#which is a little sad maybe but also its completely fine.

[llycaons]

I don't want to ever get married unless a miracle happens or something ig but I particularly don't want the vision of marriage the older women at my old job envisioned for me when they told me I'd be doing some man's laundry. ick

#I barely like doing my own laundry #maybe I'll feel differently if I Fall in Love but ngl I do not see that in the cards for myself #which is a little sad maybe but also its completely fine. #I would much rather have more friends but you see that's going terribly. #I make 1 new friend every like. 1-2 years and then barely see them #my sibling talks abt hanging out w their friends all the time oooh im jealous #I wishhl my mutuals could come hang out Id love to meet you guys in person. #like anyone ive had a conversation with id honestly be fine to meet. im 27. whats going to happen #if I had a wife I actually wouldn't mind as much im not going to lie. atill would be a hard sell for laundry #cor.txt

[theminecraftbee]

So, here's the thing:

Tango knows that Zedaph is this close to staging an intervention.

He lies against the wiring for Decked Out and stares at the ceiling. He should probably be more concerned about that. Early-season Tango would be concerned about that; a situation getting bad enough that Zedaph, of all people, is ready to stage an intervention is normally a sign it's gotten pretty dang bad. But he's close. He's so close. And it's not like he's worried, not anymore.

He'd been worried, once? Like, he'd been scared, at some point of what the Frozen Citadel was starting to do to him. But now that he's there--

If he's asked, Tango will say it's mutualism, and not elaborate, because if anyone stages enough of an intervention to stop Decked Out from finishing what it's started, he's probably going to scream. He's probably going to always wonder. Worst of all, he won't finish the game on time. So like, so what if it's eating him a little? Or a lot? Or basically completely, given that he's pretty sure the damage is irreversible at this point?

Anyway, it doesn't matter. Start of the season Tango probably would care more, but like, it's mutual. Decked Out gets to eat Tango. Use him as an appropriate game piece. Sometimes as a processor. To do repairs. Whatever. It's important for the whole process. And Tango gets a sick game. Which, for some, sounds like an absurd trade-off, but it's not just the game, okay?

It's not just--

If it were just "I need to let my accidentally very sentient and very large base eat me to finish the game", he might do it? But he wouldn't, like, be actively conspiring to hide the fact that he's starting to be physically incapable of breathing like, normal oxygen and stuff. He wouldn't be conspiring to hide just how literal the shop item allowing you to control the gamemaster is. He wouldn't be trying to hide how close he is to just--being another part of Decked Out. Not being a "Tango" as an individual, but being a part of the machine. Basically a really fancy redstone component.

If it were just "he's really proud and he'd be sad if it took longer", he wouldn't have hung a sheep on the outside of the building to make sure some part of Decked Out knows that Zedaph is its friend, once there isn't a Tango to remind it of that properly. He would have asked Zedaph to actually do that intervention he's planning.

He didn't. He acted like he had several more weeks than he probably did. But it's fine. Decked Out ate the fear, anyway, so he can't feel it, and whatever sense of desire to like, not be redstone component was probably eaten also, and. And.

He's not sure how to describe it in a way that doesn't make him sound insane, but--

It's so close. Decked Out is so close to eating him completely. And that should be terrifying, if that weren't the first thing that got dissolved away, if he hadn't been scared since forever. Maybe, somewhere, there's part of him that is scared. There's a lot of him that knows he should be.

But those moments, the ones he's having more and more, where he forgets he's Tango. Where he forgets he's anything but part of the machine. And he's part of something big, and great, and he has a specific use, and he's aware for all of it but not aware of being himself, and he can feel exactly how he's important to the great machine and he does his job and absolutely everything else fades away entirely and he is the Game Master and even that's not an individual identity it's part of a whole it's part of something beautiful it's part of something so, so alive while not being alive at all and, and then--and then he's not done being eaten yet. And the Tango comes in. The fear, the insecurity, the, the flaws.

And he'd just lie there, and he'd feel it. The almost-just-a-part. The sense of just--being, and not being anyone in particular, but being. The lack of self. He'd feel the voltage from the redstone wires and try to capture it again, and be unable to, not on his own.

Not while he's left as Tango, at least a little bit uneaten.

So. Uh. He told you he didn't know how to describe it without sounding insane. But he'll never forgive himself. Never forgive himself if he doesn't find out what happens when it's done. What it's like to just--be a part of Decked Out and nothing else. What it feels like to give in completely.

Therefore. Zedaph. Intervention. Pretend he's better than he is so Zedaph doesn't do that. It shouldn't be long now. The amount of time he's aware and Tango is--less. The amount of fear is--it's entirely gone now. The amount he thinks "gee beginning of season Tango would say this is a bad plan" is almost zero.

The game is almost ready to open.

If he can just hold out that long, then there won't be anything anyone could do.

They'll be too busy having fun with the game, anyway. With any luck, no one will notice.

#hermitcraft #tangotek #a bee fic #hey remember the ficlets about decked out eating tango? well. #the thing is: the obvious way decked out eats its players is by killing them. but killing tango isn't the kind of nutrients decked out need #it needs his mind. it needs his hands. it needs him to play his part. #so the easiest thing for decked out to digest away THERE would just be tango's sense of self. #so he's broken down into the most useful component part of himself to the greater organism #and it got to the fear first so he wouldn't realize quite how bad of an idea letting it finish might be. #horror #idk what kind of horror so here take the tag #anyway. this thought won't leave my head so have fun!

[pleasured-ambrosia]

hi!! could you do a drabble of miguel protecting fem!reader from an ex or something like that? also i love your work !!

((Might get put on Ao3. Have not decided. College is hard. This was also written to be like pre-ASTV, back when Miguel wasn’t so sad and grumpy.))

The sound of your back popping breaks the long silence in Miguel’s office, your arms stretching to the ceiling as you let out a yawn. You had begun the long process of cataloging the many anomalies faced by fellow Spider-People that morning. However, even as the little clock at the bottom of your laptop screen flashes the late hour of the night, your stack of encounters is still tall enough to wobble at the slightest bump against your desk. The reports—if one could even call them that—are a mix of typed and written sheets of paper, as well as the stray napkin blobbed with ketchup or more mysterious substances.

Although it had been your idea to keep a database of anomaly encounters, you couldn’t have predicted that Spider-People had such . . . diverse forms of keeping track of their adventures.

A mug appears in your peripheral, breaking you from your thoughts. Your eyes follow the large hand wrapped around its handle, landing on the vague shape of Miguel O’Hara’s face, lit only by the orange hues of his computers. At one point, he had offered to teach you how to use them, but the process only put off your project’s completion further.

“I’m just taking a break,” you half-defend, half-yawn.

“Nah,” replies Miguel, nudging the mug closer to you. “You’re done for the night. Get some sleep.”

You sipped from the mug, letting the taste of herbal tea drown out your complaints. Your eyes take in Miguel’s form, noting that his usual blue and red suit was replaced with a gray jogging suit better-suited for your dimension than his. “No patrolling tonight?”

“I will after I take you home.”

You raise a brow with a small grin. “I can work a portal just fine, you know.”

“It’s not that.” Miguel’s stance shifts as he shoves his large hands into his pockets. “I just want to make sure you get home safe.”

Your grin widens. “So I can’t take care of myself, is that it?”

Miguel lets out a frustrated noise from the back of his throat. “No, I didn’t mean it like that . . . Por Dios, I just mean—“

“Miguel, relax. I’m messing with you. Walk me home if you want, but I have to stop by the store on the way home. Sound good?”

“As long as it’s quick.” Yet Miguel didn’t seem to mean it, watching as you pack up your laptop and roll up its charging cable. The two of you look almost normal standing in Miguel’s office, with him dressed in sweats and you opting out of your Spider-ensemble for an oversized sweater and a pair of jeans. You sling your laptop bag over your shoulder, imagining what it would be like for Miguel to walk you to a train or a bus rather than busting out a portal. You could probably make a decent living off data entry, but what would Miguel do? Maybe he would be a scientist, and despite working in two different departments, maybe he would become your friend.

“What’re you thinking about?” Miguel asks. He taps a button on his watch (which he would insist is, in fact, way cooler than a watch.) A portal of geometric shapes in red, orange, and yellow opens in the middle of Miguel’s lab, swirling with anticipation.

The vision of Miguel in a white coat and a button-up makes you snort. “Nothing.”

Before Miguel can press further, you grab his forearm and drag him through the portal.

Miguel has more practice at inter-dimensional than you, so it wasn’t much of a surprise that he remained calm as the portal thrusted the two of you through time and space. You, however, are less professional, waving your arms and resisting the urge to scream as your stomach turns into knots.

Landing on his feet, Miguel catches you before you can face plant onto the pavement of Earth-575, otherwise known as home. Your face burns with embarrassment as it hits the center of his chest and your arms wrap around Miguel’s middle. He’s warm, you think. And soft!

It was obvious to everyone in the Spider-Society that Miguel was in great shape. After all, most of the Spider training regiments had come from some of his own workouts. The man could probably rearrange your apartment without breaking a sweat, which was why it came as such a shock that despite Miguel’s muscles, you feel ready to snuggle into him like a pillow.

“You should really work on sticking that landing.”

You push Miguel away to glare up at his smug face. “You’ll get humbled real fast when I knock your ass to the ground.”

At that, Miguel roars with laughter. “I’d like to see you try.”

You huff, spinning around to take a look at the nearest street sign. The nearest convenience store is only two blocks away, making your apartment only an extra two. “Let’s move it, O’Hara. If you’re nice, I’ll buy you a snack.”

Although Miguel could very well buy his own snacks, he follows you anyways, taking extra care to shorten his strides so that he can walk by your side. Most of the residents of your city are tucked in bed by now, although a handful of lights accompany the sporadic streetlights. Besides the occasional rat or partygoer, you and Miguel are the only ones still out.

“Did you think the college kids were going to kidnap me in the middle of the night?” you tease.

“Absolutely,” Miguel deadpans. “They’d lock you in the basement of their frat house, and you’d starve because they haven’t gone grocery shopping since the semester started.”

“Is that what you did in college? Lure people into your frat house of doom?”

“Absolutely not.” Miguel beams with pride, his chest puffing out. “I was on the quiz bowl team.”

Your cackles bounce off the tall buildings lining the streets. Tears spring from the corners of your eyes as you clutch your stomach to keep it from aching. You can picture it now: a scrawny, awkward Miguel with thick glasses frantically consulting his team for the championship-winning answer.

“And when did you become all of this?” you ask, gesturing at Miguel.

He ponders this for a moment. “I didn’t become Spider-Man until I joined Alchemax, but I guess I branched out a little more towards the end of undergrad. Got more into working out, making connections.”

You turn around a corner, finding the entrance to a small convenience store. A small bell rings as you pull open the door, Miguel propping his arm over your head so that you can enter first.

“I’ll just be a second,” you assure him.

“One,” Miguel starts.

“Real mature, O’Hara.”

“Two.”

“Seriously, I’m going to web your mouth shut.”

“Three.”

“I swear to God—“

“Four—“

You make a beeline for the coolers towards the back, tuning out Miguel’s chuckling. By the time you pick out a half-gallon of milk, he’s perusing the long aisles of chips. You never really stopped to ask what kind of brands and flavors Miguel has in his dimension. They banned cigarettes and absurdly large sodas at gas stations, but that was all you heard. You make a mental note to ask, maybe even to buy Miguel something new to try.

You load up on a mishmash of items that hardly pass for a late-night dinner, filling your arms with small plastic bowls of cereal, styrofoam cups of ramen, and an overpriced bag of beef jerky. It’s not until you start weighing the pros and cons of ice cream over chocolate that you notice him.

His hair is longer than when you saw him last, curling around his ears in dark tufts. His guitar case is slung over his shoulder, and judging by the heavy eyeshadow and leather pants, he must’ve had a gig earlier.

You decide to skip grabbing something sweet, spinning around to make a beeline for the cashier when he calls out your name.

Shit.

You turn around slowly, heart hammering in your throat. It takes everything in you to force a smile. “Kasey, hey.”

“Long time no see. Haven’t seen you at The Clover lately.”

“Oh, you know,” you’re thankful that the bundle of snacks in your arms gives you something to hold, “just been busy. Haven’t had time to go out.”

You used to rehearse this moment in the bathroom. You had a whole script where you laid everything out on the table—gave Kasey the verbal beat down he deserved. Yet as you stand across from him, the words won’t come out. Is it my Spidey-sense? you wonder, but this feels different. Your Spidey-sense always led you to action. Whatever this was . . . it was paralyzing.

“I tried texting you,” Kasey continues.

I changed my number, you want to say.

“I haven’t been checking my messages lately.” Your voice cracks at the end, and you can tell Kasey noticed. Kasey always noticed.

“We should grab a drink, then. I actually just finished up tonight if you want to—“

“Are you ready to go?”

A large arm wraps around the small of your back and pulls you close, prompting a small oomf. You tilt your head back to look at Miguel. “Oh, uh, yeah. I’m ready.”

Kasey says your name again and smiles, sending a shiver down your spine. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

Miguel smiles down at Kasey, who barely reaches his chest. The expression looks more like a test than one out of sincerity. “I’m Miguel, and you are interrupting our date.”

Before you can reply, Miguel steers you to the cashier. He sets a bag of chips you didn’t even realize he was holding onto the counter and waits for you to do the same. You reach for your wallet, but Miguel’s faster, handing the cashier a twenty and not bothering to wait for the change as he takes the plastic grocery bags. As he escorts you out of the convenience store, you catch one last glimpse of Kasey’s slack-jawed face.

“I can’t believe you just did that,” you moan halfway down the block.

“I have paid for your snacks plenty of times.”

“No, not that. You shut him up just like that!” You snap your fingers for emphasis. “And you said we were on a date. And you put your arm around me!”

“It was the first thing that came to mind!” argues Miguel. “I didn’t need your Spider-sense—“

“Spidey-sense.”

“Lo que sea—to tell that you needed a little help.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Some great hero I am,” you grumble. “Can’t even handle an ex-boyfriend on my own.”

“We all have people that get under our skin. And sometimes no matter how hard we try to get them out, we can’t.”

Miguel’s gaze focuses on the street ahead, his face contemplative.

“You know, a convenience store would be a pretty lame first date.”

Miguel shrugs. “Well, if you’re going to be so ungrateful, I guess I’ll just eat all of this junk food myself.”

You did not tease Miguel for the rest of the night.

