#i feel like i should be hit several times with a sledgehammer
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senagune · 5 months ago
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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.
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sidekick-hero · 11 months ago
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Carry you
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(steddie | rated t | wc: 4k | cw: drug addiction, hurt Eddie Munson, post break-up, hopeful ending | @steddielovemonth | prompt by @starryeyedjanai "Love is letting someone take care of you" | AO3)
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When Eddie opens his eyes, he has no idea where he is.
That should probably scare him, but the only thing he can think in that moment between blissful nothingness and cold, hard reality is "the bathroom at the party looked different." Because he is in a bathroom, that much he can say. There are white tiles everywhere and a roll of toilet paper in front of him and... is that a plastic handrail?
Lifting his head is a Herculean effort, but somehow he manages to do it, even though it makes his stomach turn.
In front of him is a freestanding shower and a bathtub with stairs to get into. The bathroom is huge and sterile, smelling of disinfectant.
As more and more of his senses come back online, Eddie notices several things at once:
#1 He's wearing what can barely be called a gown, cold air hitting his exposed skin everywhere. His back, his legs, hell, even his junk gets more of a breeze than he likes.
#2 He's nauseous, his stomach rolls uncomfortably, and his head is killing him, a sharp pain that's increasing in intensity by the second.
#3 He knows that something is definitely very, very wrong and he can feel the anxiety rising like bile in his throat.
It's that last realization that triggers his fight or flight response and in seconds he's off the toilet he's sitting on, the sudden movement sending him stumbling, his legs wobbling and his head spinning. Everything hurts and he feels so weak. He catches himself on the railing next to the toilet and figures that's what it's there for. Although he has no idea what kind of person would have such a strange bathroom. The last one he was in, at Tim's or Tom's or Terry's party, something with a T, for sure, the tiles had been black and there had been a lot of bamboo furniture and gold accents. It had smelled nice too, vanilla and cinnamon.
He staggers to a door that hopefully leads out of this fucking nightmare. Maybe Gareth or Freak are behind this, to teach Eddie a lesson for ditching them again to go partying when they had to pack up their shit after the show. But not Jeff, he's too nice to do something like that. The next morning, when Eddie arrives with a hangover the size of his ego, to quote Gareth, Jeff will only look at him with disappointment.
Or maybe they just don't care enough about him anymore to pull a prank on him. Eddie can't remember the last time they even talked to him, beyond discussing the bare minimum for their shows.
Leaving the bathroom, he carefully walks down a long hallway with the ugliest yellow linoleum Eddie has ever seen. It hurts his eyes and his stomach gives another unpleasant churning. On his right, he sees a glass door with "Intermediate Care Unit" written in big white letters.
What the fuck?
He turns right and continues down the hall, hoping to find someone who can tell him where he is and why his body feels like it's been hit with a sledgehammer. Repeatedly.
"Mr. Munson, you shouldn't be out of bed," a stern voice calls from behind him, and when he turns around he sees a middle-aged woman in white scrubs looking at him with a stern expression on her face.
Feeling more and more like he has landed in an episode of The Twilight Zone, Eddie looks at her with an incredulous look on his face. "Who are you? And where is everyone?"
She scoffs at his answer, clearly not pleased.
"I am the nurse responsible for getting you well enough to leave this ward as soon as possible, and you would make my job a lot easier if you would go back to your bed." Before he can process the meaning of her words, she continues. "As for everyone else, well, no one else overdosed, so I would assume they're all home by now."
Eddie can only stare at her open-mouthed, disbelief and horror probably written all over his face, because her own face is softening slightly.
"Now come on, let's get you back to bed, you really shouldn't be wandering around."
She gently takes his elbow and leads him to a door with the number 719 on it. As she opens it for him, Eddie sees three beds inside. To the left and right, he sees two old men, both looking directly at him. The one on the right says, "We tried to stop him, Nurse Elli, we really did," in a high, nasal voice that is already getting on Eddie's nerves. "The kid wouldn't listen to us, would he, Harry?"
"Exactly," Harry answered, at least in a deeper, more bearable tone.
Ignoring the geriatric Ernie and Bert, Nurse Elli leads him to the bed in the middle and helps him to lie down again. Only then does Eddie remember that all he's wearing is a thin hospital gown with an open back. Well, he thinks, Nurse Elli has seen worse in her profession than his pale, scrawny ass. Besides, it's not like much of his modesty has survived the last two years of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll that have been his life.
