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renecdote · 3 days

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The prompt "sit still and let me take a look!" spoke to me 😌

hiiii frida this has been in my inbox for so long but I finally figured out how to write again so here you go <3 also sorry. I think. it got angsty oops [Read on AO3]

The problem is that Eddie tries to catch the glass. It slips, and he doesn’t want the shattering sound to wake Buck, so he tries to catch it, and—

“Fuck.”

It slips out louder than he means for it to be, the pain catching him by surprise. It slices through his hand and up his arm, reflexive tears springing to his eyes before he blinks them away. Blood blooms on his palm, just a thin line at first, but spreading rapidly, red running over his fingers, his wrist, dripping onto the floor. In the middle of it all, a jagged piece of glass sparkles in the morning light. Eddie curses again.

Sometimes he feels like he has been dealing with emergencies his whole life. He’s good at it—he has to be—but there’s always a moment of hesitation when it’s himself, a split second or a minute, mind and body frozen even though his survival instinct in any other situation is to fight.

This is hardly an emergency, but Eddie feels frozen anyway, his mind blank even though he’s already moving, reaching for the tap. Water gushes out, tepid for the first few seconds, then cold enough that he has to grit his teeth against the ache. The blood isn’t slowing, but it’s turning pink under the water, washed away before Eddie can think about how much of it there is. Cuts usually look worse than they are, he reminds himself.

“Eddie?” Socks shuffling on the linoleum, half asleep still. Then suddenly much more awake: “Shit, are you okay?”

“Yep. Pass me a tea towel?”

There are two hanging from the oven, but Buck goes for the drawer of clean tea towels instead. He passes over a red one—fire engine red, Eddie’s mind automatically supplies—and it could be a coincidence, or it could be because it won’t stain as easily as the lighter ones. Eddie wraps the material awkwardly around his bleeding hand, trying not to move too much so he doesn’t jar the glass and make the cut worse.

“Here,” Buck says, turning a chair around one-handed, “sit down, let me take a look at it.”

Guilt gnaws at Eddie’s stomach.

“I really don’t—”

“Eds.” Serious. Too serious for a broken glass, but just the right amount of serious for the years of history between them. “Please?”

Eddie sighs, and nods, and sits down. He holds out his hand and Buck takes it carefully, fingers gentle under the back of Eddie’s hand, like what he’s holding is something precious. It makes Eddie’s heart quiver in his chest. He has to bite his cheek hard so he doesn’t do something ridiculous like cry. Or kiss his best friend.

“It doesn’t look too deep, I think it’ll be okay if we pull the glass out,” Buck says, the furrow between his brows deep in concentration as he inspects Eddie’s hand from every angle. “Do you have tweezers?”

“First aid kit,” Eddie answers, gesturing towards the hallway with his good hand. It’s not like he needs to explain where the first aid kit is, Buck already knows. Hell, Buck helped him stock it.

“Don’t move,” Buck tells him, that same flash of seriousness in the look that comes with the words.

“Where am I gonna go?” Eddie asks rhetorically.

Buck rolls his eyes. “Just—hold that towel on your hand. I’ll be back in a second.”

Eddie re-wraps the towel carefully around the glass piece and keeps pressure on his hand, holding it up so it’s above his heart, more out of habit than because he thinks it’s necessary. Without Buck, it’s hard to focus on anything except the pain. It’s nothing compared to getting shot, or broken bones, or a dislocated shoulder, or the whole body ache from being at the bottom of a collapsed well, but pain is pain. Eddie stares at the photos on the fridge and tries to put it out of his mind. There’s Christopher’s latest school photo, a shot of Eddie and Chris in Texas last time they visited, another of Buck and Christopher at the zoo, one of the three of them grinning like maniacs at the go-karting place in the desert.

It means nothing and everything, Eddie thinks, that dozens more photos just like them fill the photo albums lined up neatly on the bookshelf in the living room. Mostly nothing. Mostly everything. Sometimes it feels like they were living their lives with a hole left just for Buck to fill before they even met him. Eddie isn’t sure he believes in things like soulmates, or fate, or divine providence, but if he did, he thinks it would be because of Buck. Because of the way they fit together, a neat little family of three.

Except for how they aren’t. Buck will go home to Tommy in a few hours, and Chris is willing to speak to Eddie on the phone these days but he still isn’t ready to come home, so it will just be Eddie in his lonely house, eating a lonely dinner at the empty kitchen table.

He presses a little too hard against his hand and the pain flares, the hard lump of emotion in his throat numbed for a moment by the sting. Eddie presses down again, breathing through the hurt until he feels like he is in control again. It’s harder and harder to keep hold of these days. His eyes feel permanently gritty with exhaustion, a long shift and a heavier heart weighing him down, but sleep as elusive as it has been for the last two months. This isn’t even the first glass he has broken in the last few weeks, just the first to draw blood.

Eddie doesn’t realise how much he has slumped in his chair until he hears the squeak of the hallway floor under returning footsteps and he straightens back up. The first aid kit clatters when Buck sets it on the table, his fingers already flicking up the latch to open it. It’s more cluttered than Eddie remembers it being, and he makes a half-formed mental note to reorganise it when he has a chance. House upkeep hasn’t been his biggest concern recently. Buck has to push aside band-aids and tape and rolls of bandages before he finds the tweezers at the bottom of the box. He tears open an alcohol wipe and sterilises them, then hesitates.

“Should we—?”

“Sink will be less messy,” Eddie agrees before the question is finished, squashing down the part of him that doesn’t really care if he bleeds all over his kitchen.

He stands up awkwardly, even though it isn’t something he really needs his hands for, and Buck’s hand hovers under his elbow for a second before dropping away. Eddie feels the not-quite-contact like a tingling up and down his arm. It tingles, too, when Buck holds his hand to keep it still, the movement of his thumb over Eddie’s fingers almost a caress before his grip settles. The tweezers hang over the cut and Eddie tenses, instinctively bracing for more pain.

“Careful,” he warns, and Buck glances up at him, eyebrows raised.

“Would you rather do this yourself?”

There’s no judgement in his voice. Well, not real judgement. It’s all teasing fondness, the same kind of tone he uses when he gives Chimney shit about his extravagant coffee orders, or gives Eddie shit about his cooking, still, even though he knows his way around the kitchen at least half as well as Bobby by now.

Eddie rolls his eyes.

“I trust you,” he says, just the right amount of serious for the years of history between them. “Go on, do your worst.”

Buck’s hand is steady around the tweezers. The shard comes out easily and he drops it in the sink. He rinses away the freshly welling blood under the tap, then tilts Eddie’s hand under the light to check for the glint of any smaller pieces of glass hiding in the cut. The look of concentration on his face makes Eddie think of burning buildings and tricky extractions from bad accidents. It’s a little overwhelming, having all that Firefighter Buckley energy directed at a comparatively measly cut.

It’s not that he isn’t used to it by now: Buck taking care of him. It might actually be that he’s too used to it. At some point, it stopped being something that surprised him and became something he’s comfortable with, something he expects, something he can ask for, and… It’s dangerous, the way Buck makes him feel safe and comfortable and cared for, because Eddie’s traitorous heart wants to hold onto that feeling forever.

“Looks like that was all the glass,” Buck says. “Can you wash the cut? I’ll grab the gauze to wrap it.”

“Yeah,” Eddie agrees, relieved to have some control handed back to him.

The antibacterial soap at the sink is gentle enough, so he presses down the pump and braces himself against the sting as it hits the cut. Reflexive tears spring to his eyes and he blinks them back as he cleans his hand thoroughly. He tears a piece of paper towel off the roll one-handed and pats the area dry, then lets Buck take his hand again to press a piece of gauze over the cut and carefully wind a bandage around on top. That familiar furrow of concentration stays between his brows until he tapes the bandage in place and steps back.

“Thanks,” Eddie says quietly.

Buck shrugs, like it’s not a big deal. Maybe it shouldn’t be.

“Do you want me to…?” he gestures towards the counter, the broken pieces of glass still lying there.

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

He half expects Buck to push, but he just nods and turns away to pack up the first aid kit instead. He starts organising it without Eddie saying anything and Eddie’s heart throbs, hit with a wave of love so strong it almost takes his legs out from under him. He forces his attention back to the broken glass before he can let that love carry him to his knees and beg Buck to stay forever. He’s pretty sure that would only make Buck worried. He’s also pretty sure it would be nice, letting go and drowning himself in all the gentle care that would come with that worry.

Eddie turns away from temptation instead. He sweeps up the pieces of glass carefully with the dustpan, then folds a catalogue from yesterday’s junk mail around them before dropping it all in the bin. The first aid kit closes with a snap and Buck squeezes past him to carry it out of the kitchen, his body heat there and gone before Eddie can let his heart take control again and lean into it.

There are a hundred reasons he can’t have Buck any more than he already does.

There are a hundred more for why he wants him, why it makes perfect sense. If Eddie was a little less damaged, he might have realised that early enough to do something about it.

Or maybe he would have just fucked it all up; he seems to be good at that.

Eddie flexes his hand, feeling the cut pull under the bandage. He closes his eyes for one second, two, and his hand is hanging back by his side by the time Buck comes back, yawning, and beelines for the coffee machine. He grabs out two mugs, holding one up in offering, and Eddie nods, feeling guilty all over again about waking Buck up.

“Thanks,” he says again. “Sorry I woke you up.”

He’s not even sure why Buck followed him home after shift, only that he did, and it made sense at the time—still makes sense, which doesn’t really make sense at all—and even though Eddie probably should have suggested he go home and nap before whatever date he has planned with Tommy, he just pulled out a spare pillow and blanket and nudged him towards the couch.

“It’s okay,” Buck says easily. “I’m glad I woke up.”

He smiles, gentle and a little lopsided, and it’s the kind of smile that makes Eddie wonder whether Buck has always smiled at him like that. He wonders if it means anything, or if he just wants it to.

It’s dangerous: wanting.

He steps back, reaching for the bloody tea towel, careful not to use his injured hand. “I’m going to—” He gestures vaguely towards the laundry. “Before it stains.”

“Oh,” Buck says. “Yeah. I can—”

Eddie shakes his head. “I’ve got it.”

It’s not running from a situation if the situation is entirely inside your own head, he tells himself. It’s just… doing laundry.

And it doesn’t mean anything when Buck’s hand lingers as he passes over a mug of coffee after Eddie drags his feet back to the kitchen. It never means anything, because if it does—

Well.

“Hey,” Buck says, leaning in close before Eddie can pull away again, his arm warm through the fabric of Eddie’s shirt. “We didn’t really get to have breakfast earlier, so I thought we could go out for pancakes? I saw a new place on Instagram that has, like, twenty different flavours.”

Eddie loves him. He shouldn’t, he can’t, but god, he loves his best friend so much it hurts. Why the hell has his heart been hiding that from him for years? He takes a quick sip of coffee and tries to swallow the lump in his throat back down with it.

“Yeah,” he says when he can trust himself to speak. “Sure, pancakes sound good.”

Buck knocks their shoulders gently together, but instead of pulling back he just—stays. He always stays. Eddie closes his eyes, inhaling the steam from his coffee, and carefully, deliberately, he does not think about anything except the bittersweet taste of coffee and creamer on his tongue, and the stinging heat of the mug against his hands.

