#now shes in charge of clara

[sunlessveils]

The household of Dr Cards.

Most are surprised to find the doctor lives so secluded in the marshes, what secrets does he keep there? The truth is not far below the surface. The secret is his daughter,Clara, Sent from the surface by her mother due to her "unladylike" behaviour.

While her claims of singing from the marshlands and Visions of miracles are a source of some concern the doctor ensures she's well protected and cared for.

Rumours stick to the girls caretaker, miss Harpe, that say she used to be a vake hunter. Though most whispers follow the House's guardsman, A faceless fellow in ancient armour but with no lacking in its sword arm. are they dedicated to reenactment or did the doctor animate a suit of armor,or the bones of a long dead warrior, to ensure the safety of his constantly wandering child and the staff?

[rearranging-deck-chairs]

i think the villa diodati speech probably had a big effect on how yaz approached the doctor in flux and after

[violentdelightsandviolentends]

Cherry Blossom. aka - Cherry, Part Four.

a night of conversations, kisses and long awaited confessions.

pairing - bestfriend!steve harrington x female reader

warnings - cursing, kissing (but no real smut).

word count - 2.6k

authors note - the babies are back!! no smut in this one - it was getting too long. but don’t you worry… there’s gonna be so much smut in part five !! sorry for the cliffhanger. love u <3

as always, reblogs, comments and feedback (even anonymous feedback!) are immensely appreciated!! your reblogs are the only way to circulate my fics, which keeps me going <3

series masterlist. main masterlist. inbox.

The smoke from the bonfire is stinging your eyes, ash sticking to the strands of your hair. Orange embers burn rapidly, dry wood being occasionally thrown on top by drunk boys with red cups in their hands.

The music is way too loud for a forest party, but no one seems to care. Someone’s haphazardly strung lights between the trees, creating a surprisingly cosy ambience. The atmosphere is alive, charged with the electricity of being out later than curfew.

“M’lady!”

You laugh, accepting the drink from Eddie’s outstretched hand.

“Thank you, kind sir,” you say as you curtsy sarcastically, making both of you laugh harder. “Hey, you didn’t bump into Steve on your way over here, did you? I haven’t seen him for like an hour.”

The curly haired boy kicks the toe of your sneaker with his.

“Saw him with that Clara girl, talking by the lake.”

You take a steadying breath, pretending it doesn’t bother you in the slightest.

“You should go and check if he needs rescuing,” Eddie jokes. “God knows she can talk for hours without coming up for air.”

You smile at him, pulling at one of his curls.

“Good idea. Just in case.”

“Just in case,” he winks, pushing you in the right direction.

You saunter down towards the water, spotting your best friend instantly. He’s stood with his arms across his chest, weight on one hip as he tries to listen to whatever Clara has to say. The minute he sees you, his posture is straightening, lips quirking up at the corners.

Clara turns around to see what Steve is looking at, her face falling when she recognises you.

“Hi. I don’t mean to interrupt! Just wanted to check if you needed another drink, Stevie.”

The boy grins, beckoning you closer with a nod of his head. When you’re near enough, he leans down and presses a sweet kiss to your lips, all affectionate and tender.

Oh.

You don’t do that.

The two of you have kept your romance completely behind closed doors, up until now. It hasn’t got a name, never mind a label, and you don’t need people asking questions when you don’t even know the answers yourself.

You could blame it on the alcohol, but you know Steve’s on his first drink. With your head spinning, you look up at him as if he is the sun and all things warm. He looks down at you the exact same way.

“I’m gonna go see where my friends are,” Clara says a little too loudly, strutting away with as much confidence as she can muster.

You have a sudden feeling that you’re the villain in her story, but you’re not entirely sure why.

“How many drinks have you had?” Steve asks as he pulls a strand of hair away from your face.

“This is my second. I was nursing my first one, Eddie says.”

The boy laughs, and you grab onto his bicep for support. The sound of it is enough to buckle your knees.

“This is my first. It’s not doing much for me.”

“You want something different? I’m sure Robin has that beer you like in her bag.”

“Nah, I’m okay. Don’t think I’m gonna drink any more tonight.”

Steve slips his hands into the back pockets of your jeans, pulling you in closer and keeping them there.

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Okay,” he whispers back.

And then he kisses you. Again. It’s slow and careful and so romantic that you think you might start crying about it.

“What time is it?” he asks when he pulls away as if nothing happened.

“Eleven thirty.”

“You wanna stay a bit longer?”

“Not if you don’t.”

Steve presses his lips to your forehead, hands cradling your cheeks.

“I kinda wanna go home.”

You smile at him, all soft and sweet.

“Then let’s go home. I’m getting a little cold, anyway. And I didn’t bring a jacket.”

“Will you ever learn?” he laughs, slinging an arm around your shoulders.

“If it means I have to stop wearing your jackets that I know you bring to parties just for me? No, I won’t.”

You weren’t supposed to say that out loud, but the way Steve chuckles soothes the sting of the accidental wound.

“Let’s go home, Cherry Baby.”

Home. The assumption that the two of you will always be returning to the same place makes your heart so full, you wonder how it doesn’t spill over.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“You good?”

“Feet hurt.”

This happens every single time the two of you go to a party, so you feel as if you’re reliving a memory.

“Hop on.”

“Steve-”

“Cherry. Come on. We’ll get home quicker this way.”

You can’t argue with that. Steve crouches as you jump onto his back, his hands wrapping around your thighs to keep you steady. You wrap your arms around his neck from behind, resting your head on top of his.

“Comfy back there?”

You hum, the noise of agreement enough for Steve to start walking.

The two of you chat each others ears off on the way home, talking about nothing and everything. You laugh so hard at something he says that you end up with a mouthful of his hair, which he in turn finds hilarious.

“Have you thought any more about what I said the other day?”

“You say a lot of things, Steven.”

He chuckles, shaking his head and giving your thighs a squeeze.

“About college.”

You go quiet for a moment, and Steve wonders if he’s chosen the wrong time to have this conversation.

“I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Let’s talk about it later, okay? When I’m not constantly worried I’m gonna accidentally trip and kill you.”

You nod, and he feels it. You know it needs to be a discussion sometime soon, but perhaps having it when you’re being carried down the street on your best friends back isn’t all that practical.

“Love you,” you mumble into the crook of Steve’s neck.

He shudders a little at your lips on his skin, leaning his head sideways to rest against yours.

“Love you, Cherry Pie. More than anything.”

You let Steve piggyback you all the way to his front door. Neither of you say anything else. Neither of you feel the need to.

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

Steve bumps his hip into yours as you both brush your teeth, laughing at your shocked reflection in the mirror.

“Are you okay?” you ask as you place your toothbrush back in its holder, right next to his.

“Yeah, I’m good.”

“You sure?”

You hop up on the bathroom counter, sitting up so you’re eye to eye with the boy in front of you. He takes a step forward, standing between your legs as he splays his cold hands over your thighs.

“Why’d you ask?”

You trace over his fingers where they rest on your skin, quiet for a moment.

“You seemed pretty eager to go home tonight. It’s unlike you. You love a party. Leaving at eleven thirty is like… unheard of, for King Steve.”

“King Steve would rather be at home with you than at a party with all those people.”

“Really?”

“Really. Clara was going on about something or other, the music was too loud, and I could feel the chill coming in. It hit me, all of a sudden, that I’d rather be in bed. Or, anywhere else, as long as I was with you.”

You lean forward to rest your head against his chest, sighing when he starts playing with your hair gently.

“You’re a softie,” you mumble into his shirt. “And a mind reader.”

“It’s my one talent,” he chuckles. “I wish reading your mind was a college major. I’d be the best in the world.”

You shake your head, laughing like you can’t help it.

“If I don’t move soon, I’m gonna fall asleep on this bathroom counter.”

“Want me to carry you?”

“Contrary to popular belief,” you tease as you hop down, “my legs actually do work.”

Steve gasps, all theatrical and exaggerated, which only makes you laugh harder.

“Come on, sleepy girl. Let’s go to bed.”

✵  ✵    ·　 ✵ 　　 *  · ✵

“We’re not talking about stuff.”

You whisper it into the darkness, the trees rustling outside Steve’s window serving as the only sound you can hear.

“Hmm?”

Your legs are tangled with his, tired head resting on the boys shoulder as your sides are pressed together. You’re both lying on your backs, staring at the ceiling.

“We keep saying we’ll talk about stuff, but we haven’t been. It’s not like us.”

“You mean, like, feelings?”

“Yeah.”

All that can be heard now is two sets of heaving lungs. Steve’s hand finds yours under the duvet, fingers intertwining.

“Is there something specific that’s bothering you?”

“Not bothering me as such. I just… I think the more we don’t talk, the more complicated things become.”

There’s silence for a moment, before Steve speaks.

“I’m scared, Cherry.”

The tone of his voice is paper thin and vulnerable, and you will yourself not to cry about it.

“Of what, Stevie?”

You squeeze his hand, tucking yourself further into his side until there isn’t an inch of space between you.

“Of… everything changing. You’re my best friend in the entire world, and I know that what we’ve been doing isn’t typical… best friend stuff. I just…” he takes a deep breath, exhaling carefully. “I worry that something will happen and we’ll break up, and I’ll lose you forever.”

His voice cracks on the last word, fear seeping through his pores. Yet, he continues.

“I’d die without you, Cherry. I really would. I don’t know what it’s like to live in a world where we’re not… us.”

You turn onto your side to face him in the dark, reaching up to cradle his cheek softly. You rest your forehead against his temple, pressing a kiss into his skin.

“I’m scared too. I have been ever since that first night in my room. Not because I don’t trust you, or because I don’t feel that way about you… but because I don’t want to lose you either. More than anything, I don’t want to lose you.”

“Why didn’t we talk about this sooner?” he laughs, throat thick with emotion.

“Because we’re us. And whether we talk or don’t talk, we know we’ll figure it out. We always know we’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” he whispers into the dark. “More than all the stars in the sky.”

“I love you,” you whisper back. “More than all the grains of sand on all the beaches in the world.”

You press another kiss into his temple, letting your lips linger on his soft skin. He smells so familiar, so warm, so yours… you can’t help but inhale, chuckling when he shudders.

You continue to leave kisses across his jaw, over his ear, down his neck. He tilts his head to give you better access, groaning when you nip at his throat with your teeth, licking over the scrape to soothe him.

Steve pulls you in as if you weigh nothing, moving you so you’re lying on top of him. You sit up, straddling his lap, as he does the same so you’re chest to chest. Running his hands under your shirt and over the bare skin of your back, he rests his forehead against yours.

“You look so pretty like this,” he hums against your lips. “Prettiest girl in the world.”

“You wanna talk about pretty?” you tease, running your fingers through his hair. “My pretty, pretty boy.”

Steve’s hips buck up into yours, making you giggle.

“Oh, you like that? You like it when I call you pretty? Or do you just like it when I call you mine?”

His hips buck again as his cheeks flush pink.

“I am yours,” he murmurs. “Always have been.”

You thought you had the upper hand for a minute, but now you just want to cry. You’re overwhelmed by the way you feel about the boy underneath you, unsure of how to process it without bursting into tears.

“All mine,” you whisper, tracing the features of his face with your fingertip.

Steve takes a deep breath, watching your eyes as they look over him again and again, taking him in as if it’s the first time. He decides it’s now or never.

“Cherry?”

“Stevie?”

Your voices are low and careful, irregardless of the fact that you’re alone in the house.

“I’m in love with you.”

Your heart stops, and so does the world outside. Everything pauses, the two of you suspended in this moment in time.

Steve takes another breath, exhaling it carefully before meeting your eyes and continuing.

“You don’t have to say it back. Now, or ever. I just - I needed you to know.”

You blink back tears as you watch his face, biting your lip to stop them from falling.

“Steve-”

“Hey, I told you. You don’t have to say anything, babe. I know-”

“Shut up.”

“What?”

“Just-”

You surge forward and kiss him with all the affection you can muster, trying to express your feelings. You grip his hair, plastering your bodies together where you sit in his lap still. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you in as close as he can.

“If you let me talk,” you say when you pull away, all breathless, “you’d hear that I have something I’d like to say.”

Steve smiles, humming in acknowledgment and encouraging you to keep going.

“I’m in love with you, too.”

The boy looks shocked to hear it, as if it’s news to him.

“What’s that face for?” you laugh.

“I just… I didn’t expect you to say it back.”

“Steve,” you chuckle, looking at him sternly. When you realise he’s being serious, you double down. “I’ve been in love with you for as long as I can remember. When we were kids, and someone would say the word ‘husband’, I always pictured you. I was so convinced it was always going to end up being you and I.”

“Why… why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

“Why didn’t you?”

He laughs, and the sound makes you feel as if you’re on cloud nine. You can feel his heartbeat where his chest is pressed to yours, frantic like he’s just ran a marathon.

“Fuck, I love you.”

He leans up to kiss you, all saccharine and honey sweet.

“Say it again,” you whisper against his lips.

“I’m in love with you, Cherry.”

“Say it again.”

“I, Steve Harrington, declare that I am completely, utterly, ridiculously in love with this girl right here. I always have been. I always will be.”

You can’t help but throw your head back with laughter.

“And I love you. So much.”

The words you’ve always said mean so much more now. It’s a welcome change, one you never thought you’d see happen.