By the time he's back under the covers, his nurse has turned around and is walking back over to the door. A bone-deep exhaustion has begun to seep into his body, slowly dragging him back under, but seeing her walk out of the room gives him a burst of energy.
"Wait! Someone needs to tell me what happened. What am I doing here?"
Embarrassment burns hot under his skin as he hears the tears in his voice, but the sound of it breaking at his question makes Nurse Elli stop. She turns back to him and her eyes are much kinder than before.
"The doctor will be with you shortly. He'll explain everything to you, Mr. Munson. I'll let him know you're awake now."
And then she leaves, and Eddie sinks back into his bed in the hope that the next time he opens his eyes, it will all have been just a bad dream.
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It was not all just a bad dream.
The next time Eddie comes to, he's alone in his room, except for a middle-aged man who seems to be the doctor Nurse Elli told him would be stopping by.
Doctor Owens explains that he overdosed on alcohol and coke at a party at some music producer's house and had been in a coma for two full days. They quickly stabilized him, pumped his stomach and gave him fluids through an IV. Eddie is lucky he's still young and his system recovered from the shock quite well. When he showed signs of waking up, they brought him down here from the ICU to free up his bed for someone who needed it more.
"If Mr. Harrington hadn't called 911 and told them to come get you, you'd be dead right now, Mr. Munson. I'm sorry to say this, but from what I've heard, no one at the party even cared, just insisted that you brought your own drugs and they had nothing to do with it. Mr. Harrington has also been your only visitor so far."
His words should make him angry or sad, something, but he can't process them. Not when his brain is still struggling to make sense of the first part of his statement, Eddie’s heart racing in his chest.
"Mr. Harrington? As in..."
"Steve Harrington, he says he's a close friend. He's the one who called the ambulance, gave the operator your cell phone number so they could track your phone and get you to the hospital. He's been visiting you every day since. He also called your uncle, because we are not allowed to give out any medical information to anyone outside of the family. Your uncle should be here soon, I called him yesterday to give him an update on your condition."
His mind is reeling, too many thoughts fighting for dominance and one word screaming louder than any of them in his head.
Steve, Steve, Steve.
How... it couldn't be. Not after their last fight. Not after the things he said to Steve. To his horror, he feels tears burning hot in his eyes at the memory. A memory he had pushed as far back in his mind as he could because every time he thought about that night he wanted to curl up into a fetal position and cry.
"You are a lucky man, Mr. Munson. This man seems to care a lot about you, as does your uncle. You should let them help you. And if you will allow me to be very clear with you: You need all the help you can get. You're young, so your body can take a lot. But it's not in good shape. You have an old man's liver, and your spleen and kidneys are showing signs of the abuse you put them through. The echo also showed some irregularities in your heartbeat. If you continue down the path you're on, your organs will fail and you will die, Mr. Munson. Painfully. So my advice to you is to get clean as soon as possible. We have some facilities we work with, a nurse will bring you some brochures."
Eddie could only nod numbly, tears now falling freely from his eyes, his throat tight and his head aching. Everything hurt. Especially his heart.
"Okay, we'll keep you here for two more days until we're sure you're stable enough to be on your own." Doctor Owens tells him, turning to leave and get on with his day, as if he hadn't just dropped a damn bomb on his head. He pauses at the door and turns back to him.
"And a word of advice from someone twice your age who's seen a lot in his time here: stick with people who really care about you, like Mr. Harrington, instead of spending your time with people who leave you lying in a bathroom in your own vomit."
With that, he steps out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts.
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Eddie doesn't know how long it's been since Dr. Owens left. It could have been hours, days, weeks, for all he knows, too deep inside his own head to spare any thought for the passing of time. Lying in a hospital bed, the nausea and pain raging through his battered body, Eddie finally breaks down and lets the thoughts come.
He's lost in his memories, thinking about everything that led him here, alone and in pain in a hospital bed, after nearly killing himself with things he swore he'd never use. Weed was fine, though he didn't indulge much anyway, preferring to sell it and make some much-needed money than to smoke it himself. But coke? Nah, he knew how epically stupid it would be to even try that shit.
And yet he did.
A party to celebrate the release of their first single. One lapse in judgment while flying so fucking high that nothing could touch him. One bad decision was all it took for him to succumb to the effects of the white powder.
The high he felt after snorting his first line had been magical and he's been chasing that feeling ever since, blind to all he's sacrificed in the process.
