#and be safe and actually be alive for once

[seat-safety-switch]

The other day, I was at a garden centre. Don't get any wrong ideas: I often have to transport the elderly there as part of my community service. Of course, it's only the most deaf and wildly insensate that can be safely transported in any of my heaving shitboxes, and once one of the geezers showed me an invoice saying that she was actually being submitted "for euthanasia (random chance,)" but she managed to make it through an entire trip in my car alive that time. And so did this guy, although he was pushing it with wanting to look at every single one of the fucking gladiolas.

As I was waiting for the ordeal to be over, I saw from out of the corner of my eye a bee. Not one of those terrifying "killer" bees from the media. Not even a particularly chubby bee. No, just a regular old bee, a worker like you and me. Solidarity, sister. Anyway, she was clearly delighted to have such incredible choice in flowers available to her. After days of struggle, her beeple had now stumbled upon a building where some asshole had put thousands of flowering plants together and not defended them with other, angrier bees.

I thought about this. How wonderful it would be to suddenly receive an incredible gift. To be certain things were going to be okay for you and all of your loved ones. And also to be completely ignorant of the unknowable forces that made this artificial heaven possible.

On the way home, I realized that that's exactly what had happened to me. The beautiful road system, produced for us by the infinite machine of the bureaucracy. We must give thanks for it, to leave a sacrifice of smears of burned rubber at every intersection and even the gentlest of curves. Just don't hit any bees while you're doing it. They're not selected for the government's killing lottery.

[zou-rs]

Breakup PART 2

Six years later…

Leon S. Kennedy isn’t the same man.

He’s not the nervous 21-year-old rookie who cried into a bottle of cheap whiskey and passed out on the floor the night before his first day. That boy—with the soft blue eyes and chin dimple and hopelessly in love heart—died in Raccoon City.

What came out of it was something colder. Sharper. A man built from smoke and steel and sleepless nights.

But even now, after six long years of blood and orders and bone-crushing guilt, his heart still knows only one name.

Yours.

He remembers the way your voice cracked when you broke it off. He remembers the trembling plate of chocolate smiley-face dessert he had made for you that night. He remembers thinking you were his home—his future. And then, in one sentence, you were gone.

The city burned the next day.

He survived. By sheer chance, by terrible fate. He stumbled through hell with bloodied hands and a broken heart, shouting your name through empty streets and flaming wreckage. When he found a phone, he dialed your number like a man possessed—again and again and again until finally, mercifully, you picked up.

Your voice.

He collapsed against a bloodstained wall and cried, gasping your name like it was the only thing keeping him alive.

You said you were safe. You had left before the chaos began. And then—you hung up.

But it was enough. It had to be.

Then they came for him.

The government. The mission. The threats.

He remembers the cold weight of the photo they placed on the table in front of him. Your face. Your eyes.

“If you don’t work for us,” they said, “we’ll find her. She’ll make an excellent test subject.”

Leon didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll do it.”

And that was that.

The training was brutal. The missions, unending. He bled, broke bones, clawed his way through warzones, nightmares, and things worse than death. And every time he thought he couldn’t go on, he whispered it to himself like a prayer.

For you.

Even when he was drugged and tortured.

For you.

Even when he heard you had started seeing someone else.

For you.

Even when he saw that blurry tabloid photo of you smiling on some balcony with someone who wasn’t him, it still didn’t stop. It just hurt more.

He never contacted you. Not once. But he always knew where you were. Not in a creepy way, not out of obsession. Just… to know you were alive. Breathing. Safe.

He had made a promise. Even if you hated him. Even if you never wanted to see him again.

And tonight, after another mission leaves his side bleeding and his back screaming, he sits on a hotel bed in some nameless safe house, staring at the last photo he took of you. The real one. From that last night. You laughing in his hoodie. The one with the academy logo and the stupid ketchup stain.

He touches the screen, thumb trembling.

He whispers the words he never got to say:

“I’m sorry I wasn’t better. I’m sorry I let you go.

————————-

You never planned to never see him again.

That night—when you told Leon you needed a break—it wasn’t meant to be forever. You just… needed time. A breath. Some kind of pause from drowning in your own mind. Depression had made everything heavy, even the bright, beautiful boy you loved since you were both in middle school. He was too pure, too golden-hearted, too good. You were sure if you stayed, you’d eventually drag him down with you.

You thought space would help. You thought he’d go to Raccoon City, do amazing things, and you’d heal in the quiet. Maybe you’d find your way back to each other.

But the universe had other plans.

Because the next day, Raccoon City was gone.

Just… gone.

You still remember the panic. The cold sweat. The deafening silence when your parents turned up the TV and the news said the city was under quarantine, and then the broadcast cut out.

You remember trying to call him, over and over. You remember praying—actually praying—to any god that might listen. Begging for just one more chance to say you were sorry. That you didn’t mean it. That you still loved him.

But you never got through.

You thought he was dead.

Until weeks later.

You were home. Still barely functioning. Still waking up in tears. You pulled your curtains back one early morning, and there he was.

Leon.

Standing in the yard.

Same place he always stood when he used to throw pebbles at your window. His hair was longer now. Messy. He looked thinner, older. Tired. But it was him.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

Sprinted down the stairs. Flinging the door open with a scream building in your throat.

But he was gone.

You stood barefoot on the porch, heart hammering, lungs burning.

Gone.

After that, it kept happening.

You’d see glimpses. A figure across the street. A familiar silhouette outside the corner shop. A flash of blue eyes in a crowd. You thought maybe you were losing it. Maybe grief was tricking you.

But some part of you knew.

Leon was watching. Still keeping his distance, still looking after you even when you didn’t deserve it. You wanted to run to him, fall into his arms, sob out every word you’d held back for years.

But you didn’t.

Because you were a coward.

You kept telling yourself it was just coincidence. That he didn’t want to be found. That maybe he did hate you after all.

Eventually, the sightings stopped.

And life moved on, in the way that it does when you’re numb. You moved to D.C. with a man who isn’t Leon. You didn’t love him. You still don’t. But you moved in because your family was getting tired of worrying. Because pretending to be okay seemed easier than explaining why you weren’t.

Your boyfriend isn’t cruel, not exactly. But he’s sharp in all the wrong places. Cold where Leon was warm. Dismissive. You feel lonelier with him than you ever did when you were actually alone.

He doesn’t notice the way you flinch when he raises his voice.

Doesn’t know you still sleep in the hoodie Leon gave you on your 17th birthday.

Doesn’t know you check the news every day, hoping, praying, that maybe—

And then today, it happens.

The headline explodes across your feed:

“Presidential Mission: Unknown Agent Saves First Daughter.”

You don’t care about politics. You barely register the details.

Until you see him.

The photo is blurry. Dark. He’s bloodied, tired, barely recognizable.

But you know him.

That chin dimple. Those shoulders. That look.

Leon.

Six years later, and it’s really him.

You drop your phone. Your lungs feel like they’ve collapsed. You fall to your knees in the bathroom, shaking, sobbing into your hands.

He’s alive. He’s alive. He’s still alive.

—-

After Spain, after that hell — the screams, the rot, the parasite in his chest trying to eat him alive — all Leon could think about was you.

Not the mission.

Not Ashley.

Not the president’s praise.

Just you.

It had been months since he let himself check in. Since he’d driven by your street like a ghost in the dark, headlights off, windows cracked just enough to catch a glimpse of your laughter through a window. But ever since you’d started seeing him — that guy who never smiled at you the way Leon used to — Leon couldn’t bear it.

Couldn’t stand the idea of you being touched by hands that didn’t know how you hated mint gum and loved thunderstorms. Of someone else kissing the tiny scar on your eyebrow. He’d rather chew glass.

But tonight… tonight he couldn’t stop himself.

Spain had taken everything from him. His body was still sore from the Plagas. His hands still shook. The government said he was fine now, that it was under control.

But Leon didn’t feel fine.

He felt like a grave.

