#patrick bridges answers

[girliism]

part 2.

nerdy!art hates parties but this was gonna be the first time the two of you hang out outside of studying. “please don’t tell me you’re wearing a button up to a party.” patrick stood in the door way of art’s room waiting for him to get ready. art look at himself in the mirror. “what’s wrong with a button up?” he mumbled.

it was impossible to not know that a party was going on. bright colorful lights and loud music could be heard from down the street. some people were already throwing up on the front lawn.

you spot art right when he walks through the door. you walk up to him smiling giving a small greeting to patrick before he walks off. art’s eyes roam your figure linger a little to long on how your nipples poked through your shirt despite it being very hot in the house. “follow me donaldson let’s get you drunk.” you pulled art to the kitchen making him chug whatever you poured into his cup then handing him a new one.

you dragged art all over the house. introducing him to your friends somehow getting him to play beer pong and dance with you. “do you wanna go upstairs?” you asked him out of breath from dancing. art answers yes way to quickly and it has you giggling at his eagerness. you lead art to some room upstairs laying down on the bed patting the spot next to you.

you turned your head to look at art who was laying next to you. you studied the way his glasses sat on his nose bridge. “thanks again for helping me pass.” you saw how art eyes would slip down to stare at your lips. “it was nothing. i knew you were gonna do good.” art was not one to take risks so maybe it was his hormones and alcohol mixing that lead him to kiss you.

when art’s lips touched yours you immediately sighed into the kiss. you could feel his glasses press against your face when the kiss got more intense. your tongues and teeth meeting. you move to straddle art sucking at his neck leaving faint marks. art’s steadily growing bulge pokes at your core. art lets out a groan when you grind against it. “wait wait wait.” you sit up in art’s lap looking down at him. “i don’t have anything with me.” art says. “it’s fine i’m clean. promise.” you went back to kiss him. art trusted you so he let his hands wander up your shirt fingers coming in contact with your nipples.

soon clothes are removed from your bodies finding their way onto the floor. “oh wow.” your eyes widened at sight of art’s cock, he was definitely bigger than other guys you’ve been with. art blushed getting shy from your comment but his dick twitched. “you’re so big.” you spit on your hand and started jerking your head up and down. “can barely fit in my hand how’s it gonna go in my pussy.” you kissed along his jaw. your moans blending together when slowly sank onto his cock until he was all the in.

you sat there for a second to get use to the stretch before moving up and down moans and whines falling from your swollen lips. the wet feeling of your walls squeezing him had art gripping at your hips. “you’re so tight around me.” art grunted bringing his hand up lightly around your neck and he started fucking up into you. “o-oh fuck-” a silent scream gets caught in your throat when art’s tip hits that soft spot inside you. “maybe you would’ve been passed if it ment you got fucked after huh.” art leans the two of you forward placing you on your back his hips beating into your faster. “y-yeah.” you slur mind fixed on how godly arts looks a top of you. his curly falling out of place and his glasses slightly slipping down his nose.

“harder go harder gonna cum.” art kisses and sucks at your neck fucking you harder. your hand comes down to rub at your clip. your back arches up into him and your free hand grips at the cover below you. your body twitches as your orgasm washes over you. art starts pulling out to cum on your stomach but your ankles lock around his lower back pushing him back inside. “inside please cum inside.” you squeeze tight around him and it sets art off. “fucking hell.” his head drops onto your shoulder as he spills inside you.

you finally let art pull out. he pushed his glasses back up his nose watching his cum leak out of you and on to the bed. the two of you stayed there kissing for awhile before getting cleaned up.

art insisted that he walk you back to your dorm neither of you commenting on the slight limp you had.

(glasses must stay on during sex 🙂‍↕️)

[badsweetangel]

Could you do a headcanon of the 2017 bowers gang saw the new girl in town and they saw she was a crazy bitch like worse then patrick but they saw she was dating a guy who was more kind and just not tough like them and they saw the reader would kill anyone who hurts her man please

Troublemaker (Bowers gang x reader)

Warnings: Typical canon violence, bad language, boys are not gentlemen lol

You were on top of that stupid bitch who bothered your boyfriend.

You didn't really know why she did it, you didn't care why she would want to do that to herself and dare to speak to what was yours.

At this point you had already lost your mind, you didn't listen to what she was saying to you. It didn't matter what she was saying to you.

Your boyfriend was visibly upset in the cafeteria and although he tried to hide it because he knew what you were like, in the end he ended up saying that there was a girl who was bothering him. That simple phrase made you lose your mind.

You didn't say anything else during the entire lunch time.

Your boyfriend didn't want to say anything else either, it wasn't good to talk to you when you were like that. Afterwards, you said goodbye and told him that you had a lot to do and you didn't have time for the two of you. He assumed it was a lie. He knew. But he didn't say anything to you.

It hadn't gone so well the last time he had suggested you stop being such a troublemaker.

Troublemaker.

He never said that word again.

You followed the girl to her house and when she got far enough away, that's when you pounced on her. And there you both were. It was almost curfew and you both knew it. You could see the fear growing in her eyes. When there was no one in the town of Derry, truly dangerous things happened. It was a feeling in the air that you could feel, you knew bad things would happen and at this point, the girl just accepted her fate. You dug your nails into her cheeks, leaving completely visible marks. She whined at the pain. But she didn't know this was just beginning. You hit her head against the floor a couple of times. She cried and suffered.

Once curfew came, you started. You pulled a knife out of your pocket and she immediately reacted, trying to get you off of her.

You knew the message was still not clear.

You hit her head several more times until she had no energy to continue fighting. Once things were as you had planned, you took out the lighter. With the little energy she had left, she tried to fight. You lit it and brought it closer to her face.

“Hey, you’re in the way here, bitch” You heard a voice behind you. You turned around and immediately knew who it was. Everyone knew who it was.

“Go away, Bowers” ​​​​You said.

And he didn’t like that at all.

Two boys grabbed you from both sides and leaned you against the bridge. You looked at the girl, you couldn’t let her get away. It’s the only thing you could think about at the moment. Your anger increases, you were literally just starting and these idiots decide to stop you because they thought the place was theirs.

“You idiots, can you stop what you’re doing? I’m in the middle of something” You said, not being able to take notice of Henry’s angry face.

“Why don’t you shut the fuck up, bitch?” Henry said, visibly upset.

You left the girl aside and started looking at them. There were four of them. You had just become aware. You could literally die here. Even though you were scared, you tried not to show it. You could have dealt with this in some way in other situations. You really had no limits. But there were four of them. The most feared gang in Derry had you cornered on the kiss bridge because you thought of answering Henry wrong. You had certainly been an idiot today. On top of that, you didn’t even finish the job, the bitch needed to know why you were there in the first place. Wrong, everything had gone wrong.

And that made your anger increase again. You couldn’t leave this like this and much less did you want to die there. But first you had to get away and then, finish. However, everyone was distracted for a moment when the girl began to get up and try to leave. Escape. And that was a no-no.

“Fucking idiots, let me kill that bitch and then do whatever you want to do.” You tried to get them to let you go, but nothing seemed to work.

And when you saw Patrick’s eyes you knew something was going to happen.

“Let her do it,” he said, visibly excited.

“What the hell are you saying, idiot?” Bowers yelled at him with an angry shout.

“Yeah, we have a deal.” Patrick shrugged, taking advantage of the situation.

Henry looked at him and Hockstetter knew he only had a few seconds to speak before Henry just snapped.

“Let her do it and then we can do whatever we want with her,” he said smiling.

You didn’t even understand how Henry agreed to that. But you knew Patrick could recognize a lunatic when he saw one and he was visibly interested.

Well, that’s better than nothing.

