#Proactive Alerts

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[sunderwight]

Thinking about SV demon culture as one struggling under the weight of imperialism, a violent ruling class with a might-makes-right mindset, and a lot of warfare.

I really don't like fics that imply that Luo Binghe's conquest of the demon realms just automatically improved living conditions there. I think both versions believed that they could conquer things, establish a new regime, and fix a lot of political issues in the process, I just don't think that would actually be the result of a violent takeover on the part of a cultural outsider with a patchy understanding of the actual multitude of demon cultures involved, whose only asset was an extreme capacity for physical violence and resilience against death.

Like, no wonder Bingge was always putting down uprisings and "rivals" for power -- a lot of his empire was probably actually being run by the demon wives or families of the demon wives he favored most, like Sha Hualing, or by preferred subordinates like Mobei Jun, who very probably pursued their own interests just as doggedly as they had prior to his rule. Only, this time they'd have been doing so with the added leverage of Luo Binghe's violence answering anyone who "rebelled" against "his" authority.

Demons in SV have myriad subtypes and subcultures. It seems really likely that a lot of them have been persecuted by others, that there are demon communities who have been subjugated, muscled out of ancestral homes, enslaved, wiped out, etc. This would probably even explain some "invasions" by demons into the human realm -- I'd imagine numerous cases across history of refugees being taken for (or described as) marauders by cultivation sects, or human communities unprepared or unwilling to deal fairly with visibly inhuman "monsters" and answering their approach with violence, or even displaced demons who did in fact become bandits and such in the fallout of various conflicts causing problems.

But there also would probably have been demons that succeeded in making their way in the human realm, and disguising what they were well enough that the sects never even knew. After all, most of the methods for alerting the sects to the presence of demons involve demons doing something violent (like the Skinner demon) or people seeing demons and going "ahhh!" about it. A demon or a family of demons uninterested in serial killing and only looking to get by and avoid the violence would likely not attract that kind of attention, just so long as they could pass as human too.

I do wonder if the reverse has ever happened as well. Human wars driving humans to seek refuge in the demon realms. It would conversely seem a lot more dangerous (demons are physically tougher than humans, and the demon realms are notoriously harsh), but in some cases it was probably like, well, life is hell already, at least the things trying to kill us in the demon realm are straightforward about it?

There are probably way more half-demons out there than just Luo Binghe, and even more demons with human ancestry or humans with demon ancestry. I wouldn't be surprised if demon ancestry actually played a roll in some humans being cultivation prodigies compared to others -- demons seem to have a natural physical power that most humans don't, and while their cultivation uses different energy, it would make sense of some aspects of things like a physical inclination to store, accrue, or manipulate energy in general could benefit even predominately human descendants of mixed blood.

But anyway, back to politics.

Tianlang Jun didn't seem to be a terribly proactive ruler either. Which on the one hand can be a good thing (he wasn't a tyrant, wasn't interested in waging wars or conquering others, didn't much care to throw his weight around), but someone was actually ruling in his absence. Conflicts were still happening, and being resolved. Tributes or taxes were still being paid to him, for him to live any kind of lavish lifestyle, which means they were being collected, rates were being determined, enforced, etc, which does beg the question of who was doing it. Not Zhuzhi Lang, certainly.

In Bingmei's time, the person actually running things is Shang Qinghua, which means also Mobei Jun is actually running things to some extent too. Shen Qingqiu loves demonic beasts but doesn't seem like he could care less about politics, and Luo Binghe only got this job in the first place because he was trying to impress him, and the post-canon extras would seem to indicate that they check out of the process as often as possible.

Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua's rule probably makes things pretty hard for the southern demons who are traditionally loyal to the Heavenly Demons. I mean, apart from not being able to beat Luo Binghe in a fight, self-serving ambition would definitely be a motive for Mobei Jun to throw his lot in with him as soon as possible, right? "Give" the emperor your palace, your service, your resources, etc, and the emperor basically becomes Mobei's own tool to reinforce his sovereignty. In PIDW he even uses him to do that in a more immediate sense by bringing him to the fight with his uncle. In SV he decides Shang Qinghua is more suitable, which, symbolically, is even true. The cost of wielding Luo Binghe's authority is having to submit to it, but Shang Qinghua has elevated Mobei Jun even without that.

No wonder the southern demons couldn't get on Tianlang Jun's side fast enough when he reappeared. Given both Mobei Jun and Shang Qinghua's bias, the North has probably been running rampant with their own interests while the South gets hamstrung and dealt crumbs by comparison. Sha Hualing's clearly been trying to get on Luo Binghe's good side with minimal success ever since he got out of the Abyss. Unlike in PIDW, where she's a major player, here she's just an underling desperately playing catch-up and accidentally offending him all the time.

I wonder how that's impacting the complex arrangement of political alliances, cultures, and conflicts among the various factions in the demon realm. It'd probably be like if the remote and somewhat isolated North and Winterfell in ASOIAF/Game of Thrones suddenly became the new capital of the empire, and White Harbor became the main trade hub, while all the southern lords struggled to even get a foot in the door with the new king and kept pissing him off all the time. And every time they try to break free or rebel or kill him, it doesn't work and they get personally murdered by him. Meanwhile the northern lords are making off like bandits, with the current Lord Stark gay married to some inhuman warlock who does all his paperwork and somehow knows all your embarrassing secrets.

...That comparison got away from me. But I mean, it's kind of fascinating? A huge mess and likely miserable for a lot of demons, but still. The implications...

[marsprincess889]

VEDIC ASTRO OBSERVATIONS

Part 4

I thought, why not

Editing and finishing this as I have a face mask on

Bharanis are very sensitive, in a very misunderstood way. They're often either dangerously passive and stubborn or fiercely proactive, and this comes from the fact that they can read people well, and are sensitive to the energies around them. They know the importance of sticking to their own convictions/their way. Bharani is the place where you MUST NOT be fooled into submission and gaslighting, no matter who it comes from. It's where all kinds of forces try to enforce influence on you, right when you are so aware of your true calling/desire(s). That's why this nakshatra is so prominent in the charts of great philosophers and thinkers. They are defensive and secretive, but it all comes from the necessity to protect their truth, which is their life, and everything to them. Do not mistake their defensiveness as childish defiance. They know the pain of giving up and the strength it requires to stand up to themselves.

I said this multiple times, and I'm saying at again: ketu is VERY IMPORTANT. look at your ketu nakshatra and just take it in for a sec. Its infulence is on everything. Since you can rarely attribute that infulence on a specific thing in a person, it's often overlooked, but once you start looking at ketu in charts and apply it to the native/their life, you cannot unsee it. Also, when you are being natural, when life feels effortless and when you don't think a lot, oftentimes the appearance of your ketu will come to the surface, i mean, you'll be able to see it physically. Ik I don't look like my ketu nakshatra at first glance but boy do i see it when I look in the mirror, and I like it a lot. Oftentimes, as I've noticed, people love their ketu.

Your true essence, I think, is moon+ketu(very personal and mostly private but extremely important. They color the most of your inner world), then sun+ascendant(your way of dealing with the world, also very important) and atmakaraka+amatyakaraka(your path to yourself). Your chart ruler(ruling planet of your rising sign) is kind of separate but still visible, and it colors the whole chart, but unlike ketu, it's more on the surface and more visible in the native's behavior. I'm not saying you should disregard other placements, but this is how I see them.

Some nakshatras that I think are most prone to agitation/reactiveness(in order of their appearance from Ashwini to Revati, not ranked): Ardra, Ashlesha, Chitra, Vishakha, Purva Ashadha(?), Dhanishta.

In contrast, most stoic and hard to get a reaction out of: Pushya, Magha, Purva Phalguni, Uttara Phalguni, Uttara Ashadha, Shatabhisha, Uttara Bhadrapada.

Ketu in Ashlesha is dangerous like I know it personally(I don't have it tho). Ketu, unless exalted and/or developed by the native(conciously or subconciously) is mostly in a state of ignorance. Ashlesha is, dare I say, the most manipulative placement, but the tragedy is that Ashlesha natives kinda need it, that's what they know. It's the torturous place of attachments and distance and forced attachments and forced distance, of abuse and healing and alertness on a deeply nervous and emotional level. Ketu, the planet of raw, dangerously powerful stored energy and experience in a place like that can be horrible, for both the native and the people around them, especially if the native is unaware of their behavior.

Uttara Phalgunis can be taken for granted by others, especially people they're close to, but those people still refuse to let the U. Phalguni native go. They're so "Sunny" and supportive that some people refuse to take them seriously. The thing with Sun nakshatras though is that they have inner strength and are in no way naive, they just have trust because they trust themselves and know and are proud of their convictions. U. Phalgunis' convictions almost always include support and loyalty to people close to them/dear to their heart, but unfortunately, not everyone can appreciate that for what it is and pass it off as naivety. Mostly it comes from people who value manipulation, which Uttara Phalgunis hate. Uttara Phalguni women/girls especially can be seen as "good girls" at first glance, or as "vanilla", but in reality, it's based on their inner strength and trust in themselves. Ik this sounds biased, that's just because it's personal and I know many examples of it, mine and others. This one's for the "good" ones.

Interesting thing I've noticed: Krittikas, despite being a Sun nakshatra, have a reputation of being "aggressive"? I would not say they're aggressive, but they can be more reactive than other sun nakshatras. Krittika starts in Aries(ram), which is ruled by the active Mars. It's yoni animal is a sheep/goat/ram(sources vary). I mean, its essence is that of fire, and its meaning is "to cut", so, they're kind of aggressive about their individuality/selectivity/. They're aggressively stoic, if that makes sense.

To expand on the point above, a great way to understand nakshatras is to view their ruling planet as what is given/what we have, and the rashi(s) that it's in as what is done with it. So, for example, if Bharani is about protecting/defending(mars/aries) beauty, life and love(Venus), Mrigashira(the Taurus part) is about beautifying/enjoying(passive venus/taurus) pursuit/defiance(Mars). You can see how different those are, especially because a planet ruling a rashi is not the same as a planet ruling a nakshatra, they manifest slightly differently.

Another great way to understand nakshatras is to learn their mythology. I am very well aware that different sources say different things, and ik it's more tiring than rewarding to go from site to site but you can take little details that are consistent and stick to them. For example, Revati's god Pushan is known as the one who guides, who nourishes, but he's the nourishing form of a Sun god. So now you see that Revati is solar in nature, rather than Saturnian(its opposite). It's all about association and how different associations relate to each other. I think this kind of approach is better than relying on other people's opinions and observations.

So, this is all I guess?

Interact pleaseeeeeeeeee 😩💕 esp reblog and comment

[ericshoney]

Study Buddies ~ Peter Parker

Summary: Whilst studying with Peter, you have some spies making sure nothing bad is going on.

Warnings: Chaos

Reader's Age: 15

The hum of the Avengers Tower vibrated gently through the floor as Y/n, perched on the edge of her bed, chewed on the end of her pen. Physics was not her strong suit. Across from her, Peter, masked in concentration, scribbled furiously in his notebook, occasionally muttering equations under his breath.

"Okay, so potential energy… it's like, stored energy, right?" Y/n asked, her brow furrowed.

Peter looked up, his brown eyes crinkling at the corners. "Exactly! Like a stretched rubber band. The further you pull it, the more potential energy it has."

"And kinetic energy is when... it's moving?"

"Bingo! Like when you release that rubber band and it snaps."

Y/n nodded slowly, trying to visualise it. Having Peter, a fellow teen Avenger, as a study buddy was infinitely better than trying to decipher the textbook alone. He had a knack for explaining things in a way that actually made sense.

Unknown to them, just outside Y/n’s reinforced door, a silent comedy of errors was unfolding. The Avengers, in varying degrees of stealth, were attempting to eavesdrop.