#Eddie Diaz #Evan Buckley #911 abc #fic #if this is terrible pls nobody look it's been 84 years since I last had words

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manicpixiedreamedwins · 3 days

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I know we all joke about Charles Rowland having these over-exaggerated people pleasing tendencies, but I just want to say they make a lot of sense for someone who grew up in the hell hole of a home that he did.

(Now's the time to dip if you don't want to read something kind of heavy and also really messy, sorry. CW for mentions of Charles' home life)

The night nurse gave us some insight into what Charles' home life looked like (that, and we can piece together how he must have been feeling from his reactions to the Devlin house). We know he had a volatile, objectively abusive parent. We know he and his mother were terrified of this man, enough that he keeps checking in to try and make sure that his mom is still okay all these years later.

Alright. Still with me?

There's this thing that happens to kids who grow up in households like this (trust me).

Because one parent is so volatile, they learn to model after the other parent who is constantly keeping the peace. They're constantly walking on eggshells, they have to be hyper-vigilant of even slight differences in the atmosphere to prevent a catastrophe. If they have needs or wants, then those needs and wants are not being met. If there are problems (there are) then they are not being talked about (ever, and if they try then all hell breaks loose and there are consequences).

These kids form a facade of "everything is fine, there are no problems and we are happy here". You know, what we would call a people pleaser.

This is Charles. This is very much a survival instinct, it kept him reasonably safe in life (truly, he only died once he deviated from it and "rocked the boat" so to speak).

In all fairness, it has worked out fine for him in death too- Edwin responds well to it. Edwin actually does react very well to Charles' attempts at merry making, deep breathing, even his playful ideas like boardgames and boxing. What he knows works, actually. It works so well he's stuck around for thirty years, so in his mind he probably doesn’t think he should change anything.

The second time he deviated from people pleasing, in all fairness, even when he had to or else he would get separated from Edwin, also didn't work out well. He reacted on genuine, earnest feelings. He was fucking angry when the night nurse showed him his trauma. He was pretty raw when he pushed her over the bridge and into the fish. That was all earnest, uncensored emotion, not a measured act.

Edwin reacted poorly. Everyone reacted poorly. Back to people pleasing.

Charles is really only confused when people pleasing doesn't work. When he reaches out to try and befriend Monty and gets snubbed, I think he's genuinely confused. He can't figure what's wrong. This always works. It always works with Edwin at least. So what's wrong?

That continues on when he's doing everything he'd typically do to engage Edwin while he's reading and it's just... not working (because remember the hyper-vigilance- he knows something is different and so he's unsettled).

This continues onto the roof scene. He knows something is completely and utterly fucked (he just doesn't know it is between Monty and Edwin, or that Crystal’s powers are gone) and he's uncomfortable. In a previous life, he'd be waiting for the other shoe to drop and something to hurt.

He's relieved when Edwin finally starts opening back up a little and trying to talk to him. Yes, he misinterprets what's happening at first (he assumes Edwin is coming out in general, as opposed to trying to tell him he likes him), but things are going back to normal in his mind.

They're reconnecting. He does get a little uneasy because there's still one wall between them (the cat king) that he can't manage, joke, or talk his way out of yet because Edwin hasn't explained yet.

This gets interrupted anyway. (At least there's no more cat bracelet, lol. A win for Charles).

There's more pressing issues, though- he needs to rescue Edwin from hell. He literally cannot be separated from him. Their whole thing has been not being separated from each other since... well since the start. So he keeps his promise, sloughs through the depths of hell, and goes to get him. Easy enough! He disarms the babydoll spider with a bomb, a moltov cocktail, and Edwin's journal. This was probably the least of his problems.

Success. He's got Edwin back. His afterlife is good again. Now things can go on as normal.

Only FUCK! Now Edwin is asking him to express... his... feelings...

-Well. Look how well it went the last time Charles did anything on his own volition. First he died, then he pushed Edwin away. This seems kind of important. He can't fuck this up, but they are literally running out of hell, but he can't fuck this up because that would mean he pushes Edwin away-

He comes up with something that feels close to right, measured, things that Edwin has responded well to before (and under all of that he asks him to stay, please stay, be patient, but it comes out as a declaration because that seems more certain). He cannot lose Edwin here.

They run back up the stairwell together. Charles hopes maybe Edwin understood.

Charles wishes he had better words on the roof. He doesn't, other than to reassure Edwin they're okay-- he would have wanted that. The last time he said anything, it was too extreme. He says nothing and hopes maybe Edwin will give him some sort of clue on what to do again, eventually.

Idk, maybe I'll write more later but... this is so fascinating to me because it's like so obvious as someone who grew up in the absolute tar pit that Charles did. He's not dumb, or making arbitrary choices with what he's doing here. He is doing what he knows works to keep what's important to him close to him. He's just wildly out of his depth when that doesn't work.

#dead boy detectives #meta #charles rowland #payneland #Charles x Edwin #I mean the meta is sort of slanted that direction #oops #anyway #cw domestic abuse #canon event- Charles' homelife #my posts

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lotties-ashwagandha · 9 hours

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POWER CURES

tashi donaldson x fem!reader, word count 4.2k. NSFW!

your career in sports journalism has made you one of the most successful women in your field — a career you built on your own after you broke up with tashi donaldson at stanford. yet rivalry still burns between you, and whenever given the opportunity you can't help but add fuel to the fire. requested by @elaci who also writes for challengers so go follow :)

“It’s a miracle he’s still playing,” you say. “Art showed so much passion today, I could feel it. Maybe next time he could focus on hitting the ball instead of smashing ants on the court with his racket – it just sends the wrong message I think, not very eco-friendly.”

Tashi shakes her head, attempting to brush off your comment, but you can feel the silent fury you’ve stirred up in her. Her expression is partially hidden by her sunglasses as the two of you stand at the edge of the court, her only guard from your scrutiny. It’s been nine years since you’ve spoken to her, but the four years you dedicated to her before that taught you every one of her tells. She’s different now – she wears her hair short, her makeup darker, age and experience have made her seem solemn. But you can feel it, that under all of the change she is still the same.

“At least he still plays,” she says sharply. “You’re the critic, the journalist, but you would get on the court and get yourself knocked the fuck out. Art works, he doesn’t lock himself in the basement to write pity-party bullshit for money.”

“Neither do I,” you smile. “I don’t write anything for money, though I do enjoy the benefits.”

“You’ve always been greedy,” Tashi accuses. “You enjoy taking what isn’t yours, and destroying what you can’t reach.”

You shrug. You won’t attempt to deny it – greed is what got you into this profession, and greed is what has held you up to survive it. Greed is what got you a million dollar mansion and the audience that paid for it, and greed is what has you standing at the side of Tashi Donaldson as you watch her husband step off the tennis court after losing another match to add to his streak this year.

“If you write anything about this match, I will end your career,” Tashi says casually, because power means nothing to her, and using it is easy. She takes off her sunglasses, puts them in her purse that costs more money than your car. When she meets your eyes, there’s stoic sureness in her gaze.

“It’s sweet that you think I only came here for you.”

She gives you a hard look, searching you for the truth if she couldn’t trust it to come from your words. Whatever conclusion she would come up with was none of your concern – it’s true that you hadn’t come here for her, not completely. You’re here for another set of competitors, the headliners of the women’s division. If there was one thing you could use to define your career, it wouldn’t be the Donaldsons, or the Duncans – it would be your influence on women’s tennis. Your journalism through the years has put women in the spotlight of the sport, and for as long as you could you would continue the mission of keeping them there.

But when you had seen Tashi’s husband playing in the final match of the day, and when you had seen her watching him alone at the sidelines, you couldn’t help but take advantage of it. Your comments and motives were petty, but deserved.

You see Art begin to approach the two of you with his gym bag. “That’s my cue, isn’t it?” you ask. You try to avoid Art at all cost even after all these years, it creates a situation more awkward for you than for him. “I don’t think he needs me to lecture him, not again.”

You begin to depart from Tashi’s side, but then you pause and turn back to her. “I’ll be in New Rochelle for the Challengers tournament in a few weeks,” you tell her. “Maybe there’s someone there your husband could beat, for a change.”

Tashi scoffs, and you take your chance to leave before you can be joined by Art or any of the reporters or journalists following in his wake. You’ve done your work for the day, your air-conditioned hotel room is calling to you and you’re all too prepared to run to it.

When you stand at the exit to the tennis court, you spare a look back in the direction of the Donaldsons. Tashi is immersed in giving feedback to Art as he stands in childlike submission. Her hands are planted on his shoulders, she’s looking into his eyes, and when she spares a look at the court a sense of nostalgia washes over you as you remember how it felt to watch her play. How she used to win every game she signed to compete in, how effortless her victories were.

In a way, you miss it. You miss her. The promise of her victories that would pull you through in college, that you could look forward to watching and writing about. The memory of it sparks a flare of anger within you – four years, erased, yet still so potent in your memory.

You turn away from the court. You push through the crowd, in your pride you stand a little taller than the rest. Against you is the only match Tashi Duncan could never win.

You pass by the doors of the locker rooms on your way out. You know Tashi must have waited with Art in his locker room before the match started – a private locker room, you would suspect, or one they bought out for the day in a grand show of money.

You frown. How many times had you waited with Tashi in locker rooms until tournaments began, how many times had you come in after her matches to listen to her talk through them while she got ready to leave? Enough times to know you weren’t alone in reminiscing, that Tashi could escape the memories with no more ease than you could.

THIRTEEN YEARS AGO, STANFORD.

You resist a smile – you can’t let her win, though you can see she’s trying inexplicably hard to. She never takes it seriously when you try to interview her for assignments for your classes at Stanford.

“I can’t put that in my paper,” you tell Tashi. “I’d get us kicked out.”

Tashi shrugs, stepping toward you as you stand in the locker room alone together after her match. “You asked what I was thinking about during the game. I was thinking about you.”

You roll your eyes. You lean back against the lockers, and Tashi takes advantage of it, coming up in front of you to box you in. Her eyes meet yours – her intensity is unmatched, even after she’s won every game of tennis this season that’s been thrown at her by the university. Power means nothing to her, because using it is easy.

“You don’t believe me?” Tashi asks. Nothing goes unnoticed by her, it was brave to roll your eyes. “You’re all I think about.”

“Tennis is all you think about.”

Instead of correcting you, she kisses you. Your hands find her waist, and wrap around her back when you pull her closer. She consumes your thoughts, your mind, and you’re happy to keep it that way with disregard to the price you might pay for it.

Tashi’s hands slip under your shirt. One travels up your side, under your bra. You arch into her touch, senses clouded with her – until you hear voices outside the locker room, people leaving the building.

You pull out of the kiss as the voices fade, and immediately she’s kissing your neck. “This is a terrible idea,” you murmur half-heartedly. You want her to prove you wrong.

“No one’s coming in, I was the last match.”

“But they could come in.”

“They won’t.”

You don’t seem convinced. Tashi moves to look at you, and tilts her head.

