this like full half frame thing

anonymous asked:

thinking about how sven wound up in space since it doesn't seem like he's horrifically traumatized like shiro. it'd be pretty dramatic if the alteans landed on earth, and humanity was like 'oh no, please don't lobotomize us!" but then it turned out that the empire was there for the alien refugees camped out all over the place secretly, so humanity was like 'oh, ok, proceed'. which would be better, political dissenter altean akira, or galtean akira on the run from the brain surgeons? both?

Hm you know I’d say Earth probably was fighting Altea though? We know Galaxy Garrison was training fighter pilots after all, and Sven seems like someone who’s been with the resistance for a long time. I imagine our Shiro wouldn’t have been so hostile to people that meant no harm. And when he’s helped by a garla, he’s the first one to trust them. Sven strike me as much more wary and less sympathetic. I feel like he probably joined the garrison knowing he was signing up for an intergalactic war rather than just getting thrown into it. (I feel like this also matches up with his 80s backstory more). Plus, Hira did say they wanted to “spread peace to every world.” I think that includes Earth. 

As for Akira, I’m thinking Half-Altean instead of half-galra (because it still frames him as someone from the “enemy,” has the potential to put a rift between him and teammates, ect). I headcanon he’s one of the personal royal guards of the current Empress. But she thought he turned on her and put him through the hoktril operation. Here’s a quick edit thing, full backstory for it below the cut

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Quinx becoming ghouls because of the traits they share with Kaneki

Something that was revealed in this chapter is that Urie’s RC count has become high enough at 1911, which it technically at a ghoul’s level where Urie could not eat Shiba’s sandwich without getting sick

However, from his straight up denial in the next he tries to play that it’s just the smell that got to him. It also hasn’t been revealed if Urie having trouble eating human food is a result of his Rc cell spike and that it went down, or if this is a permanent development. Yet, it is implied that after the Island Mutsuki also has become a full fledged half ghoul, as his Rc cell count is still unknown and it’s obvious that it must have spiked do to healing and implied that he might have eaten an investigator do to Mutsuki having an official CCG uniform by the time he found Amon. Also Mutsuki has had two dark marks holding that he is in fact a ghoul over his character, the blood Saiko smelt on him. 

These two facts brought one major question to mind and that is will all the quinx slowly turn into ghouls based on the one personality trait, or character arc that matches with Kaneki. I thought of this based on the fact that both Mutsuki and Urie have pretty much been condemned to having become a ghoul. Though both of them are doing so through ways the mirror Kaneki’s Journey, as Urie is doing so to protect others at the cost of himself, and Mutsuki through a traumatic event and coming to terms with his dark side.

Urie shares a personality trait with Kaneki that wasn’t really revealed until the passing of Shirazu, that Urie would sacrifice himself to make sure no other quinx is hurt every again by getting stronger. This mirrors what Kaneki did in part one by trying to stop Aogiri Tree. Urie has risked his own health to open frames to get stronger and by letting Hige go and fighting Donato on his own Urie will probably do the one thing Shiba told him not to

Thus foreshadowing that Urie will most likely do that turning him into a full half ghoul,thus following his Mentor in falling apart trying to help others.

Then there is Mutsuki who has been the most blatant parallel to Kaneki with the eyepatch and the sweet disposition. Yet, it was when Mutsuki was captured by Torso we learned that their was more to Mutsuki then we thought, much like we did about Kaneki during the Aogiri Tree arc. We learned about their families and the true nature of their childhood. Which leads to both of them accepting their darker side and fighting a stronger ghoul as if to seal the deal. 

Saiko however is the most stable of all the quinx’s as her Rc cell count hasn’t changed the most over the series and with it being 852 meaning it only spiked by 2 from the original 850. 

However, she is going through a very similar arc to Kaneki about learning that there is a difference between what a good ghoul and bad ghoul are and making the judgement for herself. Depending on where this character arc takes her she could either end up as a half-ghoul herself or in a way become an honorary if she decides to leave the CCG.

Yet, it all seems to fit considering

Kaneki was able to surpass Arima (I use surpass liberally here) which being a half-ghoul was what it took to “defeat” Arima, and as the quinx mentor it would make ironic sense if they follow in his foot steps.

anonymous asked:

I like to point out that there is another interpretation to this poem relating to senses the hear no evil see no evil and speak no evil and it might related to Shirazu

I think anybody who makes a good argument should be able to argue against their own argument, so sure why not let’s do this. 

Shirazu and Phosphenes

It’s theorized that Shirazu’s possible return could be foreshadowed through the volume covers, that is Urie -> Mutsuki -> Saiko, Speak no Evil, See no Evil, Hear no Evil. 

The last of them would be Shizaru, do no evil. The first poem of the passage talks specifically about Sin. 

If behaving like a god is a sin,
even the act of creating life would be blasphemous. Wouldn’t doing this be mocking the gods?

The common theory is that since Shirazu is basically the source the Oggai surgery right now, and also the fact that Kanou has brought up bringing things back from the dead not once, but three times. 

(A few Chapter’s after this is called F’s Lie, which might just mean Frankenstein’s Lie. Kanou is a known liar, regardless).

With the specific namedrop of Frankenstein though, we get a point of reference for what the supposed sin is. In Frankenstein, the theme is pretty clearly one man traversing outside of his domain by trying to create life on his own, whether the domain he stepped over was god’s or women’s.

So rather than Touka’s forbidden pregnancy, Shirazu, and possibly Hairu’s too could be a creation of life mocking the gods. Especially since the gods that are currently featured in Tokyo Ghoul are both gods of death.

Wanting to be judged, I entered the prison of my own free will.
I play around with sludge in a silent room.
“So you’ve come back again,”
I was being cursed at with a timbreless voice.

Much like Touka, Shirazu had a great deal of guilt towards his own profession that was left entirely unresolved by his sudden death. 

Haise even told Shirazu that he could always continue thinking about it when he returned home as a way of comforting his hesitance to go after and completely exterminate all of Tsukiyama. 

A room filled with sludge, also reminds me a bit of what Amon Koutarou was being kept in while they analyzed his surger. That is a vat, much like Rize. If they were keeping Shirazu alive by soaking him in RC Sludge, then he’d be a prisoner too in a room full of sludge basically only able to react when one of the scientist’s called for him.

That place was dazzlingly beautiful.
I was starving to death, and then
from when I was gnawing on someone’s body,
that’s right,
from that moment, it all became strange.
There definitely have must have been poison in there.
Only beautiful merely to the eye, and

As for this passage, it’s been established already that the ressurected first generation Oggai needed medicine in order to keep living. it’s also possible that threatening to withhold this medicine is how Kanou controls them so effectively, after all Okahira says much earlier that he has no hard feelings against Kurona but he has to listen to Kanou. 

Kanou probably has not invented mind control so it’s likely that this cooperation comes from black mail and a want to continue living rather than that. 

So this could be the food mentioned, the same medicine that the revived Okahira must take. Shirazu is brought to life and is immediately starving, and the medicine he eats cures him. Except that it is poisoned all the same. It’s likely also considering that Shirazu experienced something close to Urie’s own framing out just before his death he might be a full half ghoul by this point. 

Which would make the reference to eating a corpse make sense as that is something specifically that half ghouls do. 

I don’t want to put anything in my mouth, I don’t want to hear anything.
I don’t want to see anything,
anything at all.

Here’s the three monkeys reference that most people are connecting this poem to Shirazu with. 

