sherlollymouse  asked:

Please share the TJ assassination threats!

An anonymous letter from New York, this one sighed, “A–X” said: “You are in danger a dreadful plot is forming against you… Julius Caesar was cautioned for the Ides of March–I caution you for the last of April.”

This one had me rolling on the floor for about an hour: “I think you ought to get a damn kicking, you red-headed son of a bitch. You are a pretty fellow to be President of the United States of America, you dirty scoundrel.” –Anonymous

December 1804, a correspondent signing himself, “A Friend of the Constitution” told Jefferson that “there is a plot formed to murder you… A band of hardy fellows have joined to do it. They are to have ten thousand dollars if they succeed in the attempt. They are to carry daggers and pistols. I have been invited to join them but would rather suffer death. I advise you to take care and be cautious how you walk about as some of the assassins are already in Washington.”

Another anonymous writer: “Thomas Jefferson. You are the damdest fool that God put life into you. God Dam you.”

Those are the few I have. 

A Court Of Witchcraft And Wizardry: Part I

The ACOTAR Hogwarts AU that nobody asked for.

A/N: This fic was totally unplanned for, but I randomly got a sudden burst of inspiration to write it, so here we are. I am aware that the title is stupid, but I honestly couldn’t think of anything else. I took some liberties with how to sort the characters, so no, they are not all in the same houses SJ Maas put them in. This is my first ACOTAR fic and my first AU fic! Exciting stuff! Please feel free to comment/leave constructive criticism. Enjoy!

Read on AO3

Summer had officially come to an end. It was time to return to school.

The Hogwarts Express sat idly at Platform 9¾, a steady stream of witches and wizards walking out of the brick barrier to join the raucous swarm of students dawdling beside the train. With ten minutes before departure, the Archeron sisters entered the fray. From across the way, a tousle-haired boy with violet eyes grinned and pushed himself off the wall he had been leaning on.

Feyre, the youngest sister, abandoned her luggage and began elbowing her way through the crowd, launching herself into the arms of the grinning boy. “Rhys,” she breathed into the crook of his neck.

“Feyre darling,” he returned, pressing a kiss to her temple, “I missed you this summer.”

Pulling away, eyebrows pinched with concern, Feyre began, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t visit. My father–”

Rhys’s gaze fell to where his finger absently twirled a stray piece of her golden-brown hair. “Don’t apologize, Feyre,” he said softly, “You have nothing to apologize for. Not ever, not to me.”

There was a long pause. Then Feyre sighed, and reached up to kiss him gently. “I love you,” she murmured against his mouth. She felt his lips stretch into a smile.


The couple broke away, Rhys’s deep laugh vibrating through his chest as Feyre rolled her eyes. Behind them, the eldest Archeron sister watched with a scowl on her face. Above the clamor, Nesta shouted, “Get your hands off my sister, Rhysand!”

Sliding his hand down Feyre’s arm and lacing their fingers together, Rhys said, “It’s good to see some things never change.”

Feyre snorted. “Tell me about it.”

It was amazing, really, how Nesta managed to peer down her nose at Rhys when her head barely met his shoulder. Perhaps she had been taking lessons from Amren, who was technically the shortest of the group, though her personality made up for any lack in height. Regardless, Rhys felt a wave of uneasiness wash over him as Nesta turned her icy stare to him.

“So,” she sniffed, “You’re still here.”

“That I am,” Rhys said jovially, gesturing toward the train. “Shall we board?”

“Please,” Feyre muttered, quickly ascending the steps to escape the tension.

Elain, the middle sister who had been silent until this point, glanced toward Nesta. “Will you sit with us?”

Guilt flashed across Nesta’s features, the emotion gone before it could fully form. “I’m afraid not. As Head Girl, I’m required to go to the Prefects’ carriage,” she said softly.

“That’s a shame,” Rhys drawled. He would have looked like the epitome of boredom had his eyes not glittered with mischief. “I know Cassian is eager to see you again after so many months apart.”

Nesta did not deign to acknowledge Rhys’s comment. To Elain, she said, “I’ll see you in the Great Hall.” She then spun crisply on her heel and stalked onto the train.

Rhys sketched a small bow as a the train’s whistle sounded. “After you,” he said politely to the remaining sister.

With a grateful smile, Elain gathered her pleated skirt and climbed aboard.

Feyre was already deep in conversation with Mor by the time Rhys and Elain arrived, and Cassian’s thundering laughter spilled into the corridor at something Amren had said. A smirk played at Amren’s blood red lips, and she whispered something to Azriel, who sat half-immersed in shadows beside her. Azriel snorted, his gaze flicking to the newcomers.

Rhys plopped himself down beside Feyre, snaking an arm around her shoulders. Feyre leaned into his touch, but didn’t break her discussion with Mor. This left Elain standing somewhat awkwardly in the doorway, unsure of where to sit, until Azriel slid over and provided room for her. She offered him a timid half-smile, and delicately took her place.

It was only after everyone had settled that Cassian frowned. To no one in particular, he asked, “Where’s Nesta?”

“The Prefects’ carriage,” Rhys answered, “Apparently she’s Head Girl.”

Cassian’s brows rose in surprise. “Really?”

“Of course she is,” Amren scoffed. “She’s the smartest girl at Hogwarts.”

With a lazy grin, Cassian taunted, “Even smarter than you, All-Knowing One?”

