#the path from you

[takeariskao3]

Lily Luna and the Agony of Trying to Go on a Date Part 1 (Hinnyfest & Other Epilogues Chapter 20)

"It's just so unfair!" Ruby snorted at the whinge in Lily's voice and reached for another spoonful of batter. "Look at this," Lily grabbed for where Dad sat on the sofa. She placed her hands on either side of his head and wheeled him around to face the kitchen. "This is what I have to work with!"

read on ao3

[corneliaavenue-ao3]

drunk prompt: harry and ginny break the 4th wall

you are going to hate me.

That was the hardest part,” he mumbled against her collarbone. He’d never said the words before, but the compulsion to speak them aloud overshadowed nearly all other thought. “I knew how to die, but… I didn’t know how to live.”

Ginny stopped breathing. He was sure of it. Seconds ticked by, Harry hiding in her embrace in an effort to avoid the declaration of truth he couldn’t take back. 

Shifting her hands to his jaw, she waited until he reconnected their eye contact before she asked, “Have you figured it out yet?”

Harry softened his expression, trailing a finger across her temple to slide a loose strand of copper hair away from her face. “With you, I might.”

Ginny paused, "And then what?"

She looked up from the computer screen, archiveofourown.org's white screen lighting up her face. "And then what happens?"

Harry shrugged, stuttering out his next sentence, "I-I'm not sure. The next chapter hasn't been published yet!"

"Well how does it get published?" Ginny asked, practically begging.

"We could bother the author, and ask if there is going to be an update soon?"

Ginny waved her hand at him, "She will hate that."

She sighed, shaking her head. "Maybe we can ask more subtly, ask her about her writing process or even a sneak peek?"

"Yeah!" Harry nodded his head, "That is a great plan!" He pulled the laptop towards him, "It looks like her tumblr is @takearisk-ao3, we can just ask her a question there and hope for the best."

Ginny typed out a message in the ask box, subtly as possible asking for an update. She paused before she hit send, turning to Harry, "Do you think it will be too much to ask for an update for Memories Feel Like Weapons too?"

"Yes, no one cares about that fic besides you, Ginny."

[neomel]

Hi sorry I need to do some more Pokemon posting bc this is the funniest shit. the cute-looking Pokèmon TCG series is making "TM10" part of its branding. Like, TM10 from the games - its the TM for the move Hidden Power, thats cute! Its reflecting the main character discovering herself in the same way the move works in the game, what a cute little detail!

Except uh. Just one problem.

Game Freak in all their brilliance removed Hidden Power from the franchise four years ago in Generation 8* and its still not able to be used in Scarlet and Violet. Its not just that you cant teach it to Pokèmon anymore, you straight up cannot use the attack even if you trade in Pokèmon from older games who know it. Its like a banned technique.

So then that begs the question – if the TCG show is gonna be referencing TM10 this much, but TM10 *isn't* Hidden Power anymore, surely that means TM10 is another similarly inspiring attack - Stored Power, or Calm Mind, or Smart Strike?

Well, depending on if its Gen 8 or 9, I hope the kids will have fun Discovering Their Own Magical Leaf and/or Discovering Their Own Ice Fang. Truly inspiring words. love how well managed this franchise is

[eightofpents]

I'd be perfectly willing to just chalk this up to dumb animation.

But it's more fun to say it's canon that Nathalie's the sort of person who jumps small fences and such with no regard for social mores.

[shrimpricebowl]

oh thank god

[wiisagi-maiingan]

I have very strong opinions about disaster preparation as someone who lives in a tornado zone, where evacuation is NOT an option for anyone and the only way to definitely survive is to 1) be in a building that WON'T just get picked up AND 2) have a basement, cellar, or specialized tornado shelter.

The simple fact is that the majority of fatalities in tornadoes are people living in mobile homes/trailers and those deaths could be reduced massively if the government built tornado shelters in high risk areas. But there's been very, very little effort to do that and tornadoes are just getting stronger and more deadly while poor people are left to huddle in our bathtubs, listening to the sirens and thinking about easily we could die.

[sophies-junkyard]

Change is incremental, but something CHANGED today. You weren’t sure about voting for Biden? You don’t have to anymore! And now is the time to RALLY. The world is fucked up, but letting Trump win will not lead to the political revolution we’re waiting for. Wake up.

Im gonna vote for Kamala Harris in November because I don’t want a wannabe dictator running our country. Simple as that.

[royaltea000]

I love Bai Long Ma he truly don’t gaf

[ferritins]

IN A STITCH, IN A PINCH | J. TODD

SUMMARY: you’ve developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws, but you’re not quite sure about what the irascible Red Hood thinks of you.

WARNINGS: graphic description of burn injury, oblique reference to canonical parental drug dependency, reader is a meta.

