#i am not good at writing otherwise i would

[euthymiya]

if you hold me without hurting me (you’ll be the first who ever did) — ft. sylus

synopsis: sylus is too causal with accepting pain. you don’t like seeing him hurt, so the best solution you can come up with is seeing him in pleasure

❤︎ word count: 2.4k words — it’s a miracle i kept it this short

❤︎ before you read: female hunter reader ; mature content. not suitable for minors ; not an established relationship but implied romantic connection. idk it’s complicated LOL ; injured sylus ; described blood and injuries ; evol inhibitors to make his injuries a bit more serious ; not proof read : hand jobs ; banter ; that’s pretty much it just wanted to write him cumming

❤︎ comments: i am posting this 3 mins before i need to leave for work this man has me hustling before my hustle rip

The safe house is quiet. Not including the sounds of Sylus’s low, pained grunts as you dress his wounds, it’s quiet. You’re quiet, and it’s unsettling—on a typical day, you’re more than half the noise.

(In a good way, of course. Sylus is not a liar by any means, and saying he doesn’t like the constant sound of your voice as you talk would be a ridiculously big lie. He values the truth in things.)

It means you’re brooding. Sulky, petulant brooding. He’ll just have to fix that, he thinks—and soon, too.

“I’ll have to trouble you a bit longer, sweetheart,” he murmurs, breaking the silence as he glances at his arm.

You glance up and stare at the damage: a stab wound to his abdomen, a gash on his arm, and ugly, unwelcome bruises littering across soft, slightly tanned skin.

You frown. It borders on a scowl. He watches as you carefully stitch the wound closed on his lower belly with precise fingers. (Faintly, his mind registers that you’re good at this. Too good at this. He doesn’t like the implications of that—not for his own case and especially not for yours.)

“Does it hurt?” You mumble, finally.

Sylus is not a liar by any means, so he hums, titling your chin up and forcing you to pause. “Yes,” he says truthfully. You’d never guess he was in pain just by the look on his face—but there are always signs if you look close enough.

Sticky, sweaty skin. Deep, labored breaths. Slumped posture that’s so far from his usual tall, towering stance. He looks just a bit tired, too. Like sleeping (something he rarely does enough to be considered healthy) would be his ideal course of action right now.

You frown at his admission. “I told you not to get so close,” you huff, “you never wait for me.”

He chuckles. Deep, slow. Every time Sylus laughs, you’re reminded how powerful he is. How even through the sound of his amusement alone, he sounds important. Wealthy, too, if you’re being honest—he laughs like the rich. But that’s always amused you more than it’s impressed.

“You seem rather distraught, love. Dare I say….you’re concerned?”

“You’re too smart to act this stupid,” you spit.

He grins. It’s large, wide, and all too smug for someone who’s under your hands as you mend back torn skin. Gently, he hums, “so the kitten bears her fangs. How cute.”

Your mood is getting increasingly worse. Sylus knows that—but sometimes, he’s a little selfish. Pushing you harder, cornering you against the wall with smart words and sly teasing is the only way to make you open up sometimes.

And, well, Sylus is no liar. He can’t say he hates getting under your skin entirely—it makes you look at him. And he likes your attention. But more than that, he likes knowing you care.

“You don’t think I’m capable,” you accuse, narrowing your eyes.

“And when did I say that, Miss Hunter?”

“You don’t have to say it, I just know. Otherwise, you’d listen when I tell you to wait,” comes your agitated reply.

Sylus does not wait for you. He jumps into a fight without letting you step foot onto the battlefield. Most times, it’s a minor form of irritation on your end when you’re itching to get in a good few hits. Sometimes, like now, it makes your emotions saturated in every form of distress.

Anger. Sadness. Regret. Panic. All of it simmers and simmers until you feel you’re overflowing with something you can’t quite put your finger on.

He pays the price today—one sloppy dodge of a blade, and it impales his lower abdomen with precision, lacing him with something. Something that evidently is rather good at repressing his evol—he can’t fight nearly as well let alone heal.

You can’t help but feel useless. More than anything, under appreciated. Maybe, if he’d waited just a moment so you could have covered him, then maybe your night would end with less blood on your hands and less pain on his.

“You’re also too bright to act this dim,” he says lowly, voice just a bit tight with pain. You tighten his stitches, and he doesn’t even grimace despite the clearly unpleasant sensation.

“Do tell me,” you glare, “just what am I being dim about?”

“If you think I don’t recognize your capabilities,” he drawls, studying the knife that once tore through his flesh slowly. It’ll be analyzed at the base. You’re certain he’ll figure out just what the blade was laced with and trace it back to its origins soon enough. He sets it down and meets your eyes—deep, rich crimson bleeding into your gaze. “Then maybe you’re not as good at seeing the bigger picture as I thought.”

“That you’re a smug bastard who likes to prove you’re better on your own?”

“That I care about you,” he says plainly. “I can handle it. It’s better you than me.”

“You could have died,” you hiss, “if I wasn’t there—”

“I’d have lived either way,” he says smugly. “Killing me is a rather difficult thing to do. Inflicting pain, on the other hand….well, at least it keeps things interesting.”

Your face drops. Not because he’s wrong, but because he’s so right. You can injure him all you want, but he heals fast enough that he’s here to stay. Like an annoying thorn that keeps pricking you as you pick roses. Like a weed that just keeps growing back the more you tear them from the ground. He comes back. Annoying as he is, he comes back. And you don’t mind that so much—you think you might even need it that way.

But it always hurts. He bleeds red just like any other person. Grimaces here and there despite how accustomed he is to the agony. Somewhere along the line, his pain became yours.

And you can’t help but be hyper aware of how much you despise it.

“I hate when you’re hurt,” you whisper.

“I’ll live,” he soothes, cupping your cheek and swiping a stray tear with a large, callused thumb. You shiver, pouting slightly at the words. “I’ve had worse.”

“But you still feel the pain.”

“Can anyone really avoid that, sweetie?” He raises an amused brow.

Before he can open his mouth to add more, you lean closer, careful not to hurt his wound as you press against his chest and bury your head into his neck, pressing a light kiss to the skin.

His breath hitches, and you think you’ve finally gotten through that thick, stubborn front of his.

“If it hurts,” you murmur, “then I can make it feel good.”

He shivers—barely, of course. But he shivers. It’s a small win. “Oh?” He asks carefully, his good arm curling around your waist to keep you in place. “And how so?”

You press a lingering kiss to his jaw. Your lips are not strangers to Sylus. They know him as well as he knows them too, but you’ve always danced along the edge of more than friends and less than lovers. One second, you think you’ve crossed over the line with graceful steps, the next you fall ten steps back.

Right now, you think you don’t care. Line be damned and whether you’re just friends or lovers, you couldn’t be more unbothered.

“I don’t like when people touch you,” you admit, “not at all. But especially not so….rough.”

“Mmh, jealous are we? Don’t worry, you’re the only one I willingly let touch me,” he grins. You roll your eyes, watching as he shuffles back to lean against the couch and relax.

“I should be the only one who touches you,” you say with an air of petulance.

“Yes, yes,” he agrees, placating your mood, “then show me something more gentle,” he whispers.

You smile. It’s the first one of the night, lips curling against the shell of his ear as you breathe, “oh I intend to.”

Just like that, your hand trails up his thigh, carefully tracing along the inner edge of his leg before your palm roams over his crotch. There’s a bulge forming as if on command. Your ego boosts just a little—for all his strength and endurance, one brief, mere little touch from you forces his body to react against his will.

“Is this really where you should be putting in all your effort?” His breath hitches, and the tips of his ears flush a pretty, soft little pink, “my arm still has an open wound, you know.”

“You’ve had worse,” you repeat his words back to him, “but let me show you better.”

It’s quick work, unblocking his belt and unzipping him just enough to gently pull out his half-hard cock. You glance down, smiling at the small bead of pre cum that leaks from the tip, forming a kind little opportunity for you to watch him squirm as your thumb grazes his cockhead to collect it.

You smear it along his length as you slowly stroke him to full hardness, and he offers you a shaky little huffed out, “fuck,” under his breath.

“Does that hurt, too?” You hum, nose pressing into his jaw as you kiss his neck.

“No,” he sighs, melting into you, “no it feels so good. Don’t stop.”

“Do you see how nice it is when you just trust me?” You scold, “now apply this to the battlefield, too.”

