#does nobody fact check their rage

[laura1633]

Max has had a truly insane last 6 races, this doesn’t even cover everything (and I’m going off the top of my head here and not fact checking) but - 

Singapore:  Max is dragged into the stewards room for swearing in a press conference and the stewards lose their minds and hit him with community service. Fuelled by talent and spite he somehow manages to drag the car to P2 in a race where Red Bull were expected to be nowhere. He uses the opportunity to refuse to elaborate on answers in the press conference and ends up holding his own press conference outside the room like the absolute main character that he is. 

Austin: We get treated to an insane defensive masterclass from Max and a reminder of why he really is so difficult to beat.

Mexico:  The stewards try to drown him in penalties but he still manages to finish sixth and prevents his nearest championship challenger from winning. His driving causes the British media to almost implode with rage and Damon Hill manages to stop crying just long enough to compare him to Dick Dastardly.

Brazil: The race directors take it upon themselves to try and make the championship battle more interesting by risking drivers safety and waiting an eternity to bring out the safety car in the sprint and the red flag in qualifying. Luckily the British press are still crying so much over Mexico that they flood the track with their tears and Max storms to victory in a wet race. We get a nice little sassy ‘simply lovely’ to top it all off (Max never forgets). We also later get a nice bit of news that notorious Max Verstappen hater Damon Hill will be leaving sky sports (whether this had anything to do with the Dick Dastardly comparison we will never know!)

Las Vegas: There are rumours that Red Bull brought the wrong wing but it turns out that they just never had an appropriate wing to begin with (whether that is better or worse you can decide!). On the weekend where he can win the championship Max has to sit in the garage and watch his team start cutting into the rear wing of his car. Luckily it’s just the RB20 and he didn’t have to watch them try and massacre Rocky in front of his very eyes. He somehow manages to get the arts and crafts project across the line in fifth and wins a very deserving fourth championship. He does his media rounds with a drink in his hand and calls out Zak Brown live on sky for previously saying he couldn’t win without the fastest car (Like I said, Max never forgets)

Qatar: Max spends the sprint trying and failing to catch a Haas but then does ‘something’ in his drivers room and takes a very unexpected pole in qualifying. You would think the stewards are done with harassing him now that the championship is over but alas he finds himself in the room with them once more. George Russell (allegedly) throws a strop and (presumably) brings out his passport to ensure that Max is given a penalty for something nobody has ever been given a penalty for before. Once again Max turns his anger at the situation into something very productive and takes the place back almost immediately in the race and secures another victory. He then calls out George very publicly for being two faced (once again I need to remind you, Max never forgets!). 

So basically six races of being hit with penalties, driving an arts and crafts project held together with hope and dreams, being compared to one of the wacky racers and getting his revenge multiple times over. All whilst taking multiple victories and a championship. Not bad really. 

[b3ach-bunn7]

NO ONE NOTICED

You transferred to UA from halfway across the world. You’re missing home. You feel like shit and Bakugo helps.

COMPLETELY NON CANON like everyone is alive and happy and friends idgaf

Mostly based off of @/tokeniranianfriend's texposts on tik tok plzzzz go check her out!!

—————————————————————————

You are definitely missing movie night today.

The thing is, you feel selfish to complain about your whole situation. You could name probably hundreds of young heroes from your town alone who’d kill to be in your position. To be flown out on a scholarship to one of the most amazing hero schools in the world? It’s not only ungrateful, but it’s selfish. You’re selfish.

And it’s not like you don’t like UA and Japan. You love it here. The conscience stores that are open all night. The little drinks with the huge cubes of ice are your favourite, and everything is so much cheaper here. The teachers are some of the best you've come across in your life, the facilities available to you better than any other school you’d been to. And the people were so kind, so funny and welcoming, despite the fact you joined during their third year. 

Well, there was Bakugo. You wouldn’t call him too welcoming.

Mina promises you he’s much better now than he was in third year, that he’d calmed down once they’d gotten older. You can only imagine what he’d been like when they’d all been first years. You’d been cordially invited into what was known as the ‘Bakusquad’, and the only person you struggled to get through had been him. It had taken endless days of you bugging him and never leaving him be until you’d reached a stage where you think the two of you are friends. You still struggle to break through the grumpy demeanour that he seems to always hold on his face but you make some progress. He lets you watch him cook on his nights in the kitchen, legs dangling under the table as you commentate on his diligent chopping and stirring. He gave you his number one night, and despite the fact he tends to reply with emojis more than anything else, it was progress. Mina tells you he doesn’t just spar with anyone too, so you’ve taken that into account too.

You try not to think about the fact you have a tiny crush on him. It’s Bakugo. You don’t think he feels any emotion stronger than he does rage, so you ignore it. Bakugo isn’t the issue here.

You just miss home. You miss your bed. You miss your cats. You miss your mum.

The flights home are way too expensive, so you spend most of your holidays here, the dorms so noticeably quiet once everyone is home with their families. And you haven’t minded it too much, but it’s your birthday next week and it’s only just occurred to you it’s your first one without your family and friends. There's a weird pit in your stomach because you know your stupid family tradition of cake right at midnight, your favourite dinner being cooked won’t be happening. Your usual tradition of friends treating you to dinner, opening gifts at the table. None of that now.

You’re also on your period, which does not help.

All of this is why you quickly shoot Mina a message that you won’t be making it to movie night. Her reply is almost immediate.

Mina: WHAT

Mina: WHY NOT

You: I’m just feeling a little emo rn 😔

You: And my cramps are killing rn 

Mina: okay ml :(((

Mina: you wanna talk about it?

You: Nah, I’m okay

You: But thank you bae 🙈🙈

Mina: love youuuu

Mina: ill tell the others

You don’t bother responding. You feel slightly mean, but Mina knows you best and you know she won’t see it in any bad way. You burrow under your covers, snacks on one side of your and your laptop on the other. The latest episode of Love is Blind is playing, and you commentate to nobody but yourself at the people on your screen. You’re only five minutes in when you feel your phone buzz on the bed. You ignore it at first. But then it buzzes twice more and you huff, shoving the m&ms in your hand into your mouth and grabbing your phone.

Bakugo: Mina said you’re not coming

Bakugo: Why

Bakugo: ??

You: just not feeling it today

Bakugo: Why

You: idk bro I’m just not 😭

You: ill be there next week promise

Bakugo: Youre being weird

You: ???

You: I’m just so tired 😔

You: ik ur not gonna miss my annoying commentary let’s be real

Bakugo doesn’t respond. Again, nothing surprising. It’s not the first and definitely not the last time he’ll leave you on read. You unpause your show but it’s quickly interrupted by a knock at your door. A knock is putting it lightly. You think this person might be trying to break down your door. It takes you a minute to emerge from your cocoon you’ve built on your bed, pulling the hood on your hoodie up to cover your bed head. 

“Fucking hell, I’m coming.” You huff, quickly yanking the door open.

Your words are cut off at the sight of Bakugo standing at your door. You quickly curse the fact you didn’t try to make yourself look slightly more presentable. You think it makes your not so tiny crush even worse that Bakugo is genuinely quite beautiful. Shining red eyes, arms so muscular you know you’re able to see the lines of them through his clothes, long lashes you’re honestly jealous of. And he always has this sweet smell around him you can’t seem to get enough of, always so obvious when the two of you are sparring.

“I- What are you doing here? Isn’t everyone in Sero’s dorm tonight?” 

Bakugou eyes flit down to the hoodie you’re wearing then back up to your face. He’s got an unreadable expression on his face and you’re starting to get annoyed.

“That’s my hoodie.” 

It was his hoodie. One you’d stolen on a day that was too cold when all of your own were in the wash. You’d ignored Mina’s teasing at the fact he hadn’t said a word about it. Until now, apparently.

You huff. “Okay. Is that why you’re breaking down my door? Would you like it back?” You start pulling at the sleeves but he rolls his eyes, waving you off.

“No, no. Why aren’t you at Sero’s?” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed.

You guess it is weird. Once you’d been formally invited to attend, you hadn’t missed one of the movie nights Bakugo and his friends had. Once a week, at whoever’s dorm was cleanest and had a TV, everyone would crowd in on the floor and the bed to watch whatever dumb thing they’d picked that week. It wasn’t like you to miss it but it also wasn’t like Bakugo to show up at your room about it.

You tug the sleeves back on your arms. “I’m just- I told you. Not feeling it. I’m tired.”

He frowns. “Have you been crying?”

Your eyebrows furrow slightly. You swipe at your face. You had been a while ago and you’re surprised he even noticed. 

“No. Well. Not now. Whatever. Doesn’t matter. Are we done here?” 

Bakugo leans forward slightly and your cheeks flush. You try to shove him back but he doesn’t move as he peers past your shoulder. With a defeated sigh you let him, breathing in that smell that always follows him. You don’t watch as his eyes travel over the messy bed, the used tissues on the covers and the fact you’re clearly wearing the clothes you’ve slept in.

“Have you been in your room all day?” His eyes look back to meet yours and you turn away, slightly embarrassed at the tone in his voice and the close proximity. You push him back, shutting your door behind you.

“So what, it’s Saturday.”

“Doesn’t mean you should be sitting in bed all fucking day. Have you even eaten today?”

You fluster. “Yes.”

Bakugo narrows his eyes. His gaze is so focused on you. You kinda feel like you’re being scolded by a parent. 

“Proper food? Not those shitty snacks that you think you’re hiding under your bed?” He drawls, an eyebrow quirking up.

“They’re not shitty. It’s my stash. They don’t sell crunchie bars in Japan.”

“The fuck is a crunchie?” 

“Chocolate and honeycomb. It’s good. You want one?”

“The fuck? No.” Bakugo scoffs. He grabs your sleeve suddenly and starts dragging you down the hallway. 

You try to fight it at first, but who are you kidding? If Bakugo wants you to go somewhere you’re unfortunately going whether you like it or not. He’s not afraid to drag you there by your hoodie strings and the two of you know that. Mina said the fact he’s so rough with you is good, and it means he thinks you’re strong. You just think it means recovery girl sees you much more than she should. You shuffle down the corridors and let him drag you to the kitchen. 

“Wait, what are we doing here?” You ask, shivering at the cold hardwood floor on your bare feet.

Bakugo starts pulling out pots and pans. He silently takes off his slippers and pushes them over to you. “I’m making you some proper food. Not that unhealthy shit you’re always fucking eating.”

You frown, stepping into his shoes. “It’s not shit. It’s yummy.”

“It’s going to make you fat.” 

Your mouth gapes, and you shove his shoulder. “Don’t call me fat, you freak.”

“I didn’t call you fat, I said it’s going to make you fat. Especially if you sit in bed all day.” He grabs some veg from the fridge, swiftly dodging the second swipe you make at him.

You know behind Bakugo’s harsh words he means well. He won’t outright tell you that he’s worried about you, but the weird way he keeps glancing back at you tells you that he is. At least that’s what you hope. So you jump up onto your usual spot on the counter and watch him.

“And what is the great Chef Bakugo making tonight?”

“Curry.” His hands fly across the chopping board as he chops some onions.

“Yum. Can I help?”

“Fuck no.”

The same reaction to the same question you ask every time he’s in the kitchen. Bakugo works alone, you know this. You just like to annoy him whenever you can. 

And you’re perfectly content to just watch. The ripple of his muscles as his arm moves up and down over the chopping board. The way tufts of blonde hair fall in front of his face. The way he used his forearm to wipe the sweat off his forehead. 

“You’re being so quiet. It’s fucking weird.” He looks up at you from where he’s stirring something in a pot. 

You shrug. “Thought you’d like the silence, no?” You smile slightly, but the interrogative look on his face makes it fall flat.

“Not from you.” He turns to attend to the rice cooker that’s beeping to tell him it’s done. 

The meal finishes quicker than you’d think. You spend most of the time just watching, idly bringing up something random when the silences feel too long. Bakugo brings your plates into the living room. The dorms are surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night. The loudest of your class are all holed up in Sero's dorm right now, and as Bakugo drops onto the couch, you can’t help but notice the two of you are alone. He grabs the tv remote, immediately flicking through Netflix. 

You haven't sat down yet. This feels like something and you have no idea if you’re reading too much into this situation. Bakugo glances at you.

“What, I need to drag you here too? Sit.”

Truthfully, you’re too exhausted to care if it does mean something. You roll your eyes, sitting down on the couch next to him. “I’m not a dog.”

“Listened like one.”

You flick Bakugo’s head and he grunts. “Piss off and eat.”

