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#i live in the capital which is is fascinating
katabay · 2 months
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original thief series basso & garrett :)
ngl, it's about quality over quantity for me. an npc can have a total of three minutes of screen time, but if they have a cool name, they can live rent free in my head and I'll spend several hours trying to decipher drawable features from a blurry screenshot of pixels
there is a vague hint of a story here, and that's because every time I try to play thi4f, I get incredibly frustrated with how Not Fun the game play is. like, is the story good? well. but it has a PLAGUE. that should've given it instant 'I'll replay this once a year' status in my heart, but the game play sucks so bad that I've never finished it. I can't believe Not Fun gameplay beat out my obsession with narrative plagues.
anyway, the idea is basically if the original era had a game with a plague centric narrative and some other stuff I liked out of thi4f thrown into a narrative blender, with a heavy dash of horror thrown in because some parts of the thief games were scarier to me than entire dedicated horror genre games.
⭐ places I’m at! bsky / pixiv / pillowfort /cohost / cara.app
#if i had a laptop and the skillset i would attempt a story mod because the thief modders who create whole mission stories#are GENIUS and also somewhat terrifying. love them! xoxox#anyway im actually kind of obsessed with parts of thi4f but its also like. not at that sweet spot of almost good enough to be fun#to talk about. which. for the record. has not stopped me from talking about it at length to people#the city itself actually fucking fascinates me. its almost alive and im SO mad that not a single part of that game is actually terrifying#it should be gnarlier and instead it feels a bit like it doesn't quite want to be trapped in the story it has to tell?#but between the level that has the bodies on the meathooks#and the scene with the bodies hanging from the rafters or whatever that was and garrett living in a clock tower#because the game is very much ALMOST about changing times and authoritarian violence and capitalism#(like. by virtue of how the story sort of spins out i think it misses it's mark on a lot of stuff here#in the sense that i dont feel like it actually wants to tell that story. it wants to. go in a different direction. or at least walk on top#of those themes instead of through it)#ANYWAY between all of those things. it does kind of live in my head rent free. they did create a compelling setting#SHAME THEY DIDNT WANT TO ACTUALLY EAT ANY OF IT#unrelated but i would've given thi4f a 10/10 if they kept garrett's fucking nail polish from the concept art. cowards. unforgivable#thief the dark project#i still have no idea how to tag the game series as a whole RIP#sorry for the dedicated dark project fans. if you know what the general series tag is. please let me know#garrett thief#basso thief
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yzzart · 4 months
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Could you do a piece where snow forced reader to dress more conservatively and change her hair (cut and style) compared to her normal look and clothing?
"𝐀𝐧 𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐬𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐞."
pairing: president!Coriolanus Snow x f!reader.
summary: Coriolanus didn't just change him but he also changed you.
warnings: mentions of unhappiness, explicit words + take a look at the masterlist!
word count: 1.024!
notes: here it is, anon! and i think it was too long 😖 but i'm satisfied with this work, enjoy it and i hope you like it!
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The one in the mirror, truly you?
That question, a confused inquiry, had compromised itself in your mind; with no intention of simply disappearing and leaving you alone. — A lump of embarrassment and imposition formed in your throat.
The image of a woman wearing cautious, at one point even intimidating, and, extremely, expensive clothes was trapped in the huge mirror. — The fabric of the white pigmented dress was very well prepared and dedicated, accompanied by some divine pearls; it would be cruel to touch them. — Jewels around her neck, giving her an air of purity and elegance.
Her posture was honorable, drawing attention from discreet and daring glances; a lucky woman who everyone wanted to get their hands on. — Being the reason for fights and threats between compromised souls.
That wasn't you, but at the same time it was. — That conservative, intimidating style would never be used by you on a casual day or for your good will; your chest would never feel comfortable in such a garment. — You would never feel comfortable with that whole situation.
However, your loved one admired that change in you. — Such a drastic, sudden and radical change that Coriolanus brought to his life; which he dedicated with love and care.
Coriolanus changed everything in his chest, and perhaps even in his soul, throwing that poor, rotten carcass somewhere no one would find it. — And when he saw the chance to change you, you sweet, naive girl, Snow wouldn't let it fall through his fingers.
All the best articles of clothing in the Capital were in your hands, gifted by Coriolanus. — It didn't matter the price, if countless hands were spent producing that fabric, he wanted to see you using it; independent of all. — And you made a point of making him satisfied, happy.
Even though you hated with all your strength, which was so fragile and delicate, that image that was beginning to be built in you; thinking deeply about your old image, about how you really were. — Your chest was tearing, burning and wanting to destroy every bit of that glass that witnessed his current reflection.
But, Coriolanus loved you that way. — He was so pleased.
"Here you are!" — Upon being mentioned, mentally, Coriolanus's voice echoed through the modest and cold room; coincidentally, like him. — Making your thoughts disappear, as if they never existed and didn't bother you.
Wanting to see him, you directed your head towards the door and came across those deep, vigorous eyes, which were once dreamy, staring at you. — The expression of pride formed on Coriolanus's fascinating face; a face that you are sure was carved by blessed souls.
Coriolanus admired you, agreeing how that dress, personally chosen by him, hugged your body in an exquisite way; you were perfect. — If he had the opportunity, even though he has and could snub her, Coriolanus would keep you for his eyes only.
And that spark of thought, an idea began to sink into the head of the boy, or rather, the man Snow every day, minute and second.
"My beautiful girl." — Coriolanus directed his steps towards you, causing some noises on the floor coming from his shiny and expensive shoes; shoes worth half the lives of the Panem. — "So beautiful…"
"Thank you, Coryo." — A thank you in such a fragile voice, almost coming out as a whisper; deep down, you didn't want to thank him for that compliment because you felt like it wasn't really meant for you.
Now the presence of Coriolanus was behind you and joining the mirror; the difference in height drew so much attention, giving you butterflies in your stomach. — You couldn't justify whether it was the excitement of seeing him or the intimidating feeling he showed, but you didn't deny the happiness that grew in your chest. — He was there with you.
Well, a different reflection of the Coriolanus you knew but he was there.
Without saying anything or even sighing, Coriolanus passed his arms covered by the long-sleeved white t-shirt, which was very reminiscent of his dear father's, around your waist; his hands passed over the slightly rough but comfortable fabric of the dress. — There was nothing comfortable about that dress for you. — Distributing a simple squeeze, a sign of wanting your attention, in the region.
For a second, you held your breath, not knowing the reason for this action, and your eyes focused on the mirror. — Coriolanus' head resting on your shoulder, his lips forming a convinced and enchanted smile before you; equal to a man when building a work with perfection and a lot of dedication.
"That dress looks perfect on you." — His dangerous and arrogant lips left long kisses on your neck and areas close to your shoulder; it tickled, it didn't bother you, and it let silent grunts escape your mouth. — "Don't you agree, my dear?" — Coriolanus wanted to elicit a specifically positive and obedient response from you.
At that very moment, and for the first time that morning, Snow didn't get what he wanted. — No words came out of your mouth, just a miserable sigh; still feeling his kisses on your sensitive part of your body.
"Answer me." — He interrupted the sealing session with his authoritative voice, a tone of voice that he began to present in recent times; Coriolanus listened and watched you swallow hard. — "Or are you not satisfied with everything i have done and given you?" — He was bitter and so cruel at the same time with those words.
and God, that's not what you were thinking.
"No, Coryo!" — Was it a scream? You didn't even realize that you had let out a very loud tone of voice. — "No, no." — Shaking your head quickly and disagreeing with the fallacies your lover uttered, you tried to calm the situation. — "That dress was great, i loved it."
Now, a nervous and distressed smile formed on your beautiful and stubborn lips against Coriolanus' venomous and superb smile. — He had you in his cold, rich hands, he had you in the cage like a little bird crying for freedom. — He had you.
"You don't know how happy i'm about this, my love."
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ohnoitstbskyen · 4 months
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I heard a raw line from Guilllermo Del Toro the other day about monsters being the perfect way to express human failure:
“…monsters, I believe, are patron saints of our blissful imperfection, and they allow and embody the possibility of failing.”
And i was wondering your take on this quote in relation to things like vampire and werewolf and other semi-monster subtexts. “Monstrous” humans that are ironically allowed to act more human more often than… humans. I just find the attempt to make an outlet for imperfection while still at large criticizing it fascinating.
I mean, yeah, there's a long history of interpreting monsters through queer, anti-colonial, feminist and other Outsider lenses for exactly those reasons. The monster is the Other who is vilified by the in-group, which represents all that the in-group hates. The monster must, by its nature, fail to live up to the standards and expectations of the in-group, which is why it must be destroyed. But that also means the monster is free from the standards and expectations of the in-group, including oppressive and bigoted ones.
So, as an example, if you're queer, and rhetorically treated as inhuman and monstrous and diseased anyway, or eugenically classified as a deviant mutation or sub-derivation of "real" people, there is real appeal and a real sense of resistance in claiming monsterhood, in embracing it and glorying in it.
In part, that's what the rallying cry "we're here, we're queer, get used to it!" meant and still means. It is a reclaiming of monsterhood as a source of strength and community and pride, rather than shame. Slurs are used to Other queer people, to set them apart from "real" people and mark them out as a monstrous deviation from the virtuous norm - slurs are used to call us monsters. And thus a lot of queer people find a lot of power and freedom in reclaiming them, in turning their Othering into a flag to rally around.
And I think that's still a big part of the appeal of the monster, honestly, that freedom from being what someone else thinks you ought to be.
If you're a monster, you don't have to have the perfect body, you don't have to suppress your lust or your love. You don't have to shave your body hair or dress correctly for your assigned gender, or have a white picket fence house with a spouse and 2.3 children. You don't have to sit primly at the dinner table, you don't have to repress your emotions, you don't have to hate the foreigner or despise the gays or fear the trans agenda. You don't have to have a small, straight nose or perfect cheekbones, you don't have to wait to fuck until you're married, or pretend you want to fuck at all. You don't have to want to get rich or be a CEO, you don't have to pull yourself up by your bootstraps or be on your grindset, or cheer when the cops clear out a homeless camp.
To be a monster is to be free from the inhumanity that is forced on us by white supremacy, by fatphobia, by heteronormativity, by imperialism, and by the interests of capital. To be a monster is to be human in all the ways that are inconvenient to oppression.
... but I went off on a tangent there a little bit - vampires and werewolves, right. I have no theoretical or academic basis for any of this, so this is entirely a personal hot take, but I think vampires are perhaps a bit more about "passing" as a fantasy. Not necessarily in a gender sense, but the ability to keep your true nature undetected by the "normal" folk, while the secret things that make you different also make you dangerous and powerful. Surviving by stealing sustenance from a world that hates you, on terms that are entirely yours to dictate. "I will survive even if it kills you," that kind of vibe.
Werewolves, on the other hand, feel more like a defiant, angry embrace of the monstrous. Transforming into something vast and powerful and furious, growing out of your skin, out of your form, out of your boundaries; howling your nature to the moon and mauling any motherfucker who has a problem with it. Giving in to all the beastly unnatural urges, and diving into the horrible monstrous wants and desires that boil inside you (which, remember, include things like Not Wanting To Fuck or Wanting To Hold A Girl's Hand In A Lesbian Sort Of Way). Less the "I outfoxed your social game and drank you dry" slick vampire power fantasy and more the "call me a slur one more time and I'm going to wear your entrails like a fucking scarf" power fantasy.
Again, that's just personal hot takes, everyone's understanding of the monstrous in relation to themselves is different. I've seen a number of genderfluid and nb people use monstrousness as a way to defy occupying a shape that can be gendered for example.
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Coriolanus Snow's character is so fascinating to me.
At the movie's beginning, he is just this sweet boy, just trying to protect his family, keep them alive, and protect his tribute and keep her alive. And you adore him, and you're rooting for him; by the time you get to the end of the movie, he's slowly twisted everything around, until suddenly, he's not the person you thought he was, and even though you saw glimpses of that person, he's gone now, and you don't like what's left.
The thing I love is that you can see the inner fight that was there all along, the darker side is represented a lot by how Coriolanus is similar to his father and connects back to his past. He gives up pieces of that person throughout the games where Lucy Grey is his tribute, sacrificing them in the form of a handkerchief (a piece of his dad) that has the potential to implicate him in a crime that would cost him his life, but also the potential to grant Lucy Grey hers. You can see it in the way he gives her his dead mother's compact full of rat poison. In the way he cheats to save her, even with the knowledge that he won't gain anything from it. You can see it in the way that he lets her in on secrets he's guarded so fiercely from his capital friends. Living in a world where he has almost no control.
He also has close zero regard for the people in the arena with whom he has no connection. He convinces a classmate to help kill her tribute to save his, and he tells Tigress he felt powerful killing a little boy (a feeling she connected back to his dad). Things that grow smaller in comparison to his love for Lucy Grey, the affection he shows for Sejanus, the way he cares for his family, and the relationship he has with Tigress.
It's in the second part of the movie that things start to go awry. he gets his father's handkerchief and his mother's compact back. along with those pieces of himself. His hair is buzzed, and he's shipped away from his family, who were the original motivation for everything, most importantly the motivation behind befriending Lucy Grey. He has nothing. Seajanus ends up joining him and they go together to District 12, where he has even less control than he did before.
Coriolanus stands by while an innocent man hangs. He holds Sejanus back from stopping it to keep him safe. He gets in a fight with Lucy Grey's cheating ex. His best friend gets him out. He gives Lucy Grey the last piece of his parents he has with him. He gives the girl he loves all of his trust. He betrays Sejanus to the capital. He tries to protect his best friend. He kills a woman, putting them all in danger. He killed her to keep them safe. It's his fault Sejanus hangs for treason. His best friend cries for him right before he dies. He runs away with Lucy Grey to keep himself safe. He runs away with his lover so they can be together. He lies about Sejanus's death, so Lucy Grey leaves him. He lies about his best friend's death, to keep his love with him.
He abandons his friend and is abandoned by his lover because of it. He breaks trust, and so his trust is broken.
He gets all the pieces of himself back with his mother's shawl Lucy Grey leaves for him to find.
He had so many opportunities to be good, and you could see that he was fighting against the worst part of himself. And yet, you can also see him fighting less and less as time goes on, eventually, once he gets all of the pieces back he stops fighting. He goes back to the capitol, prepared to do whatever it takes to gain control. He's not a victim of circumstances or his childhood, Tigress proves that. But he is a victim of the choices he had to make.
Coriolanus Snow is such a complex character, who is shaped by his own choices, and the people in his life, who he can never really escape, the echoes of which will follow him throughout his whole life.
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lilpomelito · 8 months
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“What's wrong with Pop music?”