He chuckles deeply at that, closing his eyes and fighting the urge to fuck his hips into your fist—his stitches are still fragile enough that he doesn’t want to risk tearing them. Instead, he has to trust that you’ll give him what he needs, all on your own.

“I’d rather get hurt and be spoiled like this,” he mumbles, “than risk anything happing to you. Seems like a better option if you ask me.”

“So stubborn,” you click your teeth.

Sylus is not a liar. You know that. If he says you’re capable, then you believe him—and if he says that he’d rather take the brunt of injuries and the pain that comes with them just to finish a fight before you can be involved, you know it’s not a lie. But you don’t always like the truth. You don’t like knowing he uses himself as a shield of sorts for you, as some wall between you and pain or maybe even death just because he can. Just because he heals. Just because he thinks he should.

You don’t always like the truth. Sometimes, you’d rather live in a lie.

So you tell yourself he thinks you’re less than him. That you’re lacking and beneath his approval and you have something to prove—so your hand tightens around his thick, reddened cock and you stroke fast. Quick and to the point.

Enough to have him groaning with an arm instinctively moving to cover his eyes as he throws his head back—only he hisses, feeling the stinging tug on his gash as he moves.

You hum, guiding his arm back down as you cup his cheek and murmur, “careful now. You’re hurt—I wonder whose fault that is.”

He rolls his eyes at the comment—but one swipe of your thumb through his slit has them rolling back in pleasure before he can glare at you. “You’re rather smug today,” he huffs, “do you like seeing me defenseless, sweetheart?”

“Not for the reasons you might think,” you say sweetly, grinning as you peck his cheek. Right where you cut him the first time you met. Right where you think you’ll always have to soothe so he knows you didn’t mean it.

Not anymore, at least.

“You’re far from the innocent kitten you seem to be,” he grins, huffing out a soft laugh as it tapers off into a light, breathy moan.

“Does it feel good?”

“Yes.”

“Enough to make you forget the pain?”

“Oh yes,” he grins. Suddenly, a wave of red wraps around your hand and forces your grip to tighten. “I’ve forgotten I was injured at all.”

His evol, you realize—it’s back.

You stare at the gash on his arm—crimson on crimson as the flurry of his power replaces the blood, leaving behind soft, healthy skin. Not a scar left behind. Not a trace of pain. Not even a faint line of where torn flesh mended together and became new.

He’s had worse, you remember. And he comes back from it every damn time.

Still, you think—you’re going to give him better.

“I don’t want you hurting because of me,” you breathe, leaning into his chest and pressing your weight against him without worry, now. Your hand fists his shirt as his arms wrap around you and keep you close.

Your hand glides along his girth between your bodies, working him up slowly, slowly, slowly until it all feels like it’ll come crashing down all at once. His breath hitches as he lets out a light groan of your name.

It sounds pretty on his tongue. You’re more determined to pull nicer sounds from him, too, so you kiss under his ear lobe, sucking gently on the skin and feeling him let out a soft, labored gasp.

“Will you spoil me like this every time I’m hurt?” Sylus breathes.

You scowl and hiss, “no. Absolutely not. Then you’ll just get hurt more.”

He smiles smugly at the retort, biting his lip as you squeeze your fist around him tighter. “A smart little kitten, aren’t you? Sharpening your claws.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like me enough to worry. I think that says enough.”

“Asshole,” you glare.

He’s shameless, you think. Because the insult brings him to the edge, his mouth falling open to a beautiful face of bliss, body quivering under you in soft tremors of pleasure. Sylus is beautiful. Dark, rough around the edges, and uncut stone with sharp corners. Beautiful enough to want, dangerous enough to slice your fingers if you don’t know how to touch him properly.

You admire him as he spills into your hands, his lips desperately searching yours as he leans closer and pulls you into a kiss, heavy breaths pouring into your mouth as he gives himself to you.

“Good,” he pants, “you…you make me feel so good.”

“That’s what I’m supposed to be here for,” you murmur, “so you don’t have to feel pain.”

You stroke him through his orgasm, until he’s soft and pliant and limp under your touch. Gently, you stroke his cheek with a thumb as you cup his face. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes.

“As capable as you are,” he says quietly, “I like the idea of you spending your energy in other fields of expertise. Sue me.”

“I should,” you purse your lips. “Sue you for all you’re worth.”

“It’ll be worth the troubles,” he says smugly, “you’ll get quite the sum if you manage to.”

And he’s not a liar, either—so you scoff at his smug, truth-telling grin before giving his curved lips a small peck.

Girl . Idk

[mixingandmelting]

Hii,

I'm not sure if your requests are open but I wanted to ask you if you could write a Dick Grayson x reader one where the reader is the daughter of one of Bruce's business partners and they meet at some sort of charity gala and he's instantly smitten with her.

Feel free to ignore this if you have too much to do.

Thanks ❤️

Witty, charming, and someone who matches his humor. He didn’t think he’d hit the jackpot tonight. Initially he had simply wanted to keep you company after seeing you all alone at your table. He expected either shy and sheltered or spoiled and flirty.

“A table for one at a gala?”

“What do you mean? Can’t you see I’m actually with three others?”

“Oh really? And they are…?”

“Me, myself and I.”

It comes with a pleasant surprise how the roles reverse and it’s him getting entertained by you. He lost track of how long he stayed at your table, unable to stop himself from chatting with you. You’re where the party’s at in this boring event and it confuses him how no one else has attempted to strike up a conversation with you for this long. Not that he’s complaining; he’s plenty satisfied to have you to himself. Your jokes draw genuine laughter from him while your laughter is just as infectious. The way your eyes sparkle and crinkle as you do- he rests his head onto his hand, admiring it and not wanting it to disappear. He can’t get enough. 

There’s no barrier or rich people’s behavior seen despite you introducing yourself as the daughter of one of Bruce’s many business partners and him as Bruce Wayne’s adoptive son not too long ago. Not even an hour in and you both are acting as friends that haven’t seen each other in ages. Perhaps even more if he plays his cards right tonight. Take you out for a nice walk. Grab something to eat. If you’re into it, watch a movie. All of the ideas that come from him jesting about rich people never imagining or having no knowledge of what the common people do for fun only for you to snort about how else were you to learn to talk and behave like them then. 

“Earth to Dick?”

Oops. He flushes under the smirk that dances on your lips, caught red-handed for day-dreaming his date with you. Not that you’d know the last part, but still.

“Am I starting to bore you yet?”

Yet? This whole time you were trying to get rid of him? The grin you give as you take a sip of whatever’s in your flute tells him otherwise. Returning one of his own, he’s about to respond before someone behind him calls your name. 

Turning around are your parents, walking side-by-side with none other than Bruce who raises an eyebrow at him. Ugh. Great. He most definitely won’t hear the end of this one. Looking back at you, he catches a spark of wistfulness in your eyes that quickly disappears as you give him one last smile. 

“Seems like that’s my cue.”

“Wait.” He’s conscious with his grip on your arm, gentle yet firm to grab your attention. “If you’re into it, mind giving me your number and we can hang out later?”

You bite your lip when you’re thinking. Good to know; definitely something that won’t leave his mind for a while. He tries not to show how giddy he is when you extend your phone out towards him. Giving him a tiny wave, you leave while telling him you would text him. The rest of the night goes uneventful as he mingles with others, half paying attention to what they say as he continues to think about you. Others including his family who wouldn’t stop giving him crap. 

It’s once he reaches back to his place and comes out of the showers, he gets a text. Drying his hair with a towel in one hand, he looks to see your name with a sunglasses emoji under your number. His heart somersaults and he fist pumps the air. He can regret not sleeping tomorrow morning, for now all he wants is to talk to you and make the date between you and him a reality.

[thecradlequill]

I Struggle With Being a Dom

It's much harder for me than I wish it was. I'm naturally gentle and nurturing, and I love taking care of the people around me, especially if they're my submissive. And I have my sadistic side, the side that likes to tease and push and humiliate. I can be degrading and reassuring, rough and doting. I'll give snuggles and back rubs for hours, I'll write you little love letters expressing my appreciation and gratitude towards you. I'll give you a shoulder to lean and cry on. I will be your emotional rock.

But I'm not perfect. I'm messy and struggle to keep my house clean. I'm prone to swings of depression, where I feel like I'm worthless and need reassurance. I'm never enough but always too much. I don't remember to put the sheets on my bed, and I can't cook. You'd think I just need a housewife, someone to take care of the home while I go out and work, but I struggle with that too. I'm a struggling writer, and I don't have some big nest egg to support myself with.

