#confounded and terrified

[reachexceedinggrasp]

You're my type of man! Of course, you could stand to have a little more meat on you.

[thebirdandhersong]

on a more serious note I would really appreciate prayer for an awful email I have to write (which I've been desperately putting off the whole week). It is a necessary one that I hate to write and I hate to do it but I have to and I REALLY don't want to.

[hexjulia]

don't be mean to lestaaaat he never learned how to read and took the "consuming" thing you guys like to say about media literally 🥺 really this is booktok's fault.

[marnz]

gluten free sourdough starter notes; day 3

Something silly about me is that the idea of fermentation really freaks me out because I am terrified of alive bacteria and mold and fungi, which my brain lumps together for some reason. Terrified. I cannot deal with mushrooms, for example, unless I’m hiking and see them in the woods. This fear doesn’t make any sense but I still have it. Like, I learned about the bacteria in yogurt and did not eat it for 4 years. I still have to actively block out my knowledge of cheese and yogurt. I was only recently able to start eating pickles. Blue cheese, Sauerkraut, and Kimchi all freak me out. This is silly and I am actively trying to get over it. It took me a while to become alright with the idea of making sourdough due to this, but the allure of being able to cheaply make my own bread instead of paying a ton of money for gf bread from the farmer’s market or store was so powerful I decided to try and over come my fear (prompting friends and my partner to be like omg so proud of you--that’s how bad my phobia is). My rough understanding of sourdough is that it is not like cheese, it is different because yeasts are feeding on the flour rather than the flour molding (???). If I am wrong please do not tell me! So I have been reading about sourdough for a fuller understanding, esp. about different yeasts types.

 This brief article suggests that the diversity of sourdough microbial communities cannot be explained by location--and here’s another article talking about how microbial communities in sourdough are also on bakers’ skin biodome. But both articles are talking about gluten flours (wheat, rye, etc). I was wondering if there are specific yeasts attracted to rice flour, but this Serious Eats article suggests that the flour doesn’t matter as long as it converts into the right kind of sugar for microbial production. However this Scientific American article says a lot of yeasts come from the flours itself and the flour determines the flavor, I guess because of the yeasts and lactic acid bacteria (LAB) attracted to the flour/attached to it?? Hm! If this works out maybe I will also try a sorghum flour starter.

The Serious Eats article says that the lactic acid bacteria (LAB) in sourdough are also at work in pickles and sauerkraut and kimchi! so I need to get over myself!! 😭

I started my gf sourdough starter, Jonathan, 3 days ago. A baker once told me to bring my mix of flour and water outside and walk through a field to attract wild yeasts so I took my starter out into the yard and took a lap around. I’m using brown rice flour based on this recipe. I also have been tying a dishtowel over the quart jar I’m using instead of using the lid. I am storing it on the top of the fridge for temperature reasons.

I was a little concerned about the starter working because I chose to use tap water and the recipe advises to not do this b/c most tap water has chlorine, which impedes the growth of the starter. However my city has some of the best tap water in the world, so I ignored this. It’s working out quite well. I’ve been feeding Jonathan 50 g of brown rice flour & 50 g of water twice a day. By last night there was some sort of liquid on top--it is possible this was hooch? The recipe says hooch forms when the starter is “hungry” so I am wondering if 50 g of flour is not enough. I hope to start switching to 100% hydration feedings (1:1:1 ratio of starter/flour/water) soon.

By this morning at 7:30 the starter had almost tripled in size and was light and springy with a lot of bubbles. The recipe advises to start discarding today. There’s still some bad bacteria in the mix since it’s only 3 days old so I can’t use the discard for anything yet. It definitely smelled sour.

I am going to try to make sourdough with this recipe. I will start with the suggested flour mix and boule shape. I am fascinated by the idea of using psyllium husk as a binder/gluten replacement. I haven’t used it before; these days I mainly use flax egg as an egg replacement. My research suggests psyllium husk is very popular with the gf sourdough community right now. Since it’s a literal husk (the recipes I’ve consulted do not advise using psyllium husk powder) I’m a little concerned about how it will mix in with the bread. I’m hoping I can start experimenting with the bread itself after I’ve had the starter for about 2 weeks.

[boreal-sea]

I just get incomprehensibly bewildered every single time I hear about commercial airline fuckups. Coming as I do from the world of naval aviation, the shit commercial airlines get up to confounds me.

Did the navy try to rush us during peak flight schedule? Yeah, course they did. And you know what we were trained to do? To tell them to go fuck themselves, because safety came FIRST. I’m serious. I always performed full inspections. I pissed off people weekly for finding flaws that made the jets unsafe to fly. I once told a guy two ranks above me “no” and stood there and refused to do the task until it was safe to do it. I made him and the pilots wait the full 5 minutes. After the jet took off, he came up to me and admitted I’d been right. Yeah, I know. You’re welcome for me refusing to do a thing I knew would catch the jet on fire with the pilots inside.

And navy jets have REDUNDANCY. They have two of everything. Learning some commercial jets only have ONE piece of equipment, a sensor that records the angle of the plane, that was connected to a computer that could override the pilot’s input and force the jet to careen towards the ground? Yeah. Terrifying.

I look at commercial aviation and go “look what you’ve done. You’ve ruined a perfectly good form of transportation.”

Anyway trains are better and if I could get where I’m going next month without flying I would.

[fairuzfan]

The thing that's never made sense to me is the "Holocaust inversion" talking point and the idea that we are "moralizing" the Holocaust as something you're supposed to learn from which like aside from the fact that israel's entire pr is that it needs to exist because of the Holocaust, I really don't understand how feeling empathy based on past experiences is like... a moralizing action?

Even those who don't feel empathy, they still like... have the universal idea that you shouldn't do bad things onto other people. When you consider that yeah, when you live in the world, you experience terrible things and you relate those terrible things to other terrible things happening in the world. That's just what everyone does. Whenever I hear things happening to indigenous Turtle Islanders I always relate it back to Palestine. When I hear about violence happening to Black people, I think "Ah it must be terrifying" and I think back to my own family members and friends who were killed by Israel. When i think of antiBlackness in arab spaces, i relate it back to the occupation and compare myself to the occupation on whether or not im inflicting the same pain i and my family endure onto others. It's just how you experience the world. No one is asking you to "learn" from the Holocaust, people are just asking you to apply empathy.

A universal example is that you don't really understand the grief of losing a loved one until you yourself lose a loved one. And when you encounter a person who lost a loved one as well, you relate to them in a unique way that you wouldn't have without having that experience of grief before. It's not a moralizing experience, it's just... an experience. An awful one but you don't *learn* anything from it.

So it always confounds me that there's such vehement pushback against the idea that what Palestinians are going through is similar to the Holocaust because it's not like we're making light of the Holocaust? It's that we are asking you, a zionist (in this case one who is Jewish specifically), to acknowledge that there are similarities between the way Palestinians are treated and the ways Jews, Roma, and multiple other people were treated during the Holocaust. It's that we're relegated to second class status, we are considered lesser, we are confined to ghettos, we have our livelihoods stolen from us, we have weapons tested on us, we're survielled like we are dangerous monsters and we experience systematic segregation. And now we are experiencing mass slaughter campaigns within our concentration camps. But what's the issue? Are you offended that Palestinians can even remotely understand the terrible violence that Jews experienced in the Holocaust? Or are you denying that Palestinians are experiencing those things??

People always bring up like "Oh you don't understand what exactly happened during the Holocaust, you're just using it as a stand in for "a very bad thing"" and that's like... never made sense either because what does that mean? I'm not... using the Holocaust out of nowhere, I'm using it because Israel tells US, PALESTINIANS, that we need to be kicked out and raped and tortured *because* of the Holocaust. When us, Palestinians, ask you to feel empathy for us based on what you experienced during the Holocaust, we aren't just pulling it out of thin air, we are using a zionist talking point and pointing out the flaws. "Does experiencing a Holocaust allow you to conduct massacres and unbelievable violence onto other people?" and "Why are we paying for the terrible crimes of Europeans? Why is this our fault that we must suffer for it, as you, a zionist, insist we must?"