Eddie stops mid rant and spins around. Steve is sitting upside down on the sofa, staring at the ceiling, his silky hair touching the floor.
“I mean,” Steve continues, his voice a little strained by his position, “if so many people like it, there has to be something good about it, right?”
Eddie shares a look with Jonathan, hoping to find an ally, but the man looks zonked out of his mind. Argyle really brought the good shit with him.
“That's not the point, Stevie,” Eddie explains as he sits down on the floor next to the guy's head. “It's popular because it's the only shit the big corpos are pushing on the radio. It's what everyone listens to, so everyone thinks they have to like it to be liked. To be accepted. And it's not even good music! Where's the artistic merit in cheap studio synthesizers mixed with braindead lyrics like wake me up before you go go?"”
Steve frowns. “Not all popular music is like that. Also what's wrong with wanting to be liked?”
“Do you not like Freddie Mercury?” Robin gasps, lifting her head from Steve's stomach, and she sounds heavily offended.
Eddie blinks for second, confused as to where the conversation has suddenly turned. But Steve nods, apparently following her line of reasoning.
“Yeah, man. Queen is like, the most popular band in history. Do they not have artistic merit?”
“No, of course not, that's not what I–”
“And the government is not conspiring to push pop music, Eddie, we've seen they're too busy experimenting on children and opening portals to a parallel dimension,” Robin says.
“What about Bowie?” Steve says. “You loved Labyrinth. Didn't shut up about it for like a week. He's pop!”
“The point,” Eddie insists, flustered, avoiding to watch directly Steve's upside down smirk, “is forced conformity. Queen are all nerds! Bowie is a huge nerd. Where would they be now if they had played high school football?”
Jonathan nods slowly, but doesn't comment.
“What about astronauts?” Nancy asks, from where she's sitting at Johnathan's feet. “They're nerds, yes, but they also have to be in great physical shape. I bet most of them were athletes in school.”
“Yeah, totally!” Steve nods. “Remember Casey Johnson? He was captain of the basketball team when I was a freshman. He was valedictorian, and I think he went to Standford on a sports scholarship!”
“Yeah, I remember him,” Robin says, rolling her eyes. “One of my friends had a huuuuge crush on him.”
Steve's cheeks go red. He incorporates himself, despite Robin's protests, and sits on the couch like a normal person.
“Whatever. He was a nerd and an athlete. What's conformist about that?”
Eddie stares at him, narrowing his eyes. “Nothing, I guess. Or everything. He succeeded at academia, which was designed to shape kids into exploitable workers under capitalism—”
Jonathan groans behind him.
“—and made captain in a sport that's basically throwing balls into laundry baskets and calling it strategy. Praising people for that to the point where schools are giving scholarships is a little too much.”
“You try it, then, man,” Argyle calls from where he's laying on the rug, star shape style. “I bet you ten bucks you can't win at throwing laundry into baskets against Steve. Or my boy Lucas.”
Robin laughs maniacally. “Oh, I want to see that! Steve please destroy him, his ego needs a little humbling.”
The conversation moves on after that, since everybody looks like they're already over Eddie's rant. He doesn't mind, really. It's fun to ramp up the dramatic indignation against The Man, or whatever. It always causes a reaction, and even people who agree with him somewhat eventually hit a limit. Eddie likes to stick his finger and find that limit.
But not Steve. He's looking at Eddie like he's fascinating.
“You're a hypocrite.”
Eddie falters, biting down a smirk. “How come?”
Steve scoots a little closer. “You want to be a rockstar. You don't just want to live off making music. You want to be famous. You want people to like you.”
Eddie stares at him for a second, frozen in place.
“That's not—”
But Steve smiles, gentle. “That's alright. We all do. And you want to know a secret about being popular?”
Eddie can't resist. For all he protests about popularity and conformity and being so normal everybody likes you, he does wonder what it feels like to be on the other side. So he nods.
Steve smiles sadly. “It doesn't actually change anything. You think it means more people like you, but it just means more people are aware of you. What you do, what you say. Who are your friends, who you date. Where you go, when you go there. And at some point you feel like you can't escape it. And yeah, you do start to conform to the norm. Not because you think it's what's best but because you're so aware of people's opinions of you that you always choose the path of least resistance.”
Eddie... has never considered that. He moves a little closer to Steve as his voice goes quiet.
“You think it was fun to run into a random suburban mom in the grocery store and have her be furious at me because I was dating Susan Davis? Who apparently was her daughter's cousin, and she had a crush on me, and was planning on asking me to prom? How on earth was I supposed to know that? And she was double mad that I didn't even know who her daughter was. Like there's two hundred kids in Hawkins High. I can't know everyone!”
Eddie tries not to laugh, because Steve seems upset by this, but the situation is kind of ridiculous.
“And I think they got into their heads that because they knew of me I was supposed to also know them. But they didn't actually know me. I made prom King, people were mad. I was captain of the basketball team, people were mad. I then turned down being captain of the swim team and was just co-captain, people were still mad. I took a job, and people made fun of me. I lost that job because the mall caught on fire, people also made fun of me. I took another job, and people say I'm "wasting my potential", whatever that means. I don't know man. I think you can never win with people.”
Eddie grabs Steve's hand, touching softly his palm. It seems to work, and Steve relaxes a tiny bit under his touch.
What Steve said sounded exactly like what Eddie was talking about: the pressure to be what society wants, not what you want. He can tell it's a touchy subject for Steve, who has been under the crushing spotlight of being a relatively small town's golden boy.
So Eddie doesn't push any further.
“You got me there, though,” he says.
Steve smiles again. “Yeah?”
“Yeap,” Eddie nods. “I do want to be a famous rockstar. I do want to be known and liked and admired. I've never had that. But I guess you're right. We can't have it both ways.”
Robin, who up to that point had been discussing with Argyle the difference between an oboe and a clarinet, jumps in. “It's the horrifying ordeal of being known.”
Steve laughs. Eddie can't help it, his laugh is too contagious. He can't understand how people in this hellscape of a town ever looked at this boy and thought "he's not enough." With him? He gets it. Eddie's list of failures is a mile long. But Stevie? Sunshine incarnate, puppy-eyed, bitchy beautiful and smart Steve Harrington? There's nothing to complain about.
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eternal-vambraces · 2 months
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Hard Words, Chapter 1
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Boromir/Original Female Character, Boromir Lives, a Shire wedding, culture clashes
Rating: T (alcohol, some adult language and themes)
Chapter wordcount: 5700
See pinned post for all tags and flags
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Enjoy it, Aragorn had said. Just enjoy it.
So far, Boromir was following his king’s orders satisfactorily. He was enjoying himself. He’d been in the Shire for four days, and each day outdid the previous in hobbit hospitality. He’d started in Buckland, where he’d been welcomed into the warren-like extravagance of Brandy Hall by Merry’s extended family. The next day found him in Bywater, where after depositing his belongings at the Green Dragon, he’d spent most of his time at the Gamgee home, being clambered on by Samwise’s children and fussed over by a heavily-pregnant Mistress Rosie. The third day brought him to Tuckborough, where he was drawn into the fever-pitched excitement of the Took clan. Every step of the way, there was unending food, brown ale, enthusiastic introductions, warm reunions, laughter, and song.
Yes, Boromir thought, in a few days, he could write a very smug letter to his king assuring him that he did, in fact, follow his orders to have a good time. Then he could pack up his kit and head north to take care of his actual business—surveying the ruins of Annúminas on the shores of Lake Evendim. Aragorn hoped to restore the ancient city back to its former use as a northern capital, and when the invitation had come for a Shire wedding, it seemed the perfect opportunity to scout the old foundations. Aragorn himself couldn’t go, because Queen Arwen was expecting their second child in July, and Faramir couldn’t go, because he was hosting a diplomatic party from Harad in Ithilien for the summer.
“You’ll be better at the surveying bit than I would be, anyway,” Faramir had said morosely. “Seeing as you’ve spent the last twenty years mapping Osgiliath down to the ratholes.”
“You sound unhappy about it,” Boromir had observed.
“Well, of course. I’d like to see Pippin get married. And I expect a Shire wedding in June isn’t a thing to miss. You will take some time to enjoy it, won’t you?”
“Why does everyone think I’m not going to enjoy it?” Boromir had asked tersely. “I’m quite looking forward to it, thank you.”
“Yes, but you’re likely to spend the whole time standing by the ale barrels, trying not to talk to anyone,” Faramir had said.
“That is entirely untrue,” Boromir had lied.
Perhaps he would write to Faramir, too, just to convince his brother that he was being a perfectly gracious guest. He’d need to add some details to make it convincing. The wine served to him at Brandy Hall had been excellent. Samwise’s little daughter Elanor had hair of bright gold. Thain Paladin Took had a short sword wielded at the Battle of Fornost over the family mantel.
Dear Faramir, Boromir thought. First of all, fuck off, I’m having a fantastic time.
To be fair, the visit hadn’t been without its awkwardness. Boromir was existing in a world three feet above everyone else, looming over curly heads and tent awnings and porch roofs. His shoulders ached from hunching to go through doorways, and there was a tender spot on his forehead from the number of times he’d banged it on low ceilings. Folk chattered amiably with him, but half the time he missed what they said, if they happened to look away while they said it. He was constantly begging folks’ pardon and asking them to repeat themselves. People were fascinated by his boots, and he was unsure if he should take them off inside. The one time he did, he shocked everyone by having stockings on underneath. And then, of course, there was the overriding factor that he was in the Shire to attend Pippin Took’s wedding, which was a difficult concept to wrap his head around because Boromir still thought of Pippin as an actual child.
“He’s nearing forty,” Merry said for the dozenth time as he led Boromir up the road. “We have cousins who’ve gotten married a decade younger than him.”
“I know,” Boromir said, stepping carefully across a small footbridge—he wasn’t sure the structure would bear his weight. He’d already broken a chair in Brandy Hall, which Saradoc Brandybuck refused to let him pay for. “I just can’t fathom it. I still think of him as an imp throwing rocks into pits in Moria.”
“Well, he is,” Merry said. “But he’s a grown lad all the same. And he and Diamond have known each other since they were toddlers. She’ll keep him in line. Though, she has her own sense of humor, too. Nobody could commit to Pippin for life without a sense of humor.”
Boromir had gotten that impression when he’d met Pippin’s affianced the previous day in Tuckborough. She was smiley and sparkle-eyed, her acorn-colored cheeks going rosy when he bowed over her hand as he would for any new female acquaintance.
“You’d best keep the lads and lasses a good distance from him,” she blustered to Pippin as she smoothed her flowered skirt. “They’ll be as curious as spring colts.”
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Boromir had assumed—had hoped—that she simply meant folk would be startled by his size, because he could not fathom any hobbit looking at him with anything more than childlike wonder.
They’re adults, he reminded himself, over and over. Grown and married with babes of their own. They have jobs and households. They elect leaders. Pay taxes.  
Though, it was difficult to imagine such mundane things while tramping through the Shire in June. Everything was in a fling of hedonistic glory. There were flowers everywhere—cascading from the hedges, twined into garlands over doorways, spilling from water pitchers on windowsills, consuming front gardens, and carpeting meadows. Bees droned indolently from bloom to bloom, and birds winged over ponds bright with dancing insects. Folk leaned on front gates, laughing merrily with their neighbors, pausing to gawk and wave at Boromir as Merry led him up the road to the sprawling Bywater festival field where, the following day, Pippin Took would marry Diamond of Long Cleeve.
Like adults. 
The road from Bywater split, and Boromir followed Merry down the left fork. They were going to the field to help unload the wagons of flowers, which were being overseen by Merry’s cousin. Second cousin. Or third? Or perhaps they weren’t related at all, but merely used the term cousin to denote any close friend. All he knew was that tomorrow, he would bear a Gondorian standard with the wedding party, as was the custom when any knight of Gondor got married, to honor Pippin’s service as a Guard of the Citadel. For aesthetic purposes—and, he suspected, to keep him from looking like a lone tree trunk in a clover field—he’d been paired with the wedding’s weaver.
“Tell me again what the weaver does at a Shire wedding?” Boromir asked.
“They’re usually an older friend or relative,” Merry said. “Fern used to take care of Diamond when she was little. They’re in charge of the flowers.”
Boromir pictured a wizened hobbit grandmother clipping roses in a garden. “The flowers the bride will carry?”
“Good heavens, the bride, the groom, the mothers and fathers, the lads and lasses, plus the ones they’ll wear in their hair, and the swags for the ceremony and the arrangements for the festival. Posies for the children, boutonnieres for the important folk, and a half-dozen other things I can’t recall right now. It’s nearly as big a job as the food.”
“Goodness,” Boromir said mildly. “I didn’t realize. Why is she called the weaver if her job is the flowers?”
“Because during the ceremony, she’ll take the garlands Pip and Diamond will wear and weave them together into one big one. She’ll also be in charge of drying the garland afterward, and presenting it back to them as a keepsake. You remember the garland over my parents’ mantel, and the one at Paladin and Eglantine’s? Those were their wedding garlands.”
Boromir thought back to fireplace at the Tooks’ hole the previous evening. He’d been more interested in the sword over the mantel—it had gorgeous quillons, incidentally, twisted to look like unfurling leaves—but he thought he remembered a string of dried flowers. Then again, Paladin and Eglantine Took had been practically drowning in flowers, gifts from well-wishers for their son’s wedding.
“So this weaver—” Boromir began.
“Fern. Whitfoot,” Merry supplied. “She’s a niece of Will Whitfoot, the mayor. Lives up that right-hand lane back there, where the old High Wood holes used to be.”
“Right, Miss Whitfoot—my job is to stand next to her?”
“You’ll walk in with her,” Merry said. “Hold her arm, you know, like an escort, and then you’ll stand behind the wedding party with her. Then walk out with her. Think you can handle that?”
“After keeping you out of trouble from Rivendell south to Minas Tirith?” Boromir replied. “I expect I can.”
“I’d argue you did a poor job of keeping us from trouble for a few weeks in the middle.”
“That,” Boromir said, “is extremely uncalled for.”
“At least you didn’t die,” Merry said, craning to look around a bend in the lane. “Then I’d have to feel really bad. Ah, that’s a sight!”
They turned the bend to find a lush green field spread before them, ringed on the far edge by dark oaks. It was a hive of activity—folk bustled about rolling barrels, erecting tents, hanging bunting, and pushing teetering barrows. True to hobbit fashion, there were musicians fueling everyone with a lively tune, and a long table laden with food and drink—even the wedding preparations were one big party.
“Hullo, Miss Bolger!” Merry exclaimed, offering a jaunty smile to a plump, brown-haired hobbit lass who was carrying bottles of cider toward the field. His fingers jumped to his sandy hair, flattening down the unruly tufts. “Help has arrived! Might I assist you?”