Tony Stark, naturally, was in the lead, armed with a ridiculously high-tech listening device that looked suspiciously like a souped-up stethoscope. "Alright, people, quiet! We need to monitor the situation."

"Monitor what situation, exactly, Tony?" Natasha Romanoff drawled, leaning against the wall with her arms crossed. "Two teenagers are studying. I hardly think we need a full-scale surveillance operation."

"Oh, come on, Nat," Clint Barton whispered, peeking through the crack in the doorway. "They're fifteen. Hormones are raging. We have a responsibility to ensure… appropriate behaviour."

Steve Rogers, ever the voice of reason, sighed. "Don't you think this is a bit… invasive?"

"Invasive?" Tony scoffed. "I call it proactive parenting. Besides, Happy's on vacation. Someone has to keep an eye on things." He pressed the listening device against the door, then winced. "Ow! My ears! They're actually studying! And Peter's explaining it. He's a good kid."

Inside the room, Peter was demonstrating the principles of kinetic energy with a crumpled-up piece of paper he'd launched across the room. "See? Potential energy, crumpled paper. Kinetic energy, paper being launched! Simple!"

Y/n giggled, snagging the paper and throwing it back. "Okay, okay, I get it! But what about the gravitational constant? That's where I'm really lost."

Outside, the Avengers exchanged uneasy glances. This was far more innocent than they had anticipated.

"Maybe we should… leave them to it?" Steve suggested, already backing away.

But Tony, ever stubborn, shook his head. "No, no. We're committed now. Besides, I want to see if Peter can handle thermodynamics. That's the real test."

He adjusted his stethoscope, inadvertently knocking against the door.

The door creaked open slightly. Y/n, alerted by the noise, spun around. "Hello?"

Tony ducked behind a potted plant, accidentally upending it and sending soil cascading across the hallway. Clint, caught in the crossfire, yelped as dirt went down his shirt. Natasha, maintaining her composure, simply glared at them both.

"Everything alright, Y/n?" Steve called out, his voice betraying a clear lack of conviction.

Y/n opened the door wider, her eyes narrowing as she took in the scene. Tony, covered in soil, clutched the broken remains of the potted plant; Clint, brushing frantically at his shirt; Natasha, radiating disapproval; and Steve, looking utterly mortified.

"What… what are you guys doing?" she asked, her voice tinged with suspicion.

Peter, emerging from behind her, blinked in surprise. "What's going on?"

The Avengers exchanged panicked glances.

Tony, ever the master of improvisation, cleared his throat. "We were… uh… checking on the… the structural integrity of the doorframe! Yes! We heard a… creaking sound. Safety first, you know."

Y/n raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Right. And the dirt?"

Clint chimed in, "And I was checking the strength of your door lock."

“With dirt?” Y/n said. “You covered yourself with dirt to check the strength of a door lock?”

"Occupational hazard?" Clint offered weakly.

The silence stretched, broken only by the rustling of leaves as the uprooted plant lay on the floor. Then, Y/n couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing.

Peter joined in, quickly understanding the absurdity of the situation.

Even Natasha cracked a small smile.

"Okay, okay," Y/n said, wiping tears from her eyes. "I get it. You guys were spying on us."

Tony, defeated, sighed. "Fine. You caught us. We were just… concerned."

"We trust you both," Steve added quickly. "It was just… well, you know Tony."

Y/n grinned. "Don't worry, I'm not mad. It's actually pretty funny. But next time, maybe just ask if we need anything. We're fine, I promise. Just studying."

"And failing miserably," Peter added with a grin.

"Well, in that case," Tony said, regaining some of his usual swagger, "Maybe I can help. I did invent a few things in my day, you know." He pointed at the scattered dirt. "First, let's get that cleaned up, then maybe a little physics lesson from the man himself."

And so, the Avengers, slightly sheepish but ultimately relieved, trooped into Y/n’s room, leaving their espionage behind. The atmosphere lightened, and for a while, the world's mightiest heroes were just a group of people helping two teenagers navigate the complexities of high school physics. Even if it did involve a lot of dirt.

Tags:

@riowritesitall @mandmilovehim @parkjihoonsnudes @onelesslonelygirlbieber6 @lgbtq-girl

Dividers by: @issysh3ll

[grandlinedreams]

|| notes: soft screaming I accidentally posted this one before it was done. Was going to just make this two parts but hey i like pain and pining. Sequel to this

|| warnings: angst, mention of nightmares, I like putting reader Through It, pining

"You're avoiding me."

Azriel watches the way you still, the tension in your shoulders before you turn towards him. You'd been busy with target practice, the soft rhythmic sink of sharp edged blades into the dummy keeping your mind blissfully blank. Until Azriel had approached.

"I'm not avoiding you," you tell him, plucking a rag from your belt and making to polish the dagger in your hand. "I've been busy."

Azriel's eyes narrow. "Rhysand doesn't send you out as often as you've been gone."

You shrug, wiping at already spotless metal. "I'm proactive," you answer as you move to walk away, halted by the black wrap of shadow around your wrist. "What do you want, Azriel?"

"Talk to me," he presses, and your chest aches at the look on his face, the uncertainty that glimmers in his eyes. "Did I do something?"

It would be easy to end things here and now. To confess how you feel, to rip the bandaid off and allow yourself that rejection. But the idea of losing him entirely hurts more, and you swallow hard.

"No, Az. You didn't do anything."

Azriel stares, expression unreadable. And when you try to tug your wrist free of his shadows, Azriel lets you go.

You don't know why you're here.

That's a lie — you do know, because it's the only reason you would ever be standing in front of Azriel's door at this hour. You shift from one foot to the other, sighing softly before looking up as the door opens.

Having been prepared to knock, it takes you a minute to register that he's in front of you, though you don't know why you're surprised. His shadows must have alerted him that you were out here.

"Nightmare?" His voice is low and far from unkind, hazel eyes probing. When you nod, he steps back.

Though your nightmares are nowhere near as frequent as they'd been when you first came to Velaris, they're still often enough that the two of you have found a routine since the first time they'd sent you scrambling for the shadowsinger's room.

Azriel's bed is far wider than your own to accommodate his wings, extended space of soft sheets and blankets that envelop you in his scent. He smells of pine and something murkier but all together familiar, soothing the frayed edge of your nerves.

He joins you once you've settled, tendrils of incorporeal black slinking over your wrists, your cheeks, your hair. Assessing you silently, then reporting their findings back to Azriel.

You wonder what they tell him. That your nightmare had been about him? About losing him, of having to shift your entire existence to his absence? It feels impossible, as intertwined as your life has become with his.

Fingers skim your skin as Azriel reaches for you, and you let him. You close the gap between you, fling one leg over his, feel his hand settle at the back of your head. It's as if nothing has changed between the two of you. "Want to talk about it?"

You study the barely visible curl of ink against his neck, let your eyes drift up to the curl of black hair that frames his face, then back down to his lips. "Not really."

You don't have to look at him to know he's watching you, can feel the weight of his gaze on your face. Probing, just as his shadows did. You wonder what answers he finds there, if he finds any at all.

"What's going on with you?" He asks instead. As if you're a misbehaving child rather than fae. And you know he means well, Mother above, you know — and it still rubs you the wrong way.

"Why do you insist on being like this?" He'd asked in your bathroom, now two weeks ago. Two weeks of skirting around him, trying to distance yourself from that ache, the words on the tip of your tongue.

"Talk to me," Azriel insists. Fingers, gentle despite their scars, graze your cheek. Your heart (wretched, selfish thing) lurches in your chest, off kilter tempo that you've gotten so used to when Azriel is involved.

This was a mistake. To think you could seek his comfort the way you always have, pretend that you aren't as helplessly in love with him as you are — that you haven't watched him look at everyone but you.

That he'll always look at anyone but you.

"I love you." The words slip clean from your mouth, a soft whisper — the way Azriel stiffens says he still heard you. You keep going, digging invisible claws in the festering wound of your chest, ripping it into something fresh and bleeding. "I've been in love with you for the last two hundred and fifty years, Azriel."

It's cathartic in a way, though it's tempered by the way Azriel is simply staring at you. You pull away from him, sliding off the bed before he speaks. "[Name]—"

"It's okay, Az." He doesn't have to say it, because you already know. You move towards the door, pausing just enough to look at him and offer him a soft smile, at odds with the mangled pulp you've made of your heart. "Good night, Azriel."

[realityjoey]

SEASON 1, EPISODE 5, “THE ROUNDUP.”

The morning buzz of the precinct was sharper than usual — something unspoken rippling through the bullpen like static. Officers were smirking at one another, coffee cups raised in quiet challenge, subtle jabs being traded across desks.

Roll call was minutes away, and the tension was less about briefing updates and more about bragging rights. Because everyone had heard the rumour. Something was going down today. And it had Team Bradford’s fingerprints all over it.

The roll call room filled quickly. Officers took their seats, murmuring, while a few rookies double-checked their notepads and tried to look more alert than exhausted. Angela Lopez and Talia Bishop slipped in side by side, followed by Dylan Jenkins, who carried her usual air of sarcastic calm, coffee in hand. But what made her pause — what made everyone pause — was the sight of Tim Bradford already standing at the front of the room. In Grey’s spot. Arms folded. Expression smug.

“Morning, officers,” he said in a mock-authoritative tone. “Before we get started, I just wanted to say — I’m proud of all of you for showing up today, knowing full well that Team Bradford is going to crush every single one of you.”

Lopez groaned, slumping into her chair. “Oh God, here we go.”

Dylan strolled past, whispering, looking at him, “You’re aware this is delusion, right?”

“Confidence,” Tim corrected, like he was about to announce a world tour. “Team Bradford doesn’t do second place.”

“Team Jenkins doesn’t do participation trophies,” she muttered back.

Before he could respond, the door opened. Sergeant Grey walked in, coffee in hand, stopping mid-step when he saw Tim standing front and center like he owned the place. The room stilled. Grey raised an eyebrow.

Tim gave him a slow, cheeky nod. “Just warming up the crowd.”

Grey stepped forward, deadpan. “Thank you, Officer Bradford, for that deeply unnecessary performance.”

Tim retreated to his usual seat — which happened to be directly next to Dylan, Lopez, and Bishop — still grinning like a schoolboy who just got caught trying to lead assembly.

Grey exhaled and turned to the room. “Alright. Since he’s already spoiled the surprise — yes. We’re doing a challenge today. Friendly competition. T.O and rookie or partner pairings. The team with the most arrests by end of shift wins.” He paused. “Felony arrests are worth seven points. Misdemeanours, three.” The room came alive with quiet excitement. “But let me be clear,” Grey continued, narrowing his gaze. “This is not officially sanctioned. It’s not in any manual. It’s not what policing is about. This is not about padding numbers or racing to throw people in cuffs. This is about proactive, smart, ethical policing.” He looked directly at Tim.

Tim raised both hands in mock innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of anything less.”

Grey wasn’t buying it. “Remember: do the job. Don’t game the system. And don’t make me regret this.” With that, Grey dismissed them, and officers began filtering out to their units.

As Dylan and Tim made their way toward the parking lot, she gave him a sideways glance. “You heard the man. No playing dirty.”

Tim nodded solemnly. “Of course.” Then added, under his breath: “We’re still winning. No matter what.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re competitive,” he shot back. “Don’t pretend you didn’t feel the itch the second Grey said ‘challenge.’”

She didn’t reply right away. Then: “Seven points for a felony, right?”

Tim smirked. “Thought so.”

The morning air was still crisp when they stepped out into the lot, walking toward their cruiser. The buzz of Grey’s challenge still danced between them, unspoken but electric. Tim Bradford had that trademark gleam in his eye — the kind that only came out when he was in full “game mode.”

