#phonefic

[kiwikiwiandkiwi]

.

[plushegutzz]

did you ever fix ur phonef 👁️👁️

exactly yes!!! I got in contact with my service provider about it and sent out my busted phone and they're gonna send me a new one in the mail soon!!!!!

[newswisenow]

Realme Smartphones Quietly Collecting Sensitive Data: A Privacy Concern Unveiled

In recent revelations, it has come to light that Realme smartphones may have been quietly gathering sensitive user data without the knowledge of their owners. The concern revolves around Realme UI 4.0, the Android 13-based skin, which has been specifically highlighted for its potential privacy and security risks. To understand how Realme Smartphones might be collecting personal information without consent, it is important to delve deeper into this issue.

The Issue of Data Collection on Realme Smartphones

The discovery of this feature was first made by the popular Indian technology YouTube channel, Trackin Tech, during their review of the Realme 11 Pro+. Their investigation uncovered that Realme UI 4.0 comes with a system setting known as "Enhanced Intelligent Services," which is enabled by default on Realme smartphones. Essentially, Realme has been capturing various aspects of users' intimate personal data, which they would not willingly share with anyone, including their smartphone manufacturer. This data collection process is deeply embedded within the smartphone's settings, making it virtually undetectable to those who are not well-versed in technology. Consequently, the majority of users remain unaware of their data being gathered. https://twitter.com/Rajeev_GoI/status/1669760661868650496 The gravity of this situation has prompted a response from Rajeev Chandrasekhar, the Union Minister of State for Entrepreneurship, Skill Development, Electronics & Technology. In an official tweet, he assured the public that the Government of India, in conjunction with the Ministry of Electronics & IT (MeitY), will initiate an investigation into these allegations. Since its announcement, Realme UI 4.0 has faced significant criticism, primarily due to the excessive bloatware, intrusive ads, numerous bugs, and the presence of explicit content. While Realme has attempted to address some of these concerns, the serious issue of user privacy and security cannot be overlooked. If you are a Realme, OnePlus, or Oppo smartphone user and want to protect your personal data, it is crucial to disable the "Enhanced Intelligent Services" feature. Follow these steps to turn it of Now from Your Phonef: - Open the Settings menu on your device and navigate to "System Services" within the Additional Settings section. - Within "System Services," you will find the option for "Enhanced Intelligent Services," which is enabled by default. Simply toggle this option off to prevent your personal data from being shared with the Chinese phone manufacturer. Given the recent developments, it is essential for us to critically evaluate the devices we use on a daily basis. Our digital data and assets hold immense importance, and it is vital that no entity, except ourselves, has unauthorized access to them. While we cannot escape the reliance on technology in 2023, we must exercise caution and make informed choices about the products we incorporate into our lives. Read the full article

[vainenpoika]

In which King Arthur was a trans man, Lancelot was gay for Arthur and demi, Guinevere was rather fond of both and possibly aro.

Art is a disguise, at first. Nobody expects the long-lost princess to be wrestling in the mud with the other squires. Later, they will say it was always the princess who was a lie, to protect the infant prince. Neither one is entirely wrong. Kay’s father was expecting a betrothal, when Art was very young, but he’s willing to listen when Kay and Art come and tell him that actually they’re brothers. Still, Art doesn’t expect to be allowed to keep the sword; he knows what he’s doing when he gives it to Kay, and he’s just as amazed as in canon when Kay’s dad and Merlin tell him to take it back.

In which courtly love isn’t just for ladies

Arthur and Guinevere make a good team, in and out of bed. She loves him but she isn’t in love with him, and he knows it, and she knows he needs more than she can give. Enter the loyal and chivalrous knight, traditional source of emotional fulfillment. Usually it’s the lady granting favors for adoration, and they know better than to correct any assumptions, but if you’re paying attention well enough it’s definitely the lord in this case. Guinevere and Lancelot are bros and he does send her a few prisoners, mostly because he knows she’s trying to reform the justice system. Arthur is the one who crowns his knight in flowers and allows him to kiss the royal hand, it’s very sweet. The other knights are careful to put it about that there is nothing to see here, they are just Very Good Friends, Practically Brothers, Don’t You Know. And this works for about a decade, until parliament gets the guts to start asking about heirs.

In which sex is fun, right up until it isn’t

Guinevere has kept Arthur’s secret faithfully, but if they don’t do something soon she’ll be accused of barrenness and bad shit will go down. She’s the one to suggest asking Lancelot, and telling him that the king is under a curse of barrenness but nothing more; Arthur points out that he’s much more likely to go on a quest to break the alleged curse than anything helpful, and they’d do better to just tell the truth, Lance can be trusted. So they invite him to their bed, first Arthur and then Guinevere confirms it when he comes to her in a panic, and there are revelations and oaths of eternal loyalty and they all have a lovely time. Arthur and Lance have good sex while out hunting now, and Arthur and Guinevere have been having good sex this whole time, and the three of them get together when they can and have good procreative sex. Sometimes Arthur is out doing his own daring deeds, and his partners back home get together for what’s honestly more cuddling than anything sexy, and of course it’s one of these times when the archbishop walks in on them. Suddenly they are not having a good time at all. The knights think Lancelot is cheating on Arthur, everyone thinks Guinevere is cheating on Arthur, the king himself is out fighting a war and can’t come home to clear it up besides which the political fallout of condoning this is not gonna be good for the Kingdom and Guinevere knows it. She explains this to Lancelot, who figures the best he can do is confess to seducing Guinevere and hope that she’s excused her infidelity. He does not share this plan with Guinevere. We carefully avoid asking her whether or not she would have objected, given the chance. She knows that she can’t save him now, and Arthur can’t lose them both, so she’ll do whatever it takes to stay alive until Arthur comes home. Lancelot dies. The story ends, without resolution.

[starriewolf]

Shiro Week 2017

A/N: So @firenashes said to me, you can’t possibly do all 13 prompts for Shiro Week in one coherent fic. Me being me, I said watch me.

Day 1: Time + Space

…

… …

… ?

… … …

… .. –

!

He surfaces, in bits and pieces.

Where –

A galaxy spins past lazily beneath his feet.

This is –

He knows this place.

He’s been here before.

Shiro opens his eyes to a sky of endless violet.

He remembers now; his name is Shiro. He’s the Paladin of the Black Lion.

And this is the astral plane, a place where time and space meet, and both cease to exist.

[feelingsdusk]

Runes and all kinds of things, chapter 16

Stiles risks a glance over the brim of his book at Peter and then returns quickly to the page he was reading when their eyes meet and he gets an arched eyebrow from the man. He barely contains the need to facepalm and wince at his own lack of cool and tries to cover it by shrugging as if nonchalant. The answering huffed snort makes him humph and turn his nose up in the air.

As much as he can with it still buried in his book to cover the flush he can feel rising in his face and the top of his ears.

(Smooth, Stilinski. Real smooth.)

But he can’t help it, he can’t read Peter at all right now. It’s weird and confusing to some degree after having been so open, so raw, just a moment ago, but at the same time not. It feels as if they took a step forward and then backed that same step again right afterwards. Maybe even two, because Peter has never been this blank-faced in his presence. Or, actually, if Stiles recalls well, in anyone’s presence. Peter is always sassing -provoking, testing, manipulating- people in one way or another. He uses his words, body language and facial expressions as weapons and he does it terrifyingly well. It never fails to get a response from the people around him, Stiles included, and now its absence rattles him.

Stiles stills suddenly. His eyes dart briefly towards Peter again and then go back to the page. He bites his lip and frowns contemplatively.

Maybe this isn’t a step back after all? Peter uses his words, body language and facial expressions as weapons. To defend himself, to get what he wants, to attack. Weapons. He’s used them against Stiles before, so it’s not that he’s an exception. It’s not that he thinks Stiles harmless, useless or inconsequential either. Even back then, in that parking lot, he thought Stiles had the potential to become dangerous, a threat to him. Enough of a threat, in fact, that he wanted to have Stiles on his side and he offeredwhen could have just taken. That not only hasn’t changed but it’s worse.