It changed him, he knows. Every euphoric high that made him talk a mile a minute, overly affectionate, loud and brash and in love with the whole world would inevitably end in a crash. He became irritable and hostile toward the people he loved, thinking they were out to get him. Whenever his friends or Wayne or Steve so much as looked at him the wrong way about his new habit, he would lash out at them.
He became increasingly angry and accused them of trying to control him, of envying him his success and happiness.
That's when he started drinking, too. He drank himself stupid so that he wouldn't have to think about the way Steve was starting to look at him as if he didn't even know him anymore. To forget the sad look in Wayne's eyes or the way his friends had started to avoid him. When he was drunk out of his mind, he could forget the way the Coffin boys had started talking about him behind his back, could ignore the murderous looks Robin kept sending his way.
Thinking back, Eddie felt like everything had spun out of his control so fast.
It's like one day he comes home to Steve, ecstatic about signing their first record deal and celebrating the start of a new chapter with the love of his life by dancing around their living room barefoot, laughing and kissing each other, promising happiness and forever.
Only to throw that love right back in Steve's face the next day by calling him needy, clingy, and full of bullshit.
He claimed that Steve was holding him back and that Steve didn't love him, that he just didn't want to be alone. He also said that Steve still thought he was better than Eddie, better than the town freak, the fuck-up, the trailer trash.
You don't want me to succeed and finally step out of your perfect shadow, because then what would stop me from leaving you, right?
Eddie regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. Secretly, he had always feared that his success would cause a rift in his relationship with Steve. Eddie had no desire to leave Steve, because Steve was still the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him, but he couldn't help but feel that he was losing him anyway. Even more so when he had seen Steve's face crumble, when he had seen the exact moment when his heart had broken into a million pieces.
He had wanted to take Steve in his arms and apologize for saying cruel things he didn't even believe. It had been his own insecurities that had caused him to lash out, and he had hurt Steve before he had a chance to be hurt himself.
Instead, in true Munson fashion, he had run away and hasn't seen or heard from Steve in six long months that have felt like years.
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Steve looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Eddie saw him.
That's not a good thing, though. Because Steve had been driving himself crazy with worry about Eddie for months before Eddie had taken Steve's heart and torn it apart right in front of him.
Back then he had the same dark circles under his eyes that he has now. The usually golden skin is still too pale and Steve's trademark hair looks even more disheveled from how often he's run his hands through it. His well-fitting jeans, which once hugged his ass just right, now sit baggy on his too-slim frame and Eddie hates it.
He hates that Eddie could still hurt Steve even after he left. That even from a distance he managed to ruin the only person who ever really loved him besides Wayne. There should be some kind of warning sign on him: Beware, do not get attached, will hurt you.
"You're awake," are the first words out of Steve's mouth, and despite everything, Eddie can't stop his heart from responding to the sound of his sweet voice. Steve sounds tired, weary, but to Eddie's ears his voice is better than any Metallica song could ever be.
He tries to smile at him, but he feels as tired as Steve sounds, so it lacks the usual spark.
"Sure am. From what I heard, I have you to thank for that," Eddie adds, unable to help himself. He still doesn't know why and especially how Steve knew he needed help. If this were a Nicholas Sparks novel, their love would have created an invisible bond that made Steve feel when Eddie needed help.
But this is real life, and no matter how much he loves Steve, there is no invisible bond holding them together. Just an unbridgeable chasm.
Steve is still hovering at the door and Eddie thinks he is fighting the urge to wring his hands. Eddie knows his tells by now and he figures Steve isn't sure he's welcome here. Which is ridiculous, because even at his worst, Eddie will always want Steve around, no matter what crap Eddie tells him.
It takes a lot of effort, but Eddie manages to sit up and lean out of bed to pat the chair next to his bed, his eyes never leaving Steve.
Eddie sees Steve's shoulders slump, some of the tension visibly draining from his body at the gesture, and Steve walks over to him and sits down tentatively.
"So..." Eddie begins, dragging out the 'o'. "What happened?"
Steve looks up from his hands in his lap, obviously surprised by the question. "You don't remember?"