So he came here — just to see you. For five minutes. Just one glimpse. Maybe you’d be walking to the store again in those fuzzy socks you always wore with the ripped hoodie he gave you back in ‘97. Maybe you’d lean out your window like you always did before bed.

He didn’t even get to the curb before the door opened.

You stepped outside.

And walked straight toward him.

At first, Leon thought he was hallucinating. He blinked, heart stuttering. Maybe the parasite wasn’t gone. Maybe he was still in the lab. Still strapped to a table.

But no.

You were real.

Real and walking toward him with the softest, saddest look on your face — like you knew he was coming. Like you’d been waiting.

And he panicked.

He hadn’t planned for this.

He looked like hell — hoodie soaked from the rain, hair still damp, eyes rimmed in red from too many sleepless nights. He hadn’t spoken to you in six years, and now here you were, five feet away, and his voice was gone.

“Leon,” you breathed, stopping in front of him.

Your eyes searched his face like they were trying to memorize him all over again. His throat worked around your name, but nothing came out.

“I saw the news,” you whispered.

He laughed, bitter and broken. “Great. Guess the government forgot to blur my face this time.”

“You saved the president’s daughter.”

“I didn’t come here for congratulations.”

“I know.”

Silence.

The kind of silence that stretches years wide.

Leon stared at you like he’d never seen you before. You were older now. Tired, too. But beautiful. The same softness in your lips. The same kindness in your eyes. And underneath it all, a guilt that mirrored his own.

“You shouldn’t be with him,” he said quietly. It came out like a confession.

You didn’t argue.

“I know,” you said, voice cracking.

Leon looked down. His hands were clenched in his pockets. If he let them out, he was afraid he’d touch you. Afraid he wouldn’t be able to stop.

“I tried to stay away,” he admitted. “Thought I was doing the right thing. Thought you were happy.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You didn’t call.”

“I thought you hated me.”

He finally looked at you again.

And it was devastating.

Because all he saw in your face was home.

“I never hated you,” he said hoarsely. “I was in love with you. I still am.”

You sucked in a breath.

“I broke up with you to protect you,” you whispered. “I thought I was the one ruining your life. I didn’t know it’d be the last time— I didn’t know Raccoon City—”

“I looked for you that night,” he said, voice cracking. “I thought you were dead. I was crawling through blood and fire, screaming your name, thinking I lost you forever. I—”

He broke off.

His eyes were glassy now. His shoulders trembled.

You stepped forward slowly.

And wrapped your arms around him.

Leon didn’t move for a moment.

Then, like gravity finally caught up, he fell.

Right into you.

His arms wrapped around your waist like a vice. He buried his face in your neck, breathing you in like a man who had been suffocating for years.

“I missed you,” you whispered, clutching the back of his hoodie. “So much. I never stopped.”

“I’m not the same,” he said against your skin. “I’m not the boy you left.”

“I’m not the girl you loved.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand came up and cupped your cheek, thumb trembling as it traced the shape of your face.

“Doesn’t matter,” he whispered. “I’d still choose you. Over and over.”

For a second just as he was about to damn it all to hell and kiss you. His lips almost touching yours, trembling.

Two hearts beating loudly..

just as he was about to think maybe just maybe he could be happy too…

A voice cuts through the night, low and steady “ you gonna introduce me to your new friend or what darling ? “

Your boyfriend stands at the entrance of the building looking both calm and angry but with a false smile simmering in his eyes.

———————-

Sorry for the long intro guys😭

Part 3 anybody ??

[clairewritesfanfics]

What would you think about a Reader that has precognition powers, like Garnet from Steven Universe or Bruno from Encanto? With the Mark variants finding and rescuing them from a highly secret and highly guarded GDA facility, because that kind of power Cecil would definitely want under his control.

Author's Note: I'm so sorry this took so long, I had to rewrite numerous times. I kept hating what I wrote. At first this was supposed to be several headcanons, then actual imagines, then it became a one-shot. Anyway, anon, you didn't give specific pronouns, but I hope you don't mind that Reader is AFAB here. It just naturally unfurled that way. Also, I'm unfamiliar with the Steven Universe lore so I just went with Bruno's and just foresight powers in general.

Working title: The Idea of You

Reader Character Settings: AFAB, she/her

Characters: Flaxan, Mohawk, Omni-Mark, Shiesty, Genderbent Mark, Full Mask, Target/Striped, Head Cap, Sinister, Prisoner, Viltrumite

Trigger Warnings: Swearing.

You were in the middle of painting. It was not a prophecy or vision, just a regular painting of some beach you’ve only seen from an encyclopedia. 

As you brushed the finishing touches, the wall behind you exploded. 

Strong, alien arms wrapped around your waist before you could turn. 

Your panic was somewhat dulled when the person holding you spoke, “You’re safe...” The voice was masculine. 

“Um,” you began, “I’m sorry but can you let go of me first?”

A low, amused chuckle was his reply. He didn’t let go but he did loosen his hold, allowing you to twist in his embrace and look at the man who just broke through your prison.

Locks of raven hair lazily fell over giant bug-like goggles. He wore a white and blue-green suit that reminded you of Buzz Lightyear, and of those insectoid wannabe invaders that showed up in your nightmares and on your various works of art.

A lot of things were different, but you have seen this man in many visions. You recognized that jawline anywhere.

Your fingers traced over the strong lines of his face. “You’re Markus Grayson.”

He stared at your hand and you pulled back. “I’m sorry, I’ve never–”

“–never talked to a real person before? I figured as much, you told me that.”

You understood immediately. “So that’s why your costume is different. You’re not from here, are you?”

He shook his head. “I’ll explain everything on the way out.”

“Out?” You bounced forward until your nose almost bumped into his mouth. “You’re really going to take me outside? Can you take me to Burger Mart? I always see it but I’ve never been.”

His face softened. “I’ll take you anywhere you want, sugar.”

Your stomach did flips at the pet name. “Okay.” You beamed.

He hooked his arm under your knees and secured you to his chest. “Cover your eyes.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to see.”

You had a feeling that’s all he was going to say, and you would rather not irritate your liberator, so you obediently covered your face.

You moved in the darkness, the odor of blood stung your nose. The halls were hot but Lightyear never let you go and soon, you could feel the cold air nip at your skin.

“You can look now,” he informed you.

Your pupils strained at the sudden brightness. 

When your eyes finally adjusted, you wrung your arms around Markus’ neck. You must’ve been hundreds of feet off the ground.

He chuckled. “It’s all right, I won’t ever let you go.”

Once your pulse calmed down, you took another peek at the world below. Everything seemed so inconsequential, like the dollhouse someone left in your bedroom while you slept several birthdays ago.

“I’m finally free,” you muttered. You turned to the burning Pentagon. “That’s where they kept me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Did you do that? Is that why you asked me not to look?”

He didn’t answer.

You watched the growing flames lick the sky. 

He opened his mouth and closed it again. 

“It’s okay. It was bound to happen, if not you, something else. The only difference is that if it weren’t you, I probably would have burned alive with the rest of them.”

“You’re not sad?”

“A little. It was my home, after all. But it’s funny, I’ve seen so many things thanks to my power, but I’ve never seen a future where I got out.” You gave him a teary smile. “So thank you, Markus Grayson.”

His face was unreadable until he smiled back. “You can just call me Mark.”

“Okay–”

“Well, what do we have here?”

Mark tensed as a third person arrived. It was Mark, again, but this version didn’t wear a mask or a cowl and his hair was shaved into a rowdy mohawk.

“You were supposed to destroy the GDA fuckers’ HQ, no one said anything about stealing.”

Mark Lightyear’s voice was taut and cold as he spoke, “Is that truly all you have to say? Because it seems to me like you’re angry that you didn’t get to play white knight.”

Mohawk’s arrogant smirk twisted into a scowl. “Hand her over.”

You flinched.

“You’re scaring her.”

“Fine, let’s set her down somewhere and talk things out, Mark to Mark, then we can decide who takes her home with them.”

“You’re way in over your head, kid.”