It's just so confusing how people would take offense at feeling empathy for Palestinians. We aren't denying the awful, awful genocide of the Holocaust, nor are we "making light of it..." but if you believe that comparing what Palestinians go through is making light of the Holocaust, then you must think that what we are going through is not bad at all.

[theminecraftbee]

Etho and Grian are back at base, hysterically laughing over their achievement. Cleo sits inside, staring, as the two of them talk about getting a wither and a warden to fight, and tries to figure out what she feels about it.

In some ways it's not their fault. Task made them do it and all that. Plus--

Well, it's not like she and Etho are losing hearts anytime soon. They've both done a damn good job keeping themselves from dying. A benefit, Cleo thinks, of deciding to team with Etho this time. Between the two of them, they'll largely only do chaos they can recover from. Maybe this is their game. Maybe this time, Cleo manages to stick with someone until the very end. It looks like it. It looks like...

Grian, of course, is the confounding factor.

She wasn't going to turn him away. He needed allies. They needed someone a bit better at actually doing damage than herself or Etho. It's mutually beneficial. And, besides, he's weirdly lovable, in an inherently kind of dangerous way. A little like loving a bobcat someone had accidentally raised as a pet cat until it got a bit too big and stinky and murdery for them. Like, yeah, he shouldn't be domesticated and he's not, really, in any sense of the word, but it's a bit sad to watch him try to survive on his own now, right?

Hah. Maybe that's what Scar managed to do to him. Would explain a lot, really.

Anyway, he's her bobcat now, which is the problem.

See the thing is: Cleo understands Etho. It's why finally deciding to be partners for once felt... right. They're similar flavors of people. Scared, mostly. Survivors, but not in the 'will stab anyone' way that like, Martyn is. Loyal, although Cleo has no delusions that Etho is as loyal as she. And scared. Has she already said that? Scared. It's important to the kinds of things she and Etho are. Like... mountain lions, maybe. Mountain lions that have been around just enough people to know how dangerous they are. Like that.

God, she's only doing cat metaphors. Bdubs really is turning them all into furries.

Anyway, the point is, Grian isn't scared.

And that... terrifies her.

That's scarier than anything else. Because, see, Cleo wants to survive. But more than that, she wants her partners to survive. And she and Etho, the two of them are doing well. Better than most people. They're green and they have so many hearts.

But Grian? Grian's yellow and not afraid and goading Etho into not being afraid too. It's not their fault, exactly, Cleo thinks. They both had hard tasks. They didn't have a choice, Cleo thinks.

But. But.

She doesn't know what to do, if Etho gets convinced the humans down the mountain aren't scary. She doesn't know what to do if he gets too close. She doesn't know what to do if he gets hurt.

Because she--she doesn't think she can learn to stop being scared, anymore.

But she also doesn't know how many times her heart can stand to lose someone.

Did you know--wild cats are social? They have a reputation for being loners, but mountain lions, they're social. They don't do well being alone. They don't actually hunt solely alone. That's the important bit here. They seem independent, sure, but actually...

Anyway. This is Bdubs's fault. For making her a furry, apparently.

She watches Grian and Etho scheme together and sits back and breathes and tells herself that Etho isn't going to stop being afraid anytime soon. That if push came to shove, he, at least, would retreat back, and that maybe the two of them could convince Grian to retreat too. Safe from hunters. Safe from red.

Maybe safe from hurting each other, too.

(She's not so sure about that part.)

[neutron-stars-collision]

It's incredible how much everything changes when you rewatch p1, after seeing the whole thing at least twice. Especially episodes 1-2. The context of Colin's feelings, his confounding feelings, makes everything even better.

Because imagine this: he's on the tour of the continent, living the life, only no one responds to his letter or seems interested in his whereabouts. And if it were only the family? He'd probably be fine. Salty, but fine. Except it's Pen, his dearest friend who doesn't respond to his letter. Not once.

So, Colin spirals, decides to change his personality, become the man he thinks society expects him to be, starts documenting things in his journal where usually he'd write about them to Pen. Perhaps with time he stops writing letters to her completely, but he still misses her so much.

He comes back, a changed man, everyone's attention on him and his newly acquired swagger. Debutantes swoon over him and his new look. It's everything he wanted, except... Pen gives him the cold shoulder. Twice. Doesn't seem at all interested in his new persona. The flirting, which he has tried out on many unimportant women in the Ton doesn't work on the one woman who actually matters. He's confused and lost.

Once he realises what he has done to garner Penelope's anger, he instantly makes amends. Sheds the newly acquired armour to tell her just how much she means to him. Or at least as much as he's allowing himself to notice by that point. The confusion is still there, and it gets worse after the handshake because you cannot tell me he didn't feel a spark right then? He definitely did. And it was bewildering.

But, still, being the oblivious man he is, Colin pushes on with the mad and spontaneous plan to help Pen find a husband. Mostly because it gives him a chance to spend time with her. And suddenly this is all he wants to do. The only thing that provides genuine joy. Only in those brief moments with her he can be himself. He can be accepted.

And episode 2 showcases all of that perfectly. It shows Colin in a permanent state of confusion because not only are those moments with Penelope the only times he feels like his old self, but also now there's more. The constant desire to be alone with her, to trample over any left rules of propriety to steal just a moment of her attention. To help her because this is the only thing he's good at. To be useful. Then jealousy begins to brew because he has to watch Pen be her charming self with men that are not him. Slowly he begins to realise that perhaps he wants more than to be her friend. That perhaps she's never been just a friend.

By the time Pen asks for that kiss, Colin is terrified because he wants to kiss her. He wants to kiss her while knowing that it will mean something. It will mean something to him. Because Pen is home. Pen is everything he was looking for. And now that he has realised it there is no chance he can forget. The kiss only signs off that which was inevitable.

[devilfic]

❝friends of the web❞

plot: you have a fear of spiders, but you've made a promise to work past it. peter thinks your determination is really quite adorable. pairing: tasm!peter parker x gn!reader. cw: fluff, humor, established relationship, spiders (not graphic), reader has arachnophobia but is being so brave about it, based on the poem "ten legs, eight broken" by I, e on tiktok because it fundamentally changed the way I interact with small bugs forevermore. words: 1.2k.

a/n: I have had pretty bad arachnophobia my entire life and after reading ten legs, eight broken a while back, it convinced me to start saving little spiders I find in my house. this fic is 100% based on how that ends up going every single time. minus peter parker coming to save the day

He's careful, stomach coiled tight to control his breathing. One hand is delicately pinching a bolt with tweezers, the other holding his webshooter frighteningly still. One wrong move would trigger the suspension, and about four hours' worth of fluid refill would end up all over his research notes. He has to be slow. He lowers the tweezers another half inch.

Gently, the bolt's thread catches and he releases the breath he'd been holding. In that same moment, you shout and his tweezers slip.

It's the feeling of webs spraying him in the face that he registers first, their tendrils catching onto his glasses and eyelashes and lips. Then it's your rushed breathing, the pumping of your heart nearly beating out of your chest. He doesn't feel a tingle along his spine but your shout jolts Peter out of his spell. In an instant, he's batting away the webs and throwing himself out of his office with enough velocity to take down a wall. He's expecting scorpions, vultures, lizards, his hearing zeroing in on you, and-

-and he turns the corner and there's you, crouched on the floor, hands cupped in front of you—cocooning something. "Hey, hey, hey, whoa, whoa." Peter's eyes flit around the room, looking for the threat his senses ought to have picked up on by now, and kneels beside you. He focuses on your hands and your complete and utter lack of urgency. "What's going on?"