"No. The last thing I remember is sitting on a leather couch with a bunch of people I don't know and don't care about, fooling myself into thinking I was having fun." Eddie has had plenty of time to think about his life and where he went wrong, so he decides to stick with honesty. Steve deserves as much and more. "Someone handed me a bottle of whiskey and I opened it and started drinking straight from the bottle. That's the last thing I remember. The next thing I know, I wake up in an ugly bathroom that smells like disinfectant, my whole body hurts like I've been hit by a train, and I have no idea where I am."
Before he can bring himself to say the next part, it's Eddie who has to look away, his eyes focused on his hands playing with the edge of the blanket.
"They told me it was you who called 911 and helped them find me. They said without you I would have died lying in my own vomit." He swallows audibly, tears burning in his eyes, wondering how he could have cried more in the last ten hours than in the last ten years. "They also said you were the only one who came to see me."
Eddie forces himself to look up and into Steve's eyes as he says, "Thank you, Steve. You didn't... I don't deserve you doing this. Not after..." The words die in his throat and he feels like he's choking on them.
He can't do this. He's a fucking coward, not worth saving. Not even worth looking at someone as good and beautiful as Steve.
There's a crease between Steve's eyebrows that Eddie used to smooth with his thumb and lips every time he saw it, and his fingers itch to do it again.
"You called me," Steve tells him, his own hands playing with the edge of Eddie's blanket. "At the party. You called me from the bathroom. I thought it was a butt call or maybe drunk dialing, I hadn't heard from you in months, Eddie."
Eddie winces at his words, but Steve chooses to ignore it.
"But then you sounded so small on the phone. You called me 'Stevie' and 'sweetheart' and then you started to cry." Steve looks like he's about to cry, too. His eyes are glassy and Eddie gets lost in the way the light breaks in them, gold and brown and green all mixed together.
"You told me you weren't feeling so good, that your stomach hurt and the room was spinning so you had to lie down. Your voice -" And here Steve's own voice breaks, after it had already started to shake badly, and without thinking Eddie grabs Steve's hand and holds it tight.
"I'm here, Stevie. You saved me. I'm okay."
"But you almost weren't!" Steve insists, his voice rising, and Eddie finally understands the depth of Steve's feelings. After all these months, after everything Eddie had said and done, Steve still cared deeply for him.
"You talked like you were dying, Eddie. You weren't drunk dialing, you were calling to say goodbye, asshole. You were telling me all these things that I needed to hear you say for months. But I wanted to hear them with you in the room so I could punch you in the face and then kiss it better. Not like this. Not as your last words over a fucking phone call."
That's when Steve breaks down, the tears finally overflowing and he buries his face on the bed at Eddie's hip, their joined hands pressed against his wet cheek.
"Baby," Eddie whispers, shocked, his own heart aching worse than ever as he begins to run his fingers through Steve's messy hair. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm so, so sorry, Stevie. I never meant to hurt you, but it seems like that's all I did."
Taking a deep breath, Eddie continues. "I don't know what I told you on the phone, but since I woke up I've had time to think about it all. I don't know if I can ever make it up to you. Or to Wayne and the kids, Gareth and Jeff and Grant. If I will ever deserve your forgiveness, but I want to try. I want to deserve it one day. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but... I will go to rehab. I will quit drugs and alcohol, I will clean up my act. And then, if you let me, I will try to make it up to you every single day for the rest of our lives."
Steve slowly lifts his head from the bed and looks at him, searching Eddie's eyes for something.
"Why?" Steve asks, his hand gripping Eddie's even tighter.
There are so many reasons, so many things Eddie wants to say, but in the end there is only one simple answer.
"Because I love you."
The smile on Steve's face tells him it's the right answer, even more so when Steve presses a kiss into his palm. But then he turns serious once more.
"I haven't forgiven you yet, Eddie. You hurt me too much and I need time. But I need you to stop trying to run away from me. I don't want you to go to rehab and clean yourself up before you come back to me. I want to be with you every step of the way. Do it together. Because if you love me, you have to let me take care of you. You have to let me in, Eddie. Let me carry you for once, like Sam carried Frodo when he couldn't go on. Trust me not to let you fall. Please."
"Did you really just make a reference to Lord of the Rings?" Eddie demands and Steve rolls his eyes.
"Is that what you get from everything I just said?"
Eddie sobers up immediately. "No, it just made me fall a little bit more in love with you, and I didn't think that was possible."
"So what do you say?" Steve asks, chewing his lip between his teeth, and Eddie suspects he's not even breathing.
"It's going to suck, Stevie," Eddie says in a quiet voice, stroking Steve's knuckles with his thumb."Are you sure?"