I'm a dreamer. I dream big and struggle to bring those dreams to fruition. I want to hang out with my partner watching movies and playing games all day. I want to go out, but I need my partner to pick what we're doing. Otherwise, I'm bound to stay in, maybe invite a few folks over, but nothing crazy.

I'm forgetful. I can't give you a big list of rules, because I won't remember to keep track of them. I struggle with messaging people back, even though I want to. And conversations over text don't hold my interest the way in-person ones do. I can nurture and care, but I can't guide the way I wish I could. I can't be the one to keep a home or plan or organize. I'm a dreamer, and I need someone to help wrangle me in and keep me focused on the path.

But dominance is in my blood. I want to dote on my partner. I want to rub their back for hours and massage every inch of them. I want to be sadistic and make them bend to my every whim. I want to fuel their need to submit by giving them ways to please me, and rewarding them with praise when they do a good job. I want to love without holding back. But I worry that no one wants this. That I am too much of a mess to be anyone's dominant. That any submissive would feel more like they're caring for me than I am caring for them.

I don't have my life together, and I doubt I ever fully will. That's just not who I am. And because of that, I don't know where I fit in this community. I don't know what path forward there is for me here. The people who think I'm a good dom, a good caregiver, they don't see this side of me. They don't see how much of a mess I really am. I have so much going on mental health wise, things that I can't just solve, that will be with me in some form forever. And so far in my life, no one has wanted to deal with that. Or if they did want to, they couldn't handle it when things got hard.

I don't know if I can be a dominant if I am like this. I want to be, but I don't think I am what any submissive wants. I can't escape who I am at my core. I would just be faking anything else.

[nicoleshifting]

my walking dead alexandria dr

here's a little introduction to this dr, which is currently my main focus when shifting! I have partially shifted to this dr countless times.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

about me:

name: nicole blackwell

age: 24

s/o's: rick grimes and daryl dixon

my closest friends (other than rick and daryl) are rosita, sasha, maggie, and carol, but I pretty much get along with everyone in our group.

in general I have become quite an expert on array of weapons but my strong suit in this dr is being a sharp shooter.

some songs I associate with this dr:

✩champagne coast- blood orange

✩no. 1 party anthem- the arctic monkeys

✩kiss it better- rihanna

✩anything- adrianne leaker

✩BODYGUARD- beyoncé

(tw for suicide mentions)

background info:

prior to the apocalypse, I was in college majoring in creative writing and minoring in theater. during my senior year of college, my mental health took a major plummet and I found myself in the worst mental state I had ever been, struggling with the thought of what to do after graduation, trying to work a low-paying job, and already crippled by student loan debt.

when the apocalypse broke out, I was in an inpatient facility recovering from an attempt on my own life. (my mental health is something I have struggled with for a good portion of my life in both this dr and in my cr, and this was not something I had scripted into this dr, but something I found out about this reality via channeling. this is not something I take lightly/would script in randomly. this is something that is very relevant to my experience in my cr so that's all I will really say about that)

my survival instinct has kicked into overdrive in this new landscape I have found myself in, and though this world presents its own unique challenges as opposed to life before, it is a world I find myself thriving in more than ever before.

I started off with my family at the beginning of everything breaking out, but don't know what ended up happening to them. (this was something I learned via channeling) I then drifted between random groups of people and often found myself on my own for a while. I end up making my way to the prison that rick and the group had made a home in and am nearly at the end of the road myself as I find myself exhausted, injured, and struggling to even stand. daryl finds me in the woods outside the prison and ends up bringing me in, advocating for the group to aid me.

with reluctance, they do- under the pretense that I'll be hitting the road as soon as I'm better (spoiler alert- I'm not going anywhere).

some small canon divergences if anyone is curious: rick has no kids in this reality, tyrese is still alive and so is hershel (and he never lost a leg). in general, walkers are not very strong and relatively easy to overpower and have no strong smell (otherwise I think I would be blacking out from the stench). also negan/the saviors are nonexistent.

upon first shifting to this reality, it's the first day we have arrived in alexandria and are still adjusting to the community.

I feel like that's all the pertinent information for now. as I receive more information via downloads/channeling that I have an interest in sharing/feel comfortable sharing I will update this! (also as I continue to shift to this reality this may be updated as well lol).

[gundamthey17]

Day 5 of Payneland Promptfest 2024

I am in fact still working on the Payneland Promptfest 2024 prompts..... maybe I'll finish by December of 2025

Day 5: Snuggling (alive!au)

(the ao3 link has more info about the backstory for this au if anyone's curious. it's not super necessary for this fic, but i spent an inordinate amount of time on it because i am incapable of writing a story without context)

Summary: The Dead Boy Detectives (who are actually very much alive, thank you) find that the heat has broken in their flat-slash-office. 

xxx

23 December 1990

“Charles, do stop kicking the radiator.”

"You tried your way. Now it's my turn, innit."

Edwin, who was seated at the desk and holding the phone to his ear, sighed. "If tools were ineffective, I highly doubt blunt force will do the trick."

"Won't know until we try, will we?"

Edwin rolled his eyes as Charles continued kicking.

"What did maintenance say?" he asked between kicks.

"I am still on hold."

"Bloody brills."

Edwin pinched the bridge of his nose, a sure sign of a budding headache. Charles knew he ought to stop kicking the radiator, but he needed to vent his frustration somehow.

"You are not going to accomplish anything beyond potentially hurting yourself or breaking it further. If you would just be - yes, hello." Edwin motioned for Charles to be quiet. He covered one ear as he spoke into the phone. "Yes, that is correct. No, we still have power, just no heat... I beg your pardon?"

Charles looked up at the change in Edwin's tone. 'What?' he mouthed, but Edwin shook his head and continued speaking.

"But we have no heat! It is snowing, for heaven's sake! Is there no way you can - but I - very well. We will see you then." Edwin hung up the receiver with more force than was strictly necessary.

"What did they say?"

"As it is currently after business hours, and the start of a holiday, they cannot send anyone out to fix the heat until Wednesday."

"What? Can't you try the emergency maintenance number?"

"That was the emergency number. Apparently, lack of heat in December does not constitute an emergency," Edwin said, his voice dripping with contempt.

"What a load of bollocks!" Charles looked around their flat-slash-office. He shivered. "They seriously expect us to spend three days like this?"

"Evidently so."

"Bollocks," Charles said again.

Half an hour later, Edwin was still sitting at the desk. He had put on his coat, but otherwise seemed to be steadfastly ignoring the rapidly falling temperature inside the office.

Charles, wearing two jumpers and his jacket, had other ideas. He was in the process of raiding the bedroom and the closet for every single blanket they owned, and tossing them into a growing pile on the small couch. Even the tiny, crocheted throw blanket got added to the pile. (They had received it as partial payment for a case. It was canary-yellow and supposedly enchanted to always smell good without ever needing to be washed. It was too small to really make a difference, but Charles had already committed to finding every blanket, so onto the pile it went.) He muttered a steady stream of curses under his breath as he worked. When he had gathered every last blanket, and the couch itself was hardly visible anymore, he climbed into the middle of the pile and nestled himself in. Even after all of that, Charles was still shivering.

He also hadn’t grabbed anything to entertain himself with, or turned on the telly, before settling into his blanket nest. And once he was inside, he was loath to come out again. Surely, at some point, physics would take over and the blankets would have to start doing their job. Surely Edwin would finish whatever he was working on and – and what? Talk to him? Anything to occupy his mind and distract him from both the boredom and the bloody freezing office. He tried to wait it out, to be quiet and patient and let Edwin work.

He did not last long.

“Edwin,” Charles whined.

Edwin hummed but did not look up from his writing.

“I’m still cold.”

“And what exactly would you like me to do about that?”

It was a good question, that. Charles hadn’t actually thought about it. But the answer became immediately obvious. “Come sit with me.”

Edwin’s pen stopped. He glanced up at Charles. “What?” he asked, and there was a slight edge to his voice that Charles didn’t know how to interpret.

“Please? It’ll be warmer with both of us.”

"I find it improbable that you can still be cold under all those blankets."

"I've got bad circulation. Look!" Charles held out his hand. True to his word, his fingertips were pale and bloodless.

Edwin frowned at that, but he shook his head. “I am busy. We have a case, if you recall.”

“So? It’s a holiday, and clearly no one else is working. If emergency maintenance can take a holiday, we ought to be able to.”

“I am sorry, Charles. There is simply too much to do.” Edwin started writing again.