NOTES: bringing back an old work! Re: the burns treatment depicted here - my area of study was clinical microbiology, not emergency medicine; everything I know about burns is relegated to opportunistic Staphylococcus aureus infection and how Gram negative skin flora influence wound healing. Take none of what you see in this fic as medical advice; if you do have a severe burn, call 999 and get your arse to an A&E ASAP.

After an extraterrestrial incident in your city that ended with something to the tune of 5 and a half million dollars worth of property damage and you knitting Arsenal's torn-open back together in a moment of adrenaline-fuelled insanity, you've developed something of a friendship with the Outlaws.

What that really means is that you periodically come off your shift at the hospital to find 2 mercenaries and an alien princess divesting your fridge of it's contents, and get wheedled into using your meta abilities to heal wounds that would otherwise take them out of play for a good few months.

You're under no illusions. You're aware that a healer is a useful contact to have, that should the situation necessitate it they'll take the few scant inches you can give and run a mile with them.

However, you're also aware that being a meta is a risk and that it pays to be liked and valued by dangerous people.

It's a friendship of convenience, but a friendship nonetheless.

Kori picks you up bodily and spins you in a tight circle until you're giggly and dizzy when confess her favourite shirts of yours are always freshly washed, just in case.

Roy gives you a vulgar wink when you order his shirt off to take a look at where his back scarred over, but faithfully applies the Vitamin E cream you give him for the scarring, trusting you to ease his discomfort, and sneaks bottles of your favourite elderflower cordial and the tins of Zambuk you can never find in the US for you to find when he leaves.

The only one you can't quite puzzle out your relationship with is Jason. He's taciturn, stands watch faithfully as Roy and Kori pull you into friendly hugs and dizzy spins, pepper playful kisses on your cheek and rub their knuckles into your hair. He rolls his eyes at his teammates' antics, huffs through his nose at your fussing.

Sometimes though, he'll call you sweetheart in a low rasp as he bumps you away from the sink to take over doing the dishes.

Sometimes, you think you catch him watching you with something unnameable and warm in his eyes.

You're not expecting your front door to fly open and damn near off the hinges late on Saturday evening — just as you're fresh out of the shower and only just into your pyjama shirt & shorts, might you add — but your alarm and annoyance die on your tongue when you see Roy and Kori's grim faces and the way that Jason sways despite both of their considerable strength holding him up.

You smell the odd, sour-smoke char of burned flesh as they pass you to ease Jason down oh so gently onto your sofa, and your gut goes cold with fear. The burn, once you get his shirt cut open, is not as extensive as you'd feared, but it's still something from a horror scene.

It's a third degree burn, skin mulberry-red, weeping and blistered in a long arc that curls up from his right hip to just under his right pectoral.

"Bloody hell." You breathe, horrified.

You run to your room, digging out your first aid kit, and drop to your knees by the couch as you tear it open.

Roy snorts, bitter as cyanide. "Yeah, that's a fairly accurate summary of the situation, sweets. The only reason he's still alive is because he dodged and got a glancing blow from the energy beam instead of a direct hit."

You look up from Jason's side.

"I'll need you and Kori to get some things." You say, hands shaking at the prospect of the task in front of you. "I can reduce the severity of the burn to a first degree, maybe, but it–"

"What do you need?" Kori snaps, terse. You reel off a list - topical antiseptic, light bandages, a banana bag & an IV kit, amoxicillin - and then look to Roy.

"I need you to get him to take some co-codamol. It'll kick in in about 10 minutes given his enhanced metabolism, but I can't do anything until he's got painkillers in him."

Roy's brows tighten further.

"Jason doesn't do opiates."

"Roy, if this was anybody else he'd be hooked up to IV morphine! If I start working on him without him having painkillers, he'll go into shock which could kill him." You exclaim.

You make low, soothing sounds when Jason tenses at the shouting, only to groan at the fresh wave of agony in his side.

The sound of Jason's pain seems to be decisive enough for Roy, who moves round the couch and grabs the box of effervescent tablets, dissolving two in water and coaxing Jason into drinking it down.

When the glass is empty, Roy is back to his feet, quick as lightning. He strides to the door, shepherding Kori out of your apartment.

"We'll be back with everything you need in half an hour, tops. Please, help him."

Jason comes out of the shrieking adrenaline of agony to the sound of your voice, and a slight cotton fuzz in his head.

Narcotics, then, but a fairly low dose for him to still retain this degree of alertness. Feeling the encroaching spectre of that terrible pain just barely held at bay, finds he's grateful for the medication.

He goes to prop himself up on his elbows, only to strike a line of phosphorus-white flare of pain down his side that has him hissing breath through gritted teeth.

Above him, you make a startled sound, press a hand to his sternum to keep him down. His eyes catch yours, and he sees the relieved sag of your spine and shoulders at the alertness in his eyes.

"Thank fuck you didn't go into shock." You sigh. "Stay still, I've just about got this down to a second degree burn. I've just got your hip."

You snap off your nitrile gloves and lean forward, cupping his face in your hands. "Don't make a habit of this. You'll kill us off with stress if you keep on nearly-dying."