"Yes." No hesitation, no wavering in his voice. It's the same tone, the same determined look on his face as when he told Eddie "Fuck'em," when Eddie told him people in their small-minded town would talk if Steve held his hand in public.
"There's a bunch of brochures of places to check out. Wanna help me pick the least horrible one?" Eddie says, pointing to the table in the corner of the room.
Without another word, Steve gets up to grab them, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie allows himself to hope.
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quillandsaber · 10 months ago
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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.
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wanderlust-in-my-soul · 2 years ago
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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:
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☼ 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:
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↓ 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:
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↓ 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:
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☼ 4. Be My Favorite (Ep 1)
Most valid question this week:
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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:
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↑ 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?
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☼ 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!
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spockandawe · 2 years ago
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OKAY, before I go back to gently decaying into the floor, I feel like I have to make a quick impassioned case for victoria goddard's books in general, and at the feet of the sun specifically, because I had assumed that at some point the series would reach an emotional peak and that later highs would be pleasant but not the same HEIGHTS, and... so far I have not been proven correct!
Okay. OKAY. 'The Hands Of The Emperor' was very very good. I read it, what, last year? I'd had it for a little while, one of those purchases for when I'm feeling sorry for myself and like 'surely this book will fix me' and then I impulse purchase a huge slab of paper. I think a friend was checking it out, and that persuaded me to actually dive in, and at a certain early point, the momentum tipped, and oh MAN, this slip-n-slide has no end in sight and I'm still accelerating.
The universe this is set in is called the Nine Worlds, and there are assorted novellas and short stories and a few sub-series of books, but HOTE is a good place to start. Career bureaucrat Cliopher (Kip) Mdang is secretary to the emperor at the middle of this fantasy world, a position he rose to despite being a nobody from some remote backwater and subject to a lot of fantasy racism. He periodically goes home to visit his family and childhood friends, who are all very impatient to retire, but he's still involved in piecing the world back together after a magical apocalypse (between 25 and 1000 years ago, depending where in the world you are), and is trying to improve the government at the same time.
The action begins with Kip tentatively inviting the emperor, his radiancy, the sun-on-earth, the magical linchpin at the center of the empire, if he wants to go on a vacation. The emperor does, and oh my god, I should have had such trouble getting into a story that's so.... quiet isn't exactly the right word, sedate isn't the right word, but it's bureaucracy that's front and center, and family dynamics, and politics and government, and it should have been a hard sell for me. I took a day or two off work so I could keep reading at maximum velocity.
Smash cut to the end of the book. I am about to dramatically oversimplify and also skip over a NUMBER of heartwrenching reveals. The emperor is placing a certain amount of ceremonial and political power in Kip's hands, and going off into the world to look for his heir. I thought that was the end of that, honestly? Again, usually, I would be a hard sell for an ending with those nominal stakes, but I was fully Into It here. That's 'Hands Of The Emperor'
The next book, 'The Return Of Fitzroy Angursell' (The Red Company Reformed, Book 1) follows Emperor Artorin Damara as he sets out on his hot girl summer, and while I am reluctant to drop any momentum at all for the big chonkers, this is 1) good shit, and 2) load-bearing context for the next huge book, the one that just came out. It might be possible to read the big book without this one, but I really, really recommend reading it. You won't have context for why Kip gets ancient civilization visitors, and that's only a start. I highly recommend every single novella and short story too, but this is the one that's key.
Now, a spoiler cut, because I don't think I can write about how this book hit me like a sledgehammer without getting into some spoilery developments, but I need to scream.
OKAY. 'At The Feet Of The Sun.' Kip is in charge of the government, even though he misses his radiancy and is also highkey ready to go back home and live in the house he bought and maybe invite his several closest friends from the emperor's household to come live with him. I thought I could see the shape of where this book was headed. Then. The emperor's spymaster started confiding in him about telepathic dinosaur soulmates and discussing his 'dear friend, his correspondent, the imposter' and what she told him, and I started to get a sneaking suspicion that shit was going to go off the RAILS
(also, i called it, I COMPLETELY CALLED WHO HIS PEN PAL WAS, I'm so proud of myself. It wasn't all that hard, but I nailed it the moment it came up)
Yeah, even though I was suspicious, I had no clue about why things were going to go in certain directions, or how, or where. After that first book, I expected to stay firmly entrenched in either government life or domesticity and uhhh. Nope! That did not happen.
