#those icons are a manageable task but STILL

[heartsbreaking-migrated]

the desire to make edited icons for this blog vs the worry that a) i have an ungodly amount of muses and b) that i'll eventually change my psd and never have icons again

[jmscornerlibrary]

Snape's Search History - Part One

So this has been requested by quite a few people, now. For those who hadn't seen my previous headcanon post: here it is. I will try and tag all those who have expressed interest in the comments.

In short: After stealing Snape's phone and looking through his saddening search history, the trio come up with a plan to make Snape happy. This is how it unfolds, for the Potions Master has little idea what to make of it.

Enjoy and do reblog to inform the others!!

Part One.

All was still in the empty Transfiguration classroom. The dust lay undisturbed and thick upon the solid desks, which in turn were standing silent and endeavouring in their fortitude of unuse. The chalkboard looked dejected, the forgotten endeavours of clearing it of writing still visible in ashy smudges across the charcoal surface. And it would have probably stayed like that for another decade or two if the door wasn’t flung open and three small figures stumbled from behind it, making enough noise for the dust to twitch into the air again. A ‘quick, quick!’ was spat out by one of the disturbers accompanied by a few hisses of urge, then a scrabble as the doorknob was found and the door was pushed.

The dust jumped up from the desk as the door slammed shut and settled back upon it once more as Harry, Ron and Hermoine stood, panting, in front of it. 

After a short moment, Ron pushed himself from the door. His face broke out in a wide grin.

“Blimmin’ heck, that was a mess!” He laughed and dusted his hands. “He’ll be looking for it, now, I bet.”

“But we’ve got it!” Harry grasped the trophy tight, as though he was afraid that it would slip from him, back to its owner. “Let’s do it quick, before someone else comes to find us and sees us.”

Hermoine said nothing, but she was far from calm herself - in fact, she was inches from jumping down on the spot and breaking out into a mad giggle. The latter she repressed with difficulty as they all stormed to the nearest table, swept off the perplexed dust from it with their sleeves, then laid out the shiny, sleek device upon its surface.

The device was a phone. It wasn’t any old phone, either, for if it was perhaps only a few of the more eccentric would deem it a subject of interest. This was a working phone, one which withstood any feuds between its power and the magic sparking and fizzing, though quiet and invisible, in the air; even better yet - this phone belonged to a certain man whom the three giggling and bending over its shiny, black surface, hated with a vengeance. This phone belonged to the Potion’s Master: Severus Snape.

“Go on, Hermione.” Ron slid the phone over to the small witch with bushy brown hair. “You said you knew the password.”

Hermione nodded, growing solemn at the task at hand, shoved her brown mane out of her eyes and bent over the screen, which grew illuminated at the touch of a button.

“Merlin’s beard, what my dad would give to be in our place,” Ron breathed, as Hermoine tapped out some letters and numbers with her forefingers. “A fellytone, and a working one too-”

“It’s called a telephone, Ron,” Harry corrected, though he could barely breathe as he watched Hermione’s fingers working. “Ha, I cannot believe we’ve actually managed to do this. Fred and George are nothing compared to us, now.”

“I’d love to see their faces,” Ron whispered, almost wriggling with glee. “And I’m the one who fished it out of his pocket! Now, all we need to do is-”

“Got it.” Hermione smiled as the screen changed, displaying buttons with different icons upon a plain, dark backdrop. “Now, if I remember correctly, it's called explorer…”

“Why aren’t we doing this in the common room, again?” Ron continued. “I know Percy’s a prefect, but even he wouldn’t-”

“Because, Ron,” Hermoine began as she chose the right button, “we have no idea what Snape actually keeps or searches for on this phone. If it’s all weird, we’d be too embarrassed to even attempt showing it to them. Plus,” she added, when Ron opened his mouth to interject, “it’s not like we’re going to cast it out of the window as soon as we’re done. It’s not magic - at least I don’t think it is - and it won’t just disappear or fly out to find Snape. We can show the rest of our classmates later.”

Ron opened his mouth again, but then understood the sense of this and closed it. 

“There it is,” Harry said, as Hermione searched for the right option. “History. Oh, boy, this is gonna be good. If he’s not cleared it.”

Ron rubbed his hands and rocked on the balls of his feet as he leaned on the table. “Yeah, as ‘Mione said, I bet it's all weird. Let's see what’s first.”

Dangling hair and breathing mingled and hovered inches from the square surface as all three leaned in to see. However, there was hardly any giggling, after they all read the first position on the records of what, precisely, the Potion’s Master searched for whenever he had a spare moment. In fact, there was none at all, and the glee was slowly replaced with something that none of them had been expecting.

Hermoine’s eyes dulled and eyebrows furrowed as she read the first position aloud.

“... ‘How to be more approachable’.”

There was a rather awkward pause. Hermione made a rather sad ‘oh’ sound. Ron shifted slightly.

“That’s kind-of sad, to be honest,” he finally managed, frowning.

“Scroll down, Hermione,” Harry waved aside the tension and leaned forward again. “That’s only the first position. Perhaps he’s had a change of heart.”

“And the most recent,” Hermione murmured, but she scrolled down obediently. 

“Yeah, I bet it’s all weird further down,” Ron muttered, but they were all disproved again. Their childish glee was completely reduced to something rather prickly and uncomfortable as Hermione ploughed through the searches:

“...Where can happiness be obtained…” 

“...How to tolerate children…” 

“...Patience, tips...”

“...Wholesome fiction with happy ending… stories with happy ending… which sad books to avoid… books to make one’s soul happy…”

And then:

“...Fast, effective…”

Here, Hermione paused and bit her lip, her eyes sparkling strangely, her brow now heavy. Harry glanced at her, then finished for her.

“Fast, effective headache relief.” He straightened and shifted from foot to foot, then looked at Ron for some sort of inspiration to dilute the thickness of the air. “Did you know Snape gets headaches, Ron?”

“Nope,” Ron offered, looking rather ashamed of himself and his gloating, the tips of his ears pink. “I didn’t think so. I mean, it makes sense though, doesn’t it…?”

“I feel terrible,” Hermione whispered, balling her fists.

“Yeah, we should probably put it back,” Ron said, though he didn’t look as enthusiastic about slipping the phone back into the Potion Master’s pocket than he did about proudly obtaining it. “Should we just leave it on his desk when he’s not in the classroom?”

“And how are we going to do that?” Harry asked, frowning. “We can’t go running around the dungeons. The Slytherin common rooms are there.”

Hermione sniffed, then rolled her eyes, pushing the phone away from her. “You have an invisibility cloak, Harry. This shouldn’t be too much of an issue.”

“Oh, yeah.”

They stood there for another few seconds, before Harry reached out and hesitantly pocketed the phone. “Let’s get back to the common rooms. We don’t need to mention this to anybody.”

“No, we don’t.” Ron said sadly, recalling his former words of potential victory over Fred and George and how they just went down the drain. “Never mind. Let’s just go.”

The dust was rather glad to be free of them, and so was the classroom. Only the desks, however, were rather miserable that they once again stood alone in their fortitude of unuse, unnoticed, only there to be berated and slandered by the students. Just like, as the trio would soon deduce, Severus Snape, the Potion’s Master, was.

*

A week passed. The phone was returned back to Snape’s desk without much ado. After that, it was unmentioned, and whenever it was glimpsed, three pairs of eyes were averted to the candles or windows, and most certainly not to each other, no words about it leaving their mouths, though they most certainly bounced around in their brains, though some were more cluttered than the others’.

It was through Harry’s mouth that the uncomfortable topic surfaced and it did so on a Saturday evening, in the library, when the day was slowly coming to an end and the sun was sinking slowly outside the mullioned windows. Ron was scowling at his Transfiguration homework, when Harry shot out a sigh through his nose and put down his quill.

“Listen, guys,” he started, nudging Hermione, who didn’t look as though she had heard him and just kept right on scribbling, her nose nearly touching the parchment. “I’ve been thinking… Hey, Hermione, are you listening?”

“Shush.” Hermoine glared at him, then shot a pointed glance at Madam Pince. “We’ll get kicked out.”

Ron’s scowl didn’t shift and was merely re-directed at its favourite subject of complaint with large front teeth and a vehement urge to stuff her head with new fragments of knowledge. 

“Not if we keep our voices down,” he said, potting his quill too. “Talk, Harry.”

Harry opened his mouth mainly to play on Hermione’s nerves than to follow through on his plans, when his mind did a detour to the wisdom of him touching on such a sensitive topic in a public place.

“Let’s go somewhere else,” he said with a nod. “Not because this is the library. We need to speak about… you know what.”

This was of enough weight for Hermione’s quill to stop moving. She shot him a glance, then met eyes with Ron and sighed.

“Yes,” she whispered. “We can’t speak about this here. To be honest, I’ve been meaning to speak about this to you both too.”

They latched up their bags, grabbed their stationary, then swiftly exited the library, tripping over Harry and Ron’s untied shoelaces. Hermoine grabbed them by their bags when they turned the corridor towards the portrait of the Fat Lady.

“The common room’s full,” she hissed. “We should go outside. We won’t be overheard there.”

“Hermoine’s right,” Harry said, nudging Ron. “Let’s go.”

They turned around, then began slowly walking down towards the main gates. They all kept silent, their eyes trained mainly to the floor, sometimes only looking up to meander around the other students milling around the corridor. It was probably why they didn’t notice the ominous figure walking towards them until they had all but face-planted themselves into its black robes.

Hermione was the first to look up and stick out her arms to halt the other two, her eyes sharpening after she was prodded out of her thoughts by this slightly unwelcome reality. Harry and Ron had similarly dumb expressions as they blinked up at her, then at what was in front of them.

Professor Snape’s voice was as restricted to nothing but cold disdain as usual, and the black of both his clothes and expression matched this regularity. 

“Where are we going?”

Harry opened his mouth, but Hermione beat him to it.

“Outside for a moment, Professor Snape.”

Harry paused, then nodded along with Ron, trying to appear as though they weren’t hiding anything at all. The Potion’s Master observed them for a moment or two longer, before lowering eyebrows and, as it seemed, his guard.

“I suggest you look where you’re going,” was all he said, before drawing his cape about him and turning to pass them. But he didn’t manage to pass them, when Hermoine opened her mouth and after drawing a deep breath, emitted a string of words strung upon the same one:

“I hope you have a good night, Professor Snape.”

It was quite uncanny, really, how all three males looked at her with the same degree of incredulity and astonishment upon their faces, apparently forgetting things like enmity and dislike. It was enough to make poor Hermione flush a deep red and her words to run away from her before she could properly filter them through her teeth and tongue.

“Just being polite, is all,” she muttered, before she tugged on Harry and Ron’s sleeves sharply. “Come on, let’s go.”

She dragged them off with enough force for Snape’s surprise to cool off and his usual stone face return as he watched them stagger, though that was only visible to Harry and Ron for a few seconds before the vehement grip on their arms prevented them from turning back around, in case they both got whiplash. 

“Are you mental? What was that?” Ron hissed at her, when they rounded a corner, then he did a double take when he fixed his eyes on her features. “Blimey, Hermione, you’ve gone absolutely scarlet.”

“You’ve gone redder than his hair,” Harry commented, though with a hint of admiration in his tone as he stared.

“Oh, shut up,” Hermione muttered, then dragged them through the main door, into the cool of the evening. “Never mind that. Let’s talk about the subject at hand. And don’t tell me you’ve not been thinking about doing something similar to what I did.”

She glared at Ron and Harry, still flushed. They both pulled faces back, but they dropped their gaze after a few seconds as they trudged through the foliage.

“Alright, maybe,” Ron muttered under his breath, when they reached the black lake. “But it was nowhere near to what you just did.”

“What precisely did I just do?” Hermione snapped. “I was just being polite.”

“You were sucking up to him-”

“No I wasn’t.”

“Yes you were.” Ron put on a high-pitched voice. “I hope you have a wonderful night, Professor Snape-”

“Oh, shut up!” She stamped her foot. “You act as though you’re entirely ignorant. You were there when we looked at his history. You saw it. And if complaining and arguing about this is the best you can do, then I pity you, Ronald Weasley!”

“Alright,” Harry cut in, weakly. “That’s not what we came here to do. Let’s just get it over and done with before curfew.”

Hermione glared at Ron once more before settling down. Both folded their arms and stared at the lake. Harry pursed his lips, for it was much harder to project his thoughts than he thought it would be, now that they were actually all together for that purpose alone.

“I think Hermione’s right,” he began, when Hermione was no longer red. “It would be wrong to keep at… you know.”

Ron snorted. “Being mad at Snape for picking on us for no reason?”

“He picks on everyone.” Hermione said, her eyes narrowed. “We’re no exception. Well, perhaps Harry is, but then you did get off to the wrong start at the beginning of the year.”

“No he didn’t,” said Ron.

“He was talking back to him,” she argued. “And it was the first interaction they had. No wonder Snape hates Harry.”

“And you,” Ron said pointedly. “You’re pretty much every teacher’s pet but his, and do you know why? Because he’s an-”

“Can you two not?” Harry snapped. “Can you two calm down? Please? This is serious.”

The arguing pair scowled at one another and resumed evaporating the lake with their glares.

“So,” Harry said, once enough silence had passed, “I think we ought to… you know, help him a bit. Be, erm, nicer.”

Ron turned and creased his forehead, but Hermione nodded, solemnly.

“We ought to,” she said, softly. “I told you, I was thinking about it. It’s all about perspective, really.”

“Perspective?”

“Yes,” she said. “Think about it from Snape’s perspective. Do you reckon he has a lot of friends?”

Ron scoffed. “Don’t make me laugh. Who would want to be friends with him? ‘Course he hasn’t.”

“Precisely,” she said, though she looked at him reproachfully. “You’re teaching over five-hundred children Potions, all of whom, if I may add, are intent on either not listening, not doing homework, or just being downright rude. Yes, Ron, I know he’s like that too, and perhaps he does deserve it, and if we didn’t know better, we’d be justified in biting back. The point is, he’s clearly sad. He looks it. He looks downright miserable all the time.”

“You’re blowing this over.”

“Oh, am I?” Hermione said. “Tell me one time in which you saw him smile. And I don’t mean meanly. I mean happily. Have you ever heard him laugh? Because I haven’t.”

Ron sucked on his lips, looking torn. Harry listened, looking solemn.

“I haven’t either,” he said, quietly. “At first, I thought like Ron does, but… I’ve lived with the Dursleys my whole life. They’ve held grudges for no reason, for a long time, and it's tiring to be the person receiving them and keeping them up.”

Hermione looked at him with eyes lined with admiration. She nodded.

“Exactly, Harry. We could just be the reason for somebody’s… well, perhaps not happiness, but… tolerance.”

“And how are we going to do that?” Ron asked, still looking begrudging, but not unwilling. “By saying good morning and good night?”

“We could,” Harry said thoughtfully. “That wouldn’t be going over the top, or anything.”

Hermione must have thought about this more carefully than both of them put together, because she started counting out everything they could do upon her fingers as she spoke.

“Not just that,” she began. “We could do everything which is expected of us, for starters. Like doing homework on time, doing it correctly, not just so that it's done and boxed off without thought, the right parchment length, perhaps more… I know, we could get the older students to check it for us, so that we know we’ve done it right… then, we could actually listen in lessons and excel…”

Ron was frowning as she spoke. Even Harry was getting slightly doubtful they would ever manage such a feat. 

“...Do extra work. If you don’t want to, Ron, then we could do something outside of lessons. Not necessarily work.”

“Then what?” Harry asked. “Like what?”

“We could… you know.” Hermione’s face became slightly pink again. “We could find out when his birthday is.”

“That’s going too far,” said Ron, firmly, looking slightly agonised. “Imagine his face… oh, no, I couldn’t.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Hermione agreed. “But then, I don’t know what else to do.”

“That sounds like a pretty good start to me,” Harry said. “Let’s start with lessons, Hermione, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll think of something else.”

Hermione’s face lit up, and for a moment both boys were afraid that she’d hug them.

“Great!” She grinned, then began walking towards the castle. “We have Potions on Monday, and homework due. Let’s get this done now! There’s still time. Alicia Spinnet’s good at potions - she’ll be able to point us in the right direction.”

Harry and Ron turned from the lake and began to follow Hermione as she marched towards the castle with an enigmatical spring in her step.

“I don’t know about you,” said Ron, as she talked on, “but I’ve got a weird feeling this is going to end up in a mess.”

“We’ve been in loads already,” Harry said, though there was something uneasy in his chest too, “so it won’t really make a difference. But Hermione’s got a point,” he added, after they reached the steps to the castle gate, “it must be annoying, being Snape. And, as we all know, doing homework properly’s always a good start to everything.”

“That’s utter garbage.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, grinning. “I’m quoting Hermione. She does it like she can’t live without it. And, from a teacher’s point of view, less marking seems like a good thing, at least to me.”

So the endeavours began, though they didn’t hold out to be as constant a flourish and blaze as Hermione made it out to be. Especially not after she insisted that they do twice the usual length as some form of surprise. 

“I’m not doing that,” Ron complained, throwing himself back in his chair and folding his arms. “I’ve got enough work as it is. And I’ve already done it to the best possible standard. Even you’ve said it's not bad, Hermione.”