But just as Dylan reached for the passenger side door, Tim stopped short. “Wait.”

She turned, brows raising. “What?”

Instead of answering, Tim knelt down, unzipped one of the war bags in the trunk, and pulled out something she absolutely did not expect: a small, carefully wrapped present. It even had a neat little red bow on top.

Dylan blinked. “What… the hell is that?”

Tim didn’t answer. He just straightened, adjusted the present in his hands like it was a bomb he was proud of, and started walking with purpose across the lot — straight toward the dispatch centre.

Dylan stood there for a beat, watching him with that deep, British mix of suspicion and dry amusement. “This should be good…” She followed — slowly.

Inside the dispatch centre, the atmosphere was worlds apart from the precinct — dim lighting, hushed voices, glowing screens, and headsets. Operators worked like quiet gods, dispatching chaos across the city with calm, rapid precision. And sitting at the far end, headset off for now, sipping from a baby-pink thermos covered in cartoon fox stickers, was Nell. She was small, red-haired, and clearly not used to Tim Bradford entering her world — because as soon as he stepped in, her eyes went wide and she nearly dropped her cup.

“Nell,” Tim greeted smoothly, the kind of charm in his voice Dylan had never once heard directed at her.

“Officer Bradford—hi! Um, wow, hi.” Nell blushed instantly, nearly knocking over her keyboard. “Uh. What brings you—?”

“You,” Tim said simply, holding out the present. “Saw this in the bookstore yesterday. Thought of you.”

Nell blinked. “Me?”

“Mm-hm,” Tim nodded. “I remembered you said you loved graphic novels, and this one looked like something you’d adore.”

Behind him, Dylan watched like someone watching a live car crash. Equal parts amused, horrified, and deeply fascinated. Who the hell was this version of Tim Bradford?

Nell turned so red, Dylan thought she might combust on the spot. “That’s… really sweet. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” Tim said, smooth as ever. “But I wanted to.”

Nell cradled the gift like it was holy. “Thank you! Really. That’s—wow.”

Tim leaned a little closer, voice dipping into something just slightly lower, just slightly more suggestive. “So, listen… I was wondering if you could do me a tiny little favour.”

Nell tilted her head, nervous. “Um. Sure?”

“You know the T.O challenge today, right?” Tim asked, casual.

“Yeah, I heard,” she nodded, clutching the book like it might fly away.

“Well,” Tim said, flashing his most disarming grin, “it’d really help if you sent me and Jenkins any felony calls you get first. You know. So we can stay on top.”

Nell’s eyes widened. “Oh. Um. I don’t know. That might count as, like… dispatch favouritism.”

Tim smirked. Leaned in a little closer. “But I am your favourite,” he said in that dangerously soft voice. “Right?”

Dylan audibly scoffed behind him.

Nell turned bright red, grinning helplessly. “I—I guess I could forward a few priority calls your way…”

Tim winked. “Knew I could count on you.” As he turned, he gently placed a hand on Nell’s shoulder, then strolled out like he’d just picked up a dry cleaning order. Dylan was still standing there, arms folded, staring at him like he’d just sprouted devil horns.

Outside, she followed him toward their cruiser, shaking her head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Tim tossed the empty war bag into the trunk. “Worked, didn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t ‘do’ charm,” she said. “Now I know it’s a tactical weapon.”

He shrugged. “Only when the mission demands it.”

Dylan scoffed again. “Poor girl looked like she was about to combust. Do you use that voice on everyone who stands in your way?”

He smirked, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Just the redheads.”

Dylan slid in beside him, laughing despite herself. “Remind me never to let you near dispatch unsupervised.”

“Oh, we’re supervised,” Tim said, flicking on the ignition. “By fate. And now, by every felony call in the city.”

Dylan leaned back in her seat, smirking. “Alright, Romeo. Let’s go win this stupid challenge.”

And with a spin of the wheel, the shop rolled out into the streets — the game on, the score zero-zero, but the odds? Firmly stacked in Team Bradford’s favour.

The inside of the shop was warm, quiet, and filled with the rhythmic hum of tires on asphalt as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins cruised through their sector. The morning had been productive — a few low-level stops, some citations, and a clean misdemeanor arrest that got them three points. But it wasn’t enough. Not with the group chat blowing up.

Dylan’s phone buzzed again in her vest pocket. She sighed, pulled it out, and read aloud with a deadpan tone: “‘Team Lopez & Chen — 13 points, thank you very much.’” She scrolled. “Nolan and Yates are on 10. And Jackson? Somehow just hit 17. How the hell did West pull that off?”

Tim scoffed. “Fluke.”

She raised a brow. “Sounds like we’re falling behind, Captain.”

Tim kept his eyes on the road but smirked. “Right. Time to deploy our secret weapon.”

Dylan blinked. “Secret weapon?”

“Call Nell.”

Dylan gave him a look. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely,” Tim replied, already pulling his personal phone from the dash mount and handing it to her. “You’re driving the charm offensive this time.”

“I’d rather stick my hand in traffic,” she muttered, but dialled anyway, pressing the phone to her ear with a grimace. A beat. Then— “Hey, Nell!” Dylan said, all awkward cheer.

Tim leaned closer. “Put it on speaker.”

She did.

Nell’s voice came through, a little flustered. “Oh! Hey. Officer Jenkins, right?”

Tim leaned in again, pitch dropping into that voice — the smooth, teasing one Dylan was rapidly learning to recognise. “Nell,” he drawled. “I’m hurt. Have you… forgotten about me?”

Dylan immediately pinched the bridge of her nose. “Oh God.”

Nell stammered through the line. “No! I mean — of course not! It’s just been quiet over here, I swear.”

“Mm,” Tim said, resting one hand lazily on the wheel, his tone low, velvety. “I was starting to think you were favouring Jackson’s team. And here I thought we had something special.”

Dylan visibly recoiled in her seat. “I’m going to throw myself out of the car.”

But before Nell could reply, her voice changed. Sharper now. “Hold on — call coming through. Possible armed robbery at a liquor store, suspect fleeing on foot. Third and Glendale.”

Tim straightened, tone immediately professional. “We’ll take it. Send us the call.”

“Copy that,” Nell replied, already dispatching the call across the board.

Tim hit the lights. Dylan was already buckling her seatbelt tighter. “That’s seven points if it sticks.”

Tim grinned. “Told you she’d come through.”

As they sped through the streets, weaving between cars with sirens wailing, Dylan stared out the window, jaw tight. She wasn’t sure what was more annoying — the fact that Tim’s stupid flirtation worked… Or the fact that watching him do it stirred something unexpected inside her. That stupid voice. That casual confidence. The way he leaned in, the flash of charm in his eyes — it was practiced, sure. But it wasn’t fake. And she hated that a small, irritating flutter had started somewhere low in her stomach. Butterflies. Nope. Absolutely not. She turned her head away, trying to shake it off. This was just a game. Tim Bradford was an excellent cop, a shameless flirt, and absolutely the wrong person to be getting flustered over. She’d seen men like him before. Except… she hadn’t. Not quite like this.

“Jenkins,” Tim said, glancing at her. “You okay?”

She blinked once. Then replied with a smirk. “Let’s just win this thing so I can go home and wash the sleaze off.”

Tim laughed — a real, deep laugh that curled around her spine in ways it shouldn’t. And as the shop rounded the corner toward the scene, sirens still blaring, Dylan squared her jaw and told herself to get her head in the game. It’s just adrenaline. Just adrenaline. Wasn’t it?

The cruiser carved through late morning traffic, lights flashing, sirens wailing in the distance as they approached the location Nell had given them. Tim Bradford was focused, one hand on the wheel, the other resting lightly near the siren controls. Dylan Jenkins sat in the passenger seat, her eyes scanning every corner they turned, the adrenaline building — but not just from the call. Something else was simmering too.

Dylan tapped her fingers once against her thigh before speaking. “Nell seems nice.”

Tim didn’t take his eyes off the road. “What’s your point?”

Dylan smirked faintly. “You really gonna play that card?”

“I’m driving,” he said flatly. “Not in the mood for riddles.”

“She likes you,” Dylan said simply. “It’s obvious.”

Tim exhaled through his nose. “She’s just doing me a favour.”

Dylan turned toward him slightly, brow arched. “Come on, Bradford. You gave her a present. Complimented her like she was on a runway. Dropped the voice.”

“What voice?” he asked, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

She gave him a look. “That voice. The one that makes people forget their own name,” she said. “You turned the full charm offensive on a dispatch officer to rig a friendly competition. That’s… pretty cold, even for you.”

Tim’s grip on the wheel tightened ever so slightly. “It’s just part of the game, Jenkins. She knows that.”

Dylan shook her head. “No, I don’t think she does. She’s sweet. Shy. She clearly thinks it means something.”

Tim finally glanced at her, annoyed. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to stop using people’s feelings just because you’re good at manipulating them,” she said, sharp but not cruel. “You’re better than that.”

That landed. Tim didn’t respond right away. His jaw was tight now. Eyes flicked back to the road. But before the silence could turn into something heated, Dylan’s gaze snapped forward. “Suspect. Two o’clock.” And just like that, the conversation died. The world narrowed into a singular focus. A man in a black hoodie, jeans, and gloves sprinted across an intersection two blocks ahead, weaving through cars, a crumpled brown duffel bag bouncing at his side.

Tim swerved hard, tires screeching as the cruiser jerked toward the sidewalk. Both officers burst from the vehicle before it had even come to a full stop. “LAPD! Stop!” Tim shouted, hand already on his weapon as he chased after him. Dylan sprinted beside him, boots pounding against pavement. Whatever awkward tension had existed in the car? It was gone now — burned away by the heat of pursuit. But even as they ran, adrenaline pumping and the call consuming their attention… Dylan’s words still echoed in the back of Tim’s mind. “You’re better than that.” And for some reason — that mattered.

The alley reeked of piss, old oil, and the faint sting of copper — the scent of blood from the suspect’s grazed elbow where he’d fallen trying to scale a fence. He hadn’t made it far. Tim Bradford had flanked left through the open loading dock, while Dylan Jenkins took the alley head-on, cutting the man off as he stumbled over discarded crates behind the liquor store he’d tried to rob. By the time he pulled the gun again — clumsy and desperate — Dylan already had hers aimed center-mass, calm and unflinching.

“Drop it. Now.”

He blinked. Sweat dripped from his forehead. Then the pistol slipped from his fingers and clattered to the ground. Dylan moved fast. She kicked the weapon away and shoved him against the brick wall, wrenching his hands behind his back with practiced force. Click. Click. Cuffs on.

Tim jogged up beside her a second later, breathing steady, eyes sharp. “Nice work.”

But Dylan didn’t answer. Because the suspect — mid-thirties, bloated face, eyes bloodshot, reeking of whiskey — had started mumbling to her. “You know what the problem is with the world?” he slurred, lips close to her ear as she kept him pinned. “Everyone thinks love’s supposed to fix you. Nah. Nothing fixes you like a bottle. Nothing. Not even the people who say they love you.” Dylan’s jaw twitched. “I had a wife. She begged me to get clean. Said she’d leave if I didn’t. So I let her.” He chuckled, bitter and warped. “Didn’t even hesitate. Booze stays. Booze don’t ask questions. Booze don’t care who you are.”

Tim saw something change in Dylan’s face. He saw it in the way her eyes hardened. Saw it in the sudden set of her shoulders, the shift in her grip. Like something snapped behind her calm.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was low and cold. “Shut your mouth.”

The man laughed again, still leaning his weight on her like they were sharing a secret. “You get it, don’t you? That’s why you look so damn angry.”