“You’re altogether too late, as usual, Mister Brandybuck,” the lass said over her shoulder. “This is my last load for the moment. But Fern needs help at the wagon.”
“Of course!” Merry replied, then cupped his hands at his mouth and called after her retreating back. “Tell me what flowers you’re wearing in your hair tomorrow, so I might match you!”
“As if I should want you to match me!” she called back. Boromir didn’t miss the breathless way she responded, nor the way Merry’s cheeks had turned a vibrant shade of pink.
“A good friend?” Boromir prompted innocently.
“Estella,” Merry said, unconsciously flattening his hair again. “Fatty Bolger’s sister. Always did have a cruel streak about her.” He nodded toward the other side of the field. “There’s Fern’s wagon. Let’s see what she needs.”
The weaver’s wagon wasn’t hard to spot—it was literally overflowing with flowers. Flowers in buckets, in barrels, in baskets, flowers coiled carefully in garlands and draped in swags. Boromir followed Merry toward it, picking their way among the crowds of folk, which was difficult because so many of them paused to stare up at him, shading their eyes. He and Merry neared the wagon, where folk were teeming around the edges to help unload.
“Ho!” one portly man exclaimed when he swiveled round with a crate of greenery on his shoulder. “You’re that big blighter they keep talking about!”
“I am,” Boromir agreed. “Do you need a hand?”
“Not at all, my good fellow, I’m off to the ale tent!” He hoisted the crate higher and began to totter off.
“Abenard, those go to the stage! The stage! Abenard! Merry, catch him, before he reaches the barrels.”
But Abenard had already hot-footed it away from the wagon, disappearing behind a stack of rickety wooden chairs. Boromir looked back to the wagon at the hobbit who had hollered ineffectually after him.
“Boromir, may I introduce my second cousin once-removed, Fern,” Merry said, and then shouted over the milling crowd. “Fern! Hey, Fern!” He waved up at Boromir. “This is Boromir! He’s the fellow I was telling you about, the big fellow!”
Boromir blinked at the weaver. She wasn’t a wizened old grandmother at all. She was a lass, apple-cheeked and fair-skinned, with wispy strawberry-blonde hair piled up in fluffy coils on her head. She wore a sky-blue dress with the sleeves rolled up over her elbows, covered by a white apron, which was smudged with soil. Standing as she was amid piles of flowers, she looked like a statue of Vána on a spring shrine.
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A very small, rather hassled-looking statue. She stood with her fists on her hips, staring at Boromir.
“That’s him?” she called back.
“Yeah,” Merry said, elbowing his way through the crowd to come alongside the wagon. “Captain of Gondor and all that—taught me how to use a sword. Fought off a tentacled water beast and a couple dozen orc warriors single-handed. Can’t paddle a boat for shit.”
“Oh, heavens,” Fern said, pursing her lips, which were round and remarkably pink. “His circlet’s going to need to be bigger. I don’t know what I was thinking. Dwarf, I suppose. Hey!” She snapped her fingers in Boromir’s direction. “Come here!”
Half-amused, half-dumbfounded—he’d given officers demerits for less direct offenses—he waded forward, still trying to make sense of having the kindly old hobbit matriarch in his head replaced by one so young and so pretty.
Remarkably pretty, actually.
His brain balked. How young was she? Merry had said she used to take care of Diamond, but Fern looked no older than Éowyn, and his sister-in-law was nearly half his age. Too young. Extremely, very much too young to be thought of as remarkably, strikingly pretty by an aging, banged-up Mannish soldier.
He reached the wagon, and Fern stepped from the piles of flowers to balance on the side. With no hesitation, she reached out, put her hands on Boromir’s head, and bent it downward. He was confronted with a view of her feet—bare, of course, large, long-toed, and covered with thick strawberry-blonde curls.
He felt her set her fingers in a ring about the crown of his head.
“Another few inches,” she observed, holding her fingers up and studying them. “You’re on the big side, aren’t you? Even for a Man?”
Boromir slowly raised his head up from the obeisance she’d bent him into. With her perched on the wagon’s side, they were just at eye height with each other.
“You’re not allergic to dahlias, are you?” Fern asked. “Or asters?”
Incidentally, her eyes were brown. A sort of rich leather-brown, like when he could get his vambraces to a good shine.
Could include that in the letter to Faramir.
Fern looked at Merry. “Am I speaking the wrong language to him?”
“No, no, I expect he’s just being obtuse. Hey, you great ox.” Merry stood on tiptoe and flicked Boromir’s ear mercilessly. “Are you allergic to dahlias?”
Boromir shook himself. “Forgive me, no. I’m not.”
“Asters?”
“No.”
“Good.” Fern stepped back into the loaded wagon. “You’d have had to stand out in the field if you were, and wave your flag from there. Is he not big?” She directed this last question to Merry.
“He’s a bit big, yeah,” Merry said. “Even for a Man.”
“I thought so. What a mismatched pair we’re going to make. Here.” She hefted a crate brimming with blousy, peach-colored blossoms. “You can start by bringing these to the banquet tents. There’s a second box, Merry, so don’t think you can sneak off.”
Boromir dutifully accepted the crate and backed up carefully until he was clear of the milling hobbit folk. Merry struggled to join him, and Boromir followed him up the green toward the biggest of the many tents.
“Big job, weaving a wedding,” Merry observed as they detoured around a group attempting to pound a tent stake into the turf. “But Fern always comes through.”
“How old is she?” Boromir blurted.
Merry scrunched his face in thought. “Fifty-four, maybe? Or is it fifty-five? Yes, fifty-five! Because she’s ten years older than me.”
Ignoring the fact that Merry was only two years younger than himself, Boromir threw a glance over his shoulder, back toward the wagon, where Fern was gesticulating at someone mishandling one of her garlands.
“She’s older than me,” he said, astonished.
“Is she, now?” Merry asked cheerfully. “Your Mannish ages never did make sense, did they? Seem to skip along right quick. That’s the tent we want, up there.”
Boromir turned back to their path, feeling both unsettled and a bit relieved. At least he didn’t have to feel guilty about his first impression of Fern Whitfoot. She was pretty, and hobbit ages were baffling, and that was the end of that.
They made several more trips to and from the wagon, toting piles of flowers all over the field. Boromir knew very little about flowers, but he did notice there was a definite color theme, with the dominant shade being peach, accented by whites, blues, and greens. He could write that to Faramir, as well, just to show he was paying attention. Some arrangements had more of one color than the others, and some were simply masses of the same type of flower. He wondered if there was any rhyme or reason to it, or if they’d merely been arranged based on what was available.
The June day grew hot in the peak of afternoon. Many hobbits trickled away, searching for shady places or cool interiors to take a rest. Merry made his own escape after a particularly long trek to the far side of the field, but Boromir wasn’t so worn out that he felt ready to stretch out in the shade. There was still plenty of work to be done. Rolling up his sleeves—he’d taken his jerkin off after their third trip across the field—he headed back to the wagon.
Fern wasn’t there, however, and the bed was nearly empty save for a few buckets of mismatched blossoms. Bereft of direction, he wandered toward the nearest tent, where he’d seen hobbits hanging bunting earlier. The fluttering cloth streamers were only half tacked-up and at an easy height for him to reach, and so he piled a handful of squat nails into his pocket, scrounged an undersized hammer from a crate, and moved methodically around the perimeter, tacking the bunting to each post.
He lost himself easily in the repetitive work, pausing only to sweep his hair away from his face and into a sweaty half-tail. He didn’t have any leather ties he normally used to put his hair up, and so he made do with a fragment of bunting that frayed off in his hand. Plucking at his damp shirt, he continued around the perimeter, post to post, slowly nearing the open expanse that would serve as the dancing lawn.
He was running low on nails when he caught sight of someone else on the far side of the stage, teetering on a stool to reach the upper height of one of the posts. He spied tumbles of strawberry hair. It was Fern, with a cascade of flowers slung on one arm. He watched as she stood on tiptoe, lifted the spray to the top of the post, and hung it from a hook. She clambered down from the stool, stepped back to observe her work, and then bent to the buckets around her. She selected a few blooms, climbed back up, removed a few flowers, and tucked the new ones in their places. She climbed down again, stood back, observed, and, satisfied, gathered up the stool and additional sprays to move on to the next post.
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She was coming back to fetch her buckets when Boromir approached.
“Do you need a hand?” he asked.
“Oh.” She pushed frizzing curls out of her face, which was bright pink from the heat. “I suppose. Why aren’t you off for a rest?”
“Why aren’t you?” he returned.
“Too much to do,” she said breathlessly, bending to gather the buckets. “A wedding’s weaver can plan and delegate and toil for months ahead of time, but the biggest work still ends up being the day before and the day of. I won’t sleep a wink until tomorrow night.” She slung the rope handles up her arms, where the buckets all clacked together. “But that doesn’t mean you have to.”
“I don’t idle well when other folk are working,” he admitted. “Too fidgety.” He gestured to her. “How about I take the buckets?”
She slid half of them off her arms and handed them over, and they progressed to the next post. She set down her load and positioned her stool, then stooped to collect one of her sprays.
“Oof,” she said, wrinkling her nose at the spray. “These dahlias looked much less pink by lantern light last night.” She stepped onto the stool. “I knew I was making more work for myself, but they couldn’t wait until morning.” She held up the spray, again standing on her toes, and tried to lean back at the same time to see the effect. The stool wobbled.
“Careful,” Boromir said instinctively. “Why don’t I hold it for you? Then you can stand back and look.”
Reluctantly, Fern handed him the spray and stepped down from the stool. She stood back and gazed up, her fists on her hips. She shook her head.
“No. I can’t, in good conscience, leave them looking like that. Here.” She rummaged in her buckets and selected several stems. She lifted them up to him. “Pull those blush ones out and put these in.”
“The blush…?”
“The pinky ones. On the right. Not that one—there. Yes. Pull it out.”
Boromir plucked out a flower that, in all honesty, looked the same to him as the ones she was holding. She passed a new one to him and stuck the offending bloom back in the bucket.
“Try not to kink the stem,” she said as he clumsily threaded the flower in place.
“Sorry,” he said, trying to gentle his work. “I realize I’m showing my ignorance, but are the colors really so very different from each other?”
“Pass me that one below, and I’ll show you.” He pulled out the one she indicated, and she held it up alongside another she’d taken from the bucket. “See? The main color we’re aiming for is apricot. But this one has too much pink, bordering on rose, and that risks straying into mockery.”
“Mockery?”
“Because Pip and Diamond have known each other since childhood, and have been courting for well over two years,” she said.
She must have seen his bewildered expression, because she raised an eyebrow. “You know the meanings of flowers?” At his continued silence, she shook her head. “No, of course you don’t.”
“I know some are traditional for certain events,” he said with a touch of defensiveness. “Lilies for a funeral. Chrysanthemums for a birth.”
“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude,” Fern said. “I meant merely, of course you wouldn’t know the meanings of flowers, because they’re probably a northern practice, and even if they weren’t, I can’t imagine a great lord of Gondor needing to know such things.” She held up a bloom. “These are dahlias. You know dahlias?”
“I am thoroughly aware they’re a flower,” he said, and she laughed, a bright, easy sound.
“They represent longevity,” she said. “And commitment. But the colors are important, too.” She held up the pink—blush—blossom. “Shades of rose suggest a young love—they’re something you might offer the object of your affection when you first begin courting, to express that you’re committed to a long relationship. But given after so many years of knowing another, and they tend to suggest the opposite—a lack of growth, a waning commitment, especially when paired with asters.”
He looked at the spray. “The asters are…?”
“The daisies.” She stood on tiptoe to brush the lowest examples. “They represent youthfulness, sometimes even innocence—it’s a common flower for children’s celebrations. Add in the green Bells of Tookbank, and you’re bordering on something overly saccharine and obscenely juvenile.” She grimaced at the pink—blush—dahlia and tossed it back into the bucket, handing Boromir the peach colored one.
Boromir tucked the flower into its place. “And you can avoid all that just by choosing a slightly less pink dahlia?”
“Well, I’ve been very clever, if I do say so myself,” she said, pleased. “The blue asters offset the more childish white ones by suggesting fond memories of a childhood long past. And the wormwood and the foxglove mature everything up significantly. Wormwood conveys bitterness, and foxglove suggests sensuality, but in a reliable way, sustained.” She gave a suggestive little shake of her shoulders, and Boromir couldn’t help but laugh.
“There are ferns here, too,” he said, running his fingers down one of the fronds. “What do they mean?”
Fern smiled. “Secrets.”
“Truly?”
“They grow tucked up in deep woodlands,” she said, taking one from the bucket and threading it through her hair, then offering him a purposefully mysterious smile. “Hidden away, unfurling where you least expect them. But I admit—they’re also there as a bit of a signature.” She waved to the completed spray. “So all together, we’re suggesting a youthful love that has grown into something mature, intimate, and long-lasting, that has overcome the bitterness of separation and grief.” She smiled at the display. “But overall—the overarching theme—is joy. That’s what Diamond and Pippin wanted way back last year when we were choosing their weavings.”
“Remarkable,” Boromir said, studying the spray with her. “You are truly a master.”
Fern looked sideways at him. “You’re poking fun.”
“Indeed I’m not,” he said. “When Merry was describing a weaver’s job, he told me there was more to it than just providing flower arrangements, but I had no idea it was so nuanced. And I can think of no better theme to celebrate Pippin and Diamond.”
“Well, they should serve,” Fern said modestly, pulling the fern frond from her hair. A piece of it was left behind, caught in her curls. Boromir decided not to say anything about it. A secret. He smiled and hefted the buckets.
“Next post?” he asked.
“Next post,” she agreed.
They made their way around the dancing green, with Boromir setting the swags in place and then replacing or adjusting the flowers as Fern directed. Once they reached the end, Fern led him to the ceremony lawn, where there were great sprays to secure over a willow archway. The peak of the arch was tall even for him, and he had to stretch to tie in the uppermost stems. Partway through, with his hands buried in greenery, the cloth fragment holding his hair frayed apart, and his hair flopped down into his sweaty face. He puffed to sweep the strands out of his eyes, but he only succeeded in sticking them to his cheeks.
Fern laughed as he tied the last stem and wobbled backward, flinging his head to throw the hair out of his face. She reached into her own curls and pulled out a ribbon, made of tatted lace, fixing the loose locks in place under a pin.
“Crouch down,” she said. “I’ll put it up for you.”
He shook his head. “I’m wretchedly sweaty.”