"Edwin! If you don't come over here, I'm gonna freeze to death."

"Charles," Edwin said in a scolding tone. "Given your history, you should not joke about such things."

"Given my history, I'm allowed to joke about such things," Charles retorted. "Come on, I know you’re cold too. I can see you shivering."

Edwin sat up straighter and pulled at the collar of his cardigan. “I am perfectly fine.”

Charles sighed. He suspected now that he knew the true cause of Edwin’s reluctance, but he was unsure if he ought to press the issue. The wind picked up, rattling the window, and Charles shuddered reflexively. Abandoning caution, he said, "Look, mate, I know you don't like touching, but if there was ever a time -"

"I never said I don't like touching," Edwin said quickly.

Charles looked at him curiously. "Didn't have to say it, did you. You go stiff every time I so much as pat your shoulder."

Edwin set down his pen and pressed his fingertips together. "I... am not used to it," he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. "But that doesn't mean I do not like it."

“Would you be willing to give it a shot? Please?” Charles hated the note of desperation that had crept into his voice. “I’m really bloody cold, mate.”

Edwin sighed and stood up. "Let me put the kettle on, and then I'll join you."

"Aces!" Charles couldn’t keep the grin off his face.

—--

Charles made an opening in his mountain of blankets so that Edwin would be able to sit next to him on the couch. Edwin handed him a steaming mug of tea and took his seat. They wrapped the blankets around themselves, their shoulders just barely brushing together.

Charles stared pensively out the office window at the falling snow. "Do you ever think about what would happen if we got caught? Do they arrest people for truancy? Or would they just split us up and force us to go back to our parents?"

"I think the latter is the most likely, though I shudder to think of the consequences. My father would have me institutionalized."

"For reals?" Charles turned to look at Edwin, but Edwin's eyes remained focused on the opposite wall.

He nodded. "He said as much before sending me to the school." They never mentioned St. Hilarion's by name if they could help it. "Said it was my last chance to prove that I could be... normal."

Charles snorted derisively. Then, feeling like that wasn't enough to fully communicate his disgust, he added, "That's bollocks."

"That is all assuming, of course, that the demon does not find me first." They never used Sa'al's name either. Edwin was unsure whether it could hear its name being spoken, and neither of them were keen to find out.

"That thing is not gonna take you away from me. Not a chance in – well, you-know-where." He gave a crooked grin.

The ghost of a smile flitted across Edwin's face. He took a cautious sip of his tea before asking, "And what about your parents?"

With a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, Charles said, "My dad would probably just beat me senseless. He’s done it for lesser offenses." He shrugged, feigning nonchalance, and let out a single, humorless chuckle. 

Edwin finally looked at him. "I will make sure that never happens again," he said fiercely.

Not quite knowing what to say, Charles nodded. "Cheers to that," he muttered, lifting his mug.

"It is irrelevant anyway. We are not going to be caught. We are presumed dead; no one is looking for us. We just have to make it for another year, and then we will be of age and we won't have to worry about the police or our parents."

"And we're gonna figure out how to undo a demon sacrifice, so we won't have to worry about that bastard anymore either."

Edwin's brow knitted. "I do not know if the ritual can be nullified without the caster. Since Simon and the others are all dead, it may not be possible."

"We will figure out a way. I promise."

Edwin suddenly pushed the blankets off and stood up. Charles’ face crumpled as he feared he’d gone too far. Edwin noticed and smiled placatingly. "It is all right. I'm just getting a book."

Charles sighed, relieved. He smiled too, a genuine one this time. "Brills! How about another one of those Poirot stories? I like him. He's a fun chap."

"He is a fun chap," Edwin agreed. He grabbed a large hardcover book from the bookshelf nearest to the desk, and returned to the couch.

Charles shifted under the mound of blankets so that he could put his arm around Edwin's shoulders. "This okay?" he asked quietly.

Edwin nodded. He cautiously leaned back against Charles' arm before opening the book. "What about The Adventure of the Clapham Cook? I do not believe we have read that one yet."

"Don't think so. Let's hear it."

Edwin cleared his throat. "At the time that I was sharing rooms with my friend Hercule Poirot, it was my custom to read aloud to him the headlines in the morning newspaper, the Daily Blare.”

—

Several short stories later, Charles had fallen asleep. His head lolled against Edwin's shoulder. Edwin was surprised to find himself feeling quite comfortable. Between the blankets and their combined body heat, he hardly noticed the frigid temperature of the room. He gently set the book aside. Then, hesitantly, he rested his head against Charles'. Charles did not stir. With Charles' comforting warmth next to him, and his soft curls under Edwin's cheek, Edwin closed his eyes. Soon, he too fell asleep.

[margridarnauds]

Something I'm tossing around in my head re: Chat GPT and academia is that...in some ways, I think it's a symptom, rather than the root problem. Not just of the structural ways that mainstream pedagogy + the general structure of academia (particularly in the States) sets some students up to fail, but in the way that a lot of work, even at the graduate and above level, is in itself treated as a product to be cranked out in the least amount of time possible as opposed to a work of dedication and love that requires thought and care and intricate research.

You want to get an undergrad degree? Crank out ~2-3 essays a year. These can be varying degrees of research, because the point is you need to get them in NOW and you need to get them in QUICKLY and you can't take any more time to do them than necessary.

(And for students who are later along in their academic careers, writing 8-10 page papers is nothing, but to that undergrad who's stepped into class for the first time? It might be the most complicated thing they've written.)

You want a PhD? Crank out that dissertation, and don't you DARE take longer than you should. How can you do it? We don't know, our obligation to you is over at five years. Also, you have a semester to come up with a ~25 page prospectus that gives a detailed plan for your dissertation before you can even begin WRITING it, which you'll have to get approved by your committee, so good luck!

Also, don't forget, while you're doing that, you need to keep submitting articles for publication, which you will, of course, have to format individually according to the style guideline of the journal you're publishing to! Publish or perish, so keep your head above the tide or you'll end up drowning!

And, on top of that, expect to write ~ten page presentations for conferences! Don't worry, you don't need to cite your sources TOO rigorously for this one, but you are going to need to make sure you know what you're talking about, otherwise you might be humiliated in front of the scholars you want to impress! Write, write, write! Create that Powerpoint!

You want academic tenure? Crank out that monograph! And don't forget to do it sooner rather than later while ALSO publishing articles and coming up with teaching plans!

Also, don't forget, with everything that you write, that it should be on something popular! Something in keeping with the latest trends, so you can be on the cutting edge! Wanted to do something else? Why did you enter academia if you wanted to follow your own research ideas?

And the point isn't that I think that Chat GPT is GOOD or that it SHOULD be used to write an entire paper. Frankly, I dummied a dissertation outline on it (note: my uni account...which I still hate that they provided for us...doesn't use it to train data, meaning that the environmental impact is minimal) and it was bland as fuck, factually inaccurate, and dated. I DON'T use it because, beyond the morality or ethics of the situation (which I think are more complicated than a black and white "It's harmless" or "It is an actual technological death cult aiming for world domination"), on a purely pragmatic level, my field is TERRIBLE for it.

RATHER my point is that it's hard to take arguments about the sanctity of human creativity seriously SPECIFICALLY with regards to academia when it's an industry that has systematically pried human creativity out of itself and encouraged creating an unsustainably massive amount of work at once if you want to survive and even though I am going to do everything possible to make sure my students DON'T use it for their assignments as a primary tool...I can kind of get why they would be drawn to it beyond just "they're lazy."

[coraniaid]

Actually, on reflection, I think I'm persuaded that the "poor Willow is a magical junkie now and it's not her fault :(" subplot in Season 6 is, contrary to what I've said before, actually the worst multi-episode subplot on Buffy.

Say what you like about the other two contenders for that honor: the non-mystery of "is Giles really the First Evil and why hasn't anyone thought to check yet?" or the banality of "shall we engage seriously with the fact Spike has a soul now and how that might change him as a person, or shall we just say that a mean ghost hypnotized him?". But neither of those plots involve a woman telling her significant other (and I am really not paraphrasing much at all here) "I don't like that you used magic to violate my mind and rob me of my ability to consent to our relationship, because it's not good for you".

Moreover:

While the two Season 7 subplots are both pretty bad and boring to watch and are certainly part of why I don't enjoy that season, I don't think removing or somehow rewriting either of them would automatically make the season much better. By contrast, the Willow subplot of Season 6 is the worst thing about that season -- one which I think otherwise had a lot of potential and is arguably the most ambitious season the show ever did -- and fixing it would improve the season as a whole a lot.