“It looks decent,” she said, unrolling her homework, which made both Harry and Ron’s pale in comparison. “But if we’re going to show that we’re not hostile any more, we ought to try harder.”

So the homework was done somewhat begrudgingly and everything seemed to be going to plan, before Sunday evening. More precisely, the free afternoon of Harry and Ron was disturbed by Hermione suddenly coming in through the portrait hole, clutching something behind her back, then moving swiftly towards them and sitting at the table at which they were currently playing wizard’s chess.

“I’ve got something,” she said, slightly flushed. “You’re not going to believe what I made in the girls’ bathroom.”

The game was paused and the boys looked suspicious as they turned to look at her.

“The girls’ bathroom?” Ron repeated bluntly. “What have you been making in the girls bathroom, Hermione, that could make you go so bloody pink?”

They both looked blank as she withdrew a hand from behind her back and placed its contents upon the surface of the table with a rather proud flourish. It was a glass bottle, the sort which looked rather like a cuboid, stoppered with a round cork. It was filled with a light blue liquid, which seemed to glow faintly as it rested within its cool, glass confines. 

“That doesn’t look innocent,” Harry commented, knocking over Ron’s bishop. “What is it, Hermione?”

“It’s a headache draught,” she said proudly. “I found the recipe in one of the books in the library.”

Ron pushed his lips out as he stared at it, then picked it up.

“How d’you know he’ll know this is a headache draught, Hermione?”

“I reckon he’d know, since he’s the Potion’s Master.”

“But doesn’t that mean he’s fully capable of making these himself?” Harry asked. “It’s not like it would be a problem for him.”

“Yes, Harry,” Hermione said slightly impatiently, taking back the bottle from Ron, “but the thing is that some people, men especially, simply don’t bother with taking care of themselves. That’s what my mum once said, and I’ve observed it since. I have a good reason to suspect that Snape isn’t the sort to ensure his health is top-notch.”

“I wouldn’t care if I was him,” Ron agreed. “What’s there to live for, for him? If I had to teach a bunch of snotty kids Potions everyday, I’d probably kill myself.”

There was a bit of an awkward pause - Harry had begun to nod, but lost the ability to move his head as he caught the disapproval in Hermione’s eyes.

“I mean,” Ron corrected himself, “you’re probably right, anyway. How long did it take you to make this?” “An hour,” she replied, “but that was because I messed up the first one. I added a bat-wing too many, so I had to pour that down the sink. Anyway.” She sat up straight again, folding her hands on the table neatly. “It said that half this bottle is to be drunk with fluid twice daily. So we need to make this once a day.”

“We’re going to run out of ingredients within a week,” Harry commented. 

“Not unless we take a little too many during Potions,” Hermione said coolly. “It’s a basic potion, using basic ingredients. Nothing Snape doesn’t have in his cupboard.”

“That would be stealing, though,” Ron said. 

“No it wouldn’t, though, since we are giving it back to him in the form of self-help,” Harry replied. “And you are going to be making it every day, Hermione?” 

In response, Hermoine thrust her hands into her pockets and produced another six vials, placing them with a clink, clink, clink upon the table, neatly. The boys looked at her with varying degrees of astonishment and admiration as she lined the bottles up.

“When these run out,” was the nonchalant reply, though the pink returned to Hermione’s cheeks as it was spoken, “I will do so. Unless you’d like to help me make them.”

“I think I’m good,” Ron said. “You can take all the credit if you want, Hermione - I’ll be happy with just doing extra work.”

“Great,” Hermione replied, ignoring the slight annoyance tinging the last two words spoken. “Then we will start from tomorrow.”

*

As all three of the enlightened Gryffindors lined up outside the dungeon’s classroom on a Monday morning, all three could feel their hearts beating somewhere in their stomach. Hermione, as usually was the case when feverish with excitement or trepidation, wouldn’t stop talking, even for the danger of any nerves exploding in her counterparts.

“Remember what I mentioned yesterday,” she whispered with obstinance, leaning in so that she wouldn’t be overheard. “If anything happens, try not to shout, don’t argue, just try to be as polite as you can. Yes, even if it isn’t your fault, Ron,” she added, cutting off Ron’s indignant reply. “Just try to be as good-willed as possible.”

A drawling voice cut off this heartfelt advice.

“What are you three whispering about?” Draco Malfoy called from the front of the line. “You must be conspiring, since you’re standing so close to each other. Or are you just trying to kiss Potter, Granger?”

Hermione straightened, Ron scowled, Harry opened his mouth to retort, but they never got to, since the former turned around and raised her eyebrows.

“I hope you’re not jealous,” she replied, coolly, “because that would be gross.”

Malfoy scoffed. “Jealous? Of kissing you? Bleh.” He made a show of shuddering, then nudged Crabbe and Goyle, standing beside him. “Imagine kissing someone with teeth like that. They're absolutely massive. It would be like trying to kiss a beaver.”

Hermione’s lips turned down; Ron flushed a fiery red and took a step forward, but Hermione grabbed his shoulders before his clenched fist could go into swing.

“Snape will invite us in any second,” she hissed. “Don’t be provoked, Ron.”

“Yeah, don’t listen to him,” Harry said, shooting a look of hatred towards the blonde, pinched-featured boy guffawing. “He’s just being an idiot. It’s his natural state, he can’t help it.”

At that moment, the doors to the classroom creaked open, and they all began to file into their places. Harry and Ron began to meander towards the back of the classroom to their usual spot, but Hermione knocked on their arms and pointed towards the front row instead.

“Oh no,” Ron moaned, looking fearful, “no, not the front desks, Hermione…”

“Shut up, Ron,” was all she said before she dragged them towards the ominous front desks, just (oh, horror!) in front of the black board. They ignored the strange looks they received from the others around them and instead focused on unpacking all of their things needed for the lesson.

It seemed that they were all off for a good start, when Harry opened his bag, rummaged around in it for a moment, then looked stricken.

“What is it?” Hermione hissed, noticing, as she laid out her stationary geometrically on the desk. “Did you forget your homework?”

“No, I’ve forgotten to bring my Potions book,” he replied, turning his bag upside down. “Oh, great…”

“Silence,” Snape called from behind his desk, watching them with a distasteful look on his pale face. “Sit down.”

They all sat and slid their bags off the desk. Harry hoped nothing amiss would be noticed and instead of wriggling around nervously, he tried to listen carefully as the lesson began. Of course, Hermione had made the effort of ensuring that she was sitting between him and Ron, so that they wouldn’t give into temptations and burst into conversation with one another during inappropriate times.

Snape’s eyes darted towards them in a rather suspicious nature as the lesson began, as though he was expecting something dishonest at the least from this sudden change of seating and eagerness. However, the three looked back with innocent eyes, which, in turn, made the Potions Master’s eyes narrower, before he turned to write upon the chalkboard.

“You will be working in pairs,” he said, once all the instructions had been written and the sleeping draught introduced, “I expect this to be done and detailed on parchment by the end of the lesson.”

The vehemence with which Hermione threw herself into the task was quite unsettling, at least for the other two. However, since there were three of them, either Harry or Ron was going to have to go and work with another, and since neither of them wanted to be parted from Hermione (who, as usual, looked as though she knew exactly what she was doing) there was a little bit of dithering done. 

“Ron, why don’t you go and work with Neville?” Hermione suggested, as Harry slid over to her and almost grasped her arm as though to claim her for the lesson.

Ron looked stricken. 

“Are you mad?” he hissed, as discreetly as he could. “We’ll blow up the classroom!”

Hermione sighed. “No, you won’t-”

“Yes we will! It’s already happened twice before!”

However, Snape intervened before anything could be decided. They flinched, feeling the cold of his shadow and turned to see him standing behind them with his arms folded and his eyes still narrowed.

“Well?” He looked at the dithering three, from bushy brown hair to green eyes to freckles on nose. “This doesn’t look like a pair, to me.”

Harry shot a look at Ron; Ron glowered and made no move to move away. Hermione looked desperate.

“I’ll work with Neville,” she said, making them both shoot her panicked looks instead. “You two work together.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Snape said coolly, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Potter, move your things to Longbottom’s desk. Weasley, you will work with Granger.”

Harry was about to open his mouth to protest, when Hermione stood on his foot and he ended up shutting it and nodding instead.

“Yes, sir,” he said, though sounding  slightly dispirited, then obediently gathered up his things and went to sit with Neville, whose round eyes didn’t leave Snape for the entirety of the time. He laid out all of his things, trying not to look at Ron, who looked rather smug at the change of circumstances, then looked up to find Snape’s eyes narrowed more still as they swept over the things he laid out on the desk.

“Where is your textbook, Potter?” Snape asked softly, his arms folded about him, looking much displeased. “Did you perhaps think that the presence of the scar on your forehead makes you unobliged to bring it? Or perhaps you think you know what to do already, without the book’s aid?”

Malfoy, who was working with Goyle to their left, snorted and nudged his crony. Harry remembered Hermione’s words and swallowed down his words, which were far too red and sharp for the plan they were trying so hard to execute.

“I apologise, sir,” he said, managing to sound relatively polite and stop himself from glowering at the same time, then took a deep breath. “I must have left it in the library yesterday. It’s my fault entirely.”

Neville stared at him. So did Snape. Harry turned to the former.

“Can I share your potions book today, Neville?”

“Sure,” Neville stammered out, then slid it over to him. “Here… here you go.”

“Thank you.” He turned to look back at Snape, who was looking incredulous at the least, almost nervous at the fact that he wasn’t firing a projectile of arrogance back at him. “Sorry to be an inconvenience, sir.”

At this, Snape actually took a small step back, twitching his cape around himself as though putting up a shield of defence, his eyebrows unbending themselves and creeping slowly upwards. Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Hermione shoot him a huge grin and give him a very big thumbs-up. Ron looked torn between cringing and clapping, but ended up nodding in approval.

Snape must have been so thrown off-balance by this alarming bout of humility on Harry’s part, that didn’t even give him a reply. He just slid away from their desk with a last thorough look at him, probably deciding he was under the influence of some spell and not being worthy of both his time or his nerves.

“Nice job, Harry,” Hermione said to him over her bubbling cauldron. “See, you can keep your cool if you want to.”

“I nearly didn’t,” Harry replied with a grin, feeling some odd sense of pride from this accomplishment. “But tell me, Hermione, how are you going to put that vial on his desk?”

“Oh, I’ve got that all figured out,” she said rather breezily, dropping powdered porcupine spine into her mixture. “I’ll leave my book here, then come and get it during break, while he’s gone to the staffroom. Or perhaps I’ll just do it when his back is turned. I’ll manage somehow.”

With that Harry couldn’t argue, so he turned back to his potion and met with Neville’s intrigued face.

“What are you up to?” he asked quietly, as they cut and measured. Harry thought there wasn’t any point in elaborating, so he just said:

“We’re trying to be nice to Snape.”

“Nice to Snape?” Neville repeated, pausing with his cutting knife hovering above his cutting board. “Why’s that?”

Harry shrugged, stirring his potion the way it said on the chalkboard. “Nothing much. Thought we’d have some fun and do some good, you know, Neville?”

Neville didn’t look as though he understood, but then he shrugged and nodded.

“That’s… nice,” he murmured thoughtfully, then nothing more was said on the matter, though he didn’t look quite as uneasy as he did before. In fact, he looked slightly impressed.

Everything would have ended nicely and according to plan if Harry and Neville weren’t stationed at that particular desk. Their sleeping draught was slowly turning a bright-purple colour, as was Hermione and Ron’s (when Harry glanced over), when suddenly there was a sound of splashing and Harry was slapped in the face with several globs of his concoction; someone had thrown something into their cauldron.

Goyle was grinning. Malfoy sniggered, then moved a few steps back to his desk.

“Looked like it needed more bat-wing, Potter.” He shrugged. “You’re welcome.”

Harry stepped forward and was about to tell him exactly what he thought of him with his fists, when Neville poked him frantically and said, “Look!”

He turned back just as the huge, purple bubble swelling out of the rim of his cauldron popped; there was a sound like a giant slug being squelched and Neville and Harry were drenched from head to toe in sticky goo. 

There was a gasp, silence, then a few pounding footsteps, rustling of fabric and Snape stood before them with his eyes black and his mouth sneering.

“You idiots,” he began, whipping out his wand as their cauldron gave another sickening squelch and more gunk splattered out. “Did you not read the instructions? Can you two even read?”

“It wasn’t our fault, Professor,” Neville stammered, wiping gunk off his face, looking worriedly at his ruined robes. “Malfoy threw a bat wing into our cauldron. It was coming along so well, too…”

Snape’s eyes flickered to Malfoy, who pulled a face which was obviously meant to look innocent, then back to Harry, who had taken off his glasses and was frowning as he tried to remove the sludge from their surface so he could actually see.

“That’s right, Professor,” he managed, frowning. “We’d followed your instructions, this time.”

From the corner of his eye Harry saw the shape of Hermione draw something out from her pocket, nip backwards a few steps and discreetly place it on Snape’s desk.

Snape didn’t notice anything, still looking furious. He looked at the purple gunk disdainfully, waved his wand, vanishing it off them and the table.

“Five points from Slytherin,” he snapped at Malfoy, then turned to Neville and Harry. “And five from Gryffindor, for the disturbance.”

This was horribly unfair and normally, Harry would have exclaimed and let him know that it was just so, but Harry had a certain mindset now along with Hermione making frantic motions at him from behind Snape’s back, and so he didn’t say a word as he put his glasses back on and stared at him.

“I apologise for the inconvenience, sir.” He pursed his mouth and shot a look at Malfoy, who’s grin wasn’t as prominent, now that he had been put in his place. “Thank you for cleaning the mess up for us.”

This time, Snape certainly looked baffled. He even looked displeased, his lip curling downwards, though Harry had a feeling it was because he had no idea what was going on, rather than him being disgusted at the good upbringing he was no doubt convinced Harry didn’t have. Ron stifled a snigger with his hands. Hermione smiled.

“Yes,” Neville piped up, surprising all of them, as he examined his clean robes. “Thanks for the help, sir.”

Snape stared at him, then shot a glance at Harry, then made a sound similar to an incredulous scoff and waved his hand for the rest to get on with working. The babble of chatter slowly resumed, as did the clinking of vials and hushed muttering of the flames beneath the cauldrons.

Harry watched Snape walk back to his desk with his eyes still narrowed, sit down, apparently lost in thought, then actually look at his desk and pause.

Hermione’s eyes shot a discreet look at the Potions Master and the corner of her mouth couldn’t restrain itself from twitching upwards as Snape picked up the headache draught in two fingers (it was very clearly labelled in block writing, so that it was unable to tell who had written it) and read the label. The trio watched his eyes grow wide as his eyes scanned over it - he was astonished! - then flash upwards with suspicion.

Hermione had already averted her eyes with Ron, pretending to be reading a passage in the book together, and Harry managed to do the same very shortly after, so Snape simply scoured the room and found no potential gifters in any of the gathered. He looked back down to the little blue bottle. He uncorked it, brought it up to his nose hesitantly (probably expecting a lungful of poisonous fumes, Harry thought), then with the same expression lowered it, corked it and carefully placed it back down on his desk.

Like Hermione, Harry couldn’t keep himself from smiling as he watched the Potions Master’s reaction. Snape looked blankly at the vial for a second longer, then a strange expression of bewilderment came over him: he dragged a hand down his face, pinched the bridge of his nose and began to massage his eyes. He looked impressively beaten. More befuddled than Harry had ever seen him, which was strange, for this was nothing but an apparent act of thoughtfulness - it was as though he had no idea how to react to it!

As the class began to unroll their parchments to copy down the writing on the blackboard and add notes, Snape’s eyes kept shooting reluctant glances towards the strange present on his desk. Once or twice he even picked it up with a strange look of calm and intrigue on his face to study it.

Harry couldn’t sit still, and from the looks of it, neither could Hermione and Ron. Ron kept snickering to himself; Hermione was pink with pleasure and often joined him in his quiet outbursts of laughter. Before the lesson was out, all three were in such high spirits that Neville looked unsettled, because whenever he caught their eye they beamed at him richly, then went back to their work smiling.

“Homework,” Snape called at the end of their lesson, back to his dark mood and expression. “I want you to place it on the front table as you walk out. Now, go.”

Harry withdrew his homework from his bag - this, he hadn’t forgotten since Hermione had checked both their bags thrice - along with Hermione and Ron. They packed up, put on their bags, then approached the desk together. All three parchments were unmistakably longer than anybody else’s and almost rolled off the table as they placed them on the pile. 

When they turned to Snape, his face was made of marble.

“See you later, sir,” Ron began. “Good lesson.”

“Have a good rest of your day, Professor Snape,” Hermione added.

“Thanks again for your help, Professor,” Harry finished with a polite nod, then turned and walked out.

As soon as they were out in the corridor and the door was shut, they all burst out, clutched at one another in excitement, hissing out observations and whispering:

“Blimey, did you see his face?” Ron chortled, punching Harry in the arm. “He was absolutely gob-smacked.”

“I bet he feels bad about taking points off you, now,” Hermione added, her teeth gleaming as she grinned. “But listen. In a sense, this is completely worth it.”

“Yeah, we couldn’t get him so out of it any other way if we tried,” Ron added with vehemence. “We’re closer to getting him to quit his job by being decent to him than by being awful. Did you see his face when he picked up Hermione’s vial?”