FIRST, we've got canonical AU time, which delighted me to NO end, and was milked for all the juicy emotional potential I could hope for. If you read the book and want Even More, the discord has links to extra chapters from the pov of [spoilers redacted] during this portion.
But also, without going into context? ADVENTURE. We're off on a journey! Kip mentioned earlyish in the first book that he had a very close friend he lost contact with over the course of the magic apocalypse and hasn't heard from since, and he finally has the time and space to go looking for him! I'm sure this won't get wacky and wild, this is a very sensible book after all, starting a bunch of middle-aged bureaucrats.
HELL NO, DOG, WE'RE ON AN ADVENTURE! I can't say much context, a lot of it really, really has to be experienced, and the little book in between the big two ones is such crucial context for emotional developments. But. We're getting properly mythical up in this joint, we're in the realm of the divine, we're negotiating and bargaining with gods and other such entities. But where a strapping young lad might be doing favors and winning tokens, so that when a god gives him an impossible task he has the secret to success... Kip largely does for himself! With exquisite courtesy and skill at bargaining won over the course of a long and very successful career. I'm not making it sound as delightful as it is, but if you've been aware of Kip's success at Littleridge since the first book, and you see him come to negotiate with the Sun now, just!!!!!!
Meanwhile, Tor is hanging with the boat crew eating popcorn and learning hobbies like 'oh my god, kip is seriously the BEST, isn't he?' (this is not exactly what the emperor was doing, there were reasons he wasn't along for the ride, this was delightful to me, again, when i wouldn't have pinged this as my hole that is made for me)
And now it's time for old men in the absolute THROES of emotion!!!!! We are going to have AWKWARD CONVERSATIONS and talk about PRIVATE MATTERS, and it's going to be nervewracking for me, the reader, who was honestly trying to get back onto a decent sleep schedule!!! We're going to see some heckin REVELATIONS from side characters who bring this whole vibrancy to the life of this poor man who was stuck in a sterile environment hedged around by magical taboos for half his life! It's going to be extra moving for reasons I'm not disclosing! The scope of this second book is properly MYTHIC, and almost none of the most logical story beats I thought it would address (heir, retirement) are even fully covered, because there's going to be a third book, babey!!!!!
Oh my goodness. If you haven't read HOTE, I can't contextualize the incredible intensity of the bombshells ludvic drops in this story, and rhodin is so much more delightfully unhinged than I ever gave him credit for. Conju manages to be as wonderful as ever despite minimal screen time (i would DIE for him), and I've never seen a man so eloquently express his affection through hair care advice. The scale of this book is MYTHIC, but also, vibrantly human. Some of the passages in here put me in mind of like.... the first time I read the sedna myth, feeling that settle into my brain and hollow out a new space. But we've got some fabulous, bright exchanges over poetry, both the love of it and the creation of it (and the BANANA SCALE). It has an iguana!
It's hard to say that a book has it all, but this one really does. The first book was still incredibly good, don't get me wrong, I recommend it so, so hard. But this one had me howling with delight at each new plot development. I am painfully invested in these old men. I still need to finish the Greenwing and Dart series, but after meeting Jullanar in there and in the return of fitzroy angursell, I need to finish the series for whatever more of her I can consume. I need to read The Redoubtable Pali Avramapul, which I somehow missed, and the second Sisters Avramapul novel. I've also already started rereading HOTE, and the things that are more OOMPH in retrospect are already coming fast and heavy. I reread Petty Treasons and Aurelius (To Be Called Magnus), both of which are so GOOD, and I know that The Tower At The Edge Of The World will destroy me (and Portrait Of A Wide Seas Islander i'm saving for dessert)
I don't know how much spread this series has, I don't participate in Online Book Communities so much, I don't read often enough or thoroughly enough to make it worth keeping tabs on those tides. But this is a book where I feel like I have to recommend it at maximum intensity to anyone with the poor judgment to make eye contact with me. I love everything about this book, and I have to at least try to introduce it to anyone who's unaware of it
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darthkruge · 4 years ago
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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!
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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
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hyperfixatinglove · 3 years ago
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🎫 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.
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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)!!
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I need to update this meme with newest game armors lol
Never mind I only love this one:
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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! ♥
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diredove · 4 years ago
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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!
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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.
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"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.
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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."
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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.
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wisteria-blooms · 4 years ago
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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
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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 
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csnews · 4 years ago
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'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.
