#i feel like i should be hit several times with a sledgehammer

[senagune]

strange little crossover that is absolutely demolishing my year-long writers block snippet

When Akira first meets Edward Elric, he comes across a blonde blur that nearly rams into him on the streets of Shibuya. Akira almost kneels over from the hit but manages to keep himself on his feet. He tears his eyes from the ground and looks at whoever bumped into him. 

A teen, somewhere around Akira's age, with bright blonde hair tied into a simple braid and shockingly gold eyes, his features distinctly European, stares back. He looks like a cosplayer of some sort, but the hair looks genuine and the simple t-shirt and black pants don't look like anything Akira can name off the top of his head. He’s never met anyone with golden eyes, but he really doesn’t think the other teen is wearing contacts.

“Sorry about that, wasn't watching where I was going,” the kid — he has to be younger than Akira, the top of his head just reaches Akira’s chest — says in jarringly fluent Japanese, “where's the library?”

“Um, ” Akira says. He doesn't actually know where the library is. His movement range is limited to like, two stations per day and the only library he’s even vaguely familiar with is the one at Shujin. “I'm not sure. You might be better off checking with the station managers.” He waves a hand vaguely towards the hustle and bustle of rush hour Shibuya Station.

The other teen grunts in acknowledgement. “Thanks.” Then he's gone into the station, just as fast as he came.

Akira stares at the disappearing bundle of blonde as he whirls into the station, then shrugs to himself. As unusual as the encounter is, it honestly doesn’t even top his list of strangeness. It’s Tokyo, after all.

[quillandsaber]

A snippet from a Warfield Live!Clive fanfic that I'm writing that will probably never get published because I can't write transitions to save my life, but I like it, so I'm sharing it:

Several thoughts hit Clive in the head like a sledgehammer all at once, and he feels once more like the most callous, negligent, thick-headed brute of a man to ever draw breath.

Branded can't - couldn't - marry.  It had been a literal death sentence to even think about it.  The closest they could hope for is - was - finding another Branded they cared for and having a master who would tolerate them consistently sharing a bedroll.  But he isn't Branded, not anymore, and now that he's taken five seconds to actually think about it for the first time in close to two decades, he knows Jill would be offended if he thought she cared about it even when he was.  If he hadn't been so much of a dunce as to not realize that this happiness was within their reach, he could have talked with her about it at any time in the last five years.  He should have asked her on the Shadow Coast, or in the field of snow daisies at the absolute latest.  But he didn't, and he still hasn't, and he had just left her without anything more than a fool's hope of a promise to return.

His conscience gives him a final stab of recrimination: she's still a princess, even if her lands and nation fell more than twenty years ago, and he's still, technically, a marquess.  The rules are different for them.

[wanderlust-in-my-soul]

My weekly roundup CW 21

I try to write down my thoughts after watching stuff to create a little weekly ranking in relation to the previous week on my, most of the times, quiet sundays (and because I love lists!). These are just my personal opinions and preferences based on the feeling I got watching the episodes.

And yes, this will contain spoilers!

But first, the perfect appearance this week:

☼ 1. The Day I Loved You (Ep 9)

I just started the series this week and I should have waited until it was completely released. Now I'm sitting here having to wait for it to continue. I am in love with the series. And episode 9 was…rough. When reality catches up with you, it usually does so with a sledgehammer. Nikko may have already accepted the idea of being in a wheelchair at some point in the past, even embraced the idea, but when reality hits you, you still feel hopeless, desperate and pissed off for a moment. I thought Justin and Eli's rapprochement was particularly well done. Justin is just a wonderful friend and knows that Eli makes Nikko happy and nothing else he wishes for his best friend. Even if it hurts to be just the best friend. I can't wait for the last episode! I guess it will leave me in more tears than this week's episode.

The most painful moment this week:

↓ 2. Love Mate (Ep 7+8 Final)

The finale in this sweet first-I-stalk-you-then-you-love-me-series has come. It hurts to say goodbye to them, but I'm all the happier with the ending. Of course the ex played a role again. Of course grumpy-guy had to retreat into himself once more to realize that the ex is just an asshole and shouldn't rule grumpy-guy's life. And luckily sunshine-guy didn't give up, but went to grumpy-guy and showed him that he's not alone and that he won't leave his side just because things got a little difficult. And then he walks down the stairs in that suit and I'm about as ecstatic as grumpy-guy! Yeah, he definitely should have put that suit on earlier! The two are only sweet together and I have them quite firmly in my heart!

Most mesmerised boy this week:

↓ 3. La Pluie (Ep 5)

Okay, the slow burn is back, which is fine. The first meeting with the father, however, I would have imagined a little later in the story and not on the second date…Nevertheless, the episode was very entertaining! I mean, Saengtai's bitchface towards his work colleague, the fact that the jacket so absolutely did not protect from the rain or even when Patts bursts into the room while Saengtai is naked, were all very exhilarating moments that enrich the series so much. What I don't understand is the whole interaction between Saengtai and Lomfon. Well, Lomfon has a crush on Saengtai, but why does Saengtai act like he's also head over heels in love and can't get a sound out when they see each other? I'm so confused.

Best bitchface of the week:

☼ 4. Be My Favorite (Ep 1)

Most valid question this week:

That was a ride. I liked Kris' somewhat stiff manner in Sotus, but here…wow! He's a bit of a comedian. In all seriousness, I thought the first episode was promising and I think that's what surprises me the most. The pairing would probably be one of the last I'd think of when talking about chemistry, but they do their thing well. And even though I can't see them falling for each other yet, because Kawi is after all very much in love with the woman Pisaeng will later marry in the other reality, I'm still excited. And yes, I could laugh heartily several times. The two have a really good, comedic chemistry.

Dumbest hero of the week:

↑ 5. Step by Step (Ep 6)

Pat is starting to understand that he likes Jeng after all. A little bit of progress is allowed in episode 6, but the episode was also really sweet. So many opportunities to flirt and if either of them would have had more courage, there would have been moments for kisses, but I think Jeng understands that Pat is a bit insecure and just needs more time. Nevertheless, this week was again a feast for the eyes, with all the loving looks from Jeng. The good guy got it so bad! I wish Pat wouldn't give Put another chance, but considering the history of the two and the fact that Pat is a people pleaser, it makes it really easy for Put to find the right words and wrap Pat around his finger. I'm not accusing him of anything bad here, and if he really wants to change, good for him…but I'm still Team Jeng….

And the best costume choice goes to, no for real...what is that?

☼ 6. The Luminous Solution (Ep 1)

There's so much going on here. Two storylines that run side by side and they're both good. This week we first got to know everyone and their problems. We have the couple that has been together for what feels like forever and their flame is slowly dying and a little more communication could work wonders here. At the moment I have the feeling that our doctor doesn't really want to be at home, while Thana is longing for more togetherness with his partner, especially since he just lost his job and his mother needs his help. And then we get to meet Mai and Ryou, and we're already set up for Enemies to Lovers, and for Ryou's best friend to have a crush on him and cause extra tension. And then of course the cafe that can grant wishes, but at a price and the whole time I was wondering why in the hell's name, doesn't she tell him the terms beforehand? That is already so a bit unfair….

↓ 7. My Story (Ep 7)

Phew…The episode was enervating. It was clear that Zeke does not make it to the performance, even if I have not understood to this day, what exactly was the school event and why they have always mixed cocktails with only alcohol and than danced at the end…What? Fifth's confession was very sweet and should actually show Zeke how important the whole shit is to him. Trust isn't one of those things that Fifth gives away freely and shit man, you lost that trust for now. Yeah, I'm sitting here being pissed at a fictional character for hurting another fictional character. But said other fictional character has conquered my heart and must be protected at all costs! And the end of the episode never happened…The birthday party takes place and after that is the end…

↓ 8. Our Dining Table (Ep 8)

Oh the embarrassment after the first kiss, even if it was only on the cheek. I knew it, that there was no lip contact. Anyway…I feel sorry for Minoru. I felt for him throughout the episode. And at the end, the idea of going back to how it was before…Nah, not happening! Even if they really wanted to. If there are feelings involved that go beyond friendship, it's hard to go back to the point before, when it was still unspoken. And further, I'm Minoru's father's biggest fan! The guy is empathetic and loving and non-judgmental and I love him!

→ 9. Naked Dining (Ep 7)

Okay, another week for Futa to slowly realize that he likes Mahiro. And also slowly admits it to himself. The story of the hot-pot master was a nice addition to the show. And honestly, the last scene of Futa lying in bed with the hot-pot master's words ringing in his ears and turning to Mahiro to just really look at him was very sweet. Not so cute was the preview…Honestly, what the fuck? I know there are five more episodes to come, but nope! I do not want!

↓ 10. The Promise (Ep 10 Final)

The Final. I think after the first 4 to 5 episodes I would have given the series 10/10 stars. Even after episode 7 it would have still been in a very good range. But then came episodes 9 and 10 and too much squeezed in drama at the end. It just made the series seem unrealistic, too contrived. It just killed the feeling that I had at the beginning. I can understand Phu though, because I am one of those people who always tries to please others and always says she is ok and everything is fine. And maybe that's also the reason why he annoyed me so much in the end. Because this quality in myself is so annoying. But instead of the two of them talking to each other, because Nan and his fears of loss, which is also way too real for me, Phu shuts his feelings away first and Nan jumps to conclusions in a huff. And that frustrates me. In the end it went well, but still it made for unnecessary drama that I didn't need. And what was that crap plane crash about? I thought for a moment that Nan would come in and yell "surprise", fortunately not. Yes, I was disappointed with the second half. Why did I continue watching? Because it was too good to drop.

↓ 11. Our Skyy 2

Puh…Nope…So the first episode was still totally ok. I also think that Cher's apartment is much more comfortable than Gun's apartment. Good decision to move there, who needs space when you have love. But seriously. Why not look for a new apartment together that you can make cozy together and where the gamer friend isn't squatting right next to the bed at the PC while the CEO partner is trying to sleep. Yes, the two are cute together, but phew…I didn't get the complete point of the second episode. So in general I did, but Cher as a boss didn't work at all. Even Gun was never like that as a boss…Well, I feared it last week and was confirmed. Certainly not the strongest episodes.

Honorable Mention

Sparks Camp Well, the show doesn't make the cut, but it gets an honorable mention. I mean, 10 queer guys trying to find their Spark here. Of course I'm going to watch it! And it's got everything, the nerdy, the athletic, the influencer, the introvert and the extrovert. The comments from the contestants are the best! It remains to be seen which contestants will spark and if drama will arise. Initial bonds have already been forged in a game that included oiling up.

Until then, see you next week!

[darthkruge]

Hi! I've seen that in your recent post you've been trying to make characters more gender neutral which I think is awesome! I'm gonna try and make my request gender neutral as well! I was wondering if you could do a criminal minds imagine (I'll let you choose the character that you wanna write it for cus I love Morgan, Hotch, and Reid equally) where the reader was taken by the unsub but they found her right before the unsub tried to (tw) k!ll the reader. If possible can the end be kinda fluffy♡

Spencer Reid x Reader ~ Maybe

Summary: The classic kidnapping fic where the reader is taken by the unsub and Spencer finds them. Fluffy, comfort-filled ending <3

Warnings: Angst, language, violence, blood, guns, knives, torture, near-death experience, kidnapping in general, (happy ending I promise)

Words: 2.2k

A/N: Hey!! I’m so sorry, please don’t hate me for taking so long to get to this!! And thank you for making your request gender neutral, too! That’s so thoughtful and sweet! And I decided to go with Spencer, although I also love them all. And yes the end will definitely be fluffy, as the angst with a happy/fluffy ending is basically my brand at this part. Thank you for requesting and, again, I’m so sorry for making you wait, I hope you like this!

You woke up and could only register pain. Well, pain and cold. Mind numbing, cuts to your bones, pierces your brain, cold. You tried to look around and get a sense of your surroundings but it was so dark; you could barely make out the shadows in the room, let alone any defining details.  

Judging by the old, dirty smell, you guessed you were in a barn or shed somewhere. You had no idea where; the asshole must have knocked you out. You’d been working the case for weeks. The team thought they found some DNA and were tailing the guy, but it didn’t pan out and, since then, the trail had basically been cold. But then you finally figured out what number to trace, cracked his encoded router, and got a license plate and ID. George Craig. On your way to tell the team, he had messed with your car and was able to jump you. Fuck, you hated him. 

Even so, you refused to give up. You had faith in your team and, most of all, you had faith in Spencer. Your brilliant, gorgeous boyfriend. You loved him more than anything and there was no one in the world you’d want on the case more than him. You knew the team was already looking for you, as it was only 10am when he got you and it was probably at least 7pm now, judging by the temperature and darkness. 

You tried to move your arms but your shoulders screamed in protest. You felt the chains around your legs and the handcuffs binding you to a pole above you. Judging from the pain, your shoulder was almost definitely dislocated. You were sitting at an awkward angle and could already feel your joints tightening. The frigid air definitely wasn’t helping, making your muscles contract and body stiff. 

“Hello, Agent L/N”

Your entire body stilled at that moment, sheer panic running through your veins. Stay calm, Y/N, stay calm. You tried to will air into your lungs, forcing deep breaths even though the terror was screaming at you to close up. You knew this man fed on fear and, thus, your best chance of survival was to pretend you were unphased. Even so, the logic felt severely discomforting with him standing above you, knife and gun in hand. 

“George. What the fuck do you want from me?” Your voice was venomous, the pure hate for him clearly pictured on your face. You decided that if an emotion was going to show, you preferred hate to fear. 

“My, my, my, look at you! I thought you were supposed to be smart. Or is that trait left for your boyfriend. Agent Reid, was it?”

Your blood ran cold. “Leave him out of this.”

“Ohhh, looks like I’ve hit a nerve, haven’t I?” The man had a horrifying smirk on his face, clearly enjoying your struggle. 

You glared at him. “You never answered my question”

“Oh, yes!” George chuckled, “What the fuck do you want from me?” He said, mimicking your voice mockingly. “To kill you, of course. To take you away from Spencer, from the team. To make them feel the pain of losing someone, just like I lost-” 

He trailed off and you saw his eyes burn with anger. And under that anger, you knew there was pain. Even so, you couldn’t feel bad for this man, regardless of who he’d lost. You knew that at the slightest hint of your empathy, he’d take advantage of it and kill you on the spot. 

“You know what? Death would be too easy for you. By the time I’m done with you, you’ll be begging me to put you out of your misery. Then, and only then, will I shoot you. I will watch the blood run out of the bullet hole and smile, knowing the pain I caused you and your precious team.”

You wanted to cry, the fear pulling at you. Once again, you pushed it down and channeled your rage. Rage because you were in this situation. Rage because this man had ended so many lives. Rage because you were powerless right now. Rage because holy fuck your shoulder hurt. Gathering the fury, you spat at him. 

George’s mouth twisted into a sneer as he brought his leg up and slammed it into your chest. You heaved, the wind knocked out of you. Before you could grasp the air you so desperately needed, George kicked you again. And again. And again. You could feel the bruises forming, your ribs throbbing painfully.

He pulled his fist up and pummeled it into your cheek. Your left cheekbone busted open on impact and your lip split as he backhanded the other side of your face. He slammed the butt of his gun into your temple and your vision swayed, body crumpling as far in on itself as it could, given the restraints. 