He pulled a face of bewilderment, doing such a good impression that they all burst out laughing as they rounded the corner, running straight into Professor McGonagall who raised an eyebrow at this buzzing of laughter and jovial mood which they were exhibiting.

“Good morning,” she said to them, clearly looking for an explanation which, unfortunately for her, she wasn’t going to get, for her recipients were having far too much fun in their enigmatical benevolence to provide it to her.

“Good morning, Professor McGonagall,” Hermione sang as they walked past. “You look really nice today!”

“Yeah, enjoy the nice weather, Professor,” Harry added, “while it lasts!”

“Have a good morning,” Ron added as they got out of earshot, then waved and turned back around.

Minerva McGonagall stared after them with her lips pursed, wondering whether to follow them to check whether any charms had been cast on them to put them in such a cheerful spell or to pen this strange enthusiasm as the aftereffect of something ridiculous. The former seemed most likely to be the case, since they had just come out of Potions, and as far as everybody was aware - unless something catastrophic had happened which had temporarily rendered the Potions Master a fool in their eyes - it wasn’t exactly their favourite lesson for obvious reasons.

She made up her mind a moment later, and after twitching the quill she was holding in two fingers, she directed her footsteps towards the dungeons and the Potion’s classroom to find out more about the state of affairs.

[river-taxbird]

Have YOU got an old Windows PC Microsoft has told you can't run Windows 11? It's time to give it a new life!

How to install Windows 11 on unsupported PC Hardware using Rufus. You can also disable some other Windows 11 bullshit like data harvesting and needing a Microsoft account.

It has been in the news a lot lately that Windows 11 isn't allowed to be installed on PCs without certain requirements, including the TPM 2.0, a chip that was only included in PCs made in 2018 or later. This means that once Windows 10 stops receiving security updates, those PCs will not be able to (officially) run a safe, updated version of Windows anymore. This has led to an estimated 240 million PCs bound for the landfill. Thanks Microsoft! I get you don't want to be seen as the insecure one, but creating this much waste can't be the solution.

(I know nerds, Linux is a thing. I love you but we are not having that conversation. If you want to use Linux on an old PC you are already doing it and you don't need to tell me about it. People need Windows for all sorts of reasons that Linux won't cut.)

So lately I have been helping some under privileged teens get set up with PCs. Their school was giving away their old lab computers, and these kids would usually have no chance to afford even a basic computer. They had their hard drives pulled so I have been setting them up with SSDs, but the question was, what to do about the operating system? So I looked into it and I found out there IS actually a way to bypass Microsoft's system requirement and put Windows 11 on PCs as old as 2010.

You will need: Rufus: An open source ISO burning tool.

A Windows 11 ISO: Available from Microsoft.

A USB Flash Drive, at least 16GB.

A working PC to make the ISO, and a PC from 2018 or older you want to install Windows 11 on.

Here is the guide I used, but I will put it in my own words as well.

Download your Windows 11 ISO, and plug in your USB drive. It will be erased, so don't have anything valuable on it. Run Rufus, select your USB drive in the Device window, and select your Windows 11 ISO with the Select button. (There is supposed to be a feature in Rufus to download your ISO but I couldn't get it to work.?

Choose standard windows installation, and follow the screenshot for your settings. Once you are done that, press Start, and then the magic happens. Another window pops up allowing you to remove the system requirements, the need for a microsoft account, and turn off data collecting. Just click the options you want, and press ok to write your iso to a drive.

From there you just need to use the USB drive to install windows. I won't go into details here, but here are some resources if you don't know how to do it.

Boot your PC from a USB Drive

Install Windows 11 from USB Drive

If you had a licensed copy of Windows 10, Windows 11 will already be licensed. If you don't, then perhaps you can use some kind of... Activation Scripts for Microsoft software, that will allow you to activate them. Of course I cannot link such tools here. So there you go, now you can save a PC made from before 2018 from the landfill, and maybe give it to a deserving teen in the process. The more we can extend the lives of technology and keep it out of the trash, the better.

Additional note: This removes the requirement for having 4GB Minimum of RAM, but I think that requirement should honestly be higher. Windows 11 will be unusable slow on any system with below 8GB of RAM. 8GB is the minimum I think you should have before trying this but it still really not enough for modern use outside of light web and office work. I wouldn't recommend trying this on anything with 4GB or less. I am honestly shocked they are still selling brand new Windows 11 PCs with 4GB of ram. If you're not sure how much RAM you have, you can find out in the performance tab of Task Manager in Windows, if you click the More Details icon on the bottom right. If you don't have enough, RAM for old systems is super cheap and widely available so it would definitely be worth upgrading if you have a ram starved machine you'd like to give a new life.

[islerouxsims]

DIZZY ISY SAVE FILE VERSION 8

Hello Dizzy Isy fans! I'm absolutely thrilled to announce the release of Version 8!

The save file is now updated for the FOR RENT pack and Tomarang.

I hope you find a lot of joy in this new version of the save!

♥ What do you get? ♥

VERSION 1 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 2 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 3 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 4 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 5 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 6 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

VERSION 7 OF DIZZY ISY (STILL AVAILABLE HERE)

…PLUS…

220 custom clubs and icons (+11 than v.7) with points/rivalries and custom activities.

Lots of details of custom books to find, interesting tombstones, photos with past histories and mysteries etc.

♥ When you enter the save♥

There are 4 empty lots.

There are 20 empty houses (13 starters, 6 under 100k, 1 under 120k). (I have now labelled the starters so it is clearer.)

There are 18 rentals in holiday destinations.

3 new rentals in Tomarang with fleshed out family landlords.

There are now 3 free apartments.

Secret lots in Mt. Komerebi renovated.

Selvadorada and Strangerville adventure/mystery unplayed.

Conservation efforts not completed in Sulani.

Evergreen Harbor has many community project opportunities.

Neighbourhood Stories disactivated.

Voting and Eco Footprints also disactivated.

___________________________________________________________

It is a busy save file with many lots filled to stop random spawning of townies but the empty lots will soon quickly fill up with townie families if you don’t use them. The townies are clearly marked in the unplayed tab with the #townies so you know who is meant to have a lot and who isn’t.

___________________________________________________________

♥ What do you need? ♥

❥  ALL THE PACKS apart from Journey to Batuu

❥  Kits used: Fashion Street kit, Incheon Arrivals kit, Desert Luxe and Carnival Streetwear kit

-You can still download this save file without all these packs or kits but some items might be replaced by substitutes, and we all know how those pan out.

❥ 186 MB of free space for this save file.

❥  Zerbu’s More Club Icons Mod (PLEASE DOWNLOAD FIRST!)

(If unavailable to you please download from here)

❥  Rex’s Custom Club Activities Mod (PLEASE ALSO DOWNLOAD BEFORE THE SAVE!)

♥ Recommendations ♥

❥ MC Command Center by Deaderpool.  

❥ No Random Townies by Zero.    

❥ No Random Hats Acessories and Makeup by Bienchens.    

(Anything by Bienshens is amazing and safe to use in my opinion)

♥ How to install? ♥

Make a backup of your Electronic Arts/The Sims 4/Saves folder

Download the file, unzip, and place files in Electronic Arts/The Sims4/Saves.

Open your game, enter the save. It is named “Dizzy Isy Save File By Isleroux and you should see the Koh Saphas as the last played household.

"The Koh Saphas are heirs to the Sungai Point estate but face a whirlwind of challenges. Kasarinlan manages their property portfolio, while chef Kahilom embarks on managing a restaurant plagued by terrible reviews after a tragic incident involving artist Indigo Ivyloop. With twin girls on the horizon, Indigo's ashes in their posession and the daunting task of salvaging Kahilom's culinary reputation. Will their ambition prove their downfall, or can they turn the tide and savour success?"

___________________________________________________________

DOWNLOAD (SFS) or 

DOWNLOAD (MediaFire)

(REMEMBER TO DOWNLOAD THE CUSTOM CLUB MODS FIRST!!)

**Lastly, if you find joy in the save file and wish to support me, perhaps you could consider buying me a coffee ☕ to help make future updates possible.

It's worth mentioning that despite the immense effort poured into Dizzy Isy over four years, I've chosen not to restrict access to my save files behind any paywall.

To those of you who have already extended your support, your kindness truly means the world to me. I want you to know that I see you, I appreciate you, and I'm grateful for your unwavering dedication, especially to those who have read this far down.**

Thank you from the bottom of my heart.

Happy simming!  ~isy~ ツ  

@maxismatchccworld

[midnightarsenal]

𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

Summary: A match with Brighton is interrupted by a pitch invader.

Pairing: Arsenal Women x Arsenal!Reader

Warning: Assault | Avoidance | Anxiety | Some Angst

Word Count: 4.6k

Meadow Park, Borehamwood

///

"Y/L/N!" Katie yells from across the pitch and you waste little time in punting the ball over the heads of half a dozen players to her, leading to certified banger of a goal in the seconds that follow and making the score 2-0 in the 61st minute after Caitlin's screamer near the end of the first half. You sprint over to the Irishwoman and launch yourself onto her back, cheering ecstatically as the pair of you are swarmed by the rest of your team.

.....

You had been with the club for over a year now, one of several promising names signed to the Gunners in the summer of 2022, and while you hadn't yet been with the team long enough to cement your place in it as one of its icons, you hadn't needed a lot of time to make plenty of friends among its roster.

Prior to joining Arsenal, you had been Everton's star girl, having played with the Liverpudlian side for over four years before moving to North London in a change that had caused almost as much upset among the Blues fans as it had excitement in the Gooners. It had been a tough decision, but both you and your manager had known that you needed more room to develop your talent and that such room could only be found at a team that regularly fought at the top of the league.

Besides, it had been a far better choice than the alternative of moving to Liverpool. (You still couldn't believe they had been bold enough to even offer.)

Initially, you'd been worried by the prospect of moving both city and club, leaving behind the team you'd grown so close to and entering a new, unknown environment filled with some pretty impressive (and subsequently intimidating) talents. Generally, you were a very confident person and not someone who tended to doubt yourself, but even then, the idea of playing alongside the likes of Miedema and Williamson with reputations known far and wide was a little daunting for a player with a relatively lowkey profile.

But, despite that you had more than proven yourself in your first full season with the club, serving as a reliable forward and netting yourself a handful of goals in the process, even if you weren't a regular in the starting eleven. (You tried not to take it personally given that it was your first season, though your competitive streak made the task a little difficult at times.)

The girls had accepted you with open arms as one of their own, and any reservations you'd had about switching to Arsenal had all but vanished by the time international break had started and you'd gone off the World Cup down under. The teammates on either side of you today were more than just co-workers, they were your friends, and sometimes they even felt like family.

.....

"Alright, you've all done a very good job this half." Jonas starts approvingly as you and the rest of the girls gather round for a brief strategy talk, with Cloé sitting on the pitch not too far away being looked over by the medics. There (probably) isn't anything wrong with her, but it's a good excuse to get a quick chat with the coach in before the game continues. It's the 75th minute and Brighton has been putting on the pressure, propelled forward by an influx of their benched players and possibly some added desperation after Katie's goal.

"Jen, Kyra, Kat, we cannot get complacent now, we need to reassert control over the midfield and lessen the pressure on our defence. Remember, their number 10 loves to make those late runs, so mark her tightly." Your coach continues, his attention turned to the midfielders as he makes quick work of the review while Cloé gets back up to some applause from the crowd and limps towards you and the others, heading for the nearby bench with the team physio and a pair of medics by her side. Already, Lina is taking her jacket off to sub in just behind you.

The chat concludes and the game continues, having only been paused for around a minute and a half as you share a glance with some of the other girls while you all run back onto the pitch with haste. You aren't normally the type to feel as if the result has been decided before the final whistle blows, but you feel confident that you'll be walking away with a win tonight, content with another strong performance.

If only.

It's the 83rd minute when it happens, 8 minutes after your group chat and 7 until the match's conclusion. You're not doing anything when the first signs of a problem arise in the form of distant gasps and disapproving yells from the crowd, you're just standing there with your hands idly on your hips, walking slowly along the pitch and keeping track of the ball as it's passed around in the midfield, a sizable distance from where you are.

You aren't paying attention to what's behind you.

"Y/L/N!" You hear Katie yell again from some ways away, but this time there's something different in her tone that alerts you, there's an urgency in it that's uncharacteristic, one that makes you think something's wrong, and it doesn't take you long to find out what it is.

"Stupid cow!" Is what you hear slurred from behind you before a searing pain suddenly springs forth from the side of your head, the impact of something hard sending you stumbling to the side before you quickly lose your footing and tumble to the ground, the left half of your face hitting the grass with such momentum that it briefly bounces back up before dropping down again.

Your vision blurs for a second or two as you instinctively reach for the sides of your head to cradle it protectively, your legs lifting up until you're just short of a fetal position. You quickly understand that you've been hit by someone and brace for a second attack, one that fortunately doesn't come as you hear sounds of a scuffle nearby.

Your right temple pulses with hurt and you can't help but scrunch your face up, closing and opening your eyes in a rabid blink to try and adjust your sight and shake off the disorientation that has you locked in its grip. For a few moments you lose track of time, wrapped up in your own world of pain before you see someone kneel down in front of you and feel their hands cup over your cheeks, turning your head up to face them.

It's Beth.

"Jesus Christ, you alright?" She asks intensely, her face shaped by a mix of exasperation and concern as you feel someone else's hands slot under your armpits and sit you up, you feel a minor sense of relief at the fact you don't immediately become nauseous at the movement, and the world starts to filter back to high resolution as your disorientation dissipates.

"Yeah.. yeah, I'm alright." You finally find the strength to speak, frowning as you continue to rub at your right temple and look around, trying to get a grip on your surroundings. Your head still hurt, but not quite as bad now and you're sitting up, surrounded on all sides by a wall of red and white football kits, all belonging to women who's gazes were entirely focused on you and who all looked either worried sick, pissed off or both.

Behind them, you could only just see another gathering of bodies that was leaving the pitch. A sea of high-vis jackets, some emblazoned on their backs with 'Security' and others 'Police'.

"Fucking maniac." You hear one of the girls around you say, "How'd they let that happen?" Someone else asks to no one in particular, "Stupid dickhead, should throw him in the sea." A third voice suggests angrily and the accent leaves little room for candidates who's surname isn't McCabe.

You feel some of the girls pat you on the shoulder or rub your back, and Beth takes one of your hands in her own, hands disappearing from your face so they can help you stand up before the wall of Arsenal red parts to let in the team physio and doctor who quickly disapprove of the idea and sit you back down before you've even had the chance to get your bum off the grass.

A light is flashed in each of your eyes, causing you to wince, and you're bombarded with a series of questions that lead you to assume the pair are checking for a concussion. But- after what feels like forever, with the hairs on your skin standing up as you become increasingly aware of what a cold night it is now that the warmth from your exertion during the game has worn off- the two medical professionals get up from their crouched position and carefully help you stand up too.

The crowd cheers for the development and you let out a breath, shaking your head with a small, cynical smile as you were met with looks of sympathy from your teammates. The side of your head still hurt, but it had diminished to the point that you could probably ignore it, though it was still far from comfortable.

"Had to happen to me, eh?" You say to Beth, who can't help but let out a short breathy laugh.

"Maybe he's an Everton fan." Jen proposes and you laugh with a nod. "Left it a bit long, didn't he?" Steph replies with a feigned confusion.

You walk to the bench with the physio, doctor and Beth, with the rest of the team giving you a few more supportive words and pats on the back before heading back to their places on the pitch. It wasn't as if they were going to cancel the game over one rowdy wanker, after all, besides there was less than ten minutes left.

"Are you okay?" Jonas asks as you approach the Arsenal bench and you nod, being brought in for a quick hug before he adds, "That was totally unacceptable. We'll need to address it with the club. Get more security." He sounds angry, and not just with your assailant. You hadn't really had the time to process what had happened given how fast it had all been, but as you sit down at the team bench, receiving another warm reception from the girls there, the ones who'd been playing in the first half, you begin to get where he's coming from. How could that be allowed to happen? What if the guy had a weapon? What if-

"My girl." Your thoughts on what could have happened are interrupted by an unmistakable voice, Leah. Putting that Southern pronunciation on the word 'girl' that you loved so much, but sounding just as worried as everyone else who'd spoken to you did. The blonde wastes little time in leaning down to envelop you in a hug from where you sit, and you return it with a smile, letting out a breath you hadn't known you'd been holding in, and it coming out shaky much to your confusion. You felt fine.

"Good thing you weren't on the pitch, otherwise that prick probably wouldn't have left it." You joke with a small smile as the two of you pull apart and Amanda to your left budges up so Leah can sit down next to you, her brows furrowed in that steep arching frown she liked to do. The match in front of you continues as it had before. Alessia sits on your right, trying to be considerate by not unnecessarily intruding but occasionally giving you a side glance with a smile.

"Honestly, if they hadn't gotten to him first. Fucking wanker." Her blue eyes dart to the side, momentarily looking out to the pitch before returning to you. She reaches out an arm and wraps it over your shoulder, pulling you close, you have no objection, and you can't resist the amused huff of air you let out at the thought of what Leah might have done if she had been there and had two properly working legs.