[blckbrrybasket]

Run, girl, run

Artrick x Fem!Reader

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ: 1k

ꜱᴜᴍᴍᴀʀʏ: Art’s grandma comes over after you and Patrick spend the night

Art's grandma was the sweetest woman you'd ever known. She was the salt of the earth, raising Art to bring only kindness and love into the world. He always tried his best to please her, and for the most part he kept his soft heart even after starting college and while keeping Patrick around him. 

You balanced the two boys out. You kept Patrick in check, while also encouraging Art to loosen up a bit and enjoy his life outside of tennis. He wasn’t a teenager anymore, no longer bound by the rules of parent figures, urged on by your support. Most days with the three of you were like a dream, always helping the other to be the best they could be. Not that other people knew.

You all decided to keep your relationship private, not wanting outside judgments or prying eyes.

So no one else was aware, including Art’s grandma. Unfortunately for you, Art's grandma didn't always call before stopping by. She meant well, but her surprise visits meant quick texts from Art to make yourself scarce for the day. You always listened; even when Patrick begged you to mess with Art, you insisted on giving them space.

Maybe that’s why he got some sick satisfaction that Art's grandma had unexpectedly arrived for a visit while he was still half-dressed in Art's bed with you. The past night had been great, fucking until you were on the brink of exhaustion, and yet somehow Patrick was already energetic again in the morning. Art was usually a little slower to getting up, wanting nothing more than to drift back to sleep cradled in your arms.

However, the single knock on his door shattered the peaceful morning's atmosphere. Art groaned into his pillow, barely lifting his head to call out, “What?” A second of silence passed when his grandma’s sweet voice answered, “Art, sweetie? Is that you? I tried to call but I couldn’t wake you up.” She laughed softly, unaware of how fast Art shot out of bed.

He toppled over the side of the mattress, shoulder slamming into the thin carpet. Art hissed in pain, wasting no time when he popped back up. “Guys, you gotta go - now!” he whisper-yelled, shaking you awake. “Honey, are you alright?” Art winced at his grandma’s concerned voice. “I’m alright grandma!” Art replied, eyes darting between you and the door. 

His head swiveled back around to face you as you raised your head, blinking away the last traces of sleep to take in the scene. “Up!” You let out a silent sigh, looking around in confusion. Art was already moving on to scramble, grabbing the clothes off the floor. “What..?” You asked.

Patrick leaned over your bare shoulder with a wicked grin, having been silently awake for a while. “Art’s grandma is here,” he whispered in your ear with cruel amusement. He laughed quietly at Art’s frantic movements, your fingers pinching the bridge of your nose. You sat up with little urgency, the comforter rolling off your body. 

Art’s panic fell into background noise as Patrick slipped his shirt over you, giving you more coverage than just your underwear. A quick kiss silenced his mirth as you took in poor Art's panic. You turned away from Patrick when the sound of Art’s window opening drew you back to the present. 

Art came back into view, whipping around to face you with an expression full of worry. He grabbed your face for a desperate goodbye peck. “I'm so sorry,” Art apologized profusely, knowing there was no other way out than the window. You understood - there wasn't any other option with his grandma right outside the door. 

You shrugged, not caring all that much as you kissed him back, hands smoothing his curls down. “We get it,” Patrick mused. “You’re throwing us out like some hookups, no don’t worry,” he laughed as Art shoved his chest. “We get it!”

Patrick pecked Art’s cheek in an apology, ignoring his eye roll, before helping you to the end of the bed. His hand smoothly slid around your waist to guide you to the window. “Ladies first,” he said ‘gallantly’. Patrick watches you swing a leg over the sill as you snicker. “How chivalrous,” you goad.

Your hands find his, holding tightly as he helps lower you to the ground. It’s a gentle landing, greatly helped by Patrick who goes to follow suit the moment your feet find purchase. His landing is…a lot less graceful, shoved outside by Art. He could only hold his grandma off for so long, excusing that he was taking so long because he was simply getting dressed, deciding to hurry it along.

With a yelp, Patrick practically swan dove from the window, a mess of flailing limbs. He lands in a painful heap to the side of you, groaning. You could only sigh as you lent a hand to pull him upright once more. “Patrick,” you nearly whine in annoyance.

He wasn’t the last to come out though, your clothes raining down on him, adding insult to injury. “Seriously?” Patrick muttered, brushing himself off indignantly. You were all lucky that Art only lived on the first floor. 

Despite the exit, you couldn't help but laugh at Patrick's disheveled state, the window slamming shut after another apology from Art. Your giggles bubbled over as you freed him from the shorts caught on his ear and shoulder.

Patrick only huffed, bundling the clothes unceremoniously.  It was a rough start to the morning and you could see his thinly veiled annoyance. Wanting to lighten the mood, you leaned in for a quick kiss. His furrowed eyebrows softened some as his lips pressed to yours.

“Come on, first one back to my dorm gets head,” you challenged, lips brushing against his. Patrick's eyes lit up at the offer. In an instant, he gripped your hand and took off in a sprint across campus. You laughed with glee as the wind rushed past, any lingering stress melting away by your joint euphoria.

[fruitjoos]

twisted vows

reader x ex!patrick (mentions of tashi duncan and art donaldson)

please forgive any errors

The cramped dining hall droned with the usual chatter, the four of you seated around the table, exchanging conversation and laughter. Patrick sat across from you, with Tashi by his side, while Art, your secret date for Friday night, occupied the seat on your left. Everything felt easy, almost normal. The tension between you and Patrick is a ghost you thought was buried long ago.

“So, you guys wanna hang out this weekend?” Tashi asks, her voice light and easy.

“Can’t, I’ve got plans,” you reply, trying to sound casual. “Got a hot date.” you joked, tilting your head, popping your tongue.

You feel the shift in the air immediately. Patrick’s eyes flicker to you, his glance fleeting but sharp enough to cut. He chuckles under his breath, just loud enough for you to catch, and your heart sinks. Tashi seems oblivious, smiling sweetly, but Art’s brow furrows as he senses the growing unease.

“Oh? Who’s the lucky guy?” Tashi asks, her eyes gleaming with innocent curiosity.

Before you can answer, Patrick’s voice cuts through the air, cold and biting. “Guessing it’s someone who doesn’t mind being lied to.”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. Tashi blinks, her smile faltering as she turns to Patrick, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Patrick shrugs, feigning indifference, but there’s an edge in his voice that’s impossible to miss. “Nothing. Just… glad to hear you’ve moved on.”

Art, sensing the tension that had already thickened the air, tries to ease it, his voice low and careful. “So have you.” The words slip out before he can stop them, a knee-jerk defense of you that he immediately regrets as soon as Patrick’s eyes snap to his.

You glance at Art, appreciating his instinct to stand up for you, but knowing too well the cost. Patrick’s stare hasn’t wavered, his jaw clenched, the words he’s holding back like a live wire ready to snap.

The words hang in the air, heavy and loaded. You swallow hard, trying to keep your cool, but you can feel the sting of old wounds reopening. “Glad?” you echo, your voice low but steady. “Glad about what, exactly?”

“Glad you’ve found someone you won’t feel compelled to cheat on,” he snaps, his eyes locking onto yours with a fiery intensity.

The table falls silent, the tension thickening like a storm cloud. Art shifts uncomfortably beside you, while Tashi’s gaze darts between you and Patrick, the realization dawning on her like a slow burn.

“Patrick, don’t,” Tashi murmurs, placing a hand on his arm, but he shakes her off, his focus still squarely on you.

You lean forward slightly, your heart pounding in your chest. “That’s rich coming from you, don’t you think?”

Art lets out a small sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose, clearly annoyed with the direction this is heading. “Come on, let’s not do this,” he mutters, but his voice is drowned out by the rising tension.

“Do what?” Patrick scoffs, his gaze never wavering. “Call it like it is? I’m just saying, it’s nice to see you’ve finally figured out how to be loyal.”

