#how often does bonnie have 'how did i not know this was happening' moments in relation to the plot? | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

artist-issues · 11 days

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I saw you answer an ask on Toy Story, which was super interesting, and also say:

"It’s an incredibly good movie series. Not Toy Story 4. But the rest of the series."

I didn't actually see Toy Story 4 because I felt the first three tied the story up very well, and we got a really good arc through those first three. It just felt unnecessary, and what I did see from it didn't make me eager to go out and watch it.

Could you expand on where you think Toy Story 4 goes wrong? If the other three convey selflessness, living and finding purpose, then what does that Toy Story 4 try to convey? Does it contradict the others?

I think Toy Story 4 goes wrong by trying to make Woody selfish. I mean, you could say that he isn't selfish to leave Bonnie and his friends and embrace the "Lost Toy" lifestyle. You could say "he just went from taking care of one kid who didn't really need him anymore to taking care of every lost kid who could need him, and finding lost toys homes. That's what was happening with the lost little girl at the end!"

Okay, you could say all that, but you'd be wrong, because 1) that is not what was happening at the end. And 2) even if it were, that is not a selfless ending for Woody. Furthermore 3) it undoes all his character development and progression from the first three.

You didn't see the fourth movie, right? So let me break it down a little.

Woody's character progression goes like this:

1: Obsessed with being The Most Important Toy to Andy --> Remembering that what's great about being a toy is being there for Andy when he needs them, regardless of how often or special that is.

2: Fine with no longer being The Most Important Toy to Andy, but considering leaving because Andy will eventually not need him, ever --> Realizing that being there means being there, even if it's just to watch and love from a distance, instead of protecting yourself to no end.

3. Committed to Being There even if he's not needed --> But this includes being there for his friends, even after they choose to abandon him and the mission. (It's important to note that Woody only offers ((by getting in the box to Bonnie's)) to leave Andy if Andy chooses to give him to a kid who needs him more.)

The whole idea is that Woody belongs to someone. He's not his own. He's a toy. Toys belong to their kid; they don't have the right to just leave. If they did, they'd be bad toys. Because you never know how much a kid will be heartbroken, or whether or not they might need you down the road. Every movie before Toy Story 4 is Woody doubting that, but then coming back to it. That's why in Toy Story 3, when everyone is in Andy's Room sad because he won't play with them and he's about to leave, Woody is totally onboard with staying in the Attic for years—because maybe they'll get to be played with by Andy's kids. He's loyal, and selfless, because he knows he's not his own. He's willing to go to Bonnie only because it'll mean staying with his friends where they're needed; but ONLY if ANDY willingly gives them up.

Enter Toy Story 4.

Woody's having a hard time adjusting to Bonnie's Room because 1) he doesn't get played with, his role in the games is taken by Jessie. So he's right back where he was in the first movie, stuck in a closet watching another toy get played with. And 2) Dolly is the leader of the room, so he's not even really allowed to be helpful to his friends during their off hours, because she's got that covered. So he feels directionless.

UNTIL Bonnie goes to school for the first time. She's not allowed to bring toys. Dolly is fine with this but Woody goes anyway because he's sure Bonnie will need something.

And in this beautiful first portion of character development for Woody, he does not sneak out of the backpack and get Bonnie to gain comfort from him, her one and only toy, at daycare. Even though he totally could've. He could've seized his moment in her heart. But he didn't. Because he already learned that lesson in Toy Story 1-3: he doesn't need to be everything to the kid. He just needs to do what's best for the kid, and to do that, he has to be there.

So instead he throws her a bunch of craft supplies to play with when nobody sits with her. She gets distracted by making Forky, a toy made from a spork and some pipe cleaner.

Bonnie is, from that moment on and throughout the rest of the movie, without exception, OBSESSED with Forky. There is no other toy in her mind. But Forky is a lot like Buzz was in the first movie after learning he's a toy: he doesn't understand what's so great about that, and would rather go back to being trash. He keeps trying to jump in garbage cans while Bonnie's family takes a road trip. And for some inexplicable reason, none of the other toys really care about this. But Woody, knowing what Bonnie needs, basically posts a 24-hour suicide watch on Forky and keeps pulling him back over to Bonnie, out of the trash.

The problem is, Woody isn't that excited about this. He is just doggedly resigned to it as his duty. He keeps rescuing Forky and getting no love in return; Buzz sort of tries to be supportive and offer to help, but nobody else seems to care about Bonnie and Forky, and Woody thinks this is his only way to be useful so he really doesn't want their help.

Which is stupid. Because if he were really committed to being selfless and loving Bonnie, he'd let everyone help. Because the point isn't "how will I feel if I fail to do this on my own? What's my purpose?" That's selfish. It's "you-focused." The point should be "How can we get this job done best for Bonnie?" with no consideration of "self." That would be selfless, which is the point of Toy Story movies.

Anyway. I'll speed up.

Basically by Act 2 Forky comes to understand (thanks to Woody) how great it is to be a toy. But no sooner does he want to go back to Bonnie (on the road trip) than Woody suddenly gets distracted. His whole life's mission of doing what's good for his kid is derailed because he finds Bo Peep again. Meanwhile, Forky is captured by a villainous antique doll with no voice box, who is fixated on being bought by a little girl and thinks that if she had Woody's voice box her dreams would come true.

Bo Peep has been living as a Lost Toy. Basically the movie sets this up as if Lost Toys take care of each other, patching up injuries and having fun together even when no kids are around: they're just doing the same sort of thing that the reformed toys at Sunnyside Daycare do. But in a playground/fairground setting.

Bo Peep doesn't want to be with one kid. She wants to keep doing this more selfish lifestyle, where she can be played with whenever she wants, help toys whenever she wants, and avoid the heartbreak of a kid abandoning her.

Understandable.

But thats the opposite of everything Woody's learned in the last three (and a half) movies. He could've made the decision Bo Peep is making at any point in Andy's childhood. But he's already learned that being there means Being There, regardless of what the kid can do for you.

I mean, I hate to point it out, because I know people will try to make it an allegory for "staying in an abusive situation," even though that's NOT what I'm saying, but seriously—think back to Sid's House in the very first movie. They don't lead all the broken toys to a life of freedom. They force Sid to be a better kid, but the broken toys stay there. Because they're Sid's Toys.

Contrast that with the "hardship" Bo Peep has been through...Bo Peep just...got pawned off. She didn't have body parts removed and sewn onto other toys. She didn't get strapped to a firework or melted down. But she's treated like this revolutionary, independent, strong-woman toy who's introducing this great concept of freedom to Woody.

That's all wrong for Woody. And for most of the movie, he resists it, so that's good.

But what it comes down to, at the end, is Woody deciding to choose what he wants over his ideals of selflessness and loyalty. He wants to stay with Bo Peep (because romance) and he wants to be needed. Lost Kids and Toys "need" him more than Bonnie.

To be fair, they try to build up to this in a way that makes sense for his character. They try really hard, they do. They show that Woody is still selfless when it comes to the happiness of kids and toys; he willingly gives up his voice box so that Forky can go back to Bonnie, and the doll villainess can have a shot at her dream. They show that he's ready to support that villainess and help her find a kid she could be true to even after the kid she wanted rejects her. They show that he really was going to leave Bo, even at the very end, even though he didn't want to—and it takes Buzz insisting that Bonnie will "be all right" without him for Woody to give it all up.

They do try.

But that's the thing. The only way they could set up Woody's decision to abandon his friends and his kid for life as a Lost Toy was by centering it around this idea of "where I'm needed."

But 1) "where I'm needed" is too self-focused for Woody, because of all the reasons in Toy Story 2 and 1, and 2) you can't have it both ways. You can't say Woody's all about "where he can be of service best" and all about "what he wants." Those two focuses contradict one another, in Woody's case.

That's what it boils down to. They took the characters that are literally made to say, "live your life for others, love regardless of whether or not you're loved back," and they try to say, "nooo, actually, that's toxic, you have to do what you want, what feels most fulfilling to you, self-care, etc." And they do their best to shoehorn Woody into that by saying "what he's most fulfilled by is being needed."

That's all wrong for Toy Story. Woody developed away from making all his decisions based on where he's "needed" in Toy Story 2. Woody expressed loyalty to both Andy and his friends perfectly in Toy Story 3 by putting himself in Bonnie's box and letting Andy decide, his owner decide, where he should be.

And then Toy Story 4 comes along and says, "No, Woody gets to decide, and he decides where he's needed, and he's fine with separating from not only his kid, but his friends."

This post is already too long but also, if you try to spin it so Woody's still in-character and selfless by helping Lost Toys find kids, it starts to make no sense. If the Lost Toy lifestyle is so great, because you can pick up playtime with kids and put it back down whenever you feel like it—and you should, because kids will always get older and throw you out—why should Woody ever help Lost Toys find a kid to go home with? Why wouldn't he say, like Bo, "hey that's nice but eventually they'll grow up, it's a dead-end, just stay out in this playground with us. That's what's best for you. Be a Lost Toy like us."

The only possible answer to that question, which IS supposedly Woody's fulfilling ending, is, "Because maybe some toys just 'want' to go home with one kid. And if they do, they should be allowed to do what they want. And Woody can help them, because helping them is what he wants."

Allll back to "what YOU want" which is the opposite of being a toy. Anyway. The horse is dead, I'll quit beating it.

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lovesick-feelings · 1 year

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Hi!! Could I get some Yandere Toy Bonnie x Reader headcanons? Have a good day!!

Thank you for requesting, beautiful reader! (*^ ‿ <*)♡ Was I the only one put off by Toy Bonnie's voice in Fnaf AR? Don't get me wrong his lines are perfect. They fit very well with his high and mighty personality but his voice sounds so off compared to Toy Freddy and Toy Chica. ╮(╯∀╰)╭ I'm certain if they didn't edit the Voice actors voice to be high pitched it could've come off better (*/ω＼)

♡ How could this happen!? The last thing Toy Bonnie wanted was to fall for some… creature. If it wasn’t for your constant niceness, maybe he wouldn't think of you as often. He hates how much of a distraction you’ve become, yet he can never push you away because of that. *Sigh* Well, since you're obviously a fan, he can't just turn you away. Guess he’ll have no choice but to indulge in your presence.

♡ Toy Bonnie believes you are the luckiest person in the world. Why? Because he likes you, of course! He doesn't take hours from his “Me Time” for anyone. From the moment you enter those doors, you’re supposed to walk straight to him.

♡ You need him, so he’s doing you a huge favor by letting you bask in his presence. Well, at least that’s what he thinks. In reality, he depends on you. He expects you to comfort him, cater to his desires, and listen to his long rants and gossip.

“It’s a good thing I'm here for you Y/N! I wouldn't want my star to be alone on lunch break again” 🤭

“Weren’t you the one who asked-” 😔

“HUSH!! I’m doing you a favor!” 😡

♡ Toy Bonnie thrives on attention. Your regards, praise, hell you asking him how he’s feeling that morning makes him feel like a king. You are playing a dangerous game as too much praise will make him overwhelmingly cocky.

♡ Next thing you know, the boy needs repairs because he decided to rub it into withered Bonnie’s non-existent face. Too little will make him really whiny and annoying. He’ll glare at you and let out the most dramatic sighs until you bring it up to him. Even then, he’ll pretend it’s nothing if you don’t beg for it.

♡ He loves bragging about his star just as much as he does about himself. He has no problem talking for hours upon hours about how amazing you are. He’s like a used car salesman. You could be the worst at everything and he’ll still find a way to boast about you like you're worth a million bucks (He believes it but wouldn't say it out loud).

♡ You’re meant to be his and he deserves only the best. He often pulls you close and kisses you in front of his friends. Not only does he love seeing your flustered face, but he gets to make sure everyone knows exactly who you belong to. It’s a win-win!

♡ Toy Bonnie’s is extremely possessive. You could give Toy Bonnie thousands of compliments but he will never overlook the time you complimented someone’s new outfit.

♡ Sure, he'll be pouty around you, but the person receiving the compliment is going to go through hell. He goes out of his way to sabotage their day until they get the message to stay away from you. Next thing you know your co-worker has been fired due to “tampering with animatronics”, “defamation of ingredients”, and in your bosses words “fucking everything up”.

♡ Master manipulator. Toy Bonnie uses it against you constantly and he knows how to use it well. All of a sudden, he tells you how much he hates that co-worker you’ve been talking to. Did you not notice the way they forced their job on you despite them being able to do it? It doesn't matter if they need to attend to someone else. They don’t consider your feelings like he does. They're going to take advantage of you if you keep letting your guard down like this.

♡You’re so used to seeing his sassy front that when he shows defeat you can’t help but feel bad. As soon as you respond to his request, he'll embrace you, supporting your decision. The smug grin on his face would have been more noticeable if it wasn't for his hug. He has you wrapped around his finger and he can’t help but fall for you harder.

♡ Now let's say Y/N is really good at seeing through Toy Bonnie’s Academy Award Performances. Bonnie's final resort will be kidnapping. You’d think he’d be too refined to do it himself, but he enjoys the chase. However, he’s suddenly reminded why he avoids it as you struggle against him. Why are you screaming so loudly? If you only listened, he wouldn't have to drag you by your foot to his room.

♡ Now that you’re both alone, it should be easier to maintain your concentration on him. Your stubbornness now is really bothersome, but it’s nothing he can’t fix now that you can only see him.

“Ya’ know not just anyone is lucky enough to be so close to me. So make sure to only keep those eyes on me, star!”

#yandere toy bonnie #toy bonnie #yandere x reader #yandere x y/n #five nights at Freddy's #fnaf #fnaf x reader #yandere fnaf #fnaf yandere #yandere headcanons #yandere hcs #yandere male #yandere toy bonnie x reader #yandere toy bonnie x yn #fnaf 2 x reader #fnaf 2 toy bonnie #fnaf 2 #toy bonnie x reader

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flownwrong · 7 months

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expectations (a due south fic)

F/K, 1.5k words, additional tags: first kiss, stupid phone conversations, drama over a duffel bag

I'll tell you what I told ao3:

"My writing hit a wall a while back. To deal with it, I decided I'd write the only way I can now—short fic I can seat-of-my-pants in one day. A piece for each ship/fandom/idea where I have wips or thoughts that I can't make into actual works. This is the first one.

Thanks to @nigeltde-fic for dragging me down with this ship, and generally being a champion. <3”"

Maybe it really is a damn Groundhog Day type situation. Only twice as boring and nobody gets the girl, like, ever.

One thing he never pictured when he thought of the after-fraser-life, which he didn’t do very often, or, well, maybe he did, but he didn’t like doing it, point being—one thing he didn’t imagine was that it would be the same. As in, poof, never happened, must have daydreamed it, off you go, Stanley, play well with the boys.

And, well, it isn’t really a never-happened kinda deal, because Fraser, he just lives in a pocket in Ray’s head now, twenty-four-literal-seven, like friends do, you know, or something close. And what with Vecchio and Stella fucking off to Florida and Frannie doing her thing all while they were still doing the big adventure stuff, between all that it’s hard to not notice the change. But other than that—it’s the same job, the same desk (his desk, The Kowalski Desk), the same bottle in the cabinet above the sink and the same—the inside of his head is the same, too, giving him trouble like always.

more under the cut or on ao3

The way they left things—if that’s even what happened, left things, huh—it’s not what he feared. Not what he expected, either—and it took him many, many frozen-through adrenaline-drunk days to put a finger on it, that there was an expectation. And now back here, it’s like one of those tip-of-the-tongue moments he’s so familiar with, only with that expectation; it circles him all predatory with every lonely shuffle around his dance-apartment-floor and every stupid late night reruns session and every finger of drink he takes with that, and then it wafts away on the wind, leaving him feeling like he missed a step and twisted his ankle. Which is kinda stupid, when you come to think of it, since it looks like all his worst-case scenarios solved themselves and left him with a cushy little offering while he was playing explorer, and wasn’t that what it was all about.

And maybe it wasn’t, because Fraser calls, like he does, which floors Ray a little every single time for reasons he can’t even begin to articulate, he calls on a Friday and brings him up to speed on Dief’s aversion to the nearest Tim Hortons (nearest being a few hours’ trip to Yellowknife) because quote he says it’s cheating and Chicago ones tasted better and frankly it’s insulting end quote and how you pay and pay and pay and how he fixed up the cabin now and the second bed is new and really much better than the one Ray had to deal with up there, he made sure of that (felled the best tree he could find, Ray wagers), and Ray finds himself nodding and humming and gripping the stupid station handset, knuckles gone white, biting his cheek, hell if he knows why, not like his smile could do any damage at this point. “There isn’t a waiting list for that bed, is there?” he says, no reservations worth stopping for. And, “no,” says Fraser, and there’s that expectation, clarion as you please, ten-four, roger that. “Greatness,” Ray says, and hangs up, and does a little shimmy he’s not even ashamed of.

And then Fraser doesn’t call for three weeks, in which Ray is very productive, managing to vent drunkenly at Turtle who looks so unimpressed Ray thinks he actually hears him sigh, pack the bag, unpack the bag, consider terminating the lease, call in with Welsh then come in anyway, chase the latest case into almost three whole days awake and get sent away by Welsh anyway once the Bonnie and Clyde of small-time food truck GTA are locked up, pick up the phone roughly thirty-seven times, put it down thirty-six, and that last time, Fraser picks up and calls out for him softly and he’s too much of a chicken to do it back. Where exactly they tripped in a dance Ray felt resonate in his bones, he can’t guess.

Week four, Fraser calls, only it’s Ray’s doorbell that rings this time, and he picks himself up faster than he would the phone.

“Fraser,” he says first, then swings the door open, “Frase,” gripping his wrists way too tight, “what in god’s name was that—scratch that, don’t say, one thing it was is not buddies.”

“I don’t see what you mean, Ray,” Fraser says, and it’s supposed to make him angry, this far in, only this time Fraser is wrapped up in a soft green-gray flannel instead of the red walking coffin and he has his beat-up bag and the stupid hat on, so even Ray can see through the reflex of it. Fraser tugs gently at him. “Ah, Ray, if you could just let me put my bag down—thank you kindly.’

“You do, Frase, I know you do.” He lets Fraser’s wrists go for half a second it takes for the bag to thud onto the floor—other side of the threshold, damn it—and not a moment longer. “Did you come to stand outside my home and bullshit me?”

“Yes. I mean, not for that, no, but yes, I forgot about—oh, darn,” he says and tugs one hand free to take his stetson off, which is how you know, if you’re Ray, things are afoot. Big things. Momentary events in history. So when Fraser steps one foot in and leans back against the doorjamb and pulls him near—with hands snaking under his arms to land just below his shoulder blades, one half of a hug not yet given, a freakish way only Fraser would go with, which fires Ray up instantly, heat flooding his face like a punch he has to close his eyes against—when that’s done, Ray can find his mouth blind he’s so ready.

“You’re off,” he mumbles, because Fraser is the one with eyes open and he still landed somewhere around where Ray’s lips turn into his cheek, and then only corrected half an inch down, catching the corner of his open-eager mouth.

Fraser presses a kiss there, with intent. “Not,” he says, and then, then he hits the bullseye, fucking A, bingo, job done, you get a sticker—or a mouthful of tongue, because that’s faster where they stand.

“Momentous,” Fraser says into Ray’s hair, some breathless minutes later, and Ray says, “wha—’ and Fraser says, “you said, or rather mouthed, something about momentary events, if my memory serves—well, it must, it’s only been three minutes. I suppose you meant momentous, given the context.”

“Jesus, Shakespeare, come the fuck in, what do I have to offer to get you both feet inside.”

Fraser straightens but doesn’t move an inch to displace Ray where he’s giving him the second half of a hug. “Well, Ray, I didn’t mean to stay, per se.”

Ray disentangles them and tugs at the lapels of Fraser’s really very soft shirt, whenever he’s grabbed those, huh. He blinks once, twice, and thinks about how many bottles he will have to get for that cabinet now, because fucking hell. The bastard didn’t even have the courtesy to rub at his eyebrow, so to him it all makes sense somehow. He looks down and frowns.

“What’s with the bag?”

When he looks back up, Fraser smiles, an honest to god I’m-back-in-ten-foot-snow-and-alive-again grin, eyes kind of superglued to Ray’s face. “Promised Dief to get some of those Chicago donuts, which are, apparently ‘the right kind’.”

Ray steps back, shoves at Fraser’s chest, no way-like, and folds in two with laughter. Fraser looks at him all affectionate, and the absurdity is so familiar it gives Ray a headrush. Or maybe that’s all the wheezing he's doing.

“A bag? A whole bag of donuts?”

Fraser gets this look where his eyes get all liquid and light, and now that Ray’s got the manual he knows that translates to scared and hopeful in downright unhealthy measures. “I didn’t count on being back to Chicago soon.”

Ray can feel he’s doing the superglue thing now, too.

Fraser clears his throat. “Oh dear. Unless—I didn’t mean to presume, it’s only that on the phone—”

Ray cuts him off in a voice that’s too rough to seize the reins of, so it will probably break in there somewhere but it’s all a-okay now, isn’t it—says, “You’ll have to get in here, Frase. I think I’ll want some pants with my donuts, and I’m now in the bag-unpacked phase—uh, anyway.”

He heads inside and hears Fraser shut the door and toe off his boots.

So maybe there was no tripping after all. Just Fraser and his insane moves Ray always learns, dancing skills be damned. Good thing he isn’t Bill Murray—would be awkward to explain this to the girl.

#my writing #fic #due south #fraser/rayk #jesus i'm so tired of not writing #or writing and stopping one third in because i suck at storytelling or even figuring out my own theme #or writing and hating every sentence #or writing and knowing fast-and-sloppy writing is the only kind i can finish #or being so cringed out with my words once i finish that i can't stomach the idea of anyone's eyes on it #let alone any kind of beta so i cut off the avenues of getting critique and getting better #or writing and feeling like i'm forcing people to read #i don't believe in writer's block but i believe in shitty life circumstances and mental health issues #so there's that #if you read this whole vent i thank you and hope you at least enjoy the fic to make up for it

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scarfacemarston · 6 months

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Abigail Roberts A-Z Alphabet Fluff Prompt

Rest of the letters here! I: I love you (How fast do they say the L-word?)