To do none of these things would make you ‘do no evil.’

Place myself on a scale, along with the things being sold off,
along with the ripped-apart bodies given away in pieces,
along with playing by peeling off scabs, don’t, don’t.*

As I said before this passage could be interpreted as referring to quinques which makes sense as the entirety of Shirazu’s arc is dealing with the morality of using Quinques. 

It is of course the ultimate irony of Shirazu’s arc that just as he finally makes peace with using his quinque to protect his friends, that Shirazu himself becomes essentially a quinque to Kanou. A stolen corpse that he can disect and turn into a weapon. After this end it might be understandable why the whole idea of quinques would be soiled on a revived Shirazu. 

Throw away everything you don’t need out the window.
It’s okay if you fall and die.
Until the very end, lend your ears to just the sounds fading away.

Hey, how many things did you get that you wanted?

As for this part, it sounds heavily suicidal. Which makes sense as Shirazu was greatly traumatized from his own father’s suicide, possibly to avoid paying the bills for Haru’s horrible sickness. Which left Shirazu with the responsibility.

There’s also one last detail about his death, Haru specifically asked the Quinx’s to kill his sister so she wouldn’t have to suffer. 

Something that the remaining Quinx squad ignored, and then, I wonder if they were even able to keep their promise of keeping Haru’s bills paid for? Especially considering that the CCG is short on medical funds right now, and Urie himself has now most likely defected from the CCG in order to become a terrorist. A terrorist’s salary is not going to pay for Haru’s hospital bills after all.

It’s likely that a revived Shirazu might revive to the one thing that he cared about the most, being abandoned and treated carelessly by his friends and therefore the one thing he wanted in the end he did not achieve.

Alight (7/?)

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence,” a voice said from the living room.

Looking up from the bottom of the stair, Nesta stood warily, unsure how to make her entrance after everything that had happened that night. Leave it to the tiny evil being to call her out.

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Nesta shot back, glowering at her.

Amren snickered, shaking her black bob and pointing a finger. “I knew I’d like you. Spirit, that one,” she defined to the others who were standing rigidly, watching the exchange.

Cassian was not among them. Strange.

She’d taken her time dressing, wrapping her hair in a messy bun, staring at the rumpled bed sheets, still warm with the evidence of them together. Wasted moments absorbing his scent before it sank beneath the floor boards, and left her completely.

If they thought Cassian’s absence was out of the ordinary, they didn’t let it show. Only Azriel turned his nose up, eventually meeting her gaze with a look of surprise. He turned toward Elain, speaking without saying a word, until she too cast her an incredulous stare.

Great. Thanks, Az.

“Well, now that you’re here,” Rhys said, coming forward. “Our informant has alerted us that several High Lords in the other courts have caught wind of Tamlin’s betrayal and they, too, are planning an upheaval. But they’re not sure how to go about it.”

“That’s where we come in,” Mor announced triumphantly.

“Right, so now we go back to Velaris. Are you packed?”

Nesta squared her shoulders. She’d been missing the soft sounds of their home more than she cared to admit. “Yes, I’m ready to go.”

“As am I,” a deep voice said behind her.

Spine snapped straight, Nesta turned to face Cassian a stair above her, keeping her eyes trained on the hands fisted at his sides.

“Good,” Rhys inclined. “Then we’ll leave in ten. Everyone meet here.”

Footsteps signaled the huddle’s break, all out to seek their personal belongings for the trip home.

“Cass-,” Nesta started, but he had already turned to leave the way he came.

Sighing heavily, she turned to see her sister a step away, a frown creasing her brow as she watched Cassian’s departure. She held a plate up, saying softly, “I thought you’d both be hungry when you didn’t meet us for dinner.”

Nodding thanks, Nesta took the plate and ignored the sadness radiating from Elain. She knew, of course she knew.

Still, the food smelled delicious and she was practically ravenous. Picking at the boiled meat with her fingers, she dipped some in the mashed potatoes and savored the flavors. The food really was better than the human realm, but it would be a long time until she admitted that. Not after she’d given Feyre hell for looking like she’d handed her a pile of plated ash when they visited their father’s home.

Licking her fingers lazily as she shuffled forward along the second-floor landing, she heard the sounds of buckles being secured and buttons clasping from behind the door closest to the ladder. The girls hadn’t come up yet, so the most logical explanation was that he was behind door number three.

Knocking gently, she heard the commotion of packing halt and steps in her direction.

Cassian answered, leaning his forearm on the doorframe above her head. “Yes?”

Okay, not happy to see me, then.

“Elain brought us home dinner,” Nesta said weakly, presenting the plate, now half-demolished from her poking and prodding. “I had some, obviously. It didn’t come like this.”

The frame beneath his arm groaned from bearing his full weight. “I’m fine.”

“Come on, Cassian. I understand you’re not necessarily pleased with the way we ended things tonight, but you have to eat.” She grimaced at the way it sounded like pleading. “It’s a long trip home.”

He studied her for a moment, eyes blackening. “I didn’t end anything, Nesta. You did. And for reasons I’ll never understand – but that’s you, isn’t it? Doing what you please with no regard for anyone other than yourself. I do, however, blame myself for reading too much into our first meeting.”

Nesta’s shoulders cowered with every word. He was right, but this was for his own good. Wasn’t it? But… “Our first meeting?”

“It doesn’t matter now – it was completely wrong. I was wrong. Thank you for releasing me from my own delusions.” He shut the door in her face with a quiet snick.

The howling wind in her mind blew fiercely, but it wasn’t trying to get to her… it was trying to get to him. He’d closed her out this time.

[Continue on Archive]


Sterek AU — Cowboy!Derek  [ 1 / 3 ]
↳ in which Derek works at Stilinski’s ranch the summer Stiles returns from school

James Newton Howard - The Gravel Road

( this only happened because of this commission I made for literaryoblivion that made my bestie Ty‘s cowboy fetish resurface so I wrote him 5k whoops <3 )

Derek knows, the moment he enters the stables, what’s waiting for him there. Or rather: who.

He’s barely stepped in far enough to be out of sight from the house, where the ranch owner’s wife is still sipping her afternoon tea on the front porch, when a pair of hands grabs him by his belt loops and pull him into a shadowed corner. The reins that’s been slung over his shoulder are dropped to the floor with a dull thud against the concrete. Derek grunts a little when his back hits the wall, but there’s already a smile growing at the corner of his mouth as his gaze lands on his capturer.

Stiles; son of the man who hired Derek to work at his ranch. His beautiful face is lit up by that young and mischievous spark in his brown eyes, accompanied by the dangerous smirk playing on his lips as he takes one step back, never letting go of Derek’s belt.