(Stiles couldn’t trap him and make him choke on mountain ash with a mere thought before.)

But he’s blank-faced now. Or rather… relaxed? Maybe?

Stiles sighs, slouching on his seat, and contains the need to throw a dirty look at Peter for being so damn difficult. He must do a lousy job because the man smirks at him self-satisfied.

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles grouches long-suffering and Peter’s grin widens even more.

Smarmy bastard.

Of course, there’s a chance Stiles is reading him wrong. With Peter it’s hard to tell, because he has more layers than three millefeuille combined and even more masks, but Stiles is pretty sure that it’s not a front he’s putting up this time. The ball is in Peter’s court in any case. Stiles will have to accept whatever he chooses to do and react accordingly.

He reaches for the baking journal again and catches Peter’s eyes again. The man’s eyebrows go high as he eyes the already finished death by chocolate cookies -the normal kind, he knows, because he’s seen Stiles take a bite and then perform an awkward dance because his mouth was burning- cooling on the tray with an skeptical eye.

“Just because I can’t risk Lydia finding a way to murder me remotely,“ and she would, of that he has no doubt, “it doesn’t mean I can’t use this.”

“Hmm,” Peter hums, lips twitching. The way he reclines in his chair makes Stiles want to grumble about the unfairness of it all. Because while Stiles is slouching, you can’t call what Peter is doing that. “What are you planning?”

“Revenge, what else? A petty one but equally effective in this case given whom my target is,” Stiles answers flippantly and Peter snorts. “But no, no more baking for now. It’s for Monday, so I’ll bake on Sunday. I don’t bake any substandard goods even if it’s for revenge, you know,” he sniffs. “Right now, runes. I really need to crack this before the alpha pack makes another move. Like hell I’m getting chased around like a mouse again,” he grumbles. “Pity I can’t just poison them all and be done with it.”

“Pity indeed,” Peter agrees, terribly amused by the pout Stiles is sporting.

An alarm goes off on Stiles’ phone and he startles. Then he remembers what it is for and he shoots from his seat towards the TV, leaving a bewildered Peter behind. The familiar intro to La Dulce Impostora is already running, so he hurries to set the recording so he doesn’t miss anything. There’s a pointed silence at his back and he feels himself starting to blush.

“Shut up,” he grouses.

“I didn’t say a word,” Peter lilts.

“Stop judging me, dude,” Stiles grumbles with cheeks that are starting feel really hot. “La Dulce Impostora is super addictive, ok? There’s a dying abuelita that is the cutest, most charming thing ever… Seriously, that woman is a queen. All hail Queen Isabela, may she reign forever over us lowly mortals,” he preaches with an earnest expression. “But yeah. There’s abuelita Isabela, a fake cancer that turns out to be true and an even faker pregnancy that doesn’t… but kinda does? Depending on how you look at it, I suppose…” he hums thoughtfully, turning to set the recording. “And amnesia, lots of amnesia. It’s so fucking ridiculous. But finally, after everything, they’re about to elope and Camila Valeria is going to ruin it all. Again. And it’s the fifth time. I can’t take it anymore, ok? I just want them on a beach in Bali happily drinking coconuts so I can be free and go back to my life, ok?”

“Well, I didn’t really understand half of what you said. Congratulations, that must be some sort of record.” Damn the man and his sass. Relaxed or not, Stiles served him that one on a silver platter and even Stiles himself wouldn’t have let it pass without answer. “Also, I hate to be the bearer of bad news-”

“Yeah, your face tells me you’re in despair right now,” Stiles quips back drolly.

“-but according to this site, that one still has more than ten episodes left.”

Stiles gapes, a horrified expression rapidly taking over his features. “You’re shitting me.”

“I… shit you not,” Peter answers seriously.

A beat, two beats, and then Stiles is running back to the table to look at the laptop’s screen. He doesn’t slow down as much as he should and he collides against Peter’s back with a soft grunt. He doesn’t pay it any mind and he reaches for the laptop. Sure enough, there’s more than ten episodes left… Thirteen to be exact.

“Oh, god, no” Stiles whispers, the whine escaping him unbidden. For a moment he feels really tempted to just read about how it ends because thirteen one-hour episodes yet to go… and so far the only thing that hasn’t happened on that storyline is a zombie apocalypse. Seriously, there’s even been an attempt to overthrow the current government! Just. No. Ok. No, he will not. He’ll stick right to the end. Like a captain. “I will go down with this ship,” he pronounces darkly, prompting a surprised laugh from Peter.

Stiles contains a petulant pout. He raises his eyebrows and narrows his eyes at the man, daring him to say anything about it. Peter smirks and looks about to speak (no doubt to sass Stiles) but suddenly, windows start opening and closing on the screen without either of them touching a thing and they both blink surprised.

“Yesss! Danny, my man!” Stiles exclaims happily, throwing his arms up in the air. Peter grabs his elbow before it impacts with his nose and rolls his eyes but doesn’t say anything otherwise. “Awesome! Now we’ll be able to track those fuckers without risking our necks. And who knows, I may still get to poison them.”

Peter laughs again and Stiles smirks in answer.

—

Much later after Danny stopped doing his own kind of magic on Stiles’ laptop, Peter is dividing his attention between something on the screen and a notebook he brought with him. Stiles is kinda itchy to know what’s in there because everything Peter brings has been fantastic so far, but he knows better than to try to take a peek because Peter hasn’t offered. Privacy and all that shit.

Stiles has the strong feeling that Peter is testing him. For what purpose exactly, he doesn’t know, but he’s pretty sure that he is. First with how he provoked him into a fight and now with this. And there have probably been more tests that he hasn’t even noticed. In any case, if Stiles finds that notebook unattended later he won’t be surprised.

(It all comes down to trust, doesn’t it?)

Well, he’ll cross that bridge when he stumbles upon it. For now, he’d better focus on runes or at this rate he’ll be werewolf chow and Peter’s tests won’t matter anymore.

And, god, it’s so frustrating.

Runework sucks. Big. Sweaty. Donkey. Balls.

He knows the actual runes and would be able to draw them with his eyes closed by now. That’s not the problem. That was the easy part, actually. The problem is that the placement in the actual item matters. Placement relative to the other runes matters. Size relative to the item AND relative to the other runes matters. Meaning? One tiny mistake fucks it all.

Meaning that it’s been one hour already and he has done nothing more than waste a lot of paper and bite the cap of his pen so much that it looks like a war casualty.

Because, on top of that, just because a rune has an established translation doesn’t mean that the effect that rune will produce matches it. Because two runes together get a complete different meaning than those two runes separately. And if they’re linked it’s even worse. The meanings don’t add up, they transform each other. Hence, runework sucks. Big. Sweaty. Donkey. Balls.

Stiles reaches for his phone and then takes a selfie, sporting an epic pout. He hits send and then lets his head fall onto the table with a beautifully resounding thud. Peter snorts.

(Also, Peter is a dick that finds too much entertainment in witnessing Stiles’ suffering.)

(Or maybe this is another test.)

Without looking, he makes a ball from the paper with his latest failed experiments and throws it in the man’s direction. With his luck, it probably falls short, but it’s the sentiment that counts, right?

“You’re such a dick,” Stiles grumbles.

“Yes, we’ve already established that,” Peter drawls, the tapping of his fingers against the keyboard never stopping.

And he flashes him the finger for good measure, because he doesn’t need good aim for it to reach the man. Peter snorts again and Stiles pouts sullenly into the table.

Ok, ok. How do you eat a bear? Bite by bite.