“Loyal?” The word leaves your mouth like a curse, anger simmering just beneath the surface. “Like you ever cared about that. Let’s not pretend you’re some saint, Patrick.”

Tashi looks between the two of you, her expression hurt and confused. “Is there something going on here that I should know about?” she asks, her voice trembling slightly.

But before you can respond, Patrick stands up abruptly, pushing his chair back with a screech that echoes through the small room. He stares down at you, jaw clenched, eyes blazing with anger and something dangerously close to longing.

“Oh, fuck off,” he says, his voice a low growl. “She just wants everyone to think she’s this innocent fucking person and she’s not.”

His words cut deep, but you refuse to back down, meeting his glare with one of your own. “Funny, coming from the guy who always had one foot out the door.”

Art’s hand brushes against yours under the table, a silent plea to let it go, but you can’t bring yourself to look away from Patrick.

But before anyone can say more, you decide to end it, standing up from the table. “I should go.” The words come out calm, steady, despite the disaster swirling inside you. “I think we all need some space.”

You clean up your area, each movement feeling heavier than the last. As you pick up your tray, you hear Patrick's voice, low and almost too soft to catch. "You always were good at running away."

You pause for a moment, the words like a final blow, but you don’t look up. Instead, you walk out, leaving behind the ghosts of what was, and what might have been.

The silence that follows is deafening, the weight of unfinished business lingering in the room long after you've left.

The truth was, Patrick didn’t even care about the fact that you cheated on him, or was disloyal at all. What tore him the most was that after it happened, you left him. You didn’t fight for him to stay with you. You were okay with it.

As you walked out of the dining hall, the truth weighed heavy on you, even if you didn’t want to acknowledge it. The fight wasn’t about the betrayal itself. It never had been. Patrick would have handled the cheating, the lies, even the broken promises. But what he couldn’t forgive, what haunted him even now, was the way you just let him go. You didn’t plead, didn’t beg, didn’t even shed a tear when it all crumbled.

That was the real betrayal.

You were okay with losing him.

And that’s what made him furious, made him spit those venomous words at you across the table. It wasn’t about loyalty or infidelity. It was about the fact that when it came down to it, you didn’t care enough to fight. You just let him slip away, as if he never mattered.

That’s what lingered in the silence after you left, what gnawed at him even as he tried to play it cool in front of Tashi. She could see it, too, the way his eyes darkened when you walked out, the way his shoulders slumped like someone carrying a weight too heavy to bear.

And Art, sitting there, his hand still tingling from where it had touched yours. He knew the truth, too. That no matter what either of you tried to pretend, the past wasn’t really in the past. It was alive, thrumming beneath the surface, still shaping every moment you were all caught in.

Patrick stared at the exit long after you were gone, the pain of your indifference more brutal than the betrayal itself. He wasn’t sure if he’d ever get over it. Not because of what you did, but because of what you didn’t do. Because you didn’t fight for him.

[coolgrl111]

“shouldn’t you be prostituting yourself for a place to sleep tonight?” part 2

patrick x reader

a/n: thank you for enjoying this enough to warrant a part two😭❤️

his vulnerability is palpable now, the bravado he used to wear like armor has long since crumbled, leaving him raw and uncertain. "thanks for letting me come over," he says, voice low, almost unsure. you offer him a small, tentative smile, still unsure of what to say. it feels like meeting him for the first time again, only this time, he's a little more broken, and you're a little more cautious.

"it's fine," you murmur, though the awkwardness lingers like a thick smoke, curling in the silence between your words. it’s strange, how once you shared everything, and now you can’t even find the right way to ask him if he's doing okay.

he shifts, clearing his throat, his eyes flicking toward you, and for a moment, it’s like the old patrick peeks through—a faint shadow of the boy who used to tease you relentlessly, just to see you smile. “you know, you haven’t changed much," he says, voice soft with an edge of something you can't quite place. you laugh, but it’s a nervous, light sound, and you shake your head.

"you have," you reply, maybe more bluntly than you meant to. his smile falters, but he nods, gaze falling to the floor. “yeah,” he whispers, “i guess i have.”

your eyes linger, skulking over his unshaven beard, his bright blue eyes still brash, yet weary. the same eyes that used to gaze at you with so much love, affection. now with caution.

for a moment, silence wraps around you both again, the weight of what’s been lost too heavy to carry into conversation. and then, in a voice that's just a bit too careful, he tries to break the tension, offering a half-hearted flirt. “you ever think about… us? like, back then?” he asks, eyes meeting yours, vulnerable in a way that makes your heart twist. you don’t answer immediately, and he fumbles, quickly adding, “not that i’m—i don’t mean…”

you smile gently, shaking your head. “i do,” you admit quietly, and for a moment, the tension softens, the past stretching like a bridge between you both. but you both know it’s not the same anymore.

he leans back, sighing, a small, tired laugh escaping him. “i missed this,” he says, almost too softly, and there’s a warmth in his voice that you haven’t heard in so long. you smile only the tiniest amount, exhaling gently.

smoothing out your jeans, you glance toward the small, cozy bedroom down the hall. “you can take the bed,” you say, almost too quickly, trying to avoid any more awkwardness. “i’ll sleep on the couch. it’s fine, really.”

patrick’s brows furrow, his eyes narrowing slightly in offense as he straightens up on the couch. “what, do you think i’m some kind of barbarian?” he says, his voice laced with mock indignation. “you seriously think i’d let you sleep on the couch in your own house? come on.”

you open your mouth to protest, but before you can get a word in, he stands up, crossing the room with a sudden burst of energy. “i’m a gentleman!” he exclaims, a playful edge creeping into his tone. “do you have any idea who you’re dealing with? i would never let you do that.”

you blink, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “patrick—”

he cuts you off with a dramatic wave of his hand, his expression shifting into something more earnest, though there’s still a spark of mischief in his eyes. “no, no. we’ll both take the bed. but—” he raises a finger, like he’s just come up with the grandest idea, “we’ll put up a partition, like we’re children or something. afraid of cooties.”

you can’t help but laugh, the tension easing a little. “a partition?” you ask, crossing your arms, amusement dancing in your voice. “and how exactly are we supposed to do that?”

he glances around your living room as if searching for something to use. “pillows,” he says, nodding decisively. “we’ll make a wall of pillows. you stay on your side, i stay on mine. it’s foolproof. totally respectful.”

you raise an eyebrow, trying to stifle your laughter. “and you’re sure this is the best solution?”

“absolutely,” he grins, the first real smile you’ve seen from him all night. it’s like a flicker of the old patrick—confident, playful, always pushing boundaries just enough to make you laugh but never too far. “you’ll see. i’m a perfect gentleman. nothing to worry about.”

shaking your head, you relent, half-amused, half-unsure how you got roped into this. “alright, fine. but if you cross the pillow wall—”

he interrupts with a hand over his heart. “i solemnly swear, i won’t cross the pillow wall. i’ll be on my best behavior.”

you roll your eyes but can’t suppress the smile pulling at your lips. “okay, okay. let’s do this.”

as you both make your way into the bedroom, you can feel the strange mix of nostalgia and vulnerability between you. patrick starts arranging the pillows with a kind of exaggerated seriousness, making you laugh despite the lingering tension. for a moment, it feels like you’re back in the past, before everything got complicated.

when the bed is finally set, with a lumpy, but passable pillow barrier between you, patrick flops down on his side, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. “see? foolproof,” he mumbles, his voice softer now, as if the weight of the day is finally catching up with him. “thanks for this, really,” he adds, quieter, more sincere.

you lie down on your side, pulling the blanket up to your chin, the soft hum of the city outside filling the quiet space between you both. “it’s no problem,” you whisper, staring up at the ceiling, your heart beating a little faster than you’d like to admit.

there’s a long pause, and you almost think he’s fallen asleep when he speaks again, voice low and tentative. “i don’t… i don’t really know how to be this person anymore,” he admits, and in the darkness, you can hear the vulnerability in his words. “but i’m trying.”

you turn your head slightly, looking toward the wall of pillows that separates you. “i know,” you say softly. “and that’s enough.”

for a while, neither of you speaks, the air between you settling into something that feels less awkward, more familiar. the silence feels heavy, but it’s a comforting weight, like you’re both slowly relearning how to exist in each other’s lives.

and somewhere between the rustling of sheets and the soft rhythm of your breaths, you fall asleep, the pillow wall standing firm, but the distance between you both somehow feeling a little less vast.