I don't know if Abigail would say I love you first if it's a new relationship. It depends actually on how it ended with John. It would be more likely be a conscious decision on her part rather than it being blurted out - but in a high-stakes situation, you never know!

It just depends on how safe she feels at that point, but I think she'd show it in every way she could without saying it first. I think she'd hoped the reader would say it first so she wouldn't have to because I hc that Abigail said it first to John, and so that makes it scarier for her to be "in charge" again, but if the moment is right, she'll do it. Does she say it all the time? I don't know. I think she might say "love you" kind of quickly and quietly instead or keep them for more quiet moments at first. Definitely nighttime before sleep. It overall depends on how safe she feels with you/John. If she's with Sadie, there is a lot of guilt involved at first because she doesn't want to push her into anything she doesn't want, but I think it would happen relatively quickly once the dust has settled in the gang.

J: Jealousy (How jealous do they get? What do they do when they're jealous?) If we're talking RDR 2 Abigail, I'd actually say she is not that jealous - or at least, she keeps it in. She's accepted that John says they're on break/may not get back together. She says so herself. Arthur says she pines more than anything.

Rdr 1 - Abigail is more jealous when he meets Bonnie, who is pretty and much younger than her. She makes a few comments, but that's it. Bonnie and Abigail end up being friends, though.

If she's in a relationship with the reader - she definitely notices. She teeters between thinking that she better show her feelings or not making a scene and tells herself she's the one in the wrong. It's active vs passive, really.

But she's not afraid to grab your hand, put her arm around your waist, or kiss you with a smirk and a wink

K: Kisses (What are their kisses like? Where do they like to kiss you?)

Her kisses range from soft and sweet - yet brief or more possessive. Soft, Sweet, and brief is like the touch of a butterfly's wing. It's almost a tease. It's a light "I love you" before moving on with the day. She also gives cheek kisses. Sometimes, she'll grab her partner by the collar and kiss them behind a tree before slinking off with a coy smile. This can especially happen if someone is flirting with her partner.

L: Little Ones (How are they with kids?)

Abigail had always wanted a family. Her mother died when she was a baby, and her father died when she was seven. She was between the streets and the orphanages before she became caught up in the brothel system. There, she saw all sorts of horrors regarding childbirth, child loss, abortions, and maternal death. It made the consequences far more realistic to her. However, she dreamed of stability and the chance to have a family. She wasn't around children often as an adult. It wasn't until she met a few brothel children that she watched after or had Jack that she truly had experience with children. However, being a single mother scarred her. She knew the gravity of the citation and sometimes wished Jack was never born. However, these were thoughts that rarely came and only popped up as intrusive thoughts during her deepest depression. However, she is wonderful with kids. She's kind and patient, but also strict in that she doesn't take too much b.s. And encourages her children to be their best. She was extremely anxious to have her second child, but she did it partially for John and partially because she knew she was in a safer era in her life to enjoy another little one.

#abigail roberts #abigail marston #john marston #sadie adler #john marston x abigail marston #jack marston #sadiegail #abigail roberts x reader #abigail marston x reader #van der linde gang #john marston x abigail roberts #sadigail

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cancerian-woman · 8 months

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oooh so i feel like i can guess the answer, BUT how would you rank all of bonnie’s ships *solely* from what we got in canon vs how would you rank them based on fanon/general potential!

Oooh okay, I’ll start with canon ones then go to fanon.

Beremy: It was cute, puppy love at first but in the end Bonnie was doing all the work & his unassigned but assigned babysitter. 3/10

Bonenzo: in theory he did make Bonnie happy she deserved that. Enzo is very much “one size fits all” type of character if yk. They did get together under Stockholm Syndrome purposes and it was just done lazily? I think they would’ve been more well perceived if they started building them up in s5 or something. Killing him last minute to “trigger” Bonnie’s psychic powers or magic again was just another way to aid in her suffering. 5/10

Bamon: chemistry is great. Damon abandoning Bonnie after she needed him after bonding in the prison world’s was a good moment for Bonnie’s feelings to be shown. Knowing she has issues with abandonment. But, Bamon falls into the same category as Delena. Woman is complicit to all of Damon’s bs and a lot of that happened with Bamon. The writers said ok Elena is gone Bonnie can now agree or side with him the most. There’s Anti-Bamons, then there’s people who genuinely like Bamon and then people who ship Bamon just to free Elena of that burden of Damon lol. I do think they work best if Elena isn’t around. 7.5/10

Stefonnie: you can’t pry Stefan’s protectiveness and kindness to Bonnie in 1-2 out of my hands. He actually tried to make friends with Baroline unlike Damon. Stefan’s history with Bennett’s was another good push there too. And it’s sooo underrated that Stefan was the first vampire Bonnie ever trusted. Plus she had a lil crush on him before Elena got him. I do think they could’ve been something really good in those later seasons. Both tend to play a “hero” role to someone else. Stefan promised he would’ve fixed what he did to Bonnie and idk we needed to see that. It would’ve been nice if we could’ve gotten Damon/Stefan discussing that Bonnie’s forgiveness isn’t so easy to earn. 8/10

Bonora: good chemistry but extremely underrated. They remind me a bit of the wlw Bonkai. Would’ve been a perfect time to introduce bi!Bonnie. I liked that Bonnie encouraged Nora to do something outside of Mary. We never really got those “Bonnie’s beautiful!” By other characters but the way Nora said it continously and wanted to engage with Bonnie. It was so good. Long term and fanon-wise I think they both could’ve learned to grow out of those toxic ties to people with each other. We didn’t get Bonnie with other witches a lot and it was nice to see her with one. 8/10

Bonkai: Chris was Kat’s best on-screen partner imo. Kai brings out a darker side to Bonnie that she tries ignore often. While I think Bonnie brings out emotions Kai hasn’t felt in ages. He’s so fascinated with her in an obsessive but good for tvdu type of way. She’s the only way he sees. Bonnie isn’t a pushover either with Kai. She fights him back, she calls him out and tbh she’s even goofier with him. He pushed her more into her agency than Damon ever did. Bonkai would’ve been great for seasons 6-8. Idk if i would “redeem” him per se bc redemptions aren’t real in tvd but being good to Bonnie and Bonnie only is enough for me. Canon-fanon-9/10.

Bonlena & Baroline: I’ll just do these together. Bonlena had the stronger chemisty 1-2 era of them perfect. You can feel how close they are and need each other. Despite the negative tones with Petrova & Bennett lines repeating you can say they could be drawn to each other naturally. But, Elena does end up ignoring Bonnie so…7/10. Baroline is all about fun but they do support each other and can be protective. Caroline does try to get Bonnie out of doing magic all the time. 7/10

Bonlijah: interesting because Elijah like Stefan and Damon have harmed or betrayed Bonnie. Elijah’s done it twice. We don’t get a lot of them. Bonnie would’ve made him work for her forgiveness. Elijah likes acting on his own needs first but needs to be forced to see his wrongings in a situation and Bonnie certainly wouldn’t let up and make him focus on their errors before continuing. He did have to thing positively of her to face his brother alone. 7/10

Klonnie: based on canon I’d say season 3-4 are would be their best moments. Klaus does like witches. Bonnie had more onscreen time with Tyler!Klaus than his actual body. But Tyler!Klaus did sort of hint he admired she defied the spirits. There’s the power dynamics that comes into play here. Bonnie isn’t afraid of Klaus no matter how much power he wants to enforce over her. I can see them fanon wise strategizing together and Bonnie agreeing to help him if it means her friends are good. Canon wise though if nothing comes between them from 2-4 then they’d have to remeet afterwards. Same applies for all the Mikaelson’s. 9/10

Kennett: they could’ve bonded over magic and they do have more scenes than most BennettxMikaelson ships. Kol called out Bonnie’s death too. He saw potential in her and wanted to work with her….that being said they caused that lady to go crazy on Twitter over a 10 second scene LMAO so despite how i feel about that 10 10 10 across the board. Fanon wise i do think other fandoms taking over Kennett has deterred my liking for them. Dollar general Kennett has nothing on them. But Bonnie unlike Davina would want to see Kol for who he is. No rose tinted glasses.

Monnie/Tonnie: we don’t have a lot of Tonnie but they’re always watching each other / protective gazes when they are allowed to share a scene. This is a ship I can see working through college or when they both left Mystic Falls. For the both of them that isn’t their home longterm. 8/10. Now, onto Matt absolutely not. 5/10. Not just because Matt’s useless, but he doesn’t like the supernatural world for himself. He’s accepting of his friends and for others but it’s not something he’s really into. Bonnie already had to deal with this from Rudy. No need in dating a human or anything longterm who doesn’t like that side of her.

Honorable mention: Batherine could’ve played a frenemies with benefits role. Idk if it was the intention to “fix” Elena’s relationships but placing Katherine in these random moments but it was interesting when it did happen.

This was long and it took me a minute but i hope i answered it the way you thought of!! Thank you for the ask!

#occulthours #however i dont want to hear yall argue abt ships so this is not getting tagged 💀#dria responds

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yunhsuanhuang · 7 months

Text

You Look So Good In Blue | Y.H. Huang

Inspired by Child Ballad 16.

When a teenage fling mutates into something vast and terrifying, two seventeen year olds at a certain mid-tier college in Singapore make a desperate plan to control their future, earn their parents' love (or at least respect), and get the hell out of this school for good.

i. the daughter

It's whispered in the kitchen, it's whispered in the hall

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

The king's daughter goes with child, among ladies all

And she'll never go down to the broom anymore.

It's whispered by the ladies one unto the other,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair,

“The king's daughter goes with child unto her own brother–

And they'll never go down to the broom anymore.”

Sheath and Knife, Maddy Prior

/r/sgacads

is st cecilia rly a pregnancy school?? [o levels]

/u/anxiousorange

hiii sorry for the 29583th school admissions post today lol but i just got my o level results back and they’re pretty ok ^_^ so i was thinking of going to st cecilia junior college since it’s near my house but the more i hear about it the more i want to reconsider… like apparently the people are very party type which is not really my thing?? and ofc everyones heard about how its got the highest pregnancy rate in sg o_0

is this true? or just say say one

comments (8)

/u/academicweapon

As a SCian it’s not true LOL none of us get bitches

/u/theatrekidaf

skill issue

/u/sharpsdisposal

we’re too busy failing physics :/

/u/zombiegrave

q: how many scians does it take to change a lightbulb?

a: none. they like it better darker

/u/aw_bass34

Q: What’s the only test SC girls can pass?

A: Pregnancy test :P

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

Damn old rumour, probably from 1990s, 2000s around there. But it’s not really unfounded. Especially with what happened in 2008.

/u/anxiousorange

what happened? im scared lol

/u/gregorythomas91 [s]

You haven’t heard meh? It was a big deal back then, I'm shocked they've covered it up that well. Let me try and remember.

You never told me what really happened over those few blistering months in 2008, but I guess I wasn’t alone in that. Even when the newspapers shoved a mic in your face, even when you were being grilled by the lawyers, even when you were standing on that trap door, waiting for the drop– what really happened was a secret you’d bring to the grave.

So it’s all inference and extrapolation and linear correlation– sue me. How else am I going to make sense of that moment? How else do I come to terms with why you did what you did? Could I have known? Could I have stopped it? Was I even, when it came down to it, your friend– or was I just somebody who let you copy his lecture notes?

I don’t know. What I do know is this:

It was some mid-week mid-afternoon, indistinguishable from any other. The bell had just rung, and the whitewashed corridors were packed with sweaty kids rushing to PE, squeezing past those dragging their feet from class to class. We were part of the latter group, squinting against the September sun as we ambled across the quadrangle to home class. Above us, the school motto loomed in oversized light-blue letters: Remember you are in the presence of God.

I was mentally calculating how long the Malay stall queue would be when you said, casual as always, “Eh, pass me your market failure notes later, can? I’m yellow-slipping after GP.”

I raised an eyebrow. You weren’t a stranger to leaving school early, but you’d been doing it more and more often lately, and at this point I hadn’t seen you stay for Shooting in ages. As your club captain, I was supposed to be concerned. As a friend– well, I was intrigued. Of course I’d heard the rumours, passed from homeroom to homeroom, Friendster account to Friendster account. Who in St Cecilia’s hadn’t? “Is this related to whatever you and Camilla Wong have going on?”

“Cam’s not my girlfriend,” you said, after a brief, completely unsuspicious pause.

I snorted. “She doesn’t let anyone in this school call her that but you, dumbass. ”

You ducked your head down to hide a smile, your dress-code fringe falling into your eyes. It was a strangely endearing habit. “Fine lah. We’re– seeing each other.” Then you continued, hurriedly, “But don’t let anyone else know, OK?”

“Fine, I'll write you off CCA for today. But don’t make it a habit, ar? Hold pen, not hold hand.” Despite myself, I grinned. Sure, the two of you made an unlikely couple. Wong was an ex-Convent girl and student councillor, all relentless energy and long hair tied so high it was prone to hit people when she spun, while the only time I’d ever seen you really alive was behind the barrel of an air pistol. Back then, I thought it was cute. Opposites attract– wasn’t that the backbone of any drama worth its salt?

I wouldn’t realise, until later, that despite how different the two of you appeared, at the core of it you were the same– pale and skinny and drowning in your school uniform, searching for exits the moment you stepped into a room. Always, always halfway out the door: of your school, of your body, of the life you knew.

But back then it was just a September afternoon, and we were only seventeen. You smiled back at me, all cheer, like you saw something I didn’t, like you saw something I never would.

In the end, though, this isn’t my story. This is yours. So let’s tell it your way.

The newly minted 1T26 trickled slowly from assembly into the classroom, chopeing the best desks and nervously rotating between the same few ice-breakers: orientation, secondary schools, O-Level points. As you entered, you cast a glance over the sea of blue pinafores and green pants. Still reeling from the sheer increase in the female population, you took a desk at the back, between the ancient, peeling noticeboard and the window looking out on the covered tennis courts. You were tall enough to see over all the heads, anyway.

Soon, your home tutor arrived, a round-faced lady toting an oversized Cath Kidston duffle bag, and wrote her name on the board in neat block letters: Mdm Alvares. The class stood to greet her, chairs scraping hurriedly against the linoleum. She beamed back, her smile all teeth, and was busy setting up the visualiser when the door slammed open.

The class spun in their seats. “Sorry,” the intruder sheepishly said, leaning against the doorframe. Some of her hair had fallen half-out of her high ponytail, her pinafore already wrinkled at the hem. A dusting of freckles covered her pink cheeks.

Mdm Alvares squinted at the girl, then the laminated name list. “And you are?”

“Camilla Wong.”

Mdm Alvares looked out over the class, scanning the rows, and her eyes landed on an empty seat in the corner whose sole occupant was your beat-up Jansport. Realising where this was going, you sighed, putting your bag on the floor.

Camilla smiled, made her way in–

and put her bag down at another empty seat, half a class away.

–

There was nothing in this world you hated more than 4PM Maths lectures. That day the aircon was actually working, which you would normally have been grateful for, except for the fact that that sharp, recycled wind was blasting directly at the very back rows of LT5, right onto your face.

You were trying so hard to 1) figure out plane vectors and 2) stop yourself from getting hypothermia that you wouldn't be able to recall, later, the exact moment that Camilla fell asleep on your shoulder.

When you realised this, you froze. Oh, you thought, and didn't know what else to think. On one hand, it would’ve been so easy to wake her. Just a poke from your pen, and she would’ve jolted up almost instantly. On the other hand, though, her long eyebrows brushed against her freckled cheeks, and her chest rose and fell in these small, slight motions, and–

Before, you had only ever seen her as a baby-blue blur in the corners of your sight, always in motion even in the earliest of classes. But Camilla, asleep, tucked in the crevice between your shoulder and neck–it felt fragile, thrumming, tense. Like something made of glass, nestled gently in your hand, that it would only have taken a squeeze to splinter.

The next twenty-two minutes were the longest twenty-two minutes of your entire life so far. Even so, when the bell rang and Camilla pulled herself upright, you found yourself missing it already.

–

After that, it was like a switch had been flipped in your brain. It was only then that you began to really Notice Camilla, capital N, italics. You noticed her with her head bowed in mass, noticed her shoving fishball noodles into her mouth at lunch, noticed her arguing with your classmates over technicalities in GP. But you noticed her the most in Monday zeriod house meetings, when the artificial grass glimmered with dew and the syrupy dawn light made the whole world seem like a Hollywood coming-of-age movie. You watched her toss her braids over her shoulder, wipe the pearls of sweat off her flushed face. Her red, red shirt rode up as she stretched, revealing a sliver of pale flesh above the waistband of her shorts–

It took until then for her to notice you Noticing. Her eyes flickered over to you, she winked, and blew a kiss.

You felt as if you’d walked out onto the PIE and been hit by a truck. It was a wonder every single smoke alarm in the school didn’t go off right that moment–a cacophony of ringing like firecrackers all strung up, exploding pop-pop-pop from the foyer to the science block to the hostel. It swallowed every other sound, every other thought. Then she turned away, a grin still lingering on the corners of her lips.

–

During one of your lunch breaks, Camilla pulled you out of class. She had to ask you something about your PW survey, she said. As far as you were aware, you weren't in the same PW group. You knew this. She knew this. The entirety of 1T26 knew this, too, so you headed down to one of the wooden picnic tables underneath Block D, the one tucked beneath the staircase next to St Pat’s room. Both of you hovered awkwardly around the bench for a moment, doing the calculations in your head–how close to sit? What to say? You shifted from foot to foot.

All of a sudden, Camilla slammed her hand down on the table. You jumped. “Walao eh. I legit can’t do this anymore. Is this a Thing? Are we having a Thing?”

You swallowed, eyes darting.

“Make up your mind, sia.” She rolled her eyes, laughing under her breath. “St. Francis boys, I swear.”

“No, wait, yes–” The words spilled, embarrassingly and pitifully, out of your mouth. You feared you were not beating the all-boys’ school stereotypes that day. “I mean, I did, but, um–” Just stop, your brain chanted. What're you saying? You're only making it worse. Kill yourself. Kill yourself. Kill yourself.

“So that’s a yes,” Camilla said, and surged forward to shut you up herself.

–

The next thing you knew, you were stumbling into the stairwell together, the door banging noisily shut behind you. “Why–” Camilla started, and you said, “Nobody ever uses Staircase 6. Now come on.” You pushed her up against the curved concrete wall, not caring that the low ceiling scraped against your head. There was that wild, exhilarated look on her face again, like she still couldn’t believe that she was actually doing this. Beautiful, even in the dull grey light. Her nails dug crescents into your skin.

The air was all heat, sweat, too much cherry blossom perfume. You worked at your tie–quicker than you’d ever been able to in all your years of schooling–as she undid the buttons on her uniform shirt, revealing the freckles that dusted her pale shoulders like so many stars. As you unbuckled her bra in one quick motion, she gasped, then giggled. “Damn, Yeoh. You’re good at this. Is there anyone you haven’t told me about?”

In between kisses, you came up for air. You could've made a joke about not having many opportunities to practise in St Francis, but the real truth was that your desperation shocked even yourself– this wasn’t the careful boy that your pastors, parents, teachers, knew. Your heart threatened to burst from your chest like the bullet from a gun. For the first time in sixteen years, it felt– really felt– like you were fully alive.

“Just you, Cam.” You dipped back down. “Only you.”

ii. the yew tree

He's ta'en his sister down to his father's deer park

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

With his yew-tree bow and arrow slung fast across his back

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

You made close acquaintances with every dark corner of the school. When June came, you merely shifted your meeting points closer to home– behind heartland malls in Tampines or in the nooks and crannies of Cam’s sprawling landed estate along Cluny Road. Neither of you were sure, yet, if you were doing it Right– things like bubble tea dates, strolls in Botanics, or mugging in NLB (god, you should have been mugging, mid-years were in a week and neither of you had cracked a book). But if it wasn’t capital R Right, why did it feel like it was? You thought you had developed a case of myopia–Cam in focus, everything else blurred.

All that to say: the holidays were closer to ending than beginning when you and Cam found yourselves in an overgrown grassy patch tucked somewhere in between a storm drain and the wrought-iron back gate of some minister’s landed property. It had sounded a lot more romantic in theory, but the cloudless sky was the same powder-blue as your school uniforms, and the sun beat down like it had a personal vendetta against you. There was nothing much for shade except for a single banana tree, which you lay crumpled under, sweat-sheened and reddened. The last of the endorphins were beginning to wear off.

Cam’s ringtone cut through the air, a chiptune rendition of some Green Day song. She sighed, then propped herself up on one elbow as she picked up her phone. Her hair was loose, cascading down her back like smooth dark water. You fought the urge to run your hands through it.

“Ba!” she chirped. The cheer didn’t show on her face. “Ba, of course I'm still at the library. I’m with Lucia. Yes, Ba, I’m sure. Don’t call her, can?” She flinched as though she’d been slapped– a familiar, instinctual tic. “Sorry, sorry. I’ll study hard, I promise. Byebye.”

She hung up and sighed, leaning backwards. “I think I’ll need to go soon.”

“Soon,” you promised. You were lying flat on the warm grass, arms crossed over your chest like you were about to be lowered into the grave.

“Soon,” Cam repeated. “Fuck, I hate that we have to sneak around like this, sia. I keep thinking that he’s going to jump out at me from any corner, that any random passerby can tell I’m not where I’m supposed to be. It’s like this whole island has eyes, and maybe it does.” As she lay back down beside you on the grass, her oversized t-shirt–Camp Veritas Counsellor 2007–drooped down to reveal the blades of her shoulder, the ones you’d kissed just moments ago. Her voice lowered. “You know ah, the moment we get our A-Levels back, I’m getting out of this city. Australia, London, LA, anywhere. There’s nothing here for me.”

