#it's not something you can prove wrong to them

[effieotto]

since this lovely lady blocked me, i’ll have to work with a screenshot (i could have not mentioned her at all, but like i said before, when i want to direct something to an specific person and not a pattern behavior, i mention their names. And since i can’t mention their names, that’s the only way i have)

“Only cared about Katniss and Peeta when she thought they would help her get there” Did she?

Effie was described as taking care of them since the second they stepped into the trem. She made sure Katniss was comfortable and well settled, as well as informed by their schedule, which we know that wasn’t part of her job. As soon as they reached the Capitol, Effie again assumes a position that wasn’t required from her, and starts sweet-talking sponsors and using her connections to work around the situation Haymitch had created during the reaping, so Katniss and Peeta would get better chances of getting sponsorships —which, as we all know, was no guarantee that they would even have a chance to win the Games. A sponsor was just the way to make sure their time inside the Arena would be easier, and Effie was aiming to that. And she did it all before knowing how promising Katniss and Peeta were. Actually, for all she knew, Katniss was going to be a disaster. She was reckless and dangerous and Effie had seen how those actions were extremely risky for them all.

But fine, you wanna argue that she was only treating them nicely (cause you can’t argue that she wasn’t treating them nicely) because she saw in them the potential to move up for a better District? Okay, so let’s talk about Effie in Sunrise on the Reaping.

Since her first appearance, Haymitch describes her as a nice person. She is kind, she is compromised and she does her absolute best to make sure they’re all comfortable and well treated. You can’t say she was doing it out of anything but kindness —since she made sure that she was not taking credit for none of the things she helped in the Quell. She wanted to be in the shadow— they were not advantageous to her

“That women wanted to work in the middle of child murder” Did she? Can you guarantee that?

In both the scenarios where Effie got involved in the Games, either from being dragged as their “not quite stylist” by Drusilla or becoming Twelve’s Escort, we can’t say she had any saying on the matter. Drusilla had tagged her along with the team with not much of an invitation and Plutarch said (very clearly) that he’d pitched her —not specifying how active she was on this decision. So, based solely on the books and not in the things you took out of your mind, there is no way for us to know how much she wanted to be there

“was rude and looked down on district people unless they were advantageous to her”

I could bring here many scenes to prove that Effie never, in four books, treated her tributes as they were not deserved of comfort and affection, but i don’t think we have enough space for that. She might have her disturbing ideas (that were carved into her scowl since birth from a very powerful and constant propaganda that was designed to make her believe District people were worthless) and she was wrong in state that District people were savages. No one is arguing with that. But she voicing her believes and her treating them as they were worth less than her is two completely different things. And this isn’t true:

Here, i said i wouldn’t bring scenes after scenes to prove my point, but i will bring this one. Effie is helping her sister to “beautify” the tributes (which was pretty much everything that guaranteed them enough money to result in Haymitch not starving to death in the Games), but instead of demanding and forcing her way, she asked Maysilee’s opinion on the matter. Unlike Drusilla, who treated them as animals and didn’t give a shit to what they felt or had to say, Effie respected her enough as a person to grant Maysilee the right to share her opinion and influence her job as equally capable —you can’t say this shows how she “looked down at them”, cause she did not.

•

But if you want to use Suzanne Collins to support your argument, here is what she said about Effie:

“You can see her clinging to good manners for reassurance of humanity's decency. But in terms of the Hunger Games, Effie being assigned as their escort was a lucky break for District 12. She might be ridiculous, but she's not malicious.”

In conclusion, although you have all the right to dislike and not support the character (which is fine, not everyone can handle a morally gray character), let’s not distort the things we got from the books just to justify our hate, shall we? Effie Trinket has always being a character which main purpose was to highlight that, despite being very supportive of an oppressive system, and having a direct impact into child murder (willingly or not), she always did it with kindness and humanity. She was controversial and problematic, but she was not intentionally rude, or malicious. She was a kind person —maybe not in the convencional way you want, but she was. There is nothing you can do to say otherwise, without going against the narrative, the books or Suzanne Collins

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Writing Notes: Chekhov's Gun

Chekhov’s Gun - a dramatic principle that suggests that details within a story or play will contribute to the overall narrative.

This encourages writers to not make false promises in their narrative by including extemporaneous details that will not ultimately pay off by the last act, chapter, or conclusion.

Chekhov’s gun has become a highly influential theory of effective writing that mandates noticeable details are integrated into the plot trajectory, character development, and mood of the work.

Tips on How To Use Chekhov's Gun In Writing

Chekhov’s gun can be deployed for various purposes to indicate several different things.

Remember, Chekhov’s gun is not a literary device. It is a theory about the economy of detail within plotted narratives. It’s not something you do as much as something you follow.

To follow it, consider the details you include. This means you need to think about whether they are fits of fancy or they actively contribute to the overall plot structure.

Feel free to break the rules sometimes. Red herrings, or details included to throw the reader off subsequent plot twists, are by design details that violate Chekhov’s gun. Leaving readers to suspect the wrong person of the crime in the mystery by surrounding them with implicating but ultimately circumstantial details is an effective technique.

Foreshadow plot twists with details that, when the twist is revealed, become necessary to the story. If your main character’s mother is a serial killer, you might foreshadow this by having a character comment on her frequent trips out of town in the first chapter and her remote storage locker in the third chapter. That these details will pay off when the twist reveals itself is Chekhov’s gun in practice, the promise that emphasizing such otherwise trivial storage and travel details will ultimately prove relevant to the story.

Anton Chekhov was a 19th century writer of short stories and plays and one of the greatest authors and playwrights of the modern era. The author of Uncle Vanya and The Seagull, Chekhov has become a central figure in literary history and criticism.

The term “Chekhov’s gun” emerged from the ways Chekhov repeatedly characterized writing in letters to his contemporaries. The most famous version advises: “If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one it should be fired. Otherwise don’t put it there.”

Other versions include a loaded rifle instead of a pistol, but the underlying point remains the same: if something in your narrative grabs the reader’s attention, that detail has narrative work to do and must be significant to the overall work. Otherwise, its significance is lost on the reader and authors are writing checks they can’t cash, including tantalizing details and possibilities that will ultimately go unfulfilled.

It is important to note that Chekhov’s gun is a literary concept and dramatic principle, not a rhetorical device—it is not something authors deploy, but rather a guidepost they follow.

While the principle of Chekhov’s gun is straightforward, there is some confusion around what actually constitutes Chekhov’s gun. Other tools and analytics—like MacGuffins and red herrings—are related to or follow the rules of Chekhov’s gun, but are not interchangeable with it. This confusion is best resolved by considering what details a reader will likely notice in a story.

Some details will be noticed regardless of context and the author doesn’t need to draw attention to them to get the reader to notice. A gun or other weapon, a giant diamond ring, and a mysterious briefcase, for instance, will always be noticed, whereas others, like a fedora, will not. Noticeable details should always payoff in stories, regardless of how much emphasis the author gives them.

An everyday vase will go unnoticed unless the author specifically draws them out with extended commentary and rhetoric. A floral vase on the table is easily overlooked but, if the author repeatedly draws attention to it, Chekhov’s gun dictates that this vase had better be significant to the overall story—perhaps in addition to flowers, it holds the codes to the French nuclear arsenal.

If an author doesn’t draw attention to such details, however, they do not need to follow this rule. A traffic jam in LA is nothing noteworthy and noting it in the narrative does not mean it must follow Chekhov’s gun and ultimately prove significant. If the author, however, prates and prattles about the traffic,then it falls into Chekhov’s gun territory and must prove important.

Chekhov’s gun can suggest a story is tightly woven, with emphasized details ultimately helping to shape the narrative.

Perhaps the best example of Chekhov’s gun principle in action comes from examples of Chekhov and his work. In Act I of his play The Seagull, for example, the main character carries a rifle out onto the stage. By the end of the play, he has used the riffle to commit suicide. Such a detail—a rifle, in the main character’s hand, on stage—would appear superfluous were it not to figure into the plot’s development and would have violated Chekhov’s own principle had it not been the instrument of the character’s death.

Successful literary tools and plot structures—like foreshadowing—can also be described by Chekhov’s gun, which is a rule effective foreshadow follows.

Though it is not a literary technique, Chekhov’s gun can be a useful analytical tool for critics that can be used to describe narrative shortcomings. Saying that a particular work did not adhere to Chekhov’s gun suggests the story was unfocused, concerned by insignificant details that did not figure into the larger work.

Source ⚜ More: Notes & References ⚜ Writing Resources PDFs

[flicklikesstuff]

Have you guys ever thought too hard about Crunchy Chip’s over-the-top avoidance of sweets? Because guess what?

I SURE did-

We all know that eating sweets in the Dark Cacao Kingdom isn’t as unforgivable as Chip makes it out to be. The citadel literally has some sweets stored that Fishgatto took in his benefit before.

Caramel Arrow’s fav drink is literally brown sugar milk tea (Like meeeee :D). Not even Dark Cacao himself is strict on it since he has given Chip a pass on the treats a number of times.

As far as I know, I believe no other Dark Cacao denizen is actually that strict on that rule? (I may be wrong idk)

So then, why is Chip like this?

…….

This is going into more theorising territory, but it’s been heavily implied that Chip has spent his entire life (if not ever since his childhood) in the wild. His voice lines point to this. He lives in the mountains, can set up camp by reflex, hunts with the pack, and overall just has a love for being outside.

Also, most likely raised by wolves even? I feel like his story below was meant to be about how he first met and was saved by Dark Cacao since it parallels the bit when Wildberry shares how he first met and is taken in by Hollyberry. While it’s not stated how old he was in that time, I’m going to assume somewhat young enough near Wild’s age if we’re seeing the two stories as parallels?

(After all, this sequence is meant to show why these two cookies are the best, most loyal options to be entrusted with their monarch’s soul jam. It makes sense to me that they’re parallels of a first-meet.

AGAIN, this is my interpretation only!! This story could really be taken as something else too.)