She shrugged. “I am, too. Besides.” She dangled the lace ribbon. “It’ll look ever so pretty.” She jerked her chin. “Down, I say. On your knees. Unless you prefer to look like a blown haystack.”
Grudgingly, he lowered to the ground, his knees cracking in protest. Fern moved around behind him and raked his hair back from his eyes.
“You know,” he said mildly, “I have whole brigades of men who are required to stand, salute, and call me sir when I approach. In case you were thinking folk can typically order me to my knees and scorn my appearance.”
“Is that a fact?” she said, her voice muffled because she was pinching the lace ribbon in her mouth as she swept his hair back, though it didn’t hide her wry tone.
“Whole divisions, actually,” he said. “My own brother is expected to call me sir during parade. Even Pippin, as a Knight of Gondor, should technically call me sir.”
“And does he?”
“Not once,” Boromir said, and she laughed again. He smiled at the sound. Her fingers carded his scalp, and his eyelids fluttered involuntarily.
“All those subordinates,” she said, “standing and saluting and bobbing and bowing, and yet, has one ever given you a ribbon and offered to tie up your hair?”
“Never,” he admitted, still smiling. Both Legolas and Gimli had had opinions about the best way to put his hair up as it grew out over the journey south, but Boromir suspected it was more of a power struggle between them rather than any real concern for his comfort. Their approaches had involved braiding—small, pinching, patience-testing braids from Legolas and great yanking handfuls from Gimli. Fern wasn’t braiding—she seemed to be twirling, looping each strand around her finger before securing it in a loose bun.
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“You’ll need to brush it before tomorrow,” she said. “I’ll not be seen processing in with some unkempt, boot-shod tower of a foreigner for sweet Di and Pip’s wedding.”
“For you, Lady Weaver, I shall suffer for beauty,” he said. “Though I regret the best garments I brought are the formal dress blacks and full ceremonial kit of the Citadel Captaincy. I hope it shall suffice for you.”
“Black?” Her shocked face popped around his shoulder. She leveled a piercing gaze at him. “Black, for a Bywater wedding in June?”
He crooked a grin at her. “There’s some white and silver, too.”
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She cast her eyes skyward, as if searching for patience, and then she disappeared around his back again. “Oh, mercies, we really are going to make a ragged pair.”
“There are flowers embossed into the uniform belt, if that helps,” he said.
“Oh, yes?” The tail of the ribbon dropped into his face as she wound the other end around his knot of hair. A floral scent washed his nose. “What kind of flowers?”
“The kind that bloom on the White Tree of Gondor,” he said. He craned his head around to catch sight of her. “What complex meaning do those convey?”
“Skies, I don’t know. Probably excess pride and self-importance, if you are wearing them. Eyes front. Sir.”
He grinned and turned around once more. Fern finished wrapping the ribbon around his hair and then came around to his front, observing her work with pursed lips. She batted a few short wisps that defied the bun. “There. It’ll hold for a little while. I’m sorry it was so humbling for you, but you can stop your posturing now.”
“I do thank you,” he said. “Truly. I don’t mean to posture.”
She threw him a look of feigned shock. “No? How else would we simple country folk recognize you as a great commanding lord?” She swished out her blue skirts, affecting a curtsy.
“Now you are poking fun,” he said.
“I am. I admit it.” Her gaze traveled past him, where the shadows were lengthening across the wedding field and hobbits were straggling back from their afternoon rest. “Had a good nap, did you?” she called.
“Indeed I did not!�� Footsteps pattered behind Boromir, and he turned to see Merry approaching with Pippin and Diamond. “I was supporting the happy couple as they decided which ales to serve before the feasting versus during.”
“Oh, Fern, it looks marvelous!” Diamond, her dark brown curls flying, threw her arms around Fern, gazing at the spills of flowers that festooned every post. She kissed the older hobbit’s rosy cheek. “It’s exactly how I imagined it!”
“I’m glad,” Fern replied, returning the bride’s kiss. “I shouldn’t want anything less.” She nodded to Pippin. “A stroke of genius, Pip, to invite your commanding officer—the work went much faster with him marching around. He says you should call him sir, by the way.”
“Ha!” Pippin exclaimed, bounding to Boromir’s side and flinging himself onto his shoulders, making Boromir collapse forward onto his hands and knees. “I shall call him sir when he gives me cause to! Where were you at the defense of the Citadel, you great troll? You were out bobbing around on a boat, weren’t you? Where were you at the Battle of Bywater? With your feet up in the White Tower! Sir, indeed—the cheek!”
“I could literally have you court-marshalled,” Boromir said, his head hanging at his elbows under Pippin’s weight.
“Not on the eve of my wedding,” Pippin said. “Think how my bride would suffer. Have you eaten, Fern? My mother brought sausage pies.”
“I’ll eat later,” she said. “I have to arrange the banquet tables. You go. Oh—and be sure everyone who needs personal flowers tomorrow knows to meet me at the wagon before the ceremony.” She looked at Boromir as he muscled Pippin off his back and straightened to his knees. “And I must remember to lengthen yours. Else you’ll look ridiculous.” She shook her head. “Black. Honestly.” She turned away, scooping up her buckets and toting them off.
Diamond twisted her hands together. “Poor Fern. She’s run herself ragged. Since I was little, I always knew I wanted her to be my weaver, but now I worry I’ve asked too much of her.”
“Nonsense.” Pippin kissed her hair. “When has Fern ever met a challenge she couldn’t handle?”
“Yes, but if anyone deserves a nice, restful celebration, it’s her,” Diamond said, chewing her lip.
“Honestly, she probably prefers to be busy,” Merry said. “Keeps her mind off things, you know.” He patted Diamond’s shoulder. “Come on. Boromir should try one of Eglantine’s pies before they’re snatched up.”
Boromir glanced at Fern’s retreating back. “It keeps her mind off what?” he asked Merry.
“Oh, you know. The crushing grief of warfare and bloodshed. Cold, dark loneliness.” Merry waved a hand. “Come on. Pie.”
Boromir relaxed. Merry was joking, then, as he usually did. Warfare and bloodshed had decimated the south, but they had barely grazed the Shire, and Boromir certainly couldn’t imagine bleak loneliness in the boisterous summertime gardens of Bywater. Tucking the loose tail of the lace ribbon behind his ear, he followed Merry to the banquet tables.
Masterpost | Next Chapter>
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milksockets · 5 months
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why scan?
scanning is something i've done for probably about 12 years now (i'm ancient, for this site), with varying degrees of regularity, intensity, etc. it has ratcheted up since the dawn of 2023, though, which begs the question: why? why put so much time into what could not-wrongly be considered a passive activity, hunched over a piece of clunky machinery with the express purpose of preserving others' creations? the answers are several, and fascinating (not really).
i am a [sober] drug addict. anything i pursue, consume, create--more often than not--ends up taking on addictive qualities. i'll eat the same specific food item for a month, then never want to see, let alone taste it, again. i'll listen to one song on repeat for days until i'd rather hear nails on a chalkboard than have it shuffle on and assault my ears. one of the reasons that my scanning has increased in volume recently is that i acquired library cards to the 3 nyc library systems: nypl, brooklyn, and queens. as soon as i was able to, i pillaged + plundered those fine centers of learning, leaving any given library with as many hefty scan-worthy books as i could [barely] carry. here, finally, was a *free* way of obtaining more + more + more visual media to consume.
2023 saw me get my first legal, full-time job. as such, my adjusting to that hellish reality resulted in a steep decline in my own personal creative output. collaging, writing, and rapping all fell to the wayside as i slowly acclimated to a life of work that almost everyone else my age has known for over a decade is generally unbearable + detrimental to the maintenance of outside pursuits. in times of famine within my own artistic harvest, scanning, archiving, and sharing others' work is a means of feeling as though i am still contributing to the global oeuvre.
there’s an element of losing my mental self in a series of physical motions that becomes almost automatic after some time. “zoning out” is not something endemic to my daily life; if anything, i’m almost always too zoned in. relief is necessary.  especially considering the shitshow this past year has been in terms of my personal life.
i am a product of capitalism’s cultivating a craving for constant consumption. 
it seems that visual content is only going to continue to get more + more uninspired. has everything been done? did social media ruin it all? in any case, i feel a need to document the past. to a degree, it’s my version of doomsday prepping. (god forbid books go extinct altogether.) 
i have always gravitated towards solitary activities. this topic could be a thesis in its own right.
i thrive on external validation. this reliance is something i’ve improved upon over the past several years, but it hasn’t been altogether extinguished. even though the materials i scan are not of my own creation, i nevertheless feel a vague pride in showcasing them. occasional appreciation thereof satisfies this fixation on others’ attention, albeit in a diluted form. 
i am fortunate to live in a city bursting to the gills with cultural institutions. i am also lucky enough to have some disposable income that can be directed toward fulfilling my ravenous desire for visual media. 
p.s. i provide the information available to me for everything i post. (those lacking credits are because they were excavated from a primordial hard drive.) you are more than welcome to bugger off + research further, but there's little point messaging me asking for--or, more often, on here, charmlessly demanding--additional details.
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kiss-me-cill-me · 2 months
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The Ninth Crewmember
Pairing: Robert Capa x Reader
Word Count: 4.9k
Summary: You are the ninth crewmember aboard Icarus II, and as the journey wears on you begin to find it harder and harder to ignore your feelings for Capa. Maybe it would be easier if he'd quit dragging you into bed with him...
Warnings: Smut, mentions of reader taking birth control pills as well as other medications, mild angst/pining, nightmares, literal sleeping together, the fun kind of sleeping together, Capa is a bit of a dick but also a sadboi, teasing, begging, use of "good girl" (whoops), bad puns
A/N: Can you tell that I struggle with titles haha? Anyway, finally getting around to cross-posting this from AO3 in my continued attempts to fuel @cillmequick's Capa thots 😉
***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***
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Your fingers hovered over the panel, looking for the button you were supposed to press. They were all clearly labeled, but there were so many of them that you were having a hard time locating the one you needed. Your index finger moved hesitantly closer to a square near the bottom right of the panel.
“Not that one.”
Capa’s voice behind you made you jump. He sounded… not exactly annoyed, but tired by having to explain again what you were supposed to be doing. Your cheeks heated up as he leaned in close, chin hovering just above your shoulder as he looked at the panel.
“That one.”
He pointed at a button in the lower left, which, embarrassingly, was flashing bright orange and labeled “TEST” in all capital letters. You felt the need to apologize, but held your tongue. Capa went back to doing whatever it was he had been concentrating on before, at the other end of the room. The space he left in his wake felt oddly noticeable.
“Okay,” he said, taking his time to flip a couple of switches above his head. “Ready in three… two… one…”
You pressed the button as he finished counting down, and instantly the room in front of the control chamber was filled with spots of twinkling light. They seemed to dance over every surface for just a moment. The display lasted for less than three seconds, but it was breathtaking even in impermanence. 
You looked over at Capa, your eyes still shining with the beauty of it, only to see him calmly taking notes. His expression was carefully neutral, lips pressed together as he scribbled with short, purposeful strokes. 
“Capa?” you asked.
“Hm?”
He didn’t look up as he continued to record his observations, and you didn’t wait for him to before continuing.
“Do you think the real thing will look like that?”
Capa stopped writing for a moment, and seemed to consider your question seriously before answering.
“No,” he said finally, putting his stylus down and fixing you with a gaze that made you breath stop. “Even after watching a thousand of these simulations, I don’t think that any one of them could ever capture the true beauty. What it will really look like.”
You were standing a few feet away from him, fixed in place by his intense gaze. Something about Capa had fascinated you, from the moment you’d stepped aboard Icarus II. His bluntness, maybe, or the way his eyes seemed to scan over everything in front of him, as if he were reading it all - people, data, situations - like they were a book. And you would be lying if you said that it didn’t make your heart swell whenever he did it to you.
“You and I will be some of the only people to ever live who will see something so magnificent,” Capa said quietly. “We should count ourselves lucky.”
You nodded in agreement, too entranced and too afraid of flubbing your words to reply.
“Thank you for your help,” Capa continued. He went back to note taking, as if he hadn’t just been waxing poetic about life and the universe. “You can go.”
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Capa’s words rang in your head as you made your way to the medbay. It had been hours since you’d left his lab, but the weight still seemed to resonate. A beauty unlike anything anyone had ever seen before. You reflected on the thought as you reported to Searle, to help with a few things before going to bed.
One of Searle’s duties was handing out supplements, and he often asked for your help with making the deliveries. Icarus II was a very large ship, and your fellow crewmembers were usually spread out in the various quarters and chambers. It was faster to do the job with two people.
Before heading off, you worked on separating various pills into small plastic cups, one for each person. There were quite a few pills that everyone had to take every day. Space travel was hard on the body, and it was difficult if not impossible to get all of the necessary nutrients from the food you had aboard. Even with the gardens and the ability to have fresh vegetables, you all still had to take a lot of supplements. 
You finished doling out the vitamins, and then opened the final bottle of pills. You, Cassie, and Corazon also received one other daily medication: an oral contraceptive. You dropped three little pills into three little cups.
As you replaced the bottle’s lid, your mind drifted again to Capa. The weight of him hovering just behind you, so close that you could feel his breath against your cheek. You wondered if he had any idea that he made your heart flutter just by being next to you. If he did, he certainly didn’t show it. Capa was incredibly hard to read, but for some reason that only made you want him all the more. Your thoughts wandered, imagining things that you knew would never happen. His hand reaching out to you; the feel of his fingers against your waist; his beautiful blue eyes rolling back as he-
You slammed the bottle of pills down on the counter, banishing the fantasies before you could get too wrapped up in them. It was a bad idea to sleep with your coworkers. The birth control pills were mandated for female crewmembers, but they were precaution rather than permission. Nine people cooped up together, for years. It was better to prevent any potential problems from happening. It was only logical to mitigate the risk. But that didn’t mean that relationships were encouraged.
And besides, you told yourself, it's not like Capa would be interested anyway.
You picked up the little plastic vial with your pills, and tipped them all into your mouth, swallowing quickly. 
They burned your throat on the way down.
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Capa’s eyes looked almost white in the vivid yellow light of the sun. He looked at the dying star, and you looked at him, breathless again at the way he seemed to silently consider everything in front of him. The edges of his thumbs ghosted over his lips as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, as if to get just a bit closer to that magnificent light.
You were sitting in the observatory, Capa’s empty vial of pills placed precariously on the edge of the bench between you. It had taken you quite a while to find him. He often stayed up late working in his lab, and it was almost rare to see him outside of it. He had been your last delivery, so you figured it wouldn’t hurt to sit with him awhile before heading to your quarters.
