#guards! guards! end scene

[themalhambird]

There were times when Ankh-Morpork as a whole possessed a conveniently short memory. Inside of a week “that thing with the dragon” was already being forgotten, partly because nobody wanted to admit they’d thought crowning a bloody great lizard was a a good idea and partly because no one wanted to remind the Patrician that they’d been complicit in locking him inside his own dungeon. The palace was repaired; any damage to the city was propped up or painted over. Nevertheless, there were clearly going to be some lasting effects. It was early in the morning, and Sybil Ramkin was leaning over the Patrician’s shoulder, examining one of the said consequences with a somewhat critical eye. “It’s not bad, Havelock,” she said. “A little more practice, perhaps.”

Lord Vetinari hummed his agreement. His fingers did not stop switching lace bobbins from one position to another, moving pins down the board and leaving a slightly lopsided web in his wake. “I find it…relaxing,” he said. “A challenge, to be sure, but easier to wrangle than the city.”

“To be sure,” Sybil repeated with a wry smile. “Lacemaking is only a craft that takes most people years to learn properly. You’ve read one book and away you go. Honestly Havelock. You’re insufferable.” 

Vetinari smirked. Sybil stepped away from his shoulder and strode gracefully to the far end of the long table, sitting opposite her old friend and helping herself to breakfast. “So,” she said, “Captain Vimes.” 

She waited. Vetinari said nothing. His bobbins clacked. Sybil popped a grape into her mouth. “”I’m not going to sit here  playing mindgames with you, Havelock. I’m not one of your little lace bobbins- I’m your friend.”

“”Captain Vimes” is not a statement that seems to require a response, my dear.” Vetinari set down the bobbins and sat back in his chair, tapping one slender finger on the wooden armrest. Sybil smiled. 

“Fair enough. Let me rephrase. What do you think of Captain Vimes?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I like him.” Sybil said frankly. “I like him a great deal.”

“Why?”

Sybil gave a half shrug. “He’s passionate. Blunt, but the honesty is charming. He’s brave- heroic-”

“-an alcoholic. Hardly a paragon of the law. Oh, he may not take bribes, but the Night Watch as a whole doesn’t have much of a purpose beyond running away at the first sign of danger.”

“Now that’s unkind- they were fighting Wonse and the dragon whilst you were sitting in a prison cell. Look, Havelock,” Sybil sighed. “I like him. I really rather like him. So I would like to know what you think of him.”

“...I think,” Vetinari said slowly, “that given half a chance Samuel Vimes would lock me up and throw away the key. I think that Samuel Vimes has a great deal in common with his famous ancestor and I think, Sybil, that if you like him, there wouldn’t be any harm in continuing the acquaintance.” His mouth curls in a sly smile. “Besides,” he said, “Think of how it would annoy Ronnie Rust- Lady Ramkin, consorting with the plebs.” “Well,” Sybil said. She picked up another grape. Vetinari picked up his bobbins. There would be City Business to attend to, soon enough, but the Patrician could spare another ten or fifteen minutes on Ankh-Morpork’s richest daughter who had, after all, been through so terrible an ordeal lately. And, considering Wonse's betrayal- though it had hardly been unexpected- Havelock wanted to spend a little longer in company with his old friend. Besides. It was gratifying to know that he wasn't the only person to see the merit buried deep within Captain Vimes, and Vetinari wanted to spend a little time ruminating on all the doors that Vimes forming a connexion with Lady Ramkin might start to open up...

[mugentakeda]

boiling rock fun

[arthursfuckinghat]

"I was gonna say you're like a son to me.. but you're more than that."

"It ain't that complicated!"

How quickly that shoulder pat of comfort turned into a condescending one.