And I’ve been thinking. Assuming IF Chip has spent his childhood in the wild, he must’ve been isolated from cookie civilisation/cookie social circles for a period of time.

Until he was ‘saved’ and then taken in to train and become a warrior and Cream Wolf Captain. With his childhood spent not growing up in a typical cookie home and instead, his heart being always in tune with the wild more, there’s bound to be some dissociation with his fellow Dark Cacaoians.

(This is also the guy who doesn’t know what a delegation is despite being a man in his mid 30s tops. Adding more into my theory that he’s somewhat detached from society.)

………..

Getting to the point, what if this isolation is the explanation? Chip has mentioned that his job has him needed at the kingdom’s borders, thus making him even more distant from other cookies.

And even then, the others even agree so that his rightful place and the place he’s most expected to be in, is in the mountains.

Not saying that this is a bad thing. Not at all! He loves his job. I’m sure Chip loves being in the mountains with his wolves. He’s mentioned how he’s missed and is fully content being there a bunch.

It’s just that…. Does he ever feel a longing to belong? After all, it’s an ingrained thing to desire connections. Not just with the wolves but also, with his very own people too. Does not growing up among other children cookies just like his other fellow warriors had, ever get to his head sometimes?

Does it ever make him feel….isolated and distant in a sense?

Unless, this could be fixed of course. He could really, really, really commit to the values every warrior should have. And Discipline is one of them! If he’s dedicated to the bit, then he could convince himself that he truly does belong and IS a Dark Cacao warrior.

He’ll prove it if he must! To the king, to the others, to himself!

He feels the need to greatly appeal and prove to Dark Cacao so much that he does have a place in this kingdom after all. Why wouldn’t he? He’s kept strict to every rule and expectation, right??

If we consider that the theory he grew up isolated in the wild as a kid could be true, this means Chip has felt like an outsider ever since he could remember.

Being a Dark Cacaoian by blood/jam. But at the same time, still not fitting in. Its tough. (Not projecting nope.)

Btw, this may or may not reminded me of someone else….

Mr. “Would rather be in the silence of the Royal Gardens than loud-ass parties and talking and I’m fully aware how weird that sounds coming from a Hollyberrian cookie.”

*coughs coughs*

Totally not spreading my Wildchip propaganda but I just thought it’d be neat if they talk about how they love their respective kingdoms and would die to serve them but also-also, it lowkey feels weird and kinda hurts to not actually fit in with your own fellow cookies. Also WHAT, you’re an orphan adopted by your Ancient too???

………….

So anyways, I probs dug too deep into what should’ve been a comedic trivial thing of a character and made it into a mini sad-fest. Whups.

Though, it could also be simply that Chip’s just really dedicated while silly about it buuuuuuuut, that’s not as fun to analyse.

TLDR: “I didn’t have normal childhood like other cookies so I sometimes feel like not truly belonging but that’s not true because I DEFINITELY am a Dark Cacao Warrior and I can prove it by overcommitting to the bit.”

Btw, Happy late Bday Crunchy Chip <3 🎉💖

[revelboo]

Okay, IDK how open you are to these characters, but I'd LOVE it if you wrote Impactor and Springer together with the reader for the sandbox first?

Just getting myself sandwiched between those two is like such an appealing idea LOL

Sure! 🔞 Mass displaced mechs 🌶️

Interludes Pt 15

Impactor x Reader, Springer x Reader

• “You owe me,” Impactor growls, pointing a finger at him as his engex threatens to slosh out on the table. “This isn’t me forgiving you, cause that’s not happening, just you paying some of your debt.” And Springer grimaces. Hadn’t known what would happen, he’d just done the right thing. Or he thought he had. Tries so hard to do right, but now everything is muddled. Servos flexing on his glass as a Decepticon walks by laughing at something his companion said. Decepticons and Autobots all buddies. It rubs him wrong. What was all the fighting for? Shouldn’t someone have to pay?

• “You feel it don’t you, kid? Wreckers don’t retire, we just move on to the next fight until we can’t,” Impactor says, drinking as his optics flick around the room, looking for a companion. Because sullying the kid’s sterling honor? Seeing him wanton and out of control? Prove that any of them can break? He wants that satisfaction. Wants Springer to tarnish himself, give in to those baser instincts with one of the little organics. Debauch that sterling reputation. “A Wrecker in peace time is a dangerous thing.” And he finds what he’s looking for. “That one.”

• It doesn’t matter that you don’t know what the black and white mech singing is saying, those vocals are gorgeous and haunting, as him and his buddies play. The tempo a living thing, winding up and taking off, becoming frenetic. And a hand brushes your arm to make you turn and stare up at a big, green bot you don’t know. And his jaw works, optics flicking around, landing on your face, your body, then away. Shy? Guy’s huge and he’s acting like he’s almost intimidated by you even though you’re pretty sure he could pick you up one handed if wanted to. “Hi,” you say. “Are you looking for a friend?”

• Venting as he glances at Impactor watching, Springer’s jaw works. Facing down Decepticons is easier than this. Because this isn’t what this place is for, even though it’s what it’s become. “Me and my companion were wondering if you-” What’s he supposed to say? Would you like to frag like petro rabbits? He doesn’t do this sort of thing and you’re just smiling up at him to make him even more uncomfortable. What if he breaks you? He’s not really going to do this, is he? Just to try and mend that broken bridge with a mech who can’t even admit he did something wrong? Hadn’t meant for Impactor to get sent to Garrus-9, but he’d been trying to do right.

• Glancing at his buddy as the other mech holds up a glass in salute, you look back up at the mech in front of you and smile. “Sure,” you interrupt as he flounders. And just stares at you. “I’m game.” He’s too cute to pass up and he lets you take his hand and pull him over to his buddy, even though you’re very aware that you couldn’t budge him unless he let you.

• Laughing as you take Springer’s hand by a servo and leads him back to the table, Impactor shoves up to his peds. “You gonna break in the kid?” He asks and Springer makes a noise when you just smile up at him with a cheery little ‘That’s the plan.’ Venting, he heads to the bar to get a token and find a room, aware of Springer reluctantly following with you. And he holds the door open while you and Springer go in. Settling himself in a corner as he gestures at the bed, his optics narrow. “You’ll have to be gentle, I’m not sure he’s ever actually had anyone touch his spike except himself.”

• Stiffening as you smile and push at his chassis, he backs up and sits on the plush berth. Shivering as you slide your palms against his inner thighs to make him spread them so you can slip your body in between. And your little fingers tap against his modesty plating, fingertips sliding against his inner thighs to dip into seams when he doesn’t release his spike for you. When you look up at him, your expression is innocent, but you seem to know what you’re doing. Wonders who else has fragged you. Can’t scent anyone on you when he vents, but he knows some humans like to ‘collect’ Cybertronians. Is that what he is? A tally mark? Doesn’t want to believe that, not when you seem sweet. “What’s your name?” You ask and his jaw works.

• “Springer,” he manages as you press your thumb against his plating, tracing over where you know the panels release. ‘Let me take care of you, Springer,’ you whisper, bending to slide your tongue against the inside seam of his thigh and his venting gets louder. Servos tunnel in your hair as he growls and finally releases his spike for you. Fingers curling around him, you lean down to brush a teasing kiss against the head of his spike just to make him shiver, before backing up and stripping. ‘Lay back for me.’

• “No, he frags you,” Impactor growls from his spot watching, sipping his engex. “Like an animal.” And you raise an eyebrow at him but climb up on the bed on your hands and knees. Springer grimaces when Impactor stares him down in challenge, but shifts up onto the padded berth. Hesitating as you look at him over your shoulder, all soft, fragile skin and so much smaller than he is. Smoothing a hand along your side, he smiles. Tries to pretend this is his idea, that Impactor isn’t watching, because he does want you. Likes the warm, softness of you, that bold, little smile. Needs something soft after everything, after the war. He’s allowed this, to live. Right?

• Part of him expects Springer to back down, but then, when’s the kid ever backed down? You make a soft noise as Springer shifts at your back and slowly sheaths his spike inside you and groans as you take all of him. Slowly beginning to move against you as your fingers fist in the blankets under you, breath catching on a moan. Listening to you whimpering Springer’s name, begging for more, harder, deeper. And there it is. The kid’s hips pumping, thrusts becoming more urgent. Rutting against you as you moan, pushing back to meet him and his servos tighten on your hips. Hard enough he’ll probably leave bruises on that soft skin.

• Whimpering his name as gets rougher, hips snapping against you, making you very aware of his snarling groans, the rough sound of him venting and his plating heating as moves against you. Tipping you over that edge when he thrusts hard and you lose your balance, upper body going down and hips up and you’re gasping his name as you shatter. And he keeps going, dragging it out until you’re trembling under him, coming apart again before he’s driving deep, hips rocking against you as he overloads and fills you.

• Shuddering against you as you look over your shoulder at him, hair slicked to your face with sweat, he reluctantly slips free. Feels like he should thank you. Maybe frag you again. A couple more times. “Get out,” Impactor snarls and he glares at the other bot as he pushes to his peds. “We’re done for now.” For now? Jaw working as you roll onto your back, thighs spread and you’re slick with his release. Wants to touch you, skim his mouth all over you. “Scram,” Impactor adds, getting in his face and he reluctantly hides away his still erect spike, grimacing. Wonders if he’ll see you again as he leaves the room and you.

• “He’s cute,” you say, watching Impactor secure the door and crawl up on the berth to cover you, his mouth sliding over your body. “Any particular reason you wanted me to fuck him?” Mouth covering yours before belatedly remembering you’d had it on Springer’s spike and he bites your bottom lip as he frees his own spike and drives into the familiar, slick heat of you. Rutting against you as you move under him, little hands clinging. “Can I fuck him again?” You ask on a moan and he thrusts deep, getting rougher until you’re whimpering his name, distracted from talking as your thigh slides against his hip.

