#Five Facts About Lord Byron

[thatsbelievable]

[amethystnoir11]

Reposted from @interestingfactshq Today's Fact: Lord Byron reportedly kept a bear in his room at Cambridge because the rules forbade dogs.⁠ ⁠ One of England’s most revered poets was famously described as “mad, bad, and dangerous to know,” but his menagerie of pets might have disagreed. As (in)famous for his libertine ways as he was for his enduring works of poetry, Lord Byron’s eccentricities extended to his affinity for animals of all kinds. While studying at the University of Cambridge’s Trinity College in the early 1800s, for instance, he reportedly skirted the rules banning dogs on campus by keeping a pet bear. “I have got a new friend, the finest in the world, a tame bear,” he informed a friend in a letter dated October 26, 1807. “When I brought him here, they asked me what to do with him, and my reply was, ‘he should sit for a fellowship.’”⁠ ⁠ Nor was Byron’s love of unusual animals just a college affectation. Upon visiting Byron’s home in Italy in 1821, fellow poet Percy Shelley observed “ten horses, eight enormous dogs, three monkeys, five cats, an eagle, a crow, and a falcon; and all these, except the horses, walk about the house … as if they were the masters of it.” That wasn't all, as Shelley then noted in a postscript, having “just met on the grand staircase five peacocks, two guinea hens, and an Egyptian crane.” Too bad Byron never wrote an epic poem about them. https://www.instagram.com/p/Ch9tUj_uj_Q/?igshid=NGJjMDIxMWI=

[miss-bridgerton]

for real l anthony bridgerton x you l part one

word count: 1,887 words

pairing: anthony bridgerton x you

author’s note: part 1 finally! it’s not much going on, but this is just the beginning. 

taglist: @fact-fictionx @alainabooks143 @michael-loves-chickens @misstonybridgerton

summary: Everyone knew that the Viscount was a rake. Except for, apparently, three young women who clung to his every word. Anthony Bridgerton was in fact charming. But he was absolutely terrible at dating three women at once. Some would call him a dunce for doing so. Others might call him a hero. Adelia Byron called him dead when she found out. Set out on revenge, she and the other two young ladies, Bette DuPont and Siena Rosso, decide to transform a lonely bakers girl into someone who can break the heart of the Viscount.

            PART 1: THE SOCIETY PAPER THAT CAUSED A SCENE

YOU HAD NO IDEA that a gossip column would be the cause of a brawl in your family’s tea shop and bakery: The Fancy Teapot.

Overly priced earl grey tea? Oh, absolutely.

Chairs that pinched the bottoms of debutantes and their mammas? Pinched bottoms surely caused nasty sneers a plenty.

But the latest gossip from the squares’ paper? You certainly didn’t see that coming.

It was all because of the Viscount. Lord Anthony Bridgerton was indeed charming. He had that smile that they all seemed to fawn over. His hair was swept in all the right places. And he was a British nobleman.

What more could a young lady want?

You rolled your eyes at the words that frequented that paper. What more could a young lady want? Well, for starters, you wanted freedom. You wanted to bake. You wanted to explore different cities. Eat exotic foods. Tell stories to your future nieces and nephews of your adventures. You didn’t care about marriage, no matter how many times your sister-in-law pushed it on to you. You just simply wanted to. . .experience life.

Unlike the young women who frequented The Fancy Teapot. They were all scouring for eligible unmarried men. It was what they were taught. It was all that they knew, really. 

And two debutantes who enjoyed sipping tea in The Fancy Teapot had no idea that they were both courting the Viscount. Until it came out on paper, that is.

It was a sunny spring morning and the social season had sprung in London. You loved the social season for the money it brought the tea shop, but you absolutely loathed the social season for the debutantes and their snooty behavior. They were all perfect. Beautiful gowns. Rosy pinched cheeks. The stink of wealth swarmed them like bees attracted to honey.

You had none of those things. You came from a working family. You came from two different countries. Your father had travelled to (a country of your choosing) where he met your mother and they fell in love and married within a week of him being there. Your father had convinced your mother to leave everything behind to be with him in London, but her one condition was to open a tea shop and bakery. 

He clung to his part of the condition. Soon after opening the shop, your older brother Jack was born. Five years later, you were born. For a short while, it was the four of you. Kids running through the tea shop, experimenting with teas, you found the love of baking with your mother, and your parents were still so madly in love it was almost embarrassing. Sadly, your mother became ill and passed away two years ago. 

The death was stricken. And hard on you. But it was your father that you and Jack worried after, for it was almost as if he became a different person. As if he lost a part of himself when your mother died. He tried to drink his sorrows away at the pubs, and fancied spending too much money on gambles and bets. 

That morning, he was nowhere near the tea shop, probably somewhere betting on poker chips, when you had to break apart two debutantes from nearly mauling each other.

Adelia Byron was with her friend, Cressida Cowper, at a small table near the colossal windows. She didn’t say thank you or even acknowledged your existence when you set down her steaming chamomile tea and slice of cornish hevva cake. You rolled your eyes at the way she gloated over the attention she received at the Warwick ball. Adelia was still on a thrill from two nights before, where the touch of the Viscount’s hand on her back as they danced was still on her. She dreamt of his gorgeous eyes. And when she saw the bouquets of roses addressed to her that morning, she was in total bliss.

Her friend, Cressida, was jealous. Adelia knew it. And if there was something Adelia Byron was known for, it was that she enjoyed bragging. Her father was a Baron, which made her quite eligible for marriage to a Viscount. She had elegant features: Dark red hair, stormy eyes, high cheek-bones. She had already received three proposals but Adelia knew what she wanted. Who she wanted.

Simply put, nobody else would do. She was going to marry the Viscount. And God help her and anyone who got in her way. 

On the other side of The Fancy Teapot, situated at a round table underneath an elegant painting by your brother Jack, was Elizabeth DuPont and her overbearing mother, Colette. Elizabeth, often called Bette, was the daughter of The Marquess of DuPont. So her marriage to a man of great wealth and a powerful title was extremely vital. To her mother, at least.

Bette was fond of the Viscount. He swept her away with his words, he was impressed with the way she could speak French and German, and the kiss he laid upon her gloved hand sent a thrill through her body. She couldn’t bear to tell her mother that when she went out to the balcony for a quick breath of fresh air during the Warwick Ball, she was accompanied by Lord Anthony Bridgerton.

Her mother would have been furious. She wanted Bette to charm the Prince - not the Viscount. She wanted her daughter to marry a title higher, not a title lower. 

You had just set down two tea cups of herbal tea at their table when one of the young newsie boys stopped by the Fancy Teapot to drop off the new Society Paper. 

“Hey, Sam,” you greeted the ten year old boy. He often was the one who sauntered in here to deliver the paper and he did it eagerly, knowing fully well that you were going to give him some free wrapped biscuits, like always.

“Y/N!” He greeted with a boyish grin. “What’s on the menu today? I hope it's something drowned in sugar!” He said excitedly.

You laughed and grabbed the box of warm treacle tarts from under the front counter. “It’s not drowned in sugar, but I think you’ll still enjoy them,” you told him.

He grinned widely. “You’re a real magician, Miss Y/L/N!”

You smiled warmly as the little boy went off and you were so busy handing over his desserts that you didn’t even notice, Dorothea, your sister-in-law, completely captivated by the latest Lady Whistledown’s writings.

“Bloody Hell,” she muttered, leaning her back against the counter and reading the paper. A mama and her daughter were standing by the counter, awaiting some assistance and looking very peevish. You sighed at how unobservant Dorothea was.

You took care of the customers and then turned to Dorothea, who looked as if she had acquired the most scandalous news.

“Y/N! Have you read this yet? It’s so scandalous!”

“No,” you replied, though you were a bit curious. “Who is it about?”

“The Viscount.”

“Hard pass,” you replied.

Dorothea rolled her eyes. “You are impossible. It’s not just about him but about the women he’s apparently leading on. And,” she took a moment to look around the tea shop and then in a hushed tone continued, “two of them are in here. Right now. Unaware of all of it!”

Well, surely just a peak at the new Society Paper wouldn’t do any harm. You grabbed the paper and took a look:

At the Warwick ball Thursday evening, Viscount Bridgerton was seen dancing with not one eligible young lady, but two. Now, I assume you dear readers know quite the reputation of our charming Viscount, as this behavior isn’t quite unusual. If you are familiar with the season’s doings, dancing with eligible suitors is normal.

Except Lord Anthony Bridgerton was seen with Miss Bette DuPont awfully close on the brink of the balcony and also seen later that evening with a certain opera singer, Siena Rosso, nuzzling her neck in a dark corner of the opera house.

How will the ladies take this embarrassment? Well, this author predicts that Miss Bette DuPont will turn a rather shade red and Miss Adelia Byron’s eyes will flash with a colour quite similar. Miss Siena Rosso will probably be locked up in a bedroom with the Viscount to even notice.

LADY WHISTLEDOWN’S SOCIETY PAPERS,16 APRIL 1814

Oh, brother, you thought. This better not cause anything stupid in here -

“HOW DARE YOU!!!!”

You and Dorothea looked up in bewilderment at the sudden outburst. And there it was. Lady Adelia Byron, looking absolutely furious, clutching the society paper, and standing over Lady Bette DuPont who was sitting at her table, looking between a mix of surprise and confusion.

“I beg your pardon?” Bette said to her appalled. 

“You!” Adelia yelled. “You are involved with my suitor! How dare you?! You - you - harlot!”

Bette’s jaw dropped but it was her mother who spoke. “My, I never! That is quite unladylike behavior, young lady. My Elizabeth is not some harlot, clearly you cannot read because you have been thoroughly mistaken.”

Adelia rolled her stormy eyes and handed over the paper. Bette hastily read it before gasping, throwing a pretty gloved hand over her mouth.

“This cannot be true. My Lord would never do such things.” Bette told her.

“My Lord?” Adelia mocked. “He’s not your anything. I am going to marry him. So this little rendezvous is finished.”

Bette raised a brow. “I don’t think so,” she simply replied and took a sip of her tea.

Adelia looked as if she was going to chuck that steaming tea pot at the young lady’s head, so you had no choice - you had to get involved.

“Ladies, please, there is no need to act in such a manner,” you told them. They both looked in your direction, looking at you as if you were just a nobody. As if they were thinking, who the hell are you and who makes you think you have any say in this?

You cleared your throat. “He’s just a man,” you tried to explain.

Adelia snorted. “Idiot,” she said under her breath.

You narrowed your eyes at her. “You know, instead of getting mad at each other for something neither of you two were unaware of, you should be mad at him. Instead you are fighting over the tosser. Now that is an idiot.”

Both girls’ jaws dropped at what you said. But both didn’t say anything in retaliation. Instead, Adelia lifted her head high and walked away with what dignity she possessed and Bette went back to her tea, ignoring her mother’s angry stares.

Dorothea was nearly bursting in astonishment and the tea shop, which went quiet during the whole argument, went back to the bustling noise it always had.

All went back to normal. Until later that evening. 

While you were cleaning up and closing down The Fancy Teapot for the day, you found a folded napkin at the same table that Adelia Byron sat with Cressida Cowper. Inside was a perfectly scrawled note addressed to you.

Not many people can inspire me, but you, Miss Bakery girl, did. Visit my estate as soon as you can manage. We have a lot to discuss.

X Miss Adelia Byron

[mxvladdy]

I can't stress enough 'wows' in tve way you write along with the fact that it's you first few posts (i think? Pls correct me) can you do luci mammon and satan with a reader who takes naps bc of overthinking? They just tug their sleeves and shot them a tired look, while looking down shying away. Also, have a nice day and take the time to be yourself!

Aw thanks fam! I am fairly new to posting my works, I tried twice before this with two different writing blogs but I deleted them both bc I felt discouraged. I’m older now and I feel a lot better about my writing, so third time the charm and all that lol! I’m so glad you like my writing! I know I need some work on grammar and expanding my vocabulary.  

This was a super cute prompt ;.; I hope I did it justice!

Lucifer

He is a mix of jealous and pissed. He wishes he could fall asleep so easily when he gets inundated with too many things at once. But also- just don’t do that? Where were your manners?

He starts noticing your little peculiarity in class. Specifically that you tend to nod off in advance alchemy and rune scripting. You were being so studious, jotting down notes, ask great questions. Next thing he knows you're out like a light.

He is shocked for a moment before he will wake you up. Your wide doe-eyed frown does nothing to him. JK his hearts clench at your wounded look.

He makes the other brothers report to him about your behavior and odd sleep habit. Were you ill? Was this just something humans did? Devils, was Belphie rubbing off on you?

They all say the same thing. One moment you are working hard or talking to them about a topic you are passionate about, and the next you are yawning hard enough to pop your jaw and shyly asking to lay down.

Well-he can’t have that.

If you are going to fall asleep around anyone it’s going to be him.

He sets up remedial lessons with you after dinner to make up for the work slept through. You sit by him at his long ornate desk while he tutors you on what you missed.

You weren't having any problems,  you even finished a few pages. He is proud and then-

“I can almost hear those gears slowing my dear.” Lucifer interrupts himself mid-explanation of Zosimos of Panopolis and Maria the Prophetess's theories of alchemy in human medicine.

You jerk awake and turn to him blinking owlishly. "Yeah, I just need to lay down." You admit.

Lucifer eyes you critically. This was sudden, were you ill? You had been fine moments ago, bright-eyed and enthusiastic. He cups your face, turning it from side to side. "So suddenly? We haven't even discussed the properties of mercury yet." You hum letting your eyes droop. He was always so warm.

"Hour nap break? Please?" His stern gaze softens at how your nose scrunches up cutely as you yawn.

“Very well.” He relents letting you slick over to his couch. You flop over face first with a grunt of satisfaction. You toss and turn for a while, moving his pillows around unsatisfied.

“Luci-” You call in defeat. He ignores you at first. If you wanted to nap fine, he would get some work done in the meantime. “Luci~” You say again. You could see his brow twitching. “Lu-”

“My dear,” He shoots you a withering look. “You are treading a thin line. If you have the energy to call for me you have the energy to study.” You say nothing at his brisk tone, instead of opening your arms to him to join you. “You tempt me.” He purrs hiding his smile behind his paperwork.

“Learned from the best.” Lucifer shakes his head laughing at your smug reply. He glances over you to his grandfather clock. Hmmm-perhaps he could spare a few minutes. He rises elegantly discarding his tie and waistcoat to his abandoned chair. Running a hand through his hair he snorts at your little whistle.

“Move.” He commands. You shake your head patting your belly. “I will crush you.” He laughs but lays over you regardless.

