your feet.

"Were you... I was just talking to... Did you hear any of that?"

You shake your head. He shoves his hands into the shallow pockets of his jeans.

"Okay," he says with a nod, "good." He blows hot air out of his mouth and runs a swift hand through his hair. But he doesn't meet your eyes. Like a little kid so terrified of fibbing that he'd rather swim deeper into the abyss than float to the surface. Can't catch his damn breath around here.

"So..."

"Goodnight, Bucky!" you chirp, turning on your heel with a whoosh of air. And he stops you in your tracks, hand on your bicep. You don't turn back around, stuck staring at the foot of your bed.

"Doll," he whispers, roped up by fear and a pinch of self-pity. Attending his own funeral with a sick smile on his face. "Just how much did you hear."

You spin on the balls of your feet, going hot in the face, fueled by the electricity at his fingertips. "A lot."

"Oh."

You nod and try your best non-psychotic smile. "Sorry."

"No, no... don't be," he says, trying his own. So you're just a couple of smirking idiots at a stalemate in a stale motel room. A couple of idiots with feelings for each other. Unresolved feelings. Unspoken, too.

"I actually—could I?" You point behind him into the cramped bathroom, and he lets go of you like it's his last move before you put him in check. Before he has to hand you the game. Though, he'd do that in a heartbeat. Every game of his is yours. "Thanks."

"No problem." He shuts his eyes when you close the door with a calculated tenderness. Like you don't want to frazzle his poor heart.

But then why would you open the door again? Why would you wrap your arms around his waist and nuzzle into his back? Why would you make it all so much worse and spread your fingers over his abdomen, taking a deep breath when he runs his hand down your forearm and turns to face you. Then you melt with his strong arms holding you thisclose.

"Like you a lot, too, Barnes. You're just a big dunce a lot of the time. But that's like... half the draw or whatever," you mumble into his shoulder. And you've never been this close, and he thinks he could pass out. Become a chalk outline in a dusty motel in Minnesota. But if it happened like this, he'd be okay with that statistic.

marvel masterlist

[yourstrqly]

. ⋆⠀ THOUGHT OF YOU

alex albon x gf!reader

you've never entertained the thought of having a child together but now it might be the right time.

warnings: pregnancy scare, alex being the cutest human to ever grace this planet !!

"birdy", alex exclaimed, voice filled with concern and a whiff of confusion as he walked through your shared home, searching you.

"kitchen, babe", you replied tiredly. the day had been exhausting, having to stay longer at work than expected, getting wet from the british rain and on top of that missing the last bus, resulting in you walking about forty minutes home. there was nothing you wished more than eating the pho you made for alex and yourself, and ending the evening in bed, cuddling until you sunk in the land of dreams.

you heard him approache, feet dragging over the wooden floor til he stopped causing you to turn around; he swallowed loudly while his warm brown eyes borred into yours.

your heart rate risen by the second, pounding wildly against your ribcage, adding pressure to your chest and making you breath stuck in your throat. "what happened, al?", you chocked out.

he didn't answer, however he raised his hand up, opening his fist and revealed the object he had found, all while he watched your face morph from slightly happy to see him to panic. eyes focused on the white stick you had used this morning, tears began to shine, trying to escape their ocean.

"you weren't suppose to see that", you shared quietly with your boyfriend. inside your mind, your screamed at your own stupidity — why couldn't you have hidden it better or throw it away? Alex on the other hand, looked down at the pregnancy test, still in disbelief.

clearing his throat, the half thai dragged his vision back to you. "you shouldn't have done this alone, birdy, you know i'm always a call away."

shame fired up your body; it was true, he always had your back as you had his, but this morning you felt like you were on your own, telling yourself that you couldn't possibly ruin his career by taking his focus to a baby and away from driving.

"i know, al . . . i was scared, you know?", you mumbled, "my period is late so there was a change i could've been with child."

"was?", he whispered as he stepped behind you, leaning your body into his, faced pressed to your neck where he placed a soft kiss.

gently you grabbed the test, turned it around so you both could see the small window with the line. "it's negative", you cleared the air, "one line means not pregnant."

a hum escaped his body. "we should buy another one or two, to make sure, yeah?"

he sounded confident, free of panic, the complete opposite of what you were feeling inside. you simply nodded, surprised as he let go of you to grab his car keys. "see you in a minute, birdy."

"al, i have another one in the bathroom", you told him, stopping him from walking through the kitchen door.

"then what are you waiting for? take it, and let me in when you ped on it."

you did as he said, cuddling him on the floor opposite the sink where the test laid on while the pair of you waited for the result. alex stroked your head softly, tracing your features, lost in your beauty — sure, you eyes were a bit red, your lips were swollen because you nervously bit on them but you were still the most beautiful being he had ever laid his eyes on.

"guess now it's the right time to talk about kids", he said.

"can't believe we've never talked about", you shrugged, a small giggle leaving your mouth causing your boyfriend to laugh too.

"do you want kids?", the williams driver wanted to know, setting his eyes onto yours.

a small beam formed on your face. "i do, i just don't know of its the right time now." you truly didn't know it; you just had started your job, and alex was busy travelling around the world for formula one.

he breathed out, an excited grin spread on his lips. "there's nothing more i'd rather want than having a family with you."

his words broke your heart, it beat fastly once again and turned it into a puddle — blush creeped up your neck and you couldn't stop yourself to press a kiss onto his lips, silently telling him that you felt the same.

ending the kiss, a question burned at the top of your tongue. "what if i'm actually pregnant?" you didn't break out in a nervous sweat, no, you waited for his answer while his hand roamed down your body to your stomach.

"then our family starts now."

interlocking your hands, you waited for his phone to buzz; the silence was comfortable til it broke, alerting of the result. hope and love filled your bodies. alex stood up first, holding his hand out to you to help you up. then he gestured you to get the first glimpse at the test. your shoulders sunk when you read the words not pregnant; you turned to your boyfriend who opened his arms, giving you solace. he didn't need to see the result, he knew and like you, he experienced his first heartbreak in this relationship.

alex cradled you face, peaking your lips and drying your tears away. "i'm upset too, didn't expect to want a baby but birdy this doesn't stop your dream, alright?"

you voice trembled. "al, could . . . could we start our family?"

his lips widened into a big grin, before lifting you up causing you to laugh out loud, kicking the door of the bathroom shut. "what are you doing, al?", you couldn't stop laughing like an exciting child.

"well, we have practice, don't we?"

"i'm not going to be pregnant this month."

"I know birdy, but that isn't going to stop me", he cheekily replied, throwing you on the bed, "practice is the key."

[corazondebeskar-reads]

this endless friction

dom!Din Djarin x sub!f!reader

[Okay, okay, this was written as a bonus one-shot for the "well it's love, make it hurt" series but it can be read as a standalone! there's zero plot! I just had those two in mind.]

Words: 1.4k

Summary: you and din find a way (or two) to pass time in space. 

Warnings: bdsm, d/s dynamics, enthusiastic consent, preestablished safeword etc, established relationship, reader is collared, dom!din djarin x sub!reader, soft din djarin, anal, anal creampie, double penetration (using a toy), spanking, din takes the helmet off on a loophole, overstimulation, no y/n, afab reader with no description (but in the full series, she is described as having long hair)

also on ao3

dividers by @saradika-graphics

Cockdumb. That’s what he likes to call you when you get like this. Cockdumb. 

He’s not wrong. 

Especially right now. It’s… well, you can’t string a thought together. Not with the way he’s got you pinned under his heft, pressed into the bedroll with nowhere to go. 

Not that you’d want to, but it’s all the more delicious as you writhe under him without being able to move an inch. 

Mando’s chest is pressed to your shoulders and when you tip your head back, he cages it in with his own. His own head, chin resting on top of you. No helmet. 

Because, of course, he has you so completely trapped and helpless here that you couldn’t look if you wanted to. No, but now you feel his lips against your hair and his grunts in your ear as he fucks mercilessly into your asshole. 

He’d crawled into the bunk and stripped you of your trousers without a word, pulling you up so your ass was in the air and your face buried in your pillow. You wrapped your arms around it and settled in, knowing him enough to know you better get comfortable. He slid one arm under you to immediately assault your clit while the other came down in a series of slow spanks, a lazy assault as he luxuriated in the sensations, gripping the fat of your ass between hits to revel in the way you gasped and moaned.

It was your favorite kind of spanking, honestly. You both savor it, savor the way he brings his hand down at random, at ease, at a whim. The intensity and rhythm are entirely improvised, and his nails scrape across the skin as it grows raw, just to watch you shudder. There are no words, no pleas, no punishment. Just the heat of your bodies and soft cries as you enjoy each other. The soft smacks have you burrowing your face in the pillow and arching your back. You know, and you know he knows, that you’ll be dripping from it. 

When he grew tired of that, or more likely, grew too eager to take you apart, that other hand slid around from behind to join its brother in pawing at your clit. It was more effective than any Bor in tearing your mind to pieces. Both of his precise, determined hands honed in, overwhelming and overriding any part of your brain that hadn’t already given in to him.

So cockdumb wasn’t entirely accurate, you thought, given that he’d made you go stupid with his hands and then just never let you come back up from it. 

“Such a sensitive girl,” he crooned while he broke you down into tears from overstimulation. “I haven’t even gotten started.”

He hadn’t been fucking joking, either. Oh, no. He granted mercy to your clit after three orgasms left you collapsed on the bedroll, but that was the only mercy he granted. Urging you back up on your knees, torso still slumped against the silky pillow; he left you exposed and waiting while he rustled around in the hull.

It wasn’t long before he returned, and you heard the snick of a lubricant bottle cap and smiled, nestling into the bunk to get fucked. 

But that wasn’t what he had planned. You should have known. It’s not that you never had simple sex, a quick in-and-out as duties dictated, but now? With 36 more hours in hyperspace? Yeah, you’re not going anywhere for a while. 

Not that you’re complaining. It is your favorite way to pass the time, after all, being meticulously taken apart and wrung dry by this man. 

One hand slides back to gently stroke at your clit while the other, freshly lubed hand, begins to work you open with two fingers in your cunt and his thick thumb wriggling into your ass. If you’d had the capacity to think, you might have gotten excited, but all you could do was feel. Feel everything he wanted you to feel, and maybe more, because between his neverending attentions and the snug, comfortable embrace of the Mandalorian’s leather collar around your neck, you’re gone. 

His hand leaves your clit alone, and the other shifts its goals to stretching out your asshole, two fingers working more lube into the tight clench of you. He doesn’t let you focus on it for long, though. Not when his other hand slips back beneath you, and you feel the silky head of a fake cock pressing into your pussy. He works it in slowly, teasingly, twisting and thrusting until you’re stuffed full of it, right to the fake balls at the base. 

Once it’s buried in you, he wastes no time now, pulling back and giving your already-warm cheeks another slap before lining himself up and plunging into your ass. He’d stretched you well, and slicked his cock with lube for good measure, so that the only sensation you’d be overwhelmed by was the sheer fullness.

And stars above, he’s going to kill you like this. “Kriff, Mando,” you whine in a hiss as he sinks into you.

He gives you a harsher slap before pulling out to push back in and hear you keen. 

“Mmm, what was that?” Mando says. You almost forget to answer; it’s the first thing he’s said since taking his helmet off, and somehow, you always forget just how delicious it is to hear him unfiltered.

“Sorry, sir,” you gasp as he shoves roughly back in. 

He doesn’t bother fucking you with the fake cock. He just leaves it deep inside—its only purpose to break your brain and make your ass even tighter for him. It’s about his size, and you’re drooling onto your pillow already.

He chuckles, low and dark the way he does when he’s got you like this, all dumb and sweet for him. “You like being filled up, don’t you, cyar’ika?” 

“Uh-huh,” you squeak on a particularly rough thrust. 

Another smack.

“Yes, sir,” you whimper. “I love it when you fill me up.”

“There’s my good girl,” he says, nuzzling your head with his own, and you have to beg to come just from that.

But he doesn’t let you. “Not yet,” he says. “You’ve had enough earlier. You’re just going to take it right now.”

Your eyes roll back, and he knows that if you weren’t his perfectly trained girl, you would have lost control. But you don’t. You grit your teeth and whine, but you don’t come.

He pins you down further with one hand on your shoulder blade and fucks into you with a feral grin. You can’t see it, sure, but you can feel it as his face is pressed against your head. He’s grunting with each thrust, and it only serves to bring you even closer, hearing the way he’s losing himself in you, how he’s simply seeking his own pleasure right now.

He doesn’t bother to rub your clit when he reaches his own climax. You don’t need it (and frankly, you’re a little sore already). He knows you don’t need it, he knows your body obeys him, and when he feels you choking his cock with your sweet, tight channel, he simply nudges his nose against your cheek and whispers the only word you need.

You know you come when he tells you to, but it’s a strange, floating thing; your attention is drawn elsewhere when he starts to twitch and pulse inside you. He floods you, each spurt of cum feeling like it’s going to overflow from you as he fucks it deeper into your ass. 