#miguel o’hara x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel ohara #miguel x you #miguel x y/n #mimi writes #reader insert #across the spiderverse #spider man 2099 #miguel o'hara #x reader

[ariicandy]

𝘋𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘞𝘢𝘺 𝘠𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧 𝘋𝘰𝘸𝘯…

About ; You’ve been feeling down on not being the best like your older siblings Lyney & Lynette. You always practice on how to do the trick yourself over and over again but only burdens you out to which, your dear sibling notice your change of personality

A/n ; been wanting to write something for quite some time with my super duper lack of motivation , been also feeling sad lately might as well try cheering myself up by writing my favorite siblings !! FYI : freminet is only mention, he isn’t here sorry :(

Word count : 972

Being siblings with the famous twin magicians has its funs. Like also sometimes being in their performance as an assistant and show the item they will be using is completely empty, nothing is there etc. but recently you started to practice more to be more on the stage with your older siblings and to get better as well! You would ask time to time on help to maintain that unfazed look when doing a trick to get advice on what to do. Maybe that’s the reason you’ve been feeling down and tired.

You’ve been practicing for hours trying to perfect everything for a single trick even your facial expression in the mirror to really challenge yourself, you would nonstop until it was perfect just like how Lyney does them. You sat down on the couch tired, head looking down as about to pass out of being so tired. Lyney got curious on you looking so low lately, you’ve been coming back home bit more tired and almost sad too. “[Name]! Are you alright? You’ve been looking tired and down a lot almost everyday, did something happen??” It was, to you, normal on Lyney checking up on you more whenever he saw you. While lynette and Freminet both wait til you’re both alone to see if you are possible dealing with something in secret you don’t want everyone to know. But lynette also slowly started to walk towards you with Lyney from how your state is, is it really that noticeable from how exhausted you are now? “Oh I’m fine lyney I’m just a little tired that’s all! There’s nothing to worry about..” trying to hide the tiredness in your voice you tried to imitate your normal voice but your face says it all and no point in hiding it anyways. “You sure? You look like you could pass out on the couch right now just by seeing you lending on the arm rest.” Lynette said trying to reason with your words. “Wait, [name], is it because both me and lynette haven’t been spending with you and freminet in a while because of our shows?” Well you did miss spending time with your older brother and sister, but that was not really the reason. “No no it’s not-” You got cut off by lyney hugging you saying “I’m sorry [name]!! I swear! No, I promise! I’ll make both you and freminet up for it! I’ll buy you your favorite-” “Lyney no no it’s okay that’s..not the reason..” both your brother and sister faces’ changed to a worried one from your response, did they do something they have not realized?? Were their spam on attention really went to zero with both you and freminet?!

Fidgeting with your sleeve trying to calm down your nerves, were you this nervous on wanting to be like them? Lyney & lynette could see you were nervous on saying your reason on sudden behavior, they even were scared and nervous a bit waiting, thinking they did something wrong. “[Name], if you’re not ready to say why or only want one of us we can do that and wait, we don’t want you to feel force.” Your sister tried reassuring you, but think it’s time to tell them why. “No no it’s fine sister! I was just trying to find the word to start.” Taking a deep breath to hopefully calm down, you started to tell your sister and brother your reason. “The reason I’ve been coming home tired, exhausted and sometimes sad too is cause..i was practicing tricks you guys do to perfect them and be like you. I like being on the stage with both of you, it’s like im part of the performance with you guys and not just a side assistant to show the crowd whatever you are using is really empty… I just really want to be like you two.” Tears were fighting to come out, you tried hiding your face away from your older siblings to see and scared for their reaction.

In the other hand, both your brother and sister, lyney & lynette, were shocked from why you were so tired and sad you also wanted to be on stage with them, they both had sad faces from you trying to hide your face to not cry. Tears were slowly beginning to form in lyney’s face from seeing you sad, lyney began to hug you tightly near him after a few moments which shocked you seeing your brother like this. Lynette made her way to hug you too seeing there was some space for her to sit and hug you. “[Name] it’s my fault for making yourself practice on wanting to be on stage, you impress both me, Lynette and everyone on how incredible you do them! It’s my fault for this [name], lynette has been bugging me about it because I’ve been scared something might go wrong in on of our tricker stunts. So I’ve been holding you back a lot and i knew i shouldn’t, I’m sorry i made you feel this way dear [sister/brother/sibling], can i make it up to you somehow?” You have never seen you older brother looking so low before and apologizing so much, you hugged your brother tightly. “Can..I be on stage with you guys on your next performance then??” Lynette added to your response with, “it’s only fair after making them feel this way lyney, and should be time [name] to be in our performances now since now you opened up to her why.” Lyney sighed and only nodded his head from being scolded by his sister, “Yes [name] will be us now, no need to make me feel more bad about myself now after [name] being open to us.” A small fond smile appeared on you from now finally going to perform with your older siblings.

#★☆﹒writing #genshin impact x reader #genshin x reader #platonic genshin x reader #lyney x reader #lynette x reader #freminet x reader #lyney x sibling reader #lynette x sibling reader #freminet x sibling reader #genshin x sibling reader #genshin impact x sibling reader

[adobe-outdesign]

can you review acara? i JUST learned they’re supposed to be aquatic, i don’t see it at all

Maybe I'm biased because I have one, but I've always really enjoyed Acaras. They're a completely abstract creature, to the point where it's hard to pin down what they even resemble the most.

The head is the most distinctive feature, as they sport two doubled-up ears and a pair of fur-covered horns (which are actually flexible). They also have no tails, which is something you don't see a lot when it comes to fantasy quadrupeds. Both their furless paws and ears match in color, making them pop and balancing the palette. (Pink's not my favorite accent color, but it at least makes sense here given that it's their skin.) Finally, their underbellies further break up the design, making for a nice-looking Neopet all around.

And as for the aquatic thing: those split ears used to a pair of fins, back when the Acara was still called the Tigren:

Even though you can't tell they're aquatic just by looking at them nowdays, I'd argue that they do still give off a diving mammal vibe. I think it's the furless paws combined with the the short fur—they're like the otters of the Neopet world (except not literally, because the Lutari is the otter of the Neopet world, but you get the idea). I also seem to recall that they use their horns to help them steer when diving, furthering their swimming capabilities.

And as for customization, the Acara came out on top, basically remaining unaltered except for a raised paw and a slightly less joyful expression. A lot of things got cleaned up, such as the horn structure and the feet being less weirdly shiny. The only downside is that I swear the heads got bigger, but otherwise I feel like the converted version is slightly better.

Favorite Colours:

Grey: I already spotlighted this one in my grey color review so I won't get into too much detail here, but the grey Acara is super pretty. The converted version is pretty standard (though the tears and eyebags at least make it extra sad), but the UC/styled version is perfect. I love the horns being flopped forward and how it's looking up while leaning forward, giving it a particularly pitiful look. The shading is also pretty nice as well.

Chocolate: I think what makes this one work is the amount of detail. I love the little white chocolate drizzle that accents the head, collar, back, and paws, with whipped cream on top and extra chocolate fudge on the back. What really makes it though are the waffle paws/ears and the horns, which are white chocolate with milk chocolate striping. The mostly brown palette is also lovely and high-contrast.

Plushie: You know what, I just think I like Acaras with stripes on their horns. I've always liked plushie Acaras for reasons similar to chocolate; the ears/paws have a nice pattern to them, and the striped patterns really pop due the use of aquamarine and yellow against the duller blue base. Both versions are fine; the converted version looks a bit less creepy, but it looses major points for having normal eyes instead of button eyes (especially because the button eyes accented the orange patch on the foreleg) and also loosing the stitching on its chest. Still, it's a nice-looking color all around.

BONUS: I have to give the pastel Acara a shout-out because it's the color of my Acara. :) They're not particularly fancy compared to the above colors, but the light green and yellow palette combined with the subtle pinkish shading really makes this one nice to look at.

#neopets #neotag #acara #neopet reviews

[stuckasmain]

Dave’s old life is cast aside and he is reborn (semi-literally) as a star child. It is an ending that has left many baffled, including me, but is ultimately a touching end and beginning.

Dave ends the story an evolved being, yet not so far detached from his human origin. He still has a great deal of emotion and curiosity - he becomes a baby because he simply is one when it comes to understanding the universe. He could go anywhere, do anything and yet he goes to earth. He goes and watches over it like a shiny toy, while his physical ties have been severed he’s still attached to it- almost like a mother, if we stay with the baby metaphor.

Eventually he will move on from it but for now he is a protector of sorts. The guardian of earth. He stops the bomb not for his own sake but because he simply wants humanity to continue on- he stops a potential doomsday!

It’s too bad this is completely uprooted in the following bits of the series. He is “beyond” emotion, he is on Europa. I would be fine if the evolution or planet was focused on even remotely besides the same few paragraphs, he’s transformed and cast aside. All of the prior meaning is rebuked, all of his humanity removed. See it wasn’t the transformation that did it but the story itself— as it decided to pivot and couldn’t just have him watching. He must be a blank slate. He must be elsewhere- he can’t even enjoy watching the other planet or if he does we don’t really hear of it.

Dave becomes more of a plot device than a person, as a star child there’s so many facinating things you could do with him. For one thing a dressing the trauma that came from that and before, and — again either guardian of earth - self chosen- or we actually see his involvement elsewhere. He becomes a just as much of a tool as the monolith.

Not only is his humanity stripped but his agency, in 2010 he describes himself as a dog on a leash a good number of times. While I absolutely adore that metaphor, it’s so tragic and not even acknowledged as such?! (Again so much could be considered cosmic horror and it’s either had waved or blankly accepted) he went from a near omnipotent being to LOSING LARGE CHUNKS OF TIME AND BEING USED AS A PROBE. He’s suddenly beyond humanity when he was so attached before; he becomes apathetic incredibly fast. (Which, as a immortal being is understandable but it’s absolutely unearned and not in character) -> my issue isn’t with him becoming a tool of some higher power it’s that it’s sort of hand waved “it is how it is” and not addressed how messed up and interesting it is.

Now I’ve yet to read 3001 but my point here broadly stands. I fully believe it should’ve ended after 2010, as it comes across as very very clear it was a two book story and 2061 is a whole separate one with some characters tossed into it.

Arcs were over. There was a bit more explanation as to what happened in the first one; we got closure alongside Heywood. Things were set up for the future but it was more in a way for you to view them as fully developed not exactly a sequel. (Like the Hal 10,000 idea). It’s frustrating because Dave as a Starchild can lead to so many interesting things and it was a beautiful idea in 2001 but … after that it mistreats and mischarectetizes Him so fast in a way that frustrates me to no end. Maybe if there was an actual focus or exploration I could understand the direction but making him a cut out god figure is such a sad end.

A child of the stars still clinging to its former life, its humanity…

Oh what could have been. I’d like to imagine Dave would’ve never completely… not been Dave, yes over centuries he may subdue emotions, his interest may waver but what we get is a name and maybe some memory.

—

Clarification:

I fully enjoy 2010, my issues with Dave in that are minimal just that it’s a little sad he swaps guardianship but I can understand. I was excited and interested in Europa… only for that too also get sort of ignored.

There’s also some interesting points to come out of 2061 - how the monolith works, conversing with Hal and he does seem to have a genuine interest in study but it’s also where he’s sort of a name drop and little else

It’s the stripping him of his emotion and character that really gets me - as it’s a route that isn’t earned as Clark absolutely does not write about trauma or if he does it’s a off handed “ok so everyone dying and the monolith was a little scary but now I’m blue and don’t care” it’s even true for human characters idk

I pick and choose what I want to keep from the further books honestly, we’ll see if 3001 fixes this or if this rant grows longer. I’m just sad, Dave’s such a fascinating character and he’s so mistreated?

#2001 a space odyssey #2001 aso #2010 the year we make contact #2061 odyssey three #3001 the final odyssey #dave bowman #David bowman #2001 meta #fandom essay #rant #ramble #space odyssey series #space odyssey books #arthur c clarke

[arosspeaksnonsense]

So... I had a like, one shot fic type story idea

I probs won't be able to write it since I require full focus/dedication/attention to something when i want it to come into fruition (which is already difficult as is) and also since I have too much going on in my head and I want to do all of it, but instead I find myself doing nothing all day please god help me idk what this is called (my guess is laziness)

BUT anyways, onto the story idea

You know how ink's vials and I guess livelihood depends entirely on the creators/fandom? (Ok I guess not ENTIRE but his vials do depend on it, which is the things that essentially makes him alive.)

Well, since the fandom is not very active as it was when it was like, 2016-2017 (not saying its dead)

What if the fandom, just, dies? I mean duh its inevitable and Ink is silently pleading that the last creators hopefully won't leave but he knows its inevitable, no matter how hard he tries to make them stay, some of them already starting to give up.

The others notice ink's change in behavior and ink tells them the entire the thing and how he has only a few more time left to be alive I guess.

The others obviously distraught about this, but ink reassures them its fine, but the others weren't convinced

And then they find ink maybe sobbing or terrified as he tells them that the creators all left and are all gone and that he's probably going to go soon too.

This makes the others panic and desperately asks ink if there is another way for his vials to work, in which he sadly answers no.

they then dedicate the next few days into making sure ink is enjoying every second of the very little time he has left.

As they slowly looses all his colors one by one, eventually he looses all of them completely, which leaves them being the same emotionless, soulless skeleton he started as before.

Everyone is left in distraught and sadness

All his friends all sobbed and cried, some silently and/or internally crying, as their once lively, creative and cheerful friend, now nothing more than an empty shell of what he once were.

A hollow husk, with an emotionless and empty expression.

A painful reminder hit all of them, that they will never get that face to smile ever again. the same face that used to grin and laugh all the time.

The cheerful smile that he let out as he pranks and greets others, the lively motivations he loved giving to everyone.

The Laughs and snorts he gave out whenever he got someone in a prank, or from a joke not many understand, if any one did at all. And how when he becomes too flustered, or when too much euphoria and happiness comes flooding his feelings, he will starting to float in the air and continuously go up until the euphoria ends and they eventually go back down.

His Lips(?) Now closed and sealed shut

No sign of a tone or a voice to speak

The hands that used to paint with such freedom and care, the hands that used to make such magnificent and beautiful paintings, that gorgeously and perfectly replicate reality as if though it was reality itself. The fingers that used to dance around the flute as it made music, the hands that sew not only fabrics of clothing but also the fabrics of reality.

Gone is the passion in his hands that once were, the hands that moved freely, stuck in place.

His feet that loved to dance and move wherever it goes, exposed out to the world, lacking of any visible footwear, lacking any care where it stepped and what it was on, representing freedom and free of chains.

Both now rigid and unmoving.

His eyes, oh dear his eyes. The eyes that used to express themselves so much. So expressive that it almost made you forget he lacked the very base of every being, a soul. The eyes that so greatly showed its differing and unique shapes and colors that expressed whatever emotion they were feeling.

Now reduced into an empty and pitiful circles of white, indicating emotionless and lifelessness, no more is the eyes that burst with colors and shape, only a blank stare is what remains.