You glance to the side, so quick he doesn't even think you register the panic on his face, "Pete, thank God. Can you talk to this thing for me?"

You move your hand and the other breathing thing in the room becomes apparent. A spider, barely the size of a crumb, is crawling over mountains of carpet thread. It's moving quickly but in circles, clearly confounded by the terrain. Peter looks at you. He drags each syllable out as he asks, "What is happening?"

You shift and Peter shifts with you, keeping an eye on the spider, "This thing- this spider is such a jackass."

"Yeah?"

"I'm trying to get him outside and he won't go."

You've got a flier for Pilates in the Park clenched in one hand, while the other is cautiously putting a wall between the spider and the abyss under your sofa, a place where even Peter dares not go. "Why don't you just kill it?"

Clearly that was the wrong thing to say. You look horrified at him as you answer, "I can't kill him!"

"Do we- are we sure it's a him? Have you decided he's a him?"

"I made a promise to myself that I would stop killing."

"I don't think... okay, what is going on here?"

You struggle to explain and focus on the spider at the same time, "It's a resolution I made for the new year. That even though I'm terrified of these things, I won't kill them anymore because... because they're living beings just like me." Peter watches you bite your lip, a twinge of pity sewn into the divot between your furrowed brows, "So I'm putting them outside whenever I see one... if only they would stop being jackasses about it."

Peter half-laughs, half-sighs. The little spider crawling around on the ground is none the wiser to your inner peril, "This isn't just because your boyfriend is, like, 1/3 spider, is it? I won't take it personally if you hit him with a shoe."

You snort and place your flier in front of the escaping spider, watching it crawl over the word "yoga" before making a u-turn for the carpet, "Of course not, my spider overlord."

You try to scoop up the spider again but every time you lift the paper, it dives off the other side and back into the carpet. "How long does this usually take?" Peter asks. He sits back on his ass, propping up a knee to rest his arm on.

"Ten minutes at best. If I don't lose them."

"Hm. And this works for you?"

You pout up at him, scooping up the spider again and watching it fly off once more, "I usually manage to get them outside, I'll have you know."

"And the screaming?"

"I never said it was a peaceful process."

"So, let me get this straight," Peter leans into you, "you spot the spider, you grab the nearest piece of paper, you try to get the spider on the paper, and then you...?"

"Scream and run until I make it to the window."

"Why- why the screaming?"

You wince, trying not to lose the bug in the carpet, "Because I'm scared they'll touch me." Your boyfriend tickles his fingers along your arm and you shiver, swatting him with your free hand.

After another failed attempt, Peter places his hand in front of the spider's path and it crawls into his palm to get to the kitchen. Before it can cross over into tiled territory, it's forced to a sudden stop, and Peter takes advantage.

It takes him three strides to get to the living room window, yank it open, and release the spiderling into the wild.

You're standing behind him with a look of frustration on your face, even though your shoulders have finally sagged with relief, "How'd you convince him to sit in your hand like that?"

"I didn't. Sticky hands." Peter wiggles all his fingers at you, amused.

"Wh- that's it? Do they not usually listen to you or something?" You grab one of his hands and quickly realize he's using that ability on you this time. He's got you stuck in a handhold.

"I can't remember when I ever said I could talk to spiders."

"I mean, it seems like a pretty fair assumption," you grumble, trying to shake his hand away before giving in, "they put their juices in you after all."

"Why would you say that?"

"Thanks for the help, by the way. I'm still... getting used to not panicking when I see them."

Peter raises his other hand to your hair and gives you a kiss on the temple, smiling against your skin, "You are so, so, so brave."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, it's pretty brave to show mercy to something you fear, right? You could've killed it or asked me to do it, but you didn't. You wanted it to live."

"It doesn't mean to scare me," you bring your intertwined hands up to your mouth and press a kiss to his knuckles, "I'd want it to take pity on me if it was the other way around."

"I think the spiders will appreciate that."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Then why do they give me such a hard time?"

"Well, you're so scared of them that you don't even realize they're just as scared of you. You gotta make 'em like you, you know?"

"Got any tips for that?"

Peter guides his free hand to your waist, rocking you side to side, "Hm. Buy them sushi. Take them to a midnight showing of Night of the Living Dead. Tell him you think his nerdy rambling after the movie is sexy..." You giggle into Peter's chest and his heart swells, "Don't laugh! It worked on me."

You tilt your head up and he steals a kiss without hesitation, making you stumble on what you say next, "How about you just come let them out for me next time, hm?"

"And if I'm not around?"

"...make me a super scientific spider catching gadget?"

Peter hooks his hands underneath your thighs and hikes you up around his waist, "I'll make you one if you refill my web fluid for me."

"You can fill me with your web fluid."

"Okay. I'm putting you in time out, freak."

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes

[deepfakefart]

EDIT: please see @cliffsideview's replies for more info! Tragically it is sounding more probable that it was a suicide spurred by a long period of bullying. Every person who participated, every teacher who stood by, every legislator who is a proponent of the anti-trans bills – every one of them is complicit in Nex's death. Ryan Walters specifically has blood on his hands.

They're ruling Nex Benedict's death a suicide. Death due to "combined toxicity" of fluoxetine (Prozac) and diphenhydramine (benadryl). Let's explore this.

Fluoxetine is known to cause seizures at very high dosages but rarely causes death. In one case study, 1.4 grams of Prozac likely caused a seizure but not death in an adult woman. "A dose as low as 520 mg of fluoxetine has been associated with a lethal outcome, but there’s record of someone taking 8 grams of fluoxetine and recovering," according to Healthline. ("Associated with" does not necessarily mean the sole cause!) Diphenhydramine overdose has been known to cause death at doses of 20mg/kg or greater; in the USA in 2017, it was involved (but not necessarily the sole factor) in 3% of OD deaths according to the CDC. I've no clue how much Nex weighed but I based my math on a 100lb person. A lethal dose of diphenhydramine at that weight would have been approx 900mg. There is no known lethal dose of fluoxetine for humans. It can vary greatly but is generally safe and generally requires very large doses to cause seizures let alone death. There are no known serious drug interactions between these two drugs.

But let's say there is some interaction at unusually high doses that I don't know about because this is an extremely unusual combination for a suicide attempt. We know that Benadryl is much easier to OD on than Prozac is. So let's pull some numbers out of our asses and say 750mg of diphenhydramine plus 3g of fluoxetine equals lethal dose for a 100lb teenager.

The typical upper range of fluoxetine dosage is 80mg/day. If we assume that Nex was taking 100mg of fluoxetine/day and he had access to a full 30 day supply, that's 3 grams. Add confounding head trauma and diphenhydramine toxicity and...maybe???

But we're talking about someone downing a full or nearly full 30 day supply of high doses of fluoxetine AND about 30 tablets of Benadryl. And there were no signs until he entered the living room and collapsed? Fluoxetine toxicity can cause rapid heartbeat, irritability, nausea, vomiting, dizziness, etc. Diphenhydramine toxicity can cause confusion, irregular heartbeat, agitation, nausea, vomiting, etc. This combo seems like a very uncomfortable and unpleasant way to go and I'm meant to believe he was quiet, not vomiting, not agitated, not terrified – just walked into the living room and collapsed? Unless he was exhibiting those symptoms and Sue didn't say anything about it which doesn't add up either. She said Nex went to bed with a headache and we have audio of the 911 call. She mentions their eyes rolling back and their hands "posturing" (both those things could be related to brain damage or a seizure).

