#damn i cycled through the same route i use to go through when i was a kid and i got really tired halfway i cant believe how weak i am rn

[yellow-yarrow]

fresh air and exercise got me feeling normal

[chaotic-iguana]

Hello, I would like to request a story about Joel (no apocalypse) who picking up reader from their workplace. However, as the reader is walking towards the car, she experience a hit-and-run accident or another type of accident (you can choose freely).

Joel, who witnesses the accident becomes extremely panicked and protective during and after reader out the hospital. Joel is deeply traumatized and afraid that something bad might happen to the reader. I need fluff and angst Joel and you are excellent at creating it 🥺💖

thank you anon! you’re so sweet, i really appreciate you and the prompt! im going to make this an installment of the husband! joel verse (introduced in tease)

Borrowed time

Summary: Reader gets hurt, and Joel doesn’t know how to deal with it. (no-outbreak! au)

Wordcount: 1.7K

Pairing: husband joel x f! reader (no use of y/n)

Warning: angst, hurt/comfort, near-death experiences, blood, a little gore, allusions to sex 

masterlist

Your car had broken down last week, so Joel had been dropping you off and picking you up from work. You’d resisted at first, suggested walking or cycling or even the bus - all of which had been met with the same incredulous expression etched onto your husband’s face, an eyebrow raised at you in amusement. ‘As if, honey’ was all he’d snark at you before shushing you when you tried to argue about the fact that this would add an hour and a half to his route after dropping Sarah off in the mornings and  two hours in the evenings, which felt unsustainable for you since your car was at the mechanic’s garage for the foreseeable future. At that, he’d just huff and mumble something about not minding the extra time with you that much, and your heart would just melt again. 

The two of you settled into the new routine fairly quickly; Joel chuckling at your sleepy grumbling in the mornings and getting teased by you when he was grumpier and complaining about his aching back in the evenings. “Too far past your bedtime, old man?”, paired with a shit-eating grin as you watched him scowl and shake his head at you, turning back to the road as his lips twitched ever-so-slightly upwards. Enough for you to make iterations of the same joke every evening, just to watch him fight his smile. 

On a seemingly normal thursday morning, you’d been slightly distracted by a meeting you had with your bosses. The board of directors, actually, and the anxiety was practically crippling you by the time Joel was ushering you and Sarah into his truck. There was just so much that could go wrong, but if it went right, it would result in a massive promotion with a pretty nifty raise and four-day work weeks. Which sounds amazing, but you were sure it would feel even better. A whole extra day? 

Joel rested a hand on your knee to stop its bouncing, the warmth of his palm seeping through your jeans and immediately crushing the wave of nervousness that had been rising in you. “Look at me, sweetheart. You’re gonna crush it. And ‘f for whatever reason you don’t, we’ll go out an’ watch that movie you’d been wantin’ to, even pig out on icecream after. Whaddya call it? Self-care.” His words made you burst out laughing and lean over to kiss his cheek. 

“That actually sounds good. And for the record, I call taking a bubble bath self care, not swallowing five pints of icecream at three am. Like you apparently have the ability to.” He mock-frowned while beaming in the rear-view mirror. 

“Technically honeymoons are to learn new things about each other. Plus, we’d been fuckin’ an’ passin’ out with damn near no breaks f’thirty six hours at that point. A man’s gotta have some fuel to keep up with that kinda pace, no?” He snickered as he glanced at you with a pointed look. To be fair, you had, in fact been fucking till you passed out for the first three days of your trip to Italy, and you’d both only realised how hungry you were when neither of you had the energy to leave the bed. It was three am, and for some inconceivable reason, most restaurants had closed. So Joel had walked into the nearest grocery and just gotten 5 huge tubs of icecream and some waterbottles. While it worked great as fuel, you and Joel had been forced to spend two consecutive days holding each others’ hair back and eating proper meals, because as it turns out, eating four meals’ worth of icecream on empty stomachs does not sit well. 

“Seemed pretty good at keeping up when you fingered me in a full restaurant just because the waiter asked to get some wine for your missus.” You retorted back, shaking your head at how insatiable he’d been, too. It had taken a whole week for the nearl-feral glint in his eyes while referring to you his wife to fade - even then, not completely. 

“Never gonna tire of hearin’ that, you know.” Turning the corner to pull up to your stop, he leaned down for a sweet, slow kiss before leaning back to whisper softly. “You’re gonna do well, baby. You’re the smartest person I’ve ever seen, alright? Don’t you worry about a damn thing.” At your wordless nod, he kissed your forehead. “Go get ‘em, honey.” With nod and a parting greeting, you turn and walked into the building. 

After a long but extremely successful day, you rushed out of work the second your phone buzzed with Joel’s message, practically vibrating with the need to give him the good news. Brows furrowing, you scanned your surroundings looking for his truck. You caught his wave out of the corner of your eye and  returned it with a breathless laugh, striding in his direction and failing to notice the smudge of black approaching your side rapidly. The last thing you saw before your vision went black was Joel’s wide, panicked eyes and the urgency with which he pushed his door and stumbled out. For a second, it felt like you were in the air, limbs flailing. A second of impact; a sharp pain settling in your right leg, before you were out. 

Your eyes heaved open, blurry, and you heaved your head to the side to see Joel holding your hand and stroking your head, tears running down his face. You were lying in the middle of the road, surrounded by a crowd of concerned passengers. Joel’s mouth was moving, but you couldn’t hear him- in fact, you couldn’t hear anything except for a high-pitched tone buzzing in your ear. There was blood on his shirt, and before you could ask whose it was, you noticed it coated your hands, too. Looking down, you caught a glimpse of your thigh, flesh ripped open as bone jut out from its side, just before your eyes rolled back and consciousness slipped from your grasp once again. 

When you woke, it took you far too much effort to wrench your eyes open. Blinking against the painfully blinding lights overhead, you opened your mouth to call someone, anyone, to explain where the hell you were and why the beeping coming from next to you was so damn loud. Even your thoughts were lagging, unable to piece together why you were in this room that definitely wasn’t your own. Images of your previous waking moments flashing in your mind, you felt alarm building in your chest as your breath began coming in short gasps. Suddenly, something in your peripheral vision moved and suddenly Joel was here, his large hand cupping your face as he urged you to breathe. It took a minute - maybe even more- for lucidity to return to your rapidly-spiraling mind, but he stayed unwaveringly calm as he held you patiently and waited for you to come back. 

“W-“ you wince at the dryness of your throat, at how hoarse your voice sounds from lack of use. “What happened?” You tried again, clearing your throat this time. Joel’s soft eyes met yours, lips turned downwards in a frown. 

“Fuckin’ idiot drivin’ a car was on his phone, texting when you started crossin’ the road. Bastard didn’t see ya, and one second you were smilin’ so sweet at me, an’ by the next you were on the floor, bone stickin’ outta your thigh. Closest I’ve ever been to a heart attack.” You could fear fraying at the edges of his voice as you moved your hand up to hold his, cradling it to your cheek. “Asshole drove away, too. Didn’t even get his number plate ‘cause I was so fuckin’ scared for you.” He looked away, tears filling his eyes. 

Reaching out to stroke his jaw, you nudged him to look at you again. “‘M sorry, honey. Should have been more careful. Think I would have gone crazy if I ever had to see you like that.” You murmured, feeling your heart break at seeing Joel this scared, this frantic. He shook his head. 

“Not your fault, baby. None ‘f it, ya hear me? ‘M just so glad you’re okay. Rest up, sweetheart, you need it right now.” You nod, kissing the back of his hand as you lean back in your bed.

The next few days in the hospital go by in a blur, Joel refusing to leave your side for a single minute. His hand is always somewhere on you: holding yours, stroking your face, your hair. Sarah hadn’t come in at your request; you hadn’t wanted her to see you in a hospital bed, unable to move much. When the time to get discharged rolled around, Joel seemed even tenser, his grip on you tighter. It took some time for you to get the cast taken off, which on one hand was an extreme relief, it also meant that you now had to attend regular physiotherapy sessions to regain full mobility. 

The real adjustment, however, was the way Joel would straighten and tense up any time you left home after that. The way he grabbed your hand when you crossed streets; accompanying you even to the pharmacy down the block. At first, it irked you. Then, you realised what he had been through. If the roles had been reversed, you’d want to accompany him everywhere too. His fear was very real and very valid - one of his worst nightmares had just taken place in front of him, afterall, and if all he needed to feel a bit better was to walk you to places you needed to go, then you’d indulge him for as long as it took for him to realise that you were safe. 

It lasted a few months, but as you returned to normal, so did he. Your car came back from the garage, but Joel still drove you. Not because of his fear, or because he had to, but just to revel in that extra hour he got out of it. He��d learned that time was precious, and he wanted to spend every conceivable second of his with you and Sarah. 

hello loves, as always - thank you for reading. comment your thoughts or find me on ao3. stay hydrated and have a great day! taglist: @imherefordeanandbones @theywhowriteandknowthings, @josephquinnswhore AMAZING dividers by @cafekitsune!! absolute god who makes amazing dividers for free! 

[erosephalopod]

Okay, BUT, a counterpoint: I think Stardew isn't about ruthless/soulless efficiency versus pastoral comfort in that way, and then ironically fails at addressing that. I think it's an exploration of what fulfillment and nurturing look like in the face of ruthless and impersonal exploitation.

In the end, you expand the town. You build an efficient and automated farm. You change the people around you. Everything you said about could certainly be true when viewed through the lens of how the game ratchets up an extraction of value and enforces a certain view of progressive modernization on the town itself, but I posit that this changes when you approach it through a lens of how PEOPLE are impacted.

You (can) build an efficient farm because it helps you spend time doing all the other things that bring you joy. So you can buy things for the people you care about, so you can devote time to your hobbies, so you can explore.

You clear out your land because it's overgrown and tangled and it needs tending and nurturing. It's not wild land you're claiming as your own; it's your grandpa's old farmland and, like you, it's a ragged mess because nobody has taken care of it. It is meant to be farmland; it is meant to be loved and molded; it is meant to be given a purpose and valued. So are you. And by cleaning it out, by filling it with plants, by handing it over to cows and chickens, you are also enacting the player character nurturing themself and devoting themself consciously and mindfully to a purpose.

You intervene in the town but, as far as I've seen - and I'll admit I have a bad habit, a cycle of starting, leaving, and starting again - you are doing the same to others that you are doing to yourself and they are doing to you: nurturing, supporting, and facilitating growth. It's a change and you're shaking up the town but it's that central message (that I perceive) that change and growth can be good. Your presence provides new meaning and new opportunities in the town.

I see the point of Stardew as a message about mindful engagement, community, and nurturing. As that being an inward process and am external process; about how that interacts, and how loving yourself helps you care for others and how loving others betters ourselves. I see the elements of the game serving that well... and I'll be really bold and say I see that at a meta level because of how we as players engage with the game.

Almost nobody who plays goes the Joja route. It's obviously bad, and not even THAT tempting. And it's very easy to be swayed into consciously refusing them by the messaging of the game even if we as players might have otherwise approached a video game that way. But what the game CAN'T sway us from is the implicit and internalized Joja-ness that makes us play the game sort of in the way you seem to be describing while consciously patting ourselves on the back by doing it "the right way."

When I started playing Stardew for the first time, it stressed me out and I stopped almost immediately.

"How do I do this optimally?" It was clear that you could and it was clear it would take work and it was clear my little ADHD brain wasn't going to achieve it, so I quit because ruthless optimization is taxing. And that's exactly the point. When I started playing again, I said to myself "this is supposed to be a game about REDUCING stress and by god I will play it that way." And I had more fun. I enjoyed myself. Because I played it in a way that fulfilled ME.

I'm still the way to that I am. I get antsy if I don't grow enough tulips because I'm courting three people and I want to be able to give them QUALITY gifts at EVERY opportunity damn it! I still plan what crops I'll buy and when to plant them to get money because otherwise I feel like a bit of a failure. I get into a frenzy devoting all raining evenings in Summer to trying to catch the rare fish I need for the community center because otherwise I have to wait a WHOLE year! I can't completely change that... but I try to set achievable goals. I try to check in with myself and ask what I actually want to do. I try to remind myself there's next year and the year after and the year after THAT. I try to remember that the parts of the game that are a struggle - and to a certain extent I'd argue the dissonance you're describing with the game - are INTERNAL. We're placing then on the game. We're choosing to be the farmer that looks at the farm and the town that way.

In all honesty? When I started approaching the game that way, I started to think the game was a good exercising in helping me scaffolding the kind of change in myself that the game is showing the player go through. When I do absurd things to milk efficiency and value out of my hobbies, it's because the process itself brings me joy. When I pivot to a new hyperfixation with a previous project half done, I remind myself I can come back to it later, even if it's years from now. When I get on my bullshit and get frantic because my 3D printer had downtime for 6 hours and if I'd just MANAGED IT better or PLANNED my prints-... When that happens, I do sometimes legitimately remind myself of how Stardew Valley was initially miserable because I brought a push for optimization to it that it never asked me to carry with me.

Joja never offered us a choice. Joja didn't care about us, our joy, or lives outside our use. It neither invited nor allowed. Stardew Valley - the in game location and the game itself - similarly does not invite, but it DOES allow. It allows us to play it more or less with whatever approach we want, and just as it doesn't advise us the best way to play it, it also doesn't warn us about the worst ways to play it. And I'd argue that, intentional or not, it makes an interesting point in doing so.

Making my own post to respond to this, because the point is pretty tangential:

When I first played stardew valley there was something I found really dissonant. You start in this shitty company that's implied to be cold and isolating and treats you as a a cog in a machine, and you inherit this idyllic and pastoral farm. So far so good. But then immediately you set about on trying to upgrade the farm and make it efficient and extract as much value from the land as quickly as you can. You clear cutt large sections of land and replace them with cash crops. You turn the land and the town into a well-oiled machine, just as your previous job had done to you. This process of upgrading and increasing efficiency is the central form of progress in the game.

Obviously the game never really addresses dissonance, but I really wish there was a game that did. I wish that the back half of the game turned into something like Factorio as you seek to automate more and more of your production so you can buy the late-game upgrades. Gradually these changes affect the town as well, people start to move away because of the smog, and you can buy up their land to have a place to put your new combine harvester.

