#anyway a neat trick to keep in mind

[dravidious]

🐸👍

Did you know that in Magic, combat damage isn't dealt automatically? And I don't just mean choosing what order to damage blockers, I mean that according to section 510 of the comprehensive rules, you're technically supposed to choose how to divide your attacker's combat damage among its blockers. Manually. And you have to assign lethal damage to the first blocker in the order you chose before assigning damage to the one after it, and so on, so it doesn't really matter ever because you just kill as many blockers as possible in order.

But today on Arena was the first time I ever manually assigned combat damage. An opponent used this little jerk to steal one of my creatures

And then I attacked with a big creature. They blocked with the Rangers, my stolen creature, and a 1/1, and my attacker had enough power to kill all of them. But I thought "hey, if I kill ONLY the rangers and the 1/1, I'll just get my creature back, right? Can I do that? Is that how damage assignment works?" So I opened the options menu, switched off auto damage assignment, put my stolen creature last in the damage order, and went to the damage step...

And it worked! I was able to assign 0 damage to my stolen creature, and just put the excess on the 1/1! I killed both their creatures and got my creature back unharmed! I bet the opponent was SUPER confused at how they threw my stolen creature at my attacker in a suicide block and my attacker just said "no" and refused to hurt it lol.

[thydungeongal]

As someone who creates 5e adjacent content I have a dark secret I must confess...

I love dice-pool games.

The only reason I don't create a dice-pool game is that there's so few levers to pull for dice-pool manipulations that make any kind of meaningful distinction in the resolution mechanic to generate a mechanical-to-narrative sensation of character differentiation.

The day I solve that problem as it percolates in the back of my mind is the day we get a new dice-pool game system.

There's a few interesting tricks I've run into in dice pool systems:

Dice pool systems usually start by taking some features of a character, usually something like an ability/attribute and something like a skill, but it could be anything, and combining those into a dice pool. Now, most games don't actually do more in this step than just counting the final total of dice. But there's one axis of information that is rarely used: the type of dice.

For an example, in a hypothetical Attribute+Skill system, assume that a character assembled their dice pool from Strength (an attribute) and Athletics (a skill) and the rolled dice were color-coded depending on their source.

Now, if you want some proper oWoD jank in your game you can make it so that dice that come from attributes have a higher threshold of success than dice that come from skills, representing the importance of training over raw strength. You've now addressed the "untrained skill" penalty that is often tackled via penalties to dice pools. However: this does result in extra friction. One of the benefits of having a static threshold of success is that you can quickly eyeball how many successes you have.

Which leads to the next question: why limit the dice in your dice pool to a single type of die? Staying with the above example, let's assume that the success threshold is a 5 or above, and the average die in the pool is a d6. Now you can introduce d8s as a type of die that represents. Something. Incidentally, the switch from a d6 to a d8 in a system where the threshold of success is a 5 results in a similar change of probabilities as keeping the dice d6 but changing the threshold of success to 4.

Anyway, there's other types of neat tricks you can do. nWoD has "10 again" which means that dice that come up a 10 count as successes and are rolled again, with some abilities allowing for "9 again" or even "8 again" on specific tests, or if they represent a hindrance or penalty on the character they may even counteract "10 again" in specific circumstances.

And I'm sure there's a bunch of other stuff that can be done with dice pools. Heck, I've seen games that use dice pools of Fate dice, where results of + are used to add benefits or bonuses to the action from a pick-list while results of - are used to cancel penalties or misfortunes (which are all assumed to happen by default!). So there's a lot of information you can get out of dice pools, you just need to keep looking for it!

[cannibalisation]

not a lot, just forever

poly wolfstar/fem!reader

it doesn’t take much to keep yourself safe, yet it is still a challenging task for most. surrounding yourself with those who maintain warmth seems to do the trick, luckily you have remus and sirius, and they have you. (3.4k)

caution. injuries following lycan transformations, remus uses a walking cane, mentions of sirius’ family, gore/blood(?), bullying, reader has a bird animagi form.

i’m new to the marauders fandom and have limited knowledge, sorry for any character inaccuracies.

sewn together. 

ONE of the window latches in the Gryffindor boy’s dormitory was broken. Fortunately, it’s the window right by Remus’s bed. A playful mishap between the group of them caused a book to go flying at it, shattering one of the glass panels. The window was repaired with a spell Peter had cast, but he was never able to mend the bolt. That's what makes it easy to sneak in when it’s past curfew. 

Remus lies atop the covers tonight; he only managed to shuffle the pants of his nightwear on. The plaid shirt was thrown haphazardly on the crest of his bed frame. Faint lines of gauze wrapped around his torso are visible beneath his chalk-white polo shirt. They’re stained with a muffled red; he must’ve bled quite heavily. 

The matron healer did an exquisite job as per usual. Neat fastenings of bandages; his wounds were clean. Though you would’ve preferred if Madam Pomfrey tried a little bit harder to convince Remus to stay the night in the hospital wing. 

This month's full moon was one of the hardest for some reason; you have an inkling that your presence was a contributing factor. Remus usually insists that you should stay far away from him when he changes, and he didn't even intend on revealing his lycanthropy, but Sirius persuaded him to change his mind. 

As soon as the truth came to light about his furry friend, you immediately urged him to let you help—in any way possible. The two of them were very strict regarding the routine, and in turn, you were very understanding. Sirius had been extremely reliant on your aerodynamic abilities, as your Animagus form held avian qualities. 

Remus was still on the fence about it, but with a few honeyed words and gentle (manipulative more so) kisses from you and Sirius, he was convinced. The transformation process created significant agitation, which only increased in intensity over the course of the week. 

He was clearly more possessive than usual, but you'd be lying if you said it wasn't entertaining. Neither you nor Sirius complained about Remus's insatiable want for affection; the two of you were never to be out of his sight. It was especially difficult during the day due to your separate schedules; after supper, you were confined to his dorm room. 

It was abnormal for the quiet boy you’ve grown to love to act in such a way. More often than not, it was more common for Sirius to act like this, treating public displays of affection like he would a new toy he got for Christmas. That’s what was most likeable about him; he was irrevocably himself. Remus was the opposite; they both stabilised one another nicely. 

Often it was like you were intruding, that you didn’t fit in as well as they did. A whiff of these thoughts, and they were quick to dismiss any negative feelings, and that was greatly appreciated. A balanced scale needs its anchor after all. 

Much to your delight, James and Peter did not make themselves at home in the boys dorm—they must’ve both been warming someone’s bed tonight. 

You have a vague idea of where James might be, but Peter leaves you in mystery. For all you know, he could be sneaking around with a Slytherin or two; that sounds like something he’d do anyway. 

Sirius is curled up in his own bed opposite Remus’. He watches with a soft look as you sit yourself down beside the injured boy. Much to your dismay, he had stayed in such a position as you attempted to crawl through the open window, chuckling quietly to himself at your struggles. 

Remus shivers as your hand brushes his mousy-brown curls before settling against it. How soft he looks when he’s like this. 

“He’s been asking for you in his sleep.” Sirius whispers, toying with the chequered quilt he lays beneath. You give Remus a once-over before looking back at the other boy. Sirius smiles lightly when that happens and pulls back the blanket so it sits just above his ribs. 

An invitation; he wants you to join him in his bed. And you desperately want to, but Remus needs you. Amidst his sleep, he blindly searches for your hand, and you comply by locking your fingers with his. 

The small tick in his brow soothes over, and he hums contentedly when you brush your forefinger against his palm. 

“He’s been saying your name.”

Your free hand finds purpose in Remus’ hair once more. “Cute, does he say yours?”

“No. I think it’s because he knows I’m here already. Perhaps I’ll ask him when he wakes up.” He taunts. Locking eyes again, you give him a humoured glare in disappointment. Of course he’d tease Remus about mindless sleep talks. 

One time, in a fit of anger, you had cast a spell in the general direction of Severus Snape (he had spoken ill of a fellow house member; what else were you supposed to do?). The dunce had managed to move out of the way just in time, causing the spell to hit Professor Flitwick. 

With a fresh pair of stag antlers perched on his head, the professor took away fifteen points from Gryffindor. It was a brief reprimand; still, Sirius has yet to let you live it down. He still makes jokes about it with James to this day. 

“I beg to differ.” Remus interrupts; he must’ve been awoken by the playful conversation. “I just don’t really like you.” He jokes, grazing his nimble fingers along the surface of your linked hands. 

Sirius scoffs before tugging at his blanket, pulling it up over his head so he can hide beneath it. “That is a lie; you love me, Moons.” His voice is muffled from underneath the quilt. 

Chuckling quietly, you continue to brush through Remus’ hair. He had always been appreciative of such services; often you could be found with your hands perched in his curls. 

Sirius instead preferred when you played with his hands. Fiddling with the brass and silver rings that decorate his lithe fingers always makes his heart grow fonder. 

You were prone to favouring back scratches, but you’d never tell them that. 

You lean downwards and press a small kiss to his forehead. “How are you feeling?” 

“Much better now. The madam gave me a Calming Draught and then I fell asleep.” He said slowly, observing you with a loving look that would make anyone’s heartbeat stutter. “What about you? Didn’t frighten you too much, did I?” You shake your head; he could never scare you. 

From the corner of your eye, you see Sirius rolling around in his bedsheets. With an exaggerated huff, he throws the covers off and flicks at his hair with one hand. He must be bothered by the lack of attention from the both of you. 

He turns his head and squints at you with faux anger, and you have half the mind to laugh in his face. Not a good idea, though; it would probably make him more annoying. 

Then he leaps from the confines of his bed with such haste it makes Remus flinch. He rolls from his bed and lands on the rugged ground. He continues to roll over until he reaches the foot of Remus’ bed. Now the whole room is lightened with soft laughter. Remus decides to stick out his free hand to dangle it over the edge of the bed. 

Like a dog with a bone, Sirius grabs a hold of it and entwines his fingers with Remus’. 

Every full moon will be hard; Remus knows that much. The process will never get easier to recover from; it will always eat at him. But so long as he has the two of you with him, he might be okay. 

bears the weather

Winter break was never easy for Sirius Black. Normally, he’d choose to stay on school grounds for the holidays. You’d often stay too, out of solidarity, and Remus would always bring treats back from his family home in Wales. 

This year, though, Sirius had been owled a letter from his mother, instructing him to come home over the break. 

He didn’t want to, that much you could tell. Sirius did not cry when he said that he would not be at Hogwarts for this year's Christmas holiday, but his eyes did gloss over, and his voice was terribly shaky. 

He became dismissive throughout the last week of classes; you were not able to comfort him in the way you had hoped to—for how are you to comfort a boy unloved?

He didn’t contribute to many conversations on the train ride back to King’s Cross Station; Remus had told you not to worry, but even he looked dejected. 

Sirius had briefly embraced you and Remus and claimed that he would write to the both of you. With a forlorn gaze, you watched as he and his younger brother made their way from the platform. 

A total of three letters, marked with the wax sigil of House Black, were delivered to your doorstep. How fitting that the owl that did so was ebony in feathers, a clear indicator of its keeper. The beast had tried biting at your fingers when it let go of the envelope. 

On the contrary, fourteen letters with Remus’ name smudged on the top were sent to your house by post. 

There were a couple of days during the winter break when you met up with Remus and some of your mutual friends. You had a joyous time ice-skating and drinking hot chocolate on Christmas Eve. An invite was sent to Sirius on both of your parts, but much to your grief, he did not show. It was lovely seeing and spending time with Remus, but it was clear that the both of you felt as if something was missing. 

Before you knew it, school was back, so were the uniforms and casted spells. The spring term always went by quickly, though the tension between the three of you was stifling. Sirius had been cold for the first week back; it was like the winter weather had made its home in his form. 

Though he gradually warmed up, there was something unusual about it. A strain in his shoulders or a furrow in his brow that had yet to settle, even when he slept. It ate at your heart that you couldn’t seem to figure out how to help him. Others were starting to notice too.