When he pulls out, he rolls off you onto his side, and gathers you in his arms. You don’t quite surface from subspace, to his delight, and he gently strokes your cheek and runs his hand up and down your arm. 

You whimper, and he laughs. 

“Sorry, almost forgot,” he pants and reaches between your legs to extract the toy. He can’t help but tease you a little, and you moan when he finally pulls it out. 

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs. “I’ll fill you there next, pretty girl. We still have a long ride, you know.” 

You try not to pout when the helmet goes back on. It’s not that you care if you see him, but you always miss the soft caress of his lips in between. Like he knows exactly why you’re sulking, he tugs it up just enough to press one last kiss to the back of your head, reveling in the soft, content sigh you grant as you snuggle up together. 

*title from "It Doesn't Feel a Thing Like Falling" by Taking Back Sunday

[mighty-ant]

enough is enough

shoutout to @soy-s4uce for commissioning me!

ao3

It started with a little tickle in Launchpad’s throat. 

He didn’t think anything of it. A cold swept through the kids just last week, a little thing that cooped them up in the mansion. Beakley kept them well supplied with tissues so they (Dewey) didn’t use their sleeves to wipe their noses and Donald commandeered the kitchen to make enough of Grandma Duck’s “famous chicken soup” to feed an army. 

Without any adventures for a week, Mr. McDee begrudgingly attended to the growing demands of his company—after the kids begged, cajoled, and threatened him into not going anywhere exciting without them while Donald and Della glared daggers at him over their heads.

Mr. McDee had his typical Richest Duck in the World-type business meetings, plus he was still interviewing candidates for a new board of directors since his last one didn’t work out so great. 

The meetings lasted hours, and took Mr. McDee not just out of the city but all over the state and across the country. These bigwigs were scattered everywhere, and he not only wanted to meet with them, but everyone who worked with them. Better safe than sorry and all that. 

All of which meant that for a whole week, Launchpad was really only around the family as Mr. McDee’s driver, just like old times. 

Oh, he was flying Mr. McDee too, but only because Della hadn’t wanted to do it. Since it was a business trip, Launchpad was expected to do a lot of sitting around and waiting to drive Mr. McDee to the next appointment, to which Della had immediately declared, “Bor-ing!” before running off to set up Legends of Legendquest for her and Huey to play. 

But Launchpad didn’t mind, as much as he would’ve liked to join Drake on his current case: tracking down a runaway theater troupe turned theatrical bank robbers. At least he was being useful here. And besides, he planned to spend his free time while away rewatching some of the Darkwing Duck episodes he’d saved on his phone and trying to decipher the memes Gosalyn was always sending him. 

Drake tended to worry about Launchpad when he went anywhere with Mr. McDee and the family, convinced they invited craziness just by breathing, and he wasn’t exactly wrong. So Launchpad planned to text Drake, too, to let him know he was okay. Maybe Launchpad would even call him when breaks in his patrol allowed, so that he could close his eyes and listen to the lilt of Drake’s voice and pretend they were side by side, so close their arms were pressed together. He wasn’t quite brave enough to hold Drake’s hand in real life, but Launchpad would bet anything that they were warm and lined with calluses. 

Launchpad had almost been looking forward to the business trip. Time apart from Drake and Gosalyn just meant reunions were always that much sweeter, making him feel fit to bursting with a kind of joy he’d never known before, like he’d swallowed the sun. 

Gosalyn usually threw herself at him the second he stepped through the door, from the higher up the better, and would hang off his back while he swept Drake into a bearhug that was eagerly returned. There was nothing quite like the feeling of Drake’s arms wrapped snug around his middle, or how his head fit perfectly under Launchpad’s chin. 

But after Della bolted, Mr. McDee pat Launchpad on the arm with a fond, absentminded sort of smile. “Ach, that girl. Well, you’ll be enough for a quick flight, eh, McQuack?”

It was a rude wakeup call; a punch to the gut that left him breathless, impossible to brace against because he never saw it coming. But maybe he should’ve. That was just the story of his life, wasn’t it? Good Enough McQuack. 

In the moment, Launchpad had smiled blithely. What else could he do? 

“You got it, boss!” 

Though as he packed an overnight bag, as he gassed up the plane, as they took-off and through all the long lonely hours of flight, he burned inside. It wasn’t an unfamiliar feeling: shame and embarrassment and a deep, deep sadness going down like a bad burrito, emotional heartburn without a cure. 

He was eighteen when he left home, Loopy having taken his spot in the Flying McQuacks.

Launchpad remembered squinting against the glare of the sun, watching her pull off loops and dives he never could without crashing first, when his dad clapped an arm around his shoulders.

“You were A-OK, son, but now we’ve got a real pilot on our hands!” 

He’d traveled a little over ten years before settling in Duckburg, bouncing between undersea palaces and werewolf communes and even a ninja clan or two before eventually wearing out his welcome and being encouraged to move on. He thought he’d found a home with the Ducks, but even though they cared about him, it was clear that he was just a placeholder for someone better. 

He was thirty-five when Della came home and took back the plane that was rightfully hers. Thirty-five when he met Drake, and it felt like a dream come true. But all dreams had to end, right?

He’d never said anything to Launchpad about moving on, not yet, but maybe it was only a matter of time. Even he didn’t have to be a genius to know that it had to bother Drake, Launchpad’s…Launchpadness. It was a rotating list of screw-ups: clumsy, slow, bad driver, bad pilot, take your pick. He was a pretty poor excuse for a sidekick, not that Drake had much of a choice in the matter. 

But maybe he did now, with Gosalyn’s presence in their lives his life becoming more permanent. She already had a mask and a hood to wear when she joined them on patrol (lovingly stitched together by Drake), and she was trying out the codename Quiverwing, which was as good a superhero title as Launchpad had ever heard. 

Drake deserved everything, more than Launchpad could give. And Launchpad wasn’t a jealous man, not really, but sometimes when the Justice Ducks got together and he saw Drake—Darkwing—standing beside great heroes like Penumbra or Gizmoduck, each of them confident, larger than life, he saw how much Drake belonged next to them, and how much Launchpad…didn’t. 

He wasn’t a superhero. He didn’t even have a costume, and he wouldn’t be able to think one up if he tried. As a kid, he tied a towel around his neck for a cape (after getting in trouble for tearing up his bed sheets) and pretended his Nana’s old church hat was a cowl. But Launchpad wasn’t a kid anymore, and he knew better than to think he would ever be good enough for  Darkwing. 

It was a lot of things that added up to one big problem, and the problem was him. Everything he wasn’t, everything he lacked. Even when Drake smiled at him, next to him on the couch or beside him on patrol, something caught in his chest and he couldn’t stop looking for the slightest wrinkle in his forehead, the barely perceptible narrowing of his eyes, any sign of the disappointment he had to feel. Disappointment that Launchpad couldn’t do anything about.

Unless he stepped back, removed himself from the equation, and let Drake and Gos flourish into a happy family without him. Just like he had with the Ducks. Just like he had with his own family. 

They’d call him when they needed him, and Launchpad would always come running. 

These thoughts didn’t go away by the time Launchpad finally made his way back to St. Canard. He barely slept that long week, sitting alone in the various plane hangars or alone in various parking lots while Mr. McDee’s went to meeting after meeting.

Drake had checked in on him, because he was amazing like that, and they hadn’t seen each other in a while (sixteen days, but who was counting?). Though Launchpad bulldozed through any questions about his well-being to ask about joining Drake on patrol once he was back.

“Oh, uh, sure! Yeah, I was going to scope out the harbor next, see if I could find another one of Tuskernini’s stashes. Are you sure, though? You don’t wanna get some rest after flying all day?”

The answer would always be yes, even when his exhaustion weighed down his limbs and he shivered with fever. Launchpad couldn’t risk it; any call might be the last one.

Launchpad couldn’t risk it. There was a ticking clock in his head that he couldn’t see, but he knew the timer was winding down. Everything felt precious and finite now that he was aware of it, reminding him that no good thing could last forever, especially for someone who was never good enough to begin with. 

“Pfft, who needs sleep? I can fly a plane with my eyes closed and both hands tied behind my back.”

“I believe you, but please don’t. Gos and I want you back in one piece.”

—

When Launchpad pried his eyes open, the world around him was dark and hazy at the edges. His entire body pulsed with a bone-deep ache and his mind was foggy, thoughts harder to latch onto than loose balloon strings. But he’d been buried in an avalanche once, so he couldn’t be doing that bad, right? Comparatively? 

Although, this time he didn’t know where he was and he was too bleary-eyed to recognize anything around him. 

Had he crashed? Launchpad vaguely recalled being in the air, the grip of a familiar yoke in his hands, but that could’ve been any time in the last twenty years.

Wherever he was now, he was warm, and whatever he was laying on was soft. A bed? 

Then, above him, a light. And casting a shadow over him was a silhouette he’d recognize anywhere. 

Though Launchpad’s vision was still poor, he’d have to be blind not to admire the way the light shone pink through Drake’s feathers, always inviting Launchpad to touch. He obviously knew better but the temptation was always there.

He smiled up at Drake instinctively—there’d never be a time that he wasn’t thrilled by the sight of him—before ever noticing his expression. But then, notice he did.

Drake’s hat was missing, leaving his hair in disarray, his maskless face revealed eyes dark and narrowed with worry. The corner of his beak, where his answering smile would normally be, was pinched in a frown. 

Launchpad knew what this expression meant: danger. 

Someone was in trouble. Who? Not Drake, he didn’t look hurt other than the usual bruise here and there, and a tear in the shoulder of the suit. Definitely not Launchpad. Gosalyn? Where was Gosalyn?

Launchpad didn’t realize he’d started sitting up until Drake was pushing him back down with a hand on his shoulder, gentle but unyielding as steel. He was so much stronger than he looked, and Launchpad already thought he was the strongest man he’d ever known. 

“No one’s in trouble,” Drake soothed, and Launchpad slumped immediately in relief. Had he been talking outloud? Or did Drake just know him that well? 

“Well, except you.” 

If Launchpad had the wherewithal, he would’ve blanched at the sudden chill in the room. There was an edge to Drake’s voice he normally reserved for supervillains and people who didn’t tip. He’d never heard it directed at himself. 

Drake came closer, like he knew Launchpad’s eyesight wasn’t working too good right now. His eyes were red, as if he’d been crying. He looked so tired. 

“Wha-what happened?” Launchpad stammered in a rush. How long had he been asleep? 

He knew, instinctively, that he was the one to put that expression on Drake’s face. Even barely conscious, shame and embarrassment burned through Launchpad, a deep, deep sadness going down like a bad burrito. He was always making things worse for the people he cared about.

“You don’t remember?” Drake snapped, more desperate than angry. “You almost got yourself killed, Launchpad!”

His tired eyes were wild, and he looked like he wanted to get up and pace, throw his hands around like he did when he was frustrated, but he just gripped a fistful of Launchpad’s blankets tighter. Blankets. Bed. Launchpad was lying in Drake’s bed in the Tower.

Launchpad almost got himself killed walking out his front door sometimes, that was no big deal. But even achy and groggy, waking up in Drake’s bed had a blush flooded up Launchpad’s neck and pooled in his cheeks. He cleared his throat to distract (himself) from it. 

Launchpad struggled to sit up again. This time Drake let him. 

“I’m fine!” he insisted, voice hoarse and sleep rough. It felt as if he’d gargled with rocks. “I once fought off armed goons after getting bitten by a big pile of poisonous snakes! Or, wait, is it venomous? What is it when they bite you?”

“Venomous,” Drake confirmed weakly, hands hovering uselessly in front of him. “You really don’t remember what happened, do you?”

“I, uh…” Launchpad looked down, noticing for the first time that he was wearing pajamas. But not his. And definitely not Drake’s. “We…went on patrol?” 

Drake closed his eyes, like he was in pain. That was definitely the wrong answer. 

“We went on patrol,” he confirmed, and Launchpad almost perked up. But Drake clearly wasn’t finished. “We went on patrol to the docks, where we thought Tuskernini might be stashing some of the money from his recent string of bank robberies. And on this patrol, you conveniently forgot to mention that you had a 102 degree fever!” 

Now Launchpad was the one holding onto the blankets, his palms sweating. “S-sure. But-but we caught Tuskernini!” he recalled. 

Drake threw his hands in the air. “Yeah, at first! But he got away when you passed out and fell in the bay!”

“W-wait, what? No I didn’t.” Forget sweating, Launchpad had never been colder in his life. He didn’t remember falling in the water, but he wondered if he’d felt like he did now: sinking into pinprick darkness so frigid and so deep it stole the breath from his lungs.

“You almost drowned,” Drake pressed, eyes overly shiny (just from reflecting the bright desk lamp, Launchpad was sure). He let out a breath, scrubbing a hand over his eyes and through his hair, pushing it out of his face. “I had to let Tuskernini go when I jumped in after you. Then I radioed SHUSH for an evac and one of their doctors said you could rest here. That was about…how many hours ago now, W.A.N.D.A?”