With the added complication of head trauma (blacking out due to head injury = concussion = brain injury), I guess death is feasible but this just doesn't feel right. I don't know. Maybe it was a perfect storm of circumstances but those two drugs are so hard to OD on, not to mention unpleasant to OD on, and this state is so hostile to trans people it's hard not to approach this with a TON of skepticism.

I hope the Benedict family had their own toxicology and autopsy done.

ETA: for the record, im not saying I agree with the suicide decision, I'm saying "I mean I guess technically it's possible but it seems highly unlikely and incredibly sus and I am not convinced"

[malewifesband]

before i became kabrupilled labrumaxxer (read ch 76) i had seen quite a bit of labru just floating around and thought it was just ok, but i did think it would be fun to put them in a dracula situation

kabru, lover of humanity, and reluctant vampire, unable to really resist his basic instinct to eat despite his best efforts

laios, wolf researcher, drawn to this secluded, seemingly abandoned castle because the behavior of wolves in the area is fucking bizarre (due to the dracula powers). has always fantasized about meeting a scary monster (werewolf) but sadly they arent real. intends to squat in the castle until he can get some good data on the wolves.

kabru ofc notices immediately theres a dude squatting in his vampire castle, and has to try and scare him off before starvation gets the better of him and this guy dies in violent exsanguination. he tries siccing the wolves after him, but hes well prepared for wolves (wolves cant find him bc hes got that NASTY cover scent spray to confound them) and theyre only beasts and cant be controlled for long. he tries spooking him by hiding in corners and vanishing so he thinks hes seeing ghosts--laios just thinks hes hallucinating and tells himself its probably fine, he just needs to get sleep

kabru decides to just go for gold, present himself fully and try to talk him into leaving, and he'll show fang and risk the angry mob if it keeps this guy safe from his hunger. laios is really glad to find someone out here to talk to, not offput at all theres a random guy out in this castle (oh that must've been you i saw! haha sorry for crashing in your squat since you were here first. if you don't mind me staying ill be gone in a few weeks)

his hand is forced, he brings out the fangs and tries to terrify him, only for laios to be disappointed (😞 im sorry its cool youre a vampire but i was really hoping... sorry this is silly, but i was hoping if monsters were real it would be a werewolf out here)

laios offers up his wrist for kabru to drink from since he probably doesnt get to eat easily. (gotta be easier to just have some from someone who doesnt mind then eating people, right? go on, we all gotta eat!)

[jesterwriting]

empty inbox ya say? Don't mind if I show up!

So, I am a lover of the grumpy x sunshine kinda trope, but I want to hear your thoughts of crocodile having an caotic partner? Always having some kind of prank or stupid joke, just to see crocodile crack a smirk or something, but no matter how much they try, they always fail to so. So, after one day that the little sunshine tried so hard of trying they just pout around croc, and he just to try to cheer up his darling just a little, try to crack one of his own stupid joke just to see them laugh a little and go back into being his sunshine

(if you are not comfortable/don't find the prompt as entertaining, you can skip it tho, okay?)

pairing: crocodile x gn!reader

contents: established relationship, fluff, bad jokes, sunshine!reader, crocodile and his soft spot for you, he acts annoyed but hes entirely smitten i promise

word count: 1.1k words

note: OMG this was such a cute idea!! grumpy x sunshine is one of the best tropes ever, im such a sucker for it. im not particularly good at writing chaotic reader, though i definitely tried to make them quite silly. thank you so much for your request anon <33

playlist: dance the night by dua lipa

To an outsider, your relationship with Crocodile could, very easily, be one of the most confounding relationships one had ever seen. Of course, there had been more ill fitting partnerships out there, but you and Crocodile were close runners up. He was a large, intimidating man, with a harsh expression, and an even harsher tone. When he was displeased, his words alone were enough to rip apart an idiot’s flimsy confidence. Crocodile was a man of wealth and status. The only thing that ran deeper than the promise of violence, was the sand he was made of.

You, on the other hand, were the exact opposite. Bright and full of sunshine, you practically glowed against Crocodile’s side. With a smile so wide, it almost hurt to look at you. There was a softness to you that was absent in Crocodile. There had been more than one occasion where you were seen helping a wayward insect back outside, cupped gently against your palm, or offering directions to a lost couple who ran off in terror when your infamous husband approached. The crowd watched in horror when you scolded him with an elbow to the ribs. Crocodile did nothing but roll his eyes.

When you weren’t helping the lost, with your terrifying husband looming over your shoulder, you were a whirlwind of chaos. Prank after prank on unsuspecting visitors to the casino were done in your name. Nothing too egregious, you never aimed to harm, all you wanted was to make people laugh. A task you succeeded in, at least when you were alone. Crocodile’s unamused expression as he carted you away, laughing uproariously, did little for the mood.

It was only in the privacy of your shared abode did those pranks find a target in Crocodile. You respected your husband’s boundaries. Not once did you consider making a fool of him in public — not that it was your intention, you simply knew Crocodile well enough to know that was how he would take it — nor did you even consider any pranks that involved water. It was a damn shame. A bucket of water over the door was truly the prank of all time. Just imagining Crocodile, soaked to the bone, cigar wet and limp against his lips as he stared at you with such crushing annoyance, was enough to make you snicker out loud.

However funny it may be, your bits weren’t worth losing Crocodile’s trust. Such a thing was a rare gift from your husband, very few people alive had the honor to receive it. With a hint of pride, you considered the possibility that you were the only person alive to say that Crocodile felt safe enough to confide in them. Boy, if that didn’t make your heart absolutely swell.

Your only regret was, no matter how many jokes you played, you never got Crocodile to crack a smile. Even when you covered his desk with sticky notes — “Y/N, you realize you’re cleaning this up.” — or that stupid crank call you did a few weeks ago — “No, my refrigerator is not running, don’t call this number again.” — were not enough to get the barest huff of a laugh.

That was how you found yourself in Crocodile’s office, hanging upside down in the chair in front of his desk. It was normally reserved for when he had a private meeting, but today he was stuck doing paperwork. It was silent, save for the scribble of his pen against top secret documents you weren’t supposed to see, but would be able to look at with a single ‘please.’

“C’mon, you think I’m funny.”

Crocodile didn’t look up from his work as he responded, “I think you’re foolish.”

“Yeah, but I’m your fool.” Flipping around in your chair, you swung your legs over one arm and hung your head off the other. Boredom was not an uncommon foe during quiet afternoons with Crocodile. You needed near constant stimulation to keep yourself in check, and for all the reasons you loved him, Crocodile did, in fact, have a massive stick up his ass. “You’re a king and I’m your jingling little fool. Let me tell you a joke.”

Crocodile grumbled under his breath, but he didn’t tell you to stop. With a grin, you said, “Why did the egg hide?”

With a sigh, he dropped his pen to run a hand through his hair. “Why did the egg hide, Y/N?”

Patting a drumroll against your thighs, you paused for dramatic effect. Seconds passed in silence, save for your palms’ rhythmic song against your thighs, Crocodile’s eyebrows furrowing deeper and deeper the longer you continued. Finally, you blurted,

“It was a little chicken!”

Crickets. Your husband didn’t even spare you a response before his pen was in his hand again, signing who knew what. With a roll of your eyes, you flopped from the chair and onto the floor. The carpet was soft against your palms.

“Okay, that was bad, but you could have at least said something.”

“You’re going to have to say something funny to get a response out of me,” Crocodile rumbled, not even bothering to glance at you while you laid on the floor.

This sucked. You could make everyone laugh, all except for the one who mattered to you the most. A part of you wondered why you didn’t give up. You were sure you were being at least a little annoying — though the smaller voice in your head reminded you that Crocodile was one to request time alone when he was in a bad mood.

“Fine. No more jokes, spoilsport.”

No response. Fine then, at least the floor was comfortable.

