#bernie and the invisibles

[tezzbot]

Okay.. so... fairly long post under the cut with the sort of background to my Sonic Underground AU!! If anyone's interested fjdgv I have thought about it a Lot lol

So basically, The background is that Eggman has definitely been up to shit since before Sonic was born lol and one of his sort of things when he I guess started out in villainy ? was he started trying to claim land and take over so that he could build his cities and theme parks and factories and what have you and rule over everything. So, after claiming some untouched land he started attacking “Mobian'' settlements, (not sure whether to stick with Mobian or what but the word gets my point across so I’m using it now sfgdh) and I guess started working his way up until he found Christmas Island, which is the small Kingdom Aleena ruled over at the time. This caused the Kingdom to fight back and started a war with Robotnik. However. Obviously the warzone was no place to be raising the Very recently born heirs to the throne (the three who would grow up to be Sonia Sonic and Manic, they might’ve had different names back then lol) and so Aleena with a Very heavy heart sent the three Far away, they had them sent to a dinky little orphanage in a fairly distant zone, intending to pick them back up when the war was over.

Unfortunately, Very early on in the triplet’s stay at the orphanage, when they were still practically babies, an unfortunate cot placement led to Manic being kidnapped sometime in the dead of night (don’t ask why they did it I just think it’s funny love and light). He was taken to a nearby city, and somehow managed to endear himself to Ferral, the leader of one of the larger sort of crime rings active there. This is where he learned to get by and live and thrive, little crime family they love each other and rag on each other so much smile smile smile.

Sonic stayed in the orphanage a lot longer than Manic, but doesn’t really remember his time there all that much. As soon as Sonic figured out how to, he ran. Ran as fast and as far as he was able. Ran until he had no idea how to get back. But he'd not a guilt on his conscience. He was free, for the first time felt truly free. He learned how to survive on his own and met a little two tailed fox cub and his life played out pretty much exactly the same as it does in the main line continuity :)

Sonia is the only one of the three who has any memory of staying in the orphanage and was the only one to leave there by regular means dgfhfg. At about five years old, she was one of a few girls from across the continent to be chosen to attend and live at an all girls school where they would grow into proper ladies™, being taught etiquette and manners and so on. She managed a fairly cushy lifestyle here but was never truly happy there. She obviously has her besties like Mindy, but it always felt far too restrictive and (figuratively) cold. So while she does do well there, she is slightly prone to getting in trouble and feels kind of belittled and invisible among her peers at times

So in the triplet’s maybe 3rd year? The war on Christmas Island ended and the Mobians were unfortunately forced to go into hiding. Aleena made it out and went into her own hiding in the form of laying low in a residential area in a nearby city, and attempted to blend in there for a few years before making the trip to finally reunite with her children. Unfortunately by the time she gets there, all three are gone :( Even though the orphanage may know where Sonia is, she feels as though she has failed all three as their mother and wouldn't be able to face any of them (despite the fact they're like. 6 year olds lol), and so retreats back to her city home.

Until, over a decade later, Aleena sees the world renowned hero Sonic the Hedgehog that she hears so much about, (maybe he’s just saved that part of the city from a badnik attack or something like that) and there is just… something about him that is so uncannily like her Bernie… His heroism and humility right down to his mannerisms, the being blue also adds to the effect. And… Aleena is not one to get her hopes up, but the chance of this being one of her missing children after all these years…

Then I’m thinking maybe, she is wearing the equivalent of the three medallions and, maybe as she gets closer to Sonic one of them has some sort of magical reaction ? or something I’m not actually sure. But something DOES confirm to Aleena that This is one of her kids oh my god!! And he’s just like his (other) mother… Aleena gets overwhelmed and ends up not talking to him. Sonic maybe notices someone in a long flowy jacket running away from the crowd, but gets distracted by the many other thankful citizens around him to really take note of it lol

This is when Aleena writes her letter to Sonic. She looks him up, tries very hard to find out where he lives. Ultimately coming up with nothing she’s like IS MY BOY HOMELESS?? But then what comes up eventually is a plethora of small garages and laboratories under the name Dr. Miles Prower and is like Oh! An apprentice maybe :) lol and so she rolls the dice and chooses one of those locations at random and hopes her message gets to him soon.

This is just the leadup to what would be the "main plot" of the AU and I do have more for it!! So if this like. Text based way of explaining my ideas is alright I can share more from the google doc if ppl are interested!! And maybe I'll doodle some stuff for it here n there who know (seems likely tho lol)

[stabbyfoxandrew]

Angel Neil 🙏🙏🙏🙏 last parts were breathtaking 🥰

WIP Wednesday (8/14) | Guardian Angel Neil AU (Part 220)

“Which one?”

“Weekend at Bernie’s,” Andrew tells him.

“Never seen it.” Neil says, then his expression brightens. His voice is almost dreamy when he says, “While I was invisible, I heard you ask. And Kevin remembers me. He thought I was a decent backliner.”

“Congratulations, a ten year old thought you were skilled.”

“Shut up. He’s the best in the game, he knows what he’s talking about!”

“And what if he’d said you were shit?” Andrew asks, watching Neil’s face contort into a pout. 

“Then I would’ve believed it.” Neil dips his finger into the knife-gouge puddle and flicks the water off. “I played striker in high school. I was pretty okay at it I think. Next to Kevin I would’ve looked like an idiot.”

“Most people look like idiots next to Kevin.”

“True. Your striker sub makes me cry sometimes,” Neil with a roll of his eyes. “The other day when you were at practice, I watched her trip over her own racquet.”

“She’s lucky Kevin didn’t notice that.”

“Yeah,” Neil smiles and gives him a look. “Do you feel better now?”

After taking the last drag of his cigarette, Andrew nods and flips the butt into the bushes below. He does feel a bit better. A bit further away from the past. Cigarettes and Neil are the cure for a lifetime of misery, even if cigarettes are poisonous and Neil is exy-obsessed.

[worthlessdumbasspieceofshit]

we know that holograms take up a MASSIVE portion of reddwarfs energy, a whole city's worth of energy in fact. we know that The Cat has never been fond of rimmer right from the get go. that he's disgusted by this holographic simulation of some dead guy. I propose that part of the reason for this is because rimmer to him is and has always been a flashing, lagging, uncanny valley mess.

sure he can't see in the dark, but his senses are better than humans, he can smell things lister can't. he can see the projector floating around inside rimmer. what's worse is the hologram is programed to be a self serving whiney bitch (we love him as a character of course but in person, how he treats others including cat is oof) later with hard light he can probably see everything that Rimmer picks up as slightly vibrating. this flickering is only worsened when rimmer goes into energy saving mode. the only solace he gets from this anthropomorphic uncanny, seizure risk manifested is that everyone else seems to finally see it and understand a little better when rimmer is in low battery mode. that is why he gets so adamant about calling rimmer out on not being real, rimmer to him is a literal headache inducing eyesore and a rude patronizing one at that. yet lister insists on sharing a bunk with rimmer and acts like nothing's wrong, that would feel infuriating- from his perspective maybe even like gaslighting even though he knows everyone is being honest.

to put it another way, imagine two guys are puppeting a dead guy. weekend at Bernie's style. you know he's dead, you know it's just an act but everyone else is fooled, no one can see what you see, infuriatin, right? now imagine the two guys are seemingly invisible to everyone but you, this dead man is also a strobe light and this act is emotionally abusive to your only bleeding non mechanical friend after your family abandoned you for not being cool enough and the other half died and this flickering automated corps is a dick to you because of these invisible guys who could choose to not be a dick.

i genuinely don't think Cat was in the wrong for feeling this way, maybe he was a dick but it's understandable. id be grumpy too.

[whatsnewalycat]

Passenger / Chapter 5

Pairing: Trucker!Din Djarin AU x OFC Charlie Wanderlust

Chapter Five: Wyoming (Part Two)

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Chapter Summary: Charlie and Din test the waters.

Rating: Explicit (18+ only)

Word Count: 7.8k+

Content / Warnings: yearning, horny thoughts, anger problems, crying, food mention, handcuffs, hi yes the only one bed trope is alive and well, unlike the Titanic (it's relevant I promise), small town, lying, fictional town, sorry to Wyoming-ites if I got WY all wrong, (Bernie Sanders voice) I am once again talking about The Yellow Wallpaper by Charlotte Perkins Gilman

Notes: Howdy, howdy. We are balls deep in the yearning with this one, folks. Thank you @frannyzooey for proofreading and being the literal best, I appreciate you endlessly.

Just like Paul promised, The Jackalope Motel is conveniently located straight across the county road from Giddyup Auto. 

The single-story, L-shaped motel, whose faded roadside sign advertises low weekly rates and color TV, shares a gravel parking lot with a two-pump gas station. Its brick exterior is painted a pallid shade of yellow, all ten room doors varnished with this glossy teal finish. 

Nestled into the elbow of the building sits a white screen door with the words MOTEL OFFICE printed on the front. 

Din departs from your side to hold the door open, an action you assure yourself is rooted less in chivalry than it is him not wanting to turn his back to you. A loud creak sounds from the battered door and announces your arrival. The dog charges through the threshold, pulling his leash taut in your grip as you step inside the cramped, wood-paneled office. 

An elderly woman perks up on her barstool behind the front desk. She stubs out her lit cigarette in a nearby ashtray and calls in a husky voice, “Howdy, howdy.”

“Hi there,” you smile, glancing back at Din to determine who will take the lead in this interaction.

He does, taking three wide strides past you to the counter. As he moves through the room, a thick sea of smoke parts for him, churning and dancing in his wake.

“We need a room. Two nights for now.” 

The gray-haired woman pulls the glasses hanging on a chain around her neck onto the bridge of her nose, “Let me see here…”

At your feet, the dog sniffs his surroundings. He follows an invisible trail to a tattered plaid couch. You follow, listening to Din and the motel manager discuss lodging arrangements. 

“I got a couple two three rooms open, I can stick you in one away from the rabble rousers. Somethin’ more private,” she winks at him. 

His back straightens and he holds up a hand, “Do you have anything with two beds?”

The mischievous look on her face flattens and she raises her eyebrows, looking down at her books with a frown, “‘Fraid I don’t.” 

Din looks over at you, his face blank, eyes inscrutable behind his aviators, then turns back to the woman and gives her a nod, “Anything you have is fine, then.”

He takes out his wallet as she starts getting paperwork together. You gravitate towards a wall of faded, dusty brochures that advertise Western Wyoming’s finest tourist traps, including, but not limited to: a cowboy-themed amusement park, guided tours of mountain ranges and caves, horseback riding expeditions, and hot springs. 

“What brings y’all to town?” 

When you turn to Din, he gives you a mild, one-shouldered shrug, so you tell her, “His rig broke down about an hour from here. Paul—do you know Paul?”

She chuckles and nods, “I’ve known Paul since he was in diapers. Used to watch him for his momma while she was at work.” 

“No kidding?” you approach the tall front desk, propping your elbows up on the counter, “He’s fixing the truck. Really nice guy, referred us to this place ‘cuz we don’t know how long it’ll take.” 

“Can I get your ID, hun?” she asks Din, who complies without comment, then she glances up at you while jotting down your companion’s information, “He’ll get y’all fixed up good. We got a few things to do ‘round here if you get tireda bein’ holed up here. A few parks, some trails. There’s a fella that has a ranch just on the outskirts of town, he does horseback riding, if that squeezes your lemon. Downtown, we got some bars, coupla places to eat ‘n’ all that,” she hands the ID back to Din, sighing, “Nothin’ fancy, but better ‘n nothin’ at all.” 

“We don’t need fancy,” you grin at Din, who does not return the sentiment, then ask the motel manager, “What’s your name?” 

“Annie.”

“I love that name,” you smile, “Annie Get Your Gun.”

She smiles, too, toothy and wide, revealing her too-perfect teeth–obviously dentures–and says, “You know, I was actually named after her. Annie Oakley.” 

“That’s awesome. A fantastic namesake, she was a true badass.” 

“She sure was,” Annie nods and takes the glasses off her face, letting them drop around her neck from the glasses chain, “Well, the room comes to $59 per night, plus taxes and fees, ends up runnin’ closerta $75. Do you wanna settle the tab for two nights now, or see if you needta tack on more and take care of it at checkout?” 

You look over at Din, who answers, “We can settle at checkout.” 

“Fine with me,” she swivels on her little stool and stands to grab a key off the wall behind her, “We got an ice maker and vending machine outside the door here, don’t be too loud, and pick up after yer dog. Any questions?” 

She slides a key across the counter, whose big turquoise keychain reads 10 in metallic gold, and glances between you and Din. He grabs it, and you respond, “No ma’am.”