“6.28 hours, Darkwing.” 

Drake was still in costume. Had he���waited for Launchpad to wake up? That felt like wishful thinking. 

Launchpad wasn’t the guy people worried about. Sure he got knocked around on adventures sometimes, but he always got back up, bruised and battered or otherwise. It’s what everyone expected of him. To be just good enough, until someone better came along. 

Drake sat down heavily on the side of the bed. His fire had been snuffed out, and he looked tired and lost again as he stared down at his hands. 

Launchpad watched him in profile, the ache of helpless love in his chest more painful than any tumble into icy waters.

“I just don’t get it,” Drake sighed. “Why would you take a risk like that? And why wouldn’t you tell me you were feeling that bad? Just…what were you thinking?”

If Launchpad’s ribs weren’t throbbing like they’d been used as a marimba, he might’ve laughed. 

Drake had to know. Didn’t he? That for him, Launchpad would get beat down again by every supervillain in Calisota? Give up flying, borrow a time machine and save Jim for him, all without Drake ever needing to ask. 

“DW, l…I did it for you,” Launchpad said helplessly. 

Drake stiffened, like he sometimes did when he got hurt doing something dumb and didn’t want Launchpad to know. But when he lifted his head, there was a small, anguished crease between his eyebrows Launchpad hadn’t seen since Drake fell to his knees before the fire and ruin that was Jim’s last stand. 

“For me?” he repeated slowly, as if wishing he’d heard wrong. 

Launchpad nodded a little nervously. “Y-yeah. It was my idea for you to be Darkwing, y’know? I should be able to watch your back and I didn’t wanna let you down.” Not the full truth, but good enough. Drake didn’t need to know about the countdown in his head, or how his latest stunt might’ve cut down on the time they had left together. 

Drake still looked ill at ease. He wrapped one hand around the clasp of his cape, glancing down at his costume with a furrowed brow. “I don’t want you feeling obligated to come to St. Canard,” he said stiffly and extremely un-Drakelike. “You-you don’t owe me anything, LP. I made the choice, not you.”

He and Drake had learned to speak paragraphs in only a glance, and Launchpad instantly recognized Drake’s poorly hidden (to him) anxiety for what it was. It was a fear Drake had expressed at the start, too. That Launchpad’s hero worship of Jim might extend to Drake, impair his judgment and make him blind to his flaws.

But Launchpad loved Drake for his flaws (and all the good stuff too, of course), because unlike Jim, Drake knew he had them and worked to be better. 

Launchpad’s own anxieties fell away under the strength of his certainty, his faith in his best friend. “I know. I promise, I know. I’m here for Drake, not Darkwing.” His voice still rasped, sore from his illness and impromptu dip in the bay, but his conviction was undamaged. 

And for a moment, Drake smiled, tired but relieved, and it lifted the strain from his features like taking off a veil. 

It didn’t last long, and Launchpad’s heart dropped when Drake looked away, his silence pensive. He took a breath, hands trembling in his lap.

When Drake pinned Launchpad with his stare, he was sure his heart stopped entirely.

“I don’t want you to push yourself like that. Not for me, or anyone else. I knew it was a bad idea to let you go back and forth from here to Duckburg, but I didn’t think it would almost get you killed!”

Launchpad flinched. There it was then. 

Six months wasn’t a bad run, right?

He dropped his gaze as he fiddled with his pajama sleeve, feeling awkward and out of place in Drake’s bed, Drake’s tower. He managed a wavering smile, clenching his jaw against the pesky burn of tears in the corners of his eyes. 

“Sorry, DW. I know I messed up. Just a matter of time, right? I know I’m not good enough to keep around long term, but it was fun while it lasted.”

Dead silence greeted him, like the kind before a bomb went off. He wasn’t even sure he could hear Drake’s breathing, but then Launchpad’s own heartbeat pounding in his ears was kinda distracting. 

When he glanced up, Drake was already staring at him, but he didn’t look relieved or guilty or anything like what Launchpad imagined he’d look like when Launchpad let him off the hook. He mostly looked…stunned. Like in the split second after you got hit over the head with a comically large mallet (there’d been a startling number of Quackerjack copycats since the Fearsome Four invaded their reality). 

“LP,” he managed, as confusion flooded his expression. “What are you talking about?”

Uncertainty replaced Launchpad’s earlier feeling of resignation, and he looked everywhere but at Drake. This really wasn’t how he thought things would go. “I, uh…same thing you’re talking about?”

A warm hand wrapped about Launchpad’s knuckles and his eyes shot up to Drake at once. “I was going to ask if you’d be willing to move to St. Canard,” Drake said quietly. “W-with me. No more driving back and forth.”

“Oh. That’s…I was…” Launchpad stumbled over himself like an idiot, unable to tear his eyes away from Drake’s. A sickening sort of hope was building in the back of his throat but he didn’t dare voice it. Wishful thinking, he told himself. Wishful thinking. 

But Drake’s voice was low, and so soft in its sincerity. “Launchpad. What have I done to make you think you’re not enough?” His grip around Launchpad’s hand tightened, as if someone was trying to snatch him away. 

Launchpad quailed. “Nothing! It wasn’t—it wasn’t you—”

That just seemed to upset Drake even more. Unstoppable as an incoming train, he barreled over Launchpad and left him speechless in his wake. “And what if I want to keep you around forever, huh? What if I’m always going to need you?” 

And Launchpad just…stopped. Because he couldn’t even begin to imagine what that looked like. 

He knew what to look for when people wanted him gone, whether they were subtle about it or just told him to his face to get lost. He’d receive every sort of brush-off under the sun and accepted them all with a smile. But being asked to stay? That he had no frame of reference for. 

“Why would you want that?” he asked without thinking.  

At some point, Drake had stood back up in his agitation. But he never let go of Launchpad’s hand, and though Launchpad hadn’t intended it that way, he used it to guide Drake back onto the bed beside him. 

Drake sank onto the edge with a huff, searching Launchpad’s face imploringly. 

“Because I love you,” he said, so, so easily. Like it was a well known fact that Launchpad had simply forgotten. 

This time, it was Launchpad’s grip that went tight, possibly to the point of pain, but he couldn’t even think straight enough to apologize. Or let go. 

He used to date a lot more after leaving home, looking for someone to share his life with. He’d wanted a family of his own eventually, one he could devote himself to completely, and have that love returned, for once. But while he and his old partners had plenty of fun together, none of them were the right fit. It had hurt him to leave them, and vice versa, but he’d been able to do it, and move on. But Drake?

I dunno, this whole thing sounds like it could get…

Dangerous? 

He’d known ever since he watched Drake look up, the spark of realization in his eyes catching and turning into a blaze of determination as he put Darkwing’s hat back where it belonged—he’d known that there would be no coming back from Drake. No moving on. Drake was it for him.

Launchpad had found the one person he’d been looking for almost his entire life, and he hadn’t even been searching at the time. 

And Drake was in front of him now, getting twitchy, because Launchpad had been quiet for too long. 

He exhaled in a rush, almost feeling lightheaded by the end of it. “Drake, I…I love you too. Of course I love you. How couldn’t I?” Setting the long-trapped words free, quiet and sincere, straight from his heart to Drake’s face…it had him feeling about ready to float away. 

Drake barked that short, sharp laugh of his, one of Launchpad’s favorite sounds. “Do you want the list alphabetically or numerically?” he joked, smiling a true brilliant, relieved smile that Launchpad wanted to kiss off his face. Like a shock to the system, he wondered if Drake would let him. 

He muffled a cough against his arm. 

Maybe when he wasn’t contagious anymore. 

But that seemed to be enough to remind Drake of what got them here in the first place, and he sobered a bit. 

“I’m serious about you moving to St. Canard. You can’t keep doing this to yourself, LP. Burning the candle at both ends like this…what if something happens to you and I’m not there? You shouldn’t have to deal with killer robots or venomous snakes or-or supervillains all on your own! When we’re together we can watch each other's backs, and I think we make a pretty good team.” Drake grinned wryly, but his smile soon slipped a bit, voice turning hesitant. “I don’t want to make you chose between us and your family—”

“You’re my family,” Launchpad interrupted without thinking. He immediately flushed with mortification. But a glance at Drake revealed that he was blushing just as hotly, his face pretty and pink, and failing spectacularly to hide a pleased little smile. Launchpad decided to be brave and smiled back. “You and Gos,” he said, more firmly. 

It was his turn to hesitate now. 

“But… Darkwing Duck doesn’t need a sidekick. He never did.”

Drake leaned forward. And kept leaning forward. 

Launchpad froze up when Drake pressed his temple against Launchpad’s own clammy forehead. Drake’s free hand settled on Launchpad’s chest, over his heart, and it thumped madly under his palm. 

Launchpad had just started to settle into this new embrace, one hand coming up to press tentatively against Drake’s lower back, when Drake spoke again into the short, warm distance between them. 

“Darkwing Duck isn’t real. Or, wasn’t. Not until you came along. And yeah, maybe I don’t need a sidekick. But I do want a partner.” 

“And you want…me?” Launchpad hated how small his voice sounded but everything in him was still screaming that this was all too good to be true. That he was still asleep with Drake watching over him, but no more. 

Drake’s hand on his chest tightened, gripping a fistful of fabric. “Of course, you,” he said, gentle but unwavering. “Why would I want anyone else?” 

Launchpad shrugged, flustered but unable to help himself. “You don’t want someone, I dunno…better?”

“What’s ‘better’ than the man I love?”

“I…I didn’t…when…wow. That was a really good line,” Launchpad breathed, and he laughed for the first time that night. But it felt like his first breath of fresh air in years. 

“You think so? I practiced a little, y’know, cuz I wanted to get it right, but I hoped for a more romantic setting. Some candlelight maybe, a nice sunset behind us.” Drake pushed Launchpad back onto the bed, following him down to kiss his forehead. “Now get some rest, partner, so we can work on that first date.”

[kylobith]

LotR Week - Day 4 (19th Sep)

Gifts, burdens and choices — @lotrweek

The Elves have long stopped their lament, yet a cacophony lingers within Boromir’s mind. The others have gone to sleep, and even Frodo finally seems to dream again. Their snores fill their shared nook. He envies them, he does. Ever since his unsettling meeting with the Lady Galadriel, there has been nothing but turmoil in his soul. Will it ever end, the spiralling?

Exhaustion is there, though, he can feel it deep in his bones. Everything hurts, every muscle in his body. He, who has always been one for exercise and fighting, is not immune to the toll that the past days have taken on the fellowship, on both body and heart. He is no longer as young and fierce as he once was.

But that deeply rooted anguish within him… Ageing has nothing to do with it all. It would have been easy to dismiss it as a symptom of passing time, but that would have meant lying to himself and everyone who shared the weight of the task at hand. There have been too many lies as of late. He may not desire to instantly trust the first person he encounters, but he certainly refuses to continue this vicious circle of deception. What purpose would that serve? The world is a harsh enough place as it is, and the whole plan is to make it a better place.

Just a ring. Nothing but a silly, little ring. The very fate of Middle-earth rests in Frodo’s hands. Embodied by that tiny golden circle. He might not be as well-taught as Aragorn or Faramir are, but even he knows how disastrous the consequences would be should the quest fail. And it is nothing but a stupid ring.

How absurd life has become since his first puzzling dreams that his brother shared with him. Nothing is going according to plan either. It was all simple, though. Go to Rivendell, seek an audience with Elrond, find out the cause of these dreams and their meaning, educate himself on the broken sword, then return to Minas Tirith to inform Denethor on his findings and prepare against any approaching threat. Easy. But not so easy. Now, he is far from home, shivering in the night surrounded by his travel companions, burdened with a quest much greater than what he knows he can handle, and Gandalf is dead. Dead.

He can still remember the wizard’s occasional visits to Minas Tirith back when he was nothing but a boy. While he did spend more time with Faramir than with him — much to Denethor’s relief, after all, why should his precious firstborn’s time be wasted by the fanciful stories of an old man? — he did enjoy his presence, just like any other child did. When the fellowship was formed, he found solace in the knowledge that Gandalf would accompany them. That was at least one familiar element amid the blur.

But now the wizard is gone, and his companions seem to distrust every word he speaks. The Elves who welcomed them were not any warmer to him. He is an outcast where he has always fit in. Acting in teams, coming up with strategies, fighting, camping… None of it is strange to him. If anything, that is what his life has always been. So why, oh why does he feel so inadequate and insecure? Why do the others regard him with such disdain whenever he opens his mouth?

Merry and Pippin do not. Thankfully. Before tragedy struck, he quite enjoyed their company and teaching them new tricks with the sword. The carefree laughs, the games, the jokes… It all reminded him of the time when Faramir was a child and wanted his brother to teach him things, not just a regular teacher. For a moment in the middle of fear and uncertainty, he could slip back to simpler times and relive these memories from so long ago. But now that they have escaped Moria, nothing feels right anymore. The two hobbits hardly ever smile anymore. The innocent glimmers in their eyes have dimmed. Just like the wonder in Faramir’s eyes was snuffed by years of their father’s spite.