“Good-you’re warm.” You say muffled in his shirt. Wrapping your arms around his middle you drift off. Lucifer holds you close, running a still gloved hand up and down your side. Perhaps he should bring out some more complex topics next time. If this was the outcome-

Mammon

He noticed you get drowsy before in class. Your cute little head jerks as you nod off, hands rubbing at your face as you fight to stay awake before giving in to the need to sleep. It was adorable- not that he was watching you because of that! He was just doing his job of looking out for you

Ye-that was all.

Honestly, he thought you were just like him. He never cared for the books being forced on him in class. Boring useless crap in his opinion. He much rather sleep through a lecture on stats too.

Now books on photography? That's where it's at. He has a legitimate passion for it.

He likes being behind the camera just as much as he likes being in front of it. Though he doesn't snap photos often.

He doesn't need more beratement from his brothers than he already gets. Sides, he just feels like they would look down at this like everything else he does.

He'll share his hobby with you though. You at least seem interested in it. He'll show you his collection of vintage to high-tech cameras and talk your ear off about the makes, models, and features.

You nod along and ask questions from time to time, smiling along with Mammon while he prattles on about color theory next to you on the floor.

He was just getting to Auguste Lumiére when he feels a gentle bump on his shoulder.

"O-oi!" Mammon starts, shaking his shoulder to rouse you. You look up at him, blinking the sleep from your eyes. "Was...was I that boring?" He deflates a little, all previous excitement gone in a flash. You had seemed so interested...

"What? Oh, no. No Mammon I'm sorry. It's really all fascinating," You grab for his sleeve so he couldn't run away. "It was just a lot of information all at once. I just got a bit overwhelmed."

"So you fall asleep?" He raises a brow not believing you for a second. Who falls asleep when something is interesting? He'll admit he's fallen asleep while listening to Levi talk about a new anime or Asmo with a make-up release.  But that's because it had been boring. "Is that like a human thing?"

You shrug snuggling closer. "I don't know- but it's a me thing. Give me five? I'd love to hear you talk more about your collection, promise."

Mammon glows scarlet at your words. "Of course you do!" He puffs out his chest excitedly. “I got great taste.” You nod into his shirt before drifting off again. He tilts his head slightly to look at you chuckling internally when your breathing and heartbeat slow down. Damn, out in seconds. Well, better get comfortable.

Uncrossing his long legs he picks up the camera he had been showing you. The old Polaroid lens reflects his face back at him. He remembered the day Land had debuted this marvel of engineering. He just had had to get his hands on one. It was useless now, he had much better quality cameras than this old thing, but he remembered you reminiscing about your human friends and their portable camera. Would you take some pictures with him too? He would take one now, but the sound of the flash would definitely wake you up.

He fiddles with it for a few more minutes, opening and closing the film canister and checking for any parts that needed fixing as he waits. You stir at his side a few minutes later with a little mew of satisfaction. Mammon hears your joints creak and pop as you stretch. "Morning." He says sarcastically, earning himself a light punch to his shoulder. "Ready to continue?"

You nod eagerly, perky and aware. At least for the moment.

Satan

He didn't really notice at first the pattern of your behavior.

You would come over for book club. Which was really just him reading his current novel and you picking something at random to gain a little random knowledge.

You would find a comfortable position on his bed, curl up nice and small and read. Then after a bit yawn and start to snooze.

He first thought it was the atmosphere of his room. It was quiet, warm, and the sound of flickering candles and the rustle of paper sometimes caused him to doze too.

But when it starts happening outside of class he notices.

Hmmm….this is new.

He looks it up in his human anatomy books and finds nothing.

He's not particularly worried about you per se. You always bounce back quickly after a quick snooze.

Then you start dozing when he is talking… >:(

Like his brother/dad he is a little miffed at first but then your behavior reminds him a cat and he loves you 10x harder now

Satan stops in his pacing of the back gardens. His book of poetry hanging limply in his hand. He had been reciting some of the most fascinating lines of work from Lord Byron's later works and wanted a human's perspective. He had thought you were interested. You never complained before when he asked you out here. Perhaps you were just being polite all those times before. Anything to soothe wrath. He snaps his book shut sharply, take some perverse satisfaction in the way you start out of your light sleep at the noise.

"Why'd you stop?" You ask wiping at your face.

"No point talking to someone that doesn't wish to listen." He snaps tersely.

"Oh-Satan, no I was listening. It...it just got to be so much so fast." You flush. “You had some great points going, I just needed a minute.” He watches your eyes grow heavy again, and it dawns on him.

"Do you just sleep when overwhelmed?" He asks incredulously. In all his years with humans, this was new. You shrug making grabby hands for him to move closer. He scoffs but moves into your space. You grab at the hem of his shirt and pull him down to sit next to you. He goes willingly getting comfortable by your side. You eye his lap longingly, hands clutching around his coat sleeve. “Fine-” He rolls his eyes. “Come here you odd thing.” You smile in triumph and crawl into his lap. Once settled you nuzzle into his warm chest.

“Wake me up in ten? I want to hear more about your conversations with Byron.”

“I’ll hold you to it.” He kisses the top of your forehead, opening his book to read again with one hand. You hum at his soft kiss, returning it sleepily with one of your own before passing out again. Ten minutes go by in an instant and Satan looks down at your peaceful face. He smiles to himself, perhaps he’ll let you sleep for a little while longer. You’d need it for his next point.  

[roanniom]

Phillip and Miss Perfect

Phillip Altman x Reader

Word Count: 2,866

Part 1/?

Summary: Back in high school you were a perfectionist and he was a charming douche. You’ve spent years suppressing the feelings he awakened in you senior year because you’re better than that, right? You’ll sure find out now that you’re back home for the holidays right in time to run back into him.

Warnings: NSFW. Language. Masturbation (F/M kinda). Gratuitous Altman charm.  

Phillip Altman had long been the bane of your existence. Phillip and his cheeky grin and his gaggle of older siblings whose mere existence somehow afforded him an untouchable cool status amongst the weaker minded of your peers. A status you’d always felt was completely unearned as he swaggered through the halls of your high school, winking at pretty girls and tossing innuendo-laden comments to his fawning admirers.  

Yes Phillip Altman, you’d decided long ago, was the bane of your existence.

Handsome and arrogant and too smart for his own good, not that he ever applied himself, for crying out loud. It was senior year that solidified your loathing for the boy. Mr. Weathers had paired the two of you together for the group-project winter final. Only a sadist would assign a group project for a final, so you should have seen it coming. Always the instigator, the old man had been thoroughly entertained by the way you and Phillip would constantly bicker in class. Though “bickering” probably wasn’t the right word considering that the interactions were less a volleying of insults and more a pattern of Phillip smoothly complimenting you and you spewing vitriol back in response.

“My place or yours?”

Your head had snapped up hard when you heard the baritone voice laced with amusement too close for comfort a few moments after Mr. Weather’s class had ended.

“Altman. What have we said about my personal bubble?” You made sure your voice dripped with venom. Phillip straightened from where he had leaned to whisper in your ear as you placed books into your locker.

“Your personal bubble is your own and I am not allowed inside it,” he rambled off, as though reciting a vow from memory. After a breath he wiggled his eyebrows and added, “unless expressly invited.”

“In your sticky dreams,” you shot back.

“Every night, Miss Perfect,” Phillip said, giving a roguish half-smile that you wanted to slap off his face. Instead you slammed your locker door and stalked off.

“So, your place it is then?” Phillip called to your retreating back. You ignored him. He cupped his hands over his mouth and shouted after you, making sure that everyone in the hallway could hear his humor-tinged voice.

“Parting is such sweet sorrow, Juliet!”

“We’re presenting on Hamlet, moron,” you said, shooting him a look over your shoulder as you continued to walk away. “That quote you just bastardized is Romeo and Juliet.”

Phillip had just laughed and walked in the opposite direction. Leaving you to fume on your way to the bus while wondering seriously to yourself if murder would be enough to make colleges take back the early acceptances you’d already received.

~*~

And so you two had spent one blustery weekend in early December holed away in your bedroom. You trying desperately to keep Phillip’s tiny attention span from wandering to your panty drawer long enough for a presentation on the themes of Hamlet to miraculously get written. Phillip trying desperately to get into said panty drawer and avoid the slaps you repeatedly sent his way. To the surprise of absolutely no one, you both failed tremendously on all accounts. Your mom certainly didn’t help matters by bustling in with Christmas cookies and cooing comments to Phillip about how cute he was. True to form, he thanked her through a mouthful of gingerbread before throwing an infuriating wink your way. That was it. You knew you and your perfect grades were doomed.

And yet on the day of the presentation, something crazy (a miracle, if you’re sappy) did occur. Phillip pulled – out of his ass, presumably – a 180 and gave a performance to rival anything old Willy-Shakes could have staged. Not only did he express a genuine and insightful knowledge of the themes of the play, but he was also a generous presenter, setting you up for and supporting you in points that even made you, the top of the class, look better. As Mr. Weathers complimented the two of you on your efforts at the end of the presentation, you couldn’t help but stare at Phillip, struck for the first time by the way his hair curled a little at the ends and the way his eyes sparkled under the attention of the class. You didn’t like admitting it to yourself, but your stomach was in knots. Phillip parading around like he’s god’s gift to high school girls? Gross. Phillip confidently presenting literary analysis and showing a glimmer of genuine intelligence? Fucking hot.

After class you’d felt a little intimidated at the prospect of talking to him. You weren’t sure why. It was Phillip Fucking Altman, class clown and grade-A pain in your ass. You watched him out of the corner of your eye as you slid your books back into your bag. His frame stood out amongst the small circle of his friends, his dumb, tall body making it so that you could always see him from far away.  

You gripped your bag close to your body and walked briskly toward the door, deciding against any further interaction with the boy whose eyes had suddenly made your cheeks grow hot for the first time in all the years you’d known his stupid ass. As you walked by, however, he broke away from his friends and chased after you, calling your name. You didn’t stop until you reached the destination of your locker down the hall.

“Hey, so it seems like we killed it in there.” Phillip leaned against the next locker, slightly breathless from having jogged to catch up with you. It was after sixth period on the last day of the semester, and the last few stragglers filtered through the hall on their way to the sweet freedom of winter break.

“Yeah, I guess we did alright, didn’t we?” you said noncommittally, refusing to look up from organizing the inside of your locker.

“Alright? Pretty sure Weathers jizzed his pants when you brought up biblical allegory,” Phillip let out a bark of a laugh.

“Only you could make academic achievement sound vulgar, Altman,” you said, trying but failing to hide the smile that broke across your face.

“It’s not as hard as it seems. All of those stuffy writers were pervs. You know Mary Shelley fucked Lord Byron on her mother’s grave? And that horny bitch wrote Frankenstein!” His smile lit up the corner of your vision and you looked up, blushing at how cute his stupid crooked teeth looked all of a sudden.

“She fucked Percy Shelley on her mother’s grave, not Lord Byron, you idiot,” you replied, rolling your eyes. Phillip’s eyebrows had shot up and his smile had grown wider.

“Well, well Miss Perfect. Never took you for a girl who reads the naughty books, too.”

“Shove it, Altman.” You punched out at his arm, but he successfully dodged, finally demonstrating fast reflexes for once after years of similar assaults from you.

“Well either way, we did it! We made Lit our bitch – up top!” He offered up a hand which you high fived reluctantly. Before you could pull your hand away, his large one wrapped around yours and he yanked you forward. Your body crashed into his and before you could flail, he wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug.

You were too shocked by the action to move, too surprised by the feeling of his strong arms twisting around your back and his hard body against your breasts. You’d always known Phillip was hot, it was one of the things you hated him for. But feeling the evidence of that hotness against you? You felt the knot in your stomach from earlier drop a little lower.

Phillip ducked his head down to the crook of your neck, his warm breath blowing on your ear. You became hyper aware of the silence in the empty hallway, marveling at the fact that there was no one there to witness the sudden intimacy of this weird moment. Was there a memo you’d missed about a Christmas Fair that everyone had rushed off to? Damn. You took a breath to speak but Phillip cut you off, the vibrations from his rumbling voice sending shivers down your spine.

“Yeah, yeah I know. Sorry about your personal bubble.”

You bit your lip, not trusting yourself to speak during this odd experience that balanced precariously in a space between uncomfortable and enticing.

“It’s just that…” Phillip began, but trailed off. Your heart beat in your throat, and somewhere lower, as he began swaying your bodies a little in place. This couldn’t be real, though nightmare or dream you couldn’t decide how you’d classify it. You felt his ribcage expand against you as he went to speak again, barely aware that your own breath was held captive in your chest in anticipation.

“I, too…jizzed in my pants when you brought up biblical allegory.”

It took a few seconds for his words to register in your mind before you reacted. Your hand connected with his face so hard you scared yourself with the volume of the sound. Both of you stood frozen and staring at each other for a moment after that. Him with his hand on his cheek where it had flown to shield his stinging skin and you with your hand suspended in air where it had reverberated back after impacting with his face.

Then Phillip began to laugh.

It was a full sound that echoed off the walls. Your face screwed up in response, immediately feeling shame heat your ears and cheeks. But then you noticed that his smile held no derision, no malice. He was genuinely entertained by the fact that, after all these times slapping him, you’d finally hit the mark dead on.

Your hand flew to cover your lips, dozens of emotions dancing on your features as you began to register the humor of the moment as well. However, you also felt foolish. Not a second before he’d let loose the comment that broke all your physical self-control your mind had been toying with the idea of losing physical self-control in a very different way. The hot, knotted feeling in your lower belly had not gone away with this turn of events, it had merely intensified. Your palm tingled where it had made contact with Phillip’s cheek.

The rush of emotions, so many and so dissonant, overwhelmed you. So you did the only thing you could. You slammed your locker door, ducked your head down, and ran for the door, leaving a very confused Phillip still chuckling to himself in your wake.

~*~

That night, laying in bed, you had chastised yourself for feeling what seemed to be every feeling but your usual hatred toward Phillip. This wouldn’t do. You were the top of the class. You hadn’t gotten this far for this long by having twisty turny feelings for stupid beautiful boys with crooked teeth and lots of charm.

Somewhere in your self-admonishment, however, your thoughts turned back to the feeling of his hard body against yours. His arms, large and muscled, containing you with such ease and solidity. The planes of his large chest as they pressed into your soft curves. Without even thinking much about it, your hands moved under your sheets, squeezing those curves.

The knotted feeling from before returned, but this time it was less of a knot and more of an ache. You knew the feeling. Had willed it away while watching movies where hot actors sucked too convincingly on the necks of their leading ladies. Had clumsily tried to remedy it with fumbling rubs and twisting legs on nights when the tension got to be too much.