“Tell me you don’t want this,” she demands. You see how she craves you, she’s willing to indulge herself after her latest victory. It wouldn’t be the first time you would find yourself here, against the lockers with every intention of letting her use you in the way she wishes. She sees through your words – she knows you want this just as much as she does.

“No,” you say, because you do want this. You’ve wanted her all morning, since you saw her warming up for her match. And even if someone were to come in and find you with her, pressed up against the lockers and at her will, it would only prove a fact you dream of everyone knowing anyway: that in every way, Tashi Duncan is yours. Audiences may celebrate her, anyone might desire her, but at the end of every day it’s you she comes home to. It’s you she wants.

“Good,” she mutters, and presses you harder against the locker, pressing space between your legs with her knee. She kisses down your neck, and one of her hands travels below the waistband of your shorts while the other is still at your chest. Her hands are cold against the warmth of your skin, sending a chill rippling down your back.

“Be quiet,” Tashi orders, and you nod. An empty promise, but you’ll try your best. “Good girl.”

Her praise has you biting back a moan as her knee moves away and her hand slides between your thighs. You can’t hold her gaze, the gravity it holds.

Your hips chase her hand as she circles your clit – your hips buck back against the lockers, and the sound echoes through the room, and your moan would accompany the noise if not muffled by Tashi’s hand over your mouth. A quick reaction on her end, she knows your body better than you do.

“Quiet,” Tashi whispers. She presses a kiss to the edge of your jaw, below your ear. You try for a deep breath, but it’s shaky. “I’m fucking you here, and you’re moaning? Anyone could hear you. But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

You nod again, her hand still over your mouth. Your eyes fall closed, her touch burns through you like fire. It’s not enough, it’s too much, it’s everything you need and more.

Tashi feels the pleasure building in you – it inspires her to interrupt it, to pull both of her hands from you.

You whine in protest, watching her in curious alarm. You need this, she knows you do.

Tashi’s hands find your hips, and she watches you closely. A sadistic sort of smile pulls at her lips, one that has you squirming, reaching for her again. Your attempts are futile, your yearning feeds her desire to starve you, push you to your limits. “You have to be patient,” she says.

And you will be, though everything in you aches for her. You will let her win, let her pick your cards and cheat the game to end in her favor. You’re content with it – a side that is not without reward to you as Tashi lowers to her knees in front of you, and when she looks up at you, she already knows she’s won.

THIRTEEN YEARS LATER, NEW ROCHELLE.

The sun glares down at you through the windshield, but despite its best efforts, it cannot reach you. It’s cool in your car – it combats the sweltering heat of the morning in New Rochelle as you sit waiting for the final matches to start on the second day of the Challengers tournament. You don’t want to go sit down too early, there’s no point in submitting yourself to the discomfort of hot metal seats amongst the swarm of the audience until you have to. You’re content to sit here with your eyes closed for as long as you can, you finally have a moment to yourself after the chaos of traveling to New Rochelle.

Tapping on your window makes you jump. Your eyes snap open, and when you see who waits on the other side of your car window, you wish you’d never traveled to the tournament at all. You knew he would be here, you saw him competing yesterday, but you had successfully avoided him and had left early after the first few matches.

You roll your window down. Patrick Zweig stares at you with the most dumbass fucking smile you’ve witnessed in years.

“Well, look who it is!” He exclaims. He leans an arm against the top of your car, but you shove him off of it through the window.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” you snap. He frowns, and you sigh. It’s been nine years since you’ve seen him in person – since you broke up with Tashi – and not a day has passed in which you can decisively say you have missed him.

“I’m competing,” he says.

You furrow your eyebrows. “I know that. Why are you here, talking to me?”

Patrick shrugs. “Can’t I take a second to reconnect with an old friend?”

“An old friend?” you ask. “I don’t think we were ever friends.”

“Maybe not, but I know you’ll be hoping I win instead of Art this afternoon.”

You pause. “Art Donaldson? He’s here, competing?”

“Yeah. You know, I was told you invited him and Tashi. It’s everywhere online. That’s why I came over here, to say thank you for setting up the match. Art and I are the only ones left in the division. I wanted to wish you luck, too, with whatever it is you plan to get out of having us all here.”

You don’t respond for a moment. Vaguely you recall inviting Tashi to the Challengers tournament a few weeks ago after Art’s loss – Maybe there’s someone there your husband could beat for a change – but you had disregarded it. You had meant the entire thing as a joke, a jab at Art’s poor tennis performance. Never would you have expected the Donaldsons to remotely consider participating in a Challengers tournament. You regret leaving early yesterday, missing their arrival at a tournament so far beneath them. You would have enjoyed witnessing their shame.

“I didn’t set anything up,” you tell Patrick, yet you doubt the validity of your own statement. “And I’m not planning on getting anything out of it.”

“Whatever you say. I just know Tashi wouldn’t bother with something like this for the hell of it. Either Art’s tennis has gotten really fucking bad for them to stoop to a tournament this low, or she’s using him to be here with you. Or, of course, both can be true. I’m going with both.”

You shake your head. “Tashi has no interest in me.”

“It’s been nine years since she left you, and she still hates you. She would probably fucking stab you if given the chance. That’s not something to take lightly with her, it takes more than resentment to hold onto something that long. Even I’m not as lucky.”

“I’m not interested in making amends with Tashi Donaldson.”

Patrick shrugs. He gives you a look, I don’t believe you, that you want to punch him for. You have nothing to say to Tashi, no reason to wish to see her. You went up to talk to her those weeks ago at Art’s game because you wanted to taunt her with your presence. You wanted her to see that you were successful without her, you don’t need her.

You wanted her to see you – you realize how it sounds, and that there’s no way you would win a dispute with Patrick if your only explanation for reconnecting with Tashi is I wanted her to see that I’m better than her husband. You look back to him with a facade of nonchalance.

You don’t know what to say, so you shift the focus back to him. “You’re going to get killed in a match against Art.”

“How would you know? You haven’t seen me play in years.”

“I don’t need to.”

“Wow, thanks for having so much faith in me.”

You roll your eyes.

Patrick’s gaze shifts to something beyond your car, something his eyes trail for a few seconds before he turns back to you. “I need to go warm up,” he announces, and backs away from your car. “Write something heroic about me to publish when I win, will you?”

You roll up your window. You watch him disappear from the parking lot. Peace still evades you once he’s gone – that Tashi would be coming to the tournament is enough to have you nearly in hysterics. The promise of her soon arrival has adrenaline coursing through you, though the emotion accompanying it is indecipherable.

You loathe Tashi Donaldson. You hate her husband even more. But there’s something so addictive about being around her to prove it. To prove that it was a mistake to end things with you and pursue Art shortly after, that he could never live up to you. Your fame came from success in writing and journalism, Art’s fame came from Tashi and viral videos of Art flinging tennis rackets after his losses. It felt good for you to prove your worth in contrast to his. You finally have power over them, and you have every intention of using it.

For better or worse, you still care about Tashi’s opinion of you. For better or worse, you still care for Tashi Duncan.

A car pulls into the empty spot next to you. The glare of the sun against it burns your eyes, leaves you with the start of a headache.

You turn to look at the owners of the vehicle. Immediately you understand what Patrick had been spying beyond your car, and why he had been so quick to flee.

You missed them yesterday, but you wouldn’t miss them today. You turn your car off and get out.

“Need help carrying that?” You ask Art as he picks up his gym bag out of the trunk of the car beside yours. “I don’t want you to break any rackets.”

“That would look good for you,” he says dryly. He shuts the trunk. “To make it seem like you’re making amends.”

“I have nothing to make amends for.”

He’s silent. You have two thousand words to make amends for, actually, but you’ll never be caught apologizing. You wrote an article about Art’s tennis years ago that gave you much of your fame – an article that had suggested Art was one of the worst tennis players to come out of Stanford, and that it was a shame he was using Tashi’s injury to his advantage by convincing her to coach his mediocre games. You implied that he was using her, that he was a cheater in the very least as far as tennis was concerned.

It was never your finest moment, but you would never regret it. He deserved it, and so did Tashi for the way the two of you left your relationship.

A car door slams. You’re joined by Tashi. In a light blue dress she’s stunning, radiant beyond comparison with the man she comes to stand by. A man she knows she cannot defend, a man beneath her.

She gives Art a tyrannical look. He’s going to go find the locker room, he says, as if he hadn’t played here yesterday, and with a final look between you and Tashi he takes his bag and begins his way across the parking lot.

You’re left alone with Tashi. The two of you are silent – she’s waiting for you to say something, and you’re waiting to come up with something that sounds right.

“I saw you talking to Patrick,” Tashi says at last. You nod. “Did he tell you he asked me to coach him?”

A smile pulls at your lips. “No, he didn’t.”

“Good. Now you have something to write about,” she says, taking a step towards you, “when he loses. You can write about how he tried so desperately to come out on top, and you can write about who he lost to.”

It’s not about Art anymore. It’s not about Patrick, it’s not about this tournament. It’s about you. Tashi’s reversal, her revenge. She won when she left you ten years ago, you won with your article, and Tashi Donaldson has never been one to keep a tie. She’s been keeping score for nine years in preparation for an opportunity such as this, one to set the record in her favor.

“I’m not interested in placing bets on failed prodigies.”

“You’re not too good for it, though.”

“You are. At least you should have been.”

Tashi shakes her head. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“You know what it means,” you say, and step closer. “It should be you on that court, not them. I should be writing about you.”

You know you’ve struck a nerve. Tashi stills. Her expression was once unreadable, but now it reveals her resentment. At you maybe, but also at fate itself, because you’re right: it should be her competing. Winning for herself and not through others. She still bears the weight of power, but it’s no longer hers to use.

“Your husband is going to lose,” you say, and you both know it’s a lie. But you will be there when Art wins, you will be there waiting for her to prove you wrong like she’s always craved. If it is winning that will let her make amends with herself, you will be the harbinger. You will let her cheat the game just so she can win. Maybe it’s all you’ve wanted this whole time, inviting her to the Challengers tournament.

Maybe it’s your way of making amends.

“Any final words before the game?” You ask, in the way you always used to ask her before her matches. Any final words. You used to laugh together about how apocalyptic it sounded, and Tashi used to watch you write about her after and use her quotes for assignments for your university classes.

Tashi remembers the phrase, you see recognition sweep over her. She watches you closely, and behind her facade you see something too reminiscent to be hatred. “Fuck you,” she says, though her voice lacks animosity.

“Is that on the record?”

“Yes.”

An uncanny way of making amends, but one you would welcome all the same.

Her gaze sears into you as you sit in the stands watching the match. Tashi sits on the opposite side of the court, yet the two of you are positioned with a clear view of one another throughout the game.

The score has fluctuated throughout the match. Patrick and Art have stayed consistent in score and loss – it’s closer than you thought it would be, enough that you see Tashi’s concern growing over the end result. Art is wearing, he’s becoming tired, and you know if he quits in his exhaustion he’ll leave with another loss. The Donaldsons will lose credibility, Tashi will disappear in the eyes of the media.

You find yourself conflicted in all ways related to the match continuing before you. You want Art to lose every match he signs for – yet the thought of Tashi going down with him haunts you. Even after all she has done to you, all you have done to her, she deserves better than any path offered.

