#it's kind of like... when i feel like i have so little choice in some areas of my diet

[eowynstwin]

peristalsis - ii.

selkie!soap x reader. depression. suicidal ideation. strangers to "lovers." . Running away from life to the Scottish Hebrides, you meet a man who won't leave you alone. . Masterlist. Ao3.

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You sleep long enough that, when you wake up, you have enough energy to cry.

It’s a big one. The kind of cry that threatens to turn your throat out, with how hard you sob. Alone in the cottage, far away from anything resembling civilization, you wail like wounded animal, choking on your own tears and mucus, losing track of your body buried underneath the covers—

But it happens at a remove. You watch yourself implode from someplace deep inside, not entirely sure why it’s happening at all—but long past trying to figure it out.

This is how it’s been for a while. There’s nothing special about it anymore. Nothing urgent. Most of the time, you are a blank space of a person, a vacuum where joy or rage or fear should be, but occasionally some maelstrom or another kicks up to fill it in, and your only course of action is to ride it out until it ends.

You’ve stopped trying to fix it. And you’ve stopped hoping anyone else can, either.

So you cry, until at last, you’re empty again. Or you’re too tired to continue. The difference is negligible, but functionally irrelevant. Once it’s done, you get out of bed.

The pressure in the shower is as weak as Johnny reported, but the water is indeed warm when you turn it on; you stand naked under the flow, arms hanging at your sides.

The day stretches itself out before you with nothing to occupying it, just as you’d planned. Nothing to work towards; no effort to put forward. Nothing, thanks to your choice of locale, to feel guilty about not seeking out.

A day of peace and utter quiet.

Suddenly—violent banging, somewhere in the cottage. It startles you; you jump so sharply at the noise that you smack your wrist on the soap caddy attached to the shower wall. The banging comes again—annoyed, you realize with no little bemusement that someone is at the front door.

You wrap yourself in a towel and hobble out of the bathroom to answer it, a piece of your mind on your tongue, dart-shaped and ready to fly—

Of course it’s Johnny.

Johnny, big and burly in a sweater, kilt, and pelt once again, two paper cups balanced in one large hand and a grocery bag hanging from the other. Whose dark brows shoot up his forehead as his eyes travel with surprise, and blatant appreciation, down the dripping length your body.

“Well, good mornin’, bonnie,” he purrs.

“What,” you grunt. A cold breath of wind chooses that moment to force its way through the door, gasping across the shower water still running in rivulets from your hair to the rolled edge of your towel. Goosebumps erupt from your bare skin in millions of simultaneous pinpricks—you flinch bodily at the chill.

“Ah, hell’s bells, don’t just stand there,” Johnny says, following the wind. “It’s freezin,’ go on, let me get in, hurry.”

You let him step inside, for some reason, and he shuts the door behind him with the heel of his boot. He wastes no time after that, heading to the kitchen to set down his things.

“Brought breakfast!” he says cheerfully. “There’s this bakery on Barra I thought you’d like, fresh doughnuts and coffee. Dunno how you take yours, but there’s sugar in the pantry and cream in the fridge.”

“I don’t want breakfast,” you say.

“What? ‘Course you do. I’m no’ takin’ you seal-watchin’ on an empty stomach.”

He starts unpacking the grocery bag and setting things on the counter while your jaw hangs open. Several things occur to you to say—I never agreed to that and what the hell is wrong with you, for starters—but your stomach growls at him before you can. The aroma of fresh-baked pastry wafts through the kitchen when he opens one box, and he turns to grin at you, cheeks dimpling.

“Do you get dressed, bonnie,” he says. “It’ll still be here when y’get back.”

It is less polite than he perhaps intends it to be, given that his gaze travels appreciatively across your bare shoulders. You cross your arms fruitlessly over your chest and, nothing else for it, retreat to the bedroom, feeling his eyes on you the whole way.

You return to the kitchen after having pulled on wool leggings and the same fleecy sweater from the day before. Johnny, one hip set against the counter, has a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a half-eaten cruller in the other, crumbs at the corner of his mouth.

“Got anythin’ heavier?” he asks around a chewed-up mouthful. “Gets cold out there.”

You look down at his bare calves, broad and taut and covered in a down of dark hair. “You seem alright.”

“I’m used to it,” he says, shrugging—the muscles flexing under your gaze.

You purse your lips. “I don’t have anything.” You hadn’t intended to leave the cottage overmuch.

You approach the counter. Johnny does not move a centimeter, forcing you to stand close as you pick through the two boxes of doughnuts and feel the body heat radiating off of him, displacing the scent of fried dough with his musk.

“That’s all right,” he says. You’re close enough to hear the way his voice hums deep in his chest. “I can keep you warm.”

You snatch a plain glazed from the box and take two very large steps away from him. The hair on the back of your neck lifts as you press against the sink behind you. If he notices your reaction, it doesn’t seem to bother him in the slightest—he lifts the cup to his lips and drinks, eyes sliding closed with simple, obvious pleasure, dark lashes curling against his cheek.

You take the brief respite from his gaze to stare at him. In the morning light, on a full night of sleep, you can almost believe that whatever you’d seen in him yesterday had been nothing more than a misfire of exhausted synapses. An overlay of a dream; a circadian prompt to rectify nearly seventeen hours of sleeplessness. You’d been cold, and tired, and hungry. That was all.

You bite down on your doughnut, not really tasting it. The nerves along your spine twitch and contract around the memory of his flashing gaze.

His eyes open again, and he smiles at you. “Good?” He flicks a look at the single bite you’ve taken, looks at your mouth, and then waits for your reply.

“It’s fine,” you grumble. Then, “How did you get here? I didn’t hear the truck drive up. Do you live close by?”

“Sometimes,” he says. He looks pleased that you’ve asked, that you’re interested at all, and you immediately regret inquiring. “Live on a boat, me. Moored in the cove right now.”

“A…boat,” you say.

“Aye.” A wisp of dark hair, something he must have missed when he gelled his mohawk this morning, flutters as he nods. “Nice and cozy. Not as grand as all this, mind.” He gestures around with coffee and doughnut at the less than five hundred square feet of the cottage. “But it’s still a sight nicer than some other places I’ve slept.”

He’s likely hinting at his military service. “Okay,” is all you say, unwilling to entertain it.

He smirk—undeterred. “We’ll take her out once you’re ready.”

“I never said I was going.”

Dark brows lift. “Got somethin’ else planned for today?” he asks, incredulous, as if he never imagined you wouldn’t want to hang out with him.

“No, I—”

You wrack your brain. You have no intention of explaining to this complete stranger that the last thing you’d wanted to do, when you booked this trip, was really anything at all—and in fact, you hadn’t even considered that that might be something anyone else would care much about.

Much less proactively address.

“No,” you repeat, sulking.

Johnny considers you, chewing. His eyes do not stray, this time, to places they don’t belong; but there’s an insight to them. A sharp awareness. A perception in his gaze that is just as undressing, as if whatever is going on with you is visible to the naked eye.

“I figure,” he says, slowly, as if to coax, “you put your wee shoes on, an’ I’ll pack this back up, and we take it along.”

“You don’t have to do this,” you grouse. “I don’t need you to, like—be my tour guide.”

“Aye, but that doesnae mean I don’t wanna,” he retorts, smiling.

He shoves the last bite of cruller in his mouth and gazes patiently at you as he works it with his jaw, the muscles flexing along his temples as he chews.

Exhaustion, your constant companion, stares you down alongside him. It would take so much more energy to fight him than to go along with whatever he has planned. Energy you just don’t have anymore. And going along doesn’t mean you have to pretend to enjoy yourself—it’s not like you care enough about Johnny’s self-esteem to conjure up a happy face to show him.

You can go, and be a bitch about it, and once you do maybe he’ll realize you’re not at all worth the effort he’s making, and then finally leave you alone.

“Fine,” you say, which is how you end up on a fishing trawler headed south toward, ostensibly, a colony of breeding seals.

It’s an old vessel—that much is obvious. Its edges and corners are dull with the passage of time and constant maintenance, scuffed by innumerable passes-over with cleaner and cloth. Mildew competes with the aroma of fresh varnish as Johnny leads you onto the bridge, which is mercifully closed in from the ocean wind.

The interior is mostly wood of a warm, orangish variety—you can’t tell if that’s a decision made with aesthetics or function in mind. The space comprises a kitchen, surprisingly well-appointed with a stove, sink, countertop, and fridge, and a small sitting area with both couch and booth seating. Surrounding windows allow in the grey light of the morning.

“Bought it off an old bloke on Lewis,” Johnny says, taking his place at the wheel, which is in a little alcove off the kitchen.

If you’d thought steering a boat would have curtailed his chatting, you’d have been wrong—he seems to have no trouble with that and talking, incessantly, at the same time, as he pulls the vessel away from the cove and into the open water.

“All his family moved to the mainland, he told me, an’ this is after generations fishin’ these islands, even makin’ it through the Clearances! No money in it anymore, he said, not like you could make in some office somewhere countin’ someone else’s money.” He checks something on the dashboard in front of him, but it doesn’t distract him for long. “Held on for a while, but people just kept leavin,’ an’ he was gettin’ too old to go out on his own. Got such a good price on it, I think he was just happy someone else was gonna take up the tradition.”

“Did he sell you the cottage too?” you ask, and then dig your nails into your wrist for encouraging him.

“Yup,” he says. “No one else wanted it, but me? I saw somethin’ special about it.”

He turns to smile at you—no doubt pleased you made the connection. You avert your gaze.

“Imagine someday I’ll have my own family here,” he continues. “Good place for it. Nice and slow, not like city living. Can hear yourself think out here. Perfect place to have a few wee ones.”

“If people stop leaving,” you mutter.

He turns to you again. “I’m no’ worried about that,” he replies. He’s still smiling. “You came here, after all.”

You have nothing to say to that.

The trip is a short one—Johnny brings the trawler alongside an island he informs you is called Mingulay, a square mile smaller than Vatersay’s tiny dot in the North Atlantic. Unlike the latter, he says, this island has not been inhabited since 1912, and has been completely reclaimed by the ocean and its wildlife.

After he drops anchor offshore, Johnny disappears down a steep flight of stairs below deck, which he had not offered a tour of, and emerges a short time later with a large, bulky coat.

“Didn’t I tell you?” he says proudly, holding it out by the shoulders. “Here, turn ‘round.”

You pause in the middle of reaching for it. You don’t know exactly why you comply—it occurs to you that if you grabbed for the jacket, he could simply not let go of it, and you would end up exactly where he wants you anyway. So you lower your arm and, resigned, give him your back.

He steps up behind you. Warmth pours off of him, more than you think any human body should be able to generate.

You hear him inhale, deeply, as he brings the jacket to your back. As you slide your arms into the sleeves, you feel his exhale on the nape of your neck, teasing through individual follicles of hair.

“There w’go,” he murmurs, much closer than you expected.

You can hear the low hum of his voice in his chest; his hands linger on your shoulders far longer than they need to, heavy, big enough that his index fingers brush along your collarbones.

When his hands make to slide down your back you step away from him and fumble to zip the jacket up; he chuckles lightly behind you. When you turn to face him, his lips are curled—smug.

“Alright then,” he says. “Let’s get out there.”

He rows the two of you to shore in a small kayak, two pairs of binoculars in your lap as you huddle away from the wind. You’ll be walking to the haul-out, he says—getting too close to the breeding grounds, which he calls a rookery, would spook them, possibly causing a stampede.

“It’s grey seals we’re gonna see,” he explains as the two of you pick your way across the rocky landscape. “Not the biggest haul-out you could see, some colonies get into the thousands, but we’ll have it all to ourselves.”

He insists on taking your elbow every time the two of you cross particularly uneven terrain, even though you don’t need it. You think he takes your attempts to shake him off as proof of your lack of balance, because he grasps you all the tighter every time.

“I’m not a child, Johnny, I can walk on my own,” you finally snap at him.

“Just bein’ a gentleman, bonnie,” he replies nonchalantly. He does not let you go.

As you get closer, you hear the seals before you see them, and when their voices reach you across the open island, you stop dead.

Groaning, grunting, hissing in a cacophonous chorus. Some part of your hindbrain double-takes, reshuffles itself—some ancestral instinct always on the lookout for predation. If you’d been given a chance to guess what a colony of mating seals might have sounded like, you’re not sure you could have guessed what they sounded like.

Certainly not like what you hear now—

Like people.

Johnny grins at you when he notices. “Aye, it’s a right ruckus, innit?”

He leads you up a small rise, where he has the two of you settle belly-down over the machair to overlook the wedge of rocky coast that the colony has claimed for its own.

And when you finally see it—it’s underwhelming.

Perhaps two hundred long, fat bodies, in varying shades of brown and grey, lay indolently along the rocks, in groups of three or four, some heavily galumphing from one place to another while others roll occasionally from side to side. The shifting winds catch their scent and blow it uncaringly into your face; you nearly gag at the admixture of dead fish and ammonia.

It doesn’t escape you that this is a rare thing to witness; you are not wholly immune to the fact that you are only a hundred meters away from something most people only encounter on a screen. It’s just that without a swell of awed music in the backdrop, or a narrator’s breathless wonder at the miracle of pinniped life, what’s left for you to observe is a population of wet, stinking animals, shitting where they lay, vocalizing without cease while they laze about doing basically nothing.

Johnny does not seem to notice your disillusionment; he hands you one pair of binoculars, and directs your attention to activity along the shoreline. You follow to where he’s pointing; one larger seal is hassling a smaller one, which snarls at the aggressor as it thrashes around with its substantial bulk.

“Little one there—” Johnny says, “that’s a female, probably obvious. Big one knows she’s ready to mate, can smell it on her.”

The female bares her teeth and lunges at the bigger male, which flinches back but holds his ground.

“Doesn’t look like she agrees,” you mutter.

“She’s just givin’ him a hard time. She’s all in heat, see? Just makes her cranky,” Johnny says. You feel his eyes on you, and lower your binoculars to look at him. “She’s got to fuss to feel all in control.”

You flush. “Right.”

“You don’t think so?”

“No,” you say. “He’s—he’s just bothering her.”

He gazes at you for a moment, contemplative. Corners of his mouth quirking upward. He does not reply for a long moment, long enough that you have to avert your gaze from his.