He kicked at your legs repeatedly, both of them twisting at painful angles. You felt yourself start to black out, the pain unbearable. Every inch of your skin was ablaze, every muscle felt like it had been sledgehammered. Your bones ached, your body numb from his onslaught, the freezing cold, and the restrictive bonds you’d been in for hours. 

Finally, he took a moment to stop. He looked at you, at your barely conscious and recognizable state. You were beaten to a pulp, your face and body bloodied and broken. You could feel yourself wanting to give in but forced yourself to stay. For yourself, for Spencer, for the team. For that future you always talked about with him. For the house you were saving for, for the dogs and cats and animals you might one day get. For the family you might decide to have. For the idea of peace, you fought. 

George picked up the gun and pointed it at your head. A shot rang free and you braced yourself, a single tear running down your cheek as you realized you would never see your love again. Your ears rang and you felt like time had slowed. You knew the bullet would hit you. Until-

“Y/N, Y/N!” Your name was being called, the gentle yet panicked voice cutting through the ringing in your head. You tentatively opened your eyes and saw George’s body on the floor, blood oozing out of him. You slowly moved your eyes around, trying to take in your surroundings. 

Everything was overwhelming. Nothing was registering properly in your brain. It was just sounds filtering in an out, vision flickering. You felt like you were floating through the ringing in your ears. Tears ran down your cheeks as you shook. You didn’t know why you were shaking. The cold. The shock, you reasoned. Both seemed likely. It was like there was an overwhelming sense of calm. Your body was shutting down. Somehow, this gave you understanding. 

You felt the handcuffs around your wrists release and your arms dropped limply. You knew you should feel pain from your dislocated shoulder but, instead, you just let your eyes closed and felt your body fall. The last thing you remembered was coming into contact with a Kevlar vest, messy brown hair, and a familiar sense of warmth. 

When you awoke, you felt yourself being gently jostled. Your eyes slowly opened and you took in him. Spencer was looking at you, concern evident on his features.

“Hi.” You said, voice hoarse. 

“Hi, angel. Let’s get you inside, alright?”

You nodded, allowing him to help support your weight as you stepped out of the car. You leaned heavily into him, your legs badly injured. Spencer wrapped his arm snug around your waist as the two of you slowly but surely made it into your shared apartment. 

He helped you sit on the couch before moving to join you. 

“I’m surprised they let you take me home. I thought I’d wake up in a hospital, for sure.”

“They did take you there, love. You were at the hospital for a few hours but you were in and out of consciousness. You’ll heal, don’t worry. A few broken ribs, dislocated shoulder, severe bruising, sprains on your legs and ankles.”

“Plus a busted face” You add drily.

 Spencer wasn’t amused by your attempt at sarcasm. Instead, he just pushed your hair behind your ear and leaned in, pressing a kiss to your forehead. 

“I’m so sorry, Y/N. I should have gotten there sooner, I should have been with you! If I was there, if I was quicker-”

“Spencer, please don’t blame yourself for this! No one could have known. Besides, you saved me. And I’m not just talking about that in the literal sense. When he was beating me, when I was broken down, I thought of you.  I thought of our future, our dream. Holding onto that is the only reason I didn’t give up.”

Spencer’s eyes were filled with tears as he went to gently cup your face. He couldn’t find the words to express the love and relief he felt. “I’m just glad you’re back in my arms” 

You moved to hug him but winced. Even though the doctors had patched you up pretty well, the soreness and pain lingered and probably would continue like that for at least the next couple of days. 

“Hey, it’s alright. Let’s go to bed. I think you’ll feel better once you lay down, yeah?”

“Yeah, okay.” You followed him into the room, holding his hand the entire time. Spencer noticed but didn’t mind, he knew you were just looking for comfort, exceedingly normal for what you’d just gone through. 

You laid down, settling against the pillows and fluffy blankets Spencer had prepared for you. 

“Do you need anything, baby?”

“Water?”

“Of course.” He smiled at you before moving to get up but you quickly grabbed his hand, panic overtaking you at the thought of being alone. You looked at him helplessly, hoping your gaze would convey the words that died on your tongue. 

Spencer nodded knowingly. He helped you out of bed, pulling you along with him as the two of you went to the kitchen. He wordlessly got you the drink, making sure to keep touching you the entire way. Finally, you made it back and the both of you crawled into bed. You laid on your uninjured shoulder, placing your cheek on Spencer’s chest. His arm came around you, holding you to him and drawing soothing circles into your skin. 

You closed your eyes and were immediately sent back to the shed. You tensed, pulling back. Spencer caught on and looked deeply into your eyes. “You’re safe now, Y/N. He can’t get to you anymore.”

“I know. Rationally, I know. But my brain won’t shut off. It’s like, whenever I’m not actively thinking about something else or looking at something else or hearing something else, it just comes back. Spence, I can’t- I can’t sleep. I just, I’m sure it’ll come back to me tonight.” Your voice broke, tears spilling onto your cheeks. “I don’t think I can handle reliving it and I’m so fucking exhausted. But I can’t rest because I can’t escape the nightmares.”

Spencer wanted so badly to comfort you but didn’t know what he could do. As much as he wanted to, he couldn’t take the pain away. He wished he could put the trauma onto himself but, unfortunately, he was powerless. Thus, he offered understanding. He gave validation. He gave kindness and pure, nonjudgmental love. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m here for you and I know that doesn’t do much right now but I am. I’ll be here when the nightmares come and I’ll be here when the flashbacks try and drag you under. I’ll be here when the trauma starts to fade but suddenly reappears and I’ll be here 20 years from now, when the memory will still be real and painful but not all-consuming. I’ll be here forever, I’ll be here always. Please, tell me what to do to help you.” Spencer begged, hoping beyond all hope that there was something he could do to ease your suffering.

“Read to me?”

“Wha- what?”

“Read to me.” You repeated, more assured this time. “I’m thinking that if I can hear your voice, maybe it’ll drown out my brain. Or something. I don’t know. I just want to hear your voice, it’s soothing. Please?”

Spencer was taken aback. He didn’t think something so simple could help you. He didn’t know his sheer presence brought you that much serenity. “Yeah, of course. Of course! Yeah, any preference?”

“Not really. Whatever’s here?”

“Okay, love.” Spencer picked up his current read and began in the middle. You felt the rumble of his chest, the vibrations of his voice and felt more at ease. The anxiety was still there, the panic never far away. And yet, curled into him, his breath tickling your ear, his body warming yours, it suddenly felt alright. Like maybe you hadn’t gone through some life-altering trauma. Or maybe you had but your life wasn’t over because of it. Maybe you’d heal. Maybe, if you could find a moment of peace now, you’d find more later. Maybe? Yeah, You thought. You could work with maybe.

--

i just made a taglist so if you want to join, go ahead!

tags: 

@saltybreaddream

[hyperfixatinglove]

🎫 Here’s a gush pass, feel free to gush about whichever f/o you want, however much you want, then send this ask to 3 other selfshippers.

My lombax love needs some gushing!

Unfortunately when I try to gush about this alien cat all I can think of is; I love him so much oh my god I adore you

It's ridiculous and adorable how long I've liked him! I had crush on this guy at 6 yo! Fucking 6! It was dormant for literal years and one day just slammed back with force of sledgehammer! So really, my longest f/o isn't my Ushio, but this galaxy saving green eyed goofball of Lombax!

He's such goofball! Cracking jokes, smirking, impulsively smacking enemies with his wrench (I love him with the default wrench weapon just ugh iconic & badass)!! He also used to be jerk but coming to know his best pal Clank (whom I clearly don't talk enough he's my other robot friend f/o!) but he's more.. rounded later? Sweetheart yes, but he can be asshat when he wants! Mostly just absolute sweetie.

He's so busy saving galaxy how many times now? 4 times (not counting smaller things he's saved, like TV station full of ppl)? In newest game he's so accustomed to it! I wish he'd get some down time! Though he did have a line in newest game abt not saving universe for years.. So he did? Time to imagine DOMESTIC SUNSHINE AND RATCHET

Life with Ratchet would be so amazing honestly, travel around galaxies, even dimensions and see beautiful galaxies and observe the people, the technology, the architecture, the flowers.. So many possibilities! Go on these adventures with the galaxy on our shoulders, him easing my anxiety with jokes and toothy smiles, the downtime when we're done and just hang around his desert home planet in Veldin with Clank..

I have this cute idea of us gifting each other weaponry & Ratchet fine-tuning my own trusted weapon with force field or just extend it so I have easier time to hit things. I haven't figured out what Sunshine could do that neither of them can, but maybe it's in some form of creative thinking or artistic thing!

Speaking of all that I really should make major lore dump on Ratchet/Sunshine.. Or timeline, or fix it scenario..

He looks so dashing in new game!! I'm always picky about his armor (I hate how they made him start with the shitty 2016 game armor)!!

I need to update this meme with newest game armors lol

Never mind I only love this one:

I love being able to see his expressions and his eyes in his armors!

I just.. his design is so beautiful and being able to see individual furs in newest game is blessing but I'm sad for the animators who had to painstakingly do that.

I'm also very picky about his characterization (personally, my faves are 1, Crack in Time, Deadlocked & Rift Apart, funny how those are also my fav games expect the last lmao), I feel like he was boiled down in some games, it feels bit jarring. For example he wasn't shown to be impulsive for several years before Rift apart!

My favorite daydream is just nuzzling his fur! Yeah, Sunshine my s/i is also Lombax but man the warm fur on the nose, those beautiful green eyes mere inches away..

He's also hilariously lucky for surviving so many disasters!

I just truly love this lombax so much it's nice to be able to remember and reflect on that! ♥

[diredove]

Curious Fool

My first time attempting to write anything longer than headcanons, please note I’m going off of this AU! I’m in love with Crowley so I see this as an x reader story, but it can easily be interpreted as something else!

Warnings: Very Mild cursing, Crowley being scary (as in, threatening and a hand squeezing a throat), Me grasping at straws to make Potentially Evil!Dire make sense! Gender Neutral Reader as well!

You wondered about Dire Crowley more than you would like to admit. He was an enigma that your brain for some reason was terribly invested in solving. It started small, maybe because you were holding back your suspicion out of guilt, the man had given you a roof over your head and food to eat in this strange new world, surely he deserved better than you concocting conspiracy theories about him? But gratitude should not inspire stupidity in someone, and it didn't inspire in you.

Why exactly was he being so gracious? For all the pretty words he spoke to you, he certainly didn't act guilty. Every sympathy he offered to your plight felt like it was meant to silence you, "Shush, no more of that." he seemed to whisper between the lines. Yes, it was all too bad you were stuck in a world not your own and that poor, poor Crowley was working himself to the bone to find a way back for you to no avail, but what would you have him do? He's already being so kind.

And that was another thing, wasn't it? He wasn't all that kind at all, or if he was it was only in a backhanded way. Wasn't he just the sweetest thing alive for giving you a place to stay? As if you weren't breaking your damn back every single night sleeping on the couch of the teacher's lounge and waking to the racket of your dearest headmaster starting up that monstrous coffee maker at the crack of dawn each morning! Well, what about the food you were provided every single meal time? Quite generous, he'd say. And you would beg to differ because you had a diet of convenience store sandwiches and children's snacks and sodas! Everything you ate was from Sam's shop and didn't cost that old crow a dime!

And maybe, just maybe, you would have been more understanding and grateful for it given your circumstances, if Dire Crowley wasn't absolutely loaded. He could easily afford to buy you actual meals, put you up some place that wasn't a glorified common room, pay you! But for all his guilt and graciousness, he didn't. It felt like he was trying to trick into being grateful to him when he hadn't actually done anything for you to be grateful for, in the grand scheme of things.

But that's not all. If that had been it then you could have convinced yourself you were being dramatic and gone on with your topsy turvy little life. But no, Dire Crowley simply would not let you rest (on a proper bed or otherwise).

Why did he act like that? You were not someone to turn your nose up at an odd personality, considering how well you were handling being in a potential alternate universe, one might say you have one yourself. But there was just something... off about him. He always seemed a bit too happy, he laughed just a tad too hard, his stares were too intense, he went silent after whatever spiel he'd been on so quick you'd think he had a switch inside him. Alone, those were just the quirks of being human (though you didn't even know enough to call him that either), but they stacked up quickly.

And you had really fought with yourself on this, worried you were being prejudice against him out of paranoia, but then you saw him get angry.

Everyone gets angry, everyone yells sometimes, it's a fact of life and you're an adult who can accept that. But seeing the headmaster shift from harmless eccentric man to inflicting backbreaking labor on teenagers who didn't get to explain themselves at all was rather... jarring to say the least. He yelled in his oddly charming accent and his mask hid whatever anger would have shown on his face, and maybe you were being overprotective of the young ones and forgetting that that type of punishment was far more manageable in a world of magic. But you couldn't shake the feeling that he was holding back, like he was seconds away from sounding like a different person beneath the quirky act. Like a parent putting on a goofy voice to scold their child to keep themselves from letting their frustration show.

But, and maybe you're just dense from here on, all that did was make you squint a little. There was just as much of a chance of him putting up a front as there was of you misunderstanding things and reaching too far. But the seed had been planted, and now you were curious.

So, instead of coming up with crazy ideas you had no backing for, you thought: "Let's just ask."

Not Dire, of course, as if he would tell you the truth or appreciate you prodding him. Thankfully though, there were people close to him that you could interrogate instead.

And then you started hitting walls, thick ones.

"What's Dire's deal?" Seemed like a pretty clear question, so why was every single answer you got so convoluted?

Sam had tried to act unbothered, but you saw how his hand froze as he stocked the shelves of the Mystery Shop. He looked at you with his bright smile and waved his free had dismissively.

"He's something alright, I'll give him that! He's an odd one, I guess you could say! What's with the interest, Starlight?" He answered, though a question for a question hardly satisfied you.

Crewel had outright ignored you, even after you had repeated your question several times he kept maneuvering around you and acting like he was busy. He absolutely wasn't, he had moved the same four beakers back and forth between lab tables three times. Once he realized you weren't going to take his hint and scram, he looked down his nose at you as if you had ruined his entire week.

"You know, puppies that never stop yapping are troublesome. But do you know what's even more troublesome, Little Scamp? Puppies that sniff around where they don't belong. You'd do well to train yourself out of that habit, and quickly." He'd told you coldly, which shocked you into a stupor because you had thought him overzealous but friendly just moments before.

You had hoped Trein, with his unflappability and no nonsense policy, wouldn't beat around the bush and would be the one to change your luck so far. Instead, he averted his eyes and cleared his throat uncomfortably. He seemed to be taking extra care to choose his words, as though they were fragile as glass slippers. Even Lucius looked still in his arms.

"He is a man, as am I, nothing more and nothing less. It is best to leave it at that, My Dear." He implored you gently, you couldn't help but feel this was as close to a plea as the stoic man would ever get. Lucius stared at you unblinkingly, as if trying to determine your answer through your eyes alone.

You hoped the cat couldn't actually tell, because your answer was no.

You still had one more shot. Vargas was loud and a bit much at times, but his love of his own voice would work in your favor. However, you had learned from your mistakes and decided getting straight to the point wasn't in your best interest. If everyone wanted to play with you, it was only right to join the game.