“Hey Steve?”

“Hmm?”

You lean in, nosing at his jaw as you murmur into his ear.

“Want you. So bad.”

“Fuck, honey,” he groans, all low and rough.

“Please. Want it to be you.”

Looking up at you with big eyes, he searches your face for any kind of hesitation.

“Are you sure?”

Smoothing his hair away from his face, you trace your thumb over his bottom lip.

“I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

“Okay.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he grins. “I’m about to rock your world, Cherry Blossom.”

@psychicnerdcat @allcheesemelts @valerievortex @swiftsgirlfriend @steviespookie @betweenstarsandsatellites @mrsjoequinn @internallysalad @saucypeanuttt @empathyroad @niceskyler @spookysins @theoraekenslover @7minutes-tomidnight @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @clairesjointshurt @livsters @diffrent-spokes @regular-joe-shmoe @ihatepeanutss @ladyburberry @thenonweeknd @abarelyexistentbeing @jennaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa @slut4gaga @hopelessromanticwriter @mgchaser @wintrsoldrluvr

[f0point5]

MAD MAX FIGHT SCENE WHEN?? I have never needed a written piece more than right now

I also reserve the right to imagine Emilia throwing a shoe at someone in this scenario. Idk why i just feel like it could happen. She is not happy about it

MAD MAX FIGHT SCENE NOW!!!

Tell me why this went four different ways before I came to this version. The alternate version took place in a club and had Emilia spraying champagne at a bunch of people but fundamentally it didn’t work as a written piece because you can’t hear what anyone’s saying in a club for shit 😂 No shoe throwing but I hope you like it anyway 😂

Me writing action scenes is like something out of that book After it’s so bad I’m sorry but I hope you got where I’m going 😂

✨set after the Monaco Grand Prix 2018✨

I don’t regret it one bit, ‘cause he had it coming

Another Monaco GP, another yacht party. You’re not even sure whose yacht it is but you don’t care. During GP weekend, drivers can pretty much walk onto whatever boat they want. You, Max, Clara, and Laurent had wandered onto the biggest boat with people having a party and set about forgetting Max’s nightmare weekend. The party is chaotic, you’re not sure how long whoever is in charge of the marina will let the noise and overcrowding go on, but you’re enjoying the high, four shots down with Max on the upper deck, lazily moving to the music emanating from the DJ playing his set downstairs.

“Where’s Laurent?” Max asks, practically shouting in your ear. He’s tipsy, which he deserves to be, his arm slung over your shoulder as he looks around, jerking your body as he turns. He’s out way too late, you can tell by how his t-shirt is clinging to him, and the fluffy top of his hair has completely broken free of the gel hold. He looks positively feral. You don’t hate it.

“I don’t know,” you shrug, pushing up onto your tiptoes so you don’t have to shout. “Probably fucking Clara in a bathroom somewhere,”

Max chuckles at that, taking a sip of his Red Bull. He offers it to you but you shake your head.

“I thought you were supposed to be supporting me,” he jokes as you avoid the can.

“Not by rotting my insides,” you tell him, squirming in his hold as he bops to the Dua Lipa remix he’ll pretend he’s never heard before. He manoeuvres you in front of him as if you don’t even have feet, wrapping his arm around your stomach so that you’re still trapped, but comfortable.

“Je bent niet leuk, schatje,” he says into your ear. The air on your neck makes you shiver against him, and he must think you’re cold because he holds you tighter.

“I don’t know what you’re saying,” you tell him, which makes him smirk. “And I’m not your baby,”

“Ja, maar-“

“Max!”

You twist in Max’s hold when a guy you don’t recognise appears from somewhere in the crowd. Max lets go of you to greet him, and without being entirely engulfed by 80kgs of Red Bull and audacity, you realise you’re parched. You tell Max you’ll be right back and scoot out of reach before he can say anything. You creep through the crowd and then downstairs to where the drinks are without twisting your ankle, which, given how drunk you felt back upstairs, sort of surprises you.

There’s several ice buckets lining the edge of the deck and you peruse the options. You’ve certainly had enough to drink but one more vodka couldn’t hurt. You glance over at the cans of Red Bull and make a note to take one with you as you pick a glass off the table.

“Do you come with the bottles?”

Well, that’s a choice of opening line, talking to a girl like she’s a phone charm.

You turn to see what, not whom, actually felt comfortable saying that out loud and there he was. The epitome of a guy who would say that. He’s older than you, maybe mid to late 20s, all tan and tight jeans, dark hair cut in a fade, gold watch that could be seen from space and those Louboutin loafers. His cologne smells like Dubai.

You look him up and down very slowly and deliberately. “Not if you’re buying them,” you say, turning back to the ice bucket.

“Aw, come on, don’t be like that,” his voice is closer now, almost in your ear. You turn only slightly and find his face already next to yours. ”Come have a drink over here,” he nods over to a seating area where a few guys sit with girls that look too young to be there.

You know the type - down on a girls trip for the weekend with only party outfits in their bags, they’d likely hung around the marina until the pack of jackals had brought them here to ply them with alcohol they didn’t have to pay for. You’re half offended that this guy thought you’d be anywhere near that easy.

“I’ve got enough, thanks.” You say, firmer this time, as you give up on the vodka and just grab one of the many bottles of champagne in the ice bucket. When you turn to leave, you practically collide with the hunk of meat now towering over you.

“Who do I have to speak to to get you to come have a drink with me?” He asks, as if that’s meant to be sexy.

You roll your eyes. “Your hairdresser.”

“Come on, just one drink. I’ll make it worth your while,” he says, his eyes glancing down. You follow his gaze, already steeling yourself for some vulgar gesture, but he pulls out the edge of his wallet from his jeans.

You roll your eyes again. “I’m not pay for play. Now leave me alone.”

You step around him this time, starting to make your way back towards the stairs when this experiment in protein shake consumption blocks your way. You almost trip trying not to crash into him, not that he would have minded if the way he leans into you Is any indication.

“Look, I’m not some nobody, baby, I’ve got real fucking money. I’m what all you pretty girls come out here in your skimpy dresses for,” he says, the noxious smell of chemicals and tequila almost making your eyes water. What makes you feel sick is the way he uses his height advantage to look down your dress. “So have a drink with me. It’ll be fun, I promise,”

Only now does he employ an actual smile, the kind that you’d never want to be in a room alone with. Suddenly, you don’t feel like making any more jokes, you just want to get as far away from this guy as possible. Turning on your heels, you figure you’ll double back around the deck, but a hand tight on your wrist stops you in your tracks.

“Don’t walk away from me,” the words are growled, and you feel your pulse spike. Now you’re scared, but showing it will get you nowhere.

“Get off me,” you snap, trying to shake the giant cretin off you without causing a scene. He doesn’t let go and you’re just about to bottle him over the head when you hear Max’s voice.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Max strides towards you, looking as angry as you’ve ever seen him. He must have been watching from up by the railings of the top deck.

“Oh, here we go,” the guy grumbles, rolling his eyes as he looks at Max. You take the opportunity to wrench your arm free of him. “Don’t worry, bro. You can have her back when I’m finished with her,”

“You arrogant piece of shit,” you snarl at the guy, almost taking a step towards him before thinking better of it.

“Watch your mouth,” he snaps back, pointing a finger at you. “Your ass isn’t that nice,”

“The fuck did you just say?” Max yells over the music. He guides you behind him effortlessly and you don’t argue, though you do keep hold of his arm.

“You heard me, you prick,” the douchebag says, flashing Max a cocky grin. That won’t go down well.

You pull on Max’s arm. You can tell from the set of his shoulders that this is getting out of hand.

“Max, leave it,” you tell him, pulling him again, and this time he listens, sighing and shaking his head. He knows he has to let it go.

“Jesus,” the arrogant pig sneers, and you cringe. “Has this bitch got a magic pussy or something?”

You don’t even have a chance against Max’s reaction speed. He’s moving before your eyes can even follow, shoving the guy backwards so quickly that the drunkard stumbles slightly, but not as much as you thought he would.

“Shut the fuck up,” Max growls at him.

Dickhead doesn’t take this well, shoving Max back. You’re too scared to get in the middle now. People are starting to stare, a couple of them even have their phones out.

“Max,” it’s more of a plea than anything. “Stop it,”

You know Max isn’t going to just drop it. He doesn’t know how to walk away from a fight, it’s just that normally his fighting involves being protected by a ton of carbon fibre, not that he thinks he needs it.

“You don’t want to mess with me, man,” the guy shouts, looking over Max’s shoulder to glare at you. “Certainly not over some dirty yacht slut,”

Once again, you’re no match for Max’s reaction speed. You don’t see his arm move. You’re barely able to process his fist connecting with the guy’s face. You just see Dickhead fly backwards clutching his jaw as he tumbles to the ground.

“Max!” You scream, but this time he totally ignores you.

“Fucking pussy,” he yells, at the same volume but now that the music has been turned down so that everyone can pay attention to the spectacle, it feels like the whole marina can hear him.

He steps towards the disoriented drunkard on the floor and this time you manage to catch up with him, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him backwards.

“Max, come on,”

He’s fighting it a little, and you press your nails into his skin as you fight harder, dragging him away from where Douchebag’s friends have swarmed around him trying to help. You know they’re looking in your direction but you ignore them and you’re hoping Max does, too.

He turns to look at you and it’s like barely recognises you, his face is flushed and his pupils are dilated and you don’t entirely recognise him either. It knocks the wind out of you, and for just a second you swear everything stops, even your heartbeat.

“You’re okay?” Max asks you, through frenzied breathing.

Your mouth is dry but you speak anyway. “I’m fine.” You don’t know if you’re lying. “Let’s just go,”

You don’t give him time to argue, and it seems he’s calmed down enough to realise now is a good time to cut your losses, because he follows you without complaint.

You don’t let go of him until you’re on the concrete pathway up towards the stairs that have street access. More accurately, that’s when you become aware that you’re still holding onto him. When two toasted revellers try to walk between you but can’t, and shout something at you in Spanish for walking too slow. You let go of Max but he still doesn’t say anything. You keep stealing glances at him as you walk. His shoulders are still tight, his jaw is clenched. His hands are clenched into fists at his side. He still looks livid. That’s why you’re nervous, that’s why you can’t catch your breath, that’s why it’s hard to look away from him. You’re worried about him.

“Well, that was stupid,” you say with a sigh, once you’re sure your words won’t come out as some kind of breathy invocation of a worse kind of chaos than anything you’ve already been involved in tonight.

“That guy was stupid,” Max shoots back, grinding his teeth.

“You could have got hurt, Max,” you tell him, shoving him in the arm. He rolls his eyes. Of course. When taking your own life in your hands is what you get paid for there’s not much you can afford to be scared of. “What would have happened if you’d broke your hand? Your dad would actually kill me,”

“My dad would have done the same thing I did,” Max counters, and you can tell by the several expressions that cross his face in quick succession that he doesn’t quite know how to feel about that.

“Your dad is an idiot,” you remind him. He doesn’t argue. “And so are you,”

He scoffs. “So I was just supposed to let him talk to you like that? Touch you like that?” It’s not really a question, more a general statement of unadulterated disgust and you can’t really blame him. “Fuck that. I’m not going to just-“

He cuts himself off, his jaw ticking again. Neither of you have ever spoken about it, but you know men behaving like sentient sewage is a sore subject for both of you. Maybe, you think, you shouldn’t make him feel bad for standing up for you. You’d never needed anyone to stand up for you, and you still didn’t, but the fact that Max always did means more to you than you know how to articulate.

You lean over and kiss him on the cheek, catching more of the corner of his mouth than you intended, but he doesn’t say anything. He just stops walking and looks at you, the left side of his lips twitching.

“You kiss idiots?” Max asks, tongue darting out to lick at his bottom lip.

“Exclusively,” you shrug, “judging by my dating history,”

That makes him laugh, a proper one, with that bark he does when he’s surprised how funny he finds something. All traces of the menace from the boat filter out of his body, and something in the back of your head tells you it was just in time.

“Hey,” a loud, obnoxious, and lovable voice rings out behind you. You turn around and see Laurent walking towards you with a well satisfied Clara on his back, holding a large bottle of pilfered champagne. “Where the fuck have you two been?”

[anotheruserwithnoname]

Ten years of Whouffaldi

My word, where did 10 years ago?

Ten years ago on Aug. 23, the episode Deep Breath launched the remarkable era of Peter Capaldi as the Twelfth Doctor (or true Thirteenth if you want to annoy some people).

And it was the true launch of one of the most interesting romances in sci-fi (friendly reminder that Peter, Jenna Coleman, Steven Moffat, writers and directors have all in some way or another confirmed that this wasn't fans watching with "ship-coloured glasses" - it was canonical. Regardless how some fans and even media have tried - as recently as a few days ago - to pretend it didn't exist.)