“Nah,” he finally says, and you don’t think you’re imagining the low, sultry note in his voice. “She wants it bad as he does.”

You scowl, uncomfortably perceived, and return your binoculars—the pair is still facing off, gurgling and growling at each other. The female is slim, almost sleek, unlike most of the other seals populating the rookery.

“Is she sick?” you ask.

“Hm? Oh, no, she’s alright. The mums lose a lot of weight when they nurse. Takes three weeks, and they don’t eat in the meantime.”

“Jesus.”

“Be nice if the dads ever brought ‘em a bite, aye?” Johnny agrees. “Deadbeats, the lot of them.”

The two of you survey the colony in silence for a moment. As the morning wears on, the cloud covering thins overhead, allowing cool sunlight to filter through. The temperature doesn’t rise in response; begrudgingly, you tug Johnny’s jacket a little tighter around you.

Then, suddenly, his hand lands on your back, between your shoulder blades.

“Got some pups over there,” he says. “Look, by the kelp.”

You find them; smaller bodies, white dinged with wet sand and dirt, lounge near their mothers or wriggle with aimless difficulty. They’re fluffy and round as plush toys, with shining black eyes and noses, and once Johnny’s pointed them out you can differentiate the higher, sweeter pitch of their cries from the overall cacophony.

“Sometimes,” Johnny murmurs, “search and rescue’ll get called out because someone thought they heard a baby crying. Some kid stranded or lost, right? Turns out to be a baby seal.”

“That’s kind of scary,” you say.

“Aye,” says Johnny. “Always makes me think that’s where the old legends come from, about seal people or mermaids.”

A small ways away, some of the mothers lay with their pups far into the surf, letting the waves break over them. You watch as one mother thunks her large head overtop of her pup’s as the water rushes toward them; the pup wriggles, and then, as the wave engulfs them, it begins to thrash, whipping up a panicked froth.

“Time for swimming lessons already?” Johnny muses. “Seems early.”

You’re horrified. “She’s going to drown it!”

The hand still on your back pats you consolingly. “Just watch,” says Johnny.

The wave reaches as far up the shore as gravity allows, and then begins to recede. The pup’s thrashing calms as the air meets its face once again; the cow allows the pup to lift its head, and after a few sputters, the pup seems no worse for wear.

“They’re hardier than they look, bonnie,” Johnny says.

His hand, heavy and warm even over his borrowed jacket, slides down from your shoulders to your lower back, and then he rubs, slowly, side to side, as if to comfort you—but the knobs of your spine contract at his touch.

“Last of the births this season, looks like,” he says. “Mum’s getting ready to leave—probably not the only one.”

Something hard drops into your stomach.

“They leave their babies?” you ask.

“Aye. Once they’re done nursing, they mate, and then they go.”

You look back at the other cows with their pups. One baby has its muzzle to its mother’s belly, quivering and suckling, while she lays with her head on a patch of grass. She looks uninterested—more, she looks disinterested. As if how voraciously her pup is nursing has nothing much to do with her, and she’s bored of even having to think about it.

Bored—and already looking forward to the next part of her life without a baby in it.

“That’s horrible,” you say.

“They’re solitary animals, bonnie,” Johnny says, not ungently. “The only time they’re really all together is for this.”

A line tightens between your stomach and throat, and you feel it start to build between your ribs. A tremor—foreshocks. The wind picks up, bringing a sharp chill off the ocean and up the rise that cuts into your stinging eyes, abrades the naked skin of your hands and the exposed part of your neck.

When you look through your binoculars again, you wonder how many of the pups you see have already been abandoned.

“Aw, bonnie,” Johnny says. There’s a kind of pity in his voice that has your hackles raising.

“I want to leave,” you say, yanking away from his touch and shuffling down the incline. “Take me back to the cottage.”

“Bonnie, it’s okay!” Johnny protests, rolling to his back to look at you as you stand. “The pups make it, they figure out how to fend for themselves.”

You glare at him, vision blurring. “All of them?”

Some part of you knows you’re being irrational—knows that nature is a cruel home, and that many children face worse fates than the seal pups. Abandoning the young, the needy, is no aberration; it is, in fact, far more the standard than the human practice, which lingers for decades—

Most of the time.

Johnny has no response. He holds your angry gaze, brows drawn low, mouth pressed into a thin line. It’s the first time that cocky aura, which seems to rest in every fine line on his face and every angle at which he holds his body, is completely absent.

He isn’t reflecting your anger back at you, though—he’s internalizing it. Letting it hit him, you think, and trying to use it to figure you out.

You do not want to be figured out.

You scoff again. “Take me back,” you repeat, and then you start walking in the direction you came, without waiting for him to follow.

Johnny drops you off in the cove, and thankfully does not linger this time before he departs—he bids you farewell after rowing you to shore, contemplation on his face, and then leaves you to yourself.

You retreat, seeking the cottage’s empty quiet.

As you perch on the couch you listen to the radiator hum—the wind blow over the reeds in the thatch roof—your own heart beating a drum in the arteries of your neck.

Percussive. Quick and hard. Like heavy knockers on a door. Pounding as if to burst through.

You realize you’re still wearing Johnny’s jacket, and you throw it off, disgusted with yourself. You get up and pace, and try to ignore it lying in a heap on the floor.

You do something you swore you wouldn’t do the moment you set foot on the island—you turn your phone back on.

True to Johnny’s word, there’s no signal. You picked this island, this part of the world, for a reason; for the past several years, a slow exodus from the British isles has vacated the need for dedicated cell towers or satellite or internet access, especially given that the only ones who remain are too old now to want it or need it or know how to use it.

It’s isolated. Cut off. Left behind by anyone with better options, and only clung to by those trying to preserve the only way of life they know.

Some kinder part of you belongs with that demographic; the part that was telling your mother the truth, before getting on the plane.

The rest of you holds your phone up and starts walking around.

In the furthest corner in the bedroom, you find a single bar of signal. A tiny chip of connectivity—a thin, frayed thread. Something you lied to yourself about cutting.

It’s a weak connection. Unstable. It could take a while—you stand there, waiting.

The screen dims. You tap it again.

Blank.

You unlock it, look through your apps. Wonder if maybe your notifications are bugged by your new SIM card.

Nothing—

No one.

You whip around and, with a cry, pitch the thing at the far wall—it hits the stone with a crunch, falling to the floor in pieces.

You’re out of the cottage then in a mad dash, door slamming behind you, driving yourself back into the wind. Far away—you want to be far away, far from everything, so far that nothing could possibly reach you. You trudge down the path toward the beach, banding your arms across your chest, shivering in the cold, and yet you hardly feel it.

Not worth it. No point. Waste of your time. Energy. All of it. Stop trying. Stop wanting. Nothing. Nothing. You want nothing.

You’re halfway down to the shore, not really knowing what you’re going to do when you get there, when you catch sight of a body on the sand.

You gasp, a sharp breath down your larynx, and freeze in a dead halt.

The body is completely still.

A swimmer? A diver? It’s dark, like it just pulled itself out of the ocean—or washed up—

Then, it moves. A twitch, a ripple across its bulk, and your chest rapidly decompresses.

A seal. It’s a large seal, lounging alone on the beach.

You stand motionless. You’re very close—much closer than you and Johnny had been at the rookery. You hadn’t contended with the sheer size of the animals, tucked safely up and away from them, but there is no illusion of distance now.

It’s the biggest one you’ve seen today, you’re sure of it. Bigger, you think, than most adult men. Its pelt is a riot of every shade of grey, splashy, like liquid paint thrown across a canvas. Black speckles scatter overtop of marbled white and cool slate, and down the center of its back is a broad, dark line, soft at the edges, which reaches all the way up to the top of the seal’s head.

The bull—it must be male—turns over. It lifts its head, and opens its eyes—

Fear suddenly zips up your spine as it looks right at you.

You stumble backward and trip on your own feet, landing hard on your ass. Johnny’s care with keeping enough distance from the colony rushes back to you, along with the warring couple’s bared teeth.

They can’t move that fast on land, right? They aren’t interested in people, right?

You scramble backward. It’s so much bigger than you ever would have imagined. If it got to you—threw itself over you—it could crush you with its weight alone—

The bull watches you placidly. Unperturbed.

You pause.

Its small eyes are dark and glossy—watchful and focused. The whiskers on its muzzle twitch a little as it takes you in. It breathes, deeply and evenly, huge body expanding and contracting at a slow, calm tempo. Its—his—nostrils flex, widening and narrowing, as he blinks docilely.

Unafraid.

If anything—curious.

Then he snorts, and wriggles in place. It startles a laugh out of you, more reaction than humor. Still watching you, the bull lowers his head back down, resting it again on the sand.

Your heartbeat abates. He doesn’t move again—nor does his attention leave you. Slowly, you sit up.

Wary. No sudden movements.

He doesn’t react; only continues to watch you.

You draw your knees up. Wrap your arms around your shins, and dust a bit of sand from your leggings. Rest your chin in the crevice between your knees.

There’s an intelligence in the bull’s eyes that is fathoms deep. There is a massive gulf between his experience of the world and yours, millennia of evolution separating your species from his—and yet…as you hold his gaze, you recognize the look in it.

Him, seeing you. And seeing you see him. The pendulum swinging between awareness of each other, and recognition of that shared awareness.

An empty space in the cloud cover passes overhead; sunlight touches the earth, warms it briefly before disappearing again. You wonder a little why this bull isn’t with the other seals.

Johnny would probably know.

“I didn’t come for you, you know,” you grumble at him.

The seal blinks. Awareness notwithstanding, you don’t share any language.

You sigh. “I guess you didn’t come to see me either,” you say.

But you don’t move away.

And you stay like that for a long while, you and he—regarding each other as the wind breathes out across the shore.

next chapter early access

a/n: follow for more seal facts™

Also huge thanks to Lev for trawler listings/info. Didn't explore it much this chapter but Soap's boat will show up more soon :)

[fuschiarulerinthebluebox]

Honestly this is one of the things I like about Rook, they’re NOT qualified for any of the things they’re doing. Like yeah they’ve got some background qualifications but they’re pretty average, just a normal person thrown into trying to save the world. They’re just a little guy ™ who’s personable and pretty solid at planning and utilising the skill sets of people around them (and frankly that’s a deeply undervalued skill in itself, like if you’ve ever had a bad project manager YOU KNOW how big a difference it can make). And let’s be clear, if you’re only picking the generic dialogue options it’s obviously going to feel like Rook has no fucking clue, the faction/background options add so much flavor, I love the little moments where Rook gets to nerd out with the rest of the group. Some of them definitely feel more impactful (looking at you Mourn Watch) but they absolutely allow Rook to speak peer to peer and be competent. But it’s not like the professionals know what they’re doing all the time either, just look at Lucanis at Weisshaupt.

I’ve seen a lot of really interesting takes, my fav is from @fanfoolishness, that even though no one directly addresses Varric’s death with Rook, they’re supportive/ hold space in their own ways (eg. Neve at the Wall of Light, Emmrich in the gardens, Davrin just taking a walk, Bellara having Rook help her light the braziers for Cyrian, Lucanis having Rook help plan the funeral). And navigating a death that big is hard even if you know someone really well, I do wish they had spent a little more time processing that after Rook figures it out but I get why they didn’t as far as timeline. My first play through was MW and I definitely had a moment of “oh no, I haven’t done any rites for Varric”. I do really like the head cannon/ theory that Solas inadvertently tied a little piece of Varric to Rook when he did his little blood magic nonsense, and Rook really is seeing some echo of him.

Along those same lines, as much as I love petting Assan and playing rock paper scissors with Manfred, I wish they had let Rook interact with the party more at the lighthouse outside of the special conversations. Rook in a lot of ways does act like the group therapist, and I don’t think that’s necessarily a bad thing. Can it be a little tedious as the player? Yeah, but for the characters it’s a natural progression of trusting what is essentially your coworker to becoming friends you rely on. Then there’s the twisted funhouse mirror of this same progression with Rook and Solas, going from almost-enemies to not-totally-truthful confidants and then unlikely-unsteady-forced-proximity allies.

I think at its core, Rook feels like a companion to all these “Main Characters” because Varric chose someone like him. Someone who is kind and helpful (see also: all those complaints you can play a mean/evil Rook), makes goofy jokes, listens to the people around them, and isn’t necessarily a hero but can make those hard choices if they need to. And yeah at a meta level it could just be poor writing or the game having been worked over by so many changes over a decade, but if we the player trust Varric we have to remember that Varric and Rook have been traveling together for more than a year and Varric trusts Rook. Rook is leading because Varric trusts them to do what’s right, not because they’re the absolute best at everything, not because they’re a hero. Trust.

This was probably way longer than it needed to be and rambled a little a lot , but I do think it’s a pretty solid game especially after so many revisions, and keeps the souls of a Dragon Age game.

What’s really jumping out at me on my second playthrough is that the writers of the first three games understood that your character was the main character. The Veilguard writers clearly thought that the main characters were their characters, the companions.

Every scene is about setting the companions up as cool or competent or sympathetic. Often, this is done at Rook’s expense. The companions get all the witty one-liners; Rook’s attempts at humor not only frequently fall flat, but are frequently called out for falling flat (even when they’re completely automatic and the player has no say in them).

The companions have all the knowledge and skills; Rook just brought them all together and gives them all pep talks so they can focus. I’m trying to edit out all of the comments where Rook is like “Um… what????” from my videos, and let me tell you, it takes WORK. There are A LOT of them. I can count on one hand the number of times when the Inquisitor or Hawke comes across as dumb, but it seems to be a built-in, unavoidable part of Rook’s character. I have not selected a single “purple” option in all of Act 1, and Rook is still coming across as the kid who tries to be the class clown to cover for the fact that he’s always confused. Rook’s role in most scenes is to say “Uhhh… what?” so that the companions look smart.

Rook is always the one offering sympathy and never the one getting it. No one actually comes to comfort you after Varric’s death. No one asks you how you’re feeling about having to lead the team now that Varric is gone. No one tries to reassure you or give you advice for dealing with the trickster god haunting your dreams. We’re told that Neve could keep Solas out of your head, but she never actually offers to do this for you. No one comforts a Shadow Dragon Rook when Minrathous is destroyed or a Grey Warden Rook when Weisshaupt is destroyed. Rook’s problems don’t matter. Only the problems of main characters matter.