Mohawk snarled and charged forward but Mark dodged at the last minute. “Hold on,” he ordered before blasting through the clouds.

You couldn’t hear your own screams with the angry whipping of air around you. 

He didn’t slow down until you two reached the middle of the Pacific.

“I’m sorry, I had to be fast.”

You waved his apology off, unable to reply with your breakfast threatening to leave the way it came. 

“Don’t worry, we should be safe for now. They shouldn’t be here.”

You breathed steadily. “I’m all right but… you really shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Like what?”

“Things that tempt fate.”

He smiled. “You always said that.” 

He reached to touch your cheek but you gently stopped him.

“I don’t know what you expect from me,” you said slowly, “but I can’t replace what you lost.”

“...I know.”

“You’re not angry?”

“I can never be angry with you.”

“So why did you help me?”

His smile turned sad. “Because it’s you.”

Your heart fluttered with envy and warmth. If you met the Mark Grayson of this timeline, then would someone love you like this too? 

“I know you mentioned wanting to go to Burger Mart, but it’s too risky to bring you to places full of people.”

“Yeah, I guessed as much.”

“I can take you somewhere else though.”

***

“Hey, if it gets thick enough, can we try eating the snow?”

You were as giddy as a Siberian Husky at the sight of powdery snow pouring on Mount Fuji. Mark refused to land though, and you were still in pajamas, so you can only admire from afar. 

“Do you have any idea how polluted the air is on this planet? You’re not eating the snow.”

You laughed. “I’m kidding, you grump. But you gotta admit it’s tempting, it’s so pure and white, like vanilla ice cream. Donald used to give me the same vanilla ice cream cake every birthday.”

“I thought you never talked to anyone before.”

“I haven’t. I didn’t even know it was Donald who sent me cake, when I woke up, it would always just be on the table. But I saw him once in my vision, he was carrying the box from the bakery to his car. I’m going to miss him.”

“...I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, it’s not like we had an actual relationship.” This was the problem with precognition. You saw things others didn’t want you to see, and it deluded you into thinking you had a connection with them. 

“We should go,” Mark said after a while.

“Can’t we stay for a little longer? Just a little?”

“You can admire the snow and more mountains when we get home, I promise.”

“So it’s true.”

Your skin prickled as you felt a hot, intense gaze behind you. 

You reluctantly lifted your head and saw Mark with spikier hair and draped in red and white. Even you could tell that he was more dangerous than the mohawk guy.

“Why would you bring her here wearing just that? She could freeze to death.”

“I’m afraid that’s none of your concern, and don’t worry, we were about to leave.”

“You’re not going anywhere with my wife.”

The air buzzed.

Mark looked at you and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

“For–AAAAHHHHH!” He threw you into the air.

Lightyear intercepted Omni-Mark before he could even react.

You were still screaming and flying when someone else caught you.

“Holy crap, you’re real.” A blue veil flapped in the wind. “Fuck, I thought that lensless freak was shitting with me about what he saw but you’re real. And that bug fucker tried to steal you away.”

“Uuh…”

“Hey, don’t be scared. It’s cute but you got nuthin’ to be afraid of.” He grabbed the hem of his shiesty and pulled it back, revealing the face of, who else, Mark Grayson. “It’s me, babe.”

“I-I don’t–”

“You’re as luminous as ever. Am I using that right? You said I was luminous once, it was during our first dance together under the moon.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

He shook his head. “I know you’re a different version, but it’s still you, and that’s all that matters to me.”

That… is disturbing. Did the other versions of you have magic vaginas or something? How are these men so obsessed with the idea of you?

“Come on, let’s go–”

“I don’t think so,” it was a feminine voice this time.

Shiesty clicked his tongue as someone hovered closer. 

This Mark was a girl. She was, naturally, gorgeous; she could pass for an idol, though her physique was more Amazonian than delicate. Her thick black hair was tied into a long braid and she didn’t wear any goggles or mask. 

“Enough. We all need to talk about this properly.”

You squeaked when Shiesty nearly crushed you against his chest.

Girl Mark glowered at him. “You’re hurting her.”

He stopped and you could finally inhale.

“I agree.” Another one appeared, his head, face and neck were covered with a mask that seamlessly blended with the rest of his sleek onyx costume. You assumed he was also a Mark. “We’ll kill her if we keep passing her around like a football.”

“She’s no good to anyone splattered on the ground,” taunted one Mark dressed like a bee. When he saw you looking at him he smirked. “Don’t worry, honey. You know I would never let anyone hurt you, not even myself.”

Another Mark with stripes on the sides of his arms tried to float closer towards you but Shiesty pulled you away. Stripes sighed. “Fine, let’s call a truce. For now.”

“That sounds like a plan,” agreed a bald Mark. When he caught your lingering stare, he averted his own and rubbed the back of his neck.

Mohawk was here as well. You could see specks of blood on the philtrum of his nose. “Only if none of you fucktards try to steal her away while we ‘talk.’” 

Beside him was a Mark whose head was covered by a blue cap.

Head Cap Mark waved at you, then he blew a kiss.

Mohawk elbowed him.

A Mark Grayson draped in metallic gray and pearl white floated towards the growing circle. “I am willing to cooperate, so long as she–” brown eyes, dark enough to be black, fell over you “–is not put in danger.”

Omni-Mark and Lightyear finally joined. They were both bleeding and panting, but punching each other’s brains out has calmed them down.

Without thinking, you reached inside your pocket and offered a handkerchief to Lightyear. 

If looks could kill, he would have been reduced to meatballs with the number of jealous glares directed at him.

“Hey, no fair!” The cheeriest sounding Mark yet shot between you and Lightyear. This Mark’s mask had no goggles. He had cuts all over his pretty face. “What about me? I have way more injuries than him!” He pouted.

“Same here!”

“Me too!”

“Me three!”

Omni-Mark scoffed. “Children.”

Lightyear glared at him. “You’re one to talk.”

“You wanna go–”

“Achoo!”

Brown eyes and unreadable goggles turned to you.

You rubbed your nose and sniffed.

As though a switch had been flipped, the ragtag bunch fell into an organized rhythm. 

They systematically split up in small groups, leaving you in the hands of Shiesty, who carried you away from the mountain. Omni-Mark and Lightyear followed you like guard dogs.

You four stopped at a nearby beach with a tolerable temperature.

“Whoa.” Your eyes sparkled at the sight of the sea. 

“You smell that, doll?”

You nodded.

“There’s nothing quite like the smell of the beach.” Shiesty let you down, the soft sand tickled your toes. 

Once he let you go, you started running towards the waves.

Lightyear and Omni-Mark tried to call you back, to be careful, but Shiesty raised his hand. “Let her be. She needs this.”

You slowed down before your feet could touch the water. You pulled at the legs of your pajama bottoms, took a big gulp of fresh air, and stepped into the sea. The sand beneath your feet was pulled back by the tides and it felt like the ocean itself was trying to grab you, too.

You giggled. If you died right now, it wouldn’t be good, but… 

You looked at the horizon, where the sky kissed the sea. Endless. Beautiful. “It wouldn’t be too bad if this is the last thing I see.”

A heavy fur coat was draped over your shoulders. “As if I’d let that happen.” Girl Mark had found her way next to you. Slowly, she dropped her legs into the water. “You seem calm, all things considered.”

“Well, once I got over the multiple versions of you coming here to destroy Earth and take me away, I realized that this situation isn't that bad.”

Her laugh was sweet and light, nothing like the loud coarseness or restrained rumbling of her male counterparts. “What counts as ‘bad’ in your book?”

“Dying before I got to see the outside world would have sucked." You glanced at the azure sky. "I've seen countless futures, but in not one of them was I ever free.”

Her coffee eyes regarded you with a solemn longing and a hint of pity. She looked at the horizon. “You know what you called me? In my universe I mean.”

You shook your head.

“You called me Marcy.”

“Marcy as in–”

“–as in the Vampire Queen.”

You both laughed.

“So your name is Marceline?”