They are grown, now.

And all he can do is clutch his chest and muffle his crying. They all need proper rest, and Boromir will not be a bother to them.

Not this time.

[orbitariums]

christopher moltisanti x black! reader (snippet) as promised literally LAST YEAR... i know my people are still waiting on it i'm so sorry for leaving yall hanging, gays can u ever forgive me?

this is a SNIPPET of the shit i literally started last week... there's room for improvement and hopefully this will force me to finish this. also if any of y'all are also into challengers, i've got some patrick zweig and art donaldson (x black reader) fic posted and more incoming ehehehe.

anyway. set in like s3/s4, when christopher was working in an office (completely blanking on when that actually was but you'll have to forgive me i literally started this last summer (and still haven't finished the sopranos because i am notoriously slow at finishing tv shows))

cappuccino w/ extra cream | christopher moltisanti x black!reader

contains: smut, mentions of racial tension, christopher is NOT an abusive racist in this sopranosverse <3

You and Christopher Moltisanti were not a predictable match. It was only by chance that you met, while he was ordering lunch at the bodega you worked at after he had scored a hit in your neighborhood. He knew better than to come back, especially just for you, but he did. Over and over he came in, ordering a turkey and cheese on a roll with extra relish, shoving an inappropriately large tip in the tip jar just for you— just enough times until you caved in and let him take you out to dinner.

Of course, your family had a fit, and you didn’t even want to think about what Christopher went through with his crew when it came time to finally tell them about his forbidden love life. But all of the ruckus had died down, and now between the two of your crews was this unspoken, stifled agreement that they would let this union exist in peace. It was the 90s for god’s sake, and Christopher was a stubborn mule. 

Once he knew what he wanted, there was no backing down, even if it made him look like an idiot to those whom he served. And by god, did he want you. He was obsessed with you. Always wining and dining you, showing you off without shame. Of course, you two had been through your ups and downs, but Christopher treated you right. You were probably the first woman he’d treated right, the first he cared for unconditionally. No pains in sight except those he took to spoil you and cherish you beyond the diamonds and Versace pumps he gifted you. Even Paulie could respect it, along with the rest. It’s partially why they left it alone, and even smiled and shook your hand when you showed up on his arm. He thought about you every waking moment, he was positively lovestruck. 

It was a slow day at the office. Already Christopher had to reprimand Thing One and Thing Two for trying to intimidate the new guy. He was secluded now in his office, scrolling aimlessly on his chunky desktop computer when he heard a knock at the door.

“Who is it?”

“It’s me, baby!” came your voice, tinkling like bells in his ear and positively soaring through the room from the other side of the door. 

Christopher stood up, standing straight as if he’d just downed a shot of espresso, and he had to physically resist flinging himself at the door for the sake of the guys outside who were watching him. He opened it, first looking past you and glaring at the guys who had frozen on their phones and computers, gaping at the sight of you being let into Christopher’s office. Like they’d never seen anybody before. 

“What are you jerkoffs looking at?” Christopher barked. “Get back to work!”

Immediately resumed the punching sounds of typing and the drawls of the sleazy salesmen on the phone with their poor customers. As if it were nothing, Christopher retreated back, facing you with a broad, charming smile.

“YN, baby… what are you doin’ here?” he asked, that dopey lover boy tinkle sneaking into his voice, which always did anytime he talked to you. He sounded like a completely different person— like the Chris he might have been if he weren’t born into the family he was born into. He took your arms into his hands, caressing them gently, softly smiling. “Here, come in.”

He opened the door wide enough for you to come in, glared at everyone once again when you walked past, and then closed it, clicking the door locked. Not that anyone would try to come in unannounced anyway.   

“Wanted to see you, that’s all,” you smiled, plush lips pressed against one another. “Got off work early, got you a capp and chocolate biscotti. Extra creamy, just how you like it.”

You sat down at the chair opposite his desk, setting down two coffee cups and a crinkly paper bag. Christopher felt like he was dreaming. His discontent seemed to fade away now that you were here— bright colors replaced the dull dram palette of his lonely office and he only had eyes for you. The smell of creamy espresso wafted towards him, mingling with the praline swirls of perfume that glided off of your pressure points. He was in Heaven— he was sure of it. All of his senses were overwhelmed by beauty when he was around you. 

“My girl. Always so sweet,” Christopher picked up a cup and sat down in his desk chair across from you. He pried open the lid and took a deep sniff, all the while maintaining the most tantalizing eye contact with you, both of you staring at each other with smirking smiles painted on your lips. 

“Go on, drink it,” you prompted him, unable to hide the smile from your voice. 

“What, I can’t look at you instead?” Christopher crooned back. “C’mere. Come, sit on my lap. Sitting across from me, what are you, a client?”

You shook your head, laughing at Christopher’s incessant demands to always be close to you, always be looking at you. He was always touchy-feely and lovey-dovey. His affinity for physical touch lurked not so far beyond the cold mobster exterior. You got up anyway, slinked over to him, and sat. One leg crossed over the other, the skin of one thigh sinking into the other. He wrapped his arms around you and nuzzled his chin into your shoulder, gazing up at you. 

“Your hair looks nice,” Christopher commented, gently grabbing a handful of your fresh auburn-colored braids and stroking his hand through the gaps.

“Oh, thank you,” you snaked a hand through your hair, tilting your head so you could see Christopher better. 

“You go to that salon? Put it on my card?”

“Of course, baby. Thank you,” you smiled coyly, kissing his cheek with a loud smack.

“You just tell me anytime you need to get your hair done. With you, it’s every two weeks, but I can’t complain.”

You snickered,

“Yeah, until I make you sit there and wait for me for six hours to get some braids.”

“I dunno how you do it. You’ve got patience like nobody else,” Christopher replied, pushing some of your braids to the other side.

“We have patience like no other.”

Christopher looked down at your skirt— a tight pencil skirt that matched the brown hues of your skin and hugged your curves nicely. You matched it with a blazer and a white blouse. You looked so sexy and professional, and elegant.

“And this skirt,” Christopher continued, layering on the compliments with a renewed curiosity, the kind of curiosity that wanted to know what was under the skirt. His hands, rough and large, found their way onto your lap and your thigh. His hands, marred and toughened from his profession, felt nothing like your buttery smooth skin, but still, you found yourself melting into his touch. Your wispy lashes brushed against your cheek as your eyes fluttered slightly closed. 

“Burberry. You like it?” you bit down on your lip, giving him doe eyes as you craned your neck to coo at him. 

A deep smirk set on Christopher’s lips and his thick brows rose slightly. His hands left your body for only a moment to raise up in the air as if considering the question, then they were right back where they belonged, 

“Do I like it? I wanna fuck you with it on.”

Your mouth dropped.

“Christopher!” you enunciated each syllable, glaring back at him with twinkling, faux scandalized wide eyes. 

“What? I can’t be honest anymore?” Christopher asked, his words beginning to sound muffled as he pressed his lips against your neck ever-so-gently, but enough so that you could feel it. “I’m Catholic. Lying is a sin.”

“What’re you doing, Chris?” you scoffed, rolling your eyes amusedly. You wouldn’t keep up this facade for long, but he would play along and break down your walls. 

“You smell so fucking good,” Christopher practically inhaled your scent, his big nose pressed against the nape of your neck. “You got more of this stuff?”

You frowned slightly, remembering that you were savoring the last of it,

“I’m almost out.”

“I’ll get you more,” Christopher replied immediately. “Make that your signature scent.”

You chuckled at Christopher’s insistence, his matter-of-fact way of speaking about certain things. Not controlling, but honest about what he wanted. 

“Okay, I will,” you grinned. 

Christopher pushed away your braids so that one side of your neck was completely bare for him to continue peppering kisses upon. It was clear to you that he wanted more than just this, as sweet as it was. And you wanted it too, but not without teasing him first. 

“I want you right now,” Christopher said, a certain desperation tinged in his voice that only you could provoke. He knew he’d have you, and could have you… but still, every time, he seemed to rescind into this character of the enthralled lover boy who didn’t quite have the girl. Like he was still ordering sandwiches from the other side of the counter and telling you to keep the change. 

“Christopher! You’re at work. What if someone hears?”

Christopher snorted through his nose, 

“I don’t give a fuck. ‘Sides, only thing those jerkoffs can hear is the sound of their own 

mouth-breathing.”

You giggled, but half-heartedly, trying to catch your breath. Christopher wasn’t the only one who was defenseless in this relationship. You wouldn’t be able to guess it right away, but he had you wrapped around his finger too, right along with his Cuban ring. Everything he did positively enraptured you, even if it made him dangerous. But when you were with him, everything was swathed in the softest fabrics, and the air smelled of fresh linen and fields of flowers. None of the blood and tears that his work consisted of. 

You crumpled under his touch, easily. He knew you, mind, soul, and more presently, body. The room was silent, bar for the slightest sounds of lips against your neck and fabric swishing against itself as he eased his hand further up your thigh, pushing underneath your skirt. By now his kisses against your neck had you tilting your head back in pleasure, your lips slightly parted. You could feel the outline of his cock against your ass and wanted nothing more than to get closer. Each time you saw each other it was like you hadn’t seen each other in years, would never see each other again. The passion never dissipated. 

His hand crept further and further until it reached the side of your panties, lifting the elastic band and then letting it slap against your skin. His kisses against your neck grew deeper and traveled up to your chin, his other hand wrapped around your waist tightly. You gasped slightly at Chris’ suggestive touch.

“Christopher…” you whispered, your voice reduced to a weak shiver, lids becoming heavy. 

“What?” he responded, his breath heavy. 

“Please, I need you to touch me.”

“Where?” Christopher asked, fighting the smile that was pulling at his lips. 

“Here!” you exclaimed with desperation, grabbing his hand and pressing it against the center of your panties where there was a wet mark. 

“Oh, there,” Christopher replied, fingers pressing into you over the delicate fabric. 

“Yes, please,” you whimpered, your whole body beginning to tense up as if preparing for sweet impact. 

You were relieved when you felt him push your panties to the side and you could finally feel his fingers against your flesh, prodding at your folds as if collecting your wetness along his fingertips. 

“You’re always so wet,” he shuddered, wasting no time and pushing a thick finger into your hole, making you nearly jump out of your seat on his lap. Instead, though, you simply arched your hips up against his finger, letting out a deep exhale. “And so warm.”

“Oh!” you yelped out in pleasant shock when Christopher added another finger, fully stretching you out now and sending a buzzing vibration up your spine. 

“Thought you didn’t want anybody to hear us?” Christopher taunted you, lips hot against your ear. 

“Ugh,” you moaned, rolling your eyes. “Just—please.”

“Please what?” Christopher asked, all while quickening the pace of his fingers inside you, switching from slow, scissoring motions to a fast slam that caused you to collapse against his chest, your legs pried open. Christopher moaned to himself at the feeling of your wet slick against his fingers, the way he could feel you getting wetter as he pushed his fingers in and out of your hot entrance. 

“Please fuck me,” you whined, your voice taking on an entirely new high pitch as you jolted into the pleasure and the change of pace. 

“‘M gonna fuck you, don’t you worry your pretty little head,” Christopher kept pushing his learned fingers into you, hitting your g-spot with ease. “Gonna make you take my cock.”

“M-mhm,” you gasped out. Chris wanted to see this through, but the way he was straining against his pants was killing him. It was painful not to be able to be inside of you. 

“Fuck, I’m taking this off,” he announced, and you both fumbled together to unzip your skirt and toss it onto the floor. His pants and boxers came next, along with your panties. All thrown carelessly around the room. Then he lifted you and turned you around so you were facing him, straddling him on his desk chair. You were already desperately grinding against the base of his cock, your arousal trailing up his shaft. 

“You’re such a fucking slut,” Christopher’s voice seemed to grind into a growl as he watched you roll your hips desperately against his cock. 

“Please,” you pouted, his words passing through you like a gust of wind— you hardly registered them. You were too busy grabbing at his cock and trying to 

“Why’d you really come here, huh? To get fucked?”

You hated and loved how easy it was for him to turn you into putty. 

more soon i promithhh <3 keep me on my toes yall

[dansconcepts]

DRV3 meets SDR2

A drabble for that idea where the DRV3 cast also went through a simulation.

.·:*¨ ✘♚✘ ¨*:·.

He’s been speculated, many times, if he really was the Ultimate Liar and not the Ultimate Supreme Leader with how often his mouth spews bullshit. 

But everything was a lie, so what does it matter anymore?

There’s the strange way he had to look at this man, with dark hair cropped under the cheap, shitty lighting that fills this facility, claiming to have all the talents under the sun, and simply trust that their talents weren’t real.

“But, you have them now.” He stated, again in this monotone voice that grated his ears. He sounded so bored while everyone else's world crashed around him like the predictable little pawns they were not that he was faring that much better.

“You sure seem pretty nonchalant about this! I sure thought you’d be more touchy-feely, Mr. Kamukura, sir.” 

