#learning to draw the punisher just for a meme is how you know this idiot is a comfort character. sighs. groans

[tolbyccia]

happy wet cat wednesday

#last weeks bandwagon this weeks ‘oops i forgot to crosspost’ #shoka sakurane #nicholas d wolfwood #wolfwood #ntwewy #trigun #jayadoodles #memes #learning to draw the punisher just for a meme is how you know this idiot is a comfort character. sighs. groans

[oddlyhale]

As much as I begin to see the horrors of RWBY fndm and how crazed BB fans can be, there'll probably be no comparison to the psychotics I had to deal with in the HH fndm.

While I can totally find myself being tolerant with all RWBY ships, there's something territorial when it comes to HH ships. It's a different beast on its own, especially with the popular artists that can and will control their fanbase.

Boy do I have a tale of 2020 that had me deal with the mental gymnastics these wild shippers put me through. The sheer hypocrisy, the fear fans had of standing up to them, the collective harassment.

In a synopsis, before we start:

Hi, my name is Hale.

Alfa and Alex are probably the most psychotic people I’ve ever met when it comes to my online daily life. I used to think my ex-friends were the bane of my existence, but Alfa and Alex started making me think just how angelic my exes were in comparison.

So let’s begin.

When I first met the Double AAs, it was Alex first (awhile back in late-June 2020 during Vaggie Week) but it was indirect. I was on my Instagram when I was tagged by a random user in something Alex had drawn. This was when I first saw the kill art of Vaggie. I was so upset that I had yelled at this random user for tagging me, as well as showing it via screencap on my twitter, as a warning to never do this to me to my followers. Keep in mind, I had censored Alex’s name from the screencap, not the random user.

However, Alex saw this somehow and became hysterical, thinking I was targeting him for what he drew. This caused an uproar of his fans to come attack me, and it did cause me to become scared and get away from my account. Alfa decided to insert herself into the mix, but I didn’t care enough for her to say anything. It was mostly Alex and how much he was “scared” and cried about the “fandom being so hateful and scary.” He went private for a while I believe, but Alfa was still going hard at me and sending more of her fans to come harass me.

If Alex ever says he is a strong and brave man, don’t believe him. He fears the HH fandom.

Anyhow, after Alfa’s fans had done their best to gaslight me, I didn’t give in. In fact, I made amends with the random user that tagged me. Somehow they assumed I would like the art of Vaggie being killed, which was childish to even believe in. Nonetheless, I forgave them, and we moved on from there.

But even when we both resolved this together, Alfa and Alex decided that it would be fun to make this “kill Vaggie art” a meme, or trend. With their huge followings combined, they were able to get their artist fans to join in and start creating so much hate art of Vaggie. Many of them drew her head being cut off, mutilated, raped and cheated on.

Alfa and Alex adore gaslighting the hell out of people. While they draw such hideous things, they will go ahead and say, “but it’s just fiction, it’s not real,” and call you psychotic for even caring so much about their bad behaviour. I can only imagine what Alfa’s husband goes through everyday since Alfa loves to make people second-guess themselves often.

Keep in mind, Alfa and Alex are the same people who will cry and shake when their fictional ship is invalidated and written out. They often wish nothing good for Viv and her team that are providing these ungrateful children with the show and content they so badly want. It shows you just how privileged they had grown up as children, doesn’t it?

This wasn’t fun, it was horrible. I didn’t realize just how many toxic people existed in the HH fandom until this “trend” began to spread.

But the funny thing that I'll never forget is how apeshit Alfa went when I had the audacity to draw Alastor plus sized. She accused me of being a pedophile, supporting MAPs. Even though she leans towards being pro-ship (likes incest, OK with lolicon, will condone drawing necophilia.) But me? Having the sheer audacity of drawing Alastor fat? It burned her so bad.

As well, this was being pushed on the VAs during a small livestream. The chat wouldn’t stop asking, “what do you think of the Vaggie kill art going around?” Of course the VAs ignored these questions, but it was really rude to even ask these things. Especially when Vaggie’s VA was in the same livestream.

But then this trend was proven to be a lie, by Alex’s own words. He dropped the ball in a one-off conversation with an anti that “he only created this to get back at the Chaggie shippers.” So retroactively, this trend was worthless.

What also began to start becoming obvious was that Alfa was too afraid to do anything on her own, and thus, she will recruit some darlings to defend her. Alfa seems to have more defenders than she has any confidence to defend herself, and when she has no choice but to stand up for herself, she will buckle and hide. She is weak, is what I had learnt.

I decided to just ignore Alex and Alfa as much as I could. With a friend though, I was given updates of what was happening on the Double AAs’ side in the meantime, and it’s amazing to see just how vile they can be with their own fans and haters. Especially with their new puppy named Salty. (I think that’s their name, another weak ass bitch.)

As months went by, the major event that stirred from the AA camp was when they were harassing Pastel Sky. This would be where the big reveal of just how horrible the AAs and their friends truly are, when they have nobody to harass except for kids. HH has a wide audience of children involved in this fandom, hence why many other artists keep saying we should try to be good examples for them, and keep them safe. But not for the AAs.

Pastel was ruthlessly attacked by them and it was all unwarranted. What they were angry about was that Pastel had the nerve to have negative opinions when it came to AAs, and they broke their own rule of “don’t like then block.” Even Galactic Potatoes (Spuds) would go out of their way, again, to gaslight Pastel into believing that what attacks she received on Twitter was allowed, because Pastel was asking for it. Spuds is well-known to gaslight, a thing they had learnt from the AAs quite often.