“Nah, but I used to be super pale, like paper-white pale. The other girls in our school called me all sorts of names, like White Lady or Sadako or Samara. But you said I was more like a badass vampire and that I shouldn’t listen to them, because they were jealous of me and how I ‘glow like the moon.’”

“You really do glow like the moon.”

She snickered. “Thanks.”

“In your world, I really went to school?”

“Yeah. All girls.”

“Was I smart?”

“Smarter than me.”

Your stomach boomed and you covered it shyly.

She giggled and offered her hand. “C’mon, we should go before those idiots start throwing a tantrum.”

You grabbed her hand but didn’t move. “What do you think’s going to happen to me?”

“You’re the one who can see the future here, bubblegum.”

“But…”

“It’s going to be okay,” she said, squeezing your hand. 

“How can you be sure?”

“I’m not, but that’s the great thing about the future, right? Unlike the past, it’s not set in stone.”

You gawked.

She understood you.

There is no such thing as the future, only a future, and if a person is living life the right way then they have multiple futures.

You tried to explain that to the mirrors in your room that you knew were cameras.

Trying to find which one of those futures will likely happen is like fishing for a very specific type of fish in the middle of the ocean without knowing if it's even a saltwater species. 

Now, your power wasn't totally useless, it has helped prepare for earthquakes and stop terrorist attacks in the past. Hell, you've helped prevent murders. But those were all luck-based more than they were actual prophecies; if a floor is wet, there is a chance of slipping, so to protect oneself they will tread carefully, hold onto something for support, or avoid that route entirely. 

You gazed into Marcy’s eyes. “Right.”

Behind her, several Marks had started yelling at each other. 

She sighed. “Let’s go and stop them before they destroy the beach.”

“You, I can understand, but how am I supposed to stop those guys?”

A perfectly shaped eyebrow arched at you. “Please. If there is one person on this entire planet that they’re going to listen to, it’s you.”

“If you say so.”

She smiled and tugged you forward–

You gasped, nearly dropping your palette and messing up the canvas in front of you.

You stared at the hand holding the paintbrush. You could still feel Marcy’s comforting touch.

You smiled and applied the finishing touches to your painting. 

This author has several things to say:

I have a love/hate relationship with action scenes. When I know what I want, everything flows like water, but jksdfhhsdfl I just really do not like writing action scenes, they tend to feel repetitive.

I tried my best to give the Marks individual personalities, but I'm still unsure with what to do sometimes. (also, as I write this, I realize that I forgot to include Sinister and Target so after I write this note, I'm going to have to brainstorm again cheesus.)

I have never seen snow fall from the sky either.

I am very gay for Marcy.

Disclaimer: The image used in this post does not belong to writerclaire. It was lifted from: https://gamerant.com/invincible-all-alternate-dimension-invincibles-fates/

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[sightseertrespasser]

Everything you've shared so far about the reverse mecha au really got the ideas going, and I just had to get this out of my system. It's still a rough draft and there's a lot I want to do with this and improve on, but I'm just happy I finally got it written down.

Prowl threw himself into the shadows of an enormous doorway as a line of blinding light widened and filled the dimmed corridor. He squeezed his eyes shut against the growing glow and strained his ears for any kind of noise. If the scratchy swishing was anything to go by, the Quintesson was moving away from him.

He peeked out from his hiding spot once the blaze of light disappeared from behind his eyelids. In the darkness he could just make out a massive form growing smaller and smaller as it moved down the passageway. He waited a few more seconds just to be safe, then dashed away in the opposite direction.

It hadn’t been long since he’d escaped from his cell, but he had no idea when his captors would decide to check on their prisoner. They could discover his absence any moment, and wouldn’t that be fantastic. He stood no chance against those aliens without his mecha, and it’d be infinitely more difficult to locate it and get out if the whole ship was out to find him—because he wasn’t dumb; for some reason the Quints wanted him alive.

It’d been a blur, his capture. From what he could recall though, the Quintessons had used much more excessive force on Jazz than on him. He couldn’t say why exactly they wanted him alive (though it certainly didn’t bode well for him), but he had no intention of finding out. At least, not while vulnerable.

So he had to get to his mecha and fast. Or Jazz, if he could find him. Whatever came first; he wouldn’t complain.

He picked up the slightest hissing sound, like air escaping from a balloon. Up ahead, another line of light struck the corridor wall as a door began to slide open. Prowl didn’t wait to see what came next; he sprinted for the closest doorway, (a much larger one, he noted distractedly). Squinting against the growing illumination, he pressed himself further into the fading shadows. This time, however, no actual door stopped his movement.

He stumbled into a dark room, the light in the corridor spilling into it like grasping fingers. Yet as quickly as it appeared, the darkness just as swiftly overtook it. He heaved a sigh of relief when he realized the Quintesson in the hallway also moved farther away.

He picked himself up and raised his head, only to be met with a sight he didn’t entirely expect.

Prowl had no words. He didn’t think it’d be this easy, but lo and behold, right at the end of the room stood his mecha. He could only make out the rough shape of it, but there was no mistaking the wings. He scanned the room (at least as well as he could) and listened for any unwanted company.

Nothing.

He stayed near the wall as he approached, already formulating a way to actually enter the mecha. It’d be difficult without a  gangway, but he could make do with some of the structures already in the room. The huge boxes were too large, but that cylindrical shape—

Prowl froze.

He stared at the blurry silhouette, hardly believing his eyes. When he walked closer, though, there really wasn’t any denying it. Craning his head, Prowl made out the distinct shape of a weapon only one pilot ever managed to use.

He turned his attention back to the mecha, to the mecha he’d been so sure was his own (because only Support Class models had those wings, not Rescue, not Tanks, not Scouts). Except this close and he picked out all the small differences. The sleeker design meant to enhance mobility and speed. The specialized armor on the legs meant to support the mecha as it fired round after round. The guarded ports on its wrists so the massive firearm could integrate with the its systems more efficiently. The numbers that definitely did not read 028.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Prowl vaguely remembered a familiar voice mentioning “how cool it’d be to have wings like that!”

Against all odds, against everything he knew, here stood Bluestreak’s mecha intact and whole—sporting the wings his brother always wanted.

===========================

Bluestreak opened his eyes to a ceiling he didn’t recognize and stared at it, a bit dazed but intrigued nonetheless.

It was a little funny. Unlike the neat interior of his mecha or the orderly structure of Cybertronian ships, the ceiling looked like a piece of art. Like . . . like abstract art; like those paintings he could never really figure out. That's what the swirls and shapes reminded him of! The waves and curves ran along the entire ceiling like countless tiny streams converging and scattering. Did they start as one big wave, or had they begun as millions of tiny ones until they formed a whole?

Bluestreak tried craning his head to find out, but it moved too slow. He tried pushing himself up next, but only managed to curl the tips of his fingers.

Hmm, that was funny.

It was like his whole body was asleep. Or like it was super heavy . . . like if gravity was pressing down on him so much to keep in place. Yeah, exactly like that, because try as he might, nothing moved as he wanted except his eyes.

Well that’s not right—hold on.

A giddy laugh escaped his numb lips.

Sunny and Sides had pointed out that being confined to his mecha was like house arrest. Now that he was stuck in his own body, did that make him a fleshy prison? A fleshy prison for his soul? Or was it his spark? Wait, no, Sunny and Sides had sparks; he had a soul. Unless . . . what if those were just different words for the same thing? Actually it probably was since that sort of thing happened in basically every language. Aliens could have their own language but they’d probably have words to describe some of the same things he knew. Yeah, that was probably it. He’d already learned that concept first hand when he figured out Sunny’s and Side’s language. Maybe they knew about it too? Didn’t they say they’d been all over the universe? He was pretty sure they did. He’d have to ask about . . . ask about . . . There was something he wanted to tell—no ask—Sunstreaker and Sideswipe.