“Hey, is Pads doing alright?” 

Lily Evans, ever the gentle soul. It comes as no surprise that she was worried. You pause at her question, inked quill hovering over the smudged parchment. 

“He’s fine. I suppose.”

“Have you spoken to him much? I’ve only ever seen him at dinner time or in class.” 

You shake your head quietly and keep your gaze fixed on the paper. She is right after all. Sirius spends most of his time holed up in the dorm room, and no, you haven’t really had the chance to speak with him. Most of the time he’d be right with you now. In the library, studying for exams—or more so distracting you from studying. 

He isn’t, though; today it's just you and Lily sitting at a lone table in an alcove, hidden behind the many towering shelves of books. 

Although you can’t see it from where your gaze is fixed, the inquiring gaze of Lily Evans is harsh against your neck. 

“It’s just—” you start, strangling the feather quill with vigour. “I don’t know what to say. He’s struggling, that's clear, but I don’t know how to help him.” Such a stuttered confession makes you feel sick to your stomach. It’s something to do with Lily’s ambience that makes you go soft. She smiles delicately at your apparent demise. 

“Maybe you don’t need to say anything? Just let him know, in any way you can, that you're there. For him.” 

“You’d serve as a mighty fine therapist if this witch thing doesn’t work out for you, Lilyflower.” You mutter with a half-hearted smile. The russet-haired girl only hums with a small grin and turns back to her own parchment. “You’re lucky I’m not charging you for my wise words of wisdom.” 

You ponder Lily’s words on the lone journey back to the Gryffindor common room. 

Sirius Black was not a fragile individual, a quality that is quick to be learned. He was undeniably a brave soul; he didn’t let much get to him. The topic of his family, the noble and most ancient house of Black, was an arduous one; he could hardly speak their names without choking up. You and Remus knew this well and made sure not to bring them or even your own families up in conversation. 

It was a good few years ago that you had first been acquainted with Walburga Black. It was a short introduction when you were in your youthful age, therefore, you don’t remember much. Regardless, even in your earliest of life, did you realise that she wasn’t the kindest of people. Her eyes had frightened you the most, beady and almost pitch-black. They scanned over you like a predatory animal would when it spots its prey. 

That moment was all it took to notice the animosity she held for most. Sirius’ eyes were similar in colour, but they were so much more gentle. 

When Remus told you that he had never met Sirius' family before, you promised yourself that if you could, you would protect him from them and any other pure-blood zealot. 

Your eyes lock with James Potter’s as soon as you walk in through the portrait door. Somehow he is all-knowing and nods his head in the direction of the stairs leading up to the boys dorm rooms. Nodding back to him in gratitude, you make your way up the creaky steps posthaste. 

Remus is sitting upright on his twin-sized bed, watching over a curled-up Sirius. He glances up at you with melancholic eyes and gives you a small smile. 

You approach Sirius' bed quietly and take in the pile of blankets and pillows there. He observes as you sit down next to Remus, having only his face visible from underneath. To your delight, Sirius appears to be more content than he has been in a long time. His head rests on one of the cushions, his dark curls strewn about. You gently hush him when he stirs under the warmth of the covers.  

“It’s okay,” you murmur, leaning your head on Remus’ shoulder. “I’m here.”

Yes, Sirius thinks. You’re here.

sheds her feather

Muggles would never know the true rapture of flying. Sure, they could board a plane and take to the skies—but it would never feel the same as spreading your wings in the breeze. 

Each sliver of wind could be felt in your feathers, urging you to go faster, higher, forever. Though you’d never say it aloud, you’ve thought on many occasions to just spend the rest of your life in the sky.

You’ve always been a curious child. At least that's what Mother had believed, especially since you had snatched a coin purse from someone as a child and given it to her when you heard her gripe about money on the phone. She had been horrified and gave you a slap on the wrist in return. 

Her reaction did not ail you; often your closest companions are gifted something shiny in appearance.

Sirius was ecstatic when he was gifted an argentate ring engraved with a wolf signet, and Remus embraced you warmly with a soft kiss when you handed him a sterling silver novella bookmark—it had a small etching of a dove bird on it; you thought he’d appreciate it most. 

In a hasty manoeuvre, you land on a railing of the Astronomy Tower. With a ruffle of midnight-black feathers, it returns you to your natural form. 

The transformations have gotten much better than what they were originally. The first time you ever attempted it, you crashed into a tree and broke your wrist. That hadn’t been an easy one to explain to Madam Pomfrey. 

A shot of pain saddles up your leg, causing you to gasp loudly in shock and crumble to the floor. 

It was foolish to assume the flimsy bandaging you had done was adequate enough to halt the bleeding. 

The linen wrapped around your leg was stained with a bright crimson, nothing too bad to worry the nurses about it though. 

The most recent Quidditch game was won by Gryffindor; the losing team, Slytherin, was obviously not pleased with the results. A group of students had managed to corner you right after classes had finished for the day, and they must've been searching around for something to burn their energy off on. Unfortunately, that just happened to be you.

The Diffindo charm was not often used out of malice, but that didn’t seem to stop this particular Slytherin boy. The slash was embedded deep enough into the skin of your leg, causing a significant amount of blood. The cruel group of seventh-years draped in green ran off before you could react properly.

As luck would have it, you managed to sneak into the hospital wing undetected and quietly bandage yourself up. A clatter of objects from behind a curtain had spooked you enough into transforming and flying out an open window. 

The pain in your leg had majorly subsided whilst in Animagi form; perhaps the wind has healing properties. 

But now as you were crouched over in the tower, it’s clear that is not the truth of it.

A clamour of footsteps sounds out in the winding tower, and you attempt to transform again. To no avail, as the pain is too much to bear, so instead you brush back your uniform skirt as it had ridden up. 

Sirius makes himself present with a whistle; Remus shakes his head as he trails after him. The wooden cane that he’s taken recent use to creaking under his form. 

“We saw you flying overhead when we were walking back from Herbology.” Sirius confirms with a grunt as he sits down cross-legged. It was common for you to take off from the tower as it was the highest point in Hogwarts and generated the most adrenaline.

“Thought we could beat you here, but no, you’re just too fast!” He praises. 

Remus manages to sit down as well, without any help. You nod in compliment, trying to mask the pain in your leg. Sirius doesn’t notice the way your face screws up as he drones on about class, but like always, Remus does—probably some weird werewolf gene. 

“You alright, love?” He intervenes, Sirius stops talking for a moment. A hum leaves your throat; a bit too enthusiastically. Words are not reliable right now. 

Remus is clearly unconvinced, and Sirius casts a suspicious look your way. With a sigh of defeat, your hands grip the edge of the skirt and lift it slightly, just to show the dribbles of dried blood on your leg. Sirius’ breath hitches in his throat, and Remus looks at the scene with growing exasperation.

“What—Who did this to you?” Demanded Sirius as he moved to pull higher at your skirt. “No one, nothing, I mean. I just—” You start, but Sirius continues on.

“Don’t lie to me; you’re not this clumsy.” A laugh escapes you, but even that brings a twinge of pain. Remus shuffles through his leather satchel that holds his study books. 

He’s had to get a lot more creative regarding how he routines his life, now that he has to walk with an aid. Sirius was more than kind enough to gift him the costly satchel, much to Remus’ humbleness. 

He pulls out a roll of gauze, and you can’t help but grace him with a lukewarm smile. Always the caretaker he is, Remus Lupin. 

Sirius grabs the roll at breakneck speed and huffs drearily as he unravels your previous work. “You need to go to Poppy; I can’t do very well with this.”

Shaking your head in quiet disagreement, you watched as he wrapped fresh gauze around your leg. 

Remus leans over and brushes one of his forefingers against your cheek. With a soft pout, you cast a shy gaze at him from beneath your eyelashes. His eyes are always so soft when he looks at you. 

Sirius always teases him for it but gets equally as giddy whenever Remus gives the same look to him. He acts indifferent to it all the time, but there is no denying that his eyes are any less mellow.

He finishes by tying the fabric into a knot at the innermost point of the thigh, warmth rising to your face at the closeness.

“Going to let us help you now?” Remus asks. It’s a rhetorical question but you still search for an answer. Regardless, you nod your head at the question.

They can help you, always.

[shegatsby]

hii, I saw that the requests are open so I'll let my (many) thoughts, feel free to turn one of these, maybe all, in one shots!

Hannibal × R where R has a whole Morticia Addams aesthetic

Hannibal × R where they're on that friendly stage, Hannibal doesn't want a relationship cause he thinks his hobbies would be hard to hid from his lover, however he realises R is even more twisted than he is

Hannibal × R where R is a bit insecure cause she's not wealthy, never have been, yet Hannibal is interested in her and keeps pursuing her to go on a date

and last but not least

Hannibal × Brazilian! reader, just some fluffy cute shit

I'm so so sorry if I miswritten something, it's not my mother language, also feel free to turn these in smut, fluffy or angsty, I'd really like happy endings tho

hope you like the ideas!! I love your work 🤍

A/N: I AM BACK BABY! Thank you so much for this request. I hope you enjoy it and girlll English isn't my native tongue either. lol

Warnings; Mention of killings.

Hannibal Lecter wasn’t looking for a relationship, mostly because of his eccentric ‘’hobbies’’ that he wouldn’t be able to hide for so long… and how divine she was, he caught himself staring at her long black hair and shiny olive skin. His dark mind had already tried to find ways to make it work, he shook his head to come back to the reality. First of all she was his patient,  that was unethical and second… nothing came to his mind.

‘’How are you feeling today?’’ he asked as she made herself comfortable in his chair, yes his chair. They grew closer and closer and now she was in his chair, looking good.

She crossed her arms, her red lips were a line, no emotions or maybe trying to hide them.

‘’Good.’’ She replied dryly, Hannibal tsked, he leaned on the brown chair, ‘’I believe we both know each other for so long that it isn’t easy to trick and wise to do so.’’ His maroon eyes made her look up, she didn’t break the eye contact, ‘’Sorry,’’ she apologized and continued, ‘’I have nightmares recently.’’ Admitting to that made her feel like a burden lifted off of her shoulders.

He slowly sat on the table, he found himself being comfortable around her, ‘’May I ask what do you see in your nightmares?’’

She sighed, ‘’My drug addict family.’’

He knew about her story to begin with but every time it made him enrage. How could two people couldn’t take care of a child that they brought into this world?! She was strong though, she pulled herself out of that life, moved out, and now she was working and living her life and Hannibal wanted to give her more opportunities in this life. He wanted to travel with her, give her luxuries that she had only heard or watched on TV.  He stopped his train of thoughts, he had to remind himself  that he wasn’t looking for a relationship, even though it was hard to remind when she looked at him like that.

‘’Would you like to be more detailed?’’ he asked, curious to know more.

She sighed again, her head low, he reached to lift her head by her chin and made her look at him again, ‘’They aren’t here to hurt you Y/N, I assure you.’’ He had a feeling if someone tried to hurt her he would make that person disappear.

‘’Grandma had sent her delicious Acaraje, we’re on the kitchen table and dad knocks on the door, about to break it. And suddenly the delicious Acaraje turn ashes in my mouth.. Anyways things like that.’’ She shortly explained.

‘’I have never tried that food before.’’ He exclaimed, curious. Her eyes lit up, ‘’I have the recipe, I can make some, if you would like.’’

Hannibal’s plan was working, he was going to make Acaraje experience delightful to her again. They set a date, and the date came. She invited him to her home.

She opened the door in her long black dress, her long black hair looked lushes under the yellow lights of her house, ‘’Come in.’’ she calmly said, the inside smelled delicious.

She took his coat and hung it near, it was a small house but neat and clean. She was organized just like him. ‘’I brought wine.’’ He went to his basement to pick the wine that had the richest flavor and it was one of the oldest. ‘’Oh, thank you.’’