Pastel was a minor at the time, and it really doesn’t matter if Pastel was just 17. I don’t care if Pastel was only 17 and that “well she’s almost 18,” because regardless of age, harassment is not the answer. Follow by that, fighting with minors is actually fucking stupid and braindead. Spuds tried very hard to justify why attacks were OK, and that Pastel “should learn” how to grow up. I then learnt that Spuds went into hiding afterwards.

That was until the Double AAs’ discord chats were exposed, showing that they were practically mouth-watering at Pastel’s pain, romanticizing her apparent abuse and trying to convince each other how her punishment on Twitter was correct. Even one (I believe was Jay because he loves me and wants me back) wished that I would die. This would be the third time he asked me to die indirectly, which justifies my points on how toxic and abusive they are.

This entire event seemed to have unraveled a new wave of truths, and it’s sad to know it had to take a literal minor to have their masks fall off.

In 2021, Alex was exposed to be a thief. Stealing commission money for “stress pills.” If Alex is on a path of drug addiction, I hope it’s not the case. That’s a terrible place to be, and hopefully he’ll be clean and grow up for once. I still don’t care enough about Alfa, after now knowing all she is, is just a dramatic housewife with nothing better to do in her life. Perhaps if they just got jobs instead of stealing money from fans, they’d be leading well-productive lives.

From what I understand, many of the toxic fans of the Double AAs have either dropped HH fandom, or have deleted their accounts. Good, I hope they stay gone. The fandom deserves better, not trash.

Needless to say, the best advice I can give to those in the HH fandom that come facing the Double AAs is to not be afraid of them.

Over time, once you get used to their behaviour, you come to realize that this is their default. They’re not likable, they’re not nice, and they aren’t appreciative of one singular thing you do for them (hence Alex stealing from his own fans.)

It’s their M.O., they are just that cruel. So don’t fear them, but challenge their behaviour. Don’t stoop to their level of wanting to draw hateful art, though, that will fuel them. Talking down to them like their idiots always works like a charm.

Anyways, thanks for reading.

If anybody from the Double AAs’ camp ever finds this and reads it, I just wanna say that you are doing a great job, sweety. Thanks for proving me right by the new year. I appreciate the honesty for once. It only took you a year, just think of what other things you’ll do in the next year.

#hazbin hotel #fndm critical #personal story #mature topics ahead #tw

[cxmetery-gates]

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS - DARK!TOM HIDDLESTON

CHAPTER ONE: FAKING IT

SUMMARY: Lynn Moore dreads the beginning of her greatest fear: the first day of senior year. WORD COUNT: 2.3k NOTE: Get ready for typical teenager angst. Let’s all bully Lynn. WARNINGS: dark!tom hiddleston, teacher!tom hiddleston

OBSESSIVE TEACHINGS MASTERLIST

JUST LIKE EVERY YEAR AROUND the middle of August, my mom tells me the same advice; have a good first day. Of course, most mothers, fathers, or whoever tell their child this, but it's as pointless as a circle. Whoever has a fantastic first day of school? There are new teachers to impress, you're stuck with the same bunch of losers you sit with at lunch, and there are more jerks and morons to pick on you, despite the status quo you fall under. High school is frankly really awful all the way around and there's no way someone can deny or even try to argue that. These are the four years of utter hell and we're all dying to get out. I've stepped through those heavy doors, resembling the gates of hell, on a first day three times now. My anger and hatred have only been fueled rather than dying down. I'm sure nothing will ever change.

"Don't forget--" Mom tries to tell me from the porch in sweats and a maroon t-shirt. Her unnatural dirty blonde hair piled on the top of her head with an old red clip. There are tears welling in her eyes, seeing her only child almost grown up. I have one last year of school and mere months until I'm an adult. For me, it may pass by far too slow, but I bet it's a whole different story for her. In all honesty, it's ridiculous that the woman is so upset and not to mention annoying. I have done this routine twelve times now, for Christ sake, she should get a grip on herself by now. I don't mean to belittle my mother but one of her greatest achievements is being able to replicate every single stereotype women have, including having no control over her emotions. An outsider looking in may say I'm a bit to harsh. All I can say to that is no one has loved with her for almost eighteen years like I have.

"I got it!" I yell against the wind as it smacks my face while I walk across the grass. "Christ on a bike," I curse tossing my messy light brown hair from my field of vision.

The bus would take another five minutes to get the corner, but I'd like to not look stupid on my first day by running to catch up with the metal rectangle of devilry Peter Parker style. Well, maybe it would turn into an interesting story at the least. Spiderman is my favorite superhero of all time after all. Despite this, I only allow an angry face to part my path. It's totally fake but faking it is the only way to survive.

Down at the intersection, there are already kids waiting. I think it's safe to assume that all of the puberty-sicken teenagers are freshmen or sophomores since most junior and seniors are still asleep at this early hour, knowing the good majority are able to drive. I take a good look at all of them. The fact that they find throwing bits of gravel at squirrels or birds makes me want to go over and smack them upside the head. That thought crosses my mind a lot. The world is so full of morons; it's hard to pick out which ones are actually tolerable. They're almost as bad as kids in letterman jackets with expensive sports cars. Those fuckers are the worst. All they care about is their ego and how much money they can wave around coming right from mommy and daddy's wallet.

Take the kid in the striped shirt tucked into his hand-me-down jeans. He looks like a nice kid; after all, he's got nothing to brag about. His parents are probably office workers or maybe nothing too difficult. Nothing too important. That's all we are, right? I mean, once we're dead and gone. No one is gonna care what car you drove or what brand your plain white shirt is. People who think they're hotshots or something special are the real morons.

Besides, who thinks it's cool to spend thirty bucks on a t-shirt?