He was so empty.

It terrified and saddened everyone.

The Multiverse Was filled with sobs and cries, Silence in some

The Multiverse was crying and mourning its guardian.

Dream, Distraught, knew what he had to do.

He had only known about ink's dads when Dream had been frantically looking for Ink as he had seemingly Disappeared, only to find said skeleton in the garden with a Gaster, this one had wings.

He has watched and approached carefully, but was stopped by a loud yelled by the short skeleton

He didn't know how to respond but he only walked closer, the expression on the gaster seemed..pleasantly surprised.

Not long after, dream had found out about how he isn't the only gaster in the house but two were sharing it, and how said two are married and fathers to his short friend

It was a pleasant surprise to dream

But...this surprise..

Will not be so pleasant.

As Dream was about to grab and carry Ink, The hands that intertwined on eachother, that hands being of Inks and Errors

Speaking of the glitch, Hes...probably not going to be well after this, after all besides blue, Ink was the only one that really took the time and Effort to Understand and Befriend Error, they had a very close relationship.

Error had not let go of Ink's Hand ever since the news of his depleting life. His haphephobia suddenly gone during doing so, (or is it?? I can't tell.) But now, he doesn't seem to react, only tightening his grip and continuing to look and stare into nothingness, finally Dream spoke

"Error..?, can you..let go?? Of Ink, I feel like his father's need to see this."

"...why can't they just..come here..."

" I'm afraid Aster cannot step outside of their AU"

"...fine. But I'll with you."

"Of course."

Dream opened a portal, he slowly walks through with error, who's carrying ink bridal style.

Aster and Top has not spoken over the past few days, worry littered their mind, as the news of their little star burning itself out soon had reached their non existant ears.

They spent Time with their little star, they made sure he enjoyed and had fun every second of the time they had left with him.

Eye bags shows prominent under their eyes, they hear a knock at the door, their eyes grows surprised, wishfully hoping their little hat had come to visit them again

Aster stands up and walked towards the door, a smile on his face, as he opens the door, his smile drops,

He sees the three Skeletons, and he sees especially the star that had burnt out.

Aster simply stares and does not respond, his eyes widened.

His hands slowly reaches for Ink

And Error though hesitant, give Ink to Aster.

Aster, felt like he couldn't breathe, the little star that always shined bright, so much so it didn't seem like they were ever going to die down, and yet here he is, no longer shining, his smile and laughs and snorts gone forever.

As he holds ink, he holds his hands, tears starts to flow down his face, he remembers when he held those small hands, guide them through the dirt, when Aster was teaching ink about gardening, when Aster saw the glimmer in his eyes (oh god, he will never get to see that ever again will he?) When he was watching Aster show him around the Garden, offering to show him how to grow beautiful flowers. He so excitedly followed every step so cautiously, contradicting Aster's Expectation of many mess up.

As he held into ink's tiny hands, the hands that he teached to learn many things, that he teached to not used his power so much.

He cried, he cried for ink, he cried for his child, his baby, his star.

And behind Aster, walks Top.

Eyes widened, eyes filled with tears.

There he saw his son, the little outcode that slithered their way into his life and affection, on the arms of his beloved, dead and empty,

Memories flashed as Top slowly made his way to his family. The tiny sans that laughed, smiled and cheered everyone around him, The tiny sans that was so tiny, Top's hat almost covered over half of their face, the tiny face that loved to tell stories and show paintings to their parents. His son, Ink, Dead and Empty in the Arms of his Husband.

It hit them, Ink is an outcode, he never belonged to a Universe, not in any AU, they can't just reset and reverse this like with aster or with any other sans, he truly and utterly gone.

The screams and cries of the Two Fathers, The Guardian of the Positivity, and the God of Destruction could be heard and felt throughout the entire Multiverse.

The Multiverse will never be the same.

But, at least Ink died happily with family, friends that cared for him, that stayed with him no matter his ways, his condition.

That will never forget him.

And to him it is enough.

The Multiverse Felt Empty.

#NOOOOOOO I BET ON LOSING DOGS BY MITSKI WAS PLAYING AS I WAS WRITING INK'S DADS PART #THE TIMING #ahem #anyways angst #ink angst #specifically #ink sans #utmv #undertale #ink!sans #inktale #utau #undertaleau #error sans #undertale multiverse #errorink #i might expand it on ao3 but have this for now

[onlycosmere]

Writing Styles

Would Nabokov’s writing be considered “purple prose” in today’s writing climate? by meadowillow_ 

meadowillow_ : Vladimir Nabokov is praised as one of the most gifted writers of the ornate style. Interestingly, somebody wrote an article—its title eludes me—about sending a sample of Nabokov’s writing for review. This sample was sent under a pseudonym. The advice was to make the writing simple and economical.

That made me wonder. How much of our judgements about ornate writing are post-hoc rationalisations? Do we fish for reasons to judge the writing as good because we know the author is a masterful stylist? Would we judge their writing the same if it were written by a nameless, faceless stranger on the internet?

I’m denying neither that Nabokov is an excellent writer nor that his work is immune from criticism. I just wonder how much established authors fairly evade and unknown authors bear the brunt of a certain type of criticism.

With all of this in mind:

Do you think that Nabokov’s writing would be well-received if he were an unknown author in 2024?

[I’d like to keep the focus on his writing style not on the controversial nature of some of his books.]

Great_Ad_5561:  I used an alt account to post an excerpt from an award-winning novel in r/writers, and it was torn apart. I think people these days don't appreciate anything that isn't straightforward. Of course, there are those who still enjoy it, but for the most part, lives are busier now than they were then, and to some, it is easier to read straightforward books.

Bridalhat:  Also, judging by the types of work most commonly posted here, r/writers and r/writing is not full of literary scholars, writers, or readers. Which is fine! But there’s probably more people here who like Sanderson’s prose than who have read Nabokov period, maybe excluding Lolita. 

SizeableDuck: I'm not a fan of this trend at all, though everyone's obviously entitled to their opinion.

I read Lolita recently and absolutely loved it mainly because of how witty and poetic the prose was - completely unlike anything published nowadays, not to mention its subject matter. It's clear from the first page that Nabakov was a genius.

Tried Way of Kings for the first time shortly afterwards and found it to be the driest, most watered-down thing I've ever read by comparison. The only thing about it that challenged me was reaching the final page.

I get that Sanderson has a different style and his writing is -meant- to be completely lacking in spice, style and charm in order to make his stories more palatable for the average fantasy fan nowadays, but look me in the eye and tell me you've ever laughed at the constant, god-awful wordplay in those books.

He just describes exactly what's happening in the plot and the character's heads. There's no poetry and it makes me a little bit sad to see so many people praising him as an amazing fantasy writer purely because of his plots.

You can find a ton of writers nowadays that're like Sanderson, but you can't find any closer to Nabakov.

Brandon Sanderson:  While I agree that taste is completely subjective--and it's never offensive for someone to simply not like a book--I think you're spreading some misinformation here.

Those of us trying for clean, striking prose aren't doing it to make "stories more palatable for the average fantasy fan nowadays." We do it because we like this style, and would rather the ideas--and not the method by which they are expressed--be the challenging part of a story. I find it insulting that you'd imply prose choice is anything but a literary decision made for the merits of the narrative.

This division isn't new. George Orwell was advocating for clean, crisp prose in the 40s, a full decade before Lolita was written. This push and pull between clarity and ornament stretches back to Shakespeare, whose contemporaries would lambast his flourishes as incomprehensible. (Not that I mind, obviously, literary genius being in the ornaments. It's only that I find multiple kinds of writing worthwhile.)

Moreover, you can absolutely find writers closer to Nabakov today. Guy Gavriel Kay is still writing, and is one of my favorites. (Try Under Heaven.) Hal Duncan is still writing, and is amazing, though rarely releases anything. And, of course, there's N. K. Jemisin--not the same, but most certainly "closer to Nabakov." Even the majority of the writers in the New Weird experimented with style in the same ways as I think you'd like.

Many varieties of writing are valuable to the craft, and I suggest new writers (many of whom frequent this subreddit) practice multiple styles to find the ones that appeal to them and match their narrative goals. It's totally fine to prefer one over another, but I find abundant "spice, style, and charm" in something crisp like Harrison Bergeron--indeed, I find just as much of it as I do in something like Lolita, if for different reasons.

SizeableDuck:  Much more level-headed and correct than what I was typing last night. Thanks for the recommendations, too.

Edit: Just realised you are the man himself. I take everything back.

Edit 2: By this I mean I take back my previous rudeness twofold. I had a think about it this morning when I read his reply and realised that the creatives I love to shit on have, in most cases, accomplished more than I could hope to. And in addition, probably know more about the topics I'm criticising than I do.

#the stormlight archive #the way of kings #brandon sanderson #branderson #root #wob #kind of #cfsbf #writing #writing styles

[icarusignite]

Hey! I don't know if this is the proper format (still kind of new here) but I'm sending in this prompt for an Alfred × Reader fic. There's this idea for him that was stuck in my head a couple months ago. So…

It's set either S2 or S3 but it fits better in S3 or the break between 2 and 3. Alfred is really ill which isn't unusual for him, but this time he's taking a lot longer for him to heal and he's deteriorating more seriously than he normally would.

People in court start looking around for new healers and remedies. Alfred is also kind of desperate because he doesn't want to die before England is complete or Edward is ready to take over.

Reader, who is a healer, comes to court with the intention of helping Alfred. She's neither Dane nor Saxon, if you're comfortable with it she could be of Asian or African origin/descent (eg Father Benedict in S5). She's either Muslim or Christian, either way she's well read and a bit of a scholar (if you've seen Vikings: Valhalla S2, there's a female character that might ring a bell). She's also able to reassure him, like Iseult, that she's treating him with nature's bounty and nothing sinister.

Because she's a scholar (also maybe a Christian), Alfred is comfortable that she's not practicing witchcraft so this helps him accept her more easily. It also helps them bond and they become really close friends over the course of the months she spends treating him. They have fun banter and he's able to feel like Alfred, the man around her instead of King Alfred. Then he realizes that he has feelings for her.

At this point it could go any way really. Does Aelswith factor into it much or not? Does reader reciprocate his feelings or not? If she does, would she be comfortable giving into them and being a mistress? Is Aelswith even in the picture or is this a slight AU? Do they have a sad, happy or bittersweet ending? Idk

For extra spice, Reader could also be good friends with Uhtred or Finan which makes Alfred a little jealous but also sad because he thinks that she'd probably prefer the charming, handsome, potentially single, strapping man to whatever measly affection he could offer her.

Ideally, it would be fluff or smut but whatever you're comfortable writing is fine! Sorry if this is too long but I wanted to be as clear as possible 😅. I also understand if this is too much for a oneshot and you forego the idea entirely

Alfred the great x POC! Fem! Reader

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: Heyy, so sorry this took literally eons to finally write. Thank you for your lovely request and also thank u for your patience <3 Hope you enjoy what I've done with your idea, and dw this will have another part where I'll explore their chemistry more. I watched a bunch of Alfred edits to get in the mood and ngl I'm lowkey in love with him now lmfao. 

Disclaimer: there might be some (a lot) historical discrepancies because I didn't line up the dates exactly but I did find out that the Golden Age of Islam overlapped significantly with the dates that the last kingdom spans so the reader is a prominent scholar from Baghdad. Also, Aelswith is dead (I'm sorry T_T) cuz I don't love a cheating trope even when it is sort of historically accurate. So we have single dad Alfred lol. 

The only heaven I'll be sent to is when I'm alone with you

Entering King Alfred's throne room, your senses were immediately awakened by the unfamiliar sights, sounds, and scents of Wessex. The room itself was a stark contrast to the opulent palaces and grand courts of Baghdad that you were accustomed to. The room was spacious, yet its decoration was surprisingly humble and simple, adorned with rough-hewn wooden beams and modest tapestries that depicted various scenes of English myths and prominent events. With a flash of triumph, you found that you recognized some of them from your studies of the English culture. A faint scent of burning wood from the hearth permeated the air with an earthy aroma.

You observed the nobles in attendance, or the ealdormen as they were called here, their attire markedly different from the splendid silks and jewels of Baghdad's court. Here, the people wore simpler garments made of sturdy wool and linen, in the dark colours of the earth as opposed to the the vibrant clothing the people of your home favoured.

Your gaze then turned to the throne itself. It was a robust wooden chair, its design austere yet imposing, lacking the grandeur of the magnificent thrones you had imagined English kings liked to occupy. King Alfred's regal figure atop the throne created a dignified presence. His clothing, matched the style of his ealdormen, long simple robes of a dull grey. The seat next to him was empty and you briefly wondered about his family. The chronicles you had read stated that a king's wife usually took her place beside him when he held court, but you did not know much of Alfred's wife.

Your fingers itched for your writing instruments, yearning to document all your observations and the happenings of the court. You seldom went anywhere without them, but now they remained tucked away in your satchel as you waited for the king to acknowledge your presence. You knew he had seen you enter, his eyes briefly meeting yours, even as he conversed with his ealdormen. Eventually, your thoughts began to wander and you couldn't help but reflect on the stark contrast between the scorching heat of Baghdad and the chilly bite of autumn in Wessex. your flowing linen tunic and trousers, so comfortable in the sweltering desert of your homeland, felt inadequate against the cold English air that seeped through the cracks in the stone walls.

You discreetly rubbed your tingling fingertips together, trying to generate some warmth, as the fire blazing at the hearth did little to banish the chill that had settled in your bones. Your longing for the warmth of the caliphate's sun was keenly felt in this unfamiliar and frigid environment.

Impatience welled up within you as you glanced around the chamber, noting the courtiers' stoic expressions and hushed conversations. The king's deliberations seemed to stretch on endlessly, and you found yourself yearning for the moment when you could finally present your credentials and seek the audience you had travelled so far to obtain.

King Alfred's voice finally called out your name, his voice echoing through the chamber.

"Esteemed lady, I welcome you to the court of Wessex."

The ealdormen, accustomed to the formalities of their court, were taken aback when you did not bow or curtsy as was expected. Instead, you offered a polite smile and tipped your head in a gesture of respect.

A murmur of surprise and disapproval rippled through the assembled courtiers. Some whispered that your behaviour was disrespectful, a breach of protocol. They exchanged curious glances, wondering how their king would react to this departure from tradition.

However, King Alfred took no offence. With a gracious nod, he signalled for you to speak.

"Thank you, your grace. It is an honour to be here."

Your accent was soft, lending your words a foreign intonation, and each syllable was carefully enunciated. You had spent months learning the language, and you weren't about to embarrass yourself now by messing up your pronunciation.

"I extend my deepest gratitude to you for undertaking such a long and arduous journey at my request. I hope the discomfort of the voyage did not prove too taxing."