Heterochromatic eyes immediately sharpened toward him. He heard the way his classmates whisper, how loudly they go, “Kamukura? That guy’s name is Hajime Hinata, isn’t it?”, but he ignored it all. Despite his sly tone, he knew his face is only dead serious. He heard all about this man in passing, from the whispers of other Remnants and snooping into places he got into with more ease than he probably should’ve. There was no use playing pretend with this man. He was a cold, unfeeling robot- full offense Kiibo- but a masterful genius who contributed to the Tragedy.

“I… apologize.” Kamukura’s tone turned more contemplative, but still undeniably monotone. He even had the audacity to nod at him, as if acknowledging what he said, but he knew he’s not even going to attempt to address it. “I harbour empathy for you all, despite how I express it.” 

That was the worst lie he ever heard, but the man had no tells suggesting it, or perhaps he will never be able to recover the ability to understand a person from their body language. So what’s the point then? None of this was going to be worthwhile. Might as well tune it out. It's all white noise, until-

“I was once a talentless nobody, and I gained every talent at once.”

“How… is that possible?” Shuichi’s voice chimed in, and Kokichi started. The detective hadn’t made a single sound since everyone came in.

“Human experimentation.” 

Silence. 

“I have no desire to discuss it. I hardly remember it, regardless. The fact of the matter is, I was talentless, a Reserve Course student of Hope’s Peak, and well… I obtained a talent. Talents.”

He looked around the room. “You would be going through an experience. The inverse of my situation applies to you, so I cannot say much. The talents you had in the game were false, but that does not mean no portion of it was real. I know some of you have already recovered some of your past memories.

Being talentless does not mean useless. This I swear to you.”

“Easy for you to say! You have every talent at your disposal! We lost the one thing that makes us-!”

“‘-who you are.’” Kamukura finished. “Predictable. Bor-.” A pause. 

Suddenly, his eyebrows furrowed and a scowl painted his features. This was Hajime. “I’m sorry about him, he’s trying. Look, just take it from me, even when I was talentless I was probably the most sane and helpful out of all the damn Ultimates in my killing game. Hope’s Peak were monsters for making us think that not being labeled as Ultimates suddenly meant you were useless. They forced society to care about a select few individuals and look where it got us.” 

“Your talents didn’t make you who you are. You made your way through because of everything, and the talents you had didn’t really help much in the end, did they? Because they sure as hell didn’t help me.”

[firstdivisiongirl]

Hey there, i just stumbled upon your Blog through your law x reader works. I soooo love your writing, i will dig through your whole Blog haha. :D

If its possible, can you maybe write a precurser to the law x reader fic where he feels to clingy? Like, how they got togheter and the Long Talks and the Moment law kisses reader for the First time?! I got kinda giddy when i first read it

Have a Great day!,

Hi there! I hope you enjoy the more you read in my blog. So, I decided to talk about when they first met. I also did some research on dialects to get some knowledge on it. I used an Essex dialect. I hope you like it!

Law x Fem Reader: How it Started

Most love stories are magical from the beginning.  It’s love at first sight or friends to lovers.  Not you two.  He had landed on a small island to resupply.  It was a quiet little village, like the ones you hear about in story books with little stone buildings covered in moss with brightly colored flower boxes.  But, Law didn’t really care about how it looked.  It was just another place to resupply.  He walked into the one store to get more gunpowder, there was a little old lady who greeted him.

“How are you doing there bor?” she asked.  Law raised an eyebrow.  He could not figure out what the woman just said.

“What did you just call me?” he asked, defensively.

“A bor.  You are one, right?”

You walked into the room carrying a few boxes in your arms.  You interrupted the conversation giggling, “she called you a boy, dumbass.”  Law glared at you.  “Then why didn’t she call me one?”

“It’s called dialect.  Ever heard of it?”

Law crossed his arms.  He was not happy right now.  You were treating him with so much disrespect.  

Him and the crew were still on the island.  It has been 4 days.  Sadly, he happened to see you everywhere.  He was already pissed about you making fun of him a few days before.  As he walked down the streets, he saw you helping some of the store owners plant flowers in their window boxes, a huge smile on your face as you talked to some of them.  He really wanted nothing to do with you.

Later that day, Bepo came back with a friend.  Much to Law’s dismay, it was you.  “I’m sorry.  Your friend got lost and I was helping him back to your ship.”

“Well, thank you for bringing him back.  You can leave.”

“But Captain!  She knows a lot about many different languages!  She told me all about how she knows the dialects of 20 different areas.  She helped me ask people for directions and she’s nice and…”

The vein on Law’s forehead started to pop out, but Bepo was his weakness. “Fine,” Law said begrudgingly, “she can join.”

That was the day you joined the Heart Pirates as their linguist and interpreter.  It might not have been the best beginning to your story, but it ended up better than it started.

Please do not copy, modify, translate, or repost my writing on other platforms. Comments, reblogs or likes are highly appreciated!

[dramatisperscnae]

[my muse was unexpectedly kidnapped, found a year later barely alive, injured, and bound.]

@lazaruspitreborn

Where there would be some snarky commentary there was silence and cautiousness when Red Hood found frigging Nightwing dumped inside what he could only consider a murder shack at the outskirts of Gotham. A scene so shocking he couldn't even bring any words out of his mouth or brain. No, he scanned the place a second and third time with his scan-bug (one of his latest creations) and upon not finding anything that called for extra caution, rushed to Dick. They never stopped looking for him. Never! They lost Bruce too soon, couldn't lose Dick as well! But as the days went on, hope dwindled in spite of the Babs', Tim's and Jason's efforts. And with criminal activity rising again, their time became more and more limited, only making their search even harder. "H-Hey, hey, hey! It's fine. It's me, Bluebird." Jason's voice was hushed and way softer when he stopped what he thought was an attempt on a punch. "Holy shit! You're alive... Dick! Dick, no, no, no! Do not fucking go dead on me!" Gods! Jason slided on his knees to take a better look at Dick, craddling his head and face against his own chest while he measure his pulse - weak, but still there. "I'm here. I'm here Dick. You're safe." A wave of relief washed over him, so powerful that Jason completely forgot to send word back to the Belfry for quite a few minutes while he checked Dick's wounds and ascertained himself that he didn't have anything broken.

Cold. So cold. What was left of his suit wasn't nearly enough to keep the cold out. Wrists hurt. Ankles. Everything, just one constant dull ache. Where was he? Had they moved him again? They kept moving him, never too long in one place, never more than a few days…weeks? He didn't know. Time had stopped meaning anything a while back. Impossible to tell time without clocks. Without light. Without anything to go by. He could only guess.

How long had he been gone? Weeks? Months? How long since they'd taken him? How long until they came back? They always came back. Every time he though it was over, every time he woke up on a new chair, a new floor, every time he thought he'd made it out, they always came back. What would it be this time? Gas? Injection? Or going old-school with blades and blunt instruments? Or a combination of them all?

Breath rasped in his chest, the sound of hurried footsteps making him twitch. Here it came, all over again, and he didn't have the strength to fight them off. He barely had the strength to struggle against the hands pulling him from the floor, trying to pull away until his arms were immobilized and a hushed voice spoke.

It's me, Bluebird.

He looked up to see a red mask, featureless but for white lenses, looking back at him. Talking to him. Red. Not white. They didn't use red masks. And their masks didn't look like this, not remotely. It wasn't them. It wasn't them. He sagged, what little energy that had been driving him flowing out as his eyes slid closed again.

And then he heard his name. His real name. And he was being lifted, cradled against a broad chest. Forcing his eyes open again he looked up, hazily, at the red mask - no. Red helmet - above him. A helmet he knew. Voice he knew. Assuring him. Safe. He's safe. Bluebird. "…Jason…" His voice was weak, barely a whisper, hoarse from overuse or underuse or some unholy combination of both; as dry as his mouth felt, he was surprised he could speak at all right now.

There was nothing broken - at least, not recently, though from the looks of things at least one or two fingers had been broken and forcibly reset a few times. Around his wrists and ankles his struggles against his bonds had left clear tracks in the flesh beneath that had never gotten a chance to heal, while beneath the shreds of what had once been his suit were scars - some fresh, some months old, none of them clean or pretty - scattered amongst bruises and fresh wounds while his arms bore the tell-tale marks of needles. IV, syringes, his captors had regularly introduced various things into his system, though whether to keep him alive or to torment him further - or both - was anyone's guess.

[banavalope]

Hello, I'm a Homestuck and Good Omens fan and just saw your post about coffee. I came to the Homestuck fandom way late, though, and don't know what the coffee theory was. I was wondering if you'd be willing to share that story from the trenches if it's not too traumatic :)

I'll preface by saying, this all happened near about the time I began to step away from Homestuck, as this was late 2011 to early 2012. My recollection could very well be missing some juicier deets, because I always managed to avoid the worst of it. In all I had a pretty benign time floating about the Homestuck fandom, I'll say that. My knowledge is as a fly's.

If you want the short version: once upon a time, the Homestuck fandom was so stupid it had discourse over the way coffee was drawn in a single panel, because the stylistic choice used to show the way cheap potted coffee has that oil slick sheen on the top Really got the gamerz thinking Gamzee was putting troll blood in the coffee.

The long version is this: this Act was annoying. All the Acts had been annoying, there'd been rather more than six of them so far. The fandom's toxicity was at its most potent, and the main fandom exodus hadn't happened yet. But the stylistic choice brewing on page 4702 of A6I2 suggested a discourse was on the horizon, and it was the size of planet fucking Jupiter.

To understand the affairs of 2011/12 Homestucks, a few things are important to mention: first, nobody enjoyed Act 6. Ask anyone from the tumblr era First Wave, we all agreed that Cascade would have been a better place to start wrapping up the comic as a whole. When Act 6 opened introducing the alpha kids, a whole new plot derivative, and we all realized we'd have to go through the same slog again, that the story wasn't over, the collective exhaustion was palpable. SWATHS left unhappy; worse yet (for some), the alpha kids brought us away from the game of SBURB and the over-aching plot, to instead place our focus on their interpersonal relationships. It was a bad time to take your audience away from a well crafted climax.

Reading it now as a completed work makes this not so bad, because the book is wrote. You can consume it as a finished piece and clearly interpret a through line for yourself, start to finish. Skip it even, if you want. When you've no idea at what time the next update will come, while all the pieces remain necessary to tell the story, any pacing is bad pacing.

Second, while Homestucks are known for many things - all of them cringe - the one that goes overlooked most, in spite of the ripple effect we still feel from it today in every corner, is the sheer amount of over analyzing done to the story itself. Every panel, every inch of every pixel, was a part of a puzzle we all collectively made up. Theorizing was an integral part to the Update Culture era of Homestuck's fandom, that we Figure Out the Story, you had to be the one who predicted what came next. Impressive how none of us came up with some kind of fandom Nobel Peace Prize, for how much we lauded it as a lifetime achievement.

I'll give you, Homestuck does have a very rich narrative. Much of it, I'll favor, is even intentional. It made worldbuilding choices captivating enough to get people painting themselves grey, for fun, so surely it had a few right ideas in some places. And there's nothing wrong about analyzing your media, picking apart its references to tie together a background story, even if it's just one you make up based on how you experienced reading it. That's kind of the whole point of consuming art. It's to be discussed, share your personal conclusions on. Theory is the breath of creativity.

It's the whole part about wanting to be right, where Homestucks as a collective force wanted to start eating each other alive on the spot. We were fucking OBNOXIOUS with theory posting. I'll be honest with you, I really ate that kind of thing up, and even I was getting annoyed. People were beginning to stretch, likely to cope with becoming bored.

Finally, the sober Gamzee controversy. This came about a while before coffeegate, but the effect the inciting update had on Homestucks is comparable to a haunting. It was fucking chernobyl, and a bad day to be a nuclear scientist because now it was your problem. Vriska fans - equally insufferable, as we all were by some respect[1] - and Gamzee fans fought with each other VEHEMENTLY, just to see whos gang was better. Keep that in the background of your mind as the theme music to what's playing. Everyone was anxiously wondering what had happened to Gamzee, because for the last several some-odd panels, we'd lost the boy. He was full of murderous intent, we were down to precious few characters on the meteor left, and we'd lost the boy.

So here we are. It's 2011. We're standing now at the end of the world, we've lost the boy for several panels, and finally the plot is trying to move along. We're all tired, and irritated, and divorced, doing this song and dance one more time but god willing the LAST TIME, when a joke about the look of shitty potted coffee gets made.

And some harbinger of the fucking apocalypse takes to tumblr dot com, drafting up a post about how Gamzee - living in the meteor walls - is putting troll blood into the coffee. Because, otherwise, how is Kanaya as a rainbow drinker doing so fine? Dave called the taste metallic, like blood. Something something long forgotten theories about trolls blood here something something. People would chime in to say "that's just how coffee looks", somehow it dissolved into actual discourse of people violently discussing back and forth how it could ONLY BE BLOOD, because coffee drawn in a prior panel UPDATES AGO didn't have the film on top, only now AFTER SOBER GAMZEE. Etcetera. It was just the worst case of reading too hard into something that you done ever did see.