She shoved him forward, not hard enough to hurt — just enough to make him stumble. He didn’t speak again.

Tim stepped closer, subtly placing a hand on her forearm, grounding her. “You okay?”

Dylan nodded once — too fast. “Fine.”

But Tim had seen that expression before. Not on suspects. On her. And though she didn’t say anything more, the look in her eyes said enough: the man’s words hadn’t just touched a nerve — they’d struck something buried deep. Something old. Something rotten. Something that sounded too much like her father. The words echoed in her mind, old and new overlapping like a bruise being pressed again: “It’s not me, Dylan, it’s the drink. The drink’s the only thing that gets me through.” “Don’t act like love’s enough. Love doesn’t pour into a glass, does it?” She looked away sharply.

Tim didn’t push. But his hand remained there, light and steady. “We’ve got him,” he said. Calm. Professional. “Let’s get him processed.”

She nodded again, slower this time. The suspect stumbled toward the cruiser, eyes glazed, still muttering — but Dylan didn’t hear the words anymore. She heard echoes. Heard ghosts. Tim opened the back door of the cruiser, and she helped guide the man inside. He didn’t resist. When the door slammed shut, Dylan stood still for a second longer than necessary, her breath shallow, hands flexing at her sides.

“You sure you’re okay?” Tim asked again, voice quieter now. Not a demand. Just an offer.

Dylan looked at him. Eyes colder than usual. But inside them, something hurt. “Let’s just win this damn challenge,” she muttered.

He didn’t press her again. But as they drove off, Tim kept glancing sideways — not at her hands, or her posture. He watched her eyes. Because something had shifted. And even if she wouldn’t say it… He’d felt it.

The burger van sat parked in its usual spot — the paint peeling from its sides, the smell of sizzling onions and cheap beef floating through the lot like a beacon. Officers gathered around the picnic benches and folding tables, radios clipped to vests and half-buttoned uniforms swaying in the breeze. The mid-shift energy was a blend of exhaustion and friendly competition. Today, it buzzed with more than just rivalry. Because Team Bradford & Jenkins had just pulled up. And something was… off.

Tim parked the cruiser and stepped out, stretching his shoulders. Dylan followed suit, but the moment her boots hit the pavement, she immediately pulled away — not toward him, not toward the usual gathering spot with their fellow training officers, but toward the farther table, where Jackson, Lucy, and Nolan were already mid-lunch, joking over sodas and comparing scores. Her silence spoke volumes. The air between her and Tim crackled — not with their usual playful tension, but something colder. Unresolved. Bitter.

Tim clocked it instantly. So did Angela Lopez, who approached with a drink in each hand and a furrow in her brow. “Hey,” she said, offering one to Dylan. “You okay?”

Dylan didn’t stop walking. “Not thirsty.”

Angela watched her go, concern deepening, before turning to Tim, who was now casually leaning against the side of the van like nothing had happened. Angela raised an eyebrow. “You two fight?”

“No,” Tim said coolly. “She just has a headache.”

Talia Bishop joined them, unimpressed. “She seemed fine at the last call.”

Tim shrugged, keeping his face unreadable. “Sun’s brutal today. Doesn’t take much.”

Angela narrowed her eyes, clearly not buying it, but decided not to press. Instead, she flopped down on the nearest bench with a dramatic sigh and held her hands out like she was accepting an award. “Well,” she declared, “Team Lopez & Chen have officially hit twenty-eight points.”

Tim raised an eyebrow, sitting beside her. “That so?”

“Twelve felony points. Two misdemeanors. And a guy who tried to run from us with a boot full of meth. Which I personally chased down, thank you very much.”

Talia groaned. “I told you, I’m not playing.”

Angela grinned. “And yet you’re still losing. That’s tough.”

Tim took a sip of his drink, watching Dylan from across the lot as she leaned into conversation with the rookies, head low, voice too quiet.

“Long shift left,” he muttered. “Plenty of time to turn it around.”

Angela smirked. “You sitting at seven, aren’t you?”

“Seven with a bullet,” he shot back. “And I’ve got Jenkins.”

Talia glanced sideways. “Who currently won’t look at you.”

“She’s just pacing herself,” Tim said flatly. “Like any good competitor.”

Lopez raised an eyebrow. “She’s pissed about something. And if it’s about the challenge, you better hope it doesn’t affect your chances, Romeo.”

Tim didn’t respond — not directly. But his jaw tightened, and his gaze flicked toward Dylan again. She was laughing now — or pretending to — at something Jackson said. But her fingers were tapping restlessly on the table. Her eyes never quite matched her smile. Tim knew that look. He’d seen it when suspects pressed buttons they didn’t understand. He’d seen it when her past bled through the cracks. And now? Now it was directed at him.

Angela leaned back, arms stretched across the back of the bench. “Face it, Bradford. You might have the best partner. But if she’s not talking to you?” She smirked. “You’re not winning anything today.”

The buzz of lunch at the burger van carried on like any other day — laughter, teasing, bites of greasy burgers between radio calls and scoreboard updates. But Lucy Chen sat quietly, barely touching her food, her dark eyes flicking across the table every so often to where Dylan Jenkins sat stiffly, surrounded by conversation but not in it. Dylan’s usual sharp wit had dulled to half-hearted sarcasm. Her posture was defensive — arms crossed, shoulders tight. Her foot tapped against the gravel, a subtle rhythm that belied the chaos under the surface. Lucy noticed everything. Always had. It was a curse and a gift of being raised by two psychologists. You learned to read tone, timing, body language — and Dylan was screaming without saying a word.

So, Lucy reached casually for her drink, bumped Dylan’s arm gently, and said, “Hey, want to walk with me to the van? I need more napkins.”

Dylan blinked, caught off guard. “You’ve got five right in front of you.”

“Yeah, well…” Lucy gave a weak smile. “They’re emotionally contaminated.”

Dylan gave a half-laugh — but she followed her anyway. They walked a short distance toward the van, then veered off to the far side, where the shade was deeper and the voices faded behind them. Lucy leaned against the brick wall of the adjacent building, napkins forgotten, and turned to face her. Dylan didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Lucy tilted her head, voice soft. “You’re spiraling.”

Dylan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You’re doing that thing. Tapping your foot, checking your phone like it’s going to rescue you, clenching your jaw like you’re fighting with a ghost. Something’s off.”

Dylan looked away. “I’m fine.”

“My mum says when people say ‘I’m fine’ but their body’s tense, it usually means they’re in emotional quicksand.”

Dylan smirked faintly. “Your mum’s very insightful.”

“My dad says it too.”

Dylan sighed, scrubbing a hand down her face. “You corner all your colleagues like this, or am I just lucky?”

“Only the ones pretending they’re fine when they’re not.” Lucy’s voice didn’t waver. “You don’t have to tell me. But I’m here if you want to.”

Dylan looked at her for a long moment. And something shifted — her posture softened, the deflective energy beginning to crack. And then, almost reluctantly: “We had a call this morning. Armed robbery. Guy was drunk, rambling. We cuffed him pretty quickly, but he just kept talking. Slurring stuff in my ear.” Lucy waited. “He kept going on about how alcohol’s better than love. That it doesn’t leave you. Doesn’t ask anything of you. That he let his wife walk out because she expected him to quit drinking, and he didn’t even care.” Her voice was low now. Brittle.

Lucy’s chest tightened. “That hit a nerve.”

Dylan gave a tight, humourless smile. “My dad was a drunk. Still is, I think. We don’t talk. Not since I left. He used to say stuff like that all the time — that we were the problem, not the bottle. That alcohol never disappointed him.” Lucy didn’t interrupt. She just let her speak. “And hearing it come out of that guy’s mouth today? It just… I don’t know. Punched a hole through me. Like time rewound.” Dylan shifted her weight, glancing away. “And then I got sharp with Bradford. Cold. Because I didn’t want to explain it, and he just kept being—him. All stoic and unreadable and stubborn.”

Silence stretched between them. Then Lucy said gently, “It doesn’t make you weak to want someone to see you.” Dylan blinked at her, thrown by the softness. “You’re human,” Lucy added. “And Tim? He may not always know what to say. But he pays attention. I’ve seen it. He’s probably still trying to figure out what the hell he did wrong.”

Dylan ran a hand through her hair, exhaling. “He didn’t do anything wrong. I just… projected. And now I’m acting like a brat because I don’t know how to be mad at a ghost, so I’m mad at the closest person instead.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “My mum says that too.”

Dylan huffed. “Your mum’s got all the answers.”

“She thinks she does. But I think you’ve got more than you realise.”

Dylan looked at her — really looked — and something softened. “Thanks, Chen.”

“Anytime.”

They stood in silence a moment longer, side by side in the shade.

Then Dylan said, dryly, “Alright. Let’s go pretend these napkins were an emergency.”

Lucy laughed, bumping her shoulder. “If anyone asks, I emotionally contaminated at least three.”

They walked back together, a little lighter, a little steadier. And for the first time that day, Dylan didn’t feel quite so alone.

The air inside the shop was cooler now, the A/C humming softly as the cruiser rolled back onto the main road. Post-lunch lull had settled over the city, the sun sitting heavy above the skyline, and for once — for the first time all day — Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins were silent. Not their usual silence. This one was loaded. Tim tapped the wheel lightly with his thumb, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. She wasn’t scrolling her phone. Wasn’t giving one of her dry one-liners. She just sat there, arms folded loosely, eyes on the window, but not seeing it. And for Tim, that was more disconcerting than any raised voice or sarcastic jab.

He cleared his throat. “So…” She didn’t look over. “I need to know if I should be worried.”

That got her attention. Her brow furrowed. “Worried?”

“About your mood,” Tim said, not unkindly. “Because if we’re going to win this competition — and, you know, continue functioning as partners — I need to know if the storm cloud over your head is going to keep raining.”

Dylan blinked. “Seriously?”

Tim shrugged. “I’m not asking for a full therapy session. Just a weather forecast.”

Dylan gave a soft exhale, somewhere between amusement and surrender. “I’m fine.”

Tim let that sit for a beat. He stared ahead, then slowly pulled them into a quieter street, easing off the gas. Then, he said, “I don’t know what your past looks like. And I’m not asking. But what that guy said? All that crap about alcohol being more reliable than people?” He paused, jaw tight. “That’s not true. You need to know that.” She stared at him. No sarcasm. No retort. Just… quiet. The kind of quiet Tim had never seen on her. And maybe it was because she’d already broken earlier with Lucy, or maybe it was the way Tim said it — like it wasn’t a performance, like he wasn’t trying to fix her, just reach her — but Dylan nodded. Once. It was small. But it meant everything.

Tim didn’t push further. Didn’t need to. The moment hung there, delicate, as the cruiser slowly rolled past a row of faded storefronts. Then Dylan’s phone buzzed on the dash. She grabbed it, blinking out of whatever haze had held her.

“Yeah?”

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. Nell. “Jenkins? Got something for you and Officer Bradford — possible B&E in progress, residential property near Atwater. Neighbour says they saw two men breaking through the back window.”

Dylan glanced over at Tim, who was already flipping on the lights. She smirked faintly. “Copy that, Nell. We’re en route.”

The sirens kicked up again, the hum of the engine rising with purpose. And just like that — they were back in motion. But this time, there was something different in the air between them. Not gone. Not fixed. But lighter. Understood. Stronger.

The street in Atwater Village was eerily still. A quiet block of suburban homes with neatly trimmed hedges and silent driveways. The sun cast long shadows across the pavement as Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins rolled up slowly, eyes scanning every corner. But the moment they turned into the cul-de-sac— Gunfire erupted. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

“Gun! Gun! Gun!” Dylan shouted, just as the windshield exploded into a spiderweb of shattered glass, bullets tearing through it in violent succession.