"Your Majesty," you replied, "it was a journey of great honour for me, and I hope to make myself useful here."

King Alfred nodded appreciatively and then turned to a servant standing nearby.

"Please, ensure that the lady is provided with comfortable quarters and all the amenities she may require during your stay in Wessex."

The servant bowed in acknowledgment and stepped forward to escort you to your residence within the royal palace. You thanked the king once more for his hospitality and assistance before following the servant out of the chamber.

As you left the throne room, your observant nature couldn't help but take note of King Alfred's condition. Despite his attempt to appear at ease in his chair, you had perceived the subtle signs of discomfort. His favouring of his left side, indicating pain or injury to his right, and the unusually pallid complexion for an Englishman raised concerns in your scholarly mind. That was your purpose, after all, to try to diagnose and hopefully cure the ailing monarch.

Just when you were gone, the noblemen of King Alfred's court wasted no time in flocking around him, their curiosity piqued by the arrival of the enigmatic woman. They bombarded the king with questions and voiced their concerns about the unfamiliar customs you had displayed.

One nobleman, his voice dripping with skepticism, remarked, "Your Majesty, did you see that? She didn't bow or curtsy as she should have! It's as if she has no respect for you."

Another, eyeing your unusual attire and complexion, chimed in, "And her clothing, Your Grace! It's unlike anything I've ever seen in Wessex. She's clearly not from anywhere near England. What could she possibly want here?"

The murmurs of disapproval and suspicion spread among the courtiers, as they exchanged perplexed glances. To them, your arrival was an anomaly, and your behaviour had raised eyebrows and questions.

King Alfred, his countenance calm and measured, raised a hand to quell the growing unease.

"I understand your concerns, but there is nothing to worry about" he began, addressing their concerns. "The lady you have just met is a prominent figure from Baghdad. She has travelled from a distant land to be here and she is not here to defy our traditions or customs. She is a scholar seeking to further her studies in Wessex. Her journey to our land is a great honour, as it reflects the recognition of the importance of our own intellectual pursuits."

His tone left no room for further skepticism. He also did not mention the other reason you were there, as he did not wish to reveal the truth of his declining health. As the nobles filtered out of the room, somewhat still unsatisfied by his answer, Alfred couldn't help but remain still, his mind going over the recent developments. When he had first written to the Abbasid Caliphate to request that he be allowed to host a medical scholar at his court, he had to admit he was not expecting a woman, and certainly not one so beautiful.

The next day, Alfred summoned you to his private chambers for a consultation regarding his health. As you entered the room, he couldn't help but notice the change in your attire. Gone was the flowing linen tunic and trousers, replaced by a sturdier, more practical woollen English dress. The deep blue gauzy veil, however, was still draped around your head and flowed down your back.

The English clothing seemed to complement you, accentuating your elegance in a way that was both unexpected and captivating. The king, not for the first time, found himself admiring you, though he kept such thoughts to himself, mindful of the formal context of your meeting.

You, ever the professional scholar, maintained a polite and formal distance as you began your examination of the king. You inquired about his symptoms, listening attentively to his description of the pain and discomfort he had been experiencing. Your deep knowledge and keen medical insight were evident as you asked probing questions and conducted a thorough assessment.

After a careful evaluation, you began to discuss your observations and your initial diagnosis with the king. You explained your thoughts on the potential causes of his discomfort and suggested a course of treatment. King Alfred was grateful for your expertise, and couldn't help but be struck by your intellect. He had a thirst for knowledge himself and he appreciated the quality in others when he saw it. In you he recognized a passion for learning and documentation, one he held himself as well. After the medical examination, he extended an invitation to you to remain in his chambers and share a cup of tea. Initially hesitant, you eventually agreed, recognizing the value of the opportunity to engage in conversation with the English monarch.

Seated in the warmth of the chamber, Alfred began to share with you the rich history of England, its struggles, its triumphs, and its cultural tapestry. He spoke of the challenges of the Anglo-Saxon period, the battles against the Danes, and the enduring spirit of the English people. As he narrated the history of his land, Alfred couldn't help but notice how your eyes lit up with a deep fascination, even though you attempted to contain your enthusiasm. Your questions flowed naturally as you probed deeper into the history and culture of Wessex. You asked about the Anglo-Saxon kings, the legends and folklore, and the development of the English language.

You kept diligent notes in your little notebook, your hand swiftly capturing every detail of the conversation. Your keen intellect and insatiable thirst for knowledge were evident, and your genuine interest in Alfred's words warmed his heart. It had been quite a while since anyone had paid such rapt attention to what he was saying, and he found himself rejuvenated by your exchange.

As a lull settled over your conversation, Alfred's curiosity got the better of him. With a twinkle in his eye, he leaned forward and said, "My lady, I must admit, I'm quite curious about the contents of that notebook of yours. What sort of information have you been documenting to take back to your homeland?"

You smiled, your demeanour more relaxed than when you had first come in, "Your Majesty, you need not worry. I promise you, I haven't written that the English are fire-breathing trolls."

Alfred felt a grin tug at his lips, but he suppressed the urge, keeping his hands folded placidly over his stomach.

"Well, you know, if we English could breathe fire, we might have an easier time dealing with our enemies!"

"There is a trick that performers back home use, to give the illusion of breathing fire. The science behind it is quite fascinating. Perhaps I shall explain it to you sometime."

"Ah yes my lady, you have filled your book with our tales, but have yet to share yours. Do you have any secrets from the East that you'd like to share with us humble English folk?"

You couldn't help but smirk at his words, "I'm afraid some secrets are best left in the lands where they belong, your grace. We wouldn't want you to start brewing Persian tea incorrectly, now would we?"

"I doubt it can compete with our tried and trusted English tea."

"You only think that way because you haven't tried Persian tea yet. Trust me, once you have, there's no going back."

"I suppose you make a fair point! Although, I must admit, the thought of trying to decipher the intricacies of Arabic calligraphy is rather tempting."

You paused, your light-hearted nature urging you to make another joke but you strictly reminded yourself that you were in the presence of a king. It would do you no good to offend him with an ill-timed statement. You were already apprehensive about your earlier comment about the Persian tea, although you were grateful that he chose not to see it as a slight. As if sensing your hesitation, Alfred sat up in bed and leaned forward.

"You are free to speak my lady, do not hold yourself back on my account," he reassured with a wave of his hand.

Still, you settled for a polite smile, "I was just going to remark on the difficulty of calligraphy but I am certain that if anyone would be able to master it, it'd be you, Your Majesty."

A small furrow appeared between Alfred's brows as if that wasn't the answer he expected from you. He could see you pulling away, going back to your polite, almost cold professionalism. Eventually, he nodded thoughtfully at you.

"I would be ever so grateful if you could perhaps show me the technique someday, my lady."

You breathed a sigh of relief and nodded with a small smile.

"Now, about that notebook, if you would allow me to take a look?"

"Ah yes, of course," you handed over the small leatherbound journal to him quickly without further complaints. "But I must warn you, my handwriting isn't at its most legible."

Alfred accepted the notebook with a nod of appreciation. As he leafed through its pages, his eyes quickly fell upon your meticulously written notes. Your thoughts were inscribed in your native language and although he did not understand the words, your elegant looping script impressed him.

He raised an eyebrow and turned toward you expectantly, pointing toward a specific passage, "And what does this say right here?"

"It is a description of the English weather, your grace."

Alfred leaned closer, his finger tracing the inked lines on the page.

"Ah yes, English weather. It was raining when you first arrived, wasn't it? What do you think of our English rain then, my lady? I've heard it has a certain charm."

"Well, I believe your rain can be quite persuasive. It insists that one should stay indoors and read a good book."

Alfred's lips twitched again, fighting back a smile. It seemed that the new scholar shared his interests as well.

"A wise perspective, indeed. Perhaps our English rain is simply encouraging a literary lifestyle."

"Yes, your grace."

"My lady" he continued, a note of genuine admiration in his voice, "I must tell you, your handwriting is truly exquisite. Tell me, just how many languages have you learned."

You felt a blush creep into your cheeks at his compliment. There was something sincere in his eyes as he waited for your answer, looking at you like your accomplishments were the greatest thing in the world. You opened your mouth to respond but then a loud knock sounded on the door and a priest entered.

"Yes, Father Beocca," Alfred seemed irritated at the interruption.

Father Beocca's eyes glanced from you to the king, and despite the fact that you were sitting in a chair quite some distance away from him, you felt a strange flash of awkward embarrassment run through you.

"My king, Uhtred is here to see you," the priest finally stated.

Alfred sighed and turned toward you with an apologetic smile, "Shall we continue our conversation another time then, my lady? It seems that I am needed elsewhere."

"Yes, of course, your grace."

You quickly took your leave then, choosing to take one of your books and go read in the garden. You had just settled yourself into a comfortable nook when loud boisterous laughter caught your attention. Turning your gaze towards the source of the commotion, you spotted three men, two of whom were dressed in the attire of warriors. Their boisterous behaviour was evident as they playfully teased and shoved the third man, who was clad in robes that resembled those of Father Beocca. However, a leather breastplate adorned his monk's attire, hinting at a surprising duality of roles – priest and fighter.

The two warriors were engaged in a lively exchange with the monk, their laughter echoing through the garden. You couldn't help but smile as you watched the scene unfold. Their camaraderie and jesting reminded you of the Caliph's sons back home, when your father would take you to visit the palace.

One of the warriors, a bearded man with broad shoulders and a hearty laugh, clapped the monk on the back.

"Come now, Osferth," he said between chuckles, "surely your devotion to the Lord could use a bit of levity now and then."

The monk, Osferth, grinned in response, "Aye Finan, it is said that laughter is the best medicine, is it not?"

The other warrior, a lean and quick-witted fellow, joined in with a jest, "Well, if that's the case, Osferth, then Finan here will live to be a hundred and you shall die tomorrow!"

Osferth elbowed the tall man in the ribs, "Not before I knock some sense into you Sihtric."

Their jovial banter and good-natured teasing continued, creating a lively atmosphere in the serene garden. You couldn't help but be amused by their antics and the familiarity of their interactions, watching them for quite some time.

The trio of men eventually noticed your presence, and with their laughter dying down, they made their way over to you. As they approached, their expressions revealed a mixture of curiosity and surprise.

The broad-shouldered warrior, Finan, whose eyes twinkled with mischief, was the first to speak. "Well, what have we here?" he said with a grin. "A traveller from foreign shores, I presume?"

"Yes, I am from Baghdad, my lord."

The warrior, clearly taken with you, couldn't resist a flirtatious remark.

"Lady, I must say, you are a wondrous addition to our English garden."

You snorted at his attempt at flirtation.

Meanwhile, the monk with the leather breastplate maintained a more respectful demeanour.

"Greetings, lady, I am Osferth," he said with a nod. "It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. May I ask what brings you to our humble Wessex?"

You found the monk's polite curiosity quite refreshing.

"Greetings to you too, Osferth. I've come to further my studies here. Wessex has much to offer in terms of knowledge and history, and I hope to make the most of it."

"Well, my lady, if ever you wish to explore our English shores, I'd be delighted to be your guide," it was Finan who spoke again and you could not help but laugh at his words.

"Thank you, kind sir. Your offer is most gracious."

“Call me Finan, my lady.”

Your change continued as they asked more about you and your hometown and you asked about theirs. You found out that they were a band of warriors who followed some fellow named Uhtred, the very same Uhtred who was currently speaking to King Alfred. As the conversation flowed, you discovered that you enjoyed speaking with these men. Their witty banter and friendly demeanour made you feel at ease, despite the foreignness of your surroundings. You shared stories of your travels, your scholarly pursuits, and the cultural nuances of your homeland. The men, in turn, regaled you with tales of their own adventures.

As you continued to engage in playful banter with the warriors, you remained oblivious to the presence of King Alfred and Uhtred, who had ventured outside and were observing the lively exchange.

Eventually, with a confident stride, Uhtred made his way toward your group to make his introduction and Father Beocca approached the king with his concerns.

"Your Majesty," he began cautiously, "I must admit, I have reservations about entrusting your treatment to a foreigner, especially one from so distant a land. We must be cautious of witchcraft and unfamiliar practices."

King Alfred turned to Father Beocca, his expression thoughtful but resolute, "Father Beocca, I understand your concerns, but the lady is no ordinary foreigner. She hails from Baghdad, a city known for its innovative medical advancements and a center of learning in the Islamic world. She comes as one of their finest scholars, sent by the Caliph himself."

"I see, your grace."

"I have read extensively about the great Islamic civilization, and its contributions to science, medicine, and philosophy. I believe we have much to learn from her, not only about medicine but also about fostering understanding and collaboration between our cultures. They have succeeded in uniting several lands under one caliphate, so perhaps we might learn how we may unite England as well."

Father Beocca, though still cautious, nodded in understanding, "Your Majesty, I trust your judgment. It is my fervent hope that the lady's presence here will indeed lead to beneficial knowledge and that she will uphold the values of wisdom and compassion."

"Thank you, Father Beocca. Let us have faith in this unique opportunity for cultural exchange and enlightenment. Her presence is a bridge between worlds, and I believe it is a path toward a brighter future for Wessex."

Over the course of the next few months, you became familiar with the routines of the Wessex palace. King Alfred allowed you to shadow him throughout his day, believing that you could provide valuable insights into his own activities. It was a decision that would lead to a profound connection between the two of you.

Every day, you diligently prepared poultices and medications for the king’s ailments, and often you’d recite the recipe to him and explain the purpose of each herb and plant that went into it. He found that he trusted you completely but he was still comforted by your transparency and the efforts you took to explain things to him. Sometimes he would insist on accompanying you on walks and you would point out the various native English plants and their counterparts back home. You also documented the king's activities and observations in your notebook. At times, he would request to see your notebook, often just to admire the beauty of your script. He marvelled at the graceful lines of your writing, and the intricate calligraphy that adorned the pages.

Your interactions went beyond the formalities of your initial meeting. King Alfred, always eager to learn, would occasionally ask you to translate certain passages from your native language and over time, your bond grew stronger. King Alfred began to look forward to each day, eager to see your bright and colourful veil, a striking contrast to your plain English gowns. He would wonder which hue you would choose, and it became a delightful anticipation in his daily routine.

Your conversations transcended the realm of duty and scholarly pursuits. The two of you shared your favourite books, discussing the nuances of various works and debating the merits of different translations. Your insights challenged Alfred's own understanding, and he cherished these moments of intellectual stimulation.

As the days turned into weeks and then months, Alfred realized that you had become an important fixture in his life. your presence was a source of inspiration, a reminder of the power of knowledge, and a testament to the potential for understanding and collaboration between different cultures.