You pause – the match has ended, the audience stands in applause. You stand to view the court, peering over shoulders, pushing your way out of the audience.

Art Donaldson, standing in the middle of the court. He basks in the glory given by his victory, one long suspended in anticipation for you to be witness. He looks up to find Tashi in the stands, and you watch as something unsaid passes between them. An I told you so on Art’s end, and something unsatisfied from Tashi’s.

You don’t need to watch the rest of it. You don’t need to see Art’s self-ordered victory lap, and you don’t need to hear the speech he’ll give the reporters waiting to flock to him. You don’t need to see Tashi by his side, so you leave the court.

You make your way through the tennis complex. Fluorescent lights stare you down, their judgment shines brighter for you. You don’t give them anything to taunt you with, keeping your expression flat. It was obvious Art would win, and in his victory Tashi has been fulfilled.

The click of heels trails you. You spare a glance over your shoulder as you walk, and you pause. Her eyes are on you alone in the empty hall.

“Congratulations,” you say, dull. “Do you feel better now? I see Art does.”

“Fuck Art,” she snaps. Tashi is empowered in her pride, which has not been placed in her husband, but in herself. This is not his victory, it belongs to her. She closes the distance between you, and if you moved back any further you’d be leaning against the wall. The door to the locker room is across the hall – your memories hardly feel like your own, hardly feel like they belong just the same to the woman in front of you, but they crash through you anyway.

“This feels familiar,” you murmur, looking up at her. You look to see if the halls are empty, but Tashi wastes no such time – she pulls you against her, her lips on yours, hunger in her touch as the two of you realize how much time you have to make up for and so little opportunity for it. Her nails dig into the back of your neck until her hand weaves into your hair, and like you always have you melt into her every desire.

“I win,” Tashi says once she pulls away. Her eyes bear into yours, dark and unforgiving, dominating. “I fucking win.”

There’s nothing that could prove her wrong. Power cures, if you know how to use it.

—

i wrote this fic so many different times honestly and i kept a few of the scenes I deleted from it bc it was getting too long so if anyone wants a part 2 lmk andddd i can put something together 😔

#challengers #tashi duncan #tashi duncan x reader #tashi donaldson x reader #challengers x reader #tashi duncan smut #tashi donaldson smut #challengers smut #tashi x reader #tashi donaldson #challengers 2024 #challengers movie #challengers fic #patrick zweig #art donaldson #zendaya #tashi duncan challengers #zendaya challengers

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nanowrimo · 1 day

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Smash Your Word Count Goals in 3 Easy Steps

from our sponsors at Freewrite

Here at Freewrite, we help writers reach peak productivity in order to meet word count goals and create their best work yet. That’s our reason for being.

Today, we’re going to share the three easy steps proven by science to help you reach your writing goals!

1) Set A Goal & Write It Down

The psychology of goal setting is pretty clear. It’s what NaNoWriMo is all about, right? Research has proven that people who set goals experience higher motivation and are more likely to feel accomplished.

However, the type of goal you set makes a big difference to your efforts. Make sure that your goals are (a) clear and specific, (b) realistic, and (c) measurable.

Being clear about your goal will help you hone in on what you’re trying to achieve and ignore distractions. Make sure to write it down, as well. Research by psychologist Gail Matthews has revealed that people who write down goals are 33% more successful than those who simply set a goal in their head.

Next, be realistic. This means being honest with yourself about what you can and can’t achieve based on your other life obligations. Setting goals that you can’t achieve will only lead to frustration and, ultimately, a lack of motivation.

And last, make sure each goal is measurable. “Write 1,000 words each day” is much easier to measure than “Finish this book.” Because we all know it’s difficult to measure a book being “done”!

Breaking these goals down into smaller, simpler steps will help, too. If your goal is to write 20,000 words during Camp NaNo, break that down into 5,000 words a week, and then figure out how many words you’ll have to write each day to reach those smaller goals.

2) Practice Freewriting

Freewriting is thinking. It’s as simple — and as difficult — as that.

While every writer is unique, and there is no one way to be a writer, there are similarities we all share as humans — especially humans in the modern world — that create common obstacles to doing the things we love — like reading, writing, and yes, thinking. There are the obvious external obstacles: social media, email, the internet. But there are sneaky internal obstacles, too — the main culprit being the inner critic.

As humans, we are judgmental. It’s in our DNA. Our brains are constantly assessing situations, imagining outcomes, and making decisions. It’s part of survival at a very basic level. However, that means that when we do anything, including writing, we tend to automatically assess our actions — judging our own words, tweaking and editing them as we go along. That constant evaluation not only hinders progress, it can also stop us from ever getting started. And if we do manage to sit down to write, that inner critic creates an unconscious anxiety that prevents us from experimenting and writing down our most innovative and creative — and weird! — ideas.

We’ve all heard the advice to “write now, edit later.” Or perhaps you’ve heard writers reference “the sloppy/crappy/messy first draft.” Those are just fun ways of referencing the writing method in which you separate the drafting process from the editing process. Or, what we call freewriting.

Many people haven’t written this freely since childhood, but there’s a reason this method is taught in MFA programs. Getting your thoughts down first and revising later increases productivity and yields better, more creative work because it allows you to give your brain fully to each task. It means that when you’re drafting, you’re drafting, and when you’re editing, you’re editing. There’s no context-switching or multitasking.

So, what if you gave yourself permission to write badly at first? And we don’t just mean cheesy or with glaring plot holes — we mean typos, missing words, character names replaced by big Xs because you couldn’t remember them in the moment.

The next time you draft, we challenge you to give it a try. Just let yourself go and give your thoughts and feelings over to the act of creating. Because that’s when the magic happens.

3) Track Your Stats

OK, you’ve set measurable goals, and you’ve started drafting. What’s next?

Track your efforts!

Here at Freewrite, we’ve created a tool to automatically track important writing stats, like word count, writing days, writing streak, and more! It’s called a Postbox Profile, and it gives you a unique URL that allows you to share your stats with writing friends.

Anyone with a Postbox account — that’s anyone who writes on a Freewrite OR uses our free in-browser drafting tool, Sprinter — can create a Postbox Profile and track their stats.

👉Don’t have a Freewrite yet? No problem! We have a FREE in-browser drafting experience called Sprinter that helps you shut down distractions and make progress — and gives you access to Postbox. Start writing today absolutely FREE at sprinter.getfreewrite.com.

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#nanowrimo #writing #sponsored #ad #freewriting #writing goals #word count #Freewrite

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nataliescatorccioapologist · 12 hours

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Each Yellowjackets character’s greatest strength (and why it is also their greatest weakness)

Natalie: Empathy/Selflessness

Despite her abusive home life and edgy, intimidating exterior, Nat is one of the kindest and softest characters on the show. She has a deeper understanding of other’s trauma and pain than most due to her own experiences. Nat was the only one to show empathy towards Travis when his father died, even when he was an absolute asshole to her (and pointed a loaded gun at her!). She helped Travis cut the ring off of his dad’s finger because she knew Javi needed it. She faces her trauma and becomes a hunter to provide food for the group. When Jackie tells Travis about Bobby Farleigh and Travis breaks up with Nat as a result, Nat still helps Jackie on the night of Doomcoming. She also doesn’t hold a grudge against Travis for sleeping with Jackie and even wakes up at the crack of dawn everyday for months and trudges through snow for miles to help him look for Javi. She helps Lisa steal back her goldfish, defends her against her mother, and even dies for her (literally!).

This is also why her selflessness is her greatest weakness, she gives too much of herself and does not believe she herself is worth the care she gives to others, resulting in self-destructive tendencies. Her one act of selfishness (letting Javi die in her place) completely destroys her. Her empathy results in intense guilt and shame when she has to hurt others in the Wilderness, resulting in her spiraling into a life of drugs in order to cope and keeping people at arm’s length to avoid harming them.

Taissa: Ambition/Drive

Taissa is driven and successful in pretty much anything she sets her mind to. Before the crash, she’s a straight A student and an exceptional athlete. In the Wilderness, she takes the lead on leaving the plane wreck, finding the lake, and forges her own expedition to find civilization. Post-rescue, Taissa is arguably the most successful survivor. She’s a lawyer and burgeoning politician with a prestigious academic background and a picturesque family. Tai’s determination and drive for success ensures not only her survival after the plane crash but also the survival of her teammates.

However, Tai’s ambition is also one of her greatest faults. Her tunnel vision towards success can result in herself and those around her getting hurt. She accidentally breaks Allie’s leg trying to get her to improve her soccer abilities. She sets out on her expedition despite Lottie’s warnings, resulting in Van nearly getting killed. And, as an adult, she (literally) drives herself mad trying to win her political campaign, pushing her entire family away in the process. Tai is fierce and accomplished, but always at a cost.

Misty: Devotion/Loyalty

When Misty finds someone she views as her ‘person,’ she latches on and does not let go. We see this in the Wilderness with Coach Ben and Crystal; and in the adult timeline with Natalie. Misty desperately wants to be loved, and therefore she will do anything for the people she cares about, hoping that this will gain their affection. She nurses Coach Ben back to health, she shares all of her secrets with Crystal and does everything in her power to ensure that the others don’t eat her body when she dies. For Nat, she not only gets arrested trying to help her, but also snorts her cocaine to prevent her from relapsing (my favorite scene in the whole show ngl), sets up a whole interrogation with Randy, and travels to a compound in the middle of nowhere to find her after she was kidnapped.

This unconditional devotion, however, definitely comes with its flaws. Misty is obsessive about the people she loves, and this obsession often leads to people getting hurt and/or killed. She kills Jessica Roberts in order to save her fellow survivors from blackmail. She drugs Coach Ben with shrooms (and accidentally the whole team) in order to win his affection, which results in Travis nearly getting killed and Javi going missing. She intimidates Crystal off of a cliff to her death when she rejects Misty and kills Nat when she had been trying to protect her. Misty is loyal, but her loyalty results in sociopathic tendencies and the loss of the very same people she is devoting herself to.

Lottie: Spirituality/Open-Mindedness

Lottie’s spirituality and open-mindedness has been key to the group’s survival in the Wilderness. Her ability to see, hear, and sense what other’s cannot (whether you think it’s real or not) gives her teammates in the teen timeline and her cult (intentional community) members in the adult timeline hope and purpose. Without Lottie, the girls likely would have given up on survival long ago. She has an other-worldly, healing presence that those around her are naturally drawn to, and she helps a lot of people as a result.

Lottie’s spirituality can also be dangerous and even deadly, though. Her time as the Wilderness’s prophet causes the group to spiral into ritualistic sacrifices and cannibalism. In the adult timeline, her spirituality gets her locked up in a psych ward for years. Even after she has healed and moved on, Lottie’s belief in supernatural forces catches up with her again and results in her reinstating The Hunt, ultimately causing Nat’s death.