Shortly following this, many people who were already growing exhausted with Homestuck's narrative direction at this point decided to take this coffee theory as their sign the flood was coming and to board the ark or learn how to swim. Anyone who learned to swim subsequently left during the exodus of 2015.

Again, my memory is pretty hazy. Thanks to Requiem Cafe, surprisingly difficult to google these days. Certainly another old still following me will have something more to add that I'm forgetting, as your handy dandy unreliable narrator.

[1] Said the Eridan fan.

[oohnotvery]

Edges of the Night (Chapter 2)

Mulder told her to drive and gave her a mysterious address in Colorado, but apart from that, he has left her completely in the dark. Scully knows better than anyone that her former partner is notoriously bad about information-sharing, but this time, she’s really working on a wing and prayer. To his credit, Mulder seems physically incapable of providing more details. She had to pull over to the side of the highway just to shake him awake for her first of many hourly concussion check-ins. He grumbled something about not stopping and she forced him to recite her name, his address, and the President’s name before getting back on the road. He was asleep before she even crossed over into traffic.  

At the second check-in, she pulls into a gas station in the middle-of-nowhere central California. When Mulder raises his head and starts to protest, she bites.

“I’m exhausted, Mulder, and if you really expect me to drive fifteen hours through the night to a place I’ve never even heard of, with no explanation as to why I’m making this drive, you’re going to let me drink a coffee and you’re going to let me take a bathroom break.” He shoots her an irritated look and she fantasizes about turning the gas pump on him.

While she waits for her coffee to drip, she considers trotting over to the nearby pay phone and calling Alan. Far too many times, she’s been on the receiving end of Mulder’s inability to call her and tell her that he’s okay, safe, and alive. She intimately knows the horrible, sickening way it feels to wait and wonder. She remembers the many vivid scenarios the brain tends to conjure in these situations. Alan deserves a call.

God, her boss probably deserves a call. Her stomach clenches when she considers what it will look like when she doesn’t show up to work tomorrow, or the next day, or maybe even the day after that. How long does Mulder intend to keep her wrapped up in this strange, mysterious escapade of his? And how long will she play along?

With a sinking stomach, she realizes how quickly she fell back into his orbit. How easily she succumbed to his absurd, unexplained demands and requests. For a moment, her cheeks blaze hotly. He pushed you out, she reminds herself, and you’re still letting him control your life.

The coffee machine sputters one last hot drip of coffee into the paper cup and she glances over at her car. Mulder has managed to stay awake this time and his eyes are trained on her. She meets his gaze through the window and wonders what he’s thinking. Although she knows—knew—him well, his mind is an enigmatic place. He could be thinking about the car accident; the drive; the diamond on her finger. Hell, he could be thinking about the Knicks. It’s a complete toss-up. The one thing she’s certain of is that he sure as hell isn’t thinking about how he hurt her, or how this little adventure is affecting her life.

She pays for her coffee and decides not to make any calls.

At the third check-in, she doesn’t bother pulling over. The coffee has done its job and she feels sufficiently awake. She pokes Mulder in the side until he wakes up and answers all her probing questions. Then she turns her attention back to the road, fully expecting him to return to sleep. After a minute though, she can still feel his eyes on her. She glances over.

In the eerie darkness of the deserted highway, she can only see flickers of his expression: an earnest look in his eyes; a defeated pout on his lips.

“Thank you,” he says after a minute, “for driving.”

She holds his gaze for just a second, then nods tightly.

The fourth check-in includes another bathroom break and a second coffee, along with a granola bar for her and a packet of sunflower seeds for him. She isn’t sure if he’s eaten anything, so she adds on a water bottle, a muffin, and a bag of pretzels. The rural gas station pickings are slim. Mulder declines the food but downs the water, which she appreciates.

They have almost reached the California-Nevada border and so far, she has been following signs for Las Vegas, knowing that it will be the first—and only—major city they will encounter along the way. After that, she’s going to need to rely on the atlas in the backseat.

After Mulder drains his water bottle, he falls back into another round of sleep. Scully is partially glad for his unconsciousness; it means they don’t have to address anything serious, at least not yet. Every so often, she glances over at him to check for the telltale rise and fall of his chest. The sight of him dozing beside her pricks at her memories. She has been in this position many times before, driving a sleeping Mulder to and from another rural town with another set of monsters. He’s done the same for her, especially during her cancer when she often fell asleep the moment the car started moving.

But tonight is a much longer journey than those road trips ever were, and it evokes a deeper memory for her. Her tired eyes burn as she recalls the last time she drove an unconscious Mulder across the country, many years ago when their relationship was still forming—when she drove him to New Mexico to meet Albert Hosteen. She cringes realizing that they were on better terms back then than they are now, despite the fact that she had just shot him in the shoulder.  

She banishes the memories as they come. Some things are too painful to bear right now. Her mind needs to be completely focused on the drive. Ruminating on the fact that they’ll never get back to that place of mutual respect and devotion is something she simply can’t consider.

It is almost midnight by the time they reach the outskirts of Las Vegas, and her caffeine has worn off. She keeps pinching herself to stay awake, but the outlines of the highway are getting fuzzy and the headlights from passing cars blur her vision. She needs to take a break.

She catches sight of a roadside motel just outside the city and makes a quick decision. She flips on her blinker and takes the exit for the motel. When she pulls to a stop in the parking lot, Mulder blinks awake. He glances around at his surroundings, takes in the retro neon motel sign, and then looks at her sharply.

“No,” he says immediately.

Her shoulders sag. “Mulder, please,” she begs. “I’m so tired. I just need a few hours of sleep.”

He shakes his head defiantly. “Scully, we have to keep going. It’s not safe yet. They could be following us.”

“Who? What’s not safe?” she demands. “You haven’t told me anything except to drive. Are you in danger?”

He rubs at his face restlessly. “I know, I know,” he admits, then glances around nervously. “Please, get back on the road.” He meets her eyes, silently begging her to trust him. “Please.”

She stares at him. His face has an anxious, desperate quality to it. It is unusual to see Mulder this way; he walks through the world with a frustrating amount of confidence. Back in the day, even when faced with critical danger, he often peppered their conversations with bad jokes or stupid puns. But tonight, he is on edge, an animal being hunted. Tonight, he is genuinely afraid.

And so, with an exasperated sigh, she does as she’s told.

As she re-enters the highway, they ride in silence for a few minutes. In the Before Times, silence between them was an easy affair. Hundreds of hours together in rental cars meant they never had any expectations of the other to fill the space with useless noise. But tonight, the silence feels uncomfortable. It highlights the distance between them; it underscores the time they have lost.   

He clears his throat, bringing her back to the present. “So, uh, you need to ask me any more concussion questions? What’s the name of my favorite burger joint? How often does Frohike hack into the DoD’s files?”

She grimaces at his poor attempt at humor. It’s been a while since she’s thought about the Gunmen. She wonders if they ever think about her. She shrugs. “You seem fine, Mulder. I’ll withhold my questions for now.” She pauses, licking her lips. “But if I have trouble waking you up next time, I’ll be sure to inquire after Frohike’s hacking habits.”

She feels him smile across the car, but he doesn’t reply. The banter between them feels forced and stilted. Although it was easy enough to fall back into place at first—doctor mode, FBI mode—now that the immediate danger seems to have passed, she doesn’t know how to speak to him.

“So you, uh, you probably do have some more pressing questions for me,” he says quietly, breaking into her thoughts. “About what’s going on here.”

She nods slowly. “I do.”

“Ask away.”

She glances over at him, biting her lip. “What the hell is going on? What is so pressing that I can’t even get four hours of sleep in a bed before driving another nine hours through unfamiliar territory?”

He rubs his eye with a finger, then sighs heavily. “Fair enough. Two days ago, Skinner alerted me to a very credible threat to your safety.”

She almost slams on the brakes. This is just not fair. Isn’t this the entire reason he pushed her out in the first place? So shit like this would stop happening to her? So she wouldn’t ever be in danger again? So he could rest easy knowing he would never again be the cause of her suffering? “To my safety?” she sputters. “How? I haven’t been involved in the X-Files for months.”

“I know, I know,” he sighs, and she can hear the defeat in his voice, the failure, the guilt. Always the guilt. “I had . . . the same reaction.” She imagines it now: Skinner’s gruff, no-nonsense voice sharing details of yet another way Scully might die. Mulder leaping from his desk, panic consuming his face.

“As you know,” Mulder continues, “the Bureau has designated a number of safe houses around the country to protect its agents. Skinner immediately made arrangements for you to be transported to one of them.”

“In Colorado.”

“In Colorado, yes,” he confirms. Ah, so that’s where they’re headed.

She shoots him a look. “Are you going to make me guess?”

He frowns.

“How you ended up in San Diego, in a car driven by a man who seemed intent on killing me, no less?”

He huffs a laugh. “That part should be mostly obvious, Agent Scully.”

“Tell me anyways.”

He pauses. When he speaks, his voice has turned very quiet. “The moment I heard you were in danger, I was on the first flight out.”

She nods even as her cheeks darken. That part, she does already know. Although he’s ornery and quarrelsome and mysterious, he’s never going to pass up the opportunity to make sure she’s safe. “And how did you end up in the car? Who was that man?”

She hears him swallow. “I got waylaid at the airport. They found me before I could find you. That man was just some crony, I think. I never got his name. I think he intended to use me as bait if his original plan didn’t work.”

“His original plan, which was running me off the road?”

Mulder shrugs and they fall into silence again.

“Do you really not know?”

He pauses. “I’ve told you almost everything I know.”

“Almost?”

Another pause. “I don’t think that man wanted to kill you. I think he wanted to stop you, maybe scare you.” He sighs. “The tip indicated that they intended to abduct you again. For . . . experiments.”

“Experiments?” Her foot taps the brakes and the car jumps.

“I know, Scully.” His palm grazes her hand. “We were warned you’d be taken one day after work, and that they planned to transport you to a facility in Mexico City. And from there, run tests and experiments.”

She is quiet for a very long time. Her ears ring and she feels lightheaded. Experiments. Tests. Abduction. Again. When she finally speaks, her throat is thick with emotion. “So I was never going to be safe, was I, Mulder? No matter how far or how hard you pushed me away, that was never a guarantee of my safety.”

He doesn’t reply.

For half an hour, silence once again engulfs the vehicle. Scully keeps glancing over to see if Mulder has fallen asleep again, but his eyes stay wide open.

“Mulder,” she finally says, and he startles, “how long do you think we’ll need to remain hidden?”

He catches her eye over the car. “I don’t know, Scully. Hopefully not long. Skinner has a team of people working to get to the bottom of this, but he made me no promises.”

She swallows hard, subconsciously twisting the diamond on her finger. “I have things—a life—to get back to. I—I have people who will be worried about me.” She catches him glancing at the ring.

“I know.”

“Is there any way we can communicate that I’m safe?”

She knows the answer before he gives it. “No.”

Her mind begins to wander. Once they reach this safe house, how long will she and Mulder be stuck there? Days? Weeks? She bites her lip until she draws blood. She can’t imagine what they will do to each other when they’re forced into such close quarters. At one point in their partnership, she knows that such an environment would have aroused that all-too-familiar temptation in her, the one that told her to just kiss him already. Just fuck him already. But now, strained as they are, they’re more likely to kill each other. She wonders if Mulder is dreading it as badly as she is.

They cross into Arizona very briefly before veering north into Utah, and Mulder falls back to sleep. She’s been to Utah before, both in her work travels and on family vacations in the past. She knows it is a gorgeous state, home to vast canyonlands and red stone arches and soaring white mountains. But in the middle of the night, it is so desolate and so isolated that she catches herself drifting off.

“Mulder,” she says roughly, her voice hoarse with exhaustion, “Mulder.”

He rouses quickly, his body going stiff as his eyes dart around the landscape. Seeing no imminent threats, he relaxes slightly.

“Mulder, I’ve got to stop,” she admits. “Just for a few hours. I’ve never driven through eastern Utah or Colorado and I know those mountains will be hard to navigate. I can’t do it without sleep.”

She expects him to protest like he’s been doing this whole time; she expects a rallying cry or an encouraging speech, maybe even a stern lecture. But instead, she feels his hand land lightly on her wrist. She looks over at him.

“If you see somewhere to pull off, I can keep watch while you sleep in the backseat.”

She opens her mouth in surprise. “That’s a change of heart,” she notes.

She senses him shrugging. “This part of Utah is remote. It’s clear no one is following us. I think we can get away with a quick pit stop.”

She sends up a prayer of thanks, and in ten minutes, she is pulling into a deserted campground on the side of the road. She shuts off the car and clambers out to get in the backseat, and is immediately shocked by the cold air. After months in sunny San Diego, it is strange to feel the chill of the desert after dark.

She shifts into the backseat and lies down, resting her head on folded hands. Mulder glances into the backseat and she feels uneasy as he watches her shift around and settle. He’s still staring at her when she closes her eyes. In no time, she is asleep.