He found himself thinking of you when he was apart from you, reminiscing about how your eyes would dance with mirth as you argued with him about the inaccuracies of translated works, or how your laughter would fill the palace corridors. You had not only enriched his pursuit of knowledge but had also touched his heart, becoming a cherished friend and confidante in the process.

Alfred could still vividly recall the way you had looked at him with genuine wonder and appreciation when he had shown you his humble library. He knew that compared to the great libraries of Alexandria and Baghdad, his collection was modest, but you had delighted in it all the same. Your eyes, filled with curiosity and admiration, had swept over the numerous scrolls and manuscripts, taking in the wealth of knowledge contained within those walls.

In that moment, as you softly murmured your thanks, Alfred felt his breath catch. He was struck not only by the beauty of your physical presence but also by the grace with which you carried yourself and the genuine enthusiasm you displayed for learning. Your voice had a melodic quality that lingered in his memory. It was a voice that seemed to breathe life into the ancient texts that surrounded you and the king found himself quite enamoured with you. The two of you spent many a late night pouring over scrolls together, and although he always kept a respectful distance, Alfred found himself wanting to brush away the stray strands of hair that fell across your forehead, having escaped the tightly bound coil you usually kept your hair in.

Tonight was one such night as the dim light of the candle burned low, and after a lively discussion on herbal medicine, you had fallen asleep on one of the ancient manuscripts. Alfred, his mind still buzzing with the echoes of your conversation, fought against the pull of sleep. Instead, he watched you slumber, his heart filled with a mixture of admiration and tenderness.

In the soft candlelight of the library, you appeared even more enchanting. Your thick eyelashes brushed against your cheeks as you slept peacefully, your features serene. Your form rose and fell with each gentle breath, a rhythmic reminder of the tranquil cadence of sleep. Alfred couldn't help but be captivated by your beauty in this unburdened state. The play of shadows and light highlighted the delicate contours of your face, and the soft glow of the manuscripts around you lent an almost ethereal quality to the scene. You looked like a vision from a dream.

As he watched your slumber, a sudden, unexpected urge welled up within him. He was struck by the temptation to lean in and kiss you, but he quickly banished the traitorous thought. What an absurd thing for a king to do, to force his affections on a guest in his home. Especially when he had no way of knowing if you returned his feelings. He would have to content himself with the simple act of watching you sleep, his heart filled with a deep and unspoken longing.

He also found himself wondering if you were betrothed, for you couldn’t possibly be married and still be here. What man would not accompany you or let you out of his sight if you were his wife? Although you had discussed many things, you did not stray close to personal topics such as family. You were only a few years younger than him and surely you had to have someone in your life. And even if you didn’t, what could you possibly want with an ailing man like him when a woman as accomplished as you could have anyone in the world?

Such melancholy things plagued him as he eventually drifted asleep on the table across from you, his final thoughts fixating on what it might feel like to have your lips against his. 

#the last kingdom #uhtred #alfred the great #tlk alfred #alfred x reader #tlk uhtred #tlk x reader #tlk fanfic #tlk season 3 #alfred the great x reader #tlk alfred x reader #tlk sihtric #sihtric #tlk osferth #osferth x reader #sihtric x reader #uhtred x reader #finan x reader #tlk finan #tlk fandom #tlk x you #finan imagine #uhtred of bebbanburg #osferth imagine #ewan mitchell

[flamingplay]

Everything Everything's Mountainhead: a Track-by-Track commentary from AppleMusic

Everything Everything lead vocalist Jonathan Higgs thinks that the thread running all the way through the Manchester quartet’s catalogue is the urge to encapsulate the effect on humanity of living in this time. “That’s really what all our albums are about,” Higgs tells Apple Music. “It’s a varying degree of looking inward and outward, observing how it feels to be alive in this place in this time. This one is very much looking outward for the most part.” “This one” is Mountainhead, Everything Everything’s seventh record and another astounding leap forward from one of the UK’s most inventive bands. It mixes pulsing synths and gleaming guitar licks, euphoric electro grooves and art-rock dynamism—music where the strange and the soothing seamlessly overlap.

The album pairs a dystopian concept about a society which has built a huge mountain and its people live in the shadowed pit it has created at the bottom (a “Mountainhead” is someone who believes the mountain must continue to grow taller no matter the cost) with some of their most rhapsodic pop hooks yet. It’s all been created with the confidence that there is an audience for this sound. “It always feels like we’ve got a lot of goodwill from the last thing we did, so a lot of people are waiting for the next thing we do,” says Higgs. “I think people really liked the last record [2022’s Raw Data Feel] and this one’s better.” This is the sound of Everything Everything on the crest of a wave, confidently hitting new peaks seven albums into their career. Allow Higgs to guide you on a journey to the top of Mountainhead, track by track.

“Wild Guess”

“This was a little demo we made on tour with Foals back in 2017 or something. I put a vocal on it but it was all sung an octave up from what you hear, which was ridiculous. We happened to rediscover it and were like, ‘Remember how ridiculous this song was? Maybe it’s fine to do it now.’ There was just something about the confidence of that big fat solo beginning the record, no vocal for ages and it’s not very nicely played. It’s the same recording Alex [Robertshaw, guitarist and keyboardist] did backstage into his laptop all those years ago. It just felt like this was a good way to start a record, basically, like, ‘Fuck you. Here’s your big fat solo that sounds awful and you’re going to have to wait for your vocal.’”

“The End of the Contender”

“This is vaguely about Ronnie Pickering [ex-boxer who went viral in 2015 for a road rage incident] and people of his ilk, but it’s also about the creep of capitalism and how it’s seeping into everything. I’ve tried to put a reference to money or electricity on every song, so he talks a lot about it in that song—whoever ‘he’ is. Obviously, ‘It’s all about the Benjamins’ is quite a cheeky thing to sing in the chorus, but I don’t think I’m going to get sued for it.”

“Cold Reactor”

“This is setting out the stall of the record. It really hinges on the human element of it and the desperation of it. The ‘I haven’t left the house’ line, somebody being quite isolated and communicating through screens and emojis, felt very relatable. There’s a sad longing for connection that you can’t quite get to that runs through it and because it has this rushing feeling of everything coming to a point, it really emphasises the desperation of it. It was a question of getting the right sort of heartbreaking-versus-hopeful tone and trying to get across a lot of exposition in the verses in quite a short time. It feels like a film script in terms of its simplicity.”

“Buddy, Come Over”

“This is about cancel culture a little bit, it’s got this dark-side- and underworld-type feeling to it. There’s a line, ‘Make me a website so I can completely ruin my life’ and that made the guys laugh quite a lot. Sometimes when that happens, we’re just like, ‘Yeah, let’s go down this path.’ It fell together quite easily, it was more like a really fun one to play live, like, ‘What can we play that feels good in the moment rather than trying to get all these tracks on the go.’”

“R U Happy?”

“This is about the effect of isolation, living in cities, living now and asking the question, ‘Are you happy? Does all this stuff make you happy?’ in the simplest way I could, which is to literally say, ‘Are you happy?’ over and over again. There’s definitely a through line of being an animal and the ‘dance in a skeleton way’ line was me saying if there’s a skeleton there, you’re dead but if there’s a skeleton there, you’re alive as well, talking about being alive and trying not to be sad all the time.”

“The Mad Stone”

“This is more about the religious element to the idea [of the album]. It’s more like a spiritual song in its presentation and its content. It sounds like an argument between two or three people who really believe in this idea of the mountain and people who are very doubtful about it. The thing on top of the mountain [in the chorus] is this big mirror that reflects you over and over again into infinity—that’s the more magical element of what might be at the top of the mountain. I was trying to come up with a metaphor for an idea of something that would be an actual goal that someone might want to get to, but it’s also really obviously selfish and self-aggrandising. It took an afternoon of singing it to get the chorus right, getting it so it just didn’t sound silly—being understood and not sound like I’m mumbling.”

“TV Dog”

“This was a demo that Alex had made that he called ‘Coney Island’ and we all thought it sounded like a New York string quartet. Coupled with that title, it opened up a few little avenues on the record, some strings that appear on other songs. I had about twice as many lyrics and we were like, ‘Is this song going to develop into a bigger thing? Are we going to bring the drums in?’ and then we were like, ‘The most poignant thing you can do is just hear it for a minute and a half, a couple of good lines and then it’s gone.’ Alex went down to a cathedral and recorded loads of ambience in there and put that all over the track in the background, so you get this sense of it being in a huge space.”

“Canary”

“If some of the other songs feel like you’re on the mountain, this one’s very much in the pit, it’s being in the dark. It’s the canary in a coal mine, a warning song that just so happens to fit very well with the larger concept. It’s the darkest underbelly of the album and the imagery is the most fucked up. It feels like a warning about something bad that’s coming, which tends to be where I often find myself as a character in my songs—as a warning character. This was a big production number for Alex, I think he wanted it to be a bit Björk or something.”

“Don’t Ask Me to Beg”

“I started with layering up vocals, I was trying to make a kind of choir thing. I was listening to Massive Attack, even though they don’t really use choirs. We tried different rhythmic schemes for ages to try and get it sounding less white-boy funk and cool. It took us ages working on the drums, actually, and then trying to re-record all of those cluster vocals. I think we just gave up in the end and used the demo ones, so no one knows how to sing those parts. If we have to do it live, we’re going to struggle!”

“Enter the Mirror”

“This is about a friend of mine who was struggling and I wasn’t sure if he was going to make it through. It’s a song about singing to him as if he was gone and remembering our childhood. I haven’t really worked out what it means yet. I think I wanted to say that we’re both the same deep down, even though there’s two of us. But there’s also the mirror on top of the mountain, which might be like you find yourself if you go into it. I don’t know, I’m still a bit too close to that song to even fully say.”

“Your Money, My Summer”

“This was another demo from around the same time as ‘Wild Guess’, something that we thought was just a bit too silly to do something with back then and now, I guess we didn’t. In the past, we would have had a litany of reasons why we wouldn’t do that and now it was like, ‘This is good.’ It’s definitely the most relaxed track of ours you’ll ever find. You won’t find us playing like that anywhere else, a sort of Chili Peppers rhythm section. We would usually run a mile from that stuff but we were just like, ‘Why are we running?’ It’s an example of us being relaxed with each other.”

“Dagger’s Edge”

“This was an older demo. It always had that feeling of being a song of two halves. I think I wrote the second half and Alex wrote the first. We’d binned it because we thought it was too silly. It does sound pretty light-hearted in the first bit, but then the tone changes. I’m taking the piss out of somebody and saying a lot of ridiculous things and then suddenly just turn into this really desperate old wise man on a mountain. No other band could do that and I really believe that that’s very much our thing—a song that sounds like Dr. Dre and I’m taking the piss out of a guy, calling him those ridiculous names, and then suddenly, a harpsichord comes in and it’s turned into a really existential thing about everyone turning into bacon.”

“City Song”

“This is another one that’s got that New York strings thing going on. I wrote the demo and it was much more hip-hoppy. It’s got a hip-hop speed, but, stylistically, that’s been shed. I was trying to do like a David Byrne-style lyric, the sadness of mundanity or trying to make mundane things special. I think there was also some elements of the Mark Fisher book Capitalist Realism, where he was talking about how impersonal it can be to work for a big company where no one really knows each other. I wanted to get across that feeling of isolation, but also no one really knowing who you are and no one knowing each other, living under the lights of the city and it all being very anonymous.”

“The Witness”

“I’ve barely listened back to this because it makes me quite emotional. It was about witnessing somebody go through a weird transition, thinking that it might be a kind of religious experience. It was written on guitars but Alex swapped out the guitars for synths because it sounded like a Radiohead-type song, two guitars picking and a sad guy with a falsetto. It was just like, ‘People would like it but this is really music from 25 years ago that we could do standing on our heads.’ It’s what we were trained to do, we’re good at it, but it wasn’t pushing us in any direction. So we swapped out the guitars for synths and we made a few other weird changes.

#Everything Everything #Mountainhead #I saw someone asking about whether there's a Radiohead-ish song on this album too and choked when saw that there IS xD #Jonathan Higgs #here for Alex discovering his inner Bjork

[icallhimjoey]

Hey, I really love the way you write. It’s so beautiful. 💕✨ Since you wrote requested one shots about reader having a miscarriage (this was so sad) and also one where reader and Joe actually are trying to get pregnant, may I request reader giving birth to her and Joe’s first child and Joe being nervous and all over the place and maybe almost on the verge of fainting? Thank youuuu ☺️☺️💖

i had FUN writing this one, and i know its very rambly and i also know that i didnt really fully do this request the way you asked it (sorry) but i tried my best and sorry if my sentences are too long (like this one) but i hope you enjoy! Wordcount: 1.8K

--------

Let’s Have This Baby

You wake up. Again. It’s maybe the seventh time that night that a cramp pulls you out of your slumber. Your very light slumber – it’s hard to get some deep sleep when you’re days overdue. 

Logically you know this might be actual contractions, but that’s way too scary to pay any actual mind to, so in full denial, you tell yourself there’s no way these cramps follow each other up close enough for them to be considered a good enough reason to wake up Joe. They are however painful enough to audibly huff and puff your way through them which in turn wakes up Joe anyway.

A soft hand curls over your pregnant stomach as you lay on your side, and it’s tender and cute, but it’s definitely not helpful. It’s hot enough in the bed as it is anyway.

“Big one?” Joe murmurs behind you as he snuggles up close, big spooning you all the way over on your side of the bed. You hold your breath as the pain seems to reach its peak, eyes shut tightly and then, when it subsides, you exhale and relax completely. Or, well, as much as you can anyway. Being this pregnant there’s no way to relax to 100% comfortability, the weight of your stomach and the actual person in there made everything awful.

You are clammy and feel the urge to pee, but know it’s just because there’s someone pressing against your bladder in there, so you do your best to ignore it and mentally try to will yourself back to sleep. You want at least a little more of it, and Joe’s steady breathing in your ear and the soft, slow belly rubs help.

But there’s no way you get the chance to drift off. 

Another contraction creeps up on you and this time, it’s different. You feel it coming on sooner as if from further away this time, and the sensitivity dial in your body seems to have been turned up to a much higher setting. It makes you grab onto Joe’s hand, taking it from your belly and squeezing it hard, crushing its bones together.

“That was only 7 minutes,” Joe speaks with a slight urgency in his voice, not mentioning that you were hurting his hand, because why would he want to start a fight right now. But Joe’s been awake this whole time and he’s been timing you because Joe was told that that was a job the dad could do and so that’s what he did.

You manage to bite through the pain, trying to remember strategies you’d learned, but all seem to difficult to put into practice right now – you’re exhausted, in bed and had no desire to swing into full action right now. After about a minute of clenching, you can feel the tension in your stomach ebb away and you gasp for air, only then realizing you’d been holding it for almost the entire time.