For the next twenty minutes, you kept yourself busy by counting ceiling tiles, or by fighting the urge to reach under Crocodile’s desk and steal his shoes. No more pranks, remember, you told yourself. Not until you stopped feeling like a big ol’ pile of poo, at least.

“How do you make a plumber cry?” Crocodile’s voice surprised you after going so long without hearing it. (It’d been thirty minutes, maximum, though it felt like an eternity)

You wet your lips before you responded, already feeling a giggle bubbling in your chest. “How?”

“Kill his family.”

You burst out laughing. Curling your fingers against the edge of the desk, you popped your head into his view, positively beaming. While Crocodile was never one for grandiose displays of emotion, he graced you with one of his rare, honest smiles.

“That’s more like it, doll.”

[elvirable]

Ambrosia (Act 2)

[ Astarion x f!Reader ] | ao3 link

rating: explicit | word count: 3.9k | status: ongoing themes/tags: no smut this chapter, mainly fluff and angst, feelings realization, trust issues ofc, soulmates, fluff, written as a glimpse into his mind during each act

———–

For decades, men and woman succumbed to his charms; each wilting petal after petal, as if they were roses, against the grasp of his thorns. So, which one would you be: petal or thorn?

In other words: A delve into Astarion's thoughts, continuing the more he gets to know you. [Act 1 link]

———– A/N: thank you for all the supportive comments! you have no idea what it means to me (and also the imposter syndrome i have now lol). i apologize if you find any errors this chapter since i've been dealing with health issues as of late; also, i plan to post another chapter that deals with act 2 events.

---------

It was cliché, but Astarion had never trusted love  — or really, any notion he had of it.

Delicate breaths, starry-eyed crooning, careful whispers; within a heartbeat, every precious detail could mutate into a terrifying, stinging sword. After all, who would know better than the one who held the blade? 

Oh, how he wielded it exceptionally well. Syllables dripped like sugar from his tongue, and pretty prose hummed into bashful ears as second nature. To many chaste victims of his ardor, he was a captivating vision; a gentleman who stole them away with one well-planted kiss. As if each was a rose, petal after petal wilted against the grasp of his thorns. 

Even without the blood staining his hands, he had also witnessed how others despicably wielded such power. A harsh aftertaste always lingered in its wake; whether it be couples bickering with poison on their tongues or the welts that peppered young, gentle faces after a drunken outing turned sour. Horrific renditions had darkened the world around him decade after decade  — so anything that alluded to the pure reputation of love felt like an insulting, foolish fantasy.

So, which one would you be: petal or thorn?

The question plagued his thoughts since the moment he laid eyes on you. Beautiful and altogether lovely, especially as he later learned the touch of those careful hands and every tone hidden in your irises. Assuming you for a petal, he stumbled with doubt as his observations grew. For instance, you never initiated anything intimate aside from considerate conversation and, oftentimes, you had volunteered your neck for the sole reason it would improve his strength and mood. Where men and women in days past couldn't get enough of him, there you were: without an ounce of insecure obsession or malice on your lips, only serving to confound him more. Regardless, he had always prepared to expect that impending sting.

Only time could tell, of course  — but it had never arrived.

Nothing about you was petal, thorn, or even a rose at all, from what he struggled to gather. He couldn’t decipher any hidden motive, and you were buoyant against his charms; he had had you lost in throes of blissful pleasure, but you never demanded more the next morning. Everything about you seemed so plain yet inexplicable, as if he couldn’t make head nor tail of what laid before him. 

What he did know, however, was the captivating radiance that had had gradually engulfed him. Subtle it was when his smile piqued as he heard your laugh or when he began to learn your language well; the way your face contorted in provoked thought, or that your lips drew into a taut pout when nervousness preoccupied you. 

It had dawned on him one late evening, realization cascading over him at all once, when he noticed the slightest shift in your glance. Lamplight flickered against your bare skin when he had asked a simple question.

“My favorite things? Well..,” you mused quietly. “I love lavender and a generous glass of tethyrian wine  — oh, and the way the air smells before a thunderstorm.”

“And what would that be?” he had asked, half-lidded eyes studying your expressions.

“I’m not quite sure how to describe it,” a smile flitted across your beautiful face as if you could conjure the scent from memory. “It’s oddly warm and sweet, but.. refreshing.”

And Astarion thought that such a distinct description suited this newfound radiance; intricate, warm, and refreshingly natural.  

==

Now that he had given it proper thought, it had been awhile since they had wine.

Earlier, on a whim, Astarion suggested they pocket every carafe they found that day. A resounding collective enthusiasm filled the group; recent days had been fraught and demanding to say the least, so it was needless to say such a suggestion was welcomed. And by their luck, they had stumbled upon the jackpot that afternoon: full-bodied wines, waterdhavian cheeses, and a wonderful curation of spiced meats  — all within a deserted Zhentarim storehouse.

Two hours had barely passed when the entire camp had become boisterously inebriated. For once, other members embraced Gale’s attempts to break ground with superficial conversation starters such as vague inquiries into their past or favorite meals. 

He had been surprised at the pleasant sensation, being surrounded by chattering comrades. Tales of their past and insights into their character had piqued his interest, inviting him to alter certain preconceived opinions. However, the person who interested him the most hadn’t uttered more than a few sentences.

While you had shared some casual anecdotes, relief had eased your face when Gale began to digress about the constellations freckling the sky. He was keen to notice such a successful evasion, as it was one he had practiced countless of times.

It wasn’t long before the others slinked into their tents, eager for the comfort of their beds. Astarion waited to hear the steady pace of Gale’s snoring to quietly gather the surroundings; only the two of you were left to the quiet of midnight, with embers of firelight keeping the warmth beneath the stars.

“I noticed,” he prompted, slowly turning his head towards you, “that you refrained from sharing your life ‘before the worm’ .”

An amused breath pushed from your nose, humored by the phrase the group had used earlier. Your brows then raised, smile on your rosy face as you matched his stare. 

“You really want to know?” 

“Only if you’ll oblige,” his tone was soft before he enunciated. “Do spare me the details, though, if it's all family excursions and Maxwell the family dog. ”

Your quiet chuckle faded off as you turned your gaze upwards, briefly leaving only the crackling embers to fill the air. 

“Okay, okay  — but it isn’t.. nice ,” you conceded with hesitant words.

And you had only summarized for about fifteen minutes, but each word was succinct and precise; about the darkness that felt forever, the silent spirals, and the long-gone silhouettes that had hurt you like it was nothing. As he attentively listened, he didn’t need further detail for his face to melt into a soft frown with shared understanding  — Heavens, the heartache that coiled in his chest as he imagined all the tragedy you had endured as a little one; how a heavenly being could have such a haunted history.

“But you must think my woes pale in comparison,” you cleared your throat, in an attempt to act unbothered while turning your gaze to him, “.. given all you’ve shared with me.”

There was a softened, appreciative gaze that you both shared  — where he felt as if you peered inside at the boy he had once been, and vice versa.

“Hardly, I was actually just thinking how nice it is that..” his voice was almost a whisper before he continued:

“Neither of us are alone anymore. We have… each other.” 

== 

The cost of freedom was always high, but would he be prepared to pay it? 

And besides  — hadn’t he paid enough already?

A nauseating trepidation rushed over him as Raphael’s voice echoed in his head; relentless and heavy, like the rain that quieted the camp that afternoon. Leadened with the weight of reality, Astarion sat motionless amongst the linens covering his bedroll. His pale hand was drawn to his face, running across his lips with an unease. The patter of rain against the tent was the only comfort he had in the heavy silence, for it was as if the Earth shared in his agony. 

“The only missing ingredient is you.”

Ugh, Raphael’s smug grin curdled a disgusting frustration in his throat. 