—

the morning light filters in through the curtains, soft and golden, and you blink awake, feeling the warmth of something—or someone—pressed against you. your heart skips a beat as you realize the pillow partition is gone, and you and patrick are clung to each other, bodies entwined like vines, arms wrapped so tightly you feel like you might snap apart if you move. it’s like the earth itself has cracked between you, splitting the continents, and you’re clinging to the only thing that’s keeping you from drifting away.

for a moment, you stay still, your heart hammering in your chest as you process how close you are. patrick’s arm is draped over your waist, his leg tangled with yours, and his breath is warm on your neck. he stirs, and suddenly, you feel him realize the situation too. his body tenses, and then, almost in slow motion, you both awkwardly pull away, limbs fumbling as if you’re unsure where one person begins and the other ends.

you clear your throat, sitting up and avoiding his gaze, hoping your flushed face isn’t too obvious. but then you glance over at him, and his situation is definitely not helping matters—patrick, fully aware of his morning wood, shifts uncomfortably, running a hand through his disheveled hair. “uh, sorry, i—” he mumbles, his voice rough with sleep, clearly embarrassed. “it’s, uh, it’s morning, you know?”

you laugh nervously, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “yeah, i know. it’s, uh, fine.” you quickly get out of bed, trying to pretend this is totally normal, not at all weird or intimate or… whatever it was. “do you, um, want to take a shower?” you ask, eager to shift the focus.

“yeah,” patrick says, a little too quickly. “that’d be great.”

you lead him to the bathroom, still feeling a little flustered. “towels are in the cabinet,” you say, pointing without making eye contact, because the sight of him is making your heart do weird things again. “just, uh, help yourself.”

as he steps into the bathroom, closing the door behind him, you exhale, trying to calm the fluttering in your stomach. get a grip, you tell yourself. it was just… sleeping. innocent. but the way you held each other, like the world would break apart if you let go—that wasn’t just sleeping, was it?

shaking off the thought, you busy yourself by heading to the kitchen to make breakfast. you crack some eggs, fry up bacon, anything to distract yourself. the sound of the shower running helps, but it also gives you too much time to think. you don’t have clean clothes for him. what’s he going to wear when he comes out? you wrack your brain, and then it hits you.

when patrick finally steps out of the bathroom, damp and only in a towel slung low around his hips, your mouth goes dry. he’s standing there like some kind of ridiculous rom-com cliché, water droplets still clinging to his chest, and you can feel yourself blushing again.

“sorry,” he says sheepishly, running a hand through his wet hair. “i don’t have any clothes…”

you blink, tearing your gaze away. “right! uh, hang on. i… might have something.” you dart past him to the closet, rummaging around until you find them—his old college clothes. you’d kept them, hidden away at the back, not thinking you’d ever have a reason to pull them out again. but here they are, and you’re holding them in your hands.

“here,” you say, handing them over. “they’re, uh, yours. from… college.”

patrick looks at the clothes, then back at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “you kept these?”

you shrug, trying to play it cool, but the warmth in his voice, the look in his eyes—it’s making your heart race again. “i guess i did,” you mumble, turning away before he can see how flustered you are.

“awww,” he teases softly, pulling the clothes from your hands. “didn’t know you were so sentimental.”

you roll your eyes, but your smile gives you away. “just put them on,” you say, trying to sound exasperated, but the blush creeping up your neck betrays you. “breakfast is almost ready.”

as he disappears back into the bathroom to change, you lean against the counter, heart pounding in your chest. what is happening here? this was supposed to be just an awkward sleepover. a kind gesture to an ex boyfriend going through hardship. but it’s starting to feel like something else entirely. and the fact that you still had his clothes—his old clothes—it’s stirring something deep inside you, something you thought you’d buried a long time ago.

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@diorrfairy @fallout-girl219 @blahox

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[doctor-maturin]

‘If you are as mistaken about the birds as you are about my head for heights, Molina will have no great burden to carry, at all,’ reflected Stephen, who had often heard, each time with deeper dismay, of the spidery Inca bridges upon which intrepid Indians crossed torrents raging a thousand feet below them, even hauling immobilized animals over by means of a primitive windlass, the whole construction swaying wildly to and fro as even a single traveller reached the middle, the first false step being the last.

‘How long does it take to fall a thousand feet?’ he asked himself, and as the troop set out he tried to make the calculation; but his arithmetical powers were and always had been weak. ‘Long enough to make an act of contrition, at all events,’ he said, abandoning the answer of seven hours and odd seconds as absurd.

Patrick O'Brian, The wine dark sea

Sometimes I find Stephen painfully relatable. For example his terrible math skills which are maybe even worse than mine

[esmedelacroix]

Tabhair ‘om póg, is Éireannach mé[kiss me, I'm Irish]

miguel o'hara x f!reader

synopsis: You had no idea Miguel was part Irish...

cw: fluffy fluff, Irish-speaking Miguel(translations provided), I don't speak Irish so the translations will be wrong(I'm trying here), established relationship, silly

a/n: Hey lovies, Although Miguel didn't really embrace his Irish side in the movie he's still Irish, I also think it would be so silly for the reader to just randomly see him speaking it and being so gagged, anyway hope you enjoy...

wc: 500

Your eyes fluttered open slowly adjusting to the darkness of your room. You could smell Migurl's presence because you had one of his t-shirts on, but you could feel that he wasn't lying there with you. You rubbed your eyes and slowly got out of bed.

He could just be in the bathroom, but you had attachment issues when it came to sleeping together. You heard low conversation coming from the living room. The other end of the conversation sounded like it was happening over the phone.

As you got closer you could make the voices a lot better, Miguel was talking to an older lady over the phone. The gag of it was that they were speaking gibberish. Or maybe not gibberish but a different language. It was not Spanish, Miguel spoke it all the time. He was using a different accent here. You finally walked into the living room leaning against the wall behind the couch Miguel was sitting at. "Is breá liom tú Mamó, bíodh lá maith agat,"[I love you, grandma, have a good day] he said before hanging up.

"Why aren't you in bed Hermosa? were you waiting for me?" he asked before getting up and walking towards you.

"Yes, but that's not important, what language were you speaking just now?" you questioned.

"I was speaking Irish, I was speaking with my Mamó[grandma]," he said as he took your hand and walked back to the bedroom with you.

"So, you’re Irish?!" you asked.

"Yes?" he responded as though you already knew.

"I didn't know that, I thought you were just Mexican," you gasped as you trailed behind him into your shared bedroom.

"Well I'm not," he answered amused by how surprised you were.

"How come you never told me?" you asked.

"Babe I literally have an apron that says 'Kiss me, I'm Irish on it," he said, pulling your cheeks playfully.

"I thought it was just a little jokey joke," you admitted. Miguel pinches the bridge of his nose.

"You're such an airhead sometimes, ach sin an rud is breá liom fút[but that's what I love about you]," he said, urging you to get into bed with him.

"What does that mean?" you ask skeptically.

"It means, you're so annoying, now let's go to bed," he groaned as you got under the sheets with him. You playfully hit his chest and snuggled up against him. He slowly ran his fingers through your hair and kissed your forehead as you snuggled into his chest. After moments of silence, Miguel assumed you had fallen asleep, you suddenly looked up at him, "Is that why we always go all out for St. Patrick's Day?" you asked, causing him to crack up.