“No,” Amren replied immediately, silver eyes glinting, “But I’m too humble to be Head Girl.”

“Clearly,” Cassian quipped.

“Well, she’s certainly smarter than you, Cass,” Azriel interjected.

Cassian relaxed into the back of the seat, clasping his hands behind his head and resting his right ankle on the opposing knee. “Oh, I don’t doubt that,” he said, unabashed. “But at least I haven’t got a stick up my ass.”

“You must be so jealous of this metaphorical stick,” Rhys observed, struggling to keep a straight face. Elain’s cheeks flushed a rich scarlet color and Azriel coughed. Even Mor and Feyre’s chatter came to a stop.

Rhysand,” Mor scolded, her voice taking on a motherly tone.

Cassian’s neck burned red with embarrassment, but he schooled his features into a look of nonchalance. He opened his mouth to shoot back something exceptionally vulgar. Before he could get the first word out, however, the trolley lady arrived.

“Anything from the trolley, dears?” She trilled.

There was a whirlwind of exchanging candy for coins, and only when everyone was munching on Pumpkin Pasties did the topic of Quidditch arise, as it always did. It was impossible to avoid talking about the sport when two of the Team Captains were in the same room.

“All I’m saying,” Cassian said around a bite of Liquorice Wand, “Is that Gryffindor is going to kick your ass this year.”

Azriel shrugged, popping one of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans into his mouth. “I wouldn’t be so cocky, Cassian,” he advised, “I’ve got some new tactics up my sleeve.”

“Tactic only gets you so far when you have a shit team,” Cassian pointed out. “I’ve got Viv as seeker and Varian as keeper. My team is solid. Plus you’ve gotta get through me.”

Shaking his head, Azriel argued, “You can’t just take your players and throw them out on the field. It doesn’t matter how good they are if there’s no organized plan.”

Cassian rolled his eyes. “I have a plan. And good players. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Is this brute disturbing you guys? I’m allowed to assign detention now.” Nesta’s distinct, cold voice turned the air chilly. Cassian’s head snapped to her, his eyes instinctively running over her body like he was taking inventory, like he was making sure she wasn’t somehow hurt. He sat up straighter, fixing his slouched posture, which made his already massive body appear even larger.

“Hello, Nesta,” he said, his warm hazel gaze catching her frigid blue-gray one.

“You,” she said as a greeting. Silence fell over the compartment as Nesta stared at the Gryffindor Quidditch Captain. Everyone waited with baited breath as if one of the two could explode at any second. But instead of making any scathing, sardonic comments, Nesta simply said, “We’ll be arriving soon. I suggest you change into your robes.”

Nesta finally looked away from Cassian, letting her focus slide over Elain and Azriel suspiciously before whirling around, cloaks billowing dramatically, Head Girl badge gleaming.

Entering the Great Hall was like returning home. There was a simultaneous sigh among the student body as the doors creaked open, the thousands of floating candles against a velvet sky coming into view. Feyre clutched Rhysand’s arm as they made their way to the Slytherin table, Mor hanging behind to exchange low words with Viviane’s sister.

Elain, now flanked by her friends Nuala and Cerridwen, broke off from the rest of the group and headed for the Hufflepuff table. Lucien, who was unhappily sat beside Tamlin at the Gryffindor table, attempted to catch Elain’s eye, but his efforts were of no avail.

At the Ravenclaw table Nesta and Amren were either gossiping or plotting something dreadful, and Azriel appeared extremely uncomfortable to be beside them. Cassian passed Nesta and leaned down to whisper something in her ear, at which point Nesta whipped around and tried to slap him, but Cassian darted away with a roaring laugh.

Thus another school year began.

Part Two

Stray Dog 3/3

As fugitives from Soul Society, they don’t exactly have the chance to get out much. Which might be nice if Shinji was living with a harem of beautiful, busty, voracious women, but instead he’s stuck with seven of the weirdest, most aggravating morons this side of a mental ward.

Just one more thing to blame Aizen for, in the end.

Sometimes, when he cannot physically withstand another sandal to the head or another dirty manga abandoned on the couch or another bout of Rose humming or Kensei and Mashiro squabbling or anything without unleashing his inner Hollow on the lot of them, Shinji will have just enough of an attack of stupid not to give a shit anymore. Aizen or Soul Society or whatever—by that point he’ll freaking welcome them with open arms. So he’ll leave. Just up and walk out, and the first time he did it he freaked out the rest enough that they were on their best behavior for months afterwards, never mind that he’d never made it further than the nearest bar to get plastered.

Unfortunately, that effect seems to have degraded with time. Now he’s lucky if they even give him a few hours of peace when he gets back. But, well, sometimes an hour’s better than nothing.

Shinji always makes sure it’s fairly dramatic, too, his departure. Lots of screaming “good riddance!” and slamming doors with inhuman strength and such. This one’s no different, and he stalks away from their base with his long coat flaring out behind him, the memory of seven startled faces barely enough to begin wearing away at his murderous edges.

He ends up in a lounge a few hours later, like he always does once his temper cools enough that he can start to feel sorry for himself. It’s a tiny little hole in the wall, just enough upscale edge to make it a certain shade of gloomy that appeals to Shinji’s sense of aesthetics, and while it’s not the cheapest place in Karakura it’s definitely what he needs.

