#and it's like yeah I can meet folks and make friends and possibly IN TIME MAYBE JUST MAYBE develop romantic feelings

[fly-sky-high-09]

hhhgh

[autistichalsin]

Some of my favorite, understated moments with heartbreaking implications for Halsin

1. Halsin threatening to turn into a mouse in the epilogue if the player brags about his achievements- he's so shy and humble that just being acknowledged for LITERALLY BUILDING A COMMUNE HIMSELF makes him want to hide. A mouse is a very symbolic choice here: not only easy to hide, but also easily overlooked and forgotten. The idea of his accomplishments being acknowledged is so terrifying for him that he wants to turn into an animal no one will notice, instead of his usual strong, large, noticeable bear.

2. "Sometimes, I think people look at me and imagine my feelings can't be hurt." This isn't the kind of thing that happens after one or two people act like jerks. This is years and years of cruel treatment, of his emotions being demeaned and mocked because of his size. Of people judging him before even meeting him- and forming an entirely wrong view of him. Halsin is a bighearted, tender, sentimental man, yet because he's big... Well, big people don't have feelings, surely. /s

3. "You and I may struggle to go unnoticed in such environs, Karlach[...] Folk of our stature can be a lure for drunkards seeking a brawl, I have found," combined with, "There is a particular discomfort to besting one you know to be weaker than yourself - even when needs must," from a different scene. People have sought him out and fought him because of his size (which had to have been terrifying, especially the first time), and he feels guilty when he takes out someone he knows is weaker, even if they STARTED it. How many times has the poor guy been traveling and then had to defend himself against someone 1/2 his size, making HIM look like the asshole to onlookers, and reinforcing that whole "people think I can't be hurt" thing?

4. "It was always destined to be so, if we prevailed. But the foreknowledge makes it no less bittersweet..." (About the players' paths diverging post brain battle), combined with "I see... After all my years of living, I know all too well that nothing lasts forever. Yet a parting can sting, nonetheless," if the player breaks up with him in the ending. This poor guy was having the time of his life adventuring with the group (and possibly falling in love there) yet never believed it would truly last (because of his abandonment issues). And then to have it confirmed.... he must have felt so awful in that moment, even if he was being dignified about it.

5. "You came for me... thank you. I feared Orin's accursed smile would be the very last sight I beheld," when Halsin is freed from Orin, combined with, "Orin's blades. I hoped my friends would save me..." If he is killed by Orin instead and Speak With the Dead is used on his corpse. The tone of his voice in the first line, especially added to that bit in the second... he never thought the player was coming to save him. He HOPED they would. Not "believed". Hoped. He thought he was going to die there- just like how he was in the Underdark for THREE YEARS and no one came to save him. And if it's confirmed... Yeah. That. (Sidenote: if you ask his corpse if he has any regrets, he says not telling Thaniel and Oliver goodbye, and not getting to see their land flourish. :( My heart. :( )

6. "I... have not had true confidantes for some time. The Shadow Curse robbed me of almost all my peers, and replaced them with the weight of responsibility. Perhaps that caused me to gild undeserving memories of my youth." Halsin was so miserable and stressed being Archdruid that he romanticized his past as a sex slave, viewing it as a safer, even happier alternative. There were actually times when Halsin thought he might rather be a sex slave than continue to be Archdruid. In a sense, for the 100 years the Shadow Curse was around, Halsin was just as much a prisoner as Thaniel was in the Shadowfell, but Halsin's prison had invisible bars. The Shadow Curse took away his entire support system, and being Archdruid forced him to be the strong one, always, never allowed to be weak or scared, forced him to take control of situations when he hated it, forced him to spend his time sorting out people instead of being in nature. And he was MISERABLE. For 100 years.

7. "You understand me almost perfectly. Only my late mother may have bested you." (Said if you get one question wrong at the love dryad test). He misses his mama. :( Especially when you consider that if you steal Balthazar's "Mother Dearest" and taunt him about it, Halsin disapproves (and is the only one to do so), while returning her gets you approval (which only Halsin approves of). And then the line when you look into a mirror while controlling him, "more like my father, with each passing day..." He really misses them. :(

8. "I am loathe to see anyone behind bars. It reminds me of my time as a guest of the goblins." He is, secretly, still quite traumatized from his time in the goblin pens, but he brushes it off. Just like every OTHER time he is hurt.

9. "I am aware [of having a habit of getting captured]. Perhaps I put too much faith in my skills of negotiation, or want to see good where there is none. It would be easy to resort to nature's fury whenever something stood in my way, yet I cannot help but feel I would be sullying the Oak Father's gifts. Naive perhaps... but I still draw breath." Halsin is aware he gets hurt often because of his desire to see good in people until he has no other choice, but refuses to give up anyway (which is backed up by that letter Gut had on her where she reveals Halsin TRIED to help the goblins, saying he could cure them of their tadpoles, only to be thrown in the cage, with Gut threatening to have his stomach cut open and maggots placed inside it.) Further, even though he is an Archdruid, and one of the most devoted, and explicitly has Silvanus's favor (Halsin says that gaining his favor was the only way he was able to open the portal to the Shadowfell), he still constantly worries about using Silvanus's powers, to the point of wondering if an actual threat to his safety actually merits using his powers. Which... combined with some other stuff, reads like one hell of a problem with self-worth.

10. "At least you were not present. Grim as [the ruined battlefield] is now, it was worse on the day of the battle. A vivid wound upon my memory[...] I was lucky - I lived, when so many did not. It would take me a day and a night to recite the names of all the friends I lost" combined with, "I was [present when the Shadow Curse was unleashed]. Part of my spirit was shorn away from me here, and never left," and, if Last Light falls, "All gone... devoured by the shadows. Oak Father preserve us, it's just like a hundred years ago[...] We are [still standing]. Yet there is a burden to being the survivor... the witness to others' tragedies. It only grows heavier with time." He has so much PTSD and survivor guilt from the Shadow Curse. :( No wonder it's all he can think about- to the point that some of the other companions even get annoyed at him for his obsession.

11. "I never quite realised how burdened I was, until I met you. The threat of the shadow curse, the politics of the grove... I was forgetting who I was, but you lifted the fog. Thank you." Not only does this tie in with the above, with his PTSD from the curse and his utter misery at being Archdruid, but this HEAVILY implies Halsin had depression. Like... that "fog" line hits HARD if you have or have had depression, because that's exactly what it feels like. And the "forgetting who I was" bit too. Not just losing his sense of self to the depression, but to the neverending responsibilities of being Archdruid. I keep repeating myself, but damn, this guy has really and truly spent an entire century being absolutely MISERABLE. :(

12. "Forgive me. I... lost the run of myself. Sometimes, if blood runs hot enough, it's difficult to tame the beast." With that little disgusted groan/sigh, the fury and disgust at himself visible on his face, and the way he rushes to get out the rest of it- he thinks he fucked up so badly that you're about to leave him, maybe forever. And then if you reject him after this? "Ah... I see. Well, of course. Back to camp then." He has the most heartbroken look on his face here, and the way he says "of course" like he just... knew this was coming the instant he accidentally wildshaped. He felt that the first time he let ANY of his imperfections show, the player would leave him. :(

13. "Death is nature's final slumber - it awaits us all. Do not punish yourself over those lost, or give in to despair - not while there are still folk in need of your help." (Said to a Dark Urge if they tell him they're not much of a hero and most people needing them end up dead) Not only is Halsin speaking from experience here, but it's very clear he is STILL doing exactly what he tells Durge not to do, to himself- punishing himself over those who were lost, struggling with devastating survivor guilt.

14. "The grove has cut itself off from the world, to jealously guard its own little pocket of nature. No one shall ever enter or leave again. And I have been evicted from the very place I was charged to safeguard. A telling summary of my time as Archdruid, perhaps..." If the Grove is sealed and you ask him about it later, this is what he says. Interesting that he views being evicted from the place he was in charge of protecting to be a "telling summary." He was forced to take the leadership role there, and yet it was clear he wasn't wanted or respected by a great number of the Druids (exempting Nettie, Rath, and Apikusis). He got a truly thankless job that took damn near EVERYTHING from him emotionally/mentally, causing him to develop depression and causing him to backslide in his previous healing from his trauma from his time as a sex slave, he still gave EVERYTHING to the Grove, and in return...... almost none of his Druids appreciated or even liked him. (I could seriously write at least five metas about how obviously miserable Halsin was at the Grove, despite caring for it deeply).

15. "You could have done anything, gone with anyone... yet you chose me." Said at the epilogue to a solo romanced player who went to the commune with him. There's so many layers of heartbreak here. He is still surprised, six months later, that the player chose him. He even thinks the player will regret it, and will decide they want an adventurer's life after all after seeing everyone else. He doesn't think he is good enough- doesn't think he deserves the player, and yet at the same time he loves them so much that he is heartbroken over the possibility they might agree with him. He thinks that given a chance, there is little chance they would actually choose him again. (He is put at ease quickly when the player promises they picked him for a reason, but even the explanation he gives for why he was so worrie is heartbreaking- that he's so used to a tumultuous life that he thinks something must go wrong. He has been so traumatized so many times over the years that he just has almost no ability to think that true happiness is possible [or deserved] for him.) Something about that is just heartbreaking, even though his ending is one of the happiest of any of the companions.

Someone give this sweet bear man a hug, please :(

[ma1dita]

kiss his face with an uppercut

smutty part 2 here-> heavy hitter

words: 4k

summary: james potter is so attractive you could beat him to death with a bludger. james potter x fem!beater!reader not from gryffindor (for the plot!!)

warnings: none! james gets physically hurt multiple times by reader, multiple innuendos, enemies to lovers kinda, less serious lovey dove more sexual tension!!! probably not accurate quidditch gameplay

a/n: sorry for the hold up guys this took almost a month of on and off editing lmfao— this whole oneshot makes me think of the filipino word ‘gigil’– simply translating to cuteness aggression; i barely know jack shit about sports much less quidditch but this concept had me looking up quidditch rules to be able to provide– eat up kids

Y/S- sibling name

Y/H- house

(posted & edited 10/10/23)

—

Oh BROTHER, this guy STINKS! I mean, how has he not gotten walloped at least once during this godforsaken game? You suck your teeth at the sight of James flying around the pitch blowing kisses to his fan club and Lily Evans, who turns her nose up at the sight of him.

Merlin, when will this game end?

The Hogwarts Quidditch Semi-Finals of 1977 was a game to watch… until both teams stopped scoring what seemed like hours ago. Both Gryffindor & (Y/H) were at a stalemate, down some players due to injury and now, even lower team morale. Gryffindor team captain and chaser James Potter, notorious Marauder, and resident flirt, is not someone who likes to lose. He’s spent all season drilling his teammates, memorizing plays, and thinking of every outcome possible to ensure another Gryffindor victory. James’ affinity to be right takes precedence over anything, after all. But after beating down almost all of (Y/H)’s reserves, James was almost vibrating with confidence. He really doesn’t lose, not if he can help it.

“AND ANOTHER (Y/H) IS DOWN WITH AN INJURY— Team captain Whithall calls for a timeout as they reconvene on what to do next! Hope you’re still comfy in the stands, folks….” the student announcer grumbles.

There’s absolute chaos on the field, and like birds scuffling over a piece of bread, (Y/S), the team’s last good beater is floating on a gurney, ready to be transported to the Hospital Wing.

“Oh, here comes trouble…” Sirius murmurs, smacking James on the back to grab his attention.

You jump down from the stands to check on (Y/S), and James is too busy reveling in the idea of winning the goddamn semi-finals that he doesn’t notice you putting Quidditch gear on.

“Easy win from here on out, Pads! The little lady’s just checking the damage. Not important,” he chortles before Sirius physically grabs his head to face the girl walking towards him, currently storming across the turf to meet him and his team.

“I’m subbing in,” you say, angry at how dirty Gryffindor’s been playing, and angry that you even have to play in (Y/S)’s stead.

“Sweetheart, this game is for serious, you know that right?” James says a bit dumbly with a furrowed brow. Both of you are head to head, and James sees the twitch in your eye as you cross your arms. Hot air is seeping out of your pores but James’s lip simply quirks up in intrigue. You’re someone he hasn’t noticed before, and the only thing running through his mind besides winning the game is that you’re really pretty. But then again, he’s always found angry women to be attractive, in retrospect.

“Yeah, for the actual cup, not…for Sirius… It’s the wrong time to joke, innit?” Sirius says to break the ice, noticing the palpable tension between your glares. Your faces are inches away from each other and he’s not sure if you two are going to fight or kiss, but it makes him grimace all the same.

“Who do you think (Y/S) practices with? Unlike you and your friends, I know when to take things seriously,” You say through gritted teeth.

“She’s legit, Potter. Got added to our reserves last week.” Whithall pipes up, ready to get back to the game. The crowd has been weathered down after hours of anticipation, and they want to see the end of it, no matter the outcome.

“Much to my surprise,” you grumble, elbowing the authority in the form of a teenage boy not much older than yourself. You should’ve known your sibling was looking a little too happy as they got floated off the pitch on a gurney.

“Then let’s play. Don’t hurt yourself, sweetheart.” James says condescendingly, floating away on his broomstick like it’s a walk in the park, but the way you’re slapping the bat against your palm is getting Sirius a tiny bit nervous for his precious countenance. The whistle blows and the game resumes.

“A SURPRISE ADDITION (Y/N) JOINS HER HOUSE AS BEATER! Gryffindor better watch out for her swi—” You slam the bludger in James’s direction and it hurtles toward him so fast that he almost folds in half, barrel-rolling on his broom to dodge it. The move makes Sirius and a few of their other teammates gasp to see James scrambling back onto his broom.

“Oops! Looks like I missed.” you deadpan, balancing midair as you whack another one where it rebounds off the Gryffindor seeker and back towards James, hitting both of them in the gut.