Bluestreak racked his brain for that something, but anytime he thought he grasped at it, it slipped away like fog. It was on the tip of his tongue, but it stubbornly refused to make itself known. How was he supposed to tell them this thing he didn’t know if he didn’t know what it was? They’d been patient enough waiting for him to talk but—actually, now that he thought about it, that wasn’t right. Things were kinda too quiet.

Normally Sideswipe had something to say when Bluestreak really got going, and Bluestreak always made a point to leave enough pauses so he could have his say too. And if he had nothing to add, Sunstreaker usually had short responses to keep the conversation going.

He scanned the room as well as he could, at least until it hurt trying to look out through his peripherals. He was pretty sure it was empty, well, aside from him of course.

So . . . it was just him in this med bay (at least, he thought it was a med bay what with all the beeping and whirring from behind him; if he could look behind himself there’d probably all sorts of machinery). Maybe the Twins didn’t want to be in this med bay; they did only ever go to medics they trusted, and he knew from experience they wouldn’t step foot into an unknown one if they could help it. Except . . . they wouldn’t let him go to an unknown one either. So maybe being in a strange room by himself wasn’t such a good thing even though he was able to be there without his head feeling like it was burning at a million degrees?

Bluestreak suddenly wished his brain wasn’t as murky as it was. It’d be so much easier to figure things out that way. Or if he could just ask Sunstreaker and Sideswipe about all this since they’d probably—

Footsteps echoed outside the room and he stared down his nose trying to see who’d enter.

“There you are!” The white and black Cybertronian who stepped into the weird med bay was definitely not Sunstreaker or Sideswipe—and he’d definitely just spoken English.

That was . . . surprising. Bluestreak couldn’t remember the last time he heard someone speak it.

The Cybertronian chuckled. “Did you get another concussion? What else would I be using with you?”

Had he said that out loud? “Oh, uh, it’s just basically everyone else I’ve seen doesn’t and I’m pretty sure none of them even know about it so this is definitely a surprise.”

“Riiiight.” The Cybertronian stepped closer then looked him up and down. His blue visor gleamed when he glanced to something behind Bluestreak. “Well none of this looks like it's trying to kill you. Let me figure out how to disconnect everything.”

“Oh, well that’s good. It’d kinda suck if it was killing me.”

“You’re telling me. Now, can you get up or . . . ”

“Right now it’s like gravity decided to pin me to this berth. That or maybe my body just got heavier?”

“Okay, I’m just going to help you up so I can start unhooking everything. Please let me know if anything starts hurting.” He gently slipped his fingers beneath Bluestreak’s back and carefully slid him back until he leaned against the beeping machine. “So how’re you feeling? Any other weird side effects aside from that and tolerating light?”

Tolerating light? “I mean, aside from becoming a fleshy prison for my spark-soul it’s also kinda nice to be outside my mecha prison without all the extra pain, you know? I mean, it’d also be nice if I could actually sit up on my own but other than that I think I’m doing just fine. Oh, by the way, if you can let Sunny and Sides know I’m okay that’d be really great!”

Now that he wasn’t on his back, he saw the mess of wires and cables trailing all over his body. Every few seconds he’d feel a soft tug from behind, then one of those wires retracted away from him. It was mesmerizing to watch, and he would’ve continued watching if not for the flare of light at his side.

He glanced up at the nice Cybertronian and found the gleaming blue visor focused on him.

“Er, is something wrong?” This time when he tried craning his head, his body actually complied. “I mean I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with you watching me, I appreciate the company, it’s just no one but the Twins really get this close to me. Something about how the others aren’t as used to organics, I guess.”

The visor continued to shine on him. “You’re not Prowl, are you?”

“Umm, no.” Bluestreak knew they looked similar, but was it really—waitaminute. His brain latched onto what he’d just said. “Wait . . . you’re looking for Prowl.”

“Uh, yeah. But now that I’m here I think you could do with some help too.”

“No—hold on—if you’re looking for Prowl that means he’s here? Like, on this ship here, right?” He didn’t wait for answer. “Can you take me to him?”

===========================

They watched the Quintesson turn the corner, waiting until the scraping of its armor faded away. Neither uttered a word; right now stealth was everything. The necessity of silence ruled out verbal communication, and the jamming device on the Quint ship compromised their comms. Though for them, that was hardly an obstacle.

//Found him yet?// Sunstreaker asked across their sparkbond.

//I think he should be up ahead.// Sideswipe answered.

Incredulity blossomed across their connection. //You think?//

//Well whenever the jamming isn’t messing with my sensors, I’m able to see an organic lifeform somewhere in front of us. So unless you found a way to deal with that, this’s the best we got.//

//Fine, let’s just get him and get out.// His brother made no sound as he sent that, but the frustration across their bond was enough to make up for it.

Sideswipe didn’t miss the way his hands tightened on his energon blades either. //Look, I know you’re twitchy with this many Quints, but—//

//I know. I’m not stupid.//

//Hey, just saying.//

//Yeah yeah. But if they did anything to him . . . //

//Nah, I got it. There’ll be a bloodbath for sure.//

They continued down the corridor until they reached the only open door they could see. Sunstreaker watched the hall while Sideswipe scanned the room. His sensors had cleared up some, but it still blurred with interference. From what he could tell though, the dot indicating Blue’s location had to be someone in the room. It would make sense too. His mech stood upright and offline at the back, his gun laid neatly at its pedes. If he’d managed to get away from the Quints, of course he’d go for his mech to get out.

//I don’t see anyone, but this is his last known location.// Sideswipe sent.

//This is the only room he could’ve entered, and there’s no sign of him out here.// Sunstreaker followed him in and used the blinking panel to close the door. //Let’s check it out.//

“Blue, you here?” Sideswipe called softly.

No answer.

//Can you see where exactly he is now?//

//Give me a klik.//

//Fine. I’ll check his mecha; maybe he’s inside and needs a power jump?// Sunstreaker approached it slowly and spoke quietly. “If you’re in there Blue, let me know now. Or else I’m assuming you need help getting your mech back online.”

Again, nothing.

Sideswipe watched his brother step up to the mech, hands slowly moving to its chassis. At the same time, the feedback in his HUD finally cleared. //Got something.//

Sunstreaker paused and followed his actions as he move to the side.

Sideswipe focused on the blinking dot and scanned the stacks of containers until—there! Peering over one of the lower stacks, he found a familiar head of white.

“Guess you didn’t need us for your grand escape, huh?” He lowered his hand. “Are you okay? I don’t know what the Quints did, but we gotta get you back to your mech and get outta here.”

He expected a flurry of chatter, maybe even some surprised exclamations. He did not at all anticipate the unintelligible yelling.

Sunstreaker rushed to his side in an instant. The fact he forewent their spark bond attested to his own shock. “Do you want us to get caught?”

“It’s not my fault!” Sideswipe protested. He tried scooping Bluestreak up, but their friend simply darted out of reach. “Just—Blue, it’s us!”

The human showed no signs of understanding or recognizing them. In fact, he went so far as to try running away.

Sunstreaker pushed the containers aside, cutting off his mad dash. “Bluestreak, come on.” His hand darted forward and grabbed him with deadly precision.

If he was yelling before, now he was screaming—and hitting.

“Wha—Blue, stop!” Sunstreaker met Sideswipe’s gaze. “Any ideas?”

“For starters don’t drop him!”

“No slag,” he snapped. “What else?”

“The Quints are probably behind this, so whatever they did we just have to reverse!”

“And how’re we supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, maybe get him to his mech?”

“If he’s fighting us like this, what’s to stop him from fighting us when he’s inside it?”

“Well do you have any bright ideas?” Sideswipe demanded. The glare he got in response told him all he needed to know. “Look, let’s just get out of here. We have some good medics and scientists; they’ll know what to do.”

Sunstreaker held Bluestreak further away as his yelling devolved into screeching. “Yeah, good plan, except now our stealth’s fragged.”

Sideswipe had nothing to say to that. Yeah . . . things were a bit more complicated now.