“Alright, well, let me know if y’all need anything.” 

“Will do, thank you, Annie,” you give her a polite wave before following Din outside, pulling the dog along behind you. 

The room smells of bleach and water damage. 

Much like the office, its walls are all wood-paneled with a dull oak finish. A framed painting of a bunny with deer antlers hangs above the queen sized bed. As you try to untangle the leash from your guitar and backpack, you nod at the painting and chuckle, “A jackalope.” 

Din grunts in response. He tosses his backpack on the bed, then turns to the dog, crouching down to unclip his leash from the collar. The dog reacts like he’s hit with a cattle-prod and goes zooming around the motel room in a lop-sided oval. 

You start giggling as he tears over the bed, to the bathroom door where he makes a U-turn and speeds past the dresser, then your feet, then Din’s, then does it again, around and around until he runs out of steam. He comes to rest on the fireproof, floral bedspread, circa 1984, and leans back on his haunches, panting and out of breath, tongue hanging out of his jowls, glancing between you and his person. 

“Feel better?” Din asks him, and he sneezes. 

You go to the window, pulling the top pane down to let crisp October air spill into the room, carrying with it the earthy scent of organic decay. When you close your eyes and inhale, you see piles of raked-up maple leaves, those big mosaics of orange and red and yellow and brown, hiding rot underneath. It reminds you of home. 

You turn to your captor, who seems to be inspecting the bathroom. He flicks the bathroom light on and peeks inside while you release an exaggerated sigh, “So, Din.”

He brings his attention to you and leans against the doorframe, crossing his arms, raising his eyebrows in question.  

“That is your name, right?”

“It is.” 

A smile spreads across your face. 

The fact that you’re able to put a name to this man, brings you a surprising amount of joy. He seems less like a force now, and more like a person. Which, you suppose, is probably why he didn’t formally introduce himself before shoving your face into a trailer door and abducting you. 

“Great, well—Din, it’s nice to actually meet you,” you cross the room and extend your hand to him. All he does for a moment is stare at it, until you tease, “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.” 

“Maybe I do.” 

Your lips part and you blink at him. When the corner of his mouth turns up in a smirk, your face transforms into a heater. This whole situation would be a lot easier if he wasn’t so handsome. 

RULE #3: Keep your wits about you. 

“Funny guy,” you snort, rolling your eyes in feigned annoyance, but continue to hold your hand out to him. 

He takes it and gives it a firm shake. His palm is warm and calloused and his grip seems to swallow yours. Even though he’s wearing those stupid sunglasses, you can tell when his eyes meet yours because a jolt shoots through the middle of you. Your throat tightens and your cheeks get even hotter. 

Before he can tell how flustered you are, you take your hand back and retreat to the bed, plopping down to scratch the dog as you ask, “What now? Do you wanna go explore this podunk town?” 

“No. We’re staying here. The less we’re seen, the better.” 

You groan and throw yourself back onto the bed. There’s a yellow-tinged water stain on the ceiling that almost looks like a face if you squint and tilt your head a little. It brings to mind this short story of a woman slowly losing her sanity while on “rest cure” to treat her depression. She’s forced to do absolutely nothing, and starts to see figures in the yellow wallpaper of her bedroom. 

Granted, your situation is much different than the one Charlotte Perkins Gilman penned, but you still feel a sense of solidarity with her protagonist’s captivity. You feel antsy. Cooped up. The thick layer of grime on your skin becomes hard to ignore, and you remember it’s been a week since you last bathed. 

“Can I at least shower?” 

When he hesitates to respond, you can’t stop yourself from sitting up and scowling at him, “Seriously?” 

“There’s a window in the bathroom.” 

You stare at him blankly, “So, what, you think I’m going to—”

“Yes.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” you get to your feet and stomp past him into the very retro, very pink bathroom, yanking the shower curtain open to inspect the window. 

In all fairness, you could climb out of it if you really wanted to, but you still roll your eyes and tell him, “Probably can’t even fit through there.” 

He just stares at you, unmoved. 

Frustration simmers in your stomach. All that’s standing between you and the sweet relief of a shower is his lack of trust. There has to be a middle ground. 

“What if—” your mouth clamps shut. You shift your weight from one leg, to the other, then shrug, “Would it make you feel better if you were in here while I showered?” 

Din’s lips part, stunned for a moment before he carefully says, “Better isn’t the right word—”

“Ok, well, feel free to substitute ‘better’ with ‘more secure,’ or ‘reassured,’ or whatever. You know what I mean.” 

He studies the window for a moment, the muscles in his jaw wiggling as he considers the compromise, then looks back at you and nods, “Sure.”

“How long will this take?” 

From behind him, Din hears you wrestle clothing off your body into a pile on the floor as you say, “Five minutes, tops.” 

The faucet squeaks, then the water comes to life with a stuttering hiss. Twin metallic swooshes signal the shower curtain being pulled open, then shut, then you moan, “Fuuuuck that’s so good.” 

His imagination bucks out of his control, and for a moment the only image in his mind can conjure is his body pressed up against yours, skin on skin. How soft and warm you must be. How those words would taste on your lips. All the ways he could make you utter them again and again. 

He thinks of your stubbornness, your defiance, and wonders what it would be like to break you. Would you like it? 

I am not a good man. 

Din squeezes his eyes shut and tries to flush out the deviant thoughts, reminding himself of the handsome bounty he’ll collect when he turns you over. The peace that financial security will bring him. He won’t have to live job-to-job with a white-knuckle grip on existence. He’ll have room to breathe. Maybe he’ll even be able to live a little. 

Your honeyed voice pulls him out of his tail-spin. 

“Blackbird singing in the dead of night. Take these broken wings and learn to fly…”

Din opens his eyes and stares at the bathroom door, shaking his head in amusement, thinking, Of course you sing in the shower.

It’s sort of nice, though. He doesn’t mind it. In fact, he kind of likes it. 

Grogu, obviously feeling left out, scratches at the other side of the door, then lets out a disgruntled whine.  

You stop singing and ask, “Is that the pup?” 

“Yeah.” 

The shower curtain rings squeak, then your voice is right next to him, “Let him in.” 

Without thinking, he turns to you and scoffs, “No.” 

Water drips off the ends of your sudsy white-blonde hair onto his boot. Your features pinch into a scowl, dark eyes searching his face, “What, why not?” 

His gaze flicks to the blur of skin barely concealed behind the shower curtain, then to the pink tiled floor as heat rises to his face, “He’s just gonna jump in there and get wet.” 

“So?” 

“He’ll stink up the room.”

You snort, “You’re already doing that.“

Din goes to glare at you, but corrects himself and glares at the ceiling instead, “Sure that’s not you?” 

You let out an exaggerated gasp that quickly dissolves into laughter, “You asshole.”

He looks down at the doorknob and shakes his head, stifling a chuckle. 

“So rude,” you tease as you slide the curtain closed and step back into the steaming shower stream, “Come on, big guy, let the pup come in. He can’t possibly stink more than I did.” 

Grogu scratches at the door again, this time letting out a sharp bark instead of a whine. 

“Awww, listen to him,” you say, the pout evident in your voice, “So lonely, he just wants to be with us.” 

Din rolls his eyes and twists the doorknob to let him in. The dog barrels into the room, skittering across the shiny, bubblegum pink ceramic into the empty garbage can. It goes toppling over, and he uses it like a bumper to correct his course towards the tub. He stands on his hind legs and peaks behind the shower curtain, then woofs for your attention. 

“Hello handsome boy!” 

Grogu starts panting with excitement, his nails clacking on the floor and the porcelain tub. 

“Oh my goodness, do you want to come in here with me?” 

He barks. 

Din protests, “Don’t—”

“Ok, ready, here we go.” 

Both you and the dog groan a little when you lift him, then Din hears clattering and splashing as he lands in the tub and starts flailing around in the water. A sharp giggle pierces his eardrums, making him wince, but there’s such an abundance of joy in your laughter and the dog’s playful growls, Din catches it secondhand and ends up smiling like an idiot. 

“Look at you, happy pup! You love the water, don’t you?!” 

Grogu lets out a low bow-wow and sneezes, which you respond to with a squeal of delight. Something tender and warm blooms in Din’s chest. Just as soon as he realizes its fragility, he stomps it out, snipping over his shoulder, “Are you almost done?” 

The water shuts off with a loud clunk from the faucet and you respond, “Yep.” 

Din ends up trying to dry off the wet, rowdy dog while you dig through your backpack. 

“Do you think there’s a laundromat here?” 

He glances up at you, eyes briefly trailing along the outline of your body beneath the fluffy white towel before he clears his throat, then says, “I don’t know.” 

You sniff one of the sweatshirts from your backpack, shrug, and toss it onto the dresser. 

“We should check. Everything in here is fucking rank,” you mutter while inspecting a pair of dark pants.

The dog zooms past, drawing Din’s attention, and he manages to scoop him up into a towel, “Gotcha!” 

Whining and throwing his weight around like a fish out of water, Grogu tries to escape as Din dries him off. You turn and snort at the dog, “Good luck, I’ve been trying to do that for days,” then pad across the faded, low-rise carpet to the bathroom. 

Din glances up at the oval-shaped mirror mounted to the wall, catching a glimpse of your reflection as you drop your towel. Stunned, he fumbles the task at hand and the dog flies from his grip like a bat out of hell. 

“Shit,” he mutters, propping his hands on his hips, watching the little white dog torpedo from one end of the room to the other. 

“This probably feels like wide open spaces to him after being cooped up in the truck, huh?” you chuckle from the bathroom. 

His eyes betray him, flicking to your reflection again. At least you have pants on this time, the waistband of tight black leggings nestled into the dip of your waist. He studies the curve of your spine up to a compass tattooed between your shoulder blades. You pull a baggy maroon sweater over your head and spin around before he can look away. Shame creeps hot up his neck and makes him drop his gaze. 

If you caught him staring, it doesn’t show. You just trot past him and throw yourself onto the old, squeaky mattress, stacking one foot atop the other as you stretch out. 

Grogu breaks out of his orbit to hop up onto the bed and climb in your lap, tongue hanging from one side of his mouth. A giggle chirps up your throat, and you scratch between his ears, “Do you two have a home base, or just the truck?” 

“Just the truck,” Din answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the wall. 

“Oooh a coupla rubber tramps,” you grin, “It’s fun, right? Nomad life?”

He tilts his head at you. 

Is that why you do this? Because you think living on the road is fun?

His lack of response tugs at the arch of your brow. You look around the room, releasing a sigh through slack lips, making a pfpfpfpf sound, then ask, “Well, whaddya wanna do?” 

Din pushes off the wall and starts towards an armoire that looks heirloom or at least second-hand, swinging open its solid oak doors to reveal an old tube TV. A shelf at the top of the cabinet stores a VCR and a few tapes. 

“Finding anything fun?” 

He reads movie titles off the faded VHS sleeves, “The Wedding Singer, Titanic, Pocahontas, Men in Black.”

“Anything you like?” 

“I’m not much of a movie person,” he admits in a murmur, and casts a glance over his shoulder, “Do you have a preference?”

“Not really,” you shrug, “I’m not much of a movie person, either. You pick.” 

Din swings his gaze back to the armoire, wrinkling his nose at the options, then pulls out the double-barreled VHS of Titanic and pops in the first tape. 

After feeding the movie into the VCR, your captor goes to the little two-person dining room table in the corner of the room and grabs one of the chairs, carrying it over to the opposite side of the bed. You watch him the whole way, eyebrows raised, blinking with annoyance when he sits in the chair and kicks his feet up onto the bed. 

“You’re really gonna watch a movie like that?”

He glances over at you, crossing his arms over his chest, “Like what?” 

“With your whole,” you circle your wrist around your ear, “Incognito thing. Plus, boots? You can like… be comfortable, did you know that?” 

His mouth flattens into a line. A few awkward seconds go by before it clicks and you nod in understanding, “But you can’t be comfortable around me, can you?” 

He doesn’t answer. Not that you expect him to. 

You grab the remote control off the nightstand and turn up the volume. With previews still running on the TV, you sigh and pull a pillow out from the cheap bedspread, plumping it up and adjusting yourself into a more relaxing position. 

“I get it,” you mumble at the screen, “You think that in order for you to maintain this power dynamic, you can’t show belly.”

“Is that what I think?” 

When you look over at him, he seems to be studying you through the tint of his aviators. You ask, “Isn’t it?” 

He doesn’t answer. Probably because he doesn’t want to admit you’re right. Better than him giving you some bullshit contrarian retort, you suppose, but his silence still burrows gritty between the layers of your skin. 