"Go to sleep baby," he exclaimed through laughter.

The next morning Miguel had a lot of explaining to do...

[jungle-angel]

Send Off (Bob Floyd x Reader)

Summary: You, Bob and the rest of the squad get ready to send your kids off to school and let the shenanigans ensue

"Okay Daddy I'm ready now!" Auggie chirped as he stepped out of the bathroom.

Bob sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Auggie, though he had tried, couldn't quite match his own clothes yet. "C'mere bud," Bob told him.

He went into Auggie's room and dug around in the dresser for a hot minute, pulling out a little white t-shirt and a blue checked flannel to go with Auggie's jeans. "Put this on," Bob told his little mini-me.

"But we're gonna miss the bus!" Auggie chirped again.

"Buddy we've still got plenty of time," Bob assured him.

"What's he buggin about missing the bus?" you asked, poking your head in the door.

"Just a little," Bob answered. "And might I ask why you're up Mrs. Floyd?"

"Bob, I've been taking it easy for three weeks now," you told him, the dishtowel in your hand coming to rest on your ever growing bump. "The only thing that your sister's allowing me to do is eat, sleep, read, watch t.v or use the can."

"Hey, Reagan's been doing this for the last nine years," Bob reminded you with a grin. "Trust me, you don't wanna brush off her advice."

You laughed a little, neither of you having noticed that Auggie had disappeared and come back a minute later. "Daddy I can't brush my teeth."

"Why not buddy?"

"Patrick's parked on the shitter!"

You and Bob both burst out laughing at Auggie's response, but at least three-year-old Patrick had finally gotten the hang of using the bathroom on his own.

You got Auggie's toothbrush and the charcoal and mint toothpaste out of the bathroom and had him scrub his teeth in the kitchen sink before Patrick was done, having just washed his hands. As soon as Auggie's backpack had been packed up, he followed Bob out of the house to wait for the bus.

It wasn't long before the rest of the squad had begun making their way down. Maverick was the first to drop by with Danny and Thomas while Rooster was close behind him with Nicky and Pete.

"You guys get outta the house ok?" Bob asked.

"Never better," Maverick yawned. "These two little demons though, woke Penny and I up at six-thirty while Amelia was doing her makeup in the bathroom."

Bob snickered a little, more so when he noticed Rooster in his black basketball shorts and a mismatched shirt. "You didn't sleep did you?" Bob chuckled.

"I couldn't even a coffee before we left," Rooster groaned. "These two are like bottomless pits......they just wolfed down their cornflakes and called it a day."

Coyote came striding up just a minute later with Paloma and Carla giggling like crazy but the exasperated look on his face saying it all.

"Hair......" he interjected before anyone could say anything. "That's all you've gotta know."

Bob looked over at his giggling nieces whose thick hair had been put into tight cornrows with white and turquoise beads at the end. "How'd you do it?" Bob asked him.

"I don't have a clue," Coyote said, throwing his hands up. "Those two cannot sit for two seconds to save their lives and my mom and my wife are the only ones who can do their hair. But somehow, Daddy did it!!!"

Payback crossed the street with Geneva and Neveah some time later while Mickey trailed along with Isabella in her new dress with a bright sunflower pattern. Hangman came around the back of his house with the twins while Phoenix was the last to arrive with Gabe in tow.

"Holy shit," Hangman groaned, rubbing his hands over his face. "Is it the first day of school already?"

"Unfortunately," Rooster answered.

"God help us all," Natasha said, pinching the bridge of her nose.

"Couldn't get the coffee in on time?" Jake asked her.

"This little knucklehead woke up and tried to bring the dog to school with him," Natasha answered. "First time I ever saw Cole jump outta bed in his shorts."

Everyone had a good laugh on the morning shenanigans while everyone had begun taking pictures of the older kids all lined up with their backpacks as they waited for the bus. It felt like forever but finally, the little yellow bus that had the name of their school stenciled on the side, pulled up and let the kids on. All of them waved goodbye to their parents, ready for the first day of school as the bus pulled away down the street.

"Are you crying?" Bob asked Jake.

"No," Jake insisted. "I've got allergies, that's all."

Bob rolled his eyes as everyone dispersed and went back to the house. His father's truck pulled into the driveway to bring Patrick down to the nursery school, where Auggie had gone, leaving you and Bob with the whole day ahead to get the nursery decorated for your daughter.

"What?" you asked when you heard Bob chuckle a little.

"Hangman was crying at the bus stop when Missy and Molly got on the bus," he answered.

"Did he really?"

"Oh yeah," Bob laughed. "Tole me it was allergies."

You both had a good laugh on the matter as you began putting the nursery together and attempting to paint it the way Patrick's nursery school had done. You looked over at your phone, noting the time, but hoping all the same that Auggie and your nieces and nephews were having the time of their lives on their first day of kindergarten.

[goodnightmemes]

TIKTOK STARTERS PART 8

❛ I think we were a little too Shania Twain about the situation…As in ‘that don’t impress me much’, you know what I’m saying. ❜

❛ Sometimes if you just trust in the universe it will take you to the most unexpected places…LIKE THE I-95! ❜

❛ If you’re wondering what I’m doing here - me too. ❜

❛ If she’s your girl then why is she under my bridge answering my riddles? And you know that she not gonna get any of them right and that means I’m taking her. You’re losing your girl to me, the troll! ❜

❛ Thank god that thing doesn’t have emotions because it would be shitting itself. ❜

❛ I must ask you through my bitter tears though they fall upon the ground, do you think the floral pattern swim trunks or the solid color? ❜

❛ What if that would have happened to me? I’m so glad that happened to you! ❜

❛ The only arresting this guy will be doing is a restin’ on this soft soft bed. ❜

❛ If that makes me filled with misery well then call me Kathy Bates. ❜

❛ Poor guy doesn’t even have a co-host. ❜

❛ This is personal to me because…I lost my brother to podcasting. ❜

❛ That is so unrelated to what I just asked. ❜

❛ Have you ever wondered how many houses in your lifetime you’ve driven by that have people locked up in the basement? ❜

❛ Look what I got for my funeral! A ouija board! That way I can go to the funeral too. I don’t want to miss the party of the year. ❜

❛ You’re the orangest…crap nothing rhymes with orange.  ❜

❛ Life is a journey. Life is a highway, if you will, and I’m hydroplaning violently into the cement divider. ❜

❛ Ever since I started dressing like a mob wife babies have been waving at me a lot more. ❜

❛ Dude, we have so much in common. We both love shapes and chocolate milk. ❜

❛ You just saying that created so much paperwork for me. ❜

❛ That’s basically kidnapping. I mean, some would call it kidnapping. I would also call it kidnapping. ❜

❛ Don’t go around introducing yourself as a rogue criminal, cause now I have to call someone. ❜

❛ I don’t like who I become on Carnival cruises.  ❜

❛ I’m gonna wake up dead because I didn’t pay my dues to the wasps. ❜

❛ You’re going down Tom and Jerry style you fucking muppet. ❜

❛ I may not have a doctor but I have the palette of a little French boy. I’m gonna live forever. ❜

❛ You can’t light a candle when the Devil’s outside! ❜

❛ I don’t respect ghosts. Like what you mean you possessed a child? You could have possessed Patrick Mahomes and played his superbowl but you possessed a child with a peanut allergy?  ❜

❛ That’s why you’re not in heaven, cause you’re kind of a douchebag. ❜

❛ Oohh paranormal activity this, paranormal activity that - get a pair of bitches bro.❜

❛ We’ve only tripped about seven times. That’s barely any. ❜

❛ The Department of Hoes and Insecurity - it’s the thot patrol! ❜

❛ You remember when society peaked and we had Optimus Prime doing a monologue over Linkin Park? Nothing’s been the same ever since. ❜

❛ So the pettiness gods are having their way with me. ❜

❛ I believe in holding grudges. I’ll heal in hell. ❜

[tobiasdrake]

I didn't question it at the time, but if Days of Future Past is supposed to follow-up from The Last Stand, there are a lot of questions in how certain characters are alive and kicking in the future.