“No leh.” She can’t say that, you thought, pettily, awfully. She had a mansion and a scholarship and a real iPhone. She had the freedom to just leave. To go somewhere without worrying about the money. You had– what? Parents on the edge of divorce and a bankrupt family business? So much for inheritance. So much for a glorious kingdom. Then you had banished the thought from your head. “You have me.”

“I guess I do.” There was a pause. Then she asked, quick and soft and desperate: “Hey, if I asked you to do something, you’d do it, right?”

You reached over, squeezing Cam’s hand tight in yours. The leaves of the banana tree shivered. “I’d do anything for you,” you told her, and it was true. It was really true.

–

Your grades wobbled, then declined, then plummeted, and you found, to your surprise, that you couldn’t care less. You’d made a lot of bad decisions in your life. Try as you might, you couldn’t count Cam among them.

This, then, might have been why you were lying on your bedroom floor, squinting at your Nokia at four AM on a Monday morning. An empty can rolled lazily from your hand, on an epic journey across the glossy faux-marble floor. The house, for once, was still. Even your parents’ screams had petered off about an hour ago. The silver light from the HDB corridor fell through your windows in slits, providing just enough light for you to see the tiny phone screen. With the phone’s small buttons and your clumsy fingers, it took a long time for you to dial the number, but none at all for her to pick up.

“Cam,” you whispered, “Want to see you.”

“Jesus, Yeoh, it’s a school night.” Her voice was gorgeous like this, low and blurred. She only ever used this voice with you: when her raw-bitten lips were pressed against your chest, your ear, your– You shifted. It didn’t help.

“Cam, Cam, Camilla.” Her name rolled off your tongue like a litany, sharp and needy. “Can talk a while or not?”

“Are you drunk again?” she teased you. On the other end, her sheets rustled as she sat up. Although you hadn’t ever been in her house before, you could reconstruct it well enough from the blurry webcam pictures she’d sent you: piles of assessment books, porcelain cross, ceiling fan. And she– beautiful, beautiful, feet kicked up against her headboard, black hair spilling over the flowery sheets, the smile evident in her voice. “Help lah. How–”

“Miss you,” you murmured, by way of an answer.

“I miss you too.”

“Want to meet you. Want to talk to you.” Then, because you were three cans of beer deep and loved making (aforementioned) bad decisions, you charged on: “You and I, we never talk.”

“I know we haven’t met in a while. It’s not my fault I was sick–” Her voice wavered a little, then bounced back to its chirpy cadence. “But we talk all the time, though. We literally talked in class yesterday. I’m talking to you now.” Cam laughed. Her laugh still sounded to you like the first day of the month– every church across the island breaking into bellsong, light and birdlike in the hot blue air. It was cliché, you knew. You didn’t care. Perhaps you were in too deep to care.

“No,” you insisted, but you didn’t really know what you were saying, or why you were saying it at all. “We don’t.”

“We don’t,” she said, then fell silent.

The funny thing about the two of you was this: Over the past few months, you had seen each other stripped bare, worn to the bone with want, more times than you could count. But the both of you knew, all right, that there were things that you couldn’t– that you didn’t say. Things that were secret even to yourselves. The scars on your forearm, the bruises on hers, the way she looked at you when she thought your mind was elsewhere. Those three words, weightier than any false promise you’d whispered against each other’s skin.

“Staircase. Tomorrow. I need to tell you something.”

–

That night, you dreamt of flying.

You weren’t a bird, weren’t yourself– just bodiless, incorporeal, sweeping through the hallways of the college like a ghost. You phased through the auditorium doors to see the loose ceiling tile, the one that had been hanging over your heads like a guillotine all term, topple to the ground in one fantastic crash, sending students fleeing out the doors and into the foyer. You fled with them, but the ceiling fan in the foyer was spinning just a bit too hard, just a bit too fast, and the students screeched to a halt just in time to catch it falling, an angel with clipped wings. It broke in two over the staircase railing, knocking down the tables and the notice boards, pulling down the ceiling with it. Then the chapel was the next to go, the shattering stained glass catching the light in a thousand colours. As you raced up the corridors, the destruction raced up, up, up, alongside you, past the staff room and canteen to the lecture halls, the classroom blocks, the PAC, every single building in the college folding in on itself like so much wet paper. Block J detached itself cleanly from its precarious perch, tipping head-over-heels into the field. You couldn't hear a thing, but you could imagine what it sounded like: the earth itself breaking, rapture the other way around.

Then you crossed the lower quadrangle, where two little blobs of baby blue lay pressed against each other’s bodies. Even without descending, you already knew who they were. It was strange to watch yourself like a movie. When you were younger, you'd thought that this was how God saw the world, top-down, like a player peering at a chessboard. When you’d failed an exam for the first time, you'd cowered under a table-cloth to escape His wrath. You’d stopped believing in a lot of things as you grew up, but you could never kick that instinct to flee, that inescapable, intrinsic fear that the presence of God really was everywhere: under a table, in a school, in every splitting cell.

The boy on the ground turned his face towards the girl, tucking a strand of hair back behind her ear. She smiled infuriatingly, endearingly, back at him.

The school came down on them.

–

Most of the morning was taken up by this awful college event that you’d totally forgotten was happening, all cheering and sweat and thirty-eight degree heat. It was only when the day was coming to a close, then, that Cam and you could sneak away past the computer labs and guitar room into Staircase 6. As you entered, Cam pulled out something from the pocket of her sweater–an admin key–and latched the door behind her with a deliberate click. You blinked. “How’d you get that?”

Cam didn’t say anything, just tucked the key in the pocket of her oversized school hoodie. There was something strange and tense about her, stranger and tenser than she had been all term. She walked up to Level 4, where the sky through the grilled window cut long slices of light onto the concrete floor, and sat down on the top step. You sat down next to her.

She breathed, imperceptibly, in and out, looking straight ahead. The question rushed out in a gasp.

“You told me you’d do anything for me, right? I need you to kill.”

iii. the arrow

And when he has heard her give a loud cry,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

A silver arrow from his bow he suddenly let fly.

And she’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

WONG CHIEN PING

The New Paper, 1998

WONG: To me, family– family always comes first. My kids always come first. You know ah, I’ve got five children. Four boys, one girl.

INTERVIEWER: Wow.

WONG: [Laughter.] Can be a handful at times, lah, but what can you do? As I was saying, right, when I look at my kids, I’m thinking about everything they could be. Lawyers, doctors, maybe even MPs like me. [Laughter.] And I think about how Singapore’ll change in ten years, fifty years, a hundred years. My youngest, Camilla, she’s going to graduate from university in the 2010’s. In a new century. What’s Singapore going to look like then?

INTERVIEWER: Mhm.

WONG: I want to make Singapore a place where my kids can grow up safely. Where they can have a future.

For a moment, all you could do was laugh. Then you stopped, of course, but the echo lingered. “Cam?”

Without meeting your eyes, she lifted up her sweater. The first thing you’d thought was that she’d forgotten to bring her house shirt– she was still in uniform. Then you realised that her shirt was unbuttoned at the bottom, and her skirt was unlatched, and there was a solid, unmistakable, swell to her stomach.

The world tilted on its axis. There was no way this was happening. This was a really terrible prank. She’d stolen a prosthetic from Drama. It had to be something, something other than this, something other than a child– You made an inelegant noise, some spluttered form of protest. “Oh.”

“Oh,” Cam agreed, unhappily.

You instinctively reached out to touch her bump, like you’d seen in the soapy Mediacorp dramas Ma always watched. You didn’t feel anything. Wasn’t there supposed to be some sort of parental instinct singing to you; love, love, love all through the water and the flesh and the blood?

“Didn’t you listen in Bio? You can’t feel the heartbeat yet. Not for a while, but not for long, either,” she said. “Not until I can’t hide it anymore.”

“Oh.” You didn't know what else to say. You pulled her into your arms, and she pressed herself against you, body against body. Like stragglers hiding from the cold, except it was thirty-five degrees outside, the air the same dull dead warmth that school air always was. She turned her face away, but you could still see her eyes go glossy, hear her take those shallow breaths. "I'm so sorry."

You couldn't begin to imagine what she was feeling, how much she'd lost in that instant when she knew she was carrying a life that wasn't hers: the scholarship, the law school, the clear American sky she'd never see. The future rushed out before you, a landscape vast and desolate, and you found yourself unable to picture it except for your mother's face, crumpling in on itself, her world imploded in a single moment. Thinking: all you had to do was study hard. We gave everything for you, pinned every hope on you, and this is what we get? Saying: stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

You don’t know how you say what you say next, but you do. “So. You want to- to kill it?” It, it, it. Still an it.

Cam laughs wetly. “Almost there. Kill–” the pronoun trips off her tongue– “me.”

ST CECILIA’S JUNIOR COLLEGE

CAMERA 235

12:28:03

YEOH shoots to his feet. WONG does too.

YEOH: You can’t just say that–

WONG: Just shut up for a moment and let me explain, can?

YEOH shuts up.

WONG [with a wince]: Sorry. But you know my father lah. You know how he is. He’ll have my head.

YEOH: What’s the worst he can do ah? Pack you off to some boarding school overseas?

WONG takes a sharp breath.

WONG: It’s not about that. It’s about the fact that he’s worked his whole life for this position. If he ever finds out what we’ve done, his career jialat liao, just like that. Every single day for the rest of my life he’ll look at me and only see a disappointment of a daughter, a stain on the family name. I snuck around and I lied to his face and I bribed my friends for alibis but at least for seventeen years he didn’t know better. He called me his princess, his golden girl, and he meant it. Now all of that’s gone. Or will be gone, I guess. I don’t know how I’d live without that.

YEOH: He doesn’t need to know. You understand that, right? There are ways to get rid of it, I mean, there has to be some way–

WONG: That’s the fucking problem!

WONG turns away, stifling a sob.

WONG: Before I formed you in the womb I knew you–

YEOH [instinctively]: And before you were born I consecrated you.

WONG: This is our child, Yeoh. This is a human life.

YEOH: Better any other life than yours.

A long pause.

WONG [overlapping]: You can’t mean that.

YEOH [overlapping]: I can. I do.

YEOH ascends one step. YEOH stares at WONG as if he’s daring her to say something, until WONG begins to cry. YEOH freezes for a split-second. He reaches for WONG, whispers something inaudible in her ear. WONG reaches up and kisses him in response. After a while, WONG extricates herself with an expression that seems almost like a smile. She walks over to the railing and leans against it. YEOH follows her.

WONG: I’ve always told myself I want to be a good person, but maybe the real truth is that I didn’t want my dad to figure out otherwise. Maybe all of that hiding was for nothing. Maybe it was only a matter of time before he found out who I really was, deep down: rotten. Impure. That woman Jezebel, who calls herself a prophetess.

WONG: And, sure, I can sneak away to a clinic, God knows we can afford it, I can do whatever it is girls do in movies with the clothes hanger or the back alley. But if my life after this is all an act– what’s the point, if I already know where I’m going when I go? I’m tired of keeping secrets, trying so hard to keep this part of my life from him– when one day I’ll slip again, I know it, and the whole house of cards is going to come crashing down. If I die now, all my sins are going to die with me. He’d be happy, and I’d be loved, and you–

WONG [almost envious]: You’d never understand.

YEOH tilts his head downwards, fringe falling over his eyes. He starts to say something, then stops.

YEOH: I do understand.

Like so many other people you knew, you never meant to go to St Cecilia’s. Everyone said you could make Temasek, maybe Victoria. Tampines at the very least. And you'd believed it, too, until you didn't anymore, until the college you were going to became the least of your worries.

When did you stop believing you’d ever have a future? It wasn’t a single moment so much as it was a series of them: stepping over the yellow line when waiting for the train, trying to find footholds in the railing of every overhead bridge, your eyes always flicking to every exit you could take. The words you said under your breath in prayers weren’t Our Father who art in heaven but a litany only you knew: I don’t have to do this. I don’t have to keep going. I can leave any time I want. For as long as you remembered, you’d already been halfway gone.

It was a comforting hypothetical, until it wasn’t, and suddenly you found yourself on the bathroom floor at three in the morning, a week before prelims. The cool white light bounced off the tiles, the mirror-cabinet above the sink hung ajar like it was beckoning you, and you were so, so exhausted. Why were you trying so hard? What were you even studying for? No matter what college you went to, the future would always be blurry and grey. Test after test after test, then onto– what, exactly? You’d never been able to imagine yourself past sixteen. You’d never be able to imagine yourself more than half-alive.

You’d tell the psychiatrist later that you didn’t remember the rest of the night, but that wasn’t true. You remembered the pills. You remembered the blinding, fluorescent pain– and through the pain, your father’s face, your mother’s voice. 911 on the cordless telephone. The ambulance. Changi Hospital. When you’d finally woken, there was a split-second where all you could see was white, and all that came to you was a rush of relief– until the white coalesced into white walls and white sheets and a ceiling spotted with air-conditioning vents, and you could almost laugh at yourself for expecting anything different. If you’d succeeded, anyway, it wouldn’t have been white.

So you failed both at dying and at Chemistry. That was fine. You took the two points off for affiliation. You took the 5AM bus. You took the desk at the corner of 1T26. That was fine too. You swore you didn't care about any of it, and you didn’t, you didn’t. Then Cam happened, and suddenly you did.

But you couldn’t shake the memory of that night in the hospital, your parents whispering next to your bed when they thought you were asleep. For once in their life, they weren’t at each other's throats. What’s wrong with him? your father demanded in Chinese, betrayal running like cracks through his voice. I don’t understand why he would do this to me. In response, your mother only sighed. Stupid boy. Stupid, stupid boy.

The story came uneasily to you, like writing an exam for a subject that you hadn’t touched in months. Once you were done, Cam turned to you. If it was anyone else, they would’ve said something benign, something untrue, like, I’m sorry or I’m glad you didn’t die. Instead, because this was the Cam you’d always known, she asked, “How much did it hurt?”

You thought about the answer for a long while. Then you said, “If you do it right, only for a moment.”

She laughed, then, throwing her head back with the force of it. For a brief, blasphemous second, you’d never seen anyone so beautiful: fair as the moon, clear as the sun, terrible as an army all set in battle array. It was the kind of beauty wars were fought over, the kind any man would get on his knees for– to be knighted, to adore. And she’d chosen you (you of all people!) The fact made you dizzy with its weight.

“So.” Her voice brought you back to reality. It was casual as anything, like she was discussing essay outlines or Physics solutions instead of– whatever this was. “I was thinking about the stairs, right? If you pushed me, hard enough, it’d look like an accident…”

Below you, the concrete staircase looped in on itself, down, down, down. Tall, yes, but only three stories, not enough to kill. Not if you wanted to be sure. When you told her as much, she frowned, swearing in Chinese under her breath. The two of you bounced around a few more ideas, but none of them seemed to stick. You fell silent, tapping out meaningless rhythms on the rails, as you considered what you’d been dancing around since she’d asked you to kill. A competition-grade air pistol, a shot at just the right angle– it’d be, well, if not easy, at least simple. Less up to the fates.

There was only one problem with that plan– it’d no longer be an accident. There’d be police, lawyers, fuck, maybe even journalists. Your juniors would whisper about it for camps and camps to come. You couldn’t feign innocence with a shotgun, couldn’t frame the act of pulling the trigger as anything but what it was.

So, fine, they’d hate you. They’d shred all your certificates, put your photos face-down, pretend they’d never had a son. So what? Boy hung from his bedroom fan, boy hung from the prison beam. Whatever formula you used, the result was still the same: you’d be gone, and they’d be free. Besides, there wasn’t any way St. Cecilia's reputation could possibly be worse than it already was.

“I think–” you started, suddenly, “I might have a solution.”

iv. the grave

And he has dug a grave both long and deep,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

He has buried his sister with their babe all at her feet.

And they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

INTERVIEWER: You didn’t notice the keys were gone meh? I thought you were the captain.

THOMAS: The captain doesn’t carry the keys, sir. Um, he was the armourer, sir, he’s always had them. Since the beginning of the year.

INTERVIEWER: So you weren’t aware that Yeoh and Wong entered the armoury at 12.39 PM and retrieved a [pages ruffling] .25-calibre Baikal air pistol.

THOMAS: Of course the alarm went off, lah. To notify the teacher-in-charge. But he told Miss Judith he forgot his water bottle inside, and she was in a hurry anyway–

INTERVIEWER: She believed him?

THOMAS: Miss Judith’s always had a soft spot for him, sir. And we all trusted him. That’s why we made him the armourer. Of course he was quiet, um, but in a calm, reliable sort of way. Out of all of us we thought he’d be the last person to do what he did. [laughter] I trusted him– oh god–

INTERVIEWER: Calm down, boy.

THOMAS: Sorry, sorry.

INTERVIEWER: Can continue or not?

THOMAS: Okay. Can. Go on.

Laughing the loud and triumphant laugh of the already dead, you and Cam crashed back into the staircase landing like you’d done so many times before. How many giggling, short-lived couples had this place borne witness to? The seniors who’d winked and nudged you in its direction must’ve learnt it from their seniors, who’d learnt it from their seniors in turn– back and back it went, a story in two-year cycles, mutating each time it was told. A haunting, a myth, a folk song.

Cam, leaning back against the wall, ran her hands along the sleek pistol. She looked, still, beautiful: even after the run, after the tears, despite the baby. If you hadn’t seen her before, you couldn’t have guessed that she was the kind of girl who would ever cry. “It’s like I’m a spy.”

“I mean, we kind of are, right? People are going to start getting suspicious soon. We should do this quickly.” You shot a furtive glance through the window in the door. The corridor, as always, was dark– the lightbulb had been busted for a long, long time.

“Soon. Won’t take long, right? Just–” She aimed the gun at her temple, mimed pulling the trigger with a grin. Miss Judith had trained you well– your first instinct was one of sheer panic, of tripping over your own feet in your haste to rip it from her hands– but you didn’t do any of that.

Instead you only swallowed, shifted. “Just like that I don’t think is strong enough. It’s not real ah. Can’t do that much damage. Um, can I–”

Downstairs, someone shouted. Cam shoved the gun in her hoodie pocket. You stopped breathing. Something clunky was being dragged across the floor, chatter following in its wake. But no one had opened the door yet, so when the clamour finally died down, Cam removed the gun from her hoodie and passed it to you.

In your hands, the pistol was cool, familiar, deadly in a way it had never been before. It reminded you that despite any pretences to precision or skill or patience, this sport was, at its roots, a killing sport– drawing blood and blood and blood again.

You’d only been a shooter for a few months. You'd always been a chess club kid in secondary school, and in St Cecilia, you’d even applied for Strat Games before you walked into the interview, saw an old classmate, and walked right back out. At least shooting was a singular sport. No emotions involved, no one to fool, no one to ask you what happened.

About a week or two past orientation, you’d hit bullseye for the first time. You didn’t notice, at first, still reeling from the ricochet, until Greg shouted and the club gathered round and you saw that tiny wound on that tiny target, fifty whole metres away. In another few weeks, it’d become routine, but you never forgot that first time: the breath held, the trigger pulled, the bullet sailing through the air. The gun like an extension of yourself.

She must’ve sensed something had shifted, because she hurried out, “If you don’t want to do this, just say, OK? If you really want, we can– I don’t know, figure something out.”

You’d do anything for me, right?

Okay, so maybe you were helping her because you knew what it was like to be so tired that you wanted nothing more than to be gone. You knew what it was like to fail– your mother’s eyes avoiding yours, the flat stinking with shame, cut fruits slid under your door like an apology– and you knew, you knew, out of all the people in the world she didn’t deserve it.

But maybe you were helping her because you’d never known anyone who could go to their grave with a smile quite like her, brilliant and foolish and brave. It was your hand brushing hers under the desk and her laughing with her head thrown back and the two of you sharing earphones on the bus. It was the fact that in life or death, you’d never wanted anyone but her.

So, fine. The moment you’d opened your eyes in a hospital bed, you couldn’t find it in you to care about Heaven or Hell or anything in-between, couldn’t care about a God who’d turned his back to you as you were bleeding out. But even the staunchest of atheists could admit that it was nice to believe that you’d been brought back for a reason; that more than any grade you’d ever gotten or any target you’d ever hit, the greatest achievement of your time in college– okay, your entire short and sorry life– was this: to love her, to kill her, to be loved, impossibly, in return.

You kissed her like it was an answer. Maybe it was. You’d never know.

–

Just like you’d predicted, it wasn’t easy, but it was at least simple:

The muzzle dimpling her button-down shirt. Her heart beneath the gun, frantic and wild. Her smile– smug, inscrutable, like she was getting away with some great and treacherous heist, like she’d stolen something you’d never notice missing until it was too late. Coloured-in Converse perched on the edge of the top step.

A moment to aim. Less to fire.

A crack. A body arching backwards, falling, falling, falling. A body against concrete. A body with its neck all wrong– no, that wasn’t right. Two bodies. One body. But what was the difference, really?

Somewhere, someone was singing.

–

I got tired of waiting

Wonderin' if you were ever comin' around

There was a boy at the edge of the canteen, that isolated corner where the cafe used to be before it went bankrupt and left neon-yellow wreckage in its wake. I could just barely make him out through the other kids who’d swarmed like moths around the speakers we’d looted from the grandstand, a do-it-yourself rave all our own. We were seventeen and free from Promos and knew every word to every song on the radio and there was nothing in this world to worry about, nothing at all.

My faith in you was fading

When I met you on the outskirts of town

My voice faltered as I tried to peer over the heads, earning myself a poke in the ribs from Joshua from 28. The boy was tall, in uniform–on the one day we were allowed to wear house shirts? He’d be sweltering hot. He stared off at something I couldn’t see, collapsing on a bench– and the moment I saw the fringe, I knew who you were.