An old car passes, a teenage girl in my grade sits in the driver's seat. I sort of duck out of the way. Not James Bond-like, but I move my already shitty hair in front of my face as if it's going to help hide my identity. The chick probably didn't even see me. I watch the car drive on, kinda imagining what sort of car I would drive once I get one. I suppose I would have to learn first. I personally am not a fan of getting behind the wheel. Hell, I can't even ride a bike without falling over. I'd rather move to a large city and order cabs to get me places. They seem more convenient and, if you get in a wreck, it's not your fault and it's not your money coming out of pocket. No car equals more money. Then again, no car also is equivalent to no freedom and taxis and Uber's can get expensive. It seems like each idea is flawed these days.

Upon scanning the area again— this time ignoring the idiots— I notice only one person who seems excited out of the group. Her dark brown hair and dark skin contrast to the majority of our town, including those waiting nearby. Her curled hair bounces with each stride she takes, happier than the step prior.

Some say it's strange that the girl and I are such good friends. You don't see God and Satan going out and having coffee every weekend or anything.

"What's got you in a good mood?" I question as I readjust my dark blue shirt underneath the flannel. Flannels are my favorite personal quirk. I own at least fifty, most being cool or dark colors. I don't have an obsession; just an interest that I care way too much about. Flannels are to Lynn Moore as controversy is to famous influencers. Looking back up, my eyebrow is still raised. I'm shocked to see her here, assuming her parents would have given her a lift. After a second, it dawned on me that this, riding the bus to school, was her punishment for getting into an accident she won't take responsibility for.

Posting memes and vines references are fun and all, but doing it while going 60 down a highway isn't the smartest. Forgive me for not following the strict millennial handbook but I don't actually want to die nor do I want my friends to.

My best friend, Ellie Graves, gives a small glare. "Why does it always seem like you're on your period?" I shrug my shoulders, and played with the wire choker I always wore. As my fingers slip underneath the necklace, it is evident how to lose it has gotten since I bought it a few months ago. I make a mental note to take a quick trip to the shopping side of the internet sometime soon.

I click my tongue before answering. "Probably because I'm closer to hell than you are," I say, referring to my obvious lack of height. I'm only five feet and just barely three inches off the ground while Ellie is at least five feet and seven inches. Personally I think we would make a cute couple given our attitudes and the extremities of our heights, except for the fact that dearest Ellie is not interested in people other than men. What a party pooper. For me, anyway. "But lets do our best to not reinforce stereotypes," I say referring to her comment.

She nods her head. "Yes, mother." I snort at her sass, leaning my body weight onto my right leg. "But hey! We have one year left! That's something to be excited about, am I right?"

Yes, I would say she is right. Freshmen, sophomore, and the dragged out junior year have come and passed, full of useless information and embarrassing memories with it. It's mostly embarrassing if I have to be honest. School isn't my thing, however falling up and down the main set of stairs apparently is. Who knew?

"Yeah, I suppose so. At least we're considered adults now," I reply trying to find some positive about the situation.

Ellie begins to lightly laugh, "True. That's kinda a scary thought, though." Her body shudders, either because a breeze just blew passed or out of what she just said.

The age of freedom is so close, I can nearly touch it. Despite my longing to finally buy a lottery ticket and spray paint, the fear of adulthood gnaws at the back of my mind. With eighteen comes responsibility, something I lack to a high degree. I muse the idea of getting a degree of irresponsibility. However, I don't think such diploma could help me get into a creative writing career.

I make a thinking face and bring my shoulders to my ears preparing for an exaggerated response. "Well, you aren't wrong," I reply in a forced high pitch noise, catching the attention of the guys. Now I notice they are all matching in basketball shorts and a jacket. Men's fashion, ladies and gents. Ellie chuckles at my utter dorkiness while I continue to make some weird face I'm sure she will get a picture of sometime within the next few seconds.

It's crazy how time is able to fly. Just last week, so it seems, the outgoing, beaming chick I have as a best friend and I were in third grade, the year I moved to a new house, a different school, and a very different town. Although my eight-year-old-self hated it at the time, I'm glad I left the northern state of Maine, all the way across to the midwest. That is if you consider southern Missouri part of the midwest. If I hadn't, who would have the privilege of being my first smack in the face? Or first sleepover (with an actual girl)? Who knows, and I honestly wouldn't like to. Ellie's my best friend; I would be dead if she didn't have my back. And I'm honestly positive she would say the same about her tiny best pal.

Little time passes after the picture was indeed taken and posted on Elle's Snapchat before an ugly shade of yellowish-orange appears entering the neighborhood. Ellie is practically fidgeting, fighting the urge to run up the bus even if it is some distance away. My eyes roll trying to not say anything to kill her spirit but I do let out an accidental groan as its loud hum draws nearer. The bus came to a screeching halt and I already want to turn on my heel and head home. When I step on, I notice there is a new driver this year. After Ellie got her license and could legally drive me around, I never bothered with the bus unless I needed space or she was busy, which was hardly ever. Ellie and I mostly spend our time together with our group of friends. Despite this, I still easily took notice of a different person in the seat. Instead of a balding old man with a face like alligator skin, a woman sat in the brown leather seat and looks roughly in her forties. She, like all of us except for Ellie, looks tired but fakes a smile anyways. The same rules apply; middle school and junior high in the front and high school in the back. It seems as if sitting in the back always made you cool of some sort. Every time a kid got away with it in middle school, he or she was automatically the bad kid, the cool kid, or the king of the bus. God, how stupid is that theory? These thoughts remind me how annoying and stupid we all were at ten and eleven years old. I'm sure if I had a duplicate of myself at that age, I'd shoot either one of us to cease me from the utter pain.