Van: Perseverance/Resilience

This poor butch goalie has almost died a ridiculous amount of times. She gets in a plane crash and is ditched by Jackie and Shauna in the wreckage, narrowly avoiding burning to death. Then, she’s nearly chopped into bits by a plane propeller. Then, she gets brutally and almost fatally mauled by a wolf. Then, she’s nearly burnt to death again on a funeral pyre (while still actively bleeding to death from the wolf attack). Then, her face is stitched up with a sewing needle by a 16 year-old (with no drugs to numb the pain). Then, her girlfriend starts losing control of herself and trying to run off of cliffs in the middle of the night so she has to regularly tie her down and keep watch of her all night. Then, she gets terminal cancer and only has a few months left to live. And that’s not even considering her life before the crash, living with an alcoholic mother that she has to take care of. Needless to say, Van has been through it. And through it all, she maintains her strength and witty sense of humor. She’s a light out in the Wilderness, keeping her team uplifted and laughing even in their worst moments (this girl is literally cracking jokes with her face torn to shreds). Her perseverance through hardship is next level.

However, this perseverance seems to have created a numbness in Van. Over time in the Wilderness, Van becomes more numb and reaction-less to the tragedy and trauma occurring around her. When the group eats Jackie, she bluntly tells Tai “we ate her” with little emotion. When they kill and eat Javi, Van tells Travis she has no regrets because she’s grateful to be alive. In the adult timeline, Van calls off the psych team for Lottie and goes through with the card ritual, knowing that this will likely result in the someone getting killed. Van is resilient and driven to survive through hardships, but her way of surviving means losing a little bit of her heart and humanity in the process.

Jackie: Influence

Before the crash, Jackie is undoubtedly a leader. She’s the Yellowjackets’ team captain and has an almost magnetic force around her that seems to captivate the whole school. She’s pretty, popular, and excels in everything she does. Shauna especially is completely caught in her orbit. When her teammates are fighting at the party, she single-handedly manages to calm them all down and help them mend their conflicts with each other.

The downside to this influence, however, is that it does not transfer to the Wilderness. High school rules don’t apply to trying to survive in the Canadian Rockies, and Jackie’s influence lies in civilization and traditional society. Jackie struggles to have the same power that she did before, and those who are more unconventional (such as Lottie and Nat) have more influence in their new living situation.

Shauna: Intensity/Passion

Shauna is completely driven by her emotions. She feels things strongly and loves people intensely. We see this first with Jackie, who Shauna has an all-consuming (pun-intended) love for. Her world revolves around Jackie, she doesn’t know where she ends and Jackie begins. In the Wilderness, this intensity of emotions translates to a ferocity that keeps her and her teammates alive. Shauna is unafraid to become the butcher of the group or to take the first bite. On the surface, Shauna appears timid, reserved, and gentle. As a teen, she’s invisible at school, hiding in Jackie’s shadow. As an adult, she’s an unassuming, soft-spoken housewife. But underneath is a darkness and fierceness that catches people by surprise and serves as her secret weapon.

The downside to Shauna’s intensity and passion, however, is that she does not have control over it. Her emotions spiral until she or someone close to her gets hurt. She loves Jackie and feels jealous of her, so she sleeps with her boyfriend, gets pregnant with his child, and implodes their friendship. She is deeply mourning Jackie’s death, so she eats a part of her to feel close to her again. She’s grieving the loss of her baby and doesn’t know what to do with that feeling so she nearly beats Lottie to death. She has a feeling Jeff might be cheating so she starts an affair with Adam. Someone stole her minivan? She’s gonna track them down, hold them at gunpoint, and nearly kill them. When she begins to feel unsafe and suspicious of Adam, this feeling, too, spirals out of control and she ends up murdering him. Shauna’s emotions are powerful, and while they do serve an important purpose of keeping her alive in the Wilderness, she doesn’t know how to express them in healthy ways and ends up lashing out as a result. I have a feeling they’re going to play an important role in Season 3, as well, as we can see that Shauna’s jealousy of Nat’s leadership is already beginning to make itself known.

#Yellowjackets #natalie scatorccio #jackie taylor #shauna shipman #misty quigley #taissa turner #van palmer #lottie matthews

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quietwingsinthesky · 2 days

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in a good version of this season i feel like the one-two punch of kerblam! and the witchfinders could have been used to give the doctor a moment of growth. she has, so far, put aside her usual impulse to Break Shit in exchange for passively preserving systems as are, because her experience with trying to change missy killed her.

(importantly, this was a much smaller change then. say. blowing shit up. or destabilizing a government. but it was also much more personal, something she had an extreme investment in emotionally, and something that got her and her friend killed. the doctor makes irrational, emotional decisions and justifies them later with big speeches. that’s what she does. and her turn to being as passive as she can stand to be as thirteen is an irrational decision she’s making to try and protect herself from being hurt, to protect the people and planet she’s designated as her charge from being hurt. she can dress it up in the framing of not wanting to tamper with history, but what she’s not saying is she doesn’t want to risk breaking things, knowing that it might come back worse.)

and that’s fine. that’s a good route to take the doctor post-twelve. but kerblam! and the witchfinders are the perfect episodes to challenge her stance. because in, say, rosa, in the demons of punjab, even in ghost monument, she’s not gonna have to stay here. she doesn’t have to live in the systems she observes and leaves be. (obviously, doylist, we can’t have the doctor Solve Racism™️. but we can contrast her lack of action against those of the people who do have to live in the systems, who are risking everything and will suffer for it and still know that change is worth it.)

the start of kerblam! has them going in as workers. undercover. in the system. this is a mask the doctor can easily throw off when convenient for her. but she’s standing next to ryan, who couldn’t, not at his factory job. who nearly lost said job because the system he was in would have decided his disability made him a liability. who only kept it because of solidarity with his fellow workers. the doctor is In the system, but only for. day and only as long as she wants to be. at the end, she can still leave. in a better episode, they might have been able to use this to set up her realizing, hey, shit, the fact that i don’t Have to change things is a privilege i have from not having to survive under these systems. unfortunately. this is kerblam!

but the witchfinders doubles down on that! she can’t stand by and watch a woman be killed while her granddaughter cries! but her hesitation to act means that she dies anyway! the doctor asserts herself as an authority in the system to get access to information and power to prevent this happening again, and it looks at her, looks at the body she’s in and the face she’s wearing, and says No. says If you won’t submit to what we say about you, you will die. If you submit to what we say about you, you will die. This is the world, accept it. For the first time this season, the Doctor is chained to something she hesitated to change. She’s not watching anymore. She’s learning what it is to be drowned while everyone looks on and says nothing. Lets it happen. Because this is how it is. And the system isn’t the problem.

Like she’s been doing.

So! Conclusion! fuck if i know yet if they’ll uh. Do Anything With This Set-Up. but god it is so ripe to, if not change her ways, give some ample arguments that’ll make it harder for her to just walk away from the next space amazon facility, you know?

#doctor who

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glitteringcrab · 2 days

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Rick Prime's decoys

1. If Evil Morty knew for sure that the fingerguns would work on Rick Prime and he had the situation totally under control, wouldn't he have used them the first time he came within close proximity of Rick Prime?

You know. Instead of punching and kicking and getting strangled?

2. If he didn't know for sure whether the fingerguns would work on Rick Prime, was it because he made them with another Rick in mind, a Rick whose head was full of cables that could be overloaded by electricity...

(there is really no other way I can interpret his look except "uncertain")

Maybe he thought that, at worst, the fingerguns might temporarily incapacitate Prime, granting Eyepatch Morty a few more seconds, and at best, Rick Prime might have some sort of implant allowing them to work kinda as intended...

And work as intended they did...

(kinda similar, isn't it? Not the same, but similar.)

2. So, what, is Prime's head filled with puppeteering cables like Evil Rick's was?

Well, no.

And why should it be?

It shouldn't.

He works alone. He doesn't bother to team up with anyone, to manage people, or anything of the sort. He has said as much.

(headache? Interesting choice of words heh)

And yet, against the face of opposing evidence, I will continue talking :P

3. Because how do we explain THIS:

I've read a fan theory that Prime has time split himself (go read it!!!), and that's how he was able to be at several different places at once:

"I wish Morty. It's all the places he is."

And there could be a lot of truth in this theory, but it doesn't really explain why there would be a "main" Rick Prime.

If all copies of Rick Prime are the main one, and are just time shifted, then Rick C-137 would really have to kill all of them.

No, wait. Maybe killing the first (chronologically) Rick Prime would work as a domino effect and make all of them disappear via paradox??? (this might explain how Evil Morty seemed to be able to delete whole trees of Rick Prime clones at once)

Could be.

However, Prime being time shifted doesn't explain by itself how the copies were apparently able to communicate with each other. Finish each other's sentences.

They act like a collective, don't they?

Of course, you don't need mind control to explain that. It could just be a simple communication thing.

However, we've seen Rick C-137's decoys not only acting independently from each other, not only being unaware they're decoys and ignorant of each other's actions, not only being worried they might be fake, but trying their best to be the ones to come on top, the last ones to survive.

Compare this with Prime's decoys, which, despite Prime's massive ego, didn't even bat an eyelid at the prospect of being shot:

(I'm dead XD Look at his face)

So...

4. What if Prime was... mind controlling his own decoys? Puppeteering them, sorta?

Or maybe, if that was too much of a drag for his concentration, what if he let them act independently from him most of the time, overriding them only when the situation called for it?

Or maybe it was a time thing, and he used a puppeteering-ish/operation phoenix-ish implant to communicate his thoughts and transfer the consciousness? (but I still feel the various time split Rick Primes would try to fight each other... Time split Rick C-137 was quick to become paranoid and try to murder himself.)

Or it could be something entirely new, something that incudes all of the above at the same time. Maybe he did time shift himself and then merged his consciousness or something, to become one ultra person.

5. Anyway, the lack of visible cables (or any kind of implant on the head) could be explained by craftmanship more superior, discreet or compact than the one Evil Morty is using...

(and, interestingly, we never got to see what Rick Prime looked like at the very end... because Rick C-137 was blocking the view)

6. If this theory is true-ish, then this would be the understatement of the century...!

It's the least stealthy technique possible!!!

Prime would have at all times detailed information on exactly what Rick C-137 was doing, where he was, who was with him, and how far his search progressed.

This would be an extreme disadvantage for Rick C-137 I feel, which points away from this theory.

7. (Still going along with the theory anyway) Maybe THAT was the purpose of his Very Cool Chair: maybe the "main" Rick Prime (whatever that means) would sit there and control all his clones and decoys simultaneously, like a king on his throne:

Maybe all those thin black cables really were supposed to go to his head, but probably through a different piece of equipment or implant, and not through Eyepatch Morty's fingergun.

8. If this theory is true, it would be in line with the show's implied narrative that Rick Prime is the smartest, craftiest, strongest, most cunning Rick; he is the best in every aspect (except empathy lol), trading emotion and family and morals for... infinity. Greatness. Playing god.

His weapons are the deadliest, his teleportation goo the most versatile (it can take the form of living organisms!!), his creations the most elaborate, his messing with time the most advanced (he keeps himself youuuuuung)...

...So it would make sense that he has dabbled in brain control as well, reaching the point of simultaneously controlling hundreds of bodies at once.