The Willow subplot also takes up a lot more of the show overall than the two Season 7 subplots do. Giles as the First is a complete waste of everyone's time, but it's also fully resolved in less than half a dozen episodes (we first get the fake out that Giles might be dead in Never Leave Me, the ninth episode of the season, and we see that he isn't in The Killer In Me, the thirteenth episode). The Spike hypnotic trigger lasts a lot longer, but it still over within about half a season. But the Willow subplot dominates most of Season 6 and also continues to have ramifications for WIllow's character development (or lack thereof) for the rest of the show.

It's easy, I think, to understand why the writers resorted to the two Season 7 plots. They needed some excuse for Buffy's friends to not trust Spike, but for various reasons are committed to the idea that having a soul means Spike himself is now inherently Good and Blameless and so the reasons not to trust him can't be related to anything he's ever chosen to do himself, it has to be something done to him against his will. And the writers obviously stopped caring about Giles as a character with any sort of inner life the very minute ASH asked to be partially written out of the show so he could move back to England. I honestly don't believe the writers were capable of writing good subplots for either Giles or Spike by this point, even if they'd tried. But the Willow subplot comes out of nowhere and completely derails what was going to be a really interesting story line about Willow that the show had been patiently building towards since at least Season 3 and arguably even longer.

More broadly, both the Season 7 plots are bad in part because they are attempts to make the First -- previously a forgettable monster of the week whose primary powers included 'making people who have done bad things feel suitably bad' and 'not being able to touch anything'; a plot device which Buffy herself already rightly dismissed as all talk all the way back in Season 3 ("I get it. You're evil. Do we have to chat about it all day?"). Of course they're not successful attempts: there's no way to make the First as menacing and important as the writers wish it was. Being annoyed at the way they fail almost seems like missing the point.

Most importantly, I can more cheerfully ignore the two Season 7 subplots because I don't really care about either Spike or Giles at this point of the show's run. But I like Willow, so it bothers me more that she's subjected to all this dreadfully bad writing and that her character never really quite recovers from it.

[kulliare]

timeline anon back again! Omg I feel the same the whole of 2×06 I was watching it thinking. That's just John mulaney and Sarah Paulton. What're they doing here? It was wacky

I think you're right about the writers retconning or straight up forgetting their own details lol..but my timeline idea is so rough it's basically. Carmy moves out at 19 or 20, goes to New York or somewhere first for a few years -> (but not the s1 nightmare New York stuff) -> goes to Copenhagen -> 2×06 Christmas Dinner is the same year as copenhagen (w luca! I did really like that detail hehe. Amazed Carmy had any friends 💀) -> afterwards he dives back to New York to escape his family and works at the scary Chef Joel place all the way up until Mikeys death and then he returns to The Beef. Hm. Sort of a rough mess but that's the way it makes sense in my head

Hope you're having a nice soup day too!

it honestly took me out of it a little bit. i don't know sarah but whenever john was on screen i was like... huh.. what.. but i was still too confused by the chaos to really care and it still was an a+ ep

agree with carmy leaving around that age-- i think he does go to culinary school during that time (he's worked at the bear for awhile so he would be considered a good option, might be able to get scholarship bc of that? im so sorry to the ppl who actually work in kitchens i feel like an academic trying to talk abt something on my high horse and getting all the details wrong) but with his like emphasis on learning fundamentals in kitchens it makes sense.

tbh i imagine w luca its like. linkedin friends but it counts for carmy he needs a W wherever he can get lol. and it really was nice to hear people did have good impressions of carmy like.. i wish he could've heard that too but i guess it would've also fed into his idea that work is the only way he can get any value like. ugh nasty boy. i kind of like that he ended up being a bit more nasty this season but i think it's bc i like unlikeable protags in small doses

WHAT I REALLY wonder is how they're going to handle s3-- i think i'd actually be happy for it to end at s3 bc i'm terrified of shows generally losing the plot and main character ideas as the show goes on. i liked s2 but in my brain i'm still treating s1 as main canon and s2 a possibility of what might've happened because of the Fear.

my wants for carmy are for him to actually get more into therapy, but i doubt that's going to happen before he has a final breakdown that finally gets him to finally realize he can't live like this. one interesting detail that i don't think will come up in the show is that noma is actually closing due to similar issues that the bear brings up-- if they bring it up i think it'll be interesting but at the same time i want carmy to actually break down and not too worked up over minor interesting facts

[clarionglass]

here we go :) part one of three, updates to be released weekly!

---

sam says 4 (game master cinematic universe, part 3)

Ruby was at her mum's for a family dinner she couldn't miss on pain of death, apparently, and the Doctor was many things, but a family dinner kind of guy wasn't one of them—particularly when Carla had already slapped him once in the short time he'd known her. He thought he'd broken his streak of bad luck with mums, but… well, seemingly not. So he was companionless for a few hours, and while he could wait for her to get back, maybe catch up on his reading—what was the point of waiting when you had a time machine? 

He ran his hands over the TARDIS console, marvelling at her clean lines and metallic flourishes, the way that even now she felt brand new but familiar, and paused. He’d just pop off for a quick adventure, nothing too dangerous, but—where to go?

He could scan for a distress call nearby, and pitch in to help. He could drop in on Donna and Shaun and Rose, beautiful Rose, and see how they were all doing. Or he could just hit the randomiser button, and jump in feet first wherever he ended up.

He remembered a conversation from a long time ago, when he wore a different face, and his gorgeous TARDIS wore a face too, for the first and only time.

“You didn't always take me where I wanted to go.”

“No, but I always took you where you needed to go.”

He grinned. Who could resist an offer like that? He pressed the button and whooped as the time rotor spun into action, ready to see where the universe would take him.

---

Apparently, he was needed pretty close to where he already was. Earth, 2024. Huh. Same planet, same time—within a few months of where he’d left Ruby, even. The main thing that had changed was the location: he was now in the good old US of A. California, to be more specific, and Los Angeles to be more specific still. And to really narrow it down, the Doctor discovered as he poked his head out of the TARDIS doors, he was in… a broom closet. Not bad, as a parking spot—a bit squeezy, but out of the way. And as he poked his head out of that door, he could finally see he was in the backstage corridors of a studio of some kind. Film or TV, if he was to hazard a guess, it was a different vibe from Abbey Road.

With a shrug, he decided to go exploring.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute before a young woman wearing the full-black outfit, headset, and permanently stressed expression of a production assistant came running up to him.

“Are you the fill-in Sam organised?” she asked breathlessly, and honestly, seeing the look on her face, the Doctor didn’t have the heart(s) to tell her no. And really, what was the Doctor, if not a professional fill-in? This, this was why he had a randomiser button on the control panel, because whatever he was about to get himself into was going to be fun.

“Sure!”

“Oh, thank god,” sighed the production assistant, relief dawning across her face. “When Ally tested positive this morning, I thought we were sunk for the record, because we called around and we couldn’t get a hold of anyone. But then Sam said he could get someone in, and, you know, here you are, and just in time, so—ah, yeah, if you could follow me this way?”

Smiling all the way, the Doctor followed his guide through to hair and makeup, looking around as they went. The studio seemed to belong to a company called Dropout, according to the branding scattered around, and things seemed, at least on the surface, to be… well. Fine. He couldn't tell why he'd been brought here yet, which meant that when he found the reason, it was going to be particularly tangled. He couldn't wait! 

And then he looked back at his guide, still engulfed in a miasma of anxiety, and realised he'd been too busy looking for clues to notice the person right in front of him. 

“Hey, it's cool, you've found me,” he started with a gentle smile. “You can relax. Hi, I'm the Doctor. What's your name?”

“Oh!” she said, startled. “The Doctor, yeah, of course. Um, hi, I'm Kaylin. Look, sorry, it's just that I've been so busy this morning, I'm so distracted… Shit, and I would've completely forgotten to get your details too. There's paperwork to fill in, but you can do that later. Um, just for now, though, can I get your pronouns?”

The Doctor thought for a moment. “He/him, for now.”

Kaylin nodded, making a note on her phone. “Okay, cool! And do you have any socials?”

“Not me, babes,” he replied. “I'm hardly sitting down long enough to be able to update, you know?”

“On a day like this, I know exactly what you mean,” she said. “That's okay, Lou didn't have socials either for the longest time. Right, so if you go through there, the team will get you sorted, and once you're done, someone will take you up to the greenroom. All good?”