Instead of going all the way to the back, I turn to sit in the seat half way down the aisle while plunging in an earbud, leaving one open to listen to Ellie. I instantly scroll through an select a playlist that mixes rock, punk, and even some emo. Given today being my last first day, I figured early morning jams would be appropriate to get me pumped up even though I tend to listen to this genre quite often as of lately. I enjoy the heavy guitar and double bass pedal and lyrics I can either relate to or wonder who hurt the singer so bad. Needless to say, I'm definitely more of a rock person however there's still a lot of other types of music on my device, including orchestra and folk or indie. I don't like to limit what I listen to; whatever makes me feel good ends up on my phone. Simple as that.

"So, Lynn," Ellie says sliding in right next to me. I look in her direction, which was to my right, waiting for her to respond. She looks at me, but nothing came out of her mouth. Slowly, I arch a brow. Still, there was nothing. "I had nothing to say, I just wanted your attention." Ellie gave a stupid grin while I glare kindly at her if there is such a thing.

My head shakes and I reach out to pat her cheek, "You, my darling, are an absolute dumbass."

I feel her grin grow against my hand since I haven't moved it yet. "Not as big as you, though." I can't argue; she has a point.

As the bus lunches forwards, I look out the window and watch the world go by. Something settles in my gut about then, the feeling both familiar and foreign. I can't tell what it is, but as I watch the clouds roll in over the sun and birds flying through the sky, I only hope my last year of high school will be memorable.

#dark!tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston #tom hiddleston x ofc #tom hiddleston fanfiction #teacher!tom hiddleston #loki #obsessive teachings #high school #stalking #obsessed love #obsessive #dark!fic

[megabadbunny]

For the DxR fic meme: Nine x Rose; 01 G ☯

(Nine x Rose, Jackie’s flat, midnight, Rose’s diary; from @doctorroseprompts )

***

He knows he shouldn’t, and yet, here he is.

(But it’s not exactly his fault, is it? If she didn’t wanthim to see it, maybe she shouldn’t have left it lying around all public in theopen, conspicuous and winking at him and daring him to take a little peek,wriggling its (figurative) hips like a minx in red throwing a perfumed kissover one shoulder. Never mind the fact that it wasn’t lying around in public somuch as it was in her room, that it wasn’t in the open so much as it was tuckedunder her mattress.)

The Doctor glances around furtively, even though he knows noone will catch him in the act; the flat is empty of any other living thing,save for him and the dust motes colonizing the space beneath the rug. Rose andher oddity of a mum have whisked off somewhere or other (“a proper girls’night”, Jackie might’ve said, or might not have, as the Doctor might not havebeen listening) and Jack is goodness-knows-where with goodness-knows-whom, sothe Doctor figures he’s got a good few hours to himself before anyone returns.And he’s got to find some way to occupy himself, hasn’t he?

(Besides, it isn’t as if he went snooping specifically for it.More like, he snooped, and there it conveniently was. Also, he’s bored.)

Plunking himself down on her bed—not nearly as soft or plushas her TARDIS bed, he thinks with a smirk—the Doctor opens the book to thefirst page.

Dear dairy readsthe first line.

The Doctor chuckles. There is no date scrawled anywhere onthe page, but the scribbles and misspellings amidst very careful and deliberatestrokes tell the Doctor these words were written by someone who had only recentlylearned penmanship, and was determined to do it well.

Dear dairy

Hello how are you? Myname is Rose Marion Tyler. It is my brithday today I am 6 years old.

It’s almost impossible to imagine Rose ever being so young;far easier to picture her emerging fully-grown and stubborn-willed and jeopardy-friendlystraight from inception. But the Doctor tries, and in his mind’s eye he canalmost see her sitting on the bed—no, lying on it, stomach-down, her sock-cladfeet kicking idly in the air. Her hair, unbleached and light brown, would be pulledback into a ponytail, held in place by one of those what d’you-call-it’s. A scrunchie. Her head would bend down inconcentration over the diary as she clutched her pen tightly in her small fist.The Doctor imagines the pen to be pink, glittery, one of those gel-things, hopelesslyand wonderfully childish and girly, and his grin broadens.

Mummy and me had aparty in the park and Lottie and Fred cud not come but Shireen was there andMickey to and his gran and my grandad Prentis. Grandad brung cake from thestore it has had a heart drawed on and my name and there were candels.We had ice cream to. And I had prezents there was a barby and shoes and a newbell for my bike…

The list continues and the Doctor rolls his eyes fondly.Clearly, six-year-old Rose had decided to commit only the most pertinent ofdetails to memory. He flips through perhaps the first quarter of the diary, pausingat a mention of Mickey here, a drawing of a flower there, and watches as Rose’shandwriting grows more confident, her entries more substantial. Her diary is amicrocosm of her adventures with mates, days at school, developing crushes, thelikeability of some of Jackie’s boyfriends and the caddishness of others. Atrandom, the Doctor slips a finger between the pages and opens the diarymid-entry, perhaps a year or two along its timeline.

and it felt awful butI didnt say anything bc he was right I dont have a dad but Keisha got angry andtold him to butt out and mind his own business. So then Nick laughed and madefun of Keisha bout her mum and I thot Keisha might cry so I punched Nick in thenose and it bled and the head teacher says I cant come back to school for aweek. Mum says Im in trouble but she didnt stop granddad from buying me a 99 onthe way home and she said next time do a slap its easier on the nuckles.