“THIS GIRL’S GOT AN ARM ON HER! Though might I say her hits look a bit targeted…” The commentator says worriedly, and everyone in the crowd is leaning in their seats trying to get a better view.

“Merlin, are you trying to kill me woman?” he yells in outrage.

“I’m trying to finish the game. Your big head is in the way,” you say with a straight face as Sirius bats towards you, and you spin on your broomstick without shifting your posture. The smile on your face as you taunt him should be considered criminal, but he’s looking at you in a new light.

Yeah, now he’s paying attention. The other Gryffindor players can’t seem to figure out your next move and you bat another bludger towards Potter’s extremely large target of a head, and all of a sudden he’s freefalling through the air as his teammates fly to catch him, one by one. His nose still makes impact with the ground before Sirius catches by the ankle like Achilles taking a dip in the River Styx.

“AND (Y/H) HAS CAPTURED THE SNITCH! Good job to their Seeker, Appleby! Congratulations on a job well done, so that we can all finally go home.” The commentator cringes as McGonagall swats at him to leave the podium.

Who even is she, taking over the game and stealing his win like that?

He’s walking up from the sidelines with a bloody nose, going to shake Whithall’s hand and you’re standing behind him, a malicious grin plastered between your rosy cheeks, windswept and almost ethereal while he looks like he got flattened by a hippogriff. Fuck, she’s pretty. You look like you floated down from the heavens, and by the looks his team gives him, he may have just crawled out of the earth.

“Congrats,” he grumbles, turning to you. Really pretty. It’s even worse that you’re devastatingly stunning up close— with sweat glistening on your brow and a pearly white smile, he takes a good moment to really look at you and memorize the flutter of your eyelashes. He’s unsure if he’s concussed or maybe it’s his astigmatism, but there are actual stars in his vision as he peers down at you. Your confidence is actually kind of sexy.

“You look…um…you ride well.” He stutters, shaking his head from his personal reverie.

“Excuse me?” you say, your little mouth agape in what he hopes is not disgust. He looks pathetic, blood sopping down to his jersey as he looks at you like he’s only seeing you for the first time, acknowledging you closely. Something about seeing him flail makes you crinkle your nose as you stifle a grin.

“I mean…Um…” Damn.

Sirius pulls his best friend away before you can bite back your laughter, all of your teammates leading you away to celebrate.

“Mate, what the shit was that? Are you alright in the head?” Sirius says, and if James’ nose wasn’t already bleeding he was going to slap him silly.

“Just…Didn’t see that coming…” he mumbles, and his mind, along with all of Gryffindor is in disarray as they walk back to their tower. He’s got a lot of thinking to do on what his next move will be.

—

James Potter goes through life in three methodical ways: 1.) creating a strategy, 2.) making a scene, 3.) and dragging his friends into it— in that particular order, every single time.

Now notice how considering consequences is not part of said process.

His ego wouldn’t let him rest after a girl, much less a very pretty one that he’d never noticed before—beat him at what he does best; quidditch! In fact, the next few nights were void of sleep and filled with thoughts of you. The way your hair looked so soft in the sunlight, how your lip turns almost Gryffindor red when you bite it in concentration, and maybe how your delicate hands would look as they tightly grasp onto his bat...ahem…your quidditch bat. Some dirty delusions aside, if looks could kill, he’d be dead seven times over, but honestly? He’d probably thank you for it.

James’ new mission was to figure you out, and if that was his mission, it meant it was the rest of the Marauders’ too. For the sake of winning the Cup, of course. That’s what he tries to tell himself until his mates catch him ogling you again at breakfast.

“So what is it with you and girls that inflict you nothing but pain and humiliation?” Remus muses, as the Marauders watch James laugh at a joke you told your friends at the (Y/H) table across the Great Hall. He looks at you like someone who stares at the sun, squinting and burning himself as he ponders on why he’s unable to look away.

James fumbles a response, shoving Remus as they all laugh. “Listen, I’ve got a bit of a masochistic streak, Moony. Just…There’s something about her…”

Your friends are pointing at him now, and as you turn to meet his eyes, you lift a brow inquisitively and flip him off. Sirius’s face pulls up in shock at James’s growing smile at the interaction as he mumbles, “Maybe you’ve met your match, Prongs…”

The boy pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, anything to try to see you clearer as he leans over to put his head in his hands, sighing dreamily. His friends are not as easily amused.

“A match made in heaven, you reckon?”

—

“Match made in hell, more like!” You spit, almost choking on your scrambled eggs at your friends’ insinuations. Your back is as stiff as a board, shoulders tight at the notion of you ever liking James Potter triggering your fight or flight response. When it comes to someone as pompous as him, only the word fight comes to mind.

“Oh come on, love… He’s popular, funny, and quite handsome…It’s James freaking Potter we’re talking about!” your roommate gushes, but you're not the least bit impressed.

“Is that supposed to do anything for me? I can think of a few F words that middle initial can stand for…” Eyes rolling, you peek back at the Gryffindor table to see said boy wiggling his fingers at you teasingly until he accidentally smacks Peter in the face with his toast. Idiot.

“Only hot people get away with stupid shit. I mean look at the four of them!” you continue, gulping down the rest of your coffee. “Potter’s the worst out of all of them though. Big ass head must compensate for a lot of things." You say, shaking your head at your friends.

"And yet, here you are, talking about him for the fourth time this morning," your roommate replies, smirking. " You’ve been Potter crazy since you helped us beat Gryffindor in the semi-finals! Are you sure you don't have a crush on him?"

"No!" you say too quickly, too loudly, that the shrill noise of your voice makes your ears hurt and the shit-eating grins on your friends’ faces reflect how desperate that came off. You slump onto the table, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“You wanna kiss him, don’t you?” they tease, and you push away their puckering faces as you scoff, “With an uppercut, maybe!” Almost makes you want to stomp over there and wipe the stupid look off his face…and maybe sit on his lap. You run your fingers through your hair in frustration. All this aggression really needs to go somewhere, but unfortunately, James Potter’s lap is the only destination you have in mind.

“He’s just really punchable. I get so annoyed by the sight of him I just want to… ugh!” you groan, your hands shaking as you try to convince them (or yourself). Your friends cackle at the sight of you pretending to squeeze his curly-topped, mothball-filled head, but your brain changes course and you imagine what it’s like to hold his hand. Your fingers flex cautiously at the idea, wondering what his touch would feel like. Grabbing a glass of water to cool your thoughts, your peripherals reveal he’s still staring at you like you make night turn into day. His gaze is searing, and as you put your lips around your straw, he licks his lips slowly. Shit.

—

Availability bias is one hell of a mindfuck. If only they taught psychology at this magic school, maybe the wizarding world would have way fewer problems and more people would be straightforward and not.. Dead. James decides he can categorize his life now as before you, and after you.

Before you, well… he honestly wasn’t even sure if you were a student at Hogwarts until he saw you marching down the pitch, but now… You’re everywhere. He can spot your voice in a crowded hallway, and who was going to tell him you’ve had three classes with him this whole term? Even down to when he shuts his eyes, he’s convinced his eyelids are branded with the imprint of your silhouette. Every conversation he strikes with you ends with you laughing at him, and he’s unsure if that’s a step up or down from the many boisterous rejections from Lily Evans over the years. He sort of wishes you’d laugh with him, and do a number of other things, (heck he’s got a list of ideas he’s wanked off to), and well… His soul is tightly wound with thoughts of you and Godric, listen to this guy…. maybe the boys were right…. Maybe he really does need to get laid.

It’s funny how fate works, two people who’ve barely interacted in the past six years at Hogwarts are now paired together for a History of Magic essay worth 20% of the term grade. You’re trying to get this done as fast as possible, he notices, mapping out ideas and trying to discuss how to piece it all together, yet James does everything but that to get you to pay attention to him. He fills your head with mundane little questions, asking you what your favorite fruit is to the childhood bedtime story your parents told you as a kid.

“What’s your middle name, Potter?” You muse, finally entertaining him after endless chatter. His eyes trail to the exposed skin of your collarbones as you stretch in your seat, and well… you don’t look as menacing as you always do but did it seriously have to be this question? He scratches the back of his head, silent for the first time in the two hours you’ve been trying to craft this essay for the sake of both your grades.

“What? I can’t just go around calling you James Fucking Potter. Spit it out, you know too much about me already.”

He clears his throat, a blush creeping up his neck. “It’s… that’s an intimate question, love… I…”

Your laughter at his response makes his senses shut down. “Oh, so it’s bad. What is it, Franklin? Fabio? Come on, I won’t bite.” A part of him wishes you would, your face equally flushed and so close to him right now, almost leering at him for an answer. It’d be easy to just lean over…

“Fleamont.”

Your lips quirk, until they pucker like you’ve guzzled a lemon. The blush on your cheeks intensifies, and the sound explodes out of you. You laugh so loudly Madam Pince kicks you both out of the library, James carrying both your knapsacks, a hand around your waist as you rush out of there. Your body is firm under his touch, pupils unfocused and dilated looking at him now that you know his dirty little secret. James thinks that if you keep looking at him like that, hell, you can call him anything you want.

—

Fleamont.

What a prick. A really attractive, clueless prick. The memory makes you giggle as you get ready for the Quidditch Cup and your team charges out onto the field to face Gryffindor again, as you’ve both advanced to the finals. He’s not as much of an asshole as you originally thought. It’s undeniable that something pulls you towards him, whether it be hormones, concern, or the fact that it’s actually adorable the way he writes his mother back weekly, or admirable how he moved Sirius out of Black Manor himself last year. Maybe it’s endearing the way he goes out of his way to make first-years smile or heartwarming how even Filch can’t find reasons to hate him. The golden boy. You get it now, why people get trapped in his web, and why many are unwilling to leave.

You pass him outside the locker rooms, bumping shoulders as he smiles almost bashfully. The golden boy, loudmouth, ball of energy is reduced to a nervous pile of teenage ineptness at the sight of you, every time. You could take him (not in a fight). In an actual fight, maybe you could land a few solid hits before his nice muscly arms hold you do—

“Ready to finish this, darling?”

Your eyes refocus when his hand nudges the small of your back, right above your hip. “Mhmm,” you clear your throat, “Ready to lose, Potter?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He moves closer, slowly backing you into the wall.

“Eyes on the prize Potter, I’m in this to win it.” You say, looking at the closing distance between both your chests. James nods, not taking his eyes off of you for a moment, even when the announcer calls out the imminent start of the game.

“WELCOME TO THE HOGWARTS QUIDDITCH CUP OF 1977 GRYFFINDOR VS. (Y/H)! I hope you are all excited as our last match between these teams was quite thrilling at the end of it!” The announcer says, hyping up the roaring crowd as your teams parade onto the pitch.

His eyes are still on you when he shakes Whithall’s hand and the whistle blows. It’s intense, and makes you feel like you’re burning, even if the wind is blowing like crazy today. You bat the bludgers toward anything red on the field that even dares to move toward your teammates. James won’t stop staring at you, and you both lock eyes across the pitch.

“What? Flirt with me later, Potter, I’m trying to win!” you yell.

He’s got you transfixed, and it’s crazy how his timing is always wrong. You bat the bludger away from your captain but don’t notice James flying towards you to respond as you give it your hardest swing, making the impact against his huge target of a head all the more painful.

Holy shit, did you kill him?

He keels off his broom like a shot bird and then he’s falling, and you’re the one chasing the Gryffindor chaser as he flaps his arms like the idiot you know he is as you push forward to catch him before he splits his skull open.

“I’msofuckingsorryJamesareyouokay?” You blurt out as you land, soft hands moving over his broad chest and quickly swelling face. He’s wearing that stupid grin again, and you think you may have finally broken Gryffindor’s team captain.

“You know my name?” he sighs happily, comfortable in your lap and maybe it’s the brain damage you’ve caused him or the way his glasses are bent beyond repair but you will every magical predecessor you can think of to stop you from punching him in the face right now.

“Are you fucking dense?” You scream, shaking your head, and jostling him as his arms try to reach out to swipe the hair away from your face.

“Must’ve hit him so hard you knocked his filter loose..” Sirius muses after he lands next to you two on the grass.

“POTTER’S TAKEN A HIT FROM (Y/H) and it doesn’t look good ladies and gents! Gryffindor calls a timeout to check on their captain!” The announcer calls out, and there are so many eyes on the two of you as James is simply giggling like a prepubescent schoolboy. Fuck, you’ve maimed the golden boy.

“Y’know, sweetheart. You’re…really sexy when you’re on top of me like this,” he says breathily, and you really can’t hit him, so you jab Sirius in the gut instead when he tries to laugh at his best friend’s stupidity.

—

James wakes up in the hospital wing with a blinding headache until someone gently pulls the curtains closed, stroking the hair off his sweaty forehead.

“Poppy you always take such good care of me…” he mumbles. A punch lands on his chest and his eyes rip open, not expecting to see you at his bedside.

“Idiot,” you mutter. “You’re always in my way and now look, you almost got yourself killed and it would’ve been my fault! How dare you, James…” The red is crawling up your neck like a brushfire as you berate him, and he takes it with a grin as you jabber on, putting his arms behind his head.

“Were you worried about me, love?” James smiles cheesily, catching your arm at its half-hearted attempt to slap him across the face.

“I was not. Stubborn people like you are hard to kill. I’m more annoyed that I can’t morally punch your face in since you have a concussion. Madame Pomfrey’s already healed your cheekbone.”

“That you broke,” he says matter-of-factly, taking a chance to kiss the palm of your hand. This concussion is working like a bottle of Felix Felicis. It’s endearing to see you taking care of him, whether you like it or not (even with the punches he’s sure it’ll come with).

“You’re sick in the head.”

“For you. I was trying to come tell you that I never took my eyes off the prize, but then of course you bludgeoned my face in before I could get sweet on yo—”

Your lips crash down on his, and nothing about it is delicate. It’s a month’s worth of yearning, imaginations coming to fruition as he grabs the back of your head to deepen the embrace. Your lips on his are hot and heady, and he could be easily convinced that he’s stuck there, cauterized to the shape of you.