"Please, tell me more about your school days, Ashton! Were you really the star of the Magic Shift team?" You asked in an awed tone, eyes wide.

The coach was eating it up like it was his last meal, you had been stroking the man's ego for over two hours already and if he tells you about the goal that turned the playoffs around one more time you think you'll snap. But his defenses are down, and his lips are loose, so you'll grin and bare just a little longer.

"That's right! I was king of NRC, undisputed! There wasn't a soul on campus who didn't want to be mine!" The man boasted, "Well, except for Beth. She wasn't all there though, not that I cared! She wasn't all that, I'm not bitter about it!"

He's definitely bitter about it, but you don't have time to unpack that when your opening is right in front of you.

"Right right, I totally get it. Hey, speaking of the past, when did you meet Crowley?"

Okay, you lied. There wasn't an opening at all, you burst in with a sledgehammer. But your cutesy act was getting hard to keep up!

Vargas takes the sloppy bait though, " Oh, that guy? He just kinda popped up and offered me a job to be honest. The pays good, so I deal with the old coot being a weirdo."

You have to stop yourself from lighting up, "Weirdo?" You question dumbly, finger on your chin and all.

Vargas looks both ways and then gestures for you to come closer, you can't tell if he's being playful or not with that glint in his eyes.

"Look, don't tell anyone I told you this, okay Dolly? Crowley's got some crazy going on around here, I swear. I don't know details but I've got suspicions." The coach whispers, you nod eagerly for him to continue.

"There's this... room. I don't know what's in it, it's always locked and not even the staff master key opens it. He goes in there every Friday, and I don't see him come out, he just appears again Monday morning. There's this bright light that shines under the door whenever he goes in, and after a few seconds, it stops." Ashton explains, and it's more than you had hoped for.

Creepy locked room, disappearing act, unexplained happenings? This is exactly the dirt you've been looking for!

"He thinks he's being sneaky about it, but I caught on, see? I was following him to ask about a some paperwork and I saw it. I know somethings up, Crowley is up to no good and I don't care how crazy I sound." Ashton stresses, as he goes on he seems more serious, you can't take time to be happy about your findings because he looks so pale.

"Vargas, are you oka-"

"Listen Dolly, I know you're curious, but you don't want nothing to do with this and neither do I. Freaky shit is going down, and if you're smart like me you'll act like you don't know a thing."

You stare at him. H-Had he been on to you the whole time?

"I'm trying to help you, stay away from the west wing and don't-" He stops. His eyes are on something behind you.

"V-Vargas?" You call, shakily.

"I've said enough. Stay outta the west wing, Doll. For your own good."

You don't stay out of the west wing.

In fact, you deliberately seek it out. Ace gives you a funny look when you ask him, but he points you in the right direction anyway. You wish you were more embarrassed about being a member of staff asking students for directions, but you've got bigger fish to fry.

You know this isn't smart, no matter how harmless the headmaster may seem, no one likes being found out. But your life is in his golden-clawed hands and you'd feel even less smart following him blindly and hoping you're safe with him.

The west wing isn't what you expected (though to be fair you had been expecting a torture chamber), it's an entirely normal hall like all the others in school. It's so mundane your face falls. There's also no way to tell if anything is amiss from a glance alone, so you'll have to use less tact than you were hoping to. Making your way down the hall you turn each knob one by one to see which won't turn.

After about twenty or so doors, curse the long hallways in this college, you see one that's quite out of place. It's at the very end of the hall, how cliché, and while it is the same size and color as all the others, it's surrounded with a ridiculous number of portraits. There are big ones above the doorframe and little ones squeezed into the narrow spaces along the sides of it, and if that wasn't enough, the ones that wouldn't fit in either spot were enchanted to float nearby. And the portraits themselves are nothing like the silly but sweet ones that gossip as they watch over everyone who passes in the main building, these are painted with snarls and angered eyes. Both human and nonhuman beings are depicted, each one staring straight at whomever would stand in front of the door. Their eyes seem to be looking in every direction at once even though their pupils are painted straight ahead, it feels like they can see everything without shifting their gaze. You can't even tell if they're alive like the others, they're so... cold.

You take a deep breath, that must be it. You've come to this far, and you'd planned everything so carefully there was no reason to be afraid. The students were having Magift practice today, so that meant Vargas was busy, but it also meant that Crowley was doing his rounds and would stop to "give the players some good old fashioned encouragement ". He would go on forever, there was plenty of time for you to investigate and cover your tracks before he ever even wondered where you were.

You could admit the only person you were convincing was yourself, but it helped you forced your legs to move toward the end of the hall. Even as you walked closer, you knew you shouldn't, the air around you seemed like it was trying to force you back, oppressively pushing you with every step you took towards that door. You wouldn't be able to open it, Ashton had told you already, what exactly were you gaining, being stared down by the lifelike yet lifeless portraits as you neared the door? Nothing, and yet your hand grabbed the knob impulsively, you hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath until it left your lungs in a rush at the touch of icy cold iron in your clammy grip.

You shouldn't have touched it, you shouldn't have, now what? Your plan was to turn back after your curiosity was sated, but you couldn't. The force that was pushing back against you before was now pulling you forward, beckoning you. The portraits no longer looked like a warning, but an invitation. You've come so far, now come a little closer, something that wasn't a voice nor a thought breathed around you.

You twist the doorknob, like a fool.

It turns.

Your heart leaps with excitement and fear, and you feel a surge of adrenaline run through your body. You can go in, you can go farther!

You feel yourself smiling widely even though you're sure you're not happy, you go to push the door open just a little further.

You stop as four pinpricks upon your throat flare with pain, your eyes go wide like a deer and you freeze.

"Crewel was right, you're truly nothing but trouble."

The voice sounds familiar, and yet nothing like the person it belongs to. But you'd know those gold-tipped fingers anywhere.

"I really am getting on in years, to make such a mistake." Dire sighs, his voice does not lilt and his tone is low. He sounds like an actor who's given up on staying in character.

You catch a whimper in your throat when the hand upon it slides up the front of your neck to grip under your chin and rear you head back at a terrible angle. You meet the dead-eyed gaze of Crowley's mask as he looks straight down at you.

"But you've made an even bigger mistake, Youngling, by testing me."

You want to apologize, or plead for your safety, because the man looming over you is not the one you've grown reluctantly fond of. But because we have established that you are a fool, you say instead:

"Your vest is a mistake. There's sequins on it." You snark weakly, you sound pathetic, half because of the grade school insult and half because you're gasping for breath.

Dire stares down at you blankly. Then he grins, not his usual one full of jolly cheer, but a wide toothy one that is just a few degrees off from a sneer.

"Oh, you really think you're just the cutest little thing under the sun, don't you?" He asks, he chuckles halfway through but it's dry and dark.

Why are you so foolish, why do you speak?

Abruptly, the pressure points on your neck are released and you fall to your knees, gulping sweet sweet air.

"Well you're right! You're just adorable, thinking you could catch me out!" Dire shouts cheerfully, hands on his hips and accent back in full swing. His façade is back in place like it was never gone.

You stare in disbelief.

"You know, anyone else would have to be put under a curse of eternal silence for snooping around like you did." He continues, "But I am so very kind, I'm going to let you walk out of here without laying a finger on you."

You shakily get to your feet, leaning against the wall for support and as something to curl in on to cower from the overly happy man before you.

He stares at you smiling for many moments too long, you know he's trying to scare you and you're angry at yourself for being so. Abruptly, he nods.

"I'll be off then, I'm sure you get the message? Of course you do! Make your way back to your room then, off you get! Goodbye!"

The man walks away quickly, waving his hand in farewell.

He left you without a fight, with the door left unlocked and you still in position to reveal what was on the other side. You balk at the obvious show of his power over you.

He knew you were too terrified now, he knew you would obey him like a dog told to stay, the smug bastard.

You bite your lip in frustration and confused tears fill your eyes. You just want to know what's going on, you just want to go home! Nothing makes sense.

You look at the door that's slightly ajar.

Then at the exit of the west wing across the long hall.

You can no longer hear Crowley's footsteps.

And because you are a fool, and because you are defiant, and because you want some semblance of control, you make a mad dash through the door before you can change your mind.

[wisteria-blooms]

apparition licence (fred weasley & reader)

summary

“You know, he’d be right pissed,” George said leaning over the counter, a semblance of his old self taking hold of him, as if his twin were there alongside him to agree, “if you’d finally gotten your bloody licence and never apparated again.”

In which Fred Weasley’s promises to you are cut short. 

warnings: major character death, major radio hit

apparition licence (2,485 words)

For the longest time, you knew you loved Fred Gideon Weasley. Loved him in his youth, white Christmases when freshly-sewn oversized jumpers swallowed his awkward and lanky frame. Loved him through the phases of his rebelliously long hair, silently cheering for him on the sidelines as he attempted to swindle the age line with George. Loved and laughed at him as he turned snot green from a miscalculation on a product he tested on himself. Loved him entire summers as the freckles on his skin darkened and his fiery hair seemingly set ablaze under the beating hot sun. Loved him as he streaked through wreckage and rainbow fireworks in your fifth year, leaving the formality of education behind in his own way. And loved him when he promised to do the same for you when you graduated.

Through the insanity of their pranks and your willingness to volunteer as their reliable product tester, Fred always handled you like delicate flower. His love, unbeknownst to you, was especially prominent when you begged him to teach you how to apparate before you were legally allowed to. The sweltering August you spent cooped up at 12 Grimmauld Place, you’d become particularly persistent. That summer was when the twins had just gotten licensed in apparition, abusing the privilege much to their mother’s chagrin. You couldn’t get anywhere in the house without hearing the familiar crack, and Fred’s warm body suddenly flush against yours. He’d laugh when you jump back in surprise but not before pulling you towards him in an embrace. How you loved feeling his warm flesh on yours, fingers intertwined in his when you fell back on the sofa.

“Why not now?” You pleaded, face close to his, much closer than friends should be. The question of your relationship was something you vowed to resolve after the impending war.

“Nope,” he spoke firmly, drawing circles with his calloused thumb on your hand. “Next year, you’ll learn it properly.”

“But I can’t take the test until the year after.”

“Summer birthdays are just awful things, aren’t they?” He teased, a form of payback from all his spring birthdays spent in the rain.

“Fred,” you huffed. “You and George break so many rules anyway, what’s different about this one?”

He racked his head for an excuse.

“Nothing,” he stated with a wink. “Just that you’d look bloody gross if you were splinched.”

You made a face. Fred looked at you with an uncharacteristic tenderness. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to teach you at all; it was the thought of his teachings failing that terrified him. If Ron splinched, he would’ve sat there laughing with George before his twin would realize the severity of the situation and call for help. If it was Ron that was reprimanded by the Ministry for underage apparition, he’d tease him endlessly, knowing his father would step in for that little git. But not you. You just sat there pleading with perfectly pouted lips, and the temptation to just kiss you right there was taking precedence in his heart.  But no, not now. No, for you, everything had to be right and proper.

“Now, if you stop asking, I may take you for a side-along stroll through this place,” he offered instead.

You looked back to the kitchen where Molly was preparing tonight’s dinner, humming as she chopped carrots and onions and stirred the stew, blissfully unaware of her son’s proposition.

“You’d really?”

He held out his arm.

“Really.”

With a crackle, you were both gone, the last thing you heard being Molly’s voice scolding Fred for excessive apparition. You appeared in a spare room where Ron was rehearsing something akin to flirting in front of the closet mirror. Before he could react – crackle – you appeared in an unused bedroom where Kreacher was quietly pilfering through old possessions. The old house elf turned around a second too late, because you were now in the twins’ room, where George was laying on his back, twinkling a prototype of some sort between two fingers. He looked up, noticing your arm still linked in Fred’s, and smiled.

The rest of the day was well-spent using Extendable Ears to listen in on Ron’s feeble attempts at chatting up women.

The disappearances of Fred and George in your last year left a gaping hole in your heart. Harry, Ron, and Hermione’s absence did nothing to soothe that pain. Where Headmaster Dumbledore used to sit, it was Headmaster Snape. Where Filch used to censure, there were the Carrows. Where grumbles came from being forced to write lines or polish trophies, instead echoed screams of pain from deep down the dark hallways. You remained quiet, bit your tongue and obeyed the rules to just get through it all. You prayed every day for your friends’ safety. And if there was anything to get you through this horrible year, it was the prospect of passing your apparition test in April. And Neville, who turned out to be surprisingly good at emphasizing with your worries and your confiding in him of your long-time infatuation with Fred Weasley. Being the kind boy he always was, he assured you you’d see him again, that he’d feel the same way about you. You felt relief wash over you at his words. 

When this was over, no matter how bloodied and bruised any of you were, you’d leap into Fred’s arms, relishing in the feeling of him spinning you around in celebration. His girl, he’d proclaim. Then in his melodic laughter, you’d kiss him for the first time. And the rest of the story would write itself.

But as comforting as his words were, they were heinously wrong. That ill-fated night came beating down like a sledgehammer to a mirror, shattering your hopes and dreams. You’d gotten just a quick glance at Fred alongside his brother Percy before the walls caved in, taking him and twenty years of joy and jubilant laughter in the aftermath. All you got to see after braving the worst year of your life was his lifeless stare as he was laid in the makeshift infirmary. His hand didn’t offer the same warmth and protection as they always did, instead, they were bitterly cold in yours. Through tears, you whispered about all the things you planned to do after you’d gotten your apparition licence, fully knowing he couldn’t hear a damn thing. He was gone. You cried and cried into his chest, stopping only when Molly pulled you up and embraced you, shedding her own tears with you. A mother’s intuition always knew, but this was a love that would never be.

Months after, you still couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Apparate. A skill you yearned so strongly to do, waited for that April day so patiently for. And no, not for just yourself. No, the sensation of it and any talks of it was always reminiscent of Fred Weasley. The feeling of taking his strong arm, the smell of his well-worn flannel– of bonfires and the warmth of a loving home – and the sound of his strong heartbeat as you lay against his chest. He lavished you with grand dreams of how you were going to apparate around the country à la Weasley after this was over, to the salty seaside of the beach, paying a quick visit to Bill and Fleur at the Shell Cottage, then through the earthy forest where you could spend the day with just nature, then through modern London for a quick show, then re-appear in the Burrow without barely a sound, but always just in time for dinner.

Now, all the wonderful memories sunk to the bottom of the ocean, never to be found again.

So, you’d taken to chimneys and flying for your travels. It was slower but at least it didn’t hurt. At the very least, a walk to the lovely shopping streets signified that things were back to normal. As normal as they’d ever be after the brutality of war. Boarded shops slowly opened their doors again, painting some much needed colour after a grey drought. You’d taken to buying small quantities of floo powder, sparsely replenishing your little flowerpot on the fireplace mantle every Monday. Weekly trips became routine and whether it was healthy or not, you didn’t care.

One early morning with nothing in particular to do, you found yourself on a walk to Diagon Alley. The skies were amber and the sun was shyly tucked under the horizon. You were probably Floo-Pow’s first client of the day, and you wondered if anyone thought oddly of you for making so many stops here. But what would they know? This was your way of coping, and no matter how ridiculous it was, it helped you.