Previous

[sanccharine]

04 | bad luck

single parent au, neighbours au 

pairing: single parent!san x reader   genre:  word count: 1.5k

warnings: the cheating ex jumpscare

summary: 

status: ongoing  a/n: thank you katie (@panda-writes-kpop) for motivating me to write, everyone say thank you! that being said this is a rough chapter... you can thank them for that too <3 i kid though, it is rough, no san or danbi i'm afraid

masterlist | chapter 3 | chapter 5

It was too much. 

Too much. 

The weekend is almost over and what have you accomplished? 

After the encounter with San, it was hard for you to do anything. Not to mention just turning back into your house brought you to the sight of the horrid living room and just everything it meant. In addition, your mother called again. You didn’t pick up. Perhaps she’d called to ask how the bedframe was coming along, which in reality was a mess of planks and screws in your bedroom. 

Thus, it was another night on the couch. 

Even as you closed your eyes, you could feel your forehead overheating like a decade-old laptop with an overworked cooling fan—dysfuntional at best, beyond repair at worst. 

There was so much to get through. Everything with your house, the unpacking, setting up your home, what was supposed to be shared with your then soon-to-be spouse had just fallen right through your hands. Now there was sorting the mess that was left behind. 

You were grateful that you weren’t actually married, divorce lawyers and a court hearing and the like would have just about ended your life. But then, you were stuck in this weird limbo where nothing has stopped but yet nothing is moving either and it makes it all so very frustrating.

That’s not taking into consideration how people around you will take to the news. How much longer could you continue postponing your calls with your parents? How much longer could you convince yourself that you lied to your mother successfully? How much longer until your father has the chance to say he told you so? How long could you stall until you prove that your hardwork, whatever that meant or whatever it was, was all for nothing?

Your life merely an empty point, taking space as you work through the slog for the sake of it. 

And then to tie it altogether, there was your neighbour. A mounting one-sided dislike based on interactions that barely lasted a few minutes. You could feel it. That itching and clawing in your throat, the irrational torrent of thoughts which were borderline corrosive, all of it so immature. Unfortunately for him, San was at the wrong place at the wrong time, prodding a dormant mine in a forgotten field. 

Every sentence, every thought, every notion that arises around him has to be deliberated. Filtered, even. He was one more knock away from instigating a breakdown, of what nature was anyone’s guess. 

Deep down, you knew he was merely a scapegoat. Taking out your anger, your shame, your regrets on an innocent man who just so happens to be in the vicinity. You needed to avoid him. If not to hurt his feelings, then to at least preserve your dignity. 

So that is what you did. 

Sleep escaped you. Ruminating on every single mistake was preferred to your mind, and there you were, locked on your couch. Your eyes drooping without ever closing, your body overheating, almost feverish, as the sun rose. 

For the better part of the day, you stayed on the couch, almost comatose. Then there came a moment when hunger was unbearable which forced you to get to the kitchen to grab something from the fridge. Though it was nothing close to a meal. Just something to satiate the pain you felt in your stomach. 

By the time the sun had set, your mother called again. You declined the call. 

You tried building the frame again. The frame fell apart. 

You sorted out your clothes. His joined the rest of them on the floor. 

The sight was horrendous. Overwhelming. 

Too much. 

It was far too much. 

When you inhaled, your breath hitched, the beginnings of a breakdown you couldn’t afford. 

It was there. 

Almost. 

Then your doorbell rang. 

Your attention turned to your door, an exit point that seemed to grow further away with every second you stared at it. When your feet didn’t move from their spot, the door bell rang again forcing you to wade through the mess that was your living room to get to that door. 

Please don’t be San. 

Please.

Your pleas were answered but at a deadly cost. 

The moment your door opened, your heart dropped to your stomach. 

“Let me explain,” he said but you were already shutting the door. 

But much like last time, he caught the door to prevent it from shutting. 

“I’m sorry,” he tried again. His voice, the nerve of it to warble like he had any right to be in tears. “I made a mistake. I was wrong—just let me speak, will you?”

Along with his hand, he now had a foot in the threshold. But you blocked most of the entrance to your home with your body, your weight on the door. You were not letting him inside. He had no right to be here. 

“I need to explain—”

“No, you need to leave,” you said, leaning on the frame, not giving up on the fight with the door. 

Simply put, your ex-fiancee looked haggard. An image you have not been privy to since the rough final nights of your university years. His hair was a mess, far removed from the gelled back pristine look he usually wore to his office. His eyes were red-rimmed, like he’d lost sleep. Looking at him made you bring your hand to your own, fearful of how you might look. Then there was the matter of his clothes, which were oddly tight in all the wrong places. He’d probably stayed over at his friend’s place for the last two nights before making his way over here again. 

There was just a small sense of comfort of him being stranded and naked. But it was short-lived. 

“I know you like space after we fight, I didn’t want to call—didn’t want to give you some time, to process, to think over,” he paused his rambling for a moment to catch his breath. “To reconsider what you said.”

Fight? Process? Reconsider?

“Us,” he added, reading your mind flawlessly. 

That’s what happens when you spend years with someone. They tend to learn every small detail of how you tick. They learn your little quirks, the microexpressions, the words, the silence. They become a walking instruction manual on how to put you together. Which just so happens to be the manual that allows them access to completely tear you apart.  

He was right. Annoying as it is, he was right. 

You liked your space. Especially after fights. You needed the time alone. To process what was happening, what you were feeling, only so you don’t explode violently. And he’d done just that. Give you space. Now that you think about it, you don’t remember any calls or texts from over the past twenty-four hours. Not that your memory serves anything, considering you ignored most of your calls and texts… but he really hadn’t reached out. 

Because he knew. 

He knew you. 

“I’m sorry.” 

You wished you could say he looked or sounded insincere. But it was that small voice of his, shaky and barely there as he said those words that made you feel a mixture of things. But he must know what you were thinking. 

“Please don’t end this.” 

He uttered the words and you let them float in the air for a moment. 

Here he was, begging you to reconsider the relationship—not that it existed anymore—when you don’t even know why you were even listening to him. 

“You ended it.” 

“Don’t say that—”

“You ended this!” your voice was a hoarse scream, fracturing in real time much like a magma cracking solid rock. “You did this!”

Your ex raised his hands, taking a step back, a feeble attempt to placate you, not that he ever could. He’d miscalculated, both on how hot your anger boiled and his leverage on the door. Taking the chance, you slammed the door so hard the frame rattled. 

Just in time too, because burning tears fell down your cheeks, endless since no amount of wiping them away dissuaded them. Unable to do much than pace around your house, you hoped the action will, plus the tears, will tire you out. Your ex still remained, forgoing the doorbell for his fists. You don’t know what was worse. 

Wait him out, that was all you could do, but even after twenty minutes you could hear your ex’s rambling. In your frantic pacing, you missed the glint on the messy ground of your living room. 

Swearing, you pulled up your left foot to check the sole. Hard metal had been crushed underneath, cutting into your skin and considering your house was a mess of nails, you were not in the mood to contract tetanus. 

You still had some luck left in you. A screw hadn’t lodged itself into your skin. You turned your attention away from the impression on your skin to the silver on the ground. 

No.

Wrong.

Your luck was still depleted. 

Your wedding band, the one you’d hurled previously, made itself known. Mocking you. 

A hiccup left you, all mangled between a sob and a cough. 

When a faint buzzing was heard, you clamped a hand over your mouth. It was incessant. 

And worst of all, there was a knock on the door. 

It was too much.

any feedback is much appreciated.

a/n: say you and your best friend get a tattoo together, what tattoo would it be ? personally i was thinking my little pony cutie marks but then it has to be character appropriate you know ? and yes this question definitely has to do with the fic, i need ideas :]

masterlist | chapter 3 | chapter 5

taglist: @eternallyghosting  @marvolos  @dawn-iscozy  @vannerriin

send an ask to be added !

[desigal-26]

“Husband” “Wife” is amazing, for a first smut you did very well, you even made me feel…things while I was reading😏😏😏🤭🤭🤭. Thank you so much for accepting to write my request. And now, if it's not too much to ask, can I get the grand finale, with them months or even years later being a powerful couple in an enviable marriage, and Martell Reader finding out she's expecting her first baby and the whole process, from the discovery, her telling Daemon, the court whispering how their marriage is probably over now and Daemon will be a terrible father, just for our dear Rogue Prince to show everyone they're wrong, and him being a devoted husband to her throughout the pregnancy, fulfilling her wishes, helping with her mood swings and pains and when the baby is finally born, he proves himself to be an incredible father, (maybe with a 5 or 6 year time jump with their child being a little older?) Basically Daemon being an incredible man, husband and father and if possible all the stages of Reader's pregnancy, please?

It’s never too much to asked

Little Dragon

Daemon Targaryen x Martell!Reader

Read Part One here, Part Two here and Part Three here

When parenthood comes knocking on their doors

After almost a summer turns since their marriage, the couple finally are blessed with a child.

Warning: Mentions of pregnancy and related problems, mentions of childbirth, the court speculating about the couple—mostly Daemon. Rest all fluff.

Word Count: 2.3k

“Daemon,” she cooed softly, peaking her head through the gap in the fluttering curtains that divided their bedchambers from the study the prince had erected only to read ancient tomes in High Valyrian in quiet peace, away from the bustling chaos of the court that was governed mostly by snakes and crabs that whispered in the shadows.

The Commander of the City’s Watch didn’t look up from the account he was reading on the Doom of Valyria—or more precisely, an assumption. He only hummed, tilted his head to the side only a fraction to let her know that he heard, but not entirely ready to indulge in a conversation yet.

She pouted, rolling her eyes and stepping into the room with an authority of a Queen’s—which she wasn’t, but that didn’t mean she won’t hold herself like one. The Dornish lace glowed underneath the flickering candlelight—sewn into an alluring and not too appropriate night shift by accompanying the delicate lace with the richest of Essosi silk in the shade of crimson that resembled the prince’s beloved mount Caraxes.

She sauntered over to the table, leaning down on it to let the low neckline deep scandalously, allowing anyone sitting where Daemon did a view too obscene to be deemed lady-like. But she was anything but that when she was with her husband. A seductress dancing and alluring her favourite prey to a night too sinful to deny.