[thelilylav]

We only see each other at funerals

(On Jason, Thalia, Nico, Bianca, and their parallels/connections)

The Titan's Curse (Rick Riordan), @/anxiousmaya_, Right Now (Gracie Abrams), The Battle of the Labyrinth (Rick Riordan), Joan of Arc (Mary Gordon), The Lost Hero (Rick Riordan), Episodes Toward and Elegy for Halley's Comet (Lindsey Drager), Jason Grace (Riordan Wiki), The Gods Show Up (Michael Kinnucan), The House of Hades (Rick Riordan), What the Living Do (Marie Howe), The House of Hades (Rick Riordan), Planet of Love (Richard Siken), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), Tangerine (Nolune), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), The Blood of Olympus (Rick Riordan), I Bet On Losing Dogs (Mitski), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), @/abhorarchive (Twitter), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), Seventeen (MARINA), The Burning Maze (Rick Riordan), @/rollercoasterwords, The Tyrant's Tomb (Rick Riordan), @/the-overanalyst, Where Things Come Back (John Corey Whaley), Grit (Silas Denver Martin), Softcore (The Neighbourhood), The Tower of Nero (Rick Riordan), Frost (Mitski), @/moonbends, I'm Your Man (Mitski), Sun Bleached Flies (Ethel Cain), The Tower of Nero (Rick Riordan), Three (Sleeping At Last), My Art

[woodelf68]

DISCUSS!

The scene in The Dark World where the guard tells Odin that a body was found on Svartalfheim. I haven't seen an in-depth discussion of some questions the scene raises:

Did Odin send the guard as soon as he realised Thor had freed Loki from his cell? Did he plan on throwing them both in a cell together as punishment? Or in adjoining cells? (Note: this would make a great fanfic, someone write it if it doesn't already exist. Brotherly bickering! Shared angst over Frigga's death! Joining forces to present a united front against Odin!)

I presume the guard had an easier way to get there vs. Loki's path through the mountain crack? Was Svartalfheim even accessible once the Convergence passed? (So like...could Thor have returned for Loki's body later? Or was there only a narrow window to get there and, more importantly, leave?)

When the guard got there, was Loki still looking like a dead body? Or was he already reviving and trying to figure out what to do next? Did he kill the guard before he took on his appearance? Presumably there was an actual guard since Odin wasn't surprised by the guard showing up with his report. (Again, has anyone ficced this?)

Is the weapon the guard mentions the Aether?

The clip for anyone needing their memory refreshed:

Everyone feel free to add their thoughts, but I'm also going to tag a few people: @delyth88, @lokijiro, @thelightofthingshopedfor, @psychoticgirl, @fourth-rose, @nostalgia-tblr.

[fatedroses]

Zenos viator Galvus and him trying to deal with actually feeling things for once (Even if he doesn't really understand how to handle the comfort he receives from others for it)

I am also giving this man a dad that actually cares, because this brainworm have gotten me and there is no saving me from them.

[lastofthe20thcenturygirls]

suddenly looking like a fool was completely worth it for this woman he met just three days ago

[booasaur]

Warrior (2019) - 3x03

[gregoftom]

undefined

greg not only being tom’s attack dog, but his therapy dog, sheepdog, guide dog, watchdog, service dog

[leahthedreamer]

Episode 19…

[starrysnowdrop]

~❤️

[michi-chelle]

mood

[youssefguedira]

more joenicky lupin au because i had to exorcise a brain worm. major spoilers for lupin s3 below the cut if you care about that sort of thing

The thing is, Nicky wasn't even supposed to be there. He wasn't supposed to even know that something was going to happen today, but Andy had needed his input, because even if she'd taken him off the case she'd admitted nobody else could work out Joe's next move as quickly as Nicky can. So he knew, and then the news had broken and the whole country knew.

It gave him cover to join the crowd, all chanting Joe's name like some kind of modern folk hero, and Nicky couldn't deny the wild, almost giddy energy of the crowd as they'd all waited for a sign. Couldn't fight his own smile when the alarm had gone off only a few minutes after the time Joe had declared in the letter he'd sent. Because of course it had. Because even if he'd broadcasted the exact time and date of the heist he'd manage to pull it off.