Fate had gifted him a blessing and a curse; what was once mere fantasy now brushed his fingertips. He knew the beginning and the inevitable end of this tale; the will of the Gods had swept him from those chambers and presented him his only chance to strike down Cazador. However, the middle had always been painfully opaque – until a deal with a devil made it tangible and clear. Such an undertaking called for impeccable execution, and countless possibilities haunted his mind. It was a terribly overwhelming feat to take on alone. 

Yet, for the first time in his life, he wasn’t alone. 

He had that tinkering brain of yours. Receptive to his every rant and rave, you were no stranger to a majority of his worries and frequently mellowed out the frenzied ones. There was structure to every word that left your mouth, and you never hesitated to lend your blade when he had made his decision. He had gradually grown to feel that he performed infinitely better when you were by side.

Though, while he previously would have never blinked an eye at sacrificing his fellow spawn  — it was now your influence that caused him to grapple with uncertainty.

Sodden steps approached, rousing him from his silent ruminations. 

“You’re.. quiet,” you observed, the tent rustling while you entered. “It’s unsettling, given how much you love to fuss about the rain.”

Silence hung briefly in the air, cushioned by the padding of rain. The warm smile on your lips faltered to a weaker one, the dread sullening his face evident. 

“I wanted to ask about Cazador’s ritual. You must be thinking about it?”

“Oh, the thing that will decide my fate forever more?” His tone sharpened, anguish fizzling into frustration. An icy whiplash caused you to pause before settling beside him. He continued, shuffling to make space for you amongst the furs and pillows.

“ Yes , it has been on my mind – why?”

“I just want to know what your intentions are.”

“What? I’ve obviously thought about it – if I was the one who completed the ritual, I’d have such power. And I could walk in the sun without fear I’d turn into a mindflayer.”

“I don’t think you should do it,” your voice was solemn with caution, as if you sounded each word out carefully. 

“A pity then,” his sneer fell from his tongue without thought, “that it’s not your decision to make.”

Pangs of remorse immediately crawled up his throat in the aftermath of his outburst, and he internally recoiled at himself. Catching the short flit of disappointment in your eyes slackened his jaw, rousing the contrition further. Every word escaped him while his marbled eyes flickered across your face; your lips were taut with dismay, brows giving way to disconcertion, until it eased into a vacant expression.

Rising onto your feet, you began to leave from his tent with a flippant wave.

“You’re right,” you muttered, dropping the subject. “I’ll see you later, if you’d like.”

All he could do was dwell in the silence as he watched you disappear into your own tent. Faster and heavier the rain fell, and he threw his head back with a miffed sigh. His lips pursed while he replayed the entire interaction in his head.

Of course, he had every reason to be angry and bothered. He should’ve been helped long ago, way before any of this had become the fate thrown onto him  — but there was no proper excuse to flare up at you. You were the only person that had shown him any sympathy and loyalty. 

Astarion knew you spoke with good reason, that your weary expression revealed you weighed your comment from private consideration. There was a vast cavern beneath those eyes, full of fierce emotions and earnest sincere spirits; eyes that did not judge, but watched and learned. Your presence alone was enough to soothe him, and its absence immense.

It had become so natural to remove his confident mask around you, he realized, especially now when he had let the ugly side slip.

[okay-j-hannah]

They Kiss You To Escape

Preference

Characters: Tenth Doctor, Eleventh Doctor, Jack Harkness, Rory Williams

Warnings:

Request: “Good night! I love Doctor Who and I really wanted to send you a request about a preference 😁 10, 11, Jack and Rory having to kiss their crushes to escape/hide from someone, please!” Anon

~~~

Tenth Doctor

The Doctor looked so uncomfortable.

He was pressed into the corner of the conference room, unable to escape the chattering of a persistent woman. She laughed ridiculously, shaking her whole body until she was bumping into him. The Doctor shook her off with a forced smile.

(Y/N) watched them from afar, perhaps enjoying his state of panic – very rarely do you see the Doctor knocked down a peg.

Though it was peculiar to see him so resistant of a flirtatious encounter. He was always sweeping strangers off their feet with talk of space and how brilliant he was. But right then there was nothing but strain on his face as the touchy woman sought his arm.

“I should take pity on him,” (Y/N) thought, sipping the remaining of her cocktail and envisioning a list of things the Doctor could do to repay her kindness.

She nudged through the crowd of babbling businessmen and their escorts to reach the corner of the room, starting to hear the high pitch voice of the confounding woman.

“Oh, stop!” she shrieked in laughter, “You couldn’t possibly have anything else to do tonight.”

“W-Well…” the Doctor stuttered, “I’ve got people to see, lords to meet, p-planets to save.” He frantically sought an excuse to escape.

(Y/N) could have sworn she watched the clouds part and sunshine fall on his face as the Doctor spotted her arrival. He practically yelled at her.

“(Y/N)!”

The insistent woman turned brazenly, a hand against her collarbone.

“Hi there,” (Y/N) said brightly.

“Hello, darling,” the Doctor said, pushing to reach her side. “How are you?”

But he didn’t give her a chance to respond as he gripped her waist and pulled her to his lips. He kissed her hard and fierce, leaving no room to question how he felt about her. (Y/N) was shocked into a standstill, hands braced against his arms as he leaned into her hungrily.

It was all-consuming, his fingers digging into her sides, holding her in place as he claimed her mouth.

The pair of them were so absorbed in each other’s embrace that they completely missed the departure of the flustered woman.

It might’ve been minutes later that (Y/N) pushed against the Doctor’s arms, gasping for air. “Woah…”

The Doctor instantly pulled away, believing that he had overstepped beyond repair. He rubbed at his face, fingers lingering over his lips as he fumbled over something to say.

“I… you – I’m sorry, (Y/N),” and he looked it too. “I couldn’t get that infernal woman to leave and then you… I didn’t mean to come at you like that.”

(Y/N) had a hand to her chest, chasing the rapid beating of her heart. “Um…” she gulped, “I didn’t mind.”

His head was downturned, but his eyes flew to hers. “Sorry?”

She shook her head, “I didn’t mind.”

He got a wonderous look on his face. And (Y/N) had the sneaking suspicion there was a reason he didn’t fancy going out with the stranger.

Eleventh Doctor

His mind was reeling, jumping from one scenario to another. It was making his jittery movements more erratic, his fingers dancing about as he saw his thoughts before him.

He was starting to sweat with the anticipation, “By George,” he muttered, “I’m in a right state.”

“Sorry?” (Y/N) asked, lounging near the tardis. It was stuck in a quantum lock by a devious friend of the Doctor’s, one that peevishly sought to jest his companions with silly requests.

The Doctor winced at her words, on the brink of bolting, “I’ve got to do something.” He rubbed his fingertips together, inching towards her like every step was crunching over glass. “And in all my years, it’s comparable to some of the most terrifying things I’ve ever done.”

“Are you alright?” (Y/N) asked, standing to meet him, “You’re a bit jumpy.”

He gave a breathy laugh, “I’m just twitterpated.”

She scrunched her brow, “Okay,” she eyed his nervous gaze.

He licked his lips, “See the problem is I’ve made a deal with the magistrate,” he gestured towards the palace behind them, “And there’s no way we can unlock the tardis without me meeting the terms.”

“Alright,” (Y/N) smiled, “What is he asking you to do?”

“Something I’ve given a great deal of thought to,” he bounced on the balls of his feet, “And my friend finds it appropriate to make it a requirement for our escape.”

“Can I help?”

He laughed again, high and nervous, “Bear with me.” He reached her standing figure, “This isn’t quite how I imagined it, but… right.” He went to cup her face with nimble fingers, fear lining his gaze.

(Y/N) grew worried, reaching to grab his arm, but before she could voice her concern, the Doctor put his lips on hers. Gentle and apprehensive and sweet at first, he pulled away just an inch – only to plant a stronger kiss right after. It was as if he wanted to capture one memorable kiss before the possible rejection that might follow.

He had to pry himself away, stumbling back and ashamedly looking at her as the tardis doors swung open as if on command.

“I’m sorry,” he said, twisting his fingers.

She stared at him with wide eyes, “You daft old man.” His continual look of shame brought a smile to her face, “I would have agreed if you just asked.”

His posture straightened out, surprised, “You… you didn’t mind.”

“Doctor,” she laughed, “I’ve known about your little crush since our first adventure. You’re so terribly obvious.”

He started to smile, “I always thought myself mysterious and debonair.”

“And who was I to crush that confidence.” She went for his hand, “You would have thought he asked you to wipe my memory or send me away with how scared you looked.”

“You happen to be a very scary person.”

“Said no one, ever.”

He shrugged, giddily enjoying his hand in hers, “We’re holding hands.”

She laughed, “Well spotted, Doctor.”

Jack

They raced down the corridor, blaring red lights illuminating their path. The terrifying sound of dozens of army boots pounded away behind them.

Jack grappled for her hand.

“Just around this corner!” he yelled over the sirens, “There’s gotta be a way out.”

“What if there isn’t?”

“Don’t think like that,” Jack cried, swinging around the corner.

They came face to face with a high security door. It was sealed airtight, powered by an electrical panel.

“Dammit,” Jack ground out, pounding on the metal door, once – twice. “Right.” He tore at the electrical panel, revealing a mess of buzzing wires. A few began sparking as he tugged at them, whipping his hand away at singeing his fingers.

“We don’t have a way to open it,” (Y/N) muttered, feeling her gut sink at the realization that they were trapped with the inevitable chasing after them.

Jack rolled up his sleeves, “Don’t worry, sweetheart.” He gave her a wink, “I told you I’d get us out of here – a few wires aren’t going to stop us.”

“But you’ll be electric-“ She was cut off with a scream as Jack reached in and yanked a fistful of wires out of the box.

His teeth clenched, his body seizing as volts of lightning shot through him, effectively stopping his heart. He flew to the ground, singed and smoking, completely still as the life left him.

(Y/N) cried out, falling to her knees, “Jack,” she gasped. “Oh my god, Jack!” She reached for his chest, ignoring how the door unsealed itself, snapping open with a hiss.

“Come on,” she said shakily, placing her fists over his heart and beginning to push down. “I swear to god, Jack, if you die because of opening a bloody door…”

She cupped his face, kissing him gently and blowing air into his lungs. He didn’t stir for another minute, the taste of salty tears on his lips as she began to cry above him.

It was not how she envisioned their first kiss.

“Please,” she begged, “Please, wake up.”

And with an almighty breath, Jack sat up, crying out, “Woah!” He planted his hands on his chest, wincing, “Did you give me CPR?”

(Y/N) had her hands over her mouth, staring at him in horror.

He was touching his lips then, “Were we kissing?” He gave her a raised eyebrow, “And I missed it?”

She smacked him across the arm, “Why are you acting like that? You just died, Jack!”

“Yeah, about that…” he climbed to his feet, “I sort of can’t – you know – die.”

(Y/N) glared at him, “Would’ve been nice to know beforehand.”

He shrugged, giving her that charismatic smile, “I have a flare for the dramatic.” He took a step towards her, “Now, about that kiss.”

“You mean the CPR I was giving you to save your life.”

“Potato, patato,” he grinned, “I think we should do it again sometime.”

She shook her head, unable to contain her smile, “Unbelievable.”

Rory

They walked as inconspicuously as possible, not wishing to draw the attention of the crowds. Rory had her wrist in his hand, paving the way through the masses. They tried to hide their growing looks of panic, taking short, shallow breaths.

“Do they know we’re here?” (Y/N) asked quietly near his back.

He swallowed, “I hope not.”

“Very reassuring,” she muttered, whipping her eyes around. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“I was just thinking the same thing.”

He led her towards the nearest corridor, checking to see if any uniforms were waiting just around the corner. They moved quicker, jogging around to find the exit. It was just another day in the life of adventure with the Doctor.

And what could be more brilliant than getting lost on a foreign planet without any idea where the tardis was.

“Do you hear that?” (Y/N) tugged on Rory’s hand, pausing their steps.

He scrunched his brow, “Reinforcements.” Heavy footfalls seemed to come from all around them. “They must be changing shifts.”

(Y/N) spotted a helmet turning the corner on their left, “Incoming.”

Rory cursed, looking towards the right and seeing the same thing. Soldiers were winding their way through the traveling people.

“What do we do?” (Y/N) whispered, feeling Rory’s fingers fidget against her wrist. “They’re going to spot us for sure.”

Rory looked unsure of himself, pulling (Y/N) towards him, “Do you trust me?”

“What?” She eyed his apprehension, “Of course I trust you.”

He gulped, pressing her flush against him and waiting for the soldiers to be mere feet away. Finally he took a shaky breath and twisted her around, pressing her into the wall behind them. He slammed his lips onto hers, shielding as much of her body with his.

She was hesitant at first but went along with the plan as soon as her shock wore off. She wound her fingers into his hair, keeping him against her mouth. They melded together, hot and heavy against the wall as groups of people wanders past.

It was a lifetime before they pulled apart for some air.

“Well, that was…” (Y/N) started off.

Rory blinked, all in a daze, “Yeah…”

She bit her lip, “I think we’re in the clear.”

“Right, of course,” he cleared his throat. “But when we get back…”

She raised her eyebrows, “Pick up where we left off?”

“Yes, please.”

~~~

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[ddarker-dreams]

hi wasn't sure if i notice this to ur yan chrollo fics, but do u think chrollo is the type of guy who says i love u to his darling?

i actually have a weird philosophy when it comes to having characters say "i love you" in fics, it's something i include very rarely as a personal preference. please excuse me for how corny this sounds but i kinda like going for a more evocative declaration of love that's unique to the character, if that makes sense HTJKMER i promise i'm not trying to be pretentious, i just consider it a personal challenge to myself. there are times where thematically 'i love you' fits beautifully and hits me emotionally like a train, but nine times out of ten it doesn't get me in the way i want to be gut punched.

my favorite example of what i try aiming for (although i don't think my silly fics will ever reach this Peak Fiction level, it's more of a goal to strive for), is waymond's line from everything everywhere all at once,

"In another life, I would have really liked just doing laundry and taxes with you."

it had me in shambles. i los t my mind. never got it back btw.

ALRIGHT now that that preface is out of the way, i'll dive into my thoughts on chrollo saying i love you:

there isn't much (if anything) chrollo holds sacred, but that phrase somewhat makes the cut. he'll readily profess his admiration of your looks and personality, tell you that he considers you a treasure worth holding onto for as long as blood pumps through his veins, etc... but the classic declaration of love is noticeably missing from his romantic era style of flirting. he can handle your insults, disobedience, and overall contemptuous attitude, yet he doesn't want to experience your rejection of what is a deeply vulnerable statement. so much of him is a fabrication. a tapestry woven from different cloths he cut from others. he barely has any sense of self. he poured his everything into the spider, leaving him empty, a true husk of a man.

you stoked what little kindling remains of the identity he discarded the day sarasa was found dead. it terrifies and confounds him. this humanity he thought he purged from his being is forcefully drawn out by your presence. he wants to say it with what scraps remain of anything resembling a person. to do so would certainly earn your protest and that hypothetical makes him... uncomfortable.

chrollo is far more likely to whisper it once while you're in deep sleep, considering it a secret between him and the night.

[cienie-isengardu]

Darth Vader & Maximilian Veers

A collection of various tie-in source material about Darth Vader and Maximilian Veers, published through the years.