She purred his name again, stretching the syllables—a siren’s call. But Daemon didn’t budge, not when he had already experienced almost all of her techniques in the one summer’s turn they have been married for.

She huffed then, straightening up and crossing her hands in front of her. “I had something to tell you,” she announced finally, in a voice that conveyed her annoyance and brought a little smirk on her husband’s face, who finally placed the tome down and looked up at the tempting sight of his wife all dolled up for him.

“And what would it be, my love?” He queried, standing up and walking around to tower over her. His amethyst gaze roamed over every inch of her bare skin, committing the sight of her in that shift to his mind for he didn’t know if the garment would survive the night or not.

A small smile graced her face, radiant and bright. Like she was to let him in on a secret too sacred for the world to know.

She leaned into him, lips brushing his ears as she whispered, “I am with a child.”

A moment passed between them, silent and charged. Daemon stood still, face unreadable while the gears of his mind churned to process the news she gave him. Not long after, his hands found her waist, lips parting while eyes widened as he looked down at her still flat belly.

He knelt, slowly and gently in a way that he probably never did, one of his hand moving to splay protectively over her belly while he looked up at her with tears glistening in his eyes. He placed a kiss on her stomach, whispering to the child.

“You will be loved, little dragon.”

From that moment on, he changed—not becoming distant as the court whispered, but more attuned to his Desert Snake’s needs than ever before. Watchful and protective in a manner that made her tease him for his glares to anyone who would stare at her for a long time.

The court speculated once the news was announced. Whispers spun behind the backs of the couple that had finally been blessed with a child. They murmured of how he will grow tired of the Martell princess once she swells as the pregnancy would advance, that he will seek comfort in the arms of some other women or a common whore once she couldn’t fulfil his baser needs.

But they didn’t saw him holding her hair back for her while she emptied her stomach in the chamber pot, or whispering soft murmurs into her hair when she would embrace him after that—tired and heaving.

He had grown attuned to her newest dislikes, remembering what all she looked at with distaste and personally made sure were kept away from her. May it be the shrimps that had made her look at the servant girl like she had personally offended the princess, or the boar meat that didn’t stay in her stomach for more than a few minutes.

There were nights when she couldn’t sleep, when her body was too sore and tired but her mind somehow couldn’t stop working. Even on nights such as that, he remained awake with her, whispering about fabricated tales of dragons or singing her a lullaby in the language she couldn’t quite grasp on, or even just lying beside her, his hand rubbing circles on her slowly growing belly.

And once her pregnancy started to show, he glowed more than she did. Assisting her when she climbed stairs—a hand on the back or perhaps taking her arm to support a bit of her weight. The court grew accustomed to the Rogue Prince always touching the Martell Princess in one way or the other. Maybe a hand at her back, or his hand resting gently against her bump. A soft kiss brushing against the back of her hand or her temple.

No one anticipated to ever saw Daemon arguing with a tailor over fabric for his wife’s dresses until they were comfortable to wear and the painful corsets were replaced with silk lining. Or to see her braiding his hair for a moment of hormonal amusement while he sat still, allowing her to do whatsoever she pleased.

The nights though, were spent soothing the restless child until it settled, allowing the mother to fall asleep while he spoke to the growing baby in hushed High Valyrian, narrating stories of the great conqueror and warriors before gently reassuring the child that he would always be there to protect them—the two most important beings in his life.

The beginning of the third trimester was marked by the beginning of the uncomfortable pain and the turbulent mood swings. The Desert Snake turns into the shifting waves of Driftmark—one second, glowing and basking in the glow of the sunlight and in another, reduced to tears because whatever she craved for wasn’t given, or because the fruit she wished to have was only found in her native land.

And Daemon? Like a devoted husband and a soon-to-be husband, flies to Sunspear and brings back three baskets of the said fruit, while Caraxes looked at him—judging silently

One night, when he reached out for her in bed, she flinched and turned away, grumbling about being too hot—but the prince knew better than to believe the white lie. “What happened, little wife?” He had queried, nudging her to face him and looked at her with concern flickering in his eyes, his hand instinctively resting against the curve of her stomach.

She tried to dismiss him with the same lie repeating on her lips, but he persisted, replying that he knew her better, that he knew that something troubled her. “I am not how I was before,” she whimpered, crystal tears flowing down her eyes while she turned her face to the side—sniffling and trying to hide from his gaze.

But Daemon had none of it. Callous hand softly cupped her face, turning her to look back into his eyes that looked down at her, reverent as if gazing down at a goddess.

“You are the most beautiful woman I’ve laid my eyes on,” he whispered, lips grazing hers in a soft kiss while his hands moved slowly, fingering the hem of her shift and pushing it up, much to her protest. The rest of the night, he spent tracing each of her stretch marks with his lips like holy runes, reminding her of how beautiful she was—body and soul.

But despite the bliss of the fatherhood knocking on the doors of his life, there was denying in the fear that crept in the Rogue Prince’s mind as the days to the childbirth passed away like sand slipping through fingers. His own mother had perished in childbirth, for giving birth to a son that soon followed her into death. His brother Viserys’ first wife died the same painful deaths fulfilling her duty to the throne for providing the king an heir. And those were just the cases that Daemon had seen with his own eyes. The ones he had heard of? Countless.

And he would be damned if anything was to happen to his wife and child.

“You’re silent,” she had whispered one night when his mind had raced too far, thoughts too loud and fear gripping him too tight. He hadn’t broken his silence, but he had gathered her in his arms—or so he tried, because with her bulge, it was hard to embrace her now; and he had counted her breaths while she slept.

The birth itself started during a celebration for the name day of the King. Her soft, almost hesitant voice informing him of the pain that shot through her body, of the warmth of her water trailing down her legs.

It was a long labour. Maesters and midwives scrambling to deliver the child and comfort the princess respectively while also trying to get Daemon to step outside the room. But he had decided long back that he won’t be his father or brother. He refused, instead kneeling down next to her, hand encasing hers while another pressed cold cloths to her brow, cleaning the sweat. He muttered encouragements in her ear, like battle prayers.

She screamed and withered, cursed him and the midwives and the maesters. And while the midwives all turned wide-eyed and flustered at the unladylike words spilling from the usually composed Dornish woman, the Rogue Prince only grinned grimly, letting her squeeze his hand as hard as she wanted while she pushed their child into the world.

“Just once more, Princess,” the oldest of the midwives—a woman in her early fifties encouraged, drawing circles on her calf. The said Princess gritted her teeth, and pushed with a scream that shook the entire wing of the Red Keep until a shrill cry followed it.

Daemon kissed her forehead, praising her for her resilience and strength while everyone else moved to cut the umbilical cord and clean the baby while also preparing to deliver the afterbirth. But there was a heavy tension as the maester moved to hand the child to the heaving mother.

“It’s a girl, my prince, my princess.”

The Rogue Prince. The Commander of the City Watch. The Prince of the Realm. He weeps, quietly but the tears fall while his heart threaten to burst from the joy that fills it. She holds the baby—their daughter, who quietens down once in her mother’s embrace. He placed a kiss on his wife’s forehead before turning to the little bundle that looked like the perfect mixture of the couple.

“Are you satisfied, my love?” She asked in a whisper, her eyes soft as she watched her husband gently cradle their child in his war-hardened hands, cautious as if she was made of glass—delicate like a flower found only in the Highgarden.

“Are you well, my wife?” He queries back, his gaze flickering up just in time to catch her tired smile and sparkling eyes. She nodded, her hand moving to rest on his shoulder, a calming presence in his turbulent and chaotic life.

An ambient silence settles in the room once everyone is gone, leaving the family to be. His rough hands, so attuned to holding Dark Sister, feels a different kind of peace whilst holding a flower that bloomed from his seed—nourished inside the woman he has come to love. His eyes traced each of the girl’s little feature, committing it to the memory while his wife shifted, leaning closer to them.

“My little dragon,” he whispered, leaning down to place a kiss on his daughter’s forehead—a father pledging his life to his little girl.

“Alyssa,” she whispered into his ear, watching with a soft smile as she watched Daemon’s lips part in realisation, eyes widening while a stray tear trailed down his cheek while he looked up at her. She moved her hand, cover their daughter’s face so as if the tear dropped, it won’t disturb the child who had fallen asleep.

“We could name her after your mother,” he offered with a trembling voice, silently at awe of the woman he had married and chosen to finally settle with. She shook her head, leaning down on his shoulder and let out a tired but content sigh. “I don’t remember her, but I want to remember yours.”

And so it was decided. Alyssa Targaryen was born again.

And unlike the one before, she did not grow up in the politics of the court of King’s Landing. But she grew up in the ambient sound of the waves crashing into the cliffs of Dragonstone, watching her mother give birth to her younger brother—Baelon, and father teaching her dragon riding and the skill of sword.

“Muña.” (Mother)

The former Martell looked up with a smile, her son rocking on her hips while her daughter bounced on her heels, closely followed by her smug looking husband. She raised an eyebrow at the pair, tilting her head to the side.

“What mischief were you two up to today?”

Alyssa grinned, flopping down at the cushioned bench.

“You won’t believe what we did today!”

Daemon grinned too, looking at his wife who was watching him with a pointed glare. He only shrugged.

“Just a little fun with my little dragon, my desert snake.”