You’d been wrong, of course; it hurt more than anything to sit next to him and not have the courage, or the recklessness, to reach out and touch him. As he looked on with amazement at the pulsating sun, you tore your eyes away from him to peer out as well. Dark webs of red and black stretched over the star’s surface. It was strange to think about - how up close it all looked so different from how it had back on Earth. It took up the entire viewing window; so large that it almost felt like it could swallow you at any moment, despite still being millions of miles away.
As he leaned forward, Capa’s dog tags dangled in front of his chest. You wanted nothing more than to grab them. Wrap your fingers around the thin cord holding them, and pull him to you until you both tumbled off the edge of something and into the blazing unknown. 
Your tongue darted out to lick your lips. Chapped from the heat of the sun.
“It’s getting late,” you whispered, hoping that he would break the spell so that you wouldn’t have to. “You should get to bed, Capa.”
“Hard to when the sun’s always right there, isn’t it?” he asked, cryptically. 
“I guess it is,” you agreed. “But you should still get some rest.”
Capa nodded, and rose from the bench, crushing his empty cup in his hand. He looked back at you, seemed as if he was about to say something, and then left the room without uttering a word. You let out a rough breath, shaking even as you were bathed in the glowing light.
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A noise woke you up from your fitful sleep. You’d had a lot of trouble closing your eyes in the first place - probably because of the way your heart was still hammering in your chest, and the way your mind was racing from the events of the day. Still, it was odd to hear any sort of noise at night. Usually the hallways of the ship were deserted, as the crew all slept in their separate chambers. You listened closely, trying to identify the noise through the haze of sleep still clouding your senses.
You heard it again: a muffled banging followed by what sounded like someone struggling. 
Curious, you got out of bed and padded softly across the floor of your small room. The door slid open soundlessly, and as you stepped out into the hall you heard the noise a third time. Now you could clearly tell that it was coming from across the hall. Capa’s room.
You hesitated for a moment, closed fist raised and ready to knock. He probably wouldn’t want you to bother him, but what if something was wrong and you ignored it? You wouldn’t be able to forgive yourself. You knocked.
Another muffled sound came from inside, unintelligible. 
“Capa?” you whispered, lips pressed as close to the door as you could manage. You didn’t want to wake anyone else up.
There was no answer.
Well, you were already here. You might as well go in and make sure he was okay, just in case. Pressing the small button to open the door, you slipped quietly into his room. The door slid closed behind you.
Capa’s room was entirely dark, unlike the faint, recessed glow of the hallway. It took your eyes a moment to adjust, but when they finally did you could see Capa asleep in his bed, thrashing against some unseen threat. He was having a nightmare.
Immediately, you felt embarrassed. You shouldn’t have barged in; this was his personal space. He was vulnerable, and clearly going through something unpleasant. Knowing Capa, you felt certain that he wouldn’t want any of the others seeing him like this, including you. His brows creased and lips pressed feverishly together in his sleep. You turned to leave, feeling foolish.
“Who’s there?”
The sound of Capa’s voice behind you made you freeze. Just like earlier, in the lab, a shiver inched down your spine at the thought of facing him. You took a deep breath, steadying yourself.
“It’s me,” you responded, turning around.
He was sitting up in bed, blankets pooled around his waist. Shirtless. You felt your face heating up, and were relieved that he couldn’t see your eyes widen in the dark.
“Oh,” said Capa softly. “What are you doing here?”
“I, um… I heard something and I just wanted to make sure you were alright.”
Against your better judgment, you took a few steps toward him as you spoke. There was a chair next to his bed, and you sat in it, leaning forward on your elbows as you tried to read his expression. The lines of his face betrayed nothing, as usual.
“Is… everything okay?” you asked hesitantly.
Capa swallowed before answering, his eyes flitting up to land on your face. Even in the dark, somehow they seemed to shine. You wanted to look away. You knew you should. But looking into his eyes felt the same as the rushing weightlessness of looking into the sun.
“I’m fine,” he assured you. “Sometimes I have nightmares.”
You nodded, a little surprised he had opened up to you..
“Me too,” you admitted.
Capa seemed to understand what you meant, without you having to say it. He didn’t look away from you as he spoke.
“It is frightening,” he told you. “To be face to face with all of it. The beauty. The scale, unlike anything you’d ever seen back on Earth.” Your mind flashed back to Capa in the observation deck, eyes wide open and leaning forward toward the molten sun. You had thought he was fascinated, but maybe it was something more like the magnetic pull of fear that made him inch closer. 
“But I meant what I said earlier,” he continued. “We are lucky to be here.”
Silence hung between you for a moment. 
“I’m sorry for letting myself in,” you said finally. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“Don’t be,” Capa said. “It’s nice to be checked up on.”
You smiled softly, even as your heart hammered in your chest. You put your hands on your knees and stood up from the chair, then leaned down to look at Capa one last time. He was still sitting up in bed, propped on one elbow, facing slightly toward you. A breath caught in your throat as you reached out and placed a hand on his bare shoulder.
“Get some rest, Capa,” you told him, giving a gentle squeeze.
As you moved your hand away, suddenly it was stopped by strong, stable fingers. You looked down to see Capa grabbing your wrist, looking up at you with those damn sensuous eyes. This time, your heart stopped.
“Stay with me?” Capa asked, the barest hint of a prayer in his voice.
“I…”
“Please?”
Time seemed to stand still as you looked at him. A trace of fear in the very corner of his eyes. A few pieces of hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, pressing just a bit too tight.
“Okay,” you agreed. The word seemed to carry all of the air in your lungs along with it, out into the vacant night.
You sat on the edge of his bed, awkwardly facing him, and Capa moved backward to make more space for you. Hesitant, you weren’t sure if he wanted you to lie down next to him. It wasn’t exactly a roomy bed, not being intended for more than one person to occupy at a time. You flittered with indecision as Capa settled back into his pillows.
“C’mere.”
Suddenly, an arm was around your waist. And then you were being hooked into Capa’s body, your back pressing snugly against his chest. Capa sighed behind you, his breath tickling the back of your neck. His arm was still draped around your waist, and his lips just barely brushed against you.
“Sweet dreams,” he whispered.
You let out a shaky breath, and prayed that Capa couldn’t hear how fast your heart was beating.
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The next morning, you woke up alone. You tried to ignore your disappointment. Capa was an early riser; the type to get a head start on the day by spending all hours in his lab, including the ones before anyone else on the ship was awake. You had always seen him as a hard worker, but after seeing him so unusually agitated last night, you now wondered if there weren’t other reasons he barely seemed to sleep.
You looked around the small room for a few moments, reflecting on what had happened. Part of you still couldn’t believe it. Was it possible that Capa had feelings for you, or were you just a warm body to sleep next to? Did it even matter? If it meant you got to press yourself up against him, you honestly didn’t care whether there was anything more to it.
But then anxiety clouded your mind. What if Capa had left because he was embarrassed? Too shy to confront you about the mistake he’d made in asking you to stay with him? He was, generally, very straightforward - but you also got the sense that he liked to avoid conflict if possible. And he was so damn hard to read. You sat up and put your feet on the floor, crossing your legs and squeezing them together. He was driving you crazy, and the worst part was, you were way too much of a coward to tell him about it.
You stood, made a sound of frustration, and carefully left the room - looking both ways before you stepped out into the hallway. It was still early, but you certainly didn’t need anyone seeing you step out of Capa’s room first thing in the morning. Rumors traveled faster in the cramped halls of a spaceship than lightning on a summer’s night. You slipped back into your own room, and got ready for the day. Maybe, later, you would confront Capa.
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You spent the day avoiding Capa. Which wasn’t too hard; he really did spend most of his time in his lab. You focused on helping Corazon in the oxygen garden, trying to distract yourself with the calming, white-noise sound of water. It didn’t do much good for your nerves, unfortunately. 
As the hours wore on, you became more and more agitated, and ultimately, convinced that Capa regretted your night together. It was disappointing, sure, but this was really just a testament to why you shouldn’t have gotten involved in the first place. It was a bad idea to sleep with your coworkers. Even if you did literally only sleep with them.
That night, you begged off of helping Searle with the medications; telling him you had a headache and wanted to get to bed. Really, you just couldn't face the thought of handing Capa his little plastic cup of pills, watching as he observed you with his characteristic disinterest. Searle added a few ibuprofen to your medications and watched as you swallowed them down, before telling you he’d handle it and to get some rest.
Eyes on the floor, you headed to your room.
This was not good. You still had years left on the ship, pressed together with everyone in tight quarters. And Capa was right across the hall from you. There was no possible way to avoid him, and yet, how were you supposed to face him after the embarrassment of being ignored and rejected? Your thoughts were still swirling as you reached the door to your quarters, and pressed the button to go inside.
“Sleeping alone tonight?”
The familiar voice behind you caught you off guard. You hadn’t seen him there.
“I didn’t realize there was another option.”
You turned around to face him, slowly. Capa was standing in the open doorway to his room, hands in his pockets and arms unfairly attractive in his light gray tank top. There was just a hint of mischief in his eyes as they slowly swept over you, and it made you feel both anger and arousal.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” Capa said, again seeming to sense what you were feeling without you even telling him. “Trey needed my help with something, and I figured you wouldn’t want me to wake you. Ooor want to walk out together in front of him.”
You felt yourself starting to soften, but still gave your best attempt at a pout as you crossed your arms.
“You could have told me earlier.”
“I know. And I am sorry.” Capa took a step back into his room. “Let me make it up to you?”
It was the wrong decision to follow him. You knew this, but you did it anyway. If only to finish the conversation in the relative privacy of Capa’s room instead of out in the hallway where anyone could hear you. At least, that’s what you told yourself.
“Please don’t be mad?” 
Capa’s room was dark, again, and it took your eyes a few seconds to adjust. When you could see him clearly, he was looking down at you, careful expression and head cocked to the side as he awaited your answer.
“Okay,” you agreed.
You were rewarded with a small smile from Capa, and instantly your heart melted. You really couldn’t stay mad at him, even if you wanted to. He was just too damned attractive.
“Let’s go to bed then,” Capa said happily.
He tore off his shirt as he walked to the bed, and for a second you weren’t sure how you were going to stay upright. Capa stood by the bed and waited for you.
“Ladies first.”
“I, um…” you began. “Maybe I should get my pajamas out of my room.”
“Mmm, you don’t really need them.”
Capa took a step toward you and reached over, pulling you close to him. At the same time, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. And before you could protest, he was pulling the fabric up and over your head, leaving you only in shorts and a sports bra.
“That’s better,” he smirked.
Capa’s warm fingers landed on your waist, and you felt yourself swoon again. If it weren’t for his piercing blue eyes holding you in place, you were certain you would have fallen over.
Gently, Capa guided you to bed and let you climb in first, before crawling after you. You were spooning again, this time with you lying closest to the wall. With Capa’s body pressed against you, the result was a warm but not uncomfortable closeness. It felt like you were boxed into your own little world, even as the vastness of space threatened to spill in all around you.
Capa’s arms wrapped around you, pulling you in even tighter. You settled back against him, all of your earlier tension melting away. This was nice, whatever it was. You had made up your mind to just enjoy it. It had been a long time since you’d been so close to someone. Capa’s long hair tickled your neck and shoulders, and you exhaled as he-
“Capa!”
His mouth was suddenly on your shoulder, kissing rough enough to leave a bruise. You felt heat rush to your face once again.
“Shhhh,” he teased, lips brushing against you. “Don’t want anyone else to hear us, right?”
“What are you doing?” you whispered frantically.
“Making it up to you,” Capa replied, devilishly. “Like I said I would.”
He put his lips on your neck this time, kissing and scraping your soft skin with his teeth. Despite yourself, you let out a small whimper. Capa’s arms tightened around you.
“Do you forgive me?” Capa asked. You could feel him smiling into your neck.
“I-I don’t know.” A sudden surge of boldness swept through you. “You might need to convince me some more.”
“Hmmm,” Capa growled, directly into your ear. “Wonder how I can do that…"
One of his hands trailed lazily up and down your thigh. His touch was feather-light; moving so slowly that it had your head spinning. Without warning, he grabbed the back of your leg, pads of his fingers pressing into your bare flesh.
“Oh-”
The word left your lips involuntarily, and you felt Capa smirk against you again.
“Think I might have a few ideas…” he said.
“Capa, I-” Before you could get out more than two words, his hand had snaked around to the front of your shorts and was pushing past your waistband. Separated only by the cloth of your panties, his fingers pressed against the wetness that was quickly spreading between your thighs.
“Fuck, you’re soaked,” he whispered. “I knew you were into me, but I didn’t know you had it this bad.”
You arched your back against his bare chest, too drunk on his fingers to formulate a response. And he hadn’t even pushed past your panties yet; he was just touching you through the fabric as you fell apart for him.
“Good girl,” he rasped, sending another wave of euphoria from your neck to your throbbing cunt. “So eager. Want me to put ‘em inside you?”
You nodded, desperate but not trusting your voice enough to speak. Capa slid his hand past the final layer of fabric that separated you, and then one of his fingers was pressing into you. You squeezed your legs together, trapping his hand, and Capa quickly added another finger.
“Fuuuuuck,” he hissed. 
His fingers curled, pulling at the strings of tension that were already building in your stomach. You wanted nothing more than to scream for him, but knew you shouldn't. The walls of the ship were far from soundproof, and there were rooms on either side of you.
Capa’s thumb pressed down on your clit, rubbing it as his fingers continued to move inside of you. You were desperate for something to grab onto, but the only thing in front of you was blank wall. You settled for wrapping your legs around his, entangling yourselves together to give you some semblance of being grounded. You bucked against his hand, begging for more friction.
“Forgive me yet?” Capa teased, his breath ghosting over your ear again.
You shook your head no; not willing to give up on the game just yet. Behind you, Capa chuckled.
“So stubborn,” he muttered. “You really want to make me work for it.”
Capa took his fingers away, and you moaned at the sudden loss of him. Not wasting any more time, he grabbed your shorts and pulled them down. You had a brief moment to wonder what you had gotten yourself into.
You’d felt his growing bulge press into your back as Capa had teased you with his fingers, and now you felt him sliding out of his sweatpants. You were both naked from the waist down, and-
“Fuck, Capa.”
He was brushing the tip over your entrance, not pressing into you yet but just taunting with the idea of it. His hand was firmly at the base of his shaft, ready to guide himself up into you.
“Tell me how bad you want it.”
“Please, Capa.”
“Wanna hear you say it.”
“I need you inside me,” you whispered.
“Fucking beg for it.”
With a frustrated whine, you pushed down and back, forcing his cock into your aching pussy. He was such a tease; you couldn't take it any longer. He was so hard he slid right into you, and the stretch against your walls was like heaven.