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only 90′s fallers remember

-stella/jill/starchan/whatever her name was
-“STAN TWIN THEORY” being a huge matter of debate
-when pinecest was the biggest Bad Ship to worry about
-“mr pyramid/pyramid guy/triangle guy”
-object head bill was the only bill that existed
-night vale crossovers
-one of the disney games (gravity quest or something like that) revealing a code that said “MCGUCKET KNOWS” and everyone lost their minds
-bill ama and the twitter “hack” that preceded it
-the slenderman edit
-somebody posted a really long infographic about GF on like, memebase or something and people got really mad at them for it
-when alex hirsch was being really petty and kind of racist on twitter and half of tumblr gave up on the show for like two weeks
-depravity falls was like the main Edgy Thing and was full of gore and stuff
-“yo'uve been grankle”
-when dreamscaperers got leaked
-people legitimately thinking that since the llama was on the wheel, wax larry king’s head would be a relevant character
-the collective freakout before the s2 premiere when people thought they were changing the theme song to the one in the trailer
-the subsequent freeze framing of every teeny bit of that trailer
-back when the end title codes were written in simple Caesar or a1b26 or atbash code instead of this vignere crap
-the term “hunkle stan” being coined after skaryoke
-when they first started shortening the theme song and everyone panicked
-that one disney game that revealed “my name is bill” when you decoded all the secret codes
-people getting into huge fights about robbie being a good person or not
-“mystery kids run”, that app that totally ripped off the renders from the show and didnt even bother to edit out the mystery shack sign over the door.
-robbie vampire theory
-the widespread confusion and panic when we realized the stans’ names were switched
-supernatural by ken ashcorp
-the mystery tour or whatever it was called where hirsch went around california and drew Bills on things
-“the author of the journals…my brother”
-mystery kids and parapines
-anytime something slightly edgy happens people would be like O h MY DgDGOD HOW??? DID DISnEy AllOW
-having more than one episode left before the show ended forever

feel free to add more

anonymous asked:

It's always pissed me off that lmm had fucking Burr narrate the story. Like. Eliza literally fucking told his story. How does having Burr narrate it make sense?!

Well, Lin has a hard time writing women.

But Burr also deserved to have part of his story told and it’s a pretty common trope.  After all, Hamilton is just a stage version of Amadeus, so it fits.  Plus the Jesus Christ Superstar thing. 

I also think Burr would probably have a more measured approach to the subject of Hamilton than Eliza would.  We definitely wouldn’t get the full picture if she were in charge.  Like, half of Act 2 would be out.

So I don’t think Eliza would be the right person to narrate this story.  However, I do love that she’s on stage as much as Burr and so often watching over the story, watching over even how Burr frames things, and has the final say in the end.

And, like, Eliza wanting Hamilton to be the hero ultimately wins.   There are more biographies about Hamilton and he ended up on money, not Aaron Burr.

So Eliza is like the silent hero of Hamilton’s entire story (and I’m talking about more than just the musical here).  And at the end of the musical, we’re asked “well, she told his story, but who tells hers?”

Rugrats and Gender Roles

Spongebob Squarepants has defined Nickelodeon for the past decade and a half, but it isn’t the face of the network for me.  I am old enough to have watched the pilot of Spongebob when it first aired and I am old enough to remember the Nicktoons as an established brand before it aired.  There wouldn’t be a Spongebob Squarepants successful enough to run almost 20 years and release two theatrical movies without a little show called Rugrats laying the groundwork for Spongebob back in the ‘90s.  Rugrats is my favorite Nicktoon, which is saying something because the competition it ran with on Nickelodeon was already incredibly strong.  Heck, I would argue that Rugrats at its peak is one of the best cartoons that has ever aired on television.  Yes, up there with The Simpsons, Animaniacs, Batman: The Animated Series, or whatever other classic you can think of.  It brimmed with such creativity with its design aesthetic (would’ve thunk America would fall in love with such deformed looking babies?) and concept, which were bolstered by the very thoughtful, funny, and intelligent writing.  Looking back, I can easily see why the show became such a major phenomenon in the '90s and I only regret that it seems like its legacy seems to be overshadowed by Nickelodeon’s current fixation with Spongebob and to a lesser extent, the nostalgia for the more overtly adult-oriented Ren & Stimpy and Rocko’s Modern Life.

I think something that was very interesting about Rugrats that ultimately ended up being one of the show’s many strengths was the structure of the gender roles of the characters.  There was a recurring theme in the show of female characters having more dominant roles over their male peers.  The most subtle version of this is that of the twins Phil and Lil, Lil is slightly older.  This example might sound like I’m reaching, but it’s consistent with the other examples I’m about to lay out.  I realize Lil looks like a something of a Smurfette considering she’s the only girl in the group of babies (until Kimi came along) and that a male character, Tommy, takes the most dominant role within that group.  However, Tommy’s authority is overshadowed by Angelica, who keeps all of the babies under her boot.  The only recurring deterrent to Angelica’s power over the babies is another female toddler, Susie Carmichael.  There are no other characters in the show that have authority over Angelica or Susie that are still young enough to communicate with the babies.  The show later introduces Timmy McNulty, who may be older than Angelica and Susie, but Angelica still maintains the most dominance within their peer group every time they appear in an episode together.  This is particularly salient because Timmy marks his power over everyone through male chauvinism.  Angelica’s eventual overpowering of Timmy McNulty is a direct rejection of the point of view he’s expressing.

These gender dynamic play out in the world of the grownups as well.  The most blatantly obvious example is through Phil and Lil’s parents, Betty and Howard DeVille.  Betty is a large, gregarious, athletic woman who wears a sweatshirt with a big female symbol plastered on it while Howard is meek, timid, and soft-spoken.  The dynamic is not much different with Angelica’s parents Drew and Charlotte.  Drew isn’t as meek as Howard, but Charlotte is even more domineering than Betty.  The stereotypical maternal/paternal gender dynamics are flipped in Angelica’s family, which Charlotte taking the traditionally fatherly role of being the primary breadwinner and Drew taking the traditionally motherly role of tending to Angelica.  With the examples I’ve outlined so far, it seems like Rugrats is a world of boisterous and abrasive women.  It isn’t and they don’t need to be in order to play the dominant role.  Tommy’s mom Didi is much quieter and more dainty than the aforementioned women, but she provides the only steady source of income as a full-time teacher.  Stu is unemployed and I don’t know how much income comes from his inventions, but I’m sure it’s sporadic considering half the time they either don’t work or go awry.  The most important thing about all of these subversion in power dynamics is that the show never frames it negatively.  In one of her earliest videos, Anita Sarkeesian brought up Betty as an example of a straw-feminist character.  I’m not sure I agree with that.  I never felt that the show ever use Betty’s personality as a caricature of feminism nor did they frame her relationship with Howard negatively.  She is aggressive and he is passive, but it works for them.  It never gets anywhere near “this pussified man is whipped by his feminazi wife” territory.  At no point do the dads in Rugrats complain about their roles in their families nor does the show ever mock or demean them for it.  It’s never unusual for the kids either; they love their moms and especially their dads just the way they are.

This brings me to the relationship between Chuckie and his father Chas, which was one the core strengths of the show.  Chas is widowed up until the second movie, so he has to play the role of Chuckie’s father and mother.  Chas’ personality is what some jerk might derisively describe as “feminized male”; he is shy, timid, passive, awkward, dweeby, wimpy, worrisome, and soft-spoken; all traits he passed on to Chuckie.  His traits often don’t do him a lot of favors in the unforgiving world he lives in, nor do they for Chuckie.  Chas sees this in Chuckie, but he doesn’t balk at his feelings or try to make him “man up”.   He acknowledges his feelings and always makes himself available physically and emotionally to console him.  He doesn’t hide his own feelings from Chuckie either; he opens up to him about feeling scared or being worried about things that are going on in his life.  Chas is not afraid to be openly affectionate to Chuckie either and as a result Chuckie reciprocates the feelings to him.  Chas goes directly against the traditional masculine gender roles in his interactions with Chuckie and it made for the most beautiful relationship in the whole show.  It’s so beautiful that I get a little choked up thinking about it.  Chuckie’s such a scared boy and he has no mother, so I think it’s so wonderful that the only grownup in his life provides a healthy outlet for him to work through his emotions without judgment.  At the same time, Chuckie’s affection provides Chas with a much needed relief from all the anxieties that come with being a shy bureaucrat with a deceased wife.  Based on such a strong relationship, it comes as no surprise that Chuckie’s popularity would eventually overshadow Tommy’s.