“Xavier!”

I painfully extracted myself from the knot of students, making my way over to you. You didn’t seem to notice me, didn’t seem to care. There was something red on your face, probably some failed attempt at Go SC! It seemed like the sports leaders had gotten to you. Funny. I��d never thought you were the type.

You turned to me.

“Xavier?”

I broke into a run.

I keep waiting for you, but you never come

Your hands were shaking, your eyes wet. There was red on your shirt, red on the corner of your lips. Shit, there was so much of it. “Are you hurt?” My brain was going at thirty miles a second. “What happened? Did you– are you–”

“I’m fine. I just–” You broke off. Slowly and carefully, like you were explaining something to a very small child, you forced out two more words: “--lost something.”

I cast desperate glances around the canteen. There was something wrong here, something I couldn’t even begin to comprehend, like standing on the edge of a cliff with a sea below you. “It’s OK, bro,” I muttered out, stupidly, awkwardly, “You’ll get it back, whatever it is. Um. You need me check with the GO? Call teacher?”

Through the thin walls, a scream rang out. The singing died a quick, violent death, but the music, still, played on.

I talked to your dad, go pick out a white dress

“No,” you said. “No need.”

It's a love story, baby, just say yes.

After everything– after the police, after the trial, after the drop– Wong’s father swept in and gave half of St Cecilia’s a dizzyingly long contract that boiled down to Don’t tell a soul this happened or I’ll kill you myself. Of course I’d signed it. What else could I have done?

In the years to come, I’d want to tell you about so many things: The times we’d instinctively turn in our seats to ask you about homework or classes or anything at all. The two empty desks we’d dodged for the rest of the year, even after we switched classrooms, even after they struck out your names from the class list— as if long before that October afternoon, you were already gone. The shiny, upgraded surveillance system, a threat, an eulogy, as much acknowledgement as they’d ever give you.

Now, though, I want to tell you about the staircase.

When I stepped back into St Cecilia’s for the first time in ten years, so much of it remained the same. The same old coat of paint, the same wobbly tables, the same starched blue uniform. The only thing that’s changed is the kids– how young they seem now, how they call me Mr Thomas when I’m listening and ‘cher when they think I’m not. In the spaces between classes, when the halls are full of chatter, I’ll overhear snippets of their conversation: I’m yellowslipping for Taylor tickets or Walao, my stats really CMI, like this how can pass or Wah, are you going to take her to Staircase 6? That last one’ll be invariably followed by a wink, a nudge, and loud, boisterous laughter, the kind that only teenage boys can summon up. I can’t blame them much for it. Weren’t we once seventeen too?

The staircase isn’t particularly hard to avoid. For the kids, it’s more of a novelty than anything– a quick selfie at the door during Orientation, then it’s out of their minds for the rest of the year, too far from the classrooms to be of any use. Soon enough, though, exam season rolled around, and I was on my first night study shift of the year. I didn’t have to do much– just make sure nobody escaped the well-lit confines of the library, which was just as crowded and chilly as I’d remembered it. But the campus seemed different after dusk, every flickering light a blinking eye, and I felt myself being led down the concrete corridors, past the office and the hall and the lockers, past the bulb they’d never fixed, and I unlocked the door.

It looked, obviously, like any other staircase in the school. The floor was grey, the walls white. I went up to the top floor and to the railing, the security camera swivelling as I walked. Over the railing, the stairs went down, down, down. Despite my best efforts, I couldn’t find any part of it that suggested your presence. No pale figure, no blur of light. I felt, suddenly, foolish– what answer was I seeking? Even if you’d lingered, even if you’d somehow escaped where I’d most feared you were, this was the last place you’d want to stay.

Maybe I would never really understand why you did what you did. But I’d known you, even still, and so I could say this with certainty– if there was any justice in this world, you weren’t here. You were somewhere edgy kids couldn’t gawk and giggle at you, somewhere the camera couldn’t find you. Somewhere only you knew.

An engine growled beyond the gates. Sweet and heavy in the air, the scent of flowers lingered.

I closed my eyes.

And when he has come to his father’s own hall,

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

There was music and dancing, there were minstrels and all.

And he’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

O the ladies, they asked him, “What makes you in such pain?”

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

“I’ve lost a sheath and knife I will never find again

And I’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

“All the ships of your father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can bring as good a sheath and knife unto thee.”

But they’ll never go down to the broom anymore.

“All the ships of my father’s a-sailing on the sea

The broom blooms bonny, the broom blooms fair

Can never ever bring such a sheath and knife to me

For we’ll never go down to the broom anymore.”

#child ballads #singlit #songs from saint cecilia's #writing

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wheredidmyheadgoing · 1 year

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Night three

First

Previous/Next

-Well, look who showed up here!

Evan closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He didn't often walk home this way. The pizzeria was literally on the next street, so it usually only took a few minutes to walk to his house. The problem was that he almost always come across someone. For this reason, today he decided to take the route through a side street. He hoped it would be easier...

It looks like he was wrong.

He slowly turned back to his tormentors, pressing plushie to his chest.

They were smiling, and that was a very bad sign.

-Oh wow, man - Peter, the boy in the Chica mask grabbed him by the wrist - What's there to be upset about? We just wanted to say hello!

He clenched his teeth as the bully pushed him against a tree. It hurt.

-What's the matter, little brother? - Michael leaned over him, smirking mockingly - I already said I'll teach you a lesson.

-S--screw you - He tried to growl, but all that came out of his clenched throat was a screeching scream.

Of course, everyone found it very funny.

-Aw, are you going to cry again? - Alec wearing a Bonnie mask puffed out his cheeks - Pantywaist wants to go to mommy? Oh, wait...

Evan bit his lips. There's no way he's going to give them what they want.

-You don't have a mommy.

Their laughter was so unbearable that he wanted to cover his ears.

-Yeah, enough. - Mike rolled his eyes - Your twaddle are more dullness than you. You'd better hold him back.

The boy in the striped T-shirt gulped, seeing the bullies approaching him. He started to back away, then run, but he barely turned around and was already lying pressed to the ground.

-You know you really are hopeless? - Michael snorted - You can't even defend yourself. No wonder Father doesn't love you.

-At least He loves you, huh? - he snapped out, but quickly regretted it, seeing his brother's fury.

-That's how crafty you are? - He hissed - How about that?

Evan froze, watching his brother pick up something from the ground.

Fredbear's cuddly toy.

Oh no.

-What are you doing?! - He yelled - Give it back!

-Come on Evan, we have to share right? Besides, it's just a teddy bear...it can break at any time.

NO.

-Michael, I'm serious - He cried out - If something happens with it, He....

-"He"? He what? - Asked Gabriel, putting the Freddy mask on his face -He will come to life at night and kill you? Haha!

No no NO! Why does no one ever understand what I say?!

-All right guys - Mike smiled wider, clutching the golden plush - Let's give the little man some fun.

When he felt the older boys let him go, he immediately picked himself up from the ground. He couldn't let them take it, he had to get it back!

Otherwise He would be very angry.

* * * *

He tried. He really tried, they...They were too fast and taller than him. And stronger...

Evan wiped the blood from his nose. Everything hurt him, but he had no choice, he had to find the golden mascot. Not because he cared about it, as everyone else thought. It wasn't even one of his friends. It was about something else.

Because if he didn't find the bear, the bear would find him.

"This is your new toy. Carry it with you at all times, You can't put it away."

Those were his Father's last words before he started ignoring him. Well, at least partially, there were times when he would give him some instructions like he did yesterday, but nothing else.

Guess He really wanted that he relied solely on plush.

He twitched when one of the crows started squawking near him, snapping him out of reverie. It looked a bit like it was chasing him away. He would have gladly listened to - it was getting colder and darker, and he didn't have a flashlight with him. He put his arms around himself. He must hold out. Surely it's somewhere nearby.

Just then, at that very moment, he saw golden fur glinting in the distance.

Bingo.

He quickly ran toward the find. Unfortunately, his enthusiasm waned considerably when he realized a serious problem.

The plushie had been thrown into a tree.

-Fucking Michael - He snarled. - Now what I supposed to do.

His brother knew perfectly well that he should not climb.

He looked around. Another moment and nothing will be visible anymore...would he be able to get home then? Probably not. On the other hand, if he comes alone...

He ignored the pressure building up in his chest. After all, it's not such a tall tree...

-Hey!

...What?...

He turned around. Who would come here at such an hour and why? He strained his gaze, trying to spot a small silhouette looming in the darkness.

A kid. Two uneven ponytails, a dress, probably yellow, bandages on her arms...wait.

No way.

-What are you looking at? - The black-haired girl, the same one who bumped into him in the restaurant today, stood in front of him, trying to make a sort of threatening face - And what do you want here? This is MY spot!

-Uh...- He stuttered - My...em...there... - Evan pointed to the branch where his mascot landed.

She looked at the tree, then at him, then at the tree again. It was annoying. And stupid.Stupid enough that he felt like the ground would open up and swallow him.

-Well - she finally spoke up - take it and go away.

"If it were that easy, I'd be gone by now." He thought.

The girl raised an eyebrow.

-Don't say you won't get up there.

-... - The boy abashedly shook his head.

- Really? - She crossed her arms - Well, too bad. buy a new one.

Her words make him off balance.

-What are you waiting for? Butt out.

-W--wait! - He shouted, cursing himself for stammering - I just thought...could you...pull it down for me, please...?

This time it was she who looked confused.

-Why? - She asked - Is it my fault that you threw it there?

-I didn't throw it in there - He denied quickly - actually, my brother--

-Your brother was in my spot too?!

-What...? I don't know, I guess...so what?

-...Ugh! - She fukked irritated - Whatever. Anyway, it's none of my business. Get lost already.

-But---

-GET LOST!

He blinked, unsure of what to do. What is this twisted person all about? She acted as if she was about to beat him up in any moment...

Then something came to his mind.

-I helped you, so you should help me.

The girl turned her look toward him again.

-You...you are the crying boy who was in the pizzeria today?

-...Yes. - He drew in a breath - It's me.

The exasperation on her face gave way to amusement for a moment.

-Gosh, you scared the fatso to death. He had a look on his face like he almost killed you!

-I did it on purpose - He explained - He's...frustrating. Thanks to me, you were able to escape.

Of course, he lied. That worker in the Fredbear costume scared him enough that he wouldn't be able to make fun of him.

-But I wouldn't have had to run away if you hadn't ran into me.

-But it was you who ran into me...

-Do you want this bear back or not?

-Okay! listen - He began - I know that you stole something from our restaurant--

-Food - She interrupted - I took food that no one ate anyway.

-...Fine. But it's still theft - He replied - My Father is one of the owners of that place, so theoretically I should tell him about it...

He felt a small satisfaction when he noticed that there was concern in the girl's eyes.

-Unless - He continued - Unless you help me now. You will do what I ask and we will never meet again.

She squinted her eyes.

-What will you do if I refuse?

-I'll say that you also took this teddy bear.

A deathly silence fell between them. Evan grunted nervously. It had been a long time since he had said so much at one time, so it was a little scary.

Finally, the girl sighed. And then she...laughed.

-All right, you got me - She said frisky - Give me a moment.

Before he had time to say anything, she managed to approach the tree, climb up and drop the golden plushie right on his head.

He squirmed from the hit. He always wondered why it was so heavy?

She giggled again.

-You know what, you're not that bad. Do you have any name?

-Em...I'm Evan...-While he had already been somewhat puzzled by the whole situation, now he was completely taken aback. What the hell was she talking about? - Are..you...?

The beaming girl extended her hand in front of him.

-I am Cassidy.

* * * *

-I'm back - Evan said quietly, closing the door behind him. It seems that no one has slept yet. Elizabeth sat at the table, absorbed in drawing another princess-clowns and Mike stood at the window, smoking and looking at him menacingly.

Judging by the sloppily taped bandage on his cheek, Dad had noticed his younger son's absence and was not happy about it.

Good.

Smiling under his breath, Evan took off his shoes and went to his room.

When he came back to his bedroom, he fell on his bed. He was very tired, much more so than usual. He didn't feel like getting undressed. He just got ready quickly and went to bed...

He took out his notebook and opened it to the page on which he had written this morning. He ran his eyes over the note. It looks like Foxy is back...he'll be ready for it.

-Good night guys - He turned to his animal friends sitting on the floor - it's nice to have you with me. No one can replace you, I promise.

Even that crazy girl.

He swallowed his pill.

-HERE I COME!

#forgotten gift au #fnaf au #evan afton #gregory afton #fnaf afton #fnaf cassidy #michael afton #elizabeth afton #crying child #william afton #fan idea #afton family #five nights at freddy's #fnaf 4

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illusionlock · 2 years

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In defense of Montgomery Alligator: An alternative take to a popular theory

As various discussions of Security Breach’s lore rise up, there has been much speculation on the haunting presence of Glamrock Bonnie as a character that is simultaneously stated to have existed in the universe of the game’s story, yet never shows up in the actual game.

Those familiar with this case will know that the rabbit animatronic was stated to have been fully operating at some point once before he was damaged badly and then had his spot in the band taken over by Montgomery Gator.

This, coupled with the evidence that Bonnie was last seen going into Monty’s Gator Golf, has led many to accuse this beloved alligator animatronic of intended murder.

But do these accusations go on undisputed, or is there perhaps another side to this story we haven’t yet considered?

You see, as I investigated some of the other message logs pertaining to Montgomery Gator, this particular log caught my attention:

"ERRANT BEHAVIOR REPORT - Monty didn't show up for the main stage performance again. We found him in the same place we always do, the catwalks over Monty Golf. We can't have a repeat of last month. Someone hit the hole in one and the hurricane bucket knocked him down. Both legs were broken and required emergency parts and service work."

Now, as you all may know, logs of this type are not uncommon, a more trained eye may understand these relate to hints as to how to take down the animatronics. Still, who’s to say these can’t have lore significance as well?

The first sentence itself is already very important to put our dear popular theory in check. Monty didn’t show up for the main stage performance… again.

As in, my friends, this is recurring. Now, why would Monty want so badly to replace Bonnie, and then after he gets that desired spot in the band, miss performances more than once? Something does not add up. Could it be it was never really this spot he was after, or maybe there is something else catching his attention, making him miss these performances?

Whatever it is, it seems very strange that Monty would presumably kill for this position, and yet is now avoiding it. Maybe because he didn’t kill at all? But let’s move on.

The message also states they “found him in the same place [they] always do”, which is intriguing to me because, again, it signifies this is recurring. How long has this been going on, and how many times it has happened is anyone’s guess, but it seems to really not be just a coincidence or an isolated incident.

So now we know two things: Monty has been frequently missing performances, as well as every time he has missed these, he has been found at the exact same spot: the catwalks at Monty’s Golf.

Interestingly enough, isn’t this… the same place Bonnie is said to have disappeared? So why is Monty returning there so often, to the point of entirely missing something as important as performances, which you would think he wouldn’t miss if he cared about them so much?

But then! Things get even stranger! Because not only is he returning to that exact same spot, when he shouldn’t be missing something important, but the message also states that this has already caused him to get knocked down by the jackpot bucket, damaging him severely.

And the cherry on top? It could happen again.

So why is Monty, who presumably would have killed for a position as bassist in the band, consistently missing performances, and on top of that, returning over and over to the last place Bonnie was last seen? And on top of that putting his own being in danger?

Could it be that, maybe, Monty did not destroy Bonnie like many speculate, but instead witnessed something, or perhaps was part of an accident which left Bonnie incapacitated, and is now reliving the moment due to survivor’s guilt? After all, if you witness your peer suffer a horrific tragic accident and then later get told that actually, they will not be getting fixed up or coming back, but instead you will be put in their place to fill their duty, it could make you feel pretty bad and guilty.

It may be that the reason he was left vulnerable enough to get knocked down by the bucket was simply because he was freezing up, perhaps reliving the moment, and it came down on him. And the fact that the message suggests there is a risk of this happening again could suggest he may be prone to seeking this out, which yes, implies almost self-destructive behavior.

All in all, there is no way we can say what happened for certain between Monty and Bonnie, but, personally, I think it’s worth giving this another look, because to me it really doesn’t read like Monty would have just gone and destroyed Bonnie like that only to start showing this really odd behavior.

Another interesting observation one can make is if you read the message that talks about Monty’s claws upgrade, which actually lets us know were given to him specifically so he could play the bass like Bonnie did. Here we have two important points of information: one, Monty did not have as many assets to cause damage previous to Bonnie’s destruction, and two, his claws are actually a direct result of him taking Bonnie’s position.

The message also goes on to add that when not performing, he uses his claws to cause destruction, so we know that, despite the seemingly innocent nature of this upgrade, Monty uses it destructively. But, if we combine this with the previous theory, it may be possible Montgomery is actually lashing out in frustration of being given an upgrade that was meant to belong to the peer he witnessed the destruction of, which makes his grieving harder to bear, making him vent out his frustrations through using the very upgrade he got to destroy things.

Whatever theory you choose to subscribe to, though, I do believe there’s something else about Monty. Another thing to consider before you go is that, the animatronics talk to each other, they interact, and even if Freddy is rather gullible, the others may not be, and I’m sure there could be some more hostility implied between them if Monty was suspected of such a crime. In fact, one may also suggest even the employees would have been more hesitant in giving Monty the spot in the band if there was a suspicion Monty would have gone and destroyed Bonnie, after all, it seems counterproductive to fuel an animatronic with a tendency to destroy the others.

Of course, there is one last problem that I’m sure people will bring up, which is the infamous easter egg of Freddy in the garbage while Monty performs with the band in the arcade game. And to that I say… nothing stops that from being seen as a cool or funny easter egg. After all, I doubt that the arcade games were developed by the animatronics, rather it makes more sense this was programmed as a cheeky joke by whoever made this, making it unlikely that we can say for certain whether this game reflects any actual will that Monty may have towards Freddy.

TL;DR: There is a high possibility Monty didn’t destroy Bonnie, but rather witnessed his destruction in some way at the golf course, and is now dealing with the memory and often visits the place where it happened again, freezing up so bad to the point of missing entire performances as well as putting himself in danger.

#fnaf security breach #montgomery gator #glamrock bonnie #fnaf theory #don't be scared. i am here with you.#sorry this isnt very polished im. very sick dmfgkmsdf

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leossmoonn · 3 years

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can i request a stefan imagine where bonnie locks you both into a room because you guys fight to hide your feelings, and when you're inside, you both finally talk it out and then when the next day the room is unlocked everyone makes fun of you because you fell asleep on each other

yes! this is such a cute idea :))

masterlist

warnings / includes - mild language, casual sex talk, underage drinking (you all are 18 tho), fighting, kissing, ugly crying (lol)

————

“i thought he was supposed to be the smart one,” you grimaced.

“boys are often enchanted by half-naked girls,” elena stated. “yeah, but not stefan,” you said, taking a big gulp of your beer.

“well, contrary to popular belief, stefan is like other boys. he got turned at 17, he didn’t have much time to mature.”

you gave elena a ‘are you serious?’ look before turning back to the man whom you were hopelessly in love with. it shattered your heart to see him dancing with another girl.

she was wearing a belly top with a skirt you knew that not even vicki donovan would approve of. she had her back facing towards stefan, running her hands through his hair as she moved up and down on him, obviously trying to get him riled up and fuck her in the bathrooms. meanwhile, his hands were on her waist, following the movements her body made. he had a big smile on his face, winking at her as he told her dirty little nothings.

the red solo cup crushed in your hand, beer running down your arm, some getting on your jeans. you didn’t even realize until elena started to wipe your skin with napkins, taking your attention off of the vampire for a few seconds.

“you had an accident,” elena snorted. “oh,” you frowned, helping her. “oops.”

“why don’t you just go and replace her? i bet stefan then would actually get hard,” elena suggested.

“please, it’s not like he’d even notice me. i mean, look at her, she’s gorgeous.” your insecurities took over your brain, and you couldn’t help but think of how many other pretty girls stefan could have.

“please, she’s below average, and she’s had herpes two times in the last four months. i know stefan is immortal and his body heals fast and all, but no guy, supernatural or not, wants to get involved with a girl like that,” elena assured you.

“then why is he letting her use him as a stripper pole?” you frowned. “maybe to make someone jealous?” elena raised her brow, looking at you and hoping you caught onto the hint.

“like who, you?” you smirked.

“he doesn’t like me anymore! and trust me, before we even got together, he was in love with someone else. he just used me as a jealous device,” elena shrugged, taking a sip of her beer.

“ouch. who did he love instead of you?” you asked, completely clueless. “oh, it doesn’t matter, but it’s okay. i was in love with damon, anyways, so really, it was fair. and he did love me, he just wasn’t in love with me, you know?” she asked.

“yeah, i guess there is a difference,” you nodded. “yep, and stefan definitely does not like that girl, so go and talk to him! you’re his best friend, and if you pull him aside to confess your feelings for him, he definitely won’t mind,” elena nudged you.

you looked back at him, your heart racing at the thought of you actually telling him you’re in love with him, and have been for the last year and a half. you shook your head, looking down at your shoes.

“no, no, it’s too risky. what if he doesn’t like me back? i can’t risk losing your friendship over some silly little crush.”

elena rolled her eyes, setting her drink down and taking ahold of your shoulders. she looked you in the eyes, causing your own eyes to widen.

“it’s not just a “silly little crush”, okay? you are in love with him, and it’s not going to get any better for you if you just stand here and push your feelings down. and look, he likes you, too. i know you don’t believe it, but he does. in fact, he’s also in love with you. just take a chance, y/n.”

“but what if he doesn’t like me and you guys have just been rallying me up for no reason?” you frowned.