This time, when he walks in still mildly seething and halfway wishing for a Menos or something to brutally slaughter—which is an improvement to wanting to slaughter his fellow Vizards—the bar is practically empty, the tables scattered around the floor unfilled. There’s a woman seated at the far end of the bar, giving off such clear fuck-off vibes that Shinji doesn’t even bother giving her more than half a glance, but otherwise there are no customers.

There’s a new bartender, too, and Shinji wonders with faint amusement if that’s got something to do with the deadness.

Or maybe it’s the fact that it’s barely four o’clock on a Monday.

Still, the guy’s cute, though with the tattoos and scars he looks a little out of place in his neat bartender’s uniform—more like he should be in some back-alley joint with bouncers and regular fights and a baseball bat behind the counter, rather than a lounge like this. Spiky dark hair and tanned skin and lots of sleek muscles, and yeah, Shinji is more than appreciative of the eye candy, his bad mood quickly falling away in the face of it. Because chicks are great, and boobs will never get old, but there’s something to be said for pinning another guy down and making him scream.

“Good afternoon,” the guy says, putting down the glass he’s polishing and giving Shinji a faint smile. There are slight lines around his storm-grey eyes, almost wariness, but maybe Shinji’s reading too much into things. “What’s your poison?”

For half a second, Shinji debates ordering a Blow Job or a Screaming Orgasm just to see the man’s reaction, but regretfully decides he’s not in quite that sort of mood and instead offers, “You any good at a Lemon Drop Martini?”

That earns him a flash of teeth as the man grins and turns away. “You wearing socks? ‘Cause I guarantee I can knock ‘em off.”

I bet you can, Shinji thinks admiringly, studying the very, very nice curve of the man’s ass as he turns away. But it’s a bit too early to be scaring the guy away, so he goes with, “I’ll hold you to that. But you look new. Something happen to Hayato?”

The strong shoulders, barely hidden by the white shirt and vest, lift in a quick shrug as the man tilts the tumbler and deftly pours it into a glass, garnishing it with a twist of lemon before he slides it over to Shinji. “He got married and decided to get a real job. I’m Shuuhei.”

Shinji takes a sip, eyes closed to savor it. Sweet, sour, bite. Just the way he likes it. But that opening’s too good not to take, and he gives the man—Shuuhei—a quick grin. “An’ I’m Shinji. So this isn’t your real job, then? Got something on the side?”

A sideways glance from beneath dark lashes almost catches him by surprise, since the guy’s barely looked at him twice, but it’s strangely appealing when coupled with those sharp-stark scars and the blue stripe of that tattoo. “Yeah,” Shuuhei says dryly. “I try and save the world whenever I’m not mixing drinks for stuck-up assholes.”

Shinji barks out his first genuine laugh in what feels like a god-damned age, grinning widely as he takes a generous sip of martini. “Oh? I can see the spandex thing working for you, definitely, but I’ll admit you didn’t strike me as the type.”

Shuuhei grins back, a little wry but mostly amused. “Well,” he says easily, “not every superhero fights out in the open. I like to think I’m more of a back-alley-deals kind of guy. Stop the megalomaniac from the shadows and all that.”

Something twists in Shinji’s chest, bitter and bracing, and he tosses back the rest of his drink to cover his grimace. “Takes all types,” he agrees, and tries not to think how very much his situation fits that simple summary.

“Another?” Shuuhei asks, already snagging his glass.

By now, Shinji’s more than ready to throw caution to the wind. The guy seems open enough not to take a swing at him, at least. Summoning up his best flirtatious grin, he drops his elbows on the smooth wood of the bar and leans forward, like it’s a secret. “And if I asked for a Screaming Orgasm?” he questions, voice just above a purr.

Shuuhei meets his eyes for three long heartbeats, expression unreadable, and then one corner of his mouth curls up in amusement. “I’d say my shift’s over at six,” he answers, and that flare of heat in his eyes is somewhere between challenge and anticipation. An answering heat curls in Shinji’s stomach, and he wants.

Then Shuuhei gives him a full-on smile, bright and a little wicked, and lowers his voice to add, “Beyond that, I really hope you like to top. I think I could use a screaming orgasm of my own after today.”

Shinji’s mouth goes dry, a vision of acres of golden skin spread out beneath him flashing before his eyes, and he has to think of Hiyori’s screeching to keep from embarrassing himself.

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s a fucking miracle that his voice comes out steady. “I think we’ll be able to work something out.”

Shinji wakes up alone in the hotel room with bright sunlight falling over him, warm and well-rested and totally at peace with every damn thing in the universe. It’s been years since he last got laid, and every single bit of tension that’s been coiling through his body is gone, eased away by a really fucking awesome night.

And, yeah, it might be nicer if Shuuhei was still here, ready for a final round of morning sex, but Shinji can’t bring himself to mind the other man’s absence too much. It was a one-night thing, and both of them knew that going in. Shinji’s in no place to be making commitments, not to anything aside from tearing Aizen down and grinding him into the mud. And, regardless of looks that should be able to get him laid without effort, Shinji got the impression that Shuuhei was just as in need of a release of tension as Shinji himself.

He rolls over in the bed, enjoying the stretch and pull of muscles that haven’t been put to good use in far too long, and grins to himself. Yeah. No penny-dreadful romance novel plots here, but it was still one fucking awesome night, excuse the pun, and he’s content with that.