The food was ready, she had made side dishes as well, as a Brazilian woman she knew how to host and be hospitable. It was in her culture after all and she had a feeling her grandma would rise from death and beat her if she was hospitable to her guest.

Hannibal opened the wine and poured it into the glasses, they were seated, ‘’You have a cozy home.’’ He admitted, her red lips turned into a genuine smile, ‘’Thank you.’’ She blushed, she took pride in her small home that she had built brick by brick. It wasn’t easy to start over that’s why she had chosen Baltimore. A small and close-knit community.

They started eating and chatting, ‘’How was work?’’ she asked, she knew that he was also giving insights to the FBI about recent killings, she desperately wanted to get details. ‘’As you know I was with the FBI team today, they had discovered the second body which I already told them that it would be like this.. ‘’ he stopped and looked up to deduce her, ‘’I’m sorry I do not wish to make you lose your appetite.’’ And he was surprised to see a certain shine in her eyes, ‘’Please, I would like to learn more, I just… I love reading and searching about serial killer.’’ This was a now revelation, he didn’t know about this. ‘’Oh really?’’ he wasn’t sure at first, ‘’Yes. Don’t worry Doctor, I won’t tell a soul.’’

Hannibal began to explain the killings in detail, the motives etc. The more he explained the more she was intrigued, she was as wicked as he was. His dark mind spoke to him, ‘’See. She is just like us!’’

After tonight he knew that it wasn’t going to be easy saying away from this intelligent Brazilian woman who captured his attention. Y/N and Hannibal had this feeling that tonight was their first date and Hannibal had already made a plan for a second one, in Paris.

[padawan-snack-packer]

Hi OP!! I absolutely love your answers and your sense of humor, they always make my day!!!! So here's a totally normal and not at all chaotic question:

If you could live anywhere in the Star Wars universe (any planet, any era, zero consequences) where would you be and what would you be doing?? 👀

OH ANON YOU HAVE UNLOCKED A CHAOTIC CAN OF SPACE WORMS. I’m so glad you asked. Let’s go!!!!

Okay, listen. Seven-year-old me would’ve said, with full chest, “I WANNA BE A JEDI!!! 😤” Because I thought lightsabers were neat and I wanted to jump really high and maybe also dramatically stare off balconies like Obi-Wan does when he's having his fifth crisis before breakfast. But current me, who has PTSD, ADHD, AND over-achiever tendencies ? Yeah. No.

I would last two and a half business days in the Jedi Order at BEST. I’d be crying in the Temple cafeteria trying to mind-trick my therapist into giving me a third emotional support baked good. ("You will let me have another muffin. It's for the Force.")

So here's the REAL dream:

📍 Location: Some GAR base in the Outer Rim, probably one of those gloomy ones with bad lighting and worse morale.

👩‍🍳 Job: Mysterious but beloved base cook who showed up one day with no paperwork and just never left. I’m in the back kitchen cooking Real Food™️ with spice and love and probably a questionable amount of butter. Clones wander in looking exhausted and leave with warm flatbread, something that isn’t grey, and enough unsolicited emotional validation to make a droid short-circuit.

Like, me in an apron with “#1 War Mom” on it, force-feeding ARC Troopers soup with vegetables and yelling, “YOU NEED PROTEIN, FIVES, GET BACK HERE.” Someone calls me “chief” or “boss” and I throw a dishrag at them. I do not rank anybody but I’ve grounded four captains and a general.

Also I have a side hustle: keeping a small menagerie of weird half-feral Outer Rim animals that I “accidentally adopted.” Like. “Oh this? This is Murderbean. He’s a loth-cat I raised from a kitten. He hates everyone but me. He bites regs who don’t eat their greens. No that is not a lie, Wolffe don't look at me like that.”

Or... I would LOVE to be a Mandalorian!!!!

I'm not a fighter though. I know my limits. Mandos are built like refrigerators with trauma. I’m 5’2 and sure I can open very hard pickle jars but I can't even reach one of the snacks shelves at home without climbing on the counter with a spatula to grab a pack. I am not doing hand-to-hand combat with anyone taller than my emotional tolerance for conflict (which is very low). I would, however, THRIVE as the weird Mando auntie who runs the local nerf-petting zoo, bakes pastries with names like “jetpack puffs” and “krayt krunchies,” and teaches small foundlings how to swear creatively in Mando’a.

My armor wouldn’t even have weapons—it would have extra oven mitts and treats in the compartments. I’d be like, “You want to come to war?? NO. Sit down. You’re twelve. Here’s a cookie and a safe space.”

In conclusion: ✨ Jedi? Absolutely not. ✨ Sith? Tempting but no, I would cry the second I got a paper cut. ✨ Clone Wars cook/chaotic found family aunt? ABSOLUTELY. ✨ Mandalorian who wears armor exclusively for the look and the pockets? Yes. Yes forever.

Would also want a caf stand????? I feel like I’d end up running a totally illegal caf stand near the barracks at 0500 and giving emotional advice with every cup.

ANYWAY- Thank you so much for asking Anon, this was fun to do!!!

[thesilverdiary]

Non Authorized Version

⤷ Summary: She saw his name again. 

Not in a headline. 

Not by accident. 

Poetic, in a cruel sort of way — he once rewrote her silence into absence: neat, forgettable, as if she’d chosen to vanish. 

Five years apart. 

One request. 

And a history that refuses to stay in past tense. 

Fourteen chapters. 

⤷ Author's note: Some ideas started taking shape in my mind a few months ago, and since then I’ve been drafting bits and pieces here and there… maybe I’m finally coming out of that writing block that tends to hover over anyone who loves telling stories — which, honestly, makes me happy. 

I’d been a bit tired of the endless PWP spiral (no shade, truly — important to say!), but I needed something with a little more tension. A bit of plot. A touch of pain. You know — joy. A story split between now and then.

⤷ Special warnings for this first chapter? Oh, hm, no. Just emotional tension, slow-burn energy, unresolved past, implied intimacy, and professional power dynamics. No smut yet. Silence does most of the talking. There’s a 10-year age gap.

Last but not least, if you want to, you can read this on Wattpad and AO3 as well. 

⤷ Words: 3,673. 

Chapter One | Some Roads Have No Exit

📍Vienna, Austria → Brackley, United Kingdom. 2025.  

It’s been five years since I left behind the near-ritualistic routine of attending Grands Prix in person. 

And ever since, I’ve been failing — stubbornly, I’ll admit — to rebuild the kind of sleep the experts call rest hygiene. 

I’ve tried. Really. 

Waking up early. Stretching before sunrise. Joining the 5AM club, with silent yoga and ceramic-mug coffee. 

Coffee only until two in the afternoon. Warm lightning in the evening. No screens after six — or at least, that’s the promise. 

Just not mine. 

My body still runs on the time zone of floodlit paddocks and red-eye flights. 

I belong to the afternoon. 

To the night, if possible. 

The kind of person whose brain only starts working once the rest of the world goes quiet. 

A night owl — the kind that sometimes mistakes being awake for being nostalgic. 

I’m not against healthy routines. Not at all. 

I understand the value of each carefully prescribed step: the afternoon coffee cut-off, the amber lights meant to trick the brain into thinking the day is winding down. 

The slow retreat from screens after six — not out of duty, but as a ritual. A silent agreement with the body: you can rest now. 

Some call it self-care. Others call it discipline. 

I call it trying. 

Because sometimes, it’s not about wanting. It’s about being able. 

You can’t always keep pace with the ideal internal clock imagined by people who sleep through the night and don’t hit snooze. 

There are days — and nights — when the only victory is not falling apart. 

Everyone has their own emotional time zone, their functional mess, their little negotiations. 

The notification came just before seven. An email. Scheduled, maybe. Or sent by someone who starts their day in overdrive. Who knows. Who hasn’t had a boss who confuses urgency with their own anxiety, anyway? 

Of course, there’s that polite trick of scheduling things for office hours — a veneer of normalcy. But sometimes the anxiety is so raw, so impatient, that it bulldozes right through the intent. And then the message just goes — unfiltered, unscheduled. As if handing off the task is enough to lighten the load. 

I got it. I swear I do. 

Outside, Vienna was still breathing in shades of blue. The city looked suspended — like it couldn’t decide whether to rise or ask for five more minutes. In the building across the street, a bathroom light flicked on and off in a hurry — a life waking up by instinct. Someone getting out of bed. Or someone who, like me, never really went to sleep. 

I prefer to believe in the first. It’s too early for other truths. 

I opened the news with no real hope for anything new. I read like someone who already knows the endings — but rereads them anyway. I mentally corrected headlines. Adjusted verb tenses. Swapped adjectives. A leftover habit from the days I believed fixing the sentence could also fix the feeling. 

I know better now. But I still try. 

I was wearing my favorite sweatshirt — oversized, blue, with tiny piling on the cuffs and a stubborn hole in the right sleeve. A kind of social armor. Not just comfort — a signal. A quiet message to the world, in case it asks: today, only gently. 

The dry buzz of my phone broke the silence. 

A notification. That kind of brief, polite vibration — impossible to ignore. The screen lit up. My eyes followed, reluctantly. 

“Confidential Project | Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team.” 

I swiped the notification away, like sweeping something under the rug that you know you’ll trip over again. 

Pressed my forehead to the rim of my coffee mug. Closed my eyes. Breathed like I was trying to file away an entire thought in a single pause. Kept my face calm — not out of vanity, but habit. 

I didn’t open it. 

Not yet. 

I may not have figured out how to regulate my sleep, but I have learned — with some effort and a lot of mistakes — how to regulate curiosity. 

Also known as: anxiety. 

At least when it comes to certain things. 

And this… 

This was one of them. 

...

I got to the newsroom a little before nine, coat still zipped to my neck and eyes too dry to look just tired. The coffee in my hand was more about protocol than need — like holding it might help keep some structure intact. A scene worthy of those behind-the-scenes journalism films, except without the flawless wardrobe, without the soundtrack, and without the performative charm of the lead. 

Pre-season buzz had taken over everything: the screens, the fragmented conversations between coffee breaks, the story pitch spreadsheets. 

McLaren was starting strong. Mercedes promised consistency. And Red Bull — for the first time in years — seemed unsure of its own script. That alone was enough to spark every theory imaginable. 

I greeted people with a chin-nod here, a half-smile there. The mug in my hands was a shield — the perfect excuse not to linger in conversation. It was still early, but inside me it felt like noon. A whole day was already lived in silence — or maybe in delay. Like some part of me was spinning in a different clock. An older one. Louder. 

At my desk, I opened the team’s email, aligned three files on the screen, and took a deep breath. But the draft stared back at me like an impatient version of myself. The feature article was still raw, headlines unfinished, the opinion section waiting for edits. I tried to focus. Tried to write. 

Another Christian Horner interview was taking up too much space in the news cycle: 

"Full confidence in the RB21." 

"We're learning from early challenges." 

"Absolute focus on recovery." 

Words lined up like PR notes. Crisis script, recycled. 

McLaren was leading. Mercedes was threatening. And for the first time in years, Red Bull seemed lost inside its own narrative. 

No one in Formula 1 knows how to lose. 

They only know how to change the story. 

That’s when Maren appeared at the door. No knock. With the kind of subtlety only someone with big news and no intention of softening the blow can pull off. 

“You haven’t seen it yet?” she asked, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. She wore that half-smile — part warning, part tease. 

“Seen what?” I asked, fingers still on the keyboard. 

She stepped closer, leaning against the doorframe like she had no plans to leave. 

“Wolff. He asked for you.” 

I turned my head slowly. 

“Asked how?” 

“Ghostwriter. Authorized biography. Set to release next year. There’s already a contract, a timeline, an international publisher. And he was specific: he wants you on the project.” 

I went still. Picked up my now-cold coffee again. My body quiet. 

Only my stomach reacted — that dry twist that comes when something brushes the past without asking permission. 