“Whatever, man,” you scoff and roll your eyes, “If you wanna sit way over there in your stupid getup, that’s your decision, but it seems pretty fucking miserable for no good reason.” 

His jaw gnashes back and forth a bit before he sits up and takes off his hat, tossing it onto the nightstand, then his sunglasses. His dark eyes meet yours, “Better?” 

You look at his black leather boots. 

He sighs and drops his feet to the ground, bending over to remove the boots one at a time. When he returns to his previous position, arms crossed over his broad chest, socked feet propped up on the bed, you suppress a grin and turn back to the movie.

"I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay." 

Beneath the thick, curved glass of the TV, the first VHS runs out of tape. Out of the corner of his eye, Din sees you sit up and throw your legs off the bed. Grogu croaks out a sleepy sound from beside you, rolling onto his back. You rise to your feet, asking, “Can we get something to eat before starting the second tape?”

Din glances down at his watch. 4:30. His stomach rumbles. Given the unpredictable twist this day has taken, food has largely remained at the back of his mind until now. 

“We could walk further into town and see what we find. I bet the pup has to go potty, anyway. We could take him with us. Maybe Annie can give us a recommendation—”

He looks over at you to respond, but finds himself momentarily tongue-tied. You stretch your clasped hands skyward, pulling the hem of your sweater up to expose a generous slice of your midriff. You’re still distracted as rambling he stares, unable to stop his thoughts from returning to how soft and warm you must be. 

His hungry skin aches, deep and throbbing, down to the marrow.  An infection festering for years. Or longer. Decades, really. 

He tries to recall how long it’s been since he felt the heat of another person. It was snowing, he remembers that much. She was one of those women that made her way around truck stops selling pleasure to lonely guys like him. Lot lizards, some of the truckers called them. 

Was he in Colorado? Or was it Ohio? 

He remembers the excruciating quiet as she stripped off her snow-clotted outer layers, revealing a petite brunette with wary eyes and a businesslike attitude. Not that he holds those things against her. It’s understandable. Advisable, even, given her line of work and clientele. 

Her company didn’t do much to quell his hollow yearning for intimacy, but it was a release nonetheless. 

“—So, what do you think?”

Din snaps out of the trance and meets your eyes, all warm and hopeful. 

Goddamnit. 

“You stay right next to me the whole time.” 

“Do I get a treat if I’m good?” you smirk, one eyebrow raising in challenge. 

The question bubbles hot at the base of his spine. He tries to keep his countenance neutral when he says, “We’ll see how you do.” 

Grogu waddles over to the side of the bed closest to him and yowls for attention. Thankful for the diversion, Din reaches over and scratches the dog between his big ears, “Both of you.” 

The dog sniffs the sidewalk a few feet ahead of you and Din, tethered to his owner by a leash. He zig-zags back and forth, completely engulfed in the sights and smells of this brand new world. 

You find yourself in a similar state of awe and appreciation. Tilting your face up to the big cotton candy sky, you inhale two lungfuls of the most refreshingly crisp air you may have ever been blessed to receive. Yellow Seed was built in a valley, and it seems like everywhere you look there are mountains in the distance, dark and evergreen and ominous. A stark contrast to whatever magic is happening in the atmosphere. 

The world feels so infinite and beautiful that if you let yourself, you could cry about it. 

Too caught up in the moment to pay attention to your gait, you knock hands with Din. The impact makes your heart jump. You hear yourself stammer out an overreaction, “Oh shit—sorry, I um, didn’t mean to—”

“Might help if you stop daydreaming.” 

“What’re you, my mother?” you scoff under your breath, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. 

“What’s that?” 

You glance over at him. 

His smug smirk draws your attention briefly before you shake your head and change the subject, “Have you seen Titanic before?” 

“Can’t say I have.” 

“What made you pick it?”

He shrugs, “Long run time.” 

“Shut up, that’s not the only reason, is it?” you laugh, “It’s not because you get to see Kate Winslet’s tits or anything, right?” 

His head jerks back a little and his ears turn all red, “What? No—”

“I’m just giving you shit,” you snort. 

He exhales an airy chuckle, and a few seconds go by before he asks, “What about you? Have you watched it before?” 

His cadence is halting and rusty. Out of practice. You can tell he doesn’t make conversation often, but he’s trying and that’s… sort of sweet, actually. 

“I have, but it’s been years. I think I was a kid, maybe six or seven, when I watched it with my grandma at her house,” you smile fondly at the memory, kicking a rock along the sidewalk, “She made me cover my eyes during the nudity and sex and stuff, but I totally peeked.” 

“So you’ve always been a troublemaker.”

“I guess so, huh?” you chuckle. 

The conversation dies a natural death, and for a while, the two of you just walk alongside each other, following the sidewalk further into Yellow Seed. 

The houses you pass, like motel, auto shop, and gas station, all seem to have been built in the 1950’s with few updates since the 1990’s. Mid-century ramblers outfitted in white trim and chipped pastel paint—so much canary yellow. Neat lawns and landscaping and tattered American flags flapping in the wind. As the sidewalk brings you closer to the heart of the town, structures get older, more homes with front porches and earth-toned exteriors.

Downtown Yellow Seed barely occupies two city blocks. The businesses stand shoulder-to-shoulder, all of them constructed of brick or lumber, none of them within the last century. When you turn down the main drag, you squint and blur your vision so that the pickup trucks look like buggies, and you can picture exactly what it looked like when the roads were dirt paths carved out by wagon wheels and horse hooves. 

“Outlaw Saloon,” you nod to the sign on an upcoming building and grin at Din, “Sounds like the place for us.” 

“Speak for yourself,” he mutters, stepping up onto the sagging floorboards of the porch and starting towards the door. 

The dog follows his suggestion, suddenly very interested in this change of direction, his ears perking up into high-alert. Din plucks him off the ground, then pulls the squeaky door open for you to enter, releasing a cacophony of noise: country music and clinking glass and the low murmur of conversation. 

As you walk past him into the establishment, you tell Din, “That’s your problem, big guy, you know that? You think you’re so much better than me, but you’re not.” 

All you hear in response is a grumble, then the jarring crack of the spring-loaded door slamming shut behind him. When he saddles up to your side, you feel his hand press into the small of your back. 

It surprises you a little. Both the action itself, and the way your pulse jumps in response. 

You don’t move, but look over at him and find you’re close enough to see his eyes behind his aviators. They flick around the bar as if searching for potential danger in the two dozen locals occupying the saloon. He holds the dog firm and close to his chest and he doesn’t move his hand and you realize that he is protecting you both. Subconsciously, probably, but he’s doing it nonetheless. 

Something happens inside you. 

A brief but sudden free-fall that flips your stomach and gelatinizes the cartilage in your joints. Your throat struggles to swallow around your thudding heart. 

RULE #9: Do not get attached. 

Ignoring the warning, you bring yourself closer to him. Just an inch or so, intending to be subtle, so that maybe he won’t notice. You don’t want him to think you like or need his protection, because you don’t. 

Need it, that is. 

Liking it, however…

If you can glean anything from the steady thrum of heat between your thighs, it’s that you do like it. That is, unfortunately, too blunt a force for you to ignore. 

An unamused looking waitress approaches your little trio, grinding a wad of gum between her molars, “No dogs.”

“Oh—he’s an emotional support dog,” you tell her, softening your features into a non-threatening, winsome expression. You put your hand on Din’s arm and explain, “My friend has horrible agoraphobia. The only way I can get him to go out is if we have the dog with us.” 

Her eyebrow raises and she blinks at Din, “That true?”

He nods once, “It is.” 

She glances between the two of you for a moment, eyes flicking in time with the smack smack smack of her chewing gum, then shrugs, “Alright, come with me.” 

As you follow the waitress, he stays by your side, with his warm, wide palm held flush to your spine. 

He’s just making sure you don’t bolt. It doesn’t mean anything. 

This little voice inside your head makes you feel so foolish, your cheeks start to flush. She’s right, though. You’re making something out of nothing. 

But then his thumb moves. Only slightly, and just once, this gentle wiper blade motion—a fucking caress if you’ve ever felt it. 

Your face heats even more. 

The waitress stops at a wooden, high-back booth and pulls two menus from her apron, placing one on each side of the table. Only when you slide into the booth does his hand depart your body. He sits across from you, placing the dog down beside him. 

“Can I get y’all somethin’ to drink?” 

“Could I get a water, please?” you ask, flashing her a polite smile. 

She nods, then looks at Din. 

“I’ll have the same.” 

“Two waters, anything else?”

You glance up at Din, trying hard not to drop your gaze when you feel his eyes meet yours. He shakes his head slightly, and you tell her, “No, I think that’s good for now, thank you.” 

“Be right back.”

Once she’s out of earshot, Din asks, “Agoraphobia?” 

“Pretty slick, huh?” you grin. 

He smirks and shakes his head, looking down at the menu. The dog wriggles his way under his owner’s arm. Din allows it, absentmindedly petting him while evaluating food options. 

Letting out a sigh, you turn your attention to the menu, too. Burgers, chicken, basic sandwiches, fried food. Standard bar fare. It doesn’t take you long to decide on a grilled cheese, leaving you to study the innards of the Outlaw Saloon. 

The place is cavernous. Tin ceiling tiles two stories above the ground stretch much further back than you expected. Everything else, from the walls to the furniture to the floors, all appears to be made from the same dark, lacquered wood. 

Predictably, the décor is an homage to cowboy lore. Taxidermized livestock, paintings of horses, and antique farm equipment have been mounted on the walls. Among them hang wanted posters of infamous Wild West gunslingers, such as Wyatt Earp and Billy the Kid. Sort of camp, but in an endearing way. 

The bar bustles with activity, much busier than you thought it would be. In a small town like this, you weren’t expecting to see more than a handful of regulars out on a Wednesday evening, but there are at least 20, maybe 30, other patrons scattered about the venue. 

As you look around at the strangers, you think to yourself, “Not one of these people would look out of place at a rodeo,” which is to say that the crowd looks to be a mix of ranchers and other working class folks. At least half are strapped with a handgun, which isn’t particularly alarming, especially in a rural Western town like this, but always good to note. Occasionally, people mutter to each other while shooting dirty looks at your table. Probably because you’re out-of-towners who had the audacity to bring a dog into their beloved saloon. 

“Damn, if we were carrying, I bet we’d fit in a little better,” you comment mildly. 

“Who says I’m not?” 

You look over at him and tilt your head, “Are you?” 

“I am.” 

This interests you. You fold your legs up into a pretzel and lean your elbows onto the table, “Whaddya have?”

With his expressive eyes concealed, it’s hard to read what his silence means, but you guess trying to determine your question’s intent. 

Before either of you can say anything else, the waitress approaches your table carrying two glasses of water. As she slides one in front of you, then the other in front of Din, you ask her, “Do you guys ever have live music here?” 

“Sure,” she shrugs and plants one hand on her hip, “Nothing this weekend, though.” 

You glance over at Din, who’s shaking his head slowly, as if to say, “Don’t you fucking dare,” but ignore it and ask, “Do you want live music this weekend?” 

“I take it I do not get a treat?” 

Din clenches his jaw, glaring up at you from his crouched position as he unhooks Grogu’s leash. He hasn’t said anything to you since you coaxed your way into a gig at the Outlaw Saloon, blatantly disregarding his wishes to lay low in this town.

If he wasn’t so goddamn hungry, and if it wouldn’t have roused the attention of the already suspicious locals, he would have hauled you out of the restaurant the second you inquired with the waitress about live music. 

You must have felt the anger radiating off him in waves, because your attempts at conversation since have been few and far in between. 

For that, he’s grateful. 

The red glowering beneath his skin feels unpredictable. That familiar loathsome beast. Something he believed extinct inside him, eradicated through years of training, now awake and growling. 

He rises to a standing position and starts pacing, trying to keep calm. 

Meanwhile, you take your doodle-ridden acoustic guitar, plop down on the bed, and start strumming a tune. 

Heat wells up in his chest. 

“It’ll be fun, you’ll see. Gives us something to do,” you tell him, watching your own fingertips move skillfully along the neck of the instrument, “Plus, I could rake in a decent amount of money, which could help us—”

“Stop it.”

The music cuts immediately. 

He takes off his hat and sunglasses, tossing them onto the chest of drawers, then turns to face you, meeting your doe-eyed gaze with too much vitriol. 

“There is not an us. This is not a team. I do not want or need your help.” 

Your shoulders sag. You furrow your brow, searching his face, and your lips part to protest, but he cuts you off hard. 

“You are nothing to me but a payload. An annoying, entitled payload. Do you understand?” 

