#not just alarmism but literally “this cannot be accurate” alarmism

[reasonsforhope]

Do you have a tag specifically for stuff about the climate crisis/what is being done/can be done to help stop or reverse its effects?

Basically just read a post that was "I'm not trying to be alarmist but- *spends seven paragraphs about how climate change is inevitable, we will never possibly recover from it, it's not global warming anymore its global "boiling", none of the damage can ever be undone and we're all going to be dead in the next five generations*" and I'm trying.. very hard not to spiral from it.

Sorry for bothering you 🙏

The "climate crisis" "climate change" and "climate hope" tags should do the trick.

Of those, "climate change" is the one that has the most content by far, just because the others are more narrow and "climate hope" is a much more recent term, so to speak, because I keep forgetting about it lol

I don't post anything that's not good news, so you can go through the general "climate change" tag without fear

Also, while I'm at it, that person is wrong. For a lot of reasons, including that we're actively fixing a lot of damage to ecosystems literally right now. And also also, GLOBAL WARMING WILL BE AT LEAST SOMEWHAT REVERSIBLE

Why? Well, the rise in average global temperatures is caused by excess carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. As we keep fixing the planet, restoring ecosystems, and stop burning fossil fuels, nature will siphon more and more of the carbon dioxide out of the atmosphere.

And if there's less carbon dioxide (and other greenhouse gasses) in the atmosphere, then more heat can once again escape the planet and radiate out into space

Will this be easy? Probably not! This planet's natural systems are incomprehensibly complicated - but that also means there are solutions out there that we haven't even discovered. There are some additional problems to overcome, like the fact that the oceans will be surfacing excess heat for a few decades after we stop CO2 emissions, and also "natural gas" and "carbon capture" are fake solutions/oil company traps.

But we can do it. I so, so, so sincerely believe that.

One term that I think we'll be seeing more and more of in the coming years is "Drawdown": "Climate drawdown refers to the future point in time when levels of greenhouse gas concentrations in the atmosphere stop climbing and start to steadily decline.[1] Drawdown is a milestone in reversing climate change and eventually reducing global average temperatures." (from wikipedia)

We can achieve drawdown. Will life in the future look very different? Yes, in both good and bad ways.

Climate change is the earth's "feedback" to humanity: "Fix your shit or die."

People are, in general, really, really, really committed to finding ways not to die.

I genuinely believe the rest of us can overcome the few dozen billionaires trying to screw the rest of us over. Money is powerful, but the remaining 7 billion plus people on this planet are more so. And the fortunes of billlionaires are made off the backs of the rest of us - which means we can make those fortunes run dry.

Sources for this answer (warning, these talk about the negative side of things a lot too, they're not the uplifting reads themselves. that's next): x, x, x, x, x, x, x, x

Other sources to read for hope: FutureCrunch, Project Drawdown and Project Regeneration good news websites in general such as Positive News and Goodgoodgood, which I think are the best content fits for what you're looking for. Make sure to check out Goodgoodgood's roundups specifically. And know that there are way, way more good news stories - and way bigger ones, too - than I've had time to post about lately, because work has been really hectic

[thatredheadwriter]

absolution

javi gutierrez x reader (2.7k)

Javi misses your date and has some making up to do.

A/N: This started because I was listening to MAMMAMIA by Maneskin on repeat and I couldn’t stop thinking about Javi G on his knees in front of his lady. These two love the pants off of each other (literally).

This is an NSFW oneshot for female reader with Javi Gutierrez of The Unbearable Weight of Massive Talent. This work contains smut and mature language and should not be read by those under 18. As a writer, I will attempt to make accurate warnings for each of my fics, however, I cannot guarantee that I will identify each and every sensitive topic. My works regularly contain swearing, allusions to/mentions of sex, and canon-level violence.

Content Includes (but is not limited to):

fiance!Javi

some D/s dynamics (not hardcore)

dom!reader

sub!Javi

use of religious language to describe sex (there’s a theme, idk)

oral sex (male + female receiving)

anal fingering (male receiving), just a little as a treat

a very sexy dress (link in case you’re having trouble visualizing)

Please read at your own discretion and remember to consume your fanfiction responsibly.

-

10:42 pm

You’re seething as the numbers tick higher on the small clock beside the huge king-sized bed. One thing that never changed in all the hotels you visited with Javi, they all had the same shitty, annoying alarm clock sitting by the bed.

Shooting for this most recent project had so many locations–between photography, location shoots, studio shoots–and Javi insisted on being there for all of them. You’ve spent the last eight months crisscrossing the globe after your fiance and his passion project, watching him work to the bone for some sort of perceived perfection while the rest of the world turned on without him.

Tonight was supposed to be different.

Javi made reservations at the hotel restaurant for seven o’clock and promised he would be there. In all your time knowing him, he’d never broken a date with you, or anyone for that matter. But when eight o’clock rolled around, you settled back in your chair, called the waitress over, and ordered.

The mushroom risotto was delicious and the chardonnay tasted as expensive as it billed. You had the rest of the bottle sent up to your room for good measure. And now you’re waiting. Because good food and wine have sated your hunger, but not your fire.

It’s not until 11:03 that you hear the electronic click of the lock and your fiance finally enters the room. He strides in with his back to you,

“Late night?” you clear your throat and retrieve your half-finished glass from the low table by your seat.

Javi turns on a dime and his mouth falls open. Even from your seat across the room, you can practically see his pupils dilate as he takes in your form, clad in the sexiest dress you’d ever braved. It featured a false wrap-style v-neck, and for the kicker–double thigh slits. If you moved a certain way, it was clear you weren’t wearing underwear beneath.

You’d shown up at dinner dressed to the nines, dripping in the jewelry Javi had bought you over the years. And you’d left the same way. In the suite, you’d dressed down, putting your heels away in the small closet and taking everything off except for the earrings you always left in and the pendant he’d gifted you for your first anniversary–a single blue-green sapphire set in white gold that hung just perfectly at the crest of your cleavage.

“It’s the same color as the sea back home. Reminds me of you, because well, you’re my home too,” he’d explained as you had looked over it speechlessly.

“Have you eaten? My dinner was delicious,” you stand and turn your body to face the window, but your eyes stay on him.

You see it in his eyes. The exact moment he remembers the date he planned and everything he promised you, swept up in time and replaced with this crackling tension between you.

“Mi amor,” his face pales instantly as he crosses the room to you, but you hardly give him a glance. Instead, you lazily sip at the wine in your glass and circle the room to maintain your distance. “Please forgive me. I got caught up at work. I’m so sorry.”

“I waited for you, Javi,” you finish the wine and set the glass on top of a dresser, striding languidly towards the bed. “Alone in that damn restaurant.”

“Fuck, my love, it was never my intention to leave you there tonight. The shooting ran late and then the director wanted to go over some things, and then one of the actor’s agents called about a contract dispute…It’s a poor excuse, I know. I just now got away, and…Please forgive me, mi amorcita.”

“I won’t be a bystander in your life, Javi,” you settle yourself on the end of the bed and part your legs so the fabric parts around them. “It hurt me, sitting there alone. I miss my fiance.”

Javi drops to his knees in front of you, his gorgeous face twisted in anguish. “Please, tell me how to make it up to you.”

Showing the slightest mercy, you reach for him and relish the way he leans into your touch. With the softest grip on his golden chocolate curls, you guide his cheek to rest on the inside of your bare thigh. “Beg.”

So close to what he wants, he’ll never take it without your permission, even as he eyes the wetness peeking out from under the slit in your skirt.

“I want to taste you, please. I want to drown in you and feel you cum on my tongue. Let me give you as many orgasms as you can take.”

“I don’t know if you deserve it,” you muse, pretending to be distracted by something on the bedspread. The truth is, you know you’ll cave as soon as you look him in those gorgeous brown eyes.

“Please, princesa, I know I fucked up,” his accent weighs heavy with his distress. Javi’s hand traces up and down the outside of your thigh, “Let me make it up to you.”

You look down at your fiance, and your heart breaks a little. He didn’t mean to forget dinner, and you know he feels awful. Besides, he’s been terribly stressed with his new project and it’s not like you two have spent much time together lately, not like you used to.

“Okay, Javi, I forgive you. Now make me cum,” you purr.

A giggle escapes when he hooks his arms around your knees, forcing you to land back on the bed with a light bounce.

“I am so fucking sorry, mi querida,” he growls, sucking and kissing up the skin of your inner thighs. “I swear on my life, on my father’s grave, it will never happen again.”

You want to remind him that maybe now isn’t the best time to bring up his dead father, but then he swipes his thumb against your clit and all that comes out is a high-pitched moan

“Fuck, Jav,” you reach down to bury your hands in his curls and feel him nip at your skin in response.

“Never leaving this bed again,” he licks the flat of his tongue up your slit and you buck your hips up, chasing the sensation. “Can’t leave you, can’t leave this.”

Javi is a man used to the finer things in life. It’s what happens when you grow up on a huge estate, surrounded by servants, never wanting for anything. But one thing has always sated him, left him content and pliant at the end of your fingertips, and he’ll drink at it for hours if you let him.

You’re still clothed, however the dress you’d specially chosen for the occasion is just garnish. He’d been meant to savor it all through dinner, feast his eyes before taking an indulgence of the flesh, but you were never one to deny your lover. Especially when his absolution feels so divine.

From the first time he took you to bed, Javi made it a point to learn you. He was certainly a skilled lover, but over time he’s grown incredibly attuned to every little sound, every little twitch and jerk as he works you over. And he’s certainly eager.

A steady-building pleasure grows in your belly as he licks from your entrance up to your clit, over and over. Each time you can feel the proud jut of his nose bumping against that little bundle of nerves as he dips lower.

Your first orgasm comes quickly, and your fingers grip hard at Javi’s hair. But he doesn’t stop. If anything it spurs him on further. The taste of your first release drives him on and you can’t help but cry out when he sucks on your clit.

-

You’re not sure how long it is, or how many times you’ve cum, but eventually you’re overstimulated to the point of pain. You push Javi’s head away from your core, making him whine.

“S’too much,” you pant, “Gotta give me a break.”

At the blown-out look in your eyes, he’s worried. “Did I do too much? I didn’t hurt you did I?”

“No, Javi, you never hurt me. M’just sensitive is all.”

You reach for him and he obliges, laying down beside you on the bed. Now that he’s finally close, you pull him in for a deep kiss, whining when you taste yourself on his tongue. When you need air again, he just kisses and nips down your jaw, still putting his mouth to really good use.

“I’m so sorry, mi amorcita,” he murmurs into the tender skin he soothes with a kiss. “My mind has just been so-so…scrambled lately.”

“I know, Jav. I’ve been a little worried about you.”

At your confession, his face falls. You know he never wants you to worry about anything.

“You work too hard, Javi,” you continue, running your hand down his exposed chest. “Too much espresso, not enough sleep.”

Your love sighs deeply under your touch, a weight lifting at your words. “I will do better.”

“Let me relieve some of that stress?” your lip curls in a smirk as your hand slips lower and lower until you’re fiddling with the buckle of his belt. Just below, his zipper is struggling to contain an impressive erection, the thought of which already has you salivating.

Javi flushes, voice raspy all of a sudden. “I still have some making up to do, no?”

You shake your head as you slip from the bed beside him into nearly the same spot he was in moments ago. “This night was supposed to be about you, cariño. I’d like to get it back on schedule.”

He doesn’t breathe as you settle into position, a serpent preparing to strike. Your hands run up and down his clothed thighs, just to feel him tremble beneath you.

“Easy, baby,” you soothe. “Gonna let me get you all nice and relaxed?”

Looking up at him, you wonder how you got so lucky. His curls are disheveled, sticking every which way from your grip on them as he brought you to ecstasy after ecstasy. Sweat glistens across his golden skin, flushed from the summer heat and more. You want nothing more than to bite his bottom lip, the one that sticks out as he pants for breath, nodding eagerly as you finally cup his bulge with your hand.

“Words,” you click your tongue at him.

“Yes, please.”

With his consent, you take your time with his belt, removing it completely from the loops and setting it to the side. Then you’re undoing his pants, careful not to pinch or pull on the skin that pushes up against his waistband. As the button pops open, you lean forward and give the imprint it left behind a kiss, and Javi shudders above you. You’re just as methodical with the zipper, pulling it down tooth by tooth until it reaches its end.

When you look back at your fiance, his face is caught in a mixture of concentration and ecstasy, eyes pinched shut as his chest heaves with the struggle of staying still.

“Javi.”

Deep brown eyes find yours in a heartbeat, searching for answers, instructions, pleasure. Whatever you’re willing to give.

“I love you.”

Immediately he relaxes, the curve of his spine returning to normal as some of the energy pent up from his day releases, leaving only room for you and the pleasure that’s to come.

“I love you too, mi princesa.”

“Tell me you want me to suck your cock.”

A groan rattles somewhere in his chest and his knuckles go white as he grips the sheets. Javi is vocal about giving you pleasure, but tends to go mute when asked about his own. But you’re not doing anything else until he asks for it. You want him to get used to asking for what he needs. You won’t let him burn himself out like this anymore.

“I want-I want you…mierda. I want you to suck my cock. Please,” he rasps, little more than a whisper.

You grin up at him as your hand slips under the band of his boxer briefs to find the weeping head of his cock. “You’re so good for me Javi,” you praise as you run your thumb through the dribble of precum that’s gathered there. “Telling me what you want. I love that, thank you.”

He’s more than ready when you finally take him out, but you still take your time. The first sloppy kiss to his head and Javi is digging his fingers into the bed below, brow knit in concentration. You work your way down to his neatly trimmed base before coming back up the other side.

Javi’s fingers thread through your hair, not insistent, just an anchor to the present. He tugs lightly when you first swallow him down, curses dripping from his kiss-swollen lips. After all your time together, you know exactly what it takes to get him right to the edge. Your tongue works the underside of him as you lazily bob up and down.

Your eyes cut to his to find them glued on yours as you work him. “Fuck, Jesus, querida, stop or I’m going to-”

You pull off of him, but your hand still works up and down his shaft. “You’re going to cum for me Javi, just like this. Let this be your final penance.”