A small comfortable silence settles between you both until the defender asks, "You alright?" and you nod almost on instinct, giving her a smile. "Yeah. Head hurts a little, but I did just get punched." You joke, but Leah doesn't laugh, or even smile, instead penetrating you with those deep blue eyes. "I know that, dummy, they wouldn't sit you on the bench if you were hurt like that. I meant the other kind of alright."

You shrug and for the first time since you'd seen her, your eyes drift off to the pitch and you shift in your seat. Yeah, you were fine. But, the idea that you might not be didn't sit right with you, or rather, the idea that Leah and by extension the rest of the team might not think you are.

"You mean if I'm all... shaken up? Quaking in my boots?" You retort with some dry wit and a slight smirk, putting some faux dramatism on your words as you glance back to Leah for a moment before returning your eyes to the game. You felt fine, but the question seemed to stir something in you, applying a light pressure to your chest that wasn't there before. You didn't like it.

Leah didn't seem amused and you feel her stare boring into the side of your face, inspecting you almost. "Yeah." Is her short reply, as if she isn't looking to entertain your attempts at humour. As if she takes the incident more seriously than you do.

You shrug again and look over to the blonde with an expression that borders between nonchalance and indifference. "Then yeah, I'm all good in that department too. If fucking Jack Grealish can handle a punch then I think I'll be fine." That one seems to have some effect on Leah's stern, concerned demeanour and she gives a small smile, shaking her head slightly as if reprimanding herself for not knowing better to expect any other kind of answer from you.

But she tightens her arm around you just a bit regardless, pulling you in just a little more than you already were, even as she turns away to face the pitch as the game approaches the final whistle, her eyes lingering on you a little longer. "Alright.. but if that changes, you know I'm here, right?" She asks with a sincerity that makes you a little uncomfortable, partly because you'd always been a little awkward around more heartfelt exchanges of emotions, and partly because.. well you couldn't really figure out that other feeling, but it adds to that small pressure on your chest.

"Yeah, I know." You get out with a firmness, more to reassure the defender that you'd be willing to open up in that sense than anything else. You weren't sure if you ever would, even if your feelings did change. But, you were.. confident that they wouldn't. You felt fine, after all.

The final whistle blows not long after.

.....

The hum of fluorescent lights fill Meadow Park's comparatively humble locker room as the team trickles in, sweaty and exhausted from a relatively hard fought win. There's the usual post-match banter, the teasing, the recounting of the odd tackle and the two winning goals. But there's also a.. tension in the air, an undercurrent of concern and empathy directed toward one player in particular and unfortunately you're all too aware of it.

You take your usual spot by your locker, trying to blend in with the post-game routine as seamlessly as you can. You begin to unlace your boots, your fingers working with a rehearsed, mechanical precision. You didn't like it when people fussed over you, and you always tended to think that their attention was better spent or even better deserved elsewhere. You didn't really like being the centre of attention either, positive or negative. So, sitting here, and knowing that every now and then a different set of eyes would glance over at you, or that every second conversation featured you in some capacity, it wasn't a fun feeling, even if all of it derived from the most kind intentions.

You slip your cleats off and lean back against your locker as you sit in your cubby, looking up at the ceiling and releasing your second shaky breath of the night against your will. That pressure on your chest hasn't gone away and it's beginning to annoy you as you close your eyes and try to relax yourself, feeling oddly tense.

Between the chaos of the initial aftermath, your conversation with Leah and some of the banter you'd tried to get yourself involved with during the short walk to the locker room after their celebration, you hadn't really had the time (or the desire) to really think back to the incident or process it. It'd happened what? Thirty minutes ago? Yet, it already felt significantly longer.

Your hand reaches up absentmindedly to rub at your right temple as images flash one after the other of the experience. You on the ground, Beth kneeling in front of you and those two words that you hadn't even recalled until now. "Stupid cow." You scratch at your temple for a moment and open your eyes, shaking your head for a second or two as if to ward off the memory.

You let out another breath, and while this one isn't quite shaky, your breathing has gotten a little heavier.

Your hands clasp together and your fingers interlock as you idly rub your thumbs up and down the hand opposite to the one they each belong to. That pressure on your chest makes itself known a bit more and you swallow, your eyes surveying the locker room, not quite knowing what you're searching for but compelled to do it all the same. Why would someone do that? Why would a person just run out onto the pitch and hit a player? Hit you?

"Relax." You tell yourself.

It doesn't do much, and you have to put a hand down onto your knee to stop one of your legs from tapping itself up and down. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" You internally ask yourself. You felt fine. You had felt fine five minutes ago. You had felt fine after being punched in the side of the head. Why are you feeling like this now?

You shift in your cubby and take a deep breath (another shaky one, much to your frustration), trying to regain control of yourself. That fucking weight on your chest is still there.

"Y/N." You hear someone- Katie- say nearby, and you curse to yourself. "Yeah?" You ask with a slightly raised brow, trying to remain lowkey as you look to your left to see the forward standing not too far away next to her own cubby, shoving her boots into a large black duffel bag as she stares at you, most of the other girls are still in their own conversations. Thank God.

"You good?" She asks the question that you've become almost annoyingly familiar with in the past half hour and like before you nod impulsively. Though unlike then you're no longer quite so confident in the honesty of that natural response. "Yeah, all good. Why? Am I getting a bruise?" You say in an attempt to be light hearted, giving the brunette a small smile, but she only frowns back, causing you to swallow.

"Nah, just seemed like you were.. thinking 'bout something."

You break your stare and go back to what you're supposed to be doing, getting changed, leaving Katie unsatisfied as you find your own duffel bag next to you and begin putting your cleats into it. You begin to feel a slight burning at the bottom of your throat but try to ignore it, feeling the corners of your lips reactively curl downward even as you busy yourself with getting changed.

"Fucking idiot." You angrily say to yourself on the inside. "Stop being such a baby." You take off your Arsenal shirt and shove it into the bag with an unusual amount of force. That pressure on your chest grows heavier and your breathes with it. You aren't sure why you feel this way and you hate it. You've never felt like this before and you hate it. Why is this happening? You were fine before.

"Y/N." Your name is called again, only this time it's Leah, and she's standing right behind you, causing you to jump just slightly. Your heart beating a little quicker as you'd been facing your locker, back turned to the rest of the team. Katie must have gotten her.

You take your third shaky breath of the evening before responding with a falsely inquisitive, "Yeah?" as if you hadn't a clue what she'd want to talk to you about. You continue to face your locker, opening it up to take out your casualwear to give yourself a valid reason not to turn around.

"You wanna come with me? Need to talk." She says with a nonchalance that is deceptive. Ordinarily, if Leah needed to talk with someone, she wouldn't hesitate in using her regular old sternness to get the importance across. But, right now? Her tone was light and casual and you weren't an idiot. You know that she was treating this like some kind of sensitive situation when it wasn't. You'd gotten punched by some dickhead and that was it, end of story. It probably happened to a thousand people every day in Britain and you were no different.

"Yeah.. just lemme get dressed first." You reply, sliding on your trousers and feigning your own coolness and composure, though not nearly to the same effectiveness as Leah. Your breathing's still heavy and with each passing moment you begin to feel a growing sense of claustrophobia when you'd never suffered from that in the past. You want air. Maybe you need it. But, you can't let that show.

"Mind turning round, Y/N? It's bad manners not to look at someone when they're talking to you."

You won't let it show.

"Look, Leah. If this is about that dickhead again, I told you I'm all good." You retort dismissively, wanting to put the questioning to bed.

That pressure grows heavier.

"Well, I don't think you are."

Your heart beats faster.

"Oh, and what? You're in my head now are you?" Your frustration peaks through the façade.

Why are they still asking you about it?

"No. I just know when my friends aren't okay." Leah's concerned tone fades and she takes on a sterner one, a tough love one.

Why aren't you fine?

"Well you might want to get your radar checked because I'm fucking fine, Leah." Your brows furrow and you almost grit your teeth as that burning sensation creeps further up your throat. You shouldn't have sworn.

The rest of the locker room is becoming quieter.

"Then why won't you look at me?"

Everyone's looking at you.

"Because you're fucking bothering me!" You yell angrily. And if there had been any conversations left in the room, they cease instantly, cloaking the team in a deafening silence.

You swallow and it almost hurts your throat. You blink and your eyes have a wetness in them that wasn't there ten seconds ago. Your chest lifts and falls dramatically and your hands have a light tremor in them.

But, you were fine ten minutes ago.

You feel a pair of hands take you gently by your waist and you presume them to be Leah's, having that presumption confirmed quickly as the defender turns you around slowly to face her. You don't resist, but you feel almost ashamed as you're rotated to face the rest her and the rest of the girls. You can't even look any of them in the eye, with your eyes dropping to the ground and becoming fixated on your feet because it's easier than looking at anything else.

"You're okay, my girl. You're safe." Leah says, her sternness morphing seamlessly into an almost painfully sincere softness and care as you're pulled in slowly for another hug, though your arms hang almost limply by your sides. You don't know what to do, or what to say, but you feel a stinging in your eyes and a pain in your throat that's becoming more pronounced by the second.

You bury your head into Leah's shoulder because you know you're about to cry, and you feel a surge of intense shame at the realization. Your arms reach up and finally wrap themselves around Leah. You know the rest of the girls are watching you, and it's embarrassing, but you don't know what else to do. You don't feel safe.

"I don't know what the fuck's wrong with me." You finally let out into the blonde's shoulder, feeling the first tears roll down your cheeks. "I was okay and then.. this shit just came out of nowhere. I'm sorry."

Leah pulls away from you, but only slightly, one of her hands lifting your chin to level with her as she looks you dead in the eye, while her other hand reaches up to stroke your cheek. "You have nothing to be sorry about, understand? Nothing. No one thinks any less of you for this, Y/N."

You aren't entirely sure if that's true or not, but Leah, being the natural leader that she is, had a way of making people believe things or feel them even if they otherwise wouldn't. And you're not immune to that effect, nodding somewhat hesitantly in agreement, but nodding regardless as you feel that pressure on your chest lighten ever so slightly.

"The pitch should be a safe place for us and that dickhead tried to take it away." You hear Beth speak up, both to you but also to the rest of the room, with nods and murmurs of concurrence following throughout. Concern and heartbreak can easily turn to anger and a need for justice, and even in your frustratingly vulnerable state, you can see that change begin to take place in the confines of the locker room as the scene between you and Leah made it perfectly clear to everyone that you had been effected by that attack on more than just a physical level.

"Everyone's here for you, alright? Nothing like that is ever gonna happen again. Not to you, or anyone else in this game." Leah says, that steeply arched frown returning to her expression as a hint of determination reaches through her words.

She wipes away some of the tears that hadn't quite made their way down your cheeks and pulls you back into the hug, running her hand in circles along your back. "We're gonna make sure he regrets ever coming to this game." The Vice-Captain whispers into your ear with an intensity that almost makes you shiver, and in that moment, you find a piece of your confidence back.

You were confident that the girls had your back. You were confident that Leah would do whatever it took to get justice, and you were confident that one day that wanker would indeed regret ever even coming near you. But, most importantly, you were confident that you wouldn't allow him damage you, that you wouldn't allow him to have anymore significance in your life than a fucking footnote. Regardless of whatever happened next, revenge or not, justice or not. You were simply more valuable than that, and the girls would always help to remind you of that, even if sometimes it was hard to see.

Sometimes, your team felt like more than just a team, and tonight was one of those times.

///

End Notes: Hey, everyone! So this has been my first ever woso fic. I'm still trying to get to grips with pacing and getting some proper good angst, but I hope this is an enjoyable read and a good start!

[luna-blood]

I was debating on YouTube about Sasuke but YouTube deletes comments, especially those that have a link. It was also difficult for me to search for the publications. So I gave myself the task of collecting posts from all Sasuke fans and neutral critics of the work 'Naruto' that talk about Sasuke and his relationship with the other Naruto characters. I have also included my contributions, such as questions to other users and post responses. I hope this post helps you when you need support when you are debating in favor of Sasuke. Without anything else to say, I leave you the links:

Positive qualities of Sasuke.

Sasuke's chakra is extremely powerful, voluminous, and denser than Senjutsu chakra!

It is false that Bee could have killed Sasuke any time he wanted.

¡Sasuke has been shown to nullify mortal wounds with Raiton!

Sasuke is literally the first person to survive the Raikage's Liger Bomb.

All Sasuke received from Raikage was a small lip bleed, while Raikage lost an arm and another Kage, Gaara, had to intervene to save his leg and his life.

Orochimaru's "physical condition" has nothing to do with his ritual and Sasuke's victory.

Analysis Sasuke vs Deidara.

Sasuke killed Danzo; he did not commit suicide.

Are Itachi and Kakashi really prodigies at the level their fans believe them to be? No.

The only reason Naruto managed to hurt Kaguya was because Sasuke forced her to change dimensions more than once and she herself had changed dimensions about four times in total.

Because Sasuke haters say that Haku is simply more tragic and a better person than Sasuke; and Batman too!

What is it about Sasuke that provokes people so much, compared to all the other fictional characters (in and out of Naruto) who have done bad things? Gaara was killing people for fun in part 1, but no one ever complains about him not being punished. Zuko from ATLA burned down a village of civilians, sent a hitman after Team Avatar, and was just lucky that no civilian was injured/killed, but everyone adores him. But Sasuke is unredeemable for threatening to destroy the village?

A back and forth on why Sasuke is a much better realized character, with thematic and narrative depth, compared to Kurapika and Zuko.

Sasuke is the imperfect victim unlike the perfect victims of ATLA and Full Metal Alchemist.

Sasuke's character is too good for the Naruto universe.

Are people upset that Sasuke was going to let the Shinobi Alliance perish?

Sasuke as a feminist icon.

Sakura is a female incel.

Sakura is a narcissistic.

Sakura inserted herself because she wanted validations from people who were out of her league, that's why. She is perfect for self-insert.

The mere idea of turning over an entire manga in your head in which Sasuke hides a raging boner (at age 12) for Sakura is... repulsive. Don't you have anything better to do?

Sasuke never kissed Sakura.

The blow on the forehead is not the maximum expression of love.

Naruto Gaiden is a fucking masterpiece! It proves that Sasuke doesn't love Sakura.

Sasuke retsuden is not canon.

Sasuke retsuden is not canon, Jun Esaka herself said it and if you are a fan of Sasuke it is normal that you hate Sakura because Sasuke is unhappy with her.

Sasuke still considers Sakura inferior.

Sasuke didn't push Sakura away because of the curse of hate.

Sasuke rejected Sakura, Ino and Karin, he didn't push them away because he was afraid.

Sasuke is not in love with Karin and did not have sex in part 2 with Karin.

Why Karin's fans say she had sex with Sasuke in part 2.

What does Kakashi know about the genocide and the physical and mental torture that would lead the child victim to a fatal coma, at the hands of a family member?

Naruto is a narcissistic.

Why Naruto is the worst character.

How can anyone read the two chapter panels showing two very different worlds the characters occupy and be surprised by the way it ended? They were not going to reconcile since the world where Sasuke exists is the antithesis of the world where his former team resides.

Lee was never "good” at Taijutsu, let alone being a genius at it. The series' main theme, revolves around bonds. When the manga began, Naruto let loose Kurama (unintentionally) against Haku, breaking all Ice Mirrors that ... no Jutsu could break; and that, happened way back in the Waves Arc. How does that associate "hard-work" with Naruto's character, upon whom many poor souls project their misfortunes to feel vindicated, when two geniuses (Sasuke and Kakashi) in the near-vicinity failed? Naruto powered through this via nothing but brute force; and that isn't a precursor to hard-work. That's the exact opposite. With the beginning of the next Arc, the "if we work hard, we could beat all odds, too" trope lovers got their kicks from Sasuke's humiliation at Lee's hands (or gates?); but then they conveniently forget that Lee himself stated that what Sasuke accomplished was literally impossible for someone like him (he even emphasized on this argument). Gai even went so far as to state that even with the Sharingan's power, Sasuke should never have been able to do what he did (he literally invented his own Taijutsu maneuver from Lee's in a single day; if that's not prodigious, I don't know what is); and Gai, last I checked, is an authority on the subject of Taijutsu, not you—yes, you! Sasuke mastered Kimimaro's CS in under two hours whilst Lee survived simply because Kimimaro was dying and he literally died whilst delivering a death-blow to Gaara and Lee; so thematically, narratively, and metaphorically, Sasuke matched an adversary against whom both Gaara and Lee lost? That and Lee was outshined by Sasuke twice in a row, going so far as to undermine Lee in his own life endeavors that involved years of sweat and tears?

Shikamaru's revenge is meaningless unlike Sasuke's.

People who support Nagato but vilify Sasuke sound a lot more idiotic than they think.

In defense of Fugaku.

How does Sasuke's revolution develop?

Why didn't the narrative validate Sasuke's radical change from Konoha's Will of Fire to the Revolution?

Itachi massacred the clan out of conscience.

The difference between Kushina and Itachi is not that big.

The policies of Tobirama Senju and the Uchiha genocide.

At what point will people stop demanding Sasuke?

Tsunade was at the forefront of the Second Shinobi World War that massacred the people of Nagato, plundered their land's resources, and continued to use the land as a battlefield resulting in mass deaths, poverty, and suffering. A war that Konoha started.