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mrallnight57-blog · 3 years ago
Text
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."
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five-rivers · 5 years ago
Text
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.
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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?"
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wlw-lovestruck-fiction · 5 years ago
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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.”
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words-writ-in-starlight · 5 years ago
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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!
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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
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the-last-cuddlebender · 4 years ago
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@thecaroliner 🅷🅴🆁🅴 🆈🅾︎🆄 🅶🅾︎ 🅱︎🅱︎ ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ
(Kataang + #5: “You’re burning up.” + Katara has a fever)
Healers Make the Worst Patients
Words: 952
Rating: G
ArchiveOfOurOwn
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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
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green-eyed-whumpster · 4 years ago
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My OC Universe: Rowan 40
Chapter 40 Summary: Once someone comes across Rowan, and Charles, panic sets in. He tries to run, but doesn’t manage to get far before being caught and returned to the Prince. (Tag time: @just-a-whumping-racoon-with-wifi, @much-ado-about-whumping, @abitefullofeverything, @whump-me-all-night-long and @sky-or-something-idfk-who also helped inspire this scene!!)
Trigger Warnings: Physical and verbal abuse, conditioning, reference to previous abuse, manhandling
It had been hours before the door opened again and a servant walked in, they saw the noble lying by the fire, and the chaotic mess in which the room was in and let out a gasp. Rowan’s head shot up, startled from his thoughts by the sound, his heart leapt when he saw the servant at the door, surveying the damage in complete and utter shock. “No! No, it’s fine!” He exclaimed, and the servant turned, somehow even more surprised to see the boy in the corner, stained with blood and bruises, ratty hair and a disturbing smile on his face. “It’s fine, as soon as he wakes up he’ll punish me, and everything will be all right again!” He said hopefully as he stood, and the servant rushed to the noble. 
“He’s dead! He won’t wake up! He won’t be all right!” They retorted as they saw the dull shine in Charles’ empty eyes.
“What? No, no I only hit him once!” The servant looked at Rowan incredulously and shook their head. “He’s dead, you fool! I need to go get the doctor!” The servant rushed out and left Rowan alone in the room. Dead. He can’t be dead. If-that means-I’ve killed the Prince’s best friend! His hands clutched his mouth and he shuddered. William was going to kill him! He looked at where Charles had remained, still ever since Rowan hit him, and moaned desperately. His eyes flicked to the door and felt the dread that had settled in his stomach swell until it filled his lungs. Last time I killed someone I ran. Last time I ran, I found Peter. Peter, I want Peter. Before he could even consider what he was doing he had skated down the halls, hearing hurried chatter and the clash of guard’s armour. His heart pounded against his ribs like a sledgehammer as he pushed his stiff and aching limbs to fly past the windows and tapestries, lightning flashing every once in a while, followed by an ominous crack of thunder that shook the castle above him. He found himself coming near the servants wing and careened around a corner, thumping into a firm torso heavily and falling back onto his bum. Oliver. “Rowan.” The man looked at him with worry knitting his brows, he was in his sleeping clothes, and rubbed sleep from his eyes. “What have you done, Rowan?” The boy only looked up at him fearfully, panting for breath. He scrambled to his feet and felt Oliver grab his shoulder. 
“You can’t run, you’ll be punished worse.” Oliver wanted him to take a deep breath and let him escort the boy to the Prince, who would be grateful for the loyalty. “Rowan, I promise you it won’t end well.” The boy didn’t listen, diving past the guard and shooting across the stone. Oliver didn’t have a choice. Rowan fell to the ground with a heavy grunt as he was tackled and writhed in Oliver’s grip. “Let me go! Let me go, you asshole!” Oliver picked him up easily and threw Rowan over his shoulder. “You traitor! He’s going to kill me!” The rage disappeared as he struggled, replaced by despair as the man carrying him remained unfazed by his fighting. “Please, please Oliver, don’t take me to him!” He ended up sobbing as his fists pounded in vain against Oliver’s unflinching shoulder-blades. “It was an accident! He was going to kill me! And now the Prince will!” 