With that you go back to your task, taking him down your throat until your eyes water. Two of your fingers gather some of the spit and precum that’s dribbled down to his base and you use it to gently work against the tight ring of muscle just a few inches below.

Javi looks divine like this. The tendons in his neck bulge as he throws his head back in pleasure. He’s screwed his eyes shut and you wish you could be in two places at once so you could lick the bead of sweat away forming at his temple.

“Wanted to- wanted to, fuck- I wanted to fuck you like you deserve,” he pants through gritted teeth. “But this is…” He doesn’t finish, because that’s when your fingers press in to breach his ass, and a low groan rattles through his chest.

The taste of him hits as you curl your fingers against his prostate. His fingers scratch against your scalp as you swallow against him again and again until he’s a shaking, muttering mess above you.

You release his softening cock with a soft pop sound and grin up at your utterly wrecked, not-a-stressed-bone-left-in-his-body fiance. As he tries to catch his breath, you rise from your position on the floor and hope Javi can’t hear your knees pop as you slide onto the bed next to him.

Javi pulls you in for a kiss and tugs you up the bed so you can lay beside of him. He doesn’t pull away until you’re firmly tangled in his embrace.

“I love you, and I’m so sorry about dinner.”

You smooth a hand over his disheveled curls. “Javi, you’re forgiven. Just don’t forget that you have a life outside of work. I will do everything in my power to support you in whatever you choose to do, but I won’t watch you neglect yourself. I love you too much.”

“I hear you. And I will…I will try to do better.”

“That’s all I ask. Maybe one day this week you can let the cast and crew have a break and we can have a do-over for dinner?” you ask hopefully.

“Yes, I think maybe Tuesday, or Wednesday. We’re supposed to shoot with-”

“Details later, Jav,” you silence him with a peck to the lips. “You never answered my question earlier. Did you get a chance to eat?”

He winces a bit and gives you a look, “I had some crackers and hummus from food services.”

“Let’s call down for room service and then you should get some rest. I plan on letting you do some more making up before you head off to set tomorrow.”

[kattythingz]

sorry to bother u about fma again but no I'm not.

so I know Trisha and hohos relationship isn't explored much in crown but I wanted to get some insight on to how u perceived it cause personally im a big fan of

trisha: if I could make my form anything I'd have made myself a goth biblically accurate angel so maybe this father guys a weak ass bitch. <- is doing laundry or smth

hoho: I have feelings for you.

but I always like getting new perspective on characters especially less explored characters

I don't think you'll like my answer very much lmao, but—I'm kinda. maybe. not a fan of them? Nor Hoho?

I just. HHHHHHHHHHHH. I hear people about Hoho's good intentions, okay? I do. But he's genuinely such an awful dad from the MOMENT he reunites with Ed (seriously??? you're home after years of being away and the first thing you do is make a jab at your son's guilt and compare it to wetting the bed?), so I literally cannot separate the man from the father, because part of the father IS his general personality and attitude, which ALSO rub me the wrong way.

Trisha, then, deserved so much fucking better, holy shit. SHE DESERVED SO MUCH MORE THAN HOHO'S ASS. I don't think she was necessarily a secret badass like a lot of people like to headcanon; I actually like that she's the only purely gentle person in Ed and Al's life. I think it's why she's so sacred to them! That was their mom, and there's literally nobody else like her to them in the entire show. (It's also extremely alarming that people saw VERY young Trisha dating this 40-year-old-looking man and never said anything?? She was pregnant at 20-21, HELLO? WAS NO ONE WORRIED??)

So, uh, yeah. Not a fan of Trisha and Hoho, because I'm not a fan of Hoho lmao. Sorry owo;

[heretherebedork]

Boston's sort of in love, maybe for the very first time in his life. But since he is Boston, who is completely disconnected from his own feelings, he is going to try his hardest to not feel what he is feeling. So he will try Atom as Nick's replacement and either 1) sleep with him and immediately regret it, not be able to forget Nick or 2) won't be able to go through with it. Nick is just going to be haunting him, in the back of his mind.

While Nick is hurt and gullible and impulsive but thinks he is the cleverest and will try to move on with Dan. But Daddy Dan is really a red flag, he is much older, a senior (literally the boss) with a major power imbalance and just feels sus. Seeing Nick with Dan or maybe hearing about them or something, is going to set off jealousy and alarm bells in Boston. And he might as well try to "protect" or whatever Nick from Daddy Dan. Leading to Nick and Boston getting back together.

Boston uses his body and sex as both a currency/trade-off and a power dynamic to take "conquests" but, right now neither is working out. And probably the fact that for the first time, someone wanted him, all of him not just his body, not just for experimentation, not for a one-night stand but all his good, not out of coercion, but all of him: good, bad, and ugly, and the same person is the one who broke his trust is throwing Boston completely off balance. He is failing his own rule to not form connections against his better judgment. And it's so good to witness.

It's definitely going to be very interesting to witness.

Especially with Boston so certain that he's going to be heading to America soon enough because he knows he can't uphold his father's expectations of good grades and good behavior forever.

I don't even think Boston is out as gay to his dad, though I cannot be sure and will not state that as a fact.

But, yeah. There's a lot.

I'm not even how sure Nick is really thinking about moving past Boston so much as he's pulling a Ray and trying to escape from his thoughts of Boston.

Boston and Atom is going to be interesting and it's going to hurt and I actually am starting to suspect that Cheum might set off the final plot with Boston aka torpedoeing him in his father's eyes once he hurts he little brother and that's gonna be... wild if it happens, we'll see. I'm no @respectthepetty to predict things but I feel like hurting Atom and Cheum knowing what Boston values will result in bad, bad things all around. (Cheum thinks she's a mom friend but she's really a mean girl and we'll get to see that.)

Anyway. All this to say... yeah, a lot of that sounds accurate.

Though I do think Boston will be able to fuck Atom, it'll just be that he's returning to an emptiness he'd forgotten and thought he'd enjoyed only to realize that he had something with Nick that wasn't that.

I have no idea. But there's definitely a lot going on.

[mondaymelon]

MELONEMOENLONEMLONEMealon = meal on me = need to pee

12 24 42 44 50 FOR THE ASSK GAME‼️😨😋🤭

im just gonna casually ignore whatever you said in that first sentence and !! carry on !!!

silly ask game!!!!

12. what kind of day is it?

right now... honestly. not bad? its a friday which means i dont have to be silly wake up tomorrow and then immediately fall back asleep while my alarms are still blaring teehee <33 i did smth silly today and got extra credit in one of my classes for a "pRoblEm evEN SeNiorS woUlDnT bE AblE to SOlve."

literally just calculating bmr for a certain dude whos blabalbla without a calculator and my teacher said i was the most accurate answer of the day ( little does he know that those mere words have increased my self worth by a whopping two cookies )

24. if we were together on a rooftop, what would be doing?

i mean it dependsss... are we trespassing? is it like those highschools in shojo manga where there's like a open air little romantic space where the leads take a break from the world?? am i hanging over the railings trying to catch a pigeon so i can roast it and are you screaming or dead silent or dying ?? who knows lmao

42. an app you frequently use besides this godforsaken site?

...w-wattpad.... i swear ive drained every fandom dry of its good fanfic the amount of 10 and 11 year olds on the platform writing x readers is something else. although i mean i cant really complain on them because there are like... fanfic drafts from six years ago for characters from bhna just rotting in my school google drive... 😭😭 i actually get so much whiplash from the content on there because i swear the ff are either "ew what the fuck," "no thank you," "holy shit that is horrendous do you not know what punctuation is?" or "goddamn holy fucking shit for the love of everything that is good holy and true that was the most beautiful thing i have ever witnessed in my life and i will now proceed to read its thirty hours of content with all the will to live i have left in me" there is no inbetween. ( im getting so desperate for good ff too. like please does anyone have wattpad jjk recs... preferably m or gn reader.. ive literally taken the jjk wattpad fandom and wrung it dry of all content istg )

( jokes aside do i have the tism because both my best friend and my brother have commented on it and i am. trembling in my boots. 😨)

44. you get a free pass to kill anyone, who is it?

myself

hrrmmm now we got to t h i n k here we have to use this pass wisely we have to be sm ar t. about this. this is not an everyday opportunity. like it depends on the specifics yk, if i kill elon musk and loot his corpse of his riches will the government condemn me for it or can i just live like a king on the top floor of my mansion skyscraper at midnight tastefully sipping a fine glass of red wine ( legallly i cannot but as a rich person i can ) as the lights of the city sparkle below?

50. can i tag you in random stuff?

you better. ( threat. )

[leandra-winchester]

I'm taking your advice, and reiterating some of what I said earlier here.

Regarding the TRA topic, and everything you said about it. I wholeheartedly agree.

As a trans nonbinary person myself, seeing people use our cause and our identities as an excuse or means to do and say horrible things (even if they are actually trans, or perhaps especially then), and to promote violence and misogyny, thus causing some people to lump the ENTIRE trans/queer community with these kinds of people... it disgusts and infuriates me beyond what words can accurately convey.

I thank you for having the courage to speak out about all this, and hopefully start a much needed conversation.

Sending love and positive vibes~♡

Thank you so, so much for saying this!!

As I told you before, it means a lot coming from you. And I fully understand that you are doing so anonymously.

I am tentatively hopeful that we are at a point where more and more people are realizing where this movement has been going. But I cannot deny that I'm also worried that it might become a tipping point where it ends up harming trans people who were never part of this "activism" (and never the target of people like JK Rowling).

People bring up the argument that "TERFs" (and detransitioners) are now cooperating with the far right. While a lot of that is misrepresentation of facts (such as saying KJK invited literal nazis to her event, which she didn't; they just showed up, as nazis do), it is still true that many of the young people who have felt let down by the virtue signaling of the left are now gravitating towards the political right. As a (moderate) leftie, I find that very alarming.

But that is what happens when people who usually would be more center or left feel like they cannot voice their concerns. The right latches them up, promises to treat them better, and uses them for their own agenda.

This whole issue could add to a dangerous shift in our societies that transcends LGBT and women's issues - all because a few loud and unreasonable people have hijacked a cause, and because everybody played along instead of moving things back towards healthy, constructive discourse. (But there's also the money issue; as they say, you only gotta follow the money to see who benefits from these things, but that's a too complex topic to cover here now)

We need to find a way again to have that discourse. We need to remain open-minded and actually listen to each other. And yes, I know that applies to some people on "my" side as well. But many of them are disheartened and disillusioned after being branded as transphobes.

Anyway, again, thank you so much! Maybe others will follow your example (even if anonymously for now, which I fully understand!)

<3

[mitchfynde]

You realize something can be technically accurate, but misleading? The fact that something as lacking in substance as this is being shared around is strong evidence to me that nobody is educated on this topic whatsoever.

I don't think any one of us in this thread understands how any of this shit even works! So you don't have the funds right now. Does that mean the funds cannot be acquired? That's a question I don't have an answer to and ONE THAT NEVER CROSSED YOUR MIND.

You're not thinking. I just want to grab you and shake you and scream at you. WAKE UP! WAKE UP! We were manipulated! I remember you, you remember me. We were both in this together. Something went wrong, man. GamerGate seemed cool at the time!

The whole anti-SJW / anti-feminism thing? It was fun man. And some people really are cringey! But how the fuck did we get to the point where Trump is good? How did we get to the point where all of the biggest threats to global democracy in Trump, Russia, China, North Korea, etc. are just not even registering anymore?

The real reality is that maintaining American hegemony is one of the most important things for all of the west. When Hitler tried to take over the world, we all look back and we KNOW that the world did the right thing in stopping him. But now we've all become MASSIVE FUCKING PUSSIES who just want to isolate? For what... to spend our money on SOCIAL PROGRAMS?

Nobody who is obsessed with these topics even wants big government at all! Give me a fucking break. Social programs are big government intervention. Is it not literally socialism to you guys? But it doesn't matter. Your brain is sealed off from all conflicting information. You're asleep. The alarm clock on January 6th didn't wake you up. There's just no way to get through anymore. That's why I don't post. I have nothing left to gain. I'm just riding this out, enjoying my hobbies, waiting for everyone to wake up.

The federal government has money for foreign wars and illegal immigrants but not for citizens.

[thekaijudude]

New Trademark dropped + BAD NEWS

Yeah this is making HUGE waves across the fandom in the last couple of hours since this dropped, felt the need to talk about this earlier than how long I usually wait since this is a literal trademark coming from a very reliable leaker

The trademarked named shown is "Ultraman Blazer/Blazar"

So here's the issue I'm seeing, the same leaker on baidu (has been 95% reliable on leaks over the past few years, which is the leaker than most sources rely on either ways as well) has posted about Ultraman Gazer (without trademark) and now Blazer, this time with the trademark

Tho iirc, other sources mentioned that Gazer was the tentative name, so Blazer might be the actual name from the start but was just mistranslated

(Areus appeared in later leaks)

So based on the most recent leak being Blazer, accompanying it comes with a few alarming details about the series:

1. Next series will NOT be New Gen Gaia

2. Director is still Taguchi

3. There will be a Defense Force and a "Dragon-like" mech

4. Blazer cannot speak the same language as the humans, making communication difficult

5. Host is from the middle-management level of the Defense Force

Side note: The leaker also mentioned that TsuPro has recently made getting leaks far more harder so from this point going forward, the reliability and frequency of leaks would start to decline

But he stressed that the aforementioned details are accurate

-

So since a trademark accompanies this specific leak, imma just run with this possibility

Most importantly, the fact that it has been stressed that the next series will NOT be New Gen Gaia has definitely upset most people based on the current buzz

(Me included)

And it definitely feels weird as hell that the "G" in New Gen TDG won't be a thing

(Tho I suppose we would likely see some Gaia references in Blazer)

However, I highly suspect that the concept of commemorating Gaia's 25th Anniversary was essentially axed to make way for what I suppose TsuPro views as a more important milestone, that being the New Generation Era's 10th Anniversary

Which would make sense based on the synopsis and promo materials for the upcoming Chronicle, being New Generation Stars here

This is literally one of the worst case secanrios I talked about due to just how many milestones there are in 2023 where instead of trying to fit both major milestones of Gaia's 25th and NG's 10th, that they'd have to axe one of them

Bruh I am literally so shook rn and VERY disappointed that New Gen Gaia is axed since its literally my favourite Heisei series

Was literally looking forward to New Gen Gaia the most

And based on the information above, while we can't tell what the series would be about, but it seems likey that there's only gonna be 1 ultra (Which means rip New Gen Agul as well)

But even from the name alone dosent really say much. At most, the Ultra is probably gonna be based on fire or something like Taro, Mebius and Rosso? But this seems so anticlimactic as a main series Ultra meant to commemorate the 10th New Gen Anniversary.