“It’s not been a full hour of them yet,” you try to settle Joe, trying to rid him of any panic he might be feeling. But you are lying to yourself if you say you aren’t absolutely trying to rid the shudder of panic you’re feeling yourself.

This might be the start of it. This might be the time. You were days overdue, so this wasn’t a huge surprise and you were very ready to get this kid out of you, but the prospect of actual labour was scary enough to want to pretend it wasn’t actually going to be happening at all. Ever. You could just be pregnant for the rest of your life, you decided. You’d be fine. Live in a wheelchair. Eat for two for every meal. It’d be glorious, you’d lie to yourself.

“Babe,” Joe starts. “It’s been hours. Plural.” Joe now sits up and turns on his nightlight. “You’ve hardly slept,” he accuses, and he’s right, but that doesn’t mean that Joe has to say it aloud and it rubs you wrong. But then you see Joe’s face and you know that because you haven’t gotten any sleep, Joe hasn’t gotten any either. His tired eyes confirm that you’re right.

“Shh, I’m fine. There’s no rush.” You’re not one to give in easily, and you tuck your arms close, hands under your pillow and you close your eyes again. You know you’re not actually going to be going back to sleep, not now Joe’s turned the lights on, but you also know that you don’t want to get up and go to the hospital. So you procrastinate the birth of your child as a form of protest. 

Joe thinks is cute, but doesn’t have the patience for it.

“Breakfast. Decaf cappuccino.” Joe says, kissing you on your clammy forehead before getting up and walking out. It’s only 3:30am and just because you’re very stubborn, and not to mention terrified, you try very hard to actually drift off a little again, but it’s to no avail. Joe’s mention of breakfast has also made you hungry, which doesn’t help.

Another contraction builds in your pelvis and you think it’s unfair how they get worse every time. Joe can hear you squirm and huff and puff from the kitchen and he checks his watch.

“Six minutes!” he calls out and he then knows there’s no way that this isn’t happening right now. This is actually it. To be completely sure, Joe makes a phone call and is told that yes, you could go ahead and come to the hospital.

Joe knows he’s ready. The hospital bag has been by the door for days, good to go. He places breakfast down on your bedside table and helps you sit up against the headboard before placing the cappuccino in your hand.

You get the show of a lifetime watching Joe get dressed in top speed. It’s clumsy, clothes get stuck on things they wouldn’t have gotten stuck on had Joe gotten dressed calmly, and when he finishes putting his shoes on, you pretend to click a stopwatch in your palm. “50 seconds!” you joke, pretending you’ve timed him like he’s been timing you.

Joe helps you out of bed after a few bites of breakfast and hoists you into a different outfit, one that’s okay for the hospital and when you want to stop by the bathroom to quickly straighten your hair and maybe do a little make-up, Joe steers you towards the front door, ignoring your protests.

The delay to get to the hospital, the pretense that you’re fine and calm and just dandy is just your way of coping, Joe knows.

But you’re leaving now.

It’s time.

And when Joe opens the front door, you try to think of another reason to not leave the house quite yet when another contraction takes hold over your system. And standing up, they’re worse. You cling to Joe, making him take on your full body weight because you want to actually get down onto the floor to take this pain on your knees because somehow on your feet it’s not so easy.

It takes little time to get to the car, and when Joe slams your door shut and jogs to the drivers side, that short moment by yourself is enough to admit that you’re having an active panic attack. Right here. Right now.

“I don’t think I can do this,” you say when Joe opens his door and gets in.

“Let’s go,” Joe doesn’t even look at you, quickly starts the car whilst getting his seatbelt on and pulls out of his parking spot.

“I can’t do this,” you repeat, now more so speaking to yourself. “Why did I let this happen to myself, why did you- why did you do this to me? You did this! Why?!”

There’s waterworks, and there’s shouting, and there’s a seatbelt that doesn’t sit comfortably because there’s a huge round stupid stomach, but there’s also driving, and traffic and Joe can do nothing more than give you his one free hand to hold onto, to squeeze into and just because you need Joe to share your pain, to bite into for just a second as you struggle through another contraction.

“Turn the car around!” you demand. “You’ve got to- we’ve got to stop!” Joe completely ignores you, his foot steady on the gas pedal.

“Stop! Stop the car, you need to-” you’re breaths are high in your chest, and Joe can’t have you pass out from hyperventilation, not when he’s stuck behind the wheel of his car and not now that there’s an actual baby on its way out of you.

“Hey!” Joe cuts you off, his voice loud over yours and it shuts you up immediately. Joe turns to look at you for just a second to make eye contact, and you look absolutely petrified.

“I’m scared too!” Joe shouts, and you don’t understand why Joe thinks that raising his voice at you is of any help to you right now.

“But you can do this!” Joe’s hand squeezes yours now instead of the other way around, and it sort of grounds you. “We can do this.” Joe’s talking courage into himself now too. “We’re going to have a baby today.”

Your face contorts. Another contraction.

“Let’s have it at the hospital instead of in the car on the side of the road, all right?”

Joe brings your hand to his mouth to kiss the back of it.

“All right?!” He asks again, louder this time, waiting for your verbal confirmation.

“All right! All right.” You confirm.

And it was all right, because Joe was there, and he would be there the whole time, and going through the rest of your life as a pregnant lady didn’t seem appealing to you at all, think of how little pee your bladder would be able to hold when it’d grow into adult sizes.

No.

Having a baby in the hospital was the better option. So you decide that you’re going to do this. You’re going to shoot this baby out of you and get the best fucking sleep after because you love sleeping on your stomach and haven’t been able to sleep on your stomach for months. And God, you’re were going to have sushi, and maybe a beer and Joe said he’d get you a steak, rare, the way you like it, because you really miss having steak the way you like it so much and it’s all going to be all right.

“All right.” You say again, now smiling, and Joe can hear the smile in your voice but checks just to make sure that he’s heard it right and he feels the terror of the situation subside.

“Let’s have this baby!” You channel the nervous energy into focus and excitement, a tinge of fear still there, but not enough to let it overpower you.

“Let’s have this baby!” Joe repeats copying your excitement but his voice louder than yours, and you each squeeze each other’s hands, fingers tight and bones crushing and you know it’ll be all right. It will all be all right.   ----

The Taglisted: @kiwisa @jasminearondottir @josephquinned @cancankiki @sidthedollface2 @dylanmunson @munsonsgirl71 @alana4610 @emmamooney @xomunson @sadbitchfangirl @jssmth5 @bagelofthelord67 @nobody-000 @lluviamg06 - add yourself  

#Joe Quinn #Joseph Quinn #fanfiction #joe quinn x reader #joseph quinn x reader #Let's Have This Baby #requested #joe x reader #joseph x reader

[hxlda-hxlda]

idk what this is but black brothers shit makes me sad, enjoy:

“Regulus,” Barty began, only slightly tipsy. Sirius had told them they could each have one drink, and no more. And if they had more, he would find out. Regulus knew he would keep that promise, so one drink it was. 

Well, for Regulus. Barty considered the one drink policy a personal challenge to do the opposite, but even Sirius had known that would be the case when he set it in the first place.

“Barty,” Regulus nodded once, surveying the party from his usual corner on the window seat. It was loud and overcrowded and he hardly recognised most of the students. 

“We have to kiss,” Barty said, as though it was a normal way to lead the conversation. Let it be known that even for Barty, this was not a normal conversation starter. 

Regulus blinked. Staring at him, attempting to deduce sarcasm or a joke or something that would indicate a lack of seriousness. There wasn’t any. He was serious. 

“You’re serious?” Regulus said, asked.  

A wobbly grin made its way onto Barty’s face. “No, that’s your brother.” 

Regulus rolled his eyes. “If you want me to kiss you, this is not a good start.” 

“Okay, okay, fine,” Barty waved his hands and leapt onto the couch beside Regulus. Right across from him, staring intently. “Just listen.” 

“That’s what I’ve been doing.” 

“And keep doing it, Baby Black.” 

“The nickname doesn't help your case either.” 

“Shhhh,” Barty forced a finger onto Regulus’ lips, smushing them. 

Regulus would have voiced how this also was not helpful to Barty’s case, but he was not able to do so (see: aforementioned fingers smushing his mouth into uselessness). 

“You have to kiss me,” Barty said. Deep stare. Completely, unequivocally serious (no, not his brother) 

Regulus blinked again. The boy before him was so genuine. His eyes were wide, almost vulnerable. It was unnerving. Regulus reached up and snatched Barty’s hand away from his mouth. He yelped in surprise, falling backwards 

Okay, so maybe he was more than a little tipsy, Regulus observed as he tumbled back into the couch. 

“Why?” Regulus asked, folding his arms across his chest as Barty stumbled back into place. 

“We’ve never kissed anyone. We need to kiss people.” 

“Why?” 

“You have a lot of questions.” 

“You don’t have many good answers.” 

“Look, if we kiss each other, then we can never have a bad first kiss.” 

“Why is the first one so important?” 

“It just is.” 

Regulus had read about it. The dramatic first kiss, that is, not kissing Barty specifically. It had never really clicked in his mind. Sure, he understood why people might think it romantic, or whatever. But then again, no, he didn’t. What was so special about one, the one, as if there were not going to be others after? 

“So… we kiss each other?” Regulus said when Barty fell silent, apparently content with the poor case he’d made thus far. 

“And then we can say we had a good first kiss,” Barty affirmed. 

“Who says you’re a good kisser?” 

“I’ll be a good kisser,” Barty said indignantly, shooting up in offence. 

“How do you know? You’ve never kissed anybody before.” 

“Touche. Now let’s change it, shall we?” 

Regulus could have said no. But there was a desperation in Barty’s eyes, in his friend’s eyes, that encouraged his relinquish. He would tell you that was the only reason. He might even tell himself that. Both, of course, would be lies. 

There was some small part of Regulus in which curious niggled, leapt, wanted to pounce even. He had never thought much of it, though, not really. It did not exist in any way that seemed significant. Not in a way he had read about. Not for the girls who would swipe their hair over their shoulders or whose breasts were large or whatever the hell seemed to encourage that twist in the stomach so sought after in his books. 

No, the curiosity (or whatever it was) only jumped into his chest or just below his navel with Barty, sometimes Sirius’ best friend Evan when he played Quidditch, that one Ravenclaw Seventh Year who often settled in the uppermost corner of the library. 

But that was neither here nor there. What was here, was Barty. Looking at him, wanting and asking in a very un-Barty-like show of politeness and vulnerability and something else Regulus could not for the life of him interpret. 

“Fine,” Regulus huffed, as though he had not already mentally agreed about two minutes prior. 

Barty just grinned. Beamed, really. He looked pleased. Regulus wasn’t sure how to interpret that either. 

Regulus let Barty come to him, hands planted on either side of him on the window seat they normally shared anyway, and they kissed. 

It was not dramatic, it was a kiss. Their lips were touching and then they weren’t. It was not bad, Barty wasn’t a bad kisser, it was just a kiss. Either there was something more to it neither of them were getting, or the whole kissing thing was sorely overhyped in novels and by his peers alike. There was something in his stomach that was satiated, maybe. Or maybe that was the funny feeling of the liquor he’d had. Even then, fireworks had not cracked and worlds (nor lips) had really collided. 

It registered somewhere in his brain, though Regulus can’t quite recall if it was before Barty’s whole spiel, or in the moments after the kiss had taken place, that his first kiss (or any kiss, for that matter) should not have been with a boy. It just hadn't really occurred to him at first. And then it did. Barty looked very smug, apparently pleased with himself, and it either had not occurred to him either, or he did not care. 

Maybe it mattered. The not-boy part. But the kiss hardly felt like it mattered, so Regulus decided it didn’t. But he also did not trust his own opinion on that (if he didn’t understand kissing to begin with, how could he decide who he kissed mattered as well?), so he sought out the one person whose opinion he could be sure mattered shortly after Barty’s exit where he was definitely going to continue to break Sirius’ one drink rule. 

Sirius was grinning. It was the kind of grin he hardly recognised on Sirius anymore. It was loose and pleasant and the kind he would find on Sirius’ face when they were young (young-er) and he was laughing. Sirius still laughed, sure, but there was a difference. 

“Hey Reg, you doing okay? Keeping to the one drink?” 

He found he appreciated it when Sirius cared about that sort of thing, when he noticed if Regulus was being careful. He did not voice that, obviously, that would be weird.  “I’m not a little kid,” Regulus replied instead. 

“Well-” 

“I need to talk to you.” Regulus waved a hand dismissively. 

Sirius made a face. “Now?” 

“Yes. Now.” 

“Okay then,” Sirius said after a beat, “talk.” 

Regulus glances around. It was secluded enough, he decided. Well. Regulus stared pointedly at Dorcas. 

“Noted,” she said, leaving without another word to give them space. 

“I just had my first kiss,” he said without lead up or warning. Was that the kind of thing you led up to? 

Sirius blinked. “Oh, okay.” 

“Okay?” 

“I don’t know what else you want me to say. Was it bad?” 

“No, it was fine.” 

“Good for you, then, was that all? Just wanted to give a general life update?” 

“No. There's more.” 

“Not too much more, I hope, we don’t need any more heirs to the oh-so Noble House of Black anytime soon.” 

Regulus just levelled him with a glare. He didn’t quite understand what Sirius was referring to—or, he did, but only in the most clinical sense of knowledge (he’d read books, after all)—but there was an amusement to his brother’s voice that Regulus had long ago learned encouraging would only lead to more smug remarks. So Regulus refrained from asking for clarification, he would think more about it later, maybe read another book. There were too many thoughts in his brain already. 

“It was with Barty.” 

“What was with Barty?” 

“The kiss. Our kiss. My first kiss.” 

“Right,” Sirius said, eyebrows furrowed. 

“Is that bad?” 

“Is what bad?” 

“My first kiss being with Barty, keep up.” 

“Sorry, this is just a lot to take in at once.” 

“So is it bad?” Regulus demanded, suddenly stressed. 

“Why would it be bad?” Sirius looked as confused as Regulus felt. 

“Barty. Barty is Barty, he’s…” not a girl. 

There was an echo there. In Regulus’ head. He wondered if Sirius could hear it too. It sounded like their maman. It sounded like the discussions of soon-to-be arranged marriages that were already really arranged, with people much too close to the family (subtext: in the same fucking family) and with people who were definitely women and absolutely not boys. 

“Oh,” Sirius’ face relaxed into one of understanding. Maybe he was reading Regulus’ mind, Maybe he could hear the same echoes of their parents' voices. Maybe both. “No Reg, that’s not bad at all.”

“They’d hate me for it.” The they in question was unspoken, but not really. It was as unspoken as their parents often were in Hogwarts. The kind where they were never mentioned by name, but they never had to be. They were already in the walls, in their skin, in their blood.