Rook is a secondary character in their own story.

[delaware-lemme-smash]

Ooh, excellent question! Poor Hawks, he can't catch a break, can he?

Characters: Takami Keigo/Hawks

Contents: fake dating, angst

Takami Keigo/Hawks

This is absolutely the kind of stunt the Commission would try to pull. Hawks, like most high-ranking Pro Heroes will have a publicist and chances are high for that person either working for the Commission directly or the PR agency being a third-party contractor of the Commission. Once they have their hooks in you, they do not let you go. 

For whatever reason, they decide their top Pro needs to be seen to be dating another Pro Hero. Maybe the other Pro has tanking ratings or it’s part of some deeper game. Whatever it is, Hawks doesn’t have much choice but to go along with it.

Another factor is whether or not the Commission knows you’re in a relationship with Hawks. He might have no choice to tell them, but I feel that if there was an opportunity to keep you a secret from them, he would. He doesn’t want them to have control over your life as well as his. And I’m sure he’d want to have a piece of his life that’s just for him, not for the Commission’s goals or the public’s consumption. 

It causes him no small amount of angst, having to sit you down and explain to you what they’re going to make him do. He dreads having to tell you, having to see the look on your face when you hear that he’ll be posing as some other person’s boyfriend. It’s hard enough, having to share him with the Commission and his endless work and his ravenous fans. Now you have to watch him post couple pics on Instagram with someone else. Or go on cute little dates where the paparazzi just so happen to stumble across the two heroes enjoying totally not sponsored smoothies. 

It’s maddening, to say the least. Hawks hates every second of it. 

While he’s not rude or hostile to the person he’s fake-dating, he’s not his usual lively, flirtatious self, because he knows every minute he spends with them is affecting you. His very little free time is being eaten up by this media-pandering bullshit, and he hates it.

There are a few ways he can go about making things easier. 

One, he’ll never take fake-girlfriend anywhere that he takes you. Your favourite little haunts and hangouts will never be tarnished by a photoshoot that ends up splashed across the front of Hero Weekly. 

Two, he’s honest with the fake-girlfriend. She has to know this is just a business arrangement, a contractual obligation. He already has a partner, and he’ll only be doing the bare minimum to make it look real for the cameras.

Three, he’ll set a deadline on it with the Commission. He can swing it by saying that all this prancing around for the cameras is affecting his performance. How’s he supposed to fight villains if he has to spend all his time doing photoshoots with Ultragleam or Mochigirl, or whoever they want to set him up with this week. 

Four, he can try and introduce the fake-girlfriend to you, so there’s no weird feeling of sneaking around. So you can set your own boundaries on what you are and aren’t comfortable with.

Despite all this? It’s still gonna suck.

There’s no way it doesn’t hurt to see your boyfriend posting cutesy photos with another hero. Fans will be gushing on social media, coming up with ship names, posting edits with sparkly effects and slow-mo reverb love songs playing over the top, filled with comments like “OMG THE WAY HE LOOKS AT HER!” 

The only way to make it bearable is to imagine he’s playing a character, like he’s the male lead in a romantic K-Drama, and fake-girlfriend is just his co-star. It’s true, in a way. Even if they’re attending events together and posting (staged) shots on the beach, holding hands, it’s all fake. 

When he comes home to you after a long day of patrolling, exhausted after an intense villain fight, and collapses facedown on the couch, head on your lap, wings askew, only to tiredly ask about your day and beg you to order chicken skewers? That’s real. 

[quarterlifekitty]

Hello meine Friend. I am anonymously asking you about my husband Phillip Graves and if you have anything you'd be open write about this terrorist? ☺️

Also we have similar biographies about ovulating and it always catches me off guard when I go onto your profile and see the text there, also that's why I questioned anonymously ✌️

I'd totally write for him! I'll see what I can juice up, since you've left it rather open ended right now. (edit after finishing: uhm. this got away from me. the juice most certainly came loose)

So, feel free to fight me on this. But I can so easily see Graves as the kind of guy who's proud to be dating a stripper. Like, he met you on some stupid macho victory outing with the shadows. A private reservation of your club, lot of fuck around money getting tossed around.

And yes. He is, in fact, the idiot that falls for a stripper while she's doing her job. But the key thing about Graves is that while he may be a predator, he's not a dog. He knows quite well how to keep it in his pants. You were used to guys trying to go out with you outside of the club on the basis that they'd be able to get the milk without buying the cow.

You'd admit the southern charm helped. The hairline scar on the cheek. You met him for your first date, bright and early, in a public place. Coffee. What's casual for most is meaningful to you: time spent together in daylight, before you go about errands and business. No intention to steal away, drink, and fuck.

The first three months were just coffee. Maybe lunch, if he caught a long break on a day that worked for you. Nothing at night. Never went to each other's place. The one thing was that while he had little choice but to let you pay for your own coffee and pastries, he'd never let you cover lunch. Call him old fashioned-- but he's got relatives that'd be turning in their graves if he let you tank the cost of a nice date.

It's month four when you let him take you out for dinner. It's a few weeks later that you let him come inside when he takes you home. It's month five when he sleeps over in your bed.

It's month six when you have sex for the first time. Completely your initiation, and he gave plenty of outs. He needed you to be ready for it-- cause he couldn't promise he'd be able to stay gentlemanly once he got a taste.

He picks you up from work these days. And he likes to go in and get you, despite how your boss isn't a fan of it-- makes you seem a little too unattainable. Phillip grins when guys call after him. You know your girl gave me a lapdance a few minutes ago, right? Yeah, genius, he knows.

"Thanks for that, pal. If it weren't for guys like you, I might not get a penthouse view when I fuck her. Cheers for the rent money, partner." They don't need to know that you actually live in a pretty sensible apartment, and you'll be moving to the house his folks left him after the wedding. You're ready to meet him then, in your comfy clothes and fur coat, ring glittering with more than a couple stones. You stick yourself to his side like you're a couple of nesting turtledoves in winter. And he always opens the car door for you.

"Customers give you a hard time while you were waiting for me?"

"Y'know I love it when they do, sweetheart."

[weebsinstash]

Sort of a specific idea but

Bruce Wayne returns to Gotham to become Batman in his late 20s and he doesn't retire (at least from working in the field) until I believe he's in his 60s, so

It's entirely plausible to think of a platonic yandere Batman scenario where, you were a child involved in a disaster that he rescued, and some 10, 15 years later he runs into an adult you by whatever means and he can see you're struggling to make ends meet and you're having issues that ultimately stem from the trauma caused by that incident all those years ago, and he wants to help you, save you from your current situation, and maybe even finds out you've fallen to the dark side in all this time you were out of his sight

Like, the added drama if, in a way, he feels partially responsible for your current situatuon; he was still kind of green when you went through your accident. Maybe he feels like he should've kept a closer eye on you after the fact, helped make sure you were OK; you were just a little kid clinging to him in fear, so small you fit into his arms to be picked up. Could you even imagine it's something like, you lose your parents in a villain attack and you're just this frightened little kid and some 10 years later Bruce meets you as an adult and you're either an addict, a criminal, both, and potentially even a metahuman on top of everything else so you have the capacity to be legitimately dangerous

See, a lot of the thematic elements of Batman as a franchise itself is that many of the Batman villains were sort of just, normal people that had horrible things happen to them that, while not being justified, may be understandable. A lot of Batman villains carry underlying themes of, being victims of abuse, victims of society, victims of disability or mistreatment for that disability, so, from a narrative standpoint, you then have Batman seeing you as not just someone he feels he failed to fully save, but now, you could potentially end up going down a dark path like so many others he's personally seen spiral, and he doesn't want to have to put you in Belle Rev or Arkham.

Batman loving you and wanting to protect you but for your own good he ultimately feels has no choice but to contain you until he can either convince you to control your powers or he finds a way to suppress them by force. Then, he wants to take you under his wing; you're broken and hurting, just like a part of him will always be. If you've got no one else to look after you anymore, he can be your new family.

Batman going into full helicopter Batdad mode where he's just, fully convinced that just about every negative action or choice you make is just stemming from trauma or some other problem he has to fix and basically, kind of in a way robs you of the autonomy and accountability that you have making your own choices as a whole. Oh, you haven't had mental healthcare all these years? Prepare for him forcing you to go to therapy and promising you he doesn't know what you talk about which is a lie because he has spy equipment to listen in on your sessions anyway. Hope you like being forced to take medication for conditions and disorders that you're not sure to believe you've even been credibly diagnosed with.

Then of course you have all your new "siblings" and comrades in arms watching over you, ESPECIALLY once Batman becomes convinced that fighting crime with him and the others will be the outlet you need for your anger just like it is for him and most of the others in his traumatized gaggle of adopted children. NOW you've got this entire, basically half dozen or so prodigies with their own sets of skills, traumas, obsessions. Some see you as a playful rival. Others see you as more of an equal. They ALL see you as "sweet cinnamon roll, must protect"

Batman having to keep you from becoming radicalized. Batman dealing with this super-powered angry version of you that wants to take justice into your own hands, in YOUR way, which yeah, involves a lil killing, as a treat. Bruce absolutely convinced, and perhaps being right, that he's the only one that can save you from doing something that will ruin your life forever

You'll don your new costume and you'll like it. You'll have his symbol on your chest marking you as his family and you'll like it. You'll spend basically every waking moment either in his home, with a member of his found family, or with him, and you'll like it. Hell, maybe you'll even be finding your last name was legally changed to Wayne without evem being discussed with you, and guess what? You'll have no choice but to learn to like that, too :)

[studiogrimm810]

Dreams Come True

pairings: (pining) sam winchester x gn!reader, dean is kinda there

summary: the brothers request your help with hunting a djinn and after being under its manipulation, you realize you can't ignore your feelings for sam forever

warnings: angst, graphic depictions of crime scene images, open but happy ending, unspoken feelings

word count: 5,138

A/N: i don't know how to write shorter stories. pls send help, thx

———————

As you pulled into the parking lot of some dingy diner you scanned the area in search for a particularly sparkling Impala that stood out like a sore thumb. Upon the confirmation of the vehicle, you knew Sam and Dean were waiting for you inside. It had been a few months since you'd last seen the brothers and it caused a low churning in your stomach, a sickening curl to your intestines that made you nauseous. You love the Winchesters, you truly do, and you would drop everything if they needed a hand like now, but your problem was in fact that you loved one specific Winchester a touch too much. It was exhausting.

Ever since you could drive, you have been on your own. Your parents weren’t much help to your development, and honestly the only real reason you’re as functioning as you pretend to be is because of your Uncle Rufus who stepped up in raising you. He kept an eye on you when his brother failed but you had always had a sharp sense of independence. So, the second your uncle's friend, Bobby, fixed you up a car to claim as your own, you were gone.

And you pretended it didn’t hurt when Rufus didn’t put up a fight.

The forced and minimal choices of your life lead you to be fiercely independent and taught you not to rely on anyone for a thing. You had your own car, your own way of living, and your own set of personal, strict, rules that you follow to a T.

Rules that come so close to being bent in the presence of one, Sam Winchester.

You force yourself out of your car and through the parking lot to the lightly rusted doors smudged with greasy finger-prints. That’s it, next time you get to choose where you and the boys meet up. Surely the food here is good, and the waitress who is taking Sam and Deans drink order looks kind enough, but being on the road most of your life leads you to have a distaste of cheap and greasy spots where their healthiest item on the menu is probably the tomatoes that top their hangover burgers.

Sam and Dean have sat on the same side of the booth and they both smile warmly as they spot you enter the diner. The stale but warm air laced with french fries and left over maple syrup from breakfast washes over you and your mouth waters at the thought of a sweet dessert topping that’s become socially acceptable first thing in the morning.

Eh, maybe this diner isn’t so bad.

Making your way to their delicately selected booth, your stomach twists in a tight knot again at the sight of Sam. A beautiful splitting smile that cracks his face to allow little beams of whatever the fuck makes him so stunningly happy at this moment is partnered with a trademark dimple threatening to suck you in and never loosen up. You smile back at both of them.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dean beams as he and Sam stand in unison to greet you. Dean hugs you first, a firm grip that’s a little too tight because he knows you can handle it and he doesn’t really want to help himself. “Missed ya,” he pulls away to ruffle your hair and you try to glare at him while swatting away his hand but you can’t wipe off the smile these two have infected you with.

Sam is next, wrapping his strong arms around you. “Been too long,” he utters out with a slight groan that often accompanies a hug like this, but maybe it’s also because you can tell he had more to say. His arms are big and encompassing, wrapping around you like a cloak that shields away just enough of the outside hustle and bustle to let it just be you two in this moment. It’s so protected and safe in this moment that you can’t help but reply with an equally weighted echo of, “too long.”

After warm hugs that seem to stop time, the boys sit back in their spots and you take the roomy booth opposite of them. Dramatically stretching out your arms, you shoot them a sly but innocent smile. “Good choice in table, boys. ‘S comfy,” you yawn involuntarily.

“Glad you’re livin’ it up, your highness,” Dean teases, tapping the table idly as the waitress returns. You control the attitude threatening to manipulate your face as Dean gives the poor woman googly eyes masked with a quite dashing smirk.

After a harmony of simple orders, the waitress smiles out of obligation for a tip and heads to her next table.

“How’ve you been?” Asks Sam, and damn him. He just has to keep watching you with eyes that are warmer than the coffee Dean insisted on having this late. You settle in your seat, leaning back and running your nails along the beveled edge of the table.

“Good, same old, same old,” you shrug. It really has been quite boring with you recently. You worked a case a few states over, then picked up a few odd jobs to rake up some money again to get you through another case.

“How’s the Toyota?” Dean looks out into the lot for your white sedan parked across the lot. It had been an inside bit between the two of you, he liked to tease you for sticking to such a confident opinion that your little ‘match-box car’- as he coined it- was in fact a more comfortable and reliable ride than his baby. You really didn’t have such a strong opinion, but for the way it ruffles his feathers, you’d die on this hill.

“As good as ever, and grandpa?” You tick your head to the 40 year old car in the lot. Dean clutches his chest with an offended inhale and twisted look of hurt at the Impalas nickname, gifted by you.