Unless its gonna be a transformation theme like KR Ghost where Blazer literally dons on a blazer that represents a specific New Gen Ultra to assume a form or something

Sounds kinda boring ngl

Its most probably Blazar as its actually a type of galaxy, which fits with the theme of New Gen STARS and Ginga’s 10th Anniversary (Ginga is the Japanese term for Galaxy btw)

Biggest copium I have rn is that this is literally one of the best case secanrios I posted about, there being 3 ultras with now Gazer, Areus and Blazer LOL

Or maybe Blazer is the mistranslation, and Gazer is the actual name

Idk man, my biggest pet peeve rn is the potential exclusion of "G" in TDG

Or maybe this is another Ultra that'll show up in a spin-off series like Regulus? But this wouldn't really make sense since the upcoming spin-off is gonna be Regulus focused and its unlikely TsuPro would literally come up with 2 spin-offs within the same year.

Or maybe they could??? Or maybe Blazer is another Ultra that'll show up in the Regulus prequel???

Or maybe they're going with the Rosso/Blu route by having New Gen Gaia be based on Fire with New Gen Agul being based on water

(But then again literally, Rosso/Blu alr did that bruh)

But I guess other than more leaks, the only concrete evidence we could have is the episode synopsis of New Gen Stars Chronicle, as long as it has Gaia content, then I hope we are just being bamboozled here

Idk man I'm just so deep in denial about all this at this point

[timberva]

Apologies for the delay, this drabble turned into an absolute monster with a length and plot line that can more accurately be called a oneshot. I meant to continue the letter-writing format, but I couldn’t get away from this story idea. I have planned for the next prompts to be epistolaries.

This is based on this prompt list. Check out @topsyturvy-turtely ‘s posts for June prompts here (turtle is actually up to #6 —she’s actually doing a wonderful job keeping up with the prompts daily unlike some people *cough* me *cough*), from whom I had discovered the list.

Without further ado, I present to you, Prompt #2

Pet Names

Summary: Sherlock doesn’t like pet names, and John doesn’t understand why. A fatal injury brings the truth to light, and changes their relationship forever—as well as Sherlock’s opinion on verbal endearments.

———————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————

Tea-time at Baker Street is a very chaotic affair.

“Pet names are lurid, manipulative devices used to assert dominance in a relationship by using it to coerce one’s partner with affection. To paint them in a romantic light is demeaning, not to mention utterly tedious! The inability to comprehend how to address the people around oneself is a testament to how lacking an individual is in maturity of the mind!” Sherlock passionately exclaims.

Today’s rant is about pet names, apparently. He is seething at a different level from his usual outbursts, even surpassing his rant about the idiocy of the name “football” in American sports after a case with some tourists (They throw the ball with their hands, John!). That one, at least, John could concede solidarity on.

No, there is something emotionally involved here — a disastrous notion when it comes to his self-proclaimed sociopath— and John has a flitting suspicion as to what.

“You seem…” He trails off with an amused smirk. Is it worth it to prod at the sleeping bear?

“What?” His tone is murderous, and if John were a lesser man, he would have retreated both conversationally and literally.

“I don’t know, jealous?” John suspects that his attentions to his generously affectionate date had something to do with this, for the moment she had stepped through the door that afternoon, the strop began. The very audible breakup that shook the foundations of Sherlock’s chemistry set in the kitchen had done nothing to reduce its intensity. He had always seemed bitterly envious of John’s girlfriends….

Sherlock’s cold gaze sharpens at his remark, and in one lithe movement, the overgrown child throws himself onto the abused sofa and curls up towards its back. He doesn’t speak for the rest of the afternoon.

After a couple of hours without moving into his “thinking” position, John reckons the nights with no sleep and irrational anger was enough to tire him out for a long nap. Regardless, he didn’t move to protest when John threw a blanket over him.

—

Two shots. Directly in the chest. Every anatomical chart he had ever seen in his life barraged through his head in that moment, and blaring red, pulsing with danger danger danger like an alarm in each of them is the heart and all of the possible complications of its injury.

John is a doctor. He is rational, and he knows that blood cells cannot literally morph into fear, but terror is the only thing he could feel running through his veins as he pushes his idiotic self-sacrificing flatmate off of himself.

John’s heart leapt into his throat as a body slammed into his side — shit shit shit did their killer have an accomplice? — propelling the both of them toward the ground. Two deafening gunshots found a destination in some unlucky dud, and with the adrenaline coursing through him, he had to check that it wasn’t himself.

Painfully slow, John registered exactly what had just transpired, beginning with the cloying, familiar scent of aftershave filling his nostrils, followed by the mop of unruly black hair he has fantasized running his fingers through many an afternoon. His self-proclaimed sociopath had thrown himself in front of two bullets to save his life. Had gotten himself shot is John’s stead.

“Sherlock- Sherlock stay with me!” Two times. Sherlock was shot two times because John, with all of his military-trained reflexes, had not noticed their accomplice reaching for the hidden gun at the crook of his neck.

“In-ink stains, John. It was the ink stains! Mr. Montgomery…”

Oh good lord, the genius is bleeding out onto the fucking street and he’s still showing off! He laughs wetly.

“I’m sure you were brilliant, love, you always are. You need to stay awake, you hear me?” John absently runs his hand through the man’s curls. Sherlock’s eyes shoot open, pupils blown wide —danger danger danger

Damn it, where the hell is the ambulance? The cardigan he’s been pressing to the wound is already soaked through with blood. Sherlock’s lips are turning blue — danger danger danger

“I’m-I’m going into shock…I can’t stop it, John, I can’t…” John looks at him, and finds that he cannot recognize the man lying before him. Pure panic laced in his green irises like a poison, face taking upon a foreign expression- though to John it is familiar. The terrified countenance of a dying patient. There is no way John can emotionally distance himself from this. Sherlock is not another patient. Another patient’s blood would not make him feel like crawling out of his skin at the sight of its sheer amount.

Sherlock is not even just a friend, despite how often he insists it to his prying colleagues. John could live without him, but only in the barest sense of what it means to survive. People tend to forget there are fates worse than death.

“Did-did you get the accomplice? Richard Montgomery—I think he got away. You should-you should go after him before he-“

It can’t help but occur to him that his flatmate’s vice-like grip on his shirt betrays his true feelings. Stay, it is imploring.

I can’t stop it, he’d said.

He cannot die like this- he cannot die isolating himself, thinking that he is alone, that he has to push John away to preserve some stilted notion of dignity impressed upon him by years of reclusivity. I’m his bloody doctor, damn it!

He shifts Sherlock’s legs onto his lap to do what little he can to send blood back to his heart.

“Sherlock look at me.” His words fall upon deaf ears- Sherlock’s eyes are unfocused, flitting with hyperactivity. Faintly, he registers the presence of half of Scotland Yard coming up behind him.

“Where’s the bloody ambulance?”

“On its way. Jesus, John is he-“ Whatever Lestrade said after was irrelevant to saving the life in his arms, so he blocked it out.

I need to calm him down. He can’t be expected to do it himself. He needs you, Watson, no matter what he says.

“Tell me how you solved the case.” No response.

Desperation claws at the inside of his chest with its sharp talons, begging him to do something, anything, or it will tear him open and he will lay there bleeding out alongside-

“Sherlock, please, say something!” His voice is frantic now. “Tell me about the ink stains! Tell me how boring my last girlfriend was!”

No response.

John places a shaking hand on his cheek, his thumb leaving a scarlet imprint behind with each stroke like bloody footsteps in the snow.

“Sherlock, darling, please. I can’t lose you!”

They never talked about their feelings. They never bared their souls out to each other, as two Englishmen are wont to reject intimacy, which feels monumentally stupid in the light of their current situation. Sherlock could be dying thinking that colleagues encompassed the entirety of John’s regard towards him.

“I’ll stop nagging you about the toes in the fridge! I’ll help you with that bloody experiment you’ve been haranguing me about for weeks! Please,” his voice breaks, “darling, just come back to me.”

To this, Sherlock seems to resurface. His breathing catches, then evens out a bit.

“C’mon love you’re doing great.” John chuckles tearfully.

Sherlock’s eyes come to focus like a gear had been turned. He parts his lips as though to speak, and apparently has enough energy to muster a small smirk.

“…love?…You’re…in love with me too?…” He mumbles a bit deliriously.

Love?

Oh. Oh.

He hadn’t even realized he’d been doing it, replacing his friend’s name with endearments he did not even reserve for his amorous relations……

“Wait, too?!”

Before John’s nerves could fire and comprehend the monumental discovery he had just made, the sirens that he’d heard in the distance emerged, loud, behind him. The EMT’s, spouting what sounded like gibberish to John’s ears, rush past him and snatch his flatmate away from view.

Too?

“Sir? Are you coming?”

Right. Ambulance. He stands up so fast dots swim in front of his eyes, then sprints the short distance to the vehicle.

—

“No one’s called me ‘darling’ since Victor.”

John jumps at the sudden noise from his post-op friend who’d been asleep for an eternity. Sherlock is staring at the ceiling, lost in thought, as though they were simply back at the flat, lounging in the sitting room. Look away for one moment and suddenly he regains consciousness.

“You’re awake.”

“Obviously.”

They pointedly ignore their clasped hands, as though the action of noticing would be enough to dissipate its existence.

He clears his throat. “Er- so what were you saying about…Victor? Was he the murderer?”

Sherlock heaves a weak, long-suffering sigh, which in one fell swoop erases any doubts of his recovery. He’s himself again, John is happy to take note of.

“You’d asked if I’d ever been in a relationship— Victor was my first and my last. He was aggressive, and I had come to hate the endearment, and all others, in his company.” He pauses to take a steadying breath.

“Rugby was not enough to bear the brunt of his hostility, so I..did. And because I was young and stupid, I stayed no matter how many times he hit me. I was convinced he loved me— his apologies were riddled with tender monikers.” He spoke as detachedly as he could, but John could hear the notes of pain seeping from below the intellectuality of his tone.

“It was as if replacing my name with ‘darling’ or ‘my sweet’ erased the evidence of his transgressions. A manipulation disguised as affection. Since then I had sworn off any and all—ouch! John, my hand is not a grip trainer.”

“Sorry.” He loosens the fist he had curled quite tightly around the hand they weren’t supposed to be acknowledging. He doesn’t let go, just keeps rubbing circles with his thumb and hoping his anger wouldn’t spiral out of control again. Sherlock sighs in relief and moves on.

“You called me ‘darling.’ And ‘love.’ Twice.”

“Ah, so you remember that,” John remarks awkwardly.

Sherlock taps at his temple with his index finger. “Eidetic memory, remember, John? Pet names occupy a certain place in my mind palace that I’d rather forget but cannot bring myself to delete,” he says. “But with you…”

“It’s different. I promise you, it’s different.” He strokes Sherlock’s knuckles with his thumb.

There is a silence broken only by the steady beeping of the heart monitor as they mull over the influx of soul-baring information.

“I know.”

“Hmm?”

“That it’s…different.”

The niggling thought that had been prodding at John throughout the entirety of Sherlock’s operation and his consequent slumber finally breaks through to the forefront of his thoughts. Comically, like a little zip of lightning.

“You mentioned something—you were a bit loopy actually, probably from the pain and the shock. I might’ve misheard, but it got me thinking-“

“Oh for god’s sake just spit it out-“

“Right, um, are you sure you’re not still feeling feverish? They literally opened up your chest-“

“John, spit it out.”

“Too, you said too.” John takes a steadying breath. “You said ‘you’re in love with me too.’”

Speechless is a rare expression to befall a genius with little regard for social niceties, so there must have been some sense in his obsessive rumination, that a mere tail end of a sentence is able to elicit the panic of an exposed secret.

He clears his throat again. “Now I don’t have your deduction skills, but that seems to imply that either multiple people are in love with you or that you…love me.”

A pregnant quietude follows, time that John could have used to stammer an awkward retraction or for Sherlock to utter a poignant denial — John is rendered in disbelief that silence is what confirms a truth he’d longed to hear since he’d met the madman. “So you…” He trails off, not quite able to bring himself to say it out loud for fear that the universe might implode, an astonished grin spreading across his face.

Sherlock does not reflect his ecstasy. He seems to draw into himself, pulling his hand from John’s and angling his body slightly away. “Too late to convince you that you are part of a large group of people who are infatuated with me?” He asks dejectedly.

“You love me too,“ John says breathlessly.

“You weren’t supposed to know. I promise you, I had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden for the sake of our friendship. If we could simply ignore it and pretend this never happe— wait, too?!”

“THAT’S WHAT I SAID!”

Sherlock turns his entire body to face John and sits up, then immediately regrets it because he is still a patient recovering from a gunshot wound.

“Owww,” he complains, half-laughing, which sets them both off. Giggles overtake the two idiots like a drug, and they wonder, amidst the laughter, how much longer they might have gone searching for each other without knowing what lay beneath their noses.

John leans forward to take in the picture of a happy Sherlock, warm and blushing and in love, gorgeous despite having just come out of a surgery and a near-death experience. He decides that he will do anything to keep him this buoyant forever. To permanently erase the hardened lines from his face and replace it with the goofy grin he is currently sporting.

Before he can properly entertain the internal conflict that comes with important decisions, he moves closer and kisses him on the forehead. And oh, the effect is pure euphoria; the drug itself could not widen his smile further. John would kiss him forever if he liked. He moves a hand into the mop of dark curls and places feather kisses on Sherlock’s nose and then to the corner of his mouth. A tape-covered hand comes to rest at John’s cheek.

“Okay?” John asks.