[kashilascorner]

New entry for @queer-ragnelle May Day Parade!

Prompt: May 10-16 Month of May {Free Space/Flower Festival}

Behold --my attept at a comedy! You can read it here if you prefer. This is probably the last short story I write for this challenge. Enjoy ^^

He was meant to be someone's uncle, maybe. Definitely not someone's father at any rate. As the hot midday sun shone above his head, Sir Bors wondered what it was about him that he had ended up surrounded by kids. No, not kids. Kids were cute, with their chubby cheeks and their untamed opinions. What he had attracted was far worse: teenagers.

It was a beautiful day in mid-May. Flowers were blooming, birds were singing, horses were happy, and he was not being paid enough for this job. Actually, he was not being paid at all! In fact, by not being in his lands, he was losing money by the minute –but alas, he was not good at accounting anyways, that was work for his brother and his sister-in-law. It's not that Bors didn't like the lads, but he was beginning to understand Sir Kay's irritation towards the world at large given how much he dealt with youngsters all day, every day.

Galahad was a quiet boy. He thought of him as good nephew although he was a second cousin. That was good, with that he could deal. Perceval, on the other hand talked too much. He talked all the time. But there was someone who talked even more: his sister Dindrane. Good lord how much she spoke! Why was she even there in the first place? he wondered. And then there was the elephant inside the room. An enormous elephant all the way from India that definitely had no business in Britain’s forests: Elyan. His son. His actual, real, blood-of-his-blood son. Bors had never had much of an idea of how he should speak to him, so at some point he had decided to talk to him as a fellow comrade. It was his brother's advice: become friends with the lad, he said, get him to trust you, he said, all will be fine and follow the natural course, he said. Well, probably not the best idea to take advice from a man who had not yet been a father and had lost his own at a tender age. But alas, he didn't have much better opinions to go by. Who else was he going to ask for fatherly advice? Arthur? Lancelot? So Bors took the advice at face value. If Elyan had been a child maybe he could have worked out something, but no, of course none of the Lord's designs could ever be that easy. He was (almost) fully grown by the time they met. He even had a shadow of a shadow of something that kind of resembled a beard.

Elyan seemed content enough by the treatment, Bors thought with some relief. A good lad he was. His mother had made a good job, Bors nodded to himself, she should be proud. But Galahad visibly cringed every time they interacted. This angered Bors. Was he doing it so wrong? He felt very judged, negatively, by Galahad's gaze. And who was Galahad, of all people, to judge? And why did Bors even care about his opinion? Bors thought of himself as a competent enough father, even if not a good one. Sure, he had not provided for his son, but only because he didn't know he existed at all! Come think of it, maybe only God was a good enough Father, and still his main fathering method was throwing His children into the world without warning and with only thin skin as their protection. Not even scales or a thick poisonous tooth or two to defend themselves. Bors did better than that: he’d given his lad an armor, and a seat in the most prestigious knight order of the age. So, actually, he had done fairly well by comparison, had he not? Even if the reasoning was a bit sacrilegious in nature.

“Say, Uncle,” spoke Dindrane. Bors, at the head of the party, had to fight his innermost demons not to roll his eyes and let out a long, long sigh. Her excessive familiarity annoyed him. Lads he could deal with, but how in Heaven was one even supposed to deal with a fifteen-year-old girl? “Who would win a fist fight, Sir Gawain or Sir Lancelot?”

“Obviously Gawain!” retorted young Melehan, with a tone that informed Bors the kids had been, no doubt, arguing about this one thing all morning. Obviously Melehan was going to defend his uncle. Bors had not intended to travel with a band of teenagers, but least of all had he planned to borrow Sir Mordred's eldest son, a boy of twelve, as a squire while they went to meet with the rest of the knights. How much he missed his loyal Achilles! Should have never knighted him, honestly, but it was too late to regret it now. Bors had never realized how hard it was to get a good squire until he lost a great one –which Melehan, certainly, was not.

“They would never fist fight in the first place.” Bors said, trying to sound very grave. “And knights don't fist fight.”

“But if they did,” insisted Dindrane, Elyan and Perceval in unison.

“He's going to say Lancelot, he's not impartial.”" complained Melehan, very softly for them to pay attention.

“Obviously Lancelot would win if he ever happened to lower himself to such standards,” commented Galahad, who, even by his standards had been astonishingly quiet.

“Are we talking midday or night fight?” Asked Perceval all of a sudden, like he had just realized it was an absolutely crucial difference.

“Gawain at midday, definitely,” said Elyan, trying to sound very serious (or had his voice really become this deep?) “But at night...”

“Still Gawain!” insisted Melehan.

“No way, not at night.” Galahad scoffed.

“Oh, so you admit he would lose in the morning?” Melehan smiled. Bors turned slightly to look at the little blond boy. Damn, did the boy look like his father.

“Knights don't fist fight.” Insisted Bors.

“I know you have fist flighted,”" said Perceval, cryptically, disconcerting Bors and forcing him to turn his body on his horse to look at him, like an owl turning its head.

“When?”

“You have a brother, sir Bors,” said Perceval, “and brothers fist fight all the time.” he added, in unison with Dindrane, like it was an obvious fact everyone knew. What kind of relationships did the offspring of Pellinore have? Bors thought with horror for a moment, what horrors went behind those walls--then he thought of how Lamorak had turned out. Ah, it made sense.

“We could say that sometimes it can happen, yes,” he conceded. "But I never in my life fist fought Lionel." He had, indeed, fist fought Lionel and broken his lip in the process multiple times, but no reason for the youngsters to know that. It seems like they had enough examples about it not to need any more.

“My cousins and I once had a very big fight, I don't see how it would not be the same between brothers.” Melehan commented.

“And who won?”

“Florence.”

“Ah.” Bors nodded. The boy was a marvel. The apple doesn't fall far from the tree –especially if the tree is Gawain. Right before breaking a smile, he remembered he was trying to give a good example. “Well, you should try to avoid those things. One day you will be knighted, so you keep your hands to yourself and use your sword and your lance honorably, as it is meant to be.”

“Ha! Tell that to the boys, I will throw punches my whole life.” Dindrane laughed, tilting her chin up petulantly. Galahad all of a sudden seemed very uncomfortable. He had grown in a monastery, had he not? He probably never saw a woman talk so shamelessly. Had he ever even seen a girl his own age at all? Probably not. Women could be terrifying, Bors had to give him that. And Dindrane, it seemed, was at least half savage. Melehan had made the horse trot a little faster so now he was on Bors' left side, blushing, instead of nearer Dindrane where he had been riding all morning. He blushed a lot when it came to Dindrane, Bors realized. Maybe he didn't like her? Only the Lord could tell, these youngsters were a mystery.

Bors stole a glance from Elyan, on his right side. Come think of it, perhaps they shouldn't be knighting boys this young. Then he thought of how Perceval was a good two years older than his Elyan and still had much less common sense, so maybe it didn't have anything to do with age after all. Bors smiled at his son, and got his horse a little closer to his. Elyan smiled back, shyly, but pulled out his chest in a show of being a great horseman.

“Who do you think won when they fought, my Lord the King or the Seneschal?” asked Perceval, breaking the silence.

“The King,” said Dindrane and Elyan.

“The Seneschal,” replied Melehan, Galahad and Bors. The lads stared at Bors, and Dindrane smirked maliciously. They had trapped him.

“So who would win, Uncle, Sir Lancelot or Sir Gawain?”

“Who would, who would?” all of them asked.

There was no escape. Bors took a deep breath.

At least this would only go on for a couple more days, then they would meet with Gawain and Lancelot's parties, switch members and begin the quest proper.

But as things were going, he wondered: was the Grail and its promise of divine redemption even worth this much effort? Maybe he should turn back to tournaments and rescuing ladies. It was certainly a more reasonable line of work.

[fantasticalleigh]

thoughts on bridgerton season 3 part 2

MASSIVE spoilers ahead, i'm really annoyed so this is going to come out very salty!

TLDR: this season was largely a disappointment. part 1 is better than part 2.

-i've said it before and i'll say it again: this is an ensemble show that ultimately suffers for how large its cast is, how short each season is, how cheap netflix is, and how poor the writing is. the actors are great and do well with what they're given. the stories in and of themselves are largely compelling. but they need space and time to be told properly. eight episodes between 10+ characters is not enough.

-unhinged/in love colin from the books was sorely missed. the book is problematic yadda yadda but i prefer it at this point. instead for pretty much three out of four episodes in part two, he was just angry or sad and that was it. he felt so flat.

-i find it hilarious that debling just fucked off after rejecting penelope. he didn't even stick around to try and court cressida, who was clearly more than willing to take penelope's place?? he literally could have solved all her problems and that could have saved an incredible amount of screen time that should have gone to Colin/Penelope.

-i love the way they bridged portia and penelope's relationship. also to a lesser degree, her sisters. prudence not being so cunty anymore was nice but felt a little off, i think she needed more screentime with pen to show that she finally realizes what a bad sister she was and that she's genuinely sorry. one quick little comment "i was being honest" (or whatever it was) to me, didn't feel like enough. but i'm still glad they came around.

-violet/marcus and by extension, agatha. i'm glad violet and agatha finally had a heart to heart/ conversation that was about them and not the young people. when they affirmed that they were there for each other no matter what and used each other's given names? precious. i teared up. i love their friendship. (also don't come at me for what may have happened during Queen Charlotte bc i never finished it lol)

-the queen is probably my least favorite character. she used to have funny/kind moments but now it feels like she is just rude and dismissive and mean towards everyone. i can't even like her in a GirlBoss way because all we see from season to season is how other people manipulate her. Agatha manipulates her. Grimsby manipulates her. Lady Whistledown manipulates her. she was kind for francesca for a couple of days and then went sour when she realized francesca chose someone else. i get that she's jaded from season 2 but idk i don't enjoy her scenes at all anymore. she crashes the wedding breakfast to accuse the bridgertons, belittles the Mondriches ball at the start, complains/belittles all the debutants trying to impress her, doesn't care about the events being hosted in her honor. i loved her in seasons 1-2 but now she's just boring and one note.

-eloise finally admitted she was reckless/in the wrong about the Theo situation. that was nice. and she finally admitted befriending cressida was a poor choice. do i sense character growth at last?? but i'm still a little unhappy about how rudely she ditched Cressida once she and Penelope made up. Hey, this new friend of yours is distraught because of her shit home life and is about to be married off to some old, austere codger and you literally don't care? i genuinely felt so bad for cressida. she is a creature pushed into a corner lashing out for any way to escape and nobody (understandably, bc she makes bad choices) wants to help her. but eloise keeps saying that cress surprised her with how she was the only one to show her kindness when she was a social outcast and now the same is happening to Cressida and yet instead of repaying the favor, Eloise abandons her.

Eloise even goes so far to say that Cressida used her. Did she not also use Cressida? She admitted she befriended her to be petty towards Penelope. And she clearly stuck with Cressida out of boredom/reluctance to mingle with the other ladies their age because she found them beneath her. Eloise is still a hypocrite. I thought she'd taken a step forward but she's in the same place.

did cressida deserve help? not particularly considering the blackmail/fake identity, history of bullying. but does she also deserve to be married off like that and cut off like that by her asshole dad? also no.

with all that talk about running away i genuinely was rooting for C to run away, but i'm disappointed it didn't happen. i guess it makes sense within her character--she's always been a caged creature--i don't think running away ever came to mind, even if she didn't want to be shipped off to Wales with her aunt. she's strong but doesn't (yet) have the resolve/ferocity of someone like marina who was willing to run away with colin to elope in gretna green.

frankly i found cressida's story the most compelling in season 3 so far.

-benedict. if i have to watch ONE more sex scene for Ben i'm going to scream. wowwee, he had another threesome! and no more queerbaiting--he finally had sex with a man! <--that part is at least noteworthy for his character--but genuinely--i don't really care when his only storyline this season is that all he does is have sex. there are far more compelling stories needing attention right now and yet we get another freaking sex barrage with benedict. Colin and Penelope were robbed here and i don't think it's unreasonable to be annoyed that a B-tier ensemble character got more sexy time than them. and for what purpose? all we get out of ben's enlightenment is that it's ok to be gay and that he's not ready for serious commitment. which is fine and dandy except that that was already drilled into our heads since season 1. i feel like my time was wasted here because i already watched him do the same damn things over and over for THREE SEASONS by now.

AND FOR THAT MATTER:

if they really wanted to show any sense of growth for benedict they could have had him be brutally honest to Tilley and say something like:

"I'm having fun with our arrangement. I am open to seriously committing to someone someday...but I don't think you are that person."

what a world of a difference that would make, wouldn't it? it would show he's coming closer to being ready to meet Sophie but that he's still not quite ready to give up his old ways. i truly believe his season is next and frankly it wouldn't feel so insulting to watch his repetitive storyline if they had written better dialogue in that ONE scene.

(Jess + Shonda, I'm available any time if you want to talk.)