“Immoral,” Dean’s face is straight with a flash of cocky know-it-all holding his chin high.

One day you’ll admit that the common denominator between the two cars would most definitely be the servicer of Singer Auto Parts. The man performed miracles on any old hunk of metal you took him.

“Okay, okay, put the measuring tape away,” Sam chuckled, enjoying the bickering between you two. Dean bit back a ‘they started it’ and just took a far too big gulp of his coffee to shut himself up.

“How ‘bout you two? What made you call me out here tonight?” You ask, looking out the window that overlooks probably 80% of the town that is really only a grocery store, a main street with a handful of vendors, and a couple other buildings that you didn’t take the time to specifically identify at the moment. Sam’s warm smile that tore all eyes from the moon cast high in the sky melts down to his polite not-so-fantastic-news smile.

“We’re tracking a Djinn,” Sam explains, pulling out a few books, topped with John's journal, from his computer bag. He sets out the books and snatches one specifically to flip through and turn for you to look at. You scanned the page: silver, lambs blood, poison, dreams? You had vaguely heard about Djinn before but you never really took them seriously. It was one of those creatures like fairies that just seemed so out of your league that you never put too much time or effort into researching it.

“Thinking it’s going along I-81, collecting victims where it can and bleeding ‘em dry,” Dean explains, his own expression turned serious as well. He tracks his finger along certain lines in the text that highlight an important note: ‘Djinn use a poison through physical touch to incapacitate their victims and keep them in a comatose state as they drain their blood over any given period of time. Djinn often give their victims a false reality that some describe as “too good to be true” to keep their bodies calm, stable, and comfortable in such a neglected state of being.’

“They feed on blood? Like vampires?” You ask, cringing slightly. Although you envision yourself to be a strong, smart, quick hunter, blood is your downfall. You make a point to avoid vamps by yourself for this very reason and the boys know this, so they must really need help if they’re asking for your assistance in a case like this.

“Kinda, yeah. Same diet, different harvesting,” Dean shrugs, making the connection for you that makes you want to gag. You force down a few sips of water to settle the tickle in the back of your throat before continuing.

“So how are you tracking this thing? Like how do you know someone has been its victim?” You ask, wondering what the physical proof left behind on a person was inflicted by such a creature was. Sam shuffles through the stack of literature, pulling out a dull, manilla folder and setting it in front of you.

“It’s sloppy, doesn’t clean up after itself at all,” Sam’s hand rests on the top of the folder, holding it closed so that you don’t open it too fast. “It leaves its victims strung up,” Sam explains, removing his hand but still watching you with a silent warning at the contents behind this thin veil. You open the folder and immediately cringe, your head turning to look away but your glued eyes prevent you from turning too far. The first image is a young woman, probably couldn’t even legally drink, with her wrists tied above her head. She’s dirty, bruised, decayed. An IV still connected her neck to a metal frame next to her that would supposedly host plastic blood bags. “Some Djinn passively feed, others drain to save for later.” You swallow thickly as you realize the IV was to rid her of her own blood.

The thought is sickening.

The image is beyond words.

But you persist. Your now unsteady fingers reach to flip the image, finding a police report behind it. The woman was 19- just a girl. Your chest aches, this really is the hardest part of the job- the loss. Her name was Amani and she was going to college for journalism. She was reported missing when she didn’t show up for her editorial meeting on campus. Her boyfriend reported it. Her parents followed up. There was an image attached, from her and her boyfriend on Valentines Day. She looked so happy and so full of life.

You close your eyes to get a hold of yourself. You swallow down your emotions, opening your eyes again to flip the pages again.

The next picture was of another woman, displayed in a similar manner. Her blonde hair stained with rotted blood and you almost mistook her for a brunette. Smeared makeup lined her vacant eyes and a beautiful necklace rested along her clavicle. Turning the page, you learn this woman's name was Eliza, a 39 year old mother of four. A portrait framed a lovely family. She wore the same necklace and you assume it was a gift from her husband who stood tall and proud next to her.

You closed the folder, unable to take in any more. You nodded lightly, looking between the boys. “I’ll help, just tell me what I need to know,” you state. The hardest thing about this job was also your biggest motivator. Preventing this awful fate from befalling another innocent family.

You felt that it was too late for your own chance at love, life, happiness, but that it was now your responsibility to make sure that was an option for as many people as you could save. You felt it was your one true purpose.

This was something that Sam admired about you, your relentless need to help others. To use your knowledge for the betterment of others. Yet, it was still something he wished you were more selfish with. He could tell the effects that the stories and images of these poor victims had on you but you ignored your own limits and boundaries to fight for those who still stand a chance. It was a horrible hero’s curse, really.

Sam’s smile reassures you, even if it’s the sweet, pitying one that he offers those in distress, because something in the glint that shines in his eyes tells you a truth you want to ignore.

“We can kill it with a silver dagger dipped in lamb's blood. We just need the blood,” Dean pulls out his phone to check his messages. “Which is ready for us, courtesy of Frankie,” Dean tips up his phone as if to cheer. Frankie was another hunter friend in rotation, he wasn’t really someone you would team up with, but you’d accept his tools and supplies anytime.

Sam packs up his stack of books, stuffing them in his bag. “Dean has to drive out about an hour to meet Frankie, you and I can stick back and I’ll catch you up on the lore.” Sam offers, zipping his bag up and shoving it aside.

———

The rain outside was persistent, heavy, and unforgiving. You stood at the motel window, glaring out to your car getting a half-assed wash that it so desperately needs. After packing in as much Djinn knowledge as you could get, you and Sam decided to call it quits for the night and wait on Dean.

“So what’s the plan? Do you know how to find where this thing is going to be next?” You asked, turning over your shoulder to spot Sam who was cleaning up his gun, shiney metal parts lined neatly on a cloth next to him.

“We have a hunch, another woman disappeared from her workplace last night. Amani, the college student, was found in an abandoned greenhouse that no one used anymore on campus. The mother, Eliza, was found in some old stock room at the animal shelter she volunteered at. The woman who disappeared last night, Carmen, worked at a museum as a tour guide. There’s a ruined exhibits graveyard in the basement, I’m betting she’ll be there,” Sam explains, continuing to clean his gun. His hands flow in precise motions over the weapon, cradling it and caring for it like a delicate piece of glass.

“Are we checking it out tonight when Dean gets back?” You ask, moving to sit on the free couch that will end up being your bed. Sam glanced out the window that you no longer silhouette, checking for headlights, before returning to finish reassembling his gun.

“Yep, that’s the plan,” Sam nods, setting the pristine gun on his bedside table and putting away his kit.

Once he’s finished, he stays sat on the edge of the bed, glancing over at you as you pick at the tears in your jeans. You couldn’t get those images out of your head and you itched to save Carmen before it’s too late.

“How’re you feeling?’ Sam asks with kind words that don’t mean to pry but just to chip what he can. He knows how much time you spend alone on the road. You’re such a sheltered and lonely person but he doesn’t want that for you. Sam can see past the tough exterior and into the shell of just a person who craved to be loved and taken care of. He wanted to be that person for you.

“Antsy. Dean should be back by now, no?” You ask, continuously picking at your jeans but gazing out the window once more. Sam follows your lead, nodding in agreement but returning his main focus back to you.

“He’ll be more careful in the rain,” Sam explained, his soft eyes holding room for the tension he captures behind them. “The others had been missing for at least a week before they passed, we have time,” Sam assures, hoping that you don’t stress yourself out too much over this.

“Talk to Bobby recently?” Sam continues, missing the small talk that you two haven’t really shared yet. He can tell you’re more tense than usual, it’s like you’re distancing yourself. You look up from your knees, the messy pit that makes you sick stirring in you yet again as his eyes match yours.

“Last week, just to check in,” you said, offering a suspiciously less amount of information than usual. Your leg bounces against its prop on the coffee table before you.

“You can talk to me,” Sam urges, keeping his eyes on you as you dart from your knees to the window and then to him. You don’t know what’s with you right now specifically, but the tension of the unspoken feelings bubbling under your ribs is becoming a real bitch.

“Just a stressful few weeks, nothing I can’t handle,” you smile assuringly. He can see right through it, but he decides to let it go for now since the familiar rumble of the Impala growls outside, awaiting its two passengers. Sam lets out a defeated breath, standing and grabbing his coat and gun. You jump to your feet, ready to get this show on the road. You slip on your own coat and check yourself over to make sure you have everything you need.

“What’s a little more stress, huh?” Sam jokes sarcastically, making a mental note to keep an extra close eye on you. You scoff a dry laugh, leading the way to the Impala while Sam locks up the room. The ten feet to the vehicle being enough to soak halfway through to your skin.

“Fuckin’ rain!” You exasperated, sliding into the back seat and letting the comforting heat of the Impala warm you right back up.

“Tell me about it, can’t see a damn thing,” Dean complains, his wipers on full blast and his defroster bellowing a low hum through the car that you had to speak over.

Dean’s years and years of constant driving cause for good reflexed and skilled roadwork as he navigates the slick roads, leading you three to the main event.

After a pop-quiz and mostly dried clothes, Dean pulls the Impala around the museum and to the back entrance that neighbors cellar doors that lead straight down. Once everyone is caught up, loaded with the proper weapon, and ready to get soaked again for a measly few feet of travel, they pile out of the car and to the latched and locked doors. Dean skips the pleasantries of Sam simply picking the lock and just shoots straight through the already rusted metal.

Dean descends first, followed by you, and finished by Sam.

The room is inky black and thickly dank, the moisture almost making it difficult to breathe. Echoing drips of supposed leaks from the rain sing around the trio, making it nearly impossible to locate one specific stream. Dean kicks on his flashlight and you and Sam follow.

“Stay close, stay alert,” Dean instructs, going to look up a nearby hall while Sam checks a few closets and you scan the main area for clues. There are dozens of totes down here full with scrapped art supplies, broken furniture, and piles of betrayed books. Nothing is standing out, though, so you follow behind Dean who has progressed up the hallway. Sam watched both yours and his brother's backs.

A loud clunk echos from the opposite side of the basement but the echo makes it bounce around to the main room you three had landed in. Sam jumps to double check to make sure that behind them was clear and Dean retreats from the room to see what’s going on. You shrug at Dean's raised brow and progress further into the hall, taking the lead.

You turn down a corner to find an even longer hallway with more off-shoots that basically make this place a maze. You sigh heavily, dropping your light a tad and look back at the brothers who have closed the distance between you surprisingly fast.

“There's too much ground,” you whisper to them both. Sam’s face contorts into a ‘no way, don't even think about it’ but Dean's interruption stops Sam from speaking his protests.

“They’re right, Sammy, we’ll cover more ground,” he whispers, trying to reason with his brother, “just stay close, no more than shouting distance,” Dean lays it out like he’s your father, but you listen because you trust his judgement. At the moment at least.

You have a hard time being too far from Sam, though. Seeing the aftermath of the Djinns' torment makes the uneasy swirl in your stomach worsen, but this time it isn’t at the ball of nerves that Sam's presence tweaks, it’s the thought of him being strung up there like a piece of meat. You have to rationalize that Sam is a grown man. You have to take a deep breath and assure yourself that he can handle this. After all, it is him and his brother who invited you to this hunt. You were the novice here.

After scanning over a few rooms, you progress further down the hall, and the further you go, you start to hear it. Soft whimpers, like helpless cries, sirening you to a room at the far end of the hall. You know you should grab one or both of the brothers’ attention, but you can’t help yourself. The images flash again- desiccated husks of once lively people dangling like a crude ornament. This has to be Carmen and you have to help her.

Your heart races as you get closer to the cracked door that pours out the skin-crawling whines. As you turn the corner, there she is. You're halted for a moment, frozen as you take in her state. A poor woman with her hands bound above her head and a dried trail of blood staining her temple. She has a similar IV but she isn’t still like you imagined, it’s almost like she’s experiencing sleep paralysis.

The poison is running out. Sam told you about this, you remember. The poison inflicted by touch only lasts so long and the Djinn needs to come back to dose its victim again. The Djinn will be back soon if it isn’t stalking around already.

You really should’ve grabbed the boys’ attention.

It’s too late for that now, though. You fish out your pocket knife, flicking it open and approaching the zip-ties that cinch Carmen's wrists.

“You’re okay, I’ve gotchyou,” you murmur quietly, hoping to god she can hear you just a little bit. Just enough to know that she’s safe now. You look around the room, keeping an eye out for the Djinn. You support most of Carmens weight into your side, stepping cautiously back out into the hallway. You almost make it past the barrier but a low growl from behind you makes you jump.

The figure behind you is a dark frame, shadowy and devoid of any light under the glowing blue tattoos and beams of eyes. It’s like the creature is pure nothingness despite its veins of sapphire lining its figure. As it steps out into the light, moonlight floods in just enough that you can actually see past the light-polluted skin of what looks to be just man. Well, a man that’s almost eight feet tall and glowing like he just stepped out of the Chernobl blast.

Carmen starts to stir, muttering something incomprehensible, but you ignore it because there is no time anyways. You stumble back, the Djinn looming over you. You manage to set Carmen down gently enough to leave while you lead away the creature that lurks closer and you can tell it’s furious with you. You can see it in his eyes. The cool blue that should be a calming, and if anything- dull, color instead pierced through your chest like an alarming red. You take bigger steps back before flipping a table in your path and darting the opposite way.

The piercing metal followed by an angry growl was definitely enough to get the boys’ attention and startle Carmen to be fully conscious again. The brothers call after you, their words dying in their throats as they round the corner to see Carmen on the ground. Somehow, during your short-lived rescue mission, you managed to settle your coat over her shoulders. Sam instantly recognizes that it’s yours and while Dean quickly crouches to her aide, Sam flashes his light to the mess of a spilled table on the floor. A few paint bottles are still rolling along the cement.

“Dean, get her out of here, I’m going after them,” Sam says without looking Dean's way at all. This time it’s Deans protests that go unspoken.

—---

Freshly ground coffee is Sam's specialty after being gifted a gourmet coffee bean grinder for Christmas. Ever since then, he’s gotten up before you, just like usual, but spent the better half of his morning crafting the perfect blend of coffee that you got to taste test along with blueberry and lemon muffins that Dean and Cas brought last time they visited.