There’s a note on the nightstand beside him, a scrap of hotel stationary scrawled in a ridiculously neat, precise hand.

Sorry, had to go to my other job. I’ll buy you a drink next time you come in to make up for the lack of morning-after sex.


Great minds think alike, apparently. Shinji decides that a drink with a hot guy sounds very nice indeed, already planning a time to sneak out of the base to take Shuuhei up on it as he hauls himself into the shower. A quick scrub, a cup of fancy coffee from the upscale place down the street, and he saunters deeper into Karakura, deciding to let the other Vizards stew for a bit longer. The bastards can take it, after all, and Shinji’s going to milk this not-an-actual-clusterfuck of a day for all it’s worth before he has to go back to the loony bin.

Well, that particular loony bin, he acknowledges, seeing as his feet are headed towards Urahara’s store. But Urahara’s usually up for a spar at the very least, and Shinji could use some downtime. With the others, sparring is training for taking on Aizen, and Shinji doesn’t want to think about that bastard for at least another few hours.

With a peaceful sigh, he rounds the corner and strides into the courtyard in front of the store, waving a lazy greeting to the little girl sweeping. “Yo, Ururu-chan.”

“Hirako-san,” the girl mumbles, blushing. “Boss is inside, if you’re looking for him.”

Shinji nods and heads up the steps without hesitating, though he keeps his easy swagger. No point in rushing, after all. “Kisuke?” he calls, poking his head around shelves and stacks.

“Shinji,” the scientist responds cheerfully from about three and a half inches behind him, making him all but jump out of his skin. That earns him a fan-flutter and a very wide, badly hidden smirk. “Oh my. Jumpy, are we?”

Shinji scowls at him, but can’t force himself to hold it for long. In the end, he settles for rolling his eyes and reaching out, smacking that stupid bucket-hat down a little further over the younger man’s eyes. “Whatever, ya sneaky freak,” he huffs. “Any news?”

Agreeably, Kisuke readjusts his beloved hat and turns, leading the way towards the dining room. “Ah, not much, I’m afraid. Things have been rather quiet of late. There’ll be a new shinigami stationed here soon, but she’s unseated and nothing to worry about.”

About to respond, Shinji pauses. There's…reiatsu in the air, a reiatsu he’s not familiar with, and while he hardly thinks Kisuke is going to betray them after so much time—

“Urahara-san, where do you want these? Back in the storeroom?”

That voice is entirely familiar and just as wholly unexpected, making Shinji falter even as a head of spiky black hair appears around the corner, half-concealed by a precarious stack of boxes. The arms he can see are strong and corded, the skin honey-colored and smooth where it isn’t lightly scarred, and intimately familiar.

Shuuhei-kun?” Shinji blurts in absolute shock, because this is the man he fucked into a mattress last night, only with the addition of enough reiatsu to leave him at the lower end of captain-class and a katana slung diagonally across his back.

The man pauses, then carefully sets the boxes down and stands up, grey eyes meeting Shinji’s with muted surprise.

“…Oh,” Shuuhei says after a moment. “Shinji-san.”

“How interesting,” Kisuke coos, flitting around the two of them with a bright, knowing smile. “You’re acquainted with my new part-timer, Shinji?”

Biblically, Shinji wants to say, but he’s tactful enough to settle on a simple nod. No need to give Kisuke any more ammunition than he can dig up on his own, after all.

“Urahara-san,” Shuuhei says after a long moment of fairly awkward silence. He gives the shopkeeper a quick, meaningful glance and Kisuke’s eyes narrow beneath the shadow of his hat.

“Do you think that’s really such a good idea, Hisagi-kun?” he asks, and there’s very little that annoys Shinji more than being left out of the loop. He fixes both of them with a hard stare, crossing his arms over his chest and raising an expectant eyebrow.

Shuuhei, of course, meets his stare dead-on—even knowing him less than twenty-four hours, Shinji can tell he’s not the type to be easily cowed by anything. But the younger man inclines his head regardless, as though Shinji’s just won some sort of battle, and steps back. “I’m sure,” he tells the shopkeeper. “Sorry, Urahara-san. We’ll be using your training ground, if that’s all right.”

“Certainly, certainly. Take all the time you need, Hisagi-kun.” Sharp grey eyes stay on them as Shuuhei leads the way down the hall, and Shinji spares Kisuke one last glance—narrow, warning, because Shuuhei is obviously a shinigami or something very much like it, is obviously well-acquainted with the shopkeeper beyond just working for him, and Shinji’s going to be having words with Kisuke about keeping important things from him—before following him.

As soon as Shinji’s feet hit dirt, he turns to look at Shuuhei, and is almost startled to see the younger man dip into a deep bow, the kind of gesture that no one’s directed at Shinji since the whole disaster with Aizen. It’s…strange, seeing it again.

“Hisagi Shuuhei, former lieutenant of the Ninth Division, under Tousen Kaname,” Shuuhei says formally, straightening up and meeting Shinji’s eyes again, firm but faintly apologetic. “I’m sorry for misleading you, Captain Hirako.”

“…Ninth,” Shinji says after a beat, his gaze settling on the pair of numbers inked into Shuuhei’s skin. He’s seen them before, every time Kensei has taken his shirt off, but he’d dismissed it as coincidence. A mistake, obviously. “I should have realized.”