One of the characters is a philosophy grad student studying Heidegger who's home for the summer, and she talks to the player about his theory of technology. Where modern technology is powerful enough that it's actually feasible to use of 100% of an existing resource, and so we start thinking about that resource in terms of how to most efficiently extract value from it. We objectify it, in a sense -- a river can't be a beautiful ribbon of blue stretching across the countryside, because we can only think of it in terms of "the thing that powers hydroelectric plant" and think about how to maximally utilize it. And the player slowly realizes that they've carried this mindset back with them from the city. That the dehumanizing aspects of their old life were never about the skyscrapers and asphalt, but about the way that their superiors viewed them as a resource, and the way that their environment facilitating efficient use of them as a resource. And that they've carried this attitude back to the idyllic country town where it's now spread like a virus, destroying all the things that drew them to the farm in the first place, and that they now live in a hell of their own making. They restore the community center, but they've destroyed the community it was made for. The only way to avoid this ending is to deliberately refuse to upgrade past a certain point. To accept that certain end-game content is forever out of reach, and to be okay with that.

now to be clear, I don't actually endorse all the politics implied by this. But I think it would be interesting for a game to actually grapple with the kind of pastoralism thats common in this genre. This flavor of pastoralism has fundamental tradeoffs against efficiency and reduction of labor. And I think if you want to endorse this ideal, that's a bullet you have to bite.

[djarinsbeskar]

Spandex and Smiles

I blame @aesnawan for beginning this entire fiasco of an AU based on this idea, and @alliterative-albatross for enabling us both with the most perfect headcannons. Is this edited? Nope. Beta’d? Nada. A complete mess I just had to get out of my head? Absolutely. 

I randomly tagged it to a Detective!AU I’m playing around with so who knows where this will take us. Anyway, on with spandex covered Cyclist!Din.

AU Masterlist

Word Count: 1,200

Warnings: Language

Pairing: Din Djarin x Reader 

“You finally going to say more than two words to her this time?”

The harsh exhale that left Din wasn’t in exertion as one might think as he easily kept pace on the uphill climb known ominously as ‘Heart Attack Hill’ to anyone who bothered doing cardio this side of town. A two mile stretch with a constantly steep gradient, it was the biggest hurdle on the route before the more relaxing downhill cycle back into town.  

No, Din exhaled in exasperation as Fennec shot him a wolfish grin from beneath her helmet, barely a sheen of sweat on her skin and peddling much too easily for Din’s liking.

“Is that a yes?”

“That’s a ‘mind your own business’, Shand,” he bit out, his thighs burning with the repetitive push of every peddle. He could feel the tension in his quads and hamstrings, the muscles working hard against the resistance gravity attempted to push on him. His lungs burned and his skin was slick with sweat beneath his gear.

God, it was fucking roasting this morning.

There was no way of escaping the heat this time of year, not even at seven thirty in the morning and momentarily, Din lost himself in the thought of the shower he would have once he got back home after dropping the kid off at day-care.

Fennec merely threw back her head and laughed, releasing the handlebar with one hand to give him a light punch to his shoulder and Din wondered aimlessly if he should stop being so competitive. After all, Fennec was the only one who kept pace with him at this part of the cycle, the others falling behind to a slower speed as exhaustion crept closer. Maybe, he would get more peace if he slowed down and let their chatter drown out his existence where he would mercifully be left to his thoughts and Grogu’s quiet gurgles and nonsensical, half-formed words from his child seat.

But then he remembered who made up the rest of this ragtag group of cyclists he had somehow found himself training with every morning and he scraped the idea entirely. No, Fennec was the least of his worries when it came to teasing.

One passing comment that he cycled to Cara at the office and suddenly he had a cycling partner, which turned into a cycling trio, which turned into a certifiable cycling circus. He still envied Boba for flatly refusing to join a team of any kind even when his own partner – Fennec – decided to test all their mettle by joining since she was a literal machine, her endurance unfathomable and awe-inspiring.

“You teasing Din about his crush on teacher again, Fen?” he heard Cara call up from behind. The two were incorrigible together. He couldn’t remember the last time he had a moment’s peace with them all working together in the same office.

Din sighed, his grip tightening on the handlebars of his bike.

That would teach him to tell them that his kids’ new day-care centre was on the way. Instead of continuing on to their own homes, like normal people, this motley crew of spandex covered idiots decided they wanted to wait at the school gates as he brought Grogu to the door before making their way home.

We’ll watch your bike!

“I usually bring it in with me.”

We want to say bye to the baby!

“Say bye now.”

I just really want to watch your ass in those tight shorts. It’s enough to give even me bi-panic.

“Fuck off, Cara.”

Suffice to say, none of them left. Which made Din overly aware of his every movement as he pulled off the small, bright green, frog shaped backpack from over one shoulder. Grogu sat comfortably in the crook of his free arm and squealed joyfully when he saw where he was, his small fists slapping onto the sweaty fabric against Din’s chest and shoulder.

Even if the slaps felt feather-light to Din, he knew his son was strong and it filled him with pride. Then the colourfully decorated door - filled with painted handprints and large colourful rainbows – swung open and suddenly, Din was filled with something distinctly different to pride as you wandered out with a bright, disarmingly beautiful smile on your face when you saw them.

For the first week or so, Din had been met by the owner of the day-care, who kept him updated on how Grogu was settling in. It looked like the bottomless toyboxes and the nutritious meals this place claimed to provide wasn’t the only reason he was excited to come here every morning.

When you lifted your eyes to meet his that first day, Din blushed. He could damn well feel the heat rise to his cheeks when you smiled at him and offered him your name. God, you were pretty. No wonder he way paying an arm and a leg for this place, with people like you taking care of his son.

“Mr. Djarin, isn’t it?” you had ventured kindly when Din made no effort to respond. He cleared his throat and nodded, your eyes softening at the corners as your smile turned gentle.

“Well, Mr. Djarin why don’t you let me take this little monster off your hands, we have a big day planned for the sandbox, don’t we?” you directed the question to Grogu who babbled on excitedly and reached a small hand out towards you.

“Uh—sure,” he responded lamely, inwardly cringing at how rough his voice sounded, harsh against the backdrop of children’s laughter and your sweet smile. He turned to look at Grogu, equally dark eyes staring back at him and his own gaze softened as affection bloomed in his chest,

“Be good,” he muttered before letting you take the kid into your own arms, the little boy nestling his cheek happily against your shoulder and popping his thumb into his mouth as he snuggled close to you. Din ran a hand carelessly through his hair and winced a little at the sweat-soaked strands; not the best first impression.

“Say bye bye, Grogu,” you spoke softly, your voice light as you waved your own hand to show him, Grogu immediately waving to him and the display made his gut clench, “see you after work.”

I, uh- yeah,” he nodded once, and held out the froggy backpack to you before he forgot and walked off still holding it. You took it with a small ‘thank you’ and he grunted in response.

He offered you a simple nod of thanks before tucking tail; turning to make his way back to the nosy group standing around the gate, his cheeks flushing hotter when he grabbed his helmet from Cara and pointedly ignored her smirk.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one admiring you ass,” she teased with a clap to the back of his shoulder, and he knew he would never hear the end of it.

Two weeks later, standing outside the gates of the same day-care, they still hadn’t let it go and he was beginning to contemplate the pros and cons of murdering his colleagues.

Maybe then he could go back to cycling in peace again.

Randomly tagging my Stitches darlings but feel free to let me know if you want me to stop tagging you!

@geannad @ayamenimthiriel @sarahjkl82-blog @gracie7209 @pychedelic-star @nova646 @theflightytemptressadventure @wantingtobekorra @computeringturtle @slayerette26 @kesskirata @greatcircle79 @boxdyeblonde @fangirl-316 @niiight-dreamerrrr @tanzthompson @theamuz @the-scandalorian @gallowsjoker @helmet-comes-off @ladyjenny19 @justanotherblonde23 @alliterative-albatross

[honkhonkrichard]

Theory: Stanley Uris was Murdered.

Tagging @vvanini I hope you can follow this okay it’s very word vomity lol

Okay So TW because this post will touch on Stan's death ad the methods behind it

I propose that Stan Uris was murdered. by IT. In his home on that fateful night. I think that Stan posed the biggest threat to IT and therefore IT felt the need to take him out before the battle even started.

Allow me to explain.

Okay, so, I need to lay out some basic "rules" or "facts" before I make my case. They are as follows.

- IT planted it's roots in Derry, and finds it difficult to leave, but still can at it’s own wil.  If you read the book (I honestly don't blame you if you haven't) You'd know that once the Losers kill IT for the final time, Derry (the Physical town) is obliterated. Buildings explode, sinkholes appear, things are flooded. The town is in ruins by the time that the Losers leave the sewers. The movies don't adapt this so If this is news to you thats fine. the bottom line is that destroying IT destroys Derry, like ripping a tree out of the ground with all it's roots. Because of this, we can make the claim that while it can Leave Derry (as it does every 27 years) it probably takes tremandous amount of power to do so, which is why IT only goes when the cycle is over. Why does this matter? Well, what if IT left Derry to get to Stan? The murders had stopped for about a week when they're all in the Jade of the Orient. Plenty of time for IT to cross from Maine to Georgia. Side Note: We KNOW IT leaevs Maine to elsewhere in the world because of King's extended universe all interconnecting. it's not far off at all to make the claim that IT is the same evil that haunts, say The Shining's Overlook Hotel, which is in Colarado.

- IT is omnipresent This is also a given, IT lives everywhere, and can fuck with time and space in godlike (or maybe eldritch like) ways. in IT: Chapter Two, when Mike claims "IT Doesn't know I know what I know" he's unfortunately wrong, because we know that IT can be in A) Multiple places at once, B) can manipulate anything on the drop of a hat (See: Stan being teleported away from everyone else in Chapter One, Everything about Neibolt, etc) and C) Knows everyone's deep fears. This is further proven by IT Saying things like "Beep Beep Richie" (although this is Horribly Horribly executed in the films, ugh.) and so on and so forth. On top of all of this, We can make the claim that IT can exist outside of Time as well, given that IT is immortal. SO, what's stopping IT from Knowing Mike was going to call them all back (Espically considering that IT TOLD Mike to do this?). Even if we keep IT's omnipresence to the location that IT inhabits (in this case Derry) IT would still have knowledge of where the losers are through Mike. And if you take the Lucky Seven/Chosen Seven route (oh my god I got theories on that too) you could argue IT knows where they are inherently due to their cosmic status.

- Stan is the "most Powerful" loser So, obviously all the Loser's are powerful, espically considering they're the ones who Defeat IT (Again going on to the Lucky/Chosen Seven theory). This next claim is going to be less focused on what the 2019/2017 Movies do because they are Bad Movies and that's a whole other rant. However, in the book, Stan is (to my knowledge feel free to correct me on any of this) the only loser to Actively ward off and 'defeat' IT on his own without running away. He uses his belief in this what is Real (birds) to ward off what is "not real" (IT). The other losers do manage to take down IT in their own Right, but Stan is ultimately the one to Really get IT. This is because Stan's character revolves around Belief and Willpower. These are, in some form or another, the ways to Defeat IT. the ritual of Chud is a battle of Wills. in the book, Bill takes IT down and Eddie does the final blow. In the Remake (ugh) the losers can defeat it Technically using the belief that IT isn't as powerful as it claims because IT's "just a clown" (Ihatethatfuckingendingsomuchugh). Stan being much more skeptical than the rest of the group in his ability to understand Reality vs IT's illusions is a powermove, and IT knows that ability doesn't go away as Stan grows up, but rather he gets more powerful. Stan is the Only loser out of the 6 who left that has any sort of knowledge about IT, where the other losers have nothing. Bev has nightmares, yes, but she still forgets them. We're told in his chapter (Chapter 3, Six Phone Calls (1985), Part One: Stanley Uris Takes a Bath) that he has some hazy knowledge of his place in the Lucky Seven, and even goes so far as to MENTION it sometimes, even if he doesn't quite remember or understand any of it, his knowledge of IT and Derry is worlds more prominent than that of the rest of the losers.

(page 52 of IT:  "Stanley, nothing's wrong with your life!"  "I don't mean from inside." he said. "From inside is fine. I'm talking about outside. Something that should be over and isn't. I wake up frmo these dreams and think, 'My whole pleasent life has been nothing but the eye of some storm I don't understand.' I'm afraid. But then it just... fades. The way dreams do." OR  page 45: He had been smiling a little. Now the smile faltered, and for a moment he seemed puzzled. His eyes had darkened, as if he looked inward, consulting some interior device which ticked and whirred correctly but which, ultimately he understood no more than the average man understands the workings of the watch on his wrist. "The turtle couldn't help us," he said suddenly. he said that quite clearly.)

So, Stan has some cosmic knowledge of IT and Maturin and his role in the battle against It. What does any of this have to do with his death? Well, let me point out some other things about Stan's death that always stuck out to me. - His death chapter is narrated by his wife, Patty, rather than himself. The other chapters - almost all the other chapters - are narrated by their respective Loser (the caviot for this is Ben, but Ben is also wasted out of his damn mind so its understandable.) - Stan's personality is few and far between in the book, but we know he has a weird little sense of humour and that he's incredibly logical. I think that this logical part of him would be able to understand that Suicide is Never Ever the answer, and that it would cause FAR more problems than it would solve. (the 2019 movie tries to reexplain his death and it's crap and i hate the letters i hate the letters so much im gonna explode) The other losers try to rationalize his death by saying "He would rather Die Clean than Live Dirty (Page 506, Chapter 10, The Reunion, part 3, 'Ben Hanscom Gets Skinny') but he had already BEEN Dirty when he defeated IT the first time, and I think he would've recognized that. - upon finding him, Patty (in her narration) notes that Stan's head is bent back over the edge of the bathtub, so from his sight she would have been upside down. If Stan DID kill himself, why would he be positioned like that? It's unnatural, like someone Posed him. - the cuts on his arms are two length wise cuts. I'm no expert but.. that's suspicious. That's weird. - IT is written in blood on the wall. Why? Why would Stan right THAT of all things? You know who DOES like to paint with blood? IT.

Alright, returning to my thesis statement, Stanley Uris was murdered. Do I think Stan genuinely was going to take a bath at 7pm (which we're told is weird for him)? Yes. I think that's absolutely a thing he could have done or planned to do. Do I think he slit his wrists and commited suicide so he wouldn't go back to Derry? No. Not even remotely.

Let me paint a New Picture.

It's May 28th, 2016, or 1985. Stanley Uris gets a call from Mike Hanlon. Stan is incredibly hesitant to go to, and says he needs time to think about it. Or tht he'll try. He can feel the starts of a Panic attack, and as he's remembering the circles of Hell he went through as a child, he tries to hold himself together. He doesn't want his darling wife to see his break, so he says "I think I'll take a bath" and nothing else before going upstairs. he hides in the bathroom. He closes and locks the door, because, well, he's panicking. Locking doors is one of The Small things he does. Is it usually the bathroom door? no, but still (OCD is a bitch, and even with medication, but this is a special case). He looks in the mirror and tries to breathe. This is fine. He can do this. They killed IT once before and they can do it again. He thinks about his younger self, the promises made, and how he could explain all of this Patty in time to catch a flight to Maine. It's terrifying, but if his friends are going to bite the dust, he wants to be there with them, wedding vows be Damned. Then he looks at his reflection again. A younger, rotted version of himself stares back at him. IT crawls through the mirror. Stan freaks out, obviously. This isn't real. This Can't be real. But IT utilizes this notion against him. It digs it's claws into his arms, and forces him to bleed out in the bathtub. IT then sets the scene nicely. Razorblades on the counter, a bloody signature on the wall, a horrible posture of Stan's neck. So on and So forth. and then IT returns to Derry. IT's a little weak, yeah, but Stan is dead. That's what matters. the Lucky Seven has now Officially broken, and the balance shifts in favour of the clown.