He sighs and comes out from hiding reluctantly. He looks at the page where he has noted down the few functioning arrays that can be found in the many books about runes that Stiles has, and decides that trial and error will it have to be. Sorry, Master Yoda, as sacrilegious as it sounds, your teachings hold no place in here. He may get grounded for the rest of his natural life for blowing up the house, but it’s not like he has any other options at this point.

He grabs a clean sheet of paper and looks at it thoughtfully. He may as well start with the simpler ones. According to his first chosen runework’s specific diagram, the array should cover one third of the item he wants to apply it on. But the question is: is that proportion regarding the size or the mass of the item? Does this mean that Stiles will have to become a master at calculating the mass of things on the go? Because that could pose a big problem.

“Excuse me, Mr. or Ms. Enemy-of-the-Week, can you tell me your height and weight? And what did you say was your last meal? And the quantity of said meal? You wouldn’t be constipated per chance, would you? Oh, I’m just curious, you know, ADHD, I get hung up on the strangest things. And since you’re killing me anyways, why not share? Oh, you don’t speak English? Yo hablo español si lo prefieres… Oh, you don’t have vocal cords at all? My apologies. I’ll just make an estimate, thanks for your time anyways and sorry for the inconvenience,” he pipes softly in a falsetto voice. He studiously doesn’t look Peter’s way. “Because that would go well…”

His phone chimes and he can’t help but cackle at Allison’s answering selfie. She looks filthy, sweaty and her face is so red that it gives the impression that she’s completely out of breath. She’s sporting an equally epic pout and it’s hilarious.

Stiles takes a deep breath after he lets go of the phone and shakes himself mentally. Ok, whatever, no big deal. He’ll find a way like he always does. First, he has to make an array work to begin with.

Because nothing ever comes easy -and if runes are such a rare practice as the books say, which suggests a high level of difficulty-, he assumes it’s mass. Ok, awesome (note the sarcasm). So volume and density. The paper is a rectangular form, so the volume would be length x width x height. And as for density… The Internet it is. He stands up and goes to the laptop Peter is using. The man looks at him curiously but turns the screen to face Stiles. A quick search reveals paper’s density, which gives him the last tool he needs to calculate the mass, and in turn the size the array should have.

Now, where to place it? Up, in the middle or down? Centered, on a side or on a corner? Left, center or right? Because the texts say nothing about that and if the size of the array and each rune regarding each other are so important, Stiles doubts the placing doesn’t matter.

Experimenting it is.

(Here’s to hoping that all his limbs remain in place by the time he’s done.)

He picks up the pencil and copies the array right on the centercenter of the paper. He concentrates on activating it and gets a cloud of mountain ash to the face for his troubles when Pikachu comes out to play so to speak. He sighs and has to concentrate on getting him back to his skin instead. He tries again and gets the same exact results. After the sneezing attack ends, he pouts but gives it another go. By the tenth time this happens, he’s ready to tear his hair in frustration and the ash is moving around agitatedly from limb to limb and then even to his face, which gives him another uncontrollable attack of sneezes.

“Are you for real?” he grunts frustrated at Pikachu and his ears seem to flop down, just like dogs when they don’t know what they’re doing wrong because they think they’re obeying what you told them to do.

Stiles blinks. Maybe he’s not directing his spark belief whassit (what, he doesn’t have a name for it) at the paper but at the ash instead? He hums thoughtfully and makes a soothing gesture at Pikachu, prompting him to return to his skin again. He closes his eyes and concentrates. His magic works with belief, right? So believe he will. He opens his eyes and looks at the paper again.

“Yes!” he crows happily when he picks up the sheet of paper from a corner and instead of flopping down like it should, it remains rigid. “Look at this, Peter! Hah! I’m a genius! Bow down in my mighty presence!”

“I’ll be right on that, give me a minute,” Peter deadpans drolly. He waves a hand towards the oven trays. “Here, meanwhile have a cookie.”

“I made those,” he grunts at the man, his face falling into an unimpressed expression.

“Are you saying they’re bad and that’s why they don’t qualify as a prize for your success?”

“Don’t you dare!” Stiles gasps scandalized. “Everything I bake is superb!” Peter raises an eyebrow. “Well, there might have been a few FUBAR situati-” Peter raises the other eyebrow. “Damn you,” he grumbles. “Gimme the damn cookie. I deserve it. Because my cookies are totally prize-worthy. You heard that? Totally and without a doubt. Nothing beats them.”

“Maybe add a glass of milk to be sure? And two cookies instead of one? Added value, you know. It was a big success after all,” Peter quips, picking up the ball of paper Stiles threw at him before and throwing it with all the rest pooling at Stiles’ feet without even looking.

Smarmy bastard.

“Stop dissing my wonderful cookies,” Stiles grouches, throwing a narrow-eyed glare at the man.

“Me? You wound me, sweetheart,” Peter replies amusedly, getting up to prepare a couple of cookies and a glass of milk and put them in front of Stiles.

“Smarmy bastard,” Stiles mutters, this time aloud, as he takes a bite. “Just for this, you’re not getting any-” Stiles voice becomes an intelligible grumble when he hears the tattletale crunchy sound to his right, where Peter is leaning to pick up the paper with the functioning array.

Stiles humphs at Peter, whose smirk widens, and he rolls his eyes. Then he covers an amused grin because he knows the man’s impressed because he nearly forgot to leave the paper behind when he went back to his seat… and because he snatched another cookie on his way.

Stiles goes back to the paper and sets off to finding out if the array can be turned off. It takes him a few tries but it’s possible. If he erases the array, it stops working, it seems. Or is it because he stopped believing it would work? He’ll have to ask Peter to participate later. In any case, awesome, success! Now more tests, he thinks rubbing his hands excitedly.

He writes the array, turns it on once again and then he sets it aside. He spreads more sheets around the table as he starts changing the placement of the array on them, activating it as soon as he writes it and noting down the time on a separate notebook. That way he’ll kill two birds with a stone and he’ll be able to check a few things: the time it lasts once activated and how many he’s able to activate at the same time.

(Because he knows that spark works with belief, but is this power of his finite? Druids depend on outside forces to practice runework and rituals but where does a spark’s power come from?)

Once he has twelve variations of the placement, he tests them against each other. Then he makes size variations and, after that, size and placement variations.

Two hours later, he has reached several conclusions: yes, size matters; yes, placement matters; yes, his spark is finite to a point.

The size sets the range of effect of the magic and the placement sets the point of impact. So, with the hardening array he’s testing right now, if Stiles sets right in the center a smaller array than the one-third ratio the book said to use, the edges of the paper don’t harden and flop down like they should. Stiles feels giddy with the possibilities this brings to the table. Of course, this experiment was done on a pretty simple form, it will obviously be more complicated with other more irregular ones. But it’s a start, right? Stiles has a feeling that he won’t be needing to calculate everything’s mass exactly, just have a general idea to work with, unless he’s doing a very precise work. Of course, to get to the point of not needing to calculate it every time, he’ll have do at lot of testing and practicing.

And as for his spark being finite… Even with the snack he had before (which he suspects Peter gave him on purpose because he somehow knew he’d need the extra energy and it kind of makes Stiles want to grin), he’s ravenous right now and it has nothing to do with the hour it is. It feels like when he comes back after one of those gruelling lacrosse practices and he’d eat the fridge’s contents… and then the actual fridge itself. So this means that using it tires him as exercising would. It remains to be seen if working out (so to speak) will raise his stamina or if his power is a set value that he’ll have to work around.

All in all, not bad for two hours of work. Now that he knows some of the rules (because he’s sure he’ll find more as he goes) he can start experimenting. But first.

“Dinner?” he pipes looking at the lasagne like a man would at water in a scorching hot desert.

As if on cue, his stomach emits an epic growl that lasts way longer than it should and he feels himself start blushing. Peter smirks at him.

Stiles flips him the finger again.