“that’s not going to happen. now, go and be with your soulmate!” she pushed you towards him.

you glanced to her and gave her a glare, but complying once you faced stefan again. you walked over to him confidently, tapping his shoulder. he immediately turned to you, a bright smile lighting his face. oh, how you loved that smile.

“hey, y/n, what’s up?”

“i wanted to talk to you,” you prompted. “okay, sure,” he nodded. he abandoned the girl, letting you lead him to a quieter part of the grill.

“so, what’s this about?” he asked.

“um, well…” you weren’t sure you could just flat-out confess, so you decided it was best to have him confess first. “do you like anyone?”

stefan’s eyes widened, a flash of fear clouding his eyes. he shifted his weight, stuffing his hands in his jean pockets.

“u-um, no. why would you think that?”

your heart fell at his response, but you kept up hope. he was probably just scared because he didn’t know you liked him back, right?

“well, a little birdie told me that you liked someone. and me being your best friend and all, i thought it would be fitting for me to know. you know, i can help by getting you and her together.” you flashed him an eager smile.

“well, i don’t like anyone. and if you don’t mind, i’d like to get back to -“

“you’re really leaving me to dance with that slut?” you cocked your brow.

“n-no, well, yeah, but -“

“c’mon, stefan, i won’t judge. just tell me who you like.” you slipped your hand into his, interlocking your fingers together.

stefan’s dead heart dropped in his chest, giving him that somersault affect your touch often gave him. he looked into your eyes, seeing the desperation and pain that they held. he knew that he should tell you that it’s you, but he wasn’t 100% sure you even liked him back. like you, the thought of losing you was too risky for him to take the leap. so instead, he deflected.

“you don’t have to know everything about me! i know you’re my friend, but i have my own private life outside of our friendship. just leave me alone and let me dance with her.” he pulled his hand away from yours, the loss of warmth and comfort disappearing from you both.

you looked at him incredulously, not believing the words that came out of his mouth. you open and closed your mouth multiple times, not sure how to respond. you didn’t even know how to feel, really. you just felt your heart break for the millionth time that night.

he looked at you helplessly, guilt filling his chest as he saw the struggle you had with choosing to leave, or choosing to stay and work it out. he hoped you would choose the latter.

“you’re an asshole, stefan,” you spoke.

your words cut him like a knife.

“you’re right, you do have a personal life outside of our friendship, but you have always shared everything with me. you once told me that i’m the one that you trust the most, that you can tell anything that, that i’m your bestfriend. and-and what now? i-i’m only a friend? someone who you can’t even tell who you like? you told me that you liked elena, and i helped you with that. what is so different about this girl, huh?” you argued.

“nothing! i-i just… you just don’t need to know everything, is all.”

you looked at him good and hard, trying to decide if he was telling the truth or not. was elena wrong? did he really not like you, but like someone else?

“i don’t believe that,” you shook your head, speaking to yourself more than him.

“why not? you are never this… grueling.”

“because i… i just…” you couldn’t tell him that you really thought.

“you what? you think you know who i like? please, enlighten me,” he taunted.

you gritted your teeth, your hands balling into fists. you lifted your first up, ready to hit him, but bonnie and elena came over, restraining you.

“okay, let’s calm down, yeah?” bonnie suggested, pulling you back.

you started to cry as bonnie led you to a different part of the restaurant.

“you-you guys are wrong. he doesn’t like me,” you sobbed.

bonnie sighed. “he does, we swear. he just doesn’t know you like him.”

“are you serious! what is he, blind?” you scoffed.

“guys are pretty clueless, even immortal ones.”

“yeah, that’s what elena said,” you sniffled. “well, what do i do now? we can just resume being friends.”

bonnie pursed her lips, thinking for a moment. “here, let me show you something.”

she took your hand, leading you to the storage room. you went along with her until you saw stefan there.

“what? bonnie, what are you -?”

“have fun you two,” elena winked as bonnie closed the door.

you heard the lock click. you ran up to the door, banging on it and begging for your friends to let you out.

“hey! this isn’t funny! i’m claustrophobic, you know this!”

“no can do! work it out, you two!” bonnie shouted from the outside.

“here, let me,” stefan said.

you moved away, crossing your arms as you watched him try to kick down the door. he took ahold of the handle, pulling it off. he then tried to open the door, but it didn’t budge.

“well, good job. you’re a genius, you know that?” you remarked.

he turned to you with a glare. “as if you could do anything else.”

“well, maybe if you let me find something to unlock the lock, then there would still be a door handle!” you hissed.

“don’t blame me for trying to help!”

“well, it’s the truth! you always think you can fix things. just accept the fact that you can’t.”

“woah, when did this turn personal? if i remember correctly, you once told me that my determination was admirable. why the sudden change now?” he hummed, crossing his arms and looking at you like a smart ass.

you sighed deeply, your eyes filling with tears as you answered him.

“because you hurt me. i-i’m hurt, okay?”

he softened up immediately, his arms falling to his side, his smirk disappearing. remorse shined in his eyes as he tried to reach out to you.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you.”

you stepped back, putting your head down. “it’s fine.”

“no, it’s not. you don’t deserve it.”

you turned your back to him, your eyes settling on the boxes full of kitchen supplies. you sniffled multiple times, your shoulders shaking as you tried to keep your weeping to a minimum.

you heard stefan sigh behind you. his feet dragged along the steel floor, his hand coming up to gently rub your back.

“please, look at me, y/n,” he whispered.

you turned to him slowly, the sorry pit in his stomach growing. you looked at him, your eyes drooping, tears lining your cheeks. your lips were swollen, your nose running. you sniffled once again, trying to calm yourself down.

stefan walked away for a few moments, bringing back a towel. you looked at him, heart fluttering as he wiped the snot that surrounded the bottom of your nose. he wiped your tears away, running the cloth carefully under your eyes to capture the remaining moisture. you watched him as he kept his eyes on yours the whole time. you felt yourself falling for him again.

he set the rag on a shelf, taking your hand and slipping his into it. you couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. stefan smiled with you, looking at you sweetly.

“i’m sorry. you are my best friend. you are the person i trust the most. i will continue to tell you everything and anything. i just… i was just scared to tell you who i liked,” he explained.

you nodded, understanding his explanation. “no worries. i get it. i don’t like being interrogated either.”

“you didn’t interrogate me.”

“oh, please,” you snorted. “we both know i did.”

he shrugged with a little smile. “well, i know you mean well.”

you nodded, “i do. i really do.”

“i know, y/n, i know,” he reassured you.

you looked away from him, the tension in the room weighing on your shoulders.

“you know, i think bonnie also put a spell on the door,” you stated.

“i was thinking that, too,” he sighed.

“well, what do we do now? we’ve made up,” you asked, looking back at him.

“i don’t know. are you hungry?” he asked.

“no. i am tired, though,” you said. “wanna lay down? i can be your pillow,” he suggested.

you smiled and nodded. “yeah, sure.”

he took your hand, getting on the ground. he laid flat on his back as you put your head on his chest. your heart hammered against your ribcage as he slipped his arm around you, holding you close to him. you fisted his shirt in your hand, closing your eyes and breathing in deeply.

his scent filled your nose, making your mind foggy and muscles relax. he smelled of sandalwood, leather, and jasmine. jasmine was something most guys didn’t smell like, but he did, strangely. it was a sweet, yet musky smell. it fit him very well, and you loved it.

your heart stopped as you felt him rub your back. his fingers scratched your clothed skin softly.

“so, can i ask who you like now?” you hummed.

stefan laughed. you felt the rumbling in his chest, making you smile.

“what?” you looked up at him, batting your eyes innocently.

“why do you want to know so bad? i thought i told you i was done dating for a while,” he stated.

you looked away and back at your hands that held the material of his shirt. “just wondering. and we both know that you’d love to have a girlfriend. one that isn’t in love with your brother.”

stefan laughed again, making you smile to yourself as his chest came up and down in multiple breaths.

“i mean, yes, but i don’t want to just date someone to prove that there are people that like me and not damon.”

“i know, but… what if the girl you like likes you back?” you suggested.

stefan stopped breathing for a second, his hand that was scratching your back stopping to a halt.

“you sound so sure of that,” he said.

you shrugged, looking up at him, hoping he could read the look on your face. “it’s because i am.”

he looked at you, his eyes giving away his emotions. he looked uncertain, but you knew that he understood what you were hinting at. he just couldn’t believe it.

“i love you, stefan,” you spoke, sitting up in his lap.

stefan’s face shone brightly as his lips upturned into a smile. you could physically see all the weight lifted off his shoulders. the hot tension in the room filtered out, being replaced with a cool breeze of relief. he sat up, putting his arm back around you, reaching his hand up to cup your face. he looked deeply into your eyes, his pupils running into his emerald irises. your hands went up to his neck, your fingers entangling in his hair.

“i love you, too, y/n,” he spoke, as if he had said it a million times before.

both of your reactions were minimal, but spoke a thousand words. the words felt natural, right.

you leaned in, eyes flickering from his lips to his eyes. your chest heaved up and down in anticipation, your heart ramming itself against your ribacage. stefan was the one to close the gap.

tingles shot up your spine, goosebumps lining your skin. you pressed into him - no space was between you now. you kissed him quicker now, opening your mouth and taking initiative.

he caught on in an instant. his hand that was on your cheek was now on your neck, cradling your head closer to his. he pulled you impossibly closer to him, sparks flying between you two as your chests rubbed against each other. you pulled on his hair that was at the nape of his neck as his hands reached further below your lower back.

his tongue ran across yours deliciously. you explored his mouth, tasting the bourbon and fries he had eaten earlier. you took a shallow breath as your lungs were gasping for air. you would’ve passed out if it weren’t for him.

“did you really like that girl dancing against you?” you blurted.

stefan tilted his head, chuckling. “no, i did not. and also, that’s really the first thing you’re going say after our first kiss.”

you shrugged. “a girl’s gotta ask.”

“well, then, no, i did not. i was trying to make you jealous.”

“well, good job, because it worked,” you snorted.

“yeah. i’m sorry again for making you cry. that was unfair.”

“it’s okay. i now know that you were just being a scared jerk,” you smirked.

“yep, that’s me,” he chuckled.

you hummed contently, placing your head on his shoulder. stefan resumed rubbing your back, setting back onto the floor again. it only took a few minutes for you two to doze off. you awoke again to the sound of laughter.

you opened your eyes, confused as you saw your friends standing over you.

“man, i thought you two were going to have sex, but this is worse!” damon cackled.

you grimaced, rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“shut up, damon. at least i know how to treat a girl right,” stefan muttered.

everyone but damon snickered. damom crossed his arms, glaring at his younger brother.

“i do know how to treat a girl right. right, elena?” damon asked.

“mm, i’m not so sure,” elena said with a shit-eating grin.

“okay, you all suck. i’m out!” damon walked out of the storage room, leaving only you two with elena and bonnie.

“so, did you two make up?” bonnie asked.

“yep,” you nodded. “and we are going on our first date tonight,” stefan added.

your head whipped up to him in surprise. “really?”

“yeah, if that’s okay with you.”

“oh, it’s more than okay,” you grinned.

“well, just don’t fall asleep on each other during the date,” elena smirked.

you rolled your eyes. “we aren’t rabbits like you and damon!”

“okay, and like damon, i am out!” elena exclaimed, walking out of the storage room.

“they’re children,” you rolled your eyes.

“so were you two last night, but i’m glad you made up,” bonnie said.

“thanks. us, too,” you smiled at stefan.

stefan returned the expression, leaning in and kissing you softly.

“ew, okay! i, three, am out. please don’t have sex on this dirty floor,” bonnie stated before leaving.

“wanna have sex at my house?” stefan whispered.

“buy me dinner first!” you scoffed. “what about breakfast?” stefan cocked his brow.

you pursed your lips in thought. you couldn’t help but grin.

“i think that would be lovely.”

————

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sexy-opium-ravioli · 3 years

Text

Dating Marceline HC's

-Hey babes!! These dating HC's have NSFW under the cut, so be warned!!! Hope y'all enjoy :)

Dynamics:

Marceline... She has trust issues.

In any universe where she takes a romantic interest in you, she and Bonnibel didn't really work out.

And for a pair that's curated their relationship over the span of decades, perhaps even centuries? Well, that's some leftover hurt.

So you might come into the picture long after that. For any timeframe, Finn might be in his late forties? Jake, however stretchy, still had the lifespan of an average dog. Had.

Marceline doesn't really believe in rebounds and for awhile after the relationship with Bonnie ended, she flew solo for awhile.

Until she stumbled upon you.

At first, things are real cautious on both sides.

Who?? Is this weird goth lady that literally never touches sunlight?

And on her end she just thinks you're a beam of sunlight, so. There's kind of an oil-water reaction happening.

Slowly, however, over a span of years, things bleed together.

You guys hang out in the vast reaches of Ooo every so often, maybe hang out at each other's house later on.

Marceline learns your interests and hobbies. You learn her love for red, singing and playing the bass.

Eventually, you guys have sleepovers and giggle under forts. She introduces you into her group of friends, Finn, Jake, Peppermint Butler. The sleepovers, of course, grow in size.

Eventually, she invites you to one of her concerts. Usually they're mid sized venues at the cemetery with pretty good turn outs, she's had centuries to build a reputation, after all.

You've never went because she treated it like an intimate thing to behold, and although she performed for others, she never did for you.

Until she gave you free tickets.

That was the main turning point in your guy's relationship. After it started, Marceline still held a lot of that caution.

But she'd give you little smiles, or float over to where you were and interlock her fingers with yours and nuzzle her head in your neck.

Marceline, no matter how moody or boisterous she seems to outsiders, is someone who is kind of reserved behind closed doors. Eventually, she opens them for you.

Remember to be patient with her. Even though she's hundreds of years old, really a millennia, she still has the brain chemistry of an older teenager. Sometimes her emotional processing isn't the best, so it's important to walk her through things patiently.

She loves you dearly. She'll give you small hints of her perception- your favorite type of drink that's stocked up, moss on the porch that you said needed cleaning is already gone when you get home. Things like that.

Romance:

Marceline, the Vampire Queen, does in fact like making out with you. It's one of her favorite things like, ever. Ever ever.

It's just very calming for her, knowing that the person she loves is in her arms. And even though her insecurities might tell her that they'll leave eventually, she finds that in the moment, she has them now.

It was your guy's three year anniversary. Not even a speck of time to Marceline, but she knew that tonight would feel special anyways, because it was you she was celebrating, as you celebrated her.

So, she spruced the house up. Sent you away for a couple of days (who was she kidding. She didn't even try for a cover story, she just sent you to the treehouse for nearly a week), and employed the help of some friends to freshen things up.

Repaint the walls, fix some furniture, help out the porch, put up string lights. Things like that. She even put up pictures of the both of you on her wall, all thanks to BMO.

When it was time for you to finally come home, it was like looking at a house that was just built a thousand years ago. It held an ancient air to it, but it felt young at the same time. Like Marceline.

You stepped in the door, and there she was. Your love, with a feast for a dinner in the middle of the dining room. She looked lovely, her hair up in a bun and her eyes adorned with eyeliner. Not too much changed, but just enough to be formal.

You two sat, and ate, and talked together. Grocery shopping plans mixed in with 'Glob, I love you so much,'s and handholding.

Eventually, Marceline has a look in her eye. A twinkle that says she's up to no good, but you'll like her antics anyways.

She walks over to you. She kisses you, and with all the sparkle in her eyes, she bends down on one knee and holds out a simple wedding band from her pocket.

Of course you say yes.

(And then she starts making out with you).

NSFW:

Not surprisingly, Marceline has had a lot of time to herself to explore her anatomy and the anatomy of her partners. And even though every partner is unique when it comes to their sex preferences, still still notices things across the board that help.

It seems like with a flick of her fingers she can get you to cum, it doesn't take very long.

But where's the rush? Where's the fun?

What I'm trying to say is that this woman is into edging and orgasm denial and you will have to fight me on this-

She just loves taking her time with you. Getting you riled up for hours before giving you what you desire.

You also cannot tell me that she likes giving you bites. Especially on the neck, shoulders, wrists and chest.

What does she prefer? Well, considering how little control she's had in her life, she might like some in the bedroom. She likes telling you what to do, when to do it, and I feel like she genuinely prefers anyone who's obedient. She craves for things to run smoothly.

Sometimes, she does step down for you to give her hours of pleasure. These are rare occasions, but still very memorable.

She's very playful and kind of sarcastic in bed, but she's also extremely sweet when the moment calls for it. Marceline can make you cry with words.

👏DO👏NOT👏TELL👏ME👏 that during aftercare she doesn't sing in your ear while she's cleaning you up or feeding you chocolate covered strawberries. Don't tell me. I will not listen nor will I perceive.

All in all, Marceline is an extremely complex but rewarding lover who deserves the world.

#marceline #marceline the vampire queen #marceline x reader #marceline the vampire queen x reader #adventure time #headcanons #adventure time headcanons #blondie's adventure time series

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backandimbamon · 3 years

Note

Bonnie playing with Damon's hair and he all sleepy 😊

this really took a while because… i was going to stop at the first half but i wanted to consider Bonnie’s perspective (: and then it got a lil spicy and i was like *sigh* why must you always take it there? but i mean- 👁- i always take it there because we were robbed!!! Damon is practically a self proclaimed sex god and i hate how they separated Bonnie from her sexuality, or really any form of intimacy for sooo long. and the scraps we got were NEVER enough. okay anyways yeah i’m finally done, like let’s get into it.

Damon notices that Bonnie touches him sparingly and really not because she wants to but because it happens accidentally every now and then, one of the perks about frequently invading her space.

Being stuck on the other side, there is less room for her and more for him, she’s in his world now which means it’s his duty to make her feel as uncomfortably comfortable as possible.

He notices everything; how her cheeks turn red when their knuckles brush against one another’s, how she takes in an exasperated little breath when their shoulders touch, how she rolls her eyes when he stands entirely too close. Damon hangs on to these moments because this may be his only form of female contact he’ll receive for a very, very, long time.

That is the only reason he hangs on.

Anytime she touches him intentionally, he feels a pride swell deep in his chest that he’s liked by Bonnie after a rocky road of ups and downs, fussing and fighting, he is finally deemed worthy enough for her to care about him even if it’s brief, even if it’s the smallest skin to skin contact imaginable.

And yes, he cares because if he has to spend the rest of eternity with one person, they might as well get along.

Movie night comes around so he rests his head in her lap, testing the waters, to see how she will respond to him. He senses her tense up a bit as predicted, but then she relaxes into it breath by breath like she’s doing a tricky yoga pose.

Bonnie’s body lotion makes her skin smell edible- cocoa and honey- she’ll never know but that’s why he nicknames her Bon Bon, she always smells good enough to eat. At this point, Damon can’t recall the VHS movie on the block of a television, his focus has been robbed by Bonnie and this new form of contact she allows him to try. Half of his smile sinks into the cotton of her leggings.

Her eyes never leave the screen when she laces her fingers through his hair, nails surfing through tufts of raven-black and the gesture is so shocking and embarrassingly arousing that a strangled groan gets trapped in his throat.

She panics, and he can tell by the change in her heart rate before saying. “Did I hurt you?” He has to clear his throat to speak.

“Hmmm mm, feels good,” he mumbles feigning casual so she can’t realize how he needs this so so bad that he’s fearful of it being taken away. In his mind he thinks about what if.

What if she wakes up and decides she doesn’t want to tap dance on the line between what is and isn’t acceptable for two best friends. What if she remembers that he’s actually a terrible person who has done horrendous things to her and everyone she’s ever loved.

She shouldn’t like him or try not to laugh at his jokes. Not at all. Bonnie should’ve killed him a long, long time ago because if anyone could do it, it’d be her. He can see her now, all badass and angry with a wooden stake in her hand, vengeance in her eyes, the very last thing he’d see before his lights went out forever.

Bonnie, the giver and the taker.

Bonnie, the only god he knew.

Damon finds himself thinking so intensely lately that he checks the mirror more often than not to make sure he has no brooding lines like his little brother. Stefan’s expansive forehead has the room for it, his perfectly shaped forehead does not.

She laces her fingers back through his hair again and his eyes flutter, that’s how good it feels. It’s sensational. And while he’s had his hair pulled in and out of the bedroom, the innocence of her touch makes him want to melt. He finds his lids growing heavier, like how they used to do a century-and-a-half ago when he was human.

Running through dandelion fields in the overbearing Virginia heat, the sun up above sending heavy gusts of sunshine beams, a moment he considers to be oppressive now, used to be magical then- miraculous -and despite sweating through his britches and overcoat he never cared enough to stop running through the fields. The sun was the greatest thing all those years ago, back when white was his favorite color.

And after drawing a long, hot bath, he’d sink deep into the water while the bubbles floated to the top. Damon would close his eyes, hold his breath, see if he could break his prior record. Then he’d get out and the sleep would welcome him like any drowsy being, with open arms. And there he’d fall.

Bonnie has that affect on him. She makes him think of home, his past, when times were simpler and he was human.

He feels that exhausted sometimes, a boy who’s never stopped running through dandelion fields, whether it snows or rains or burns him alive. Her fingernails rake through his scalp- orange leaves on browning grass. Ruining Stefan’s piles for the fun of it. His lids droop. Tired of being consumed by himself, by Bonnie, he admits defeat this time. When he finally drifts off, he remembers that the Virginia heat gave him this same warm and fuzzy feeling inside.

“You really don’t know how good this feels,” his final words are hoarse before he drifts off but the last thing he sees is Bonnie.

The giver and the taker, the only god he knows.

Bonnie refuses to relish in the magic of the moment, the fact that it’s so rare Damon ever completely lets his guard down around her. She can always feel his eyes on her, constantly watching because Damon has a presence that’s inescapable.

Being so close to him when he’s extremely vulnerable makes her realize that in all facets, he’s stunning. A stunning that’s almost suffocating but with the dynamic they possess, he only needs to know that he’s not that much of an eye sore.