So that's the theory. feel free to correct me on anything or engage I have plenty of theories on this story and I like discussing this stuff :).

[pardy-dardy]

some thoughts on Kris

DELTARUNE SPOILERS DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVENT CAUGHT UP YET!!!

TLDR: Kris is a lonely second-child who has lived in the shadow of their brother their entire life, causing them to act out on occasion to get attention. They somehow gain the power to create the Dark Worlds (which allows them to become as important and loved as they feel they should be), alongside the curse of us, the “Player,” which can influence their decision-making to a certain extent.

    Depending on how you, the “Player”, choose to proceed, you are either working against Kris’ natural inclination toward mischief and cold-heartedness (pacifist), or working with and actively feeding it (genocide thru the manipulation of others).

        It’s not hard to see that Kris has some problems. When playing thru Deltarune, it’s told to us that Kris is known to pull some pretty mean-spirited pranks on folks (eggnog/mayonnaise swap, for instance). Some of the dialogue options given to us are mean as shit as well, and I have a feeling that if the “Player” wasn’t there to push them toward better choices, they’d be meaner than Susie, easily. Also, they carry a fucking knife with them everywhere, and Chapter straight up starts out with a fake-out slasher scene. C’mon now.

    But they’re not all evil! After all, they’re shown to deeply care for their brother (going as far as googling when Asriel will be home on summer break), as they seem to be one of the few people in their life who treated them like someone normal. I would not doubt it being the situation that Kris was given the “oh, you’re Asriel’s sibling, right?” treatment all their life.

    They love Asriel so much that I’d bet you Ralsei is a manifestation of the goodness he impressed upon them. After all, Ralsei mysteriously isn’t affected by the same worldly rules as other Darkners (with the turning to stone thing), and physically appears just like the Boss Monsters we know from Undertale. Ralsei is always pushing Kris toward the path of light if he can, and I’d say that’s a reflection of the love they have for their absent brother.

    In light of their parents’ messy-sounding divorce, a town full of people entirely physically unlike them (right up to the fact that they cannot use magic while everyone else seems to be able to), a natural difficulty making friends, and a massive hole in their heart where Asriel used to be, Kris has become a bitter, cold teen who finds themself lapsing into their own imagination just to escape their melancholy reality.

    Somehow, this imagination turns into real, tangible power. Kris finds out one day that the worlds they create are just as real as anything else, and that they can be brought into existence anywhere they please, so long as they strike the earth with their knife. In these worlds, Kris is able to live the ultimate escapist fantasy-- they are the one true protagonist, the unequivocal hero of every story they would ever want to tell (no matter how nasty their actions during said story). They are important, they are at the center of it all, and they will save every world they create without fail.

    And you know what? Everyone else who is able to be pulled into Kris’ Dark Worlds agrees! Being a hero and saving a crazy, wacky world is far better than the bitter realities they live with. Berdly says it, Noelle says it, Susie says it-- and though Kris doesn’t appear to say anything, it’s pretty apparent that they agree (dialogue options point toward Kris being in the same boat). The only person who doesn’t agree at all is Ralsei, and that’s because he understand something more about the nature of the Dark Worlds than we, the “Players”, do (but perhaps not Kris).

    But by the end of Chapter 2, we are given in-game confirmation that it’s Kris who is making the fountains. Why would they do this, given that there’s a good chance they know everything Ralsei seems to know?

    It’s as I said-- Kris wants to make their fantasy real, however twisted that might be. They get the attention they feel they deserve, and as we play through the story, Kris also realizes that they can make friends that way, too. It becomes the strongest social tool they have, to a point where if you go Pacifist, you even befriend BERDLY of all people. And, as icing on the cake, everyone agrees with Kris that the Dark Worlds are a better alternative to the real world. They are going to continue the cycle as both creator and savior at the very least, so that every day can scratch that psychological/emotional itch for them.

    Even if you go the new Genocide Path, the “Player” validates and feeds the nastier part of Kris’ nature. It, again, makes sense that Kris would want to floor the world in Darkness. They can continue to act out their nasty fantasies, hurting who they please and turning worlds to ruin because in the end, they will be the master of the world.

    And when they forcefully rip us from their body, Kris is reminding us of who is ultimately in control. No matter what we do, what direction we help push Kris toward, it all feeds into their end goal. 

In the Pacifist route, it can be interpreted as something they have to do, something they do in opposition to the “Player” so that they can keep feeling important. Hence why they let us back into their body once they’ve done the deed, instead of leaving us out to dry.

In the Genocide route, it can be interpreted as them asserting dominance over us, since we clearly also want more worlds to decimate. Even though we’re willing to aid them in their plan, they want us to know, again, who ultimately decides what happens. Again, they let us back into their body once they’re done (and can make sure that there’s no risk of interference) to show that we’re in on it together, but that they see us as a variable they can’t fully trust.

God, this story is getting so fucking interesting. Toby Fox you god damn fuck head let me pay you for these chapters already bastard dog

[cherryys]

I also think that by the end of the series, Megumi won't have a technique anymore.

I don't specifically know how, maybe it has something to do with the merger and it taking Cursed Energy, but i fully believe 10S won't exist anymore. Megumi (or Sukuna) will be the last 10 Shadows User in Jujutsu History.

Why do I think that? Simple. It's a burden.

The 10 Shadows Technique has dictated Megumi's life since before he even had it, when his father sold him to the Zenin Clan because he thought he had 'potential'. (megumi and his relationship with his potential is something i could go on about forever) Yes, Gojo saves him from the Zenin Clan, but not for free. He has to work as a jujutsu sorcerer so that the school could cover their costs. This means that ever since he was young, he was used solely for his technique. Even Gojo, who had suffered the same fate before of being defined by nothing but his technique, unknowingly inflicted it onto Megumi. (Which is also a thing I could go on about forever)

Megumi never cared about Jujutsu stuff from the start. He never wanted this technique or this life but since it belongs to Gojo anyways ('technically') he has not choice but to do it.

His technique has always been actively working against him. Unlike a technique like Limitless where you could use and train it to its full capabilities without any immediate threat to your life, Megumi has to FIGHT his shikigami just so he could be able to use them, nevermind the fact he has to figure out ways to utilize them in the best way due to its multi-faceted nature, along with actively channeling his Cursed Energy through them, not to mention the fact that The 10S technique's full potential could be reached by having an insane amount of CE, something Megumi doesn't have but something Sukuna does.

His technique has caused him nothing but suffering his entire life, moreso doubled by the fact that now Sukuna took over his body just to get his hands on it, made him mentally suffer for a month, submerged him in evil, killed his sister (the reason he'd been doing all of this for) and mentor with that damned technique.

In a way, it is the curse of the zenin clan; the burden. Which is ironic considering his name.

Not to mention the fact that the continued existence of Mahoraga could cause a lot of trouble should another person inherit the 10 Shadows, especially now that the entire world has seen Mahoraga's capabilites in full, tamed and used to its fullest. Before, it was a creature no user before had tamed. Now? It's practically a God.

Gege had already set this up by decimating the entire Zenin Clan. The only Zenins alive who might be able to give birth to children with that technique are Maki and Megumi, and I highly doubt Maki would have ANY sort of desire to have kids and to pass on the 'curse' so to speak. (Also because I personally hate the "strong woman settles down and has kids" trope so let's hope gege doesn't go that route). And Megumi would also probably have no desire to have kids either. Letting the inehrited technique that has caused so much agony and even killed The Strongest Sorcerer keep continuing itd cycle is going to make things messy. A whole lot more messy.

(I also don't think anyone but the inner circles of the Zenin and Gojo clan knew about those previous users that both died because of Mahoraga before, so I don't think anyone outside knew the 10S had the power to counter a Limitless user. Gojo is the only person in the entire series that tells Megumi that the 10S could reach those heights, so it's safe to assume no one else knew 10S was that powerful. So now that that fact is known so intimately, practically broadcasted, would make the 10S 'inflate' in the Sorcery word, so to speak.)

Megumi never had a day where he could unequivocally be free of worries— worries about money when they were left alone beforw Gojo, about his comatose sister, about his progress with his technique, about his friends (specifically nobara), about yuuji and sukuna and wanting him to live, for constant threats to his life, and i think that's so deeply tragic :( he deserves to be happy for once in his life

I hope he doesn't have to use the technique anymore after the final fight. I want him to live a free life, away from Jujutsu Sorcery.

These are my current JJK predictions. I am very confident about them

[unfortunatelysirius]

Wicked Charm, What’s Your Patronus? | Remus Lupin, Marauders Era

「 ❁ 」PROMPT 「 ❁ 」

One day in Defense, Professor Boomstick offers whoever can produce a corporeal Patronus an Outstanding on the next essay as well as an out on a test. When Y/N shockingly produces a wolf Patronus, well… you can assume the rest.

「 ❁ 」AUTHOR’S NOTE 「 ❁ 」

Why did I name a guy Boomstick? Because that word is fucking hilarious to me THAT’S WHY (also this sucks ass but tbh I'm just going with the flow nowadays whatever comes out comes the f out whether it’s shit or not) and for anyone who wants to get technical, believe me i already know what u will say

      DEFENSE WAS Y/N L/N’S last class of every Friday and as of late, the only class she fervently dreaded. It was a mix of students from different Houses but dominated by Gryffindors. Three of the infamous sixth-year Gryffindor circle, James Potter, Sirius Black, and Remus Lupin, were in there, each of the blokes gifted with a wand. Y/N didn’t pay them much mind at the start of the year but after a few months of mingling and getting to know her classmates, she had developed somewhat of an acquaintanceship with the boys, perhaps even a friendship. She was one of the other few Gryffindors in the room and after she particularly chewed out one of the Ravenclaws feet from the classroom for ruining her perfect attendance record (allegedly, the clumsy arse caused her a three-day sentence in the Hospital Wing) James and Sirius decided she had enough style and substance (“Marauder flair,” they called it) to invite her into their gang.

      It was as unenticing on the inside as it was from a feet-on-the-ground outsider’s perspective. Y/N wasn’t very adventurous. She was miles away from Lily’s singlehanded definition of “studious”, but still a pretty mellow person, preferring to keep to predetermined routes and undetected on radars. She was an extrovert with introverted tendencies, mostly appearing at times with people who differed in lifestyle. Like James and Sirius, two peas in a pod.

      Remus Lupin was much less of a firecracker inches from popping, his voice tampered and quiet, his disposition ripe with premature wisdom. Y/N found him likeable. Almost too likable—a noticeable kind of fancy that only prats would fail to see. Then that fancy became more; she didn’t remember how.

      This was open to judgment from the gods, who could choose to interfere or leave Y/N’s recent change of heart alone.

      Unfortunately for her with this newfound friendship and growing fancy, James and Sirius had enough arrogance to fit the Greek gods from ancient myth…

      Zeus and Poseidon, at least. Maybe even Aphrodite, the bloody matchmakers. 

-

      Professor Boomstick, a stout, ashen man who oftentimes went into tangents about how the Muggle Army was a lousy old group of incompetent twats, liked challenges. He liked challenges for his students, specifically. He also liked favoritism and had yet to liken any students to his old pub buddies. Today Y/N and the Marauders all went to class expecting a test, but Professor Boomstick was already there waiting—and the room was empty of desks. Y/N stopped in her tracks, feeling Remus’s tall, lean frame smack into her backside. He apologized but she ignored him, sweeping her gaze across the floor. A group of students who found themselves there before her were huddling in a corner, nervous as sheep waiting to be sheered.  

      Y/N’s steps held an edge... She couldn’t deny she herself was nervous.

“Damn the test,” Professor Boomstick barked suddenly, catching Y/N’s bewildered eyes and holding them hostage. She swallowed hard. Surprises were not fun to her; she hated them with a passion. This old fart was just an arse to be incorporating one in place of a test on the history of Patronuses and Animagi she spent eons studying for. “We’ll see what you’re made of today without wasting parchment, can’t read your writin’ anyhow.”

      “What exactly are we doing?” a long-faced, petite-nosed girl asked.

      Professor Boomstick raised his wand and closed the door behind Y/N and the Marauders, throwing them further into the room. Y/N felt Remus’s arm brush her side and heat enveloped her from head to stomach.  Glaring at Professor Boomstick, they all walked to stand with the other students, keeping a close eye on the crazy man they all called their teacher. Thank Merlin Defense professors never lasted.  

      “For any of you kids that can produce me a corporeal Patronus, I won’t just give ye bonus,” Professor Boomstick said, smirking at the huddle of students. “Ya got an essay due two weeks time on endangered species of the Wizarding World and that test we had scheduled today’s rescheduled for Monday. I’ll give any of ya who give me what I want a freebie on the quiz—and an automatic Outstanding on the essay. Still gotta turn three pages in though.”

      The huddle of students struck up an excited exchange of whispers before going abruptly silent. Patronuses? That was hard-level shit and sparingly learned outside of class lessons due to its difficulty. Disappointment shuttered down the spines of each student, one at a time, as they all came to the same conclusion: this was a waste of time.

      “What? None of ya have even tried?” Professor Boomstick demanded, bushy white eyebrows furrowing in the middle of his forehead. “May be a charm, but it could save yer life someday. All it takes is one loose Dementor and BOOM! Your soul’s been sucked right outta ya.”

      Everyone flinched, some horrified at the sheer mention of Dementors. Professor Boomstick was right. No one really knew Patronuses and their uses. Advanced magic like that was too extensive, too dueling of a task.

      Professor Boomstick was getting frustrated and impatient, glaring at each student individually. Crazy old man.

Y/N L/N nervously glanced at her classmates, mostly the marauding group of boys she befriended, before she stepped out of the huddle. All eyes automatically went to her.

      James and Sirius were (in their opinion, rightfully) shocked she had this information under her belt the entire time—sitting on it, dwelling on it, never admitting to it where her friends were concerned. The two of them didn’t have any concept of privacy, both too invasive to be capable of secrets; Remus was nowhere near similar. Secrets were a part of his nature, only for the benefit of others and never his. If anyone could understand Y/N’s need to keep something like this close to her chest, it was Remus. Though, this wasn’t much of a secret. They all knew Y/N’s history and domestic life.

      Remus glanced at her, an unreadable expression on his face, but her back was turned to him. She could feel everyone looking at her and picking out a single pair of eyes was too strenuous a task.

      “Get on with it, L/N,” Professor Boomstick demanded.

      “Okay, sir,” Y/N said. She would have never dared do this, but she was drowning in coursework from her other classes—any further work and she’d lose sleep, her grades suffering for it. Her mouth opened, inhaling a deep breath she braced.