(Peter is way too smug about that, the smarmy bastard.)

—

“Mmm,” Peter hums contemplatively as he takes the first bite.

“Mmm?” Stiles replies, already on his third bite. So sue him, he’s starving, ok?

“Mmm,” Peter continues humming, almost reluctantly.

“Mmm, huh?” Stiles replies again, smirking.

“Mmhm,” Peter says as if unimpressed.

Stiles grins and Peter rolls his eyes.

—

Just after dinner, Stiles gets to work with the second simplest array he has available. The first one was a hardening one (to put it simply, the explanation in the book was way more technical and complicated) and this one is an elasticity one. Whether it augments or reduces elasticity remains to be seen though.

Just like with the hardening one, this array consists of four runes. Stiles’ guess is that that’s the simplest it can get. Because probably just putting one rune would be too open and thus, the effect would be unpredictable and uncontrollable. So basically there’s a primary rune and then at least three secondary ones that delimit the first one. The placing and the size respecting the primary rune define the extent of the effect they have on it. That’s probably why there are some subtle differences between both of the arrays that he has, even if they have the same diamond structure.

Ok, good, he can work with that. And since he now knows what effect the placing has, he writes the array exactly on the center of the paper and activates it. He picks it up and looks at it thoughtfully. At first glance there’s no apparent change on it. Then he pulls from both ends.

“Whoa!” he exclaims surprised when it stretches out like gum.

Well, it’s a little harder than gum and unlike it, when he stops pulling it immediately goes back to its original form with no evidence of what happened left behind. It has a limit of how much it can extend though, so Stiles guesses that the runes alter the original characteristics of the item they were placed on, as opposed to giving it a new set value. So if the original item had been stretchy to begin with, it would have extended even more than the paper. Conclusion: arrays alter the items exponentially.

(Oh, god, the possibilities.)

So the primary rune is elasticity and its size right now is the perfect size to have an effect on the whole paper, but what if he plays with the secondary ones? From what he has gathered, those only alter the primary rune, not the actual item itself.

He has two different arrays with the same structure and, save from the primary rune, the same runes in that structure. And those secondary runes have the same size respecting the primary rune on both arrays. What do those runes do? Because the meaning they have doesn’t shed any light on that.

So if he gets the left side one and makes it bigger, what happens? And what if he changes the one at the bottom? Or the one on the left? What if he changes two of them at the same time? Or the three? What if…

—

Stiles startles a little when the lights of the kitchen are suddenly on. He turns to look at Peter perplexed, but the man isn’t paying him any attention at all. He squints around and takes in the sun’s position in the sky. He hadn’t even noticed he was starting to struggle to see.

He lets the pen he was keeping in his mouth fall into his hand and looks at the mess he’s made. Maybe it’s time to tidy up a bit, he thinks grimacing.

Well, it was worth it, he supposes… or at least a necessary evil.

Some of his tests were a complete bust and some weren’t. He now knows what each of the runes in this particular array is for and how their size relative to the primary affects it. He also knows that, at least in this kind of structure, all the runes need to have the same orientation or it won’t work. Also, this kind of structure is to alter the physical characteristics of the item it’s placed on. -And it has to be an object. All the books were adamant about that, about runes not being used on living beings.- The secondary runes are set ones that can’t be changed and the primary is the one that sets the characteristic the array will alter. Moreover, two runes can be linked as the primary rune, but anymore than that and it fails, which he supposes is where the more complicated arrays come in. Also, just because those particular runes are set ones for this kind of array, it doesn’t mean that they can’t act as primaries too.

And all of that was just from two different arrays that have the same structure. He has three more structures to go through. And then he has to experiment with items with different sizes, forms, compositions…

(This is not a bear, it’s a damn whale.)

He kind of wants to scream but, hey, he still has all his fingers and the house is not only standing but hasn’t been damaged at all. Only a full stack of papers has been sacrificed to the cause. Yay for him.

“Ah, father, you man of little faith,” he mutters, slouching on his seat and closing his eyes tiredly.

There’s no way he can-

Really loud rock music blares suddenly from the laptop’s speakers, startling Stiles into almost falling from his chair. He looks at Peter, who looks as surprised as Stiles and is also trying to lower down the volume as fast as he can.

“What the hell, Peter,” Stiles gasps, one hand still over his thundering heart and the other grasping at the chair in a trembling iron fist.

“I was trying to put the soundtrack to your little moment there, but this is not what I expected,” the man explains perplexed. “I mean, the song is called Crushing Defeat, but I wouldn’t say a crushing defeat sounds like that. Not that I would know, but.” And then the man has the gall to shrug nonchalantly before continuing speaking. “I should have definitely gone for my first option.”

And he hits play.

Maybe I’m foolish

Maybe I’m blind

Thinking I can see through this

And see what’s behind

Got no way to prove it

So maybe I’m blind

But I’m only human after all

I’m only human after all

And he stops the music right there.

Stiles, whose face had gone from startled to unimpressed in the blink of an eye, goes right into the evil eye territory equally fast.

“Remind me again who’s been dead before?” Stiles says, his voice saccharine sweet.

“Sure! Anything for you, sweetheart,” Peter answers, equally sweet. “I’ll remind you anytime you want that not even Death could win against me. Anything to inspire you when you’re feeling low.”

And he turns back with a self-satisfied smirk to continue whatever he was doing before.

That.

Smarmy.

Bastard.

Stiles will show him a crushing defeat.

(Also, just for that, he’s hoarding all the cookies, dammit.)

—

It has somehow turned into a contest.

It’s way past 4 a.m. and neither of them is bowing out. Stiles has gone through three more structures, gained more knowledge and even more rules. Peter has at least filled ten pages of that journal of his and Stiles has caught him covertly eyeing the coffee cupboard more than once. At this rate, John Stilinski will arrive to see them either conked out over their respective works or stubbornly resisting but about to pass out.

At this point Stiles wishes his dad would appear so he could order him to bed and he’d have the excuse to bow out, but he’d rather face another run around the pool with all the alphas chasing after him than admit to that.

He eyes the cookie plate and mourns its empty state. Then, with a sigh, he turns his attention back the last structure that he has. So far he has confirmed a lot of the things that he already suspected. The more complicated an array gets, the more things you’re trying to change on an object… or the more complicated the object’s composition or the being you’re placing it on is. But so far Stiles has gathered that if you place an array on a living being, you better brace yourself because it’s so complicated that it has disastrous effects more often than not. Which is no good… unless you’re banking on it going wrong to get out of a pinch. Stiles certainly wouldn’t mind making an alpha go boom with failed runework, that’s for sure.

Well, in any case he now has an idea of how the arrays are expanded and of how to link different arrays to cover the more irregular objects or to make domino effects. Of course, he just has the theory and he’ll have to experiment a lot but it’s something that’s not a “crushing defeat”.

He just wants to die.

Stiles barely refrains from hitting his head repeatedly against the table to wake himself up forcefully but only because he still has some dignity left. He looks at the stress ball that he got out to fidget with by hour… whichever it was, he’s lost count. It used to belong to Scott, from when he hurt his hand and he needed to strengthen his muscles. It’s fuchsia with green polka dots all over it and it couldn’t be uglier even if it tried, so it wouldn’t be a big loss if Stiles accidentally murders it.

The material is polyurethane, if he’s not wrong. The thought of getting up to check its mass on the laptop is too much to bear, so Stiles uses his phone to search for it. When he finally has it, he muses over what he needs to change on it to make it bounce. Elasticity, for one, of course. Resistance maybe? And what else to generate the kinetic energy he needs? How much does he need to add or subtract to its original characteristics to get what he wants?