Tim didn’t hesitate — he reached across the centre console and shoved Dylan down, shielding her with his body as they ducked behind the dash. The whine of ricocheting rounds and screaming tires filled the air, hot brass clinking against the pavement. More bullets. More chaos.

“Stay down,” Tim growled, voice low and protective, even as his eyes never stopped tracking movement through the fractured glass.

Dylan, heart pounding against her ribcage, felt the weight of Tim over her — his arms braced to keep her protected, his breath steady, calculated, like this was just another day. “Windshield’s done,” she muttered, voice tight.

“Then we move.” As the gunfire slowed — a break, a reload, a hesitation — Tim reached for the door. “Go!”

Both officers threw open their doors at the same time, ducking low and using the ballistic panels as cover. Their weapons came up like clockwork. Two shooters were standing beside a black getaway van parked across the street — both armed, both firing recklessly. But after a few exchanged rounds from Tim and Dylan, the suspects turned and bolted behind the van.

“They’re falling back,” Dylan said, eyes narrowing. And then they disappeared — slamming into the back of the van and locking themselves inside.

“Bulletproof box,” Tim muttered, watching the glint of reinforced metal around the van’s rear.

Dylan swore. “We’re gonna have to wait for SWAT.”

Tim was already shaking his head. “No. No, this is our window.”

She glanced at him. “Bradford—”

“They think they’re safe,” he said, grabbing something from the tactical kit in the back of the shop. “Which means their guard is down.”

She followed his eyes as he pulled out a small canister of pepper spray — industrial grade. Dylan blinked. “You’re gonna gas them?”

Tim’s mouth curved into a grin. “I’m gonna smoke ‘em out.”

Moments later, the two were crouched low on either side of the van, quiet and invisible behind parked cars. Tim pointed to a small airflow slit just above the wheel well — likely overlooked during the van’s reinforcement.

Dylan nodded. “Let’s make it fast.”

Tim slithered forward, keeping his body low, and without a sound, he aimed the canister into the vent and sprayed — a long, powerful stream that hissed like a serpent. Nothing happened at first. Then— coughing. Loud, guttural. Panicked. Inside the van, chaos erupted — choking, gagging, one suspect yelling about not being able to see. Tim bolted back into position, gun raised, eyes sharp. Then— bam! The rear doors flew open, and both suspects stumbled out, blinded and coughing violently.

They didn’t make it two steps. Dylan was waiting. “LAPD! Hands where I can see ‘em! Down on the ground!” One dropped immediately, hacking and swiping at his eyes. The other hesitated—then tried to run. Too late. Dylan stepped forward and slammed him against the van, weapon still raised. “Try me.” He dropped.

Tim swept in beside her, cuffing both as backup arrived, lights flashing around them. Seventeen points. Felony arrests. Weapons recovered. Suspects in custody. Team Bradford was back in the lead.

Back inside the cruiser, adrenaline still coursing, Dylan slid into the passenger seat, catching her breath. Her face was flushed, eyes wide — and though she didn’t say it, she was impressed.

She turned to Tim. “That was reckless. Borderline illegal.”

Tim shrugged, smug as ever. “Creative problem-solving.”

She stared at him for a beat longer. Then, finally, she cracked a grin. “You’re such a menace.”

He smirked. “Seventeen points worth of menace.”

And as they pulled away from the scene, lights fading in their rearview mirror, Dylan leaned her head back and let out a long breath. The day wasn’t over. But something told her Team Bradford & Jenkins wasn’t done surprising people yet. Especially each other.

The street was dark, quiet — just past 10 p.m. The warm glow of porch lights cast shadows across the trimmed lawns of the upscale neighbourhood, and if not for the radio chatter still echoing in their ears, it could have passed for any peaceful night in the suburbs. Two cruisers pulled up in tandem, headlights dimmed, emergency lights off to avoid alerting the suspects. John Nolan and Talia Bishop stepped out of their unit first, already on high alert. Moments later, Tim Bradford and Dylan Jenkins exited theirs, expressions sharp, steps silent as they approached the house. They didn’t need words. One look at the front window told them everything. Blood. A long smear of it painted the inside of the glass like a warning. And just beyond it — through sheer curtains and fractured blinds — was hell.

A woman was tied to a chair in the living room, blood dripping from her mouth, her eyes swollen and wild with terror. A man beside her was already slumped sideways, bruises blooming across his face. And three masked intruders moved around them — one pacing, one yelling, and another punching the male victim again, vicious and unrelenting. And on the front step? The cleaner — face-down in a pool of blood. Throat slit. A mop bucket tipped over beside her, pink-stained water leaking down the brick.

Dylan crouched low, scanning every angle. “We’ve got hostages.”

Tim gave a short nod. “We interfere now, or these people don’t make it.”

Bishop stepped forward, voice quiet but clear. “We’ll breach the front and go low. You two get upstairs, clear top-down.”

Nolan, already gripping his weapon tighter than usual, gave a shaky nod. “Let’s do it.”

Tim and Dylan peeled off toward the side gate, moving quickly and silently. The wooden fence was tall, almost eight feet — enough to make it tricky. Tim knelt, cupping his hands.

“Up,” he whispered.

Dylan hesitated — only for a second — but he noticed. Still, she stepped in, bracing one hand on his shoulder. As he lifted, his hands naturally moved to her hips, guiding her up with practiced precision. What he didn’t see — couldn’t see in the dark — was how tense she went. Her jaw locked. Her breath hitched. She made it over and dropped lightly on the other side. Tim followed seconds later, landing beside her. She didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

“Alright?” he murmured.

“Fine,” she said tightly. Then softer, “Let’s move.”

They entered through a second-floor balcony — unlocked. Sloppy. The invaders weren’t pros, just desperate and violent. Inside, the hallway was dimly lit by a hallway nightlight. Every sound was magnified — the floorboards creaking beneath their steps, the muffled screams from downstairs, the static tension pressing in on them like a vice. Tim took point, gun raised, sweeping each room with military precision. Dylan followed close behind, eyes sharp, breath controlled. Then — movement. One of the suspects, young, lanky, armed with a kitchen knife, stepped out of a bedroom just ahead. He didn’t even see them. CRACK! Dylan struck fast, elbow to the back of his head before he could scream, taking him down with surgical precision. She cuffed him silently.

They moved forward — another room, another threat. A second man, clearly the leader, was on the phone, pacing the upstairs hallway. Tim lunged first, tackling him from behind. The suspect slammed against the wall with a grunt, the phone clattering to the ground. Before he could reach for the pistol tucked into his belt, Dylan kicked it away and shoved him into the wall, cuffing him with one hand. They met eyes for a split second. No words — just breath, movement, adrenaline.

Downstairs, a loud crash echoed.

Then: “Clear!” Bishop’s voice rang out.

Dylan exhaled.

Tim touched his radio. “Upstairs secure. Two in custody.”

Moments later, officers began flooding in through the front — lights sweeping the house, backup arriving in waves. Dylan leaned against the hallway wall, rolling her shoulder out. Her heart still thundered in her chest, but her hands? Steady. Her aim? Unshaken. Tim stood across from her, face lit by the strobing lights outside, breathing hard. They looked at each other for a beat longer than necessary.

Then he gave a nod — quiet, acknowledging, respectful. And for the first time since lunch, she nodded back.

The sun had dipped below the skyline, casting a golden-pink haze across the precinct lot. The heat of the day was finally easing, replaced by a cooler breeze that ruffled the edges of uniforms now replaced by jeans, hoodies, and well-worn t-shirts. The burger van glowed under its string of fairy lights, a gathering place that had become unofficial tradition. The scent of grilled onions and ketchup wafted lazily through the air, mingling with the low hum of laughter and banter as officers leaned against cruisers, picnic tables, and one another.

It had been a long day. A brutal one. But there was still one last order of business.

Angela Lopez, dressed in joggers and a denim jacket, climbed on top of one of the folding benches like a queen taking her throne. A half-eaten burger in one hand, her phone in the other, she cleared her throat dramatically.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and competitive maniacs,” she called out, “it is time.” The chatter hushed, heads turning. “I am here,” she continued, “to announce the results of today’s most ridiculous, questionably ethical, and completely unsanctioned competition.” Cheers and mock groans rippled through the group. Angela smirked, scrolling through her notes. “In last place — with a grand total of zero points, due to total lack of participation — Team Bishop.”

Talia raised her drink. “Proudly uninterested.”

“In third place,” Angela went on, “Team Nolan and Yates — with 22 points and at least one slightly illegal donut bribe.”

“Hey!” Nolan called. “That was strategy.”

Angela ignored him. “In second, Team Lopez and Chen — 28 points, three foot chases, one badly parked patrol car—”

Lucy raised her hand. “Not me.”

“Which means,” Angela announced, voice rising, “the winners, with a whopping 31 points, two felony busts, one hostage rescue, and some highly questionable flirtation with dispatch…” She grinned. “Team Bradford and Jenkins.”

A mix of applause, whistles, and good-natured groans filled the air. Jackson fake-bowed in their direction. Nolan started slow-clapping sarcastically. But Dylan barely heard it. Because beside her, Tim Bradford smiled. Not the usual smirk. Not the cocky, I-told-you-so grin. A real smile. Unfiltered. Honest. Just for a second. And it caught her completely off guard.

“Nice work, Jenkins,” he said, holding his hand up.

Dylan blinked, then returned the high five — sharp and solid. But as their hands dropped, his arm stayed up, and for just a brief moment, he slung it around her shoulders in a loose, casual way. Friendly. Harmless. Except it wasn’t. Because something fluttered in her stomach. Subtle — barely there. But real. And she hated it. Because this was Tim Bradford, for god’s sake. The moody, grumpy, bossy cop who yelled too much during foot chases, pushed too hard in training scenarios, and somehow pissed her off at least once every single day. And yet… Here he was. Arm around her shoulder, laughter in his chest, warmth radiating off him like it had any right to touch her so easily. And there she was. Standing still. Feeling it.

She forced a smirk. “You’re going to be unbearable about this tomorrow.”

Tim’s arm dropped, but his eyes didn’t lose their brightness. “You say that like I wasn’t already.”

She rolled her eyes and turned toward the van. “I need a drink. A cold one.” As she walked off, she didn’t look back. Didn’t have to. Because she could still feel the ghost of his arm over her shoulder. And those butterflies? Still fluttering. Still refusing to be ignored.

The chatter around the burger van slowly dwindled as the night deepened. Most of the squad had started peeling off — heading home, grabbing takeout, or lingering just long enough to brag one last time before calling it a day.

Dylan stood off to the side now, a soda in hand, the condensation dripping lazily down the side of the cup. Her hoodie sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, and she was staring out across the dimly lit parking lot like it was saying something only she could hear. She wasn’t even sure why she was still here. But she hadn’t left. And neither had Tim.

He appeared beside her like he always did — quiet, present, infuriatingly observant. One hand in his jacket pocket, the other holding a burger he hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there. With her.

Dylan finally glanced sideways. “You waiting to say ‘I told you so’ again?”

Tim shrugged. “Thought you were going to beat me to it.”

She smirked faintly, but didn’t hold it. “You’re lucky I like winning more than I like proving you wrong.”

“I’m not lucky,” he said. “I’m strategic.”

She let out a short laugh and shook her head. Silence settled between them again — but it wasn’t awkward. It was just… quieter. After the rush. After the shouting. After the guns and cuffs and the adrenaline. Now there was only this. Stillness. And maybe… something else.

“You did good today,” Tim said eventually, voice low.

“So did you.”

“I mean it,” he added, eyes on her now. “That call earlier? The hostage situation? You were locked in. You didn’t flinch. I trust you out there.”