      Patronus charms were a complicated, beautiful species of magic. Arduous and dogging, it took someone particularly skilled to produce one—and you had to conjure one of your best memories, one of pure joy and exhilaration. Not just happiness, as one of Y/N’s old mentors incorrectly told her once upon a time. Y/N came from a family always preparing for the worst and through the years as the likelihood of a war reached its peak, her parents grew increasingly paranoid and enrolled her in a summer mentorship program as a precaution. She learned the Patronus charm from an eccentric man named Ellis Hawking.

      Y/N’s happiest memory, the one that gave her pure, unadulterated joy, was when she was twelve and got to see her new baby sister.

      “Expecto Patronum,” Y/N said when an incandescent smile reached her lips. All concentration went into her wand when she pointed. Her wand felt like it thrummed under her fingertips and she targeted the air just north of herself, where no one was in her line of sight.

      Everyone behind her gasped when a shot of pure light emitted from her wand’s end, something growing larger as it left. Tendrils of silver and white swept the floor, coiling to become a translucent shape. The shape growled noiselessly, galloping on the ground like a wolf. It was a wolf. Majestic and sleek, making a turn to come running back at the caster herself—polarizing white eyes staring right into hers. Ears pinned back and slivers of silver hair standing on edge. All until it disappeared into the same device that made it. Creation and destruction, two separate words that meant the same: an inevitable, unavoidable cycle.  

      Y/N’s Patronus was last a dolphin when she first learned how to cast, not a wolf.

      Her Patronus had changed.

      “Bravo, bloody Hell—bravo, girl!” Professor Boomstick clapped enthusiastically. “For sure you’re gettin’ in my good graces rest of this here year. You’ve gotta be one hell of a witch casting a corporeal Patronus at sixteen! Bloody—”

      Y/N stared down at her wand, completely bewildered.

      Why did it change?

-

      James glanced over at Sirius while Y/N was distracted, a grin breaking his shocked composure. Neither he, Sirius, or Remus expected that; while Remus was busy frozen and possibly panicking himself into early gray hairs, James was bursting on the inside from excitement. Sirius shared a similar expression.

      “Looks like little Y/N’s in love with Moony,” he hissed under his breath, failing to lose his grin. “That’s gotta be it. I’ve read on this before.”

      Sirius nodded, a faux solemnness combatting the electric shock darting around like butterflies on his face. “After General Prat’s done,” he said, and the two nodded like soldiers heading to war.

-

      When no one other than Y/N could even produce an incorporeal Patronus, Professor Boomstick disappointedly released them—promising a nervous Y/N not to worry about the test or upcoming essay. James and Sirius automatically attacked at the last nameless student’s retreat, Remus trailing his two mates like a left-behind dog.

      Sirius’s eyes zeroed in on Y/N’s wrist, where a charm bracelet dangled. It was covered in expensive-looking charms, one of engraved letters, a wand, a little wolf.

Whoa, cauldron’s bearings. There was a bloody wolf charm! What were the odds?

      “Wicked charm,” Sirius said through a wink. Y/N’s eyes flickered between the two blokes then at her charm bracelet, not at all soothed in their presence. Still struggling to understand why her Patronus would be different, the two twats harassing her wasn’t desirable—especially since they looked like they did while meddling. Pranking. Causing mischief. Y/N made it clear ages ago she wouldn’t react kindly if they decided to fuck around with her the way they did with the rest of the Hogwarts student body. She liked her comfort bubble how it was, unperforated by buffoons best left six feet away. “Wolves. Did you get it to match your Patronus?”

      Y/N bit her lip. “Well, actually—"

      “Ah, Padfoot, obviously that wouldn’t be the case,” James said, slinging an arm around his mate’s shoulder. “She got it because it makes her think of a certain someone.”

      “Who would I even think of? You guys are such prats,” Y/N said indignantly, narrowing her eyes now. Seriously, what were they getting at? They didn’t know anything, just perfectly well how drive anyone and everyone up the bloody wall. They’d drive a sane man mad!

      “James, Sirius, don’t,” Remus said softly, appearing from behind. His eyes were wide with alarm, meeting Y/N’s at her sharp twist. He gulped at the annoyance in hers; James and Sirius had already done their damage. Idiots, they were.

      “See, Y/N, I don’t think your Patronus has always been a wolf,” Sirius went on, pretending like neither Y/N nor Remus spoke in the first place. “Am I wrong?”

      Y/N warily said, “No…”

      “Did you know Patronuses can change to be complementary of their lovers’?” Sirius grinned obnoxiously. He shrugged his shoulders and nudged Y/N with one of his hands. “Just a thought. Maybe you fancy somebody, love ‘em.”

      Y/N’s eyes widened and involuntarily, they looked at where Remus was standing. Remus froze again.

      “We’ll leave you to it,” James said hastily, still grinning.

      The bespectacled boy quickly lassoed Sirius around the neck and guided him to the door, calling to Remus that they’d be back in their dorm by the time he finished.

      Remus awkwardly glanced over at Professor Boomstick. The man was just standing by his desk, drinking out of a flask, presumably waiting for his next class. Y/N sighed and unconsciously laced her fingers into Remus’s, dragging him away from their crazy-ass professor.

      Once outside, Y/N faced Remus. “Is your Patronus a wolf?” she asked quietly, hurriedly. She didn’t want anyone to overhear, though the only likely soul left in distance was Peeves.

      Remus looked at the ground. “Yes,” he reluctantly told her. He and the Marauders had yet to let her in on his furry little secret.

      “Oh,” Y/N said and went silent. It’s not that she didn’t want to be in love with Remus, she just didn’t understand why she could have been so stupid to cast her Patronus in front of the entire class without contemplating her feelings for Remus first. Especially with prior knowledge that a wolf Patronus implied the chance of the charm caster being a werewolf. Students from the class would be beside themselves with rumors of Y/N being a werewolf herself.

      As long as it wasn’t Remus being investigated.

      “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, peeking up at her.

      Y/N rolled her eyes. “Remus, why are you apologizing? Because of what animal the charm was? I’m not a bloody idiot. I know. Good thing I’m the caster, no one else, right?”

      “Why would you like me, let alone love me?” Remus asked. “I don’t understand. I’m—”

      “No, don’t even say it,” Y/N said, meeting his gaze. She reached forward and held his shoulders. “You’re handsome, funny, and intelligent. The least mad of any bloke I’ve seen. That’s all that matters to me.”

      The heels of her feet lifted off the ground so she could peck his cheek. Remus flushed red and flinched back, not having expected any sort of affection—but Y/N deliberately ignored his confusion. She snorted and turned to leave.

      Remus stood processing the unlikely events.

Y/N didn’t hear corresponding footsteps and stopped walking herself. “I hope you at least somewhat like me,” she said over her shoulder. “Else, that’d be one bloody embarrassing confession.”

Oh.

Remus’s shoes squeaked when he jogged to catch up. With his cheeks still aflame, Y/N hoped that meant he did, in fact, reciprocate.

I might need to do something about everyone seeing my Patronus, Y/N thought. Stupid Hogwarts and its plethora of assholes waiting for worthy gossip.

She was sure James and Sirius wouldn’t mind Obliviating the entire school for her and Remus. The idiots did supposedly do anything for their friends. 

[dork-empress]

Singing in the Dead of Night Pt 3

Lucy and Damian visit Metropolis.

Past chapters are under my tag 'lucy quinzel' and the whole fic is on my AO3 (url in my description). Please reblog and leave comments.

Flock of Robins

Timtiminey:Guys. Guys. Guess what???

Jason: I thought I deleted this chat.

Timtiminey: Ha funny you think I’d allow you to do that

Timtiminey: And you didn’t guess.

Dickbutt: Tim I’m on a mission.

Dickbutt:.....

Dickbutt: TIM CHANGE MY NAME

Timtiminey: You’re still not guessing.

Dick Grayson’s name was changed to DickiestButtiest

Stephaluffagus: Whatever Is It, Tim?

Jason: Why is Stephanie even on here?

Stephaluffagus: I was a Robin!

Timtiminey: And she asks the questions. Well, you SEE

Timtiminey: DAMIAN GOT A GIRLFRIEND

Stephaluffagus: WHAAAA?!:?HSLHFADSKLJFKL?????

Dick Grayson’s name was changed to DatAssTho

DatAssTho: Awwwww, that’s so cute!!!

DatAssTho: Our little hellion is growing up

DatAssTho: It’s like it was just yesterday he was threatening to stab us all

Jason: That was last week at dinner.

Jason: Who the hell said yes to go out with him?

Timtiminey: That’s the best part! The old man set them up.

Stephaluffagus: ALKSDAN LFKSNDAFLKNDASKLF

DatAssTho: Well thats just not fair. He never set up me on a date.

Jason: He put you on the Titans.

DatAssTho: Watch it, Todd

DatAssTho: Also, you type like an old man

Jason: With proper punctuation?

Stephaluffagus: Guys, we’re straying from the topic: Who is it??

Timtiminey: Harley’s niece, she’s got some like, clown ballerina thing going

Jason: QUINN?!?!?!

Jason: LIKE JOKER’S GIRLFRIEND????

DatAssTho: Dude, they broke up ages ago

Stephaluffagus: Yeah, she’s basically more hero than you are

Jason: You really want to go down THAT route Brown?

Timtiminey: OOOOHKAYYY

Timtiminey: Rest assured, the old man vetted the girl. She’s…..unique? I’ve only seen her file, or part of it anyway

DatAssTho: Bruce has secret files doesn’t he

Timtiminey: I think I made it through the first encryption, but I’m working on the next between other cases.

Timtiminey: After all, we have to make sure she’s alright for our little Dami-kins

Stephaluffagus: Isn’t he on this chat?

Timtiminey: He’s had this muted for ages

Jason: YOU CAN DO THAT?!

Timtiminey: I mean, YOU can’t. I will turn it off for you

Jason: …….

Jason: Well you know it’d be a shame if I

Jason: @DamianWayne

Timtiminey: WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?!

Damian: You’re dead Drake

DatAssTho: RIP

Stephaluffagus: He will be remembered

Jason: Prick.

“Get on already,” Damian said, exuding as much disinterested and grumpy energy as his body could manage.

Lucy skipped over to him, and looked at the seating arrangement on the Robin Cycle. “Hmm”, she said, “I don’t know if I’ll fit.” She climbed up to the back of the cycle only for her tutu to spring her backwards.

“What the hell is in that thing?” Damian asked, scowling. whatever had hit him was way more solid than fabric.

“Oh all sorts of things!” she said, “It’s my utilitutu!”

Damian really should have been used to this by now. “Your what.”

“Utility Tutu. I’ve got my balloon animals, my gas bouquet, my tamborine…”

“Well get rid of it or something,” Damian said, and was somehow surprised she did as was asked. Left in just a leotard, she hooked the tutu around her arm and jumped up behind him, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Luckily, he was wearing his helmet, so no one could see him blush.

He revved up the motorcycle to try and drown out his thoughts. They’d been particularly loud ever since Tim said what he said...and, maybe since Lucy said what she said.

Were they dating? Is that what was happening? Lucy had called it a date, but Lucy was weird. It wasn’t like Damian understood how these things were supposed to work. This was super not in the training regime for the League of Assassins.

Did he...want it to be a date? He was even less sure. Lucy was...odd, but she had grown on him. She was the exact opposite of him, cheery where he was brooding, she was peaceful, he was violent. She was...kind and funny and playful. He was super not. they were both smart, but that seemed to be where the similarities ended.

And yet, it kinda worked. She was pretty, in a girly way, or at least thats what he could tell from under her makeup. He’d never been...really interested in girls or anyone. He didn’t know what it was supposed to feel like. If this was how it was supposed to feel like.

Well, he wasn’t going to be forced to be in a relationship with anyone. If she tried anything, he would tell her no, in no uncertain terms. Then he could get Tim and the others to shut up.

Once the decision was made, of course, he was left to ruminate for the remainder of the ride. He might have welcomed some of Lucy’s chatter, just to get his mind off things. Damn Bruce, not letting him use the batmobile…

Finally, a blur appeared beside him. “Need a lift?” Jon asked, rushing along beside him. Damian couldn’t help a smirk as he followed him through the city.

They came to a stop in an alleyway, though it didn’t hide much. “Whoa,” Jon said, eyebrows raised, “Hello, who’s this?”

Lucy stood on the top of the motorcycle, slipping her tutu back on and giving a deep curtsy, “Greetings! I am Commedia, The Dancing Delight, Columbina of Gotham and--”

“She’s Harley Quinn’s niece,” Damian said, cutting her off, “Lucy, Superboy, Superboy, Lucy.”

Lucy jumped down, eyebrow raised, “Now, come on. Surely you boys know how hard it is being defined by those who came before you.”

“Yeah, Robin,” Superboy said, holding out his hand for her to shake, “Honestly, no manners. Nice to meet you, Comme...Colum..um.”

“Lucy’s fine,” she said, “Aunt Harley said it’d be good for me to go and see some of Metropolis, maybe get some shopping done.”

Jon smiled, “Well, there’s plenty to do around here, and you picked the perfect tour guide! Come on, Mom and Dad are working today. I’ll show you around.”

Damian followed the pair of them around at a pace where you could just barely tell he was part of the same group. He was in his black outfit again, with sunglasses so that Lucy couldn’t tell who he was, and all of Metropolis wouldn’t know Robin wasn’t in Gotham.

Jon took them on the full tourist tour, going to see the many wonders of Metropolis. Though, a few stops Damian was pretty sure weren’t on the main route, like when they went to the top of the Daily Planet building. Other than that, though, it was a lot of pretty buildings, old buildings, the Superman memorial/dedication (they just left it up when Superman came back) and other sites that were considered important.

Damian sulked, having seen all these before and not finding them any more impressive than the first time or any time after that. What did surprise him was that Lucy didn’t seem any more impressed than him. He would have thought she’d go Gaga over the tourist trappings, considering she react to abandoned (allegedly) mines like a family at Disney World.

But she looked at each one, nodded in appreciation, and went onto the next thing.

Jon was kinda weirded out by it too, Damian could tell, not that Jon was ever subtle. He kept looking to Damian as if to try and explain her behavior, not that he was ever going to be doing that.

“Ok,” Jon said, as they sat outside the capitol, “Is there anything you WANT to see?”

Lucy shrugged, “To be honest, buildings don’t really interest me that much. But I’m glad to have gone with you, of course.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Damian said, “What’s the point of going around like this if you don’t even like it? We went around all damn day for YOU!”

Lucy tilted her head, “We went so that Superboy could show us things and we could get to know him.” She smiled at him, “You clearly admire Superman a lot, and you’re clearly like him. I’m glad you get along with your dad so well.”

Jon smiled, confused, but appreciative, “Thanks?” Damian grumbled. “But, I’d like to get to know YOU better as well. So if there’s something you like, the city has everything.”