It takes a while, but he decides what structure to use and the runes that form part of it in the end. Then he calculates the size it should have and, after fretting over it for a bit, he decides that you only live once is the attitude to have and starts writing it directly on the ball. After a moment he realizes that pencil is not the way to go and changes to a sharpie. Either the ball is really old or the sharpie is too pointed, but instead of just writing on its surface, he’s partially etching the array. He bites his lip but decides to go on. Then he activates it.

Something catches his attention at the edge of his vision and he turns to find Peter about to fall asleep. Stiles grins triumphantly and picks up his phone to get the visual evidence to lord his victory over the man when he wakes up later. Because he’s going to sleep once he has the picture, dammit, he’s dying.

Right as he’s snapping the picture, the stress ball rolls over the edge and falls to the tiled floor before he can catch it…

… then it ricochets silently but with deadly speed towards the ceiling, where it rebounds again, gaining even more speed than it already had.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles whispers wide-eyed. “Peter!” he screams right before it hits the man’s head, sending him sprawling to the floor. “Oh, fuck!”

“What the-!” Peter groans, somehow managing to look both like a spooked kitten and as if a train has just rolled over him at the same time.

“Down!” Stiles warns him again as it comes back like a tiny missile. Peter, the idiot, tries to grab it as it passes by. “NO!” he shouts but to no avail.

Peter gets thrown forward and out of the kitchen, where he proceeds to crash onto the living room’s lamp before he can finally stop the momentum, successfully managing to not make another victim out of the TV. The ball continues bouncing and gaining even more speed.

“Oh, fuck,” Stiles whines.

—

When the sheriff comes back home, he’s greeted by a very odd sight. There’s a trash bag full of things in a corner and several items, which includes two lamps, several pictures and a small side table, are missing. There are a lot of round marks over several pieces of furniture, the walls and the ceiling, and quite a few of those round marks look carved in and scorched. From where he is, he can see that the glass from two of the kitchen cupboards is gone and that there are two perfect holes on the dishwasher’s door. There’s a plant without its pot just sitting there on the living room’s table and the missing pot is right at the center of the same table, downturned. Last but not least, Peter Hale and Stiles are completely out, one over the other, on the couch, dark bags scarily prominent under their eyes.

John blinks. And then he blinks even more.

“Well, the house is still standing,” he mutters as he reaches for the pot to take the plant off of the table, because he has to start somewhere to fix the mess, after all, and this is really the only thing he can do right now. The rest he’ll take care of after he wakes up.

“NO!!!!” both Stiles and Peter shout, snapping awake and bolting, just as he lifts the pot from the table.

—

The plant is still on the living room table but the pot holding the ewok -what, it’s a small and harmless looking (fur)ball that’s really dangerous when provoked, dad, where’s the lie?- is in the toilet, with the door closed for good measure.

(There’s another hole in the dishwasher’s door and they’ve lost the two vases that had survived the first assault. Only Peter’s speed saved the laptop and it was only by a hair’s breadth.)

(Stiles is secretly happy that the TV and the recorder haven’t been casualties. He had to pull a The Bodyguard™ move and there’s a round shaped bruise already showing on his stomach, but it was well worth it. He’d die if he missed yesterday’s episode of La Dulce Impostora.)

(Not that he’ll say that aloud, of course.)

It’s mid-afternoon and they’re having breakfast and not feeling any shame about it. Stiles feels like a limp noodle and is ravenous. He has probably already eaten his weight in pancakes with an obscene amount of syrup, but he has no intention of stopping any time soon.

He looks at Peter’s plate covetuously and the man’s lips twitch, but he makes an offering gesture (sassy and a little mocking, but still offering) instead of lording his remaining pancake over Stiles. It takes a lot to not descend over it like a rabid beast, and even more to rise from his seat and make more instead. He even shares them with his dad and Peter, someone should give him medal for the feat.

Just as he’s taking the first bite, the cupboard’s door, which was barely hanging from its hinges, makes a piteous sound and falls first to the counter and then to the ground, dragging a plate to it’s ultimate demise with it. The lack of door reveals that almost all the mugs inside said cupboard have been smashed to smithereens at some point.

“So,” his dad says, looking caught between horrified amusement and resignation.

“You said I’d be grounded if the house wasn’t standing,” Stiles points out, mouth full and all.

Peter snorts and takes a sip of his coffee. Unlike Stiles and John, the bastard doesn’t look tired at all. He’s sitting on the chair as if it’s his throne. Stiles is a petty creature and he really wants to call bullshit because he knows that’s the man’s third cup of coffee, so he can’t be feeling as good as he’s making it look. The need to shoot a dirty look at him for the unfairness of it is almost overwhelming.

“I said I’d definitely ground you if it wasn’t standing, not that I wouldn’t ground you for any other damaged property.”

“What- You- I claim false advertising!” Stiles gasps with a hand over his heart.

“Terribly sorry about that,” John deadpans. “I’m sure I have some complaint forms somewhere. I’ll make sure your reclamation reaches the proper authorities.” He takes a long swallow of coffee and sighs contentedly. “Which would be me, so reclamation dismissed.”

“Abuse! I claim abuse! No, don’t hand me another imaginary reclamation form!”

Welp, this took more than a year. I’ve lost count of how many versions of this chapter I’ve written… and how many times I rewrote each one of those. Sigh.

Thanks @ssree and @nineorfour for proofing this.

⏪Previous

[esamastation]

Action and reaction

Itachi is half blind and half mad with horror and grief, his hands covered in blood all the way up to his elbows, when he stumbles.

He can still see them – his parents, just sitting there with their backs so straight, telling him they understood, that they were proud of the ninja he'd become. Proud, even as he killed them. Proud, even as he destroyed his baby brother's life and maybe his mind. Proud.

They didn't look at him, though; his mother died with her eyes shut, his father staring at nothing.

The disgust and pain are like living things inside him, and he's teetering on the edge of panic attack. Itachi knows he needs to get out of Konoha – he was given a head start and he'd bought himself some more time with liberal use of genjutsus to cover his tracks... but soon the massacre would be discovered, soon the alarm would be sounded. Soon, they'd come for him.

He needs to get away, but his knees keep on giving away under his weight and though his Sharingan is all but blazing in his head, he can't see. He's heart is pounding so heavy and fast in his ears that he can't hear anything and all he can smell, all he can sense, is the sticky wetness of his gauntlets, the grit of drying blood under his fingernails, between his fingers. He's mouth tastes coppery and he thinks he is going to throw up anytime now.

When his feet collide on something soft that sends him flying to his face, his reaction isn't the best. Hyperventilating and hurting all over, he spins around and it feels like the glare of the Mangekyo Sharingan cleaves his head open.

His eyes meet the terrified eyes of a kid that had been lying, sleeping even, on the rooftop and Itachi has only a fraction of a terrible, earth shattering second to realise who he's aimed his cursed eyes at.

No, Itachi thinks, horrified. Not this too, he can't do this too, he's done enough damage this night, he can't do this too!

Mentally scrambling, he tries to pull his gaze away, tries to pull the dojutsu back, tries to stop himself – but it's too late. His mind collides with that of Uzumaki Naruto, the jinchuuriki of Konoha. Like a rising tidal wave, the very reality throbs in pain as it twists away and the Tsukuyomi swallows them whole.

Itachi knows, for a moment, that Naruto was on the rooftop because crowd of older academy students had chased him there, mocking and cursing him and throwing rocks. The older students had kept him besieged there for the whole evening – while Itachi killed almost his entire family tree – and by the time older kids had gotten bored and went home, it was too dark for Naruto to find his way down. For a moment, he knows just how much it hurts, to be hated without knowing why.

Itachi recoils as Tsukuyomi spreads out all around and Naruto is nailed onto a cross on ocean of blood, confused and terrified kid no older than Sasuke. Innocent, Itachi thinks.

Innocent, like the kids he'd killed that night, the babies he smothered in their cribs.

"W-what is this?" Naruto asks, his voice shaking as he struggles in the cross. "Where is this – who are you? I wanna down, mister, please lemme down!"