I do think it was not intended. It cannot be denied that a lot of people consider there to be an age-gap limit in romances, real-life and fictional, even when both parties are consenting adults. So when Peter replaced Matt - and no one can deny Clara had the hots for Eleven because she flat out says so, several times - they obviously planned on a return to the First Doctor-Susan dynamic with Capaldi (or maybe more accurately Third Doctor-Jo Grant, since Three low-key held a flame for Jo, since Twelve would still remember how he felt as Eleven, plus Three was "Capaldi's Doctor"). But due to the fact Peter and Jenna had such intense chemistry (to this day some fans remain convinced they had a real-life romance, which is not something I ever subscribed to), coupled with the decision to shoot the first episodes of the season in order of broadcast, you can see Moffat and his writers pivoting in real time as they adjusted to the fact that - with no disrespect to Samuel Anderson - Danny Pink was never going to be the next Rory Williams. This is most in evidence with Listen defining a future for Clara and Danny that was definitively retconned by Danny's death in Dark Water.

I know the Capaldi era was not everyone's cup of tea. Season 10 in particular did not age well for me, mainly because it was clearly "one season too many" for Moffat and Capaldi himself seemed to "check out" after a fashion when it became known that the next producer wasn't planning on keeping Twelve around. And if we're going to harp about falling ratings for the show in recent years, Peter never attained the same viewership levels as Matt or David. But for me, Seasons 8 and 9 were - a few off points notwithstanding - the best of the modern era and easily rank alongside the Pertwee years as some of the best this show ever had. (I stopped watching after Season 10 - but having spoken to people whose judgement I trust, I don't think anything that followed is likely to have rendered that statement outdated.)

But I appreciated the more mature approach to the show. Yes, I know DW always was at its core a children's show - though upgraded to family show over time. But having the Doctor and Clara having a mature conversation at the diner, the Doctor inviting a villain to have a drink with him (the closest the Doctor ever got to being James Bond), Clara freaking out about being called a control freak (not to mention her perfect "Nothing is more important than my egomania!"), the fact the episode confirmed that the Doctor did look upon Clara as his girlfriend when he was Eleven, and the fact the episode walks up to ageism and pops it in the nose with Clara being upbraided by Vastra for being ageist because of Twelve no longer being the young man Clara fell for ... all these add up to a remarkable episode and likely the strongest debut story for a Doctor since Spearhead from Space.

Deep Breath also marks the last time we saw the Paternoster Gang on screen. Having praised Moffat for Whouffaldi, now time to aim some criticism his way - he set up a perfect spinoff series (Neve McIntosh is one of my favourite actresses not named Jenna Coleman) and yet never followed through. Say what one might about RTD, we'd have gotten 4 series of Vastra, Jenny and Strax had he been in charge. Big FInish doesn't count though I'm sure Neve and Dan Starkey appreciated the fact they didn't need to put on the makeup all the time! LOL

So happy 10th anniversary to Whouffaldi!

[sssilverstoned]

sympathy for the devil ꩜ cl16

type: fluff? besties to lovers? let's say that. a friend is done dirty but is she really a friend? debatable. flashbacks, angst-ish (a guilty conscience is always a great outfit addition, no?)

word count: 4.6k

warnings: language, suggestive but no smut (finger sucking. i was in a mood,) charles is a reformed cheater, so let's say some moral ambiguity all around

lily said: hello hello! welcome to the inner workings of my hyper fixation on summer romances and a couple of bestieeeees who should just be a couple. now that this guy is out the way, i'd love to formally open requests! a drabble, fic, oneshot, hit my line ! we can get into the details of who i do and don't write for later <3

You are not a terrible person. You're not even a bad person, truly. It's something you repeat to yourself like a mantra as you look away from Charles's side profile across the long table.

He's looking like summertime, soft like an afternoon nap, but sharp like a stinging on your skin from too many 5 more minutes called from the patio. His neck is elongated slightly, trying to hear Joris's story over Mirabel's loud laughter. When he leans like that, you can see a peak of the remnants of the hickey you sucked into his pale skin the evening before. Your stomach hurts.

Charles's own nose is red, he's scrunching it on occasion like no one will notice his discomfort, and his necessity for aloe vera. You've packed it in your bag because you know he wouldn't have. He knows to ask you for it later.

You excuse yourself from the long table, your dinner in front of you looking great, but you were nowhere near hungry. When you push your chair back to stand, it makes a low noise against the floor of the garden, and his head whips to you immediately.

It was your friend group's traditional holiday you were gathered for, an annual week at Mirabel's family home right on the water. 4 girls and 5 boys, room assignments remaining relatively static throughout the years. There was that one year Clara and Sammy shared a room, but, as both of them would easily say, it wouldn't be happening again.

"Everything okay, y/n/n?" Peter asks from your diagonal, which makes more heads turn to your now standing figure. You let out an uncomfortable huff, disguised as a laugh. Charles can read you like his favorite book.

Your linen dress clings to your body, yet flows off you effortlessly. He remembers seeing it on a hook in your room, wondering how it would look on your figure when he pretended to not watch you change tops. Reality was always better than fantasy, this he knew for certain.

"I'm alright, just chilly. Want to grab my sweater."

"I'll go with you, want to charge my phone anyway," Emma smiles up at you from her seat, standing up as well.

Charles follows your figure with your eyes until you disappear into Mirabel's villa, then continues to pretend to be listening to whatever Peter has begun rambling about.

"Did you see the way he and Oliver left the pantry in disarray this morning?" Emma's practically hissing her disdain, her shorter legs pumping overtime to catch your gait. You were hoping she couldn't.

"Who? What are you talking about?"

"Charles," she gags. "Tried to cook breakfast, and of course it was shit. Can't believe you didn't know."

You did, you helped him clean it up.

"I feel like it's quite hard to burn oatmeal," you snort, scrubbing the pot.

"Too much sugar in the pot, I suppose. That's how you make yours, yes? With brown sugar?"

You look back at him from where he was leaning against the counter, watching you help him fix his mess. Oliver had cleaned up the spilled flour on the floor of the pantry, then ran out to get pastries from a bakery before the rest of the villa woke up and threatened his life.

"Surprised you remember how I like my breakfast," you say.

"Why?" he asks, cocking his head. "I know a lot about you."

You click your tongue, suddenly shy under his intentional gaze. Your focus is back on the pot, and a stubborn clump of congealed oats. Charles peers around the kitchen quickly, before coming up behind you, a large hand circling your waist.

"How did you sleep? I realize I didn't ever ask," He drops a kiss to the crown of your head when he finishes speaking, and your breath hitches. Not with love or affection, but with a strike of fear, almost. It was an open air kitchen, and while everyone seemed to be sleeping in, you never really could know who may be stirring about.

"Slept fine. Kept the windows open," you shared a room with Clara on these trips, you two were always the closest of the girls growing up and never minded sharing. She didn't say anything when you came in at 2 am with mussed hair and swollen lips, and you were grateful for it.

"You could have stayed, Joris didn't come in until late."

You finally bristle, dropping the pot onto the drying rack. "I wish you wouldn't say things like that."

You turn in his grasp, eyebrows frayed in the middle of your face. He hates when you look at him like this. "Y/n, we're not children anymore. We're two consenting adults."

"Emma will hate me."

"And is that worth your happiness? Whether or not your friend, who you aren't that close to, by the way, is mad at you?"

"You cheated on her, Charles."

You clear your throat as you blink away the memory. Emma scoffs again at the thought of Charles. "He even had the gall to come out on the patio at the same time as me this afternoon."

"Everyone was on the patio, Emma," you level, already getting irritated with her tone. She irritated you often, Charles wasn't necessarily wrong about your lack of proximity to her. She was always a bit bratty, but had too much history with the group to be left behind, no matter how much she seemed to irk everyone. "You can't expect him to walk on eggshells around you, he's still a part of the group."

Emma stops walking, but you keep pace. "Are you defending a cheater, y/n?" You're glad you didn't stop.

Your eye twitches, and you're glad that she can't see it. This conversation was draining you, yet it's barely started, and already, it's over. She did this nearly every time they were in the same vicinity, and it was getting old. Or maybe, it was the guilt that you were fucking her ex-boyfriend.

It was a mistake that they dated in the first place. He had just broken up with his long term girlfirend, someone you all never seemed to get along with, and Emma's eyes were always slightly googly for the boy. Her attention was more palpable, and better received, than the rest. So they began to fool around, began to hold hands a bit more at group dinners. You heard her say 'boyfriend' much more than he did, though.

The cheating was a bit egregious, even for Charles. For the sake of everyone's friendships, his romance with her was kept under wraps, the superiority of a professional PR team apparent over gossip columns and nosy fans. It was the nosy fans, unfortunately, that had found Charles in a club somewhere in Italy with his tongue down some model's throat.

She cried, shouted, did everything but rip her own hair out at the photos that surfaced. Perhaps it hurt her most that people were excited to see Charles with the woman, finally seen with someone that wasn't an engineer or Vasseur. They didn't know about her, and frankly, they never would. She was never terribly important to Charles, everyone knew that, and now she did too.

The group had moved on, sans Emma. No one really made fusses about it in the first place, their relationship running its course over only about 3 months. The boys saw it coming and, well, the girls had warned her. A rebound was always obvious to those watching.

The worst part, the part that made you feel so ill all the time, is Charles wanted to be yours, and you wanted to be anywhere but the villa.

You grab your sweater off of the chair at the vanity mirror in your room, bristling at the chill coming from the open window you had left during the night, and now day. You hear the laughter of your friends, of Peter shouting over Oliver, and Charles laughing from his belly. You hate that you can tell his laughter from the rest.

When you sit back down at the table, Clara waits for you to scoot your chair back in and place the napkin in your lap. "You lost her inside, eh?"

You crack a smile, Clara was your most blunt, and funniest, friend. "Had to, lest I hear about Charles's trespasses again."

Clara chuckles into her wine glass. "If only she knew."

In a lowered voice, you turn closer to her. "I think she may actually lose her mind if she found out, Clara."

She rolls her eyes. "Find out what? That you two are obsessed with each other, yet you won't take him seriously? That she was collateral? Shit happens."

"That's not what this is."

"Please. He'd marry you tomorrow if given the opportunity, y/n. Deep down, she knows that was never her anyway."

When you look back up at Charles, he's already looking at you, looking so endearing that you have to look back down at your chicken and roasted vegetables. You're still not hungry.

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It happened quickly, but the buildup seemed to make it inevitable. You were always a friend of the leclercs, your mother's growing an affinity for each other when you were quite young. You grew up alongside the boys, Charles always having a soft spot for you in particular. Charles escorted you every time your father hosted a gala, and voluntarily was your designated driver on nights out. One in particular, 6 months ago, sealed fates.

"Charlie, just take one shot."

"If I take a shot, I won't be driving," he laughs at you, looking at you with little twinkles in his eyes. He and Emma had just finally broken up, the past 3 months couldn't be categorized as anything but odd. After they had notified the group, in their own respective ways, you had seemed to have gotten your fun loving, a tad awkward, but always down for what you were plotting, Charlie back. He had agreed in a heartbeat to meet you and Clara at the club. It makes you grin.

"That's fine, uber exists. Have fun for once, please?" You pout, tequila speaking for you. Everything was already a bit hazy, much funnier than normal, and less serious.

"Yeah, come on Chaaaarlie," Clara giggles knowingly. He'd do anything if you asked for it, this was a fact.

With a shake of his head and faked disdain, he downs the shot, hears your cheers, and suddenly, one shot is seven and you're both screaming the lyrics to an old Fergie song that blasts through the speakers.

Heels were a bad, but stunning, idea. You felt cute and confident, but by the time you had stopped dancing like a mad person to get a drink of water, the balls of your feet began to throb.

"Please don't take your shoes off in this place," Charles begs.

"Don't be my father," you frown. "My feet hurt."

"Your feelings will be what's hurting when someone steals these off the section couch," he points to your feet, and there was a touch of validity. They were Jimmy Choos, after all, and cost more than you could comprehend. Charles often went overboard on your birthday gifts.

"I'll take that risk."

"I'll hold them."

"You won't," you say with a laugh, used to his dramatics. But he shocks you, gingerly picking them off the couch and holding them on his index and middle finger.

"Charlie, put my shoes down."

"I will do no such thing."

Somehow, somewhere between promising Clara you'd text her when the uber dropped you and Charles off at his place, helping him get the key into the lock of his door, and sitting on his kitchen island, Charles finds himself in between your legs, staring into your eyes that had glitter and mascara surrounding them.

It wasn't normal of "best friends" to be around each other like this. He knew that. He hadn't wanted to be just your best friend in a while though, but having you in that capacity was better than nothing at all. Especially when he had seemingly bounced from one girlfriend to the other, and deep down, he knew it was because he was bored. They weren't you, no matter how much imitation was attempted. Perhaps the only person who was aloof to his truest desires, was you.

"You looked very pretty tonight, y/n/n."

"You looked dashing yourself," you wink, "the girls in there told you that though, no?"

He rolls his eyes. "That wasn't anything. Just fans, same shit as usual."

"You usually are being hit on by pretty girls, is what you're saying?" You continue to tease. Charles can't stand your smart mouth sometimes, especially how much he can't help but love it.

"To be fair, I don't really notice. I'm always looking at you, anyway."

You don't have a response for that. He's never said it outright, never crossing the line. But now he has, and there's no going back.

"Charles, you just broke up with Emma."

"I know,"

"You cheated on her."

"I know,"

"I'm your best friend."

His turn to grin. "I know."

In a fashion completely unlike you, throwing caution to the wind felt like the only option, pulling him in with your legs, locking around the back of his waist, lips pressed onto his, hair between your fingers. He tastes like tequila and mint gum, like the things you regret yet adore. He wonders if this means the same to you as it means to him.