You react as if he slapped you across the face. Your head jerks back and you drop your gaze to the floor, face getting all red.

He stares at you, awaiting your counterattack, but all you do is let out a choked sob. 

The sharp tip of this noise pierces the over-inflated balloon of his anger, bursting it instantly. In its sudden absence, an ache starts in his chest. He looks back at the situation from this calmer state of mind, cleared of red haze, and feels ashamed of himself.

Grogu jumps onto the bed to sit at your side, and whines up at you. Inhaling a wobbly breath, you reach out and scratch his head, then mumble a damp, “It’s ok, pup.” 

Some time goes by with only your quiet sniffles to break the silence, then you ask, “Where am I sleeping?” 

As soon as the mention of sleep hits him, his bones turn to lead, heavy with exhaustion. How long has it been since he’s slept? It feels like days. Nothing last night, barely a few hours the night before that. 

“You have options,” he responds. At this, you let out a sad, soft chuckle that he ignores, continuing, “There’s the bathroom, your sleeping bag, or the bed.” 

“I assume I would be restrained in each of these scenarios?” 

He folds his arms over his chest and nods, “In the bathroom, I would cuff you to the toilet. The other two, I…” he grimaces, “It would be to me.” 

“Wow, ok,” you take the guitar out of your lap and prop it up on the nightstand, “A toilet or the man who thinks I’m a piece of shit.” 

“I didn’t say—”

“You didn’t have to.” 

He meets your gaze, holding it steady for a few seconds before saying, “Charlie, I…”

The apology gets all tangled in his throat. You wait a while for him to finish the thought. When he doesn’t, you move past it, your voice void of emotion. 

“Do you have a preference?”

“No.” 

“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to sleep in the bed.” 

Din nods in acknowledgment. He glances down at his watch, finds it’s barely past 6, and asks, “Are you tired now?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

As if to confirm, you suck in a shaky breath and yawn, stretching your hands above your head. It spreads to him. 

“Give me a few minutes,” he tells you.

In response, you tug at the bedspread and wriggle your way between the sheets. Grogu grumbles for a moment at the adjustment, then turns in a few circles and plops down beside you with a hmph.

You’re probably exhausted, too, given the ups and downs of this week. Being taken captive. Sleeping in the same room as Din when you cannot trust him. Spending all your time with someone whose explicit intent is to turn you in for a pretty penny.

It must take an emotional toll, even if you don’t let it show most of the time. Even if you have that rule to… how did you put it? 

Live in the now. 

To your credit, you have been trying your damnedest to follow that rule. By getting to know people whose paths cross yours, bonding with Grogu, writing and drawing in your notebook, playing music, suggesting ways to squeeze as much experience as possible out of what little time you have left. 

Din likes that about you. Your relentless optimism. It’s admirable. 

He likes a lot of things about you, he realizes. Your cunning, and your curiosity, and your ferocity. Your gap-toothed smile. The skillful way you play the guitar. How you curled into him ever-so-slightly when he placed his hand on your back earlier. 

It occurs to him then that you may feel it, too. That gooey electric current when he touches you, or when his eyes meet yours for longer than a second. 

His own words echo back to him: “You are nothing to me but a payload.” 

He wants to take it back. 

It’s not even true, he just wishes it was. He wishes he looked at you and saw a bad person who’s going to get what she deserves. The truth couldn’t be more contrary. 

While your captor goes about his nighttime routine, you sulk. 

It’s all you can do, really, since he’s made it abundantly clear your presence is a nuisance. Worse than that, even. You are nothing but an asset to him. 

Ironically, it makes you feel worthless. 

You think about how pathetic your burgeoning crush on him is. Were you imagining the chemistry between you? 

Of course you were. 

You were making things up—“Living in LaLa Land,” as your mother used to say. 

Din pulls back the covers on the opposite side of the bed. The mattress shifts under his weight, and he groans as he stretches out. Every nerve ending in your body lights up when you feel the heat of him. The distance between you is exactly the width of a French Bulldog. 

“Hey, kid,” he murmurs. 

His voice is low and syrupy. Warm. 

Your throat works in a slow bob before you roll on your back to look at him. Your eyes meet his, and your stomach flips. When whoever said that thing about the eyes being the window to the soul, they must have been talking about him. You can see it all right there, written in bold print: I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it. 

Or maybe that’s just what you want to see. Fuck, but why? Why do you even care? 

You should fucking know better.

This is only temporary. Din. His dog. The truck. This room. Tonight. Life, really, if you wanted to get existential about it. 

“Do you want to watch the rest of that movie?” 

You frown as you consider this for a moment, then nod. 

He gets out of bed and walks over to the big armoire. As he pops in the second Titanic VHS tape, you study the broad span of his shoulders and biceps stretching his t-shirt taut. 

God, he looks solid and strong and just so fucking good.  

This guy robbed you of your dignity and all you can think about right now is what his lips would feel like on yours. If he would be a greedy lover, or a generous one, or both. Would he be intuitive or clumsy with your body? Would he be rough? 

He would be with me.

Heat blossoms on your cheeks and deep in your center. You don’t know how you know, but you do. He just seems… pressurized. Combustible. Especially towards you. 

On his way back to bed, while the tape rewinds, Din rummages through his backpack and piles some of its contents into one arm. He sits down at the edge of the mattress and hands you a bottle of water, then holds out two candy bars and says, “Pick one.” 

“Is this an apology?” 

“No, it’s chocolate.” 

You blink at him and cross your arms. 

His features soften. He shakes his head, “What I said was not kind. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No, I didn’t,” you agree, keeping your gaze stern, “You can’t talk to me like that.”

“I understand. I’m sorry.” 

You search his face. There’s such earnestness there, you believe him. 

A mechanical click sounds from the VCR, then the TV lights up as Titanic starts where it left off. 

Your gaze drops to the candy bars, and you pluck one from his hand. The one that advertises a peanut-buttery crunch. Peeling off its yellow wrapper, you smirk, “Apology accepted.” 

Din climbs all the way into bed, stuffing the flat hotel pillows behind his back, then opens the shiny silver wrapper of his candy bar. For a while, it’s quiet except for the warbled audio from the TV and the crunch of your chewing. 

You get that feeling again like sunshine on your skin or God or whatever, and you laugh out loud. 

“What?” Din asks.

“It’s probably really weird that I’m happy right now, right?” 

“Are you?” 

You peek over at him and chuckle, “Yeah, I mean… I’m eating my favorite candy and watching a good movie. Laying in a bed with a cute dog and…yeah,” you shrug, turning back to the TV, “I don’t know. I like it.”

He hums in acknowledgment, then asks, “Do you have your knife?” 

“Why, you gonna take it from me so I don’t kill you in your sleep?” You let the question hang in the air for one whole second before continuing, “I’ll be real up close and personal, wouldn’t even have to sneak, just,” you drag your thumb across your throat, “Blech, dead.” 

“I’m not taking it from you,” he tells you, pulling out his handcuffs, “But if you want to get it or use the bathroom, now’s your chance.” 

You take the opportunity to relieve your bladder and change into your comfiest (and least offensive smelling) clothes. 

Before tucking your pocket knife into your sleeve, you stare at it for a minute and consider actually using it to get the fuck out of here. Something you’ve considered dozens of times, if you’re being honest, but this time the idea weighs a million pounds. 

When you open the bathroom door and step into the motel room, Din looks up at you from the bed. His gaze wanders briefly down your body as you climb into bed, then correct its course back to your eyes, “All set?”

You nod and hold your right arm out to him. 

His touch is gentle when he closes the cuff around your wrist. Clicks sound from the apparatus until it’s clear your hand won’t be capable of wiggling free. 

He secures the other cuff around his left wrist, settles his arm next to yours, and asks, “How is that?”

“It’s fine,” you nod, your voice too high, then swallow hard and chuckle, “Well, I guess as fine as being handcuffed in a bed can be. Probably not the best it could be, but not the worst, um, either.”  

You wince at yourself and look at the TV, where Rose is wading through thigh-high water, carrying an ax. Thankfully, he doesn’t respond, but turns off the light on his nightstand. You do the same with yours. Aside from the TV, only a faint glow comes in through the window. Daylight’s last gasping breath. 

You close your eyes and fondle the cool metal of your pocket knife in your left hand. 

RULE #8: Take care of yourself.

Din shifts a little, and the back of his hand butts up against yours. Neither of you go to move. Warmth branches out from the spot, expanding and taking root deep in your belly. 

RULE #2: Listen to your gut. 

With this, you tuck the pocket knife under your pillow and roll onto your side facing him. You think about how nice it would be to rest your head on him, but resist the urge. The edges of consciousness start to fold in on themselves, and you murmur, “Sweet dreams, big guy.”

“Goodnight.” 

[mieczyhale]

"If You Could Be Any Hero or Anti-Hero Who Would It Be" AU

VERSION 1

Rachel - Captain Marvel [Love Interest: Thor]

Colleen - Rogue

Maison - Deadpool

Cole - Kitty Pryde [Love Interest: Bernie Rosenthal]

Mandy - Scarlet Witch [Love Interest: Steve Rogers]

Annie - Winter Soldier

VERSION 2

Rachel - Poison Ivy [Love Interest: Harley Quinn]

Colleen - Jean Grey

Maison - Wolverine

Cole - Rikki Barnes [Love Interest: Valkyrie]

Mandy - Deadpool [Love Interest: Catwoman] [Unrequited: Poison Ivy]

Annie - Yelena

(yeah there's two now, some of us are indecisive so fuck it lol)

- - - - -

Our Own Hero AU

Rachel - Powers:: Light Manipulation & Control of Plants, "Environmental", "Basically a greenhouse" [Love Interest: Soldier Boy]

Colleen - Powers:: Sorcery & Pyrokinesis

Maison - Powers:: Invisibility & Invulnerability [Love Interest: Wolverine]

Cole - Powers:: Magnetism & Illusions, "Magneto powers"

Mandy - Powers:: Astral Projection & Dimensional Travel, "Basically Five" [Love Interest: Single But Searching / A hero on tinder]

Annie - Powers:: Sorcery & Aerokinisis [Love Interest: Carnage]

powers picked by spinning this wheel twice

- - - - -

*We form our own team, outside of the Avengers or the X-Men

*Not yet named

- - - - -

This is going to be a sort of masterpost so I can keep track of everything without having to break out an actual notepad or keep track of another document lmao

Will be updated with.. updates

Tagging the team:: @deanspillowprincess @penguinsandpanthers @gay-jewish-bucky @thebobcatspaiamas & then obvs me

[syn4k]

hey so do you ever do some casual fast research for a school assignment and get your heart blown out of your goddamn chest because- ok so.

this is Flower Power, an image taken by Bernie Boston during the American 1967 March on the Pentagon protests. The protesters, entirely peaceful, brought things such as candy, toys, flags, and played music to demonstrate that they were not angry and meant no harm.

That young man in the turtleneck in the center of the photo? His name is George Edgerly Harris III. Here's the paragraph on Wikipedia about him that made me stop breathing for a second.

This man, who is the central focus of one of the most iconic images of the 1960s, was openly queer. He performed in drag shows. He died in the early 80s at the start of the HIV/AIDS pandemic.

And so many people never knew this and maybe never will.

I don't know. I don't really have a point to make here about the erasure of queer identity or the fact that we were always here, albeit invisibly, in the histories. The stories. The photos. I just know that this has become my favorite historical image I've ever witnessed for several reasons, and not the least because of the several layers of meaning that's shown here.

I just wanted all my followers to see it. Rant over. I am FEELING THINGS in this Wendy's tonight.

[dandylovesturtles]

Chello~! So I was reading your amazing fic “I May Be Invisible but I Still Look Good” and I was wondering, just outta curiosity. What inspired the concept for the fic in the first place? It’s a really cool concept- a spell that basically tears the soul out of the body and makes a person a “ghost” (sorry, Leo, I’m using the word ghost), but there are restrictions to what they can go through and stuff.

And another note- is there a specific reason you chose which one of Leo’s brothers broke which part of the spell? Like, Mikey broke sight, Raph broke sound, and Donnie broke touch. I see the parallel with Donnie, since he’s typically pretty adverse with touch, but I was wondering about Raph and Mikey.

I also wanted to say that your writing is beautiful and the fact that I can’t leave more than one kudos-es on Ao3 is cruel 😤.