The Doctor can just picture Rose, eight years old, eyesflashing and stance wide as she bloodies some little twerp’s nose with herfist. Now that—that is a Rose he has no trouble imagining. Laughing, the Doctorshakes his head and flips to a later entry.

8 Nov 1996

Dear diary,

We went to go see Dad yesterday.

The Doctor pauses, hesitates. He knows what the words mean—they’refigurative, not literal, because it would be another eleven years before Rose sawany more of Pete Tyler than old photos and a grave—but the memory of the daynine years earlier still sends a shiver down his spine, clenches something inhis gut in a guilty-sick feeling he can’t quite explain.

Mum told me the storyagain. She seemed all right definitely better than the last time. I think thephotos help. Granddad came to and I don’t think he rly liked Dad very much buthe was nice about him today nicer than on other days. Afterwards Mum went todrop me off with Mickey but he said she needed me so I went on home and she seemeda little happier but she still cried a bit.

The Doctor wrinkles his nose. Something about Mickey theIdiot doing a good turn makes him grumpy. Who does that idiot think he is,anyway?

We had tea and fellasleep in front of the telly. I wanted to make her dinner but there was nothingin and I couldnt find anything in her purse so I went down to Ms Nodd’s bc she’sout seeing her grandson and I got the spare key from under her flower pot and Ilooked in her bedroom and found a few pounds and took them. I bought Mum aChinese from her favourite place and she didnt ask where I got the money so I didnttell her. I dont think Ms Nodd would know it was me that took it but I stillfeel bad I just didnt know what else to do. Ill pay her back when I get somemoney for my bday.

Nice old bird, that Ms Nodd. Much nicer than some of theother tenants on the Estate, with her blue-tinged hair and cheerful smile andwithered old hands that freely distribute home-baked biscuits to errant TimeLords who just happen to be handy with a squeaky front door. The Doctor makes amental note to liberate an ATM of a couple hundred-pound-notes at his earliestopportunity and slip them into her flat.

He reads a few more pages—comfortably silly stuff, all ofit, more crushes and rants about school and discussions of celebrities andfashion and Rose’s favorite things on telly—until his fingers land on an oddlybrittle page, warped in places, buckling. Several of the words are nearlyimpossible to discern, smudged as they are, and it takes the Doctorapproximately .003 seconds to identify the water marks as tears.

(There’s no dear diaryhere, no date. The words simply begin, as if writing anything more than theabsolutely necessary would take too much energy. Like it would hurt too much.)

Granddad’s gone.

The Doctor sighs, and his hearts each break a little foryoung Rose, curled up in her bed and crying bitter tears into her pillow. Tenyears old is far too young to experience the cruelty of such a loss. But it isn’tas if it gets any easier at any other age. The Doctor knows that to be painfullytrue.

Had a heart attack.Doctors said he went in his sleep and didn’t feel anything. I hope that’s true.Mum said he’s with the angels now but that’s stupid. The angels don’t need him wedo. I already miss him.

Mum can’t stop crying.I wish Dad was here.

And there’s that feeling again in the Doctor’s gut, thesquirmy-sicky one. Almost as if his stomach knows he shouldn’t be doing this,like his body is punishing him. It was all well and good reading about the funfrivolities of a carefree primary-schooler, but this sort of thing—this issomething else. Something deep and personal, a compound fracture of emptinessand hurt. The Doctor knows should stop reading now. He really should.

(He doesn’t.)

It takes a few weeks for the mentions of Granddad Prentice tostart fading, but eventually, they do, fading away to be gradually replaced bythe normality of everyday life. Sometimes months pass between diary-entries;other times, years. The Doctor smiles as he glances over recountings of schooldays and formals and skipping classes, of Jackie’s eccentric cluster of boyfriends,of fights with friends and happy makings-up after, of holidays and gossip andhopes for the future. The day Rose and Shireen fall out over a boy is marked byan obscene amount of swearing and words crossed-out and pencil-punctures dugdeep into the page; the day Mickey asks Rose to be his girlfriend is noted withexclamation points and a lipgloss-kiss.

The day Rose meets Jimmy Stone is noted with a single heartthat simply reads Mrs Rose Stone.

Grimacing at the words, the Doctor forces himself to presson.

OMG met this bloke Jimmyyesterday n he was soooo fit reads the next entry. Shireen and Keisha and me went down the pub and he was playing in theband and I thot he fancied Keisha at first but after he asked for my number ♡ ♡ ♡I kno it doesn’t mean nothing so I didn’ttell Mickey cos no point in him worrying and he gets so jealous anyway lol

Awww, poor jealous ickle Mickey, thinks the Doctor. He snortsderisively. Human beings—so quick to such petty reactions. He’s very glad hedoesn’t have to worry about silly things like that.

Still, it’s a little surprising when, just a few pages later,things have already progressed by leaps and bounds. Jimmy kissed me! leaps out from the page, followed by things like Mickey and me had a fight and Snuck out to hear Jimmy play downtownand Went to the cinema with Jimmy and he puthis hand up my sk

Hearts hammering, the Doctor flips past that page before hiskeen eyes have a chance to read any further. For some reason, the thought ofJimmy putting his hand up anything of Rose’s—indeed, of Jimmy or some otherfool even thinking about touching her, anywhere, with anything—makes him burn abit under the collar. Unpleasant, that. Maybe he’d better take a look at Jackie’sthermostat, make sure it’s doing its job, because it certainly doesn’t feellike it.