Without warning, your orgasm broke over you, crashing into your body with an intensity unlike anything you had ever felt before. It was bliss and beauty and all for the man who was ruining you with every touch. You pressed harder, wanting to feel Capa inside of you as deep as you possibly could. You arched against him, head falling back against his shoulder as you rode out the high.
Capa grabbed at your breasts roughly.
“You know,” he began, “you've never been very good at following directions.”
He pulled out of you suddenly, making you gasp as you clenched around nothing. Quickly, you were flipped onto your back, and then Capa was hovering over you, his eyes burning ice blue.
“Let's try that again,” he said, lining himself up as he leaned forward, pressing his whole body against yours. “I want you. To fucking. Beg.”
“Capa, please,” you breathed.
“Please what?”
“Please put it in me! God, I want you to fill me up. Please, please-”
Capa smirked above you, and your eyes rolled back in your head.
“That's my good girl.”
The sound that left your mouth as he entered you once again would have been mortifying, had you been thinking straight enough to hear it. As it was, Capa seemed to drink up your pathetic mewls and breathy sighs. He pumped in and out of you a few times, watching as you bounced on the bed beneath him.
“Should've gotten you in my bed a long time ago,” Capa panted, still pumping into you relentlessly. “I could've been listening to your pretty noises this whole time.”
His face was right next to yours; the stubble on his jaw scratching you with every thrust. You could feel his lips brushing against your ear as he continued.
“Kinda regret wasting all those hours in the lab with you doing actual work. It's a lot more fun for me to press your buttons.”
Your arms and legs wrapped around him, and your fingers tangled in his hair. Capa kissed you roughly on the lips. His thrusts started to get sloppier, falling out of their methodical rhythm.
“Gonna let me cum inside you, yeah?”
You could do nothing but wrap your legs around him tighter, pinning him in place.
“Fuck, that's right. Gonna take all of it and beg for more. I'll have you in here every fucking night, on your back for me, screaming so that everybody hears how bad you want me to stick it in you.”
Capa’s mouth was going to be the death of you. You clenched around him, silently begging him to cum. It was humiliating, how badly you wanted to be filled by him.
“Oh, fuck!” Capa shouted, entirely too loud.
He held you tight as he emptied into you, giving a few final, weak thrusts. He was breathing heavily, still looming over you as his chest heaved. After a few seconds, he pulled back to look at you.
“So, does that make up for leaving this morning?” he asked, smirk still plastered on his face.
“I… don't know,” you panted. “I think we might need to do it once more… to make sure.”
You looked up at him, mischief playing in your own eyes. Capa wasn't the only one who could tease.
“Oh yeah? Only once more?” he prodded. 
He reached up to push the hair out of his face, slicked down with the sweat of his exertion. But despite that, you could already feel him getting hard again.
“Well, maybe a few times,” you smiled.
You leaned up and caught his lips in a kiss.
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ewanmitchellcrumbs · 8 months
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Careless Words
Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x nameless female character (third person perspective) Warnings: Angst. Toxic/abusive relationship dynamics. Mentions of death. Allusions to smut. Word count: ~2.8k
Summary: She has always given her best to Aemond, but they both know he can't say the same. Based on this request.
Author's note: I wanted to explore the darker side of Aemond's personality and how this might manifest itself in a relationship where neither party is particularly healthy in terms of their mindset. This was a cathartic piece for me to write. Lately I've been working through some resurfaced feelings linked to a past relationship that was based entirely around trauma bonding. It may be a triggering read for some, so please approach with caution (and try to remember the story itself is a work of fiction). No gods, no masters, no tag lists. Community labels are for cops. Please block me instead of labelling this, if you find yourself tempted.
Family, Duty, Honor; that is the motto of House Tully, a direct opposition of House Targaryen’s Fire and Blood. If she wasn’t so duty bound to Prince Aemond then she’d find the strength to walk away. If he was a better man he’d let her go. Unfortunately for her, nothing in a dragon’s clutches escapes without getting burned.
She is eight years old when she is sent from Riverrun to King’s Landing. She is to be a ward of House Targaryen, an idea that excites and frightens her in equal measure; she has never been away from her family before and the thought of living in a strange city with people she has never met fills her with uncertainty, yet she is eager for the adventures it will bring.
Her fears are assuaged the moment she arrives in the capital. The sprawling expanse of the city beckons her to explore its winding cobbled streets, the Red Keep is a maze of undiscovered secrets. Naturally curious, she gravitates towards Queen Alicent’s second son, Aemond. He is a quiet, sullen boy, not much older than her, and spends most of his time alone, reading. It is more than apparent to her that he does not get along with his older brother and nephews, and his sister is too lost in her own world to be of any comfort to him.
Aemond clings to her offer of friendship, and the two quickly become inseparable. She basks in the attention he lavishes upon her; sharing his books, learning High Valyrian under his tutelage, dutifully spectating for each of his training sessions in the yard, and accompanying him on his daily visits to the dragonpit - he has yet to claim a dragon, which serves to deepen his fascination of the creatures and drives him to near obsession with desire to have his own. 
Aemond becomes the center of her world, a position which he appears to thrive on. The first time he threatens to take that away from her is on a day that they visit the dragonpit. 
Aegon has lured him there on the pretense that the dragon keepers have discovered an unclaimed mount for him. However, he is humiliated when a pig is led out from the shadows, and he flees, distraught, back to his mother.
He lashes out at her that day, for the first time, when she attempts to comfort him.
“You will have a dragon one day,” She tries to tell him. “Ignore their silly jokes, it doesn’t matter.”
He looks at her with fury in his eyes and she shrinks fearfully away from him. His tone is vile, hateful. “It doesn’t matter to you, because you don’t understand how important dragons are to Targaryens. You are a nobody!”
She weeps bitterly when he storms away from her, it feels like she has lost her only friend in the world. She believes she has trivialised Aemond’s suffering and is ashamed of herself.
When he approaches her the next day, with lemon cakes, a book and a soft “I didn’t mean it”, she is so overjoyed to have Aemond’s attention once more that it doesn’t even occur to her that he hasn’t uttered the word “sorry”, she has him back and that is all that matters. And for a few days afterwards, he treats her with such reverence that she feels foolish for having been upset in the first place.
Aemond is ten when he loses his eye, and he puts on a brave face, though she is certain it is for the benefit of not further upsetting his mother and appearing weak in front of his nephews.
She is proven right the moment they are alone and he turns on her. She wants to support him, to show him she is unafraid of him despite the stitches that now adorn the bloodied ruin where his left eye used to be, but he will not allow that.
“Where were you?!” He shouts at her. “If you’d have been there for me, I’d still have my eye!”
She wants to argue that she could not possibly have known he was going to claim Vhagar, how could she have been there for him when everyone was supposed to be in bed? But the guilt his words inspire eclipse all rationality in her innocent, young mind. She ought to have anticipated him going after a riderless dragon, and been there to help defend him against the attack from his nephews and cousins.
“I’m sorry, Aemond, I’m so sorry.” She cries.
“Sorry will not bring back what I have lost,” He spits angrily. “No matter. I have my dragon now, I do not need you.”
He is lost to her once more, and heartache colours her world where Aemond’s presence used to.
“I didn’t mean it,” He tells her sheepishly, a few days later. “When I am healed, I will take you for a ride on dragonback.”
She does not need an apology, Aemond’s attention and willingness to share something so personal with her are more than enough. For a week after that he makes her feel as though she is the very stars in the night sky, and she basks in his good graces.
On Aemond’s thirteenth name day, she is excited to give him his gift. For weeks she has toiled in secret on a patch for him to cover the scarred side of his face. It is made of delicate black leather and has an intricate green dragon stitched carefully into the fabric. 
She searches for Aemond most of the day and cannot find him. When he does eventually make an appearance he is distant and distracted, not even uttering thanks when she presents him with the patch she has made for him.
“Aegon took me to a pleasure house.” He says morosely, when she asks what’s wrong.
“Oh,” She has trouble hiding the disgust on her face, as she feels sour jealousy spread its way through her. “Why?”
He scowls upon seeing her look of judgment. “Because I grew tired of looking at your ugly face!” He snaps, before storming off.
Her self worth shatters with those words, scattered away on the winds of Aemond’s temper, and yet again she is left to wait for his careless words to become kind, while she grieves his temporary absence.
I did not mean it. And so she forgives him, piecing herself back together with every praise and doting look he offers her. She cares not that he never wears her gift or thanks her for it, it does not matter that he doesn’t say he’s sorry, because when Aemond is kind to her she feels as though she has ascended to the very heavens above.
It is an addictive cycle, and as the years press on, she finds herself craving Aemond’s tempestuous nature in moments of calm, for the love he showers her with afterwards is her only means of reassuring herself that he truly cares for her.
Aemond grows bolder in his mistreatment of her, confident that she is too attached to him to be disloyal. She is one of the few things in his life that he is able to assert full control over and he wields it without a second thought.
Shortly after her sixteenth name day, Aegon attempts to force himself on her. She fights him off and seeks comfort in the only person she can trust; Aemond. Where she expects to find sympathy, however, she is met with scorn and rage-filled jealousy.
“If you did not behave like a whore then Aegon would not do such things. Do you enjoy the attention?”
She shuts herself away in her chambers, the ache in her chest unbearable as her tears soak her pillow.
While Aemond would usually leave it a day or two before seeking her out again, he comes back to her that same evening, telling her he did not mean it as he holds her in his arms. He takes her maidenhead that night, the sharp stinging between her legs, as he pushes forcefully inside of her, soothed by his whisper of “aōhon iksan se ñuhon iksā”. I am yours and you are mine.
As their relationship blossoms into something more romantic, their rifts become more frequent. Aemond always seems to know precisely the combination of words it will take to cut her deepest, yet it is a state she has grown to feel safe in. The blood of the dragon pumps hotly in his veins and as frequently as he inflicts this side of himself upon her, it is always followed by a softness that allows her to believe that he loves her, even if they are words he never says aloud.
When Aemond’s nephews return to King’s Landing his moods become trickier for her to predict. It seems impossible for her not to anger him, and his words are poison to her fragile heart. Yet it always devolves into him assuring her he did not mean it as he fucks her into the mattress, healing every spiteful barb with impassioned touches.
Shortly after King Viserys dies, Aegon is crowned, and everything changes for the worse. His succession is challenged by Viserys’ eldest child, Rhaenyra, and steps must be put into place to secure Aegon’s reign. Aemond is a useful pawn in that process, and his grandsire, Otto, wastes no time in arranging a visit for him to Storm’s End in order to choose which of Lord Borros Baratheon’s daughters he wishes to marry.
Aemond is so matter of fact as he explains this to her, but she feels as though she reacts enough for both of them, struggling to breath as a free falling sensation in the pit of her stomach sends waves of nausea rippling through her.
She knows she is fighting a losing battle before she even opens her mouth to speak, yet she cannot help herself. She is a moth and Aemond is her flame, ever bright and eternal, the very center around which her entire world revolves. Nothing has ever seemed so final though, what pieces will there be to pick up and place back together once he is someone else’s husband?
Standing before him, she juts out her chin defiantly, willing herself not to cry in spite of the lump in her throat and the insistent stinging around the rims of her eyes. “You’re really going to go through with this?”
He sets his jaw, sighing, a visible dismissal of her feelings that makes her ache and wish she had the courage to simply walk away from him. “Don’t ask questions you already know the answer to.”
“What will become of me, of us?” She asks, her voice raising an octave, threatening to crack.
“That is inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. My brother’s succession takes precedence over everything. Marrying one of Lord Baratheon’s daughters helps strengthen his claim to the throne. Listening to your heedless fretting does not.”
She feels heat rise to her cheeks, swallowing back her anguish, attempting to sound fiercer than she feels. “Perhaps I shall decide to marry too then.”
Aemond’s scoff is so subtle it’s almost imperceptible. “Who would marry you? Your virtue is mine, always has been. You’re fortunate I still desire you.”
His tone of voice is so practical, only the slightest hint of irritation giving it an edge. He may as well be addressing a chambermaid who has not made his bed to his liking. She longs to grab him, shake him, beg him to give her any sort of indication that this is hurting him as much as it’s hurting her, because to think that he’d let her go so easily, after all these years, is more than she can stand.
Instead she says nothing, simply watches as he turns to leave, counting down the moments until he returns to her, his words sweet once more and eager to heal the rift between them, just like he always does. She craves the storm and the calm in equal measure, but they are always on Aemond’s terms, never hers.
Three nights later she awakens to him standing at the foot of her bed, dripping wet, eye filled with fear. She takes him into the sheets, fingers carding through his damp hair as he ruts his misery inside of her.
“It was an accident,” He whispers to her tearfully afterwards. “I only meant to scare Lucerys.”
She soothes him to sleep, knowing she ought to feel repulsed by what Aemond has done, but is overwhelmed by the relief of him being just hers once more.
Confusion addles her thoughts the next day when she overhears Aemond tell Otto that he had meant to kill his nephew.
When she asks him about it in private he grips the tops of her arms with such force that she yelps from the pain of it, his face almost murderous with rage as he stares at her. “If you ever utter those words again, I will have your tongue cut out.”
Aemond’s temper has always been fierce, a trait of his that she is forever wary of, however, until now she has never felt afraid of him. At this very moment, Aemond frightens her. He has the capacity to cause her harm, and does not seem to care if he does.
Later he presses featherlight kisses to each of the vivid purple bruises that mark her upper arms. Though he appears remorseful, he does not offer an apology or even an utterance of “I did not mean it.”
“You must not anger me like that again,” He tells her instead.
She simply nods, dread boring a void into the pit of her stomach.
As the war escalates, resulting in the death of Aegon and Helaena’s son, Jaehaerys, and the grievous injury of Aegon, Aemond takes up the mantle of Prince Regent. While Aemond bears the burden of the additional responsibility, she bears the onslaught of his frustrations, becoming a vessel into which he pours his every grievance. The adoration he showers her with after each display of cruelty becomes infrequent to the point that she feels as though she is a hound begging for scraps. Eventually she learns to accept his ire, reasoning he would simply cast her aside and ignore her if he did not care for her.
She is delighted when Aemond insists upon bringing her along to his march upon Harrenhal. She allows herself to believe that his desire to have her at his side is because he is committed to her, that perhaps this means he intends to marry her once the war is over. A voice in the back of her mind reasons it is most likely because he enjoys the control he asserts over her, but she does her best to ignore it.
Jealousy swirls sharply in her gut when she sees the only person that Aemond has spared in his seizing of the castle - a witch named Alys Rivers, a raven haired beauty who he informs her will be of great use to him in helping him to defeat his Uncle Daemon. She swallows down her doubts, attempting to reassure herself that she has nothing to worry about, Aemond has never strayed from her before, why would he now?