“All great,” the Doctor replied. Kaylin flashed him a quick, relieved smile, then hurried off.

Hair and makeup was a fairly quick process, the sound mixer fitted him with a microphone, and before too long, Kaylin was back to take him upstairs. 

“This is the greenroom,” she said, pushing the door open. “The rest of the cast for the episode are already here—they’re great guys, and they’ve both been on the show a lot, so they’ll be able to help if you’ve got questions. And if you need anything else, just come find me or any of the other PAs, okay?”

The Doctor nodded, beamed at Kaylin, and walked in.

---

The greenroom was small but comfortable, and its occupants, two men around the same age as the Doctor appeared, looked up as he entered.

“Oh, you’re new,” the taller of the pair said, clearly giving him the once-over.

The other sighed with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, just as clearly used to his friend’s antics.

“Hey, I’m Brennan,” he said, levering himself up to standing from his perch on a chair arm, and holding out a hand. “That’s Grant.”

The Doctor took it warmly. “The Doctor. Just passing through, and happy to help.”

Grant’s eyebrows quirked. “Doctor… something?” he prompted.

“Or is it just ‘the Doctor’?” Brennan asked.

“Just ‘the Doctor’,” the Time Lord confirmed cheerfully. “You’ll get used to it, everyone does.”

Grant didn’t look convinced, but—

“Copy that,” Brennan shrugged, and settled back on the arm of the chair, returning his gaze to the door.

Grant, in turn, looked at the Doctor and rolled his eyes in a clear expression of ‘no, I don’t know why he’s like this, either’.

“Okay,” the Doctor said after a moment of watching the watching. “I wasn’t going to ask, but now I think I have to. What’s up with the door?”

Brennan huffed a laugh. “Well, the last time there was one of those up—” he pointed to the Out of Order sign stuck to the bathroom door, “—we got locked in here for the game.”

“He’s paranoid,” Grant interjected.

“Well, yeah, maybe,” Brennan retorted. “Or just cautious. Because Sam’s been acting weird lately, and we’re coming up to the last few records of the season, so he’s probably planning something way out of the box for the finale. And the original cast was you, me and Beardsley, so…”

He shrugged one shoulder meaningfully, and Grant nodded, conceding both the point and the potential for chaos.

“So if Sam comes in to give us the briefing, rather than waiting til we’re on set,” Brennan continued, “or there’s anything else weird going on, I’m gonna know about it right from the beginning.”

He turned to the Doctor. “The only reason I'm not quizzing you is because I know for a fact Beardsley was genuinely scheduled for this, so you can't be a plant by the production team. No offence.”

“None taken,” the Doctor smiled. “That sort of thing happen often, does it?”

Grant and Brennan exchanged a look. 

“More than you'd think,” Grant answered with a grimace. 

“Alright,” the Doctor said slowly, then brightened. “So what is it we're actually doing?”

Grant gave him a disbelieving glance. “You don't know—?”

“Very last minute fill-in,” the Doctor said breezily. “But don't worry, I'm a quick study.”

“Well, you're not that much worse off than the rest of us,” Brennan said encouragingly. “You know about Game Changer, obviously, if you know Sam, and we only find out the rules of the game once we get on set. Hopefully,” he added, with a dark look back at the Out of Order sign. 

The Doctor nodded. No, he didn't know Sam, and he didn't know Game Changer, but he could work out the situation from context clues. This was a game show. And with the Toymaker banished, and Satellite Five not coming into existence for another 198000 years, give or take, he found himself smiling. Maybe third time would be the charm. 

“Mmm, hopefully they aren't going to throw you in the deep end,” Grant said. “Because Brennan might seem lovely now, but as soon as we get out there, he's a whore for points. He'll stab you in the back and won't even blink.”

Brennan barked with laughter. “Yeah, and you wouldn't?”

“Excuse you, I'm always a goddamn delight,” Grant replied, the very picture of injured dignity. 

“Oh, absolutely!” agreed a new voice. The Doctor turned to the now-open door to see a bearded man in a pinstriped suit smiling broadly. “That's why we keep inviting you back!”

Grant bowed sarcastically. “Why, thank you, Sam. Good to know I'm appreciated by someone here.”

“Always,” Sam replied, gently but firmly ending that particular path of the conversation. He scanned the room, and his eyes lit up when they landed on the Doctor. 

“Ah, you must be the Doctor!” he said with obvious delight, walking over with his hand outstretched. “I'm Sam—thanks for filling in for us, you've made sure we're going to have a good show. Seriously, it's a pleasure to have you here.”

“Aw, cheers!” the Doctor smiled, shaking the offered hand. “Glad I could help out, I'm really looking forward to this!”

“Well, great!” Sam exclaimed, then took a step back, regarding all three players in turn. “Now, folks, I'm just letting you know that we're just about ready to start the record, so if you can start heading down, that'd be great.”

Grant and Brennan nodded—Brennan, the Doctor noticed, with relief. 

“See you down there,” Sam said, smiling. “Have a great show, and—”

His eyes caught on the Doctor's for a second, twinkling. 

“Good luck.”

---

Backstage, the Doctor, Brennan and Grant were marshalled into podium order and given a final briefing from the crew. And then, with a thumbs-up from Kaylin, that was it.

Showtime.

“Get ready for a Game Changer!” came Sam's voice from onstage. “Tonight’s guests: he can shoot off a monologue with laser accuracy; it’s Brennan Lee Mulligan!”

Brennan, his back to the camera as the curtains opened, spun on his heel and, with a stone-cold expression, pointed finger guns straight down the barrel, before letting the facade crack open. “Hi!” he exclaimed, and walked over to the leftmost podium.

“It’s his first appearance, but he’s already on fire; it’s the Doctor!”

The Doctor leant against the archway to the stage and flashed a broad smile towards the camera, then in a few skipping steps, had bounded over to the next free podium. What the hell, why not make an entrance?

“And even in the toughest of mazes, you’ll always be able to find him; it’s Grant O’Brien!”

Grant dipped his lanky frame into an approximation of a curtsey, spreading his arms wide, then sauntered over to the closest podium with a grin.

“And your host, me!” Sam announced, a ring of manic white showing around his irises as he beamed down the barrel of the camera. “I’ve been here the whole time!”

“This,” he continued, pushing his microphone shut and stowing it in his jacket pocket, “is Game Changer, the only game show where the game changes every show. I am your host, Sam Reich!” 

As he said his name, he looked at his hands, front and back, as if he was pleasantly surprised to be himself, then gestured towards the three podiums.

“I am joined today by these three lovely contestants! Now, you understand how the game works.”

“Of course not,” Grant started. “You know we don't.”

“We can't, Sam, that's the whole point of the theatre you've set up here,” Brennan said over him. 

“Not yet,” was all the Doctor said, anticipation starting to drum a tattoo of excitement against the inside of his ribcage. 

“That’s right!” Sam said brightly, shooting finger guns at the camera. “Our players have no idea what game it is they’re about to play. The only way to learn is by playing. The only way to win is by learning, and the only way to begin is by beginning! So without further ado, let’s begin by giving each of our players fifty points.”

The Doctor, biding his time, watched the reactions of his fellow contestants. Grant looked at the front of his podium, checking the point total, and nodding approvingly when he saw that yes, it was sitting at a round fifty. Brennan, on the other hand, was starting to frown.

“Players, Sam says: touch your nose,” Sam began, and Brennan sighed the sigh of someone who wasn’t happy to be proved right.

“Oh, no,” he groaned. “Oh, you son of a bitch. Wasn’t one this season enough?”

He touched his nose anyway, as did the others, and Sam smiled encouragingly. “Sam says: touch your ear.”

When they all did, Sam nodded. “Touch your other ear.”

Everybody held still, fingers on the ears they had originally touched.

Sam beamed. “Easy, players, right?”

“You say that now,” Brennan said darkly. “Which makes it worse, because all you're doing is setting us up for failure.”

Sam gasped, pretending offence. “Would I do that?”

“Yes,” Brennan and Grant replied in unison, which drew a grin from the Doctor and set Sam off chuckling.

“And I'm not having it,” Brennan continued, leaning his elbows against his podium and pointing at Sam with the hand not touching his ear. “You better watch yourself, because I know how this game works, and you're not going to get one over on me.”

“Strong words, Brennan!” Sam said, clearly delighted by this response. “Okay, then, let's start making things a bit more interesting!”