He had slumped into Oliver’s familiar scent as he sobbed. The man remained silent, didn’t offer encouragement, or pass blame, he remained as silent as a statue as Rowan struggled and pleaded, and struck him while he climbed the levels to where the Prince and his men had gathered. “Your highness!” A hush fell, and Rowan felt eyes on him, every ounce of rebellion slid off him like the rain off the glass in the window beside him. “My consort,” William’s voice was deathly quiet. William walked over, dropping Rowan to him knees in front of the Prince. “I’m so sorry my liege, it was an accident I swear, please, I didn’t mean to, I was so afraid he was going to kill me I just –“ Rowan’s rushed cries were silenced by a harsh slap to his cheek, the sharp sound ringing out between the walls of the hallway. “Don’t make another sound, pet,” William hissed, and Rowan nodded obediently, curling his shoulders down and hunching over his legs. “You won’t speak until I ask you to. Understand?” He nodded frantically and bit back all the pleading he wanted to vomit forth before he can be punished. “His nose was broken prior to death and he was killed by blunt-force trauma to the skull.” A doctor said to the Prince, who nodded sombrely and looked back at his consort. “Charles was a very loyal friend of mine,” He said in a soft voice, regret dripped from it, and Rowan didn’t know if it was regret at having lost a friend, or what it would mean for Rowan. “I entrusted you to him, for one night, and you killed him.” Silence stretched so long Rowan couldn’t suppress his voice from spilling out. “I didn’t mean to,” He murmured, a heavy hand struck his skull and he groaned dizzily, curling tighter. “I said silence!” William roared. “You can have your time to explain, I just need you to understand, right now. The severity of the situation.” His voice dropped to a deathly whisper once again and Rowan cringed, he wanted William to scream. He wanted him to rage. Rowan couldn’t stand the suspense of waiting for William to snap. 
“You were loaned to a friend for the night, before that night is even over he is found, bleeding and dead, in his own room, and when you are found with him, you ran. You had to be dragged back by my guards, who luckily caught you before you did something stupid.” Rowan flinched as fingers brushed the tips of his hair, waiting for the hand to yank upwards, ripping his hair with it. “Had this happened any point earlier, I would have had you killed, just as I had the guards who interfered with you killed. But the servant who retrieved me swore that you claimed it was an accident, and had no idea of the grave state you had gotten yourself into.” Rowan had by no means relaxed, but it was encouraging to hear him speak that way. 
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Rowan swallowed the lump in his throat and glanced up fearfully.
“I’m-I’m so, so sorry, my liege! I was frightened, and I wasn’t thinking, and as soon as I realised what I had done I had panicked. I on-only struck him once.” He whispered as tears fell from his lashes. “I ruined everything, I’m so sorry, I only-please forgive me.” He crumpled as the pain and exhaustion and fear struck him like a tidal wave. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness! I’ve been so stupid!” He sobbed into his knees and heard a sigh. “Come, pet,” He looked up and gratefully let William guide his head against the Prince’s thigh, the touch comforting him instantly.  The worst part of William was the uncertainty he let creep up on you. “You’ve done something awful,” He said and Rowan nodded in agreement. “Then you made it worse,” Rowan nodded again and felt William’s hand pat him gently. “I can’t have you trying to run away, or killing people. We’ll need to work on your manner.” Rowan gulped nervously and waited to hear him continue. “You’ll have to be punished, maybe once Merek has finished with you, you will have learnt how to behave.” Rowan nodded eagerly and gasped heavily. “Yes, my Prince, thank you, thank you so much!” He spoke quickly, clutching William’s leg as he pressed his forehead against the Prince’s knee. Pain. Good. I need pain. Then I’ll feel better. “Good, pet. Remember every detail you can of tonight,” William said, stepping away. “I’ll return tomorrow to hear the full story, and decide how long your punishment should last.” Before Rowan was hauled up and dragged towards the dungeons he sucked in a breath and jerked instinctively towards the retreating Prince. “Are you not going to kill me, my Prince?” He asked and William paused, turning his head gently and looked back at where Rowan’s arms were being gripped by other soldiers as they paused in their actions of hauling him up. “Of course not, my pet,” He said gently, rubbing his palm with the other hand’s thumb. “You don’t look as though you struck him unprompted. I’m upset that you killed him, but you aren’t the type of person who would be able to knowingly kill someone.” He sighed as his eyes dropped to the carpet. 
“But for a while, please do not call me your Prince,” His voice sounded genuinely sad as he requested this. “I do not think it is appropriate until you’ve paid for your crime.” Rowan’s heart sank as he realised that he was far more comfortable with William screaming at him, and that by being the only person he had ever heard the Prince reprimand softly, he was surely in far more trouble than William would let on.
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