"I can't do this," Itachi whispers, horrified with himself – every cut, every splatter of blood, every heartbeat echoing on his hands, smothered and spilled and fading away. God, what has he done?

Shaking, Itachi hurries to release Naruto from the cross, his whole being feeling like it's being torn apart by his actions that night.

Naruto is crying now, confused and afraid, his breath hiccupping with every desperate inhale – did he see, did he get a glimpse of what Itachi had done, did he see it?

"Mister please," the boy sobs. "Lemme down, I wanna go home, please."

"Shush, I'll let you down, it's okay, I'm not going to hurt you, it's okay," Itachi babbles, shuddering. His fingers shake and stain Naruto's pale wrist in red.

And that's when world shatters again.

Tsukuyomi crests and the wave crashes down all around them – for a moment Itachi flies in terrible free fall. Then he heavily collapses into reality and into a physical body – into hacking and throwing his guts up, he feels, as he chokes out stomach acid and bile on to the roof tiles.

Quickly he looks up, looking for the boy, praying against all hope that he hadn't broken him – but Naruto isn't there.

He's instead left staring at himself.

Uchiha Itachi lies collapsed on his side on the roof, covered in blood – his family's blood – with his pretty face drawn pale and tight in the moonlight. Still in his ANBU gear he looks too small and too weak for his duty. He looks terrible and utterly pathetic.

For a moment, Itachi is overcome with overwhelming urge to kill him, to crawl over and just strangle the life out of him.

Then the still form stirs and whines and let's out a confused, "Wha?" in a tone of voice that doesn't belong to Uchiha Itachi and looks up.

Itachi feels a creeping dread as his eyes meet the widening dark eyes of what looks like he's duplicate. Then, as the other gasps, Itachi looks down.

Down to small, childishly soft hands, to bare knees, to blue shorts and orange shirt. The clothes he'd glimpsed, momentarily, on Uzumaki Naruto.

He is in the body of... Uzumaki Naruto.

"What is going on?" His own body asks as the boy inside it stares at his hands – Itachi's hands – in horror. "What is this?"

It's a disaster, Itachi thinks, as in the distance the alarm starts sounding and the village wakens to the aftermath of his actions.

- - -

Prompt by allhailthedramallama: Naruto/Itachi roll reversal or body switch

:) now this was fun. Sorry about potential typos, writing on phone, you know the drill.

[iwritestuffsometimes]

Night Novels

"Read it to me." He wrapped his arm around her middle, leveraging her across the bed. As he pulled her to him, she dropped her book and groaned. She wriggled out of his grasp and leaned back against the headboard. "I read out loud all day long. I'm sick of hearing my own voice." She crossed her ankles and picked up the book another time, scrabbling through to find her page. "But I'm not." He huffed and shifted to kiss her cheek. He scooted down in the bed to rest his head on her lap. "I don't get to hear your voice nearly enough." She stroked his hair. She loved the feeling. She could feel his heart beat against her thigh. She nudged him with her knee. "I love you." "I love you." He said it without hesitation but it didn't sound like a knee-jerk reaction. She knew he meant it as much as she did. He turned onto his back, looking up at her. She bent to kiss his forehead. "You read." She held the book over him. He raised an eyebrow. "This isn't what I had in mind." She waggled the book over his face. "Page 43." He sighed and took the novel into his own hands. He began reading. ~'In the early evening, high altitude clouds in the western sky formed a thin yellow wash which became richer over the hour, and then thickened until a filtered orange glow hung above the giant crests of parkland trees;'~ He read slowly, taking pauses in places they didn't belong, misreading punctuation, and putting emphasis on strange words. ~'the leaves became nutty brown, the branches glimpsed among the foliage oily black, and the .....desiccated?'~ He stopped to look at her. She smiled and nodded down at him. He nodded back, proud of himself for getting it on the first try. '~... desiccated grasses took on the colors of the sky. A'~ He squished up his face in a deep frown. "I don't even wanna try that one." He turned the book toward her. She knew it by heart. She didn't need to see it. She looked at it anyway. "Fauvist." She said. "Named after a painter." He nodded and tried to repeat the name. He butchered the pronunciation. ~'A Fauvist dedicated to improbable color might have imagined a landscape this way, especially once sky and ground took on a reddish bloom and the swollen trunks of elderly oaks became so black they began to look blue...'~ He read to her for hours, stopping a few times to ask questions or make comments for her to answer. -what does that mean? It's cockney. Basically he's tired. -Why doesn't she know? she's young and Self-centered -I kinda hate her at this point. you're supposed to It thrilled her to hear him so intrigued in her favorite book. So much so, that she overlooked when he missed her favorite parts. ~' They were stilled not by the astonishing fact of arrival, but by the awed sense of return - they were face to face in the gloom, staring into what little they could see of each other's eyes, and now it was the impersonal that dropped away.'~ "Wait." He shifted the book down to his chest, he looked up at her. "What is happening here?" He frowned. She laughed. "What do you think?" He sighed. "I'm really not sure." "It's a love scene." His eyes widened and he pulled the book back in front of his eyes. He reread what he'd just spoken. "Wha- ohhhhhh.... that makes more sense." He lowered the book again. "I thought she hated him?" She thought for a second. "I think she wanted to hate him." She said finally. "She was crying a second ago, wasn't she?" He flipped back a few pages. "Yeah." "So why this all of a sudden?" He frowned with frustration. "I don't get it." "She was crying because she loves him. More than she can figure out how to say." He blinked and stared at the ceiling silently, drinking in this new information. "That's kinda beautiful." He whispered to himself before he began reading where he left off. She threaded her hands through his hair as he read. He held the book with one hand while he gently stroked her leg behind his head with the other Both were absently aware of the others movements. Both only paying half attention to the book. Both lost in the love story. ||||| a/n I wrote a phone fic with no point because I’m just really in the mood for it. The ~ are meant to take the place of italics because I’m so not gonna try to write in HTML on this stupid piece of crap phone. My new case is faulty so it doesn’t read my key taps the way it’s supposed to and typing is mega difficult in standard, let alone HTML. The book is Atonement and it’s the greatest most beautiful novel in the world and if you ever get a chance you should read it. |||||

[lepus-arcticus]

My battery is low, and it’s getting dark

Scully is misty-eyed, perched on the edge of their bed with an unwettened toothbrush in her hand, mourning Opportunity. Mulder’s got a big hand flat between her shoulderblades, and he’s listening to her talk about the nobility of scientific inquiry and humanity’s capacity for wonder. Even after all these years, he never would have guessed that she’d be the type to get weepy over a robot.

But then he presses the pad of his thumb into her implant scar, and remembers that they are space travellers, too.

[cheshirecaine]

i started out writing fic on a nokia slide i believe, what nostalgia

it had 12 buttons lol

People who write fic on mobile genuinely frighten me

[scull-dog]

Phonefiction, part II

I wrote this using predictive text on my phone. This is silly. You have been warned.

-------------

Mulder is going through his slide show of the season with a similar theory after I watched a movie with the mythology. He had such a shitty life but then came Scully!

"Hi I love you." he said, with the best of intentions.

"What the FUCK Mulder" she yelled. "How many times do I have to do you?"

"As a wonderful thing to do I have a lot of opinions about the fact that you have not been a good relationship." Mulder stammers, sad about the world.

Scully thought for sure that he was probably a good relationship. Suddenly the door to the x files opened.

"Hello I am bobson sorry for the delay in getting back to you." Bobson, a good friend of Mulder's, was a little shit. "I have to get her out of the way. I will do her and she is very good at committing murder."

"Scully, is it possible?" Mulder thinks. "Scully is it possible?" Mulder says.

Scully is so beautiful, even when she was committing murder. It is that simple, as a religious person who is the one place where you can get a good relationship.