[so-long-soldier28]

theo's situation in 6b is so sad and frustrating, bc what do you mean the deputies kept waking him up but never did anything more than make him move? you're telling me not a single one of them ran the plates of the truck that consistently kept showing up in different parking lots around town? not one of them realized the truck was stolen, nor did they bother to ask him for any ID before making him move? this baffles me, bc of the sheer amount of times they woke him in that montage, yet none of them really ever said a word to him.

and the other thing that bothers me is when he's in the station. he gets arrested for suspicion of murder, and not a single deputy mentions they recognize him? his truck is impounded in the lot out back and they still haven't run the plates? they don't question the bullet holes, nor the fact it was found across the tracks? theo proves himself innocent of the crime; he had no connection to the two found in his company, but they're just going to let him go? sign this piece of paper and go back to the streets? the arrest record had him marked as a juvenile, nobody cared about that?

now i have two theories about this situation, bc it keeps me awake at night - the implication that an entire sheriff's station could be so negligent of a homeless kid in their own small town. one is that the department lacked communication so greatly, anyone who ever came in contact with theo didn't report, nor talk about it. either they just wanted him gone, or he left so quickly, they didn't have time to ask for ID or run plates (which i highly doubt; he was asleep, and they could've run the plates before waking him if they cared / did their job correctly). maybe since he wasn't a great disruption, they didn't see the need to look into the truck, nor the kid occupying it. maybe the deputies aware talked amongst themselves, but never thought it a big enough deal to handle properly. when he came into the station, they whispered, but didn't want to admit he was familiar. when the truck was impounded, they recognized it and didn't bother to run it.

but my other, and more likely theory is that the sheriff didn't care, and therefore, neither did his deputies. maybe they did report it. maybe they ran his plate through the system, determined it was stolen, and made a case to the sheriff, but he waved it off. maybe he told them to just keep him moving, and hoped he'll leave eventually. it could be why none of them bat an eye about letting the juvenile kid without proper ID back onto the street in the bullet-stricken, stolen truck. maybe they cared at one point, but when the sheriff blew them off and tossed their reports in the trash, their concern dwindled, and their empathy went with it. because why would stilinski care at all for theo, when he, himself, threatened to shoot him if he deemed it necessary? stilinski saw him as an evil person for whom he had no use; he was visibly irritated when liam suggested they use his help to fight, and despite having no deputies for support, he still hesitated against liam's idea. theo being reduced to nothing and forced to sleep in vulnerability was - to stilinski - exactly what he deserved for the hell he caused.

and i can understand stilinski being stubborn to trust him. i can see why he'd dislike the idea of relying on him for help, and why he'd prefer to keep him behind bars until he could prove himself useful. but i can't wrap my head around stilinski being okay with neglecting him, knowing he's completely alone and doing nothing about it. signing him out without a care in the world. promising a kid he'd shoot him if he did something wrong. stilinski knowing and ignoring it seems far-fetched at first, until you remember that promise he'd made earlier - with a witness, no less - and then it becomes clear.

[talonabraxas]

Archangel Zadkiel Talon Abraxas Archangel Zadkiel and Holy Amethyst

Archangel Zadkiel is known as the angel of mercy. He helps people approach God for mercy when they've done something wrong, reassuring them that God cares and will be merciful to them when they confess and repent of their sins, and motivating them to pray. Just as Zadkiel encourages people to seek the forgiveness that God offers them, he also encourages people to forgive those who have hurt them and helps deliver divine power that people can tap into to enable them to choose forgiveness, despite their hurt feelings. Zadkiel helps heal emotional wounds by comforting people and healing their painful memories. He helps repair broken relationships by motivating estranged people to show mercy to each other.

Zadkiel means "righteousness of God." Other spellings include Zadakiel, Zedekiel, Zedekul, Tzadkiel, Sachiel, and Hesediel.

Energy color: Purple

Zadkiel's Symbols

In art, Zadkiel is often depicted holding a knife or dagger, because Jewish tradition says that Zadkiel was the angel who prevented the prophet Abraham from sacrificing his son, Isaac when God tested Abraham's faith and then showed mercy on him.

Role in Religious Texts

Since Zadkiel is the angel of mercy, Jewish tradition identifies Zadkiel as the "angel of the Lord" mentioned in Genesis chapter 22 of the Torah and the Bible, when the prophet Abraham is proving his faith to God by preparing to sacrifice his son Isaac and God has mercy on him. However, Christians believe that the angel of the Lord is actually God himself, appearing in angelic form. Verses 11 and 12 records that, right at the moment when Abraham picked up a knife to sacrifice his son to God:

"[...]The angel of the Lord called out to him from heaven, 'Abraham! Abraham!' 'Here I am,' he replied. 'Do not lay a hand on the boy,' he said. 'Do not do anything to him. Now I know that you fear God because you have not withheld from me your son, your only son.'

In verses 15 through 18, after God has provided a ram to sacrifice instead of the boy, Zadkiel calls out from heaven again:

"The angel of the Lord called to Abraham from heaven a second time and said, 'I swear by myself, declares the Lord, that because you have done this and have not withheld your son, your only son, I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky and as the sand on the seashore. Your descendants will take possession of the cities of their enemies, and through your offspring, all nations on earth will be blessed because you have obeyed me.'"

The Zohar, the holy book of the mystical branch of Judaism called Kabbalah, names Zadkiel as one of two archangels (the other is Jophiel), who help the Archangel Michael when he fights evil in the spiritual realm.

Other Religious Roles

Zadkiel is the patron angel of people who forgive. He urges and inspires people to forgive others who have hurt or offended them in the past and work on healing and reconciling those relationships. He also encourages people to seek forgiveness from God for their own mistakes so they can grow spiritually and enjoy more freedom.

In astrology, Zadkiel rules the planet Jupiter and is linked with the zodiacal signs Sagittarius and Pisces. When Zadkiel is referred to as Sachiel, he is often associated with helping people earn money and motivating them to give money to charity.

[eldritch-sanctum]

Some more thoughts about Attack on Titan, this time addressing the fascism accusation (and some rambling’s about Eren supposedly behaving out of character) . The fascism accusation is what prevented me from watching it before (also AoT being insanely popular to the point of cringe).

tl;dr: I saw a YT video accusing AoT of fascist propaganda and I felt like we didn’t watch the same show.

Before I watched AoT I was given two hints about the ending:

“Things reverse” and “it’s fascist”

A part of me dreaded the ending would blow up into a disaster, and I was pleasantly proven wrong. There are a ton of YT videos about why the ending sucked, and they tend to revolve around Eren being horribly inconsistent about his motives for The Rumbling, rather than the fact he uhh did The Rumbling. For some disturbing reason in some fan endings, people insist he should have killed 100% of humanity outside of Paradis, and uhhh really, why?

In an Isayama interview, he said iicr that he felt “Eren was back” when Eren went into super whiny woobie mode. I think he meant to make Eren pathetic and knew there were chad readers rooting for him to destroy the world.

I know people wanted Eren to have a more clear, concise motive for The Rumbling rooted in protecting Paradis. What we got was Eren being a huge psychological mess. But the fact there isn’t I think is the point. As someone with obsessive compulsive disorder, I get the idea of having to go forward with something, wanting to do it, but not wanting to do it and all that headfuckery. So I think of Eren’s mindset for The Rumbling being that he has to do it the way a drug addict has to do drugs, the way someone with OCD has to do the ritual, the way someone with a phobia has to avoid the thing even if they know it’s harmless. In this type of mindset you can sound like different people talking and it can be confusing and scary to watch.

It’s basically him being a slave to the specific kind of freedom he imagined as a child, thirsting for it no matter what. He wants this but he knows it’s wrong and stupid. But he wants this so bad. Yet he is trapped in the time loop of his own desire. He knows he will die if he does this, he knows he will disappoint his friends, but he has. to. do. it. This is why I theorize The Rumbling is more than just an event, it feels much bigger as if Eren is a vessel for it. It may be the full force of Ymir’s rage, it may be something locked with King Fritz’s threat, it may be Eren having no control over himself and accepting his “nature” that makes him the perfect vessel for it.

IDK what Isayama’s experience with mental illness is, but if that was what he was trying to convey, then he did a good job but one that others would have difficulty understanding.

Now onto the main point.

At the end of season 3, I dreaded two possible endings:

- That Paradis would attack the world and prove that Marley was right about them. Eren uses the Founding Titan powers to wipe everyone’s memories in Paradis and make sure they never leave. The edict of Fritz is maintained once again.

- Paradis attacks the world. Eren and his friends and thematically the story itself would lean into Paradis going back to the brutal, tyrannical Eldian empire and this being a good thing.

Neither of them came to fruition; at the end of the Liberio raid arc I was glad that the rest of the Survey corp team didn’t agree with Eren’s actions.

One of the things that got people saying it’s fascist was the idea that wiping out the rest of the world was necessary for Paradis to live.

But The Rumbling is framed in horror, inhumanity, and brutal violence. The new cast of protagonists are against it. We are shown many innocent people including children being killed. Hange outright calls The Rumbling genocide. We see a motley group of characters who hated and wanted to kill each other eat stew from the same pot and come together. They reflect on the cycle of violence and absurdity of blaming people for the actions of their ancestors.

I think there is too much focus on Eren. Throughout the series Eren’s role seemed to have faded into being a McGuffin and many other characters took the spotlight more like Levi and Historia. However the ending of season 3 he started to get back in the spotlight more.

The Rumbling is clearly a bad thing, and never said to be the only way. Only that it was the predetermined way.

Another accusation of facism is the Jaegerists and that they continue post the Battle of Heaven and Earth. The Jaegerists are not the good guys, and they are the antagonists. Even Eren and Zeke just were using them and their loyalty. Paradis descends into nationalism at the end, but we see this isn’t a good thing. We see Sasha’s family walk by a Jaegerist/New Eldian Empire rally with disgust, showing not all Eldians agree with them. The Eldians from Paradis fear retribution from the world but we don’t know how far they go. It seems that centuries pass before war comes to Paradis, it may just be a conflict that happens for reasons countries go to war.

There are two mottos that the series brings up at the beginning that fueled some accusations of fascism: “kill or be killed” and “you must give up your humanity”, these serve as pep talks when one is prey desperate not to die. Then Eren takes these both to their extremes and becomes predator. So the series actually critiques those mindsets when the situation unfolds in complexity and an outside world exists.

I think overall it’s the confusion about whether or not a piece of media is supporting or critiquing a mindset/ideology that throws people off about it. You have to look at the context and consider that the author has a lot of counterpoints, some pretty much spoonfed to the reader.