The food smells amazing. You’re not surprised, everybody knows Bakugo is the best in your class. He just has to be good at everything. 

Just one spoon of the food is enough to have you almost moaning on the couch. “Fuck, it’s so good.” 

You speak through a mouthful, huffing smoke out your mouth. It’s too hot to eat, but you don’t care. Bakugo was right. You really hadn’t eaten all day, what with your cramps and the sadness that popped in your gut.

Bakugo smirks slightly. “Better than your crunchie bars?”

“Definitely. Though that’s a shout for dessert.”

He doesn’t dignify that with a response. He keeps clicking through the channels. Todoroki had kindly lent his fathers bank card to buy Disney+ and Netflix, and Bakugo is currently on the former. He scrolls right past your favourite movie, and you nudge his shoulder.

“Wait, put on Meet the Robinsons, please.” You nudge his shoulder more intensely and he scowls at you.

“Fuck off, no. You pick this every movie night, I’m sick of it.”

“It’s good. My comfort movie. Click.”

“No.”

“Please, Bakugo.” 

You look up at him in a way you hope is convincing enough. You think you see his eyes soften just slightly before he’s sighing, cursing you and Walt Disney under his breath. He does click play, and you cheer, bringing your bowl of curry to your lap.

You’re locked into the movie too much to see Bakugo stealing glances at you throughout the whole thing. He’s silent for all of ten minutes. Which is weird, because this is Bakugo, who is known for firing explosions at the back of Kaminari's head if he starts talking too loudly.

“If all it took for you to cheer up was this shitty movie, I’m sure Mina would’ve given up her night to choose.” 

He speaks quietly, enough that you almost don’t hear him. You don’t look at him, placing your bowl, now polished clean, back on the coffee table. You don’t say anything for a moment. Bakugo doesn’t push, and it’s that unusual tenderness he’s handling you with that makes you want to cry again. You can’t believe how pathetic you must look, that Bakugo of all people is being nice to you.

“I don’t know. I didn’t think I could handle talking to all of you guys without being all sad in the corner and ruining the fun.”

Bakugo doesn’t say anything for a moment. His eyes are still focused on the screen, and you watch as the lights dance across his face. “What happened?”

You look away from him. You breathe once. Twice. Blink a couple times to curb the tightness behind your eyes.

“I just.” You sigh shakily. “I just miss home.”

You laugh wetly, pulling the sleeves of your hoodie over your hands. You try and hide the tears that pool in your eyes but he could hear them even if he couldn’t see them.

“It’s so stupid. I just. My birthday’s coming up, and I can’t fly back home, so. I’m going to be here. And like, all that stupid stuff I used to do with my family i can’t and it just got me thinking of all the other stuff I miss. Like my bed. And my cat. And I’m also running out of crunchie bars.” 

You sigh, shaking your head. “And I feel so ungrateful. Selfish. Like, I should be happy to be here. It’s such a great opportunity, and-” 

“Don’t say that.” His words are sudden and do their job in shutting you up.

“You can be so stupid sometimes. Of course you’re going to fucking miss home. Who wouldn’t? Doesn’t make you selfish. Makes you fucking normal.” His eyes never leave the screen but you’re sure he can feel your eyes on him.

“You don’t think it makes me weak?” You mumble.

Bakugo’s eyes furrow. And then he does look at you, and it’s so intese that you want to look away. But you don’t, just fiddle with the drawstrings of his hoodie instead. Red eyes pour with emotion, and if you don’t like Bakugo for anything it’s this. He’s so passionate, about everything. About his hero work, about his feeling, even this. Even you.

“You’re not fucking weak. I’d like to see one of the idiots in our class do what you’re doing. Dunce face wouldn’t last a week.”

You snort at that, rubbing at your eyes.

“Just. Just don’t hole yourself up in your room like that. It’s stupid. If you have shit to talk about, talk about it.” 

You think he wants to say we’re here, that he’s here if you ever need him to be. But he doesn’t. Instead, he makes you food and lets you slobber all over his hoodie. He tuts as you wipe at your face with the sleeve, reaching forward to grab your wrist. His fingers are warm and so much bigger than yours that they wrap around it easily.

“Stop using my hoodie as a tissue, there’s a fucking box right there.”

“Leave me alone. I’m sad, you have to be nice to me.” You pout as he drops your hand. You immediately miss the warmth.

“Shut the fuck up. Watch your shitty movie.”

BONUS:

Mina: hey babyyyyyy

Mina: u feeling better??

Mina: Sero got oizza do u want me to being u a slice

Mina: it’s got stuffed crust🤤 ik u want a bite sooo bad

You: Stfu

You: She’s asleep

Mina: ??? 

Mina: tf r u sleep texting in third person?!?

You: Stop texting raccoon eyes ur gonna wake her up

Mina: BAKUGO???

Mina: r u in her dorm rn 😉

You: Stfu

Mina: use protection 😘

You: Kys 

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guys i kinda struggle to write for bakugo?? im always writing outgoing and energetic characters, and the fact hes so nonchalant and quiet is too hard for me... that and the fact he has never interacted with a women in canon?? hes an enigma

anyways... plzzzz give me asks i have no idea what or who to write for!

[vynxwave]

What are your thoughts on the fandom's reaction to the new Earthspark episodes? I feel like so far... it's weird how these episodes are so obviously just the next half of the last batch and there seems to be almost no acknowledgement of that at all? Feels surreal to me. I also think it's interesting how I was dreading people being furious that their headcanons weren't supported but instead while I'm not seeing the furious rage I expected (which is a relief!) it's almost like anything that doesn't line-up is just ignored? I also have seen some of what you expected which is the "This is so much better than the last batch!!!" stuff. Very little analysis so far too, I almost didn't even bother posting the thing I said about Twitch because I initially thought, "Well that's so obvious I'm sure everyone's said it already," only to check and see nobody had! -arceespinkgun

I've definitely seen the same. S3 is so connected to previous episodes it's really a shame people aren't talking about it!

As anticipated, people are still wishing EarthSpark was what they thought season 1 was and this hinders their ability to understand/enjoy this season.

Loootsss of people are angry at how Starscream was I'm seeing. How he is treated makes sense following S2E09 Witwicky because his plan was foiled but he himself hadn't been addressed.

I didn't anticipate him being trapped in Terratronus but it does make sense. His beating on Terratronus's eye reminds me of when he and the other seekers left Swindle and Soundwave behind the anti-energon field that had caught them without pause with Swindle shouting "Starscream! You can't leave us!" while beating on the field — and, most recently, the fact that his betrayal of the Decepticons essentially imprisoned them all again! Of course the Decepticons would leave him up there.

I love that Starscream even made himself a little crown in the tea party shot, making himself look like a king while holding the Cyber Slayer too. He is a far cry from how he was in S2E09 Witwicky when he felt empowered/victorious, and now he acts completely nonthreatening as if it'd help him. He tries to appeal to the Autobots, but because of his very own actions he has nothing actually substantial to offer them; he's hit rock bottom! Him being easily cowed made sense because he's cornered and powerless, unlike the other episodes where he had power/glory in sight, a viable plan, or power actually in his hand. And it is here that Starscream receives some poetic justice — Hashtag using the Cyber Slayer on him.

I've seen some misunderstanding of the Cyber Slayer's ability (not only just now, but since S2)? Mandroid in the S1 finale described it as "For a bot [Shockwave's] size energon depletion is dangerous, for [Terrans] it could be lethal." We see it used on Shockwave, Elita-1, and Optimus Prime in the S1 finale — but it does not kill them. Same with Wheeljack in S2. I was about to add "where did this misconception come from?" but then I reread its name, like ah, that's why.

The direction of the Decepticons is really cool, and it's a shame a lot of people don't like it. Given what Shockwave told Starscream in S2E09 Witwicky I anticipated the Decepticons would be working to get back to Cybertron, so how they were didn't surprise me at all because it's completely in line with how the Decepticons have been built up.

They've been hunted, experimented on, imprisoned, betrayed, and imprisoned again — of course they don't like Earth or want to stay; with Starscream's failure, they have no means of conquering Earth. Shockwave's plan is, of course, the most logical.

One thing I dislike is people's overuse of calling the Decepticons "evil" in lieu of just... not understanding the their motives. Like yes, they are, but people are acting like they have been reduced to black-and-white villains which is so weird. Like, Breakdown was going to offer Bumblebee a hand before Thrash intercepted and helped him up, Shockwave honors the deal he made when Breakdown loses, Shockware doesn't blast Megatron despite him refusing to join the Decepticons, and Starscream reaps what he sows. The Decepticons want to return home to escape the planet they've been imprisoned on, and of course they'll do that by whatever means they deem necessary.

Not too much discussion or analysis of the Quintessons so far, but I reckon that could just be from people not having finished the episodes yet. I can connect a lot about the Quintessons from this new batch to previous episodes, which I'll be posting about probably tomorrow.

I would've thought people would be way more vocal about S1's point about not knowing Cybertron's status being continued in S3 but I haven't really seen it mentioned xD. I thought Breakdown raised a very interesting point!: "You ever think Cybertron might be in trouble and need our help?"

[salternateunreality2]

Bodyguard Beefa AU again

Sephiroth is unhappy about Zack and Tifa. That is HIS little chocobo.

He gets to him after the burn incident, because Cloud catches an infection and has to go to the hospital due to his issues with geostigma.

Aerith forces Zack to go home and rest, and Tifa steps into the hallway to take a call. Sephiroth slips in through the window and this happens:

Cloud is hallucinating from the geostigma and thinks Sephiroth is part of the hallucinations, until he feels the hug, but by that point he's too scared to make a sound.

Fortunately, Tifa's spidey senses go off.

Tifa: Vin, I gotta go, something's off...*bursts into the room* OI! *Throws the 6'7" hulking crazyroth off her boy and gets between them, slamming the alarm in the process* HELP!

Sephiroth hears the footsteps running down the hall and spits blood at her before jumping back out the window. He is SO PISSED at her now.

Tifa slams it shut and locks it as Nurse Kunsel comes in.

Kunsel: Hey, what's going on? Is that blood? Whose blood? Mr. Strife, you ok?

Cloud can't hear him, he's just trembling and muttering about swans, clutching his own arms in a vice-like grip.

Tifa: Call security and the police, his stalker got in through the window somehow. That's whose blood it is. I think Cloud's ok, but let me check, he's still hallucinating and he knows me and hates hospitals.

Kunsel nods and gets to work.

Tifa: Cloud? Cloud, hon, he's gone. Tifa kicked him out, ok? Did he hurt you? Let Teefs see...there, let's relax this hand...good. Other hand...ok, I don't see any marks. What are you seeing and hearing?

Cloud: T-t-teef...s-swans, they're still here, they're all over, don't move, they'll hurt you, be careful, Tifa, be careful

Tifa: Ok, I'll be careful. Are you hurt?

Cloud shakes his head.

Tifa: That's great Cloud, you're doing great. Did he give you anything? Shots, drinks, food, lotion?

Cloud shakes his head again.

Cloud: N-no. Tifa left *whine*...

Tifa: I'm back, I'm right here, holding your hand.

Cloud: He came through the-the window, he came in and *closes his eyes and shudders* said...stuff...I thought he wasn't real, I'm sorry, I thought he was like the swans, I didn't know, he hugged me but I didn't know, I was scared, I thought, I thought...

Tifa: It makes sense Cloud, it's ok. I don't blame you. It's ok. I thought something felt off and came right back, you're safe now.

Cloud: I thought he wasn't real but he was, but then Shiva came in and threw him out. Are...are you Shiva?

Tifa: I'm Tifa, but probably Shiva too, in this case.

Cloud: Can I...hug?

Tifa: Of course, Cloud.

He timidly buries his burning head in her neck and cries, clutching her shirt at her sides.

Tifa: Can I hug you back?

Cloud: yes!

Tifa, careful not to replicate the way Sephiroth did it, hugs him close, murmuring reassurances.

Zack is miffed and worried in the morning when he finds out nobody woke him up, but he gets it and Cloud is safe in a different, more secure room. Tifa is also staying with him except for breaks where she swaps with someone else.

The incident did NOT help Cloud's health, at all. He has dark bags under his eyes and is even more twitchy today, and the hallucinations won't leave. His fever is still high and the geostigma is still raging under all the stress.

Seeing Zack DOES help, and he's finally able to get some sleep. Zack stores that little fact firmly in his mind to gloat over in private, once this is all sorted out. He lets a hint of it slip to Aerith and she teases him mercilessly.