When you wake up in his bed, makeup removed and your favorite shirt of his draped over your body, you inhale deeply when you feel the familiar soreness stretching through your lower half, and the weight of his arm roped around your body. Now that you've gotten your taste, you weren't giving it up.

"Did you pack the aloe vera?" You hear him from your doorway, blinking back from yet another memory.

"'S in the bathroom, look in the blue toiletry bag," you call, not looking away from where you were taking your hooped earrings out in the mirror. It was a domestic encounter in a way, like a scene taken out of context 20 years from now. Maybe one day, you'd be on holiday with a family of your own, enjoying silence once your kids were asleep after playing in the water all day. Maybe you'd be actually sharing a room, instead of whatever the fuck this was.

"You seemed off at dinner, everything okay?" Charles asks, rubbing the gel on his soon-to-be-peeling nose.

"Fine," you shrug, turning back to look at him, and not just his reflection. "Just wasn't so hungry. And cold, like I said."

He chuckles a little to himself. "I could tell," he nods with his head down to your chest. Your nipples had pearled, and supposedly, had been pearled, and were obvious through the thin fabric of your fitting dress.

"Jesus Charles," you berate, turning back to your mirror. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm a man," he corrects. "Who's seen what's under that dress and thinks it's a great sight. But I also like your mind and your personality and all that, of course." Idiot. He sits on your bed, making himself comfortable against the headboard as he watches you get ready for bed. Domesticity. "Will you be going back to Monaco after this?"

"No, visiting Clara's family in the states for a little."

He makes a discontent noise. "How long?"

"A week," you answer. "Miami."

"Fun, going to go out?"

"What is it to you?" You ask, half jokingly, half alerted by his series of questions.

He shrugs this time. "Care about you, want to know what your plans are. Is it a crime?"

"No, just makes me fear you're in love with me."

"I'm on my way to that, I tell you that all the time. And you make jokes because you know it's true."

You stand up from the vanity, looking at him with an expression that makes his heart hurt. It's that wounded puppy look, the way you used to look at Arthur when Charles would tell him to fuck off from trying to hang out with the two of you as teenagers.

"I don't really know what to say when you say those things." He stands up from your bed, meeting you where you stand in the middle of you and Clara's room. He still smells just like all your favorite aspects of summer, and that tired look in his eyes from a day of relaxation and release melts you. "I know I'm in my head."

"'S a good head to be in." He moves the strans of your hair that were falling over your forehead behind your ear, smoothing his fingers over your jawline until his fingers lift your chin. "That's better. Couldn't see your face."

"What is this, Charlie?" Your eyes search his, and he hates how scared you look. "Like, seriously. We, we fuck, we sleep in the same bed more than we don't."

"We always have done that, you've shared with Enzo and Arthur before too I'm sure."

"Don't be dense."

"I think that's just how I am, mon amour."

"Such a shithead," you mutter with a huff, annoyed with his smug expression. "I'm being serious. If sex is just what you want, or need, right now, I don't think I can do this anymore."

"It's much more than that to me, don't insult me," He no longer has a grin on his face, mouth turned much more stoic. "My actions precede me, yes," you withold commentary on that, "but I'd never do anything to hurt you, y/n/n. I care about you, think about you all the time, want you wherever I am, always."

A part of you thinks this is what you've always wanted to hear. A gorgeous, successful, personable man who you've grown to trust infallibly your whole life is 5 feet short of professing his love for you, and yet, you can't let yourself fully be happy. Because for the last 6 months, you've ducked and dodged your own friends, not wanting them to know about the two of you. He did cheat, for crying out loud. On someone you have baby photos with. No matter how annoying, or selfish, she comes off, Emma wasn't going anywhere in your life. And you'd be devastated if she did this to you, so he remained your dirty little secret.

"Am I interrupting?" Clara says teasingly from the doorway, a wine glass still in her hands. "Sorry, Mirabel wanted me to check on you."

You clear your throat and step away from Charles. "Not at all. Charlie's got a sun burn."

"Ah. You are pale," Clara notes. "Figures."

"Thanks, Clar."

"Still drinking?" You nod toward her glass. "Pour me one, will you?"

"Sure will." She turns, and you make to follow.

"I don't want to talk about this anymore, I think."

"Y/n,"

"Not right now," you say firmly, "please?"

And you've got that withered look, that look that screams exhaustion. Guilt's gonna kill him one day, he's sure.

"Fine."

And with that, you head out the door, leaving Charles in your room, regretting not telling you how he felt about you when his girlfriend told him to. Before Emma took that mantle instead, and before you started looking at him like it was hard to do so.

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Sammy brings it up first, but the entirety of the day was the beginning of the end of secrecy.

The next day had been decided as a boat day, everyone prepared for another long day in the sun, this time on the open waves. The girls had all gone below deck, in search of champagne and a bottle opener, and Sammy and Charles were far enough from Oliver, Joris, and Peter for them to hear a conversation.

"I've got a question I think," Sammy asks. He makes an affirmative noise, head leaned back against the cushions of the lounger, sunglasses sliding down his still peeling nose. "Are you and y/n hooking up?"

Charles immeditely looks up at Sammy, mouth open in a scramble for the most believable way to say no. "No, ah, why would you say that?" oh dear.

"Mate," Sammy winces.

"Fuck me," Charles yanks the glasses off and wipes both hands over his face. He keeps them there when he asks, "how?"

"Leaving hickeys is one thing, her jewelry on your bedside table is another." The central heating unit for their floor was in Joris and Charles's room, Sammy did go to adjust it yesterday morning. Fuck. "Does Emma know?"

"No," Charles says quickly. "No. Y/n doesn't want anyone to."

Sammy quirks his mouth to the side. "Well, are you dating?"

"No,"

"Ah." Sammy looks out on the water, stewing over this confirmed theory of his. You all suddenly appear from inside, cheering with a bottle clutched in Emma's hand, you with the opener. When he looks back at Charles, he sees that even though all four of you stand there he's looking at you. This must be sympathy for the devil, Sammy thinks, because why else is he feeling bad for someone whose problem was multiple attractive women had feelings for him?

"Charlie, can you help?" you pout, unable to get the cork loose from the bottle. It was obvious you were tipsy, drunk even, you all had been drinking since the sun came up.

"Fucks sake y/n, use your arm!" Clara groans. Sammy looks back at Charles, willing him with his brain to not be at your beck and call for once.

"I've got it," Charles chuckles, like an idiot, if you ask Sammy. He pops it, a cheer coming from the group at the appearance of bubbles and spray. It gets all over his hands as he attempts to hold the bottle away from his body, and he shakes the excess off as the cheers continue. Oliver whisks the bottle away to be divied up between everyone's cups, and Charles goes inside to wash his hands off. You slink off behind him, unbeknownst to him, or the rest of your friends, except for Emma, whose interest is piqued by your sudden absences.

"Thanks for the help," your voice is sweet in the silence of the kitchenette.

His head whips to your figure, slightly startled by your presence. You're barefoot, a brown bikini only covering what's absolutely necessary to be covered. He can't tell if he loves it or he hates it. Your open button up shirt tossed on as a cover up intrigues him, because, is that his?

"Is that my shirt?" Charles repeats, out loud this time, eyes trained like heat seekers as you move close. His hands lay in the towel, champagne still dripping off his fingers. You've seemed to have distracted his process.

"No, but it seems like you would love it if it was."

He raises his shoulders. "You're welcome to them."

You hum, "good to know." You're looking at him like prey, it makes his throat dry and he's not sure what to say. You're always the bubbly one, the sunshine when he's being grumpy and difficult.

Charles lifts his hands from the towel that he still hasn't utilized yet, pushing his luck by placing a hand on your hip. He plays with the string on your right hip, fingers begging to untie the bow. "You only like talking to me when we're in kitchens, huh?"

He makes you laugh with that, or maybe it's the alchohol making you do it. "I always like talking to you. It's you that can't keep hands to yourself."

A hand slides up his chest, resting casually, yet his heart races faster. That familiar, warm feeling settles in his lower stomach, and he wills himself not to harden like a teenager. "We both have a problem with hands, I see."

You tilt your head in challenge. You pull his hand off of your hip and lift it, analyzing the digits still drenched in champagne. And to his utter surprise, you take his index finger into your mouth. The eye contact you hold as you do so has his mouth dropping open slightly in a daze, mind going to static as he feels the warmth and wetness, the pucker of your lips. You hum as you release his finger with a pop, licking your lips.

"Don't think I have a problem with your hands at all, Charles."

Charles, not Charlie. He's ruined.

How you saunter away after that leaves him gobsmacked, flustered, and most of all, hoping this boat would be docking soon.

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"I have an offer for you," is how you start the conversation. You're all showered, evening attire thrown on and awaiting the metaphorical dinner bell. The two of you plus Peter were sat out on the patio, and were left alone when Peter ran in to the bathroom for a moment.

"When I come back home, we should go on date."

Charles thinks he mishears you. "What?"

"A date, Charlie. You know, when two people who share a romantic interest go out toge-"

"Enough, smartass," He stops your condescension. "You would go on one with me?"

You take a deep breath. "Yeah, I would. I like you, and all that."

"And all that," he repeats. "What every man wants to hear."

"Do you want to go on the date or not?"

"I do, I really do. Have wanted to for a while, you know."

You smile softly, resting your head on the lounger. "I know."

"Dinner's ready," Emma comes out to announce. When she sees it's only the two of you, her expression changes slightly, something only you'd notice after years of experiencing emotions from her. "Where's Peter?"

"Bathroom," you answer easily. Emma looks at the two of you intently, and Charles turns towards the water, not really interested in making conversation with the woman who's profusely stated her aversion to him.

"Hm. Well, come down soon."

When she closes the glass doors, Charles all but laughs out loud. "What a nightmare."

"Your ex," you rebut, "can't believe that to this day. If you didn't like her, why'd you do it?"

"Because I didn't think I could have you."

His veins fill with regret when he says it, he knows its not fair. But it's true, you know it as well. "Well, no more collateral damage, then." You stand up from the lounger, brushing down your dress. "Pick a good restaurant for the date."

Dinner begins well, Mirabel telling stories and Oliver denying them all. It's when the laughter dies down after Joris recounts their last trip to Nice that things begin to slant.

"Y/n/n," Emma calls from down the table. You turn to her, as everyone does.

"Yeah, Em?"

"I just have been dying to know," she starts, clasping her hands under her chin. "How long have you and Charles been fucking?"

Peter chokes on his wine. The table is utterly silent, and everyone's face carries the same shocked expression. And, wow, you've pictured this moment dozens of ways and hundreds of times, but honestly, this one was rare form. But after everything, especially today, caution was once again to the wind.

"About 6 months," you calmly answer, reaching for your glass. "Give or take."

"You bitch," she hisses. "Are you not even ashamed of yourself?"

"Are you not going to address Charles in the slightest, or is it just y/n's fault that they have sex?" Clara asks, and Mirabel and Oliver can't help the snicker in their chests. Sammy takes another piece of salmon from the middle platter.

"Yes, I could have said something," you mull.

Emma looks around, utter disbelief on her face as it seems everyone's refusing to intervene on this one. You can't blame them, and those who did know, well, their wine glasses are filled.

Emma gets up from the table with a curse of Charles's name and a disgusted look your way, and Clara clears her throat.

"So, anyone have any recommendations for clubs in Miami?"

[sunsetcougar]

How does everyone at the hotel and of course Carmilla respond to the reveal that Vaggie is a Carmine when that data dump is sent down? Did Vaggie have an idea or was it a surprise to her as well?

Add in if you want how everyone (including our beloved chaggie) responded when Vaggie and Charlie were first allowed to return to the hotel after the whole fiasco.

Another long post! The plot bunnies keep multiplying and asks only encourage them.

The hotel residents are mostly surprised, even Vaggie had no idea that she was related to the Carmines. Charlie is nervous but also excited at the prospect of getting to meet Vaggie’s family. Angel is a little jealous that Vaggie is most likely going to get her family back, but he doesn’t show it. Husk is happy for her, from what he knows Carmilla is a good mom. Sir Pentious wants to know if this means he can buy Carmine products again. Niffty is Niffty.

The only one displeased about it is Alastor since he knows this will mean another overlord butting into the hotel and his territory, and he won’t be able to do anything about it. Charlie’s authority far outweighs his and she’d do anything for Vaggie.

As for Carmilla herself she opened the letter Vaggie sent her pretty soon after she got it since she’s not one for letting things sit. At first she didn’t believe it, this wouldn’t be the first time someone who learned of her missing third daughter tried to impersonate her to get close to the Carmines, but the more she reads the more legitimate it looks. The photocopies of the records match up with what Vaggie wrote, there’s no holes in her story. Plus the records have a couple portrait shots of Vaggie, one from when she was first kidnapped and one from a few weeks before she was abandoned, and she does look so much like the portrait Carmilla has of her daughter.

Carmilla doesn’t tell Clara and Odette of this at first, not wanting to get their hopes up only to be crushed. She spends a day pouring over every detail she was given before finally deciding it’s worth the risk and calling the number on the letter to set up a meeting.

As for the second half of your ask, Vaggie charged through the portal as soon as it was opened and nearly barreled into Angel, Charlie close behind. Vaggie didn’t stick around in the lobby for more than a few seconds, instead bolting up the stairs to her and Charlie’s room to go hide, once again with Charlie close behind.