The game continued as per Sam Says usual, some rounds done as a group and some individual. Points were won, sure, but lost slightly more frequently, and even the Doctor found he was having to concentrate to avoid getting caught in the host's traps. 

It was fun. Genuinely, it was like playing a game with friends, and the Doctor felt himself leaning into it. There wasn't any sign of danger—maybe there wasn't a mystery to solve at all, and the TARDIS just decided he needed a total break. 

Well, probably not. But the way things were going, he was able to let himself hope. 

“Alright, players,” Sam said a good few rounds in, just as pleasantly as he would start any other question, and the screen behind him dinged as a new prompt popped up. “Survive the death beam.”

For a second, everything was frozen perfectly still. 

And then came the crash, the explosive noise of heavy machinery moving relentlessly through a drywall set.

The Doctor was already moving. “Everyone down!”

“Duck!” Brennan yelled at the same time.

The two of them hit the ground within milliseconds of each other, but Grant was still paralysed in the face of the giant, science-fiction type laser cannon that had just ploughed through the wall. 

It whined ominously, screaming its way to fever pitch. And then a sharp pain in Grant’s ankle made him stagger, pitching forwards onto the carpet behind the podiums as the Doctor rolled away to avoid getting pinned.

“Sorry, babes,” the Doctor whispered. “But it was either kick you to get you down, or—”

A hideous metallic screech ripped through the air, and all three of them could feel the crackle of ozone as a beam of energy swept across what had, moments ago, been neck height.

“…Or that,” the Doctor finished with a grimace.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Grant breathed, suddenly very conscious of every inch of his 6’9 frame. “Thanks.”

“Well done, players!” Sam exclaimed delightedly from above them. “But… sorry, I didn’t say ‘Sam says’, so that’s a point off for everyone.”

“What the fuck!” Brennan snapped.

“Are you actually insane?” Grant demanded at the same time, his voice overlapping with Brennan’s.

In response, Sam just wheezed with laughter. “You can come back to your podiums,” he said, cheerfully ignoring them.

Nobody moved.

“Very good!” he acknowledged, and even without seeing his face, the grin was obvious in his voice. “Okay, Sam says: come back to your podiums.”

Although the words were innocuous, and his tone was just as light and breezy as usual, there was nevertheless an edge hiding just underneath the surface. And while the death beam loomed large in the minds of all three players, it was impossible to consider disobedience as an option.

Slowly, they stood, returning to their places. Now they had the time to look at it properly, the death beam was even more sinister, and Brennan and Grant both kept flicking nervous glances its way, ready to move if it looked like it was charging up again.

The Doctor, however, was focused purely on the man standing in front of them. Unbothered, Sam met his gaze like a challenge, a mischievous smile playing about his lips.

“Oh, you’ll love this one,” he said, and the screen changed. “Sam says, starting with Grant: say my name.”

Grant frowned in confusion, but answered quickly nonetheless. “Sam Reich?”

The man himself shrugged tolerantly, moving on. “Brennan?”

Brennan just stared at him coolly. “Do you take me for a fool?”

“Well caught, Brennan!” Sam said happily. “Sam says: say my name.”

“Sam,” Brennan replied, suspicion clear in his voice. “Samuel Dalton Reich.”

He nodded, still with a hint of indifference. “And lastly, Doctor.” His smile broadened. “Sam says: say my name.”

It was easy. Too easy. And as the Doctor looked into the eyes of the man calling himself Sam Reich, he felt his hearts stutter in recognition, because something had changed. He wasn’t hiding himself anymore, and while the face was different yet again, the Doctor would know the shape of that soul anywhere. It was impossible. It was inevitable.

“You can’t be,” he breathed. 

Sam smirked, leaning in across his podium. “Oh, but Doctor… I’ve been here the whole time,” he stage-whispered with a wink.

“He said you lost,” the Doctor said, shaking his head, looking wrong-footed for the first time that Brennan and Grant could recall. “You lost, and he trapped you.”

The other two watched, uncomprehending, but Sam just smiled, drumming his fingers against the podium with an audible beat, fast but distinct. Four taps, four taps, four taps. “I’m waiting.”

The Doctor took a slow, deep breath. Set his jaw. 

“Master.”

---

missed an installment of the game master cinematic universe?

original idea by @ace-whovian-neuroscientist: x

art by @northernfireart concept: x scissor sisters sketch: x sam and his doppelganger: x

writing by me (!) part one (escape the greenroom): x part two (deja vu): x part three (sam says 4): you are here!

[benevolenterrancy]

hi!! I think your art is *so cool* o(≧∇≦o)

do you think you could draw more moshang? either post canon or that au you did last time?? (baby mobei has my heart and all I own)

(˵ •̀ ᴗ •́ ˵ ) oh! how about return to childhood—moshang flavor?

don't question this king, shang qinghua, he knows what he's about

[stellar-collective]

Feel free to take this time on this request. /gen

Since your Phoenix can come back from the dead, I wonder if you can draw Reginald's reaction to finding out about Phoenix's multiple deaths.

(How he finds out is up to you. But if you want an idea: Zoraxis memory reading machine upon Phoenix getting captured.)

rule number one of being a handler: never, ever panic in front of the agent. if you stay frosty, then they won’t panic either. Reginald is going to hang on to these feelings and quietly have a crisis once they’re safely back at base, where Phoenix will never know.

[dazais-guardian-angel]

Chapter 110 is 13 pages long welcome to hell!!! so in a lot of ways this is just more fuel for a theory that I've had for a few weeks now, that's only gotten stronger with each recent season 5 episode, which is that the last episode of the season is gonna end on 110, and that Asagiri/Harukawa and Bones have been collaborating to make this happen, specifically because it's a major turning point that would be the only good place to end the season on.

When we started getting especially long chapters again (like from 25-35ish pages, with the exception of 107.5, the last two being some of the longest we've ever had), at first I just assumed that Asagiri/Harukawa got freed up from some other obligations they'd been having to cause the extremely short/half chapters, like promotional stuff for the anime/Beast movie, or working on light novels. But then 109 happened, with the "supposed" death of Dazai, and heavy emphasis at the end on how literally everyone is at their lowest point right now, and I got to thinking. 11 episodes is a strangely specific number for an anime season -- why not 12, or 13, or even 10, like you'd usually see? Why have we gotten suddenly gotten two 35 page chapters out of nowhere, that's almost unheard of at this point? They're both beautiful chapters, don't get me wrong (as always), and maybe A/H simply just didn't want to cut them in halves because they felt like the full emotional impact wouldn't hit/that there were no good cutoff points in them, but you can't deny that it's surprising, after all the shorter chapters we've been getting. Why has the anime been going at such insanely breakneck pacing for the most part ever since around the Sunday Tragedy chapters, even more so than it has in the past? So much so that it feels dangerously close to overtaking the manga?

Well, maybe, just maybe, it's because..... Asagiri decided a long time ago that whatever happens in 110 is the only point that feels "season finale"-worthy enough, in an arc that still isn't anywhere close to being completely wrapped up, and so both the manga and the anime have been specifically coordinated to reach that part within 2 and a half weeks of each other?

I've seen a lot of people now think season 5 will end with 109, and as much as my sadistic side would find that hilarious, I honestly don't think they'd do that and realistically don't want it to happen; it'd be so cruel to cliffhanger the anime for years like that, and just doesn't feel like a season cliffhanger BSD would do, a series that is ultimately hopeful and uplifting. Seasons 2 and 3 had a positive, conclusive ending; the only reasons seasons 1 and 4 didn't was because they're technically not really full seasons of their own, and are more like the first cour of another "season" that also came out that same year (seasons 1 and 2 both aired in 2016, so they're more like one big season, and seasons 4 and 5 have both aired this year, so they're also more like one big season, again taking into account how episodes 12 and 50 are not satisfying finales like episodes 24, 37, and hypothetically, 61, are). I really can't see season 5 ending with Dazai and Fukuzawa's supposed deaths, Sigma being unconscious and maybe close to death, Atsushi being vulnerable and limbless again, everyone we love still vampires, and the entire world being basically doomed; that's just too depressing and not like BSD at all. However, having said that, if it doesn't end there, there really isn't any good place to end the season before that, either, that feels in any way satisfying or like a finale at all. And so, to me, that only leaves after 109: chapter 110.