I really appreciate that Rugrats was bold enough to challenge stereotypical gender roles.  We don’t have enough media, especially media aimed at kids, that tells girls that they roles in the world aren’t subservient to boys and tells boys that they don’t have to be in total control of everything to be valued.  It’s especially bold for Rugrats to challenge the conventional wisdom in the '90s, considering it was during a time of feminism backlash and comics starring hyper-muscular, hyper-masculine, angry, violent (anti-) superheroes with big guns were popular.

We Make A Great Pair (Part 2)

Hello Tumblr enthusiast, on the menu we got today’s special part 2. Hopefully, it’s okay, I had to rewrite it because at first it was just not good and I wasn’t happy. This version might be better but I’m not sure, I guess you’ll be the judge.

Part 1

Word Count:2,122

You woke up out of breath and tears stinging your eyes. The dream was too vivid not to be real but did you really want it to be true; you weren’t entirely sure yet. You had a family, a family that Hydra had taken you from. Hydra had also wiped your memories a few times, how many you were unsure of but every so often you got glimpses of you passed just before they wiped you clean to start fresh.

Sitting up your hand was sore and tightly bandaged, and your head was numb. Whatever happens, you probably deserved it. Getting your thoughts together you decided that you needed to see Clint but how? Looking at the large mirror on the opposite wall, hoping to get a hint as to whether someone was watching you. Guess it was worth a shot.

“Hello? If anyone’s behind that mirror, I need you to listen to me. I know you don’t trust me, but I need to see Clint, Clint Barton. Please if someone’s behind there I need Clint.” Hopefully, someone was there to receive your message. Waiting for Clint you nervously pick at the blood and dirt that was under your finger nails.

After what seemed like forever, you had to admit that hoping someone was actually behind the window was stupid. Even if some heard your request, they didn’t trust you not enough to let you see your brother that you still weren’t sure if it was true. Oh well, they will have to feed you some time, and when that comes, you can ask for Clint. You just need to see him.

The door opens, and your brother steps through awkwardly standing as far from you as possible. Right, you were ‘dangerous.’ “I’m just going to get to the point are you my brother? Because I had this dream where I was supposed to meet a Clint Barton for lunch but on the way there Hydra had drug and kidnapped me. But I’m not sure I can trust my dreams.”

Giving you a smile, he strides forward pulling you into a tight embrace. “God I thought I’d never see you again, I looked for so long, but you were gone.” Standing in the embrace, you debated if you should push your boundaries. The new sense of existence tingling on your tongue

"Can you help me?” One thing you knew for sure was that now that you were away from Hydra you wanted to keep it that way.

“What do you need?” He asks concerned painting his tone.

“I want out; I want out of Hydra.”


It’s been a week since you woke up in your plastic prison and you were itching for fresh air, anything but your plastic walls. During the week you had another dream, one involving Wanda the one you attacked before and her brother Pietro. They had arrived at Hydra a couple of years after you rebirth as Spector. You helped them learn to control their power, and in return, they gave you something to care about, a way to feel emotions that were lost to you. You don’t remember much except for the twins leaving, and Novac wiped you clean once again.

You understood why you were being kept in this cell, they didn’t trust you, and you didn’t blame them. Still, you felt like a caged animal, it reminded you of your time in HYDRA and the cold dark cell, meals to keep you healthy but never fully satisfied, and only seeing the outside world when you needed to follow an order which almost always leads to the death of innocence.

At least in this cell, you had visitors. Clint and the twins would stop by nearly every day for meals or just to talk for a bit.  It was still awkward, more with Clint then the twins. He still wanted you to be the little sister that was taken from him, but that was gone broken and replaced with a cold, calculating machine. Maybe some day you could be what you once were but today was not the day.

Clint had said that Steve was going to be coming by to talk to you about the favor you asked for.  So for the mean time, you entertained yourself with a book Wanda had given you. Hearing the door open, Steve stepped in. “Hello.” You greeted marking your book and sitting up.

“So you want to leave?” Steve conceded sitting in the chair across from the bed.

“Yes. I thought Hydra had saved me and giving me a better life. But that wasn’t the case, they tortured, brainwashed, and used me to do their bidding. I’m not asking for forgiveness; I don’t deserve that. All I’m asking is for a chance to do something better, something good.” You explained hoping your words you making their point.

“I do not promise anything, but we could give you a chance to do good. Clint and the twins think you could be an outstanding asset for the team and I agree. So we are giving you an opportunity to become part of the Avengers. We’re also going to you move out of this cell and to a monitored floor to keep an eye out just in case.”

“Yeah of course I understand, thank you, Steve.”


Bucky had walked down with Steve in case he needed any help with Specter. Stepping into the observation room he watches as Steve and Y/N discussed his offer to take place on the Avengers. He wants to help her, she maybe dangerous but so was he when he need help the most, and he knew what horrendous acts Hydra was capable of.

He didn’t remember much of his time with Hydra, but what he did remember was, pain. Pain from enemies, cryo, and memory wipes. He could only imagine what she’s been through. With what Pietro and Wanda have shared about receiving their gifts, it wasn’t pleasant. But they had Y/N to help them with their powers, something she never had that must have been terrifying. Being probed and prodded like a test rat, with no memories of anything other than her time with her abductors.

Steve exited the room and entered the observation room. Y/N just sat for a bit rotating through various emotions before returning to her book. “What do you think?” Bucky asked Steve who stood next to him looking into the room.

“We have to give her a chance; I think she really wants to do good. She kinda reminds me of you.”

“Let’s hope she’s not like me.”


The thought of actually being given a chance to do good is something you didn’t want to miss. Seven years you were imprisoned in Hydra. Brainwashed. Tortured. Broken. The effects of Hydra could never be entirely erased.

Waiting for Wanda to escort you to the new room where you will still be monitored, but at least, you could walk around without hitting a wall. Grabbing your book Wanda opens the door and gives you a hug. “Hey ready to take the tour?”

“I’m ready to get some fresh air.” You sigh finally taking the step out of the plastic room, into your second chance. It was larger than you would have imagined. The windows you passed lead out to a lively city cluttered with civilians going about their day.

Following Wanda, she showed you around, mainly to the training room where you will spend most of your time.You spot a blue blur circling the large room to what you could only be Pietro’s training session. Stopping in front of you, he flashes you a grin. “Nice to finally see you out of that room.”

“It’s good to be out.” You joked, but your attention was only half there. Scratch that all of your attention was on the man lifting weights in the corner. He was extremely attractive, but you couldn’t help but feel like you knew him. When he met you wandering eyes, his eye focused, and he dropped the weight on the floor, turning so you could see his full frame. That’s when you saw his arm, his metal arm. The one you ripped apart. Avoid eye contact it the best thing to do. Don’t make this more awkward.

“Y/N?” Pietro asked snapping his fingers in front of you, drawing you from your trance.


“Do you want to see your room?” Wanda looked over to the man who was now throwing punches at a punching bag and smirked.

“Yeah let’s do that.”

Arriving at the room your mind was still buzzing with a thought on whether he still held a grudge for what you had done. What are you saying, of course, he did you kinda destroyed his arm. Who won’t have a grudge?