“Is this real?” Sherlock whispers, as though someone was going to burst through the door at any moment and announce that they were, in fact, dreaming. “We’re in love with each other at the same time?,” he asks, not unlike a child finding mutual fancy in primary school.

“Yes, darling, we’re in love with each other at the same time,” John laughs then kisses him on the lips to assuage him of any doubt, and Sherlock responds with matching enthusiasm. John marvels at the amount of warmth that lay under the man’s cold exterior, at how right all of this feels, at how two days ago he wouldn’t even be able to fathom that his fantasies of capturing his flatmate’s pliant lips in his own could possibly come to reality, or that it would be this gratifying.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock says after breaking the kiss.

“You were the one who pulled away-“

“No, I mean with the pet names. I’ve decided that… I rather like them when it’s you.”

The significance of this is not lost on John, who wonders if he should be concerned about spontaneous combustion from happiness.

“Alright, love.”

—

(Epilogue)

“…to conclude, Mr. and Mrs. Gertrude died of asphyxiation before the stabbing ever took place. Seriously, Lestrade, how do you call yourselves detectives?” It is a locked room mystery, one that Sherlock is overjoyed to have been given, and it is apparent to all who are present. Sally Donovan rolls her eyes.

“Please, enlighten us,” she deadpans.

“There are traces of hydrogen cyanide in the air. Didn’t you lot notice that when you walked in? Should have been much stronger than it is now when you first declared this a crime scene. The killer was clever enough to get rid of the source before they made their timely escape. Two well-loved, generally happy victims murdered by a toxic chemical and made to look like a suicide. Absolutely riveting!” His happy tirade is interrupted by John unsubtly clearing his throat.

“Uh, darling, a bit not good.” John grabs his hand and gestures to the young Ms. Gertrude sobbing quietly in the corner.

“Ah…apologies,” he amends quietly. Sherlock sweeps a drop of liquid off the floor with a cotton swab. “Here. Have this run for tests, then interview anyone close to them who wears loafers.”

But his orders are unheard as the entirety of Scotland Yard is standing frozen, shell-shocked with their jaws barely a centimeter off the ground. It is unforgettable how a single word could render an entire elite polite force incompetent of maintaining even a small level of restraint, and Sherlock would surely be filing that in a very prominent place in his mind palace.

Lestrade opens his mouth to speak, then eventually regains the ability to articulate words.

“So you two are like a thing now?” He remarks quite eloquently on behalf of his dumbfounded companions.

“Yeah.” John says abashedly, lifting their intertwined hands for emphasis.

A pause follows, the silence becoming almost eerie before everything erupts into chaos. It seems that just about every member present is emotionally invested in whatever the hell is going on — disappointed groans and cheerful cries of victory and the sound of money being passed over fill the room, and the case is forgotten for the moment (poor Elizabeth Gertrude is just sitting in the corner, overwhelmed).

“YOU ALL OWE ME 50 QUID!” Lestrade bellows over the din.

The end.

—

Fun fact: true to my blog name, it was indeed 2am when I finished this.

Tagging: @topsyturvy-turtely @kettykika78 @musingsofmyown

Lmk if you wanna be added to the tag list!

[youcouldmakealife]

SOTW: Scouts; Wine Wars Two (Armistice)

And the latter fill for the prompt: A glimpse into the fray of the Wine Wars

ScratchnMoney bickering is like the white noise sound machine of the Scouts room. It’s ever present, but it’s actually rather soothing. You mostly ignore it, and when you do listen you’re like ‘hey, that’s not music’ — or, to break the metaphor but get more accurate ‘hey, that’s a really dumb thing to argue about’ — but mostly everyone just tunes it out and goes about their business. It’s just part of the machine that makes the Kansas City Scouts tick. A metronome or something.

But sometimes it’s more of an alarm. Loud, atonal, impossible to ignore. You can do the equivalent of hitting snooze by telling them to knock it off, but eventually it’ll start back up again until they’ve agreed to disagree — most of the time, thankfully — or they’ve pulled everyone into their argumentative orbit and the entire room’s weighed in on something ridiculous, like ‘what’s the best nut butter?’ or ‘are credit cards rewards actually worth it?’ or ‘fan or AC: which is better in that temperature range when it’s too warm but not hot hot?’.

It’s typically things that people might have a mild opinion about, moderate at most, but Money and Scratch are apparently deeply passionate about. Or just deeply passionate about bickering, and will use as fodder for the cause. It’s probably that one.

But then comes the wine debate. And apparently the entire team is passionate about wine, and if they aren’t, they’re still whipped up into a frenzy about it eventually.

Lines in the room are drawn. Literally. Lockers are re-ordered. D-partnerships are torn apart. Wine is spilled, red as blood, staining the carpet in the player’s lounge, a murky pool of shame, a reminder of the collective wound that cannot heal. 

And nothing, nothing can stop it. Not team leadership. Not the coaching staff. Not PR. It’s out of everyone’s control now.

~

Nothing can stop it until Stu comes down from his office, presumably because Coach’s intercession has failed. His mistake was admitting a wine preference of his own: after that none of the white wine side was listening to him, that Unrepentant Red Supporter.

“Guys,” he says. “What the fuck.”

Nobody looks him in the eye.

“What the fuck,” he repeats. “Willy. What’s going on.”

“I can’t explain what is going on,” Willy says, head down. “Because there is no sense to it.”

“Don’t blame him, he’s rosé!” Crackers says. “He tried to take the middle ground, and all they did was mock! He tried, Stu!”

“I tried, Stu,” Willy says, head still down.

“Guys,” Stu says. “I’m disappointed in all of you. The things I’ve heard — you broke wine bottles. You divvied up the locker room like a divorce. You made Charity cry. Do you feel good about that? Do you feel good about making Charity cry?”

Everybody’s looking at the floor now.

“You’re all pitching in for the carpet cleaning,” Stu says. “And a really nice gift basket for Charity. And if I hear one more word about wine for the rest of the season, whoever says it is a healthy scratch next game. I’m not fucking around. I’ll do it if you’re on a point streak. I’ll do it even if your family’s in town. I will kill Corey’s fucking iron man streak. Just watch me.”

There’s a quiet chorus of ‘yes sir’s and ‘sorry Stu’s.

“Okay,” Stu says. “Carry on. But — not like this.”

“Do you think Stu’s a red or a white guy?” Shithead says when Stu walks out of the room.

“Shut the fuck up, Shithead,” Willy says tiredly.

“I’m just wondering,” Shithead says. “Because—“

“I will scratch you myself,” Willy hisses. “Literally.”

“Like, from the game?” Shithead says. “Or like, scratch with your nails?”

“Yes,” Willy says, and Shithead shifts away from him and sighs.

“So,” Money says brightly. “I think this means white won.”

“No!” Willy says, springing up as Scratch opens his mouth. “No! You heard the fucking man! You think I’m above snitching in this situation? I am not above snitching! I’ll let Stu sit the whole fucking team if I have to!”

He wouldn’t do that. They all know it. It’s as empty a threat as there could be from one as hyper-competitive as Tate Williams is. He’d endure the Wine Wars gauntlet every day, just so long as they win their games.

But still, there is peace.

For a time.

[metagalacticx]

Can you answer 3, 12, 13 for Scott/Isaac?

hiiii omg yes so

3. Who fixes the vehicle after a breakdown?

isaac genuinely tries to fix scott’s bike whenever it breaks down (which isn’t often). but he has no clue what he’s doing and will literally stand with a wrench in one hand and the other scratching his head with the most constipated expression he can muster. scott laughs and tells him it’s complicated anyway and that he shouldn’t worry if he doesn’t know how to fix it (or what’s wrong in the first place). then scott leans down and starts fiddling and using tools and isaac’s standing over him in awed silence and scott tightens something and sighs contentedly because he’s finished and he stands and grins at isaac whose face is the epitome of ‘I’d follow you to the ends of the earth’, and then it catches fire. like there are now flames coming from the engine of the bike and scott is like "oh shi-" before he runs to grab the hose. isaac stands there bewildered just watching scott try to use a hose that’s not even connected to a pipe. anyway, scott’s mechanic rolls his eyes every time they come in.

12. Can they stand silence? Who talks the most? Who talks the least?

scott is okay with silence. isaac however cannot stand it. they’ll be on the couch and as soon there is a lull in conversation isaac asks either a follow-up question or something so strange like, "so what time did you wake up?" and scott doesn’t say, "you should know, you were there" he hums and answers as accurately as possible, "around 7? maybe 7:30 i was pretty tired so i missed the first alarm i think…" and they’ll continue talking about sleep schedules until the convo dies down and isaac picks something again.

13. Who stays up late? Who sleeps the most? Does the other have to force them to sleep/wake up?

neither of them really likes to stay up late. if they could, they’d both be in bed by 7pm every night. they’re lucky if they get more than 6 hours of sleep though.

[lilyofthesword-writes]

The Intern (Loki Oneshot)

Summary: Loki takes an interest in the latest of a long line of Stark’s interns.

Pairing: Loki x Reader (Can be read as platonic, if preferred)

Word Count: 2,809

Disclaimers/Warnings: None. Just a bit of fluff.

A/N: This wound up turning into something entirely different from the original concept. Just kinda went with what felt right. Also trying desperately to remember working with an Arduino board to make this at least semi-accurate.

Masterlist

Loki traipsed aimlessly through the Tower, his overly-friendly insomnia having kept him up past four in the morning again. Nothing seemed to help him sleep and he constantly grew bored laying around in his room waiting for exhaustion to overtake him. Wandering about seemed as good as anything. Sometimes he would come across something interesting. It seems now would be that time.

He rounded the corner and found himself gazing through the wall-length windows of Tony Stark’s lab. The armor-less Iron Man was passed out in a chair, head haphazardly lolling on a table. Usually, he was still working and would be until at least seven a.m. before Pepper would literally drag him to bed.

Movement at the other end of the room caught his eye. There you were, pulling a blanket out of the cupboard. You crossed the lab and placed the well-used cloth over Stark’s shoulders before returning to your work. Sliding your safety glasses on, you put all your focus into soldering some wires to a board.

What in the nine realms were you doing here at this hour? The sun hadn’t even reached the horizon yet. None of his previous interns ever started their days before nine. Albeit, they had barely lasted a week while you broke a record at just over a month, but the point still stood. Why were you here?

“Are you just going to stand there like a creeper, Loki, or are you going to come in and hang out?” you called out, not even bothering to tear your eyes away from the wiring.

Well, this excursion could prove to be interesting. Loki slithered through the doorway to stand opposite of you at your table.

“So what are you doing up this early?” you murmured. If it weren’t for you glancing up at him, someone may have thought it was more of a question for yourself.

Loki huffed a laugh. “I could ask you the same question.”

That elicited a quirky smile from you. “Woke up way before my alarm and couldn’t fall back asleep. Figured I’d start my day early.” You gestured toward Stark with the soldering iron. “This one over here is pretty lenient on the hours.”

“I would hope so,” Loki chuckled, “considering his own schedule.”

“A schedule that consists of planned energy drink breaks. Definitely one of the more interesting employers out there.”

“I suppose you could say that,” he mumbled, leaning heavily on his forearms propped on the table.

You set down the soldering iron in its stand and shut if off. “So I answered your question. How about you?”

“I simply could not sleep,” he nonchalantly replied.

“Hmm...” you hummed. “Lemme guess. A member of Insomniacs Anonymous?”

His chuckle reverberated through the room. This was probably one of the reasons Stark kept you around. You certainly had a particular snarky confident air about you.

Yet the corners of your mouth suddenly hung low and your brow scrunched together. “It’s more than that, isn’t it?”

“Pardon?” He was confused at your change in demeanor.

“It’s not as simple as you couldn’t sleep. There’s more to it.”

Loki’s lips parted in astonishment. Here you were in your first true encounter with him and you read him like an open book. What had you been told?

“I won’t make you say anything.” You held your hands up in a placating manner. “You probably don’t want to, and that’s okay. However.” You grabbed the notepad next to you and scribbled something on it, ripping off the paper and sliding it towards him. “If you’re ever bored and I’m not here, you can text me. I’ll probably answer.”

He reluctantly took the note that had your number written on it. “I cannot say I am very adept with these cellular devices.”

“Pretty sure you’re clever enough to figure it out,” you grinned like the Cheshire Cat. “But seriously, no pressure. The offer is always out there.”

“Wha?!” Stark snorted himself awake, his eyes shooting around wildly. “Rudolf? What’re you doing here?” He eyed Loki suspiciously. “You’re not going to scare away my intern, are you? That’s my job.”

You laughed, keeping Loki from spitting a venomous retort. “Good luck with that. You’ll have to try a lot harder if that’s what you’re going for, Stark.”

“Obviously. You haven’t run off yet. I’m surprised.” He took the blanket that was wrapped around him and began folding it. “Pleasantly surprised.”

“Sure, sure!” You waved him off.

Stark looked at his watch and swiped a hand through his purposely messy bed head. “It’s that time already. I better get breakfast before Pepper finds me... Alright!” He clapped. “Both of you, let’s go! Time for grub!”

Loki’s eyebrows shot up across his forehead. Was Stark actually having him join the two of you for breakfast?

“Yes, you too, Reindeer Games! One, I don’t want you in the lab alone.” That earned him Loki’s scowl. “Two, you seem to be behaving, so why not have you eat with us.”

You nudged Stark’s arm while shooting Loki an inconspicuous wink. “Awww, look at you! Already getting into Dad Mode and little Morgan hasn’t even entered the world yet.”

He nudged you back. “Yeah, yeah, yeah! Now come on. I’m starving!”

You continued to tease him as you followed him out of the lab with Loki close behind.

Loki lay in bed a few nights later, lost in thought. He could not get you out of his head. You had spoken with him like you would anyone else, deflected and stood up for him despite hardly knowing him. In the few years since he had been thrown to Midgard as punishment, Thor was the only one to show him a sliver of kindness, but even he held some hesitation. You did not. Your earlier interaction was genuine. He wasn’t sure what to make of it all.

In his perpetual deliberation, he had avoided the lab since that morning. Not that he didn’t like you. It was the uncertainty that kept him away, but that wouldn’t last much longer.