As if on cue, the front door opens and Roy and Kori come into the living room, pharmacy bags clutched tightly in their grips and fragile hope in their eyes.

When they see Jason's alert eyes, the slow knit of skin and sub-dermal tissue and hear his sheepish grumbling in, response to you, their smiles are like sunlight.

Healing the burn is slow going, taking a full five evenings after your shifts.

Roy and Kori are intent on Jason staying the full course of treatment — settled by a, literally, on account of Kori, flaming row when he asks for his helmet and body armour —and though your entreaties are quieter, they're no less insistent.

It serves him right, probably, but it's driving him to distraction.

Specifically, the feeling of your hands over his skin is driving him to distraction.

He's not sure whether it's mercy or the sweetest of torture when you approach him, eyes darting down his body in a way that's half-assessing, half appraising before the heat-shock of your touch makes contact, pieces his skin back together.

(The thing is, Jason's attuned to everything about you, has been ever since you pulled Roy's flayed skin back shut whilst the city was still smoking behind you, totally unafraid in scrub trousers and a hoodie.

He's got it bad, and it's not exactly subtle.

Roy and Kori haven't missed that, or the way he reacts to you, judging by the raised eyebrows and teasing smirks as they lean up against the wall and watch you work.

He hopes the glare he levels at them over the top of your head communicates exactly what he'll do to them if they open their mouths.

It all comes to a head on Monday evening, when you come home from your OR shift, duck into the shower and then come into the living room in a too-large grey t-shirt and deliciously short sleep pants.

Jason's heart stops for a second. He lets his eyes flit despairingly over to Roy and Kori as you prep your kit, watches their unrepentant grins with a burning resentment towards them.

Having you this close to him, worry-soft and lit like a Rembrant from the lamp on the side table without being able to touch you is the closest thing to hell there is. You're close enough that he can smell the overlapping, inoffensive fragrances of your facial skincare products, see the faint pearlescent sheen of the residue of some serum on the apples of your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the soft line of your jaw.

Your nitrile-gloved hand settles gently on the raw new skin just above his hip and he jumps, his own broad hand flying up defensively to catch your wrist and still your movement. It's a mistake he regrets immediately.

The skin of your wrist is still tacky-soft with still-settling moisturiser, hair curling damp where the spray of your shower caught it. Jason's mind spins an unbidden reel of your hands, smoothing lotion over the plush expanse of your thighs, the line of your neck and the gentle swell of your décolletage, the curve of your hip.

He presses his eyes shut tightly.

He feels feral, the hungry bones of him blown open and exposed like the hull of a shipwreck. He wants to worry marks the shape of his mouth into your thighs, your neck, across your collarbones. He wants your knees bracketing his hips, the weight of you on top of him.

God, he wants–

"Are you okay? You're not in too much pain, are you?" He hears you ask.

He knows he's in far too deep when the thought of tasting the way the words roll off your tongue flits across his mind.

"Sorry." He croaks, releasing your hand. "Instinct."

(Roy turns to Kori with a snort, murmuring low so you can't hear.

"He's been watching like he wants to eat them alive since the first time we met and it's a miracle he's got enough blood north of his waistband to be capable of speech, but sure. Instinct.")

[54625]

"Have you no more memories?"

I am made of memories.

"Speak, then."

[puppyeared]

(guy who has never played cotl) haha au time

[felassan]

What kind of spirit do you think Felassan waz?

Swag

[ex0toxin]

awughhh silly shipchart.. my canonverse hcs 🧠

og post

[takeariskao3]

I AM SCREAMINGNGNGNGNNGNN

inspired by this for the fic "the path from you" by @takearisk-ao3

[turtleblogatlast]

Something I really like is that April’s constant stream of odd jobs she goes through is somewhat reflected in the boys as well. Like, you have April working at random pizza places or getting a crane license or being fully willing to apply for a job at a place clearly made out of cardboard. Then you have the boys as well who do anything from working as a basketball mascot, building a massive dog park, being waiters, getting a whole band gig at a theme park, etc, etc-

Main difference is that April actively applies for these jobs (and is hopefully paid for the short time she’s in them) whereas for the bros the jobs usually find them (and they practically never get paid.) It doesn’t even stop at jobs either, they just seem to casually amass skills in general.

I don’t know, I like how both April and the turtles are just so ready and willing to do things. Sure, they’re not always good at these things, but they do them readily! In a way, being heroes is just another job (well, more like volunteer work/vigilantism/another fun activity) that they initially took on because of their general sense of “why not?”

They’re very willing and open to trying out new things despite their tendency to revert back to what they enjoy (and how commonly trying new things ends up going wrong), and I think that adaptational interest of theirs really helps them be well rounded in multiple regards.

[cynomain69]

something about how every mercenary in sumeru probably has a story about being awkwardly propositioned by an akademiya student on the verge of a mental breakdown about their thesis