But that night as you’d thought about Phillip Altman’s arms around you, your pointer finger moved to your clit, rubbing small circles around the sensitive nub. As you thought of Phillip Altman’s lips as he rambled confidently in front of a crowd, and Phillip Altman’s big nose scrunching as he winked at you across a classroom, and Phillip’s dimples as he laughed at one of your personalized insults, and Phillip Altman’s dick as it could be seen outlined in his athletic shorts during gym….

The ache inside grew and you felt your pussy clenching around nothing, desperate to be filled by something you hadn’t known you wanted. Haphazardly you thrust a finger inside your folds, the hand not preoccupied with circling your clit reaching up to grab one of your breasts.

You tried to imagine Phillip’s large hands replacing yours. Tried to imagine how he’d fill you, how he’d squeeze you. You could almost hear the way he’d put that already dirty mouth of his to good use.

“You want to cum, Miss Perfect? Hmm?” You imagined him saying. The vibrations from his deep voice rang through your mind, left over from when it had caused you to shiver earlier. “Want me in your personal bubble now?”

You whimpered in the darkness of your room, speeding up the friction on your clit and thrusting two more fingers in your slick heat. You imagined his lips at your neck, at your clavicle, at your sternum, sucking at the skin and tickling you with the stubbling facial hair he’d only been sporting since last summer.

“You’ve always been such a good girl,” the Phillip in your mind practically purred. You felt yourself reaching a precipice you’d never quite attained before. The muscles of your legs quaked and your squeezed your nipples, needing more of something.

“Why don’t you be a good girl for me and cum?”

Your whole body convulsed against the mattress and your muscles seized, your fingers trapped inside your pussy as it contracted over and over. You felt absolutely euphoric for a moment, almost nothing passing through your mind but the image of Phillip, smiling at you with that same, familiar, cheeky smile.

But as you came down from your high, your sweat ran cold with a realization. It had been your first orgasm. Phillip had caused your first orgasm. A mixture of shame and anger flooded your system as you curled into yourself. It wasn’t enough Phillip Altman was the golden boy of the school, it wasn’t enough that he could – and did – have any girl he wanted, he had to have your orgasm, too?

You felt silly but you also felt indignant. You had prided yourself on not being affected, on being above him. After all, why go after the boy who had it all and who only teased you because it felt like an accomplishment to make the smart girl squirm under his gaze?

No. You hated Phillip Altman and you wouldn’t let him have this. You silently thanked whatever militant non-secular whacko had pushed the Christmas agenda on the school system so hard that you had two weeks off now to help distance you from any interactions with the boy who plagued your mind.

You had drifted to sleep that night, unaware that several streets over, in a room very much like your own, Phillip Altman was tugging at his hard cock, groaning over thoughts of the girl who challenged him, the girl who yelled at him, the girl who slapped him. The one girl he was so sure he’d never get with, but who he wanted most.

~*~

Now, twelve years later, you wander down the baking aisle of the local grocery store, praying to all that is holy that you won’t bump into someone from your high school. After graduation you had peaced the fuck out, leaving for college on the opposite coast. You’d spent years convincing your parents that you were too busy with undergrad and then grad school and then publishing deadlines to ever make the crazy trip back to your hometown, instead baiting them into visiting you for warmer holidays that smelled of the beach and your new life. Two consecutive shitty breakups on your part and one knee replacement surgery on your mother’s part combined to turn this into the year that your parents insisted you finally made the pilgrimage home.

Which is how you find yourself on a winter night browsing the alternative flour selection, having been sent to look for the perfect gluten-free option that will make your mom’s gastrointestinal system “not blow up like a friggen balloon.” It was funny how not even a medical diagnosis could deter that woman from her festive baking habits. You’re deep in thought over the differences between coconut and almond when a deep voice rumbles out from your deepest memories, reverberating right into aisle four.

“You know I read your latest book.”

You look up and almost drop your two flours to the ground. Instead you fumble, gripping them tightly to your chest and causing vaporized coconut and almond to puff into the air in front of you.

As the powder settles out of your line of sight you see him. Phillip Altman. Twelve years older, with more facial hair and a couple laugh lines, but it’s him alright.

“Hey there, Miss Perfect.”

His nose crinkles as he winks at you. You intake breath sharply.

And choke on some flour.

It tastes like coconut. And you know then that you should have just trusted your gut and gone with almond.

You also know that you’re in trouble.

~*~

Tagging some very kind people who have been very welcoming: @mariesackler​ @direnightshade​ @safarigirlsp​ @sacklerscumrag​

[partyinthemysterymachine]

Harry 9, 11, 12 or die

hawwy masin stabby tiem

Humiliating Memories

Harry was (is) just one of those types that loves the library. he went cavorting about in many sections, but there was one book in particular he got interested in when it was referenced in a few others detailing the art of letter-writing and communication in ye olde days.

Lord Byron's letters were so fucking astounding. the first part of the humiliation was having to face the librarian to check out the book in the first place. that was the last time he stared her in the face for about seven full months (as well as training himself in masterful avoidance). unfortunately, he also had to Mission Impossible the book away from his parents knowing about it - as they were big fans of making their son turn out his backpack every day Just In Case of Nefarious Behaviors (but also what are you reading, young nerd) - and by some will of Lord Byron himself, he made it out unscathed.

then, humiliation part two: school (in which Harry continues to make questionable, however nerdy, choices)

Harry thought it'd be a cool writing exercise, or like, funny? or like, a.. memory.. retention.. ? exercise..???? we just don't know. but the fact of the matter is (was) that he chose to copy the letters down word for word during classes. he was a.. eehhh.. a B-average student, and teachers liked him enough to leave him alone most days.

except one day, when a particular substitute had a hair up his ass.

all this substitute saw was Harry totally in The Zone, writing like the wind at his desk. he stood there over him for a moment until Harry noticed and looked up at the stern frown of a twenty-five-year-old substitute teacher with some kinda hose stuck up his asshole pumping him blackout drunk on the tiniest amount of power given to him as being a substitute teacher and thus The Authority Around Here. no questions were asked - this teacher was certain Harry was writing notes to someone else and demanded he get up and take his paper to the front of the class and read it aloud.

it was that day that that teacher learned that perhaps they're wrong sometimes; and that Harry Mason, while red as marinara sauce, was a dedicated young man - one that was all too happy to enact some petty revenge by reading aloud the two pages of "notes" even after the substitute asked him to stop. ("But you said to read it all out loud.")

it would’ve been even better and worse for both of them if the principal or another teacher came around to walk right into a scene with the timing of a bad sitcom - but eh, maybe next time.

the other one he remembers when he’s just trying to have a good day is that one time he insisted on pronouncing ‘horchata’ as ‘whore-chata’. definite emphasis on the ‘whore’ part. and he said it so confidently in front of Jodi’s aunt, too. (he should’ve never fucking believed that so-called library ‘tutor’ who always showed up smelling like skunks.)

Bad or petty habits

bad habits

does “talking too much” count here as a bad habit? yanno it goes here and it also goes in a “nervous tics” category so yeah, definitely talks too much

[REDACTED]

smoking. he doesn’t smoke as heavily as he used to way back when, but he’s still clearing a pack every couple of months. whoops.

manipulating conversations. he’s a sneaky one, that Harry Mason. (maybe Vincent had a point there..?)

rub his face really hard when he’s writing/reading over his work. it sorta feels good (kinda like how scratching inside ur ear can be heavenly, but this is with roughly maneuvering his skin around), and it can distract him, or get him momentarily “addicted” to it

car band. catch him going ham on the air drums and ‘singing’ at a red light. does not care if he’s caught. absolutely will sing/play at to whoever caught him. Heather can and will kill him some day

definitely cursing. he curbs it in the right situations but goddamn dude wash your mouth out

spacing out and chewing on a fork/spoon/straw/what have you. he’ll hold it or let it just dangle from his mouth, chewing/sucking on it while his mind goes somewhere else

sit at the piano, prop his elbow on the music shelf, space out (aka thinking, usually about his writing), and repeatedly hit one damn key over and over and over. he presses it, lets it fade.. and just before it’s gone, BING....... .... BING...... it drives Heather batshit.

petty habits

backing up when someone is standing too close (aka tailgating) to him in line, like at a grocery store. Harry tends to casually back up until he steps on the other person’s feet, then look back meaningfully and "apologize.” for people standing too close beside him, he’ll shake out his shoulders and very much flop his elbow into the other person; then look over and quip a bit loudly, “Feeling a little claustrophobic around here, huh?” stay out of his goddamn personal space!

kick Heather from the wifi when she’s being a snot, and change just one (1) random character on the password, or add one (1) more character - or even both! - just to fuck with her. good luck u lil shit.

copy/pasting three pages of text from a random book (usually something obnoxious like Les Miserables, Gone With The Wind, Anna Karenina, The Silmarillion, Clan of the Cave Bear, etc) to his document before he sends it to Maggie (editor/agent) when she’s on his case about reaching his word/page/chapter count

use his right hand for a task he’s been asked to do if someone’s bothering him enough (he is a left-handed)

shuffle a pile of papers or pamphlets so that some of them are upside down, flipped over, or both when he doesn’t like the establishment, or the people that are there - and always leaves the first two or five as they should be, because they trust too much

pay in cash, then ask for cashiers to count back change if they’re making their bad personality or day his problem, knowing that many people do not know how to count back change.

Grudges or vendettas

grudges

that first publishing company that was ready to drop him after his book did less than expected, and was also trying to punish Maggie for it. sometimes he’ll slip a dedication to them into a book - which Maggie sometimes will nix - just to rub it in that he’s doing better without them.

when a kid in middle school made fun of his widow’s peak hairline, telling him he looked like Dracula - and another kid said he looked like Mickey Mouse. when he told his parents about it and how he was upset, they told him that he was too sensitive. in fact, when he was taunted in front of his parents when they picked him up from school, his dad didn’t defend him - he looked down at Harry a block later and said, “I see why they call you Mickey Mouse.” never will forgive that.

in high school, gave a friend $5 to buy a specific candy for him at the corner store, said the friend could buy a candy with the $5 too, and asked to have the change. friend came back already eating the candy Harry requested and handed him something entirely different, citing he “accidentally” opened the one Harry asked for, so just decided to eat it. oh, and he “dropped” most of the change he got back. whatever, dude.

the miserable old fucker at McDonalds who told Heather, after she politely asked for a certain kid’s meal toy (and they both saw him give the same one to a kid who asked for it), that they were all out now - sorry! Heather took the toy she got anyway, but Harry saw the dickhead drop the exact toy she wanted into another kid’s happy meal box. Heather never knew, but oh, Harry’s still daydreaming how he should’ve responded.

around the age of 37, he was beginning to put on weight, and struggled with his appearance and confidence. customer behind him in line at a bakery/coffee shop who, after seeing him ask for several pastries in a box and an indulgent “coffee” drink, loudly mentioned, “I hope you’ll be SHARING with somebody! That’s a lot of cake and food for one person! SO much sugar and fat!” he was shocked wordless. he had to wait for his drink, holding the box of pastries the whole time. he could feel her staring at him (and saw her out of his peripheral vision) and looking quite expectant and smug. Harry just kept his head down and rushed out after getting the drink. he quickly drove away, but then pulled into a different parking lot a few streets down, parked the car, and cried. the pastries weren’t all for him - he’d gotten Heather a couple. but only 2 were for Heather out of the 6 purchased (and 5 of those would be hidden away in his drawers, so it’d look like he only got 1 for himself in front of Heather); and that hit him pretty hard after such a long week.

vendetta

silent fucking hill you got a big storm comin so open fuckin wide to suck this COCK

[olimpias]

the Aubingly family || an explanation 

If one had to describe the illustrious Aubingly family offhand, one could best say: worldly, but not friendly. They have been around since the 14th century, a curious collection of swindlers, adulterers, good-for-nothings and worse, who, despite their escapades, are strangely respected throughout England and even Europe. It is true, they resemble each other in the smallest way (as Lord Byron once wrote: the only things they have in common are their black hair and their penchant for dicey situations) and in fact you would not think of them as family at all.  Basically: the more wicked, the better. If you haven't gone even a little bit astray at least once in your life, they dismiss you snidely as "insipid". Truth plays no role for them. At family gatherings, it's all about who can present the greatest story, whether it's true or made up, and if they tell you something, you'd better assume that at most half of it is real. It's about the effect. But they also have good qualities. Their humour, their openness, their love of justice, their understanding of people's faults and their lack of prejudice in any respect except towards their own class. Woe betide any other nobleman who shows himself uneducated or illiterate in their presence. Mercilessly they will sharpen their tongues at him and will not let him go until his pride is torn to shreds.

(click on image for better quality)

from right to left, bottom to top

Alexander “Alex” Arthur Edward Harris: You know him. Pretends to be very tough, but actually too soft-hearted for this family (and this world.)

Travis Arthur Edward Harris: Current duke. Is “insipid” at times

Ivy Diane Montcroix: Doesn’t care for the whole aristocracy, wants to travel the world in her plane

Gwendolyn Licia Pascuzzi: younger of the Pascuzzi sisters. Has a passion for stamps and other small things that get lost easily

Elsa Fiore Pascuzzi: Her older sister. Very beautiful and aloof. Was involved in a nasty murder affair. Not saying she did it, but...

Albert Tristan Benson: Theatre actor. Partner of James

James Oliver “Jim” Stafford: Youngest of the three Stafford brothers and, without a doubt, the most peculiar. Very kind, has a passion for vikings and especially their ships

Walter Maximus Stafford: Second of the Stafford brothers. Works in a large warehouse as an advertising illustrator and is overall a bit dull

Victor Thomas Stafford: Oldest of the Stanford brothers. Works in a bank, but is very amusing. Has a large family (not on the tree yet)

Catherine Annabelle Stafford: Alex’s and Travis’s mother and the nestling of her three brothers. A definite sweetheart, but can be very sly when it’s important. Also met Oscar Wilde and went to his funeral

Arthur Ernest Edward Harris: Alex’s and Travis’s hated father. A terrible man. By the family, he wasn’t only described as “insipid”, but “unpleasant”, which is a literal death sentence.

Maude Fidget: His mistress in London. Just as terrible as he was, so they were perfect for each other. Catherine arranged her to be killed by a strychnine poisoning after her husband’s death.