(Still, he skips the several pages that follow, just to besafe.)

said if Iwalked out that door I’d better not walk back in and you know what screw her.She’s wasted her whole life crying about Dad and never doing anything withherself and never doing anything for me. I hate her I would rather die then belike her

Eyes widening in surprise, the Doctor quickly scans over thenext few pages, his concern deepening by the second.

love Jimmy andno one can tell me any different and if Mum really knew what love was then she’dunderstand

Im so glad I’mwith him now he gets me like no one else ever has or ever will, ♡ him forever

didnt want totake my a-levels anyway not like it means anything out in the real world

moving into aflat together next week can’t wait ♡♡♡

and I love himbut I wish he’d get a job cos the gigs don’t make enough n I can’t covereverything on my own

came home drunkagain last night n wouldnt tell me where he’d been

told me I’dbetter cough up the rest of the rent by next weekend or else he would

And then, nothing.

The Doctor frowns. Whatever he would do is left unexplained, torn away along with a wholecluster of pages in the diary, leaving a ragged little scar behind where wordsand feelings used to sit. The Doctor runs a finger along the page-stumps leftin the spine, and wonders.

What could have happened that was so bad that even the memoryof it had to be ripped away?

The next entry picks up a few weeks later. It does notmention Jimmy. Instead, the page displays only a handful of lonely words:

He wasright. I’m so stupid.

It takes a moment for the Doctor to realize that the diaryis shaking in his hands. But that’s only because he’s gripping it so tightlyhis knuckles are glowing bright white in an attempt to jump out of his skin. Andsuddenly he’s glad, in quite a perverse way, that he has witnessed thedestruction of the Reapers firsthand, because otherwise the temptation to pilotthe TARDIS back in time to ensure that Jimmy Stone never hurt Rose—that henever so much as existed, never so much as blighted this planet with even asingle vile breath—would be so strong that he’s not entirely sure he’d be ableto stop himself.

Forcing himself to calm, the Doctor skips forward, hopefullyto an entry that won’t cause hisblood to boil angrily in his ears. Now phrases like moved back in with Mum today and applied at Henriks greet his eyes, and he feels the muscles in hisshoulders begin to relax.

and a sweet ginger boy’sstarted coming round, Mum named him Jonesy

but the new job’s notso bad

going out to the clubswith Shireen

Mickey stopped by withflowers today and it was like nothing had ever gone wrong

anyway we’re datingagain

nothing’ll come of itbut some blokes won in Bristol last week so who knows, maybe we’ll win a littlesomething n I could get Mum something nice

a little boring Iguess but prolly about the best I can expect for now

So my job blew uptoday???

Now a grin spreads across the Doctor’s face, lighting it upfrom ear-to-ear. Finally. Took longenough to get here. Now for the reallygood stuff.

Fingers tingling in anticipation, he turns the page.

Nothing.

The Doctor flips through the remaining pages, hunting forsomething, anything, but nothing buta sea of white greets his eyes, winking up at him obnoxiously without so muchas a single date or scribble or scrawl to capture his attention. The rest ofthe diary is completely, utterly blank.

Huffing in irritation, the Doctor sits back, flipping thebook closed with a scowl. It makes a certain sense, he supposes, but still.Really? She’ll write about ice cream and Barbies and school gossip and Mickeythe Idiot but no mention of the TARDIS, no asides about traveling through timeand space, no discussion of Dickens or Slitheen or bitchy trampolines or 900year-old Time Lords taking her by the hand to show her anything her littleheart could ever possibly—

CLANG.

“I just found it!” blurts out the Doctor without eventhinking, pushing off the bed and whirling round to face Rose’s open bedroomdoorway. But no one stands there; indeed, if his superior hearing is anythingto go by (and it usually is), there’s no one within several meters of him, certainlyno one in the flat. And the continuing ding-dang-dongbell’s sound, ringing at twelve lazy but significant intervals, informs himthat his nervousness was for naught—it’s just Jackie’s old grandfather clock,noisily (and unnecessarily, the Doctor thinks with a grump) proclaiming thetime.

It’s midnight. Probably Rose and Jackie will be home soon. Andprobably he shouldn’t let them know he was nosing through Rose’s diary.

(Even if it wasn’t his fault, seeing as they left him aloneand bored and unoccupied in the flat, and even if he didn’t find what he waslooking for—even if he’s not entirely certain what that was.)

As he slips the diary back into its hiding-place beneathRose’s mattress, it occurs to him that there are any number of reasons Rosemight not be writing things in a diary any more—she forgot it at home, or she’stoo tired after their adventures, or too distracted, or maybe she’s even got anew one aboard the TARDIS, hidden somewhere equally silly. But there’s anotheroption too, he realizes; that she’s simply too happy to see the need forwriting things down, that she is too busy living her memories to think of takingthe time to document them. The thought warms him, contentment blooming in hischest, and he leaves Rose’s room with a smile, closing the door behind him.

(He still checks her room on the TARDIS just in case.)

***

part ii

#ficandchips #nine x rose #ninerose #ninexrose #nine/rose #prompt fill #thanks for the prompt dear! #<3 <3 <3

[terriblelifechoices]

omg YES credence/percival "14. “You’re supposed to talk me out of this.”" for the fic meme?

Okay, so, I thought, since you are a fellow Tortall fan, that it might be fun to do a Tortall AU for FBAWTFT.  (If this doesn’t work for you, feel free to prompt something else?)

For those of you not familiar with the Tortall-verse, the things you need to know are that it’s vaguely medieval fantasy, in which noble (male) children are sent to the Palace at the age of ten for training to become knights of the realm.  They spend four years as a page, learning etiquette and mathematics and how to fight with a number of weapons, and then they spend four years squiring for a specific knight, who is supposed to give them real life hand’s on experience and not get them killed.

Some people have Gifts, which is a more regimented style of magic not entirely dissimilar to the HP-verse, minus the wands, and some people have Wild Magic, which tends to manifest as whatever the hell it wants.