The brunet blinks, one hand rising to touch his cheek, and then he smiles a touch wryly. “Oh, right. Not my subtlest decision, I guess, but for the record I wasn’t drunk and I’ve yet to regret it. Captain Muguruma saved my life the same day he…disappeared. But he inspired me to join the Gotei 13 about fifty years ago, where I heard about what had happened. It was just…something I couldn’t let go of, especially since I started having suspicions about Tousen, Ichimaru, and Aizen. So I left, and eventually found Urahara. He filled me in.”

Shinji’s not a fool. He can tell there’s far more to the story than those five sentences let on. It’s been almost a hundred years since their exile, after all, and fifty years are a long time to spend alone and hunting. Shinji knows that better than most. And to leave the Gotei 13 on a hunch? To abandon everything so simply for the sake of a man Shuuhei only met once? That’s…

Shinji can’t tell if it’s absolutely flat-out moronic or the noblest damn thing he’s ever heard. Maybe a bit of both, honestly.

“I take it you’re in on Kisuke’s plans?” he asks with a faint sigh. Yet another life upended that he’s more than happy to blame on Aizen.

Shuuhei nods, grey eyes going sharp and hard, like honed steel. “I am. Shiba Kaien knows my location and what’s going on, and he’s been helping me sneak in and out of Soul Society when necessary. Urahara-san is to going to use that as a backup plan, and I’ve agreed.”

“Knowing Aizen, we’ll need a backup plan for that, too,” Shinji huffs. He eyes the former lieutenant, the easy way he carries himself, and remembers the sword callouses on his hands. For a moment he wavers, but then, with a faint sigh, he gives in to his curiosity. “Feel up to a spar? That’s what I was coming here for, but after a hundred years I’m tired of kickin’ Kisuke’s ass all the time. Want a turn?”

Shuuhei smiles. It’s definitely not a nice expression.

The sword comes out.

“Let’s see if I can’t kick yours first.”

Shinji grins right back, pops a soul pill, and steps out of his body as it falls away. “Now we’re talkin’, kid. How about you put your money where your mouth is?”

Shuuhei flips his zanpakuto around, catches it deftly, and growls, “Hado 58: Tenran.”

Sakanade comes to Shinji’s hand like an old friend, and he laughs even as the hurricane comes right for him. This will be fun.

When he wanders back to base some time in the early evening, it’s deathly silent within. Shinji steps through the barrier, brows rising when he sees all seven Vizards sprawled out in the main room. 

Almost instantly, Hiyori bolts to her feet, screeching, “You stupid baldy, where the hell have you been?!”

“Worried, Hiyori-chan?” Shinji asks blithely, pretending not to see the way seven pairs of eyes are studying him for any sign of injury as he hangs his coat up. “Sorry, got distracted over at Kisuke’s or I woulda been back a couple hours ago. Nothing happened.”

That doesn’t quite get a sigh of relief, but Lisa immediately gets up from the couch and wanders away, and Love isn’t far behind. Rose takes one more look at Shinji and heads for the kitchen, presumably to start dinner, and tows Hiyori—screeching and snarling, of course—along with him.

About to retreat to his room, Shinji pauses. Kensei is still on the couch, magazine propped open on one bent knee, and Shinji is…curious.

“Oi, Kensei,” he says, and the silver-haired man looks up, pierced brow rising. Shinji thinks about Shuuhei with his tattoos and has to smother a grin. They’re more alike than one would think, apparently.

“Yeah?” Kensei asks disinterestedly, attention still mostly on the magazine.

“You remember what happened the day before you disappeared? Back then?”

That gets him Kensei’s full attention instantly. After all, it’s an unspoken rule that they don’t talk about the past, especially not the past that close to their unwilling transformation. But apparently there’s still enough relief hanging around at Shinji not having abandoned their sorry asses to get him an answer, because Kensei snorts.

“Of course,” he scoffs. “Last time anything was even vaguely normal, wasn’t it? We had a patrol, me an’ Mashiro and some of the Ninth’s upper seats, looking into those disappearances. There was…” He pauses, eyes going faintly distant, and one side of his mouth quirks up. “A Hollow, outside of a little shit-hole town. Big and ugly. And a kid, this little brat who couldn’t stop crying. Big eyes, hair like a black porcupine got stuck to his head. I told him to quit crying and be happy he was still alive. Wonder if it worked.” Kensei pauses again, looking away, and then shakes his head. “Kid’s probably not even alive anymore, damn it,” he mutters, and there’s a regretful sort of anger in his voice—something Shinji’s more than familiar with.

Shinji wants to correct Kensei, tell him that he’s wrong and that crying kid is actually schlepping boxes for Kisuke right this minute, as powerful as a captain and able to give Shinji a workout in a spar. But Shuuhei already asked him to keep his presence a secret, so he holds his tongue. “Ah,” he says instead, and heads for his room, lifting a hand in a halfhearted wave. “Thanks, Kensei.”

Kensei says something, asks a question, but Shinji is out of hearing before he even gets halfway through, and closes his door firmly. With a tired sigh, he flops onto his bed, stretching out on his back and pressing his palms over his eyes.