Florent Edmond Montcroix: Ivy’s father and handsome, Parisian bon vivant. Usually makes his living by stealing from rich old women, which is why Ivy's mother split up with him when Ivy was eight years old 

Winifred Tamara Harris: Ivy’s mother and aunt of Alex (his father’s sister). Split up with her husband, but has been pretty miserable ever since. Was it a good idea? We don’t know.

Frederico Pascuzzi: Father of Elsa and Gwendolyn and probably a jewel thief. Is always away, maybe because he is hiding from the police?

Eleanor Vivian Harris: Mother of Elsa and Gwendolyn, Alex’s aunt and the other one of his father’s sisters. Pretty crazy. Dies her black hair red.

Nicholas Milton Harris: Alex’ uncle and one of his father’s brothers. Very kind and gracious. Lives in Shanghai and breeds poodles

Alastair Jacob Harris: Alex’ other uncle and the oldest of the five siblings. Has been unmarried for all his life and is a mineralogist, which takes him to the most faraway places.

A small reminder that this is only a very small selection of the most important family members. There are so many more like Douglas for example, but this should give you a good overview for now!

taglist under the cut (ask to be +/-)

general taglist: @stuff-lucie-wrote​ @buster-keaton​ @bookphobe​ @write-gallagher​ @sadsentinel​

cosmopolitan taglist: @alias-levi​ @hildy-dont-be-hasty​ @writerlywonders​ @buster-keaton​ @rememberedkisses​ @writingbyjillian​ @tragediesoftory​ @bulletgirl​ @bookphobe​ @cespye​ @ravens-and-rivers​ @mayawritesbooks​ @plutoslittlecosmos​ @fictional-semantics​

[klbwriting]

The Sparrow and The Rogue - Part 1

Fandom: The Umbrella Academy

Pairing: Ben Hargreeves/ female!Reader

Warnings: some fighting, a touch of fat-shaming

Summary: The Umbrella siblings arrive back in 2019 to discover that Ben has no idea who they are, their dad wants them all dead, and they are once again in way over their heads

Notes: I’M AT IT AGAIN.  Another series because I’m a glutton for punishment and I can’t resist my love for Ben Hargreeves.  A few actual notes now.  Note 1: In this I refer to Ben as Number One because I feel that is who he seems to be in the Sparrow Academy and also once Reginald learned of the others I don’t think he would allow personal names ever again.  Note 2:  I have named the reader in this as Number Eight because I feel its ambiguous that you can infer yourself as a reader into the shoes of someone just called a number.  Note 3: I am really trying to portray the characters well so I hope you enjoy!  Please like, reblog, but most of all COMMENT send asks about it or just reply with something or use fun tags.  Thank you!

Klaus couldn't process what he was seeing.  Ben, his brother, his dead compadre, the one person who was always there for him (except when he was on something, and that one time he just abandoned him in a bar), was right there in front of him with a bad boyband haircut and hate in his eyes.  It was a scene that was both tragic and beautiful for Klaus.  Vanya felt similar feelings rise in her.  Ben had been the one to truly save the world, had been the kindest of her siblings when they were kids, the one who seemed to actually love her and here he was looking at her like he wanted to unleash the horror on her right in the living room that she used to call home.  Diego recalled easily how Ben when he was possessing Klaus had hugged him so tight and he had felt the love he missed from his baby brother, but now he had the distinct feeling that Ben would take him out without a second thought.  None of the other four had had any moments with Ben recently but they were feeling similar things, happiness at the fact that he was alive, but confusion over how different he seemed.  Klaus finally opened his mouth to say something when Reginald stepped in.

"These are the morons I told you about Number One, they have come to usurp your group, they are what I have trained you for," he said.  The Umbrella siblings turned to face their father, faces a mix of rage and hurt.  Ben frowned looking at the motley group in front of him.  "Well Number One?  Lead your team against these frauds."  He was conflicted, he had rarely attacked anyone who didn't deserve it and he didn't really know what these guys did to deserve the wraith of his father, but before he would make a move the front door of the academy burst open, shattering to the ground as several figures entered the room.  Leading them was a familiar face.

"You dummies going to just stand there?" Lila asked as she entered the room ready for a fight.  The Umbrella siblings looked back to the Sparrow siblings to see them now all around Ben, masks on, and ready for attack.  Surprisingly however, none of them looked anything like the Umbrella siblings, they were all completely different, except for Ben.  

"What are you waiting for Number One? ATTACK!" Reginald yelled. 

  "Shut up dad," a girl standing beside Lila snarked to Reginald.  He glared back at her.

"I see you've grown yet again Number Eight, getting bigger by the day," he snarked back.  She snarled at him.  

"O come on, fat-shaming?  That's a little much," Klaus said.  Then he caught sight of Lila's expression.  "O right, escaping."  He followed his siblings and the two women out as the others with them were left behind to fight with the Sparrow siblings.  They got a few blocks away before stopping for breath.  

"Number Eight?" Five finally spat out at the unknown woman.  She shrugged. "I was Number Eight for five years before Lila here came along and sprung me," she explained.  Diego looked confused.

"You look exactly the same as you did in the 60's how is that possible if you raised another peron?" he asked.  Lila smirked.

"A lady never reveals her secrets.  O I missed you love," she answered, gripping Diego's face in her hand.  He rolled his eyes but didn't pull away.  He missed her too if he was being honest even though she had tried to kill him, a few times.  "Now I see you have met your new counterparts."

"Why is Ben leader?" Luther asked.  The rest of the siblings looked at him as if to say 'what the fuck dude?'  He held up his hands shrugging. 

"Because Ben as you call him is the strongest in that crop, at least in terms of powers, channeling a being of destruction in your abs can get you a lot if you try," Eight responded.  "But he can be sympathetic and good most of the time."  She reddened some at the confused looks on the siblings faces.

"You'll have to forgive sweet little Eight here, she has a bit of crush on Number One there," Lila said, putting an arm around Eight that the woman immediately shrugged off in annoyance.  "Anyway, now that you've returned to the present I should catch you up shouldn't I?  Come on, to our little hideout, the others should be getting there by now since our little distraction and extraction worked."  She turned without getting a response and headed down a flight of stairs that had construction blocks in front of it, disappearing underground with Eight following her.  The others looked at each other and one by one they followed the women into the ground.

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

Number One found himself wondering several things after the scuffle had ended.  One, why had his father spent so much time talking up this group of siblings like they were evil incarnate?  He didn't see any sign of anger or threat from any of them.  Two, why did Eight always have to show up with Lila?  It drove him crazy to see her, especially now after their last one on one fight that didn't exactly end with a normal take down unless Lila was teaching unexpectedly kissing as a new technique.  And three, where the hell had they gotten the name Ben from?  He racked his brain for a time that he was known as Ben and he couldn't recall one.   "Dad, what was all that about?" he questioned as his siblings watched at dinner that night.  Reginald sighed deeply, hating to be questioned, especially with Pogo and Grace in the room.

"Number One, I have told you before, the Umbrella Academy is a rival, a group who wants to destroy us and what we hope to achieve," he said as if One was a small child.  

"I understand that's what you told us but that is not what I saw in them today, they looked sad, and confused," he said.  "If they were a threat then why didn't they seem to know us at all?  Why did they call me Ben?"  

"Enough Number One, if you cannot listen properly then you are dismissed from dinner and are to go study Lord Byron again, maybe you will learn something finally," he snapped.  One gripped his fork tightly but stood and did as told, just like always.  He was the leader and needed to set an example.  He heard the whispers from his siblings before they were silenced by their father.  He felt Number Three poking around in his mind, trying to see what he was thinking, trying to put a thought into his head but he shook it off and headed upstairs to his room. 

He shut the door and let out a breath, finally relaxing for the first time that day.  He stripped off his uniform and got into comfier clothes, before laying down in his bed.  He laid there, actually taking out Lord Byron and reading some before he heard the last of his siblings go to their rooms.  Once he was sure that the house was completely locked down and everyone was at least pretending to sleep he put the book down and rolled over, feeling behind his bed for the loose brick just below his box spring.  He pulled it out and from it he pulled out a crayon drawing and a cell phone.  He put the picture back into the hidey hole before powering up the phone.  He smiled at the message that was waiting for him.

'It was nice to see you today even if I almost had to kill you' 'You couldn't kill me if you tried' 'Ya, you're probably right, but you couldn't kill me either One' 'I know Eight, I know' 'Maybe we can find a way to have a fight tomorrow?' 'I do have some time scheduled to patrol between 9th and 15th street aroud 5 pm' 'I'll be sure to vandalize a building or maybe rob a warehouse on say 12th?' 'I'll be there to stop you' 'Can't wait, goodnight One' 'Goodnight Eight, o and what dad said, you look amazing the way you are' He didn't get an answer but knew she'd see it in the morning and hopefully it would make her smile.  He put the phone and brick back and drifted off imaging her smiling at his message.

[lost-in-austen-books]

Frankenstein; or, the Modern Prometheus by Mary Shelley

I got a giftcard for an audiobook service, so I listened to this one as an audiobook narrated by Alison Taylor. I never knew much about this book or of its’ creator until recently when I watched the Mary Shelley film on Netflix. It painted an interesting image of the woman and the book! I was therefore intrigued to read the book and quite honestly it was very different to what I had previously imagined, although the film had hinted towards that already.

Background: The story of Frankenstein started as a short story in the summer of 1818, when Shelley was travelling in Europe with her future husband and they stayed in Geneva with Lord Byron. In order to amuse themselves Lord Byron came up with the challenge that all the people present should write as scary a ghost story as they could, which initially prompted Mary Shelley to come up with the idea for Frankenstein (and another guest, John Polidori ended up writing the book “The Vampyre” without which Twilight might never have existed you know). 

Synopsis: The way that Frankenstein is written is interesting for it is written both in epistolary form and in the form of a frame story, where one of the characters begins by telling Frankenstein’s story in a letter to their sister, but within that narrative Frankenstein also explains the monster’s side of the story. So it’s a bit like a story within a story within a letter within a book. So many layers. Like an onion. The story also opens at scene set in the North Pole, when the actual story is drawing to a close. Frankenstein is chasing his monster when he comes across a ship which is on a scientific discovery voyage, and so Frankenstein begins to tell the story of the monster. 

Victor Frankenstein studied in a university where he became intrigued by the idea of creating life or bringing dead to life and so he begins to work on what will become his monster. It’s not his intention to create a monster but when he sees the creature he has brought to life Frankenstein is terrified of it and wants to abandon the monster. The creature however, does not wish to be abandoned, feels lonely and tries to find companionship where he can. Because of his appearance it’s not easy for him and so he wishes for Frankenstein to create a partner for him. He does not wish to create another “monster” and this is when the original creature he created really turns on his creator.

Review: I rated Frankenstein at 4/5 stars. Although Frankenstein is supposed to be some sort of a horrid ghost story, I did not find it actually scary, but rather sad. Without spoiling too much, let’s just say that I’ve seen the meme which says something like “everyone thinks that Frankenstein is the name of the monster in ‘Frankenstein’, but this is incorrect. However, if you read Frankenstein, you realise that he, in fact, is the monster” and let’s just say that I finally understood it. In the Mary Shelley film I’ve seen it is alluded to that in her marriage Mary Shelley herself might’ve, at times at least, felt as lonely as the ‘monster’ did when he was cast aside by his creator. Throughout the story Victor Frankenstein fails to take responsibility for his actions and therefore is responsible for more damage than his creature. The creature merely wants to feel more human and less alone, which Frankenstein fails to understand or take seriously. Because of this Frankenstein also drives himself to feel isolated from other people. I think that humanity, responsibility and loneliness are some of the greatest themes explored in this novel which Shelley manages to do justice for. 

So I enjoyed the narrative perhaps more than I had expected and the themes it explored were interesting to me. The pacing of the book was a bit off however, therefore not worthy of five stars for me. Like I said, I listened to this as an audiobook, and had I been actually reading myself, I think that I would have found the start of the book a bit difficult to get through, but the story does pick up and get better! The pacing could’ve been improved throughout the book but generally the beginning was the slowest bit. If you struggle with it, I suggest trying an audiobook. Since it’s in the public domain, you should be able to find one easy enough on YouTube etc. 

I recommend this to fans of classic, gothic novels, or to people interested in the history of the science-fiction genre!

[thecleverdame]

This Is Not A Fairy Tale - Five

Alpha!Prince!Sam x Omega!Reader

Story Masterlist

Summary: You’re a suppressed Omega who is forced into servitude after the death of your father. Your stepmother Naomi is a heartless woman who forces you to do the cooking and cleaning, while she tries to marry off her own two daughters, Alex and Claire. But your life takes a wonderful and dangerous turn when you meet the charming Prince Sam who also happens to be an Alpha.

Warnings: ABO smut, abuse, death of parents, magic

Beta:  ilikaicalie  

*This story is complete and posted on Patreon. Become a patron for a monthly pledge of $2.50 and get access to all my Patreon content.

-

Your home, or what was your home, is a three-hour journey from the castle. You ride through fields and cross rivers, following your own innate sense of direction. Sam couldn’t find his way to you, but in contrast you always know your way. It’s a trait left from your father.

Rehearsing the plan in your head, you try to account for every possibility. Perhaps they will be sleeping. After a night of dancing and drinking, Naomi and your step-sisters must be exhausted. Maybe they haven’t even noticed you’re gone. And even if they have, you’re banking on the fact that they’ll be too worn out to put up a fuss, at least not this morning.

You won’t get into specifics. There’s no reason for them to know anything about what happened between you and Sam. The goal is to collect your father’s ashes and leave without a nasty confrontation.

There’s no sign of life as you approach the house. Tying the horse to the post you venture inside as quietly as possible. The house appears empty. Slipping your shoes off, you shuffle through the dining room and into the parlor. Your father's ashes sit atop the fireplace in an ornate gold jar that once belonged to your mother. You’ll have both of them with you now.

You carefully collect the urn and turn to find Naomi waiting silently in the doorway. You nearly drop the jar, pulling it back to your chest.

“You really are a slippery little thing, aren’t you.” Her eyes narrow. “How did you get out of the chains?”

“You didn’t fasten them tight enough.” You counter, standing tall. There’s no reason to be afraid of her now. You have the power whether she knows it or not.

“There she is!” Claire rattles, standing beside her mother with Alex right behind. “What are you wearing?”

“What’s different about you?” Alex tips her head. “She looks...less like walking death.”

“Yes, she does.” Naomi steps closer as you fight the urge to retreat. “What are you playing at with Robert’s ashes?”

“I’m taking them with me.” You feel emboldened, empowered for the first time in your adult life. “I won’t be living here anymore.”

“What?” Claire laughs, looking at you as if you’ve just said you saw a dragon. “Have you finally gone insane?”