You paid your sickles and received your purchase in a bag through a small wooden hole. You then stopped at a bakery. With it being so early in the day, the only patrons were other storeowners who sought peace before opening their own doors. They sat nursing their coffees and languidly flipping through The Daily Prophet. You didn’t even have to ask the employee at the counter, who memorized your order: two coffees, a few pastries, and a copy of today’s news. With your purchases in stow, you slowly walked to your last destination.

93 Diagon Alley. The brightest store of the lot of them here was Weasley Wizard Wheezes.

George let you in immediately when he saw you waiting at the window. There was barely a quiet moment in this shop, so early mornings were quite inviting.

“Morning, Georgie,” you greeted as the doors opened for you, watching the younger twin stock his store. You held up the coffee and a bag of pastries. “Breakfast?”

“You didn’t have to,” he murmured, descending his ladder and cleaning his hands with a towel before making his way to the door. He always thought it should be him treating you with all the earnings of his business. Nonetheless, he accepted your weekly offering of breakfast as usual, a sentimental token of your thoughts. “Thanks.”

You did your best not to wallow in sadness in George’s presence; it made you feel selfish. George had lost his twin brother, his loyal partner in all his marvellous mischief, and most importantly, a part of himself. You had just lost a friend. You were not Fred’s family, you had not grown up together, had not taken your first steps or said your first words together. You had no right to complain or to pity yourself at the future you lost when George got up every day and continued his brother’s legacy the best he could.

As he bit into his pastry, he eyed the little sack you kept at your side.

“Again?” He raised an eyebrow.

You flushed.

“I know, it’s such a stupid thing to get hung up on,” you admitted, remembering how he said the same thing last week. “But I just can’t do it, Georgie. It still hurts.”

George sighed.

“You know, he spent that entire week asking if you’d gotten your licence,” he recalled, in reference to the week that elapsed between your examination and the final battle, the day of Fred’s death. “And of all the crazy things you were going to do. I was sure he’d forgotten I even existed.”

You chuckled before the first tear rolled down your cheek, memories of things that would never be consuming your mind.

“With distinction, like you,” you said, voice wavering. You were at least glad that you remained in Fred’s last thoughts. “I was so excited to tell him.”

The younger Weasley twin handed you a handkerchief from his jacket which you happily accepted.

“I reckon he knew,” he said through a sip of coffee, “Longbottom might’ve said something to him.”

You dabbed your tears, a smile lighting your face. So, he knew. He must’ve known before he passed. 

“You know, he’d be right pissed,” George said leaning over the counter, a semblance of his old self taking hold of him, as if his twin were there alongside him to agree, “if you’d finally gotten your bloody licence and never apparated again.”

The image of Fred jokingly chiding you for your wasted efforts in your head caused you to laugh. Genuine bouts of laughter. How could you have never realized? He would’ve revelled in your ability to apparate so flawlessly like him, and what a shame it’d be if you never did it again because of him.

“I suppose you’re right,” you admitted. “He’d be so upset with me.”

“Mum's making a big breakfast today,” George stated, taking a quick glance at the clock to his left, its centre adorned with a puppet Weasley caricature. Its abnormally small finger on its left hand long past seven and its large finger on the other was pointing precariously close to the twelve.  “If you can make it by eight, she’d love to have you.”

“I’ve always loved your mom,” you complimented, thinking of how loving Molly was, and how at certain points in your life, she considered you her own daughter and her, your own mother.

You spent your last moments of sunrise embracing George, feeling the pain of losing Fred slowly dissipate. One day it would disappear completely, but to start that process, you had to start taking the first steps. To not fear what Fred loved to do. What he would’ve loved you to do in his absence. 

“Careful now,” George warned, chin rested on your head as he stroked your hair. “Don’t splinch yourself.”

“With distinction, George Fabian Weasley,” you corrected, “I passed with distinction.”

And so you left George’s presence, disappearing from the shop with barely a sound as the stubby finger of the Weasley caricature jerked upwards to meet the eight. The familiar rush of apparating coursed through your body. Your friends often described it as though being unpleasantly squeezed, but for you, it was the nostalgic feeling of holding onto Fred Weasley’s arm as you apparated alongside him in Grimmauld Place. It was the blazing rush of his sun-kissed arms, strong around you, keeping you safe as if hurting you was the worst thing he could ever do. It was the excruciating bliss of his lips against your cheek, on your forehead, but not your lips lest he mess it all up. It was every glorious sunrise you saw outside your windows, staying up far too late to fulfill orders with him and sleeping when his mother called for breakfast. It was the unbridled joy you felt, heart tingling listening the wild promises of what was to come. It was the longing anticipation of him telling him how proud of he was of you in front of all his friends and family, how he knew his girl could do it.

But proud you would make him as you walked up the hill to the Burrow, feeling that in some ways, Fred would always be alongside you.

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley x you 

[csnews]

'I've never seen or heard of attacks': scientists baffled by orcas harassing boats

Susan Smillie - September 13, 2020

Reports of orcas striking sailing boats in the Straits of Gibraltar have left sailors and scientists confused. Just what is causing such unusually aggressive behaviour?  

When nine killer whales surrounded the 46ft boat that Victoria Morris was crewing in Spain on the afternoon of 29 July, she was elated. The biology graduate taught sailing in New Zealand and is used to friendly orca encounters. But the atmosphere quickly changed when they started ramming the hull, spinning the boat 180 degrees, disabling the autohelm and engine. The 23-year-old watched broken bits of the rudder float off, leaving the four-person crew without steering, drifting into the Gibraltar Straits shipping lane between Cape Trafalgar and the small town of Barbate.

The pod rammed the boat for more than an hour, during which time the crew were too busy getting the sails in, readying the life raft and radioing a mayday – “Orca attack!” – to feel fear. The moment fear kicked in, Morris says, was when she went below deck to prepare a grab bag – the stuff you take when abandoning ship. “The noise was really scary. They were ramming the keel, there was this horrible echo, I thought they could capsize the boat. And this deafening noise as they communicated, whistling to each other. It was so loud that we had to shout.” It felt, she says, “totally orchestrated”.

The crew waited a tense hour and a half for rescue – perhaps understandably, the coastguard took time to comprehend (“You are saying you are under attack from orca?”). To say this is unusual is to massively understate it. By the time help arrived, the orcas were gone. The boat was towed to Barbate, where it was lifted to reveal the rudder missing its bottom third and outer layer, and teeth marks along the underside.

Rocío Espada works with the marine biology laboratory at the University of Seville and has observed this migratory population of orca in the Gibraltar Straits for years. She was astonished. “For killer whales to take out a piece of a fibreglass rudder is crazy,” she says. “I’ve seen these orcas grow from babies, I know their life stories, I’ve never seen or heard of attacks.”

Highly intelligent, social mammals, orcas are the largest of the dolphin family, and behave in a similar way. It is normal, she says, that orcas will follow close to the propeller. Even holding the rudder is not unheard of: “Sometimes they will bite the rudder, get dragged behind as a game.” But never with enough force to break it. This ramming, Espada says, indicates stress. The Straits is full of nets and long lines; perhaps a calf got caught.

But Morris’s was only one of several encounters between late July and August. Six days earlier, Alfonso Gomez-Jordana Martin, a 31-year-old from Alicante, was crewing a delivery boat near Barbate for the same company, Reliance Yacht Management. They were proceeding under engine when a pod of four orcas brought their 40ft Beneteau to a halt. He filmed them – it looks more like excitement and curiosity than aggression – but even this bumping damaged the rudder. And the force increased, he says, over 50 minutes. “Once we were stopped, they came in faster: 10-15 knots, from a distance of about 25m,” he remembers. “The impact tipped the boat sideways.”

The skipper’s report to the port authority said the force “nearly dislocated the helmsman’s shoulder and spun the whole yacht through 120 degrees”.

At 11.30pm the previous night, 22 July, Beverly Harris, a retired nurse from Derbyshire, and her partner, Kevin Large, were motor-sailing their 50ft boat, Kailani, just off Barbate at eight knots, when they came to a sudden standstill. It was flat calm, pitch black. They thought they’d hit a net. “I scrambled for a torch and was like, ‘Bloody hell, they’re orcas,’” says Harris. The couple checked their position and found the boat pointing the opposite way. They tried to correct several times, but the orcas kept spinning them back. “I had this weird sensation,” Harris says, “like they were trying to lift the boat.” It lasted about 20 minutes, but felt longer. “We thought, ‘We’ve sailed across the Atlantic, surely we’re not going to sink now!’” Their rudder was damaged but got them to La Línea. It was a long night. “Kevin said I should get some sleep. I said, ‘Are you joking? I’m having a gin and tonic,’” recalls Harris.

While enjoying her drink, Harris could have spared a thought for Nick Giles, having a sleepless night alone after an almost identical encounter off Barbate just two and a half hours earlier. He was motor-sailing, and playing music when he heard a sudden bang “like a sledgehammer”. The wheel was “turning with incredible force” as the vessel spun 180 degrees, dislodging the autohelm and steering cables. “The boat lifted up half a foot and I was pushed by a second whale from behind,” he says. While resetting the cables, the orca hit again, “nearly chopping off my fingers in the mechanism”. He was pushed around without steering for about 15 minutes before they left him.

Catastrophic encounters between whales and boats are not unknown – the best-known events all took place in the Pacific. In 1972 the Robertson family from Staffordshire were shipwrecked off the Galapagos Islands after an orca strike (their book, Survive the Savage Sea became a classic). The following year, also on the way to those islands, Maurice and Maralyn Bailey’s 31ft boat was holed by a sperm whale. In 1989 William and Simone Butler lost their boat as a huge pod of pilot whales rammed them. In these and all other known cases, the mammals ignored the humans who took to life rafts; it was the boats that attracted their ire. More usually in encounters, the whale is left dead or injured. The International Whaling Commission records these strikes – more collisions are occurring with private boats as technological advances increase performance speeds.

The encounters described around Barbate were certainly frightening for the crew, who understandably felt targeted, but it’s unlikely they were meant as aggressive attacks. At least two other boats had harmless encounters. On 20 July Martin Chambers, a yacht master for Allabroad Sailing Academy, was unconcerned when they were joined by a pod near Barbate. One individual “had hold of the rudder and stopped us moving the boat”, he says. “That’s the first time I’ve seen them do that.” It seems the encounters increased in intensity, but it’s also worth considering that different boat constructions can suffer different outcomes – rudders on some modern boats can be quite fragile.

“These are very strange events,” says Ezequiel Andréu Cazalla, a cetacean researcher who talked to Morris. “But I don’t think they’re attacks.” Orca specialists around the world are equally surprised, agreeing the behaviour is “highly unusual”, but are cautious, given that the accounts are not from trained researchers. Most agree that something is stressing the orcas. And when it comes to sources of stress, there are plenty to choose from.

“The lack of tuna has led these orca to the very edge with only 30 adults left”

The Gibraltar orcas are endangered – there are fewer than 50 individuals left, with a continuing decline projected – adults and juveniles are sustaining injuries, suffering food scarcity and pollution. Their calves rarely survive. The Gibraltar Straits is, Cazalla points out, “the worst place for orcas to live”. This narrow stretch of water is a major shipping route. And the presence of orcas attracts more marine traffic – highly profitable whale-watching. Theoretically, it is regulated, but some operators flout rules about speed and distance to chase the animals. Constant harassment by boats affects the orcas’ ability to hunt. Which brings us to the biggest stress of all: fishing.

The orcas return to this noisy, polluted stretch of water for one reason – to feed. They specialise in hunting bluefin tuna, also highly prized by humans. The near collapse of bluefin tuna between 2005 and 2010 “has led this orca population to the very edge, with about 30 adults left”, says Pauline Gauffier, who has studied them.

The Straits is an important migratory route for the tuna. It has been economically crucial to this region for thousands of years – the Romans produced coins in Cadiz depicting the once bountiful fish. Local fisheries still use an ancient technique – almadraba, a complex system of trap nets. Each spring, the bluefin arrive to spawn in the Med; many find their way into the nets instead. In July and August, as the tuna leave for the Atlantic, the fishermen switch to drop lines – baited with fish and lowered with rocks. These artisanal techniques are far less harmful than trawling, purse seining or driftnets – and than the reckless sport-fishing boats speeding at 10 knots, trailing long lines.

“They target the orca, because they think there must be tuna under the pods,” says Jörn Selling, a marine biologist for Firmm whale watching and research foundation with 17 years’ experience in the Straits. “They go right through the pods, their hooks cutting the dorsal fins”.

In the past, the orca chased the bluefin to exhaustion, but with fewer and smaller fish available, and the pressures from human activity, some have adapted. As a result, there now exists what biologists call “depradation” – a complex balance between the orca, tuna, and humans – and what the fishermen call “stealing”.

Since 1999, two of the Straits’ five pods have learned to take tuna from the drop lines, leaving the fishermen pulling up the tuna head alone. It’s infuriating for the fishermen, but for the orca, this is high risk. Several have sustained serious injuries. “We see marks caused by fishing lines,” says Selling. “We hear about young orca getting hooked.” There are two females with severed flippers – “Lucia”, Selling says “lost her baby together with her flipper, due to the interaction with tuna fishermen”. Gauffier points out that “there is little the fishermen can do to avoid line or hook injuries” when orca interact; and it’s not known what caused the injuries. But many conservationists suspect some fishermen retaliate violently.

“The fishermen hate the killer whales,” says Selling. The orca are protected, but “unobserved, the fishermen do what they want. They see them as competitors.”

Stories persist of fishermen stunning orca with electric prods, throwing lit petrol cans, cutting dorsal fins. Cazalla has seen two orca with recent injuries (Morris thinks there was an injured individual at her boat). “One has a significant scar – you can see white tissue so it’s deep.” This, he thinks, is unlikely to be from a propeller, which would cause multiple scars.

Selling points out that the orca interact with the almadraba as well as drop-line fishing, and talks of a male which worked out how to navigate the labyrinth of submarine nets to take tuna in Barbate years ago. This orca was later observed with serious injury to its dorsal fin. It hasn’t been seen since.

But the orca have endured harassment for decades. What explains the new behaviour? Was there reduced noise during the Covid lockdown? Selling says yes. “No big game fishing, no whale watching or sailing boats, no fast ferries, fewer merchant ships.” He’s intrigued by the idea that the orca had two months with reduced noise – “Something most of them probably never experienced before” – and considers the possibility they felt angry as the noise restarted (Gauffier thinks this unlikely, but notes that the Barbate pod still actively chases tuna, “for which they need a quieter environment”).

There is one very unscientific phrase I hear repeatedly from several researchers: “Pissed off”. Some speculate that the multitude of stresses these highly sentient cetaceans have endured – years of grieving lost calves, injuries, competition for fish, coupled with a pause and reintroduction of human activity, could have affected their behaviour. There is a great deal we don’t yet know about orca, which, like us, have evolved complex cultures and different languages around the world. A couple of years ago Ken Balcomb from the Center for Whale Research talked about endangered orca being dependent on scarce chinook salmon in the Pacific Northwest. “I’ve seen them look at boats hauling fish. I think they know that humans are somehow related to the scarcity of food. And I think they know that the scarcity of food is causing them physical distress, and also causing them to lose babies.”