One more thing Aizen ruined, he thinks, feeling that familiar, seething fury rise in his chest. Kensei coulda seen the kid grow up to be something great, if we’d stayed. Shuuhei coulda grown up with his hero pushing him to be even stronger. Hell, kid’s strong anyway. Maybe he woulda been a captain by now. Who knows what woulda happened if Aizen’d never crawled out from under his rock.

Who knows.

I feel like anything can happen in season 4.

Maybe Bojack comes back to Los Angeles and goes on with the show and no one asks why he ran off that day.

Maybe he stays with the wild horses and becomes one of them.

Maybe he quits and goes back to his house and decides to just stay there until his tragic death.

Maybe he goes back to Albuquerque and gets caught. Or not.

In the last episodes of season 3 we see that everything(or almost everything) that marked a continuity in Bojack’s life disappears. His relationship with Princess Carolyne, Sarah Lynn, Todd, all the motivations and goals he suddenly had thanks to Secretariat. All of that is in the past now. Perhaps his acting career is still alive with Ethan’ Around, but we can’t be sure of that either since they could easily cancel it after what happened.

On the other hand… I feel like I’m going to dread Mr. Peanutbutter’s plot. He’s one of my favourite characters so I hope they make something good out of it.

Okamura is underrated as a villain honestly she mirrors the themes of the entire game better than any other human NPC and her journey follows the arc of mounting dread in the overall plot - as the world of P2 changes according to her mindscape we’re kind of literally playing through her complete mental breakdown 

Junko is not just underrated but unfairly maligned and is a fascinating character bc she shows the butterfly effect and through her story in IS vs EP. Phillyman basically changed the fate of the world by changing Junko’s mind about her own aging and mortality. 

Persona needs to do more with mother figures bc they have done so much with daddy issues and when they do tackle mother issues it’s A+.

(most persona villains are underrated to be fair but I was thinking about these two)

I get that it's very exciting for many people that Steve is coming back I'm just...

Not one of them. GH is being as subtle as a sledgehammer with the amount of times everyone is bringing up how different Jason is and how nobody can trust him the same way they used to and I’m just dreading how contrived and plot hole filled this story is gonna be.

anonymous asked:

Hi! I'm currently writing a story that has romance in it. The thing is, the romance isn't all that crucial to the main plot but is important character development-wise. How do I avoid the dreaded "romantic plot tumor" trope so the romance doesn't stray away from the main plot?

Remember - every scene has to, in some way, drive the main plot forward. This includes your romantic scenes. 

Be sure that when romance is happening, we - the audience - are directly seeing how that romance is affecting the character development, and therefore the plot, in your story. 

Also remember that when romance is a subplot, it’s okay to have a lot of stuff happen after the cut or behind-the-scenes. So long as the reader has enough information to draw conclusions about how the romance is developing, it won’t feel weird or jarring to them to see only the “big” moments without a lot of fluff thrown in.

Avatar: The Last Airbender did a pretty great job with its romantic subplot, in that you only see it on the screen when it’s showing the characters’ emotional states or mindset. You may get little teasers here and there about Aang’s crush, but there are really only a handful of big moments that relate to the overall romance (that finally comes to fruition only in the very last episode). 

Likewise with Harry Potter - even though Harry and Ginny get together in Book 6 (after Harry crushes on her for a little while), the most that we really see of their relationship is what pertains to the war that’s growing around them. (For example, Harry leaving her behind and realizing she’s at Hogwarts when the battle’s about to start.)

The Journey to the top of the Tower: Heaven Sent (an answer)

Below is my answer to the question I posed in the previous post about Time Lord free will. Please read the previous post or this will seem even more random. And yes, it contains spoilers.

Thank you all for your thoughts on why the Doctor made his way back to the top of the tower after discovering Door 12. And also for your philosophies on the meaning of Heaven Sent and Free Will vs. Determinism.

Thank the universe for Doctor Who fandom.

During my prep-time on Heaven Sent, I was, as mentioned in the previous post, puzzling my way through the middle section of the script, trying to work out the Doctor’s motivations in each scene.

The first time I read the script, I knew nothing, of course. I knew less than the average viewer, because I had not seen (or read) all the previous scripts. I had read 1-4 and 10, so I knew Clara had ‘faced the Raven’. I didn’t know it was the Time Lords who had taken the Doctor, I didn’t know much about the Confession Dial.

That first read is very important. It’s the only time I have an experience equivalent to being a virgin viewer. It’s the best time for me to ‘see’ the episode as it unfolds, not burdened by knowing the punchline, nor by the issues of production. As I read, my thoughts were rife with conjecture and speculation. When the doctor dug up the paving slab from the pantry and it said “I am in 12”, I wondered if it was somehow Clara — in some Doctor Who-niverse spin on death, she wasn’t really dead (oh, how could that be?!) and she was waiting for him. Or it was the Master of his destiny, his captor? Or someone else? Someone we had met or some story explained in scripts 5-9? The Mistress? (except I knew it wasn’t because I knew Gomez was not in the finale).

So, I thought that the Doctor must be desperate to find 12 and uncover the secret. But Steven delayed the answers with a montage of scenes where the Doctor peels back the layers of the castle and realizes he might be stuck in it for eternity constantly pursued by the Veil. How fully is he trapped? Is he going crazy? As I worked through prep, questions kept recurring -  how to represent this section and keep it compelling? Why wasn’t finding Room 12 the only goal? As I was working out visuals to portray the Doctor’s moods, it bothered me that the Doctor found room 12 and then, seemingly randomly, went back to the top of the castle to talk to Clara, rather than just confess and open door 12 right away.