Then they'd led him out in handcuffs, and Nicky's first reaction had been shock, because nobody - nobody, not even Andy - could catch Joe.

But then Joe had caught Nicky's eye, and winked, and Nicky had known. And he hadn't said anything, because he wasn't supposed to be there, until.

Andy's the one who calls him, and he doesn't know why. She must know he's here, must know he couldn't have stayed away, and so she calls him.

"Ambulance picked someone up a few minutes ago," she says in Italian, matter-of-fact as always. It's one of Nicky's favourite things about her, and oddly comforting as the dread starts to sink in before she even says the next words. "He fell from the roof trying to get away from the snipers."

Nicky almost laughs in pure disbelief, because Joe - Joe doesn't fall, wouldn't. It's not possible. Nicky is certain of it the way he is certain of the sun rising.

"Are you sure-" he begins.

"It's him," Andy says, cutting him off. "They’re en route to the hospital."

"What do you-"

"What you do is up to you. But I'm on my way to the hospital now to confirm."

There is only one possible choice, for Nicky.

They wave him through to the morgue when he gives his name, and Andy doesn't even look surprised to see him, leaning against the wall like she was waiting, a few other members of her team with her. "The doctor's in there now."

"Is there anyone else in there?" Nicky asks, because this must be part of the plan, there must be some clever switch taking place behind those doors and Joe will walk out unscathed.

He always does.

Andy shakes her head. "She's an old friend. I trust her."

Nicky wants to -

He finds an empty chair and falls into it, pinches the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes. They don't have to wait long. The doctor calls them in only a few moments later.

His eyes are closed, is the first thing Nicky thinks, with a wild sense of relief. He's not sure he could bear seeing Joe's eyes cold and sightless. Even with them closed, he's not sure he can bear it.

"So?" Andy asks.

The doctor rattles off a rapid-fire list of medical terms Nicky can't make himself focus on, unable to take his eyes off the - Joe's - body, trying to see where the imperfection lies, where the clue is that will mark this out as a fake, a dummy maybe, or perhaps the very faint sign of Joe still breathing, waiting for them to leave to make his escape -

"No vital signs were detected when he arrived," the doctor says, and only then does Nicky look up.

"Are you sure?" he says.

He can tell Andy's looking at him, but he doesn't see her expression. Maybe she's annoyed, or maybe it's that look that tells him she knows exactly how complicated this case is for Nicky. He can't bring himself to care - he needs to know. This cannot be real, even if he hasn't figured out how Joe could have done it yet.

The doctor doesn't scoff at him, nor does she seem annoyed. Instead, she hands him her stethoscope. "You can see for yourself, if you like."

Everyone in the room is looking at him now. He takes it. Draws closer to the table.

Joe doesn't move. If there is a clever trick to this, Nicky cannot find it: suddenly he's not sure he can stand to be in the room anymore. Certainly he cannot make himself look at the body, cannot bring himself to touch it, to check if Joe really is dead, if this body really is the thief Nicky could not help but fall a little bit in love with.

Nicky lowers the stethoscope. "I am - I am not a doctor," he hears himself say. "I apologise."

The doctor takes her stethoscope, and then there is a hand on the small of Nicky's back - Andy, steering him away.

"Nicolò," she says, and only that.

"This isn't right," Nicky says in Italian. "Andy. It doesn't end this way. This isn't how it happens."

"But it is happening," Andy says.

Nicky shakes his head. "I haven't - I haven't seen it yet, but there must be something-"

"Nicky," Andy says, and her voice is so unbearably gentle. "Take the day off tomorrow."

Nicky looks up at her. "I'm not-"

"Yes, you are. Go home, and don't come in tomorrow. I mean it."