===========================

Jazz held his hand over his shoulder, careful not to jostle Bluestreak as he moved down the corridor. Although, he probably didn’t have to worry about catching him any longer. Now that he wasn’t hooked up to that monstrosity of a machine pumping him full of Primus knew what, Bluestreak was more steady on his feet. In fact, Prowl’s brother seemed to have regained most of his mobility and presence of mind.

He no longer swayed as he held on to Jazz’s fingers, and he now kept his head on a swivel as they travelled through the Quintesson ship. Every now and then he’d point to something in the distance, and Jazz would follow his new directions. It wasn’t like he had any better idea of where to go; he’d mapped out most of the upper levels of the ship when he’d infiltrated, not those at the rear. Besides, the interference to most of his sensors also impeded them, so any direction (as long as it included minimal Quints) was better than none at all.

He felt a spike of nervousness from his shoulder, and scanned the darkened corridor. His visor picked up the slightest movement from the intersecting hallway up ahead, and he darted back to the corner they’d just passed. The faint sound of Quintesson armor scraping against itself echoed in the silence, then faded. Jazz peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of inky tentacles as the Quint moved out of the passageway. He glanced back at Bluestreak and gave a small nod. The human returned it with a shaky thumbs up.

Not for the first time, he wished they had some way to talk through comms. Sure, he could rely on Bluestreak’s EM field to get a basic read of threats he saw, but comms would’ve simplified communication. And given them a chance to actually talk.

Their first interaction might not have been the most accurate portrayal of character, but that along with the constant activity of Bluestreak’s EM field made it clear the human had a lot to say. The urge to speak became a tangible thing on his shoulder, one he could sympathize with. It wasn't often that—

Bluestreak’s EM field spiked with confusion, then jolts of shock.

Jazz looked his way and found him gripping his fingers. He scanned the corridor, then asked softly, “Bluestreak, what’s wrong?”

It took him a moment to answer. “You know how I mentioned I wasn’t able to stay outside my mech—” he squeezed his eyes shut like Prowl did when the lights were too much, then brought a hand to his head “—for long? I think whatever the Quints did so I’d be okay in that lab is wearing off.”

That wasn't good. “Then we better get you to your mech and fast.”

He began to move past the corner when muffled shouting drew him to a stop. The yelling—in languages he understood—was close by.

Jazz scanned the passageway again. No one new in sight, but the shouting clearly came from the hallway up ahead. He thought he could make out some pretty colorful swears and something about . . . a race?

Bluestreak managed a weak smile. “Something tells me we should check that out.”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Jazz stepped away from their hiding place and moved towards the noise. Hopefully they’d be the only ones who noticed the commotion.

Well, I wanted to keep going with the eventual reunion and the epic fight scene, but that's something I want to do justice to (so maybe next time, hopefully). 'Cause that'd have a great way to explain why Blue had the wings added to his mecha (I was thinking maybe he got them installed later by the Cybertronian scientists who'd helped him before, probably to help him with processing all the information he'd be getting? And to his mind, what would be better to use as a reference than the one other mecha he knew pretty well?) Oh, and that bit about a race...I thought it'd be funny if Sunny and Sides finally settled on the idea of just transforming and racing out of the ship. Like Jazz and Blue enter the room to see them fighting about who'd be taking "Blue" with them, and their arguing had just devolved into who's the fastest

This was a treat to read!

Love it when things get shuffled around a characters have to improvise how’ll they’ll work together on the fly.

Also love the use of Prowl’s crappy vision to draw out the reveal. Poor dudes loosing his mind most likely trying to interrogate Sunny and Sides for the location of his brother.

[fixated-cookies]

I'm so obsessed with your Wildberry drabble it's not even funny I want that man BAD. Picturing that whole scenario almost with like the energy of a stray animal rescue????? He sees something small and scared and skittish. He's not gonna hurt you, he promises. Struggling only makes things harder. Easy now. He's got you. He's never gonna let you go again.

OH MY GOSHHH i love actually really like his nonchantness alot (is that even a word)? But now he's devoted to you, this poor trembling thing that made the mistake of smiling at him once. And now? now your his His little trembling rabbit. His soft stray. His little darling who just doesn’t know how badly the world wants to eat her alive. But it’s okay now. He’ll take care of everything.

Warnings: YANDERE CONTENT

Your wrists are scraped from climbing, knees dusty from the fall, chest tight with panic as you bolt into the woods surrounding the Hollyberry palace grounds. You're fast, but not faster than him. Not with legs that tremble, not with breath that breaks into sobs.

And not when the man chasing you was built to protect.

You don’t hear him at first. You only feel it—the shadow. The thud of armored boots catching up. The sudden stillness of the wind.

Then—

Strong arms. Around your waist. Lifting you clean off the ground.

You kick, cry out, your fists flailing against the massive red pauldron at your back. “Let me go! Let me go!”

You thrash harder.

“No.”

His voice is calm. Steady. Gentle, even, in the way a knight addresses a frightened colt about to break its legs. “You’ll hurt yourself again.”

He doesn’t loosen his grip. Not once. Not even when your heel scrapes his armor or your elbow hits his chest. Instead, he shifts you—cradling you like something precious. Something breakable.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he murmurs. “I only wanted to keep you safe.”

You sob. “Safe?! I’m not safe with you—!”

“You are.” His tone dips—sorrowful. Convicted. “You always were. It’s the world I cannot trust.”

He lowers to one knee in the moss, holding you against him like a knight shielding a wounded comrade. His hands, so massive and battle-scarred, begin gently brushing the twigs from your hair. One trails down your back, slow and patient. He hushes you, like calming a trembling pup.

“Easy now,” he says softly. “You don’t need to run anymore.”

You flinch when he presses his forehead to yours. His breath is warm. Steady. There’s no anger in his eyes. Just something worse.

Something aching.

“I found you. That’s all that matters. And I won’t let you go again.”

[elodieunderglass]

Ok, so Bren’n’Blaw have been riding shotgun with me at work this morning and I’ve got questions.

What did they think when Bill married Helena? Did they like her? Do they think she’s good for him? Bad for him? TOO good for him?

Not that she would ever need help making or disposing of a body, but I assume they would help her, if only for her family’s sake. But does Helena like them?? Does she know about the mutual murder pact between the B’s?

Also, I assume they’re versatile fixers. In the normal course of things I wouldn’t think a dead body would turn up more than once every other year or so. In the offseason, do they help fudge financing at tax time? Do they hunt down deadbeat dads and encourage child support? Are they the scary but competent but no you were right the first time actually unnervingly scary people at the horse auctions you never try to scam?

Oh dear, I’m so sorry, what a pair of shifty hitchhikers!

When Bill was courting Helena, she set him some quests. Sure, he made her feel safe, and she fancied him in a weird way that grew on her, and it all represented a massive two fingers up to her parents; but she was still lowering herself to marry him, and figured she might as well get some errands done. Helena does not mind about the crime. She thought this was a relevant perk.

Bren’n’Blaw helped with the quests. They have very little sense of what is normal, and at the time, were painfully loyal to Bill. They knew Bill wanted to marry and raise a brood of champions, so they buckled up and trotted off to slay Helena’s dragons for her. That’s probably what women like. Who knows. Despite their fascinating personal lives they are not romantic themselves.

They did not like Helena being English. They were unfazed by her snobbery. They admitted that she is very pretty. I don’t know if Helena converted to Catholicism or was an outlier for her time and place and class who already was, but surprisingly, that wasn’t something Bren’n’Blaw actually cared much about.

She, in turn, understood their utility, but disliked everything else.

When the twins arrived, and Helena discovered she didn’t like them, and Bill was working two jobs across two countries before fully retiring from being a jockey, he naturally deputised his henchmen to look after the babies. Blaw and the Saint were simultaneously very good and very bad babysitters (“baby want smoko” / “put baby in pelican mouth” level of bonkers, but physically surprisingly capable of keeping babies alive, and cheerfully interested in doing so) and they pressed the rest of the family into service. Helena kept having kids, and not liking them, and Bren’n’Blaw kept throwing them loosely into the back of the Land Rover and feeding them on horse vitamins, and potty training by letting them run wild with nothing on the bottom. Everyone liked this state of affairs, and Helena got to pick towering magnificent quarrels about the PEASANTS STEALING HER CHILDREN, without having to wipe any snotty noses or pack any lunches. Perfect!