Wanda swipes the card and lets you in. You were quite surprised by how nice it was and how big it was, everything seemed to be huge in this damn building. The room was an apartment except there was no kitchen. It had a bathroom, a bedroom, and a place to lounge. You honestly didn’t expect this, but you were thankful.

Walking over to the coffee table, there seemed to be a box of candies and a note from Clint. Here’s a housewarming gift, the note read:  we use to love these as children. You couldn’t remember any of what he spoke of, but it was a sweet gesture. Picking one up you unwrap the small candy and place the sweet in your mouth letting it melt into you taste buds.

“So this will be your room for now on hopefully you like it. Just to clarify there’re no cameras, due to that being an invasion of privacy. But when the door is opened it’s recorded.” Wanda explained placing a sweet in her mouth as well.

“They don’t trust me, it makes sense, but I just don’t know how to prove that I’m no longer Hydra. I want to be good.”

“Just give it time, they come around. It took awhile for them to trust Pietro and me completely.” Putting a finger up, she looks into her bag and pulls out a clear box. “Right, here I thought you might like this. Kinda like an uh… Celebration gift,” Handing you the plastic box you inspect the contents. It was some kind of metal. Opening it you levitate the metal; it was soft but firm, cold and malleable. Everything you loved about metal. Molding the solid into various thing, you get lost in the silver compound. Snapping out of your trance, you pocket the metal.

“Thank you, this is great.” Hesitantly stepping forward and give her an awkward hug. Hearing a ring her phone displays a message from Pietro.

“Sorry I have to go, but I’ll see you later okay.” Nodding she shuts the door behind her leaving you to look around your new home, but the first order of business a bath. After you bath, you mess around with Wanda’s gift until you eventually doze off. That was a bad idea, as soon as you eyelids closed you were tormented with the scene of your missions. All the people you kill and torture, all the innocent lives gone because of your hands. It was horrendous the acts of violence you followed by the influence of Hydra.


After his afternoon training Bucky retired to his room in hopes to catch up with some of his shows that Steve had gotten him addicted to, and for the most part, he did. Except halfway through his fourth show when he heard a scream coming from across the hall. Then his arm locked up; he assumed Specter was having a night terror or something to that extent because no one could manipulate his arm apart from her.

His arm was becoming worse the more he contemplated helping her. There was really only one option considering the only other person on this floor was Steve who was at the moment out on a date Natasha made him attend. Getting up he trudged over to Y/N’s door. Knocking he waited for an answer which never came, so he knocked a little louder. When his arm tensed up more, he ignored politeness by entering and stepping towards her bedroom.

She was tossing and turning in her bed. Sweat was beading on her forehead. Wake her gently. Bucky thought of all the times he almost attacked someone for violently waking him during a nightmare. Brushing the hair out of her face, she was so beautiful. Stop! Focus! Rubbing her arm as if he’s done this so many times before. Whispering her name he continues to try to coax her out of her sleep.After a bit, her eyes flutter open meeting his “Hey" He whispers.

Is this considered a cliffhanger? I don’t know, but I hope you enjoyed. Feedback is always nice and I will see you next time on (Insert funny TV show) I’m not sure when the next one will be posted since I’m going on a short trip with my friend and her family.

Christmas Music Guy

Prompt: You’re the person in the apartment next door who VERY LOUDLY blasts holiday music starting in NOVEMBER and I hate christmas AU. (Or, the fic in which you’re a massive Scrooge and Phil just really likes Christmas)

Pairing: Reader x Phil (sort of)

Warnings: A bit of swearing, & an unnecessary hatred of Christmas (yes, that is a warning)

A/N: Yes, I know this is a Christmas fic in November. But I am so freaking pumped for the holidays, you don’t even know.

You hate Christmas. Always have, always will. It’s not really the holiday that you hate, you suppose, but it’s the time of the year. You don’t like the snow, or the cold, or the horrible way that no matter what store you go into it always seems to be packed full of people rushing around for something or other. You don’t like the decorations, or the big puffy coats, and god forbid the damn carols. 

Okay so maybe you hate the holiday too. But that’s not the point you’re trying to get to. 

Your point is that out of all the neighbors in the entirety of London, you’ve been stuck next to fucking Santa Clause himself. 

Now sure, that might sound like a bit of an over statement. But it’s really, really not. 

The guy decorates for Christmas before November is even half way through. And it’ not just the ‘Christmas tree here, bit of tinsel there’ kind of decorating, it’s the full freaking blown, massive wreath on door, christmas lights going around door frame, fake now covering his tiny little window, kind of decorating. It’s like getting slapped in the face by Saint Nicholas every time you set foot outside of your apartment. Which, not so surprisingly, isn’t the most pleasant thing to be faced with when you actually have a day where you need to go outdoors.

And if that isn’t enough, the guy is constantly blaring Christmas music. (So maybe blaring it, is a bit of an overstatement, but still, it’s loud enough to for you to hear it and that’s all that really matters.)

Despite all that though, you remain docile, acting as a good neighbor should. Until a week later, that is. 

A Monday full of work always leaves you in a bad mood, so you were relieved to come home to find, or hear rather, only silence in the apartment next door. It was a nice little break, and by the time you’d pulled off your shoes, changed into pjs, and plopped down on the couch to watch the Harry Potter marathon that had just started on TV, you felt much more relaxed. 

Right up until the Christmas music started. 

Normally you’d just ignore it, turn up your own TV, or music to over power it. But that day, it seemed, was your breaking point. 

You dropped the remote down on your couch, made your way through your apartment, out the door, and into the hall, knocking on the god-awful door that looked a bit like Father Christmas had taken a dump on. 

You were a bit surprised when it opened after just a few seconds, revealing a somewhat confused guy, holding a pan full of what appeared to be Christmas tree shaped sugar cookies. 

In all honesty he wasn’t what you expected, with his black hair swooped in to a fringe, which you were pretty sure he’d managed to somehow get flour in, and light blue eyes. The lack of a big white beard and a red hat had you a bit confused.

“Can I help you?” He asked in a deep, slightly Northern, voice. 

“Yeah, would you mind turning your Christmas music down? It’s really loud, and it’s still November.“ Your words were met with a big grin that made your heart melt just a little bit. 

“Of course. Sorry, I’ve just been in a super festive mood lately for some reason.” 

You gave him a smile. 

“I’d have never known.” 

“You know, it’s good to bake to it,” He gestured to his pan. “You really should try it. It’s almost the holidays after all.”

“Don’t remind me,” You said with a quiet laugh. “But I’ll have to keep that in mind.” And with that you had left, and he had shut his door, and you didn’t really expect to see a whole lot of him again.

Except for when you opened your door the next day you found a little tupperware container sitting there, holding a heart-shaped sugar cookie, with a note attached to the cover.

Had some extra batter. Figured you probably wouldn’t want a Christmas tree. Hope you like it :)

-Phil (Christmas music guy)

Do other Scorpios have this problem too?