Nicky doesn't have it in him to protest. And so he goes home, to an apartment that is too quiet, and leaves the news on until well into the early morning, waiting for the story to break. It does, eventually. When it does, he turns it off.

The next day passes, and he doesn't go into work just like Andy had told him to, spends the day cleaning his apartment just to have something to do with his hands. Then the next day comes, and he returns to the office, and Andy greets him like nothing's happened, and the world continues to spin on.

And then.

Then there's the message in the newspaper, addressed to Nico, and nobody calls him that except -

Except -

Nicky smiles as the world rights itself again.

[radioactivepeasant]

Halloween Fic: Prologue

(This angsty little bit actually happens month before the story itself, but it's very important worldbuilding for the story. When the whole thing is done, it'll be published on AO3 as a two-chapter whole)

"This one's temperature is too high."

Damas frowned down at the pallet beside the vast Precursor statue that loomed over the dais. The survivor he'd tracked the beacon to that morning in the desert lay there, unresponsive to the whispered chanting and cooling packs of the monks. He'd been shocked to discover that what he'd taken for a young soldier was barely more than a child under the sweat and grime embedded in his pores. By the size of the bones standing out just a little too visibly against the Unclaimed's skin, and the teeth they could count, Brother Rhys reckoned the boy could be no more than three and a half lustrums: seventeen at the oldest.

Seventeen was just barely old enough for the Trials, and that was just the high estimate of the stranger's age. That complicated the usual procedures of dealing with newcomers to Spargus. If he survived -- and at the moment it wasn't looking terribly likely -- and it turned out he was younger than seventeen, some kind of arrangement would have to be made for a child-Unclaimed.

"Do you not have cooling packs?" Damas asked, gesturing to the boy and the two animals that had been found with him.

"They are inadequate, my lord," Rhys answered. "Our supplies were greatly depleted after a failed expedition of several acolytes to the Great Volcano."

Was that all? The king of the Wastelanders turned away with a dismissive gesture.

"Then keep his body submerged until his core temperature stabilizes. I have questions for this one."

Silence followed the command. When Damas turned, the monks were watching him with conflicted expressions. He frowned and paced to the edge of the dais.

"Well?" he demanded.

Another monk, lower in rank than Brother Rhys, made a pacifying gesture and said apologetically, "We cannot, my lord. It is improper."

The king curled his lip at them. "Oh? Tell me, when did it become improper to render aid to a child?"

Rhys raised a hand, silently forbidding his companion from speaking further. He bowed his head.

"He is an Unclaimed, sire. Only those who brought the Unclaimed into your city may give them the rites of Water and First Breath, by law."

His meaning was clear: if Damas wanted to this one to live, he had to deal with it himself.

But there was a problem.

The monks would not treat submersion as an emergency medical treatment. They were rigid and uncompromising in the arena of new citizens. No matter what Damas said, if the Unclaimed was submerged, even to lower his temperature, they would record it as the rite of First Breath. But the rite of First Breath was reserved for those who had earned their first amulet in the Arena; those who understood the laws of Spargus and chose to stay, sponsored by their Finders, would use the ritual to move from Unclaimed to Foundling in the city census, gaining the same legal status as any child born within the walls.

This Unclaimed would die long before he had the chance to test his mettle in the ring if his temperature was not brought down, and soon. But without that amulet, if he were to step out of line later, he would not be the only one held accountable.

Damas took one last look at the limp form, and -- with a fairly imprecatory prayer under his breath to the Six Patrons of eco -- he made up his mind.

The king tossed aside his staff with an echoing clash of metal against stone. The monks twitched, and the guards at the lift jumped. Damas ignored them. He stormed down the steps of the dais and grabbed the skinny boy's arm. For a moment, he was thrown off by the texture of scars swirling across the skin like silvery fractals. More questions without answers. He shook away his curiosity and dragged the Unclaimed from the pallet and down to the edge of the pools. The orange creature raised its head and let out a choked cry -- it likely thought he was going to harm its human.