#rick and morty #rick prime #rick sanchez

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beesmygod · 3 days

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The thing about the 'only thing I can do is art' is that we're no longer having a conversation at that point about sustainable careers for artists. We're now having a conversation basically about UBI because like... if you can only do ONE thing and if you try anything else you Will Not Survive then we need a social safety net lol. This also goes for brain surgeons or roofers or professional sports players or whatever. We are all one day away from being disabled or losing whatever it is that makes money. Like, ideally there shouldn't be so much hand wringing about how to commercialize so you aren't a starving artists and like... more handwringing over the fact that we have a society that lets anyone starve at all.

Like if someone really DOES hate having to be on whatever website or shilling to fans in whatever way like... why is so much effort put into trying to make space in capitalism for middle class artists? It feels like chasing the "legit" jobs instead of just admitting the system is broken.

thank god for other people. yeah this is exactly it. there are fundamental failures all around but the solution being to normalize more paywalls in life is awful

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deadtired-highkeyenergetic · 3 hours

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Hi! I was wondering if you take request for Astarion and co.? The reader gets an aura migraine (worst kind of migraine in my opinion). But because of her/their past being a mercenary/hunter/warrior (whichever one), the reader doesn’t tell or even realize it until it’s too late. Just some angst and then love and care from Astarion.

I love your writing! So please take all the time you need to write this if you want to.

HIHI I'M SORRY FOR NOT POSTING FOR SO LONG!!!!!!! I've been very tired as of late from all the schoolwork and I swear it's almost like I don't have any down time. Writing through this slog has been difficult as well and I don't like forcing/rushing things. Still, I managed to finish this, hope you like it!

Summary: You collapse right in front of Astarion due to a particularly bad aura migraine episode. Panic and emotional constipation ensues

Your head is splitting. Again.

Inhaling sharply, you let out a slow breath, willing the pain away so that you can focus on the task at hand. Black spots creep in on the edges of your vision but you blink them away, you can’t falter now. You swing your blade, slicing through another of Orin’s assassins before ducking as a dagger stabs the spot your head was at just moments ago.

Even with spotty vision, your battle instincts are enough to help you survive the fight, but you don’t emerge from the fight unscathed. One of the assassins manages to sneak up on you and gets a hit in, tearing open your shoulder.

“Y/N!”

You hiss in pain, whirling around to cleave the assassin in half with your blade. Your injured arm shakes from the exertion, fresh blood streaming from the wound with each motion. The throbbing pain doesn’t help your migraine in the slightest and you nearly keel over.

“My dear, you look terrible.” Astarion catches you just before you hit the floor, a hint of concern in his eyes.

“I’m fine.” You grab onto him to steady yourself, blinking as your vision begins to swim and push yourself upright, flashing him a grin. “See? Perfectly fine!”

And then the world spins before fading to black.

Bright light fills your vision as you open your eyes, causing you to throw your arm up to block out the light, only for white hot pain to shoot through said arm.

Right. You had injured your arm.

Groaning, you rub your eyes with the other arm and tenderly push yourself upright, letting out a croaky yelp when your injured arm buckles beneath you. Closing your eyes, you breathe out slowly, releasing your annoyance at the current situation.

“How are you feeling?” A familiar deep voice sounds.

“Fine.” Your reply comes out harsher than you intended and you internally cringe when Halsin noticeably pauses, taken aback by your tone.

“Sorry,” you mutter quickly. “How long was I out for?”

“Sufficiently long to make everyone worry.” He hands you a flask of water. “Drink up.”

You down the flask almost immediately, feeling the cool liquid slide down your throat and let out a contented sigh. The throbbing in your head has dulled to a quiet hum, but it will remain for a few more days, if past experience is anything to go by.

"Thank you." You hand the now empty flask back to Halsin.

"If you're feeling well enough, you should go and talk to the others. Some of them were particularly worried when you fainted on them." Halsin gives you a sly smirk. "Especially a certain vampire."

You raise an eyebrow and Halsin laughs, "he was the most worried. I had to chase him out of the tent just so I could tend to you."

"He was that worried," you murmur to yourself, frowning slightly. You hadn't meant to do that, well not like you had meant to faint in the first place but knowing just how much of an impact your little 'accident' had on Astarion made you feel bad.

"Watch yourself out there, you were lucky you only collapsed after all the enemies were defeated," Halsin chides as he rebandages your wound and hands you a healing potion. "Try to tell someone when you're not feeling well, alright?"

You laugh, waving him off, "I'll try, no promises though."

The moment you exit the room, the others rush over to check up on you, save for a pale elf who sends a scowl your way before disappearing into his own room, his door left ajar. You reassure the others, quickly making your way past the conversations and slip away with Halsin's help, ducking into a familiar room.

"Hey." You attempt to make conversation but a scowl remains firmly on his face, his gaze buried in the book he's holding. Sighing, you make your way to the bed and nestle into the remaining space, feeling his cooling skin press against your burning one.

"I'm sorry for making you worry."

"You're sorry? That's it? You're not going to explain why I suddenly had your unconscious body in my arms, why you had the audacity to tell me you were 'perfectly fine' before collapsing, why you —" He stops to take a breath he doesn't need, feeling every emotion rush to the surface and tears prick the corners of his eyes. He's mad, mad at you for not telling him anything, mad at himself for not noticing earlier, mad at himself for not being able to express his concern in a normal manner.

"Star…"

"You can't just say sorry and expect everything to be ok! Sorry fixes nothing!" He yells, wanting nothing more than for you to yell back at him so that he can release the emotions he doesn't know how to deal with in the only way he knows how but you remain quiet, head hung low, and that frustrates him even more.

"You're right. Sorry fixes nothing. I…" You let out a deep sigh, lifting your gaze to meet his. You can see the tear streaks that have formed, the fear in his eyes, the anxiety and it steals your breath away.

"Halsin wasn't kidding. You really are extremely worried for me." You can't help but give a small chuckle despite it all, a quiet smile making its way onto your face.

"Of course I'm worried!" Astarion snaps.

"Thank you for being worried." You slip your hand into his. "No one's ever been this worried about me before."

"Have you fainted in someone's arms before?" He huffs, annoyed, but he has simmered down.

"Well…not quite. I always went on quests alone, fought alone, but the times I wasn't alone…let's just say things didn't go so well for me." You laugh, giving his hand a squeeze. "You all…you…are the first people I don't mind calling friends."

He clicks his tongue and looks away, but you can see the red on the tips of his ears. Your own cheeks are burning from the confession, your heart thundering like never before and you want nothing more than to bury your face into your knees.

"Why aren't you angry at me?" He mumbles after a while, still refusing to meet your gaze.

"Is there a reason I should be?" You murmur, running your thumb along his skin. His grip on you tightens and he bites his lip, shifting anxiously.

"There are many." The words leave his lips in a whisper and he wishes he could take them back when he sees the way your face falls.

"I can't think of any. I can, however, think of reasons for you to be angry at me." You shake your head. "I should have told you about my migraines earlier instead of having you find out like that, I should have done more than a simple 'sorry', I should have thought about you instead of just keeping to myself."

"You were just doing what you knew was safe. I'm no better."

"But you chose to open up to me. You spilled your deepest darkest secrets and yet I kept mine from you because I didn't want to look weak. I should have returned the favour, but I didn't." All your regrets come spilling forth, its flow stemmed only by the feeling of soft lips against your own.

He kisses you gently at first, and then it deepens, becoming more urgent as he conveys his feelings to you the only way he knows how.

"You're strong. You're the strongest person I know. You've been through so much, and yet you refuse to let any of it stop you. You've been dealing with your migraine by yourself for so long, putting up with the pain by yourself, nothing about that is weak in the slightest." He presses his forehead against yours, pulling you into his embrace. "Let me share in your burden as you share in mine."

"It's only fair, I suppose." Your lips curve into a grin. Letting out a quiet breath, you entangle your fingers in his curls, feeling him lean into the touch. "Promise?"

"Promise," he murmurs back, soaking in the moment. There's only you and him, bodies pressed against each other, embracing like it's the last time you'll ever see each other, washing away the throbbing in your head and the ache in his heart.

He closes his eyes, relishing in the warmth of your body tightly pressed against him, breathing in your scent that speaks of love, comfort, safety, feeling the rhythmic strokes of your fingers through his hair, and wants for nothing else. Pressing a kiss to your temple, he smiles, genuinely, and saves this moment in his memory.

"Get well soon, my love."

#baldur's gate 3 #bg3 #astarion bg3 #baldurs gate astarion #astarion romance #astarion x durge #astarion x reader #astarion x tav #astarion x you #astarion ancunin #tavstarion #durgestarion

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awkward-tension-art · 1 day

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Bacta and Bandages Chp.4 (Rex x Reader)

Chapter 3. Chapter 5.

Rookies and Broken Hands

CW: Fives and Echo, slow-burn, Anakin trying to be supportive, Reader is gender neutral, no use of (Y/N), reader is a doctor, if I miss a tag LMK!

After Cherenity, you’ve adapted well. Your first mission was a relatively easy success. From there, you had more confidence and mental preparation. You didn’t even freeze when you were exposed to combat on the next mission.

Truthfully, you might not have frozen up anyway. The hospitals on the lower levels of Coruscant weren’t strangers to criminal violence and attacks.

And, to be blunt, the droids weren’t as cruel as some of the criminal empires back home.

Right now, everyone was on The Resolute, winding down from another successful battle. The planet of Jorin was officially Republic territory, thanks to the efforts of General Skywalker, Commander Tano and General Kenobi.

You weren’t out and about mingling. Instead, you were in the medical bay, patching up your third trooper with cracked knuckles, broken fingers and fractured hands.

The cause of such wounds? Punching droids.

For some reason, every time a clone had a chance, they would swing a fist at the metal body in front of them. Of course punching metal with no hand armor was, to be frank, damaging to bone. But these soldiers wouldn’t even feel the pain until adrenaline wore off.

The first time one of these guys punched a droid, you assumed it was just a moment of pure will to survive.

The second time was a coincidence. Something you could write off as just a minor occurrence.

The third time? You asked Kix if they were specifically trained to punch the damn things in front of them.

The straw that overloaded the ship was when you witnessed Commander Cody literally throw his rifle and tackle one of the droids that got too close to where you were treating the injured. When he stood back up, General Kenobi just handed him his gun as if this was a regular occurance.

After that, you weren’t sure who was more fucking insane. The 501st or the 212th.

You sent the last trooper on his way and opened the door to the hallway. However, as soon as the metal doors split, you came face-to-face with an unknown trooper. He had his hair styled in the standard military fashion, however he sported a goatee. There was a tattoo on his temple, but you couldn’t make out what it was from where you stood.

“Oh!” You were, admittedly, somewhat startled, “Hi, I’m sorry, do you need something?”

“Well, yes I do.” The trooper had a flirtatious tone to his voice, “I wanted to come meet the 501st doctor. And let me just say, you and I could-”

A second trooper had dashed forward from down the hall and slapped his hand right over the lips of the first, “Fives! I can’t leave you alone for more than 3 minutes! Do you ever stop with your flirting!?” He was exasperated, clearly, “I’m so sorry for him. He’s a moron.”

The first trooper, Fives, pulled the hand off his face. He kept his smirk, “What Echo is trying to say is-”

Echo, you gathered, cut off his friend, “What I’m trying to say is that I’m sorry we’ve bothered you, Doctor.”

Echo and Fives….oh! The new recruits from the Rishi outpost!