And then, sitting in Pizza Express on a recce, I had a lightbulb moment.  Room 12 is hidden at the bottom of the castle (as witnessed by the Doctor’s interminable near-death crawl up the stairs to the teleport chamber) and the top of the tower is (one of) the highest points in the castle.

So he has gone up there to confess in order to lure the Veil the furthest distance from Room 12, so he maximizes his time to deal with Room 12, whatever it is, before the Veil comes for him.

Now, I know this isn’t so obvious to the viewer because the design and the geography of the castle is confusing. Of course. It rotates and changes, it’s Time Lord technology. But the central tower stays as the axle. And I wondered if it was possible to understand it from what we shot, or at least to get a sense of it? No one seemed worried about any of this, but in prep, when everything was speculative, I had to do that thought experiment.

I checked in with Steven Moffat, who confirmed it but wasn’t worried that it was a subtle point. Let the audience figure it out on repeat viewings, if need be. That’s assuming they watch this episode at all, I worried. We were at the stage where the idea of a solo-Doctor episode was speculative anarchic madness. And no one was sure we could pull off the insane script.

It’s clearly not a critical plot point, the episode seems to draw the viewers through wherever we take them, with enough mystery, dread, and plot to keep them from worrying about this moment. It’s really not important. I didn’t mean to waste your time.

Filmmaking is never a science. It evolves. The process of juxtaposing different images with varying sounds and music creates very different responses dependent on the choices. I’m endlessly fascinated by it, one reason I think I have one of the coolest jobs on the planet. And I get to work on one of the greatest shows in history. #LivingTheDream – kinda. 

Whovian Feminism Reviews "Deep Breath"

If you’ll forgive the pun, “Deep Breath” was a welcome breath of fresh air, bringing a much needed shift in tone and format and exploring characters in new and exciting ways. It was, of course, not a perfect episode, and I found that many of my early misgivings about this series of Doctor Who were realized. Yet, in spite of all of its problems, I found the episode engaging, and my interest in the Doctor and Clara as characters has been renewed. And, for the first time in a long time, I’m actually interested in seeing the next episode of Doctor Who.

The main plot of the episode was engaging but unobtrusive. It lingered in the background, injecting dread and driving the plot at crucial moments, but otherwise allowing the focus to be on the character-driven drama. To my surprise, I even liked the return of the clockwork droids. I was initially wary when it was revealed Moffat would be bringing them back for this episode because he has a tendency to take his uniquely terrifying villains and drive them into the ground until they are just ridiculous. But the clockwork droids remained macabre, and the half face man managed to be both poignant and terrifying.

The Paternoster Gang returned to provide support for Clara and the Doctor after their dramatic return to London (can we say that being thrown up by giant T-Rex in Victorian London is the most dramatic entrance a new Doctor has ever made?). Strax, as usual, was a bit too ridiculous for my taste, but Vastra and Jenny were unexpectedly interesting to watch this episode. I’ve always wanted to like Jenny and Vastra more than I do because, well for god’s sake, they’re a lesbian sword-wielding couple who (in Doctor Who, at least) provide the original inspiration for Sherlock Holmes! And they are so sweetly in love with each other that they are always charming to watch. Yet their relationship has always been a bit problematic. There’s been a lot of commentary on Tumblr about the weird way Jenny and Vastra maintain the Master-Servant dynamic in public and in private. And a lot of people had been frustrated that Jenny and Vastra had never shared an onscreen kiss, something that became exceptionally problematic last season when the only kiss Jenny received was an aggressive, non-consensual one from the Doctor.

Yet to my surprise, both of these issues were addressed in “Deep Breath.” After Vastra remarks that she and Jenny maintain a pretense of Master and servant in public to be accepted, Jenny sarcastically comments on the fact that she’s treated like a servant in private too. And in the final climatic battle against the clockwork droids, Jenny and Vastra share a sort-of-kiss so that Vastra can share oxygen with Jenny.

So, has Steven Moffat been reading Tumblr in his spare time? If so, I’m thrilled that he seems to be trying to address these problems, but a little bit disappointed by the execution. After Jenny’s comment that she’s treated like a servant in private, Vastra shushes her, and everything continues on as normal with no change in their dynamic. And the “controversial” Jenny-Vastra kiss was actually a bit disappointing. Compare it to the kiss Jack and the Doctor shared in the Series 1 finale. That kiss required no justification and none was given. It was an intimate act–even between friends–given for the sole purpose that Jack was fond of the Doctor and fully expected to never see him again. But Jenny and Vastra didn’t even really kiss. It wasn’t an emotional, intimate act. Jenny and Vastra locked lips for a pragmatic purpose: so that Vastra could share the oxygen stored in her lungs with the oxygen-deprived Jenny. Why can’t they, as wives, lovers, and friends, just kiss?

“Deep Breath” also gave us our first real introduction to Peter Capaldi’s Doctor. And wow, what a Doctor he will be. He may not have Matt Smith’s rapid fire pace, but his Doctor is dynamic, fierce, and intense. He is brusque and coarse. He puts on no affable pretense and will tell you directly to your face exactly what he thinks of you. He seems to be a much more introspective Doctor, and he seems much more willing to directly confront his faults and his responsibilities. Yet he still retains the Doctor’s ridiculous charm. 