“Do you want to kiss… y’know, boys, again?” Sirius asked. He did not look mad. He maybe looked sad, but Regulus struggled with reading his brother at the best of times.

“I don’t know.” But, but… “But what if I did?” 

“Then we’d figure it out.” 

“How?” 

Sirius looked away. Looked back. Looked away again, toward.

“You know, my first kiss was with Evan?”

Regulus stared. Followed Sirius’ gaze, which was toward Evan. The blond was now sitting very closely to the girl he was sitting, admittedly, less closely with minutes prior. “Really?” 

“Really.” 

It was bad, really. They both knew it. They both knew the women and the heirs and the arranged dates were all inescapable. Echoes.

But Sirius had kissed Evan, and Evan was a boy. Not a girl. And Evan was kind of Sirius’ Barty, if that made sense. It didn't really. Neither did them both kissing their respective Bartys and Evans. But they had. Both of them.

Their parents had been wrong before. Sirius, as far as Regulus was concerned, had never. 

Sirius had kissed a boy. Regulus had kissed a boy. The world had not ended. 

“We’ll figure it out, Reg,” Sirius repeated. He said it quietly, more to himself even though the statement was dedicated to him. 

“Okay,” Regulus responded simply. Because he believed Sirius. Sirius had always figured it out. They would figure it out. 

Sirius had said so.

#this is a third year reggie alt perspective of a chapter to come ages and ages away #but i was rereading it today for comfort #and realised how much i adore writing reg #writing tag #fic: that's the idea #regulus black #sirius black #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #slytherin sirius #the black brothers #marauders #marauders era #fanfiction writing #marauders fanfiction

[spaceman-earthgirl]

Ok so imagine if the halo responds to Ava's emotions, and when Beatrice holds her she tries to play it cool but the halo just starts glowing brightly.

This kind of took on a life of its own so I hope you like the direction I took it in. I want to write more for this idea, it was fun. You can read this on ao3 too.

---

Ava is screwed. Totally, completely, one hundred percent screwed. And why is she screwed, you may ask? Oh, just the little fact that she’s definitely falling in love with Beatrice.

And why is that bad?

One, Ava is a nun which means that absolutely nothing can happen between them, Beatrice has taken her vows, and Ava respects that. That’s not the main issue though, the second reason she’s screwed, and the one that’s going to get her in trouble, is that despite her best to control it, the halo is starting to glow whenever she’s around Beatrice, and it’s really fucking embarrassing.

She’s come to terms with the first part, she’s a little sad about it, but despite all the shit she’s been through since she first came back to life, she’s the happiest she’s ever been when she’s with Beatrice, and if they’ll only ever be friends, then Ava can accept that.

(Okay, maybe she hasn’t quite accepted it, but she’s trying).

The second part though, there’s not a lot Ava can do when all it takes is one smile from Beatrice for butterflies to erupt in her stomach, one small touch, or even one amused eye roll, for the halo to start pulsing in her back and Ava desperately trying to calm down so the halo doesn’t glow too brightly and give her away.

At least after the first time it happened, no demons appeared, so she doesn’t have that part to worry about, or else they’d all be screwed.

It gets even worst after Adriel gets free and then it’s just the two of them in Switzerland and there’s not a lot to distract Ava from her still growing feelings.

---

It doesn’t take much, like Ava said, for the halo to react now when she’s around Beatrice. Which isn’t ideal, because again, she doesn’t want to give her feelings away, but she also doesn’t want to give them away, they are meant to be hiding, after all.

And it certainly doesn’t help when Ava walks into their room, to find Beatrice wearing a button-down shirt, a far cry from her usual outfits. It’s stupidly cute and Ava feels the halo pulse at her back as warm affection floods her chest.

Beatrice notices too, instantly on alert.

At least she just notices the glowing part, she’s pretty sure Beatrice hasn’t noticed the feelings part yet, which is hard enough to hide without the giveaway on her back. She knows she stares sometimes, knows she smiles too wide, knows that some of the other people in the bar have already noticed too.

“Ava,” Beatrice says, voice low, looking for a weapon and an escape and no doubt calculating every possible thing that she thinks is about to happen.

“It’s fine,” Ava says, hands instantly falling to Beatrice’s arms, sees how the touch immediately calms her. Though, she still looks worried.

Maybe they should be worried, maybe one day this’ll be the reason that demons find them, the reason Adriel finds the halo, because Ava just can’t control her feelings because Beatrice is just too pretty.

“No demons, see? It’s just…been doing that recently, maybe something to do with Adriel?”

“I should contact Mother Superion, see if she knows what’s happening or if anything has changed.”

“No!” Ava says, much too loud. “It’s okay, look, it’s stopped.” Ava turns to show Beatrice her back and it has stopped, only because she’s embarrassed about the possibility of more people discovering her little secret.

Beatrice still looks concerned, and rightly so, Ava is pretty sure Beatrice can tell she’s lying, but she drops it for now at least.

---

They’re dancing. They’re dancing and drinking and Ava is having more fun than she’s had in a long time.

Bonus, Beatrice won’t stop touching her.

And Ava’s not going to miss an opportunity to be as close to Beatrice as possible.

Beatrice’s laugh is infectious, her innocence when it comes to drinking adorable, her puns top tier, and Ava can feel herself falling deeper with every moment they spend together.

Of course, it’s a prime opportunity for the halo to start glowing, though it’s really not her fault. Or not entirely her fault at least. Because Beatrice’s hand is on her neck, because their bodies are close, their fingers tangled together as they dance.

The alcohol isn’t helping at all either.

Ava feels warm all over, hot where Beatrice is touching her, or where her own hands touch Beatrice, and maybe they should stop, not draw attention to themselves, but right now, as Ava watches Beatrice dance, how free and happy she looks, Ava’s never wanted anything more, never wanted a moment to last forever like this one, and she’s not about to put a stop to it.

Ava just hopes that everyone in the bar is drunk enough, that the flashing of the lights is enough to make anyone think it’s just a trick of the light that Ava’s back is glowing.

It does stop though, when Beatrice takes her hand and tugs her from the bar, Ava easily following.

She’d follow Beatrice anywhere.

“You’re glowing again,” Beatrice says, looking around. Luckily the street outside is deserted, no people (or demons) in sight. “You need to be more careful.”

“I can’t help it, it must be Adriel,” Ava lies. Or at least half of it is a lie because she can’t help it at all, but it’s definitely not Adriel. The light does dim a bit, but not completely, because Beatrice is still holding her hand and she can remember how Beatrice looked dancing, an image that’s going to be permanently etched into her brain forever.

Beatrice watches her carefully, which really doesn’t help much, because the concern and fear is clear in her expression. But Ava breathes a sigh of relief when Beatrice drops it.

She’s not sure how much longer she can keep this up, not when Beatrice is still holding her hand, not when touches like this have become commonplace, not when the way Beatrice looks at her sometimes makes Ava wonder if maybe she’s not the only one whose feelings have grown into something more than strictly platonic.

---

Ava’s still not quite used to sharing a bed with someone else, but she’s also not going to complain at all about her current situation.

Her current situation being Beatrice pressed close to her in sleep, head tucked under Ava’s chin, arm securely wrapped around her waist.

Ava can feel the halo hot in her back, lighting up the room around them.

Right now, she doesn’t quite care.

It had taken them a while to get used to the whole sharing a bed thing, Beatrice insisting on Ava taking the bed alone until Ava had to physically pull Beatrice to bed with her.

It had been a few nights of sleeping rigid, all to aware of the other person beside them. The whole Adriel thing hadn’t helped with falling asleep so it had been mostly sleepless nights at the beginning, and awkward mornings, until something had shifted, Ava relaxing more and in turn Beatrice too, and now nights like this are common, seeking each other out in unconsciousness.

Though Beatrice is usually the one to wake first, Ava enjoying this morning even more because she gets Bea like this, soft and warm and hers, even if it’s just for a few minutes.

She wiggles out of Beatrice’s hold, not wanting her to be embarrassed about how closely she’d cuddled up to Ava during her sleep. Beatrice doesn’t seek out touch as much as Ava does (when she’s conscious at least) but it is something she’s been doing more and more, and Ava loves every touch.

Beatrice stirs not long later and Ava fights the glow at her back, but it’s hard when sleepy eyes blink open to look over at her. Beatrice looks stunning, even with bedhead and a confused frown on her face. It’s made even more special by the fact that she knows no one else gets to see Beatrice like this.

“Morning,” Ava smiles, enjoying the tilt of Beatrice’s lips when she smiles too.

“You’re up early.”

“I thought I’d go for a swim before work,” Ava says, dropping to sit back down on her side of the bed. It’s a half truth, she’s up now so she may as well go for a swim. Ava pokes Beatrice’s side, gets the little wiggle as Beatrice tries to get away from her that Ava had been hoping for.

The halo pulses at her back.

God, Ava really loves her.

“Do you want to join me?” Ava asks, to distract them both from the glow.

Beatrice sits up, looking more serious than she should at a question about going for an early morning swim. “You know I know what that means, right?”

“What, what means?” Ava asks, confused by the sudden turn in the conversation.

Beatrice points to where the halo is very clearly glowing. “That.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Ava says, playing dumb, while inside she’s panicking. This is not how it was meant to come out, though Ava’s not sure exactly how it was meant to. She’d been planning on hiding it forever, though Beatrice is too smart for that, it was bound to come out eventually.

“It happened with Shannon too, when Mary was around.”

Ava freezes, she hadn’t thought about that.

“I was unsure for a long time, that I was reading it correctly,” Beatrice starts, voice even, but refusing to look at Ava now as she speaks. “And then with every excuse you made, I let it go, because I was scared. But the world is getting worse and Adriel is growing in power and we might not have much time left.” Beatrice says, the halo getting brighter when Bea finally turns to look at her. She reaches out and brushes a hand over Ava’s shoulder, fingers touching the top of the halo. It burns and Ava feels so alive. “I know you love me,”

Ava’s breath catches, but her feelings are obvious as the halo’s glow gets brighter.

“You know?”

“Even without the halo, it’s pretty obvious how you feel about me. And for a long time I pretended I didn’t see it, pretended I didn’t feel the same, but I want you to know that I love you too.”

Ava acts, because she’s never been good at thinking first, and she leans forward, lips pressing against Beatrice’s. Beatrice is frozen for a moment, but Ava doesn’t have time to worry she’s made a mistake when Beatrice melts under the touch, lips so soft and gentle as hands cup her face.

“Bea,” Ava sighs into the kiss, her whole body alight with the feel of Beatrice’s mouth against her own, the touch electric and comforting and perfect.

When they pull apart, Ava has to fight the urge to just lean in and kiss Beatrice again.

“I love you,” Ava says, wanting to say the words herself, needing Beatrice to know exactly how she feels, even though apparently she’s known for a while. Which, again, is embarrassing, but her obvious feelings, and the glow of the halo, helped her get a kiss from the girl she loves, so maybe a little embarrassment isn’t the worst thing in the world.

“We’re going to have to do something about that,” Beatrice says, the light behind her so bright now, there’d be no hiding it in public.

“This is your fault,” Ava smiles, earning an eye roll, but Beatrice is poorly trying to conceal her smile too. “It is,” Ava insists, reaching out to tuck a loose strand of hair behind Beatrice’s ear. Beatrice leans into the touch and Ava’s heart stutters, the glow behind her brightening. “See,” Ava says, her words faltering slightly when Beatrice cups the hand lingering on her cheek and turns to press a kiss to Ava’s palm. “Your fault.”

“I think you’ll find that-“

Ava doesn’t let her finish, cutting Beatrice off with another kiss. There’s a lot of scary shit going on in the world right now and she knows sooner or later they’re going to have to face it, they’re going to have to take down Adriel and save the world, but right now she’s going to kiss the girl she loves, enjoy what they have right now, while they still have it.

And when the time comes, with Bea by her side, she’s sure they can do anything together.

#warrior nun #avatrice #ask #anon #ava silva #sister beatrice

[billpottsismygf]

I've been stewing a little over the last few days about the news regarding the Doctor Who airing times and, although there's been a lot of discourse and probably everything has been said already, I just need to get my rant out there anyway.

For the uninitiated or the unsure, the brief rundown is that new episodes will drop online at the same time worldwide before the BBC 1 broadcast. This will be Fridays 7pm US time (EST I think) and Saturdays midnight in the UK. There will also be the usual Saturday evening broadcast on BBC 1, 18 or 19 hours later. Also, the premiere (10th/11th May) will drop the first two episodes of the series at once.

Simultaneous broadcast is pretty cool, and I believe the 60th specials dropped at the same time as the UK evening broadcast, giving an afternoon time for the US. That's great, but it's really messing with me that this new system completely shafts the UK in terms of viewing times. I'm not saying that only the UK has passionate fans, but I am saying that the UK is where Doctor Who is a cultural institution more so than anywhere else in the world, and seeing it prioritise the US is incredibly frustrating.

Moving to the specific fallout, there's the part of me that is upset on my own behalf, as my autistic self is really struggling with the notion that to watch the show ASAP I will now have to do so at midnight (on a Friday night too!). Since I was 9 in 2005, I have only twice gone to bed with a new episode unwatched. Occasionally that has been at stupid times in the early morning because I've been doing things for Saturday night, but generally I have watched the broadcast as much as possible, and often with other people as a community event. As a child it was always with my dad; as an adult it's often with friends!

Ultimately, though, I'll be fine. I'll watch by myself on iplayer at midnight because I am an adult who can make these choices, even if I'm sad that I probably won't get to have the viewing parties I had started to have with friends in recent years. (Though, who knows, we all have weird sleep schedules. Maybe midnight viewing parties are still on the cards.)

However, for all the kids out there I am so incredibly annoyed. I can't imagine if any of the iconic episodes from my childhood had aired the night before and I'd been unable to stay up for them. Blink? The Stolen Earth? Doomsday? I don't wish to overstate the matter, but I truly believe Doctor Who has remained such a cultural institution precisely because of its status as a family show. People are raised on it and then raise their kids on it and so on.

What are kids going to do now? Some might be allowed to stay up for the midnight release, though not many, especially for that double release which will end at like 1:30am. Others might watch it when they get up, but likely without the community aspect of the whole family sitting down for it. Still others might wait for the Saturday evening broadcast, having to dodge spoilers from other kids and adults as they go about whatever Saturday activities they have.

Regarding spoilers, I've seen some snarky comments saying 'just avoid social media lol', but firstly that's quite difficult in this day and age, and secondly it's not just social media. For one, there are all the tabloids that will plaster any new details across the front page, but also I can vividly remember talking about the brand new Doctor Who episodes at school, and how big an aspect that was of the community excitement. My teacher even did an impression of a weeping angel the week Blink aired, moving closer with a scary face when I looked away for a moment. Sure, there won't be school on a Saturday, but plenty of kids will be doing activities with other kids (dance classes, football, drama clubs etc.). What will happen when some kids have been allowed to watch the new episode and others haven't?