This wasn't going to help its opinion.

Damas stepped down into the water and hauled the Unclaimed bodily in after him. Frustration boiled under his skin, making his movements rough and brusque as he pushed the boy down under the surface and held him there.

The Six were mocking him.

You couldn't handle a toddler. Try again, maybe you can keep track of one big enough to protect himself? Try try again, Damas. Try and fail again.

The frustration bubbled up into his throat and tasted of bitterness.

He hadn’t asked for this.

He didn't want another child. He wanted his son. He wanted Mar.

But he knew in his heart that he was far too stubborn to let this one die.

One of the newer guards watched, and realized soon enough that the boy was awake, yet he did not struggle.

"This one is too weak, sire," he sneered, looking down with contempt, "Let the waters claim him."

And perhaps it would have been the merciful thing to do.

But Damas hated being told what to do.

And Damas had always been the kind of man who refused to admit defeat.

The boy's body would realize it needed air soon enough, surely. Any moment now.

Usually candidates are fully lucid during this rite for a reason....

Two seconds passed. Then five. Nine. At eleven seconds, the boy's eyelids twitched like he was going to open them. Good.

"Push," Damas whispered, stubbornly willing him to fight, "Push, whelp."

The Unclaimed's body tensed as if in response and one hand slowly, ever so slowly, rose to break the surface as if he'd just realized he was underwater. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open -- horribly, familiarly blue -- and his fingers snatched at whatever he could reach, clawing weakly at Damas’s arm.

It was enough.

Damas yanked him up out of the water by the collar of his mutilated tunic and the boy coughed out a mouthful of water. There would be no going back after this. The second they'd entered the water, the Unclaimed -- the Foundling's -- fate was bound irrevocably to Damas’s.

Grimly, and as quickly as was socially acceptable, Damas recited the words that would make the ritual binding -- and would add one more duty to his endless litany of tasks.

"Take your first breath, child of the wastes. By this birth and the hands that bore you, you belong to the people of Spargus."

"To the king of Spargus," the second monk softly corrected him, cutting off the rest of the words traditionally spoken as the young man sucked in a desperate gasp of air. "It is you who has chosen to forego the First Trial to give him his birth-by-water early. His fate is solely in your hands, my lord."

Damas snarled softly. "There was no need for it to be so," he reproached.

Emotionlessly, he hauled the Foundling from the pools and dropped him back onto the pallet.

"Heal him."

"Of course, my lord," the monk murmured. "As he is now part of your household, do you consent to the use of city eco to treat your Foundling?"

"Don't call him that." Damas turned away to retrieve his staff.

"It is what he is," Rhys observed placidly. "As you are his Finder-"

"I didn't ask to find the whelp," Damas hissed, "None of you were going to give him his rites!"

He marched past his throne, towards the exit of the chamber, stonefaced.

"Put him back in the water until one of you returns with the eco. Inform me if he recovers."

Between the monks, Jak lay on the pallet and stared at the ceiling with wide, glassy eyes.

If anyone had been paying attention, they would have seen his pupils dilate unnaturally wide.

[mariocki]

Play for Today: The Flipside of Dominick Hide (BBC, 1980)

"Complacent with your mission, Dominick? Amusing, the history of transport. We've made a modicum of progress: trips are regulated to microseconds, punctuality taken for granted."

"Yes."

"Why then were you two minutes late on your double return? Machine fault?"

"No. I'm sorry."

"I accept apology. Reason?"

"It was raining. Rain slows everything. I saw an old woman knocked down and I was checking how long before help reached her. The medi-car was blocked in progress, I think she died."

"So?"

"I thought it might be interesting."

"People are not your conspectus, Dominick. If you wish to study people, watch old films."

[nono-uwu]

I wanna draw more but artblock and school (and games) are keeping me busy bleh

Anyways honkai star rail has me in a chokehold and shampoo kiosk is my favourite he's so babygirl