Why do so many people still blame Sasuke for Sasuke's past?

Uchihas do not have mental illnesses.

Sasuke vs Readers without empathy.

Kishimoto canon vs Studio Pierrot fanservice.

The brilliant change of perspective and theme between Hebi and Taka Sasuke; and that there is no writing defect in the moment in which Sasuke stabs Karin to reach Danzō.

Tobirama never accepted the Uchiha as true allies like Hashirama did, never trusting them, something he admitted so openly that his brother had to warn him "not to continue pursuing the Uchiha." And the Uchiha weren't planning to kill innocent people, they were planning to take over the government itself.

Kishimoto is anti sasusaku and anti naruhina.

Kishimoto never wanted to write Boruto.

The real Sasuke fans.

Sasuke winking at Sakura was never happened in the manga, it was a translation error.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

A Guiding Hand 2

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, parental neglect, depression, inference of self harm, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: your online academics are affected by your personal struggles but your professor won’t let you give up so easy.

Characters: Raymond Smith, Lee Bodecker in the background

Note: I think my back is ok now.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

Tuesday comes too quickly. You don’t sleep the night before. It’s more than just Lee and your mother arguing that keeps you awake. The anxiety of your meeting bears down on you like an open maw, ready to devour you.

You don’t expect it to go well. You’re not even sure why you’re doing it. 

That one thought repeats over and over. You don’t have to. You can cancel. You can make another excuse and stay a loser. That’s easy. Maybe that’s why it’s so scary. Because new things are hard. 

You languish in bed as the time ticks by. You got to get up and get moving. Soon, you’ll do something. Soon. 

You roil in the trepidation. Each move, each little thing, is a gargantuan task. You sneak out to wash your face and make yourself as presentable as you can. You waited too long. You have five minutes to put something on that isn’t wrinkled and stale. 

You put on a black sweatshirt, hoping the little balls of lint aren’t visible. Maybe you can get away with just turning the microphone on. You open the computer and shift in the chair. One minute. 

You find the email and scroll down to the link. You hover over it and stare. Noon on the dot. Your hand falters and you click the Zoom meeting. It opens in the browser and your breath traps in your chest.  

The little box in the corner is black as you leave the red line through the camera icon as the mic catches the rustle of your shirt. There’s a man on screen. He sits before an office backdrop but you can’t tell if its digitally generated or real. His blond hair is combed back and he sports a thick beard and glasses. He wears a wool sweater over a collared shirt and stares down the camera. 

“Hello,” he speaks, “anyone there?” 

You clear your throat and croak, nearly choking on your own spit.  

“Here,” you manage to squeak. 

“Ah, hello there, may I ask you turn your camera on?” His voice is low and lilted, almost smoky in a way. 

You hesitate and scratch your neck, letting your fingers wander up to your scalp. The itch spread, making sitting still unbearable. You wince as you hear someone in the kitchen, the fridge door closes heavily and a dish clinks on the counter. 

“Hello?” The voice comes again. 

You panic and hit the keyboard. You steady your hand and tap the camera, shying away as you slouch in your chair. The dim glow of your bedside lamp leaves you in shadow. Still, you feel exposed. 

“Better,” he says but with little enthusiasm, “well, I suppose we best get to the meat of things,” he adjusts his posture. 

“Okay,” you murmur and cross your arms, looking evasively at the wall. 

“Good to finally meet. I’m Professor Smith,” he introduces himself and calls you by name. 

“You too,” you utter out of courtesy. This is torture to you. 

“Now, you’ve done very well on your completed work,” his eyes scan as he looks at the screen before him, "you’ve shown improvement up until a few weeks ago. You do have a lot of potential to be successful here--” 

You nod and hunch down further. You just feel worse. You’re a lazy slob. You didn’t finish your work just like you never finish the laundry or cleaning your room. 

“Irene!” Lee’s voice booms on the other side of the wall and you wince, looking over your shoulder then back to the computer. You huddle closer, hoping he didn’t hear that. Your mother’s drone responds to the holler. 

“Perhaps it is the format? We could explore another option for your remaining assignments. I can accommodate where necessar--” 

“Fuck off!” Lee shouts and a loud bang hits the hallway wall. You gulp and your lips part. 

“Lee, please, I didn’t-- I wouldn’t--” 

“Should’ve known better than to trust a whore!” Lee barks. 

You cover your face and shrink down. No! Not now. 

“Is everything alright?” He asks and you separate your fingers, looking through them. You drop your hands and nod. 

“Sorry--” 

Another loud thump, this time against your door and your mother sobs loudly as she slides down the other side. You stammer and your lip trembles as you stare mortified at the lens in the frame of the laptop. This is awful. 

“What is happen--” 

You wiggle your fingers on the touchpad and hit End Call. You retract and wrap your arms around your head, folding over your lap as you rock. How humiliating. You can’t believe that happened. Well, you can. It’s what always happens. 

Your mother and Lee continue to argue, their fight just outside your door. You shake your head as you stay curled over. You don’t know why she does this. These men come around, call her names, knock her around, and she lets them come right back. 

A tinkling noise comes from the speaker. Professor Smith is calling you. You decline the call. An email chimes in at the corner. It’s from him as well. You see the preview, a response to his last email. 

‘Please respond or I will call authorities to confirm your saf....’ 

You click on the notification to expand the full message. You sigh and don’t bother reading the rest as you hit reply. 

‘Everything is fine. I will take the fail. Thank you.’ 

Another call comes in. Just leave me alone! You hit the red button again and delete his last email. And he calls again. Ugh. What does he care. You’re sure he has lots of students to worry about. Another email and another call. Back and forth until you accidentally hit the wrong key. 

He appears again, closer to the lens as his forehead lines, “hello, hey, hey,” he sits back, holding up a hand as you scramble, panicking as you fidget and try to figure out what to do, “don’t hang up, alright? Don’t, or I will be obligated to call the police.” 

As he commands you, your mother and Lee continue their sparring in the hall, voices raised though not as clear from the front room. You sniff and rub your cheek, soothing yourself as you bring up your other hand to chew on your sleeve. 

“Are you in danger?” He asked pointedly. You shake your head. “What is all that then?” 

He’s quiet and you are enveloped again in the chaos outside your room. You shrug and tilt your head to one side. You look down. 

“My mom...” 

He sighs, “look, I wouldn’t have taken the time to call if I didn’t think you could do this. Perhaps, this was the wrong avenue. So, is it possible we meet somewhere neutral. In person?” 

You shudder and sit up as much as you can, wringing your hands, “I... I... don’t drive.” 

“That’s alright, is there a library near you, yeah? I can find my way.” 

You frown and flick your lip under your teeth several times. You see yourself in the little box. You look scary as your eyes are pools of shadows. 

“Uh...” you pull your hands apart and open a new tab, happy to have your image off the screen. You type into the search. You think there’s a library close by. “Yes, um, there is...” 

“Send me the location. We’ll reschedule. When are you available? Thursday? I’m afraid tomorrow I’m booked up.” 

You switch back to the video call. You feel tears tightening your throat and ready to spring. You shake your head and paste the URL of the library branch into the chat. His eyes flit down to read it. 

“Thursday,” you repeat but it’s not as much a question as you mean. 

“Thursday is good. Can we do earlier? Ten?” He asks. 

You don’t know. You’re not used to making decisions. You don’t get asked for your preference ever. 

“Sure,” you answer, just wanting to end the call and hide in bed. 

“Alright, I’ll pencil you in,” he says, “shall I stay on the call until that...” he pauses as Lee continues to bluster, “subsides?” 

“No,” you shake your head. 

He stares at you, his forehead lined with disapproval. Why does he care so much? He doesn’t know you. 

“Are you certain?” He intones. 

You nod, “I have to go.” 

You end the call and shut the computer. Your stomach is a jumble and you’re jittering with adrenaline. All your life, you’ve hidden behind these walls; you’ve hidden all that goes on there. To have someone witness it is worse than the yelling and hitting itself. 

You ignore the chirp from the laptop and throw yourself into bed. Thursday. So, another torturous purgatory begins, waiting to face the professor and your incompetence once more. 

📓

Thursday comes too quickly. 

You sit in your room and convince yourself to go. It was easier when it was just a computer screen, though even that was difficult. Only for you because you’re so messed up. Because you can’t do anything. 

What else can you do? The whole night you were awake thinking about how you would tell your mother. If you flunk out, you default on the student loan and you’re even deeper in the pit. The true consequences of your laziness are clearer now and you can’t let your sloth bury you again. If you do, you may as well give up on everything. Even life itself. 

So, you have no choice. You’re being given a last chance. Again. You’d feel even worse for not taking it than you would for failing at it. 

You pull on a hoodie and grab your house key and your knapsack with your computer and notebook tucked inside. That’s all you really have. No phone, no wallet. Just the bare minimum.  

You shuffle to the door, standing just inside as you muster your courage. You check your digital watch, an old Casio you’ve had for years. The numbers are dim and hard to read in the dark. You have to get going. 

You emerge and go down to the kitchen to sneak a sip of water before you go. Your room is always so dry at night. You drain a glass and rinse it out, leaving it beside the sink. As you turn around, you hear your mother’s bedroom door and the slap of her slippers as she slinks in. 

“Ah, honey,” she smiles dopily. You can smell liquor from there. She might even still be drunk as her hangovers usually keep her abed. “There you are! Oh, gosh, are you going somewhere?” 

“Mm, library,” you answer, “for school.” 

“Oh, smart girl,” she slurs. You try to smile but it’s shaky and weak. Your mom tries, you know that, so you can’t hate her. “Can you stop by the shop on your way? I got a twenty. Wouldn’t mind some vodka.” 

You pick at a fingernail, “mom, I don’t... I don’t like buying that stuff.” 

“Mm, I know, but I...” she sways on her feet and belches into her fist, “never mind. I’ll just ask Lee when he comes by.” 

“He’s coming?” You ask warily. 

“Sure, sure,” she turns and staggers to the fridge, “he must be missing me by now.” 

She bends, leaning on the door as she opens it, and peruses the mostly empty shelves. You leave her and go down the hall. You grab your shoes and slip them on, once more stopping at the threshold. Keep going. You made it this far. 

You let yourself out and lock the door behind you. You take the stairs down to the first level and continue out onto the street. You keep to the edge of the pavement as you weave around other pedestrians that pass. 

Your lips move as you recite the directions to yourself. You were sure to memorise the route as best as you could. You get turned around but right yourself and make it to the corner when you can see the grey brick of the library. 

You wait at the light before you cross and your heart begins to race the closer you get. Oh no, you don’t know if you can do this. You want to just run away. What if he sees you and changes his mind? I mean, look at you. You’re not some perky coed, you’re... you. 

You stare up at the facade and the large letters over the entrance. You take the first step, then the next. You focus on that. Right foot, left foot. Little things, one at a time. You can do this. You have to. 

[autisticlalna]

anyway, about the sbk episode that just finished premiering:

I LOVE VINTAGE SO MUCH. the fun part abt most of todays avidsode being stream footage is that i was in chat watching this play out realtime. the frantic escape from leon and ancient city chase was exhilarating, but oh my god. vintage.

i knew vintages task. i also knew she was planning to target avid. so avid asks her about her task, and she lies with a reference to it involving beets somehow bc those are her kryptonite. avid buys it.

once she started with "you know what would be funny?", i figured shed blown it. it sounded SO suspicious. avid caught on to something being Up and was wary of her. but, because he was live, he turned to chat for help.

youtube chat was yelling "no". twitch chat, myself included, which included several vintage viewers, was yelling "yes". there was a poll in twitch chat (that i dont think avid saw, lmao). avid considered his options and put on the dragon head.

and then vintage brings up a bet with ruby! which makes her suspicious behavior justified-- she DID have an ulterior motive, it just wasnt tied to tag. the full "bet" was if she could get avid to wear a dragon head bc of how paranoid he was about tagging and tag tasks, so it still plays in to the overall picture.

half an hour passes. avid gets reminded occasionally hes wearing the head when he opens his inventory, but he doesn't take it off, even when hes no longer in the trial chamber. and then vintage suddenly stops talking and asks in chat if they can hear her. vintage has documented microphone issues-- you can even see it in chat in viking's episode, after the trial. vintage having to relog bc of them is normal.

so vintage logs out. in twitch chat, my friend kit realizes what's happening at the same time i do.

vintage logs back in. avid is too busy talking to fool while doing storage management to notice. vintage does a mic check, still keeping up the bit, then TAGS AVID.

it was honestly beautiful. i know we tease vintage but she ABSOLUTELY pulled this off, and it's iconic. literally ALL OF THAT had been vintage lying in various ways for half an hour and getting avid's guard down. that was a well-earned tag. congratulations

[oftenwantedafton]

possession | a tale from into the pit

part 1/?

words | 2.3k

cw | none for this chapter

summary | Jeff is the new proprietor of the restaurant formerly known as Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria, a man just barely able to keep his new purchase afloat, let alone turn a profit.

He works long hours, spending many of them alone in the pizzeria that had once been rumored to be the location of multiple childrens’ murders. He’s never seen anything to convince himself that the place is haunted like so many believe it to be, until tonight.

Tonight, he hears a voice calling his name, from the room that’s been abandoned, where the old ball pit sits. There’s someone in there.

Waiting for him.

ao3 link

To say that business is bad would be a gross understatement.

Jeff had known it was going to be a financial risk buying the old pizzeria, but he’d been counting on nostalgia and morbid curiosity to fuel that questionable economic venture. And you know what? In the beginning, it actually had. The grand opening was, by all accounts, a success.

The problem was that initial interest faded very quickly.

The new propieter did the rounds of interviews with the local television station and newspaper, and had even gotten his five seconds of fame on a ghost hunting show, but once the visitors realized that the establishment was really just a creepy, run down building with no actual evidence of the tragic events that had happened in the past, well, that’s when the line out the door shortened until only a few customers trickled in each day. He didn’t have the funds to reinstate all of the antique arcade games to their former glory, so he couldn’t compete with other franchises featuring more modern, operational equipment.

The animatronics, once the hallmark of the establishment, barely functioned. He knew nothing about their maintenance, and finding someone who did seemed less and less likely the more he searched. So now those stage attractions had become a bit of a collective eyesore, their movements jerky, their voices garbled. He was seriously considering just selling them off, but whatever money he got from them would likely not contribute much towards the other expenses of running the restaurant. He feared it would be a bandaid for a gunshot wound, a poor short term measure that he’s not willing to take a chance on. Those mascots were still iconic, even in their current dilapidated condition, and without them, well, he’s not naive enough to think the cheap greasy pizza he sells is enough to draw the crowds in. The menu selection is as basic as it gets, and he doesn’t really have the culinary knowledge to improve it any.

The electric bill is also astronomical, probably more a consequence of outdated wiring and components than actual usage, but he can’t even spare the money to investigate and repair the issues. He’s running the place by himself because he can’t afford more help, but that sadly wasn’t really even an issue now that fewer patrons were visiting.

Jeff shuts the building down fifteen minutes early one Thursday evening, having spent the last hour and a half standing at the counter trying to keep his eyes open. He thinks he might just as well get started on the stack of bills waiting on his desk in the manager’s office, a task he’s been putting off all week.

He locks the front door and turns the sign over to read Closed, Please Come Again, and heads to the office, shutting off most of the lights on his way. No point in draining the electricity even further. Anything to save a bit of money.

He unknots the apron around his waist and hangs it on a hook beside the door, then slumps into the swivel chair—the same one that had been there when he’d bought the place, just like the desk and the battered filing cabinet adjacent to it—and switches on the laptop, the only newer item he’s brought with him. He begins tearing through each envelope one by one, the numbers swimming in front of his eyes. He was really exhausted, and it showed. He looked a decade older than he actually was, easily, with his smudged undereyes and tousled dark hair with several new strands of gray that’s long overdue for a trim and his skin that’s the color of chalk. He doesn’t look healthy, and he probably isn’t. His diet is comprised mainly of leftover pizza that doesn’t sell and whatever soda is the least popular in the vending machine. He doesn’t spend much time taking care of himself because every drop of what little energy he does have goes to into the pizzeria. He barely recognizes himself when he looks in the mirror these days. The place was sucking the life out of him, and this time, there’d be no sensationalized story when the establishment claimed another victim. Just a guy that made a bad investment that didn’t pay off. In over his head before he’d even begun.

Jesus. Listen to yourself. You gotta get out more. Do something besides wallow in this dusty hellscape.

He knows it’s true, but he’s afraid. He feels like he’s holding the business together with sheer willpower and to let that lapse for even a moment would surely spell its doom once and for all.

He takes a moment to stretch, then rubs at his bloodshot eyes with the heel of one hand before he begins tackling each bill one by one. The numbers are not friendly. He’s just breaking even. Next month, he’ll be in the red.

Jeff sighs, about to power down the laptop when he hears it: a voice saying his name.

He dismisses this notion immediately. He’s alone in the building. Overtired. Just his imagination playing tricks on him. For all the time he’s spent at the former Freddy’s, he’s never really witnessed anything credible to backup the claims that the place was haunted.

The screen goes dark and he shuts the cover. He hears his name again. It’s a genderless voice, a whisper that slithers along his skin, giving him goosebumps. Okay, it was definitely time to call it a night.