Now, she stares with wide eyes while she can, memorizes the smooth expanse of skin, every strand of dark hair. Relishes in the feel of his arms around her waist, the weight of his head in her lap. It’s been a long time since she’s felt a body besides her own and as much as she likes to ignore the fact, she has needs, needs that have swelled from being in the presence of Damon for too long.

He’s sexy without any effort, she examines. His dark t-shirt has risen and his pants are low enough that she observes the waistline of (silk?) boxers, taut muscle, navel, happy trail, yeah. Bonnie drinks him in like a cool glass of milk before bedtime- never has this much pretty been in her lap before. Her hands find their way in his head again, tousles through and he nuzzles up against her in his sleep. It’s difficult to pull her eyes away from him, but when she does, the credits are rolling on the screen.

This is Damon she’s thinking about like this, her best friend and also her first best friend’s boyfriend. She repeats it again, not satisfied that the guilt isn’t drowning her like it sometimes does when she catches herself lingering on his attractiveness for too long but Mystic Falls, the real Mystic Falls seems so far away. Elena, Caroline, Matt, Alaric, her old life just seems unattainable, no bigger than a memory she occasionally mistakes for a bad dream.

There’s no denying that being away from it all, here with Damon as the only other person in the world, she feels…safe. Maybe even protected, it’s a stark contrast from the real Mystic Falls where her life is always on the line.

Bonnie starts to get up when she feels his hold on her tighten to prevent her from moving away. They play tug of war for a bit but she eventually stops fighting because Damon is a vampire after all, physical strength is going to get her nowhere. “Fine,” she grumbles, then plops down which causes the end of her top to ride up enough that she can feel the press of Damon’s nose on the curve of her waist. Despite trying to inch her shirt back down, she has no luck. Naturally Damon doesn’t mind.

He inhales her skin deeply, makes a sound of approval before groggily muttering, “Going topless now, are we Judgey?”

She grabs his hair again, yanks his head back as a rebuttal, and Damon bites his tongue so hard that it bleeds. He has to ensure that all of the blood in his body isn’t rushing south too fast but unfortunately, he would have to sever both his arms completely off to stop the blood flow.

Bonnie realizes the dazed look in his eyes isn’t one of pain nor is it from sleep, “Not the reaction you expected, huh?” He asks, gesturing for her to look down but she doesn’t, she can’t. She’s embarrassed, and to make matters worse, a teensy bit turned on.

“You scared, Bon Bon? I thought you were big and bad,” Damon mocks, pulling between his legs to make more room in his jeans, “it’s okay. I know Jeremy left much to be desired.” He sits up with swirls of longing still in his eyes, then grabs a pillow to place in his lap.

“Scared?” She guffaws. “Of what exactly?”

“Me…You.”

“And that means?”

“You’re a smart girl, Bon, figure it out.” Damon taunts, holding her eyes with his. “It’s awfully lonely here.”

She says nothing for a while, refusing to break eye contact first. “So.”

“Soooo, I won’t tell if you won’t.” It’s almost a joke, almost because she has a feeling if she says yes to whatever sort of ambiguous proposal he’s thrown up in the air, there won’t be any laughter. If she says no, it’s no different from his usual innuendos but boy, will she wonder.

“Wanna take a walk on the wild side?” He asks in a singsong tone, eyes dropping to her lips then back up to her eyes.

There are no alarms, no cell phones, no one here that can interrupt this moment. She has to answer, though she has no idea what will come out of her mouth. Bonnie shuts her eyes to make the moment less real, as if it will change the fact that she whispers, “Just one kiss,”

They’re nose to nose when Damon whispers back, “a peck.”

She swallows his breath. “Mhmm,”

“It’s nothing,”

“Nothing.”

“As light as air,” he presses his lips to hers for a brief moment then pulls back again. “See.” He peppers more kisses on her lips, down her jaw, the side of her neck, but they’re heavier. They have a density now. His tongue is on the flesh of her shoulder, teasing up her neck. She feels the light imprint of sharp canines, arousal surges through her like a power circuit, so intense that she moans. When he makes his way back up, their mouths both open in a feral kiss that robs them of air.

Bonnie holds his face in place though he makes no attempt to move away. The pillow falls out from between them when he grabs Bonnie’s leg to straddle him.

It’s nothing.

Nothing separating them from attacking each other’s mouths, nothing stopping Damon from gripping his best friend’s hips, nothing saving Bonnie from discarding his shirt.

His skin is cool enough that she can stream together some thought in between relentless kisses. “Damon,” she tries her best to sound admonishing.

“Please, not right now.” Damon cuffs both her wrists behind her with one hand and plants a hickey just above her cleavage. She sees stars. He already knows what the inflection in her voice means- the timing couldn’t be worse.“Let’s save the guilt for tomorrow morning.” His tone is octaves lower, almost as low as his lids. He drags his eyes up to hers, and they’re so shiny she can see her reflection. “I need this, Bonnie. Don’t you?”

He doesn’t bother waiting for a response, just continues on with his ministrations, hypnotized by the pheromones seeping off of her in waves, wanting to memorize the scent with his tongue. She whines his name, like actually whines his name, and the feeling that sits in the pit of his stomach scares him. Bonnie is so oblivious to the appeal she carries but if she sat in his skin for a day, hell, for a moment, she would realize just how long she’s been driving him insane.

“We can’t,” she groans weakly. “We can’t.”

Damon tries to breathe easier, but that feeling is lurking in his gut. She’s right. The things he’d do to her, he’d break her in half. He removes Bonnie from his lap, separates from her warmth, her scent. Backs away until the tv threatens to fall off the stand. Everything in him tells him to go back, to reenter the magnetic pull, to poke at her forcefield.

He backs away even further if possible. Her breath catches at the distance.

Bonnie’s cheeks are flushed, warm and red like fruit. If she was an apple, she would have already been eaten down to the core. If she was a peach, it would be easier to explain why he ate her. He thinks to himself that he’s officially off the rails, comparing Bonnie to fruit like he is, but he’s trying to rationalize his irrationality. Because if Bonnie never stopped him, he’d definitely be eating something by now.

“Nothing happened.” She says, ignoring his expression and the silent plea in his eyes.

“Nothing.” He deadpans, throwing his shirt back over his head.

Damon thinks of how different things would be if he had his way. Bonnie, spent, drunk, high off of him. Bleeding and wild, pretty and dangerous, yelling for God. He would plunge Jeremy right out of her, help her find her magic again. Give her everything she could dream of. He gulps.

She doesn’t sleep with him tonight, not in the same bed. She’s on the opposite end of the boarding house when he hears her slide under the covers.

The next morning, he thinks to himself, if she even utters a word about last night, he’ll pick up from where he left off. But she doesn’t, her eyes are far away again, and the only proof he has of their adventures is the wonderful, purple hickey.

When movie night comes back around, his head is in her lap and her hand is back in his hair, running to and fro like him in his lavender fields.

That’s all he gets.

Every now and then, it’s enough.

Bonnie gives and takes, then takes away some more.

She’s the closest thing to God he’ll probably ever know.

#bamon #bamon fanfiction #bamon fanfic #bamon prompt #prompt #my writing #mine #tvd ff #tvd fanfiction #damon salvatore #bonnie bennett #bonnie x damon #damon x bonnie

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nev3rfound · 3 years

Text

just in time : s.r

returning the stones isn’t steve’s only mission whilst he’s gone; he has one final mission of his own - to find his long lost lover, you, before it’s too late (2.5k)

(anything in bold/italics are flashbacks/memories!)

masterlist / permanent taglist

Panting heavily, you bend down, resting your hands on your thighs as you feel a burn course through them whilst Bucky laughs at you.

"Did you seriously run here?" Bucky asks, Steve now facing you too, surprised to see you.

Holding a finger up, you take one final deep breath before composing yourself. "Of course," You breathe out. "I didn't wanna miss the start of it, had to get here on time." You smile, practically beam to Steve who shyly smiles back.

"I mean you're fifteen minutes late, doll." Bucky comments, ignoring Steve's weak punch to his arm. "Sorry."

"You haven't missed a thing, Y/n." Steve assures you as he steps forward, holding his arm out as his jacket swarms his upper body.

Despite the mud coating the hem of your skirt that hides various bruises and a sheen of sweat lining your forehead, Steve still adores you completely, no matter how often you're late for things.

"I'd be honoured." You giggle, looping your arm with Steve's as the three of you make your way into the dance hall.

Standing on the podium, Steve can feel his grip tightening on the case as Bruce, Sam and Bucky watch him closely.

"Ready Cap?" Bruce calls out as Steve's suit changes to white and red, contrasting the previous dark tones. "Alright, we'll meet you back here." He adds, and Steve nods.

It's the moment he's anticipated for too long, ever since he woke up from the ice.

Bucky knew from the moment Steve said goodbye to him. Steve was going to be gone longer than a few seconds, he'd be gone an entire lifetime.

"You bet." Steve responds as the helmet forms over his head as his heart hammers against his chest at the thought of returning to a time he never dreamed of reliving.

Looking to his oldest friend, a small smile forms across Steve's face as Bucky remains stoic, internally proud that his friend will finally live the life he deserves.

"Going quantum in three, two, one." Bruce states, clicking at the last few buttons before the beams surrounding Steve illuminate and he disappears.

"I'm coming, I promise!" You yell from your window as Steve nervously shuffles on the pavement below, trying his best to hide the flowers he purchased (stole, with Bucky's aid) at the store earlier that morning.

Running down your stairs, you wave to your Dad before exiting the house. "Hey," Steve smiles as you slowly descend down the steps as you exhale deeply, he knows he's about to have another one of your infamous stories.

"My Ma didn't change the clock after it went and died, so here I was thinking I had all the time in the world," You shake your head in disbelief as you stand in front of Steve, oblivious to the flowers being brought forward from behind his back. "and then I woke up to my Dad screaming that you were outside!" A laugh escapes your lips as you finally notice the yellow flowers in Steve's grip, concealing the nervous look across his face.

"Do you like them?" Steve hesitantly questions, feeling your fingers brush across his as you take the flowers from his hands.

Bringing them to your face, you sniff them happily. "Steve," You can't help but step closer and kiss his cheek, watching a blush cross where your lips had just been. "I love them, thank you."

"I, well," Steve stumbles over his words, always losing any sense whenever you're around him. This would be the point where Bucky would interfere or as he likes to put it, 'help out.' "A girl like you deserves pretty flowers." He manages to say, watching as your eyes soften.

"I'll be right back, don't go anywhere, okay?" You tell him with a quick wink before running back up the front steps to your house, the door remaining ajar.

From where Steve stands, he can hear you conversing with your parents.

"He got you flowers, huh, honey?" Your Dad asks, a level of disconcert in his tone.

"He did, and I love them." You snap back. "It doesn't matter, Dad, don't give me that look."

"Your Father means well, dear. Why did you have to fall for him instead of Barnes?" Your Mother chimes into the conversation and Steve's head falls lower into himself, his previous excitement diminishing.

He knows they're right, you would be much better off with Bucky than a guy like himself, someone who’ll never amount to much before dying at a young age. Hell, he can’t even fight for his country, what right does he have being with you?

“Because I love him, okay?” You almost yell at the pair of them, hating the way they talk about Steve, one of your friends whom you grew up alongside, who you’ve slowly but surely fell in love with. “And I don’t care that he’s not like Bucky, Bucky for a fact is an arrogant womaniser, not that either of you have noticed. Just let me enjoy this, please! You owe me that much at this point.” You huff as you place the flowers in a glass that you filled with water. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back by seven.”

Without another word being uttered, you walk out of your house to see Steve slightly stunned at the bottom of your steps.

“You heard all that, didn’t you?” You ask, pausing on the bottom step.

Nodding in response, you lift your hands to your eyes and collapse down onto your step.

“Hey,” Steve mutters, reaching out to take your hands in his cold ones, no matter how warm it can get in Brooklyn, he always remains cold, not that you mind in the slightest as his smile simply warms your heart.

Now revealing your glossy eyes to Steve, you watch carefully as his blue eyes move closer towards you.

“If it helps at all, Y/n,” Steve whispers as he rests one hand on your cheek. “I love you too.”

“And returning in five, four,” Bruce announces as he flicks several switches, the beams illuminating once more.

Yet, Bucky steps away much to Sam’s surprise.

“-three, two one.”

Sam watches closely as the lights flicker, but nothing happens. The podium remains empty, and Bucky chuckles beneath his breath.

“It’s not working,” Bruce exclaims as he stares at the monitor.

“Why not? Bring him back.” Sam states, frustration rising in his tone as he glances over to Bucky who faces the lake, hands buried in his pockets. “What do you know, Barnes?”

“That he’s not coming back.” Bucky speaks up, keeping his eyes locked on the ripples of the lake, the echo of laughter playing in his mind of the good ol’ days.

“I don’t understand,” Sam starts, but Bucky turns to face him with a solemn smile.

“You will.”

Sitting in the bar with Steve, Bucky laughs as they discuss his sudden rise to stardom. “But you were smaller,” Bucky chuckles in disbelief as his once frail friend sits broadly beside him. “don’t get me wrong, you look good, pal.”

Steve sighs to himself before taking a sip as dames walk past, whispering about the infamous Captain America. “I hope she doesn’t hate me.” Steve mutters, his eyes locked on the half-empty glass in his grasp. “I don’t know what to say, or, or,”

Before Steve can finish his sentence, the doors to the bar burst open and silence falls. All of the soldiers' attention turns to the dame in the entranceway, her lips lined red as she slowly walks in.

The sound of heels clicking against the floor increases until Steve hears his name being muttered delicately.

"Steve?" Turning around, Steve looks you in the eyes as tears fall down your cheeks. “Is that really you?” You quietly ask, lifting your hand up and rest it on his chest, slowly raising it to his cheek.

Smiling softly, Steve lifts his hand up, resting it on top of yours. For the first time ever, it’s warm, and you breathe out a laugh. “It’s me, Y/n.” Steve tells you confidently.

“Bonnie said I missed your grand entrance, why is it I can never keep track of time?” You laugh lightly and witness Steve smile shyly. “Steve? Is something wrong?”

Swallowing the growing lump in his throat, Steve notices you step closer. “You, you’ll still have me?” The question escapes his lips as his eyes dart across your expression, watching as your brows furrow and your previous smile disappears.

“You thought I’d leave you, just because you, you’ve changed?” The hurt in your voice is evident as Bucky seethes beside you both, quickly motioning to everyone else to carry on with their conversations so yours is drowned out from their ears.

“No, I,” Steve pauses before rising to his feet, now towering over you. “follow me.” He takes your hand in his, enveloping it firmly as he guides you outside for some needed privacy.

Now outside, you can hear faint conversations from inside the bar, the talks of Captain America and all he has done for the country. Yet in front of you stands Steve Rogers, your Steve.

“Listen, Steve, I don’t care what you look like, if you’re now suddenly six feet tall and have more muscle than my Uncle Jerry,” You explain, not missing the faint laugh from Steve. “you’re still Steve Rogers from Brooklyn, the man I fell in love with, okay?”

“So, this doesn’t bother you?” His nerves remain forefront as he glances down at himself before seeing you quirk a brow.

“Not in the slightest,” You reassure him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “if anything, there’s more of you to love, Captain.” You giggle and Steve can’t ignore the butterflies in his stomach before kissing you softly, missing the way your lips melt into his.

“Wait, guys?” Bruce suddenly announces as the energy field on the podium vibrates, and Steve reappears empty-handed.

“There’s no way,” Bucky mutters to himself, remaining still whilst Sam rushes forward, laughing happily.

“I knew you’d come back, you son of a bitch.” Sam jokes as Steve steps down from the podium, removing the white suit and reveals himself dressed in a black suit. “So, how was it?”

Steve remains quiet, his eyes fixating on the ground as his thoughts remain tied to the past.

“Let’s give him some space, Sam.” Bucky interrupts, looking over to Bruce who nods in response.

“Come on.” Bruce mutters, walking alongside Sam as they head back to the cabin, leaving Bucky alone to talk to his oldest friend who he anticipated being a lot older.

Stepping forward, Bucky tries not to stare at Steve whose cheeks remain red, marked with previous tears.

“What happened, Steve?” Bucky asks. “I thought, I thought you’d be with her, I-”

“She moved on, Buck.” Steve cuts Bucky off coldly. “Y/n carried on living without me, without us around she had no choice but to carry on.”

Bucky doesn’t miss the gentle sniff escaping Steve as he averts his gaze, turning his head to the left remaining out of sight as fresh tears fall.

“Was she happy?” Bucky can see Steve’s shoulders tense at the question, almost feel the heartache Steve is feeling as he shifts on his feet, now fully facing Bucky.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters, patting Bucky on the shoulder. “she really was.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve.” Bucky states sadly.

“Me too, pal.” Steve comments, but Bucky can tell there’s something he’s not admitting, his eyes say more than his words could. “Me too.”

Walking alongside one another, the old friends walk back toward the cabin, knowing now they can only carry on, there’s no going back.

Steve was running, he’d been running for far too long in a world he didn’t understand. All he craved was a return to his own time, a world he felt comfortable and understood in. A world where you lived and breathed.

His feet guide him directly to the cobbled street he walked numerous times, either by your side holding hands or bantering with Bucky. Nothing had changed, it remained just as he remembered. There weren’t any alien threats, no destruction, the war was over.

Slowly, Steve walks up the steps to your house. He forms a fist as he knocks, having discarded the case the stones were once in mere hours before and returned Thor’s hammer to its rightful place in Asgard.

He can feel his breathing hitch in his throat as silence falls upon him before knocking on the door. Looking over his shoulder, Steve decides it’s best to step down in case you open your window like old times.

Yet, a few minutes pass by and there’s no response. Steve knocks once more, then twice and thrice more times.

“They aren’t there, sweetie!” Someone calls out, and Steve glances over his shoulder to see a neighbour perching from their door, a child on her hip.

“Do you know when they’ll be back?” Steve asks, noticing the woman's smile drop immediately like his heart.

“They don’t live there anymore I’m ‘fraid.” The woman states, but Steve isn’t listening as he crosses the road, now standing in front of her door. “The couple couldn’t bear to stay there, up’t and left about two months ago now.” She explains, but Steve cannot fathom it.

Your family adored that house, though it was small, it was perfect for you and your parents. The three of you sung and danced from room to room, Steve and Bucky often in tow.

“How come they moved away?” Steve forces the question from his thoughts to his mouth, afraid to hear the answer.

The child on the woman's hip begins to cry loudly, and she quickly hushes it. “I’ll be one moment,” She mutters, moving away from the door and returns a few minutes later, arms folded across her chest. “They erm, they lost their daughter, precious thing she was.”

Steve falters backwards, he watches as the woman's lips continue to move, but silence consumes him.

“-she kept coughing up blood after all those nights sat in the cold waiting for her soldier to come home. Apparently, she had some underlying condition, incurable. Tragic really.” The woman sighs sadly, now glancing up to see Steve silently distraught. “I’m sorry, hon, did you know her?” She asks, but Steve steps away and turns around, forcing his feet as he runs down the street, ignoring her shouts.

He had no idea where he was going, but all he could feel were tears streaming down his cheeks, the cool breeze burning against them as he forcefully wiped them away.

For once, Steve was the one who was too late, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“You sure you’re okay, pal?” Bucky reiterates his previous question, seeing Steve longingly watch as Morgan plays with Pepper, giggling away.

“Yeah,” Steve mutters. “I’ll be fine, Buck.” He lies, knowing if he were to tell the truth, he’d simply fall apart.

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thecaffeinebookwarrior · 4 years

Text

The Importance of Antiheroes

By Brooksie C. Fontaine (me) and Sara R. McKearney

Few tropes are as ubiquitous as that of the hero. He takes the form of Superman, ethically and non-lethally thwarting Lex Luthor. Of Luke Skywalker, gazing wistfully at twin suns and waiting for his adventure to begin. In pre-Eastwood era films, a white Stetson made the law-abiding hero easily distinguishable from his black-hatted antagonists. He is Harry Potter, Jon Snow, T’Challa, Simba. He is of many incarnations, he is virtually inescapable, and he serves a necessary function: he reminds us of what we can achieve, and that regardless of circumstance, we can choose to be good. We need our heroes, and always will.

But equally vital to the life-blood of any culture is his more nebulous and difficult to define counterpart: the antihero. Whereas the hero is defined, more or less, by his morality and exceptionalism, the antihero doesn’t cleanly meet these criteria. Where the hero tends to be confident and self-assured, the antihero may have justifiable insecurities. While the hero has faith in the goodness of humanity, the anthero knows from experience how vile humans can be. While the hero typically respects and adheres to authority figures and social norms, the antihero may rail against them for any number of reasons. While the hero always embraces good and rejects evil, the antihero may do either. And though the hero might always be buff, physically capable, and mentally astute, the antihero may be average or below. The antihero scoffs at the obligation to be perfect, and our culture's demand for martyrdom. And somehow, he is at least as timeless and enduring as his sparklingly heroic peers.

Which begs the question: where did the antihero come from, and why do we need him?

The Birth of the Anti-Hero:

It is worth noting that many of the oldest and most enduring heroes would now be considered antiheroes. The Greek Heracles was driven to madness, murdered his family, and upon recovering had to complete a series of tasks to atone for his actions. Theseus, son of Poseidon and slayer of the Minotaur, straight-up abandoned the woman who helped him do it. And we all know what happened to Oedipus, whose life was so messed up he got a complex named after him.

And this isn’t just limited to Ancient Greece: before he became a god, the Mesoamerican Quetzalcoatl committed suicide after drunkenly sleeping with his sister. The Mesopotamian Gilgamesh – arguably the first hero in literature – began his journey as a slovenly, hedonistic tyrant. Shakespearian heroes were denoted with an equal number of gifts and flaws – the cunning but paranoid Hamlet, the honorable but gullible Othello, the humble but power-hungry MacBeth – which were just as likely to lead to their downfall as to their apotheosis.