-T.S's You Belong with Me playing during a fucking wedding scene was a choice. All the options in the world and you pick a song about high school jealousy??? Babydoll I could pick five better options off my general playlist. across all three seasons, there's been so many bad cover choices imo.

-Coldplay's Yellow being Polin's song was an actual choice I will salute. Beautiful moment.

-the whole whistledown speech at the end where pen reveals herself was extremely flat to me and left me so bloody disappointed. someone brought this up on reddit and i agree so hard it hurts--why wasn't colin up there by her side? book colin would have VAULTED up over everyone just to be there with her and protect her. instead we get mopey Colin watching her from below. i need to rewatch it again but it felt like there was hardly any reaction from the ton to her speech. it felt like they shrugged their shoulders when she was finished and resumed the ball. my mouth was agape at that--you're telling me not one of the attendees would have rushed up and said "omg it was you??" "how did you do it?" "i can't believe it!" or something to that effect. the bridgertons already had that reaction so it would've been effective for literally anyone in the ton to show some amazement.

-ngl, i also feel quite cheated that Penelope was never celebrated in the way she deserved. yes, she got her wedding and the man she always wanted--but creating/maintaining the Whistledown enterprise is a huge accomplishment. individually there was praise from those closest to her but really there was such a huge element of shame and punishment surrounding it that really bothered me. yeah, she said some mean things but she did it because she was severely neglected/ostracized from her own community. there was no acknowledgment of that at all (that i can recall. once again i should do a rewatch but whatever) and that pains/angers me. not one person beside her mother took a moment to think or say, 'i treated you badly and caused you pain. i'm sorry.' instead they just focused on making penelope apologize again and again when she had only reacted from years of pain, which nobody even deigned to acknowledge.

wasn't there a moment in the book when she gets some applause after her revelation? am i misremembering? but in the show it was like nobody gave a fuck because ooh butterflies! which was...so stupid lol. bless you though, phillippa. penelope single-handedly contributed to the entertainment of the ton for years and exposed awful people even if she made fun of others. characters frequently and often complained if her issue was one day late and debated her true identity and so when she finally reveals herself there's no applause? no true reaction? were they all asleep? what the fuck? that scene was shocking at how badly executed it was. it was rushed and it showed.

-also, WHY choose to have Colin learn Penelope is Lady Whistledown in episode six? I hate this because it crams all the drama in the last two episodes and makes everything feel rushed and frantic. he should have found out in episode three or four and i'll die on that hill. for that matter, his refusal to understand that Whistledown was Penelope's life's work and greatest achievement/power was so annoying. In the book he came around to it pretty fast and yet here it dragged on for way too long. everyone wanted her to give Whistledown up until it benefited them.

-editing to add a huge gripe i have with post-production:

for the love of god, go easy on the filters. the artificial blues and yellows are killing me. in twilight, it was camp. it was great. it does not translate well here. also, have y'all noticed how HEAVILY they blur the backgrounds??? there was one scene with colin and penelope in the garden and every time the camera focuses on one of their faces from over the other's shoulder (they were both seated) the background is blurred heavily. it looks bad!!! stop doing that!!! the backgrounds lend to the vibe! it genuinely makes the show look like crap when i notice that happening. it makes them look like they're using the green screen filter on tik tok. STOP. IT.

(seriously, imagine Joe Wright's Pride and Prejudice, the scene where Elizabeth is on the rocky plains and or she and her aunt and uncle are sitting at the base of that enormous tree--all that gorgeous scenery, remember that? now slap the Bridgerton filter over it so it's all one massive ugly blur. does that mental image fill you with rage? GOOD.)

-i didn't cover this in the prev. post but in part 1, the whole runaway balloon scene was Not Good. Why a balloon? the danger that poses is not that great--why not a runaway horse? there was too much sense of danger to the actual threat posed by a freaking basket. also the way penelope acted in that scene felt very very out of character for her and i hate rewatching it, even if colin looks very dashing while holding the rope. ugh.

-polin's main sex scene was beautiful. i feel kind of disappointed that everything else we got was less than a minute long and not in a weird way. it just feels a fair amount of the promo we got from Nic and Luke was hinting at the sex scenes and yet we got very little in actuality. i keep seeing people talk about there being a minutes long montage of them and yet it got cut. but in season one we got a LOT (imo too many sex scenes between daphne and simon). there were too many side stories happening this season and i'm sure that contributed to that, but there is also a whisper in the back of my mind that tells me that maybe showrunners felt the need to overly pad this season with storylines because they either didn't feel like nicola and luke could carry it alone or because they didn't care.

-i'm really glad genevieve got more scenes here, especially with penelope. their friendship is really nice and it's sad/sweet that penelope chose to spend her last night before her wedding with her, because apparently her mother/sisters didn't plan anything for her.

-frencesca/john. i have no stake in this game since i haven't read their book yet, as i've mentioned before. they're cute together but i'm not invested. they should have gotten married way earlier imo because all the "we need to tip toe around the queen bc she hates us :( but we want to marry now" went on too long and got boring. the michaela thing doesn't bother me but i understand why fans are upset about it.

-polin felt like a side character in part 2. i feel like their scenes went by way too quickly and their screentime was so sparse to the point of legitimately becoming annoying. colin spent most of it mad and penelope spent most of it crying/trying to explain herself. they had hardly any truly happy moments together.

-kanthony was adorable.

-"i love you."

"...are you sure?"

dear reader, my heart split in two. they did a really really good job with showing penelope's self-doubt and low confidence thanks to years of neglect and ridicule and doubt from her mother. when colin stood up for her to her mother and she looked so shocked, my heart broke again for her. poor pen, i just wanted to hold her. when violet and hyacinth hugged penelope after colin announced their engagement i wanted to cry bc poor pen is so starving for positive affirmations/love that just those hugs where enough to overwhelm her.

-also lady danbury saying that she had suspected Pen was whistledown was amazing. i love that she acknowledged her and her love for the bridgertons....but i'm still really upset that they nixed her and penelope's friendship/mentorship that was in the books. she was busy with her own storyline what with violet and marcus and sure it still worked but that was a relationship i was so excited to see in the show...and they didn't even try adapting it except for like, three lines at the very end. >:( hello 911? we've been ROBBED.

(i keep editing this to add more but this is another gripe i have that will not let me rest:

ALSO ALSO ALSO:

i've noticed over seasons 1-2 that the main romantic couple has one dance set to the bridgerton theme song.

in season one, daphne and simon dance to the theme song in episode 2 or 3 (the one where daphne says "and we must try to look like we enjoy each other's company" and simon replies stiffly but then they giggle and laugh all through it which was so cute

in season two, kate and anthony dance to it in the second to last episode where they're dancing with the rest of the bridgertons and lady danbury at the ball they threw that nobody came to. the subtitles say it's a country rendition (whatever that means) of the theme song but they are involved in the dance so it counts.

when i noticed this i thought it was such a cute touch and was anxiously waiting for Penelope and Colin to get their moment.

...instead benedict dances to the bridgerton theme song with Lady Tilley? who he clearly isn't going to end up with? wtf?? and it doesn't even work in the context of the scene because it's a wholesome tune and yet she's dancing like she wants to eat him alive? sigh.

i'm just an old man yelling at clouds now but i wish the writing in this show was better so badly because it meets expectations but it's so frustrating because it can be so much better. let the show breathe! thin out the cast. really pick and choose who gets airtime, because it's precious and you anger your viewers when you waste it.

i will rewatch the season in full at some other point, but i'm too annoyed now. there is much more i want to talk about but this is long enough for now. i will say that at this point i'm not even sure i want to continue watching beyond this season.

(the playlist thing really got me thinking so to prove my point:)

FIVE SONGS THAT ARE A BETTER CHOICE FOR POLIN'S WEDDING DANCE THAN A FUCKING T.S SONG:

-a world alone-lorde (the lyrics are perfect even if they wouldn't be used in an orchestral version)

-little of your love-haim ( perfect choice for the scene imo bc it's very happy and upbeat for a cute wedding dance bit)

-all this and heaven too-florence and the machine

or fuck, if you wanted to make it into a really emotional rather than joyous moment go with dog days are over and it would be a banger with the proper editing bc that song is universal and punches up the emotions any times it's used.

-burning-maggie rogers

-save a kiss--jessie ware

ORRRRR to make it a lil steamy:

-adore you--jessie ware (this would also be perfect ngl)

and i'm not even biased to any of these, i literally just scrolled down my general playlist on spotify and picked them based on the vibes.

[ironlvngs]

— TASK 006

before, it was much more simple to be present for these interrogations; to answer their questions, play games to shift the blame on someone else (sorry, ex boyfriend), to paint the prettiest picture of himself... but that was before this was turned into a murder investigation, rather than locating a missing person. negativity has been sitting in link's chest since the day they announced it, and it hasn't gotten any better — day by day, it feels like it's been simmering in there, and now there's just this black sludge living inside him and turning everything upside down for him.

"— excuse me, mr. crawford? a drink?" the officer repeats themself, and link has to remind himself to act accordingly.

"uh, sorry... i'm good for now, thanks." they respond as they clear their throat, bringing themself back to the reality right in front of them.

"well, then, i suppose we can get started." the officer takes a look at their partner, giving them the lead on this. "mr. crawford, did you have any reason to suspect greer morrison was dead before this news came to light?" link's eyes land on the red blinking of the tape recorder in between them for a moment, and calculates exactly how he wanted to play this one. "well, i can't say that after months of her being gone, the morbid thought hadn't come to mind for a second. but it was just easier to choose to believe she ran off on her own."

"right. well, lincoln, i'd like to ask you a few questions about ida clarke." a lump forms in his throat. link was probably the worst person to question about ida, given their very public distaste for one another — fights and arguments and name calling that only increased when they began to live in the same place. "what was the nature of your relationship?" link had to think quick. he had to wonder if they had any information on the fact that they had slept with each other not long before she died, because if they believed that he was trying to hide that fact, link would instantly become a target. it shouldn't be an issue, if she hadn't told anyone else, either. but then again, he wasn't ever the most trusting of ida clarke. finally, he responds. "not much of a relationship, really. we, uh... we were roommates for a little while, and we weren't very close." it wasn't truthful but it wasn't a lie, either. "but still, it was not the best.. hearing that someone you used to see every day and practically lived alongside with had died like that. it was the same with penelope, even though we weren't close, either. it makes you worry, you know?" maybe playing the terrified and traumatized young student afraid for his life card would gain the cops' sympathy here, and he'd avoid getting grilled.

"right, of course. now i understand that you were hospitalized after the fire, is that correct?" link nods his head, and lifts his sleeve up a little to show them his burn scars from the fire. "fortunate enough to have made it to a hospital at all." he adds. and thank god for it, meaning that he had an automatic alibi for ida's death. link knows he's innocent, but in this world, it's clear to see that anyone can get thrown under the bus — speaking from experience, from being the one to throw others under the bus so easily. "where were you before that? before you managed to leave the building?" not alibi enough, so it seems. "gosh, honestly? my memory is all over the place with that. it's hard to remember any other part of the night." immediately, the cop responds with another question, "and what exactly were you and other students doing at the commons instead of the commencement gala?" this is where link thought that he might choke. was it a better idea to admit that he had gotten a text from g like everyone else? or was it better to lie about it? then again, if someone decides to admit it, then it seems like he an every other student who hides it is lying about something. "well, to be honest with you, officer, the gala was becoming a bit... boring for a few of us college students?" he responds with a small scoff, a playful look on his face. "a few people were talking about getting out of there, maybe meeting up at the commons.... and, well, i followed them out. you can see how at the time, i thought it would be harmless to do so."

"alright... and have you gotten any anonymous messages over the past year? any with leading information, perhaps? or threatening messages?" link wanted to remove himself from this entire chain of suspicion — just another regular student at ogden college. "thankfully, i haven't." but that meant link had to be even more careful about who he talks to about any texts he receives. "and is there any information about greer morrison that you've become aware of in the past year that you haven't shared with the police yet?" "not at all — not since i spoke with you guys about her ex boyfriend. if i do hear anything, i'd definitely make sure to immediately report it." why not add a sprinkle of the noble citizen on top of this?

"well, mr. crawford, just one last question before we let you go... have you witnessed anything suspicious on campus over the past year and a half?" and this was it, link's favorite question. how easy would it be to fuck over someone he sees as a threat in whatever answer he can make up or lead the cops down a certain path? it had worked so fucking well last time (maybe too well) and he could definitely do it again. monty? milo? sassa's stupid fucking boyfriend? that was a weapon he could yield at any moment, though, and this was not the time to use it. "personally, with my graduation approaching, i chose to keep to myself and focus on my academics. so no, i haven't witnessed anything."

"okay, and i think that concludes all the questions we have for you today. thank you for your cooperation, and please do report anything suspicious to us — whether it's text messages or otherwise." link starts promising that he will, thanks them for their wonderful, oh so amazing service to their community, and exits the interrogation room.

that went well enough. at the end of the day, there was nothing link could do better than wear a mask and twist the narrative in any way he wanted.