Sounds like anthropomorphising? Lori Marino, neuroscientist and president of the Whale Sanctuary Project found in orca brains an astounding capacity for intelligence. “If we are talking about whether killer whales have the wherewithal and the cognitive capacity to intentionally strike out at someone, or to be angry, or to really know what they are doing, I would have to say the answer is yes. They are likely defending a territory or resources.”

Meanwhile, Nick Irving from Reliance is wondering if he should send clients’ boats out after the last three sustained damage: “Is it reckless?” Neither of us say it, but we’re both thinking he doesn’t want to be the mayor in Jaws – the obvious, if lazy stereotype that comes to mind. Word is starting to get out, frustrating Espada. Friends call, asking about the “attacks”, if it’s safe to swim. “Are you mad?” she asks. “Of course it’s safe!” As shark conservationists know all too well, it’s difficult to protect endangered animals with a bad image.

This tiny population’s presence is of huge importance, and if human activity is affecting their behaviour, human activity must be regulated. Gauffier has presented the Spanish Environment Agency with a conservation plan proposing that in the Barbate area, “activities producing underwater noise should be reduced to a minimum”. This is the very least that should happen. Each sailor I spoke to was concerned that their activities had stressed the orca. Victoria Morris, who has been searching for a specialist subject when she returns to study marine biology in autumn has found her topic. The Gibraltar orca has one more ally – which is good because these majestic, beleaguered mammals need all the help they can get.

[mrallnight57-blog]

The Crystal of Mordokia

Chapter 4

    The street was in chaos as several motorcycles zipped through traffic. None of them cared about stop lights or stop signs. All they wanted to do was get to their destination. A old abandoned hotel. Which was now the headquarters of the Gothic Lights, and the location of tonight's big event.

   The group pulled up to the old hotel, and there were a couple of bystanders. A man and a woman. The man started laughing hard. "Hey Denise look at these freaks with their biker outfits and Mohawks. Which decade do they think there in? The 80s."

    Denise looked over to her boyfriend. "Fred you should probably keep your mouth shut. They look pretty tough."

   Fred started laughing, "Oooh, I'm so scared. There probably all gay. The worst their going to do is style my hair."

   One of the bikers heard Fred talking. He was the largest of the group, and his mohawk was taller than everyone else's. On his jean jacket was a picture of a sledgehammer. Sledgehammer was also the name on his jacket. A name given to him, because when he punched someone, it felt like he had hit them with a sledgehammer.

   Denise noticed the rather large man walking there way, and she began to panic, she started to pull at her boyfriend's arm. "Hey we need to go, one of them is coming this way."

  Fred pulled his arm away from Denise and said, "Settle down babe. I got this."

   Fred looked over at Sledgehammer who was walking towards him. "Hey man, I was just playing." Then Fred looked at the building and a sign said, "See The Disciples tonight live, for free." Fred turned his attention back to Sledgehammer. "Hey, there's a free concert tonight!"

    "Yeah." Sledgehammer punched Fred right in the gut. Then looked down at him and said. "And we are working security."

  Fred fell to his knees, holding his gut, and began coughing up blood. Sledgehammer, barely punched Fred, but it was still hard enough to rupture something inside Fred's body.

   Denise bent down to check on her boyfriend. Then she looked up at Sledgehammer. "Hey psycho! "What do you think you're doing!?! I should call the cops!"

   Sledgehammer lit a cigar. "Well, if you do that, first I'm going to kill every cop that comes after me, and after I kill those cops. I'm going to find out where you live, and I'm going to kill you, and everyone else that lives at your house. Then I'm going to find your friends and your family, and kill them too."

   Denise was shaking in fear. She could take one look at Sledgehammer and could tell he wasn't messing around. In fact he had probably done that before, to someone else. Denise began pleading. "Please don't do that." Denise was trembling as she spoke.

    Sledgehammer smiled, as smoke left his mouth. "Well if you don't want that to happen, the best thing for you to do is take your little friend there to the hospital, and tell them he fell down some stairs."

    Denise was shaking, she did her best to help Fred to his feet. Then the two of them began walking towards the hospital.

   The rest of The Punk Rockers had been watching the event unfold. Pounder, a medium sized man stepped over to where Sledgehammer was standing, smoking a cigar. "Hey dude. Why did you let them go? You should have at least made the girl suck your dick, or something."

   Sledgehammer turned his attention to Pounder. "Shut the fuck up Pounder! That's your problem. You always think with your dick. We have more important business right now. We got to go in here and talk to Mister dark and spooky." Sledgehammer took another puff of his cigar. "Where the fuck is Rolo!?!"

    Pounder turned away to think, then back to Sledgehammer. "I think he went to go see his daughter."

    Sledgehammer was starting to get impatient. "Well he needs to hurry the fuck up and get back here!"

    Suddenly another motorcycle pulled up. Once Pounder spotted it, he tapped Sledgehammer on the shoulder. "There's the little bitch now!"

    Sledgehammer turned to see Rolo walking towards him. "About fucking time! If you would have made us late. I would have had no problem killing you and leaving your body on the side walk."

    Rolo gave Sledgehammer a confused look. "I thought we still had ten minutes."

    Sledgehammer grabbed Rolo by his jacket and pulled him close. "It's called being professional. I like being early."

    A couple of Punk Rockers began laughing. The thought of them being professional just made them laugh. They couldn't imagine themselves in a suit and tie.

    Sledgehammer led the group into the hotel. Once inside they noticed how dimly lit everything was. Along the walls was a ton of gothic imagery, and a few Punk Rockers were beginning to feel uncomfortable. One of them even asked, "how long are we going to be here?"

   Sledgehammer turned to the grunt who was speaking. "Stop being a pussy, and shut the fuck up!"

    The group walked into the conference room of the hotel. Inside their was a stage. There was also a set of stairs that went up to the second floor, and on that floor you could walk around, and look down at the conference room.

    Once all the Punk Rockers got into the room. The doors of the room closed on their own. This made a loud noise.

    This caused some of the Punk Rockers to get startled. One of them screamed out. "What the fuck!?!"

    Sledgehammer turned to the man. "Hey!!! What did I say about being a pussy?"

    Sledgehammer looked up and saw the second floor fill up with people in hoods and robes. There had to be at least twenty or thirty of them. The dimly lit room made it impossible for the Punk Rockers to see any of the hooded men's faces. This took Sledgehammer off guard as well. "Okay, now that's creepy."

    "Welcome!!!" A loud voice echoed through the conference room. The Punk Rockers' attention went towards the stage. Standing on the stage was another man in a Robe but his head wasn't covered.

   Sledgehammer looked at the man on stage. "You must be Gothic Mirror."

   "That's correct." Gothic Mirror stepped down off the stage, and started walking towards them. "I'm glad to see you all found the place okay. So I bet you all are chomping at the bit, to know why you are here."

   Sledgehammer lit another cigar and took a drag. "Oh we know why we are here. Our leader got into a tussle with some dumb vigilante, and now he is in prison, and it just so happens the one person who can get him out is very interested in your little cult. So he wants us to be your security for tonight's event. We do that, and he will get our boy out of prison."

    Gothic Mirror smiled, "I'm happy you understand your situation. Unfortunately there is something else I need you to do."

   One of the other Punk Rockers stepped forward. "No. The Unfortunate thing is we have to be here at all, and if you think we are going to take orders from you. You got another thing coming, because we are running the show now."

   Gothic Mirror looked at the name on the man's Jacket. "Buzzsaw? Is that what they call you?"

  "Yeah. You got a problem with that?"

    Gothic Mirror smiled, and looked over at Sledgehammer who threw his hands up. Basically without words, letting Gothic Mirror know Buzzsaw was acting on his own. Sledgehammer had heard rumors about Gothic Mirror's abilities, and the last thing he wanted was to have Gothic Mirror fucking with his head.

  Gothic Mirror leaned into Buzzsaw and whispered in his ear. One word. "Fear."

   Buzzsaw was about to laugh, but then realized he was no longer in the conference room. In fact he was in a very small room. All the walls were white, and there was no door or way out of the room.

    As he looked around the room, he realized he was by himself. "All right guys, this isn't funny. Where the fuck is everyone!?!"

   Suddenly the walls began moving. Making the room smaller, the room was closing in on him. This caused Buzzsaw to panic. He started screaming, "Come on guys! Let me out of here!!!" Buzzsaw tried to push against one of the walls, to push it back, but it didn't work. Now the walls were getting closer and moving faster.

   Buzzsaw began crying. "Look dude. I'm sorry! Please man!!! Let me go!!!" This outburst only seem to make the walls close in faster. Buzzsaw dropped to his knees, and began crying. "Come on man! I don't want to die!"

Buzzsaw closed his eyes, and waited for the walls to crush him. Tears were rolling down his face. He set there crying, waiting for his impending doom, but it never came.

Moments later he could hear his friends laughing at him, and Sledgehammer's voice. "Dude, you cry like a bitch."

    Buzzsaw was still on his knees with tears streaming down his face. Gothic Mirror was standing over him. Gothic Mirror squatted down so the two of them could be eye to eye. "Speak that way to me again, and next time those walls will completely close, and you will die. Do you understand me?"

    Buzzsaw nodded, and Gothic Mirror smiled. "Good."

    Sledgehammer grabbed the back of Buzzsaw jacket, and pulled him to his feet. "Get your ass over there with everyone else, and don't speak until spoken to! Buzzsaw went where he was told, and Sledgehammer shook his head. "What a fucking idiot." Then Sledgehammer looked over to Gothic Mirror. "So what's this favor you need us to do?

   Gothic Mirror got back on the stage. "Earlier this week my informant in the FBI filled me in on the whereabouts of an alien artifact. So this morning, a few of my followers and myself, broke into a government lab, and stole it. I also may have accidentally on purpose killed one of the scientist."

    Sledgehammer raised an eyebrow. "Accidentally on purpose huh? Well, where is this alien artifact now?"

    Gothic Mirror reached into his robe and pulled out a small led case, and opened it up. Inside was a small crystal that was completely dark.

   Sledgehammer and the rest of the Punk Rockers began feeling really uneasy, as if the Grim Reaper himself had just entered the room. Sledgehammer took a step back. "What is that thing!?!"

    Gothic Mirror, who seemed not to be bothered by the orra of the crystal, looked at the crystal. "It's called the Crystal of Mordokia, but I have no idea what it does, and until Litias tells me what it does. Litias isn't getting it."

    Pounder, who was now standing next to Sledgehammer, began scratching his head. "Who is Litias?"

    Gothic Mirror closed the case and put it back in his Robe. "Don't worry yourself about that. What I need you to do is, when the FBI gets here, I need you to take care of them."

   Sledgehammer stepped forward, "Take care of them how?"

    "Kill them of course. Except for one." Gothic Mirror put his hood over his head. "Her name is Jenny Ramirez."

[five-rivers]

Sleep Paralysis

Gift fic for @sporks-metal!  

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William Lancer had never been a superstitious man. He enjoyed reading about the supernatural, true, about mythology, legends, folklore, but he wasn't superstitious.

In Amity Park, believing in ghosts did not count as superstition. It was simply common sense.

Even so, this was pushing the limits of common sense. The almost-empty salt container rattled softly in his hand as he shook out the last few grains. Sweeping all this up, each white line he had drawn at every threshold and every windowsill would be a pain. A greater pain than the splinters and thorns he had picked up from the 'sacred trees' he had alternately planted in his yard and cut up to hang over his doorways.

William didn't have a choice. He was at his wits end, and he was being haunted.

He was being haunted, and the normal methods of dealing with such things hadn't done a thing. Of course, the 'normal methods' were 'wait for Phantom to show up' and 'call the Fentons,' so he wasn't quite sure what he had been expecting.

The teenage ghost didn't exactly have a hotline and while the Fentons did, their services had been less than efficacious. They'd camped out at his house for two nights, and the only things they had removed from it were all of his sweets. The ghost had not made an appearance. It (they, she, he, William didn't know) was smarter than that.

The Fentons had told him that he was most likely suffering from a case of nerves or stress (what nerves, what stress, in the middle of summer?) and had given him a small ectogun. On the house. Neither of these things comforted him.

Oddly, part of William insisted that if Mr. Fenton, that is, Danny, not Jack, had been there, things would have gone differently. Differently how, that part of William wouldn't say. When he thought about it, he honestly couldn't imagine why Danny's presence would change things. He liked Danny. Somehow, the younger Fenton had found his way to being William's favorite student, even if he was also an incredibly inconsistent student, but he was also shy, never in place when a ghost showed up.

... Huh. There was something there, but William's tired mind couldn't quite reason it out.

If the ghost would just let him be, let him rest.

William pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. What he wouldn't give for some rest... He'd even call the Fentons back, if it came to that. He exhaled slowly and sank into his armchair, the laughably tiny ectogun balanced on his thigh, his fireplace on his right. He had covered the hearth with salt, too, just in case.

He was losing his mind, wasn't he?

No. Ghosts were normal in Amity Park. He wasn't crazy. He wasn't even superstitious, for all that he was resorting to older apotropaics. There was a reason the garden supply store sold so many different varieties of holly, rowan, and sage.

He took a deep breath, let it out. Nothing had happened yet, tonight. Perhaps the Fentons had scared the ghost off. Perhaps he could pass this night in peace. His hand inched towards the small table next to his chair. He had a book there, one he had been reading before this started...

A fire roared to life in the fireplace. William's breath caught in his throat.

For several long minutes, the only thing that changed was how much sweat glued William's pajamas to his skin.

Then the whispers started.

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The ghost haunting William was not like the Box Ghost. William could deal with the Box Ghost. He had dealt with the Box Ghost. That cardboard-loving spirit could have been a threat, in another world, in another life (death?), but in this one he was more of a pest, than anything. Sort of like a barking dog. A very small barking dog.

But this ghost, this ghost that William hadn't even seen but somehow managed to turn his life into a paranoid hell, this ghost wasn't like that. Wasn't like any of the ghosts he'd seen at the school. Wasn't like any of the ghosts he'd seen on the news. Wasn't like the ghosts the Fentons talked about.

This ghost, it was more like things he'd seen in stories, in books, myths, legends. Something ethereal, something that stuck to shadows, drove men crazy, stole the breath from their mouths and light from their eyes, or burned down their house while they slept.

Or pushed a person so far that their inattention and exhaustion did them in. If it was the school year, and he had to drive... But, maybe, if school was in session, he would have been able to flag down Phantom after one of his fights.

William's hands shook as he pressed buttons on his coffee machine. He needed to sleep. He couldn't sleep. Not with the ghost always, always waiting for him to relax.

He was a mess, and he didn't know what to do.

He did not save his coffee from boiling over until it was far too late to salvage. He felt sick. He needed air.

Going outside was risky. Too many accidents had dogged his steps yesterday, even accounting for his fatigue, but staying inside wasn't any better.

He stepped slowly and carefully over his salt lines and onto the porch. Fresh air hit him like a sledgehammer. The space just below the top of his head buzzed uncomfortably.

Looking to the side of his door, William noticed that his extra rowan cuttings were all gone. He shivered. He was only wearing his pajamas. This really wasn't dignified.

He was afraid to go back in.