“What is this?” Naomi throws up a hand to silence her daughter.

“I have decided it’s time for me to move on. I’m no longer a child and you are not my master. I’m not a servant. I’m your stepdaughter and I am free to go as I please.” You want to jump for joy as the words leave your mouth. You’ve wanted to say them for so long.

“This is rather sudden.” Naomi smiles a terrifying grin that sends fear into your very bones. “You are correct. You are not my property, but you forget you are an Omega. If you leave and try to make it on your own you’ll be snapped up by the first wealthy Alpha to cross your path. Omegas aren’t meant to be free, my dear.”

“I’ve already been claimed,” you snap back before you can stop yourself. The hatred you’ve been suppressing for years bubbling to the surface.

All three pairs of eyes snap to your neck. Your hair is covering half of Sam’s bite but it’s visible if one knows what to look for.

“Who would claim you?” Alex wonders aloud, turning to Claire. “Is she serious?”

Naomi is silent, you but you can see the wheels turning. She’s putting things together, staring at you in contempt as the pieces click into place.

“What have you done? You little whore!” She’s seething, jaw clenched as she thrusts an accusatory finger in your direction.

“He claimed me.” You poke your chest, tears springing to your eyes. “He wants to be with me, Naomi. We’re soulmates and there is nothing you can do to take that away from us.”

“What is she talking about?” Clair looks from you to her mother. “Who claimed her?”

“The Prince.” Naomi presses her lips together. “It was her at the ball. The mystery woman in blue. She’s an Omega, no one else ever stood a chance. He wouldn’t have been able to control himself even if you were a troll under a bridge! The king and queen will never allow such deception.”

“It wasn’t the first time we’ve met,” you volley back, watching the fact register as her face falls. “He threw the ball to find me. We’re going to be happy together and I hope my joy tortures you every day!”

“Is she serious?” Claire looks as if she might vomit. “She can’t be. You’re both having a laugh, aren’t you? Mother?”

“Shut up!” Naomi snaps. She can’t take her eyes off you. Alex and Claire are frozen in shock and all you want to do is leave this place and never come back. “You’re going to pay for this.”

“He wanted to know who hurt me.” Your eyes narrow as you inch toward her, wishing you could reach out and smack her right across the face. “He ordered me to tell him who left these scars on my body and I protected you. You should remember that I showed you mercy when you’ve shown me none.”

“You ungrateful slut!” She screams, hands fisted at her sides.

“Goodbye,” you offer your regards and skirt around the women.

You’re surprised that no one follows you but grateful that it’s over as you secure the ashes in your saddlebag. But when you turn to take one final look at the home your father built, Naomi is stalking toward you with two servants behind her. It’s two of the men who work in the fields and care for the cattle.

“Stop her!” Naomi instructs and you realize what’s happening.

“Don’t touch me!” you shout as both men grab your arms, pulling you away from the horse. “Let me go!”

“You are a foolish child.” Naomi watches stone faced as you struggle, fighting like a caged animal. “Carry her down to the basement and make sure she’s tied up properly, arms and legs. We can’t have her slipping out again.”

“What are you doing?!” you scream, staring at her in horror as you’re dragged toward the house. Your feet kick along the ground as freedom slips away. “You can’t keep me here. He’ll find me!”

Three Days Later

Dean winces as a chair hits the wall with tremendous force and splinters in a thousand pieces, sending wood shards in all directions.

“Who is in charge of the search?” Sam yells, grabbing the edge of a small side table and sending it flying. He’s taking his aggression out on whatever’s within arm’s reach.

“I am, my lord.” Byron, a middle-aged high ranking soldier, looks from Dean to Sam, shrinking back a step. “We’re doing all we can, but the search will take time. Perhaps if we had a starting point-”

“Don’t make excuses.” Sam points, stalking toward him. “Just find her. Do you need more men?” Sam looks from Byron to his father who’s watching from the corner of the room. “Tell him he can have as many men as he needs.”

“Of course,” John nods. “Whatever it takes.”

“It’s not a matter of manpower.” Bryon gulps, gathering his courage. “It’s simple logistics. We’ve searched every home in the city from top to bottom. We’ve started with the country homes but it will take days to ensure we’ve left no stone unturned. Perhaps a week.”

“A week?” Sam’s blood is boiling, his face bright red, unable to control the anger churning inside him. Just as quickly, his mood shifts, face falling, swallowing hard as he glances at the king. The fight has drained out of him. Sam’s been cycling between rage and desperation for seventy-two hours. “A week? I can’t-”

“We’ll find her.” John bows his head in confirmation. “Perhaps we need a better strategy.”

“May I make a suggestion?” Bryon raises a shaking finger.

“Please,” Dean nods.

“Perhaps we should make an announcement. If people knew what had happened we would have thousands more eyes looking for her. Men would volunteer to join the search.”

“That’s out of the question.” Mary speaks up for the first time.

“Why? It’s not a bad idea.” Dean offers. “Are you concerned about appearance? Claimed but unmarried…”

“Of course not. There is far more at stake than Sam’s reputation.” Mary scoffs, moving across the room to her youngest son and running a hand up his back. “What do you think the risks are for a prince’s mate out in the world without protection? There are plenty who would jump at the chance to use her against us. Not to mention she’s an Omega, claimed or not she’s a rare commodity.”

Sam makes a desperate breathy noise as his eyes flutter shut. He’s a newly mated Alpha without his mate. The balance of his body has been turned upside down. He can hardly think straight and when he manages to have a coherent thought it’s nothing more than a list of all the terrible fates that could befall you.

“I have to ask again, I’m sorry son.” John persists despite his wife shaking her head in silent warning. “You’re sure she didn’t leave of her own volition? It’s possible she was overwhelmed by how fast things moved-”

“She didn’t run away.” Sam snaps to attention, anger flooding back. He’s been over this a hundred times. “She had every intention of returning. She left a note. If she would have just waited, none of this would have happened.”

“So, either she was detained between the castle and her home or something happened on the journey back,” Dean surmises. “She didn’t tell you anything? Her father’s name? Any detail?”

“No, she didn't want me to know.” Sam explains. “They beat her. There were marks all over her, some from a lash, others I’ve never seen before. She didn’t want me to retaliate.”

“Well, it sounds as if time is of the essence.” Mary thinks on this news, going over all the details Sam has shared over the last three days. “She told you her father was dead and it was her stepmother that beat her?”

“Yes,” Sam confirms, jaw ticking as his nose scrunches in displeasure.

“Well, then we must narrow the search. Byron, compile a list of men who have passed away and left widows and children. I’m sure it’s a long list, but it’s better than scouring the countryside with no direction.”  

“Right away.”

The moment Byron leaves the room Sam turns to his father with tears in his eyes. “They’re hurting her. Whoever stopped her from returning, they’re hurting her.”

“You don’t know that.” Mary whispers, slipping her arm around his waist.

“I do. I can’t explain it, but I can feel it. I know how that sounds but I swear to you there are moments when I feel her so clearly. She’s in pain.”

“The bond between Alpha and Omega is something no one understands. You’re connected to her in more ways than we realize.” John places a hand on Sam’s shoulder. “We’re going to find her. It’s only a matter of time.”

-

Naomi is proving a point. She thought you were already broken, but now she’s on a mission to seal the deal.

You scream as the whip cuts across your back, feeling flesh open as the sting of the leather crosses over dozens of already open wounds. You’re strung up, arms above your head and stripped naked. There’s a warm trickle of blood down your back and over your buttocks. She’s taken the lash to every part of you she can reach, legs, backside and stomach. She’s refrained from marking your breasts and belly, because, as she’s been eager to explain a buyer wants something pretty to look at.

She announced this morning that she has in fact sold you to a wealthy statesman, an Alpha from a far away kingdom. He’ll come to collect you this evening so Naomi is making the most of her last hours with you.

At some point your mind leaves your body. You float upward toward the ceiling, a hazy, clouded feeling as you remember Sam’s scent and how warm it felt to be with him. You didn’t realize how cold you always were in your little basement bedroom until you felt his animal heat all around you. The sound of your voice crying out in agony echos far away.

If you died down here, at least you would have died knowing how wonderful it feels to be cared for by someone. To be held and kissed by a man who only wanted to show you pleasure and safety. But instead, you will suffer a fate much worse than death. You’re to be a mate for another Alpha, a man will no doubt try to claim you and make you his own...but no other mark will ever supersede Sam’s. Your soul and your body will always pine after your original mate. This will only be the beginning of the suffering.

You jerk back to reality when your knees hit the floor. Naomi has cut the ropes that held you. Now you’re a bloody puddle of a woman, nude and cowering on the soot covered stone.

“Why are you doing this?” You look up, knowing the question itself might incur her wrath but it doesn’t matter anymore. Your entire body is on fire, nauseating pain that makes your stomach heave. What’s more at this point?

“Because I hate you,” she replies simply. “You were a wretched child and grew into a wretched woman. If you think I’ll let you take away my daughters’ chance at an advantageous marriage, you’re mistaken. I should have sold you off long ago.”

“Please don’t do this.” You look up at her, arms wobbling as you summon your last ounce of strength. “If you let me go I won’t tell.”

“You won’t tell anyone as it is. I’ve told the Duke what a liar you are. I don’t want you to think you can talk your way out of this. I explained to him that you were claimed by a stable hand and will say or do whatever you can think of to be with him. I wouldn’t go telling tales of your prince. The duke said if you can’t stop your dishonesty he’ll cut out your tongue. You won’t need it to be of use to him.”

You close your eyes, gripping your knees to your chest and try to imagine a way out. There has to be something you can do. If only you’d told Sam where you came from, your father’s name. Anything. You never imagined your life would come to this, an Omega bought and sold and soon to be shipped off to a land far, far away.

[lovelyirony]

Hello friend! I'm in a mood and just feel like reading something sad. Could you pretty please maybe write some sad winteriron? Maybe something to do with terminal illness but it's up to you!

Being human means that there are many things that could happen to you and you can’t help it. 

Like cancer. 

Or being hit by a bus. 

Maybe a heart condition that you didn’t know about until you were thirty-two, had weird chest pains, and then found you didn’t have genetic testing done and neither parent told you about any extensive medical history because they both were estranged from the family. 

Okay. That was specific. 

But Tony was laying in a hospital bed and the doctors told him that he wouldn’t live past forty and he would die of heart failure. 

He feels like he should be hit harder by this. He only has eight years left to live. He shouldn’t be in his kitchen making eggs, he should probably be hysterically calling Rhodey and Pepper and Happy and asking them about funeral arrangements and what he’s going to do and quite possibly if spending the extra money to get the executive suite at the fancy hotel in Switzerland is worth it. 

Except he doesn’t want to. 

Death is a messy process. Not for him, they assured him of that. But everyone asks you questions and your loved ones. You have to figure out where to bury someone if they didn’t do it beforehand. Sometimes you have debates about cremation. Other times about how much you want to spend on a casket. 

He really doesn’t want to look at Rhodey or Pepper or Happy when they talk about that because he knows that their faces will break into tears and he will see the tear tracks when they go home to their houses and cry some more. 

Nonsense. 

If he can hide it, then he will. He doesn’t want to be a bother, it would be...unfortunate. 

Besides. He’s lonely at the top, and there’s no climbing back down the mountain. He won’t pull a Scrooge and get visited by three ghosts. 

So he lives. 

He pulls some risky moves, but nothing that makes Pepper have the “are you up to something serious that could potentially cause my midlife crisis to go off-schedule” talk. 

Again. 

He donates more money to charities and helps people pay off medical bills and walks around New York late at night to wonder why he’s going to die in eight or maybe even seven years instead of the proposed twenty to thirty. (What? He wasn’t going to be too generous, he knew himself.) 

Tony wonders sometimes if he will meet someone and they will make him want to live so much more than he can. It will be like those romantic dramas with rainfall and hair plastered to foreheads and passionate kisses that leave some of the older women teary-eyed and wishing that their husband would do something like that. 

But he’s a genius, so he knows statistics like the back of his hand. 

There will be no one. 

Eight turns into seven. He celebrates by getting absolutely slammed on New Year’s Eve and wakes up to the shittiest radio station blaring. He’s pretty sure they’re playing Maroon 5, which fucking ugh. 

New Year, new resolutions. He doesn’t bother to make one. 

“Why not? You usually make a joke one,” Rhodey says. 

“We are all going to die,” Tony answers. “Why make a resolution if I don’t want to? If I were to die in a year, it wouldn’t really matter.” 

“Okay Lord Byron,” Rhodey says, rolling his eyes. “You want Hot Topic giftcards for your birthday? Huh?” 

Tony laughs. 

Rhodey always knows how to make him laugh. 

Tony doesn’t know how he’s going to make Rhodey laugh when he’s dead. So that’s a breaking point where he stares at the wall and starts to write random memories down, like the time they snuck up onto a hotel’s roof to see the city wake up and the wind chapped their lips and Tony swore that he’d never leave Rhodey. 

Except he is. 

And he realizes that he needs to let Pepper and Rhodey and Happy know that he loves them a lot. So he starts the letters. 

He writes a letter to Pepper to remind her about how much she regrets getting light blue nail polish every single time she gets a manicure, and she should never get it. (Yes, even for a wedding she’s in, get something, anything other than that.) 

He writes a letter to Happy that is basically just wondering about how they can troll asshole celebrities that they know. He doesn’t know, but maybe he will find some dirt so that if Happy ever falls on dire times, he will have some extra cash flow coming in. Not that Tony would let that happen, but say Happy ever did. Maybe someone stole his bank information. Who knows what will happen in seven or six years. 

Summer still sucks. He thinks maybe he’ll like it more, now that he knows that his heart is going to quit. But it still smells like piss and garbage on the streets of New York, people are still blasting shitty music and riding bikes too dangerously, and he still feels gross by two p.m. when he goes outside to face the world. 

Not even the treat of shaved ice helps this. 

“At least I won’t have to face another one in seven years,” Tony murmurs. “Thank god for that.” 

Seven turns into six. 

It’s around this time when an attractive redhead shows up at his office, bends down a bit lower than necessary, and Tony gets the feeling that SHIELD should really train their agents a bit better if they want something out of him. 

He organizes a meeting with Fury, walks in, and states that they cannot afford him. 

“You know that your help would be particularly useful,” Fury says. 

“For you to get what?” He asks. “Don’t bullshit me with some answer about compassion. Peggy Carter was kind, but she wasn’t a damned saint.” 

“There are new...developments.” 