Your guilty pleasures usually starred your mornings, overly sweet breakfast items followed by way too much caffeine from many taste-tests, and even a special morning delight from yours truly.

Your mornings were the absolute highlight of your day and a great way to start the day too.

Comfortable footsteps climb the steps outside of your bedroom door, and soon, Sam’s large figure spills through the frame, filtering in like an early sunrise. Sunshine that is hopeful, trusting, blindly accepting of things to come. His eyes rake over your body that’s half out of the blankets due to overheating from the night and he looks along the sleeplines you have acquired on your thigh, up your hip, and stretching out to your lower back. Exposed, lush skin, calling him in like a lustful sin.

“Good morning, my love,” his voice wakes you up enough to smell the mouth-watering blend of fresh coffee and warm muffins. You prop your head up just enough to smile fondly at him as he sits on the open bedspace by your legs. He sets the muffin wrapped in a paper towel on your bedside table along with your steaming coffee.

“What’s the concoction today?” Your sleep-dampened voice makes Sam smile a bit brighter. His hand rests on your exposed leg, running his palm up your thigh, over your underwear and back down.

“I mixed some of that Brazilian blend with the last of the hazelnut dark roast,” he tilts his head so his face is level with yours, still running his lightly calloused hand up your skin, untainted from the survival of The Life. You hummed in delight from the goosebumps that blessed your silky skin and also in anticipation at the mention of one of your favorite flavors.

You close your eyes to stretch and Sam just watches as your body twists to land on your back, but as you go to sit up, his face falls into a grimace as his hand quickly comes up to pin you down. You’re fully alert now, heart racing.

“S-Sam.?” You test, unsure of why he’s acting this way so suddenly.

“N-No, don’t go, you can’t leave me,” he shakes his head, a heartbreaking expression painting his gorgeous face.

“I’m not going-.”

“You need to wake up!”

Another Sam echoes in your head, and your own face contorts in confusion. Your heart is aching.

“Don’t go, please,” the Sam that pins you down begs.

“Please come back to me…”

He sounds broken, scared, so lonely. You shake your head, shoving Sam off of you. He looks offended, hurt. But this isn't right. No, Carmen, The Djinn. No.

No.

The poison.

The facade.

No.

The poison.

“C’mon, you’re okay. You have to be okay,” roughly calloused hands run over your cheek, a thumb tracing under your eye. You’re dizzy and disoriented, but you already can tell that this is what’s real. This Sam is real. The fogginess in your ears clear up as the pattering of rain fills the noise. When you can pry your eyes open enough, you see Sam crouched in front of you. He breathes out a heavy puff of air, a soft laugh escaping his lips. An expression that is strictly joyous lights up his face like a guiding moonlight in the dead of night. The kind of light that exposes the danger of things, and the price at which they come.

It’s the kind of light that floods everything about your dream downstream, carrying away the silly scenario. The kind of life that people like you and him never get.

“You’re okay,” he repeats, but this time he believes it.

A crack of thunder lights up the sky. A shocking mix of light you don’t quite understand. It’s not a beacon you can fizzle down to some self-justifying reason because it’s just a simple flash of electricity. It’s a crack in the storm above. It’s not some metaphor to make you feel better about your choices. It is a singular bolt that shatters through the night sky, starting you because you didn’t expect it.

Just like you didn’t expect the man in front of you to be the man that he is. He isn’t some ignorantly blissful lazy morning, and he certainly isn’t some moody, grey reflection of light that pulls at your dread. He is simply the split second vein of light that came out of the nowhere storm that is your life. But unlike the crackle of light in the sky that disappears before it’s even heard, he’s not flickering away because he found his conduit that will house his stay.

It’s him.

It’s you.

And you realize that you’ve been a fucking fool.

You push up to hug him tightly, eyes wide and heart still racing.

“Sam.” His name blesses your lips for the first real time. This time you’re accepting it, you’re allowing it.

His arms secure you close and he buries his face in your neck, taking in your scent. You can’t pinpoint the exact moment the boundaries between you two broke, but you knew they were crumbled to dust by the way he held you.

One of his hands wrapped all the way around your back to rest against your ribs on the opposite side and his other cradled the back of your neck.

This wasn’t a hug out of just a close call, this was a hug that made up for lost time. It wasn’t just the rush of saving your life, it was the flood of allowing yourself to feel what you so desperately have been hiding for too goddamn long.

This was a brand new hug with murmurs of brand new names and a brand new set of rules for the both of you.

This was the start of you.

———————

thank you so much for reading!! <3

>pictures are not my own, i have the originals linked here (pinterest) >>check out my other works here

[eclectic-sassycoweyes]

WIP Wednesday

Thank you for the tags @paperstorm @heartstringsduet @everlastingday @henrygrass @nisbanisba @whatsintheboxmh @alrightbuckaroo @carlossreaders

An idea for a future/Jonah fic merged with Ranch Fic which I believed I've shared a bit of before. It won't leave my head. Here is a snippet from a chapter in which Jonah starts preschool and brings home a gift in the form a stomach bug they all get to take their turn with. Look how happy the little guy is with himself.

Thus this snippet is also me jumping aboard the Carlos Sickfic train whoo Niz you're still the captain and the driver I'm just joining the ride for a bit! Warnings for descriptions of nausea and a mention of throwing up but no more than those exact words.

He kind of wants to check in on Jonah and TK, wants to say goodbye to Jonah before he leaves for half the day but his eyelids are already drooping and the nausea still sits on the edge of his consciousness. He feels like he has a small window of time wherein if he just moves very little and goes to sleep soon he might be able to skip the next bout of nausea.

His wish is granted anyway as the bedroom door opens, Jonah entering first along with TK’s voice reminding him to be gentle, TK himself emerging last.

“He wanted to show you the dragon he chose,” TK says as Jonah climbs carefully up the bed to sit next to Carlos.

“Hey Jonah," Carlos says, fighting to keep his eyes open as he pushes Jonah’s bangs away from his forehead. He’s gonna need a haircut again soon. “Did you choose a good one?”

“Look!” Jonah says, pulling at the hem of his shirt and puffing his chest out, proudly showcasing the pink dragon on the front.

“Wow, mijo, that’s a really good choice,” Carlos says, making Jonah beam up at TK at the confirmation that they chose right.

“Are you gonna wear your pajamas to work, Carlos?” Jonah parrots TK from earlier. He does that a lot these days. Sometimes it makes him say weirdly wise things that sound way too adult coming from his four year old voice which always makes Carlos laugh.

“Carlos gets to stay home and sleep some more, because he’s sick, remember? Just like you stayed home when you were sick.”

“Did you throw up?” Jonah asks, turning to Carlos with wide eyes. He looks a mix between concerned and intrigued.

“Yeah, but just like you I’ll feel better again in no time,” Carlos reassures with a out upon smile. He hopes he's right.

“Do you want an ice pop?” Jonah asks, remembering that had made him feel better.

“Maybe later,” Carlos smiles at him. “But that was a nice thought, mijo. Thank you.”

Jonah looks like he’s thinking hard trying to come up with something else that will magically heal Carlos. He’s so sweet and caring, just like his brother. TK interrupts him before he can suggest any more remedies, heartwarming as they are.

“Okay, buddy,” TK says. “Time for breakfast I think, so we can get to preschool on time.”

“Can we make omelets?” Jonah asks, sufficiently distracted. Carlos usually lets him ‘help’ when he makes omelets in the morning and Jonah loves being delegated with small but very important tasks.

TK chuckles. “Sure. I don’t know if I can make them as good as Carlos though,” he says. “You’ll have to ask him for the secret ingredient.”

“What’s the secret ingredient Carlos?” 

Another time Carlos will tell Jonah how to make his favorite omelet, but right now Carlos can’t bear the thought of pronouncing the word of any food related item. “Love,” he says instead, ruffling Jonah’s hair, trying not to show that even the act of lifting his arm feels like a tremendous effort. Jonah frowns for a moment before he giggles like Carlos just said a super silly thing.

“Love? You can’t put love in an omelet Carlos!”

“Sure you can,” Carlos says. “You just have to make the omelet for someone you love and that’s how you put love into it.” He doesn’t know where the spontaneous pocket philosophy comes from and he hopes he hasn’t made a mistake in case the omelet TK and Jonah whip up for some reason isn’t to Jonah’s liking.

Kids don’t think that deep, he tells himself. Jonah will probably have forgotten about it in the time it takes them to go from the bedroom to the kitchen. And besides he fully trusts TK’s abilities when it comes to cooking. 

His jumbled overthinking is interrupted by Jonah making his heart grow two sizes and do a little dance in his chest. “Then we have to make some for Carlos too TK! So we can put love in it!”

Unfortunately his stomach seems inspired by his heart to start matching its little dance routine. Thinking anymore about omelets, let alone one being made for him that he has to eat, isn’t helping. He feels his little window of time starting to close as the nausea begins tauntingly closing back in on him. Luckily TK seems to read it on his face. Or maybe he’s just turning visibly green.

“We’ll make some for him to save for later,” he says. Planting a soft kiss to Carlos forehead he tells him “You should try to finish that glass of water though, if you can. I’ll bring you a new one before we leave.”

Turning back to Jonah he says more loudly, "Now, can you say bye to Carlos so we can let him sleep?” to Carlos he says softly “You look ready to, baby.” 

Carlos only hums in response.

Jonah rises up from his knees on the bed, putting him at eye level with Carlos as he wraps his little arms around his neck. “Bye, Carlos. Feel better,” he says before turning back to TK, putting his arms in the air to be lifted off the bed.

Carlos musters his last energy for a sincere “Bye Jonah. I love you,” But Jonah has apparently already moved on, or rather back to discussing what to put into the omelet, beside love.

“And ham,” he says as TK lifts him under the armpits and sets him back on the floor.

“And cheese!” he says, “And eggs and pepper and-” 

“Okay buddy,” TK interrupts quickly, sending Carlos an apologetic wince before quickly ushering Jonah out of the bedroom, as he keeps listing ingredients. 

Once the door is closed behind them, Carlos takes a few steadying breaths, the nausea thankfully retreating back to the peripherals. Having learned to listen to TK when it comes to medical advice, he sips the water until the glass is almost empty before he gingerly lays down, foregoing his own freshly clean pillowcase in favor of TK’s, and pulling their shared blanket up and over his body. He shifts a little to make himself as comfortable as he can and then closes his eyes.

He doesn’t hear when TK creeps in half an hour later to replace the near empty glass of water, or the front door opening and closing as they leave to drop Jonah off at preschool.

OPEN TAG

And tagging @herefortarlos @emsprovisions @paperstorm @heartstringsduet @ironheartwriter

@bonheur-cafe @ladytessa74 @sapphic--kiwi @literateowl @lemonlyman-dotcom

@rangersoup @theghostofashton @everlastingday @henrygrass

@freneticfloetry @liminalmemories21 @carlossreaders @chicgeekgirl89

@the-126-family @goodways @carlos-in-glasses @whatsintheboxmh @tailoredshirt

@nisbanisba @nancys-braids @your-catfish-friend @rmd-writes @goldenskykaysani

@captain-gillian @reyesstrand @strandnreyes @alrightbuckaroo @tellmegoodbye

@carlos-tk @cold-blooded-jelly-doughnut @pimento-playing-hopscotch @firstprince-history-huh @thisbuildinghasfeelings

@never-blooms @lightningboltreader @welcometololaland

I finally made a taglist so lmk if you want to be removed from it or added to it!:)

[sturniololuv08]

TreeHouse Chapter 11

"Matty wants to see you in his room."

Summary: Matt gets angry.

"Anger is like hot blood rushing through your veins."

⚠️This Fic Series will NOT be for people with triggers. This Fic Series will have very descriptive moments of abuse.⚠️

Please Read At Your Own Risk.

Chris' POV:

She said she wouldn't let it go; honestly, I didn't want her to. But I knew the things she didn't. I knew if Matt found out I even talked to her, I would probably die. I thought about death often. Not in the sense I wanted to die necessarily but more so in the sense if it happened, I wouldn't be surprised anymore. I decided to walk home instead of taking the bus to help avoid Sienna—my Nessie.

I remember everything about her now. I accidentally trauma-blocked her. Leaving her behind, not knowing I wasn't going to see her for years, was the worst thing to ever happen to me. Worse than any beating I have ever taken. I remember that evening clearly. We got home, and Mom was livid that Father allowed me to go over there. She punished me by hitting me with the kitchen broom over and over. I begged our dad to help me, but I think that was his breaking point. He stopped being my father that day.

Since then, everyone in the house has treated me this way. I was alone. I lost everything. I held onto Nessie for a while. I imagined us playing together in the treehouse often. Sometimes, when Matt would use me as his personal punching bag, I would picture her doe eyes lighting up when I did something silly. She was my anchor until I forgot her. No matter how hard I try, I can't pinpoint the exact moment I forgot; I just did.

I was coming up to her house. I walked a little slower, secretly hoping she would see me and stop me. It's not that I didn't want to talk to her or be friends again. I didn't want the assaults that I knew would come with her friendship.

"Chris!" I looked up and saw her walking to the gate. I felt a sense of relief. "Can we talk?" She asked. I knew I didn't have much time to talk, but I wanted to. I needed to hear her voice.

"Not long, okay?" I just needed to be home at a decent time so no one got suspicious of my absence. She opened the gate, and I passed through. I followed her to the treehouse. For some reason, coming here during the day felt different. It felt heavier. She climbed up without issues. I tried my best not to show the pain in my arm, but I still winced enough for her to notice.

"What happened to your arm?"

"We can talk, but not about that." I was stern. She had to know not to press the issue.

"Okay." Her voice was soft and a little broken. I looked around the treehouse. Nothing had changed.

"It looks the exact same," I told her.

"I haven't been in here in years." She was also looking around like it was brand new.

"Why?" I asked.

"You left, and it just reminded me of you too much." I felt my words lumping in my throat. I wanted to tell her everything. I needed her to know it wasn't my choice to leave her behind. I never would have. But I couldn't. If this was still the same kind-hearted, strong-willed Nessie, I knew she would try to help, and it would just make it worse. I avoided looking at her.