His phone settled lax in his hand, your name illuminating the screen. You had been right about him being able to learn how to text. Now it was a matter of completing the action. Tossing the phone to his other hand, he glared at the bright screen. His message had already been written. All he had to do was select “Send”. The clock at the top of the screen read two a.m. Surely, you would be asleep... But what if you weren’t?

With a huff, he pinched his eyes shut and hit the button, the swooshing sound seemingly echoing off the walls. The following silence was deafening. Luckily for him, the reply swoosh fell inline shortly after.

You: Hey, Loki. Can’t sleep?

Loki: How did you know who this was without me saying?

You: I can’t think of anyone else who would text me at this hour. ;)

Loki: I apologize if I woke you.

You: Nah. Already up. Trouble staying asleep. So what’re you up to?

Loki: Texting you.

You: Other than that, Mischief

Loki: Thinking.

You: Yeah? About what?

Loki: Possibly meandering through the Tower, again.

You: Liar ;)

Loki: Pardon?

You: You were obviously thinking about me.

Loki: What makes you say that?

You: You had to be. At least in the context that it would be better to text me than exploring.

Loki: Fair enough. Now, how do you know I am not planning to choose both?

You: You got me there.

—

Loki met you at the lab later that morning. The familiar sight of Stark was passed out, snuggling his face to a countertop, greeted you both.

Shaking your head, you huffed a laugh as you passed through the doorway. “Can’t really reprimand him when my sleep schedule is just as bad.”

Loki’s lips curled into a light smirk but didn’t speak a word lest Stark awaken and force him to leave. Despite your two hour texting session, he had been looking forward to joining you here.

“Thanks for meeting me here, by the way,” you called out to him as still stood just at the edge of the lab. “A little company while working is kind of nice. Gets too quiet when Stark finally shuts down.”

Taking a seat across from you, Loki quirks an eyebrow. “Would that not be considered a blessing?”

You stifled a chuckle as you flipped on the soldering iron and pulled out what roughly looked like a vambrace. The board you had been working on previously was molded to the shape. “If that happened by the end of my workday, yes. This early in the morning? Not so much. It’s boring if not a little eerie.”

“I see... So I am only here for your entertainment,” he feigned offense.

You gasped dramatically, “Me? Never!”

Laughing with you, Loki made himself a bit more comfortable as he watched you work. At the moment, you were adding tiny capacitors and securing them into place.

“If I may, what are you trying to accomplish?”

“Well,” you started, glancing up at him. “It’s a new piece of armor. Other than that, I technically shouldn’t say much else.”

“Right... Classified information?”

There was a twinkle of mischief in your eyes as you looked at him again. “It is a secret, but nothing quite as official as that.”

Loki leaned across the tabletop, supporting his chin in his hand. “So there is no harm in you revealing your project,” he tested.

“Harm? No. However, there will be disappointment on my end if you figure it out.”

“I accept this challenge,” he grinned playfully.

You smirked back,“As you wish, Mischief. I won’t make this easy for you.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Darling.”

The next several weeks chaotically blurred together. At first, you allowed Loki to observe your project as you worked on it. Once the vambrace began to take on a more unique form, you were hiding it in the mornings, opting to take on a different assignment when he was in the room. The design was strikingly Asgardian, leading him to believe the new armor was for Thor. He just needed to figure out what it did. He spoke with his brother on multiple occasions but was unable to glean anything from him. Either he had no clue or suddenly learned to lie well enough to fool Loki, the latter highly doubtful.

Apart from politely harassing you via text, Loki took to locating your hiding spots, something that proved difficult when the lab was almost always occupied by you, Stark or Banner at varying times. Stark was helping you keep this little secret, a sparkle in his eyes whenever he shooed Loki from the room when he was caught investigating. Even Banner was in on it, albeit reluctantly.

Then there was that Doctor Strange who was showing up every few days, joining you all in the lab much to Loki’s chagrin. By that point, Stark had banned him from the entire floor. The project must have been coming to a close if you all were trying to cover it up so desperately. But why Strange? Was he imbuing the vambrace with magic to protect Thor better? (Not that he really needed it.) His curiosity was certainly getting the better of him, going so far as to shape-shift as one of you three when Strange wasn’t around to get into the room. Somehow, Friday always knew and alerted the lab’s occupants who would send him back to the elevator.

It was early one morning as he was perusing the contents of the shared kitchen that you initiated contact with him. He was surprised since he had been the one to text you first lately to see if you would spill your secret.

You: Hey. Can you stop by the lab?

Loki: Oh? I thought I was banned.

You: Lifted as of a few minutes ago. So?

Loki: I suppose I might be able to grace you with my presence.

You: So kind of you, my King ;)

His heart skipped a beat at you calling him “your King”. You only used it in a teasing fashion when he was acting high and mighty. Even then, it still flustered him.

Loki made his way to the elevator, deeming it a bit devious to take the long way to the lab. You had made him wait all this time. It was your turn.

The doors reopened on the lab floor, revealing that his ploy to annoy had worked. You were leaned against the wall next to the elevator, waiting for his arrival.

“Finally! Come on!”

You audaciously grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the room with an impatient grin. Stopping him near your normal workstation, you demanded he close his eyes.

“Excuse me?” he responded incredulously, ripping his arm from your grasp.

“Please, Loki...” Your pleading eyes grew larger as you pouted at him.

Stark groaned, “Just do it, Reindeer Games, or I’ll cover them for you.”

Loki’s lips reared into a snarl as he glared at the billionaire before relenting and clenching his eyelids shut. Norns, how he hated those nicknames.

“Okay!” Excitement laced your voice. “Would you hold up your dominant hand?”

“Making more demands, Darling?”

“I did ask nicely this time.”

“That you did,” he chuckled a complied, holding out a hand.

“Perfect!”

He felt a metallic weight placed on his forearm before it was clasped together with a comfortable tightness.

“Okay. You can look now!”

The sight of the vambrace on his arm left Loki’s mouth agape. The main black of the piece was lined with gold Asgardian knot designs with runes placed in a handful of the empty spaces. Near his wrist, an artificial emerald was embedded in the armor. If he had to be completely honest, the aesthetics could rival much of the armor back home.

“Well, Kid. It looks like you rendered him speechless.” Stark nudged your arm.

Loki’s gaze shot up to the two of you. Stark was leaning against the workstation while you had hoisted yourself to sit atop it, nothing but grins on either of your faces.

“What is this-”

You cut him off, “It’s for you. We noticed after some of your missions where you had to use your seiðr more than usual, you’d end up exhausted before getting back to the Quinjet. The new armor should help with that. It’s supposed to amplify your magic without draining you.”

Stark shoved you lightheartedly, again. “The kid noticed. Told ‘em if they could come up with something that could work, I’d give whatever resources needed for the project.”

“So what do you think? I mean we still need to undergo more testing and calibrations before you can use it in the field, but-”

“You made this?” Loki locked barely tearing eyes with you. “For me?”

“Yup! Kid designed the whole thing!” Stark kept you from answering. “Minus the bits we had to bring Strange in for the wizard-y things, this was a solo run. Did a pretty good job. Not sure I could have done much better.”

“Stark...” you grumbled, clearly not used to the praise.

“This is...” Loki tore his gaze away back to the vambrace. “I don’t... I don’t know what to say.” His voice was just loud enough for you to hear.

“A ‘thank you’ would be a good start. Now maybe this little intern will get more sleep,” Stark blundered before checking his watch. “Well, it’s about time for my morning scolding. I’ll be in the kitchen if you need me!”

With that he whisked himself out of the room and to the elevator, leaving you and Loki in a terribly awkward silence.

“Hey...” you started. “If you don’t like it, we can scrap the design. It’s not a big deal-”

“Thank you.” His pupils were filled with a sincere gratefulness that few had ever seen before. “This is... This is simply splendid.”

“Really? You’re not just saying that?”

Loki spun on his heel to fully face you, his hands coming to rest on the countertop on either side of you. “I mean it, Darling. This... No one has ever done something like this for me before. I would be honored to be your test subject,” he ended with a smirk.

“Well, if that’s the case,” you grinned right back at him, “I’d say let’s get some breakfast first. There will be plenty of time to optimize the vambrace later.”

Pulling back enough to release you from his cage of arms, he gestured for you to lead the way. “After you,” he breathed.

Hopping down from the table, you held out a hand for him. Hesitantly, Loki took it while running a thumb over your knuckles as you pulled him to the elevator with you.

[makeste]

save no matter what.

so this is going to ultimately be a post about Deku. however, if you’ll be so kind as to indulge me, I would like to start things off by making a point about Bakugou. specifically, I’d like to point out that back in the day before this kid got Character Development no Jutsu’d, people weren’t always so inclined to view his attitude towards winning in the best light. which is a nice way of saying that he came off as unhealthily obsessed, not to mention more than a little unhinged.

sorry for the image spam btw, I just think they’re funny. he’s so demented lmao. KILL DIE CRUSH.

anyway so we’re gonna do the rest of this below a cut before it gets long. but I promise it really is a Deku post lol. don’t let the pre-readmore stuff fool you. I PROMISE THERE IS A POINT, AND WE WILL GET TO IT.

anyway! so yeah, we really didn’t have the best impression of Bakugou’s whole winning fixation at the beginning there. and I mean, it’s not like we had the best impression of Bakugou himself at the start of things either. we were already primed from the very first chapter to see this kid as an adversary to Izuku. the story goes out of its way to paint him in pretty much the worst light possible. which is why what happens next is so interesting.

because one might see all this and think, “holy heck, this kid is off the shits, somebody needs to set him straight pronto and get it into his head that winning isn’t everything.” because that’s almost the natural conclusion to draw. “look at this kid, he doesn’t care about helping other people at all, all he cares about is winning, someone needs to come along and show him that he’s got it backwards.”

except that’s not what happens, is it? because this is where, much to my delight, Horikoshi came along and started subverting expectations. because not only is Katsuki not rebuked for being so obsessed with winning -- it’s pretty much the exact opposite.

the one and only time Deku ever straight up hands Katsuki’s ass to him is when he says he doesn’t want to win. Deku is IMMEDIATELY all, “THE FUCK KIND OF BULLSHIT DID I JUST HEAR OUT OF YOUR TRASH MOUTH,” and that’s when he sets him straight.

the important people in Katsuki’s life never tell him, “hey you need to cool it with the whole winning thing.” All Might and Aizawa never scold him for it, or tell him that he shouldn’t try with everything he has to win, or that wanting to win is a bad thing. on the contrary, they both commend him for it. and ultimately, he’s told by All Might that this desire is actually one of the two fundamental qualities that every great hero needs.

he completely turns the whole thing on its head. not only is it not a bad thing, it’s actually crucial. essential. because what the desire to win really is, at its core, is tenacity. it’s the fiercest kind of determination. it’s not something he should be ashamed of; it’s something that sets him apart, something that makes him worthy. he is someone who refuses to back down no matter what. refuses to give up, no matter what. and this quality, which is initially misunderstood by some to the point where even the villains mistakenly take him for one of their own in the making, is eventually validated to the fullest degree by the person that Katsuki looks up to the most. his desire to win goes from being this awkward “son wtf are you doing” thing to being one of the core philosophies of the series. and ever since then, we pretty much don’t question it.

so why do I bring this up now? well, the answer to that can basically be summed up in one word.

“parallels.”

so here’s the thing. there’s been a lot of talk lately about Deku’s ridiculous, reckless, and absurdly self-destructive desire to save others while having little to no regard for himself. currently he’s lying in a hospital bed, having broken approximately 218 out of the 206 bones in his little hero body (yes, somewhere along the way he found an additional dozen bones to break). it is worrying. it is Concerning. and it’s raised a lot of questions, such as “???” and “wtf is this idiot doing.”

and a lot of people have been pretty critical of him! this is, of course, an ongoing thing with this child, and people have been giving him grief over it going as far back as chapter 6.

while others have been bothered by it going even further back than that.

and I’ve seen these sentiments being echoed pretty frequently in the fandom as well. and there are basically two talking points that I want to address here. the first is the idea that Deku’s aggressive brand of selflessness stems from an inherent lack of self-worth. in other words, because he prioritizes other people’s safety and well-being above his own, and is willing to go to such drastic lengths to save them, there’s this feeling that he doesn’t value himself enough, that he must not care about himself.

but I don’t think that’s quite it. let’s go back to those parallels first, though. let’s take another look at Kacchan.

what I mainly want to call attention to is the intensity here. again, it’s something that at first strikes most readers as being absurdly over the top. the truth is, I think a lot of people simply can’t relate to it. Katsuki cares about winning with a ferocity and a fervor that most people, for better or worse, simply don’t have. I certainly don’t, lol.

but he does. to him it’s not a shallow, superficial thing at all. it’s important to him, perhaps the most important thing. I think we often talk about it in terms of it being a desire, but imo a more accurate way to define it is not as a want, but as a need. in other words, it’s the opposite of the question “what is it this character wants” (i.e. “what is it they can’t live without”)? instead, it’s a question of “what is it they don’t want” (i.e. “what is it they can’t live with”)?

and in Katsuki’s case, the thing he can’t live with is feeling like he hasn’t tried his absolute best. he needs to give his all in everything he does. he wants to win, but winning just on its own is not enough.

it has to be earned. he has to prove to himself and to everyone else that he deserves it. anything less than that is unacceptable. anything less than that, and he can’t be at ease. he can’t be settled. he can’t rest. and so he puts everything he has into winning, even if it means going to extremes. because it’s that important to him.

it’s something that’s at times alarming and even disturbing for others to witness. but nonetheless, it’s a part of who he is, and at the end of the day his teachers accept that, and the story acknowledges that it’s his greatest strength.

so now, to finally bring this back around to Deku, this is what I keep seeing in his character as well. only in his case, the thing he can’t live with is knowing that he didn’t do everything he possibly could to save someone. or to put it another way, Deku, at his core, is someone who cannot rest until he knows that everyone is safe. simple as that. it’s not just a desire to protect people; it’s a need. he needs to know that everyone is safe and protected. otherwise he can’t be at ease. it’s no different from how normal, everyday people aren’t able to feel at ease unless they know that they are safe and that their loved ones are safe. it’s just that in Deku’s case, this same fundamental need extends to everyone, not just himself and his friends and family. everyone. he can’t live with himself knowing that someone was in trouble, and he had the ability to do something to help, but didn’t. and so, if you literally can’t live with not doing something, you basically have no choice but to do it.

and this is what in my opinion defines Deku’s character. Kacchan, in trying to understand it, noted that Deku doesn’t seem to take himself into account. but I think OFA Prime summed it up a little more accurately. “he rages for the sake of others. for them, he does his best until he can do no more. this young man is possessed by a drive to save others that eclipses all common understanding.”

so yeah. it’s not that he doesn’t care about himself at all, it’s that he cares about others even more. he has that same intensity and ferocity towards saving people that Katsuki has towards winning. and just as it was difficult at first for fans to understand Katsuki’s feelings, it’s hard to fathom the sheer depth of that “save everyone” feeling that compels Deku to break his own body in that pursuit. it’s scary, not to mention extremely destructive and dangerous. and so really, it was almost inevitable that there would be some backlash.

but just like Katsuki’s desire to win was ultimately validated in the end, I think Deku’s desire to save others will be as well. in fact it already is being validated, for starters by the other denizens of OFA, led by Lil Bro as mentioned above. let’s go back for a moment to that same scene.

here we get a huge hint that “Deku gets taken down a notch and chewed out and scolded for his recklessness” is not, in fact, the direction that the story is going in. because in general, when the main villain starts mocking the hero and saying that they’ve done something wrong, that’s a very good sign that said hero is actually on the exact right track. like, no offense, but as far as character critiques go, AFO is probably the least qualified person in the entire manga to start offering those up lol. so yeah. if AFO is denouncing Deku for something, and OFA Prime is praising him for that exact same thing, I think it’s safe to say that means he is in fact doing something very, very right.