Lucy hummed, “I honestly mostly just like to people watch in my free time.”

Jon beamed, “Oh man, I have the perfect place then.”

With a hop, skip, and a kryptonian-powered jump, the three of them were in the rafters of the Metropolis Subway station, looking down at everything and everyone as they went by. Damian was just glad they were inside, and being underground had him feeling a bit more at home.

Lucy practically sparkled, leaning way too far over to look at everyone. “What are they saying? Can you hear them?”

“Uh, which ones?” Jon said. She pointed aggressively. “Well, that one’s a family on vacation, the dad there is going over the itinerary, he’s got it printed out. The daughter there is trying to get him to skip the museums so they can get to the aquarium faster.”

“Ohh, what’s at the aquarium?” Lucy asked, kicking her feet like a child.

“Some fish, jelly fish are cool...Oh, they got a new shark there, I think.”

Damian groaned again, “Ugh, who CARES? If you wanted to go to the aquarium, then lets go to the aquarium! Instead of just watching someone TALK about it! These are all just normal people!”

“Robin, dude,” Jon said, “If it’s what she wants, why not? We are here for HER after all.”

That in of itself would have been enough to shame Damian, but Lucy was staring at him. She stared unblinking, and unsmiling. It was actually creepy. Like she was staring through him.

“Nobody’s normal.” She said, very seriously, her voice no longer taking on the cheery affectation. “Not a single one that I’ve ever met. Many of them TRY to be normal, but it is an illusion. A moving target, an ideal that doesn’t exist and people are shamed for not attempting to achieve.”

Damian could feel himself resist leaning away from her. “Uh, Lucy?” Jon said, “Something you want to talk about?”

Lucy blinked like she was remembering she was supposed to. “I suppose it is personal to me,” she said, “My…mother was always a little scared of Aunt Harley. First scared of her success, then scared of her villainous career. She always wanted to be normal. She wanted…me to be normal. She was scared of what I’d be. Who I’d be like.” She smiled, an echo of her previous smile, “It’s not quite the same as being a disciple for a great hero like Superman or Batman.”

Jon was suddenly looking very awkward. “Well,” He said, “I mean, having Harley Quinn as your aunt isn’t that bad. And you’re good anyway! So, no need to worry.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lucy said, “It doesn’t matter if I was good or bad. It just matters that I was strange.” She tilts her head, looking down at the mass of people rushing back and forth. “Ever since I was little, people didn’t feel…real. They’re just. Stories. I couldn’t relate to my peers, as my teachers would say. I don’t know how to explain it. The only time I tried, my mom was so scared she sent me to a camp. One of those meant for bad kids to help them behave.” She tilted her head, “But they weren’t bad. They all had different stories. I realized there were no normal people. Just people with stories.”

Damian couldn’t have spoken if it was to yell for help. He stared at Lucy, trying to decide if he should be concerned or sympathetic.

Jon cleared his throat. “Well, I think you’re nice. And that’s what’s important. No problem with learning more about people and helping them.”

Lucy smiled, “Thank you.”

Jon’s head whipped to the side. “Ah, shoot, Dad’s calling me. I’ll be right back.” Lucy’s cheery attitude was back and she nodded, as Jon took off.

Lucy looked over at Damian for a moment. Damian felt he should say something. Apologize, maybe? He wasn’t sure what would be appropriate, and if it was appropriate, would Lucy want it. She worked on a whole other level, that was clear.

Lucy went back to watching people below her.

“My mom,” Damian started, not sure where he was going to end his sentence. Rule one of being in his family was to not reveal details about himself. But it was Lucy and she…she was his friend. “She was a…she’s a villain. I was supposed to be too. Maybe would have been if I didn’t go to live with Batman.”

Lucy nodded, “That sounds like a very interesting story,” Lucy said, “Thank you for telling me.” She tilted her head towards him. “Hey Robin, there’s this comedy place here in Metropolis I looked up. I was hoping maybe we could go tonight? I’m kind of a comedy nerd, and it’s always good to support people at an open mic. Maybe you’d even laugh once.”

Damian braced himself. This was a date. She was asking him on a date. He had prepared himself for this. “I can’t,” Damian said, the words practiced, “I don’t think of you that way. We can hang out and…be friends, but no.” There. No question about it.

Lucy looked at him, and tilted her head, thinking. “Ok,” She said, simply. Didn’t seem too heartbroken. It was a relief. “Hey Superboy,” She said, voice raise just slightly on the sounds of trains, “Do you want to go on a date to a comedy club tonight with me?”

There was a brief pause, then with a burst of wind, Jon jumped up back to the rafters. “Yeah, that sounds good,” and they shared smiles, “Robin, I can get her back to Gotham if you want to head home.”

Damian blinked, trying to process what exactly was happening. “I–,” technically, he wasn’t supposed to leave Lucy, for reasons Batman hadn’t been overly clear about. But if something was going to happen, she’d be plenty safe with Jon. Still, he wanted to argue this, even though he had nothing, and he knew he had nothing. “Sure, that sounds fine.”

Jon held out his hand to help him down, but he could easily get out by himself. And so, alone, he went home. And he didn’t understand the strange feeling in his gut.

Bruce stretched his neck coming down to the batcave, seeing Tim on the computer. “Commissioner Gordon has kindly invited Batman and Robin to the Wayne charity Christmas Party on my behalf,” he said, “I’ve got Dick coming down to wear the Batsuit for me. I’m going to work to have Damian as Robin, but would you and Steph take on patrols that night? At least some of us should actually be doing work.”

Tim didn’t answer. He stared blankly into the computer. Bruce sighed, most likely he didn’t hear him. “How long have you been down here? You’re going to ruin your–”

“Are you planning on telling Damian?” Tim asked.

Bruce paused and looked at what Tim was staring at. It was medical records of Delia Quinzel, specifically of her pregnancy.

Specifically the fake pregnancy records that Bruce had made. “What are you talking about?” Bruce asked.

“Please don’t insult me,” Tim said, face stoic, “You really think I can’t recognize your digital fingerprint all over these files?”

Bruce took a few deep breaths. “Have you told anyone?”

“Hell no,” Tim said, finally looking up, “And I cleaned up your mess. But I don’t know if anyone else has looked into this before now.” Tim glared at Bruce, “So I ask again, are you planning on telling Damian that you’ve put him in charge of protecting Joker’s biological daughter from her own father?”

Bruce came over and looked at the corrected records. They were, in fact, cleaner. Bruce’s were too normal. Tim added in complications that could have happened, just enough to make people think they’d already found what was wrong. “We don’t know what Joker knows.”

“Oh, and he just happened to escape Arkham and disappear at around the same time a teen starts hanging around his ex-girlfriend.” Tim said, dryly.

“If he does know,” Bruce said, “Then its our job to stop him. If he doesn’t, then we still stop him. But Lucy has a target on her back one way or another.”

“Which is why you put Damian in front of it?” Tim said.

“I trust Damien,” Bruce said, “To protect her. But I don’t want him to be biased against her because of her parents.”

“So, you’re putting him at risk, so that he can make friends?” Tim demanded, arms crossed.

Bruce took a deep sigh. “One day,” he said, “Lucy is going to have to confront where she’s come from. And the rest of us are too. I’m trying to give us all the best chance.” Bruce said, “Besides, Damian needs more friends other than Jon.”

Tim screwed up his face, then snorted. “Alright, old man,” he said, “I’ll go with your plan for now. But if something goes belly up, I reserve the right to at least one ‘I told you so.’”

“A fair compromise,” Bruce said, “What have you found about Joker’s movements?”

“He’s going quiet right now, which isn’t much like him,” Tim said, “But I think I’ve tied him to this fancy surgical robot that’s gone missing from Gotham Hospital.”

“Well, I’m sure there’s nothing mind-breakingly awful he can do with that,” Bruce said, sarcastically. “Let’s take it to the streets.”

Tim jumped up and followed him to the batmobile.

[nabesthetics]

A Prayer Unheard, a Letter Never Written

1.1k words, pre-route angst, no comfort whatsoever

A young magician carrying an old secret thought himself immune to the Red Plague. By the time he realises just how wrong he was, his mind is already slipping away.

It’s magical. The Red Plague is of magical origin.

The realization hits me way too late as I stare in our my bedroom mirror, the reflection of my eyes tainted crimson. For a moment, it’s almost funny: I spent two years studying medicine under Dr. Devorak’s guidance, so damn certain that the human disease won’t affect me, instead of sticking to the kind of research I am actually good at. And now I am infected with something that would never overtake my draconic nature if the disease was simply physical.

A jolt of sharp pain in my chest, accompanied by a coughing fit, nearly brings me to my knees. There is blood in my mouth and the vessels on my fingers are already showing through the skin – I am not just susceptible to the Plague, it progresses faster. Over the past years I have seen the process too many times: it won’t be long before delirium overtakes my mind. I can’t suppress a pathetic, terrified whimper as I feel the Plague slowly feeding on the primal magic, not only tearing into my body but my very soul as well.

I stumble to my desk, shoving the reports, books and research notes aside to clear space for empty parchment and one of my notebooks. I didn’t look into magical diseases much before, aside from the few known draconic illnesses, but I still have some notes on the Siren Fever from the Galbradan library I could use as a reference. I re-read everything we know about the Red Plague, scribbling the dates and affected areas on the hastily drawn map, as well as the movement, life cycle and sighting history of the beetles. I cannot sense anything specific from the one I have trapped in a jar next to me, but its energy is erratic, stronger than in most insects, and now I know I encountered this kind of energy before, yet I can’t… I can’t remember.

It feels so infuriatingly close. There is a pattern, I know there is, the migrations of the swarms are familiar somehow, it should not be this difficult to—

How long has it been? I look at the stained glass of the bedroom window – it is much darker than it should be. Or is my vision becoming affected? With some effort I stand up to get some water, trying to clear the odd fog in my head. It helps somewhat, for when I return to my desk I find myself staring at my own writing, the sudden cold pit in my stomach contrasting with the growing fever. Even I wouldn’t be able to decipher most of this now: uneven ink lines slipping from scattered paper sheets onto the desk, parts of my notes speckled with abundant splatters of blood. My own hands aren’t looking much better, with the dark stains almost covering the crimson web of infected vessels spreading to my wrists.

Another wave of pain, longer and more intense than previous ones, makes me grab onto the desk, knocking down a stack of books. I can’t solve this, not anymore. It’s too difficult to think. I nearly fall back onto my chair, brushing off the ruined paper. A letter, I cannot go without leaving a note for—

———

I jolt awake, my startled gasp nearly makes me pass out again as it sends a torrent of agony through my lungs. It takes me a few minutes to remember where I am and why is there a piece of paper in front of me. I try to read whatever I’d managed to write before I lost consciousness, but the words just do not make sense. They are words, I think, but it feels as if I’m trying to read in an unknown language, the haze in my mind so thick that I cannot understand the letters. All I can do is hope that this is actually readable for someone with a healthy mind. I know I was writing to… them. Can’t recall the name. I remember the face, their scent mixed with the smell of tea and home, the feeling of their hands on my body. The crushing guilt, a price for living a beautiful lie, that has been following me for the past few years.  But all of this begins to escape me, my memories slowly fading into the fog. Spirits, I don’t want to forget! Not like this, please, I–

Coughing burns as if molten lava is filling my chest, and uncontrollable sobbing almost makes me throw up. If I die here and they come back, if anyone comes, they’ll get sick too. I cannot let others suffer the same pain and terror because of my mistakes.

There’s only one end for the victims of the Plague, isn’t there?

My vision is blurry at the edges when I finally find a flask of red ink. Leaning heavily on the apartment walls I descend into the shop and stumble outside. I do not lock the door: there is no need, as the blood-red mark I paint on the wood with my shaking hand will be enough keep anyone away. A large, if slightly uneven, “X”.

“Contaminated.”

I slowly make my way across empty streets, past many doors marked in the same manner, towards the docks. While I take another break to find some strength to breathe again, a human with the mask of a vulture finds me and leads me to a cart with other doomed souls with the same fate as I.

And as the cart stops at the docks, next to a line of boats waiting to bring us to the shores of the ashen island, I unwind the spell protecting this body from flames and pray for the safety of people whose faces I no longer recall. 

Until I cannot pray anymore.

___________________________

Dear Asra,

If you’re reading this, then I have already joined my ancestors in the place I cannot return from. I am sorry I was too arrogant, too sure of myself to listen to you, love. I am sorry for saying the things I said, and for walking away without saying goodbye. A part of me hopes that you no longer care for me, that you resent me and won’t return just to be hurt by me once again. But I know these hopes are false, for I know you.

I had never wanted to know anyone like this before you appeared in my life. I was once told that I will regret this, regret falling in love with you, but they were wrong. I regret many things: leaving Vesuvia after our first meeting, hesitating to talk more, not confessing sooner. Having to leave so many things hidden and unsaid. But us? Loving you? No, I do not regret that, not a single second of it. Even as this life is cut short, in the next one I will cherish the beautiful moments we had together. I have seen many wondrous places, sought out incredible forgotten corners of the world, met creatures beyond our understanding; yet my most treasured memories are ones of you, my starlight.

I wish you to someday find the kind of peace and happiness you gifted me. And when it is time for us to meet each other again, you better have many new exiting stories to tell.

I love you.

Alastor

[anon-e-miss]

Instransigence 9

There had been no movement on any of Mirage’s cameras, and Jazz could not decide if this was a positive or a negative. Perhaps it was a mix of both. Barricade would not be talking for a long time, if ever. In the mean time Jazz had questions he wanted answered. Nightstalker was dead, and the mnemosurgeons had not found much. The rusting processor of a dead mechanism was not a treasure trove that could be simply picked clean. It was generally only the last moments of a life that could be pulled out. All they had pulled out of Nightstalker was the thrill of the chase, and some deeply dark desires. There was no doubt in Jazz’s processor that Prowl’s attackers, at least that one, had intended on raping him before they killed him. He thought better of sharing that bit of information with Smokescreen.

He did not caution Smokescreen to watch his speed as they drove to the base in the early joors of the light-cycle. Jazz kept pace with his rookie, driving just a few kilometres over the speed limit. They did not come across any enforcers looking to fill their quota of tickets. Their number were probably in chaos. The Autobot Security Force had descended upon the Enforcer Command and were digging through every workstation and every vault in search of any evidence of a Decepticon infiltration. Ironhide would give his report to Prime and Prime would forward it to Jazz, and Jazz would pick it clean. That was not the only thing Jazz wanted to pick clean. He was certain there was something stashed in Prowl’s memory banks that could be of use. Likely many somethings, but with a recall like Prowl’s the small things and the subtle things could be easily... not so much forgotten as overlooked.