Tifa and Aerith when they start getting more details from the boys about the stalker. They are taking no shit and kicking all the Sephi-ass they can.

Next

[terapsina]

Ask game for people who like to ramble about their obsessions. So.

SEND ME A FANDOM (+ number) AND I WILL TELL YOU...

...the moment in the story that I started shipping my OTP from this world.

...my three favorite characters and why I love them so much.

...which scene I would like to erase from the universe and why.

...why you should choose to check out the world of this story and choose three gifs that should underline my point.

...the scene from it that lives in my head rent free.

...which is my favorite platonic or familial relationship in this world.

...how likely I am to follow the writers and directors from this project to their other ones and why.

...a quote from it that means a lot to me.

...which characters I think should have interacted more in canon.

...how many fics I've read that are set in it (approximately and making exaggerated guesstimates).

...what I think of the central character(s).

...what attracted me into checking it out.

...which canon or popular fanon relationship I can't stand or feel 'meh' about and why.

...if I think the largest majority of fics I crave for it are fix-its, nobody-dies-everybody-lives, fluffy fics of my OTP, pining fics for my OTP, or plot heavy Gen stories?

...which character I would choose for the chopping block if I knew the writers wanted to kill someone.

...which character's death would (or did) make me rage-quit.

...the world-building aspect of the story I have the greatest admiration for.

...the perfect number of books/seasons/movies needed to tell this story properly.

...one behind-the-scenes trivia fact I've learned somewhere and my thoughts on it.

...exactly how little or how much headspace this fandom takes up in my brain at any given point.

SEND ME A SHIP (+ number) AND I WILL TELL YOU...

...about my absolute favorite of their scenes and why I love it so much.

...why I do or don't ship them.

...if there's a scene involving them that makes me uncomfortable.

...how many other characters in my opinion see the chemistry of this couple before the couple itself does.

...the three most perfect OTP tags that I can come up with for them.

...what kind of AU fics I'm obsessed with reading about them (or would be if I could find one).

...the scene that I like to point to as proof that they're perfect for each other.

...if I'm most interested in fics about them that focus on fluff, angst, humor, smut or actual plot?

...what my ideal endgame for them is.

...rate the level of stupid they reach in their pining.

...how quickly I started shipping them when I got into the fandom.

...about three of the scenes that make me have feelings and (if available) find the gifs that underline my points.

...if I can watch them in relationships with other characters without feeling gutted.

...which tropes I think describe them the best.

...how I wish their story would go/would have gone.

...three of my fic recs for this ship. And (in the event that I've written something for them) one of my fics involving them that I'm most proud of.

...three of my favorite fanvids for this ship. And (in the event that I've created something for them) one of my videos involving them that I'm most proud of.

...three of my favorite fanart or edits for this ship. And (in the event that I've created something for them) one of my art or edits involving them that I'm most proud of.

...if this is a ship that's likely to take up room in my heart for years and decades to come or if they're the summer romance that will probably fade into the past with a fond memory.

...how and when they should get/should have gotten together.

SEND ME A CHARACTER (+ number) AND I WILL TELL YOU...

...why I love them, like them or hate them.

...how I would have chosen to change their story from canon.

...if I have an OTP for them.

...if I have NOTP for them.

...if I feel like the writers mistreat them or if the story would be better if they were taken down a peg.

...the scene that I think shows just how awesome they really are.

...the scene that I think adds depth to their character or the relationship this character has with someone.

...a headcanon I have about this character.

...which of their relationships I would have cultivated more if it were up to me (both romantic and platonic).

...if I liked them immediately or if took a while before I warmed up to their character. Alternatively, if I disliked them immediately or if they lost my trust as their story progressed.

...how well I actually understand them. Do they feel like a very vivid character to me or are they kind of bland and hard to get invested in?

...how likely I am to seek out (or write) fanfiction for them.

...how I'd do it if they had to be written out of the story.

...what I think they want more than anything else.

...what I think their role in the story is versus what I think it should be.

...my very shallowest of opinions on this character.

...how well they'd do if they got dropped in a horror movie.

...whether or not I would personally trust them to be my friend.

...a song that describes how I feel about this character.

...my queer headcanon for them. Unless they're canonically queer, in which case whether or not I think they're good representation or kinda badly explored.

[adaptacy]

A Found Flame {Pt.5}

Pairing: Mentor!Gale Dekarios x Apprentice!GN!Reader

(Previous Chapter) – (Next Chapter) ➔ (AO3)

A/N: Happy thanksgiving y'all!!! full chapter is up on the ao3, splitting the tumblr portion into 2 parts as per usual. :)

Word Count: 2.3k

“I struggle to see the amusement in this.” The statement is harsh, nearly spat out as he paces the room. Having sent out his apprentice to retrieve groceries from the inner city, he and his familiar are able to talk freely about the new development in his plan. Of course, Tara seems more keen on bragging about it than truly discussing it, only adding to the mountain of stress resting on the wizard’s shoulders.

“Is it too brash to say ‘I told you so’?” She taunts, splayed over a velvet lounge chair in the room. “I knew all along, if you can believe it. You never were the sort to give up. No matter what task you’re faced with. ‘Twas merely a phase, just as I originally predicted.”

“Save me the boasting. Gods, this discussion is useless. There’s no point in arguing fate. I cannot act out of selfishness.” He takes a deep breath, collapsing back in the chair at his desk, the upper half of his hair messily pulled into a bun, though it does little to contain a few spare strands hanging in front of his face. The orb burns, feeding off of his emotions as they slowly build to a frustrated rage – one he has nobody but himself to blame for. His breathing is heavy, fighting to wade through the thick ocean of thoughts in his head, and his leg bouncing as he tries to come up with any possible way around this ‘problem’ of his. 

But he’s tried to come up with solutions before, and everything his mind produced was a dead end. He was a hopeless case, he’d come to accept that, and he’d stopped wishing to be more – he’d lived with the fact for so long, he’d truly forgotten what it felt like to have a reason to want otherwise. Gale’s eyes close, his head tilting back as he attempts to steady himself, both physically and mentally. Of course, he does so to no avail, and only finds himself more irritated, despising the familiarity of his helplessness. He grips the arm of the chair, leg still bouncing rapidly, and even such firm contact with physicality leads to nothing.

With a groan, he shoves himself back onto his feet, quite nearly stomping towards one of his many bookshelves, though this one contains more scrolls than leatherbacks. He grabs several, maybe eight, all crumpling in his hands as he hauls them over to his desk, shoving the misc trinkets there out of the way. Two books fall off of the desk, hitting the rug below with a thud, but he pays them no mind. 

Now faced with a pile of spells contained in rolls of paper, he begins to sort through them, tossing some behind him, making a larger mess of the floor. In his rush, a few of the scrolls develop small tears and rips in the paper, but he hardly feels he has the time to check on them. All of them, spells he knows. All of them, as useless as his own mortal hands. 

Eventually, he reaches the bottom of the pile, grumbling to himself at the inadequacy of the scriptures, even forming a fist and nearly slamming it on the desk, but he forces some composure before he acts too quickly. Knowing he has more that he can look through, he whips around, only to be met with the presence of a brown and orange creature, forcing a startled gasp out of him as he presses a hand to his chest, and his back against the desk. 

“Whatever are you looking for? You’ve surely gone mad! You ought to pick those up, sir, especially seeing as how this room was just straightened,” Tara demands, her wings waving as she hovers in the air, perfectly eye-level with the man she was scolding. 

“I don’t have the time to worry about keeping up appearances. I need to find a solution. Sooner, rather than later – as I expect waiting too long will give the weave ample opportunity to strike.” Gale shakes his head, leaning off of his desk and moving back over to the shelf of scrolls. Tara finds a landing spot amongst the scrolls, sitting firmly on top of the wooden surface as she spectates Gale’s anxious search. 

He gathers up the remaining scrolls, though both of the study’s current inhabitants both know that they won’t offer any solutions. This isn’t the first, third, or even fifth time he’s combed through them, desperate for a way to repair his damaged body. 

Unfortunately, this may be his last. 

“Slow down, dear. You’re only going to stress yourself out more,” Tara sighs, her words met with a displeased frown from Gale, who now stands before her, scrolls stacked upon his arms. 

“Move. Please.”

“Put them back. Sit down – take a breath, Mr. Dekarios.” As stubborn as ever, Tara lays down on his desk, her wings extending on either side of her, taking up as much room as tressym-ly possible. Gale’s expression hardens, equally as stubborn, and he steps closer, threatening to bury her underneath the papers. Tara shakes her head. “What would your mother think?” 

There’s a switch in his eyes, and Tara instantly knows that she’s won. With a sigh of defeat, he drops the scrolls to the floor and sits back down in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. The tressym relaxes, sitting up once more, unable to help but feel ashamed of the state the study now resides in. She hopes that they’re able to pick up the mess before his apprentice returns. 

Gale’s eyes close, and his thumb crosses over the creases under his left eye, touching faint purple lines that are nothing but visual – yet he swears he can feel them under his finger. Artificial Netherese arteries nestled comfortably alongside his real veins, as though they have any right to belong under his skin. 

Even with as handsome of a face as he knew he had, he wonders if they take away from the appeal. If they make him appear sickly – or perhaps cursed. Cursed, he is, but even a cursed man can be an attractive one. Maybe his priorities are amiss, to desire vanity when his survival is on the line, but maybe it’s the minor inconveniences that keep him sane. 

He’s lost, mentally, and it’s such a strange occurrence to simultaneously be so physically comfortable, surrounded by stark familiarity. His apprentice was right; he is still Gale Dekarios. A blighted, wrecked, mess of a man – but a man nonetheless. His face, however doctored by the weave, is still his own. It’s grounding in a way; knowing that no matter the perils, he is still the man, the prodigy, he always has been. 

And, just as well, he knows that Gale Dekarios has never been a quitter. Giving up is a shame that would be wrought upon his family, his goddess, himself – and now his apprentice. Once, had he not been everything he’d worked to become, to surrender to fate would be meaningless. Of course, if he wasn’t the prodigy he’d trained and studied to become, fate would never be such a dire threat. Tara has as much of a point as his apprentice; people will suffer from his actions. He’s doomed either way, really – abandoning his allegiant alongside his ancestors to chase an idealized suicide. 

He cringes at the thought; his own death is his best-case-scenario. Wherever did things go so terribly wrong? The entire situation is nothing short of convoluted, and while he’s never been the type to shy away from complex subjects in pursuit of higher understanding, he feels that there is no end goal, no reason, to keep fighting. To risk the lives of those around him just to engage in a wild goose chase of potential solutions is strikingly dangerous and quite impossibly, arrogantly selfish. 

Is turning his back on the ones he loves an even worse fate? 

Gale sits up, eyes wide with a sharp realization. At last, an idea; “I must seek Elminster. If anyone, he’d be the man capable of an answer. Since Mystra has so fervently refused me any assistance, I’ll pursue my next best chance. My only chance,” he informs his familiar, and she tilts her chin up, tail flicking proudly. 

“An ingenious plan, Mr. Dekarios. Make the most of these remaining days – secure yourself the promise of more dawns. Save me the trouble of informing your mother of your death. How sadistic you must’ve been to believe a letter would do the trick!” She scolds, though her tone is brimming with enthusiasm, pleased that he was able to come up with a resolution. Or, at the very least, a potential resolution. 

“Twelve days. Perhaps eleven – even ten, if I cut through the Far Hills. I’ll require artifacts to settle any cravings on the journey. And gold for the necessary rations.” Gale rises to his feet, making his way over to a long roll of paper. He grabs it, returns to his desk, pushing the remaining scrolls away, and lays out a map showcasing the mid-section of Faerûn. His finger follows a path towards Shadowdale – a long trek, but one that will be entirely worth its perils and time if it guarantees him a longer life. “I could secure a mount at Daggerford, then proceed to…” His index travels down, and he rests on a new location. “Boareskyr bridge.”

“Even with as powerful as you are, it would still be safest to remain on the trade way,” Tara advises, and Gale shrugs in a begrudging agreement. He continues to trace his planned path, traveling down to Scornubel, and then east to the Far Hills, directly towards Arabel, and eventually he stops his finger on Archwood in the Dalelands. 

“Four artifacts should be plenty to keep me – to keep it happy. And I’m quite sure Elminster will be willing to spare extras for my trip back. As gluttonous as he often is, I believe he’ll understand and aid the mission to quell my own appetite.” Assuring himself, he nods along with his own words, only turning his attention to his familiar once he’s burned the path into his mind. What he finds staring back at him is a gratified smirk – or at least the closest thing to a smirk that a muzzle can manage – as Tara tilts her chin up, giving him a nod. 