I totally recommend checking out the source material.  The early books are a little problematic, because they were written in the 1980′s, but the later ones are freaking amazing.  The first series starts with Alanna, the First Adventure by Tamora Pierce.

Tortall AU

“This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever done,” said Credence, still feeling a little numb with horror.  He’d challenged a Scanran warlord to a duel.  Him!  Credence Barebone!  

“I think this might be the dumbest thing you’re ever going to do in your entire life,” Alex told him, checking Credence’s armor.  Alex Collins was closer to his knighthood than Credence was, but he’d always been a mother hen.

“True,” Credence agreed.  “Because Warlord Grindelwald is going to kill me.”

“Grindelwald isn’t going to kill you,” Percival said firmly.  “You’re my squire, remember?  I trained you better than that.  It’s going to take more than some warmongering Scanran upstart to kill you.”

“Oh, gods,” said Credence, looking at his knight master with flat despair.  “You should have bedded me when I asked you to.  I’m going to die a virgin.”

Percival went red and spluttered, stomping away from Credence and Alex and muttering about how Credence was going to be the death of him.

Some days, it was really hard to believe that Percival was the Queen’s Champion – the best knight in all of Tortall.

“Still no luck?” Alex asked.

“No,” Credence said.  “He’s got too much bloody honor to bed me while I’m his squire.  It’d be an abuse of power.  How about you?”  Alex was sweet on one of Queen Seraphina’s handmaidens.  Credence was only a little bit jealous that Alex’s courtship of Dorothy seemed to be going better than his own.

“I’m going to ask her to marry me, once I have my shield,” Alex told him.

Fine.  Credence was more than a little jealous, now.

Dorothy appeared in the doorway, as if mentioning her was enough to summon her.  “Credence Barebone!” she said furiously.  “What did you do?”

Credence hunched his shoulders.  He had almost a foot in height on Dorothy, not to mention quite a lot of muscle mass and training.  She shouldn’t have been able to put the fear of the Goddess in him, but she really, really did.

“He challenged Warlord Grindelwald to a duel,” Percival said, when it became clear that neither Credence nor Alex was going to fess up and risk the wrath of Dorothy.

“You what?” demanded Dorothy.  She smacked him with her project bag.  Since Dorothy’s project bag usually contained at least two knitting projects, her sewing kit, and a half-completed bit of embroidery, getting smacked with it was like getting hit with a very squishy mace, or possibly a porcupine.  A bit soft, a little heavy and full of unexpected pointy bits.

“You didn’t hear the things he said,” Credence protested.  “He was being awful to the Queen.”

“You idiot,” Dorothy said, reaching up to grab one of Credence’s ears and twist hard, dragging him down to her eye level.  “You think the Queen hasn’t heard anything Warlord Grindelwald might have to say before?  She’s an unmarried monarch and a woman, you idiot.  She hears that sort of bile all the time, and you don’t see her picking fights now do you?”

“Ow,” said Credence.  “Ow, ow, ow.  Let go, Dorothy!”  He gently pried her fingers off his ear.  “I know that.  I’ve sat in on too many meetings with Percival not to know that even our own nobles sometimes look at Queen Seraphina like she’s a piece of meat.  But Warlord Grindelwald was worse about it.  The things he said, about the Queen, about Percival – he went beyond acceptable rudeness.  Queen Seraphina can’t call him out for it, because he came here to propose marriage to her and that would cause a diplomatic incident.  Percival can’t either, for the same reason.  But me?  I’m nobody.  Just a squire.  I can call Warlord Grindelwald out, and no one will care because everyone will think I’m just a dumb kid.”

“Oh,” Dorothy said, her expression softening.  “What did he say?”

Credence set his jaw stubbornly.  “I’m not repeating it.  It was vulgar and rude.”  Just thinking about it made him tremble faintly with rage.  He wasn’t sure what he objected to more – Warlord Grindelwald’s casual assumption that Queen Seraphina was somehow beneath him, when she had royal blood and he had none, or the fact that Warlord Grindelwald assumed that Queen Seraphina and Percival were lovers.

They had been, once, when she was a princess and he was her father’s squire.  Everyone knew that.  But that was over a decade ago, and they were friends now.

“I don’t care if you keep bedding him, so long as you give me an heir,” Warlord Grindelwald had said.  “Frankly, I’d like a go at him myself.  He’s a comely looking creature, your Champion.”

That had been when Credence slapped him with his gloves.

“I hope you don’t expect me to fight your squire, Champion,” Warlord Grindelwald had said.

“It’s the honorable thing to do,” Percival had pointed out mildly.  “Credence is the one who challenged you, not me.”

Warlord Grindelwald had stared at him.  “I’m fairly certain you’re meant to be talking me out of this,” he’d said eventually.  “Or do you value the boy’s life so cheaply?”

Percival had smiled at him, all teeth.  “On the contrary, I value Credence’s life very dearly indeed.  I also have faith in his training.”

“Fine,” said the warlord.  “On your head be it, then.”

“If you get killed,” Dorothy said, “I will be very upset with you.”

“Not half as upset as I will be,” said Percival, stepping up to tie one of his handkerchiefs around Credence’s elbow.  “If Seraphina gave you a favor, things would get political again,” he said.  “You should have something, though,” he added, as though Percival’s favor was some sort of consolation prize.

“I’d rather have yours than hers,” Credence told him.

“Don’t get killed,” Percival told him.

“Is that your advice?” Credence inquired.  “Don’t get killed?”

“It’s good advice,” Percival said.  “Also, he’s partially blind in his right eye.  Use that to your advantage, if you can.”