That left the hotel residents staring after them, processing their sudden return. They’d begun truly thinking that Chaggie had been murdered in Heaven, but they were very obviously alive if more scared than any of them had ever seen them before. They want to follow and check on them, but also want to give them space. They opt to go with the latter option, knowing they have each other and probably just need time and privacy to work through whatever emotions they’re dealing with before they’re okay to talk to other people.

All except for Alastor who opts to follow Chaggie in his shadows, and finds them in their room, the door left open enough for him to peek in. Vaggie had dropped to her knees and was beginning to break down, everything she’d been suppressing over her time in Heaven bubbling up now that she’s safe. She noticed him out of the corner of her eye and faster than he’s ever seen her move she grabbed her spear and threw it, piercing the door and his shoulder.

They didn’t see Alastor for a few days after that. He melted into his shadows and just didn’t return. Which turned out to be for the better since his antagonistic nature wouldn’t have helped.

Husk ends up making both Charlie and Vaggie pretty strong drinks when they finally come downstairs, Angel makes the pasta dish he knows they both love, and Sir Pentious and Niffty get their door fixed and everything cleaned up. They can all tell that neither of them want to talk about what happened.

[lovelynim]

Intruder countermeasures

Honkai: Star Rail - Sampo & Svarog (feat. Clara)

A/N: First out of two commissions for no other than the @otomiyaa herself! Thank you so much for the trust and support, Ginny, it means a lot to me to write a commission for you!

Summary: Someone triggered the alarm system inside the Robot Settlement. Now, who could it be and how are they going to deal with them?

Word count: 1913 words

Just how hard could it possibly be?

Get into the Robot Settlement. Check.

Find the pieces and gears the client requested. Check.

Steal Borrow them for an indefinite amount of time. Check.

Get out. ….

Well, it seems like the good, old Sampo Koski found a nice challenge for himself this time, huh.  

Against what he expected from a bunch of old machines running around, the security in the Robot Settlement - especially around that big, scary manor where the little girl in red lived - was… hard to crack, to say the least. It took him a couple hours studying the best route to get in - for which he was definitely going to charge extra.

Now, if Sampo could figure out how to get in, then what’s the problem? Well, get out. Who could imagine that tinhead would have alarms against invaders all around the house? All the sorts of robots were patrolling the place, from the silliest, smallest ones to the big, threatening ones. 

Sampo, hiding behind a conveniently placed wall, peeked at the grounds in front of the manor and watched the robots walking left and right, left and right… Damn, Svarog was really prepared for anything, huh? No opening in sight, maybe it was time for Sampo to wander a little more. Maybe he would even bump into something valuable interesting enough.

Walking a little deeper into the site, Sampo carefully followed a nearby why to the zone behind the manor. Luck seemed to be on his side as no robot was spotted patrolling that part of the settlement so far. 

“My my… what do we have here..?” Sampo muttered quietly, peeking again as he reached another safe spot. Svarog, the so-called and feared tinhead, and the little girl in red, Clara. Maybe this was some sort of playground for the girl, Sampo thought, still not sure what kind of thing she did with all those gears and screws scattered around, but who understands kids these days anyway?

The most logical thing to assume was that Svarog drove her here while the machinery did the patrol on the other side of the manor. Such a good guardian, huh?

Sampo leaned against the nearby wall, pressing the back of his hand against his forehead. If he could make it past those two, he would be out of the manor’s ground - but why did it have to be those two?

He sighed, feeling defeated by Svarog’s security system. A loud, long sigh that slowly dragged itself out of his throat. Also, a mistake.

As soon as the air left his mouth, Sampo could hear a faint metallic sound coming from where he last saw Svarog and Clara standing. However, when he turned his eyes back to said spot, they were nowhere to be seen.

Uh oh.

“Target located,” Svarog’s heavy, deep robotic voice announced seconds before his hand crashed into the wall. Sampo widened his eyes as the hit missed his face by barely a couple inches - he didn’t even want to think about what that would’ve felt like if it did land. Well, he didn’t have time either.

Thanks to Gepard’s endless chasings, Sampo managed to develop quite the agility when it came to avoiding blows - still, this was not the best scenario to put them into test. “W-woah, careful that, you could hurt someo-wOAH!”

Sampo gasped as Svarog almost hit him again. “Target ‘Threat Index’ undetermined. Stay back, Clara,” the robot commanded, his free hand in front of the girl.

“I-I’m not a threat!” Sampo wheezed, desperately waving his hands in front of his chest, hoping it would appease the angry robot dad. “I’m just your good ol’ pal, S-Sampo Koski!” He spoke in a hurry, his words barely understandable under the fear in his voice.

Svarog didn’t seem to be convinced, though. Before Sampo could even have another chance to speak, he swayed his hand at him again and, this time, managed to push him against the nearby wall. Svarog’s palm was large enough to pin Sampo’s body against the surface behind him, making the mercenary gasp - half in pain and half in shock at how fast Svarog could be despite how big he was.

“Commence annihilation.”

…What?

Sampo widened his eyes as he saw Svarog lift his other hand and spread his fingers. The cannon within his palm charged at an alarming rate and, no matter how much he kicked or squirmed, he could free himself.

Was this the end of the good ol’ Sampo Koski?!

As Sampo prepared himself for the worst and closed his eyes shut, all he could hear besides the machinery in Svarog’s body running was a panicked, yet firm command.

“Svarog, s-stop it!” Clara pleaded, tugging at Svarog’s leg. And so he did.

“Clara, stand back. I couldn’t confirm the intruder’s intentions. It can be dangerous,” Svarog explained calmly, turning his attention to the girl, but making sure to not ease his grip in the slightest.

As stubborn as her robot dad, Clara shook her head. Her cheeks were a little flushed, as if she was just about to cry. “N-no! I don’t want to see you hurting someone!”

Sampo nearly cried along with the girl as he heard those words. Yay, he was saved!

“The intruder could harm you, Clara. I can not let them go,” Svarog insisted, his head turning back to Sampo with that threatening, but faint red light coming from his ‘eye’. “They need to be ‘taught a lesson’, so they won’t come back.”

“C-can’t we teach him some other way?” Clara muttered, still clinging at Svarog’s leg with teary eyes. “Without hurting him?”

Svarog didn’t answer and, if his face could express emotions like humans, he would probably look half confused, half concerned. Sampo pawed at the large, metallic hand keeping him place, but Svarog didn’t lower his guard yet. “In what way should we deal with the intruder? What do you propose, Clara?”

“Hmm, m-maybe…” Clara hummed, looking at Sampo and then back at Svarog. Something that would leave the message, but wouldn’t hurt? “T-tickle him!” She beamed, remembering the times when the kids in Boulder Town would decide their the one to lead the Moles’ squad through a tickle fight. Surely adults could solve their problems like that, without needing violence, right?

Sampo, on the other hand, didn’t look at the suggestion as brightly as Clara did. Svarog wouldn’t consider something like that, right?

Wrong.

Carefully wrapping his fingers around his body, Svarog picked Sampo up and brought him down to the ground. With his massive strength, pinning both his arms above his head with a single hand wasn’t a big deal.

“E-eh? Wait a second, C-Clara, darling, can you tell your d-”

“Understood,” Svarog sadly coldly, his attention turning back to the man he had pinned underneath him. Sampo gulped.

Getting tickled certainly sounded better than getting blasted into pieces, but Sampo wasn’t sure if he should be thankful yet. Did Svarog even know how to tickle someone? Or would he have his bones crushed one by one by the giant robot dad?

The answers for those questions soon came into his mind. Clara watched attentively as Svarog moved his free hand and began to knead Sampo’s side and stomach. A crooked smile took place in Sampo’s face while he started to squirm and kick his legs. Yes, it tickled. And tickled a lot.

“B-be careful, mr. Svarog. Just tickle, don’t hurt him,” Clara instructed and Sampo nearly told her to shut up, but the last bits of sense he had told him to keep quiet.

“Understood,” was Svarog’s simple answer as his cold, metallic fingers continued to prod and wiggle against Sampo’s body, testing out his reactions and studying where it would work the best. “Target’s heartbeat frequency increased. Suspicion: embarrassment.”

“H-hehey! That’s- agh, c-cohohome on!” Sampo grunted, his cheeks quickly turning red as he fought the urge to laugh with all the bits of strength he had. His eyes widened as Svarog moved his hand down to his hips. “W-waitwaitwahaHAHA, NOHOHOHOH!!”

Clara nearly jumped from her spot as Sampo bursted in loud, uncontrolled laughter. Well, that was the sign that Svarog was, indeed, listening to her, right? “I-I think you got him, mr. Svarog!”

“Target’s reaction: positive,” Svarog announced, his analysis bringing new results into this system and allowing him to tell which method worked - or, better saying, tickled - the best.

There barely was any room for Sampo to complain about the coldness of Svarog’s hand or about how rough a touch or two were. As expected of a machine, his tickling was meticulous and every move felt like it was calculated. From the way he kneaded into his sides, to the repetitive pokes all around his stomach and, of course, to the squeezing and pinching over his exposed waist and hips.

It was not like Sampo could see it clearly, but Clara had a relaxed look on her face. Svarog managed to find a way to deal with the intruder without harming him. How amazing! Still, all Sampo could feel and see was an ominous figure that was surely going to tickle him into his very death. 

Choking between a laugh and the other, Sampo planted his heels into the ground. With teary eyes and flushed cheeks, he shook his head left and right, thrashing as much as Svarog’s pinning allowed him to. “PLEHEHEHEASE!!” He wheezed, the air barely making it into his lungs before he laughed again. “I’M SOHOHORRY!! I SWEHEHEAR!!”

Svarog didn’t even consider those words, as if they were unknown to his system. He looked to the side, gazing at Clara. “Unable to determine if the target is lying or not. Heart rate too unstable to consider. Your assistance is required, Clara,” Svarog pointed out, almost casually, while his hand continued to wreak havoc.

“M-me?” She chirped, clenching her little hands in front of her chest. “You want me… to help you t-”

“No,” Svarog promptly interrupted, not giving her a chance to even consider it, “it can be dangerous, don’t approach the target,” his eye then turned back to Sampo, that now terrifying, but dim red light pointing straight into his laughing face. “Do you believe the target tells the truth?”

“I D-DO! AHAhaha, plehehease!! I’m truhuhully sohoHOHORRY!!” Sampo cackled, having to almost squeeze his words out of his throat to make sure they would be heard through all the laughter.

“A-ahm, I… I think he did learn his lesson,” Clara smiled, a sense of getting the job done filling her heart. “You can stop now, mr. Svarog. Thank you,” she said, nodding shyly.

Again, listening to Clara and Clara only, Svarog stepped back. Sampo’s body went limp on the cold floor, his head spinning as he still had to come down from his high. “T-tha- ahh… t-thank you… I t-though… haaah, I was d-done fohohor…”

“Warning: further attempts of trespassing will be punished accordingly. Leave at this moment, intruder,” Svarog ordered, coldly, taking his place in front of Clara and holding his hand out in front of her.

“I-I will! I swear!” Sampo cried, prostrating himself in front of Svarog and Clara, hoping to convince them he was going to ‘behave’ this time. When the two didn’t oppose his plea, Sampo understood it was the time to flee as fast as he could.

The components his client wanted? Screw those, he would try to look for a phony to deliver instead.

Stealing from the Robot Settlement? Never again!

[stuffymcstuffsworld]

My pupils

Ungrateful, Arrogant, Lazy, there were many words Kalego could use to describe his students. Many of them were imbeciles. Undisciplined. Hence why he was placed in charge of such a rowdy bunch.

He had had troublesome students before. It was no different than any other year he taught at the school. However... he never took into account how difficult the next few years would be.

To think it all started with one brat! The grandson of the chairdemon himself. He honestly wished he could have gone back in time and retired as soon as he heard about the attendance of such a creature.

His foolish pride had thought he could tame such a wild child within a few days. Having him easily under heel. He couldn't have been more wrong.

That little menace had the nerve to prove him wrong! Having no respect for authority and tuning him into a familiar. The audacity!

It wasn't just him that caused the teacher such a headache. No, he had twelve other rascals to handle as well. What did he do in his past life to enable such torture?

Individually, it probably wouldn't be so bad. But no... he had them all together. Everyday... for the next 6 agonizing years.

He often wondered if he'd survive such a daunting task for so long. Of course, his pride wouldn't allow him to quit. It would be shameful on both the school and his name if he were to do so.

So, as much as it pained him, he would stay. Despite the urge to resign. Truthfully, someone would probably drag him back even if he were to do so. Another irritating reality.

Some things were easy to brush off. Such as Allocers constant questions and interest in obtaining more knowledge. Just answer plainly offering research materials for reference.

Or working around Kerori's work schedule as an idol. As well as sending her study aids so she doesn't risk lowering her grades. Practically child's play.

Now, dealing with Jazz's sticky fingers could be annoying. Forcing apologies out of the young demon and attempting to keep the greedy child humble.

Not that it helped since he had an enabler like Lied. The cocky little imp thinking he could get away with such childish pranks so easily. He often had to discipline the pair.

Speaking discipline... he still needed to figure out a proper punishment for Kamui... again. Why is it so difficult for that bird brain to understand that the female students don't appreciate such actions? He has the nerve to call himself a gentleman with such an attitude.