Keep up the amazing work and have an absolutely wonderful amazing supercalifragilisticexpialidoshus day/night/afternoon/2am/endless white void :,]

Hi! Thank you so much for reading, I'm glad you're enjoying it! I've answered some of this but I'm too lazy to dig through my blog so I'll answer again! lol

I've written a fic similar to this before for another fandom (One Piece) over a decade ago - it's a trope I've always enjoyed haha. Though that fic was definitely more of a comedy (the character who got ghosted ended up possessing another character's body so they had to share), while this one leaned more heavily on angst. Although both OP and ROTTMNT are comedic canons so there's still a lot of jokes in both haha.

Anyway I thought of doing this with Leo because even though Donnie was (and still mostly is) my favorite character, Leo is the one I like putting through the spin cycle, because I think his character is a really interesting one to dig into. Leo has a lot of layers to him, and he has a hard time showing his real self to others and asking for help, and this sort of trope is great for forcing characters to do exactly that. Take away their ability to communicate and it makes them want to communicate more! lol

I ended up rambling so I'm putting a cut here.

I actually went around and around for a bit coming up with exactly what the restrictions are for how Leo can move. Like, I spent way too much time trying to decide if he can climb ladders and in the end I just avoided ever mentioning it (he probably can, like he can climb stairs, because otherwise getting out of certain parts of the sewer would be hard). But a lot of it came out of practicality, like I needed him to be able to ride in the tank properly so he could go home with them in the first chapter. But when I thought of the scene where he and Mikey get separated by Meat Sweats I just pushed that to the logical conclusion of "well he can ride in the car but he isn't actually constrained by the frame of the car besides the bottom" and that turned into car surfing.

Initially however I was going to have it so he was restricted to the immediate area around his body and so to leave the lair with Leo the brothers would have to Weekend at Bernie's him around. I eventually gave up on this idea because it caused too many logistical problems lol... Like I would have to establish that either his body can survive because it's just in a form of stasis (which I didn't like because it retroactively killed some of the first chapter's tension and also killed later tension) or they would have to cart around some kind of ventilator and that's a logistical nightmare. But I didn't want Leo to be confined to the lair because, boring. So that's where the idea of him being tied to them after they regained a sense came from, which has worked out great because I ended up using it for way more drama than I anticipated at the start haha.

Here's my writing tip no one asked for: when coming up with the rules for any kind of magic anything, narrative utility always trumps realism - as long as you have internal consistency it's fine.

AS FOR WHO GETS WHAT, well, I always planned for them to regain the senses in the order Mikey > Raph > Donnie (I feel like it just makes the most sense that Mikey is first and Donnie is last so Raph is naturally the middle), but originally they were going to get the senses in waves, like once Raph broke part of the spell both Mikey and Raph would get hearing, etc. And I already planned on it going sight > hearing > touch as well. But then I decided to split the senses up because I felt like it was more interesting that way. See the tip I posted above LOL

But as for why I picked sight > hearing > touch, well... I needed Mikey to see him first for narrative utility but also since Mikey is the one who is best at emotions, I liked having him get sight, because that way Leo can't really hide from him, and so Mikey can get a sense of how Leo is dealing with everything through this ordeal. Like Leo can hide his emotions from Raph by being quiet or from Donnie by not touching him but he can't escape Mikey. The other two obviously know Leo is not having a good time, but Mikey is the one who has the fullest picture of how badly this is affecting him, and Mikey is also the best at communicating that to the others and helping Leo through it just by being there. That's why you get a lot of Mikey literally guiding the others to him, too - he's good at helping that way!

As for Raph, I made a joke at the time that I wanted to force the dumb-dumbs to actually use their words lol. Which is a lot of the motivation! Of course, Raph and Leo are at a better place than they were pre-movie anyway, but I still wanted to put them in a place where they have to talk because they literally don't have any other options. Also, I really love the co-leaders vibe, or at least Raph being his right hand man, and I wanted the two of them to be able to talk strategy, which was of course easiest if they could actually, ya know, talk. Leo may be leader but he still looks up to Raph and turns to him for advice, or as a sounding board to work out what he's thinking through, so it's really beneficial for him to be able to talk to Raph.

And yes finally, Donnie is touch averse so he gets touch and we all laugh. LAUGH. But also Donnie would be most frustrated by not having a more direct way to communicate with Leo, but also the most determined to actually make it work. Also this way he is given a problem to fix. Leo is touch-starved and it's not good for him to be like this for too long, because he's losing his grip on reality. Donnie can fix that problem by touching him, and so he will, because Donnie fixes problems. Even if it requires giving his dumb-dumb twin shell scratches (he doesn't mind) (he won't admit it though).

Also the ouija board jokes are very funny. If it works for zozo why can't it work for Leo!

Sorry for all the rambles aaaaa thanks for the ask!

[hrodvitnon]

Some Thoughts on GxK

So, now that I’ve had a bit of time to collect my thoughts regarding GxK, I figured I’d share them in more detail. So without further ado, here goes!

Pros:

- The action was absolutely fantastic, although I do wish some of the fight scenes had been a little longer.

- I enjoyed all four of the main human characters in this one: I thought Ilene Andrews & Jia’s relationship was actually really well-done, and the dynamic between Trapper & Bernie was hilarious. Also, I feel like Trapper is definitely the Steve Irwin of Monarch in terms of how he views & interacts with the Titans. 😄

- Highlight was definitely the scenes that focused just on the interactions between the Titans, especially Kong & Suko, the first meeting between Kong & the other Great Apes, and the reunion of Godzilla & Mothra (which was absolutely adorable).

- Goji channeling his inner cat and taking that nap in the Colosseum was amazing, and the fact that he went back to take another nap there at the end of the movie was a perfect cherry on top. 😂 (Although I wish Mothra had gone back there with him at the end.)

- Skar King was a really fun villain; he might not be quite as imposing as Ghidorah or Mechagodzilla, but he’s just as scary, and I feel like he definitely made up for not being as physically powerful by having so much personality & intelligence.

- Shimo is so sweet, and I love her so much! 🥺 They did a really good job of making her sympathetic; I felt so bad for her while she was under Skar King’s control, and the way she acted after she finally got her freedom was so pure and sweet. Also, I love that she technically got to kill her abuser, even if Kong was the one who finished him off after she froze him.

- All the new Hollow Earth creatures were really cool, and Doug popping in and stealing part of Kong’s lunch legitimately cracked me up. 🤭

- Cool to see Scylla’s return and Tiamat’s onscreen debut, even if they didn’t last very long. I also couldn’t help but laugh a little at the fact that Godzilla killed both of them using his “Kiss of Death” tactic from the 2014 movie.

- I’d seen some of the rumors & leaks regarding Mothra beforehand, but I still got so excited when they finally name-dropped her, and her glorious return did not disappoint! Also, again, her reunion with Godzilla was super-cute, and I love the little detail that despite all of his aggressive behavior in the previous movie and most of this one, he visibly calms down as soon as she shows up and stays that way for the rest of the film.

Cons:

- Some of the film did feel kinda rushed. It wasn’t too bad, but I feel like they definitely could’ve extended it by a half-hour to expand some of the action scenes and some of the character development a little more. The Rio fight, in particular, felt a little too rushed & short compared to the final battles of the other MonsterVerse movies.

- Like I said, I’m really glad that we finally got Mothra back, but the whole “Iwi prophecy” explanation for her return felt kinda weird & unnecessary. Why is Jia somehow the only person who can wake Mothra up? Where did Mothra’s new incarnation come from, since it seems like it wasn’t from the egg that Monarch found in the credits of KOTM? Why is her cocoon invisible until Jia touches it? (I guess that last one’s probably for camouflage purposes, but it did seem kinda weird.) I feel like they probably could’ve just had her already be awake & protecting the Iwi in her new body, and ditch the whole prophecy subplot in favor of Jia just bonding more with the Hollow-Earth Iwi tribe instead.

- The fact that both Scylla and Tiamat were killed off as soon as they showed up was a bummer, although I did enjoy both of those fights.

- And although I do like the look of Godzilla’s new Evolved form, it didn’t really feel very important, if that makes sense? Like, when he unlocked his Burning form against Ghidorah back in KOTM, it was really important in terms of the story and also gave his character some additional depth by emphasizing his symbiotic relationship with Mothra, but here it felt like he could’ve played the exact same role in the story without that new transformation.

Overall, I really enjoyed this one! Not my favorite of the MonsterVerse films (currently, I’d say my ranking from favorite to least favorite is KOTM, GvK, GxK, G2014, and KSI), but it was still a solid, fun Kaiju film, and I’m definitely planning on seeing it again while it’s still in theaters.

Oh yeah, big same all around! I definitely also expected the Rio fight to have more going on, and it would have been cool if Shimo was the one to end Skar King rightly in repayment for the hell he put her through. Mothra just suddenly appearing out of nowhere like that had me tilting my head, like what if her egg (somehow) was brought to the Hollow Earth and was chilling out on that pyramid in the cocoon stage, finally releasing when Jia did her thing (I didn't read it as Mothra's cocoon being invisible... time for a second viewing!); also surprising that Ilene didn't mention "oh yeah, Mothra, she laid an egg last time she was alive" or at least work in some way that Mothra could feasibly show up. The sudden prophecy subplot was odd, but okay movie, you do you. Maybe this will get cleared up in the novelization?

[sodor-spirit]

🔱 Sonny’s Story 🔱

Before coming to the Island of Sodor, Sonny the Water Spirit lived a decent life working in a mine and coastal docks on the Mainland, often dreaming of going on adventures and seeing countless places which his fellow spirits was amused by, entertaining his musings and daydreams by telling him of their runs.

However as most people always say; be careful what you wished for. During a small break at the Coastal Docks where he worked, Sonny was suddenly bought by two clear sighted men, Baz and Bernie who even revealed their ability to see him to the Water Spirit’s astonishment and shock which slowly became horror upon realising and learning that his two new owners are criminals and thieves who specialises in mystical trinkets, relics and objects which are then sold on the black market.

Any form of defiance or disobedience against the crooked pair resulted in threats against his engine vessel being scrapped to even the Water Spirit being imprisoned in a magic hand mirror or used as a tool, with his physical form being controlled against his will through another of Baz and Bernie’s stolen relics. During his hellish time as a reluctant thief and criminal with the two crooks, Sonny also stumbled upon an injured fox who he nursed back to health and begged his owners to allow him to keep it as a familiar which they agreed to but also to used it as blackmail in order to continue taking advantage of Sonny’s unique invisibility magic; threatening to kill it if he tries to step out of line, becoming one of the other usual threats and punishments the Water Spirit feared for his life and his familiar, naming it Topaz. This treatment forced him to adopt a gruff, sinister and ruthless front as a means of protecting himself and his beloved familiar from his owners.

By the time Baz and Bernie decided to hit the Island of Sodor next in order to steal the Earl’s vast collection of relics; Sonny has all but given up hope of escaping from his captors, as long as they have the mirror and locket they use to keep him under control from turning against them. What he didn’t know was that his life was finally going to change for the better with his reward being a free Spirit.

[asianpoplover143]

👊Outra versão para isso👊

(Porém agora vamos imaginar que o Chiharu é irmão mais novo do Cobra)

*Enquanto isso no chat do grupo*

Cobra: Quem foi?

Murayama: Quem foi o que amor?

Smoky: Também não sei Cobra

Rocky: Como assim?

Noboru: Acho que o Cobra quer saber quem criou esse grupo e o motivo disso

Fujio: Quem é essa gente toda aqui?

Noboru: Não sei, mas contanto que o ninguém do Kuryu esteja aqui....

<>Kirinji: Opa, alguém me chamou?

Murayama: Ninguém te chamou não pet invisível

Yamato: Ele tá mais para fracassado 😂

<>Kirinji: Calados seus humanos inúteis e insignificantes 😒

Bernie: Uiz, tem alguém nervoso tem?

<>Kirinji: Cala a boca!

Bernie: vem calar 💅

Ranmaru: alguém sabe pq o Rocky tá SURTANDO lá na sala e o Murayama tá rindo?

Jesse: pq ele fez um teste de "que personagem de High&Low você seria"

Ranmaru: e quem ele tirou?

Jesse: você

Ranmaru: ah pois! Mas é um elogio me tirar poxa, relaxa Rocky, quem sabe no próximo você não me tira de novo 🙈😂?

Rocky: 😒

Hyuga/Ice: NINGUÉM LIGA MAS O LÍDER DE GANG/PLANEJADOR DE FESTA FAVORITO DE VOCÊS CHEGOU!

Cobra: Vocês tem razão, ninguém liga e o meu líder favorito de gang planejador de festa favorito é o Rocky...

Hyuga/Ice: Não falei com você namorado do repetente da Oya High

Chiharu: Pelo menos o meu irmão não é um covarde que foge no meio da luta 😂

Hyuga: mas esse ai que você tá falando é o Jesse 🤔😂

Jesse: Oxi! Do nada? Que gratuito 🤡, só pq eu tô quieto aqui...