There’s probably a definitive cause for our current definition of hero as someone who’s squeaky clean: censorship. With the birth of television and film as we know it, it was, for a time, illegal to depict criminals as protagonists, and law enforcement as antagonists. The perceived morality of mainstream cinema was also strictly monitored, limiting what could be portrayed. Bonnie and Clyde, The Good the Bad and the Ugly, Scarface, The Godfather, Goodfellas, and countless other cinematic staples prove that such policies did not endure, but these censorship laws divorced us, culturally, from the moral complexity of our most resonant heroes.

Perhaps because of the nature of the medium, literature arguably has never been as infatuated with moral purity as its early cinematic and T.V. counterparts. From the Byronic male love interests of the Bronte sisters, to “Doctor” Frankenstein (that little college dropout never got a PhD), to Dorian Grey, to Anna Karenina, to Scarlett O’Hara, to Holden Caulfield, literature seems to thrive on morally and emotionally complex individuals and situations. Superman punching a villain and saving Lois Lane is compelling television, but doesn’t make for a particularly thought-provoking read.

It is also worth noting, however, that what we now consider to be universal moral standards were once met with controversy: Superman’s story and real name – Kal El – are distinctly Jewish, in which his doomed parents were forced to send him to an uncertain future in a foreign culture. Captain America punching Nazis now seems like a no-brainer, but at the time it was not a popular opinion, and earned his Jewish creators a great deal of controversy. So in a manner of speaking, some of the most morally upstanding heroes are also antiheroes, in that they defied society’s rules.

This brings us to our concluding point: that anti-heroes can be morally good. The complex and sometimes tragic heroes of old, and today’s antiheroes, are not necessarily immoral, but must often make difficult choices, compromises, and sacrifices. They are flawed, fallible, and can sometimes lead to their own downfall. But sometimes, they triumph, and we can cheer them for it. This is what makes their stories so powerful, so relatable, and so necessary to the fabric of our culture. So without further ado, let’s have a look at some of pop-culture’s most interesting antiheroes, and what makes them so damn compelling.

Note: For the purposes of this essay, we will only be looking at male antiheroes. Because the hero’s journey is traditionally so male-oriented, different standards of subversiveness, morality, and heroism apply to female protagonists, and the antiheroine deserves an article all her own.

Antiheroes show us the negative effects of systematic inequalities (and what they can do to gifted people.)

As demonstrated by: Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders.

Why he could be a hero: He’s incredibly charismatic, intelligent, and courageous. He deeply cares for his loved ones, has a strict code of honor, reacts violently to the mistreatment of innocents, and demonstrates surprisingly high levels of empathy.

Why he’s an antihero: He also happens to be a ruthless, incredibly violent crime lord who regularly slashes out his enemies’ eyes.

What he can teach us: From the moment Tommy Shelby makes his entrance, it becomes apparent that Peaky Blinders will not unfold like the archetypical crime drama. Evocative of the outlaw mythos of the Old West, Tommy rides across a smoky, industrialized landscape. He is immaculately dressed, bareback, on a magnificent black horse. A rogue element, his presence carries immediate power, causing pedestrians to hurriedly clear a path. You get the sense that he does not conform to this time or era, nor does he abide by the rules of society.

The ONLY acceptable way to introduce a protagonist.

Set in the decades between World War I and II, Peaky Blinders differentiates itself from its peers, not just because of its distinctive, almost Shakespearian style of storytelling, powerful visual style, and use of contemporary music, but also in the manner in which it shows that society provokes the very criminality it attempts to vanquish. Moreover, it dedicates time to demonstrating why this form of criminality is sometimes the only option for success in an unfair system. When the law wants to keep you relegated to the station in which you were born, success almost inevitably means breaking the rules. Tommy is considered one of the most influential characters of the decade because of the manner in which he embodies this phenomenon, and the reason why antiheroes pervade folklore across the decades.

Peaky Blinders engenders a unique level of empathy within its first episodes, in which we are not just immersed in the glamour of the gangster lifestyle, but we understand the background that provoked it. Tommy, who grew up impoverished and discriminated against due to his “didicoy” Romany background, volunteered to fight for his country, and went to war as a highly intelligent, empathetic young man. He returned with the knowledge that the country he had served had essentially used him and others like him as canon fodder, with no regard for their lives, well-being, or future. Such veterans were often looked down upon or disregarded by a society eager to forget the war. Having served as a tunneler – regarded to be the worst possible position in a war already beset by unprecedented brutality – Tommy’s constant proximity to death not only destroyed his faith in authority, but also his fear of mortality. This absence of fear and deference, coupled with his incredible intelligence, ambition, ruthlessness, and strategic abilities, makes him a dangerous weapon, now pointed at the very society that constructed him to begin with.

It is also difficult to critique Tommy’s criminality, when we take into account that society would have completely stifled him if he had abided by its rules. As someone of Romany heritage, he was raised in abject poverty, and never would have been admitted into situations of higher social class. Even at his most powerful, we see the disdain his colleagues have at being obligated to treat him as an equal. In one particularly powerful scene, he begins shoveling horse manure, explaining that, “I’m reminding myself of what I’d be if I wasn’t who I am.” If he hadn’t left behind society’s rules, his brilliant mind would be occupied only with cleaning stables.

However, the necessity of criminality isn’t depicted as positive: it is one of the greatest tragedies of the narrative that society does not naturally reward the most intelligent or gifted, but instead rewards those born into positions of unjust privilege, and those who are willing to break the rules with intelligence and ruthlessness. Each year, the trauma of killing, nearly being killed, and losing loved ones makes Tommy’s PTSD increasingly worse, to the point at which he regularly contemplates suicide. Cillian Murphy has remarked that Tommy gets little enjoyment out of his wealth and power, doing what he does only for his family and “because he can.” Steven Knight cites the philosophy of Francis Bacon as a driving force behind Tommy’s psychology: “Since it’s all so meaningless, we might as well be extraordinary.”

This is further complicated when it becomes apparent that the upper class he’s worked so arduously to join is not only ruthlessly exclusionary, but also more corrupt than he’s ever been. There are no easy answers, no easy to pinpoint sources of societal or personal issues, no easy divisibility of positive and negative. This duality is something embraced by the narrative, and embodied by its protagonist. An intriguingly androgynous figure, Tommy emulated the strength and tenacity of the women in his life, particularly his mother; however, he also internalized her application of violence, even laughing about how she used to beat him with a frying pan. His family is his greatest source of strength and his greatest weakness, often exploited by his enemies who realize they cannot fall back on his fear of mortality. He feels emotions more strongly than the other characters, and ironically must numb himself to the world around him in order to cope with it.

However, all hope is not lost. Creator Steven Knight has stated that his hope is ultimately to redeem Tommy, so by the show’s end he is “a good man doing good things.” There are already whispers of what this may look like: as an MP, Tommy cares for Birmingham and its citizens far more than any “legitimate” politicians, meeting with them personally to ensure their needs are met; as of last season, he attempted a Sinatra-style assassination of a rising fascist simply because it was the right thing to do. “Goodness” is an option in the world of Peaky Blinders; the only question is what form it will take on a landscape plagued by corruption at every turn.

Regardless of what form his “redemption” might take, it’s negligible that Tommy will ever meet all the criteria of an archetypal hero as we understand it today. He is far more evocative of the heroes of Ancient Greece, of the Old West, of the Golden Age of Piracy, of Feudal Japan – ferocious, magnitudinous figures who move and make the earth turn with them, who navigate the ever-changing landscapes of society and refuse to abide by its rules, simultaneously destructive and life-affirming. And that’s what makes him so damn compelling.

Who needs traditional morality, when you look this damn good?

Other examples:

Alfie Solomons from Peaky Blinders. Tommy’s friend and sometimes mortal enemy, the two develop an intriguing, almost romantic connection due to their shared experiences of oppression and powerful intellects. Steven Knight has referred to Alfie as “the only person Tommy can really talk to,” possibly because he is Tommy’s only intellectual equal, resulting in a strange form of spiritual matrimony between the two.

Omar Little from The Wire, an oftentimes tender and compassionate man who cares deeply for his loved ones, and does his best to promote morality and idealism in a society which offers him few viable methods of doing so. He may rob drug dealers at gunpoint, but he also refuses to harm innocents, dislikes swearing, and views his actions as a method of decreasing crime in the area.

Chiron from Moonlight, a sensitive and empathetic young man who became a drug dealer because society had provided him with virtually no other options for self-sustenance. The same could be said for Chiron’s mentor and father figure, Juan, a kind and nurturing man who is also a drug dealer.

To a lesser extent, Tony from The Sopranos, and other fictional Italian American gangsters. The Sopranos often negotiates the roots of mob culture as a response to inequalities, while also holding its characters accountable for their actions by pointing out that Tony and his ilk are now rich and privileged and face little systematic discrimination.

Walter White from Breaking Bad – an underpaid, chronically disrespected teacher who has to work two jobs and still can’t afford to pay for medical treatment. More on him on the next page.

Antiheroes show us how we can be the villains.

As demonstrated by: Walter White from Breaking Bad.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a brilliant, underappreciated chemist whose work contributed to the winning of a Nobel Prize. He’s also forging his own path in the face of incredible adversity, and attempting to provide for his family in the event of his death.

Why he’s an antihero: In his pre-meth days, Walt failed to meet the exceptionalism associated with heroes, as a moral but socially passive underachiever living an unremarkable life. At the end of his transformation, he is exceptional at what he does, but has completely lost his moral standards.

What he can teach us: G.K. Chesterton wrote, “Fairy tales do not tell children that the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.” Following this analogy, it is equally important that our stories show us we, ourselves, can be the dragon. Or the villain, to be more specific, because being a dragon sounds strangely awesome.

Walter White of Breaking Bad is a paragon of antiheroism for a reason: he subverts almost every traditional aspect of heroism. From the opening shots of Walt careening along in an RV, clad in tighty whities and a gas mask, we recognize that he is neither physically capable, nor competent in the manner we’ve come to expect from our heroes. He is not especially conventionally attractive, nor are women particularly drawn to him. He does not excel at his career or garner respect. As the series progresses, Walt does develop the competence, confidence, courage, and resilience we expect of heroes, but he is no longer the moral protagonist: he is self-motivated, vindictive, and callous. And somehow, he still remains identifiable, which is integral to his efficacy.

But let us return to the beginning of the series, and talk about how, exactly, Walt subverts our expectations from the get-go. Walt is the epitome of an everyman: he’s fifty years old, middle class, passive, and worried about identifiable problems – his health, his bills, his physically disabled son, and his unborn baby. Whereas Tommy Shelby’s angelic looks, courage, and intellect subvert our preconceptions about what a criminal can be, Walt’s initial unremarkability subverts our preconceptions about who can be a criminal. The hook of the series is the idea that a man so chronically average could make and distribute meth.

Just because an audience is hooked by a concept, however, does not mean that they’ll necessarily continue watching. Breaking Bad could have easily veered into ludicrosity, if it weren’t for another important factor: character. Walt is immediately and intensely relatable, and he somehow retains our empathy for the entirety of the series, even at his least forgivable.

When we first meet Walt, his talents are underappreciated, he’s overqualified for his menial jobs, chronically disrespected by everyone around him, underpaid, and trapped in a joyless, passionless life in which the highlight of his day is a halfhearted handjob from his distracted wife. And to top it all off? He has terminal lung cancer. Happy birthday, Walt.

We root for him for the same reason we root for Dumbo, Rudolph, Harry Potter: he’s an underdog. The odds are stacked against him, and we want to see him triumph. Which is why it’s cathartic, for us and for Walt, when he finally finds a profession in which he can excel – even if that profession is the ability to manufacture incredibly high-quality meth. His former student Jesse Pinkman – a character so interesting that there’s a genuine risk he’ll hijack this essay – appreciates his skill, and this early appreciation is what makes his relationship with Jesse feel so much more genuine than Walt’s relationship with his family, even as their dynamic becomes increasingly unhealthy and Walt uses Jesse to bolster his meth business and his ego. This deeply dysfunctional but heartfelt father-son connection is Walt’s tether to humanity as he becomes increasingly inhumane, while also demonstrating his descent from morality. It has been pointed out that one can gauge how far-gone Walt is from his moral ideals by how much Jesse is suffering.

But to return to the initial point, it is imperative that we first empathize with Walt in order to adequately understand his descent. Aside from the fact that almost all characters are more interesting if the audience can or wants to empathize with them, Walt’s relatability makes it easy to understand our own potential for toxic and destructive behaviors. We are the protagonist of our own story, but we aren’t necessarily its hero.

Similarly, we understand how easily we can justify destructive actions, and how quickly reasonable feelings of anger and injustice swerve into self-indulgent vindication and entitlement. Walt claims to be cooking meth to provide for his family, and this may be partially true; but he also denies financial help from his rich friends out of spite, and admits later to his wife Skylar that he primarily did it for himself because he was good at it and “it made (him) feel alive.”

This also forces us to examine our preconceptions, and essentially do Walt’s introspections for him: whereas Peaky Blinders emphasize the fact that Tommy and his family would never have been able to achieve prosperity by obeying society’s laws, Walt feels jilted out of success he was promised by a meritocratic system that doesn’t currently exist. He has essentially achieved our current understanding of the American dream – a house with a pool, a beautiful wife and family, an honest job – but it left him unable to provide for his wife and children or even pay for his cancer treatment. He’s also unhappy and alienated from his passions and fellow human beings. With this in mind, it’s understandable – if absurd – that the only way he can attain genuine happiness and excel is through becoming a meth cook. In this way, Breaking Bad is both a scathing critique of our current society, and a haunting reminder that there’s not as much standing between ourselves and villainy as we might like to believe.

So are we all slaves to this system of entitlement and resentment, of shattered and unfulfilling dreams? No, because Breaking Bad provides us with an intriguing and vital counterpoint: Jesse Pinkman. Whereas Walt was bolstered with promises that he was gifted and had a bright future ahead of him, Jesse was assured by every authority figure in his life that he would never amount to anything. However, Jesse proves himself skilled at what he’s passionate about: art, carpentry, and of course, cooking meth. Whereas Walt perpetually rationalizes and shirks responsibility, Jesse compulsively takes responsibility, even for things that weren’t his fault. Whereas Walt found it increasingly acceptable to endanger or harm bystanders, Jesse continuously worked to protect innocents – especially children – from getting hurt. Though Jesse suffered immensely throughout the course of the show – and the subsequent movie, El Camino – the creators say that he successfully made it to Alaska and started a carpentry business. Some theorists have supposed that Jesse might be a Jesus allegory – a carpenter who suffers for the sins of others. Regardless of whether this is true, it is interesting, and amusing to imagine Jesus using the word “bitch” so often. Though he didn’t get the instant gratification of immediate success that Walt got, he was able to carve (no pun intended – carpentry, you know) a place for himself in the world.

Jesse isn’t a perfect person, but he reminds us that improving ourselves and creating a better life is an option, even if Walt’s rise to power was more initially thrilling. So take heart: there’s a bit of Heisenberg in all of us, but there’s also a bit of Jesse Pinkman.

The savior we all need, but don’t deserve.

Other examples:

Bojack from Bojack Horseman. Like Walt, the audience can’t help but empathize with Bojack, understand his decision-making, and even see ourselves in him. However, the narrative ruthlessly demonstrates the consequences of his actions, and shows us how negatively his selfishness and self-destructive qualities impact others.

Again, Tony Soprano. Tony, even at his very worst, is easy to like and empathize with. Despite his position as a mafia Godfather, he’s unfailingly human. Which makes the destruction caused by his actions all the more resonant.

Antiheroes emphasize the absurdity of contemporary culture (and how we must operate in it.)

As demonstrated by: Marty Byrde from Ozark.

Why he could be a hero: He’s a loving father who ultimately just wants to provide for and ensure the safety of his family. He’s also fiercely intelligent, with excellent negotiative, interpersonal, and strategic skills that allows him to talk his way out of almost any situation without the use of violence.

Why he’s an antihero: He launders money for a ruthless drug cartel, and has no issue dipping his toes into various illegal activities.

Why he’s compelling: Marty is an antihero of the modern era. He has a remarkable ability to talk his way into or out of any situation, and he’s also a master of using a pre-constructed system of rules and privileges to his benefit.

In the very first episode, he goes from literally selling the American Dream, to avoiding murder at the hands of a ruthless drug cartel by planning to launder money for them in the titular Ozarks. Despite his long history of dabbling in illegality, Marty has no firearms – a questionable choice for someone on the run from violent drug kingpins, but a testament to his ability to rely on his oratory skills and nothing else. He doesn’t hesitate to engage an apparently violent group of hillbillies to request the return of his stolen cash, because he knows he can talk them into giving it back to him. The only time he engages other characters in physical violence, he immediately gets pummeled, because physical altercation has never been his form of currency. Not that he’s subjected to physical violence particularly often, either: Marty is a master of the corporate landscape, which makes him a master of the criminal landscape. He is brilliant at avoiding the consequences of his actions.

It’s easy to like and admire Marty for his cleverness, for being able to escape from apparently impermeable situations with words as his only weapon. He’s got a reassuring, dad-ly sort of charisma that immediately endears the viewer, and offers respite from the seemingly endless threats coming from every direction. He unquestionably loves his family, including his adulterous wife. As such, it’s easy to forget that Marty is being exploited by the same system that exploits all of us: crony capitalism. The polar opposite of meritocratic capitalism – in which success is based on hard work, ingenuity, and, hence the name, merit – crony capitalism benefits only the conglomerates that plague the global landscape like cancerous warts, siphoning money off of workers and natural capital, keeping them indentured with basic necessities and the idle promise of success.

Marty isn’t benefiting from his hard work in the Ozarks. Everything he makes goes right back to the drug cartel who continuously threatens the life of him and his family. He is rewarded for his efforts with a picturesque house, a boat, and the appearance of success, but he is not allowed to keep the fruits of his labor. Marty may be an expert at navigating the corporate and criminal landscape, but it still exploits him. In this manner, Marty embodies both the American business, the American worker, and a sort of inversion of the American dream.

In this same manner, Marty, the other characters, and even the Ozarks themselves embody the modern dissonance between appearance and reality. Marty’s family looks like something you’d respect to see on a Christmas card from your DILF-y, successful coworker, but it’s bubbling with dysfunctionality. His wife is cheating on him with a much-older man, and instead of confronting her about it, he first hired a private investigator and then spent weeks rewatching the footage, paralyzed with options and debating what to do. The problem somewhat solves itself when his wife’s lover is unceremoniously murdered by the cartel, and Wendy and Marty are driven into a sort of matrimonial business partnership motivated by the shared interest of protecting their children, but this also further demonstrates how corporate even their family dealings have become. His children, though precocious, are forced to contend with age-inappropriate levels of responsibility and the trauma of sudden relocation, juxtaposed with a childhood of complete privilege up until this point.

Conversely, the shadow of the Byrde family is arguably the Langmores. Precocious teenagers Ruth and Wyatt can initially be shrugged off as local hillbillies and budding con-artists, but much like the Shelby family of the Peaky Blinders, they prove to be extremely intelligent individuals suffering beneath a society that doesn’t care about their stifled potential. Systemic poverty is a bushfire that spreads from one generation to the next, stoked by the prejudices of authority figures and abusive parental figures who refuse to embrace change out of a misguided sense of class-loyalty.

Almost every other character we meet eventually inverts our expectations of them: from the folksy, salt-of-the-earth farmers who grow poppies for opium and murder more remorselessly than the cartel itself, to the cookie-cutter FBI agent whose behavior becomes increasingly volatile and chaotic, to the heroin-filled Bibles handed out by an unknowing preacher, to the secrets hidden by the lake itself, every detail conveys corruption hidden behind a postcard-pretty picture of tranquility and success.

Marty’s awareness of this illusion, and what lurks behind it, is perhaps the greatest subversion of all. Marty knows that the world of appearance and the world of reality coexist, and he was blessed with a natural talent for navigating within the two. Like Walter White, Marty makes us question our assumptions about who a criminal can be – despite the fact that many successful, attractive, middle-aged family men launder money and juggle criminal activities, it’s still jarring to witness, which tells us something about how image informs our understanding of reality. Socially privileged, white-collar criminals simply have more control over how they’re portrayed than an inner-city gang, or impoverished teenagers. However, unlike Walt, Marty’s criminal activities are not any kind of middle-aged catharsis: they’re a way of life, firmly ingrained in the corporate landscape. They were present long before he arrived on the scene, and he knows it. He just has to navigate them.

Just like our shining, messianic heroes can teach us about truth, justice, and the American way, so too does each antihero have something to teach us: they teach us that society doesn’t reward those who follow its instructions, nor does it often provide an avenue of morality. Even if you live a life devoid of apparent sin, every privilege is paid for by someone else’s sacrifice. But the best antiheroes are not beacons of nihilism – they show us the beauty that can emerge from even the ugliest of situations. Peaky Blinders is, at its core, a love story between Tommy Shelby and the family he crawled out of his grave for, just as Breaking Bad is ultimately a deeply dysfunctional tale of a father figure and son. Ozark, like its predecessors, is about family – the only authenticity in a society that operates on deception, illusion, and corruption. They teach us that even in the worst times and situations, love can compel us, redeem us, bind us closer together. Only then can we face the dragons of life, and feel just a bit more heroic.

Other examples:

Don Draper from Mad Men. A similarly Shakespearian figure for the modern era, Don is a man who appears to have everything – perfect looks, a beautiful wife and children, a prestigious job. He could have stepped out of an ad for the American Dream. And yet, he feels disconnected from his life, isolated from others by the very societal rules he, as a member of the ad agency, helps to propagate. It helps that he’s literally leading a borrowed life, inherited from the stolen identity of his deceased fellow soldier, and was actually an impoverished, illegitimate farmboy whose childhood abuse permanently damaged his ability to form relationships. The Hopper-esque alienation evoked by the world of Mad Men really deserves an essay all it’s own, and his wife Betty – whose Stepford-level mask of cheerful subservience hides seething unhappiness and unfulfilled potential – is a particularly intriguing figure to explore. Maybe in my next essay, on the importance of the antiheroine.