The pizzeria owner stands, sliding his laptop back into its carrying case and opening the top desk drawer to retrieve his car keys. He manages to make it all the way to the entrance before he hears his name hissed again. He’s definitely not imagining it.

There has to be a logical explanation, though. Maybe some kid had hidden somewhere, playing a prank. That had to be it. One of those rowdy looking teenagers from earlier that had left a mess and hadn’t even bothered with a tip, most likely.

He has half a mind to just leave. Just lock up for the night and let the intruder find out what it was like to be alone inside the pizzeria overnight. He should just go.

But what if they trashed the place? His empty wallet groans at the thought. He’s going to have to find the kid and chase them out himself. He’d rather not have to get the authorities involved, but he supposes that’s an option as a last resort.

Jeff sighs, setting his bag down on the checkered linoleum before he heads to the dining room, car keys still in hand. He looks underneath each gingham tabelcloth draped over the tables, but finds no one. The voice is louder now, so he knows he’s getting closer.

“You might as well come out. It’s well past closing time. You’re not supposed to be in here. I don’t want to have to call the cops,” he calls out, nearly wincing at how loud his voice sounds disturbing the silence.

Nothing. No reply. He’s finished walking the length of the dining room. Ahead of him is the stage, and behind that, the basement. To his left is the ball pit area.

That section actually isn’t open to the public, because he hadn’t wanted to deal with the issues of maintaining it in a hygienic and safe fashion. He’s heard the horror stories about ball pits in other venues. The payoff just hadn’t seemed worth it.

It would make a good hiding spot, though. He pauses by the frosted glass paned door, holding his breath and listening. Jeff. It seemed to be coming from this room.

He turns the brass doorknob and enters the room, flipping the lightswitch while the Employees Only-No Entrance sign swings gently back and forth across the glass. The fluorescent bulbs overhead flicker weakly, producing a wavering yellowish glow. The room smells musty and foul. It hadn’t been touched since he’d reopened the business, the room sealed and forbidden from entry until now. The floor is caked in grime. The netting surrounding the ball pit droops like a limp cobweb. There’s a short green plastic ladder to climb inside the overfilled square. He’s not sure he trusts putting an adult man’s weight on it, even one as slender as himself.

Jeff.

He jumps, startled. The voice sounds different now. Not only louder, but somehow more sinister. There’s a grating quality to it, like rusted gears grinding together; garbled like a voice trying to cut through static on an old radio. His eyes sweep the room, trying to pinpoint where it’s coming from, momentarily denying the obvious source of the pit itself.

He takes a step closer to the yellow barricade trapping the colorful plastic hollow balls, swallowing so loudly he can hear it. His heart is pounding. For the first time since he’s owned the pizzeria, he feels fear.

And he should. Because there are arms emerging from the ball pit, and they are not the limbs of some rebellious teenager. They are yellow and metallic. They dig into the orange fabric of the terrified owner’s shirt and pull him up over the lip and then drag him down into the nest of balls. He barely has time to yelp, his keys falling to the floor with a soft jingle, and then the room is silent.

***

The body the memory of William Afton now inhabits is weak.

It is not an ideal specimen, but beggars cannot be choosers. It is the key to the gateway barring him from entering this reality, so it will suffice, for the time being.

He surveys the room as he exits the ball pit, scowling at the obvious neglect, his gaze falling on the keyring lying at his feet. A means to acquire transportation. Useful. He has a brief flicker in his mind of a car—foreign, compact, in a garish shade between red and orange—as he exits the room.

“Hello, old friends,” he greets the animatronics onstage. A spark of light blooms in each robotic animals’ eyes, but it is faint. They aren’t fully awake yet, but he isn’t going to concern himself with that just yet. For now it is enough to know that they’re present. Available.

The disapproving look on his features darkens as he proceeds through the dining room. He would never have allowed the tacky artificial plants, the garish tablecloths. This new owner had no sense of taste at all. No wonder his business is failing. Well, he supposes that is what happens when one does not put in the work, when one tries to profit on the backs of others. He’ll see to it personally that it’s restored to its former glory.

He retrieves the bag by the door, a forced extraction of the other man’s knowledge revealing its contents, making him decide this bit of modern technology might prove useful and warranted bringing along, before locking the restaurant and walking towards the only car left in the parking lot. He mentally creeps along the small space he’s relegated for his victim’s mind, wedging through the cracks until he releases the next piece of information he’s seeking: the address of a cheap one bedroom apartment. Well, he can’t say he’s surprised. At least he wasn’t living in his mother’s basement.

The memory controlling Jeff’s body navigates the vehicle to that destination. He doesn’t spend long touring the dwelling, the sparse second hand furniture telling him everything he needs to know without even inquiring about it with his shared consciousness. The man is barely scraping by. Owning the pizzeria wasn’t quite the windfall the other man had imagined, was it? Not so easy to make a go of something that had once been another’s triumph. He shakes his head, dropping the keys onto the kitchen counter as he walks by. There was no such thing as easy money. One of the most important lessons life has to offer.

The possessed man enters the bathroom, a cramped space with a sink, toilet, and tiny shower, to examine himself in the mirror.

He strokes curiously over the bruised skin underneath dark eyes, so different from William’s pale ones. He prods at the fair skin and opens and closes his mouth after examining his teeth and sticking out his tongue. It looks like the man has had proper dental care, at least.

He rakes a hand through the mess of dark hair, frowning over the texture. It was thicker than his own silkier version had been, this mane with a distinctive wave to it. He’s going to have a difficult time taming this into something suitable.

The clothes are loose fitting. They looked borrowed, clearly the wrong size. Perhaps acquired because of their affordability. He can’t be bothered learning the actual details. Suffice it to say, he’s worn a lot of colors in his day that might have been considered loud; violently so, but orange is not a shade that he’s prepared to endure. It isn’t flattering for either of them. He won’t be subjecting this body to this indignity again.

Afton’s memory notes that he’s a few inches shorter now, and that displeases him greatly. He’d enjoyed his former stature. He’d liked looming over people. It had given him a sense of extra power; a presence. This new human’s stature is terrible. Sloped shoulders make him look even more wretched. The spirit possessing Jeff concentrates, and the upper extremity joints lift. Better. It was going to be challenging, inhabiting this new form; dignity was not something one spontaneously acquired, and respect had to be earned. This would be difficult, but he has faced greater obstacles than this. He will make the man submit and obey. His plans will be realized.

The eyes in the mirror shimmer and glow. For a brief moment, the reflection is no longer Jeff’s, but William’s.

Wearing his crooked smile.

[hornyhornyhimbos]

"Happy Horny Halloween" ~ A. Hotchner

Summary: When Reader is having a hard time not being spooked by the horror movie on TV, Aaron has one idea of how to calm her down.

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x AFAB!Reader

Word Count: 1,214

Content Warning: MINORS DNI (18+ content) oral f!receiving, nipple play, couch humping, explicit language, horror movie talk, Halloween (the movie) Slander™️

Extra Notes: i cannot think of anything i'd rather do when Halloween is on than not watch it so that's what inspired this LOL // icon in collage is by @hotchgan 🫶🏻

Originally Written: 10/22/2023 through 10/25/2023

criminal minds masterlist can be found here!

halloweek masterlist can be found here!

Your face was buried in Aaron's chest, little scared gasps and screams exiting your mouth each time that scary music started to play.

"Are you really that scared?" he chuckled, his large hand splayed across your back and rubbing soft, loving circles there. "I mean, his music is basically a warning that he's there. Shouldn't it be less scary?"

"Well, it's still scary to me," you grumbled into the material of his tee shirt. "Shouldn't you be frightened by some deranged guy walking around in a scary mask with a giant knife?"

"Do you forget the kind of things I see at work every day?"

You lifted your head from his chest, if for no other reason than to show him your rolling eyes. "But that's different. You know how those guys operate, their motives and all. Movie killers are always unpredictable. Besides, even in real life, they always go after women more often than men."

"Well, it's a good thing you've got me to protect you, then, isn't it?" Aaron rebutted, leaving a kiss atop your head.

The eerie music died down and you curled back into Aaron's side, his heart beating fast against your ear. He'd never admit it, but Michael Myers was scaring him a bit, too.

The film continued on, you occasionally hiding your face in Aaron's tee-shirt clad chest, and him meeting you with reassuring kisses along your forehead. At some point, his hand met your thigh, giving the supple skin a gentle and comforting squeeze, as the killer stabbed yet another helpless victim.

"Seriously, Aaron, why do you find this entertaining?" you complained, eyes screwed shut. "I mean, seriously, why would anyone want to watch this?"

You didn't even have to open your eyes to know he was smirking when he gave you his response. "You know," he said, "we could always multi-task."

Your eyes finally opened as you reached for the remote, promptly putting the film on pause. "What are you talking about?"

"Well, it is scientifically proven that horror-induced horniness is a thing," he answered.

Your brows furrowed at his statement. "Are you saying this shit makes you horny?" You questioned, though the idea was sort of tempting. You'd rather be doing anything else than watching a horror movie with no lights on.

"No, but," he paused, lips meeting the dip between your neck and shoulder, "I could help you calm down. Since you're scared and all."

Aaron's lips sucked harder on the bare skin, surely leaving a hickey in his wake. He'd barely touched you and already you were unraveling, ready to do whatever he asked with a simple snap of his fingers.

His mouth traveled up to your ear, nipping softly at the lobe. "Would you like that? A little distraction?"

You managed some noise of approval as his teeth grazed your ear, your stomach fluttering at Aaron's sudden change of character. His hands slipped beneath your sweater, fingertips desperate to touch every inch of you that he could. Still, he insisted on words, not needy noises, and you all but forced the word out as his lips entranced you.

"Lay down for me, yeah?" he instructed, hands moving to your shorts. You did as told before lifting your hips for him, exposing how desperate he'd made you in such a small amount of time.

One of his thick digits moved to tease your entrance while his opposite hand reached for the remote, promptly turning the volume down and resuming the movie. "Wanna see if you scream louder for me than those people scream for Michael Myers."

The way his finger was touching your aching core, you were sure you'd be screaming for him in a half a second. "I think," you sighed as his hand moved from the remote to your nipple, "I can manage."

The hand at your core was soon replaced by his mouth, his tongue licking up everything you had to offer. Your hands met his hair as his hands cupped your breasts, both pulling each other closer in your own little way.

His nose bumped against your clit as his mouth drank you in like an oasis, the sensation eliciting moans and expletives from your parted lips. "Fuck, Aaron," you sighed, tugging at his raven hair harder than before.

You weren't sure if it was the way you called his name or the harsh tugs of his hair, but the actions had him moaning into you, the vibrations absolutely intoxicating against your core. You tugged at the black tufts again, an almost cheeky smile pulling at your lips as you felt him search for reprieve against the couch.

Jamie Lee Curtis was screaming in the background, but her noises had nothing on yours as Aaron suckled your sensitive bud, desperate whines falling between your lips. His name tumbled off your tongue like a prayer as your hips rolled against his face. His stubble was surely causing beard burn and his fingers were surely bruising your breasts, but the sting only had you inching closer to release.

Aaron's hips rutted along the couch as he continued his ministrations, his tongue somehow in every place you could ever need it. Euphoria burned through you as your climax approached, one of his hands moving to grip your leg as you tried to clench your limbs together.

"Shit, Aaron," you called out as his other hand tugged perfectly at your hardened nipple. "Oh, my God," the words came out breathy.

His lips parted from you just long enough to say, "Cum for me, honey," his hips still humping the cushion beneath him.

Between the sight below you and the sensations flowing through you, you were coming undone in a matter of seconds. Mewls and whimpers filled the air as Aaron coaxed you through your high, his actions on your cunt becoming uncontrolled.

You watched as his brows furrowed together, forehead wrinkling in pleasure as he rolled his pelvis against the sofa, surely chasing down his own high. The sight of him coming undone just from eating you out had you getting wet all over again, his lips never ceasing to kiss or lick you while he rode out his own climax.

As he came down, his slick-covered chin rested against your tummy, lust-filled brown eyes meeting yours through matted lashes. He had the audacity to chuckle, the noise rumbling onto your skin. "I just came in my pants like a fucking teenager," he said through snickers.

You couldn't help but laugh at his chuckling form, fingers slotting through his hair as you looked down at him. "Did you just fuck yourself silly?" you giggled, though it sounded more like exhausted breaths after the orgasm he'd just given you.

"I think I did," he snickered. "Wow, I literally haven't done that since high school."

A string of laughter escaped you as you heard his delirious words, his chuckles vibrating against the bare skin of your stomach and thighs. "On another note, you'll be pleased to know it worked."

"Were you actually trying to watch the movie through all that?" he asked, brows furrowing once more.

This time, it was you who was filled with delirium, giggling as you leaned back against the arm of the couch. "No, and I think that's why it worked."

-> taglist: @reidsbookclub @broken-stardust @dungeons-are-too-cold @theghouligan @sadgirlml

[thecrownnetflixuk]

Goodbye to Diana, Goddess of the Hunt

Pt 1 of The Crown S6 Will Stand as the Definitive Dramatised Version of Diana & Dodi’s Final Days

Review (& gifs) by L.L @The Crown TV

Having seen Pt 1 of The Crown S6 before its official release, I can understand why Netflix decided to split the final season. The first 4 episodes are almost exclusively dedicated to the events surrounding the tragic deaths of Princess Diana and Dodi Fayed.

It's first-rate drama, but it's not always an easy watch. The series does have some lighter moments too, but it makes sense for The Crown to take a short pause before moving forward in December.

To be clear, Diana and Dodi's car crash is not portrayed in a voyeuristic way. We don't see the moment of impact; hearing it is traumatic enough. Diana's body is not shown. The show doesn't delve into what caused the accident. This is still The Crown, not CSI Paris.

Kudos to Peter Morgan and his research team who somehow scrutinised all reports of Diana and Dodi's final days and managed to turn no doubt conflicting accounts and opinions into 4 brilliantly dramatised episodes which feel like a definitive screen version.

I prefer the sharpened pace of S6 after a disjointed S5. All the cast seem more comfortable in their respective roles ... except ... Dominic West is a great actor, his grief and regret is so believable in these episodes, but for me, West's natural charm and roguishness still doesn't fit well with Charles. Perhaps Camilla would disagree!

There are no such issues with Diana. It's a difficult task playing an icon hunted by the paparazzi, but Elizabeth Debicki radiates the right emotional intelligence and effortless star quality of the princess. In fact, Debicki's empathetic and assured performance largely carries these pivotal episodes and tops her earlier impressive work in S5.

Warning - long read: more detailed spoilers ahead! GO & WATCH THE EPISODES FIRST (NOW ON NETFLIX)

Interview/images: courtesy of Netflix & Elizabeth Debicki.

The final season of The Crown begins in Paris with a bold flash forward to a dog-walker who witnesses the crash at the Pont de l'Alma tunnel. It's a jarring change of tone after S5, but effective.

From the start, we know where this story is headed. But first, it's back to Diana on her summer hols, impertinent rodents scurrying in the palace and Charles getting grumpy over the Queen not showing up for Camilla's birthday. Reassuringly, it's royal business as usual.

^ Happy 50th, Camilla. I'm with the Queen about this pair; still not quite on board.

Enter Dodi Fayed, who could not be more different to his overbearing father. Khalid Abdalla infuses the shy son-of-a-billionaire with an engaging soulfulness which contradicts Dodi's two-timing behaviour.

Dodi starts out romancing his fiancée, Kelly Fisher (Erin Richards), but after being bullied into it by his father Mohamed Al-Fayed, Dodi pursues Princess Diana. For a while, Dodi juggles both women, before redeeming himself and confessing the truth to Diana.

^ Diana & Dodi. This time, it's Diana herself who ends up not quite on board this ship.

BAFTA nominee Salim Daw is a force of nature as a magnificently Machiavellian Mohamed Al-Fayed. Daw's performance, along with Elizabeth Debicki's note-perfect Diana, is a standout in S6.

Those who had concerns that The Crown was too generous towards the real Al-Fayed in S5 have no such worries about S6. By episode 3, Mohamed almost crosses into arch villain territory, bribing Dodi into marrying Diana to get British citizenship and raise his social status.

^ Mohamed Al-Fayed. Give him a cat & he'd be the perfect future Bond villain.

It's a controversial post-death chat with a 'ghost' which (nearly) absolves The Crown's Mohamed. Salim Daw is tremendously genuine during his imagined conversation with Dodi, sobbing for forgiveness. Too little, too late, but we feel his real pain about the loss of his son.

Before watching these episodes, the idea of Ghost!Dodi and Diana in the show did seem off-putting. Confession: I didn’t make it through the surrealistic film ‘Spencer’, where Diana talks to the ghost of Anne Boleyn (although Kristen Stewart seemed well cast in her role.)

Now that I've actually seen the 'ghost' scenes in The Crown, they don't feel ghoulish or disrespectful. Following the crash, both Charles (Dominic West) and Imelda Staunton’s Queen have small conversations with Diana, as though the princess is still with them.

You could take that to mean they’ve gone full royal-bats-in-the-belfry, but as a person who recently lost my dad, I talk to the dead all the time. It’s often what happens when you lose somebody you love. To see this depicted on The Crown felt honest. And human.