Something across the street caught his attention. He looked up, half afraid of what he would see.

Danny Fenton.

William let his shoulders slump in a mixture of relief and intense embarrassment. What kind of a teacher was he, letting his students see him dressed like this?

What was Danny Fenton doing here, anyway?

Danny tilted his head to one side and blinked a few times. Slowly, William raised a hand in greeting. Danny seemed to take this as an invitation, because he smiled brightly, raised one of his hands, laden with a shopping bag, and crossed the street, walking right up to William's porch.

"Hi, Mr. Lancer!" he said, with an energy William hadn't felt in years. "Jazz and I are back from our college tour." Which was obvious, really. "Mom and Dad said you weren't feeling well, so I brought you some stuff." He shook the bags. "Should I just give them to you, or put them down somewhere?"

William's sleep-deprived brain was still caught on being embarrassed, but he did manage to make himself nod. He had been wishing for Danny to be here, like he was some kind of lucky charm. But... was it safe for Danny to be here?

"Safe?" asked Danny.

"Did I say that out loud?"

"Yeah," said Danny. Amusement mixed with worry in his tone. "You really must be sick. You look like you haven't slept in days."

William pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers. "Something like that," he admitted. "I'm being haunted."

Something William couldn't interpret passed over Danny's features. "Mom and Dad couldn't find it?"

"No."

"Well, maybe some of this could help. Have you tried candles? Or eyes?"

"What?"

Danny's face twisted into a wry grin. "Mom and Dad use modern methods," he said, "and I see you've been trying other things. Like salt, and the holly. But not all methods work for all ghosts." He put one foot on the steps of William's porch. "I can help you set up."

"But if the ghost comes-"

"Hey, I've dealt with ghosts before," said Danny.

William frowned. "So have I," he said. "So have your parents."

Danny shrugged. "Like I said, they prefer modern methods. They don't always work." His head tilted again. "Not all ghosts are like the Box Ghost, you know."

There was confidence, there. Quiet, yes, but... Danny wasn't confident. At least not in class, and... William felt like he was being trusted with something, almost. With a glimpse.

His head hurt.

"Alright," said William. He took a step back, towards his door. "Come on in."

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Danny laid boxes out on the dining room table. "This is just snacks," he said, pushing one box towards William. "Keeping your energy up is important. This stuff is apotropaics, which is mostly supposed to keep ghosts away in the first place, so I don't really know if they'll work." He picked up a rock painted with a blue eye, and a pendant with the same. "It can't hurt, though." He handed the pendant to William. "So, what's this ghost like, anyway?"

Feeling dazed, William just watched Danny take candles out of the bag and stand them up on the table for a few minutes. "When I relax," he said, finally, "that's when it comes. At night, mostly. Sometimes it doesn't. And then it does. It gets hard to move. I get-" He put one hand over his chest, and pressed down. "Then things happen. The fireplace. Stuff gets all-" He moved his hand up and down. Some English teacher he was, he could barely speak. Words escaped him. "What does it even matter?"

"Different ghosts have different weaknesses," said Danny. "Like, if you were dealing with a, um, more traditional Chinese ghost, you might be able to confuse it by breaking sight lines. They only like to move in straight lines, some of them. Feng shui or whatever. Spirit mazes." He wiggled his fingers. "But you've got walls and doors and stuff, so I don't think it is one of those." He stared down at the table and the objects on it, frowning slightly.

"What do you think it is?" asked William, tiredly. "And why didn't your parents bring this up?" He had the feeling that he really should find this whole situation more suspicious than he actually did, but he'd do almost anything for sleep, at this point.

"I don't know," said Danny, shrugging. "Did you ever have sleep paralysis? Or sleep walking? Night terrors?"

"Please don't try to tell me this is sleep paralysis," said William, scrubbing his hands over his face. His jaw felt like sandpaper. "I know what that feels like."

"But you did have it."

"Yes," said William. "I used to. But it stopped."

"When?"

"When I got a new medication."

"Which was?"

"I don't know. Last March, or February."

"Right before the ghost king stole the town?"

"What are you getting at, here?" asked William.

"I think-" The windows rattled, cutting Danny off. "Oh, it doesn't like that, does it?"

William felt the weight in his chest like a stone. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think-

Danny pulled on his elbow, and suddenly he could move. "We need to get out of here," he said. "Sunlight."

"What?"

"You never had sleep paralysis," said Danny, pulling William along. "You were possessed, and it wants back in."

"What?" wheezed William, and it was getting really hard to breathe. Black spots danced in his vision. He fell.

"Hey!" shouted Danny. Something like a growl rippled in the air. "Back off! You can't have him. He's mine."

Which didn't make any sense, but then, nothing made sense right now, he couldn't think except for terror.

And suddenly the missing holly branches were in Danny's chest. Danny staggered. Went down on one knee.

"Don't think you can kill me that easily, pest."

And William's vision went black.

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William woke up in bed. In his bed. With the covers drawn up to his chin. He'd been sleeping on his back. He never sleeps on his back.

Other things are off, too. His slippers were in the wrong place. His throw rugs have been moved. A picture shifted to hide a burn mark on the wall. The dishwasher has been run. Several cups are missing.

So are all the supplies Daniel had brought him, earlier.

It was as if someone, or something, wanted to make William think that everything that had happened was just a dream, but William knew that it wasn't. There were too many discrepancies, too much evidence, and, more to the point, he remembers.

He hoped it was Danny trying to cover things up. He really did.

If it was the ghost... William didn't want to think about that.

Should he call the Fentons? He still has their number.

But he didn't know what happened. He could remember, but... it didn't make sense. It didn't make sense for the ghost to cover this up, or to let him sleep. Except-

William nearly threw up when he remembered the branch embedded in his student's chest. That was- That was awful. That couldn't have been real. He must have been hallucinating. He had passed out, right after.

He shook his head. No, this was how people convinced themselves that something was 'just a dream' in movies. That hadn't been a dream. He hadn't dreamed that whole awful, terrible thing. He hadn't dreamed he was being haunted. He wasn't going to gaslight himself.

That thought turned over for a few minutes, then he lunged for his phone.

.

This was stalking. William was stalking his student.

That sounded bad.

It was bad, honestly, but William needed to see for himself that Danny was intact, and it wasn't the school year. He couldn't just wait for Danny to stroll into the classroom, thirty minutes late.

What if the ghost has latched on to him?

But, no. Even if the Fentons hadn't found it when it was haunting William, if it was after their own son, surely they'd realize it.

William just had to see. He'd look, he'd see, he'd maybe knock on the front door if Danny insisted on staying inside all day, and-

Danny walked out of his front door and bounced down the front steps of Fentonworks. He turned and started walking up the street.

Great. Now William should go, Danny's fine, but...

William did not go. Rather, he did go, but not home.

Now he really was stalking Danny, and he was being as stealthy as possible, given that this could likely cost him his job if anyone noticed. Stealth was difficult. Danny walked surprisingly quickly. Deceptively quickly. His half-skipping gait looked slow, but it ate up the ground, and trying to keep up with it left William feeling winded.

Of course, that might just be the effect of barely sleeping for who knows how long. Who knew? Not William.

But Danny went up the street and so did William.

They had almost reached the local park, when a ghost attacked. Because of course a ghost attacked. This was Amity Park, after all. Thankfully, for William's nerves, it was a normal ghost, not like whatever had been tormenting him. He even knew this ghost's name. Skulker.

Which was less of a comfort considering that the ghost was intent on attacking Danny. Why this was the case, William didn't know.

The metal-covered ghost sent missile after missile after Danny, and Danny just. Kept. Dodging. Oftentimes, by little more than an inch.

It was terrifying.

Danny didn't look particularly scared. Which was somehow even more terrifying.

After what couldn't be more than a minute, the ghost swooped low and close, and Danny whipped something white and green from behind his back, and a blue light poured out of it, engulfing the ghost and sucking it in.

Danny continued down the street.

William went home.

.

When school started again, William watched Danny more closely. As closely as he dared. Now that he had his eyes open, it was easier to see that there was something off about Daniel. Not really wrong, per se, but not normal.

It wasn't just skipping class, although that was part of it, or the way he and his friends hold themselves aloof from the normal social hierarchy, or how there were sometimes burn marks on his homework, it was something deeper and more elusive. Something more fundamental.

Halfway through October, William realized Danny didn't move nearly as much as someone his age should. He's still. Too still.

In November William found a pattern to Danny's absences. He didn't like it, and he tried to forget. He tried to stop looking, stop watching. Tried to tell himself that it wasn't possible.

But by December, William was fairly certain: Danny was dead.

Danny was dead.

His student.

Dead.

And a ghost, on top of that.

William had no idea how to cope.

But he didn't know for sure. Didn't know that Danny was out there, day and night, fighting ghosts, so he simply... ignored it. Treated Danny like normal. Like a student. Even if he was a ghost, he still had a right to an education, didn't he? Being dead was simply... a disability, of sorts. William's training covered exceptional students and accommodations. He couldn't very well set up an IEP meeting with the Fentons to discuss how Daniel was no longer among the living and how that might affect his ability to learn, but as a classroom teacher and as vice principal, he could make things a little easier for Daniel.

None of this really settled his anxiety, but it kept it at manageable levels.

It helped that his sleep paralysis did not come back. He didn't want to think about that too closely.

But then he couldn't ignore it, because he walked in on Danny changing, peeling off his skin and burning it like flash paper, in an unused classroom, and now there was a ghost tearing up the school behind him, and a ghost tearing up and hyperventilating in front of him, and he didn't know what to do.

"Just," said William, holding up his hands, "just breathe, Danny." He had no idea if that would help, no idea if Danny even needed to breathe.

"Mr. Lancer?" asked Danny. His voice wavered beneath a supernatural echo. He blinked hard, deliberately. "You-" He inhaled raggedly. "You can't- Please don't tell anyone!"

"I-" started William, unsure if or what he should promise. Now that he knew... Did that change what he should do? As a teacher? As an adult?

He didn't know.

Something crashed behind William. Far behind William. Somewhere in the vicinity of the cafeteria, he'd guess.

Something flickered over Danny's face. "I've gotta go," he said. "Please, just, don't tell anyone."

And then he vanished.

.

The next time Danny reappeared it was in front of William's house, between two of the holly trees William had planted that summer. He was wearing a coat that was much too thin for the weather, and had a box in his hands that just screamed 'bribe,' for all that it was wrapped in Christmas-tree themed paper.

William watched him through the blinds. He wasn't sure if he should invite Danny in.

Danny was a ghost. A dangerous ghost. Arguably the most dangerous ghost in Amity Park. A ghost that beats up other ghosts on a daily basis.

Danny was also his student, and he was standing out there in the cold, looking terrified.

William walked over to the door and opened it, slowly. It creaked and the cold made his toes curl inside his socks.

"Mr. Fenton," he said, "Danny... Why don't you come in?"

[wlw-lovestruck-fiction]

How about MC waking up after a month of coma just to find out that Vivienne has not left her side not once? Yes, give me the angst but with lots of fluff pls ✊😩

I hear my name being called over and overagain, but I can’t open my eyes. Everything is too bright, and my head feelslike it’s been hit several times by a sledgehammer. But I recognize the voiceimmediately. Vivienne. My Vivienne. I try to force a smile- despite my entire face aching- and Ican hear the excitement in her voice. “Please, come quick! She’s awake! I told you she’d wake up”,I hear Vivienne shouting. She’s trying not to cry. I can hear the strain in hervoice. Someone else enters the room- presumably a doctor- and startsgiving me the once over. “Can you open your eyes for me?” they ask me, and I tryagain. Eventually, I’m able to but not for long. The room is spinning and it gives meinstant nausea. “If she needs to sleep, let her sleep!” Vivienne says firmly. I don’t hear much after that, besides muffled speech, before I find sleep pullingme under. I’m not sure how much later it is when I finally awaken but it’s darker now. Ifeel much better than before, and am finally able to keep my eyes open for longperiods of time. Vivienne is by my side and I wonder how long it’s been. She’s reading amagazine, but from the way her eyes are working, it doesn’t look as though she’sreally absorbing anything at all. “Hey”, I call to her, and she throws the magazine to one side, grabbing my handbetween hers. “You’re here. You’re really here. They told me you weren’t coming back but Iknew you wouldn’t leave me”, she tells me. It’s strange hearing Vivienne talk this way, and I can’t help but let out agentle laugh. “What? What’s funny?” she demands, her face steadily reddening. “You. You’re cute when you’re worried.”I think she wants to roll her eyes but she doesn’t. She’s too relieved to seeme conscious. “How long was I gone?” I ask her. “Over a month. The doctors said the longer you were out, the less your chanceswere of coming back.”It sounds surreal, like I’ve been a part of a soap opera. “Well, I’m here now. And I’m not going anywhere”, I reassure her. Vivienne smiles at me so genuinely, and it’s then that I notice the black bagsunder her eyes. Exhaustion coats every inch of her, and it dawns on me that she’sprobably been here for a while. “How long have you been here?” I ask. “Oh, it’s not important right now. Let’s just focus on your recovery.”I want to protest but I can feel sleep coming back for me again. “Why don’t you go home?” I ask her. “You look tired. You should rest.”“I’m fine”, she insists. “Though I may consider resting here in a while.”As she says this, she slides back into the chair, pulling her knees up to herchest and laying on her side. But she won’t take her eyes off me, as if I mightvanish into thin air if she so much as looks away. “I’m not going anywhere, Vivienne”, I assure her. She nods gently, but her eyes stay focused on my hospital bed. I don’t have theenergy to reassure her a second time, before sleep takes me again. When I wake, a nurse is changing my drip. I turn to find Vivienne snoozingbeside me, curled up in the chair by my bed. “Welcome back”, the nurse says, offering me a smile. “Thank you.”“You know, you’ve got a really loyal friend”, he tells me. I roll my eyes internally at the assumption that Vivienne is my friend, but Idon’t let him know that. “What makes you say that?” I ask. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen someone stay for so long before.”My eyes widen in alarm. “Huh? How long has she been here?”The nurse looks at me for a moment, clearly puzzled. “She never left.”

[words-writ-in-starlight]

the untamed is on netflix, right? i think i've seen it. i'm enjoying your posts about it and my mom would love if i watched a chinese show (it looks chinese, i might be wrong though) but i'm kinda short on time so please pitch to me why i should watch it so i will be convinced and look past the lack fo time

Anonymous asked:

ok the untamed looks cool af how doesone watch it 

A L L R I G H T I’m finally going to make a rec post, I’ve put this off long enough.  You’ve definitely already started to watch it, clever, so please forgive me for using this as an excuse to pitch this show.

So, for starters, Anon, The Untamed is indeed on Netflix!  It is in Chinese!  If you (like me) do not understand Mandarin Chinese, the Netflix English subbing is…fine, it’s fine, but I recommend poking around in the fandom because every single form of address is changed to the character’s full name.  And maybe I just spent too much time doing translations for my old Spanish and Chinese and especially Latin classes, but I think there are some things that, A, shouldn’t be translated or, B, should be translated awkwardly over being translated incoherently.  

I digress.  My thoughts about maintaining forms of address in their native language for the sake of clarifying levels of respect/etc are not relevant here.  Chuck a note in my inbox if/when you get confused about everyone’s three names and I’ll write/link you a guide.