That would probably have to wait until Prowl was off the blockers. Jazz had an almost fond memory of Smokescreen. The dislocation had been an accident, just one of those things that happened during basic training. Though they had only been halfway through the second quartex of basic training, Jazz had already mentally tapped Smokescreen for Spec Ops during his observations. He had been there when an overly excited Tagonian had knocked a minibot recruit off the platform. Smokescreen had performed a wicked dive to catch him before he toppled off the edge. Jazz had been impressed by his moves. He had been less impressed by the Tagonian who had knocked Smokescreen and Volks both over the side as Smokescreen had been pulling the minibot up. One thing was for certain, that mech was not going near one of Jazz’s operations with a ten metre pole.

The dive had confirmed for Jazz that he had wanted Smokescreen for Spec Ops, and he had gone to see  Smokescreen in the medbay only to find the young mech out of his Primus damned mind. Had his medic been any but Ratchet, Jazz would have been reasonable to accuse them of overdosing the Praxian, but it had been Ratchet had he had explained that Smokescreen systems were sensitive to blockers. More sensitive that Ratchet had expected, though Smokescreen had warned him. Jazz had stuck around with the young mech until he had been called away by Hound. By the time he had gotten back, Smokescreen had been picked up by the friend he had commed when he had been dosed out of his helm. Someone designated Ore... Not Ore, Jazz realized now. Origin. Prowl.

Smokescreen had not returned to training until his doorwing had fully healed, a full quartex. Though he had returned to the parade grounds with his unit he had only stayed long enough for Jazz to come and fetch him. When Jazz had taken him back to his office, he had realized quickly that Smokescreen had assumed he was in trouble. Completely by accident Jazz had discovered the identity of the base’s betting ring’s founder. In just one quartex it had taken off. New recruits and seasoned soldiers all enjoyed the underground pool, and recognizing the value of a little distraction, Jazz had left it be. With that discovery and with a look and Smokescreen’s grades, Jazz had adopted Smokescreen as his personal project, rather than shunting him off to one of his seasoned agents. The Praxian was a special talent. He would serve Spec Ops well with a little time and training, and Jazz would be sure he got both.

“He’s groggy,” Ratchet declared when the pair arrived and found the medic waiting. “And grumpy. He woke up in the dark-cycle with some pain so I gave him another small dose. You don’t burn through them as fast, Mechling.”

“No,�� Smokescreen replied. “They hit Origin hard but he burns through them fast. They hit me hard too but then they keep me on my aft for mega-cycles. Can I sit with him?”

“Sure, Smokescreen. I’ll give you a few breams before I come in to do another exam.”

“Shouldn’t you recharge?” Smokescreen asked. The tone suggested to Jazz that this was a question Smokescreen had asked before, though not of this mech.

“You just fuss over your Origin,” Ratchet replied. “Go be a pain in his neck.”

Jazz chuckled as Smokescreen scampered off to Prowl’s room. Ratchet had not requested to see the energon he had brought. Maybe Ratchet did not actually care, but Jazz doubted it. Smokescreen had merely distracted him with that sassy observation. From the cant of his doorwings, the young mech was plenty pleased with himself. He definitely had the makings of an operative, though Jazz had somewhat more complex plans in mind for Smokescreen. His rookie was studying psychology at the Academy of Science and Tech here in Iacon. When he had finished his degree he would have a whole different perspective to their operations, to their enemies. He had a two more vorns yet of studying to go before he finished his Bachelor’s. Smokescreen had suggested he was interested in getting his Masters, even a  Doctorate, if he could get the scholarships. There would be no need of that, not of the degree but of the scholarship. Jazz had tapped Optimus for a little bump to his department. Though he did not know it yet, Smokescreen’s education was now covered. Jazz had no doubt this expense would pay the Autobots rich dividends in the end.

“Ya didn’t comm Smokey,” Jazz said as he lingered with Ratchet as the medic polished a wrench.

“There was nothing to comm about,” Ratchet replied. “When I checked in on him he was online. He refused a blocker and I left him to stew. When I came back a joor later he took the blocker.”

“Don’t suppose he mentioned what he was stewin’ on?”

“No. I’m hoping he’s considering what I said about that mnemosurgeon. You’re probably hoping he was stewing on your investigation.”

“I’d take either,” Jazz replied. “Apart from the wiring, what’d that fragger hit?”

“Memory banks, the slash and smash has long healed,” Ratchet replied. “I don’t know what they were trying to accomplish. The base of the helm isn’t a conventional route for that surgery.”

“Wasn’t a surgery,” Jazz said. Ratchet stiffened and he slowly set the wrench down. There was fury in his optics.

“What did the mechling tell you?”

“His origin came home and claimed to be overcharged. He was stumblin’. Smokey mighta gone to his berth believin’ it but he saw the energon drippin’ down Prowl’s neck.”

“It would have been a sight,” Ratchet hissed. “He should have gone to the medicentre. He was stumbling because that wiring relates to his motor relays. If his self repair systems hadn’t grounded the wires, if they’d shorted, it would have been catastrophic.”

“Fatal?”

“Probably.”

“Don’t suppose ya told ‘m that.”

“We had a talk. I’d have had better luck trying to reason with a rock.”

“Smokey said Prowl told’m neither o’em behaved well that dark-cycle.”

“What do you think he meant by that?”

“Don’t know. Date gone wrong. Coulda been anythin’.”

“A date?”

“I told ya it wasn’t surgery.”

“Frag.”

“Yeah.”

“It’s worse, you know,” Ratchet said as he lifted his abandoned wrench back off the counter and set to polishing it again. “There’s no arguing the fragger had the best of intentions. It couldn’t be anything but straight up rape.”

“He told Smokey neither o’ them behaved well.”

“At least on some level he blames himself for it. The fact that he’s an enforcer...”

“Probably figures he shoulda been able to stop it,” Jazz guessed what Ratchet was thinking. He remembered what Smokescreen had said. Worrying what else the fragger had done to his origin. Smokescreen was still worrying. “Probably felt too embarrassed to sit down wit another enforcer to file a complaint.”

“Could it have been another enforcer?” Ratchet wondered out loud.

“That would fit. Smokey didn’t know the fragger’s designation. Don’t sound like he ever got serious wit anyone after his ‘genitor.”

“It’s been three vorns. He’s had three vorns to convince himself he had some part to play in what happened to him. Three vorns for it to fester. I doubt he’s going to give us a designation.”

“Yeah. Unfortunately, ‘m thinkin’ the same thing.”

[thoseofgreatambition]

Dear George || Gred and Feorge

pt 1 || pt 2 

description: Though he didn’t like to speak of it, George struggled after the war. He’d let himself lose step of things in the comfort of soft bodies and the hope of forever. Sleep escaped him. Worry consumed him. A spark of hope came from the cunning Gwendolyn. George tries hard to squash any thoughts down, to escape the cycle of mistakes. 

a/n: I am so shocked y’all liked the last chapter! I hope y’all keep liking it. I’ve been hoping to convey my intention through this fanfic well, and I hope my messages about different types of health start to come through. 

warnings: anxiety

Pairing: George x OC

Wordcount: 1.6K

“Hey Gred!” Fred was smiling brightly at his brother as George came through the fireplace. Fred was standing in their kitchen in front of a series of potions that he was going through dose by dose. His cane sat atop the counter next to a pile of product prototype sketches.

The elder of the twins hadn’t had too much to drink, seeing as it had been so long since he’d been able to, but it was just enough to keep him quite happy. He forced another potion down his throat, wincing at the taste. He’d complain about how many he had to take, but he was simply happy that the number was going down. “Where’d you go off to with Gwen?” If it had been a few months earlier, Fred would be quite confident with the answer to that question, but now he wasn’t quite sure.  

They hadn’t really talked about George’s behavior after the war, but Fred was happy his brother seemed back to himself. George, for a short while after the war, had thrust himself into a series of ill advised relationships. The girls had all been a tad off their rocker but then again, George had been the same. Fred knew his brother was seeking companionship instead of actually dealing with the after effects of the war.

Really, Fred was much less worried about him nowadays, though the fact George couldn’t sleep was cause for concern.

He was curious about what had happened with Gwen though. He hadn’t seen her since before the battle, and tonight he hadn’t really gotten to talk with her. Hopefully she’d start coming back to London more often.

George raised the bottle of potion and the satchel of tea he’d been given as he walked towards the kitchen. “I told her that I can’t sleep and she helped me out.” There was a bit of hope in his chest that had gone away several months before when his other routes of relief had petered out. He’d sat with Gwen during potions. He knew she was good at this, and had faith in her.

He frowned as he noticed Fred all ready for bed and already working on his medicines. George wouldn’t say he coddled his twin, but after the war he’d been the largest caretaker in Fred’s life. More so than anyone else in the family. “You need any help there mate?”

With a shake of his head, Fred downed the rest of his potions. “Nah, I’ve got it.” He gave George a smile, quite certain as to what his partner was thinking. “You can take a break now.” As much as he appreciated all the help George had given him, it was nice to be a bit more independent now, and Fred wanted to start taking more care of himself.

Unsure of what to do with himself, without the task of taking care of his brother, George nodded and took the potion Gwen had given him. “I’m going to try and sleep.” Fixing the tea was next on his list, and he was hopeful that this might work. He situated himself next to Fred in the kitchen, leaning against a counter across from the stove as he flicked his wand to start the tea.

“Let’s try and work more on the Concentrating Candies tomorrow. I’m pretty confident we can get the recipe right with a little more tweaking.” Maybe they could get Ron or Lee to help out. Testing the candies on themselves time after time wasn’t always much fun. “We ought to get more test subjects this time, it’ll help out our sample size.”

Last time they’d made the candies too strong, and had spent the day hyperfocused on the shop. At least everything had gotten cleaned, George mused.

Fred nodded as he chugged the contents of a water glass. After taking those potions for so long you’d think he’d be used to the taste, but that wasn’t the case. He tried not to shudder as he focused on what George was saying. “That’s a good idea.” He knew what test subjects George was thinking of. “Let’s ask Ron. I think Lee’s busy tomorrow.”

Ron was more likely. He’d been quite helpful after the battle. When the twins had returned to their shop, it had been ransacked. Their inventory was all over the floor, shelves were broken, and there was enough soot to suggest that several small fires had taken place somehow. Fred had reckoned there’d been some misplaced spells when they’d left. The twins and Ron had been able to fix up the shop itself, and it looked almost as good as new. The problem they had now was replacing lost inventory. It was like starting from square one.

“I’ll pop over to his place in the morning and ask him to come over and help.” George stretched as he moved away from the counter. He was in a strange grey area at the moment, where his body felt tired from a long day, but his mind was far too awake to let him rest. “G’night Forge. Call for me if you need anything.” He clapped Fred on the back before walking out of their small kitchen, down the hallway and into his room.

Part of him was tempted to just head to bed and hope for the best. He took a sip of his tea, and decided against the idea. It hadn’t really worked for him in the past, and after all he’d promised Gwen a letter written tonight. With a flick of his wand he moved all of the clutter off of his desk, and sat down with a piece of parchment.

Gwendolyn, Gwen, Dear Gwen,

It’s about 1 a.m. I just took the potion that you gave me tonight, or yesterday, depending on how technical you want to get, and I’m drinking the tea. I hope you know that the potion tastes like piss. The tea is quite nice though, seems like something Mum would like. If everything works I won’t complain, and I’ll be sure to visit and pay you back somehow. If this works we aren’t even anymore, I’ll definitely owe you. Start thinking about what you want, alright?

Turns out I didn’t need to rush home back to Fred, he was quite alright without me, got all ready by himself. I shouldn’t be so surprised. He’s gotten loads better. It’s been almost a year since the battle after all.

George frowned and re-read what he had written. It was quite a frank telling of what was going on, but at the moment he was just tipsy enough to not really care if he was getting too personal.

It was weird. I haven’t minded taking care of him in the least, I know he’d do the same for me in a second, but it was almost disappointing that I couldn’t help this time. I’m happy, I’m very happy, but I don’t know quite what to do with myself at the moment. Have you got a potion for mixed feelings? I’d like to buy that one.

You wanted a joke didn’t you? One that isn’t an ear pun?

My friends say I say too many skeleton jokes. I suppose I ought to put more backbone in them.

Still a pun, but you ought to like it. I can’t exactly turn a phrase in a letter after all.

Fred and I are going to be working on our Concentrating Candies tomorrow. Those school aides I told you about. It’s a tricky recipe so far. First batch made us more distracted. Second batch made us sick. Third made us too focused. We did get quite a lot done on that last one though, so at least it was closer. We’re hoping to just get something done that will help students focus enough to not get easily distracted during a test or while studying, but it’s easy to get to too much or too little.

We’ll be doing the next batch tomorrow. I’m going to see if Ron or Lee can help us, it’s a bit better indicator if something works if more people can test it.

It’s actually really nice talking to you again, even if it’s just been tonight and through letters.

You ought to come by London more. Your old friends miss you here.

Don’t you want to open a shop up in Diagon Alley? There’s a lot of empty places now, that are going for pretty cheap. You ought to look into it. We could be neighbors. That would be nice. We don’t know a lot of people who live here. Fred and I are the youngest ones here.

I hope your Dad didn’t mind me popping over. From what you told me though he was probably happy to get another customer.

If this potion works I’ll be buying them from now on. It’s only fair.

George finished off the last of his tea, and felt himself growing more and more drowsy as time passed. Still, he wanted to finish the letter before he went to bed. He’d promised after all. 
 A lot of us that used to be on the Quidditch team, or at least on the Gryffindor one, are talking about doing a small game together. I’ll let you know when it’ll be. I expect you to come to it and play with us.

No more hiding away in Wales.

I was actually really happy when Fred suggested we do a reunion tonight. It was all slapped together, but it was really nice to see him well enough to go out and excited to see all his old friends together. I think it’s been hard seeing people visit him just because he’s been unwell.

I’m glad you came, it was fun talking to you.

I’m actually getting pretty beat now, so I guess you were right, relaxing before bed works pretty well. I think your potion is helping too.

I’ve got to go to bed now, so I’ll send this with an owl to you. I expect a response as soon as you can. I’m not letting you go so long without talking to anyone again.

From George From Gred Sincerely George George

George did a quick read over of what he had written before shrugging. It was a pretty personal one, but he trusted Gwen enough with all of this, and he was too tired to rewrite the damn thing.

Quick as he could, he folded the letter into an envelope, sealed it with a bit of wax, and handed it to the owl he and Fred shared. “Take this to Gwen, alright Peeves?” There was a muffled hoot in response, before the barn owl took off out of the window.

The redhead stretched and let out a yawn. He could already feel the fact that he was going to sleep quite well tonight. That was certainly going to be a pleasant change of pace.

Climbing into bed, George expected to be hit by the typical wave of concerns and busy thoughts that kept him awake all too often. Tonight though, he felt much more at ease. It wasn’t as if he thought Gwen was wrong when she said writing a letter would help, but he hadn’t exactly thought that writing down his thoughts would have such a big impact. Turning over onto his side, he shrugged the blankets on top of himself and closed his eyes.