“I’m pleased to find that your intellect has not yet slipped away from you,” she praises, lifting a paw and running her tongue over the back of it, smoothing the brown hairs there. “I do believe Elminster would be quite honored to meet your apprentice.”

“Oh, no – the two of you will remain here.”

Tara continues to groom herself for a few seconds, and then she freezes, throwing her paws to the desk and standing up, her wings jutting out as she takes a defensive pose, paws stationed in a wide square, coming close to hissing. “How wrong I am! Have you lost all sense?” She cries out, dramatic and hurt. “Tell me you mean to fool me!” 

“Hush now, Tara, I’m being entirely rational. It isn’t too long of a journey, I should be darkening this doorstep before a third week comes to pass, you’ll barely even–”

“Preposterous! First, you dare threaten the loss of an acute mind such as your own, and now you gloat a newfound arrogance! To leave us behind is entirely for the birds – a madman, you must be. Whatever have you done with my darling wizard?” Tara lets out a mawkish yowl, her tail straightening, wings extending more thoroughly, flaunting feathers usually hidden in the folds. 

“Someone must look after the tower, no? I don’t wish to keep them from the opportunity to study, and by extension, you’ll need to remain here to keep them company. Mentor them in my place.” Gale reaches forward, fingers curled and ready to provide a reassuring scratch, but Tara ducks out of the way, hopping to the side with a certain kitten-like playfulness. The reaction draws a chuckle from Gale, having not seen such energy from her in many years. 

“A wise sage once said ‘books can only get one so far’. Lest you truly be an impostor, I do assume you recall your own words?” She huffs, taking an extra step as she puts another inch of distance between the two of them, wary of his plans. 

“Yes, I recall. There’s hardly much room for practice when confined to a saddle for a tenday or two. Anyhow, I reckon Elminster might just scare them off the path of magic dare I let them accompany me. A tragic tale, he spins – quite overbearing for such an elderly man. I’d much rather my trip be quick and concise,” Gale explains, his hands waving as he speaks, his animated mannerisms being just enough to reassure Tara that she was, indeed, speaking to the Dekarios she trusted. 

“You may as well turn this tower into a prison! Oh, how you bruise me. You mean to reduce them to an arrant worrywart, do you? Mr. Dekarios, you only just informed them that your body will soon waste away; the sole matter on their mind right now is your approaching demise. As well-meaning as you may very well be, I can only predict that they will fall quite short in any attempt to understand your intentions.” Tara finally relaxes, her feathered appendages closing in on her sides as she sits. Her whiskers twitch, and a soft, defeated sigh escapes her. “Come now, out with it – I can smell your scheming from miles away.” 

Gale nods, splitting a smile, proud of his ability to problem-solve so quickly. “Right, yes, I expected as much. Should every section of this journey go off without a hitch, the entire trip will take twenty-one days. More realistically – as I am nothing if not rational – it will be closer to twenty-four,” he explains, and Tara squints, finding his rambling completely unnecessary.

“I am plenty capable of mathematics, sir. Spare me the technicalities. I ask again, dear – What is your plan?”

[iwasthewind]

I actually thought quite a bit about a situation I ran into recently and didn't know what to do about it, so I'll put it here. I'll preface this with saying I was a bit rash and I should've thought about how to handle it further perhaps

So recently I was going through a character x reader tags (it could've had a stranger start, please bear with me) and I came across and okay-ish oneshot. I actually cannot emphasise how okay-ish it was because that's all there is to it. I finished reading it and then saw the note and tags- it was ai generated

This is where I turn immature (more than I already am) and I told the op I hoped they could be better than this in the comments, then blocked them

I didn't think about it much but later I got curious about whether they reacted, so I checked and they had. They'd deleted the comment and had made an addition to their pinned post and all their other oneshots which were also ai generated, saying they only used oneshots to comfort themselves and wanted to share the stories that brought them comfort because they couldn't find any that captured the feelings they wanted to see specifically

And it's just... What do you think of this? I don't think I'll engage with them further but in my opinion, if you can't find joy in the art someone else made because it didn't capture those feelings specifically, you could maybe request it. If that request wasn't fulfilled, maybe you could write it. Or you know what, fine, generate it with ai. But at the very least, keep it to yourself?

When you preface everything with an innocent 'oh it brings me comfort, please don't hate' it just feels... I can't articulate it. The words a code scraped together by feeding off of a story someone wrote with their own hands? Is it similarly comforting to post it? You say you don't want notes, you just want to share those stories... But anyone could generate them. How many more people do you think will see you do it and follow in your example? It's not even about that, it feels so icky. To say they don't deserve the hate because they're not hurting anybody... Maybe I'm a bit miffed but is it hate to expect you to not steal?

The more posts they make the more notes they get and it's so sad. It reminds me of the discourse about ai 'stories' on ao3... The fact is that they shouldn't exist. It's disgusting, and nobody ever posts them because "oh I just wanted to share." You're incapable of drawing it? Try anyway. You can't write it? Try anyway. Maybe it'll be trash and you'll laugh but you'll laugh because you'll be surrounded by little gifts you made on your own, for yourself, all because you loved something. Ai is disgusting. I'm just so torn. Should I dm them politely? Should I not engage at all? I feel such visceral rage when I think of ai slop permeating into fandom. When I think of something soulless permeate into a space we carved with our own hands, with no incentive, because we loved something and wanted to talk to people because we love the same something, to share stories and art and so much more for ourselves and a community we made just because we loved something

I don't think I'll say anything to op, except maybe offer an apology. It's just frustrating. I know they meant no harm because nobody does but I just... I'm frustrated because generating stories and art as a whole is inherently harmful no matter the intent. But I really don't know, I really don't

[bradshawsbaby]

Letters to My Love // Part VI

May Your Days Be Merry and Bright

Series Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x Female Reader

Summary: When you signed up to volunteer with the USO, you never anticipated that you would meet a man like Ensign Robert Floyd. Fate brings you together one balmy spring evening in Charleston—the night before Bob is set to ship off across the Atlantic. Pen and paper become your only means of sharing your heart with the naval aviator who’s captivated it, igniting a correspondence that spans the distance between you. Can love blossom even as war rages and thousands of miles keep you apart?

Word Count: 3.5k

Author’s Note: I apologize that it’s taken me so long to update! My schedule has been a bit hectic lately, and it’s been harder to find time to write, but Bob and Peach are always very close to my heart. I hope you enjoy this new chapter in their story!

Set the Mood: If you’re looking for some 1940s vibes, check out the playlist I made to pair with the story!

Since this part takes place around the holidays, the title for this chapter comes from the lyrics of the famous holiday classic, White Christmas.

Dedication: As always, this story is dedicated to my dear friend, @luminousnotmatter​. Clara, thank you, thank you, thank you for your support of this story!

Warnings: Alternating POV, talk of the holidays, homesickness, allusions to casualties of war, references to rationing, and a ton of fluff.

November 26, 1942

Dear Peach,

Happy Thanksgiving! Truth be told, if it weren’t for the fact that we were getting a small reprieve from all our duties today, I wouldn’t have even remembered that it was Thanksgiving. Nobody around here is in much of a holiday spirit, which I’m sure you can understand.

It seems so hard to believe that just last year, at this very same time, we were all gathered around our kitchen tables with our families and loved ones, thanking God for all our good fortunes, and especially for the fact that we hadn’t gotten ourselves dragged into “that mess in Europe.” Well, looking around right now, it looks as though we may have spoken a bit too soon on that front.

I hope me telling you this doesn’t make you sad, Peach, but I’m feeling real lonesome for home today. The homesickness kicks in from time to time, especially when I get a letter from my family or from you, but on a day like today—the first Thanksgiving I’ve ever spent away from home, if you can believe it—it’s kicking real hard. I didn’t have the heart to tell my folks and my brothers that in the last letter I sent them. I knew it would just make my mama heartsick, and I hate the thought of doing that to her. Not that I enjoy the thought of making you feel heartsick—I hope you know that’s not what I mean. I just—well, like I’ve said before, Peach, I just feel like I can tell you these things, things that feel too hard to tell anyone else. And I thank you for that. It means more to me than I could ever really express.

Thanksgiving has always been such a happy time for my family, and I hope that’s true for your family, too. My mama knows how to whip up quite a feast. I imagine the same is true for your mama, from what you’ve told me about her. And the house is always filled with grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins, some we only get to see a couple times a year. I’ll be sorry to miss them this year, but I’ve been hoping that maybe by next Thanksgiving, this war will be behind us and we’ll all get to be together again. Wouldn’t that be nice?

Now here’s a story that’ll make you laugh—or, at least, that I hope will make you laugh. I know I painted Paul and Natasha as the troublemakers in my last letter, but in this incident I have no choice but to claim total responsibility for any and all wrongdoing. I told you that my mama knows how to whip up a feast for Thanksgiving, and she does. But of all the fancy fixings that she makes, my favorite has always been her homemade pumpkin pie. My mouth is watering right now, just thinking about it. Well, when I was a little kid, I never could stand to wait around until dessert to get my hands on that pie. My mama was always shooing me out of the kitchen, insisting she’d send me to bed with no Thanksgiving dinner at all if I so much as breathed in the direction of that pie before I’d had my proper supper. Now I don’t want you to think that I’m a boy who disrespects his mama. I’ve always done my best to mind everything she tells me. But, Peach, if you could only taste this pie, you’d understand my juvenile dilemma. One year—I was eight—my mama stepped out of the kitchen for a minute to help my aunt with my new baby cousin. I’m ashamed to say it, but I saw my chance and I took it. I thought if I could just get one tiny little taste of that pie, I’d be satisfied until dinner was over. Mama was smart—she  left the pie up on a high shelf where she thought I wouldn’t be able to reach it—but I thought I was smarter. I pulled a chair right on up, determined to get my sticky little fingers on that pumpkin pie. Just as I was about to, I heard my mama coming back into the kitchen and I panicked. Turns out my balance on that chair wasn’t as good as I thought it was because the next thing I know, I’m crashing down to the floor and bringing that pie with me. Let me tell you, that pie makes a very delicious dessert, but not a very fun hat. My mama was so furious with me, she wouldn’t even let me change or get cleaned up—she made me wear that pumpkin pie all through dinner and then told me since I was wearing my dessert, I didn’t need any of the apple pie she’d made. Oh, it was a sad Thanksgiving indeed.

I haven’t thought about that story in a while, but it made me laugh now to tell it to you. As sad as I am about not being home for Thanksgiving today, at least I have memories like that to bring a smile to my face. Paul’s missing home, too, but he and I have been swapping stories all day to keep our minds off it. Tommy Boy and Benny have been sharing, too. At least we have each other, and I’m grateful for that. I guess there are still things to give thanks for, even when you’re in the middle of a war zone, huh?

Speaking of giving thanks, I know I’ve said it already, but I hope you know that you’re one of the people I’m most thankful for this year. I can’t tell you how much it meant to me when I received your last letter and read that you and Dottie had gone to light candles for Timmy and the other fellas we’d lost. To know that there was someone out there—someone who didn’t even know them—honoring their sacrifice and thinking of them—well, there just really aren’t words for that. Sadly, we’ve lost many more in the weeks since I last wrote to you. As always, your kind thoughts and prayers for us are always so deeply appreciated.

First pen pal, huh? Well that is a mighty big honor, and one I won’t take lightly at that. I’m not sure how wonderful a writer I am—I think I could accuse you of being the one looking through rose-colored glasses now—but I am glad to know that my letters make it feel like I’m right there with you, because that’s exactly what your letters do for me. I always feel so close to you when I read the sweet words you’ve penned. I think you’re the one who’s the terrific writer. I bet you were the star pupil when you were in school, weren’t you, Peach?

Though I hope no one in your household comes down with the flu again anytime soon, you really do have to let me know if any of you try the whiskey trick—I have to know if it’s only my family, or if it works for other people, too.

Never had a pen pal AND never been flying? Miss Peach, we simply have to correct that! Since you’ve already mentioned that I’m your very first pen pal, I would be doubly honored to also be the pilot who gets to take you for your first flight. Paris and Rome both sound like perfect destinations—wherever you want to go, I’ll take you. As for me, I think I’d be happy traveling anywhere, so long as it was with you.