POINT IS.  The Untamed is an adaptation of the novel Mo Dao Zu Shi, which is generally translated as “The Grandmaster of Demonic Cultivation,” and my quick pitch for it is: There’s a plot, sure sure, it’s the story of Wei Wuxian (his fall from grace to Most Hated Person In Magic!China, and then his resurrection and efforts to solve a murder), and if you like character-driven fantasy narratives you Will Like This

B U T

You know that post “but is he…you know…your narrative foil?”  That’s this show.  If what you crave is “one character committedly pines over another for twenty years even when the entire world hates that person,” please let me interest you in Lan Wangji, the love interest.  They have a kid together.  It’s a great romance.  Literally what else do you want from me.  I love a narrative foil, I love a tragedy, I love an epic love story, I love a found family.  And good GOD do I love a character who self-destructs in an effort to do the right thing.

Wei Wuxian isn’t evil.  He’s not even especially malicious.  But when the chips were down and he needed to survive, and to save people, and to figure something out, he took the only avenue left to him, and it was—it was inevitable, really, that it make him the villain of the piece.  He saved a lot of lives.  Everyone except Lan Wangji hates him for it.  He’s already thoroughly despised by the time he starts actually doing things that are objectively bad.  Talk to me about it forever.

My usual list of free-form associative Things I Like That You Will Probably Also Like under the cut:

Wei Wuxian!  I know he’s the main character but I love him so much that he gets a bullet point!  He’s the kind of lighthearted goofball who’s perfected the “I Would Honestly Die Before Showing Emotion To Anyone, How Dare You Imply That I Am Not Sincere In My Perpetual Good Humor” mask, and it hits like a sledgehammer when that mask cracks.  I would watch this actor flip between smiles and homicidal rage all day.  He gets a hug from Son Boy in the last episode and I almost cried.  50000/10.

Lan Wangji!  A great love interest!  Noble to the core!  Incredibly bitchy!  I want five more just like him!

This is where I mention that China has strict censorship laws, so, despite the fact that they kiss and have sex and get married and the whole nine in the book, the show is all Intense Staring And Love Declarations Where They Never Say The L-Word.  But like.  Please trust me, it’s actually So Romance.  If anything I think I like the  romance in the show better.

Wen Ning!

I don’t have anything else to say about him, I just love him so goddamn much.  He and his sister Wen Qing are stars and the rest of these sinners don’t deserve them.

COMPETENT. VILLAINS.  I’ve spilled a lot of ink on this one lately, but I love competent villainy, I love villains who have Goals and plan to Achieve Them and actually pull it off.  Jin Guangyao, the big bad of the “present”(the part where Wei Wuxian is resurrected and kicking around trying to solve a murder), is actually phenomenally good at his job and I support him even though I enjoyed watching him go down in flames.  There are enough villains in this show for everyone to have their preferred type of villain, from Devoted Right Hand Man to Megalomaniacal Overlord to Freewheeling Engine Of Death.  GREAT villains in this show.  Which brings me to…

YI! CITY! ARC!  I’m not going to tell you that much about it, but it’s dark and tragic and features my very favorite villain in the entire show, Xue Yang, who is just.  *chef kiss*  A horrible monster of a man.  An unapologetic, cold-eyed shriek of a villain.  The very best at what he does, and what he does is absolutely horrible, and I would watch an entire series about this five-ish episode arc.  Also, I’ve adopted Song Lan/Xiao Xingchen from the Tragic Ships Shelter and someone should toss me a headcanon ask for them.  Any AU your little heart desires.  I love them.

THE MAGIC!  I know it took me a long time to get here, but it’s a very character driven show and I am a very character driven person and I just wanted to yell about characters for a minute.  But anyway, I’m told that the Untamed is a great onboarding point for this genre of Chinese fantasy novel, because they do a really good job of making the necessary points accessible.  I had no familiarity with wuxia/xianxia/etc when I started watching this and everything about cultivation made sense to me, or at least enough sense to be going on with.  It’s very lovely and fascinating and it’s where they put their Entire Non-Clothing Budget.

This is where I mention that their effects department clearly used their entire funding for, like, cool sword stunts and beautiful clothing.  The wolf puppet in particular is just.  Almost adorably terrible.  If that’s going to severely impact your enjoyment, Idk what to tell you, man.

Related to the above, I love plotlines about characters losing control of their magic.  That’s all I’m going to say about it.

Unreliable narrators, baby! They set up a lot of concrete facts about Wei Wuxian in the first two episodes that become obvious as complete bullshit as you go on, and it’s very satisfying to watch!  See also, Nie Huaisang, the most unreliable narrator of them all, whom I adore.

Beyond all those things…it’s just got a lot of great relationships in it.  It’s hugely driven by the affection people have for each other, or the places they feel they’vebeen deprived of that affection.  It has a lot of iterations of the same relationship in wildly distinct ways, if that makes sense—offhand, there are maybe four major sets of siblings, five if you count the Jins, and they are all radically different and insanely compelling.  The basic structure of Wei Wuxian/Lan Wangji, the “black cultivator/white cultivator on a crusade to change the world” thing, appears a lot of times, and goes horribly awry in a slightly different way for all of them.  That kind of in-universe repetition of themes, doing the same thing over and over again looking for the Right Path, is one of my favorite things to appear in a story—see also, the Kencyrath (twins, Dreamweavers, Knorth lords, loyal Kendar, etc), the Animorphs (warrior teams, deaths on the field, etc), any number of other things I yell about.

TL;DR: The story is great and the cultivation is fascinatingand the schemes are elaborate, but

[the-last-cuddlebender]

@thecaroliner 🅷🅴🆁🅴 🆈🅾︎🆄 🅶🅾︎ 🅱︎🅱︎ ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

(Kataang + #5: “You’re burning up.” + Katara has a fever)

Healers Make the Worst Patients

Words: 952

Rating: G

ArchiveOfOurOwn

************************************

Katara glanced twice around the corner, but there wasn't a sign or shadow of anyone down the hall. A warrior’s instinct had her take a deep breath as she shifted into stealth, but the tickle in her chest flapped in her lungs like a ribbon beaten by the winds of a cold fall day.

She coughed. The sound echoed.

She pressed herself against the wall and checked around the corner again.

Katara would have laughed if it wouldn't have blown her cover. She kept flush against the wall, even sticking herself to the blue paint to camouflage her dress. She turned the last corner that would lead her to the door—

A wall in orange and yellow robes greeted her, instead.

“*ahem*”

Katara shrunk into a shell that wasn’t there. Her voice was heavy iron dragged over concrete, and it puttered like it was about to die. “Ehehehe...Hey, sweetie…”

Aang’s frown, much like a solar eclipse, was rare and hard to look at, and it disabled Katara just as easily as Yue did any firebender. His eyes were unamused and looked down at her through half-lids.

She smiled at him.

He crossed his arms.

“And where, exactly, do you think you’re going?”

“Oh, I was just...I was just looking for you.” Katara laughed through another cough and tried not to make it too obvious that she was reaching her energy to the nearest source of water, probing the room for even a trace of her element. There was none. She should have known. Aang had taken every precaution.

“Oh, really?”

Katara was a terrible liar and was even worse at trying to hide that she knew it. “Yeah, I was just...um...Aang, listen, I know you’re worried, but I’m not dying or anything—”

“Katara…”

“—and I was only—Oh, come on, Aang!”

Aang turned her around and marched her back to their room. Katara tried to peel his hands off her shoulders while she dug in her heels, but Aang, without stopping, earthbended the ground beneath her into a magic carpet that made her slide as if she were on wheels.

She crossed her arms and fouled the temple with a rainbow of words that would have Toph wiping a prideful tear from her eye.

The small kiss on her head was a smack of tape trying to weld the broken seal of a gushing fire hydrant, and Katara’s simmering blood rolled into a boil.

Too soon he had her in their room. She briefly tried to hold the doorframe, but Aang scooped her up, making her world spin, and had her tucked into bed before she could calibrate which way was up.

Her head pounded, but her headache sat on a stool mere inches from the head of the bed and looked down at her like he was trying to pin her in place with his eyes.

Katara tried to get up and tear out of her fuzzy cocoon.

Aang put one finger to her forehead and pushed her back down.

Katara’s glare was as hot as she felt and would have melted him if he was a steel bar.

She tried again. He stopped her again. And they looped over and over.

“Aang—”

“Nope.”

“But—”

“Not-ugh.”

“I only—”

“Not happening.”

“Would you just—!”

He put his finger to her lips this time.

“No.”

His face was right over hers, and he drowned her in his eyes and in the promise that they held.

He kissed her forehead—checking her temperature. She felt his frown deepen before he pulled away.

“Aang, really, I’m fine.”

Aang’s voice was pillow-soft, and his hand petting her hair was just as gentle. “You’re burning up, Katara...”

Katara coughed and couldn’t stop for several minutes. Aang’s heart broke, but he caught enough of the pieces to hold himself together and help her sit up as her pain passed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I’m fine. Don’t worry about me, really.”

Aang looked away when he spoke. “I will always worry about you...”

Katara wanted nothing more in that moment than to test her flexibility to kick herself in her own ass. The mask Aang wore was laced with a dozen cracks and chipped tiny glimpses of how worried he really was, and the force of his emotion hit her like a sledgehammer and nearly sent her into another fit.

She rubbed his arm and smiled. He looked at her and struggled to do the same.

“It’s not your fault. It’s just a cough.”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Nonono, of course not. We were both being a little stupid.”

Aang paused. He looked at her seriously, and his voice was even softer than before. “You are not stupid, Katara.”

Even more heat flooded up Katara’s neck and into her face, and the hidden healer at the back of her mind was briefly worried about her passing out.

She didn’t, but she seriously teetered the line, especially when Aang kissed her cheeks and between her eyes.

He looked at her and whispered a gentle ‘I love you’ without using his voice or making a sound.

Katara looked at him and tried to say the same. He smiled. Of course he heard her. He knew her better than anyone.

She kissed the three points of his arrow and scooted over in their bed, feeling more than a little guilty for untucking the meticulous cocoon of blankets. Aang accepted her invitation to lie beside her before she could even ask.

She was tugged to him like a magnet to metal, and she didn’t realize how tensed he was until he relaxed. He shared his winds with her and turned himself into a body of frosted warmth. She didn’t realize how hotly she was burning until he doused her fire.

Katara dug herself deeper into him, burrowing herself away from all else, and a warrior’s instinct had her breathe deep, inhaling worn leather and all things fresh and free, as she settled into a stealth that hid her, in his arms, from even the tickle in her chest.

Hurt/Comfort dialogue ask: Send me a number with a ship and any other details you want

[whitecatindisguise]

The Sundrop Alchemist (17)

Okay, who’s ready for another chapter???? Let’s go!!

Summary: Two mysterious men make an appearance, Varian’s faith in Hugo is tested, and the two have more problems to deal with.

AO3 link is here.

------

Chapter 17: Lies and Deception

It took several minutes of laying sprawled on the grass and panting heavily for Hugo to be finally able to move. He pushed himself up to the sitting position with a groan and stretched his arms. 

“I think we have to move soon, Goggles.” He said, looking down at the other boy still laying flat on the grass next to him. Varian groaned but didn’t make any move to sit up. 

“I haven’t ran like that since… ever.” The blue-eyed alchemist replied tiredly. “Can’t we take few more minutes to rest?” 

“The longer we stay here, the bigger chance for Donella to catch up.” Hugo explained and earned another groan in return. 

He was just about to add something, when he heard rustling of leaves just outside the clearing they were resting on. It was quiet enough for Varian to not notice anything, but Hugo’s senses went on high alert almost instantly. 

He stared at the line of trees and, just when he thought it was some kind of animal, he saw two familiar figures, hiding in the shadows. He cursed inwardly and shot a glance at Varian, still not sitting up. Coming to the decision, he pushed himself upwards and brushed the grass from his trousers. 

“Wait here, Goggles. I’ll go and check if we’re on the clear.” He lied smoothly and without waiting for the reply, walked towards the trees. 

He quickly found the two men and approached them, putting up his signature smirk on his face. 

“Heey, Patchie, Burnsie. Long time no see.” He greeted, trying to sound nonchalant. “What brings you two here?” 

“You know very well why we are here, McCoy.” One of the men wearing an eyepatch on his left eye growled. 

“Where is our part of the loot?” The other man with sideburns asked, hand reaching to grab Hugo by the collar and pick him up. The teen repressed a startled yelp, his face not showing any fear. 

“Yeah, about that. I gave it to my boss already.” Hugo explained, and, by the Sun, could those two have any worse timing? “You can go and talk to her yourself. Let me just give you directions to her hideout and-”

“You’re not getting away that easily, McCoy.” Patchie cut him off, grinning evilly. “We heard rumors you’re in possession of something much more valuable.”

“I wonder how much would they pay us in Vandaros for a kid with healing powers, huh, brother?” Burnsie added, his expression turning malicious, same as his brother’s. 

Hugo tensed. They were talking about-

“I don’t know what you’re-” He tried to somehow squirm out of the conversation but the brother holding him up pushed him against the tree, his back painfully colliding with the trunk.

“Don’t play with us, McCoy. You used us in your little heist and tried to ditch us.” Two-eyed brother growled, his face coming uncomfortably close to Hugo’s. “I say we deserve some kind of recompensation.”

“Leave him out of it!” Hugo cried, reaching out his hand and trying to release the grip on his shirt. “This is between me and you!” 

“Should have thought about it before you decided to trick us.” Patchie replied and nodded at his brother. 