“I know. I could feel you watching.” You breathe into his mouth, leaning up on his chest. His lips chase up again to meet yours, biting down on your bottom lip as you groan. He might like that noise better than the sound of your laughter. It’ll be fun to find out.

“Who won the Cup?”

Laughter spills out of your red, kiss-swollen lips as you pat his cheek gently, fingers grazing over his healed cheekbone.

“Not Gryffindor. But listen closely James, if you be a good boy and get past this concussion, I’ll make up for it by showing you how well I ride…”

He likes the sound of that, Quidditch Cup be damned. You see, James Potter never loses, ladies and gentlemen, not really—and well... there’s always next year.

—

“I like the way

you look at me

like you are

going to talk to me

or devour me

and I am fine with either.”

-N.R. Hart

taglist: @jsjcue

[kurooo-is-here]

Hear me out. Drayton and Kieran with a mute s/o?

(Tbh I feel like Drayton would think they’re just shy for the first couple of interactions until someone tells him though lol)

Okay, I'm not super knowledgable about deaf or mute folks. But here's my best shot at this ask, if I am incorrect about anything please let me know!

My interpretation of this is that reader is deaf and communicates through sign language, and they cannot speak at all.

Drayton and Kieran with a mute/deaf Reader

(Ignore the snom gif I couldn't think of anything specific to use for this lmao)

Drayton:

Yeah, he's totally clueless at first. Doesn't get why you're doing odd hand motions instead of talking, but he figures everyone has their quirks. It really bothers you that he won't acknowledge it, so you ask Lacey to tell him for you.

When Drayton hears it from Lacey, he feels really bad and is immediately apologetic. He rushes over to you and attempts to apologize, then realizes he doesn't understand sign language at all, so he stumbles on his words a lot.

Lacey facepalms watching all of this go down, so she reluctantly teaches Drayton some basic sign language so he can get his apology across to you. He's delighted to finally be able to talk to you properly-- he has a crush on you, after all.

The rest of the Elite Four soon complains that Drayton studies sign language better than he studies for any of his classes, but he is absolutely determined to make things right with you. Lacey says she's never seen him work that hard!

When he finally confesses to you, he does it right. He makes sure he corrects himself if he messes up a sign, accidentally blurts out a few words while signing-- but you can tell he really means it. It warms your heart to see him trying so hard for you, despite his initial ignorance on the subject.

Drayton notices you get bullied a lot because you're some regular student hanging out with the big leagues (the BBA Elite Four). He IMMEDIATELY shuts down anyone who has the balls to talk shit in front of you knowing you can't hear them. That kind of vile behavior will never be tolerated on his watch.

He texts you a lot. He still talks to you through sign when he sees you in person, but since he's usually busy doing League Club work (or just pretending to be busy), he texts you when he has a moment of free time. At one point you changed his contact name on your phone to "The Drayster", which made his entire WEEK. He would NOT shut up about it.

Don't let this man figure out swears and silly insults in sign language, he's gonna use them all the time now. One time Crispin asked what Drayton was laughing about and he just signed "bullshit" in response which immediately had you on the floor in tears of laughter while Crispin looked SO confused.

Kieran:

Luckily he's more perceptive and understanding than Drayton, so he picks up on your disability right away. Turns out he already knew a bit of sign language from teaching himself too.

When you ask him how he knew sign language already, he just shyly responds that he wanted to be prepared for the event that he needed to communicate with Ogerpon through it for some reason.

He teaches himself a LOT more sign language after meeting you. He really wants to go the extra mile for his new friend and possible crush so he studies and does his research diligently.

Kieran already understands if you're socially awkward, because he's full of anxiety himself. He totally gets it if you need to rely on him to be your translator at any point.

He really loves you and has no problems with your disability, even if he has to try a little harder for you. And after a while, communicating with you becomes easier, which makes you really happy!

After the events of Indigo Disk, he becomes much more protective of you. He wants to become stronger so he can protect you from anyone who tries to bully you or hurt you. His Hydrapple is gonna have a word or two with whichever idiot tries to disrespect your name in his presence.

Whenever he greets you, he tries not to catch you off guard from behind or something, since you can't exactly hear him coming. He really tries to respect your boundaries too, so if you feel uncomfortable with anything he does, he understands.

Slightly unrelated, but Kieran definitely flips people off a lot. He tries to be less pissed when he's around you, but on his own? He's saying "fuck you" to a LOT of people.

One time he tried explaining to a guy about your disability, and the guy had the nerve to do the 👉👌 sign at you as some kind of sick joke... the BBA Elite Four found that guy beaten into a bloody pulp on the ground later. Kieran was taking NO prisoners that day.

[writingonleaves]

how can you look so peaceful when you know i'm gonna leave - joseph woll

pairing: joseph woll x original female character

warnings: swearing, fluff central, talks of marriage, barely proofread

inspired by + title: "staying" by lizzy mcalpine

word count: 2.1k

author's note: a short love letter to long distance relationships, which, while brutal, are beautiful in its own way. a love so soft that its meaning transcends distance ... it's possible folks! i've lived it! wanted to put something quick out to get back into my writer brain again. i hope you all enjoy this one <3

Goodbyes are par for the course for Evangeline Patel and Joseph Woll. 

Their first real one was when they weren’t even dating yet. Something more than friends. Something just below commitment. It was after their sophomore year of Boston College, when Joseph went back home to St. Louis and Evie went back home to New York. Evie hadn’t wanted to let go as Joseph lingered by the door, having helped her pack stuff into her car. 

They were dating a year later during the second real goodbye, when Joseph’s BC season ended and he went to Toronto. But that time they had plans of visiting each other’s hometowns in the summer and the goodbyes felt more like promises and not finalities. 

When two collegiate hockey players date each other, they get more comfortable being apart than together with opposing practice and game schedules. But everyone knew, even at the start, that Evie and Joseph wouldn’t ever be driven apart by distance. 

And that stayed true through every ‘goodbye’ and ‘see you soon,’ whether literal or figurative. Through when shoulder surgery sidelined Evie and her dreams to go professional. Through when Joseph signed his deal with Toronto and Evie stayed at BC. Through when Evie’s post-grad journey took her back home to New York. 

They’ve passed every test thrown at them, every obstacle tossed in their way. As heartbreaking as it sounds, goodbyes are a part of what makes Evie and Joseph work. 

Because when they finally say hello again, it always feels like the first time they locked eyes, during a meeting during their freshman year when all the student athletes were gathering together.

Tonight, after spending their sixth year anniversary, they’re on the precipice of another goodbye. Joseph has to go back to Toronto for training camp and the Leafs don’t play the Rangers until late January. Evie always spends the holidays with her family, and Joseph has always respected that. 

Four months. They’ve done worse. But the familiar heaviness settles in her stomach as she curls up in bed, reaching out to place a stray hair back where it belongs. He looks at her in a way that makes her feel like nothing and no one can hurt her. 

It’s been that way for six years and she’s so lucky.

He narrows his eyes playfully, tapping his pointer finger gently on her forehead. “What are you thinking so hard about?”

Evie sighs with a wistful smile. “Nothing.”

“Oh really?”

“Yeah.”

He leans forward to press a kiss on her forehead. “I know you’re lying. Tell me.”

She relents, “I love you.”

“I love you too, baby. That’s what you’re thinking about?”

She shrugs. “Do you ever think about what life would be like if we didn’t have to be apart so much?”

“All the time,” he says. “I probably wouldn’t be as upset coming home after a loss.”

Evie chuckles, but that’s not what she means. “I mean, like, I don’t know. If you had thought about breaking it off when you went to Toronto or when I went to New York or…”

Joseph’s eyebrows furrow. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Shit. “No, no! Not at all. Sorry. I probably should’ve brought that up more gracefully.”

He grins. “That’s okay. You rarely think before you speak. I know that.” He earns a light slap for that. “But to answer your question, no. Not really. Even among all the uncertainties of going to Toronto, you were always the constant. I knew that no matter what changes would come, I’d always want and need you to be in my life.”

She feels her heart rush with emotions. Even after six years, he can still make her feel like a lovesick idiot. “How did you know that early on?”

He rubs her shoulder with his thumb. “You make my brain calm down. Even on our first date, my hands were so sweaty and I didn’t know if you were gonna think dinner was too cheesy but you just made me feel so at peace.”

“It was cheesy,” she points out as he lightly pinches her skin in retaliation, which makes her laugh. “But it was you. So I didn’t care.”

“Talk about cheesy,” he snickers. “But yeah. I never had a doubt. I knew that even though it was very likely we wouldn’t live in the same city, it would be worth it. It was more if you wanted it.”

“What do you mean?”

He swallows. She plays with his fingers, something that always calms him down. “Well, when I first went to Toronto, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to, you know, keep this going. And I would’ve understood. You were gonna be at BC another year and then be who knows where and I could’ve moved around at any moment. Not being able to give you that stability…it’s still something I worry about.”

“I think we’ve made it work this long,” she says playfully. 

“We have, and I wouldn’t change it for anything,” he assures. “And usually, I’m fine. But, you know, on the days I miss you more than usual, the thought creeps into my head.”

She catches his hand that’s been rubbing her shoulder and places a kiss on his palm. “Honey, I appreciate the concern, I really do. But I knew what I was getting to. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“I feel very lucky that you are.”

Sap. Evie lays back down on his chest. “That still doesn’t mean this gets easier though.”

“Yeah. I know.”

She glances around the room, stopping at momentos she’s collected throughout the years. The BC flag she has hanging above her door. The puck for the first goal she ever scored for the Eagles on the corner of her desk. A stuffed elephant Joseph won her in an arcade four years ago. A cork board filled with scraps of memories, tickets to concerts, boarding passes and little notes she’s gotten from friends and family. 

Right in the center is a ticket to Joseph’s first game in net for the Leafs. November 13, 2021. She’ll never forget it, getting special permission from her coach to meet the team at New Hampshire the next day for their game so that she could go up to Buffalo to catch the Leafs play the Sabres. 

Her eyes then scan to the bouquet of lilies on her night stand, courtesy of Joseph from when they stopped by a flower shop yesterday. Then to the duvet that he had gifted her for her birthday last year because she needed a new one. 

And then finally, to him. Those blue eyes that always hold so much warmth. The eyes she immediately saw when she woke up from her surgery, a professional hockey career officially out of reach. The eyes she always looks for in a room, whether he’s there or not. 

“Hi,” he says softly.

“Hm?”

“Lost you for a minute.”

“Sorry,” she shakes her head. “Were you saying something?”

“Nah,” he says with a smile, kissing her forehead. “Four months isn’t too bad.”

“Joseph,” she deadpans. “It’s not great either.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “I’m just trying not to be sad about it now because I know it’s inevitable. You think it would get easier after six years.”

“I hope some of the Toronto jobs I applied to get back to me.”

He sighs and she can’t blame him. It’s a conversation they’ve had multiple times. “Me too, Eve. But-”

“Go where the job you want takes you, yeah, I know,” she finishes for him. “But I’m ready for a change. And I miss living in the same city. Or country. Even that’s a start.”

Joseph snorts. “Yeah. That would be nice.” He reaches over to dim the lights. “Well, if anything, I’m glad we get to at least spend anniversaries together.”

She hums. They miss out on a lot in each other’s lives — her birthday which is in March, various holidays, Valentine’s Day — but anniversaries are in the summer. And that can be theirs. 

Sometimes Evie does wonder what life would be like if they weren’t dating. If she hadn’t taken the chance and asked for the shy, cute boy’s number. If she hadn’t realized at a BC men’s hockey game that the goalie in net was so talented that she couldn’t take her eyes away. If she hadn’t said yes to going on the first date. By then she had already known he was on his way to Toronto sooner rather than later. And she still said yes. 

She went to her childhood best friend’s older sister’s wedding a month ago. Her and Joseph have talked about marriage — they’ve been dating for so long it would be strange if they hadn’t — but it wasn’t until Paige and Taylor were saying “I Do” as they put rings on each other’s fingers, Paige’s jumpsuit and Taylor’s dress flowing gracefully with the wind, did Evie look at her own ring finger for a split second and yearn for something for the first time. 

Well, he’s leaving tomorrow. Might as well bring it up now. 

“You know, if we want to get married eventually, we probably should be in the same city.” She holds her breath, waiting for his reaction, fiddling with her necklace. 

(It’s a silver maple leaf charm that Joseph had gotten her right before he left for Toronto. Evie hasn’t taken it off since.)

“You’re my favorite person in the world.” He rushes out, almost like he’s stumbling over his words. But they’re no less genuine, eyes wide and cheeks the slightest bit red. She loves all of him, but she loves him the most like this. When he’s completely vulnerable, no filter and only hers. 

She has to share him with a whole city who lives and breathes hockey. He does a good job of reminding her consistently that even with all that, what’s theirs is theirs and always will be. It’s moments like these when she remembers. 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. And I also know you very well,” He taps his finger on her forehead. “Just be patient, baby. It’s coming.”

She decides to act dumb, hoping she’s not clamming up. “What’s coming?”

Joseph snorts. “Yeah, nice try.” He takes it a step further, taking her left hand and rubbing her ring finger smoothly. “I knew I wanted to marry you the second your eyes opened after your surgery.”

Evie’s not sure what to be shocked at first. The fact that he immediately picked up on her signals or what he just said. She blinks. Surgery. Her shoulder surgery. Which was-

“That was like, five years ago.”

He shrugs before taking a deep breath, and she knows he’s also thinking back to that time. She didn’t know it at the time, but they’ve talked about it since. Joseph had been downright terrified, sitting in the waiting room for hours while Evie was in the operating room. He had flown to New York specifically to be by her side when she woke up. They hadn’t even been dating for a year and a half at that point, and he still says it was one of the scariest moments of his life. 