You gave the two of them a kind smile, “You’re no bother at all, you can come to me for anything you need.”

Fives made a show of putting his hand over his heart, “Doc, I’m feeling lovesick-”

“It was nice to meet you, doctor. I’m going to take this di’kut and throw him out of an airlock.” Echo returned your smile, but you could tell it was tense and annoyed. The trooper began to drag his friend away, all the while Fives gave half-hearted struggles.

You finally saw the full symbol on his temple. It was a ‘5’ in Aurebesh. A very ‘on the nose’ tattoo to distinguish him from his brothers.

Something told you that this wouldn’t be the last you saw of them…

After the two soldiers had scrambled away, you walked through the venator ship to find Rex.

Your first guess, the hangar, was correct. He had a datapad and was overseeing the loading and unloading of weapons, supplies and other crates that were received from Jorin. You paused, the captain was busy and you didn’t want to bother him…

He spotted you first and gave a small smile. The blonde clone handed the datapad to one of the troopers at his side and walked over, “Is something wrong Doctor?”

You sighed, “It’s about the men. Can you please tell them to stop punching droids?”

Rex blinked in surprise, “What? Why? Sorry doctor, but the men are trained to take down clankers in whatever way possible.”

“They keep breaking their hands, especially their fingers.”

There was silence from the Captain. After a moment he responded, “I…see. No one had ever said anything. Are you sure it's them punching droids-”

“Captain, please use your fist to punch the wall with all your strength and take note of the results.” You deadpanned, brow raised. There was a grin on your lips, clearly indicating your sarcasm.

He snorted, “Alright alright, point made.” the clone in front of you put a hand on his hip, “I’ll…think of something. I’m sure armor would help…”

You couldn’t help but laugh softly, “It’s easier to create armor for hands rather than tell the men to stop suckerpunching droids.” Your smile hadn’t left your face when you responded, “You know what? I think more armor is a wonderful idea. In the meantime, can you tell them that when they throw a punch to leave the thumb outside the fist?”

You didn’t know that Rex felt a small twinge in his heart at your laughter. It was a burst of joy that he made you happy. Something he hadn’t felt before.

“Yea. Yes!” He caught himself getting lax in his attitude, “I’ll tell them. Thank you for your concern over the men.”

“Of course, it’s my job.” You nodded, feeling somewhat relaxed now, “I’ll let you get back to work. I’ll see you around, alright?”

“Yes, of course, doctor.” Rex watched you leave the hangar. Unconsciously, he sighed before turning back to the working soldiers. He, however, was face-to-face with Anakin.

The Jedi had been replacing a part in one of his fighters when you had arrived at the hangar. When he saw his captain and doctor both talking…

Well, a good general would help his men in all their endeavors.

“So, Captain.” General Skywalker couldn’t stop the smirk, “You and our wonderful Doctor are rather friendly.”

Rex’s eyes widened, “I…don’t know what you mean, sir.”

“Come on, Rex. It’s just you and me here,” He put a hand on the clones back, “Man to man? You can tell me.”

“Sir…”

Anakin didn’t give up, “It's natural to have feelings, Rex. Heck, I encourage it!”

“Feelings? Oh! No, General! I-I can’t…” The clone captain stuttered, tripping over his words. The two of them were standing off to the side, making sure no one could hear them.

The Jedi laughed, “What? Yes you can! Come on, it's alright.” However, looking at his friend's serious stare, Anakin’s face fell, “Rex?”

The clone captain sighed, “Sir, clones are taught early on that romantic feelings are forbidden. We’re soldiers, we’re not supposed to have partners or spouses. We’d be going against regulations if we pursued personal relationships.”

Something shifted in the General, as if he had been slapped. He stepped back, eyes holding sadness and understanding, “I’m sorry…That's…” He looked down with a sigh, “That's not fair…” After a second he furrowed his brow and looked up at his captain, “I’m not going to stop anyone from having a relationship if they want. No one should be forced to…box up their feelings.”

Rex felt a flash of confusion and even worry. Anakin sounded as if he fully understood.

Jedi aren’t allowed attachment…

Did General Skywalker really understand?

After a beat, the Captain nodded, “Thank you, sir…I’m certain some of the men will feel better knowing they have that freedom.”

The Jedi frowned. Rex was a man with high walls, even to his General, “I am serious, though. If you…need help with figuring things out…well, I’m your guy.”

“Thank you…General?” The clone captain watched, entirely confused when Anakin walked away to return to his fighter.

What a strange conversation…

Rex couldn’t have feelings for you. He wasn’t programmed to have them.

That feeling in his heart was something different entirely.

Right?

#reader insert #tcw x reader #captain rex x reader #captain rex #bacta and bandages #star wars the clone wars #star wars tcw #star wars x reader #clone wars 501st #anakin skywalker #anakin is trying his best

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deathmetalunicorn1 · 1 day

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Mailbox open! Parcel delivery!

The "Army Dreamers" trend came up a lot on Tik Tok where the creators are face to face with their Oc on a carousel, and I had an idea.

Then the gods (The Greek pantheon; the 3 Olympian brothers and the Norse one with Odin, Thor and Loki separately) exterminated a race because...because they are gods and they can, they don't think about it because for them that was nothing.

Years later they meet a curious little creature on one of their trips, who sticks to them because she is a girl and alone; Over time he grows fond of her and takes her under his protection.

He takes her with him to his pantheon so he can live in peace, one day she tells him while they are playing on the carousel about her life before being alone in the world; and reveals to him that a cruel God killed his people, a minor and peaceful race who were just unlucky to encounter him.

Finishing the context, reactions of these gods? The little girl they love so much, who is like a daughter to them and who they care for so much, is the only survivor of a civilization that they disappeared, they are that cruel god, will they keep the secret?

PS: Nice day!

-Nobody really knew where you came from, you just showed up one day in Valhalla. You looked so unique compared to those around you- so unlike anything they had ever seen.

-However, there was a sense of something familiar about you- something from the distant past, one they couldn’t seem to place exactly.

-You were a total sweetheart, clinging to (Favorite) and following him like a duckling, something that he did grow to love, finding it amusing.

-You were so curious about the world around you, asking him so many questions, trying to learn everything you could. He had to wonder, early on, if you were a newborn goddess, as it had been so long since the last one, but this wasn’t the case.

-He came to adore you, and he even put up with the teasing from others, who would poke fun of him, seeing him holding you in his arms, that he wasn’t as scary as he looked.

-You were confused, looking up at him, your little hands coming up to cup his cheeks softly, “You’re not scary at all (Favorite)!” he couldn’t help but melt at your words, you were so sweet.

-After a few weeks, he couldn’t seem to shake that feeling that there was something familiar with you, and taking you out for the day, going to a quiet corner of Valhalla, he asked you about your past.

-You were quiet for a long moment before you spoke, looking up at the fluffy clouds floating by, “It was a long time ago- I lived in a big city with my mama and papa- and there were so many people around.”

-You told him of your people, your past, and as you spoke, the puzzle pieces seemed to be clicking together, and his eyes widened, realizing that you were from a long-forgotten race of people, one of the first races the gods created, and destroyed.

-The gods made your people too smart and strong, and it wasn’t long until your race was deemed a threat to the power of the gods- and because of it, your race was eradicated.

-Or at least that’s what he thought, seeing you there. You were just a child- curious about the world around you, with nobody else like you to be with- which is why you stayed with him, as he felt safe to you.

-He was not safe- he was one of the ones who did this to you- he helped kill your family- your people- destroyed your home- he helped take everything from you.

-He could tell that you didn’t know this, you didn’t know that he helped do all this- and he didn’t want you to know.

-You were so sweet and gentle, you were so innocent- he couldn’t believe that you were a survivor, somehow, of the massacre of your people. How did you survive? Why are you only just now showing up when it happened millions of years ago? Each questions seemed to birth another- and with no answers to be had, he felt anguish and guilt eating him from the inside out.

-Became your guardian, your protector- nobody was going to hurt you ever again- he wouldn’t let them. If someone wanted you, they had to go through him first. He seemed more solemn after you told him of your past and you didn’t understand why he was so sad now. Feeling you there in his arms, hugging him, smiling up at him, your little hands on his cheeks were the small things that told him that you were there, you were alive- and that comforted him, knowing that you were safe.

-Hades, Loki, and Apollo

-He was powerful, he knew this, he had strength and power, but that power was the thing that hurt you all those years ago. He felt guilty for having this power and using it to destroy what had been your whole life. Power is something that is used to protect others, protecting those who needed it most- he realized that now, even if it was too late. You were going to be protected and happy now. Nobody was going to be able to hurt you ever again- he was going to use his power correctly this time, to keep you safe, no matter what.

-Poseidon, Odin, Thor, Ares, Zeus

#record of ragnarok #ror x reader #ror hades #ror loki #ror apollo #ror poseidon #ror ares #ror zeus #ror thor #ror odin

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the-s1lly-corner · 2 days

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Hii, may i ask for EJ, Masky and Hoodie (separately) with a s/o who is a really picky eater?

EJ, Masky, Hoodie x reader who is a picky eater

admin himself is a picky eater due to reasons and he kind of ends up projecting himself onto the reader- sooooo! UHUH! obviously admins experience does not reflect everyones! notes: reader is GN, reader is a human and is implied to be a normal person (ie not a creepypasta) cws: struggles with food

EYELESS JACK

obligatory eyeless jack cant eat human food anymore so internally, it makes him feel a little... hmm... that youre a picky eater. BUT it should be noted that hes far more understanding if its something you cant control and you arent picky just because

he doesnt force you to eat foods he knows that trigger you, if you struggle with textures or smell, but food at his place tends to be very limited.. its best to do meals at your place so you have the access and flexibility you need!

copes with the first bullet by cooking when he can/gets the chance, and being with you gives him the opportunity. makes food for you and masters foods you know you like

slowly tries to introduce you to other foods if youre lacking in something vital, med student brain is being all too loud in his head and he wants you to be healthy- leads to you guys experimenting with what works

struggle with texture? you guys can try "hiding" the offending food or changing the texture- by way of cooking, mincing, or blending

MASKY

he doesnt really care, hes not really a picky eater himself but what you eat isnt really any of his business

sometimes snatches foods he knows you can eat and/or enjoy, feels nice when he sees your eyes light up when he comes in with it

i dont think he would encourage you to eat anything you dont want to eat, the only time he would force something in your mouth is like... meds...

very on top of any meds you need and he will not take too kindly to you skipping out on them on purpose ESPECIALLY if theyre lifesaving

but thats not really good, is it?

doesnt care if your limited diet is from something or another, if you want to tell him thats your choice

HOODIE

he doesnt mind all that much and honestly i can see him being a bit of a picky eater- though he forces himself to eat anything out of survival given hes running around in the woods and doesnt exactly have a home or place to go to to keep safe foods

you both have a stash of easy meals/snacks that you both enjoy as a quick and easy grab thing if you guys dont feel like making something

doesnt force you to expand your palette in normal scenarios, in the case where things are limited and you need to eat or youll die or just... not be in a good place, he does try to encourage you

even offers you the better option if there are multiple options, letting himself take the worse thing

no judgement here, doesnt know nutrition stuff as long as you're both able to survive

#creepypasta x reader #creepypasta x you #creepypasta imagine #crp x reader #crp x you #crp imagine #canon x reader #x reader #eyeless jack x reader #eyeless jack x you #eyeless jack imagine #masky x reader #masky x you #masky imagine #hoodie x reader #hoodie x you #hoodie imagine

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ymustutortureme · 2 days

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https://www.gofundme.com/f/help-us-escape-gaza-a-mothers-plea-for-safety

Dear friends and supporters,

My name is Nada, and I am reaching out to you with a heavy heart and a sense of urgency.