I think things are really gonna turn around next chapter. Like I said, everyone is at their lowest point right now, it cannot possibly get any worse, the framing of Dazai, Fukuzawa, and sskk at the end of 109 is telling us that; this is the time for the heroes to finally start winning again, with Aya being so close to pulling out the sword, and for all the thematic reasons other people have talked about to death that I don't need to go into here again. This upcoming chapter being so short again makes a part of me wary of 110 being "the one", so to speak, I won't lie, but at the same time, it's very possible that it needs to be that short because that's all the final episode of the season will be able to reasonably fit in, since it's already gonna be VERY close if they do make it all the way to 109. And at the end of the day, I don't doubt at all that Asagiri and Harukawa can make these the most monumental and game-changing mere 13 pages ever if they wanted to; a chapter does not at all need to be extremely long in order to be an important and impactful one, even if short ones we've gotten in the past haven't felt the most important.

An additional thought I've had, though this is much more crack territory than all this already is, is that since we know from Anime Expo that a Stormbringer movie at some point is highly likely (judging from Asagiri's reaction when someone brought it up), it's possible that chapter 110 and thus the final episode will involve the long-anticipated return of Verlaine and/or Adam, or at least some other major reference to Stormbringer, that would naturally and smoothly lead into a Stormbringer movie to explain things to people who haven't read the novel. It would make a lot of sense, especially since the s4 OP has the Old World sign behind Chuuya, which might be a hint that this has been in the works ever since seasons 4/5 were first in planning with Asagiri. We also know that Dazai and Chuuya's voice actors apparently struggled to record their lines together this season, which probably relates to 101 and possibly 109, but it could be 110 too.... I could be very wrong, as I'm no expert on this kind of thing, but I kinda doubt they would bring Chuuya's actor in for just the vampire growls, and Asagiri placing heavy emphasis on Chuuya's importance this season in that one interview gives me the impression that he's talking about much more than just 101/109. But that's the least solid evidence I have, that's just mostly based on vibes I get.

So basically, I think a lot of factors -- the unusual episode count, how close the anime is to catching up to the manga with three whole episodes left, the seemingly arbitrary recent chapter lengths, and the climactic events of 109 -- can tell us that 110 might be a very, VERY big deal. Again, there's of course no way this arc is anywhere near close to being finished, with so much left to address and resolve, but since it is currently incomplete in the manga, unlike the previously adapted arcs, if the anime was going to adapt it at all, they'd have to find a place that feels satisfying enough to end this season, knowing there won't be more anime for a long time after this, and so I think they specifically planned for that, from both Bones' and A/H's sides. 10 episodes might not have been enough to reach that point, but 12 or 13 might have been too many it wouldn't have been if Bones actually decided to slow down and let the story breathe the way it needs to, but this post isn't meant to criticize the anime, so maybe 11 was just right. And maybe Asagiri and Harukawa specifically pushed to make recent chapters longer than usual, in order to make sure that the manga reached the story content in 110 the monthly release right before season 5 was to end.

Is this just copium? Absolutely. Am I going to look like an absolute clown in two days when this post ages like milk? Probably. But the evidence is There, so let me just enjoy my delusions until Sunday, okay 🥂🫡

[orange-artblog]

I wrote a little thing :D (it‘s a little sad… sorry! (not)) (and possibly also ooc) (and not finished!) vAim belongs to @zu-is-here / Axel belongs to @ari-cuno /writing by me

Another loud explosion echoes in the half-ruins of what once was a peaceful, neutral AU. The loud sounds have already become background noise. Maybe one day he‘ll lose his hearing because of this, but it‘s the least of his concerns right now.

What was he feeling? How will he ever tell? He misses them again. So dearly

The prankster that had said he knew his father hadn‘t shown up again since their first encounter, quite some years ago. Perhaps he had imagined him, hallucinated just another figure in his never-ending misery. It would make sense, that he was starting to lose it. He‘s not even sure anymore what‘s going on.

Heh, never-ending. It really felt like that. On some days, it was so much harder to not let that feeling of deep sadness win once and for all. That his misery would never end, no matter what he tried or which things he changed in his story. He begged before, for the pain to end, but no one heard his pleas. Nobody came

Like he was utterly alone. Forever. Cursed by something passed down to him by- He didn‘t want to think about it. It only increased the rate at which the goggles he wore filled up with water. He wished he would not cry so much.

On any other day the amount of residents in this part of town would‘ve bothered him more, but not today. The screaming didn‘t matter to him like it should have. He did not glance when a father took his child into his arms and ran away from another collapsing building

Did everything have to remind him of them?

But with the way the fog built up and worse around him did the screaming also fade into the background, just as the explosions did.

The town laid to ruin was small. Smaller than the usual city, but there were more than 50 residents, surely.

Faintly, he hears it. Frantic footsteps from the distance, rubble landing on the floor. But those footsteps didn‘t seem to be running away from him, no… They were.. Approaching him? Off-putting, when anyone else was currently running away from the trouble.

The steps were getting louder, eventually coming to a stop. It appeared that whoever it was still kept their distance from him. Likely, they didn‘t want to accidentally be punched. how would they know to keep their distance? Exploding sounded worse than just being punched, but sure.

No matter.

He clutches another explosive in his hand. The wristwatch he has glimmers and blinks. The fire does not settle. Perhaps it never will. Despite there being practically nothing left to burn, he still feels it. The hole in his chest grew larger with every flame rekindled.

Right. The person behind him. He lifts his goggles to see better, but does not turn around yet.

They sound out of breath. The glimps of voice that he can already hear from them feels familiar. But his mind… Can‘t connect the stray pieces. He doesn‘t give the feeling further thought.

„Aim! Stop! It’s enough- You’ve- This isn‘t what you want!“ He hears coming from behind him. He wonders why the light glitch in their voice feels like another home

Could he be the stranger again, that said he knew his dad?.. No, no, their voices were much too different for such a connection. And the prankster didn‘t yell when he had… Done some necessary demolition, unlike this.. stranger. (The houses were about to fall apart anyway, he told himself. Over and over.) Why did saying „stranger“ feel wrong again?

„… How would you know what I want?“ his own voice comes out as raspy. He hasn‘t spoken in quite some time now, having no one to listen to him as much as he remembers, and the added amount of sludge in his throat (naturally occurring when you cry, of course) didn‘t help. He cleared his throat before continuing on, for his own comfort „'Cuz I don‘t recall ever telling you anything.“

„… You have, I promise. It‘s just been a while.“ Thinking about it, the tone did seem more familiar now. He was given a strange sensation of deja vu, and somewhere inside him he wondered if it’d ever stop. „Please, look at me. Let‘s talk this out instead.“

(Inside, he wished to remember. He couldn‘t.)

… Sure, whatever. When he turns, the figure that meets him must be someone he‘s acquainted with. Just blurred, with his cheeks still stained wet and warm. Their bones were dark and there were marks on their face. Hm.

((- 1/? ))

[yandere-sins]

Me, writing the ungodly, unholy cacophony of a story, happy and unbothered by anything:

Grammarly:

Me correcting it a week later:

Anyway, Krill chapter later? In approximately a few hours when I am done trying to save the fever dream I tried to put down on paper?

[shwoo]

Writing this Final Fantasy 7 fanfic is kind of a weird experience, because I try to stick to the tone of the original work, and Final Fantasy 7 can get darker in tone than what I'm used to. Do I warn for "Canon Typical Hojo"???

Actually, I notice that there's quite a few Final Fantasy 7 stories on AO3 tagged with "Content Warning: Hojo", or "Hojo Being Hojo", so I guess I do? Also, "Bad Dad Hojo", which is relevant since the story is about Chadley. Hojo is not winning any father of the year awards in that one scene in Rebirth where he acknowledges Chadley's existence. Enslaving your kid to work in your evil science lab is also not great parenting.

I don't normally dislike fictional characters, but I think I do dislike Hojo. I don't really... want to look at him. Is this one of those "confront characters" I keep hearing about? It was hard to even analyse him so his actions would make sense in the story. I think he's someone who once experienced not being the smartest person in the room, and made it his life's mission to make sure that never happened again.

This story is also making me like MAI, after being indifferent to her for a while. I'm going with Chadley accidentally creating a person while trying to create an AI assistant, with neither of them having realised it yet. That gives them an interesting dynamic! At least to me.

I just hope I have the energy to edit this story into making sense, so I can finish it. And also to keep playing the original game up to when this story is set. The canon story stuff is happening in the background, and I know roughly what happens, but I really should play through it as well.

[luv-again]

probably shld do something with myself today before I fall deeper into Wallowing