Star Wars Galaxy Guide #3 - The Empire Strikes Back (second edition) - 1996

[...] Veers might be the only living Imperial officer who doesn't share an all-consuming fear of Darth Vader. This is not a from a lack of respect for Vader. Rather, the two seem to respect one another, as Vader appreciates Veers' ruthless and cunning nature.

Side Trip, part 4 by Timothy Zahn - 1997

"One final suggestion, and then I suspect we must both be on our separate ways. I understand the general in command of the Executor’s ground forces resigned suddenly a month ago. I was able to watch the battle outside Thyne’s stronghold for a while as I waited to make sure the smugglers escaped; and in my opinion the Imperial officer in command is being wasted in a garrison assignment." "Your opinion carries considerable weight,” Vader said. “As I’m sure you know. The officer’s name?” “Colonel Veers,” Thrawn said. “From the level of his tactical skill, I’d also say he’s long overdue for a promotion. Perhaps his political connections within the command structure leave something to be desired.” “Political connections do not concern me,” Vader rumbled, stepping to the door. “I will see what I can do with this Colonel Veers. Thank you, Admiral.” “My pleasure, Lord Vader,” Thrawn said with a respectful tilt of his head. “One favor for another. Perhaps we’ll have the chance to work again together.””

STAR WARS FACT FILE #14 - 2014

The Sith Lord and his new general had a unique appreciation of each other's abilities. Vader knew Veers was utterly uninterested in personal advancement through the politics that crippled the Imperial Court, and so would remain completely loyal to the Empire. Veers in turn understood Vader's powerful abilities and command style, and appreciated both. General Veers was the only officer in the whole Death Squadron who was not afraid of Darth Vader

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Darth Vader had a personal hand in Veers' career and his rapid advancement to general. The two men had a mutual respect, and Vader had a high regard for Veers' ability. It was only natural that he would give him a key role in the assault on Echo Base.

Star Wars Insider #96 - 2007

Unlike Motti, Ozzel or Needa, Maximilian Veers had no need to fear Vader's wrath [...].

The Official Starships & Vehicles Collection #04 (DeAgostini) - 2009

VADER'S GENERAL As a reward for his daring, Veers was promoted to command the ground forces attached to Lord Vader's Death Squadron - a personal fleet groups engaged in hunting down the Rebel Alliance. As an example of the new, younger Imperial officer, he frequently clashed with the traditionalist Admiral Ozzel but Vader backed Veers each time [...].

Star Wars: On the Front Lines by Daniel Wallace - 2017

General Maximilian Veers A brilliant tactician, General Veers earned notice for his vocal and persistent advocacy for the increased use of AT-ATs in ground operations. Darth Vader respected Veers for his eerily calm demeanor under fire.

The Truest Duty by Christie Golden [From a Certain Point of View: The Empire Strikes Back] - 2020

The Emperor’s right hand was the fearsome Darth Vader, the Dark Lord of the Sith; he of the unseen face, black armor, brilliant mind, and swift discipline. If the elite troopers aboard Vader’s flagship, the Executor, were known as Vader’s Fist, then Veers liked to think of himself as Vader’s Dagger: silent, elegant, and lethal.

[...]

At this moment, Veers was bringing unwelcome news to his master, but that did not trouble him. The amount of…attrition…at both higher and lower levels on the ship was troubling to some, terrifying to others. Fear had been beaten out of Veers quite some time ago, and he had no patience for it. It confounded him that others failed to grasp that the secret to promotion, respect, power, and a long life was very clear: Don’t fail Vader. Maximilian Veers never had. Because who would ever want to fail Lord Vader? And who could live with themselves if they did?

[...]

In his career, Veers had met many diplomats, leaders, generals, and royalty. Many were impressive; some intimidating. But no one had a presence like Lord Vader. He was a massive figure swathed in darkness; the very energy around him seeming to change upon his entrance: charged, elevated. And, always, the sound. Rhythmic, constant, it terrified those who were the object of the Dark Lord’s displeasure. Those ill-fated fools knew that sound would likely be the last thing they heard. Veers, however, found it calming. Steady. As unfaltering as Vader was, as he, Maximilian Veers, was. The Dark Lord was many things to Veers, but he was not a threat. Because Veers never failed him.

[...]

Veers was perfectly well aware that Darth Vader was not a god. On more than one occasion, while reporting to the Dark Lord when he was in his meditation chamber, Veers had caught a glimpse of Lord Vader donning his helm. There was only a man in there; one who had suffered horribly, whose skin was nothing but angry red scar tissue. He had bled, had burned; had felt agonizing pain. And he had endured. Veers did not know the man Darth Vader had been, before the helm and armor and glowing red lightsaber, but it did not matter to him. Darth Vader was who had been born from that unimaginable suffering. He was no stranger to violence or malice. And all Lord Vader demanded of those who served was respect, obedience, and success. It was so simple. And it was because of that simplicity that Veers had never failed him.

[...]

“What is it, General?” The deep, rich voice, smooth and calm save when it was even deeper with rage. Such a tone had never been directed toward Veers.

[...]

Blizzard Force was taking more casualties than expected, and this troubled Veers. They were his soldiers. His unit. They trusted him to lead. But he had also trusted them to follow. Follow, obey orders, die for the Empire if need be. For Lord Vader.

[...]

Thump. Thump. Thump. Fast, so fast. Sounds, dreamy, muffled, distorted. Water. Swimming in water. Weightless, at ease, warm. Ready to drift away. But no, no. That wasn’t right… The thumping grew faster, faster. Fear crept in, tendrils of darkness, wrapping around, squeezing—no, no, please— And then came the sound. Rhythmic, almost soothing, calming. Steady. As unfaltering as Lord Vader himself. Veers tried to say, My lord, then realized that the labored breathing he heard was his own. And as if the knowing of this suddenly made it real, pain such as he had never felt raced through him. The armor had protected him—hadn’t it? He opened his eyes—ah! bright, too bright—and where there had been darkness and softness and warmth and comfort, now there were colors and chaos and agony, so intense and powerful it was almost… pure. And cold. So, so cold… The strange sounds formed themselves into known things: words, his own heartbeat. “…pretty bad…Still alive…where are the medics…” Snow. I remember… “He’s awake!” It was TK-78…he could not remember the number. It was Lastok. He had removed his helm, against regulations. His face was bloody, but the trooper looked more worried about Veers. Why? Veers tried to ask, but no words came out. “General…General Veers! Sir, you’ve got to listen to me. Hang on, all right?” Lastok glanced away, looking around, then shouted, “Medic! It’s the general!” He waved, flagging someone down, then returned his attention to Veers. “Stay with us, sir. You’re going to be all right!” But Veers had heard fear and hope warring in a soldier’s voice before. He was not at all sure he was going to be all right. He was sufficiently aware to notice that the cold stopped at his midsection. His legs…were they just too cold for him to feel? Or… His armor should have shielded him from the cold, but he could not stop shivering. Could he move? Legs, arms…anything? “No, no. You can’t die, General!” Veers knew what Lastok was doing: trying to keep him from drifting away into a place where no medic would be able to help. He closed his eyes again. The softness, the comfort was calling to him again. Veers listened. “…Lord Vader!” The gibberish had once again formed into words Veers knew. Words that gripped him, dragged him back into this place of life, of anguish. Tears stung his eyes at the thought of how close he had come. Lastok was right to have reminded him of his truest duty. No. I must not fail Lord Vader. He stopped resisting the pain and welcomed it instead. As Vader would. As Vader must have once. His mind flashed to the glimpses of the man inside the helm. His lord had not just survived unbearable torment but used it to reshape himself. Become the stronger for the suffering. Each labored gulp of air sent excruciating stabs through his chest. He endured them. He heard the medics rush up, and knew it was safe to let go; they would catch him now. All was well. No, my lord. I shall never fail you. Ever.