“He knows I was the one who approved that behind-the-scenes series on Mercedes?” I asked. “The column that ran when Hamilton announced he was leaving?” 

“He knows. It was translated, actually. And he still asked for you.” 

She didn’t smile. Just looked at me — like someone who already knew I’d say yes, even if I really wanted to say no. 

...

The email was still unopened, but it lingered — insistent. Hovering. As if it carried more than just text — like it was, in itself, a question. 

I kept telling myself it was just work. 

A professional offer. 

A chance to tell a relevant, respected story. 

But the truth was simpler. 

And harder to admit: 

If it had been anyone else’s name, I wouldn’t have hesitated. 

But with him… 

With him, the hesitation was already an answer. 

Someone once told me that if your “yes” isn’t immediate, it’s because deep down, you’re already leaning toward “no.” 

You just haven’t figured out how to say it yet. 

But there are exceptions to every rule. There always are. 

Dear Anneliese,  The Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team is pleased to invite you to collaborate, as ghostwriter, on the official biography of Toto Wolff.  This project is more than a record of professional milestones. It is, above all, an attempt to understand the turning points, the quiet decisions, and the untold versions of a life lived under constant pressure — both on and off the track.  Your precise listening, contextual insight, and ability to name what so often goes unnoticed make you the natural choice to take on this mission. There’s something in your editorial perspective — in the way you organize the non-obvious — that we consider essential here.  We’re aware that projects of this magnitude require time, commitment, and a rare level of trust. That’s exactly why this invitation comes with the freedom to say no — but also with the hope that you’ll say yes.  The attached proposal outlines the preliminary details regarding schedule, confidentiality terms, and suggested editorial structure. We remain at your disposal for any questions.  Kind regards,  Special Projects Team  Mercedes-AMG Petronas Formula One Team 

I closed the laptop. 

Then opened it again. 

Then shut it once more. 

Several good years in journalism. 

Five covering motorsport. 

I’d covered everything from Sauber’s chaos to Red Bull’s golden years, from Grosjean’s crash to Vettel’s tearful farewell. I’m hereby announce my... It was a hell of a day this one. 

It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to write from behind the curtain. 

I’d been there before — the voice arranging other people’s truths. 

The presence who caught what the subject was trying to forget. 

I’d built narratives with more delicacy than the truth deserved. 

Protected reputations between commas. 

Edited out the emotional excess of those desperate to seem untouchable. 

But this invitation was different. 

Because he wasn’t just another name. 

He was the name. 

The only one who, even after all this time, could still make my body hesitate. 

He’d always been good with words. 

Never hid in silence. 

Said what he thought — with conviction, without filter. Sometimes with precision. Sometimes with urgency. 

There was something raw in the way he shaped his sentences. 

As if feeling deeply was, in itself, proof of being right. 

Back then, I thought it was beautiful. 

But later, I learned: 

Intensity isn’t listening. 

And those who talk too much often hear no one. 

Not even Mercedes — with all their media machinery — could filter what he let slip. Sometimes it seemed like he used the truth as a tool — revealed just enough to appear transparent, never enough to be vulnerable. He wielded language like a thermometer: said what needed to be heard, even when it sounded spontaneous. And that’s when it got hardest to tell. 

Yes. 

No. 

Yes? 

Meanwhile, the old phrase pounded in my head: 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

The stopwatch never lies. 

And right now, the stopwatch was screaming. 

...

The newsroom was still murmuring the end of one of the last meetings when Adrian approached my door, his body slightly leaning forward, like someone who wants to come in without crossing a line.  

"Did you see the new piece about Ferrari's testing in Maranello?"  

His voice carried that spark only recent graduates still have — as if every new bit of information might rewrite the whole season.  

"They’re saying the car’s lighter, with much cleaner cornering response. It might just be hype... but it sounds promising."  

I nodded without taking my eyes off the screen.  

"Ferrari always sounds promising."  

"But this time..."  

He paused. Wanted to convince me. Hoped for some sign of validation — a look, a question, anything.  

"Leclerc said he’s never felt this much stability in the sims."  

I took a deep breath, removed my glasses, and let the silence stretch—just long enough to become heavy.  

"What's new isn’t always what matters, Adrian. Sometimes, it's what repeats that reveals the most."  

He frowned, like he couldn’t decide if that was criticism or café-philosophy.  

"I just wanted to know your bet," he said, with a smile that tried to stay light. "You’re usually right."  

"Bets are for people who still want to be surprised."  

I turned back to the draft. He didn’t push. Left slowly, almost disappointed.  

From across the newsroom, Jonas muttered without looking up:  

"She still bets. Just not out loud. Not anymore."  

I pretended I hadn’t heard.  

But I had.  

Later, in the hallway, Maren caught up with quick steps. She was holding her phone, brow slightly furrowed, like she’d read something she hadn’t yet decided was ridiculous or inevitable.  

"How many times did you open the email before you actually read it?"  

I gave a half-smile. Didn’t bother denying it.  

"A few."  

"I thought you’d ignore it."  

"So did I."  

She took a slow sip of her coffee.  

"Are you going to accept?"  

I nodded.  

"Even knowing how it ends?"  

"I don’t know how it ends."  

Not yet.  

She looked at me sideways — the kind of look that doesn’t judge. Just understands.  

"And you’ll be able to write it like nothing was left behind?"  

"I’ve never known how to write like that."  

She nodded once.  

"Then maybe it’ll work."  

We stood there in silence for a few more seconds. Lukewarm coffee, white walls, the kind of moment no one would remember.  

Except us.  

"Brave," she said.  

"Or stupid."  

"Sometimes, the only difference is who's watching."  

...

I looked out the window. Not even my late-night neighbor was awake.  

I packed around two a.m., when the city was already asleep and even the building’s usual noises had quieted. Everything felt suspended — a kind of pause I hesitated to disturb.  

I folded clothes like someone closing a book whose ending they already knew.  

Each fold was more about control than preparation.  

I chose neutral pieces, discreet. Tailored pants, three blouses that matched each other. No patterns, no textures that carried memories. Nothing he could recognize from afar. No scent that might suggest repetition.  

It was automatic. But not accidental.  

There was intention in every choice.  

As if clothing could serve as armor.  

As if the right fabric might stop something from returning — or escaping.  

I replied to the email before two-thirty. Few words. The right tone: formal, technical, politely receptive. Every punctuation mark measured. But the real answer had already come — in that moment when I opened the message and my body, without asking me first, reacted like something had finally clicked back into place.  

Or like I had never really left that place at all.  

At the bottom of my backpack, the old notebook.  

Black cover, frayed edges, loose elastic.  

The pages were full of loose phrases, bits of interviews, notes that never made it into any article.  

Things he said — not the official ones. The others.  

The ones that slipped out when he thought no one was listening.  

Words that never made the headlines, but never left me either.  

Some things we don’t publish. But we don’t erase them either.  

Along with the notebook, I packed the bracelet.  

Simple. No visible value. No shine. No signature.  

It didn’t stay out of sentiment or longing.  

It stayed because, out of everything I chose not to keep, it was the only thing that never asked to stay.  

And maybe that’s why it did.  

The airport was quiet, but not calm.  

People too sleepy to truly be there.  

A woman slept with her head on her suitcase. A teenager watched a video without headphones. Two executives debated franchise numbers like someone around them might care.  

No one did.  

Neither did I.  

At the gate, I felt that familiar pull in my stomach.  

It wasn’t fear. It was anticipation.  

Like I was going back to a place where I’d left a version of myself I hadn’t had the courage to retrieve — but that was now waiting for me.  

Right where I’d left her.  

The flight was silent. I chose the window seat.  

Refused the snack. Accepted the wine.  

The first questions started forming in my head. Structures, tones, narrative routes. But each one crumbled before it took shape.  

I typed notes into my phone. Deleted them before landing.  

I tried to remember what the book was supposed to be.  

Deleted that too.  

What remained, as always, was memory.  

Vienna, 2016.   The way he ran his fingers along my ribs, slowly, like retracing a familiar landscape that still knew how to give chills.   And for one full second — a second that still hasn’t ended —   he seemed to recognize me with a precision no one else ever had.  

Suzuka, 2019.   He spoke for twenty minutes without saying what actually mattered.   The abrupt exit. The way he turned away, like he’d forgotten something — but wouldn’t go back for it.  

It wasn’t about romance.  

Not passion either.  

It was about understanding.  

Like when he touched me, he grasped something I didn’t yet have a name for.  

And somehow, that alone was enough to throw me off balance.  

There were others.  

Men who tried. Who were kind. Present. Gentle.  

Some even made me laugh like that might be enough.  

But the body remembers.  

And memory doesn’t compare — it recognizes.  

There was something in his eyes — direct, unwavering — that no one else could replicate.  

And maybe a part of me never truly left either.  

That’s it: he’s an old language I still understand without needing translation.  

Even though I should’ve forgotten how to pronounce it by now.  

I landed in London shortly after nine.  

Took the train to Oxfordshire without saying a word.  

The team’s driver was waiting at the station.  

“Comfortable trip?” he asked.  

I nodded, like someone still arriving from a place they never actually left.  

And I watched the rest of the ride through the window.  

Brackley appeared just as I remembered: clean, efficient, gray. The kind of town built so that nothing stays out of place for too long.  

The Mercedes building looked almost exactly the same.  

The sleek facade reflected a dull sky across mirrored panels. The halls felt quieter than necessary — as if even sound had to be carefully engineered not to interfere.  

It was the architecture of precision: made to think fast, decide right, and fail as little as possible.  

A place where the past wasn’t welcome — only data.  

I walked in.  

I was greeted by a new staffer. Too young to have lived through any real comms crisis, with perfectly trimmed hair and that polite smile that never goes beneath the surface.  

He looked proud to deliver the message: “Mr. Wolff requested you personally, Miss Weiss. Directly.”  

It landed like an award announcement.  

I smiled back. Short. Just enough to end the moment before it lasted longer than it should’ve.  

The silence in the halls was as deliberate as everything else.  

White. Untouched. People-less. Even the doors opened with excessive care, like asking permission was part of the protocol.  

Boring.  

On the wall, a photo of Niki Lauda.  

Captured mid-track, mid-drive — no posing, no flair.  

His expression was restrained, his body leaning forward like the only thing that mattered was the next two seconds.  

No heroism. Just focus.  

The image of someone who survived his own story and kept moving like it didn’t cost him anything.  

I sat down and crossed my legs. Checked my phone.  

Maren had messaged:  

“If you disappear for more than 72 hours, I’m assuming you’ve been kidnapped. Want me to go over the contract?”  

I replied: “Yes. And if I vanish for more than 96, publish everything.”  

She answered with a bomb emoji.  

I smiled. Alone.  

Thank God for her. Thank God she exists in my life. 

I touched the bracelet on my wrist. The metal was cold.  

I looked at my reflection in the door glass. My eyes looked darker than yesterday. Or maybe just more awake.  

Then I realized:  

He doesn’t know.  

He doesn’t know I never stopped watching.  

Even from a distance. Even in silence.  

I saw everything.  

The pressers. The interviews.  

The way his voice dropped when he wanted to end a subject. The pause before denying something.  

The way he crossed his arms when he felt control slipping.  

The smiles that died before reaching his eyes.  

I didn’t speak.  

Didn’t send a message.  

Didn’t come back.  

But I saw.  

The silence between us wasn’t one-sided.  

It was a choice. A shared one.  

The door clicked open.  

Torger.  

He appeared in the doorway like someone who knows exactly the effect he has, even if he didn’t plan it.  

The same posture as always: grounded, unhurried, like every inch of him was aware of its own space.  

Dark suit perfectly tailored, tie centered, expression controlled.  

But the eyes... the eyes betrayed him before his voice did.  

It was in the details that everything slipped through.  

The quick scrunch of his nose.  

The slight raise of his left eyebrow — the one he pretended wasn’t a tell.  