“Why then?” She asks. She has to know. 

He smiles softly. “I know it was stupid, and the success rate of that surgery is so high, but I was so, so afraid you wouldn’t wake up or it wouldn’t be successful. Then when you woke up and I saw your eyes, I realized that I don’t think I could go through my life without seeing those eyes. I guess it’s kinda cruel that I don’t literally get to everyday, but you know what I mean.”

“Oh,” she mutters. Because what else can she say? “So you do want to get married.”

A pause, then a bark of laughter. “Of course I want to get married.” She must flinch because Joseph immediately softens. “Sorry, babe. I’m not making fun of you. I just-I thought you knew. I’ve wanted to marry you for a long time. We’re just, you know, we’re young and I knew neither one of us wanted to be married young even though we could’ve been by now.”

Evie bites her lip. “You know that I don't need a ring, right?”

“I know,” he says with a warm smile. “But you’re getting one anyways. Soon. I promise. Can’t let you slip away that easy, eh?”

“First of all, I know you play there, but you’re not Canadian so stop with the ‘eh,’ he snorts before she continues. “Secondly, you kinda have had me for awhile now. Don’t think I could slip away even if I wanted to.”

He laughs before turning serious, placing a soft but poignant kiss on her lips. “I love you. I’ll miss you.”

“I love you too,” Evie says, biting her lip as she wipes a tear from his cheek. “I miss you always.”

(Three months later, Joseph proposes during sunset in Boston, echoing to their very first date when they had dinner and walked by the Charles River during sunset. Five months later, Evie gets a job offer in Toronto.)

~*~*~

tag list: @ru-kru, @bunbunbl0gs (lemme know if you wanna be added!)

[sadhours]

the diner - part two

billy hargrove x fem!reader

cw: 18+ minors dni, stalking, murder, toxic relationship, trauma, hallucinations, flayed!billy, peeping Tom, horror

He survived. Somehow— someway. Billy survived. Took care of what he should have so long ago. But that monster lingers, still alive within him.

You’re an innocent girl who works next door to him and he can’t help himself. Could you help him or is he too sick?

part one

read on ao3

Billy is his name. It’s embroidered on his coveralls. He’s caught your attention but there’s something very off about him. You’ve grown up here. People don’t move here but he did. And you can’t figure out why. But there has to be a reason. He’s trying not to be found, he’s got to be escaping something. The guy looks like he’s hiding. No one can offer much information about him. The folks who have talked to him can’t pull any from him.

It seems as if he keeps to himself. He shows up at places you go but he’s always alone and doesn’t really talk to anyone. Like, okay, the bar. There’s one bar in this town and you’ve seen him there several times. While you’re chitchatting with locals, he’s sat at the bar. Smokes and smokes and downs beers and shots but he doesn’t fucking talk. You try hard not to watch him but you look. And he’s always staring at the bar, mess of blonde curls hiding his face. His hair is long, choppy layers but it’s past his shoulders and kind of big. It’s confusing because… the dudes handsome. Has a real pretty face though he always looks exhausted— like he’s seen horrific things. You’ve begged the bartender, Lacey, to tell you the conversations they’ve had but she insists he doesn’t talk much. She has told you that he comes in a lot. And even those nights when it’s just been him and her alone in the bar, he’s quiet. But he plays music on the jukebox. You asked what he plays and it tells you something but nothing of substance. The guy likes his hair metal and Hendrix.

And one time she asked him to kill a spider. But he didn’t. He laid out his hand, let the spider crawl onto his fingers and carried it outside. You like that story because you think it gives you insight into the stranger. Tells you something he or no one else can’t.

The owner of Route One Garage is a close friend. Your dad’s buddy, named Pete. He comes into the diner daily but he can’t give you anymore information. Tells you only the things everyone knows. That he’s from California and he’s really good with cars. Pete says he’s quiet, keeps to himself and that he doesn’t talk about himself— ever. Offers opinions about superficial stuff. He likes Marlboro Reds and Ole’ Colonial beer. Says he used to have a Camaro but it was wrecked in an accident. Won’t give any details of the accident.

Other than that, Manuel Gomez says he frequents his restaurant— that he loves Mexican food, and asks for the extra spicy stuff. Manuel says he even knows some Spanish, but if he’s from Southern California, that makes sense and isn’t really helpful in getting to know the stranger. And you’re really trying not to obsess over it, but he just has you so incredibly curious. You wonder if he’s lonely. You are and this own town is like family.

He comes in kind of early. 10 pm instead of after midnight. Something tells you to dig deep. So when he sits, lights his cigarette and stares down at the table, you slip into the booth across from him. You grab the menu and open it, purse your lips as you look through it and as you glance up at him, he looks uncomfortable.

Billy asks you, “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to decide what you’re gonna eat today,” you answer with a shrug but you’re determined to learn more about him. Even if it’s through food. “You like sandwiches?”

“Does anyone not like sandwiches?” he replies, but he’s fidgeting— like he’s uncomfortable.

You nod and meet his eyeline, “Yeah. Some dudes get offended when I suggest sandwiches.”

“How is that possible? It’s like, the least offensive food.”

“I don’t like eggs,” you shrug, “Everyone has preferences.”

Billy’s face looks cute. Looking at you with his brows knit, bright blue eyes all confused. “You don’t like eggs? Why?”

“They’re bouncy and they stink,” you offer easily. You’ve despised them your whole life.

“Your job must be real difficult if you don’t like the smell of eggs,” he responds and he still doesn’t exactly meet your eyes.

You make a face as you flip the page of the menu, “You’ve got no idea. If they’re not drowned in cheese, I have to try really hard not to gag.”

“My dad— I can’t eat them scrabbled because that’s the only thing he knew how to cook.”

Aha. Information. He has a family. But he said knew not knows. Maybe his dad is dead.

“Noted, I don’t know if over easy is any better though,” you tell him as you scan the menu. “Our pot roast is pretty good.”

“It’s the morning. Do people usually eat pot roast for breakfast?”

That’s a good point.

“Do you like pancakes?” you ask, then.

Billy shrugs, “Yeah, I mean they’re fine but they’re not healthy.”

“Okay, so you’re health conscious but you chain smoke cigarettes,” you laugh softly. “Maybe some oatmeal and yogurt?”

He sighs, snatches the menu from you and closes it. “How about you get me the breakfast I always get? And how about you don’t fucking question it?”

The shift is brutal and you’re suddenly really embarrassed about sliding into the booth and trying to get to know him. You slide out without another word and put in his order. Fill his coffee cup without a word. Serve him his breakfast and don’t say a single thing to him. You’ve learned from this— learned his a fucking asshole.

You’re relieved when he leaves. Recount the story to your coworkers but they excuse him.

“Yeah,” Becky scoffs, “The guy’s a fucking weirdo. Why are you trying to talk to him?”

“He comes in literally every time I work,” you argue, “Why wouldn’t I try to like, talk to him?”

Becky’s face grimaces, “You don’t think he’s a weirdo? He’s dirty and he doesn’t make eye contact. Besides… I think he’s pretty creepy.”

Creepy isn’t a way you’d describe him. And based off what Becky says next, you think she could read your face.

“He’s moved here suddenly, doesn’t have any friends— like seriously, he doesn’t talk to anyone. He works in that place and then what? He’s probably a serial killer or something,” Becky’s face is contorted in disgust.

You chew on your bottom lip, “I think he’s kind of cute…”

“They thought Ted Bundy was hot,” Becky argues, “Seriously. He’s not hideous but he’s a weirdo. He’s definitely got skeletons in his closet— literally.”

—

That night, you go to the bar. You have tomorrow off so it’s routine. You meet your friends there. And like clockwork, Billy walks in about thirty minutes after you get there. You can feel his eyes on you and you think maybe he’s still upset about earlier today. So after a round of shots, you approach him.

“I’m sorry about earlier. That was weird,” you rush out, feeling the heat from the tequila, “I don’t usually sit with patrons and pry like that— but, like, this is a small ass town and we don’t have people move here. I know everyone here, so I was just trying to get to know you.”

His response is cold, “You don’t wanna know me.”

And it’s so far from reality. But it feels like a warning. You look down and see how his wrists have these deep scars. Purple and red rough skin, wrapped around the limbs. He notices, pulls down the sleeves of his denim jacket to hide them.

Snarls his teeth and tells you, “Get lost.”

You wanna push him off the barstool, tell him he’s the one who needs to get lost. But you don’t. You swallow the lump in your throat and retreat. Get back to your friends and try to the into the pretty, blonde stranger with a bad fucking additude but you feel his eyes on you. And you do your best to ignore the dreadful feeling that sits in your stomach, try not to recognize it as fear. It feels charged suddenly and you’re scared. So you drink, down another shot or two until it fizzles out. Play some pool with your friends.

As the night goes on, one by one your friends leave until it’s just you and Billy and Lacey. But he doesn’t talk to you. You converse with Lacey for a while until you get sleepy. After saying goodbye, you stumble to your car and can’t help but feeling like you’re being followed. Ignoring it, you make your way home. Lock your doors when you get inside and bypass the bathroom, too tired and go to your bedroom. You lay down for a beat, eyes glued to your window. That feeling— being watched is heavy on you. And you get up, rush to the window and pull up the blinds. Cup your hands on the glass as you peer through. See the eyes watching you, then the person runs. The harder you look, the more you can make out the blonde curls.

—

Billy doesn’t come into the diner. Which you’re glad. The day after you were certain you’d seen him peeking into your window, you’d sat on the couch. Unable to sleep. Held yourself in fear, panicked as you kept checking all the windows. And you know you should tell someone but for some reason, you don’t.

As you work, you keep looking towards the rundown mechanic shop next door. Some part of you expects him to be standing at the big window, staring back at you. But he doesn’t.

You’re confused and scared. You decide it’s best to stay at your parents house for the next two weeks. But you lie to them, just say there’s an issue with your plumbing. And when Billy doesn’t come into the dinner for those two weeks, you figure it’s fine to return home.

[infinitegalahad]

AMERICAN PROMETHEUS AND HIS ATHENA - CHAPTER ONE

Pairing: J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Identifying! Reader Summary: In the fall of 1939, You are an incoming freshman at Berkeley. Despite your love for literature and the pressure of your parents, you begrudgingly enroll in a Physics course. There you meet J. Robert Oppenheimer; your professor turned into your best friend and most importantly, your lover. Word Count: 4.5k Warnings: Nothing major, minus the huge age gap. The reader is 18, and Oppenheimer is at least thirty. Everything is legal and consensual. If this bothers you, please do not read it; thank you! Notes: gonna be a long note, so strap in folks. so i have this tendency to get hyperfocused on a piece of media, get my little gremlin hands on any piece of media about it, devour said piece of media, and then poop out 5k+ words in under 24 hours due to my obsession. this happened two years ago with safin from no time to die, and let me just say that it goes to show that history is a sick cycle. not sick, I'm just literally insane. lol, anyways! here's some lore. last Sunday i saw oppenheimer and thought it was a masterpiece! i also love cillain murphy too, so that's a massive bonus. the next day, i bought american prometheus. i started reading it on tuesday, and finished it on Friday. if you haven't read it, please go read it. the book is impossible to put down, and a lot of characterization of robert and other characters come from the movie, but mainly the novel. this fic is heavily researched. this fic is also very dark too, and the content is...yeah. the age gap is very massive and while legal, very taboo, so please keep this in mind. there will be dark content in this story so be warned. trigger warnings will be in the beginning of every chapter. this is on my tumblr and ao3 as well. here is a playlist i made while writing this , if that does anything. my masterlist is also at work too; the new and updated version will be out next chapter. <a href="url">add yourself to the taglist if you are interested</a>. thanks for reading and i hope you enjoy.

There are people talking, and while they are close, their voices are nothing but mindless mutters.

Despite how much they had to drink, the buzz managed to slow their thoughts yet made them somewhat aware of their surroundings. If you tried, not like they really wanted to, you could point out every little detail around them–all small things, meaningless and unimportant, in the vast growing universe. 

The uneven vintage ski portrait on Hatomi’s side of the room, the dim light covered by the French literature nights on the window sill, the light of the moon in boxy shapes across the aged wooden door, your feet sticking out underneath the blanket and the cool air bringing goosebump to your toes, the heat of your flashlight against your cheek; it’s all so small. 

You’ve known Hatomi, your roommate at Berkeley, for the last week. A Japanese American from Davis, she’s a lover of literature like you, albeit you’re more into Russian and American literature than French. Both of you have concluded that you are different but are different enough to put those said differences aside to be friends. Hatomi, unlike you, is smiley and bright, the type to make a conversation not as awkward. She’s made many friends, some of whom are yours, and you’re thankful for her. In your orientation week at Berkeley, she’s helped you break out of your shell, and you’ve gone around campus and to parties to get out and meet people.

As thankful as you are for Haotmi, you are not very thankful about her bringing in some guy into the room without making it clear and having full-blow sex. Hatomi tries to keep her moans contained, but the slapping and grunts from the man beneath are not in any way contained or quiet. He’s as loud as possible, and you can identify him from one of the many parties you’ve been to, but all of them in your state become a gradual blur. 

There’s a visible outline of the two through your quilt. Hatomi’s on top, and said the man is on the bottom with messy hair. He’s got a hand on her hip, and she nudges forward, her body moving forward. It makes you feel even lonelier than you already feel, but it's not intentional, but it’s certainly a jab. Hatomi cries his name, an emphasis on the end of his name. 

You haphazardly try to catch his name, but end up forgetting it, the alcohol from earlier helping sing you to sleep. 

–

It soon became a cycle—the whole lot of it. 

You’d wake up at seven for your eight in the morning English class. Then you’d head to your philosophy class from nine-thirty to ten-thirty before heading to lunch at eleven. After that break, then comes your Greek class from twelve to one. Then it’s physics. 