It’s extremely difficult for me to talk about feelings with people.
Most of the time, it’s because they are too soft and kind with me. When I’m really down and trying to talk about everything that’s in my mind and heart(and by this I mean a one on one “Can I tell you what’s on my mind” conversation), positive encouragement/comments fill me with anxiety and bitterness. It feels out of place. I don’t want glass half full sentiments or positivity when I’m trying to talk about the darkness I’ve experienced. I just want to be treated like a person. Maybe it’s vain, but I don’t want pity or sappiness or “look at the future, it’ll be better” because I already know that, I’m just not in the right frame of mind to even think about positive things without it being unhealthy. Finding beauty in darkness is an incredibly personal process, and it fills me with uneasiness and anxiety when people try to rush that process for me.
On the other hand, people can be too cold or cynical. Or they just instantly make it about themselves. Like when you tell someone about your depression and they say something like “Oh yeah, I’m really depressed too.” and then completely blow off whatever you had to say, therefore brushing off everything that you’ve fought. Pisses me off.
Honestly, it’s just nice to have someone that I can talk to that doesn’t try to treat me like a wounded baby animal, or try to kick me further into the ground. Someone that will just bounce around theories with me, or listen to and accept the darkness and cynicism in me and know not to be scared, or just hold my hand and stroke my hair. I always feel like people are so damn afraid to see something that isn’t beautiful in a loved one. I’m thankful to have a few people in my life that just accept my demons.

Stake Out

Robbing had been something Harlow had discovered she was good at at the ripe age of sixteen, on a dare.She’d been at a party with some friends in an abandoned train car, when they’d dare her to break into a trailer that was fairly close. She was drunk, young, and stupid. But even drunk..she’d managed to do it without breaking anything, and made away with a hundred bucks and a case of beer. 

She’d always hung out with the wrong crowd. She’d been drunk probably more times than most adults, and was only twenty. Drugs were something she didn’t play with, though. Her mother had overdosed on heroine when she was six - which was what had put her into the system. She’d bounced around foster homes until she turned eighteen and was left to fend for herself. Robbing made that easier, though. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to work, or was lazy. She was just…good at it. And she was probably addicted to the rush, though she’d never admit it. 

Her and a couple friends had been staking out a house for a couple of weeks. It was just an older gentleman living there by himself. He seemed to work nights. Every night, during the week, for those two weeks straight he’d been gone. Harlow had volunteered to do the stake outs most of the time, just to get an eye full of him. He was definitely her type. Old, silver fox. A couple times he’d came out and mowed his lawn and she hadn’t been able to stop her hand from creeping into the front of her jeans, seeing him shirtless and glistening. 

It was a Friday and they were making their move. Finally. Harlow had on a pair of skinny jeans, black. She also had on a black crop top tshirt, black combat boots. Her short hair framed her face in lose waves. The two guys she was with wore full face ski masks, but she’d opted for a half mask. It covered from her nose down and was the most colorful thing she was wearing, making her look like a sugar skull with the vibrant purple, yellows and blues. On her back she also had a jansport backpack to put anything she decided to grab into. 

David, one of the guys she was with, was knelt in front of the back door picking the lock. They’d removed all the light bulbs from the the outside without tripping the motion detection. He was having difficulties and getting frustrated. Harlow could hear him cursing under his breath. “Move.”, she finally hissed and shoved him over with her hip. She picked up the pick lock kit and started working, getting it unlocked in under a minute. She pushed the door open carefully, holding her breath, waiting for an alarm system she’d have to pounce on. But it opened with no hesitation. No alerts, open wide for them to explore it’s contents. She smiled under the mask. “….That was hot.”, David whispered, slapping her firmly on her ass before sliding around her. The other guy, Jonas, followed him. Harlow rolled her eyes and went in last, shutting the door behind. 

How To Commission An Artist And Not Be An Asshole About It

From the desk of someone who spends approximately 80% of their spare income on commissions of one kind or another. This guide is focused on the online commission process cause this is Tumblr. 

Step One: Search the artist’s blog for commission info. This can answer a lot of your questions. 

Step Two: If you’re not sure, ask the artist if they are taking commissions/still taking commissions/have any slots left. 

Step Three: Assuming the artist said yes, give a SIMPLE explanation of what you want (this is typically done thru e-mail). The important details here are full body or partial, number of characters, color or nah, basic concept to make sure they’re chill with it. You really don’t need to get into the specifics of what your characters look like yet. 

Step Four: Wait for the artist to get back to you. Don’t keep pestering them. If it’s a time sensitive commission, you probably should have mentioned that in step three. 

Step Five (if the artist said no): Thank them politely for their time. Repeat steps 1-4 with a different artist. 

Step Five (if the artist said yes): They probably asked for more details! Give it to them. Giant walls of text of character description can be hella intimidating, so if you have any visual references, they are a godsend for all artists and should be sent. Seriously, even if they’re just color palettes or pictures of irl people who look like the character (AKA faceclaims). They will appreciate it. This is where you hash out the details of the commission. Don’t expect to just send them a command press “go,” there will probably be a lot of back and forth. The more visual references you have the better. Seriously. Pay them upfront or do the “half now, half after” thing if the artist is okay with that. Even if the artist says you don’t have to pay them upfront, give them at least half. It helps them know you’re not an asshole and makes them more enthusiastic about the commission. 

Step Six: Wait. This is the hard part for a lot of people, but commissions take TIME. Lots of time. You will not make them hurry if you pester them. If you’re concerned about the time frame, again, you should have talked about that back up in step three, or in step five if you just wanted to know how long it GENERALLY takes them. Just wait. It’ll be worth it. I promise. 

Step Seven: GET ART. Pay them the second half immediately if you still haven’t paid them in full. When you show it off, make sure to link back to the artist’s website/blog so other people who like it can commission them! Mention things you really liked about working with the artist, like if they were really fast in their replies, say that! Nothing makes me commish an artist faster than knowing they’re good for it, and most potential customers are that way. Let people know it was a commission and where they can get their own and the artist will be pleased and happy to work with you in the future. 

Step Eight (Optional): Commission the same artist four more times because working with the same artist over and over is great. :D 

Writing Exercise: Fixing Grey

What follows is a challenge I gave myself to re-write the first chapter of E.L. James’ murder thriller “Grey: 50 Shades of Grey From Christian’s Perspective”

The goal was to make the text less bad, less creepy, and less boring without changing the overall flow and structure. Specifically I refraind from making changes to the spoken dialogue unless absolutely necessary.

Additionally there’s a poetic justice to re-writing something with roots so firmly planted in fan fiction when the author vocally despises fan fiction and tries her damndest to root it out.

I hope you enjoy Chapter 1 of “Fixing Grey”

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots tumbles headfirst into my office. Instinctively I laugh at the slapstick, though instantly regret it, embarrassed for us both. I hustle from my desk to help her up, but clear, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks.

They are the most extraordinary color, powder blue, and guileless, and for one moment, I think she can see right through me and I’m left…exposed.

She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, a no doubt stressful day made all the worse.

“Ms. Kavanagh. I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

Her blush deepens as she collects herself and her things from the floor. She’s quite attractive—slight, pale, with a mane of dark hair barely contained by a hair tie.

I extend my hand as she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her hand in mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.” Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, flustered from the spectacle. Unable to keep the amusement from my voice I ask who she is.

“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English literature with Kate, um… Katherine…um…Miss Kavanagh, at WSU Vancouver.”

Truly she looks all the part of the bashful, bookish type, her slight frame hidden beneath a shapeless, large-knit sweater, an A-line brown skirt, and utilitarian boots. She looks nervously around my office— everywhere but at me.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn’t seem to have an assertive bone in her body. She’s flustered, meek, submissive, none of the bravado and cockiness typical of fresh young journalists, self-assuredly polishing shelf space for that first Pulitzer. I begin to ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office paintings. Before I even register I’ve started, I find I’m explaining them. “A local artist. Trouton.”