The way he tugged at his shirt sleeve unnecessarily — small, but visible. Especially to me.  

He always did that when he was trying too hard to seem calm.  

The face was the same.  

But the eyes… had that old thing.   

Not tenderness. Not anger.

Familiarity.

And with it, a hint of something else — a flash of mischief, almost boyish, from someone who remembers more than he lets on. 

He looked at me like he was checking if a ghost still had a shadow.  

He stepped back half a pace, leaving space for me to enter. The gesture was reserved.  

But the look couldn’t hold the same control: there was a trace — almost imperceptible — of someone who’d waited too long for this moment to pretend it was just business.  

“Come in.”  

His voice was lower than I remembered.  

But still steady. Still his.  

And at that moment, it felt like everything after him had just been noise.  

And so, I went.  

Some roads have no exits.  

And others, we walk down knowing exactly where they end — but we go anyway.  

Because part of growing is learning that some pain isn’t meant to be avoided.  

It’s meant to be faced.  

Some roads we take knowing exactly how they end.  

And still, we go. 

Not out of hope.  

But because some things deserve a final sentence — whatever that may mean.  

...

Curious to know more? Dive into Chapter Two right here: 02 | We Met Before The Hello.

[annabelle--cane]

annabelle doesn't let herself mull. she doesn't let herself consider whether she does or doesn't like her job. she likes the feeling of a task well done, she likes the satisfaction of seeing two cogs click together just the right way, she likes seeing patterns begin to emerge as she works tirelessly at her tapestry. she does not think about whether or not she likes the picture she works towards making. it's all moot, anyway. it's not like she could still her fingers if she ever cared to try.

she knows that she's ultimately worthless. that's not a trait unique to her, everyone is ultimately worthless, there's no task any one person can do that couldn't be done by thousands of others. she knows all of her predecessors died in agony to further the Mother's plans. but still, she counts herself lucky to get to spend even a short amount of time knowing the closest thing to the truth that any human mind ever will. she gets to know that she's reading from a script, and she even gets to peek at others' lines as she passes out the daily rewrites.

annabelle likes to feel important. annabelle likes to feel skilled. annabelle likes to feel admired. once upon a time, she might even have said she liked to feel in control. and sometimes, when she pulls just the right string, when she lands just the right spin, when she performs just like the Mother told her, she remembers she once wanted to feel loved. she lets the Mother keep that hook in her, it makes her a better dancer.

she sits in the basement of the house in which she has been assigned to live, listening to the latest round of archive tapes. one after the other, she listens to a potential weaver pull off a very neat little trick with some flames and tears and a group of doomed would-be heroes plant a batch of explosives. when she listens through again, she makes notes with a paper and pen about which clips would drive the most tension to cut back and forth between in her final edit.

[pinkrangersarah]

Please do the random headcanons you've got for the Fearless 7, I really wanna know what you have in mind and also feel free to even make a post for every single one of them!

Thank you, I love ya! 🙏🏻

shout out to @kehnarii for sending me all these requests, you are truly a peach and I am delighted to answer anything you send <333

anyway, I have thought about these clowns a ridiculous amount and what better way to dump all those thoughts here because lmaooo what else am I gonna do with them. i'm going to keep them here, though, for simplicity sake.

Merlin

Merlin and Arthur are half brothers, having the same father but different mothers; Merlin's mother is the current queen of Camalot. They're from the same fairy tale but the dynamic is wildly different, so I thought them being half brothers would be kind of a neat spin. Arthur is the oldest of the two.

Had to study magic in some secrecy as the texts he used formerly belonged to Arthur's first step-mother who turned out to be a witch. This is partially why lightning, despite its versatility, is his only spell.

Vegetarian. Nothing else to say here. Just a vibe I get from him.

Bi-curious, I think. Definitely leans toward women, but he'd be lying if he said he hasn't found a man or two attractive.

Shit driver. Do they have cars? Probably not, but consider a modern day setting. He's the worst driver out of the seven of them. Has absolutely stayed at a right-on-red light way too long due to panic, pissing off everyone behind him. This but it's Merlin and Jack.

Decent with kids. Knows a couple of party magic tricks and kids tend to like them.

Arthur

Arthur has a younger half sister, Morgan--or better known as Morgana Le Fay--a witch who is mysteriously absent. She is the king of Camalot's second child from his second wife, which makes her Merlin's older half sister. Arthur was very close to her up until her disappearance; having been raised with a bias toward witches, it made for a rather difficult separation.

Not the dumb jock stereotype some people make him out to be! While he can be reckless, brash, and immature, Arthur does have political knowledge and knows the ins and outs of his kingdom.

Straighter than Merlin's parking but a very vocal ally. Jack just casually implied he was bi and Arthur just scooped him up in a big hug and told him he would always support him. Jack was high-key confused, low-key annoyed but appreciated the sentiment anyway.

Second worst driver, mostly due to not paying attention to speed limits. Or stop lights. Just not paying attention period. Low-key road rage.

Arthur is great with kids, probably because A) he is a big brother and B) he's a big guy so kids want to climb him like a jungle gym.

Jack

Adopted into royalty as his step-father, a king, married his mother after Jack defeated the Giant and made his family wealthy.

His mother has a tendency to be emotionally manipulative, only being a doting mother whenever he does something that benefits her, such as stealing from and slaying the Giant. She was kinder when his father was alive, but only got nastier after he perished at the hands of the Giant.

Although he had been pampered and brought up as a true prince since ever since his mother married into the royal family (he was about ten years old), there is a part of him that has not forgotten where he came from. He grew up on a farm. His father taught him how to fight. Jack is stronger than he looks and can be scrappy if absolutely need be.

While the other guys of the F7 drive him absolutely insane sometimes, Jack prefers them over his own family since he's allowed to be himself around them. He's gotten used to the princely persona, but there is a small, unacknowledged part of him that kind of hates it due to the role having been practically forced on him.

He does genuinely like nice things, though. Low-key bird brain.

Jack is the only multilingual of the seven, speaking not only English and French but also German and Italian. This is only a little annoying to Hans and the triplets as they can't hide anything from him in their native tongues.

Biologically, Jack is an only child. He does, however, have an older step brother whom he has mixed feelings for.

Bisexual with a leaning toward women

His name actually is "Jacques", but people kept pronouncing it as "Jack" and he eventually gave up correcting them. Will end the bloodline of anyone who calls him "Jackie", though.

Decent driver. Sometimes gets way too into whatever he's listening to and misses an exit or turn. Is usually the navigator or DJ. Is the type to yell "I will turn this car around" if people are arguing in the backseat.

Terrible with kids. The house is on fire. God is dead. Wine aunt.

Hans

Hans and his sister, Gretel, are twins, though Hans is the older of the two. It's where his mom friend demeanor comes from.

Is honestly the best liar out of the seven of them. He doesn't lie often, doesn't like doing so, but he has such an honest face and earnest demeanor that he can make anyone believe just about anything.

Pansexual but I don't think he'd know that about himself. He just likes people.

Best driver out of the seven of them, but does that soccer mom thing if he has to slam on the brakes unexpectedly. Can't read a map to save his life, though.

Also great with kids. He's also a big brother, and his genuinely kind and upbeat nature makes kids gravitate toward him.

Pino, Noki, & Kio

As they all have a very similar fashion sense, even they sometimes aren't sure whose clothes are whose.

They do have distinguishing features if one is to look close enough. The height difference isn't much, but it is there with Pino and Kio being the tallest and Noki the shortest. Kio is the only one with freckles. Pino has heterochromia with one blue eye and one brown.

They are introduced from oldest to youngest. Pino is the oldest of the triplets, Noki being the middle and Kio the youngest. Noki is only a little salty that Kio is taller than him despite being younger.

kio vc: you're older by like eight minutes

noki vc: I will break your knee caps

Terrible liars. They get flustered quickly and contradict one another. Can't keep a secret to save their lives and it's usually Kio who breaks first. (I know this is sort of contradictory, but they're based off Pinocchio so I think it'd be fitting if they were some of the worst liars among the seven of them.)

Noki read Jack's trashy romance novels. He thinks they're hilariously terrible. Would honestly probably like Twilight for the same reason.

Decent drivers but cannot be left in any vehicle alone together. If there's no else there to keep them on track, they will get way too into a conversation and get completely lost.

Have the potential to be okay with kids (that ending credit sequence give some the impression those three kids were low-key adopted by them or at least became assistants or something), but they do need to be kept in check due to their mad scientist energies.

[centrally-unplanned]

Buffy season 3 thoughts, edited for clarity but presented in the order that I wrote them:

The hell dimension twist in the first episode is great. Again, love that the writers usually do some extra little something: whatever the problem looks like in the front half of the show, it probably won't be that neat by the back half.

Mr. Trick is a great character but I keep hearing "Angel, Angel," and "Spike, Spike," but no "Mr. Trick, Mr. Trick," so I am concerned that he is going to die this season. Edit — : ,,, (

The Mayor is also incredible. I thought he was going to be a secret demon or something and instead he's just Some Guy. Just incredible.

wtf I ship Giles/Joyce now. Edit — !!!!

Lurconis: least problematic demon so far. I mean, he eats babies, not people.

Are all watchers British? Did the Watchers do an imperialism? Are the Watchers why the British did an imperialism?

I love the Mayor.

<3 Spike's romantic reminiscence about him and his gf…killing a homeless man.

The Slayer is really not doing a great job if all these vampires from season 2 were able to survive for – how long has it been? five months? six months? – however long it was between 2x22 and 3x08.

Why does a ""pagan"" magic shop have bottles of holy water? I mean, sure, the Wiccans have "holy water," but this holy water came in bottles with little crosses on them!

the funeral fakeout is incredible <3 <3 <3

how exactly does Spike drive his car in the daytime?

It is really incredibly easy to drive a stake through a vampire's heart. It's as if they don't even have ribs. Must be the lack of calcium in their diet.

I think it's odd that Giles didn't tell Anya that Cordelia had, you know, died because of the wish she made. Destroying the "power center" shouldn't have worked, because it explicitly undoes every wish that Anya granted, which means the world should still be different, just a different kind of different (if they'd wanted to reboot the series a bit, that would have been a valid way to do so, come to think of it, but anyway).

incredibly shocked that cordelia died in the AU episode: I can't think of another show with a similar plot where the canon immigrant dies rather than plays a vital role in setting right what went wrong.

Amy makes an adorable rat. Somebody should have been an animal for a few episodes. I hear that Oz leaves the show later – just say he got caught in full wolf form and let the role of Oz be played by a husky. EDIT — I am delighted that she remains a rat through this season. So silly.

I don't want to sound like a broken record so I'm going to try to keep shut about this, but just know that every time Wicca comes up, I die a little.

The Zeppo was incredible. No notes. I've seen some people hate on this episode, even complain about not being able to see Buffy's entire adventure, and all of the haters are wrong.

I need more of the Mayor and Faith. Where's the Fix Fic where the Mayor contributes to Faith's mental health by being a rock of unconditional support and, wouldn't you know it, faith? Why do we not at least get to see them play mini golf together? I love them.

Xander should have come out as gay.

The bad werewolf costume was understandable, but then the hellhounds!? Why do the Buffy costumers think that canines look like people? Just put some dogs in costumes, or call them something other than hellhounds.

It's funny (and deeply sad) how Faith's relationship with the Mayor was plausibly the healthiest relationship that she's had up. Buffy and others made genuine attempts to connect with her but a healthy relationship takes two to tango and Faith's inability to be vulnerable in Buffy's social circle was a problem.

"We're proud to say that the class of '99 has the lowest mortality rate of any graduating class in Sunnydale history" lmao lmao forever

There is a criminal shortage of Faith & The Mayor fics.

Boggles my mind that some people think that the Mayor didn't care about Faith.