Dylan’s chest tightened in a way she didn’t expect. She looked down at her soda.

“That means more than you think,” she said quietly.

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

Another beat of quiet. She could feel him looking at her. She didn’t know what she expected to see — maybe smugness, maybe that usual Bradford ego — but when she looked up, his expression had shifted. He looked… almost soft. Unarmoured. Like maybe she wasn’t the only one feeling something strange in the pit of her stomach.

“About earlier,” she said suddenly, breaking eye contact. “When I was cold with you. That was me. Not you.”

Tim frowned slightly. “You don’t owe me an apology.”

“I know.” She met his eyes again. “But I’m giving you one anyway.”

He gave a slight nod — accepting, not dismissive. “Thanks.”

She nodded too, then looked away again, taking a slow sip from her drink.

A moment passed.

Then Tim leaned in just a fraction closer, his voice quieter now. “You sure you’re good?”

Dylan hesitated.

Then: “Yeah. Just… still figuring a few things out.”

“Anything I can do?”

She looked at him then — really looked — and for just a moment, the tension cracked.

“You already are,” she said.

And suddenly, the air between them changed.

Tim looked at her a moment longer. Then — gently, quietly — he nudged her shoulder with his.

“Let’s get out of here,” he said.

“Yeah,” she breathed. “Let’s.”

They walked back to their cars in silence. But something followed them. Something new. Something real. And neither of them dared say it yet. But both of them felt it. Louder than any siren.

DYLAN JENKINS X TIM BRADFORD SERIES

next episode

[autumnmobile12]

The League of Morons vs A Summer Camp

All right, so I love the hell out of this nonsense and I want to talk about the Vanguard's plan and how ridiculous it was.

First, most of the crew showed up a night early and…well, then what?  That first night, Dabi says they’re still waiting on a few more people to arrive.  Okay, so what are you all doing here already?

Did Kurogiri warp them back to the bar after they’d gotten a look at the place?  Scouted the area a bit?  You needed seven people for that? Were they that bored waiting for Twice, Compress, and the Nomu to show up?  What were they doing in the 24 hours between this part and the actual attack?  Standing on that cliff and muttering,  “Heroes…”?

Was Toga all, "Guys, I'm tired. Can we go back to the bar already?"

Spinner: "No, as villain protocol dictates, we must stand here menacingly for a minimum of twelve hours."

Dabi: Fuck you, I'm going to bed.

Except for being a scare tactic, having Dabi start a fire was mostly unnecessary. Their goal was to further weaken society's faith in heroes by targeting UA students, so you'd think he'd be a little more proactive in...well, actually harming someone. As it happened, the fire really only to served to announce there was an attack happening.

But I’ll throw the Vanguard a bone here and say this was Spinner’s doing.  Like their original plan was to start a massive fire that would consume both classes and all the heroes in a singular tragedy, but then Spinner said,  “Hey, pump the breaks, people.  We’re here to uphold Stain’s ideals about toppling the corrupt Hero culture.  Do we really want mass child murder as part of our brand?” Sure, he wanted to go after Iida, but he was a specific target since he was on Stain's hit list.

The two copies Twice made of Dabi were virtually useless in a fight since Vlad and Aizawa both took him out so quickly it was embarrassing.  And yet he’s apparently a big enough threat that No. 1 and No 2. can’t handle him.  Go fig.

Endeavor/Hawks:  Oh, no, he’s too strong…

Aizawa/Vlad:  Listen here, you little shit!

...

Muscular goes and reveals their plan even though he didn’t have to.  They all saw the Sports Festival, they knew what Bakugo looked like, and yet here he is asking Deku where he he can find Bakugo as if he was going to answer him.  Yes, he didn’t think there was any harm in telling him since his plan was to kill Deku anyway, but alerting UA to the fact they were looking to kidnap someone is still just hubris.

Going after Bakugo in the first place was a dumb idea.  We can probably credit that one to Shigaraki because only he would look at the violently temperamental teenager raging on national television and think,  “Yes, he seems like a reasonable person to negotiate with.”

...

Gonna drop in some actual light criticism here: Given the inequality issues that arise in the series later, targeting the heteromorph students for recruitment purposes would have been a smarter move for the LoV.  They’re all part of a demographic that has a justified reason for being dissatisfied with society, so there would have been a believable chance of the LoV thinking they could sway some people to their side.

But hey, the League of Villains was on a learning curve. Give 'em a break.

He totally saw Aoyama here.  Or at least he heard him because he clocked that there was something weird about that bush and he was going to go check it out…and then Twice distracted him and Dabi has an total ADHD moment and forgets what he was doing.

And it's not because Aoyama was the spy. Nobody in the Vanguard knew.

1.) Shigaraki says he tried and couldn't figure out where the camp was, but AFO figured it out relatively quickly. So if even his successor doesn't know who the spy was or called on that resource, then why would AFO tell anyone else in the group?

2.) Moonfish, Muscular, and Mustard were all apprehended, but none of them ratted out Aoyama, as someone with nothing left to lose would. Neither did Kurogiri when he was later apprehended, but that one may have been a loyalty matter. So I think this was a case of AFO saying, "I have a source of info and you don't need to know who it is." Because at the end of the day, AFO is an arrogant narcissist who's definitely not placing all his eggs in one basket. Aoyama wouldn't be an easy spy to replace, so of course AFO would want to limit any chances of him being exposed.

So this was Dabi's screw up.

Speaking of forgetting things, Dabi also straight up forgot they had a Nomu because he thanked Twice for reminding him they had a Nomu.

Sir....how the hell do you forget you have a Nomu?

Toga was supposed to get blood from at least three people.  She failed.

Twice had a simple job. Create clones. He succeeded, but the only two he made were Dabi and I refer you to the previous point on how useless they were.

Spinner and Magne’s roles were a diversion. Distract the Wild, Wild Pussycats and give everyone else the opening to find and kidnap Bakugo.

They did pretty well. Up until the point they were almost caught and Kurogiri had to bail them out. Also Spinner lugged the giant, over-the-top blade contraption all the way there only for Deku to destroy it.

However, they do deserve some credit for making probably the best strategic decision of the group that night, and that was taking out Pixie Bob. We saw on the first day of the camp that she was able to hold back a class of twenty students with an army of earth creatures she was simultaneously controlling. That would have been a huge problem, so for the purposes of their team, good on them for removing that obstacle.

Underrated squad members right here.

Mustard was a legitimate threat for same reasons Dabi and his fire was a threat, plus he brought a firearm into the fight. (I want to know what the other villains thought when they saw that.)

But instead of putting him in the center of the fight where he could do some significant harm, they placed him on the outliers and all he did was knock some students unconscious and everybody made a full physical recovery, showcasing the gas he emitted wasn’t all that lethal and didn't cause any long-term complications. (Again, maybe this was Spinner's idea of Stain's ideology on not indiscriminately massacring children. "Guys, I'm telling you! That's fucked up!")

The Nomu (effectively brain dead without orders) did more damage than any of them, which makes the previous point that Dabi forgot they had it even funnier.

And finally, Mr. Compress was missing for half the night and then almost came in clutch by fulfilling their main objective plus extra credit, only to nearly blow it with his showboating. Seriously, they could have gotten away with both Bakugo and Tokoyami had they just booked it while the going was good.

But no, Compress had to make a dramatic production of it. When he first snatched the kids, he could have just left and Deku and company would have had no idea what happened. Had he just kept his mouth shut and left, they wouldn't have known he even existed. Then as the Vanguard members were leaving through the warp gates, he goes and does it again, giving Aoyama enough time to fire at them with his navel laser, something that also could have bee avoided had Dabi just checked the fucking bush!

The Vanguard Action Squad won by sheer dumb luck and their collective incompetence actually succeeding is the most hilarious thing about this arc. In the end, three members of their crew were arrested.  (Although I think everyone was secretly relieved they lost Moonfish.  Even if he was on my side, I’d be actively worried that guy would kill and eat me in my sleep.)

Yet this self-important twerp is smiling like they actually did something to be proud of here.  All Dabi really accomplished personally was grab a marble (coincidentally the correct marble) before Shouto could, which is borderline more standard older sibling behavior than actual villainy. He literally lost two separate fights in one night and called it a win.

This arc was a five episode Scooby-Doo trap going wrong and succeeding.

Seriously, I hope that after the warp gates closed, they all just looked at each other and immediately started calling each other out on everything. Like Dabi slapped Compress upside the head and asked him what he'd been thinking having 'one last bow' before they got away. Spinner yelling at Dabi about how the clones did nothing. And there's Bakugo all, "I can't believe I've been kidnapped by a gaggle of morons."

Fake it till you make it at its finest.

[dekariosclan]

I’m curious how you think Gale would handle his beloved Tav who has epilepsy? It’s something I’ve struggled with for about 8 years now, and it’s a disability now often recognized.

Do you think he’d make some sort of potion to stop the seizures? Or maybe he’d enchanted a piece of jewelry to stop them? Idk, whatever you think!

For me my seizures typically happen within an hour of waking up, and are trigger by flashing lights and sleep deprivation. My seizures are always grand Mal seizures, which basically means I violently convulse and lose consciousness for a short period of time. If you have any questions or anything, feel free to DM me! I’m happy to help! And thank you for taking time k read and possible write this, I know it’s not easy. :) 💜

@nerbyrobotics, I’m so sorry that you have to deal with such a severe condition, but I’m happy to answer your question because I can’t think of a better or more loving partner for someone struggling with epilepsy than Gale.

You know, one of the reasons I think Gale would be absolutely amazing at caring for a partner with health issues isn’t just because of his loving heart and kind nature—both of which are still very important qualities!—but because he knows what it is like to have a debilitating condition. One where he was wholly dependent on others helping him and offering him assistance during his flare-ups. After experiencing such a condition and the stress and anxiety that goes along with it, Gale would be completely empathetic to his beloved’s struggle and would go out of his way to do whatever he could to ease their burden.

Of course, I think if there were any possibility of Gale curing Tav completely, he would go for it—even if doing so had a fair chance of danger (to him, not Tav). If a cure wasn’t possible, then the next option he would try would be exactly what you said: potions or enchanted jewelry to prevent the seizures entirely—and you’d best believe he’d stay on top of keeping those potions filled and that jewel enchanted at all times.

If prevention was not possible, then Gale would set up some sort of means of proactive protection—for example, enchanted jewelry for both Tav and Gale that would give an alert that a seizure was imminent so they could prepare for it. There would be pillows enchanted to always protect Tav’s head during an episode, and Gale’s mirror image on standby to assist Tav if needed, whether ‘real’ Gale was present at the time or not.

In short, Tav would never be left with the anxiety of being alone, or unprepared, or feeling like a burden in dealing with their health—because Gale would know how awful that feels, and would do everything in his power to give his beloved the security and confidence to live their life to the fullest, while still being fully prepared to help them overcome any obstacles arising from their epilepsy.

Op, I sincerely hope you have someone like Gale in your life to offer you loving support through your health journey, and I wish you nothing but the best in your future. 💜

[scavengerssuccotash]

"Clint did what?!"

Phil sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “He punched the Russian ambassador.”

Fury twists to look at Natasha who sits primly in Phil’s office chair. She doesn’t look up from where she shapes her nails with a black nail file.

“Don’t look at me, I didn’t ask him too.” Natasha says, innocently.

Fury places his hands on his hips and glares. “Dare I ask what he did to deserve that? I sent you two to warm relations, not set them back fifty years!”

Natasha merely raises an eyebrow before fanning out her fingers, inspecting the almond shape of her nails. Frustrated Fury turns his one eyed glare back onto Phil.

“Well?”