Like the fact that they’ve found Captain America. And Bucky Barnes didn’t fall off into a random ravine, so the four different conspiracy theory documentary videos that Tony watched last year were about five hours of wasted time. 

They need somewhere to stay. Fury wants Tony to foot the bill. 

“What, can’t ask the government for funding?” Tony asks. “I’m sure if they can up the budget for military every year, that covers Cap and his old pal. Hell, I bet they’ll even open up the champagne fridges.” 

“They don’t know about it.” 

“And why would that be? Because you’d rather have idols to yourself?” 

It’s a low-blow. But Tony agrees to take them in. He just doesn’t want to see them, notably because his father was a bit of a Captain America fan, Tony had had a crush on the former sharpshooter when he was a younger guy, and it was all kinds of messed up. 

But he gives them their own little apartment, one of his safehouses. 

“This ain’t little,” Steve mutters to himself, unpacking a box of plates. Natasha has been nice enough to show them around and tell them about the changes she finds relevant. She forced them to listen to what she called ‘the goddess of pop’ in the car, and Bucky nearly clawed out the stereo after “Toxic” came on. 

“Fuckin’ palace,” Bucky mutters. “Who’s is this?” 

“A man in high places,” Natasha answers. “He doesn’t want to be known. Doesn’t exactly play well with others.” 

She leaves them be, and there’s so much that has changed. Steve is still looking for any sign of the past he can find in Bucky, and Bucky...

He’s not who he used to be. He doesn’t remember half the shit that Steve does. Perks of having your brain so fried up that you can barely remember your middle name. 

They eat together in silence. 

“I guess...I guess we have to figure out who we really are,” Steve says. “Because you’re not who I remember, and I’m not...I guess I’m not either.” 

Bucky nods. 

“Do you reckon we’ll like going out dancing?” 

The answer is a strong no, although Steve has to say the drinks have improved a hell of a lot more. He likes the ones that come with the small paper umbrellas. He doesn’t know where they get them, but it gives him an idea for an art project. 

Tony doesn’t hear much about the wonder boys. He doesn’t want to, not really. Natasha just says they’re getting more and more adjusted and she has evidence of Steve Rogers going clubbing. 

“Oh my god,” Tony groans. “Romanoff, do not.” 

“It’s funny.” 

“I don’t wanna know.” 

“What, you jealous that you’re not dancing with him?” 

“Hardly. Blonde and beefy isn’t my type.” 

“Then what is?” 

“Classified.” Tony answered. “Now, is there anything else you want SHIELD to suck out of me?” 

“Well, my manicure funding is getting rather low...” 

Tony snorts, but points towards the door. 

His chest hurts. It’s been happening. He’s actually gotten used to it. In a way, he’s more concerned when it doesn’t hurt. He went to another specialist. They say his death sentence is signed, even if they don’t word it like that. Here’s how it is usually worded: 

“I have a colleague who works at insert-clinic/hospital-here...I can refer you to Dr. So-and-So?” 

They can. But it’s another list of referrals of so-and-so’s and clinics and appointments at the most inopportune times. 

All for nothing, because Tony knows that he can’t be fixed. The human body sometimes works like a machine. But it’s not one. It’d be like Tony calling a dog a wolf. Similar, but no one wants to bring a wolf into their house as a pet. 

He gets a phone call from someone named Deputy Director Hill. 

-

He needs a new arm. 

Barnes needs a new arm. Of course he does. Tony should’ve expected that, of course. Hydra isn’t exactly known for revolutionizing prosthetics or being particularly kind to their projects that they work on. So Tony automatically has a one-up. 

He gets Barnes to come to this mechanic garage, surrounded by old tin signs and vintage cars that cost more than most of the monthly rent of penthouses in New York. 

Bucky does a double-take. 

“Howard?” 

“I hope not,” Tony answers. “Hop up on the chair for me, please. I’m getting you a new arm.” 

“This is fine,” Barnes automatically spouts. Tony can see the damage from here, and can even point out that the arm’s reaction time is probably the worst it has been currently. 

“If you want to stick to your Great Depression ideals, then by all means be my guest and go bitch in a grocery store about prices,” Tony responds dryly. “But if you want an arm that’s gonna be actually good, then sit.” 

So he does. 

Tony looks incredibly similar to his father. But there’s something different about him. Something softer, almost. Bucky didn’t know Howard nearly as well as others did, but he knew that Tony wasn’t his father. 

“How are you adjusting to the city?” Tony asks. 

"Still the shithole we all know and love,” Bucky swears. “I think the rats got bigger.” 

“They did. It’s amusing and horrifying at the same time. You ride the subway yet?” 

“Yes and I’ve come to terms with it. Lots of new things to learn about it.” 

Barnes’ visits become more frequent. They talk about New York stuff. Tony tells him all about the fun events that have happened that he missed while he was doing time as an icicle. 

It’s nice, talking to him. Tony finally has someone who understands fatalistic humor and doesn’t respond with 

“That’s scary, Tony.” 

“What do you mean?” 

Bucky just says “cheers” and decides to tell Tony about the time he nearly died in 1992 because he lost his footing on the Eiffel Tower. 

Tony laughs, and laughs harder than he thought he had in a long time. 

-

Six turns into five. 

Bucky gets closer, and they have...something. He’s not sure what it is yet, but he knows that they go on breakfast dates most of the time and he knows the coffee orders by heart. 

“I think you’ve found someone,” Pepper says, teasing. “Look at you.” 

“Yeah, look at me,” Tony murmurs. 

He has five years left. That’s plenty of time to date someone and break up, right? 

Except. 

It’s...wonderful to date Bucky. They go all over, have fun trying the shittiest restaurants in town, and even get Steve to get out more and socialize with the group. 

They date and celebrate holidays together and have fun candles and--

Five turns into four. 

“Not that bad,” Tony whispers to himself when he’s getting ready for bed. 

“What’s not bad?” Bucky asks. 

“Nothing, sweetheart,” Tony says. “Just got a new toothpaste.” 

They watch It’s a Wonderful Life and Tony can’t really focus, not when he’s thinking about the fact that he still hasn’t picked out a design for his urn. 

Not when he realizes that he needs to break up with Bucky and make it a whole big scene so that no one will talk to him. It has to be about two years before the date, he thinks. 

He goes to another Dr. So-and-So. They say he might actually have one more year, but who knows. 

He doesn’t. 

But he wakes up with Bucky every day and they make breakfast, and he thinks that maybe he could tell him? Maybe? 

The words get stuck in his mouth. 

He can’t. 

He meets with his lawyer for the will. 

“Why making sudden changes?” 

“Just like to shake things up,” Tony says with a smile. “Never know what’s going to happen, right?” 

“You are right about that,” the lawyer says. He’s a bit uncomfortable. Tony Stark looks at him like he knows that his life is short and that something else will come up. But it’s not the lawyer’s job to ask if things really are okay, and it’s not like Tony would tell him anyway. 

So he makes the changes to the will. 

Tony looks at Bucky as he’s napping, face so peaceful. 

He can’t ruin that. 

[jennaschererwrites]

'Killing Eve' Season 3 Review: Once-Crazy Thriller Finds A New Normal - Rolling Stone

The Eve is dead; long live the Eve! That might as well be the rallying cry for Killing Eve, the Emmy-winning, genre-defying series that, two seasons in a row now, has ended with a near-murder and woken up with a new showrunner. But maybe that’s fitting for a show that’s about chameleons, destruction, and reinvention — and burning down what no longer serves you just for the pleasure of watching the flames dance.

The third season of Killing Eve, which premieres tonight on BBC America, comes at a moment in history when we could all use a little (or hell, a lot of) escapism. And what high-test escapism it is, into a world of globetrotting assassinations, fabulous outfits, and flirtations with the moral abyss. But three years in, the series is beginning to wear out its novelty. What felt so urgent and deliciously twisted in Season One — the push-and-pull relationship between MI6 agent Eve Polastri (Sandra Oh) and her adversary/crush, the assassin Villanelle (Jodie Comer) — has lost some of its vigor in the first half of Season Three.

That probably has a lot to do with the fact that Killing Eve has been trading out showrunners like Villanelle switching designer lewks between murders. The show’s flawless freshman season was under the purview of Fleabag scribe (and, let’s be honest, certified genius) Phoebe Waller-Bridge, who established a singular tone of spy thriller-meets-dark comedy-meets-twisted romance. Emerald Fennell (whose first feature film, Promising Young Woman, is set to debut later this month) took the reins in Season Two, maintaining Killing Eve’s fricative energy and sexual tension, but losing some of its strangeness and stretching the limits of plausibility. Would a high-functioning government organization like MI6 really let a literal psychopath loose within its ranks and just hope it all turns out for the best? 

Season Three has been handed off to Suzanne Heathcote (Fear the Walking Dead), who has the unenviable task of replicating the style and plotting of both of her predecessors. And, at least for the season’s first five episodes, Killing Eve 3.0 is more concerned with sounding the characters’ psychological depths than with building fresh intrigue. The thing is, you kind of miss the intrigue.

When we last left our… well, heroes feels like the wrong word… Eve and Villanelle had both been double-crossed by their bosses, and Eve, fresh off of committing her first murder, rejected Villanelle’s offer to run away together. Villanelle, in turn, delivered on the promise of the show’s title and shot Eve in the back, leaving her would-be paramour for dead in the gorgeous ruins of Rome’s Villa Adriana.

But her name is still in the title, so Eve is back and very much alive at the start of the new season, having traded espionage for a life of slinging dumplings at a Korean restaurant in the London suburbs, trying to get back into the good graces of her husband, Niko (Owen McDonnell), and dodging her former spymaster, Carolyn (Fiona Shaw). Eve is floundering and fading, and, like any good protagonist, believes she’s unique in her suffering. “You don’t know what it’s like when you’ve chosen to destroy your own life,” she says, to which a new character (played by Harlots’ Danny Sapani) replies: “Do not think that you are the only self-loathing asshole in the room, ever.”

Meanwhile, Villanelle, believing that Eve is six feet under, is in Spain breaking hearts and working with a new handler named Dasha (Harriet Walter, an always welcome casting addition). She’s up to her old tricks in a series of outfits both beautiful and bizarre, but three seasons in, Villanelle committing a strange and casual murder feels almost mundane. The surprising thing at this point, frankly, would be to see Villanelle choose not to kill someone.

It’s tricky to have an affirmed psychopath at the center of a TV show (and Villanelle is the more centralized figure than Eve at this point), because it’s hard to make a character with no morality change or grow. For all her magnetic bedlam, Villanelle is an immovable object. In Season Two she was a black hole, pulling everyone else, particularly the smitten Eve, into her event horizon. The drama was never about whether or not Villanelle would evolve, but whether Eve would degrade.

These new episodes see Heathcote digging into the assassin’s inner workings, with mixed results. With Eve nominally in her rearview, Villanelle is on the hunt for something to slake her thirst for novel experiences, and she finds her own past along the way. There’s a lot of introspection this season, whether it’s Eve brooding over her recent mistakes or Carolyn renegotiating her relationship with her job following a series of traumas. It makes for decent television, but it’s nowhere near as interesting a ride as the show was in its prime. Killing Eve is at its best when it’s going completely batshit, and Heathcote’s take is just a few hairs too normcore.

Even when it’s not at the top of its game, Killing Eve is still compulsively watchable, and that’s largely down to its excellent central performances. Oh deepens and complicates her portrayal of Eve this season, working the sum total of the ex-agent’s bad choices into every spilled glass of merlot and facial tic. Comer continues to prove herself one of the most interesting actors on TV right now, her Villanelle funny, unpredictable, and as alluring as she is terrifying, whether she’s stabbing someone with a sharpened tuning fork, or striding into a perfume shop demanding to “smell like a Roman centurion.” The chemistry between these two is the pumping arterial blood of Killing Eve, and the show is at its best when the two of them are in the same room. Shaw’s brittle, powerful turn as MI6 bigshot Carolyn is also a bright spot in a season that, so far, doesn’t give any of these three actors quite enough to do.

When it’s firing on all cylinders, Killing Eve is a machine that runs on chaos. As Lady Caroline Lamb once said of Lord Byron, it’s mad, bad, and dangerous to know. But even with some major shake-ups in the fates of a few supporting characters, the first half of Season Three feels a little too safe — and a little too sane.

[nellie-elizabeth]

Doctor Who: The Haunting of Villa Diodati (12x08)

Woah damn. I really, really liked this episode.

Cons:

Honestly, the only "con" I have is that Jack Harkness isn't going to be in the rest of the season, and that we didn't see the Master... going in to the next two weeks, it seems to me that there is simply way too much content still left to cover. Where is the focus going to be? Are some of these elements going to bleed over into the next season? Sometimes I feel like we're just getting started in exploring the 13th Doctor, and I get nervous that this will all be over too soon.

Pros:

So I may or may not have been an English major in undergrad, with a specific focus on the Romantic and Victorian eras of writing. This may or may not be entirely my jam.

I loved the creepy house, the gathering of literary giants of the era, the practically mythical origin story for Mary Shelley's genre-creating Frankenstein, Lord Byron being a total player. It was all so... familiar to me, like seeing old friends on the TV. A real treat.

In specific, I love what they did with the character of Byron. Doctor Who has never been a show with a ton of romance at its core, but over the years we've seen plenty of dalliances between the Doctor and various folks they run into on their adventures. I'm glad that now that the Doctor is being played by a woman, there hasn't been a plethora of examples of men falling over themselves to be close to her. But at the same time... why shouldn't someone fall all over her? She's pretty remarkable. I loved that Byron had a clear and stated interest, but that it never ended up going anywhere concrete. That was such a fun tension to play with. And good on Claire Clairmont for stepping away and asserting herself when she realized that Byron's affections were fickle. (Although, on a darker note... that little baby dies at age five, just as a historical bummer FYI).

I also love that Byron's philandering is something that has had such an impact on literary history that it can still be the punchline to a joke in the year 2020. When the Doctor and the fam approach Villa Diodati, they go over the two rules: don't mention Frankenstein, and don't snog Byron.

The creepy happenings in the house itself are really interesting. First, it seems that people can't get where they're trying to go - walking through doors and down stairs only to find themselves back where they started. Then, Graham sees what appears to be a ghost mother and daughter (a complete red herring, which I really liked). There's a creepy hand, a skull where the baby should be, etc. etc..

And then the truth starts to unravel itself - a seemingly defective Cyberman shows up and tries to get to Percy Shelley, who is apparently the "Guardian," having picked up a piece of Cyberman tech containing the collective knowledge of all Cybermen. The Doctor ends up taking on the task herself, saving Percy but potentially condemning countless future people, since she "gave the loan Cyberman what he wanted," the exact thing Jack Harkness had told her not to do.