#my writing tips #writing tips #tommy shelby #peaky blinders #walter white #breaking bad #jesse pinkman #bojack horseman #don draper #writing advice #antihero #the types of antiheroes #long post for ts

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equizona · 3 years

Note

random fnaf 1 gang hcs?

Note: Finally my time has come– IF I MISUNDERSTOOD YOUR ASK THEN JUST SEND ANOTHER ONE EXPLAINING A BIT MORE– Anyway, I just did general HC for them as a group <3 tell me if it was anything else you wanted(It also says in my rules to explain a bit, so this was a bit non-detailed so if I did get it wrong add some more details next time please)

Scenario: General/random headcanons for the OG FNAF gang.

Fandom(s): FNAF

Character(s): Freddy, Bonnie, Chica, Foxy, Golden Freddy.

Warning(s): Swearing, violence, death, gore, blood, torture,

FNAF 1 GANG

All of them are a band together, right? Freddy does the vocals, Bonnie is the guitarist, while Chica is on the drums.

Foxy probably worked with a bass or synthesizer, but then he got thrown into the pirates cove and labeled out of order.

Freddy, Bonnie and Chica were all ready to commit arson when that happened because how fucking dare they that's their friend–

Golden Freddy is the biggest introvert and interacts with NO ONE. Like, ever, it just doesn't happen, they stay away from everyone and everything.

Even Freddy, Bonnie, Chica and Foxy don't know where Golden Freddy goes when not attacking the security guard.

Bonnie, unlike Toy Bonnie, sounds like a dying fucking chicken everything he sings and it's hilarious–

Chica has quite the temper, and she will blow up so quickly, so don't test her.

Foxy loves teasing people, and he teases Chica constantly, which often leads to him getting his ass kicked by her.

Chica loves cooking and spends a lot of her free-time in the kitchen, Bonnie joins her in there sometimes as well.

Foxy and Freddy just kind of stay away from that.

Whenever Bonnie and Chica are in the kitchen Foxy and Freddy tend to indulge in playing pirates.

Foxy is open about his pirate obsession but Freddy will take his to the grave if it's the last thing he does—

When Freddy wasn't, you know, dead, he took singing lessons so he had the easiest time out of all of them when getting adjusted to being an animatronic.

Golden Freddy comes out to hang with them like once a year, and even then they don't talk much, they just kind of sit there silently.

Golden Freddy does have a heavenly voice though, and it's the best out of all the animatronics but nobody will ever know because they will never talk with anyone–

Once Chica and Bonnie made a golden cake for Golden Freddy and it was just the cutest event ever–

Whenever the security guard isn't there they like to play games, and if Golden Freddy is there they get invited to join.

Golden Freddy makes this static sounds wherever they go and they can't control it so deal with it–

Chica is literally the funniest person ever and you'll never have a boring moment with her trust me.

Bonnie and Chica are 100% bestest of friends

Whenever any of them feel sad the others will do their best to make them feel better.

Sometimes all of them will let their emotions get the best of them, which may cause fights, so sometimes the staff are confused to show up with lots of items being broken and thrown around with the animatronics all dirty

This is why they have a security guard even if they always die–

The owner knows that they are alive, and knows that the bodies are in the suits, he just refuses to acknowledge that, so the group all hates him.

They would NEVER hurt children, it doesn't matter what happens, children are off limits.

If anyone ever hurts a child they get it form everyone else.

They are a family so nothing too bad happens but it's not fun I can promise you that.

One time Freddy was in a really bad fucking mood so when he got his hands on the security guard he ended up torturing him for three hours straight.

It was bloody and messy and none of the others wanted to get involved because they were scared so they just stayed away

Golden Freddy was the only one who was brave enough to get involved, so they dragged Freddy away causing a fight to break out between them

Foxy is the fastest out of all of them

Golden Freddy can teleport though, so does it matter? Speed can't beat teleportation

In terms of physical strength Golden Freddy is the strongest, then Freddy, then Chica, then Foxy, then Bonnie

Bonnie is really observant though.

Foxy, Freddy and Chica are all more hot-headed and won't think things through much, but Golden Freddy, Freddy and Bonnie both use their brains more.

Freddy comes off as the calm collected one but he has a temper that is quick to blow up

Bonnie and Golden Freddy get along really well

Foxy likes to tease Bonnie, calling him 'shy'

He's really not, he just doesn't talk much

Honestly it instantly perfect but they all love each other and do their best to get through things together

Their just children after all, they are learning as it goes.

#fnaf #fnaf headcanons #five nights at freddys #five nights ag freddys headcanons #fnaf 1 #five nights at freddys 1 #freddy #golden freddy #bonnie #chica #foxy #fnaf bonnie #fnaf chica #fnaf foxy #fnaf freddy #fnaf golden freddy

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imagine-darksiders · 3 years

Text

Old Timer

Chapter 4 - Together again.

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“Eideard?”

His name tiptoes from your lips in a whispered breath.

You stare at him, your mouth hanging slightly agape and refusing to close, as though the very muscles in your jaw have forgotten how they're supposed to work.

There had once been a thousand things you would have wanted to say to him, if ever given the chance, yet now, in the moment where that chance has actually come about, you find yourself devoid of any words or thoughts.

“You all right there, bonnie?” the maker asks, his lips twitching into a hesitant smile, “Look like you've seen a ghost.”

'A ghost!.... Ha!'

You'd laugh if you didn't think you might faint at any moment. Instead, your mouth opens with the intention to scoff at the dramatic irony of his statement, but what comes out instead is a strangled sob that causes the maker's ears to tilt down in alarm.

“Hey, hey now...” he utters softly, lifting his hand up towards you, his gaze darting to the tears that have begun to roll down your cheeks, “What's this about? Eh? Did old Cruim scare you? Is it your leg?”

Covering your mouth, it’s all you can do to just stare back and shake your head.

As far as Eideard knows, something truly horrific must be happening to you that would warrant the spilling of this many tears. Makers are seldom known to cry, even under the most terrible, unimaginable duress.

Guided by something that's not quite instinct, but stronger than a simple urge to help, to fix, he reaches up to his shoulder until a careful finger hovers gingerly just inches from the skin of your cheek. Then, sucking down a steadying breath, Eideard wills himself to close the distance, hardly daring to inhale again as he sweeps the very tip of his forefinger over your cheekbone and brushes away the wet tear tracks that linger there.

To his utmost dismay, the action only makes you start to cry even harder and he quickly withdraws his hand, worried that he'd somehow managed to hurt you.

He has no idea that by wiping away your tears, he'd unintentionally echoed the very last moments you'd spent with the Eideard from your timeline.

He’d collapsed, laying prone in the soft grass. Your tears had mingled with the blood pooling in his clavicle as you knelt on his chest and wailed, your fists pounding above his heart in the desperate hope that you could bully the fading organ into beating strong and steady once again. You'd gone still however, weeping hopelessly when Eideard's thumb swept gently over your cheek and gathered up the tears there.

The memory is a powerful one, and you have to blink furiously until the blurred image of a dying Eideard is replaced by the very much alive maker staring at you with concern lining his youthful features.

You've seen that expression so often, you never thought you'd miss it so much after you stopped seeing it.

All of a sudden, through no real cognitive decision of your own, you promptly launch yourself sideways along the maker's broad shoulder and collide with his head.

Though reflex tells him to flinch, Eideard forces himself to keep still as thin, delicate arms are slung around his face and a warm body squashes into his cheek shortly after.

He's monumentally glad that he has yet to venture down into the village proper. Standing up here next to the entrance, none of his fellows will be able to make out the rosy flush that has shot up into his ears, should they happen to look.

It isn't as though makers are a species for whom intimacy is a foreign concept, but intimacy outside of social circles is a rare and seldom-witnessed occurrence, whilst intimacy between members of two separate species is all but unheard of.

Despite his uncertainty, Eideard's heart flutters at the thought that he's managed to earn this splendid reward and he momentarily forgets that he's supposed to be worried about you, too distracted by the realisation that he has never known a touch so gentle, yet so fierce at the same time. If he dwells on it for too long, he'll probably grow sad to consider how he's lived his whole life deprived of the sensation of hands pressing indents into his skin.

Of their own accord, his fingertips come to rest on your fragile spine and '...Oh,' he thinks as you bury your face even more firmly against him, '...I could get used to this.'

But when a hitching sob suddenly causes you to jerk beneath his fingers, he springs to attention once more and banishes the desire to push his head urgently into your touch.

“I didn't thank you...”

Eideard freezes at the sound of your voice, trembling and small next to his ear.

“What's that you say?” he swallows.

But it's as though you don't even hear him. From his angle, the maker can't see that your eyes are wide open and staring out towards the village beyond, yet you're completely blind to everything happening around you whilst the same, terrible memory plays cruelly in your mind's eye.

Eideard, laying on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, mouth and even from behind his eyelids, like little rivers running off the face of a mountain. His once pristinely white beard had been so stained with blood, your hands became soaked with it when you clawed your way up his chest, delirious beyond coherency.

“I-I can't remember if I ever thanked you,” you say again in a warbling whisper that causes Eideard's ears to perk up attentively, “For saving us - For... for everything.”

Your slip-up doesn’t even catch his notice, not that you really notice it either, though.

Another sob catches like a rock in your throat and you turn your face away from the village, burying it into a soft, fluffy beard and letting your eyes dampen the old maker's cheek. A cheek that's warm and flushed with colour, a far cry from the cold, pale cheek you remember crying into at the centre of the valley all those long months ago.

Eideard's familiar smell fills your nostrils as you draw a deep inhale through your nose and let yourself bask in the unplaceable scent that reminds you of wood and soil.

You've missed him.

Shit... You've missed him so much.

It's perhaps a blessed thing that you hadn't said that last part out loud and baffled the maker even more than you already have, because not a second later, his throat rumbles with an uncertain chuckle and he says, “S'this how you thank everyone who saves you from a demon? Or am I just a special exception?”

And just like that, the reality of the situation comes flooding back to hit you with the force of a speeding bullet-train, smacking you from your memories and dumping you unceremoniously into Tri Stone once again.

Lurching away from the maker, your eyes snap open and you tear your arms from his face and sputter out a nonsensical string of sounds, earning a bemused grin from Eideard, who twists his head sideways to watch you raise your hands to your face, covering it slowly as rationality cuts through the haze of shock and a horrifying realisation dawns on you.

This is Eideard. But this is not your Eideard. Not yet.

He has no idea that you're thanking him for so much more than he could possibly imagine.

“I-I'm sorry,” you stammer at last, swiping furiously at your eyes, “I just... wanted to thank you for saving me from the stalker. Yeah. B-but, I didn't mean to, uh, hug you like that. I'm... honestly not sure what came over me.”

His expression softens and he quirks his lips into a playful smirk. “Hmm, well, whatever it was, I hope there'll be more.”

'Oh for god's sake.' Mortally embarrassed, you turn away from him and hope that the heat in your cheeks isn't obvious.

For all he knows, you've just draped yourself across his face like a lovesick fool, all because he saved you from a stalker.

But perhaps most mortifying of all, what really disturbs you, is that Eideard – your Eideard, the kindly maker with the disposition of a doting father – is, or rather, used to be a shameless flirt.

An attractive, shameless flirt.

Oh God... You're fairly certain you flirted back.

And it's Eideard...

Your vision starts to swim.

Just then, an enormous fingertip slides beneath your chin and you find yourself helpless to resist as your face is guided back towards him. Red-tinged eyes meet ethereal blue and for one, jarring moment, the stern yet fretful tilt of his golden brows ages the maker's face enough that you catch a glimpse of the old Eideard hidden underneath.

“Hey. Don't you go hiding that pretty face from me,” he rumbles, “I need to know you're all right.”

Your heart does a somersault.

“I'll be fine,” you slur, swaying on his shoulder, “Think I just need to lay down..”

Eideard's bemused expression quickly shifts to alarm when your body goes limp and you begin to tilt sideways, gradually slipping from the maker's broad shoulder. Fortunately for you, Eideard has always been an exceptionally attentive maker, even at this young age, and without missing a beat, he spins his hand around to capture you gently between his fingers.

The motion jerks you back to full consciousness again and you give your head a shake, blinking up into the pale, blue eyes of a highly concerned maker.

“Think it's time I got you to the Shaman,” he suggests.

Sagging heavily against his fingers, you can't help but agree. “I think that's a good idea.”

You wish you could just disappear, save yourself from the mortifying ordeal of knowing that you've been receiving advances from Eideard of all people.

That's... going to take some adjusting to.

Eyeing the village ahead, the maker turns his focus onto the eastern side, where the lights are dimmest and the gaps between each stone hut are frequent and draped in shadow. He hums pensively and begins to walk.

It isn't that he doesn't want his fellow makers to meet you – but he'd prefer to get you to the shaman sooner rather than later and get your leg tended to....

…

And... though he isn't proud to admit it, he wouldn't mind keeping you to himself just a little while longer.

Slowly, steadily, he carries you down the village steps, casting frequent glances down at you to ascertain your condition. Every time, he finds you staring back at him with a spell-bound look in your eyes.

Glowing under the attention, he spares a moment to waggle his brows at you, relishing the squeak that jumps out of your mouth as you hurriedly avert your gaze.

With a warm chuckle, Eideard returns his attention to the walled garden at the far end of the village – and promptly stiffens at the sound of voices calling his name.

“Eideard!”

“You're back!”

He doesn't miss that you turn rigid in his palm, prompting him to lift you a little higher into the air as he shoots you an apologetic glance, slowing his gait just in time to avoid tripping over a trio of tiny, excitable younglings who appear from nowhere and fall into step around him.

“Where've you been!?” a maker boy shouts, and grinning so widely, his cheeks start to turn red. “Did you kill any baddies!?”

Curious, you lean forwards over Eideard's fingers and peer down, only to find yourself biting back the urge to coo out loud at the endearing sight.

The youngling who'd spoken looks as though he'd barely stand a few heads higher than you and he's jogging backwards to avoid Eideard's boots as the older maker continues to advance cautiously down the path. A mess of shocking, copper hair sticks up from the top of his head, though it's clear that at some point, another maker has tried to gather the unruly mess into some semblance of a braid that hangs down to his shoulders and is sloppily tied off with a blue ribbon. The moment your face pokes out from behind Eideard's fingers, the youngling lets out a loud gasp and nearly trips over his own feet, eyes growing round.

“What. Is. That!?” he exclaims, pointing up at you.

“Mind your manners,” the older maker scolds gently, “It's not nice to point. This is my new friend – Oh.” Swivelling his gaze back onto you, he blinks, looking the slightest bit sheepish. “I don't think I ever did catch your name.”

“Huh? Oh, I guess we never really introduced ourselves properly, did we?.” Scratching at the back of your neck, you introduce yourself. “Y/n. My name’s Y/n.”

“Y/n...” he repeats in a dulcet murmur, his attention never leaving you, even as he addresses the boy at his feet, “This is my friend, Y/n, Ulthane.”

The youngling's eyes remain wholly fixed upon you and he utters a small 'oooh' of wonder, standing on the toes of his boots to see you better. And whilst you're just as intrigued with the maker-in-miniature, it's his name that catches your ear.

“Wait... Did you just call him Thane?” you blurt, incredulous.

All of a sudden, another voice pipes up from Eideard's left. “He's not Thane, I am!”

Startled, you glance down to find another maker youngling frowning back up at you and jabbing a finger towards the copper-haired boy. “That's Ulthane. He's my brother.”

With a slow blink, you take in the new youngling as he trots along at Eideard's side.

“No way,” you breathe, letting your jaw drop further and further with each passing second.

Well. It's Thane alright - from the steely eyes that regard you warily, to the walnut-brown hair sticking up from his head like a bird's nest, much akin to his brother's. There's a purple bruise colouring one of his cheekbones, worn proudly, no doubt the mark of accomplishment from a bout of rough-housing with his fellow younglings.

Slowly, with the kind of hesitancy that's fostered from sheer disbelief, you work your lips into a half-smile and utter, “Hi... Thane.”

Flicking his gaze between you and Eideard, Thane fidgets under your stare and drops back a little until he's partially hidden behind the larger maker's boots.

“Ha!” Ulthane jeers, “He's scared!”

In an instant, his brother raises his voice and retorts, “I AM NOT!”

You pick your jaw up and rub tentatively at your forehead, sensing the beginnings of a headache coming on. To think, one day, this boy will turn into the herculean warrior who once bested Death in combat...

“You're pretty,” an airy, feminine voice suddenly pipes up, and you whip your head around and down once again, catching sight of yet another, even younger maker beaming back at you, so small that she's practically jogging to keep up with Eideard's lengthy strides.

“Told you,” the elder in question murmurs smugly, pushing his thumb into your ribs.

Momentarily forgetting about Thane, you flop your jaw around for a few seconds before any sort of thought finally occurs. “Uh... Thanks?” you reply, hastily adding, “Y-you too.”

Pawing her long, blonde hair behind one of her ears, she giggles and ducks behind Eideard and out of sight, though the pitter-patter of her feet mixed between the heavy stomps of his own betray the fact that she's keeping pace close at his heels.

Meanwhile, Thane has finally left the safety of Eideard's shadow and has joined his brother in trying to walk as tall as he can on his toes to see over the older maker's hands, evidently curious about the newcomer in his midst now that your attention has turned elsewhere.

After a moment, he pipes up. “What are you?”

You don't think you'll ever get used to looking down at Thane.

Before you can open your mouth to reply, Ulthane suddenly blurts out a question of his own. “How come you're so small?”

“Um.. well, I -” you attempt, but no sooner do you try to speak than questions begin to take turns flying from their tongues, each fired off far too quickly for you to formulate a single response.

“Are you a maker?”

“Where'd Eideard find you?”

“Where are your tusks?”

“How old are you?”

“Why do you -”

“All right now, you lot. That's enough,” the older maker interjects, coming to a stop at the foot of a staircase that leads up towards the luscious garden you'd seen on your arrival, “I didn't bring Y/n back to the village to be interrogated. Why don't you three wait here while we go and find the shaman, eh?”

Almost instantly, his suggestion is met with a chorus of disappointed moans and objections.

“Aw, but Eideaaaard!” Ulthane whinges, putting a broad grin on your face.

Thane, in the meantime, steps forward to grab Eideard's trouser leg, tugging at it imploringly. “We promise to not ask any more questions!”

You risk a subtle glance up at the maker's face, admittedly curious to find out whether he has always been a pushover, even from an early age. And from the press of his lips and rapidly-tilting brow, it looks as though his resolve is already starting to waver.

“I... I don't mind if they come along,” you suggest at last, earning a delighted gasp from the younglings and a skeptical look from the older giant.

“You sure?” he asks, “Don't want you to be-” Something abruptly tells him that you won't appreciate it if he says 'scared.' So, instead, he mumbles, “- overwhelmed.”

You almost want to laugh aloud. How in the world could you be any more overwhelmed than you already are? You're sitting in a young Eideard's palm, being stared at by a much younger Thane, in a Tri Stone that's twice the size of the one you left.

'Overwhelmed' is a gross understatement.

Instead of voicing that thought however, you simply brush it aside and offer a shrug. “I don't mind,” you say again. And honestly? You really don't mind. There are far more pressing matters weighing on your conscience than a couple of adorable, curious younglings.

Eideard however, still seems hesitant, a direct contrast to the three young makers who, at your words, promptly dart up the steps, with Ulthane in the lead.

“Muria!” he hollars her name boisterously, “You'll never guess what we've found!”

At hearing the confirmation of Muria's presence, your heart soars into your throat but you're quick to rein in your enthusiasm, aware that she, like Eideard, will have no idea who you are.

“We?” you mouth at him, echoing Ulthane's claim.

Eideard's moustache twitches and the corners of his eyes lift up until they're wrinkled with a friendly smile. “Ah, don't mind the boys. They just like to be included.”

Gradually, he begins to take the steps after the youngest maker, watching vigilantly as she struggles to keep up with the brothers, whose legs are far longer than her own.

Sadly, she must have misjudged the distance between herself and one of the steps, because when she leaps up onto it, only half of her boot makes it with her, and there's a heart-lurching second where she begins to tip backwards again, her chubby arms flailing as she tries to propel herself out of losing her balance.

“Careful!” you gasp.

But then, to your relief, Eideard stoops and throws his hand out, halting her fall with the back of his knuckles. “Easy there, Elanya. What’ve I said about looking where you’re going?”

Gently, he pushes her upright once again and she tosses him a bright grin over her shoulder before scampering up the stairs, as though she hadn't almost fallen down them mere seconds ago.

Standing to his full height, the maker watches her all the way up the stairs, releasing a sigh of relief when she arrives at the top with no further incident. Tipping his head down, he's about to begin his own ascent when he catches your eye and hesitates with one foot poised to carry him forward. You're lounging back against his fingers, an elbow balanced on the edge of his thumb and your fist propping up your chin, giving the maker your most knowing stare.

“What?” he asks.

In response, you merely lift your shoulders in a shrug and say, “Oh, nothing. It's just nice to know I'm dealing with a gigantic softie, that's all.” Of course, you've known that all along – but it does provide you some comfort to know that it won't be age that softens Eideard's heart. Evidently, he's always been of a gentler nature than most.

Furrowing his brow doesn't hide the glint of playfulness in his eyes as he begins to take the steps two at a time, shaking his head.

It doesn't escape your notice however, that he never disputes the claim.

#darksiders #darksiders 2 #Old timer #Eideard #soft boYo!#Reader #g/t #Ulthane #Thane

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