At least he could say he's also seen growth in some of his students. Take Sabro, for example. That prideful attitude of his was far more manageable than when the child first arrived. Far more humble.

Or Soi, who constantly hid. Now, he actively participates and interacts with his classmates. A vast improvement.

If only he could get Picero to stop sleeping in class. That would be preferable. Instead, he constantly has to smack the drowsy teen awake.

Goemon has a rather interesting positivity. Now if only he could somehow apply that to his grades. That would certainly make things easier.

He wasn't amused by Elizabetta's attempts to get better grades by using her bloodline magic or flirting. He constantly had to remind his coworkers not to go easy on her just because of her looks. Although he was quite proud of how she handled the music festival.

Then, there was the matter of Iruma's two main subordinates. Or friends as he called them. The chaos that those two caused alone was a mountain of paperwork.

Never in a million years did he think that such a vigorous student like Alice could be so blinded by one individual. It's as if the boy forgot about his own growth. Does he have no dignity?

... thinking that he probably doesn't. Seeing as he's so obsessed with his superior that it's borderline insane. Not that clara is any better.

Her grades aren't exactly the best. Her loud, rambunctious attitude disturbs the other students attending any class she's in. Honestly, he's not sure what to do with such a wild thing.

He's half tempted to keep her on a leash to ensure she doesn't wander off. Although knowing that gremlin, she'd easily escape. If only she focused that energy on her assignments.

Still, despite all their flaws. Ignoring their constants defiance to the higherarchy. He would still admit they were his pupils.

He was their teacher. He would guide them into becoming powerful demons. He'd see them all graduate on time even if it'd kill him.

[seramilla]

So in divorced au Sera gave Carmilla her number and I wonder how long it takes Carmilla to call and how Sera reacts.

It's hot, it's muggy, and Carmilla and the girls have been active all day. Odette and Clara want to go snorkeling that afternoon, despite already spending the entire morning on the beach. Carmilla thinks it might be good to go to the spa alone without them...or maybe head back to the room and get all the sand out of her swimsuit first. Yeah, that would probably be wise.

As soon as she enters their suite, the feeling of the air conditioner on full blast almost makes her moan as it hits her overheated skin. She'd reapplied sunblock at least twice during their escapades, so she shouldn't be getting a sunburn. But she's still hot all over, and jumps into a cold shower with her swimsuit on, working out all the itchy sand from places she'd rather not think about.

When she gets out, she redresses in an adorable little sundress, and looks at the resort schedule. Women's time at the hotel spa is reserved for later that evening. That should allow her to chill in the room for a couple of hours, let the girls work off some more energy, and then they can all go together for manicures and facials. She lies on the hotel bed, sighing heavily into the plush sheets. This week has been crazy...a good kind of crazy, but she's still a little too wound up to relax.

Her phone buzzes on the bed next to her. It's Odette. Apparently, she and Clara had met some other young adults staying at the hotel and decided not to go snorkeling. Now they want to "hang out" for the rest of the afternoon with their new friends. Carmilla groans. She didn't bring them to this place so they could spend time away from her...this was supposed to be their vacation, damn it!

But...she thinks back to when she was that age. Kids will be kids. They are just newly adults, almost drinking age, and experiencing new things...she doesn't know whether a few hours of independence will make that much of a difference to their plans.

"You are not to leave the resort grounds," Carmilla texts back sternly. "You don't know these people."

"Fine, Mom," Odette says. She can practically hear her daughter grumbling to herself over text. "We're just getting lunch at the hotel restaurant, okay? Then we might go to the arcade. It's right next door."

"Two hours. That's it." Carmilla texts. "Your phone is charged? You know how to reach me in case of an emergency?"

"Yes, Mama," Odette confirms. "We know. Your number and 911 are both on speed dial, I promise."

"Two hours," Carmilla reiterates again. "Then back up here. Not five minutes longer."

Odette texts her a thumbs-up emoji, followed by a, "Got it. Love you, Mama!" Carmilla leaves it at that.

Carmilla wonders how she's going to spend the next few hours now. She thinks about taking a nap, but no, she's definitely too wound up to do that. That's entirely out of the question while her brain is working a mile a minute worrying about the girls. She looks over at the bedside table, where she'd left her room key, searching for the TV remote.

Instead, she finds that slip of paper the hotel manager had given her. The one with her name and phone number written on it...her handwriting is so delicate. The lines are so distinct and curved, and they have a playful little swirl to them, like she's trying not to write in cursive and not quite succeeding. There's even a little...is that a heart? It's very subtle, but it looks like a heart joining the "A" or her first name and "E" of her last name.

Sera Espinosa. It has a nice, melodic ring to it. Carmilla thinks...why the fuck not? If the girls can have their fun, why can't she? It's not exactly a date, is it? Had that been Sera's intention? Sera had given her the number because she wants to be called. Or was that just for hotel emergencies, or something she needed during her stay?

Only one way to find out.

Carmilla dials the number on the paper, and after only the second ring, a soft, pleasant voice answers the phone, sounding a little concerned, and also a little tired, despite the friendly greeting.

"Good afternoon, Sera speaking!"

Carmilla swallows. "He-hello. This is Carmilla Carmine. Up in Room 4-D."

"Oh! Yes! Carmilla, hello!" There is some fumbling on Sera's end of the line, as if she's looking for something, or moving very fast. "Sorry, let me sit down... There we go. How are you? Do you need anything? Are you enjoying your stay?"

"Yes," Carmilla confirms, beaming at the happy inflection to the other woman's voice. Suddenly, she'd gone from sounding tired to genuinely happy to hear from here. "We are having a wonderful time. Your facility is exquisite. But I was just wondering...my girls are going to be busy this afternoon, and I have no plans until the spa opens. Would you care to...have a late lunch with me? I'd like to thank you for making me and my girls feel at home here. If you can't, that's fine...but I would be delighted to treat you."

Sera goes quiet for a few moments, and then answers in the affirmative, if not a little shaky and awkward.

"Oh-oh my....umm, yes! Yes, yes, of course I would! That would be so lovely! I know of a little café around the corner, if you'd like someplace less busy than the hotel restaurant. It's so crowded there at this time of day. Can I walk you over there once you come down?"

Carmilla's heart beats a mile per minute behind her breastbone. She hadn't been expecting Sera to be so welcoming and casual about all of this...nor had she expected to go on a...date today, if that's actually what this is. But she's not going to look a gift horse in the mouth.

"Sure...absolutely!" Carmilla responds, trying to hide the awkwardness in her own voice. "I would love that. Give me 5 minutes and I'll be ready to go. I'm looking forward to it."

[yanderehsr]

Are you writing some paimon/aeon of guidance reader?

Well I am now, hope you'll enjoy😁

Trigger Warning: Yandere, Obsessive behaviour, Possessive behaviour, Kidnapping

Clara makes a little robot costume for you, that or a badge of some sort, something that goes on your body, whatever she makes you has technology inside it, she has also but electric charges that she can activate at a push of a button to paralyze you.

It's all just to keep you safe, life with the astral express must be dangerous, just stay here with her and you can be siblings, care for each other forever and ever. You will be happy with her and Svarog, she'll make sure of it.

"I'm sorry, I really didn't think it would come to this, but you leaved me no choice, you must stay here for your own safety"

Yukong: everything she does is to protect you, every choice she makes and ever person she sacrofices are all for you, she is so controlling with what you can and can't do, in all honesty, if it was up to her she would just lock you up at home and throw away the key, but she would never be able to handle your broken look and empty eyes.

Yukong leaves the Xianzhou to join up with the astral express so she can continue to protect you, sure she has a kid and all but she is old enough to take care of herself is what Yukong tells herself, for the first time since she promised her friend to take care of the kid, she feels like she has a purpose, and that is to protect you.

"No you can't have that, it is way too sweet, I care about your health you know, I want you to live as long as I do at the very least"

[estelofrivendell]

You’ve Got A Friend In Me (Aragorn x Female Reader)

a/n: clara actually posting a one shot??? shocker, right? anyway, i started this months ago and only finished it now. it’s not really x reader, but oh well. also, there may or may not be inspiration taken from to kill a mockingbird. i won’t elaborate and you will see it when you see it. i don’t really see this as a part three of “a change of heart” but you can if you want to. also, don’t question the toy storyesque title.

summary: you’re convicted of a crime you actually didn’t do and all the odds are against you because of your reputation. aragorn is the only one to believe you are innocent and does what he can to help you get cleared of all charges.

word count: 2,1k

warnings: none really other than mentions of murder

During your first meeting, Aragorn prayed to whatever God was up there to have you locked up for your crimes sooner or later. He never thought it would actually happen considering how lousy the whole system was. Yet the wishes he no longer held were answered, which he thought was only done to spite him. When news of the lords declaring you a fugitive, he prayed you would be guided into safety and away from the authorities before asking why they wanted you.

“Do you need to ask?” A considerably young ranger laughed. “That woman is a menace. It was about time those poor souls were brought to justice, and this is long overdue.”

Aragorn growled. “That does not answer my question.”

The young ranger laughed once more, holding up his arms. “Calm down. They say she murdered one of those great lords in cold blood. Witnesses saw her near the castle when all the mess was going on. Can you believe it?”

No, I do not. She would never do that, not anymore.

Finding you wasn’t so difficult anymore. You were a slippery little snake that it took Aragorn a while to master the task of locating you. Today felt strangely easier than it was and he wondered if that was deliberate and you had been hoping he would find you.

You sure did not expect his visit as you aimed your knife at him, the tip close enough to his chin that it made a small cut, but you lowered it the moment you realised who it really was.

“Aragorn? What brings you here?”

“I believe you know what brought me here. Did you do it?”

“Kill the lord? No, though I would love that honour. I cannot tell you I am entirely innocent in this matter.”

You didn’t change entirely, you see. You still took payments (especially when the money came from a high bidder) and you were more than happy to carry out the execution of the worst of men, and the lord was no kind man. He was someone no one wanted to be around and Aragorn didn’t need to be told that you would love to kill him, yet he felt it in him that if you were going to be arrested for any crime, this was not it.

“Well, it doesn’t matter anymore,” you said, turning away from him. “You need to get out of here. I don’t want you seen with me and I most certainly don’t want you to be involved in my problems, so do yourself a favour and save your sorry self from a conviction.”

Aragorn raised a brow. “You involve yourself in my affairs, why can I not do the same?”

You shot him a glare. “That is different, I was helping you. And if-”

“You don’t think I’m helping you? I’m telling you I believe you’re innocent, and no matter what you say to make yourself look bad, I’ll find a way to make sure you’re not tried for anything.”

“Then run away with me.” You offered your hand. “A life in the forests away from the city sounds nice. It’s what I always dreamed of as a young girl.”

If he wasn’t destined for something so big, he would not hesitate to take up your offer. Even then, he imagined a life with you and he believed it to be so cozy and perfect. He was no stranger to waking up beside you and he longed for your company that getting to do it every morning sounded like a utopia.

“I… cannot.”

“Why not? You have nothing going for you. Just the same old rangering, nearly getting yourself killed while the people you protect don’t thank you for your service. Would you prefer a life with me, where we have all the freedom we can get? We can explore the world together, unbounded by expectations and obligations.”

“I may not like what I do, but it is still my duty to protect the men of Bree.”

Hurt, you turned away from him and left. “Well, you made your choice and I have made mine. I am sorry they are incompatible, but there is no use to convince you. I wish you all the luck if there is any left.”

-

Each day, Aragorn misses you, but does not regret not following you. He would kill for you, but he would not pick you over the crown. It was the heaviest price he ever paid in his life and he is sure nothing else can compare.

Over time, his life is the same as it was before he met you. Hunt orcs, occasionally meet Gandalf, return to Rivendell, eat and sleep. Rinse and repeat.

It had been three months, shy of Midsummer when he heard about your whereabouts. Expecting neutral at worst news, he ensured to look like he was not paying attention and almost lost his train of thought when they started to go into more detail.

“Word has it that the woman thought to murder the lord had been found by authorities just last week. She put up a good fight, killing the guards and escaped the first time, but they caught her this time, not without issue though. She’s been brought back here for a trial.”

“Here? Why?” A young man asked, stupidly.

“Because this is where the murder happened,” said the man calmly. “I’m more surprised she’s getting a trial in the first place. Murderers like her deserve a lifetime sentence, plus 150 years, without the possibility of bail. In fact, the guillotine will do.”

A young woman around the same age as you spoke up. “There’s no way she’s getting a sentence lower than that. I mean, she steals a lot, and that’s not worth a death sentence in my book, and all those conspiracy murders everyone spoke of had no evidence, but this one did.”

“So, when is the trial?” The young woman asked.

“In two months time, assuming no delays.”

-

After a lot of difficult convincing on his end, side eyes he received, and suspicion that he was someone to not be trusted, Aragorn received the location of the maximum security prison and the specific cell you were held at. The guards asked him a lot of questions before letting him see you, let alone giving you privacy. 

When you saw him, you shot up and clenched your hands around the bars. A friendly face was long overdue. “It’s over, Strider. No point in making me feel better. I lost the moment they found me and there’s no turning back.”