For the first time in a very long while, George Weasley slept well.

taglist: @harrysweasleys @geeksareunique @insearchofnewdreams @notstandingstill-imlyinginwait @lumos-barnes @thatfuckingliardavidtennant @slytherinqween @xinyourdreamsx @skiving-snackboxess @wildfire-whizbangs @dwarfwizard-from-panem @diary-of-an-onliner @answer-the-sirens @woakiees @black-widow-fangirl @theheirofnightandday @summerstardust @whysoseriouspadfoot @chocok22 @myhopesareanchoredinyou @siriusblackisme @illusivedaydreamer @zeeneee @writingwitchly @wolfpotter12 @obsessedwithrandomthings @carolinesbookworld @shadowsinger11 @pit-and-the-pen @summer-writes @peachesandpinks @ickle-ronniekins @gweaslvy @alpinewinchester

[litwitlady]

When You Go, Take Me With You

On a warm July morning, Thomas Mann – not his real name, mind you – finds himself hauling ass down 285, praying that the airstream doesn’t come unhitched. Tommy has spent the last 11 months in Santa Fe grifting seniors in assisted living facilities out of their hard-earned nest eggs. But someone’s greedy little grandson finally noticed his grandmother’s savings dwindling away and called the authorities. He’s been riding hard all night and can’t remember the last time he ate. But he’s got a rap sheet three pages long and knows if he gets caught, he’ll never see the light of day again.

Eventually, his stomach wears him down, though, and he stops in Roswell at a kitschy little diner he hopes he can disappear into long enough to satisfy his basic needs. Halfway through his cheese fries, three sheriff’s deputies walk in and as they are chatting with the waitress at the counter, Tommy sneaks out and takes the scenic route back towards his pickup. He can’t really say he’s much surprised to find the actual Sheriff knocking on the airstream’s door. Knowing he’s lost this battle, he decides to cut his losses and run. The old Ford pickup is eventually auctioned off, but the airstream ends up in the impound lot collecting dust for the next year.

And then one day Michael Guerin accidentally illegally parks his truck on the Long farm where he promptly passes out drunk across the bench seat. Daddy Long calls the Sheriff and Michael’s arrested. Again. Max bails him out and drives him over to the Chavez County impound lot to collect his truck. And that’s where Michael Guerin falls in love for the second time in his life. The shiny, silver airstream gleams in the morning sunlight and he’s never seen anything more beautiful. Not in a long while, anyway. He convinces Max to bargain with the county in order to buy the airstream for him. Michael knows they will laugh him out of the precinct, but Max is one of their own. He parts ways with every single penny he’s ever made, but he’s rewarded with the first permanent roof he’s ever had.

Not that Michael expects the trailer to be a permanent thing. After all, no home has ever been forever. Most haven’t lasted longer than a year or so. Besides his truck, of course. The mere idea that the airstream is mobile proves the impermanence of the situation. He can flit from place to ungodly place without settling down with any actual intent. There’s beauty in the nomadic nature of it all. Mostly, he doesn’t have to worry about being rained on any longer or crashing on Isobel’s sofa or cuddling up with Sanders’ dog. So, he’s happy. Content. Proud, even.

The trailer is cramped. The engine is shit. And the toilet is literally two feet from where he lays his head at night. How he convinces any of his hookups to climb into that tiny bed with him is anyone’s guess. There’s been more than one conquest sent home with multiple bruises. Once he burns a piece of toast so badly that he can’t sleep inside for a week. There’s no storage, the floor is lopsided, and Isobel refuses to step inside for two whole years. But hey, nothing’s perfect.

After a year together, Michael and the airstream find a balance that works for them. He covers the windows with old newspaper, adapts to being very, very tidy, and sleeps outside when the claustrophobia sets in. He even fashions a front patio out of some old oak pallets he finds in the junkyard. In return, the trailer gives him privacy, a sense of autonomy, and a place to bring Alex Manes when he returns from his first tour overseas. And every tour after that.

Not that he was looking to bring Alex back to his place, of course. He hadn’t even known Alex was back. And then suddenly, there he is. Laughing with Arturo in the Crashdown. Michael hardly recognizes him with the regulation haircut and newly lean body. He tells himself to walk away, but the universe has other ideas. Alex spots him and his whole face lights up. No one has ever looked at Michael like that and he’s lost all over again.

Over the next decade, the airstream begins to collect memories. Isobel blowing the door open and taking her first steps inside to shout at him that she’s engaged. Max showing up at 3 am like clockwork every year on Liz Ortecho’s birthday because he’s smashed and doesn’t want to hear Iz’s lectures. The Sheriff’s random visits for one reason or another; he suspects she’s spying on him. The brief time he lets an old, senior dog share his space. There’s still dog hair in the many nooks and crannies.

And then there’s Alex.

He’s everywhere - in every corner, every empty inch of space – filling up the entire trailer. Sprawled naked across the narrow bed, one long, gorgeous leg hanging off the side. Standing over the small stove laughing as Michael teaches him how to make the perfect omelet. Two old Air Force t-shirts stashed deep in his closet that Michael will swear up and down he doesn’t know exist. The silly little cartoon of a cowboy he’s scribbled on every single yellowed newspaper taped to the windows. And the one solitary heart drawn in permanent ink right above Michael’s pillow. He’ll never admit how many times he’s traced that doodle and prayed that Alex’s heart is still beating.

Not every memory is happy, however. He and Alex have always fought as hard as they’ve loved. How many times Alex has stormed out, slamming the door behind him. The sound echoing off the trailer’s tinny walls, door hinges growing whinier as the years go by. Tears shed in anger and in desperate sadness every time the Air Force calls him back to some violent conflict a world away. Damn near feral sex fucked out through those same tears. The sun rising over two beaten, broken hearts the next morning. Another goodbye. Another lonely year stretching out into the desert wasteland. And suddenly the airstream feels suffocating and enduring. Set in stone and unmovable as Alex walks away one more time.

In the in-between times, Michael nurses his bruised heart out on Foster’s Ranch, punishing his body with grueling manual labor. He settles the trailer into an anonymous patch of dust and scrub brush. He begins to collect various trailer accoutrement. First, a rusted, used patio set he grabs off someone’s teetering trash pile. Next, a ‘free parking’ sign he finds abandoned on the side of Route 60. On Alex’s next leave, he’ll mark out the ‘free’ and write ‘no’ in its place. Michael will try hard not to overthink the implication. Isobel says he’s nesting, jokes that he should hang up a cross-stitched ‘Home Sweet Home’. Michael begins to panic.

At the end of ten years, he gives up. The airstream is home. There’s no point in denying the most basic fact of his existence any longer. The impermanent is now permanent. He flicks off the tin bucket and then lovingly wipes away some mud caked on the tire well. Love/hate, defined.

He returns to the trailer after another stint in the drunk tank (a home away from home, if you will) to find a uniformed Alex Manes knocking on his door. He knows he shouldn’t be surprised to find him there – Isobel, after all, had been the one to organize his hero’s parade down Main Street. But it’s been two years with no contact – the longest they’ve ever gone – and so when Alex turns to meet his eyes, the breath is knocked right out of him. So begins another cycle of fight or flight. The airstream will play centerstage. He can almost hear the aging trailer sigh.

But this time the cycle ends differently. Michael moves the airstream into the Wild Pony’s parking lot, shocking everyone. Ostensibly to keep Maria DeLuca safe. But really just to be near her energy, her spirit, her laughter. He hopes to love her. He wants to be good for someone, goddammit. But deep down he’s worried he never will be. That he’s about as solid and steady as his home on wheels. Good enough for a little while, but never long enough to last. Always ready to roll off a cliff with the slightest push.  

He hates when he’s right.

Maria breaks up with him in a hospital room. The next night he meticulously searches the airstream for anything she might have left behind. A shoe, a bra, some lipstick. But there’s nothing and he feels like the trailer is out to get him, shoving those two old Air Force t-shirts in his face. The tiny, scribbled cowboys serenading him with derisive laughter. The black heart mocking him. And Michael can’t take it anymore. He slams the airstream’s door shut, nearly knocking it off its stupid creaky hinges and calls Isobel, all but demanding she meet him at the Pony. He needs a drink. Maybe several. And a shoulder to brood on. Perhaps he should call Max instead.

Michael doesn’t expect open mic night. He doesn’t expect Alex Manes and his dumb angel voice. He doesn’t expect to be confronted with the one answer he’s always wanted. But home is a tricky business. Especially for an alien stranded in the foster care system on the wrong planet. As Alex sings his song – asking Michael to come home – everything becomes crystal clear. And Michael tries to telepathically tell the airstream to go fuck itself. He’s pretty sure it doesn’t work.

Because here’s the thing. Home can be a person.

The answer has always been that easy and that impossible. And the airstream has always known. Watching all these years as the two of them danced around each other. The ultimate grift. The longest con job this side of the Milky Way. Michael Guerin has been played, marked, and left wanting. His genius brain duped and cheated. The airstream has never been more than a shit engine and lopsided floors.

After Michael leaves the Pony that night, he moves in with Isobel. And he goes to work. On himself – AA meetings, college classes, mending all his relationships with Max, with Maria. With Alex. And on the airstream – gutting the inside and converting the space into an admittedly revolutionary eco-friendly garden greenhouse.

Once the project is finished, he attaches the toe hitch to his Chevy and heads east until he pulls into the Chavez County Children’s Home. The director meets him outside and shakes his hand with tears in her eyes. Michael walks her and several of the children through the garden, excitedly explaining all the vegetables and flowers he’s planted. Isobel arrives to take pictures for the local paper and secretly shed several of her own tears. She watches Michael happily playing with all the kids and teaching them the wonders of composting. Soon, he gives her a kiss on the cheek and climbs back into his truck. He’s got one final stop to make.

As he drives through the center of Roswell, something swells in Michael’s chest. He knows this place so well – has been arrested on nearly every corner. The Crashdown has always welcomed him with a warm meal and silly antennae. New Roswell High – with all its memories, good and bad. The UFO Emporium – or what was the UFO Emporium – with its fake alien displays and empty corners perfect for kissing sweet emo boys with the biggest of hearts. Of all the places to crash land, Roswell hasn’t turned out so bad. It’s truly a stunning conclusion.

When he arrives at his destination, he pulls into the driveway next to Alex’s green Explorer, grabs his two duffel bags, and heads to the front door. He opens the lock with his key and shouts to Alex that he’s home.

[aceoftrashies]

Ohh boy, finally finished the list- and, fair warning, it’s a mess ahsvHSV (feeling super delirious from classes rn, so my apologies,,)

Also! The typical, pretty blatant ‼️ spoiler warning ‼️ for anybody who hasn’t finished Julian, Lucio, and Asra’s routs,,

Possible scenes w/Julian

-VI, A Gift and a Curse; The “hidden garden” paid scene. Could probably, slightly, cross into Laying Low as well?

-VIII, Master Of Disguise; the typical “hold back or you’ll give away your identity” kind of thing??

-IX, Lost and Found- I mean the player literally sneezes there, so I don’t think it’d be too far-fetched,, idk

-XI, Pursuit of Knowledge; mainly in the memory paid scene- the one showing Julian when he first contracted the plague? Maybe??

-Legit any scenes during the Masquerade, because,, yknow,,, the feathered masquerade outfit,,

-XVI, Head Over Heels; the spell paid option,, maybe the MC went a little overboard with the “cool things down” option- you can probably use your imagination from there 👀

-XVIII, Dream Within a Dream; the “snowball fight paid option- that one’s pretty easy to imagine tbh, especially with the “make a sparkling snowball” option where,, y’know,,, it literally explodes into a cloud glitter upon impact shsHSVS

-XXI, Towards Tomorrow; the final paid scene in the upright ending, when the MC throws a dustcloth at his face ahsvHSVHSV

-XXI, After The End; any time after Julian’s reversed ending, where he and the MC travel out to find their friends again,, because,,, idk, there’s a whole new magic-stricken world out there, and I just really like the way they left it open ended/hinted at the possibility that things could get better & continue from there and fUCK, MAN,, I could write an essay on how much I love both endings, don’t even get me started,,, /pos

Possible scenes w/Lucio

-VI, Beyond the Veil; when Lucio’s appearance is returned to normal, it describes the transformation as a sort of whirlwind, sweeping up all the ash around him- you probably get where I’m going with this ahsvHSVSHV,,

-VII to VIII, The White Forest, to Old Ghosts; I know this bastard grew up in the South and is canonically pretty immune to the cold, but shh let me obsess in peace

-X, Rescue and Reckoning; that scene where the MC saves him from the snow after he’s been trapped there for an unspecified amount of time? Yep, absolutely clinging to that concept and running with it ahsvHSV

-XII, Vicious Cycles; the second paid option. Mainly when he gets stuck in a bush ahsvHHSVS

-XIII, A Very Long Shadow; just about any time after he gets his body, namely with the baking paid option?

-XIV, Night To Remember; mainly the scene where you have to hide him from Vulgoria ahsbJSB,,, I,, am a sucker for scenes like that ngl,,, Same thing goes for a similar scene in XV, Out of the Frying Pan,,

-XIX, Weight of the World (GOD I LOVE THAT CHAPTER NAME AAA,, man,,,) during the “what future do you want?” paid scene,, or just anywhere in the second half of the chapter, since they’re in a massive flower field,,

-XXI, The Road Goes On (AAA THAT TITLE AS WELL,,, god most of Lucio’s chapter titles just resonate with me, as cheesy as they are); during the second to last paid option in his upright ending. (Mainly based on that headcannon/technically cannon that Lucio absolutely cannot handle spice ahsvHSV,,)

Possible scenes w/Asra

-VI, The Other Side; the paid option where the apprentice can explore the oasis with Asra?

-VIII, The Low Road; if you’ve played through this one, then it,, probably speaks for itself,,,

-VIII, Away from it All; the baking scene !! Because I,, have zero self-control,,,

-IX, Shelter from the Storm; this one is also pretty self-explanatory,,

-XIV, Visions and Illusions; I know this is supposed to be focused on Asra but damn it Julian you prick- Y’know that scene where Julian is riding up on one of the masquerade floats, and the MC has the choice to prank him? If you’ve seen that scene I’m sure you know where I’m going with this ahsvHSVS,,

-XV, Faustian Bargain; the “light the incense” paid option 👀

-XXI, The Great Divide; the aforementioned moth scene in the reversed end, but extended, ig? I dunno man, I’m out of ideas,,

The endings themselves leave room for some general sf-scenes too, but that requires a little extra brainstorming, and quite frankly, I’ve gone so far with this hyperfixation that I’ve burnt myself out ahsvJSV,, /lh

-♠️

That's a pretty cool list! I haven't done all of those, so I don't know everything you're talking about, but I'll look into them to find out!