^ Wassup, Betty? Just chillin', chatting w/dead Di* (*not dialogue from The Crown)

As the show wades through the aftermath of the crash, dealing with public sorrow, funerals and grief-stricken young William and Harry, it becomes heartbreaking. However, The Crown does handle heavy subject matter very well, as shown in episodes such as ‘Aberfan.’

With a golden jubilee coming up, hopefully Pt 2 of this final season will be more uplifting, and feature more scenes with Imelda Staunton as Elizabeth II. When we do see the Queen in Pt 1, her intonation is superb. There’s continuity too, with Staunton merging Claire Foy’s vulnerability and regality with Olivia Colman’s steely durability.

I'm no ardent monarchist, but now that we've said goodbye to Diana, I can't imagine that The Crown would end without paying tribute to another Queen of Hearts who reigned for over 70 years.

THE CROWN S6 PT 2:-premieres on Netflix | Thurs 14th Dec 2023

N.B: These are just my (humble) opinions at this point in time. No offence is intended. Agreement = lovely; not compulsory. Disagreement = happens; kindly coexist. Ta!

[thefreakydeaky]

You're No Good

Negan x Reader

Various TWD Characters x Reader

Modern AU

Summary: Your husband came up with a way to keep you away from trouble but trouble just won't stay away from you.

Warnings: Mentions of cheating

When you said good bye to your husband, that morning and he said “Be good.” You had every intention of doing so. You considered yourself a tame even tempered person. You didn’t go looking for trouble. It wasn’t your fault that trouble often seemed to be looking for you. Really it wasn’t.

In the parking lot of a big chain store you sat in your car messing around on your phone. Big crowds gave you anxiety. While it was a weekday and the middle of the day there were still quite a few people in the store, if the parking lot was anything to go by. Putting off human interaction for a few more minutes, you scrolled through your feed, occasionally hitting like on posts that made you smile. As you hit like on your cousin’s pregnancy announcement a notification popped up on the instant messaging icon. You clicked on it and the screen opened to a different page. A message from your ex-fiance. What you could see without opening it was “Hi…”

You looked at his picture. It was just him, no wife, girlfriend, or child. You would have felt more comfortable if there had been someone else with him. You told yourself not to make assumptions. Maybe enough time had finally passed and he was just checking on you. Besides not having anyone in his profile photo didn’t mean anything. Your husband wasn’t in yours. It could even just be spam. You clicked on his picture and it took you to his profile. You did sometimes wonder how his family was doing.

In the years since you ended your engagement you had lost three of your four grandparents. You had lost family friends and an aunt to the corona virus. You wondered if he had lost anyone during the first few years of the pandemic. You wondered if his grandparents were still around. Curious, you snooped on his page.

Selfie, selfie, selfie, something promoting his brother’s business, selfie, selfie, meme, more promoting, meme, meme. Nothing containing the information you wanted to know was on the page and you couldn’t go through his albums because you weren’t following each other’s accounts.

You went back to the message icon. You considered the possibility that he addressed those questions in the message. ‘Well,’ you thought, ‘What could it hurt?’. You opened the message.

- Hi… went to our place last night and it brought back a lot of good memories. I know we haven’t talked much since, but you been on my mind. How have you been? –

You frowned. He was giving you nothing and now the curiosity was pecking at your mind like a hen at a worm. Now you needed to know. You replied quickly.

-Hello. Yes, I remember the place. We always had a great time there. How have you been, how’s the family?-

You waited there a minute to see if he happened to reply quickly, but he didn’t. So, you closed the app and tried to refocus your energy on to the task at hand, quickly and efficiently getting what you needed from the store. You turned off the car, put your keys in your purse, picked up your iced coffee and got out.

Passing by the plus sized section you remembered that you wanted to get a new dress to wear to your husband’s company picnic. You huffed out a breath of annoyance,but made your way to the racks. As you flipped through the options you picked out the dresses you thought would look best and put them over your arm. Your husband wasn’t what you would consider a big deal in the company, but he did manage his department. This made you feel obligated to dress more nicely for the event.

Your phone rang as you entered the dressing room.

“Hello?” You greeted as you set down your things and began to undress.

“Hello, is this Mrs.Smith?” A low voice you imagined was female inquired.

You froze.

“Yes, this is she.”

“I wanted to let you know that your husband is having an affair.”

You felt like you had been hit in the stomach. All the air seemed to have left your lungs yet you knew it hadn’t because you were able to ask, “Is it you?”, in a steady voice.

“No! No. I’ve seen them flirting and sneaking around together. It’s not right that you don’t know.” She said.

You took a deep breath then let it out slowly.

“Well, I certainly know now, don’t I?”

The line was quiet.

“Thank you for your concern.” You forced something that sounded like sincerity into your tone.

“Yes, well. Good Luck. Good bye.” She managed to say briskly before she hung up.

You rolled your eyes as you quickly saved the number to your contacts with the day’s date as the name. You would deal with Negan later.

You picked a strapless idigo colored sundress that had a twisted knot detail at the neckline. You had a newish pair of sandals at home that would go well. You placed the dress in your basket and moved on to the hygeine aisles.

You had only been looking through the conditioner section for a few minutes when you heard your name being called.

You turned to look and recognized the bearded handsome man standing in the mouth of the aisle.

“Hey, neighbor.” You offered him a smile.

“Is that all I get?” Rick asked sheepishly.

You laughed a little and went and hugged him.

His arms went around you and squeezed.

“Haven’t seen you in… forever.”

The acceptable amount of time to let go of you would have been right then, but he held onto you.

“Yeah, It’s been a while.” You commented.

Rick gave you one more squeeze before he let go.

“How’ve you been?” He asked, a smile on his lips.

“Good, good. I’ve been trying to adjust to being a stay at home wife. Which, honestly, isn’t so bad.”

“A stay at home wife? So, you married him.” He remarked.

“Yupp. It’ll be a year next month.” You looked away from his bright blue gaze. “How’s your wife?”

“Be honest, you don’t actually care to know how Laurie is.” Rick scoffed.

You cleared your throat.

“I was being polite.”

“Well, you don’t need to be. We’ve been divorced for three years now. If it wasn’t for Carl I wouldn’t care one bit what happens to that woman.” He admitted.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Three years? That’s right around the time…we moved.” You tried to read it in his eyes.”Did I-Was it because of what we did?”

“Oh, it wasn’t your fault. Laurie and me, we’d been having problems for years. It had built up by the time that all went down. If anything those few weeks with you made me realize how unhappy I was and gave me hope that I could be happy again.”

“I’m sorry it ended the way it did. I should have given you a heads up or done more to stop it.” You apologized, a frown on your face.

Rick took your hand in his.

“Don’t be. There was nothing you could of done.”

You gazed into one another’s eyes. It was still there. The heat between you. You could feel it pulling you in.

“Hey, I’d love to sit down and have a cup of coffee with you. Can we exchange numbers?” His pretty blue eyes were lit with hope.

You nodded and took out your phone. You gave him your phone number and he gave you his. Then you said good bye and went back to doing the shopping.

[narwhalandchill]

okay so. skirk thoughts

first of all: as much as her design is still just kind of an ehhh compared to what couldve been, i do think it looks so much better in the actual game. the sfx in her arms and legs in particular helps a Lot imo. still not a massive fan but given i already loved the hair+eyes as well as the general color scheme, im warming up to it. still unfortunate we didnt get something more ambitious but i can live with this lmao

personality wise i actually really love how they went about her? its a little unexpected but skirk really has that abyss autism rizz to her JSJSIDISGFK love it. like this really isnt someone used to any manner of regular human interactions and it shows. i really like how blunt and utterly unfazed she is even when dropping some insane lore bombs bc theyre just peanuts to her. shes just completely unlike any character from any faction weve encountered before and i rly love the energy they gave her

i also found her little ramble about the value of life and death pretty interesting. it almost makes it sound like she considers herself dead in some way? with how she talks about there being no point in holding onto the bonds and remains of dead things and how this personal philosophy of hers is why she never comes to the surface anymore. like huh. whats up with that.

it also really reminds me of how an underappreciated aspect of childes characterization imo is how like. Incredibly insistent he is on staying alive being the most valuable thing? like this comes up Repeatedly in his voicelines. and now we have skirk literally talking about how to live is in itself a blessing. like i am Not buying this being coincidental at all. so unless they physically disprove me in this somehow down the line im taking this as 100% proof that childes high regard for life is Directly imparted to him through skirks teachings. and thats really interesting to think about.

and like. overall im quite happy with this glimpse of her character we have? i have bigger issues with the overall handling of the childe+narwhal+skirk segment of the AQ but those are narrative problems. skirk really stands out as a character and shes just. really fascinating AND funny as fuck in her nonchalance like. what an icon.

the only real unfortunate thing w her appearence specifically i think just has to do with the way her manner of speech and position as a narrator of dubious reliability to an extent is already leading to some. Quite unfortunate misreadings and/or taking the implications of her statements too far at face value. and i just know fandom will latch onto those forever 😭

(& jic i dont mean dubious reliability in the traditional unreliable narrator or like. lying or sth sense. just that her worldview is so alien and foreign to us that it should be taken into careful account before just blindly running off with any particular thing she claims)

like. firstly. the narwhal. ppl really dont seem to be catching onto how skirks perception of it as just a scuffed pet thats a hassle to manage isnt like. actually reflective of what a massive deal of an entity it is (read the boss fight quest item drop lore i am begging. or just wait for me to start narwhalposting JAJSKDK its coming 100%) 💀💀 what it DOES reflect more than anything is what an absolute maniac surtalogi (+ skirk by extension) has to be in order to claim a creature of this magnitude as a PET of all things. its also good to note that skirk herself readily admits both her highly unconventional view on most things AND that her master wont necessarily share any and all information with her - more so what he thinks is pertinent for her to know. her assessment of the narwhal as a nuisance of a task for a disciple isnt really reflective of the ultimate big picture HSJDKDKSK though it is very funny i have to admit.

im just preemptively annoyed and frustrated by it already bc its highkey giving azhdaha all over again where 99% of fandom just dismissed his deeper lore bc they took the storytellers claims of zhongli creating him at complete face value. like to the point hoyo had to literally add a whole segment at the end of the chasm interlude where zhongli more or less directly wink wink nod nods that a career entertainer isnt giving you the most accurate lore on this stuff 😭😭 like please. ive had the tears from among the stars lore fucking HAUNTING me ever since i first read it. its not just a silly pet whale im hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

and secondly. people really jumping the gun on "haha skirk thinks childe weak" when she was... quite literally speaking in past tense JSJSKDKSISKDK thats ajax 14 not the current state of things. while i do agree skirks power level is still way above his to the point i absolutely do think she considers him weak from her standpoint & ways off from his true potential, id also just.... like to point out that she pretty much confirms that her view of his competence has very much changed too? like please yall

skirk, who in all the years post ajax' 3 day abyss trip made NO effort to contact or keep up with him whatsoever and stated that her disciple wasnt worth even speaking to in the past has now LITERALLY voiced the intent to assign him the task of being a messenger between herself (possibly even surtalogi) and neuvillette. and she has made it VERY clear that she views the communication between herself and neuvillette (and traveler too) as one between equals?

this isnt her assigning childe some irrelevant side quest to keep him busy but actually utilizing him for a task she takes at least relatively seriously. like wdym she still considers him the exact same as before 😭😭😭😭 like obviously childes far off from being regarded as anywhere near an equal by skirk bc SHES just that insanely powerful but seriously. to me this is as clear an acknowledgement of his growth on her part as we will get JSJSKDKFKSKDKJ

but alas. everyone loves a "ha ha childe so weak XDDDD" like they just never wanna let that one go. Man

anyway still rly like skirk!!! all im Really hoping for in the future Especially w how i feel the 4.2 narrative while overall brilliant really sidelined and mishandled the potential and gravity of the narwhal side of things is that like. PLEASE let the interlude be the continuation to this 3rd descender n skirk n childe abyss situation i am so fucking tired of khaenri'ah and the abyss order im sorry lmao

also itll be like 4 years before we ever see her in Real action as a combatant but i am already So hype to see that. especially since her powers are so abyssal and alien in nature like thats going to be So gourmet i just know it.

[knightprincess]

Scars (Commander Wolffe x Jedi Reader) Part 7

Warning: Hurt - Past Pain, Muteral Pining (kinda), Complicated/Weird relationships? Words: 1.8k Pronouns Used: She/Her.

Notes: I'm sorry for the long wait. I had to take some time away to deal with some personal issues. Also, the chapter was not proofread, so I apologize for any mistakes.

(Y/N) hid in the shadowiest corner of the seedy club she could find. No bright lights shone on her, the music dull, although it still made the sticky floor beneath her feet vibrate with the beat. Those she was charged with keeping watch over hadn’t noticed her yet, or at least hadn’t made it clear they had. Not that she paid much attention to them. For a while now, she’d been leaning against the blood-stained wall, staring at her communicator, the message from Fox on repeat, as she tried to understand why Commander Wolffe, of all people, was being sent to aid her.

Despite (Y/N)’s best efforts to recall, she hadn’t remembered requesting backup; after all, the most dangerous thing about the servalence was the threat of boredom. She needed no aid nor supplies; there was no reason she could think of for an unprompted visit from the battleworn commander. Even more so when he’d made it clear she wasn’t his favorite person, further driven home by his often growled words and avoidance of her.

A few minutes longer (Y/N) pulled herself from the whirlwind of thoughts and questions and forced herself to face the task laid before her. As she suspected, Boba Fett still minded his own business at one of the booths, building his own little ring of bounty hunters, including Embo, Bosk, and Dengar. Cad Bane had come and gone with cleverly worded insults; subtly, he let her know he was aware of her presence. Tipping his cowboy hat to her in a small sign of respect. However, the Duros bounty hunter never spoke or hinted to anyone else that she was there.

Aurra Sing was the biggest threat, the woman many described as having a heart of ice—or at least those who assumed she had a heart said that. (Y/N) On the other hand, she knew better. Aurra was not to be underestimated. She was dangerous and cold and wouldn’t think twice before eliminating anyone and anything she perceived as an enemy. The ultimate price would be paid for those who dared get in the way of a job or mess with her.

“You’re difficult to find,” came the rough voice of Wolffe, suspicion alight in his eyes as he scanned the area around him. A half smirk appeared across his lips mere seconds after realizing he’d startled the Jedi before him.

“It happens when I don’t want to be found,” replied (Y/N), her voice quiet compared to the loud music; shortly after, her eyes once again found the group she’d been watching. Still, they didn’t seem to be doing anything suspicious. There was no loud bragging; even Aurra was quiet. Only a few drunken arguments occurred over a game and minor disagreements about a job they had in mind to accept. “How may I be at service, Commander?” she questioned, ensuring her weapon was still concealed. The last thing she needed was for things to turn ugly. Her weapon was by far the biggest giveaway of her Jedi status.

Wordlessly, Wolffe grabbed onto (Y/N)’s arm with a firm but gentle grip. His grip was strong enough to prevent her from getting away from him but not enough to cause her pain or injury. Only then did (Y/N) genuinely take notice of him. He no longer wore his iconic white and grey armor, nor did he carry his modified helmet as he’d previously done. Instead, he was clad in red and white armor synonymous with the Coruscant Guard.

“Don’t make me arrest you,” whispered Wolffe, his voice gruff as always but not the growls he often delivered his words in. He tapped the binders on his belt as if to suggest he was playing a role like her.

“Arrest me! For what, being bored?” quickly responded (Y/N), her words filled with sarcasm as she rolled her eyes. The spoken words managed to pull a rare huffed chuckle from the battle-worn commander. Nonetheless, he continued to pull her from the seedy club, ignoring the looks of interest and boredom from the patrons scattered around.

“Boredom is easy to cure,” slyly replied Wolffe, a smirk appearing across his lips now. (Y/N) the response was simple enough, a small oh, dripping with curiosity. “Your subtlety, on the other hand …” he added as if imagining ways to work on the Jedi disobedience.

“Ah yes, my lack of subtlety, Master Plo’s greatest failure,” called (Y/N), seemingly forgetting she was undercover, or maybe it was her reckless carelessness coming to the forefront. “You're in the underworld, Commander; no one cares who you are down here,” she offered with some reassurance.

“How do you know?” he questioned, his words quick and harsh, almost as if he was interrogating her rather than asking a simple question. (Y/N) didn’t seem to notice the roughness of his words. Instead, she chuckled, finding amusement in Wolffe’s almost discomfort.

“Where do you think I go to escape?” (Y/N) countered as she began to dwell on her thoughts again. The many times she felt free in the underworld, a place where judgment wasn’t cast upon her, where people didn’t care she was a Jedi or even a Night Sister. “The world above can be far crueler than anything here, plus many within the Order don’t bother being kind with their thoughts and words. At least down here, I know what I’m getting with people,” she explained, an ire of sadness to her voice now as she remembered her old life before the Jedi. She was just a little girl, normal by Dathomir standards.

“Why …” started Wolffe, stumbling to find the words to voice his questions. (Y/N) seemed to be a source of both interest and unseen torment to him. She’d gotten under his skin, rooted in his mind, and refused to leave, yet at the same time, she didn’t seem to realize the effects she had on him. “Why did you save me?” he asked, pushing her down a dark ally, looking around before following her down the tight, dead-end space.