You finished the Big 3! For a lot of people this is their favorite season - it is the peak of "classic Buffy" as one might say, with the high school settings, plot concepts, and also Angel still being around as opposed to in spin-off Los Angeles. It is a much more polished version of what Season 1 or 2 is trying to do, and engages in a lot more "worldbuilding" - radical for 90's TV.

The hell dimension twist in the first episode is great. Again, love that the writers usually do some extra little something: whatever the problem looks like in the front half of the show, it probably won't be that neat by the back half.

Agreed; this is funny because it is, partially, absolutely a product of it being serial TV and them just kind of winging it, and having to "stack" twists. But nowadays watching all the "plotted" tv shows that sort of streeeeeetch their clearly-4-episodes-of-story over 8, it is nice how Buffy doesn't do that as much! It does crazy melodrama shit instead! Pick your poison I guess but in Buffy it works.

Mr. Trick is a great character but I keep hearing "Angel, Angel," and "Spike, Spike," but no "Mr. Trick, Mr. Trick," so I am concerned that he is going to die this season. Edit — : ,,, (

Look man this is your fault - you thought a black character could survive in 90's California Suburbia TV Land long enough to get recurring character billing and SAG pay? Fuck no, gotta wait till season 7 for that privilege. But yeah Mr Trick is really fun - vampire blaxpoitation mafia master is a genre we always need more of.

The Mayor is also incredible. I thought he was going to be a secret demon or something and instead he's just Some Guy. Just incredible.

i mean he is also a secret demon. that was a pretty significant thing that happened. like i understand where you’re coming from here but they very much did make him a secret demon.

But no, meme'ing aside the Mayor is amazing - he is one of the few villains who can compete with "villain protagonists" like Angel or Spike. He is total camp but also deep enough to carry his relationship with Faith, very good dual roles. Also so fun whenever him and Principal Synder are just being little gits together <3

wtf I ship Giles/Joyce now. Edit — !!!!

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) ain't no one stopping these hotties

Are all watchers British? Did the Watchers do an imperialism? Are the Watchers why the British did an imperialism?

The Watchers absolutely did an imperialism, they are a global organization of patriarchy child soldier users, ain't no way they didn't get their hands dirty. But I will grant that, in all likelihood, they are British because "magic" probably got its biggest start in the UK - Merlin, the druidic-wiccan stuff, etc, and they seem to be very politically ignorant of the wider "muggle" world. So I think they were just free-riders on that process, not instigators.

<3 Spike's romantic reminiscence about him and his gf…killing a homeless man.

I was gonna say, the Xander/Willow affair dud is almost worth it because it culminates in the episode where Spike rolls back into town to fix his love life, which is incredible - nothing a little domestic violence can't cure, thanks Buffy!! You can just see how much fun Spike & Drusilla have with their roles.

Why does a ""pagan"" magic shop have bottles of holy water? I mean, sure, the Wiccans have "holy water," but this holy water came in bottles with little crosses on them!

This ties back into the weird "Christian magic gap" - in a world where Christianity is clearly, in some way, "correct", the church seems to be extremely impotent in comparison to some old British librarians. The Wiccans, your mortal enemy, are pretty much running the show.

But I will give that Season 2 (see Jenny Calendar's shop visits) established that a lot of the "pagan" shops are essentially fronts for actual magic stores catering to the spellcaster and demonic communities, and in that part of their business they don't discriminate on denomination. They will stock holy water and omamori out of the same bin.

how exactly does Spike drive his car in the daytime?

Oh, he covers up the glass with heavy padding so light doesn't go in, you can see it in the episode!

Do you mean how does he avoid not smashing into two dozen cars and killing a few pedestrians every block while driving? Oh, that is easy - he doesn't!

It is really incredibly easy to drive a stake through a vampire's heart. It's as if they don't even have ribs. Must be the lack of calcium in their diet.

This is one of those things that was clearly meant to be a "Slayer Power" thing - people even joked that Slayers had the ability to empower anything they held into a magic stake, how she can kill with like a ruler - but then as the show went on you see like fucking Willow do it. So yeah, just no bones on the chest I guess.

I think it's odd that Giles didn't tell Anya that Cordelia had, you know, died because of the wish she made. Destroying the "power center" shouldn't have worked, because it explicitly undoes every wish that Anya granted, which means the world should still be different, just a different kind of different (if they'd wanted to reboot the series a bit, that would have been a valid way to do so, come to think of it, but anyway).

I ofc did not watch the episode as recently as you, but I thought Giles didn't retain his memories after the timeline reversion, right? So he couldn't warn anyone. And yes, that comment about all the wishes is honestly just sloppy writing, and this whole amulet deal will be explicitly contradicted in later episodes re: vengeance demons. Still, you can be very charitable and read it as "active" wishes - if you wished someone dead 30 years ago, that isn't a magical alternate reality, they are just dead now, so you can say it's locked in. Most people don't wish for parallel universes, after all.

Amy makes an adorable rat. Somebody should have been an animal for a few episodes. I hear that Oz leaves the show later – just say he got caught in full wolf form and let the role of Oz be played by a husky. EDIT — I am delighted that she remains a rat through this season. So silly.

You are gonna be SO HAPPY about how long she is a rat lmao

The Zeppo was incredible. No notes. I've seen some people hate on this episode, even complain about not being able to see Buffy's entire adventure, and all of the haters are wrong.

Hating The Zeppo because you can't see the whole Buffy adventure is like hating Rosencrantz & Guildenstern because it isn't Hamlet, you can't do that! Go to another play! The Zeppo is exactly why the show needs someone like Xander, because how Hellmouth Sunnydale totally fucks with the regulars is a great source of hijinks only Xander can lean into.

Also hot Faith moments. Not the hottest one with Xander though, that comes later in the season <3

I need more of the Mayor and Faith. Where's the Fix Fic where the Mayor contributes to Faith's mental health by being a rock of unconditional support and, wouldn't you know it, faith? Why do we not at least get to see them play mini golf together? I love them.

<3 <3 <3 It is like "Daddy issues - but good! Well, not good. Really, really bad. But nice!" I do think that the finale is a bit of a misstep because by making the mayor a gigantic worm thing he can't really have "human" moments anymore, and Faith/Mayor could have used more screentime (I know, she is out of the picture then, but they wrote it that way).

And yeah to pick up on other Faith comments, I just enjoy how committed to the "bit" she is about being evil which very obviously is not her whole self, and cannot be her whole self. She needed someone who "got" that, and Buffy was just way too much of a moral bright light to look at directly for her. There is a very good arc in Angel actually with Faith around this dynamic, if you ever wanna dip into that side of things.

Xander should have come out as gay.

I know the context for this but it's better without. Let them fuck in the shower room!! Don't be afraid, man.

"We're proud to say that the class of '99 has the lowest mortality rate of any graduating class in Sunnydale history" lmao lmao forever

This was a Very Topical Joke at the time!!!

Boggles my mind that some people think that the Mayor didn't care about Faith.

Yeah that seems like a weak take to me. I do get it, like he is evil and it is all 100% a manipulative front, you can argue that. But his whole character is that he isn't that. He is authentically a folksy mayor, he cares about that stuff, he just cares about being an immortal demon more. As Demon Lord I totally bet he would still have a civic affairs board to plan proper parades of his Torture Legions down Main St, the guy is Lawful Evil for real. In the same way, he totally saw Faith as an adopted daughter for his parody family dynamic. He wasn't gonna compromise his vision for it, but he didn't have to. Win-win.

[cels-not-so-secret-love-affair]

evening comforts (minerva/poppy)

a/n: this is some very fluffy minerva mcgonagall x poppy pomfrey. i’ve been told their ship name is wiseflower? cute if true. anyways, i was so very kindly requested to write this by a very dear friend, and i really enjoyed it! i love receiving requests.

Minerva’s barely turned back to her marking when there’s yet another knock on the door. She sighs, and speaks without looking up, eyes still scanning the essay beneath her fingertips with intent. Her tone is one of barely constrained exasperation.

‘For goodness’ sake, Mr Black!’ she calls. ‘I am perfectly aware of your feelings towards tutoring but I regret to inform you that you’re doing it anyway. If you are wanting to have yet another argument with me about it you’ll be kind enough to come again tomorrow morning.’ There is no reply. Preparing herself to put on her best scolding voice, she huffs and sets down her quill, before looking up towards the door. Her eyes widen slightly when she finds, not her remarkably talkative pupil as expected, but Poppy Pomfrey. She’s wearing a warm smile and the edges of her figure are soft and hazy in the firelight.

‘Sirius is in trouble, I take it?’ she giggles.

‘When is he not?’ Minerva groans, dropping her head into her hands. The act is somewhat overdramatic. Poppy looks at her fondly and crosses to the desk to rub her shoulders. Before them, the fire warming the room crackles happily in its hearth.

‘Have you much more to do?’ Poppy asks softly.

‘It seems it. I’m sorry, my dear. Know I’d much prefer to spend my evening settled in bed with you.’

‘I’m not fussed. I’ve a book, and you’ve a nice warm room with a spare chair in it. I can keep you company, if you don’t mind?’ Minerva turns to beam up at her wife, her smile lighting up her eyes with affection behind her old fashioned reading glasses.

‘That would be absolutely wonderful.’

The following hour or so passes quietly and comfortably. It’s a tender, loving silence that they sink into, all shared smiles and flicking pages. What Poppy is reading is less of a book and more of a tome; its big and heavy, with lots of lengthy annotations in neat looping cursive and detailed botanical diagrams. She’s got it suspended in the air before her - a handy trick that means she doesn’t have to strain her neck - and every now and then she’ll adjust its position with an easy flick of her wand. Minerva alternates between marking the stack of essays before her, as are her professional duties, and gazing fondly at Poppy when she’s not looking, as are her wifely duties. Halfway through a particularly long and poorly written page of parchment she gives up on marking entirely and draws out a clean sheet from her desk alongside a set of pencils. Over time, slow, careful strokes of graphite weave themselves into a larger picture, beginning to merge together into light and shadow. These build and build until the drawing is recognisable as the woman sat before her - relaxed comfortably in an armchair, with loose curls cradling her face prettily and warm, rosy cheeks. The portrait is not completely faithful to real life. Here and there edges are softened. Her hospital uniform falls away, and she is clothed instead in a flattering boat neck top with loose sleeves, and a long denim skirt with buttons down the front. It’s a portrait conjured up through the lens of a lover. Poppy at her happiest.

The sketch does get put away though, eventually, and Minerva returns with reluctance to the very last of her marking. After about four more pages though, she’s finished, and rounds off her final letter with a satisfying flourish. Poppy looks up, having grown accustomed to the sound from many a evening spent just like this one. She lets her book fall to her lap with an almost imperceptible whoosh.

‘Excellent timing, my love. I’ve just finished my chapter.’ Minerva smiles sleepily at her and stands up to stretch.

‘Most of them did better than I thought they would,’ she says, gesturing to the pile of neatly stacked papers. ‘I’m rather proud.’

‘All down to your wonderful teaching, I’m sure,’ Poppy replies whilst following her wife’s example and pulling herself up to her feet. Minerva, though quite past her schoolgirl days, flushes ever so slightly at her words.

‘I should think it time to go to bed now, yes?’

‘Very much so.’

‘After you then, dearest. I’d like you to tell me all about your book on the way up.’