Phil rubs a hand over his mouth, a strange expression crossing over his features. “It seems the Russian Ambassador called Agent Romanoff a…”

“A prostitute.” Natasha cuts in dryly, still filling away at her nails. “To which I reminded him, quite nicely I might add that, that compensation for my services might be looked at favorably should my dear motherland feel so inclined to remedy the past. Mr. Volkov agreed.”

Fury shakes his head. “Agent Romanoff, while it’s an unfortunate turn of phrase you can’t—“

Finally she rises from her chair and crosses her arms. “I don’t have a problem with sex work, Director Fury.”

“Then why—“

Natasha rolls her shoulders, nonchalantly. “Clint thought the suggested sum was low.”

“How much was it?” Fury asks.

Natasha gives him a feral grin. “1.2.”

Fury stares up at the ceiling, wondering not for the first time how the hell he had found himself with Strike Team Delta as Shields golden goose when they act like this. “I’ll go report to the council—“

“Oh, I wouldn’t do that just yet, Director.”

Natasha pats him on the shoulder before handing off her phone. There on the screen is a bank account with 2.5 million. Fury’s mouth drops open in surprise but before he can say anything a rapid succession of honks alert them. Fury and Phil both race to the window and peer out. There in SHIELD’s parking lot, haphazardly parked, was a purple and black 2014 Bugatti.

“Mr. Volkov also offered his car to compensate for the bruised state of Agent Barton’s left hand. In return he hopes for a lighter tariffs and lifted sanctions. I told him we would discuss.” Natasha explains behind them, a touch of pride in her raspy voice. Then she claps her hands together, bringing both of their attention back to her. "Now, if that is all gentlemen I have plans for the rest of my evening!"

And with that Natasha Romanoff departs, grinning wildly. She goes so far as to wiggle her fingers at them through the window in a goodbye wave.

Director Fury can only watch in stunned silence until she skips out of sight. "Did...did Strike Team Delta just extort 2.5 million and Bugatti out of a foreign national, Phil?"

Phil blinks, shocked. "I-I think so!"

“What the hell am I supposed to tell The Council?"

“Oh, that is far above my pay grade sir, but I would suggest being proactive in giving them a promotion.” Phil comments.

Thank you for sending me prompts my dear! @firlalaith I do so hope you enjoy a badass moment from our precious duo.

[sheephoof]

decepticon red alert au images. i like him a normal amount

^ what that final image is based off of

some more bits and pieces-

Red's the closest Soundwave's got to a direct subordinate outside of his cassetticons- Red's focus on base security allows Soundwave to be far more proactive + aggressive with external surveillance / spying

A bit of a sunk cost fallacy thing going on by the time they end up on earth- Red's given so much to the Decepticons that he feels he's got no choice but to stick with them to the end no matter how much the Cause has mutated from what it was when he originally joined up

Close association with Starscream puts a bit of a target on his back. He's constantly trying to figure out the mech's schemes entirely to avoid them + their fallout as much as possible lol

[smileposting]

[THIS POST CONTAINS SPOILERS FOR GREAT GOD GROVE, READ AT YOUR OWN RISK.]

something i think is really interesting about click clack in particular is that out of all the gods he's probably the most Active in making mistakes throughout his arc? but unlike some other gods like mitternacht or cobigail he doesn't have a newly-sown distrust in king, and unlike level-specific antagonists like saul he's not motivated by a distrust of other people. if anything it's his tendency to idolize the people in his life/take their roles for granted (in the "accepts them as Immutable Fact" way) that gets him into hot water in the hobbyhoo level, bc it means he Doesn't Interrogate Anything and also does not Realize that he's not interrogating anything in his daily life, bc being an editor means you already interrogate people's writing on the daily.

he doesn't question why “king” would tell him to tone down the parts of oh partner mine that people care about the most, he's just like "well it's king so she's gotta know what she's talking about." he doesn't question why thespius would keep submitting scripts with those parts still intact after the first rejection, he's just like "ahhh, well, thespius has always had a tender heart. good thing more people will see that after my hard work is done!" and like i've said in previous posts, prior to godpoke's interference, it doesn't really seem like it was the norm to take a complaint straight to a god despite it being the easiest way to solve a problem, so obviously nobody was coming to tell him "hey big man this is kind of uh. shit." despite the fact that this is Also sometimes a necessary part of creative collaboration.

in this way, though far from the Only example, i think click clack's arc is a very good summary from both a divine and a (formerly) mortal perspective of some of the shortcomings of how gods are Regarded by the grove at large when the game first begins - i.e. the idea that gods are not only uniquely infallible, but their godhood is Mutually Exclusive from their humanity (neither of which are true, as we see throughout the game.) i imagine that being raised in a culture like that and then ascending to godhood makes it Very hard to admit when you know something is amiss - because if that's true, then no, your godhood does not make you infallible. and if your godhood doesn't make you infallible, can you really be trusted with godhood? if your godhood doesn't make you infallible like everybody says, what other things are they wrong about? what other things are you wrong about? very intimidating questions! best to just keep at it like you know what you're doing and hope nobody else catches on (spoiler alert: they will, in fact, catch on.)

also i can't find a way to work this into the rest of the post but i also think it's interesting that you can make a case for his arc foreshadowing/paralleling capochin's own? right hand man who is Intensely devoted to the guy he works with and is in denial about the romantic aspect of said devotion -> guy becomes more proactive in doing what he believes will best serve the guy he works with's interests at the expense of their community's morale -> guy eventually realizes he let his devotion blind himself to the true nature of guy he works with's desires and promptly gets his ass in gear to start fixing it. and also realizes that it was in fact a gay thing. obviously there are key differences there bc that's what narrative foils Do but yknow. I Just Think It's Neat.

[the-king-andthe-lionheart]

History of Westeros tries to act like some sort of ASOIAF authority because they've re-read the books several times, but they really aren't. They legitimately released a YouTube short about Robb's Will being up in the air, which is correct, it is, but they also said that Sansa's marriage to Tyrion was annulled, which is factually wrong and just sounds like annoying Sansa Stan propaganda this fandom loves to spew that completely misconstrues and makes up about Sansa as a character and her arc and themes. I know Stansa's love coming up with excuses about Robb's Will to try to explain how Sansa can become Lady/Queen or the North/Winterfell (spoiler alert: she doesn't even have a leadership arc so how does that make sense?) but this is just next tier bullshit. Sansa's marriage isn't annulled just because you wish it hard enough. Littlefinger is hoping Tyrion is dead so that when Sansa makes her grand appearance after marrying Harry the Heir, it's not proved she's some bigamist, and that her marriage is legitimate. Littlefinger didn't magically finagle an annulment. No Sansa is still Lady Lannister in the books by the people of Westeros no matter how much this fandom wants to boo and hiss and complain about it. No matter what you want, this is what she is known to be in the books right now, just like Arya is still Lady Bolton and Lady of Winterfell (through proxy) by the people in Westeros. No matter how much you complain, it doesn't negate canon.

Can't say I'm surprised though. History of Westeros has defended the show and actually thinks what happened in the show, will largely take place in the books. And they are legitimate Arya anti's. I remember a few years ago they tried answering a question about what they think Arya's upcoming arc and endgame could be, and they couldn't think up anything beyond her either dying or sailing away. How can you be a self-proclaimed ASOIAF authority and not even take Arya's character and arc seriously enough to have legitimate, good faith ideas about where it's going considering she's one of the five main protagonists? Riddle me that?

It's ridiculous and all of this just proves my point. New fans of these books, or even older fans of these books who haven't re-read them, or haven't re-read them in a long time, need to be wary of these so-called "authorities" in fandoms, because most of the time they are biased and they spread lies. It's not a coincidence that most of the lies these people spread always misconstrued or flat out lie about Sansa's character, arc, plots, or circumstances in the books, either. I mean just look at this claim that Sansa's marriage to Littlefinger is already annulled. Look at how many things would come easier to her if that was the case. Not only would she no longer be tied to the Lannister name, but if she were to go on and wed another she wouldn't be considered a bigamist and it would be legitimate. And that's not even considering the fact that the reason Robb made up a Will was to specifically disinherit Sansa from ever getting Winterfell after being married into the Lannister family, so that the Lannister's couldn't claim it through her.

Hmm...kind of seems like History of Westeros isn't just making a dumb mistake (which you'd think would be edited out in the editing process if it was) but actually spreading lies to support their Pawn to Player/Queen Sansa propaganda even though it's still highly unlikely that Sansa would ever become leader of the North even if she got an annulment considering everything going against her in her own arc, which doesn't even include the fact that she quite literally doesn't have a leadership arc and she's the most passive POV character I've ever read and how she's constantly in lalaland. The fact that Robb, the legitimate heir to Winterfell, had to prove himself worthy in a bloody and violent and proactive way, should tell us everything about what the North is looking for in a leader, and it's not some pretty princess puppet planning parties. Sorry not sorry.

[k6tzie]

COD CHARACTERS BIRTHDAYS / ZODIACS

⋆ ˚｡ ghost: march 5th - pisces. i would say pisces or libra but i feel as though he fits pisces well - he's adaptable to new situations where pisces are known for being flexible. pisces are idealistic and strongly guided by moral compass, he seems to be driven by duty and principles even if his actions are seen as morally ambiguous. pisces are intuitive and his high alertness towards split-second decisions add to why i think he'd be a pisces 🐟 ⋆ ˚｡ price: may 11 - taurus. taurus are loyal, stubborn and organised. the bull represents stability, strength and discipline which is what a leader like price possesses. they are very loyal people and price demonstrates this throughout the game with how dedicated he is to his team 🐂 ⋆ ˚｡ gaz: february 13 - aquarius. aquarius' tend to be more on the 'quirky' side which gaz definitely gives off a little lol. they are independent and free-thinking, gaz tends to show autonomy and the ability to think and decide for himself even with the military hierarchy. they also have a desire to make positive changes to the world which i find gaz to be one of the more creative and kinder ones in the game 🌊 ⋆ ˚｡ soap: july 17 - cancer. cancers are moody, irritable and very empathetic. he shows a lot of emotion throughout the game - especially irritation. cancers are often deeply loyal and devoted to their loved ones and causes. soap's loyalty to his team and his commitment to them could be seen as a reflection of being a cancer 🦀 ⋆ ˚｡ alejandro: march 29 - aries (canon?) now, i'm not sure if this is canon or not but i see this as something many people are saying like it's a fact 🤷‍♀️ aries are courageous and bold. he is portrayed as a highly skilled and fearless colonel who isn't afraid to take on dangerous missions like saving rudy from that fire. as colonel, it's important to have leadership skills and good decision making, aries are often assertive and initiative which fits ale well. 🐏 ⋆ ˚｡ rudy: march 14 - pisces. pisces' are known for being calm, quiet and sensitive. rudy is portrayed as a character who is attuned to the emotional states of his teammates and is willing to offer support and comfort when needed, making him a strong empath. most of his interactions throughout the game is gentle and soft spoken. he's also seen as creative, which fits the pisces archetype. 🐟 ⋆ ˚｡ farah: january 25 - aquarius. aquarians are often associated with a strong sense of social justice, humanitarian ideals, and a desire to help others, which practically sums up farah lol. her selfless dedications and rebellious spirit make her a perfect fit for being an aquarius. 💨 ⋆ ˚｡ makarov: april 18 - aries. aries are often characterized by their aggressive ambition, leadership qualities, and a relentless drive to achieve their goals, all of which makarov naturally possesses. 🐏 ⋆ ˚｡ konig: december 23 - capricorn. i see he might be a capricorn due to his disciplined approach, strong sense of responsibility, and strategic mindset. his focus on meticulous planning and achieving long-term goals aligns well with capricorn's traits. 🐐 ⋆ ˚｡ keegan: august 10 - leo. i think he could be considered a leo due to his confident and charismatic leadership style, as well as his strong sense of loyalty and courage. they're known for their boldness, natural authority, and commitment to their team, traits that align well with keegan's.🦁 ⋆ ˚｡ logan: april 2 - aries. even if he doesn't speak, i see him as aries for his courageous and proactive nature. aries' are known for their bravery and willingness to take initiative, traits that logan shows through his bold actions and readiness to face challenges. 🐏

[manias-wordcount]

If it's possible (If this stuff is allowed) can you write hcs about an Aphelios x a reader with sexual trauma? Just let him be all soft and patient with the reader and also super protective, (like him getting angry and protective at the THOUGHT of those other men hurting you like that) If I broke a rule by requesting this please let me know first!