Bren’n’Blaw were furious about the loss of Charlie and spent a lot of time looking for him - never stopping, really. It became a kind of quest in itself, and obviously was always doomed to be fruitless. This schism started sending major cracks through a family that would otherwise be clannish.

In theory, on Albert’s death, Blaw and the Saint inherit the stud operation up the driveway and the old house, with Bill’s stronghold always having been the training yard. I think the stud operation has to close down, though - they’re all fading in influence and cash.

These days they’re getting on in years, and there are a lot of competing tensions - Bill’s spinal injury, the lack of succession planning - and they spend a lot of time on horsey errands. I think they disappear quite a lot of unwanted horses, which are always a problem, and in addition to training racehorses and doing a thousand all-consuming horsey chores, they probably practice a certain amount of weird DIY vet stuff and quasi-farrier work. There are vague disputes around the territories of other racing dynasties that I intend to fictionalise heavily. They do a surprisingly good line in looming, for ex-jockeys, and can do menacing for a discount.

They are not very nice people, mostly because of the lack of moral compass, but they are devoted to Killie.

They sound like a loopy pair of unadoptable bonded rescue cats who are also comedy Arthurian knights. Sorry.

[tv-opinion]

the way so many people give ellie 0 grace astounds me. joel made so many mistakes in season 1, because he’s human. he even told tommy he feels like a failure. ellie saved his life multiple times in season 1. no one was calling joel incompetent or stupid. people bringing up misogynistic writing but tbh its not the writing… its this wack interpretation of it. ellie is not perfect, she is human. she’s allowed to not be a perfect badass killing machine. she’s a traumatized teenager who is in WAY in over her head. we saw in ep6 that joel completely sheltered her once they got to jackson and for 5 years she lived a relatively normal life. she wasn’t even allowed to patrol until she turned 19! joel was overprotective and wanted her to stay safe and sound in jackson, and as a result ellie feels out of her depth in seattle. I feel like a lot of people aren’t paying attention to these details. I also keep seeing people bring up ellie killing david as proof they “made her more incompetent in s2” like…Huh? ellie barely escaped that situation with her life. it wasn’t some “badass” moment where she outsmarted him, it was fucking traumatizing and she barely made it out alive. I feel like I’m genuinely watching a different show from people most of the time.

the “season 2 butchers ellie’s character because they made her incompetent” has got to be the most baffling piece of criticism i’ve seen. truly feels like i watched something different from everyone else like as a show only fan it never once even crossed my mind that she was dumber this season until i started seeing the discourse online.

and yes to everything you said about people bringing up david as “proof” that season 2 ellie is incompetent or whatever like no actually i don’t think a 14 year old barely making it out alive after almost being raped and murdered was some badass girl boss slay moment

[johanna-swann]

Re-reading Catching Fire right after finishing Sunrise on the Reaping made me wonder if there actually has been a year without a Victor. Because in the final duel both Haymitch and the other Tribute get wounded so badly that they can't really fight anymore, only outlive the other. If Haymitch hadn't used the force field they both might've bled to death right then and there. It's not too far fetched to assume this kind of scenario came up more than once.

What if by the time the second to last Tribute died it was too late to save the Victor? Would the Capitol say they died in the hospital? Would they cover it up? Get rid of the family, send home a double? Arrange a tragic accident on the train ride back? The Capitol needs a Victor they can present to the public or they'd have to admit that they failed and lost control of the games. They were so quick to find a double for Louella and get her camera ready, they must've done something similar before.

I don't know why the idea seems so horrifying, maybe because it seems like the killing should be over when the games are over. The idea that they sacrifice, torture and kill another child after the games have officially ended just to keep up appearances seems so cruel. There should be at least one person who survives - traumatised and forever changed, not safe and sound, but alive - who gets to go home. But instead there's a 25th child that gets taken from their family and murdered far away from home.

If Haymitch's book showed us one thing then it's just how much the Capitol twists and manipulates and censors what happens during the entirety of the Hunger Games to fit their specific narrative and if more than the usual amount of 23 children have to die for that? Not a big deal. Who will even notice.

[hoziersredguitar]

I miss old tumblr in the sense that i could complain about board exams and worrying about not getting enough to be eligible for my medical entrance test and i'd have summoned half the indian side of tumblr to sympathize

[lassieposting]

Concept:

Post-tadpole, Tav offers to help Astarion find a way to walk in the sun again, and she starts by going to different libraries and repositories and archives around the city to look for books that might be relevant. Astarion, obviously, has to stay in the rental room with the shutters closed during the daytime, so he can't come with her.

At some point, this takes her up to the posh part of the city, where the fancy ✨ scholarly ✨ archive is. She remembers most of the walk - it's not too far from the graveyard Astarion took her to, in the neighbourhood where he once used to live.

And like, it's never actually occurred to her that he could still have Actual Blood Relatives still living? It's not a topic she's ever thought to raise with him. But she has to sign in and out of the archive, and she just happens to notice the name three or four lines above hers: an initial and a surname she recognises.

Ancunín.

The same name from Astarion's gravestone.

A parent? A sibling?

A niece or nephew Astarion has never even met?

Thus begins a secondary quest of trying to reunite a broken family. Astarion is willing enough to talk about the few memories he still has of the thirty-nine years he had with his family before turning - a drop in the ocean compared to the 200 years spent suffering under Cazador - but he shuts down when she nudges him towards the likelihood that Mr & Mrs Ancunín are still alive. He retreats back behind the selfish, catty survivalist he was when she first met him and claims he has no interest in ever reconnecting. The pain in every clipped syllable says drop it, so she does.

But then he asks her, very quietly, several days later, what the initial was. He doesn't really react when she tells him - there's no obvious recognition, and he doesn't ask any follow-up questions or try to discuss it further. He just goes back to his book. She watches him out of the corner of her eye though, as she skim-reads her own giant tome of magical artifacts. A very long time goes by before she sees him turn a page.

For a good long while, the family issue gets put firmly on the back burner. They have other shit going on. Sometimes, it's following promising leads on a possible workaround for Astarion's sunlight allergy. Other times, it's the kind of ugly, ragged-edged breakdown that so often follows a period of relative safety and stability after a major trauma. He's been running in survival mode for two centuries, and now he's finally starting to feel secure enough for the rest of his mind to come back online, and all the trauma he couldn't handle at the time, all the pain and fear and tangled emotions survival mode was protecting him from, is catching up to him. During those sporadic episodes, trying to keep him from falling apart is her top priority and, well, time gets away from them and by the time he brings up his parents again, months or more have gone by, and they have a fairly good idea of what artifact of daywalking they need to find.

By the time it comes to actually meeting with them, still more months have passed, and they have already found it.

It's horrible, and heartwarming, and heartbreaking, and healing, and hurting, and so many other conflicting things that for a while - a long while - Tav doesn't know whether she actually did the right thing encouraging him to reach out to long-lost loved ones. It's a mess of moments that makes her heart ache for a dozen reasons. She finds out that Astarion looks most like his mother, but has his father's nose. She holds him for hours while he shakes and sobs into her shoulder because they never even left the city, they were here the whole time, and they never found him - and he's so angry and full of grief he doesn't know what to do with himself. She accompanies him to the home he was raised in, and the once-familiar surroundings jog memories he thought lost for good - he's glassy-eyed, recounting them to her, but she's fairly sure it's the good kind of glassy-eyed, so she doesn't mention it. She tries to make conversation at family dinner while he stares at his hands in his lap, dissociated, looking even more uncomfortable than she feels, utterly lost in a world that once fit him like a glove. There are a lot of feelings to try and mediate. They are all hurt, all damaged, all afraid, all looking for the ghost of a loved one in the face of a stranger.