It’s not that you don’t like physics. Actually, you love it—the concept is fascinating. The movement, gravity, and being a small thing in the grand scheme of the infinite universe is a topic you could dive into for hours on end. And not to mention, you have a burning hatred for the mathematics of it. You know you can do introductory algebra, but that’s where you draw the line. Calculus and all of that is too advanced. You can do it; at the bare minimum. 

Your class is not that big. It’s your smallest class with ten students, all intrigued by a fascinating professor. 

The first time you met him, he stood by the chalkboard with a huff of smoke following behind him. He wore a dark gray tweed suit and had thick, coarse hair which was wild, maintained with gel. He was tall but not towering and rather slender. With the bluest eyes you had ever seen, you knew that this man was a character; not to mention, he also looked intelligent. 

And that he was. 

Dr.Oppenheimer was the reason you started actually to love physics. Not like, love. He was not an easy teacher; he was complex but rewarding. He took the concept of physics and made it more interesting than it already was, adding another dimension to it that you didn’t think was possible. 

Instead of the class being a lecture, Oppenheimer discussed the fundamental forces and philosophy. He, like you, enjoyed how physics interacted with the classical world. With a cigarette in one hand and a piece of chalk in another, and in his velvety voice, Oppenheimer taught something along the lines of the cosmic universe or the quantum tunnel and would look to his students for their input, arguments, questions, or their voice to the topic. 

You know, or thought he knew, that you weren’t the best at physics, but could always add a philosophical or insight on how physics affects both in the modern and classical world. Sometimes in class, the two of you would dive into a conversation. Oppenheimer would give you a serious loo, staring directly at you with his bright blue eyes. You could have sworn they were the bluest eyes you had ever seen, in which you were. As you challenge you, Oppenehiemr would stare, blowing the occasional puff of smoke. You could see him smile, but maybe that was a part of your imagination. 

Physics was complicated, but not only did you enjoy the class for Oppenheimer, but you also look at Oppenheimer. You would not have said it initially, but he did come and was attractive to you. He looked serious, older, and cold; which all remained true, but he was also intelligent, and that was the most attractive thing to you. His intelligence made him overall even more handsome than he already was. With this new found elevation, you soon began to find everything he did attractive. It became a slight distraction, but it was enough to make you leave class with pink cheeks and smile to yourself all giddy. The fantastical thoughts of “what if” played in your mind, making going to sleep a little easier than it usually it. 

–

On Monday, Oppenheimer deemed that your class was heading into the “most brutal” and “nightmare-causing”  fundamental force of Physics; Quantum Mechanics. 

He also declared it was one of his favorite micro topics in Physics and, in his mind, “not too difficult if you truly look into it.”

 Everyone got a horrible gut feeling in their stomachs. 

Oppenheimer was blunt and did not sugarcoat, which was a fair warning to his class. Quantum Mechanics took everything that was horrible about Physics and made it increasingly worse. Wavefunctions, Eigenstates, Quantum Measurement, and all the new equations hit you like a frictional force. And it began to show on your assignments. 

Your normal average in the class was an A- (with Oppenheimer giving you an E for “exceptional effort”) hanging off the side of a cliff, but this new topic dragged your average down with massive magnetic force. Soon, your average became a B-. Homework assignments and reading responses leaned towards a B, while your test and quizzes averaged at failing or border failing. You felt relieved that one of your quizzes on Bra-Ket Notation came back as a C+. 

Oppenheimer was writing on the board, finishing a Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle equation on the board. He looked at the clock, knowing that class was going to end soon. Putting his chalk down and burning the small amount of his cigarette on the ashtray, he reached for a large stack of his papers. Most had red handwriting with circles, arrows, and question marks. A heavy wave of anxiety hit the class as a perpetual sigh raised. 

You could have sworn Oppenheimer stared directly at you. The vast blue eye started to haunt you, but you convinced yourself it was your mind playing tricks. You turned to one of your neighborhoods and sighed, shaking your head. 

“I understand you are all eager to receive back the recent test on the basic equations of Quantum Mechanics. I have taken my time grading each one and you will see why it looks like a long time,” Oppenheimer noted, with a tinge of dark comedy and sarcasm in his voice. He didn’t look up at the class as he walked around, gently putting each paper on the desk. Each paper he put down made a student who was having a good day a very not good day.

Between the heavy sighs and whispers between the students, you gulped as Oppenheimer passed your desk. He looked down for a split second and put your paper down. He pointed to the red writing right where you had written your name before moving on. Gathering yourself, you grabbed the test, and not your shock, was disappointed. 

Out of forty-five points, you had only gotten nine. It was a new low you had hit in the class. It seemed like it would keep getting lower. Everything was far from right, and he gave those points only because you tried by writing a passage by each equation explaining what you had tried to replicate, knowing it was very wrong. 

You skimmed the front, noticing the red writing on top. He wrote your name in cursive, and you would hear him say it, asking you to “please” meet him. 

And then the bell rang. People talked amongst themselves and gathered their things as they headed out of the classroom. You sat there and sighed, visibly upset. You weren’t going to cry, but you felt like it. You tried not to show it as you began to gather your books, covering the physics test, preparing to get up. 

“Y/n.”

You freeze and look up. Oppenheimer has been leaning on his desk, looking at you like a dashing Spectre. He puts his hands in his pockets and slowly begins to walk towards you. 

“Is this a good time to talk?”

Hearing the word talk made your stomach turn. You look up at him and clasp your hands together, nodding. You feel your left leg begin to shake. 

“Yes, Dr.Oppenheimer.”

Oppenheimer made his way over and stood beside you, leaning on the side of a desk, looking down at you. He took a quick glance at your shaking leg before looking back at you.

“You’re not in trouble.” 

You didn’t verbally acknowledge him, but you took a contained sigh and stopped shaking your thigh, paying full attention to the attractive older man. 

“I want to preface this conversation that you, Y/n, are one of this class’s most active and enjoyable students. Your participation and observation add onto the lesson, helping others around you, and even myself, learn more about Physics,” Oppenheimer said with high praise. He had a regalness to his soft voice. You felt your cheeks burn, containing your smile as you quietly thanked him. You watched his hands fidget inside of his pants pocket. 

“As talented and educated as you are in Academia, especially Physics, I notice you don’t do well on tests and exams. Everything else is excellent, and your effort is always there. However, with tests,” Oppenheimer moved his hand downwards, “It’s all negative. When I got your first test, I found it hard to believe it was your work. But then it all made sense.” 

“Now understand, Y/n, I am not mad or upset. I am worried. I can see there is an act of force, which is your anxiety. I do believe this is something we can work on–” Oppenheimer clearly explained. He saw your shoulders lower, relieve your tension had disappeared, “--Together, outside of the academic setting.”

“Like one-on-one?” You questioned. 

Oppenheimer nodded, “Yes, just the two of us. It would be an hour and a half to an hour, nothing more and nothing less.”

Hearing “just the two of us” made your mind go to wild places. You bit your tongue and squeezed your clasped hands together. You smiled, “Yes, of course. I think this would help a lot.”

“Now tell me, what is your availability? I understand you are busy.”

You shrugged your shoulders. You were busy but also could make time for a lot of spare time. 

“I can do any time work, preferably if you are okay with Friday afternoons,” You brainstormed, thinking about your schedule, “I know you teach a graduate class in the morning, and I have Greek at the same time.”

Oppenheimer furrowed his eyebrows, intensely studying your appearance.

“Friday afternoons?” He questioned, “Don’t you want to be with your friends and not have to worry about work? I understand your drive, Y/n, but I don’t want it to mix with your limited downtime. I hear you are an excellent student, and this is a very fixable grade. I rather you create a balance than an offset. 

While an average first-year would rather skip meeting with a Professor on Friday Afternoons, it didn’t bother you. Getting your grade up in Physis was very important. Education in your family was everything and meant a lot to you. Seeing a C with A’s and A-’s made you feel incomplete. You needed to feel complete. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer, thank you for your concern. I insist that Fridays work as well. Mondays through Tuesdays, I’m either studying or leading other study groups for my other classes. If you are worried about my social life, I can assure you that I do get out of the dorm and library with my friends,” You reassured the older man, “Besides, the whole party scene is really not my scene. I’ve seen enough parties at Berkeley to be okay with missing them. If Fridays don’t work, I will work with your time.”

“Fridays work well for me as they work well for you,” Dr.Oppenheimer concluded. He looked at the clock above his desk before looking at you, “How do Fridays at 5 pm sound?”

“Perfect timing, Dr.Oppenheimer. Shall we meet here?”

Oppenheimer rubbed his index and middle finger on the temple of his head, “Well if you are comfortable, I’d rather congregate at my house rather than the classroom since we will be out of the Academic Day.”

Taken aback by the bold move, your lips made a subtle “o” shape. You squeezed your hands together, contemplating. His house, where he slept, ate, and did other things that were not fit for the academic setting? This made your imagination run wild—the idea of being in his house, just you and him, fed into your fantasy. 

“My house is on Shasta Road. It’s right off the campus. It’s a short walk. However, if you are not comfortable, especially late at night walking home alone, then I can–” 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You insisted. He stopped speaking and looked at you, waiting for you to speak.

You stuttered, feeling the heat up your throat to your face, “It is okay. Friday at 5 pm at your house is perfect. The walk will help me clear my mind before tackling the equations.”

Oppenheimer studied your features for a second before coughing and putting his hands together, “So, it’s settled. We will meet tomorrow then. Thank you for your time, y/n.”

As Oppenheimer began to head back to his desk, you stood and gathered your books, ready to head to your Greek class. You could feel how hot your face was, but you couldn’t imagine how red and embarrassing you looked. 

“Thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. 

Scurrying to leave the classroom in a flustered state, one of your books falls over. It makes a loud slamming noise into the ground. You’ve got a solid amount of books in your hand, varying in topic and weight. Turning around, you are about to awkwardly bend down to pick up the book, but Oppenheimer has beaten you to it. His presence scared you at first. He’s holding the ivory, aged book, examining the cover and back. You stand two inches away from him as you cradle your books, not wanting to say something to disrupt him. 

“Sentimental Education. Is this for class or pleasure?” Oppenheimer inquired. He looked back at you as he placed it on top of your books. He saw the one below, your Greek textbook, was sticking out and about to fall. He made sure to push it in to balance the books and make sure you didn't fall over. 

Not that you were complaining about falling over since he would have to catch you. You cursed at your wild imagination. 

You let out a long uhm before declaring it was for class. More specifically, your English class of The French Adventure: Word, Sound, and Image taught by Mr.Chevalier. But it was unimportant. It was a good book, albeit obscure. Oppenheimer probably thought you were some idiot for both failing a test and reading some silly book. He probably wondered why you were even in a physics class to begin with. 

“Do you like it?” He questioned. 

“Yes, a lot,” You expressed, “It’s the second book we’ve read, but so far my favorite. It was ahead of its time,” You go red, “And even for this time. I don’t know what I’m saying even, my parents made me read it in high school.”

Oppenheimer made a noise of approval, placing his hands on his hips, “Well, it shows that your parents wanted you to be well-rounded, and here you stand at one of the best public universities in the world. So I would say you do know what you are saying since I fully agree.” 

The compliment made you want to make some happy noise, but you bite your lip. You nodded your head and naked it, knowing it came out as a mumble. Everything you said felt super embarrassing. 

“Y/n, I understand you have class,” Oppenheimer cut to the point, “But if you ever want a book recommendation, come to me. I’ve been looking for someone who understands.”

“Understand?” You asked, dumbfounded. 

“Someone who both understands and enjoys art.”

“Oh,” is all you can manage to say. You smile and hold your books closer, “Well, I should-”

“You should-” Oppenheimer highlighted, hands on his hips, “I shouldn’t keep you.”

You wanted to protest that he should, but you didn’t. As you made your way to the door, you looked back. There he stood in his slender and regal form, hands on his hips. For a cold man who never looked happy, he did. You could have sworn his eyes had a spark to them that made them brighter. You felt brighter too. 

On your way out, he froze and looked at you again, and gave a small smile. 

You smiled back. 

–

It’s 4:50pm.

Your mother always said it was better to be very early than to be very late. Those words guided you through life, following you from home to high school to Berkeley. 

After class, you spent the hour getting ready. Taking a shower, you made sure to look your best with low effort. You didn’t want it to appear that you were trying to look good, even though you wore it. Putting on something very casual, you made sure to wear yourself nicely and even added a sweet touch of Chanel Coco perfume that your father had gotten for you in France for your high school Graduation. 

You walk up the hill and spot the house, recognizing the numbers on the mall box. The house is well sized and has the architecture of a craftsman. It’s hidden by numerous large plants and bushes, which you take a second to admire as you walk to the door. Eventually, you reach the door and hesitate to knock. Check your watch, it’s 5:52pm. If he’s busy, you can wait. 

There’s no point in knocking since you can hear the lock on the door unlock. As you put your hands behind your back, the door opens and it reveals Oppenheimer. He looks weirdly normal and this comforts you. He swaps his flannel suit jacket for a white oxford button up with dark slacks. The top button of the shirt is unbuttoned, and in one hand he has a cigarette, in which he is trying to successfully hide. 

“Dr.Oppenheimer,” You greeted with a small smile, squeezing your hands behind your back. 

You could swear you saw a small quirk at the side of Oppenheimer’s mouth. He stands to the side. 

“Y/n, welcome,” He greets. You quietly thank in as you walk in, standing to the side as you clutch onto your brown leather alligator bag with your textbook and notebook. 

“How was the walk?”

“Not bad. It’s nice outside. I’m sorry if I’m early, it’s a bad habit-”

“No need to apologize. It is a good habit. It will serve you well,” Oppenheimer praised once again as he led you into the kitchen. You hadn't been alone with him, let alone in his own house, but he was different. Around others, he was cold and calculated to a tee. But around you, something felt warm and strangely comforting. 

When walking to the kitchen, you catch a glimpse of his house. It feels rather empty, and in a way, very melancholic. 