Now as for that song, it looks like I’ll be counting down the days until I can hear that pretty voice singing “Someone to Watch Over Me.” Mr. Gershwin certainly did know what he was doing, and I wish he was still alive today so that I could shake his hand properly for the favor he did me in writing such a perfect song for our first dance. I very much hope that it won’t be our last, if you don’t mind me saying so.

Oh, don’t worry. The last thing any of us need around here is to give Tommy Boy and Benny bigger heads than they already have, so your secret is safe with me. Some of the rest of our squadron have joked that they don’t know how the two of them get around the carrier with the fat heads they’re both carrying on their shoulders. But it’s all in good fun. The truth is that you’d be hard pressed to find better fellas or better friends. I’m glad to know their ridiculous antics bring a smile to your face.

I’m also glad to hear how close you are with your sister. It sounds like Dottie is quite protective. I certainly wouldn’t want to be the fool who crossed her where her baby sister is concerned. Or where anyone she loves is concerned, for that matter. That’s a wonderful quality to have. She sounds like a really wonderful woman, and I’d be honored to get to meet her one day. Though, to be honest, I’d probably be a little afraid, too.

It’s funny that you say that Paul reminds you of Paddy. When we were still stationed in Charleston, the two of them used to have long conversations about their families and show off all the photographs they carried with them. With most of the other fellas being single, or at least without kids, they formed a nice bond. Then again, they always did debate whose wife was the most beautiful woman in the world—Paul being firmly on Team Natasha, while Paddy was on Team Dottie, of course. Still, they were always able to amicably agree to disagree.

By the way, Paul gratefully accepts any and all assistance you can provide in helping him pick out the perfect “buttering up Natasha” gift.

I admit that I’m at a loss when it comes to how to respond to your very kind and generous words about my character, Peach. A good man is all I’ve ever really wanted to be, and it means so much to hear that you think I am one. I’m sorry to hear that you’ve encountered men who made you feel like there weren’t very many kind and good-hearted ones left. Whoever they are, they’re absolute fools. I just hope you know that a good man is what I’ll always strive to be. It’s who my parents raised me to be. It’s who I want to be.

I want to be the kind of man that someone like you can be proud of.

I hope more than anything that we all come home safely and soon, just like you said. But until then, we’ll be fighting for you.

Until next time, Peach.

Truly Yours,

Bobby

P.S. I’m glad to hear Frankie had such a wonderful first Halloween, despite the parade being canceled. I’m sure he put all the other pumpkins to shame. Natasha sent word that Clara and Paul, Jr. dressed up as Dorothy and the Scarecrow from The Wizard of Oz (Natasha’s a big fan of that movie). And my brothers dressed up as a vampire and a werewolf—very scary indeed.

P.P.S. I hope that Frankie has a really special first Thanksgiving!

P.P.P.S In case I’m not able to do so beforehand, I want to wish you and your family a very beautiful Christmas. I hope you find everything you’re wishing for under the tree this year.

December 18, 1942

Dear Bobby,

Before I get to speaking to any of the wonderful parts of your last letter, I feel that I should probably first address the elephant in the room—the photograph enclosed with this letter.

I want you to know that Dottie is wholly responsible for all of this.

I probably should have found it a bit suspicious when my sister insisted upon doing my hair and make-up before I went with her to the portrait studio where we were getting pictures taken of Frankie for his first birthday. But that’s Dottie for you—she loves doing those kinds of things, so I didn’t think as much of it as I should have. That is, at least, until we got to the portrait studio and she forced me to sit down and have MY pictures taken.

“I thought we were here for Frankie,” I tried to tell her. Oh, I was so mortified.

“We are!” she told me, with that classic Dottie smile on her face. “But there’s time for you to take some pictures, too!”

Dottie absolutely would not let me know peace until I had agreed to choose my favorite picture and include it in my letter to you.

I’m so sorry, Bobby. I’ve never been so embarrassed. You must think me so forward, including a photograph you didn’t ask for, as though I’m some sort of movie star or something. I promise I won’t be offended if you leave it in the envelope, or even chuck it overboard off the carrier. I’m blushing even as I write this, and I can only imagine what you must be thinking right now. Can we just pretend it never happened and there was no photograph included in this letter?

Okay, enough about silly me. Now it’s time to talk about you.

I’m so sorry that you were feeling so homesick on Thanksgiving, Bobby. It hurt my heart to think of all of you over there, so far away from home and all the people you love at a time when you’re supposed to feel closest to them. I understand you not wanting to make your family sad by telling them that, but I’m touched that you feel you can share your heart with me. I know without a doubt that your family was thinking of you, and saving a seat at the table for your safe return. I’m sure your mama even had a special piece of pumpkin pie set aside, just for you.

Oh, Bobby, that story about the pumpkin pie had me rolling with laughter. I think I even shed a few tears, I was laughing so hard. I just kept picturing poor little Bobby Floyd with homemade pumpkin pie smashed all over his head, having to sit through Thanksgiving dinner and endure such indignity. Did you at least learn your lesson and never try to sneak an early bite of that pie again? It must be very delicious for you to risk all that. You definitely have me wanting to try a piece!

Our Thanksgiving here in Charleston was quiet, but lovely. Normally I get to see my grandparents and aunts, uncles, and cousins, just like you, but this year we kept the holiday small. My parents drove up from Georgia to be with us, especially since it was Frankie’s first Thanksgiving. I’d missed them so much, even more than I realized, so it was wonderful getting to spend time with them again. They actually just left two days ago. They decided to stay in Charleston for Frankie’s first birthday, which was on December 14th. We’ll be packing up and getting ready to head down to Georgia in a couple days so that we can be with them for Christmas.

My family has a little tradition of going around the table before we eat Thanksgiving dinner so that everyone can share something they’re grateful for and something they’d like to pray for. When it was my turn, I said that I was grateful for you, Bobby, and for your sweet friendship and for all the letters we exchange. I also said I was thankful for all the men who are fighting overseas to protect us and defend our freedom, and the freedom of all those in Europe who are suffering right now. For my intention, I shared that I wanted to pray for your continued safety and that you would all come home very soon.

All of us, not just me, are so grateful for what you and the rest of our boys are doing over there, Bobby. I know you’ve already had to sacrifice so much, and that surely more sacrifices will have to be made, but please know that they are not in vain. Not ever. What you’re doing matters, and it’s making a difference in our world.

I want to offer my deepest condolences for all the lives that have been lost since I last heard from you. My thoughts and my prayers feel so wholly inadequate in the face of such horror and pain, but I’m glad to know that they’re able to give you a small measure of comfort. You’ll have them always.

Now I will admit that while I still think you’re looking at many things through rose-colored glasses, I actually was a very good student when I was in school. I don’t know if I can really call myself a star pupil, but I did well. I always enjoyed reading stories and learning about history the most. I confess I’m rather hopeless when it comes to my arithmetic. How about you? Were you a star pupil, Bobby? Considering you made it all the way to Annapolis, I’m guessing you must have been!

You have my word that should the need ever arise, I will most certainly try the whiskey trick and let you know how we all fare.

Bobby, I think you’ve managed to convince me to give flying a try, but only if you promise to be my pilot. You’re the only one I’ll trust to take me safely off the ground—no offense to the rest of your squadron, of course. I’m sure they’re all wonderful pilots. Even if we don’t make it to Paris or Rome, I know that I’d be happy, just getting to fly with you.

I think Mr. Gershwin would be quite pleased indeed to hear how much you appreciate his music. I’m not sure how pleased he would be to hear me singing it, but I promise that I’m practicing. And I promise that when you return home, we’ll share another dance. At least, if that’s something you still want when all this is over.

I must admit, I laughed out loud when I read the part of your letter about Tommy Boy’s and Benny’s big heads. They really are a couple of characters, aren’t they? I love how you all seem so different from one another, and yet you’re all such good friends. Those kinds of bonds are special.

When it comes to Dottie, you’re right that she is a wonderful woman and that she’d be the last person on earth you’d want to cross when it comes to the people she loves. But you’re wrong to feel you’d have to be afraid to meet her, Bobby. She loves you already, from all the things I’ve told her about you and from the pieces of your letters that I’ve shared. As much as you want to meet her, I promise that she wants to meet you, too. You’ll have to come over for a glass of lemonade the next time you’re in Charleston. I know my sister can be a force of nature, but I’ll be there so you’ll have nothing to worry about.

Paddy is such a braggart when it comes to Dottie and Frankie, so I’m not surprised in the slightest that he took every opportunity he could to show them off to Paul. I’ll have you know that Dottie was quite pleased to hear that he took her part in the great debate of whose wife is the most beautiful woman in the world. She even made the homemade hot cocoa Paddy loves so much—we got extra sugar rations this week—as a special treat for him.

Speaking of rations, did you hear that they just added coffee to the list last month? There have been many grumpy people in Charleston as of late, I’ll tell you that. The worst of them is probably Paddy. He’s always grumbling now on his way to work. But if a little less coffee and sugar means you get to come home sooner, then we’ll gladly give it all up for good.

Bobby, you ARE the kind of man that I’m proud of. I’m so proud of you. Truly, I am. Never, ever forget that. It’s men like you who give me hope for our future.

Merry Christmas, Bobby. I know it’s going to be a hard one, having to be away from your family and your home, but I hope that you’re still able to find a moment of peace, even in the midst of all this madness.

I’m not quite sure that it’s possible for me to have everything that I’m wishing for underneath the tree this year, not with this war still on and you still so far away. But I’ll have the comfort of knowing that brave men like you are fighting for me, and that’s more than enough for this year. Maybe next Christmas, things will be different. Oh, I hope so.

Until then, Bobby. 

I miss you. Please stay safe.

Most Affectionately Yours,

Peach

[alarajrogers]

just found your blog from an old post of yours that's making the rounds again and i just wanna say thanks for being a normal person its really appreciated in the world today.

havw a good morning/day/night

Thanks, I'm pretty sure I know which post you mean and I appreciate you appreciating it. :-) It is making me fucking sick what society at large, and the progressive movement, are doing to Jews. Like... nobody did this to Americans during the Iraq War when we did horrible things to innocent people who'd done nothing to us! And American citizens could be seen to be culpable, in that we elected our leaders. (Though I didn't vote for him.)

American Jews did not vote for the Likud Party and have absolutely no control over who's in charge in Israel, and from what I hear, Netanyahu is unpopular over there too!

How do people who can absolutely forgive Americans, as a whole, for things done by W Bush and Donald Trump, demonize Jews for simply believing Israel ought to exist? Last I checked, we were not at all indigenous to this country and we did absolutely terrible things to the indigenous people, but no one is running around saying America shouldn't exist. Jews are indigenous to Israel but somehow them taking over their old lands 75 years ago is worse than us taking lands from the Native Americans 200 years ago?

What Netanyahu is doing to the Palestinians is absolutely appalling and horrific and a fucking war crime, and it's also not likely to work because Hamas, being terrorists, knew they were gonna pull Oct 7 and had the chance to get out of town right after it went down. Netanyahu's not successfully killing Hamas leaders, they're not in there anymore. But that has nothing to do with whether Israel deserves to exist, let alone whether American Jews are responsible for anything it does! (Hint: they're not.)

Other progressive goyim who are suddenly raging antisemitics appall me. Yeah, I'm also horrified by what Netanyahu's doing, but people... he's not doing anything American leaders haven't done. And in fact our leaders have done worse. And no one is calling for the dissolution of the American state. (Oh, I see you, three extreme extremists in the corner who actually are doing that. You're wrong, but at least you're not antisemitic hypocrites, though you're probably antisemitic anyway.) Normal people aren't calling for the dissolution of the American state or attacking Americans for thinking we have the right to live on the land we took over. Even Native American landback movements aren't about "let's commit terrorism against white civilians and wipe out the population", they're about "help us regain ancestral lands through legal means and acknowledge we know our shit about the ecosystem we're all living on." So why is it suddenly so different when it's Jews and Israel?

So. Yeah. I am eagerly awaiting the day progressives stop being such fuckheads toward Jewish people, but... goddamn it's ugly, and I'm afraid for my Jewish friends.

[theriddlettesblog]

Home Runner, a Team Fortress 2 fanfiction

Chapter 2

Six a.m. eventually rolls around and Scout’s dollar store alarm clock goes off. The man gets out of bed and puts the clothes he left on the floor the previous night back on and heads out to work.

Today, the teams are sent to Dustbowl to fight over the gravelled territory (which is inherently worthless in terms of generating income for either team’s company). History repeats itself as Scout spends the setup time before the match zoned out thinking to himself. He goes over his interactions from the start of yesterday’s match to late lastnight when Miss Pauling called him. He has indeed been acting differently lately, but he still doesn’t know why.