Here in Gaza, there is a small tent standing alone in the corner of a refugee camp. Inside it, I sit with my young children, trying to protect them in every way possible and provide them with comfort and safety despite the hardships.

My children and I are now in great danger and need your help to evacuate from Gaza to safety. The situation worsens every day with limited access to drinking water, food, and medicine, along with facing the horrors of war.

The war has swept away our homes and dreams, and now we live in a tent, surrounded by hunger, fear, and diseases. My youngest son suffers from hepatitis due to pollution and lack of healthcare.

The days pass very slowly, and the situation deteriorates further each day. The need for food, medicine, water, shelter, and safety has become nearly impossible.

I have launched a fundraising campaign to facilitate our evacuation to Egypt and to start our lives anew. The ticket price to enter Egypt is $5,000 for each adult and $2,500 for children.

Your contribution, no matter how big or small, will make a significant difference in our lives and give us a chance for a brighter future. With your donation, you can be the light that illuminates our lives.

Please save my children; I do not want them to die in Gaza. If I cannot survive, please do not forget them. Protect them after I am gone.🙏🏼❤️

I've reblogged your post and to anyone else who sees this, donate if you can, reblog if you can't. Anything helps and we can save so many people by just spreading the word!!❤️🇵🇸

#free palestine #palestine #gaza #free gaza #israel #gaza strip #israel is a terrorist state #gazaunderattack #genocide #israel is an apartheid state

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resurrectionist3 · 2 days

Text

June 6th, 1755 - Happy Birthday Nathan Hale!!!

We are gonna pretend like this isn’t several days late.

And this post is about to be super long…

Disclaimer: for the entirety of the post, I’m recalling information that was told to me by the tour guide from the Nathan Hale Homestead. If anything I wrote here is incorrect or not complete information, feel free to KINDLY correct me in a comment or repost, I would appreciate that☺️

Back in May (05/18/24), I visited the Nathan Hale Homestead in Coventry, Connecticut with my sister!!

I always drive by it when I go home from school and I finally got to visit for a tour! They also have a farmers market on grounds in the summertime as well as a couple other events throughout the year. I do hope i get to attend their Halloween ghost stories.

One thing i learned that i guess i didn’t ever realise was that Nathan never actually lived in this house. After his mother passed, Nathan’s father, Deacon Richard Hale and all 9(?) of his children lived together in a very, very small house. It wasnt until after Richard was remarried, that this newer and larger house was built. By this point, i believe Nathan had already moved away to be a teacher in New London.

Here are photos of their medicine cabinet and their fireplace✨

Photos of their piano forte in the sitting room and a drawn family tree.

And this was Deacon Richard Hale’s writing desk. If I remember correctly, he was a deacon in the church and a magistrate. He dealt with small court disputes in their house which I found very silly (and the wax stamp had an H on it idk why that made me die😭)

And here, in one of the upstairs rooms, they displayed artist renditions of what we think Nathan Hale and his brothers looked like. I think Nathan had 9 (?) biological siblings that survived to adulthood, one of which being his sister Johanna. And then i believe he had 3 step siblings after his father remarried (im trying to recall everything the tour guide said).

Johanna isnt depictied in these drawings, its only the brothers, but her room was on display for the tour and it had a lot of windows. The tour guide said it was because she apparently loved to read, so they made sure her room had the most windows for the most light??😭😭🥹🥹

Anyways, all of Nathan’s brothers went to war except for the youngest one. Also, if you look at the years of their deaths, Samuel Hale (the oldest sibling) actually outlived them all?? Which makes me want to scream???? Samuel also didn’t inherit the family farm, it actually went to his brother John.

Joseph Hale- (damn he can get it lowkey..🥵) while in the war was captured by the British and was on a prison ship until he was exchanged and honestly I’ve been thinking about it too much. So glad he didn’t die of dysentery or something. But he did pass of consumption at only 34 which I can’t even handle.

Enoch, went to Yale along with Nathan and they were in the same graduating class which i think is so cutesy. The tour guide also said that one of the pewter steins in one of the sitting rooms (i don’t actually have a photo unfortunately) belonged to Enoch and I wanted to scream, like was it ACTUALLY his???

They had a display of several items they found on the property like coins, buttons, ect. but I didn’t take a photo of that either. It was in the same room as these images of the brothers.

I think we all know Nathan, and quite honestly i didn’t even realise he had so many siblings until this tour. I suppose one could assume given the time period - everyone had like 5+ children. But of all the times i was taught about Nathan Hale (and that was kind of a lot, being a Connecticut resident for my entire life) no one ever mentioned his family or his siblings. There was a portrait of Deacon Richard Hale in the downstairs area- I didn’t realise this in the moment, my sister mentioned it later, but (based on the artist’s rendition) Nathan looked just like his father. I found it really funny when i realised it.

This was Nathan’s hunting rifle as well, another thing that apparently belonged to one of the members of the Hale family that made me want to scream (more on that in my final thoughts).

And last photo (the Turn: Washington’s Spies baddies are gonna LOVE this one)

This is a list of the Yale University (back then, it was just Yale College) honours graduating class of 1773. On it, is Nathan and Enoch Hale of course. But also, Nathan’s friend and “roommate” 👀 (and our favourite spymaster) Benjamin Tallmadge!!!!! I had to keep my mouth shut when the tour guide mentioned that he was on this list, but I was screaming internally and my sister and i made goofy ahh eye contact.

Their names are towards the top, Enoch and Nathan are listed in the third small column while Benjamin is in the sixth one all the way to the right.

Things that i saw/were talked about that i didn’t take a photo of was a shadow drawing of Nathan’s side profile. At some point, Nathan stood in front of a door in the house while someone traced the outline of his shadow onto it. I don’t quite know why that was done..? Perhaps it was for a genuine reason or maybe the Hale siblings were just messing around. But it’s a pretty big deal considering there are actually no true portraits of Nathan or his siblings. Just statues and drawings that are artist renditions based on historical accounts. There was a historian who wrote about Nathan Hale and came in contact with a member of the Hale family (Rebecca Hale, I believe). She told him about the shadow drawing and it was a long and interesting story that I unfortunately don’t remember all the parts to. A piece about the portrait is typed on a paper in the photo of Nathan’s rifle, if you can zoom in, you can read a little more on it.

Their gift shop was also small and cutesy and I spent a lot of money there on books. On display there, they had an old piece of wood from the original house. I got a published copy of Reverend John Hale’s, A Modest Inquiry into the Nature of Witchcraft.

If anyone wasn’t aware, Reverend John Hale (ancestor of Nathan Hale) was called to Salem, Massachusetts from Beverly to assist in the Salem Witch Trials in 1692. He was partially responsible for the persecution of several innocent people however, nearing the end of the trials, he began to disagree with the accusations. He published this firsthand account to condemn the actions of those involved with the trials and I’ve always thought it was so interesting. I’ve wanted to read this since I read The Crucible back in high school and i was very excited to see it at the gift shop.

You can also visit the Hale Farm in Beverly, MA where Rev. John Hale used to live and I want to someday. I’ve only ever been outside of it, I’ve never properly visited for a tour. (Cutesy fact as well: Rev. John’s Hale’s birthday is June 3rd, which is only 3 days before Nathan’s).

Final Thoughts:

The Hale Family was absolutely MASSIVE. Our tour guide mentioned being a descendant of the Hale Family and im sure a number of “born and raised” New England residents are as well somewhere in their ancestry. Based on the drawn family tree, most of the members had probably 4 kids minimum and then those kids all had a ton of kids. It’s also very funny to me how there are probably several Hale’s who are decently significant figures in history and it’s just wild that it’s all one family. I know it’s the same for royal families and such but it feels different somehow.

According to our tour guide, one theory about how Nathan Hale was captured was by Robert Rogers. That Rogers invited him to dinner and convinced Nathan that he was also part of the Continental Army. Nathan then confided his mission in Rogers and was lured into a false sense of security that lead to him being captured. Which is another one for the Turn baddies that almost made me die when I heard it. Especially since I don’t believe I’ve heard that theory before.

Something I did really enjoy about this tour was how it didn’t completely focus on Nathan. Of course that would have been fine and equally as interesting, but it was mainly a lesson on his family and some of his descendants. After being taught about Nathan Hale so many times, I had no idea about his entire family and his siblings.

It also never TRULY occurred to me that there aren’t any real portraits of Nathan Hale. They’ve all been artist renditions as paintings or statues based on historical descriptions of him and something about that is extremely wild to me. It makes me somewhat grateful for our easy access to camera and video in our modern world. There are so many faces and stories that have been completely lost to time - even some very significant historical figures have little to no surviving images. Like, we know who they are and that they were here at some point - we have their belongings and things that they used. Thats why seeing Nathan’s rifle in the bedroom or Enoch’s stein in the sitting room cause me to have such visceral reactions. This was theirs once. This was used by someone probably everyday. And now its almost like a ghost or memory of them. The land around the property is heavily wooded as well, lots of trees and stones. My sister and I took a short walk around the property before leaving and it really made me think: how many of these stones did they touch? How many of these large trees did they lean on? It drives me so insane honestly.

One last thing that hadn’t occurred to me before this trip was how the Hale family learned of Nathan’s hanging. According to the tour guide, Enoch and a couple his brothers had heard of a Hale being found guilty of espionage and being hanged. And after looking into it more, Enoch did confirm that it was Nathan and sent word to the rest of the family. It’s said that before being hanged, Nathan only asked for a few things: A priest (which he did not get), parchment, quill and ink for writing. He wrote a letter to his commanding officer and one to his family. According to the guide, i believe neither one was sent. Perhaps the one to the officer was sent, however he never received it because he was killed in battle before he had the chance. And allegedly, the one written to the Hale family was seized by the British and was likely used as a written confession rather than being sent home to Nathan’s family. I honestly can’t imagine how upsetting that must’ve been for all of them. Especially with each of the Hale brothers being in the war and likely all in different places, there wasn’t really any other way for them to find out that their own brother was hanged aside from the way everyone else learned of it - through the newspaper or by word of mouth. No other Hale brother died in the war either, they all survived and had relatively high rankings by the time the war was over.

~~~

So that was my trip, it was fun and informative and I would really love to visit again sometime. I highly recommend anyone who is a fan of history, or Turn: Washington’s Spies to visit if you can! They are only open seasonally though, and only on weekends. They do a tour every hour, so plan accordingly if you want to visit!

#amrev #turn amc #george washington #ben tallmadge #nathan hale #hale homestead #coventry #Connecticut #american revolution #turn washington's spies #abe woodhull #caleb brewster #hale family #hamilton #american history #historical #1700s #new england

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