Cobra: Mas não deixa de ser verdade, e isso aí maninho me defenda 💅

Chiharu: Sempre irmãozão 🥺🫶

Pearl: Pior que eles tem razão, eu vi você saindo da sua luta com o Cobra aquele dia e indo para sei lá aonde 🤔

Ice: Magoei, estão fazendo complô contra mim e contra o Hyuga! Não gostei, vou começar uma luta sem motivo e atacar pessoas inocentes e gangs amigas sem motivos, "aprisionar" eles e obrigar eles a ficarem me assistindo fazer rap lá no Funk Jungle 💅

Ryu: Oh meu Deuso! Não precisa disso amor, deixa eles, tá tudo bem.

Chiharu: Coitadas dessas pessoas, acho que o Noboru-san era mais feliz quando ele tava com o Kirinji no Kuryu do que essas pessoas tendo que te aguentar 🙈

Ice: Ah la!

Noboru: Se for fazer uma comparação dessas eu prefiro aturar o Ice...

<>Kirinji: Assim você me magoa Noboruzinho

Noboru: Não vou falar palavrão pois tem crianças no grupo, mas "vai se ferrar" Kirinji 😒

Amagai: Eitan! Mas mudando de assunto rapidão. Pergunta para o Sameoka aqui: Pq você odeia o Reiji?

Sameoka: Eu nunca disse que eu odeio o Reiji.

Amagai: ...

Amagai: Mesmo?

Sameoka: Eu só disse que se ele estivesse pegando fogo eu talvez fosse considerar assar marshmallows.

Amagai: ...

Amagai: 🤦

Reiji: Se isso é amor, imagine se fosse ódio 😔

Odajima: As vezes a gente agradece por ser amigo 🙏

Murayama: Só observo 👀

Cobra: Agora eu também amor 👀

Fujio: Eu também 👀

Fujio: Espera...O que ou quem estamos observando? 👀

••

👊Another version for/of this👊

(However, now we are going to imagine that Chiharu is Cobra’s younger brother)

*Meanwhile in the group chat*

Cobra: Who was it?

Murayama: Who was what love?

Smoky: I also don’t know Cobra

Rocky: What do you mean?

Noboru: I think Cobra wants to know who created this group and the reason for it

Fujio: Who are all these people here?

Noboru: I don't know, but as long as nobody from Kuryu are here...

<>Kirinji: Oops, did someone call me?

Murayama: Nobody called you no invisible pet

Yamato: He's more like a failure 😂

<>Kirinji: Shut up, you useless and insignificant humans 😒

Bernie: Ouch! Is someone mad hum?

<>Kirinji: Shut Up!

Bernie: come here and do it, I dare you 💅

Ranmaru: does someone knows why is Rocky FREAKING OUT in the middle of the room and Murayama is laughing?

Jesse: because he took a quiz about “which High&Low character would you be”

Ranmaru: and who did he got?

Jesse: you

Ranmaru: oh c’mon! But it is a compliment get me as a result, chill Rocky, maybe next time you can take me again 🙈😂?

Rocky: 😒

Hyuga/Ice: NOBODY CARES BUT YOUR FAVORITE GANG LEADER/PARTY PLANNER HAS ARRIVED!

Cobra: You both are absolutely right, no one cares and my favorite gang leader/party planner is Rocky...

Hyuga/Ice: I didn't talk to you, Oya High's repeater's/flunk's boyfriend

Chiharu: At least my older brother isn't a coward who runs away in the middle of a fight 😂

Hyuga: but this one you're talking about is Jesse 🤔😂

Jesse: Ouch! Out of nowhere! How “random” 🤡, just because I'm quiet here...

Cobra: But it doesn’t mean that isn’t true, and that’s right lil bro, defend me 💅

Chiharu: Always big bro 🥺🫶

Pearl: I’m afraid that they have a point, I saw you leaving your fight with Cobra that day and going to who knows where 🤔

Ice: That hurt, they are plotting against Hyuga and me! I didn't like it, I'm going to start a fight for no reason and attack innocent people and friendly gangs for no reason, “imprison” them and force them to watch me rap at Funk Jungle 💅

Ryu: Oh My God! That’s not necessary babe, ignore them, it’s okay.

Chiharu: Poor people, I think Noboru-san was happier when he was with Kirinji at Kuryu than these people having to put up with you 🙈

Ice: See?/There it go!

Noboru: If you’re going to make a comparison like that, I'd rather put up with Ice...

<>Kirinji: This way you hurt me Little Noboru

Noboru: I'm not going to swear because there are kids in the group, but “screw you” Kirinji 😒

Amagai: Wow! But changing the subject real quick. Question for Sameoka: Why do you hate Reiji?

Sameoka: I never said I hated Reiji.

Amagai: …

Amagai: Really?

Sameoka: I just said that if he was on fire I might consider roasting marshmallows.

Amagai: ...

Amagai: 🤦

Reiji: If this is love, imagine if it was hate 😔

Odajima: Sometimes we are thankful for being friends 🙏

Murayama: I’m just watching 👀

Cobra: Now me too honey 👀

Fujio: Me Too 👀

Fujio: Wait…What or who we are watching? 👀

Link: https://x.com/taemlnti/status/1804387456298459453?s=46

[nauticalparamour]

Chapter Sixteen

It hadn't taken Hermione very long to realize that she was being followed. Perhaps it was the years that she'd spent with a target on her back, being Harry Potter's muggleborn sidekick, but through that experience she had developed a sixth sense in detecting when she was being watched. She found herself looking over her shoulder during meal times, walks through the halls, and even in the library.

Her paranoia had grown large enough that she even agreed to revising with Rabastan (without Regulus's presence) for the two classes that only they shared together, letting him walk her back to the Common Room when it got close to curfew. Oh, how things had changed, that she would willingly subject herself to future Death Eater Rabastan Lestrange for protection!

She couldn't fathom who it was who would be that interested in her comings and goings. Certainly it couldn't have been Bernie — he'd given her an extremely wide berth since returning for the second term, suggesting that he'd had words with Regulus as promised, though she wasn't privy to the conversation. She didn't think that it was the Marauders, who'd seemed to be taking their own revisions for NEWTs seriously enough now that they were getting closer to graduation.

But finally, one Friday afternoon, Hermione was pulled into an empty classroom by a hand darting out to grab her. Before the door was closed behind her, she'd already drawn her wand and jabbed it under the chin of whoever dared to attack her. She came face to face with her invisible shadow and was surprised to see that it was none other than Sirius himself.

[FFN] [AO3]

[merryfortune]

Every Rose Has Its Thorns

Written for the 100ships Challenge on Dreamwidth

Prompt :#59 Rose

Title: Every Rose Has Its Thorns

Ship: Dorothea/Manuela 

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses

Word Count: 3,690

Rating: T

Tags: Student/Teacher Relationship, Age Difference, Crushes, Unrequited Pining, Kissing, Academy Phase, Crimson Flowers

   The assignment was deceptively simple, Dorothea realised now in horror.

   Professor Byleth had assigned the class a task to teach them magic - and to teach them to appreciate how beautiful and complex magic was at all. How enchantment worked and how with just a flick of a wrist, they controlled the elements. Of which, when it came to magic, regardless of it it followed the convention of Reason or Faith, there were obvious elemental types belonging to either category. Those elements being ice, light, dark, wind, fire, and thunder.

   However, there was also the oft ignored type of anima. 

   Anima was just there, or so Professor Byleth described. Anima was the rhythm of the natural world like the seasons, or the beauty of the moon and the sound of waterfalls. Anima was the name given to the little gifts from the Goddess, or so the religious amongst them would say but since Professor Byleth was very much, not that led to the assignment.

   Professor Byleth asked the class if they could tap into the mundane anima that they saw within the world and create a new spell from it. 

   The spell didn’t have to be something like Meteor, Professor Byleth said and so gave the example of simply learning how to enchant a teacup so its contents would never grow lukewarm. Discussion throughout the classroom also yielded some ideas in vein of what Professor Byleth was trying to convey.

   Lindhardt came up with an idea of a pillow which was always cold. Ferdinand wondered if it were possible to lead a horse to water using this form magic. And Bernie wondered if she could use it to make a form of invisible ink. Professor Byleth applauded all their creativity and said that the homework would no doubt be a delight to mark at the end of the month.

   With all that as inspiration, Dorothea came up with her own idea: she would create a spell which would manipulate when roses bloomed. Seemed easy enough.

  (Wrong)

   She felt drawn to the idea of utilising anima magic and since she was never too far from the rose gardens, of course the fancy tickled. So tada. With a little bit of elbow grease and borrowing some recommendations from the bookworms in the other classes - namely Lysithea and Annette - Dorothea was well on her way to crafting her spell.

   It took her three weeks of research but she did it.

   She dubbed the resulting spell “Virgo” and upon testing it, it worked.

   In the privacy of her room in the dormitories, Dorothea had her set-up ready. She had a vase slender enough to fit only one rose and Dorothea had selected the most premature rose she could find from amongst the bushes. A rosebud days old and shy, the colouration of the petals was a scant peach. Dorothea was certain that with her spell, this rose would bloom and darken in colour.

   Only one way to find out.

   With the assignment due next week, Dorothea was nervous. She really didn’t have the time to scrap this project and start over if it was a failure. She sat in her seat, straight-backed and exhaled nervously. She concentrated on the rose then spoke.

   “Virgo.”

   The name of the spell tingled on her lips as excitement followed the sensation. She watched, eyes widening in gleeful disbelief, was the rose began to mature and bloom. The colour deepened to a warm pink as the rosebud opened, flowering, as Dorothea’s heart raced.

   She squealed, lost in her success. 

   Dorothea plucked the rose from the vase and held it close to her breast. She inhaled its divine scent and savoured the softness of its petals as she nuzzled against it. Anyone would be fortunate to receive it as a gift, a perfect specimen of its species, and anyone would be fortunate to receive it as a gift from Dorothea.

   Though she had no illusions of getting lost in the fleeting reverie.

   Her crush was ill-advised though it would be a dream, nonetheless, to gift that person with roses. The Goddess knows she deserved them and every accolade. In her youth, she was showered with roses in endless flurries at the end of her awe-inducing shows. She would have received plenty of bouquets in her time and so, another rose from an adoring fan would not be special - even if that fan was Dorothea.

   Her feelings would always be cut short and dismissed, Dorothea was well aware.

   Yes, that person Dorothea was thinking of as she held this rose was none other than Manuela Casagranda.

   Dorothea sighed dreamily as she indulged this peculiar and romantic reverie. One in which she was the heroine and Manuela was her love interest, how she had admired her from afar and did her best to blossom into a young woman befitting the diva’s legacy. She was the next generation but she did not believe that the emblem of the near past, of fame and glory turned dulled, could slip through her fingers so quickly. 

   To her, Manuela was very much still in her prime and if only Dorothea could convince her of her worth and beauty that she had at present, not just her glorious and illustrious past. 

   Perhaps a rose would suffice. More likely than not, it would not.

   Dorothea opened her eyes and she inhaled that lovely smell of a fully bloomed rose. Her skin prickled as she had more than just a heart palpitation of the sensations of her crush. She, akin to the rose she was holding, became adorned with thorns.

   Small, tiny thorns, over and up and around her slender arms.

   Dorothea squeaked in horror as she felt it, how they rose from her skin not that differently to hair. She dropped the rose in her fright as she tried to fathom how such a thing could occur, the green-black, hooked pricks of what were undeniably thorns. 

   Her eyes went wide and her heart raced. Dorothea tried to pluck them off herself but they were too sharp. A pearl of blood welled up, round and shiny, on her pointer finger and her heart stopped. That was more than enough to send her into a fit over this.

   Having just pricked from merely attempting a removal of these vile thorns from off her flesh, Dorothea desperately looked around, the rose on the cobblestone pavers of her floor utterly forgotten. Even trampled as she tried to find gloves, tweezers, shears, anything! Surely she had something stashed in her room to help.

   A frantic search did, in fact, yield tweezers.

   Her fingers went fuzzily numb as she carefully removed the thorns one by one from off her arm. There were dozens of them and she collected them on her table, a bead of sweat on her brow as she prayed to the Goddess that this was one time deal. A self-inflicted curse, a fluke, anything. 

   She stared at her pile of now removed thorns. The sight of them disgusted her. Thus, she was quick to get rid of them and throw herself at study. There had to be a way to fix this, even so close to her assignment.

   She didn’t care what it took. Just long as it got her top marks in her assignment. 