“okay but makeste, he nearly got himself killed and broke all of his arms AND legs and is now lying in a fucking coma,” you say, gesturing emphatically to the last page of chapter 298. “so I mean, that’s all well and good that Wonder Boy has the best of intentions and all that, but at the end of the day he’s only one kid. he literally can’t save everyone, and if he pulls one or two more stunts like this, he’s going to get himself killed.”

and okay, but this here is the other talking point that I wanted to address. because it’s true, Deku does need to learn a specific lesson here. but that lesson is NOT that he can’t save everyone. this is a superhero story, guys -- “you can’t save everyone” is never going to be the underlying message, ever. it’s the OPPOSITE of the message. Deku is the hero because he tries to save everyone. because he doesn’t give up on saving people no matter what. that is literally the core of the story. it has been since the very first chapter.

so then what is it that Deku actually needs to learn here? well, once again, it all comes back to those parallels.

btw, I really just love how he’s carrying Katsuki there lol. he’s just so done with him.

but anyway. so, the final exam arc. Katsuki initially wants to win at all costs -- but there’s a hitch. because even though he wants to win, he refuses to do so while working with Deku. enter Deku’s left hook, and one impromptu Rival Encouragement Speech later, our boy has thankfully come to his senses.

but here’s the point -- the lesson here wasn’t “you can’t always win.” rather, the lesson that Katsuki needed to learn was that you can’t always win alone.

yeah. so now you can see what I’m getting at here.

“...on your own.”

that’s the key. this is the one and only thing that Deku actually needs to get into his head. wanting to save everyone is fine! his will to save others has never been a weakness -- it’s been the most admirable thing about him from day one. it’s what makes him strong. it’s why All Might chose him. it’s why OFA has chosen him. it’s what sets him apart, and I firmly believe it’s what will ultimately help him save the day and defeat AFO as well. because what other character would look at Shigaraki Tomura, the person who just impaled his friend and destroyed an entire city, and instinctively reach out a hand to try and save him? and if you don’t think that’s going to wind up being key to the final battle, you and I have very different ideas about this series’ endgame.

Deku’s determination to save everyone isn’t arrogance or futility. it is and always has been his greatest strength. but what he’s missing now, what he needs to learn, is simply to trust. y’all might have seen that theory about the Fourth’s quirk, and why All Might was so hesitant to tell Deku about it. basically, the theory (which is based on an attempted translation of the crossed-out parts of All Might’s OFA notebook) goes that the Spidey Sense was so overwhelming that the Fourth -- whose cause of death was one of the things crossed out -- eventually couldn’t bear it, and went to live alone in the middle of the woods somewhere. and possibly wound up killing himself?? all of which is just speculation right now of course. but it makes sense. and it would certainly explain why All Might, being all too aware of Deku’s self-destructive tendencies, would keep that from him.

but if this is the case, that means it’s clear that the Fourth’s solution didn’t work. “give up and accept that you can’t save everyone” clearly is NOT the answer to be had here.

the answer is trust. trust that his fellow heroes have his back. trust that they’ll be able to help him reach the people he’s not able to reach on his own. trust that they can work together to save everyone. that he doesn’t have to rest the entire world on his shoulders alone.

it’s the one lesson that All Might, his predecessor and his teacher, never learned himself until it was too late. but of course, All Might never had a prickly and determined rival who was ready to step in and deal out some tough love if need be. a rival who, perhaps, just might soon get a chance to repay an old favor.

“I don’t wanna hear you say you can’t save someone.”

I’m just saying. just as Deku has been watching Katsuki all this time, and admiring his determination to win, and emulating it himself, so has Katsuki recently begun to emulate Deku’s determination to save others. we’ve seen it not just in his recent act of self-sacrifice, but even in little things like his habits and tricks of speech. just like Katsuki is Deku’s image of victory, Deku is becoming Katsuki’s image of saving others.

and so I’ll bet you anything that if Deku ever starts to doubt himself, or starts feeling like his dream and desires are futile, Kacchan will be there to set him straight with a good old fashioned Rival Encouragement Speech of his own. possibly with his own left hook to match, though his left shoulder is currently out of sorts atm so he might need to modify that approach a little bit. but the point is, he’ll be there. and he will not allow Deku to give up on himself. he will be there to remind him that he doesn’t have to face this alone.

so yeah! finally managed to wrap up my giant Deku meta which I’ve been working on for ages and rewritten like fifteen times lmao. just in time for this to be relevant for all of a day, probably, depending on what happens once chapter 279 drops lol. but yeah. tl;dr, local boy tries to do too much, but his heart is in the right place, and hopefully all he really needs is a good pep talk from his tsundere bff to set him to rights again. r.i.p. to the Fourth, but he’s different.

[naralanis]

little bumps in the road (pt. 8)

Previously on LBitR

“For the record, I still say Disney World would have been far safer than this insanity.”

Lena does her best to ignore Kara’s muttering. While this may be one of the more insane schemes she has ever concocted in her life, the truth of the matter is that she would have never, ever suggested it if she didn’t honestly think they could pull it off.

“Maybe,” she concedes, squinting at the drugstore compact sitting on the nightstand as she readjusts the wig. “But it certainly wouldn’t be as productive.”

She turns to Kara, who’s still frowning, and fluffs the strawberry blonde locks cascading from her own head. Maybe she should just bleach her hair and be done with it.

“So, what do you think?”

Kara’s frown deepens considerably. “You still look like you, Lena. I’m not sure about this.”

“Wait, hold on; I’m missing a crucial piece,” Lena retorts, reaching for a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses sitting on the nightstand. “Ta-da,” she says flatly, pulling them on. “Unrecognizable, I’m basically a different person.”

Kara pulls a face, and Lena mentally kicks herself, rushing to pull the frames off.

“Kara, I didn’t mean...”

The blonde raises a hand, stopping her in her tracks. “I know,” she says, though she does so through clenched teeth. “I still think this is a monumentally bad idea. Explain to me why I can’t go with you.”

Lena sighs. “Because you’re supposed to be dead, Kara--it’s far less risky if I go in alone. Even if I get caught, you remain a secret. Plus-- I know the building. I used to own it, once upon a different Earth, remember?”

Kara crosses her arms over her chest, looking entirely unconvinced. “I still think we should wait for Alex. She’s going to respond soon, Lena, I know it.”

“Maybe she will, maybe she won’t. Call her again tomorrow,” she says, as evenly as she can. “But I’m doing this, Kara. I can’t just stand by while you go without powers for another day--who knows when Alex will actually be able to help? I need to do this.”

Kara stares, pensively and worriedly, not saying a word for a long time. She looks at the wig Lena’s wearing, at the outfit they bought a few towns over to make her look like some intern--button-down, dark jeans, oxfords, at the medical supplies they’ll use to take a sample of her blood and transport it to LuthorCorp tomorrow. Her gaze lingers on the glasses Lena’s still holding, and she releases a sigh, sounding more than defeated--she sounds afraid.

“You know you don’t have to do this, right?” she waves a hand over the considerable space between them, seemingly at a loss. “There’s nothing to... atone for, or whatever.”

Lena smiles, knowing it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“We’ll have to agree to disagree there.”

Kara looks anguished, seems to be grinding the gears in her head, like she knows that at this point she’s just grasping at straws.

“Is it too late to find a vet lab somewhere?” she tries, with no conviction behind her tone.

“No, but LuthorCorp will have the equipment for much faster, and more accurate results. I can do this, Kara. I promise.”

Kara visibly deflates, and Lena knows the matter will be dropped, just like that. “Fine. I concede. I’m never talking you out of this, am I?”

Lena feels her smile twitch a little, but she reaches over the gulf between them, putting the glasses back on the nightstand.

“No, darling, I’m afraid not.”

Kara’s responding sigh seems to echo in the motel room; it lingers in the air, heavy with a fear Lena knows she’ll try to brush off.

“Alright, fine. Now please take off that wig--you as a blonde is freaking me out.”

Breaking into LuthorCorp is quite simple, in a manner of speaking: all one needs to make it through the main doors is a swipe card. If she had the necessary materials, Lena could easily clone one with her eyes closed, but as it is, she needs to acquire one from an actual employee.

That is easily accomplished; Kara, decked out as tourist (complete with a neon-orange fanny-pack of her choosing), distracts a low-level minion having his lunch break on the public plaza right across the street from the main building, and Lena just walks right past them, disguise in place. His entry card and lab-coat are in her hands in less than a second, and in the other, she’s already crossing the street.

With any luck, Lena will be in and out of the building before the card is ever reported missing.

The problem, however, lies in getting into a laboratory. Any of the more equipped labs, those working on secretive (and likely illegal) projects, would lie behind layers and layers of security Lena has neither the time nor the tools at present to even try to break.

To their luck, Lena doesn’t actually need to try to sneak into any high-clearance labs--all she needs is a solid thirty minutes with a mass spectrometer of her own design; a handy not-so-little piece of machinery that had become standard in all L-Corp labs in their previous Earth, and, because Lex cannot resist stealing a good idea, LuthorCorp.

Still, even to access a simple, run-of-the-mill lab at LuthorCorp, Lena needs to go through biometric sensors--retina scanners, to be precise.

And maybe, just maybe, Lena had neglected to mention that little detail to Kara when they discussed the plan for the umpteenth time that morning while she methodically took a sample of Kara’s blood, but that’s neither here nor there.

Once she’s through the main doors-- Kryptonian blood sample packed into a Thermos full of ice in her purse (I am amazed and disturbed at how easily you were able to get medical supplies like these, Lena, seriously), it’s easy enough to make her way through the  elevators, carrying a stack of papers to look the part of an intern--no one even bats an eye.

The cameras on the third floor are exactly where Lena had expected them to be, so she walks down the corridor to where she knows is a supply closet, and swipes in with no problem. The layout of the building really had not changed at all since she last worked there, even if that had happened on a literal other reality.

Once she’s in, Lena only has to wait. She counts the seconds in her head in French, both to keep track of time, but also to calm her racing heartbeat, because this--this is the biggest gamble of her plan.

Since she obviously does not have a way to bypass the biometric scanners, Lena’s only option is to get someone to do it for her.

She lies in wait in the supply closet for about two and a half minutes, and then she hears it: the sound of footsteps, two sets of them, and idle conversation, coming down the corridor directly her way. Lena takes a deep breath, counts the steps as they approach--she only has one chance to do this right.

When the steps are right in front of the closet, she swings open the door with force.

“Ow!”

The hit is a good one--whoever’s on the other side blocks her from opening the door all the way with dull impact, and her papers go scattering all over the place.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry! Are--are you OK, did the door hit you?”

Lena’s holding a hand over her right eye, moaning and doubled-over in mock pain as two young men--both looking to be interns-- look her over with concern. One of them is already on the floor, gathering her papers.

“Ow, no, it’s my fault, I shouldn’t have opened the door like that--oww” she cries, maybe a little too dramatically. One of the interns, tall and lanky, steadies her as she fake-wobbles on her feet.

“Ouch, did you hit your head? Let me take a look at your eye, take your hand---yikes!”

Lena removes her palm, previously dusted with the finest blush powder she could find at the drugstore yesterday, and makes a big show of blinking away her tears. The make-up gives her an instant shiner, and the fine powder has the added benefit of irritating the shit out of her eye--so the swelling and the tears are 100% real.

“I’m fine, really, thank you,” she says, waving them off and taking the sheets the other intern dutifully picked up. “I’m so sorry, I was in such a hurry--are you guys OK?”

“Better than you,” the first one, laughs, though he still looks concerned. “Are you sure you’re OK? Your eye looks pretty bad, do you want to go to the infirmary or something?”

“No, no, it’s fine -- I just got to run some stuff, then I’ll get some ice. I’m fine, really,” Lena waves them off politely, touching the skin around her supposedly injured eye.

The two men exchanged a worried glance, but the first shrugs his shoulders. “OK then, take care. Sorry again.”

“No worries,” she laughs, a little too high, but she’s so close, so so close... “I’m just a klutz--my fault, totally.”

She’s already walking away towards a lab, one she had checked during her walk from the elevator to the supply closet. The interns linger by the closet door for a moment, before slowly making their way to the elevator, still sending worried glances her way.

Lena swipes the stolen card, and immediately the panel by the side opens up, revealing the retina scanner and prompting her to scan her credentials. She leans towards the scanner, and the red light makes her blink; the machine buzzes and flashes red, and a robotic voice filters through the side-speakers.