She curses herself for ignoring her suspicions when she catches him between the witch’s thighs. She expects herself to grieve, to scream, to cry, to shatter to pieces at his infidelity, but instead a sense of clarity washes over her. For the first time in a decade she wishes to leave Aemond.
No longer does she crave his approval, or long to make amends, a veil has been lifted and finally she sees him for the selfish, spoiled and callous hearted man he truly is. He will never love her, not as she deserves, and she is making a fool of herself to stay by his side while he is openly disrespectful of her and her feelings.
His eye darkens with familiar ill intent when she informs him of her plan to return home.
“Do not be so foolish,” He says condescendingly. “You are behaving irrationally over a minor indiscretion.”
She shakes her head. “I believe this is the first time since I’ve known you that I’ve behaved with any sense at all. I am leaving.”
“Ñuhon iksā,” He tells her. His tone carries none of the soft, loving intent it usually does when he utters this statement, now it is dark and threatening. You are mine.
“Dōre iksan,” She replies simply. I am not.
“You cannot exist without me,” He says with a scowl.
“Watch me,” She counters.
It is not until a few days later, once she has returned home to her family, that the full weight of Aemond’s words begin to sink in. As the wings of Vhagar darken the skies above the Riverlands, she realises that he does not mean he thinks she can’t exist without him, it is that he will not allow her to.
She watches in tense horror as the fiery blaze engulfs her homeland, acrid smoke drawing ever nearer as Aemond’s dragon immolates houses, farmland and forests alike. If he were a better man he’d simply have let her go. Unfortunately for her, nothing in a dragon’s clutches escapes without getting burned.
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neveragainfools · 3 months
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It’s fascinating to me how real-play shows easily slot into the metamodern movement so effortlessly, and without sacrificing the sincerity or quality of the story. By my understanding, metamodern stories are ones that are aware that they are stories, acknowledge the viewer and the absurdity of narrative itself (like Everything Everywhere All At Once, Into the Spiderverse, etc).
Personally, metamodernity meets the audience where we are now. When there is SO MUCH literature and film to build on, and nearly everyone knows the hero’s journey, it feels like something’s missing unless the story is exceptional, different, or more self-aware. Metamodern works can be great, but I think a lot of films that fit into the metamodern style lack heart. The style breeds a lot of “we’ll make fun of ourselves before you do, because we know you will. We’d rather disrespect our own story than let you feel smugly better than us if we’re sincere.” This is accelerated and compounded by the fact that many major releases these days capitalize on the nostalgia that drives sales for familiar IPs in reboot, rework, spin-off or the dreaded “cinematic universe” (the marvelization of it all).
But the difference with real-play shows is that the winking, fourth-wall breaking, the acknowledgement of tropes, the audience and absurdity of the universe lives on a separate layer of reality from the story being told. The characters aren’t joking about the worlds, their players are. The players (including the GM) are audience, writer and performer all at the same time. Instead of the edifice of narrative being an invisible force pointed out by its cracks, separate from the audience reaction, it is made explicit and woven into audience instead of narrative. Real play shows declare “these are people playing characters. Some plot and character choices are based on what was written beforehand, but most are made by dice and improvised in the moment. The reactions to those choices are made by both the player and the character. Of course these tropes exist, we’ve chosen a setting that supports them.”
Real-play shows are almost as if every film always had the director’s commentary on in the theatre, but the director's commentary shaped the plot, and made space for audience reaction to shape it too. We the audience understand that the commentary isn’t part of the story. What’s left untouched then, is the narrative itself. By acknowledging the edifice, the mechanisms of storytelling on the “commentary” layer, the in-story moments become totally sincere and embrace the story, unworried by the way in which it’s shaped.
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void-and-virtue · 2 years
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Neil as a team captain is positively delightful, because making him captain is both absolutely insane and absolutely brilliant. It capitalizes on the passive effect of having one (1) Neil Josten (god knows the world couldn’t handle if there were more of him) on the team in the most efficient way. Like. I’m 90% sure that after spending some time around him on the same team, most people will look up to him completely awestruck for how much he has impacted their lives, but that’s just not what is actually happening here. I feel like what’s going on is this:
Neil is a terribly amazing choice for team captain entirely because Neil is a meddlesome little asshole who will forcibly fix all of his teammates’ personal problems and improve their entire lives for literally no other reason than that he needs them to be able to focus on fucking ball so he can win at sports. It’s not even that he genuinely cares about people and their well-being (apart from his original foxes). He just gets pissed when things aren’t working properly because it makes Exy annoying when the lineup can’t communicate. Exy isn’t supposed to be annoying. Exy is life. He’d meddle whether he is captain or not, but by making him captain, he has so much more official executive power at his hands. It’s like people are explicitly asking for him to do his worst. So, fueled by his own competitiveness and love for the sport, off he goes.
Neil is just as bad as Kevin when it comes to his Exy obsession. The major difference between them is that Kevin is endlessly tactical and he runs Exy with a focus on a technical and physical level entirely, whereas Neil’s approach is to look beyond a lack of practice and basically psychoanalyzing people on why they are not doing 110% for Exy. Kevin says “let’s run this drill 500 times, then we will inevitably be better”. Meanwhile Neil is scheming how to coerce and bribe people into life-changing decisions and long-needed healing, entirely because he wants to optimize playing a sport. Exy is a team sport, which is why this is the most logical approach his little Exy brain comes up with rather than minding his own fucking business. He looks at the team and is like “is anyone gonna whip this into shape? No?? I’ll fucking do it then cowards” and goes and does exactly that. It’s like he’s fixing the equipment so he can play.
I don’t think anyone except for Andrew is really aware that Neil really isn’t doing this out of the innate goodness of his heart, but because his personal brand of practicality involves the most convoluted and creative kind of scheming. I feel like Neil is a lot more selfish than people give him credit for. Sure, there’s people he cares deeply and unconditionally for, but that’s really not everyone. It’s fascinating to watch, especially because it’s not like he ever hides that he doesn’t particularly care, but people kinda assume he does, because why else would he put in this much effort?
Exy. The answer is Exy.
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delulu-with-wandanat · 7 months
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International Affair
Welcome to my shameless self-insert series🤭 Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Last
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Reader Description: Masculine style, They/He, AFAB, International Student, 20 Years Old. Sometimes will be describe using masculine terms (man, boy, handsome, etc)
Pairings: Wanda Maximoff x InternationalStudent!Reader
Warnings: Specified age gap (Wanda is 34).
Summary: For their summer break, Y/n decided to spend it in a little town called Westview. It was there when they met Wanda Maximoff. A woman in her 30s with two kids, who seems to be attracted to the college student despite being married.
New York University's tuition was fucking ass. It really is, at a whopping $64,000 tuition fee per year. And that's only the tuition fee, the total estimate of studying in NYU plus living cost was probably over $90,000. Exactly it's fucking insane. Despite receiving a sponsorship from their parent's good friend and also financial aid from NYU, he still needed to figure out how to pay it back.
Sometimes they feel like smacking their head for choosing to study in a city where it's known for its back bank breaking living cost. Can you blame him though? Those tall buildings, shining lights, bustling nightlife, sounds of gunshots, and a huge opportunity for a creative person such as themselves, along with a dash of capitalism. Y/n couldn't help but be fascinated. That American dream that he had been chasing since he saw the Devil Wears Prada.
It was now summer vacation. Instead of going home for the summer, Y/n decided to join this Homeshare Summer program. Basically an elderly person provides home for students to share during the summer. The benefits are plenty, but most notably, cheaper housing rent. His roommates also joined this program, together they sublease their apartment. Adding extra funds to their breaking bank account.
In return, the students must help their elderly host with basic domestic needs. Mostly light household tasks; preparing and sharing meals, tidying up, chores, walking a pet, etc.
Y/n ended up matching with someone in a small town called Westview somewhere in New Jersey. As much as he loves New York, he wanted to spend his summer somewhere else in America.
He matched with a lovely widow named Melina Vostokoff. He learned that she has 2 daughters, both whom are adults with their own respective career. She needed a companion, understandably so, and Y/n was more than happy to assist her in anyway she might need.
"Y/n." Melina called.
"Yes, Mrs. Vostokoff?" Y/n looked up from their laptop, they were sitting on the dinner table editing some footage.
"Oh dear, please, I told you to call me Melina."
"Sorry, Melina. Force of habit." He said with a smile. "What's up?"
"Would you please send all this batches of cookies around the neighborhood? I already have a list of houses on where you can drop them." Melina is known for sharing batches of cookies for free around the neighborhood. Why? Out of kindness.
And also the fact that she loves baking, but ended up not being able to finish it all. So she shares them around the neighborhood.
"Sure, Melina! I'll do that right away."
So he sets of to drop off delicious dessert for Westview citizens. Melina had told them that this was a good chance to ask around for a summer job as well. Which is what he had initially planned to do anyway. Finally they reached the last house, Maximoff Household. They weren't so lucky with the other neighbors, but last one's a charm right? He rang the doorbell.
A person then opens the door. "Hello, I was just-" Holyfucking shit. This woman was absolutely gorgeous.
"May I help you?" She ask, god her voice is sexy.
"Uhhh..." Snap out of it! "Sorry! I'm Y/n, I'm the student staying over the summer at Mrs. Vostokoff. She told me to drop off her Bi-Weekly batches of cookies."
Wanda wasn't stupid, she noticed their nervousness and found it adorable. "Lovely to meet you, Y/n. I'm Wanda, Wanda Maximoff." She offered her hand.
"Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Maximoff." He shook her hand.
"Do you go to Westview University?" She was rather intrigued by the younger one.
"No, ma'am. I actually go to NYU, I'm studying film production."
Wanda raised an eyebrow and smiled. "How impressive. Though I must ask, why choose to spend your summer here?"
Damn... her smile.
"Mainly a much cheaper living cost, other than that I figured It'll be good for me to explore other parts of America. New Jersey is not far so it's a good place to start."
"Ah, an International student I see. Is it one of those Homeshare programs?"
"It is!" The student beamed.
What a charming smile he has, Wanda thought to herself. "Say, how old are you, Y/n." She ask while leaning against the door frame, her tone was... rather flirty.
"Um... I'll be turning 21 this year." Wanda hummed at the answer. For what reason Y/n doesn't know either. "Here are your cookies, ma'am." Well shit, he was getting nervous again. Obviously, Wanda staring at him with a look he can't quite pin.
"Oh! Thank you, dear. My sons absolutely love Melina's cookies." She took the container from them.
"Well that's no surprise, I could live off from those cookies alone." They said while laughing lightly. "So I take it you've lived here for a while?"
"Yes, I've lived here for years with my twin boys and husband." Damn it, they thought. "Anything you would like to know?"
"Yes actually! I've been looking for a summer job, but I haven’t had any luck."
"Well, lucky for you, a friend of mine who owns the Cafe in town is looking for a new Barista. She just recently opened the position."
"That's great news! Thank you so much for letting me know, Mrs. Maximoff." They said with a smile, Wanda had another idea in mind.
"However, I think they're only offering part-time. If you're looking for some extra work, I may need a few... help around the house. Would you be interested?" She asked with a devilish smile.
Y/n, being too excited at the possibility of finally landing a job, failed to notice the flirty undertone in Wanda's sentence. "Absolutely!"
"Splendid! Come over to my house tomorrow and we'll discuss the details."
"I will see you tomorrow, Mrs. Maximoff. Thank you again!" The young man said with a bright smile, he started walking backwards onto the sidewalk.
"See you tomorrow, Y/n." Once they turned their backs on her, Wanda bit her lip. She had multiple things in mind for Y/n to help her with.
I did a quick research on the law of international students working in the US. I didn't get into detail but it basically said yes but there are restrictions. So ignore the actual laws, and y'know just - whatever man it's a fanfic :') When I saw the estimated cost of studying in NYU i almost cried-
Also I hope you guys don’t mind I go with a more masculine reader for this one (i really want to be called a good boy by Wanda)
I hope the reader description doesn’t confuse you guys, if it does. Its ok, i self inserted myself and im very confused abt my gender-
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sssailorvanya · 3 months
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for once in my life, let me get what i want. [battinson]
please ignore my shit tenses | wc: 780(?)
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You’ve never been one to ask for more beyond what you’re given. Your feet are always impossibly cold and your smile is missing from your face these days. Winter’s hard enough as it is. You didn’t know how to feel about the mysterious man dressed up as a bat, running around at night to fight crime.
You’ve heard what this mysterious vigilante does to the rogue criminals he catches. You’ve even witnessed his brutality a few times, thankfully never aimed at you. He saved you once. You were walking home, with your cold feet and blank expression, and a group of men had jumped out of a nearby alley. You had thought, ‘oh fuck, here we go again,’ and prepared to hand over your meagre possessions. You had not anticipated the fearsome vigilante materialising out of nowhere, throttling the living daylights out of all the men until they cowered in fear. You had watched, dumbfounded, as he picked up your small, bright pink purse and handed it to you.
You almost wanted him to keep it, if only for the comical juxtaposition.
So, no, you don’t know how to feel about him. Gratitude is a motivating factor but, nowadays, you barely feel anything at all. You certainly don’t feel anything when he takes your cold hand the second time you meet (another mugging foiled) and awkwardly massages it.
“For the circulation,” He growls softly.
You hum and let him massage your hand.
The citizens of Gotham call him “the Batman”, or simply “the Bat”. Sometimes they’ll call him “Vengeance” with a capital V, but nobody answers when you ask why.
You’re not native to Gotham, but you’re not from a city which was its polar opposite either. The gloomy weather and gothic architecture is a welcome reminder of the home you unwillingly left behind.
The third time you meet him, you feel braver than before. “You ever heard of the PJ Masks?” You ask softly, watching as he delivers a harsh blow to an unconscious thug (muggings are very common in Gotham, especially when they can sense that you’re not from here). He glances back at you, his lips pursed and his eyes smeared with dark eyeliner. You wish you could take off the cowl and see his full expression.
“I haven’t,” He says softly. His voice is jarring to listen to. You can tell he’s a man of few words so whenever he speaks, you are enthralled. You don’t know why. What sort of lunatic would be fascinated by a bat vigilante?
Lunatics like you.
“It’s a good show. Reminds me of you,” You say. Your lips don’t curl up in a smile but it’s a near thing. Your feet feel warmer today.
He’s a man who talks little, but he humours you anyway. “Must be good then.” You think you imagine the minute twitch of his lips as he turns away, his fearsome cape dripping with droplets of rain and blood. You watch him go.
Your hands are still cold.