The kitchen is simple and small. For a California one story however, the kitchen can fit more than two, maybe three. 

“Sit,” Oppenheimer subtly commands. It’s not an intentional command, but upon hearing this, you immediately sit down on the nearest chair. As you pull out your textbook and notebook with some pens and pencils, you can see Oppenheimer rummaging through the fridge and grabbing two glasses. 

“Do you drink?”

You're in the middle of opening your notebook. You look down and lick your lips. 

“Yes.”

He doesn’t respond and proceeds to make whatever drink he is making. You sit there and swing your legs back and forth, waiting in silence minus the shaking and pouring. 

“Speak to me,” Oppenheimer announces. You look at his back as he makes the drink. Once again, he’s slender, but yet strong and vibrant in his appearance, “Go to the first page of your test. Read the equation.” 

You feel lucky Oppenheimer’s turned since your cheeks, like yesterday, have gone to a light pink. 

Obeying his words that feel like a command that you are more than happy to accept, you grab your test and open to the first page to read the first question. 

“Consider a particle in a one-dimensional potential well of width of L and infinite potential barriers at its edges. The potential inside the well is given by V(x)=0 for 0<x<L0<x<L and V(x)=∞V(x)=∞ for x < 0 x<0 and x>Lx>L,” You read out, “The Hamiltonian operator for this system is H; where x is the mass of the particle. Find the allowed energy eigenvalues and corresponding eigenfunctions for this system.”

“A fundamental. Now, tell me your answer.” 

You get your pen and calculator out, placing it at your side. “I started with the Time-Independent Schrödinger Equation and substituted v(x) for the kinetic energy term. Then I tried to solve and it, uhm-”

Not only were the calculations for your test both difficult to answer and hard to process, but having Oppenheimer stand right behind you further proved to be a brain block. He was only an inch away from you as he had leaned to look at your paper, a hand on the back of your sheet which scraped your warm back. You had been so caught on the equation that you hadn't noticed he was an inch behind you, breathing down your neck. Thank god there had been a table since your legs began to shake; a combination of raw anxiety and pure adrenaline. 

You started to write the equation into your calculator, pressing down on each button. Scribbling away at your notebook, you felt his warm breath down your throat. Just as you wrote the solution, you felt him smell behind your ear and into your hair. You had sprayed some perfume there, which was a habit of yours. He leaned into, gentle and careful not to touch you, taking in the airy and smooth feminine scent. Not protesting, you finished your solution and let him bask, all while basking his cold yet comforting presence.

 “The corresponding eigenfunctions are: ∣ψn⟩= Asin⁡(nπxL)∣ψ n ⟩ =Asin( Lnπx ),” You gulped. You felt his warm presence move back, yet his hand remained on the chair. You pushed a piece of hair back, “I guess it’s not too different from my old answer. It’s right, it’s just-”

“The math piece of it,” Oppie pointed out, “Well, there was no issue here. With your calculator of course.”

“Yes,” You chuckled to yourself and looked at the big device. It really did help.

“Use it more,” Oppenheimer said, “Don’t be scared too. Math is not everyone’s strong suit; including mine.”

You smiled at him as he sat in the chair next to you. 

“I don’t know if you drank from our conversation earlier, but I made you a martini,” Oppenheimer said. You looked at it and picked up the drinking, examining the liquid. 

“Oh, thank you. I do, just the…better stuff,” You thanked with a small confession. You took a sip and let the strong liquid ooze down your throat. It was excellent, in which you proceeded to drink more. 

Oppenheimer leaned back in his chair and smiled to himself. He wanted to make sure you didn’t see that, but you did. 

For the next hour, the two of you talked about your test. Each question you read out, and he helped you with the math, but overall you were able to solve most of it. It wasn’t perfect, but it was progress. He seemed pleased, and you were as well.

Once you had finished going over the test, you sighed and leaned back leisurely from both Oppenheimer's presence Martini. 

“Well, thank you, Dr.Oppenheimer. This has been short, yet helpful.”

He crossed his arms as he also leaned back, “Of course, I’m pleased to hear.”

There was a silence before you looked at your watch and grabbed your books. 

“It’s 6pm. I’m sure you’ve got things to do, I should go-”

“I’ve only got dinner to make. Chicken, peas, and potatoes,” Oppenheimer said. He smoked another cigarette, which made you wonder how many he smoked a day. You focused on his chapped lips and the way they lightly held the cigarette, sucking in and dragging out ashen smoke. 

“Say, would you like to stay for dinner? There's plenty for two.”

The task made you blink a few times to make sure this wasn’t one of your fantastical thoughts late at night as a way to soothe you to bed. You opened your lips in an attempt to create a coherent response. 

“I can make you another Martini, even show you.”

You knew you were red, but it clearly to him did not matter. 

“Yes, I’d love-would be happy to stay for dinner, Dr.Oppenheimer.” You said, very flattered.

A slow exhale released a veil of smoky allure, as if the very air itself surrendered to Oppenheimer’s fiery elegance.

“If you are staying over for dinner from now on, please, call me Robert.” 

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA if I didn’t let my friend bring their partner to social events?

We are all in our 30s and all trans/NB/queer. My friend (B) and I have known each other nearly 20 years, and over those years they’ve had a rough dating history. They’ve had several emotionally and mentally abusive or neglectful partners, further details about that I won’t give here. I’ve met most of them and they’ve always disliked me for various reasons (usually they were just jealous of the place I held in their life).

Recently though, B seems to have found someone who makes them happy (we’ll call them T) and T treats them better than their previous partners. Which is great! I’m happy for B. But I find T insufferable.

Granted, I don’t have to see T very often, but when I do its always uncomfortable.

The first time I met T they trauma dumped immediately. In the first half hour I knew all about their horrible family but couldn’t tell you any hobby or interest they had. We were in a very public place and I didn’t feel it was the most appropriate topic to get to know someone, but I tried to relate with my own stories all the same. However, T always had to “one up” every story I told. it felt like a “whose childhood was worse” competition.

The second time we all hung out T ignored me completely, really only hanging around and talking to B. Since it was B’s birthday I didn’t really mind at all. Plus, we were at a beercade so everyone was kinda off doing their own thing. But even when we all sat down they just kinda threw looks my way but didnt say a word to me.

But most recently I had hosted a halloween party (it was only 8 folks so tiny party) where B and T both showed up. When T asked me how work was going I started with what I felt was a normal “Ah yeah, it sucks but—” and before I could say anything else they spoke over me to say

“Yeah you’ve mentioned you hate your job every time I’ve seen you so thats sort of my only impression of you :/ ”

(a possibly important side note: B and T are both doing things that they enjoy but have to hustle a bit to make ends meet whereas I have a full time retail job through which i have insurance so leaving isnt as easy for me since I have more tied up in my job than just a paycheck)

This really pissed me off, as not only is being interrupted a huge pet peeve, but there are aspects of my job I enjoy. I just never got to talk about them because the conversation would either divert or we would just stop talking altogether. Also the way they came across felt pretty judgmental.

T then proceeded to spend the rest of the evening talking about everything from the movie to the snacks with therapy speak and trauma processing. (ex: I think I’m locked into this movie because it might’ve been a safe haven for me during my childhood and I just dont remember watching it but I can feel its importance to me) And only ever to B, never engaging with anyone else.

(another note: they are not the only one at the party with anxiety. two of my other friends have severe social anxiety and while maybe a little awkward were still able to hold casual conversations. no one was a stranger to anyone at the party)

This also meant that I didn’t get to spend any time with B during the party either, which was a shame cause I see them so rarely.

I understand that trauma processing is important and its great if you have someone in your life that can help you. It does not need to happen every where all the time. And I’m worried that B might be getting taken advantage of like they have in the past (in the sense that they have to do all the emotional legwork in the relationship and get very little of that effort back).

I’m tired of catering to this attitude and I don’t enjoy being around them, so I no longer want to involve them in group events I host.

would that make me an asshole?

What are these acronyms?

[geddy-leesbian]

a while back @highball66 made a post about Leon being a nerd that would probably play MTG, and apparently the concept got lodged in my brain so here's a drabble of Leon and Luis meeting at an MTG prerelease because those two are def nerds like that

I had their twink era RE2 era in mind when writing this, but not sure how much it actually matters

Leon had been apprehensive about coming here, expecting the crowd to be the stereotypical basement dwellers with noticeably bad hygiene. But he still came, because he's brand new to this city and didn't know anyone, or have any other ideas for how to meet people. Well, that's not entirely true. He knows some people, his coworkers. The problem is just that his naive belief that cops are morally upstanding folks that help people has been shattered beyond repair, and he has zero desire to spend any time with them outside of work. (He doesn't want to go to work with them either, but he has to, until he gets another job lined up.)

So it wasn't like Leon had anything to lose coming here, just a faint possibility to gain something.

There were a few of the basement dwellers Leon expected, but there was also something he absolutely did not expect: A very gorgeous man with tan skin, soft gray eyes, and a smile that's just about blinding. He's sitting across the room, and Leon keeps stealing glances at him. He’s clearly very experienced, with how fast he sorts his cards into his piles. Leon looks down at his own cards to sort and when he looks back up the man is already done with his own deck, counting to make sure he had the right amount, quickly sleeving it, and then scooping up the cards he wasn't playing to put them away.

He stands up and starts striding across the room, and Leon has to make a conscious effort to not stare and drool at the man. He's taller than Leon thought. He's got long, lean legs and the most perfect hips Leon has ever seen. And then somehow he's talking to Leon.

“Mind if I sit here?” He has an accent. It's hot. Leon had set his bag on the chair next to him, but moves it so the ridiculously hot stranger can take a seat. “This is your first time coming here? First time playing..?”

“Do I stick out that bad?”

“Not really. It's just that I know I would have recognized you if you'd been here before. I could never forget such a pretty face,” Did this guy seriously just call Leon pretty? In a warm, genuine tone, like it's actually a compliment? Leon is quite used to comments like that, but in a derogatory manner. "Compliments" hurled at him in mocking tones. “But I will admit, you do look a little lost. Do you want help building your deck?”

“Yeah, sure. I've played before, back in high school, but never made any decks. Just played with decks my friends would let me borrow. I wanted to have my own, but my foster parents thought the game was basically devil worship and would've been dragging my ass to the pastor if they ever found cards under their roof.”

Leon worries that might have been a little too personal too fast, but he's not sure Tall Hot Guy was even listening. He doesn't say anything, and seems laser focused on Leon's cards.

“Off to a good start, with your sorting,” In the time Tall Hot Guy made a deck, all Leon managed to do was open all his packs and sort them by color. Tall Hot Guy starts going through the piles, picking out some cards to set aside. “Prereleases are good for beginners. New cards, new mechanics, so even people with experience won't know everything. Besides, you're not even the only new player here. Now, I think you have enough for mono red, so we keep it simple and do that, if there isn't anything else you'd rather do?”

“That's fine, whatever you think is good. You're the expert.”

The “help” is less help and more just him doing everything. But he does talk as he goes through cards and starts laying them out. Leon is fine with the situation.

“Mana curve, it's important. This is your deck laid out from lowest to highest mana cost,” So there is a method to the madness. He figured there was a reason they were laid out the way they were, but hadn't figured it out. “You want variety, because you want to be doing things every turn. You need big win condition cards, but you don't want to just be sitting by idly waiting several turns to get enough mana for them, you need small things too. Of course you can get unlucky enough to not draw your lower cards early, but at least the odds are better if you have a good mix of low and high cards.”

Tall Hot Guy finishes the spells in Leon's deck and gets up to fetch the basic lands it will need from the shop's communal land station, and grabs something out of his bag too. He needs to stop standing up, because every time Leon really struggles to not ogle him. Curse those stupid skintight jeans.

Leon puts away the unused cards, except for one stack Tall Hot Guy made for reasons Leon really can't figure out. It seems so random, cards from every color.

“Hey, what's this stack of cards next to the deck?”

“Oh, those are just cards that I think will maybe be worth something,” After putting the lands on top of Leon’s deck, Tall Hot Guy starts putting the other stack in card sleeves. “These are extra sleeves you can have, to keep these in good shape in case you do want to sell them at some point.”

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

“I've already told you that you have a pretty face, right? I'm a sucker for a pretty face. I want you to have fun playing here, so you come back. Now, let me give you some pointers on what your deck wants to do!”

Leon hadn't expected this guy to actually stay and keep talking. He said Leon wasn't the only new player, so he figured once he got Leon's deck together he'd go over and help out the other newbies. But no. The only thing that Tall Hot Guy seems interested in is just talking Leon's ear off. This isn't a general newbie thing, there's something about Leon specifically. He barely absorbs a word he's saying, he's too busy staring at his stupid perfect face and messy curly hair he wants to touch.

Leon jumps up the second a game store employee calls out that deck building time is up and pairings are ready, because he really needs to get the hell away from this guy that's making him feel things his recent ex-girlfriend never could. He gets a slip of paper with his name and the name of his opponent: Dr. Lewis Serra. He looks around, totally lost, because he doesn't know anyone. Of course, Tall Hot Guy approaches him again.

“Do you need help finding your opponent?”

“First my deck, now helping me find someone, you're a real knight in shining armor, aren't you?” Was that flirty? Doesn't knight in shining armor usually have some romantic connotations? Did Leon actually just flirt with this guy? He's pretty sure he did. Christ. “You know who, uh, Dr. Lewis Serra is?”

“You're looking at him. Your knight just so happens to be your first opponent too. Guess it's just you and me, pretty boy,” The words make Leon's face heat up, but thankfully Lewis turns his back to Leon quickly, to lead him to a table. He just hopes and prays the blushing will have subsided before he sits down and faces Lewis. “By the way, the name is actually Luis Serra. The name on the slip is a stupid nickname that just won't die.”

“There a story behind it?”

“I suppose, depending on how you want to define story. Some idiot I played once thought that my name was pronounced like Lewis, and everyone else thought it was really funny. That's it. Like I said, stupid.”