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of Trouton’s work. Her profile is delicate—an upturned nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has captured my sentiments exactly.

Raising the ordinary to extraordinary.

It’s a keen observation. Ms. Steele is bright.

I agree and watch, fascinated, as that flush creeps slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, she fishes some crumpled sheets of paper and a digital recorder out of her large bag. She’s all thumbs, dropping the thing twice on the Bauhaus coffee table. It’s so obvious she’s never done this before it’s amusing. On perhaps any other day I would find such amateur behavior grating, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set the recorder up for her myself.

When it’s finally ready, she peeks up at me through her bangs and bites down on her full bottom lip. There’s a spark as our eyes meet, my smile grows, despite my desire to maintain professional decorum.

“S-Sorry, I’m not used to this.” She stutters, breaking the gaze.

“Take all the time you need, Ms. Steele.”

“Do you mind if I record your answers?” she asks, her face candid and expectant.

I chuckle. “After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?”

She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, she begins to stammer an apology, though her mouth curls with a smile of her own at the tease.

“No, I don’t mind.”

“Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes, for the graduation issue of the student newspaper, as I’ll be giving the commencement address at this year’s graduation ceremony.”

Ms. Steele blinks once more, as if this is news to her—and she looks disapproving. Hasn’t she done any background work for this interview? Ms. Kavanagh seems to have thrown her friend to the wolves.

“Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“I thought you might,” I say, with a chuckle, teasing again. Internally I chastise myself. It’s unprofessional to flirt with an interviewer, amateur or not, but the entire meeting, from her stumbling entrance onward, has left me on the wrong foot. There’s an absurdity to it all, and it’s difficult to take it seriously.

As though sharing my thoughts she pulls herself upright and squares her small shoulders. She means business. Leaning forward, she presses the start button on the recorder and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?”

A dull, boiler-plate question. I trot out my usual response about having exceptional people working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well—blah, blah, blah…But Miss Steele, the simple fact is, I’m brilliant at what I do. For me it’s like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, keeping some or, if they’re really broken, stripping their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It’s simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” she says quietly.

Lucky? If only she knew just how much in this universe is ordained by little more than pure luck. But that’s not the public face. Luck is terrifying, so we must pretend to be masters. I roll out the old standards, hard work, drive, ambition, vision, and the American Dream. Precision, discipline, and an unwillingness to settle for second.

I quote the words of Andrew Carnegie, “The growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.”

“You sound like a control freak,” she says. Is she teasing me now?

“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele.”

That attractive blush steals across her face, and she bites her lip again. I ramble on.

“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things.”

“Do you feel that you have immense power?” she asks in a soft, soothing voice, but she arches a delicate brow with a look that conveys her censure. She is definitely teasing me now.

“I employ over forty thousand people. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”

Her mouth pops open at my response.

“Don’t you have a board to answer to?”

“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” It’s a lie. Well, a partial truth. Grey Enterprises Holdings has no board, but Grey Enterprises Indonesia, Grey Enterprises Development, Arc-tel Communications, each of a dozen smaller arms, each an isolated and insulated corporation, they have boards, and I sit on each one. But image is everything, and few images are quite as potent as that of the young billionaire ruling like Caesar.

“And do you have any interests outside your work?” she continues.

“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.”

“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”

“Chill out?” I laugh. The phrase is comically unprofessional, but she looks at me again with those ingenuous big eyes, and I find myself easing into it. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, I rattle off the typical hobbies of the wealthy, though it’s impersonal and I’m left feeling like I’ve avoided answering the question that was asked.

She rolls through the questions given to her by Ms. Kavanagh, disappointingly rote questions about business and philanthropy, my reputation as a private man, and much of the earlier playfulness drains from the conversation. I find myself wishing she’d break from script again, wishing that we could converse rather than interview. I wonder what her own answers would be. What does Ms. Steele do to chill out?

“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”

“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle—Carnegie’s: ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control—of myself and those around me.”

“So you want to possess things?”

I pause. An interesting question with a curious framing. Despite the almost half hour of rote questions I’m disarmed. It’s easy to be in her presence, and I want to be honest with her. Looking her in the eyes, those wonderful pale blue eyes, I nod, “I want… to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”

My answer seems to have evoked some curiosity, her head has cocked to the side, and she lets my words hang for a moment. A smile on her lips, she opens her mouth and inhales as though she were preparing to follow up. To my disappointment she seems to change her mind and her eyes return to her script.

“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”

What the hell!?

I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! She appears to be equally mortified by the words coming out of her own mouth, but it’s too late to put them back in.

The mood whiplash hangs like a ringing in the ears after a bombshell, as I debate answering. I could, and perhaps should, end this right there. The question is not only invasive, it’s insultin.

Slowly I answer, “No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I furrow my eyebrow, as I try to suss out where, exactly, such an inappropriate question came from.

“I apologize. It’s, um…written here.” She’s in a borderline panic.

Are these not her questions? I ask her, and she pales, like an animal caught in the headlights. My chest flushes with sympathy; what a miserable day this must be.

“Er…no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh— she compiled the questions.”

“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”

“No. She’s my roommate.”

No wonder she’s all over the place, Ms. Kavanagh didn’t just throw her to the wolves, she coated her in sauce before hand.

I scratch my chin. Despite the offence there’s something endearing, something genuine, in her reaction.

“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” I ask,

“I was drafted. She’s not well.” Her voice is soft.

“That explains a great deal.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Andrea appears.

“Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”

“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please tell them to start without me.”

Andrea gapes at me, looking confused. I nod at her, sure of myself. I trust things won’t crumble if I’m absent for one status update. I hire good people

“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she says, turning and leaving.

The room is still heavy as the glass door shuts. While it was open the distant sounds of the building, the clatter of people, expanded through the room. As it closes we are plunged into a silence that we were both tensely aware of. The faux pas has changed the air of the room. It’s tense, ashamed, yet… honest? Intimate?

I’m the first to break that silence, “Where were we, Miss Steele?”

“Please, don’t let me keep you from anything.”

“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” As I lean back and press my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows.

“There’s not much to know,” she says, her blush returning. I’m intimidating her. I exhale, leaning into the chair, hoping to set her at ease.

“What are your plans after you graduate?”

“I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.”

“We run an excellent internship program here.”

She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into her lip again with an endearing predictability.

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” she replies. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.”

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.” I’m confounded by her response. She’s flustered again as she reaches for the recorder.

Shit, she’s going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon—there is nothing that won’t keep.

“Would you like me to show you around?” I ask, eager to keep her here, eager to smooth things over. I don’t want her to go, not with this tension hanging over us.

“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”

“You’re driving back to Vancouver?” I glance out the window. It’s one hell of a drive, and it’s raining. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” My voice is sterner than I intend. She fumbles with the recorder. She wants out of my office, but I don’t want her to go.

“Did you get everything you need?”

I ask in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

“Yes, sir,” the words are quiet, her eyes cast down. “Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.” She says, peeking up again through her bangs, looking me in the eye. There’s a tension in the moment, sudden warmth rushing through my chest.

I realize I’m not breathing.

With a clumsy inhale I respond “The pleasure’s been all mine.” It’s the truth. Awkwardness, and boredom included, I haven’t been this engaged by anyone for a while. She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.”

My voice is low as she places her hand in mine. I barely know her, but I don’t want to let go. I swallow.

“Mr. Grey.” She nods and withdraws her hand.