There's actually an explanation for Xavier's survival and. Like. Oh boy, it's a doozy.

In his first scene in The Last Stand, flashback to Jean notwithstanding, Xavier is seen giving a lesson to his students about moral and ethical use of mutant powers.

He starts out with a slightly rephrased version of Spider-Man's favorite quotation, "With great power, there must always come great responsibility."

Not a big fan of the dichotomy he sets forth here. A moral imperative to become a superhero if you acquire powers is a recurring thing that Marvel likes to argue in favor of, and it's always kinda rubbed me the wrong way. But I digress. Point is, we find him teaching an ethics class.

He goes on to present an example of a mutant-specific ethical conundrum.

He's interrupted by the plot before he can continue, but he has enough time to explain the conundrum. Would it be ethical to take the mind of a dying person who still has much to offer the world and implant it into the body of this living but brain-dead person?

Well, we know what Charlie's answer is. In a post-credits scene, we find out what became of Moira's patient.

Just straight-up body-jacked that guy. And then I guess he got plastic surgery or something to make himself look like Patrick Stewart again.

Magneto similarly does have an explanation. At the end of X3, we find him depowered and chilling at the park.

Which is the funniest fucking thing because, like, he just destroyed an American landmark to turn it into a troop transport to launch a full-scale assault on the cure facility. An attack that cost countless lives, both mutant and human alike.

But he has no powers now so I guess the famously fair-minded and not at all prejudicial American government decided he'd been punished enough and shouldn't go to prison.

It's fine. Water under the bridge! Uh, no bridge, though, 'cause he destroyed it.

The final shot is Magneto, on a lark, trying to use his powers to nudge a chess piece.

And at the very last second before credits roll, it budges just a teensy tiny bit; A warning sign that the cure is not permanent, and Magneto will be back to his full power one day.

So, there's explanations for both Charles's survival and Magneto's re-empowering baked into the final scenes of X3. This, on the other hand?

That's a hard nope. Logan had both of his claws cut off in The Wolverine, and it goes completely unacknowledged in Days of Future Past.

I guess he regenerated the adamantium. It just took longer 'cause adamantium's hard to grow from scratch. Spent a few weeks making sure to eat plenty of iron.

[crowwritesaway]

Patrick Bateman x Female Reader Pt. 1

“What’s that look for?” You asked him. You were ranting about not being able to find a job. Being a recent graduate and all, your spirit was crushed. No interviews. So many applications and for what, to be left without a single interview. You were frowning and Patrick hated that. Patrick scoffed. “Y/N.” You sighed, your stomach ached from the restless thoughts that fed your anxious mind.

“I don’t see why you bother.” He said, calmly. It was their loss. “Patrick.” You said, pinching the bridge of your nose. The bills. My parents. My future. “I know. You think and think. You take all responsibilities. You let yourself down by misplacing the blame.” Patrick said, lowering his voice. It wasn’t your job to do everything for your family. The weight that you carried on your shoulders was enough to drown you.

“I know what you’re going to say.” Patrick shook his head. “Move in with me.” You furrowed your eyebrows. What? “Huh?” He laughed. How adorable? “Move in with me.” He repeated, smiling as he looked down at you. “How does that help?” He raised a brow. Come on, Y/N. Be with me. Just say yes.

“What? You’re going to take care of me.” You sarcastically said, looking at him with suspicion. I can’t just leave my family. Tempting but… “Yes.” He answered, no hesitation in his voice. “And before you reject me.” He sat down beside you and made eye contact with you. “Listen.” You broke eye contact. He smirked. Shy as always. “Let me take care of you.” Your lips move to say no.

“Please.” He begged. You hesitated before saying, “I can’t just leave them.” Patrick rolled his eyes. Not at you. At them. “You’ve refused to work for me.” You looked at him. “Duh, I don’t qualify.” Patrick playfully growled, squeezing your cheek. “Hey!” You yelped, smacking his hand away from your face. “Y/N. A week. And if it doesn’t work out, I’ll leave it alone.” He had a promising glint in his eye. “Even if I wanted to, how would I even explain this to them.” Patrick nodded. “Night shift. Overtime.”

“You’re unbelievable.” You exasperated, shaking your head. You’re irresistible. “You’re too good for your own good.” You threw yourself back into the couch. “Fine. One week.” Patrick reach out and grasped your hand. “One week.” You squeezed his hand. Patrick grinned. One week is all I need to convince you to stay with me.

Stay around for part 2 of Patrick Bateman x Female Reader

[lady-targaryens-world]

Chapter 1: Return to Derry

English is not my first Language!

Pairing: Patrick Hockstetter

CHAPTERS: 1/?

UPDATES: Slow (very slow)

Fandom: IT

Please like, comment and share 🫶

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

The bus slowed down as Y/n looked through the window at the familiar streets of Derry. A touch of nostalgia surrounded her as the autumn wind brushed through her hair. The town she hadn't seen for years was now in front of her.

*"Back in Derry."* Y/n sighed, her thoughts swirling like the autumn leaves outside.

As the bus stopped at the edge of town, a mix of excitement and uncertainty washed over her. Her mother had taken her away after her parents' separation. But now she was returning to her father and beloved sister, Beverly.

Stepping off the bus, her gaze fell on the house that once was her home. Beverly stood on the sidewalk, a radiant smile on her face.

*"Y/n! You're finally back!"* Beverly embraced her sister tightly.

*"I've missed you so much, Beverly."* Y/n reciprocated the hug, but her eyes betrayed a deep sadness.

They entered the house together. Beverly's joy was palpable, but the atmosphere inside was tense. Their father sat in the kitchen, engrossed in the newspaper. Y/n felt a pang in her chest as she noticed his cold gaze.

*"Hello, Dad."* Y/n attempted a friendly greeting, but his silence spoke volumes.

Sensing the tension, Beverly tried to lighten the mood. *"Isn't it great that Y/n is back?"* she said with an encouraging smile.

While Beverly warmly welcomed her sister's return, Y/n‘s resentment toward her father hung heavy in the air.

Their father didn't even lift his gaze from the newspaper. The chill in his silence was like an icy shadow over the room.

*"Well, we'll see."* Y/n tried to conceal her uncertainty, but the silence seemed louder than any conversation.

Beverly led her sister to her old room, now a mix of memories and forgotten items. The creaking of the door and the sight of the familiar space brought Y/n back in thought.

*"You can settle in here. It's still the way you left it."* Beverly tried to dispel the melancholy in the air.

*"Thank you, Beverly. You're still the best."* Y/n forced a smile, but the pain of her absence permeated the room.

The next hour passed in an uncomfortable silence as they tried to bridge the past.

*"I'm going into town to run some errands."* Beverly eventually broke the silence. *"We can talk later."*

After Beverly left, Y/n looked at her father, who was still engrossed in his newspaper. The room seemed to shrink as the unspoken conflict between father and daughter cast heavy shadows.

*"Why did you come back?"* her father suddenly said, without lifting his gaze.

*“Mother said it was time.“ * she felt her voice tremble.“*

*"It wasn't my decision to let you go. It was hers."* His words were icy, and her heart sank.

*"You've never treated Mother, me, and Beverly well. That's why Mother left you."* her voice cut through the tension in the room as she accused her father.

He glared at her angrily, but before he could respond, the door opened, and Beverly entered, holding a bag from shopping. She seemed To feel unwell and tried to go to her room.