"I'm low-key screaming to the point where I have to do you." Scully said. "I have to do you right now because I don't feel like cooking."

Bobson was just about to say that the more you know about both Dana Scully and William, the best of the best of the best of the best, the more you can get a good relationship.

"Scully," Bobson said, "if you were a little bit better than the first night of efficient production, then I can do without you."

Mulder and Scully are the best of both worlds with the best possible experience of a lifetime. She can come over and over again.

THE END

[theghostofblackbunnymask]

Im literally in class and using my phonef

-🌟

It better be for school work.

[ao3feed-zukka]

Ill hold you even through the darkest depths of hell

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Pec8gS

by Yourracistmom

Zuko smiles softly and nods. For good measure, sokka holds out his pinky. He knew Zuko wouldn't tell anyone, but him and katara always pinky promised each other. Zuko smiled softly and connected his pinky with his.

“Im never gonna judge you, alright?” Zuko said reassuringly. He needed Sokka to know he wasn't here to bring him down, he was here because Sokka is the first boy to ever trust zuko with this kind of information, and that held a special place in zuko heart.

“I know”

Words: 1387, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Avatar: The Last Airbender

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Katara (Avatar), Sokka (Avatar), Zuko (Avatar), Aang (Avatar), Toph Beifong

Relationships: Sokka/Zuko (Avatar)

Additional Tags: Phonefic, Pre-Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Zuko is trying his best, sad sokka, Angst, Fluff, Parent Death, Hurt Sokka (Avatar), Zuko is an Awkward Turtleduck

read it on the AO3 at https://ift.tt/2Pec8gS

[altphilcmena]

✆ ✉ ☎ ⁇ ✿ ø ✘ # @ & % ツ $ ♀ fr all of my muses :) (pick n choose who gets what)

Send “✆” for a MORNING text. (dom)

philomena [5:00am] GOOD MORNING DOMINIC EVANS. I HAVE NOT YET RECEIVED MY SOCKS.

Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. (freya)

philomena [4:03pm] MY PHONEFE EWLL IN THE LAKE

philomena [4:03pm] CAN MY TEXTS STILL SEND?

Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. (freya)

philomena [3:23am] FROGS. 3:30AM KNOCKING LAKE

Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text. (freya)

philomena [2:27am] H2LLO FREY1 WHERE IS NOLAND?

Send “✿” for a SUGGESTIVE text. (dom)

philomena [1:38pm] YOUR BED WAS VERY COMFORTABLE

Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. (freya)

philomena [12:23am] I SAW A SHOOTING STAR. DID YOU TOO?

Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text. (dom)

philomena [2:30pm] GIVE ME MY SOCKS BACK GOBLIN. THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING.

Send “#” for a RANDOM text. (freya)

philomena [4:00pm] GRILLED CHEESE SOON PLEASE

Send “@” for a SCARED text. (freya)

philomena [7:56pm] I THINK I AM POSSESSED.

Send “&” for a LOVING text. (freya)

philomena [1:23pm] YOUR FRIENDSHIP MEANS THE WORLD TO ME

Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. (freya)

philomena [11:32am] WHAT ARE DICK SISTERS?

Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text. (dom)

philomena [4:40am] I HAVE FOUND MY SOCKS. YOU ARE FORGIVEN.

Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text. (dom)

philomena [3:56pm] EEFH4HU483HF8383UFJFWWWWWWWWWWW

Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text. (freya)

philomena [10:23am] I DON’T KNOW IF I AM CAPABLE OF LOVE SOMETIMES

philomena [10:23pm] BUT I DO IMMENSELY ENJOY GRILLED CHEESE

[vainenpoika]

attempted fic the first

I don't own anything belonging to J.K.Rowling and associates thereof. I also have no idea what I'm doing, and may yet regret making this available to the public.

in which the longbottoms and potters Go Way Back (read: fealty oath going back literal centuries), and so madam augusta is Immensely Narked Off when dumbledore dares to place harry with someone else and won't even arrange for playdates. clearly the only acceptable response is to raise neville on stories of potter/longbottom comradelyness and send him off to hogwarts with strict orders to invite harry over at the earliest opportunity. so when they meet on the train, neville recognizes him straight away but respects his decision to not use his last name for now - maybe he wants to make an especially dramatic entrance, that's almost traditional for pureblood heirs anyway. heavens know malfoy will be trying something similar, though plainly his discretion is not nearly up to the same standards. really, barging in like that and insulting everyone, has the boy no tact? what has his mother been teaching him? neville hardcore channels his grandmother to gratifying effect. malfoy makes himself scarce. having thus boosted his confidence, neville is actually almost expecting gryffindor, only to find himself in hufflepuff after all (the sorting hat approved of his loyalty). harry remembers what malfoy said about hufflepuff and duffers, but he also remembers neville making a right fool of him on the train, and asks the hat to put him with the badgers; the hat sees a kid following a friend and allows it. hermione was already sorted gryffindor, we'll see how that goes for her. ron weasley winds up in ravenclaw, shocking most everyone but especially his brothers. malfoy stays in slytherin. i'm sure there are other people we care about, they remain canonical until further notice.

wait, what? i thought you just didn't like formalities, i never would have thought - this is an actual problem. well. you may wish to sit down for this. comfortable? right. well, i have good and bad news for you. good news: congratulations, you're a lord! that means you get respect, extra priveliges, and even a certain amount of governmental power. bad news: i regret to inform you that you are a lord. that means you have responsibilities, and you havent been taught how to handle them. worse news: you are the last of your line, which means that i have no idea who, if anyone, has been acting as your regent. this is worrisome, especially considering it should have been their job to keep you informed and prepared. chances are that you do have one, owing to the fact that the economy has yet to outright collapse, but that they don't even close to have your interests at heart. with me so far?     i think so?     good, because i really don't know how i could have made it simpler. now, our families have been friends for a rather long time, meaning that i am honor-bound to aid you in times of need. this qualifies, though i don't expect you to take my word for it.     why wouldn’t i?     you've known me for one whole week, i could be out to steal your fortune for all you know, i would be remiss in my duty if i allowed you to trust me on one week's acquaintance so just let me do the honorable will you? and find yourself outside sources as well, i shan't have you learning all of this from one probably biased source!     this is really important to you, huh.     ... yes. on which note, lesson one: honor is important, not just for you personally but for your house. minor infractions might be forgiven but never forgotten; major infractions and you end up like the malfoys.     huh?     lord malfoy broke his oath to the king of france once a couple of centuries back, and his children had to sell everything and move to england before anyone would trust them with literally anything. they still bear the shame of it even now, and it's only in the past couple of generations that they started regaining some of the honor they might have had. you do not want to do that to your descendants.     um. yeah. how do i not do that?     simple version: do not break your given word. if you anticipate any difficulty keeping a promise, then do not make the promise. your family's oaths and alliances are something you should definitely look into, and soon, but there's also a decade's worth of general knowledge that you're missing, and some of that is urgent. family magic and honor are tied to each other, but i have no idea how sensitive to that kind of thing you may be, so if you happen to get a really bad feeling about a particular course of action, i'd look into it very closely before making a move.     oookay? is that something that's likely to happen?     it varies from person to person. don't worry about it unless it happens, just don't discount it out of hand if it does.     okay, i guess. so wait, if you have to help me out, does that mean i should be doing stuff for you too?     if i go to war, you would have to go with me, i think, and you can't try to cause me serious harm outside of extenuating circumstances, but that's not likely to come up very soon. again, this is the kind of thing you shouldn't just take on faith, so do your own research when you get the chance. alright?     ... yeah. this is kind of a lot to take in, though.     fair. i can't think of anything that really can't wait, so we could pick this up again tomorrow?     um, okay. and, er, thanks.     yeah. want to work on the herbology essay?