   There was no turning back to close to the due date, after all.

   She became convinced that she hadn’t studied properly. That she had missed something. That the manifestation and enchantment had been off somehow. It was just meant to be a small, simple thing but she became so reviled by it, she had to fix it immediately.

   After all, once was an accident and twice was a pattern, isn’t that how it went? Dorothea wasn’t too sure, she wasn’t some scientist like Hanneman or any of the proteges who took after him but she did try again after hitting the books some more. This time, the day before the assignment was due. She tried again and voila.

   No thorns.

   Just a pretty flower where there had been a bud before.

   Crisis averted.

   Or so Dorothea thought.

   Pre-class nerves had Dorothea jittering. Even though she was no stranger to stage fright, this was something else since she had the mixed results from her experiment in the back of her mind. But she was determined - convinced - the second attempt was the real one, not the first one. Nevertheless, she spoke stiltedly through polite small talk with her fellow students as they waited one by one for Professor Byleth to test them. Solo style, just like they would if they were to take a proficiency test to change classes.

   Then Professor Byleth called her name and Dorothea put on her most grandiose smile. She had this. She flicked her hair off her shoulder and forcibly eliminated all nerves from within her.

   “Greetings, Professor.”

   “Dorothea.” Professor Byleth returned her unusually jovial salutations and then arched an eyebrow. “What are you going to present to me for the assignment?”

   “A rose, of course.”

   Dorothea winked at Professor Byleth, who rolled their eyes and simply wrote down “rose” since that was all the information Dorothea had given them so far.

   “Begin when you like.” Professor Byleth told Dorothea once preparations were complete.

   “Thank you, professor.” Dorothea replied and whew.

   She felt nervous again. Even though she was satisfied with her practice. It was fine. It was totally and completely fine. She forcibly shut down thoughts that meandered anywhere near the malfunctions of her spell. She was confident nothing would go wrong as she set up her exhibition.

   Dorothea glanced around the room. The familiar four walls, the boring study materials, the door ajar. She exhaled with confidence as she placed her rose then stepped back.

   She closed her eyes. She visualised the blooming of the red rose, the bud that was swathed tightly in its petals. 

   “Virgo.” Dorothea said and invoked her homebrewed incantation once more.

   For the final time. 

   Thinking that felt good. It emptied her mind and when she opened, the first thing she saw was…

   Manuela.

   She looked past where she had set down her rose in a vase to the hallway. She could only see a snippet of it but she would know that dress anywhere and the accompanying sound of high heels.

   Virgo. Her spell worked but a little too well. The flower bloomed as it should but her arms became spurred with countless, green thorns. She could feel them grow and prick her skin, it was a nauseating feeling, Dorothea thought as she was subject to these horrors once more.

   “Uh, Dorothea…?” Professor Byleth prompted her. “I think it's a good idea if you go see Manuela after class.”

   Dorothea stiffened as she looked over her arms in horror. Sure enough, she had sprouted countless thorns up and down her arms. She could heard the other students outside begin to whisper. Her cheeks burn.

   “And my grade professor?” Dorothea asked, cuttingly, anything to change the subject.

   “Pass. With flying colours, congratulations.” Professor Byleth said. “Now, you are dismissed.”

   “Thank you, professor.” Dorothea said and she could not flee the classroom soon enough.

   She felt embarrassment burn her up from the inside out. Her arms erupted with more spines the more she rotated the awkward moment in which her spell went awry more and more in her mind. She stomped off, in a hurry, down the halls and let her peers speculate.

   She barged into the infirmary with tears in her eyes, “Manuela, I need help.” she announced.

   Manuela could have jumped out of her skin but she was quick to act. She was nothing if not professional when she was alert and sober. Even if she hadn’t been expecting a student. It was fortunate that she had been headed back from a stock re-supply at the markets when she had walked past Professor Byleth’s classroom enroute to her infirmary.

   “With what- oh.” Manuela’s expression went from one extreme, confusion,  to the opposite, of complete benevolence.

   She directed Dorothea to a bed and Dorothea accepted. It looked soft and like the perfect place to sulk whilst Manuela got ready to treat her patient. Thorns! How very unusual yet quite fitting for a splendid rose like Dorothea, how very curious.

   And just one in quite a lot string of incidents, actually.

   Manuela sighed as she fussed around, “I’m not surprised to see you in my infirmary, Dorothea. Seems a lot of the Black Eagles have made it into my midsts as of late. I’ll have to have a word with Professor Byleth about this assignment…”

   “Y-Yeah…” Dorothea quietly agreed, chewing on the syllables of her slang.

   She felt like a child. A silly, stupid child and she hated it. She tucked her knees under her chin as she sat in the bed, upright in the foetal position, back to the wall. Her arms were taut as she hugged herself, the spines of the thorns on prominent display as her skin prickled around them in embarrassment.

   “I’ve seen Caspar, Ferdinand, Linhardt, and even Bernadetta recently.” Manuela nattered. “So, suffice to say, this experiment is a failure.”

   She continued to busy herself with choosing ingredients for the salve she wanted to make. Dorothea watched, her cheeks hot. This was not where she wanted to be right now. She’d had her fair share of doctor-patient fantasies involving Manuela and they most certainly did not involve being in actual pain.

   “There we go, not long now, I’m almost ready, thank you for your patience, Dorothea.” Manuela said as she began to grind something into a paste using her mortar and pestle.

   “No problem.” Dorothea replied through gritted teeth. She winced every time there was a loud sound.

   Manuela turned around and tada. She had a freshly made… something. Dorothea couldn’t begin to identify it - eye of newt, perhaps? - but it smelt foul and had to be applied directly to her arms, that much was for sure.

   “It’ll only sting a bit.” Manuela lied.

   Dorothea hazarded a smile and allowed herself to be painted with the goop. She opened up, sat properly on the bed rather than like a petulant egg then offered her arm up to Manuela. She was at the ready with a brush as she held the mortar in her other hand.

   Inside the mortar was the salve. It was somewhere between grey and green in colour with a crunchy look to it. Manuela gave it a final swish with her brush and then applied it to Dorothea. It was cold the way peppermint was cold, with a spicy twinge beneath that frozen snap. It left a burning after-effect in its downward wake as Manuela painted her but Dorothea didn’t complain. She had experienced worse than a little sting.

   “You're handling this well.” Manuela observed and she glanced up at Dorothea who bore the stormy pout of an adolescent younger than she was. Manuela sighed. “Which leads me to believe that this is not your first time discovering this side effect of your spell.”

   There was a pause before Dorothea finally nodded and admitted, “Yes, this isn’t the first time.”

   “I thought so.” Manuela replied, understanding. Her brushwork was immaculate, swooping in and out around the various thorns.

   “Plucking them out didn’t work, quite clearly.” Dorothea cursed herself.

   “It happens.” Manuela consoled her. “Did you at least get a good grade, was it worth it?”

   “I did actually.” Dorothea replied, perking up slightly. Though that only answered half of Manuela’s question.

   Manuela hummed thoughtfully and Dorothea let her finish. 

   She used up all the paste that she had made. She used half of it on Dorothea’s first arm and the other half on the second. Manuela was delicate as she made sure that not an inch of Dorothea’s skin was bare by the end of it. Though the paste did dry in and magically disappear afterwards, taking the thorns with them. The thorns shrivelled up and fell away before disintegrating.

   “There we go.” Manuela said at the end of a job well done.

   It had even begun to put a smile on Dorothea’s lips again, “Thank you, Manuela.”

   “You're welcome.” Manuela replied.

   Dorothea flashed a smile and she began to get restless. She had been fondled up and down her arms by Manuela for the past half an hour or so, and she was still feeling overly dramatic over the error of her spell so she was ready to go. She tried to get up but Manuela reached out and stopped her. Gently. So that her fingers slipped over Dorothea’s smooth, dinless arms. Neither hair nor thorn on them, now.

   Just the crinkle of the paste.

   “Hold it, missy.” Manuela warned her.

   “What?” Dorothea asked.

   Manuela frowned, “Don’t sass me.” she scolded Dorothea. “My word, something has gotten into you today. I suspect it's more than just your homework.”

   “Sorry…” Dorothea mumbled.

   “I need to know for future reference, should another student’s spell go awry like this… What was the trigger?” Manuela asked. “I can take a few educated guesses but I would like to confirm my hunch.”

   Dorothea felt a flicker of lightning through her: the retribution of the Goddess, she would think. It made her stiffen and her heart stop. And Manuela noticed all of her micro-reactions.

   “Well, you know… The usual stressors.” Dorothea replied, inelegantly dancing around the truth but not outright lying.

   “Uh-huh…” Manuela chewed on her reply.

   “Roses are, of course, quite symbolically loaded.” Dorothea replied. 

   Manuela’s brown eyes were discerning. Her countenance turned severe. She was always in opposition of Dorothea as a figure of authority and yet, that’s what Dorothea found attractive. Right up until she was reminded that she was just a subject below Manuela, feelings entirely one-sided. Her mouth dried and she absent-mindedly scratched her arms, still feeling where the paste was and where the thorns had once grown.

   She could almost feel them grow once more but Manuela’s balm was too good for her. She was cured now.

   “It might be that thinking about a certain someone… The ideas get crossed and the spell backfires.” Dorothea explained.

   Her voice trailed off and Manuela’s expression softened. She smiled, delighted. Though delighted like only a gossip could be delighted.

   “Well?” Manuela asked. “Who’s the lucky guy?” Then she blinked, embarrassed because she had put her foot in her mouth. “Or… girl. I know you are, uh, inclined both ways.”

   Dorothea felt her stomach squirm and her palms sweat. This was not how she had imagined this moment going. Sure, it happened in the infirmary sometimes in her daydreams and other times, it did involve plentiful amounts of roses but this reality was far too awkward and flat.

   Yet confess was exactly what she did.

   “You.” Dorothea murmured.

   “Uh… pardon?” Manuela malfunctioned. “Come again?”

   “I said. You.” Dorothea kept her voice down but her repetition was louder than a murmur.

   Repeating her confession out loud, however, still did not compute with Manuela as Dorothea found herself blushing rose red. Her heart was beating hard and fast, like she had just completed a solo for an audience of a thousand and yet. It was just Manuela who was somewhere between refusing to listen and refusing to believe that it were possible for someone like Dorothea to hold a candle for her.

   But it was.

   It really was.

   Dorothea admired Manuela with all her heart and soul. Her beautiful voice, her quaffed hair, her angular cheekbones, the way she felt like home no matter the scene or stage, whether it was the opera or the academy or the infirmary. She truly meant the world and more to Dorothea. How was she to not fall in love with such a woman, a force of nature if only she could see?

   “Please.” Dorothea insisted with eyes which were welling up with tears.

   “I know.” Manuela sighed wearily. “I would be lying if I said I hadn’t been there, done that. Pined for someone older than me and trust me, my sweet, it is a path that doesn’t end well for either of them.”

   She reached out her hand and caressed Dorothea’s face. She felt sparks in the pads of Manuela’s fingertips. She was so soft and gentle and ultimately, bittersweet. As was the expression which tugged on Manuela’s made-up face. Dorothea remained pleading and petulant, however, resistant to the wisdom that Manuela felt and was trying to bestow upon her as the closest reward she could get for bravely confessing her feelings.

   “I’m sorry,” Manuela told her, “I don’t feel the same way but just know, you would be good fortune to anyone to have, rich or poor, old or young, male or female. Please, my dear, keep looking, you will find someone who deserves you.”

   Manuela leaned in and pressed a familial kiss onto the middle of Dorothea’s forehead. Through her lips and lipstick, Manuela could feel the throb of Dorothea’s pulse and practically taste all the thoughts running through her head. She held Dorothea’s face steady.

  “I understand, Professor.” Dorothea replied brusquely, her heart broken.

   “I’m glad,” Manuela whispered as she pulled back, she felt a ribbon of Dorothea’s tears slide down over her hand as she cupped Dorothea’s cheek, “now be good, stay out of mischief, and keep on top of your studies. I don’t want to see any more thorns marring you.”

   “Understood.” Dorothea said.

   She shifted and squirmed, and Manuela kept her hand in place until Dorothea finally slipped away. The warmth of her was fleeting, turning to cold. Even Dorothea could feel the ice that she was exuding and as she stood up, she rubbed her hands up and down her arms.  As though she, too, were cold. Her bare arms felt cakey underneath her palms but it was just the after sensation. The paste that it had absorbed yet smooth as no longer was she prickly with thorns.

   “See you later, Dorothea.” Manuela called out to her as she began to leave.