The one I think is fuzziest is “both sides are equally bad”, which I really don’t think is the case. I can see where this comes from, especially with Eren’s “we are the same” speech to Reiner. Especially when we see the raid on Liberio scene and the scene where Bertolt is eaten. It’s morally gray, but it never got to “we’re the bad guys now”, which is what I feared. We just see how it looks from the other’s side’s perspective to remind us all we’re human and war is ugly. The sides contrasted aren’t Eldians and Marleyans, but Eldians from Paradis, and Eldians from Liberio who are both victims. Even worse, elite Eldians are complicit in their suffering; on Paradis it was the Reiss family, on Marley it was the Tybur family. They secured their own power at the cost of the rest of their people because they are elite fucks.

I think it’s a little harder to grasp the theme of “cycle of hatred” for those in the U.S. Our history of conflicts within U.S soil is often one of imperialism and conquest by groups of people in power and often is one-sided.

However, around the world we do see cycles of hate and violence that are rooted through the centuries.

So “ending the cycle of hatred” can seem to feel tone deaf to those striking back at their oppressors. Even Fullmetal Alchemist had this criticism.

[wrestlersownmyheart]

"Secret Admirer" - *Mystery Wrestler* X Female Reader (Part 2)

Title: Secret Admirer Summary: When your office's lights go out after weeks of being gifted with flowers and love notes–from a secret admirer, you're freaked out, to say the least. But then a warm mouth claims yours and all fear leaves… Pairing: Mystery Wrestler X Female Reader Disclaimers: I own nothing or anyone associated or affiliated with WWE. I own only the original characters. This is just a fictional story that came from my imagination. Content/Trigger Warnings: blood warning

Secret Admirer

Part Two:

You fought the urge to faint again by taking some deep breaths.

PREGNANT.

No matter how long you looked at the test's digital screen, the word 'pregnant' would not go away.

"What have I done?" you thought out loud. "I was so stupid. The one time would have been okay if it'd been with a guy that wanted a relationship. But obviously he just wanted to have a quick fling and then be done with it. Otherwise he'd have shown himself.

You ignored the fact that he'd tried on multiple occasions to get in touch with you through letters and cards.

Sighing, and on the verge of tears, you let them well up in your eyes and spill over.

"How could I have let this happen? Now, I'm a single mom who practically lives on the road. How am I going to raise a child?" You whispered to yourself in the bathroom stall. "Oh, my God, I don't even know who the father is." This sent a wave of nausea rolling through your stomach and you turned around to face the toilet just as what little your stomach had to offer, came up.

When you were through with being sick, you stepped out of the stall and rinsed your mouth at the sink. In a zombie-like state, you walked down the hall and back to your office. Patricia was still there, waiting on you.

She knew the instant she saw your face. "Oh, honey…"

"I'm pregnant."

"Do you want to go over your options?"

"The only option for me, is to have the baby. I'm not getting rid of it. I'm just worried about how I'll do all this by myself."

"What about the father? Is he not in your life anymore?"

More tears spilled down your cheeks. You couldn't tell her the truth! You just couldn't!

"No." You sniffled and wiped at your eyes. "I can afford the baby, that's not the problem. It's just… being there for him or her. By myself. What if I can't do it?"

"Honey, there are single mothers every day. I know you can do it. Just take it one day at a time."

You nodded, and wiped at your eyes some more. "I'm so scared."

"I know you are. But it will be okay."

You nodded again. "It will be okay."

It has to be.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

You woke up to your phone alerting you to a text. When you picked it up and checked the message. It was from an unknown number and it read:

I got your number from a mutual friend. I'm your… Secret admirer for a lack of a cheesier phrase. Please, talk to me, Y/N. I saw you crying in the hallway today. What is going on?

You quickly typed out:

You proved how much you cared, by walking away from me and not even letting me know who you were. After what I thought was so special. You left me. And now I have something to deal with all by myself. Apparently you got what you wanted. A fling. Goodbye.

Once you sent the text you laid back in bed and tried to go back to sleep. Your phone dinged with another text, and rolling your eyes, you looked at it.

What is wrong? What are you dealing with? And I didn't want a fling. I was just afraid to reveal myself to you, and then you be disappointed. Because I heard… I heard in passing that you're not into wrestlers, and that's exactly what I am.

You wrote back. "I've not once said I wasn't into wrestlers, so your info is wrong. Just please, let it go and leave me alone. I need to heal from this. Whatever 'this' was. I can't believe I made such a wreckless, stupid decision. GOODBYE.

You laid back down again and wasn't surprised to hear your phone ding almost immediately.

Groaning, you sat up and read the text.

So Drew was lying then. And I'm sorry you feel it was a stupid decision. Frankly, I hate to hear that because it was the best decision I ever made, myself. It was the most amazing moment of my life. Goodnight, but not goodbye. I'm not giving up on you. I will somehow make this up to you.

You didn't answer it. You didn't know how. You simply laid back down for the final time, and cried yourself to sleep.

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Another month passed and your pregnancy progressed. You'd visited an OB-GYN and got put on prenatal vitamins and had regular checkups. You were having a little girl.

Everything seemed to be fine in the doctor's eyes. But you were not without a lot of stress and worry though. And that worried you even more because you knew it wasn't good for the baby. And to add along to the stress, your secret admirer or the "scumbag" as you'd come to refer to him, had kept trying to talk to you, but you wouldn't have it.

The pregnancy hormones were wreaking havoc on you. Any little thing set you off and made you cry. So, when you heard Liv Morgan telling Raquel Rodriguez–while laughing–that you looked like you'd packed on some pounds, needless to say, you had a sudden urge to cry your eyes out in the bathroom.

So you did.

You spent a good ten minutes sobbing because you'd told no one about your pregnancy so you had no way of defending your weight gain. The only person who knew was Patricia.

You decided to pee before you went back to your office, and as you sat down on the toilet, you noticed quite a bit of blood on your panties. You became aware of a dull ache in your lower abdomen. Almost like a severe PMS cramp.

You gasped in horror. Felt of yourself to make sure you were indeed bleeding. Your mind was not computing. Your hand came back covered in blood.

Blood?

The baby!

You pulled your underwear up and tried to hurry out of the stall, but everything seemed to be moving in slow motion. "Oh, God… please…" The sight of the blood had weakened your knees and you fought to stay on your feet.

You made it to the door and opened it, stepped outside and looked around for someone to help.

The show was going strong apparently, because there was no one. You had to get back to your office and call for an ambulance. You went a few steps and looked up through hazy vision to see that you were never going to make it to your office.

"Help…" Your broken cry fell on deaf ears. No one was there.

You ambled a few more steps and nearly fell to your knees. You heard a door open in the hallway. A few uncertain footsteps.

Then, "Y/N?"

You turned slowly to see Jey Uso heading your way from his dressing room.

"Help me…." You sobbed and began to slide down the wall behind you.

"Whoa! Easy, girl…" Arms went around you and you were held up against a broad chest.

"He- Help… me…"

"What's wrong Y/N? Tell me, sweetie."

"I'm… bleeding…"

He looked down at your hands then, saw all the blood. And a curse passed his lips. Immediately, he grabbed his phone out of his pocket and made a call.

"Listen, Uce. She's hurt. She's bleeding bad. She's pale. I don't know what's wrong–she can't talk too well right now. Just get here. We're in the hallway near my dressing room. Yeah, bye." He looked down at you and saw you were fighting to stay awake. "That's it, stay awake, Y/N."

"My… baby…"

"Huh?" You heard Jey exclaim.

"My baby girl… Will she be okay?

"You're pregnant?!"

"WHERE IS SHE?"

You heard Damian's voice rounding the corner of the hallway and looked weakly and quizzically up at Jey.

"WE'RE OVER HERE!" Jey called out, lifting you into his arms in a bridal carry. He began carrying you and your head fell against his shoulder. "We've got to get her to the hospital."

"What's wrong with her?!" Damien demanded, suddenly right by you and Jey.

"She's pregnant, Uce." Jey said. "She needs a doctor."

"But she's bleeding!"

"Take her and let's get her into the car and get her to the hospital," Jey said, trying to snap Damian out of his panic.

You were shifted into Damian's arms and both he and Jey began running for the parking area.

You held weakly onto Damian's neck as he carried you. "Please… my baby… my little girl…"

"It's gonna be alright, cariña. I promise you."

The next thing you knew, you were being jostled around and settled on Damian's lap in the back of a car. "Can you drive, Jey?"

"I got this, just take care of her."

You looked up at Damian and saw him looking back at you, fear in his dark gaze.

"I'm so… sleepy…"

"Baby, stay awake," he ordered gently. "You need to stay awake."

But everything faded to black before your eyes no matter how hard you fought it.

You came to several times.

The first time you were being wheeled on a gurney. You caught a glimpse of both Damian and Jey following beside you, their hands resting on the railing of the bed. And then you went out like a light.

The next time, you were laying in the bed still, and a wand of some kind was being rolled over your bare stomach.

"Hold still, dear. We're almost done taking the ultrasound," you heard.

Then you were out again.

The next time you woke up you were still in the bed and what looked to be a hospital room. A black belt was wound around your stomach with some sort of device setting on your abdomen. Daylight filtered in through the windows and you winced at the brightness.

You heard the steady beep of a heart monitor, and turned your head on the pillow to see both Damian and Jey sitting in chairs by your bed, dozing lightly. That's when you noticed Damians' hand entwined with yours.

"Damian? Jey?" You croaked out. You needed a drink of water. You tried to free your hand from Damian's but he had a death grip on you.

As you tugged on your hand, then Damian instantly woke up and stood to his feet, which prompted Jey to wake up, and they both began checking you over.

"Fever's down," Jey said, smiling at Damian.

Damian nodded, "Yeah. That's got to be a good sign."

"Water?" you whispered, and let out a soft cough.

Damian immediately began pouring you a glass of ice water from the pitcher on your rolling table. "Sure, cariña. No problem." He held the glass to your lips and let you take a drink. "Easy. Just sips at first."