This is so intriguing. Obviously one of the big highlights of the episode was the Doctor's angry speech to her companions, stating that sometimes, even she can't win. She can't just let Shelley die at this point - that would alter the course of history, erase all of his future writings, and influence countless other people. It's a fixed point in time. On the other hand, she's foregoing a warning from Jack, taking on something she doesn't understand by becoming the Guardian, and making things potentially a lot worse overall. How is one person meant to make a choice like that? This show has made a good case for the fact that one person shouldn't be able to make a choice like that, and yet when it comes down to it, sometimes that's just how it works out.

Mary Shelley was my favorite part of the episode, I think. I loved how brave she was, how devoted to her future husband (technically she's not even Mary Shelley yet, but she's already calling herself that). And she wants to write, but is feeling discouraged about it. Ryan and the others give her a boost. There's also the fun implication that her experience with the Cyberman, who is a monster only in that he was created to be one, serves as inspiration for Frankenstein. But that narrative is also complicated by the fact that the Cyberman fully leans in to his monstrous instincts, and doesn't provide that hint of pathos that we get with Frankenstein's Monster. Very fascinating.

This is one of those reviews where I could probably go on and on. I loved it all - the atmosphere, the spookiness, the implications for the Doctor's future and the future of the universe, the historical characters and references, the fun dancing scene, Ryan being tragically bad at playing the piano... it all gets a big thumbs up from me!

9.5/10

[humansunshineao3]

Magnus Gets The Flu

When he had magic, Magnus was impervious to all human illnesses. He's never been sick a day in his 4 centuries of life... Until now.

Read on AO3 here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alec should’ve been used to sudden wake-up calls, having grown up as a shadowhunter, but he’d been spoiled in the last few months since he’d started living with Magnus. He was awoken gently, these days, with kisses and warm, strong arms around him.

Not today.

Today, he was awoken by urgent shaking, and a yelp of his name.

“Huh?!” Alec grunted, sitting up with his eyes half open. “Wha’? Wha’ issi?” He slurred, trying his hardest to open his eyes.

“I’ve been poisoned!” Magnus hissed, right before his body was wracked with a cough.

Alec squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing them hard to coax them open. “What? When?!”

“I don’t know, but my throat is burning and I-” Magnus coughed again, the sound raw and dry.

“Lemme get you some water.” Alec rolled out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom, grabbing his glass from the nightstand as he went. “Here.” He said, rushing back in with a half-full glass.

Magnus downed the water and paused, blinking up at Alec. “Huh.”

“What?”

“The burning’s gone.” Magnus swallowed hard, his nose wrinkling. “Sort of.” He coughed again, and his eyes widened. “It’s back!”

Alec frowned, scratching his hand through his hair. “Magnus… It sounds like you just have a cough.”

“A cough?!” Magnus repeated. “Alexander, I am 400 years old, I know when I’m dying.”

“Oh, you’ve died before?” Alec snarked back, and Magnus scowled. “Babe, you don’t have a magical immune system anymore. You probably picked up a virus on the subway.”

Magnus coughed again, three times in succession, his hands covering his mouth. “No, no, no mundane could survive this, it must be some kind of… Disease. Like… Throat disease.”

He did sound a bit croaky, and Alec couldn’t help but find it cute. “Well, lucky for you, I know how to cure this particular throat disease.”

Once Alec had made Magnus some hot water with honey in it, he seemed to realise that it really was just a common cold that he’d been infected with. He was staring down at the surface of the table, his eyes narrowed.

“So mundanes… Feel this crappy… And just…? Get on with it?” Magnus said after a few moments, looking up at Alec with something like horror on his face.

Alec smiled, propping his head up on his hand. “Well, men tend to be more dramatic about it, so don’t feel too bad.”

“This feels terrible. My head… It’s like the time I let Lord Byron talk me into doing cocaine and opium as a double whammy.”

“Yeah, sounds about right,” Alec agreed, pushing Magnus’ floppy hair out of his face. “You still look cute as ever, though.”

“Well of course I do,” Magnus sniffed, reaching for a tissue to cough into. “I’m Magnus Bane.”

Two days later, and Magnus didn’t look so cute anymore.

He’d holed himself up in bed with a space heater on one side of the room and a fan on the other, and Alec had dragged the TV in to keep him occupied when he got too sick to continue his translation work. He hadn’t had the will to drag himself into the shower, his nose was all dry and red from all the tissues, and he was always tacky with sweat. He was anxious and worked up from feeling so lousy, too. New experiences made Magnus a little nervous after such a long life, and having the flu was definitely new to him. Luke had bought Magnus an Alexa last Christmas, guessing it would make adjusting to life without magic a little easier. At the time, Magnus had turned his nose up at it, but it was coming in handy now.

“Alexa, turn on the fan,” Magnus croaked, kicking off the blankets. He turned his face towards the cool air as it started to blow over the bed, and shuffled to sit up.

He didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing he remembered was Alec running his hands through his hair, though, so he supposed it made sense. He squinted at the clock on the wall, balking when he saw it was 3pm. A grown man should not be napping in the middle of the afternoon, he told himself, swinging his socked feet over the edge of the bed and fighting down the nausea that came from moving too fast.

“Urghh…” He grumbled, shivering now. “Alexa,” Magnus moaned, snatching up a blanket, “turn off the fan.”

Alec wasn’t here now, and that was a problem. He’d promised Magnus that he’d be here to look after him, and while Magnus wasn’t usually (openly) clingy, he didn’t want to be left alone while he was practically dying. Luckily for him, he didn’t have to look too far for Alec. He heard quiet humming coming from the kitchen when he padded out into the living room, clutching the blanket tighter around himself as he followed the sound.

“Oh, no,” Magnus whispered as he neared the kitchen. He couldn’t smell much with his stuffy nose, but he could just make out the edge of… Paprika?

Alec was cooking.

“Oh, you’re up!” Alec grinned, stirring a large pot that sat on the stove. “I called my Mom while you were sleeping to get the recipe for her Mom’s secret recipe spicy soup.”

“Oh… Another… Another one of your Grandma’s recipes.” Magnus said, hoping that his throatiness would hide his dread.

Alec shrugged one shoulder. “She used to make this for me when I was sick as a kid. It’ll clear your head and your nose, I promise.”

“Wonderful,” Magnus offered, walking a little closer. His stomach turned over at the memory of Alec’s last sojourn in the kitchen, and he pressed his lips together. “Is it done?”

“Not yet,” Alex answered, putting his free arm around Magnus’ waist. “It needs to simmer for an hour.”

“So you can come back to bed?” Magnus asked hopefully, leaning into Alec’s warmth.

Alec smiled, tapping the wooden spoon on the edge of the pot before setting it down. “Yes, I can come back to bed.”

Magnus hummed at the news, taking Alec’s hand and pulling him back towards the bedroom. “You’re sure you can’t get sick now, right?” He checked, letting go of Alec’s hand to climb back under the covers, tugging them up to his chin.

“One hundred percent sure,” Alec promised. “I’m using iratzes every six hours to get rid of any bugs that find their way into my system. So I can cuddle and kiss you as much as you’ll let me.”

“Mmmm… Good. Come here,” Magnus ordered, immediately wriggling his cold toes between Alec’s calves when he got close enough.

“Yes, boss,” Alec murmured fondly, shuffling across the bed until he was flush against his boyfriend. “Anything for you.”

Magnus smiled a little, kissing Alec gently on the lips. “I feel like shit,” he whispered, like it was a secret, and it made Alec laugh.

“Really? I never would’ve guessed.”

“I probably stink.”

“Mmmm… I mean, I wasn’t gonna say it.”

Magnus grumbled, but Alec kissed him on the forehead between soft chuckles. “Mean.”

“If it bothered me that much, I wouldn’t be here nuzzling into your neck, now would I?” Alec pointed out, his face pressing into Magnus’ skin as he spoke.

“True,” Magnus allowed. “How much longer?”

“About five days.”

Magnus groaned, his lower lip fattening up. Alec cooed at him. “I don’t like it.”

“I know, baby. You’ll be back to your debonair, larger than life self before you know it.” Alec assured him, “but look at it this way. You get me all to yourself for a whole week, no late nights, no emergencies. Just you and me.”

After a moment’s consideration, Magnus sighed happily, squeezing Alec a little tighter. “That is something. How did you pull it off, anyway?”

“Left Izzy in charge. I was due holiday time,” Alec shrugged, “and besides, when have the Clave ever been able to keep me away from you, hmm?”

“I love you so much,” Magnus said quietly, looking up at Alec through his eyelashes, “but I really, really don’t wanna eat that soup.”

Alec pouted. “But it’s good!”

Magnus grimaced. “Alexander, I adore you, more than life itself, but you also thought that trainwreck of a recipe that you tried to feed your mother tasted good.”

“This one really does taste good,” Alec tried, “I checked with Mom.”

“Oh…” Magnus wrinkled his nose. “Fuck. Okay, I can’t say no to you.” He went to sit up, and Alec made a noise of protest.

“Where you going?”

“To write my will, just in case your cooking kills me,” Magnus explained, and Alec growled, a grin growing across his face as he snatched up a pillow and hit Magnus in the face with it. “Hey! I’m sick, you can’t start a pillow fight.”

Alec sniffed. “I think you’ll find you started it.”

Magnus hummed, the croak in his voice breaking it in the middle, “fine.” He wrenched up a pillow and pushed it into Alec’s face. “I’m sorry for insulting your terrible cooking.”

Alec laughed, catching Magnus around the waist and turning them over so he was leaning over his boyfriend. “I love you.”

“Mmmm, I love you too,” Magnus returned, raking his fingers through Alec’s hair. “Thank you for looking after me the past couple of days, you’ve had the patience of a saint.”

“I did snap at you that one time,” Alec mumbled like he was ashamed of it, swallowing hard.

“I was being annoying.”

“Well…”

Magnus chuckled. “Alexander, I made you move the TV six times because I wasn’t comfy.”

“Yeah, alright, that was super annoying,” Alec admitted, his hands stroking up and down Magnus’ sides. “But you’re having a crisis, so I forgive you.”

“I wouldn’t call it a crisis…”

“Babe, you thought you’d been poisoned,” Alec chuckled, eyes warm with fondness as they met Magnus’.

“I’m melodramatic by nature, I was open about this from the beginning,” Magnus pointed out with a grin, “and if I remember rightly, it drew you in like a moth to a flame.”

Alec hummed. “That wasn’t what attracted me to you.”

“Oh?”

“Honestly? The fact that you overlooked Jace for me got me kinda hot.” Alec admitted wryly, and Magnus laughed so hard it launched him into a coughing fit. “Sorry,” Alec smiled, helping Magnus sit up.

“That was what did it for you? Not my clever line about Michelangelo?” Magnus asked once his coughing stopped long enough for him to catch his breath.

Alec shrugged one shoulder. “That one just made me feel inadequate. But then you winked at me and I was back in the game, so…”

“Can’t beat a good wink,” Magnus agreed, shifting around to get more comfortable.

“What was it about me?” Alec asked. He’d always been curious as to why Magnus tried so hard with him that night.

Magnus smiled, nostalgia warming his heart. “The elation mixed with panic on your face when I turned to look at you. It was just about the cutest thing I’d ever seen in my life. I never in a million years seriously thought anything was going to come of it, maybe a quickie in my office, if I was lucky. But then…”

“Then?” Alec prompted, eager to hear the rest.

“Then you showed up for Luke. Trusted me with your energy. And, I don’t know, when you held me after I healed him… I hadn’t been handled that gently since…” Magnus’ gaze was distant, his head shaking a little. “I couldn’t remember the last time.”

Alec squeezed him just as gently as he had that night, his lips brushing Magnus’ temple. “I love you so much, Magnus.”

Magnus sniffed, leaning into Alec’s hold. “I love you too, Alexander.”

“Wanna watch Bake Off?”

Magnus closed his eyes. “I really, REALLY love you.”

“And then soup.” Alec amended, reaching for the remote, and Magnus wrinkled his nose.

Annoyingly, the soup turned out to be delicious, and Alec never, ever shut up about it for the rest of their long, ever-young lives.

[scifinal]

DW s12e10: It's Quite Unfortunate That This Child Keeps On Regenerating

It's only fitting that the first post on a blog called "SciFinal" should be about a season finale.

Not that fitting is the fact that in said post I'm going to begin where it all started for me.

Part One: How I Even Got into This Mess of a Show in the First Place

While I call myself a huge Doctor Who fan, even a – *gasp* – Whovian, I must admit I am not as familiar with the franchise as I would like to be; I've seen the new show, I've seen Torchwood (though, admittedly, I had to force myself to finish the fourth season – but that's a story for another day), I've listened to a handful of audio dramas (including Kaldor City, which I consider to be canon for both DW and Blake's 7) – mostly Torchwood audio dramas, but who cares, – I've read a couple of comics, I've got a novel or two somewhere on my bookshelf, I've seen the first couple of seasons of the classic show, but that's about it. I can't say I grew up with it – it wasn't on TV when I was a kid, there isn't an official Ukrainian dub, et cetera, et cetera. I first heard about it when I was about thirteen, when my classmate did a project about something they liked – and was pretty dismissive of my peers' hobbies at the time, believing myself to be somewhat above them, so I didn't pay much attention.

Then somebody finally pressured me into watching it (I believe I was fifteen or something back then) and I loved it. The first two episodes of the first season, I mean. I watched those, texted my friend something like "consider me a Whovian now!" and abandoned the show completely only to return to it maybe several years later.

I loved it. This time, for real.

Doctor Who has been with me ever since that time, it has a big soft spot reserved for each and every Doctor ever in my heart, and for each and every companion. I know full well it's cheesy, and it's stupid, and it's technobabble-y, and it's glorious in all of its cheesy technobabble-y stupidity.

And I hate this finale.

Part Two: Doctor, Why

I hate this finale – because I hate Chris Chibnall. Mind you, not the gentleman himself (I don't even know what he looks like, and I can't be bothered to Google), I hate what he did to Doctor Who.