[wonderhorror-sys]

anyway i havent seen anyone else talk about this so i will!! i may not be the first but yk yk.

in-sys communication is a multifaceted (hah) topic and one such facet is literally, speaking internally. being able to hear each other....s thoughts. and feel their feelings. to an extent, but any extent is more than you can get with someone you dont share a brain with (probably). which is, often, great! you know, i dont even have to ask which ice cream flavour you want because i already heard you thinking about it. neat trick! however while ive never heard it spoken of negatively in a serious light (which i have my own theories on), its definitely not all sunshine and rainbows (as they say).

taking things out of a system context for a second, imagine you have like, a friend or coworker or something. someone who might come to you for help. imagine for me then, you're trying to help them with Whatever, but you're panicking about it, or would really rather be doing something else right now. such things. but you are going to help them. so you dont say that part and try your best to keep it under control.

in this sort of system communication you do NOT get that chance - at least not in my experience! if an alter needs help and i dont want to i dont get to act like im not bothered by it. if an alter scares me but ultimately didnt do anything wrong ill make them feel bad.

just because the communication is easier and clearer doesn't make it better, i've found. obviously not everyone relates (i mean, maybe ive never heard anyone talk about it because its wonderhorror-exclusive idk). but i thought it was worth bringing up. being able to hear each other isnt the end all be all, you need to figure out how to navigate situations with no secrets. basically like if everyone was a mind reader.

[turtleblogatlast]

Not to pick a bone here but is it really okay? I mean she tricked shelldon (Donnie's child!) Into getting to a death drone race and almost got chopped!!

If Donnie loves Shelldon to push him out of drone killing machine i don't know if he won't or can forgive Kendra for that.

Again not trying to pick a bone here just asking (not forced to answer if you want to)

Oh make no mistake I’m not calling it a super healthy ship or anything! Nor a regular ship that does what normal couples do like. At all. It just makes a lot of sense to me personally with their established personalities and the overall vibes of the show.

Keep in mind that Donnie himself is prone to doing a lot of pretty morally dubious things, so I don’t really think any of this is a dealbreaker for him, not quite. If they were older, and/or it went farther, I could see it being too much tho.

Rise is also like. A show that quite often goes the route of “these people tried to kill me/my family but let’s have a casual talk and be kinda friendly anyway” too, so I think that helps this ship in that regard. Because there’s already a basis for it, I suppose?

I totally get that this ship isn’t for everyone though, very understandable and I don’t care if people dislike it, no worries and no hard feelings if you’re not a fan.👍 Like I said before, I’m not even a big shipper, I just think they’re neat lol

[sorrowfulrosebud]

I-incorporating self care into Shiggy’s rules in your dom/sub dynamic 😵‍💫

It was no secret that Shigaraki had no concept of self care. Most of his waking moments were spent at the cruddy bar, often nursing neat whiskey or scotch with the ashes of dead heroes and civilians caked into his clothes. And, of course, the one thing that bothers you most; those damned nails writhing into his neck.

The sound was disgusting; layers of flesh being irately torn away by misdirected frustrations. Thick lines of crimson blood and scab contrasted harshly against his milky, skinny neck. You hated the tiny thin spider webs of blood that trickled down his wrinkles, embedding themselves deep into his skin.

As his dominant, you warned him about the consequences of him scratching his neck. You would give him a warning; then a verbal and then he would be subjected to whichever punishment you saw fit. You knew it would be difficult for him to stop; it was his addiction. It was the only way for him to cease the horrible itch inside him to kill, even if his master greatly encouraged him to do as he wanted. You needed him to take care of himself, even if if meant putting yourself at risk of his childish tantrums.

The faint glow of the bar lights was a sharp contrast to the scene inside. Dabi was leaning nonchalantly against the wall, passing comments about your submissive. The stapled man was bored, and he knew the best way to entertain himself was to stick himself in his boss’s sex life.

“Well damn, handjob. Who knew it took taking it up the ass to get you to shut up for a bit,” he smirked slyly, staples clinking at the action. Shigaraki glowered through Father.

“Shut it, patchwork. At least I get bitches and don’t stink like burnt flesh,” he bit back, hand slowly tightening around his glass. Dabi let out a dry laugh.

“Seems like you’re the only bitch here. What a waste; (Y/N) is far too sexy to be hanging out with a freak like you. I bet if I ask them nicely I can get some playtime,” he grinned, deeply enjoying pissing his boss off.

“You shut your fucking mouth now, and don’t talk about them like that,” he growled protectively. You were All For One’s gift to him; someone to keep him satiated and relaxed whilst AFO could teach him dirty tricks. Although you were a distraction for the young boss, you weren’t a big a distraction to cause trouble or throw a wrench into their plans.

Your rules caused pain and pleasure; AFO’s rules caused progress.

“Heh, I haven’t seen you so emotionally attached to someone, apart from that UA brat you keep tryna kill. I’m bored now anyway, enjoy your cock cage and leather harnesses,” Dabi waved his hand dully, walking away before Shigaraki could at least destroy his new coat.

Shigaraki was seething on the other hand. His chest raised and fell quickly, causing Kurogiri to look at him with slight confusion.

“Stupid fucking patchwork, talking about Mama like that. If he wasn’t integral to my plan, I would fucking kill him!” He glowered, eyes widening in his rage. The whisky glass disintegrated in his hand as he brought his hand up to his neck. It felt like his neck was burning; surely a single scratch would suffice? The thought of a punishment lingered heavily in his mind. He already had his warning, and his verbal. But you weren’t here, just one teeny scratch. Just to make the itching stop…

Kurogiri could only look away; he knew of your relationship and what time you would be back from your mission. It was up to his young boss to follow your rules.

Twenty minutes later and Shigaraki felt better. One teeny scratch turned into two… then 5… then the next thing he knew, he was writhing into his skin like he had fleas. He hadn’t scratched in so long; and now he felt like crying after his Mama’s hard work was ruined.

“Are you alright, young Tomura? Do you need your neck wrapping up?” He questioned, indicating to the blood dripping down his collarbones.

“Yes Tomura, do you?” Your voice cut through the atmosphere as Shigaraki’s head snapped to your frame in the door.

“M-mama, I-,” he starts, already trying to correct his mistake.

“Don’t. Go to the bedroom. Now. I need to speak with Kurogiri for a minute,” you replied coldly. Tomura whimpered, slowly leaving the bar stool and walking to his bedroom. Fuck, he was scared.

You entered the bedroom about 15 minutes later, ignoring Tomura as he perched anxiously on the end of the bed.

“Mama I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he whimpered, trying to tug the sleeve of your shirt. You looked at him with a malicious glare.

“How many times have I warned you about scratching, Tenko?” You asked coldly, grabbing hold of his wrist. His heart beat was elevated, thudding in his ears. His cock was twitching in his trousers, itching to be free.

“T-three times,” he mumbled embarrassedly, milky cheeks growing hot.

“Speak up, boy. Tell me how many times I warned you,” you demanded. Tenko looked you in the eye as he felt embarrassment wrap around his throat.

“Three times, mama,” he whimpered. You let go of his wrist before bending down to his face level.

“And do you remember what would happen if I told you a third time, baby boy?” You asked him, voice deadly quiet and yet Tenko could only hear your dominance.

“I would be punished,” he said nervously. You stood up before extending your hand out. Tenko looked at you before extending his back. Your hand wrapped around his, soft but firm at the same time. You led him to the bathroom, where you opened the medicine cabinet for the first aid kit.

“Sit on the toilet, brat,” you demanded. Tenko whined at the nickname, before shutting up at your harsh glare. He complied quickly, heart still beating quickly.

Red eyes traced your movements as you found the expensive creams, lotions and bandages to fix your baby boy up. Tenko hissed as the disinfectant burned his neck, before silencing himself at your pointed glare. The cotton pad tickled his Adams apple, eyes trained to the ceiling at your feather light touch.

“You have such a beautiful neck, Tenko. It hurts me so much to see you ruin it, because then I can’t mark you as my own. You end up hurting yourself, and put yourself at risk of infection. I knew you wouldn’t stop, so I’ve bought some special toys to hopefully get the message through,” you turned away to wrap a bandage around Tenko’s neck, feeling him gulp around the gauze.

“I warned you, baby. I told you what would happen if you disobeyed me yet again,” you scolded, holding out a pair of nail clippers and a file.

“It was Dabi, he kept on saying stupid things and pissing me off!” Tenko tried to defend himself as you glared at him.

“Tattle-tailing? Really? You’re having this punishment, brat. Understand?”

“Yes mama,” he whimpered as you took hold of his hand. You worked your magic, clipping the longer nails, smoothing and buffing them to just below the skin. You continued on the other hand, touch feather light but still grounding enough for Tenko.

A slightly cold cream was placed on his hands, making him shiver at the texture. You massaged it in expertly, before commanding him to stay seated. Tenko looked at you with slightly fearful eyes. Sensing his fear, you sighed before cupping his cheeks and kissing his forehead.

“I love you very much, Tenko. But, you disobeyed my rules and you must repent. Do you understand me, sweet pea?” You asked him, silently asking for consent. Tenko smoothed out at the affection, wrapping his arms around your midriff.

“I understand mama, I’m sorry,” he murmured into your tummy. You kissed his slightly perspired blue locks as you tap him to release you. You quickly trotted out the bedroom before coming back with a new box and his artists gloves.

“Put your gloves on baby, I can’t have you breaking our new toy,” you purred, a sly grin on your face. Tenko complied easily as you opened the box.

Inside there was a set of black mittens, thick and bulky. Tenko’s face immediately went a bright pink. Next to it lay a thick black collar, a soft black trim on the inside and a loop with a tag on it.

“Now, give me your hands sweetness,” you said, holding a mitten as he extended his hand. You slipped the mitten on, a small shiver going down Tenko’s spine.

“Good boy. And the other,” you rubbed his hand encouragingly. Tenko did so easily, feeling weirded out by the feeling of the mittens on his hands. The thick buckle was tight around his wrist, not so that he would lose circulation but there was no way he would be able to shake them off.

“What’s your colour, sweetpea?” You asked him gently. Tenko thought for a minute.

“Green, mama,” he mumbled shyly. He looked at the collar. Your eyes followed his as you showed him the name of the tag, his cock twitching at the name.

“Mama’s little whore. Fitting, right?” You giggled sultrily. Tenko’s boxers were becoming more and more snug by the second, pre staining his underwear. He fought a whine as you rubbed your thumbs over the protective gauze on his neck.

“If you can’t be a big boy and stop by yourself, you’ll have to do it my way.”

“P-please stop! Mama, it hurts!” Tenko sobbed as you continued spanking his ass. Mittened hands were rendered useless as you had them cuffed behind his back.

“No, that’s not what I asked. How many times have I spanked you?” You hummed as you pulled his hair back to look at him properly.

“F-forgot mama, I’m sorry,” he pathetically snivelled, leaky cock rutting against your legs. His brain was slowly melting into total mush.

“We were at 50, brat, now we have to start again,” you growled into his ear, carmine eyes widening as he struggled in your arms.

“Mama, no please! Hurts, anything else,” he sobbed, mittened hand squirming. Touch was a major part of his sexual preferences; it grounded him and soothed him.

“Such a whiny little slut, aren’t you? Can’t handle the consequences of your actions? Fine then, I know other ways to deal with brats,” you grunted, squeezing and slapping the flesh of Shigaraki’s ass once more.

Tenko’s muffled sobs echoed throughout the room as the steady rhythms of the fuck machine grazed against his G-spot. His cock was spent; 8 orgasms later and the boy was a babbling lunatic.

His mouth was stretched around his black ball gag, garnet eyes crossed and rolled to the back of his head. His nipples were hardened and red from your teasing. Each orgasm, he fought to hold your hand but let out sobs each time his knuckle grazed against the mittens.

“I told you, baby. Don’t scratch your neck.”

[shiroisotto64]

Carmine Headcanons

Benjamin

He’s always been described as green. Aka he follows the rules..mostly. Everyone has their moments am I right? Ben is respectful towards everyone and has a very eager air about him.

You wanna teach him neat military trick? He’s in. This leads to Ben and Baird spending a lot of time together. Imagine how much fun they’d have setting shit on fire? Exactly. And Baird finally has someone who actually tries to listen/understand his science talk.

He’d been real fun to be around. If your friends or together? He’s down to do things you like. Even if he hadn’t found it all to interesting before hand he’ll at least try to get into it for you. You like collecting antiques? He’ll save up to get you something whenever he can.