it's actually ron who ends up crying in a bathroom on halloween, and neville is the one who notices. harry's still the one to insist on going after him, though. when they get to the bathroom, they find ron behind a makeshift barricade that's holding up pretty well, actually, looks like he managed to magically reinforce it, but his wand is in splinters on the floor. harry jumps on the troll's back, then neville uses a chunk of stone to break its skull. ron is fucking traumatized, but also rather grateful. when the professors show up, ron is like, 'i was just taking a leak, prof', to which mcgonagall replies that this is a girl's loo, weasley, try again. (it's myrtle's loo, to be precise. this may become relevant. don't ask me how the troll got there tho) when it's all settled, the hufflepuff duo get a shitton of points and a lecture; ravenclaw in general gets an antibullying seminar and a lot more supervision, which will come in handy when luna shows up next year. ron gets a new wand, paid for out of the bullies' pocket money, and some new friends. in gryffindor, alone among jocks, hermione granger feels rather melancholy. not to worry, though, pretty soon she'll be playing chess and studying with ron in the library. it will be a longstanding joke in their year that the hat accidentally put hermione in ron's place and was too embarrassed to correct itself when he showed up.

    so. what now?     i figured we might start by answering any questions you've come up with?     um, ok. i have a list, actually.     good thought.     right. so, ah, you mentioned a regent?     yes, that is one of my own more urgent questions. whoever they are, they certainly haven't been doing their duty by you.     so how would i find out who it is?     hm. do you know who your solicitor is?     ... i have a solicitor?     okay, i should have expected that response. the answer is probably, unless your regent is actively sabotaging your house. i'd suggest writing to gringotts and seeing who they have on file. if anyone knows what's going on with your estate, the solicitor should. if not, get a new one and have them find out soonest.     right. ok, write to gringotts, then write to solicitor if available, and if they can't help then find someone who will. got it.     ... are you actually taking notes on this?     well, yes? i mean, you're taking the time to teach me what i should have already known, the least i can do is pay attention and learn quickly, right?     that... you bring honor to your house.     okay, i haven't gotten that far in my reading. what precisely does that mean, and how should i be responding?

malfoy eventually works up the nerve to apologize to harry for getting off on the wrong foot (as they've both been avoiding further antagonism) and offer an invitation to his house for the holidays, to which harry looks shifty until neville steps up and says he's already got a prior engagement, thanks, but perhaps malfoy would be up for attending the longbottom's annual yule ball? and malfoy is a bit embarrassed because yeah he should've guessed the longbottoms would've claimed first dibs on the potter, but that's a bit overshadowed by being the first malfoy invited to longbottom manor in a longass time. like, pre-immigration-to-the-isles ass time. he accepts with alacrity and runs off to write his mother. (harry asks if neville really meant it and is nearly smothered in the hug that follows. the latest longbottom is quickly coming to the conclusion that the potter needs all the hugs he can get)

    wait, so when you said that 'our houses are friends', did you actually mean something more along the lines of 'your house pays fealty to mine'? because that is what i am seeing here.     are you just now looking that up?!     peace! i thought it was the usual mutual aid alliance. i started with the more recent records, but they just say that of course our houses always act together, what more do you expect from longbottoms and potters? i've only just now gotten far enough back to figure out how we got that way, is all.     fair. yes, your ancestors did swear to mine. standard oath for that period, protection for service and mutual good faith. it doesn't really come up in daily life, just when one or the other of us gets into some sort of trouble. i'll get you a look at our family chronicles over holiday, if you like?     cool. but, er, it says something about renewal of oaths?     not until i'm confident you know exactly what you're doing. you've enough people trying to take advantage of you, i'll not add to that list. bit difficult to take appropriate revenge on myself, you see.     well. i wouldn't want to make trouble, i suppose. so remind me what devil's snare has to do with purple sponge mold again?     they're symbiotic, see; the snare needs the dark to survive, while the mold grows faster when watered with blood...

so hufflepuff house in general is more-or-less rule-abiding, but they are still teenagers and dumbledore's little speech about the third floor and death is a fucking challenge. they held a whole house meeting about it and set up their own rules, 'nobody below third year' and 'this shouldn't need saying but Share Your Findings!', and 'anyone who disobeys will be turned in to the professors, yes, bartely, that means prefects too'. because they know the younger years will unionize if they aren't included in some way, they're mapping it out on one of the walls, having bribed the weasley twins to come up with ink the professors couldn't see. by the end of the year and quirrel's little game, hufflepuff house has it pretty much figured out - the whole thing is a trap, designed to match an intruder's skill level and let them in, with just enough trouble to dispel suspicion, but not out. luckily for hufflepuff, it's designed for a single intruder, not a group. only the potions challenge seems to have taken that into account, such that if you aren't prepared only one person can get past at all. but they have most of the permutations mapped, and when harry's little squad realizes what's up, it's a hufflepuff prefect they go to. they end up making extra barriers around the area, spirit wards as well as physical - turns out ron is Real Good at Walls these days - rather than going in after, but we still get a nice dramatic scene - maybe harry helped cast one of the wards and he uses that link? maybe it's in a dream the next night? - and quirrel is still thoroughly gone.

everyone passes their exams, more or less, and then it's time to negotiate living arrangements. harry, being now old enough to have some say in the matter, uses that fealty oath to be like 'actually neville is the boss of me, headmaster, not you, and neville's gran is the boss of him, so i'll be staying with her for the holidays kthxbai', at which point dumbledore is forced to disclose the whole blood ward business rather ahead of schedule, to which madam augusta is Even More Narked, but that's when neville steps up and asks if the wards are bound to the house or to the family, because if it's the house then he's going with harry and if it's the family then they're all coming with him, so there. nobody is quite sure how to explain to the Young Longbottom that the dursleys are grown adults with no obligation to listen to him, not least because technically he will someday outrank everybody present and has no obligation to listen to any of them, but dumbledore admits that it is the house actually, so he gets to go negotiate the dursleys into letting yet another preteen cohabitate with them. in the background somewhere, ron and hermione have made arrangements to spend a week or two at each others' houses. it'll be fun. harry promises to write malfoy over the summer, having graduated to awkward-but-vaguely-friendly acquaintances. we'll see how that goes.

ron has a Supremely Awkward summer at home with his gryffindor family, and finds himself ducking into percy's room more than once for a bit of peace and quiet (percy tolerates this in exchange for a good word in penelope's ear) and avoiding the twins wherever possible. he has a great time at hermione's though, picks up a few words of french, and arthur at least enjoys hermione's return visit. they quietly agree that most future summer visits should be at her house.

[starriewolf]

Phonefic (6/∞)

Matsumoto Rangiku's first memory of Gin was him bending down to offer her a persimmon, on a cold winter night. What she doesn't know, and that Gin carries with him to the grave, was that that wasn't their first meeting.

Her second memory from back then was Gin standing in their little hut, cheek smeared with blood, telling her that he's become a shinigami.

It's pretty normal for souls from Rukongai to lose large tracts of memory due to prolonged hunger, and so Rangiku never stopped to wonder what happened in between.

-

Gin remembers everything.

The first time he meets Rangiku, they were tossed into the same prison cell, on the tail end of one of Aizen's first few Hōgyoku experiments. They were lucky - he'd already made his stone, and wouldn't need their souls anymore. They would stay in there until the wards eventually fail.

He takes Rangiku home with him, and they get by, scavenging for food and running with the tattered remnants of Gin's old gang.

Aizen comes back, eager to test the extent of his Hōgyoku, and this far out in Rukongai? Nobody cares if a few hundred souls go missing. And he spots Rangiku, her reiatsu blazing like a star gone supernova, in an instant.

Matsumoto Rangiku would never achieve bankai, would never know she'd ever had the potential to, not after Aizen ripped out half her soul and left her for dead, one snowing winter night, the sole survivor of that first battery of Hōgyoku experiments.

And Gin hates Aizen for it.