"I'm sorry," I muttered. I could feel her eyes on me, but I couldn't bring myself to look up at her.

"Are you guys brothers?" She asked again. I felt the lump in my throat dissipate into tears. I needed to leave.

"I have to get home." I lied. Nothing pleased me more than not being at home.

"Chris, you can tell me." She reached for me and grabbed my hand, which made my skin crawl. I lurched away from the unwanted contact. She looked hurt.

"I have to get home," I said, starting to climb down. She followed me, as I expected.

"Chris, what happened to you?" She pleaded for an answer I couldn't give her no matter how badly I wanted to. I kept walking. Eventually, I heard her footsteps stop following behind me. I didn't dare look back at her. I felt like I already knew what she looked like. I made it to our house. On the outside, it was well-kept and looked nice. You'd never guess the hell that happened inside of it.

"What took you so long to get home?" Mother was right by the door in seconds.

"I wal -" She smacked my face. I looked down at the floor.

"I didn't say you could talk." Her threat didn't make sense since she asked me a question. I nodded, still not looking up. Part of me didn't like looking at her face. She was my mother, but her disdain for my presence distorted how she looked at me. I wanted to envision a mother who loved and cared for me just like Matt and Nick. She smacked the side of my head again for nothing. "Matty wants to see you in his room." Her words made my blood cold. I felt a jolt of fear sting through my body. I lifted my head to look at her now. "Fucking go." She pushed me towards the hallway leading to their rooms and my old one. I sulked slowly, knowing nothing about this was going to end well. I stood outside his bedroom door shaking. My whole body already felt light, and my head was full of air, ready to pop. I knocked, knowing I had no choice but to.

"Get in here." Nothing about his tone was calm. I could tell he was already mad about something. I stepped into the room. "Shut the fucking door." He was standing in the middle of his room with his arms folded. I quietly shut the door. I noticed Nick's absence, which meant this would be very personal. "Drop your bag." I knew I had to do everything I was told to do because if I didn't, then I would just get punished by Mom. I dropped the bag on the floor with a thud. "Why were you talking to Si today?" I was going to die. My eyes widened, realizing he had seen her chasing me around at some point.

"She talked to me." I tried to explain.

"Why the fuck did you talk to Sienna?" Matt's voice boomed, and I whimpered at the sudden volume change. I knew it didn't matter what I said. He wouldn't care.

"I used to know her," I told the truth.

"Well, you don't fucking know her anymore." He walked up to me and slammed my back against his door. "Got it?" Before I could respond, he grabbed my uncut, shaggy hair and started slamming my hand back into the wooden frame. "I asked you a question." He hissed.

"Yes, Matt. I won't -" He threw me to the ground. I turned over to see him walking over to me. He reared his foot back and kicked me right in the stomach. I curled up. This was it. He kicked me again and again. I felt the sole of his shoes kissing my blood vessels until they popped, creating purple splotches.

"Sienna is fucking my girl." He was carelessly aiming his kick but ensured his white shoes made contact with my body. I started coughing and groaning from the fire rising inside me. "If I see you talk to her again -" He kicked my mouth. My head lurched back from the decisive blow. I felt warm liquid start oozing. "I will fucking kill you." He screamed. I'm sure everyone in the house heard him. I knew it would be the worst whenever Nick wasn't involved with Matt's special attention towards me. He kicked my face again, and I felt the blood splatter like a flicked paintbrush. He kept going, stomping on me every once in a while when he felt like really putting the pain on me. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I felt like I was going to throw up from the immense pain. "I better not see you talk to her ever again." Matt gave me one last kick to the face. He left his room to go somewhere. I lay on the floor with my tiny blood pool and splatters. His blood stained shoes left red foot prints leading out the door.

I wanted to cry, but no tears came out. I couldn't breathe, and for the first time since ever being treated this way, I wanted to die. I lay in his room, uncomfortable, fearing his return. The door opened, and I couldn't even move to look and see who it was. I was picked up and dragged down the hall with my feet sliding against the floor. I was tossed in the tub with all my clothes still on. The water was turned on, and I was left alone. I felt something bubbling inside me, and I let it out of my mouth. The bile burned coming up. There were red blood streaks mixed in. The water imediately started washing it away. As soon as I felt myself catching my breath, my eyes became too heavy to keep open.

A/N I promise everything happening is for a reason lmaooo

TreeHouse Taglist:

@trevorsgodmother @mintsturniolo @wysmols @chriss-slutt @middlepartmatt @blushsturns @shadowtheism @fratbrochrisgf @loveparqdise @courta13 @sturniolo-fann @verstarkey @chrissweetheart @bluetalia @sturns-mermaid @wattttttttno @sturnioloshottiekay @pair-of-pantaloons @sophia-77n @adoremattsturns

This fic is TAGLIST SPECIFIC, meaning in order to be tagged in this, you HAVE to be on the list. I'm doing this because of TRIGGERS.

REBLOG INSTRUCTIONS: I don't mind just please stress the trigger warnings so no backlash comes back to me!

New Info: to be removed from the taglist just DM me.

[ropebunnykant]

i've already talked about it a little here but i've got to talk about it more because there is actually SO MANY layers to the brothers getting physical injuries in ep7 and how it's being used to represent the betrayal.

agatha @bisonsclothespin pointed out their tags on that post here that the use of physical injuries to represent emotional hurt/betrayal has already been used in the show by way of fadel having a physical scar, presumably from some kind of stab wound, over his heart in reference to the way his ex likely hurt him. and i don't think it's a coincidence that bison ends up with a stab wound as well!

i actually find the choice in injuries to be extremely interesting when you consider the betrayals and how they impact the brothers individually. bison is stabbed, and fadel breaks his arm. for bison, this is the first time he has been through this kind of heartbreak and betrayal, and his injury is far less common than someone breaking their arm is. which is why fadel gets a broken arm, because this has all happened for him before.

additionally, a broken arm is going to take a lot longer to heal than a stab wound. a stab wound will likely scar, yes, and take time to heal, but depending on the break, a broken arm can take up to twelve weeks to heal, and even then you may need physical therapy after - your arm may never have the same function and strength it once did. it's an interesting parallel seeing as fadel is the one that is taking so much longer to heal!

i also think the fact that bison got stabbed in the stomach specifically is VERY interesting. because when it comes to betrayal, the more common phrase is to get stabbed in the back. but to be stabbed in the back, you have to not only not know it's coming, but it also often implies that you could assume at one point that person was on your side. that's not the case for bison and kant in any sense. kant was keeping this from bison for nearly the entire time they've known each other, he was never on bison's side. and not only that, but bison knew something was off. we see him questioning kant all the way up until ep5, we see him realize and recognize in ep4 that kant drugged him and then willingly close his eyes to that and give kant his heart anyways. bison wasn't stabbed in the back by kant - he was stabbed in the stomach, closing his eyes to it despite knowing it was coming.

the way the injuries are addressed in ep8 is also very interesting to me from this angle! with bison specifically, every single time that his stab wound started hurting was in direct correlation to when he's forced to acknowledge his feelings for kant - ie when kant is pouring salt on the wound by making bison acknowledge he loves kant while bison still doesn't believe kant loves him back! it happens first when kant tries to make bison say what he feels for kant and once bison shoots him down and insists he's not in a place to negotiate and that he'll die here, he clears his throat and that's when kant is able to recognize he's in pain. then it happens again after kant takes a protective stance for babe and explains why he actually took the job in the first place - there's more distance between that and when bison holds onto his stab wound, but given that we know one of the reasons bison fell for kant in the first place is because of the fact that he's a caring older brother, i don't think it's a coincidence that those are in the same scene. the next time it happens is IMMEDIATELY after bison gives kant the band aid and kant tries to get bison to admit he's worried about him - as soon as kant finishes, bison is holding his side again. bison's wound isn't brought up again after that, and i don't think it's a coincidence because after that, we get the penguin scene and then the reconciliation. the wound has healed.

while fadel's isn't brought up in the same ways throughout the ep, i do find it very interesting that only after style has managed to regain some of fadel's trust is when he helps fadel take the sling off. and then by the time they're in the bath, the cast is gone as well - and if we go off the trailer, it doesn't come back again, either. i said it in my tags, but i'm willing to forgive incorrect healing time when it's meant to symbolize forgiveness!

[elliequeen777]

Ok, so now and then I think about one post I so a couple of years ago of this person asking why do people like winterwidow. At the time I gave a very basic answer, that I liked their dynamic and how they understand each deeply. Since then I've thought way more about the things I love about this pair.

The one thing that amuses me the most about them is how little were the odds of them actually being together as a couple. Not only in story, but also the real world implications. When you read them interact it seems like they have always been drawn to each other, like it's only natural there's love between them. But the truth is that they weren't always meant to be.

Unlike some of the most popular couples in comics Bucky and Nat weren't created to become a couple at the beginning. All the time Nat was around, writers gave her a good share of serious romantic relationships some of them crafted since her literal birth (in all senses), it had to pass a long time before someone thought to pair her with Bucky. On the other hand, when he was brought back to life she wasn't a clear obvious candidate to be his romantic interest, their relationship was a surprise for both the audience and the characters around them. They weren't an obvious choice at the beginning.

They weren't each other's fated mate at any point, and they have never been untouchable by the narrative. But, somehow, they are always at their best when they are together, even if it's not in a romantic relationship, when they cross their paths they are better.

We already know that they don't find each other in every universe. We have seen them love other people and have fulfilling lives away from each other. The possibility of their romance succeeding isn't a hundred percent every time. Yet, when they are together it feels so natural, like they were always supposed to go side by side.

There is a unique kind of trust and understanding that only exists between them. One that's so deep and so rare, that a lot of people aren't able to perceive it. Therefore, sometimes the fates aren't in their favor and sometimes the odds are even against them. Most of the time they aren't together because is their destiny, but rather in spite of it.

[robotrules]

Thoughts on Fallout: New Vegas from a First Time Player

A (very) long stream of consciousness about how much I like this game:

So I put off playing any Fallout game for the longest time. Had Fallout 3 and Fallout: NV just rotting in my Steam library for literally 15 years, mainly because when I tried playing F:NV when it first came out, it kept crashing and I just gave up. Fast forward to December 2024 and my Youtube algorithm kept on showing me all the stupid shit people did in the games and I was thoroughly amused by all of that, because I too enjoy playing a chaos creature whenever games allow me to. Read that F:NV was the most beloved in the franchise and had a lot of freedom when it came to game choices. Great! Had a western sci-fi theme, a concept I really liked. I love retrofuturism and Westerns and the great expanse of the American Southwest, all wrapped up in a post-apocalyptic setting. But then I stumbled on a video of this guy and I was immediately sold:

I was smitten by Yes Man's voice and sense of humor and goofy face (Dave Foley's vocal performance can't be overstated. He made Yes Man very charming!).

And then I learned that you could actually work with this goofy robot as an actual partner* to take over New Vegas and let me tell you, I COULDN'T CLICK THE INSTALL BUTTON ANY FASTER (pretty sure you could hear a sonic boom coming from my house). AND THE GAME RAN THIS TIME! And thus, I began my odyssey into the Mojave Wasteland.

* Most media robots tend to be cute little sidekicks or antagonistic villains or just dumb enemies, so it was pretty refreshing to actually be able to work alongside a robot/AI as an equal of sorts. My courier is pretty respectful of Yes Man, so I like to think they become friends and co-rulers of the strip. :) (Although I did kinda kill him a few times out of curiosity. He said he'd make it up to me after I killed him and it made me feel bad. ;_; Sorry bb. )

And my first impression of the game? I love it! I was kind of bracing myself for some edgy humor (Like Borderlands) and I was pleasantly surprised that it had a a right balance of silly, serious, and dark when it needed to be. The roleplaying aspect is fun and I like how you can basically be whoever you want to be (with some great comebacks from the courier. When killing Mr. House, you can say "Yes Man needs you out of the way" and I was like "Yup, this game knows exactly what my motivations are" >:) ). The quests never seem to be a slog to me since they're tied to characters and their stories, so the motivation to help (or sow discord) is the main thing that drives me to want to explore and do everything in the game.

Also, non-feral ghouls are so fucking cute. I love their raspy voices and they seem to be (for the most part) nice. I always had a soft spot for creatures that are "othered" like monsters and aliens, and I view ghouls as stand-ins for communities that were medically ostracized (like leprosy and the Hibakusha), so yeah, very easy for me to like them. Also Raul is my absolute favorite, so there's that too. :) I like all the companions tbh. As fantastic as a world as the Fallout universe is, I like how grounded everyone is, just as real as anybody you'd meet out on the streets. And that they all have their own hopes and dreams that aren't centered around the player character. Raul is my favorite just because I love how he tells his story and Danny Trejo's voice is like a glass of warm milk to me (very soothing).

Oh! And obviously I love the robots too. I appreciate that robots seem to vary on their level of sentience (Protectrons vs. Mr. House's personal Securitrons) and the writers treated Victor and Yes Man with just as much care as they did their human characters (I wish Victor had a bigger role though! What a cutie-pie). I find it kind of poetic that it's a robot that saves your life and it's a robot that helps you make major decisions in-game (if you decide to go the Yes Man route). The Courier owes their life to Victor and Yes Man and has their life changed completely because of those two.

And of course I had to make Primm Slim sheriff (that cowboy getup and his little Yee-haw is too precious :') ). Basically, if I don't have to kill them, I am doing my run as a pro-robot and pro-mutant run. I love them too much.

Anyways, there ends my thoughts. I'm not finished yet (currently eliminating the side fractions for Yes Man. Bye-bye Brotherhood. :) ), but I'm looking forward to getting back in the game once I have more time. I think it might be my favorite game!

[flightfoot]

ML Fanfic Recs for Completed Fics 40K-70K Words

Got 16 fics here! More lengthy fics than I would have thought, actually, given that there have been fewer ML fics this year than last year.

All of these fics will be in my Keyseeker's Choices For Best Completed Miraculous Fics Of 2024 Collection, and if you like that, please consider checking out my other collections, Keyseeker's Choices For Best Completed Miraculous Fics Of 2023, Keyseeker's Choices For Best Completed Miraculous Fics Of 2022, and Keyseeker's Choices For Best Completed Miraculous Fics - Misc. Years.