“What about the Dr. part?”

“Oh, that, ah, that actually isn't a nickname. To toot my own horn, I was a real child prodigy. I got my PhD in biology when I was 16,” Oh great. This guy is tall, hot, and insanely smart. Be still Leon's beating heart. “Normally I'm humble and never introduce myself with the title, I don't want to seem pretentious. And I like to keep my work and personal life separate. It being on the slip is not my choice. I've asked them to stop putting it here, but of course they just think it's funny that it annoys me!”

“Well, there are worse nicknames. My coworkers call me Leon Stupid Kennedy.”

“Wow. Okay. You win, yanqui, I have no right to complain about being Dr. Lewis,” Luis lifts his life die up. “High roll? Or I can just let you go first, since you're a beginner?”

“Such a gentleman, guess I'll just go first.”

Leon's deck is as straightforward as Luis promised. He plays mountains. He taps mountains and casts creature spells that he attacks with. There are some instant and sorcery spells in there too, but not a lot and they're pretty simple, mostly just kill spells.

Luis's deck is complicated, which is no surprise. Just about every single card he plays triggers some combo on cards he already has out, and he's constantly drawing cards, scrying, tapping and untapping things, putting counters on shit… It's impossible for Leon to keep up with. But he doesn't really need to. It doesn't matter what Luis is up to, his deck is meant to just keep attacking regardless of what his opponent is doing. And it… Actually works? He thought he was going to get his ass handed to him, but then he gets Luis down to 5 life…

“You got me. There's no way I can win now,” Luis says, scooping his board up and starting to shuffle his deck. “Game two!”

-

“Oye, earth to Leon, you in there?” Jesus Christ. Luis played a card that required him to shuffle his library and Leon completely zoned out staring at Luis's hands. At first he was just looking at his rings, but then he was just watching his hands shuffling his deck, thinking about what else those fingers could do… What the hell is wrong with Leon? “It's your turn!”

“Right. Sorry. Just zoned out.”

Game two does go to Luis. Quite possibly because Leon kept swooning over him and getting distracted.

But somehow Leon gets his shit together enough to win game three. Luis goes up to report the result of their match, and then the other players that are done gather around and give Luis some shit for losing to a beginner. Leon's anxiety suddenly kicks into overdrive and he gets hit with a vision of Luis throwing him under the bus to protect his own reputation, saying something about how Leon sucks and Luis could have crushed him if he tried, but he went easy on him, and Leon would spend the rest of the night questioning if he actually knows how to play. Being an outcast among other outcasts would be a new low for him.

It doesn't happen. Luis doesn't even dignify the comments with a response, just wanders away from them to glance at the ongoing matches. Leon is both relieved and disappointed that Luis doesn't try to talk to him again. Not until the end of the night, after prize packs are being handed out.

“So… Will I be seeing your pretty face around here again? You won three packs, you could save them for a Friday Night Magic draft for free?”

“Yeah. Think I will.”

Leon isn't sure what exactly a Friday Night Magic draft is, but he'll figure it out.

[anonymousboxcar]

Moving Forward AU: Romance?

(This was something I meant to have out by Valentine’s Day, but… yeah. No spoons. The silverware drawer was empty. Apologies for the lateness, folks!)

I’m pondering what romantic shenanigans Stanley might get up to in my AU. I imagine it would be years before he felt up to pursuing that kind of relationship. But once he’s had time to settle into his new normal, process his trauma, and make new friends, he might feel more comfortable with it.

One possibility I see is that he and Duncan decide to give it a try!

I like the idea of Duncan falling for this rough n’ ready, plainspoken engine who helps him not blow up over the little things in life. And for awhile, Stanley is too busy adjusting to his new life to see it. But he feels ever fonder of his grumpy friend who makes him laugh and doesn’t ask him to be patient all the time.

Once they sort themselves out, they’re not ones for extravagant gestures. They do what they did before, watching tapes of George Carlin and cracking jokes, with the new understanding between them. It’s very easygoing and comfortable for them both.

(There’s also an ongoing competition between them to call each other the most ridiculous, nauseating pet names possible.)

Another possibility: you know how there’s a notion in the RWS of engines being paired up with coaches, almost “courting” them? I like to think Stanley scoffs at this. It seems silly and quaint to him. But he’s also rejecting any closeness due to his old, ingrained fears surrounding derailments and getting somebody hurt.

And then, at the rail museum, he meets a truck.

The truck works with Stanley in his capacity as an exhibit on trench railways. They used to carry troops and supplies during WWI, though not on the same railway as Stanley’s old wartime circuit. At the museum, they haul passengers around the grounds.

They notice Stanley’s uneasiness over this business and try to reassure him: “So what if you slide off the track? I blew up once!”

“…what?”

“Well, it was a ways ahead of me in the train. Got a face full of shrapnel and a bent axle. But! Point is, I’ve had worse. I can take a bump or two.”

Full of irrepressible cheer and optimism, the truck helps assuage the worst of Stanley’s anxieties. In return, Stanley — grateful and a touch bemused — does his best to give smooth rides. This wins him the trust of the truck, who never experienced such gentleness in an unpatronizing package.

They start chatting on their runs and at the end of the day about museum gossip, guests, and their old lives. The truck shares their adventures with other trucks after the war. Stanley tells the truck about operation on a more typical railway like the SKR.

Hearing about Skarloey and Rheneas’ treatment of their coaches, the truck wonders what it’s like to be treated the way a civilian engine treats their coach. Stanley, thinking of his own struggles to fit into a “normal” railway on the MSR, offers to help. The truck accepts.

Stanley stumbles over calling the truck “dear,” as well as the other typical flowery compliments and language. He’s self-conscious and a little embarrassed by the time the day’s over.

But he’s also flustered by the warmth in the truck’s responses, their own compliments towards him. They’re not flowery, demure, nor outrageous, but honest and open.

The truck, seeing how red in the face he is, apologizes for making him uncomfortable. “You already made me feel respectable, proper-like, before I asked you to do this.”

Stanley admits he liked their compliments. “Just didn’t know what to with ‘em, I guess,” he says. “But… I really did like ‘em. Made me feel good.”

“Oh. Well, you can tell me that, if you like.” The truck looks Stanley in the eye. “You can tell me anything. I won’t laugh.”

“Not even if I ask you to keep doin’ what you did today?”

“Not even that. Though — if I’m honest? I’d like it if you kept up your end of things, too.”

So they keep at it. Their exchanges become more natural, more like second nature over time. They become mixed into casual conversation, become less about meeting expectations of engine-rolling stock relations and more about what they like in each other.

After a certain point, one curious child visitor asks for how long they’ve been married.

A pause follows. It’s long enough for Stanley to realize he isn’t surprised or confused by the child’s assumption. It’s long enough for him and the truck to make significant eye contact, to see his happiness and hope reflected back at him.

“A year,” they both say at the same time, smiling.

[newtonsheffield]

how do the rest of the bridgertons react to journo x actor kathony?

I think at first... they're genuinely a little stunned.

Anthony is a bit of a flirt, it's true but not usually with journalists who are just trying to do their job but he is... going for it with Kate Sharma for some reason. Like absolutely no fucking room to breathe, suggesting they play twister on the red carpet, sending shout-outs to her parents, leaning right in, running up behind her when she's doing other interviews and politely waiting for his turn while other networks attempt to drag him over.

And the wildest part about it is the fact that Kate Sharma is definitely reciprocating. She's flirting with him just as much as she's being flirted with. The interviews with Anthony are different from any of her others which are all kind and thoughtful but there's something about the two of them together that you literally cannot look away from.

Not when Kate clicks her tongue at the BAFTAs

"Nervous tonight, Anthony?"

"I'm very nervous." And he unbuttoned his brocade jacket, exposing his shirt and suspenders, "Have a feel."

Kate didn't hesitate though, reaching forward and laying her hand against the firm wall of his chest, feeling his heart pounding under her hand. "It's true, his heart's beating very fast."

But she doesn't remove her hand, not when Anthony's smiling at her like that, "That might just be what happens when I talk to pretty girls though."

"Is that your only reaction when you talk to me?"

Anthony's laugh boomed for a long moment, "Oh definitely not." His chest flexed under the palm of her hand and she suddenly realised it was still pressed against him, his skin burning hers through the thin fabric of his shirt. "She got a pretty hefty grope in there, friends."

"Sorry." She moved to snatch her hand back but He intertwined his fingers with hers and kept it pressed there.

"No, please, be my guest." He grinned at her "But I probably won't let Channel 4 do the same."

"You heard it here first, girls, gals, non-binary folks sexually attracted to men: Anthony's pecs are just as firm as you think they are."

"I can make them dance if you like."

"Oh we'd love to see that." Kate nudged him, "But I'm going to need you to tell me about your favourite Spice Girls song while you do it, Thank you."

The Bridgertons are baffled Daphne thought for sure, This Morning was going to send them a cease and desist complaint after their second meeting on the red carpet, but they didn't. They haven't. And she has to admit, the chemistry's incredible. Even if she has to put up with Ben calling her very fifteen seconds,

"What, are you letting our brother do?"

Daphne sighed, looking at Anthony playing My heart will go on on the Kazoo 6ft away from her as though he's serenading Kate Sharma, both of them reenacting the scene from the front of the boat.

"You know, usually, I would save her from this sexual harassment because he thinks he's wooing her. But god help me: She's into it."

"It actually looks like she is." Ben agreed a little bemusedly. "Is it possible there are two of them."

"I never would have thought it possible," Daphne murmured, stepping forward as Kate appeared to wrap up their interview, already having spent three times as long with him as she was allowed. "But I think there is."

Anthony was bright-eyed as they walked further down the red carpet looking back over his shoulder at Kate in a way that made Daphne's heart clench oddly.

"She um- she's really great," Anthony said quietly, fiddling with his tie. "I think I might... try and ask her out. Her sister told me there isn't anyone in her life so... thought I might... bat my eyelashes and see what happens."

Daphne sighed, "I don't think you'll have to bat them very hard."

"You think?"

"You're actually being... very sweet with her and I think you deserve to let yourself be happy."

Anthony took a shuddering breath, "Yeah, thanks Daph. I'll try."

And of course, Daphne's hardly surprised when she goes to Anthony's hotel room the morning after the Oscars and a wide-eyed Kate Sharma answered the door instead, her body covered in Anthony's shirt from last night.

"Sorry, I thought you were my breakfast muffin."

"Nope." Daphne clicked her tongue, "But if he's not naked in there, ready to scar me: I'll go get you one."

Kate smiled sheepishly, "Shit out of luck, then." and she cleared her throat casting back over her shoulder into the room, "Anthony, put your pants on, I want a breakfast muffin."

[ma1dita]

solipsism timeline/lore expansion

link to fic -> solipsism - an extreme form of idealism that denies that the human mind has any valid ground for believing in the existence of anything but itself. At the beginning of the first scene, trouble thinks she’s making Luke up in her mind, like a lot of things after she leaves, but concurs that maybe it’s the best thing she’s done.

This fic is heavily inspired by Doctor Who, specifically the Doctor & River Song’s diverging(?) timelines. If you haven’t watched the show, here are the things you need to know for this fic:

The more Luke sees trouble, the more she knows about what he’s done to fulfill the prophecy. The more trouble sees Luke, he’s increasingly unaware of what is ahead and the things he will do.

Trouble first meets him at his oldest before errrr…. TLO. The last time she sees him after her graduation, she’s visited by a version of him that had just signed his soul away to Kronos. Their timelines are going in opposite directions.

This is all made possible by Backbiter, Luke’s sword that is established in the show/novel to be able to create time portals. Luke can literally chill in limbo for as long as he wants.

That makes this fic special, because it exists in timeline established on the masterpost, but also in snippets between fics, in which some are not even published yet.

He does not visit her when they’re 22. Honestly because it was a terrible fucking year, lots of people die, and he can’t face her.

Now hang on to your seats and bear with me as I explain ‘where’ they are in each scene.

Introduction takes place right before the second scene, but I use it as a placeholder since its outside of the ‘timeline’. Luke prayed to Hestia to protect trouble as seen in trouble’s coming for you and it’s assumed he continues to do so even after his betrayal. She has always been his home.

first scene: Takes place close to a year after Luke’s defection from camp, a few weeks after trouble (20 y/o) visits Annabeth in Virginia. Healing has been difficult for her and in no way is it linear—so she thinks she’s wasted when she sees a 23 year old Luke taking her home from the bar. In his timeline, he has given his body post Battle of the Labyrinth to be a host and is barely there. The tiny sliver of humanity left in him wants to see her, even if it hurts so he takes over for a bit. This is his last chance of seeing her through his own eyes.

second scene: Takes place right after Hestia visits trouble, later in the day. This is the only instance in this fic where they are the same age and relatively in the same timeline. For trouble, it is fall, after The Sea of Monsters, in which that was the last time she saw him (and the first time she saw ‘her’ Luke after the betrayal. Luke is 21 here, but he’s experienced the events from The Titan’s Curse in which Thalia kicks his ass off a cliff. After being saved by Kronos, he goes to see trouble (and gets rightfully socked in the face).

third scene: Takes place after The Titan’s Curse, and trouble (21 y/o) is ringing in the new year after Luke disappears from the cliff and is found to be somewhere, but alive. Luke is (hc almost 20) freshly running from having slashed Percy and betraying his friends. The portal you saw him open in the show? Yeah he ran straight to her. I have no more words.

fourth scene: Takes place the morning of trouble’s graduation in the spring, four years later right before The Last Olympian. She’s lost her little brother, lost faith in Luke (we’ll hash this out when we get there folks), and then Luke (19 y/o) visits her from a few days after he complies to working with Kronos. There is nothing she can do to change his mind—its a prophecy after all. But despite everything, trouble (22 y/o) wants to protect him, so she encourages the boy she loves despite everything she knows he has done to hurt her and their friends. In the end, that love never goes away for both of them, on opposite sides of it all.