“Don’t say that. Have some faith in yourself. I know you didn’t do it-“

“And do you have proof for that? God, I’m grateful to have you, and I’m grateful that you believe I didn’t do it, but you’re a delusional man. Go home. Find a woman to fuck, marry and have babies with. Forget about me. You’re smarter than this.”

“I know many people that can help you. I’ve been looking around and speaking to them, and they agreed to look into it. Some of them have been given permission to investigate.”

“Strider.” Only until now did you start crying, and Aragorn never saw you cry. He thought you crying was something he never thought he would see. “Stop that. You don’t have to do that.”

“What friend would I be?”

“You’re risking your own life for me.” You sobbed. “I don’t want you to jeopardise your own life to save mine. Please, stop this, go home. You have nothing to do with this.”

Suddenly, the door opened and two guards roughly grabbed Aragorn and pulled him away. “Time’s up,” one of them gruffly said to him as you mouthed “don’t resist.” He reluctantly listened. He was a lot stronger than everyone here combined and could knock them out in one hit, but if he wanted to finish his plan of ensuring you were proven innocent, beating up the guards was not the way to do it.

Once he was thrown out of the prison, he looked at the architecture and noted how miserable it was. He could tell you were losing your mind each passing minute and only hoped that you would recover as soon as you were released.

-

One of the people he paid to investigate the lord’s death had summoned him to a private place at night. 

“I think you need to hear this. Last night, we went over the body and we discovered enormous hand marks on the victim’s neck and marks on his right eye. The hand prints are too big to belong to a woman and the injuries on his eye could mean a left-handed man did it.”

Aragorn has met women with quite large hands, but the news only confirmed that you didn’t kill him, as he was aware you had small hands. You were also indeed right handed.

“With this proof in mind, it’s hard for me to believe she did it. I don’t know who did it, but I don’t believe it’s her.”

-

Aragorn snuck his way in your trial and watched from above, making sure to keep discreet. After the introduction and overview of your charges, and people fighting it out with you remaining silent, you were suddenly asked a question that piqued his interest.

“Can you read and write?”

“Yes, I can.”

Everyone present stared at each other, muttering amongst each other, shocked that a woman who was most certainly not noble and was uneducated knew how to read and write.

You were asked to write out what the judge said, word by word with both hands. The most eloquent speech with advanced words yet you had no struggle writing them down, with your right hand, confusing everyone.

The man that asked you to write remained calm the entire time, as if he was unsurprised, startling you a bit.

“You see, the woman here wrote with her right hand, with perfect handwriting, while her writing with her left hand is nearly illegible. This could only mean she is right handed. The lord was discovered with bruises on the right side of his face, which if we assume she is the murderer, would be probable if she is left-handed. But she is not.”

“Secondly, there were big handprints around the lord’s neck. The woman here has quite small hands. A woman’s strength could only do so much to try and choke a man let alone with small hands.”

The trial went on and on, but came to an end, a good one, since you were cleared of your charges. Due to the everyone’s shock and confusion, and how the evidence countered their expectations, no one cheered nor jeered at the decision. It was dead silent and everyone left without uttering a single word.

Aragorn only smiled to himself, but his smile fell when you ignored him.

-

And life in Bree went on.

Everyone spent a week talking about how they had wrong thoughts of you, while others were still convinced you didn’t do it. A couple others just didn’t care and were annoyed to even hear about you. But after a week, the chatter all died down and everyone minded their own business, unless it was something about their married neighbor beginning an affair with another woman. 

Aragorn found you at your place, cleaning your home with a lot of things packed.

“Going somewhere?”

“Finishing what I did not get to,” you said, not looking at him. “Why are you here?”

“I wanted to see if you are well.”

“I am… well, I suppose. I’m not in a shitty cell with a similar embodiment to hell anymore.”

“I don’t expect a thanks or-”

“Thank you,” you suddenly said, finally facing him. “I’m sorry for doubting you. I really did think it was over for me.”

“I don’t blame you for doubting me, but I am your friend. You helped me before and it’s about time I returned the favour.”

“I am still going away for a while. I do not think I want to come back to Bree after a short time with everything that has happened. I understand you do not want to come with me, but I will come back, I promise.”

“About that. I think I decided that I do want to travel with you. It’s that this time, we’re not running away from something terrible.”

You ran towards him to give him a hug, perhaps the biggest hug he ever had in his life, and he heard you start to cry again. This time, you were not crying out of desperation.

No, you were crying of happiness. Happiness because you get to travel around the world with your favourite person, and the only person in your life left that mattered.

[honeyjars-sims]

3.15 Fitting In

Johnny was a couple of weeks into his new job and he was mostly feeling positive about it. He still felt like The New Guy, but he was starting to become more familiar with his coworkers. He knew by now that Clara and Robi were inseparable; cool-headed Robi often played the straight man to overzealous Clara which played out well on camera.

Lilly had a sister who also worked on set as a director. Flora, or Flo Flo as Lilly affectionately called her, had a goth vibe and was obsessed with vampires. Despite the dark clothing, she was just as bubbly as her sister.

Johnny spent the most time with Lacey due to the proximity of their work stations. She’d been kind enough to introduce him around and help him get acquainted with the building. She floated effortless between different social groups but was closest to Quinn.

While Lacey was a social butterfly, Quinn was more introverted. Lacey helped get Quinn set up with a private work area so she could have a place to write in peace. Johnny thought it was nice that the company was willing to accommodate her work style.

The one person whom Johnny hadn’t been seeing much of was his supervisor, Lucy. He’d taken on a few tasks, like distributing call sheets and schedules and making sure materials were properly stocked, but he still found himself without much to do during the day. He hung around some on set, learning about the equipment and the filming process.

At first he was happy with the downtime, but as he noticed Lucy was still running herself ragged around the studio all day he began to wonder if there was a reason she wasn’t delegating more tasks to him. If she and Damien had really seen potential in him, then why not let him take on more responsibilities? He decided to be proactive for once and talk to Lucy about it.

When he saw her walking out of her office, he sprinted down the hall to get her attention.

“Hey, Lucy!” he called and she turned to greet him.

“Oh, hi, Johnny,” she replied, nearly out of breath. “Is everything still going ok?”

“Yeah, it’s good. I’m feeling a little more like part of the team.”

“Great! I’m glad you’re liking it so far.”

“It seems like you’re in a rush, do you need me to do anything for you?”

“Oh, no!” Lucy waved her hand. “I don’t have that much to do. I’m just going to run over to the set and make sure the issue with the lighting is fixed. I’ll probably stop by editing on the way back to review some thumbnails, unless Damien still wants to discuss budgeting, in which case, I’ll-”

“Lucy,” Johnny interrupted. “It sounds like you need some help. At least let me check on the lighting for you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Lucy insisted. “It’s on my way.”

“Do you not trust me? Wait, you’re not one of those control freaks who thinks they’re the only ones who can do things right, are you?”

“No!” Lucy’s face reddened. “I know how to delegate, and I don’t want to be running around like a chicken with its head cut off.” She took a deep breath, relaxing for the first time that Johnny had seen since he started. “It’s just harder than I expected to be the one in charge. I’m a social person, but no one wants to sit with their boss in the break area, you know what I mean?”

“So you want…friends?” That wasn’t quite the explanation that Johnny had expected.

“I just don’t want to walk into a room and feel like everyone else is trying to look busy or they’re just being polite. I want my presence to be welcomed, not a burden.”

Johnny could relate to that sentiment. “So you thought if you gave me too much work, I would treat you like everyone else does.”

Lucy wrung her hands. “It sounds so stupid when you spell it out like that, but I guess so. You’re the first person who’s worked directly under me, so I didn’t want to put too much on you right off the bat.”

“I don’t think that’s stupid,” Johnny assured her. “It’s hard when you’re surrounded by people and still feel lonely. I’ll make you a deal. If you let me take on more duties, then I’ll talk you up to everyone.”

“You really think that will work?”

“Sure, I’m very charming. I’ll just tell everyone how chill you are and they’ll be like, ‘Well, if Johnny says she’s cool, then it must be true.’”

Lucy snorted. “I don’t think anyone’s going to believe that I’m chill at this point.”

“You’re probably right about that. I’ll think of something else.”

“Good deal. Thanks, Johnny.” Lucy turned and started walking away.

“You’re welcome . . . boss,” Johnny called behind her. He laughed when she raised a middle finger in the air in response.

Previous | Beginning of story | Beginning of chapter | Next

[fancifulplaguerat]

Proper (but non exhaustive!) Nina Kaina post. 

I continue to obsess over how Nina is framed within Patho Classic's text and how players may be meant to view her. To me, she occupies a half-divine or mythic role to other characters and within the text itself that portrays her as an epitome of utopian ideals. I think Nina's character is, to an extent, the ideal of utopia that the Kains and other utopians are fighting under. In particular given Victor deadass says that “Nina is not just my beloved wife. She is a spirit in whose name one could charge into battle with despair itself.” But another line that haunts me about Nina being revered as an ideal is when Yulia tells Daniil “They loved her for being a true queen. They love her for having died young.” She likewise says that “people adore her even more now than when she was alive.” Whether purposeful or not, Yulia brings to mind the objectified ideal of a beautiful woman who dies young and thus retains perpetual beauty alongside the potential of youth and all the possibilities which attend that.

The player’s understanding of Nina is often informed by those who desired or adored her, with character descriptions generally reiterating that Nina was foremost imposing and attractive—that she had a “terrible and powerful presence” and “imperial deportment;” that she was “a radiantly beautiful woman,” “The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen.” These descriptions further paint her as charming virago type, “So wild and fierce and intimidating! Just one brief look at her walking down the street—with or without her escort—could make you weak in the knees. You could almost picture her upon a throne. She could cut you with a knife looking you in the eye—and no one would say a thing.” Even Aglaya’s vitriolic description of Nina forefronts her as beautiful, blue-blooded, and fierce: “Nina was  the embodiment of absolute evil. The charming, intoxicating, beautiful evil, the evil that can drive you mad. The graceful and elegant evil that is fast to capture anyone in its web—even those who stand up to evil till the very last.” Thus that, I feel, is the primary portrait of her offered in passing—that Nina was beautiful, regal, and untouchable. 

Yet Katerina offers more insight into Nina’s actual self when she confides Victor/Nina’s history to Clara. She says, “Nina Lilich [was a] bright, refined, devilish aristocrat who fell for Victor for some reason, and he brought her here, in this faraway corner of the Steppe. It turned out then that Nina was harbouring plans concerning this place… And the Kains’ elders, Georgiy and Simon, had certainly impressed her… To put it briefly, Nina became the ruler of this land. […] Nina was striving to get to a place where no human being is allowed, and dragging her followers along, believing that her goal justified their suffering.” Is this conversation, Katerina further notes, “To Nina, human lives were tools.” Little Vlad similarly says, “Nina the Wild never held human lives in high regard.” An implication of cruelty, yet one employed to achieve noble aims. Yulia too points to this, saying that “Whatever power Nina had to dominate the souls of her subjects, she hardly ever resorted to it. Not that she needed to. She was worshipped all the same and her most inhumane endeavours were eagerly forgiven […] The reason would be, perhaps, that whatever Nina did, she did to appease the people. However cruel, her every undertaking would illuminate the town with festivity and high spirits.” 

Katerina, Yulia, and Vlad’s dialogues suggest that Nina was cruel by necessity, but adored nonetheless because her aims were ultimately for a greater good—similar, in my mind, to how the game engages with utopia itself. I feel even the emphasis on her attractiveness plays into this (though. hardy fucking side eye) to frame her in-text as synonymous with utopia. 

Yet! I feel Nina is not confined to being the dead beautiful woman, in particular through her involvement with the Polyhedron. Katerina does, after all, state that Nina had her own pre-existing plots. Peter corroborates this, that “Nobody would have allowed me to even model them… if not for Nina the Wild! Nina gave me a whole living town—a town aching and craving to go heavenwards, to the stars—a town desperately hungering for a crown—the crown I’ve given to it!” Given this; yes, the Polyhedron is for Simon, but to me Nina seems no less instrumental to it, namely the Polyhedron’s powers (though I might be misinterpreting this. lmao.) I completely overlooked thus far that it’s seemingly Nina’s soul which affords the Polyhedron its power to allow children to see their dreams. That is, both Victor and Georgiy tell Clara that should she enter the Polyhedron, she is unlikely to see anything because of Nina specifically, not merely because she is no longer a child (debatable, gentlemen). Georgiy says, “I’m afraid Nina will show you nothing, since you’re no longer a child.” Likewise Victor: “I am afraid you’re not going to see anything there. I doubt that Nina will be favorably disposed towards you.” This to suggest the that Nina actively gives the Polyhedron its power, which I feel is further corroborated by Andrey. He describes the Polyhedron as a “mirror that preserves the reflection of the person that has looked into it the last. You know, when Nina died, Maria said she may never be able to cope with grief […] That is when Focus was created.” And another thing!!! Yes, the Polyhedron was created for Simon, but Andrey implies Focus was only created due to Nina; he explains that Peter created Focus likely “because he loved Nina so much […] he ended up creating a space she could inhabit. Can you imagine? You come into a room and can definitely feel that she's there-as if you've simply turned away from her for a second... And you can talk to her.” 