I can’t let her go like this. It’s obvious she’s desperate to leave. Inspiration hits me as I open my office door.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door,” I quip.

“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” she says, the tension relaxing at last.

I smile behind her as she exits, and follow her out. Both Andrea and Olivia look up as we walk into the foyer.

“Did you have a coat?” I ask.

“A jacket.”

I motion to Olivia and she immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy jacket, passing it to me with her usual precision.

Hmm. The jacket is worn and inexpensive. Ms. Anastasia Steele should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact.

Strolling over to the elevator, I press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

The doors open and she scurries in, then turns to face me. She’s more than attractive. I would go as far as to say she’s beautiful.

“Anastasia,” I say, in good-bye.

“Christian,” she answers, her voice soft. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air between us, sounding odd and unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

I need to know more about this girl.

“Andrea,” I call as I return to my office. “Get me Welch on the line, please.”

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Ms. Steele’s words drift back to me. “Raising the ordinary to extraordinary.”

My phone buzzes. “I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”

“Put him through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welch, I need you to find me a phone number.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about why Ishida-sensei would show us the fact that Shirazu managed to break all the frames and the quinque steel cage around the implanted kakuhou if his fate was to die and be brought to Kanou like that. I mean if Kanou is gonna bring him back, he was probably going to bring him back as a full half-ghoul either way, whether or not Shirazu had broken the frames.

The only reason I can think of that Sensei would show us that Shirazu’s determination managed to break the protective frames is to show us that there is a potential for the same thing to happen to the remaining Quinx. Since Shirazu’s body never made it back to a CCG coroner, no one at the CCG knows that such a thing is possible, meaning the Quinx themselves, and everyone further up the chain of command is still falsely under the impression that the only way to further unrestrict access to the kakuhou is through surgically raising a frame.

This means that no one can warn the remaining Quinx about this possibility.

Narratively, it implies that eventually one of them is going to push themselves too far and end up shattering the protective quinque steel just like Shirazu did.

 The narrative has been building up for it to be Urie - especially with all of his parallels to Kaneki at the start of the latter’s own desperation for more power. We saw how he acted during the auction raid when he was just feeling the effects of having just an increase in access to the RC cells from the kakuhou - and the obvious parallels to Kaneki’s descent into madness.

And now the conversation between Urie and “Sasaki” after Shirazu’s death seems to further push the narrative in that direction. Urie is also the one with the most animosity towards ghouls, so his becoming a half-ghoul would bring the most dramatic irony to bare.

That said, this is Ishida-sensei we are talking about, so it could easily be Mutsuki or Saiko that ends up breaking their frames instead.

Either way, I think it’s something to look out for in upcoming chapters. In case you needed another reason to be worried about the Quinx kids.

anonymous asked:

So....what exactly happened in that latest chapter of Re:? People died? Ken's back? Huh?

So Kaneki wakes up from his “dream” but it’s a new kind of Kaneki (let’s call him Akaneki since his head is covered in blood right now), more violent with a completely different speech pattern (according to drowning-in-theories, he sounds like Ayato at max angst levels). Eto rips Kanae’s arm off (not sure why), Akaneki severs Kanae’s arm (probably as revenge) and Eto catches it (edit: thank you anon for correcting me!). Akaneki wrecks Kanae and pulls an Arima on him (yeah, the stab-through-the-eye thing is pretty popular nowadays). Also, Akaneki has his memories back (probably), since he remembers Tsukiyama (and stabs him with his kagune) and recalls what Nico had told him a while ago about the identity of the One-Eyed-King (as Bandage-chan, aka Eto). There’s theories that Akaneki put Tsukiyama and Kanae out of action so that they wouldn’t be hurt in the fight against Eto/One-Eyed-King. The scene ends with Kaneki facing Eto to fight her (also he tells her to go die lol).

Meanwhile, Shirazu is facing the monstrosity that is Noro. His frames that are keeping his kakuhou restrained break. There’s a good chance that all the frames broke, and that Shirazu might be a full half-ghoul because his kakugan appears completely black instead of grey. Urie wakes up (with internal damage), and he sees Shirazu going nuts like he did himself back in the Auction raid. Urie doesn’t want Shirazu to die, and he becomes a total bro by stepping in and delivering the finishing (?) blow to Noro. Noro’s kagune mouth says that he will be leaving first before Eto…

(Edit: Added some extra info and corrections.)

Time for a Dumb Things I Write When I’m Tired Update! AKA Sorbet Sleepover!

And I know y’all are excited, I am too! But I have some slightly bad news. I have a new semester starting and my further updates are probably going to be a little more delayed. Like, give me until next weekend, kay? Updates take about 3 days to write and I’ve got a full class load to contend with. Believe me, I am REALLY SORRY about this, I wouldn’t test your patience if I didn’t have to. But, y’know… school. It’s a thing.

Anyway, enough stalling, on with the show! (Part I; Part II)

“That smells delicious,” Will said, following his nose back to the kitchen.

Hannibal looked up from his pan of sizzling toast and beamed at Will, noticing how his own undershirt and pants fit him very much correctly, “Come, sit, the cheese is just starting to melt.”

Will obeyed, but continued to curiously crane his neck over at the pan.

“Did you know you had gruyère in your refrigerator, Will?” Hannibal asked pleasantly, gently nudging the bread in the bubbling butter.

“Gruyère, really? I must have made French onion soup at some point…” Will shrugged, “I do sometimes pretend I can cook and frequently try, so it’s entirely possible I did.” He smiled vacantly.

Hannibal resisted clucking his tongue at him, “With the evidence that you knew to buy gruyère to make French onion soup and not the first white cheese you saw, I think you can do more than pretend to cook,” he smiled at Will over his shoulder.

Will found a shy smile crawling over his lips, but he couldn’t hold Hannibal’s gaze. The look gave him a tightness in his chest, a strange swelling. It was unsettling being praised for his hypothetical cooking by a man who could tell you the exact species of a chicken from nugget alone. Not that he could picture Hannibal actually putting a chicken nugget in his mouth; grilled cheese was a bit of a stretch, actually.

Keep reading

It starts after Eggsy admits around his tears and an half-empty bottle between him and Merlin, that he had loved Harry. A new love no doubt, so full of potential that never got the chance to be anything more than possibilities. A great many things made much more sense after that night.

So Merlin had managed to get the boy to bed and went on his way.

The first photo Eggsy ever acquires of Harry is from Merlin, who mentions he might like a keepsake. It’s a younger Harry, a more carefree Harry in a way Eggsy never had chance to witness for himself. Framed and ready to be hung or set in place. 

Eggsy leaves the photo on the nightstand. Some nights when sleep evades him he looks at Harry frozen in a laugh until the world is left behind.

Then he collects more. Old Kingsman photos from the archives. Some candids Merlin provides before turning him over to the other agents who should have a few of their own. Eggsy collects them and remembers a man he never got to know nearly as well he would have liked. 

Somehow it makes it a little easier to have pieces of Harry lingering in the world. Eggsy has one of last photos taken of Harry with himself hung by the door. Each time he leaves he touches the frame and bids his goodbyes, every time he returns he touches the glass and bids welcome. It’s a ritual before long. 

The small things are what give the grieving comfort, Eggsy thinks each time he sees one of the photos. 

He’s only realized there are so many when Daisy comes to visit and asks who the man in the photos is. 

So he sits and tells Daisy about Harry Hart one lazy afternoon.