It may seem trivial to some, but I don't think it is. Where's the event aspect of it? Where's the community? Sure, I'm biased as an autistic Brit who grew up with the show and doesn't like change, but this new model seems designed to dilute both the excitement and importance of a new Doctor Who episode on a cultural level.

#doctor who #whew it feels good to finally type up all my thoughts and feelings #I've got over some of the initial autism 'oh no friday night midnight on iplayer arrghhhhh that's not how you watch doctor who' #but I'm still feeling a greater frustration with this decision and how much it will alter the culture around doctor who #which is not just contained to hardcore fans #but to more casual fans and most importantly families and kids across the whole country #mine #dw #dwmine #there's also how late I'll be able to stay online having thoughts and buzzing about New Episode #but again #my sleep schedule is fucked anyway so I'm not the one with the biggest problem

[ofliterarynature]

AUGUST 2023 WRAP UP

[ loved liked okay no thanks DNF (reread) bookclub*]

Witch Week | A Perilous Undertaking | 2 AM At the Cat's Pajamas | The Last Sun | The Lives of Christopher Chant | The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo* | (The Angel of the Crows) | The Enchanted April | The Art of Prophecy | A Curious Beginning | Q's Legacy | The Grimoire of Grave Fates | Charmed Life | Ocean's Echo | (Band Sinister) | (Unfit to Print) | Camp Damascus | Wanted, A Gentleman | Translation State | The Mistress of Bhatia House

I’m late I’m late I’m late! Oops

It’s only a month late, right? ‘Only’ lol, work has been exhausting! Anyways:

At this point I wonder if Ann Leckie can ever do wrong, Translation State was good! I was completely enthralled, which is all I ask, even if I don’t get as passionate about it as the main trilogy.

I continued the KJ Charles reading, with these supposed stand alones that are also kind of related? Honestly it’s no less of a stretch than Society of Gentlemen to Lilywhite Boys, so I don’t know why she can’t officially list them together. Anyways, mostly fine, and Band Sinister is still a delight!

Camp Damascus…I’m thrilled for Chuck, really, and I think he’s a delight to follow, but this one wasn’t for me. Religious trauma is turning out to be a hard no.

Ocean’s Echo was good! In some ways I definitely thought it was better than Winter’s Orbit - miscommunication is the worst I’m sorry, this story was more consistently engaging! I just like the characters from WO a bit more.

Chrestomanci! I’ve been going by the suggested reading order on Goodreads, and while I wasn’t particularly enthused by Charmed Life, once I had a grasp on the world the other books have been fun! Im very sad this might be my last DWJ, as I seem to have exhausted my library’s collection of her audiobooks :(

Grimoire of Grave Fates had a really interesting premise that lured me in, despite my reservations - an anthology where all the stories work together to solve the mystery of a murder at a magic boarding school? I thought it worked fairly well (and could definitely spin itself out into a series of novels), but just ok for me. Maybe one day I’ll finally concede I can’t read YA or boarding school books anymore.

Q’s Legacy was the last (I think) of the 84 Charing Cross Road books, and honestly the worst. It had its interesting moments, but it lacked the cohesion of the other two, speed,-running the before and during of those stories, to then spend the second half on the adaptations. It was not at all what the descriptions led me to expect. Maybe worth a single read but not a revisit.

I will also be honest, I didn’t really like the first Veronica Speedwell! The plot felt a bit contrived, and Veronica was so blunt as to almost read as rude or mean. Also very unexpectedly…clinically horny? Does that make sense? I’m not quite sure what prompted me to continue, but I’m now several books in and enjoying it! To be blunt myself, the historic setting is just set dressing, the plots can feel contrived, the mysteries are mediocre, but the real draw is the Veronica and Stoker show once they get themselves settled in and comfortable with each other. It’s a hoot.

I’d heard good things about The Art of Prophecy, but I still didn’t know quite what to expect going in. It was wonderful. Maybe a little long, but if you’re looking for a fantastic fantasy with lots of fight sequences, no romance, and some fascinating characters, this is a great read. The sequel comes out soon and I can only hope it doesn’t take as long for my library to get the audiobook as it did for this one.

I don’t know where I first found An Enchanted April, but it’s been on my TBR for a little bit, and I thought it would be the perfect fit for my classics challenge I gave myself this year! It wasn’t what I expected at all - it’s entirely character driven and very focused on their flaws, and the entire first half I thought I was going to hate it. But the second half, there’s a twist, almost, born of some very  naïve optimism that nonetheless works out. Very improbably, but I was happy for them, you funky little weirdos. 

What can I say about The Angel of the Crows except that it is still very good! It’s maybe lost a little of the shine it held when I got obsessed with it for a few months last year, but it is definitely now one of my comfort books. I really ought to read more canon Holmes though lol.

The Seven Husbands of Evelyn Hugo was, to be fair, one of my suggestions for book club. It was OK, but there were definitely parts that really did not work for me, the frame narrative in particular. The other members of the club really liked it but I don’t have any plans to read more of the authors work.

I’m almost tempted to put The Last Sun last just so I can yell more. I’d heard such good things about this series, but turns out my expectations were a bit skewed - it is not historical or secondary fantasy world, oops. So we got off to a bit of a rough start, not to mention all of the Capital Words. Not usually a good sign. And while I still wouldn’t say I love the worldbuilding necessarily, or that these are the next great work of fantasy, the action is really great, and the characters are flipping fantastic. You’ve got a pair of 30 year olds who are bad ass fighters, have a traumatic past, are immature assholes, can be so so kind, and accidentally adopt a posse of troubled teenagers? Sign me up, I love them, this reminds me so much of my days reading tons of Teen Wolf fanfic AUs.

My history with 2 AM At the Cat's Pajamas is that they cannot stop recommending this thing on the Book Riot podcasts. When I found a copy at Goodwill, I thought surely it’s meant to be! Well. It was not bad, but it was not great. I don’t know. It just wasn’t for me and I will not be keeping my copy. I probably should have DNF’d it, but I continued in hope.

Only one actual DNF this month though, The Mistress of Bhatia House - the newest Perveen Mistri book. I was actually fairly excited for it despite my reservations about the earlier books, but I hit a mental roadblock with this one. There was some contrived feeling tension with her sister-in-law, but really, I realized that one of my main problems with this series is that, despite being in a very precarious social position, Perveen is just incredibly reckless - usually in the name of doing good! - but it just hit all the wrong nerves at the moment. I’m hoping there will be a better time to read this, but not right now. 

#bec posts #2023 #book log #wrap up 2023 #translation state #kj Charles #camp Damascus #oceans echo #chrestomanci #diana wynne jones #the grimoire of grave fates #helene hanff #Veronica speedwell #the art of prophecy #the enchanted April #the seven husbands of evelyn hugo #tarot sequence #the last sun #2 am at the cats pajamas

[oletus-manors-log]

hiya ! noticed ur rqs were still open so was wondering if i could ask for general romance hcs for mike and aesop?? its completely fine if you cant i understand. i hope you have a great day ahead of you ! :))

OBSERVER'S NOTE :

“ After losing my mind over personal matters, I finally managed to get to writing about these two. I do apologize for how long it took, because there are actually things I needed to focus on outside of my job.

But anyhow, here it is! I also looked up on Mike and Aesop because I actually didn't know Mike's story as a survivor, and reading up how people portray him really helped in pinning down what he's like. I do hope it's up to your expectations, dear guest. I tried my best with him, but I do think I can do better in the future. ”

General Romance HCs for: Mike & Aesop

The Acrobat is... An interesting man, that one.

Considering his behavior and past, there's a lot of things that can go with him. However, if you think he of all survivors would be the type to back down? Hah!

Absolutely not.

Don't underestimate him- unlike most of the survivors, Mike does have somewhat of an experience with romance. Although the Hullabaloo Incident had him lose everything and suffer psychological damage, he's had a few... Flings. Not as much, though, but a few that can help him understand.

People always say that he's quite the mischievous fellow, and although they'd be right, they don't often mention how he can be quite flippant.

For one moment, he may act quite kind- perhaps even a little cheeky if he so felt like it. But then next thing, he acts a lot more off, almost like he didn't have the desire to do much.

For the most part, though, when he's in love? He is one stubborn man to the person that became the thing he focused on.

Since he is an entertainer by means of his role (one being acrobatics), he enjoys putting on a show for the one he likes. One may say that, perhaps, Mike enjoys putting on a show if it meant seeing his darling smile! ✩

On that regard, he also doesn't like to see the person he cherishes sad. Please, if there is anything putting a damper on them, he'd be really worried if he wasn't told of what it is! Was it because of a match? Or maybe it's something else?

The acrobat can be quite, quite silly in his endeavors to make someone smile- even more so with his beloved darling! ✩ The amount of times he can be so determined to help them feel joy in an otherwise hopeless match can be a lot.

Oh, but please, do make sure he's never near anything in the kitchen :( as much as he'd like to say that he can and will be willing to cook for his beloved if asked, sometimes it can lead to... A burned meal instead. At worst? It may be set on fire.

... Yes, Emily gets angry whenever this happens. Probably a good reminder to not risk another burned room again.

Despite his nature, though, there may be times that he would crave something more calmer. On that regard, he enjoys quite a lot of cuddles if it meant having some time to 'recharge'.

Yes, he may be extroverted, but goodness sake, he isn't always full of energy...

Dates with him can be pretty spontaneous, actually. It isn't that rare to see him plan out a date on one thing in a map, only to do the complete opposite- which, well, makes it all the more fun for him.

To the Acrobat, he enjoys the surprise it can lead with plans going to an entirely different direction! The thrill it can lead gives him adrenaline- ah, so as long it doesn't involve arson.

Speaking of which, he enjoys making a show with the bombs he has! Although he would much rather keep it from going absolutely everywhere and risk an explosion as a result, he enjoys it when his lover gets to see the spectacle he can do with them!

Overall, Mike is possibly one of the few survivors that can be quite the wild one when in love. He does try his best to be, well, out of sight when it comes to trouble, but let's just say his ways of expressing his adoration surpasses it all ✩

“ Ah, the star of the show arrived just in time! ✩ Listen, I just found something amazing in Moonlit River Park, and I think you should see it! C'mon! It'll be fun! ”

... Pardon? Romance?

You must be joking, right?

Aesop Carl's thoughts are, well, exactly that with the matters of romance. Now, don't get me wrong- he isn't some heartless bastard that'd think of outright denying it.

He's just more used to being hated by others for how he was raised. After all, he had quite a grim past, majority of it was thanks to Jerry's treatment.

... that, and he honestly thinks that people are better off with not trying to get together with him. It made more sense that way.

So many may think that he is introverted to the matter of romance, and although you aren't wrong at the idea of him being introverted, he's more of the avoidant type.

He isn't even interested in romance, so why would you think he'd be interested in forming a literal emotional bond?

So the biggest surprise for him isn't the general aspect of romance, no— it was how he felt with a literal person, and how it was positive and not dread.

After all, he was raised by the literal scum of the Earth… Right? So why does he feel so humane?

Why does he feel the warmth in his chest when he sees the person he loves? And even the simplest touch they have… It makes him giddy.

… He doesn't know how to process that. And because of that, he avoids the person causing such emotions.

He's like Grace, but you'd have to put in effort with him. He's the type to avoid anything and everything that regards the matter of human interaction, and in that regard, to the person he likes.

Not to worry, however— if he likes you enough and understands the emotions he's processing, he slowly opens up and lets you through the many walls he's built up.

Aesop himself doesn't know how to express the many emotions in his heart, but he expresses it as best as he's able to. Be it through speaking or nonverbal gestures, you get what he's trying to show you, and you still love it all the same for his efforts.

He's pretty good in putting up makeup on his lover, and would be found putting it on them anywhere so as long it's private. Hell— ask him to put your makeup on the bed! He might grumble if you move too much, but he definitely will try.

When he's spent from interacting with the others, he seeks you out first. He craves you and your touch, and God forbid you don't give him that. I'm not saying that he's possessive, but he definitely is the type to sulk over it and be petty in return.

… What I mean is, he ignores you for as long as you did to him. Poor Aesop.

He sometimes talks about having to preserve your body when you die one day, opting to find the right coffin for you, makeup that makes you look the same when you're alive, and even offer to put you in the clothes you were on when you first met him.

… Please tell him not to though. It'd be… Questionable if the others heard of it.

He isn't the most confident of survivors, but if you are lucky (or you're in a teasing mood and tease him), there's a rare chance he gets back at you with a surprise kiss.

He finds it the easiest to shut up his lover with one, even if its rare and he knows you'd ask for more. Not that he minds… Surprisingly.

He likes PDA, but only a small bit in public. He hates it if you do more than a simple hand holding, though sometimes he would also crave more. It's very difficult to read him, but when you know him enough, you'd know when to give him what he wants.

Although Aesop has his own quirks, he's one of the few residents that people may have a hard time envisioning that he'd have a chance at romance. And although he agreed to that ideal, having a chance himself was… Rather pleasant for a change.

“ … You're back from your match. You're left unharmed, right? … Good. ”

© ᴏʟᴇᴛᴜs-ᴍᴀɴᴏʀs-ʟᴏɢ | 𝟸𝟶𝟸𝟹 ✧ ʀᴇᴘᴏsᴛs ᴀʀᴇ ɴᴏᴛ ᴀʟʟᴏᴡᴇᴅ, ʙᴜᴛ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢs ᴀʀᴇ | ᴀʀᴛ ʙᴇʟᴏɴɢs ᴛᴏ ʀɪɢʜᴛғᴜʟ ᴏᴡɴᴇʀs

#✎ . . . 「 𝙄𝙉𝙄𝙏𝙄𝘼𝙇 𝘾𝙊𝙉𝘾𝙀𝙋𝙏𝙎 」 ➠ ❝ headcannons ❞ #✎ . . . 「 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝘼𝘾𝙍𝙊𝘽𝘼𝙏 」 ➠ ❝ Mike Morton ❞ #✎ . . . 「 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙀𝙈𝘽𝘼𝙇𝙈𝙀𝙍 」 ➠ ❝ Aesop Carl ❞ #identity v #identity v writing #idv #identity v survivor #identity v aesop #identity v mike #idv mike #idv aesop #identityv aesop #identityv mike #identity v mike morton #identity v aesop carl #idv mike morton #idv aesop carl #identityv aesop carl #identityv mike morton #identityv acrobat #identityv embalmer #identity v acrobat #identity v embalmer #idv embalmer #idv acrobat #identityv x you #idv x you #identity v x you #identityv x reader #idv x reader