It just compels me to think of the Polyhedron’s machinations not as fucked-up magic (for want of a better word) but Nina actively allowing these children to see their dreams. In this way, Nina is the literal utopia/miracle, but not merely a passive representation of it; rather the active author of it. I think Nina’s role here ties into broader themes about childhood/imagination/motherhood in Patho from which I will abstain because God knows this post is too long already and I am NOT done. Anyway. I think Nina’s involvement with the Polyhedron affords her more characterisation beyond these immortalising/alluring descriptions which more so confine her to occupy the role of utopia incarnate in-text, just as she does in the Townspeoples’ minds. 

Also that as Daniil, the player can converse with her; though I think there is something to be said that it is still through another’s mouth. I trust that we speak to Nina herself, that it is literally her soul—especially given that Maria tells Daniil that she had been sheltering Nina’s memory before Victor; it feels quite literal. BUT. Let’s indulge ! It compels me to consider the ramifications if the player rather speaks to Nina’s ‘memory’—how Victor remembers her, rather than necessarily Nina as she was. That if we speak to Nina’s memory, our interaction her is merely with Nina as an ideal. I wonder whether Victor saw her more as utopia or a woman he fell in love with or both. I mean. I am leaning towards both, given what he tells Clara or how he refers to Nina with the epithet “divine.”

On this note I want to conclude with Victor/Nina’s relationship. In particular that several characters say that Nina was held back by Victor, that Maria’s lack of a husband is what will allow her to surpass her mother. This is echoed most notably, in my opinion, by Khan and Maria herself. Khan also adds that because Nina was “held back by Father […] her power brought more good than evil.” That latter clause interests me in connection to when Peter claims that “Victor was the only person that Nina used to obey not out of fear, but having recognize his superiority […] she rendered complete obedience to Victor, even though he never asked for it.” This implies that Victor could or would stay Nina’s hand from more unsavory means to achieve her goals. That seems consistent with Victor’s character, given that from tossing him on the vivisection table he does seem most compassionate of the Kains. But he never asked her to listen to him, per se, so that implies he would have let her do whatever necessary. 

I do genuinely think that Nina loved Victor rather than potentially seeing him as an instrument for her own aims, given that she only learned of Georgiy/Simon post-marriage (though I do think the opposite reading is possible). Also that simple line when Victor tells Clara that “[Nina] loves me, and is pained by the thought of me having to part with my life…” So perhaps Nina answered to him from her own affections? But then, Peter does make that distinction of ‘superiority,’ which. Perhaps that is clearer in the Russian but it admittedly confuses me. Superiority as in ye olde husband-wife dynamics? That feels doubtful to me; it’s inconsistent with Nina’s character, and the game seems to point away from this—when Daniil states that many wives obey their husbands, Peter argues, “Wives like Nina? No way in hell.” So. Where does that leave us. Was Victor just 'darling if you want. could you perhaps be slightly less evil today but only if you feel like it <3' and Nina decided 'alright perhaps I could be a little less evil. for you <3' but AGAIN Victor did not actually intend Nina to listen to him, which suggests that he would not have stopped her like the domesticated househusband he is. Or the Kains in general, who will purportedly sacrifice anything necessary to achieve their aims. To me all this hinges on what that ‘superiority’ is and honestly I have no satisfactory answer. Does this whole 'Victor held Nina back' insinuate that it was Nina's decision, that Nina chose to hold herself back? 

By way of conclusion I would say I don’t think Nina is truly “evil,” nor are players meant to consider her so. Capella says as much, and I think her characterization ultimately parallels Classic’s preoccupations with utopia. Someone motivated entirely by love and good intentions who is willing to achieve miracles by any means necessary; the latter informing her supposed cruelty or indifference to human life. 

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls-The Winter Carnival Episode-Part 5

The Elder Gilmores (Richard, Emily, Trix, and Lorelai) sit down to dinner at The Inn. Trix bosses around the help (Michel), typical richie behavior, what's new. Lorelai appears mildly embarrassed. Emily rolls her eyes. Richard grins. That's it. We'll return to Thursday Night Dinner shortly, and see if there's some kind of epic public blowup, or whatever.

(Spoiler Alert: There isn’t. It’s incredibly lame 🥱)

"Throw A Snowball At A Band Geek" is such a fun detail. (see background). Our quartet of Rory, Jess, and Bratly & Butthead Forrester march on. Bratly pesters Jess incessantly because he will simply never have a moment of peace and quiet between the ages of 17-18. She inquires about the origin of his name, but he is unfortunately tight lipped about it. Jess requests that Clara play in traffic.

Truer words have never been spoken.

Rory confirms that Lane was not seeing things, but that she has no time to explain, because if she leaves the two man children unsupervised together in the playpen for too long, there's going to be a binky fight.

But I thought he loved to Play Sport With The Fellas? Clara, growing up means learning carnival games are rigged and Milk Bottle Toss is just another scheme to fund Taylor Doose's next vacation to the French Riviera. Jess threatens to throw Clara across the schoolyard. With that aim? Heh!

Sure, go ahead and watch him lose. But mark my words, one day, he's going to win. Oh, he is going to win big in life. He's going to win the life lottery living in his Philly penthouse while the rest of y'all are still living in Stars Hollow and buying tasteless snow cones that only come in one flavor to fund 80 year old Taylor Doose's trips to Fiji.

TRIPLE MILO SPEAK! UH DOLLUR! OKUH! HUH! I love that Jess is such a gentleman and he is always paying for Rory's whims. A hot dog, a throw at some milk bottles. I mean, she doesn't have a job or her own money, but still. Jess is suspicious that Rory had plans to attend the CarnivalGrift with Dean in his (previously intended) absence. Now why would he have a reason not to trust her? Not like she just quietly met up with Dean earlier in the episode and while she was snagged into that meeting quite unexpectedly, my personal opinion remains that she threw Jess under the bus, primarly by being so spineless and rolling over for Dean. You know. As per uszh. (the metaphorical bus, and not the literal bus that Milo asked AmyShermanPalladino to strike Jess dead with). Well. At least she fully admits to everything.

Like, I'm not saying this convo was anywhere near the slimiest thing Dean or Rory have ever done either alone or in pairs, but Jess can have a little Suspicion and Jealousy. You know. As a treat.

Hey Rory, could you move over just a skosh... get in front of those milk bottles...I want to play Throw A Ball At The Exhausting People Pleaser. I will charge the people Uh Dolluhr to play.

I'm pleased that Rory gave a full confession re: the coffee shop meeting. She gives Jess the usual "Are you mad" treatment (x3), but he seems pretty chill about it. Rory is definitely not used to this sort of query not being met with a Dean Forrester Rage-Isode.

I like to think this happened because Rory visualized Dean's face on those milk bottles, but I'm just a dreamer.

This cheap bear could have come from the same claw machine where Dean fished out the errant quarter to make Rory's bracelet.

"I'll name him Jess."

The 25 cents is what Rory and Lorelai tipped him for serving them dinner last night. Rory states her intentions to give Sad Pathetic Bear to Clara, Jess threatens to suffocate the child by shoving the plushie into her mouth. It's a blessing that Jess did not become a teen father. Back at TND, some mild awkardness ensues between the Haves and Have Nots (Sookie). Sookie has a rip in her shirt. Ha? Trix is moving to Hartford. I yawn. 10 great words are then strung together into a sentence.

Trix states she is in poor health. Richard insists that "Emily and I will tend to you day and night." Emily is displeased, gets petty, takes 15 minutes to cut a bean. Lorelai keeps her mouth shut completely, which makes me believe there may actually be a God.

Hell, if it weren’t for that disturbing interaction between her and Dean in her kitchen early in the episode (#SpiderGate), I might even haven given her a A for conduct. if I were issuing Episode Report Cards.

I should do that…

She did the thing where they said the title of the episode in the episode. I may have to add that square to my Bingo Card.

Time for homoerotic alleyway/hallway confrontation Part Deux

"Many word confuse. Where picture. Dean no read good."

I SWEAR TO GLOB I DIDN'T KNOW HE WAS GOING TO SAY THAT!

I think he means this literally. The words "Senior Class" are really tripping him up. Help the poor guy, Jess. This might finally be the year he passes 2nd grade. Love that AmyShermanPalladino writes such biting one liners for Jess but leaves Dean the scraps for his clap backs, it's a beautiful thing to behold.

Hello, Sad Pathetic Bear (Dean). "Getting" would imply he wasn't already there. J: "Let's just be friends?" D: "No thanks." J:"You don't think it's pathetically transparent? Rory is just taking pity on you, that's why she's suddenly interested in being your friend." There you go again using those big words on poor Dean.

Well which is it? I thought Jess only talked in monosyllabic grunts. D: Rory and I are just friends. Just like you and Rory were just friends. And look how it turned out for you. What is Dean actually implying here? Is he saying "Welp, she's your problem now". That would be pretty funny! Clara interrupts, ending not the first and certainly not the last sexually tense, homoerotic exchange between BeavJess and ButtDean.

I guess Jess was supposed to appear “threatening” in this scene, but to me it fell flat and was even a little confusing. My little skronklet is so cute when he’s trying to scare people! 🥹 Baby makes mean face! Tell Dean he can’t read! He totally not capable of brutal axe homocide!

🤭🪓👱🏻‍♀️🦢 Why I talk like caveman suddenly? In the last minute of the episode, Rory declares to Lorelai the relationship between herself, Jess and Dean just hunky dory. Lorelai has almost no comment on the matter except to refer to the boys as Cheech and Chong. She should try shutting up more often. It's quite refreshing. This was a pleasant episode. I liked it. The end. Here's my Episode Bingo Card. Not a winner.

[deleted-files]

Here we have Iota Squad all together and ready for action. One of hero factories many search and rescue teams. Though, this team in particular is usually assigned to more hazardous conditions than usual. They're more than capable than handling themselves alone but when together, as with all teams, they can achieve great things. Listing them off from left to right (In the group photo):

Heinrich Phase: A brash and boastful rookie always looking to prove himself to his team's lead, Pixie. He feels that the Hero Factory could be doing more with it's influence and power. Heinrich made a name for himself while using the experimental short range phase generator mounted on his upper back. This device allows him to "teleport" or blink a short distance, leaving an after image in his path. Depending on the mission at hand you'll either see him with his High Frequency Dual Claws, able to cut through even the densest of metals and rock. They come quite in handy for clearing debris and clearing paths to rescue targets or ripping the armor off of foes. Or his Dual Concussive Photon Repeaters, usually mounted on the side of a Mach Bike, he took the opportunity from a wrecked one to see if he could put them to use himself. They have a lot of kick… unsurprisingly.

Gretchen Ranger: An overprotective, unyielding, near-unstoppable force of a hero. Not afraid to speak her mind, she tends to butt heads with the team lead at times. Even so, they're the closest of the four. Despite her predisposition, she willingly chose the role of tracker of the team. Ranger's armor and equipment are reminiscent of a badger. She comes equipped with similar strength augmenting tech implanted in Duncan Bulk with optimized actuators in her hands for more grip strength, allowing her to crush even stone in her claws. She can scale sheer vertical surfaces with ease as well. Her tool of choice is a modified version of the M.D.S.B (Mega Decibel Sound Blaster). Referred to as, lovingly, the "Search Light". Instead of sending out masses of explosive sound, it acts as an advance echo-locator. Though, the output can be turned up higher for sustained and devastating firepower should the need arise.

Clara Pixie: Team lead, voice of reason, and a great shot. Pixie, despite being the shortest in the team, is the most capable fighter out of all of them. She traded in the standard plasma gun issued to all heroes for a condensed combustion hand cannon. The design of the handgun is very much "lightning trapped in a bottle". However, that is a topic for another time. Pixie while not leading the team, is often participating in Hero Factory's rehabilitation program. In which a select few potential ex-villains are given a second chance. In the form of being assigned to a city and being charged with protecting and helping the inhabitants in anyway they can. Of course, under the close supervision of an assigned handler. Pixie, being part of this program, has been assigned with being Corroder's handler. The two have grown quite close as time passed. Even bringing him along on missions with the rest of the squad every now and again. The two would be near inseparable if it weren't for responsibilities that need most of their attention.

Andrew "Andy" Bolt": Quiet, patient, disciplined, Andrew Bolt is one of the best scouts Hero Factory has had in years. It's rumored that he could've been on the fabled H.R.T (Hero Recon Team) at one point or another. His actions, speak much louder than words in most cases. Not much is really known fully about him aside from him being a veteran hero and his blinding speed. He is equipped with an energy condenser mounted to his quaza core that passively absorbs any ambient electricity in the air. Giving him a constant flow of energy to power his tools/weapons. Speaking of, Bolt's equipped with Dual Stun blasters that have an extended function, when drawing directly from his energy condenser, to create nets of energy capable of neutralizing weapons and powers similar to the hero cuffs used during the breakout event. His pride and joy comes in the form of the Mach Saber. in it's normal state it functions just like any other sword made by hero factory. But, when drawing power directly from his energy condenser, it's high frequency function activates, allowing him to cut through even the strongest alloys. Bolt is also capable of diverting extra power to his legs for short bursts of speed or a constant, blinding sprint. Doing so charges the condenser further. If not released he could overheat himself. After long sprints Bolt requires venting almost immediately.

This was a really long one but, I really needed to get this one done since I've been sitting on the idea of this team for a while now. I figured now would be as good as any since it is Hero February and all. Hope you like them as much as I do. Enjoy!