Now, when it was revealed that the would replace Steven Moffat I felt... nothing. What did you expect? I had no idea who the man was. I know now he's made Broadchurch, and I know he wrote a bunch of stuff for Torchwood back in the day, including Cyberwoman. I had to drop Broadchurch because of how well-handled the depressing atmosphere was, and I love the flawed, dumb, sexy-cyber-bikinied, almost-fifteen-minutes-of-Ianto's-whining-including (I know because some time ago I literally cut almost every single moment of Gareth David-Lloyd whimpering, moaning, groaning, screaming, and mugging at the camera out of the episode and made those bits and pieces into a beautiful clip show called "I HATE THIS" to explain exactly why his face was and still is so punchable) mindless fun that is Cyberwoman (this is also one of the two episodes in which they actually do something fun with the pterodactyl living inside Torchwood's underground base). The latter also led to the creation of one amazing in how it develops Ianto's character audio drama entitled "Broken". I love Broken. I am now forcing you to look at its cover because of how much I love it.

Here we go. Now, back to the point of me rambling pointlessly

In his video "Sherlock Is Garbage, and Here's Why", a well-known YouTuber hbomberguy pointed out how Steven Moffat's problem is that he is more than capable of writing a good one-off episodes, but ultimately fails at managing multiple complex, overarching stories, as visible when you look at the difference between Moffat's individual episodes and his run on the show.

Now, I believe that Chris Chibnall suffers from the same affliction: he's a good screenwriter but a terrible, terrible showrunner. Sure, he's made Broadchurch, but Broadchurch, in its essence, was a complete singular story with a beginning, a middle, and an end. There were no bigger, incomplete arcs expanding at the expense of other episodes, and the show did exactly what it was originally designed to do: it told an uninterrupted story.

Here comes Chris Chibnall's run on Doctor Who.

Now, while Steven Moffat was ultimately not very good at managing overarching stories, he tried to do so nonetheless, and the fans seemed to like his attempts. And while I can't be sure as to whether it was Chris' original vision for the show or he and his co-writers were merely trying to emulate Moffat, he attempted the same. A friend of mine has even pointed out how, to her, it was painfully obvious how the writers of the finale were desperately trying to copy Moffat's style (to give you some context, she grasped it from a 30-second clip of the CyberMasters' reveal, and that clip basically consisted of me filming my laptop's screen and laughing at their design, making the video wobbly and the audio distorted). At the time of writing this post this friend hasn't seen a single episode of Chibnall's era and, as far as I know, has no wish to do so – mainly because of two reasons that both have something to do with the finale:

Somebody's already spoiled it for her, so who cares;

I ranted to her about how shit this finale is and now she hates everything about Chibnall era.

I am very sorry for the latter, since I genuinely believe there are some nice episodes in these seasons, and I especially like the "historical" ones, they really are quite a lot of fun, I like Nikola Tesla and Thomas Edison fighting badly CG-ed alien scorpions, I love Lord Byron and Mary Shelley running around a haunted house trying to escape from a Cyberman (even though it's all too similar to the Agatha Christie episode from Russel T Davies' run), I adore that episode about Rosa P–– oh, wait, no, that one was crap and ripped off Blake's 7... Anyway, I love Jodie Whittaker's Doctor, I am a big fan of Graham, I like Ryan just fine, and I can put up with Yaz, even though it's been two seasons and I've still got no idea what's her personality supposed to be, and I absolutely love the new Master (he reminds me of a cute little pug with a big Tommy gun). There is plenty of good stuff in these two seasons, they are lots of fun to watch, but this finale... Oh god, this finale.

Part Three: We Had All of Time and Space at Our Fingertips and We Ended Up with This

We are getting to the point of this whole thing. I would love to begin with the obvious, the twist, but there's so much wrong with this who-cares-how-many-parter than this one big thing.

It is inept. It is impotent. It is incompetent. It is bad at almost everything except its okay camera work, somewhat good (for a British TV show, I mean) effects, and its really solid performances.

Its editing is tone-deaf to the extreme. There is a moment in the final episode where Ko Sharmas asks who will be the first to cross the Boundary and step into the unknown, and immediately it cuts to Yaz walking towards it, all fast and silent. I would love to show you a clip of it, but I don't have one and I can't force myself to download the episode and sit through this shitshow again just to present you with a ten-second clip. Nonetheless, that part is not edited like a dramatic moment. You edit comedies this way. Bad comedies. Bad editors edit bad comedies this way.

Its plot is incoherent. There are several plot threads in this finale, and they're managed in a way that doesn't make the viewer care about all of them at the same time, rather the viewer goes "oh, I've completely forgotten this was happening" and then, before they can even begin to care, the show cuts to something else. It's all over the place and oh so annoying.

The plot armour is painfully obvious despite every attempt to disguise it. There wasn't a single, solitary second when I believed the Doctor was really going to sacrifice herself and, lo and behold, here comes the old guy ex machina to do it for her. The only questions I was asking at that moment were "How are the writers going to prevent the Doctor's death now that they've seemingly created themselves a way to go on forever?" and "How can Whittaker care so much about her performance in this scene she's literally almost crying?". I wholeheartedly related to the Master asking "So why are we still here?" and shout–– hiss–– mumbl–– whatever-ing "Come on, come on, come on!" – at that point I've suffered through at least forty-five minutes of utter nonsense, people going preachy, religious Cybermen with Dalek motivations, that absolutely ludicrous scene in the previous episode when the show was trying its worst to make me perceive autonomous flying Cyber-heads with laser eyes as a serious threat, a shit twist and... Oh.

I've got to finally touch on the shit twist, haven't I?

It doesn't make sense. No, I mean it. I guess it makes sense from the show's writers' standpoint to retcon everything in a way that would allow them to go on forever without having to come up with a way to circumvent limited regenerations, yes. And I won't be touching upon all the lore people say this twist has ruined. No. It doesn't make sense as it is.

The twist is revealed to us by a madman that claims to have hacked into a database, claims to possess control over the Doctor's mind, and gives the Doctor and the audience no actual solid proof that the Timeless Child is, indeed, the Doctor. We have Ruth, sure, and she's nice enough (damn, I want that vest), and she's a Timelord that happens to own a TARDIS that looks like a blue police telephone box, and she calls herself the Doctor. Here's Ruth:

I really like Ruth. She also makes no sense from the show's timeline standpoint, since the Doctor's Type 40 TARDIS only got stuck looking like a police box in 1963, so there's no reason for the Doctor to not remember being her.

We also know that the Judoon have identified Ruth as "the Fugitive"... except in one of their previous appearances in the show they weren't able to identify their targets exactly and thus were seeking out non-humans. There is a possibility that they were only looking for a Time Lord on Earth.

You know what? It's possible that Ruth is actually the Master messing with the Doctor. I have just as much proof of this as I have of the fact that the Doctor is some kind of an endlessly regenerating superbeing.

But this is not the most maddening thing here. I loathe it, but I don't loathe the twist itself: I loathe its lifelessness, I loathe how empty, how unemotional, almost robotic it feels. When somebody'd spoiled the finale for me, I got angry, and I started asking questions, and when later I saw the actual thing...

This gif. I can't even explain how accurate it is. I stood there, in the middle of my kitchen, episode paused, holding a cup of cold tea and desperately looking around as if in my surroundings I could somehow find that emotional reaction that this show failed to evoke. I was ready to burst into tears of how empty it felt, and how empty I felt, and how the same show that has Christopher Eccleston go from literally foaming at the mouth with pure hatred to shocked silence in a matter of second because of one sentence that you, a viewer, can't help but be astonished by failed to make me feel the tiniest speck of literally any emotion. And slowly, I felt that vast void in my chest fill with sheer, pure, flaming hatred for the person who made me feel nothing, for the story that left me not bored – but empty.

And the next moment, in its own unique way of being absolutely tone-deaf, the show introduces the CyberMasters, looking ridiculous, being asinine in concept, making me burst into laughter with their dumb design. Wow.

So.

Chris Chibnall's Doctor Who is no longer a show. Chris Chibnall's Doctor Who isn't even, as somebody on Stardust said, a fan fiction. It's a rollercoaster. A lackluster rollercoaster that lifts you from the vast caverns of frozen hell, devoid of any life whatsoever, soulless and abandoned, to the heavenly torture of being so bad, so utterly awful and ridiculous, that you can't help but laugh as you watch something you used to love be distorted and deformed to the point where you can't recognise it anymore nor really care. This is what Chris Chibnall's Doctor Who has become. And I'm going to continue my ride on that grotesque rollercoaster. I'm going to pirate that ride and get on it again. Because I'm a masochist. Because I want to feel something, even if it's hatred towards those that make me feel nothing.

Because some time ago my fifteen-year-old self watched the first season and learned a lesson that I hold dear after all these years – that I can't abandon hope, and that someday, somehow, things are going to get better. That the future is being written right now. That the future can change.

[creepingsharia]

Law Center Asks Supreme Court To Decide How Far Schools Can Promote Islam And Disparage Christianity

Maryland school fails Christian student for refusing Islamic prayer

The declarations could have been made by an imam in a mosque sermon.

“Most Muslims’ faith is stronger than the average Christian.”

“Islam at heart is a peaceful religion.”

Jihad is a “personal struggle in devotion to Islam, especially involving spiritual discipline.”

“To Muslims, Allah is the same God that is worshiped in Christianity and Judaism.”

“Men are the managers of the affairs of women” and “Righteous women are therefore obedient.”

The problem is that those statements were part of the instruction in a public school in Maryland, and one of the students in the classroom now is asking the U.S. Supreme Court to condemn such religious lessons funded by taxpayers.

The Thomas More Law Center has submitted a petition asking the high court to take up the case of student Caleigh Wood.

“As a Christian and 11th-grader at La Plata High School in Maryland, Caleigh Wood was taught that ‘Most Muslims’ faith is stronger than the average Christian.’ She was also required to profess in writing, the Islamic conversion creed, ‘There is no god but Allah, and Muhammad is the messenger of Allah.’ Ms. Wood believed that it is a sin to profess by word or in writing, that there is any other god except the Christian God. She stood firm in her Christian beliefs and was punished for it. The school refused her request to opt-out or give her an alternative assignment. She refused to complete her anti-Christian assignment and consequently received a failing grade,” the legal team explained Wednesday.

Lower courts have given a free pass to the school district to teach Islam, and so TMLC filed the request with the Supreme Court to decide “whether any legal basis exists to allow public schools to discriminate against Christianity while at the same time promote Islam.”

“Under the guise of teaching history or social studies, public schools across America are promoting the religion of Islam in ways that would never be tolerated for Christianity or any other religion,” said Richard Thompson, TMLC’s president.

“I’m not aware of any school which has forced a Muslim student to write the Lord’s Prayer or John 3:16: ‘For God so loved the world, that he gave his only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life,'” he said.

“Many public schools have become a hot bed of Islamic propaganda. Teaching Islam in schools has gone far beyond a basic history lesson. Prompted by zealous Islamic activism and emboldened by confusing court decisions, schools are now bending over backwards to promote Islam while at the same time denigrate Christianity. We are asking the Supreme Court to provide the necessary legal guidance to resolve the insidious discrimination against Christians in our public schools,” he said.

Unresolved include whether or not schools can make preferential statements about one religion over another, and whether students may be required to assert religious beliefs with which they disagree.

And how do those concepts align with “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof”?

The Charles County public schools and officials are defendants.

The filing explains the lower courts, despite the First Amendment’s requirements, “upheld the ability for [the school] to denigrate Petitioner Caleigh Wood’s faith and require her to write out statements and prayers contradictory to her own religious beliefs.”

The lessons “taught Islamic principles as if they were true facts, while Christian principles were treated as mere beliefs,” the filing states.

For example, students were told the “Quran is the word of Allah” but Christians believe the Gospels were revealed to the New Testament writers.

Wood refused to write that the Muslim god is the only god, and was failed for her faith.

The lower courts discounted Wood’s religious convictions and gave the school the go-ahead.

But instances of mandatory faith training, such as orders to recount a Muslim prayer in contradiction to the student’s own beliefs, conflicts with Supreme Court precedent, the filing said.

WND has reported in just the past few weeks on a legal team that dispatched cease-and-desist letters to several Washington state school districts that were promoting Islam through a Ramadan policy of giving Muslim students special privileges.

One district ordered employees to greet Muslim students in Arabic.

But in recent months the resistance to Islam indoctrination has been growing.

One group that has fought it, the Freedom of Conscience Defense Fund, regularly has opposed Islamic teachings in public schools.

‘The true faith, Islam’

Among the cases that have developed:

In May 2017, in Groesbeck, Texas, a couple moved their sixth-grade daughter to a new school after they discovered her history homework assignment on Islam.

In late March 2017, as WND reported, a middle school in Chatham, New Jersey, was using a cartoon video to teach the Five Pillars of Islam to seventh-grade students, prompting two parents to obtain legal services to fight the school district, which has ignored their concerns.

Teaching the five pillars of Islam also created an uproar in Summerville, South Carolina, and in Loganville, Georgia, last year.

WND also reported in March 2017 a high school in Frisco, Texas, set up an Islamic prayer room specifically for Muslim students to pray on campus during school hours. The same type of prayer rooms have been set up in high schools in St. Cloud, Minnesota, and other school districts.

In 2015, parents in Tennessee asked the governor, legislature and state education department to investigate pro-Islam bias in textbooks and other materials.

WND reported in 2012 ACT for America conducted an analysis of 38 textbooks used in the sixth through 12th grades in public schools and found that since the 1990s, discussions of Islam are taking up more and more pages, while the space devoted to Judaism and Christianity has simultaneously decreased.

In 2009, Gilbert T. Sewall, director of the American Textbook Council, a group that reviews history books, told Fox News the texts were “whitewashing” Islamic extremism and key subjects such as jihad, Islamic law and the status of women.

Also in 2009, WND reported the middle school textbook “History Alive! The Medieval World and Beyond,” published by Teachers’ Curriculum Institute, said an Islamic “jihad” is an effort by Muslims to convince “others to take up worthy causes, such as funding medical research.”

In 2006, WND reported a school in Oregon taught Islam by having students study and learn Muslim prayers and dress as Muslims.

WND reported in 2003 a prominent Muslim leader who eventually was convicted on terror-related charges helped write the “Religious Expression in Public Schools” guidelines issued by President Bill Clinton.

In 2001, shortly after the 9/11 attacks, seventh graders in Byron, California, were taught a three-week course on Islam that required them to learn 25 Islamic terms, 20 proverbs, Islam’s Five Pillars of Faith, 10 key Islamic prophets and disciples, recite from the Quran, wear a robe during class, adopt a Muslim name and stage their own “holy war” in a dice game.

Parents went to court to uphold their right to reject the class for their children, but a federal judge ruled against them, and in 2006, the U.S. Supreme Court refused to consider their appeal.

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

More via Thomas More Law Center Asks Supreme Court To Decide How Far Schools Can Promote Islam And Disparage Christianity

Maryland: School bans USMC dad who requested daughter’s removal from Islamic indoctrination