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He Couldn't Remember (Falling For Her) by @purpleautumnvision

"If I was given a choice in who Chat Noir would be, I would've chosen you." "And there's nobody else in the whole world I'd rather have as my little bug." Without secret identities in the way, Marinette and Adrien get to live out their love story and put their heads together to discover the identity of Hawk Moth... but an unforeseen twist puts the Miraculouses in Gabriel's hands. When he makes his wish for a world where his wife never became sick from using the broken Peacock Miraculous, the universe requires someone else to become sick in order to maintain balance. Who better than his greatest enemy, Ladybug herself? Adrien, with his memories rewritten by the wish, wakes up in a world without superheroes, without Hawk Moth, without Marinette, without friends, and without a clue as to why everything feels so wrong. Something's missing, but he's gonna find out what. Then he'll put his world back into place.

So this was a fascinating scenario, with Adrien waking up in a world where Marinette was dead while his mother was alive, a world that as far as he knew had always been the case... but having weird feelings he can't explain. And not just him, I love how much focus Alya gets here as well! Turns out that the memories are kind of hidden, but still present, and since Adrien and Alya never got to meet Marinette in this universe (she died just before the new school year began, at the same time that Emilie did in the normal universe) AND Adrien and Alya were her closest friends in the previous universe, their feelings towards her are closest to the surface and least impacted by the memories from this universe.

The other people in this universe... well, the class isn't taking Marinette's death well. It's fascinating to see just how much her death effects them, to see how it haunts them, and I loved seeing their reactions to Adrien's weird behavior about their dead classmate who he never got a chance to meet, it shows how strange some of this can look to the outside, and it doesn't help that these are grieving kids.

Just... this is a great fic, I highly recommend checking it out!

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this is my winter song to you by katrinette

On the last day of school before winter break, Adrien overhears someone singing in one of the classrooms. By the time he gets there, she's gone. He can't get her out of his head. And he keeps hearing her, wherever he goes, until she's the only thing that he can think about. But Adrien doesn't know who she is. At least... not yet. ––– Set against the backdrop of season 4 before Kuro Neko, Adrien begins to really understand the role that his friends play in his life.

Ah this is a lovely Lovesquare fic! Adrien's smitten with a voice he hears and he just keeps on hearing snippets of her singing, but can't track her down and it's driving him crazy!

There's a lot of cute Adrienette and slice-of-life in here, so if you want a low-key fluffy fic full of Adrien's and Marinette's usual adorableness, you came to the right place!

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Herbs And Steam by @liiinerle

Juleka le Flor Blef, nature witch from near the forest of Couffaine, arrives at Eiffel Castle so she can partake in the Queen's Trials - a contest to determine the strongest witch in all of France. She wants to prove the strength of her magic, but when she arrives, her attention is quickly distracted by two very interesting women: Kagami, the princess, who seems to act nothing like a princess should; and Marinette, the blacksmith, who has created a magic all her own through metal, steam, and ingenuity. Juleka is immediately besotted with both of them, and needs to work extra hard to focus on her magic. Juleka also soon becomes aware that there is stronger magic at Eiffel castle than she had expected. For one thing, there's a tree in the courtyard put there years ago by a witch whose powers seem to surpass hers; for another, there's Alya la Pluvie Versaunt, who must be the most powerful mage Juleka has ever met...

Unusual poly here, there aren't a lot of Juleka/Kagami/Marinette fics! I love the world here, getting to see all these different witches honing their craft, and Juleka making friends with many of them - though especially the nonwitches Kagami and Marinette, of course XD. If you like some femslash or a good fantasy AU, this fic should scratch that itch!

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Under Your Spell by @hazel652

Marinette loves Quidditch more than anything. That is…until a distraction arrives in the form of Hogwarts’ newest fifth-year, Adrien Agreste. When one of their professors organises a magical surprise for Valentine's Day, will Marinette finally be able to confess her feelings – or will it all end in disaster?

So this is an adorable slice-of-life Hogwarts AU, it's mostly Adrien and Marinette dancing around each other, with a subplot about Chloe basically pulling a Draco and bribing her way onto the Slytherin Quidditch team (much to the Slytherins' consternation) playing out in the background.

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a wish come true by Magaritas

"My wish has three parts. First, I wish my love, Emilie, never fell ill to the Peacock Miraculous' wounds." When Gabriel's ultimate wish is granted, he is brought back to a time long before any of his grievances came into fruition. However, he soon realizes that every wish comes with an equal consequence. "The second part of my wish is that I would have never been struck by Chat Noir's cataclysm." The only way for him to solve all of the new problems that arise is to make another wish, isn't it? But since he is no longer in possession of the two most powerful miraculouses, how would he go about getting them back without rising suspicion from his now healed wife? "Finally, I wish that Adrien Agreste never became Chat Noir, and that Marinette Dupain-Cheng never became Ladybug." And how will our two heroes manage to reunite in a world where they never got to meet?

I loved seeing Emilie and Nathalie figuring out what was going on in this world, and taking active steps to help the kids out, especially with how Adrien's hurt. They're not just standing by, nor are they willing to just let Gabriel hurt others.

Of course, Adrien and Marinette are also active, but they have less clue about something being wrong than Emilie and Nathalie do. But they'll manage to find their ways to each other, one way or another...

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In Pursuit of the Uneatable by @nemaliwrites

Who do you trust when your own reflection becomes a stranger? In a Paris where Lila weaves tales that blind the city, Marinette stands accused, isolated. Her parents' trust is shattered, her friends distant, and in battle, illusions blur the line between ally and enemy. As the shadows and uncertainty threaten to close in, Marinette finds herself turning to the last person who claims to be on her side: a boy in a white mask who calls himself a fox hunter.

THIS IS NOT A BASHING FIC. Well, Lila bashing, I guess, but even then she gets a lot more consideration than usual. Anyway, there's no animosity towards Marinette's friends and family here. Instead, the fic has more of this melancholy, contemplative tone, with Marinette feeling boxed in by Lila, and trying to figure out how to navigate her circumstances, especially being around Lila. Even when there isn't any particular threat against her, just having Lila around, knowing that she could pull something else to make Marinette's life worse, and thinking that there's no way to counter her, that she always wins... you can feel how suffocating it is. But she does have a way out, a mysterious boy who she's seen around, who completely has her back as far as Lila's concerned... but she might not want him to, to the extent that he goes.

By the way, this IS a Lovesquare fic, the thing with the boy... well, that'll make sense once you read the fic. But it's not romantic, I can tell you that.

Anyway, it's this interesting psychological, low-key sort of fic. If you want a look at the more emotional consequences of Lila's brand of bullying and isolation WITHOUT any sort of demonization or bashing towards anyone else, but just exploring the effects on Marinette and how to respond to it, then this fic is worth a look.

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Hanahaki by @generalluxun

First fic: Late Bloomer

On what might very well be the last night of her life, Sabrina Raincomprix pulls out a very special scrapbook, pressed between the pages is the past, the past she has never shared with anyone. She relives how she got to this moment one page at a time, preparing herself for the end. A phone call interrupts her self-imposed exile and brings news that could change her life forever. Even if it does though the question looms... change it how?

I love this series, how it shows how both Sabrina and Chloe have changed, how bad Chloe's circumstances are, and how much she needs help. She's not in good shape when Sabrina reunites with her - she's got a pretty severe eating disorder, for one thing - and Sabrina can't just... leave things like they are.

I love the delving into of Chloe's and Sabrina's psychology and viewpoints, and them both growing as a result (this is solely from Sabrina's perspective, but Chloe's the focus of the plot, so you see a lot of her).

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Bubblegum Soul by @wehadabondingmoment

"The impulse to throw away his ring, to slam it on the ground and watch its metallic splinters chap away at his soul, got more tempting by the second. Maybe, for a moment, he would learn what it meant to be alive." (Or: Hawk Moth has been defeated and Adrien is suffering more than ever. Armed with unhealthy coping mechanisms and the knowledge that he apparently isn't human, he embarks on a journey of self-discovery.) (Except that his father isn't quite ready to give up just yet.)

Poor Adrien. His father's defeated, but that doesn't mean that he's alright. Dealing with finding out that he's a sentimonster via his father attempting to order him around... that's harsh.

And it doesn't help that while he gets one ring back pretty quickly, he doesn't realize that he has a second amok...

If you like angsty sentiadrien fic, this'll be right up your alley! It's M-rated, but I'm not sure why. Maybe because Adrien's just kind of in a bad headspace?

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The Adventures of Babybug and Kitten Noir by @unecoccinellenoire

When Chat Noir gets turned into a baby all seems lost to Ladybug....or is it?

So despite what the name and the summary makes it sound like, this fic is less about Chat Noir and Ladybug, and more about their parents, with Gabriel and Nathalie discovering that baby!Chat Noir is Adrien, and Tom and Sabine finding out that baby!Ladybug is Marinette. Needless to say, neither group are happy about their discovery.

I loved seeing the parents work things out here. While most ML fics are about Adrien and Marinette driving the plot and ultimately, the resolution (for obvious reasons), in this case, we get to see the adults being reasonable and competent, and doing their best with this new situation they've been thrown into.

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Each Hum And Click by @echo-has-queries

Kagami thought her understandably high standards for a match in marriage would mean she could avoid being paired with a man by her mother. That she could keep perfecting her flying-machine skills and eventually take over her mother’s place in leading the Tsurugi steam engine manufacturing company without having to defer to a man. She would have thought that when her mother told her to test the Agreste boy as a marriage match she had been kidding - if her mother ever kid. But she was serious and there truly was no fault to be found with Gabriel Agreste's son - except for the small detail of course, that he was not human. So Kagami must turn to the only fine mechanic she knows in Paris to find a solution to this new dilemma. But perhaps the dilemma could turn out to be the solution itself. Written for the AU Roulette Challenge 2024 with the prompt: Steampunk AU

So this fic is entirely from Kagami's POV, and it is a treat! It's an Adrigaminette fic, which you slowly figure out from reading the fic, if you didn't check the tags - Kagami may have tried not to like Adrien, but he grew on her regardless, and then a few chapters in you find out about hers and Marinette's failed relationship. I loved slowly finding out why the two of them broke up, when there are clearly still strong feelings between them, and how it ties into Kagami's character arc and the overall themes of the story: standing up for yourself, breaking free from those who would control you, and forging your own path.

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Soul Seeker by hislittlelady

After a shooting on her 6th birthday, Marinette Dupain-Cheng died. She was brought to the afterlife by her grandmother. She was content. Until the paramedics did their jobs and suddenly she wasn’t dead anymore. Waking up to find that half of her soul had remained tethered to the afterlife, allowing her the ability to see things others can’t, Marinette grows up an outcast. It isn’t until she moves in with her only friend, a detective she’s known since preschool, that she finds her purpose, solving his harder cases with the help of her spiritual connections. Three years later, she’s thriving. Her own business, two best friends, a K-9 drop out as a companion- life couldn’t get better. Until she meets Chat. A ghost with amnesia and a mask to match, Chat isn’t sure what he needs to move on to the afterlife (and, considering he’s stuck around for another three years, he doesn’t seem in all that much of a hurry to figure it out either!) When Amelie Agreste, a socialite from out of town, comes to Marinette for help locating her missing nephew, Marinette knows her career and her life will be on the line. But even a murderer intent on silencing her forever can’t keep Marinette from seeking the truth.

This is a really fun detective story. You can probably guess one or two of the major twists (not counting the twist of "Adrien is Chat Noir" which I certainly HOPE isn't a spoiler to anyone reading this), but that doesn't make it any less satisfying, especially with how Marinette's and Chat's relationship is developed. Or well, what interactions we see from them, since they've known each other for years by the time the story starts. I adore the "my friend is a ghost" trope, and the identity shenanigans and mystery around what actually happened to Adrien kept me wondering.

It's an M-rated fic, which I'm guessing is mostly due to an attempted sexual assault at one point in the story, though it doesn't get very far before it's stopped. I also want to warn Luka fans that he's not shown in the best light in this fic, though it's not too extreme.

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Through Yellow Eyes by @echo-has-queries

"Nooroo bleeds and Paris drowns in his blood." The day of the Blight, Paris bore witness to a horror too grand to comprehend. Only Chloé Bourgeois bore witness to a miracle. Marinette, Alya and the rest of Paris will need more than faith in Gimmi to survive. As the city's sanity hangs by a thread, bodies, minds, and souls are traded with the unknown in order to hold on to the things they each treasure most. Written for the AU Roulette Challenge 2024 with the prompt: Cosmic Horror AU

If you like Cosmic Horror (Lovecraftian I think? Though this isn't really my wheelhouse), then this is the story for you! I love seeing how Paris copes with the madness seeping through its streets, somehow going about daily life despite it all.

Kwamis here are more inhuman, more separated from humanity. There's no cute little miniature form to help bridge the gap. While humans can still meld with kwami, it's not all quite as firmly in the human's control as it normally is, and the side effects are worse. It doesn't help that the kwamis can't fully understand squishy little humans' wants, needs, or morality.

Like, as Ladybug, Marinette can't remember her human name, and her human concerns are somewhat muted. While as Marinette, she can't remember certain aspects of her time as Ladybug, and only regains those memories when she transforms again. She also has to be careful about restoring everything, as she can't just give Tikki a cookie and call it a day. Instead, she herself needs to eat enough to compensate for the lost energy, which can be a substantial portion of the goods in her parents' bakery.

As for Adrien... well, this is still going off of Sentimonster Adrien, though the ritual to create him went differently... and went wrong. But he is still Adrien.

Chloe's interesting as well, she's this sort of priest, this missionary for the kwamis, but her methods are... well, not the best. She still has a bunch of her canonical hangups, even though she IS somewhat helpful.

I love Alya in here, she's just desperately trying to figure out what's going on so that she can try to fix it, especially since Nino's one of the people who's been driven mad by the Blight. She does find some answers, and even ends up being partially responsible for Ladybug's creation and Chat's and Ladybug's subsequent fight against the worst effects of the Blight, but the risks, danger, and side effects she suffers are still significant. Though some of those side effects can be used to her advantage.

Anyway, I really enjoyed this AU and thought it was an interesting take on the subject, I highly recommend checking it out!