“Why wouldn’t I?” she replied, once again answering a question with one of her own. “You’re human, deserve a chance to live, to find who you are outside this war. Everyone deserves a chance at life.”

“It might have escaped your notice, Cat’ra, but I’m a clone. I’m little more than a product to do with as the republic sees fit.”

“No, you’re a soldier, protector, and a man who’s been through hell and back,” (Y/N) voiced, determination alight in her voice. “You may not like me, Commander, but I see you. I see all clones. I’ll do whatever I have to protect as many as I can. All of you deserve better than this unforgiving war.”

“Why do you make it so difficult?” whispered Wolffe, walking further down the ally as if to escape from the Jedi. He wanted her to be like Ventress; he wanted it to be easy to hate (Y/N). But the more he learned of her, the more his wish became more complex and impossible. She wasn’t a monster, nor a ruthless witch. She wasn’t a cold, uncaring Jedi either, as most were. Instead, Y/N showed more care and understanding than most did.

“Make what difficult?” asked (Y/N), rooted to her spot halfway down the darkened ally. Confusion was evident in her raised voice, as she made it clear she didn’t understand his statement and was at a loss for the difficulty she was coursing. Once again, she was oblivious to the torment she’d constantly caused the battle-worn commander since saving him that day.

Sudden and without warning, Wolffe turned on his spot, almost rushing toward (Y/N). Despite the threat others would have perceived from his actions, (Y/N) stayed rooted to her spot. Upon reaching her, Wolffe roughly pushed her against the wall, pinning her in place. He knew she could push him away if she wanted. She could quickly reverse the roles yet still seemed to be playing with him, fearless when others would have cowered away. In an instant, Wolffe’s lips had crashed upon hers, his rough and dry compared to her soft, strawberry-tasting ones.

“Why must you make it so difficult to hate you,” whispered Wolffe upon breaking the kiss. He was genuinely surprised she hadn’t pushed him away with the force. As soon as the words left his lips, he felt a prang of guilt. Even more so when he began to understand he wasn’t the only one confused and being tormented by the other; he had been doing the same to her, too.

The guilt only grew as he looked into her eyes, seeing hope fade from her eyes, being replaced with the rejection she refused to voice, the pain of her unspoken past, and what he could only describe as hatred. Without a word, (Y/N) lifted her knee swiftly and precisely, the joint colliding with his codpiece with some force. Delivering a blow far harsher than anything he’d experienced before.

“Hate me,” (Y/N) spoke calmly, so calm she was sure it would be unnerving to anyone who knew her. “So much for being different from others. I’ve been judged so many times for things another has done. I’ve tried to be what others expected, but I’m done trying to be someone else now. If you want to hate me, then go ahead; hell, I’ll make it easier if it's what you truly want.” her words held a sting to them; despite the sudden pain Wolffe felt, he could hear her pain too, the suffering others ignored.

Just as he was about to reach for her, (Y/N) stepped away, the walls she had long since built around herself cracking and beginning to break, tears stinging her eyes and blurring her vision. Not another word left her lips as she turned and ran away, ignoring Wolffe calling her name, hoping she would return.

“Why must I suffer like this?” whispered (Y/N), stopping several blocks away. Hiding in a run-down building, she allowed her emotions to run, all her pent-up feelings to be released: the hurt, constant suffering, the desire for what could be, the hope for a future she knew would be denied, and the desire to be loved and cared for.

After a few minutes (Y/N) composed herself once more and pushed away all that tormented her before reaching for her beeping comm. At first, she assumed it would be Fox checking in, but soon realized it was Wolffe. She walked to the railing and threw the comm over the edge, her mind made up. She was going to disappear for a while and evaluate everything, including her own mental stability. (Y/N)’s stubbornness told her she was doing what was best, but her heart screamed that some people needed her, both strangers across the galaxy and those she cared deeply for. Even her common sense yelled she had a duty to uphold, even if it wasn’t one she’d chosen.

Series Masterlist

[xenon-demon]

ooo tell me more about med student steve & nurse eddie 💕💕💕

HELLO JANAI!!! this fic is the one I'm most actively writing rn (as opposed to Kas!Steve AU where i'm constantly rotating it in my brain like a rotisserie chicken, but that's for outlining/untangling knots in the plot reasons lmao) so I am Very Happy to talk about it <3

I did actually finish properly outlining this AU today too!! Unless inspiration strikes me and I write way too much for something, it looks like this fic will be 7 chapters and a short epilogue.

SO, to answer your ask I'm going to share with you what some of the other ST characters (those that I've slotted into a healthcare role, at least) are doing in this AU:

Chrissy is the ward clerk, aka the person who handles all the admin tasks, on the ward Eddie works on! They're best friends, and if there's a quiet moment (or more likely, Eddie is on break) you can usually find them talking shit together at Chrissy's desk. Chrissy is also a bi icon in this AU 🩷💜💙

Joyce is the Nurse Unit Manager of the ward - as the title implies, she's the boss of the nursing staff on the ward and in charge of things like making sure hospital policies are being followed & organizing the nursing team so all patients are adequately cared for. She is Very Overworked but she runs a tight ship!

Argyle is one of the hospital pharmacists, and Jonathan is a trainee hospital pharmacist working with him (but not directly under him as Argyle's personal trainee. That'd be a little weird, considering they're dating). Argyle is also working on a research paper about the benefits of medicinal marijuana (with hopes the team's findings will contribute to further legalisation across the country).

Jason sucks. Jason is a medical student on placement with Steve, and he's... he's what we call a gunner. In med school, gunners are students who are ambitious to a fault, potentially willing to throw other students under the bus to further their own career or academic performance, and often focus too much on the "being right"/"being The Best at medicine" aspects of being a doctor instead of prioritizing the patient and their needs. Basically, he's an out-of-touch privileged jackass who comes from a long line of doctors, and has therefore just Assimilated into the family destiny without ever thinking about what being a doctor actually means.

Vickie works in the hospital pathology centre - she's one of the people who picks up samples and processes them after the doctors or nurses drop them off. Every time Robin goes up there (because it's common to send the med students off to drop off the pathology samples) she is So Very Normal and makes Normal People Conversation with Vickie. Robin is so smooth, I promise.

Nancy is another medical student like Robin & Steve are, and she's currently with the consult psychiatry team with Robin. Nancy is also dating Jonathan, because Jonathan has two hands, and Nancy is very interested in the research work Argyle does. She is still Steve's ex-girlfriend in this AU - they had a poorly-thought-out brief relationship in their first year of medical school, and no one in the medical school has let them live it down.

Dr Henry Creel is the consultant doctor in charge of the Internal Medicine team Steve & Jason are currently with. As he's in charge of the team, he's the one who grades the med students and decides if they pass or fail their placement term. I'm sure nothing bad will come of this.

For reference, the "young adults" of the ST cast are in their mid-twenties in this AU. This means that those in fields like nursing or pharmacy have already graduated from college and are full-status employees in their chosen fields, while the med students of the group are still working their way through medical school (since doing a bachelor's + an MD is pretty time-consuming, and that's before you take any time off from studying after high school or between degrees). Also, Henry is Older here, since in canon he's like... what, 40 in 1986? He's at least in his fifties in this AU, since consultant doctors are rarely any younger than that (particularly if they're not brand new to the job).

Also, if I haven't said this elsewhere already, this is a modern AU! No way am I forcing myself to replace all my healthcare knowledge with healthcare knowledge from 40 years ago for this fic, it's bad enough I have to pretend to understand how the American healthcare system works lmao

Send me an ask about my WIPs!

[astrology-bf]

True Wisdom

Life is filled with joys pleasing to the eyes of heaven, and…

Nonsense.

Perhaps if Dedelai recalled the admonition in complete, it might have seemed less so. But standing where he was…

Life is filled with joys pleasing to the eyes of heaven? Nonsense, utter nonsense. Life is but a board of bone upon which the gods play chess with pieces of men’s lives until the box is bare and bloody. And, standing where he was, Dedelai Totolai had had enough of it.

It had not always been this way, as life had once held many joys pleasing to his eyes. He still recalled the pain upon his father’s face as he spoke of his homeland ere intrigue in the Autumn War’s aftermath had put him in disgrace, when he’d left Ul’dah and traveled east where Dedelai was born: Dalmasca. A sapphire in a desert where Dedelai had sweat, and wept, and bled and made a mystic of himself - a land he loved with all his heart and soul until it sweat, and wept, and bled to death upon the Empire’s blades at Nalbina. He’d a choice: a mystic of his talents was too valuable a prize, and neither Empire nor Resistance were averse to using less than graceful methods of persuasion. And so he chose: Eorzea.

Not Ul’dah; not quite. He’d no aspirations left to trade. Somewhere quiet where he could simply just exist … pass his days… til he had none left to pass. A temple of Azeyma in southeastern Thanalan proved just the place: the library of Gydeo Abbey was in need of a caretaker, as luck had it. And that was where he stood.

Every day was near the same: he woke, he washed, he ate, and then attended to his tasks all without a single smile or laugh. Not to say that he was bitter: to be bitter was for those who cared, and Dedelai did not. That his days were not spent in darkened misery reliving the horrors of the siege of Nalbina was owed entirely to his surrounds: books and scrolls are needy things, and their upkeep took up needful space inside his mind. That the task was never finished proved a boon, to boot - whenever he awoke at night with specters of the past crawling around behind his eyes, he could simply rouse himself and get to work. Sorting, inspecting, repairing, re-binding… and dusting, such as he was doing at the present despite the exceedingly late hour.

Not by hand, naturally: he was a mystic after all. And while he’d no use for all the skills with which he’d failed to save the country that he loved, he simply couldn’t break the habit of using magic for his chores - even if he’d no notion why, as magic was for those who cared, and Dedelai did not. He moved from shelf to shelf with wand in hand, tapping it upon the wood and causing every speck of dust to vanish with a glimmer. Not that there was much to clean: Dedelai kept his library in good order, even if there’d been a recent spate of temporarily missing books. He only paused, just once, to eye the icon hanging up above the door: a bearded, dark skinned hyuran youth clad in sun-bleached linen, kneeling at the shore of an oasis with an Ewer in his arms. Thaliak, at least in Ul’dah’s mode, his presence meant to bless the search for truth within the library’s tomes - though Dedelai often wondered why the artist chose to give the Scholar such a cold and joyless gaze.

As the Lalafell resumed his work, he paused. There’d been a sound. Not loud; a shuffling against the floor for just a moment. “Is someone there?” he called.

There was a barely audible intake of breath. He was not alone.

Dedelai gripped his wand more tightly by sheer instinct. “I know you are there. Come on out.” he called, quietly (it was a library after all).

Another moment’s pause. And then a figure slunk their way out from behind a shelf; a hyuran boy of roughly eight or nine, blue-eyed with ash brown hair, a terrified expression on his face and a book clutched in his hands.

The mystic blinked, then relaxed his grip and gave a hum. One of the children from the abbey’s orphanage that Sister Brazen Briar managed. “‘Tis rather late, young man. I do not think Sister Brazen would approve of you being out.” he said, turning to face the boy.  

The lad lowered his gaze, still frightened from being caught. “...Sorry, sir.” he answered.

Dedelai eyed him up and down before his eyes alighted on the book. “Might I ask what brings you here at this hour?” asked the mystic.

The boy glanced up as his cheeks began to color. He mumbled a response.

“Hm?”

“...I like to sneak books. Sometimes. Sorry.” he confessed.

Dedelai snorted faintly. “Ah. So you are our little book thief.” he mused.

The boy’s head snapped up in protest. “I’m not stealing them! I put them back, it’s just…” he began, then stopped before lowering his head again. A faint tremor was visible in his fingers.

“I am not angry, young man. I simply wish you to be honest.” That much was true: being angry was for those who cared, and Dedelai did not.

At length, the lad slowly raised his head to meet the mystic’s eyes. “I just like reading.” he mumbled. 

Dedelai raised an eyebrow and gave a little scoff. “You ‘just like reading’ to the point you would risk a scolding from Sister Brazen? I must say you are rather brave.”

The lad’s expression shifted into one of pleading over fear. “Please don’t tell! I know it’s after hours…” he begged. 

Dedelai paused. How often had he gotten into trouble in his youth for much the same? Sneaking off to read, staying up to read, ‘borrowing’ books that he probably shouldn’t. The fright of being discovered was punishment enough. “We will keep it our little secret, just this once. What is your name?” he asked.

The boy smiled gratefully and bowed his head politely. “Thank you, sir. My name is Ifan.” he said in formal greeting.

“Hm. It is nice to meet you Ifan. My name is Dedelai.” greeted the mystic in return.

“It’s nice to meet you too, Brother Dedelai, sir.” Ifan bowed a second time.

“I must say, you are very polite.” hummed Dedelai.

Ifan gave no answer save for a shy and thankful smile.

“...If not especially stealthy.”

The boy bristled at the accusation. “Hey! I wouldn’t have made a noise if I wasn’t trying to– mrm…” Then he caught himself, his cheeks coloring as he looked down at the floor.

“Hm?” hummed Dedelai, eyebrow raising once again.

Ifan chewed his lip before he answered. “Trying to watch, sir.” he confessed.

Dedelai’s eyebrow rose even higher in genuine surprise. “Oh? For what reason were you watching me?” he asked.

Again, Ifan bit his lip and paused before he answered. “...The magic, sir.”

There was another pause. Then Dedelai gave a little scoff. “You were watching me cast the dusting charm?” he asked, incredulous.

Ifan nodded shyly. “Yes, sir.” he said, embarrassed. 

“Whyever for?” asked Dedelai.

Ifan mumbled a reply.

“Hm? I did not quite catch that.”

“...I was thinking maybe I could figure out how you did it.” he spoke up, eyes returning to meet the Lalafell’s as he ground one foot against the floor.

Once more, Dedelai found his words deserted him. What an unusual boy. “‘Tis not the sort of thing one usually learns from simply watching.” he stated.

Ifan pursed his lips a moment, then spoke up. “Well, could you teach me then?” he asked.

The mystic’s eyebrow rose once more. “You wish to learn magic?” he asked rhetorically. 

The boy’s eyes lit up like azure fire at the prospect. “Yes!” exclaimed Ifan, taking a step towards the mystic in excitement.

Dedelai wanted to scoff. Foolish. There was no point to such a thing. Why bother teaching the arcane? Magic had not saved Dalmasca. The age of sorcery was over - technology’s supremacy was assured, assuming that the world would live to see another age at all. But the sheer excitement in his gaze… Dedelai simply couldn’t bring himself to crush the boy’s newly kindled hope outright. So he humored him. “Why would you like to learn magic, Ifan?” he asked.

Ifan seemed to have an answer already in his mind. “Well, I could keep stuff clean so I could have more time to read, but also…” he trailed off, mumbling the rest.

“Hm?”

“...It looks fun.” he finished.

Dedelai blinked once. Then twice. “It… looks fun?” he repeated slowly.

Ifan chewed his lower lip once more, afraid he’d said the wrong thing. “Isn’t it? I mean… You were smiling the whole time…” he said, a hesitant expression on his face.

The mystic blinked once more.

Knowledge without action is empty.

Dedelai’s lips parted beneath his mustache, and he glanced off to the side. 

Life is filled with joys pleasing to the eyes of heaven, and knowledge without action is empty.

There it was entire. 

Ha. Simple. How had he forgotten it? He could recollect the very day he read that book back home. The Royal College… Days, and months, and years of miserable joyous toil to hone his craft. All those books and scrolls, far more than they stood amidst at present. The collected knowledge of Dalmasca and its mages over centuries. All of that knowledge swirled around his head: actionless, and empty.

No wonder he felt hollow.

For the first time in a long time, at least by his own awareness, a gentle smile crossed the mystic’s lips - gentle only at the first, for he could not stop the way it grew to overtake his face. He was thankful for his mustache. “Was I, now?” he answered with a chuckling hum. Dedelai turned his gaze back to the boy, who himself had started smiling shyly in response. “...Very well. You may consider yourself my apprentice, going forward.”

Ifan’s jaw had dropped in shock, and he almost dropped the book as well. “Really ?” he exclaimed, practically quivering with excitement.

“Provided that you agree to cease thieving books.” added Dedelai, gaze flicking down to the tome in his new apprentice’s hands.

Ifan settled down and pouted, looking off towards the side. “Mrm. Okay, I promise.” he promised in a way that sounded very much like not a promise. Then he looked back towards Dedelai beseechingly. “Can we start now, though?” he asked.

“Indeed. Your first lesson concerns getting a good night’s sleep.” Dedelai began, nearly chuckling at the scowl on Ifan’s face. “I will make your excuses to Sister Brazen on the morrow, and then we may begin in earnest.” he added with a nod.

The boy brightened up at that, giving the Lalafell a grin. “Okay! Thanks, sir!” he chirped.

“‘Master’. You are my apprentice now, Ifan.” corrected Dedelai.

“Yes, master!” said Ifan, nodding eagerly.

“Very good. Now off to bed.” said Dedelai.

Ifan waved as he turned and pattered off towards the exit with a spring of excitement in his steps. Dedelai watched the hyur as he left, once more thankful for the mustache that hid the faint smile upon his lips. Then his eyes wandered up above the door to where Thaliak's icon hung. 

He hadn’t noticed what a joyful look the Scholar had upon his face.