   Dorothea turned around, at least briefly, to nod in acknowledgement of Manuela telling her goodbye but that was it. She excused herself wordlessly, feeling like a trampled rose.

[burningexeter]

[FUN FAN THEORY]

Bernie Wrightson's truly amazing Frankenstein illustrated edition along with its sequel Alive, Alive takes place in the same shared universe as all of the following which deal with several different types of unconventional protagonists having to fight the odds by any means necessary:

• Far Cry Primal

• Apocalypto

• Wolfwalkers

• The Pirates Of The Caribbean Trilogy

• The Mask Of Zorro

• Guy Ritchie's Sherlock Holmes Duology

• Red Dead Redemption Duology

• Crimson Peak

• Deathwatch

• The Mummy (1999)

• Indiana Jones Series (1 — 4)

• Overlord (2018)

• Inglourious Basterds

• The Nice Guys

• Thief (1981)

• Runaway Train (1985)

• Big Trouble In Little China

• Tales From The Crypt Presents Demon Knight

• Heat (1995)

• The Incredibles

• Breaking Bad Trilogy

• Sons Of Anarchy Duology

• Krampus

• The Invisible Man (2020)

and

• Upgrade

[shibe-myths]

Stealing this from another blog paraphrasing cause I couldn’t find it.

What if our MC, which has been feeling numb for a long time. At some point look into the eyes of the RO and say something like “When I’m with you I feel alive. Did you do that?".

What will be the reaction of the ROs? Apprentice too cause she’s a cutie!

Awww, anon that ask is so cute! Please tell me where you saw that! I wanna read their stuff.

As for your ask:

Apprentice: The reverse of this ask is actually a spoiler. But I assume if the MC asked the Apprentice this she would be:

Crying from joy and guilt. She has no words.

Lady B: She looks as if the air has been taken from her lungs, wide eyed and lost. She brings the MC close and cries. A rarity for the ex-Sultana.

"I did no such thing. It is you who brought me to life."

Bernie: There is a moment where Bernie stares at the MC, shocked, before the full brunt of their weight is rammed into the MC. Crying and laughing. They whisper:

"You make me feel alive too."

Laz: Shock consumes them. For once they have no words. No quips. Only questions left unanswered. Did they?

"I... I don't know... is that a good thing?"

Amyntas: Disbelief consumes his features, mouth agape and lost. Flies would surely make a home within if he isn't careful. He has tried to KILL you and yet, you feel alive with him? What the fuck is wrong with them?

"You are a strange one."

Bishop: For once the usually silent man falls to his knees and laughs. And laughs. If not for his immortality, one might think he'd die from it.

"By the blood of us all, I did no such thing."

Indigo: The noise that leaves her lips is unholy. High pitched and LOUD, she brings the MC into her chest- no matter the difference in height and sings-

"If I am the one who brings you to life- you are the one who has brought me from the brink."

Perierat: There is only a smug all-knowing aura that invades the air. As if the question even needed to be asked. Perierat pulls the MC forward, enveloping them in neir grasp. The webs in their antlers shivering from the titan's glee.

"One day you will know just how much you mean to me."

Asha: Tears flood her eyes as she rounds the table, rough hands reaching out to cup the MC's face as she peppers them in kisses.

"I really doubt that darl' but just know, I love ya too. No matta' what."

Lace: For a moment the man thinks that the MC is joking, surely HE isn't that imp- but the look on their face breaks that thought and it's as if the world suddenly has focus. Past the smog of perfume and Cinis. Another thought floods their mind as they fall... hard.

'Well... shit.'

Ribbon: For once the ghost shows something beyond the blur of mild contempt. It is small, the twitch of her lips, the glow of her eyes being just THAT much brighter. But as she shifts in the air, just that much closer, the words flood into the MC's mind.

'Me too.'

Stranger: It's hard to know what the Stranger is thinking from beyond that mask, but as he moves to stand, something like a broken gasp eeks out before he vanishes back into the comfort of invisibility.

[aurumacadicus]

Fictober 20/31 -- “There’s only us.”

The Avengers are coming, but Lottie snuck out, so it takes them a while to realize that 1) she’s missing, 2) she’s in danger, and 3) they have to actually locate her. She’s aware of this, and she’s unwilling to wait. Over 1K so look out for under the cut!

--

“Alright, introductions out of the way,” Lottie said, voice clipped. “I’m Lottie. You know Mr. Cheung. Who are you. Fast.” The older boy was taking off his shirt. Lottie squinted at him, absolutely bewildered, until she remembered her nakedness. The other two kids were staring at her, agog. She considered turning back into a cat. Eventually she decided against it, taking the shirt with a sigh and pulling it over her head. Once covered, she clapped her hands together, sternly repeating, “Names. Give them to me.”

“Bernie,” the older boy said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I can turn invisible as long as I hold my breath.” He moved his right arm uncomfortably, drawing attention to the device around his wrist. “When I’m not wearing this thing, anyway.”

The middle of the two stood up from cowering against the wall as Mr. Cheung put a hand on Lottie’s shoulder, as if to show she was a safe person. “My name’s Veronica. I can hover off the ground.” She turned and grabbed the last kid up, who meekly hid his face in her shoulder. “This is Tim. He can create ultrasonic waves with his mouth. He can’t control it, though, so he’s scared to talk, even with the bracelet.”

Lottie felt her stern expression fade. She bent down a little, smiling. “Nice to meet you, Tim. I understand being afraid to hurt someone with your powers. Do you know any sign language?”

Tim shook his head.

“He writes in our palms,” Bernie offered.

“Okay, well, maybe once we get out of here, we can find someone to teach you a way to communicate that doesn’t revolve around writing,” Lottie told him gently, then stood up, looking around the cell.

“What do you mean, once we get out of here?” Bernie asked, following her as she walked over to the barred door. “We’ve been here for months.”

Lottie turned to look at him sharply. “Months?”

“Well, Veronica has,” Bernie admitted under her glare. “For three months. Then me, then Tim, then Yin.”

“Yin,” Lottie repeated, confused.

Mr. Cheung sighed. “That’s my first name.”

“He gets to call you by your first name?!” Lottie exclaimed, outraged.

“You can call me Yin when you can properly pronounce ‘orange,’” Mr. Cheung said sternly.

Lottie threw her hands up, frustrated, then threw them out when they both opened their mouths to speak. “No. Stop. Both of you are being called ‘shut up’ until you can provide me with help.”

“Charlotte,” Mr. Cheung began, offended.

“SHUT UP,” Lottie hissed, and let her teeth go sharp in warning. She turned back to the door, curling her fingers around the bars and testing its strength. It could probably stand up to the strongest human. If she was a tiger, she could rip it clean off its hinges.

She would rip it clean off its hinges.

“Lottie, wait,” Bernie began.

Lottie took a deep breath and rolled her eyes, then let it back out slowly, turning to look at him. “What?”

“You think we can just, what, escape like that?” Bernie said, obviously frustrated. “We don’t know the guards’ schedules, if these devices can be used to hurt us, or even where, exactly, we are. Where are we going to go?”

Lottie worked her jaw. He looked so young, he couldn’t be any older than eighteen or nineteen. She wondered if she’d looked so young the day her parents waved her and her sisters off to go to Mutant Pride. God. How had they ever let her go. She looked back out at the hallway. “So your proposal is… to sit here and wait and see what happens?” she asked, biting back a growl.

“We don’t even know what they want from us,” Bernie said, shrugging, movements sharp and angry.

Lottie let her hands drop from the door, fighting the urge to bare her teeth at him.

“They want us dead,” Mr. Cheung said simply, matter-of-fact. “They did the same thing to my parents back in Guangdong. They fled the country to escape it.”

“Dead?” Veronica repeated, voice cracking.

“Dead,” Mr. Cheung repeated with a firm nod. “We are other, so we are dangerous.”

Tim began to cry, tears silently streaming down his face. Veronica pulled him into a hug with a sniffle. Bernie had gone ash-white, as if the fact that he’d be murdered had never occurred to him. As if he’d never allowed it to occur to him.

“No one is coming for us,” Lottie told them. She tried to say it with all the compassion she could, but it still came out pretty stern. “Veronica has been here three months, and no one has come. Even as more and more people were taken off the streets, no one has come. We have to save ourselves. There’s only us,” she continued desperately as she watched the hope leave their eyes. “We need to get ourselves out of here. We can do it together.”

Mr. Cheung reached out to put his hand on her shoulder again. “You’d have a better chance of getting out and getting help, wouldn’t you?”

“That stopped being an option the minute I came through the vent,” Lottie told him, frowning when his grip tightened in distress. “It’s too late. I’ve wasted too much time.”

“We’ll just slow you down,” Bernie said, lifting his hand to pick at the device around his wrist.

Lottie blinked at him, then reached out, taking his arm into her hands like it was made of porcelain. She leaned down. Closed her sharpening teeth around the device.

Jaguars had a bite force of fifteen hundred pounds per square inch. It snapped under the pressure of her jaw like a twig. The worst she got was a spark of electricity and the taste of sour Gameboy cartridge.

“…Noooo, I did not like that at all,” Bernie whispered, looking at his now-bare arm.

Veronica jumped to her feet, holding her wrist out. “Me next! Do me!”

“Okay,” Lottie said, reaching out to take her arm and hold it still.

She bit through Veronica’s easily, and then Tim’s, when he shyly held his arm out. Mr. Cheung went last, and Lottie hesitated in putting her teeth close to his papery skin. He just patted her on the head though, gave a little nod, and didn’t even flinch when one of the wires scratched him.

“Charlotte,” Mr. Cheung said as she carefully ran her tongue over the cut to stop the bleeding. “You do understand… this is just one door.” When she looked up at him, confused, he nodded toward the hallway. “I counted three other doors from the corner of the cell, peering out. That was only what I could see. Who knows how many mutants are being held prisoner here.”

“I have an idea,” Lottie admitted, thinking back to the chat rooms and missing persons reports she’d been poring over with Natasha before she’d been snatched off the street. She nodded once, sharply. “We’ll open every door, then.”

“We’ll slow you down,” Bernie said again, but he sounded resigned this time.

“I’ll make up the difference,” Mr. Cheung said, rubbing his wrist where the power-dampening bracelet had been.

Everyone looked at him, surprised. “What’s your power, Mr. Cheung?” Veronica asked.

“I make electronics stop working when I touch them,” he answered simply. “I can go ahead of everyone and take the bracelets off the other prisoners.” He smiled. “I’m sure some won’t need to wait for little Charlotte to come tear the door off for them.”

“Great! It’s a plan,” Lottie said, clapping her hands together.

“It’s the start of a plan,” Bernie cut in.

“It’s all we’ve got time for,” Lottie replied, beginning to pull the shirt he’d lent her off. She handed it back to him. “Thanks for the modesty. I don’t have any.”

Bernie coughed, trying to make the way he immediately looked away from her body casual and failing. “Yeah, I get that now.”

Lottie smiled a little, amused, then turned back to the door, rubbing her hands together. “Okay. Here we go.” She paused, then let out a little sigh. “If shooting starts, get behind me. I’m a bigger target. My body will protect you.”

“Charlotte,” Mr. Cheung began, voice sharp, but Lottie was already shifting, orange-and-white paws wrapping around the bars of the door. She ripped it off in one swift movement.

Alarms started going off after she’d ripped off three more, but she wasn’t going to let that stop her.

[audio-luddite]

Bought two more LPs.

One is a winner the other a mistake.

I saw a glowing review of new issue of "The Cars" LP in TAS, I think, so it was in the back of my mind for a while. While in a store that has racks of LPs (just like the old days) though not really that many I grabbed a copy. Playing it and expecting the familiar songs I was struck by two things. The first was yes the record was clear and clean and all that good stuff. Second I did not like it. This was "new wave" as they called late 70s not-as-angry punk. Very similar to Blondie, but just I did not like it. I shoulda done my Itunes tryout thing. Dint. I like Blondie.

The other LP was a 180 gram reissue of Joanie Mitchell's "Blue". Every song a classic and several became my ear worms for a few days. Cut by one of the masters, Bernie Grundman, its both technically great as well as musically. Simply they do not write songs like that anymore. I wish they did.

The mix is clean and simple with not many tricks. Some instruments are in one channel or the other. Vocals mono center for example. But when I say clean, the metal strings on the guitar are obvious and I think there is a dulcimer in there. The piano is big and rich. JM is not a great vocalist but these are her songs and they range from just personal to intimate. In the right (or wrong) mood "little green" can make you cry.

So that one was a winner.

Grado Opus 3, phase linear 8000a turntable, ARC SP14 preamplifier, ARC Cl60 amplifier, invisible speakers.