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Phantom Pains (and other hints of you) by @buggachat

She couldn't remember anything. Not where she was going, where she'd been, why she was in this stairwell, or even her own name. But as she watched the blood pool at the base of the steps, she at least knew one thing for certain: the corpse was hers. Getting used to being dead was going to have its growing pains. — “Well, unlucky lady,” Chat Noir greeted with a bow, “Can I get your name?” “Didn’t we just talk about this? I told you, I don’t remember it.” “And I told you,” he reminded, “that you can just pick whatever fits you best.” — Ladybug and Chat Noir may not remember who they once were, but at least the two lost souls can find comfort in each other's company. But as Ladybug starts uncovering more and more memories of her life, letting the past go doesn't seem as easy as Chat Noir claims it to be.

So this is a beautiful, sweet, tragic love story of two lost souls wandering around with each other, yet with Ladybug still desperately wanting to be found, to remember who she was - and wanting to know why Chat so adamantly wanted to stay amnesiac. It's got some neat worldbuilding, and some fantastic prose. It's just a really nice little story!

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Do You Read Me? by @19thsentry-blog

The problem with being a Couffaine was the hereditary bits. The stubbornness. The weird need to pick a fight with authority for no reason besides the principle of it. The way being a Couffaine meant falling in love, fast as a car crash, and just as deadly. It ruined you forever.

So basically, this takes place a few years after Season 5, in the post-Wish world. Luka takes over as the Ladybug Holder, battling Chrysalis in Marinette's place. It's causing him some strain, since it's hard to hold down a job when you need to vanish randomly for long periods of time while on the clock, and it doesn't help that Chrysalis is a lot sneakier than Monarch was.

That's not the core of the story though. No, the real story starts up at chapter 3, when Luka suddenly wakes up in 19th century London, supposedly having always been there, and talking to a 19th century version of Max. From there, he soon gets escorted to Felix, who is a detective around those parts and agrees to host him for awhile.

This is a Sherlock Holmes inspired story, with the setting ripped straight out of those old stories, and I think it does a great job of that! Felix feels natural as Sherlock, with his deductive abilities, and the mystery really does read a lot like a Sherlock story. Though of course, the ultimate cause is more magical in nature.

I love Luka's perspective in this story and his and Felix's dynamic, it just feels very natural and well done!

I was satisfied with how the mystery wrapped up, 19thsentry did a good job of making things make sense at the end, and it felt satisfying. If you want a story with some great characterization for Luka or Felix, or just feel like a mystery, this is the story for you!

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A part of me recognizes you (do you feel it too?) by Nalalaa

In which Adrien leaves Paris to escape the mediatic storm of Hawkmoth’s defeat and forget about the nightmares that crawl along the walls of his bedroom. In which Marinette stays, left caring for memories and a child she cherishes more than anything. Six years later, a string of coincidences has the two meeting again as strangers. Secrets long left untold are revealed and slowly, they work to untangle the lies and misunderstandings that had once kept them apart.

Classic plot here, but that makes it no less good. Ladybug and Chat Noir were a couple, he unknowingly got her pregnant, and when they took down Hawkmoth a few days later, Chat ran off and disappeared without a word to anyone, leaving Ladybug to give birth and raise her child alone. Until Adrien comes back from his sabbatical a few years later, finally ready to face the ghosts of his past, to find that Marinette's a single mom, with the father of her child being unknown. He gradually gets closer to her and her kid, only to eventually find out that HE'S the father... yeah you can fill in the blanks from there.

There's not really any plot twists or surprises to the plot, but there aren't meant to be. It's just a bunch of hurt people who care about each other navigating this fraught situation they found themselves in, trying to move forward towards a better future.

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Methusalenette by @liiinerle

Dear Diary... --- After Lila's defeat, Marinette and her friends realise that something is up with their bodies. Some are aging faster than they should - and some slower. As the realisation sinks in, Marinette worries about what has happened, what is happening, and what will happen in the future. As it turns out, she has a lot more future to look forward to than most... Epistolary fic (journal entries/news clippings/other).

This is a very melancholy, somewhat sad fic, as some of Marinette's friends age way faster than they should have, while others, including herself, age far too slowly. There's a lot of loss and worry and guilt here. No one had any clue that this was going to happen, but they have to live with the consequences - or die with the consequences, in some cases - nonetheless.

[azazelsazaleas]

Set a course...for home

So I just finished Voyager. And I have thoughts.

Endgame, like the series, was good but felt like it could've been so much more. I'm not the first fan to point out that it's weird that the last thing we see is Voyager flying towards Earth, with no coda or montage or anything showing each of the crew when they get home. What really surprised me on this viewing (I saw it once back when it first aired, but it's been over 20 years and I barely remembered it) was how slow the pacing was until the last 20 minutes or so. I kinda feel like the writers could've trimmed a bit out of it so we could have a more satisfying denouement. Oh well. They got home, Janeway thoroughly wrecked the Borg, and I'm not going to lie - I got a little choked up when they fly out of the exploding Borg Sphere and Janeway says, "We did it."

With that said, may as well go through the good, the not-so-good, and any other random thoughts I have in retrospect.

The good :

Captain Kathryn Janeway.

I'm sorry, that deserves to be written thusly:

CAPTAIN KATHRYN FUCKING JANEWAY

Oh my god, I love this woman. I think, at this point, she's my favorite Star Trek captain and easily one of my favorite characters in the franchise. She absolutely radiates an aura of "I am in charge here, and this situation is going to go how I decide it goes," and she delivers every damn time. Strong-willed, controversial, authoritative, intelligent, creative, and just damned incredible. Janeway alone is a major reason to give this show a watchthrough.

Not to mention, Kate Mulgrew is a fucking INCREDIBLE actress. She brings 110% to every episode, and I swear to god, she basically carried the first two or three seasons.

And speaking of amazing actresses, Jeri Ryan was incredible. A lot of people loved her performance in Body and Soul (and yes, watching her channel Robert Picardo was delightful), but seeing her constantly changing personalities in Infinite Regress two seasons earlier was the big "Holy Shit" moment for me. Even beyond that, she was brilliant as Seven of Nine (and say what you will about ST:Picard, I loved seeing her step back into the role). It also doesn't hurt that Seven is one of the most interesting characters on the show, if not on Star Trek.

In general, the show had some great characters on the main cast. I found I really liked Tuvok and B'Elanna as well. Tim Russ nailed that "annoyed Vulcan who secretly cares" thing, and I thought B'Elanna's struggles with her identity were generally well-handled, at least for mid-late-90s TV.

I'm honestly surprised how fine I was with Tom/B'Elanna. I was not expecting that relationship to work as well as it did.

Speaking of "didn't expect that to work," Naomi Wildman was genuinely endearing as the "kid on the starship" character type that Star Trek seemed adamant on having in the 80s and 90s. I"m glad the writers learned their lessons post-Wesley Crusher.

Oddly enough, I also found I enjoyed some of the "bad" episodes - Threshold, Tuvix, etc. Voyager got pretty weird, so some of the more questionable creative choices were just damned entertaining. Not all of them, though. Which brings me to...

The Bad:

Oh my god fuck the Kazon. They are easily the worst recurring villain race I've seen on Star Trek. They don't even seem like ST villains, they seem like the kind of thing you'd see on a b-rate late night 1990s crappy sci-fi action show. They're like an attempt to make Klingon copies but without literally anything whatsoever that makes the Klingons compelling.

Speaking of which, fuck Seska, too. I still have a hard time buying that any self-respecting Cardassian would look at the Kazon and go, "yep, I'll throw my lot in with them."

The whole Neelix/Kes thing was...gross. I'm sorry, there's no way around that. They had no chemistry, no compelling reason to be in a relationship, and the whole thing with Kes's age felt like a variation on the theme of "she may look 12 but she's actually a 5000 year old dragon." Whichever producer came up with that needs to have something solid thrown at them.

In general, Neelix was just the worst character for the first couple or three seasons. He got a lot better, but early Neelix was...yikes. I got genuinely frustrated with how much time was focused on him.

I also have mixed feelings about Chakotay. Sometimes he was pretty great, but the whole behind-the-seasons thing with the "cultural advisor" made for some pretty bad early character building, and after they gave up on that, he felt kind of flat. And now that I think of it, inconsistent. It seems like the writers (at least in the early seasons) couldn't decide between making him a tough hardass who'll punch you if you don't get in line or the more calm, measured, cautious voice in contrast to Janeway's bullheadedness.

Seven/Chakotay was just...no.

Other random thoughts:

I have mixed feelings about the EMH. Robert Picardo was great in the role, but as the character progressed, I feel like he got away with crossing lines he really should not have. The entire episode Renaissance Man just pissed me off. Can't say I was thrilled with some of his behavior in Body and Soul, either. The whole running gag of him having a giant ego seemed to swing between hilarious and painful to watch, as well.

The show was good, but it felt like it could've been so much more. Part of it was Paramount's insistence on not having anything serialized, but part of it was also how actionized it got. There's a number of episodes that felt like they could've done something more interesting but instead the producers wanted phasers and explosions.

I have very mixed feelings about how the Borg were handled. On one hand, Seven is an amazing character, the Scorpion 2-parter is probably my favorite pair of episodes in the show's run, and there are a couple other Borg-relate episodes I liked. On the other hand, I thought the Borg as a direct threat got stale quickly, Dark Frontier nerfed them way too much, they felt underwhelming as an enemy in Endgame, and (yes I know this is more of a criticism of First Contact, but still) the Borg having a Queen ruins a lot of the creepy mystique they have. No matter how you slice it, I think the Borg as a recurring enemy were pretty much spent by the end of Voyager.

Favorite episodes (off the top of my head): Scorpion 1&2, Equinox 1&2, Bride of Chaotica!

Final score: 7 out of 9 (you were expecting anything else?)

[rubenesque-as-fuck]

Running into a dating dilemma issue I have not encountered in quite some time. Starting talking to two different people on an app at around the same time, went on a date with one of them last Saturday. It went surprisingly well, even fooled around a little for the first time in a long while. We have a second date at an arcade planned for this Sunday.

Other person was a little slower on the draw (not as timely with responses) and has offered to meet up this Friday. They seem nice enough, but now I'm kind of focused on the first person- but obviously that connection is also still in the exploratory stages and there are no guarantees that anything else will happen with them. I'm not great at dividing my attention when I'm interested in someone but I also don't want to count any chickens before they hatch (the chickens in this case being a meaningful or at least ongoing sexual relationship 🐣)

So the dilemma is: do I still go on the date with person #2? The way I see it I have three options- agree to the date and see where it goes, decline the date, or put it off until next week and see how I feel after the second date with the guy that I already met. I feel like I should make a choice soon but I truly don't know which one 😬

[ninakoll]

For comics, what is your work process like? How do you get from idea to a finished comic?

HELLOOOO OAAA omg this is a tough nut to crack as im a pretty chaotic writer in that way...... i think it depends whether i'm creating longform or shortform, i actually recently talked abt this elsewhere so i can bring an example based on the sylvanian discourse comic as shortform! long post with sketch pages and thumbnails etc ahead, ill put it under a cut! 🧡🧡

usually i start by jotting down really loose ideas which i do in my native language; ill translate it for you but i sent myself a mad scientist-esque message that went like: "kohaku giggling at his phone, rinne asking what's so funny and kohaku tells them that love assigned them sylvanian families creatures, and shows them. niki's is obvious, everyone agrees. same with kohaku's, plus rinne does pleading face emoji at how cute it is. rinne's critter could get criticism on being uncool? google. himeru's reaction to his own is no way.. himeru is this one and shows a pic on his phone to which everyone is like ..:3 himeru we didn't know you'd thought about this already but himeru just demands everyone to agree with his choice more than aira's. aira later gets a text from kohaku that himeru didn't agree and aira is PISSED"

sdfsdfdklhs so this was my script, as you see the story changed a little while thumbnailing bc i figured out a funnier way to write it; + i cut the scene change for pacing reasons and constrained the ending into one panel with texts on a screen...! then i had to start finding the critters to assign them, i presented my assignments to friends to check if im accurate or out sailing:D:D mwah mwah thank you to my council of love

next step was writing dialogue which i did while sketching the pages super loosely as little thumbnails, i like to get my layouts solidified when thumbnailing too and i usually do my cleanups straight on the scaled up thumbnails. when i write longform i usually thumbnail out more than 6 pages at once to see how the pages flow and write loose mad scientist type scripts chapter by chapter. i rly do miss working on longform comics 😭😭😭 (my webcomic FLFR became abandoned bc i deleted my twitter years ago and realized later that my only way of accessing my webtoons account was thru twitter. customer support said its gone forever so 🇫.)

as you see in this example i rly like to have my text flow and kind of lead the reader's eye thru the action... i think all comic artists have different approaches to certain things but i like loose and dynamic paneling very much; it's so much fun to play around with!! i'm also so so pleased that people noticed in the comic how kohaku was becoming more and more excited and confident with every showing, it was a little difficult to figure out how to make a repetitive and essentially very boring action (someone holding up their phone) work in comic format without feeling copypasted or trite. more thumbnail examples from my sketchbook for the rinniki comic (i like that i wrote notes for myself on top of drawings, like "üldine" to refer to the panel being a wide shot:DD wonderful overlap of storyboarding and comic work!!):

overall i like writing comics since you can add endless details. what makes comics work for me is giving up on being a perfectionist or you will never finish a comic. one finished comic is better than the perfect comic in your head because you'll have the experience and free space in your head to write another comic, instead of the first one stewing in your mind. :D and so on!! be bold, don't be scared to draw ugly, and draw bad comics. and definitely write it with an audience in mind, except the audience is 50 versions of you and what you enjoy/like most!!

i started my first longform comic in high school and idk how but i managed to finish it, it's not a great comic, but i'm proud that it's done and it taught me a lot. same for FLFR which i hope i can rewrite/redraw some day since it's a story i still want to tell and the characters are rly near and dear to my heart, but i think i totally got burnt out from juggling work, comics and things going on in my life at the time :( surprisingly i also enjoyed working on a comic project where the client wrote the script and had character designs ready but mainly because the client's script writing style was similar to mine which at times was like "idk they fight and something funny happens here"

thank you for this ask!! everyone start drawing comics NOWW 👊💥

[kyouka-supremacy]

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