You wanted to gulp it down so badly, but you did as he said, and sipped at the cool liquid.

"How is my baby?" You finally asked when you were through getting your fill of water.

"She is doing okay," Damian reported. He touched the black belt around your stomach. "This has been monitoring her since last night and the nurses say she is doing fine."

"What happened?"

"I'm going to leave you two alone," Jey said suddenly, stepping away from the bed. "Give y'all a chance to talk."

"Thanks for your help last night, Jey. If it wasn't for you finding me, I don't know what would've happened."

"Hey, no problem, sweetie." He yeeted and made you chuckle, and then made his

way out the door, closing it behind him.

You turned uncertainly back to Damian. "So what happened to me? And what did Jey mean by letting us talk?"

"You had a placenta previa," Damian started. "It is where the placenta covers the cervix. Luckily, it wasn't as bad as it seemed and they gave you some medication to correct it. You and the baby are going to be just fine. But you do need some bed rest before you go back to working and traveling full time."

"I guess I will see if I can take some maternity time," you thought out loud. "I have all these decisions to make by myself, and it's scary," you told him. "Thank you too, for your help last night. I was so scared."

"You don't have to be scared anymore. And you don't have any decisions to make by yourself."

"What do you mean?"

Damian looked at you for a moment before speaking again. "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways…" He paused and let the words sink in for you.

Your jaw dropped. "But… I didn't tell anyone about that poem. How do you know-"

"It's me, amor. I'm the one who wrote you all those letters and sent the flowers."

"I-I…"

"I can prove it if you still don't believe me."

"How?"

He moved closer to you and sat on the edge of the bed. "Close your eyes, cariña."

You stared at him for a moment, before obeying and closing your eyes.

In the next instant there was a brush of his lips against yours. Softly, one kiss. Then two, then a third one that lingered and stayed on your mouth.

"I love you," Damian's voice rumbled against your lips. "I love you so much."

The beeps on your heart monitor doubled in speed as he kissed you, and you felt him smile against your mouth.

Unable to stop yourself, you raised your hand to his face, caressing his cheek and kissed him back. "I love you, too."

And you did. You had for the longest time. You'd just gotten so caught up in who your admirer was… and ironically, it was the man you were head over heels for all along!

"Then, cásate conmigo," he mumbled, kissing you again.

"What does that mean," you asked in between his fervent kisses.

"Marry me," he proposed. "Let's be a family."

"Yes," you replied, smiling into his kiss. "I'll marry you."

"When?"

"As soon as possible?"

"Sounds good to me, cariña. Sounds wonderful, in fact."

}i{}i{}i{}i{}i{

Six Months Later…

A baby's cry pierced the atmosphere, and you fell back against the pillows, exhausted, but satisfied. You'd brought your daughter into the world and you'd done it with your husband by your side the whole time.

"There she is!" Damian exclaimed, as the doctor took her over to be cleaned up. Within minutes the baby was cleaned and had a pink blanket wrapped around her wriggling form. She was handed to you then, and you held her. Admired what you and Damian had done together.

"She's beautiful. Just like you, cariña."

"What are you going to name her?" the doctor asked, washing her hands at the sink.

"Carina Louise Martinez," you replied, stroking your finger over the baby's soft cheek. You held her up a bit so that Damian could take her and hold her.

"Beautiful name," the doctor commented.

"Thank you," you and Damian both said.

Damian looked down at his daughter and reveled in how much like them both she looked. Carina had his nose and mouth but Y/N's eyes. She appeared to have a light color head of hair, but that could change as she got older.

"I'm in love for the second time in my life," he said, kissing the baby's forehead.

"Me too," you replied, as Damian kissed the top of your head next. "Me too."

THE END

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@zigzoggy

[generalsdiary]

Interwoven

Mydei x Phainon

word count: 1.9k

description: back to the future (Chapter 5)

a/n: ty to my beta readers; citrus, rice cake and Sav <2

Chapter 6: Inhale him, exhale stardust

It came in flashes.

The perfect, safe paradise falling apart. It bled through the cracks. One moment Phainon is writing at his messy table, and another, he is kneeling in his cold room in Okhema. His cheeks are wet and his vision is blurry, and before he can get a chance to adjust to the new reality, he is back in Kremnos with the most handsome man on the planet looking at him. Pools of gold he could swim in for days. The best privilege in the world is having his attention focused solely on him. The memory of the times Mydei avoided conversations with Phainon is a sting in his heart—the days Mydei would offer only one-word answers and barely look at him. Instead of lamenting the past, Phainon grounds himself in the present moment, and a lazy smile spreads across his lips.

“Will you say something, or do you plan on looking stupidly in love with me the whole time?” Mydei doesn’t hesitate to ask, gently gripping Phainon’s chin between his thumb and forefinger.

Phainon stops breathing, stuck between heartbeats, trapped between breaths. “I’m…” His words are rendered useless as Mydei leans in with a smile Phainon had never seen before, and brushes his nose against his, “M... Mydei.”

“Yes?” the single word answer brushes against Phainon’s lips in the form of a warm breath. His eyelashes flutter, but he offers no restraint to the imminent kiss. If anything, Phainon feels eager to feel it, experience it, taste him.

A moment before Phainon can meet his lips, so close he can nearly feel him—the dream, inconveniently, ends. The first crack of their reality goes unnoticed by Phainon, wrapped up in the blanket of a loving dream. To him, the flash of the new future appears as a pretend nightmare. Any pain that pierced through his temples gets tucked away in the warm duvet covering his body and the rhythmic breathing of Mydei beside him. If sleep hadn’t concealed the truth, would he have done everything the same way?

Castrum Kremnos ruled and led by King Mydeimos and Prince Phainon had already become a home to them. Apart from some odds and ends sticking out, they had no trouble adapting to it again. Coming back was akin to visiting the house of one’s grandparents, nothing could go wrong—like children without responsibility. The stakes of this reality are a laughable joke in comparison to their actual present. For the two, who usually stand, walk and fight in abnormal proximity, a situation where they’re forced to be even closer is embraced with open arms.

The habit of keeping chats of their present hushed while also having to appear in love, although there’s not much pretending to be had there, resurfaces easily. Every fool, except for Mydei, could tell how lovingly Prince Phainon looks at his husband and everyone, except for Phainon, could tell just how much King Mydeimos blushes in the presence of his other half.

With the constant goal being to have private conversations, Mydei expressed his desire to take Phainon somewhere further away, so that they might not have to whisper. 

“This is beautiful, we should do this more often,” Phainon muses, looking around to take in the scenery. A quiet river, the cleanest air filtered by the large trees surrounding them and, of course, the King of Castrum Kremnos. He could not ask for anything more.

Mydei shuffles a bit on the soft grass, “We could… probably not whenever we make it back… But I’m glad I could show you this.”

Phainon has a glint in his eyes, swiftly cooking up an idea to take Mydei’s mind off whatever may be troubling him, “I bet I could eat more peaches from this tree than you.”

His plan proves fruitful the moment Mydei meets Phainon’s eyes with a newfound fervor in them, “I eat more than you.” 

Already in a half squat, Phainon was grabbing as many peaches as he could and shoving them into his shirt, “We will see about that,” He taunted, voice thick with excitement at the premise of another competition.

Mydei groaned, succumbing to the hard-wired desire to indulge Phainon in this little game—to beat his opponent and pluck the baby pink fruit off the fragile branches faster than him. In a mere matter of moments, there were dozens of peaches on the floor around their feet. In the heat of the ongoing competition, a thought of clarity floats over to Mydeimos, “Perhaps… we shouldn’t behave in this way with food. Furthermore, this is the only peach tree here.”

“Chickening out already?” Phainon snickers, bubbling with the desire to tease Mydei.

“How about we both just enjoy a singular peach, and bring the rest back to Kremnos? As much as I love competing with you, surely we can draw a line somewhere?” In favour of ignoring Phainon’s jab, Mydeimos tilts his head.

The tension in Phainon’s back eases. As long as his so-called-husband has his mind out of the gutter, he doesn’t mind dropping the competition and settling with enjoying the presence of his counterpart. With the peaches nicely piled into an organized tower, Phainon grabs one of them, “Yeah, I can indulge in just one. Here’s to us, Mydeimos, may we always remain triumphant,” he extends it towards Mydei’s hand, to bump them as one might glasses. Mydei wordlessly nods and returns the gesture.

Past the soft fuzz of the fruit’s skin, the blend of soft red, warm yellow and hint of green breaks to reveal a bright orange flesh, spilling its juices—a cacophony of sour and sweet dancing on the men’s tongues. Mouths full, they make eye contact past the first bite, gripping the fruit and leaving no room for witty remarks or playful jokes. One may wonder… was there a matrimony ceremony in the past—or perhaps, on a completely different planet—consisting of the very action the two men find themselves in right now.

The situation is unsettling for all lovers, with Mydei being the first one to bend the knee under the severe pressure of the implied kiss across the fruit—by closing his eyes and taking another bite. Phainon holds back the urge to grab Mydei’s hand, entangle their fingers, relish in the warmth of his palm, feel the strong grip they most probably have—he is holding his hand. Phainon is… he is holding his hand. The shock in his blue eyes matches that of Mydei’s amber ones. Since their mouths are full and they’re not being observed, they let the shock go and instead, turn to ignoring the gravity of such an action.

Yet soft times like these are exactly what Mydei wanted out of his life. Simple, gentle moments that they could never get in the present. It is a small part of them, deep inside, the one that wishes to ignore all responsibilities and let go of the hero status, that wishes Caelus would catch them later rather than sooner. After finally swallowing the sweet fruit, Mydei calls out, “Phainon.”

Their eyes meet, and time nearly stops for them. Apart from the trees rustling, the creek flowing over the smooth grey rocks polished by time, and various birds chirping, time reaches its standstill. It is said that birds only sing in the areas that are safe. This picnic is a memory that one should save in a snow globe to keep it safe and sound; secure and eternal under the glass orb. Glass is crafted from the rough particles of sand; it forms the clear, firm material. However, it is fragile. One wrong swing of an arm and the snow globe falls down, plummeting to its doom and dirtying the floor with a strange liquid. All that remain are fake snowflakes and parts of what once used to be a picnic scene.