Credence nodded and stepped into the training yard.  They had an audience.  Other Scanrans from Warlord Grindelwald’s retinue.  The wild mage Newt, who cared for the palace menagerie and spoke to animals as if they were people.  Percival’s friend Dame Win, and the newly minted Dame Tina, who had been Dame Win’s squire not long ago.  Dame Tina’s sister Queenie, from the kitchens, and her husband Jacob.

“Last chance to back out, boy,” the warlord taunted him.  

“I’m no coward,” Credence retorted.  “But feel free to back out, if you’d like.”

“I’m going to enjoy killing you,” Warlord Grindelwald mused.

“May I remind you, Grindelwald, that your duel will go until one of you yields,” Queen Seraphina interjected coldly.  

“Of course,” Grindelwald said, feigning gentility.  Lower, so only Credence could hear him, he said, “Death is a form of yielding, after all.”

“Begin!” Queen Seraphina commanded.

Grindelwald attacked first.  He was older and more muscular than Credence was, fighting with a heavy broadsword it would be suicide to try and block.  The Scanrans favored heavy weaponry, like spears and broadswords and maces.  Their fighting style was completely different from the Tortallan one, but Credence had spent the last year on the border fighting bandits with Percival.  He knew how to deal with Scanrans.

“Broadswords are great in a melee,” Percival had told him.  “Especially if you don’t care about inflicting collateral damage.  But they’re shit in close quarters combat.  Their length and the fact that they’re unwieldy make them impractical weapons for a knight.”

“The bandits like them well enough,” Credence had pointed out.  A broadsword seemed like a decent weapon for a mounted knight.

“Of course they do, they’re idiots.  They think the size of the sword is what matters, not to mention the muscles it takes to swing the bloody things.  You have to out think the bastards.  Get in close, where their range limits their maneuverability.  Finish your opponent off quick, and get out of range if you have to.”

Credence sidestepped Grindelwald’s initial strike, moving in close.  He meant to draw first blood, just to humiliate Grindelwald, but he hadn’t counted on Grindelwald being so fast.  He dodged another blow, ducking beneath it the way the Shang Hippogriff had taught him to.  He wasn’t as good at tumbling as Theseus was, not in armor, and Grindelwald landed a blow that was going to bruise like hell on his shoulder.

Credence gritted his teeth.  He wasn’t going to let Grindelwald defeat him.  Grindelwald was fast, but he was pretty sure that he was faster.  He had the advantage of youth and flexibility on his side.

He ducked in close again, using his sword to parry the broadsword away and managing to knick Grindelwald with his knife.  Grindelwald hissed at him.

Credence laughed and did it again, alight with glee.  Grindelwald had made himself a warlord by conquering anyone in his path, but he was no match for a proper Tortallan knight.

If he hadn’t been so out of his head on adrenaline, Credence never would have thought that.  The gods punished hubris.

No one had mentioned that Grindelwald was Gifted.  He gestured at Credence, his hands glowing white, and Credence fell over screaming, every nerve in his body screaming with him like he’d been struck by lightning.

“Using your Gift during a fight is dishonorable,” Percival shouted angrily.

“Bah,” spat Grindelwald.  “You Tortallans are so hung up on your honor.  It makes you easy to kill.”

“You’ve got magic,” Credence said, rolling over onto his hands and knees.  “That’s nice.  I’ve got magic, too.”  Credence had wild magic, like Newt, although his didn’t manifest with animals or anything found in nature.  He was pretty much a one trick pony, although it was a damned impressive trick, if Credence said so himself.

He let the magic take him, his eyes leeching white while his body became insubstantial, like smoke.  He curled his fingers into claws and leapt towards Grindelwald, laughing when Grindelwald’s sword passed right through him.  Grindelwald couldn’t hurt him when he was like this, but Credence could hurt Grindelwald.  He batted the Scanran’s sword out of his hands and pounced on him, slamming him to the ground and curling his clawed hands around Grindelwald’s throat.

“Yield,” he hissed, claws drawing blood.  “Yield, damn you.”

There was nothing but hate on Grindelwald’s face.  “I yield,” he snarled.

He would be trouble.  Credence could see it in his eyes.  For a second, he was tempted to drag his claws against Grindelwald’s throat anyway and spare them all future sorrow, and then Percival’s hand closed around the bit of smoke currently functioning as Credence’s shoulder.

“That’s enough, lad.  You’ve won.  Let him up,” Percival said quietly.

Percival could touch him, when Credence was his shadow-self.  Credence didn’t know why he could, but Percival had always been able to.  Credence let himself go human again, his nerves still twinging in pain from whatever Grindelwald had done.

Transforming always made Credence feel wobbly and weak.  Jacob was already moving towards him, pulling a pastry out of his apron pocket.  “Good fight,” he told Credence.

“Yes,” Percival said.  “You did well.”  He cupped Credence’s cheek in one hand, and for a second Credence thought that Percival might kiss him.  Then Percival ruined the moment by ruffling his hair.  “It won’t be long before we’re calling you Sir Credence,” he murmured.

Credence grinned, because Percival could hardly complain about a power imbalance between them if Credence had his shield.  “I can’t wait,” he said.

One corner of Percival’s mouth quirked up, a there and gone wry smile that happened so fast Credence almost thought he’d imagined it.  “Me neither.”

The way Credence fights as the obscurus is inspired by Emily from Dishonored 2, with many thanks to @halcyoncoast for showing me the trailer and inspiring many new Credence headcanons.

#my fic #Graves/Credence #fbawtft #prompt meme #Tortall AU #not-wisely