Up to the start and through the entire mission, Scout remains in a daze, everything he experiences feels surreal, like the dreams he doesn’t have anymore. The screaming and rocket jumping phase right through him, everything circling around his head, but he sees none of it. Without realization, Jeremy is standing right in the middle of the battlefield, doing nothing like a single tree planted in a forest that’s burning down. Much to everyone’s surprise, RED and BLU, nothing touches him, not a bullet, nor a rocket, nor a sticky bomb moves a single fiber on his shirt. The battle rages on for another two and half minutes and once again, RED is victorious. As soon as The Administrator declares the round over, the teams head back to their respective bases. Scout, still unaware of his surroundings, follows suit, grabs a single Bonk from the fridge, and heads home once again.

For the entire following week, each day's events perfectly mimic today’s: alarm goes off, Scout goes to work, match begins, Scout stands idle in battle but leaves unharmed, Scout goes home, Miss Pauling calls Scout, Scout says nothing, alarm goes off. He’s stuck in a rut and feels he can’t change anything about the hole he’s been dug into. However, on day eight, in a vain attempt to better his bitter feelings toward life, Scout doesn’t leave his room at all. He lays in bed, wide-eyed and staring at his motionless broken ceiling fan, three hours past when he should have shown up at work, headset buzzing nonstop. Unbeknownst to Scout, nobody from his team is calling him, Miss Pauling is the one pinging the head-mounted radio, cursing at herself and begging him to answer, but he’ll never hear any of it. Hours later, due to ceaseless calls, the batteries in the Bottle Cap die, leaving Scout in stiff indestructible silence.

Hours, or perhaps days, pass without Jeremy’s notice as he has no way to tell time in his darkened hovel of a room simply by staring at an unmoving air mover. He slips in and out of sleep without his own awareness for he does not maneuver in any way nor does he feel any more rested upon his numerous awakenings.

After however long it takes to break the stillness in the room, a knock is heard at Jeremy’s door. Shattering his conscious/unconscious trance, he gets out of his cot and walks to the closed doorway. Scout opens it but sees no one even when he checks down both directions of the hall. His tired bloodshot eyes drift to the floor and he spots a small package of two AA batteries. Scout bends down and picks up the tiny gift before shutting the door of which is in bad need of an oiling. Jeremy’s blank expressionless stare glazes over the batteries after he sits back down onto his place of mostly undisturbed rest. He thrusts his arm to toss the box onto the table in front of his yellow sweat-stained mattress but prevents himself from letting go when he sees his Bottle Cap’s headset. A moment of hesitation passes by before Scout removes the batteries in the radio and replaces them with the two he had just received. The single headphone immediately begins ringing so the tired sprinter answers.

“Hello?” Jeremy asks in an exhausted voice.

“Scout?” Miss Pauling asks in return.

“Yeah?” Jeremy confirms.

“Scout!” The woman replies, ecstatic at the fact that the runner is not deceased despite her worst suspicions. The man’s eyes light up but the ends of his mouth do not move. “God! Don’t scare me like that! Do you know what I’ve been through? I thought you were dead!” Pauling yells in a mostly happy tone.

“No, but I’ve gotten pretty close.” Scout responds, eyelids returning to their half-opened state.

The overly-jovial assistant almost entirely ignores that statement from Jeremy and goes on, “We need to talk, like, about a lot of things, Scout.”

A moment passes. “Okay,” The speedster lets out in a fatigued breath while putting on the headset as well as his glasses, getting ready for a long arduous conversation. He then continues, “yeah, what do you need to know, Miss Pauling?”

The young woman begins to compose herself as is audible to Scout through the sound of her shifting in her seat attempting to organize her thoughts into cohesive words, “First off,” she begins with a wary voice, “how are you feeling?” Jeremy is taken aback by this premiere question, expecting her to instead ask why he hadn’t been at work for however long nor said anything to her leading up to this call.

“Uh,” Scout pauses, trying to think of a believable answer akin to the kind of person Miss Pauling knows him as.

You know what? Screw it.

“Not good, really not good.” Scout answers, half-expecting the assistant on the other end of the call to shrug it off and tell him to buck up.

“Yeah, I kinda noticed, everyone has noticed, Scout. I just wanted you to be honest with me but more importantly, yourself.” The runner is stunned by the level of compassion coming from the same woman who was tasked to kill him for pressing a button three months prior. Still dumbfounded by this response, Jeremy remains silent, mouth open forming words, but releasing no sounds.

An entire minute of weighted silence goes by with Pauling eventually ending it, “Do you want to talk about any of it, Jeremy?” Scout’s astonishment intensifies at the sound of the only woman he respects more than his mother using his first name as if they were friends, which he so desperately hoped they were despite their recent lack of meaningful communication.

“I,” Scout begins to reply without a single notion moving through his mind but eventually, one pops in, “I don’t even know what it is.” He was being genuinely honest, he didn’t know what he was feeling and couldn’t much less talk about it. Without a second string of thoughts, Scout follows up, “Can you just, give me some time to think about all this? I need to figure out what’s goin’ on so I can, you know, talk about it. Tell The Administrator she can dock my pay and penalize me all she wants, it really doesn’t matter anymore.” Jeremy recognizes that no amount of money or hats would help him think this through, so why should he care if he gets paid or not?

“Sure, Scout. Take all the time you need, I’ll wait until you want to talk. I’ll also make sure Helen doesn’t send anyone to kill you. I know you said you’re good with any kind of penalty but I don’t think you meant death.” Pauling brings this up just to be certain that Scout does not actually want to die and this move ultimately puts him in a corner to give her a clear answer.

“Well, yeah, I really didn’t mean death,” Pauling breathes a silent breath of relief to the confirmation that the person she cares the most about wants to stay alive. “I meant she can cash out all my nicest hats if she wanted to.”

“Right, yeah, got it.” the woman replies, still calming down from the unpleasant thought of Scout being okay with dying. Scout releases a tired sigh and thanks Miss Pauling for the call then hangs up after she tells him things will be okay. The sprinter takes off his headset and places it gently down on the small table in front of him. He then lays back on his bed to begin to streamline the flood of numbing sensations that were flowing through his small body into words.

Another sigh escapes him, “Where to start?”

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

Previous

Masterlist

[lobautumny]

A combat doll wanders a frozen wasteland. It stops for a second, raises an arm straight up, and lets a massive column of flame erupt from its palm.

It's an impressive piece of engineering. Its core, powered by the rage within its soul, provides constant thermal energy to its body. This both serves as a source of power for basic operation, and a source of fuel for attacks and movement. The angrier it gets, the more bloodlusted it becomes, the brighter its fire burns.

Its design would be brilliant, if not for a critical oversight.

Over the course of countless battles, lost friends, broken promises, betrayals, the doll's fury grew too great. In battle, it's a sight to behold, an unstoppable powerhouse raining hellfire down on anything that moves, but out of battle, it constantly overheats. Now, if it doesn't periodically vent the excess heat, its core will simply melt its tungsten frame. Making matters worse is the fact that it's in a constant state of bloodlust where everything looks like a target at first glance. Its self-control was slipping, and its body was following suit.

It would be so easy to keep fighting, to destroy everything until it inevitably destroyed itself, but it knew deep down that that wasn't what it wanted. It's a weapon animated by rage, but it still has a conscience, damnit. If it started indiscriminately slaughtering, then what little good it managed to do in the world would mean nothing.

So it did the only thing it could think to, and flew south, thousands of miles, until the land turned to ocean, and then the ocean turned to nothing but ice and wind.

It hates the cold, lifeless landscapes and the isolation, but it helps with temperature regulation. It also means nobody has to get hurt. And so it continues, heading further south. It's coming upon its destination now. According to its GPS, it'll only be a couple more minutes before it reaches the East Antarctic Plateau, the coldest location on the planet. -150 Fahrenheit, and unbearably windy. Perfect.

As it reaches the plateau, it sits down and, for the first time in months, stays motionless, hoping the abominable temperature is enough to keep its core in check. If the overheating is a result of its fury, it just needs to calm down, to quell that flame in its soul. It wonders if it will ever truly be able to return to society.

After pondering that question for a while, it decides that this is a challenge like any other, and it will conquer it. That's what it does. That's all it's ever done. No matter how long it takes, it will continue to meditate and try to come to terms with everything it's seen, everything it's done, everything that's been done to it.

One day, it will stop burning.

One day, it will return.

[esmereldapearl]

Prologue

Matches and Figures

Words: 702

TW: Anger and Mental Health

“Far from the ones who abandoned you”

His mind started to spin, the room was dim and his inherited anger was no help. Nobody, not even his dad, would help with his feelings. In fact, they only made it worse. It didn’t help that he wasn’t allowed to display anger, be seen and not heard. The room was becoming darker and darker, before it could not be seen at all. His furniture was gone, and it was like he was in his own mind. The orange shapes around the room were only making it worse, they would move even if he wasn’t and were always out of reach. He wanted to scream, tell his dad off about keeping him so sheltered, even break something, but now there was no door. Unable to get out, and it’s not like anybody would be coming in.

“Chasing the love of those humans who made you feel wanted”

He thought about his distant memories, maybe they were dreams but nobody was there to confirm nor deny. A little girl, brown curly hair, just old enough to stand, walking towards him. He thought about who she was, had it already been 13 years? Does she know about him? Does she hate him? It wasn’t making his anger any better, the shapes multiplying. He sat with his head in his hands, covering all but his eyes as his fingers bent. Even worse, she stared at him, her blue eyes staring directly into his, when he shut his eyes and imagined her, the room was white. Just the two of them. In an instant, she was older. This hadn’t happened before. Thirteen now, she stared at him, she had round glasses and such a familiar face. She wore a long, dark blue dress and a white cardigan. Her hair was still brown and curly. She was angry, so angry. Is that why she was visiting him? Not many come to visit unless they’re so blinded with rage- he’s the only one who knows how to deal with it.

“You tried to be tough, but your armors just not good enough”

He had his old glasses on, broken still from his last bout of rage. A friend, his only friend, told him there wasn’t a point to wear his anymore and to get contacts but he was putting it off. Since he could remember, he couldn’t see out of his right eye- he was more insecure about it as a kid when it was still healing. She was walking towards him, a bit of a stomp to her step as she was so angry, and it seemed directed toward him. He opened his eyes in an instant, shocked, confused, and less angry. His furniture was back, the vanity, his bed, the picture of him and his father- it was all there. It was okay- for now. He couldn’t shake her gaze, she wasn’t there anymore, but she was so familiar. He took his glasses off, they were too similar and he couldn’t stand his own reflection to remind him of her.

“Atticus, dinner.” He heard his dad call, he always seemed annoyed lately. It wasn’t like when he was a kid- what changed?

“Got it dad, one second.” He wiped his face, had he been crying? That’s right, everything did change. God, it had been several years already, he’d be over it already you would think, but apparently not.

He walked out towards the hallway and down into the adjoining kitchen, tapping his finger across the wall as he walked and stared at the pictures he grew up seeing.

There it was, the reason for the mood, the abandonment that felt sudden and rocked the core of the entire house. His best friend's older brother, someone he had grown up with, someone he looked up to, and he just left. Hardly a word to him, no goodbye, and shook his father more than he had seen before. The other roommate of the house, basically his uncle, had pulled out a match that night and burned photos out of anger. How were they allowed to be upset but not him? Virgil had left him too, you know?

Song name: Shiny from Moana

WOOOOOO! First fanfic I’m ACTUALLY posting! Hoping this won’t be a kind of thing where jobs check your social media- I use a pen name so maybe it’ll be hidden haha. I like to write and I think this would be a nice prologue, an idea of what’s to come, and an introduction of a character and issue.

If you couldn’t tell, this character is a side who has a parent who is a side, so I’m going to explain how that works. It’s more of just they appear, if a new emotion happens, then it’ll just appear, and depending on what it is, it’s like a child to different sides. So, if a new side is needed, it’ll just appear out of thin air and be there. As this fanfic series goes on, I’ll explain it a bit more, I just don’t want to spoil all the plot twists.

Here, think of it like how Encanto has all those new doors when they’re old enough, when there’s a new side, a new door is there too. And depending on what it is, like how the twins are twins, it could be the “child” of a side. Nothing like the uhm, way. Can you tell I’m very sensitive to specific words I don’t want to say?