And the 'Stay In Bed' option you showed me, except that one is legit,,

[jccham]

❝  my  friend’s  cousin’s  best  friend  used  to  work  as  one  of  his  maids  and  she  said  that  his  step-mom  used  to  pay  him  to  keep  her  affair  with  his  uncle  a  secret  ❞  JORDAN  CHAMBERS  ,  who  resembles  KEITH  POWERS  and  is  the  PRESIDENT  of  BETA  TAU  RHO  ,  is  TWENTY-TWO  years  old  and  responds  to  HE  /  HIM  .  𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘥  𝘣𝘺  𝘫𝘶𝘭𝘪𝘦  ;  𝘴𝘩𝘦  /  𝘩𝘦𝘳  .

what  up,  i’m  julie,  hailing  from  the  gmt-5  tz  &  i’ve  been  out  all  day  ,  so  i’ve  been  unfortunately  been  a  little  late  to  the  party  buuuut  i  am  here  now  &  i  am  so  excited  to  share  jordan  with  you  all  !  

BASICS  :   full  name  —  jordan  dominic  chambers  .  preferred  —  jordan  .  nickname  —  jd  .  titles  —  captain  and  power  forward  of  the  mens’  kingshill  basketball  team  &&  .  president  of  beta  tau  rho  .  dob  —  august  first  nineteen  ninety  eight  .  astrological  sign  —  leo  .  hometown  —  new  york  city  ,  new  york  .  current  residence  —  kingshill  ,  new  york  .   MAIN  BACKGROUND  :

the  nineties’  basketball  scene  was  dominated  by  the  six  time  nba  champion  chicago  bulls  and  one  of  the  greatest  men  to  ever  play  the  game,  jay  chambers,  led  the  charge.  jordan’s  father  couldn’t  go  anywhere  in  the  country  without  being  flocked  by  fans,  in  awe  of  the  six  nine  legend  in  the  making  .

unfortunately,  this  came  to  a  halting  stop  when  jay  suffered  a  career  ending  neck  injury  that  would  forever  change  his  life  .  coupled  with  an  unwanted  pregnancy  with  darling  socialite  carolina  blair  ,  within  a  year  ,  jay  went  from  basketball  hotshot  to  stiff  businessman  and  father  .  a  shotgun  wedding  meant  financial  stability  in  working  with  the  blairs’  insurance  company,  which  jay  needed  with  no  job  and  years  of  wasting  millions  on  partying  and  luxuries  with  an  expiry  date  .

neither  parent  really  wanted  jordan  and  it  showed  through  the  revolving  cycle  of  nannies  filling  their  roles  .  even  with  hours  on  hand  to  think  about  it  ,  jordan  would  not  be  able  to  share  one  heartfelt  anecdote  from  his  childhood  involving  either  of  them  .

new  york  city  will  always  be  jordan’s  home  ,  his  birth  place  ,  even  through  his  years  of  european  boarding  schools  and  californian  summer  camps  .

basketball  came  naturally  to  jordan  (  no  surprise  )  and  it  was  one  summer  after  returning  from  boarding  school  ,  where  he  had  learned  the  sport  ,  when  he  learned  who  his  father  was  .  he’d  been  bothering  his  father  all  day  to  come  out  of  his  office  to  show  off  his  new  skills  ,  when  he’d  been  barked  at  for  picking  up  a  basketball  at  all  .  

at  first  ,  the  last  thing  jordan  wanted  was  to  upset  anybody  ,  so  he  stayed  away  from  the  sport  at  first  .  however  ,  as  the  years  went  on  ,  his  resentment  towards  his  parents  and  especially  his  father  grew  ,  and  so  ,  continued  playing  basketball  out  of  spite  .  he  was  damn  good  at  it  .

his  mother  paid  for  his  basketball  camps  and  programs  ,  since  she  was  always  so  willing  to  throw  money  at  jordan  to  make  him  go  away  .  he  will  claim  to  this  day  that  he  found  himself  through  the  sport  ,  as  it  taught  him  the  abundant  rewards  of  diligence  and  how  to  be  a  leader.  basketball  made  a  man  out  of  him  ,  something  his  family  never  did  .  

she  left  jordan’s  father  when  he  was  fourteen  and  that  point  ,  he  didn’t  have  any  shits  left  to  give  .  they  barely  had  a  relationship  ,  which  was  honestly  better  than  the  hostility  that  jordan’s  father  showed  him  ,  but  it  wasn’t  enough  for  any  tears  to  be  shed  when  she  declared  she  didn’t  want  custody  .  meanwhile  ,  his  father  accumulated  enough  status  and  wealth  to  branch  off  from  his  ex  wife’s  company  and  form  his  own  .

this  meant  nothing  to  jordan  ,  though  ,  because  as  long  as  he  kept  getting  his  allowance  and  freedom  ,  there  wasn’t  a  change  to  begin  with  .  he  was  used  to  getting  paid  by  his  parents  for  the  little  things  ,  like  a  new  car  when  he  didn’t  bother  his  mother  for  an  entire  month  or  when  his  father  sent  him  on  a  “vacation”  to  the  maldives  with  his  friends  for  christmas  break  .  even  his  new  step  mom  gifted  him  exclusive  sneakers  when  he  put  in  a  good  word  for  her  to  some  tabloid  that  followed  jay  chambers’  new  marriage  .  however  ,  he  drew  the  line  when  his  parents  asked  him  to  attend  kingshill  .  

jordan  dreamed  of  making  it  as  a  professional  basketball  player  .  not  only  that  ,  but  he  was  en  route  to  it  ,  having  scouts  watch  him  since  the  beginning  of  high  school  .  he’d  played  at  the  national  level  and  won  gold  on  endless  occasions  ,  in  addition  to  mvp  trophies  and  other  accolades.  by  senior  year  ,  all  of  the  top  d1  schools  and  agents  came  knocking  on  his  door  .  

despite  his  parents’  divorce  ,  their  two  companies  continued  to  work  closely  together  and  saw  jordan  as  their  sole  heir  .  therefore  ,  they  needed  him  to  be  groomed  by  the  best  school  that  money  could  offer  and  they  saw  kingshill  as  the  perfect  and  only  match  .  

everyone  wonders  why  jordan  has  turned  his  back  on  the  draft  for  three  years  running  .  he  clearly  loves  the  game  of  basketball  and  is  one  of  the  most  hard  working  people  you’d  ever  meet  ,  a  born  star  on  the  court  .  instead  ,  he’s  a  senior  in  his  business  administration  major  and  despite  the  charming  smile  and  affinity  for  partying  ,  is  miserable  .

jordan  chambers  is  a  little  more  than  intimidating  ,  due  to  his  naturally  abrasive  attitude  ,  his  six  seven  stature  and  rumours  that  have  floated  around  his  name  since  freshman  year.  after  all  ,  it’s  safe  to  say  that  he’s  gone  a  little  bit  more  than  wild  since  first  stepping  foot  onto  campus  .  whether  it’s  lashing  out  at  his  parents  or  his  own  development  of  a  coping  mechanism  ,  beta  tau  rho’s  incredible  partying  legacy  has  lived  on  because  of  jordan  .  work  hard  ,  play  hard  ,  and  you’ve  officially  become  a  beta  tau  rho  brother.

PERSONALITY  :  

all  in  all  ,  jordan  is  a  little  bit  too  much  .  his  ego  is  a  little  too  big  ,  cares  more  than  he  should  ,  his  bad  habits  are  a  little  too  intense  ,  and  he  works  harder  than  anyone  else  .  

as  mentioned  before  ,  he  tends  to  be  intimidating  upon  first  impression  and  usually  rubs  people  the  wrong  way  .  he’s  learned  to  become  stoic  and  cold  over  the  years  when  dealing  with  other  people  of  the  same  wealth  ,  afraid  to  be  used  or  manipulated  by  showing  anything  that  could  be  used  against  him  .  

while  jordan  is  a  man  of  few  words,  he  is  quippy  and  sharp  when  he  does  speak  .  his  charm  is  subtle  and  dry  ,  a  blink-and-you’ll-miss  that  part  of  him  type  thing  .  

unsurprisingly  ,  jordan  keeps  a  small  circle  .  he  loves  beta  tau  rho  because  they  all  understand  the  value  of  hard  work  and  constantly  improving  yourself  ,  which  is  why  he  genuinely  cares  deeply  for  his  fraternity  brothers  and  would  probably  do  anything  for  them  ,  even  if  he  doesn’t  seem  like  the  type  .  he  will  always  help  his  friends  ,  no  questions  asked  ,  and  would  do  anything  in  his  power  to  do  so  .  since  he  has  been  mostly  independent  for  as  long  as  he  can  remember  ,  jordan  cherishes  moments  when  he  can  spend  time  with  people  that  he  cares  about  .

though  not  particularly  passionate  about  school  ,  jordan  is  ambitious  .  he  strives  for  greatness  in  everything  he  does  ,  no  matter  how  small  .  he  will  stop  at  nothing  to  achieve  his  goals  ,  sometimes  even  unknowingly  jeopardizing  his  relationships  in  the  process.  

obviously  ,  he  loves  partying  .  jordan  always  cared  about  his  body  and  health  because  of  basketball  ,  but  since  coming  to  kingshill  and  having  his  vision  of  making  it  in  the  nba  tarnished  ,  he’s  loosened  his  old  ‘  no  binge  drinking  ,  no  drugs  rule  ’  up  a  bit  .  he  may  or  may  not  blackout  every  weekend  .  he  may  or  may  not  smoke  a  little  too  much  weed  .  some  things  simply  cannot  be  helped  . 

WANTED  CONNECTIONS  :

i  have  this  page  up  ,  but  i'm  always  down  to  brainstorm  !  especially  since  my  wc  page  is  hella  under  construction  whoops  but  yes  throw  your  ideas  at  me  omg  like  this  post  and  i'll  come  to  u!  

[qlistening]

Happy Pandemic-iversary

What’s up ladies. It’s around the pandemic-iversary and as you all know, I have appointed myself as head of commenting on shit that has happened during the pandemic and it’s time for a quarterly update. 

If I had to guess, each and every one of you has gone one of two routes since the beginning of last year.

Route 1: Realizing that everything inherently cool and fun would be cancelled and quickly deciding that some factor like your mental health or the quality of your college experience was more important than the social/public health consequences of partying during the pandemic. If you’re feeling attacked right now, worry not party girl. That is not my intention. I myself am a founding member of the “anything to feel something” club and a staunch believer that if you don’t take care of yourself, no one else will. 

Odds are that if you are in this group, you’re a wee bit entitled and/or your mental health is held together by a very thin thread. Taking away your regularly scheduled social interactions may have unboxed some demons that you would really like to tuck back in. I’m talking depression, anxiety, substance abuse, insecurity, issues with loneliness, etc.  You either used partying to slam the lid shut on that box, or like me, pulled out your demons, worked on them a little, and boxed them back up with more partying when you were over it. 

That’s growth baby! Nothing monumental, but you laid more groundwork for making it through your twenties than you would have otherwise AND you’re in a great position to reenter society when all this is over. Sure you were probably “on the wrong side of history”, but as long as you didn’t kill anyone, you will probably be able to live with yourself.

Route 2: The CDC said jump and you said “how high?”. These are my rule-following girly pops. My caring and empathetic girly pops. And of course, my girly pops who had inescapably valid reasons to avoid the rone at all costs. 

Your year has probably consisted of a mix of being infinitely proud of yourself for doing the right thing, infinitely frustrated with those who did not, and infinitely in denial about how much it sucked. You knew that the second you admitted to yourself that all of the whipped coffee, brisk walks, and zoom happy hours in the world were not going to be enough to keep you happy, you would fall into an inescapable cycle of depression that you had no hope of climbing out of in your isolated state. So you made up bullshit tasks to keep yourself occupied for an entire year.

You are a fucking hero for that, BUT your transition back into real life is not going to be easy. All of those little tasks that you invented have started to feel like legitimate priorities that you are having trouble distinguishing from your real responsibilities. You have to be prepared to let all of that deep cleaning and gourmet cooking go in exchange for going out to bars and showering more than twice a week. And just a tip from the pandemic party girl; socializing is not going to be fun and easy or any more stimulating than those made up tasks at first. But humans are social animals and you need to get in touch with whatever aspect of going out that you used to love so dearly. Whether that was making new friends, relentlessly pursuing some dick, showing off your cute outfits, sweaty dancing, or just getting fucked up, there was a reason you did this shit every weekend and you need to acknowledge it in order to connect with your former self.

Now that I have lumped you into these two different groups, it’s time to talk about the middle of the venn diagram: depression. Whether you hid from that shit at home or at He’s Not, odds are it caught up to you eventually. It was easy to predict that removing the majority of stimulation and fulfillment from life and throwing around the term “uncertain times” for a year would create a sub-pandemic of depressed ass bitches. 

I saw it coming from day one, but that only made it worse. Feeling your motivation and ability to find any means of generating serotonin slip away from you is a feeling I wouldn’t wish on anyone, yet have seen in almost everyone. I thought that seeing this shit coming would protect me from it and I was wrong. When it hit, I was consumed by the same sense of self loathing you feel when a boy fucks you over and you saw it coming, but didn’t have the strength to resist. 

Self loathing and emptiness are some raw fucking feelings and I hope to God that, at the very least, our shared experiences with these emotions has cultivated a broader sense of empathy in our cut-throat society. So far, that hunch has played out in the polls.

Empathy or no empathy, these feelings are still pervasive throughout the world and I’ll be damned if a single bitch with a marketing job was going to miss their chance to capitalize on this. With that, we have the birth of “wellness”. That world is honestly a trigger for me at this point because I, like many of you, was fooled into thinking it would be the antidote to depression. But what it really is is a well played scheme to sell things to people who are down bad and desperate to regain control over their health and well being. Believe me, I understand that this is a natural byproduct of capitalism, but there is something really insidious about an industry with marketing tactics that prey on people’s fear that something is wrong with them and offer them bullshit solutions to fix it.

Reading that back, I realize that is pretty much the textbook definition of marketing, but I’m standing by the fact that it is fucked up. Sorry if that offends anyone.

For all of you ladies who have been dropping bricks on supplements, jade rollers, and overpriced subscriptions to meditation apps, I am here to offer you a reality check. You do not need that shit. Don’t believe me? You don’t have to! Men are living proof that I am right. Most have never taken a vitamin, stretched, meditated, or eaten a vegetable besides corn and are literally fine.

If you want to partake in the wellness trend, fine, but don’t let that shit throw you into a state of body hyper-awareness where you manifest health problems just from worrying about them. Don’t reward the companies who did this to you with your money. And PLEASE do not pass up on the opportunity to do normal twenty-something fuck shit that would actually make you feel better for the sake of your made up health needs. 

Thanks for coming to my Ted Talk. There is plenty more to comment on, but I have to go outside and smoke my half cigarette before it starts to rain. See y’all next time I am bored enough to write one of these.