S/o with a History of Sexual Trauma HCs (Aphelios)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝗯𝗮𝗯𝗹𝘆 𝗮𝗹𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘄 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼𝘁𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗿𝘂𝗹𝗲𝘀/𝗴𝘂𝗶𝗱𝗲𝗹𝗶𝗻𝗲𝘀 𝗽𝗼𝘀𝘁 𝘁𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗯𝗿𝗼𝗸𝗲 𝘀𝗼 𝘆𝗲𝗮𝗵, 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗿𝗲𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝗼𝗸𝗮𝘆! 𝗵𝗼𝗽𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗲𝗻𝗷𝗼𝘆! 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝗮𝗻 𝗙𝗬𝗜 𝗳𝗼𝗿 𝗲𝘃𝗲𝗿𝘆𝗼𝗻𝗲, 𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗲'𝘀 𝗻𝗼 𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻 𝗼𝗳 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗼𝗿 𝘁𝗿𝗮𝘂𝗺𝗮 𝗿𝗲𝘀𝗽𝗼𝗻𝘀𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀, 𝗷𝘂𝘀𝘁 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲 𝗽𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲𝗰𝘁𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗼𝘆𝗳𝗿𝗶𝗲𝗻𝗱 𝘁𝗲𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗻𝗰𝗶𝗲𝘀

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?

Even before he knew what happened to you, he was always the fiercely protective type

Though, after being clued into some of the details, he started to be a bit more mindful around you

To outsiders (and even you), it didn’t look like anything changed

But he started to be very careful about little things like not touching you unless he knows you’ve been alerted to his presence and waiting for you to indicate somehow that you were happy with what he was currently doing

He can’t say he has any personal experience with this stuff, but he’s able to go to his sister for ideas on how he can be respectful of your boundaries and proactive about making sure you’re comfortable

Sometimes, it can be a bit overkill and a little awkward, but he always has such good intentions that it’s hard to see those overkill moments as anything but something to laugh at

As for how he acts around other people? Whole different story

He feels almost aggressive and a lot colder to others when out in public with you (especially when you’re around men he does not like or trust) and will always be keeping you close to his side

And when he feels like there’s someone who might end up making you uncomfortable, he’ll try to step in between you two before it even comes to that because fuck he look like letting a mess happen on his watch!!!

But lord help whoever comes up with the bright idea of trying to step past your guard dog…you know they’re gonna need all the help they can get once they realize whose girl they’re trying to harass

[anony-man]

Second drabble for the day… enjoy!

Chubformers drabble #178!

Character: Soundwave (TFP)

Word count: 1.2k

The monitor screens pinged every so often with new alerts, new messages, and new information, and as always, Soundwave was quick to react. Nowadays, though, things were… slower.

Communications was a very important part of any faction, Decepticon or no, but Soundwave would have been kidding himself if he pretended that the single role was in of itself anything more than a glorified desk job. There were still tasks to complete around the Nemesis, still bots to keep in line—namely the ones whose designation started with S and ended with… well, you get the gist. A Decepticon’s work never ended with his official position, and Soundwave of all mechs knew to carry his weight of the responsibilities when it was called for.

They were stuck on earth now, forced to float through the skies and orbit a planet whose reputation was laughable, at best. It was, unfortunately, their only option anymore, and that meant making the most of some very, very unpleasant situations. Soundwave was more than happy to do everything he could to make sure his master’s dreams came true, but eventually he had to draw the lines between reasonable and unreasonable expectations.

To put it short, the poor mech had been taking on more and more duties at his desk, in front of the screen, and away from the action… and that could only lead to several things, and none of them positive.

Soundwave had seen the effects of idle living in real time, both in himself and in others. It was one thing to be forced into complacency and unable to branch out and work, and to be incapable of the usual active and proactive duties expected from their kind. Megatron had been unconscious and practically offlined for days, months even, shortly after his return, and that was a solid example. The other end of the spectrum, however… that was where poor Soundwave currently lied, and Primus have mercy on his poor, fattened self, it wasn’t even of his own volition.

Megatron only ever wanted his soldiers stationed in their respective positions anymore, and that was all well and good. The Decepticon leader had also been enforcing some rather limiting rules and regulations anymore, which made sticking to protocol and remaining at his control station a little more difficult than it had been before.

Upticks in energon rations and expectations for limiting regular intake were both to be expected, especially when they were stuck in the position that they were. Going on the flip-side of that and instead enforcing more energon to be consumed no matter what the average Con was doing, let alone in charge of, however, was something Soundwave simply couldn’t get behind. It was foolish, short-term logic that would end in devastation and destruction of their fuel reserves, to name a few. They had plenty stored in the belly of the ship, and plenty more where that came from, thanks to Starscream’s questionable tactics at resource finding.

Again, long story short—controlling fuel intake? Good. Encouraging and, dare he say, forcing excessive intake upon each one of the mechs aboard the Nemesis to a point of overconsumption and overindulgence? Soundwave simply couldn’t support it. He had to, though. He wished he didn’t, and he wished he wouldn’t, but he had to. Despite the intoxicating effects of that dangerous substance housed so closely to his spark chambers, Megatron was still the highest level of command aboard their ship and amongst their faction. Whatever he said goes, which meant Soundwave was to lower his helm and oblige.

Like the good soldier he was, Soundwave did as he was told. He manned the control center, took care of all communications between their ship and Shockwave’s connections back on Cybertron. He did just as Megatron commanded him to. He didn’t disobey, he didn’t skip his extra rations.

Soundwave listened, and Soundwave obeyed. He also gained, and he gained, and he gained, because after all, the downside to being stationed at the control panels and refueling nearly ever hour meant he was doing little to shed the excess weight accumulating on his frame.

The process was gradual, as was Megatron’s insistence that they take in more than they could physically handle. At first, it had just been an extra cube here and there, an extra hour of standing-at-his-desk work to pass the time. Soundwave didn’t mind. Really, he didn’t mind at all. He was to do as Megatron instructed, which meant refueling for two (or three, if you really got down to the nitty gritty details) and work stationary. The process was still gradual, though, which meant changes still happened.

A lot of changes happened, really. Megatron became more insistent, his work at the consoles and monitors increased, and… oh, that’s right. He became so heavy he could hardly stand anymore, let alone leave his station once the days had come to an end.

To Soundwave, this was an embarrassment. Things moved steadily enough, but his reflexes were limited, his range of motion stunted. Laserbeak was eventually evicted, the poor thing forced to sit on a perch nearby and watch as her master worked idly on, and soon after that, Soundwave became far too big for even his tentacles to function.

It was long, fat tendrils wrapped around his widened frame and kept out of the way as he shifted this way against the seat of his new chair after a while. He was limited to his servos again, and when he wasn’t typing away frantically at the console in an attempt at keeping up with the influx of data streaming in and going out, he was tracing slim digits over the curves of his frame and wondering just how many cubes away he was from breaking this chair, too.

Oh, right. He had broken a chair already. Two chairs, in fact. His frame was just too heavy for them to bear the weight, he supposed. Knock Out had been amused, Starscream appalled, and Megatron unbothered. The steady stream of excess rations still steadily flowed, and by then, he had begun to crave the feeling of a bloated belly pushing against the edge of the monitor’s keyboards as he worked.

There were negatives, so very many negatives, to Megatron’s insistence on the new rations and routines, but like the good soldier he was, Soundwave obliged. He even grew to like it after a while. He was practically glued to his chair anymore (until it broke, too, that is), unable to lift himself up from the seat for fear of hurting his wiry frame. The weight gain wasn’t exactly natural for him, and it had piled on quickly and awkwardly. Alas… he made do.

Another ping on the monitor screen caught Soundwave’s attention that night. Just as he had finished nursing the last of his final rations for the evening, there was a new report sent into him by… Knock Out.

Hm. How strange. He clicked the link.

“New regulations from Megatron,” it read in bold letters. “Everyone’s rations remain the same except for Soundwave’s. Adding two more cubes to his daily intake and putting the demand for a proper throne in the works. Make it quickly, and make it well.

Your master,

Megatron.”

[void-galaxy-shenanigans]

maybe unpopular opinion:

most people who say they are doing self-care are actually doing aftercare— especially those with untreated/partially treated mental illness &/or other disabilities.

(this is about both mental & physical disabilities/limitations, as well as anyone who needs this reminder.)

self-care is preventative.

self-care is taking my meds & eating at 6a every morning, even when I don’t want to, because the rest of my day will be better for it. I don’t wait to take my meds or eat until 10, 11a, or even worse wait until the evening spiral. (I am taking meds because I want to/it helps; not everyone wants or needs them.)

self-care is eating before hunger alerts you because you know you’ll be hungry soon.

self-care is drinking water across the day rather than waiting for painful dehydration.

self-care means telling someone I am not okay when it starts to get overwhelming, not after I’m drowning.

self-care often means doing something you don’t wanna do right now so your future self (post-task & later in day/week/etc.) will feel a little more human/alive.

~~~~

(note: I am aware “aftercare” can be used in a sexual context, but I am using it more broadly here)

aftercare is when we wait until we collapse.

aftercare is chugging a bottle/glass of water at 3a because you haven’t had water since 10a or 2p or 5p the day before.

aftercare is waiting until you are actively spiraling/drowning to reach for help.

⚠️ trigger warning: aftercare is rushing to the hospital after already engaging in NSSI (self-harm without intending to exit life) or after an attempt to end your life. ⚠️

aftercare is your recovery and rest (whether you saw this point coming or not).

self-care is preventing collapse/spirals, which requires planning ahead.

I see far too many disabled people (example) push themselves to clean or to go to a concert, & then sleep for 3 days and refer to that as self-care. That rest, in context, is aftercare.

(I am saying this for myself too.)

this is not a shame or guilt rant, to be clear; it’s intended to call people in, to remind us all to care for ourselves better.

the point is that aftercare shouldn’t be your only toolset to meet your needs or care for yourself. that’s not sustainable. you will burnout, you will spiral more, you will collapse.

(that’s not even including that if you don’t make room for rest, your body will force it on you. this is mostly about the way you (& I) keep running the same circle of recovering & then pushing yourself past when you needed to stop & having to recover again.)

you deserve self-care. you deserve the effort it takes to care for your body and health, to go back for your cane or your disability bag (before you stand in line or get in a car), to ask your loved ones for help/comfort.

I know it feels icky to ask. it feels pointless to wash your hair in the sink when you know you can’t manage a full bath/shower today. but it’s worth it, and some people do want to meet your needs.

(if they can’t handle you needing help, please find new people. there will be people for whom you are not too much (imposing or intruding or demanding), nor too little/unimportant. you deserve the people who see you as worth the effort & energy they spend on you. you deserve people who spend those willingly, or even enthusiastically.)

so...yeah. as I sit here feeling a little icky because I have to lay down after a sit-down job and a short page & a half of notes for class....recovery matters, and so do proactive activities/requests/etc that can prevent you from needing to recover so often.

I am learning to be gentler with myself. I hope you are too. (/sincere)

~Nico