*"Whatcha got there?“* Her father went to Beverly, asking about the contents of the bag.

*"Just some things."* Beverly replied briefly.

*"Like what?"* he persisted. He took the bag from her, looked inside, and noticed the tampons she had purchased. He glanced back with a subtle grin, gently touching her cheek. Y/n observed the strange and inappropriate gesture as Beverly tensed up and flinched slightly. He then smelled her hair, took hold of her ponytail, and uttered, *"Tell me you're still my little girl."* Beverly's response was a resigned *"Yes, Daddy."* With that answer, he appeared satisfied and released her.

Beverly reacted by quickly retreating to her room. Her sister, who had witnessed the entire bizarre scene, found the interaction between father and daughter peculiar.

He gave Y/n a final glance and returned to his previous activity. She understood that the previous discussion they had was closed for him.

After Beverly disappeared into her Room, Y/n went to her room with mixed feelings. The argument and the bizarre encounter between her father and Beverly had turned the first day of her return into an unexpected drama.

The house, once a safe haven, now seemed permeated with unspoken words and hurt feelings. The first day of her return held more conflicts than she had expected, indicating that the challenges in Derry had only just begun.

[denimbex1986]

'Doctor Who's 60th anniversary special reveals the Toymaker had a hand in the Timeless Child, the invention of TV, and much more, but he may have also played a game with Captain Jack Harkness. One of the biggest twists from Russell T Davies' first stint as Doctor Who showrunner was the reveal that Torchwood's Jack Harkness would eventually become the Face of Boe - a big face floating in a jar. Frustratingly, Doctor Who TV canon has still not bridged that gap. Rose's Bad Wolf form made Jack immortal, but at some point during the millennia he was alive, the universe's randiest Time Agent became a giant head, and it remains unclear how.

This seems to be one of few Doctor Who mysteries RTD doesn't use the Toymaker to solve in Doctor Who's "The Giggle." When Neil Patrick Harris' villain faces David Tennant's Fourteenth Doctor in a game of cards, the Toymaker proclaims he "made a jigsaw out of your [the Doctor's] history." Speaking on Doctor Who: Unleashed, RTD explained this was intended as a loosening of the rules that could account for Doctor Who's Timeless Child retcon, the Eighth Doctor's claim about being half-human, and anything else that didn't quite fit. In a strange way, the Toymaker might have also addressed how Captain Jack transformed into the Face of Boe.

The Toymaker Claimed He Turned God Into A "Jack-In-The-Box"

When the Toymaker is boastfully listing his many achievements since crossing into Doctor Who's main universe, he mentions, "I gambled with God - and made him into a Jack-in-the-box." The initial implication here is that Doctor Who's Toymaker made a beeline for whatever passed as the monotheistic deity of the universe, played a game with it, won, and then turned this entity into a toy for his own amusement, just as he does to the UNIT soldiers in "The Giggle." According to one theory (via X user Tigfore), however, the Toymaker's "Jack-in-the-box" remark may have been a sneaky reference to turning Jack Harkness into the Face of Boe.

Across Doctor Who seasons 1-3, the Face of Boe was treated as a big deal, with loyal followers that would accompany and care for him towards the end of his life. The 2018 audio story "Escape from New York" went further, and included a reference that suggested the Face of Boe had come to be considered a God in humanity's future. When the Toymaker says he "gambled with God," therefore, he certainly could mean Captain Jack Harkness. "Jack-in-the-box" would then be a very wry nod to the Toymaker turning Jack into a face inside a jar.

Why The Toymaker Turning Jack Harkness Into The Face Of Boe Makes Sense

Using the phrase "Jack-in-the-box" to refer to the Face of Boe fits perfectly with the morbid, toy-centric sense of humor Neil Patrick Harris' version demonstrates throughout "The Giggle." More importantly, Jack Harkness was both a friend of the Doctor's and an immortal being, tickling two of the Toymaker's areas of interest. Given how long Jack was alive, it seems inevitable that the Toymaker would have approached him. Just like the Doctor, Jack would have realized that his best bet was defeating the villain at his own game. Jack then lost, and - with all due respect to Boekind - had his trademark good looks taken away as punishment.

This would actually answer two big questions hanging over the Jack Harkness-Face of Boe connection. Given that Boe is allegedly the future form taken by Jack Harkness, it seems strange that Doctor Who also mentions an entire species known as Boekind. Secondly, Jack is supposed to be immortal, but eventually dies after becoming the Face of Boe. Boekind may have been a preexisting species that the Toymaker decided was a fitting form for Jack Harkness to take, and the villain is also powerful enough to undo the TARDIS mojo keeping Jack from dying. As the Fourteenth Doctor himself admits, "the TARDIS is an idea the Toymaker would throw away."

The Toymaker Is Doctor Who's Best Chance At Explaining The Face Of Boe

Since Russell T Davies is dipping into Doctor Who lore and pulling out the Meep, Mel, and the various deep-cut Easter eggs in Tales of the TARDIS, one cannot rule out Doctor Who explaining the full story behind the Face of Boe in a future season. Due to external factors, however, this is incredibly unlikely. Controversy surrounding his initial run on the show has likely scuppered any chance that John Barrowman will return in Doctor Who season 14 and beyond, ending hopes of continuing Captain Jack's story.

Without Barrowman, recounting the story of how Jack became the Face of Boe would be tricky, which leaves blaming the Toymaker as the most straightforward answer. This also avoids the problem of "God" in Doctor Who. If the Toymaker turned the universe's actual God into a Jack-in-the-box, this not only means God no longer exists in the show's canon, but for the first time since the Tenth Doctor beat the devil, questions are raised over the nature of Doctor Who's religious mythology. If the "God" mentioned by the Toymaker was only Captain Jack, those problems no longer apply.'

[literatureismyentirepersonality]

Literary Isolation: The Heart of Charlotte Brontë

@faintingheroine answered an ask about Nihal’s isolation in Aşk-ı Memnu and by a series of tangential jumps in my brain, it made me realise that because Charlotte Brontë discourse can often focus very much on Jane Eyre, people don’t necessarily consider just how key a theme isolation, specifically intellectual isolation is in her work, as well as the wider work of women writers of the time.

The most famous example is of course in Villette, where Lucy Snowe is ‘alone’ at the pensionnat over the holidays and becomes ill, mirroring many episodes in Charlotte Brontë’s own life. This is the novel where Charlotte explicitly set out to confront female isolation.

Yet, in this particular instance there are several things to remember, the most mind-boggling being that neither Lucy nor Charlotte were literally alone. There were servants and other lower-class individuals around her who she was unable or unwilling to befriend. The issue is one of a supposedly intellectual difference, but realistically, a class-based difference.

As a governess in English homes and as a teacher/student at the Pensionnat Heger, Charlotte identified that she was operating in a liminal class space. She was neither as lowly thought of as a servant, nor as highly thought of as her employers/students. Even when the holidays were over and she had pupils and other staff members to associate with, Charlotte created false animosities between those who she perceived as above or below her in status, i.e., convincing herself that Madame Heger hated her because she knew of Charlotte’s feelings for her husband (she likely hadn’t a clue), convincing herself that all of her employers hated her (tellingly, reasons less clear). These apparently imagined animosities served to justify the sense of class isolation Charlotte felt and the feelings of isolation, the lack of equal friendships became key elements of her drawn-from-life style.

This isolation from ‘equals’ wasn’t just something Charlotte experienced when away from home, though her sisters and brother certainly supplied the lack. When Maria Brontë, wife of Patrick Brontë was alive, they were social creatures, often visiting and receiving visits from their friends/family in the local clergy, but after Maria’s death, Patrick alienated his female friends by asking them to marry him and, having removed to Haworth not long before Maria’s death, was at a distance from his friends/her relations in the clergy who had their own busy parishes to attend to.