Gets real giddy when genuinely complimented. You noticed his tracking is getting better and say something about it? He’s touched! You think he’s getting real good at unjamming his lancer? Why thank you! He’s eats it all up and uses it as fuel to keep going.

With a s/o

Very respectful of boundaries. He won’t do anything without your explicit consent before hand. Including hand holding. He gets real shy when it comes to affection. He doesn’t mind it…but growing up with locust running around to kill you doesn’t leave a lot of time to get used to touch.

Ben would be super excited to genuinely spend time with you as well. Wanna walk around the yard? Sure, let’s go. Wanna eat lunch together? He’s damn there skipping to the hall. It’s so cute but the others definitely tease him for this. Marcus is just shaking his head in the corner but look closer he’s almost smiling!

Anthony

He needs to be put on a leash. He’s such a nerd. He’ll rant for hours about all the cool shit Marcus has done if anyone would let him. It’s funny how much he knows really.

Eager to train and get on the field. You can find him in the gym or shooting range. He likes the rush 1 and 2 he wants to stay sharp and be useful when called out. Rambles on the coms to. Marcus is normally the one to scold him to “shut the hell up!”

I feel like for some reason…he’d know a LOT of gossip around base..idk I can just feel it. Before you even tell him he already knows how the mission went. Luckily he’s open to talk about his missions too especially if he did something cool!

With a s/o

Likes no LOVES to show off. But he loses his cocky attitude when his gun fucks around and jams and oops he dropped it….ANYWAYS everyone has their days.

But lord help you cause it has to be nerve wracking being with him, he’s so eager and reckless at that. At least Ben follows orders Anthony just kinda forgets or gets wrapped up in the moment. He means no harm but still.

Clayton

He’s quieter than his brothers. Clayton just kinda chills there till he feels he needs to say anything. He’s more introverted prefers to keep to himself. He does have a sense of humor though. Albeit it’s a bit dry it’s there.

Clay cared a lot about his family especially his brothers. His affection is generally more quiet and shown through actions. A pat on the back here and a good job there. That’s his style even after the war he’s still kinda stiff.

He likes keeping his weapons in top shape. He’s found cleaning his guns and tags around the end of the week or right after a messy mission.

He’s not really picky about food or anything none of them are but I bet Clayton is the heaviest eater out of the carmines. Make him a hearty bowl and he’ll eat every last drop!

With a s/o

Wanna know if he likes you? Easy ask that man for a piece of his bacon. Regardless if he fussed about it or not if you get the piece at all you’re good.

If you’re the touchy type he’ll try to accommodate you. Like I said it’s not like they don’t like touch they just aren’t used to it.

He’s the touchiest when he’s tired. All of a sudden you’re being dragged to bed to cuddle. He’s a real heavy sleeper to! So good luck. Those big strong arms mean business once he’s got you there’s not escape.

@pink-apollo mentioned something about Clayton and dogs and I agree. I could totally see him with at least one large guard dog. But what’s better? A big dog and small puppy. LMFAO imagine the grub killer sprawled out on the couch with a yorkie or something. Adorable.

He’s not the jealous type but he is protective. Anyone giving you a hard time he’ll get it through their skulls don’t worry.

He does need a quiet moment to himself though, so if your the real clingy type he’ll get agitated if your constantly trying to hang off him, however he won’t yell he’ll just remove himself for you until he’s ready to be touched again.

[invisibleicewands]

Hello! Here's a fan of your reviews again (they are really great)

Would you mind giving your opinion on Nye, please? I def need your insight on it!

Hi, Anon!

Thank you for your trust, I'm feeling a responsibility on my shoulders now... I'll try to do my best to deserve it, since you appreciate them.

It's not easy for me to write a 'review' about Nye tbh, because there's a lot to unpack and I am terribly slow in finding the right words for this kind of posts (proof is I'm replying only now).

Anyway.

First, I must tell you that my impression may be influenced by the lack of experience and culture in theatre and plays in general. Nevertheless, I think I'm not wrong if I dare to say that "Nye" may be considered a masterpiece. For the theme, the meanings, the perfect execution of all the cast, the writing, the visual impact of the lighting designs, the choreography, the tricks and the original technical solutions with the props on the stage, as well as the rollercoaster of emotions during the entire show. It's all amazing, all perfectly synchronized like the gears of a clock, a real wonder for the view.

The storytelling is neat and well built, the direction is fluid, meaningful flashbacks of the past alternated with the present ones, touching moments balanced with songs and dances, lighter jokes and deep thoughts. There's rhythm, there's a bit of drama and a bit of musical, sadness and happiness, cruelty and compassion; there's speed of execution but also time to breath, to reflect, not a single wasted moment. A perfect team job, a well oiled machine that runs full power for about 2 hours 30.

The actors are really all exceptional, professional, tireless, talented and admirable in their roles. I loved the precision of every movement, the perfect timing of their steps, the expressions, the attention on every little gesture, the care for the detail.

A mention for the performances of some of the supporter actors, excellent, well trained and at their best, who know how to stay on a stage and fully entertain the audience.

Sharon Small (Jennie), with her grit, her grace, her versatility, her patience (when she stays still in the background for minutes, wow), is perfect in portraying this special modern woman: strong, intelligent, nonconformist, but also romantic and soft.

Roger Evans (Archie), Nye's best friend, eternally loyal and protective, sometimes even jealous of Jennie: always on point, a reliable presence in every scene.

Tony Jayawardena (Churchill), with his impressive figure, as Nye's opponent and his doctor, crafty but funny at the same time, and... a very flexible dancer.

And then, obviously, him.

Last but not least: Michael Sheen.

Monumental. Powerful, in his presence on the stage. Inspired, with his long speeches. Ecstatic, during his vivid crazy dreams. Mesmerising. A natural born orator in a play which is his perfect environment. A driving force. He's not just playing a character. He's living an ambition, a mission, that represents the core of all the values, the qualities, the feelings and the things he loves more and ​​in which he recognizes himself. He put his body and soul in this portrait, he cried and laughed, relentless, passionately, he bore the weight of an incredibly high emotional stress for months (all those rehearsals, every day, two times a day sometimes), showing an energy and an unimaginable stamina.

You can understand why he deeply felt this project: he fully believes in its message, and I sense there's also a lot of personal in it, emotions, situations that somehow belong to him. Nye, generous, crazy dreamers, fragile, stubborn, silly, irritating, strong, moving: he perfectly painted all these nuances, because they are also part of himself.

I could also add that some scenes reminded me others he already played in previous works (MoS, H.G. Wells, Dirty Filthy Love, The Passion), but maybe I'll keep these parallels for another post, since this is already too long. It's like there's almost a pattern in the choice of his characters, a little hint that he has a soft spot for some topics, definitely very important for him.

The same for other scenes that really impressed/touched me, but that would take too time to be discussed here.

It was an incredible show to put together, made with hard work, imagination, heart and dedication. To share a story and a message true for many people and different generations, in every eras. For those countries that have a NHS and for the ones that have not. To show how difficult but essential is to fight for the rights, against the social injustice but not only, to care about our families and the others. And affirming that making politics doesn't mean just balancing the books, but giving dignity to the people. This is how the politics becomes a real noble thing.

A huge effort, a great play, a deserved success. A necessary reminder.

(And now, after using too many adjectives, like Nye it's time to expand my vocabulary and find more synonyms.)

[riddles-n-games]

Gigi knows that her brother is STRESSED TM, so, being the good little sister she is, she masterminds a plan to get Grayson to actually have a day off to strictly chillax. Xander is on board with it and helps her plan the whole thing, Nash is also down, he’s the one keeping an eye on Gray and Savannah just kind of gets roped into it because Gigi’s involved which, by default, means she is there because she needs to keep an eYe oN tHInGs. 

The way things go down is that Grayson, being the neat freak he is, has a schedule posted on his calendar, on his phone plus reminders everywhere of what he has to do on a given day of the week. However, Xander hacks into his stuff and changes his schedule (he has the hidden illegal talent of also being able to mimic people's handwriting scarily well, especially Gray’s, and yes, he has forged signatures before-don’t ask, we’ll be here all day). Luckily, Gray is so tired out of his mind that this time he actually doesn’t suspect a thing when he notices that the entire day is blocked off and in all honesty, he looks relieved when sees it. Cue Gigi calling and telling him to meet her at a “café” because she’s “lost” and needs someone to pick her up because who  better than her big brother of course? Gray dutifully heads off to the garage in a rush because he’s worried for his baby sister TM and he’s sitting in the closest car, already typing in the address, however, Xander luckily also took care of that. He hacked his brother’s phone to also make the location of the spa hidden and appear as the café instead.

Fast forward to Gray on the road and Nash is trailing him in his truck to make sure he actually gets there safely (despite this NOT being a good thing at all [PSA: don’t do this kids, stay safe out there and drive only when you are well rested or take a nap on the road if you can when you get to a rest stop ASAP] ) but Gray is still (somehow) highly functional even at his most dysfunctional. (Take note, even Grayson Hawthorne makes dumb decisions, sometimes even dumber than Jameson, just another  reminder that he’s human like the rest of us, hence Nash as damage control.) Anyways, he’s going a bit over the speed limit but he’s worried and his big brother instincts are activated that by the time he parks, he’s flying out the car, not even glancing up to see the sign with the establishment’s name. As soon as he enters the lobby, he’s looking around crazily for Gigi and he finds her waving at him. Up to this point, Grayson still hasn’t picked up on the fact he’s not at a cafe and he only has tunnel vision on his little sister before he’s grabbing her in a hug,  asking  if she’s okay and if something happened. Gigi reassures him and once he pulls away, only then does he finally start realizing something about this place isn’t right but just as he’s about to make a comment, the receptionist is calling his name and telling him to follow her. 

He’s surprised and then looks at Gigi who has a wide smile on her face, not even trying to look innocent as she turns him and pushes him forward to follow the receptionist.  Grayson is too stunned to say anything and just lets her do her thing, walking behind him as they head down the hall to a room. When they stop, the woman is holding a robe, handing it to him and telling him to get changed. At first he tries protesting but he’s so dumbfounded that he just does as told. He tells Gigi that this is ridiculous but she just tells she’s not moving from the spot until she sees him in the spa room and he gives in, mad that he was tricked but accepting his fate. Emerging from the darkn change room, he walks into the spa room and Gigi grabs his arm, leading him to a nearby chair and shoving him into it. He asks what he’s going to be subjected to and she replies with “jUsT a FEw tHiNgS” when it’s actually the best package available! 

Grayson is given the whole spectrum; facial, massage (deep tissue), sauna, whirlpool and jet bath, salt scrub, cryotherapy, scalp massage, etc. He ends up admitting to himself that this was very much needed and secretly enjoys every bit of it. Halfway through his facial, Savannah joins him, sitting down for a mani-pedi; he is very surprised she’s there and she tells him that he’s not the only one who had to deal with a bunch of nonsense lately and after supervising the shenanigans of Xander and her sister, she deserves it. Gray immediately starts wondering how much he missed out on right under his nose but forgets as soon as sleep starts creeping in. He naps through the whole massage treatment and he gets a lunch break where he is joined by Nash and Gigi, revealing his older brother’s involvement and Gigi is just so happy that her plan is working that Gray finds it very difficult to be mad at her for orchestrating this whole thing. 

By the end of the appointment, Grayson comes out refreshed, sore but in a good way (don’t you dare take that out of context because there is none), and actually rested from the nap he managed to get. Gigi meets him out front with biggest sh*t-eating grin on her face as she asks him how it was and he rolls his eyes but kisses her on the forehead and tells her it was great. Happy with that victory, she gets in the car, very satisfied with herself only for Grayson to tell her that she’s going to help him with the rest of the work he had for the week by the time they get back to the House. Of course, she’s not very happy to hear that and he lets her think it’s his form of revenge but actually it’s just him wanting to spend more time with her in his own brotherly way.