The grip on Hugo’s shirt hardened and the last thing he felt before losing consciousness was a pain at the back of his head. 

~~~~~~

Varian was sitting up, petting Ruddiger absent-mindedly. It’s been a while since Hugo left and the boy was getting anxious. It’s not that he didn’t trust the teen, quite the opposite, actually. If it wasn’t for Hugo, he would have probably never escaped Donella. The woman was the exact reason Varian was worrying about the bespectacled teen now. 

If Hugo was right, they should get a move soon. He said he’d go and see if they weren’t followed, but what if they were? What if Hugo was attacked and hurt somewhere behind the trees, with Varian none the wiser?

“We gotta go and find Hugo, Ruddiger.” The boy finally decided, standing up and picking up his raccoon friend. “He’s been gone long enough.” 

The animal chittered in agreement and scrambled up to position itself on the boy’s shoulders. Varian hanged his satchel over his head and took one step, when suddenly two men walked out into the clearing. 

They were large and bulky, both having red hair. One of them had his left eye covered with an eyepatch, while the other one’s face was covered in sideburns. The boy impulsively stepped back, eyeing the two warily. 

“Um… hello?” He said, trying to not sound so terrified. Somehow he could feel the men were trouble and he wracked his brain trying to remember why they seemed so familiar. “Can- can I help you?”

“You could say that.” The one with an eyepatch said, the grin on his face anything but calming. “You see, we and your friend did a job together.”

“A friend… you mean Hugo?” Varian’s brow raised in confusion. Where did he see them? Ruddiger tensed on his shoulders and was growling quietly. 

“Yes. But it seems McCoy decided to trick us and take the whole loot for himself.” The other brother added, and circled the boy. “So we had to… have a talk with him.”

“Luckily, we came to an agreement.” The eye-patched brother spoke and Varian’s eyes snapped to him. Both men were now circling around him, making the boy feel extremely uncomfortable. “His life for the boy with magical hair.”

Varian’s breath stopped and his eyes widened. 

“No, that’s not true! You’re lying!” He snapped angrily. ”Hugo would never-”

“Oh, really?” One of the brothers caught him by the shoulders and turned him around. “Then why is he leaving you behind?”

A large finger pointed towards the road visible between the trees. Varian looked in the direction and gasped in surprise. There, visible under the moonlight, was Hugo, saddled on a horse and riding away. 

The boy’s vision misted. Hugo betrayed him. But why did he do it? Just moments ago he was helping Varian escape Donella’s grasp. He was like a brother to Varian and the teen said the same thing. Was that just a trick? Did he really not mean anything to the teen? 

“Now, with that out of the way…” The brother with sideburns spoke up and grabbed Varian’s wrist harshly. “There is a long way to Vandaros.”

The blue-eyed boy reacted almost instantly. He cried and pulled his arm, trying to free himself from the grip. Ruddiger hissed and jumped at the man holding him down, the brother releasing Varian’s wrist in surprise. The alchemist quickly reached into his bag and threw a smoke bomb, grey cloud covering the clearing. Without a second thought, he turned and ran, disappearing between the trees. 

The branches hit his face and arms, his hair got tangled in the bushes, but he kept on running. He could hear the men’s angered voices behind him, pursuing him through the darkness. 

Suddenly, he felt a sharp thug at his hair and cried out in pain, tumbling to the ground. He looked back and saw the end of his braid stuck to the branch of a bush. The voices grew louder and closer. He scrambled back, frantically trying to untangle his hair before the brothers caught up to him. 

Then, he heard a sound of smacking, two pained grunts and loud thumps. At the same moment, with Ruddiger’s help, he was able to untangle his hair. Carefully, he moved towards the source of the sounds and looked from behind the tree. 

“Flower! Are you alright?!” The familiar voice called out and Varian saw Mother, panting heavily, a thick branch in her hands, the two brothers unconscious on the ground. 

“Mother!” He cried and launched himself at the woman, wrapping his arms around her waist. She quickly let go of the branch and hugged him back. 

“Oh, Flower. I was so worried when you suddenly disappeared.” Mother said and he hugged her tighter. “Every day I searched for you, afraid I would never see you again. And then today, I saw those thugs running after you. I had to do something.”

“Thank you, Mother.” Varian cried, his tears damping Mother’s dress. “I was so scared! I was kidnapped by this woman who wanted my powers! Hugo helped me escape but then-” His breath hitched at the thought of what the men told him.

“Oh, Flower…” Mother cooed and lifted his chin to look at her. “I was afraid something like this would happen. People outside are egoistic and think only about their own benefit.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Mother.” Varian looked down ashamed. “I thought Hugo was different…” 

“Well, at least now you know why I prefer you don’t leave the tower.” Mother sighed and grabbed his wrist, smiling gently. “Now come, Flower. Let’s go back home.”

“Yes, Mother…” The boy whispered and silently let himself be led by the hand, heart hurting and eyes burning from tears. 

~~~~~~

Hugo’s head hurt as if he was hit with a sledgehammer. He didn’t know what happened or where he was. He was swaying slightly and could hear a sound of hooves. But why? 

“Halt! Who goes there?” He heard someone call out and he worked hard to pull his eyes open. The swaying stopped abruptly and he fell forward, hitting something warm and hairy. 

Hid eyelids creeped open slightly and he saw something gold and red at the corner of his vision. 

“Well well well.” He heard another voice, this time awfully familiar. A face appeared in front of his eyes, brown moustache lifting up in a smirk. “If it isn’t the famous Hugo the Human.” Captain of the Royal Guard said and laughed. 

Oh crap, Hugo cursed, as two guards grabbed his arms and hauled him off the horse, dragging him over the cobbled streets and into the dungeons.

[miaouerie]

whumptober 2020 ------ day 25. blurred vision/ringing ears

@whumptober2020​ Rebelcaptain Hunger Games AU: Cassian is Jyn’s mentor in the 70th Hunger Games. After being crowned victor at fifteen years old, Cassian is all-too-familiar with what it takes to bring a tribute home, and what becoming a victor really means.

content warnings: graphic descriptions of minor character death, references to forced prostitution

previous: day 1 / 2  / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 / 11 / 12 / 13 / 14 / 15  / 16  / 17 / 18 / 19 / 20 / 21 / 22 / 23 / 24

Candela is the first to get killed; her escape to the tree line was hampered by the uphill climb to get out of the rocky ditch that the 67th Hunger Games’ Cornucopia is in. The male Career tribute from District 1 kills her with a sledgehammer to the throat. Cassian watches her head snap all the way to the right, the neck bent at an unnatural angle, and her body hits the ground, motionless; it was a clean break to the neck.

Garrick made it a while longer on his own, but chose not to heed Cassian’s repeatedly stressed advice to skip over supplies—those could always be sent later—and made his escape route include a wide arc towards a backpack and a sleeping bag. Those extra seconds put him in the scope of a pair of Careers, who run him down easily and then kill him with their knives.

Both of his tributes dead in the first five minutes of the 67th Hunger Games. How could this happen?

He had weighed their odds carefully. District 5 fell squarely in between the Career districts and the poorer districts when it came to anticipating the Games. The district itself was well off enough that tesserae wasn’t necessary for the majority of households, which meant that the extent of the Games in the populace’s mind was a hope and a prayer for their children to not be chosen on Reaping Day. No Games training was offered for the glory of volunteering because no glory was seen in the practice—District 5 had the lowest volunteer rate out of all the districts—and so it wasn’t a surprise that Cassian’s first year of mentoring began with two unremarkable tributes: Candela Invers, a fifteen-year-old girl, and Garrick Thule, a sixteen-year-old boy.

Garrick was the son of a power plant supervisor and had hardly an inkling for survival; he didn’t go to the fire-starting station or the edible plants station, or any of the other stations for basic survival skills that Cassian urged him to. A lot of his time during the three allotted training days was spent away from the other tributes, hiding his fear behind an indifferent look; unsurprisingly, he scored only a 3 in the evaluation. Candela on the other hand had been game enough to ask for Cassian's advice in the training room and went over strategies with him for acing her interview; just last night on Caesar Flickerman’s show she had made a favorable impression on the audience, especially after Caesar brought up the 7 that she scored in the Gamemakers’ evaluations. Cassian could work with that; if she could survive on her own for the first three days, he could hopefully start talking her up to potential sponsors. He wasn’t going to bet on whether or not Garrick could survive that long on his own, but in the end it didn’t even matter because now both of his tributes are dead.

He can’t take his eyes off the carnage of the bloodbath, projected on the main screen of the mentors’ observation deck. It takes several long minutes before he yanks off his headset; the only sounds the mics were picking up is the ambient noise of children killing other children. But it’s too late; the sounds won’t leave his ears; it coalesces into screaming that he knows isn’t real, but it sounds more and more similar to Teak’s—

He pushes himself away from the console and tries to stand up, but has to lean his weight against it when his legs threaten to give out from underneath him. The room is starting to spin in a way that has everything to do with the roar of blood and screams in his ears, how lightheaded he feels, and… shit. He needs to sit back down.

Then there’s a hand on his shoulder, pushing him firmly but gently back down onto his chair. “Both of yours bit the dust? First time’s rough; it doesn’t get any easier.”

The sole victor and mentor of District 12, Haymitch Abernathy, is holding out a bottle of liquor to him. Still breathing heavily, Cassian shakes his head no; they both look back to the broadcast on the main screen. The camera is panning a bird’s-eye view over the action at the Cornucopia, before cutting over to where the two Careers from District 1 who killed Garrick are cutting down another tribute. The tally on the screen reads nine dead, fifteen tributes still in play.  The Career pack hasn’t yet started to hunt for tributes who escaped to the trees, which means it’s still likely a death or three will be added to the projected death count at the end of the day. But as far as where Cassian is concerned, his first stint as a mentor in the Hunger Games is over.

Cassian thinks about reaching for the proffered bottle, but decides against it. Haymitch is an alcoholic, foul-smelling and drunk more often than not. Jeron always told his son to stay away from him, but Jeron isn’t here anymore. His heartbeat feels like it stops as it does each time the realization washes over him anew—your father’s dead, while you didn’t kill him you might as well have—but after that split second of grief he’s able to breathe again.

“C’mon. Let’s get some fresh air, you look like you could use it.” The look that Haymitch is giving him is half-pointed, half-pitying; Cassian gets up to go with him.

-

Cassian has never been to the top floor of the Tower; he didn’t even know that such a place existed. The tinkling of the windchimes drowns out the ringing in his ears, until he can blink up at the noonday sun without his vision doubling over.

“It’s a shame about your old man,” Haymitch says to him. “Power explosion, right?”

The younger victor can’t trust himself to speak, so he nods.

“Took out Irga too? Seems a little convenient to me.”

Cassian wants to say, I know the truth, I read it myself. But he doesn’t; what comes out instead is, “Yeah, that’s why I’m mentoring alone. Apparently I’m not very good at it.”

The look that Haymitch gives him has a flash of disappointment, but then it disappears as the older victor takes a swig of his booze and grunts. “Look, it doesn’t matter if you’re a good mentor or not, whether your tributes die or not. The Capitol gets their twisted entertainment regardless.”

“So we should just let them die?”

The older victor snorts. “I’m surprised you think it’s worth letting them live. You of all people should know being a victor doesn’t mean you won.”

Well, he can’t say anything to that. They look up to see an Avox approaching; apparently, to hand Cassian a powder blue envelope.

Cassian turns the envelope over in his hands but doesn’t break the seal yet. What happened to attractive and desirable victors was an open secret but the confirmation that Haymitch knew still stings; it made him wonder just how many of the other victors had known, if any of them talked to his father about it.  

Haymitch juts his chin out at the envelope. “Snow’s had his claws in you for a long time hasn’t he, kid? I’m not surprised if District 5 got taken out because our dear president thinks you shouldn’t be spending your precious time in the Capitol mentoring.”

But no; Jeron couldn’t have known, Cassian was too good of a liar. But his self-loathing wrestles briefly with the fear that maybe Jeron knew after all, even before his disastrous Decem year.

But no, he couldn’t have. He would have done something about it sooner, he wouldn’t have let Snow turn his son into a whore. Right?

But he knows it wouldn't have changed anything, let alone the fatal outcome. There was no other way to impel Cassian into a mentoring position, not when Snow wanted him to solicit for a more lucrative purpose. Jeron couldn’t have known that Snow would kill his mentoring partner to devastate his son in retaliation; while Lila was allowed to live and he wouldn't have had Cassian killed, there wasn’t a way a victor could act without consequence.

Cassian opens the envelope, looks at the three lines: a name, a place, a time. He thinks about the system that drove his dad to believe that suicide was the only option, that forced him to play into the Capitol’s hand to save his son, then made him realize that in the end he couldn’t protect him at all.

[fandom-imagines-stuff]

I loved your sledge story so much, could I request a story where the reader is the shortest male operator hitting at 4'9 (even shorter than the female operators) demands to get a piggyback ride from sledge but they both end up running into a door frame because the reader couldn't stay still and now doc has to patch them up. Thank you for the amazing stories you write!

Imagine

“Hey, how do?” Sledge sat next to you, taking a sip of his hot drink. You were lost in your own world and Sledge noticed from a far that something was up. You were watching the steam coming from the coffee cup as if it was the most interesting thing ever. The overnight case resting against your calf, reminded you of the time Sledge patted your head and called you a kid. Even though you obviously weren’t. “Was it something I said?” Sledge read you like an open book. The Englishman looked like he had picked up his heavy sledgehammer and put it down a few million times. 

You were used to being mistaken as a child from the back, but it didn’t help when Sledge made such a remark when training with the other operators. “Just because I am the shortest in the team, doesn’t mean I deserve to get called a ‘kiddo’. I am a man who has feelings too.” You looked up at Sledge while blurting out your feelings. A frustrated sigh left your lips as you ran your fingers between your hair. Sledge observed every move you made and tried to be more careful with his words this time. “I apologize for being so blunt. We have known each other for several years now and breaking the strong bond we have over something stupid I said would be really painful. I wish I could take back those words. You know how careless I can get when I am with people I am close with. It’s not an excuse ofcourse, but I promise you I will be more careful. If there’s anything I can do to-”

“Piggyback ride.”

“I beg your pardon—I'm afraid I didn't catch that.” Sledge’s eyes got wider and stared at you without blinking. Waiting for a clarification of what he just heard.  “I demand to get a piggyback ride from you.” You crossed your arms across your chest as an evil smirk played on your lips. “Are you serious?” Sledge let out an awkward laugh, but obliged anyway when he saw you waiting for him to crouch down. Sledge tensed his muscles when you threw your arms around his neck and carried you with ease on his back. Having to hold on to a sledgehammer all the time made him carry almost anything with more ease. Your mood lifted as fast as Sledge got up from the ground. Happiness glowed inside of you and felt a sudden flare of joy. The same goes for Sledge. The big guy took a defiant joy in it. You both were filled with joyful energy and that showed a bit too much. 

“Come on, Sledge! Is that all you got?!” You were holding on very tightly in hopes to not fall down. Sledge’s grip on your legs started to get painful and it made you keep squirming. “Run faster!” You demanded and Sledge listened to you as he let out a bark of laughter. “Just stay still! You are making me lose my balance!” Sledge got dragged to the left way of the corridor because of your sudden movement and didn’t see the door that suddenly got opened. “What is all this noise?”

Sledge was running so fast, there was no way he could stop in time. With a hard slam, the both of you were met with the ground. “Ouch...” You held your ankle while sledge clung on his shoulder. “Idiots! What were you thinking?” Doc helped both of you to lay down on different benches. The pain shot up Sledge’s arm like fire, but he was more worried about you. “Hey, Y/N. Are you alright? I am sorry-” 

You ignored Sledge’s apologies and started laughing. Sledge rubbed his aching shoulder while watching you in awe. The both of you had a nasty fall, but you still managed to laugh. Sledge smiled at this and decided to say nothing and enjoyed the moment. “I don’t know what is so funny about this situation, but no one in here is sane anyways.” Doc got up and went to the medical room to get some more bandages. Even if Sledge didn’t want to ruin this moment, he had to make sure you had forgiven him.

“Y/N?”

You hummed in response and looked at Sledge. You had never seen him getting so nervous. It made you get anxious. “What is it?”

Sledge sat up very slowly and apologized for his mistake. “It was never right to tease you the way I did. I am really ashamed of making you feel bad. I am truly very sorry.” You couldn't help but smile. “Sledge, it is all good. I could never be angry with you. You were the first one to see my full potential and believing in me when no one did. So, thank you.” You finished and limped over to sit next to Sledge. Seamus put his uninjured hand on your shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I will be more careful from now on. I promise.”

“Man, I should be the one apologizing. I mean, look at us!” You both laughed at the situation you put Sledge into. All for a piggyback ride. 

But it was definitely worth it.

- 

A/N - I am glad you like the stories I write. I hope to keep up the work and make you guys happy.

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