Distance from these friends and business in the parish meant that the young Brontës were mainly in one another’s society; within Haworth itself, the other inhabitants were of a different class and that was a barrier only Branwell was content/able to cross, and not until he was of an age to frequent the public houses. School should have been an opportunity for more socialisation, but after the disaster of Cowan Bridge (the school that inspired Lowood, as repeatedly confirmed by Patrick Brontë and Arthur Bell-Nicholls), Patrick was tentative about sending the girls to their next school, and Anne and Emily both struggled with their health while they were away from home. Charlotte, however, made a few friends, and that she recognised their value can be seen in her handling of isolation in Shirley.

Shirley presents us with a heroine who is also in a liminal class space. She does not belong to the slightly bourgeoise class of new money industrialists, nor wholly to the respectable clergy because of her mother’s past. Yet instead of presenting her with a class equal, Charlotte Brontë presents her with an intellectual equal. Shirley transgresses class to end Catherine’s isolation, but also to end her own isolation as the only woman of status in the area.

One could argue that the Brontës are a unique case, but this is simply not true. There were many isolated parishes in England and no doubt many clergy daughters who grew up without being exposed to other children, and may not have been able to afford to go to school.

Much as Charlotte Brontë likes to distance herself from Austen, the same problem occurs in Emma, when Emma is left as the only woman of her class in Highbury and therefore must either live in complete isolation or associate with those who society believes beneath her. She cannot socialise as an equal, and no doubt there were other young women in Emma’s position, isolated only by their status.

In Wuthering Heights Cathy Linton is isolated in this same way, as were Isabella and Catherine before her. I suspect this is also part of Nihal’s isolation: she is of a particular status and is therefore mostly at home and alone. Those she might associate with are not accessible to her except in public places and until Bihter connects the family with the Melih Bey set, she does not have access to these public places. Yet Cemile is right there! But Nihal is separated from her by status and by false extension, intellect.

The loneliness that these women felt must have been very real, but it’s also difficult for us as modern readers to grapple with the fact that they were very much not alone. They were surrounded by people; the only thing between them and the social pleasure they desire is class structures and false intellectual superiority.

I think my end point is that isolation was a major problem for women of the period and one that is very pressed in literature, particularly the work of Charlotte Brontë. But that problem was not a simple one, and when viewing these works through a modern lens it’s important to recognise the unspoken aspects of these issues.

[ccrissproductions]

FOB Story I Was Consider Writing

There's this story I was considering writing when smfs dropped. Where Patrick was vampire this whole time and Pete ends up finding out and... that's the plot.

Here's what I wrote so far, but I'm not sure if I should continue it:

Ever realize how in movies or shows, when two characters are about to interact, they somehow are wearing some form of the same color. If character A is wearing a green shirt, character B is wearing a green hat or some shit like that. 

So, when Pete caught him in his dressing room drinking something that was way too red and way too thick for him to disguise as tomato juice (which Pete knows he hates with a passion), all Patrick could think of was:

'Oh look, his jacket matches my hat.'

---

Pete was stuck. He stood at the doorframe of Patrick's dressing room. He initially was going to tell Patrick that him and Andy planned to meet Joe soon to hang out; but now he was stuck. 

Directly across the room, Patrick sat like a deer in headlights in his dressing room chair, glasses and hat laid on the desk behind him. he stared wide-eyed at Pete while holding a clear pouch in his hand and straw in his mouth. 

Pete walked into the room and closed the door behind him.

"'Trick?" He started slowly.

"Hmm?"

"What are you drinking?"

"...rock star lean." 

Pete was unimpressed with that answer.

"Really? Is that the lie you wanna go with?" He crossed his arms and leaned back on the door. 

Yup.

Patrick put the straw back in his mouth and took another sip from the pouch.

"Pat that doesn't even exist."

"Yes, it does." Patrick quickly retorted.

"No, it doesn't." 

"Uh huh. It's new." Patrick took another sip. Pete squinted; the pure unbelief written all over his face. 

He pinched the bridge of his nose, "'Trick, now, if there was a new drug out on the market of street pharmaceuticals, don't you think I would be the first out of all of us to know about it?"

Patrick shrugged and took another sip, "I don't know. I guess I just beat you to it."

Pete inhaled.

.

.

.

Pete exhaled.

"Patrick, I know growing old has taken a toll on you--"

"--Says the one with the Billy Ray Cyrus hair."

"--Fuck you-- but drinking an unknown substance that looks like pure blood cannot be the right decision."

"You know right decisions?"

"Fuck. You. Ok?"

[bleue-flora]

Couldn’t help but think about this scene (Ch 5 of Misery Loves Another Idiot-) on Saint Patrick’s Day 🍀 so in honor of our favorite green boy on this green themed holiday, here’s the first rendition I wrote that I just found in my notes. 💚 Enjoy! Consider it my late tortureversary gift. ;)

TRIGGER WARNINGS: Referenced/Implied Torture, Injuries, Profanity.

The pang of a metal water bucket hitting obsidian infects the air with an ominous promise. Followed by the approaching footsteps of who intends to fulfill that promise.

The noise makes Dream winch and struggle to hold back his trembling form. The desire to flee building up like a mountain inside of him. But he can’t. Can’t so much as crawl to the false safety of the corner with his ankles currently chained to themselves and the floor as well as his hands tied together behind his head, causing an intense pressure on his shoulders. A lingering tingling coats his body in pain from the previous days and even if he weren’t vulnerably bound to lay out on the floor like an animal ready to be cooked, the broken bones in his legs wouldn’t get him very far. That and well he’s trapped in an obsidian box completely covered in lava. There’s no where to go in this accurate recreation of hell. All he can do is wait for Quackity to make the first move and endure the torment that comes along with it.

Quackity takes his place to sit crisscrossed next to Dream’s head a bright and puzzled expression on his face, “Let me ask you something. Why the color green. Why choose that color?… I mean it’s not particularly flattering on you. It’s really not. It’s certainly not an intimidating color.”

In the hopes it gains him more favor with his torturer, he plays along a bit to the temporary non-hostile ambience, exhausted and tentatively he responds, “I don’t—don’t know. What do you want me to say?…“ before shifting to a higher sarcastic tone, “Oh, Quackity, I just love green—it’s my favorite color—it’s obviously the color I look best in—I mean, it makes me feel powerful, you know, like all the good villains…”

Continuing on he reasons, exasperated, “No no no unlike some people, I don’t need anything to make me feel powerful or fucking intimating, Quackity. It doesn’t matter what I wear, it could be—be a Rudolph costume and it wouldn’t make a damn difference. I still have the revive book so, to be fair, am I less powerful if I wore purple instead? I mean, do really think—do you really fucking think everyone would fear me less in pink?”

Nope. It wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t matter at all. No, he just wanted peace and freedom and that made him a tyrant. Pink, purple, turquoise, he could dress in the whole goddamn rainbow and it wouldn’t matter, not once they saw him as the villain. He could wear a fucking duck onesie and they’d still call him a monster and hunt him down to kill him like one. No, color had nothing to do with his persona or villainous facade. If he wanted to be seen as fearsome he wouldn’t wear neon lime green and a mask with a derpy, happy smile on it. No, it’s only because it actually is his favorite. Has been as long as he can remember, long before Tommy declared them enemies and turned the server against him.

Quackity, not amused in the slightest by the answer, replies while dipping a cloth in the bucket and squeezing out the access water, “Do you think you’re funny? You think you’re fucking funny?—huh?… Don’t fuck with me, Dream. I was trying to be nice. I was gonna ease into it today, but you know what? I’ll just cut to the fucking chase. How does that sound?”

[For the actual scene I went with see Ch 5 Bridge Over Troubled Water of Misery Loves An Idiot- linked here and above]