But, eventually, there is a day where she overhears Astarion having a conversation with his father, and he sounds like himself - not the persona he puts on in public - and his father laughs at something he says in a way that's entertained rather than awkward. There is a day where his mother reaches out and he doesn't shake his head or step away - he lets her hug him goodbye. They have not slipped back into the graves they crawled out of in each other's lives - they are all very different people now - but they are learning new ways to fit together, and he seems to be pleased about it.

So she thinks, yeah, it was worth it.

[lelianasbong]

do you ever think about the fact that sera's adoptive human mother convinced her AS A CHILD that a total stranger hated her because of her race - to protect the woman's own pride, mind you!! it wasn't even true!! racist AND self-absorbed!!!! (which tbqh the venn diagram is a circle) - and the ramifications of sera cutting herself off as soon as she starts to say, "i hated her, and i hated- (myself)" and how ungenerously the fandom interprets her pain and makes it all about their picture perfect elf oc. because i do.

[winnie-the-monster]

“What if what the game was trying to teach me was that, something will always come between me and Landon? Like some impossible choice I’m gonna have to make.”

“Then choose him.”

“You know if I have to kill Malivore, there’s a chance that everything inside him does too. If I have to do this….”

“Hope. Whatever you choose, I’ll find a way to understand it.”

[asinglesock]

just realized my fatal flaw and the great struggle of possibly the rest of my life. while watching a cdrama.

[mashmouths]

anyone want to pull an edna pontellier with me

[ligawolfcosplayandarts]

Evening of memory lane (ASOIaF AU)

Good! Mountain/Better!MountainAU featuring my own ASOIaF OCs.

Aerin sat on stool, hunched as she focused on sharpening her sword. The tongue slighty out as she did. 

Grumbly, rock hard voice echoed interrupting almost silence that was filled only with sound of sharpening tool against blade. 

"Aeri... Why you don't ask blacksmith of Clegane's keep to do it for you" eight foot tall man asked. 

Aerin raised her face and gave man scowl. 

"It's my weapon, I was brought up to care of me blade. Norlandian need no servant to tend their blades. I'm part of it, if ye didn't know me that much." She said with her soft, honey like voice. 

Gregor shook his head and chuckled. Even his chuckle shook air a little. His yellowish coloured short , leather pants and rather simple looking leather boots matched his aura. He even developed behavior to still have sword on hip, sheathed and ready for any moment. Aerin lowered her gaze and returned back to sharpening her sword. Afterwards she reached for cloth and bottle, filled with oil for polishing. Gregor walked over and didn't say word, but watched Aerin doing her thing. Sword looked rather very new even though it was very same one he gave to her as berothal gift two years ago when he asked Aerin to be his wife. 

" I see why you don't want anyone else to have hands on it... So I am that special to you then?" Gregor Clegane said with small grin, teasing her as usual. Gregor's grey hooded eyes met Aerin's in reflection of blade as he said it. 

Aerin blushed and smiled saying nothing but focusing on her weapon. Moments later she placed it in sheath, that was on her hip. 

"Ya guessed, ya helped me a lot, ya knew what to do to gain my heart which is mostly cold as ice on top of highest mountains" Aerin said as she looked up to Gregor, who stood behind her with hands on his hips. 

She got off the stool and stretched herself as back rather was stiff from hunching. Before she could say a word, she was swept up in one arm and twirled around. Gregor, who is nearly 400 pounds beast of man , had no issue to pick up Aerin, who was maybe 136 pounds at most, when he wanted. 

"You make me weak... Nobody can move The Mountain... But you ... Nobody can melt The Mountain but you .. my eyes grey like ice, yours crimson like fire .. I had to ask Tyrion, son of Lord Tywin, how to say these words.. I will even ditch my loyalty for Tywin Lannister for you... You are person who I would be here for than him" Gregor's voice rumbled as he was still head over heels for Aerin even when they were married for two years, been in love for four. Aerin was a bit shocked, as she was by Gregor's side for years before they grew close. Gregor always treated Tywin Lannister's orders as duty. However, Gregor has grown softer and closer to Aerin. 

Way before Aerin, her mother Freya , the one who noticed his headaches when he was little. He wishes still Freya would be one stopped him from hurting his brother, all because he failed to remember to take medicine Freya made for him. 

**Memory**

Freya Fyorninn was sharpening sword while boy with dark brown hair and grey eyes was in her lap, close to her as possible. She noticed as boy was squinting and scowling while sometimes he grabbed his head. 

"Wee Clegane, are ye good... I can tell ya hurting... Tell me"

Boy first remained quiet then growled as he grabbed head in his tiny hands. Freya put her sword in sheeth and stood up, rushing to her tower, carrying boy with her. 

"Wee lad,tell me, I have Norlandian healing book .. I can help ya" Freya said as she sat him on table. 

"Head... It hurts ... I sometimes get angry and violent... It hurts bad... Milk of Poppy...it helps me wee bit" boy said as he was shaking. 

Freya raised eyebrow and shook head.

"I will get through book, very fast, I can tend ya" she whispered softly while reaching to her medicine cabinet. 

After some moments she figured what Gregor is going through. 

"Boy, ya sit here, I got all ingredients need. But ya will need take it every few years ..." She said as she started gathering jars with various herbs and some animal parts. 

Her prosthetic metal finger , that was functional as her real ones, swiftly went through writing in book. Old Norlandian language, that can't be read by anyone else that Norlandian people. Moments later she has mixed rather goopy yet liquid substance in grey and greenish colour. 

She grabbed little Gregor's head and tilted it back and poured all down his mouth rather fast. Gregor trusted her and even didn't fight her back, but drank the liquid. She kept boy's head in that position looking at him sadly. Gregor has form of growth inside his head causing him pain and anger, but the medicine makes it shrink. Norlandian healer is rather new around here and was very reluctant to help upon this keep being built. Even Freya, who is the one that runs the keep, has no right to force healer to help people of Westeros. Few moments later she slowly sat Gregor up. Boy trusted Freya enough because he was imprinting on her, despite he has both parents in Clegane's keep. Only thing is that father neglecting him and sometimes being drunk, mother is pregnant and busy. Gregor truly saw mentor in Freya and he learned she used to be war general for years. War general , healer abilities and gentle as mother. 

"I want to stay here for night...please...teach me how to fight ..you were knight right ? I want to be one... " Gregor said as he hugged Freya . 

"If ye want Norlandian way, yer training won't be easy" Freya said 

"Please..." Boy looked up to Freya 

Red haired Norlandian woman sighed and nodded 

"Remember, I have babe to tend to, wee Thorkinn, but ya training will happen then... Ya will need give me promise if ya prove to be strong." Freya said 

***

"Clegane!!!" voice interrupted as Gregor snapped back to reality.

Gregor chuckled and shook his head a bit. "Let's go to bed, my wife. Battles maybe are great, but I want be here, in Clegane's keep with you... Let's retire to bedchambers while we have time for ourselves" Gregor said, voice rumbling yet calming. His grey eyes filled with joy.

"I may be The Mountain...but I was Mole Hill once" He blurted out as memories of Aerin's mother echoed in his head.

"Ya really something , aren't ya... I feel tired too" Aerin cupped Gregor's face and pulled his forehead against hers.

Both retired to bedchambers, now he has Aerin asleep on his chest as he looked in ceiling. 

His thoughts focused on coming back to Fyorninn-Norlandian Keep and tell Freya he married her daughter... Being part of Fyorninn family fully is why he wants to be free from Lord Tywin's orders. He has yet to tell her... Maybe eventually.

[sunbedo]

For the sake of my own peace of mind I wanna let you guys know that. now that im 18 I went through my f/o list and removed everyone under 18. so i see them as platonics now. i tried to go through my past posts with my romantic f/o tag (#🩷) and remove them but it proved to be. very time consuming. so just keep in mind that my past posts with the #🩷 tag were from before i turned 18 and that i dont ship with the ones who are minors anymore