This is LIKE a human AU but not too- I’m so scared to actually post my first AU especially since I’ve seen so many AUs where one of the sides has a kid and they get judged HARD. I promise it won’t be like that. It’s more of a “oh look, a child has shown up, I’ll take care of it” thing because they know that if a new side is needed, it’ll happen. AHH PLS DONT JUDGE.

HOPE YOU ENJOYED LEAVE FEEDBACK PLS

(If you need more explaining about it, lmk)

[dulcans-actual-wife]

(HUGE SPOILER WARNING as I reference practically everything in the comic at some point in the analyses. I check for updates every 2-3 days so you can assume an update here on the same day as the latest update. And that's on hyperfixations babeeyyyyy 🫠🩷

Please PLease PLEASE contribute your thoughts!! i'd love to hear what you think ^w^)

I will update it as I work on classpecting them and finding speculative crumbs of information and then sorting them into the objective vs. subjective boxes.

EGOIZE KARIAS - PRINCE OF MIND (possible PRINCE OF HOPE) (EGO-IZE. Ego as in he's got a big one. He acts like he's the shit but he's really just a formerly rich manchild that acts on impulse. He retains some traits of the Mind aspect but for the most part destroys it (He left Tahoma with no choice but to lure him in because he refused to listen to her, for example. Same with Meeraz, he said she was talking bullshit). He is a very emotional man, (reminiscent of today's "sassy man apocalypse", but that's just my opinion as a reader) and lashes out like a kid would. Tahoma probably has to have served as his handler at one point.) (fun fact i ship my trollsona w/ him in <3<)

DULCAN THANAS - PAGE OF BLOOD (He is Responsible for Providing MEAT (flesh could be seen as a symbol of Blood). He is also responsible for Cladem's welfare and is very, very poor at it, having dismissed her at multiple points (up until the Cow Massacre, he wasn't receptive to her visions.) But once it happens, he becomes remorseful and apologizes, showing maturity and progress to his character. He DOES have a sense of Responsibility. Unfortunately, he believed her all too late and Cladem has to pay the price, not just his whole herd of cattle and a bunch of chickens minus one. He was mentioned as being "abysmal at talking to people let alone convincing them" (Recruiting people for a Team and Unity are part of the Blood aspect. Dulcan is shit at it but likes to see himself as being a Responsible adult that Knows his shit when he Actually Doesn't.).)

MAYDES "SKERRT" AURATU - HEIR OF BREATH/RAGE (Breath - He shoves off his Responsibility for taking care of his lusus because he is exempt from the Vast Glub's effects. That, and he's Lost in his Own Little World. He insists on being called by a few different aliases to the point that his fake name, Skerrt, is better known than his actual name, Maydes. Again, a sign of detachment from who he is at the Heart of the Matter AKA Maydes Aurata, Heir to Primarian ||'s throne. (A/N: IMHO, he's a little irresponsible shit and overall awful like every other man in the group but that doesn't mean I hate the story or characters, I'm quite passionate about both. I'm just saying he's just poorly behaved and is a bad person which is more of my arbitrary moralizing.) Another thing of note is that he's very rage-inducing for those who don't care for his carelessness and his ancestor wrote shit the wrong way and it led to things having to be written backwards, then flipped.)

TAHBBI DAEZON - ROGUE OF SPACE

KIMAIZ YELDAN - MAID OF TIME (He was treated like a workhorse, Overloaded with DEADLINES until his Internal Clock runs rut. He requires others, namely Amenia and Tahbbi, to buy him some TIME by way of blood transfusions or begging a certain blue cowfucker to back the hoof off for five seconds. He has a cantankerous mood due to being in a constant state of pain and misery due to his AVOIDABLE SITUATION.)

AMENIA LYPTRA - WITCH OF LIFE (She has a very Cheerful Personality in the face of adversity. She keeps Live eels in tanks, presumably to power her technology.)

CLADEM NECHRE - MAGE OF DOOM (Suffers from visions of doom that nobody believes.)

MEERAZ BAYAGA - SEER OF VOID

LOKERE SARONE - KNIGHT OF LIGHT

ELGIZA ?????? - BARD OF RAGE (Her creation, the Purple Doll Girl, causes everyone else misery. Perhaps, she wanted to give the purple girl Hope by making her a body (or a bunch of them...). She was stated as a good doll-maker by Kimaiz and was used as a dubious source of Hope for his regrettable situation.)

TAHOMA FLEURZ - SYLPH OF HOPE

DEJINN SILUDE - THIEF OF HEART (He's seductive, PASSIONATE and is canonically a trendsetter on Primaris ||. The way I interpreted it was he talks in a way that gives some people (Tahbbi again) the impression he's talking in double entendres like he wants something of a dirty nature. (A/N: I initially was made very uncomfortable by him and was a little scared of him. Like, I wanted to breeze through the fucking pages that had Dejinn, he was that upsetting to me. He reminds me too much of sleazy men that manipulate and lie to get what they want. Now I like him but don't like admitting it.) Thieves, like Princes, have inflated egos. He has Devoted Fans that would LITERALLY KILL for him. Also, the way it's phrased (he doesn't have interests but rather PASSIONS, if you incorrectly label them as something else Your Days Are Numbered, his PASSIONS include but are not limited to playing the acoustic guitar, filming and video editing, Network engineering, Jewel collecting and last but not least important SLAM POETRY (Something of note is that one recurring theme in Slam Poetry is IDENTITY-based politics). Dejinn is also stated to be the proud never before seen in trolls: Charisma. He *makes* you like him and if you don't, you're dead meat. From what I could gleam, He has a huge chunk of the Primarian population wrapped around his little finger, including critics and even a few of his teammates (This is a bit of a stretch, but Dulcan starts out seemingly annoyed by Dejinn then switched scripts mid-conversation, being Positive and saying they had a deal.)

[late-to-the-magnus-archives]

Yes, my Vast!Jon fic features Archivist!Sasha. Whaddaya gonna do about it?

Part Four.

Oh. Oh, I am doing things with this fic.

I may never be forgiven.

P. S. Yes, Jon lists his middle name as "K" because he uses Kartin.

He and Martin grew up together. It means a lot, and no one in this world will ever know but the two of them.

----------

I’m alive.

Martin stares at the text from a blocked number, speechless.

Across from him, Danny’s date - Sasha James - is still talking about Jonathan Sims and the spider-leg illusion.

Which was distracting enough.

Martin had already been distracted by the fact that Tim and Sasha immediately got on like wildfire, and that Danny honestly seemed not to care, which Martin would never understand.

He had already been distracted by the fact that he (as always) found himself talking about Jon, just constantly doing it, and Sasha was simply polite until he mentioned the photography.

“You don’t mean Jonathan K. Sims, who works for the National Rage,” she’d said, clearly expecting him to disavow it.

But of course, he hadn’t because that’s who Jon was.

“The young Steve McCurry. You’re serious?”

Martin was.

Which revelation started a rant.

Okay, it wasn’t a rant, exactly. It was, however, a deeply enthusiastic appreciation of a body of work including photos Martin had forgotten existed. 

And it was always so weird to hear people talk about Jon like that. He was amazing, sure, but… people who met Jon tended not to talk about him like that anymore.

“And we actually have his infamous first photo at the institute,” Sasha says. “The spider-leg illusion. Can you believe it?”

“How’d you get that?” Martin asks, horrified because he’d thought that photo had been destroyed.

Then he’d gotten the text, and missed the answer.

Because it -

No.

Someone was pranking him. Because why the fuck would Jon have reached out like this?

“Hey,” says Tim, and nudges him. “You okay?”

“Weird text. It’s nothing,” says Martin, and tucks his phone away. “How’d you get the photo?”

“Estate sale,” says Sasha proudly. “It was one of my first acquisitions for the Institute as Head Archivist.”

“Right, so… how does that work?” says Martin.

His phone buzzes again.

What do they want me to do? I can’t reply to an unknown number, he thinks.

“The Magnus Institute is an academic institution dedicated to researching the esoteric and paranormal,” she says. “I mean, we’re not ghost-hunters, or anything. We research the unknown. It’s all really academic and dry.” She laughs. “Most of the time, anyway. Though of course, there are some… mysteries.” Her eyebrows waggle.

His phone buzzes.

Tim laughs. “Gods, you make me want to work there.”

“Well, why not? The pay is actually pretty good, and the benefits are solid. It can be spooky, sometimes, but it’s honestly fun most of the time. I mean, if you’re into learning things.”

Tim looks like he’s into something here, all right, and it’s not spooks.

Danny glances at Martin. “You okay? You look… pale.”

“Yeah, I… hang on.” Martin sighs and checks his phone.

Oh. It wasn’t texts.

He’s had an alert set up for years now to let him know whenever Jon made the news. 

(He had, in fact, a private collection of screenshotted articles praising Jon’s skill, the power of his photos, the way he always managed to see things no one else could, and through his lens, let others see them, too.)

“He’s alive!” Martin blurts.

“What? How?” Tim says, and immediately crowds him.

“What?” says Sasha.

SOLE SURVIVOR OF TIBETAN CRASH FOUND

“He… what?” says Sasha, very pale. “No. He was in that flight? The one - oh, gods, of course. The expedition to that abnormal subgroup just discovered - the ones with the genetic adaptation for hemoglobin-binding capacity and nitric oxide production. Of course, Jonathan Sims would be sent in as photographer.” 

Then she looks really surprised.

“You looked into it?” says Danny.

“No, I… I’m not sure how I knew that.” Sasha looks a little confused. “Anyway. Nobody could capture their lives better than Sims. I hadn’t realized…”

Martin is ignoring everybody.

Tears are streaming down his face. He’s shaking.

Reading.

“They found him,” he says. “He’s in a hospital in Kathmandu. He’s coming home. He… he’s coming home.” And Martin loses it.

Tim holds him.

Danny pats his hand.

“Whoa,” murmurs Sasha.

“They’re close,” says Danny, unnecessarily.

“Should I…” Sasha nods her head toward the cafe’s exit.

“No, it’s fine, it’s fine, I’m sorry,” Martin says, wiping his face, ruining his napkin. “I didn’t mean to cause drama, I…”

“Drama? You didn’t cause drama! You… I mean, you’re obviously close? And I wouldn’t be okay if someone I knew had disappeared in a plane crash?” Sasha’s leaning in.

Martin really is good at reading people, no matter how confusing the sea captain had been. He believes her. “Thank you,” he whispers.

“What’s it say?” says Tim. 

“I think he just answered that,” says Danny.

“No, you dork. I mean… specifics. How’d he survive? How’d he get to a hospital in a major city? Who found him? Is he fucked up? The really important question: does he still have leg hair?”

“Tim!” says Danny.

But Martin is laughing. “You screwball, what are you saying?”

“Maybe he’s bald now,” Tim says. “Everywhere. He’s coming back as Baby Jon.”

Martin laughs more. The tears are still coming, but it’s all been redirected via the power of complete absurdity. He wipes his face. “There is something really wrong with you, you know that?”

“Yep!” says Tim. “For real, though - when’s he coming home?”

“Three days, according to this. There’s this whole… thing. He’ll be interviewed, it looks like. From the article, nobody else survived.” 

That’s terrible.

Jon loves his crew. 

Loved.

Martin had come to like them quite a lot. They’d become like the family Jon didn’t have. People who understood how weird he was, and how brilliant he was, and could handle his moods and his prickliness and bring out his best.

They were all dead?

Oh, that was gonna take a while to work through. For everybody.

Tim hugs him. “I told you he’d be okay.”

Martin’s shoulders shake. He cries into Tim’s shoulder, just a little.

Danny proceeds to buy them shots of whiskey. “To Jon!” he says.

“To love!” says Tim.

“To Jon,” says Martin, but he’s really repeating Tim.

Danny buys them all another round.

Three shots in, Sasha is practically vibrating. “When he’s better, do you think I can meet him? I have so many questions about the spider illusion.”

“Sure!” says Martin, who never would have agreed four shots ago. “He’s great. The best guy who ever… anything.” Martin considers this. “Yeah. Yeah.”

“By which he means, Jon’s a hedgehog,” says Tim, who doesn’t sound like he’s six shots in, but he never sounds drunk. “Crunky on the outside. Soft belly.”

“That’s not your belly,” says Martin.

“To… touch?” says Tim, trying to translate.

Martin goes beet red and finishes his whiskey.

Sasha is still giggling at them both when they all say goodnight.

#

The alcohol has to be the reason he clicks it.

The link. The one from the QR code on that sea captain’s card.

Why not, really? Jon’s coming home (with or without hair), and it’s not like anything else matters.

To Martin’s surprise, it brings up a link specifically for him.