Unable to scan. Please try again.

Lena huffs, audibly--she hears the interns’ steps pause someway down the corridor. She stomps her foot, and leans over the scanner again. It buzzes.

Unable to scan. Please try again.

“Shoot! You’ve gotta be kidding me right now!”

The steps grow closer, and for a moment Lena’s a bit worried she may be overselling her frustration, but before she can try scanning her retinas again, the tall and lanky intern is by her side.

“Did you try your left eye? Seems to be in better condition,” he jokes--his smile is genuine and friendly, but Lena puts on an impressive grimace of alarm.

“I never registered it,” she bemoans, feigning panic. “God, I meant to, but then it was just one of those things--oh my god, my boss is going to kill me--”

“Hey, relax,” he quips, raising a hand to stop what was going to be a rather dramatic tirade. He smiles, and swipes his card at the door, leaning over the panel and scanning his own eye.

Scan complete. The voice drones. Access granted; Montgomery, Jason.

The panel lights up in green, and the door unlocks with an audible hiss. Lena lets out a little squeak of delight that is barely faked--she can’t believe it worked.

“Oh my god, thank you, you’re a saint!”

She pushes the door open, but is barely a foot inside when an arm blocks her entry--she almost screams, body frozen in sheer terror as she turns to look at the intern the door panel just identified as Jason.

He’s smiling broadly. “Say, I’m sorry about your eye. Can I make it up to you over some coffee, later?”

Lena can barely contain her sigh of relief, but she puts on her sweetest smile and bats her eyelashes (though she’s not sure how good the effect is with the eye that is actually stinging quite painfully--what the hell was in that powder??). “I think you just did, Jason.”

His blush would have been cute, if Lena had not been on a very tight schedule. “Oh, I insist. When does your shift end...?”

It takes Lena a second to register he’s waiting for her name; she slowly maneuvers under his arm, dragging her fingers over the sleeve of his labcoat--she can practically feel the poor guy’s shiver as she leans in closer.

“Liz,” she whispers, close to his year. “And my shift ends at seven. The café across the street alright with you?”

He visibly swallows. “Yes, ma’am. See you there, Liz.”

Lena gives him a wink--with her good eye-- as he steps away. As soon as the door clicks shut again, she exhales with relief, leaning against it so she doesn’t just fall to the floor. Her knees are trembling.

She knew she could pull it off, but she also cannot believe she did.

With no time to waste, Lena practically bolts to the nearest spectrometer, quickly uncapping the Thermos with Kara’s blood sample and getting to work. It’s almost refreshing to be in a lab again, even under these circumstances, after weeks on the road. There is an innate sense of calm that falls over her when she’s working like this, like this is her element.

Like this is where she is meant to be.

The spectrometer whirs to life with Kara’s sample--Lena only needs twenty, maybe twenty-five minutes with it. She is tempted to stay for as long as she possibly can--there is so much equipment here that would be helpful... if only she brought a bigger purse, maybe she could have stolen some without detection, since there are no cameras in the labs.

The screen begins to break down the analysis, and Lena’s barely seeing it; she’s copying everything by hand onto a notebook--once the machine is done, she will make its history unrecoverable, and she doesn’t want to print anything through LuthorCorp printers.

Lena works quickly, annotating in her shorthand and trying to work as fast as the machine gives her results. She is barely processing what she sees; there will be time to read and figure everything out later, but now, she needs all the information she can cram into this little notebook.

She can feel her own eyes widening at some of the results, has to check them twice before writing them down--her pen furiously scratches across the paper, but her brain is already elsewhere, trying to reverse engineer the method of synthesizing what she’s seeing in Kara’s blood, trying to figure out ways to get it out of her system, trying to...

The spectrometer slows down and stops--the bar on the screen reads analysis complete. Lena releases a sigh of relief, hand cramping as she writes.

And then there’s the click of a gun right behind her.

“Fancy seeing you here, Lena.”

Lena shuts her eyes--the right one still throbbing, and raises her hands, still clutching the notebook as she slowly and deliberately turns around. She never even heard the door hissing open. She opens her eyes to meet a flinty, furious glare.

“Hello, Alex.”

Parts 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7

<< Previous || Next >>

[antihero-writings]

WOOHOO IT'S CHASSEUR DAY!!

This is a fic I started for this prompt on my ph and vnc blog, which I finally got around to finishing today for @phmonth2021's vnc countdown, Day 5: The Chasseurs!

Since the prompt helps explain a bit of why the story is the way it is, I'll include it here!

"But I also agree, Roland & Olivier are two characters that would be really fun to explore. What are they doing when they break out of chasseur mode? I find it amusing that Olivier is so popular with the ladies but can't be bothered by all that. Heh!"

Thank you @adriisamused so much for this prompt!! <3 <3 And once again, I'm sorry it took so long.

I'm honestly really proud of this fic, and I had such much fun with it!! I really hope you all like it!! I'd absolutely love to hear it if you do!!

Lastly, if you enjoyed this, please please don't hesitate to send me more prompts/asks--for anyone in vnc or ph, but especially for these two!! I love writing for them. You can either send them here, or to my ph and vnc blog @this-idiots-left-eye.

Thanks so much for reading!! Reblogs and comments are especially appreciated!! <3

*

Olivier was having a perfectly satisfactory morning. His coffee smelled just the right shade of black, and was scalding hot—just as he liked it. He brought a book he’d been hoping to read for a while, but hadn’t had the time for recently. He lit a cigarette, and—whatever anyone else said—the smoke was as decadent as any sweet treat from a pastry shop. He was just opening up said book, just bringing the mug to his lips when—

“OLIVER!”

Oliver didn’t jump. Didn’t shout or otherwise react in surprise at the sudden disruption to his morning. Instead, very slowly, he closed the book, very carefully he set down his coffee. He lifted the cigarette and took a long drag, blowing out a substantial wisp of smoke.

And he silently regretted (for what was probably the eightieth time) telling Roland where his favorite coffee shop was.

Roland presently was running up to him, dragging behind him a dazed looking old man, and successfully made it to him by the time he finished his drag.

“Olivier! This poor man has lost his parakeet! He’s looked everywhere and he just can’t find Monsieur Butterbeans! Code blue! Code blue!

“…You know that’s for hospitals, right?”

“Well red just didn’t seem high enough! The situation is dire!”

Olivier blinked, eyes lidded. “Go look for it.”

“Oh Olivier! This simply isn’t a two person job! Two sets of eyes isn’t going to be enough! We simply cannot scour all the skies by ourselves!”

And he was having such a good morning.

“You think I want to spend my afternoon giving myself a crick in the neck?” Olivier asked.

Roland leaned in closer. “I think you want to spend the afternoon helping one of God’s lambs who is in need.” When Olivier stared at him Roland sighed. “If you help...I might just be inclined to work extra hard tomorrow.”

Olivier leaned to the side to look at the old man, who was staring up at the sky, not seeming too bothered. “Where did you lose it?”

“He lost her at the docks!” Roland jumped in—(quite literally jumped in front of him)—and answered for him.

After taking an extra second to try to calculate why a parakeet called ‘Monsieur’ was a ‘she,’ he spoke, perfectly monotone, “So go to the docks.”

“You think we haven’t already tried that! We searched everywhere! She was nowhere to be found!”

“Well if you’ve already searched everywhere—” He began to take another sip of coffee.

“Oh come now, Olivier!” Roland took his arm and shook him, making him both spill some coffee on the table, as well as cough coffee. “What kind of Chasseurs would we be if we gave up helping one of God’s children after one measly search? We’re more determined than that!” He curled his hand into a fist, his eyes sparkling. “Remember the story of the lady and her coins?” He was practically dragging him out of his chair now.

“I don’t think Jesus was talking about parakeets.”

“It’s a parable Olivier, it can be about parakeets if it’s applicable!”

Rather than arguing with him (like he was very much inclined to do) Olivier took another drag from his cigarette and sighed out smoke. “Let me finish my coffee.”

“But Olivier, Monsieur Butterbeans could be halfway up the Seine by now!”

“Let me. Finish. My coffee.” Olivier enunciated each word, staring intently at Roland as he lifted the coffee to his lips.

Roland sighed, and sat down across from him, gesturing to the old man to sit next to him, he obeyed diligently, like he was a pet himself.

Roland folded his hands on the table, and stared at him, with big, imploring eyes, the entire time. Others would have found this more than mildly intimidating, and incentive to drink faster. But Olivier drank his coffee at an ordinary pace, if a little slower than usual. After he was finished he set it down, paid, and left.

If this day was going to be as long as he thought it would be, he wanted to experience it on a full head of caffeine.

They indeed spent all the noon, and half the afternoon searching for her. Olivier tried his best not to look up too much (due to the aforementioned neck-crick potential), but with Roland taking the opportunity every few minutes to slap them both on the shoulders, then point upwards, and shout at shadows, and oddly placed light fixtures, and decorations, “IS THAT HER?!” he couldn’t help looking up.

It was never her.

At one point he was convinced she was nesting in a lady’s hat.

That was also not her.

They had decided to go by the park, and Olivier was just asking why the old man deigned to call a female parakeet “Monsieur” and before the old man could respond, Roland shouted:

“THAT’S HER!”

Olivier, sure it was another false alarm, turned his head with an exasperated sigh building in his throat.

But there was indeed a pretty little parakeet sitting there.

This whole time they thought they would find her nestled in the rafters of some house, or perched on a shop roof, or sign. They had been hoping she wouldn’t find herself too high for them to even see (though Roland had made them climb up building staircases and onto their roofs more than twice).

But there she was, nestled comfortably, not in a tree or on a roof, but on the shoulder of a woman.

More accurately, a mime.

Monsieur Butterbeans was sitting on the shoulder of a mime, and seemed to be having a perfectly pleasant time (ignore the rhyme).

“I mean that simply must be her, right?!” Roland turned to the old man.

The old man nodded vigorously.

Roland’s whole face lit up (though his face was always lit with a sort of angelic glow, so this was a bit of a Moses-and-Mt-Sinai situation) and he was running towards her before they could say a word.

“Salut, Mademoiselle! May I say, you are looking lovely today!”—She waved her hand as if to say, ‘oh stop’—“I simply must thank you!”—She gave an over-exaggerated expression of delight—“That parakeet on your shoulder? She belongs to my friend over there!” He pointed a finger at the old man with the speed and rigidity of a compass needle. “He lost her early this morning!” Roland turned around and was about to march victoriously back, “So thank you so much for—!”

She pretended to make a lasso and swing it around Roland. Even though it was made of nothing more than air, Roland was pulled back.

Olivier put his face in his palm.

He didn’t like mimes on the best of days. They were quiet, which would potentially be a nice quality... if it weren’t for that quietness being, not a means for peace, but rather something to make their interactions with normal-human-beings all that much more frustrating and difficult to discern. And their games with empty air seemed but another reason to disrupt the days of normal natural-world abiding people. They were like vampires…except they couldn’t actually see anything beyond this world, and couldn’t actually alter anything, and they were much more annoying to deal with.

And this one was proving, (as mimes generally did), unable to let them get away without participating in her little farce.

He had a theory that mimes weren’t really there to entertain normal people, rather normal people were there to entertain mimes.

“What is it? Is something wrong?” Roland asked.

She held her hand up, and bent her fingers a few times as if to say she would like payment.

“You want a reward?” Roland seemed more than slightly affronted at this. The thought that anyone wouldn’t do a good deed out of the goodness of their heart was nothing short of diabolical to him.

The mimette made several hand motions which, while confusing at first seemed to be her way of conveying that she wasn’t asking for much (Olivier thought that would remain to be seen).

She pondered for a moment with a hand to her chin and squnched up face. Her eyes grazed over the old man, (who had his hands clasped in front of him in a pleading motion), and Olivier (who had folded his arms over his chest, and decided to look away when she looked at him). When he looked back, she was pointing at him.

She pointed at him, then she tapped her finger to her cheek.

Olivier didn’t need an interpreter to understand what that meant.

He recoiled, his voice going low and tense, “I would…prefer another method.”

It’s not like he didn’t know how to kiss a woman, (he’d done a lot more than kiss more than one woman), but this was just—

“Oh it’s just one little kiss, Olivier!” Roland waved his hand. “Do it for Monsieur Butterbeans!” (Monsieur Butterbeans decided to take this opportunity to do the important job of pooping on her shoulder).

Well someone ought to do it.

The mime did the lasso trick again, this time with Olivier. Olivier decidedly did not play along, but she was clearly well-versed in the ways of unparticipatory students, and happy to use the invisible rope to pull herself towards him. (Roland looked delighted with the show).

She got uncomfortably close, put her hands behind her back and presented her cheek.

Olivier looked away, his arms still folded.

Roland still found a way to get in his line of sight, and gave him the thumbs up.

The mimette stood on her tiptoes and blinked her eyelashes repeatedly. She might have been pretty, but who could tell under all that disgusting makeup? ( …Which Olivier did not want on his lips).

“This is ridiculous.” He grunted. “There are other ways to—”

“It’s just one little kiss Olivier!" Roland repeated. "She seems a perfectly nice lady! She deserves it!”

Olivier was not going to humiliate himself for a parakeet, who seemed to rather like this mime anyways.

“Remember, I might just be inclined to work harder tomorrow!”

Olivier sighed, still not looking at her.

“Fine, if you can’t do it, I’ll kiss her!” Roland stepped forward.

“No, no, I’ll do it!” Olivier pinched the bridge of his nose. ”She clearly likes me.” Olivier peeked open an eye to see the mime blinking more profusely, apparently not the least bit offended at his obvious disinterest. (Only more evidence for the normal-people-are-entertainment-fodder-for-the-mimes theory)

“Are you sure? Because you don’t seem like you’re going to do it. It’s really fine if you want me to!”

Olivier took a rather long moment to gather himself, and all the dignity that he knew he was about to lose. He kept his eyes firmly shut…and gave her a peck on the cheek.