This episode may have been about introducing us to Peter Capaldi’s Doctor, but it was Jenna Coleman’s Clara who was the true star of “Deep Breath.”

Poor Clara has been neglected by the narrative lately. I’ve been complaining for quite a while that Clara had little defining characteristics beyond her mystery and her title as “The Impossible Girl,” but in “Deep Breath” I felt we finally were getting to know Clara as a person. Exhausted from chasing after a newly regenerated Doctor, distraught at his sudden change, and deeply hurt that he couldn’t remember her, Clara still managed to keep her wits and continued fighting to keep him safe. As the Doctor said, she’s brilliant on adrenalin.

And despite being constantly challenged and insulted by both the Paternoster gang and the Doctor, Clara always defended herself. Quite possibly my favorite moment of the entire episode was when she stood up to Vastra for assuming that she only travelled with the Doctor because he looked like a pretty young man, which I also interpreted to be a wonderful meta-commentary on the rampant assumptions of many that young women will stop watching Doctor Who because they were drawn in by pretty young men playing the Doctor. Some have been upset that Vastra implied that the Doctor has appeared to be a young man so that he will be accepted by his young female companions, but I interpreted this as an attempt by Vastra to antagonize Clara, rather than a commentary on why the Doctor has appeared young in recent regenerations.

Overall, I’m pretty happy with how “Deep Breath” addressed the end of the romance between Clara and the Doctor. Clara may not have just travelled with the Eleventh Doctor because she fancied him, but it was clear that she did fancy him. The Twelfth Doctor made it very clear that he was not going to be Clara’s “Boyfriend,” but did not shame her for feeling that way about his former self and acknowledged his own role in encouraging her romantic feelings toward him.

However, I was bothered by the incredibly high number of insults Clara endured throughout this episode. Deflected narcissism. Control freak. Egomaniacal needy game player. Moffat really doubled down on trying to characterize Clara as a bossy control freak, but I’m just not seeing it. Sure, she’s assertive and likes to be in control of situations, but she’s not overly controlling or bossy. And her attempts to boss the Doctor around don’t hold a candle to some previous companions, like Donna.

I have very mixed feelings about the dynamic between the Doctor and Clara. On the one hand (and this is probably going to sound very strange to all of you who have been following me for awhile) I actually liked that he seemed to be a much less reliable Doctor. That moment where the Doctor abandons Clara to the clockwork droids chilled me to my core, and I liked it.

Because the truth is, the Doctor has never really been a reliable friend to Clara. It was shocking and horrifying that the Twelfth Doctor put her in danger and lied about his intentions to get more information about the droids, leaving a terrified Clara to fend for herself. But how was that substantially any different from the Eleventh Doctor taking Clara along with him on his adventures to try to figure out how multiple versions of her have existed across time and space, knowing that this could put her in mortal danger, and deliberately hiding his intentions from Clara?

This has forced Clara for the first time to directly confront the fact that the Doctor is not reliable and does not always have her best interests at heart.

And yet, I was frustrated by the ultimate resolution between Clara and the Twelfth Doctor. Clara had clearly been through quite a lot throughout this episode and was disconcerted by the change in the Doctor. When she said “I don’t know who the Doctor is anymore,” she was very justified in doing so. But the focus was entirely on reassuring the Doctor. Matt Smith’s cameo was sweet, but ultimately it was about convincing Clara that she should remain with the Doctor because her fear was not as great as his. I can’t even begin to tell you how mad this made me. Clara was put in danger and abandoned several times by the Doctor; she was afraid by how unreliable this new Doctor seemed. But instead of confronting this problem, Clara is simply guilted for not accepting the Doctor as he is.

I don’t want the Doctor to more visibly be an unreliable friend to Clara because Moffat finds it fun to mess with Clara. The Doctor is a very flawed protagonist, and Doctor Who is at its best when it acknowledges and confronts this fact. If this is going to be a more prominent part of the Twelfth Doctor’s characterization, I want the show to address it and confront it. It’s early yet in the Twelfth Doctor’s tenure, but I have to say that the end to “Deep Breath” didn’t give me much hope that this will be meaningfully addressed.

This wasn’t Steven Moffat at his best, but “Deep Breath” was, in my opinion, his best work since Series 5. With a new Doctor and an opportunity to redefine the dynamic between the Doctor and his companion, Moffat seemed to finally be challenging himself to break out of his old patterns. And I’m curious to see what the rest of the Series will bring.

It was hard to stop yourself crying, because that only made cry even more. That had been Marcus’ situation since the second his father had returned from what seemed like so long ago. The initial shock had drove him to tears, but what made them fall was the moment he realised Isaac was gone. Gone and in the hands of such an evil man. He couldn’t lose someone who called Marcus “his best friend”, the boy was only young, he didn’t deserve this, he was too sweet. The only way he could ever see him again was… was to kill Echo. He couldn’t do it, he didn’t have it in his heart to do it, but here he was asking her to meet him somewhere private the night of the prom, a night that ought to be filled with happiness, ruined once more by the stupid supernatural world. The knife in his left hand was behind his back, but he could feel his entire body shake in nerves as he stared at the ground with a frown on his face. He screamed internally at the fact he would have to do this, but he felt as if he were about to have another break down.