There it is again—Phainon’s knees ache and the cold from the stone seeps into his legs. This time, he gathers his surroundings a bit better; this truly is his room. The curtains are pulled away, allowing the eternal dawn to shine light onto the messy space. Phainon wipes away the oncoming, cold tears from his warm cheeks. Salt. They taste like salt. He tries to get up, but with no energy to fight left in them, his legs give out. More tears keep coming, and an ache in his chest makes him think he was stabbed. He looks down… alas, there is no wound there. The whole premise gives him a bad feeling; the wrench in his gut confirming something went terribly wrong. Part of his armor is thrown haphazardly around the room, adding to the unsettling feeling in his stomach.

Phainon reaches for his teleslate, the cold metal assuring him with the potential of clarifying information, until the sensation switches to the warmth of Mydei’s hand. 

“Mydeimos,” he gasps, squeezing the large hand in his, “Something happened, I think the reality is falling apart.”

Mydei looks equally disoriented and mimics Phainon’s gesture, “It appears our choices are changing this future… I don’t think this one is stable. I don’t know if it is safe for us to be here.”

“I doubt this has something to do with safety. Just now I was somewhere else—but it wasn’t our present. We should be safe either way, but…” Phainon shifted closer to Mydei. There’s no harm in sitting near his… husband of this future, is what he tells himself. The fear that he will lose Mydei in an unknown timeline is a thought that he buries deep inside him. He can only hope it will never see the light of the eternal dawn.

“Alright, I’ll trust your judgement this time,” Mydei nods, turning towards Phainon, “I don’t doubt your capabilities to protect yourself should it ever come to it,” his eyes fall to the long-forgotten pile of peaches, “I do wonder… What did you see in the new future?”

“Nothing new, nor out of the ordinary... Okhema, my room. I was crying, I didn’t manage to figure out why. And you?” He murmurs his words out hurriedly, and quickly poses a counter question. The last thing he wants is for Mydei to worry. It is not that he minds talking about his tears, rather that he wishes to avoid giving Mydei an excuse to not share his experience.

The worry in Mydei’s eyes confirms Phainon’s initial goal, “You were crying? It was nothing special on my end, I was—“

Surrounded by enemies. Encircled by Titankin; corrupted by the Black Tide, running along the stone tiles overgrown by grass, outside of any light sent by the Worldbearing Titan Kephale. The air’s thick with the scent of rust, a familiar smell, however only one person can bleed here and it is not any of the enemies. An ache overwhelmed his muscles with each hit he swung forward, and his armor grew heavier with every second. It made him wonder how many times he had already died and come back. The abandoned buildings of Castrum Kremnos… a sour sight to meet after holding the hand of the man he is terribly fond of in the rebuilt city.

Well… that is what he wanted to say. The final crack in the glass shattered it completely, and the future of the two loving, ruling husbands fell apart in their hands like water slipping through their fingers. That future is torn away from their grasp, never to be seen again.

Slow mornings, nights filled with the scent of lavender coming in from the balcony, shared meals, discussions over laws and the common folk inquiries. No Flame Chase journey, no impending Black Tide, no war, no internal conflict. Losing all of this… will it ever be worth the price they’ll have to pay?

[ihaznoclue]

Nicole demara, Grace howard, and Koldea belabog with a boyfriend who's a gadgeteer genius and regularly comes up with ideas that seem foolish or impossible, but once he makes them they always end up working and are actually super useful/handy.

Pairings -> Nicole Demara x Male Reader, Grace Howard x Male Reader, Koldea Belobog x Male Reader

Warnings -> None

Note -> Reader is a gadgeteer genius and regularly comes up with ideas which seems impossible but it always ends up working

Genre -> Fluff

NICOLE DEMARA

First impression is that Nicole initially believed that you were a con - artist, how could that a strange someone who was her boyfriend use duct tape and a whisk to create something useful

You prove her wrong and she is both shocked and irritated a little as she had doubted you

She also loves the chaos, you're essentially a walking surprise box and she thrives on it

The next day, you literally make toast explode on command and the day after that, you give her a holographic projector that can imitate enemy silhouettes and she loves it

She uses your gadgets in her missions which Nicole testes on

And it explodes successfully as you smile innocently as you watched that happen

GRACE HOWARD

The couple that are both geniuses with ideas, she initially thinks your approaches are a little out of the ordinary

But Grace is a mechanic and a engineer, she works on her machines in her spare time

She gradually recognises trends in your insanity as your devices follow a logic that only you can comprehend

But after a while, you two collaborate with each other meaning she will provide comments to your works to improve

She puts her head on your shoulder and offers you coffee during lengthy tinkering sessions as you recount the crazy concepts that has happened and know that you need a break

KOLEDA BELOBOG

She believes that you are crazy with your ideas saying that this is the dumbest thing she has ever heard from you in a while

She then sees your prototype by using a bowling pin to knock out a charging Ethereal and she would look dumb-founded

She doesn't use her words much and if a device malfunctions or catches on fire, she will yell and then assist in fixing it with you

You create her equipment such as her boots that lessen impact damage and reinforced gloves that realise shockwaves

She acts tough as though she is somewhat now unimpressed but you know she is impressed by the end of seeing what inventions do

-A<3

[fatuismooches]

just failed miserably in cooking my first ever proper meal so here I am, projecting onto Dottore 🤧

Dottore himself may be a downright terrible cook, but what about his segments? I like to imagine that (almost) all of them are just as bad, if not worse. If you thought Prime shouldn’t be allowed in a kitchen, look at Beta!! Bro’s more likely to win the lottery than make something edible 😭

Imagine that Zandy is the exception to this culinary curse - he’s Reader’s assistant chef and baker, and ALWAYS knows what he’s doing, even without the recipe! It baffles and seriously irritates the other segments.

- Night anon

Naturally, as Dottore's other selves, the segments share his traits - the desire for knowledge, an analytical mind, blasphemous thoughts - but also fatal hands that cause disasters in the kitchen. Of course, you've banned them from the premises 99% of the time, but on occasion, you still like letting them in, in an attempt to teach them, which usually goes south.

Beta is even worse than Prime due to his general demeanor. See, at least Dottore, in his older age, has far more patience regarding different things than his younger self, and he also yields to you more as he acknowledges your expertise, dutifully following your instructions and steps (and still making absolute slop). But the segment, although possessing patience for his experiments, tends to lack that trait when it comes to other things. Therefore, when he's placed into situations where he has little interest or experience, Beta's patience runs thin. He's also not very gentle, so there will be lots of clanking, grumbling, and an explosion. You will feel nervous with him in the kitchen because of how hard he's glaring at the poor ingredients. Although he likes keeping his hands active, this time he'd much rather sit back and let you handle this...

Having Omega in the kitchen is the funniest simply due to the nature of the segment. The arrogant and mighty segment, wisdom and strength rivaling the Archons, the one who can make the impossible possible... so many grand achievements under his belt... except when it comes to making a meal. Although he loves to spend time with you (especially snatching it away from the others), Omega always expertly comes up with an excuse when you invite him to help you cook. Despite the urge to prove you wrong, he very much knows of his lack of talent for cooking and how you will make fun of him at any chance, and his ego cannot take that. Therefore, he usually just hoists you on the counter and kisses you to get you to stop talking.

You always knew precious Zandy was special, and his baffling lack of explosions in the kitchen was definitely a part of it. Initially, you were quite scared to let him in, considering that grown men are doing so terribly, you can't imagine what the poor kid would go through! But what do you know, the little boy seems to lack the curse his older selves possess! You don't really understand why either, but you're just happy one blue-haired silly is able to help you make yummy treats. Even though some of the other segments are grumpy about it, you help Zandy get a bit closer to them by having him offer the sweets. You think it's working... slowly, at least. It's especially endearing when Prime, Zandy, and you are together. It's awkward at first, but Prime supposes even he has something to learn from his child self. That is why he made the segments after all... but for things other than baking.

[thecurioustale]

I've had the experience with webcomics too where they just work so perfectly despite the slow publishing rate.

It brings to mind how we often have little problem keeping up with our friends' lives even if we go for weeks or months at a time without hearing from them. As long as our brains are working properly (something mine has had trouble with in recent years), we can remember this stuff pretty well. We seem to be wired for it, unsurprisingly!

I would bet you a crisp glazed doughnut that that's how that works with webcomics.

Now bring on the scientists to prove me wrong!

Webcomocs as a format should flat out just not work. Reading a story one page a week should make the story unparsable, it should be destroying pacing, investment in the characters, the capacity to keep track of the plot. This is not how narratives were meant to be consumed.

And yet.

It works, somehow it works, some of the most powerful effective narratives i experienced were by reading a comic one page a week. Even when there were times when a page would come out and id groan and be like " now FOR REAL i CANT WAIT for the next page i need it NOW!" A week later i would come back and read the next page and get excited, or invested, or even satisfied if a resolution had been reached.

funny how it somehow works.

[snaret]

darkseid: FOOL, WITNESS THE ANTI-LIFE EQUATION, MATHEMATICALLY PROVING LIFE IS WORTHLESS AND HOPE IS A LIE. ALL WHO SEE IT SHALL LOSE THEMSELVES TO THE WILL OF DARKSEID!

impulse, looking directly at it: but thats not true.

darkseid: what are you. it proves it.

impulse: proves what?

darkseid: THAT LIFE IS MEANINGLESS AND HOPE IS NOTHING.

impulse: ohhhhhhhh! *looks at it harder*

impulse: yeah it's wrong though. cuz thats not true.

darkseid: YES IT DOES-

[frostgnawdraws]

failure and futility

for day 2 of campfire fest! prompt: third eye (and i guess could also count for explosion, or a lack thereof lol) @outerwilds-events