The fourth time you encounter him makes you feel as if he’s started to keep tabs on you specifically. There’s no reason for the fearsome Bat to be lurking outside the 7/11 closest to your little apartment at 2am, but he is there. There’s no thievery to put an end to and no criminals for him to terrify. There is just you and the bright lights of the 7/11 and the jalapeños-and-cheese baked concoction in your hands. Your eyes are glimmering in the artificial light as you break off a piece.
You offer it to him, a small smile playing on your lips. He takes it from you slowly, as if he’s afraid he’ll hurt you. Your feet are cosy and warm tonight. He doesn’t smile back but he does stand next to you all night. Gotham is quiet tonight. It’s a blessing in disguise for you both.
The last time you meet him, you are hurting all over. There is blood sliding down your face and your vision is blurred, but you know it’s him when someone takes your hand. He rubs your hand soothingly.
“For the… circulation… right?” You croak out. It’s hard to talk with chapped lips and broken teeth.
He doesn’t respond. His grip on your hand tightens.
Some upcoming villain in Gotham decided to launch a nefarious attack in the city centre. You were caught in the crossfire, as were many other civilians. But it’s you whom he chooses to comfort, and it’s you whom he clings onto as you fade away.
Your hand goes limp in his grasp. It’s cold.
But there’s a smile on your face and your feet are warm.
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beguines · 1 month
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would you be able to recommend any books/resources that provide a good intro to anti-psychiatry? rlly fascinated by this subject
to be clear, i wouldn't describe myself as explicitly anti-psychiatry. people very close to me rely on psychiatric medication in order to relieve symptoms that aren't just disruptive to their role in capitalist society but cause them immense suffering in general. while i have had particularly negative experiences with psychiatric medication, i have also seen it save people's lives and pull them out of acute crisis. i've been seeing a therapist for four years who has had a very positive effect on my life and has always been respectful of my refusal to take psychiatric medication.
i also think it is necessary to acknowledge that while psychiatry and psychology are disciplines that enforce capitalist hegemony, the alternative to being capable of functioning within capitalist society isn't much of an alternative at all when capitalism's inescapability is part of its very nature. that being said, i think it's extremely important for anyone living with mental illness, being treated for it, or supporting someone who is to be aware of:
the insufficiency of the biomedical/disease model and the very slow speed at which the field is moving away from it
the inability of medical professionals to identify the etiology of any mental illness
the immense risk associated with virtually all psychiatric medications (particularly antipsychotics and mood stabilizers)
the very profitable marriage between psychiatry and the pharmaceutical industry
the influence of western (and particularly american) hegemony over how we treat what we call mental illness
the prevalence of coercive/forced treatment
i also think it's extremely important within that context to do your own research and ensure that you're engaging with material from a variety of different sources, maintaining an awareness of any biases they may have and how those affect their research and conclusions, whether they skew towards anti-psychiatry or not. the most important thing to do if you or your loved one has any kind of illness is to be well-informed and capable of advocacy, which is largely why i've been doing a bit of a deep dive on the subject lately.
what i'm reading now:
desperate remedies: psychiatry's turbulent quest to cure mental illness by andrew scull
psychiatric hegemony: a marxist theory of mental illness by bruce m.z. cohen
psychiatry in crisis: at the crossroads of social sciences, the humanities, and neuroscience by vincenzo di nicola and drozdstoj stoyanov
other recommendations:
i think your best bet for more introductory material would be robert whitaker's work, including anatomy of an epidemic: magic bullets, psychiatric drugs, and the astonishing rise of mental illness in america and mad in america: bad science, bad medicine, and the enduring mistreatment of the mentally ill. he started an organization called mad in america which has a lot of resources and information, including a podcast of the same name. there's also a network of associated groups that are based in different areas of the world if you're interested in non-american perspectives.
the medicalization of society: on the transformation of human conditions into treatable disorders by peter conrad
on the heels of ignorance: psychiatry and the politics of not knowing by owen whooley
here is a link to some of the old icarus project zines and pamphlets. i was briefly involved with a small icarus group when i was younger and there were some serious issues with the (dis)organization and some of the principles upon which the local groups operated. i'm sure these still have some useful and/or interesting information, and if nothing else they're interesting relics from the anti-psychiatry movement in the early 2000s. i'm less familiar with some of the newer work they put out before their dissolution in 2020. here is an article on the history of icarus from one of the co-founders, published in 2014.
i would recommend looking into bioethics and biopolitics in general, particularly focault. if you want to get into any of the seminal figures in anti-psychiatry (laing, szasz, etc), i would personally advise a very critical reading of their work. as always, this is not an explicit endorsement of any of these works, authors, or their respective viewpoints.
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oh my god I am frothing at the mouth PLEASE tell us about how Unohana is SO WEIRD ACTUALLY
(her reveal is my favorite thing in the whole series and I was obsessed with Bleach for a good long time)
I love Unohana. She's magnificently insane and deliciously fun to write so far.
My take on AEIWAM Unohana is that fundamentally, she just wants to be happy.
Oh, that doesn't sound too nuts. I hear you say.
Yeah, but I also headcanon that she has ADHD. We joke a lot about it on this site, but if you have the good fortune to have functioning dopamine factories, allow me to explain the worst part of it, for me.
There's no passive happiness.
Most people, as I understand it, if left to their own devices without undue stressors like capitalism or any particular stimulation, tend to be able to feel pretty okay most of the time. Which fascinates me because if I am left alone without undue stressors but no stimulation, my malfunctioning dopamine factories will shut down and I will rapidly develop a terrible black depression and paranoia that life is cruel and I will never experience happiness again and also my appetite vanishes and sleep cycle collapses and I will end up mentally and physically distraught, sometimes in less than an hour.
So I've always got to be doing something, or The Horrors get me.
So imagine Unohana, and with a brain that wants to die if she gets bored... living in fantasy magical ancient japan. Not much to do, out in the early days of the soul society, besides being attatcked by monsters, or participating in warfare, or starving to death. the first two, at least, get the blood pumping, but the first is difficult to come by regularly, so as a young woman, the most interesting thing that happens to her on the regular is Mortal Combat.
And how exciting it is! Adrenaline! Dopamine! And on the rare occasions she meets a fellow combat enthusiast, she also gets one of the best things about ADHD- Recognition Responsive Euphoria. You know that great feeling you get at Con or meeting another person with your special interest and you guys just VIBE and it feels like you've been best friends for life in less than five minutes? Yeah, apparently Non-ADHD people don't get that.
So naturally, she develops her skill in combat, not in pursuit of Honor or The Art or something nebulous like, that, but in the simple Pursuit of Happiness. She gets very good at it, and a lot of people die.
But she starts getting... too good at it. The fights don't last, there's nobody willing- let alone able, to meet her on her level and the previous joy she felt fades and fades until she is once again left in the darkness.
Then, a Miracle happens! Some punk stabs her in the lung :)
Man, what an evening for her. Kills a hundred men with barely a stroke and there's no more joy in the world for her when suddenly some barely-legal scarecrow looking bastard with a raggedy sword he pulled out of someone else's corpse appears at the top of the pile of bodies and then goes Ape. Fucking. Shit. on her.
It's the most fun she's had in ages! He's strong and fast and his moves are inefficient but delightfully unpredictable and by the GODS the STAMINA! Alright, she might be 1,000 years his senior but in the soul society age really is just a number and she can't help but be charmed.
So she flirts back by nearly cutting his face off. This DELIGHTS him!
And there it is again, that sudden feeling of intimacy between like-minded individuals, only these two ships aren't passing in the night, there' here to make Titanic 2: Electric Boogaloo. They make eye contact, and know-they're just like me.
True Love is a wonderful thing.
It's also a great opportunity for a surprise thrust and she only sort of manages to block it, and despite the feeling of blood pooling in her lung, she returns the blow full across his chest.
She staggers back, coughing.
He, miraculously, sits up, coughing. He won't die if he can crawl off somewhere to lick his wounds, but he can't continue the fight either.
She stands up, teeth gritted through the pain, and sheathes Minazuki. "What's your name?" She asks. "So I may find you to fight again."
"Don't have one." he wheezes. "But I'll never forget yours."
She's had men spit that as a threat to her before. It sounds very different as a declaration of love.
"Yachiru." she says, trying to not cough up blood. "Unohana Yachiru."
*
A Year later, there's a problem.
Soul Society has a bit of a problem with lungs. They can make entire fake bodies for shinigami to travel the living world, but individual organs, especially lungs... never seem to transplant well. Perhaps it's the fact they're already dead.
Her left lung is "healed" in the sense that it no longer has extraneous holes in it, but... Godsdammit, she still has all the power but none of the stamina. Barely 10 minutes into a fight and she's wheezing worse than The Old Man. 20 minutes and her hands are starting to shake and she's seeing spots in her eyes because she can't breathe well enough to keep the oxygen in her veins. Her fights usually last seconds so functionally she's still one of the most powerful people in the afterlife but it's a far cry from where she was before.
She can no longer be the 11th division's Kenpachi. Hell, she can no longer be the woman she was before.
"Unless you figure out some new medical miracles, this is as healed as it's going to get." Explains the chief medical officer after yet another frustrating checkup.
"...If that's what it takes." She decides.
The next morning she re-enrolls in the Shinigami Academy, under the name Unohana Retsu. The sole change she makes to her appearence is to braid her hair down the front of her chest because people WILL ask about the scar, and she doesn't want to think about how badly she's letting down that warrior with no name.
Either she needs to learn how to get back to his level, or find a new rival and learn to heal them to actually last the 20 minutes she has, or she'll die.
She studies.
To her vast surprise, bodies are actually fascinating. She'd previously seen that there were lots of interesting organs inside people but now learning what they are and how they work and the fact that the human body is already astonishingly death-resistant compared to most animals AND a carefully balanced meat sculpture minutes away from catastrophic failure at all times delights. She learns about the extreme ways humans can survive and the bizarrely mundane ways they can die, and she starts to form an idea- not an image, not a philosophy per se- but a working theory of how to keep someone alive and moving for as long and far as they will go, and what they need to stay upright.
This idea shines so brightly that it can keep that terrible darkness away.
The century practically flies by, and one night she stays up manually pumping the mechanism on a device used to keep the also-failing lungs of a young boy going after the power goes out. He's been blessed by A God that he's lived as long as he has, but even Gods can fuck up sometimes and she effectively has to breathe for him for twelve hours until the God gets its shit back together and he can breathe under his own power again.
"Hell of a fight you put in, keeping him alive." says one of her colleagues, collapsing beside her out in the 4th division medical garden where all the doctors go to smoke.
Retsu slowly exhales the smoke, fatigued but still coming down from the high of success. She cocks her head. Her body aches and her mind races and her heart thrills, just like- "I guess it was. " she realizes. "Interesting fight, going 12 hours in the ring with a dying child and winning because he walked away at the end." She laughs, and hands him the cigarette to share.
"You weirdo." he colleague laughs. He's far too young to remember when she was Yachiru. Most of them are these days, and it's a weird sort of peaceful anonymity and personal joke. "You weren't fighting the kid. If we were actually allowed to fight patients, I'd've stabbed the Kuchki hypochondriac decades ago." he grumbles, taking his own drag.
She snorts. "Who was I fighting then?"
"Death?" smoke billows out as he laughs, like it's the most obvious thing in the world.
She freezes. Oh. Oh. That's why she likes this so much. She's gone from fighting mere men to the one opponent she knows she can win battles with, but never the war, and who will defeat her personally someday.
"Are. Are you crying?" he asks, a little worried.
"I- yes." She laughs, tears streaming down her face. "I just fell in love all over again."
"Ouch." he nods sympathetically, offering her the cigarette back. "Who with?"
"Death's own Angel, apparently." She giggles, feeling positively prepubescent with this crush.
And thus she goes on, for centuries, learning everything there is to know about bodies and minds and how the two keep each other going and the ways she can help. She gets very good at it, and a many more people do not die.
But there is a special, secret place in her heart for that nameless warrior that defeated her in battle, and made her stronger than every before.
*
Nearly 1,000 years after she stopped being Kenpachi, she is supervising the annual "see if you can kill the captain" tournament. Her colleague Kaname is there, a walking anxiety disorder with undoubtedly real but strangely hard to diagnose phantom pains, but he's still easily in her top 10 coworkers of all time because he made her a new medical record filing system so functional they were actually able to recataloge three millennia of medical records into a usable format in under a decade. He can come twitching into her office any time he likes, especially if it gets her that mass vaccination process for the Rukongai he's been biting The Old Man's heels for.
Then
as suddenly as he had appeared the first time,
He's back.
He's older now and larger, having matured into a spectacular bastard, but there's no mistaking that cutting edge on his reiatsu (which, oh, that has gotten much, much stronger since last time) or that scar running down his face as he turns from where he had just cleft the previous Kenpachi in twain, and stares out into the crowd in the shower of blood, challenging anyone to do something about it. Hell, even when Yamamoto appears to congratulate him on his promotion, Death's own angel's first reaction is to turn to fight the old man without hesitation.
He then promptly picks three different fights with four captains in under five minutes, tells Yamamoto to shove the job up his ass, imply he's had a WILD collection of vocations in the last millennium and furthermore, he has to get home to his daughter.
...Named Yachiru.
Hilariously, Unohana is only having the second weirdest time about this here, because Kaname and Kenpachi are, somehow, even weirder than she is.
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shadowmaat · 2 years
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The Algorithm™ is watching
Absolutely fascinated to find out there are people who actually like The Algorithm™ and will aggressively defend it.
I’ve never seen anyone speak in favor of it before today. All I’ve ever heard is complaints, frustrations, and a deep mourning for the loss of pre-Algorithm internet.
The new kids on the internet block apparently rely on the Algorithm to curate their online experience and think that it’s helpful. Which... okay... if that’s how you prefer things, have at it, I guess. In my experience, though, what the Algorithm does is hide posts- even from people you follow- if the posts don’t have enough “engagement.” I’ve seen it “recommend” users whose morals are in absolute opposition to my own. I’ve had people, posts, books, etc. shoved in my face that share NONE of my interests, but which have been deemed “popular” through engagement, sales, etc.
I’ve also seen folks complain about the amount of time and effort that they have to put into promoting themselves in order to stay afloat and be deemed acceptable by the Algorithm, and how sometimes nothing they do seems to matter and their posts still get hidden from their audience. I’ve watched people give up on platforms because they spend more time fighting to stay visible than they do creating art, dice, stories, etc.
It seems like a horrible way to live and I feel sorry for the kids who’ve grown dependent upon this predatory bog of Capitalism. It’s a weaponized, monetized popularity contest, and by all the gods of wisdom and the arts I hope kids are able to grow past it, relax, and learn to be themselves.
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