LucasEntertainment.co.uk is a vague website, promising “results” and “synchronicity” and other empty buzzwords, but this code carried a unique identifier for Martin alone.

Hello, Mister Blackwood! It says, followed by several screenshots of him in apron and lip gloss, beaming away. We are a consortium of people deeply interested in promoting individual talent - and no, this is not a form letter. We’ve chosen you.

“Yeah, right,” he says out loud.

What we want to do, Mister Blackwood, is sponsor you.

Martin snorts.

Yes, we’d ask to change your format a little, but not much - and what you give to the world, to your viewers, is the true goal of our proposal. You haven’t heard of us, but you have heard of - 

And it proceeds to name several YouTubers whom Martin has definitely heard of - the cream of the crop, primo influencers, whose private lives may be hidden from the world, but whose videos always make numbers in six figures or higher.

If you are willing to work with us, we’d offer you this:

And then comes a number he has to squint at for a while before he’s sure he’s reading it right.

This can’t be.

It would be more than enough to pay for his mother’s expenses.

He could tell Antoine to fuck himself.

He could move into a real apartment that wasn’t probably illegal.

This couldn’t be real.

We know this comes as something of a shock, but we make it our goal to prioritize and promote individual talent - those people who are willing to make their way alone against a willful world.

Feel free to ignore this, of course - there is no pressure. But if you decide to take our offer, Mister Blackwood, we can promise that your videos will reach people who never would have otherwise seen you, and will have an enormous effect.

We hope you’ll say yes.

Sincerely, the Lukas Family

Specifically, Peter, who first recognized what you can do.

Martin stares.

He rereads it.

He squints, changes his browser to night mode, and reads it again.

This simply can’t be right. He bakes muffins, for crying out loud.

But that monetary number….

That amount of money would change everything for him, in the best possible way.

For a moment, he goes wild, imagining being able to travel with Jon for his shoots, paying his own way, maybe sharing a hotel room, sitting on a beach under the moon and sipping Mai Tais, maybe stealing a little kiss where none of the team could see - 

Martin giggles like a besotted teenager and cups his face, which feels hot in his hands.

Right. This should not be decided tonight. He’d had too many shots, courtesy of Danny.

Which he does not regret at all, because Jon’s coming home.

But if this is real…

If it actually is real, and he could stop slaving for money and actually do what he enjoys….

If.

Tomorrow is a good day for questions like that.

Tonight, Martin closes the browser (because, he tells himself, if the QR code doesn’t work tomorrow, then it absolutely wasn’t legit), and he takes a shower, and he goes to bed.

And he dreams of Jon being bald and cranky, and it makes him want to touch Jon even more, and most of his dreams are simply holding Jon and telling him never to almost die again.

[gossipgirloff1]

an unnecessary couples vibe check/my opinion that nobody asked for

I think charles and alex weren't pr but they're definitely profiting off of it. the whole "family man" image is a very profitable image. so, selling that idea is definitely very lucrative. i think they're a normal couple but did ramp up the pr (though i think it's not as much as it was last year). they're cute enough imo, i like them together. it's very much a pretty people dating pretty people situation. don't care much, just here for the vibes

kika and pierre are a very pr couple. I'm sorry really but the whole photoshoot from Miami GP was really funny and ridiculous to me 😭. and kika does like to insinuate things and then backtrack. all in all I'm not a fan

I like george and carmen, they've got that old money vibe I dig. whenever I see videos of them out and about in monaco, I'm just always like that's a couple that screams we're rich af and like to look the part. and the height gap is adorable.

oscar and lily too are adorable. i love a high school sweetheart trope and they're very cute with each other. no notes, love them

I don't care much about carlos and rebecca as a couple but i really love rebecca's accent (ik people have a lot of thoughts about her but this isn't about that). I love her accent and I love her curly hair, looks good on her. i felt the same about carlos and isa, it seemed very blah. this one also is very blah but eh.

valterri and tiffany, imo, are the best couple of the grid hands down. they compliment each other well, are super supportive of the other's career and shenanigans (love valterri's personality after coming out of the mercedes pr jail). i seriously root for them, really my it couple

even though there was the whole monaco cheating thing, I think carola and checo are a fine couple. they're both great parents and they compliment each other well in the sense that she clearly is not a big limelight person and he respects that. I also love the fact that they don't plaster their kids' faces on social media and keep that part private.

same with KMag and Nico H and their partners. totally compliment each other and support each other. I'm not a Haas girlie so I don't know much about them but from what little Ik they seem good.

don't care much about alex and lily m (I'm still asking if there's any tea about Lily m guys!) but they match each other's energy and their tiktoks are super fun to watch. also I love the support they provide each other and their families also loves the partner. they are a solid couple just like george and carmen

max and kelly are eh. if we keep aside all the problematic stuff, they're not exciting as a couple. both are pretty bland and the only "exciting thing" is the whole family dynamic going on. they're very much a siblings or dating post personified. I don't care about them as a couple and definitely as individuals. I like max as a racer but yeah I'm not really that deep into the max fan bubble yet. (i once recounted the whole max and kelly saga and he said that it's a case of problematic, older woman gf with her man child younger bf, his words not mine 🫣)

the other couples, I don't follow them so i don't know much about them except that lance,'s gf and sister are both raging zionists and that melissa has children and she used to be a football wag (whenever I think of melissa I think of dance moms and in my mind I think her kids are maddie and mackenzie)

i would say that I like alex and charles, alex and lily, george and carmen and oscar and lily z the most because the vibes are there. they compliment each other, have similar interests or just look hot together

thank you to coming to my rant

[adoracora-elizabeth]

But Papa! Why? Chapter 42

Robert had made an appointment with the contractor to start the process of the rebuilding the insides of the Abbey. He had said, it was a good distraction from the Simon business. Simon had written several emails to Harold and although Harold had told him, they were not going to work together, and that Cora was not interested in going out on a date with him. Simon kept insisting to meet Cora again. Cora was convinced he had known that she was working for 'Crawley Advertisements' and the fact he did not give up on contacting her, convinced her even more.

Cora's hand slid into Robert’s, while they stood in front of the Abbey. With a deep sigh, she said. "The building keeps astonishing me."

Robert squeezed her hand. "Even after all these years of seeing the building, I still feel the same."

"Once Harold wrote that Mama agreed with the early rebuilding, I could not feel happier."

Robert stepped back from her, still holding her hand, but he gave her a puzzled look. "Rebuilding Downton makes you happier than the prospect of marrying me?"

Cora saw the playful twinkling in his eyes, she decided to play with him. "Maybe it does, maybe it doesn't." Cora batted her eyelashes, something she knew made Robert weak inside. And what she had hoped for happened. Robert’s cheeks coloured slightly, and he let out a low rumble.

He pulled her close and pressed his lips on hers. "You are teasing me." He growled and intensified the kiss.

Cora's wiggled her hand out of Robert’s and moved it up to his neck. "I do love you so much." She said, while kissing him again.

A low 'Ahumm' made them almost jump. A tall man with dark big eyebrows was standing in front of the big doors and was looking at them.

"Carson, I am sorry for that." Robert apologised to the man. I do not think you have met Miss. Levinson, did you?"

"That is alright Milord. I will get used to it; it is a long time ago a young couple that was in love lived here. And now we have not yet met." The man, apparently called Carson, extended his hand towards Cora.

Cora felt her cheeks blush. "Lovely to meet you, Mr. Carson. I am Cora. Cora Levinson."

"Soon to be Mrs. Crawley." Robert laid his hand on Cora’s lower back.

"Milady" Carson said when Cora took his hand. "Welcome to Downton. It is exciting to finally see this building being rebuilt. Back to its old glory." Cora saw a glow in his eyes, that she also saw in Robert's eyes when they talked about Downton.

"Carson is the Butler of the house." Robert explained.

Butler? Cora thought. For what, nobody has lived her for years. What was he doing? She must have looked puzzled because Robert explained.

"He did not work in the house since the fire. Of course not, because it was not safe to be in the house." His eyes got sad for a short second. "But we have always found things for you to do, haven't we?" He now looked at Carson with a childlike expression on his face. "Carson has always been our butler, at least as long as I can remember.

"I welcomed the contractor and offered tea. He is waiting in the Secretary's room."

Robert looked at Cora and laughed when he saw her face. "The backside of the house is perfectly intact. The fire raged mostly in the frontside of the building. It is still a mystery to me that the library survived. The Secretary's room is in the back, and we can enter via the backdoor. The last time we were up here, I meant to show you more, then just that look through the front windows."

"I never registered that we been to the back at all. All I remember is seeing you fall of that horse and disappear." She took his hand again. "So let us just walk calmly to the back this time."

Robert checked if Carson was looking, he was, as he should, he was going to let Robert and Cora walk in front of him. He ignored his watchful eye and took Cora's face in his hands. "I will not do any stupid things this time." He kissed her tenderly.

Cora felt her cheeks colour, she had seen that Carson was looking at them and she did not feel comfortable to kiss Robert in front of his butler.

+++

"These are the plans we have for now." Jacob slid the papers over the table towards Robert and Cora.

Jacob was their contractor, who was responsible for the rebuilding. Cora looked at it and was shocked by how modern the images looked. She did not know how to respond; she was not sure what Robert had told them. They had not even talked about those details themselves, and she was not expecting to see sketches already. From the corner of her eye, she looked at Robert and she saw that he was searching for the right words to voice what he was thinking. She suppressed a chuckle; he was so predictable.

"Thank you for making sketches already. It is something I was not expecting to see today."

"I thought that it would help and speed up the process." Jacob interrupted.

Cora saw that Robert was clenching his jaw.

"As I said." He continued. "I was not expecting to see sketches today already. We did not talk about any details yet, and I appreciate how much work you have already spend on these." He quickly looked at Cora, seeking her confirmation. She nodded, that he could go on. "We want the building back in his old glory."

"That would be such a shame." Jacob countered. "What you need is a new and modern look. This fire was the perfect timing to modernise the house. Who wants to be surrounded by all that old wood and stone?"

Cora moved her hand under the table towards Robert's leg, she saw a twitched under his eye and she knew he was getting mad. Softly she squeezed his knee. When she saw him take a deep breath, she was relieved he tried calming himself down.

"I was in the understanding, that a contractor worked for his clients. Am I wrong in that understanding?"

Jacob smiled. "Of course not, I indeed work for you. But I also know the market and I know what will sell and what will not."

Now it was Cora who spoke. "To be very clear. This meeting is to discuss our wishes, what WE." She emphasised the word 'we'. "Want, and not what you think will be best for the market. This house will not be up for sale, and I can guarantee you that if the day comes, we are going to sell, it will sell better if it is in the original style and not some modern hideous coffin."

Robert was drinking his tea when Cora said that last part and he started to choke. Cora padded his back, but she did not take her eyes off Jacob.

"I think this meeting is over. Thank you for your time and idea's. We will be in contact." She rose from the chair and extended her hand towards Jacob.

Robert followed her example. "Indeed, thank you, but Miss. Levinson is correct. This meeting is over, and do not expect us to call you again. We will find somebody else to complete this job for us."

Carson appeared and let Jacob out of the building. As soon as the door closed behind Carson, Robert and Cora started laughing.

Robert pulled Cora in his arms. "What went in to you?" He said smiling. "I have never seen you this fierce before."

"A young chap as Jacob will not ruin this beautiful building. Never in my life, and the fact he wanted to modernise the building tells me, that he does not know how this market works. It would be mental if we would modernise this building. The only modernising we will do is making sure we will have proper heating."

"You are always cold; no heating will help with that."

"You will need to make sure I will not get cold here."

Robert kissed Cora's neck. "You are sexy when you talk like that."

Cora rolled her head back, so Robert had better access. "You are so happy by just being in this house, that I will let nobody ruin that for you." She felt his hands roaming over her backside and she could only hope Carson would not step back inside this room. Because she was not sure how long she would be standing here in her blouse. Robert's fingers were pulling at her blouse already. Gently she put her hands on Robert's upper arms, she felt heat shoot through her body when she felt his muscles. "We cannot do this here. Carson will be back soon."

"All the more exciting." Robert growled, but he cowered as soon as he heard footsteps coming closer. He quickly pulled Cora's blouse straight, kissed her on the lips and stepped back. Right before Carson came back in.

Cora knew he could see on her face, what just happened, but she tried to keep a straight face.

"Thank you, Milord, for standing up for Downton. I know you will be an amazing Lord one day."

Robert nodded, and Cora saw he was proud to hear this from Carson's mouth.