…Except, when Olivier opened his eyes, he came to find—(to his absolute horror)—that in the moment he had taken to muster his courage, Roland had decided that Olivier wasn’t going to do it, and went in to kiss her other cheek. The mime recognized this in perfect time, (and in perfect mime fashion), stepped out of the way. So the person who he had kissed was actually….

Olivier jerked away with what almost sounded like a horrified squeak, his hand flying to his mouth. He then turned sharply away, sticking out his tongue, and hacking like a cat who had a hairball.

Roland simply blinked, then began to laugh mirthfully, like he didn’t find the situation the least bit awkward. “Well played, Mademoiselle!” He applauded her.

The mime bowed with a flourish of her hand, and as she lowered herself Monsieur Butterbeans flew off her shoulder and into the hand of her owner, who he then brought up to his own cheek to nuzzle gratefully

“Olivier, your mouth tastes like an ashtray.” Roland remarked as they began to leave—waving his hand and sending an extra thank you towards the mime. “I really hope you don’t smoke before you kiss women. It doesn’t make me want to kiss you again you know.” Roland put his hand on his shoulder.

Olivier flinched violently, snapped equally violently, “Don’t touch me!” and said low, “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost I dearly hope it doesn’t.”

Roland just laughed.

“If you even think about mentioning this to anyone—” his glared at him, hoping his eyes were as sharp as he intended them to be.

“I really don’t know what the big fuss is about! It was just a silly prank! And a rather clever one on her part!”

Olivier stuck his tongue out again, feeling like he was going to vomit. “It was a disgusting prank.”

“Keep talking like that and I’ll feel insulted! I hope my mouth didn’t taste half as bad as yours did.”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Your mouth didn’t taste like anything, because that didn’t happen and we are never talking about it!”

“Well, nothing to complain about is good news I guess!”

“Stop. Talking. About it.”

They had been walking a good way, and the sun was setting over the city, when the old man stopped in front of them, holding Monsieur Butterbeans in front of him, looking down at her lovingly.

“Thank you for helping me find my dear Monsieur Butterbeans,” the old man spoke. (Olivier tried not to shout in surprise at the reveal that he could actually talk). “The Church really does help those in need, doesn’t it? You’re good boys.”—(Olivier would have preferred ‘men’ but)—“I would like to repay you somehow.”

“Oh no, we simply couldn’t accept!” Roland burst out, stepping forward. “A good deed is its own reward! ‘Anything you do for the least of these’ and all! Although, you’re not the least of course! It’s just a verse you know! Well no verse is just a verse, but—”

“I feel I must do something for your…trouble.” (Olivier curled his nose at the slight snicker there was behind the word ‘trouble.’) “At the very least, I have some rather nice vintage wines in my cellar—“

Before Roland could say once again that that-really-wasn’t-necessary, Olivier shot his hand in front of him and said, a little too loudly, “We will gladly accept.”

******

The next day Olivier was leaning back in his chair in front of a rather large stack of paperwork, massaging the crick in his neck when Roland burst in, a little girl hiding behind him.

“OLIVIER!” He panted. “Olivier, this poor girl has lost her favorite doll! We simply must help her!”

Olivier shut his eyes, rubbing his temple, his voice shaking. “You told me you would work harder if I—”

“I will! I will! But this is urgent!”

Olivier sighed. “Astolfo!” He yelled.

After a few moments, a boy with red hair came in.

“You sent for me?”

“Roland has a job for you...(however ridiculous it may be)," he added under his breath. "Will you help find this girl’s doll?” Olivier marched forward, his footsteps ominous on the stone floor, and grabbed Roland’s wrist a little too tight, dragging him into a chair, “Roland here has work to do.”

As Astolfo obliged, Olivier muttered, more to Roland than anyone else, “And he’s not getting out of it this time.”

Roland pouted, plopping down in the chair to properly do his Chasseur work.

...And Olivier couldn’t help but feel like he was having a perfectly satisfactory morning once again.

*

<-Day 6: The Royals

Day 4: Chloé and/or Jean-Jacques->

[carboniteprincess]

Warnings: 18+, Minors DNI, Canon-typical violence, mentions of blood, character death, murder, you're literally a rebel sniper, it's enemies to lovers boba is not going to be nice to you yet, love at first fist fight, I cannot stress this enough, ENEMIES TO LOVERS, he's kind of arrogant? but he's young give him time

Pairing: Boba Fett x F! Reader | 2.0k words

You're arguably the best sniper in the entire rebel alliance, with hundreds of high ranking Imperial officials on your belt. When you're given the order to kill Boba Fett, you are under the impression that this would be like any other mission. Unfortunately, he seems to have great skill of getting out of situations that aren't in his favor. Now you're on Tatooine, where your comrade Orda has lured him into discussing business in a shady restaurant under the guise of being an Imperial Commander. His luck has to run out at some point, and you intend that to be today.

Crossposted on Ao3!

Being a rebel wasn't as glamorous as you thought. You weren't conducting high-level espionage or anything of the like. Instead, your penchant for sniping was homed in on, making you one of, if not the best in the entire squad. The only flaw you had, was arrogance. Never have you let a target walk away, never have you allowed yourself into a tight spot. 

You were always ahead of the enemy, so when your general gave you the order to kill Boba Fett. You assumed it would be an easy in and out job, perhaps he would've posed a threat to other members of your squad. But to you it would be simple, right? Unfortunately not. 

This is your third attempt at some kind of ambush, luring him into a perfect position. Mandalorian armor had few weak points, meaning you had to meticulously spend hours figuring out where would land a good, clean blow. His neck. If angled correctly, one tilt of his helmet and it would be over. Right through the jugular, no more bounty hunter. Another imperial dog to add to your list. 

If he would just turn his head, a little more to the right. Sweat beads on your forehead, eyes focused down the scope. Being a good assassin was all about your ability to linger, to wait. You're positioned on a balcony, a blind spot to the restaurant below. Your associate kept him talking under the guise of being an Imperial Commander, negotiating pay for the next rebel target. Boba Fett sits across from him, drink untouched. If you could see his face you'd swear he seemed bored. His legs wide open, leaning back nonchalantly. 

Fingers clenching on the trigger, you close your left eye. It wasn't like you enjoyed your job, when this war was over you'd swore to never lift a weapon again. The Empire made you, molding you like clay into a perfect killer. A painful truth, a driving force. Your parents. Both were medical professionals, caught smuggling medication to the galaxy's poorest. Promptly executed and then you, an orphan. A street urchin, nothing more. 

It wasn't long into your teens that you heard of the resistance, your heart burned with a want of revenge. So you got stronger, learned how to use a blaster, pilot and any skills that would make you useful to their cause. But you weren't a rebel, not really. You didn't care for politics, didn't even bother listening to the speeches about restoring the Republic. It didn't matter to you, but what did matter was taking out as many Imperials as you could before you die in battle or finally become numb to the anger. 

Self-preservation was no concern of yours, and that made you dangerous. A loose cannon, hot-tempered, and scarily a woman. You were used to being underestimated by your peers on gender, height, birth planet…. and you were the one who gets the high-profile missions. You were the one who has the highest accuracy, years of practice which left your trigger finger calloused, and every other emotion muted. 

Boba Fett had become a real thorn in your side. Threatening your record, career and possibly your sanity. His uncanny talent for escaping situations, even if all cards were against him, was exasperating. You would be lying if you didn't have some modicum of respect for him though, you were somewhat alike. Respect, no matter how great, does not destroy a death warrant. 

Someday soon his luck would run out, and it would be you at the other end of the blaster. That day was today. Lips twitching into a smirk, you watch his neck turn. Bingo. You steady your rifle, pulse pounding in your ears. At last, this mission would be over. You'd become a legend, the woman who killed Boba Fett. 

Bang. You take the shot, accurate as ever. A hum leaves your lips, watching him fall to the ground. Your calculations were correct, there was a weak point. Every armor has one, even Mandalorian. It was like a drug, the puzzle pieces clicking together with every fragility you discovered. 

The restaurant below descends into chaos, even the bartender is panicking. All guests rushing from their tables, abandoning their meals as your associate checks the man's pulse. You stare down your scope, watching the ordeal. He gives a thumbs-up, definitely dead. A buzz in your ear alerts you to a comlink.

"He's dead. But I think you'll want to come down here." Orda replies through static. Your brow creases, what the hell could've gone wrong. Muscles twitching with irritation, you make your way through the currently uninhabited building. You were ordered to avoid collateral damage by all means necessary, a false fire alarm did the job well. 

Your feet tap against the stairs as you make quick work of assessing your surroundings— if something is wrong, then it's always better safe than sorry. It seemed to be all clear, so you proceeded out the door and onto the street. This area of Mos Eisley was pretty habitable, aside from the abundance of criminal undertakings. Dust kicks as you march into the restaurant, pushing through various guests who were piling out at lightspeed. 

With a gruff, you finally make it to the rooftop, an exclusive VIP spot which proved difficult to doctor identity necessary to enter. You're about to start asking what the hell could've been so important that he dragged you down here, but your eyes meet Orda's now slumped body, face down with all color residing. A frustrated sigh leaves you, he was a good man. Even worse, he was a great rebel. His heart was in it, unlike yours. He shouldn't have been the casualty here. You reach down, pulling out his identichip and stashing it in your pocket. An action that you've taken with far too many of your comrades. 

Painfully you pull yourself from Orda's body, standing upright. Lingering would be a deathwish, whoever killed Orda was skilled. An impressive marksman, obviously one of Boba's accomplices who mistakenly thought he was the one that shot him. You could go over what-ifs later, right now you were going to finish the fucking job. 

The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in crimson constellations as the wind settled. Inspecting Boba's body was your primary concern, whatever Orda discovered, it cost him his life. You were determined to find out what exactly it was, from a glance it seemed like Boba Fett. With a grimace, you move his drooping head around. Concerningly heavier than expected, beskar is light and durable. 

You hook your fingertips under the helmet, pulling it off and coming face to face with…. not your target. Fuck. You'd be deceived, spectacularly. Knuckles white, feeling bile in your throat threatening to explode in a cocktail of frustration and admiration. The crudely made edges of the helmet abrasive against your palm, a reminder of your failure. 

Without a second thought, your balled fist comes into contact with the wall, encasing the helmet and sending tendrils of pain, a shock wave through your arm as you verbalize your confliction with a strangled scream. Orda died for nothing, you were a joke. Everything you had built, buried and locked away was floating to the surface. 

But you haven't felt this alive in years. Being outsmarted, so cunningly sent a morbid thrill up your spine. You could almost laugh, had you not heard footsteps approaching. Impulsively your hand fell to your blaster, making a mental note to thank your teacher for always carrying more than one. 

"Surely you didn't believe it was that easy to kill me." Before he can finish you turn, firing your blaster in his direction. Of course, his armor deflects it with ease. "I must admit, I'm impressed. Not everyone could distinguish beskar through weight alone." A snort leaves him at your feeble attempt to hold ground, looking over your pathetic secondary weapon that could barely injure an Ewok. 

"Go thing I'm not everyone then." You stand, keeping your right arm extended, blaster aimed at his inner thigh. It wouldn't kill him, however it would allow ample time for escape. "You killed my friend." He's circling you now. "Who's your Intel? How did you know I'd be here?" 

"You are hardly in the position to be making demands, little rebel." Another chuckle, you'd heard of him toying with his advisories before, but this was different. A teacher disciplining a student. 

"You're going to kill me anyway, what's the harm." You huff, shrugging. He stops pacing, chewing over your words. 

"Killing you would be a waste." That bastard. "Of my time and resources." He adds matter-of-factly. 

"Orda wasn't?" You spit, voice cracking in frustration. Figuring out what made others tick was your specialty, but the lack of motivation and reason within Boba's actions is what baffled you. 

"That was a favor." He sounds like you should be grateful, almost insulted that you hadn't figured it out yet even with him practically dangling the answer in front of you. Perhaps you weren't as clever as he thought. 

"A—favor? How would killing my comrade benefit me!" You reply astounded, cheeks burning red, hand shaking on your blaster. 

You think for a second, taking your eyes off him. Why did it take until after the kill for Orda to realize what was wrong with the body… He isn't… wouldn't…could've of… you've been double-crossed. "He wouldn't— I've spent months with him—" 

"And every little thing you did, he told me." His admission is calm, you look over Orda's body, no longer do you feel remorse. Just shame. You couldn't even see betrayal under your nose. 

You walk closer to him, the barrel of your blaster getting dangerously close. Nothing could stop you from finishing your mission right now, but he's letting you. Knowledge is far more appealing than rewards in the resistance. 

With your grip around the handle tight, you slam it down across his helmet, your knee reaching his groin. "You're very easy to fool." A smirk replaces the look of misery on your face, it was a dangerous game to pretend to let your guard down. Your risk paid off, managing to get a shot at his thigh. 

Swiftly, you press all your weight on him, knocking him back just enough to make a run for the edge of the balcony. He groans in pain, you're so close to the edge, escape almost in your grasp— when a grappling hook wraps around your ankle. 

You struggle against the cold floor, doing anything you can to wriggle free from his grasp.

It's fruitless, as soon as he's in reach you're kicking him, hurtling all kinds of abuse. Your attempts to wrestle him are almost comical and in a frenzy, you grip the only thing that seems viable. His Helmet. You manage to free it, your fingers hooking under and pulling it off his head, sending it on the floor beside you. For a moment you're the one stunned, not him. 

Dark curls frame his face, a beautiful border to tanned skin. His nose is prominent but compliments his features. Scars pepper his face, but he's young. Younger than you thought. You watch as his forehead crinkles in anger, hands pinning yours beside your head. 

Wasting no time, you bring your head to crack his, sending him back with a kick to the stomach. Your nose pours from impact, dripping onto the floor as you clamber to your feet. 

"This isn't over." You hear his voice, unmodified. You rush to the edge, peering over and assessing if you can land in one of the speeders below. He stands, trying to rush over to stop you. "Don't!" 

With a wink, you throw yourself over the side. In seconds you're hurtling onto the street, watching a bare-faced Boba Fett grow smaller with each passing second. His eyes are widened in either admiration or shock for your bravery. 

He eventually dares to look over and finds that you're gone. Whoever you were, he finally had a worthy opponent. He would find you again. His little rebel.