[desertfangs]

Picturing Armand coming up with all sorts of creative aka absolutely batshit ways to prevent Daniel from being intercepted by the Talamasca while Daniel remains completely oblivious. “Lover LOOK it’s Lestat right behind you, he’s only wearing a g-string 🫢😜” and then he’s setting all of Daniel’s mail on fire and scattering the ashes in one of his clandestine e boat rides. Or trying to pass Talamasca correspondence as high school reunion invites (“you couldn’t possibly be interested in that my love? Such silly nonsense”) before tearing them off and throwing them out and changing the topic altogether. It all pays off years later at Lestat’s concert when they bump into Jesse and Daniel is like “Tala-what? lmaoo what a funny little name”. Armand has never been more proud of himself xoxo DA 🥹

Right? Dying at the idea of Armand going "Look! Lestat in a g-string!" to distract Daniel because wow, that would work! Armand would have already gotten rid of whatever it was and Daniel would still be searching behind him, going "Where? I don't see him??"

This could be a whole sitcom, tbh. A whole montage of Armand pulling Daniel in the other direction all of a sudden when he spots a Talamasca agent or changing their plans out of the blue. "I thought you had to see this band tonight!" "I realized their brand of folk music is quite droll. Let's go to Prague." Stealing his mail every evening before he wakes up him to sift through it. I imagine even in the chase years, he might get Daniel's mail at the hotel desk and bring him the royalty check while holding back the Talamasca's letters.

Maybe Daniel finally gets one of the letters in New York, and of course because it's the Talamasca, it's impossibly vague, imploring him to come meet someone at some hotel in a week's time and only vaguely mentions their interest in his novel. So Daniel asks Armand what he thinks it is? Do they want to discuss a sequel? It's not his publisher's letterhead. Is it an agent? Someone who hopes to represent him?

Armand reads it several times, expression impassive, even though he immediately knows what it is. "It's a scam," he finally says. "These vultures target young writers. They just want a share of your royalties and they'll do nothing for you." He tosses the letter aside. Maybe Daniel wonders if he should go the the meeting anyhow, just to see, but Armand will coincidentally need them to fly somewhere very far away the night before so he can't make it. Such a shame. Oh, well, Armand was probably right.

And when they try to approach him in person, ooh boy. I know Armand has some pretty clever mental tricks and could probably scare them out of the city for reasons even they don't entirely understand. Like they're on Daniel's trail and then all of a sudden, they feel uneasy about going into the city or into a certain neighborhood. They may mention that feeling or just that they're not able to establish contact, but no one can seem to get near him and he never replies to their letters or shows up for the pre-arranged meetings, so they just assume he's not interested.

Ironically, I think Daniel would want to know all about them. I don't think he'd join them--I don't think he'd give up being with Armand for anything, and certainly not that--but I think he'd find their mission fascinating, and if he hadn't run into Armand, he would have loved working with them to investigate the paranormal. Sadly, he's also one of those people predisposed to get too close and get himself in trouble, because nothing would keep him from approaching a vampire if he knew where to find them. So he wouldn't have lasted long in the job. Although, Daniel would kill for an hour or two in their archives, even now as a vampire.

I wonder if he ever asked Lestat if his friend David could get him in there for a night to sift through what they had. No doubt Lestat was like "Sure, yeah, I'll ask" and immediately forgot and it never came up again. Ironically, I think the Talamasca would salivate over the stuff in the Night Island cellar and whatever Armand has in the depths of Trinity Gate. I'm curious if, after QotD, when they realized where Daniel had been and with whom, they tried to excavate some of their old abandoned apartments and now, somewhere in the cellar of a Talasmaca motherhouse, sits a blender stained with beet juice and quick-dry cement, a Chia pet with dead seedlings sticking out of it, and an electric toothbrush with blood all over its bristles, all in some box labeled "Armand, New York, 1980s."

Thank you for the ask, DA!!! Always happy to hear from you! I will be thinking about this all day.

[whimsical-westbrook]

Okay yep yeah mhm okay I have woken up twice now to this being real. I'm going to make an intro post to get used to writing with a stylus and without thumbs.

Hello, my name is Lily Westbrook. Hopefully. I don't know how this works. I definitely still go by she/her.

I used to live in Eterna City. I wanted to meet my first ever pokemon buddy, so I went into Eterna Forest last night. Something happened, and I think someone had my phone while I was out?

If I take a photo maybe y'all will believe me, but I'm a Buizel now. Hold on, maybe I ca

[An image is attached.]

[Image ID: A poorly angled selfie of a Buizel, wearing a flower accessory. The Eterna Forest's Old Chateau can be seen in the background.]

n add a photo oh gods why did it put it in the middle like that I'm not fixing that

I still don't know why all my writing is orange. Is it because I'm a pokemon now? Is my phone playing pranks on me is that a thing that can happen

UPDATE: Turns out I'm a girl buizel and this was the best worst thing to ever happen to me. I still don't know if anyone in Eterna City will be able to figure out what happened to me, or if they'll even believe me, but I just. I'm so happy, guys.

Double UPDATE: I kinda feel like how I feel about life is going to keep drifting away from the tone of my original intro post but like. It feels weird to make a new one so I'mma just... leave it like that I think. For now. Important note: I'm no longer in Eterna, but headed to live in Goldenrod.

Triple UPDATE: I was able to figure out why my text was getting orange'd, and also was told that it was messing with some people's ability to read things I wrote, so I was able to apply that fix to the text. Though uhhh. I'm still leaving that mess in there. It's funny to me.

//OOC under the cut

//Hello! This is Astra (she/they) from my main (NSFW) @astralikacastle. This is a character I've had in my head for a long time, though my kinda fucked up brain doesn't quite know where to take it after the prologue.

//But basically, forever in my head I've had 'what if someone got turned into a pokemon and they had to deal with that and how it made them feel about gender' and now it's here. =3

//I do prommy to try to keep this blog as SFW as possible, though where the line between Mildly Suggestive and NSFW lies isn't always the same for everyone (especially with how Tumblr's been treatin' trans folk lately) so I'm not making guarantees, just promises to try.

//I should like. Keep track of Lily's 'inventory' huh

Lily's old human clothes

Buizel-sized Ballgown

Comm-Everstone Choker (See Below) (Worn)

Phone (obviously)

Book about Legendaries for Studying

Flexi-grip phone tripod

Poffins and berries

Trans flag bandana (Worn)

Hoopa-Ring-Alike Bracelets (Worn)

Thigh-highs (didn't decide on a pattern for these oops) (Worn)

Lily-flower pin (Worn)

Pink Ribbon (Worn under above pin)

Sunglasses! B3

Sylvie (Sylveon Plush)

Toki (Togekiss Plush)

Blahåj (Blahåj)

6" Buizel Plush!

JigglypuffPikachu Hybrid Plush!?

Large pink bag (where plush friends live) w/ Waterproofing

Waterproof Backpack (Where non-plush non-worn items live)

Wheely-Cart (Where everything rides on) w/ Floaty

Weighted Blanket

Keychains (Mew, Meloetta, Hoopa, Victini, Celebi, Darkrai, lotus)

Box o' Buizelnip (Lovingly referred to as Bui-Weed)

Always kept in Lily's room at Gen's home:

Figurine of Lily and Gen

Buizel-sized Piano

//And her moveset!

Protect

Agility

Water Gun

Surf

Baton Pass

Rain Dance

Aqua Jet

Aqua Ring [Glitch?]

Thief

Minimize [Glitch!]

ABILITY: Rattled

//What is the Comm-Everstone?

The Comm-Everstone is an Everstone, small enough to act as the 'gem' of a choker, and enchanted by Laplace to duplicate the effects of a sci-fi Translator. The stone translates Lily's buizel-chitter Poke-Speech and emits an ethereal voice that repeats her words in Human Speech. Whichever voice the listener best understands is brought to the forefront of their perception, preventing any 'cross-talk' from obscuring her words. Notably, it is still quite obvious to the listener that these words are being translated, and not simply Imparting Understanding. (Though, it being magic may be a little unsettling, still.)

[raichana-artblog]

OC Questions tag

First, Yes i'm counting this for OCtober, My stamina isn't the best with the weather getting colder and I'de rather not hurt myself in the middle of a commission.

Second thank you @card-queen for the tag!

I don't think i've done this before but I'm going to do Ciella for now

5 words to physically describe your OC

Tall, flowery, blond, ears, scars

Who inspired your OC?

This question can be answered two ways....

Ciella finds inspiration in her adoptive dad Aloe, he helps her learn her limits with her new situation as well as teaches her about anything her curious little brain can think of. She is also inspired by one of the first people she meets after Aloe. Cece may be nearing the end but she never gives up the fight and that determination helps push her forward. Finally Adelle who is brought in to help her change her appearance and mannerism to hide from her Father inspires her more creative and rebellious side.

but like i said.. .two ways... so if the question is what inpired the creation of my OC... it's essentially taking my edgelord baby Arianna and being like... Ok what if after getting away from her father instead of being found by her assassin uncle who gives her the life skills the only way he knows how... focusing on her ability to travel through shadows.... what if a kinder man, in this case a travelling healer, found her and helped give her life skills the only way he knows how focusing on her plant magic. I also like the idea that while Arianna can use plant magic and Ciella can travel through shadows if either were to try that it would probably go VERY badly.

Give me a song to define your OC

I honestly had never thought of it but when i saw the question the first song that popped into mind was Naraku no hana, It's from the (second?) season of Higurashi and I remmeber the chorus-y bit translates to Escape, escape, from this sorrowful fate. You are not a flower of Hell. In that kind of place Don't bloom there, don't bloom there Don't let them ensnare you.

And yeah that fits her origin really well

plus the song is like... really good (imo) but I've already given myself away to be a not so secret edge lord. also the vid some fun things to make the intro fit the whole song so that's fun

If I met your OC on the street how would they greet me?

She would probably be very kind, maybe a little worried if they noticed to seem to have any discomfort. She would also do her best to keep up a wall until she got to know you and even then she would be cautious.

Can your OC be your best friend? Why?

It takes a lot time for her to trust someone enough to be friends but she would always be kind to those around her if possible....

plus i've given her a better fate (in the AU....) so like she wouldn't hate me.... entierly we just... don't talk about how i plan to fir Ciella into my canon cause yeah... she would HATE me. Hell i'm a little shocked at how cruel i've made her story... like nothing too bad but being immortal does have some pretty massive drawbacks.

1 adjective and 1 noun to describe your OC

Helpful Kindness

at least thast what she hopes... it doesn't always work out.

OK tagging!!

uh...... I always end up taggign the same folks! sorry! anyone who wants to of course and @greywaysart and @prilaja-artblog

[missmaybe-not]

Dating Apps: Swiping Insanity Before the Fun

Hey Maybe Nots and Maybe Yeses! Welcome back to the wild world of online dating, where the journey to finding "the one" is often a hilarious, frustrating, and sometimes disconcerting adventure. 

Today, we're taking a break from date mishaps and diving headfirst into the messy jungle of online profiles before the actual dates even happen.

Let's be honest, dating apps are like catalogues – a never-ending parade of faces and bios with a healthy dose of "buyer beware." 

You craft your profile – a carefully curated selection of your best angles (the ones with your best features and that make you look flawless even though we all know that we're hiding that wrinkle or piece of fat that insists on popping up on our clothes no matter what) and hobbies. Some apps will also have fancy personality tests (a definite plus in my book!), and bam! You're ready to unleash yourself on the dating pool... or should I say, the dating swamp?

Because let me tell you, you'll find everything and anything in this virtual melange. Exes from your high school days resurfacing with questionable selfies? Check. Married people testing the waters? Definitely check. Then there are the profile ghosts – those elusive beings with zero photos or bios relying solely on the power of… faith? Look, I get it. Married folks might not want their significant others to stumble upon their profiles (maybe avoid being there all together and set things straight at home). But seriously, how do all the others expect to attract matches based solely on blind trust in the online dating gods?

Alright, let's move on to the profile pic enthusiasts (the ones who actually include pictures of themselves, bless their hearts!). Girls, we're notorious for mastering the art of the flattering filters (not that I used them, because I actually avoid filters!). But guys? It's a different story. Sometimes, it feels like they take selfies with a potato in dim lighting. Pro tip, fellas: take some time, experiment with angles, and trust me, the natural look is always a win. Nobody's perfect, but let's aim for "approachable" rather than "make-me-run-screaming."

So, you've swiped right (or left, depending on your fancy), and the magical match appears. Now comes the real gamble: who breaks the ice first? More often than not, the pressure lands on you, lovely ladies. And guess what? If you don't take the initiative, Mr. Match might ghost you faster than a free donut at a police station. Some other times the conversations fizzle out faster than a damp firework, leaving you wondering if you even sparked anything at all. But fear not, love warriors! Every now and then, a diamond in the rough emerges. Someone who can banter, hold a conversation that goes beyond basic small talk, and actually makes you laugh. Then comes the date-planning hurdle – aligning schedules, finding the perfect spot… it's like trying to herd a bunch of cats (have you tried doing that? Yeah.). When the stars finally align and you get to meet, a lot can happen (I mean, have you read my past blog entries?). 

Speaking of possibilities and complications, a potential new connection is simmering on the back burner, with an added twist – a different country is involved! Will this lead to a hilarious first date mishap or a blossoming romance across borders? Stay tuned in a week or two to find out!

So, onto those burning questions: would you swipe right for a profile with no picture or generic scenery shots? And if your date doesn't quite live up to their profile's expectations (photos or personality), would you give them a chance or call it quits on the spot? 

Let's hear it in the comments, friends! Spill the tea on your dating app adventures, mishaps, and maybe-nots-turned-maybe-yeses! Until next time, keep swiping, keep hoping, and may the odds be ever in your favour!

Photo by Nik on Unsplash